The Gloomcatcher

03: The Walking Trouble

    Viltarin, the supposedly new King, flabbergasted, was gawking at her as though she had gone mad but then, half a second later he burst out cackling, harsh, and croaking and beheld his forearm as he shook with laughter.

    "Oh, dear Nosdor, I am flummoxed!"

    When he had done laughing, his lips closed beneath his thick and bushy mustache. The mirth in his eyes died and they were once again conjured with darkness.

    He leaned forward, "what will you do of it, Little Fierce? Are you waging a war with Tethoris? A war with a slingshot?"

    "You gave me your word—"

    "I'm a man of my word—"

    "Then you must keep it, Your Grace. Don't ask me of my matters."

    "Erraticism, Little Fierce. It's not every day one meets a girl as queer as you who kills a man twice the size of herself and wants mere metals and a lad's plaything instead of a Queen's throne."

    Well-justified curiosity assumed its station amidst the air, and at length silence, almost breathless silence, reigned around until the new King spoke once again, loud and clear.

    "Rojen Scorbs!" A man came forward and bowed. "For your undeniable part in the fall of the Hennetthors, I pronounce you as the new Vizer of the kingdom of Filhayal."

    The Vizer replied, "the honor is mine, Your Grace." Her sight aligned with the Vizer's, looking her way but the contact was brief.

    "Arrange for all that she has demanded and make sure that my guest gets a good rest and a belly full of food after all she intends to go a long way." As Viltarin's eyes stared at her, an uncertain gleam in them, she knew it then, he wasn't to be trusted.

    ***

    Vizer Rojen Scorbs spoke naught at all and not once did he look behind as he strode before her like a tall walking tree, only he wasn't green but donned in all black leather breeches and sleeveless vest that stretched from the valleys of his bulging muscles, glistening and taut was his sun-kissed skin, a godly sight. The front of his medium short hair, shiny black so unlike her ruffled matte, was braided and pulled behind into a neat, half ponytail, exposing his big forehead where there rested a permanent crease that bent his quaintly squared eyebrows, a marked expression of anger. Mysterious and unapproachable, he irradiated a menacing aura greater than Viltarin's eyes could ever conjure.

    "This will be your chamber for the night," he said, opening the doors of the room.

    The octagonal, central chamber was humongous in the golden light—candles in every corner of the room. Each alternating side of the wall was edged by a lofty pointed window filled with stained glass. A dome was arched on the ceiling, painted with drawings of fire, hues of orange spreading like wild, emerging from a steep, fire-spitting mountain in the center of the dome. At one glance, she knew it was the Great Nos of the north, that once belonged to the ruined kingdom of Orkin. From the Great Nos, a picture of a golden dragon breathing fire tinted the major part of the ceiling. The people of Meinoris, called it the God of Fire, Nosdor which meant 'the dweller of Nos' in Yelbedonis, the dead language.

    "Do you believe in the God of Fire?" she questioned, gazing at the intricate cornices. "They say, Nosdor will eventually come out on the last day of the world to wreak havoc."

    "I believe in no such things," Rojen grunted. Her attention reverted to him when he began to brief her about her arrangements.

    "The weapons are over there on the table. A tailor would come in later to take your measurements and as I'm told you're famished, supper would arrive soon."

    He is humorless. Not that she had any better sense of intelligent humor.

    "What about the gelding?" she questioned.

    "You can pick one of your liking from the royal stable at the first crack of dawn."

    She picked up an arrow and inspected its fine arrowhead. "And arrangements for my travel to Tethoris?"

    "When the night falls, a Nyct will be sent with the message to Sraans City, Nulakin."

    Everything was perfectly going the way she had planned but something yet bothered her.

    The boy must prevail, he had said.

    "If that is all, I leave you to your—"

    She cut him. "What is it that Viltarin Bethcrow want—"

    The moment the words left her tongue, Vizer Rojen Scorbs was behind her in a swift motion, pulling her violently in his grip, and her back slammed into his hard chest. Before she knew or had the time to react—the arrow was still in her hand—his one hand grabbed over hers that beheld the arrow and pushed the point of the arrowhead to her neck, dangerously close as with the other he yanked her chin up roughly so now she looked up directly at him.

    He glared down at her, chiseled jaw clenching. Heavens, he has a handsome face. "You will address him as The King."

    He is loyal. Devout.

    "Pardon me," she replied meekly, afraid that the arrowhead would lance her neck if her throat bobbed even a little or if she breathed, "I'm bad at nobility. And since Your Grace hasn't been coronated yet—"

    "My King has killed Ophir Hennetthor and so he unspokenly becomes the next king, coronation or not."

    She noticed his grey eyes had flecks of orange like fireworks on a dark canvas or was it just wrath seething inside of him, she couldn't tell.

    "Although a coronation might make it official."

    "I don't need your opinion, woman and neither does the King."

    "Then let me seek your opinion on something, Vizer. Why is it that the King wants the prince alive?"

    "He's the last Hennetthor. Needless to say, my King will spare him a quick demise. He'll experience horrible pain and torment first. Tell me, woman, how come you betrayed him?"

    "I didn't," she grunted, pulling at his hand which held the weapon to her throat but not a muscle in his body moved. She blamed the lack of food in her system.

    I never told the knave to trust me. He should have known better.

    "Strange, I heard him say otherwise, repeatedly. He was your friend, wasn't he?"

    Her neck was aching being craned up for so long. His fingers still held her chin so she couldn't look anywhere other than his hard face hovering above hers.

    "I befriend none," Neriath snarled.

    "You're conniving. A walking trouble. I knew it the moment you set foot before the King. But I warn you, if you betray the King, I will do the honors of beheading you myself."

    "Men who tried to kill me before now lay in the dirt in peace."

    The agitated crease was still there on his forehead but he didn't reply and at once left, striding for the doors as she shakily breathed for air, gasping.

    "Bathe, Neriath," told Rojen, "you smell of foul shit."

    He remembered my name.

    She cursed and struck the arrow in her hand which got embedded straight on the wooden door where Rojen last lingered.