Darren Shan - The Thin Executioner

“Nobody is sure how long we ruled Makhras,” Tel Hesani went on as Jebel trembled with rage. “Maybe three thousand years. Like all empires, ours crumbled in the end. But the difference between us and other tyrants was that we allowed it to crumble.”

The slave brought his hands together, the way he did when he was praying. “Power changed us. When we had conquered this world, we were free to spend time thinking about the next. Great prophets walked among us, but they were the humblest of men. They told us the path to happiness lay not in war but peace. Conquering the world was a simple thing; commanding one’s spirit was the real challenge.

“We put our weapons away, retreated from the lands we had conquered, and let other races rise. We tried to govern them at first, but that was arrogant of us. No man has the right to impose his rule upon another. In the end we left them to their own devices and begged God’s forgiveness for all the sorrow we had caused.”

Tel Hesani fell silent. For several minutes Jebel could only seethe silently. Finally, when he could trust himself to speak, he hissed, “Lies! Your people are curs and always have been.”

“Perhaps,” Tel Hesani said. “Who can truly claim to know the secrets of the past? Maybe my people invented those tales to make our hardships seem less like divine justice and more a choice of our own making.”

“The Um Kheshabah — rulers of Makhras?” Jebel sneered. “You can’t even rule your own country. Other nations launch raid after raid, stealing your crops, your gems, your people, and there’s nothing you can do to stop them.”

“I disagree,” Tel Hesani said softly. “We could form an army and fight. But we believe it is wrong to wage war, so we don’t.”

“Nonsense,” Jebel snorted. “You don’t fight because you’re cowards.”

“I am no coward,” Tel Hesani growled, then leaned forward. “Do you think I want my wife and children to spend their lives as slaves? Do you think I want my grandchildren to be born in captivity, subject to the cruel whims of their owners? I do not. But I want to displease God even less. So I avoid battle, no matter what the cost to me… my people… my family.

“Like many Um Kheshabah, I am often tempted to unite with others of my kind and strike back, to rebel in Wadi and other places where we are held unjustly, to wage war on those who have treated us so abominably. But I believe that I would lose the love of my God if I willingly killed others. The easy way is not always the right way. Sometimes, in pursuit of a greater peace, a man must stand by and let those he loves suffer the injustices of men who care only about their own beliefs and nothing about the faith or feelings of others — even when it pains him to the very core of his spirit.”

With that, a heavyhearted Tel Hesani got to his feet and went down to the river to fetch water. When he returned, Jebel was busy cleaning his weapons, with his back turned to the slave, and the pair said nothing further to each other that day.

Within days they had left civilization behind. The land was soft and marshy underfoot. Only arrowlike reeds and clouds of dark green choking weeds grew by the banks of the river and for miles in every direction. Many small streams fed into the as-Surout. Pools of stagnant water were common, as was quicksand.

Tel Hesani took the lead at first, walking slowly, testing the ground with a firm stick. But on the fifth morning, when Jebel had eaten and was ready to depart, the slave said, “You should walk ahead of me from this point.”

Jebel regarded Tel Hesani suspiciously. They hadn’t spoken much since the slave’s heretical rant. He wondered if this was a plot to get rid of him. They were all alone. There was nobody to rescue Jebel if the slave betrayed him.

Tel Hesani saw what Jebel was thinking and smiled grimly. “I am only concerned about your safety. The ground has become less trustworthy. I suggest we tie ourselves together, so if one of us falls into quicksand, the other can drag him out.”

“But why do you want me to go in front?” Jebel asked.

“I am heavier than you, my lord, and — with respect — stronger. It would be easier for me to haul you out than it would be for you to rescue me.”

Jebel couldn’t argue with that, so after they’d connected themselves with a firm rope, he set off through the swampland. He moved slowly, testing each piece of ground, not wanting to trust himself to the rope and the slave.

Despite his caution, later that day he took a step and felt the ground give way. Before he could leap to safety, he was up to his knees in quicksand and sinking swiftly. “Help!” he roared. “I’m going under! Tel Hesani! Get me out! Get me—”

“Quiet,” Tel Hesani said, standing his ground and slowly pulling on the rope. “Lie back and stretch your arms out.”

“But I’ll go under!” Jebel shrieked.

“No, you won’t. I am in charge of the situation. Trust me.”

The slave’s calm tone settled Jebel’s nerves. Breathing raggedly, he stopped thrashing, let himself tilt backwards, and stretched out his arms. For a couple of seconds the quicksand sucked at his head, and he thought his time had come, that Rakhebt Wadak, the solemn boatman of death, had set his sights on collecting Jebel Rum’s spirit. But then he felt the strain of the rope as Tel Hesani pulled, and soon he was sliding out of the quicksand’s deadly embrace, onto firm land.

When Tel Hesani let go of the rope, Jebel stood. He was shaking with fear and from the cold, clammy quicksand. Tel Hesani handed him a towel. When he was done with his face and hands, Jebel started to take off his tunic.

“I would not recommend that, my lord,” Tel Hesani said.

“But I’m filthy. I must change into fresh clothes and—”

“You may fall prey to another pit today,” said Tel Hesani. “Perhaps several. If you change every time, you’ll soon have no clean clothes left.”

“You want me to march like this?” Jebel grunted, waving a hand at his muck-encrusted tunic.

“I suggest you endure the hardships of the road, young master. This is part of a traveler’s lot.”

Jebel grumbled, then wiped the worst of the mess from his legs. Tossing the soiled towel back at Tel Hesani, he steered around the quicksand and led them forward again, slower than before, testing each patch of ground twice now.

The hardships increased every day. There were more pits… hidden pools covered with weeds that gave way and sent Jebel plummeting into bitingly cold water… vines overgrown with grass, which snagged his feet and tripped him.

They hit the dreaded mosquito belt, and within hours both were covered in bites and hives. Jebel slapped the mosquitoes at first, but they struck so frequently, and they came in such numbers, that soon he gave up and let them bite. Tel Hesani knew plants that could be applied to soothe the pain and others that drove some of the mosquitoes away, but for the most part they had to suffer the attacks.

Four days after entering the belt, Jebel had never felt so miserable. His left arm had swelled below the elbow from a particularly virulent bite. His eyelids were puffed up and he could barely see. They’d run out of food and had to hunt for their meals. All they had found that morning were frogs, and as disgusting as they were, Jebel had to eat them or go hungry. Worse would come later. Tel Hesani lit a fire in the morning and cooked the frogs, but they couldn’t light fires at night — the flames might draw larger, deadlier predators. They would have to eat raw frogs for supper.

“I don’t know how much more of this I can take,” Jebel muttered as they hacked through a thick stretch of reeds. As well as the hives, his legs and arms had been cut in many places, and some of the wounds were infected. Tel Hesani was keeping a close eye on the boy’s injuries, but there was only so much he could do for his young ward — he was suffering as well and had to tend to himself.