T Lain - The Bloody Eye

The guard looked around and realized that there were no reinforcements to save him.

“Go to mine,” answered the guard. “Much gold!” he cried before he dropped to his knees like a supplicant in a temple.

“Good,” responded Krusk, “now, you’ll die fast!”

The guard’s gray skin paled visibly. His square jaw quavered as he searched for the words that would convince Krusk to spare him.

“Please don’t,” spoke a female voice.

Krusk turned toward the sound of the voice. It belonged to the brave and beautiful woman who had cried out the name of her town and initiated the snare that brought the guard down. Like all the slaves in the caravan, the woman was missing her left eye, but Krusk thought her courage and intelligence made her even more beautiful in spite of her disfiguration. Without trying, she could charm in a way that her deformity accentuated her beauty rather than detracting from it. Again, Krusk thought of his mother as the woman stood straight and looked at Krusk with her one good eye.

“There’s no need to kill him,” she explained, “We don’t have to be like him.”

Krusk stared at the woman. From her obsidian black hair to the caramel color of her skin, she mesmerized the barbarian. When he didn’t answer, she continued, “We could simply put the chains on him and let him go back to his village alone.”

“No good,” answered Krusk. “More come back.”

The woman grimaced as the look of fierceness came over Krusk’s face once again. Krusk noticed the change in her demeanor and realized that he needed to be more compassionate if he wanted to please this woman. He considered speaking like an ordinary man instead of in the gutteral patois used by orcs and troglodytes in the region. The distinct, heavy accent, as foreign to Krusk as it was to any human, was useful for intimidating primitive foes. Now it might be scaring the woman. He decided against it when he looked at the orc’s frightened face. For the time being, the prisoner was more important than the woman.

“Keep him,” announced Krusk with determination. “He knows mine. Can show us.” Krusk grabbed the guard by the throat and croaked another question. “Key?” he asked, rattling the chains.

The guard pointed toward the fallen commander and motioned that he could get the key. Krusk released his grip on the orc’s neck and shoved him toward the commander’s corpse.

Yddith breathed easier. She hadn’t known whether the barbarian could be reasoned with, but she was relieved that the half-orc hadn’t killed the surviving guard. Nervously, she studied the barbarian as he watched the guard return with the key. Thankfully, she saw him order the guard to unlock the shackles, beginning with her own. As relief rushed through her, she wondered how much she could trust their rescuer. Before she could return to Pergue with her fellow-survivors, she would have to know that there was more to Krusk than his apparent hatred for orcs. Still, for the first time since the Black Carnival invaded her life, she felt safe.

Jozan hadn’t been offended when the priest loaned him a mule to continue his quest, but he was beginning to feel uncomfortable with his virility as he kept having to look up to speak to this amazing woman. Alhandra’s magnificent gray stallion stood a full hand and a half taller than the mule beneath Jozan. That didn’t help him get over the preconceptions one gets as a cleric trained in an all-male order. He always thought of women as being either temptations or servants.

Alhandra certainly qualified as the former. At least, she would if you could get around her defense of pure competence. Or was that confidence? How would she not be a temptation, Jozan mused. Every time I try to speak to her I have to look up and see her auburn hair so brightly lit against the sky that it looks like she has a halo.

Jozan was beginning to think the female actually had a halo. After all, she appeared quite suddenly next to that altar. He still wasn’t certain she hadn’t come from another dimension, in spite of her story. She seemed so ready to face any eventuality. He’d always prided himself on his ability to look calm and strong on the outside, even when his insides were fluttering like the butterflies migrating in spring. He felt neither calm nor strong.

His meditation was disrupted by her disconcerting voice. “So,” mocked Alhandra, “are you praying, planning, or meditating? Or have I mistakenly joined forces with someone who has sworn a vow of silence?”

“No vow, lady,” mumbled Jozan, “just struggling with a personal demon.”

“A personal demon?” responded Alhandra with just a hint of mockery. “Your order must be very important to warrant personal demons. Aren’t there enough public demons to be exorcised without you choosing one for a pet?”

Again, Jozan found himself off-balance in his conversation with Alhandra. He didn’t feel like he expressed himself well in his answer. “I assure you, milady, I did not choose this inner struggle.”

Alhandra smiled. “Of course you didn’t. No one ever does. We do get to choose how much time we dwell on such struggles, though.” She saw the disconcerted look on the cleric’s face and took a modicum of pity on Jozan. “I beg your pardon, brother. I gave up fighting inner demons long ago. I choose to face outward evil. I don’t have much patience for those who indulge themselves.”

“You’re right, of course, but you don’t understand my dilemma,” he replied. “The man we seek was once my tutor. Calmet was supposed to help me succeed, yet even with his help, I failed. How can I succeed now without his help?”

Alhandra didn’t know how to respond. When she said nothing, the cleric continued, “I do know this. Now, more than anything, I want to see Calmet suffer.”

“Oh, my!” responded Alhandra. “You do have a demon to wrestle with. Of course, none of this will help us solve the immediate problem. What do you suppose the good father meant by the Black Carnival?”

Jozan wondered if the question was a test or if the paladin was baiting him. When he saw the quizzical look on her face he knew the question was sincere.

“I don’t know,” he answered. “It sounds bizarre. Some troupe that paints their wagons with night shades instead of the garish colors we expect from companies of players? I doubt it. Someone would have heard of such a troupe. No company can survive long without word of mouth. It sounded…” He paused for a moment, gathering his courage lest his upcoming suggestion be perceived as silly. “It sounded…the way he said it, I mean, as if it were something supernatural, something like the endless hunt.”

Alhandra grimaced at the comparison with evil, supernatural spirits condemned to spend all eternity hunting for a prey they can never quite catch.

“I don’t think it’s supernatural,” she suggested. “I think it’s merely slaver argot for a slave caravan.”

Jozan became defensive. If the woman already knew, he thought, why did she ask? He tried to keep the acid out of his voice as he spoke. “Sorry. I never heard the term before.”

“I didn’t say I had heard of it,” she admitted. “I’m just guessing. It’s at least as likely as your endless tour theory. I’ve never heard of immoral performers sentenced to eternal…or maybe I should say, infernal performances.”

“No,” admitted Jozan with considerably less defensiveness, “but my theory does seem more poetic. If wicked warriors are forced into an endless hunt after they die, why not sinful thespians consigned to an eternity of unsatisfying performances and unappreciative audiences?”

Alhandra tilted her head back and laughed with genuine enjoyment. “I like that. The next thing you know, we’ll find that venal priests are forced to celebrate endless masses while congregations respond in blasphemy. Maybe debauched courtiers would be punished by an endless audience before an infernal monarch who natters incessantly about the most idiotic things—just like the real ones.”