The Three Kings

by Slawomir Rapala

Chapter IV: Empty Heaven

part 1 of 5

Days and nights went by relentlessly, but they brought no change to the boys’ horrifying circumstance. Xunnax had long abandoned hope and declared hard-heartedly that if Aezubah were to come he would have done so in the first few days of the journey. He was not coming at all, the Izmattian boy stated harshly one morning, breaking Iskald’s already fragile heart and driving him even further into despair.

The young Duke could not accept the obvious fact as easily as Xunnax. There were times when he still believed that his friend and mentor would come nevertheless, to rescue him from the hideous captors, the repulsive ship, from the hopeless existence and the bleak future that lay before him.

Aezubah would come and take him away from this hell, Iskald thought; he was just being delayed for one reason or another. Plenty of things could have happened to slow his flight: rough tides and strong ocean currents, for instance, or perhaps the immediate affairs of the Estate which must have been in total disarray following Vahan’s tragic death. The seasoned warrior would overcome all difficulties, though, and he would come to set him free, to restore order, and punish the wicked Tha-kians.

Iskald was sure of this.

But then more days passed and still nothing happened and finally even he had to admit, though it pained him to do so, that Aezubah was not coming indeed. His heart filled with anguish and fear. His friend and mentor had let him down. Maybe he too had fallen victim to the ruthless Tha-kians and could not come because he was already dead, like his father?

Over the next few days Iskald sunk into a state of mind-numbing despair. He spoke to no one; he looked on with an empty gaze, completely unaware of his surroundings. For days Xunnax tried to draw him out of a mental apathy that had claimed him. He finally gave up because all his efforts were met either with disdain or a complete lack of interest.

Iskald became totally indifferent to his condition. Just days before he had been convinced that Aezubah would come and that his nightmare would end, that it was only temporary, that he could deal with it because he would soon find himself in Lyons again, among friends and in familiar surroundings.

Aezubah failed to come, and suddenly Iskald was faced with a terrible recognition: he was not going home. It dawned on him that he might never see his home again, that he was being taken across the ocean deep into a savage land where he would be sold like any other commodity, like a beast of burden, and he would labor under the threat of death for the remainder of his miserable life.

Or maybe he would never even reach that land because he would die on this vile ship, beaten to death by one of the primitive guards. He had seen it happen before; Shira had split the skull of a boy right before his eyes and Iskald stared blankly at the dead body for the remainder of the afternoon. Rats and insects were already halfway through the corpse before a guard came down to fetch it and toss it overboard as charity for sharks and other creatures of the sea.

Death lurked in the pit and was ever present in Iskald’s new life. Disease governed the dirty pit infested with all sorts of filthy vermin. The boys slept in their own debris, eaten alive by rats, and they were dying a slow and agonizing death one by one by one.

With all hope gone, Iskald resolved to accept the reality of his present condition and was overwhelmed by a wave of absolute indifference. He was unmoved by the death, the stench, the rats and insects, the disease and filth, the screams and the savage cries of the boys beaten and raped by the guards, or by the revolting food they were given.

Shira and his guards were met with a similar indifference when they beat him. This unprecedented stolidity on the part of a slave infuriated them. They were used to seeing them squirm under their whips, to seeing them cry and beg for life.

Iskald did none of those things. He received the savage beatings in solemn silence and only when the guards left did he allow tears to quietly streak his face. His body was maimed and bruised, but he did nothing to relieve the pain and looked on with indifference as Xunnax took care of his wounds.

Iskald was lost in his thoughts.

He thought of his past: short and unfulfilling; of the hideous existence he led now, and of the grim and uncertain future he faced. He thought about the brief sixteen years that he had been allowed to live, the short time he had to experience the world. His thoughts focused on one single thing that kept coming back and back, recurring in his dreams night after night: the thought of his former happiness which was shattered and desecrated without any warning and without any clear reason.

Why, why, why? He directed this persistent question towards the gods and waited for an answer that never came. Iskald could not understand why the gods had suddenly turned away from him. Why did they fail to extend their helping hands? He could not understand. Father had spoken to him for years about the gods who watched over the people. For years he spoke of Dynah, Iskald’s mother, an angel to the gods, seated with them and caring for the people. For him. His father was wrong, Iskald thought. Where were they now? Heaven was empty.

Sometime later, without warning, a wave of uncontrollable and violent fury replaced Iskald’s indifference. It claimed a powerful grip on the young Duke and left Xunnax and the other boys absolutely horrified. Even Shira and his guards often backed away in fear. He repeatedly rammed his head into the wooden wall until cracks appeared in the boards behind him and Iskald collapsed unconscious, bleeding from the back of his head.

At times, he cried and wailed like a madman as he struggled to strip the chains off his arms and legs. At other times, he tore at his wrists with savage strength and tried to pull his hands through the shackles. His throat gave birth to such terrifying shrieks that the guards soon started whispering among each other that Iskald was possessed.

It had been long since the last time he had spoken a word out loud; when he opened his mouth now it was only to scream or to weep. And when he cried, he howled like a beast. After a few days, most of the guards refused to come down to the pit at all, believing it to be home to all the demons and fiends of hell.

If anyone who had known him prior to his capture saw him now, he would not recognize in him the Duke’s proud son. Iskald presented a startling sight. The rags that covered him were torn almost to pieces and hardly protected his body already mutilated by Shira’s heavy whip. His long, thick, unwashed black hair gave him a demonic appearance; a thick layer of dirt, blood and his own debris covered his entire body and the reek made it almost impossible to approach him. He would not allow himself to be washed.

Xunnax and several other boys who were chained to the ground near Iskald and were continuously subjected to his stench, complained constantly. They tried to force him to wash one day but he snapped his teeth at them and they gave up quickly. The most striking thing about Iskald, though, the thing that made everyone back away in terror, was the look in his frantic, feverish eyes. He had the look of a madman, a grinning maniac so lost in his own private hell that he was completely unaware of the happenings around him.

Despite his appearance, though, Iskald was not mad just yet although there was little separating him from it. It was only a small step from his mental state to one of total delusion. Only the thoughts of his former life and the memories of his previous happiness stopped him from succumbing totally to the madness that slowly crept into him.

He convinced himself that evil and treacherous people had pushed him into this wretched pit of despair, this endless abyss of abuse and insult. When he thought of the Tha-kians, he used the full extent of his ailing imagination and put them through the most unspeakable acts of torture that his ill mind could concoct. But even the most horrendous suffering never seemed punishment enough for those who took his life and replaced it with this miserable existence, an existence that he loathed and wished to end.

Later, when the fury disappeared, Iskald once again became indifferent and apathetic. The image of a nameless boy’s body eaten by rats and insects remained vividly alive in his mind; he would never be able to rid himself of it. It would return to him many years later in nightmares and he would wake up in the middle of the night, sweating profoundly, his eyes wide open with terror, sobbing like a little boy.

He wanted this image and a thousand others to disappear. He wished to be able to leave this place for a moment even, just so that he could take a breath of fresh air and to look at the sun again and at the clouds and all those other wonderful things that he knew were still out there. He had taken them for granted so many times and now they were the things he longed for day and night.

Slowly, his apathy turned into what was almost a lethargic state that nearly bordered death. But although his body remained motionless, his mind toiled continuously, conjuring up ways to escape this nightmarish existence.

To be continued...

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