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These are excerpts from the first instalment of a three-volume work entitled, The Pig’s Head Conspiracy. The story follows three different, but inextricably linked viewpoints, and is a tale of high adventure, subterfuge and political intrigue set against an imaginary background. The story attempts not only to entertain, but also to deal with contemporary issues, such as social deprivation, cultural distrust and xenophobia, and the inherent inadequacies of democracy.
Chapter 9 Circle
The morning sun did little to warm the crisp autumn air. It shone down through the bare trees, stripped naked by the season almost overnight it seemed - a fireball of light with no heat. The auburn leaves carpeting the floor of the glade rustled softly in the drowsy breeze; a breeze upon which gentle birdsong drifted down from the skeletal treetops. A rabbit scurried across the rough trail leading to the village. It paused for the briefest of moments to stare bewildered at its own frosted breath, twitched its nose and was gone again.
It was a lazy day; a day to be spent reclining in front of a flurrying log fire, gazing drowsily into the embers and dreaming. But for the two men who stood facing each other in the middle of the clearing this day would grant no tranquillity. As the sun glistened along the naked steel in their hands, as the frost sank its jagged teeth into the tightly wound knots in their stomachs, they knew this day would bring only adversity, battle and despair. For one of them would soon be facing the greatest challenge of his life, the outcome of which would alter the entire course of the others.
From the longhouse they had headed straight for Aron’s home, shadowed closely by two armed men. Aron had spoken only to explain the nature of Kyal’s forthcoming ordeal to him.
Whenever there was dispute or a differing of opinion significant enough to create high tensions amongst the tribe that could not be resolved by the reasoning of men, then the issue was left in the hands of the gods. Under the gaze of Akkhat, the three-legged patroness of battle and champion of truth, a duel was entered into. There, within a circle of fire, the opponents would face one another, Akkhat bestowing victory upon he who was true of heart.
He had bedded down upon his makeshift mattress of bracken and heather, curled up beneath thick fur-lined hide blankets given him by Aron and tried to sleep. But the sweet oblivion eluded him, for although his body yearned for rest, his mind would not yield to it, reeling as it was from the naïve stupidity of these people’s beliefs.
How was he going to survive through this one? Surely these people could see that, even if there were a god to bestow favour upon one or the other, the combatants must be equally matched to begin with. And in order to equal him they would have to field a five-year-old girl armed with dry grass and preferably blind. But they were certain to bring forward their best fighter, for they thought he was a soldier.
Damn it, he should have told them the truth from the start, perhaps then they may have believed him. Or perhaps he may already be dead.
The men who had followed them back stood guard outside the doorway. Kyal could hear them talking and every so often one of them would sweep aside the flaps and poke his head in, ensuring that they both still were there. There was to be no escape.
It was Lia who came to save him, drifting toward him within a drowsy haze, her eyes shining like jewelled stars in the mist. She gathered him into her arms and pressed her lips tightly against his, carrying him away to a time and a place he had known only with her. Together they embarked upon a journey that men and women have been travelling since the dawning of time, her face always before him, smiling, yearning, loving. But when he woke he was alone. Aron was there, folding his blankets back into his chest, but he was alone. He felt hollow, numb, incomplete. No longer could he cling delusively to the hope of being reunited with Lia. No longer. He would never again set eyes upon her and it was a fate of his own devising.
We all forge our own destiny.
He was learning to despise those words. A doctrine to inspire greatness - soon to become an embittered epitaph.
Chapter 10 Boarish behaviour
Zoser leaned to within an inch of the man’s face.
“I didn’t say that you had.” Then he released him and walked over to one of the racks, swiping up a long sword. “But were this to be found within the residence of a known dissident then your license would be revoked, your weapons and materials impounded, your building seized and you yourself left to rot in Serenity.”
“You can’t do that!” Magell gasped in horror. “You’re the Captain of the Guard. You wouldn’t.”
Zoser cocked his head. “Wouldn’t I?” Then he relaxed his stance and laid down the sword. “No, you’re right. Do not let my words perturb you unduly.”
The old man closed his eyes and lowered his head in relief.
“For if you do not tell me all that you know, then I will kill you where you stand!”
Magell looked up slowly to stare at Zoser in disbelief. He scanned the captain’s face for any evidence that this was merely an idle threat, made to intimidate him into talking. Then his face crumpled and he hung his head to his chest, the blood seeping from the small puncture in his chin soaking into the coarse, thirsty material of his shirt.
“All my life I have served this city with unbridled loyalty. My weapons are sold to the army for a fairer price than many and their quality is rivalled by none. But I am an old man. I am tired of the walls, I am tired of the grey! I just wanted to gaze upon open lands, breath air unsullied by the reek of people, of waste, sewage and rats before I die.”
Zoser looked at the man with utter contempt.
“Fool!” he spat. “Were they to succeed then your death would be closer at hand than you think. You think the tales are false? Do you seriously believe that the state lies to you to keep you here? Our population is threatening to explode and we have barely enough food to meet demands as they stand, funding for vital renovation is nonexistent and the refuge centres sap ever more of our resources. Do you really think we would not empty half of this city if we could? I have been out there. I have seen that for which your eyes hunger. The dogs may well not tear you limb from limb, but the tribes will! Traitors such as you will bring us all to ruin. The old enemy remains!”
Magell did not reply immediately. His face still hung toward the ground and gradually his shoulders began to shake. He sank slowly to the floor.
“I am no traitor,” he called in a quiet, unsteady voice. “I love my city and continue to serve her always. I would do nothing to jeopardise our people, I merely allow them to train here.”
Zoser shook his head, disgusted at the old man’s stupidity. What did he think he was doing if not jeopardising their people?
“You are involved no further than in the provision of a training ground?” he asked.
Magell shook his head.
“You are not arming them?”
His shoulders ceased their quivering. He said nothing.
“Are you supplying them with arms?” Zoser repeated firmly.
Magell looked up at him, his eyes moist with shame and regret and Zoser had his answer. In three strides he had reached the door and hoisted the old man up by the scruff of the neck. He slammed him roughly into the door once again and pinned him there with a large hand to the chest.
“Now you listen to me, “ he growled, “and you may yet come out of this unscathed.”
Magell desperately tried to tear his eyes from the captain’s piercing stare, but found himself unable to do so. As a teenaged boy he had stood amongst the crowds in Greydn town square and witnessed the coronation of the young King Alden. As the newly crowned sovereign, illustrious in his regal raiment, acknowledged the crowd, their eyes had locked. Even though the distance between them had been considerable and it had been the briefest of exchanges, the look in the man’s eyes had entranced him. They exuded such potency and vitality that he had stood transfixed. Not before, nor since, had he witnessed such inner power. Until now.
Within Zoser’s bright, pale orbs shone a strength, a determination and a focused hatred that he could scarcely believe as belonging to any mere man and he was held captive by their mesmeric intensity. How could Fusil possibly hope to best a man such as this? How could anyone measure up to him? It no longer mattered who was right and who was wrong, the revolt was doomed to failure.
In that instant Magell realised what a fool he had truly been and he gave himself over wholly to Zoser and to the city that he loved...
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