Fallacy

CHAPTER ONE

         Calairah stood in front of the intricately-carved fireplace, hands clasped loosely behind her back, staring at the gray and gold tapestry of Ganyah, the three-headed, winged sea-serpent that had stood as her family's sigil since the days of old.  It was one of her favourite depictions of the Sea King and whenever she felt anxious or fearful, she would glean strength from the knowledge that he watched over her, sworn protector of her bloodline. And yet, today, try as she might, she could not dispel the disquiet that plagued her.
Logically, she knew that her fears were probably unfounded, that the tales she had heard about the wildness and ferocity of the Bekaarians were most likely exaggerated, but she remained apprehensive about their imminent visit.  Not since the reign of King Lualith the Wise had the two kingdoms been united and even then, legend had it, the dissention between the two nations had led to as much bloodshed as that caused by the war against the Agari.
Calairah reached out a slender hand to smooth down the tapestry, which had begun to billow and swell under the slight breeze blowing in through the stone-cut window, before making her way across the newly washed floor to her favourite cushioned chair.  She had just smoothed down the voluminous folds of her long, gold-trimmed velvet dress when she heard her sister calling out her name.
         "Cally! Cally, they're here!" screeched the breathless child as she burst into the solar, her blond ringlets bouncing in disarray around her elfin features, her long, muddied gown hoisted unashamedly above her knees.
         Calairah frowned at her younger sister in admonishment although a welcome smile played along the edges of her lips.  "Ira, what did I tell you about running along the halls?"
         "I know, Cally, but they're here! One of the sentinels spotted the procession less than half a day's length away.  I even heard Father telling Jaco to prepare the horses for the welcome party that is to escort them to the castle and Mistress Satsa is already screaming at the servants downstairs to make haste with the clearing of the Great Hall!"
         All this information poured forth from the eight year old in an excited rush and Calairah, who had only moments before been beset by such unease over what the future might bring, could not help but marvel at the simplicity of youth.
         "Be that as it may, little sister, there is no need to behave like a common serf, running and screaming at the top of your lungs.  Imagine what Mistress Satsa would say, if she saw you like this?  All flushed and dishevelled?  You would do well to remember what we talked about, my sweet.  You have to be at your very best for our guests, so come along now and let us get you presentable."
         "Yes Cal.  And I'm sorry for running, I was just so excited. I can't believe we are finally going to meet Princess Harza.  Do you think she is as beautiful as the Bard's songs say she is?"
         "Well, they say that Bard Wegor prides himself on the truth but I'm sure she's not half as beautiful as you," said Calairah, affectionately ruffling her sister's hair as they walked down the sun-dappled corridor toward their mutual quarters.
         Ira, eyes downcast, laughed half-heartedly at the compliment and Calairah silently rebuked herself for her thoughtless remark.  She, better than anyone, knew how self-conscious Ira was about the jagged scar that marred the lower right side of her face and neck.           
          In an effort to distract both herself and her sister, Calairah said, "Come, my sweet, let's go and see if we can find Dehnen.  It will be some time before Princess Harza and her entourage arrive".
         "Alright," replied Ira happily. "Last I saw, he and Ardarth were down in the courtyard practicing their swordplay".
         Calairah shook her head in response.  Ardarth should know better than to be practicing with the squires at this time. If Father knew how lightly he was taking this meeting with the Bekaarians, he would be livid.  She just hoped she could talk some sense into him before word got back to King Re'ahdill that his first born son was making hay when the future of Ahrsdale depended on the success of his imminent meeting with their eastern neighbours.
          However, despite her mounting anxiety, Calairah chatted amiably with her sister as they made their way steadily through the bustling castle, taking care not to disrupt the harried, often heavily-laden, servants preparing for the mid-day feast.  Without much mishap, save for the near catastrophe of Ira accidentally bumping into a woman carrying a large vat of boiling fat, they reached the inner courtyard, blinking as they waited for their eyes to adjust to the bright morning sunlight.
         "My Ladies!  It is an honour to have you grace us with your presence!"
         Calairah sighed and turned toward the unctuous yet authoritative voice that called for her attention, her full lips curving slightly in a smile of polite indifference.
         "Master Bigos, blessings befall you," greeted Calairah.  "It is a rare occasion indeed to find you observing weapons training."
         "Naturally, you are right, my Lady but I am presently forced to run an errand, more specifically to spare the Prince having his skin flayed by your Father.  The welcome party is preparing to leave and I have been informed by young Dehnen that your brother has decided not to accompany us," replied Pethar Bigos, shaking his head in disapproval, his long black hair momentarily shielding from view the mixture of distaste and exasperation that clouded his face.
         Calairah was taken aback.  Surely even Ardarth could comprehend the importance of riding out to welcome his bride-to-be?
         Pethar noticed her shock and leaned forward conspiratorially, his hot breath gushing over her ear as he said, "Imagine if the royal family took Ardarth's absence as a slight against their honour and decided against the alliance?  Do you think your father alone would be able to protect you and your beloved Ira from the wrath of the Agari?"
         Calairah recoiled from him sharply, stumbling slightly over Ira who had been clutching at her skirts. She grasped her sister's shoulder to steady herself before pulling herself up to her full height.
         "It would behoove you to choose your words wisely, Pethar," she said to him coldly, staring down her patrician nose at him as if he were little more than a common serving boy.  "You may be my father's advisor and these may be troubled times, but even you are not above being punished for your insolence."
         Pethar raised his hands in a gesture of supplication and smiled obsequiously, "I meant no disrespect Princess, only that you should plan ahead in the event of unforeseen circumstances"
         "I do not need you to lecture me on the merits of foresight, Master Bigos," she sneered at him.  "Moreover, I can keep my own counsel so please refrain from dispensing unwanted advice".
         With that parting comment still hanging in the air, Calairah grasped Ira's hand, turned her back on Pethar Bigos and stalked off to the extreme right corner of the courtyard where the men-at-arms, surrounded by a group of cheering squires, were practicing their defensive sword-fighting skills.
         As they drew nearer, Calairah spotted Ardarth locked in a skirmish with a man she didn't recognise, although she assumed that he was a seasoned fighter judging from the manner in which he parried and blocked Ardarth's advances with the heavy makeshift wooden sword.  She decided not to interrupt her brother.  He was still Heir Regent and, with the King soon to depart for the Frozen Lands, she could not afford to question his authority in front of the men.
         Ardarth was oblivious to his sisters' presence, so focussed was he on his opponent.  He wore no armour, not even a leather vest or skull cap, and his muscles bulged visibly beneath his sweat-dampened tunic as he lunged forward, thrusting his sword at his rival's ribcage.  The knight, or so Calairah assumed, effortlessly diverted the blow while stepping backwards to provide himself with enough space to swing his sword around in a wide uppercut aimed at the juncture between Ardarth's left arm and breast.  Ardarth, however, anticipated the move and spun to the right, dipping low to take advantage of his opponent's unprotected abdomen.  Bringing his sword around in one smooth movement, he dragged it across the man's midsection, an injury which, had it been dealt with a steel blade, would generally prove to be fatal.  The crowd cheered loudly, some of the men surging forward to slap Ardarth on the back in congratulations; others to help the knight, who had lost his balance after the blow, back to his feet.  Ardarth, however, didn't consider the fight to be over.  He shook loose of those trying to congratulate him and rammed his shoulder roughly into the unsuspecting man's stomach, sending him sprawling in the dirt, before striding over to kick him viciously in the groin.  The knight doubled over in pain, his hands covering his crotch protectively, leaving his face and torso vulnerable to further attack.  Seizing the opportunity, Ardarth crouched down and slammed the pommel of his sword against the man's temple, rendering him unconscious.
         Ardarth stood, wiping the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand before pushing his way through the now silent crowd.  He did not see his sisters waiting for him amidst the spectators nor did he notice Pethar Bigos marching purposefully towards him.  He was filled with that blind exhilaration that always overtook him after a fight and all he really cared about in that moment was finding a woman to satisfy him.  He was therefore greatly annoyed to hear Pethar's distinctive voice calling out for him to stop and even more aggrieved to see Calairah, a determined look etched on her delicate features, hurriedly following in Pethar's footsteps.
         "My Lord, a word if you would," said Pethar Bigos sternly.
         Ardarth frowned and, in a voice that brooked no argument, responded,  "Not now, Pethar.  I have some urgent matters to attend to."
         "And what, pray tell, do you consider more urgent than the future well-being of your kingdom?"
         "Ah, I see you received my message."
         "Yes, your squire made it quite plain that you are refusing to ride out to meet the Bekaarians."
         "I will be lassoed to their so-called 'Princess' soon enough, no doubt.  I see no reason to tighten that noose prematurely.  Now, if you would permit me to take your leave, there is a buxom wench whose acquaintance I aim to renew."  Without waiting for a reply, Ardarth turned on his heel and made to leave but was stopped by a firm hand grasping the back of his tunic.
         Ardarth turned, incredulous that Pethar Bigos dared to lay a hand on his person.  His felt his temper, which was never far from the surface, flare.  "You dare to stop me?" he snarled through clenched teeth, his large, calloused hands curling into fists at his sides.
         Immediately, Bigos understood his error.  He took a step back, his diminutive frame shrinking away involuntarily from the cold heat that emanated from Ardarth's steel gray eyes.  "My apologies, my Lord; these are tense times and I find it is incumbent upon me to warn you that your Father expects you at his side when he rides out to welcome your guests," explained Bigos, his tone conciliatory.
         "Perhaps we should discuss this matter in private, Master Bigos?" interrupted Calairah, side-stepping him to place a restraining hand on her brother's forearm.  "We are creating quite a spectacle, as you can see." She nodded towards the men at the far side of the courtyard, most of whom were not even attempting to disguise their curiosity.
         "Let them look", Ardarth muttered angrily.  "And as for Father, it was his decision to involve the barbarians in our affairs.  Since the Beginning of the New Dawn, our forefathers have managed to keep the Agari at bay.  Why should we fail now?  Our Father is too timid, tied to the tits of Khalaima-re and her far-fetched warnings.  For him to even consider contaminating our bloodline with barbarian filth shows how far from honour he has fallen.  If he wants to shove his tongue up Jeiren's arse, so be it, but I will not follow in his stead."
         Calairah quelled the anger she felt at hearing these words.  It would not do to aggravate Ardarth further, especially with his already heated blood ready to sizzle at the slightest provocation.  Not only did she need him to agree willingly to join the welcome party, she subsequently needed him to prove to King Jeiren that a marriage between him and the Princess would be advantageous for both kingdoms.  "Be that as it may, brother," she responded calmly, "perhaps you should take a moment to consider the possible consequences of not adhering to Father's wishes regarding this matter."
         "And what consequences would those be, Calairah?  He is a blustering old fool who has lost the courage to follow through on his empty threats.  If he denounces me as Heir Regent, who would he have stand in his stead when he deserts his people to undertake this foolhardy journey to the Frozen Lands?  You?  Or perhaps this spineless swine?" he said, gesturing towards Pethar Bigos.
           Calairah glanced at Bigos, noticing the gleam of hatred that flashed in his eyes before he regained his composure and stared off into the distance, his face once again impassive.  "Yes, Father would have much difficulty in finding a replacement Regent to rule in his absence," she replied.  "But perhaps, therein, lays the crux of the matter."
         "Your meaning?" questioned Ardarth, his interest piqued.
         Calairah took a deep, steadying breath.  She needed to phrase her next words carefully.  For all his failings, her brother was intelligent and would not be easily coerced to go against his baser instincts.  "Although you might disagree with him, I know you understand how strongly Father feels about aligning with the Bekaarians.  If he received any indication, however small, that you are not entirely willing to participate in his plan to increase our strength by aligning with Bekaar, he might decide to remain in Ahrsdale and join with Princess Harza himself.  If he so chooses, who do you assume he might send to the Frozen Lands in his place?  You are his first-born son, and a trained warrior, after all.  If such a situation does come to pass, you would most likely find yourself burdened with the responsibility of trying to convince Yarud of Erid to stand with us.  And remember, dear brother, our custom decrees that, as a member of the High Guard, you are honour-bound to serve Ahrsdale or face the penalty of death."
         Ardarth grabbed her arm painfully and jerked her towards him, grasping her chin with his free hand.  With his face mere inches from hers, he growled, "Have you been whispering these thoughts in Father's ear? Is this what he plans to spring on me if I don't jump like a bitch in heat to do his bidding?  Speak plainly, sister.  My patience is waning."
         Calairah stood unmoving despite his painful hold on her.  "Of course not, Ardarth," she answered, evenly.  "When has Father ever approached me for advice? But Father is able-minded, as you well know, and I believe that, if pushed, he may come to the same conclusions that I have. Are you really willing to take that risk?"
         Ardarth pushed her away from him, frustration written along the hard lines of his face.  "And I don't suppose that you would keep your sly mouth shut about these developments either, would you?" he snapped at Pethar Bigos.  Without waiting for a reply, he turned to Calairah and said, "Tell Jaco to have my horse saddled and ready.  I will meet Father at the gates."
         "Very well," nodded Calairah.  Ardarth, however, took her consent for granted, walking off before the words had passed her lips.  Calairah sighed in relief and rubbed her aching jaw as she watched her brother stride angrily across the cobbled stones.
         "Your Father will be pleased, my Lady.  I know that he was concerned about Ardarth's reticence to accept a Bekaarian bride," said Pethar Bigos, the tremble in his voice betraying the fear that had gripped him during the confrontation with Ardarth.  When Calairah did not respond, he turned towards her, his pinched features suddenly calculating.  "Or would you prefer for me to explain to the King the part you played in ensuring Ardarth's cooperation, Lady Calairah?  Perhaps the knowledge will help to counteract his recent dissatisfaction with you."
         Calairah looked at him in astonishment.  "And what exactly is it that you think you know about my father's feelings towards me?" she asked him, miserably aware of the apprehension that had crept into her voice.
         Pethar shook his head and smiled, refusing to grace her with a direct answer.  "You would do well to remember, My Lady, that in the royal court, even the walls have eyes."
         Calairah took a half a step back, resisting the urge to slap the smug, knowing look off Pethar's face.  Instead, she reached into the folds of her gown and removed a heavy bronze pendant, which she lifted up and let hang from the tip of her index finger.  She watched with satisfaction as Pethar's eyes widened in surprise.  "And you would do well to remember exactly to whom you are speaking, Master Bigos.  This is the second time this day that you have overstepped your bounds.  I hope for your sake that it will be the last," she warned.  She held his gaze as she replaced the pendant in her pocket before turning away from him dismissively, leaving him standing in the middle of the courtyard staring after her in confusion.

CHAPTER TWO

         
         The common room was dark save for the meagre strips of sunlight forcing its way in through the broken shutter that covered the sole window of the outer wall.  Kehran, who had let the door slam shut behind him when he entered the house, walked over to his sleeping father whose head lay resting on the small, grimy table in the middle of the room.  Gently, so as not to startle the old man, he grasped his father's frail shoulder and shook him awake.  Mureyrat groaned and tried to dislodge the offending hand but Kehran persisted and, after a small struggle, his father relinquished his slumber and opened his eyes.
         "Kehran, that you, my boy?" he mumbled, squinting at his son as he lifted his balding head up from the table.
         "Yes, Da," replied Kehran, reaching down to help his father sit more comfortably on the long wooden bench upon which he had fallen asleep.  He hunkered down next to his father and brushed aside a few bits of stale bread that had stuck to his cheek.  "How are you feeling today, Da?"
         "My back feels like it's been skewered with a pitch fork, but other than that, the same as always.  These bones aren't what they used to be, that's for certain."
             "You'll be okay, Da.  Did you drink the herbs I bought for you? Marda said that they should help with the pain."
         Mureyrat nodded in assent.
         "I will ask her if she can't fix you anything stronger.  But first, see what I managed to get for you," said Kehran, reaching across Mureyrat to grab the satchel that lay on the table.  He retrieved a small, square block of goat's cheese, so fresh that it was still weeping, and handed it to his father.
         Mureyrat held it up to his face, inhaling the tangy smell, before breaking off a piece and popping it into his mouth, savouring the taste.  "Where did you find the silver to buy this?" he asked his son whilst chewing.
         "Don't worry yourself about that, Da.  The harvest looks good this year; we can afford a few luxuries."  Kehran's father was one of the few free tenants in the village which meant that he could choose which crops to plant as long as he paid his rent promptly at the end of each harvest cycle.  But Mureyrat's health was failing and if, upon his death, they could not forfeit the inheritance tax, the land would revert back to the Royal holdings, forcing Kehran and his brother to work the King's land for food and lodge.
"The Divine Mother has been good to us," Mureyrat agreed.  "But remember, word has it that Lord Jonnah aims to raise the rent this year to finance the King's war efforts, so be wary of how you spend," he cautioned.
"Yes, Da", replied Kehran, walking over to the opposite corner of the room to stir the contents of the copper pot that hung over the pulsing coals of the small hearth fire.  He spooned out some of the thick, week-old pottage into a small wooden bowl which he subsequently handed to his father, his thoughts moving from satisfying his hunger to the pending increase in landholding rent.  "I was at the market today when I heard talk that the Bekaarians have finally arrived," he said to Mureyrat as he joined him at the table.  "It seems as if King Re'ahdill is set on his course of action."
Mureyrat nodded, swallowing a mouthful of food.  "Pehruk said as much to me when he came by to return the scythe.  But it appears that the royal household is at odds with the King, or at least that's what Jaco told him.  He also said that Jaco had overheard the Prince expressing his displeasure at being forced to wed the barbarian princess, so the road ahead might not be as smooth as King Re'ahdill expects."  Pehruk was a landless labourer, born into poverty, but his luck had changed for the better when his son, Jaco, was hired as the King's stable hand, a coveted position especially amongst the poorer village folk.  Pehruk was also one of Mureyrat's oldest friends, often assisting them with the planting and harvesting of crops, and Kehran knew from experience that he could trust whatever information the old man relayed to his father.
         He mulled over what Mureyrat had just told him.  King Re'ahdill was a just ruler, fair-minded and even-tempered but his recent decisions regarding his plans to align with the barbarians had called into question his ability to govern the kingdom, even amongst the common folk.  Kehran had even heard it whispered that the King was losing his wits and that Prince Ardarth, as ruthless and ambitious as he was, might make for a worthier king.
Kehran sighed and shook his head imperceptibly.  He had never before given much thought to anything other than his land and his family's welfare but, in this instance, the decisions of the nobles threatened to affect even the common man and tensions were running high throughout the village.
"Well, I suppose we shall know soon enough, Da," Kehran told his father.  "The lighting of the hearth fires is in a few days and word has it that the King is to address the people before the harvest ceremony."  Kehran tapped the table lightly with his fingertips.  "Do you think you will be well enough to attend?  It looks as if the feast this year is to be twice as large as usual in honour of the King's visitors."
"If the Gods see fit, mayhap I will accompany you.  It would certainly be interesting to get a glimpse of the Bekaarians," replied Mureyrat as he mopped up the last of his pottage with a chunk of bread.  "But why would you want me to come with you, son? Are you no longer planning on asking Leiya to the feast?"  He looked at his son slyly, a knowing smile stretching across his weathered face.
Kehran felt the heat rising up his neck.  Leiya was his childhood friend and neighbour and they had spent much of their youth growing up together.  Her father, Rewas, was also a free tenant but, unlike Mureyrat, he supplemented his income with a lucrative market stall where he sold eggs, meat pies and homemade ale.
Kehran had not expected to develop feelings for Leiya or, more surprisingly, have those feelings returned, but recently their relationship had developed into something more intimate.  And although they had not spoken openly about the change in their friendship, there seemed to be a constant undercurrent of nervous tension between them.  At first, he had tried to deny his feelings towards her, putting it down to the fact that it had been some while since he had last lain with a woman.  But even after visiting the alehouse and slaking his lust with an available wench, he could not shake his new found fascination with her. He found himself thinking about her often, too often, but try as he might he could not rid himself of the image of her animated smile as she regaled him with a funny story from the marketplace, or her scent as she brushed close to him to avoid tripping on the uneven ground as they walked together.  In fact, such was the depth of his affection that he had even considered asking his father's permission to wed the girl but had so far not been able to work up the courage.
Looking up at his father out of the corner of his eye, Kehran said hesitantly, "I have been meaning to speak to you about that, Da.  Mamma has been gone for some while now and with your health being what it is, I was thinking that it might be time to have a woman in our lives.  She is a good girl, Da, and, if you approve, I believe that she could make for a good wife," he finished, avoiding his father's gaze.
Mureyrat's booming laugh filled the room, causing Kehran to look up in surprise.  "You young'uns think too much of yourselves, trying to hide what is already on display for all to see," said his father jovially.  "But you are correct in saying that she is a good girl and, not surprisingly, her father would like to keep it that way."
Kehran frowned slightly in confusion.  "I don't understand Da.  Has Rewas spoken to you about my friendship with Leiya?"
"He's done much more than that, son.  He has given you his blessings to wed his daughter, or rather, he will do, as soon as you decide to behave like a man and ask his permission," Mureyrat told his son matter-of-factly.
Kehran dropped his head slightly in an effort to hide the pleasure he felt at these words.  He should have spoken to his father sooner, he realised now, although he remained somewhat ashamed that he had not been better able to hide his feelings.  Keeping his gaze averted, he made to thank Mureyrat but was interrupted by the front door banging open.  Thankful for the disturbance, he turned towards the sound, not altogether surprised to see his brother stumbling into the house.
"Good day, Father," slurred Zarkhaya, tripping over his feet as he moved to lean against the door for support.  His eyes were bloodshot and the worn linen shirt that he wore was rumpled and stained, attesting to the fact that he had not changed his clothes for days.
Kehran strode across the straw-covered floor and grasped his brother's arm to steady him but Zarkhaya shrugged free of him, lurching towards the table to sit down opposite their father.  Zarkhaya reached over and grabbed the block of cheese that sat on the table before taking a sizable bite.  His mouth full, he said, "Ah, brother, what a good son you are to buy our dear father such delicacies."  He held the block up to his eyes for closer examination.  "So fresh; it must have cost you dearly.  Or perhaps someone took pity on you and gave it to you for free?  Yes, that must be the case seeing as how you pled poverty when I asked you for a few coins last night."
Kehran expected the jibe but he refused to allow himself to feel guilty about not opening up his coffers the night before.  "Yet you still managed to find enough silver to drink yourself into your cups, I see," he countered.
Zarkhaya smiled at his brother. "You disapprove?" he asked, a mocking glint in his eye.
Kehran shook his head in disgust, not deigning to reply.  His brother had always been foolhardy, but recently his behaviour had spiralled out of control.
"Did you manage to speak to Pehruk about helping out as a hired hand during the harvest?" he asked his brother, changing the subject.
Zarkhaya shook his head, taking another bite of cheese before wiping his lips with the back of his hand.  "I didn't get the opportunity to see him."
"Either that or you didn't make the effort", said Kehran, his irritation mounting.
"How little you think of me, dear brother.  If you tried a bit harder, you would sound just like father here," he said, gesturing towards Mureyrat who was now struggling to his feet, one hand grasping the edge of the table for support.
"That is enough," said Mureyrat, glaring at his son.
Zarkhaya looked back at his father unconcernedly.  "You shouldn't get so upset, Da.  You might make yourself ill."
Kehran noticed the prominent vein on his father's temple begin to throb, which was never a good sign.  "You watch your mouth, boy.  You are nothing more than a disgrace and a burden to this family.  Go back to the alehouse, you can drink and whore yourself to death, it is no concern of mine.  But under this roof, you will hold your tongue or feel the back of my hand," said Mureyrat, his gruff voice dripping with contempt.
"I am what I am, Father," replied Zarkhaya.  "Besides, you already have one perfect son," he said, nodding towards Kehran.  "What good would it do you to have another?"
Mureyrat growled deep in his throat as he leaned across the table and slapped his son hard across the face.  But the effort proved too much for the old man who clutched at his chest as he collapsed back down onto the bench.
Zarkhaya, whose head had snapped painfully to the right when Mureyrat's hand had made contact with his cheek, reached up to massage his neck before turning to face his father, whose heavy breathing was the only sound breaking the tense silence.
"My apologies, Father.  I will strive harder to make you proud," he said, pushing himself up and away from the table.  He looked at Kehran, who was still standing in the open doorway.  "Or perhaps you could give me lessons on how to be a good son, brother?" he asked, as he pushed his way past Kehran, walking unsteadily out the door.

***

Shielding his eyes from the bright morning sunlight, Zarkhaya suppressed the urge to purge the contents of his stomach.  Not for the first time that day, he cursed himself for his previous night's exploits.  Contrary to what his father and Kehran believed, he hadn't intended to spend the evening swilling down Hordor Brewster's famous double-brewed, honeyed mead.  In truth, he had only gone into the alehouse to look for Pehruk, as per his brother's request, but Noktar, the blacksmith's son, had been celebrating the birth of his first babe and had taken to buying everybody drinks.  And who was he to say no to that?
Zarkhaya shook his head, trying to lessen the stabbing ache in his temples, but instantly regretted the movement.  All he really wanted to do was crawl onto his pallet and sleep off the ill-effects of his overindulgence, but he didn't feel up to another confrontation with his father.  Perhaps he would take a walk.  The crisp morning air might do him some good.
After a moment's deliberation, he decided to go to the isolated clearing that he had stumbled upon a few winters ago when he had been wandering around Kings Forest, searching for deadwood.  He might even have a small, refreshing swim in the cool, clear waters of the lake that lay hidden by the old alder trees that grew along the perimeter of the clearing.
Using that thought as incentive, Zarkhaya made for the well-trodden path that led to the forest, taking care to sidestep the loose stones and protruding roots that littered the ground.  After what seemed like ages, he finally reached the edge of the woodland, grateful for the respite from the mid-day heat and for the fact that the ache in his temples had receded to a dull throb.  He looked around, trying to decipher his exact location, before spotting a distinctive, fallen log that he remembered from his previous trips.  Using the dry, rotting timber as a directional marker, Zarkhaya made his way through the densely wooded area, stopping now and again to orient himself before eventually reaching the secluded clearing.
Bending down to remove his calf-skin sandals, he crossed barefooted to the edge of the gently rippling water that spanned the middle of the open space, before testing the temperature with tips of his toes.  The water was cold, but not uncomfortably so.  He began to undress, intending to swim for a while before taking a short, much-needed nap, when his attention was drawn to the opposite side of the lake by a muffled shout.  He paused, squinting across the water to try and determine the cause of the noise, when he heard a distinct scream, loud enough to startle the birds in the surrounding trees, followed by raised voices and the neighing of agitated horses.
Not wanting to get caught up in a melee, he ducked down behind a nearby rock and quickly laced up his shoes before running in a crouch towards a large stone outcropping that protruded from the higher ground along the south-west side of the water.  He, like the other villagers, understood the perils of entering the forest alone, not least of all being easy prey for the outlaws that roamed the area; but outlaws did not own costly horses, nor did they make a habit of announcing their presence by causing a racket, preferring stealth and craftiness to meet their ends.
He peered around the boulder behind which he had taken cover, trying to make sense of the commotion when, much to his incredulous surprise, an arrow flew past his ear, so close that he clearly heard the soft whirr of the spinning wood as it shot passed him.  He jerked back, out of the line of fire, breathing through his mouth in an effort to remain silent.  He could hear the horses splashing in the water now, in addition to the hysterical screaming and the curt shouts of the mounted men trying to control their wayward steeds.
Deciding to chance another glance, Zarkhaya dropped down onto his stomach and belly-crawled towards the edge of the outcropping, taking care to remain below arrow height.  He reached out to flatten a section of overgrown grass that obstructed his view and saw two men on horseback, one of whom held a drawn crossbow, gesturing in his direction.  The first thought that crossed his mind was that he was the object of their attention but then he realised that they were looking above where he lay, gesturing frantically at something behind him.
Leveraging himself up onto his elbows, his heart thudding painfully in his chest, Zarkhaya turned his head and scanned the terrain behind him but saw nothing out of the ordinary.  Confused, he looked back at the men, this time noticing a third man lying on the ground, screaming and clutching at his stomach, his innards lying haphazardly on the grass beside him.  Zarkhaya felt his own stomach lurch in response but he choked back his need to vomit, forcing himself to swallow the bitter bile that flooded his mouth.  He watched as the unarmed man dismounted from his horse and hurried over to his injured comrade, trying desperately to shove the man's insides back into the gaping hole that was now his midsection.  The wounded man writhed in pain on the muddy ground before falling silent, either passing out unconscious due to the additional trauma or, more likely, dying from the severity of his injuries.
The sudden silence made the small hairs at the back of his neck stand on end.  Even the horses had fallen quiet along with the dead or dying man, a fearful expectancy tightening the air.  Zarkhaya suppressed an involuntary shudder as he watched the two surviving men glancing warily around them almost as if waiting for someone, or something, to catch them unaware.
After a few tense moments, during which time nobody moved, the man carrying the crossbow shouted out in surprise as his gelding reared up on its hind legs, seemingly without provocation, causing him to saw frantically on the reigns in attempt to get the animal under control.  However, the startled horse proved too strong for the rider, who was flung from its back, landing with a large splash in the water below.  The frightened animal stared at its fallen rider for a moment before seeming to realise that it was free, then turned and bolted through the trees, following the path of the mare that had fled just moments before.
Stumbling in the shallow water, the sodden man made his way to the edge of the lake, reaching out to grasp his companion's outstretched hand when he suddenly jerked backwards, his arms flailing wildly as he hit the water.  At first, Zarkhaya thought that he had merely lost his balance but then he saw the short, silver-handled dagger protruding from the base of the man's throat, glinting merrily in the sunlight.  Zarkhaya caught his breath in disbelief.  He was finding it increasingly difficult to digest the events unfolding before him, let alone the fact that he, himself, might also be in danger.  He knew that these were no ordinary men.  They were armed, trained soldiers who, judging from their easily identifiable green and gold tunics, belonged to Lord Jonnah's Manor Guard.  And yet, they were systematically being murdered before his eyes.  No, this was no mere outlaw attack.  He was being held witness to something much more dangerous.
Even as these thoughts raced through his mind, Zarkhaya watched from his hiding place as the last remaining soldier bent down and wrenched the dagger out from his friend's throat before swinging around to scan the trees behind him.  Zarkhaya did the same, straining his eyes to try and spot the person who had thrown the blade but was distracted by the soldier who was now running towards the boulder where he lay hidden.  Zarkhaya felt his breath catch in his throat, his mind wavering erratically between remaining where he was and making a run for it before the marked man reached him.  But before he could decide either way, the breathless man had flung himself behind the boulder, colliding painfully against him.
The surprised soldier immediately jerked away from Zarkhaya, his frightened dark brown eyes rapidly taking in his person.  Zarkhaya held up his hands to show him that he meant no harm before raising a finger to his lips, silently asking the agitated man to remain quiet.  After little more than a heartbeat, the stranger nodded at Zarkhaya before turning away to peer cautiously around the boulder, his broad back blocking Zarkhaya's previously unimpeded view of the lake. A moment later, the man turned back to him, his face stricken with fear.  "They are coming," he said to Zarkhaya helplessly.
"Who? Who's coming?" asked Zarkhaya, but the man didn't respond.  Instead, the soldier grabbed Zarkhaya's forearm and pressed the blood-stained, silver-handled dagger into the palm of his hand.  "Take this," the man whispered urgently, holding fast to Zarkhaya's fist.  "Show it to the King.  Tell him what you saw.  Tell him that all is not what it seems, that the eye of the snake is bloody with betrayal.  He will know what it means. Now go! Run! And don't look back!"  But Zarkhaya just sat there, staring at the man in bewilderment, almost as if he could not understand what had just been said to him.  The exasperated soldier reached out and grabbed both of his shoulders, shaking him hard.  "Listen to me!" he said.  "You have got to go!  Go now!"
Finally realising that he needed to move, Zarkhaya scrambled to his feet, crouching low as he made a mad dash for the nearest copse of trees.  He did not dare to look behind him to see if he had been spotted, nor did he make any effort to watch his footing.  He just ran, his upper-body bent forward awkwardly as he tried to keep as close to the ground as possible, the blood pounding in his ears in rhythm with his accelerated heartbeat.  Even when he reached the relative shelter of the trees, he did not stop.  He just continued to run, clutching the dagger in his hand more and more tightly, intent only on getting as far away as possible from the bloodshed and uncertainty that lay behind him.