Two men, beaten by sand, stood at the crest of a hill overlooking a modest castle. Or some might call it less than a castle.
“Best be on our way.” The taciturn one nodded. The two suns were nearly at their meeting point–the heat was unbearable–or it would have been, to lesser men.
They proceeded down the dune cautiously. The nobler man gazed up into the sky, catching sight of a vulture or some such bird spinning lazily in the breeze. The man wondered whose death the bird foresaw when in that very instant a brute of a man, well-built and forceful stood forth from a thicket of brush, sword in hand.
“Hold!”
There was only the sound of the light wind as the two travelers halted.
“You two must pay a toll–and I encourage donations of your blood!” He spoke with a snarl, his breath whistling through broken teeth.
“Your blood, your blood,” he muttered, moving twixt and twain but never forward.
“Is this the one?” asked the nobler one as he cast aside his velvet robe and gingerly set his hand upon his sword.
The taciturn one nodded and withdrew a pale thin dagger nestled under is tunic belt, “Be on your way, foul one. We haven’t time for this!” He gestured upwards at the sky.
“Yes, we do not! And so you will render your blood unto me, will you not?”
“We shall do no such thing, wretch. Before you, wretch, lies the choice of two paths, either of which you may now walk. Either allow us passage to that stronghold which lies not a great distance ahead, or else walk the road of sorrow, being shamed that you, warrior-prince of the desert, were bested by two fairer men as us.”
The Foul One did not seem impressed in the least; instead he was infuriated, as he rushed forward against that taciturn one who had delivered such a flamboyant speech. He knew that diction, that tone, those mannerisms!
The taciturn one deftly stepped out of the way and smacked the Foul One across the cheek with the flat of his blade. The other one, the one clad in purple and seeming more noble, reached into a pouch at his belt and, finding in it an egg, threw it into the Foul One’s face. Immediately the egg began to cook and he began to scream in agony.
“The suns!” shouted the taciturn one. The two of them dashed past the Foul One, making haste. It was a rare man indeed who could survive the heat of the suns. They were not safe here.
The stronghold lay a short way ahead of them. They were expected, for the gate was open, and three old men clad in sheer robes stood at the threshold, bearing each of them a tall pitcher of water drawn from the clear springs of underearth. And the two men, the nobler and the taciturn, dagger sheathed, arrived there and received the refreshment given to them. They were taken by their arms and ushered in and the gates shut; and not a moment too soon for the Foul One had pursued them.
There was a dull thud against the gate, followed by a roar. The Foul One outside let it be known that he wished entry and protection from the heat.
“It is best that we not,” said the taciturn one. “He would kill us, or betray us, or at the least inconvenience us.”
The tallest of the three robed men gazed at him from under his snowy eyebrows. He cleared his throat and all eyes turned to him.
“You are right, it may be dangerous to you to bid us open the gate. But it has ever been our sacred habit to yield to complaints lodged against the suns here at our gates, and even foes have been granted haven. Unfair it is to let a man or a woman die in such circumstances, and so we three bear the bowls at every turn. We cannot command you and I will not bar your way, but let this be known.”
And he paused before turning to lead them down into the cool recesses of the underearth portions of the castle. Yet the nobler one halted. “We ought not let a man die. If he wishes to fight us still then it will be so; but even in this event we are likely in no great danger, being five of us here. I would not let a man die dishonourably at my own fault, no, but I would kill him easily in a fight, however unfair. And a death to the suns is no honourable thing.”
The taciturn one nodded though in his heart he disagreed. “You know him. You recall what I told you of him, how he is accursed. It was on the windy cliff of Albania, when you disclosed your resolve to me to take this path, that I made you aware of our hazards, of which he is one. So let us do this, you being aware.” And then again one of the silk-clad men spoke:
“Do you see gleaming swords swinging on our belts? You do not. You must not ask us to fight, for we cannot, being old and unfit, and not having that fire within us. But we will not oppose you, king. We will open the doors, but take care that you clap him in chains! Let him not roam our stalls and ramparts and cool deep halls unhindered. It is to this we obey you.”
The king replied: “In all things I regard all of you my equals, even though I am also the greater. And so I assent to both of you. But I find myself as a king having no vassals. This is contrary to nature. Open the gate!”
The Foul One had never stopped pounding at the door, but now as the gate began to creak he fell silent. They all looked upon him. He seemed a beaten man, brow and body covered in sweat, exhausted, weak. The robed men rapidly chained him. In spite of his apparent strength, the Foul One was unable to resist–his limbs were limp as they fell into the hated shackles. The eldest of the robed men gestured and three men emerged from the interior of the castle. They each were dressed in identical brown leathers, sleeveless. Round each man’s waist was a broad black belt clasped by a round iron buckle the size of a good man’s palm. On each was imprinted a shape: a triangle, a square, a pentagon. Together they hoisted the man aloft, with delicate ease and slowly conveyed him out of sight, into a well-lit chamber of the first floor.
The king stood still, resting his mind for a moment. The taciturn one touched his elbow. “Come, king, let us leave this courtyard and seek the refuge offered to us. The suns have not yet reached their zenith, yet the heat, it is more than I can bear.” The king nodded and followed the robed men, being led by the taciturn one, past a threshold of aged, cracked wood. The doors themselves were long lost.
Their passage took a sharp turn after only a few steps, and then down at a quick angle. Presently the king could feel a cool draft on his face. After several minutes of walking the passage opened up to a larger room, lit not by torches but an unnatural light which glimmered from the crystals of ice along the walls. The king thought he had found the fabled realm, but immediately stifled the thought. He could not have arrived so soon–they were only a few days out of his own country, and the legends claimed that the Realm was unreachably distant.
“Come, chambers have been prepared for each of you. Rest now, and a meeting will be called tomorrow.” The men spoke no more that night, but rested.
