The Forest of Nimrinor:
A Short Story
I procured the poison from the apothecary’s son. His father was out (which, of course, I had arranged) and that made it easier to whisper tales of vermin. They are in the pantry gorging on flesh, rotting the place, making a stench. I made the young man picture the apparitions so vividly that he insisted I take two vials, for one would surely be insufficient.
Oh, but it would be plenty! Even for the beast I was to slay.
That’s where I glide now. Down the stone halls that will soon be draped by my colours – not the infernal gaudiness of those Frauds. Down the stone halls where I completed my initiation. Down the stone halls that lead to the beast’s lair. His office.
I bring wine. He will be pleased.
Ha! His ingratitude is despicable.
Bringing wine – like some servant – that is the extent to which he recognises me. A servant!
It was I who rescued him from humiliation at the hands of that Fraud – the King. I who bartered for His mercy. I who sealed the treaty between that wretched wench, Mine Assah, and the Frauds – the treaty that he failed to materialise. He owes me his life!
Tonight, I shall remind him.
I knock upon the door.
He does not answer. It is the bald halfwit, Igor. That will not be a problem.
“Pour two cups, Igor.”
I pass him the wine jug, and he scuttles it to the table in the corner of the vast chamber.
The beast is at the far end of the stone and shadows. He is undressed for the Nimrinor Ritual, his hands outstretched to two torches moored on the pillars at his sides, and his back is to me. He does not know that I have entered. I could do it now. So easily. So delicately – diced and red and raw!
Face me, you fool!
His work of God continues uninterrupted. God who brought you to me. God who shows his support by doing so. God who protects me so that I can spread the Great Plan. How I hate his prattle! God has put me above him. It’s obvious.
Look at him. Ha!
The beast does not realise the power that he possesses. The Nimrinor Ritual can summon the spirits of the land and fuse them with the sacrifice’s own. The conjurer is the sacrifice. Priests have enacted the ritual for centuries. They search for the Leopard of the North – the spirit that will complete the fusion, the union, the ascension.
The beast is foolish. He does not allow himself to fuse. He says that such power is corruptible. He has no ambition. Such power! – such power is incredible. Such power is a saviour. Such power is destiny.
My destiny!
“Leave us, Igor.”
The halfwit looks to the beast, who is still deep in his pretentiousness, and then scurries from the chamber. One can tell his mother was a peasant. He is more rat than man.
Still, he has proven useful. Family is the best source of loyalty.
I retrieve the two glasses of wine and stand waiting for the beast to finish. His head lulls, eyes rolling to the roof of his skull, as the spirit possesses him. Not fuses. Possesses. He allows it only for a moment. The Voice of God comes to him. The head now pitching and falling and tilting – the bare neck yielding, beckoning a blade. I can’t. The spirit grants him momentary invincibility. Not even the dark work of the sorcerers can harm the beast. Besides, a blade is too conspicuous. I have to bide my time.
The beast releases – the spirit shoots from him, a gush of air rushes past my face and makes the torches tumultuous – and he goes slack. A moment’s reprieve as the gale dissipates.
Rousing, the beast lifts himself from the flagstones. He produces a white cloth and wipes his hands (as if he had been the leopard, bounding on all fours.) He pulls a black robe over his nakedness. Then, he turns, saunters to me, takes the wine, and rests in the chair at his study. The wine is settled on the desk. Untouched. He takes to writing in his journal. I am not here.
“What did He say?” I ask.
He writes.
I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.
“What did he say, your Holiness?”
He continues writing as he says: “Where is Igor?”
Who cares about that halfwit? Answer the question!
“I sent him along, your Holiness. The East Gate needs repairs.”
“We are no longer at war, Brother Lewiston. Repairing the defences will not be necessary. Bring Igor back – I require him.”
“I can help, your Holiness.”
The beast now turns; his brows raised; “You?”
As if I have degraded myself in my suggestion.
“What does your Holiness require?”
The beast looks suspicious. How I could throttle him!
“I need someone to take my measurements for the Palace’s tailors.”
Those Frauds. What do they want?
“A new outfit, your Holiness?”
“I suspected that you had not yet heard.”
What is he drivelling about?
“The King is to ordain me.”
Him? Him! Ordain him?! How…
“He is rewarding me for the treaty.”
Aaaaaaaaaggggggggggghhhhhhhhh!
Rewarded for the treaty. The treaty I forged. My, my, my treaty! This is ridiculous. Unfair. Corrupt. I – I – I cannot begin to –
I hate him. I hate him. I hate him!
I wrestle my hands. He notices. Does he notice? Who cares if he notices? I will strangle him. I will strangle him right here.
No.
My hand twitches at my side; the other throttles the wine glass.
“Are you alright, Brother Lewiston?”
Like you care.
I force a smile. “I am excited, your Holiness. This is wonderful news.” My mother turns in her grave.
“I cannot have you measure me with jitters like that. Fetch me Igor.”
“Of course, your Holiness. But how about a toast in celebration?”
“Get on with it.”
We raise our glasses.
“To a long and prosperous future – ”
“With our new allies, those of Magic Kind.”
“With our new allies, those of Magic Kind. I am forever at your service.”
I have degraded myself.
Our glasses go to our lips.
Drink it.
The beast does. He drinks a lot. Gulps it. It is very good wine.
Finished, the beast realises that I have not drunk any. Puzzlement crosses his guise. It is quite sweet really, the look one has when they realise their mistake. I have seen it often. Shock, to incomprehension, to anger, to violence, to pleading, to crying, to the grave. The beast is doing it now.
He looks from the cup to me, from my cup to his, from his hands to my throat, and he reaches out. But a paroxysm in his chest halts his progress. He flails as he falls to his knees. Foam erupts from his lips. Grey consumes his features.
“Br – Br – Brother – why?”
As if you do not know.
“H – help, help, help…”
Go to Hell.
“G – G – God will p – punish –”
“I am God.”
That hurts him more than the poison. He grabs my robe and shakes me. Spits at me. Curses me. Pleads for me to help him. I remain resolute. He is weak. He is fading. He is dead.
Contempt triggers me as I stare at his grotesque, lifeless, shrunken body; I kick out. The thump of leather on flesh is beautiful. I kick again. I kick again. I kick again, again, again, again, again, again, again. The wine spills from my cup and runs like blood on the flagstones. I drop the cup and bend to his skull.
He wears that puzzlement. My insignia.
They never suspect me – the servant, the devout, the innocent me.
I am underestimated. The beast, the Frauds, my own mother. They all underestimated me. But no more! I have what is mine.
The guards!
I hear their boots trampling to the door. They must have heard my screams of pleasure. Or the beast’s pathetic whimper.
I wipe my boot on the rags of the beast’s body. An artwork sprawled there. I slap my cheeks. Hard. They sting. Tears come to my eyes. Good.
The guards enter. They stare.
I blubber: “Witch! That witch did this. Killed him. Right in front of me.”
The leader raises his visor, says: “Witch, sire?”
“That Mine Assah. She killed our master. She got away.” I grovel at his feet for dramatic effect; “Please, you must find her. She is heading for the Kingdom. The Royals must be warned. She is after them. The treaty – the treaty was a lie.”
The leader gestures to the others. They rush from the chamber.
“We will find her, sire.”
“And the others. They cannot be trusted. All magic is under her influence. They must be stopped. It is the only way to bring peace. It is the only way to avenge master. Before it is too late.”
“What do we do, sire?”
Perfect.
I rise.
“We burn them all.”