DARC AGES
(1999, Web serial) - a novel by A.R.Yngve
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Tharlos Pasko
Chapter 4
Lord Migam Pasko was not pleased.
His spies had just returned to his castle with the latest news from Damon City. The spies had prowled the city disguised as flying trade officials on a visit; gossiping with the locals, bribing the servants of the castle, handing the Damons' maids a pearl or a ring. They stayed for two days but flew back in their airship to Pasko City a month later, having been forced to take a longer three-city route to avoid suspicion. That Bor Damon's quarterly harvest of food crops were turning out fine, while Pasko's growing ranks complained over sparce rations, was bad enough news. But the spies had picked up a persistent rumor, too: of a mysterious, white-haired stranger who had come from nowhere to visit lord Pasko's neighbor and rival. A stranger who was said to be immortal.
Lord Migam Pasko listened to his agents' report with ever increasing gloominess. He was a fat nobleman like Bor, but Migam's fat spread all over his body, making his soft face look too small for his round head. He tugged nervously at his stripy, black whiskers as he asked the spies: "What is his name, the name of this mystery man with the white hair?"
"They call him 'Darc', my lord."
The city lord's wife Lady Tresa, who sat next to him at the dinner table, sneered at the spy: "Is that a name? It sounds more like a mistake to me!"
Migam's adult son, Sir Tharlos Pasko, did not laugh. He sat up from his chair and paced the royal hall restlessly. Tharlos was a gaunt young man, almost twenty years old. His naturally black hair was long and dyed pale yellow, in the fashion of the worshippers of Koban-Jem. He stopped at his mother's chair.
"The Damons are conspiring against us," he complained loudly, "and what do you do, my esteemed parents? You sit and wring your hands! We should strike now, while our forces are still strong!"
His father looked up at him with a little contemptuous smile, and said in his calm, studious manner: "You still cannot forget that Bor's son beat you last year - can you?"
Tharlos gave his father a furious glare. His long-fingered hand reflexively moved toward his behind, where he still had the scar from the last summer joust. Bor Damon's son, Dohan, had fired a laser pulse through a weak spot in Tharlos' armor and burned his right buttock. Tharlos had screamed out loud, and the audience had laughed at him - even his mistress, Lady Okono had laughed. That day, Tharlos had secretly sworn to kill Dohan. Lord Pasko made a slight nod, silently confirming that he remembered the occasion too.
The young Tharlos put his hands on his mother's velveteen-covered shoulders. She was still attractive for her age, but her cruel character gave her eyes an ugly slant.
"My dear mother, mistress of our house," Tharlos said with exaggerated sadness, "it pains me to see your beauty wither away in this dreary place, with no hope of it ever becoming otherwise." She stiffened in her seat, looking down on the broidery in her lap. "Pity my poor father, dear mother. Comfort him, and support him, because what would you be without him?"
The lord's spouse stared at her master with cold, spiteful eyes. Lord Pasko knew what that look meant, and the personal misery it implied for him - especially if he would try to sneak into her bedroom that night. He took comfort in another pint of strong wine, the product of his own vineyards. At least I have the wine, thought Migam Pasko. It brings the city good trade, and it brings me oblivion. Thank you, bountiful Goddess, for the gift of wine!
***
But Tharlos could neither forget nor forgive, ever. An obsessive pride drove him to avenge every slight, real or imagined.
He left the hall with the spies, humming a ritual chant to himself: "I-eee-e-e-ee-ee, I-eee-e-eee..."
The spies were working for his gold too. And he had plenty of work for them, with the Summer Joust approaching. Let us see just how immortal this Darc is, he thought.
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