11- LEGEND OF NEVETSECNUAC - EVIL PERSONIFIED - SECTION 8

 

Royal Tutor Worren Youkup’s sleep of late had often been troubled by violent dreams. This night being no different, he turned and tossed, thrashing this way and that, held fast in the vice grip of a terrible nightmare. Worren saw himself as he was once, a young, adventurous lad; in this dream episode however, he was alone in a tiny skiff, riding the swift currents down the Yawjun River and negotiating the turbulent, aggressive waves that threatened to topple his small craft (boat). Regardless of the danger, in his heart he felt certain of the urgency of reaching his destination; he must get there before it was too late, for time was of the essence!

01- WORREN YOUKUP AS A YOUNG MAN

Oddly enough, he could not remember for the life of him where it was that he needed to go; only that it was of vital importance that he got there. When the wind abruptly died down and all was still, he at once grabbed the oars and rowed as fast as he could towards the mid section, to take advantage of the swift currents and therefore, propel the boat swiftly as before,  gliding across the water as if his life depended on it.

Subsequently, the still air altered (was replaced), as the sun ominously took quick refuge behind the mountain that loomed over the left bank of the river. Shafts of lightning split the sky and peals of thunder crushed through the flotilla of clouds that had been swirled into being by the just then rising winds. Soaked now to the bone, Worren Youkup knew that his only safety lay in reaching the banks of the river as he applied his oars in that direction. He rowed and rowed, huffing and puffing, exerting himself to the point of exhaustion but still not getting any closer. To compound his difficulties, a thick curtain of pelting rain followed by a gray mist just swept off the land to erase (hide) all indications of the shore; his soul gripped in trepidation, he helplessly rode the undulation of angry waves, rising and falling on the great expanse of the water. His fear intensified realizing that he was now cast in the middle of a vast ocean. If the skiff overturned, because he had never learned how to swim, he would most certainly perish. What to do? What to do?

All right, so the talons of ill fate had carried him out to the centre of the ocean but being a pragmatist, he concentrated, not on how or what had instigated his dire predicament but rather, on the possible recourses where which he could extricate himself from this terrible danger. To his great consternation however, the little boat just then started to whirl around and round, with increasing velocity. He strained to fight the dizziness, to keep his eyes open and to maintain focus.

What is going on? He felt his forehead for the possibility of fever. Nope!

Then he saw it!!  Thousands and thousands of fish rising to the top, all floating belly-up on the surface, stunned by the churning waters; however, they suddenly transformed, all resembling (looking like) knives, stilettos, penknife’s, the ordinary kind scholars used!

 What did it all mean? A certain foreboding anew gripped Worren Youkup’s heart.

02- WORREN YOUKUB IN NIGHTMARE

All this while the whirling had continued and he got sucked down to the depths of the ocean by the funnel until the boat touched bottom where which a quaking, sandy bed tossed him mercilessly to and for. His heart’s palpitations intensified when he saw swimming towards him just then, the open red mouth of a huge grotesque black eel that was at least thirty feet in length. Another larger, even more monstrous eel chased away this monster however, which then turned and advanced towards him with an even greater zeal (vehemence). Worren Youkup clenched his jaw, same time his hand gripped the upper part of his nightshirt, as if to contain the fierce hammering in his chest and held on tight.   

Steady, steady on now. He told self, to calm his raw nerves. Except that, Worren saw that the eel now nearer still, had a human head. It swam closer and then flashing its razor-sharp teeth, it greeted Worren: “It will not be long now, Elder Brother. Oh, but how I missed you; I have been all alone and miserable all this while!"      

Worren realizing it was his long dead brother Kosi, he was about to accost him when, from the side another giant fish with mouth wide open suddenly advanced to, in one gulp swallow Worren and the skiff together. The old tutor and the boat, now in the belly of an abdominal cavity filled with toiling, turbulent, stomach acid- smelling putrid and burning everything, it touched, were quickly spirited away into the depths. The wood of the skiff began to smolder, and Worren knew that it was just a matter of time before, his flesh too would burn; meanwhile, his chest constricted from breathing in the steaming stench, rising from this sea of gastric juices. Oh, what a horrible way to die!

But Worren Youkup suddenly woke up with a start, drenched in sweat. Outside his door he heard rushing feet and urgent whispers. "What's going on there?” he mumbled to himself as he rose from his bed. He lethargically reached for his robe, his old bones creaking as he called out to his steward. Aside from minor ailments and the occasional slight headache, such as the one that plagued him now, he was in fairly decent (physical) shape for a man close to sixty-five years in age. Longevity ran in his family, so it was expected that he would live for yet another fifteen to twenty years.

03- WORREN YOUKUP (6)JP

Steward Chutek was quick to respond with the tepid cup of tea Worren Youkup needed to wash away the parchment that usually wrapped the inside of his throat. After gratefully gulping part of the lukewarm tea, he held the cup just a slight distance away from his lips.

"What in damnation is going on out there at this beastly hour? Has the whole city gone mad?"  He was a bit more than disgruntled by the pandemonium outside and believed the household should have long been asleep, snuggled in their quilts by now. In fact, it was his intention, once his thirst was quenched; to retreat (withdraw) swiftly under the sanctuary of the warm quilts and, hopefully, this time, get a good night's sleep.

However, as the steward answered his unwitting question, he blanched and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, over the bloodless gooseflesh. His heart wildly palpitated in shock and, cup still poised in mid-air, he fought hard to control a sudden bursting anger.   

"That vixen, this is all her doing."  With a quaking hand he put the cup on the nightstand. "She sure has played me for a fool, and there is no fool like an old fool." He continued with his incensed mutterings. "But this has gone far enough." He steeled himself, “No, do not lose your temper. It will do no good for you to explode. Get a grip on your senses now; this matter must be managed with tact and decorum. Yes, this will require all your faculties, tolerance and the necessary wiles all presented in a rational and reasonable manner.”   

Worren Youkup refused to even consider the alternatives in view of their grim repercussions and quickly pushed all unpleasant speculations away from his mind in favor of the more positive outcomes. Besides, he told himself, it is highly unlikely that anyone, even one as cunning as Egil Viggoaries, would ever fathom the unthinkable. None could ever conceive of, let alone question such a bizarre, far-fetched notion. For the time being at least, he had nothing to fear. Yet his heart in defiance of his will, would not co-operate with the cool calculations of his mind and his rage mounted despite all Worren's efforts to hold his emotions in check as he pieced the events together. All the innocuous incidents, the fragmented questions, actions, and machinations that built up to this denouement fell into place as part of the culprit's expert plan to coerce him into becoming part of this despicable, diabolical plot.

Worren Youkup’s mouth creased into a grimace of pain as indignation burned a pit in the cavity of his chest. He let out a shuddering sigh and shook his head, reflecting on what little consequence the unwillingness of his participation would bring to his eventual judgment. The ridicule that public knowledge of his part in this would bring, he anticipated, would alone be far worse than ten thousand public executions. His integrity was in peril and his head now throbbed with pain as he searched for the best ways to extricate himself from blame and at the same time to preserve the prestige he had held, reveled in for five decades. In seething fury and contempt, he abruptly rose to his feet, overturning the cup he had so carefully just moments before placed at the edge of the night table. Oblivious to the spill, he began to pace the floor, hands clasped firmly behind him, grumbling indecipherable words punctuated by the periodic curse under his breath.

04- WORREN YOUKUP (12)JP

This unexpected, atypical reaction baffled and astonished the steward.  

“I had no idea master cared so much about the Crown Prince.” He bit his lower lip in consternation. “How could I have erred so?”  Like everyone else, he thought that Worren Youkup despised the worthless Prince Herleif, having so often expressed privately his displeasure at Prince’s contemptible conduct.   

Still, the signs of Worren’s mental anguish, the way his face flushed taut with pain and the sweats beaded his brow, were unmistakable and alarmed Steward Chutek. He volunteered immediately to fetch Royal Physician, but Worren would not hear of it.  

"As if I have nothing better to do at this time of the night than be poked and prodded by those overrated ninnies," he griped, glaring at the servant. Worren’s voice however became more even and controlled as he continued, "Their ministrations are quite unnecessary. See to it that I am not disturbed for the remainder of the night, not by anyone."    

"But...But..." Chutek was about to advance an argument that was abruptly cut off short by a gesture of Worren’s hand.  

"I said no one, and that includes you. Now go!"  Having barked out these orders, Worren turned his back to the steward. Chutek stared at the obviously tense shoulders of his master's rigid posture and shook his head in despair, understanding full well that, when Worren Youkup was in this determined state there was no arguing or reasoning with him. He knew his master's obstinate nature extremely well and, therefore, despite strong misgivings he obeyed. Shrugging, he turned and dragged his feet across the room. Just as he cleared the door, he hesitated and, turning informed Worren in a clean, crisp voice that, all the same, he would be stationed outside at arm's length should the old tutor changed his mind or need anything further, anything at all.

05- STEWARD CHUTEK 5- JP

"Sometimes you can be such a pest. Who made you a mother hen?"  His face hidden from the steward, Worren nevertheless donned a smile, touched deeply by Chutek’s deep concern and unwavering loyalty. That was so typical of Chutek, he quietly reflected. To date he had fostered quite a fondness for the steward and felt as protective of the young man as if he had been his own kindred, the son he had always yearned for, yet never could have created (conceived).

Worren Youkup himself, orphaned at an early age, had been raised as the adopted son of the acclaimed scholar Keonz of Curnan Province, who had later held the office of Royal Tutor. As it were, before Zakhertan Yozdek, the position of Royal Tutor’s was esteemed enough to extricate (spare) the acclaimed literate (erudite, academic) from being an obligatory eunuch. Worren Youkup, typically, as soon as he could read and write, had been extensively educated in all the skills necessary for him to one day hold a tutor’s post. When the dynasties changed, it was during this time, as another crucial step to the preparation necessary for Worren Youkup to assume Keonz's post upon his mentor's eventual passing or incapacity that he, at the age of twenty-one, in traditional (age-old) ceremony, had been made a eunuch.   

Worren had always felt that, in a way, Keonz had been more fortunate than himself since the tutor had experienced a normal life up until the time when he had lost his wife and family in a catastrophe and had then chosen to voluntarily become a eunuch to educate Prince Qijerrik.    

“At least he had been given a choice.” Worren groaned, the old bitterness gnawing at him. Sub-human, Worren had inwardly termed all eunuchs, including him, and had carried a deep sense of loss and resentment since that time. He had always kept this resentment secret; however, absolving his adopted father from all blame, for Worren’s code of moral conduct which included absolute filial piety, demanded nothing less.

“After all, my prominent position had enabled me to enjoy the uninterrupted and otherwise enviable life of pace and luxury.” Worren endeavouring to lift his spirits out of the abyss, shrugged. “And I escaped all those years of persecution, which had so often plagued my counterparts (equivalents).”  His worries somehow assuaged, Worren reflected on another piece of luck that had facilitated this satisfactory long life. Sometime in the past, Worren no less brilliant than his peers, had had the good fortune of being in position (being able) to extricate young Zakhertan Yozdek from a tight, dire situation and the Sovereign's memory had been long. Furthermore, since Worren Youkup had never openly repudiated Zakhertan Yozdek’s usurpation of the Throne, this, and his past good deed, had spared him the worst of the indignities and barbarous tortures that had been meted out to the other scholars during those terrible years of the purges. This special treatment had been a two-edged sword however, for it had also alienated him from all the close associates he had cultivated in his previous years.

Had Worren not been a pragmatist, he would have ended his own life in protest over the atrocities; as it were, after the tumultuous times had passed, he had been reinstated to his former position. In this contemptible gilded cage hence, he had executed his duties mechanically, seeing to three consecutive Royal offspring’s proper education, till one day he hoped to be rescued, from this mundane and frivolous existence, by the peaceful sleep of long-awaited death.  

Worren Youkup’s thoughts reverted to Chutek, and he again cogitated (ruminated) on how fortunate he had been thus far to have at this late stage of life, a comforting companion, who was much more than a steward, by his side. Chutek reminded him in so many ways his old young self, but of course Cutek was also different in characteristics, he wished he could have had. Chutek had entered his service in his early adolescence and under most bizarre circumstance and even though Chutek had come from an uncouth peasant family, he had from the first endeared himself to him and as well established a good reputation among his peers by his extraordinary intelligence, keen observations, sensitivity and, above all, his compassionate heart which was almost a rarity in Channing. 

06- OTHER STEWARDS AND STAFF

 

Indeed, Chutek was different, had always been different from the bunch living, sham coexisting or thriving in capital city. Most incredible, he had not been hardened by the harsh experiences (trials) of life, even though he had suffered more than his fair share of it. Unable to meet their tax burden one year, his father had sold the youngest son Chutek into bondage to keep the rest of the family out of prison. It had been a vein effort, for trouble came nevertheless and Chutek had never seen any of them alive again. At the tender age of nine he had been orphaned and left at the mercy of ravenous wolves that prayed on such hapless, unsullied brood. Cursed with striking good looks, he had quite early on unfortunately, drawn the unwarranted attention from a lascivious official, who had jumped at the chance to secure the boy for his own licentious uses. Heaven only knows what that poor lad had (endured) suffered at the hands of that vile beast. Chutek, up to the present day, had refused to make any mention of those six ignominious years that corrupt official had enslaved him.   

With a certain understanding and sympathy for the steward's pain, Worren Youkup had never pressed to learn, although he knew enough to make an accurate guess at it. He had after all, seen the scars permanently imprinted (crisscrossed, etched) at the boy's back and chest, which had borne a mute testament to six years of abuse. Worren cringed as he pictured it in his mind, shaking his head and hissing out a long breath as if to dispel all the fierce indignation and anger that once more welled up anew within him. Chutek’s face however, for economic reasons, had been spared from being marred; and it brought little comfort to the tutor to remember that the official had paid dearly for his crimes.

Charged with extortion, the minor functionary, Worren Youkup could no longer recall his name, had suffered apt torture at the hands of Egil Viggoaries's officers before an ignominious public execution. Since the crime had fallen under Provincial authority the entire holdings of the man and his family, including all the servants, had then been confiscated by the Governor Yenokos of Kentor Province for proper disposal in accordance with existing law. As luck would have it, Worren on his special time off and wanting to get away from Channing, anon had accompanied his good friend Lukes when he was assigned on a state inspection to Kentor Province. They were being entertained at the Governor's mansion when Worren had chanced on Chutek. Worren was infuriated when the Governor Yenokos, seeing the boy was favored, smiled enigmatically, and looked at them both with undisguised calculation in his eyes. However, the pragmatic tutor had masked his disgust and indignation long enough to rescue the boy from the clutches of that despicable opportunist.

                                                                                        

07- GOVERNOR YENOKOS

                                                                                  

As anticipated subsequent day, wishing to curry favor, Governor Yenokos had only been too eager to make a gift of Chutek to Worren. Politely refusing this bribe, Worren had nonetheless later, as if in afterthought, had legally purchased the boy and sent him on ahead to be added, as a kitchen staff, to those in his employ. Of course, this was included as a small insert in Lukes’s extensive report to Zakhertan Yozdek and, despite the Governor's hopes; Yenokos still suffered the inevitable, downfall two months later.

Soon as he was back in Channing Worren initiated measures to free Chutek from bondage, giving him the option to select his own preferred livelihood (trade, vocation);  at his own behest however, Chutek had joined the ranks of the Eunuchs in the Palace and later still, became the new steward to Worren, whom he had served faithfully ever since. Sadly, Worren's partiality towards Chutek from the beginning had incurred the animosity of envious (green-eyed) Prince Herleif and consequently, the boy had suffered additional hardships and humiliations with his characteristic, stoic silence. Each time (whenever) Worren Youkup had found out about the harassment and put a stop to it, the spiteful (malicious) Prince had only become more adamant in his persecution. Committed to breaking Chutek's resilience, Prince Herleif with a surprising determination and cunning had consistently redoubled his efforts, as well as, drummed up support from among the other boys of his age at the palace, for his wanton (malicious) vindictive assaults (attacks) on Chutek.   

Worren Youkup, with his mind reeling with such concerns, for several minutes had remained rooted to the spot with his back to the door and stared blankly out the window into the darkness.

“This fresh trouble with Prince Herleif, the bane of my past and now present trouble, will certainly involve Chutek; and I fear this time I may not be able to extricate him from dire harm.” Worren thoughtfully nodded and sighed. “All those countless hours I'd wasted on Prince Herleif, trying to instill some goodness and benevolence in him, it was all, to no avail.” Worren Youkup pursed his lips, dismally reflecting on the fact that no amount of effort or discipline had ever gotten through to Prince’s selfish, greedy heart. “He’d always been and would always be an unconscionable, devious brute.”     

 And there was no denying what everyone knew but kept silent on: Prince Herleif, most unlike the revered Prince Qijerrik, had precious few good qualities to speak of. There was one thing, nevertheless, that Prince Herleif excelled in; since early childhood he had shown a rare, uncanny talent in astrological interpretations and, accepting the encouragement of others in this one field, he had gone on to surpass all expectations.  

Recalling the results that Prince Herleif had obtained in the past, Worren realized that the predictions had indeed always been of good account, not that it mattered to him now. The old tutor's opinions on the art were akin to those of Zakhertan Yozdek; lending the art no real credence despite all the prophecies he saw fulfilled, for he was sure there were many more predictions that were off target and therefore not remembered. He did find the exercise useful in much the same way as the Sovereign, as a source of entertainment for the higher classes and a means of manipulating the thoughts of the crowd and it did serve yet another purpose in that, for a few hours every night, it kept Prince Herleif out of trouble. For the latter reason Worren had kept his opinions on astrology to himself in order not to discourage the prince on the only endeavor for which he had shown any real promise.

Now, Lady Sejon's interest in the arcane philosophies was of a more recent vintage, Worren mused. But that was to be expected of the fairer sex. Still, with clear hindsight he wished he had not been so forthcoming about the recent, most dire, predictions concerning the present Regime. Prince Herleif had always run his findings past Worren first, so the old man could function as a sounding board, but Sejon had demanded proof of these findings when told, which once asked for, was difficult for Worren to refuse. He could well understand that her chief concern was for her child (toddler) Magnian. She had implored him, saying she could not rest until she had learned the specifics and as she believed, try making even a doomed effort to alter the future's bleak outcome.    

As it was within his means to help her, she asked that he borrow the Prince Herleif’s latest astrological work and show them to her. Then by applying her own knowledge in the field she could examine the findings herself. The scrolls would be returned afterwards, and no one would be the wiser.    

It seemed such a harmless request, and the alternative, her temper tantrums, and her wrath (fiery fury), would have been far more of a nuisance. Inwardly he had been amused by her naivety and had understood well her natural averting (avoidance), of having any direct dealings with Crown Prince. Besides, who could blame her for not wanting to feel obligated to one such as Herleif? Despite the outward congenial exchanges and though close in age,   

Worren suspected that those two had been in truth, anything but adversaries. In fact, Worren Youkup could not remember there ever been an issue they did not clash over except this prophecy. Feeling that the prince Herleif was quite unreasonable nuisance to begin with, for being so miserly (niggardly) with his findings, wanting always to extricate most recompense from each result, he had seen no reason he should not comply with her wishes. Who would have thought that innocuous act he had been persuaded to do, would land him in such serious predicament.  

All this trouble had germinated from the one harmless, yet evil kernel that had been planted, none the less, with his consent.

08- WORREN YOUKUP (13)JP

 

Worren Youkup looked down, re-examining the akin (copy, duplicate) document, chewing his lower lip as he admonished himself for not standing firm in his long-time resolve of noninterference. He should never ever have consented to the Lady's request. Oh, but she had been so wily (canny) with her persuasion. She had made him feel so special, entreating him so humbly while same time artfully buttressing (building up) and stroking his ego. It had simply melted his heart when she had looked up to him with those beseeching eyes with flickering (fluttering) eyelashes, appearing oh so vulnerable, so very helpless.    

“Those two are, as the saying goes, cut from the same cloth.” Worren Youkup grumbled under his breath and nodded. With hindsight now, he marvelled at the proficiency in the obviously kept up sham which had masked the actual truth. Those two were and always had been serious competitors. Worren Youkup felt foolish for not having realized till now, the full measure of it.  

“She was far from helpless doddering fool! The more is the pity that you had not figured her out beforehand. Anyone looking at the way she behaved would have reckoned she was up to no good.”    

Unexpectedly once more, her angelic face floated before his mind's eye and part of him, even now, looked for ways to absolve her from all blame. “She had not, likely, planned it at all, only when the circumstances presented themselves that she had astutely seized the opportunity (chance). Who could blame her.”  But the damning, irrefutable evidence rushed forward again to trouble his heart and force him to face the dreaded humiliating truth, that he was indubitably, used!   

Worren Youkup shuddered, imagining the far worse repercussions that could have happened with such an unpredictable person as Zakhertan Yozdek as it was things still looked pretty grim. Egil Viggoaries had been put on the case and given only three days starting at dawn to arrest the culprits and report back. Royal Tutor feared for the countless innocents that would suffer under his ruthless investigation.

“What to do? What to do?”  

 

(END OF SECTION 8)

 LEGEND OF NEVETSECNUAC - ON THE WAY TO THE CAPITAL - SECTION 35

 

The cloaked figure had appeared before him out of nowhere, Lance Diostin sizing up this unmistakably, imposing warrior brandishing his sword, threw his head back and laughed venomously.  "And who are you supposed to be, dressed up as ‘The Avenging Ghost?’  Why this absurd, masquerade?"

"You are more accurate in your description than you imagine, sir; but it could not be helped." The cloaked figure laughed back and shrugged then assumed a more serious demeanor.

 "I have no quarrel with you personally, fact is, captain Zunrogo has not outlived his usefulness; so be warned, I can be your benefactor or your nemesis, depending on your choice.  All I ask is that you forego your intention to end his life, and then perhaps, I can be persuaded to spare your life."

"How magnanimous of you…  How fortunate for me that you are considering sparing me.  Look, I'm trembling in fear." Lance Diostin responded with a sneer.

01-LANCE DIOSTIN JP 13

"Spare my life indeed!  A mortal is not yet born who can defeat me.  Tell His Lordship to go to blazes!"  He launched into a murderous assault, bringing his full fighting skill against the cloaked figure.

"His Lordship?" the figure parried Lance Diostin’s thrusts with ease.

"Don't play dumb with me!"  Infuriated, Lance Diostin fought with the fierceness of a tiger and the swiftness of a whirlwind, leaving no room for any further discussion or opportunity for truce.

This time, however, it was Lance Diostin who was clearly outmatched.  The ensuing pitched exchange was brief.  Too late, the invincibility of the cloaked figure was revealed to him but by then, in the blink of an eye, Lance Diostin found himself on the receiving end of a magnificent, powerful strike which left him unarmed, with his magnificent sword cast aside, shockingly almost insensate (unconscious, numbed, almost paralyzed) and near mortally wounded, at (inches from) the other's feet.  A dry, death rattle in his throat, still defiant, he demanded to know the identity of this worthy opponent who had bested him.  The figure, however, simply shook his head, and said: “Truth will be disclosed, when we face each other next. You are a great warrior with invincible prowess; therefore, I’m averse to the idea of heedlessly (recklessly, rashly) terminating your life.” He nodded, “first, however, I must have your word that you will, forsaking your aim, leave your sword behind and swiftly depart (flee). I have no doubt you equally excel in swimming and therefore, will reach the shore in safety, despite your (injures) wounds?”

Lance Diostin was intrigued with his opponent’s magnanimous gesture; besides which, a chance to again duel with this invincible foe was an enticement enough to convince him to at present capitulate, so reluctantly he nodded his head, acceding (ascending, agreeing) to the cloaked figure’s terms (stipulations, conditions).

“But how will I know it’s you, when I encounter you in the future?” He then, as if in afterthought, asked. The cloaked figure after a pensive thought, nodded, “Very well I will reveal my identity to you, if you wow (swear) to keeping it a secret from everyone, till then.”

Lance Diostin, who was famed for his honorable character (unblemished reputation), readily concurred and gave his solemn promise; however, nothing had prepared him for the shocking revelation he was about to witness next. He was absolutely aghast and his eyes wide with disbelief continued to stare at his opponent’s face that had been only briefly revealed to him. Lance Diostin, despite the intense pain, pulled himself upright as he chuckled and then, turning to face this remarkable being, shook his head. “Oh, you are good. You had me, had all of us, so completely duped!”

“Considering your impaired physical state, are you certain you can safely reach the shore?” The cloaked figure, disregarding this, impatiently asked and, having received another nod, and lance’s words, “I wouldn’t miss, not for anything, our next encounter.” Stepped aside to allow Lance Diostin to walk past him.  The cloaked figure’s eyes impassively (cooly) then followed Lance, who despite his grave injuries, with remarkable resilience, swiftly advanced to the edge of the deck.

Lance Diostin half turned his head, his gaze unreadable, to simply say, “Capital Channing is the domain (sphere) of ultimate (supreme) jeopardy (hazard, risk, peril) keep that in mind and stay safe; I bid you farewell, till our next encounter (combat, contest).”

02- LANCE DIOSTIN JP 18

Then nimbly, with a fluid grace dove off the edge, to quickly be engulfed (plunged, rushed) by the choppy waters of the river.

The cloaked figure lingered at the spot for a moment or two then pensively nodded his head, and turning away, precipitously advanced his steps down the stairs, to below deck; as he rushed down the corridor towards his cabin, he came face to face with another cloaked figure brandishing a bloody sword.

“Who the hell are you?” Bellowed the other masked, formidable opponent but then not waiting for an answer, he launched his murderous attack.

“No matter, you must die!”

 He was in fact the covert affiliate of a secret Brotherhood; known as Kaelan, who’d been all this time posing as one of the ordinary crewmen, called Zack, on board this vessel, going about undetected. One of the best agents of Kozurs, working as a double spy, had as well, carried orders from Lance Diostin to undermine Zunrogo’s plans.

Kaelan’s blade was dripping with blood as he’d just fought his way against the barricade, butchering countless to advance towards his objective. He had attacked Disaidun Agripe, dealt her a near mortal blow then reaching beneath her bodice (the upper part of woman’s dress or undergarment that covers the upper body), stole the letter from the secret pocket. The original one secured on him, he’d then replaced hers with the fake (bogus) letter.

Kaelan’s surplus orders had been, to deal with or, to cooperate (assist) with Lance Diostin, depending on the circumstances (outcome) back on deck, after Lance had incapacitated (vanquished) Zunrogo and the Lieutenant. He was rushing there to fight, rather, to inform Lance of the amended orders, that there was no longer any need to destroy the vessel along with everyone on board. A highly competent double agent, Kaelan’s real objective (the letter being switched) done, he was then simply to disappear for an indetermined period, supposedly, to report back (not just to Kozurs but also) to Black Molochs. 

The sudden encounter with this unknown masked man with his blade tainted with blood revealed to Kaelan that, something had gone terribly awry (amiss, wrong). 

An awful thought just then crossed Kaelan’s mind, as there were no sounds of battle above, in fact all was perfectly quiet. Still no time to worry, he’d launched his murderous assault to deal with, rather vanquish, this unexpected adversary (foe). But as the two fought on it soon became clear to Kaelan, just who the victor would be; the covert crewman ceasing an only opportunity, took to his heals with the enemy hot in pursuit. Once on deck, the quick fleeting look (glance) told Kaelan of the dire situation, rushing to the edge, he dove straight off the boat to disappear in the turbulent, foamy waters. A Good strong swimmer he was gone from sight within minutes. The other masked warrior, abandoning pursuit, quickly returned to his cabin.

                                                                                  ~

 

When the blackness lifted, Zunrogo with hazy eyes spotted (saw), Lance Diostin’s discarded heirloom sword in a pool of blood just a few feet away, and even though there was no sign of Lance Diostin, corpse or otherwise anywhere to be seen, he still presumed of Lance’s certain demise and sharply sat up.

Looking at his own bloodied sword, then back at Lance Diostin’s discarded blade, then over to Tizan who was still unconscious and collapsed against the mast, Zunrogo was now puzzled.  Unable to recollect (remember) exactly what or how it happened, he pieced all the probable set of circumstances, clues and facts to conclude that he must have somehow, before he lost consciousness, had dealt his opponent Lance Diostin, the mortal blow at the edge of the deck, and his corpse must have tumbled into the fast flowing waters of the river. Ignoring the painful throbbing top of his head and temples, he slowly rose to his feet and tottered over to pick up Lance Diostin’s heirloom sword, the irrefutable proof of the foe’s demise.

03- LANCE DIOSTIN'S DISCARDED HEIRLOOM-SWORD

Studying the blade’s edge and noticing a fissure (cleft) in it, he wondered, “Such force… Could I have done that? Did I slew him?” he marveled, wondering, as his fingers lightly traced the obvious indentation (crack, cleft, fracture). 

The next instant his face fell in a frown, “This is terrible…This is not what supposed to have happened. Blast!”  Besides, he needed Lance Diostin alive for questioning.

“How could I have been so reckless, or driven to such desperation, to have taken this adverse course? Yet I cannot recollect how …” Baffled by the mystery and angry at this obvious set-back, he gingerly caressed the large, pulsating bump on the back of his head then brought his hand around to look with a disconcerted eye at his blood-soaked fingers.

 “Strange, I clearly remember how I got this wound but everything after that my mind is a complete blank.”

He shook his head.  “Ouch!  Don't do that again.”  He inwardly admonished self, for his carelessness.

Zunrogo’s brief scrutiny of his body revealed numerous lacerations, gashes, and bruises, none of which were particularly serious, except one on his left thigh.  He made a mental note to have this one sewn up, for the gash was too deep for the flesh to bind on its own.  Thank goodness it’d missed the blood vessel!  For now, he tore some strips off his shirt and wrapped them tightly around the wound to stop the bleeding as he looked once more at Lance Diostin’s sword.  He remembered how he had got this wound as well.

“Why is my memory so selectively clouded about the last set of events?  What in blazes happened?”  This mental fog was most disconcerting for him.

Just then Tizan's stirring drew Zunrogo's attention.  Rushing over to the Lieutenant's side, he knelt and helped Tizan sit up.

 "I thought I'd lost you for good; now there, take it easy."  His manner was unusually friendly.

"You can't get rid of me that easily." Tizan smiled, echoing of the captain's good humor.  Then an unexpected, faint groan escaped his lips, “Uggh…The hammering in my head!" 

Shamefaced, Tizan gave a darting glance at Zunrogo, for in all these years this was the first time Tizan had complained about anything.

"So, you're made of flesh and blood after all." Zunrogo affectionately patted Tizan's shoulder then rose to his feet with a grimace.

Tizan's eye fell on Lance Diostin’s heirloom sword.  "You have his sword; is he dead, Captain?"

04--TZAN JP

"Deader than a doornail." came the dispassionate answer from Zunrogo.

"Well then, sir, your reputation should be greatly enhanced after this."

 Disregarding the pain shooting across his chest, Tizan picked himself up off of the deck.

"More than you can imagine." Zunrogo donned (gave) a grin of satisfaction.

"But I thought you wanted him alive?"  Tizan ripped off his wet shirt and unbuckled his breastplate.

"It couldn't be helped." Zunrogo shrugged, his gaze still fixed on Lance Diostin’s sword.

"But how did you manage it?  If you don't mind my saying so, the last I recall you were in dire straits.  He was on the point of vanquishing you."

Tizan's direct question hit home as he again recalled that same time.  “How indeed… Yet somehow, I had turned the evil tide in my favor and changed the outcome. I’m here, aren’t I?” Zunrogo pensively looked away. 

“Too bad I can't recollect any details.” Zunrogo then simply shrugged and said no more.

“The concussion must have caused this temporary amnesia (memory loss). Though it’s most irritating,” Zunrogo inwardly reasoned, “perhaps it’ll all come back, soon, I hope. Hah, meanwhile, my nemesis is dead.”  He took comfort in that thought and walked to the edge of the deck, looked down then cast his gaze far, at the barely visible snaking shoreline perimeter of the (wide) vast expanse of the fast-flowing river.

"Perhaps, Captain, when things are straightened out, you will enlighten me as to how you defeated so competent a foe." Tizan misinterpreted Zunrogo's reluctance as modesty, had snuck up behind him, to add; he thereon continued to be a pesky nuisance.

Looking back to his Lieutenant, Zunrogo nodded distractedly then smiled wryly when he saw how oblivious Tizan was to the pain of the multiple cuts and bruises on his limbs and chest.  His eye caught one slash, that was bleeding profusely.

 "You'd best take care of that wound." he pointed it out with his chin.

"I still have plenty of blood to spare." Tizan pressed his shirt against it observing more closely Lance’s heirloom-sword, which Zunrogo still held onto.  When he caught sight of the indentation at the edge of blade, he let out his breath in a long, involuntary gasp, "Wow!"

He looked up at Zunrogo, with an admiring gaze.  “Had he really done this?  I had no idea he could muster such force.”

Zunrogo ignored his reaction, looked around him and commented thoughtfully, "We have quite a bit of cleaning up to do, Tizan.  Do you think you're up to the task?"

"And why not…  Since when few cuts and bruises ever slowed me down, Captain?  I'm no old woman!"  Tizan indignantly sprung to his feet but the profuse bleeding from his wound constrained him, nonetheless, to do something about it.  Cutting some more strips, this time from the shirt of one of the corpses, he wound them tightly around his wound, giving it a haphazard, but effective, dressing.  At least now he could work unhindered.  He knew what had to be done without being told and he set too with closest perimeter, following the set routine, piling up the carcasses in (heaps) groups of two or three and finding heavy objects to tie them for weight.  He was ready to tackle the next batch (of corpses further away), when Zunrogo grasped his arm.

"No, Tizan, all this can wait."  He indicated with a nod of his head for Tizan to follow, as he swiftly (descended the stairs and) disappeared below decks.

 

 

(END OF SECTION 35)

                                                                                                 ~

 LEGEND OF NEVETSECNUAC - THE STATE OF THINGS - SECTION 27

01- CANUTE

This time after Canute had escaped from his prison (cellar), he skirted the walls and made straight for the storeroom (his makeshift bedroom).  His bedding, however, had been removed already and some of the other stuff cleaned out; as his return was not expected, a few useless chests and pieces of broken furniture had been piled high (stored there), to utilize the space.  Veering around the discarded pieces, Canute tried the knob that led to his mother's boudoir (bedroom).

Finding it unlocked, he, elatedly was about to open the door to sneak in when some noises from within stayed his hand.

First, he steadied his breathing then stealthily pried the door ajar and craned his neck to peer in through the crack.  Canute's hatred and revulsion intensified seeing one of the girls, one called Juke, rummaging through his mother's personal things, her chests and drawers.  Tike was sitting woodenly by the window with a stern face, clutching his mother's small jewelry box.

 "Thieves… Bandits!  Vile beasts!  I'll make you pay for this!" gnashing his teeth he cursed them under his breath.    Suddenly his heart stilled when, to his dismay, he saw Tike discovering an old foreign coin, the thing his mother prized most.  It had a hole in it and, when he had been much younger, Canute remembered her wearing it around her neck.  This much he knew of her past, that this strange coin had been the sole possession left to her by her deceased parents.  She had been allowed to keep it up to now because it had always been deemed worthless by others.  He contemplated rushing in to grab it from Tike's claws.

"This… It’s another worthless piece of shit."  Much to Canute's relief Tike, after a brief examination of it, threw it disdainfully to the floor where it rolled soundlessly under a chair.  Tike growled at Juke not to dawdle.  She was fast running out of patience.  The intensive search had lasted for half an hour or more and had produced nothing of substance to satisfy Tike's greed.

"This can't be all," she pursed her lips, looking at the jewel box in her grip, then shifted her gaze to the sleeping woman.

02- SLEEPING HELGA

 "She must have hoarded her gold and jewelry somewhere else," Tike hissed, "but where?  Where could the sneak have put it?  Try out those drawers over there.  She can't outsmart me.  Yes, those ones, and look harder or you'll see the back of my hand!"

That night his mother's condition had worsened.  Tike was forced to defer her usual customer, a pesky middle-aged man who reeked of alcohol, to one of the other girls.  Thoroughly put out, Tike had entered sick Helga’ room with Juke to ransack the place.  Though she took it all, she still suspected the girls of accepting secret gifts from their gentlemen’s customers and shamelessly hoarding them in various secret places.  After all, that's how she had secured her own future, gained her freedom and present status.  Despite all the effort, the next few hours still proved fruitless.

"Imagine, leaving me high and dry, like this!  If she thinks I'm going to pay for her funeral out of my own pocket, she has another thing coming!  Even an unmarked grave costs a pretty penny these days." Tike ranted and raved.

 She then turned to berating Juke; when her voice got hoarse, “Oh, never mind!  You're utterly useless too!"  She finally called off the search.

  "I'll fetch Ron up tomorrow to rip this place apart, piece by piece, and then we'll see what will turn up.”  “Hmm… Perhaps her brat knows of the stash’s whereabouts? If worse comes to worse, I'll simply have Ron wring it out of that useless little horror?  Imagine that!  I take them in under my roof and provided for them all those years, even bringing up their bastards, showing them all that consideration and kindness and, what do I get out of it in the end…nothing?"  Huffing and puffing she got to her feet, with a sweep of her sleeve and curses on her lips, she then stormed out of the room with Juke timidly following close on her heels.

03-TIKE OUTRAGED AT NOT FINDING ANYTHING

No sooner was the door closed than Canute (emerging from his hiding place) burst inside and rushed to his mother's side.  Climbing onto the big bed, he snuggled up to his mother and whispered in her ear, "Wake up, mama.  They're gone."

 When she failed to respond he gently shook her.  "Wake up, mama.  You must wake up.  We have to get out of here tonight.  Tike means to kill you, mama, I heard her just now, heard her talking about burying you in an unmarked grave.  Mama, mama, please wake up!"

Stirring faintly, she meekly groaned, "Senson.  Why?  Why?"

"No, it’s me, mama…me, Canute.  Wake up, mama, you can't be dreaming now, not at a time like this.  You must wake up!"  He rocked her more urgently.

"Water...oh, I'm so parched."  Her hand gripped her throat.

 "Please, I need some water!  Oh, my head hurts so much!"  She placed the back of her hand to her forehead, her eyes still shut tight.

Her faint request was promptly, solicitously fulfilled but she was too weak, too frail to rise.  Bracing her, Canute placed some fluffed up pillows at her back.  He held the cup to her pallid, trembling lips and helped her swallow a few drops.  As he brushed back the loose tufts of hair stuck to her temples and affectionately stroked her clammy, sweat-drenched forehead he gasped in gloom, despite himself, "Oh, mama, you're burning up!"

 Her condition gave him further cause for fright and had plunged him into deep despair.  She was so sick, how was he going to get her away to safety now?  "Oh, I wish you hadn't drunk that potion, mama," he gently admonished her.  "I knew it would make you worse.  I knew it would only hurt you.  Tike is a beast, an evil, fat beast!"

"Is that you, Canute…Canute?" her eyes opened slightly.

"Yes, mama, I'm here," he answered meekly, hanging his head and biting his lip to hold back the tears.

"Were you just now swearing at Tike?"  Canute grunted an acknowledgment.  She closed her eyes again and sighed, "Oh, son, won't you ever learn?"

04- SLEEPING HELGA

"They locked me in the cellar again, mama, but I broke out.  They moved all my bedding, too," he burst out indignantly, looking in the direction of his room.

  "Mama," after a moment's pause, he nestled closer to urgently warn her, "You must be strong.  You must get well.  Tike means to kill you.  I heard her say so just now," suddenly his face hardened, and he clenched his fists, "but I won't let them hurt you, mama.  I won't let them get near you.  I'll, I'll protect you."  He resolutely dashed off to secure both doors, wedging a chair against the main door's knob.

"We'll stay locked up here until you get well."  He climbed back up to her side with a cold grin of satisfaction.  "I'll steal some food if you're hungry, mama.  I'm a big man now," he assured her with a nod.  "I'm seven years old; I can take care of you now."

"Canute?  Canute?  Oh, here you are, my precious."  She appeared not to have heard a word he had said but knowing he was by her side was enough to comfort her and she heaved a long, deep, painful sigh.

A few moments later, more of her faculties (senses) regained, Helga opened her eyes.  But Canute's wretched condition at once plunged her heart into abysmal pain and she began to weep with grief.  "Oh, my poor darling, what have they done to you?"  

She reached out with a frail hand to touch the red abrasions (scrapes, scratches) over his left eyebrow and those other marks of abuse on the left cheek.  “Oh, my precious, does it hurt much?"

"I'm all right, mama.  It doesn't hurt, really."  Canute, putting on a brave face, slapped the bruise, bearing the pain with a smile.  "See, it only looks bad.  I'm strong, they can't ever hurt me."

05-CANUTE ACTING TOUGH

"Oh, my poor, brave boy, I love you so much."  Cradling him in her arms, she pressed his battered head to her bosom and sobbed tragically.

Her hot tears fell onto his cheeks as he looked up to again disclaim his pain and urged her, "Please don't cry, mama, or you'll get sicker.  You must get well fast, so we can get out of here.  We’ll go somewhere else, anywhere but here, mama… Please open your eyes mama?"  He pulled his head away and sat up.  His face turned to the door of the storeroom, his room, and misgivings stirred in him.  He hesitated before continuing, "Mama, Tike is a liar.  You won't listen to her, will you mama?  I know you need pretty clothes but please, please don't send me away from you! I promise when I grow up, I won’t want to get married. And I could never ever hate you mama!"  He bit his lip, his face burning with fire.  "I love you mama; I don’t never, ever want to be parted from you!" Again, he pleaded in a whimper.

"Oh, my poor darling,” she caressed his face.  "You’ve had such a scare.  Of course I won't.  I could never condemn you to, such a cruel fate.  I could never bear to part with you either, you are my life."

 Weeping and trembling, she pressed her face against his brow.  "I only said that to Tike, to stop them from hitting you.  As soon as I'm able to, we'll get away from here, I promise.  We'll go far, far away."  Sighs punctuated her resolute words.

Gratefully, irrespective of the pain, Canute Yonn wound his arms around his mother and hugged her tight as though he was afraid of letting go.

 Words crammed his throat at first but then, vehemently gesticulating, he poured out his grievances against Tike and Juke who had ransacked the place.  As Helga listened passively, her strength gradually had begun to ebb; she felt parts of her body going numb and was fearful that Canute might notice her failing condition.  But Canute suddenly recalling the coin just then darted down from the bed and, crawling on his hands and knees avidly began searching the area under and around the chair where he had last seen the coin roll. 

When he returned to her side clasping the coin her lackluster eyes were wearily closing.

"I have it here, mama.  It's now in my safekeeping."  She did not see or hear him.

"Oh, mama, I hope you’ll get better soon, very soon.  I'm afraid."  He spoke almost in a whisper as he hung his head low in hopeless emotion.  Suddenly terror gripped his heart.  Would she get better?  What if...?  He clenched his jaws tight, looking away, trying to hold back his tears but, as if in defiance, his eyes reddened and he sniffled.

With great effort she patted the back of his head and forced a smile to her pallid lips.

 "You mustn't be afraid, my precious.  I'll get well.  I'm just feeling tired, that's all."

But even as she said this, she realized that her condition was indeed serious, perhaps irreversible, and became equally apprehensive for her precious Canute.  With a look of despondency on her face she sighed, "Oh, my poor, wretched darling.  What will become of you after I'm gone?  Who will take care of you then?"  She buried her face in her pillow and quietly wept, the tears gushing like streams to drench the pillow in minutes.  Their coolness gave her some relief.

At his wits’ end to find ways to comfort his mother, Canute clenched his fist and softly cried out, "Oh, if only papa was here.  He would take us away from all this.  He would keep us safe and make everything all right."

"Your papa…?"  Her crying ceased as she looked at him in great surprise.

Before she could go on Canute interceded and placed his hand over her lips.  "Oh, mama, please don't tell me he's dead again.  I know he's very much alive; I’m a big boy now and you can't deceive me any longer but why, why can't we go live with him?"

The intense pain from conflicting emotions and remorse burned at her soul.  Immersed in total misery, her heart palpitating wildly sent the blood rushing to her (brain) head and she became quite dizzy from the throbbing, splitting pain; suddenly, an anguished cry escaped her lips, “Oh, I've been so wrong, so very wrong in keeping the truth from you."

 Canute's eyes lit up as his heart filled with hopeful anticipation. This was it… Long at last he might learn all the missing info about his dad. And then, he will come and save them.

But what Canute heard next was totally unexpected and blunt details terribly angst (wrenched) his heart.

 "Your father is a monster, a vile, cruel heartless beast.  You must stay away, clear away from him.  Promise me child that you'll never go seek him out."  Her cheeks afire, she looked searchingly, intently into his bewildered, disbelieving eyes.

Her obvious distress (anxiety) forced Canute to stammer out his acquiescence though, in his heart, he had no intention of keeping it.

Helga, seeing that Canute needed to be convinced, tearfully bemoaning their cruel fate, gradually, unfolded the rest, the entire, painful truth about Canute’s father.

Helga confessed how, at first, it was only the burning desire for vengeance that had sustained her and, how unwittingly for a time, she had almost transferred that hatred to her innocent little baby, Canute, who bore such a likeness to that cursed Senson Luko.

 She had lingered in this tormented state for so many years, torn between her intense abhorrence of Senson verses, the innate, powerful bond that existed between mother and child, till eventually her emotions had sorted themselves out.

 As Canute grew up and she, wanting to see him grow up healthy and have a normal life, had forced her to forsake vengeance and bury those dark, painful memories that were eating her alive.

"Oh, my precious, it was wrong of me to have carried such hatred in my heart for so long, but I could not help it. As it were, it irreversibly sapped my life's blood, drained my youthful vitality from my veins and left me infirm, a shriveled up ailing fool that I've become.  My own folly (psychosis, obsession) has been my undoing, not anything Tike has done or could do.  Now it’s too late for regrets, too late for anything."  Her words were punctuated by deep sighs and tearful sobs.

"Please, darling, don't be like me.  Don't be like your senseless, useless mother who has thrown her life away on, hate.  Bury the past for good and leave it where it belongs.  Forget Senson.  Forget that you've ever had, a father.  Forget what he has done to me, to us.”

“I had to tell you these hard truths to make you understand.  I know how inquisitive and stubborn your innate nature is; however, you must desist and never, ever contact him.  Stay away; stay clear away from that unconscionable beast if anything should ever happen to me."  She paused to wipe away her tears and blow her nose.

She was fearful lest she should lapse unconsciously before she had finished her say, so ignoring all the signs of alarm, she pushed on relentlessly.

 Her hoarse voice took on a note of urgency as she counselled him, "Be strong, son, and get away, far, far away from this miserable, horrible place.  Now, don't be obstinate!  Promise me you'll do as I've asked."  Receiving an obedient, reluctant nod, she continued, "Remember, Canute, beneath that third, loose board, and the one I'd shown you earlier."  She pointed to a spot on the floor beneath the overstuffed chair where Tike had been sitting.  "There's a small amount saved up.  You can use it for your escape.  You must get away, far, far away from here, child.  Oh yes, one more thing..."  She had to stop for breath. 

Exertion, the wear and tear, were beginning to take its toll on her.  She shifted the covers to conceal the stain of the hemorrhaging from him.

"Trust no one…No one other than Nikish, perhaps.  The old gardener likes you; I know.  Yes, ask his help but only his, no one else," she stammered despondently turning her face away. 

06-NIKKISH (THE OLD GARDNER)

Her head was swimming, and her face had again turned ghostly pale.  She sighed softly and closed her eyes.  With great effort she murmured, "Tonight.  Remember.  You must flee this wretched cage tonight!"

Yes, mama, we'll get away.  I'll ask Nikish.  He'll help us escape, don't you worry," new hope sprang up in Canute's heart as he elatedly responded.  He liked Nikish, the sympathetic, countrified old widower Canute'd lately befriended and he knew that, if asked, he'd do his best to help them flee to safety.

"No, child… My poor, poor baby!  You're so frantic that you're not listening; you're not hearing what I'm saying.  My wish, my desire, is that only you break free.  Forgive me, Canute, my precious, but I can't come with you.  I don't have the strength.  I don't think I have very much longer left to live."

He was already half-way to the door with the intent of fetching Nikish when, turning, he'd rushed back to her side.  Clutching her hand, he cried frantically, "No, mama, you mustn't speak like that.  You'll get well.  Don’t lose hope. We'll both get away together, you'll see.  I won't leave you, mama.  I can't leave you.  Let me go get Nikish, he'll help us."

"No, I can't.", she panted, gasping for breath.  "Now go, please go."

"I won't.  You promised.  You promised you'd never leave me!"  Canute, livid with fear, clung to her tightly.  "Why?  Why are you trying to drive me away?  Please, Mama.  Don't you love me anymore?  I'll be good.  I'll be-behave.  Don't push me away, mama.  Please, mama."

"Oh, child," she gasped in exasperation.  "Why, why are you making this so difficult for me?  Please, precious, do try to understand.  I'm not abandoning you, not by choice."

 She put her trembling hand over his and, her throat constricting, managed to whisper, "Don't you know, my darling, that wherever you go, I'll be there.  Even, even in spirit form I'll always be watching ov…"  The last word froze midway on her lips and her painful breathing grew weaker and weaker still.  There was a slight gurgling sound from her throat as all the color drained from her face.  Then she opened her lackluster eyes a crack and her lips quivered as if wanting, trying to speak, but no sound emerged.  There was no breath to carry it out.

"Mama... Mama!"  An inexplicable fear wrenched Canute's heart in its iron grip as his hysterical, muffled cries pierced the cold night air.  Recoiling in terror, then wretchedly clutching her limp body, he collapsed over her weeping.  Trying to breathe some life back into her he hugged her with all his might, shaking her and rocking back and forth.

His revulsion against Senson intensified.  "I hate him, mama.  I hate him!  I'll make him pay for what he has done to you," he ranted.

 Like a mad bull his mouth foamed in all-consuming rage as his nails drew blood from his clenched fists.  All the pent-up anger, resentment, terror, gloom, pain, loneliness, sorrow, despair and disillusionment mixed together to tear his soul to shreds.  With these fiery storms erupting in his heart, the hot tears gushed ceaselessly in torrents to wash his burning face clean and drench his mother's pale blue gown.

Subsequently, in accordance with his mother’s last wishes, Canute had tried hard to purge his heart from that consumptive hatred of Senson, but in vain.

 Oh, how he had loathed Senson then, and thereafter! That vile beast was responsible for all the misery and grief heaped on his beloved mother. 

He’d also promised at her deathbed to forget (to put all hatred behind him) but tried as he did, he could not, nor could he forgive.

 How could he?  How could he not avenge Helga, his darling mother, who had been so wronged and so tormented all her life? 

The injustice wrought by Senson had seared Canute's heart so completely, with such fiery intensity that he would never again be able to staunch its blaze.

(END OF SECTION 27)