The sun flared high over the western hills of Gaabar and above the city of Tel. Its radiant heat spread throughout the peaks of mudbrick pinnacles to the dusty cobblestone streets and alleys. N’gara stepped out into the sun, inhaling the bright promise of the morning. The streets were already awake and empty of the vagrants and beggars. All except for a lone bundle of tattered clothe with a crown of unkept hair sticking from the top. N’gara approached him as he buckled his sword, carelessly allowing his coin-pouch to jingle its few remaining coins. The bright day made him feel good, that coupled with a well-spent night. “Hey, Lamin! Rise and shine. The day is upon us and I refuse to miss it.” The closer he got, the more he noticed Lamin was sucking on mango seed, its juices spilling into his blanket. “Where’d you get that?”
Lamin looked up towards his friend. Mango nectar stained his lips and his scared left-eye which was absent of a pupil, greeted him. N’gara had long gotten used to the disturbing scars of Lamin’s disfigurement. “I stole it,” he replied. He pulled out his free hand and gave N’gara one. “Here. Thought you’d be hungry.” He rose from the ground shrugging off his ratty shroud, tossed the seed into the street, and adjusted his weapons. A dusty sword and scabbard hung from his hip and a long dagger peaked out of his sandal-straps. He was only a spit taller than N’gara, but when he stretched his neck his good eye always had to look down on him. It was one of his little pleasures. “So. How big was she?”
N’gara took a nip into the skin, striping off a large flap with his fingers. His mouth watered when the smell of mango meat reached his nose. He took a deep bite and he couldn’t stop the grin from curling his lips. As far as he was concerned, today was a good day. “She was juicy,” was all he could say. After Lamin brush the dirt off his baggy breeches, they made their way down the lane.
The two friends turned the corner, heading towards the public stables. They saw no one on the short trip. Lamin kept looking around, shifting his eye to and fro. This was a market day, so the lanes should’ve been packed with people making their way to the souk. The further they walked, the more the absence bothered him. N’gara was too busy enjoying his fruit to notice the empty streets. N’gara was halfway done with his meal by the time they got to the stables. They walked in and Lamin noted the stable-hand’s absence as well.
“Hello!” Lamin shouted.
“Your so polite.” N’gara joked. “Hey lick-spit! Where’s my horse? Come out, you little piss-pot.” The horses answered with grunts and snorts.
An arrow whistled from the rafters and struck the ground in between Lamin’s legs. They heard feet stomp in behind them. Men in bronze disc-plates and sleeveless leather tunics blocked the entrance and more covered the exit. Their spears points moved-in towards them, forcing N’gara and Lamin to press against each others backs. Lamin glanced over to an empty stall. He began to shift closer to it, judging the distance and height of the connecting stalls. Another arrow struck his path. A quick glance revealed two archers overhead targeting him.
“Damn Bronzes,” growled N’gara. His hand went to his sword but Lamin grabbed his wrist, keeping N’gara from making a mistake. “What are you doing? We can take them. Their just the city-watch.”
“They have archers in the rafters and your hands are all wet,” Lamin growled back.
N’gara looked at himself and realized that he still held the sticky seed in his left hand. And its thick nectar coated his right hand, greasing the sword handle. “This would be funny if it happened to someone else,” he replied.
A tall man emerged from between the ranks of soldiers. He wore a bronze helm with a peacock feather sprouting from its nasal-guard and a bronze aventail resting over his shoulders. His lips parted into a snarl. “Drop your weapons!” A mango slid from his hands with a slow, sucking sound and ended with a soft thud.
The Bronze didn’t break his snarl. “I said your weapons!”
Lamin and N’gara drew their swords slowly, dropping them onto the ground. N’gara drew a large dagger from his broad belt before wiping his hands on his loin-wrap. Lamin pulled his dagger and tossed it to the floor. “What crime are we being arrested for? We are new to the city.”
A short, fat man joined the Bronze commander. He was huffing and puffing as if he had run all the way from Maangiyaa in the east to Tel in the west. “That’s him commander. That’s Lamin “the Cursed”. I saw him steal two mangos from Matila’s fruit-stand. Didn’t I tell you he was in the city? I’ll bet he and his friend are planning some murder or something just as horrible.” His finger stabbed towards N’gara, who grinned at the suggestion. Lamin eyed the man, crinkling his brows. His white eye glared at his accuser, causing him to shrink behind the hedge of spears.
The soldiers closed in on them and they squeezed closer together. “Stretch out your hands,” a Bronze said. They did as they were commanded and two men came from behind, looped a rope over their wrist and tightened it with a pull of the slack. The soldiers raised their spears and closed in around them. “Your crimes have been well documented. While Magistrate Leeyti is notified, you’ll be executed within our tower dungeon,” the commander said.
“Killing us will yield you little satisfaction,” Lamin said. “There’s a reward for us in Lohat. If returned alive, that is.”
The Bronze Commander stared at him and grinned, “You’re a crafty one. Too bad no one told you that the reward changed to dead or alive. Only your heads will be needed. An inconvenience for you, I imagine.” He waved his men back towards the entrance.
They were escorted out of the stables and into the streets. A crowd had formed to see the dangerous men captured by the vigilant justice of the Tel. The once desolate streets were now crowded with the late morning activity. People gathered in front of their homes and shops gawking and pointing at the handsome man with the greasy mouth and the tall man with the disfigured half-face. Telians catcalled and hooted at the pair, proud that their city could keep the reputation for safety and swift justice. They passed by the market square and N’gara caught a whiff of spices and fresh fish, of cooking fires and roasting meats. He pouted when the scent of ripe fruit tickled his nose.
“Still enjoying the day?” asked Lamin. “It looks like our roads will end soon.” A cat stopped a moment from its meal to watch Lamin’s blank eye pass over him.
“We lived well,” N’gara shrugged. “At least I did. Don’t you wish you had joined me at the brothel last night? I go with a smile.”
Lamin grinned. “My only regret is that I won’t be able to see you suffer the “itchy-crotch”.” He looked over and saw N’gara trying to fight an itch on the inside of his thigh. He snickered to himself as he watched the guard and N’gara yank the rope back and forth against N’gara’s crotch. “I see you’ve picked up some new companions.”
“I’m praying for a quick death,” N’gara replied.
They made their way to the city keep, a low tower with teeth-like battlements and its facade in desperate need of maintenance. Two doors creaked open, admitting in the guards and their prisoners. Two guards sat in front of an arched doorway. Torches blazed within, revealing a stairway leading into the depths of the tower. The commander removed his helm and addressed one of the guards. “Prep the axe. These men will be executed. Immediately!” roared the commander. The two guards jumped from their seats, taking the lead down into the stairs. The Bronze commander waved the escort into the cellar as he stayed behind. Lamin scanned his new surroundings. There were Bronzes everywhere within the interior, coming up and down a set of stairs leading to the upper apartments.
They took the winding steps down into the dungeons. The cells were empty, with the exception of one or two vagrants shackled to the back walls. They traveled the piss-foul tunnel to another doorway straight ahead. A dim light glowed within, giving the walls a sickly orange cast. Black stains covered the floor and sprinkled the wall. Lamin kept looking about him, recording all he saw while N’gara fought with his bonds.
“Why fight? There is no chance for escape this time,” Lamin whispered. He stood next to his friend, staring at a small stool placed against the left side of the wall. Two shackles hung over the stool and a noose hung high overhead. A black spot spread out from its center.
“I’m dying over here,” said N’gara. “Do you think you could… maybe… just scratch,” tilting his head down. “You do have enough slack.”
“Really. We’re about to die and you want me scratch your nuts.” Lamin said, as a guard appeared with a sharp edged axe. “Don’t worry. Your suffering will be over soon.”
A guard yanked Lamin to the stool. They sat him down and secured his arms to chains bolted into the wall; dried blood rusted the iron links. He felt the coolness of the wall and a chill ran up his arms. Another dropped the noose over his head, pulling it so that his neck stretched to a suitable length. Lamin didn’t struggle. He looked towards N’gara, who had stopped his fidgeting. His stomach tightened and he began to shake. He heard the axe blade scrape the wall and he jerked. He began to struggle, but his arms and neck were too securely fastened against the wall. Grim faces stared back at him. His friend’s head was hung low so he couldn’t see his eyes. He swore to himself he wouldn’t yell. He’ll show his friend how a man dies, proving his side of an old argument they always had. He watched as the axe rose in front of him. Lamin took a deep breath, closed his eyes and waited…
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