The Descent: Chapter 9
When he looked out the window and saw how high the sun was, Arrawnt finally climbed out of bed and began putting on his clothes. Lying on the tussled sheets that were the result of their storm of lovemaking, Bridget smiled voluptuously. "Aww, leaving already?"
"I have to pick up Isabella," he explained. "She wants to have lunch with her big brother."
Bridget grinned. "Does she know her big brother is sleeping with her best friend?"
"Hell no." Arrawnt shuddered at the thought. There were others who knew, though. Sandra suspected he was having an affair; Domaric and Grantuck knew all about it. They frowned on him behaving like this in times of trouble, and gave him a piece of their mind more than once. Arrawnt disagreed, however. He felt there was no point in fighting so damn hard if you couldn't enjoy yourself. So he took the chance to have his fun, whenever he could.
Still, personal enjoyment had to make way for family engagements. After all, family came before everything else. He ignored Bridget's repeated seductions as best as he could, promised to come again soon, and made his way out into the morning sun. His guards saw him coming and climbed onto the carriage. In a minute they were off.
Isabella wasn't at her front door to greet him. Surprised, worried that the black hand of his enemies would not spare even his sister, Arrawnt stepped into the modest cottage.
She was waiting for him in the hall, sobbing quietly to herself. As he approached worriedly, she turned away. Arrawnt gripped her thin arms and turned her toward him.
Her pretty face was a map of bruises and cuts. Arrawnt bit back a curse and dropped his hands. He felt her pain like a blade in his heart.
"It was my fault," she pleaded. She knew what her brother was capable of in his rage. "I started it. We were just arguing, then I hit him, so he..."
"Shh, shh," Arrawnt quieted her. "It's alright now."
She looked into his tight face and enraged eyes and knew it was not alright. "Please, Arrawnt, don't do anything."
"I'm just gonna get a healer to come and look at you," he assured her. In his mind he was guessing where that son of a bitch Crewart would be. He'll teach him a lesson soon enough. "Should I call Uryudo?"
She nodded, clutched his hands. "Arrawnt, please—don't do anything!"
He managed a chuckle for her. "Oh come on, what do think I'm gonna do, make your child an orphan before it's born?" When she smiled through her tears, he gave her a brief hug. "Now you stay here. I'll have Uryudo here shortly."
Without another word he stormed out.
Arrawnt found Crewart easily enough. The rat was holed up in his favorite bar, flirting with the girls, seemingly unworried about his wife. Arrawnt thought of Isabella, hurt and crying, left alone at home, and strode straight up to his brother-in-law.
Crewart turned, saw him coming, and with a shout of fear tried to flee. Arrawnt caught him by the scruff of his neck and threw him to the floor. The other drinkers backed away as Arrawnt yelled oaths and began beating Crewart. Those who tried to interfere were stopped by Arrawnt's bodyguards.
Crewart scrambled to his knees and attempted to crawl away. Arrawnt hauled him to his feet, punched him on the nose, then tossed him against the wall. Before Crewart could move his assailant was upon him again. Arrawnt pummeled him until Crewart's scarred face was even uglier than before; he punched and kicked until he heard Crewart's bones crack and felt his own knuckles bleeding. Finally he backed away, exhausted, and let the barely conscious Crewart slump to the floor.
Arrawnt gritted his teeth and told him, "You touch my sister again, I'll kill ya."
He kicked Crewart one last time before leaving. In his wake his goons compensated the bartender for the mess.
They say in the fairy-tale-like realm of Stamp, love could come like wildfire. That was certainly what Medion felt. His courtship with Hedoba, however constrained by the presence of her relatives and his guards, was what could only be called a whirlwind romance. She was sweet, innocent, and obviously enjoyed how he treated her. Medion learned from Bernard that her previous husband had been abusive—in fact, the Don's favor to Hans had been to chase the guy away. In comparison, Medion was every bit the charming gentleman. Together they walked the long forest paths, holding hands, talking and laughing about every little thing. She found his knowledge of the outside world intoxicating; he, her pleasant woodland stories refreshing. In him she found a link to things she's never known, and in her he discovered a connection to the joys he'd forgotten. With her at his side he thought less and less of the depressing memories. He became convinced that she was his salvation; that he had been given a chance to return to innocence, here in the serene little village, with the beautiful wood elf at his side.
No news came from the outside world, and that pleased Medion. He didn't want to return home now, even if he could. He has found peace in Stamp. When he'd first confided this to his two bodyguards, Garosh looked crestfallen, but they both agreed it was probably best for everyone if Medion gave up the past and decided his own future.
Medion and Hedoba would sometimes sit on one of the hanging bridges that connected the treehouses. The fearsome height provided some privacy for the lovers. It was on one such date that Medion got down on one knee, and asked Hedoba to marry him.
Their wedding was beautiful, more wonderful than any Medion has ever seen. Pretty much everyone in the village came to wish them happiness. Hans watched, both nervous and joyful, as the two pledged their everlasting devotion. Medion has become a permanent member of the peaceful paradise. He would be a loyal son-in-law.
That night, as Medion and Hedoba made love for the first time, Medion didn't think about Destonia, the Dons, or his family. In the embrace of his newfound joy, he didn't even think about Synbios.
The guards at the gate wouldn't let her in at first, but Synbios made it clear she was prepared to stand there until she talked to someone in the family. They ignored her and pretended she wasn't there. After an hour has passed and she still persisted, the guards once again asked her to go. She repeated her request. The exasperated guards looked at each other, shrugged, and sent someone into the house. Within five minutes Grantuck appeared and hurried to let her in.
The dragonnewt apologized profusely, but reprimanded her for coming over. "It's not safe, Synbios. You should have simply sent a letter."
She regarded him angrily. "I have. I sent dozens of letters. Now I want to know where Medion is."
He shook his head. "I'm sorry, but nobody knows where he is. We only know he's safe—that's all."
"Give me the name of the town," she implored. "I want to send him a letter. Please."
He shook his head and seemed genuinely sad. "I'm sorry, but I can't do that. For Medion's safety."
She fished an envelope out of her purse, and tried to give it to him. "Then could you send this to him for me, please? Please? I just want him to know how much I miss him, how worried I am."
Still Grantuck refused. "It's too dangerous, Synbios. We don't contact Medion unless it's absolutely necessary. It's just too risky." Gently he pushed the envelope back into her hands. "Just be patient. Medion will contact you—I'm sure of it. We must all be patient."
Synbios could not reply. She stared at the dirt path and tried to fight away the tears. It has been almost an year since she last saw Medion. His sudden disappearance had hurt her terribly; she'd felt betrayed and scared when she learned what he's done. But she couldn't blame him, couldn't hate him, because she still loved him too much. All she wanted was to see him again, to know he's safe. Yet she's had no word from him, and has been unable to contact him. Even her letters to Medion's family—Grantuck, Isabella, Melinda—had been met with patronizing replies advising patience and endurance. Now that she's seen Medion's brother face to face and demanded to know more, she's only been told that she wouldn't be allowed to contact Medion, for his own safety. Her inborn stubbornness would have forced Grantuck to reveal all, but her love for Medion was too acute for her to dream of putting him in danger. She had stared down the henchmen because of her love; now, her love only made her feel helpless and weak. She lowered her head and did not speak.
Grantuck put a hand on her arm. There was concern and admiration in the advisor's voice. Perhaps he did understand how she felt, even if he would not help. "Come, let's go inside. It's too late to send you back to Aspia now. Stay the night; you'll feel better in the morning."
Isabella prepared dinner in silence. She didn't want to speak with her husband, for fear of another fight. It's been a week since Crewart had limped home with cracked ribs and a bleeding face. He'd cursed when she offered to apologize and nurse him, and stormed into their room. For the first three days he'd lay in bed, recuperating, eating whatever Isabella brought him. Isabella had slept on the couch in the living room during this time. She didn't mind the discomfort; she wanted to convince her husband, and herself, that love was still possible between them. She did not speak of her own wounds.
But once Crewart was up and about, he ignored her most of the time, and never spoke without throwing in a few oaths. He didn't thank her for her forgiveness and concern; in fact he wouldn't even apologize to her. He still treated her as a maid and whore, coming to her only to satisfy his animal desires. Isabella began to despair of their living happily ever after, as the fairy tales liked to proclaim. But she didn't want him to hit her, or to have Arrawnt hit him. So she resolved to stay out of his way, and treat him as lovingly as possible. Maybe, just maybe, Crewart would change.
A knock on the door startled Isabella. Crewart was napping in the living room, and they weren't expecting any guests. Arrawnt has assured her the family's enemies wouldn't try to hurt her, but this brought little comfort as she cautiously tip-toed to the door and, after a slight pause, opened it.
Outside stood a woman in the revealing attire of a street prostitute. She brushed back her long black hair and winked at her. "Hello darling, is your master at home?"
Isabella blinked. "My...master?"
The woman frowned. "Mr. Crewart. You are his maid, no?"
Isabella could only stare dumbly. The prostitute huffed with impatience. "Well, whoever you are, tell Mr. Crewart I'm here, alright? Go on, hurry—I have a lot of customers."
With an angry cry Isabella slammed the door in her face, and stormed into the living room. Crewart had been awakened by the commotion and was just getting up. He squinted at her and swore. "What the hell's the matter?"
"A woman was here to see you," she replied hotly. When he didn't comment, she added, "She was a goddamn whore!"
He stared at her. "And when was who I see your business, you slut?"
She could barely restrain herself from slapping him. "I'm your wife you jerk! I'm your wife and you have whores come to our house!"
Crewart sneered. "And how are they so different from you? You little bitch."
Isabella screamed in rage and ran into the kitchen, where she began hurling plates and glasses to the floor. The shattered glass cut her feet, but she hardly noticed. It was so unfair. Hasn't she done everything to keep their marriage happy and fulfilling? She's been married for only a little over a year, but it felt like a lifetime of abuses. Crewart has used her like a handmaid and prostitute who didn't cost any. He has beaten her, many times before Arrawnt found out. And she had endured it all, out of her love for him; she had shielded him, braved everything—just because she imagined they could be happy together. Only now was it obvious that Crewart has never cared, that he's never loved her. She had been a fool to let him have his way.
Crewart had entered the kitchen, where he watched her tantrum with a careless sneer. "Oh, go ahead and break it all, you spoiled little brat. Go ahead—go on and break it all."
She screamed at him, "Why don't you bring your whore home for dinner, huh?"
"Maybe I will—why not? She'll be pleased to see another of her kind under this roof."
Isabella stormed into the living room, where she began to break porcelain vases. Crewart followed, yelling, "Now you clean this up, you little brat!"
She hurtled a vase at him. "Like hell I will!"
He slapped her so hard she fell to the floor. Isabella grabbed a jagged piece of glass and tried to cut him with it. He knocked it out of her hand. "Oh yeah, go on and try to kill me, you slut. Become a killer like your daddy. All Domaric's children are goddamn killers anyway."
She struck at him and tried to pick up another piece. "I will, I will! I will kill you, you bastard! I hate you!"
He pulled her up by the hair and threw her in the direction of the bedroom. Isabella saw him pick up a horsewhip and tried to hide in their room. "I hate you, I hate you!"
He kicked open the locked door easily, and began to whip her mercilessly. "Try to kill me, huh? You little brat, I'll kill you now! Goddamn slut!"
Her screams echoed in the small cottage, but there was no one to save her.
Grantuck flipped through some business contracts and sighed quietly. Almost half of their associates were pulling out, and the rest were considering it. The 'war' between the families was costing them dearly. He'd hoped that things would have quieted down by now, and that everything would have gone back to normal. But as the new Don, Arrawnt has insisted on fighting to the death with Don Basanda. Thus the mayhem continued, with no sign of ending. Grantuck hoped Arrawnt would either succeed or come to his senses soon, and knew there were plenty of people, on both sides, who wished the same thing. Bloodshed like this could only damage the underworld. If only Arrawnt and Basanda would call it quits...then they could go on living like they did, before that fool Braff pulled his little stunt. They might even be able to welcome Medion back, if only there was peace.
Then the message came. By bad luck Arrawnt was pacing idly by the door, and it was he who picked up the crumbled, tear-stained piece of paper. Grantuck heard Arrawnt curse; he put down his papers and went to look over his brother's shoulder. He recognized Isabella's handwriting, albeit shaky and blurred, as if she wrote the brief note in pain. Grantuck read enough to realize what has occurred before Arrawnt threw it down in rage. "Goddamn bastard, goddamn son of a bitch!"
The dragonnewt knew what was going to happen next. He followed Arrawnt as his big brother charged out the door and into the stables. He could barely keep up. "Come on Arrawnt, calm down, calm down!"
"Goddamn bastard!" Arrawnt repeated as he climbed upon his fastest steed, oblivious to Grantuck's pleading. He nearly trampled Grantuck as he urged the horse out the stable gate. "Goddamn bastard!!"
Grantuck despaired of making his brother see reason. In the throes of his passion—whether it was lust or rage—Arrawnt was simply incapable of possessing some common sense. He ran to the guardhouse and roused the napping henchmen. "Come on, get off your butts! Follow Arrawnt!"
The goons knew their jobs. They asked no questions as they piled hastily into two carriages. By the time they rode out the gate, however, Arrawnt was long gone.
Arrawnt had no idea where Crewart was, but he knew he'd have to check on Isabella first. Chances were that the son of a bitch was napping in the same room where Isabella was bleeding and crying. The thought alone made his blood boil. It hurt him more as he recalled it was he who introduced her sister to that bastard in the first place, and that he's just recently given Crewart a very clear warning not to abuse his sister. That Crewart has treated his warning as nothing enraged Arrawnt all the more. This time, he vowed to himself, Crewart will learn the lesson, or die like the dog he was.
He rode hard and fast through the busy streets, leaving the trailing bodyguards far behind. The people doing their midday shopping had to scurry out of the way as the furious man charged by, heedless of whom he might run over. Arrawnt thought of nothing but revenge for his sister.
He turned and approached a narrow lane—one that he's passed through every time he visited Isabella. It was a quiet little place, normally deserted, but today there appeared to be a problem. A carriage and a wagon had collided near the center, and the two drivers were arguing heatedly. Arrawnt stopped behind them and cursed. He couldn't wait to get his hands on Crewart. He shouted at the fools to move, but they paid him no mind as they yelled threats at each other.
Another carriage pulled up behind Arrawnt and stopped as well. The arguing men didn't seem close to reaching an agreement, and now Arrawnt couldn't back out. He swore and leapt off the horse, clutching his blade. If the idiots won't get out of his way, he was going to have to convince them himself. It was a dangerous thing to be interfering with Arrawnt when he was angry.
It was at this moment the drivers in front of him hit the ground and rolled underneath their respective vehicles. Arrawnt scarcely had time to blink in confusion before the doors of the carriage behind him slammed open, revealing six bowmen. Above him, on the roofs of buildings on both side, appeared another throng of men with taut bowstrings and ready arrows. The glinting steel tips were all pointed at him. Arrawnt's blood turned into ice water when he realized the trap he's stumbled into.
The first volley of arrows fell like lethal raindrops. An entire dozen pierced Arrawnt's horse, killing the poor animal on the spot. Another half dozen struck Arrawnt. He screamed in rage and pain, and tried to reach his assailants. He's hardly taken two steps toward the carriage before the next volley came. Arrows pierced his legs, his arms, his torso. One embedded itself in his cheek. Arrawnt stumbled, fell to his knees. Blood poured from his innumerable wounds, turning the ground into a lake of flowing crimson. Still he tried to hurl his blade at them, as a last show of futile defiance.
Then an arrow pierced his throat, and Arrawnt, eldest son of and successor to Don Domaric, dropped down into the blood-soaked dirt.