The Oracle's Prophecy

By: Xaviere Posted on: August 26, 2005

If there was any way to describe how Grabbard de Norque, Esq., part-time Dawnstrider, felt at the moment, it could probably be summed up in a single phrase:

"I utterly HATE him."

"Pardon, squire?"

Bostick the Apprentice Locksmith's voice, with its pitch varying in the throes of adolescence, drew the Vizier out of his reverie.

It also became apparent to Grabbard that the entire shop was staring at him.

"Just the general purpose lock and bolt at the two for the price of one deal, squire?"

"Ah... yep." It was probably in his best interests to leave the premises with all haste. After stroking his goatee beard thoughtfully, in an attempt to shrug off his faux pas, Grabbard waited for the apprentice to cut a set of keys.

Nevertheless, it was true. He did hate him. The Sultan, that was, not the spotty adolescent going through a period of growth spurts, voice-breaking and teenage angst as everybody in the shop had assumed. Everything that he had been working for, the referendums he had demanded, the debates he had drawn up, the sheer proof of the fact that there was enough backing for a war with Mhaldor - all cast aside in one fell swoop by the Sultan and his supporters.

They WOULD NOT go to war. They WILL NOT go to war.

And the Church! The Church! The Prelates, with their shining hats and pillars of religious text, preaching the word of Harmony and Compassion to the masses. A war would cause discord, chaos, all the things that they were against, despite the amount of 'tickling' that Mhaldor had done to them ('tickling' was a broad term to reduce the force of a word of something that was more like 'getting strangled by your own intestines').

He tossed a bag of sovereigns over to the apprentice and took the package. He was already late for a meeting with the other Viziers.

"Oh, and squire, my boss said your wife's chastity belt'll be finished by the end of the week, he's having a bit of trouble with the padlock, it's all rusty."

Shrugging off a wave of titters from the lock and key enthusiasts of Shallam, Grabbard de Norque, Esq. did as he had planned.

He made a swift exit.

Indeed, the meeting was fairly demure, with mere discussions on the state of orphans in the city, Ashtan's policy on lollipop theft, a mention of Mhaldor which briefly saw to dash any hope of war, and the economic viability of a second restaurant on the east side of Shallam, with possible trade routes to Riparium for fish, as well as the denying of asylum to the Infamous Creesje Lokien, former state-sanctioned torturer of Mhaldor in her younger years despite death threats and close negotiations with her headed by Grabbard himself. The Viziers put in yeas and nays, Grabbard only partially paying attention, preferring to check the alignment of his Satyri horns in the reflection of the large mirror behind the Sultan. He stopped when the burly Troll bodyguard, recently enlisted for the Sultan's protection, gave him a warning glare.

As the Viziers left the council rooms of the palace, Grabbard lingered behind for a short while. The Sultan, fat and sleek, for he was a well-fed Rajamala, took a plump, dripping goose drumstick and devoured it messily, being careful not to dirty the large emerald signet ring on one finger. This slovenly creature, too corpulent to be bothered to hone his Magi skills that the tabloids had duly noted that his elemental staff had been used as a prop for a central pillar support in the Chrysalis Basilica for the majority of his term as Sultan.

But then, why not contest him? There was surely enough evidence for a vote of no confidence. Good idea, but Grabbard had already tried that. Lost by the smallest of margins, though some vote tampering was suspected. Just another blow to his political career. Grabbard's confidantes were baffled, his spin doctors afluster. Appeals at the Temple of Miramar were left unanswered. Even the public had started losing faith in him. The incident at the locksmith's did nothing to help his popularity ratings, as well as the oft-reported news that he was estranged from his wife and pursuing 'other interests'.

He needed advice.

He ignored everything as he trudged through the Mannaseh Swamp, following the course of the Pachacacha eastwards. A woman in black passed by, giving him a grim look, but Grabbard ignored her.

They said she was wise. She had lived for a long time. Some said she was a even a demigoddess.

"Before you say anything, I'm not a tourist," Grabbard announced to a simpering Xorani wench outside the Oracle's hut. "So you can get rid of the funny accent." He glanced at the cracked window of the hut. "Tell me, foul crone, is this the hut of the Oracle Apollonia?"

"That it be, haha, that it BE. Excuse me. Yes it is." The dirt-spattered woman toed the mud of the swamp ponderously with a claw. "So I guess you don't want the history and interesting trivia part of the hut and area in pre-Seleucarian times?"

"No."

"Or a framed prophecy on personalised parchment?"

"No."

"Interested in a calendar dating the events of Achaea for the next hundred years?"

"No."

"It comes in three different colours, see. You got your Eleusian Green, you got your Erisian Rainbow, and you got your Mhaldorian Blood Splatter. That last one comes with a free 'Make war not peace' brooch." She looked up at the Satyr hopefully.

"No. I'm just here to see her."

"Oh. Fine." The reptilian creature's throat glimmered a faint orange. "That's right. Nobody notices the small home grown industries any more. It's all your large shop chains from Cyrene to Shallam ruining the local business like that old corner shop that used to sell pocketbelts and drying cloths, bloody capitalist shopkeepers, you make your complaints to your Minister of Trade and what do they do? BUGGER ALL! And you wonder why you have so many unemployed people, it's repression by the proud, upstanding masses who seek to take down the lesser..."

Grabbard quickly ducked inside the hut and was quickly met by the scent of burning tea leaves. He could still hear the Xoran grumbling about interest rates at the bank and commodity inflation outside. It was fairly dim within, but the fragrant smoke clung to him, reflecting what light desired to peek in. His left hoof twitched as a grey figure appeared from the smoke.

"Hail, he who is Grabbard de Norque, Esquire," the deep, commanding voice of the Oracle rang out.

Her voice was almost masculine in tone. The Satyr fingered his goatee beard thoughtfully.

"Speak, or be silent. They await your questions." She held up her hand, palm facing forward to Grabbard, then rotated it so the palm was flat, as if held out for something. Grabbard took some sovereigns from his pouch and deposited them in her hand.

"Will the present Sultan of Shallam ever be contested successfully in the current climate?" he asked tentatively.

The Oracle bowed her head and closed her eyes. Her breathing was barely audible, and even the vapid mutterings of the Xoran outside could be heard. After a moment, she opened her eyes and replied, "The outcome is unlikely."

More sovereigns flowed into her hand. "Will the present Sultan of Shallam ever be changed?"

The Oracle closed her eyes again in deep thought, but her response was faster this time. "The outcome is likely," her uncompromising voice intoned.

Grabbard cocked his head slightly, revealing a pair of well-kept horns on his head. This was an interesting prospect. He only wanted to ask two questions, but a third sprung to mind, an ambitious strike. He pulled out more sovereigns.

"Will I ever be Sultan of Shallam?"

Without a pause, the Oracle stared at the Satyr squarely. Her eye sockets were enveloped in shadow, but they were not without a hint of fear. The next time she spoke, it was almost a whisper, dulcet in manner, almost Achaean.

"Certes."

That was good news. The Oracle was never wrong, but nobody knew where or whom she got her prophecies from. Grabbard took heart in the fact that the tenure of the current Sultan would not be forever. But how was he going to become Sultan himself? Should he trust the Oracle, so certain in her reply? He inclined his head politely and turned to leave.

"HUNGER, I CRAVE, I CRAVE!" came a screech from the direction of the Oracle. Grabbard twizzled around to see what on Achaea was going on.

A sudden gust of wind was swirling around the small hut, blowing the smoke out of the cracked window. The robes of the Oracle were billowing out like the ship sails, and her head was thrown back, revealing her face. She was young, looking not more than twenty summers, this woman who had lived forever. But the voice that ran out of her mouth was hoarse, scratchy, and surely from the pits of Golgotha.

"I CRAVE, I EAT, I DIE!" she screamed, the wind smashing tea cups and ornaments around the room. Grabbard wondered why the Xoran outside did not come in to see all the commotion.

The Oracle pulled her head forward and pointed a claw-like finger at Grabbard. Her eyes were blazing scarlet orbs of holocaust fire.

"FROM OUT OF THE FRYING PAN, AND INTO ANOTHER FRYING PAN! THE CREATURE WAITS!" She threw her arms into the air and cackled maniacally.

When the Oracle finally recovered, her visitor was already back in the Jewel of the East, half-pondering her answers, and half-fuming at a proposal announced to the city that the thugs that resided in the sewers had been, and he quoted at the meeting, "been extricated from the city.". This of course was untrue, and merely a lie put forward to increase morale. It had even been rumoured that the thugs were working for the Sultan.

Perhaps life in Shallam would be better if he was Sultan, Grabbard thought. But how? The Oracle said it was unlikely that the present Sultan would be removed via a contest, and certainly not by stepping down voluntarily. Absolute power was far too attractive.

It was attractive.

Grabbard looked at his whip, hung sombrely on a peg, his dirks sheathed and dry. His tongue suddenly lapped against two sharp, pointed fangs. A drop of what tasted like prefarar splashed over his tastebuds. He was a Dawnstrider, yes. But foremost, he was a Serpent. Tricky, cunning, and sneaky. The idea of assassination had always pulsed through his venom sacs. But that was all in the past. He had recanted that lifestyle of torture and death.

He glanced out of the council chamber window. The night guard were grabbing quick drinks at the Silverdrop, their drunken slurring audible over the warm air. The Sultan had to be removed, by hook or by crook.

Grabbard knew the exact crook for the job. He also knew the time and the place to do it.

************************************

"Grabbard, my old mush, my old mucker, where are you taking me? It's the middle of the Miramar Midsummer Festival and you're dragging me up to the top of the highest tower of the palace when we could be pulling some fit Sirens at the Church dance and drinking ourselves silly!"

The Sultan, bottle of Amalayan red at right forepaw, a wheel of cheese in the other, staggered drunkenly up a spiral staircase. It was the height of the summer festivities, and Grabbard had inquired upon the Sultan, who was well-known for being a wine connoisseur, upon a new variety recently pressed from the Amalayan winery. The Sultan, being a sucker for smugness, readily, but not in the throes of sobriety, agreed to see this new bottle.

"I must say, Grabbard, it's mighty odd for wine to be kept in a tower. It's usually a cellar, isn't it?"

"This is a particularly odd wine. Not far now."

He winced as venom leaked from his fangs. The Sultan had once again failed to listen to his debate for the war against Mhaldor, the crying mothers who were forced to give up their illegitimate children as orphans to the Church, Crazy Hakhim's poor work conditions standing in the middle of the cesspit that was the Medina. Animal rights for old elephants and more.

He could do so much more. Shallam would not just be the Jewel of the East, she would be the Queen of the World.

"Just through this door."

Grabbard cocked his horns in a mock bow as he allowed the slob of a Sultan to clamber through. He knew exactly what would happen next.

"GRABBARD! COME QUICK! THERE'S A CITY ENEMY HERE!"

With a swift flick of his hairy wrist, Grabbard slipped his whip around the Rajamala's neck and pulled. A strangled, feline yelp came from the throat of the Sultan as he clawed at the garroting weapon, suffocating him.

"I think the majority of us can agree that you're the only threat to the security of this city," snarled the Satyr, letting the oversized cat fall to the floor. "I brought somebody to show you what the thugs of this world, the Mhaldors of all, Shaitan and Apollyon combined, oh, wait, that's just Sartan, well, what they can do."

"You treasonous old goat!" shrieked the Rajamala. "You can't do this to me, I'm the Sultan!"

"You WERE the Sultan. You won't be after Creesje's finished with you. She's transcendent in Mhaldor's tactics. Such a shame you won't be here to find out the end. Dear Creesje awaits."

With a great cloven hoof, Grabbard leapt up into the air and clobbered the Sultan with a massive headstomp. The Rajamala slumped to the ground, unconscious. Only the rattling carts of the kitchen delivery courier travelling into the service entrance of the palace could be heard from down below, wafting in through the window.

Creesje Lokien, clad in the deepest black, wasp-waist corseted in leather, squatted over the prone Sultan with a large axe in one hand. "Not even a shield tattoo to defend himself. How would you like him after?" her sultry Sireni voice whispered.

"Get rid of him. I don't care how. I don't want to see any bit of the useless hulk ever again, otherwise I think I might go mad."

"Is my asylum promised, my sweet?"

"Consider it done. I'll have the papers for you after the election. Just as we agreed. Get rid of him."

Creesje smiled. It was bred of cruelty, reflecting her grim beauty and blood red lips. Lapping her teeth, she blew gently on to Grabbard's lips, drawing him in for a single, full, kiss. He smiled as she moved back, placing two fingers on his mouth. Out of a canvas backpack she pulled out a thin steel hook and proceeded to insert it up one of the Sultan's nostrils. That was the last that Grabbard remembered before he politely closed the door.

************************************

And so he was Sultan.

It was a fairly uncompetitive contest. The previous Sultan had for some reason 'gone inactive', and Grabbard, as the 'Top Satyr' for the third year running and the only one with a name they could pronounce and spell with ease was certainly destined for election.

Although his initial policies were questioned, such as the granting of asylum to Creesje Lokien and the compulsory servings of asparagus for the under 5s, after the first few days, Shallam saw in Grabbard a strong leader who was not over a certain weight for once. The city could focus on important issues.

Grabbard had taken the step to invite the Seneschal of Hashan to dinner to discuss relations between their two cities. It was fairly informal, with few waiters, bodyguards and only the long table of the dining room occupied by them. He was hoping to set up a treaty between them that would ensure in Hashan an ally when the war with Mhaldor was officially declared.

"I must say, my dear Sultan, that starter was positively appetising," the Seneschal replied, smacking his amphibious lips, for he was a Grook. "What's next on the menu, before we get down to commodity trade?"

"I don't actually know," Grabbard replied. A waiter swiftly plumped a covered tray in front of him, and another in the middle of the table. "Smells delicious though."

"Zis ees... giblet surprise," the waiter said, swiping off the lid. Another waiter did the same with the Seneschal. "Straight from ze fryin' pan. Ze kitchen delivery boy found it extra in 'is cart and gave it to ze chef for us."

"My my, this is delicious," the Grook acknowledged, tucking right into the food, as did the Satyr. "Very juicy, lots of fat though, but stripy. Tiger?"

Grabbard took a large chunk of meat and plunged it into his mouth. He chewed, then spluttered, and coughed repeatedly.

"Sultan?" the Seneschal said, looking rather concerned at his Shallamese opposite. "Chew first, then swallow!"

Grabbard was now choking on whatever piece of food had got lodged in his throat. The Troll bodyguard rushed forward, and with a weighty hand, slammed it into the Satyr's back. He fell forward, stunned. As his jaw crashed on to the table, a loud clatter was heard as a small green object landed in front of him, balancing on top of the plate.

It was an emerald signet ring.

Grabbard jumped up suddenly and staggered backwards, pointing at the ring frantically and muttering gibberish words in Satyri to himself.

"Grabbard?" the Seneschal repeated, moving towards the babbling man.

The Satyr lunged at his plate and grabbed the contents. The half-eaten meal consisted of lungs, in which were contained intestines and stomach wrapped around the heart and slices of brain of whatever creature it used to be. He took the plate and smashed it against the wall. He lifted the lid off the plate in the middle of the table.

Staring back at him was the decapitated head of the last Sultan, pierced eyes spewing fountains of blood like tipped-up amphorae, the nose giving birth to a glacier of coagulating crimson fluid. It was piked upon several cocktail sticks.

"NO!" he cried, pulling at his horns and beard. "I TOLD HER I DIDN'T WANT TO SEE HIM, THAT WAS THE LAST I SAW, THE LAST!"

He stumbled back, cowering from the plate.

"CREESJE! CREESJE! WAIT! DON'T DO IT! STOP!" he wailed, holding his arms up to some imaginary person. "IT'S WRONG, DON'T DO IT!" Grabbard clutched his belly. "He's screaming inside, I can feel him moving, struggling, pleading..."

The Seneschal was at a loss of what to do. He told a waiter to wake up Handel, Mariposa, anybody with skills in the art of healing. The Sultan was evidently suffering from a manic episode.

"Out of the frying pan, into another frying pan, curse you, Oracle! You tricked me! You TRICKED ME! Creesje, wait, I didn't mean for this to happen, I could've sorted it another way, why did you have to get rid of him, vivisect like that afterwards, don't throw it out the window... why..." Tears flowed down his face as he curled up into a ball in the far corner of the room, rocking back and forth.

************************************

It is the morning in Shallam today.

The sun smiles, the people grin, knowing that their new Sultan will do them justice. He was elected not so long ago after the old Sultan went inactive.

The palace doors are also locked. Only a few have access to visit, and there is only one permanent resident.

He does not do very much, but sits in the tallest tower, curled up in a corner, staring into space.

He keeps himself awake by secreting camus, allowing it to dribble on to his legs, for his arms are bound in a tightened straitjacket. Nobody will undo it.

Doves fly in through the window with food. Those are his only visitors, other than the clanging noises of the kitchen carts as they pass by his window.

Nobody says prayers for him. His beard is long, his horns unrubbed, his hooves unkempt.

And all he can mutter before he finally passes out into restless slumber is something that sounds like,

"...the creature waits, the creature waits..."