บท 3: The Slothful king

"We can't possibly scale the mountain after all the shit we've been through," Artam muttered.

"Oh, but we probably won't scale the full mountain. There's a cave at the side of the valley, and that's where we'll set up camp," Hesophycus answered.

"And how do you know that?" Artam asked.

Hesophycus replied with a wink, "I told you, I've lived longer than anyone I've met."

The line of slaves slowly trudged up the mountainside, using old roads cut long ago.

The road was narrow, with only enough room for two horses to walk side by side.

So it was decided that the legionnaires would be stationed to the left, along the wall of the mountain, with four slaves at every interval between each legionnaire, while the slaves would walk along the right side of the road, a step away from the abyssal fall.

The roads climbed up with elevations from time to time, almost like little steps of a stairway.

The raindrops running along these steps made the uneven terrain slippery, adding fear to the dreadful atmosphere among the slaves.

But there was little they could do other than mutter a few whispered curses and continue climbing or disobey and be cut from ear to ear.

The dreadful atmosphere caused some of the slaves to start whispering prayers.

Even Artam couldn't help but sneak a few prayers in.

He said in a hushed tone, "...oh blessings from the watching Lars and penance for the crow."

He finished his prayers and turned to look at Hesophycus. 'I knew he was lying, why did I—'

"Stop the caravan! There's a cave a few hundred paces forward!" Following the High Prince's order, the slaves halted, shivering and exhausted.

The small clearing where the road widened led to a different path inside a cave.

A few legionnaires were sent to scout for any potential threats inside—bandits or...monsters.

They came back a few minutes later, giving the cave clearance.

Soon after, the soldiers got busy herding the slaves into a tight semi-circle, forcing them to share the warmth emanating from inside the cave.

Artam sat on the outer ring of the semicircle with his back facing the entrance of the cave. Six sentries took watch at the mouth of the cave.

The heavy wagon carrying food, water, and other cargo, to which the main chain was firmly affixed, was pushed forward to block the wind.

"Distribute the rations," he heard the commanding legionnaire say. The legionnaires walked among the slaves, giving them water and food.

Artam, just like everybody else, received a few sips of icy water and a small piece of rock-hard, moldy bread.

Forcing the detestable food down his throat, he studied the cave's interior.

A large chamber, possibly a hundred feet in diameter and thirty or forty feet in height; a smooth and well-worn floor, and much other evidence that the cave had, at some remote period, been inhabited.

The back of the cave was so lost in dense shadow that he could not distinguish whether there were openings into other compartments or not.

A thin fog laced the air, while the smell of rain, decay, and corruption permeated it. Suddenly feeling uneasy, Artam shifted back a little, bringing himself closer to the entrance where most of the slaves were reluctant to go because of the biting wind and downpour.

That earned him a knock on the head from the old slave. "Wretched thing, are you trying to drag this old man to his death? I know you want to kill yourself, but next time think! My link is next to yours!" the old man said before muttering more curses with a dazed and angry expression on his face.

"He doesn't have much time left," Hesophycus said from Artam's left. Artam stared at the frail old man with a wistful expression, saying nothing.

Chasing away the dark thoughts, Artam decided to lie bare on the cold ground.

He closed his eyes in a futile attempt to sleep, but alas, something else caught his attention.

Artam shifted uncomfortably on the hard ground, his wrists raw from the iron shackles. The stench in the cave was overwhelming, a sickening combination of sweat, damp earth, and something else—something far worse. His nostrils flared as he tried to place the smell, and then it hit him: death. The smell of rot and death was especially pungent, like a call stirring him from his failed attempts to sleep.

He glanced around nervously, his eyes adjusting to the dim light filtering through the cave entrance.

The soldiers were scattered, some asleep, others murmuring in low voices.

He could see the slaves resting fitfully, with some bodies slumped against the walls.

Unable to ignore the odor any longer, Artam strained against his chains, careful not to attract attention.

Attempting to find the source of the smell, Artam got into a crawling position.

'There,' he thought. He found the source of the horrible smell.

He edged closer to it, his movements slow and deliberate.

The chains clinked softly, but the noise was drowned out by the soldiers' conversations and the occasional snore.

"Hey! What are you doing? Don't get us in trouble," the older slave from before hissed.

Artam paid him no heed, while Hesophycus became intrigued.

As he inched forward, the smell grew stronger, almost unbearable.

He could see a dark corner of the cave, partially obscured by a pile of rocks. With a final, careful stretch, he peered over the rocks.

There, in a small, makeshift nest, lay the fleshless remains of a crow and its chicks. The sight was ghastly, but what caught his attention was a tiny, frail movement among the corpses.

A fletching crow, weak and barely moving, struggled to lift its head. It was so malnourished, that it was the size of a chick. It was a miracle the fletching had survived at all.

'It was probably forced to eat the remains of its mom and siblings'

Artam was chained, his freedom and reach limited, but he was hungry.

He looked around, weighing his options. If he could just get a little closer... He stretched his arm as far as the chains would allow, fingers brushing the edge of the nest.

The old man got more anxious. "Listen here, boy. Stop making a noise, you damned fool!"

Artam ignored him and stretched his hands as far as he could, attempting to snatch the fletching.

The crow let out a feeble chirp and slowly crawled into Artam's palm.

Artam felt a surge of hunger as he eyed the small bird. It wasn't much, but it was food, and food was scarce.

But as his fingers touched the delicate creature, something inside him shifted.

The crow's tiny heartbeat, the frailness of its body—it was so vulnerable. Artam knew too well how it felt to be vulnerable and helpless, to be at the mercy of others.

'Well, a malnourished crow wouldn't be able to fill my stomach.' He sighed and cradled the chick in his arms as he returned to his sleeping spot.

The old man was still muttering curses, which irritated Artam. He turned to meet the old slave with a murderous gaze, making the man stutter and go silent.

"What will you name him?" Hesophycus asked. Artam ignored him and cradled the fletching to his chest before laying down on the cold floor.

"Well, I'll do it. How about Whisper? Sounds catchy, aye?" Artam shrugged, showing no signs of indulging, but Hesophycus didn't seem to care.

"Though you might not believe it, I truly am immortal," Hesophycus muttered. "Let me tell you the story of a king, the slothful king.

In days of gods and heroes bold,

When Vastoria's knights were strong and cold,

And Kinuch's ships sailed oceans wide,

A slothful king did reside.

His lands lay waste, his people poor,

Neglect and sloth at the kingdom's core.

While others thrived, he chose to rest,

Ignoring calls to be his best.

Then came the conquerors, fierce and grand,

From Vastoria's plains and Kinuch's strand.

They took his throne, they claimed his land,

The slothful king could barely stand.

In tales of old, his fate is clear,

In idleness, your kingdom falls.

So heed this warning, rulers all,

The price of sloth is loss of all."

He said, "You know, in all my years of living, there weren't a handful of times I felt alive.

And the one I felt most alive was the ideals a man told me before I killed him. 'True immortality isn't living forever; it's being remembered forever,' he said."

"Zzzzz…." Artam's snore threw Hesophycus out of his brief monologue.

He smiled, looking at the young Naldean asleep with the chick nestled between his arms.

"You would have been a prime squire, but you were born with low affinity. Truly an unfortunate soul."

Then Hesophycus stood up, and the chain fell off from his hands without making a sound. No one noticed him; even the legionnaires keeping watch didn't see as he walked steadily out of the cave and vanished into the darkness of the night, as though he never existed.

Sometime later, when everyone was asleep and the legionnaires had been pulled into a deep slumber, a low but distinct moaning sound issued from the recesses of the cave. Faint sounds of somebody moving cautiously but with malicious intent echoed in the dark silence.