Once again I am publishing a short story for the glory of Ty Beirdd.
Please enjoy it and feel free to send feedback if you feel so inclined.
Having never been Mhaldorian, this story is based on research and
interviews with those who do know Mhaldor. It is fiction and not meant
to portray any person currently or previously in Sapience. Thank you.


Jhamik shivered as he tried to kneel stoicly at attention on the cold,
damp ground of the Red Square. His body felt too light and exposed
without the heavy armour he usually wore. He glanced surreptitiously to
the side where his fieldplate lay in the mud a few feet away and was
promptly kicked in the ribs by Theoren's boot. He gasped from the
unexpected kick and also from hitting the ground hard. How would he
manage to get back up into position? His arms, pulled painfully behind
his back and tied there, made it almost impossible to get his balance
back.

Struggling back to his knees took his mind off of the impending
punishment for a little while. First he had to roll from his side to his
belly. That was the easy part, and pressing his face to the mud and
grit, scrunching himself double as it abraded his cheek and chin and
finally throwing his body back and up took longer than he had ever
imagined simply kneeling again could take. His heart was pounding from
the exertion by the time he had finished, and he was breathing in ragged
gasps.

Jhamik blinked away unwanted tears and concentrated on staring at the
drop of condensation making its slow way down the stone wall. How was he
to have known that 5 lousy myrrh would cause all this problem? It was a
requirement and he filled it, didn't he? Did it really matter where the
myrrh had come from? Not like the shops here had any. He had searched
for days - really he had! It was just so much hassle earning the gold
and then wandering from city to city to find all the things he needed.

He shuddered as Theoren slunk to the east and vanished behind the door.
Almost immediately, a scream came from behind that door, and he wondered
what horrible torture had been performed on the unlucky soul beyond.
Whoever it was had been in that cell before Jhamik arrived, and would
probably not be leaving by the same door. His fears were realized as
Theoren returned alone, his boots leaving wet, slick prints in the mud.

It had seemed like such a good idea yesterday. He had met another young
man, Margood, of Shallam. Yes, he knew that Shallamese were enemies, but
they were both hunting in Lodi, and struck up a conversation. Novices
aren't supposed to kill each other anyway, so what would be the harm?
Margood had been sympathetic about his search, and he had offered to
give some of his myrrh to Jhamik. Jhamik had not had much to trade, but
a glowing necklace he had been told wasn't worth anything and that he
should throw it away. He had worn it instead, and Margood had seemed
interested in it.

A sigh escaped Jhamik at the memory, and he stiffened, to brace himself
for the kick, managing to avoid falling this time. Five myrrh in trade
for a bit of junk jewelry that would vanish in a short time anyway. Did
it really matter? Was what he did really so wrong? He mentally recounted
the Seven Truths that he had been learning to try and find the answer.

1) What is called evil is simply the drive for advancement, for
greatness. We seek, through discipline and pain, to spur the advancement
of nothing less than sentient life.

That couldn't be it. Wasn't he trying to strive for advancement when he
got the herbs? And he was certainly learning about pain and discipline
now!

2) Cruelty - the application of pain - is the method by which one weeds
out the weak and feeble-minded from the population.

3) Weakness must be eliminated in all its forms: Physical, Mental, and
Spiritual.

4) The enemies of strength are those who trumpet the effeminate values
of forgiveness, tolerance, and laxity of discipline.

5) The body may be made stronger through combat.

6) The mind may be made stronger through the elimination of conscience.
One does this by inflicting pain on others.

None of those seemed to apply to this - well maybe the one on weakness.
If he had taken his orders seriously, he would have had the strength to
push past the boredom and frustration and would actually have found or
earned the myrrh on his own instead of slacking off and taking a short
cut. Suddenly Theoren had a fist wrapped around Jhamik's hair and was
jerking him to his feet, breaking off his line of thought. An
involuntary squeak left his lips as he was shoved toward the west room
and he almost wet himself in terror. This was it. What was behind that
door that would seal his fate?

His dazed eyes took in the charred walls, coils of rusted and bent
barbed wire, and the tall stakes - some with the bones of prior
disciplinary problems still firmly affixed to them as his head swam with
the stench of blood, burned flesh, feces and rot. Jhamik's knees turned
to water and his heart hammered in his chest as he realized he was soon
to be burned. For a moment, he almost started to plead for his life, but
at that point, Sir Feldar strode into the room and Jhamik went cold at
the sight of him. Seven foot of Xorani clad in black steel stared down
at Jhamik's trembling form, and the Maldaathi Knight growled menacingly
and backhanded the young man.

"You have brought shame to me, your House, your city and the Twin Gods
by your actions!" he barked in a sharp voice. "Do you realize the full
depth of your thoughtless behavior?" Jhamik had to swallow twice to
relax his throat enough to whisper, "No, Sir" and was a bit proud of
himself that he did not flinch and managed to answer at all.

Theoren shoved the lad against one of the posts, cruelly binding him
with the barbed wire as if he were a slab of meat, and ignoring his
occasional whimpers of pain when he could not quite pretend it didn't
hurt. Jhamik kept his eyes on his mentor and superior, hoping for a last
minute reprieve, and knowing it would not come. He heard the Xorani
growl, "That bit of junk jewelry you traded away, that I told you to
destroy in a piranha pool, was probably burned in the Shallamese pyre by
that young priest." His reptillian eyes grew colder and he spat out the
words like they left a bad taste in his mouth. "While I care nothing
about Chaos or its toys, you probably ensured that your little -friend-
was praised or favored for his Good deed. A deed he could not have
accomplished without your help."

Theoren piled wood around Jhamik's feet and doused it in heavy oil as
Sir Feldar finished his lecture. "For that offense, you will burn, as
the trinket burned. A fitting punishment, don't you agree?" His eyes
seemed to bore holes into Jhamik's soul, and it was all the lad could do
to mumble, "Yes, Sir" and attempt a weak smile. His heart was pounding
and he was close to passing out from terror; praying that he would not
disgrace himself, when the Knight's throat glowed and he spit a stream
of flame into the logs around the stake. "Study the 7 Truths before you
die, Grunt!" Sir Feldar commanded before he turned and left the room,
followed by Theoren.

Flames crackled loudly in Jhamik's ears as the sweat rolled off his
body. He tried to think about the Truths. He was up to number seven now:

7) The spirit may be made stronger by enduring hardships, both
self-imposed and externally-imposed.

This was definitely a hardship, and much worse than just looking harder
in other cities would have been. That would have been self-imposed and
this was definitely externally imposed. He shuffled his feet as well as
he could in their tight wire bindings, feeling blood trickling from
where the barbs had cut in. The pain was becoming intense and he knew he
would scream and beg soon. He thanked any Gods listening that his mentor
and Theoren would not be there to witness his shame, and he prayed that
it would be over soon and he would be safe in Lady Maya's Halls for a
short time.

"Lord Apollyon accept my life!" he screamed out in agony as the smoke
finally overcame him and he was pushed into blissful unconsciousness.
Maybe when he returned from death he truly would be stronger. He would
at least not associate with Shallamese again - except, perhaps at the
end of his sword.


Penned by my hand on the 5th of Scarlatan, in the year 524 AF.