Chapter Two: The Initiation
Breakfast was the usual, a hodge podge of selected ingredients, which was usually a low point for Markos day. However, today was different. This would be the last time Markos would be around his fellow front linesman, the 18th infantry div. Of course life was not as grand as it used to be in the corps. Every now and then an elder would come into camp and recollect about days past when the 18th was actually the fodder for archers, when the barbarians were less civilized. Now though, the company was forced into the employment of controlling the local Arabian populace. With the new Warlord in place on the throne however, most acts against this majority population were disregarded to the horror of the Arabians. It wasn’t more than three nights ago that a vicious beating occurred in the district, and authorities did not come out to aid the victim for roughly 18 hours. To the anxiety of Markos, these actions were becoming more and more prevalent, almost encouraged by the upper brass.
“Markos Rintan… Markos Rintan…” Shouted a message boy from the back of the cran.
“Yes,” replied Markos.
The boy straightened up, and took a deep breath as if ready to give his official disposition to the high court.
“You are summoned by the Lord Hugthen, master of all forces, conqueror of Mecca, and seat to the high throne of Mushbeck. Your attendance is to be prompt, and uniforms must be in care. You are to make your way through the grand hall to the chamber of Forthume. There you will be instructed by High Priest Kulhud to your future actions,” spoke the boy turning blue from the lack of oxygen.
“Thank you, I shall leave at once,” responded Markos in official form.
To this jeers of his fellow comrades, Markos left the cran and headed for the palace gates. It would be here that his official promotion would take place. He did not know what to expect, but anxiety did not keep the possible festivities from entering their pictures into Markos’ head.
“Name?!” The guard spoke in a commanding voice.
“Markos Rintan, I have…” Markos said before being cut off.
“…I don’t care what you’re business is here. You are cleared to pass,” the guard said in the same cold voice.
The palace was a beautiful sight to see from the ghettos where his old post used to be.
“Eight years, and yet I’ve never walked these halls before,” Markos said to himself as he strolled through the corridors, trying to take in all the brilliant artistry before his eyes.
It was about five minutes before Markos was able to reach his destination. The anxiety had built up into a frenzy within his mind. Soon he would be in the presence of his new master, one with the temper of a leopard; a gentle creature one minute, and a vicious killer the next. What would await him, Markos wondered as the doors to the hall flung open.
The doors opened slowly, with the sounds of ancient wood creaking. A man on each side of the door, clearly Arabian helped control the momentum the doors generated as they opened ever so faster by the moment. At last they were stopped, and there a well-adorned man stood in the middle of the room. A smaller man directly to the right of what clearly was the high priest motioned to a spot on the floor, directing Markos to come. Markos walked slowly to the spot, and upon arriving kneeled down and bent his head towards the floor. His eyes were now following the criss-crossing patterns in front of him. Becoming so enthralled in them that he almost missed the command to rise. The high priest was much less of a man when standing close to him, Markos thought. Due to the height difference, the high priest had to raise his arm in order to place his hand upon Markos’ forehead.
Strange words began to leave the priests lips, words Markos had only recognized because some of the more intelligent Arabians spoke it from time to time. Within a moment the priest was finished, and began walking away from Markos. Doors on the opposite side of the room opened, and soon the high priest was no more.
“Well, what now?” Markos asked himself.
“Now, you meet his most royal highness, Lord Daroust,” responded a small Arabian man walking into the room from the same doors that Markos entered.
The two walked out of the room and down another hall to where Markos believed led to the throne room. After turning the corner, and passing another guard, the small Arabian man handed Markos a letter.
“What’s this?” Markos asked.
“Your instructions me Lord,” the servant responded, “You must read before you see his Lordship sir.”
It was at this point that Markos saw the little man scurry off down a dimly lit corridor. He looked at the letter and turned it over in his hand.
“Strange, no writing on the outside,” Markos commented.
“I sure hope this was for me,” He responded to himself.
As another turn came in the hall, Markos opened the letter and began reading silently.
Congratulations are in order.
Remember your birth.
The time is not yet upon us.
Further news when you’re further inside.
“Strange,” thought Markos as he finished the letter.
“Was dat?” Asked an officer quickly approaching Markos
Markos quickly looked up and then looked at the letter.
“Nothin’,” Markos responded, looking a little disturbed, “Introduced myself a little thing last night at the pub. Guess she’s a little more into my new position than I thought.”
“He-he,” laughed the officer, “Yeh can never be too careful of your pockets with them.”
Markos quickly shoved the letter into his uniform pockets, and followed the officer down the hall into the main chamber. Three taps were made on the door before the two entered the room. Rustling could be heard from behind the door, with armor being banged around. As the doors opened, a young woman walked through the opening. Her hair was disorganized, and a small grin ran across her face, as it became beat red upon stumbling upon the two army officers.
“Ahh, excellent!” The warlord exclaimed, “You’ve arrived early.”
“I can see we’re all excited to be here, but as I’m in a rush let’s get this over with!” The warlord said.
Markos walked forward towards his new master. As he approached he could feel his palms getting wet. Sweat began to drip from his forehead as he reached for his knife in his pocket. The warlord approached and while doing so, pulled out his sword. In fact it was the same sword used to kill the former Lord of the city, and Markos could make out blood still stained upon its blade. Markos relinquished his hand from his knife, and knelt before the new barbarian king.
As the blade touched Markos on his head the king said, “I hereby name you Lieutenant Markos, Commander of the 4th, and defender of Mecca.”
The titles were worth nothing other than it being a title appointed by a King, who would probably die at the hands of his officers before Markos could became an old man. The ceremony was nothing like what Markos envisioned in his head while walking through the palace. In fact it was over in a moment, and the King was already making his way down the same hall as the young lady ran down a little while earlier.
After the King walked out of the room, the other officer motioned towards Markos.
As Markos approached the officer he leaned into Markos and whispered in his ear, “Be careful of your letter.”
“See you on the wall Lieutenant,” the officer exclaimed as he walked away from Markos.
Markos now stood alone in the great throne room. He glanced over to the throne and thought, “Kind of plain isn’t it? Still wouldn’t mind sitting there for awhile.”
Markos grabbed the letter out of his pocket, memorized what it had said, and then tossed it into a flame sitting by a window. After making sure it had completely been destroyed, he walked out of the room, and after that, the palace.
Although the ceremony had been short, the position of the sun had changed considerably. Markos thought about his new position, his new responsibility, and his oath now to Daroust, Lord of Mecca.
