The Bells That Toil Part 6

But Pyotr cannot settle. The night seems still, peaceful, and one would never guess that a war is brewing, and tensions are high. In the distance, an owl hoots its fatal cry, and he can't help but think that this might be an omen, a sign of the things to come.

In the old days, people used to say that the hoot of an owl was an harbinger of the fall of the heavens, a fissure in the divine seam. It may be myth, superstition, but Pyotr cannot shake his trepidations.

He focuses on Maimun's breathing, the gentle cadence of her in breath and release, as soft as the wind on a spring morning itself. She is a good woman, and knows how to keep him satiated. Her body, she says to him, each time they are together, is his to construct, to shape, to use. He has peace in his soul, but this peace is restless. Something else is in the night calling to him. Something else is moving, creeping around in his soul.

He tries to erase that by thinking of the way he pounded Maimun's netherparts, her convulsing body a criminal delight for him, to see her spasm, her eyes rolling back, her whimpers as she does, her hands holding tight to him, her fingernails digging into this hardened flesh, as if to ground her in the pain, as if to say that her pain is the penance and the sacred light one receives in serving her Lord, her husband.

Yet, even this fails to rest his soul. And the owl still hoots, nearer now As in a trance, Pyotr rises, softly, gently, so as not to wake his woman. He caresses her rump gently, lovingly, and slips out of bed, dresses.

He is mere shadow in the night. The guards are up and doing their rounds. Now that they have seen him, they will be extra vigilant. He visits the walls and towers. The men there greet him sombrely. At first they think they've seen a ghost, and then gradually, the compose themselves, and bow low, and assure him that all is well.

He roams for a bit through the sleepy streets, the back alleys of the central district, and then works his way to the Dungeons. The guards are surprised to see him. But he tells them he wishes to see the prisoner. They nod. He does not wish to be interrupted at all costs.

The men realise what he is asking, and they smile, nod, and as he passes through the gates, they all secretly wish they were born a different way, and then their thoughts go to their women, their daughters, and for a brief moment, wonder what they would think if they too had free reign with women. They shake their heads as if to put away such silliness. Only the Gods can decide which men are blessed with such luck.

But lucky is not how Pyotr feels now as he hears his own footsteps go down the circular staircase, to the deepest dungeon cell. Burdened is what he feels, burdened by the lust he has, even if it means cavorting with the enemy. How can he say he is truly loyal to the Galatai if he is here, in the Dungeons, about to do what he wishes to do with Gergiuze?

He never answers this thought. All he thinks is the that war will be over one way or the other, and she, Gergiuze, will have a taste of a man for the first time.

The dungeon cells hum with the restless breathing of lost souls. Elsewhere, in some other recess in the dungeon, he hears the cries of men, men who are no longer men, crying, as they have cried for years now, to return to their homelands, back to their wives, and children who have by now grown up and harbour vengeance in their hearts for Pyotr and House Vexhalla; the cries of men whose mothers who grow old and die without ever having seen their son again.

And suddenly, he feels a deep sadness. Is it remorse he feels, he asks himself. That is an emotion Pyotr Vexhalla does not feel. But still, the sadness remains. The cries he hears, are the cries of his own soul, for having created this endless hell for the men who will die as cattle.

Gergiuze's cell is quiet. The only thing that breathes is the silent darkness. For a moment he fears she has escaped. But he also knows nobody escapes the Dungeons. Those cries are testament to this. He stands there for a good two, maybe more, minutes. There is no trace of life. He peers through the cell bars into the abyss. His eyes gradually become accustomed to the darkness, and he begins to make out a form curled, deep in the cell.

He moves in stealth into the tomb-dark of the cell, towards the curled, resting figure. She sleeps peacefully, fatigued, he supposes, by her stubborn-ness. He stands there, over her, wondering what had possessed him to come here in the first place. He knows. He does not wish to admit his lust for her body, his desire to possess it, to make it his, to use and use over and over, endlessly.

But he cannot bear to wake her. And to think he has just come from his wife's bed. He knows Maimun will never question his decisions, but he also knows that she struggles sometimes within her to reconcile herself to the many women he has in life.

He turns to leave, to let Gergiuze get some rest. His lustful appetite has subsided. Perhaps it is the cries of those helpless men that has softened his need.

Slowly he creeps to the cell bars, but before he can reach them, he feels a dagger at this throat, cutting softly into his flesh. He freezes, and hears her breathing, fast, urgent. She is a small woman, but the blade needs only to be pressed a little more for his throat to gush like a fountain. He can hear her chuckle, low, sharp, he feels her breasts against his back, senses her scent of sweat and womanliness.

They stay this way for a long eternal minute, and then, he feels her hand reach around and down into his trousers, feeling for his member. She finds him nestled deep, but the touch of her fingers is electric and he begins to rise, to come to attention. The blade presses deeper, as if the rising lust in her breast has transmuted into murderous thoughts. Still, she caresses him, her fingers holding on to the base of his meat, stroking him gently, teasingly, till he is rock hard. She chuckles some more.

Her strokes become faster, up and down that long shaft her hand moves, and he is caught in some kind of strange stasis. His throat already feels the slight sting of steel against flesh, and the warm trickle of blood creeps its way down his neck. Her hands increase their pace, and he cannot help but grunt at this, grunt at her ministrations. He is enraged, he knows this is her victory, bringing down the lion of Galat with just a hand, but he cannot pull away. He knows he is slave to passion.

Then the spell is broken -- the blade leaves his throat, but there is a sensation of cold, icy cold intrusion, and warm thick crimson, as her blade, a second ago against his throat, now rests in his side, deep, so deep his hands are immobile and he cannot move.

What follows is a blur. The ground is cold, but somewhere, he feels a warmth emanating through him. Feet, women's feet? He is unsure, but they appear for a second and then they slink away past the cell bars into the dark corridors of the dungeons. He smells the stench of hundred-year-old urine and defecation rise from the floors of the dungeon. His eyes close shut.