Master Rababull felt his eyes go stark with fear. At a time like this,
when he needed his best men, Habrunt was reduced to a beggar's status.
If not for the lying schemes of Sorpiala...
But it was too late to look back now. There remained only Prut to help
him. Stupid Prut! Everything about Prut was hairy. Master Rababull
sometimes imagined that even the insides of Prut's entrails must be
hairy.
Master Rababull turned fiercely on his personal valet as if about to
attack the quivering coward.
"Fetch me my armor and weapons! Hurry, you fool!" he shouted urgently.
Then, without waiting for a reply, he turned to a frightened-looking,
beautiful House slave girl, one of the pampered indoors concubines, and
said to her, "Go and tell the kitchen crew to begin preparing full
marching rations for every able-bodied male!"
"But--" she stammered helplessly, "but Master, how can I do this,
seeing I am but a concubine?"
Pampered from birth, and taken from the same mold as Sorpiala and her
kin, the foolish girl could not help but balk.
Wrathfully, Master Rababull took one step forward and backhanded the
surprised woman to the floor with a single blow.
"I said move! My men cannot fight on empty stomachs, you wench!"
Sobbing, the woman held her hand to her bruised cheek as she scurried
out of his reach and ran weeping to go and relay his orders to the
kitchen staff.
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