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trace email In those days, Arata the Fair was still as straight as a poplar tree. He acquired his hunchback (and with it his new nickname) after the battle in the dukedom of Uban, two oceans removed from here, when after seven years of pest and drought, four-hundred-thousand living skeletons seized their hay forks and threshing flails, chased away the noblemen and besieged the Duke of Uban in his residence. However, the duke, whose weak mind suddenly became strong in the face of this unbearable strain and fright, declared himself willing to forgive his subjects, lowered the price of intoxicating beverages and promised his serfs freedom. Arata, seeing that all was lost, ordered and implored them in a desperate roar, not to swallow this treacherous bait; he was then seized by the Atamans, who believed that nothing good should be expected from a good man; they beat him with iron rods and threw him into a pit, leaving him to die a miserable death ... But the heavy iron ring on his right wrist probably went back to the time when he was still called the Fair One. The ring had been forged at the end of a chain to the rudder of a pirate's galley, and Arata had ripped the chain apart, struck a blow against the temple of Captain Ega the Gracious, captured first the ship and then the entire pirate's fleet, and then had tried to found a free republic on the ocean. And the whole enterprise ended in a blood fight, for at that time Arata was still a young man who had not learned how to hate and who believed that the gift of freedom was sufficient in itself to render a slave into a godlike creature... He was a professional rebel, an avenger by the grace of God, a figure that is not often encountered during the Middle Ages. Historical evolution gives birth to such pikes only from time to time, releases them into the deep gulfs of society to stir up the fat carps who sit and dream in the mud at the bottom of the abyss . . . Arata was the only person here whom Rumata neither hated nor pitied. And in the heated dreams of this citizen of Earth, who had spent almost five years in blood and stench, he frequently saw himself as a figure resembling Arata. He had gone through all the infernal torments of this universe and was rewarded for it with the privileged right to trace email address to slay the murderers, to torture the torturers, and to betray the traitors. "Sometimes it seems," said Arata, "that we are all powerless. I remain forever the leader of mutineers and I realize that my strength is based on my extraordinary vitality. But this strength does not help me in my powerless state. As if by magic, my victories change into defeat. My allies in battle become my enemies, the most courageous desert me, the most faithful betray me or perish. And nothing remains to me but my own bare hands. But one cannot reach the golden idols behind the fortress walls with bare hands ..." "How did you get to Arkanar?" asked Rumata. "With the monks." "You're crazy! You're so easy to recognize." "But not among monks. Among the crowds of officers of the Holy Order nearly half are made up of divine fools and cripples like myself. The maimed and the deformed are a pleasing sight in God's eyes." He stared straight at Rumata and laughed. "What do you intend to do now?" asked Rumata and lowered his eyes. "The same as always. I know the Holy Order. Before the year is out, the people of Arkanar will arm themselves and crawl out of their holes--they'll chop each other to bits with their axes. I'll lead them so that they slaughter not each other, but rather those who deserve it." "Do you need some money?" asked Rumata. "Yes, as usual. And weapons . . ." He fell silent. Then he narrowed his eyes and said; "Don Rumata, do you remember how disappointed I was when I found out who you really are? I hate the shavelings, and it hurts me that their tissue, of lies proved to be the truth. But unfortunately, a poor rebel is forced to profit from circumstances of all kinds. The priests are saying that the gods have thunderbolts at their disposal . . . Don Rumata, I urgently need such thunderbolts, to be able to smash the walls of these fortresses." Rumata sighed deeply. Following his miraculous rescue, Arata had ceaselessly demanded explanations. Rumata had once even attempted to tell about himself, he even once showed him Sol, the sun of his planet, in the nocturnal sky --a tiny, hardly recognizable star. But the rebel understood only one thing: The cursed priests were right, gods were indeed living behind the walls of the firmament, omniscient and almighty gods. And from that moment on, every conversation he had with Rumata would always lead to the same point: God, since you do exist, lend me your strength, for this is the best that you can do for me. And each time Rumata made no reply or would steer the conversation on to a different topic. "Don Rumata," said the rebel, "why don't you want to help us?" "Just a minute," said Rumata. "I beg your pardon, but first tell me how you got into my house?" "That isn't so important. No one besides me knows the way. But don't try to sidetrack me, Don Rumata. Why don't you want to confer your powers on us?" "We won't go into that." "Oh yes, we will. I did not call you. I have never asked a favor of anybody. You came to me of your own accord. Or did you just want to have a little fun?" It's hard to be a god, thought Rumata. Patiently, he answered: "You don't understand. I have tried at least twenty times to explain that I am not a god-- and you wouldn't believe me. And neither will you comprehend why I cannot help you with my weapons." "Do you have thunderbolts?" "I cannot lend you the thunderbolt." "I've heard that story twenty times," said Arata. "Now I want to know: why not?" "I'll tell you once more: you won't understand." "So try once more to explain it to me." "What do you plan to do with the thunderbolt?" "I will burn the golden brood like bedbugs, to the last man, their cursed kith and kin down to the twelfth descendant I'll wipe their fortresses off the face of the earth. I'll burn their armies and all those whom they defend and support. You can rest assured that your lightning will serve a just cause, and once only the freed slaves remain on earth and peace reigns everywhere, I shall return your thunderbolts to you and never again ask you for them." Arata fell silent He was breathing heavily. His face had turned almost purple from the blood that had congested his brain. Apparently he could already see duchies and kingdoms going up in flames, the seared bodies lying at the scene of conflagration and among the burnt-out ruins, and the gigantic armies of the victors roaring triumphantly: "Liberty! Liberty!" "No," said Rumata. "I will not give the thunderbolt to you. It would be a mistake. Try to believe me, I can see further than you can." Arata lowered his chin onto his chest. Rumata began to crack his finger joints. "I'll tell you just one of the reasons. Though it is insignificant compared with the main reason, you will understand this one. You are brimming over with vitality, dear Arata, but even you are mortal. And if you should perish and the thunderbolt should happen to fall into the wrong hands, those that are not quite as pure as yours, the mere thought of what this might lead to is unbearable ..."