by Brian Murray
“Enough of this. I . . .” The leader’s sentence went unfinished as Dax thrust one of his axes through the man’s throat. The man’s eyes widened as he reached up for his neck, suddenly feeling pain, trying to stop his life fluid from gushing out. His eyes rolled up and he crumpled to the ground where his body twitched once.
“You talk too much. NOW!” roared Dax at the dumbstruck raiders. In front of them stood a man of rock, a man to stand next to on the slopes of Mount Moranton – a man solid and seasoned, eyes blazing with rage. Then came the young man with his two short swords drawn. He was also solid and seasoned, his eyes fearfully calm. Around them was the unknown lurking in the darkness.
Dax paused, to increase the raiders’ fear. “You will leave these lands now and head straight north. No stopping, no returning. You are now marked by me and I never forget a face.”
“Why should we do that, you’re an old man and he’s a pup!”
Dax stepped over the body of the leader to approach the man who spoke. Stepping closer, with one of his axes dripping with blood, he stopped and stood inches from the man’s face – his violet eyes blazing with rage. Quietly, Dax spoke.
“Another word from you, and you die.”
“How . . .” The raider’s sentence also went unfinished. Dax flicked his wrist, burying his axe into the groin of the now dying man. The man fell to his knees, trying to staunch the flow. Dax drove his knee up, connecting with the man’s chin. A loud crack came from the man’s neck as it snapped like a dry twig. Dax turned to face the remaining men, blood now dripping from both axes.
“I don’t want have to tell you again. Leave now or FACE THE SAME FATE!” he roared. The remaining raiders tripped over themselves trying to get their horses ready.
“Mocha,” called Dax.
“Yes sir,” answered a man, stepping out from the undergrowth.
“Make sure these men leave our lands. They can take those bodies with them. I do not want them buried here.” Dax paused and raised his voice so all could hear. “If they cause you any trouble, you know what to do.”
“Aye sir,” replied the man.
The other ex-soldiers emerged from the undergrowth, with bows notched and swords drawn.
“Ricard.”
“Yes sir.”
“Can you and the others release the captives and ensure they have safe passage home? You can use the wagons, as those men will not be needing them now.”
“Yes sir.”
“If anyone has any problems when this is all over, pass the word that they should come to the main house and they will be taken care of.”
“Yes sir.”
The men unchained the captives and slowly loaded the frightened, weeping women and children into the raiders’ wooden wagons. Dax watched them leave the hollow, heading south for home. He felt no joy; his mood became melancholy as he mourned those killed by the raiders; killed because they did not look right or were too old. Rage threatened to well up, but he fought to control his anger.
Only after the men departed did Dax approach Thade. Sending out a mighty backward slap, he sent Thade sprawling across the ground. He crouched down, grabbing Thade’s tunic and drawing him close.
“You listen to me, boy. You are like my own son and I love you deeply. But know this, if you ever do something so stupid again I will beat you to hell, or worse tell Cara of your stupidity.”
“But . . .”
“SILENCE!” roared Dax vehemently, causing Thade to flinch. “You are a great warrior Thade, believe me, I have seen the best, but you were sick with the fever. I saw you struggle in the saddle during the ride. Aye, I did, and only your rage kept you on your horse. Now we will rest here for the evening and then make our way home.” Dax rose and moved to his horse. He got out his bedroll, unrolled it, and lay down to sleep.
Thade looked at the older man with his own rage changing to compassion. Yes, he thought, you’re the father I never had.
“Dax, I’m sorry,” Thade said softly.
“Never apologise. What have I told you in the past, boy? Think, even through your rage. Think. Now sleep and let your body rest.”
“Aye, you’re right, Dax.”
“Always, boy. Always.”
Chapter 7
Princess Ireen’s escape had gone according to plan, through the dark maze of hidden passages within the palace. Her father had carefully instructed her on how to flee the city if needs be; where to find stashes of Imperial and Kingdom coin, the route to follow and who would be travelling with her. She mourned on the first night she left the city when her father did not appear at their agreed secret meeting place. She had waited behind the hidden door, listening to the sounds of the fighting in her room, suppressing the urge to enter. When her father did not follow, Ireen presumed him dead.
Almost a month had now passed. Ireen and two personal guards made their way across the Steppes without any incident, but only just. As they neared the border with the Kingdom, they first came across the Darklord’s marching army. Not knowing who they were, Ireen intentionally avoided detection. They skirted around the marching army and headed due east, when one of her guards returned, bearing bad news.
“How many?” Ireen had asked.
“I am not sure, your Highness, but I believe six of them. And I think they are Sekkers.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” came the dreaded answer.
The chase was on.
***
The Sekkers were a special clique, formed centuries ago during the turbulent time in Rafftonia when the Matrox gained control of the nation’s wealth and power. Now the Sekkers were a shadow of their former selves, a mixture of men from Rhaurien and Rafftons who just used the name of the legendary Sekkers, to instil fear. They were still highly-trained and talented trackers and skilled assassins, who accepted contracts for work. The contracts were only given to selected members, those best qualified to succeed. They wore the distinctive, traditional cloaks of the original Sekkers, deep green, edged with brown. And like in the old days, they were still a guild not to cross.
Ireen had spotted the Sekkers on the second day of the chase. Her only hope of evasion was to head for the dense Dashnar Forest. After two days of hard riding, she reached the border of the forest, but not before losing one of her guards. Two Sekkers had entered their cold camp where the guard managed to strike down one Sekker, only to be killed by the other. Bravely, as she lay close to death, the guard picked up a crossbow and killed the second Sekker.
Urging her tired horse into the forest, Ireen felt some relief. Looking back, cresting the hill, the remaining four Sekkers came into view. She watched them for a short moment, and fear touched her. The princess saw one of the assassins point, and then all four started to gallop down the grassy slope to where she waited.
Her flight with her remaining guard through the forest was fraught with danger. Any burrow, hollow, or hidden root could lame their horses. However, being prudent and taking their time was something the pair could not afford. They pushed on through the night until Ireen began to sway in her saddle from fatigue. Then disaster, her guard’s horse stumbled on a hidden root and became lame. The guard told the princess to press on alone; she would stay, and buy the princess some time.
About an hour later, a scream of death ripped through the silent forest.
Tiredness and hunger slowed the princess down but she stubbornly pushed on. Her wary horse stumbled, nearly pitching Ireen from her saddle, but she righted herself continued, speaking soothing words to the horse.
Smack. A rock hit Ireen on the side of her head and she fell from her horse. She landed heavily on the soft forest floor, a sharp fallen branch tearing through her leather leggings and cutting her leg. The soft ground screamed at her to sleep, but she rose gingerly on unsteady legs and drew her sword. Crack. The hilt of a sword hit her on the back of the head and she slumped unconscious, in a heap, at the Sekker’s feet.
***
For the first time in day
s, the Sekkers made camp, lit a fire, and cooked some food.
“Is there a request to bring her in unharmed?” asked one of the Sekkers.
“I’m not sure. I don’t think so, just alive,” replied another, shrugging his shoulders.
“I have an urge and I think she can satisfy me.”
“I will join you. She did kill two of our colleagues.”
“Aye, that she did,” continued the first Sekker, loosening his leggings as he approached the young woman.
Ireen, sitting away from the fire with her wrists and ankles bound, listened to the conversation and in spite of her training, her mind would not clear. Fear swamped her body. The man came closer to her, tugging at his leggings, and she closed her eyes, trying to stop the tears which threatened to run free. She felt herself being lifted to her feet and her eyes blazed open – fear now replaced by anger.
“Ah, you’re alive, my pretty. Now let’s have a good look at you.” The man ripped open Ireen’s tunic, revealing her firm, round breasts. “Yes, as I thought, you’re a beauty.”
Ireen raised her tied hands and scratched the man’s face, creating jagged, bloody gouges. He screamed and slapped her hard across the cheek, splitting her lip and sending her sprawling onto the ground. Ireen tried to rise and fight back, but her legs disobeyed her and she remained in a crumpled heap.
“Whore!” screamed the Sekker, touching his bloodied cheek. “Whore, yes, but I will not be paying for my pleasures today, huh my pretty.” All four men loomed over her and the first man dropped to his knees, slapping her again. She sagged back unconscious, unable to defend her virtue, her dignity.
***
The warrior heard the conversation and the sharp smack of the second slap. He had silently approached the camp thinking the Sekkers were after him, like the previous six he had already killed. They had made a fire, which meant they had completed their mission. Death of a bandit, he could understand and would leave them to it, but rape, no. His mind begged him to leave the Sekkers but before he knew it, he had stepped out into the clearing.
“Enough!” he roared.
The four startled Sekkers turned to face a blur of silver and a brief hint of crimson before their lives were ended.
After disposing of the Sekkers, the warrior lifted the woman and moved her and her equipment to his own cold campsite. Reaching his campsite, the warrior laid the woman down, and hurriedly made a small fire. Carefully, he removed the woman’s tunic and leggings and searched for any wounds. He delved into the deep pockets of this coat and found what he needed; a thin needle and linen thread. After stitching the cut on her leg, he bandaged the area. Finally, he bunched a blanket for a pillow and wrapped her in another to rest. An hour later, he force-fed the groggy woman some stew, then left her to sleep until morning.
***
A shrilling scream shattered the morning stillness. The warrior instantly leapt to his feet, swords drawn, ready. “What’s the matter? Are we under attack? Talk, woman,” he barked, with his broad back to her.
“Are you one of them? Did you touch me?” she asked, seeing the warrior sheath his swords.
“No, I do not rape. I killed your pursuers. They are not very nice people to have following you. Sekkers are a formidable foe for one such as you.”
Realising her nakedness under the blankets, Ireen sneered at the warrior. “You may not have raped me physically, but you did with your eyes. Men like you are no better than worms.”
“Ma’am, I told you I do not rape women, I have coin to visit pay maidens when the need takes me. I have tended to your wounds and mended your clothes. There is a stream down yonder where you can freshen yourself.” Hearing the woman rise, he turned.
“How dare you?” she snapped angrily.
“As you can see ma’am, I am quite blind,” he said, his voice icy cold, his eyes’ irises and pupils both milky white, “and before you think of anything else to verbally thrash me with, I took no pleasure in removing your clothes.”
***
Ireen trudged off, cleaned herself in the stream then put on her mended clothes. Returning to the camp, she saw the warrior sitting cross-legged by the small fire, stirring a pot of oats. The warrior’s shoulder-length blond hair was tied at the nape, and his face was unshaven.
Without looking around, he said, “I hope you don’t have a sweet tooth as I don’t have any honey. So don’t snap at me, you’ve been warned.”
Ireen circled the fire to sit in front of the man. His head was cocked slightly to one side, and his eyes stared in her general direction. “Are you better, ma’am?”
“Fine. My name is Ireen.”
“Pleased to meet you, Ireen. Can you pass one of those wooden plates beside you?”
“How do you do that? You said you were blind.”
“How do I do what?” he asked, truly puzzled.
“Know where things are?”
“It’s my trick, now are you hungry? If so pass me a damn plate.”
“Do not speak to me like that,” shrieked Ireen, reaching out to slap him. He blocked her attempt and poked her in the forehead, causing her to roll backwards. “You brute,” she shouted, as she lay on the ground. “How dare you touch me.”
“Brute, am I? I am your goddamn knight in shining armour, you ungrateful goddamn wench. I should have left you to those goddamn Sekkers. They may have curbed your goddamn tongue. But oh no, mighty Tanas, the blind goddamn warrior, again saves the goddamn day, mends her goddamn clothes, tends to her goddamn wounds and what does he get for his trouble, a goddamn wench with a mouthful of goddamn fiery words. You have made me lose my goddamn appetite. Now eat your share of this and be gone with you. I want you gone by the time I get back. Goddamn it!” The warrior rose, spun on his heels, and headed for the stream, mumbling and cursing as he went.
Ireen sat up in shock for a moment. No one had ever spoken to the princess like that in her life. After her anger subsided, she realised how ungrateful she had been. Yes, he had saved her. He had tended to her wounds and mended her clothes. She rose and moved to her saddlebag to find her special jar of honey. Stirring some into the oats, she served herself a small portion. Her stomach still felt queasy, but she forced down the food one small bite at a time.
When the warrior returned from the stream, he only wore his leggings. Ireen stared at his scarred chest, criss-crossed with long and small lines, and a golden chain looped around his neck. The warrior turned around and she saw there was only a single scar on his back, a small circular scar from an arrow or perhaps a crossbow bolt.
“A man who faces his enemies,” she whispered softly.
“What? Still here then, woman?” he exclaimed with a resigned sigh.
“I’m sorry, I’ve been extremely rude and ungrateful, Tanas. Can we start again?” She paused. “Please.”
“How is it you know my name, woman?” he asked, putting on his tunic.
She giggled.
“Something funny, woman?”
“The name is Ireen, not ‘woman’, and you have your tunic on back to front.”
“Well, I’ll be damned, I have been wearing it this way for the past three weeks. I’ll be damned,” he muttered, removing the tunic, turning it around, and replacing it over his head. Sitting down in front of the fire, placing his swords to either side of him, he helped himself to some oats. Spooning a mouthful, he blew on the hot oats and paused, sighing. “Ah, what I wouldn’t give for some honey.” Closing his mouth around the spoon and his face lit up with a beaming smile. “Honey! I am eternally grateful, ma’am. It has been oh . . .” He paused, chewing slowly on the oats in thought. “Yes, over three weeks without honey. I thank you, lady.”
Happily, and in silence, the warrior continued to eat his breakfast, savouring each mouthful. Using his finger, he cleaned his bowl and licked his lips. “Oh, where were we? Yes, that’s right. How is it you know my name?” he asked, reaching for one of his swords, then holding the tip a finger’s width from Ireen’s throat.
&nb
sp; “You said it earlier when you cursed and asked me to leave, remember?” Her eyes flicked between the blade and the warrior’s eyes.
A blank expression crossed Tanas’s face. “Oh yes,” he said with a grin. “I would have had a problem killing you. I think like you, you take no nonsense, but you are noble born, I would say. So what reward is on your head, Ireen? And be truthful, I can detect lies,” he said, flicking his sword left and right, close to her neck.
Ireen explained who she was and how she had gotten into this situation, describing honestly what had happened to her and her journey to find Dax. She told the warrior of her father telling her to leave the palace, the swordfight she had heard in her room from behind the hidden panel, and her father not meeting up with her at the prearranged place. She described the smoke billowing from the palace as she left Kal-Pharina and told of her escape across the Steppes, then the army marching towards the Steppes, and the death of her two companions. “. . . And then I ended up here,” she concluded quietly.
“A tale of greatness, one for travelling poets,” he said, and then suddenly smiled. “And so wildly told, I would say it is the truth.”
“I do not lie, sir,” protested Ireen.
“Do you have any coin?”
“Some, but my family in Phadrine are very rich.”
“Yes, yes, you’ve said you are the Chosen’s daughter. I am sorry for your loss. To lose a loved one must be an agony without compare.” Tanas sat in silence for several minutes, allowing Ireen to mourn.
“Thank you for your kind words.”
“Now, do you have coin to buy supplies?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Well then, I will travel with you, ma’am, or is it your Highness?”
“Just plain Ireen in these lands, thank you. Will you take me to Dax and Thade?” she asked, knowing Thade would be with Dax.
“I will take you to Mr. Thade. Would he be Thade, the famous gladiator?”
“Yes, the same.”
“Ah, a man I would like to meet. I will be honest with you. I myself am a wanted man. Nevertheless, I will get you to Mr. Thade. Tell me, are you pretty?”