Aberration

by Kyle West

  The journey to the plains went faster this time. Flame and Red Tail knew exactly where to fly, but even without their intuition, it wouldn’t have been difficult to spy the large bonfire burning at the center of the Plains People camp, shining like a beacon in the distance. Shara and I made our way closer. Once over the camp, we drifted lower to get a feel for things.

  Practically everyone in the camp seemed to be there, all bearing bows, with hundreds, and perhaps even thousands, of warriors mounted on their steeds. There were men, women, and children, wrapped in furs and animal skins, wearing moccasins and boots. Everyone had long hair, and most of the men had long, scraggly beards, with many decked out in tattoos and war paint. I was surprised to see that even a lot of the women looked just as fierce, whooping and hollering at our approach.

  I watched as another group of men, no differently dressed from the rest of the crowd, but bearing axes as well as bows, stood in front of the people, closer to the fire. They watched with steady eyes as we passed overhead.

  I didn’t want to hesitate too much longer, to give the impression I was afraid. Which in truth, I was. It was time to go down. Nothing was going to get done until we did.

  Xenofold guide me, I thought, embracing Silence to steady my nerves.

  I went down first, followed by Shara. The people were unflinching as our dragons set down beside them, in a space that seemed to be kept clear for the purpose. I slid off Flame and faced the men closest to the flame. There were twelve of them, ranging in age from their twenties until possibly their seventies, judging by the wrinkles on a couple of them. All of them wore either a beard or long mustaches, and in some cases, both. The First Man, whose name I still didn’t know, stood in the middle of all of them. Even if he was a first among equals, he stood slightly ahead of the rest of them, arms folded, with geometric and interlocking tattoos covering half of his body.

  It was he who spoke first. “Be welcome at our fire. Share meat and milk with us.”

  Since this was probably a custom, I didn’t dare refuse. I nodded, and Shara and I stepped closer to the fire. Several serving women rushed forward, spreading out a cloth, on which they placed some charred haunches of meat, aromatic with spices, along with some flatbread and two large bowls of a milky, frothy substance. That had to be the milk, but it seemed different, and probably alcoholic. There were no cups, no plates, not even platters on which the food had been placed.

  As the women scurried away, no one sat down to the meal. After a long, drawn moment, the First Man, with a gesture, invited us to sit first.

  Shara and I did so, and only then did the others sit, but on the other side of the cloth, leaving plenty of space between us. The others started eating, grabbing the meat and ripping it right from the bone. The bowls of milk were passed around, to be shared communally. Men took the pieces of bread, at times, and picked the meat up with it, or even dipped it in the bowl.

  Shara and I started eating in the same way, without any sort of hesitation that might be offensive. I felt dozens of pairs of eyes on me, all watching for our reaction.

  The meat and bread were good, not much different from what I might have eaten at home, though spiced differently. But the milk was an acquired taste, to put it in the nicest way possible, and was most definitely as alcoholic as it was sweet. But the men seemed to like it, drinking deeply and with gusto, liquid dripping from their mustaches and beards, mixing with the grease of the meat. To clean themselves, they used nothing more than the back of their hairy forearms. Almost all of them let out loud belches regularly. It was as if there were a contest to see who could do it the loudest.

  I ate until full, trying to match my pace with the others. The men across the cloth were staring at me now. I met their gaze.

  The First Man began by speaking in English. “We thought you wouldn’t come, Elekim. You should know something, before we get started. We’ve never let one of the Settled out of our camps alive.”

  I wasn’t sure if that was meant to intimidate me, but I saw it for what it was: a test. He wanted to see if his words would scare me. “Hopefully you don’t treat all your guests that way.”

  The First Man gave a small chuckle. “No. You wanted to talk, and so we will talk. The chiefs have allowed it because they named me First Man. I bear the responsibility for your actions in this place. So, my reputation is on the line.”

  I nodded. “It’s not in my interest to ruin that. I only want to talk.” I realized that not everyone might know the reason I came. “The Radaskim.”

  There was a tense silence, broken again by the First Man. “We will speak of that. First, you should know that my name is Victor, Son of Harrell, Son of Malik.”

  Victor waited for me to offer my name, though I had already told him in the air earlier. “I’m Shanti Roshar. This is Shara Laen, my friend.”

  “A good friend,” he said. “To follow you into certain death.”

  Shara couldn’t seem to follow the conversation, so I translated what he said.

  “I’ll die anyway if we can’t convince you of the truth,” Shara said.

  When I translated that back, Victor smiled. “We scalp our enemies and burn their bodies still living. I can’t think of a worse way to die.”

  After I hesitatingly translated that bit, a very uncomfortable silence dragged on, until Victor broke it once again.

  “We’ve given you an opportunity we’ve never given another outsider, Elekim. You are young, but then again, so am I. Here on the Plains, strength is the only thing we respect. What you did with my dragon, Mauler, is an action I can only respect, because no one among us could do the same, not even the strongest of the Old Blood. And you’ve come here with just one friend, when you could have brought more.” He looked at me, considering. “My riders also reported you have no men or dragons lying in wait. You came here knowing you could die, and thereby have passed our first test. In so doing, you’ve already done more than most of us expected.”

  “So, you’ll speak with us?” I asked.

  Victor nodded. “Aye. We’ll speak to you. We’ve shared meat and milk with you, as we would with one of our enemies on the Plain that we seek reconciliation with. But never think you’re safe, Shanti and Shara. Not in this place.”

  “None of us are safe,” I said. “Whether I die today, or two weeks from now, doesn’t matter. All that matters is keeping everyone safe.”

  “I seek the same,” Victor said. “All of us wish that.”

  Several of the other chiefs nodded, but most assumed blank, neutral expressions. It was impossible to tell from their eyes, hidden by the darkness and the swirling of flames, what they really thought. I felt that two of them, at least, were Elekai. The Old Blood, as Victor had called it.

  “Do any of you challenge what she’s saying?” Victor asked.

  The men watched me impassively, the flames of the bonfire seeming to dance in their dark eyes.

  One of the men spoke up. “I don’t know enough to judge her right or wrong.”

  “You must judge with your heart then, Elis, and not your mind.”

  Another man spoke up. “I believe she tells the truth. Her truth.”

  “There is only one truth, Akal,” the First Man said. “And that truth is everyone’s truth.”

  “In the past are our traditions,” said one of the chiefs, who looked to be the oldest, and nearly blind from the way his eyes couldn’t focus. “And in the future, only change. Can more than two centuries of wrongs be set right in a single night?”

  The men were quiet on this question, and even seemed to defer to the asker. One by one, they looked at me, wanting to know my thoughts.

  “My friend back in Mongar told me that your people were wronged long ago, and were driven into the Plains by my people,” I said. “Is that the past injustice you’re referring to?”

  “The very same,” the First Man said, seeming surprised that I knew about it. “Do you acknowledge your people’s crime, then?”

  “Until today, I k
new nothing about it. But ignorance doesn’t absolve one of guilt when a wrong has been done.”

  “It must be undone,” one of the chiefs said.

  “How can we move past it?” I asked.

  “Much blood has been spilled on both sides,” Victor said. “The sins of centuries have piled into the sky.”

  “Whatever wrongs have been done, we can move past them,” I said. “If we are willing to face the truth. At the very least, we can set them aside for now while we deal with the true threat.”

  “We cannot fight side-by-side with ones who are our enemies,” Victor said. “It would destroy us.”

  “We’re ready to be friends,” I said. “We’re ready if you are.”

  Several of the men scowled at this, and somehow, I got the feeling that I’d said something wrong.

  “It goes beyond tradition,” the youngest looking chief said, standing up. His face was smooth as if he didn’t have to regularly shave yet, though his eyes were intense, and even a little crazy. “If we join with them, we would lose who we are! Even this talk is spitting on the graves of our ancestors. Even now, their spirits watch us from the flames! What do they think of us talking to the usurper of the Red Land? How are we to win the Red Land back except by blood?”

  “The ghosts do not wish for us to join them, Nalam,” the old one said.

  “You’ve grown soft, Hadon,” the young man said. “You would not have said this if you were anything as fierce as the tales make you out to be.”

  The chiefs quieted at the blatant disrespect, and all turned to Hadon for comment. The old man stood still, betraying no emotion on his face.

  “Yes,” he finally said. “I was fierce. Fiercer than a bear, insatiable as fire, colder than a winter solstice midnight. I’ve killed by my own hand ten times the years you’ve been alive, boy. I’ve faced death countless times, smiling at him as an old friend.” Hadon smiled a toothless smile, his rheumy eyes seeking out his challenger. “Are you smiling now, Nalam?”

  “There’s no challenge and no honor in beating an old man,” Nalam said. His eyes darted toward me. His smile was cruel. “I would test the strength of this Elekim. If she’s really the Chosen of the Xenofold, then there’s no use for useless prattle, is there? All of you cluck like so many old women, afraid to get blood on your skirts.”

  No one said a word against Nalam, and I could see why. He was a man in his prime, tall, strong, wielding both bow and a long, curved sword, over which his fist was clenching. He wanted to use that on someone. Anyone.

  “There’s no need for this,” I said. “I don’t want to fight you. It’s better to take that fire of yours and fight the Radaskim. It would be wasted on me.”

  “I wouldn’t challenge a girl, the same as I wouldn’t challenge an old man. But you are not just a girl. You have claimed a sacred and holy name, Chosen, and I don’t believe you’ve earned that. This blasphemy cannot go untested.”

  Shara understood enough to catch at least that last line. “Big mistake,” she said.

  “Nalam is one of our most promising warriors, Elekim,” the First Man said quietly. “I think if you were to defeat him, it would not hurt your case.”

  “Do you believe who I am then, Victor, Son of Harrell, Son of Malik?”

  “I know it. Why else would Mauler obey you? Mauler, who has refused to be borne by anyone save myself? Clearly, he’s recognized the power of your name. There is . . . some doubt. But I do not see how anyone who is not the Chosen of the Xenofold could do such a thing.”

  The old man, Hadon, spoke again. “It is the Chosen who was to lead us to reclaim the Red Land. If she is truly Chosen, then you will die for your challenge, Nalam.”

  Nalam glared at the old man, and for a moment, I thought he might kill him anyway, even in cold blood.

  I wasn’t seeing much choice. This seemed to be the only path forward, but I wasn’t going to fight Nalam unless there was no other way.

  “I’d do this any other way first,” I said.

  “You will die, sullying the name of Chosen,” Nalam said, giving a triumphant smile. “Die in the ring with me or die trying to escape this place. You didn’t think you were going to leave this place, completely untested?”

  I looked at the First Man, to see if this was true. His face was expressionless.

  “If everyone agrees that this is how we’re doing this, then yes,” I said. “I’ll step into the ring with you.”

  I reached for the Xenofold, then, just to be sure I could touch it. The connection felt weak; it had been suffering a lot of damage lately, with the Radaskim swarm gorging on the Red Wild. I sensed pain, sadness, and desolation. But there was still strength waiting to be tapped into. Here, we were a little over a hundred miles from the Sea of Creation. There was power in that.

  I stood and reached for Katan. “Whatever test you have for me, I’m ready. I only ask that it is a fair test. My skill against my challenger’s.” I looked at Nalam, who was now standing as well. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I challenge you, in the sight of the people, in the sight of the chiefs, in the sight of the souls of the flame.”

  “I accept your challenge,” I said.

  “It is agreed, then,” the First Man said. “The duel shall be done in accordance to the Old Way.”

  And like that, a tension seemed to go out of the air. A way forward had been found, and that way forward would end in someone’s death.

  Despite my experience with fighting, despite who I knew I was, it didn’t do much to help my confidence. I didn’t trust Nalam’s cruel smile that seemed to know something I didn’t.

  But I wouldn’t find out what that was until our swords crossed.

  Chapter 41

  The dueling ring would have been recognizable at any contest in the Sanctum courtyard. The only differences lay in the rules of the fight itself.

  It would be to the death. And each participant was required to take three shots of heavily fermented mare’s milk.

  Nalam had already gotten started on his drinking, but he took his shots nonetheless in quick succession. It was judged that by the time I took my three, we would be equally drunk, which to the Plains People, was the only way to fight a proper death duel.

  Shara fought against the idea, but I had already agreed, and like Nalam said, they weren’t going to let me leave alive until some sort of consensus was reached.

  Getting the shots down was the difficult part. The milk tasted sweet, but rotten, at the same time. I reached for Silence just to not taste it, and when I let go, the aftertaste was almost bad enough to make me heave. I didn’t let them see that weakness, though. Most were looking at me as if I were already dead, as if they were looking at a ghost about to join their flame.

  Looking around at the jabbering people, it was clear the atmosphere had changed, as if it were a fair day or festival. A circle had already formed, the only boundary being the people. It was probably a hundred feet in diameter. I stood on one side, sword out, while Nalam stood at the other.

  On the surface it was a mismatch. He clearly had the physical advantage, but I had the Xenofold. I had killed men larger than him before, but even knowing this, I had never been properly drunk before. The Seekers didn’t allow for drinking, such was their asceticism.

  And the alcohol was already having its effect. My head swam in a way that even Silence couldn’t fully dissolve. There was no knowing how it would affect my ability to fight.

  Suddenly, the low note of an animal horn blew, while heavy drums began beating. The people on the outside of the circle began to dance, their bodies twisting in the torchlight. Their feet all marched in time to the beat.

  The duel had begun.

  Nalam strode forward confidently as I assumed the starting stance of Treeform, holding my blade at a forty-five-degree angle away from my body. Nalam gave a guttural yell and swung with all his strength. I stepped aside, dodging the blow easily. He was just as drunk as me, if not more so, b
ut his drunkenness lent him a fury I had never fought against before. His face was contorted with rage and violence as he swung his scimitar in front of him like a whirlwind. I parried where I could, knowing exactly where his blade would strike, and redirecting the energy when dodging wasn’t possible. After a minute of sparring, the horn blew again, the people outside shouted, and as one, they stepped forward, constricting the circle.

  I saw now that they held weapons in their hands. Knives, swords, spears. I knew what would happen if I got too close to them.

  Nalam and I circled each other, trading blow for blow. And I was always just a little too slow to get at him. He danced away from my blade, sometimes adding a needless flourish while pumping up the cheering crowd. Clearly, he was skilled if he felt he could toy with me so. My head swam with drink, my actions seeming to be half a second behind my mind. Worse, I felt my emotions roiling beneath the surface, barely kept at bay by the discipline of Silence.

  I realized that this might be the end of me.

  I deepened my hold on Silence, drawing more energy, and went on the offensive. The people had stepped in closer yet again, closing in the fighting space. This had to end, and soon.

  I thrust my blade forward, favoring the aggression of Flameform, and nearly stabbed Nalam through the belly while he was winking at a girl in the crowd. Here, I lost my balance a bit and nearly tripped. The alcohol, again. The lapse gave Nalam the chance to recover and parry.

  As the circle closed in further, Nalam began to take me more seriously, no longer flourishing his sword, calling out taunts, or interacting with the crowd. He focused every bit of skill on me, and I felt it in the intensity of the battle. I cycled through various forms: Earth, Wind, Water. Nalam always had a counter, his forms not exactly like the Seekers’, but still familiar. As each minute passed, the horns blew, and the people danced in closer, until the circle was half the size it had once been.

  My muscles already burned with fatigue, but Nalam didn’t seem tired in the least. While the alcohol was a weakness for me, it seemed to be an asset for him. He clearly had fought many times inebriated, and his moves were hard to predict, either from my dulled senses or his own skill.