by A R R Ash
Shayala, her food untouched, listened to the men’s conversation. I will have to make a point to ensure the Silver Blades do not survive the battle.
*
“You are fortunate to be alive,” Rel’gor commented, shoveling meat into his mouth, his fish already consumed.
Sar-Kyul lifted his right arm, bent at the elbow, and rotated his shoulder, testing the feel. The stiffness remained, though the pain was markedly improved. “The monsters ambushed us. Twenty of our number were not so fortunate. Less than a week ago, we suffered a similar attack against our camp.” Sar-Kyul did not have much of an appetite, though he ate to regain his strength.
“Such attacks are not new,” Rel’gor countered, gorging upon another piece.
“And they are only increasing in number. The monsters of these attacks were not frenzied by bloodthirst. They struck with cunning and purpose, killing and maiming, then retreated into the forest.”
“What purpose?”
“Who can know the mind of a monster? Perhaps nothing more than their enjoyment of slaughter.”
“So, this was the reason for the Great Moot?” Rel’gor asked, eyeing the other’s eyetooth necklace.
“Where your presence was missed.”
“The Silver Blades have better use for our time than traveling for days to attend a fucking hen circle. If the Moroi Hunters spent as much time training for battle as you do talking, you would not be so put out by these little skirmishes.” Rel’gor downed his drink, then slammed the empty goblet upon the table; a woman was there in an instant to refill it.
*
“You really shouldn’t be listening,” the second woman said to Shayala, who, with clear annoyance, turned to acknowledge the speaker. “You haven’t touched your food, and you seem distracted. If they catch you eavesdropping, you’ll be punished.”
Shayala scoffed and turned away with thoughts of feasting upon her before putting her head through the wall.
*
“You sorely underestimate the threat,” Sar-Kyul accused. “This latest attack was mere miles from your camp.”
“You complain like a woman. I question whether you earned those teeth you wear.”
Sar-Kyul would not be baited. Although he did not fear a scrap with the belligerent chieftain, he understood he was in no condition for such a confrontation. With flattery disguised as frankness, Sar-Kyul said, “The prowess of the Silver Blades is well known among the free tribes. I propose an opportunity to demonstrate your might to the monsters.”
“The Silver Blades need prove nothing to anyone!” Rel’gor roared. “But, if you would like proof of our prowess, that can be arranged.”
*
At the building altercation in the next room, the two women held a hurried, muffled debate as to who was next to serve the men. Whatever the consequences with the Silver Blades, Shayala readied herself to intervene, for Sar-Kyul was her most useful ally among the feral humans.
*
Sar-Kyul thought he detected a hint of fear behind the chieftain’s bluster and understood he must be even more careful in his choice of words with the irascible, bullyish chieftain. With forced calm, he continued. “We propose an attack against the monsters themselves, within their own territory, against the castle of their king.”
Rel’gor narrowed his eyes, unsure if Sar-Kyul was having a joke at his expense.
Sar-Kyul grasped the two silver vials and raised them for this counterpart to see. “With these potions, we gain the strength and speed of the monsters as well as the benefit of their senses.”
Rel’gor shifted his suspicious glare to the vials. “And what potion is that?”
Sar-Kyul knew he could not answer truthfully, could not explain that it was indeed the monsters’ blood, brought to them by the—in all appearances—woman Shenla. He cleared his throat and shifted slightly in his seat. “It is a potion we developed.”
“What’s in it?”
Sar-Kyul could not conceive of a believable lie quickly enough, saying only, “I cannot reveal that at this time.”
Rel’gor’s face darkened and his suspicion hardened into a severe glower.
“Very well, I will drink first,” Sar-Kyul offered, moving to unstopper a vial.
“And so the other is poisoned.”
Sar-Kyul’s left hand stopped before reaching the vial, his mind racing through the possible arguments to convince Rel’gor of the innocuousness of the potion. He knew whichever vial he offered, Rel’gor would think it a trick. Sar-Kyul was flustered with the paranoid chieftain and felt the conversation quickly falling away from him. “Then do not drink. Allow me to demonstrate its effects.”
“Perhaps you hope to defeat the Silver Blades through treachery, like a woman,” accused Rel’gor.
Sar-Kyul felt a flush of warmth, and his heart pounded so vigorously that his ears pulsed. To his surprise, his first thought was of Shenla’s fierce, unapologetic temperament. Before he was aware of the words, said he, “Perhaps you fear the monsters.”
Rel’gor stood so quickly that his chair slammed into the wall behind him. He bellowed, “Speak to me like that in my house again and I will split your skull!”
*
At the sound of the chair striking the wall, the two women flinched, and Shayala was up and to the doorway in an instant, though she held herself from interfering. At her unexpected reaction, the women stared disbelievingly, as if she were some creature come to life from a children’s tale.
*
Sar-Kyul did not flinch at the outburst, though his heart continued to pound. Through several deep but quiet breaths, he brought coolness back to his blood-infused face and forced his vision to expand from its narrowed perception. Although he knew any appeasement risked encouraging Rel’gor’s bullying hostility, he accepted the tart, bilious taste of his pride. “My hatred of the vile creatures”—his thoughts again flitted to Shenla—“caused me to speak rashly. All among the free tribes know the Silver Blades fear neither man nor monster. Our purpose here is to forge an alliance, and the silver weapons we bring, which you will find are of superior quality, are your gifts.”
Rel’gor continued to glare at the Moroi Hunter before appearing, for the moment, appeased. He glanced downward and seemed irritated that his chair had not been returned to its place. He retrieved it and sat. “I accept your gifts. But do not continue to test the limits of my hospitality.”
*
At the cessation of hostilities, Shayala returned to her still-untouched meal. One woman withdrew to attend to the men; the other stole glances at Shayala and seemed on the verge of speaking, though ultimately did not. Shayala ignored her.
*
Without the Silver Blades, any chance of victory against the monsters was gone, and Sar-Kyul was not yet prepared to abandon this opportunity to strike a fatal blow to their heart. Steeling himself for a possibly violent reaction by the bellicose leader, he decided on another track: “With your permission, Rel’gor, the woman Shenla will demonstrate the potion. Surely she can pose no threat and, if she dies…well, she is but a woman.”
Rel’gor visibly mulled the suggestion, searching for any trick or liability to him or the Silver Blades. When he could find none, he raised his goblet, said “Very well,” and downed the stout beer.
*
To Shayala’s mind, she had far more at stake than these feral humans: her queendom and the very course of history for the strigoi of the North were in question. And with what she had endured this last fortnight, she would not allow this female-hating brute to frustrate her plans. With a flash of inspiration, she looked to the women and asked, “How is leadership of the Silver Blades determined?”
They were startled by the seemingly arbitrary question and, even more so, because another woman had made the inquiry.
When the women did not immediately answer, Shayala repeated irritably, “How?”
“Ah-ah-by challenging the-the current chieftain and defeat-defeating him,” came the hesitant response from on
e.
“What are the conditions of the challenge?”
The women just stared blankly at her.
Shayala rephrased and spoke slowly, as if the women were feeble-minded, “Who may challenge the leader?”
“Ah, any-anyone,” answered the one who had spoken before.
“Anyone?”
“I-I don’t understand,” the woman complained.
If she could have sighed, Shayala would have. “Even an outsider?”
“Uh, no. I don’t know. It’s never happened.” The woman peered at Shayala as if the latter were utterly mad.
Shayala turned away, effectively dismissing them, and continued listening to the conversation between Rel’gor and Sar-Kyul.
*
The remainder of the meal passed less contentiously, with Rel’gor boisterously touting the carnal talents of the women of the Silver Blades and insisting that Sar-Kyul partake of one or more to learn what real women were like. Sar-Kyul half expected the chieftain to take one of the serving girls right there on the table.
Dagroth arrived, and Sar-Kyul was not completely successful in suppressing a snicker when he saw the lieutenant’s nose, purpled and swollen into the caricature of a pig’s snout.
Dagroth briefly cast a glower upon Sar-Kyul before addressing Rel’gor, “The patrols are returnin’ wi’ the bodies of the—Moroi Hunters.” His voice had a nasally quality from the damage to his nose, making his sneer unintentionally comical. Blood rushed to Dagroth’s cheeks, and his expression darkened into an embarrassment-fueled storm.
Rel’gor again drained the contents of his goblet before responding, “Then show our guests to their dead, Dagroth.”
A fresh scowl deformed the lieutenant’s expression, though he nonetheless acknowledged, “Aye.”
Sar-Kyul downed his drink and placed the silver vials in a pouch. “Your hospitality is not underrated, Rel’gor.”
As Rel’gor began to contemplate whether to be offended, Shayala emerged from the back room. Dagroth’s vitriolic stare alighted upon her, though she did not acknowledge the presence of the lieutenant.
Verily shaking in fury, Dagroth turned and withdrew; Sar-Kyul and Shayala followed, the former nodding to Rel’gor, the latter saying not a word to the chieftain, who bellowed for more drink. Dagroth led them to a stone-lined, square pit. A cut-away in one side contained a steep staircase to the floor of the depression. Rows of wooden benches, in various states of disrepair, extended from the three flush sides, and cressets stood along the edges of the pit. Four bodies already lay atop a quantity of tinder and bones at the bottom. Two men carried a fifth body down the stairs.
Sar-Kyul looked on solemnly.
With casual disregard, Dagroth commented, “You should be thankin’ us for th’ honor they’ve got in restin’ with the warriors o’ the Silver Blades.”
Sar-Kyul whirled upon the lieutenant, a threat emanating from his eyes. As much as he wanted to pummel that sneering face, Sar-Kyul said only, “Perhaps you should wait for your nose to heal before looking for another fight. Slander my warriors again and you’ll learn why our reputation is well earned.”
Dagroth pulled his double-bitted axe from the loop upon his belt. Shayala stepped toward him.
Although he burned with the desire to kill the man, Sar-Kyul could not allow this encounter to turn bloody, yet he knew in mere moments Shenla would escalate the confrontation beyond return. In the most assertive yet conciliatory tone he could muster, Sar-Kyul said to Dagroth, “This is not a fight you want. No good can come of it, for either of our people.”
Dagroth hesitated as if considering his chance of victory. Sar-Kyul could imagine the lieutenant’s thoughts. What would Rel’gor’s reaction be? Would their deaths start a war with the Moroi Hunters? Could their deaths be blamed on the monsters?
In a rare display of self-control, temperance won out: Dagroth replaced his weapon. Yet said he, “You best control yer women, ’fore others do it for you.”
Response was forestalled by the appearance of a mounted patrol that bore the bodies of another six Moroi Hunters. The bodies were laid near the lip of the pit, and Sar-Kyul declared he would carry them to its depth himself. He struggled under the weight. His arm and shoulder burned. Stitches burst under the strain. Salty sweat trickled into his eyes and onto his lips; droplets fell from his face, which contorted under the effort. Still, the leader of the Moroi Hunters refused to pause, resolutely conveying his warriors to lie beside their slain brothers.
Shayala stood in silent respect of Sar-Kyul’s will and determination. Dagroth sat upon a bench, made lopsided by its warped planking, and pointedly ignored them both.
Sar-Kyul had only a brief opportunity to rest before the next patrol arrived with more of his slain brethren, and again he insisted on laying them to rest himself. Night had nearly swallowed the final scarlet rays of the sun before the last body was placed within the crematory pit.
Day 26: Night
The moon was new, having exited the night’s stage for its monthly intermission, leaving the supporting cast to shine and sparkle like so many captured fireflies. Clouds moved across the sky like amateurs trying to overshadow the stars of the celestial show.
Sar-Kyul accepted several proffered torches from one of the warriors who had helped transport the dead. He lit them from one of the burning cressets and tossed them into the pit. Once he had set the bodies to flame, he dropped upon the nearest bench in utter exhaustion. A crimson stain soaked his bandage and spotted his vest, but he considered it the smallest of costs against the sacrifices made. A generous breeze offered welcome coolness as it glided over his sweat-glistened face.
Dagroth sat apart from Sar-Kyul. Despite the lieutenant’s contempt for those not of the Silver Blades, and although he would never express the sentiment, he did commiserate with Sar-Kyul, for he too had lost many brethren to the monsters.
Word of the funerary rite had spread, and some Silver Blades came to offer condolences, to which Sar-Kyul offered sincere thanks. Others came from curiosity or for a break in the routine of their lives. Shayala stood aloof, not wishing to be interrupted in her thoughts as she considered some means to bring this tribe into the fold.
Rel’gor arrived, tankard in hand and trailed by two buxom women, who, Sar-Kyul was sure, were not the same serving girls from earlier in the day. The chieftain approached and offered the tankard, which Sar-Kyul accepted, taking a hearty draught. The thick brown ale was slightly bitter, but Sar-Kyul felt its fortifying warmth flow down his throat. When he tried to return the vessel, Rel’gor held up a declining hand and snapped his fingers; another similarly attributed woman appeared with a pitcher and another goblet, which she handed to Rel’gor.
Gesturing to the two women behind him, Rel’gor said, “These are for you as well.”
Sar-Kyul would have liked to accept the offer, if for no reason other than to not offend his host, but he doubted, in his condition, he could lift himself from the bench, let alone render an energetic performance. He said as much to Rel’gor, who would not hear of it and commanded the women to sit beside the tired warrior and make sure he was entertained.
Sar-Kyul fervently hoped Rel’gor did not expect him to offer Shenla for the chieftain’s entertainment.
To Sar-Kyul’s relief, Rel’gor said, “Your woman will show the effects of your potion.”
Sar-Kyul was not certain whether it was a question or a command. Yet, whatever the case, he nodded affirmatively. “Shenla,” he called to her.
Shayala turned toward his voice and approached.
“Shenla, you have already consumed the…” Sar-Kyul cleared his throat. “The potion and are prepared to demonstrate its effects?”
Shayala nodded once.
“Choose a warrior to wrist battle,” Sar-Kyul suggested.
“A game!” Rel’gor’s tone matched the look in his stormy dark eyes.
“A game of strength,” Sar-Kyul replied in counterpoint. Pride warred with the uncertainty in the chiefta
in’s eyes: Should Rel’gor take up the challenge himself or assign another?
The latter won out. “Oalin! Come!” Rel’gor shouted to a grouping of warriors and women loitering nearby.
A lean-muscled warrior strode over.
The man was young, his gray eyes bright and his face covered in a day’s worth of stubbly growth. His self-assured demeanor, however, visibly relented with each step as he approached the blaring, intimidating chieftain. “Aye?”
The chieftain glanced briefly at Sar-Kyul as if to confirm the other was not jesting. “You will wrist battle this female.” He inclined his head toward Shayala.
Oalin’s eyes went wide. He glanced all around, searching for teasing laughter, wondering if Rel’gor was mocking him. No one laughed; all seemed as surprised as Oalin himself.
“Do it, son, and be done with it,” Rel’gor said, confirming the sincerity of the order. “And I can be done with this nonsense talk of a potion.”
Oalin gave a quizzical look at the reference.
In a slightly louder voice, Rel’gor said, “And this is in no way a mark on his honor. Oalin does this task at my command.”
Oalin knelt by the long edge of a newer bench and placed his elbow atop its surface, forearm raised. With a flat expression, Shayala knelt at the opposite side of the bench, setting her elbow and grasping Oalin’s hand. As chieftain, Rel’gor had the prerogative to initiate the contest. The crowd stilled and quieted in anticipation; only the breeze stirred and only the droning and chirruping of insects sounded.