by A R R Ash
At the call of “Begin,” Oalin’s bicep flexed, his arm tensed—and moved not at all. When he did not defeat the woman within moments, the onlookers gasped, and some began to believe he was toying with the woman. Yet when his face contorted with effort, and he still could not budge Shayala’s arm, the sound of murmuring and snickering rose from the crowd.
Shayala remained expressionless throughout, so much so that one coming upon the scene could believe Oalin vied with a statue. Suddenly and with no change of expression, Shayala effortlessly pressed Oalin’s hand downward.
Oalin snapped his hand toward his body and leapt to standing, looking to the faces, many of them mocking, around him. He glanced at Rel’gor and dropped his eyes, his cheeks turning a splotchy red.
Rel’gor stood and shouted in his thundering voice, “What trickery?” Although he did not sway, his eyes were slightly unfocused from the large quantities of drink he had consumed.
Shayala rose and merely transferred her inscrutable gaze to Rel’gor.
Sar-Kyul also came to his feet and addressed Rel’gor, “As I explained, this potion grants the strength of the monsters.” Before he finished the statement, Sar-Kyul realized his miscalculation. Rel’gor had never believed Shenla would win; he thought his warrior would defeat her easily and he would have a laugh at the embarrassment of the Moroi Hunters. Now that Shenla had defeated his warrior in such a humiliating and public fashion, Rel’gor could not allow the women of his tribe to believe this potion could make them the equal of men. He had to set an example.
“Take them into custody!” Rel’gor ordered. Looking at Sar-Kyul, said he, “I warned you, you are responsible for her actions. She assaulted a male, a serious crime.”
Sar-Kyul felt his stomach drop and tasted bile in his throat. His first thought was to the consequences that would befall the Moroi Hunters, though a more imminent concern then arose: Shenla’s reaction. When Sar-Kyul glanced at her, he saw the faintest upturn at the corners of her mouth. In the, albeit short, time that he had known her, he could not recall a single occasion of her smiling, and that she did so now frightened—and intrigued—him all the more.
With a wicked grin, Dagroth and several other nearby warriors approached Sar-Kyul and Shayala.
Shayala ignored them. Looking directly at Rel’gor, she said in the imperious tone she had so mastered, “Sar-Kyul challenges you for leadership of the Silver Blades.”
Dagroth and the others froze. The crowd fell silent, unsure how to react, uncertain if they had heard correctly.
Sar-Kyul nearly laughed aloud but managed to restrain himself. Although he knew—and hated—what she was, he could not help but admire her boldness and confidence. Still, she may have only postponed, and even aggravated, the eventual outcome, he thought.
“What foolishness is this?” Rel’gor asked, his surprise temporarily overriding his rage.
“Unless you fear him,” Shayala taunted.
“You go too far, woman!” Rel’gor shouted, the full extent of his rage returned. He shook from fury and dashed his tankard upon the bench. “Bring them!” Rel’gor himself now moved toward the pair, and Dagroth again advanced.
Shayala looked pointedly at Sar-Kyul and nodded. She knew he had no alternative but to go along with her ploy now.
With a full, confident voice, Sar-Kyul said, “I challenge Rel’gor!”
Pushed nearly beyond reason, Rel’gor roared, and nearby Silver Blades backed away from him.
Shayala remained silent. Events were now in motion, and further interference could only damage their cause.
“A challenge has been issued,” Sar-Kyul said in an assertive, self-assured tone. “Do you decline?”
The crowd, including Dagroth, was as still and silent as statues. Not even the sound of breathing was heard as all awaited Rel’gor’s response.
Despite his near-blinding fury, Rel’gor unleashed a harsh, derisive laugh. “After I kill you, I will crush your weak Moroi Hunters.” Turning toward Shayala, he added, “You…you will wish I killed you, after every cock in the tribe has split you open. And if you still live, we’ll share you with our animals.”
Shayala’s answering grin only taunted the chieftain further.
In all his contemplations of this visit to the Silver Blades, Sar-Kyul had never considered challenging Rel’gor for command. But if he came to lead both tribes, he could guarantee the others would carry the banner of war against the monsters. Sar-Kyul was hit with profound appreciation of Shenla’s manipulation of events.
Then the reality of the situation began to seep within, penetrating the brickwork of his thoughts and causing fractures in the foundations of his courage, threatening to collapse his mental and emotional fastness. He could not hope to defeat Rel’gor with his current injury.
Dagroth stepped forward and said with an excitement that sent spittle flying from between the split in his lip, “Ne’er ’fore has an outsider challenged to rule.”
*
Although he heard Dagroth’s words, Rel’gor focused on Sar-Kyul, the Moroi Hunter doing his best to appear proud and defiant. How he wanted to end him then and there. If he commanded his warriors to execute Sar-Kyul and his whore, he knew they would. However, the baby could not be unborn; the challenge was made. Even with Sar-Kyul dead, the poisonous thoughts and whispers—questioning his courage, his strength, and, ultimately, his rule—would begin:
“Was Rel’gor afraid to face the other warrior?”
“Sar-Kyul was wounded and Rel’gor still would not fight him.”
“Perhaps Rel’gor grows soft.”
“Perhaps it is time for a new chieftain.”
Of course he could defeat any challenger, but, if he was to conquer the Moroi Hunters, he could not afford constant challenges to his authority. And even once he brought the larger tribe under his rule, he needed a decisive display to keep the conquered people compliant until they were fully integrated into the Silver Blades.
Rel’gor reached a decision.
*
Rel’gor stood silently for some time. Sar-Kyul held the other’s gaze, for he understood he teetered upon a crux. This moment could determine not only his fate but the fate of the Moroi Hunters and, indeed, all the free tribes. Sar-Kyul recognized that, whatever the risk to him, he could not appear weak at this moment.
*
“I accept the challenge,” Rel’gor said, sounding magnanimous.
A roar of excited cheering erupted; a battle between the leaders of the two strongest of the free tribes would be quite the spectacle. Sar-Kyul realized he had been holding his breath and clenching his fists. Deliberately, he relaxed.
As the challenged, Rel’gor had the right to choose the time, from one to three days hence. The chieftain said, “We battle tomorrow at midday.”
The cheering of the crowed renewed.
Sar-Kyul nodded acceptance. He looked to Shayala, whose face had returned to its typical expressionless mask.
Rel’gor extended a hand, palm upward. Sar-Kyul looked at him curiously before realizing what was intended. He withdrew the two argent vials and placed them in the chieftain’s hand.
Rel’gor pulled the stopper from one of the vials and slowly brought the container beneath his nostrils. He sniffed the sour-smelling contents, crinkled his nose, and uttered a disgusted grunt. He turned the vial upside down, and the sticky liquid drizzled to the ground in a gluey column and mixed with the dirt to form a puddle of thick red mud. He dumped the contents of the second vial.
“Dagroth,” Rel’gor called, and the lieutenant, hovering nearby, stepped forward. “They’re to be watched and not go anywhere near the equipment they brought.”
“Aye,” Dagroth responded, though Rel’gor had already turned away.
Sar-Kyul looked at Dagroth. “Fetch a nurse to restitch my wound. I will sit my vigil with my warriors for what remains of the night.”
Dagroth remained a moment, staring into the man’s face, before nodding to a nearby warrior, who moved o
ff. Sar-Kyul released a heavy, troubled sigh and settled on a bench, facing the pyre, whose flames rose to meet his eyes.
*****
Pinpricks glimmered within the inky dome of the sky, revealing the swarded incline of a hillock, topped by a stone outcropping, to the six strigoi as they passed beyond the forest line. The leader raised a hand to halt the others while his vivid eyes surveyed the landscape. The rigid lines of his face gave the appearance of a steadfast warrior who did not question orders. His gorget bore no mark, and he carried his weapon—a steel-handled club that sported three blades at one end—in a comfortable, capable manner.
The hillock seemingly fit the description they had been given. With silent gestures, he ordered the three female and other two male soldiers to disperse and reconnoiter the surrounding area. As the five returned, each gave a single shake of the head, indicating no sign of sentries, though the scent of strigoi pervaded the area.
They ascended the hillock and soon discovered the entrance. Already, they could smell the heavy spoor of their kind within, as well as the osseous scent from abundant skeletal remains.
To the three female soldiers, the leader said in a hushed voice, “If the imposter queen is within, lure her out and we will take her. If their numbers are too great, lead them to the ambush site. Cwarth, Wythyr, and I will remain hidden among the trees and await your return.”
An emerald-haired female strigoi nodded. “Aye, Olathyr.” Unlike the unmarked gorgets of the males, those of the female soldiers bore Queen Shayala’s insigne.
They entered and, following the short, low passage to the rear of the grotto, emerged into the cavern, met there by the drawn swords of seven fanged warrioresses, forewarned by the obvious sound of their approach. The three newcomers did not draw their weapons but assumed a cautiously relaxed pose.
“State your purpose,” Lieutenant Thal, a step frontward of the others, said with a threatening undertone.
The newcomers gave a brief pause, before the emerald-haired one answered, “We serve the night.” She wore a longsword upon one hip, a shortsword upon the other.
At the proper watchword, Thal and the others relaxed.
“I’m Thal.” She indicated and introduced the others: “Ruln, Ky’rin, Cyuth, Ry’al, Volna, and Ronla.”
“Shyar,” offered the emerald-haired soldier. She gestured toward a wiry, shorn, unsmiling strigoi, whose eyes continually scanned the seven opposite her. “This is Ayora.” She nodded toward the third. “Nalath.”
“What news?” Thal asked.
Shyar answered, “We are being recalled.” At the incredulous look that confronted her, she added, “I know nothing of the reasons.”
“When?” asked Thal.
“Without delay, especially if we are to make the rendezvous before the day,” came the reply. “We will conduct you to the site.”
“Do you care for a morsel?” Thal asked, inclining her head toward a bundle of five humans in the back of the cavern.
“No.” Shyar declined, and her companions shook their heads.
“Where is Shay—Queen Shayala?” Ayora asked.
“Her Majesty is away,” Thal answered.
Ayora persisted. “When will she return?”
Thal shrugged. “Her Majesty need not share such details with us.”
Shyar flashed Ayora a scathing look.
Thal looked critically at Ayora before her thoughts turned to the immediate question: Whether to abandon the grotto? None of the others interrupted her deliberation. After several moments’ thought, Thal said, “We must leave word for Her Majesty when she returns. Ruln, light a fire.”
Ruln nodded and retreated from the cavern.
“Fire?” Shyar asked.
“To alert Her Majesty,” Thal, already rummaging among the bones near her, responded without considering the question or the answer.
Thal recovered a human femur and, from a pack, retrieved charcoal and parchment, which she tore into strips, adhering the ends with melted wax from the candle. She wrapped the strips around the femur and scribed a message, then drew a small fang-shaped design upon one end the femur. As Ruln returned, Thal placed the femur along the wall opposite the entrance and concealed the parchment strip beneath bones in the corner, placing a skull, marked in the same manner as the femur, atop the location of the missive.
“Leave the humans,” Shyar said. “They will only slow us.”
The company of ten strigoi exited the grotto and descended the hillock. Before they could set out into the forest, Ronla drew her sword and slashed the face of Nalath, who screamed and reflexively flung a hand to the wounds.
“They are imposters!” Ronla shouted, knowing, if she were wrong, she was dead. Yet, if she were right, she may die soon enough anyway.
All drew their blades and turned toward Ronla.
Thal moved rearward and brandished her sword. “Lower your weapon! Explain yourself, traitor.”
Ronla looked to Thal but did not lower her blade. “They do not serve the queen. How can you not see it?”
“I will not say it again,” Thal warned.
Ry’al and Ky’rin, who were nearest Ronla, similarly brought their weapons to bear upon her.
Ronla spoke quickly. “In my short time among you, I have never once heard any of you speak the faintest word of disrespect toward Her Majesty. Never once question her as this one did.” She inclined her head toward Ayora. Thal and her companions paused, wavering in their threatening stances against Ronla.
*
Shyar noted the doubt on the opposing faces and silently cursed Ayora for her unsubtle questioning. It is strange: the queen is dead, yet these soldiers follow the imposter as if she were indeed the queen, she thought. Still, perhaps I can yet convince them of our loyalty to Shayala.
*
Before Shyar could speak, however, Thal turned to her. “This is an easy matter to resolve: Other than the scytale, what method is used to encipher a message to Her Majesty?”
Shyar kept her expression neutral. She could only hope to bluff, speaking with a voice full of confidence and affronted duty, “How dare you ask that?”
The sudden appearance of three armed soldiers from the forest line ended any further discussion.
Cyuth and Ruln turned at the sound behind them. Shyar, realizing their only chance lay in quickly incapacitating several of their enemies, seized the opportunity to plunge her blade into Cyuth’s lower back. Ayora similarly exploited Ruln’s distraction and cut into her side.
Ronla was quick to react, slashing Nalath once again, severing her ear and opening a gash in the side of her head.
The three male soldiers, swords drawn, charged into the melee.
Volna overcame her surprise and turned her blade upon the wounded Nalath, ending her pain with a rending blow through the base of her skull. Nalath’s body collapsed; her head and gorget dropped beside it like discarded baubles.
Cyuth and Ruln turned to face their attackers—Shyar and Ayora respectively—already launching another strike. Ry’al, Ky’rin, and Ronla advanced to intercept the three male soldiers, the six coming together in a clang of silver. Thal and Volna turned their attention to aiding Cyuth and Ruln.
*
As she dodged and fought, Ronla found herself wondering, Why should the fate of these monsters even concern me? Monsters? I’m one of them now. But that doesn’t mean their concerns are mine. What does it matter who prevails here? The tip of a blade, which passed but a handspan from her head, brought her concentration fully back to the fracas.
*
Ayora felled Ruln with a slash that cut through her thigh and nicked bone. Showing gashes and wounds for her trouble, she turned her attention to Volna’s unrelenting attacks.
Shyar fought Thal and Cyuth with the knowledge that any distraction on her part meant her end. The only fact working in her favor was that Cyuth was already injured from her initial backstab.
Ry’al and Ky’rin appeared well-matched with their opponents, as neithe
r side managed significant damage. Ronla, however, fought Olathyr, whose skill, she knew, would soon win over her.
Shyar’s wounds began to impede her fierceness of combat, and Cyuth thrust an impaling blade through her ribs. Thal lunged and sent her blade through Shyar’s open mouth. Shyar fell with her brainstem nearly severed, and Thal leveled the finishing blow.
Ayora began to falter under Volna’s attacks and was quickly overcome once Thal and Cyuth joined against her.
Ry’al feigned a slip, enticing an attack of opportunity from Wythyr. However, he anticipated the maneuver and brought his blade up to deflect the blow. Ry’al had counted on that, and Wythyr flashed a surprised look when another blade slid into his belly. That expression was frozen on his face when a trailing swipe from Ry’al’s first blade transected his spine between his gorget and shoulder blades. With her opponent down, Ry’al turned her attention to aiding Ronla against Olathyr, who was on the verge of claiming victory.
Before Ky’rin’s headless corpse had even settled upon the ground, Cwarth turned to assist Olathyr against his two opponents.
Olathyr saw the battle had turned against them. “Cover me,” he ordered Cwarth. “The duke must know what has happened.” Without waiting for his companion’s acknowledgement, Olathyr broke away and flew eastward into the forest.
Cwarth watched Olathyr disengage, though his attention was instantly drawn back to the enemies bearing down upon him. Ronla and Ry’al struck Cwarth repeatedly, coordinating their attacks to keep him off guard, and soon sent his head spinning away.