by A R R Ash
“Stop him!” Thal shouted, and Ry’al and Volna ran in pursuit of the fleeing soldier.
Thal looked to Ronla and gave a respectful nod, then turned her attention to Ruln, who still lay upon the ground. “We must proceed with the assumption this refuge is compromised,” the lieutenant said. “Ruln, until you heal, you will only slow us. You can better serve here on the chance that Ry’al and Volna return, or if Her Majesty comes again.”
Ruln nodded.
Thal continued, “The rest of us will travel south to warn the others our protocols have been compromised as well.”
*
Ronla, again, considered her place. She still did not believe the political struggles of these—what was the term?—strigoi concerned her. However, she still wanted her freedom from Queen Shenla—no, Shayala, that was her real name. Although she could not guess who would eventually succeed in this war, if Shayala did win, Ronla did not want to be counted as her enemy or as a deserter. For now, staying near Shayala is the best way to gain my freedom.
*
While Ronla and Thal helped Ruln back into the grotto, Cyuth ascended the stone formation atop the hillock to light the signal fire. Thal retrieved the femur and strip of parchment used to leave a message for Shayala. She put the strip to flame and created another, upon which she penned a new message, describing the events that had transpired:
SONBOE.RV RH. AV YUA UOC.ENEC GNKLLH RCROUHSYNNATSTEMS .R ASH UDPUU IW EASA RRNANOA LERAOPKT UNS EYNMENTDNDUAK DIROAED RN D S WCAERVDLISETNKDDYI YSIDH E..AVOACG RMDLOTN
Thal returned both femur and strip to their places; not long after, she, Cyuth, and Ronla were on their way southeastward.
Day 26: Light
Sar-Kyul reclined opposite Shayala within a round tent of wooden latticework and felt covering. The tent held only two cots; a small, square table; and a single chair. A half-melted candle sat at the middle of the table. The floor covering was little more than a straw mat. Clearly, the Silver Blades were not concerned with the comfort of those they considered condemned, Sar-Kyul thought. He knew no less than two guards were posted outside.
After the vigil, he had requested a brief rest before the challenge. At least they had not denied him that much, though he could not sleep with his impending death.
The hour of the battle was fast approaching, and he had no path to victory. His chest wound had been restitched and bandaged, but he was still too sore to fight effectively against an opponent like Rel’gor.
They sat in silence for some time. Sar-Kyul’s thoughts remained focused upon the aftermath for the Moroi Hunters, rather than his death itself. Shayala remained as impassive as ever, likely considering alternatives to achieve her goal if Sar-Kyul were to fall. None are promising, he thought.
“What will you do?” Sar-Kyul asked, unable to tolerate the quiet any longer and breaking the tacitly agreed upon silence. He shifted on the cot.
Shayala turned toward him in unspoken inquiry for an explanation.
“When I die. What happens to you then?”
“Do you wish to die? If you so easily accept defeat and wallow in self-pity, I will have to reevaluate my estimation of you.”
Sar-Kyul was rocked backward by the harsh truth of her words.
“You forget your advantage.” Shayala moved to sit beside the human. Reaching to her right boot, she withdrew her silver-bladed stiletto that Dagroth and his warriors had neglected to confiscate. She rolled the sleeve of her tunic up and drew the dagger across her wrist. “Drink.”
Sar-Kyul looked at the bloody offering with raised eyebrows and pressed lips in an expression of disgusted surprise.
“It won’t help the pain, but it will give you strength and speed to overcome the brute.” At his hesitation, she said more firmly, “Drink.”
Despite his visceral aversion, Sar-Kyul nearly laughed at the simplicity of the solution. He took a deep breath to calm his roiling stomach and prepare his mind. He leaned forward and raised her arm to his mouth. His lips pressed around the cut and sucked the vinegary-tasting blood, letting it flow over his tongue and down his throat. Although he had tasted the blood many times now, no other occasion had made him so nearly retch. Worse than the taste was his revulsion at the act of drinking the blood straight from its source—this monster. Why does she risk so much to help me?
Unable to look at her in his awkward discomfort, Sar-Kyul closed his eyes. Was his life worth this? No! his mind shouted in unequivocal answer to his own question. But the survival of the Moroi Hunters and the ultimate defeat of the monsters is well worth such a sacrifice…and much more.
*
As uncomfortable as Sar-Kyul was, Shayala was equally so. She tensed at the intimate nearness of the human—no, not human—dhampyr, whose blood was so deadly to her. With but a small mingling of his blood with hers, he could do what Duke Munar and countless other strigoi could not. Commensurate with the risk was the humiliation of allowing a human to feed upon her, an event unthinkable weeks before. Even Lyan would denounce me and my allowance of such defilement. Yet in that short time, she had been forced to endure more and perform such acts previously impossible to imagine. Her only solace was that no others of her kind were witness to such degradation. A more immediate concern intruded upon her thoughts: I’ve not eaten in over a day, and this loss will only make my need of blood more imperative.
Sar-Kyul pulled away and wiped his mouth with his forearm. The now-familiar rush of power and warmth permeated his being, spreading to every recess of his body, extending to the tips of his extremities. He splayed his arms to the side and behind him, leaning back upon the cot, and came to accept that he might yet survive. The conversation of the guards outside became clear to him: they wagered not whether he would defeat Rel’gor but how long he would last.
Shayala unrolled her sleeve, wiped the stiletto on her tunic, and replaced it in her boot.
“How do you do it?” Sar-Kyul asked.
Shayala looked to him but did not respond.
Sar-Kyul continued, “Feed on humans. Doesn’t it bother you?”
Am I now to discuss our feeding habits with the very chattel we consume? If she were of such a disposition, she would have laughed.
Shayala remained silent for so long that Sar-Kyul thought she would not respond. Finally, she asked, “Does it bother you when you feed upon swine or fowl or cattle?”
“That’s different,” Sar-Kyul objected.
“Oh?”
“They are animals.”
“As are you.”
His muscles tensed, and his hand strayed to the sword at his waist. Sar-Kyul was nearly overcome with the desire to do violence upon this monster at the comparison. Yet aided by the realization of his already precarious position among the Silver Blades, he slowly mastered his outrage and moved his hand away from the hilt. Still, his chest rose and fell in heavy breaths in the aftereffects of rage. Throughout, Shayala made no reaction.
Calmed once again, Sar-Kyul said, “It’s the natural order: humans are above swine.”
“As it is the natural order that strigoi are above humans. If you do not wish to be fed upon, then do not act as prey. Slay your tormentors, even if it means your own death.”
Sar-Kyul fought to control his rising anger. Through clenched teeth, said he, “Humans are deserving of respect.”
Shayala scoffed. “Should we allow ourselves to starve to spare you? Would humans do the same?”
“You have alternatives. You can feed upon animals, rather than humans.”
“And you have an alternative as well: the planting of crops. But you choose to feed upon such animals.”
“Swine are not thinking,” Sar-Kyul countered. “They lack awareness and cannot object to their treatment.”
“So, because you’re unable to communicate with them, you assume swine accept being slaughtered and consumed for your benefit?”
“They cannot understand,” he persisted.
“If you encounter humans that do not speak your language, wou
ld you consider them thinking?”
“Of course.”
“Why?”
“Because they are human.”
“Yet humans slaughter humans.”
“But not for food.”
“So, it is not the slaughter that is at issue, it is the consumption?”
Repeatedly clenching and unclenching his fists, Sar-Kyul began to grow flustered at her rejection of a conclusion that should have been self-evident. He decided to try a different line of argumentation: “What if you encountered another race that fed upon—strigoi? You would object.”
“We would not willingly allow ourselves to become fodder, but neither would we blame this race. We do not ascribe morality to the necessity of feeding. Whereas humans hold their needs to be morally acceptable, they do not consider the needs of others similarly.”
“Not when they involve the consumption of thinking beings.”
“If you were ever to be granted true life, I wonder how your opinion would change.”
“I would die first.”
“Hmm.”
The rustling of the tent flap and Dagroth’s appearance put an end to further discussion. The lieutenant said with obvious anticipation and the same nasally tinge, “Your corpse will be displayed for all to stop and piss on it.” To Shayala, he gave a leering look and licked his lips.
Sar-Kyul glanced at Shayala for a sign of coming violence, but she offered Dagroth nothing but a look of such disdain he could almost feel the sentiment like a palpable thing. Dagroth seemed oblivious to the doom presaged by that look, even offering a wink to further provoke her. To Sar-Kyul’s surprise—and relief—she would not be drawn into a confrontation.
Dagroth huffed and spat before abruptly turning and exiting the tent. “Come.”
Sar-Kyul and Shayala rose and followed the lieutenant toward a training area.
The paths between the structures and tents were deserted. A rowdy, intoxicated crowd already lined the perimeter of the space.
Rel’gor stood in the center of the square, swinging a spiked axe-hammer. With each easy swing of the weapon, the crowd roared in appreciation. This was a contest long in the making, and the bettors were scrambling to give odds and take wagers.
Sar-Kyul pushed his way through the raucous crowd, enduring hisses and jeers. He was shoved and punched and grabbed, though Shayala’s blood allowed him to easily push aside any who stood in his path. Shayala followed in his wake, breaking one wrist connected to a groping hand, and stood at the inner edge of the crowd.
Once within the square, Sar-Kyul drew his khopeshes—an act met by a rumbling “Boo.” His right shoulder and arm ached, though, through the aid of the blood, he could at least grip the sword properly. He gave the blade a few testing swings; his arm complied, though he was not eager to see how it would hold up under Rel’gor’s powerful attacks.
The chieftain would give the Moroi Hunter no more time to prepare. He roared and charged. Sar-Kyul, though no small man, appeared almost diminutive near the hulking Rel’gor. The sound of the initial clang of their weapons was drowned out by the roar of the crowd. When Sar-Kyul deflected the initial assault, Rel’gor slowed to take the measure of his opponent. Although the chieftain would not once question his ultimate victory, Sar-Kyul knew Rel’gor would not be so overconfident as to underestimate such a skilled opponent, despite Sar-Kyul’s injury.
Had it not been for Shenla’s gift, Sar-Kyul knew his right arm would have given out under the first blow. His increased sensations amplified the vibrations of the colliding weapons and nearly drove the sword from his right hand. Despite Rel’gor’s reputation for explosive rage, once combat was joined, his training asserted itself, and he did not fight as one mastered by his anger. Rel’gor attacked against Sar-Kyul’s right side, while Sar-Kyul tried to angle his left side toward his opponent.
“We should’ve conquered you weak Moroi Hunters long ago.” Rel’gor punctuated the taunt with a ponderous swing.
Sar-Kyul deflected the weapon with his left khopesh.
Rel’gor grunted as he reversed his swing at Sar-Kyul, whose enhanced reflexes allowed him to easily lean backward and avoid the blow. Rel’gor rotated the shaft to gain more power on the return swing, forcing Sar-Kyul to block with his right khopesh. His sutures broke again, and blood saturated the bandage.
With his accelerated quickness, Sar-Kyul believed he could defeat Rel’gor without difficulty, despite his injury. Although he wanted to bring this contest to a quick end, too swift a victory would make the Silver Blades suspicious. He had to draw out the fight to earn the respect of the tribe, but not draw it out too long lest the effects of the blood wear off. And those effects did not diminish gradually. One moment he would possess superior abilities, and the next he would not.
“Once I kill you, I will slaughter your line and fuck every one of your women,” Rel’gor threatened. “Then use them to breed more Silver Blades.” He glanced over at Shayala. “You, I will fuck your still-warm corpse.”
She gave no response and made no reaction.
“You talk as much as a woman,” Sar-Kyul retorted as he executed a double thrust.
Rel’gor deflected one blade and pivoted his body to avoid the other.
Rel’gor is not without technique, Sar-Kyul thought, though he is accustomed to having his size and strength carry a battle, rather than studied proficiency. Sar-Kyul’s skill prevented Rel’gor from attacking with wide, heavy swings, which would leave the chieftain open to counterattacks, and forced Rel’gor to strike with shorter, measured blows. Still, Rel’gor enjoyed the advantage of reach, made more so by his lengthy axe-hammer.
The exchange of attacks and parries, deflections and dodges continued, with Rel’gor showing many superficial cuts. Sar-Kyul had yet to suffer a wound, and the frustration of the hulking chieftain began to show in his riskier attacks. How can he not be tiring? Sar-Kyul thought bitterly as his right arm began to respond slower and to dip more frequently.
Rel’gor noticed this weakness and moved to take advantage. In a technique that would tire his arm more quickly, he switched to a one-handed grip on his axe-hammer and continued to strike at Sar-Kyul’s left, leaving his own left flank exposed. When Sar-Kyul swung with his right arm, Rel’gor stepped forward and caught Sar-Kyul’s hand.
Without the added strength from the blood, Sar-Kyul knew his wrist would have snapped. As it was, he drew his arm in, such that Rel’gor’s arm was extended, and rotated his wrist, forcing the chieftain to release his grasp. Still, Sar-Kyul was forced to drop his khopesh, and his right arm hung limp.
Rel’gor kicked forward, striking Sar-Kyul in the abdomen and doubling him over. The chieftain followed with a swing of his weapon toward Sar-Kyul’s neck. The Moroi Hunter fell away from the blow but still took a stinging nick in his left shoulder from the axe.
The excitement of the crowd reached a crescendo. Rel’gor advanced and brought down the axe-hammer in a powerful overhead swing. Sar-Kyul rolled away and, in one fluid motion, regained his footing. It’s time to end this, the Moroi Hunter thought.
Both fighters breathed heavily. Sar-Kyul’s left shoulder burned. Rel’gor is obviously tiring, but I’m tiring much more quickly. And he likely won’t tire completely before the blood wears off.
“You’re fortunate,” Rel’gor said, advancing. “You’ll be dead before we crush the Moroi Hunters.”
In a maneuver he had witnessed during Shenla’s contest against Aya, Sar-Kyul met the advance, dropped beneath Rel’gor’s swing, spun, and cut deeply into the back of Rel’gor’s right knee. Rel’gor unleashed a roaring scream and stumbled, falling to one knee.
The crowed inhaled a collective gasp.
Sar-Kyul leapt away to avoid Rel’gor’s reflexive swing. Although the chieftain’s lacerated leg would not support his bulk, Rel’gor tried to rise on only his left leg in sheer defiance of both gravity and his body.
In a sudden, frightening realization, Sar-Kyul knew the effects of Shenla’s blood had expired. H
e lunged forward and stabbed Rel’gor in the lower back. The chieftain grunted and again fell but still gripped his weapon. The crowd had become utterly silent and transfixed.
Sar-Kyul placed a foot atop the haft of the axe-hammer and kicked Rel’gor in the side, dropping the chieftain onto his stomach. Rel’gor turned his head and spat blood. Sar-Kyul drove his blade through the back of Rel’gor’s neck. The chieftain spasmed, then lay still. Sar-Kyul retracted his dripping sword and stumbled backward, falling to his knees in complete exhaustion.
Shayala leapt up and approached Sar-Kyul’s kneeling form, prepared to defend him from anyone who thought to take advantage of his weakened state. She collected his khopeshes.
The crowd, in shock, had yet to make a sound. Then as if a muzzle were lifted, a cacophony exploded from the throng. Although most reacted with anger and unacceptance at Rel’gor’s defeat by a foreigner; some struggled to suppress their elation at the coming windfall from their wagers.
Before a melee could break out, a man of venerable bearing, showing less years remaining to him than already passed, stepped forward. In a voice strong and filled with authority, said he, “The law is clear: No one may offer a new challenge for one month.” His tanned face was creased from weathering, and his neck showed the loose wrinkles of age, though his brown eyes were clear and observant.
Shayala approached the man, and he added, “Though he will likely face a challenge as soon as the law permits.”
In one month, the fate of the Silver Blades will be of no import, Shayala thought. “Who are you?”
“I’m Waylr, the glossator. Rel’gor…” He paused and looked at the slain chieftain, then shifted his gaze to Sar-Kyul. “The chieftain leads, but in matters of interpretation of the law, I am consulted.”