by Jeff Gunzel
“And I assume you just ran away like a coward,” she said as she placed an accusing finger on his forehead. He merely whimpered while averting his eyes away from her accusing gaze. Athel screwed her finger and pressed into him hard before spinning away in disgust. She began her pacing once again while thinking out loud.
“So a mortally wounded man took out four of our top scouts. No doubt he interrogated the one he captured,” she turned again to face him, “and let the coward go free because one capture was all that was needed to gain information.” The man lowered his head in shame once more.
Her beads rattled as she shook her head. “But what I don’t understand is why he attacked you in the first place. You were only sent to bring back reports of the crytons’ latest voodoo nonsense, more accounts of these trials of witchcraft used to justify children’s stories written by madmen hundreds of years ago.”
The Dronin had known about the crytons’ existence for some time now, regularly gathering reports from the scouts sent to spy on them. Lord Corzon’s paranoia had led to constant suspicion of everyone, no matter their proximity to the city, but he especially kept a close eye on them, given their special abilities and tendencies with magic. Those were the sort of things humans were extremely limited in, much less having the knowledge or ability to defend against.
“If this man was as gravely injured as you say, and still took the risk of confronting you even though he was completely outnumbered, he must have had a dire reason,” Athel said to no one as she rubbed her chin in thought. “You weren’t robbed, and seeing as how he captured one of you alive for questioning, that leaves only one remaining possibility.”
She turned and walked straight up to the man, tenderly placing a hand on his cheek. When he began to lower his head, she gently raised his chin with her other hand, not letting his eyes escape hers. Leaning in close, she whispered in his ear, “You saw something—something you weren’t supposed to see. Now you’re going to tell me what it was.” She backed away slowly, keeping her knowing eyes locked on his.
The man began to tremble as a stream of urine ran down his leg, forming a small puddle around his ankle. Athel’s expression never changed, nor did she look down at it a single time while waiting patiently for the answer to this mystery. “I saw him. We saw him,” the poor man stammered as his uncontrollable shaking became even more apparent.
“Saw who?” Athel questioned as a look of impatient curiosity fully replaced her anger.
“The one they call the Gate Keeper,” he muttered, as if he didn’t believe his own words. He went on briskly, as if to dispel her obvious doubts. “I know what this sounds like. We couldn’t believe our own eyes, but it’s true!”
His eyes began to go out of focus as he relived the supernatural scene in his mind. “The crytons...they were performing that ritual that we’ve seen before. But that man! He responded differently than the others. He—”
“He what? What?! Tell me!” she shouted impatiently before watching his gaze focus to a single spot over her shoulder. Athel slowly turned around, even though there was no need. She knew exactly who was standing behind her, but not how long he’d been listening.
Corzon’s dark eyes bore deep into Athel’s like sharp blades. “I would ask you what business you have questioning my prisoner, but we both know the answer to that, don’t we?” he said smoothly. She began to reply, but not a single word left her lips. “None!” he roared as a vicious backhand sent her sprawling to the floor.
She lay there for a moment or two before rolling back over and looking up to face her father. A sheepish grin split her face as she wiggled her lower jaw with one hand while using the other to rise back to her feet. This was far from the first time he had struck her, and certainly far from the last.
“So,” she said, getting right to the point. “Exactly how long have you been listening to me doing your job?” She braced a moment for the inevitable backhand she may have actually deserved that time. When a ferocious cold glare seemed to be the only action forthcoming, she continued, “It appears to me you’ve had this man beaten, not because of any doubts regarding his explanation of the events that took place in the Dead Forest, but simply because you didn’t want to hear his explanation.” She moved up close to Corzon while her dark eyes penetrated his. In an airy whisper, she said, “What if his claims are true? What if he actually has borne witness to the Gate Keeper?”
“Then he has gone mad!” her father roared as he shoved her aside while drawing his sword.
“No!” she screamed while trying to grab his sword arm, but only caught the back of his shoulder as the quick thrust rang true. The shackled man let out a soft gurgle as Corzon gave the blade a full twist to the right, then pulled it from his throat. If nothing else, the instant kill was fast and merciful. “Why? Why did you do that?” she screamed as her beaded hair rattled angrily. “I saw no lie in his eyes. He believed what he saw.”
“You saw madness...nothing else.” he replied angrily. “Of course he believed what he saw. His mind was completely broken—from the horrors within the Dead Forest, or this wounded axe-wielding killer, or who knows what.”
He marched across the room and snatched Athel by her shoulders while bringing his face dangerously close to hers. He said in a low growl, “There are already rumors of this Gate Keeper running rampant throughout the city. False reports are becoming more and more frequent, even from beyond the borders of the city. I don’t need the ramblings of a madman aiding a rumor that is already gaining strength by the day.” He shoved her aside then stormed from the room.
Athel leaned against the stone wall and eyed the fresh corpse still hanging limply from the cuffs. Her thoughts were not of pity for the man, who clearly didn’t deserve his fate. No, her disappointment strung from the fact he could no longer be questioned. He had not been lying; of that she was sure. As to whether or not he was mad, she would have liked more time to determine if that claim were true. It was certainly possible. You know, Father, the Gate Keeper might be real. With that thought, she decided it was time to cross blades with a few of the soldiers, just to relieve some frustration, of course.
* * *
Athel marched through the white, dust-covered streets as blasts of cold air rattled her beaded hair. The winds never really stopped, only slowed in-between bursts, giving her a chance to get her sense of direction before having to squint tightly against the frosty wind yet again. The few who roamed the streets gave a quick nod as they passed, knowing full well who Corzon’s daughter was. She didn’t even notice most of the time, due to constant squinting against the elements and the very real distraction of what she had just witnessed. A little fun in the arena will take my mind off things.
Dronin viewed the games differently than other cities. Warriors were held in high regard no matter their rank or position in society. In fact, slaves sold into the games considered themselves lucky to be stationed here in the war-obsessed city. Here, they would share quarters with the regular soldiers, and would even be given a chance to join their ranks if they could prove their worth —a very realistic possibility, given that skill with a blade always proved a better gauge for judging character than morality ever would.
The arena bustled with activity as it usually did, no matter the time of day. Even when tournaments were not taking place, it was used daily by soldiers and slaves alike to perfect their craft, a craft that held the key to an unpredictable future. For a soldier on the battlefield, life and death could be determined in a fraction of a second. A countermove one man had practiced at full speed ten thousand times before, hoping his foe had only utilized it five thousand, could be the key to staying alive. For a practitioner of the games, the threat of death was always present, but the chance to win one’s freedom or even join the city’s military far exceeded the fear of a shortened life, so the inhuman training was taken quite seriously, given what was at stake.
This afternoon was no different. Dozens of shirtless men feverishly yet gracefully danced acro
ss the hard, cold sand. The clacking of wooden swords echoed off the lower stone walls as well as the rows and rows of sturdy wooden benches that scaled in levels on and on up the marvelous structure. The wood, used to seat thousands, was a sign of how much the games were held in such high regard. Wood, while not exactly rare, was not especially plentiful either, and to use so much for anything...
The high walls kept the freezing wind from blasting the combatants, so even though it was still plenty cold, going shirtless through the rigorous routines was not nearly as harsh as it would appear. In fact, sweating profusely while wearing a shirt was considered far more dangerous in the cold, thin air.
Through days and weeks of practicing with the Dronin soldiers, almost all of the slaves had taken to wielding dual blades as opposed to the traditional sword and shield style. Defensive strategies were considered an unnecessary gamble by most of these warriors, and why not? Their gifted bodies were far bigger and stronger than most, so simply going toe-to-toe with any of them was never advisable. Their naturally long reach and preference for two weapons put foes back on their heels before the first blow ever fell. It was a distinct disadvantage most warriors would never overcome, no matter their skill set.
Athel leaned patiently against the thick wood framing the entrance as she watched the half-naked men clacking away at each other, each strike and counter so fierce, it seemed their very lives were on the line, but this was the standard intensity level each and every day. A warrior’s pride was on the line at all times, whether whirling his blades as if they were part of his very life force or making love to a woman who would soon forget the names and faces of every other man who had ever felt her touch. The men took no shame in losing a drill, as long as they put forth their best effort. Every stinging blow was a lesson learned; every blow landed, a step closer to perfection.
Athel’s breath began to come in long, deep bursts, her chest rising and falling visibly as she watched the sweaty men make their dance of death seem poetic and effortless. Her silver front teeth flashed a little sparkle in the afternoon light as she hungrily ran her tongue across them with an open mouth. Whether the graceful scene triggered the yearning of a man’s touch or a deep, primal bloodlust, even she could not say. But one thing was certain: as much as she loved to watch, participating was all the sweeter. Now, where are Hasur and Timith? Even as the question entered her head, she was sure of the answer.
She turned back the way she came and floated down the stone ramp, moving stealthily, like an assassin in the night. Athel’s sleek, stalking movements hadn’t been by choice for many years now. Her passion to be the best had now flowed into her private life, and she was a warrior even when she slept.
Torches flickering to her right and left illuminated her path instead of the usually abundant oil lamps that were almost always used. She was perfectly aware of their usual hiding place, yet could already hear their angry whispers giving away their location.
“Don’t you think you were going a bit hard today?” said Hasur in a harsh, forced whisper. The tall, skinny man towered over the other, his dark eyes flashing with anger. With both hands high against the gray stone wall and his body in close, he seemed to have Timith trapped with nowhere to go.
“Who are you to complain of a little competition?” asked Timith as he easily thrust the other man back with a quick, hard push, nearly causing him to fall. The much shorter man was nearly as wide as he was tall. A thick, dark beard and mustache couldn’t hide his scowl. “I recall almost losing my head out there more than once. But if I’m too rough a sparring partner, then perhaps one of the serving girls is available. Hey...perhaps even one of the children could take my place!”
Hasur rushed back in with lightning speed, his hand pinning Timith’s head against the stone wall as he looked hard into his eyes. “Perhaps I should take your heart next time,” he whispered in a much softer, more distracted tone than before.
The stout man didn’t seem to be struggling much. His gaze held a subtle softness to it. “I’m afraid you’ve already done that,” said Timith as he began to lean his head forward. Wrapping his hands gently around the back of the other man’s shoulders, their lips came within inches of one another.
They leapt apart as if an explosion had occurred between them when the subtle sound of a throat clearing warned of an additional presence in the room. Faces filled with panic turned quickly, only to melt into warmth and relief when they saw Athel leaning against the wall. The smile splitting her face held as much amusement as it did warmth for seeing her two close friends. “Am I interrupting a lovers’ quarrel? Perhaps I should come back at a more ‘convenient’ time,” she said as her eyebrows flittered up and down.
“You know you are always welcome in our chambers, my lady,” said Hasur as he strolled over to her and embraced his friend tightly.
“Please...save the formalities for public eyes and ears. You know my name,” she said as she returned the embrace.
“Forgive us, Athel, we tend to forget ourselves on occasion,” said Timith as he moved swiftly to replace Hasur in the hug. “And to what do we owe this wonderful surprise this fine afternoon?”
Athel just grinned a moment as she eyed each one up and down. “Truth be told, I have an itch that needs to be scratched. Gentlemen...let’s dance.”
* * *
This was one of the few spectacles that could stop these men from their grueling regimens. A small crowd gathered around as Athel began to grind her lead foot into the firm, cold sand. She slowly twisted the ball of her foot right, then left, then right again. At last seeming to be satisfied with the traction, she slowly reached behind her back.
A slow snake-like hiss filled the air before she returned with two beautiful half-moon blades in hand. “You know we don’t use steel, my lady,” came a playful taunt from one of the watching brutes. Of course she had no intention of sparring with real weapons, yet alone using her one-of-a-kind set. She just liked the attention she got when drawing them in front of others.
“A shame, I thought you were all men,” she replied in the same playful manner. “In that case, I will cater to your cowardice.” The men laughed as she tossed her blades aside. After catching the wooden sparring short-swords thrown her direction, she instantly began to whirl them in individual circles to her left and right.
Around her back and over her head, the wild juggling act continued as more men stopped doing the very thing they were born to do and walked over to admire the girl’s dazzling skill. She suddenly stopped as the whooshing sound of cutting air halted, now holding them crossed out in front of her face. She peeked left, then right, before shouting, “How can you men use these sticks? The balance is terrible.”
Laughter had just begun its contagious ripple through the group when she lunged at Timith and Hasur, who were standing side by side. They weren’t completely caught off guard, as they were fully aware of her sneaky tactics. Luckily, each had their wooden swords in hand, although low and pressed in the sand as lazy supports. However, their recovery was lightning-quick, as each had spent years in service, and besting either one was no small feat for any man, this being one of the reasons they were always partnered together.
With her high slashes to each one’s head parried easily with a loud clack, the three spared a moment to exchange cat-like grins. With surprising explosiveness, she thrust their interlocked swords back with a single push, but followed immediately with a series of snake-like strikes, both high and low. Each was parried with the loud clacking sound of wood on wood, but the strikes came so rapidly that neither of the men could mount any offensive counter. True, she was using two weapons while they each only had one, but that should not have made this much difference.
As she pressed her relentless assault with fury and speed like no other, the men figured it was time to change tactics. If the position remained, they had the speed and skill to negate her furious assault, but they needed to spread out in order to “test” her properly.
Timith dove lef
t while Hasur dove right, quickly rising to their feet from the side- rolls, flanking her from each side. The idea was to attack from each side simultaneously, but she had seen this maneuver literally hundreds of times and was more than ready for it.
She turned hard on Timith and unleashed an offensive flurry. Three hard slashes out of a lightning-quick seven found home across his chest and shoulder, staggering the stout man while driving him back a few steps. She whirled like a tornado to intercept the downward slash coming from behind, one she felt more than saw.
Deflecting Hasur’s sword high into the air, she kicked backward like a mule, sending Timith completely out of the picture with a well-placed shot to his chest. With the one real chance he had now gone, she covered the poor man with lightning-fast pitter-patter shots that looked to have far more force than they actually did. With Timith out of the fight for even a couple of seconds, the rest was academic. She surely had no intent of hurting her friend as she pounded away at him.
“I yield. I yield!” he cried out as he threw his wooden sword into the sand. He fell to the ground and covered his head in playful submission. All the men laughed as Athel continued to poke his ribs, tickling him every time he shifted position. Even though all were laughing, there was no shame in losing to Athel, for she had done this to many of them.
Kisses being blown her direction and mock bows followed the quick sparring session as she made her way out of the arena. She turned one last time before exiting, blowing a series of playful kisses into the air, all of which were returned, followed by whistling and marriage proposals.
The mighty daughter of Corzon Thenalra was respected and admired by all the soldiers of Dronin, perhaps even more respected than Lord Thenalra himself.
Chapter 3
The doorknob turned ever so slowly, until a light clicking from the latch promised escape was within reach. The wooden door creaked open just a crack at first. A single eye peeked through the slight opening, searching back and forth while making absolutely sure the coast was clear. When enough confidence had finally filled the little girl, she sprung from the old stone cottage.