“Well, I’m a Gadalian,” Alana said, feeling blood rush into her cheeks. But she knew Ira was better than that, Ira’s blows were calculated, not hard enough to actually hit her.
“But how about this!” Ira said, and immediately thrusted her sword forward.
Alana tried to block, but Ira’s wrist movement avoided her steel and pressed forward toward her bosom. Alana was not quick enough to block, and Ira stopped an inch from her skin.
“Wow, that was amazing.” Alana stared at the tip of the sword.
“It’s an old trick.”
“You’re good,” Alana said.
“Not that good,” Ira put the sword back, she was panting. “I’m a bit out of shape, I’m more of an archer anyway, but you’re talented.” Ira was right, she was an average Gadalian fighter. With Kassara, Alana could never land a hit, even if she asked her to spare lightly. There were virtually no holes in her defence, and her counters were so quick Alana never saw them coming.
Alana smiled, although she was not as good as any of them. The steel in her hand and seeing herself improve bit by bit didn’t only make her feel powerful, it made her feel closer to her mother and father.
Alana practised all night, and slept only when her shoulders started to get numb. She was surprised when Ira shook her up with the first rays of the sun. Alana opened her eyes wearily and stretched.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“It’s time for breakfast. Eat today’s cheese and sausage or else I’ll eat your portion first. I like to eat, if you haven’t noticed.”
Their journey continued for hours, and Alana was starting to get tired of the same landscape. As they rode on, a few yurts appeared in the distance. Alana was curious to find out if it was the tribe they called the Sons of Hanaz. As they approached, Alana noticed those were not yurts, but small, makeshift tents with black flags on top.
“What are they?” she asked wearily, yelling so that Ira could hear her from twenty yards away.
“Hunters or . . . No . . . Bandits,” Ira said, pulling the reins, guiding the horse to turn eastwards.
Alana shrugged to herself and did the same. Both horses deviated from their initial direction. She wondered how she could use the wind and the sun so masterfully, especially when there were no landmarks in the vast steppe.
As they rode, Alana heard a horn ring behind her and turned her head in curiosity.
Suddenly, two riders loped out of the makeshift tents, riding haste. She did not get a glimpse of what they looked like. At their sight, she spurred, feeling the wind smack into her cheeks.
“Don’t worry,” Ira yelled from her horse, they’re not as fast as we.
Alana spurred furiously, grasping to control the reins, and she trusted Ira, they were far away. Bandits were never a good sight.
“Wait!” Ira said, bracing her horse quickly. It neighed and rose on two legs as it shifted to the side. Alana noticed black rocks, like menhirs and boulders on the steppe ahead. She narrowed her eyes, sensing something was not right.
Two black horses emerged, as if springing out of a hole in the ground. Their riders wore clothes of animal fur, their hair was brown and long, their faces sporting untrimmed beards. They both held recurve bows in their hands and quivers and swords dangled from their belts. They rode toward them, from the opposite side. Now, they were coming from East and West.
“Quick!” Ira yelled, pulling the reins Northward and spurring hard. Alana followed along, spurring frantically.
Then, she heard the buzzing sound of arrows pass by her ear.
She swallowed.
“Come on, boy, gotta go fast!” she screamed, as if her horse could understand. She grasped the reins firmly, her heart pounding, and kept pressing the side of her horse. It galloped nervously. Arrows buzzed by her, and she looked back for an instant, they were drawing near, and worse, the four horsemen were readily aiming their arrows at them.
Ira turned her face, she skilfully untied the bow from her back and took an arrow from the quiver by her hip. She aimed with the recurve bow, twisting her spine and neck, trying to aim. She contorted, as if the move caused her pain. She changed her approach, and guided her horse to slow down, turning right, aiming and shooting. Alana kept riding, and could not see whether the rider was down, but suddenly, she felt a sudden shift in weight, as if her horse had sunken into a precipice, its body twisting to the side.
Then she heard a buzz close to her, slightly below her face. Her eyes slid down and noticed an arrow penetrating her horse’s neck. It neighed. In the blink of an eye, the horse collapsed. She felt her body sway as if being shot from a catapult and flew to the side, rolling over the grass.
Chapter XIV - The Survivor
Florianus took a deep breath, while the sunlight bathed his garden with pure light. The day was splendidly blue, with sparse clouds pierced by cool breezes. An august tree provided him with shade, and the flowers he had brought from the Eastern routes blossomed around. His small study table stood in front, with a vase of infused water, and the tomes of his rigorous study. He moved his seat forward and grabbed one of the leather-bound books. He opened it carefully. The old cuneiform writings were as fresh as when they were painted three hundred years prior. To the untrained eye, those precise strokes looked no different than mere triangles and wedges painted all over a piece of papyrus; nonetheless, that was the script of the great Eastern Empires of elder ages, the oldest one known to man, and maybe the one inherited from the time when the Gods fought the Giants of the earth.
On a new empty notebook of hemp paper, Florianus had drawn the alphabetical equivalent of each sound. He had learned the Eastern Language, at least the most modern variant, from one of his army colleagues, the same one who had introduced him to the Cult of the Hero.
He sighed, as his progress was slow, and the text confusing, but he kept going, even as the feeling of a tired mind started creeping up his brain. After all, he had lost a great deal of money scouting for that sacred text. It had been miraculously preserved by a pious soldier when the Great Library of Kan Digirak was burnt to the ground.
The few pages he had translated dealt with valiant horseback warriors, their hearts pure and noble, their bodies sturdy and prepared for war. They battled wicked dragons of the skies, and floating castles that spat fire and could set entire towns ablaze. It dealt with monsters made of clay and iron, and holy princesses with flowing black hair that guarded enchanted chalices. But those fantasies or dreams were only symbols of the fundamental struggles of mankind. He believed the dragon was the archetypal symbol of the destroying barbarian, the eternal scourge of civilization.
When he turned the page, he encountered a unique symbol. It was a type of sigil. He narrowed his eyes and tried his best to translate it. Bit by bit, the meaning revealed itself. It was called the Seal of the Protector. As he kept patiently reading, the text spoke of wicked monsters created from black magic and the blood of fallen heroes. Those men had been the great kings of the first ages, but a desire for power and immortality blinded them. Through endless sacrifices and secret blood rituals, on which they gave away their bodies and consciences, they gained immense power and magical abilities, which they used to reduce mankind to the cruellest slavery.
The great demigods fought along the gods of heaven, riding chariots of fire and wielding enchanted swords, and the God of Fire gave them that sigil to serve as an emblem and protection. The sigil looked like an eight-spoked wheel guarded with seven incomplete circles, each on top of the other, and in the inner part, a hexagram. He did not know much of magic, but he was sure it held some type of occult symbolism. He would later consult with the Acolyte, but for now, he wanted to focus on the story.
He scratched his chin. Those evil monsters could represent human savagery, the rejection of decency and civilization in favour of barbarism, and the godly warriors were the civilizing forces of ancient empires. As someone well versed in ancient studies, he knew that existence went about in cyc
les. In the current cycle of time, he was sure that the Itruschian Empire represented the golden warriors.
He hoped that the time was coming, on which the entire world would become Itruschian.
Suddenly, he heard steps behind him, and the clanking of metal armour. He sighed. He hated being interrupted, and kept his eyes focused on the text.
“Sir,” a voice callously interrupted his study. He clenched his fist and placed it gently over the table.
He stood up, almost dropping the stool behind him, and turned with crossed arms.
“What is it, soldier? This better be good.”
“Sir.” The soldier lowered his head. “Six soldiers came from the Border Guard, one of them claims to have survived an ambush from you know who.”
“I know who? Who is that who I am supposed to know about?”
“The fugitives, the blonde girl, and . . .”
The news hit him like a barrel of freezing water. Florianus let out a long breath and clenched his teeth.
“Enough! Where are they?”
“At your office, sire.”
“Alright, I am going now.”
He felt like a fool for not finding the fugitives in the four months of his tenure, and them turning up alive and well. For a moment, he thought burning down the forest had worked. He thought they had perished in the inferno.
He entered the villa. Five border patrol soldiers stood in his office, wearing their full segmented armours, but no helmets. They stood facing the gate, with the marble eagle that adorned the hall behind them.
“Soldiers,” Florianus said, marching into the room, with his arms on the back.
“Sire.” The five stood firm. Florianus noticed another soldier, that one was sitting on a stool with a base of hardened leather. His arms and head were wrapped in gauzes, where he had received a blow that had not killed him by a mere miracle.
“What happened?” Florianus asked dryly.
“Sir,” the soldiers declared. “The comrade here was . . .”
“If he has a story to tell, let him tell it himself,” Florianus snapped. The soldiers kept quiet. Florianus observed the wounded soldier from above.
“Sir, those women came in the night, when we least expected. They attacked by surprise. They came like animals, killing left and right. They took the slaves and the horses. I . . . I was the only one who survived.”
“I knew it.” Florianus scratched his shaved chin. Larius had been foolish, his meaningless sadism, his desire to let those savages starve and suffer instead of killing them on the spot had turned them into a bigger problem. Now, those savages were on the run.
“How many were they?”
“First five, five came in and attacked it. There were many others.”
“Five people? Five people defeated an entire garrison?”
“Sir.” The man bowed his head. “They . . . They are armed, and very powerful.”
“Those disgusting pieces of scum. We shall destroy them.”
He thought it unlikely that the Gadalian tribes that dwelled beyond the border could decide to attack. Even if they did, they were too weak to be a problem, Larius had been dealing with them for long, weakening them with pests and spies in their councils. They would not be foolish enough to start an invasion. Florianus thought of sending a scouting troop to check whether the fugitives were there. He could get them extradited back to Tharcia, and if the barbarians in the area were assisting them, he could kill two birds with one stone.
Florianus turned around and clapped his hands. “Send an emissary to the Provincial Capital, we’re going out of the border, and let’s put an end to those traitors once and for all.
Chapter XV - Fates Entwined
Alana gasped, staring at the two approaching riders, whose hands grasped recurve bows and long arrows. She ducked again, ignoring the pain on her sides, and quickly reached for her dragon blade and unsheathed. She used it to support herself, and stood up with a groan.
One of the riders guided his horse with his knees, slowing down and circling around her. The other had an arrow aimed at her body. Alana felt her heart pound fast. She would not give up that easily. Alana held the blade forward, ready to engage.
But they put their arrows away, storing them back in the quiver. They surely did not want to kill and rob her. No, they wanted a slave they could sell.
They dismounted quickly, like expert acrobats. One of them took rusty shackles from his saddle, the other, unsheathing a fine sword of bronze, descended confidently. The man’s hair was brown and tied into dreadlocks, his beard long and greasy.
Alana held her position, her feet in battle stance.
The sword bearer jumped at her. She stepped back and parried the blow, following the blade, feeling it and ready to counter if he attempted an attack. When he pulled back his sword, Alana sprung forward, letting out a roar from the insides, aiming at her enemy’s stomach.
But the enemy’s body stopped short, his knees failed and he fell down, gasping for air. Alana braced herself. A long arrow had pierced through man’s neck, coming out from his Adam’s apple, and dark blood flowed out of it, like aged wine from a broken barrel.
Another thud burst on her side, she looked around. The man holding the shackles had an arrow going right through his skull, his eyes turned white, as he tumbled down.
Alana looked around. Ira was riding fast toward her, with her bow on one hand. She stopped and climbed down swiftly.
Alana straightened and sheathed her sword.
“Ira . . . I was ready to take them on!” she complained. “Why did you have to do that?”
“Alana, are you hurt?”
Alana realised a dull pain covered all over her back, she took a step forward and groaned.
“Are you okay?” Ira came to her aid.
“Ouch,” Alana growled, squeezing one eye.
“I don’t think . . . Ouch . . . I broke anything. It just hurts.”
A painful neigh sounded by them. Alana’s horse
Alana noticed her horse was on the ground, bobbing its head in a frenzy, and waving his back legs, trying to stand. It had an arrow through the neck, and a rivet of blood stained its white hair.
“Oh, gods above,” she said, running toward it. She held the reins and pulled to the side, trying to help it to its feet, but she noticed her front leg had been twisted. He tried to get it on the floor, but it did not move like the rest.
She knelt by it, and realized its shape was not right.
“Ira, I think there’s something wrong with him?”
Ira knelt next to her, extending her hand to examine it, and touched its white lower left softly. Alana could see the tension in her eyes. Ira sighed, shutting her eyes for an instant. “Alana, his leg shattered. Even if he survives the arrow, he won’t survive that. There’s no way for him to keep going.”
“What?” Alana said. “And, we cannot leave him, can we?” Alana raised her face. She felt her skin tense.
“Little guy, please be still,” Ira said, rubbing its stomach, the horse moved his limbs and head in pain.
Ira stood up, her head down.
“Please shut your eyes, Alana.”
“Is there no other way?”
Ira pulled an arrow and sunk it through the horses’ brain.
Alana held her eyes shut, and felt tears filter through her eyelashes.
“Let’s go,” Ira said, mounting on her horse and calling Alana to her side.
***
Alana clung to Ira’s body, her gaze low, lost in the endless sea of grass and earth, as Tistriya’s hooves galloped in the great wide plains. She kept telling herself it was nothing, but she felt endlessly sorry for the horse. For an instant, she thought it was ironic, she had already killed more than half a dozen men, and she felt little remorse, and they were overshadowed by the horse. What had she become? Was she even a good person? She was convinced that her cause was good, but why did it have to come to t
hat?
Part of her said they had it coming.
But the men of her village did not deserve what happened to them, nor did the horse. The road went on. They rested under the stars for another night, and after a copious dinner, they slept.
Alana dreamed she had killed the horse, herself that guilt overwhelmed her, and she woke up before sunset, her heart pounding fast and her breath short and shallow. Ira was by her side, snoring with her mouth open. Alana sighed and sunk her face between her own knees, circling her forearms around her legs. The happiness she had felt the previous days vanished. She felt alone, she missed Kassius and her father. How could she be the one to answer for so many people? She was not even strong enough, she was thankful for Ira’s help, she wanted to believe she could have taken on the bandits by herself, but she did not, and could not forgive herself.
She knew she could be a great warrior one day. She was happy with her progress, but to be herself, the one who had been called on by the gods to liberate the people of Adachia, she had to be much better. She was not up to what people expected of her. What she expected of herself.
The night was long and she did not sleep. Ira awoke with the sunrise, she jumped to her feet, eyeing Alana, who stared at the blue and pink heavens, as if begging for an answer.
“Good morning,” Ira muttered. Her hair was more dishevelled than ever. She then stretched her arms and yawned, then blinked and wiped the sleep from her eyes. She furrowed her brow.
“Alana, are you feeling fine?”
Alana tensed her lips. If Ira knew how she was feeling, she would probably think she was unfit. Or did she already think that? She was being treated like a little girl once again. What was she, anyway, a brave and powerful leader, or a girl who didn’t get the life she wanted.
But no, she had to let it go, no matter what, she needed someone to understand her before having people think of her as something grand and powerful that she never was.
“I am sad,” Alana said.
“Is it because of the horse?”
Iron and Flame Page 10