by Robert Day
But Kalamar had an edge: the prone form of Faith he could see out of his periphery, lying face down to show the growing stain of crimson on her white shirt, and every time he glimpsed it, his resolve hardened and he intensified his attacks. He felt as if he had been cheated of his first real encounter with love, something he had never let himself feel before, cruelly torn away from him now. He forgot his training in the cold fury that gripped him, but his abilities were instinctive and natural, and he fought like he had not fought in many years, and even in his pain he could feel the thrill of reaching his peak, each move not just a single action but a flowing dance as one form flowed into another, graceful but deadly.
The other figure must have realized he was no match for Kalamar, but he fought on, as if doggedly trying to prove himself, or realizing the match was indeed to the death, and there was no backing off, now. Kalamar had him bleeding from several small cuts, not bad but painful and infuriating, making him suffer slowly.
It was not until almost too late Kalamar realized the man was not just fighting defensively to stay alive, but to stall for time. During the frantic melee, he had turned the imposter about, and backed him to the far end of the bedroom. It was only a sudden change in the man’s features that made him react: a look of shock and a whispered plea, as if dreading what was going to happen, but Kalamar knew it was not from the fate he was about to deal him. He became alerted to the new presence, knowing the fury into which he had lapsed had made him miss it at first, and he rolled to his left, across a bed. A blinding flash and a concussive force knocked him into the wall as he rolled between two beds, followed by a booming crash, like lightning striking, and an intense heat.
He might have passed out momentarily from the force of hitting the wall, because the first thing he came aware of was a burning pain in his side, and a numbness down his back, His ears were ringing, and his head was pounding, and he could smell an acrid scent in the air. He rolled away from the wall he was facing and the room came into view, or what was left of the room. A thick pall of smoke filled it now, oozing slowly out of the window, which had shattered outwards from the explosion. Shards of wood and burnt bedding were littered across the floor, and a dark smear lined the nearby walls, the wood looking burnt. There was no sign of the imposter he had fought, or the second figure who must have triggered the explosion. The door to the room was blasted open. He could hear calls and shouts rising up through the window, though vague and intermittent, as his hearing tried to sort through the ringing.
Faith! He saw her lying as she was before, though shards of wood lay about and over her. He began to rise, but his legs were numbed and he was forced to crawl. The first movement brought a lancing pain through his already numbed body, and he looked down to find a long sliver of bloodied wood sticking through his side, the sharp point dripping blood onto the floor. He could feel the thick fragment inside him, and reached behind him to feel a hand span of wood protruding from his back. Dimly aware the wound was bad, he gritted his teeth and looked upon the still form of his lover, and pulled. Pain so intense consumed him, and it was through willpower alone that he stayed conscious, though his eyes found it hard to focus. Somehow he found the strength to rise back onto his hands and knees and continue his crawl across the room.
It seemed like an eternity before he was by her side, and he gently reached out to her still form, as if she were sleeping and he didn’t want to wake her. He was crying but the tears passed unnoticed, as he gently rolled her over and pulled her body to his. His body was shaking, through shock and through the anguish he felt so deeply, and he smoothed the dark hair from her pale face, whispering softly, pleadingly for her to wake. There was life in her yet, he knew that, could feel it somehow, but like the chill of winter in spring it was fading fast.
Suddenly his eyes focused on an object lying nearby, and he saw it was the small container of ointment he had used on Eric earlier, and hope sent a glimmer of desperation through him. Lowering Faith back to the floor, he rolled her onto her side and then crawled to the vial, dragging himself as much as using his legs, until he was back at her side with it. Removing the cap with shaking hands, he quickly began to apply the unguent to the slender gash, where it mixed with the fresh blood, but he kept rubbing and applying more, softly praying for the aid of whatever gods might be listening.
“Come on, please. Please work. Damn you, aid me now, Varella, I beg of you. Let her live!”
His pleas to the Goddess of healing became a litany as he continued to apply the ointment, and how long he continued to do it for, he was unsure, because after a time, his beaten body failed him and he fell into unconsciousness, even as the distant sounds of shouting and booted feet heralded the arrival of help, or at least he hoped it was help, but darkness caught him in its grip, and he thought dimly that it was fitting if Faith was to die, he was too.
“Ready for a swim?”
Andrak eyed Janantar askance as he sat with his legs dangling over the side of the Elfship, his bootless feet feeling the cold of the ocean water, and he gave a rueful nod.
“You know I can’t stow the Elfship and risk it being discovered, Andrak. This way, after I remove the Gem, I will capsize it and it will sink to the bottom of the ocean, never to be found.”
“Well, let’s get on with this. My feet are freezing already.” In fact the water was tolerable, and was getting more bearable by the minute, but he was dreading the initial plunge into the dark water. “Just remember you are guiding me, so don’t swim too fast.”
“Swimming is not one of my strongest points, Andrak, but we will make it. It is less than a thousand paces, by my estimate, but we may have drifted closer while the sun set. I couldn’t risk anybody seeing us, though, for obvious reasons.”
“All right, let’s do this,” reiterated Andrak, knowing it was going to be a long swim, and better to get it over with. Overhead, the twin moons both glowed brightly, but their passage across the heavens was marred by high cloud, which had dumped rain on them the previous day. There was a little light for Andrak to see by, but it was not much. He was a good swimmer, and was not afraid of the water, just what the water held.
With an almost reverent grace, Janantar freed the Gem from its niche, packing it safely away in his pack after the slight shock of the boat hitting the water had passed, though Andrak almost fell in and capsized the boat prematurely as it pitched to one side under his weight. Janantar countered for it, however, and when he was ready, he motioned for Andrak to climb out of the boat. With a grimace, Andrak did, but held onto the boat to conserve energy while Janantar slipped into the dark water beside him.
“Ready? Let’s tip it over.”
With a heave, the two rolled the ship until the dark water began to flow in over the side, making their task easier as it began to fill rapidly. Slowly the Elfship filled and was slowly consumed by the dark water.
“Let’s go.” Janantar gave Andrak a reassuring smile as the two set off towards the distant shore, or at least where Andrak hoped was the distant shore. It may have been just water, but Andrak made no comment about the moisture that ran down the Elf’s face as he swam past.
Armed and clothed as they were, the swim was soon a matter of fighting the exhaustion of aching muscles. It was with a feeling of immense relief when Andrak felt the sandy shore catch at his feet and he stood, glad he was still waist deep in the water so he did not fall over when his burning legs did not support him on the first attempt. He half swam, half pushed himself to the shore where he lay on his back, the cool water lapping around him, but he was too tired to move any more. He felt like he could sleep for a couple of days.
“No rest yet, Andrak. Not until we clear the beach. Then we will eat and rest.”
“We have nothing to eat,” reminded Andrak softly, but with a smile as he took Janantar’s proffered hand and rose with a groan. His legs pleaded with him to drop back down onto the soft sand and rest, but he could see the reasoning behind Janantar’s logic and slowly followed the Elf,
who seemed not in the least bit exhausted from the swim.
How far they walked, Andrak did not know or really care, but he assumed it was not as far as his tired legs would have him believe. When Janantar did stop, it was in a small copse of trees, the sandy ground an indication of their proximity to the beach, but it seemed to satisfy the Elf.
“Well, at least the ground will be soft,” muttered Andrak, feeling in better cheer than he would have expected after having just swum for an hour in the dark. He lowered his lightened pack, which still felt like it weighed twice as much as it really did, and sank onto the sandy ground. The evening was pleasant, not warm and with no wind to give him a chill from being still drenched, but he had no dry clothes to change into.
“Hang your clothes up to dry. I will be back soon.” Janantar was standing, unfurling his bow, which had been wrapped in an oiled cloth to keep the harmful ocean water from it. Andrak had wondered why the cloth had been on the craft to start with, but assumed it was a common practice for the Elves, a safeguard for the protection of their precious weapons. A dozen arrows he had wrapped with it, leaving the others to their watery grave with the boat, but he merely took one before slipping into the darkness. Used to Janantar’s ways, Andrak grudgingly removed his clothes in the darkness and hung them over a low branch, along with his spare shirt from his pack. Then, in only his small clothes, he sat back to rest, his back against one of the trees and his feet digging into the sandy ground for warmth.
How long Janantar was away he was not sure, but the Elf’s hand on his shoulder woke him with a start, and he gave a groan as he stretched his aching neck. He had fallen asleep sitting down. Though tired, he did notice the large rabbit Janantar carried, and his stomach gave a well-timed grumble.
“Think you can get a fire going? Here’s my tinder and flint.”
Taking the dried fire lighting material and suppressing a yawn, he went about gathering some of the nearby sticks and leaves, finding them mostly dry. He set them in a small hole he dug into the sand and set the leaves and twigs in layers, and after only a few tries, had a small fire burning. Obviously Janantar had seen nothing while hunting to make him cautious enough to go without a fire, or maybe the Elf was as hungry as Andrak, and did not care who saw their fire, as long as he had a warm meal in his stomach.
After the meal, Janantar told Andrak to get some sleep, which the Prince set about doing without complaint. He knew Janantar would wake him if something happened, so he set his bedroll close to the fire, feeling the chill slowly leaving his body. He hoped his clothes and boots would be dry by the morning, because he didn’t feel like walking in wet boots. As had been the case for many nights recently, his thoughts were of Kitara as he drifted off to sleep, and his dreams were filled with her being tortured and hurt, and several times he woke restlessly to find Janantar watching over him, and he would drift back to his troubled sleep.
“We are a little further north than I estimated,” advised Janantar the next morning as Andrak dressed, his boots and clothes dried by the fire Janantar had kept going for the night, and used to cook another rabbit that morning, which Andrak had eaten ravenously.
“So how far have we got to go?” Andrak had a decent knowledge of the geography of Dak’mar, knowing more about the people and their customs than the land itself, however. He knew the layout of the major cities and their locations, along with a few of the more important industrial towns, but he could only guess at distances.
“Two hundred leagues, maybe more, but if we keep to the North of the Blood Peaks, we can make faster time before needing to turn South towards Sha’kar. I have some coin, so we can purchase horses as soon as possible.” The Elf gave a rueful sigh at this, and Andrak knew they had little money, let alone any to be buying mounts, but he also knew time could be critical for Kitara’s safe recovery, so he would gladly sleep in barns and on the ground for the sake of a faster trip.
“Well, let’s get going and put a dent in that distance, and we’ll see if we really need horses. I could do with a run to get these aches and pains out.”
“Now you are sounding like an Elf,” quipped Janantar, and Andrak threw him a pained look but smiled as the Elf clapped him on the shoulder and began to trot off. “Pity you can’t run like one.” Suppressing a chuckle, Andrak checked his belongings, and then began to jog after the Elf, whose long strides were taking him quickly from sight. Andrak cursed, though he was a good runner, and was determined to show the Elf that.
After two days, a farmer at a small village sold them two horses and worn tack, for which Andrak was grateful. He may have preferred to run rather than ride bare back. His every muscle was aching already from two days of running, so he was at least glad there was nothing a long day in the saddle could do to him that wasn’t already done.
Avoiding people was for the most part easy as they worked through the desolate lowlands of Dak’mar, with few people traveling the overgrown dirt roads. A few small communities sprang up every so often, but nothing big. Even military figures were scarcely seen on the roads, and hardly gave the strange duo of an Elf and an Ariakun a second glance, and never once were they asked their business in Dak’mar.
With the lack of military presence, Andrak assumed there might also be a greater chance of brigands ambushing them along the road or at night, but surprisingly, they had only one run in with a small group of brigands, who were not out to kill them, but rather relieve them of any valuables. After Janantar disarmed three in a flash, and Andrak had given one a broken nose, they quickly realized these two seemingly easy targets were not so easy, and left rather hurriedly.
“These people live in a harsh region,” noted Janantar one night, as the two enjoyed another sparse meal beside a small fire. The nights were cold, and getting colder, as even though it was almost summer, they were rising toward the Blood Peaks. The days were stiflingly hot still, and the land seemed to suffer from the diverse range of temperature. There was scarce foliage, with few of what could be called copses to be seen, let alone anything of size that could be called a small forest. This offered little protection from the sun and prying eyes, however the rugged and rocky terrain did provide good cover. There were few creatures to provide fair game for Janantar, who had even lost a couple of his arrows when missing his targets, something Andrak never failed to tease him about. The Elf was always successful in finding something for them, however; usually a small rodent like creature common amongst the rocky ground, but very fast and agile, so Andrak was glad the Elf was such a good shot. He did occasionally joke to the Elf that he hoped their arrow supply would last until they reached Sha’kar. The good-natured Elf took his jibes in with a smile, and Andrak knew he was merely waiting his own turn to get back at him.
The fortified city of Orin was the first great city they saw, and it was both impressive and intimidating, rising in the distance amid the jagged peaks. High, square towers, rose like daggers into the air. The dark stone helped the city mould itself to the rocky terrain, which undulated and allowed the two a view of the inner city, with its low stone buildings. Andrak thought it was an ugly city, built for warfare rather than for any aesthetic reason.
Janantar, with his keener sight, told him there was greater detail in the working of the houses and the streets than could be seen by Andrak, which was surprising, but at least these Dak’marians had an eye for nice things too. From what he knew, and deduced from their meetings with these people, they were fiercely honorable, thus the lack of brigands on the roads, and they were very introverted. They were without a doubt tough, as living in these harsh conditions make you over time, and Andrak knew their history was steeped in war and battle.
The most notable thing about the Blood Peaks was the lack of houses along the roads, though the land was rough and rocky in most places. Andrak assumed it was for protective reasons. Being a region historically beset by war, there was little sense in having a house out of the main cities for fear of having it destroyed. This accounted for why the seven big cities
of Dak'mar were highly populated, and, as Andrak saw first with Orin, and later Sha'kar, enormous.
Sha'kar rose above the Blood Peaks, an intimidating wall of dark stone and rising towers that made Orin seem like a village. The outer wall was huge, with thick pilasters giving it strength at regular intervals. It was at least thirty feet high, and crenellated for archers and protection from opposing missiles. Flat topped towers rose above each pilaster, atop which sat great Catapults and ballista. Small figures could be seen moving amongst the great crenellations of the walls and towers, while low cloud seemed to hang over the city like a shroud.
“Now that is an impressive sight,” conceded Janantar, his keen eyes running over the city. It was a great compliment coming from him, who lived in the most beautiful place on Kil'Tar, but Andrak knew it wasn't because of the beauty of the city, for it was nothing if not dark and menacing, but he knew it was for the sheer enormity and power of the city.
“I had known it was big, but not that big. Thorhus could fit twice inside its walls, from the looks of it.” Andrak was truly impressed with the size of the city also, and wondered silently what need there was for such a fortified city. What manner of creature, if not man, had made a need for such protection? Or was it a simple show of strength from a vain and fickle ruler? He knew of the ruler of the city: the Sovereign, Werstoff, from the line of Dara'Tar, and had not heard him to be a vain man, nor was the Emperor of Dak'mar, Karistaar.
“Shall we?” asked Janantar, turning to Andrak, who turned to the Elf and nodded. He turned back to the city, so strange and intimidating, and knew in his heart Kitara was in there somewhere, and he vowed he would see her safe, even if it meant his own life.