Guardians of the Lost

by Margaret Weis

  His opponent did not give him the opportunity, but pressed his attack, forcing the taan to lurch to his feet. The contest ended a short time after, with the stronger taan kicking the weapon out of his opponent’s hand and then sending him crashing to the ground with a punch to the jaw.

  The defeated taan lay blinking up at the sky, probably trying to remember who he was and why he was here. His fellow stood over him, weapon poised, just in case his opponent sought to keep fighting, but after a moment, the other taan pointed at the victor in a gesture of defeat.

  There was cheering and hissing from the crowd, depending on who had wagered on whom. At a gesture from the shaman, his two apprentices hastened forward to tend to the wounded taan. Sitting up, he shook his head muzzily, and spurned their ministrations with an angry snarl. The winner strutted about, waving his arms and hooting. The loser limped back to the circle, where he refused to look at or speak to anyone.

  Dag-ruk came forward, announced the next contest, and the fighting began again. This time the contest was between seasoned warriors. The two were evenly matched, wielding curved swords with serrated edges and carrying another strange looking device—two long sticks covered over with leather fastened together in such a way that they formed an X. Raven was intrigued to see that the taan used this as a human swordsman would use a shield in battle, holding the X in one hand, turning it this way and that to deflect blows and to try to trap an opponent’s sword in the cross-bars.

  Raven’s admiration for these warriors increased. Caught up in the excitement, he forgot himself and at one point shouted, “Well struck! Well struck!” Some of the taan heard him and turned to stare. One of the human slaves cast him a glance of pure loathing. He knew he should be ashamed of himself, but a good hit was a good hit, no matter who swung the sword.

  The fight looked as if it might go on all day and into the night, for neither opponent was making much headway. Both scored hits that drew blood. Neither was weakening and eventually Dag-ruk stepped in and halted the contest. She pronounced a winner by pointing at one of the taan. Raven approved her decision, but the loser did not take it well. The loser stomped her feet on the ground, threw down her shield and her sword and kicked dirt in the general direction of the huntmaster.

  The taan went suddenly quiet. Dag-ruk stared hard at the loser, then very slowly and deliberately reached out to the victor, who handed over his sword and his shield to her. The huntmaster faced the loser. The warrior seemed at first prepared to accept the challenge, but then her anger cooled and logic prevailed. She cast a glance at Dag-ruk from beneath lowered lids, then raised her hand and pointed at the victor, though she would not look at him. Turning on her heel, the losing taan stalked back to her tent, disappeared inside.

  Dag-ruk and the shaman R’lt exchanged glances. Several of the warriors looked severe, some of the taskers hissed. Raven guessed that the losing taan had forfeited more than the battle. She had lost her people’s respect.

  Raven tensed again. Like an old war horse, he was excited by the battle, by the smell of blood, the sounds of clashing steel. He felt himself ready for combat and hoped that he might be next. He was rewarded, for Dag-ruk said something to Qu-tok, who looked Raven’s direction.

  Raven hoped that Qu-tok himself would come to fetch his prisoner and they could settle matters between them then and there. Such menial duties as fetching a slave were beneath the dignity of a warrior. Qu-tok sent two tasker taan, both of them large males, to bring Raven.

  The taskers removed the chain that attached Raven to the stake. They freed him of the iron collar around his neck, but left the manacles on his wrists, attaching the manacles with a length of heavy chain. They clamped manacles around his ankles and hobbled his feet together with another chain. Then they led him forward, moving awkwardly and slowly in his bonds, toward the circle of dead grass.

  The other taan laughed and jeered derisively—at least that’s how he translated the grotesque sounds they were making. He ignored them, kept his gaze fixed on Qu-tok, who remained some distance from the ring, standing with the other warriors near their huntmaster. The young warriors, those who wore no armor, clambered for his attention, shouting, jostling and shoving one another. A grinning Qu-tok looked them over, finally chose one. The young warrior gave a whoop, while his comrades looked glum and backed off.

  The taan taskers shoved Raven into the circle of dead grass. Glancing around for Dag-ruk, Raven lifted up his manacled hands and gave the chains a shake, asking in dumb show that his bonds be removed. The huntmaster grinned and shook her head. The other taan found this amusing, for their chortling sounds grew raucous. A couple of the children tossed clods of dirt at him.

  Raven looked in appeal to Dur-zor, but she only shook her head. There was nothing anyone could do. This was his idea. He had to play by their rules.

  Grimly, Raven planted his feet and waited for his opponent. The chains were a liability, no doubt about it. But they could also be used as a weapon. He wondered if the taan were so stupid that they had not thought of that. Another glance at Qu-tok told Raven that the taan might have many faults, but stupidity wasn’t one of them. Qu-tok’s lips parted in a grin. Dag-ruk nodded, her eyes on Raven. Several other warriors spoke, perhaps making wagers, for Qu-tok nodded in agreement.

  The young taan entered the ring. He was tall and stringy, all bone and muscle and tendon. His hide had some scarring, but not nearly as much as the elder warriors. He wore no armor and had only a few stones lodged beneath his flesh. The young taan looked smug, apparently thinking that this would be an easy fight. The huntmaster raised her voice, as she had done in the other contests, announcing the rules.

  Raven shook his head to indicate he didn’t understand. The huntmaster said something to Qu-tok, who found Dur-zor in the crowd and sent her forward with a gesture of his hand.

  Dur-zor came to stand beside Raven, translated.

  “The Kutryx has issued the rules of the contest. Lf’kk may not slay you, for you are the property of Qu-tok. If Lf’kk does accidentally slay you, he must make good your value to Qu-tok by serving him as a slave himself for a term of one sun cycle. This Lf’kk agrees to. As a slave—a derrhuth—you are not bound by such restrictions. You are free to try to kill Lf’kk.”

  Some of the half-taan, who understood Elderspeak, laughed heartily at this ludicrous notion.

  “Lf’kk may not use the magic of his stones in the battle,” Dur-zor continued. “That is customary in all kdah-klks.”

  Raven had no idea what this meant, but it seemed to be to his advantage, so he said nothing.

  The young taan raised his hands and spoke. The crowd grinned and nudged each other.

  “Lf’kk says he will fight you with his bare hands,” Dur-zor explained. “He will not ruin one of his weapons by fouling it with the blood of a slave.”

  Raven grunted. “What do I get if I win?”

  “Your life,” said Dur-zor, looking puzzled.

  “That’s not good enough. I want something else. Tell Dag-ruk that if I win, I want to fight another battle.”

  Dur-zor translated the words to Dag-ruk, who eyed Raven narrowly.

  “Tell her,” Raven continued, “that if I win, I want to fight another battle against an opponent of my own choosing. Tell her.”

  The huntmaster considered. Qu-tok said something to her, but she ignored him, kept her gaze fixed intently on Raven. At last she spoke.

  “Well?” Raven asked impatiently.

  “The Kutryx says you amuse her and she agrees. If you defeat Lf’kk, you may fight another battle against the warrior of your choosing.”

  “That is all I ask,” said Raven.

  He cast a final glance at Qu-tok, then forced himself to settle down, to concentrate on this opponent. Raven would have to finish this fight quickly, for he couldn’t afford to wear himself out. Not before the real fight began.

  Lf’kk began to circle around Raven, who slowly shifted to face him, forced to take care that he didn’t trip o
ver the chain that bound his ankles. He kept his hands apart, waiting for the taan to make a move, certain now that this youth had underestimated him, would be overeager and careless.

  Lf’kk leapt at Raven, hands reaching for his throat. Raven grasped hold of the chain that bound his wrists, formed a loop, and swung it with all his strength. The blow caught the taan in the midriff, knocked the wind out of him and probably broke a couple of ribs.

  Lf’kk staggered, went down on one knee, gasping for air. Raven struck a blow at the taan’s head with the chain, but the taan wasn’t there. Having foreseen Raven’s attack, Lf’kk flattened himself on the ground. Raven’s chain whistled harmlessly over his head. The taan’s strong hands seized Raven by the chain hooked to his ankles, jerked him off his feet.

  Raven landed heavily on his back. Lf’kk jumped at him, grappling again for his throat. Raven brought up his knees, kicked Lf’kk in the chest, sent him flying backward to land ignominiously on his ass. Clumsily, Raven regained his feet, watching Lf’kk, who jumped up to face his opponent. The young taan was angry, his eyes blazed. His pride had been wounded by a slave. Lf’kk hurled himself at Raven, hoping to take him down bodily.

  Raven side-stepped, not as swiftly as he might have done without the chains, but he managed to get out of the way. He flung the chain over Lf’kk’s head, wrapped it around the taan’s neck. Lf’kk reached his hands to the chain, tried to free himself. Raven twisted the chain, slowly strangling the taan. Lf’kk gurgled, choking. His hands tore at the chain, his eyes bulged in his head. The other taan had been cheering, but now they were silent except for a few hissing indrawn breaths. Raven kept twisting the chain. Lf’kk sank to his knees. His face was turning an ugly shade of blue, his tongue protruded from his mouth.

  Raven kept twisting the chain. The young taan sank lower and lower. Raven lifted his head, searched for the slave woman who had given him a look of loathing. Her face was bruised, one eye swollen almost shut. She was practically naked, her dress hanging from her body in tatters. Her flesh was scratched and bore marks of the whip. She had been watching dully, but now her eyes met Raven’s.

  He yanked on the chain. There came a snapping sound and Lf’kk went limp, his neck broken.

  Raven said nothing. The woman said nothing. She understood, though. In some small measure, he had avenged her wrongs. She smiled sadly, stood taller and straighter.

  Raven released the chain, stepped back. The taan’s body slid to the ground and lay there, lifeless eyes staring into the crowd. One taan started to make a gargling sound in his throat and then another and another and soon all joined in. They began stamping their feet on the ground. Some of the warriors who were wearing armor smacked the flat of their hands on their breastplates. If Raven had not found it too unbelievable, he would have said they were cheering him.

  The taan began to shout and perhaps it was as well he did not understand, for it might have weakened his resolve.

  The taan shouted, “Strong food! Strong food!”

  Raven paid no attention to the cheers or shouts. He turned to face Dag-ruk. He had only one hope left—that the taan had some sense of honor. That she would be bound to keep her promise and let him fight an opponent of his own choosing.

  “Kutryx Dag-ruk,” he said. “I won the battle. I now claim my prize. I am free to choose my own opponent for the next fight. I choose him.”

  Raven pointed straight at Qu-tok.

  Dag-ruk could not understand him, nor could any of the other taan, but there was no doubting what he had said. Dur-zor did not even bother to translate. Qu-tok understood and he didn’t like it. The other warriors grinned, chuckled and made comments that appeared to infuriate Qu-tok, for he glared at them, snarled something in return and then stalked over to speak to the huntmaster. Pointing at Raven, Qu-tok began to argue vehemently.

  Raven looked urgently at Dur-zor, silently asking her what was going on. With an uneasy glance at Qu-tok, Dur-zor moved a step or two into the circle, coming closer so that Raven could hear her over the commotion.

  “By daring to claim you are the equal of Qu-tok, you have shamed him.”

  “Good,” said Raven grimly.

  “You do not understand. There is no reason for him to fight you. He would gain nothing, for there is no glory in killing a slave.”

  “I might kill him,” Raven said, his fear of failure rising, his anger growing.

  Dur-zor shook her head sadly. “You killed a boy who made a mistake. Qu-tok is a mighty warrior. He will not make mistakes.”

  Raven said nothing. He looked back at the huntmaster, who continued to listen to Qu-tok’s spittings and snarlings.

  Dur-zor stared at Raven intently and suddenly she understood. “You don’t believe you can kill him, do you? You want him to kill you. You want to die.”

  “I want to die with honor,” Raven said through grit teeth. He clenched his manacled hands. “Is that so hard for you to understand?”

  “No,” said Dur-zor softly. “No, it is not.”

  “Then tell me what I can do to make him fight me!”

  “All right,” Dur-zor said, considering, “I will tell you. You must—”

  “Kutryx!” A stentorian shout rang throughout the camp, caused all heads to turn. “Kutryx!”

  A taan came running through the long grass. He carried a spear in his hand and he brandished it to call attention to himself. “Kyl-sarnz! Kyl-sarnz!” Halting his run, he pointed with his spear behind him. “Kyl-sarnz!” he repeated.

  “Kyl-sarnz,” the other taan cried, sounding jubilant, elated.

  The huntmaster began to snap orders. The taan dispersed in all directions, all of them talking excitedly. Children jumped up and down, creating a clamor. Qu-tok and his fellow warriors bellowed at taskers, who came hurrying forward to adjust their armor, polishing it with handfuls of grass and their own spit. Two taskers stepped into the circle to grab up Lf’kk’s corpse and haul it away. Two more taskers approached Raven, who stood in the center of the blackened ring, staring about in bewilderment.

  “What is happening, Dur-zor? What’s going on?”

  “The scout says that one of the kyl-sarnz is coming.”

  “What’s that?” Raven demanded. “Is that your god? Is the god coming?”

  “No,” Dur-zor said. “Our god is far away in another land, we are told. But he has sent the kyl-sarnz and that is a very great honor. Kyl-sarnz means god-touched. The kyl-sarnz are those taan whom the god, Dagnarus, has chosen as his most trusted servants, commanders of his armies. One of them is coming to visit us this day. This is a rare occurrence and may mean that our battle group is being singled out for something special. That is why everyone is excited.”

  “Dur-zor,” cried Raven desperately, as she turned to leave, “does this mean that the contests are ended?”

  Dur-zor looked back over her shoulder. “You will not die this day, Raven. I am sorry.”

  Raven was a prey to such bitter disappointment that he was physically sick with it. Dizzy, nauseous, his belly and his bowels cramping painfully, he had no care what happened to him now. He had lost his chance of avenging himself. Another would be slow in coming; Qu-tok would see to that. The tasker taans hustled Raven back to his stake, dragging him when he could not walk fast enough to suit them. They dumped him into the dirt, chained him up. Raven doubled over, heaved up his breakfast.

  Angered by the mess he had made, for it meant more work for them, one of the taskers struck Raven hard across the face while the other went to fetch a bucket of water. Raven vomited again, this time on the taan’s feet. The tasker struck him again, savagely, and Raven achieved his goal. He lost consciousness.

  Raven woke to a pounding head and intense stillness. He could hear nothing, no movement in the camp, no bird calls or the buzzing of bees, no clicking of grasshoppers. He could not even hear the sound of the wind rustling the grass. The taan were still here. He could see them quite clearly, gathered together in the center of the camp. For a moment Raven feared tha
t the taan had done him some critical injury, caused him to go deaf.

  Gritting his teeth against the pain in his head, Raven managed to struggle into a sitting position. The clank and rattle of his chains were loud in the stillness. He was relieved to hear them, even though some of the taan on the outskirts of the circle turned to cast him looks of anger. The silence had a reverent quality to it. The kyl-sarnz must be here. Drained of strength and emotion, Raven settled himself to watch, too weak and dispirited to do anything else.

  A voice broke the stillness. Raven couldn’t see the source of the voice, for it came from the center of the crowd of taan. The voice spoke the language of the taan, but it did not sound like the taan. The voice was strange, cold and hard. The taan language was an ugly language to listen to, harsh and guttural, bestial. It had warmth to it, though, a warmth of emotion, even if those emotions were oftentimes crude, cruel and savage. This voice was devoid of all emotion, devoid of warmth, devoid of life.

  The voice ceased speaking. Another voice answered. Raven recognized the voice of the huntmaster. Dag-ruk sounded awed, respectful. When she ceased speaking, the other taan raised their voices, began to chant, “Lnskt, Lnskt,” bending their bodies as they shouted, all of them bowing.

  The circle of taan parted. A group of warriors appeared. Raven saw Qu-tok walking proudly among them. In their midst stood the kyl-sarnz.

  At the sight, a shudder convulsed Raven’s body. Fear shriveled his gut. His heart lurched, he could not breathe. Then adrenaline flooded his body and he felt the wild impulse to leap to his feet and run away, run even though he was chained to the stake. He had to flee this terror, though it meant he ripped his arms from their sockets.

  The accursed armor that he had carried to the Temple of the Magi had come to life. The accursed armor walked and spoke.