Exile to the Stars (The Alarai Chronicles)

by Dale B. Mattheis

  “Damn you!”

  She stood at least six feet tall, long, raven-black hair gleaming in the moonlight.

  “Damn us both, man, for nothing awaits but death.”

  Snarling a curse, she stamped forward with sword in motion. Frozen by indecision, Jeff was forced to backpedal. Concentration had vaporized and one blow nearly gutted him. On the verge of sobbing with frustration, he fought to survive while internally an entirely different battle raged. Black desperation cleared his mind.

  “Cut the shit! Fight or die!”

  Howling anger at the sky, he counterattacked and picked up the pace until his sword was a blur. Forced backwards by the attack, she countered skillfully and held her ground. Toe to toe, they hammered away at each other until their arms were numb from the impacts.

  For one eternal moment they locked guards and were face to face. Chests heaving, they looked into each other’s eyes and truly saw death—and something else as well. It was respect and the recognition that one of them would die for nothing but pride. Leaping back, Jeff disengaged.

  “Lay down your sword. There is no point to this. Your attack on the caravan has failed. I do not wish to kill you.”

  She threw her head back and laughed wildly. “Kill me? You have not and cannot. No man will ever best me!”

  “I don’t want to best you. I want you to surrender. We both know that even if you kill me you will be dead shortly after. Look around.” All was silent. Belstan stood nearby with the guards and drovers. No bandits were visible. “Give it up and live.”

  “Such soothing words! Do you fear to surrender life? Now you shall.” Having gotten her breath, she laughed again and skipped forward, sword flashing with regained speed.

  He met her advance with quick parries and attacked, the metallic din of combat picking up a tempo that defied human endurance. Illuminated by both moons, their dance of death found its rhythm in stamping, shuffling feet, burning gasps to find air and the bright ring of sword on sword.

  Forward and back, whirling around one another, their blades winked and glittered in the moonlight but found no fatal opening. Spectators stood frozen in disbelief, seeming in the moonlight to be demons come to claim a soul.

  Although his body and reflexes carried on, Jeff’s mind became numb with exhaustion. She split his tunic again, opening a cut along his side. He penetrated her guard and sliced her arm, then again on recovery. Face twisted in a grimace of exhaustion, the bandit’s sword drifted ever lower even though she was using both hands to wield it.

  Gritting his teeth, Jeff attacked in an all-out attempt to disarm her. He could not and fell back on the defensive. The bandit was so tired she flailed at him like a novice. Bravado and overconfidence had flown, leaving a single-minded desire to win through. To survive. Yet pride would not condone surrender.

  Jeff was about to hit the wall. All the signs were there. In spite of that and even though her guard was like a sieve, he could not press his advantage. Deep inside another part of his being free of introspection would not relinquish life on a whim. The bandit gripped her sword and heaved it up.

  There was no thought in the smooth thrust of Jeff’s arm, only a brief sparkle of moonlight on his blade before it struck home deep in her chest with a grating shudder.

  Her sword fell to the ground in what seemed slow motion. Grasping the blade with both hands, she collapsed to her knees. Lifting her gaze from the sword she searched his face with unbelieving, pleading eyes. Her mouth opened as if to speak, but only a dribble of blood came out.

  Unable to tear his eyes away, Jeff watched life begin to ebb, watched crimson bubbles froth from her mouth, refused to believe he had killed a woman.

  “God, no! What have I done?”

  Jeff tried to pull the sword free but it wouldn’t come. He screamed agony and wrenched it out. As the point was withdrawn, a foaming gout of blood poured from her mouth and she toppled over. One convulsive heave and her body stilled. Jeff fell to his knees and wiped the blood from her face and mouth, then gently closed her eyelids. Bowing his head until it touched the ground, one hand caressed silky hair.

  No one moved; no one knew what to do. Cynic moved close to nuzzle his shoulder in sympathy. Wiping his eyes with a bloody sleeve, Jeff reached his arms around Cynic’s neck and pulled himself up. They stood that way for some time before he crawled into the saddle.

  What remained of the night passed in a haze of fatigue and remorse. The wounded were seen to, those who had died buried in a common grave, and pack animals rounded up. One of the guards had been seriously wounded, another broke an arm when he tripped on a rock and fell. Three drovers had been killed.

  The caravan got under way well after sunrise to plod through an interminable day of searing heat and choking dust. They reached a small village around sunset and set up camp in a fog of exhaustion.

  Security still had to be seen to, but Belstan made arrangements with people he had known for years to help out for the night. Huddled in blankets, Jeff sank into a sleep so deep that not even remorse could penetrate.

  He awoke still groggy with fatigue and started to pull a boot on. The camp was quiet and he let it drop. Events of the previous night flooded in, inflicting such an enormous sense of guilt that he groaned from the impact. The sun eased above the horizon and marched into the sky, but Jeff did not move.

  Entangled in blankets, head bowed, he tried to make livable sense of what he had done and cared nothing for his mission or anything else. Doubt savaged him as the duel played itself out in his mind over and over.

  “Is this what I was brought here for?” he agonized. “To kill and kill? Nothing I do or say makes a difference. And dammit, now a woman! What am I becoming?”

  Jeff felt pressure on his shoulder and raised his head. Belstan’s face was haggard and drawn, accentuating an expression of genuine concern.

  “Food has been prepared and will help.”

  Roused by the unexpected compassion, Jeff got to his feet. He was about to follow Belstan when he remembered that Cynic had been wounded. The cut was about four inches long and so crusted with dirt he couldn’t tell how deep it was.

  Silently faulting himself for not having taken action sooner, Jeff hurried to find some clean water and washed the cut.

  “Oh, damn, that is not good.”

  The cut appeared to be at least half an inch deep. He felt around the cut and groaned. The skin was hot and seemed swollen. Spreading the cut a bit he notice some yellow fluid down deeper. Pus. It had to be.

  “You dumb shit, Friedrick.”

  A drover happened by while Jeff was trying to decide what to do. The drover, Garthok, took a good look at the wound.

  “It ain’t as bad as it looks. Just been sittin’ too long.”

  “Yes, it has.”

  After a period of silent reproof, Garthok said, “Well, I guess ya gotta learn sometime.” He hurried off, saying over his shoulder, “I got some stuff that will fix it up.”

  Garthok supplied a pot of foul-smelling ointment laced with what looked like strands of fungus or mold. He showed Jeff how to apply it and left without another word.

  Breakfast was nothing more than stale bread and cheese. Belstan waited until Jeff had emptied his second mug of coffee before ambling over to sit down.

  “I was close witness to your duel, and have lived long enough to know what taking her life cost you. Yet, often do female bandits fight alongside the men.” Belstan peered intently into Jeff’s eyes. “While there are not sufficient words to console the agony this event has caused you, be aware that given the opportunity she would have killed you without thought or remorse. Yet she could not. I have traveled this land for more years than I wish to remember, but have never seen such sword skill.” He paused for a brief moment. “And never have I encountered such an unusual young man.”

  Jeff experienced a flash of alarm but any response was forestalled by Belstan’s upraised hand. “You owe me no explanation. It is I who owe you more than can easily be repai
d, for you have saved both my livelihood and the lives of us all.” A crooked smile creased Belstan’s face. “Although I am not known for easy generosity, let me say that whatever I can do for you will be done. Given the condition of this caravan, I will be further indebted if you would consent to overseeing its safe arrival at my agent’s office in Khorgan.”

  “Will the men accept my decisions? I am a newcomer.”

  “They have come to respect you and are concerned that you will leave. We are still two days hard travel from the city. Please think over my proposition.”

  It required some time for Belstan to recruit replacements in the village, delaying their start until late in the morning. The day went smoothly enough once they were underway, and the time of danger had passed.

  Villages dotted the rolling countryside, and most of the arable land was under cultivation. Maturing crops laid out in orderly squares marched to the horizon, broken here and there by rows of tall trees that resembled poplars.

  Belstan called a halt before dusk near a lazy river that curved around a good-sized town. The road had widened into a major highway shortly after entering farmland. Heavy traffic bustled by in both directions as travelers hurried to find a night’s lodging. There weren’t many good spots left in the grassy area used as a campground, and another caravan was closing up behind.

  With a hundred yards to go the following caravan put on a burst of speed and tried to pass. Belstan saw them coming and whistled up his team. The race was on. It was an exciting dash that bordered on a stampede, serving to lift Jeff’s spirits.

  The caravan was no more than settled for the night when Jeff hurried to the river. Disregarding modesty, he peeled off filthy, blood-soaked clothes and jumped in. Scrubbing off layers of dirt, he swam out into the river to escape the noise. It was a gently flowing stream, barely cool, and bordered by trees with rich green leaves. Floating on his back, Jeff could hardly take his eyes off them. After days of choking dust and arid conditions, the trees seemed a miraculous creation.

  Other caravans arrived as the day dwindled. Although Jeff was sunning well out on a sandbar, the arguments that resulted as caravans squeezed into camp drifted to his ears with volume to spare. Shortly a number of flying bodies plunged into the river seeking relief from the heat and dust.

  Jeff felt shy until he noticed that no one else was. Men and women alike, they swam in the nude and beat the water to a froth with their antics. Wading around a particularly spirited water fight, Jeff went to fetch Cynic.

  Equipped with a bucket and brush, he enticed Cynic far out onto the sandbar until the water was clear and lapping at his belly. Jeff washed the cut on Cynic’s flank, dipped a full bucket from the river and poured it over his back. When Jeff set to scrubbing him with the brush, Cynic’s mental sigh of relief and pleasure was so profound that Jeff chuckled.

  It was dark when they called it quits. Along the way to camp, lanterns and campfires glowed like giant fireflies illuminating people dancing to gypsy music. Humming in time to the music, Jeff applied more of the salve. Cynic fidgeted when he felt the sting and he hated the smell. Still, the wound was healing nicely with no sign of infection and Jeff slathered it on thick. Later, dressed in spare clothing that was worn threadbare but at least clean, he approached Belstan.

  “I accept your offer and appreciate the trust you are willing to place in me.”

  Belstan nodded acceptance. “You could have deserted the caravan without risk when it was attacked. Many would have done so. That you did not recommends your character. The manner in which you then defended the caravan speaks highly of your ability to keep your wits when hard pressed. I could ask for no more.”

  It was a fine cool morning, and Jeff rode at the head of the caravan next to Belstan’s freight wagon. While it was nice to be free of the dust for a period, what Jeff really wanted was more information. Khorgan was only a day away. They passed the time chatting about the city, which Jeff guardedly admitted he had never visited.

  “Ah, Khorgan, jewel of Chaldesia. Center of commerce, seat of power, and home to every vice a man might imagine.” Belstan’s smile disappeared. “It is not a city to trifle with, my young friend, for its bite can be deep and swift. Much of what is good in this world may be found there, but everything that is evil. It is a merchant city run by a council of twelve men and women corrupted by avarice and sated with every pleasure that power can command. Khorgan is also the center of every intrigue that is hatched for hundreds of septa in any direction you might travel.” After a brief period of silence, Belstan threw a sly look at Jeff. “Except to the north.”

  Jeff was caught by surprise, and Belstan laughed with satisfaction. “Do not be alarmed. Your origins are safe with me and I doubt others in the city will mark your appearance so consumed are they with their own plots. You would be well advised, however, to cut your hair short and,” pointing at Jeff’s tattered jeans, “purchase clothing not so foreign to this land.”

  As the day passed and Belstan extolled the virtues and vices of Khorgan, Jeff’s interest continued to grow. It promised to be some kind of city. Trying to get a grip on how long a septa was, he asked Belstan to mark it out as the wagon moved along. While no more than an estimate, it appeared a septa was close to a terran mile in length.

  By late afternoon it became clear they would not reach the city before sunset. Belstan was not anxious to attempt entry after dark and halted the caravan several hours shy of the western gate. Throughout much of the evening Belstan and other caravan members continued to expand Jeff’s knowledge of Khorgan

  The overall impression he got was of a walled city three times as large as Rugen surrounded by businesses, crafts and residences that doubled its size. Belstan’s partner, whose name was Rogelf, owned a warehouse on the shore of a lake directly across town from the western gate. In order to avoid a long trip around Khorgan, Belstan intended to cut through its center the following day. That night, Jeff cropped his hair short.

  They had not been on the road long the next day before entering the fringes of what Belstan referred to as Newtown to distinguish it from the original city. Unconfined by walls, the roads were broad and clear of garbage.

  Jeff commented on that fact to Belstan, who shrugged. “It has been thus for many years. A fee is charged, more often than not the refuse taken away. Water is also piped into central areas, again for a fee. Those who seek to avoid the fees are fined and may be imprisoned. Unless, of course, they can afford the bribe.”

  Everyone, it seemed, was on the take.

  Well into Newtown, Belstan stopped the caravan. Motioning for Jeff to follow, he trotted across the street and into a shop that smelled strongly of tanned leather and was lighted by dust-filtered sunlight. The shop’s gray-haired proprietor hurried to meet them.

  “Belstan, you old thief. I am surprised no one has yet slit your weasand.”

  “Not for want of trying, Crofel,” Belstan replied, clasping arms. “Let us see some clothing for this young man.”

  When they left the store Jeff had donned a pair of snugly fitting leather pants, a soft leather vest, and new calf-high footwear that reminded him of jackboots. Retaining his floppy hat, Jeff purchased a bright feather to stick in its crown. Belstan waved away his thanks.

  “Merely a tithe, my boy. Merely a tithe.”

  Later that morning the caravan nosed into a large plaza. Leading the way, Jeff reined Cynic over to the side to make way for those coming behind. Belstan stopped his wagon when it was abreast Cynic. He smiled broadly at the look of astonishment on Jeff’s face.

  “The main bazaar, not to mention the pride of Khorgan.”

  The plaza was at least two city blocks to a side, Jeff estimated, but the impact of the bazaar was not confined to its size. A babble of voices roared in his ears. Jeff was dumbfounded. He had seen his share of old movies set in one Middle Eastern market or the other, but this was something else entirely.

  Shaking his head in disbelief, Jeff clucked Cynic back into motion. “It�
��s full. The whole plaza is full of people. There must be thousands of them. Outrageous!” He caught himself and switched back to northland speech. “I could not have imagined that such a wonderful place existed.”

  Belstan did not respond. While the bazaar was impressive, it was not that unusual. He pondered Jeff’s origins again. He had become convinced the young man was from the North. Now he wasn’t sure at all. He had never heard such an outlandish tongue.

  The crowd grudgingly made way for the caravan as Belstan maneuvered it close to one side of the plaza where the crowd seemed thinner. Jeff was so overwhelmed by the bazaar that he hardly noticed the change of direction.

  Smoke rose from numerous stalls selling food, creating a roiling concoction of odors that were entirely new and smelled so good his appetite went into high gear. Vendors and shills hawking a hundred different shops and services shouted to be heard. Beggars pulled at his stirrup with palm outstretched in supplication. Jugglers, acrobats and sleight of hand artists gathered crowds of people, all the while throwing, tumbling and bellowing their spiels.

  Although captivated by the bazaar, Jeff’ quickly diverted his attention to buildings fronting the plaza. Women dressed in low-cut filmy gowns that hid nothing shimmied and wiggled on second floor balconies along much of the plaza’s length. Every so often, one or the other would stop to gesture or call down to someone in the crowd below.

  Seeing him staring open-mouthed, one of the women plucked a flower from a rainbow cascade and threw it to him, blowing a kiss as she did so. Jeff laughed shamefacedly and waved. The woman, a stunning brunette, frowned down at him with hands on hips. Jeff laughed again and cupped hands around his mouth.

  “You are beautiful. Perhaps another day.”

  Several streets beyond the bazaar they were confronted by the west gate. Belstan greeted the guards by name and slipped a pouch of coins to the sergeant, who waved the caravan ahead as he tucked it away. Hooves that had been muffled by the packed dirt streets of Newtown abruptly clattered on paving stones.