‘You don’t know what you believe and don’t trust what you understand. I could help you, you know. I followed The Path for a while, but I saw it for what it was. I could have been many things to you. The father you never knew. The man that accepts you as you are without question. You could lead the Krys and together we could make this kingdom ours. Show The Path and its followers what it means to live outside their cages.’
Her face tilted, an almond oval in the gloom. Her unwavering gaze studied him. ‘You are a creature of pain. You have known it in your time and have enjoyed dealing it to others. Your problem isn’t that you no longer believe in The Path, but that you fear it might be right. That the reason your hopes and dreams have been dashed to dust isn’t due to a failing of the faith, but a failing within you. So you seek to tear down any who might walk the ways of The Path—any who might make a difference in this life—in a pathetic attempt to reveal them as being just as flawed as you. You are weak and a coward.’
‘I …’ Harlaramu stepped back as if needing to catch his breath. Or not lose his composure. ‘I don’t think you understand the precariousness of your situation.’ He nodded and three of the Krys stepped forward and hoisted her. She dangled over a donga in the forest, a clearing leading to a pit. Human bones bleached in the sun surrounding a cluster of six great anthills. Harlaramu tossed a piece of spoiled meat into the cluster. At first, only a few ants reared their heads. Then a wave of insects charged, pincers snapping, their barbed legs—each with a sharp claw—scurrying across the sand. Their poison sacs seemed swollen with anticipation. ‘They are called “Warriors of Sunrise”. They are the largest ants in existence. They can devour a man in long agonizing moments. You are so like them,’ he said. ‘Huge. Fierce. Strong.’ Baleful eyes glared at her. ‘I offer you what few women get: a choice.’
‘I’d sooner plunge into the Zambezi. That is my choice.’ She raised her leg to allow him a measure of a view and grinned with gleeful malice. He could grip himself in the night; she had better things to do than be a man-boy’s plaything. Her clamorous voice and mocking tone drew a scowl from him. Little more than a beast, so easily roused to agitated frustration. He slapped her, first on one cheek, then the other, but she didn’t cry out. He clutched her jaw, more in a vice than a caress and wrenched her toward him.
‘Remove your hand or I’ll have your heart,’ Lalyani said.
‘I believe you would.’ He ran his hand along the top of her breast, but that, too, she didn’t feel. No amount of abuse from men could deprive her of her pride and honor. Dignity was her own to claim. She withdrew into herself. She learned to face life’s hardships without letting them turn her hard. Except when she needed to be.
With that, he kissed her. The kiss was passionless. He might as well have been kissing a corpse. It wasn’t given nor was it his to take. She had never known true love, not that she was unfeeling, but a kiss was …
*
… too personal, the only bit of love left in her. She stole back into the kraal one last time. She stood over Kaala until the weight of her presence stirred him awake. Though he was the reason she chose as she did, she didn’t want hardness to be her legacy.
‘Goodbye, Lala.’ His defiant eyes matched her own. Both were resolved to their fates.
‘Sh, song of my heart.’ She closed her pain-misted eyes and kissed him good night. A flicker of emotion, quick as a bird taking flight, caught her unaware, like a spear thrown by a hiding coward …
*
… converging on her. Three of the Krys approached, carrying wide-tipped blades and clubs studded with crude nails. She thought about being broken. Possessed. She detested their leer of ownership as much as the idea of her loss of freedom.
Hers was a craft of subtlety. Her mind was as much a weapon as any spear, so she already out-matched the over-muscled lummoxes who thought only with their sword. Perhaps she hadn’t left The Path as much as she protested.
Her lithe arms stretched taut, Lalyani kicked out to gain momentum. The Krys hacked at the ropes rather than go through the dance of torturously lowering her onto the ant mounds. The arc of Lalyani’s swing landed her on the cusp of the donga as the knives cut through the cords. She entwined the legs of the nearest Krys and brought him to the ground. Still on her back, she eliminated as much space between their hips as possible and locked her feet tightly at the ankles so her thighs could squeeze his lower ribs. Lalyani shifted her hips to her left then fell towards her right, kicking his legs into the air and using him as a shield to deflect the blows of the second Krys. Heavy blades landed into her shield. The second Krys realized his error and spun off balance which allowed her left hand to under hook him at his shoulder. Her right over hooked at his biceps. She sat into him, straightening her right leg as if stretching to run. She rolled him over his head against her side, then drove her weight into his skull until she heard the terrible snap. She laid on his corpse to allow his blade to free her.
Palming his blade, she headbutted the approaching Krys before she scrambled away. Still weaponless, to all appearances, her eyes narrowed to grim slits. The last Krys gripped the hilt of his club with the fury of emotion. Trembling, the stink of fear rose from him. She met his charge with a fierce desperation, dodging his initial swipe and returning with a kick into his dangling bits. The man gasped and doubled over. Rage bubbled up in his eyes, another man easily led to distraction as he rained blows upon her without forethought or form, an ox yoked about. He disgusted her, little more than brute clubbing and she parried his clumsy strokes. A deadness in his eyes, his would not be a warrior’s death, but an ending to misery. Before his body registered what happened, she slipped within his guard and slit his throat.
Harlaramu had returned to his obscene nursery, treating the wounds of the next tokoloshe. Chained spread-eagle on his table, flecks of blood dotted its face from its earlier wounds. Fatigue and fear characterized its face as it stared vacantly upward. A movement in the doorway focused its attention, causing Harlaramu to turn. His countenance was reduced to an ashy mask of terror, his wild eyes scanning for any exit other than the one Lalyani blocked. She leaned a little too heavily on her spear which had been planted just outside his hut as if awaiting her head to mount. Weary, wounds still bleeding, she took in ragged breaths. The image of her—not the picture of a woman about to pass out but rather one in the throes of barely restrained battle frenzy—was even more terrifying.
Lalyani grabbed him by his hair and forced his head back, setting her blade against his jugular. She pondered the type of death he deserved, but a slit throat was too quick. Her knotted muscles dragged him back to the lip of the donga. She shoved him over the edge. The ants swarmed. Hundreds up his legs. Harlaramu screamed as if he’d been plunged into boiling water. Blood ran down his legs and he sank into the quagmire of ants. Little more than …
*
… an abandoned flower in the dust. Lalyani chanced one last glance at the kraal she once called home, then took her first steps on the Journey to Asazi, the journey to We Know Not Where.
The Midnight Knight
Ed Greenwood
‘My God! He’ll butcher her! Hack her to bloody ribbons!’
Manuel Hartanueva was aghast, one hand crushing the balcony rail and the other fumbling for something to throw, or a gun, or something to—to—
The Lady Lauren’s slender hand captured his, and stroked it soothingly.
‘No,’ she murmured, ‘he won’t. He’ll not come close to managing anything of the sort. Easy, Manuel. Trust me.’
Manuel blinked at the richly gowned lady in disbelief, then stared back at the swordfight unfolding below.
A battle wherein one of the two combatants seemed doomed: the fighter who wore no armor at all—and was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen in his life.
The knight loomed tall and menacing at the stair-head, face hidden behind the impassive visor of his dark-crested helm. Candlelight gleamed off curved and polished plate armor as he swung his swo
rd viciously.
It was a murderous slash, with all his weight and strength behind it—and it clove only empty air as his foe fell back.
As well she should, before such a long, heavy and gleaming-sharp blade.
Swing after swing he advanced, and his unarmored opponent retreated down the steps before those air-slicing slashes like a long, liquid black shadow.
She was a buxom woman with long, long legs, her delicious curves clear to any watching eye in her form-fitting black catsuit. Around her trim waist, a dark blue sash swirled as silkily as her long, unbound black hair. She wore soft-soled, piratical black boots and, below a harlequin’s black half-mask, Manuel could see the white gleam of a calm, easy smile.
The long, slender sword in her hand was a real weapon, not a sport fencing toy—but was no thicker than a man’s finger, and bent alarmingly as the two blades met in a brief clang that struck sparks.
The knight came on steadily, wielding his heavy blade with both hands now, swift slashes just above the banisters that swept from side to side with force enough to sever limbs—or heads.
The unprotected woman ducked and dodged, parrying deftly and often, in a smooth dance of singing steel and sparks that would have been sensuous if it had been slower, but was precise and blurred, as dazzlingly swift as leaping lightning.
They reached the bottom of the stair, the woman springing back as the knight barked out a ‘Hah!’ of triumph and crouched down, the restrictions of the banisters behind him now, to really put his shoulders into every blow.
His foe sank low, putting one hand to the floor to duck beneath his dipping blade, drawing back and away to turn her parry from something that would have shattered her blade in her face to something that merely almost broke it—
Which was when she slipped.
Manuel struggled to gasp and swear at the same time. He was still trying to choke out a warning shout, in the midst of the armored knight’s eager rush, when it became apparent the ‘slip’ had been a ruse. Two shapely legs scissored armored ones into a helpless topple.
The knight’s landing was hard, his helm coming blindingly half-off and one gauntlet whirling away—aided by the deft tip of a blade hooking at them as the falling warrior turned for a last vicious slash that would have lacerated unprotected flesh if it had landed.
It missed by inches.
Whereupon his foe’s slender blade spanked the armored fingers of the knight’s sword hand with a ringing clang, dashing his blade away.
A muffled, groaning curse came out of the helm, and the woman answered with a merry peal of laughter as she plucked it free to deliver a kiss to the sweating face beneath.
‘Too overconfident, Colin. As always!’
And with those words, delivered with more fondness than triumph, she sprang free and rolled lightly to her feet, saluting him with her own blade ere running off lightly into the darkness at the end of the hall.
Manuel found his mouth hanging open as he watched her disappear. He closed it hastily, feeling the heat of his own blush, and dreaded to think what expression would be adorning Lauren’s face.
Surprisingly, it was a broad grin.
‘Drooling,’ she said in mock anger. ‘I knew it.’
Then, with a wink, the lady in medieval garb towed him along the balcony away from the battlefield, leaving Manuel wondering once more just what these Americanos were really like. Were they as gleefully mad as they all seemed?
Playacting or not, this Mednaiya Knight—an incredible beauty, beyond belief!—was unbelievable.
Almost as unbelievable as his own wild notion that beauty, agility, and piratical, swashbuckling swordsmanship might have some chance of saving his country from the machine-gun-toting army of Stonefletcher Global Logistics, with all their helicopters and their complete lack of hesitation to murder anyone who stood in their way.
Mednaiya smiled. She liked what she’d seen of Mariacordoba so far.
It was every bit as sticky-hot and swarming with insects as she’d expected, but there was a delicious onshore breeze, and the taller, older buildings were, well, crumblingly enchanting. Lush green jungle across the river … just the place for a jaunty little pirate movie.
Lauren had been so excited when she’d brought Mednaiya the invitation from a Manuel Hartanueva to bring the Merry Blades on tour here.
It sounded like a great vacation for her troupe, and a splendid chance to finally do a Blades promotional ‘pirates in the jungle’ film, rather than always falling back on the ‘knights and ladies in Ye Olde Sherwoode Mit Crumbling Castle’ bit.
Yet these were mere justifications. She really wanted to visit Mariacordoba because Stonefletcher Global Logistics seemed to be settling in there to stay—and after all these years, she very much wanted to see Maxwell Stonefletcher again.
Eyes of stormy grey, chest and shoulders of the dashingly handsome college quarterback he’d been …
That fiery spirit, the strong arms holding her down …
Dearest Max.
‘You are as beautiful as ever.’ Max gave her that irresistible smile she remembered so well.
‘So are you,’ Mednaiya purred back, and meant it.
All it had taken was one glance, and the old, old feelings were stirring in her again.
In him, too, judging by Max’s eagerness now, as he strode nearer, reaching for her …
She knew he was ruthless in business, a user, was probably this instant thinking how to involve Knight Petroleum Enterprises in his affairs, to his advantage rather than hers … and she had no doubt at all she’d be in his bed minutes from now.
It must be clear to the bodyguards standing discreetly around the walls how much he wanted that.
And by all knights and midnights, so did she.
Manuel knew he was blushing.
Acutely aware of the cool amusement in those deep blue eyes—her presence was making him flush more and more deeply, and her friend Lauren was sitting on the sofa beside him, watching and giggling—Manuel struggled to make conversation.
He was in awe of the woman across the room, and a little afraid he’d invited a viper into his country. Until moments ago, he’d had no idea that Mednaiya Knight, leader of the Merry Blades, was head of Knight Petroleum Enterprises—and a onetime lover of Maxwell Stonefletcher.
Who, if he’d correctly read a maid’s angry gestures as Stonefletcher’s men escorted him here, was again Stonefletcher’s lover right now. What could he—should he—say?
‘Ah … Mednaiya—how came you by a name like that?’
The tall, raven-haired beauty took pity on him, turning away to look out the window. One shapely shoulder lifted in an unhurried shrug. ‘From my parents. Who are both too dead now to ask where they found it.’
‘And you … ah, like risking being sliced by men dressed like medieval knights? You find the danger … exciting?’
‘Yes,’ she replied simply, ‘and yes.’
Silence fell. Manuel took refuge in the excellent wine. The contents of his glass seemed to be rapidly disappearing. He was sinking into the leather sofa … and was that a real tapestry of knights hunting a unicorn through a forest, freshly hung on the guest palace wall? Twenty feet long if it was an inch, and …
‘So where, in this day and age, does one find sword-swinging men in full armor, anyway?’ he asked haltingly, increasingly afraid he would seem a lout and a boor and—well, whatever the current Americano term was for graceless foot-in-mouth-afflicted male idiots.
‘Everywhere the Merry Blades perform. Two or three a year join my little club of fantasy-medieval re-enactors, to stay. Colin—you saw him sparring with me—is one of our best armorers.’
‘Mednaiya founded the Blades, and sponsors them,’ Lauren murmured. ‘Very popular with lawyers, executives, and others too busy to spend summers doing Ren Faires.’
‘So this is more a hobby for you than business?’
Mednaiya Knight turned to meet his eyes. Her sheer beauty made Manuel’s throat go
dry in an instant. Again.
‘It’s more than a hobby,’ she said quietly. ‘Having well-armed and adventuresome swashbucklers to call on can be useful. Particularly if they’re knights or pirates with brains as well as swords—and know how to use both.’
‘Yet … so expensive,’ he commented gently, trying not to let his leaping hope show.
Mednaiya shrugged again. ‘I’ve never had any shortage of money.’ The last word was uttered in the voice a fastidious matron might use to say ‘sewage’.
Manuel nodded and looked down into his glass. It was empty now, and he gazed into it rather helplessly, wondering how best to phrase what he needed to say next.
While he was pondering, long and slender fingers plucked it deftly from his grasp, and refilled it.
‘Lauren brought you here,’ the tall, beautiful woman with the bottle told Manuel, ‘because you have a problem she thinks I can help with. If she trusts you, so can I; there need be no secrets between us. So please, Manuel, set aside your unease, think of me as an old friend you can speak freely with, and tell me why you’ve come.’
‘I … uh …’ Manuel swallowed. Where to begin?
There was suddenly—with not a drop of wine spilled, though he abruptly found himself trembling like a young man first courting—a warm, sleek body beside him on the sofa, pressed against his leg. A long arm reached across him, gathering in Lauren.
‘Let’s sit and talk,’ the beautiful hostess commanded softly. ‘And you can tell me why the Midnight Knight needs to ride again.’
Even before Fernando pulled back the tarpaulin, Mednaiya knew what she’d see, thanks to the reek and the swarming flies.
More than a dozen local men—and women, too. Something with sharp teeth had been at most of the eyeballs, leaving empty sockets to blindly regard the Mariacordoban sky.
Manuel used a stick to turn and shift rotting flesh, and point out bullet holes. Lots of them.
‘These tried to stop Stonefletcher’s men. There are dozens more back in the jungle, or bulldozed into the Palace gardens. These were shot down in the market and left where they fell, as a warning to the rest of us.’
The New Hero: Volume 1 Page 6