by Davis Ashura
Kinsu had charged in behind his Fireballs while Rukh had been busy dodging them. He was only five feet away. Rukh didn’t have the space or time to bring his shoke to the ready. He needed distance. He leaped straight into the air with Kinsu paralleling his jump, following closely. The slight increase in separation was all Rukh needed. Their shokes hammered against one another. The two of them kept at it even as they landed, attacking and defending in classic Ashokan sword patterns. The final was a particularly bad pass for Rukh. Several of Kinsu’s strokes had gotten through his defense and rocked his Shield. They separated once more and stood facing one another.
Suwraith’s spit, but Kinsu was strong.
Rukh’s palms stung from the heavy blows, and he had difficulty stabilizing his Shield. It wavered, flickering for a moment before he was able to bring it back under control. Kinsu fired several Fireballs upon seeing Rukh’s shaky defenses, but again the only result was a brilliant display of sparks.
They paused, assessing one another. Rukh was still fit and breathed easily, but he was worried. He was game for the fight, but he knew he was reaching his limits. His Well, the source of his Jivatma was emptying too quickly. Fifteen hard matches in less than two weeks had taken their toll.
By now, the entire arena was cast in shadows, and the sun was barely above the horizon. There wasn’t much daylight or time left in this, the final match. Rukh knew he had to go all out, and now, if he wanted to win.
He feinted right, but charged from the left. Kinsu met him in the middle. Again they exchanged heavy, fast blows. Their swords blurred, and even the Kummas in attendance had difficulty keeping track of the strokes. Rukh was the first to disengage and he jumped straight back fifteen feet. He wanted to shake out his stinging hands, but he didn’t have the time, and he couldn’t afford to show weakness.
He needed a distraction.
He threw three Fireballs in quick succession, charging in behind them, just as Kinsu had done to him earlier. Rukh attacked, and this time it was Kinsu who gave way, leaping backwards. Rukh almost raced forward, but just then he noticed a slight brightening of Kinsu’s Shield. He jumped upward and Kinsu’s Fire Shower passed underneath. Rukh launched Fireballs at his unShielded opponent, but Kinsu dodged them with ease and closed the distance in a blur.
Now the older Kumma tested him. It was skill with sword alone, and Rukh found himself unable to disengage. Kinsu bull rushed, and Rukh defended but was still pushed back. Every attempt he made to attack or even just hold his ground was anticipated. Kinsu struck hard and fast. His strokes seemed to have more power now than they had at the beginning of the match. Rukh’s mouth hung open as he panted for breath. His Jivatma was thinning. His stamina was fading. It took all he had just to maintain his Shield and speed.
Kinsu was winning.
Rukh was backed up almost to the arena wall. He tried desperately to gain more room. He feinted left and right but always Kinsu was there to meet him, pounding at his defenses. He even tried leaping over Kinsu, but he was met in mid-air by the older Kumma and shoved back toward the wall. Rukh gasped for air, and so did Kinsu, but his older opponent was obviously the fresher of the two.
Rukh had long since lost any feeling in his hands as a result of Kinsu’s heavy blows. His legs trembled, and his arms shook. The end was near, and he prepared to meet it. Nothing he could do would change the outcome. He was defeated, and the tip of his shoke dipped tiredly to the ground.
Kinsu smiled and withheld his attack for a fateful moment. “You’ve done well, young Master, but you are not yet ready. Perhaps next time.” His voice was surprisingly high and reedy, and his eyes reflected his imminent victory. He knew he had won. All he need do was apply the killing stroke.
Rukh’s eyes flashed in anger. Kinsu’s smile and words ignited one last fire. He wouldn’t go down like this. Kinsu would have to earn his victory.
With that, Rukh drew seemingly to the last dregs of his Well. His mind raced as he assessed options. He made his choice.
Kinsu stepped forward, prepared to mete out the final stroke.
Rukh straightened suddenly. He blocked, shoving a surprised Kinsu back a pace. With the small opening, Rukh hopped two short feet into the air and pushed off from the arena wall. His shoke flashed forward like an arrow, aimed directly at Kinsu’s throat. Kinsu gasped in shock. Desperately, he adjusted his own shoke, managing to bring it down on Rukh’s left shoulder, simultaneous to when Rukh’s shoke struck Kinsu across the side of the neck. The older Kumma fell heavily to the ground.
The world slowly came back. The crowd was cheering wildly as horns trumpeted his triumph. They were shouting his name: “RUKH SAI! RUKH SAI! RUKH SAI! RUKH SAI!” But this time, they weren’t chanting his name in mockery. This time, they gave him the salute of a true Champion.
He was the Grand Champion! HE WAS THE GRAND CHAMPION! Rukh fell to his knees in disbelief. He should have lost, but somehow he had emerged victorious.
Other observations impinged on Rukh’s thoughts. His left arm hung limply at his side – it would hurt like a banshee, but the pain would be worth it.
He heard movement and glanced over. Hastily, he stood and offered a hand up to a groggy and wobbly Kinsu. The older Kumma rose slowly to his feet, rubbing at his throat. A large red welt could already be seen. Rukh winced in sympathy. Even when the pain from the shoke wore off, the bruise might take weeks to heal.
“Fragging rabid wolves, I didn’t expect that,” Kinsu said hoarsely and with deep disappointment.
Rukh grinned and laughed. Winning had a way of making any man generous. “Yes, but I doubt I’d be able to play that trick on you twice.”
Kinsu scowled. “Damn right,” he said, his eyes flashing angrily before his shoulders drooped with a dejected sigh. “But once was all you needed. Congratulations, Champion.” He extended his hand, and they embraced.
They separated and turned as one to face the Magistrates, Kinsu raising Rukh’s right arm. The crowd continued to cheer, and Rukh’s spirit soared.
There are many lives a man can lead, but in the end they all lead to death.
~Kumma saying, dating to the Days of Desolation
Packages, once filled with spices, resin, clothes and books, had been ripped apart, and their contents littered the ground. Salted meat and fish, too much to pack away, burned on bonfires. The slight breeze carried the smoke and soot from the wagons aflame high into the sky. The warriors rushed about, cursing as they stowed away a few last items.
They were just about ready to move out.
“B Company, gather up your gear and line up on your corporals. Make it quick,” Lieutenant Pume shouted. “The captain says we leave in five. Move!”
“Suwraith’s spit. This can’t be happening,” Jared Randall shrieked to no one in particular. The caravan master floundered in the midst of the burning wagons, near the lined Kummas. He caught sight of Rukh, a mad gleam in his eyes. “You won the Tournament,” he said. “Protect me. Please. I’ll pay you anything,” he pleaded. “I don’t want to die!”
Rukh stepped away from Randall, confused by the man’s panic. Fear he could understand, but right now, the man’s behavior was downright cowardly. It was embarrassing to witness, and Rukh wished he could look away; pretend he couldn’t see or hear Randall’s blubbering.
Randall still shrieked, begging for protection, almost directly in Rukh’s ear.
Rukh grimaced.
He wished someone could smack some sense into the caravan master. Tell him to be a man about it.
The thought was brief and fleeting. First of all, hitting a caravan master was absolutely prohibited. The law was quite clear on the matter but vague on the punishment, but well-known to be quite severe. Beyond that: while hitting the man might be momentarily satisfying, it really wouldn’t help the situation.
Rukh gathered his patience and sympathy. Maybe he could calm the man down. “We’re all afraid,” Rukh said in what he hoped was a reasonable tone, “but now is not the time to panic.”
“Now is the perfect time for panic, you fragging idiot!” Randall cried. “In case no one’s informed you, we’re about to get our back passages stuffed with Chimera spears!”
Rukh’s patience snapped. “Stop your sobbing, you fragging coward!” Rukh said. “We aren’t dead yet.”
“How dare you!” Randall shrieked. “When we get back to Ashoka, I’ll make you pay. I’ll make everyone pay…” he trailed off and licked his lips. “Yes, we must get back to Ashoka. I was promised.” He snarled suddenly. “I will have what’s mine,” he vowed, mounting his horse and heeling it into motion.
“What’s wrong with Randall?” Brand asked, riding up just then.
“The man’s a coward,” Keemo said, as if that answered everything. In the world of the Kummas, it did. Nothing else was worse.
“Leave him be,” Rukh said. “He’s not worth our time. We’ve got more important things to do, like getting our gear and supplies together. As in five minutes ago. We don’t want to be left behind or cut off.”
“What do you mean?” Brand asked.
Rukh had thought about their situation while overseeing the offloading of the wagons. Three large groups of Chims were rolling toward them. Who was to say there wasn’t a fourth? Even now, the caravan might already be encircled. He wasn’t sure how the veterans would treat his suspicions. They might tell him he was just jumping at shadows. He was only a Virgin, after all, but with Farn, Keemo, and Brand, he would get a fair hearing.
“I think we’re going to find Chims up north as well,” Rukh said. “We need to get moving if we’re to have a chance of getting out of here.”
“Chims to the north,” Brand said, surprised. “How do you figure?”
Rukh nodded even as he wondered how they would react to the rest of his reasoning and his fears or whether those fears even had any basis in fact. He suspected they did. “All these Chims coming at us at once and on top of us before we even knew they were there. The only way I see something like that happening is they already knew how our scouts operate,” he said.
Brand wore a look of skepticism. “What are you saying? Someone in the caravan told them?”
“I think he’s saying Sil Lor Kum,” Farn said. “Aren’t you?”
Rukh nodded again, not surprised by Farn’s correct guess. His taller cousin had always been bright, sometimes even the brightest of the three of them. “The Secret Hand of Justice.”
“The Sil Lor Kum are nothing but a legend,” Keemo scoffed. “They have to be. I mean, Human agents of Suwraith? Who in their right minds would agree to serve Her? The Chims just got lucky finding us.”
“Keemo’s right,” Brand quickly agreed. “There’s no such thing as the Sil Lor Kum. It’s all talk and no fight.”
Rukh wasn’t surprised by Keemo and Brand’s disbelief. He had trouble believing it, too. For most people – until now, Rukh included – the Sil Lor Kum were a legend. They were a handy means to scare misbehaving children or explain away whatever inexplicable calamity happened to befall someone. And as far as Rukh knew, not a single member of the Sil Lor Kum had ever been discovered in all of Ashoka’s existence; nor had even the rumor of membership ever been raised for even the most degenerate of people, but that alone didn’t mean the Sil Lor Kum didn’t exist. It only meant their existence was somewhat unlikely. But given what was happening to the caravan, Rukh thought his hypothesis made a horrifying kind of sense.
Farn seemed worried about it, also. He was subdued and pensive.
“My Nanna always figured they were real,” Rukh said. “I suppose I just closed my eyes to the possibility, and I sure never expected to come across proof of their existence.”
“You still haven’t,” Brand said. “All you have is an answer to a question. But I’m with Keemo. I think he’s right: the Chims got lucky.”
“But it wasn’t just one or two or ten of them who snuck up on us,” Farn said. “It was seven thousand.”
“And also, remember this: these Chims managed to skirt around our scouts from three different directions. When something happens once, maybe it’s luck. Twice…maybe real lucky, but three times…three times isn’t luck anymore. It’s knowledge. They had to know how best to avoid our scouts. Where they came up with the knowledge is something else.”
“I still don’t think…” Brand began.
“Time’s wasting,” Rukh interrupted, not wanting to talk about it anymore. He wasn’t trying to be gruff or pull rank. He had said his piece. It was enough. The Sil Lor Kum didn’t bear thinking about right now…not when there were so many other pressing matters. “We can talk about it later. You heard the lieutenant. We need to gather our gear and get ready to go.”
“I’m already packed,” Keemo said, gesturing to his bulging saddlebags.
“Same here,” Farn said.
“Brand?” Rukh asked.
“I’m ready.”
Suwraith’s spit. The lieutenant would skin him if he were the last one to have his gear together. He was a corporal for Devesh’s sake.
The caravan consisted of Captain Bosna, four lieutenants, each with three sergeants and beneath them, two corporals, commanding ten privates apiece; a total of two hundred eighty-one warriors. Virgins were almost always privates, as were many veterans, but in Rukh’s case, he’d been bumped up to corporal because of his status as Hume Champion, who, by tradition, was never a private. And it didn’t matter if Rukh was only a corporal because of his victory in the Tournament. He was still expected to act like a veteran. And a veteran showed up before his unit.
“Then I guess I’m the only laggard in this group,” Rukh said. He nodded to the others and led his horse to his gear. He quickly packed it away and attached it securely to his saddle, taking special care with his bow case, quiver, and round ironwood shield. Wouldn’t want to lose his equipment due to carelessness.
He saddled up and heeled his horse into a canter, guiding him toward Lieutenant Pume. With a slight lifting of his heart, he realized many of B Company had yet to arrive. But of the six corporals, he was the last one to make it to muster.
“Nice of you to join us, Shektan,” Lieutenant Pume noted as he rode up.
There was no good answer to that. “Yes sir,” Rukh replied, hoping the lieutenant would drop the matter.
The lieutenant made a noncommittal sound before turning away.
Rukh breathed a sigh of relief and glanced around to see what else needed to be done. The wagons and their supplies still burned, sending a thick plume of smoke into the air. If the Chims didn’t know where they were before, they were bound to know now. Some of the smoke drifted his way, and the horses shifted nervously. The stallion stayed rock steady, and Rukh stroked the horse’s neck in appreciation.
He studied the assembling warriors. The men were young; in their early-to-late-twenties – only a fool left the safety of an Oasis past his thirty-fifth birthday – with more than half the guards Kummas and the rest Rahails or Murans. The Kummas were the best fighters, but it would probably be a member of the other two Castes who stood the best chance of surviving the coming battle. Only a Muran or a Rahail could conduct Jivatma to form a Blend: a near-perfect camouflage of sight, sound, and smell that veiled the men and wagons of a caravan from the piercing eye of Suwraith and Her servants.
Concealment sounded like a good Talent to have right about now.
Several companies, B Company among them, were ready to go. However, A Company of Lieutenant Ulrit, still had a few stragglers.
“Stop jerking around!” Sergeant Lathe of A Company roared at several lingering guards still leafing through their belongings. “We leave in one minute. Any dumbass who doesn’t have his gear and his horse ready is out of luck.”
The men, suitably chastened, hustled to get their gear stowed away and their horses saddled.
After they had finished assembling, the captain spoke to all of them. “Ashokans,” he said. “This will not turn into a rout. There will be no panicking, especially when we haven�
�t even seen a single Chimera yet. We will go forth in an orderly fashion. Remember who we are. We are men of Ashoka, and we will not shame our ancestors with cowardice! Am I understood?”
“Yes sir!” the men shouted as one.
“Good. Stay frosty and sharp. The northern scouts haven’t reported back yet. Hopefully, that means it’s clear in that direction. With a little luck, we will get through this and return home. Now move out.”
“Devesh save us,” Brand said, sounding earnest in his prayer, which wasn’t surprising. He was a Rahail, and while they weren’t as devout as Murans, they were far more pious than Cherids or Kummas.
“Glory to Devesh,” Rukh intoned automatically, feeling a hypocrite. He had no confidence Devesh would heed his prayers, and he was sure many others shared his doubts, but they still offered up their dutiful entreaties to their so-called deity.
Rukh distractedly pushed aside the stallion’s muzzle as the animal reached back for his thigh. He had other matters on his mind. His insides churned with a mixture of fear and excitement. He knew his duty, and if death was the result of keeping his oath, then so be it. He had accepted the possibility from the moment he had learned what it meant to be a Kumma. It didn’t mean he was eager to die.
Most of his concentration, however, was on Captain Bosna’s words. The captain wanted to make sure someone, anyone, would make it back to Ashoka and carry warning to the city. Maybe there was a way to see it happen. In a battle, Kummas were taught to always fight alongside other Kummas, Annexed into Duos or Triads or even Quads. It was thought to be the best way to stay alive, but in this instance, maybe there was a better way. A stealthier way.
He leaned toward Brand. “Stay close,” he told the other man.
The Rahail frowned, puzzlement on his face.
“We can protect you better than you can protect yourself against the Chims,” Rukh explained, nodding toward Farn and Keemo, “but we can’t Blend. We need each other if we’re going to make it back.”