by Davis Ashura
Hal'El Shielded and conducted from his Well as Rukh wasted no further time on talk. The younger warrior simply unsheathed his sword and attacked.
Hal'El somersaulted over a white-hot Fireball and landed in a ready position. He barely parried a vertical slash. His riposte met air. Another slash, barely parried. Hal'El leapt backward, covering twenty feet. He needed distance even as he drew more Jivatma.
Right now, Rukh was too fast, but Hal'El wasn't worried. He could keep up with the Shektan. Because of the Jivatma he'd stolen from the victims of the Withering Knife, he had more than enough strength to outlast the younger man. The world sharpened further. His Shield hardened. Nothing could penetrate it.
Another Fireball screamed toward him, and Hal'El took it on his Shield. Even before the sparks had faded, he answered in kind, and this time it was Rukh who had to dodge. Hal'El followed up with even more Fireballs. Rukh leapt over a few of them and slid aside from others. Fires sprung up throughout the Shektan estate.
Rukh suddenly leapt through the air like a launched spear, straight toward Hal'El. He was moving too fast for further Fireballs. Hal'El gauged the distance, and sprang upward. They met yards above the ground, exchanging blistering strokes. Hal'El could feel them all the way up to his shoulders. His palms stung, but he had no time to rest. Here came Rukh once more. Again they clashed in midair, their bodies parallel to the ground.
With that exchange, Hal'El's confidence was shaken. He'd taken several blows on his Shield. They hadn't gotten through, but they had still been heavy enough to batter him about.
Unholy hells, Rukh was strong. And he was moving faster now than he had at the beginning of their fight.
Hal'El drew more Jivatma. He had to if he wanted any hope of keeping up with the younger man. Uncertainty made a presence in his mind. He'd never fought a man with Rukh's skill or power. And how was the younger man moving so fast? It should have been impossible given the amount of Jivatma Hal'El was conducting.
The only explanation he could fathom was that Rukh was burning through his Jivatma at a prodigious rate, enough to possibly burn out his Well. It was a risky strategy, but it also meant the younger man would soon dramatically slow down. Rukh wouldn't be able to continue this punishing pace for much longer.
Hal'El smiled to himself. And if he pushed the action, Rukh would burn out that much faster.
A Fireball came at him, and Hal'El bent backward at the waist beneath it. Ironically, he'd seen Rukh use that same beautiful move during the Tournament of Hume. More Fireballs came, and Hal'El somersaulted over them while closing the distance.
Once again, it was swords. They fought smooth and swift with no more leaping about. Hal'El breathed easily, still strong and fast. Rukh kept up with him, and no strain was visible on the other man's face. Only concentration.
More strikes thudded against Hal'El's Shield, but some of his struck home as well. More blows were traded, and more blows landed. Both their Shields flickered. Almost as if by silent accord, they stepped away from one another. They stabilized their Shields before once more resuming their battle.
Rukh pressed forward, and Hal'El was forced to give ground. He tried to disengage, but everywhere he went the other man followed.
How was Rukh still drawing so much Jivatma? His Well should be nearly dry by now.
Hal'El realized the answer didn't matter. Not really. He bit down and bore forward. He had never tasted defeat in any battle, and today wouldn't be the first. He'd win, one way or another.
Unholy hells, but Hal'El Wrestiva was strong. Not only that, but he was fast enough to impress a Kesarin and skilled enough to put Kinsu Makren to shame.
Rukh was surprised he was able to match such a man. It should not have been possible. And yet, his Well showed no warning that it was waning. It was deeper, richer, and more full than Rukh could ever recall it being.
It was a mystery he would have to examine at another time.
Here came Hal'El again with teeth gritted.
The older Kumma feinted right, but Rukh didn't bite. He held his position. He blocked a horizontal slash, a low angled blow. Rukh took the offensive, but Hal'El was ready. They swept side-to-side, spinning, exchanging positions even as they exchanged heavy strikes. Hal'El grew stronger, faster. Several blows got through and rocked Rukh's Shield. He had to draw further from his Well, trusting that it would hold.
Hal'El must have sensed the momentary weakness. He stepped forward, but Rukh didn't retreat. He held his ground. As Durmer would have described it, he stayed in the pocket. Elbows, knees, fists, and hilts became part of the combat. Rukh checked a kick. A quick vertical slash, delivered too quickly for Hal'El to avoid, punched past the older Kumma's Shield. Blood flowed. It was a shallow cut to Hal'El's chest. But still, it was also the first true blow landed in the engagement.
Hal'El grimaced and stepped back, apparently not wanting to fight in such close quarters. Rukh could understand why. At a distance, with swords alone, the two men were evenly matched, but closer in, Rukh felt like he had the advantage. He pressed forward, determined to deny Hal'El a chance to breathe. He'd stifle the traitor. And then he would end him.
Hal'El sought to separate. He leapt backward, but Rukh followed. He kept pace with the older Kumma, always staying in range. Rukh stepped closer, limiting Hal'El's ability to disengage. Again, it was close in fighting, but this time, it was Hal'El who managed to get in a strike. It opened a shallow cut along Rukh's abdomen. The blow was followed with a knee to the ribs.
Rukh's breath whooshed out, and now it was he who had to disengage. He leapt backward, but Hal'El kept on him. Rukh leapt again. His chest was too tight. He needed time to get his lungs working again. Another leap gave him a bare moment of respite before Hal'El was upon him again. Rukh did his best to block the older man's sword, but mostly he just dodged or took the blows on his Shield. It flickered, and Rukh leapt away once more.
This time, the time and distance gained was enough. His lungs were working again, and his Shield was under control. Still, while both men panted heavily, Rukh knew the fight couldn't go on much longer. His Well was finally emptying. His Jivatma was thinning. His stamina, speed, and strength would soon fade.
He took a deep breath and closed the distance with Hal'El. The older Kumma didn't retreat. He, too, was willing to stay in the pocket this time.
Once more, it was fists, knees, and elbows in addition to the sword. Rukh feinted and snuck a foot behind the older Kumma's ankle. A diagonal slash meant to distract allowed a thudding elbow to land on Hal'El's forehead. The traitor stumbled back, and when he did so, he tripped on Rukh's foot and almost fell.
Rukh launched himself into an unprotected Hal'El. His knee thundered into the other man's ribs and abdomen. A liver shot.
Hal'El fell over, curled up around his stomach, gasping in pain.
Rukh leveled his sword and panted heavily. No sense of triumph filled him. Only satisfaction. It was over.
“Kill me,” Hal'El begged.
Rukh wanted to. It would be so easy to do and so easy to justify. He'd seen the injuries suffered by Jessira, Bree, and Nanna at the hands of this man. He knew all the evil Hal'El had done, all those who had been murdered at his hands.
If Rukh killed Hal'El right now, no one would care. Vengeance would be a simple and acceptable matter. But vengeance wasn't what drove Rukh. It was justice. All those who had suffered because of Hal'El Wrestiva deserved a chance to face him, force him to acknowledge his wicked actions. It was simply poetic that Hal'El's justice would be far more cruel than vengeance. Drawn and quartered with his remains scattered on the Isle of the Crows was Hal'El Wrestiva's future. It was a sad ending to a once great man.
“Kill me,” Hal'El pleaded once more.
Rukh kicked him in the head, knocking him unconscious. “Your death will not be so easy,” he said, finding an unexpected welling of pity for the other man.
Though the day was late, a time when everyone should be abed, Hal'El Wrestiva found himself
awake and unable to sleep. This was his last night on earth, and fear kept him up. It was a terror that pounded through his veins and left him nauseated. Tomorrow would see him drawn and quartered, a brutal death.
He tried to face such a prospect with bravery, but he simply couldn't. Hal'El was a broken man. All his glorious dreams and ambitions had been ripped away just as his life soon would be. He was left with a single hope: Hal'El wanted to die with some small amount of grace and courage. He wanted to die with someone to regret his passing.
“We all suffered what you so greatly fear,” Sophy said. “Now you will join us in pain. Still, I am . . . not sorry for you, but I do pity you.”
“Imbeciles,” cackled Pera Obbe. “I will dance when you scream, Hal'El Wrestiva. I will laugh when they first pull your arms out of their sockets, when your legs are ripped from your torso.”
“Be silent,” Aqua Oilhue said. “Only the degenerate celebrate another person's pain.”
“Go frag yourself,” was Pera's witty rejoinder.
“Do not listen to Pera. She is as wicked as you are yourself,” Felt Barnel said. “Nevertheless, I will pray for you. I will pray that you seek forgiveness and achieve humility, that if Devesh casts you back on the wheel of time, you will be reborn as someone who becomes worthy of your life's gifts.”
“Thank you,” Hal'El said, heartfelt and touched in the way only the most truly lonely and desperate can feel.
“I will pray for you as well,” Van Jinnu said. “If you are granted a next life, I pray you don't walk the same paths that led you to this ending. I pray your soul takes lessons from the choices you made in this world. I hope that it does, and I hope that you take a moment to seek Devesh's guidance.”
As the others in his mind settled down to silence, Hal'El found himself thinking about their words. Despite what he'd done to them—he'd murdered them, which was the worst thing one person could do to another—his victims had offered him something he had never expected or deserved. They'd given him warmth and comfort. It was the greatest gift he'd ever been given.
Hal'El had never been a praying man. Like most Kummas, he had little to do with Devesh, but in this, his final night, during those hours when the world rested and those who should have hated him the most had instead offered him their forgiveness, Hal'El prayed. He wasn't sure how to do it, or what he was supposed to do. He simply spoke into the vaults of his mind, uttering whatever came to him. Much of it was nonsense and his words meaningless, but eventually the cadence of prayer reached his heart, and the truth of what he desired was made clear.
Hal'El was too selfish to feel true remorse for what he had done, but nevertheless, he prayed first for those who he had murdered. He prayed that they would not be cast back upon the wheel of time, that Devesh would gather them into His loving embrace, even Pera Obbe. Next, he prayed for Varesea, his one true love, hoping the same for her. And finally, he prayed for himself. He prayed for peace, for calm in the face of fear, to feel Devesh's loving touch even for just an instant before his life was snuffed out.
In the midst of his prayers, the door leading to the small, otherwise empty row of prison cells opened up, and in walked Rukh Shektan.
Hal'El remained seated on the floor. Any hatred he might have once felt for this man who had defeated him was gone. Any bitterness at his life's ruin was drained away. All of it replaced by a hollow ache. As a result, he had no desire to stand and face Rukh as an equal. What difference would it make if he did? Instead, Hal'El simply looked up from his seated position, waiting for the younger man to speak.
The quiet stretched on.
Was Rukh here to gloat? Hal'El would certainly have done so had their roles been reversed. He would have been glad of it, too, but it saddened him to think that Rukh might be just as prone to such a failing as he. Hal'El had hoped the younger man might be made of better moral fiber.
Rukh continued to stare down at him with an unfathomable expression on his face. Finally, he reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out a small vial. “Tomorrow will be very painful for you, but it need not be.” He tossed the vial to Hal'El. “Take enough of this, and it'll stop your breathing.”
Hal'El stared at the vial with a burgeoning sense of hope before finally looking up. “Why are you doing this?” he asked, wanting to understand why he was being given this easier way out.
“It isn't because I've forgiven you,” Rukh said. “I want to, but I doubt it will happen before you leave this world. I'm bringing this to you because I could have killed you the other day and given you a clean death.” Rukh's lips pursed. “But justice demanded that you face those who you so terribly wronged. With your Tribunal before the Magisterium, they finally had the opportunity. And you finally were forced to acknowledge their anguish and feel their anger and hatred. Now you have, and now, I can give you the clean death I wish I could have when we fought.”
“Thank you,” Hal'El said, clutching the vial to his chest. Tears of gratitude filled his eyes. “Devesh bless you, Rukh Shektan.”
The younger man gave a brief bob of his head and turned to leave, but Hal'El called out to him. “What did you do with the Knife?” he asked.
Rukh stiffened. “I have it,” he replied. “No one knows what to do with it, so I kept it.”
“You should throw it into the deepest water you can find or have a Duriah melt it down to liquid,” Hal'El advised. “It's what I should have done.”
Rukh nodded agreement. “Yes, you should have,” he replied, and Hal'El thought that would be the end of their conversation, but the younger warrior hesitated. “Devesh bless you, Hal'El Wrestiva. I will pray for you if a new life is to be your destiny.”
After Rukh's departure, Hal'El settled himself on the ground and a warm peace stole over him. He quickly swallowed the contents of the vial, and his last thoughts were of a distant song.
In the midst of tragedy, those with hearts open to Devesh will find solace and wisdom.
~The Word and the Deed
Satha sat alone in Dar'El's study, waiting on the arrival of the rest of the House Council. While she did so, she stared out at the grounds where two days ago, Hal'El Wrestiva had almost murdered her and most of her family. The lawn and shrubbery were a mess with scorch marks all over the place from where Rukh and the traitor had hurled Fireballs at one another. It was miracle they hadn't burned down the House Seat itself.
It was almost as much a miracle that it had been Rukh who had won that battle. Satha shook her head in remembrance. She'd been tight with tension and terror the entire time. No matter what he'd eventually become, Hal'El Wrestiva had once been a legend. He had been the measure by which most every Ashokan warrior for the past twenty years had been compared.
But in the end, it had all worked out. Hal'El was dead, killed by his own hand—someone had snuck him a vial of poison—and his remains were now a feast for the crows.
And Rukh was safe and unharmed, as was Satha's family.
The door to the study opened and Dar'El entered. He moved stiffly, his arms held unmoving at his sides. Both shoulders obviously still pained him. He'd taken an arrow to one and a sword thrust to the other, and both remained heavily bandaged, but her husband was alive. It was blessing enough as far as Satha was concerned.
“How are you feeling?” she asked, still hating the raspy, weak quality to her voice.
“Every day is a little better than the last,” Dar'El answered. “How are you?”
“Every day is the same as the one before,” Satha replied, trying to keep the bitterness from her voice. Though her children didn't see it—she wouldn't allow them to—her paralysis, her difficulty even drawing a breath, was something that still angered her, consumed her with grief. She hated her weakness, she hated how little she could do for herself, and she mourned her loss of independence.
Dar'El came and stood behind her as he rubbed her shoulders. “I know,” he said, understanding her sadness as he kissed the top of her head. “And I'm sorry.”
&nb
sp; Satha put a hand over his and squeezed, appreciating his support.
The door opened again and in came the others: Janos Terrell, Durmer Volk, and Teerma Shole. As was his wont, Durmer was serious and dour, while Teerma smiled at something the hawk-faced Janos had said. Satha eyed them in consideration. The two newest members of the House Council were known to spend much time together. If it meant something more than friendship had developed between them, Satha reckoned it a good thing. Everyone could use a little brightness in this grim summer.
“Let's get started,” Dar'El said, turning Satha around so she faced into the room.
“With the ongoing siege, I'm a little confused as to why we're meeting,” Teerma said. “Commercial industry and economy have essentially ground to a halt since everything is needed for the war effort. What new business do we have to discuss?”
“The Magisterium has finally come to a decision regarding Rukh's Talents,” Dar'El said. “They've decided that what he can do has to be passed on to as many Ashokans as possible and as soon as possible. They want it done in no more than a few days.”
Satha had heard all this before, but she forced herself to listen closely anyway.
“The Magisterium thinks our situation hopeless,” Durmer guessed.
Dar'El nodded. “Defeat was always the most likely scenario,” he said. “In all of history, no city has ever outlasted a siege by Suwraith.”
“But why now?” Janos asked. “Why so suddenly?
“It should be obvious,” Dar'El explained. “After Rukh almost died battling Hal'El, the Magisterium finally decided that sharing his Talents amongst others is of the utmost importance.” His jaw clenched. “They've put it off too long as it is.”
“That isn't the only reason,” Satha rasped. “The Oasis will fail. The Rahails are certain of it. It is likely to last for only another week or so.”