“You speak Western very well,” Rael says to her the next day shortly after she arrives. “So did your grandmother.”
“I know it’s something that sets the Jeks apart from other clans,” she replies.
“An old chief named Kryjek wanted all of the Jeks to learn it.”
Ricka nods as she resumes sweeping the floor, “Lorina’s father.”
Rael nods slowly with the confirmation of something he had always suspected but never asked. “It was one of his wisdoms, though his longing for conquest almost destroyed the Jeks.”
“And the Purns,” she agrees, and they both grow silent as she goes about her chore.
Rael watches her for a few minutes, realizing just how much she resembles her grandmother despite the difference in their hair color. She’s beautiful and well proportioned, and his eyes follow her as she sweeps, dusts and wipes down surfaces. He has to remind himself that he is old enough to have been her grandmother’s father, but he doesn’t feel old! He remembers the one kiss he’d shared with Lorina, and is again aware that it may have been decades since he touched a woman, the Tigolean hag in Dulkur notwithstanding. Rael feels suddenly awkward about the silence, and he busies himself with polishing his armor. Eventually he looks up to see Ricka just standing and watching. He meets her eyes and finds their blue captivating. For just a moment, he feels as if his heart stops working properly
“You are finished?” he almost stutters.
“I am. I’ve other things to do, but I’d like to come back tomorrow,” she says.
“Why?”
“I want to know more about the legend. I want to know where he has been for the last few years,” explains Ricka.
“I would like that.”
Ricka returns to him every few days for the next few months as spring moves into summer, always asking for him to regale her with some story of his travels. Every place he had been and everything he had done was told to her eager ears, and she looks upon him with interest and even awe. Rael comes to take joy in that look, in those ice blue eyes as they watch him unblinkingly while he tells his stories. He tells her of the ice bear, of Tigol and Dulkur, of fighting for his father’s armor in Martherus and of the ancient Dahken cave in the north, now overrun with lava. He tells her everything except of his childhood; Demon and his parents he keeps to himself.
A warm day finds Rael outside near one of the gentle streams that falls down the side of one of the mountains flanking the village. Ricka had asked him there, and he finds a crowd of the village’s younger people sitting raptly as he tells the tale of his slaying the ice bear. It was the first story he’d ever told Ricka of course, but she had wanted others to hear it as well. As he looks around the faces of the assembled children and young men and women, his eyes settle on Ricka’s, and he sees something there that he remembers seeing in Lorina’s eyes more than once. She doesn’t just listen to him; she appears absolutely enamored with his words. After he finishes, the girl disperses the crowd promising another adventure in a few days, and she walks with him back to his home.
“They loved it,” Ricka says as they walk between the houses and animal pens.
“I have never told my tales to anyone before you and certainly never to a group of people before.”
“It’s natural to you,” she encourages. “You tell them with such detail, such life.”
“I tell them as they happened.”
“Maybe, but you’re still great at it. You’ll make an exciting father,” Ricka decides aloud.
Rael doesn’t know how to respond to this, for never has anyone said such a thing to him. He realizes with a start that the slender fingers of her right hand are intertwined with those of his left, and he uses all of his composure to keep from yanking his hand from hers. Something about it pleases and sickens him at once. When they reach his meager house, Rael bids her farewell and quickly ducks into its suddenly beckoning solitude.
He stands before his mirror, appraising the image of the armored Dahken held within it when his door opens behind him, and when he turns to see Ricka closing the door behind her, he curses himself for not having thrown the bolt. It would have seemed rude. She crosses the small room to stand less than a foot from him, and he realizes he is trapped with nowhere to go. The summer sunlight plays yellow across her face and in her golden hair.
“Dahken Rael, I will have you someday. You will not escape me as you did Lorina.”
“No, I am over a hundred years old. You are but a child to me,” he replies, but the words sound hollow in his ears as he looks into those blue eyes.
“A child?” she asks. She lifts his plated wrist and places his hand on her firm, full right breast. “Do I feel like a child to you? I am young, but I promise you, I am woman.”
“It is not right. I am not a Northman.”
“But you are a Jek, accepted into the clan long ago. You have always had a place here. My family has seen to it. Stay here, and be my husband,” she implores, and Rael remembers a similar conversation some years ago. She adds, “I will make you a fine wife.”
“I would be a poor husband,” he argues, “for I will always have to leave one day.”
“And you have always come back. Resist if you will, but do not resist too long. I would marry you before you must again leave for one of your adventures,” she says.
She stands on the tips of her toes and cranes her neck so that her face meets his in a kiss. He neither takes ahold of her as he once did Lorina, nor pushes her away. He enjoys the simple pleasure of a woman’s lips on his own, all the while knowing that it can only end badly, and before he knows it, she is gone out the door. The only trace of the blond haired Ricka is her laughter on the wind.
21.
“Thank you for your business,” the Tigolean says with a wide, semi-toothless smile.
He’s short, wiry, and ugly with a shaved round head, and he wears brown leather armor from neck to toe, though Rael doubts the man has ever used it in combat. He talks loudly, especially while bragging on his stable, so loudly in fact that it has given the Dahken a headache. Frankly, everything about this man makes Rael want to punch him in the teeth, but he has possibly the finest black stallion for sale that Rael has ever seen. As Rael counts gold coins, he recognizes that the price is exorbitant, but he is somehow still willing to pay it.
“I have never seen such a horse,” Rael admits.
“The Shet produce superior animals, but rarely will they sell or trade one,” says the stablemaster.
“I am heading that way,” Rael comments idly as he finishes his counting.
“You go to deal with the Shet?” the Tigolean asks, a hint of disbelief in his voice.
“I do not know that for certain.”
“To go into the Shetlands is to deal with the Shet,” he proclaims, “and to deal with the Shet, you must have something the Shet value with which to trade.
“What do the Shet value?” asks Rael.
“Only horses and bravery.”
Rael nods as he blankets and saddles his massive new steed, admiring the definition in the animal’s muscles. He has no doubt that the beast could run down a thousand men, trampling them under its thundering hooves, and then continue on for miles. “It is a shame for such a horse to not have a name,” he says to the animal, who snorts in answer, “but I am poor at such things. Shall we leave this place?”
He leads the animal through the filthy city streets, both horse and man stepping gingerly around piles of excrement and other detritus. Rael doesn’t know the name of the small city, but when he saw it on the horizon, it seemed like a good place to stop before he continued into the Shetlands. A wall about twice the height of a tall man surrounds the city, and the entire wall and all of the buildings contained within seem to be made of hardened bricks of orange mud. As the sun hit it from far off, it was a truly stunning sight, but as Rael approached the ugliness and stench of a few thousand people contained within became obvious.
Interestingly enough to the Dahken
, this place has a fair number of Shet conducting various kinds of business here. It would seem the Shet buy whatever they cannot gather or conquer, for they are not known as craftsmen or farmers. They seem to be rather adept merchants, or perhaps they just know the quality of what they offer.
Rael moves through the city’s iron portcullis gate and immediately turns south toward the Shetlands. For a moment, he considers heading back inside to find an inn at which both he and the horse can stay for the night so they might start of fresh in the morning, but a sudden shift of the wind blows the smells of the city into Rael’s face. He sometimes forgets how much men can stink.
* * *
Rael brings up his shield to deflect the javelin just in time, and the strike nearly knocks him from the black horse. It was a wonderfully aimed throw by the mounted Shet, clearly meant to end the battle before it begun, or at least make Rael easy prey for the other rider. As it is, Rael surprises even himself with his ability to stay mounted, and no mark mars the shield itself.
The other Shet is upon him, swinging a wickedly curved blade well before his compatriot can hurl another javelin. Again Rael’s shield provides the needed protection as the bronze weapon clangs upon it, and the Dahken joins the battle with his own longsword. The two trade blows, weaving and parrying, and the bronze skinned Shet has clearly superior skills upon horseback as he dances the animal in a circle around his foe. Were it not for his shield and armor, Rael surely would have already been wounded, and he considers that perhaps that is exactly what he needs to turn the tide of this battle.
The whistle of steel cutting through the air gives Rael just enough warning, and he pitches forward to take upon his back a blow that would have surely severed his head. He curses himself for losing track of the other Shet, who has now ridden up behind him, and he wheels wildly with a backhanded strike. But his target is suddenly out of his reach, for the Shet and his mount move as one like a panther. Rael reacts to a reflection of the sun, a mere sparkle at the edge of his vision, and his shield again intersects a deadly arcing blade. And then it comes – a white hot, yet terribly cold slicing pain in his right arm, just in the grooves between vambrace and armguard. His sword arm falls limply, and his longsword drops to the ground.
Rael whips his head around to see the Shet, bloodied bronze scimitar in hand, leaning back with a grand smile of victory. Rael considers his options, well aware of the muscles and tendons the stroke has severed, well aware of the blood that lets freely under and over his armor, and then he realizes the Shet’s reaction is yet another misdirection. Rael wheels to his left in his saddle, bringing his shield around, and smashes it into his first foe with terrific force, just before the man’s own blade would have fallen upon the Dahken’s head. The unfortunate rider is thrown from his horse, landing no less than six feet away, with the left half of his upper body and face smashed into oblivion.
Though sword less, Rael is far from weaponless as he turn to face the other Shet, the javelin thrower, who holds his sword in the air in a gesture of surrender and says, “Hold gray one. You have proven your might. I will take you to Rokafu.” The Shet slides his scimitar back into his leather belt and rides around Rael in a wide berth to collect the dead man’s horse.
“You could have done so before. Was it worth his death?” Rael asks, pointing to the corpse with the tip of his sword.
“So that I could have such an animal? A horse to rival even Rokafu’s? I would pay with his death thrice over,” the Shet replies.
He is completely naked except for soft riding boots, a loin cloth and a leather belt to which a few weapons are attached. The sun bronzed skin of his muscled torso shows several scars from battles past to accompany a particularly nasty scar on his chin. But along with this death accepting demeanor and the marks upon his body from it, the Shet’s face also shows fine lines from much laughter. He shrugs off Rael’s eyes, and he turns to ride away.
“Rokafu is your… leader?’ Rael asks, pushing his horse into a canter to catch up to the Shet.
“He is our Hettal, chief as the northerners say it,” the Shet replies, referring to the northern Tigoleans.
“His daughter has skin like mine.”
This brings the Shet to a halt, and he turns on horseback to face the Dahken. “How do you know this?”
“The Shet east of here told me so,” Rael explains.
“Kaeran and his scum,” the Shet spits, and he resumes his way. “So that’s why they let you through their lands – to make trouble for Rokafu.”
“I had no quarrel with them, and I showed bravery,” Rael replies, and the Shet only nods.
They crest a small hill, and a bustling village is laid out below them. Instead of masonry or timber homes, the Shet live in large tents of tanned hide. Rael counts dozens of men, all very similar to his escort, in various activities meant to display their masculinity from footraces to wrestling to sword fighting. The women, all of them beautiful and supple in a way unlike any other women Rael has seen, seem to move about in domestic tasks, and there are children also. These help the women or watch the men if they are old enough, while the smaller seem to be involved in their own games. Perhaps two hundred horses are penned or tied around the place, with perhaps two score in the largest pen which is near the largest tent.
Rael realizes with a start that his company already approaches the village’s outer tents, and he again rushes to catch up. The rider pays no mind to anything or anyone, but the Shet women stop their tasks to look on at the gray skinned stranger among them. Even some of the men cease their endeavors to watch and wait. A large cook fire burns near the middle of the village, and this is where they stop.
“Where is Rokafu?” the rider asks of no one in particular.
“In his tent, of course!” answers a huge man who had just nearly torn off his opponent’s arm in a test of strength.
“Come,” says the rider to Rael as he dismounts from his horse. “Someone care for his horse.”
The huge man suddenly appears with a quickness belying his huge size. He must be at least a full head taller than Rael and almost twice his girth, with a full mane of black hair. As he takes the animal’s reins in one great hand, he says, “A fine animal to be sure.”
“He’s earned his right to the stallion,” Rael’s escort calls over his shoulder, “and I’ll make sure Rokafu knows it.”
The huge Shet’s face immediately adopts an expression of contempt toward this small, steel wearing gray skinned man before him, but it turns to sullen acceptance as the words sink into his thick looking skull. Rael takes one last glance back at his black horse before following the Shet into a tent that must be at least thirty feet across and twenty feet tall at its apex.
Inside, Rael finds far more luxury than he would have expected from such an apparently bucolic people. Luxurious carpets cover the ground, creating a thick, plush barrier on top of the ground, and silks hang from the tent’s supports. A small fire burns in its center, the smoke rising through an opening in the top of the tent, and a boar or pig of some kind is spitted to roast over it, attended by two older women. A cushioned divan of wood, painted gold, sits on the far side, and upon it lays an impressive man, leaning up on one arm as he eats from a bowl of nuts and berries. As he is not standing, it is hard to tell his height, but Rael estimates Rokafu to be no taller than he. However, every inch of his body bulges with powerful muscles, and the Dahken thinks the Hettal likely outweighs him by half, even with his armor. The man lies completely nude, as if displaying his flaccid though impressive manhood in challenge.
Despite all this, it is actually the figure sitting cross legged next to the divan that draws Rael’s attention. A young girl, perhaps no older than ten for she in not yet into womanhood, sits watching attentively. Her almost black eyes settle with interest on the armored Rael, likely because he is the only person she has ever seen to share her skin tone.
With only the briefest glances upward, Rokafu asks in a bored tone, “Who is this puny Westerner you hav
e brought me?”
“He asked to see you, Hettal.”
“Send him away,” Rokafu yawns, “he can buy horses from the other Shet. Or perhaps it is sword arms he wishes to buy. Either way, I do not want his gold.”
“I want neither, Hettal,” Rael replies, “and I am no Westerner.”
The response apparently interests Rokafu somewhat, for he again looks at the armored man standing before him. Before he had only seen the plate legguards and assumed that the newcomer was some Westerner, but now his eyes stops on Rael’s face, and the effect somewhat unsettles Rael. It feels as if a great predator, something deadly with a mouthful of razor sharp teeth, examines him quite closely. After a moment, Rokafu’s eyes glance just briefly toward his daughter, and then they come back to Rael’s face.
“What do you want?” Rokafu asks suspiciously.
“I have come a great distance, Hettal, seeking what I knew not,” Rael replies, attempting to sound respectful. “I came across some Shet to your east, whose Hettal is named Kaeran, I believe. They told me of a girl with skin like mine, and I knew then to where I was headed. My blood has led me here, to your daughter.”
“And now that you’ve found her,” Rokafu says with deliberate danger in his tone, “what would you do with her?”
Rael answers carefully, “Nothing without your permission, Hettal, but I would teach her who and what she is.”
“Who and what she is?!” Rokafu roars, and he is on his feet before Rael can even blink, his muscled frame heaving as if it already battles. “She is my daughter! A Shet and daughter of a Hettal! She needs know nothing else!”
“I mean no disrespect,” Rael says softly with a slight nod of his head. He wants to somehow convince this man of what needs to be done, but not at the expense of the Shet’s wrath. “I mean only that you can see how she and I are similar. She has… strengths within her, strengths of which I can make her aware.”
Blood Loss: The Chronicle of Rael Page 16