Falzon knew it would be useless to argue such things with her. Better to say nothing. He turned to Prannath instead.
“Do not ussse a female to do your bidding, Father.”
“What do you mean?”
Falzon hissed, then: “You and your politiciansss fear me! You fear my Uberallsss and you think if I come home you can watch me and control me!”
“No, no! We need your ssskillsss, your–”
“No one can control me!” Falzon raised his arms high, assuming the posture of the ultimate challenge. He knew what he was doing, because he knew what was coming next.
Dheeraj shook his head slowly. “Why do you feel you mussst act like a warrior to your own family?”
“Do you deny you are here for a Blood Decisssion?”
“Me? Your brother? Of course not!”
“Not you – you wisssp!” Falzon gestured toward the closed doors to his suite. “Do you think I don’t know who awaitsss me out there?”
Prannath drew a breath and his expansive chest swelled, then he released it slowly. “You are correct, my ssson. But we came only to help, to avoid the ssspilling of rakshasssa blood.”
“Why? It isss the way of our kind!” Falzon spun abruptly and with a sweep of his thickly muscled arm, swept half the place-settings from a table in a crescendo of splintering ceramics.
Ashima fell back from the destruction. “Falzon, pleassse–!”
Ignoring her, he addressed his servant, who stood quaking by the entrance to the chamber. “Let usss end thisss thing. Now. Open the doorsss.”
The stooped servant turned and unlatched the double doors. As they swung inward on silent hinges like the slow parting of theatre curtains, Falzon confronted the emerging figure of the Commonwealth’s Prime Minister, Amitava Gupta. The elected leader of the nation waddled into the chamber with great effort because he was so slovenly obese. Falzon could barely look at this obscene caricature of a rakshasa – almost as wide as he was tall. To allow oneself to become fat and slow was unthinkable to Falzon – the destiny of the lazy and the uninspired. Gupta continued to be re-elected by the populace because they suffered from the same fate.
Well, that was going to change.
Now.
“Your presssence is no myssstery to me, Gupta. But you may formally ssstate your purpossse here.”
The prime minister drew in a great wheezy breath. “I call upon you to assssume command of our armiesss and naval forcesss. We cannot trussst the uneasssy truce of our neighboring nationsss. Cannot trussst!”
“I will be assssuming control of the Commonwealth’sss military sssoon enough.”
Gupta tilted his head. “You will?”
“Not in any way you are expecting, however.”
“Ssspeak sssenssse, Falzon. Your mother-country needsss you. Needsss you! Here. Now.”
“I have larger concernsss than sssaving just this piece of the world. I have been chosen to sssave all of Nocturnia – from itssself and from thisss devouring evil from the Sssilent Onesss!”
Gupta paused as though considering this position. Then: “Oh yesss, oh yesss, that isss all well and good. Well and good! But your first duty isss here. And I can no longer asssk, No longer asssk! I must command you. Return!”
Falzon turned his shoulder toward Gupta, assumed a posture of defiance. “I refussse your command. I demand a Blood Decisssion.”
When he spoke these words, he heard a sibilant sigh escape Ashima – she had always been full of drama and studied fragility.
“No, pleassse, my ssson! Not thisss!”
No one else in his family spoke and as his mother’s words fell away, he glared at Amitava Gupta, who held his hands open, his manicured claws filed smooth. “Very well. I exercissse my right to a champion. My right!”
“Of coursessse you do. You are nothing more than a walking bag of sssuet!”
“Falzon, pleassse!” Prannath stepped forward, touched his sleeve. “You have been taught better than that.”
“I have been taught the warrior waysss. Ssstand back, Father.” He turned away from him, regarded Gupta. “Tell your champion I will await him in the courtyard.”
He was called Salarjung, a name that meant “lord in the time of war.” And looking at the rakshasa, Falzon conceded he was well-tagged. Gupta’s champion towered several hands over Falzon’s own great height and displayed sloping, mountainous shoulders rippling with scaly muscle. Salarjung’s talons curved into killer scythes, honed to a razor’s edge. He wore the burnished blue armor of a mercenary, and it bore the scars of countless violent encounters. Blood Decisions called for the use of only one traditional single-combat weapon, and he brandished the ancient, normally ceremonial shirkar – a thick pole with a spear point on one end and a spiked steel sphere on the other. Warriors trained in its use used either end with lethal facility.
Falzon had prepared for battle by donning a skin-tight suit comprised of woven strands of titanium alloys. At great expense, he’d custom-ordered it from miners and manufacturers of the Dwarf Collective, known throughout Nocturnia for their mastery of minerals and metals. Amazingly thin and light, but almost impenetrable, Falzon’s suit afforded him agile freedom of movement, but also unexpected protection.
For a weapon he chose a left-armed shield and a short sword known as the “turtle’s blade” – so named for the formation of rakshasa warriors who would advance shoulder-to-shoulder, front-to-back with all their shields locked together. When they moved as one, they appeared to be a squared-shelled turtle with scores of legs. The short sword telegraphed Falzon’s intention to deal his opponent the most damage with close-in work.
As Falzon faced Salarjung, he noticed the utter silence embracing them – as if a giant bell had been placed over the courtyard insulating it from all sound. This did not mean they would meet without witnesses, however. Besides his family, Gupta, and his entourage, Falzon spied employees and servants of the family estate, peering out from distant balustrades and pillars.
But no one uttered a word or made a sound, as if they all dared not to take a breath. Falzon grinned as saliva seeped from the corners of his mouth. Soon the courtyard would be ringing with the clash of steel and cries of agony.
Salarjung took a half-step toward him, squared his shoulders, and held his shirkar in both hands before his muscled thighs. He glanced up at a wide balcony that hung over the open space where Amitava Gupta leaned over a railing for an optimum view.
“I await your command!” the warrior shrieked, spewing the words with anger and precision as if daring the plump politician to action.
The Prime Minister swallowed hard, raised his hand, then dropped it.
In that instant, Salarjung leaped upward, almost as high as a rakshasa’s shoulders, and whirled the shirkar like a propeller. As he descended he extended his weapon so that the mace-end circled for a direct blow to the side of Falzon’s head. A sudden, rapid assault intended to shock and surprise an enemy into stunned indecision.
But Falzon had begun moving almost as quickly as his attacker and his strategy proved equally unexpected. Instead of dodging outside or below the arc of the striking blow, Falzon advanced inside it. Raising his shield and throwing his weight into the move, he slammed its wide face against the shaft of shirkar more than halfway down its length. The force of the impact was so great that the shirkar vibrated like a tuning fork and went flying from Salarjung’s clawed hands. The champion’s flat yellow eyes widened as he chanced a quick glance at his weapon skidding across the paving stones of the enclosure.
The hollow rattle of the lost weapon sparked a collective gasp from the small audience as they gaped at the huge mercenary now looking suddenly naked even though armored. Falzon bellowed a war cry as he waded further into his adversary’s space. Using his shield to sweep away razored claws, he jabbed straight ahead with his short sword, going for the soft center mass of abdomen and belly.
Salarjung had no time to avoid the lunging attack and had no choice but to parry it w
ith his bare hand by grabbing the thick but very sharp double edges of the sword. Instantly, Falzon felt it sliding, slicing deep into the mercenary’s flesh, and stopping only at the resistance of bone. Falzon turned his shoulder, leveraging his full weight and mass into his enemy, at the same time twisting the short sword for maximum carnage.
The champion’s howls of pain and outrage exploded across the courtyard – loud enough to shake hovel doors all the way down in the river valley. But Falzon knew this was no killing blow and as Salarjung released the blade and tried to envelope his attacker in his long arms, Falzon began to spin out and away, ending with a vicious head-slap from his shield.
His enemy rocked and wobbled from the force and surprise of the parting blow, and Falzon danced away to assess the damage he had caused. As he did this, Salarjung regained his balance and lunged toward his lost weapon in frantic strides and bounds across the courtyard floor.
For a moment Falzon thought to challenge him for the shirkar, but the angles were not in his favor and his blue-armored foe would reach it a half step sooner. As Falzon backed off, planning the next stage of his attack, he noticed two important things: Salarjung’s hand oozed blood, leaving thick brackish green pools on the sandstone yard… and something wet or glistening on the flanks of the spear-point end of the shirkar.
Moving as close as he dared for a better look, his suspicion was confirmed. The spear did not shine from being polished to a high degree because it was rough-cast from black alloys – rather it appeared to have been dipped in a substance that had been wet or might still be so. And that only meant one thing…
Poison.
Falzon backed off, beyond the range of the shirkar as his opponent reached it and quickly grabbed it with his uninjured hand. In a show of bravura, the mercenary hoisted his weapon high over his head and bellowed a traditional war cry. Because his favored hand had been so severely savaged, Salarjung showed immediate awkwardness and difficulty in whirling and positioning his weapon toward its best use. Regardless, he advanced headlong toward Falzon with the mace-end of his weapon held high over his head. Shocked at being injured so quickly, Gupta’s champion was obviously allowing rage rather than intellect control his actions.
Not a wise battle tactic.
Turning sideways, reducing his target-profile, Falzon began edging backward toward the center of the courtyard, and mapped out his next series of counters and strikes. His opponent’s furious, straight-ahead charge provided him with at least five classic parries and evasions, and he knew any one of them would render the charge impotent.
As Salarjung closed the distance he raised his shirkar straight above his head and began to swing it downward in a lethal, skull-crushing arc. Falzon stood motionless until the last possible instant, long after his enemy could alter the path or speed of his attack, then once again stepped inside the killing zone of the shirkar before tucking into a roll that took him past, and suddenly behind, the legs of the onrushing rakshasa. The mace-ended weapon whooshed harmlessly through empty space.
Falzon had moved with such speed and decisiveness, the advantage was now his, and he would not lose it. Just in time, as his attacker lumbered past, trying to recover balance from a lunging miss with his weapon, Falzon lashed out with his short sword, slicing through the vulnerable tendons and muscle that ran down the back of Salarjung’s unprotected lower leg.
The hard sharp edge sank deep until scraping across bone as Falzon again twisted it for maximum damage. His enemy shrieked from the pain of this blow as he collapsed against the sandstone floor of the courtyard. Murky green blood gouted from his ruined ankle and leg as he struggled to regain his footing. Falzon measured his chances of dancing close enough for a killing blow to the neck and rejected it as Salarjung managed to stand to his full height and lash out with his weapon.
The shirkar was plenty long enough to keep Falzon at a distance, but his opponent remained almost immobile – forced to stand and bear most of his massive weight on his one good leg. He could barely change direction without relying on his savaged leg and that would be a slow and painful process.
And then there’s the bleeding, thought Falzon.
A lot of bleeding.
So much that Falzon was having difficulty ignoring it. The scent of his prey’s bodily fluids can overwhelm a rakshasa with bloodlust – a primitive drive to utterly destroy his opposition. To disembowel, dismember, and… devour.
So much bleeding. So much blood.
Even by circling at a safe distance, Falzon sensed the seductive power of his enemy’s blood. Impulses sparked through him like bursts of lightning – urging him to abandon all tactics and bull-rush Salarjung and rip out his throat.
The wounded champion knew this as well. Understanding danced behind his yellow saucer-eyes as he goaded Falzon.
“You feel it, don’t you, my friend!”
“Sssave your breath. You will sssoon be praying for each one to not be your lassst…”
“Come! Come finish me! Feel the hot burssst of my flesh asss you quarter me!”
Each word enflamed him, exploding like gobbets of suet tossed onto an open fire. He resisted the ancient and primitive impulse to thrust his snout straight up into the air and gorge on the effluvia of blood and death.
To do that would be to submit to his most base instincts, costing him control and reason
But, oh…he so wanted to charge into the towering rakshasa and slip his sword between the collar of his breastplate armor and the leading edge of his battle helm.
Just a lunge and a push… then a rip downward.
At the thought, Falzon felt himself lurch forward, sliding into the first step of an attack. Only the steel spine of his military discipline kept him from submitting to the bloodlust. He could feel it boiling in a tight ball at the base of his brain. An itch he could not scratch, a thirst unquenched.
Realizing he tottered on the brink of losing control, he backed off, increasing the distance between him and his enemy. He needed space, and time, to gather himself and allow the berserker rage to subside. He knew the proper way to dispatch Salarjung – with cunning and strategy – and deviating from that approach invited disaster.
He continued a slow sideways circling until he had positioned himself with his back to the sun, burning hot and bright like a molten coin over his right shoulder. If the mercenary wanted to approach, he would do so with the added distraction and annoyance of the sun’s unmerciful glare.
“You are running out of blood,” he said pointing at the spreading brackish pool around his enemy’s bare clawed feet. “And that meansss you are running out of time.”
“Am I facing such a coward who choosssesss to ssstand like a trembling female and wait for me to bleed out?”
“You mean like the ‘trembling female’ who almossst ssseparated you from your foot?” Falzon chuckled, paused, then: “You are a fool if you don’t come for me now – before you are too weak.”
Salarjung threw back his head and shrieked. It began as a sound born of anger and pain, and then took form as it morphed into a traditional war cry. Clumsily, he shifted his grip on his shirkar, maneuvering the spear end into position so that at first it appeared he might heave the weapon like a giant javelin at Falzon’s center mass. But then the mercenary continued to rotate it until it hung at arm’s length like a battering ram with pointy business-end aimed directly at Falzon’s head.
He knew his opponent was gearing up for desperation attack, and he also knew his previous evasions and counters would be anticipated. No slipping inside his opponent’s wide-armed assault this time. With his weapon positioned straight out in front like the charge of a mounted lancer, Salarjung would be charging head on – and that would require a new defensive maneuver.
Another shriek as the mercenary lowered his great ugly head and began his charge. Falzon expected his attacker’s fearsome leg wound to make a full-speed advance almost impossible, but for the first time in their battle, he was proved wrong.
Summ
oning up unsuspected reserves of will and power, Salarjung leaped forward as if blasted from a great cannon. His first two strides covered almost half the distance to Falzon, who raised his shield and dropped to one knee to make himself a smaller target.
As the mercenary landed on his good leg and, in the same motion, attempted to spring forward using all the power and tension remaining in his ravaged leg, Falzon saw a collapse of the rippling muscles no longer fully connected. Salarjung screamed in agony from the effort, but somehow gathered enough strength to finish his attack.
Instead of completing his charge by jamming the spearpoint at and hopefully into Falzon, the giant rakshasa planted his weapon in a fissure between the paving stones and vaulted his huge body upward and over Falzon, who had fallen into a tight crouch, planning spring outward an instant before his attacker reached him.
But that proved impossible, and for that single tick of time, confusion gripped Falzon, leaving him unable to anticipate what came next. For a warrior in single combat, such a moment of indecision could be fatal.
Before he could turn to follow the overarching path of his attacker, Falzon heard the impact of a huge body crashing to the ground, the clanging scrape of the shirkar being ripped from the fissure between the sandstone slabs. As he wheeled and faced his opponent, he saw Salarjung’s glistening spear-point homing in on him like a missile.
He raised his shield-arm, turning his hips to give more centripetal force to the outward swing and impact, and swiped at his attacker’s weapon. Connecting with the shirkar should have deflected its path, but it was being thrust forward with all the massive weight and power of the giant rakshasa.
Falzon continued his spinning defensive maneuver, rolling against and off the great armored body as it rattled past him. From the corner of his eye, he saw Salarjung stumbling away from him. He had dropped his weapon and it was obvious this final attack had savaged his wounds and strength so much, the mercenary could barely remain upright. Falzon squared his shoulders and raised his short sword as he advanced on his prey.
Family Secrets (The Nocturnia Chronicles Book 2) Page 10