by Nelson, J P
Hoscoe had us drag the bodies over to one side, stack them and leave them; but not, however, until they were relieved of weapons, money, valuables and such.
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Nobody talked much to Sormiske, and Sormiske didn’t try to talk to anyone else. Even his own people left him alone. Between the two fights, Sormiske hadn’t swung his weapon or shot one bolt. He had just pulled out his sword and held onto it. He was looking to be nothing but a loud mouth snob with as much courage as a homegrown bunny rabbit. Sormiske could talk, and talk well. But otherwise he was what we common folks called a coward.
I found myself remembering Ahrnema and thinking she and Sormiske were two of the same kind.
Sormiske spent his time reading his Eayahnite Bible, mumbling to himself and singing in a high-pitched voice. To give him credit, he could really sing; but no one wanted to hear it. His voice had a quality rare among humans, something called a High Tenor. It’s pretty when properly trained, but usually the range is attributed to women.
Once I heard Thad mumble during chow while Sormiske was singing to himself, “That boy ain’t had his balls drop yet …” Sormiske glanced around quickly to see who had spoken, but you couldn’t tell if he actually heard what was said and everyone else just kept eating. My being just a slave and all, you might think I had no right to an opinion; but I had one, anyway, and I figured Sormiske brought all the bad feeling on himself.
After we were on the trade road he would sometimes practice preaching. He didn’t sound very good, unless you wanted to be bored to sleep, but he was convinced in his own mind. He would start rolling off about how this was a sin, and that was sinful. But it didn’t hold much water. It seems one of his men knew that Sormiske had him a wife and four or five children. Sormiske, on the other hand couldn’t keep tastes to home.
The fellow’s name was Parnell and at the fire one night he was making quiet jokes, “Yeah, boys. Old Sorry over there came to me one time in Malone and said, ‘See that girl over there. I can’t keep my hands off her. I just know my big sin is going to be adultery. Women love me.’ And you know what? Sorry never gets the idea that women just laugh at him.
“I knew this wench who told me Sorry paid for her one night, and couldn’t even get it on. She said he wasn’t but this …”
“What’s going on?” Sormiske’s high-pitched voice asked. It seemed every time he got flustered his voice sounded like a young girl’s, and he got flustered a lot.
“Oh, nothin’,” Parnell said, as everyone was laughing.
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Kynear was much bigger than I remembered. Before we rode in, Sormiske had begun to start acting like he might be in charge. After all, he had been the one with the orders, who had been sent by a factory owner in Malone. Once the town was in sight he had me put into leg-irons; then he insisted he ride in front of our group so he could lead us in.
As we entered town it was clear something big was going on. As Yank was driving down the main road someone yelled at him, “Heyo Yank, where you been so long? You’re just in time to see the fight!”
People in the wild country will travel all day to hear someone preach, talk politics, see an execution or watch an organized fight. Lots of people called it baiting, but it was two or more beings matched up with each other. Often bare knuckled, sometimes with weapons.
“Who is it?” one of our fellows wanted to know.
“Chandler made some big claims his man could beat any one, so Edgarfield brought in this slink woman. She looks good enough to eat, not fight. She’s going to get killed.”
“Hands?” Parnell asked.
“Shael’s no! Weapons!” the man yelled as he hurried to the corrals where the fight was to take place.
We also were headed for the corrals, to put up the wagon during our rest time here. As we pulled around to the back of the town I was left on top where my leg-iron chains were bolted to the wagon, while everyone else went to watch the fight. Parnell had to stay with me as a guard, so he climbed onto the box beside me which turned out to be the best seats.
One of the horse corrals has been cleared and people were all around in eager anticipation. To this day I cannot remember much about the human male who stood to fight, let alone his name. He was ungainly, cocky and large with a potbelly. The chipped, long sword was held point down as he looked at the female. You could tell he was humored, he figured this to be an easy slice of pie.
But the female, now she I remember, and remember well. There was little left to the imagination as she was clad in skimpy, string held swatches of cloth, surely intended for her opponent to focus on her attributes rather than movements.
Around her neck was a simple, short string necklace of seemingly polished silver. Her coloration was almost an olive bronze, like an ignorant human who basked in the roasting sun without covering. Her hair was the color of polished gold with glints of cream in between the layers, and it flowed long on her shoulders and halfway down her back.
I had seen very few females of any kind during my lifetime; this one was the stuff dreams are made of. Her conformation was nothing less than perfect on any line, and she was not frail. She was shaped like an athlete and was almost as tall as the man, I figured her to be maybe five feet and seven inches. She was definitely taller than the average human woman. What was she doing here, fighting, I thought?
The oncoming winter wind blew into her hair and I could see gradual points on her ears, similar to but slightly different from an elf, or any elf I had heard of. She, too, held a sword of nondescript appearance. But her body language was one of near boredom. Then her wandering gaze went across the crowd and met mine. There was an instant of connection, an awareness that we both felt; I know we both felt it because it was like an electric current. She was sixty rods away, but it seemed she was right beside me. My chest became tight and my breath left me for a long moment.
As if I were standing in front of her I could tell she had the bluest of eyes, and her face held a sadness which seemed to run deep. Upon our connection, however, I saw a spark in her countenance. It was as if, like me, her breath had left for just a moment. I had to know this woman, this half-elf, or whatever she was.
She was still looking at me when I heard the ring center announce her name as Lath. Lath … I savored the name in my mind and slowly formed the sound with my mouth, in an almost silent whisper. Lath … in all four Elvish dialects, the most ancient Diustahntei, Gael Music language, and the vocalized Draconic, Lath is interpreted as the feminine tense for Warrior.
The command was given for the combatants to meet and touch swords. I heard someone say the odds were twenty-five to one against her; big mistake.
Lath became all business and she looked around, turned and walked to touch swords with fat boy. They stood back and he began to laughingly mock her, grabbing at his crotch and rolling his arms around. Lath stood there with her sword still pointed down, but the look on her face slowly took the expression of a predator. He moved around her in a circle and Lath simply followed him with her eyes and a casual pivoting motion.
He lunged once in an attempt to scare or fake her out, but she almost seemed amused. This human, I thought, is toying with his own death. Something about her, something about Lath’s manner told me, I who was still little more than an adolescent youth with only a small amount experience, that this was a seasoned fighter being baited by a human who would be rejected by any common militia.
Fat boy swung his sword in a mighty arc which grossly overused his shoulder muscles. The stroke was meant to slice into Lath’s head, but she casually shifted her weight back and out of harm’s way with exquisite ease. Again he attempted such a swing, Lath stepping effortlessly to one side. The crowd booed and hurled insults at the human.
A third wide stroke and Lath suddenly moved with a fluidity of motion beautiful to behold. She batted his sword with an ease to be found within a dance; for an instant I thought of my momma. A fourth exasperated swing by
the man, and as he swung she deflected this with a clinking sound to the side as well.
Once more, now clearly upset, the fatty thrust at her torso and she parried the move with a slap into his face using the broad side of her blade. This she followed with a spinning movement resulting in another broad side blade slap into the back of the human’s head.
With a pivot and spin she kicked him in the groin. Grabbing his sword hand she wrenched his weapon away, with the butt of her own sword pressed into his shoulder spinning him around and promptly kicked him in the rear end, knocking fatty into the dirt with a sprawl.
Stepping back she held each sword wide and as he looked up, she flipped them both far to opposite sides of the ring. Lath then smiled at her opponent with the posture of the hunter.
He got up swearing profanity and balled his fists, the yells of the crowd loud in his ears. Opening her hands in invitation and slinging her hair, Lath visibly dared her opponent to attack. He charged in and swung a lumbering fist … which she caught with her left hand. Wrenching the hand outward she slapped him hard with a right cross, then a backhand strike. Hooking her right under his left arm she stepped in and hurled him over her shoulder and hard into the ground.
Still holding his wrist, with a simple step in and over, Lath twisted her body with his elbow held between her knees and shattered his arm. His elbow folded backward around her knee and with an extra motion she snapped his wrist.
Letting go, she stepped back as fatty rolled onto his side crying out in pain. He staggered to his feet as the crowd hurled jeers at the would-be champion.
Looking at Lath, the human began hurling defaming sexual insults amid his tearful wails of rage. Lath struck him solid in the face with the inside of her right foot, followed with a spin and solid side-kick with her left foot into his chest that lifted him off of his feet, and onto his back nearly ten feet from where he left the ground.
Landing hard, he rolled again to his side while groaning loudly. He coughed blood and you could see his good arm flail wildly.
Casually walking over to the man she asked with quiet, but dripping sarcasm, “You wanted to do what?” When she stomped her heel into his lower ribcage, you could hear the bones break. Then she jumped upward into a spiral and landed with her right knee into his chest.
No one, not even fat boy’s handler lifted a hand to help him. He died there … a long, slow death.
Chapter 21
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AFTER SHE DELIVERED her final blow, Lath stepped back with hands outstretched as if she had done this many times before. In fact, she had. Two well-armed humans quickly stepped into the ring, followed by a third who was carrying a cloak which he draped over Lath’s shoulders. As she was being led away, her gaze swept in my direction again. Once more our eyes made contact, and I could see a resigned, defeated expression on her face. ‘Why,’ I thought? She had just beaten her opponent. I did not understand.
Lath was escorted away from the corrals, past the stables and out of my sight.
All around the ring the gathered people kept talking about the fight. Several believed the match had been a set up. Many were in awe that a female could fight and kill with such ease. Most had never seen anyone use their feet in such a manner. No one felt a loss concerning the man she killed, save for his handler. All had been thoroughly entertained.
As our own party began returning to the wagon they were talking among themselves.
“I’ve never seen anyone like her,” commented Evan, one of Sormiske’s retainers, “I’d let her fight something else, though.”
“You only think with one part of your body, Evan. Did you see how she moved? She reminded me of that drake we just killed; real slippery. I wouldn’t trust her out of irons. That one is a killer,” commented Bost, another of Sormiske’s men.
Yank said, “I’ve seen her before.”
“Really, you’re kidding? Where?”
“Around Shudoquar, they’ve been fighting her up there for years.”
“Wonder why she’s down here now?” Evan asked.
“To take her out of local circulation. Give the promoters time to regroup,” replied Yank, “they do that kind of stuff all the time. They was a bunch of people got tired of a woman kickin’ the man-cans.” Yank was chuckling.
“Hounds of Hades, Yank. You put anything down on her?”
Yank was climbing back up on the box, and with a totally innocent face he replied, “Uh, you forgettin’ somethin’? I was a slave for seventeen months. And I don’t think Sormiske has any plans on payin’ me anythang.”
Sormiske came around about then and was puffing his chest out. With his head lifted high he acknowledged his original group, “Okay guys. We have a place to stay. Follow me.” He looked up at Yank, pointed to a stable and said, “You can put the wagon and horses up over there. I’ll be back by the time you get everything finished.”
Yank and I just looked at each other.
Then Sormiske looked at me with a smirk on his face and sneer in his voice, “I have a special place in the stable for you.” Turning to Bernard he said, “I don’t need you, Hoscoe, or the rest of you anymore. Tell Hoscoe that.” Without waiting for a response he turned on heel and strutted away to his horse.
As Parnell was setting his foot into his horse’s stirrup, Sormiske turned and ordered him, “You go to the stable and make sure my prisoner is securely chained. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” With that he tugged hard on his horse’s reins and rode away and called out in his nasal voice, “Follow me guys.”
With one foot in the stirrup, Parnell stood there a moment looking sour. After watching Sormiske ride away and thinking about it a moment, Parnell swung up and looked at Yank and me on the box. Disgruntled, he muttered, “Alright, let’s go.”
Yank muttered to me knowingly, “That bastard’s makin’ him pay for makin’ a joke on him.” Yank and I made eye contact, then he snapped the reins and he drove to the stable.
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Hoscoe had gone to visit someone he knew in the town and hadn’t watched the fight. How long he was going to be gone, no one really knew. Yank parked the wagon while a hostler showed Parnell where I was to be put. Wahyene had spent the whole time inside the wagon, apparently getting his things together. Parnell unchained me from the wagon box, then led me to a cleared out tack room and chained me to the wall. His actions were not malicious, but he had suddenly become distant in my presence.
Some of what happened next I could hear, but Yank told me everything later.
Sormiske showed up to make sure everything was to his liking, but he acted nervous and seemed to be in a hurry to get away. He explained to Parnell in detail how the eight retainers and brigands would rotate around the clock to guard me and the wagon.
We had arrived on Munday and a priest of Eayah was supposed to be holding a small service on the next Ohnday, six days later. Nearly all religions which held specifically designated days of worship observed the last day of the week, Sabboday. The Eayahnite pantheon, however, had designated Ohnday as their holy day. It seems Eayah had long ago proclaimed that, as his collection of wives and offspring were the most important of all deities, they should be revered at all costs on the first day of the week.
The word was, however, Sormiske was more interested in impressing this particular priest than actually worshiping Eayah. He was even going to a tailor to have a special outfit made. This meant we would have a seven to eight day rest, after which we would leave the following Munday or Tuesday morning for the Phabeon port city of Teamon. It depended on this meeting of Sormiske and the priest. I would be confined to the tack room, but for the most part left alone. Nor were Hoscoe, Bernard, Thad, Yank or René to be allowed to see me.
Sormiske must have been afraid they would try to set me free. In any case, Sormiske was turning to leave the stable when Hoscoe appeared in the doorway, his sword hand was ungloved and resting comfortably on his belt, “You seem to be in a hurry, Sormiske
.”
Yank said Sormiske stopped dead in his tracks and turned ten shades of white. He began to stammer in his girly-pitched whiney voice and asked, “W-w-where did you come from?”
“Does it really matter?” Hoscoe was standing right in the middle of the doorway, not moving.
Sormiske looked around quickly as Parnell turned his back, giving study to his saddle where he had just placed it on a saddletree. The hostler casually crossed his arms, stepped to the side and leaning against a stall door spit into the dust. Wahyene seemed to have been preparing to climb out of the wagon, and then abruptly ducked back in as if he had forgotten something. Yank hooked his thumbs into his belt, leaned sideways against a post, and chewing a straw flashed a wink and smile at Sormiske.
The self-proclaimed dragon hunter was all alone. He began breathing hard and, with what Yank swore was a sobbing sound, asked Hoscoe, “Did, did you hear what I said?”
“Which part?” Hoscoe still hadn’t moved and his face showed no expression.
Sormiske’s voice was rising into that whining pitch of his, “I, um … we aren’t going … well … you and your guys won’t be needed any more … you know what I mean?”
Hoscoe tapped one of his right-hand fingers gingerly on his belt, “How about you explain it to me?”
“W-will you let me out … I have to get back to my guys.”
Hoscoe took an easy step forward, “Does the name Foxill mean anything to you?”
“Who?” Sormiske stepped back, his hands slightly trembling. His right hand absently touching his belt, then he let it go quickly as if he had touched a hot stove.
“Just ten minutes ago he heard you indicate that should I be any trouble to you, you would have me run through.” Hoscoe took another easy step forward, and Sormiske retreated the same, “You said I was an old man with nothing left.” Hoscoe took another step and Yank said you could see water on the stable floor where there had been none before.