by Kal Spriggs
His mother responded, again, with only a few halting words.
He answered whatever she said with a single word, “Nakkiki.”
She smiled at him and then looked over at Gerlin and Arren, “His name is Nakkiki. I think he said he comes from an island. And I think that island lies far to the south.”
“What language was that?” Aerion asked.
“Vendakar,” Arren shook his head, “I recognized it, but I don't speak it.” He frowned, “How do you know any Vendakar?”
Aerion's mother gave him a sweet smile, “I know a few things.”
Gerlin gave a snort, and then slapped Arren on the back, “She turned that one around on you, didn't she?” Arren gave him a glare.
“Good to meet you Nakkiki, I'm Aerion,” Aerion stepped forward and extended his hand. The big man stared at it for a long moment, then reached out and clasped his wrist. Despite the rolls of fat, he clearly had strength because his grip nearly made Aerion's arm go numb.
Bulmor walked up then. He stared up at the stranger, “There's no way we have a horse that will fit him.” He glanced at Aerion's mother. “Can you ask him where he's going and what he's doing out here? For that matter, can you warn him that there are safer places to be?”
She nodded. It took her some time, as she had to remember words. Aerion saw her stop and hesitate several times, as if she tried to dig up her memories of the language. His responses came back just as slowly. Aerion wondered at how the big man had come to be so distant from his home, without even the ability to speak a language anyone recognized.
“I think he said he was sent here, by his spirit or god,” Aerion's mother said. She shook her head, “I think we're losing a lot between neither of us speaking Vendakar very well. Plus, I think he hates the Vendakar, which is why he has that scowl on his face when he talks back.”
“Where is he headed?” Bulmor asked.
They all waited patiently for the question and then the translation, “North. His father and this spirit, told him a destination, it sounds like it's somewhere in the mountains,” She frowned, “He says something about a fallen star and a fire mountain, maybe a volcano? Either way, he thanks us for the good fight, as he calls it, and he says he will journey with us.”
“Well, warn him about Hector's mercenaries, would you?” Aerion asked. He felt somehow protective of the big man, so far from home. “I mean, he's not involved in our war, there's no need for him to get involved.”
His mother shook her head, “He's not a stray puppy, Aerion. But I'll warn him.”
She talked to the big man for a long moment and then he gave a single shrug and a broad smile. He hoisted his elaborately carved wooden club over one shoulder and stared at them with an expectant look.
“No stories about strange island peoples you've encountered before?” Gerlin asked of Arren. The halfblood scout looked as bewildered as the rest of them, Aerion saw.
“No...” Arren shook his head, “I think this time, I couldn't tell a stranger tale.”
***
Lady Katarina Emberhill
Lady Katarina stared at the dead demon, and at the pile of Noric bodies. “So much for getting through without drawing attention.”
Gerlin walked up next to her, “Wasn't much chance of that anyway. And I wouldn't worry much over the Norics who got away. The other tribes in the area will see them as weak now. Most of them will be dead within a couple weeks.”
“How can people live like this... and how can they follow things such as that?” Katarina asked. She felt sick to her stomach at the thought of it.
“It's what they know and it's what their ancestors did,” Gerlin shrugged. “It is a cycle, one that only a few people ever break. Most of us are stuck in whatever position we are born to, my Lady.” He smiled, “Be that a noble or a blacksmith.”
For some reason, his words made her blush. “Some people manage to break that cycle,” she said. “I mean, there is some hope for them, right?”
“There's always hope, my Lady,” Gerlin said. His voice turned sad, “But sometimes that is what drives them to do worse things. These Norics didn't follow this demon because they loved it or because they particularly thought it would reward them. They followed it from terror and from the knowledge that without its protection, they would have to fear whatever spirits or demons other tribes had. To protect their future... they worshiped a man-eating monster.”
Katarina shook her head, “Very well, what do we do now?”
“Continue on, my Lady. I think we showed that we can hold our own. The other tribes in the area will hold off attacking us, unless they're desperate or they have far more numbers than these here.” Gerlin frowned. “Though I wouldn't be surprised if we find a large group that attacks us on our way back through, maybe a coalition of three or four villages.”
“We'll face that when we come to it,” Katarina said. She looked at where the last of the bodies had been stacked. “Anything of worth?”
“A couple swords and some daggers and knives, a few coins,” Gerlin shrugged. “The rest of their weapons are only iron and most of it is crap. We'll take it along to melt down later as scrap.” The halfblood sounded derisive and looking at the pathetic bodies, Katarina couldn't blame him. She wondered, though, if he felt any kinship to them or to the Armen of the north whose blood he shared. For that matter, she thought, I wonder if he hates them even more than the rest of us, for the prejudice he finds here in the south?
“Alright,” She looked over at where Aerion stood. He'd taken one of the captured swords and she smiled slightly as she watched him describe the combat to his friends, complete with several swings. “He's earned his name Swordbreaker, hasn't he?” Katarina said.
“True. An expensive name that can be, especially if his luck gives out,” Gerlin said. His voice was neutral, yet a glance at his face showed a bit of worry in his blue eyes. It was a true enough fear, sooner or later everyone's luck ran out.
Katarina bit her lip at that, but she nodded. “Is he going to continue to ride ahead as one of your scouts?”
“I think he and Arren have earned a bit of rest,” Gerlin said dryly. “But he fought well and if he volunteers in the future, he's earned himself a place.” He paused, and Katarina saw some thought that he didn't want to voice flash across his face. “It might be too soon, but I think he might take charge of a squad.”
“I thought Bulmor had already selected squad leaders?” Katarina asked.
“I have,” Bulmor said from behind her, “But I had to leave Jasen and the other two behind to train the others.” As he drew near, Katarina saw from the iron mask of his face that he had something on his mind.
“I'll get everyone moving again,” Gerlin said and stepped away to give them some privacy.
“What is it, Bulmor?” Katarina asked. Her armsman stared at her with a lack of expression that suggested he didn't like what he was about to say.
“My Lady, I've guarded you from childhood. I've known you long enough that I know how you'll react to what I'm about to say. I also know that you'll think about it, and if you do so, you will accept what has to happen.” He let out a sigh, “I hope so in any case.” His tone of resignation made her frown.
“What is it?” Katarina asked again.
Bulmor didn't answer for a moment. He looked over at where Aerion talked with his companions. “The boy has come a long way since we dragged him out of Zielona Gora, hasn't he?”
“Yes, he's grown up quite a bit,” Katarina said. She felt her frown grow at the change in subject.
“He's a good lad, got a natural talent with a sword, even if he does break the damned things every time he gets in a fight,” Bulmor frowned. “He's brave and strong and I trust him, which is something that surprised me when I first realized it.” He looked over, “I don't trust anyone with your safety. But I trust him and it took me a while to figure out why that was.”
“Why?” Katarina asked.
“Because he's given himself to your c
ause,” Bulmor said. “He's a dedication that I can approve of as your guard. Because you and he have this damned attraction that everyone else can see.”
“What?” Katarina asked. She felt a lump rise in her throat, “Bulmor–”
“Let me finish, please,” Bulmor said and his voice had gone gruff. “He's a good boy, with the makings of a fine fighting man. But there's one thing that, through no fault of his own, makes that attraction he has a danger to you and to us all.”
“You feel the same way, my Lady, and that's something that the Duchy cannot afford,” Bulmor said. He met her gaze with his own brown eyes in a level stare that dared her to deny it.
Katarina wanted to draw breath, to shout a denial. Instead she nodded miserably. “I don't know how it happened.”
“The heart is a fickle thing,” Bulmor said. “I know that from heartache of my own. But you know that whatever his qualities, Aerion can never be more than a friend, perhaps even an adviser. You know, my Lady, that you will must likely give your hand to some man you've never met in an arranged marriage.”
Katarina felt tears well up in her eyes and she clenched her fists, “I know,” she said. “I wish it were otherwise, but I know. I've told myself that a dozen times already. But... I just don't know what to do.”
“Send him away,” Bulmor said softly. “Send him away before you both give in. For the sake of you both, send him away before circumstance forces the issue. There are a dozen tasks you could entrust to him. Send him away and do it in such a way that he knows that what you both want cannot happen.” Bulmor took a deep breath, “The worst thing you can do is keep him close. It isn't fair to either of you.”
“Alright, Bulmor,” Katarina sniffed and wiped away at the tears in her eyes. “I'll consider it. But first we need to get this done with.”
“Agreed.” He sighed. “And in truth, I wish I could encourage you both. He's a good lad and it feels like a betrayal of his trust to tell you all this, but you must not give in, you'll only hurt yourself and him in the end.”
Katarina nodded in agreement. Yet her gaze returned to Aerion and she wondered, not for the first time, why fate had such a cruel sense of humor.
***
King Simonel Greeneye
The Founding, The Eastwood
Twenty-Ninth of Tremarn, Cycle 999 Post Sundering
Under other circumstances, Simonel would have viewed the uproar of the Council with amusement. He could not, however, separate his own fears for Amelia's safety. He had grown far too attached to her, he privately admitted. While a duel of honor would not normally be to the death...
He glanced at Ceratul. Simonel had suspected that the Warmaster had sent Gedrain to attack Amelia. The confusion on his face, however suggested that whatever Ceratul's opinion of Amelia, he had not yet gone as far as to directly oppose his King's will and arrange an assassination.
Tirianis made a slight motion that caught Simonel's attention. She nodded in the other direction down the table. Simonel looked over to see that Listania had gone pale. The female wizard seemed not only surprised, but Simonel saw her gulp in sudden fear.
Simonel stood, then. “Warmaster, I trust you can inform Gedrain of the challenge. In the interest of settling this issue, I ask that he present himself here to accept or decline the challenge.”
Ceratul looked at him for a long moment and then slowly he nodded. “I am not certain what might have caused this duel, but as it happens, Hunter Gedrain had requested several weeks of rest here in the Heartwood to visit family. I will send for him.”
Simonel took a seat and waited. The others remained silent after his own words, and he welcomed that. The implications that the Warmaster did not fully control the actions of his people gave him much to ponder.
“Hunter Gedrain,” the Founding Speaker announced.
Simonel looked up and he met the dark lavender eyes of Gedrain. Those eyes held a hunger, a joy for the taking of lives, and an edge that almost seemed aimed at Simonel. He frowned at the challenge he saw there and at the weapons the hunter bore within the Founding. Traditionally, all those who appeared here should surrender their arms. Gedrain was lighter colored than most of the Wold, with just a slight shade of red to his skin. Rather similar to Listania, Simonel realized. Close enough, he knew, that the other might pass as any other man outside in the greater world... which would allow him to function as a spy... or assassin. Simonel stood, “Hunter Gedrain, Lady Amelia Tarken of Boir has challenged you to a duel of honor–”
“I heard,” Gedrain interrupted. Simonel felt his jaw drop at the interruption.
“Hunter, you will apologize to your King for your rudeness,” Ceratul snapped.
Gedrain looked at him and then Simonel saw his lavender eyes sweep over to Listania. At her nod, he bowed slightly, “My apologies, my King. I am afraid that the insult done to me by... this woman, are such that I let my anger overcome my courtesy.”
Simonel looked over at Amelia, who stood calmly. He felt his heart twist in fear of what could happen to her. She might easily be overwhelmed by this veteran hunter. “I will speak the rules of this duel once. Warmaster Ceratul will enforce them. This is a duel of honor, it will continue until one of you is unable to fight. You may use your body, but no weapons beyond those of your body and mind.”
Gedrain gave a slight scowl at that and he unbuckled his sword belt and set his bow and arrows to the side with a grimace.
Simonel felt his unease grow as he looked between Gedrain and Amelia. The Hunter stood over a foot taller and though he had the slender frame of most of their people, he also had much lean muscle.
“I ask if either of you will put aside this duel,” Ceratul said. “And accept that people sometimes make mistakes.” The words seemed strange from him, until Simonel remembered that Ceratul had injured his own brother in a duel, when Simonel was still a child.
“No,” Gedrain said. “I don't know why she has a grudge against me, but I will not give her such satisfaction.”
Amelia gave a shake of her head, “He knows exactly why I've challenged him and that I beat him last time when he had his weapons.”
Simonel looked between them one last time. He saw Gedrain fall into a fighting stance that he recognized. It would figure that the Hunter knew the hand to hand arts as well. He gave a silent prayer to the spirits of his ancestors that Amelia came through alive.
“You may begin.”
***
Lady Amelia Tarken
Amelia saw Gedrain come at her even before Simonel finished speaking. The Wold Hunter came at her with a blur of legs and arms.
She had already reached out with her mind, and projected what she wanted him to see. Gedrain leapt forward, and he lashed out with kicks and punches that he felt connect, as he chased an illusory Amelia around. To him, she seemed to barely stave off or dodge his powerful attacks.
To the rest of the audience that had gathered, the Hunter ran around the ring like a madman. He kicked and punched at empty air. He gave grunts as he lashed out at nothing. He grinned in satisfaction as he saw victory.
That was when Amelia finally moved. She stepped in sideways as he stepped forward and kicked him squarely in the crotch.
He grunted in sudden surprise, and Amelia maintained the illusion. To him, the blow had come out of nowhere. Gedrain bent over double in sudden agony.
Amelia drew back her arm and put everything she had in her five foot frame behind the punch at his temple. The blow caught him squarely. She felt her knuckles pop and a sharp pain in her hand. Gedrain's eyes rolled up in the back of his head. He dropped like a stone.
Amelia looked up at the Council. She saw shock on most of their faces, all but Tirianis, who wore a slight smile. On Ceratul's face she saw consideration to match his surprise. On the face of the wizard Listania, she saw fear leaven the shock.
Amelia gave a bow, “Thank you for your time. I think that this completes the duel. You may inform Hunter Gedrain that I no longer bear him any grudge.”
***
Captain Grel, The Duke's Hound
The Ryft Peaks, Duchy of Masov
Fifth of Seraph, Cycle 999 Post Sundering
Grel looked up as one of Henderson's mounted scouts returned at a gallop. “Captain, there's around fifty Norics gathered up ahead. They're armed, but I'm not sure what they're up to, they haven't moved anywhere.” The scout's call sent a mutter of curses through the formation of mercenaries.
Henderson scowled. He looked around at his men, “Form up. Sergeant Narash, your men will take the left-”
“There is no need,” Xavien said. “The Norics are my allies. They will join us in tracking down the rebels.” His high pitched voice sounded calm, but Grel could hear a level of anticipation and goading in it.
“You do realize you're talking about Norics, wizard?” Henderson growled.
“They will not cross me and they will be of no threat to your men,” Xavien said.
Grel grunted, “We'll maintain a separation, Henderson, it's not like you have to share a tent with one of them.”
“I don't want to share this mountain range with any of them,” Henderson growled and mutters from his men rose in agreement. “We've been on this wild goose chase for seven days now, Grel, and I'm starting to wonder if we wouldn't be better cutting open your belly and finding new employment.”
Grel narrowed his eyes, “You had better change your tone, before I cut your tongue out. And think on this, the last mercenaries who betrayed Lord Hector ended up spending three days impaled on spears.” He looked around at the men gathered close, “Where will you run, anyway? You've seen the signs, there are hundreds, perhaps thousands of Norics in these mountains. Our scouts reported five empty camps. Now you know they're this wizard's allies... which means keeping him happy is just as vital as following my orders.”