by Pedro Urvi
“Stop it, Komir! Don’t lose your head!” cried Hartz from the side. “Think what you’re doing, by Iram our Earth mother!”
But Komir was not acting rationally. The volcano of rage inside him had exploded, and his bloodshot eyes sought revenge. Revenge for an abysmal pain, buried in his blood in the depths of his soul, beyond the limits of reason. With the skill of a Norriel champion Komir attacked his adversary, reading and measuring her defenses in every feint, in each sword-thrust. Kayti was well-versed in military arts and had great dexterity with the sword, but she could not compare with the young Norriel’s natural talent, and he was able to read that. Hartz threw himself on to Komir to stop him, but his friend surprised him with a blow from the pommel of his sword. The giant stepped back in astonishment, his mouth bleeding, unsure what to do.
Komir renewed his attack, and his lethal dance began to take shape. The sweet music of the sword dance found the opportunity he was looking for to penetrate his opponent’s defense. With lightning speed he disarmed Kayti, and her sword fell to the ground with the ring of steel on stone. Komir placed the deadly tip of his sword on the soft neck of the woman in white armor.
Hartz, dumbfounded, reacted to the mortal danger of the situation by placing himself between his two friends, protecting the warrior by squeezing his body between her and the end of the sword.
Komir placed the tip on the thick neck of the great Norriel.
“If you’re going to kill her,” Hartz said with the coldness of absolute conviction, “you’ll have to kill me first.”
“Don’t get in the way, my friend. I’ve a mission to accomplish, and nothing and no one will stop me, not even you,” Komir threatened.
“I understand the meaning of your mission and I share it. We’ll find your family’s murderers. We’ll rip all those responsible apart one by one, and their death will be slow and painful. You have my word as a Norriel. We’ll search for them without rest until we find them, no matter how long it takes. I’ll go with you on that search, no matter how dangerous, even if it means dying in the process. But not like this, Komir. This isn’t the way. This isn’t our path. What would Mother Iram say of this vile act? Or her daughters Igrali and Ikzuge, our protectors? They’d be ashamed beyond any hope of forgiveness in their eyes.”
“Don’t come to me with your superstitions, Hartz! The goddesses didn’t move a finger to save my parents, they let them be murdered while Igrali, the Moon, shone nearly full that night as the pure blood of honest Norriel bathed Mother Iram’s sacred earth. The goddesses did nothing for us, and when I woke up and Ikzuge touched me with her rays of power and wellbeing, all I felt was agony. The Sun goddess had no effect on my soul. So don’t speak to me of soiling our goddesses when they did nothing for their devout children!”
“It might have been so, friend, but it might have been that it was you they decided to save. Have you thought of that? We don’t know the goddesses’ designs. In any case I won’t let you kill her, for your own good. You won’t be rejected by them for an act of such evil, not while I’m with you. If you’re wrong, and in this case you are very wrong, I’ll always let you know. Always.”
“I’ll decide my own good, no one but me! That woman you defend with your life has lied to us, betrayed us, and even now, a step away from death, she’s hiding the truth. You might not see it, but for me it’s clear!” Komir shouted, keeping the tip of his sword on his friend’s neck, shaking from sheer fury.
“Control that inner rage, friend. You’re not like this, I know you better than anyone. The fury in your heart is going to eat you away until it consumes you. You’re on the point of killing someone, blinded by hate. Can’t you see? Are you going to kill me too, Komir? What’s the point? What will you get out of it in the end?”
Komir looked into the eyes of his friend and as if they were a kind of balm, they calmed him. The big man’s words sank into Komir, and he began to doubt his own convictions. The volcano inside him was going out, the eruption was over. There were still anger and impotence latent deep within him, but he looked into his friend’s eyes, full of worry and concern. Once more Hartz was right, this was not the way. Hatred had overcome him, and he had to keep it at bay or it would be his ruin.
Yet he was still furious with Kayti and did not trust her, not one little bit. Even on the edge of death the clever redhead had not flinched. She would not open up, he was sure of it.
“You’re right, once again, you’re right…” he said more calmly, taking the sword away and attempting a timid smile. “I won’t kill her, that path would take me down to an abyss I don’t want to explore. Thank you for stopping my hate, my friend. Thank you for not letting me succumb to my anger.”
“I’m glad to have brought you to your senses,” Hartz said, breathing out with relief. “For a moment I thought you were going to kill us both.”
Komir looked defiantly at Kayti. His eyes shone like emeralds.
“I won’t kill her, even though I don’t trust her. Get her out of here. Take her to the Flying Pony Inn. If I see her again, it’ll be the end for her.”
“I’ll do that, Komir,” Hartz said.
Kayti lowered her head slightly and looked at him with subdued eyes.
“I’m truly sorry you don’t believe me, Komir, I’m an honorable woman, my life and my honor belong to the Brotherhood,” she said with her hand on the wound in her shoulder.
Komir ignored her words, sheathed his sword and grabbed his friend’s shoulders.
“One more thing, my friend. Just as you’ve helped me, let me return the favor. Get away from her, she doesn’t deserve your devotion. She’ll do whatever it takes for her Brotherhood, for her ideals, she’ll follow her superiors’ orders blindly. She’s not trustworthy. Listen to me well, friend. Don’t lose your life for someone who hides her motives, someone who’ll put the interests of that Brotherhood of hers before your wellbeing. There’ll be other women, the seas are filled with beautiful mermaids and you’ve always been a good fisherman, so get rid of this one or you’ll come to regret it for the rest of your life.”
Hartz nodded, hugged his friend briefly but intensely and left, taking Kayti with him.
Half an hour later, Hartz and Kayti arrived at the Flying Pony Inn. They banged on the door, waking Bandor, the rotund innkeeper, who opened the door when he recognized them even though it was late at night. Hartz apologized to the good fellow for the ungodly hour and gave him a handsome tip, then they went up to Kayti’s room. Hartz was tired and not in a good mood. The confrontation with Komir had left a bitter taste in his mouth and a great unease in his body that refused to go away.
“I’d better go to my room, I need to rest. All this adventure has worn me out. To be honest, I’m exhausted,” he told Kayti, who was beginning to take off her white armor.
“Wait…” she said, holding his arm, “I need to talk to you. Would you mind helping me get this off? The wound is just a small cut, but the weight is killing me.”
“Sure.”
With the skill of experienced soldiers they both loosened the inner ties of the armor, freeing Kayti from her metal cage. In a few moments the separate pieces lay on top of the old trunk in the room.
Kayti remained standing, in a short tight white tunic and woolen pants of the same color. Hartz could not help staring at her lithe figure; never before had he seen her without her armor, and the discovery was going rapidly to his head. In the soft light of the oil lamp Kayti’s hair shone like a lion’s mane, making her look radiant. The bloodstain on her shoulder emphasized the vividness of the scene. From the first moment, the beauty of her pale freckled face and the wild red of her hair had inexorably trapped the Norriel. Now he realized he was her prisoner. Lovingly gazing at the sensuality of the young woman, a confusion of feelings surged up within him. He wanted to hold her, caress her, make her his. He fought to banish them from his gut. He knew he should leave. She had an inebriating effect on his soul, she awoke in him a burning passion that was growing by the
moment. He turned on his heels to leave the room, when she whispered:
“Why did you risk your life for me?”
Hartz turned and looked into her eyes,
“I couldn’t let him hurt you. Not him, not anyone, ever,”
“Even though it meant losing your own life?”
“That’s right. I’d give my life for you. You’ve seen it, you know it,” he replied with such frank honesty that Kayti blushed.
“Why?” she asked in a lower whisper, coming up to the big Norriel.
“Not sure. It’s what I feel. I’ll never let anyone hurt you, never. I’ll always protect you.”
Kayti laid her hands on the giant’s broad chest, looked into his eyes and asked in a murmur:
“Do you trust me?”
Hartz could feel her warm young body against his, her soft breasts against his torso. He swallowed with difficulty and said:
“That’s a hard question to answer. My mind tells me not to, but my heart says I should.”
“Which of the two would you follow?”
“Both,” he replied.
The tension grew between them, heightened by the warmth of their bodies, the scent of their skin and the soft tone of her voice.
“Why do you ask? What do you want from me, Kayti?” Hartz was now confused.
“I want to know what your feelings are for me,” she said.
Hartz looked into her eyes.
“I want you. I want to be with you. From the very first time we met in that clearing.”
Kayti put her arms around him and kissed him with a passion fed by all the accumulated tension of a long wait. At the touch of those delicate lips Hartz utterly lost all sense of reality. He sank into a dream, and the material world around him disappeared. Only he and Kayti dwelled in that pleasant dream, nothing else existed. The soft scent of her skin filled the big Norriel’s senses. He felt a passion that almost hurt.
He brought her closer still, holding her within his arms, and kissed her back with the intensity of a cyclone. Kayti sighed with delight.
“Will you stay the night?” she asked him. Love sparkling in her eyes.
“This night is all yours.”
Hartz lifted her in his strong arms as if she were a feather and carried her gently to the bed. There he took her with the vigor of a demigod, while she moaned with pleasure.
Conspiracy in the Night
The eternal murmur of the flowing river and the singing of the crickets were the only sounds to be heard on that clear night. The moon shone high and elegant and the infinite sky showed a scattering of shining stars. Sumal gazed at the beauty of the prairies in awe. The air was warm and the lazy Autumn was still far from touching those rolling lands.
The mission he had in hand was both very dangerous and terribly important. This meeting in the middle of the steppes would unleash events of great significance for all Tremia, although there was also the distinct possibility that he might die there that same night. That was the risk in the ever-dangerous world of spying, still more if you were a spy of the Nocean Empire where the risks, in general, were extreme.
Without risk there’s no reward really worth the effort, no victory sweet enough.
Yet that night he was filled with worry. He was about to break the first sacred rule of the spying profession, the one all knew and followed without reservation:
Never show yourself to the enemy.
Always remain in the shadows.
And that upset him beyond measure.
It had been the only way to guarantee that the mission would prosper, and that mission had to go forward whatever the cost, even that of his own life. That was what his master Zecly, that powerful Sorcerer and master of spies, had told him. When the First Counselor of Mulko, Regent of the Northern Nocean Empire, gave an order, you could only obey or else die a horrendous death. He had to fulfill his purpose that night, it was vitally important.
The contacts and exchanges of information with the agents of the interested party had been extremely difficult and laborious. Caution bordering on paranoia and total secrecy had surrounded them from the beginning. But at last, after hard work, there had been progress, and that night the deal would be made.
A deal which would change the destiny of a continent.
Or on the other hand, if things went wrong, it would be the end for him.
Sumal took his mount to the river, and the magnificent courser drank water to cool himself down. Behind him, five of his most lethal agents rode in silence. The Motuli, those sinister sons of the desert, were protecting him. A hiss reached his ears, frightening the horse. The animal reared and neighed in fear. Sumal held on to the saddle as best he could so as not to fall on his back, and before he could think what was happening, two arrows and a silver knife struck right at the horse’s feet. At last, with difficulty, he managed to quiet the noble beast. He looked down at the ground.
“Rat snake of the prairies,” one of the Motuli behind him explained nonchalantly, holding his bow at the ready.
Sumal could barely make out anything in the dark night, still less the dead snake beside his mount. How those men had seen it and skewered it was remarkable. But Sumal knew that those men were not merely warriors. They belonged to a sect of lethal assassins from the deepest South: masters of the dagger, sword and short bow. They lived for and by death. They were dressed in the style of the desert, with head and mouth covered by a black scarf, long blue tunic, and over it, black leather breastplates reinforced with darkened metal, baggy black pants, armbands of reinforced leather and riding boots of the same material.
Those expert fighters with their brown skin and eyes black as a moonless night had an agility and a set of reflexes bordering on the inhuman. The sect they belonged to was led by a shadowy and highly intelligent individual from the South of the Empire. Sumal had seen them in action, and they were utterly lethal. All had an enormous scorpion tattooed on their forearm which identified them as belonging to the Motuli sect. For a considerable sum of money he had secured their services. For two years they would serve him faithfully, then at the end of the prescribed time, if they survived, the five would return to the leader of the mysterious sect. They cost a small fortune, but they were worth every gold coin of it.
He usually employed them as assassins and they had never failed him, but that night he needed them as a bodyguard. The meeting would be very dangerous and it was reasonable to foresee some bloodshed. Sumal, for his part, was an excellent swordsman, trained from childhood in the art of the sword, and few could defeat him in combat. But he had better remove these ominous thoughts from his mind and concentrate on his mission. His goal was to reach an agreement. Not to shed blood.
The noise of hooves galloping over the steppe brought him to sudden alertness.
He looked to the right, and the nearest Motuli signaled with a gesture that the retinue was coming.
A dozen riders approached at a gallop until they were opposite them, on the far side of the river. They stopped there without crossing.
There was silence. Both groups studied each other tensely.
Sumal quickly realized that the dozen Norghanians were undoubtedly an elite force. They were all more than six feet tall, and strongly built. They wore winged helmets, long scaled armor and round wooden shields reinforced with metal, and carried short two-faced war-axes. With their long blond hair and thick beards they gave the impression of being northern giants, something out of folklore itself. For a moment it seemed to Sumal that some Norghanian troubadour had summoned them out of an ancient lay.
The sight made him nervous. Yet the five Motuli returned the gaze of the enemy with the confidence of those who know themselves to be victorious. Let’s hope there’s no need for us to find out who’d come out the winner in this night-time encounter in the midst of the steppes if steel should be unsheathed. Those enormous white bears of the snow look pretty ominous.
A rider came up to the river’s edge from the rearguard of the group.
&
nbsp; He wore the same attire as the others, but something in his posture, in the way he rode, told Sumal this was no ordinary soldier. This rider was a nobleman.
“Good evening, traveler,” the rider said in greeting. The voice from under the helmet was powerful.
“Good evening to you,” Sumal replied. He used the Common Language of the North with perfect pronunciation, so that it was impossible to guess his Nocean origin.
“What’s a man of the North doing accompanied by five desert dogs?”
“Oh, you mean because of my white skin and blond hair?” replied Sumal. “My traveling companions don’t mind. They know that my blood is of the land of the eternal sun and the great deserts, the same as theirs, even though you can’t tell by my skin.”
“True, they say appearances can be deceptive. Nobody would think you’re from as far away as that, judging by your features and your clothing.”
“The same way that nobody would think you’re a Norghanian nobleman and not just a simple infantry soldier, regardless of the fact that you’re dressed like one.”
“An interesting observation.”
“And accurate.”
Sumal watched the other carefully. He had to make sure this man was the right one. Under the winged helmet, at night, lit only by the faint light of the moon and stars, he could not guarantee that this was the man he was expecting.
“Perhaps we should take our masks off. After all, there’s nobody else here in all this expanse of steppes but us,” suggested Sumal.
“That’s true, unless we come across some Masig.”
“As a gesture of good will, let me introduce myself: in my country I’m known by the name of Sumal, and I’m a humble servant of the Nocean Empire.”
“Slippery rather than humble, I’d say.”