The Warriors Path

by Brian Thomas

  Markurd turned to face him, his face sweating from the pain of the sword being withdrawn or the heat of battle none could have said. Frowning at Ronan he growled. “Besides me you mean?”

  Saving Ronan from answering they both looked up when the battle area was filled by the men who had come to their aid. Markurd sucked his teeth seeing their uniforms and insignia. “Imperial soldiers. Careful what you say and do, they can be touchy as hell. Their commander will take your head off if he thinks you dishonour them in the slightest and you could be dead before you even know you’ve caused offence, the official in the meantime interpreting only the Gods know what.”

  Ronan grimaced tolerantly at the older man, his tutor at arms and mentor for many years. Sighing for emphasis, he replied. “Thank you, but I have been here before. If I remember correctly it is usually you they want to test their skill against. The giant barbarian who is all brawn and no finesse I believe was the last description I heard one of them use for you. Besides, I think some of these warriors know more of our language than they let on and it would be a bold official who deliberately misinterpreted to one of them.”

  Markurd’s frown grew darker but he had no time to reply before the commanding officer strode over with an official. The commander was like the other imperial officers Ronan had encountered, haughty and enormously proud. The Hansee Empire generally looked down on foreigners from outside their own borders, considering everyone else inferior and little more than ignorant barbarians. Ronan decided it was difficult to decide who held this view more strongly, the officials he had encountered or the warriors. The senior officials would not demean themselves by communicating directly with an inferior race, delegating the task to subordinates but the snobbery was no less pronounced the further one went down the tree. The warriors would invariably assess them as potential opponents before dismissing them as being beneath their consideration.

  Ronan had heard the Hansee warriors, their swordmasters, spoken of in bated breath by the Hansee population who obviously held them in awe and greatly feared them. They certainly strutted about like pumped up peacocks but he had never seen one of them in action and was curious whether the reality lived up to the reputation. He frowned, remembering saying as much to Markurd once and had been surprised when the old warrior had replied. “Pray to the Gods you never see one come at you in anger.” Markurd was respected and feared throughout their lands and yet he had readily admitted their superiority, even though Ronan had never seen a Hansee he didn’t tower over.

  Ronan finished tying off the bandage around Markurd’s waist, the large man slumping to the ground and leaning against the fallen horse for support. He as well as Ronan knew the Hansee didn’t like looking up to the barbarians who were invariably taller than they were and as the pair came closer it was clear to see the commander was unhappy about something. Ronan knew that while it was the official who would speak it was the warrior who commanded in the field and he regarded the middle-aged commander curiously with a direct gaze, ignoring the warning kick in his ankle from Markurd. The commander returned his gaze with equal curiosity and a little surprise at Ronan’s lack of deference as they approached.

  Ronan interpreted the official’s barest bow to be an almost direct insult. “You are very close to the empire’s borders and barbarians are forbidden entry to the empire. What are you doing here?”

  During the question Ronan had held the commander’s gaze, neither threatening nor subservient. “What is the commander’s name?”

  The official was taken aback and about to demand his own question be answered when Ronan turned his gaze on him, giving the merest frown he had seen the Hansee warriors use in the past which seemed to set everyone else hopping to obey and please them. The official hesitated before deciding he would let the arrogant barbarian hang with the aid of his own words. Ignoring Ronan he gave a deep bow to the commander and asked a question. The commander had been watching him carefully and Ronan saw his eyes widen slightly at the question. There was a pause before the commander gave the merest nod to the official who obviously surprised, gave another deep bow to the commander before he spoke again to Ronan. “Lord Kayto – commander of one thousand, second in authority for the Tiger Battalion, Imperial Guards for the Emperor on special assignment.”

  Ronan savoured the title for a moment and then gave a bow to the commander, which he held for a moment before rising again. “Tell Lord Kayto my name is Ronan. Tell him that he has my thanks and those of my men for his intervention.” Ronan gave another bow, deeper than the first as the official began translating. As he rose again Ronan was sure he saw a momentary flash of amusement in the commander’s eyes, though the stern visage was such he wondered if he had been mistaken.

  The official asked again, though with considerably more civility and respect this time, “Lord Kayto wishes to know why you are so close to the empire’s borders?”

  “Before reaching the Hansee Empire we learned there was greater threat from bandits than was usual, especially from a large band newly arrived in the area. We took the precaution of taking a different, less direct, route to Xian city so we might avoid the bandits. I thought we had evaded them but they discovered us and were particularly persistent for bandits. Lord Kayto’s intervention was most welcome.”

  The official had mumbled a translation while Ronan spoke, so the commander could observe Ronan as he heard the translation over Ronan’s own words. Not afforded the same luxury, Kayto finished speaking before the official began translating for Ronan. “Lord Kayto says he does not believe they would have stayed much longer, it had cost them too much to break your shield wall the first time. He says that you and your men showed more resistance than they were used to. Being bandits and therefore of inferior quality and fighting merely for reward rather than honour they would have soon left.” Kayto spoke again and the official translated further. “They are ignorant men and superstitious. The flying bear who challenged them while he had a sword sticking out of him would have broken their resolve.”

  One of Kayto’s men ran over to them, saluting smartly before giving a quick report. Kayto snapped a response and the man ran back the way he had come. While they had been speaking Kayto’s men had arranged the surviving bandits left behind in a line on their knees with their hands tied behind their backs, one of Kayto’s men standing behind each of them. Kayto gave a curt nod and his men raised their swords to behead the man in front of them with a single swing.

  Kayto looked pointedly at Ronan’s empty scabbard before he snapped out a string of sentences to the official, who bowed before translating quickly. “Lord Kayto says that you may continue on your way but do not stray inside the empire’s border. Lord Kayto also warns you that a Hansee man may seek to leave the empire. This man was a guardian to the royal family but is now an enemy of the emperor and anyone found harbouring the man will be executed with him when he is discovered; no exceptions. Lord Kayto says that when he leaves his men will take all empire crafted weapons as they are contraband trade to barbarians. However, if Ronan and the flying bear should find two are missed, they should keep them hidden while in the border cities.” The official almost gasped at the last sentence, before he quickly continued with his translation. “Lord Kayto says that should he meet you both in battle he would rather you died due to his skill, than due to having inferior weapons.” In all seriousness the official added, “Lord Kayto does you both honour.” Turning he followed Kayto as he led his men out at a quick trot.

  Ronan sent a man to search for weapons as Markurd eased his position against the horse and said gruffly, “Well, I guess that was a compliment. No one but the cream gets to gut us by the look of it.”

  The man Ronan had sent returned bearing two swords. Simple in pattern the steel nevertheless gleamed in a way swords made outside the empire were unable to replicate and the steel was of a better quality than anything he had ever held before. The blades were light, bore a razor sharp edge and gave a clear ringing chime as he tapped them against e
ach other. Each of the swords was worth a fortune outside of the empire and the trip would have been worthwhile to have returned with just one of them. Ronan handed the second blade to Markurd. “Take good care of it Flying Bear, I think we will have cause to use them before we are home again.”

  Markurd gave the smirking Ronan a sour look as he took the blade, examining it appreciatively. “They are fine blades but the ones used by your new friend Kayto are better still. Before the likes of him become a commander they have to become a Swordmaster.” Markurd looked pointedly at Ronan. “That invitation was for both of us to face him together and he wouldn’t expect to lose if we did. I saw one once when you were still a child. He moved so fast he made my feet feel like lumps of clay and he had a style I could never hope to emulate, though I picked up a few moves that have since become my own. They are as good as the blades they carry and you would do well never to forget it boy.”

  Ronan was impressed that Markurd had been so affected by what he had seen of them. Well, they were here to trade and he had no intention of entering into a fight, though he could not admit another man was better with the sword so easily. With luck, they would meet Zanwen and be on the return journey home in a few weeks and there would be no need to put Markurd’s fears to the test.

  Chapter 36

  The boy tugged at Ronan’s hand insistently. “Come, this way. He waits for you, come.”

  Ronan remained where he was partially screened by the trees beside where they stood, studying the felt tent attached to the half wagon. The tent was the same length as the wagon, not quite high enough to stand upright if inside. The top of the tent came straight out from the wagon’s side to upright posts at the front, the entrance through a flap in the flat face. A small wisp of smoke was escaping through a hole in the roof, the only sign of life within.

  Ronan loosened his sword in its scabbard, an indication of his reluctance to enter the tent. Once inside he wouldn’t be able to see who might approach them making it the perfect trap for the unwary. If it came to weapons in the tent it would be fists or knives; there wouldn’t be room to swing a sword. “Why is this man so far from the city limits?” Ronan looked around the surrounding area suspiciously, sheltered by trees and close to a small stream it was a good but secluded campsite.

  The young boy shrugged. “He is a shaman, a great healer. He was in the city but many people queued to see him, more than he was able to help.” The young lad shuffled uncomfortably. “He moved here, no one knows but me where he is and now he can meditate in peace.” The boy’s eyes were very knowing as he added conspiratorially. “He meditates a lot. That’s probably what he is doing now. That is how shamans talk to the Spirits.”

  Ronan smiled down at the lad. There was no question he was in awe of the man who had instructed him to summon Ronan. “And how is it you know this shaman and that he sent you to summon me?”

  The boy pulled his thin shoulders back, his pride and pleasure obvious. “My mother was ill, very ill, and nothing anyone could do did any good. I heard in the market about a healer who had performed miracles in the next city, Yangshu city. A man was killed by hornets whilst he was hanging on the side of a high building as he tried to clear their nest. The healer walked up the walls to bring the man down, cut open the man’s throat to take out some of the hornets and then put a whistle in the man’s neck. The man was so pleased to be alive he played tunes from the whistle for the healer.”

  Seeing Ronan’s surprise turn to scepticism the young boy added smugly. “Lots of people said it couldn’t be true. When he arrived in the city I saw him lay herbs he had gathered from the roadside, drying them on racks in the back of his cart. When I saw his herb bag I knew it must be him and begged him to see my mother. He did and now she is better than she has been for a very long time.”

  The boy looked a bit sheepish, scuffing his sandal in the dirt. “I was very pleased and did not think it would hurt when I told people but in a few hours everybody knew it was the healer who had performed the miracles in Yangshu city and many people insisted that he see them. Crowds gathered around wherever he went and soon people were even coming from outside of the city.” Puffing his chest and bracing his shoulders back again, he continued. “I was ashamed that I had brought such trouble upon a man who had helped my mother and I asked her what I could do to put things right. She told me that I must go to the healer, beg his forgiveness and ask him what I should do. He asked if I knew of a secluded site so I led him to this place and then he asked me to watch for you. When you came I was to bring you to him.” The boy was beaming, in his own mind at least having put things right again. “Come, he will be pleased.” The young lad tugged at Ronan’s hand again.

  Ronan looked across at Markurd, who swept the sweat off his forehead and face with his hand. Markurd looked drawn and tired. The wound was causing him more discomfort than he admitted, though he claimed it was on the mend and it was just lack of sleep all positions when he lay down making it sore. “What do you think?” Ronan asked.

  Markurd grunted impatiently. “What did we come all this way for if we weren’t going to see him? Though it sounds like the man is some kind of fake to me. A charlatan miracle worker for the simple minded. I don’t know why he would want to see us but you can never trust someone willing to profit from another’s suffering and superstitions. I will never trust one and that’s for sure. Either way, I don’t like it. I’d better go in first, follow when you’re ready.” Without waiting for a response Markurd began walking down the slope to the camp. Reaching the tent Markurd hesitated then drew back the flap and ducked his head to disappear inside.

  Ronan was irritated, setting his jaw as he watched Markurd suddenly set off before Ronan had got comfortable with the idea. The man had been worse than a bear with a sore head these last few days. “How did you know that I was the one you were to look for in the city?” he asked the boy.

  The boy raised his eyebrows thinking the answer obvious. “You are a barbarian and you were asking for Master Zanwen. This was how I was to know. The shaman said your name would be Ronan.”

  Ronan scanned the quiet campsite. Despite his suspicions there seemed no indication of threat from within or without. Zanwen was late and there weren’t that many foreign traders in Xian city, barbarians, as he was frequently reminded, that he could not easily be found. With a parting gesture to their young guide who sped off happily back to the city Ronan made his way after Markurd, trying to quell the irritation he felt at Markurd’s abrupt departure and irritable mood.

  When Ronan pulled back the flap and entered the tent he had to pause a moment to let his eyes adjust to the dimmed interior, then he carefully sat beside Markurd. In front of them were the dying embers of a small fire giving off a pungent odour he thought was probably sandalwood, heating an old brass pot. Facing them from the other side of the glowing coals was a young man simply dressed with a shaved head and wearing a headband across his forehead. He was sitting cross-legged, fingertips together and eyes closed. Ronan looked at Markurd who merely shrugged before turning to carefully watch the man in front of them. The man wasn’t asleep but didn’t look awake either, so he was presumably meditating as the boy had guessed.

  Uncertain whether he should, or even could, interrupt the man’s meditation Ronan instead looked around at the tent’s sparse contents. There was a pallet with a light blanket behind the man and some tinder beside the fire but little else to indicate the man was dangerous or anything else really.

  As his gaze returned to the young man again he looked directly into his eyes, which caused Ronan to instinctively draw back a little. It was not that they were hostile so much as they seemed to see straight through him and Ronan had a fleeting sensation of somehow having been read, as thoroughly as a book. Though they held no threat the man’s eyes reflected utter self confidence back.

  Absorbed as he was by his own thoughts Ronan almost jumped when the young man gave a small bow while still seated. The bow was to both him and Markurd but it was
also somehow more so for Ronan. “I bear a message for you from Zanwen.”

  Ronan felt uncomfortable under the steady gaze and was angry at his own discomfort. “And how do you know I am the one the message is intended for?” he challenged.

  The man facing him raised one eyebrow, placing his palms up in query. “The boy was to watch for a barbarian trader who is due about now seeking Zanwen. Zanwen only deals with one barbarian trader, Ronan. You heard my request to see you and it was of sufficient interest that you made the journey to come here. Are you not Ronan?”

  For some reason Ronan was even more irritated by the answer and the man’s self-assurance but he was also curious. “Perhaps Ronan is this man here.”

  The young man turned to Markurd, regarding him for a short time. “This man entered first. He sought to protect you by doing so. He has not removed his eyes from me since he entered and believes that I pose a possible threat. You are younger than I had expected but Zanwen gave only your name, an older relative would have been mentioned. This man is older and battle-wise but not related. This man serves you.” The young man raised his eyebrow a little further. “You entered my tent angry and you are still angry. You were angry before we spoke, so perhaps it is this man who serves you that has made you angry since no one else came with you other than the boy. You gave him a question with a look and he returned an answer with a movement of his shoulders. He continues to guard, and you are confident he will do so while you satisfy your curiosity regarding my tent. You know and trust each other well. You move well, perhaps he is the sword tutor and you were the student?”

  Ronan sat back as he absorbed what he had heard. He could feel the tension in Markurd beside him, though the young man in front of them remained completely at ease. His anger forgotten Ronan’s respect, curiosity and caution rose in equal measure. “You saw a lot for a man with his eyes closed. The boy said you are a shaman, do you use your magic on us now?”