Banshee’s Honor
Part Fourteen
by
Lord
Kesryn Oswyne, well-known merchant and purveyor of fine goods, stood in
the center of a maelstrom. Wreckage
lay chaotically strewn about his manor house, and bits and pieces of
his possessions were scattered around as if a tornado had thrown a
party and invited the hurricane brothers to entertain.
Brilliantly golden energy wrapped the sorcerer’s body,
pinning him in place. Crackling
through that aura was a haze of thick, crimson power that sent
spitting, arcing streamers through the binding spell.
The silence in the room was unearthly.
All
at once, there was a shrill keening sound as a burst of dark force
shattered the magical bonds, freeing the sorcerer from the starseeker’s
spell.
“DaCoure!”
he shouted harshly, kicking at the wreckage.
“I will see you bleed, Azhani Rhu’len, I swear it!” he
growled, summoning an army of invisible servants.
Instructing them to clear away the destruction, he turned
and strode purposefully into his study.
From
a wardrobe, he removed a fresh set of tailored silks more properly
fitting to a merchant of his station, tossing the bloodied, tattered
rags he was wearing into the fire. Pouring
a glass of thick, amber colored liquor, he went to his desk and sat
down, picking up the messages that Baron Var’s summons had so rudely
interrupted.
The
first note was one from Var, coincidentally, informing Kasyrin of the
Y’Syran nobleman’s continued success in poisoning the Y’skani
ambassador. The sorcerer
snorted and tossed it into the fire, watching it shrivel and blacken. A sneer twisted his lips. Var would have to be dealt with – it
wouldn’t do for the mage’s other agents to hear that one of them had
caused their master so much grief and gotten away with it.
Next
he read and dealt with several business matters, finally coming upon a
missive from his Killigarni contacts. Perusing
it briefly, he felt a swift flash of pleasure from the death toll. At least he had one idiot who was
worth the gold he wasted. No
help would emerge from Y’mar at the crucial moment.
Other messages from other operatives, said much the same;
that his plans were moving forward, if at a snail’s pace.
A
black scroll case, stamped with the dark red markings of the Ecarthan
priests, drew his attention. Ah,
excellent. The temples
proceed as planned – the sacrifices have begun. Looking
up, his gaze fell upon a tall obsidian obelisk, scored at regular
intervals. At the very base
of the tower, a thin, reddish glow was just barely visible.
Three
fully operational temples now served the spiritual needs of the Y’dani
people, and every day, more of the black-robed priests were coming into
the kingdom. Astariun priests
were being openly shunned by the populace, out of fear of reprisal from
Arris’ new police force. A
quick missive, suggesting that the Astariuns be encouraged to leave the
kingdom, found its way into the scroll. A
few muttered words sent it to the main temple in Y’dannyv, just a few
blocks from his three-story home.
From
Porthyros came the news that Arris had finally signed the Non-Human
Restriction Act into law, forcing all non-humans to register with the
border guards before they entered any city or town in Y’dan. A nasty, feral smile lit up the
mage’s pale face. The idea
that no matter what face Azhani wore, she would still have to submit to
a “racial scan” by one of Ecarthus’ priests, made Kasyrin feel much
better about the defeat he had just suffered.
Introducing
Arris to the wonders of Ecarthan worship, had been a banner day for
Kasyrin. As he and Porthyros
long suspected, the fanciful trappings and panoply of the demon’s
worshippers, appealed to Arris’ vanity, much more so than the plain,
boring sermons of the Astariuns. The
Eater of Souls was a fearsome creature, but he liked a good show.
He
also thrived on the blood of the slain, and so, Y’dani criminals no
longer swung from the gallows, feeding the carrion.
Instead, they fed the fires that burned day and night in
the three temples that had been constructed.
Attendance at a daily mass was encouraged and rewarded;
the poor were fed a hearty meal and nobles were rewarded with
invitations to dine with their king. Merchants
who attended, suddenly found it much easier to do business – those who
did not, found their goods going astray.
Blood
trickled sluggishly from a wound in Kasyrin’s forehead, sending anger
rippling through the mage once more. The
sorcerer expended a bit of precious energy to heal it and then spent
several minutes daydreaming about flaying the skin from Azhani Rhu’len
and her elven supporters, one strip at a time.
One
final message remained. This
was not a simple missive delivered by a rag-covered urchin, but rather,
a magical message from the demon that claimed his soul.
It burst into being as a fiery green orb and then melted
away, leaving behind a black slate that was deeply etched with silvery
runes.
~It
is done, my servant. Soon, I
shall waken and hunger. I
trust you shall provide a first meal worthy of a god?~
Fear
trickled lightly down the mage’s back. Ecarthus
had fulfilled his end of the bargain. Demons
would soon pour out of the mountains. A
tidal wave of evil would engulf Y’Syr and any other who chose to stand
against Kasyrin Darkchilde and his demonic master.
Ruin and death would soon spread across the land, filling
the matrix with enough magic to break the bonds of time. The day would come when he would
stand before the gates of hell and strip away the bindings that had
locked Ecarthus out of this world for eons.
Until
then, he would maintain his persona as Lord Kesryn Oswyne, spice
merchant, pulling the strings of many puppets, and enjoying their dance.
%%%
“In
Ecarthus we are free, our blood is his blood, and we feed him gladly,”
the priest chanted in a droning monotone while his gray robed acolytes
dragged the bound and gagged prisoner up the steps to the black basalt
altar that graced the center of the stage. Behind
the altar, a cauldron was suspended over a hotly burning fire that
seemed to leap and dance to every word the black-robed priest said.
Arris
watched the show with a jaundiced eye. The
ceremony had become commonplace. The
blood no longer caused his stomach to twist brutally, nor left him with
nightmare images that haunted his dreams for days.
Beside the king sat his best friend Porthyros, his watery
blue eyes fixed on the scene below them with fanatical glee. A table just to the scholar’s left,
held a platter filled with a steaming pot of tea and a plate of
sandwiches, which he would soon insist the young king consume.
Since
the king was determined to lead his armies north during the next
winter, Lord Oswyne had determined that the boy had to look the part of
a great warrior. Arris was a
scrawny, wiry young man with very little mass – Porthyros’ job now
became that of nanny. Every
day he had to make sure the king ate and exercised enough to build some
muscle on his small frame. So
far, he had done an adequate job – many of the noblewomen had noticed
the king’s healthier appearance, and several of Arris’ favorite wenches
had reported that his stamina had much improved.
Lord
Oswyne also brought in a sword master who took over the king’s weapon’s
training, pushing the young man to his limits.
Arris complained, he pouted, and he threatened, but he
finally started to see the light when a peasant, disguised as one of
the king’s pages, broke into his room in the middle of the night. Armed with a dagger, the man had
tried to slit the young king’s throat, but Arris had not only disarmed
him, he had also easily turned the would-be assassin’s weapon against
him, exacting justice personally.
The
peasant’s head still graced a pike in front of Y’dannoch castle,
serving as a warning to any who did not agree with the king’s laws. Porthyros was proud of his charge. He was maturing well, yet still
remained very malleable to the scholar’s wishes.
“Tea,
my king?” he offered quietly, handing over a large mug.
“Yes,
thank you,” Arris said, drinking deeply.
The
service below ended with a terrified scream as the priest drove a razor
sharp blade into the chest of the sacrifice and opened him up from neck
to navel. A crimson wash of
blood spilled out over the altar, flooding down the steps and pooling
in specially carved grooves along the edge of the stage. As the man’s life bled away, the
fluid ran along the runnels, draining into large black urns set at
either side of the stage.
As
soon as the body was drained, it was unceremoniously rolled into the
fire pit, filling the room with the fresh scent of a charnel house. Porthyros stood and inhaled deeply.
“Exhilarating,
isn’t it, my king?”
Closing
his eyes, Arris pictured the service again, sipping at his drink. Yes, the service was exciting, in a
disturbing sort of way.
“Just
think, that man will wake up in paradise, gifted with the eternal
gratitude of Ecarthus himself!” the scholar enthused.
“The
ultimate reward,” the king muttered hazily.
Suddenly, he was very tired. “Is
it lunchtime yet, Thyro? I’m
a little sleepy and I’d like my afternoon nap soon.”
“Of
course, my king. Here is a
little snack for you to nibble while we return to the castle. Master Nallerack awaits you.”
Sighing,
Arris accepted the sandwich and followed the scholar out of the temple. He was not particularly looking
forward to his appointment with the sword master, but he recognized the
need for the practice. After
all, who knew when someone else would try to change the destiny of
Y’dan, by removing its rightful king?
%%%
The
dream came that night.
He was on a snow-covered mountaintop, wind ruffled his hair and snow coated his beard. Blood and gore covered his armor and his sword hung limply from exhausted arms. All around him were the bodies of his men, their green and black tabards shredded by the claws of the demons that still howled just beyond the edge of his vision. Waning sunlight kept the creatures at bay, but they would soon be free to attack.
Looking around, he did not see his mentor and friend anywhere. Not among the dead, nor among the living, was the man who had been by his side constantly since he was eight summers old. Slogging through the snow, he stopped by each man, checking for life. He was alone, wrapped in a cyclone of snow and wind.
The sun set, snuffing out the day. A victorious howl sent chills down his spine and he grimly took hold of his blade, setting himself to fight bravely until he met his end. Then, he heard it. Out of the realms of nightmare and his deepest fears, came a sound he had prayed he would never hear again.
A long, piercing wail cracked through the twilight, followed by the thundering of hooves. Erupting from the swirling snow she came, mounted on a beast the color of smoke. Her blade was flaming ice, and with it she carved a swath through the demons that circled his position.
Fear put wings on his feet and he raced away from the pursuing figure, running all the way across the mountaintop until he reached a cliff. Barely stopping himself, he watched chunks of ice and snow fall into the darkness. Turning, he faced the mounted woman, clenching his teeth to keep from biting his tongue.
The warrior’s apparition thundered right through him – it was not real. Relief flooded him and he sank to his knees, weeping in gratitude for his timely rescue. That’s when the sharp, wrenching pain tore through him. Gaping, he looked down to see the tip of a sword protruding out of his chest.
“What?” he gasped, as blood filled his mouth. Falling over, he caught just the faintest hint of golden eyes blazing into his mind before darkness took him away...
”No!” Arris bolted out of bed,
grabbing his sword and slashing at the darkness.
The door opened and Porthyros ran in.
“My
king, are you unwell?” he cried, turning up a lamp to chase back the
shadows in the king’s bedchamber.
Dressed
only in a pair of light breeches, gripping his sword in both hands, the
Y’dani monarch’s body was drenched in sweat.
Blinking in the sudden light, Arris let his sword drop and
then sank into a chair, panting heavily.
“It’s
nothing, Thyro, just a dream. Bring
me some tea and I shall be fine,” he ordered weakly.
“As
you wish, my lord,” the scholar said, dashing out of the room quickly. Tonight, the king would get just tea
– too much krill would cause the young man to lose his mind, and that
was not in Lord Oswyne’s plans, yet.
~Chapter
Twenty-Eight~
Azhani
was seated at her desk, composing a message to Padreg, when a timid
knock came on her door.
“Come
in,” she called out, spreading a thin layer of sand over the parchment
to dry the ink.
The
door opened, revealing one of the castle’s many pages.
“There’s a man to see you, Master Azhani.
Says his name is Brannock Maeven.”
Nodding,
the warrior said, “He’s a friend. Send
him in.”
The
page bowed courteously before scampering off, replaced by a man dressed
in the colorful robes of an Y’Noran trader.
Doffing his ridiculously oversized hat, the sandy-haired
man bowed deeply and said, “I am always honored to be in thy presence,
Lady Azhani.”
Amused,
Azhani politely allowed the man to press a chaste kiss on the back of
her hand. “Liar. Last time you saw me, I had you
arrested for bribery. What
can I do for you, Bran?”
Stepping
back, the man produced a long, heavily wrapped package.
“From the hand of King Padreg of Y’Nor, I bring you
tidings. Hear now his words.” An accompanying scroll appeared, was
unfurled, and Maeven began to read.
“My friend,
I hope this finds you and Kyrian in good health. My lady Elisira is out with the new foals, counting the blessings of the goddess to our clan this season. Young Devon has taken well to schooling under the wise Starseeker Miria and sends his love. Thomas, Syrah and Aden also send greetings and well wishes.
News of the Kingdoms is not good. Killigarni pirates continue to harry the Y’maran border; High King Ysradan and his lady, Queen Dasia, are out with the navy seeking the brigands at all costs. Pirellan Madros is regent for Ysrallan, while the Princess Syrelle has come to Y’Nor as a fosterling. Elisira is grateful to have her; the ladies here are a bit lacking in the skills to assist a woman of High Court bearing.”
Azhani
laughed, interrupting Maeven’s easy brogue.
“Which is Paddy’s way of saying that Y’Noran women don’t
pamper each other.” The
fact that Madros is known for his less than honorable tastes, probably
has something to do with it as well. Having
the princess in a safe place is a good idea. Azhani gave credit to the High
King for knowing that his cousin was ill fit as a guardian.
The
trader pulled a face, rolling his eyes in silent agreement and then
continued reading.
“The dwarves of Y’dror, face the depredations of a monster they have called a dragon; though I do not know whether the creature is actually such a beast. In Y’skan, wild sandstorms rage through the sands, forcing the clans to unite at Ratterask until they pass. King Naral of Y’Tol, also sends ill news; a plague of insects has devastated the crops and all of his resources have been poured into recovering as much as possible, so that his people do not starve come winter.
It should come as no surprise when I say that we of Y’Nor have had our own troubles. Badly disguised bandits, men most likely of the Cabal or of Killigarn, have taken to attacking our clans, doing little damage yet keeping us all tired from long candlemarks of watch. I have not, however, forgotten my promise to you, and on the heels of this missive, shall come all that I can spare. May the gods speed your hand to the heart of our troubles.
I have saved the kingdom of Y’dan for last. I cannot break this to you lightly, my friend. The land you once served has become a place of sorrow and darkness. Our sibling gods have been cast aside in favor of a demon; he who is known as the Eater of Souls now holds the faith of Y’dan captive. Horrors unknown to common man for centuries, are now a part of their everyday lives. It is said that Arris himself visits these terrible shrines; let us hope that he is just mad, for if he is truly sane, then I quake to think of what his next move will be.
Azhani, my friend, it is not lightly that I speak of regicide; the king who seeks to slay another can, himself, be open for the knife. My Cousin is not well; his rule has poisoned the earth and caused a weeping in the land that even we of Y’Nor can sense. If ever there was doubt of Theodan’s choice, it has faded into history. Victory, I pray nightly, that it be yours to claim, ere Y’dan’s darkness spreads like a cancerous growth on the body of the kingdoms.
At the urging of those within the clans whose eyes are given to looking forward, I send to your hand, a gift of the ages. Gormerath, slayer of demons, blade of my ancestors and true forged weapon of Lyriandelle Starcrafter is yours now. Wield her well. May she love your hand as easily as she loved the mothers of my foremothers. Elisira wishes you to bear her against the darkness, for she cannot.
Speaking of my lady, she has joined me and wishes to add a reminder that we are to see you at midwinter. I know it was brash of me to suggest such a date, but my lady assures me that it was well intentioned, mayhap even prescient. I pray that this is so, for none deserve Astariu’s blessings more than you and Stardancer Kyrian. Peace, my friend. I await your reply.
Padreg, Clanleader of Y’Nor.
Lady Elisira Glinholt, his beloved.”
“Well
isn’t that just peachy?” Azhani commented acidly, reaching for the
cloth bound bundle. The news
from Padreg, added to what the queen’s guard had discovered early that
morning in Baron Var’s cell, made her day just that much brighter. Upon arriving at the nobleman’s
prison cell, all that was found was a gooey puddle of flesh and bone.
Roused from
her sickbed, Starseeker Vashyra and three acolytes visited the dungeon
and cast a powerful augury, learning that the traitorous baron had been
attacked and eaten by a lesser demon. The
garolkoth beast, known for its taste for elven flesh, had entered the
cell via a pentagram inscribed in Var’s own blood.
What had caused the nobleman to summon his doom, the
starseeker could not say. Azhani
suspected that the demon’s presence was the work of Darkchilde, perhaps
as a warning to whatever of his agents remained within the Y’Syran
borders.
The baron’s
remains were hastily scooped up and buried as far from the city as
possible, in an unmarked grave. Several
lesser Astariun priests presided over the quiet ceremony; speaking what
prayers they could to ease the tortured man’s soul into a peaceful rest.
Maeven
handed Azhani the package, and almost fearfully, she unwrapped it. She, like every other
goddess-trained child, had heard all the legends surrounding the
mystical blade. Gormerath,
the blade of light, had been handed down through the ages from the
hands of Lyriandelle Starcrafter. The
famed weaponsmith was the firstborn daughter of Y’mareth Firstlander,
the man who discovered the lands where Y’myran’s seven kingdoms now
existed. With his six
brothers, Y’mareth transformed the wild, demon-ridden continent into
the prospering kingdoms that now existed. Lyriandelle,
a priest of both Astarus and Astariu, forged Gormerath from a chunk of
ore that fell from the sky, gifting it to her father.
It became his greatest weapon against the hordes of demons
that ravaged the land.
Upon
his death, the blade came into the hands of Lyriandelle’s daughter,
Y’Mara. Through her, the
sword passed from woman to woman until it ended up in the hands of
Padreg Keelan’s ancestors. The
sword’s powers grew and its preference as a woman’s weapon, became
legendary. Men could wield
her, but she often did not grant her gifts to those wielders, choosing
instead to lie dormant.
Azhani
took her first look at the blade of legend and was highly unimpressed. A ratty, battered leather sheath and
a hilt that appeared crusted in the mud and cobwebs of centuries,
greeted her anxious gaze.
“She
needs a bit of love and tenderness, I’d say,” Brannock Maeven
commented, tucking his hands behind his back and bending over to peer
at the revealed sword.
“It
needs something, that’s for sure,” Azhani said.
Narrowing her eyes, she looked up at the trader and asked,
“Are you sure this is the same bundle Padreg handed you? You’re sure you didn’t decide to
stop over at Ironfoot’s casino?”
“I
swear on my beloved mother’s honor. I
came directly from my good clansman’s tent to this lovely home. I haven’t even stopped to sample
this fair city’s mead,” the man assured in a slightly hurt tone.
Reluctantly,
Azhani accepted that the sword had indeed, come from Padreg. She reached into a drawer in her
desk and pulled out a square of soft cotton cloth that she usually used
to clean her own blade, and began to attempt to remove some of the
years of dirt and grime from the crosspiece and hilt of the sword.
After
only a few moments of scrubbing, the dirt began to flake off. Surprised at how quickly it cleaned
up, Azhani concentrated on rubbing it clean.
When the last traces of soil fell away, what remained
showed the truly remarkable craftsmanship of its maker.
The blade was a longsword, slightly wedge shaped and
incredibly sharp, even after all the time it had spent in the sheath. The metal used to form the blade was
unlike any the warrior had ever seen before.
In the light, it glinted a rainbow of hues, but in shadow
it was the dull gray of normal steel. Wave-like
bands of color and shadow rippled up and down the blade, showing that
the metal had been folded thousands of times, imbuing it with a
supernatural strength.
The
curving hilt was golden in color, yet harder and stronger than gold or
brass. Inset in the center of
the crosspiece was a single, sapphire blue stone that appeared to glow
with an inner light. The
handle was a solid hardwood, which, like the metal of the blade, Azhani
did not recognize. The same
golden toned metal finished out the sword, creating a pommel that was
both beautiful and functional. Gormerath
was half again longer than Azhani’s current blade, and she realized she
would need some time to accustom herself to its greater reach. A sheath that could be worn on her
back would have to be constructed, as well.
Gripping
the handle tightly, the warrior stood and took a few experimental
swings with the sword. She
almost dropped it when she discovered that it was so perfectly
balanced, that it seemed nearly weightless.
As she worked through a series of easy strikes and
parries, Azhani noticed a sensation of warmth creeping up through her
hand and up her arm. It
wasn’t uncomfortable or distracting; rather the feeling was welcoming,
as if the blade were greeting her in its own way.
As
her impromptu dance came to an end, she finished with a flourish,
laying the sword down on her desk, but not quite letting it go. She could almost sense the fragile
bond that was beginning to form between her and the sword and she did
not want to do anything to disturb it.
“She’s
beautiful,” Azhani whispered, staring down at the weapon in awe.
“Aye,
that she is. A precious bit
of work, there. Like the one
who wields her, I’d think,” Maeven said, a touch of awe in his voice as
well. Never had he seen a
more graceful demonstration of the martial arts than he had just
witnessed. The half-elven
warrior’s skill with the blade, was a gift from Astariu. Of that he was certain.
Azhani
didn’t seem to hear him, so lost was she in contemplation of Gormerath.
“Well,
I’ll just let you two get acquainted. If
you have any messages for Padreg, you-“ A rolled scroll was absently
shoved in his direction. “Yes,
thank you. I’ll see that he
gets this. Have a nice day,
my lady.”
Bowing,
Brannock Maeven backed out of the room, and shut the door behind him.
%%%
“No,
block, thrust, feint, parry then strike, Allyn.
And turn your blade out a little more; it’s all fine and
dandy to hit someone with the flat in practice, but in the real world,
it’s the edge that does all the work. Now,
try it again; hit me,” Kyrian ordered, stepping back and readying her
staff.
The
wood felt odd in her hands. The
staff was not her best or even second best weapon, but her baton had
been destroyed by Kasyrin Darkchilde’s spell.
She didn’t feel like deflating young Allyndev’s ego by
showing him just how easily she could take his sword away from him with
her bare hands, so she had taken one of the many practice pikes and
snapped off its head, twirling the shaft around easily.
It would suffice, and Allyn’s padded armor would deflect
most of her light blows.
Allyn
sighed heavily. “When is
Master Azhani going to teach me again?” he whined.
“When
she has recovered from her wound, Allyn. Now,
lay on!” Kyrian tried not to
roll her eyes. Though a young
man of nearly twenty summers, Allyndev Kelani was a study in mixed
emotions. One moment, he was
diffident and reclusive, the next, recalcitrant and rude. The loss of his mentor had come as a
hard blow, softened only by his seeming ability to defeat the men who
had, less than three months ago, laughed him off the practice field. Now, as he faced her, he was once
again the object of their derision.
Kyrian
had heard the men long before she reached the salle.
”What’s
the matter, Ally, can’t fight so good without your half-breed master to
back you up?” One of the men had taunted. He
was a regular spectator during the stardancer’s lessons, never having
taken up arms against her during her practice sessions.
The
other guardsmen echoed the first man’s sentiments, causing Allyn to
shout in fury and attack them. Only
her arrival had forestalled an all out brawl.
Daring a glance out of the corner of her eyes, Kyrian
spared a thought to wonder where Azhani was.
She had told her that she could come down and do some
light sparring today, yet the warrior had not made an appearance. The crunch of booted feet on the
straw-covered ground, brought her attention back to the young man she
was facing.
Circling
around each other warily, each of the combatants sized the other up. Allyn knew he was a good student;
Master Azhani had praised his skill many times.
Stardancer Kyrian was a different teacher, though. Her patience was greater than that
of her warrior friend’s, but she was less apt to pull a blow that would
sting more than the young half-elven nobleman’s honor.
That morning Allyn had already learned several painful
lessons. His knuckles ached
terribly from the dozen or better whacks he had received for his
carelessness. Now, he was
attempting to disarm the stardancer, which was a task that at first had
seemed easy, but as the day wound on, he realized was truly a challenge.
He
struck; his practice sword twisting to block her counter move and then
faked to the right. As Kyrian
brought her staff around to block him, he reversed his motion,
attempting the parry. Again,
as before, his blade remained too flat and she easily tucked the end of
her staff under it and knocked it from his battered hand, delivering
another numbing blow to the knuckles.
Cursing
under his breath, he held up his open hands in surrender. “Fine, you win.
I’m done,” he grumbled crossly, waiting for her to back
away. Was she trying to break
his knuckles? He sucked on
the throbbing digits and sulked. Master
Azhani never treated him like this. He
was a prince, damn it. Didn’t
she know that? He opened his
mouth to complain, but was interrupted.
The
guardsmen started to jeer Allyn once again, but this time he did not
respond because he was too drained to defend himself.
The prince’s shoulder’s slumped and he turned away from
the stardancer.
Standing
in the shadows, watching the sparring session, Azhani shook her head
and grimaced determinedly. Today,
she would have some answers. The
warrior reached out and prodded the first laughing guardsmen she could
reach.
“Go,
and take your friends with you,” she growled, nodding her head toward
the door.
The
man turned to protest, but when he saw who he faced, he nodded and
saluted smartly. Quietly, he
started tapping his friends on the shoulder and pushing them toward the
exit. When they were gone,
Azhani stepped out of the shadows and spoke.
“Kyrian, do
not let honor stop you; in the real world, there’s no such thing as a
time out. Allyn – true life
scenario; no stopping until the kill strike is made.”
Azhani’s commanding tone set both fighters into action.
Kyrian
immediately dropped into a low crouch and feinted with the staff,
leading Allyn to dodge left. He
successfully evaded her and managed a half-hearted somersault over to
his fallen blade, scooping it up as he tumbled.
As he came up, Kyrian struck again, but this time, he was
able to deflect her blow. For
several, heart-pounding moments, the two fought neck and neck, trading
heavier and heavier blows until, at the crucial moment, Kyrian again
disarmed Allyn. Instead of
taking the kill shot, though, she stepped away, with her hands shaking
visibly on the shaft of the staff.
A
half-strangled growl of frustration filled the room.
“Damn it, Kyr, why do you do that?” Azhani demanded,
striding into the open, wielding a practice blade of her own. Angrily, she swung at the
stardancer, forcing her to defend herself.
Retreating
and deflecting blow after blow, Kyrian stuttered, “Enough, Azhi, I
don’t... I can’t...” but the warrior was relentless, delivering
pounding strikes until Kyrian’s own anger overran her fear.
Letting
out a shriek, Kyrian leapt away from the wall she was backing into and
brought her staff down in a two handed blow.
Azhani blocked the blow with some difficulty, and the
force of Kyrian’s strike snapped the shaft in two.
One end held in each hand, Kyrian twisted her wrists
fluidly. This was like having
two batons for the price of one, and the baton was her best weapon
outside of her own fists.
Sweat
dripped off both women’s faces, spattering on the floor. Both were panting heavily, and each
seized a moment to catch their breath. Azhani
looked at Kyrian’s face, which was a mask of anger and hurt.
“Mad
at me?” she taunted. When
Kyrian nodded in the affirmative, Azhani replied, “Good. Now, come get me.
Because I don’t know why the hell you freeze up in battle,
and I don’t particularly care, but from now on, I won’t allow it to
happen.”
The
warrior’s words struck a bitter chord in her.
“Won’t allow it?” Kyrian shouted.
“Who the hell are you to say such a thing?”
Whatever
answer Azhani may have had was lost in the flurry of blows that were
exchanged as Kyrian launched herself at the warrior, her sticks moving
so fast, they almost blurred.
From
the sidelines, Allyn watched his mentors in awe, praying for the day
when he would come within a fraction of their abilities. I really am
just a scholar with a sword, he thought, feeling the dregs
of his self-confidence drain away. Maybe
I should just go back to my stars and my flowers.
Azhani
remained calm throughout the battle. As
Kyrian grew more and more wild and frenetic, the warrior met each blow
with calm resolve. “Talk to
me, Kyr. Tell me why you hate
this,” she pleaded softly.
Tears
mixed with sweat, blinding the stardancer momentarily, but Azhani did
not press the advantage. Instead,
she backed away and harried Kyrian’s weakened defenses.
“No,”
Kyrian grated out. “I
can’t... it’s... gods, it hurts so much,” she whispered as she swung.
“That’s
because whatever it is, has festered deep within you, Kyr. You’re a healer – you know how bad
that is. Do yourself a favor,
and drain that wound. Let it
out. You can talk to me, Kyr. I’m your friend and I
don’t care what it is,
I just want you to feel better,” Azhani pressed.
“I...”
Kyrian’s voice broke.
“Tell
me, please,” Azhani pleaded, dropping her sword.
Kyrian wavered and the broken staff pieces in her hands
slowly descended until they hung limply at her sides.
Allyn
silently racked his practice blade and left the room.
His lesson was clearly over.
“I’m
listening,” Azhani prompted.
The
softly spoken words flattened the walls Kyrian had erected. Falling to her knees and flinging
her weapons away, she whispered, “I killed a man.”
She then curled up in a ball, as if waiting for blows to
rain down from above.
Instead,
Azhani knelt in front of her friend and drew her close.
“I’m betting it wasn’t like winning the brass ring,” the
warrior commented wryly. She
well knew that no words would erase the deep guilt that lived in the
stardancer’s gentle soul. Kyrian
was a preserver of life. For
her to carry the knowledge of death, no matter how well deserved, was a
punishment far worse than any mortal laws could deliver. Wrapping her arms loosely around the
stardancer, Azhani began stroking her friend’s sweat-soaked hair.
Kyrian
looked up at Azhani, her eyes oddly dry. “I
can’t even cry anymore. I’ve
cried so much over it,” she admitted hoarsely.
“Tell
me about it?” the warrior gently asked, settling more comfortably and
cradling the shivering body of her friend against her.
At
first, the words wouldn’t come, but as the warrior sat and rocked her,
Kyrian found that she was able to speak. In
bits and pieces, the story came out. She
talked of her time in Myr, the elven village where she was accepted as
a teacher; how she would take the children to the lake to swim every
day and how, on one fateful day, she had encountered a raider.
“Afterward,
gods, it was so horrible. I
started to perform the passing on ceremony and it hit me. I knew, as clearly as I know my own
name, that I had stripped that man of his life.
From then on, nothing I did would balance the awfulness of
that act.” She took a deep
breath and sighed. “So that’s
why I freeze up in battle. I
always have that one moment of time where I have to consciously decide
that I am going to hurt or possibly kill someone. Each
time I do it, it gets a little easier and each time, I get a little
more afraid.”
“What
are you afraid of?” Azhani asked as she unconsciously ran her fingers
through the tiny curls that brushed the edge of the stardancer’s collar. Her hair is so
soft. It’s like wind.
“I’m
afraid I’m going to stop caring; that one day, I’ll face someone in
battle and I won’t have to decide whether I’m going to hurt them. On that day, I won’t be a healer;
I’ll be a killer. On that
day, I’ll cease to serve the goddess.” Guiltily,
Kyrian leaned into the sweet caress. It
felt so good, and although she hated herself for it, she greedily
absorbed the warrior’s touch.
“Kyrian,
you can’t beat yourself up over what might be.
I’ve never seen someone more dedicated to serving Astariu
– you worry over nothing. If
you let your fears rule your life, you will always be running from
them,” said the warrior. “Yes,
it’s horrible when you have to make the decision to take someone else’s
life, but there are times when that is what is necessary. Look at Arris – think of all the
evil he and people like him have caused. Should
you meet him in battle, would you spare him?”
“That’s
not fair,” Kyrian complained, unknowingly snuggling into Azhani’s chest.
The
stardancer’s embrace sent chills through the warrior, causing her
heartbeat to increase. Swallowing
heavily, she replied, “Life’s not fair; that’s what I’m trying to tell
you, Kyr. Yeah, it’s like
drinking from a dirty chamber pot sometimes but that’s what happens
when you want to be the hero.”
“Ew,”
Kyrian said, wrinkling her nose. “Not
the best analogy you’ve ever come up with, my friend.”
Pulling away and searching the warrior’s face, she said,
“But maybe I do understand. I
don’t know if I’ll keep freezing, and I don’t know if I’ll still be
afraid of becoming a killer, but now I know you’re here, and that makes
it a lot better.”
As
she brushed Kyrian’s cheek with her knuckles Azhani said, “I’ll always
be here. You’re my friend,
Kyr.”
Looking
into each other’s eyes, both women saw a flash of something. For Kyrian, it was enough to start a
bonfire of hope within her heart. For
Azhani, it was worse – for it started a maelstrom of questions that she
feared to answer.
Kyrian
closed her eyes and sighed. Covering
the warrior’s hand with her own, she smiled sweetly when Azhani’s
fingers opened, cupping her face lightly.
Two
heartbeats echoed loudly as neither woman spoke, existing only to share
the comfort of their friendship.
Chapters Twenty-Nine and Thirty
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