Vendronia cut Borlin off by grabbing his arm and squeezing it.
He cut his eyes at her for a second, then gave Ivanos a smirk and continued, "Come on out, Ivanos. It should feel good for you to be able to stand up."
Ivanos sighed. "Aye. It should." He crawled on his hands and knees through the sand and pushed himself to his feet with a hand on his knee. He groaned and stood still. The guards came forward and grabbed him, one on each arm. "N... N... N-Necessary?" he asked Vendronia, more rhetorically than not.
She shrugged. "Not for long."
"Take him to the inn," said Borlin. "We will talk there."
The guards escorted him to into the city of Nodet. He found the streets to be littered with lumber and dismantled pieces of the surrounding buildings. In the town square there appeared to have been a funeral pyre recently built and burned to cinders. They brought him before the inn, and he read the sign out front. The Red Seagull. How fitting.
They entered the building and sat him at a long table, their heads nearly brushing the ceiling. They made the chairs look like they'd been made for children when they sat down.
"So, Ivanos," said Borlin. "What will you do to help serve the trog army?"
Ivanos did not speak at first. He shot his eyes back and forth at the three huge men staring down at him. "I... I... I... I have skills and courage. If I could have my sword back, you could easily see my special abilities again. If you've forgotten."
Borlin grinned. He glanced at Vendronia who stood behind Ivanos. "We have not forgotten. That is why you are still alive."
Just then, the harsh woman with the tattoo on her head stormed into the inn, shoving the door back with a kick. They all started and looked over at her. She smiled and shrugged.
Borlin said to the woman, "Yurka, go upstairs and retrieve Ivanos's sword."
Yurka glared at him, then at Ivanos.
"Go!" said Borlin. "Do it now!"
Yurka headed up the stairs shaking her head in disapproval.
Borlin turned his gaze back to Ivanos. "It will take some time for some of the trog to accept you. Vendronia can tell you that. She has had a rough time in our culture, and she has been with us since she was an infant."
Ivanos gave a snort and said, "I... I... I'm not unfamiliar with being shunned. I have no culture that owns me. If I die while fighting for your army, it's no difference to me or you I imagine. I will be happy to have died with a purpose. I... I... I refuse to wither away in some elderly sanctuary."
Borlin said, "We are not as cold as you would think. We are warriors and celebrate glory above all. Our gods bless us for war and glory, but we honor those who fight for us, and they are missed if they die."
Yurka emerged from the stairway with his sword in her hand. She swung it a few times at an invisible opponent, testing its weight. She approached the table and flipped it around to present the hilt to Ivanos.
Ivanos reached out for it, but she snatched it away at the very instant his fingers touched to grip.
Yurka giggled. "Not so fast!" She tossed it underhanded into the air and watched it flip back at her and caught the hilt in her hand. She was about average size for a female trog, so it didn't look as much like a short sword in her hand. However, it did look more like an arming sword as opposed to the longsword it was.
Borlin grimaced and rolled his eyes.
"What?" said Yurka to Borlin. "I think he should earn it back, that's all! It's the trog way. Giving over a powerful sword such as this might be dangerous if we haven't completely invested our trust in his intention."
"You question the Crone Mother's wisdom on this?" asked Borlin.
Yurka side eyed Vendronia. "I do," she said.
Borlin scoffed.
Ivanos clenched his hands into fists and tightened them repeatedly.
"You know it is not wise," Borlin warned. "But this is your choice to make. Whatever bad omen befalls you for your daring choice is on you. I do see merit in your reluctance. What do you propose?"
Yurka scaled Ivanos up and down with her dark green eyes. "We are about the same size give him a couple fingers more. I challenge this cuck to an unarmed fighting contest to prove his loyalty. If he wins, he may be trusted with his sword. If I win. . . I keep his sword."
"You keep his sword?" Borlin asked. "Maybe I keep it."
"We could decide on that later, but I am the Fist of the Varl. It is my job to protect you. Besides, it's too small for you."
"Agreed," said Borlin. "It shall be so!"
"Wait!" Vendronia said. "It's not fair! Ivanos is still wounded! He is at a disadvantage!"
"Ivanos? Do you agree?" Borlin asked him. "Are you willing to accept her challenge? Or are you too wounded?"
Ivanos said through gritted teeth, "I accept! And I am not!"
"Very well, it is settled then!" said Borlin.
"No! It is not!" Ivanos said. "I have an amendment to make to the challenge. We fight in armor with wooden swords!"
Yurka leaned forward, coming within a foot to Ivanos's face. Beneath her scars and before her nose had been broken and healed askew, she might've been beautiful once. "Why do you want me to hurt you so, cuck? Did you like to be beaten with a stick by your cuck mum when you were little?" She flailed her tongue out at him wildly. It was exceptionally long. She rose upright and crossed her arms. "Sticks it is, then!"
* * * *
Later that same day Ivanos stood in a dusty clearing on the northern side of the city across from Yurka. Both had makeshift wooden swords in their hands cut and sculpted from table legs. It appeared the entire trog army had been invited to watch, all huddled in a giant circle around them about fifty trogs thick.
Yurka stood about ten paces across from him, flipping her wooden sword and dancing her head and shoulders as if she were listening to an upbeat song in her head.
Vendronia stood directly between them.
Borlin sat in a chair that'd been brought out for him. Many of his high-ranking warriors sat around him. Borlin rested his hands on the pommel of Ivanos's sword with its tip in the dirt.
Ivanos's eyes widened when he saw this. He couldn't help the respect he still had for swords and the ill-treatment of them made his skin crawl.
Borlin cocked his head back and made a subtle wave gesture towards Vendronia with the first two fingers on his hand.
Vendronia held two fists high in the air and bellowed a war cry which ended with her slamming her arms downward. She hurried back towards Borlin where she found her empty seat.
Yurka flipped and twirled her wooden sword around flamboyantly. She then spun the pommel on her calloused index finger for several seconds before she tossed it up into the air about ten feet and then did a backflip into the air, landing with the wooden sword at the ready in her hand. The entire trog army cheered and roared their approval. She raised her chin at Ivanos.
Ivanos stood with his feet shoulder-width. He held up his wooden blade and studied it. It was clearly a hand shorter than the one made for Yurka, a disadvantage for him, but he expected such. He sighed. Where are you, King of Scion? He said in his thoughts. What am I to do here? Why do you not intervene at this moment? Is this not part of your plan for me? Where are you, I say! Speak to me!
Yurka came at him shifting her wooden sword from hand to hand, a smile on her face.
Ivanos stood with his wooden sword poised for a defensive block. He would wait for her. He did not ask for this contest, he would not initiate the conflict.
Yurka didn't hesitate. She swiped up into the unarmored spot in his right armpit.
He averted the blow by simply stepping aside, following with a jab into her lower back which might've pierced her kidney had this been a real sword. She had chosen to wear only a hide vest. Ivanos also thought to himself that blow would've counted as a killing thrust in knight's tournament but the trog used a different rule system, if one could call it that. The trog army withheld their appreciation of his strike if any of them had any.
Yurka pivoted aro
und and slammed her blade into Ivanos's shin just above his ankle. His armor protected him from injury but the strength behind her swing knocked him off his feet, and he tumbled backward and righted himself up again. Had the blow landed an inch lower between his shin guard and boot she would've broken his ankle.
The crowd roared in favor of Yurka, and she charged him swiping at him in rapid downward angles. She drove him backward in the clearing as he blocked one after the other. Tiny splinters flew off from his sword each time he did. The trogs began to chant the same song he'd heard them chanting in the Red Wolf attack, a morale booster for victory. The thunderous sound shook him inside.
Ivanos understood why they did this at once. The sound of hundreds of warriors yelling in unison at the top of their lungs in such a primal manner would rattle any opposing army. It seemed impossible for him to keep his composure or concentrate on his next move. After she'd driven him back nearly into the throng of trog who shouted in his ear, he dive-rolled into her legs and knocked her down.
He came up with his sword after having exchanged it to his left hand and slashed downward into her shoulder as she was getting up.
She growled in pain then began to chant along with the crowd, her eyes wild. She charged at him screaming in anger and jumped kicked him in his wounded thigh. He cried out in pain and collapsed to a kneeling position, favoring his wounded leg. The strength of her attacks had all been twice as incredible as some of the strongest men Ivanos had encountered.
He panted with sword arm over his knee for seconds, just before she copped him another blow across the side of his head. It knocked him into the ground on his side. He felt his ear bleeding and throbbing. His vision darkened and flashed. He could hear his heart beating loudly in his head.
A crushing weight straddled over him. He knew what was coming next, so he pushed up his blade to protect him from a blow he could not see.
"You've not felt the best of my kisses, yet, cuck!"
Ivanos's grip on his wooden sword faltered as a crash came down deliberately into his blade. He could hear the wood snapping and the broken end toppling down beside him. She had shattered his blade in two. She started beating him in the face with her fists. He felt most of the blows on his cheekbones, but the top of his head was mostly numb.
He took the broken hilt of his sword, still unable to see anything, and jabbed the back end of the pommel into her face. She screamed and jerked away from him. He could hear her rolling and yelling in agony. He guessed he'd got her in the eye. Alas, he still could not get up. His face was swelling, and he could tell Yurka had broken his nose and torn his lip. As he lay there, his vision began to return to him, albeit blurry. He did not attempt to get up. In his thoughts, he spoke again to the King of Scion, Why? Why, oh why do you allow me this defeat, if you wish for me to create an army for you?
32
EMMANORA
Emmanora raced through the Blackbird Pines Forest.
Trees blurred by her. Her small feet slung twigs and pine needles into the air. She vaulted over boulders and fallen logs. She dodged a striking snake. She slashed through stray vines and briers in her path. Marlamba's death was because of her. She was not going to stop until she found that fuckface that shot him and cut his guts out. Heartnail would stay sheathed. Fuckface would suffer. Knives would do.
She burned with rage thinking of what Dynamira had said to her last, right after Emmanora had said she felt she herself was to blame for his death. "Fucking cunt!" she heard herself say as she ran. She didn't care if anyone heard her, though she hadn't seen anyone for long time besides the forest creatures. Tears of anger and mixed up emotions streamed down her face. She had been crying so off and on for quite some time. She wanted to hit something. How had her life gotten so fucked up? She knew things didn't go so well before Liobe had attacked her in her home, but it was a controlled kind of misery.
At her treehouse with Bandit and Ruby, things could be well for the most part. She was lonely for human contact, but she hated people at the same time. This situation proved she wasn't even capable of mingling with her own culture of humans without wreaking havoc and igniting a blaze of insecure anger at herself and anyone she met. She had liked Marlamba a little. She liked Uncle Lomah, but he could talk to her without pushing her in places she never wanted to be. She had fuckered around and had killed the one man she hated the least. It was best for all of them if she just ran, ran away from their inevitable death. Maybe Liobe was right about coming to rid the world of her. No matter, Emmanora wouldn't let anything more happen to the Spiders on the Wind. She was going to find Liobe and kill her or die trying. After that, she would be visiting those cunts who raped and murdered her mother. She didn't need to be wasting her time on some side mission.
A loon call echoed in the distance ahead, and she stopped in her tracks. She panted. Sweat soaked the sides of her head. She bent down with her hands on her knees to catch her breath and listen. The call of the loon came again, but closer. What alarmed her was that it didn't sound authentic. It sounded like a signaling beacon. A breeze wafted over her face carrying a musky scent of body odor mixed with campfire smoke.
She regained her composure and darted forward through the lines of tree shadows from tree to tree. She knew the trade road to Kilawon was not too much farther ahead. It was likely this would be a bandit camp. She had been running in the direction the man who killed Marlamba had gone. This could even be the camp where he had come from. Liobe's men.
Liobe's men would lead her to Liobe. She would persuade them. She could think of a hundred ways.
As she moved into the cast shadow of a large oak, her hands disappeared. Her legs and feet disappeared from her sight along with her boots and all her clothing and everything else. Her shadow magic was working. The King of Scion wanted her to do this.
She put away her daggers and pulled out Heartnail. It took a moment because she had to find her dagger sheaths on the sides of her legs with her hands. She soon discovered a faint smoke column about fifty paces downslope from her current location. She heard voices echoing off the tree trunks yet farther ahead still. She knew the scenario. Bandits camped for a few days at a time near the trade roads to ambush and rob travelers, and it sounded like that's exactly what was happening right now.
Emmanora crept closer, tree to tree, careful to stay in the shadows. Only one man remained in the camp. He was a fat man, a pale-skinned southerner, and taller with curly dark brown hair. He had the tattoo on his face marking him a part of the Pirate King's band. He stirred a pot of something boiling over the campfire, tasting it every so often with a big wooden spoon. He wore a greasy linen shirt and green trousers. Apparently, this band had their own cook, which meant it was a sizable band, ten or more. She found herself squeezing the grip on Heartnail. She couldn't wait to stick it up some of their asses.
Right on the edge of their camp, she stood in a long wide shadow cast by an old maple. The shadow line spilled across the camp right over the fat man. This will be too easy, she thought. She walked along with the shadow and stood right next to the fat man. "Hey there, tubs! Why not keep from putting your cock stinky spit on that spoon back in the pot that everyone else must eat? I mean, I know you suck their cocks already, but they probably rather not taste it."
The fat man's eyes got huge then as if he'd heard the voice of a ghost. He reached for his meat knife lying in a rag on the ground.
Emannora pushed Heartnail's thin blade into his belly and watched as his blubber began to solidify from the wound out. He toppled over, frozen in his reaching pose, eyes still bugged out of his face in fear.
Emmanora shrugged. She took his meat knife and stuck it inside her pouch and kicked the soup pot over into the hot coals. Steam sizzled and made a big cloud into the sky.
She darted through the camp then and counted eight bedrolls all together. She would be back to find where they hid their treasure. She moved on towards the echoing voices still in conversation ahead.
She made it to th
e trade road to Kilawon and squatted in a large shadowy thicket. A carriage had stopped in the middle of the road, and five bandits stood in front of it shouting taunts. Four of them held crossbows aimed at the carriage driver. The carriage driver had on the grass-weave robes of a Forest Priest and long-dreaded brown hair. This Forest Priest was about to get killed if he didn't have some serious backup inside that carriage.
"Good forest brothers, please!" said the Forest Priest. "We have a desperate situation! Lives are at stake and time's against us! Please allow us to pass!"
"We will! No problem at all! But if you ain't got no pussy in there, then you might have'ta suck our cocks!" said a bandit who looked like the leader. He was the oldest and had a fancy sword. Tattoos covered his face. "We've a desperate situation as well! If time's against ya, you'd best muster up some spit and get down off that carriage!"
Then a taller woman with blond hair stepped out from the carriage. She looked haggard, but with well-defined muscles. She had on dirty black leathers, stained with dried blood and mud. Her face was blazon with defiance. She barked at them, pointing at her crotch, "I got the best pussy you'll ever have right here! Come and get it!"
Emmanora smiled. She liked this woman already, but she seemed a bit foolhardy now. There was also something about her eyes that seemed daunting; a little twisted. The whites of her eyes shone all around her orange irises, and her pupils were tiny black pinpricks.
The bandit leader with the sword walked over to her, flipping the blade nonchalantly to his side and finally propping it on his shoulder as he stopped inches in front of her. He craned his neck over to breath onto her neck below her ear.
Emmanora slid a poisoned dart out from her shoulder-belt. She wasn't gonna let this piece of shit touch that woman. Go ahead, try to touch her, shitbag, she thought.
At that moment the bandit leader's face went taut, his bushy gray brows arched in shock. Emmanora could see blood streaming down between his legs to the ground in an unbroken line. Emmanora moved to behind the carriage to get a better view. She peeked around the back wooden wheel and saw the woman standing there with the bandit leader's stomach in her hand, the intestines attached to the bottom of it trailing away into a large hole ripped into his gut. The woman had somehow sprouted glass claws as long as a bear's. Apparently, she could handle herself.
The Vanguards of Scion Page 21
