A Choice of Blades: The Blade Remnant, Book One

by D. N. Woodward

  He moved toward the front of the pack, “How much longer are we going to keep this pace?”

  Ben answered, “Until we are safely across that border.”

  Leon frowned, “Fine, but we need a break soon. Just a moment to regroup. Maybe get a bit of water?”

  Walking nearby, Ferschall motioned for him to translate and Leon obliged. “Yes, yes, but first, let’s get off the top of this hill.”

  The surged over and down into the next canyon. Ferschall led them to a shady area and told them to rest for a few moments while he scouted around.

  Shana looked up at Leon and smiled conspiratorially, “Thanks, I’m sure you could have kept going for quite some time.”

  Leon smiled back. “Ha, glad I had you fooled then. They must feed you guys some heavy-duty Wheaties at that school of yours! I don’t remember you being such a trouper.”

  She smiled back. “It's been a few years Leon, there’s a lot of things I bet you don’t remember about me.”

  Leon was sure Shana meant the comment to come across innocently, but he couldn’t help it, he blushed. Was she flirting with him, or just giving him a hard time? It had always been so hard to tell with her.

  Shana winked in good humor and continued, “Wish I could take credit. The truth is our bodies go through lots of changes the closer we get to the full change-mode. The rest of these guys are probably grinding their teeth we aren’t another few miles down the road by now. If they’re built anything like some of the instructors I know, they could keep this up for hours. I bet they've still got a ton of gas left in the tank.”

  Leon didn’t say anything as he took his turn chugging water. What would he be able to do once he became whatever it was he was supposed to become? The question was certainly exciting to ponder. A bit frightening too if he turned out anything like Ben and his men.

  Ferschall returned after a few minutes.

  “We have shadows on our tail.”

  When Leon gave the news, Ben and his men jumped to their feet. “Where?" Ben demanded.

  “Relax, calm yourselves, no sense in letting them know we know they are here, no? Besides, they won’t attack until the sun dips over the last hill, unless we give them a very good reason. This is one of their honor traditions, they are a very…sporting…people, yes?” He gave a pointed look at Ben, waiting for Leon to catch up, “We simply have to move peacefully, at a brisk pace, and we should be to the border bridge in time. We can re-evaluate once we are across.”

  A few more hours passed them by before anyone caught a glimpse of their pursuers. The first sighting occurred just after they turned North, while taking a path through a narrow, twisting series of canyons. Leon heard Cooper gasp beside him and followed his hollow-eyed stare to the cliffs above them. There, his eyes met something his mind told him didn’t seem possible.

  Leaning out from within the shade of an extended rock outcrop a bare-chested, darkly-tanned man stood, still as a statue. He leaned against an even larger mottled-black cat. The man held a short spear, similar to those from Ferschall’s house. He was obviously a warrior. Even had he not been armed, Leon would have known it instinctively on some level.

  He wore no beard, but short brown hair stuck up above his head. His body was lean and chiseled, scarred, and sculpted to mirror the arid landscape around them. The cat at his side was the size of a small quarter-horse. Leon couldn’t be sure, but he swore the cat wore a saddle and harness of some type.

  The warrior’s impassive face gazed stoically down at them all. Half his face was covered in dark, swirling war paint that swept down across his chest. He held a long thin spear, similar to the ones Ben’s men found in Ferschall’s cabin the night before.

  Slowly the group came to a halt as they all glanced up to catch their first glimpse of their pursuer. Ferschall, at the head of the party, turned around at the audible chorus of their combined gasps.

  “Hmmphh. Are you all planning on feeding his pride till his neck can’t carry his head, or are you interested in making it to that border? Young Dimple’s needs more self-confidence like I need another bag of pottery, yes? Now move!” he continued on, grumbling incoherently.

  "He says not to worry about that guy," Leon conveyed to the group.

  Leon reached back and gave Shana’s arm a gentle squeeze. But his gesture went unnoticed, and his hackles rose just a hair as he observed her cheeks were flushed while she stood gawking up at the young Hootsi. They picked up the pace once more. He hurried to catch up to Ferschall. “You know that man?”

  “Of course, I do, he’s First Warrior of the local Hootsi sect. Got his name as a joke because he so rarely smiles. Personally, I have no idea if he actually has a pair of dimples…as I’ve never seen him smile.” Ferschall smiled encouragingly at his attempt at humor and shrugged when it didn’t stick.

  “What sort of man rides a giant cat?”

  “The sort that doesn’t like to walk, yes? He’s not a bad fellow most of the time, but not someone any sane person would tangle with either.” At that Ferschall let loose one of his irritating cackles. It bounced off the canyon walls and caused Ben to glance back in irritation.

  “I’m mostly sure he’s the Tom who gave me these fancy new scars last night.” He lifted a bandaged arm to demonstrate his point.

  Leon fell back in the pack to his position beside Shana and Cooper. How could their group, lightly armed as they were, hope to fend off seasoned warriors mounted atop some type of war cat the size of a full-grown horse?

  An unsolicited answer came screaming back from those cliffs high above. The mid-day’s stillness was broken by the high-pitched blood curdling roar of a giant panther. Leon had to yell at Merle to hush as he attempting to respond in kind and came up a little short.

  "You're just embarrassing yourself boy. A desperado like that would have eaten Geronimo and all his renegade Apache warriors for breakfast!"

  The plodding pace ate the day away. The hills grew higher with every mile they traveled until Leon saw mountains in the distance, further north by northwest. They were encased in shadow and smoke with definite hints of volcanic activity.

  It didn’t help the morale that there were several more sightings of Hootsi warriors perched above their trail, lazily resting along cliff walls, watching them with cat-like smugness, but it did provide a sort of motivation that quickened their pace as a group.

  To that point, only three enormous cats of varying earth tone colors accompanied the warriors. None of them attacked, they simply stared down with a casual disdain as the group passed below.

  Leon knew the odds of making it in time would be close, but onward was the only answer he had. So, he put on his best game face. He dug deep. He encouraged Shana when she grew tired. He leaned into his work and the miles sped by as they raced the sinking sun.

  # # #

  At last, everyone made their way up a small rise and peered over to catch their first glimpse of their destination. Leon couldn’t help but feel a bit deflated. An abandoned and crumbling stone bridge stood above a wide rift in the valley's floor. He could just make out the rushing roar of a fast-moving river below the bridge.

  The land on the opposite side of the river was just as empty and desolate as the Hootsi’s side seemed to be. The divide certainly didn’t look to hold much significance, though Ferschall assured them all that no serious offense had been committed and the Hootsi would not pursue them across the border without a very good reason.

  Leon turned to help Shana up the crumbling trail behind him. She saw him extend his hand and glanced up to take it. Just as her eyes left the trail, the rocks below her shifted. Leon could only watch as a horrified expression of panic flashed across her face. Her eyes locked with his. She windmilled momentarily in mid-air before tumbling backwards.

  His heart erupted in an electric pulse and his hand shot out to grasp her coat, but fast as he was, she was already beyond his reach. The effort dropped him to a knee in momentary agony as the day’s waning light dug furrows in
to his eyes.

  She rolled back down the hillside a good twenty feet before coming to a stop on her back. The rest of the group rushed to the edge to check the commotion.

  As she struggled to sit up, she reassured everyone, “It’s okay, guys. Really, I’m fine. Those stinking rocks are slick though!”

  “Up! Get up, Shana! Run! All of you run for the bridge! Go!”

  Ferschall’s voice held the first notes of panic Leon had yet heard him utter. He shouted the instructions to the others.

  Looking down at Shana, the reason for Ferschall's change in demeanor washed over his mind. Her hood was lost in the tumble. She stood, a tall unmistakable feminine silhouette against the hill. Long dark hair billowing out behind her in the evening breeze. Their prior misdirection would be obvious now for any Hootsi watching closely.

  Ferschall urged them all again, “Go! Go! Go!!”

  This time there was no need for translation. Understanding dawned on everyone at once. A couple of the men near the front took off for the bridge.

  Leon shouted down, “Come on Shana, we have to go.”

  She clamored back up the hill in a few more seconds. Alongside Leon, Cooper, Ferschall, Reed, and surprisingly Ben, were still there to meet her at the top of the hill.

  No one said a word, they all turned and sprinted for the bridge together. Merle quickly moved to the front of the pack as they tore toward the finish line.

  Back behind them, Leon could hear the rising wailing cries of wildcats screaming into the wind. Their earlier taunts carried long aggressive notes of dominance, likely meant to intimidate. These screams exuded violent fury. They were short, piercing, and angry.

  The two men who took off first, quickly made it to safety across the bridge. Leon estimated his group had another two hundred yards to go. The others were holding back to keep pace with him and Shana.

  Then, seemingly out of nowhere, Leon spotted a Hootsi mounted on a great cat. He simply popped up ahead of them, moving parallel to the rift and converging on them from the right side of the bridge. He called Merle to his side to prevent the dog from confronting one of the cats, with whom he was woefully over-matched.

  Leon could only continue to pump his legs, eyes forward, not daring to look behind to see who pursued them. Ferschall’s legs were spry for an old man, with his long stride he remained out in front with Ben. Without slowing he reached behind his back and pulled out one of two metal spears he carried. Then he grabbed the second and tossed it to Ben. Ben caught the spear and flicked an arm in acknowledgment.

  Ferschall shouted his instructions to Leon, who quickly divulged them to Ben, “Cover the group from behind, when you get to the bridge. If you must strike, aim for the riders, not the cats.”

  Focusing on their wild sprint while keeping a close eye on Shana took most of Leon’s concentration, but the scene in his periphery held an otherworldly quality so surreal he couldn’t help but to continue snatching little looks while racing along.

  The rider came sprinting in from their right, at least twice as far as them from the bridge, but his ruddy feline mount was lightning quick and closing fast. They would all make it at about the same time.

  When Leon glanced over again, Ferschall started angling away from the group, toward the rider. He veered to the right, ahead of the others. Once in position to intercept the rider he stopped and jabbed his spear down into the ground beside him. Leon rushed by with Shana and the others but not before he saw the rider and cat slow from a sprint to a stalking approach to meet the old man who stood between the two parties.

  The bridge may have appeared crumbly from the hills above, but it was massive. There was plenty of room for them all to safely surge across. At the halfway point, Leon slowed down and turned to see how Ferschall was doing. Ben turned as well.

  The light of the setting sun partially blinded their ability to fully appreciate the scene before them, but it was a forlorn conclusion that their group would soon be overrun. In addition to the rider facing off against Ferschall, at least two dozen more were pouring up and over the last hill. Ben turned and began barking orders to his men, something about suiting up. Someone tossed him more spears.

  Leon remained firmly planted where he stood, gripping Merle’s collar, watching the scene as it played out before him. Ferschall’s adversary dismounted and approached him in a crouched stoop. He clutched a long, curved sword comfortably in his hands.

  Ferschall drew his blade and, to Leon’s eyes at least, it cast a much longer shadow than it should have. The men saluted one another and initiated a single combat demonstration of martial skill, too fast and furious for an amateur’s eye to follow.

  What was obvious was that Ferschall moved with surprising speed and agility, like being pushed and pulled up by an unseen wind. He made impossible twists and dips, barely missing being mortally wounded in several instances by the warrior he faced. Yet he held back and pulled his swings when opportunities to strike crippling blows presented themselves.

  The other Hootsi were no longer closing in on the bridge. They appeared to have intentionally stopped at exactly where they were when the two adversaries began their duel. A few reared back and tossed their metal javelin’s. Metal spears struck within mere feet of Ferschall while he fought, likely in an attempt to distract the older man. It was a testament to their skill and accuracy that no one came close to hitting either of the two as they battled.

  Ben gave Leon a nudge. "Here, take this." He handed him a spear. "If things go south, I don't believe a man should be left to face a battle without a weapon in his hands, even a new guy like you."

  Leon considered the offer a moment before taking the spear.

  Reed stepped up on Leon’s left, gently shaking his head from side to side in disbelief as he too watched the fight. A moment later, Ferschall flicked his Blade through the parrying-defense of his opponent. The longer sword of the Hootsi shattered in two. All motion ceased and the man gingerly dipped his head to expose his neck in defeat.

  To Leon’s surprise, Ferschall cackled in laughter before belting out loud enough everyone in the vicinity to hear, “Mighty Hootsi warrior! I will not dishonor myself with your blood. It was my honor to dual with you, no? Though I prevail, you have caused blood to flow from my sword arm.” He held up his injured arm. Leon guessed that the dressing had come undone during the fight, but the blood from the re-torn wound dripped to validate his point.

  Ferschall continued, “I ask a boon!”

  The warrior responded in disbelief, but quickly regained his composure and bellowed his response “Ask your boon, son of Grimm.”

  “Might I have time to heal in order to more fully give honor to my grandmother’s heritage before we conclude our struggle?”

  The warrior turned back toward his allies in deference. Of all of them, only one other Hootsi was mounted, he and his dark steed stood much closer than the others. Leon couldn’t quite be certain, but from the sheer bulk of the cat he rode it seemed he was the First Warrior they had seen that day, the one Ferschall called Dimples.

  Dimples dismounted and slightly bowed in Ferschall’s direction. He then proceeded to throw up the peace sign. He beat his chest, pointed at them all, and threw it up again. Finally, he pulled out a knife and cut a small streak across his painted chest, above his heart. Ferschall, for his part, repeated the gesture back to the man, with the exception of the self-mutilation. Leon thought about throwing up a peace sign as well, but wisely decided against it.

  Ferschall turned without another look back and slowly walked toward Ben, Leon, and Reed. As he approached, he spoke roughly. “This isn’t a staring contest, children, let’s get some distance between us and this border, yes? Things aren’t over. That fight just bought us a two-day head start. Once two days have passed twice our number will cross the river and a Hootsi blood hunt will begin.”

  Ben stepped forward and stopped him,” Before you fought that man, you put aside your spear. Why?”

  Leon's explanation see
med to anger Ferschall as he replied, “Honor. One spear, one man. It was a challenge for man-to-man combat. No other Hootsi could interfere, and I prayed you all were smart enough to know not to make any stupid moves, yes? It was a risk, but it paid off well enough.”

  Leon sputtered and blurted out, “Why didn’t you just tell them Shana wasn’t taken? You had their full attention! We could have straightened out this whole misunderstanding!”

  Ferschall’s sidelong glance had a frosty glare. “You have much to learn Leon. I told them as much and more when I issued my challenge. Had I died, or killed my challenger, you would have all been free to go. As it is, I chose a different path. One we will all travel together.”

  After Leon managed to explain the nature of the struggle, Ben spat back with contempt, “From now on, while you travel with us, you will inform me before you make decisions which affect our collective path! Do I make myself clear?” Ferschall’s amused nod a few moments later seemed to appease the irate leader.

  “Now let’s get moving further north and away from this bridge. I don’t care what those savages promise, I want a defensible position before we bed down this evening.”

  Chapter 9

  The next morning, Leon awoke well before the sun. One of Ben’s men, Jace, was up as well, his back to camp, patrolling the shrouded landscape beyond. He glanced over his shoulder at the small commotion, but quickly turned to resume his position when he saw Leon’s familiar leathers. Everyone else remained soundly asleep. Leon ventured off to the edge of camp to take care of some morning business, though he dared not wander off too far.

  When he returned, Ferschall was there, hovering above a small fire, working to stoke a flame he had somehow produced during the short time Leon was gone.

  Once the fire grew, its kindling crackling sufficient to his liking, Ferschall adjusted a wooden stake, holding thin strips of meat, above the blaze. They hissed and sizzling quietly above the smoldering heat.