Whisper of Blood

Home > Other > Whisper of Blood > Page 9
Whisper of Blood Page 9

by James Dale


  This time his opponent was of far more superior skill. After a hot, furious exchange which Braedan barely survived, the man thrust murderously at his midsection. He saved himself by wheeling nimbly out of its path and the blade meant to skewer him was beaten down by his own. A savage kick to the man's groin bent him over double, white faced and retching. He quickly followed it with a blow to the back of the man's head with the pommel of his sword. His skull was crushed and the brief encounter was ended. Then Braedan was attacked by two of the warriors at once.

  A short distance away Tarsus Aernin was dealing out similar punishment with renewed vigor. The Amarian could not imagine from where this unexpected ally had appeared, nor did he care. All that mattered to him was he fought like a berserker! First he was struggling for his life against two of the Norgarthans, then he was stepping over their lifeless bodies in search of others who would dare sample his skill.

  The Amarian was impressed and he did not impress easily. The man moved as gracefully as a Kossian Veil Dancer, yet killed with the detached violence of a hooded executioner. He also had an unusual fighting style, one seemingly involving his hands and feet as much as it did swordplay. Unusual...but certainly effective.

  As fate would have it, Tarsus found himself fighting by the man's side against four of the swiftly dwindling Norgarthans. He was anxious to dispatch these remaining few and inquire of the man's name, but the four proved to be stubborn, skilled fighters. The duel would have lasted for some time if Dorad had not arrived to add the weight of his own sword against them. The Norgarthan’s, then outmatched, fell like ripe grain before the harvest scythe.

  When the last of the scarlet clad warriors fell, a deathly silence settled over the clearing. Braedan stood panting between a pair of men, the last two remaining alive save himself. One was at least six and half feet tall, with piercing blue eyes and dark hair turning gray at the temples. He looked to be in his early forties, and had a tanned, muscular body crisscrossed with old scars and a few fresh wounds received today. The other man was younger by at least half, with an open, honest face and intelligent eyes. His reddish blonde hair was matted to his head with sweat and he was smiling broadly.

  "Choinni ia maer du caraidean,” the young man said, extending his left hand in the manner of swordsmen.

  Braedan had no idea what the man had said, but his tone was welcoming and he took his hand without thinking. Jack’s was pulse still pounding in his ears as the last bit of adrenalin coursed through his body. Though he was a seasoned veteran of hand to hand combat, he'd forgotten the incredible terror and sheer...exhilaration that accompanied the taking of another man's life while looking him in the eye.

  "Seo m’aimn is Dorad," the young man continued, apparently unaware of Braedan could not understand him. "Dorad Ellgereth.”

  “Uh, my name is Jack,” Braedan replied. He released the young man’s hand and placed his hand on his chest. “My name is Jack.” He repeated, patting his chest. “Jack.”

  “Da m’aim agad…Jack?” the young man said, understanding dawning on his face.

  “Jack,” Braedan nodded. “Jack Braedan.”

  “Jack…Bray…Daon?”

  “Close enough,” he shrugged.

  “Ha aimn aige Jack Braydaon,” the young man said turning to his huge companion. “Is seo Jack Braydon seo Tarsus Aernin,” his said, pointing at the dark-haired giant.

  “Tarsus,” the huge man nodded. Wiping his bloody hand on his trousers, he offered it to Braedan. “Choinni ia maer, Jack Braydaon.”

  “Choninni…maer?” asked Jack.

  “Choninni ia maer,” he repeated, and gripped Jack’s hand tighter.

  “Well this is just great,” Jack sighed, trying not to laugh at the utter absurdity of his situation. He’d followed his nightmare through Alice’s looking glass to wind up in the middle of a battle, and the only survivors couldn’t speak English. “I don’t suppose either of you can tell me where the hell am I?”

  The huge man, Tarsus, released his hand and gave him a quizzical look.

  “Caerson a thug thu Norgarthans?” the young man…Dorad Ellgereth asked.

  “Norgarthans?” asked Jack, confused.

  “Norgarthans!” Tarsus snarled, and spat on the nearest corpse wearing a red tunic.

  “Ah,” Jack nodded. Looking over the battle field, he spotted the man-thing he’d shot with his first round. He walked over to him, the two men following, and kicked him with the toe of his boot. The evil aura no longer lingered on him. Apparently putting a .338 round through his brain had taken care of that. “I don’t know anything about Norgarthans, but this bastard here was a demon.”

  “Daemon,” Dorad nodded, his visage darkening. “B’e Urioch, secondh duccan a Sa’tan.”

  “Satan,” Jack nodded grimly. “I understand that well enough.” Then he suddenly remembered why…how he’d ended up here to begin with! His nightmare beast! He hadn’t seen the monster since stepping through…well, despite the impossibility of it all, he could only assume he stepped through some sort of…what? Interdimensional portal? Or some sort of time travel worm hole? As crazy as that sounded, he could only think that’s what had happened. Unless his fractured mind had somehow conjured up some sort of medieval, Dungeons and Dragons illusion? Whichever the case, he would have to make the best of it. Right? But how could he make these two men understand? How could he tell them he’d followed some monster into the unknown because some old man in Jennifer Hurst’s dreams told him it was the only way to end his nightmares? Then it hit him.

  Braedan stuck his sword into the ground and searched through the pouches of his kit until he found an ink pen. But what to draw on? He reached into his back pocket and took out his wallet as the two men watched curiously. Inside he found his baggage claim receipt from Tri Cities Airport. It was blank on the back. He quickly drew a crude picture. He’d never been much of an artist, but when he was finished it somewhate resembled the beast of his dreams. The large fangs were certainly hard to miss. Without hesitating he knelt down and dipped his index finger in a pool of blood by one of the dead Norgarthans. He put a big red drop where the monster’s eye should be and handed the drawing to Dorad.

  “This,” Jack said. “I’m hunting this bastard.”

  “na’Ghomari!” Dorad hissed.

  Tarsus let out a string of words Jack knew instantly were curses in whatever language they were speaking. He gripped his sword tighter, crouching into a fighter’s stance as he hastily searched the surrounding clearing fearfully.

  “Exactly,” Jack nodded.

  “Fae’madh sinn fae’gal anon!” Dorad cried, dropping the picture and handing Jack his sword. “Thagan! Thagan!” he said, grasping Jack by the arm urgently.

  Tarsus knelt down and relieved one of the fallen men of a large diamond from around his neck, and took his sword as well. Armed with a weapon in each hand he looked at Jack. “Thagan,” he insisted, inclining his head toward the nearby trees.

  “You want me to come with you?” asked Jack.

  “Anon!” Dorad repeated.

  Jack was had always been a natural linguist. He knew enough to understand that meant now. “Wait!” he said, as Dorad continued to try and urge him toward the trees. “I need to get my rifle.”

  “Anon!” Dorad cried.

  “I won’t be long,” he promised. Running over to where he’d dropped the Lapua, Jack found the weapon broken and useless. Judging by the weapons these two men carried, and all the dead as well, Braedan suddenly realized he would have as much luck finding a gunsmith to repair his rifle in this strange place as he would finding a pay phone to call Harry Reese and let him know he was alive. But there was something still useful on the Lapua. He and quickly removed the 8x100 scope from the rifle, stuffing it in his kit. With a sigh of regret, he dropped the broken Lapua to the ground and returned to the two men.

  “Okay,” Jack said, “Anon.”

  Relieved, Dorad and Tarsus headed for the trees. Jack had no choice but to follow.


  It was fortunate the three men had no need to blaze a trail once they entered the forest. In their wearied condition they would never have reached the clearing the Seawolf’s landing party had made the day before until well after sunset. Even with the trail they did not reach the old campsite until dusk and were forced to look for firewood in the thickening gloom. When a bright flame was finally burning several minutes later, the exhausted men sat down and rested in silence, listening to the night sounds of the forest for any indication they had been followed by a Norgarthan patrol...or worse. Braedan scanned the surrounding woods with his special ability, and though the darkness around them teemed with nocturnal activity, he could sense no ill feelings to suggest his nightmare, the na'Ghomari...was nearby. Either it hadn't survived the mist world or it had taken some other path of escape. Either way, he knew it was not in the area. If nothing else, the other forest creatures would have sensed it as well.

  Tarsus seemed content to stare into the dancing flames, listening to the quiet chirping of the insects that would warn him of approaching danger. Dorad however, just as obviously seemed about to burst with curiosity.

  "A’oi? Jack Braydaon," the young man asked, offering him a bladder with a cork stopper.

  “Aa-oh?”

  “A’oi,” Dorad nodded, uncorking the skin, he took a drink, then offered it to Jack again.

  Jack accepted the skin, nodding his thanks, and took a tentative sip. Water, cool and refreshing. He took another deep swallow and handed it back. “Water,” he said. “A’oi.”

  “A'oi,” Dorad grinned. He took another sip, then corked it and tossed it to Tarsus. “Wahtar Tarsus.”

  Now that the ice was broken, Dorad had another thirst; to understand the language of Jack Braydaon. He drew his sword and presented it to Jack. “Chaidaem,” he said.

  “Chaidaem?” Jack repeated.

  “Chaidaem,” Dorad nodded, and sheathed his blade. “Chaidaem?” asked pointing at Jack’s katana.

  “Sword,” Jack replied, and handed the ancient Japanese blade to the young man.

  “Sword?”

  “Sword,” Jack nodded.

  Dorad stood and tested the katana’s balance. He rolled his wrist and cut a few figure eights, the blade whistling as it sliced through the air. “Tha e’ hasagh…sword,” he nodded with satisfaction, offering it back to Braedan.

  “Yeah, I like it too,” Jack smiled.

  “Eiane,” Dorad said, resuming his seat and pointing at the campfire.

  “Fire,” Jack replied. “Eiane.”

  “Firr?” Dorad asked.

  “Fire,” Jack corrected.

  “Fiohd,” the young man said, picking up one of the sticks they’d collected, then pointing at the surrounding trees. “Fiohd,” he repeated, then tossed it into the flames.

  “Wood,” Jack said, picking up another stick. Then he pointed at the forest. “Trees.”

  “Caehan,” Dorad nodded.

  “Caehan, Braedan smiled. Growing up in a circle of wealth and influence, he’d been exposed to many other cultures at a young age. Thanks to his nanny and the large staff at his parents Boston home, he was speaking Spanish almost as well as English by the time he entered kindergarten. Private school also provided a dearth of opportunities. Because his congressman father was pushing him towards a career in foreign service, by the time Braedan graduated high school and headed off to Boston College, he spoke fluent Russian, French and very passable Mandarin Chinese. When his life took a turn and he entered the army, the military quickly learned of his talent and he added Farsi, Arabic and German from a yearlong stay at the Defense Language Lab at the Presidio. Learning a new language was all about grammar. Luckily, or unluckily, he didn’t really have a choice.

  “This isn’t going to be easy,” Braedan sighed.

  “Ka?” Dorad asked.

  “Never mind,” Jack said, picking up a rock. “What’s this?”

  “Craeg,” Dorad replied.

  “Stone,” Braedan informed him. “Or rock, same thing.”

  As the two men sat in the glow of the fire, pointing out different items and sounding out the words for each new thing, Tarsus sat quietly, watching them. The Amarian had traveled from the steaming jungles of Zsolandar to the bitter cold of the Reach of Amorhad, but he could not guess from what land their new companion hailed. The lands surrounding the Ailsantain Forest were virtually uninhabited. The nearest city was Galfrey in Doridan, a hundred leagues to the west. Norgarth was farther still, and he certainly wasn't a Norgarthan. He had the look of the Ailfar about him, with his green eyes and sandy hair. Only one of those hardy folk would be traveling alone in this wilderness, so far from any civilized land. But for what purpose? Hunting a na'Ghomari? Not flaming likely. Not even an Ailfar Ranger would be foolish enough to stalk a Hellbeast alone. His sword and clothing were like none he was familiar with. Once again, green like the forest, like an Ailfar would wear, but of a cut that was passing strange with pockets sewn on every flat space.

  It was certainly puzzling, but the Amarian didn't much care for puzzles. He would let Dorad figure it out. He decided Jack Braydaon was some sort of Ailfar half-breed, a remenant perhaps of the elven folk who once ruled the Ailsantain and leave it at that until he learned differently. Now all he had to do was somehow inform this man who spoke a totally different language he had fallen in with pirates and convince him to join the Seawolf's crew. But Tarsus didn't think it would be too difficult a task. Despite the unfortunate ambush at the temple, the Amarian knew fate had smiled on him today. Cullibranos was dead! He had recovered the Star of Issa! And he would soon captain of the Seawolf! With Dorad and Jack Braydaon on his ship, he would soon be the scourge of the high seas!

  “Dorad, get some sleep,” He ordered his younger friend when he finally tired of listening to them. “I’ll wake you at midnight. You can continue your tutoring in the morning.”

  “This is fascinating,” Dorad said excitedly. “He seems half Elvish, but clearly can’t speak a word of Ailfar. His sword looks to be of Eastern design but of such quality only a master smith of Ail’itharain could have forged it. What is such a man doing here? At the exact moment a demon arrives to destroy the temple? Tracking a na’Ghomari? It hardly seemd likely, or it is the most astounding coincidence in history.”

  “Yeah, it’s a flaming mystery,” Tarsus nodded.

  “Tarsus,” Dorad said hesitantly, “if…if that truly was Urioch. Do you realize what it means?”

  “I know what it means,” Tarsus muttered darkly. Urioch had been the demon general who lead Graith’s army against Amar. Urioch had been the demon who reduced Tanaevar to rubble, destroying five hundred years of prosperity for his land and people and plunging them into eight centuries of degredation and squalor. “It means we need to get back to the Seawolf and sail as far away from these shores as we can. This is no place for honest pirates.”

  Jack tried to follow the conversation but all he caught was the word the young man had used for his monster earlier. The more he listened to the pair, the more he began to think some time in the past he may have heard at least a similar dialect of this language before, he just couldn’t place it at the moment. As he listened, he studied the two men he’d fallen in with. Tarsus was obviously the leader, and not only by age alone. He had an air about him that exuded confidence and bravado. Judging by his hardened, muscular body and his network of visible scars, he’d lived a life that had seen its fair share of violence. Put a spiked helmet on his head and he could have been a poster boy for some medieval maurader. For all that, he seemed friendly enough, despite their language barrier.

  Braedan instantly like him.

  Younger Dorad was inquisitive, bright, and despite his youth was equally skilled as a warrior. Jack caught glimpses of his skill as he battled the scarlet clad fighters. He was about the same size and build as Braedan, maybe six feet plus or minus an inch. He had gray-green, hazel eyes and a similar shade of hair as well. Similar features. Put them side by si
de, clean them up bit, and they could pass for cousins. Jack liked him as well. Tarsus spoke again, more insistent this time, and Dorad sighed and nodded.

  “Caedal, Jack Braydaon,” he said, folding his hands and laying them against his cheek, he mimicked sleep.

  “Yeah,” Jack admitted. “It’s been a long day.” Jack took off his kit and took stock of his remaining gear by the dim light of the camp fire. He had one grenade, the rifle scope, one and a half packs of Camels, a Zippo lighter, and his samurai sword. Other than the clothes on his back, that was all he had. The rest of his gear; the Desert Eagle, night vision goggles, trip flares, Claymore and everything else in his ruck, was with Jen somewhere in the Tennessee Mountains. He hoped she was putting them to good use. The familiar, unofficial motto of the infantry, "Travel light, freeze at night," had never seemed more fitting. He folded up the utility vest like a pillow and lay it on the ground.

  When the moon had reached its zenith, Tarsus roused Dorad to take over the watch. About halfway to morning, the young man carefully woke Braedan, softly speaking his name until he opened his eyes. Feeling as if he had just laid down, Jack rose moaning with stiffness. He'd been having a strange dream. Strange because despite the events of the last few days, no shadowy beast had been chasing him down and ripping his throat out. Like most dreams it was only vaguely remembered upon waking. Jack remembered Tarsus was in it, but…older somehow. Dorad as well. Not surprising considering. He vaguely recalled Jen standing with the old man from her dreams, ancient and bent, leaning on a staff for support, but his eyes were alive with wisdom and he had a look of satisfaction on his face. Jack also felt a vague…presence watching him. Far off. But even on the distant edge of his dream he could sense its ill intent. That was when Dorad woke him.

  He was still pondering the strange dream when a full moon suddenly appeared through a break in the trees. He didn’t think anything off it at first, other than it was so bright and so big. But the closer he looked the more uneasy he felt. It was the moon...but it somehow…wasn't. Braedan reached into his kit and pulled out the scope that had been on the Lapua. Looking through the 8x100 magnification, the landscape of the lunar surface was starkly clear. But it was no terrain he had ever seen before. The familiar crater system he had looked upon countless occasions and he’d taken for granted all his life was…gone. Either somehow, he was looking at what was commonly known as the dark side, or...it wasn't the earth’s moon, his earth's moon, at all.

 

‹ Prev