Being surrounded by half ten men, Balak yelled to Ziya “Find the girl.”
Ziya replied, “And you find mine.”
“Just go!”
Ziya nodded and left Balak to defend himself. Ziya moved around the men while Balak battled them, spinning his axe with wild precision.
Ziya headed for the fire. Men were running back and forth, some grabbed swords while others grabbed supplies. He slinked into a thick smog as he drew closer to the fire and men ran by him. Flames of the fire were low. It fizzed and hissed as bellows of black smoke puffed from the small orange glow that was almost covered by black ashes.
A gray, tall tent stood to the left but this area was almost abandoned, except for the dying man who lay outside.
He searched inside, but Arda wasn’t there. He was about to leave in a hurry when he bumped into her.
“Arda, you are alive! We are here to save you!”
“Save me? Who is gonna save you? And where is Balak?” she questioned.
“Don’t worry about that; Balak has it handled. Where is the child?”
“Tarlan took her from me.”
“Who is Tarlan?”
“He is their leader.”
They walked with speed towards the sounds of clashing swords nearby.
One of the bandits was throwing his belongings on top of the camel when Balak plunged his axe into the man’s head. Several more men arrived and met the same fate. Just as Ziya and Arda approached, more men surrounded Balak and attacked. Tarlan appeared from his tent holding a baby.
“Balak, he has the child!” Arda screamed.
Tarlan gently put the baby back into her basket, drew his sword, and charged towards Balak.
Balak pulled a sword from one of the bandits and threw it to Ziya. To Balak’s amazement, Ziya turned it around to fight, keeping the pointy end towards himself and thrust the handle towards the bandit. He hit the helmet of the towering muscular soldier and then swept his legs by spinning his foot. The bandit got up, quickly and reached for his dagger. He was ready to stab Ziya in the eye when Ziya stopped him with his right hand, puncturing his hand and glove on its blade.
Despite being three times smaller, Ziya fought valiantly. Arda hit the soldier to get his attention and quickly backed away. Ziya reached for dust on the ground and threw the powder into the man’s eyes. Ziya was now holding a dagger. He aimed it at the soldier, inches away from his eye.
Ziya started to thrust the knife forward, using all of his weight but the man began lifting Ziya. The edge of the knife began to slip further away from the man. Realizing that his plan wouldn’t work, Ziya simply let go of the knife, dropping it on the man’s face and piercing his left eye.
Meanwhile, Tarlan tried to hit Balak with the pommel of his sword. But Balak caught his arm and hit Tarlan in the nose with his head. Balak swirled his axe at Tarlan who expertly dodged several attacks in a row. But the last one he had to block with his shield, breaking it, and pushing him several meters away.
Tarlan’s sword swung at Balak, and it chinked against Balak’s axe. Balak thumped his fist in Tarlan’s nose. Tarlan stepped back, and bent forward to hold his nose, but Balak swept his legs, and Tarlan hit the ground hard. Balak raised his axe above his head and was about to bring it down.
“Balak, no!” Arda yelled.
“Don’t kill him. Please.” she said.
“They would not do the same for us,” Balak said.
“I know. But that’s not how we do things.”
He took a step back and Tarlan to rose to his feet.
“Come back, I am not done fighting,” Tarlan said.
“Yes, you are. Leave,” Balak said and he turned his back on Tarlan and started walking away. Other men scrambled to their feet and lifted Tarlan before retreating out of the waterfall and deep into the forest.
“Arda, how did you manage to . . . you know?” Ziya asked.
“A little trick I learned from Balak.” Arda pointed at the mushrooms on the ground.
“I didn’t teach her anything. She did it herself.” Balak grinned slightly.
As they turned their backs to escape, Arda noticed Ziya’s glove on the ground. She swiftly picked it up, rushed towards him, and extended her arm to pass him his glove. Balak intercepted the exchange and held Ziya’s glove. He dangled it in front of Ziya, but at a distance so he couldn’t reach.
“Why don’t we shake on it . . . friend,” Balak said, sternly.
“Balak, please. Not now.”
“Show us what you really are, Ziya.”
“So be it,” Ziya replied with a similar stern tone in his voice.
Ziya looked at Arda with sorrowful eyes. He sighed heavily and pulled back his jacket sleeve. A luminous light shone through, and as he raised his arm, they could see a hand shape, with arm bones and some muscles, covered in a hard light, translucent.
“You’re a mage,” Balak boomed.
“I am sorry I had to keep it a secret but I know how you feel about magic.” He headed to Arda. “Arda, please.”
“Get away from her,” Balak said, throwing himself between them.
Ziya continued to push towards Arda, but Balak threw him back. Ziya continued to call out Arda’s name. She looked stunned, unable to utter a single word.
“Let me explain,” he pleaded.
Arda narrowed her eyes and stepped back.
“I knew there was something wrong about you,” Balak said.
“Balak, I warn you, don’t ruin this. I don’t wish to fight you.” Ziya tried to get to Arda.
“I am done talking,” Balak said, swinging his fist at Ziya.
Ziya caught it with his jaw. He spat blood and said, “Guess, I don’t have to hold back anymore.”
Ziya’s eyes and arms began to glow as his strength grew exponentially. They both wrestled for a while, and Balak tried to swipe Ziya’s legs. Ziya jumped and twisted, nimbly, before delivering a blow that knocked Balak to the floor.
Arda used the dull end of her spear to push Ziya in his chest, knocking the air out of his lungs and pushing him away from Balak.
“Enough. Take Kamala and leave us alone,” Arda said.
Ziya’s eyes and arms stopped glowing as he stepped back, without delivering a final blow to Balak.
Ziya offered his hand to Balak. “I am sorry for what I have done. We will leave you.” Balak refused Ziya’s hand and pushed himself to his feet. Ziya took his camel and began heading north.
Before he left, he turned one last time and said, “You know, something tells me I will be seeing you again.”
Balak, Arda, and the child headed in one direction, while Ziya and the camel, went the other way.
— CHAPTER TEN —
Walking In Circles
As they walked further, Balak spotted smoke in the distance. He thought about pointing it out to Arda, but she had been quiet and distant since they had parted company with Ziya.
“Is that a fire?” Arda asked.
“No,” Balak retorted.
“Are you sure? There’s a lot of smoke.
“My instincts tell me this has to be something else,” he tried to reassure her.
They headed towards the smoke and as they drew closer, they saw a man sitting on a one-legged stool, next to a charcoal kiln. He looked weary, and he prolonged his blink as he closed his eyes, locking his lids together for several minutes. His stool wobbled, and he opened his eyes with a jump.
He was startled when he first noticed Balak, but when he spotted Arda, he relaxed a little.
“Can you point us in the direction of the Kalak?” Balak asked him.
“You’re close. Keep following the path and in around half a kilometer, you’ll see it.”
“Kalak?” Arda questioned, but Balak had already started walking towards the city.
“Thank you, sir,” Arda said. She turned and walked quickly to catch Balak. “Balak.” She yelled, grabbing his arm.
He looked at her. “What?”
“Kalak is not on our way to
the Iron Gates.”
“We need a rest and supplies.”
“I suppose you are correct.”
They walked along and just as the man said, the city came into sight. Farmers plowed their land with two large bulls. They stopped and wiped their foreheads before starting again. They didn’t seem to notice Balak and Arda.
A boy walked around and collected the animal shit. He chucked it into his bucket. He noticed them, scrunched up his face, and smiled at Arda, before running off to collect more.
The glint of the sun caught the spire of the tall wooden watchtowers. There was still a cool nip in the air, and with every breath, Balak and Arda pushed out a small wisp of smoke.
Just outside the city walls, there were dozens and dozens of people camping. They were huddled together, and one little boy was sipping from a bowl.
“Where did these people came from?” Arda questioned.
“Refugees. They must have arrived from a nearby city,” Balak replied
Balak noticed a butcher cutting a bull for meat. His table was etched with many blade marks from the years of work and unwelcomed thieves. He examined the animal and carved every part. The butcher used every part of that animal, even its tongue and penis. Nothing went to waste.
Arda admired the market for a moment before noticing a fight that broke out between a refugee and a local seller. “They must be fighting over their place in the market,” she told Balak.
Balak looked around and saw a candle-shaped candy hanging on a string. He’d seen them before, but not it those colors; red and green. Never so bright.
“Look!” he pointed them out to Arda.
“Have you not seen a churchkhela before?”
“I have but not in those colors. I thought you would find it interesting too.”
“They say if you live in Elbrus, you’ve seen half of Tartaurus. This is nothing I have never seen.” Arda said.
Finally, they arrived at the towering wooden gates of Kalak. The walls of the city were wooden too. They were horizontally stacked wooden poles with hollow holes in them.
Arda stared at the graffiti and engravings of ancient symbols that told stories of the city. Arda started to read the wall. Some were names of lovers, while others related to the Maker. Some of the graffiti was not old but insulted the native people and lords and pictures that had first been there.
The gravelly ground was harsh on the soles of their shoes. Balak walked tall and looked around. The grey furs he’d taken from the bandits suited him. Arda hid under her shawl with the child.
She dragged her feet and stumbled. They’d been travelling south for several days.
“We should find a place to rest,” she suggested.
The inner city was highly populated. Several men were working to improve the city walls and defences.
To the left, a small crowd huddled around two men, who were wrestling each other. Balak reminisced about The Pit, and Giorgi shouting for him to get out.
They headed past a link maker. He wiped the sweat from his brow and went back into the heat, hammering and shaping the chainmail armour for soldiers.
“You think they are preparing to protect or to invade?” Arda asked Balak.
“One thing is certain; blood will be spilled,” he told her.
“It’s getting dark. We need to find somewhere to stay,” he added
They searched for a place to stay, but most of the taverns were full. They turned down an old filthy alley, filled with rubbish. It led them into an open area with lots of small huts. It was much cleaner than the alley. A woman was sitting on the ground with a small barrel, scrubbing clothes spotless, while some children played in the street.
At the end of the street, they rounded the corner, and arrived at a small old tavern. Balak twisted the brass handle and headed inside.
“Sit down and rest. I’ll do the talking,” Balak said.
Balak headed over to the bar.
“I need a room,” he demanded.
The girl nodded her head and muttered something under her breath but Balak couldn’t understand what she was saying.
Balak looked around the small tavern. It was quiet. Three old men sat in the corner playing Nards.
The innkeeper came in to meet Balak.
“I need a room.”
The innkeeper spoke in the Liverian language.
“Fuck me. Do you speak the common tongue?”
The innkeeper replied in Liverian.
Balak began to scream at the man when Arda rushed over to sort things out.
“Balak, let me try,” she told him
“Do you speak Liverian?” Balak asked her, incredulous.
“A little,” she told him.
Arda spoke to the innkeeper.
“Forgive my friend, he is easily irritated. We would like to get a room.”
“Then you better look somewhere else. I don’t accept refugees into my establishment,” he told Arda.
“We are not refugees. We can pay for the room.”
“Money in advance.”
“What is he saying?” Balak asked Arda.
“He says we can stay.”
“Good. Let’s eat first and tell him to make it quick. I don’t like the tone of his voice,” Balak growled.
“Can we get something to eat?” Arda asked the innkeeper.
“You are welcome to get served as long as you have silver,” He told Arda.
Arda pulled a few coins out of her bag and slapped them onto the bar. The innkeeper grabbed them without hesitation and slipped them in his pocket.
“Go and find yourself a seat. I will get you food and drinks.”
“I saw a river nearby; can we get a fish? And milk for the child?” Arda asked and opened her cloak to reveal the child.
The innkeeper nodded in agreement.
“He said yes,” Arda said to Balak.
“Yeah, I got that part,” growled Balak
Balak and Arda sat down and waited. The innkeeper’s daughter brought Balak a jug of ale and Arda a glass of water. She also handed over some milk.
“I warmed the milk a little for you.”
“Thank you,” Arda said. She untied the sling from her neck, but she had to fumble with the knot for a while as she felt frail from exhaustion. As soon as the milk touched the child’s lips, she guzzled and guzzled, slurping and slapping her lips.
“Aaah,” Balak sighed as he took a large swig of his ale. He looked gaunt, but the ale added some color to his cheeks.
“Finally.”
Arda nodded but stayed silent.
Once the baby was fed, Arda laid her back down. She was content and ecstatic.
“Here is your buckwheat,” a female voice squeaked to Arda. It was the young girl from the bar. She bowed her head and scurried off, tiptoeing like a tiny mouse.
The tavern master followed, carrying a fish. He placed it on the table and Balak jumped to his feet. Balak shoved the table forward and grabbed the tavern master by the throat. His ale spilt over the table and ran into the buckwheat, ruining their meals.
“Father!” screamed the innkeeper’s daughter.
“Balak!” Arda gasped. “What’s gotten into you?”
“You dare to insult me like this?!” he spat.
Arda put her hand on Balak’s arm.
“Balak, people are staring at us. Let the man go, now.”
Balak looked around and then at Arda. He let go of the man and pushed him back, before storming out of the tavern. The daughter of the tavern master rushed to her father’s arms.
The tavern owner came over to Arda. “This is a peaceful establishment. Leave immediately.”
“I’m so sorry. I’ll pay for any damages,” Arda said to the man. “My grandfather didn’t mean it. There won’t be any more troubles, I promise.” She took out some more coin and offered it to the man.
He snatched it. “You and your grandfather may stay. But keep him restrained. Put a leash on him if you must,” he retorted.
�
��Your friend is a Karbadian,” said the voice behind Arda. She turned around a saw one of the old men who was playing Nards earlier.
“I thought they were gone,” Arda said in almost a whisper as she processed the implications.
Arda paid for the damages and went outside to talk to Balak. He was waiting just outside. “They are happy to let us stay for a week,” she told Balak.
Balak settled down, sitting on some hay.
“Balak, we need to talk.”
“Does it have to do with what just happened?”
“Yes.”
“Then no.”
“You are Karbadian. Is this why you took it as an insult?”
Balak sat in silence.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It didn’t seem to matter.” Balak took a bite of his kharcho.
“Why doesn’t your kind eat fish?”
“You wouldn’t get it.”
“Try me,” she insisted placing chair across him and sitting to listen.
Balak finished his food and took a deep breath before speaking again. “My people were known for many things, but killing . . . killing is what we did best. For centuries, my ancestors raided the neighboring kingdoms. But everything changed when King Levon of Amida, alongside Elania and Tavlin invaded Karbad. After the collapse of Karbadian Empire, men, women, and children we were put in cages or sold to slavery. But significant number died of starvation. The dead were chopped into pieces. Their remains were scattered into the lakes and rivers across Tartaurus. The rest of Tartaurus would call it justice, but we called it cleansing. Eating fish would entail eating my ancestors. I may not be proud of my people’s history, but they didn’t deserve to be slaughtered like animals.”
* * *
Balak barely slept that night. He sat quietly by the door, finishing off his ale, while Arda slept.
“It’s a little early, isn’t it, even for you?” Arda asked as she stretched and rose from her bed.
Balak spent his time over the next few days, wandering the streets of Kalak, asking about Mari Kardav. He visited the places that Giorgi had talked about, but none of the people in the dwelling, nor the neighbours, could remember the name Kardav. It was like the Kardavs were non-existent. Just a memory lost in time. He headed to through the marketplace, and into a part of town that hadn’t checked yet. The dark streets of the town felt no safer here than they did in The Hollow. Beggars sat on the ground, holding out old bowls in hopes of receiving silver. Balak spotted a busy tavern. Two drunks were brawling outside the door, but they were stumbling with every punch, and were unable to deliver a blow to each other. They slurred verbal atrocities to one another before passing out on the ground.
Of Blood and Steel Page 10
