Spirit Sword

by Sam Ford

  "I know. But I've never even been this far from home before."

  "It's alright." She smiled. “I'm here with you."

  "Yeah, you're right." Cale smiled back, putting on the bravest face he could.

  They headed off, not letting go of one another's hand. Cold and fear kept them alive. Hope and familiarity kept them together. The river twisted its path, swaying with a gentle gurgle as if the horrors of the night were nothing more than a strange nightmare.

  "I think... I think I know where we are," Tully said hesitantly.

  "Where?"

  "Regina said Aaron and Byron used to sneak off downriver sometimes with some of the village boys and go swimming, fishing and trapping in the summer. There should be a sandy bank with a big tree somewhere up ahead."

  "Maybe that's where Byron went."

  "Maybe. I'll be glad to see him, even if he did run off and leave us behind."

  "Yeah..." Cale slowly agreed. He couldn't handle this on his own. At least Byron was older. Cale wished he didn't have to rely on him. If Cale were older and bigger he could protect Tully all by himself.

  If only.

  Tully stopped, halting Cale with her.

  "What's wrong?" he asked.

  "Shush. Did you hear that?"

  The attack came suddenly with a snapping and rustling of trees. Arrows scattered furiously into the ground around them.

  Tully called for Cale to run as the two sprinted away. One of their pursuers crossed over the riverbank, giving chase. Cale lost Tully's hand during the mad scramble amid the twang of bowstrings. Then the arrows suddenly fell silent.

  And Cale was running by himself.

  Turning back, he saw Tully on the ground, struggling to rise. Blood pooled around the arrow shaft lodged in the small of her back. She tried to push herself up but couldn't. She felt for the arrow in her back, and that's when she screamed. A shrill sound of a child, full of agony and suffering, it was born as much of fear as it was of pain.

  "Tully!" Cale screamed, his voice high-pitched and full of panic.

  "Cale. Run," Tully coughed, her eyes full of tears. Her assailant walked out of the underbrush with a steady pace. Tully tried to drag herself away, trailing her limp legs in the water behind her.

  "I..." Cale couldn't think. He was frozen on the spot. He was still so young, no match for bows and arrows and swords and fire monsters. But he also couldn't leave his sister. She was his best friend. His only friend.

  "It's okay." Tully smiled so sweetly. She met his eyes to reassure him--the same eyes he had, the eyes he had known since birth. Eyes now full of tears, begging him to leave and yet not wanting to be abandoned.

  "It's okay, Cale,” she repeated. “Run."

  Cale still couldn't move, undecided.

  His decision was taken from his as the Ranger reached Tully. "Run!"

  Cale ran. With tears stinging his face, he ran. Fear and regret and cowardice dogged him, but he still ran. The monsters who’d murdered his family were still out there and he'd just left his sister to die at their hands.

  Not because she’d told him to, but because he was afraid. He ran with no direction in mind, blinded by fear and grief and tears. He followed the twisting river and almost ran into the tree in the middle of the sand bar.

  "Hey, Cale," a voice called out, but there was no one around. "Cale, get me down."

  Cale craned up his neck. Byron was hanging from the tree like an animal caught in a snare, slowly spinning on the rope snare which trapped his foot. Gravity had worked its magic on his upside-down form, shifting his pudginess into new places and changing the color of his face. He looked like a purple chipmunk.

  "Byron? What are you doing up there?" Cale wiped the snot from his nose.

  "Oh, you know. Just, uh, hanging around. The usual. Where's Tully?"

  "The--the bandits shot her."

  "Oh, her too, huh? I'm sorry. Hey, how about you climb on up here and get me down?"

  "I couldn't do anything." Cale started crying again. "She just lay there and I ran. Byron, I'm so scared."

  "It's okay. Come on buddy. Cut me down and I'll take care of it."

  "But you ran, too." Cale looked up, remembering. "You left me and Tully to that fire thing."

  "That? No, I was just looking for a way out for all of us. Cut me down."

  "I'm no better." The tears wouldn't stop. "I left Tully. She's dead because of me. It's out there, it's coming for me, and I ran."

  "We all make mistakes. No one is perfect. How about you climb on up here and untie me?"

  "I can't climb."

  "What?"

  "I can't climb. You pushed me out of the tree once and mother forbade me to climb trees anymore."

  "Well? If you're so smart, figure something else out!"

  "I'm thinking," whined Cale.

  Cale looked back as another dark figure walked toward the duo, his sword bathed in fire. He was headed straight toward Cale.

  "Byron? Help!"

  "Help you? Help me, you little runt!"

  The figure broke into a run. Cale screamed in fear, his legs moving on their own. He ran away as quickly as possible, feeling the heat of the fire on his back.

  "Cale? Cale!" Byron screamed. "Cale, get me down from here! I'll never forgive you for this! If you don't untie me I'm going to come down there and beat the tar out of you. This is your last chance! You hear me? Cale!"

  Cale kept running as his brother's screams became more frantic. Soon, they were silenced all together. Tears streaming down his face, Cale kept running, once more into the dark of the night.

  Chapter IV

  The Indian Princess

  The chains stung as only iron could, hot and heavy around her neck. The ropes clasped around her wrists chaffed less than they had earlier, though they still itched.

  But that collar. She wore it night and day, linked to her cousin and their great-grandmother. There were other women with them, but they mattered less than her family. The chains ensured they walked together, ate together, slept together and even relived themselves together.

  That this humiliation should be brought upon Jazreal Bloodmoon was a grave insult. She and her people, the People of the Plains, were a proud race of nomadic warriors and hunters who had little to do with the slave trade. That Jazreal should now find herself a slave was a humiliation she could not stand.

  They had been walking for the better part of a week. Five days had passed since raiders had descended upon their tribe. The plains had sprung to life with fire and blood. It had been a desperate fight. Jazreal was a huntress, the niece of the tribe's chief. Her copper limbs surged with the promise of not-yet-fulfilled potential. Her entire body was attuned for life on the plains and on horseback. She’d been trained by her father since the day she could walk to hunt, stalk and kill. Her hands were fast, accurate and deadly. She had no brothers, so her father had passed all his knowledge to her. There were few in her tribe better with a bow or a horse. Still, it had been for naught.

  The invaders came from the east as the sun rose. Eight men and two women had descended on them, slaughtering the horses and setting fire to the sea of grass. Jazreal's uncle had led the first war party, her father the second. Neither had returned. Jazreal had been left in charge of defending the camp; her only warriors three boys too green to even hold their bows correctly. It had not saved them in the end.

  The remaining horses had been rounded up, and people gathered. Those strong enough for the march ahead were shackled by the half-dozen. The enfeebled, wounded and very young were left behind. As they were led away, the slavers touched off the teepees, burning the last of her village. The entire ordeal took no more than a morning. Jazreal continually strained her neck as they marched in the noonday sun, watching the smoke of her home slowly fade into the distance.

  Six odd men and one woman lead the procession of slaves through the sea of waist-high grass. With skin the color of varnished bone, all of them were at least two heads taller than Jazreal. There
would have been no mistaking them for her people. Their armor, to speak of, was light, designed with weight and travel in mind, offering protection from spears and arrows. The tallest one, a man with a knot of red, dirty hair, didn't even use the light plate of his companions, instead opting for a breastplate of boiled buffalo leather stretched over wood. He was probably too tall for anything other than a custom fit.

  "Stop here. Rest," The tall man said.

  Was he their leader? she wondered.

  Jazreal and her fellow captives gathered wood beneath an old oak tree growing along a brook. The bandits took turns washing their faces and drinking their fill. Then the chains of captives were led to the water to drink before being forced to sit. Lastly, the horses were allowed to drink.

  Wiping the water from her mouth, Jazreal sat back against the tree, resting her feet and taking shelter from the sunlight. She was allowed a good look at the situation for the first time in days.

  A few of the bandits had clearly been slain by their braves. However, given the number of captives, mainly women and youths with very few men, most of their braves must have died defending the tribe. The slavers had stolen several of their horses, as well. There by the brook was Jazreal's silver speckled Appaloosa mare which had just foaled that spring. She appeared to still be in fine condition. Of the foal, there was no sign.

  To her right, at the end of the train, were three middle aged women Jazreal never had much cause to speak with before. They were squaws of mighty braves and had all sired fine sons of their own long before Jazreal was born. Their loss was great, and they clung together consoling one another. For now, Jazreal left them to their grief.

  To her left, ahead of Jazreal, sat the last remaining members of her family. Lydia, the chief's daughter and Jazreal's cousin, and Old Mother, their great-grandmother and matriarch of many generations before them. Her name lost to the vestiges of time, her family simply knew her as Old Mother. She was the tribe's spiritual leader, protector and healer. She kept the tribe together and their stories alive.

  She was also blind.

  "Old Mother, how are you faring?" Lydia asked kindly.

  "It's a cruel jape for these dogs to make you lead," Jazreal wriggled in her ropes. "If I could just get free..."

  "Still yourselves, children, and do not worry about me. I have the spirits to guide my feet," Old Mother answered in kind. "Jazreal, stop it. Do you want them to bind your feet, too?"

  Three days ago, Jazreal had attempted to escape. Their captives had tightened the bindings on her hands till they’d turned purple. It was only after much begging from Lydia that they’d loosened them enough to let the blood flow.

  "But we need to get out of here. We can't stay like this!" Jazreal jangled the chains at her neck for emphasis. "They need to pay."

  "As much as I may be pained to agree with my hot-tempered cousin," Lydia added, "I believe she may have a point. We should escape before they lead us wherever they want."

  "And do what?" Old Mother stared at both of them with her vacant, gray eyes. "Escape? To where? Where will you run?"

  "We could flee to the northern tribes. Or the Azca," suggested Lydia, ever the diplomat.

  "Those heathens? They'd eat us just as soon as look at us." Jazreal barked out a laugh.

  "It will not matter anyway, children. Help will not be coming." Old Mother calmed them.

  "Do you have a better idea?" Asked Lydia.

  "Yes," Old Mother said with a smile. "Lunch."

  As if on cue, all three of them sniffed the air. The scent of wood fire and roasting meat hung heavy and all their stomachs grumbled in unison. Three of the slavers stood around the fire, laughing as they turned the spit. That explained why they needed to gather wood. And where the foal had gone.

  The captives had marched for the last five days straight with nothing to eat but what their captors called hardtack. A meal of roast horse with wild rosemary would be most welcome. The slavers ate their fill and then dished out portions to their captives. Though bound wrists and neck, full bellies lifted their sprits. The air was soon filled with whispers. Many of their people slept in exhaustion. The white men chatted around the campfire. Apparently, they were done marching for the day.

  "Old Mother, how do you know something has happened to the northern tribes?" Lydia licked the grease from her fingers, unable to catch it all before it rolled toward her elbow. Jazreal was happy to oblige.

  "Where are we, child?"

  "In the Plains?" Jazreal offered hesitantly, rubbing her sore calves.

  "We are two days from Eagle Pass."

  "How can you tell?"

  "I can smell the snow."

  Lydia and Jazreal both turned their faces to the mountains, which had been growing steadily larger for the past week. The sierras were tall enough for snow to cover the peaks in the early fall.

  "The ground here is well-trodden, with grass trampled under the foot of man, not beast. We are not the first of our kind to be led toward the morning sun against our will."

  "Old Mother, what do they want? What should we do?"

  "I expect the answer to both those questions lies at the end of our journey."

  "So we just let them take us?" Jazreal's voice cracked in frustration, making her sound like a petulant child.

  "When the south wind screams and the rivers freeze, the tribe moves, lest we be buried in snow. Let us see how deep the snow is at the end of this, hmm?"

  Without another word Old Mother laid back and shut her eyes. Within seconds, she was snoring. Lydia lay down as well, to relive the strain on her neck, which left Jazreal with the same problem. Soon enough, the entire train was lying down and most likely, the whole tribe.

  Snuggling closer, Jazreal lay next to Lydia. They shared a bed as they had since they were girls. For all their troubles, the sky was a brilliant sapphire blue and the mighty oak provided an emerald canopy. Lydia was soon asleep, and Jazreal found herself alone. With nothing better to do, she watched her cousin sleep. At seventeen, a year older than Jazreal, Lydia had the traditional features which drove all the boys of their tribe wild. She was tall, beautiful and full of breast, with glossy black hair. Her face held a strong nose with only a hint of freckles. For some reason, the spirits had graced her with blue eyes. As the chief's daughter, she was the perfect Indian princess.

  In contrast, Jazreal was about as appealing as a three-legged horse. Her nose was too small and her forehead too large. Shorter and more boyish with a face full of freckles, her chest was flatter than she liked and her eyes were the color of mud instead of blue. About the only way in which she fared better than Lydia was her smile. Lydia had blue eyes, but Jazreal had perfect teeth.

  Growing up, they had been as close as sisters. But ever since Lydia's first suitor two years ago, she had grown distant. With a mind towards politics, she had worked tirelessly with her father on inter-tribal relations and trade with the white men. Alone and unwelcome, Jazreal had thrown herself into hunting, tracking and beating up boys. Now she was a professional huntress and the loneliness only gnawed on her at night.

  Now it was the two of them that were alone, with the entire world against them and only Old Mother to guide them. Jazreal pulled closer to her cousin for additional warmth, closed her eyes, and tried to rest.

  It wasn't hard. Despite the bite of the collar around her neck, her exhaustion soon found her, and not even her rage could keep her awake.

  Her dreams were fitful, dark things. Blackness consumed her family and tribe. The jeers and laughter mocked her. She ran, fleeing the darkness gnawing at her heels. She had one purpose--to put an arrow through the heart of every white man she saw before the blackness consumed her whole, leaving her to the dark and the cold.

  When she woke next, the stars showed brightly. Cold sweat pooled between her shoulders and the back of her thighs. It was not yet dawn, and the cookfire had long since burned down to embers.

  The perfect time to escape.

  The struggle against her bindin
gs soon woke her cousin.

  "Stop," Lydia chided sleepily.

  "We've got to get out of here." Jazreal gnawed on the ropes with her teeth.

  "You heard Old Mother. We need to wait."

  "I've waited long enough."

  "When you hunted, your father taught you patience. This is the same."

  "I am not used to being the one who is hunted."

  "Jazreal." The kindness in her cousin's voice made her stop. "It's okay. I know you're scared. It's okay."

  Jazreal was scared. Her family had been slain, she had no idea where she was and she was a slave to a savage race of men she had barely seen before. This was about as far from okay as she could get.

  And yet, Lydia's calming blue eyes sparkled in the night, reassuring her everything truly would be okay. If Lydia was calming and diplomatic, then what was Jazreal? What was she without a bow in her hand? A mass of fear and anger? What kind of huntress was that?

  Lydia hugged her awkwardly. Jazreal let out a sigh, all the tension draining from her shoulders. Finally surrendering, safe for now in her cousin's arms, she faded back to sleep.

  Chapter V

  It was two more days in reaching the pass and another crossing it before Jazreal finally surrendered. The sudden flurry of snow chill blinded her eyes and burned her skin. The ache in her legs flared once more during the crossing. Feet blistering, her moccasins were wearing thin in places. Tired, hungry and so far from home, as much as she hated to admit defeat, Jazreal was no longer in the mood to fight. Evidently, she was one of the last hold outs, as the guards took lighter duty after that, sleeping heavier with fewer eyes on the prisoners. Or maybe they were exhausted, as well.

  The morning arrived crisp and bright when the prisoners were suddenly wakened from their restless slumber. Her eyes still stinging, Jazreal rubbed in vain, trying to stamp out the fierceness of the sun. Light of head and short of breath, she was having trouble thinking. The tall man with the red top knot approached her. Red Hair, they had taken to calling him. He was not especially kind or forgiving, but he was the only slaver who spoke a word of their native tongue.