by Sam Ford
The boy must have thought it was the cold, because he laid his blanket atop her sleeping body when he rose for morning exercises. She could hear him out there in the fog even now, huffing away while he bandied his sword about. He’d said his name was Cale. Jazreal guessed he was a few years younger than she, but he was very sweet. Granted, he was a strange kid, always talking to his sword. It was the same kind as the one Old Mother had given her, but she wasn't sure what that meant, if anything.
Really, she should be out there training with him. She needed to keep her toned muscles in shape. Jazreal tried to stretch her body but it simply refused to cooperate. It was a most infuriating lost cause. Her left side especially ached where she'd stitched it up herself. The horsehair threads should hold well enough to ride, but she was none-too-confident in her sewing abilities. She wished Old Mother were here, or Lydia. They would have done a much better job. Even the boy had done a good job. Her shoulder hurt more from the boiled wine than the stitches. The thought of which caused her head to grow dizzy again.
"Morning." Cale came in perhaps an hour later. Though it was a cool, foggy morning, his mop of hair was plastered to his head with sweat. "Can you move?"
"Yes," Jazreal grit her teeth, determined to sit up.
"Here, have some water." He passed her the canteen. Jazreal accepted it gratefully. She must have been thirstier than she thought because she returned it half full. "You slept a long time."
"What do you mean by that?" Was he insinuating she was lazy?
"Nothing. I'm just wondering if you're feeling better?" He stirred the pot on the fire. It had been bubbling for some time before she’d even awakened and smelled delicious.
"Oh. Yes."
They sat in awkward silence. Cale avoided eye-contact and pursed his lips. Jazreal drummed her fingers. Finally, Cale, unable to stand the quiet any longer, broke the quiet. "So, uh... you're an Indian?"
"That is what your kind calls us, yes. But I doubt many of you have ever crossed our Plains and laid eyes on the mighty Indus River."
"Is it bigger than the Redwater?"
"The what?"
"The river I fished you out of."
"Oh," Jazreal paused. "Yes. Much larger."
"Oh."
And they were back to silence again. Jazreal stood with a sigh. "I am going to water."
"What?"
Jazreal ignored him, heading toward the stream. The weakness in her legs shocked her as she staggered over the hill. Never before had her body failed her so completely. The shame, anger and resentment burned within her.
The water was clear and sweet, a fast-moving stream deep enough to wade in. She stripped out of her buckskin and waded right into it with nary a stitch on. The water was cold this morning and her chest tightened in response. Jazreal's people bathed every new moon and she was several weeks overdue for one. She ceremoniously submerged herself seven times and then scrubbed her copper body with wild hyssop growing from the bank. The blood and dirt flowed away from her, leaving a stain trailing downstream. She wrung out her long black hair, washing out the mud from yesterday. Finally, she was careful to tend her wounds, ensuring she pulled no stitches. At last she felt clean again. If only Lydia were here with her.
After shaking herself off, she basked herself dry in the pale morning sun. That didn't stop her from having another good cry.
What am I going to do now? She wondered. There was no one to go back to in the Plains and there was no reason to go forward without Lydia. She was lost and hurt and didn't know how to find her way out. What would Old Mother have me do?
Jazreal headed back to camp, her mind heavy with thought. Cale was cooking breakfast, though she had not asked him to. She sat close by the fire, watching him. He kept glancing at her and looking away, blushing castilleja red.
He spied on me, she realized. The little sneak!
He also kept looking at his sword with great shame, offering apologies. He honestly seemed to be having a one-sided conversation with his weapon. She had heard of braves overly attached to their spears, but this a new thing altogether.
"Enjoy yourself?" She reclined against a log, watching him. He wouldn't make eye-contact and somehow turned even redder, focusing on the cooking.
I wonder if all white boys are this crazy? Jazreal counted off on her fingers all the foreigners she had ever known. Some had been traders, selling their wares far from home. Others had been settlers they’d run off their land. But most had been bandits or slavers, war parties from other tribes with the intent of plundering and kidnapping. And very few had been kind.
Cale was not like that. A happy boy with a smile on his face, he seemed genuinely interested in her. He’d probably never seen an Indian, just as she had never spent any time with a white boy before.
She watched him as he cooked, stirring the pot of beans and added some bacon and wild onions. Soon enough, breakfast was ready. They had no bowls, but he split a loaf of stale wheat bread in two and handed her half. She followed his lead and sliced her half lengthwise with her knife, then hollowed out the bottom part. When the beans were finished, he scooped some into her trencher. Jazreal watched the whole thing in amazement.
"What?" He asked when he caught her staring, his mouth full of food. Clearly he was afraid she would say something to him.
"Nothing. It is just that... you're interesting."
"Why?"
"I would not have thought to do that, is all." She swept a strand of hair behind her ear.
He blushed again and turned away.
So easy, she thought.
"Oh."
"Cale." Jazreal needed to get this off her chest.
"Yes?" He clearly wasn't used to talking while eating.
Jazreal put on her best grin. "Thank you for saving my life."
Cale obviously could not decide if he should blush, smile or look away. So instead he took another bite of food and stared at the ground before he even answered. "You're welcome."
"In my lands," Jazreal said after she tasted the beans. "There are tribes to the north who grow beans, squash and corn. We trade with them or steal from them if their harvest was weak or farms small."
"I grew up on a farm."
"Oh? What did you raise?"
"Pigs."
"Useless animals," Jazreal scoffed.
"No they're not. They're smart!" Cale defended his home.
"You cannot ride them like the horse nor milk them as a goat nor use their hides like the bison. Tell me, what good do you say they are?"
"Well," Cale stared down at his food. "They taste good with beans."
Jazreal looked at her own food, then at the pot, then at Cale. He was smiling at her with almost a chuckle. Jazreal finally understood what bacon was and grinned as well. The two laughed over their breakfast, glad to have relief from the absurdity of the situation.
After breakfast, they broke camp, saddled the horse and headed south. Cale had to show her how to saddle a horse and acted as if it was his first time too, being instructed as he went. The cloak he gave her was warm enough and suitably kept the damp out. She did not, however, heed his instructions to wear boots. And after about half an hour, her bare legs began to chafe on the leather saddle.
"Cale? What is your home like?" They rode south along the road, taking to the trails every time they spied a traveler through the fog. Cale was very good at that. The lake they skirted was so large Jazreal could not see to the other side.
"It's quiet enough, I suppose. I live in a village in the mountains."
"And your... tribe?"
"My wha--oh, my family! It's just us. We don't live in the village because of some mistakes my Pa made. There's my mother and father and my four siblings, Aaron, Regina, Byron and Tully. I'm thirteen, but I'm still the youngest."
Thirteen. Three years younger than Jazreal. He was still a boy, and a scrawny one at that.
"And how did you come to receive your sword?"
"Are you sure you want to know?" Cale asked, sudde
nly sounding excited.
"Yes." It wasn't as if she had anything better to do.
Cale relayed to her the tale of their first meeting, of the bandits in town and escape. He explained how he bonded with his Sword, though Jazreal did not understand that as much. Just what being an Imperial Knight meant was lost on her by the time the boy finished explaining everything.
"So, you are now an Imperial Knight?" asked Jazreal.
"Yes."
"And you are looking for more of these Spirit Swords?"
"That's right."
"And I have a sword. But I am not a Knight?" Jazreal wanted to make sure she’d pieced this together correctly.
"You've got it." Jazreal felt his breath on her shoulder.
"And your talking sword told you all this?"
"Yes." Doubt crept into his voice. "You don't believe me, do you?"
"Out on the plains, we have a saying. When you see your ancestors, it's time to come in out of the sun. It isn't that I don't believe you. I just think you're crazy."
"Let me down." Cale almost leapt off the moving horse. "I'll prove it."
"Alright." Jazreal stopped and watched, leaning across the saddle.
Cale drew his sword. It certainly looked the same as Jazreal's, though newer perhaps, and brighter. Cale gripped it with both hands, held it aloft and... Nothing happened. He tried it again, this time shaking the sword in the air while muttering to it. Eventually he started shouting.
"I am not trying to show off. What do you mean, this isn't the time? I am not embarrassing myself! You're embarrassing yourself!"
Jazreal covered her mouth, trying not to let him see her smile. He noticed, anyway. He walked back to the horse, dejected, and she helped pull him up.
"Problem?"
"He said--you know what? Never mind. You saw what happened. You're right, I'm just crazy."
"Oh, Cale." She laughed, spurring the horse back into motion. "What were you trying to do, anyway?"
"Make a fire tornado."
"'Make a--are you serious? You really are crazy!"
"What? Why?" Cale sounded confused and a little bit angry.
"Because there are people trying to kill us! And you want to make a fire tornado and lead them right to us?" It was Jazreal's turn to yell. She heeled the horse, riding faster.
"We'll be fine," Cale said with all confidence.
"Like my cousin is fine?!"
"Oh."
Jazreal was so angry she could barely speak. Here they were, having narrowly avoided the jaws of death which had already claimed Lydia's life, and this idiotic farm boy wanted to drag them right back into the middle of it. Jazreal made sure to stay well off the road, keeping to the wide lakeshore.
"I'm sorry. I didn't think," Cale apologized.
"That much is evident." Jazreal sighed. "The sad thing is, Lydia would really have liked you."
"Yeah?" Cale asked sadly. "You're saying you don't?"
Jazreal ignored him. "She had an older brother who was killed in a skirmish several years back. We never got along, but Lydia adored him more than life itself. I wish I had made more of an effort to get along with him."
"What's your home like?" Cale asked her in turn.
"My home is the Great Plains of the West, a sea of grass as vast and wide as the sky, where you may chase the sun for days and still not see the other side. My family, my tribe, made our home from the Mountains of the Sky in the east to the Indus River of the west. We are nomadic, following the herds and other tribes. My family is small compared to those of the great lodges, with only thirteen teepees. The past seasons have not been good to us. We lost many to the sleeping sickness." Her thoughts turned bitterly to her own family members. "Too many."
Jazreal relayed her fight and capture at the hands of invaders and their captivity and transport to Ras Shamara. She left much out about her flight with Lydia, mostly because it was none of Cale’s business.
"Where did Old Mother get your Sword?" asked Cale.
"It was my forefather's. He came to our land deeply wounded and my tribe accepted him as one of our own."
"They must be friendly, then."
"Not really."
They were headed downhill now, the fog obscuring their view of the lake. The embankment turned into a steep grade and Jazreal slowed her horse. Stones began peering at them from crags, thrusting up out of the ground. Perfect for a horse to break its leg. Or an ambush. They headed deeper into the gorge, passing boulders the size of teepees.
"I don't like this," Jazreal muttered in her own tongue.
"Yeah." Cale replied. Apparently her statement needed no translation.
They followed the roar of a waterfall, coming once more to a river. The wind picked up, coming in from the cliffs above and scattering the fog. The sun partially broke through, illuminating their surroundings. The rocks and boulders were, in fact, feet and legs, colossal characters carved in ebony and onyx and marble. The cliff face was practically covered with figures embossed right into the cliff wall. The waterfall spilled between arches so eroded by time the original carvings were unrecognizable.
Ancient towering figures which would put any man to shame, taller than any building, all clad in a dress unlike any Jazreal had seen. All their faces had been smashed. All of them had once carried swords. The statues on the ground must have towered over those even upon the cliffs, but there was little left. A big toe here, a sandal there, an arch that was in fact an elbow protruding from the ground on the other side of the river. No faces, no heads, no hands, no swords. But pieces of their memories remained, broken and shattered like their bodies. These were long forgotten men and women of old. Jazreal's people interned their dead in trees or upon scaffolding, preserving their bones as a memorial for future generations that their descendants might know their faces. But this was taking the practice to a whole new level. Jazreal had never seen anything like it. Evidently, owing to Cale's silence, neither had he.
"What is this place?" Talking normally sounded like a whisper under the roar of the waterfall.
"I have no idea." Cale sounded mesmerized. "Oh, apparently these are--" Jazreal didn't catch that, the waterfall drowning him out. "This place was already old when the world was new."
"How do you know this?"
"Sword told me."
"Right. Talking sword as old as time." Jazreal rolled her eyes.
Cale looked at the Knights in relief on the bluff. "I wonder if Sword is on one of those statues up there?"
Jazreal grew tired of this place. The spirits were restless here. "Let's go."
Jazreal urged the horse along the riverbank. They had to pass through a narrow canyon to get out, but if the river could do it, so could they. As they traveled farther from the falls, hearing became easier but the statues became smaller. Now, they were merely twice that of a man and carved from granite. When they entered the canyon, they were practically life-sized and fashioned from sandstone. Some of the newest ones still had their heads. But still no faces. Someone wanted the memory of this place stamped out.
She turned back to look once more. Maybe Cale was crazy, but he was also right. The spirits were strong here. This place was already old when the world was new.
And it would outlive them both.
Chapter XVII
Constant travel was a tiring thing. Jazreal, used to a nomadic lifestyle, fared far better than Cale. His training every morning did not help things, so Jazreal did all the riding. That said, she couldn't complain. The road was easy and smooth and Cale, for all his incessant chatter, was a welcome traveling companion.
The boy wanted to know everything about everything, like a winter calf in its first spring rain. She did her best to teach him, to answer his questions, but being a stranger in the land, she knew only half of the answers herself, and even then, usually only in her own language. So she contented herself on teaching him the basics of horseback riding, animal husbandry, how to hunt with a bow, a sling and a knife. The boy was a quick learner, fast and
attentive. His imagination tended to wander though, and he thought himself grander than he really was.
Cale, in turn, taught her the history and mythology and songs of his people. He spoke of heroes long past with such conviction, as if he had been there. But maybe he believed he had been, with that sword whispering in his ear as he claimed. He spoke on the finer points of being an Imperial Knight, to guard and protect the realms of men.
Jazreal had even let him drag her onto the sparring field to practice swordplay. She had never been fond of the feel of cold iron in her hand and doubted that would change anytime soon. She much preferred the creak of a fine yew bow. But in this land, they loved their sabers of steel, so Jazreal had to learn.
Fighting the Ranger on the riverbank had taught Jazreal a valuable lesson. Not one of speed versus brawn or of outwitting your larger opponent--Jazreal had known those lessons from her youth. Rather, it had taught her that as much as she might dislike the smell and feel in her hand, skill with a sword was an absolute necessity to learn.
"Keep your guard up!" Cale called to her.
The boy was drenched in sweat. He wheezed from where she'd kicked him in the chest. Jazreal hadn't fared much better. Her long hair stuck to her back, tied back into a ponytail as Cale taught her. She breathed heavily, awaiting the next move. Their horse, which Cale called Thunder and Jazreal refused to call anything but Horse, grazed at the grass along the highway.
Cale charged again, in high-guard position. It left his torso open to attack, but Jazreal knew that to be a feint. You only had to fool her once. Instead, she swung low, aiming for his legs. Cale wasn't there, though, instead rolling to the left. He came out with a lunge and Jazreal parried the tip away, staggering backwards. She didn't understand how he was so fast. Fighting with Old Mother's sword, she felt herself becoming quicker and nimbler. But Cale moved like lightning across a prairie sky. There was something animalistic about the speed he exerted with that sword in his hand. She would not say it was beyond human, but it was exceptional.
