The Exxar Chronicles: Book 02 - Emissary

by Neal Jones

"The bronze sword finalists. I caught part of the second round last night on the broadcasts."

  "No, I haven't. But I heard that Thayok won that round. He might be going against Cirnag."

  Kralin laughed. "Never! Cirnag has been the champion for five years in a row. He's not going to get beat by a rookie who can barely hold on to his sword. Thayok won by pure luck, that's all. He won't make it to the end of round three."

  The waitress delivered a round to the table of Kauramide, and then dropped off the two shots that Kralin ordered. "Would you like another bottle of turas?"

  "Yes," Kralin said immediately, cutting off Matok's reply. He reached for his shot. "To the sword."

  "To victory and blood."

  This was a common toast, especially among soldiers, and Kralin chased his shot with a long pull from his stein. He was well on his way to being thoroughly drunk, and he had a sudden urge to belt out a war song. He searched his memory, trying to recall one appropriate for a funeral, but nothing came to mind.

  "Matok, didn't you teach me a funeral song once? It was the one your battle sergeant taught to you, the one who served in the Chaygg campaigns."

  Matok thought for a moment and then said, "'The March of Ashra'."

  "Yes! That's the one." Kralin couldn't remember all the words at first, but they slowly came back to him as he started humming the melody, and Matok joined him on the chorus.

  The two men drew curious looks from the other customers, and a few even joined them on the second chorus. The Kauramide, however, didn't seem to appreciate the significant rise in noise level, and one of them shouted at Kralin to get his attention.

  "Hey! This isn't a funeral. Why don't you take it outside?"

  Kralin stopped in mid-verse and glanced over his shoulder at the scrawny alien. "If I had a face like that, I wouldn't be so quick to stick my ugly nose in business that doesn't concern me." He turned back around and started singing again.

  The other patrons, however, sensing the onset of an argument that would inevitably lead to a brawl, had turned their attention back to their various conversations and drinks. Kralin finished the third verse and motioned to Matok to join him on the chorus.

  "Hey!" This came from one of the other Kauramide, and he wasn't anywhere near as scrawny as the first.

  "Kralin," Matok warned, "I think we should just stick to drinking. We can sing later at my place."

  But Kralin had taken a swig of his turas between each verse and chorus, and he was in the process of refilling his stein with what little was left in the bottle. He stood, ignoring Matok, and turned to face the table of Kauramide.

  "If you don't like the music that me and my friend have chosen, you're welcome to leave."

  All four Kauramide stood in unison, and the waitress scurried over.

  "Gentlemen, if you want to beat each other senseless, you take it outside."

  "Good idea," Kralin said - and then hurled the empty bottle straight at Scrawny's head.

  The man ducked, but wasn't fast enough, and the bottle shattered against the side of his broad forehead, gashing the skin just above the left eye.

  Several things happened at once:

  - Kralin charged Scrawny –

  - Matok lunged across the table to catch Kralin –

  - the waitress backpedaled into a table, spilling drinks –

  - Scrawny's three friends surged forward –

  - several others jumped to their feet to help break up the fight –

  But by then it was too late. The brawl was in full swing, and Kralin got two good punches in before the other Kauramide hauled him off his feet and threw him against the nearest wall. Matok was as solidly built as the Kauramide, and he slugged one across the jaw, knocking the man backwards over the table. Steins shattered, beer splattered, and before Matok could grab Kralin and haul him out of the bar, a squad of constables poured into the place and broke up the fight rather quickly.

  It didn't take long for the peace officers to figure out who had started the whole thing. Kralin was bleeding from a gash on his right cheek, and the eye above it was starting to turn an ugly shade of brown. Scrawny was still bleeding from his forehead wound, and the Kauramide that Matok and slugged across the jaw was still out cold atop the debris from a smashed table.

  The bartender jabbed a finger in Kralin's direction. "He's the one that started it all by singing the war songs."

  "Are you pressing charges?" the deputy asked.

  "No. You all get out of here and go cool off somewhere else."

  The deputy nodded. "Let's go!" he barked.

  Matok handed his credit chip to the bartender. "Sorry, Rilba."

  "I want that second bottle of turas," Kralin said. "You put it on the tab, right?"

  "Kralin, go!" Matok snapped. "I'll meet you outside."

  The three Kauramide hauled their unconscious friend out the door, snarling under their breath as they went. Kralin followed at a distance, and the peace officers made sure that everyone went their separate ways. Matok came out a few minutes later, the bottle of turas tucked under one arm.

  "We're going back to my place."

  "I'm sorry, Matok."

  Matok froze in his tracks and whirled to face Kralin. "For what?"

  "Why are you angry with me?? I'm not the one who started that fight. It was the Kauramide that were being disrespectful!"

  "And you didn't listen to my warning! I just had to pay a hundred kril to Rilba for the damage we caused, not to mention the humiliation I had endure while I did it! I know half those people in there, Kralin! Rilba and I are old friends! You just shamed me in front of all of them, and for that alone I ought to –" He stopped, took a deep breath to calm himself, and then turned away. He started walking up the street towards the sildyr depot.

  "Ought to what?" Kralin demanded. "Say it, Matok!"

  But the older man ignored him.

  "I want that bottle of turas!"

  "Go home, Kralin," Matok said over his shoulder. "Be with your father."

  Kralin snarled in rage as he charged Matok. There was enough distance between them, however, that Matok had plenty of time to set the bottle down and prepare for the attack. He met Kralin head on, and while the former had hand-to-hand combat training as well as the rank of the Iron Sword of Mor'Kavo in Kali'Fhan, the latter was the only one halfway sober. He easily deflected Kralin's blows while landing a solid punch to the younger man's gut. Kralin gasped and doubled over, and Matok seized him in a choke hold, bringing them both to their knees.

  "You want to fight me, Kralin, then I can arrange for both of us to be in a Klara'Sihn arena tomorrow morning. But I'm done for tonight, and if I have to I will knock you out right now and leave you to sleep this off in a jail cell. Is that what you want??"

  Kralin gave one last snarl and then let himself go limp. "No," he muttered.

  Matok let him go and stood. Kralin snatched the bottle of turas and staggered to his feet. He glared at Matok.

  "Come home with me, Kralin. Let Bratin fix your cheek."

  "Krite you!" Kralin spat. He started walking up the street in the opposite direction.

  "Go home, Kralin!" Matok called after him. He watched his him disappear around the corner, and then sighed. He thought about following him, but then shook his head disgustedly as he trudged toward the sildyr depot. Kralin wasn't a child anymore, and Matok had suffered enough humiliation for one night. Farak's son was on his own.

  ( 5 )

  By the time he arrived at Inedra's door, Kralin had drank half the bottle of turas, and he'd wandered through the Sygha market square singing war songs at the top of his lungs. The market was closed, and no one in the houses surrounding the square had roused themselves to see who the gress was making such a racket. It was the end of the week, and this night was always filled with drunkards and revelers who would be on bended knee in the cathedrals tomorrow during worship service, asking the Father for forgiveness for their inebriated transgressions.

  Kralin, of course, had no
intention of going to worship tomorrow. He paused in the middle of a chorus to check the street signs, trying to remember if he had taken a right or a left turn at this corner. He didn't hear the footsteps of a peace officer behind him.

  "Sir, are you lost?"

  Kralin whirled, the liquor bottle raised as if it were a sword. As soon as he saw who it was he smiled and relaxed. "Yes, officer, as a matter of fact I am. I'm looking for the hostel where my friend is staying. It's near here, but I can't remember which street."

  "What's the name of your friend?"

  "Inedra Bre'el."

  The officer pulled a compad from his pocket and typed the name into it. As the device linked to its network and searched the local hostel directories, the officer watched Kralin from the corner of his eye. The major was singing under his breath, and he took another long swig from the bottle.

  "Beautiful night, isn't it?" Kralin slurred. He stared at the sky, mouth agape, as if he'd never seen stars before in his entire life.

  The deputy was taking note of the blackened eye and the bleeding cheek wound. "Sir, I need to see some ID."

  "What? Oh, right." Kralin rummaged in his pockets for a minute or two before finally producing his ID chip. He frowned as he looked at the other item, and then remember that it was Inedra's comm number. He looked around for a comm kiosk. "This is her number," he told the officer.

  "Sir, just stay where you are, please. I have located the hostel where an Inedra Bre'el is registered. I'm just checking your ID now." He slid the chip into his pad, and then watched Kralin take another drink. "Sir, I think you've had enough for tonight. You do realize that public drunkenness is a level two infraction?"

  It took a moment for this to sink in, and Kralin glowered at the officer, his grip tightening on the neck of the bottle. "You're welcome...you're welcome to try and take this from me!"

  The officer smiled and shook his head as he handed back the ID chip. "No, major, that's all right. Lieutenant Bre'el's hostel is just around this corner, to your left. Is she expecting you?"

  Kralin turned slowly so as not to get too dizzy. "Yes," he lied.

  "Let's go then."

  ( 6 )

  Inedra answered after the third ring, bleary eyed and only half awake. As soon as she saw the peace officer, she self- consciously clasped the neck of her robe, while using the other hand to brush hair away from her face.

  "Inedra Bre'el?"

  "Yes?"

  "Do you know this man?" The officer stepped to one side.

  "Kralin! My gods, what happened?"

  "I'll take that as a yes." He turned to Saveck. "Sir, I strongly suggest you remain at this residence for the rest of the night. If see you out in my territory again tonight, I will arrest you. Understand?"

  Kralin grinned and gave a mock salute. "Yes, sir!"

  "Kralin, get in here!" Inedra apologized to the officer as she yanked the major inside and shut the door. "Sit!" she ordered, pointing to one of the chairs at the kitchen table. "Computer, lights. Level three."

  While Inedra went to the bathroom to get a medkit, Kralin finished the turas and tossed the empty bottle in the general direction of the reclamator unit. He missed, of course, and the bottle bounced across the counter and landed in the sink where it promptly shattered.

  "What the krite??"

  "Sorry," Kralin mumbled. "At least it broke in the sink."

  "What's the matter with you? And what happened to your face?" Inedra set the medkit on the table and withdrew a dermal regenerator.

  "I'm drunk."

  "Yeah, I can see that." She lifted his chin and turned his head to the left. "Hold still. This might sting a little."

  Kralin winced as the beam from the regenerator closed the wound. He could only see out of his left eye, and he had to squint because he was staring straight into the overhead source.

  "So may I assume that you also inflicted this much damage on the other guy?" Inedra put away the regenerator and reached for another instrument.

  "I did. He was a kriten Kauramide! There were four of them, and they didn't like traditional war songs." Kralin sucked air through his teeth as the second tool reduced the swelling of his black eye.

  "Hold still! I'm almost done." Inedra shut off the instrument and walked to the sink to wet a towel. She handed it to Kralin, and then carefully brushed pieces of glass from the counter into the sink. "Wash your face."

  He obeyed while Inedra closed the medkit. "Do you have any of that thryt left?"

  "No. Let me see what I've got." She opened the cooler unit. "So what made you pick a fight with the Kauramide? And why were you singing war songs anyway?"

  "It was funeral song."

  "Oh." Inedra set a dish on the table and handed a fork to Kralin. "Who passed beyond?"

  "My mother."

  "Oh...I'm sorry." She couldn't think of anything else to say so she walked to the sink and started cleaning up the broken glass.

  Kralin didn't realize how hungry he was until he started eating, and he devoured the meat in a matter of minutes. "Thank you," he said and then belched.

  Inedra smiled. "You're welcome."

  Kralin sat back, his head swimming and his gut full, and he no longer felt like singing. He watched Inedra put the empty dish in the reclamator, and when she came back to the table he stood and grabbed her hand, pulling her towards the bedroom. She didn't resist, and she lay awake for a long while after they were through, her head resting on his bare chest, his heartbeat resonating in her right ear.

  Softly, she murmured a song that her ensaj had taught her when she was little. It was a prayer to the Priest for those who have suffered great loss and have lost their way.

  It was a prayer to guide them home.

  ( 7 )

  Kralin groaned and turned onto his side. He forced his eyes open, grateful that the window's visor was activated, and tried to sit up. His head was pounding, his mouth dry, and his throat felt like someone had detonated a plasma grenade inside it. His entire body felt like dead weight, and a sudden wave of nausea forced him to his feet. He stumbled in the general direction of the bathroom and almost didn't make it.

  Inedra was waiting with a freshly brewed pot of tea when Kralin finally staggered to the kitchen table. He was still naked. She poured him a mug and slid it across the table. "Drink this. I put some tonn leaf in it. It should calm your stomach."

  He reluctantly obeyed. He closed his eyes and rested his head in his hands. "What time is it?" he croaked.

  "Still morning."

  "How much longer are you on leave?"

  "Four more days."

  He opened his eyes and raised his head. "Will you come with me to the funeral? It'll probably be the day after tomorrow."

  Inedra nodded. "Of course. I'd be honored."

  Kralin sipped his tea, his headache finally subsiding to a dull roar.

  Inedra watched him drink, both of them comfortable with the silence. When he was finished she asked, "Do you want me to start a shower?"

  He nodded and followed her into the bathroom, closing the door behind them. The water was nearly cold by the time they were done.

  "Are you going to services?" Kralin asked as he dressed. He sniffed his shirt and wrinkled his nose at the foul stench that wafted from it. It was stained with blood and ale.

  "Give it to me," Inedra said, pointing to the closet. "The desk clerk said that the last occupant left some of his clothes here. He offered to remove them for me, but I said I didn't care. See if something in there fits, and I'll leave this to be washed." She tossed the shirt onto a pile of her own clothes near the bed. "No, I wasn't planning to go to services."

  "Good."

  "It's almost midday. You should go see your father. He'll need your help with making the service arrangements."

  "I know," Kralin replied, irritable, then immediately apologized. "I'm sorry." He put on a plain shirt that was a size too big.

  "Don't be. I understand."

  He sighed as he sat on the edge
of the bed. "Everything is already arranged. My father doesn't need my help."

  "How do you know that?"

  "I know. Believe me." He stood and reached for his jacket. He started for the door but then stopped and turned. "Thank you."

  "You're welcome. Are you coming back later?"

  "I might. Do you know how to cook jeel pasta?"

  She smiled. "I haven't for awhile, but I think I remember the recipe. I may have to substitute one or two ingredients since the market's closed."

  "Then I'll be here for an early supper. Do you have any irrila left?"

  Inedra stood and held out her hand. A rolled joint rested in her palm. "This is my last one."

  "I'll buy some more for tonight." Kralin tucked it away in his breast pocket.

  Inedra reached for his hand once more and turned it so the palm was facing up. She gently kissed the inside of his wrist, and then did the same to the other hand. Kralin recognized the custom as a symbol of solace for those who are grieving, and the gesture caught him off guard. He smiled awkwardly and nodded in return before stepping out into the harsh glare of the late morning sun.

  He walked through the empty market square, strolling casually, in no hurry to get home. His thoughts wandered in the same manner as his feet, going in no particular direction except to bring forth memories of his mother and the words of their last conversation together.

  Kralin shook his head as he turned onto a new street. He wanted to think of nothing just now, and his body ached from dehydration, hunger, and grief. He glanced up at the traffic overhead, what little of it there was, and felt a sudden longing to simply leave. The shuttle depot wasn't very far from the market square, and he could be on his way back to Exxar-One in just a couple hours. But then he thought of his father, how broken and frail he had appeared in the parlor last night as he talked with the shil'ra and Doctor Zokem.

  Kralin sighed as he turned his gaze back to the street, and he was surprised to see the cathedral up ahead. He must have been walking for longer than he thought, and he scowled, turning away. But then he remembered the joint in his breast pocket, and he smiled to himself. He turned back and walked briskly into the courtyard of the church. The trio of stone steeples towered high above him, and from somewhere in the chapel drifted the faint voices of the choir. Services had only just begun, so there was plenty of time. Kralin found a secluded corner of the yard, a bench where he wouldn't be seen from either the street or the front entrance of the church. He sat and removed the joint from his pocket, lit it, and then inhaled deep. A tall haavis tree provided shade for the bench as well cover from anyone who might be passing by the courtyard, and Kralin held his breath for as long as he was able. He exhaled just as the choir began a new song, and Kralin took his time, basking in the narcotic bliss of the irrila.