by Robert Day
Kiroba. That word sent a chill down her spine and more tears to her eyes as she tried to turn and look towards where they had come from. She knew somewhere behind them the campfire burned, and maybe Andrak and Tyrun were preparing to come after her, but she silently hoped they would not. The Kiroba, Assassins from Dak’mar, were not reputed to leave witnesses to their actions, and should Andrak and Tyrun find them it would no doubt result in their deaths.
Still, she sent out her prayers as Hagar carried her inexorably away from rescue, but her hopes seemed to fade with every long step, until finally mental and physical exhaustion overcame her.
With one eye still on the surrounding trees, Andrak knelt beside the still form of Ka'Varel. Tyrun, opposite, was studying the old scholar's wounds, his face lined with trails of tears that cut through the fine spray of blood.
“These wounds are bad,” he stated harshly without looking to the Prince, his large hands pressed against the deeper wounds, trying to stifle the flow of dark blood. “He lives yet, but there is little time.”
“Time for what?” asked Andrak hotly. Already he felt that Kitara was far from him, and he could not let the kidnappers run too far before he started after them. “We must be after Kitara, and soon!”
Tyrun looked up at the Prince, and Andrak saw matched emotion in the eyes of the big man, but there was anger also and he shifted back slightly, wondering if he had somehow offended the proud barbarian. “If he dies, we have nothing. Without his guidance, this war will be on us before we know it. I must take him to be healed.”
“But where?” asked Andrak incredulously. “The nearest healer or Temple is over fifty leagues away, a trip of two days on the fastest horse, and he won't even last until dawn. Besides, our horses have been driven off, and it will take hours to find them.”
The big man stood suddenly and Andrak flinched, ready to roll away should Tyrun strike at him, but the Barbarian ran to their equipment and picked up his pack and Ka'Varel's before returning. Placing Ka'Varel's pack down, he rummaged through it briefly before pulling out a small metal box inlaid with various gems on the lid, depicting what seemed to be a dragon.
“This will take us to a place where he can be healed,” he stated, carefully pulling open the lid, revealing a small diamond pyramid, flawlessly smooth, along with a long silvery chain. Taking both items out, he placed the box back in Ka'Varel's pack.
“I cannot leave Kitara,” advised Andrak, rising as the barbarian uncoiled the silver chain and began to circle it around Ka'Varel's body until it came to its end, linking in a whole circle. “I must go after her.”
Tyrun rose and uncharacteristically grasped Andrak's hand. “Then with luck, we will meet again one day.”
Andrak nodded thanks and stepped back as Tyrun knelt back beside Ka'Varel and took up the small pyramid. With a gentle twist of his big hands he spun its tip one turn. Nothing happened for a moment, when the pyramid and chain began to glow. First it was nothing more than a pale light, but it built quickly until a dome of light covered the two men, and Andrak had to avert his gaze. The moments passed until the brightness vanished without sound, and he opened his eyes to find everything vanished that had been in the circle. There was no trace of their passing other than the dark stain of blood on the grass.
Wasting no time to wonder at this feat, Andrak raced to his own gear and began lightening his pack. Food he kept, but little else other than a spare dagger, a blanket and a change of clothes. From Kitara's pack he retrieved her Harp, which had once belonged to the Elvin Bard, Llewellyn. He also stowed the large book of prophecies she had been reading. He used strips from a shirt to dress and bind his wounded side, finding the deep wound had missed anything vital, but bled furiously.
He decided that retrieving one of the horses would serve him better in the long run, for although they had been on foot, the kidnappers may have had horses nearby, and there was no way he could keep up with riders on foot, no matter how many of them there were.
He almost rued his decision as he searched fruitlessly for some time. In the dim light of the waning Santari and new Qantari he could see little, but after a time he heard the familiar sounds of a horse and tracked it. It was his own horse, Jester, a young grey gelding, which he quieted after some soothing words, obviously still spooked by the attack in the glade. Luckily his saddle was still fixed and the reins were simply cut, letting him re-tie them.
He estimated that the kidnappers had a head start of three hours on him by the time he got underway, but he made a silent vow to catch them, even if it meant tracking them to the Great Eastern Desert and beyond.
Chapter 6
The wash of cold water woke Valdieron from a fitful slumber, marred by deluded dreams and nightmares, all of which, though separate, seemed now to have been one jumbled vision. He vaguely recalled semi consciousness on a few occasions, though when he could not tell, but once he thought he remembered being held in a dark cage, and another being dropped into darkness that seemed not to end.
A silted light greeted his eyes and he squinted painfully, moving to shade his eyes with one hand but found his wrist secured at his side by a leather thong. On moving his head, a sharp pain ran along his back and up his neck, causing him to croon.
His memory returned instantly, and it was no surprise to him to find a lean Darishi standing over him, an empty pail held in one hand, while the other held a slender dagger. He was young but hard, and he regarded Valdieron with a scowl, not obscured by his long dark hair.
“The Equinary will sentence you now!”
“Sentence?” Valdieron's bewilderment lasted momentarily before he remembered the words of Khalan moments before he lost consciousness. “...he will pay for my brother's death!” This meant they were in Salt Springs, an indication he had been unconscious for at least a day. There was an acrid taste in his mouth, and it struck him that his prolonged sleep was probably drug induced, until such time as he could pass for trial.
He made to speak, but the Darishi motioned him for silence with his dagger as he bent down to unfasten the leather cords binding him to a long wooden bench. With one wrist free, the Darishi bound it to his other before unfastening him completely, bemusing Valdieron, as he felt so stiff and sore that he could hardly move, let alone be able to disarm and overpower the Darishi. When his ankles were unfastened, the Darishi pulled him harshly to his feet, where he wobbled unsteadily and probably would have fallen if not for the Darishi's firm grip.
They were in an oubliette. The smooth dirt walls were covered with dark lichen and moss, an indication of the moisture in the ground. It was cool, though near the entry it was obvious that outside was far warmer. There was no ladder leading out, but the Darishi motioned for him to raise his arms. The roof was barely above Valdieron's head, so his wrists and hands cleared the ceiling.
He was grabbed by rough hands and lifted through the opening. Waves of heat assailed him as he closed his eyes against the brightness, and he was shoved to the side, stumbling on shaky legs and almost falling, but forcing himself to remain standing.
Clouds did not hinder the sun’s early morning passage as it clawed its way above the horizon. The land here was flat to the west, but dropped away to the east, where a wide pond stretched some hundred paces. Beyond that lay vast rolling plains, an ocean of parched grass dotted sporadically by bent trees. The south was much the same, but to the north the land rose and became lusher, scattered with trees and bushes. Several small strips of crops lay together in one section, while large corrals enclosed cattle, sheep and horses.
Positioned along one side of the pond was a small community of makeshift dwellings, mostly tents and pavilions, but some other small huts with interlaced log walls and thatched roofs. Despite the burgeoning morning heat, he could see people moving along the dusty walkways between dwellings, some with children or carrying items, while a few women carried baskets of clothing from the pond where they had probably washed them.
A large crowd of people surrounded the wo
rn area above the oubliette, twenty paces around the wooden hatchway which was closed again as the Darishi jailer was hoisted out, somewhat gentler than Valdieron had been handled.
In the Northern section of the clearing, a wooden dais was erected. Atop it sat a solitary bone throne lined with a black lion pelt, the beast’s head and mane acting as a baldachin. Four Darishi warriors flanked the dais, dressed in ceremonial cloaks and holding tasseled pole-arms.
Two other warriors moved from behind and grabbed him under the armpits, half guiding, half dragging him towards the dais. As they moved the crowd parted with an expectant buzzing, and four people emerged to climb the dais.
One was the unmistakable figure of Khalan, dressed in white, though he still wore the black cloak. His face was downcast, appearing mournful, but he did raise a contemptuous look at Valdieron, followed by a mocking smile.
There was another man, appearing much as Dhalan had, tall and handsome, though more thickly muscled and maybe slightly taller. His dark hair was flecked with white streaks, belying his age. He walked with confidence and surety, though slightly banded, not surprising for a man who had most likely spent most of his life on horseback. He also wore predominantly white, as did the others, which Val assumed to be a symbol of mourning here.
The other two were women, and where Dhalan and the King were similar so were these two, most likely mother and daughter. Both were tall, though the mother was slightly larger of frame, and her hair was flecked with grey. Her face was wide and proud, with large mouth and nose, which she had obviously passed down to her daughter. Both wore diaphanous lace gowns that appeared almost scandalous, but no doubt such garb was not uncommon given their practicality in the scorching conditions.
The Equinary sat, while his wife and children stood behind him. It was obvious to Valdieron that the women of the Darishi were not held in as much esteem as the males. He had seen no female warriors, and there seemed to be few young females.
A hushed quiet fell, then a surprised whispering sprung up as Valdieron dropped to one knee in obeisance such that he had seen at the court in Thorhus. While he knew nothing of the Darishi nobility, he felt he should show some subservience and respect, for so far it seemed he was not viewed very highly.
“Rise, Valdieron of Tyr and hear judgment.”
Valdieron rose and surveyed the Equinary, whose voice and demeanor showed signs of tiredness. It appeared Khalan had made his move to kill Dhalan while his father was still in command of the clan, though it was obvious the Equinary would soon have to step down or be forced to step aside. Not that he was old, scarcely fifty years, but the years were not kind to him, it seemed, his eyes sunken and his skin tight. His eyes however, a pale green, showed some life and they held Valdieron as he spoke, though they were lined with moisture.
“Valdieron of Tyr, for the murder of Dhalan, Chieftain of the Black Lion Clan and first heir to the title of Equinary of the Black Lion clan, you will be executed by hanging, your body burned and scattered over the lands. How do you wish to plead?”
Each word the Equinary spoke sent a shiver of anger and regret through Valdieron. He shifted his gaze to watch Khalan as the sentence was read, but the Prince was not looking at him, to all appearances the mourning brother.
“On my word, I say the guilt lies elsewhere, Lord of the Black Lion Clan.” Under other circumstances he may have been proud of his choice of words, but it was important he show the proper decorum here, even though he had no experience in these matters. His answer brought another hushed whispering from the crowd, though he could sense their anger and distrust.
Most likely the Equinary had been prepared for such an answer, though he arched his brow slightly in surprise, or was it disbelief? Maybe he was so predisposed towards Valdieron's guilt that he thought Valdieron would simply confess.
“And how do you propose to prove yourself?” This came gravely, and even Valdieron wondered how he could do so. The crowd watched him expectantly, maybe waiting for him to crack and try to escape. “Have you a witness to attest to your innocence?”
Valdieron shook his head ruefully. “No, lord, but if you would hear my story, then perhaps you might not be so inclined to sentence me to death.”
Khalan's head shot up at this, and he looked to his father hopefully, hoping the lord would not grant Valdieron's request, but the Equinary nodded slowly. “Speak, Valdieron of Tyr, but know that what you say is worth little without proof.”
Valdieron inclined his head thankfully, still down on one knee. “On my word as a warrior of the realms I swear that what I say is truth, and should it still not sway your decision, then I at least go to my death with honor.” These plainsmen seemed to live by an honorable and strict social structure, and his words seemed to strike something in the crowd, who began to buzz again, and the King gave a nod that his words would be heard and dealt with accordingly.
And so Valdieron began his short story from the time he entered into the plains. He told of Kaz, knowing that to omit anything would provide a chance for incrimination should it be revealed later. When he mentioned the Hara'kar, the crowd erupted into an angry buzz, and there were many questioning eyes turned to the Equinary, who quieted them with raised hands.
“As the melee lengthened, Chieftain Dhalan was lost to me as I battled the Hara'kar. It was not until a break in the fighting that I saw Khalan carrying his brother in his arms, obviously dead. Then Khalan lowered Dhalan to the ground and ordered the Hara'kar to take me alive so that I could pay for Dhalan's death. They overpowered me, and that was the last I knew, since I awoke just now.”
The crowd buzzed again, and this time there were questioning looks towards Khalan, whose head was raised, but he clutched at his sisters hand for support, and tears ran down his cheeks. His father turned to him, and there was a questioning look in his eyes.
“For this man to speak such lies is an indication of his lack of honor, after giving his word he would speak the truth.” The words were faulty with tremors, a perfect act by the Prince as he continued to cry. “I fought off he and his Hara'kar hirelings, Dhalan's body at my feet with this man's sword through his chest. How can he speak of honor after such a deed that will forever haunt my dreams and those of our family?”
Valdieron almost laughed at the incredulous words, but he knew the crowd was enchanted by the Prince's rousing lies. Instead he reverted his gaze back to the Equinary, who was studying him intently.
“Have you anything else to say, Valdieron of Tyr?”
“Only that I spoke the truth, Lord, and that had your son really faced me in Battle as he said, then he would also be dead now, but instead it is I, captured under false pretences after facing him and six Hara'kar.”
“Your reputation has indeed become known to us, Valdieron of Tyr, but to say your skills as a warrior rival that of a first cavalier is presumptuous in the least.”
Valdieron merely shrugged, suddenly tired and feeling the weight of forced guilt on his shoulders. “There is only one way to find out.”
The crowd gasped as one, whether at Valdieron's temerity or his foolishness at challenging Khalan, he could not tell. Khalan's face seemed to light up, however, as if he had expected or hoped for such a chance to dismiss the possibilities of his guilt. If he killed Valdieron, it would only help to quell those who disbelieved his motives, while if Valdieron won, he would still have to be sentenced, though it would not likely change.
“You would challenge my son in his current state of shock and mourning?” The King sounded incensed by the challenge, though a part of him seemed willing to agree to the combat.
“I cannot say I am in better shape. I am cramped, wounded, tired and have been drugged for at least the last day, the effects of which are still making me unsteady. To say I have the advantage would be untrue. All I need is my sword and a moment to prepare.”
If the Equinary held any reservations, the crowd was more than willing to see the battle. A soft chant of 'Fight! Fight!' grew. He turned to his son, who
nodded slightly, though not until he wiped the forced tears from his eyes.
“Bring his sword!”
The crowd let out a cheer as one of the guards brought forth Valdieron's sword and tossed it at his feet. Valdieron took hold of it, feeling its familiar warmth and presence, but even as he rose he knew he was in trouble. His muscles were stiff and sore, and his back was burning like a forge. Every little cut he had received against the Hara'kar burned as sweat invaded the wounds.
He asked for some water, which was granted, and he took a long drink. Khalan leaped from the dais, removing his heavy cloak and unsheathing his saber. Val removed his own shirt, tentatively so as not to break off too much dried blood from his wounds, especially the long cut across his shoulders, but it was no use, and he felt blood flowing down his back as the wound began to seep again. The crowd buzzed at this for some reason, sensing this would not be the only blood to flow.
If the lethargy he felt had been drug induced, he hoped it would pass as the adrenalin began to build. He stretched weakly, trying to coax sleepy muscles into use, and when the King clapped his hands for the combat to begin, he still felt leaden.
Khalan's visage was set in a determined grimace as he advanced on Valdieron, slowly and inexorably. Valdieron waited for the Prince, knowing every second gave his body that much longer to recover. The saber was arcing in on him quickly, however, and he was forced to make a sweeping parry, and the fight was joined.
Luckily for him, Khalan was not the warrior Javin was, and Valdieron had improved more since the tournament. He was good, however, and he matched Valdieron stroke for stroke as they spun around the circle like two dancers trying to match each other's moves. The crowd warmed to the entertainment, 'oohing' each time a stroke was barely evaded and cheering each time there was a nick, even when it was Khalan doing the bleeding. His white shirt was soon soaked with sweat and blood, but his face remained locked in a sneer as he desperately tried to outfight Valdieron.
