by Robert Day
Akor removed his shirt so that he was naked from the waist up, as was Valdieron. The young Darishi was slightly taller than Valdieron, and more muscled, and he settled into a stance waiting for Valdieron.
The clanking of the wooden weapons soon drew the attention of the others in the camp, though some of the other Haita’kar had watched Akor with interest as he had posed the question to Valdieron. Soon, several had left the fire and were gathered around the two, bringing with them their own wooden weapons in hopes of participating.
Valdieron noticed this as he danced around Akor, slowly building himself into a fluid style. He also noticed somebody peer out of the Equinary's tent to see what the commotion was, and Valdieron thought it was the Equinary himself, though the face disappeared quickly. Jalek was also watching, though he appeared to be sleeping, as if he did not want anybody to notice him.
Akor proved to be a competent warrior, though not in the same class as Khalan or Javin. He was fast and keen, however, and he almost scored hits on Valdieron on a few occasions.
That was until Valdieron began to read the Darishi's style, as he had been taught in Kel’Valor. The Darishi used predominantly sabers or shorter bladed weapons because of their ease of use on horseback, and as a result their attacks were numbered. Snap thrusts and sharp cuts were predominant in attack, and defensively they liked to try to disarm opponents, locking weapons and twisting hands and arms to maneuver the opponent's weapon. There was hardly ever a double handed grip used, as one hand was usually necessary to carry a shield or maneuver the horse, though he had seen the Darishi practicing maneuvering their horses with their legs, difficult but not impossible, especially for these natural riders and their finely trained mounts.
Akor tried desperately to defend against Valdieron's constant stream of cuts and thrusts, taking several minor hits along the arms. It was only a matter of time before Valdieron found the gap he needed in the young man's defense, and his wooden weapon cracked against the Darishi's ribcage. Both winced, Akor because of the pain and Valdieron because he had not meant to strike so hard, and he expected the Haita'kar to become angry. He remembered the pride Khalan had felt during their duel, taking it as a personal insult when hit, but Akor merely forced a smile and redoubled his efforts, not in anger but in an effort not to be hit again, which said something about his character. Val hoped there were more Darishi like Akor, who did not mix honor with pride and let it control their emotions. He thought of Dhalan, and knew the young Prince would have been much like Akor.
With his style that was part Kay'taari and part Wind Dancer, he soon had Akor disarmed and acknowledging his defeat with an accepting smile. Returning the smile, Valdieron motioned for him to retrieve his weapon and try again, but a voice cut him off and he turned as another Haita'kar entered the circle, carrying his own weapon. He was smiling, though it seemed to be mocking Valdieron, as if to say to defeat Akor was nothing.
Valdieron turned to Akor briefly, and he saw the young Darishi regarding the other with a frown, but he said nothing, perhaps fearing the older warrior. Valdieron noted the new Darishi was almost a head taller than he or Akor, and he moved with the confidence of an experienced warrior.
Sensing this had suddenly turned personal, Val wondered how many others would challenge him if he defeated this man, hoping to gain honor in the eyes of the others by defeating this strange warrior. He considered declining the challenge, but that would only make Valdieron look like a coward, and the Haita'kar would gain without having to fight.
Valdieron would make him earn his honor, however, and smilingly invited the warrior to close. The Darishi did so with a low chuckle, as if to say Valdieron should have just walked away. Valdieron heard Akor shift behind him and return to the circle, giving them room.
This new warrior was good, proving it with his opening sequence by scraping Valdieron's pants with a thrust, but that was the closest he got as Valdieron used one of the moves learned from Llewellyn. Letting the big Darishi force him back with a series of thrusts, he waited until he became frustrated, and when a low thrust came, hard and fast but overbalanced, he drew his right leg back and arced his sword in to deflect the other's wide, hitting it hard to increase the momentum. With his right leg moving backwards he continued to spin with it, arcing it around in a circle to catch the Darishi across the cheek as he tried to right himself. The kick was solid, but the Darishi was strong and managed to flick his sword back at Valdieron's exposed ribs, but with his body still spinning, Valdieron brought his sword back across and halted the chop with a resounding crack, and then another as he stepped back.
What he had expected Akor to do before, this warrior did, as rage showed on his face. With a cry he leapt at Valdieron, raining down heavy blows that Valdieron hoped would not snap his wooden sword as he backed away, once again setting up his opponent.
This time, when he made his move, the Darishi was more prepared for it. Valdieron waited for a high overhead chop, performed with a double handed grip after a succession of low thrusts, but sensing the strike, darted forward and to the left, inside the weapon's range, feigning the high parry but reversing the sword at the last moment to arc it around and under the Darishi's hands, straight for his stomach. Cleverly, and maybe anticipating the move, the Darishi was already moving to his left, away from Valdieron, twisting himself so that Valdieron's sword scarcely scraped across his stomach as he arced away from it. As it was, he still held his sword high, and swung down with an angled chop at Valdieron's exposed back.
Cursing his miss and knowing the attack was forthcoming, Valdieron rolled, hearing and thankfully not feeling the wooden sword as it passed over his back. He came to his feet facing the Darishi who was scowling, perhaps wondering how Valdieron had evaded his attack. A wave of whispering and 'ahhing' went up from the Darishi encircling them, which only seemed to make his opponent more furious.
A third pass had Valdieron backpedaling again, relying on angles to frustrate the Darishi as the heavier attacks slid harmlessly across his wooden sword. A lot of the times he just evaded the attacks altogether, finding no reason to wear himself out against the stronger opponent. This caused the Darishi to control himself, and soon he was making a serious attempt at breaking Valdieron's defenses.
Luckily for Valdieron, the big man was not as fit as he was, and soon the Darishi was tiring from his labored fighting. After one chop, which Valdieron stepped into and helped to the side where the wooden sword struck hard into the ground, he flicked at the Haita'kar's leading foot with his own foot, catching it and sweeping it further across the warrior. His balance gone, the man tried to recover by shifting his weight back and to the side, but Valdieron's wooden sword caught him once on the arm and another on the back of his head in quick succession, neither hard but the Darishi knew he was defeated.
With a growl he turned on Valdieron, who made ready to defend more attacks, but the Hara'kar threw his wooden weapon down and stalked away. The now jeering crowd parted to let him pass, and he made some comments in the Darishi language as he went, their general meaning guessed by Valdieron.
Yet another stepped forward, nodding greeting to Valdieron, who raised his sword before him in acknowledgment. With a sigh he advanced on the Haita'kar.
Chapter 8
Andrak cursed as the afternoon light slowly faded under the cloudy sky overhead. The day was still stifling in its heat and he wiped the stinging sweat from his face and eyes, though he prayed that rain would not come.
He had wandered almost aimlessly after Kitara's kidnappers for the whole day, though his going was slow, as every so often he would have to dismount and check the surroundings for signs of passage. Although he was not an expert tracker, he had spent time with his father's Huntsmen while growing up, and knew enough to track these kidnappers.
Or so he had thought, but he had barely found more than a few traces over the course of the day, and his last had been a snapped branch off a small bush some time ago. He was heading generally south west, or at lea
st that was where whatever he was tracking was going, but he did not know if it was the kidnappers or a local farmer or even animals. The signs were new, and he could only hope he was not going astray.
The failing light threatened to bring a halt to his chase. Rather than risk losing whatever trail he had in the night by having the kidnappers change course, he decided to resume at first light, but his hopes were fading faster than the light. The first tiny speck of moisture struck his face, and he cursed his ill luck. He only hoped the kidnappers had also stopped for the night, and maybe they were stupid enough to build a fire unprotected enough for him to see the glow or the smoke.
A sheltered glade with a sheer sided depression became his shelter; literally stumbling upon it as he stubbornly pressed his horse into the darkness. There would be no light from the twin moons this night, pale as they were in their quarters. Luckily, the wind and rain was not strong, and angled from behind the high depression and trees, dampening its force to an almost bearable level, but still he was soon soaked through. Jester, his horse, stamped against the irritation and flapped his ears and tail to clear away drops.
The next morning, any signs of passage were driven away by the wind and rain, but he kept travelling to the south west, hoping he might find something further along. The rain, though not heavy, looked to have set in for a time, meaning there might by mud tracks soon, though the chances of him finding them were slim. Either he was already past these kidnappers who were moving on foot, or they were travelling in an entirely different direction. He considered criss-crossing in an attempt to locate a trail, but lamented such a loss of time, with no guaranteed result.
During the next four days he was still unsuccessful, having no luck with a few farmers whose homesteads he passed, even being chased off one by a grumpy old farmer whose dogs seemed keen on chasing him all day, until after about a league they turned back. With a rueful smile he wished he had his bow with him. Indeed, his food supply was getting leaner by the day, no matter how abstemious he was for some meals, and maybe the farmer would have rued sending his dogs after him if they ended up on his menu.
And so, as he looked up at the towering massif that was the Arkanth ranges, six days of searching had found him nothing. He guided his horse ever upwards, yet his hope was fading. His frustration and anger built with each passing day, and it was soon he wished the rumored dangers of this region would confront him.
But somebody once said careful what you wish for, and it was his third night in the range, having passed a natural ghat in the sharp peaks and beginning down the other side, that a clamor awoke him from another fitful sleep. The rain had ceased, though heavy clouds still made the twin moons tread slinking paths across their well worn routes.
Coming awake with a start, Andrak rolled quickly to his feet, taking up his blanket and hastily stowing it and securing his pack. Jester seemed restless where he was tied, though he did not act as if he smelt or sensed danger. Whatever had woken the Prince had been some distance away, he guessed.
Peering intently into the darkness, his tiredness forgotten as he listened for any other noises, he was rewarded with a vague clanging of metal on rock, this sounding fairly close. Making a quick estimation, he found it had come from down wind. Whatever it was, it at least had the intelligence not to try to sneak up on him from upwind, and that made it dangerous. With unsteady hands he set flame to his lantern, despite the fact he was almost out of oil, fearing light might soon be an important ally.
Stay and fight or take his chances and run? He weighed up his options. The darkness made flight extremely dangerous, almost sheer folly considering the still damp conditions and the terrain, but it might have been preferable than facing whatever it was that approached him. He knew that Goth, the southern cousins of the Hrolth, were prevalent in these ranges, but usually they would not so threaten an armed passer by.
Carefully untying the horse's fetters in the darkness, Andrak ran a calming hand along Jester’s neck to quiet him. He drew his sword and waited. His eyes scanned the gloom and he was listening intently for any minor sounds, the lantern hidden beneath the heavy fold of his cloak. He would see what it was that faced him before making the decision to fight or flee.
A throaty cry broke the stillness, shaking him by its proximity as he had seen or heard nothing. It must have been a signal, as at that time several other grunting cries went up and movement broke the darkness. He was against a small defile in the rock, with a jagged drop-off on the downhill side. Unfortunately, the cries and movement came from the three other directions.
Recognizing the guttural language of the Goth, he rolled away from his horse, knowing the small creatures preferred to use crossbows and sometimes spears at range, and he was both relieved and angered when he heard the clicking of several bolts and spears skipping off the ground, followed by Jester’s scream of pain. There was a brief scuffling before a soft thud as he guessed the horse fell, too fast to be caused by death only, which meant the weapons were coated with a poison of sorts.
A quick scan of his lantern found it still burning, despite its rough handling, so he hastily threw back the hood and turned it to maximum consumption. This threw a bright light along the defile, and would certainly have disoriented him for a while if he had not averted his gaze.
But it did surprise the Goth. Being creatures of the night, they had their own enhanced night vision, not the Infravision of Elves or Dwarves, who had attuned to the constant darkness of their subterranean world. Theirs was the ability to use what vague light there was to focus, making their vision not excellent in near pitch darkness, but enough to make movement (and fighting) possible. Unfortunately for them, their eyes were also that much more sensitive, so the sudden appearance of a bright light (for those who dwell in near total darkness, lantern light was like a sun), their eyes could not adapt quickly enough without causing discomfort and pain.
Andrak seized upon his opportunity, running down the shallow defile, knowing that there lay his chance of escape. Three Goth were perched there, two behind boulders, while another stood in the middle of the defile, fumbling for a crude bronze scimitar at its belt while rubbing at burning eyes. The other two were the same, though both still held their crossbows. Another Goth above the defile was recovering quickly and reaching for another spear as Andrak closed on the open Goth.
The creature saw him approach and managed to free his weapon, though it regarded him through teary eyes as it blinked furiously to try and recover its vision. To its credit, it managed an awkward attack on the Prince, perhaps in desperation, knowing how vulnerable it was.
Andrak turned the bronze weapon aside, and with a flick of the wrist ran the creature through, carefully finding a gap in its chain hauberk. It screamed in pain, jerking away from the attack, but it stumbled and fell, twitching for several moments before coming still.
Andrak turned, knowing the Goth was out of the fight and that the other three were serious threats. With a quick scan, he turned to attack the slower of the two Goth, though this was only a feint as he turned back to the other, and heard a crack of steel on stone behind him and knew that the Goth above had thrown his spear to where he thought Andrak was going.
The Goth he turned to was suffering the same affects from the light held directly before it. It panicked, having heard its companion's fate, and knowing it could not reload the crossbow in time, threw it at the Prince instead.
Cursing the unexpected attack, Andrak tried to fend the crossbow with his sword while trying to move with its force. He managed to partially deflect its force, but it slid along his longsword and caught him in the shoulder.
The blow sent him off balance, and he slid awkwardly on the rough ground, his foot slipping out from under him. He managed to retain his sword as he struck the ground, but he felt the lantern fly from his sweating grasp. He followed it with his eyes as it smashed against the ground with a popping flash, before flame began to build from the spilled oil.
This only disoriented the seco
nd Goth with the crossbow, who saw his opponent disappear behind the wall of flame. Its rage allowed it to squeeze off a shot, despite the agonizing pain, the crossbow clicking as the taut string uncoiled and loosed the quarrel.
Andrak heard the click of release over the burning oil and the howling from the other Goth charging down the defile, and turned sideways in a desperate attempt to protect his face and to offer up a narrower target, not knowing where the quarrel would come from. He felt a painful slice across his thigh and knew it had struck him, though not deeply as it passed.
Not taking time to give thanks, he spun back and rounded the fire, which even now was beginning to die down, with the flame having only sparse foliage to catch on.
Perhaps the Goth had expected its shot to strike, for it was not even bothering to reload as Andrak rounded the fire to face it. Surprise showed across its ape like face, but it had the presence to do as its companion had only moments before, and throw its crossbow at Andrak. This one he was able to duck, not falling for the same trick twice, and as it clattered to the ground behind him, he mercilessly hacked at the Goth who tried to turn and flee. His sword cut easily through the thin chains of its armor, and it could not even cry out as it fell, obviously dead as it landed and rolled over the edge of the defile, cracking through bushes and unloosing stones as it rolled to an eventual halt.
Knowing other Goth were close, Andrak turned on them, cursing his lost light. Surprisingly, the other Goth were not advancing that quickly, perhaps waiting for the light of the fire to diminish totally. Some were reloading crossbows as they advanced, while several other Goth scaled the wall of the defile to get to him.
Seeing an opportunity, Andrak leapt to the body of the second Goth he had slain and plucked the remaining bolts from its quiver. About a dozen in total, they were fletched with what appeared to be dark feathers, and secured with thick paste and worn thread. Knowing it was his only option, he grabbed the bolts by their shafts, and careful of the dark metal tips that might have been poisoned, thrust the fletched ends into the burning oil.
