“No, no!” Cried the Bulthin’s victim. “Please - ack!”
Valor yelled at the man, who was drawing the attention of the Bulthin. “Shut up! Shut your mouth - stop talking!”
The man could not control his body, his head banging violently against the limestone floor. But it made no difference, as he had already sealed his fate. The Bulthin snapped its jaws at the man once, twice.
“Hey!” Valor yelled. “Come on! Come on!”
The burning in his throat had no effect. The Bulthin grabbed the man by his head, crunching deep into his skull, and to Valor’s surprise, tossed the body towards him.
Valor sidestepped swiftly again, but the Bulthin perfectly matched him. Valor knew as it launched itself in the same direction he stepped, could see it in the wolf’s cunning gaze, that it had learned, and that he was a fool, and an imbecile, and all the awful words he could call himself.
Suddenly, Abassan appeared to Valor’s left, just as the Bulthin’s right paw came up to swipe across his face. The paw struck Valor in the side. He raised his arm so that the massive, clawed foot would hit his armor. It did.
Abassan’s spear pierced the paw, and he retracted it with expert speed, the speed of an elf, and a warrior who knew his techniques so well they could be performed in a trance.
“Back up, Valor.” Abassan cried.
He didn’t need to be told. He knew how to fight a beast, though he’d never fought one with such cunning.
Valor could feel Lobosa’s eyes on him from a place he could not see, hidden away, watching his student work diligently at the task at hand. Valor lowered his stance. He stared into the grapefruit sized irises of the Bulthin.
Suddenly, he saw the arrowheads again, and he was standing in the mess hall, arms open begging for death.
“Valor!” Cried out Innith’s voice, and suddenly he was shoved to the floor, and Innith was in front of the beast, and it was on top of him, spear going longways in its mouth, a paw pressing down on Innith’s chest, expelling the elf’s air and his ability to scream.
A momentary mind buzz attached itself to Valor, but he shook it off. Then he was up, the guilt instantaneous, but the desire for revenge quickly overshadowed it.
The grip tightened around his swords as he turned them over in a forward dagger grip, leaping towards the beast, yelling a battlecry. Slicing in a whirlwind, he cut the beasts arm once, twice, three times, his training in the silence masking any indicator of attack, except for that of sight. His body made no sound, and created no moving air. He could not even smell himself.
The beast waddled backwards, reaching with its jaws at the same time for Valor’s right arm. He turned left, and put his blade in the Bulthin’s eye.
As expected, the Bulthin lashed out with the anger of one who would yell why, why me, rearing back on its two hind legs, readying to strike again.
Valor moved in as the creature moved back, moving in sync with the creature, gauging, always gauging. He entered between its paws, slashing with the left, and stabbing deep with the right. He pulled out and felt the blade grind between strong ribs, a single pulse of its heart vibrating through his hand, arm, shoulder, then the rest of his body.
He dodged right as the creature collapsed, its massive body seizing. The crowd screamed, some with horror, some with happiness, some with relief.
Wasting no time, he turned towards Innith, kneeling at his body, looking at the three holes added in his armor. “Gods, Innith. I’m sorry. Abassan…”
Abassan joined them, kneeling to his friend. “Will he make it?” Valor asked.
Innith spoke in between gurgled breaths. “I doubt it. I’m pierced - deeply - “ Blood shot from his throat, dabbling his chin.
Valor stabbed his sword into the ground, lips trembling in anger. The sword stuck in the limestone cracks.
Abassan lifted his friend to his feet with Valor’s assistance. “Quickly,” he said. “There isn’t much time. He won’t live long with these wounds.”
“I’m aware,” Valor said with more fear than immaturity. “He needs a healer, or a mage.” He let go of the two elves, looking around. “Healer!” he cried. “Healer! Healer!”
“Valor!” From far away in the crowd, he heard Lobosa call. He turned but couldn’t see him. The Warden called again, screaming, “Stop them!”
Valor turned left and right, unsure of exactly who he meant by them. Valor noticed Innith standing on his own, barely able to do so, holding a wide stance. Abassan himself held a similar posture. “What…” Valor began to say.
Abassan turned, pushed Valor far across the ground, and leapt upon Innith. Abassan forced Innith onto his back, fingers wrapped tightly around his throat with one hand, the other digging an elbow into his sternum.
An enforcer broke through the crowded pavilion, yelling, “Move aside! Move aside!”
Valor moved in with the enforcer.
Innith managed to get a leg in between himself and Abassan, and kicked hard, sending the taller warrior flying backwards, boots scraping the limestone. Abassan turned as his body was propelled backwards. In one motion, he shoved Valor to the ground yet again and grabbed the enforcer’s spear, head butting the feral beneath his jaw. The enforcer clamped down on his tongue, howling in pain, blood dribbling to the sandy ground.
Valor rolled back and out of the weapons reach. There would be no stopping Abassan now, but he drew his swords nonetheless, crossing one in front of himself.
Valor looked towards Innith, who was engaged at the tail end of a confrontation with another enforcer, disarming her quickly, now armed with a spear of his own. The enforcer was on the ground a few feet behind him, holding her gut, mouth open, dripping saliva, eyes bulging.
Valor focused on the fight, pushing out all distractions. He allowed the silence to take over, all questions and curiosities about why they were fighting at all leaving his mind.
These are my friends, he thought. Guilt suddenly overrode his inner calm, guilt at having to have Innith defend him, and the guilt of future ghosts, haunting him, telling him that their current, mysterious desire to fight was also his fault.
He knew that stepping in would end up with him slashed, but still considered it.
I wait and watch, he thought, waiting for nothing particular.
Neither opponent clashed spears, instead stepping back and forth. Every movement of the sharp tips was meant to cut something. Wasted movement was not a thing that lived in the elves.
First contact came swiftly, as Innith swatted away an incoming stab, then lunged forward for the kill with a powerful, quick thrust. Valor felt a small gust of air sting his left cheek.
Abassan spun away, and forward, slicing low and nicking Innith’s hamstring.
The shorter fighters’ knee gave out, bending beyond his control. Abassan cut low again, aiming for the neck. Innith swirled on his blood soaked shin guard, scraping the ground, pressing the shaft of the spear against the incoming blade.
With the deflection made, Innith jammed it upwards into Abassan’s neck, then retracted it without any hesitation, thrusting with the speed of a diving hawk.
Abassan collapsed in a spiral, blood leaking from his wound. His body was on the ground for mere seconds before the enforcers picked him up, and the crowd resumed their screams and cheers, blood dripping in a steady stream across the ground.
Innith could not respond as two more guards rushed him, knocking him to the floor.
Valor stood, slugging one guard hard across the face, right into its the jaw bone. He pointed his sword at the other. “Get off of him!” he yelled. “Get away!”
The ferals did as they were told, but not without enough snarling and snapping to scare away most men, foamy spit coating Valor’s outstretched blade. He knew they had appeared to grab Innith on Lobosa’s orders, but he didn’t particularly care. He was not about to watch a friend and teacher die due to their inability to control their viciousness.
When the guards had moved far enough away, Valor sheathed h
is weapons, turning down to Innith, staring at the claw marks on his body.
Valor gave a fake grin to his friend and said, “Eh, could be worse. You elves heal quickly, right? Thinking we should get you - ”
Innith grabbed Valors’ bicep, squeezing it hard. “No,” he said firmly. “I will die before anyone arrives. That is why we fought. A promise between friends.”
The elf coughed violently.
“Why - I don’t understand,” Valor said through gritted teeth. “Dammit… this is my fault.”
Innith coughed more, wheezing out his breath. “Don’t - Abassan…”
With a final word, Innith exhaled his last breath, then choked hard, face seizing uncontrollably. Valor held him until it passed.
He closed the eyes of his past mentor, and spread his lips from a contorted scene of death into one of peace.
Valor looked at the crowd, chatting and cheering away as if this was all part of the show. His grip around his swords tightened. He felt the muscles in his hands became taut as ship rigging in a harsh gale.
He could hear and feel Lobosa approaching him from behind, even before his menacing, regal shadow eclipsed his and Innith’s body.
Lobosa spoke with the anger Valor felt he’d been missing.
“They had a pact with one another. Should one of them approach death, they would fight each other until one or both expired. If one killed the other, then the one who lived would take their own life. That is why I asked you to stop them… and you did nothing.”
Valor’s grip tightened around Innith’s armored torso, and Innith, even in death, with his face calm and accepting, was helping Valor still to quell the rage he had, to stop him from lashing out at the Warden.
He stood, faced Lobosa, and allowed the rage to slowly slip out in slow, metered words. Lobosa had given him an impossible task. He had no desire to pretend. As he looked into the guarded eyes of his owner, he saw the black arrows in the mess hall pointing back at him again. This time, he would allow them to let fly.
“If you want someone who can detain two master elves, then you should have trained them. Or, you should have trained me better.”
It was the first time in a long time that Valor had willfully engaged The Warden in an argument. He had learned over the years that humor was the better tool, and as long as he kept his remarks sarcastic, the Warden replied with his own wit.
Lobosa did not answer this time, not with wit, nor anger. His eyes drifted away. Valor expected fervent words, angry and callous sentences that would dig with sharp shovels into his mind and body. But nothing came.
All that came out was another command. “I do not see Redstone in the crowd,” Lobosa said. “They turned into a mob temporarily. A few people were crushed as they tried to rush down the stairs to the lower levels. Find Drake, and bring him back here so that I can verify his health with my own two eyes.”
Valor scanned the crowd for any sign of the High Merchant of Kashrii. “I’ll be back as soon as possible.” Lobosa gave no reply. The lack of confirmation gave Valor a slight chill.
Chapter 11
Valor pushed through the crowd. Some of them stared at him, some stared at the dead Bulthin, others at Innith and Abassan’s bodies. He ignored them all, shouldering and pushing his way through the rich, their subconscious refusal to move giving them what they believed to be superiority over any man, regardless of the task set before him.
A few of them cursed in his direction. He laughed. It restored his spirit some, though the sight of Innith’s face contorting in front of his own, along with the image of the black arrows, created double the issues for him now.
“High Merchant!” he called out. “Drake Redstone!” Valor crossed through the short archway of the southwest tower, following the stairs, staring at the other nobles, some still screaming. A young nobleman, no older than twenty, was crying out about seeing the Bulthin pierce into Innith’s armor. He wanted to slap the young man desperately.
Valor reached an intersection, where the stairs creeped lower, and a walkway led north to the higher levels, torches growing in number. A few storerooms, separated by three doors, sat with entrances closed against the west wall.
One of the doors was slightly ajar, from which. Valor slowly grabbed the handle, opening it. There he found Drake Redstone, smoking a pipe on top of several haystacks, surrounded by giant pots and urns of dried fruit and medicinal ashes. The overwhelming combination of smells caused Valor to cough.
“High Merchant,” Valor said. “Are you injured?”
Drake Redstone responded calmly, to Valor’s surprise. He coughed and said, “No. I’m fine. I’m surprised you remember me. You do remember me, don’t you? When last we met, you were still a child.”
Valor’s eyes sharpened. “When last we met, you had a dagger in your shoulder, and I patched you up. Seems I did a decent job.”
“Heh,” Drake said. “So you do remember… how have you been since last we met? Treated well? Hm?”
Valor held out a hand. He remembered Drake sparsely, but recalled enough to know he had always been a snake in the grass.
“Has Lobosa been treating you well?” Drake asked. “Yes, no?”
Valor held out his hand further. “The Warden wants to verify that you’re alive and well. I’m to take you to him.”
Drake laughed heartily, no beat skipped between his laughter and the word him. “Hah! That bastard wants me as dead as those ashes over there.” He tapped his hand on the urn, dumping his own ash onto the bowl of medicine.
Valor summoned all the fake politeness he could muster. “I’m not interested in talking with you, High Merchant. Only in ensuring your safety. You’ll have to forgive my rudeness. But my task is such.”
Drake remained on his yellow straw throne, his big body silent on the bristly stuff. “You need not fear simple conversation, son. Good that the Warden taught you to speak with class… there’s nothing to be on about, understand me? No things need be hidden between us.” He tapped out another helping of weed. Valor retracted his hand, stood back, and watched Redstone pack the chamber of his pipe once again. When it was lit, he spoke. “Your body and mind, trained well. He’s even taught me a thing or two over the years. Ever since that day. It almost fell apart then… would have been terrible.” Drake looked around the room then resumed staring at Valor.
“You know,” Valor said, “that the Warden does not necessarily care in what manner I bring you back. Only that you’re alive.”
Drake’s eyes went wide. “Oh, no doubt, son, no doubt. However, I doubt very much that the Warden would like you bringing me back up through that tower, and through all those well to do’s, all bruised up, tied up, arms lashed together, however you decide. It would create a lot of questions, wouldn’t it? Why did he beat the High Merchant? Why is he tied like livestock? What’s this, what’s that, who’s what… you get the idea. So - why don’t we talk?”
Valor stepped back. He was glad, in a way, to see that the High Merchant was just as overconfident as ever. This reaffirmed his thoughts on the wealthy, and allowed him to retain his advantage.
If he wants to talk, Valor thought, I imagine he’ll be surprised.
“So how have these last few years been? I do enjoy talking to warriors, fighters, others of your kind. In your line of work.”
Valor could already feel himself struggling to hold back from cringing. “I wonder why? A yearning to be someone else?”
Drake took a deep puff. “Heh… blugh… I’m too smart to put my life on the line. And obviously too fat. Let me tell you a secret, son. What you do… it doesn’t make you better. It only makes you a killer.”
Valor lazily, slowly placed his hands on his weapons, leaning against the far wall. “Your understanding of what it means to be a fighter must be rather slim, then.”
“Oh?” Drake responded. “Educate me then.”
Valor knew this was a trap. From whatever he said, Drake would pick and choose something that appealed to whatever point he i
ntended to make, or plan he hoped to hatch.
He gladly accepted the challenge. “I don’t have any fancy words for it. And I’m willing to admit that it’s not a life for everyone. And it’s not a thing you can come back from. But for someone like me… it’s fine.”
Drake seemed interested, his gaze had not left Valor’s wandering body since he’d started to pace. “You still haven’t told me much. Don’t describe around a thing, Valor. Describe it.”
Valor nodded. When Drake was right, he was right. “I really don’t have much to say. But when I look at you, and people like you… all I can see is how poor you are. How empty you are of any kind of meaning. The rich and the nobility run around this world, spending their money, constantly in search of something. But the thing you can’t find is the one thing you can’t buy. And that’s… anything real. Anything that fills your insides and lights them on fire.”
Drake sat up straighter and said, “Killing another fills you with that fire?”
Valor shook his head. “It’s not the killing. A warrior does not need to kill his opponent to defeat them. But yes, in my world, that is usually how it ends. However, that’s not what gives me the fire. The fire itself comes from the feeling of defeating your opponent. Of knowing your hours and hours, days and days of sweat and blood allowed you to overcome someone, maybe someone even stronger than yourself. ”
“Are you so sure about all of that?” Drake questioned.
Valor was sure, beyond a shadow of a doubt. But he needed doubt, to let Drake in through his trap door. “Yes… no. Most of the time, yes. Sometimes I do things that I can’t… that I don’t want to remember.”
Drake stayed silent for a moment as Valor turned, his body language dressed up in pretend insecurity. After a long moment, Drake said, “Drop the act. I’ve been playing this game for longer than you’ve been alive. You’re not fooling anyone, and neither am I. Nor have I been. My words have been straight. The first rule of any mental game, son, is to recognize whether or not anyone is actually playing.”
The humiliation of stupidity made Valor hot. Sweat built on his neckline just beneath his long hair.
Memorias: Deep in the Arnaks Page 11
