by G. P McKenna
With my heart constricting in my chest, I made my way over. The Poota stopped laughing, a smile on his thin lips as I craned my neck. Grim’s teeth, he was a behemoth. Even with him sitting on the bed, I barely reached his bicep, which was easily the size of my head. I was contemplating running for some rope to measure myself against it when he reached out his hand.
It was a strange handshake. By the looks of him, it should’ve pummelled me into dust, but he was surprisingly gentle. More so than Melly had been. “Who are you, little bird?” his deep voice that carried in such tight quarters.
“Kilco Escamilla.”
The Poota looked me over with shocking amber eyes, “you’re the Doctor they’ve all been moaning about? I imagined you to be much older.”
“Doctor Kira is her mother, Issak,” the Ilvarjo’s airy melodic accent was so different from the Ascotians who all said the letter R too hard. Their whole language was shaped around it, at times it even invaded words it shouldn’t. Skate doesn’t have an r in it. Neither does lake, I believe. In comparison, the lilted Ilvarjo accent oozed like fresh honey. My mouth watered.
The Poota, Issak, laughed once more as he held out his arm, and while I stitched the cut as best I could through the bangles, he re-enacted the fight between him and the Ilvarjo that had caused the wound in the first place,“-then I dodged away just in time, but bam!” Issak slapped his arm, the imaginary dagger in his hand, demonstrating the blow. He was so different from the Poota in Bethel, who kept only to themselves in a militant order. Issak teetered and tottered left then right, before falling to his back, shaking the bed. Thankfully the stitching was all done, or he might’ve lost his arm. He sat up with another booming laugh and shook his head, white beard swaying, “anyway, lesson learned. Never underestimate an Ilvarjo with a dagger. They can throw them like lightning. You done?”
“Just about,” I stepped back to examine my handiwork, “it’s as good as I can get without removing the bangles.”
“No can do, little Miss,” Issak said cheerfully, “these represent every Poota who has ever challenged my leadership and lost. Asking me to remove them is like asking Ilana here to remove this,” Issak flicked a red earring in the Ilvarjo’s left earlobe, right beside the silver wedding ring.
My heart dropped.
Looking as bored as ever, the Ilvarjo stepped out of his reach, “if your arm isn’t to be amputated, I have to be going. I have lessons to oversee. Do you require anything else?”
“Nah, I’ll be right. Always am,” Issak said before cocking his head, “but I’ll be even more right if you get me a beer, though.”
“I’ll get right on that,” Lady Ilana said with such disinterest that I wasn’t sure she would.
“And get yourself two while you’re at it,” Issak said and winked at me, “you humans really need to work on your tolerance more.”
I wondered how he’d react if he learned that I didn’t drink at all.
“I’m working on it,” Lady Ilana turned without sparing me a glance as if I wasn’t there at all. My fists clenched as she looked back at Issak, “and thank you for saying what you did.”
“You all need to stop thanking me or I might get used to it,” he said gruffly, “but you’re welcome. You know the Poota creed: the son of my brother is my son.” Lady Ilana stared at him for a long moment before walking away, leaving behind only the scent of pink pepper and a burn that only one place could soothe.
It was impossible to say what came first at The Pantless Priest. There were dilapidated barns by every turn in the forest, and each was painted black as if charred in some long-forgotten fire. Nobody seemed to know who had built them, or even what their original purpose had been, but it mattered little for the largest had found a new legacy as the most happening place in camp.
Primarily because it was the only happening place in camp.
Rumour had it that the name was inspired when one drunk Corporal had whipped up a crude caricature of the Kaori Priest, Lord Deniliquin with his pants around his ankles, prying apart his love cheeks for the whole world to see his heritage. Everybody had been so overjoyed that the drawing hung proudly from the loft, letting all who passed know that bastard Deniliquin was indeed a small dick.
Whenever not on duty most of the foot troops and camp staff could be found at The Priest drinking away their sorrows. They had lots to drink to. At the beginning of the war, four years prior, it had been reported that the Ascotian resistance had close to forty-thousand troops at its disposal. If that was true, the resistance had been plagued by tragedy ever since as the numbers around camp were nowhere near that. When I had asked one injured troop under my care about it he’d sighed wearily and replied that the Kaori priest had found allies in the many countries that had long felt slighted by one of the most powerful kingdoms in the world. The thought sent shivers down my spine.
The Ascotian Kaori were already infamous for their band of all-female warriors. Not even the Kaori pirates who terrorized trader ships near Bethel were as feared. It was little wonder the troops spent their free time so blindly drunk that they couldn’t see who walked through the door and just cheered loudly whenever it opened. It was sad, but not sad enough to stop walking in and out of that barn multiple times a day just to feel the thrill of such a welcome.
That’s how I found myself in the Pantless Priest one cloudy afternoon, cringing at the sickly-sweet taste of dragon spit. I never drank the syrupy drink because my mother had warned it would rot my teeth, but I’d brought it because it was the cheapest drink there and I’d lost all my krona playing poker with some Sergeant who had to be acting drunker than he was. Nobody was that good at cards when blind. Nobody.
A cooling flush of fresh air hit my face, cutting through the smoke and must as the drunken cheers roared. I glanced up and groaned at the three familiar faces whose names I never could remember, not that I tried too hard. They called themselves my friends, I called them my friendly acquaintances. I didn’t want friends, didn’t need friends, couldn’t have friends. Friends were there when you fell, but I didn’t need somebody to catch me. I wanted everybody to see me fall.
They frolicked over, chirping away incessantly as I sipped my drink and tried to block them out. One said something about the Shield, and my agitation increased tenfold. That’s why I was at the Priest in the first place. The Shield of Ascot had arrived back at camp that morning and everything was abuzz. Doctor Kira had been ordered to thoroughly examine him and the bubbling inside boiled. I had to get away.
“Did you hear what I said?” one of my friendly acquaintances asked while shaking my arm, “the Shield of Ascot is fighting the blood-eyes whore in the foot troops training yard. You’re missing it.”
“Blood-eyes whore?” The slur tasted sour in my mouth, “you mean Lady Ilana?”
“Yeah,” he said, pulling, “come on.”
Scowling, I slammed my cup down with a bang. Life never was sweet without the sour.
Five
Lupophobia
Fear of wolves
The sun stung mesy eyes as I allowed myself to be dragged to the training grounds. Half the camp must have been there. Old, young, middle-aged: people from all walks of life had crammed into that small yard to gather in a circle and cheer and scream for the Shield’s victory. I grit my teeth, praying that Lady Ilana would not lose to this boy. Being short and scrawny, nobody cared much when I pushed to the front, staring at the ground the entire time, unwilling to be caught dead there least somebody mistook me for caring. Which I didn’t. No way.
Only once my knee banged against the arena fence did I look up and confusion flooded in. In my mind, I’d painted the Shield of Ascot as a born fraud. To think that one could be so beloved by Deities who’d never helped me made it difficult to breathe. Yet, as I watched this boy so deeply kissed by the sun circle around Lady Ilana in a crouched and unrefined stance, something inside clicked. It was the eyes. The secrets of life were in the eyes, the way they spoke and communicated what lips n
ever could. Tragedy had sent me headfirst into reality, it had changed the way everything was viewed, but there in the Shields cerulean blue eyes, for the first time in years, I saw nature. thighs. The Shield retrieved his sword from where it had fallen before looking down at her.
“Why don’t you care?” He asked in a tight voice, “why do you never care?”
Ilana didn’t reply, and he shook his head before pushing his way out of the ring. My eyes followed closely as he disappeared into the crowd, for I knew that what I’d seen there, in the Shield’s eyes. A Deity. It was no Deity of mine, but instinctively I knew that it was none too happy.
It wasn’t hard to find out which tent belonged to the Shield. The camp cooks were like seagulls- you need only to feed them some juicy gossip once and off they’d go, squawking and squeaking and saying more than they should.
“The Shield, you say? Strapping lad. Was asked to take him some sammiches for lunch, but he turned me away. Been around the Lukasiak brat too much, ain’t good for the appetite. Goodbye, I say. Don’t need no more disease around here. Where’s he located? By the big tent. If your headin there, take this with ya.”
And so I left the kitchens
He’s fighting style was raw and instinctual as Ilana danced around him, extremely fast with deadly grace, her measured movements never without pause. Heavily, the Shield stepped forward and swung his ivory hilted sword at Ilana’s stomach, a blow the Ilvarjo easily counted with an overhead swing of her own. The Shield spun out of the way, using the momentum to aim a kick at her knee. She again effortlessly side-stepped.
“That isn’t your best,” Ilana stated.
“I ain’t even started,” the Shield sneered and attacked, stabbing unpredictably in wayward motions. Tall and muscular, his build would’ve intimidated most men, and the strikes he threw spoke of untamed strength, but Ilana countered them as if intercepting punches from a toddler. She grabbed the Shield’s left arm and locked it at an awkward angle before leaning in close to his glistening naked chest. The Shield’s eyes flashed wildly, animalistically, and he brought his head forward as if intending to use it as a batting ram. Ilana stepped back, causing the Shield to lose balance and fall to the floor.
The crowd went silent, only a few brave souls booed as Ilana squatted down and rested her knee on the Shield’s chest while twisting his arm until the hand was forced to sit by his mess of dirty blonde hair, lest it break. “You’ve pulled that move before. Many times over. You must think of your opponent and what they know before you attack,” she said stoically. The Shield’s brows twisted, and his abdominal muscles clenched as his lower lip pulled back in a verbal snarl, like that of a wolf. The crowd broke out in murmurs, but Ilana’s face didn’t change. She merely pulled back, sitting with her hands resting against her knees. The Shield glowered. It was in the eys. The secrets of life were in the eyes, the way they spoke and communicated what lips never could. Tragedy had sent me headfirst into reality, it had changed the way everything was viewed, but there in the Shields cerulean blue eyes, for the first time in years, I saw nature.
The Shield retrieved his sword from where it had fallen before looking down. “Why don’t you care?” He asked in a tight voice, “why do you never care?”
Ilana didn’t reply, and he shook his head before pushing his way out of the ring. My eyes followed closely as he disappeared into the crowd, for I knew that what I’d seen there, in the Shield’s eyes. A Deity. It was no Deity of mine, but instinctively I knew that it was none too happy.
It wasn’t hard to find out which tent belonged to the Shield. The camp cooks were like seagulls- you need only to feed them some juicy gossip once and off they’d go, squawking and squeaking and saying more than they should.
“The Shield, you say? Strapping lad. Was asked to take him some sammiches for lunch, but he turned me away. Been around the Lukasiak brat too much, ain’t good for the appetite. Goodbye, I say. Don’t need no more disease around here. Where’s he located? By the big tent. If your headin there, take this with ya.”
And so I left the kitchens with directions and an alibi. The Shield should’ve been thanking me really. I doubted he’d see it that way, no matter how big the bowl of stew I brought along was, so I resolved to do what had to be done quickly and get out before anybody noticed. The Shield had made camp in a small clearing, a little way from the path with trees protecting it from the wind or any prying eyes that wanted to invade his privacy. Because that would be unacceptable indeed. Five young foot troops patrolled nearby but luckily didn’t blink as I passed by in my physician’s apron. Nor did they seem to notice me slip off into a small cluster of trees, or at least if they did, they were unwilling to give chase. Backup plan? Run like the wind. I’d lose them in the forest and then blend in with the refugees if they followed.
Good enough.
Tiptoeing over to the tent, I cracked the flap open just enough to peek inside the darkened interior. There was no movement, no sounds of life. There was only one cot, which meant only one occupant. Perfect. A massive chest sat in the corner, a leather bandolier on the table, and a roughly spun canvas pack on the floor, but nothing else of note. Satisfied with my recon, I slipped inside and paused to listen with the bowl on my knee.
Breaking-and-entering wasn’t my forte.
Pickpocketing was second nature, but actually going into someone’s personal space and rifling through their belongings left a bad taste in my mouth, yet I had to know who the Shield was, understand why he was so sad, and it wasn’t like I walk up and talk to him. He’d think me a creep. Releasing a deep breath, I placed the bowl on the table and went to kneel by the pack, running my thumb over the strap. In and out. That was the plan.
“Who are you?”
Plans go wrong. It happens every now and then, and one could argue that the best-laid plans always have back up plans. That way should the initial plan fail, it’s not the end of the world. Then again, nobody would argue that breaking into a notorious hero’s tent was amongst the best laid out plans. With my heart in my throat, I slowly turned to face my destiny.
Sweet Deities, destiny had the bluest eyes.
“Um…Kilco.” I offered when the Shield said nothing else. Like the coward I was, my eyes couldn’t be forced to his. Or maybe I just subconsciously believed that made me look smaller and more innocent. That had to be it because I wasn’t afraid of anything. Not anything at all, “look, there’s a good explanation for-”
The Shield’s boots stopped directly in front of me, and I could see the tip of the long sword strapped to his back. Any moment he’d withdraw that thing and impale me, or something equally horrible. Had I pissed off some Deity to the point they were just actively messing with me? If so, I was willing to apologize to every single one if they would just break my prolonged streak of bad luck already.
“Please look at me,” the Shield spoke in a thick broad accent that naturally made his voice boom, and try as I might, I couldn’t resist. Again, the first thing I noticed was his eyes. They were the brightest blue I’d ever seen. The second was his face. Despite a nose that had been broken and reset at least once, he was chiselled and handsome with cheekbones that defied gravity. He towered over me, and had that bone structure mysteriously detached from his face, it might’ve decapitated me. Looking at my face in turn, he reached into his pocket, “well, Kilco, I don’t got much here worth stealing, but you can have this. Looks like you can use it more than me anyways.”
“I’m not a thief,” I said and heard my mother’s laughter clear in my head as I stared down at the meal token in his hand.
“Not a good one, anyway,” the Shield replied, not even seeming annoyed or upset by the perceived robbery attempt.
“I’m not,” the laughter became louder. Frowning, I pushed it down, “I’m a doctor. I saw you fighting and thought you might be injured. Look, I even brought you food, so put the token away.”
The Shield didn’t even bother to pocket the token. He dropped it to the grass at my feet
before grabbing the bowl and stiffly sitting on the cot. His movements were slow as if he hadn’t relaxed in weeks. He raised the spoon to his mouth and chewed the meat carefully before blinking at me, “it’s okay, I’m good.’
“No offence, but you didn’t look good,” I gingerly perched myself at the foot of his bed. My legs felt wobbly, a little too long, but I was too far gone to pull back.
“It’s a long story.” He said with mouthful.
“Well, people say I’m a good listener,” I said. Why was that damn laughter back?
The Shield looked me over. There was no judgment or suspicion. If anything, he appeared curious as he took in my face and clothing. He placed the bowl into his lap and reached for his bandolier and pulled out a dagger. He clumsily flourished it, “it don’t matter. There’s nothing nobody can do to change things now. I’ll just be blabbing your ear off and Orden says that’s just complaining.”
“I told you, I’m a doctor. It’s my duty to have my ear blabbed off.”
“Duty, eh,” he laid back on the cot and flipped the dagger. Or tried to. It fell from his grip and smacked his nose. He picked it up with a sniff, “wish I had a sense of duty.”
I raised a brow, “aren’t you the Shield?”
“I am, and I guess I did wanna complete that when I was younger, but now…,” he dropped the dagger on the bed and raked a finger through his hair, “well now I was only doing it for one reason, and he’s gone now, so… “
“He?”
“Ilya,” the Shield said quietly, “he is…was my companion, my partner. We’ve gone through loads together, but then I made a silly mistake and took my eyes off him for one second in the Kaori desert and lost him. Now he’s gone.”
