A Warrior's Penance

by Davis Ashura

  First, he had to reenter Ashoka undetected, and given the number of warriors assembled down below, that alone would be a riveting risk. Next, he had to traverse the city and reach his safe house with no one the wiser. Following that, he had to arrange a meeting with the Magisterium and negotiate a settlement with them. He would offer them the information he'd gleaned about the Fan Lor Kum and in return, they would offer him clemency. And finally Hal'El had to plan Dar'El Shektan's murder. Or maybe that would be first. Regardless, it had to be done in such a way that his hated enemy knew exactly who had arranged his death, but of course, no one else.

  If at any point during all of this, Hal'El was found out, especially before the Magisterium absolved him of his crimes, Death would come for him. A mob's justice might be the best he could hope for. He might end up stoned to oblivion before the City Watch could be summoned to arrest him. And if he were captured, he would still face certain death.

  The Magisterium would have him. The entirety of Hal'El's bargaining position would be negated. The Magistrates could easily compel his knowledge of the Chimeras without offering anything in return. If Hal'El didn't maintain his freedom, he would receive a proper tribunal and a proper judgment followed by a proper punishment for his multitude of supposed sins and crimes. He would receive a slow, lingering death upon the Isle of the Crows.

  Who knew how long it would take the black-feathered carrion eaters to pluck out his life? A day? Three? More? It didn't matter. However long it took, it would be a gruesome torment for the entirety of the time.

  Hal'El tried to shrug off the negative thoughts, knowing most successes in battle came not from ability, but from desire welded to belief. Right now, he had the desire, but his belief was brittle. He had to shore it up, have faith that success would follow his actions. He breathed more steadily and deeply as adrenaline coursed through his blood. His fists clenched.

  He began to believe, fitfully but surely. He could do this.

  Hal'El looked to Ashoka's Outer Wall and considered again how best to accomplish his mission.

  “What we do here?” a grunting voice asked from behind him.

  Hal'El turned. Behind him stood several claws of Tigons. His supposed 'allies' who would somehow see him safe into Ashoka. Or so the Queen promised. Hal'El was dubious of Her claim. No matter how brilliant the Sorrow Bringer's scheme, what could fifty Tigons do against the marshaled might of all the Kumma warriors assembled before the Twilight Gate?

  Nothing. The Chimeras might last all of fifteen seconds against even the Trims.

  He had made mention of his concerns, but the Queen hadn't deigned to further explain what She intended with the Tigons, only figuratively patting Hal'El on the head and promising him Her aid when the time was needed.

  Hal'El scowled. Better if the Queen had allowed Hal'El use of the several hundred Baels and score or so of Tigons he'd seen marching toward Ashoka on a path parallel to his own. From a distance, he'd spied them as he and his Chimeras passed them by a few days ago. They might have lasted a few minutes against the Trims, more than long enough for Hal'El to slip into the city during the ensuing chaos.

  “What we do here, Human?” the voice repeated, this time sounding more aggressive.

  Hal'El slipped down the crest of the hill, rising only when he was sure he wouldn't be seen by those of Ashoka. He turned and before him stood a sneering, black panther Tigon. Hal'El glared at the Chimera and took a menacing step forward. Early on, he'd learned that Tigons only responded to violence. They needed regular beatings in order to keep them in line.

  The Tigon's ears wilted, and he dropped his gaze. “What we do here?” the creature asked, this time his voice timid.

  Hal'El glared a moment longer, waiting until he was certain the black-panther had acquiesced to his command. Only then did he deign to answer. “The Queen orders you here. That is all you need know,” he growled.

  “We wait long time,” the Tigon replied, his voice still humble.

  “And we will wait for however long it takes Her to arrive!” Hal'El snapped. “Your role is not to question Her judgment.”

  The black panther appeared suitably chastised, and he drifted back to rejoin the company of the other Tigons.

  Hal'El stared at the Tigons, the creatures with whom he was allied, and shook his head in disgust.

  Not for the first time did he wonder how he had arrived here as he had. How had his life taken such a crooked path and delivered him to this place and time? So many mistakes made, so many errors in judgment, so many regrets. And the biggest had been accepting the Withering Knife. Two years ago, when the black blade had been delivered into his possession, Hal'El knew he should have turned around and cast it into the Sickle Sea.

  The cities of Humanity are neutered islands of life within the barren wastes of the Wildness. Our first home, brutal as decaying death, was a finer place.

  ~Mirrors before the First World, author unknown

  Rukh carefully studied his map before looking up to study the area around which he stood. Again, he dipped his head to the map before glancing up once more. He needed to make sure that he and the twenty Trims of his unit were in the right place. If they weren't, there would be the unholy hells to pay. It would be an absolutely fragging humiliation. He'd never hear the end of it.

  Once more, his head dipped to study the map before he studied his surroundings again. Was this the right fragging place? He frowned as he looked for landmarks.

  Immediately to his left was the dense tangle of forested hills west of Ashoka while miles distant to his right was the city itself. From the imposing Outer Wall snapped a series of pennons, and it was one in particular that Rukh was looking for. It was the first flag north of Sunset Gate, and it belonged to the Sarath. It was the marker that Rukh and Black Platoon, his unit, were supposed to use to find their bearings.

  One last time, Rukh looked to the map. There was a slight hollow . . . He glanced around once again and breathed easy when he saw the indicated landmark. They were in the right place.

  He rolled away the map and more closely studied the terrain. There wasn't much to see. All around was a wide, flat plain of close-cropped grass and bare dirt. Flocks of wild sheep kept it so, and while no ovines were currently in evidence, the piles of dung littering the plain plainly announced their presence.

  Rukh gave a nearby clod of manure a sour look. Centered on the clump was a flattened indentation just the size of his boot. Damn sheep. He scuffed his bootheel on the ground, trying to clean off the dung, but all he managed to do was smear it about. The ripe aroma of sheep droppings rose up to him, and he grimaced in disgust.

  He was about to swipe his boots against the grass with more fervor, but a distant roll of thunder caused him to pause in his work. He eyed the gray sky above with the same antipathy with which he had viewed the sheep dung. The day had started out so beautiful. Bright, warm sunshine had filled the sky—perfect weather for the Advent Trial, but then had come this somber curtain of gray clouds. They had hidden away the sun, stolen the warmth of the land, and brought with them a cold, blustery wind. In a matter of minutes, the season seemed to have shifted from a vibrant spring to something akin to a foul late fall or early winter.

  Rukh didn't like it. He much preferred the hothouse of summer to this melancholy chill. Of course, Jessira would probably make some remark about him being a thin-blooded Pureblood who couldn't take the cold, but that wasn't it. The weather was just so fragging depressing.

  Rukh looked to the Outer Wall, far away in the distance. He couldn't see Jessira, but he scanned its heights for her anyway. She would be near the Sunset Gate with a less-than-excellent view of the Advent Trial.

  From behind Rukh came the sound of a throat clearing, and he turned around.

  It was Lince Chopil, the Trim who was the acting corporal of Black Platoon during the Advent Trial.

  “Are the warriors ready?” Rukh asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Chopil answered with a nod.

  “G
ood. Gather them around. We'll have one final briefing before the Trial begins.”

  “Yes, sir!” Chopil saluted and barked out orders.

  Soon, twenty bright, eager, young men with bright, eager, young faces were gathered around Rukh as they waited on his instructions. Suddenly, he was struck by a strange sense of his age. He looked upon the assembled Trims from a distance that felt like decades. It left him with a sense that he was as old as the nannas or even the grandfathers of these young men.

  His bones were as old as the hills, his blood as deep as the sea, his heart as eternal as Jivatma.

  Rukh startled. Where had those thoughts come from? They didn't even make sense. He was only twenty-two, not some ancient relic from the First World.

  He cleared his mind, but as he prepared to address his unit, he couldn't help but notice how rapt their focus was, how reverent many of them appeared to be, especially those who didn't know him very well—the Murans and Rahails from the Sarath and the Shir'Fen, and even the Trims from the Fort and the Sword. The warriors of the House of Fire and Mirrors tried manfully to maintain a respectful pose, but the awe was all too evident in their eyes as well.

  Nervous claws crawled down the middle of Rukh's back. The Trims looked upon him as though he were the First Father made flesh, and it made him deeply uncomfortable. No man deserved to be looked upon in such a fashion.

  Once again, Rukh shook off his bothersome thoughts. Whatever discomfort he might be feeling, he had to set it aside. These men deserved his utmost dedication. They'd worked too hard to have his laxity in attention undo them this late in their training.

  Rukh cleared his throat. “When the Advent Trial begins, our platoon will act as the forward western edge of the Southern Cross. We'll march directly west and follow a deer trail about a quarter mile into the forest. From there, we'll strike north. We would normally expect to encounter enemy units of the Northern Star at a point midway between our two locations, but this Advent Trial will be different. We're going into the forest . . .” He paused. “. . . and we're going without Blends. The enemy will never find us or see us coming.”

  “No Blends, sir?” a Rahail said diffidently. “I don't understand. Without a Blend, won't we be more likely to be discovered?”

  “No we won't,” Rukh said. This part of the strategy had been his. He remembered how easily the Muran and Rahail warriors had been able to pinpoint Blends from even a mile away or more during the battle at Stronghold. The knowledge had left a strong impression. “Remember: Murans and Rahails can sense Blends from a great distance, much farther than they could otherwise see an approaching enemy with their own eyes. With the forest to hide us and no Blends to give away our position, they'll never know we're there.”

  “Is that why we're wearing the gray-and-green leaf camouflage, sir?” Corporal Chopil asked.

  Rukh nodded. “The green-and-brown field camouflage would be fine if we stayed entirely on the plain,” he said, “but we won't be doing that. The gray-and-green leaf is for the forest.”

  “What happens after that, sir?” a Trim from the Fort and the Sword asked.

  “After a certain point, we'll exit the forest. We might get lucky and other units of the Northern Star might think we're one of their own. Regardless, we'll run like hell, straight east toward their flag, which should be just north of Twilight Gate. Depending on how quickly we traverse the forest, at that point, we might be the tip of the spear. More likely, we'll be the latecomers that no one sees coming.” He smiled without humor. “We're expected to be devastating, though, no matter when we happen to arrive. We are to strike deep into the heart of the enemy, expend ourselves to soften up his defenses, and whittle them down for other units of the Southern Cross finish off.” He paused, staring about him and meeting the gaze of his platoon. “That's what we're expected to do, but I say frag that. We will strike deep into the heart of the enemy, and we will soften up their defenses, but that won't be all we'll do,” Rukh growled. “I aim to capture the Northern Star's flag and return it to our fortress. We will be the killing Kesarin.”

  A rousing shout met his words.

  Li-Choke leaned on his trident as he carefully wended his way down a steep hill. Even with the additional support, his hooves still slipped on the damp dirt.

  The sun should have long since burned off the dew that made the ground wet, but clouds had rolled in earlier in the morning and shut away the warmth. With them had come the promise of an icy rain, and while Choke didn't mind the cold, he dreaded the wetness. His fur became uncomfortable and heavy then.

  Hopefully, he and the two hundred Baels and twenty or so Tigons following behind him would have reached Ashoka by then. It was unlikely they would be offered immediate refuge within the city itself, but at least many weeks of ceaseless marching with nothing but dry rations to sustain them would soon be over.

  The Chimeras had trekked as quietly and as swiftly as they could, traveling from hours before sunrise to hours after sunset. It had been a hard pounding of hooves and padded feet, and Choke looked forward to the journey's end. The haste of their travel, and their decision to forego a fire at night had been a conscious decision meant to prevent the Queen from finding them. At best it was a meager protection since Mother could always sense the presence of Her children, no matter where they hid themselves.

  Li-Choke knew this better than most. He and the few brothers who had survived the destruction of Li-Dirge's command had thought themselves safe on the Hunters Flats. They'd been wrong.

  Nevertheless, during their current journey, Choke had decided against having a fire at night. It likely made no difference one way or another, but it made him feel better about their chances for survival. Tonight, though, should see them camped right next to Ashoka's proud, obdurate Walls. Then they should be safe enough to have a fire and a warm meal.

  Choke glanced at his brothers, the ones strung out behind him. These were the sole members of the Eastern Plague deemed worthy of salvation before the coming battle for Ashoka. It was a pitifully small remnant of those who had once numbered in the thousands. Choke consoled himself, though, with the knowledge that from a seed had once grown the mythical Grove Oak. And just as Hume's teachings had once found fertile soil in the stony hearts of the Baels, so they would again in the future. It would happen when those who were too afraid to accept sacrifice either embraced again that which they were always meant to be or passed on from this world.

  Choke twitched his fur, and a cloud of gnats flitted off of him. He twitched again before they could regain their roosts on his ears and nose. He failed, and with a sigh, he did his best to ignore the pests as he walked on.

  Eventually, the ground flattened out into a broad hollow west of Ashoka. From here, the ground would rise again into a series of hills that ended at the wide field surrounding the city. It was said that herds of wild sheep kept the vegetation trimmed low, and Choke briefly wondered if the Ashokans would mind if he and the other Chimeras helped themselves to some lamb or mutton. It had been a long time since any of them had tasted fresh meat.

  His thoughts distracted by food, he almost ran into Aia who had stopped in the middle of the animal trail they were following. She appeared concerned, and her nose was lifted to the air.

  *What is it?* Choke asked.

  *Blood,* Aia replied. *Lots of blood. Human blood. Fresh.*

  Choke held up a fist even as he involuntarily gripped his trident more tightly and shifted about in nervousness. The Humans who patrolled Ashoka's borders were fine warriors. They should have been able to handle any danger out here. What had they run into?

  Aia turned to him. *The Humans scout three days out from the borders of Ashoka, and in the past, whenever my brothers and I travelled to or from the city, we were always confronted.* Her tail swished. *Where have they been hiding then? We've yet to run across a single one of their patrols.*

  *You think something's happened them?*

  *I know something's happened to them,* Aia replied with a curl of
her lip. *I think the blood I'm smelling belongs to them.*

  Choke suspected she was right. Suddenly the forest carried a hidden menace. It was dark here, under the dull, gray sky and the mournful, moaning wind. Trees shook, leaves rattled, and Choke could imagine the acrid, iron-bitter smell of blood.

  A nervous shiver passed down his spine. He glanced around in worry, wondering what might be watching them, what might be out in those trees that was deadly enough to kill Human warriors. His heart thudded.

  Just then, a hard wind scudded through the forest, furious enough to shake branches. It howled like a nightmare. Choke nearly bit his tongue in fear. For an instant, the wind had sounded like cackling laughter, like sanity torn asunder, like . . . Mother. But where then was the lightning and racing clouds? Mother never was—

  The wind faded away and passed.

  Choke swallowed heavily and did his best to horn aside his fear and rein in his laboring thoughts. His Chimeras needed him to maintain a clear head. The sound they had all just heard had set the Baels and Tigons to muttering, the fear and—in some cases—abject terror, evident in their tones. But Choke couldn't afford such weakness. He needed to understand what they were facing so he could plan how to defeat it, or failing that, escape it.

  *Where do you smell the blood?* he asked Aia.

  She gestured with her nose. *Over there. Deep in the trees. A mile or so in.*

  Thrum and Shon padded up to them.

  *Why are we stopping? And what was that noise?* Thrum asked as he paused to lift his nose to the air.

  *I smell Blood,* Shon said. *Close by. And death.*

  *We need to learn what's happened,* Aia said.

  *I agree,* Choke replied, his heart still hammering. He turned to Li-Silt, an older Bael he had grown to know and respect during the battle at Stronghold. “The Kesarins smell blood. They think it's Human, and that they're dead.”