Akiri: The Scepter of Xarbaal

by Brian D. Anderson

  “There is an answer to both of those questions, my handsome friend,” she replied.

  From his blind side, a delicate hand touched his knee and moved with teasing slowness up his inner thigh.

  “What do you want?” he demanded.

  “I want you inside me,” she said, giving a tiny laugh. “Look at you. You are a brute. Such muscles. So much strength in that body of yours. But sadly for me – for you too, I think – we don’t have the time for fun. Your new home awaits, and your master will be arriving soon.”

  “My master?”

  She clicked her tongue. “Now, don’t be angry with me. After all, I did save your life. By the time those brutes arrived at my cabin, you were about to cross into the next world. They were quite relieved when I promised to see that you made it to the border.”

  Akiri struggled against the chains and straps, but it was useless. “Let me go at once, witch!” he growled.

  “Is that how you thank me?” The wagon jostled once more as she jumped down.

  “I’ll thank you with cold steel if you don’t release me,” he promised.

  This drew a wistful laugh. “Is that so? I suppose it is a risk I must take. A man like you will bring too high a price to ignore. And as I have kept my promise to that oaf Borna, I see no reason why I shouldn’t profit from this. You never know. As you are such a handsome specimen, you might end up the plaything of some lonely noblewoman.”

  Akiri realized there was nothing he could say to sway her. Escape was his only option.

  Doing his best not to rattle the chains, he popped his right thumb out of joint. Even so, the shackles were fastened tight, and it would be several minutes before he could free his hand.

  The sound of hoofbeats approaching urged him to work faster.

  “Ah, here they are now,” she said. “Don’t worry. I’ll make them promise to be gentle.”

  Akiri listened carefully while continuing to struggle. He counted the steps of four horses. Not much of a challenge had he still possessed his former strength. But as things were, he would need to use surprise and cunning.

  “Hey, witch,” called a male voice. “What treasure have you brought me?”

  “I’m no witch, Killian,” she replied, without any trace of anger. “The only magic I possess lies between my legs.”

  “So I have heard, Farlana,” he replied, laughing. “My man Guerry is quite taken with you. Swears to the gods that you will be his one day.”

  “If Guerry’s cock was as big as his stomach, I might. But sadly for him, I require a better equipped man.”

  The joke drew a round of raucous laughter from the men, and Akiri counted four distinct voices. One for each mount, which meant they did not know that the woman had brought a slave to sell. Either that, or they intended him to walk.

  He readied himself as, one by one, he felt the straps being removed.

  “A big one,” remarked Killian. “Where did you find him?”

  “What difference does it make? Do you want him or not?”

  There was a long pause. “Ten gold.”

  “Have you lost your mind? A man like this is worth twice that.”

  “Then sell him to someone willing to pay it.”

  “Fifteen.”

  “I’ll give you twelve,” Killian told her. “And if you say no, I will get back on my horse and go.”

  Farlana grumbled unhappily. “Twelve it is then, you tree-climbing rat.”

  Akiri heard the jingling of coins. Soon after that, he was pulled by the ankles from the wagon and dumped on his back in soft grass. With both his hands still behind him, no one could know that they were now free. He regarded the source of the voices.

  The woman was a little older than her voice suggested. Though she had managed to cling onto an aspect of her youthful beauty, the small cluster of fine lines around her eyes betrayed her. She wore a low cut blouse together with a tattered wool skirt. Strings of colorful beads woven into her flaxen hair completed the image. Akiri had heard of such women who lived in the wild, making a living peddling potions and salves. The dim-witted and uneducated usually thought them to be witches, but he knew they were simply knowledgeable in the ways of herbs and healing. The poor or desperate often sought them out to help their sick and infirm.

  Killian was a surprise. If his narrow green eyes, sharp features, and slight build didn’t give him away, the tiny points on the tips of his ears certainly did. A Sylfari: renowned archers and trackers from the western highlands. They had no nation to speak of, choosing instead to live nomadic lives in small groups. Unlike the Drogba, their cousins in the south, they were rarely aggressive. In fact, they were well known for being free with their hospitality and humor, and could often be a welcome sight for weary travelers.

  Killian smiled down at him. “Does he have a name?”

  “The sell-swords who brought him to me didn’t say,” Farlana replied. “But in his fevered ramblings he did mention the name Akiri.”

  Killian raised an eyebrow. “Truly?” He knelt down to inspect his purchase more closely. “That name is not unfamiliar. Surely you are not the Akiri I have heard of? A man such as he would never have come to such a pass.”

  Akiri could see the legs of the other men on the far side of the wagon. He would need for them to come closer before making his move.

  “But I must say,” Killian continued, “you do have that special look in your eyes. One that I am all too familiar with. Perhaps you are Akiri.” He stood upright. “We shall see soon enough.”

  Two of the men walked toward him. Both were large, but from their movements, not especially agile. And neither was wearing any kind of armor, only a leather jerkin and wool trousers. The short blades they carried at their sides were still sheathed. Now was the time.

  The moment they leaned down to grab him, Akiri sprang to life. His two fists shot up in vicious punches, landing simultaneously in each man’s crotch. Both doubled over, crying out in pain.

  Scrambling up, Akiri seized the hilt of the sword nearest to his right hand. As it slid free from its scabbard, he turned to see Killian and Farlana backing away. Though the woman was clearly afraid, the Sylfari appeared to be wryly amused, the bow and quiver of white fletched arrows he carried no doubt the reason for his smile. In response, Akiri hastily positioned himself to the right of the remaining man, who was already upon him with sword in hand, hoping this would make it much more difficult for Killian to get a clear shot at him – though so far he hadn’t made any move at all to unsling his bow.

  No longer possessing his once uncanny speed, Akiri still found the clumsy swings from his opponent were easy to block. With a flurry of strikes, he opened a deep gash on the man’s left forearm, forcing him to retreat a few paces.

  It was time to finish off Killian’s two other helpers, but before he could turn, a powerful pair of arms wrapped themselves around his body from behind. It was the man whose sword he had taken. Grunting heavily, he lifted Akiri completely off his feet before slamming him hard onto the ground. Gasping from the impact, he rolled desperately to one side to avoid the swinging boot that quickly followed, but there was no time to scramble to his feet. As his foe moved in closer to aim a second kick, Akiri jerked the tip of his blade sharply upwards, piercing flesh near the top of the man’s thigh. It was far from a killing strike, but the wound was more than enough to force a pained cry and have him backing away, temporarily out of the fight. The third man, still red-faced from his injured testicles and snarling furiously, had drawn his sword and was almost upon him.

  A brief whistle was followed by an arrow suddenly embedding itself into the ground only a foot or so away from Akiri’s head.

  “That’s quite enough,” Killian called. He had already notched another arrow and had it aimed directly at Akiri’s heart. “I’ve seen all I wanted to see.”

  Knowing that he was trapped, Akiri froze. To underestimate the skill of the Sylfari would be a fatal mistake. The other three men gathered beside their leader, th
eir hateful stares burning into him.

  “Yes, I believe you might be the Akiri after all,” remarked Killian, smiling broadly. “Retrieve my shackles, Durst.”

  The man Akiri had stabbed in the leg gave a surly nod and then limped over to the horses.

  “My men are going to secure your hands,” Killian continued. “You will not resist while they attend to this. If you do, I will place an arrow through your left… no… your right eye. Nod if you understand.”

  Akiri nodded.

  Durst returned a moment later bearing a pair of silver manacles.

  A faint smile appeared on Killian’s face. “I assume that you are quite adept at freeing yourself from ordinary bindings. Fortunately, I keep a pair of Sylfari bracelets with me for just such occasions. Do feel free to test them.”

  Testing them was pointless, of course. The Dul’Buhar possessed several pairs which had proven to be inescapable.

  Once Durst had secured him, he and the other injured man began treating their wounds while Farlana hurriedly took her leave. Clearly shaken by what had happened, she glanced back over her shoulder constantly as the wagon rolled away. Killian watched after her, shaking his head.

  “She was quite stunning as a young girl,” he remarked. “For a human, at least.” He made a show of strapping the bow across his back. “Incidentally, if you have any thoughts of trying to escape…”

  In a flash, the bow was once more in his hands and he had let fly an arrow. The missile buried itself into the front of the departing wagon, just beside where Farlana was sitting. The woman cried out in fright before urging the horse on even faster.

  “Since when were the Sylfari involved in the slave trade?” asked Akiri, taking full note of the speed and skill displayed.

  “As a rule we are not,” he replied, his smile returning. “But I have been forced to find alternative ways to get by. It’s hard to raise a family on a tracker’s wage, and I’m not much of a tinker or smith. Slave trading is only a minor aspect of my endeavors, though. Most of the time I’m no more than an honest merchant.”

  Akiri sneered. “Is that what you are? Honest?”

  “Of course,” he insisted. “As honest as any other merchant, at least. But I find it profitable to occasionally delve into the darker side of the human world. You humans do so enjoy enslaving each other. I just take advantage of this. That’s all.”

  “And do you admit to your own people this side of your business?” Akiri was well aware of how much the Sylfari detested slavery. In fact, though most unlikely to attack genuine travelers, they had been known to fill slave traders with arrows if they happened upon their caravans.

  Killian’s smile vanished in a split second before slowly returning. “They are not aware of my involvement, nor will they ever be. The fact you know a little of our ways tells me that you are not uneducated.”

  He glanced over at his men, who were still treating their wounds. “If you are really Akiri, I am faced with quite a dilemma. I could sell you to King Nehala. I’m sure he would love the chance to speak with you. But then kings are not to be trusted. He is just as likely to kill me and take you anyway. Then I’d be dead and out of pocket by twelve gold pieces.

  “I could sell you to one of my clients. But even if you are not the renowned Akiri, it is very clear you are not the sort of man who can live as a slave. At the very least, I fear my reputation would be ruined should I loose you on some unsuspecting noble. You might even kill them. Then I would lose a customer, and my good name.” He scratched his chin thoughtfully. “So what to do with you? It is a conundrum.”

  The men began mounting their horses.

  “You could just set me free,” Akiri suggested. “As you pointed out so rightly, I will never suffer slavery.”

  “But then where would that leave me? Even if I were willing to lose some gold, you have injured my men. I cannot allow that to go unanswered. They may be filthy brutes, but they are my filthy brutes. I’m afraid I must think of another way to profit from this.” He gestured for Akiri to walk ahead of the horses. “And don’t forget – I’ll be riding right behind you.”

  The reminder was unnecessary. Akiri cleared his mind. Patience was his ally. He was Akiri, and he would not be defeated by a band of slavers led by a rogue Sylfari.

  They walked until dusk. Occasionally one of Killian’s men would ride close enough to let fly a spiteful boot, though this tactic came to an abrupt stop when Akiri ducked and planted his shoulder firmly into the horse’s ribs. The animal reared and bucked, throwing its rider hard to the ground.

  Sitting there nursing his bruises, the man looked up at Killian, clearly wishing him to mete out some kind of punishment to their prisoner.

  The Sylfari simply laughed. “Leave him alone and you won’t get hurt,” he warned. “The great Akiri is not to be trifled with. Even someone as stupid as you should know that.”

  The man rose and brushed himself off, grumbling curses as he hurried away to catch his horse.

  Shortly after nightfall, Akiri caught sight of a campfire in a small clearing ahead. Four armed men came forward to greet them as they arrived. Further back, at the edge of the firelight, it was possible to see six wagons parked beside a narrow, eastbound road. All were filled with various goods, no doubt for trading.

  Durst made a point of securing Akiri to a nearby tree with unnecessary tightness, and it was only after a short argument with Killian that he grudgingly fed him a few mouthfuls of the beef and potato stew that was cooking over the fire.

  “I’ll enjoy watching you bleed,” he muttered, quietly enough for Killian not to hear.

  That night, Akiri took careful stock of his surroundings and listened. The snatches of conversation he was able to overhear confirmed that he was in Rashkar, a kingdom to the east of Acharia. Wherever he was being taken, he was at least heading in the right direction. The road he could see would almost certainly lead to a larger and more frequently traveled highway that stretched east to west between the cities of Gothar and Lomhar.

  Killian was sleeping on his side, facing him, a few yards away, his bow and quiver within easy reach. The rest of the men had taken up positions as close to comfortable as they could find, and were snoring and grunting.

  He gently tested the chain holding him to the tree. Killian’s eyes instantly popped open, his hand automatically moving toward his bow. With a sigh, Akiri relaxed his body and closed his eyes. An opportunity would present itself eventually. Killian was no fool, but his men were of decidedly limited intelligence. One of them would make a mistake before long; and when they did, he would be ready to take full advantage of it.

  As the days passed, it became clear that they were not heading for any major city. Almost immediately after reaching the main road they left it again, turning north onto a small trail that led into a heavily forested area, a natural border dividing Acharia from Rashkar’s lake region. Here, small fishing villages lined the banks of dozens of lakes, all of them fed by the Manitor River. Most of the inhabitants were simple fisherman and tradesmen, though the remote nature of some villages was also known to attract a good number of far less honest characters.

  It was a week in, after catching sight of a bundle of yellow blooms in the back of a wagon, that Akiri realized exactly how far from the moral path of his people Killian had wandered. He recognized the plants immediately as being Frizzia, the seedpods of which were used to make lovus, a powerful and highly addictive narcotic that was illegal in most regions. He cast an accusing gaze at the Sylfari, who on this occasion could only avert his eyes in shame.

  The next morning, a group of six horsemen appeared out of the woods. They advanced swiftly, and for a moment the situation was tense, prompting Killian’s men to hurriedly arm themselves. Akiri’s alertness increased as he watched for his opportunity. The fog of battle might easily hide his escape, but in short order Killian raised a hand in greeting and let out a high-pitched whistle, and his men sheathed their weapons.

  The lead horse carri
ed an ebony-skinned man wearing a white cloth vest and loose-fitting black trousers. A long curved blade hung from his broad leather belt, and a row of throwing knives was attached to a strap slung across his muscular chest. He slid nimbly from the saddle to grip Killian fondly by the shoulders. His five companions remained on their mounts a few yards away from the wagons.

  After a brief discussion, Killian brought the newcomer to the rear wagon where Akiri was standing. “What do you think?” he asked. “Will he do?”

  The man took a step forward, but Killian caught his arm. “Not too close, my friend. This one will rip your throat out if given the chance.”

  The man smiled. “Is that right? And you’re willing to part with him?”

  Killian spread his hands. “That all depends on how reasonable you are willing to be.”

  “Twenty gold.”

  Killian sniffed. “Have you been at the lovus pipe? This is the mighty Akiri we are talking about.”

  The man cocked his head. “Who?”

  “Don’t play stupid with me. Twenty-five… plus three percent of the take.”

  “I think it is you who has been at the lovus pipe, my pointy-eared friend.” He scrutinized Akiri closely. “Twenty… and two percent of the take.”

  “You are a greedy bastard. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Take it or leave it.”

  Killian heaved a sigh. “Very well. We have a bargain.”

  The man gripped him by the forearm. “Have him there an hour before nightfall.”

  Without another word, he returned to his horse and rode off with his men.

  Killian watched him go, and then turned to Akiri. “It would seem Fortune has smiled on me. Though not on you, I’m afraid.” Without waiting for a response, he strode away and sprang up into the saddle. “Let’s get moving, lads. Our guest has an appointment he cannot miss.”

  His words brought shouts of approval, as well as sinister smiles from the two men Akiri had injured. He could already guess at what Killian had in store for him. If he was right, it might well be his chance to escape. The fire of anger burned in his stomach when he looked at the Sylfari, but he had to push this aside. Anger could easily cloud a man’s judgment.