Sapling: The Blade of Ahtol

by Dan Gillis

  “Damn him!” Shien cursed harshly. “What was I thinking? For all the cursed luck, I can’t believe it!” Shien struck out at the rough bark harshly. Running his hand through his hair tensely, he peered just over the tree toward the waggon. There was no question in his mind now. He would need to recover Vyn-shi’s emblems at any cost. That would mean defeating every last Gnarel; unless they ran, of course. He slammed his hand again into the tree in anger. In his haste to follow Firah and Tohm, not only had he abandoned his lost heritage but also his own dueling weapons. Now he would need to think fast and cautiously to avoid coming to harm. It was not a simple task. The Gnarel were strong fighters; even the weakest of their kind exacted respect from the most seasoned veterans. Shien had faced them before along the Dryke-wasteland borders during his youth. They were incredibly savage and their fighting style was unpredictable. Many images of massacre resided within his brain; they would suffer that fate now if they faltered.

  Shien shifted slowly away from the downed tree. Firah was watching him with an odd expression. A malevolent grin had spread across her face and her eyes, which caught glimpses of the dimmed light, seemed to be on fire. Yet he was moving and hadn’t time to think about such things. Shien stalked low to the ground, and determined a flanking maneuver was best, yet as to how to actually fight with the beasts, he was uncertain. He looked for anything to use as an advantage as he moved. His foot caught against something unusual and he quickly inspected the ground. It was a crude Gnarel arrow; it would have to suffice, as it was better than mere hands and feet. Yet it would be one shot, one attempt and then … he chose not to dwell on it. When it began, he would have to react as best he could.

  Shien purposely moved apart from the direction the Monk had taken. It wouldn’t do to get caught up in his battles. The young fighter admitted that Zyr was a man who could win a war with his limbs alone. What concerned Shien was the safety of the rapiers, and preventing a Gnarel looting in a potential withdraw. He would keep an eye out for his heirlooms as best he could, but what use would they be if he were impaled upon the claws of the enemy? He moved slowly but stealthily around the faltering rear guard of the pursuing party. He came through the trees and gazed out from behind cover down the road to his right. He was several feet away from the now diminished battle. The conditions had not improved at all, and in all the cover of the trees he had forgotten the drizzle. He felt the mist brush his neck as he brought his head around a trunk into the slight wind. ‘To fight on that road will be suicide’ he mused. The muddy quagmire may have led to the downfall of the fighter who cried out earlier. The Gnarel were much more adapted to this sort of environment and took advantage of the situation. The archers in the human party were wise, staying off the road, but their vision was very limited. The Gnarel were well holed in on the road, and covered sufficiently from the woods behind. He would need to skirt across the road and flank upon the opposing grassy side.

  Taking a quick breath and clutching the arrow he sprinted to the limit of the grass and leapt hard over the mud. He needed one step to help clear the remainder of the road. As he placed the foot down, muddy water splashed across his leggings, and echoed in his ears. He tumbled to the grass, and lay there in dark as the sky shed wetness upon him. He heard the Gnarel growls and barks. They sounded different. It was possible that they heard him. What would they do? Rather than mindless beasts, the Gnarel had proven to be shrewd adversaries. Shien shot up and barreled into the trees. He picked up a stick in the other hand. It would have to do. He quickly hurled it away from him into the woods. He strained his ears in the dark for any sign of movement. In a moment of alarm, he thought he heard the soft padding of feet or paws from within the trees. His eyes scanned the dark feverishly. He had heard something but as to which direction he was not sure. The sounds of battle were still there, with the occasional yell or taunt from either side. Neither group wanted to make a move, as both had holed in sufficiently with good defensive positions. The Gnarel may not have realized that they won a certain advantage felling the warrior on the road. The men had been too overzealous in pursuit and fell into the Gnarel counter.

  A massive claw swept through the air and nearly sliced through Shien’s face. In a moment too brief to measure, the young man’s fighting sense had reacted quicker than his mind. Instead of being gashed by the assault, he was caught further up the limb and hammered across the head by the sheer force of the blow. He stepped back groggily, as a massive Gnarel warrior crashed into view, spreading its massive limbs apart and roaring an invitation to battle and death. In the right claw, a massive Gnarel war axe dripped tendrils of water from the rounded blade edge. Clenching the wooden shaft firmly in his grip, Shien wondered how the creature found him. His mind responded in a chastising matter-of-fact way. ‘The Gnarel are downwind, fool.’

  Zyr moved quickly through the trees. It was possible to go undetected in the dark, but he knew better that to underestimate the enemy. He had mixed feelings about the Gnarel. Generally, they hated everything outside of their culture, and at times extended the conflict within their own circles. However, their xenophobia would often be the catalyst to band together to fight against any aggressor and also strike out to acquire wealth for their tribal families. They were a slave race but generally nomadic. They could also be dangerous as they sought rudimentary but effective links to the mystic realm. He had fought many in his time, and each time learned something new about them. Zyr doubted a lifetime of study - if one should live that long in such a bizarre science - could reveal all the secrets of the Gnarel. Either way, the monk felt he was well on his way toward that end, and not just concerning the bestial warriors, but many creatures. Based on that expertise, Zyr had concluded long before that the Gnarel were not necessarily evil but terribly introverted. Yet, evil found its way into every species, and the Gnarel were known to engage in strange rituals bordering upon threads similar to Defiler lore. This night he would have to use careful judgment with these creatures.

  Dodging around a slender tree, Zyr assessed the battle. Several Gnarel archers had set up position in the woods just behind the waggon. Blade warriors were established behind cover at either end of the waggon to counter a head-on attack. It was a fair defence for the often underestimated intelligence of these creatures. The men who opposed the Gnarel had a similar setup in the near trees, yet they were having difficulty hitting anything effectively on the road or in the far trees. In the event that their arrow supplies diminished, they would be overwhelmed by the aggressive warriors. The monk considered the options. There was no indication of how many Gnarel resided in the trees across the road. Perhaps four to six was his best guess. He estimated that the combined force of the men was about seven. He dared not attempt a probing at this time in fear of being detected. Only use of his own reserves was safe at the moment. The Gnarel would have near ten. It was difficult odds, especially as he considered the loss of the burly fighter who lay in his gore near the waggon. Arrows protruded from his chest like a porcupine coat, creating a disturbing if not unusual silhouette in the darkness. Zyr briefly considered raising the man. Perhaps if he coordinated with the human archers … no. It was regrettable, but the man was probably too far gone. The danger would be great as he would expose himself to attack for a significant period of time. The best would be to attempt a flank against their rear guard. The danger lay in the uncertain numbers he faced and the near blackness of night. Gnarel had exceptional senses and often fought in packs which made combat tricky and hazardous. The wind was blowing across his face, which he determined would give him a slight advantage to avoid detection. He hoped that Shien was ready to act, but he could not rely heavily upon the young man. All their weapons were now thoroughly immersed in muddy pools of water next to the now vertical bed of the waggon.

  Zyr directed power into his legs and skipped over the road easily. Clearing the road had not proved a difficult test as it was a maneuver he had developed as an initiate and mastered since. Moving through the trees with careful
steps, he heard guttural chatter coming just ahead. Scanning the surroundings, Zyr moved forward carefully and stayed extremely low. From his perspective he spied upon a small gathering of the tribal beasts. There was a strangely dressed and rather morbid looking Gnarel conversing with two stocky and seasoned Blade Warriors. He had never encountered the likes of the odd one, but the tattered robes and bone ladders suggested the beast was a mystic of sorts. The others were armed with tribal weapons, ornamented with the spoils of war from their tribe. They were armoured somewhat but chose the freedom of movement over heavy protection. Their hides were also naturally tough, which aided them more than the skin of their human opponents. After a small moment, Zyr knew what to do. His mind created the battle as it should transpire many times as he slowly moved closer. It was a very small clearing which held the sweaty and rank snouted warriors. Their silhouetted bodies rose and fell in anticipation of battle. Muscles were tensed and ripped across their furred skins. Suddenly, the smaller clothed one snorted sharply and gruffed to one of its larger kin. The large one sprung like a cat into the forest with a growl of battle lust. The moment was set; the battle plan weaved its patterns through the monk’s mind. Zyr’s body drove swiftly into the clearing, from stance to stance. The Gnarel spun and howled the moment they espied the motion of Zyr springing from his hands into the air. Almost floating upon the winds, the monk closed the distance - fluidly twisting his legs into the first critical move in a long dance of death.

  Urshaak breathed in the night. It was hunting moon and the feint had played the humans into their jaws. Following the token ambush, the retreat was good. The intruding men were so foolishly predictable. He personally felled the strong one, and taking a moment he drank in the fumes of death which rose from his fallen enemy. It had been a good battle. Now he waited for the humans to waste their puny little attacks. Soon, he would hew them down … just a little longer. He twisted the grip of his heart blade in his massive claws. The rush of battle was sweet as the rain upon his brow.

  His ears perked slightly to a familiar sensation. Death. From the enemy in the trees. Perhaps one of his brothers … no it wasn’t that … something smelled wrong. His mind began to burn, pulsing in warning. Danger … foul danger. It was seeping through every pore. Urshaak moved his horned head slightly to catch sight of the woods where the enemy … the evil lurked. What he saw chilled the blood which once ran hot within. Shadows. Living shadows. They were slinking, creeping, melting through the wood. The shadows struck out like a writhing blade. Screams, gargled and torn. Now it was coming, dancing from the trees. Urshaak felt the tip of his most precious blade touch the ground. His resolve was faltering, his mind broken. All of his instincts roared out at his inaction, at his fear. Yet it was the shadow descending upon the proud warrior which drove all his courage like the deer before the wolf. The red-eyed shadow …

  The Sapling’s thorns now flowed into blackened tips, both elegant and venomous. The glade remained oblivious to the changes as the heavens wept. The furtive weed had grafted itself to the young tree and grew steadily upward, choking the heart of the Sapling, corrupting the sweet nectars within.

  Shadow and Fire

  THE NIGHT OF SHADOW AND FIRE, that was what the old folk from southern Mehnin called it. For those who remained alive to recall, it was a memory that would never fade. No one could really explain what happened that night. From one moment to the next, the world seemed thrown into chaos. All the heavens withdrew their light; the slash of a moon fell into shadow; the stars extinguished. A dark shroud fell over the land like a chilling mist. It was spoken of rarely by those who fought for life and spilled the same upon the lonely border roads from Khyvla. Neither Gnarel nor human could adequately recall the dark bedlam which spilled upon their battle. Mercifully, their memories were vague and limited. It was enough to know that a great wickedness, a presence both foul and alluring, had caught them up in a void of fear and dread from which they could not escape. The conflict which brought them together was quickly drowned in darkness. Then the shadows fled, melted away under fervent heat which blazed like hellfire across their skin, dispelling the gloom which tore at their minds and bodies. Most who survived soon abandoned the paths of war, their bloodlust quenched through the insanity of that night. Now for those aged and decrepit who waited for death to take them, life remained full of dark memory and endless fear of gleaming shadows. A lifetime of shadows born from one night of shadow and fire.

  The Gnarel axe-blade cut through the air and spitting rain, wedging itself into a near tree after passing deathly near its target. Rain was pounding furiously in the area. Somehow, in a few moments everything had changed. It was all Shien could do to dodge and roll to avoid decapitation or some other grisly fate. He had no battle plan and faced a foe determined on one obvious course of action. Not to mention the Gnarel were certainly adept with their weapons of war. The beast growled in frustration and tugged sharply on the long handle, freeing the slick axe-blade. Shien’s opponent glared in disgust, to which Shien merely shrugged his shoulders in response. He wiped his soaked forehead with the back of his right fist, briefly removing hair, dirt and rain from his vision. He still retained the arrow in that hand, for all the good it had done him. Anytime he felt he had an opening to strike, the Gnarel recoiled to the defensive making any assault near impossible. The young man had tried every trick he could remember, even inventing a few on the spot, yet nothing was working. Worst of all, he could feel his muscles slowing, losing energy. Soon he would lose his edge and he would miss that critical dodge. Upon his death, the emblems of Vyn-shi would fall into other hands and be defiled by the unworthy. His face contorted in anger as streams of water poured down his brow; it was so frustrating to be without a means to attack effectively. He felt absolutely naked without his precious instruments of war. What he would give for even an unwieldy broadsword at this very moment.

  A thunder crash cast the ground into turmoil, overwhelming the relentless cacophony of pouring rain that dulled the senses. The Gnarel moved suddenly, swinging twice, the first a feint to draw Shien into the second brutal cut. The beast was certainly intelligent. It had adapted to his defensive style. The young man made to draw into the feint and reversed his stance at the last moment. The Gnarel, committed to the attack, drove its swing through with violent intent. As Shien moved slightly off the path of attack, he rolled under the long arc of the axe-blade. As he came up to the side of the beast he struck out with his leg at its knee. Connecting solidly upon the bony limb, the Gnarel grunted and brought its talon-like foot upward and then forcibly down upon the grounded fighter. Shien pulled his leg back in time to avoid the worst of the blow, but the sharp claw edges sliced through his skin. Wincing, the young man fought back the pain by focusing his mind.

  Taking the initiative, the Gnarel sprung forward, throwing its body downward upon the prone man. Shien twisted quickly as clawed hands impacted upon the earth next to his head. Thinking fast, he took a clump of sopping mud in his hand and slung it into the face of the beast. His attack succeeded in diverting the creature momentarily, and Shien divined his moment of opportunity. He sprung upon the hairy and spine-laden back of the dazed Gnarel while slamming the arrow into its neck. Howling in rage, the Gnarel staggered to its feet and with massive arms flailing, it tried to grasp the wily prey on its back. Shien hung on with one arm, and twisted the arrow around, driving it deeper through flesh and muscle. If he could just connect with the spine, it might paralyze …

  In a crazed contorted and writhing motion the furious creature shook the young man off, hurling him into a tree. His grip had faltered upon the Gnarel’s slick fur. Shien grunted in pain as a sturdy branch pierced into his back. The Gnarel slumped to one knee and was howling and shaking in agony. Shien had got the arrow close, and his enemy was hurt significantly. However, he also knew the Gnarel were beasts of passion. They would not ask for quarter. He would need to kill or be killed by his opponent.

  The Gnarel suddenly ceased its convulsing and reg
arded Shien with a sideways glare past the bony protrusions from its head. It seemed to nod slightly to him and it laid the axe blade down gently upon the sodden grass. It slowly rose up and extended a clawed gesture to him. Slowly and methodically it turned its claws upon itself, driving them deep into its abdomen. Its small black eyes never flinched from his through the torrential rain. The beast withdrew its claws slowly and extended a fist toward him, dripping wet with rain and blood, which flowed upon the ground in great drops. Shien caught the meaning. The creature was not to survive the skirmish, but it would fight him with all of its soul. It honoured the battle and so had marked where it would meet its end, either at his hand or from slow death. Shien was strangely moved by this simple yet powerful sentiment. The Gnarel tilted its head upward, spread its massive jaws wide and proceeded to howl out a cry which moved Shien to the core. Yes, this would be an end for one or both. Standing himself, he prepared for what was to come.

  It was then that the heavens were consumed in gloomy shadow, and all was thrown into darkness.

  Zyr stared across the small clearing at the smaller clothed Gnarel. It snorted in disgust while gripping a long spear in its claws. The larger of the two warriors had proven a stalwart fighter, but the beast had been clearly outmatched by the monk’s skills. Zyr felt a small degree of pity for the downed warrior. It was not his intent to kill, but the blood lust that flowed through the dark veins of the Gnarel would permit nothing less than mortal conflict. The robed Gnarel moved slightly, casting a quick beady glance to its fallen comrade. The downed Gnarel’s body lay sprawled face down in the mud, with an immense blade protruding through its back, blackened slick with blood. Zyr had neatly turned the gnarly-toothed sword upon its master with quick precision. The monk had to be efficient as time was precious, and so it was that the conflict ended with one lethal motion.