Eventually Tangar began to teach him something that he called the Ga’ton. It was a series of body positions used to strengthen the body and mind and to prepare one for combat. There were twenty different positions, each transition from one to another designed to maintain strength and balance. At first Tangar performed the entire Ga’ton for Brant. He watched carefully as the nomad slowly moved from one position to another, the end of each movement accentuated by a sudden burst of speed and power, halting his body momentarily before moving to the next position. At each mark Tangar named the position. Brant tried to remember them, but when it was all said and done he could not bring them all forth, nor could he remember their order. There was Squatting Nyg, Swaying Grass, Leaping Tulkick, Setting Moon, and many others. But he had to admit that the movements were beautiful and powerful all at the same time.
“Now you try,” Tangar grunted as he finished, a bead of sweat dripping from his forehead. “First move is Squatting Ngy. Then you move to Breeze over Water followed by Maiden’s Thrust.” Tangar stepped back as Brant tried to remember the starting position. He put his legs together and squatted into a seat position with is arms straight up. Tangar walked to him and tapped his back, straightening it. Then he pushed his body forward a little and roughly brought his arms further above his head. “Now, move forward in low crouch and strike both arms forward.”
Brant tried to mimic his movement but failed miserably. “Show me again,” he growled. And Tangar did.
After many tries Tangar finally felt like he had performed the move well enough. “Now, release breath and slowly step back, like this, and spin arms, ending with a sudden low strike with your right arm…Maiden’s Thrust.”
Brant released his breath and attempted the move. It was much harder than he thought and he felt like his boots were filled with iron. Tangar performed the move so smooth that it frustrated him greatly that he looked like a stumbling drunk in comparison. Frustrated, Brant stood up from his position. “You made it look much easier.”
Tangar grunted his usual response. “Try again.”
It went on like that for quite some time. Finally, after more tries than Brant could count, he was able to move smoothly through the first three positions. He was exhausted, and despite how hard he had been working on his stamina, his muscles felt tired and he was dripping with sweat. “What is its purpose?” he asked as he wiped the sweat from his eyes.
“Ga’ton bring you speed, balance, power, and strength. You work positions. You get stronger…you get faster.”
And he did. Every day, intermixed with his physical exercise and his weapons work, they practiced his Ga’ton. After several months he was able to move through all twenty positions, albeit clumsily compared to Tangar.
Brant had been able to talk with Uln on several occasions. By the sounds of it Uln had been captured and fighting for Tangar for nearly a year. He had many scars to show for his fights, and on one occasion, as they sat near a fire waiting for their supper to be brought to them, Brant asked him about some particular nasty ones on his arm.
“How did you get those scars?” Brant asked, pointing to a series of crisscrossed white welts all covering his forearm. It looked as if something had shredded his flesh.
Uln narrowed his eyes and looked over at the dogs that were lying in the dirt nearby. “I ran. Hounds caught me. One did this, other two bite ankles. Flesh torn badly.”
“Looks like it,” Brant said. “What about those burns?” Brant asked, pointing to the marks on his huge chest.
Uln looked at him. “Let hope you find what mean.” But he left it at that. “You learn fight, kill. You must. Save time for plan.”
Uln clearly didn’t want to talk about the scars, but Brant thought he understood the rest. He was saying to learn to fight to protect himself, so that he may live…and maybe, in time, he would find a way to escape. Brant nodded his head, looking into the flickering orange and red flames. “How far away is home?”
“Live west. Forests north Heyrith, in Kael.”
“I’ve never heard of your people,” Brant said, puzzled.
Uln shook his head, shrugging. “Reclusive. We hide in forests. Not want man.”
“Not want man?” Brant repeated, unsure of what he meant.
“You,” he said, pointing at him. “No trust. We like alone.”
Brant knew he didn’t mean him personally, but his people. He wondered what had happened between his people and the Varga to cause them to isolate themselves. “You have family?” Brant asked curiously.
“Family?” Uln clearly didn’t understand the term.
“Umm, kids? Children? Woman?”
Uln wrinkled his forehead in thought, trying to understand what he was saying. Then it came to him, and he smiled widely. “Yes. I have woman.”
“Well, when I escape, I will free you as well, so you can return to your family.”
Uln smiled, as if it were a joke. But when he looked at Brant, his smile was not returned. Brant was dead serious.
5
Chapter
The Schulg are an enigmatic race. One the one hand, family is very important to them; yet with those outside the family realm they can be impulsively violent. One minute they are hugging their child. And the next instant they are slitting the throat of a stranger who inadvertently trespassed on their lands. Their history can be traced back thousands of years, when their ancestors crossed the Varos Mountains and moved south, presumably following the herds of tulkick, their main food source. From there they moved further south into Dy’ain, across the Sil Desert and into Torik. It is hypothesized that the Askarians in Torik, and the Schulg, came from a common ancestor. They have similar physical characteristics, but differ in their customs.
The migration of the Schulg into Dy’ainian lands led to a long history of wars and violence. Long ago, when the Schulg settled the steppes east of the Devlin Mountains, they had been relatively isolated. But as the Dy’ainian Kingdom grew, it encroached upon their lands. Bloody territorial battles were fought to possess the land. But once the precious Kul-brite metal was discovered in the Devlin range, nothing could stop the Dy’ainian war machine. Schulg villages were destroyed, their people slaughtered and scattered to the winds, forcing the nomads farther north. The Schulg population has been severely depleted from conquest and war. Now the Schulg mainly occupy the lands near Tanwen, and although both sides bear a mutual hatred and distrust of the other, they have come to tolerate one another. For though they technically live in Dy’ainian land, House Dormath knows to leave them alone. To do anything else would invite more war and death, and right now the Dy’ainians have the Saricons to deal with.
Journal entry 38
Kivalla Der’une, Historian, Keeper of the records in Cythera, capital of Dy’ain
* * *
5089, the 14th cyn after the Great Change
Wounded soldiers lay scattered across the courtyard, moaning and crying out in pain, their bloody wounds wrapped in make-shift bandages as servants scurried about bringing water and fresh bandages to the few healers available. Daricon Dormath was yelling orders to servants and healers, directing aid to the most severely wounded.
They had been out on patrol when they were attacked by a Saricon scouting party. After a brutal battle they had managed to kill them all, but not without casualties. Fifteen men had lost their lives, and another thirty were wounded, some severely.
Word had spread rapidly that they had returned to Lyone, and it wasn’t long before Jarak Dormath entered the courtyard, surveying the dead and dying with wide eyes, shocked at the sight of so much blood. He quickly located Daricon, guided by his loud commanding voice.
“Uncle, what happened?” Jarak asked.
Daricon, who was issuing orders to a servant, turned to face him. “We were attacked by a scouting party a day’s ride from here.”
Jarak looked about some more, taking in the many wounded men. He had been at the garrison for six months now and had gone on a few outings with hi
s uncle, but luckily he had stayed behind on this particular trip, having made up a story about needing to train with Serix. Instead he had spent his time trying to court Cat, an endeavor that had not gone well since he had arrived. “How many dead?” he asked numbly.
“Fifteen so far, but more are sure to perish from their wounds. I need your help,” Daricon said.
“But I know nothing of healing.”
“Then learn!” Daricon snapped, his voice rising in frustration. “You can help in many ways. Bring supplies to the healers, talk with the men, comfort the wounded…”
“I am their prince. I should not be seen doing menial…”
“Menial!” Daricon stormed, stepping towards him, his eyes narrowing with anger. “Because you are their prince is why you should do it!” A few men glanced at them curiously as Daricon raised his voice. But the surrounding chaos and commotion drowned him out, and most were too busy seeing to the wounded to notice the nearby argument.
“You do not need to yell,” Jarak said, stepping back from his angry uncle.
“I do!” Then he lowered his voice, but to Jarak it mattered little, for his words carried the intensity of a kulg’s claws scratching against stone. “These men are your men. They serve you. Talk with them and try to give them comfort as they suffer for their kingdom, as they suffer for you. Do you understand?”
Jarak knew that there would be no placating Daricon. “I will do my best.”
“Good. Find Valen while you’re at it. He is the head healer and will know best how to use you.” Without a second glance Daricon turned and walked away, eager to see to his men.
Jarak scanned the scene, trying to figure out how to help. Just before him were three men lying on the stone ground. One had a blood soaked bandage wrapped around his thigh, while another was clearly unconscious, with blood still dripping from a deep cut on the side of his head. The third man had one arm in a crude sling and was trying to use his cloak to stop the flow of blood from his comrade’s head.
Jarak walked to them, the man with the sling looking up as he neared. He recognized him immediately, bowing his head in greeting. “Is there anything I can do to help?” Jarak asked awkwardly.
The soldier looked up at the prince, seemingly confused. He appeared to be in shock as he cradled his friend’s head in his lap, vainly holding his dirty cloak against the wound. “Umm, well, I don’t know my Prince,” the soldier said nervously.
“I don’t think that dirty cloak is helping much. Let me get you some bandages.”
“Thank you, my Prince. Manny is hurt pretty bad,” the soldier said, removing the cloth from the wound. Jarak saw a wicked gash just above his ear, exposing the bone underneath. Manny’s entire head was drenched in blood. It looked as if he had been struck by a sword.
“What is your name?”
“Liam, my Prince.”
“Liam, how is your arm?” Jarak asked.
“I think it’s broken, sir. But I’ll be okay.”
The man with the wound on his leg stirred, his eyes opening slowly. “Water,” he groaned.
“I will return with bandages and water. Just give me a few moments.” Jarak stepped away, quickly skirting through the crowd looking for a servant or healer to help him. He hadn’t gone far before he saw a man leaning over a body. As Jarak approached he saw him remove the soldier’s cuirass and begin cutting away his bloodied shirt. The man wore a loose muslin shirt and his short curly brown hair was drenched in sweat. As he cut the shirt away, a horrible raised welt became visible on his side where his breastplate had failed to protect him. The welt was black and purple and it looked like something was trying to break through his skin. The soldier was in shock, moaning as two other men held his arms firmly.
“Are you Valen?”
“Yes! Now leave me be! Can’t you see that I’m busy!” he yelled as he quickly glanced up, his eyes opening wide as he saw Jarak. But he didn’t curb his next words much. “My Prince, I am sorry. But I am busy at the moment.”
“I see that you are. I would like to help and I need to bring some fresh bandages and water to some men. Where can I procure those items?”
“If you want to help then sit on this man’s legs.”
As if the wounded soldier had heard him, he began to thrash about, clearly unaware of what he was doing and trying to throw off the men that were restraining him. Jarak jumped behind the healer and attempted to keep the soldier’s legs still.
“Good! Now try to keep him still. I need to feel his side and figure out where the rib is broken!” Jarak couldn’t see what Valen was doing, but a couple of times the soldier reacted by jerking his body, his legs bucking underneath him. After a few moments the soldier screamed, jerking one final time before lying still. “You can get off now,” Valen said as he stood. “Wrap his side tight,” he ordered to one of the men that had been holding his arm. “Move him slowly and keep an eye on him. Let me know if he wakes or his condition worsens.” Then Valen turned to Jarak. “Thank you, my Prince.”
“You are welcome. Now, where can I get fresh bandages?”
Valen pointed to a cart on the other side of the courtyard. “You should find some there, and fresh water.”
“Thank you,” Jarak said hastily as he ran through the crowd towards the wood cart. The cart contained six wood buckets and a large keg filled with water, along with ladles and rolls of fresh white bandages. He grabbed a bucket, filled it with water using the spigot on the keg. Then he took a ladle and a roll of bandages and carefully made his way through the crowd of people, trying not to spill the water in the process.
He found the three wounded men easily enough, setting the bucket down next to the man with the leg injury. “How is he?” Jarak asked Liam, nodding toward Manny. He filled the ladle, gently propped up the soldier’s head, and brought it to his parched lips. The injured man swallowed gratefully as Jarak poured the water down his throat.
“Still unconscious,” Liam replied, clearly worried. “But he’s breathing.”
“Good,” Jarak said, drawing a knife from his hip and cutting a sizable chunk of cloth from the roll. Then he dipped it in the bucket and handed it to Liam. “Try to clean the wound. I’ll cut a strip that we can wrap around his head and hopefully stop the bleeding.”
Liam grabbed the drenched cloth and went about cleaning the wound as gently as he could. Manny moaned a few times as he dabbed at the raw flesh trying his best to remove any debris from the dusty road. “Thank you, sir,” Liam said looking gratefully at the prince.
“You’re very welcome. Jarak then turned to the man with the leg injury. Now, what is your name?” he asked.
“Reed, sir,” he replied hoarsely. “Please, can I have some more water?”
“Of course.” Jarak gave him another ladle full. “How is your leg?”
“Hurts, sir. Morlock’s balls, that Saricon was tough. I stabbed him in the chest and he still came at me. Struck me in the leg.”
“Let me look at it,” Jarak said as he slowly removed the dirty bloodied bandage. It was pretty bad. The gash along his thigh stretched from his groin nearly to his knee and was as deep as the length of his longest toe. When the bandage was removed from the crusty wound, fresh blood poured from it freely. “I need to get this cleaned up and re-wrapped.” He cut off another piece of cloth, dipped it into the bucket, and gently wiped at the wound, trying to clear away the blood. Then he remembered something he was carrying in his back pocket. He reached into it and withdrew a silver flask, its surface covered with beautifully intricate etchings. Rath had given it to him as a gift. He had hoped the golden liquid inside would give him the courage to talk with Cat, who he had been looking for when the wounded came pouring in over the floating bridge.
Normally, when it came to women he needed no such encouragement. But there was something about Cat that made his heart palpitate like a frightened bird’s and caused his tongue to stumble over his teeth. He had yet to figure out what it was about her that got him so tongue tied. After
all, she wouldn’t even be considered his type. Most men would consider her average, her small breasts and narrow hips not enough to turn their heads. But when he was around her he couldn’t stop staring at her. And when he wasn’t around her he kept thinking of her, visual images of her filling his dreams.
Jarak uncorked the flask. “Reed, this might hurt a little. I’m going to pour some alcohol on your wound to clean it. You ready?”
Reed lifted his head from the ground. “Do it.”
Jarak dribbled the golden liquid inside the gash and Reed instinctively jerked his leg. But the warrior was tough, and he grunted away the pain, keeping his leg more or less still despite the pain. Then Jarak quickly cut a strip from the clean cloth and tightly wrapped the wound. “Let’s get some of this,” Jarak said, indicating his flask, “on Manny’s wound.” Jarak moved next to Liam who had just finished cleaning the cut. They could view it better now and Jarak could definitely see bone through the flayed flesh and blood. He dumped the rest of the alcohol on the exposed flesh. “Push the skin together,” Jarak said, “but don’t use your dirty fingers. Use the edges of the wet cloth.” Then he cut another strip from the linen and proceeded to wrap it around his head, the first wrap done slowly as they did their best to use the pressure of the bandage to push the flesh together and close the grisly wound.
The Steel Lord: Book 01 - BannerFall Page 18
