by Paul Yoder
“Not a step further, love,” he whispered, then shouted, “by neither of ya!” causing Nomad to stop in his tracks on the road, dripping wet, still in all his travel clothes.
“J-J-Jans,” the lackey next to the boss stuttered out, putting a trembling hand on the scar-enriched arm of the lead bandit.
Shrugging the weak-man’s hand off, the leader looked over momentarily to see what his crony was nagging about.
The distraction was Reza’s opening, and she lunged towards the man, swatting the crossbow away from her just as an iron rod came down on the side of her head, disorienting her for a split-second before the leader spun around and slammed a foot into her gut, launching her back into the water, out of the fight.
Nomad was dashing towards him a moment later, but the gang, though preoccupied with another figure rushing up behind them, was still aware enough to confront Nomad, weapons ready.
Ducking under a swing from the closest flunky wielding a club, he snatched a hand that held a rusty knife from another, cranking on his wrist until the knife fell to the ground. Nomad slammed an elbow into the one holding the club, sending him down, badly dazed, then shoved the knife wielder off the trail and into the lake.
A second knife, followed by a hand, came in seemingly out of nowhere, latching onto Nomad’s neck, holding knife point dangerously close to his chin, putting a halt to the scuffle.
“Eh, shit!” the bandit leader said between heavy breaths, trying to steady himself after the lively, though short, uprising. “You don’t want to be doing that again—I assure you—or a bolt in your eye ain’t going to be the biggest problem you’ve had all day.”
Nomad looked down at the knife blade the man held to his chin, eyebrows now raised by the man’s quickness of hand.
“An arrow in your rat skull won’t be the biggest problem you’ve had today either if you don’t release that man this moment.”
Everyone’s attention turned roadside to see a tall woman, yew bow drawn and pointed at the leader, with long, brown and white hair shimmering as the autumn sun kissed it. Her striking green eyes were frosted with a silver sheen. They were eyes Nomad knew all too well.
“Well, well. Aren’t you a lovely specimen,” the bandit who held Nomad said, not seeming overly worried by the tall woman aiming an arrow at him. “At this point, I believe introductions are in order. Wouldn’t you agree? Name’s Jans. Gold Tooth Jans as me mates call me. What’s yours?”
“Arie,” the woman simply said.
“Ah, proper name for such a lovely lady. Arie, I don’t suppose you’d shoot me seeming’s how this good-fer-nothin’ you’re fixing to save is directly between us, and no matter how good a shot you are, it’d be a foolish risk to take. So, I suggest you keep on your way and we forget about this whole intervening,” the tattooed man said as he slid the knife he held at Nomad’s chin to his neck, keeping a dangerous amount of pressure on the blade, allowing Nomad no chance at slipping out of the hold without Jans’ quick hands finishing him.
Eyeing the man a while longer, Arie let out the breath she was holding and lowered her bow.
“Fine. You win,” she said coolly as she turned and casually began down the road towards Castle Sephentho.
“Smart lass,” the bandit softly spoke, looking back to Nomad and Reza, then called to his flunky to fetch his crossbow for him.
Just as the man he had called Darrell was handing him the crossbow, an arrow came thudding into Jans’ outstretched hand with enough force to twist him around slightly, allowing Nomad just enough wiggle room to safely slip out of his blade’s threatening reach.
The arrow had thrown Jans off for a split second, but the distraction was enough for Nomad to throw a haymaker jab directly for Jans’ unguarded face.
The thud and pop of flesh and bone violently colliding sounded clearly throughout the crowd, and Jans went down instantly, going unconscious before even hitting the ground.
Scooping up Jans’ dropped knife, Nomad stood up, settling into an offensive stance to face the rest of the riffraff that stood dumbfounded trying to make sense of the quick takedown of their leader.
Slowly backing away at first, with nervous glances over to Arie who was now walking towards the group, bow drawn, they turned and ran back the way they had come, leaving their leader to his own fate.
“Better tie that one up before he wakes. A rogue that quick with a knife is not one you want on the loose after you’ve ruined his day,” Arie said, walking up to Nomad as she tossed him a small length of cord.
Nomad snatched the knot of cord and got right to work on securing Jans, not wanting another knife to his throat any time soon.
Reza came out of the lake, shivering by the roadside from the freezing water that clung to her, a bit dazed to see Arie who they had left weeks ago back at Sheaf.
“There. He’s bound,” Nomad said, standing up, smiling as he looked to Arie, a look of welcoming relief easily showing as he went to her.
“It’s good to see you again,” Nomad mumbled into the crook of her neck as he embraced her.
“That’s cold!” she let out, struggling to distance herself from the drenched man, which spurred Nomad to lift her up in his arms, nuzzling her, Reza letting out a slight chuckle, seeing the man that had seen so many dark moods of late, happy and spirited for the first time in weeks.
3
Wounds from the Past
A hasty knocking on the door followed by Reza’s voice declaring, “The sun is up,” broke the silence in the sleepy inn hallway.
She fidgeted with her pack straps as she waited for Nomad and Arie to stir, leaning against the wall as she finally heard a moan, rustling covers, and a foot touching down in the inn room she stood waiting at.
Reza idly studied the quaint, but carefully crafted workmanship of the doorframe she stood before as the morning sun crested through a window to the side.
After handing over Jans to the castle guards the night before, Nomad, Reza, and Arie had spent the evening there, which happened to be the only inn outside of the castle proper.
Though Nomad and Arie had stayed up and had a few drinks at the inn’s little bar, chatting deep into the night, Reza had bought a room for herself and went to bed early, still not sure how she felt about Arie’s surprise appearance the day before. They were so close to the monastery that Reza wasn’t sure if Arie would add anything to the group now other than act as a distraction to Nomad and the mission, which was to get Nomad cured of his terminal condition.
The door opened, jolting Reza out of her reflection.
Nomad came out into the hallway, heavy bags under his eyes, his pace dragging, but all packed and ready to move out.
“Arie said she’ll catch up with us later in the day. If you’re so eager to head out, we can start up early I suppose.”
“Nomad…,” Reza mumbled, bringing up her hand to his face as she studied a thin, subcutaneous black vein that ran up through his cheekbone to his eye that wasn’t there the day before.
“Let me see your back,” Reza ordered, forcibly turning Nomad around before he could argue the point.
A few dabs of black spots speckled his shirt over where his wound was, and as she pulled uncomfortably on his collar to peek in past his harness, peeling back the bandage she had placed over the wound, a rank heat assaulted her senses, causing her to tear up and cover her nose, looking down at the splayed flesh as a fuzzy, fungal-like blackness seeped and oozed large droplets of dark liquid into the bandage.
She reflexively let go of Nomad’s shirt, causing him to lurch forward slightly from the release, already beginning to button up his collar tersely, starting to resent the abrasiveness of Reza’s mannerisms so early in the morning.
She gagged unexpectedly as she covered her mouth with her hand, bending over slightly as she attempted to forget the vile smell and wretched sight she had just witnessed.
“It’s always the worst at night,” Nomad said, so softly that Re
za had to hold still just to hear him.
“Come,” he said after a lingering moment that seemed to instantly weigh him down more than he had already seemed, “the sooner we make it to the monastery, the better—for us all.”
As they broke through the last remaining treeline up the mountain path that led to the Jeenyre monastery, Reza pointed up at the jagged mountains before them and said, “There’s the Jeenyre mountains. The monastery is not too deep within them. We’ll easily make it there before nightfall at this pace.”
Receiving no answer from Nomad caused her to glance back at him, finding him preoccupied with something in the woods behind them.
Arie leisurely strolled out of the woods and went to Nomad’s side, making a brief greeting before looking to Reza, waiting for her to lead them onward.
“The trail can be tough on horses, and they’ll be safer back at Sephentho for now. Hopefully the trek isn’t too rough this time of year. The cliffside passes can get dangerously icy and narrow,” Reza called back as she started forward with the two in tow.
Taking a deep breath of the chill mountain air, Reza rounded her head from side to side, cracking her neck before stepping up the pace, hoping to make good time on the trail for the morning.
They only traveled a minute or so more before Reza began to slow, her attention trained on a shape ahead along the trail side. Turning back to the others, she saw that Arie was already studying the same dark shape along the roadside a few hundred yards up the trail.
“What is it?” Nomad asked, knowing that out of all of them, Arie possessed the keenest sight.
“A man. Seems to be alone. Strange attire, though—perhaps foreign.”
“Foreigners are known to seek out the Jeenyre monastery. It’s not exactly a widely renown saren monastery, but there are visitors from distant lands that pass by from time to time.”
“Well,” Nomad sighed, “let’s just hope it’s not another ambush. Be on your guard, just to be safe.”
The three walked silently up the trail, the minutes ticking past as they closed the distance between them and the lone roadsman. As they came close enough to make out details of the stranger, Nomad slowed, hesitant to continue forward.
The man’s face was mostly covered by the brim of a flat, conical-shaped straw hat, laced with silk under his chin to keep it firmly atop his head, immovable amidst the light breeze. A golden-red, pleated half-sash adorned his right arm, chest, and lower body, bearing a satin white and amber undergarment underneath the striking overcoat. The whole ensemble, though extremely well made, seemed trail worn.
Nomad knew what peoples the wanderer belonged to, and a swell of trepidatious emotions flooded his senses.
His apprehension was easily felt by his two comrades. Arie and Reza both laid hidden hands close by their weapons.
“Far from home, you’ve wandered,” Nomad spoke as the group stepped up to the stranger’s small, single-man encampment.
The foreigner, who knelt on a straw mat at a low, compact table, got up at the sound of Nomad’s voice, and walked over to the pot that was affixed over the small campfire. Handling it with care, he walked back over to the low-standing table and placed the pot atop a bamboo mat, producing two teacups from the folds of his garments, issuing for Nomad to kneel across from him.
Nomad hesitated at first, everyone silently waiting for his move. Arie and Reza could almost feel the tension on the breeze from Nomad’s petrified inaction from the foreigner’s presence, and they knew now that something about this stranger struck deeper with him than just the threat of another highway bandit attack. This person, this culture, held some heavy weight upon their friend.
Moving slowly to the straw mat, as if he were moving to a chopping block in chains, Nomad ducked under the wide, oil-papered umbrella that was affixed over the table, shadowing the two men.
Nomad now kneeling, the man began to pour a green tea into each black ceramic teacup, placing the teapot back on the bamboo mat afterwards, motioning for Nomad to have a sip before gracefully taking a sip from his.
Nomad spoke in his native tongue, leaving Arie and Reza out of the now private conversation.
“You hail from Silmurannon, that is plain to see, but those colors—I do not know of any house they belong to.”
Putting down his cup, the stranger, whose face was still partially covered from Nomad’s view by the brim of his hat, whispered, “That is because after our house’s slaughter, I was the remaining family member, and I added red and amber to our banner, signifying the death and end of our great house.”
Tilting the brim of his hat up to allow Nomad a clear look at the stranger’s face for the first time, Nomad’s grasp on the teacup loosed, dropping the cup which spilled its contents across the table.
“Yozo…,” dripped from Nomad’s lips, the sight of the man’s familiar face completely freezing Nomad in place.
“Yes, Yozo,” the man tiredly replied. “The same Yozo that looked up to you as his older brother-in-law. The same Yozo that watched in disbelief as you selfishly, brashly led a war in which his sister was sacrificed to. The same Yozo that watched his brother-in-law leave when his wife’s family was in dire need, watching as his family was slaughtered—impaled and lifted from the ground to watch them struggle and then rot atop their own weight. Yes. The same Yozo—Hiro.”
A sudden, searing pain in Nomad’s back caused him to pitch forward, bracing himself across the table, scattering the scalding hot teapot and mats everywhere. As the man, self-identified as Yozo, deftly backed away from the table before the tea could splash upon him, he could see and hear a hissing, bubbling eruption of black liquid spring forth through Nomad’s clothes from the wound on his back.
Arie and Reza both rushed to Nomad’s side, but a curved sword, strikingly similar in style to the one Nomad wielded, was out and between Nomad and the two women before either could reach him.
“You do not interrupt tea,” Yozo coolly said in broken callatum, eyeing both Arie and Reza, sizing them up before turning back to Nomad who silently trembled through a painful spasm along his back.
“Take your time,” Yozo said in his and Nomad’s native tongue. “Recover your strength, but I will have a duel out of you before you leave this camp, brother.”
Nomad’s spasms ceased after a few deep coughs. Black flecks covered his hand as he brought it away from his mouth, and he knelt there inspecting the ink-like substance that had come from within him.
“Nomad, we need to get you to the monastery,” Reza said in a harsh tone, stepping once again towards him.
Yozo’s blade flashed up towards Reza to stop her from advancing, but Nomad’s blade, just as quick as Yozo had drawn his, was out, deflecting Yozo’s threatening sword tip away from Reza.
Shakily getting to his feet, Nomad held his sword unnervingly steady in comparison to the rest of his haggard body.
The slight tinge of surprise Yozo showed at the sudden movement was slowly replaced by a grin as he brought his sword slowly back to center, touching blades with Nomad as he sidestepped to the right, forcing Nomad to step right as well.
Sliding his blade up Yozo’s, Nomad grunted as he locked into an overhead sword stance, leaving his lower body open to attacks.
Yozo’s grin faded, seeing the extremely aggressive and desperate opening stance from his dueling partner and waited for Nomad to make his move.
Even through the harsh wind and the intensity of the moment, Nomad heard the slightest notch of an arrow several yards behind him.
“Arie! Don’t interfere,” Nomad gruffed, keeping his eyes locked on Yozo.
Trusting that she would obey his wishes, Nomad concentrated, crowding out the burning pain in his back that was making it hard for him to breathe, focusing now completely on the maneuver he was readying himself to make.
He came in at Yozo, right leg and sword point leading, thrusting directly for Yozo’s face.
Instead of attempting to defle
ct the powerful thrust, Yozo sidestepped Nomad’s attack, returning the thrust with a low slash, cutting open Nomad’s right leg, opening a fresh, bloodless half-inch slice.
Nomad, not even seeming to notice the strike, chopped down towards Yozo, twisting his body to realign with his opponent.
Barely ducking under Nomad’s diagonal swing, Yozo came up and jetted past Nomad, pulling his sword along Nomad’s torso as he passed him, cutting past most of his leather and cloth.
Turning around, this time Nomad had taken note of the nasty wound Yozo had landed. Clutching his side, blood finally starting to seep to the two cuts, Nomad flung blood from his hand, gripping his sword once more, letting out a blood-curdling yell as he came in again towards his opponent.
Yozo struck Nomad’s sword tip, guiding it to the side while simultaneously tripping Nomad in the midst of his frenzied charge, sending him to the ground in a bloodied heap.
The dull twang of Arie’s bowstring sounded, and Yozo fluidly dipped to the side as Arie’s arrow flew past him.
Yozo took one last look at Nomad, seeing that he was not moving from the place on the ground that he had collapsed, and then to the two women.
“Get him the help he needs,” Yozo softly said, breaking eye contact and taking a seat once more at the squat table, seemingly not concerned with the group of three in his camp any longer.
Reza dashed to Nomad’s side, inspecting Nomad’s two wounds with Arie keeping an eye on the dangerous foreigner.
Hefting Nomad’s limp body up in her arms, Reza noticed that he was unconscious. Carrying him out of the camp, Arie directed Reza over to an uneven bed of moss at the base of a large shrub a safe distance away from the deadly stranger. Laying him down, Reza rustled through her pack for a long strip of clean bandage, easily finding the clean cut to Nomad’s right thigh, beginning to wrap it tight.
“The other cut seems mostly superficial. No time to properly treat either wound, just needed to stop the bleeding. We need to get to the monastery now,” Reza said, hefting him up and over her shoulder, starting off to reconnect with the mountain trail that led to the monastery.
