A Warrior's Knowledge

by Davis Ashura

  “Our?”

  “She is promised to another. Kummas don’t steal another’s man’s woman. Had she broken faith with her fiancé, I would have sinned just as much as she,” Rukh said. “So my people believe.”

  The questions wound down, and the major stood. “It’s late. You’ll stay here the rest of the day and probably tonight as well.”

  “Who is seeing to my horses?”

  “They will be cared for,” Dru assured him.

  “And my weapons?”

  “You’ll have them back after I report my findings to those who will decide your fate.”

  As the major and his three warriors were getting ready to leave, Rukh called out to them one last time. “The girl seemed sure you’d take me in.”

  The major turned back to him. “She may still be right, but she’s also just a private. Promises of sanctuary aren’t hers to make.” He paused at the open door. “Jessira said you broke your leg, and your arm is obviously injured as well. I can send you a Healer if you like.”

  Rukh thanked him for his offer, and the Stronghold warriors left, and the door locked shut behind them.

  Shortly thereafter, an elderly woman, the Healer, came into the small room, Rukh’s prison cell. She seemed fascinated by Rukh, staring at his face as though witnessing some exotic animal. She Healed his leg, but, unfortunately, she could find nothing wrong with his arm.

  Several more meals followed throughout the day before night fell, or at least Rukh thought it must be since the light around the doorjamb slowly faded to darkness. No one else came to see him, and he found himself wondering if it was a good sign or a bad one.

  *****

  The next morning, Major Barrier returned. He came alone.

  “The Home Senate has approved your petition for sanctuary,” he said. “You will need to find employment, though. We do not have the wherewithal or desire to indefinitely support the shiftless.”

  Upon hearing the major’s words, Rukh felt a weight lift from his shoulders. “Will I be eligible to join the Home Army?” he asked.

  The major glanced at Rukh’s right arm, hanging limp at his side and shrugged. “If you can demonstrate the abilities that Cedar, Court, and Jessira insist your kind possess, than perhaps.” He held up a cautionary hand. “But you would truly have to be extraordinary to take the place of one of our own. A position in the Home Army is highly coveted.”

  “And if my arm doesn’t Heal?” Rukh asked, working to keep the sudden fear out of his voice.

  “Our warriors must be able to fight,” Barrier said. “In such a circumstance, a place in the Home Army would not be available to you.”

  “I don’t have any other skills,” Rukh said softly, his mind racing as he tried to figure out what else he could do with his life.

  “You’ll have to learn one. Or do manual labor,” Dru said. His professional façade cracked and a flicker of sympathy passed across his face.

  Rukh was a Kumma, a warrior by training and birth. He had been bred to protect his home, Ashoka, and those who couldn’t protect themselves. It was all he’d ever wanted to do. And now, with his exile, it had all been stripped away from him. And the chance to start fresh and defend a new home might be stillborn as well if his arm didn’t Heal.

  If Rukh couldn’t join Stronghold’s Home Army, he would have to do what the people here demanded of him — manual labor, whatever in the unholy hells that meant. His thoughts spiraled into further worry and dread.

  With a sigh, he reined in his circular fears. It was only his second day in Stronghold. His time here wasn’t yet doomed to end in failure. He’d be better off simply getting on with his life and sort out his problems anew with every day.

  “Come on,” the major said, interrupting his thoughts and leading him from the room. “There’s someone who’s agreed to take you in. You’ll be staying with him until you get your feet under you.”

  “Who is it?” Rukh asked, wondering who would take a chance on a Pureblood. Jessira’s early attitude to his kind seemed to be a common one.

  “Him.” Dru pointed to a stocky man waiting outside. “This is Court Deep, your host. I’ll leave you in his care,” he said with a nod as he departed.

  Court was a few inches shorter than Rukh, but stockier. His dark hair was cut short as was his goatee, and his skin was swarthy like a Sentya’s. His hazel eyes seemed to briefly assess Rukh before a half-smile creased his face. “You look like Farn. You’ll see him later today after his work is done.”

  Rukh studied the man who had agreed to take him in, wondering what Court Deep would get out of this situation. “Your Jessira’s cousin, aren’t you?”

  “I am he,” Court replied in a formal tone. “I’ll be your host. I took in Farn, and for some reason, I’ve ended up feeling a mite responsible for your kind.” He smiled. “Don’t ask me why. I must be a masochist.”

  Rukh smiled, warming to the man. “Thank you for letting me stay with you,” he said.

  “You’re welcome,” Court said. “I believe these are yours.” He pointed to a number of packs on the ground.

  Rukh felt a surge of relief upon seeing his sword and other weapons. He and Court shouldered the bags and made their way out of East Lock, the barracks of Brigade Eastern.

  They came upon a wide tunnel, brightly lit with a line of regularly spaced firefly lanterns.

  “This is the Southmarch tunnel,” Court explained. “It’s one of the main east-west roads in Stronghold. There’s another one … ”

  “Let me guess. It’s called Northmarch,” Rukh said.

  Court chuckled. “Only here for a day and already he knows how obvious we are when it come to naming things.”

  Rukh smiled. “Or maybe it’s just efficient.”

  “Or maybe you’re being generous in describing our unimaginative nature,” Court said.

  The end of the tunnel opened out onto a large courtyard paved with gray bricks, and Rukh found himself at the base of a silo with a ceiling hundreds of feet above. The space was bright and open with a shaft of sunshine somehow pulled into the cavern. The wide beam of light was focused upon the center of the courtyard, a garden where bushes, flowers, and a small glade of grass surrounded a large oak. Further light came from the hundreds of firefly lanterns suspended from the ceiling, hanging from the walls and railings of the various terraces, and the branches of the tree.

  From the courtyard, four tunnels branched off, each leading deeper into the mountain. Heavy, ironwood portcullises were raised above all four openings. If an enemy made it this deep into the mountain, further passage could be barred, and with archers up above, the courtyard would become a killing field. Also, Rukh had seen several more stone gates recessed in the ceiling along the portion of Southmarch leading to here, and he guessed all of Stronghold’s tunnels were similarly fortified.

  “Crofthold Ware,” Court said, gesturing around them. “There’s ten Croftholds throughout Mount Fort. All of them are built the same as this one. Each one has a central atrium and ten plots rising up to the top of the Crofthold.” He pointed to stairs marching upward to higher floors. “If you want to know where someone lives, all you need is the name of the Crofthold, the plot name, and the flat number.”

  Rukh pointed to the far side of the courtyard. “Do those tunnels lead to other Croftholds?”

  Court nodded. “All the Croftholds are linked to one another through these base passages.”

  “And eventually, the Southmarch leads to the West Lock and Brigade Western? That’s the only other entrance into Stronghold, right?”

  Court’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “How did you know?”

  “I knew about the East Lock and Brigade Eastern and … ” Rukh’s lips parted into a grin. “I guessed on the name. As for how I knew it was the only other entrance: simple math. The Home Army has fifteen hundred warriors under sword and shield. That many warriors could effectively man only two egress points of the size as East Lock. Three gates, and you’d be spread too thin.”
/>
  Court whistled. “Impressive.”

  “Not really. It’s just simple math.”

  “Well, it’s impressive to a simple scout like me,” Court replied.

  He led Rukh deeper into the mountain, all the way to Crofthold Lucent — Court’s home — and ascended up to Plot Din, the fourth level.

  “Not much further,” Court said. “My flat number is 423.”

  Rukh held in a grimace as he followed Court down a whitewashed tunnel. His leg was bothering him again, throbbing like a toothache. His arm wasn’t much better, and he hobbled along as best he could.

  “We’re here.”

  Thank Devesh.

  Court looked at him with concern. “Jessira said you broke your leg and did something to your arm a week or so ago,” he said. “Do you want me to send for a Healer?”

  “Saw one last night,” Rukh said with a grunt as he crossed the threshold into the flat. “She said the leg will be fine. The arm … ” He shrugged. “We’ll see.”

  “Then please sit down.”

  Rukh carefully lowered himself onto the small settee centered on the wall opposite the front door and studied Court’s flat.

  The space looked to have been carved directly from the mountain, with thick, stone walls smoothed over to an adobe-like finish and painted a happy yellow. The small, central space — the hearthspace — doubled as both kitchen and sitting room and past it was a doorway leading to the bedroom. The only illumination came from the warm, mellow light of the firefly lantern on the low table next to the settee, although a few unlit lanterns hung from the walls.

  “I’m fortunate that I can afford so much space on a poor scout’s salary,” Court said. “If this was in one of the older Croftholds, I’d be lucky to have a single room.”

  “There are rich and poor areas of Stronghold?” Rukh asked. Jessira had made her home seem like a classless paradise, but he’d always doubted it. In all of history and in all societies, there were always some who managed to gather wealth and others who didn’t. The reasons for why this happened varied from place-to-place and time-to-time, but it was an immutable truth.

  Court wore an uncomfortable expression. “There are more desirable areas,” he finally answered. “For instance, the older Croftholds are closer to the surface of the mountain. Some even have exterior views. It’s all carefully screened off from anyone down below, but who wouldn’t want to see the sun and the stars whenever they want?”

  “And what about the poor?” Rukh persisted.

  “No one here is really poor,” Court said quickly, sounding defensive. “Everyone has a place to live and enough food to eat.”

  It was clear there were poor people in Stronghold, but the OutCastes obviously didn’t want to admit any such flaws in their society. It might force them to question whether Stronghold really was so much more egalitarian and enlightened than the Pureblood cities. Whatever the reason, Rukh could tell the topic made Court uncomfortable. He decided to change the subject. “Where’s Farn?” he asked.

  “Working in the kitchens.”

  “The kitchens?”

  “Each plot has a main cafeteria where we gather for meals. It’s easier to have one large chimney to funnel out all the smoke and refuse instead of a separate one in each flat,” Court explained. “The hearth over there is mostly just for show. I can place some hot rocks in there and maybe bake some bread but not much more.”

  Rukh was still confused. “What’s Farn doing in the kitchens?”

  “Cooking, cleaning, whatever the cooks tell him to do,” Court said, sounding as if he thought the answer should be self-evident.

  “Really?” Rukh asked, dumbfounded. Farn was a warrior. It’s all he ever cared about, even more so than Rukh. And given his conservative nature and distaste for work he considered beneath him, Rukh couldn’t believe Farn would willingly do a servant’s labor.

  “It was either that or starve,” Court said. “Maybe in Ashoka you can afford to carry deadweight, but here in Stronghold, we can’t. Everyone who’s healthy either contributes or they’re tossed out on their backsides.”

  “Where they then die.”

  Court shrugged. “Their life. Their choice.” His earlier happy mien on their walk to his flat was now replaced by stern conviction.

  The manner by which the OutCastes handled those who were too lazy to do for themselves was actually pretty close to how Ashoka dealt with such people.

  “So what do I do now?” Rukh asked.

  “If you want to get cleaned up, there’s a washroom just down the hall from my flat,” Court said. “Jessira’s folks have invited you and Farn to dinner tonight.”

  Rukh hadn’t seen Jessira since they’d entered Stronghold, and he almost smiled at the thought of having dinner with her. “Guess I should wear my best,” he said.

  Chapter 11: Evening Revelations

  Open your heart and your home and try not to be an ass in front of strangers.

  -Stronghold aphorism (author unknown)

  Jessira’s emotions were a roiling mixture of elation and worry. She was joyful at being home, but she was also concerned for Rukh. She hadn’t seen him since he’d been hustled off to East Lock where she heard he’d been interrogated for hours. The worst part was the day-long delay before the Senate and Governor-General finally granted Rukh’s petition for sanctuary.

  During the time Jessira and Rukh had travelled to Stronghold, the idea that he might be denied refuge had never crossed her mind. To her way of thinking, Rukh’s acceptance into Stronghold had been a foregone conclusion. It was supposed to be a foundational principle of Stronghold. The OutCastes didn’t hold a person’s birth against them. All were equal, so long as they were willing to work. It was what she’d always been taught, a point of pride, and something that made her people’s culture more civilized than that of the Purebloods.

  Apparently not.

  Witness Rukh’s treatment so far at the hands of the Home Army and leadership. Or the ugly looks thrown Rukh’s way by the Shadowcats — simultaneously contemptuous and dismissive. It was an arrogance and disdain sadly similar to Jessira’s own behavior when she had first met Rukh. She had hoped such a flaw would be hers alone, but it seemed more reflective of OutCaste society in general.

  It was mind-bogglingly hypocritical, but no one else seemed to see it.

  As a result, Rukh probably wouldn’t have it easy in Stronghold, but at least Court would be the one to host him. Her cousin had already taken in Farn and thought highly of him — which was a minor miracle as far as Jessira was concerned — so he should have no problem getting along with Rukh. Also, since Court lived in Crofthold Lucent — same as Jessira’s parents — she could check in on Rukh every now and then. Not too often, of course.

  Besides, Jessira didn’t trust herself around Rukh. Priya. She had said the word to Rukh. Jessira supposed it might have come out because she had been afraid he was dying. Possible, but not true. Jessira had never been good at lying to herself, and the word certainly didn’t mean good friend, like she’d told Rukh. She suspected he knew it, too. In Stronghold, just like Ashoka, it meant beloved.

  Jessira grimaced. What a mess. How could she have let such an overwrought, foolish situation come to be? It was like a bad Ashokan drama. Jessira would be lucky if none of this ended in disaster. A flutter of panic threatened to unmake her composure, and Jessira closed her eyes and took a calming breath. Nothing bad would happen she kept repeating to herself. The mantra worked, and she soon had her fear under control. Jessira opened her eyes, realizing that tonight would be the first step in the rest of her life. It was a future Rukh couldn’t share. That was the end of the matter.

  A knock came to her door, and Amma poked her head in. Jessira’s amma, Crena Grey, was in her fifties, but still stood straight and tall and was but a few inches shorter than her only living daughter. Her graying hair was pulled back in what Jessira called a mature woman’s bun. The phrase was one that always brought a smile to both their faces. In f
act, Jessira could count on one hand the number of times Amma had worn her hair in any other fashion. And while Amma’s red-gold skin had grown sallow with time, her green eyes remained lively and alert as she scanned Jessira’s dress and appearance. She smiled. “You look beautiful,” she said. “I’m sure Disbar will approve.”

  Jessira glanced at herself in the mirror. She did look good. The green dress she wore did wonders to hide her flat chest and narrow hips. It almost made her appear curvaceous and womanly, and the high cut above her knees with the open-toed sandals laced around her ankles showed off the part of her that Jessira thought was her best feature: her legs.

  “Our guests should arrive any moment,” Amma said. “Why don’t you come out and help set the table?”

  Jessira nodded, smoothing out her green dress one final time. She fleetingly wondered what Rukh would think of how she looked in it. It was more feminine than anything he’d ever seen her wearing. Her face reddened as she remembered Rukh had, in fact, seen her in something more womanly. After all, he’d seen her in her camisole.

  “What is it?” Her amma asked, apparently noticing her flushed face.

  “Nothing,” Jessira lied. “Just wondering if Disbar will like my dress.”

  Her amma gave her a knowing smile. “The man has eyes, doesn’t he?”

  Jessira forced a smile in response.

  As soon as they got the table set, guests started to arrive. First came Cedar and his wife, Laya. Their marriage was unusual in that it was a love match. Cedar came from a moderately wealthy family — their nanna was a skilled tradesman — and Cedar himself was a lieutenant in the Home Army, destined to earn a farm in the Croft. By contrast, Laya’s parents were merely laborers, as was Laya herself. Typically, two people from such disparate backgrounds didn’t marry. It was a matter of societal expectations. If the man in question came from wealth, he would command too high a dowry price for a family of modest means. Conversely, if it were the woman who was wealthy, her family would consider a poor suitor unworthy of her attention.