by Philip Blood
“Just Elizabeth, for now” she answered.
“So ye’re not dead. Scuttle has it you are fleeing from your husband, why?”
“My husband is dead, his body possessed through necromancy, but I will avenge him,” Elizabeth stated with certainty.
That gave Poison a moment of pause, eventually, she asked, “Where do you travel to now?”
“Some things will have to remain hidden for a time, like the real story of Fingers the thief,” Elizabeth answered.
Poison looked ahead at Hetark again and then said, “So, when did you figure out that I put Fingers up te that show?”
“From the start, I was watching you as Hetark walked back to our table, so I saw you speak to a man who then sat down behind us. The rest was easy; you wanted to knock Hetark down a peg after your argument. I thought he acted poorly toward you, so I let you have your fun. As I said at the time, it was a nice show,” Elizabeth said and gave Poison a quick smile.
Poison smiled back ruefully. “I thought I had you fooled.”
“It’s hard to fool a watching Kirnath sorceress,” she replied.
“Then you are... ” Poison said with her good eye widening.
“Yes, a sorceress, but don’t let superstitions fool you, most of what you’ve heard is exaggeration and myth, I’m just as human now as I was before you knew of my skills. I’m still just your eager student. Don’t put me up above you Poison, I’d rather stay where I can be your friend,” Elizabeth said, giving Poison a smile from her heart.
“All right, I’ll try, but I want you te teach me in return,” Poison answered.
Elizabeth gave her a small smile of encouragement.
“Could you teach me te speak better, te act more lady like?”
“If that is what you wish. Moreover, I am a healer Poison. How long ago did you lose your eye?”
Poison’s hand went unconsciously to her black eye patch.
“Two years, but I killed the thiv’en bastard who did this te me.”
“I can heal you if you wish,” Elizabeth said simply.
Poison swallowed in a dry throat before she said, “Truly?” A faint ray of hope that she almost didn’t dare hold sprang up in her mind.
“It will be my gift for your teaching,” Elizabeth promised, “and we’ll start working on your speech as well.”
“But…, but how?”
“I am a Kirnath; you know we heal the sick. It is well within my powers to heal your eye.”
Poison swallowed hard and her one eye rimmed with a half tear as she said, “To… to see with both my eyes… for that, I would do almost anything.”
“Well, be that as it may, I have many things I wish to ask of you, Poison, but I will only ask, not demand. You may not have seen it yet, but have you not noticed how much we look alike? I noticed it immediately.”
“Yes, I noticed, our hair color is different, I’m a little taller, and my eye color is completely different, but our faces, yes, they are very similar,” Poison agreed.
“I have things, important things, which you could help me with, but I will not ask them in payment, I will ask them in friendship only, and if you are not willing, I will understand.”
Poison swallowed and then said, “Well, I suppose that since we look alike you might want me to act as a stand in for you, like if someone was trying to assassinate you.”
“No, that isn’t what I meant,” Elizabeth answered.
Poison thought about it anyway and then said, “If you heal my eye, I would take that risk and more for you. Whatever you ask of me.”
“Again, I will not accept your service in payment. I will heal your eye just because I have the ability to do so. May I ask you a question, why do you want me to teach you to speak and act like a lady?”
“I want te be more courtly, like you, refined. I know I’m just a rough alleysark. The only men comfortable around me are murderers, thieves, and scum. I want te be proud o’ myself,” she looked at Elizabeth’s eyes, as if trying to see if she could trust her with her darkest secret, and then she said, “I’m terrified o’ fine restaurants and hotels, I shake at the thought o’ go’in in and embarrass’in myself. I don’t know how te dress, act or speak, will you teach me?”
Elizabeth reached over and took her hand, “Of course, Poison, I’d love to teach you. I also have two things I wish to ask of you, and I didn’t know how, exactly, they are very personal.”
“It’s all right, Elizabeth, I’ve already told you my worst fear,” Poison replied.
“The first thing is simple, I need you to deliver an important message when we get to Myrnvale,” began Elizabeth.
When Elizabeth finished explaining the second thing she wanted, Poison nodded. “And you’ll teach me what I need te know before then, right?”
“Don’t worry, we’ll learn from each other,” Elizabeth said excitedly, things were starting to fall into place.
CHAPTER SEVEN - BECARIS
G’Taklar landed in the dirt for the sixth time that day. The drill sergeant’s boot came down on the back of his neck pinning his face to the ground and mashing gritty dust into his mouth.
Sergeant Herms began an impressive verbal assault of G’Taklar’s parentage.
“I’m getting tired of this maggot!” G’Taklar silently exclaimed to Jatar.
“He’s not so bad, as far as sergeant maggots go,” Jatar's thought answered.
“You’re sickeningly cheerful about my discomfort,” G’Taklar grumbled.
The sergeant’s tirade paused for a moment while he inhaled, then he continued his barrage of foul insults, “Now get up and try it again, you, butt nosed sniffer of fermented farts!”
G’Taklar climbed to his tired feet and picked up the dull practice sword that lay on the ground. As he raised his head G’Taklar’s gaze fell with loathing on his ‘favorite’ human - fat Sergeant Herms, who was doing his best to imitate the visage of a Darknull.
They stood in the center training yard of the barracks with twenty other trainee 'volunteers' watching.
“Hurry it up, pig puss,” the sergeant prodded, and then rapped G’Taklar in the shin with the flat of his blade.
“How much longer can this eternity of grueling hell go on?” G’Taklar wailed silently to Jatar.
“Eternity of grueling hell? It’s only been four days since you got here,” Jatar reminded the boy.
Sergeant Herms goaded him on, “Try it again, shaardess. I know you love me, but at least make it look like ye’re try’in te hit me,”
“I’d sure like to put him down!” G’Taklar exclaimed to Jatar.
Jatar considered his request for a moment; G’Taklar did need his confidence built up. He made a decision and said, “This guy’s getting you with the same trick every time. Sweep your sword clockwise to parry the next time he goes low left, then counter as soon as you make the block by bringing your locked swords up into guard. Then cut over the top of his sword. Immediately plunge your tip downward and lunge forward at his groin. That will give him a taste of his own cooking.”
The sergeant looked over the rest of the watching trainees with a stern eye. “All right, the rest of you pay attention te graceless here, he’s about te give another demonstration on how te land in the dirt. If you watch carefully and learn from his next bruis’in performance, you might not land on yer ass when it’s yer turn.”
Swinging his practice sword negligently into a guard position, the sergeant looked at G’Taklar. “Come on pretty boy, let’s dance.”
G’Taklar lifted his dull blade and readied himself for another bout with his personal nightmare. Jatar’s advice echoed through his brain.
The sergeant made a strike for his head, which turned out to be a feint, and then he thrust downward at G’Taklar’s lower left hip. The dull tip would not pierce G’Taklar’s leg, but it would bruise him and the pain would make his leg give out which would send him to the unforgiving ground.
G’Taklar rotated his blade clockwise, intercepting the sergea
nt’s thrust, then he took the trapped blade upwards continuing on over, he snapped the tip down and lunged forward as Jatar had suggested. The sword tip went between the sergeant’s legs and the angled blade began rising toward the groin, surprising the Tchulian sergeant. G’Taklar was worried that he would actually hurt Herms, so he held back on the speed of the lunge.
Herms had to leap backward to avoid a serious male injury.
He was off balance and lost his footing. The rotund soldier staggered back four steps while swinging his hands wildly for balance. He lost the battle and landed on his wide and well-padded seat with a ‘whump’ sound, causing a cloud of dust to puff out around his posterior.
G’Taklar watched the sergeant’s face scrunch up and become even uglier than normal. “He’s definitely going to kill me,” G’Taklar decided.
Silence struck the rest of the recruits for a moment, then someone in the back row snickered and grins briefly appeared on a few of the demoralized trainees.
Their dusty sergeant got to his feet and glared them into silence before he walked back in front of G’Taklar who stood at attention.
Sergeant Herms looked at him silently for a moment; to G’Taklar it seemed at least a full bell. Finally, the sergeant said, “Well done recruit, I didn’t think you had it in you.”
G’Taklar visibly sighed with relief.
“Corporal Yerl!” the sergeant barked out.
“Yes, sergeant,” the corporal said marching over and standing at attention.
“Do you have that butter knife you confiscated from pretty boy?”
Reaching to his belt the corporal pulled the old dagger out and presented it to the sergeant. He had cleaned it and sharpened the blade to a razor’s edge.
The sergeant took it from the corporal, pulled the blade out half way to look at the edge and then said, “It looks like a real weapon now, I guess we’ll have te stop calling it a butter knife.”
The corporal didn’t look too happy, he had become attached to the ancient dagger, but he left when the sergeant said, “That’s all, corporal.”
Turning to G’Taklar the sergeant presented the dagger to him hilt first. “You showed some spunk that I didn’t think you had, so here’s your reward fer be’in a man.”
The sergeant faced the rest of the assembled recruits and barked, “As fer the rest of you, I’m not going to be as nice as I was to pretty boy here,” and as he finished his sentence he brought his dull bladed sword up between G’Taklar’s legs, and rapped him with medium strength.
It was enough to put G’Taklar on the ground for an extended stay.
“That’s fer missing me when you had yer chance,” he said to G’Taklar.
“Life in the army has its ups and downs,” Jatar noted philosophically.
“... ” G’Taklar responded.
Rachael was ready to make her escape from Headwater. She had collected some supplies and purchased what she could not find. She figured that she had enough food and water for two people to last three weeks in the desert, now all she had to do was inform Guitar he was going. She had not managed to see him in the four days since he had been drafted.
Rachael had a plan she intended to put in play that night.
Two bells after dark she approached the back stairs of the Butchered Lamb, her place of ex-employment. She crept up the back stairs stopping every few steps to listen for anyone approaching. She reached the top of the stairs without mishap and opened the door a crack only to find the hallway empty.
The young girl quickly tip-toed down to the second door and listened, she could hear Marthla entertaining her regular, corporal Ginto. She knew that he always stayed past midnight.
Rachael inserted her key and turned it as quietly as she could. The key could unlock all the doors on the upper floor. The lock squeaked, so she stopped and listened for signs of discovery, but the low mumble of voices kept on at the same level. She completed turning the key and slowly opened the door.
As Rachel had hoped, Marthla and the corporal were in the separate bedroom that Marthla got for being the top girl at the Butchered Lamb. The corporal’s clothes were draped around the sitting room in disarray. Terrified of discovery Rachael quickly collected up the corporal’s uniform and prepared to leave.
Then she heard the hated voice of Fats talking to another girl in the hall outside the room. Rachael looked over her shoulder toward the door to the bedroom expecting it to open at any moment revealing her to Marthla and the corporal. She pictured herself being caught; her hands cut off for stealing, and then forced to work as Fats’ slave for the rest of her life.
Fortunately, she heard the sounds of Fats going down the stairs. Rachael peeked out the door and saw that the hall was empty. She exited out the back of the Inn as swiftly as she could and then ran down the street to the hayloft where she now slept.
In the barn Rachael dressed herself in some rags and old clothing she had collected over the past two nights. Once attired in the rags she rolled in the dust and straw to make the old clothing look 'lived in'. When she was done she looked much larger than she was, and if you didn’t look too closely within the tattered old hood, she could pass for an old drudge.
She tied the corporal’s clothes up underneath her raggedy clothing. Now dressed in her disguise Rachael went to join the group of old women who cleaned the kitchen and chamber pots of the Tchulian military barracks. They were so resigned to their dismal lot in life that they didn’t even notice when another crusty old woman shuffled up to join their ranks.
The line of twelve old drudges walked in through the side gate of the barracks under the bored eye of the night guard. The drudges cleaned the kitchen garbage out first and then went to clean the chamber pots of the barracks.
Rachael slipped away and entered the sleeping cot area. She hurried down the line of sleeping men looking for the face of Guitar. She found him like all the rest, passed out to the world from their grueling instruction at the hands of the Sergeant and his Corporals.
Having found G'Taklar, the young girl left him for a moment and slipped into the barracks water closet where the chamber pots were kept. The drudges had not yet reached this building. She peeled off the layers of rags she wore and put on the corporal’s uniform she had stolen from Marthla’s room in the Butchered Lamb. She had to strap down her bosom tightly with a soft cloth to try and hide that she was a woman. The uniform was too big, so she tucked up the ankles and rolled up the ends of the sleeves. She hoped the dim starlight would aid her in covering up the obvious inconsistencies in the uniform. She put her long wavy brown hair up into the corporal’s hat to complete her disguise.
She went back to G’Taklar’s cot and shook him gently. “Guitar, it’s me, Rachael. Wake up,” she whispered.
He came out of his deep exhausted sleep with a dreamy sigh. “Rachael, I’m here, I... ” Then his eyes focused on the silhouette of the corporal’s hat above him and he remembered where he was billeted.
Hoping to avoid another beating for being late, he tried to leap out of bed and tried to say, “Ready for duty, sir,”, but it came out, “Murdi fwwwr oooty errr!”
Rachael had one hand over his mouth and the other on his chest, holding him down with all her weight. She leaned down to his ear to whisper. “It’s Rachael, now calm down and keep quiet!”
“Maital?” he said, his voice still muffled by her hand.
“Yes,” she replied continuing to whisper into his ear. “Nod your head up and down if you’re ready to whisper.”
He nodded.
She removed her small hand from his mouth but continued to drape her body on his chest. This kept her head next to his, so they could whisper into each other’s ear.
G’Taklar whispered his first coherent words, “What are you doing here?”
“I’m helping you escape! I’ve collected enough supplies to last us three weeks, and I know where to get horses!” She said in an excited whisper, trying to sell him on the feasibility of her getaway plan.
&nbs
p; “Let me think for a moment,” he whispered back.
“This isn’t a good idea,” Jatar told him, “you’re safer here. Remember what this girl doesn’t know, the Tchulians are probably looking for their escaped prisoner! Which is you, in case you forgot.”
“But Jatar they’re killing me here. Didn’t I escape that dungeon to avoid being tortured? It couldn’t be worse than this,” G’Taklar thought, woefully.
“You know that’s not true, this is tough, and they’re giving you a particularly hard time because of the clothing they found you in, but it’s not more than you can handle,” Jatar said reasonably. “Besides, if this girl helps you escape she will get in trouble, eventually they’ll figure out who helped you.”
“You’re right, I’ll talk to her,” then he whispered to Rachael, “Look, I appreciate your efforts to help me, but I can’t leave.”
“Why?” she whispered back, her excitement dying.
“For one reason, because you would be caught and punished for helping me and I can’t accept that,” he explained.
“You’re worried about me,” she whispered back in a quiet voice, “but you don’t understand, I’m going with you. I lost my job at the Butchered Lamb after you left. They’re searching for me. Fat’s is trying to give me to that Sergeant Herms and his corporals. I have to leave this town.”
“Let me think again,” said G’Taklar and thought to Jatar, “Well, that changes things, doesn’t it? This is my fault. Any words of wisdom?”
“A wise man once told me, ‘Wisdom comes with age, but the young won’t listen’, but I was too young to listen to him then,” Jatar replied.
“Meaning I won’t listen to you now?” G’Taklar asked.
“The quotation proves itself worthless,” Jatar replied, “besides, what is wise is not always right. Let’s help this girl.”
“Now you’re talking,” then he whispered decisively, “All right Rachael, I’m coming with you.”
He felt her body relax in relief; she had been holding herself stiff with tension.
