Legends of Windemere: 03 - Family of the Tri-Rune

by Charles E Yallowitz

  “Not looking good for you,” Tzefira mentions from her chair.

  The dwarf charges again, his war hammer spinning in the air over his head to prevent Luke from jumping over him. The burly warrior is within a few feet of striking when the forest tracker ducks and punches forward with the basket hilt of his saber. A loud, cringe-inducing crack echoes in everyone’s ears as the attack hits the dwarf in the face. Already passing out, the dwarf’s momentum carries him stumbling into the crowd where he collapses on his side.

  “I read the scroll that Selenia sent,” Tzefira casually states, gently rolling the scroll between her hands. “I can’t tell if she respects you or considers you a foolish child.”

  Luke is about to respond when someone pounces on him from behind, knocking him to the ground. He rolls away and handsprings to his feet, so he can face the female calico who has entered the sparring circle. She has twin cutlasses in her hands and a thick, wooden weight strapped to her black tail. The fighters slowly circle, experimentally jabbing and slashing to get a sense of the other’s reflexes. Luke suddenly stops and walks away from the confused calico. He crouches on the edge of the circle and stares at her, making her so nervous that her tail twitches.

  “Is there a problem?” Conrad politely asks.

  “She’s not in any rush to attack me, so I’m going to wait,” Luke announces to the laughter of the mercenaries. “I have a lot of fights today and I don’t plan on wasting my energy on a cautious kitten. Though, I have to admit I’m intrigued and impressed by the tail weapon. I never realized your people had strong muscles in your tails.”

  “We don’t,” the female calico responds before Conrad can comment.

  “I see,” Luke whispers.

  Luke stands and breaks into a sprint as soon as he feels he has enough balance for a strong push off the ground. The calico meets his charge with a flashy cartwheel, slashing her cutlasses at Luke’s head. He moves to the side, so the swords miss and he only has the weighted tail to worry about. Leaning with her attack, Luke lets himself get hit on shoulder and makes a powerful sweep with his sabers. Since she is upside down, his wooden weapons catch her arms at the elbows and cause her to crash on her head. Her body crumples to the damp ground, tail twitching spastically. Luke is about to check on her when he sees motion from his left and spins around to press his sabers against the throat of a spear-carrying half-orc.

  “Can somebody take her to the healer before we continue?” Luke loudly requests. He can hear a mercenary walk up behind him to pick up the unconscious calico and carry her away. “We’re going to be on the same side after this, so I don’t want to make any enemies.”

  “I’m sure they appreciate it,” Tzefira says in a voice filled with boredom. She signals to the spearman, who jabs at Luke, hitting the half-elf in the ribs and forcing him to back away. “Now, Selenia has requested that I not give you any special treatment. You are habitually defiant and mouthy toward authority. You ignore rules if you feel they’re in the way of doing what’s right. You have a childish obsession with proving yourself, which leads to reckless behavior and stupidity. Are you listening, Luke?”

  The half-elf risks a glance of irritation at the mercenary leader as he continues dancing around the attacks of the spearman. Every jab is expertly turned into a tight swing, which keeps Luke on the defensive. Whenever he tries to attack, the half-orc spins his spear to create a deflective barrier that wrenches Luke’s wrists. The flawless defense makes up for the spearman’s simple offense, forcing the fight to go on until one of them makes a mistake or gives up.

  Luke holds his ground, swiftly parrying the rapid jabs and swings of the wooden spear. It is a difficult contest of reflexes that Luke can feel himself losing because of his shorter reach. A reckless idea forms in his mind when he notices the half-orc’s eyes are only following his wrists and the tips of his sabers. The forest tracker gradually inches forward, closing the gap between him and the larger warrior. It is such a slow movement that the half-orc does not realize how close his enemy is until the sabers strike the staff a few inches above his hand. The spearman spins his weapon to block any attacks that the shorter warrior can make now that he is within slashing range. Readying his sabers to stab, Luke abruptly slams his booted heel on the toes of the spearman. Stunned by the sudden pain, the mercenary is unable to stop the strike to his other leg and a strong knee to his exposed stomach. A final spin brings the sabers down on the falling warrior’s upper back, driving him to the ground.

  “Was there a point to what you were saying, Tzefira?” Luke asks as he walks around the collapsed half-orc. “I have a few seconds before this guy either passes out or stands up.”

  “I’m just making conversation,” she claims with a snap of her fingers.

  A loud series of cracks fills the air once the half-orc crawls out of the circle. Luke turns and freezes when he sees a bald halfling with a bullwhip standing several yards away from him. He can see the surrounding mercenaries grinning and holding back chuckles, but Luke is not sure if they find the halfling funny or know something painful is about to occur. With a sigh of resignation, he cautiously advances on his new opponent. He easily avoids the strikes of the halfling’s whip as he closes in. Luke is nearly within reach of the halfling when a second whip wraps around his wrist and a third whip catches his ankle. He is yanked off his feet, his body twisting in the air and landing with a painful thud.

  “We’re triplets,” says the first halfling, who is joined by another bald halfling and a brown-haired female halfling. “Not identical.”

  “It’s going to be one of those fights,” Luke mutters as he gets to his feet. He feels two of the whips catch his ankles before he is face down on the ground again. One of the halflings rushes by him, snatching his sabers out of his hands.

  Luke pulls himself to his hands and knees, feeling a barrage of whips strike his bare back and arms. He looks around to see his sabers have been placed on the far side of the circle. A stinging whip to his back meets his attempt to crawl to the sabers and he falls back to the muddy ground. After a few minutes of random whipping, Luke feels a familiar voice whispering in the back of his mind. The voice is not saying any coherent words, but Luke clearly senses that the griffin wants to come out and settle this fight. For a brief moment, he is tempted to let her out, but decides that using his transformation would be overdoing it. It would also reveal a potential trick that he can surprise people with later.

  “Thanks for the offer, but I got this,” Luke whispers to the internal disappointment of the griffin. “You’ve given me an idea though.”

  “Who’s he whispering to?” asks the female halfling.

  One of the male halflings shrugs an instant before Luke rushes and pounces on him, knocking the small mercenary to the ground. Staying on all fours, the half-elf bounds and leaps around the confused halflings. Being used to fighting taller opponents, the halflings’ attacks go over Luke’s head when he drops lower to the ground. A few times they come dangerously close to hitting each other, so they fan out to avoid an accident. Luke jumps on the shoulders of the female halfling and uses her as a flailing, cursing springboard to launch himself at his sabers. Tucking in mid-air, Luke rolls onto the ground and hops up to his feet with the wooden weapons in his hands.

  “Impressive, but you still have to defeat them,” Tzefira points out with a faint grin. “You must anger your allies every day with your combat style. I’m surprised Nyx hasn’t accidentally blasted you into the next world with the way you carelessly bound around a battlefield.”

  “Nyx is surprisingly careful and precise with her magic,” Luke mentions as he cautiously eyes the halflings. “I’d like to point out that using real whips when I have practice swords is a little unfair. These welts are bleeding and painful.”

  “Stop whining,” the female halfling snaps.

  She wraps her whip around Luke’s right wrist and tries to pull him off balance by running around to his back. Luke gently spins with her and coils the whip a
round his sabers. Twisting his upper body, he yanks the halfling into the air and slams her into one of her brothers. Both of them skid and bounce a few yards until they lay in a groaning pile of pain. Luke turns to face the third halfling, who looks at Tzefira with a pleading pout on his lips. She nods her head to permit the halfling to drop his whip, rushing to help his siblings to their feet and into the crowd.

  “I’m getting bored,” Luke declares, lazily spinning his sabers. “Can we bring this to an end?”

  “All you have left is a rematch,” Conrad assures him.

  Luke stares at the calico with a worried look on his face. “Rematch?”

  The sound of someone clearing his throat causes Luke to slowly turn around. He is confused to see a towering man with shoulder-length strawberry blonde hair. The point of his wooden two-handed broadsword presses into the ground as he casually leans on the hilt. A chorus of whispers catches his attention and he notices a trio of mercenaries standing on the edge of the circle. One of the three men is dressed entirely in black while the other two are a weasel-faced man with a cutlass and a black-haired man with twin broadswords. The memory of these four clicks in his mind as his opponent hefts his sword into the air.

  “Hi, Tavris,” Luke says with a friendly smile. “I guess you guys and Delvin parted ways.”

  “It’s a delicate subject,” Tavris calmly mentions. “I had asked to fight you first, but Tzefira wants to see how you do when you’re tired and injured. Still, I wanted to make sure you were ready for me. I don’t like sneak attacks in situations like this.”

  “I appreciate it,” the half-elf replies.

  Luke waits for Tavris to get closer and rushes forward, side-stepping as the large man’s sword swings down. At the last second, Tavris releases the sword with his right hand and violently backhands Luke across face. The smaller warrior stumbles away, shaking his head to clear his senses and sucking his split lip. He charges again, but stops as Tavris stabs at his chest. Luke runs backwards only for Tavris to follow him with an expertly controlled running lunge that the forest tracker barely rolls to the side of.

  “You’ve improved,” Luke claims, remaining in a crouch. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were training specifically to fight people like me.”

  “You revealed a lot of our flaws when we fought,” Tavris admits, slowly advancing on the half-elf. “So, we’ve been learning how to handle a variety of fighters. Agile fighters like you just happened to be at the top of our list.”

  “What happens if I give up, Tzefira?” Luke asks out of curiosity.

  “I have a tent full of used chamber pots for you to clean,” she answers to cheers and laughter of the mercenaries.

  Luke lets out a slow, steady breath before charging Tavris again. The large man smoothly moves his broadsword to block Luke’s sabers as they come in from his right side. Tavris pushes the smaller warrior away and swings at Luke’s shoulders. Instead of dodging, Luke gets his sabers up to block the heavy sword and runs them along the edge to get closer. Luke makes a quick kick to Tavris’s thigh, who counters with a knee to the half-elf’s side. Grunting in pain, Luke kicks the large man’s knees and braces himself against a second kick to his side. For several minutes, they go kick for kick with Luke obviously getting the worst of the exchange. His legs buckle and his arms strain as Tavris’s kicks push him away, weakening his leverage.

  “I’m getting tired and sore,” Luke whispers through gritted teeth. “Mind if we end this, old friend?”

  “Be my guest,” Tavris replies with a cruel grin. “I’ll make sure to wake you up in time for dinner.”

  Luke lets his feet slide back even further, slipping his sabers off Tavris’s broadsword and gracelessly falling to the side. Without Luke holding him up, Tavris stumbles forward and tries to move his numb left leg to steady himself. He is forced to use his broadsword to stop his fall, the wooden point sinking into the soft ground. The large man pushes his tongue against the inside of his cheek out of amused frustration when he feels the points of Luke’s wooden sabers tapping against his stomach and groin. The half-elf is on his back in the mud, but Tavris knows he has been defeated. If this was a real battle with real swords, he would have no chance of hitting Luke before the sabers finish him off.

  “I admit defeat,” Tavris declares to a chorus of boos and groans. “Quit your pathetic belly-aching! He beat me fairly and you all know it.”

  “You would have had me at the beginning if we used real swords,” Luke claims as he drops his sabers and gets to his feet. “You’re a dangerous man and I’m glad to have you on my side.”

  “We’ll see about that. Always remember that mercenaries are a fickle lot,” the big man says. He sinks to his knees and reaches out to pat Luke on the mud-caked shoulder. “Although, I don’t think I’ll ever take an assignment that pits me against you. There isn’t enough gold in the world to make me want to deal with you in a lethal fight.”

  Luke grins with pride and turns his head toward Tzefira and Conrad. “Can I get my shirt back now?”

  “Welcome to the Salamander Army, Luke Callindor,” Tzefira answers. She tosses him a white towel before getting off her chair and walking back to her tent. Her voice suddenly echoes throughout the camp yelling, “Your first mission will be tomorrow morning, so get some rest, fresh meat!”

  *****

  Nyx curls into a tight ball as another kick strikes her in the ribs. She can taste blood in her mouth, but not enough to make her wretch. A sloppy punch grazes her shoulder, its initial target her desperately protected head. Echoing laughter fills the alley as some of her attackers mock their clumsy friend. Nyx relishes the brief pause in the beating, but the peace is swiftly ended when somebody coils her hair around their hand. With a violent jerk, she is lifted to her knees and forced to stare into the blue eyes of the lynch mob’s leader. The young man slaps Nyx across the face and the woman next to him kicks her in the thigh.

  “What should we do with her now?” the man asks the small crowd behind him. He turns back to sneer at Nyx. “The guards won’t punish her, so it’s up to us. We have to do something before she makes everyone forget about her sins.”

  “Snap her fingers!”

  “Pull out her teeth!”

  “Brand her!”

  The man looks at the blonde woman, who casually stomps on Nyx’s heel and happily declares, “All good suggestions. What do you think, dear?”

  “Shave her head and etch our names into her scalp,” the woman says with a sadistic grin.

  “Interesting idea,” the man admits, stroking his chin with his free hand. He gives another twist to Nyx’s hair, causing her to grunt in pain. “I like this hair. It’s strong and gives me something to manipulate her with. Although, etching our names into her body is a good idea. Let’s strip her down and carve our names into her skin. Every man she’s with will know about her sins if we do it that way.”

  The crowd roars in approval while the woman grabs Nyx by the collar and tears her shirt down the middle. A flicker of fire runs down the half-elf’s arms, but she immediately holds back for fear of killing someone. Nyx catches her breath when the woman draws a dagger to start cutting her pants from the cuff to the waist.

  “Please let me go,” Nyx weakly whispers. Her head is pulled back when the man puts his ear near her mouth. “I swear on Gabriel’s black unicorn that I’m here to help.”

  “We’re better off without your kind of help,” the man hisses before spitting in her face. He pulls a rusty knife from his belt, holding it over his head. “Who wants to go first?”

  “I believe you are done here,” says a deep voice from above and behind the man. Timoran looms over the smaller man, the barbarian’s green eyes filled with a brewing fury. “Your friends have already run away.”

  The man turns to see that only the blonde woman remains, her face pale as she presses her back against the far wall. When Timoran looks at her, she makes a gurgled cry and collapses in a terrified heap. Ignoring the mumbling
woman, Timoran grabs the man by the wrist and squeezes until Nyx’s hair slips out of his grasp.

  “Now, I would like your shirt,” Timoran calmly states, releasing the man. Moving like his life depends on it, the man removes the brown tunic and hands it over. “Thank you. Run to the guard station and turn yourself in. I will check their records in an hour. If you fail, I will visit you at your home. Go!”

  The man races into the street before the echo of Timoran’s final word stops reverberating around the alley. Timoran leans down to wrap the tunic around Nyx, picking her up in his arms. She resists until she realizes that she has no chance of breaking out of his grip. Begrudgingly, she lets him carry her out of the alley like a wounded child. Her sobbing tears are muffled when she turns her face into his scarred chest.

  “I told you not to leave the barracks without me,” Timoran says as they walk down the street. Several passersby take a quick glance at the small form he is carrying, but none try to approach him. “You may have won some people over, but there are some who will attack you. Tzefira underestimates their pain and rage. Remember it is my job to protect you while you are in Hero’s Gate. Never run away again.”

  “You talk like I’m your ward, but you barely know me,” Nyx mutters like a scolded child. She feels his hold loosen, allowing her to roll out of his arms and onto her feet. “I wanted to get some food and have some time to think. I don’t want to be cooped up and watched every second of the day.”

  “You see what the alternative is,” the warrior mentions, patting her on the head. He stops when she tries to smack his hand, a look of pain from her broken ribs plastered on her face. “I do not want to coddle you, but you cannot wander this city alone. Please do not make this any more difficult than it has to be.”

  Nyx sighs and glances at the smiling, weather-worn face of the barbarian. “I promise to stay with you as long as you agree to let me do something to help. Short scouting missions in the forest should be acceptable. Agreed?”