by Guy Estes
The Charidian could not help but cheer. Never had they seen such an audacious tactic, nor one of such simple genius. Anlon split the skull of the dazed rider before he could put up a defense. The remaining two riders galloped at Anlon simultaneously from different angles, so that the three combatants formed the points on a shrinking triangle. If Anlon tried the trick he'd just used on the last charger, whichever of these two he did not unhorse would pierce his back. Again, he waited with an unnerving calm as death rode at him, this time from two directions. Again, just as it seemed he would be impaled, he moved. This time he slid to the attacker's right and slapped the shaft of the passing spear down. The tip caught the ground and forced the owner to release it, lest it lever him from his saddle. He was still in a full gallop when Anlon hurled himself up into the man's saddle and killed him as they both fell.
The last rider refused to ride home alone and disgraced, so he charged. Anlon snatched up the lance his last victim had dropped. The enemy's spear tip was just gracing Anlon's chest when he twisted his upper body out of the way and impaled his enemy. He fell from the saddle and Anlon planted him firmly to the ground.
Anlon caught his breath, only dimly aware of the bloody gash the last man's spear had ripped across his chest. He heard his clansmen cheering, but he did not notice it. The only thing that occupied his mind was the fact that he had again killed - but in this case, no one could call him a murderer!
And why is that, the voice in his head chimed.
Because this time they sought me out. This was an act of self-defense.
They did not directly threaten you with death. Is it not possible that you were a bit rash?
Rash? My dear boy, what I did was for king and clan as well as myself. What was I supposed to do, wait for them to strike the first blow? With five of them against one of me?
But if you hadn't slain those first eight men in the first place, they would not have felt compelled to seek vengeance.
Those peons were hardly worth avenging. Besides, no one put a blade to their throats. No one forced them to challenge me. Their pride is what killed him, not I.
"My gods, Anlon, you were magnificent!"
The other Charidian had gathered around him and were clapping him on the back while drowning him in praises. One had taken Anlon's shirt off and was inspecting his wound.
"One Charidian slays five! Gods, Anlon, you moved so well, as if you'd done this a thousand times! You even seemed bored!"
"And just wait until word of this travels! No one would dare steal our horses ever again!"
"We'd better get back to the tents," said the one who'd inspected Anlon's chest. "They managed to get one of their blows in, and if it is not bound it will putrefy."
They were riding back to the tents when Anlon's mind seized upon what one of his companions had said.
"Wait until word of this spreads."
Yes. Once that happened, Anlon's problems would be solved. He had been desperately worried about how he would go about locating the challenges he wanted while at the same time satisfying himself that he was justified in what he was doing. But if the challenges came to him… why, every single one of them would be a case of self-defense, a handsome young man assaulted by jealous peons. He knew the mentality of violent men. The skilled ones could not resist the temptation to test themselves against the very best. And who would they see as the very best? Who, in fact, was the very best?
Why, Anlon Buach, of course!
* * *
The young witch awoke. Who was that she’d seen in her dream? Anlon, they’d called him. Anlon Buach. One look had told her he was Chosen, just as the witch was. The man, his name, everything about him, chilled her soul, but she wasn’t sure why. Young though she was, her gift with magic was more than enough for her to know this had been no mere dream, nor was Anlon simply a figment of her imagination. The man and things she’d dreamt were real. The question was, what significance did he have for her? The ancients said multiple Chosen living at once was disastrous. Who was to be the bringer of doom, Anlon or herself? She shuddered, afraid to learn more.
* * *
In the four months that followed Anlon's first victories, the body count rose considerably. As his kill tally increased, so did his reputation. This, in turn, caused more challengers to seek him out. Anlon could not have been happier. He had a steady supply of opponents to test his skills, and every single one of them was a clear-cut case of self-defense. They always sought him out. Never did he have to go looking for trouble, for trouble obligingly came looking for him. There seemed to be no apparent end to it, so it was with high spirits that Anlon swept into Cahir's tent in answer to his summons.
"You called, my friend?"
"Yes, I did," Cahir sighed. "Anlon, I'm afraid I have to ask something of you."
"Whatever you wish."
"You have slain many more men since my father died. I wish you to cease this bloodshed. Some are whispering that the Charidian have gone from simple herdsmen to bloodthirsty barbarians."
"What can I do? These ruffians come seeking me. Am I to turn tail and give the Charidian a reputation as cowards?"
"Can you not best them without killing them?"
Anlon shrugged. "I suppose it's possible," he said. Cahir thought he detected a certain reluctance in his friend's answer. "But only at a substantial increase in the risk to my life."
"I don't know how to do it, Anlon, but it must be done. Other herdsmen are reluctant to trade with us. They are beginning to fear us."
"Then we need not worry about them cheating us!"
"Small worry, that, when they refuse to deal with us at all! This is no time for quips, my friend. Our clan's economy is very serious. I beg you to find a solution to your problem."
"My problem? They come looking for me, not the other way around and this seems to have set in motion a chain of events that is now beyond our control."
"Yes, that occurred to me, among other things."
"What is that supposed to mean? Are you saying that I deliberately provoked them on the hope that I would gain a reputation? What madness is this? They attack me out of simple jealousy, nothing more."
"I no longer care why they do it, Anlon. I only want it to stop. Find a way."
It was several weeks later that Anlon found a way. He was in a city, trading some horses, when he met his solution in a dark corner of a shadowy tavern where incense hung in choking blue curtains of haze and harlots slithered about in skimpy gossamer shifts, their lips glistening with paste, tattoos writhing on their skins, and all the while the tinkling of their abundant bangles blended with the tinkling of their predatory laughs. Four of these strumpets were draped about the solution to Anlon's problem with all the vigor of dead serpents as he sat on a multihued heap of silk pillows and smoked a water pipe. The whores' languid stares observed Anlon from under eyelids heavy with kohl, and several had numerous tools of their trade dangling from their tresses and various strategic spots of their "clothes". The man was the answer to Anlon's dreams. Not only would he supply Anlon with an endless supply of challengers while keeping the Charidian
separate, he would actually pay Anlon!
When they had concluded the deal, three more trollops surrounded Anlon, as much to enjoy themselves with this young god as to provide him a service. One wore a brassier and breechclout made from grapes strung together.
"Is my lord hungry?" she breathlessly inquired, her lips brushing his ear.
When the festivities ended, they did not charge Anlon.
CHAPTER 13
Ilian walked through the house, confident in her intimate knowledge of every single object's location. One would never guess that she was as blind as a stone. Skirts rustling, she strode through the den and was about to enter the hall that led to Aleena's room when something crashed into her legs. She stumbled and fell. What in the seven hells had she run into? It felt like a low table, the edge having hit her at mid-thigh, but what was i
t doing here? She and Ivarr had left this area clear. Was she in the right spot? Perhaps she'd become disoriented and headed in the wrong direction.
Ilian crawled to where she thought the wall might be and found it, proving that she had navigated correctly. Getting to her feet, Ilian felt along the wall to her left. If her location was where she thought it was, she would find a small tapestry she'd woven for the sole purpose of covering a huge scratch on the wall Ivarr had made when he moved their bed into the house. Her hands brushed across cloth. Locating its borders, Ilian was sure she'd found the right one. At one foot by one foot, it was the smallest tapestry she'd ever done. Ilian had always thought of it as more of a quilted handkerchief than an actual tapestry. Lifting it away, she found a deep gouge in the wall that confirmed her location beyond any doubt. So why was there a piece of furniture where there shouldn't be?
Damn you, Riona, Ilian found herself thinking. Blind though I may be, this is still my house!
Ilian continued on her way, cautious now of any unknown furnishings, but there were no more and she located the door to her lost daughter's room. Ilian had no interest in weapons, but she would pick up one of Aleena's simply to place her hand where Aleena had once placed hers. Ilian went straight to the rack where Aleena hung her weapons. She put her hand out and encountered nothing. Perplexed, Ilian felt around, locating the rack itself as well as the weapons it held - except for one. The lowest bracket was empty, and yet that was where Ilian had placed the last sword she'd held, and she hadn't been in here since. And Ivarr's hands were too crippled to pick up a sword.
"Riona," Ilian called as she exited the room and headed towards the den.
"Yes, my sister, what is it?"
"One of Aleena's swords is missing. Where is it?"
"How would I know?"
"Because I was the last person to hold it and it is not where I left it. Excellent quality that Aleena's weapons are, I am quite certain it did not leave under its own power."
"What are you saying?" Was that anxiety Ilian heard in her sister's voice?
"I want to know what happened to that sword."
"Why? You've no interest in weaponplay." Definitely a defensive tone, Ilian noticed, fused with a feeble attempt at changing the subject.
"It was sacred to my daughter. It is therefore sacred to me." She heard the rustle of shoulders shrugging within garments.
"I have no idea what could've become of it," Riona replied with a tone that clearly said she did not care, either.
"I want that sword, Riona."
"Do you expect me to pull it out of thin air?"
"No, but I expect you to tell me where it went."
"You think I know?" Riona laughed, light but forced. "Ilian, what possible use could I have for a sword? And why do you insist on returning to this room? Can you not see how much trouble it causes? All was well until you came stumbling about in here and caused a fight. Now I must insist, Ilian, that you stay out of Aleena’s room. You’ve no business in there."
Riona walked away. Ilian’s mind was still on something Riona just asked.
What possible use could I have for a sword?
Then, feeling like she'd been speared through the belly, the answer her mind gave her unearthed a terrible hypothesis about how Riona's could afford her luxuries. She made her way back to her rocking chair, picking up the doll where’d she left it and clasped it to her breast as she rocked it. She heard Riona come in.
“I worry about you, Ilian,” she said. “It’s not healthy for you to sit in here and brood like this.”
Ilian didn’t answer. Rocking with this doll was the closest thing she had to happiness.
“Ilian, I must insist that you stop this.”
Ilian felt the doll yanked from her grasp. She shot to her feet.
“Riona, give that back this instant!” she yelled.
“Ilian –“
“Give it back, you twisted bitch!” Ilian’s voice rose to a shriek that brought Ivarr.
“What is going on?” he demanded.
“She took Aleena’s doll from me!” Her face had never been so twisted with hate as she stood there, raging like a banshee, yet her eyes were focused on nothing. “I want it back right godsdamned now!”
Riona backed away in horror. The fact that Ilian was blind didn’t reduce the threat she radiated. Ilian’s hands shot out, flailing. Riona tried to jerk away but wasn’t fast enough. Ilian latched on to her like a drowning woman and clawed the doll from her hands with such force she fell. She rolled to her hands and knees, fingers scrabbling for the doll and breath heaving. She found it and grabbed it. Ivarr got down with her and held her as best he could, trying to soothe her. Her gasping became keening as she clung to Ivarr and the doll, tears gushing down her face.
“It’s all right,” he said. “The doll is right here. It’s all right.”
He was eventually able to help her back into her rocking chair.
“Are you well enough now?” he asked. She nodded, hair stuck to her tearful face.
“Very well,” he quietly said as he left, glaring at Riona with an expression that would’ve made an arrow stop in mid-flight and turn back. Riona aggravated the rage he’d felt all these months, like a stick jabbing an open wound. Family relations or no, his crippled hands were the only things stopping him from throttling her.
* * *
A throbbing foot and babbling voices penetrated Aleena's consciousness. The first few moments of awareness were spent realizing that she was not dead and in thanking her gods for the Strength of the dragon. Then she moved and almost reconsidered her thanks. The disadvantage of the Strength, aside from the fact that it came and went as it pleased, was that it made her body put out far more work than it was designed to. As a result, she woke up as stiff as stone. Then, with her eyes still closed, she shifted her attention to the voices
"Open your eyes," an accented but resonant voice told her in the trade language. She did. Hovering before her was a face of bronze that had a hawk like nose and a dark mustache. His eyes were dark and intense. There was no denying he was handsome. That point was countered when she realized that he was a native of the Badlands.
Marvelous.
"Do not be alarmed," he began. "We will give you sanctuary."
"What makes you think I need it?" she countered, suspicious as a leopard.
He smiled. "You were completely unconscious when we found you. It was only the sun glinting off your sword that drew our attention, fortunately."
"Yes, I suppose it is fortunate for you. They will pay quite handsomely for me."
"That they would," he said, nodding with a pursed lip. "An even more handsome price than they would pay for me, or any of my people."
Aleena frowned. He smiled, warm and humorous. Aleena closed her eyes and took a deep breath, fingers on her furrowed brow. A dozen questions simultaneously formed in her mind. With effort she did not feel like putting forth, she sorted them into some sort of order.
"Who are you?" was the first.
"I am Balazai, of the Solvah Shkarr tribe. Are you familiar with us?"
Aleena shook her head. "My apologies, but I cannot say that I am."
"The name would mean 'Sun Scorpions' in your tongue, and we are hated almost as passionately as runaway slaves."
"Why is that?"
"We possess the unforgivable trait of thinking for ourselves."
"Truly a heinous crime,"
"Yes, quite. We dare to live our lives as we see fit and are duly punished for it by those we do not even know yet claim to be our leaders."
"You must live very precarious lives."
"Yes, we do. But they are our lives."
"All the more reason to leave some dried-up outlander girl to her fate."
"On the contrary, we are the most able and willing to help one such as you. You and we are very much alike."
"In what way?"
"In the way that you are hounded by th
e same people as we, and for the same reasons."
He stopped talking to let that sink in. Then, "Come, you are starved as well as parched. We have food by the fires. It would be good for you to meet some of the others."
He helped her up, and her head swam and buzzed as she leaned on him. He led her to the nearest fire and those around it. Aleena noticed her surroundings for the first time. They were in a huge divot scoured from the rock face by the incessant wind, and night had fallen. They made it to the fire, and Aleena spent a moment studying the dark people around it. There were representatives of all ages, from infants to elders. All were clothed in robes worn and ratty. Their weapons were few and crude, and their bodies were scrawny and burnt by the sun. How could anyone, she wondered, find such a ragtag group threatening or hateful?
"We do not have much," Balazai told her as he helped her to sit down and partake of their meager supper, "but we offer you all we have."
He did not lie. Supper was rather skimpy. While eating Aleena wondered why the poison she'd absorbed had not done any major damage. Perhaps it was a low grade poison. But no, those creatures would need something potent to bring down the local prey. Still, she’d always healed quickly, and she’d never had a serious illness, not even a fever. The only thing Aleena could think of was her major gift was that of the warrior, and warriors must be able to recover quickly.
