“Ding, on me,” Maelich piped up.
The old soldier noticed the sour expression on Zig’s face and took pity on him, “Hey, you’re doing a fine job, Zig. You have nothing to fear. I want them other blokes learning how to swing them swords as good as you and Ding. Now, attack me.”
The young Shaiwahnian soldier’s expression lit up, all hints of fear leaving his blue painted face. He launched into an attack his mentor could be proud of. Ymitoth’s smile grew just as wide as Zig’s, as he worked hard to defend himself against the assault.
Maelich took a moment to look proudly on Zig’s attack on Ymitoth before turning to Ding and saying, “Prepare to defend yourself.”
Ding took a defensive stance and awaited the attack. Maelich obliged with a forehand slash followed by a backhand. He finished the attack with a straight thrust. Ding ducked beneath the forehand, blocked the backhand, sidestepped, and parried the thrust.
“Excellent,” Maelich commended him. “Now, attack me. Hold nothing back.”
Ding’s technique was spectacular, even when Maelich replied to an attack with a counter. The new swordsman was using what he had been taught during a handful of weeks to improvise. Though none of them were enough to break through the defense of a seasoned warrior like Maelich, two or three of them tested his ability. The mentor was impressed.
“Hold,” Maelich commanded before giving Ding a congratulatory slap on the back. “You are a natural fighter. Tell me you have had some sword training before I arrived.”
Overwhelmed, Ding hugged Maelich, “No fight. Only fish. Father say, ‘No two fish same, so no fish two fish same.’ Like fight. No two fight same.”
“That is very sound advice. No two fights will be the same. Some fighters are better at masking their techniques, but they all have their own style,” Maelich smiled. Then he patted Ding’s back a few more times and added, “You will be a titan on the battlefield.”
Ding smiled, “I fish good. Maybe I fight good too.” He stepped back and slashed a few times at the air, working through techniques. As he slashed the air, he asked, “What is battlefield like?”
“A battlefield can be many things. It really depends on the situation,” Maelich scratched his chin. “Usually, when folks speak of the battlefield, they are talking about two armies lining up in columns and attacking each other. Battles like that can be wide and ranging. There may even be archers firing arrows or catapults firing rocks or great balls of fire. However, a battlefield is anywhere a battle takes place. You and I trading blades in the blazing sun with the cracked dirt beneath our feet is a kind of battlefield. Do you know what every battlefield has in common?”
“Glory and blood and death?” Ding scratched his head.
Maelich smiled, “Yes, most battlefields have at least two of those. Some have even more, heroes.”
“What makes hero?” Ding asked earnestly.
“It is more than just how you fight or how many men you kill,” Maelich grew nostalgic as he stared out at the cracked dirt surrounding them and far beyond the heat rising from it. “Facing down a horde of invaders or freeing a town from the rule of some heartless king, those are things people remember. Sometimes it is just a matter of protecting the people you care about from harm. When people remember things, they tell stories, and when people tell stories about you, you can become immortal. Of course, not immortal in that you physically live forever, but immortal in the sense that people still talk about you long after the Lake calls you home.”
Ding stared off at the same cracked dirt Maelich stared at as he replied, “Me, hero. People remember.”
“I believe you will be. Your name will live on for generations,” Maelich smiled again at his pupil.
“The Shaiwah look ready to range out and take their land back from the red people,” Maulom called out as he approached the two, his clothes as impossibly white as ever.
Maelich glanced over and shook his head, “A couple stand out.” He nodded at Ding before adding, “I would walk into battle with Ding here, and Zig. Maybe a handful of others, but none of them are ready to face an army of seasoned soldiers. We have trained for barely a moon. They need more time.”
“I have been watching their progress, and I believe they are ready to march,” Maulom countered.
“Have you seen many battles?” Maelich laughed.
Ymitoth strolled up laughing just as hard and added, “You haven’t a warrior’s look about you. Them soft hands ain’t never swung a sword.”
If Maulom was offended, he hid it well, “You are both correct. I have never swung a blade. My mind and my tongue have always proved to be weapons enough for every conflict I have encountered. However, I would counter that fighting to stop someone from taking your life is far better training than playing at sword fighting with opponents who boast an equal lack of training.”
“You’d be sending them off to slaughter,” Ymitoth scoffed.
“I agree with Ymitoth,” Maelich added. “A real fight only serves as good training if you survive.”
“Do you remember your first real fight? Though I am certain at the time you felt completely prepared and ready to fight the world when you tasted your first real test against someone trying just as hard to kill you as you tried to kill them, do you still feel that way after all the years you have tucked under your belt?” Maulom asked Ymitoth.
“Ain’t a soul really ready when first they fight,” Ymitoth remarked. “That don’t mean you ought to send them out unprepared. It would be one thing if them red folks were tearing across the cracked land and bringing war on us. But they ain’t.”
Maulom’s eyes narrowed with intrigue, “What was that first battle? Did you seek out that fight, or did glory come calling for you?”
“It was duty that called me,” Ymitoth answered flatly. “King Jorgon had brought all the great cities from Dargouth way up in the north to Belscythia down south on the banks of the Sea of Sadness under the banner of Havenstahl. By all accounts I ever heard, he’d been a fair king with the love of all the people who called him so. I know not what sin he might have committed against Kallum, but it must have been a horrible thing he did. Brought Kallum’s wrath down upon him and his son. Kallum’s priests slaughtered them all, King Jorgon, his wife, and their son, Prince Cardon. Well, with all them great cities, you can imagine there had been more than a few claims to the throne.”
“A scandal surrounding the crown,” Maulom’s tone jumped near an octave in his excitement. “How diabolical.”
“You can’t tell me you ain’t heard about the battle for the empty throne of Havenstahl,” Ymitoth’s eyebrows raised as the corners of his mouth dipped.
“Of course, I have, but a first-hand account of a story from an honorable man is far better than any story re-told over and over again by folks who missed out on all the intrigue and real emotion of actually being there. Did you have a claim to that throne?” Maulom stepped closer.
Ymitoth chuckled, “Me, sure, after my uncle, then his son, then my father. Truth be told, I have no desire to be resting my rump on no fancy throne to this very day. Right there, heading toward the end of my fifteenth summer, that thought was the farthest thing from my mind. My first battle was in defense of my uncle’s claim to that throne. By all accounts I’d heard, his was the strongest. Many men died, and I was not among them. That day, standing right beside my father, I sent ten to the Lake with my sword. I still count that as one of my proudest days.”
“That sounds like a day any man would be proud of, so why would you deny that feeling from these men standing before you?” Maulom smiled.
“Did you listen to his story?” Maelich asked. “He did not walk into battle with a hundred men with no experience under their belts. He went to war alongside hardened soldiers who knew how to make war against other hardened soldiers. What you are suggesting is not the same.”
Ding had been growing exceedingly agitated as he listed to the three men discussing the fate of his people. Finally, he could h
old his tongue no longer, “Ding fight. Ding ready. Shaiwah ready. We fight. Take land back.”
Maelich nodded and glanced over at Ymitoth who returned a shrug. Ding and a few others may have been ready to fight alongside trained men, but the Shaiwah were not that. Even with Ymitoth and Maelich by their sides, they could not take on an army by themselves. As renowned and seasoned as both Maelich and Ymitoth were, two men could not protect an untrained army from a trained army no matter how good either of them may be with a sword. With Maulom feeding ideas into Ding’s head, it would be near impossible to keep the Shaiwahnian warrior from believing he and his kin were ready.
Maelich finally looked at Ding and sighed, “You might be ready, and Zig, he can fight, but look around at the rest of your men. You are their leader. Would…”
“No,” Ding interrupted, “Maelich lead Shaiwah. Maelich great. Protect Shaiwah.”
Maelich shrugged as he glanced over at Ymitoth for help convincing the confident young soldier his people were not ready. The old soldier just shook his head. It was obvious Ding believed he and his men were ready to range out and battle their enemies. Belief is a tough thing to combat regardless how logical the argument and with how much evidence it is presented. Maelich finally shook his head, looked into Ding’s fiery eyes, and said, “Soon.”
The disgust on Ding’s face at the perceived slight seemed to linger long after he stormed off. The young soldier had passion, fire in his belly. Maelich remembered when a similar flame burned in his own gut. It hurt to be the one to stifle that blaze, but it was his duty. Maulom cared enough to stay with the Shaiwah for who knows how many years, but it seemed he did not care enough to lobby hard for the idea they should be properly trained before marching against an army of experienced warriors. If Maelich failed to stand for them, who would?
Ymitoth draped his arm across Maelich’s shoulder and said, “It ain’t no easy thing being the voice of reason at times. That don’t make you wrong.”
“Wait too long, and you may lose them,” Maulom contended.
Maelich’s gaze followed Ding until he was lost in the darkness of the cave’s mouth, “Maybe, but if I lead them to battle before they are ready, I will lose them just the same. You see? I lose either way.”
Chapter 15
Her First Kill
The water was brisk and refreshing. It had been days since Perrin and her group had seen water, and that had been barely a brook hardly deep enough for anything more than filling water skins and soaking cloths to mop down dirt-streaked skin. The water Perrin submerged herself in was a proper river. Its slow current was perfect for a bath, and she took advantage, scrubbing the dirt from her weary body.
Thick trees stretched from both banks of the river. Some were thin with tight branches that reached toward the sky. Others were squat with wide branches reaching out in all directions and dipping toward the water. Together with thick shrubs growing wild around their trunks, they provided ample cover for a peaceful soak.
A rustling in the shrubbery behind her caught her attention. Suddenly, those thick, protective shrubs seemed less like ample cover for her bath and more like a place for someone to hide while they watched her. Turning toward the sound, she quickly covered herself the best she could and dipped deeper into the water. Naked was such a vulnerable thing to be. It was worse when someone was watching. Even a thin robe would have felt like armor in that moment. As she stared into the darkness beneath the foliage, the water somehow grew less refreshing until it was downright cold. A shiver started at her shoulders and shook its way through her racing all the way to her feet.
More rustling from the very spot where she was looking forced a slight scream from her lips. “Who is hiding there?” she asked, her voice absent the authority she had hoped it would carry.
She screamed again—this time jumping clean out of the water before diving under it—when a fallon poked his head through the shrubbery to drink. When she finally popped her head back out of the water, she startled the young animal as much as he had startled her. It was a young buck to be sure. His antlers were not more than two-inch nubs. The frightened creature stomped and snorted his displeasure before charging back into the brush.
“No, no,” Perrin called after the animal, “I didn’t mean to cause you such a fright, but you near scared me out of my skin.”
It was too late, the majestic young fallon had darted off. He would probably be a mile away or more by that point. She laughed at what a fright the beast had caused her when his head popped out of the leaves. It was too late for her too. The timid animal had scared her to her bones. The dark shadows under the shrubs yawned like the blackest cavern she could imagine hiding all manner of nightmare creatures to terrorize and torment her. The bath was over.
She remained tentative as she slowly waded over to the shore, every out of place sound sending shivers down her spine. The riverbank had seemed so far away when she started toward it. As it grew closer, she wished it were further away. Where had all those sounds been while she was calmly enjoying a bath in some crisp, refreshing water? Everything had been so peaceful. Now it seemed the critters living in that darkness were belting out a chorus at her.
Her finger had barely touched the slippery shore when two massive hands attached to thick, hairy arms reached out of the darkness to snatch her up by the forearms. Those hands squeezed so tight her wrists felt like they might break, but pain was not the cause of her scream. Sheer terror earned that sound. She immediately knew those bulky forearms did not belong to any of her men. There was a mark on the inside of the left one, a circle with a cross at its center. The brute grabbing her had been branded a thief by someone.
She struggled, pulling against the pain in her wrists and kicking her legs, but the soft, muddy riverbank offered no traction for her wet, bare feet. Thorns and branches cutting into her and scratching her skin hurt but barely registered as the strong hands dragged her helpless through the muck. It would be obvious to even the rudest dolt she had nothing of value on her person. Whomever owned the hands pulling her through the brambles was after something other than material goods.
When the brute had finally pulled her to a clearing opposite the shrubs running alongside the river, her back was a canvas of red, a masterpiece concocted by a madman. Every scratch throbbed somewhere in the periphery of her awareness. Those cuts would heal. Whatever else the beast took from her would heal eventually too, but that would be a longer road to recovery.
Perrin’s wrists burned as the monster of a man squeezing them lifted her off the ground. His hair was a nest of black streaked with gray. His dark eyes moved over her body feasting on every inch. She screamed in his dirty face. He roared back at her with a toothless laugh, his tongue slithering all about his grimy lips. She barely noticed the two dirty grubs behind him laughing just as hard.
“Get her on the ground,” one of them yelled.
Rage grew from somewhere in Perrin’s belly. These three vile men—the one holding her six inches off the ground and his two giggling friends—were bent on stealing from her. Right at that moment, the fury boiling up in her belly completely chased her fear away. She kicked with both her legs and connected with something. There was no way to be sure if it were his round belly, his groin, or somewhere on his legs, but it doubled the big man over enough that her feet were back on the ground.
“I am Perrin, rightful queen of Havenstahl, wife of Maelich, the lad of the Lake, and I command you to…” her words trailed off as the grubby man still holding her wrists flung her against a tree.
Old oaks are sturdy and do not move for much. The one Perrin’s head smacked against refused to budge. A bright flash, and then her world went fuzzy and dark. She felt hands on her. They grabbed at her and pulled at her legs. Then that fat, dirty face was directly in front of her. Everything else may have been blurry, but that horrible face was clear. Her hand lashed out like a snake. She dug her nails deep and dragged them down the side of it from cheek to jawline. The world exploded in
another bright flash when the big fist pounded the side of her head. Her eyes grew heavy. Everything in her line of sight bobbed and shifted as if floating on choppy waters. It took everything she had to keep from passing out.
The man’s voice did not fit his countenance as he squeaked, “Grab a hold of her legs. We’ll be teaching this wench a lesson on how she ought to be treating nice fellows like us.”
A moment later, she could not move. Strong hands squeezed, two a piece at each of her ankles. They dragged her down the tree until she was flat against the ground. Then they pulled away from each other, spreading her legs apart. That is when she saw it. A glint of silver as the brute above her fumbled with his trousers. She screamed out as she grabbed for the silvery thing, sliding a dagger out of its scabbard. It was more instinct guiding her than conscious thought. A split second later, the handle of a long knife was jutting from that bastard’s throat, and he was choking on blood.
Perrin grabbed for the dagger again, pulling it out of the dying man’s throat. Blood rained down on her, pumping from the gash she had left there. She watched intently as the life left his eyes. Normally the sight of blood would have her squeamish. Not on this day. On this day, she wanted to watch every expression on his foul, dirty face as he struggled through his last few moments. Then he was gone, falling on top of her. He was heavy and smelly, and she was fairly certain he shat himself as his soul left him. His stench only grew stronger.
The rough hands still tugging on her legs quickly snapped her attention back to the present. There were two more souls to send to the Lake. She had never killed a living thing, but the small bit of remorse haunting her psyche was no match for the adrenaline coursing steadily through her veins. Glord had told her the trail had its own justice even before they started this journey. She intended to deliver that justice with a bloody dagger stolen from a vile creature.
Glord’s voice rang out. It filled the forest like a giant’s roar when he shouted, “Men, to the queen.”
Kill the Gods Page 9
