Men speak differently when they think themselves in safe company. Murderers recount the thrills of their passion, rapists brag of their conquests, and thieves flaunt the fruits of their mischief. Amongst their private audience, they are as gregarious as the village fool. But there is always someone listening. A superior who looks to catch you red handed, like Fennas the guardsman. A gossiping passerby such as Raline, who might spread your unvirtuous secrets at any moment. An outcast, invisible to the virtuous man behind his veil of insignificance and sin. Like me. Most expect the drunkard and the beggar to be hollow, simple souls condemned to the street by their own lack of ambition and wit. More often, the deadbeat has been corralled to the streets by some trauma he has not yet learned to bury. He remains prostrate in the mud not because he is weak, but because he is afraid. Afraid that if he raises himself up then life will beat him down once again. And to the prostrate man, the only path to respect and redemption is to bring others to the ground. But then, the asinine truth of human conscience sullies what could be a perfect society of prostrate men, for all those who can be toppled must be weak. Those who cannot be toppled are arrogant, then, and outrageously naive for believing themselves above the beggar. They are no better. They simply have yet to find themselves in the mud. The fact that they remain disdainfully out of reach causes their position to become so much more irritating.
Two men, standing proud but soon to be in the mud, speak confidently just within the mouth of an ovoid cave. The small Kitford warband hugs the faces of stone to either side of the darkening entrance, shivering, shaking, grinning, flexing, and sweating their fear away. They are a desperate crew, half carrying weapons stripped from fallen members of the raider party they now approach. Less than half have trained with the weapons they brandish. Even fewer have seen real battle. Still they push on, emboldened by the confidence and bravado of their two leaders.
Ahead of the Heedy brothers, Kha, Brandon, and Gillan kneels the steadfast captain Coran. He stares intensely at the cave’s mouth through a dented helm, draped with legionnaire chain mail and easily gripping a legionnaire’s longsword. The bandage across his midsection still glistens with moisture from a wound taken not twenty-four hours ago. The second force is led by Aduren, adorned in some southern steel mesh. His jaw flexes impulsively over and over as though gnawing through bone, and the crescent moon pendant at his throat glows unnaturally in the light of the rising moon.
As they crouch on the brink of mortal combat, they believe themselves the watchers. The unseen. But yet again, there is always someone watching. I crouch atop a rounded boulder only twenty meters away, five meters above, and completely concealed by their own blinding focus. I did not come to help them, or to document their imminent death. I didn't even come to steal from them. I came because the raiders stole from me the only comfort I have ever felt. An instrument of emotion without which I do not think I would ever feel again. A medium through which I can project the feelings to which I am so numb. The first item of real value I ever found the courage to steal. Somewhere within that cave, a strange foreign woman keeps my lute, and I am going to use Kitford’s assault to take it back.
Far ahead, Coran turns to his half of the attacking force, mouthing words and tracing a complex pattern in the air in front of him. His fingers move quickly, forming a variety of shapes - doubtless military hand signals which only Brandon seems to understand. The rest of the crew watches expectantly, understandably clueless. I wonder what plan Coran is communicating now that he could not have possibly detailed before. I will never know, though, because Aduren interprets Coran’s movement as a signal to attack. The movement is clearly private, silent, and conspiratorial but the brash hero sees only what he wants to see. He explodes into a sprint, bellowing the name of his god into the resounding cavern as he swiftly closes the distance to the raider party’s shocked sentries.
Element of surprise lost, Coran rises and leads his own men after the screaming warrior. The two streams of attackers collide awkwardly at the cave’s mouth, clumsily intermingling and obstructing each other’s movement as Aduren’s men try to charge through Coran’s more cautious bunch. The combat has begun now, and I must seize my prize before a victor emerges.
I dismount the boulder, taking the same perilous path by which I scaled it. The worn leather pack containing my few belongings rests safely atop the rock, for no armored man could pull himself up through the crack I now nimbly descend. Only the woodsman Gillan could retrace my steps, but he is crippled by his own morality. The gleeful man who plays with children, tolerates the arrogant youth, and follows his friend into the maw of death would never steal my modest pack. He would not deprive another of food. Besides, he would not have any use for my rough, moth-ridden bedroll or the two extra steel strings I hide within. He would not know what to do with the clay and dye stashed within my make-up box, or the assortment of herbs hidden below. Besides, he may never emerge from the raider lair.
I push off of the mossy rock with my hands and feet, allowing myself to fall the remaining three meters to the ground. My knees bend, ankles flexing to absorb the impact. Fortunately, I have nothing to weigh me down. Aside from light cloth clothing and a belt of cracked animal hide, only a small hunting knife rests on my lithe form. While I have killed with it, I have never fought, and I don’t ever intend to. Warriors insist on encumbering themselves with swathes of iron and steel, but the armored soldier cannot flee a battle he is doomed to lose. He trusts that his company will triumph and that if they do not, he accepts that he will die with his friends. I have never had company or friends. This, I am sure, is the sole reason I still draw breath.
As I fleet-footedly approach the hollow and skirmish within, I begin to feel. It is more than just adrenaline I seek, but the fear that accompanies it. Fear of uncertainty is suffocating, but fear towards which one runs is liberating. The fatigue in my calves and arms fades away, and I feel as though I am floating. I dart into the cave.
Audio and visual input compress and distort as my mind struggles to process the torrential current of both internal and external sensory input. Two bodies twitch four paces ahead. They leak and spread their pulsing contents through rocky soil. One holds a blade. One holds his neck. Neither hold a lute. Momentum urges me on. I follow.
I sprint head-on through waves of cacophony which resound about the narrowing stone tunnel. They all ring of desperation and fear, but I cannot parse through them over the roaring of adrenaline in my own ears. It is dark now. Too far from the dusklight behind and the torchlight ahead to see past my own arms. That is why I do not notice the spear shaft jutting from the wall until it aims a stationary blow at my head. Even I would not be nimble enough to dodge this obstacle without the epinephrine flooding my system. The wood etches a small cut below my right eye as I jerk my head to the left. The other end of the spear is buried in the wall. On the other side of a raider’s skull.
Torchlight bathes the tunnel ahead. It emanates from a bulbous cavern full of dancing shadows and the same, horrible sounds. From his position at its mouth, Kha is the first to notice my approach. His stance is rigid, unsteady, and unconfident. Nature has a way of culling the weak, and for all their vanity, men are just as much a part of nature as they are susceptible to its whims. The first man who approaches the timid giant will strike him down with ease. He will feel the ecstasy of his own power. Think himself exceptional. Because Kha does not know how to defend himself - mentally or physically. He will not even try because he has never been forced to do so. The world has carefully tended Kha’s flame, and now it will extinguish him. Today is Kha’s reaping day.
I am curious how long Kha will survive, but I have no time to watch. The light of five wall-mounted torches and a central campfire illuminate the writhing bodies of 31 men and one woman. They all jerk about grunting and screaming, some vertical, some horizontal. The men are so boring. Brutish and vile, hiding the ugly face of fear behind the even uglier facade of cruelty. I am much more interested in the woman. Aside from the occasional female militia member, I have never seen a woman fight. Much less a foreign woman.
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The desire to flee rises up within as I take in the melee. I allow it to slow my rush, and pause in the cave’s maw, just out of Kha’s reach. The object of my intrigue hangs low in a ready stance on the cavern’s right side. She stands over a mess of strange armor, likely designed for her. Behind her is a small boulder, behind which her captive is likely held. In her right hand rests a foreign blade. Shorter and thinner than Coran’s legionnaire longsword, it’s tip asymmetrical like a scimitar’s. It does not glint in the firelight. Instead, it’s matte texture consumes the torches’ radiance, causing it to disappear as she waves it through the air. It is beautiful but not glamorous, and I appreciate it.
I am quick on the uptake, but she is quicker. She has already seen me, and I find recognition in her eyes. She thinks I will attack, but cannot find the weapon I will use. She has bested me, and believes my male ego will spur me into desperate action. She is partially right. I will attack, but ego has nothing to do with it. And I have just found my weapon. I squat and lift a small stone from the soil, my eyes never straying from hers. She does not yet understand. I recoil my arm sidewise, and hurl the rock. Into the back of Brandon’s helmet.
The stout warrior dances instinctively away from the anonymous impact, repurposing the movement to avoid a wayward strike thrown by his current opponent. Afraid of whatever might assail his unguarded back, Brandon makes a desperate effort to end his current engagement so that he might assess the situation. It works. His sturdy axe finds purchase in a raider’s knee, but when the sturdy warrior rounds to find his next adversary, he sees only the woman. She will not attack, for she is defending her cargo, but Brandon sees only a coward. Too afraid to do anything but throw a stone. To complete the image I wish for Brandon to see, the coward is a woman. From what I observed in the Magma, Brandon has a quiet sort of intelligence. But he is also a man. Steeped in a culture in which women do not fight. He cannot resist the urge to right the injustice done to him, but he also will not attack a woman. I am relying on this. I do not know if the foreigner can beat him in a fair fight, but once he underestimates her, her task will become much easier. She will attack, and he will likely be wounded, perhaps even killed. Perhaps he will be able to defend himself, and their combat will draw on further. All the better. Either way, I will have my opening.
The woman’s eyes now dart back and forth from Brandon to myself. I think she understands what has happened, but she is now too focused to let on. She has seen Brandon fight, and knows he is not to be taken lightly. Good luck, foreign friend.
The cave’s martial congregation undulates, expelling a blood crazed man. He wails, raising a chipped, stained blade over his shoulder. Barreling towards me. The first stages of panic grip my limbs, threatening to wrest control of my body from my mind. The skin of his cheek is torn and he wears a sanguine mask, but his features spark a gout of recognition. He is Kensal Heedy, a Kitford man. One of Aduren’s followers, his bloodlust and zeal unlocked by a hero’s call to action. I overcome my own corporeal urges, and begin to retreat into shadow. I do not know fighting, but I do know men. And this one is not coming for me. I can see it in his eyes. He is on a righteous quest to slay the monster that has been reaping his fields and eating his food. The one that makes him feel unsafe even in his own house. The one that represents all of the small evil in his world. He is coming for Kha, and I will not interfere.
Kensal Heedy strikes down the beast with all of his strength and hatred. The animal shrieks in fear as Heedy’s blade comes within six inches of his jugular. Three inches farther than the handle of Brandon’s axe. Kha drops his own weapon and lurches backwards onto the ground, scrambling in the dirt, desperate to escape. Strange how I only now noticed the woodman’s axe Kha brought with him. It looked so docile in his hands. So much less threatening even than Brandon’s scowling face.
Heedy’s expression morphs into one of outrage. It still exudes hate, but of a childish nature. He has been caught in a shameful act, but he will never admit the wrong of his own choices. He is a spiteful, abhorrent creature. A real man, stripped bare of honor and moral facade. A hero in the flesh. What an idiot. And now he will meet his end at the hands of a stronger member of his own abominable race.
Brandon lurches forwards, twisting his torso and driving Heedy’s blade into the ground. I sense rather than hear Kensal’s right thumb break, and observe the pain as it crossfades with the hate already written on his filthy features. Finger broken and shamefully disarmed, the dishonored man strikes out with his other fist, aiming for Brandon’s exposed face. Even with his blade, he never stood a chance. His knee emits an audible crack as Brandon kicks it in, and I relish the sound. Another proud man has been brought to the ground. Only nine hundred and seventy six million to go.
Brandon glowers down at Kensal Heedy, where he cries in the dirt. The weathered warrior stares intensely, shivering, eyes wide with hate...or is it hate? So quick and quiet was the foreign woman that I did not notice her approach. She stands behind Brandon now, her form completely hidden by his, only now peering over his shoulder to watch my reaction. Her blade protrudes from Brandon’s sternum, having passed through both bone and chain mail with ease. She listens about the cavern for other attackers, but her eyes stay fixed on mine. A slight smile parts her dark lips as fear finally takes hold over me. Brandon drops to his knees, struggling to conceive the vastness of death. His eyes find mine, glancing rapidly downward towards his left hand. I follow with my eyes.
His hand taps quickly in the dirt, three shaking fingers extended. Men do the strangest things before they die. What could his hand signal mean to him? Perhaps an old military sign. Something he shared with a friend? His hand still taps, but only two fingers rake the soil. He takes a deep, shuddering breath. Breathing rarely slows so during traumatic death. What could this mean...no. The death written on his face was only an act. He is still very much alive and conscious. And he wants my help. Now only one finger rakes the earth. What is it he wants?
Brandon groans as the woman begins to withdraw her blade from his heaving chest. Only I can imagine the pain he feels right now, but the stout warrior springs into action anyway. He clasps the slithering blade where it still quivers in front of his body, not allowing the woman to reclaim it. He then rises and twists with remarkable speed, seizing his would be killer by the shoulder. Their bodies tangle and I think Bradon is stabbed again, this time by a smaller hip drawn blade, but it doesn’t matter. They have already dropped to the ground, man behind woman. The woman battles Brandon’s one armed headlock with all her might.
This is what Brandon was trying to communicate. I could help him. I could take the foreigner’s life with any number of the blades strewn about the ground. She is helpless, but she is not what I came for. Neither is Brandon’s life any of my concern. He will likely die no matter what now. Once more I find my eyes locked with the woman’s, hers tinted with fear of what I might do and the pain of her own blade in her back. Mirth finds its way into her eyes too, though, when I emerge from my cage of indecision and sprint for my lute. She thinks I am a coward, and maybe I am. The thought causes me more pain than I expected. Why should I care what she thinks? Is it because I abandoned Brandon? I have not felt shame for hurting a man since I was seven years old. Is it because innocent Kha watches my cowardice from a nearby shadow? Why should I care about him? The weak always observe the strong.
Shame weighs heavy on my mind as I vault the small boulder. It conceals everything I hoped for. The object of my quest sits carefully wrapped in a rough weave immediately to the right of a hogtied mayor Herskel. I seize the lute and turn to leave, but shame forestalls me. Inexplicably, I kneel and cut Herskel’s bonds with my hunting knife. Unsure of who I am, I turn and sprint from the cave. Past the cowering Kha. Past growing stain of blood where the foreign woman wriggles free of Brandon’s dying grasp. Past Kansal Heedy, where he still cries in the dirt. Past the two dead sentries at the cave’s mouth.
I do not know who I am. I do not know why I feel for these people. I do not like to be out of control. All of that can wait though, because there is a small canine form standing atop a nearby boulder. My boulder. And it is eating the last of my food. I struggle to unlock my jaw, screaming at it in a vain attempt to scare it from my pack. It turns to me, and for a moment I think I see an old enemy in its reflective crimson eyes.