*Sadrianna*
The lowlanders were at least sensible and started to back away when asked. Bjorn tried to whip the rest of the team into action, claiming Sadrianna was letting ‘our enemies’ escape, but she just called him a coward and asked him to face her in the open.
He refused of course – he wielded a bow as a primary weapon, and currently had the advantage of height. He would be foolish to step down from his perch and meet her in an open field, closer together and with enemies still in sight. Still, given his earlier actions she had thought it might be possible.
She stalked forwards and called for the others to stay out of it. Seemed they would too, cowards that they were. The other White-Sky clan members were a bit of an unknown, but if they hadn’t acted so far, she could assume they wouldn’t unless she showed distinct vulnerability.
Heshtat wouldn’t lift a finger either – she was as ambivalent as a rock to all this. What were the corpses of four more lowlanders to her? Her parents had fought in the Sientary Campaign as mercenaries, and their stories had instilled a belief in their daughter that lowlander life was worth as much as the mud they lived in.
So she walked into the trees, glad to have no arrows raining down upon her yet. Bjorn was a bastard, sure as sure, but he was a prideful one. He’d not disgrace himself by attacking her from a distance, that would be dishonourable to him.
Stupid as all hells too, considering he used a bow and she a spear and shield. That was the problem with honourable men though – they were more often than not complete fucking morons. And hypocrites too, since there was nothing honourable about killing innocent traders.
Alas, he deserved the lesson she was about to teach. She reached the foot of the tree, where he waited, chest puffed out and blade drawn. He drew himself up again to say something no doubt foolish and arrogant, and she rushed him.
Markhor’s Rush bathed her in fiery light and mana-formed horns sheathed her head. She was upon him before he could do more than hastily hunker down behind his blade – a sloppy thrust that she brushed aside easily before her spear punched through his stomach.
She lifted him up in one hand, slamming the butt of her weapon down into the ground a few feet. Bjorn hung several yards off the floor, impaled and retching, bile and blood dribbling from his mouth. A grisly tree, spear acting as trunk and his body forming the canopy.
A heartbeat passed with no further sound from any of her team, and then Bjorn started to slip down the shaft of the weapon. The scream that tore from his throat was gruesome, and she took pity on him, kicking the spear out of the ground and watching him fall to the floor.
A knife to the heart finished him off quickly, and when she looked up at her companions, none objected.
“Right then. Heshtat, I want you on overwatch. Varney, you carry Bjorn back to camp when we leave. Ross, you’re by my side while I talk to these traders.”
Heshtat and Ross both made noises of agreement, but Varney hesitated, looking back her forlornly. Sadrianna raised a questioning eyebrow at him.
“Right you are boss…it’s just that this is a new cloak see, and he’s bleeding pretty fierce…” He let the statement hang in the air between them, a plaintive look in his large brown eyes.
“Oh by Varshak’s nutsack! Here, wrap him in this.” She conjured into her hand a hessian sack, reinforced with silk on the inside, and passed it over to Varney. She wasn’t blind to her relative wealth courtesy of her powerful parents and so tried to use her storage device sparingly. It wouldn’t do to remind those under her command, however temporary, of her privilege, but in this case the need outweighed the possible downsides.
His eyes lit up as he caught the large sack, and he set about his grisly task of rolling, folding and otherwise packing a limp corpse into a just-about-big-enough sack. Oh gods – she now had a corpse sack.
Shaking away the grisly thought, she returned to business.
“I will speak to these lowlanders – Ross, I want you with me now.” She turned her gaze to the impassive woman in the tree and the corpse-packer, “I want you both on standby, wait for my signal to engage. Again – no acting without my word, agreed?”
Another chorus of agreement, and she turned on her heel and strode back out into the sun. She thought about cleaning the blood from her spear, but honestly there was no point – she doubted the strangers had missed the screaming, and there would be little to gain in trying to hide it.
Better to make it a statement.
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*Lamb*
I flinched as I heard the scream, and then again as I heard it cut off only a few moments later.
It wasn’t the first such noise I’d heard, and it likely wouldn’t be the last, but I was thankful to know my heart wasn’t becoming numb to suffering. Sometimes violence was necessary, and when it came knocking, somebody always lost. Didn’t mean you had to glory in the loser’s pain though.
Nathlan was doing a good job of looking stoic, but I could see a slight wince on his face as he imagined the scene that caused such an unholy noise. Jorge and Vera were actually stoic, no emotion to be seen, faces carved from granite. Heavily weathered granite in the case of the older man, but stone all the same.
“What do you think’s going on then?” I asked, unable to restrain my curiosity.
Vera turned toward me, face still empty and flat, like the great plains we had trekked through weeks ago. “A tea party.”
The delivery was less dead-pan and more slaughtered-kitchen, and after a few moments Jorge snorted, cracking the stony façade he was wearing.
I grinned a bit but grew more serious as moments passed without further noise from the trees. “Do you think she won?” I asked again.
Jorge nodded, having turned back to study the distant treeline. “Aye lad, handily. She’s a strong one. Rest of the team is falling in line by the look of things.”
He hesitated for a moment then, seeming surprised. “She’s…putting the man’s corpse in a bag. Huh. Don’t see that everyday, do you?” He said to himself in consideration.
It was Vera’s turn to snort then, and she elbowed him lightly in the ribs. “She wouldn’t be the only one to use a trusty corpse-sack, would she? I haven’t forgotten Vashellen, much as you might try and block it out.” It was met with a simple “aye” from the older man and a far-away look in his eyes.
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
I waited, enjoying the banter, and happy for the distraction. I wasn’t so nervous anymore, knowing it was unlikely they would attack now, and confident that even if they did, Jorge and Vera could handle it. Still, I didn’t like waiting at the best of times.
The world answered my silent plea in the next few moments, as the woman emerged from the tree-line, a big man with white ribbons woven into his hair and armour trailing a few paces behind her. She was much more striking however, and took the majority of my attention immediately.
Tall, as noted before, and obviously strong – muscle thick on her arms and shoulders – gave her the air of a warrior. Combined with the steady, confident way she moved it told a clear story. Raven hair cascaded down her back, tied in a warrior’s braid, and her armour was light and supple.
Her shield was slung across her back now, and the long spear she carried gleamed in the light, its head coated in fresh blood. The red stood out against the steel, dulling the shine, and after a moment I realised it spread not just down the blade, but to a foot or more along the shaft as well.
That painted a picture as to the origin of that scream, if nothing else. I also suspected the fresh blood coating her weapon acted as quite a statement. Had we been meek traders or perhaps diplomats from a neighbouring country, that message would likely had been received.
As it was though, none of us were strangers to blood on steel.
She strode deliberately towards us, crossing the river with a nimble leap, and stopped only a few meters from where we stood. She looked at me, bowing her head slightly and speaking in clear voice.
“I apologise for the reception you’ve received. My name is Sadrianna, of the Red-Peak clan, and I formally welcome you to clan territories.”
I stepped forward a fraction, fighting the urge to look to Jorge for help. I was the one who could speak the language, and so I would be the one to carry this conversation through. I thanked her, gave our names in turn, and restated why we were here.
It was a strangely formal conversation, but once introductions were made and intentions made known, things got moving quickly. We were escorted directly to a nearby watchtower nestled into the abse of cliff, mist shrouding the ravine behind it. Sadrianna spoke to a few other clan-members – all armed and armoured – before returning.
“You have been granted passage to our lands, but you should not roam. I do not know where you come from or how things are in your homeland, but my experience with lowlanders has been similar so I will warn you this once: These lands are wild. Creatures roam the mountains and gulleys. Sprites, spirits, djinn and elementals rule this world, and we are not the masters of this land. Do not mistake permission for safety.”
She gave us all a significant look, seeming satisfied by what she had seen in the eyes of at least Jorge and Sera. She gave us a begrudging nod and turned to leave, before Jorge spoke.
“Cheers lass, I’ll keep ‘em in line, have no doubt. You look like a capable fighter though…any chance you’d know if we’re in time for The Blending this year?”
I saw her stiffen at his tone at first, and it was no surprise. Jorge was a brilliant teacher, but his old man persona was sometimes a little too accurate, and I imagined a young woman like her had dealt with her share of patronising old men.
She quickly shrugged it off though and turned with interest at his question. “Yes, you’re in time. But barely. It’s two days hence, and you’ve at least half a day’s hike if you’re fast. Are you familiar with it?”
Jorge grinned, gesturing in a humble way as if to say ‘this old man? Hardly!’, and yet his mouth said the opposite, “I’ve been lucky enough to witness a few in my time.”
“Oh really? Which year-“ She cut herself off abruptly, cursing and turning to the gate of the small watchtower. “Listen, I must finish my patrol and I have some unfortunate news to deliver to the family of Bjorn - the one who attacked you”, she amended upon seeing our confused faces. “but I would like to hear this story. Find me if you are interested in telling it tomorrow evening. Anyone in clan Red-Peak can direct you.”
She eyed Vera as well, an obvious up-and-down look that almost came across as voracious if not for the clear respect she showed to the larger woman. “Perhaps you should enter, would be a sight to see you facing some of the clan’s old monsters.”
Vera snorted, hooking a thumb at me. “The runt is the one who’ll be fighting, if anyone is.”
Sadrianna turned a curious look toward me and I felt like a mouse beneath the gaze of a hawk. The sensation vanished quickly, and she shrugged in response. “It will be interesting to see how you fare. Come and find me tomorrow Jorge, my father will no doubt be keen to speak with you as well. Farewell.”
With that final parting, she slipped out of the gate and towards a few of the canvas tents pitched outside, likely a butchers by the smell.
We looked at one another for a moment before Jorge clapped his hands. “Well. Sounds like we’ve got a hike ahead of us. Top of the mountain aye? fuck me, but my knees aren’t pleased with all this climbing.”
“Watch out for the sprites – heard they like old whiny men.” I snarked, and his hand shot out, quick as a flash, slapping me on the top of the head.
“Bastard” I muttered, as Vera and Nathlan’s laughter echoed around us.
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Despite Sadrianna’s warning, it was an uneventful journey. After passing through the gate behind the tower and staring at the ominous shroud of mist hanging over our path, we collectively breathed in, and began our climb.
We hiked slowly, in relative terms – we still moved through the mountain vista far faster than any low levelled support classer could – and did our best to avoid tripping on the wet rocks and scree that made up the twisting path.
There was little enough light, hemmed in as we were by high canyon walls on either side and the mist obscuring the sun above. Mountain-Born kept me stable, a combination of skills working together to keep my body in constant motion and balance, despite the terrain and weather.
The others had similar skills, or at least enough physical attributes and experience to navigate the path with ease, and after no more than a bell, we emerged from the ravine into a land of sunshine and rainbows.
That was possibly a little over the top, but the view at the top of the ravine was certainly impressive. We stood in the middle of a giant basin, massive buttes and tranches of red and white rock rimming the edges like titanic towers reaching towards the sky.
Colourful meadows were zigzagged by fast flowing streams which led to a dozen lakes of varying size. The smallest looked only a few dozen meters wide, but most were far larger, and the biggest was at least a mile at its widest point.
Pine forests lined the edges of these lakes, and I caught the sight of tents peeking out from between these trees. Before I could begin to analyse the tent city below, as spread out as it was, I was drawn to the centre of the basin.
Each lake seemed to drain towards the centre. Many rivers and streams would flow towards each lake – the larger ones having many more suppliers – but only one would flow from each lake towards the central depression.
Twelve torrents of water speared down from the lakes and over the edge of a strangely circular hole in the earth. The word waterfall didn’t do it justice, for this was of a scale I had yet to witness in my travels. Thousands of tonnes of water must have cascaded over the edge every moment and to where it flowed, I had no idea.
The mist at our back could not seem to escape the cloying grasp of the ravine, and the vista before us was painted with the afternoon sun, blue giving way to yellow and gold in a soft dance through the heavens.
“Right, now that’s a fucking view, aye lad!” Jorge said, ruining the moment.
We started trudging down the well-worn path, thick enough for us to walk side by side with ease – all four of us. We chatted idly about what we expected to see at this ‘Blending’, and Jorge did his best to remain aloof and mysterious about it all.
We did get confirmation that it was a tournament, although he said he wasn’t sure of the exact rules, only that I would be able to fight if I wanted – Nathlan too if he felt like it. It was a surprisingly short walk from the top of the basin to the lake nearest to us, and consequently, to the settlement huddled around its shores.
Like the others, the settlement was a haphazard mix of temporary and semi-permanent structures – great oak trees felled and split to create longhouses, which sat surrounded by dozens of smaller tents, the occasional forge or animal coop popping up as I let my eyes roam across the lakeside.
“Where does the fighting take place then?” I asked, having expected to see a great colosseum or raised dais or something.
Jorge turned around with a fierce grin at that, eyes alight and sparkling. “That would ruin the surprise now, wouldn’t it? You’re gonna love it though.”
And that was all he would say on the matter. Nathlan and I shared a look, he rolled his eyes and I smirked, before we continued on towards the lake, blue and white banners fluttering in the wind ahead of us.