The Blood-Rage (9) No use, my second-love, Patra thought. This isn't one you can reason with. She felt her battle-state rise. It always gave her a feeling of joy and sorrow. It was an old paradox, she realized. "We're not interested," hissed the scarred one, confirming her guess. "Who is it that you hide behind your cats?" But she sensed that his reply did not surprise Gravestone. Her mate warned the warrior, "You'll not be able to take his blood until ours lays upon the surface of Agon." The huge man's grin was crooked as he said, "You state the obvious. Those who harbor weakness are also weak and deserve to die. Agon will welcome your blood." But he then lost his smirk and pointed to Erendria. "Why do you smile, dagger? Do you welcome your end? Has your blood-rage become too great?" Erendria threw back her head and laughed; the sound had a strange overtone to it that, Patra noticed, made some of the warriors shiver. When her daughter stopped laughing, the young dagger's voice became suddenly cold. "Yes, I welcome death . . . yours. From the looks of your ugly hide, you have experienced the kiss of the dagger before. When I finish with you, there will not be a finger-width on your body that won't have tasted my blade." "A-h-h!" the big man snarled, and his sword flashed naked in the suns-light. "I've met other females of your ilk. You all hide behind your beauty thinking no sword will destroy it. But my weapon has drunk the blood of the daggers of Agon before. I'm a sword-master. And I know your weaknesses. And," he smirked, "if you're still alive after I'm done with you, I may sample some of that beauty if any is left." Erendria leaned forward, pointed at him, and replied, "What you're going to sample is defeat. I shall send you into the void; and it won't be a quick trip, for I'm going to savor your pain. Sample me? What a laugh." The scarred warrior and her daughter then locked gazes, each trying to stare down the other. The scarred one looked away first. To his followers on the right and left, he said tensely, "Surround them and attack with care. I've heard of this Kalt clan. Some of us will die here this turn." "You'll all die," said Gravestone lightly, and his sword, too, became naked. "Like all fools who are out looking for death, you've found it." Patra suddenly shook with the need to do battle. Quickly she counted eight warriors dismounting; their mu-lynxes, however, remained still. But the small, wizened man, she noticed, stayed atop his mount, backing it away from the area of combat. A coward? she wondered. Without a word, she and the rest of the Kalt clan dismounted also and then sent their mu-lynxes running poleward, beyond the area of the coming battle. Mu-lynxes are too prized to risk in any fight of this nature. Gravestone put his hand on the stranger's shoulder and commanded, "Kneel." She watched the stranger drop to his knees. With the surrounding circle of warriors formed, they started their advance up the hill. Climb toward defeat, you jackals, Patra thought. It never entered her mind that they would lose this coming encounter. A true warrior does not think of defeat. She formed an equilateral triangle with Gravestone and Erendria, the stranger in the middle. Gravestone spoke his last words before the battle, "Remember, daughter . . . discipline." "I won't fail us, father-teacher," she said. "Let's go for zenith!" At this, Gravestone smiled, and Patra felt him dropping into the combat state. A heartbeat later his face was blank, and his eyes rather vacant; that always happened as one sought the calm waters of the inner peace. She and Erendria turned outward toward the enemy, searching also for that inner calm. The circle of advancing warriors closed in around them. When they were only ten feet away, Patra sensed Gravestone grasping his sword with both hands. She still had not drawn her dagger. The calmness of her heart seemed to heighten her awareness and slowed down the events in front of her. "Now!" she heard the shout from the leader of the band, and she watched in a kind of dream state as the enemy leaped forward. The first to die was closest to Gravestone. However, Patra saw that the male had not been struck by Gravestone's weapon but by Erendria's. It had been drawn and thrown back over her daughter's head. Gravestone had merely moved his own head slightly to the left, and the dagger had flashed by his ear to bury itself in the attacker's throat. By then Patra had drawn her own weapon and, while looking at the male in front of her, threw the dagger into the throat of a second male two warriors to the right of her gaze. It took him by surprise. Unfortunately, this allowed the warrior in front of her to pass inside of her throwing radius and bring his descending sword toward her head. But it was his own head that was severed from his body as she ducked, and Gravestone's blade passed over her to strike the warrior. For even though Gravestone's eyes were looking in the other direction, she knew that his periphery vision detected the development of the attack. His supreme awareness adapted his own movements to it . . . and hers to his. They knew each other so well. That was the essence of a triad being at zenith. And thus they fought: their blades never stopping, the daggers flashing back and forth, circling, parrying, yet never entangling one lanyard with another. She saw Gravestone's terrible sword arc around to kill both backwards and forwards. She knew where and when the weapon would come and dodged right and left, the blade sometimes missing her and Erendria by a finger-width as it hacked and cleaved the attackers. "Yi-i-i!" screamed the huge, scarred warrior, jerking back his own body that was bleeding from two strikes. "These devils are at zenith!" A warrior to his right slashed down with his sword only to have it deflected by Gravestone's. The warrior then shouted, "They are not at zenith. Their timing is not that perfect, but almost. Twenty could take them but not eight. We need . . . ag-g-g!" he screamed as Patra's dagger plunged into his eye. Never talk when you fight, fool, she said silently. "Forward!" shouted the scarred one. "Die for the strength of Agon!" He charged upward only to slip on the blood-soaked ground. There were only two attackers left. One died with two daggers plunged into each eye. The scarred one regained his feet and roared his anger, obviously knowing he was the last one alive. Patra suddenly felt Erendria breaking the combat state and turned swiftly toward her daughter. Erendria's body was wet with sweat and the splattered blood of the dead. "This one is mine alone," Erendria said and climbed over and through the bodies to stand before the scarred one. Her long legs to the knees were now solid red with blood. "Now, dagger-killer," Erendria said, "you'll have your chance to prove that you are indeed a sword-master." She advanced toward him. Patra watched the scarred one back away from her daughter. She sensed that he was eager for the encounter but was holding back for some reason. The two moved slowly down the hill. When they reached the lower ground level, the warrior leaped at Erendria with a cry of pleasure. Idiot, Patra thought. Erendria jumped backwards, her dagger striking twice before her feet touched the ground again. Then, true to her earlier boast, Erendria methodically began to bury her dagger, tip only, into every finger-width of his body, starting at his neck and working her way down. In contrast, his own sword action appeared flailing because he was not able to make contact with her dancing form--her movements were incredibly fast. Patra thought that her daughter must have appeared to him like smoke, everywhere but nowhere solid. And then he seemed to realize two things: he was going to die, and it was because Erendria was a dagger-master, and more of a master than he. "Ah," his fatigued voice said, "Agon honors me. To die at the hand of a master is a master's dream." Without warning, he slipped and fell to one knee. He exposed his throat to Erendria's blade, as if to say, "Now kill me." He waited but the blow did not come. To Patra, he seemed puzzled, and she watched him as he sought the younger woman through dim, sweat-stung eyes. Erendria stood ten feet away, watching like a bird of prey. "Kill me," Patra thought he whispered, but she wasn't sure. "No," she heard Erendria's strong reply. "You don't deserve the honor. You gave up before dying. You defeated yourself." Her daughter then turned away from the shocked warrior and slowly began to climb back toward her parents. Erendria was halfway up the hill when Patra heard the warrior's scream of rage. She watched as Erendria turned swiftly back toward him. He was on his feet, red with blood from head to toe. He held his sword in both hands and, looking at the sky, shouted, "HERE IS MY BLOOD, AGON. GIVE ME ETERNAL PEACE." He then tossed the sword into the air. It arced upward, slowly stopped, and then fell to the ground, handle first. Before the sword could topple over, he launched himself onto it; arms spread, and was impaled. His body slid down the shaft only to stop when he hit the ground, the blade all the way through his body, more than half of it sticking out his back. He suddenly hunched his shoulders, as if twitching away from that which was giving him so much pain. Then he was still. "Well done, warrior," Gravestone commented, his voice mild. Erendria scoffed, "I'm not impressed. His timing was so bad he almost didn't hit his sword true. If he was a master, the title was self imposed." She turned her back to the dead warrior and continued her climb. "You mustn't be callous to a sword-toss," Patra scolded from above. "He merely sought the honor you denied him." She's gleeful from this encounter, she thought with sadness. "It was a lesser honor and he knew it," Erendria replied as she reached the hilltop. She climbed again over the ring of dead and stopped before her parents and the stranger. Gravestone was cleaning his blood-wet weapon and said, "Nevertheless, daughter, you will speak kindly of his death to others. You'll tell of his endurance to a hundred cuts before he sword-tossed. He died well." "Yes, father-teacher," she agreed and helped the stranger to his feet. Patra detected the false meekness in those words. Patra pointed beyond the grouped mu-lynxes. "Look," she said. "We've overlooked the small one." The others turned with her to see a little man with a white and drawn face, sitting on his mu-lynx, his mouth open in surprise. "I've just noticed," Gravestone observed, "that he has no sword. See? Instead, he carries a dagger on his left side." "A healer," Erendria hissed. "A filthy-one." Patra said, "No direct danger to us then." "I'll kill him for the fun of it," Erendria hissed again. Gravestone's voice was harsh, "No. There's no honor in it." Erendria looked at her father and snarled, "There's no honor in him either. He's a healer." "His dishonor doesn't justify yours," he said. "Dishonor should not breed dishonor. Leave it be." Her young eyes were wide with anger, and Patra watched as she fought for control. "All right," Erendria finally sighed. She then looked in the little man's direction and shouted, "I, Erendria, second-dagger to the clan of Kalt, destroyer of your leader, give you your life! Remember this favor!" She turned away from him abruptly and began to clean her dagger. Patra said, "I don't think he heard. He appears to be in shock." Perhaps my second-love has pushed honor too far. We should kill this 'healer' to be safe, for I don't, now, like the look on his face. Gravestone ordered, "No matter. Ignore him." He sheathed his sword and seemed to dismiss the little man from his mind, while observing, "In one way, this incident has solved one of our problems. We can now outfit the stranger with a sword and sheath and all the other items he needs." He walked over to the pile of bodies. "In fact, I think I remember seeing a particularly handsome sword wielded by a warrior about here." He reached down and dragged some bodies aside. "Ah, yes," he said and picked up a shiny sword with a gold handle inlaid with many precious stones. "A master's sword. I wonder where he got it?" Patra asked. "Inherited from his father probably," Gravestone answered. "Many carry a master's sword who are unworthy. It gives others pause. That's why I've picked it for our ward." "Father-teacher," Erendria interjected, "there's a fortune in cupolas-cylinders and weapons here." "I know," he replied. "Recall our mu-lynxes, and we'll load all the items of value and be off." Patra helped; and, in short order, all the prizes of victory were collected except for the scarred one's weapon. The swords were bound together and, along with pouches full of cupola- cylinders, diode-cloths, and lok-bands, slung over the backs of their mu-lynxes. The stranger was fitted with the sword, a metal wrist-band, and a small pouch containing the personal items all Agonians carry. As they gathered together ready to leave, Patra turned to Erendria as the younger woman voiced an idea. "Mother-teacher, remember when we started our ride early this morning and the stranger mounted my mu-lynx without making it nervous?" Patra nodded. Erendria continued, "Why not let him ride a mu-lynx of his own? I can guide and control it with mind-touch, and it'll stay with us." "It's worth a try," she agreed and mind-called to one of the dead warrior's beasts. It trotted up to them. Upon command, the stranger mounted it and sat waiting. "Yi!" Gravestone exclaimed. "He's a handsome tiger with the sword across his back. Without that blank stare, no one could now tell he's different." Erendria observed, "I don't see much of the blank stare any more." "In truth," Patra agreed, "now his eyes are almost never still, as if they were searching for something." "He looks for his lost soul," Erendria said and then, as Patra quickly looked at her, immediately appeared to regret voicing such an observation. Quickly her daughter mounted her own mu-lynx and sat silent, waiting. Patra leaped upon her mount and sat with that secret smile of hers. At last, she thought, an observation out of Erendria that had some heart. Gravestone grunted and mounted also. He searched the horizon and almost started to lead off when he suddenly said, "Look!" They all turned to the direction of his gaze, including the stranger. There, anti-spinward, near the horizon, stood the tiny silhouette of a mu-lynx and its rider. "The diode-clothed woman," hissed Erendria. "Naturally," Gravestone said. "I'd have been surprised if we hadn't spotted her. She's the one this band had originally sought. She would have wanted to know the outcome of this encounter." Gravestone kneed his mu-lynx forward and said, "But come. That distant woman is no concern of ours. Our need for Rasp grows, and we must find a stream to bathe in. The blood of fools dries caked to our bodies." In single file, they resumed their journey. CHAPTER 9 Anger has no real use beyond motivation. -From the Thoughts of Night Mist- The rage within the healer was so great that he trembled from the force of it. Yes! I will remember! he shouted inside. Suddenly he gasped and opened his mouth. A small stream of saliva and blood ran out over his lips and dropped upon his bare chest; he had bitten off the end of his tongue. But he welcomed the pain because it stopped him from thinking about her further. He rode to where his brother lay, dismounted, and sat beside the fallen warrior. He then gently cradled his brother's limp head in his lap. Retribution! his mind screamed. The bitch will die; I swear it. But slowly, oh, so slowly, my brother. Only her pain will heal the wounds we have received. And all that she loves will precede her, I swear it. I swear! He hung back his head and pounded the ground with his small fists. Suddenly, he looked down and asked, "What's that, my brother?" He tilted his head, as if listening. "No, no, of course I won't leave you." He bowed his head then and his shoulders shook with weeping. Thus, he remained until sleep finally overtook his tired body and mind some four hours later. He awoke weak from hunger and shivering from the cold, his body slumped across his brother's. He sat upright slowly and then crawled over to the medicine pouch strapped to his mu-lynx. There he swallowed a strong narcotic. He let the drug take effect before digging out a cooking pot. He lay back then, gathering strength for what he must do next. Shortly, he crawled back to his dead brother, dragging what he needed. Then he slowly cut off the warrior's head. Cradling it in his arms, he took a special liquid from his medicine pouch and put it into the cooking pot. He immersed the severed head and built a fire. He let the mess cook for an hour before he scooped the brains out of the skull and removed the outside flesh. Afterwards, he sat looking at the white bone of his labors. "You will come with me, my brother," he said gently. "I predict our quest will be long, but in the end, you'll share in witnessing her pain." He laughed suddenly, a high sound like that of a child. "Yes, yes. We shall always be together. I love you." CHAPTER 10 You cannot gain wisdom by talking, only by listening. Some wise men have forgotten that. -From the Thoughts of Night Mist- Gravestone carefully scanned the hill they were approaching. Already he had detected that a single cupola was perched on its crest, even though the small trees that surrounded the dome had at first hid it from his view. As they approached closer, his attention became centered on the warrior standing in front of one of the higher trees--like the cupola, the man had, at first, been almost invisible. The man was standing very still, as if he was one of the trees itself. Rasp was as Gravestone remembered, tall and straight of body, with smooth muscles. Like most Agonians, his face was young looking but with a predatory cast to it. He stood with both fists on his hips, huge legs placed far apart, and eyes blazing with anger. For, also like most Agonians, only his eyes revealed his age; and he was very old. Rasp watched the clan of Kalt and their guest ride up to him and stop. Raising his left fist, he said, "Suns-rise, warriors of Agon." To himself he said: It has been a long time since I've seen this one and his family. Why now? He watched as Gravestone and his two daggers also raised their left fists and gave greetings. Not lost to Rasp was the fact that the stranger did not greet. At once he became angry, the rage burning in his throat. He insults me! Why? But he hid that emotion while saying to Gravestone, "Our great planet has turned many times since we last met, too many to my thinking." He then thought: Somehow I don’t think this meeting is by chance. Gravestone revealed one of his rare smiles and replied, "Are you getting lonesome in your old age?" "No, my friend. I long only for endless sleep or, until then, for someone with whom I can sharpen my sword skills." "I, too, the last. As you know, a sword cannot practice with a dagger. So I have grown dull and slow. It's my loss that our paths have not crossed more often." Rasp nodded, while thinking: You and your daughter have always killed enough warriors so that neither of you really ever gets dull or slow. Yet, to be social--a thing that was rare to him of late--he said, "I agree. Actually, I had thought of seeking you out many times, but I never could stand that scrawny, ugly daughter of yours. Insolent little brat, she was, always with a sharp tongue and quick temper. But then, I never could stand children, any kind of children." He made his gaze a mixture of rage and amusement and swept it slowly up and down the young woman's body. My God, he thought, she is now beautiful, tall and firm of muscle. And those long, smooth, and golden legs must drive the males mad. She would bring a king's ransom on the slave market of the Star Wanderers. And then he laughed to himself, And the death of anyone who bought her. He said, "By the way, where is the little brat?" But he quickly waved his hand. "Never mind, I don't want to know. Instead introduce me to this magnificent dagger and her young friend with the calm eyes. And then tell me why your cloths are wet and why you're carrying the weapons of a small army." Why has that strange-looking warrior not greeted me? he wondered. It's insulting. Is he fool enough to want a fight? If so, I'll give him one, by God. He shrugged mentally while watching Gravestone and Patra grin. The young dagger, he noticed, was starting to glare, and the stranger continued to be rudely passive. "Our young daughter is child no more," Gravestone announced. "She weapon-named herself Erendria three turns ago at her ceremony of adult becoming. But, alas, it's how you remembered it. She still has an evil disposition. As to the rest, it's a long story." Rasp strolled over to stand beside Erendria's mu-lynx and looked up at its rider. "It has been a long time since I've mate-hunted. You tempt me to start again, dagger." He felt the rage in his eyes diminish. He found that desire was one of the few things that could dampen rage. And this beautiful child brought back a lust that he had almost forgotten existed. He watched as Erendria bent down to where she was almost at eye-level with him. Her breasts hung tight against the halter, and he could see her stomach through the valley of the twin mounds.
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Copyright © 1992 L Clayton Bennett |