Chapter 24: Scattering Sparks
The next morning, Chris stood opposite Bazba in the circle of the sharikee. The village green had been cleared, and a circle ten yards across had been measured out in the flattened grass. Chisha's houses were packed to the bursting point with Grasslander refugees, and a tent city had sprung up around it to house thousands more. The crowd squeezed tight around the circle, forming an oppressive ring, ten or more people deep in every direction. The elderly leaned on their families. Small children were hoisted onto shoulders to watch from above. Even the roofs were crammed with youths who had climbed from building to building to get the best vantage point. Only those too wounded to be carried out of their sick beds by their comrades had not turned up to watch the Silver Maiden fight.
Chris glanced at the crowds, feeling the comforting weight of Hugo's sword at her side. She had read stories about shipwrecked sailors bobbing on a piece of timber, watching the fins of great sharks circle around. She imagined this is what they must have felt like.
Bazba leaned into the circle's center, holding his heavy glaive back as if by a tremendous force of will. The warrior's chest heaved with each overwrought breath. His nostrils flared, and his eyes bulged as they tracked her slightest motion.
Chris felt his hate – it was almost a physical thing, so real that she thought she might reach out and touch it. Hugo had told the whole story in hurried bursts, begging the lizard clan warrior to reconsider the duel. Others had weighed in, attempting to prevent the disaster about to unfold. But, Bazba refused to budge. A 'nefarious fantasy'. That's what he had called the story of the Chimera's illusory magic. The warrior's stubbornness frustrated Chris, but she could understand it. He had been struck down where he stood in defense of his chief, then forced to watch helplessly as his assailant stepped over him and murdered Chief Zepon. That moment of utter pain and humiliation had imprinted itself upon his mind so thoroughly that he could not take in the truth in all of its absurdity. His pride had been wounded too deeply.
Chris offered a silent curse. She desperately needed the truce. She took in the faces around her, each one meeting her eyes with such cold contempt. To kill one of the most honored of the saraak clan's warriors would likely shred beyond repair the fragile dream that was the truce. She had to win, but without severely harming Bazba.
Chris's eyes passed over a face in the crowd, then halted. Chris felt a sudden chill. The woman, a matronly sort with dark brown hair and a stocky build, stared at her with such intensity, Chris felt as if needles were burrowing into her skull. The woman's thick arms hung slack at her sides, but her eyes were filled with nothing but the cold of the grave. Chris had never seen this woman before, and yet she knew immediately who she was. She forced herself to break eye contact. There would be time for that later, if she survived the duel.
The crowd's murmurs died down as Chief Lucia strode into the circle. She threw her arms to the sky. "People of the Clans! These two warriors," she motioned to Chris and Bazba, "demand justice. The spirits will judge them, and through them, declare the truth." Lucia turned a full circle, meeting the eyes of those assembled in the green, her face grim. Finally, she turned to nod at Chris and Bazba, and exclaimed. "Let the sharikee commence!"
Lucia had barely stepped back when Bazba moved. The warrior howled his challenge and thundered forward, spear raised. His thrust took Chris by surprise. She shifted sideways so fast she nearly lost her balance. She spun and danced out of reach of the spear, almost to the edge of the circle. Hands stole out to shove her back in, and she stepped forward before they could reach her. She had to keep to the middle.
Bazba circled for a moment, expelling a scornful breath. Then he set his tail and charged. Anticipating the thrust, Chris dodged. But the attack turned out to be a feint. Bazba grinned, and swung his spear around to catch her in mid-motion. Chris desperately threw her sword up. Sparks struck near the hilt as the weapons clanged, and the force of the blow numbed Chris's hands. Too many blows like that, and she worried the blade might snap.
Bazba pushed his advantage, shifting his grip back and forth in his hands to jab and stab alternately at her sides. Chris was driven first back, then in a circle, weaving drunkenly and making sweeping last second parries to stay in the fight. She stayed on the defensive, slowly getting a feel for the size of the circle of sharikee.
As Chris sidestepped another thrust, she saw her chance. Bazba had overextended, and his left side was now open. Chris stepped in to deliver her attack. She realized her mistake in an instant – the move had brought her too close to the circle's edge. Rough hands reached out and shoved her inside. Chris stumbled into Bazba, who reared up to his full length and, in one fluid motion, he struck her across the face with his free hand.
Chris's vision swam. The crowd cheered, the sound drowning out even Bazba's mirthless laughter. The Saraak spared not a moment. His spear swung around and came flashing towards her head. Chris shook off the disorientation and ducked to her right, feeling the flow of air rush over her as the spear struck out. The crowd gasped and reeled back away from the lizard's brandished weapon.
Bazba must have grown confident then, for as he turned to face her again, he sauntered towards her at a measured pace, hefting his spear near-upright. "I've waited for this moment," he growled. "Since that day, I've dedicated myself fully to this inevitable confrontation. I've trained, day and night, for a chance to prove my righteousness here."
Chris clenched her teeth. She didn't dare speak for fear of losing focus or expending her precious breath. Sweat ran down her forehead and got into her eyes. Her legs burned with the exertion of the footwork – the only thing that had saved her from having a hole punched through her skull by the Saraak's spear. The warrior's movements were swift as a serpent and precise as a cobra's strike. Chris began to despair that she could not match his speed.
Seeing that she would offer no reply, Bazba's jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed in anger and determination. He leveled his spear and lunged, only to deftly push the spear around in a wide fanning blow with the haft. Chris, expecting a jab, stepped right into the attack, and the blow sent her flying to the side, rolling to a stop at the edge of the circle with the breath forced from her lungs and a numb feeling in her side. Feet kicked at her from the crowd, nudging her back into the circle.
Bazba leaped in with a triumphant howl. He stabbed his great spear down from above like a soldier's burying a flagstaff at a campsite. Chris rolled into the circle just as the spear bit into the grass. She pushed onto her knees and then stumbled back on her feet as Bazba pulled the spear from the ground. Chris turned, feeling clumsy and ungainly. Bazba swung again, and Chris threw her sword up just in time to deflect the spear's bite. The spear's impact on her blade made her hands tremble, but the Highland sword held.
Chris backed off as far as she dared, and Bazba followed, weaving left and right, tail thrashing, forcing her to stagger back towards the crowd at the edge of the ring.
"I have you, She-Devil! You've grown weak with pride and complacency since last we crossed blades."
Sweat dripped and stung Chris's eyes, but she dared not wipe her brow. A moment's lack of concentration could end their fight prematurely. Stepping gingerly right, then left, Chris felt out for a weakness in the clansman's guard. Just then, she happened to see a familiar face in the crowd behind the warrior.
Hugo stood as if transfixed, arms stretched out at his side, stiff as a dead body. His eyes were wide and completely focused on her. In those eyes, Chris saw fear, concern. The sight of that one pair of eyes filled with compassion in the crowd encircling her, a tiny gap in the wall of hate, bolstered Chris. She felt rejuvenated suddenly.
Without warning, she dashed at Bazba. She slashed out from her belly at the lizard clansman's guard and drew a hurried two-handed parry. She pushed the attack, darting her blade to the side of the guarding spear, aiming biting stabs at Bazba's chest. The warrior stomped back step by step, spear weaving a wall of steel to ward off each attack to the tune of clanging steel.
Chris lulled him into a subtle pattern of alternating strikes, then broke the pattern and slashed high, at the lizard's throat. Bazba leaned back, raising his spear in desperation and catching the tip of her blade before it tore into his throat. Chris's sword rebounded with force, and Bazba hurled himself at her.
Chris had to throw herself aside and nearly fell escaping the tomb-like grapple of the lizardman. Jeers from the crowd touched against her absent mind but did not register. Chris breathed raggedly, clutching the hilt of her blade and bent down to deliver an overhead slash.
The blade bit into the haft of the spear as Bazba rose halfway to his feet. The warrior growled and shoved back, forcing Chris to relax the grip on her blade or tumble backwards. She backed off, avoiding a wild circular swing of Bazba's spear and allowing the clansman to regain his feet.
Chris felt Hugo's eyes on her. As she watched the hateful lizard warrior rise and charge her, she felt a deep calm overcome her. A few times in her life—always on the battlefield—she had felt the same sensation. Movement seemed to slow, and she grew acutely aware of each deep breath coursing through her lungs.
Chris advanced to meet the charge. She moved as though submerged in water, parrying a spear thrust aimed at her shoulder. She walked forward, and with each step, she tilted her sword by inches, parrying blow after blow. Bazba stabbed at her chest—she deflected the strike. Bazba swung wildly—she ducked below the attack. Then she stepped forward and drove her sword into the warrior's torso.
The slender blade pierced the saraak's tough hide at the joint between scales, drove deep and drew blood. The crowd gasped, and then went silent. Bazba howled his pain and fury. Chris yanked her sword free and whirled around, outranging a nasty clubbing of the spear's haft. Chris flicked her sword out, blood spattering onto the grass from the razor's edge. She met the saraak's eyes and tilted her head in challenge.
Blood pooled from Bazba's ruptured torso, but he ignored the wound. He came rushing at her again. This time, he spun just out of range of her sword, hiding the direction of his thrust. When he completed his circle, Bazba's spear flashed at her midsection. It came low, and from the left.
Chris stepped forward, and let the spear skewer the air behind her. Too late, she saw her mistake. Bazba had driven the spear with one hand. He now swung his free arm around, claws raking at Chris's face. She threw up her sword in defense, seeing the motions as though they were two ships meeting in Vinay's harbor, one mooring, one weighing anchor. She saw her blade greet the saraak's arm, scoring his leathery forearm and slicing open a deep gash that sprayed blood.
Bazba collapsed and doubled over, howling and pressing his arm to his chest. Chris stepped back, thrust her bloodied sword blade right up at his throat, an inch from his jugular.
"Yield," she said.
As the fighting trance drained from her body, Chris felt a deep exhaustion. Her body ached with the rigors of the fight. She also became aware of an oppressive silence. All around her there reigned a deathly quiet. The jeers and cheers of the assembled Grasslanders had stilled. The only sound now came of Bazba's labored breathing and groaning at her feet.
"Kill me," Bazba spat.
"I did not come here to kill clansmen," Chris said. "You will be needed on the battlefield."
Lucia stepped into the circle then. It was only a single step, but it felt as if something sacred had been broken. "Sharikee ends only in death," the Karaya Chief said.
"Let me die with honor," Bazba growled.
Chris felt numb. The blade at Bazba's throat wavered, giving voice to her hesitation. She shook her head. "You are mad." She looked around, saw only hard faces watching her. They were waiting, she realized, for her to finish the fight. And no one would attempt to stop her! Madness.
"The duel is over. What purpose is there in throwing a life away?"
Dupa, the Saraak Chief, slid into the ring then, his spear at his side. The lizard's yellow eyes gleamed with an animal danger, fixing on her as if waiting for something.
"If you want your truce," Lucia said, "You will honor the saraaks. Honor the sharikee. Honor Bazba."
Chris felt sickened. "By taking his life?" she said.
"To deny the defeated in sharikee his warrior's death would be a great dishonor. What you ironheads see as mercy, the saraaks see only as contempt."
Chris stared down her bloodstained blade at the wounded warrior. Bazba stared back up at her, his chest again heaving, not with battle lust but with thinly veiled hate. Could she bring herself to kill the warrior in cold blood? She was prepared to die if it would seal the truce, but to take another person's life, when he had yielded at her feet? In her mind, Chris replayed the scenes of the slaughter at Karaya, her own hand in killing the boy. She saw Huarn astride his horse, sending his men to die in fiery madness and the cold embrace of the dead, for nothing. She saw Sir Galahad's cold and bruised body recovered from the battlefield, the life spilling from the captain's veins.
The crowd started to jeer, then. It began as scattered cries of annoyance, then swelled in number and grew in intensity until the whole of Chisha chanted one word: "Sharikee! Sharikee! Sharikee!"
Chris slowly turned to take in the faces around her. She saw eyes burning with hate. Fists waved in the air, lending strength to the recriminations of the clansmen. She saw without a doubt that what she had feared - that killing Bazba would ruin any chance of obtaining her truce - could not be further from the truth. Instead, to win her truce, to gain the respect of the clansmen, she must end the proud warrior's life.
Chris turned back to Bazba. The lizard clan warrior made no attempt to move. He knew he had been beaten, and he accepted the spirits' judgment. He was done. Bazba now waited only for the cold embrace of death to wash away the deep stain of his humiliation. Chris stared into the clansman's eyes and saw in the lurid yellow orbs scenes of massacre. This time, of Harmonian soldiers trampling the Grasslands fields, torching villages, trampling towns. She saw cheering Harmonian soldiers surge through the toppled gates of Vinay, spilling onto the cobbled streets to maim, to loot, to pillage. She raised her sword, pointed the blade at Bazba's throat. The lizard looked up, expectantly. One life, against so many. One death. By taking his life, she would save thousands, she told herself. She raised her sword.
Turning in one swift motion, Chris flung the sword down. The blade plunged into the soft earth and buried itself there, swaying like a blade of grass. Absolute silence held for a moment. With her back turned to Bazba, Chris faced Lucia and said. "Enough blood has been spilled between our people. If you think me weak for sparing his life, if you think me without honor, then so be it." No more would she compromise her convictions.
An anguished howl tore through the silence. Chris turned to see Bazba leap to his feet, slavering madly and gripping his spear. There were no words to his tormented screams. He raced towards Chris, hobbling, spear raised to tear a bloody gash out of his hated foe.
Dupa suddenly loomed behind Bazba, his feathery headdress framing the dark-skinned warrior's scales. Bazba gasped, then went silent. Chris looked down to see the bloody tip of a spear sprout from the warrior's torso.
Dupa withdrew his spear and gently settled Bazba's limp form onto the grass. The Saraak chief settled the butt of his spear onto the stamped earth and glanced at Chris, as if too contemptuous to fully see her.
"Silver Maiden, if you are too much of a coward to grant us our honor, then I am forced to do so."
Chris trembled with shock and rage. And yet, looking up into the raised visage of Dupa, she saw that the chief's action had been one of mercy, of courage, and of sacrifice. In that moment, she knew for a certainty that she had forever lost the saraaks' support.
A few hours after the sharikee, the Grasslands sun had risen to its zenith, baking Chisha and its surrounding farmlands in sweltering heat. Chris walked aimlessly among the village's clay houses, working off a pent-up nervous energy. She had been permitted to roam Chisha while she waited for Council of Elders to discuss her fate in their shaded tent. Though no guard had been assigned to watch over her, she could feel hidden eyes watching her every move from between buildings every now and then. She felt stifled, her clothes scuffed and dirty, the skin beneath slick with cooling sweat. She badly needed a bath and a change of clothes, but that would have to wait for the time being.
Chris was halfway through her fifteenth lap around the village, just past the great granary but not yet past the hillock behind the crumbling windmill, when she saw her. The woman stood dead ahead, right in her path. She was still and silent, as if suddenly dazed. A wide, shallow basket hung at her hip, momentarily forgotten. Chris recognized her instantly. It was the woman who had stared at Chris with such cold hate during the sharikee.
Chris's mouth dried to ashes. Their eyes met, and Chris felt her cheeks burn as if stung. She thought she caught the slightest clenching of the woman's jaw. Then the moment was over, and the Karayan woman stepped around Chris and hurried on, basket and its contents bobbing at her hip.
Chris pressed her hands to her cheeks, expelling a deep and ragged breath. She squeezed her eyes shut. She knew who the woman had to be. Lulu's mother. Hugo had told her about his friend, and he had told her his mother's name. Luce.
Heart pounding, sweat beading on her forehead even as she stood in the shade of the windmill, Chris let long minutes pass in hesitation. Then she made her decision. She was ready.
Moments later, Chris ducked into a low and dimly lit tent, bowing low to dodge a sagging tent pole before straightening to let her eyes adjust. Luce sat on a stool at the center of the tent, legs spread and bent forward over a pottery wheel. The basket lay at her side, and its cargo of soft clay now resided on the wheel, where the Karayan woman was shaping the ball of clay with her hands.
Luce did not look up as Chris entered.
"I am sure you already know who I am," Chris said. She fought to find the words to fill the silence, the void between the two women. She stood awkwardly, hands fidgeting at her waist and thigh, then she decided to sit down, legs folded beneath her.
"I did not come to ask forgiveness," she said. Her voice sounded rushed to her own ears, as if straining to contain the words. "I know you could never forgive me, and I do not deserve forgiveness. For what I did can never be undone."
Luce made no reply. The Karayan woman sat engrossed in her work, still giving no hint that she had even seen Chris. Her leg bobbed rhythmically as she worked the kick wheel, the wheel's moving wooden rods producing a faint clack with each motion. Her clay-dirtied hands slid around the ball's emerging curves, guiding its shape into a pot.
"But I want you to know, I will always bear the guilt of what happened that day. That careless act of instinct… It has haunted my dreams ever since. I will always regret it."
Chris fell silent, staring at the faintly wobbling form taking shape on the spinning pottery wheel. The pot's sides rose with Luce's careful caress, swelling at the center and tapering towards the top. Luce remained silent, leaning down to pour water on the hardening clay every now and then, and for a long time Chris dared not break the silence between them. It comforted her, somehow. This silence was part of her judgment. She had to bear it.
Chris watched the pot gain its intended form, each kink and flaw smoothed out by Luce's expert touch. The minutes stretched out as she watched, entranced. No more hiding, no more running away. She was prepared.
Slowly, Chris stretched to her full length. "The attack on Karaya should never have taken place. The lives lost at Karaya are my responsibility as Captain of the Knights. Many mothers lost their sons and daughters that day, but only your son died at my hand. That is why I come to you, to make things right."
"Powerful forces seek to tear Zexen and the clans apart, and I seek to prevent that. More than anything, I want to prevent another tragedy like Karaya. With all my heart, I want the truce. I want more than the truce. I want true peace between our peoples. I want to make sure that what happened to your son will never again come to pass."
A high-rimmed pot spun on the pottery wheel, its contours smoothing into perfection by gentle pokes of Luce's fingers. Chris stared at the pot and saw such beauty in the emergent pottery. To create something, not to destroy. That was what she fought to protect. And if necessary, she would give her life for it.
"I tell you this," Chris said, "not to excuse my actions, nor to persuade you to forgive me. I tell you this so that you will understand that if I live, I will do all in my power to seek redemption."
Chris now knelt before Luce. "I place my life in your hands, Lady Luce. If you so choose, you may take it in retribution for the massacre at Karaya. Perhaps that will in some way open the path to forgiveness between our peoples. If on the other hand you give me my life, I will devote it to forging a lasting peace between our peoples."
There was a sudden motion of Luce's fingers. An uncontrolled jerk, and her hand jabbed through the top of the pot, unraveling the rim. The spinning clay vessel collapsed, tearing down the side and pelting Chris and Luce both with fragments of wet clay. Of the pot, all that remained wistfully spinning was a twisted base, like the ruined foundation of some ancient castle overgrown with tall grass.
Luce's eyes mournfully tracked the ruined pot. Then her eyes lifted to meet Chris's. Chris saw that they glistened with tears. Luce shook her head slowly, looking weary as if anger had drained from her features leaving only exhaustion. "Tell me…" she sobbed. "Tell me how my son died."
Slowly, Chris began to tell the story.
The light of hundreds of camp fires pushed back the night as Nash sauntered cat-like through the Harmonian camp. He followed a boulevard of stamped earth between neat rows of tents. Soldiers with spears guarded the torch-lit path, but no one challenge him as he passed. Most tried their best to salute without ever seeing him. Even the lowliest Harmonian lackey recognized the brass badge pinned to Nash's collar, marking him an agent of the Bishop. Few wished to draw the attention of the Bishop's spies.
Nash passed by crowded campfires where the first-class recruits diced away silver coins amid laughter and loose tongues, all set to the dulcet tones of a camp follower's mandolin, strumming the battle anthems of Crystal Valley.
The highborn faces basked in the ruddy firelight, showing wide grins and hopeful smiles. The shadows thrown behind them seemed to stretch farther, creeping across lanes and dancing against canvas tents all around. An image of vultures picking apart a carcass came to Nash's mind. The first-class citizens had much to gain from the conquest of the Grasslands, and they would take their fill of gold, silks, and slaves once Vinay fell.
Further down the lane, Nash came across the campfires of the second-class soldiers. Glum faces seemed to huddle before the fire, as if frozen by the pleasant Grasslands night and seeking comfort in the crackling flame. Soldiers spread out in sparse pockets, arranging themselves by nationality. Here a trio of cowed Tolokai lads played with grimy cards, shoulders packed densely together to block out the eyes of outsiders. There half a dozen Kanelonian crossbowmen stretched out on a pair of filthy blankets, bored and casting suspicious glances at those around them. Each subgroup kept to themselves. The words exchanged were muffled and guarded. The soldiers' officers needed little encouragement to belt out severe punishments for imagined infractions, and the soldiers themselves had learned to trust only in their own kinsmen.
Altogether, the second-class soldiers showed an unflattering picture of the Harmonian military. These men fought for advancement, dreaming of one day distinguishing themselves to earn the right to become first-class citizens.
Now Nash rounded a large tent and found himself touring the third-class quarters. Overflowing little tents crowded the low-lying land, the first to flood should the rains come. Here, the conquered wretches of Sanadia, Harmonia's latest prize, rubbed elbows around the scattered campfires. If the second-class citizens guarded their tongues, the third-class citizens kept silent as the grave. Others might dream of advancement, but the Sanadians dreamed only of liberating their people from the bondage of those who had foolishly chosen to resist Harmonia. The bowed heads and hunched shoulders that bent over their meager suppers told Nash more than words could say. The only sound was the clatter of wooden spoons in rusty soup bowls. Back the way Nash had come, the uproarious laughter of the first-class soldiers spilled every now and then.
Nash climbed the hill upon which Sasarai's command tent stood. Enough torches surrounded the tent for Nash to make out the regal white and blue stripes of the canvas, and the tent's gold-tasseled pennons fluttered in the breeze.
Bishop Sasarai's personal guard, the 42nd Squad, encircled the pavilion. The Bishop had named them 'The Earth's Fist' after the unit single-handedly deflected an attempt on the Bishop's life three years ago. The soldiers' pride had swelled with the name, and the burly men guarding the tent stood at attention with such stern backs, their armor so polished, that Nash did not doubt they would lay down their lives for the Bishop at a moment's hesitation. Incidentally, the unit's commander, Sasarai's aide, Dios, hand-picked only second-class citizens among the elite soldiers. Hungry for glory and advancement, and drilled to machine-like perfection, the 42nd Squad would match and outfight even a demon from the World of Emptiness.
As if sensing his approach, Dios slipped out from the tent and beckoned for Nash to enter. "The Bishop is expecting you."
Nash slid into the command tent. An aide stood at the back of the pavilion, hand raised to fill the tent in the glow of a Dawn Rune. Nash had to squint to adjust his eyes to the sudden brightness. Bishop Sasarai stood gazing into a map stretched out over the tent's canvas wall.
Sasarai's back was straight yet relaxed, his hands clasped at the small of his back. The bishop's cassock adorning his body looked pressed and ironed moments before. The tactician, Albert Silverberg, in his long white coat, stood pointing at the map and explaining something to the bishop when Nash entered. Even at a brief glance, Nash recognized the terrain surrounding Chisha Village. Servants moved soundlessly about in the edges of the brightly lit tent, keeping tea, chilled wine, and fruits at ready should the bishop want for anything. The acrid scent of fresh-sliced oranges filled the tent.
Without turning, Sasarai spoke, "Welcome back, Nash."
Nash hurried to the tent's center and knelt in the artificial dawn light. "Most Exalted One-"
Sasarai waved his hand dismissively. "No formalities. Tell me what you have found."
Nash nodded and rose to his feet. He grinned. "Let's start with the True Fire Rune…"
Some time later, Nash stepped out of the tent and past its solemn guards. He breathed in the fresh night air, only partially mixed with torch smoke, and stood watching the distant outline of the woods, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.
Nash rubbed at his chin as he considered Sasarai's orders. Return to the Grasslanders. Watch them, and report back. The Grasslanders would respond to Harmonian threats with force – he knew that much. Figuring out just how they would respond was the trick.
Nash smiled as he started down the hill, his hands in his pockets. He had always liked a good puzzle.
Author's Notes: Please type a brief review below and tell me what you thought of the chapter! I'd love to hear from you.