This is the last of the old chapters. After this, it's all new content and the odd scene I've salvaged from my old notes and plans. Readers, I am excite. Although you are all silent enough I am only, hm, ten percent convinced I'm not talking to myself right now. :p


PLAGUE
by Obsidian Blade

Jakinzaa's Bladesworn

Siira wasn't really sure why she'd come. Maybe jealousy, after contemplation had led eventually to the fact that Zetaahn was out enjoying a journey that would no doubt result in his promotion whilst any chance of her own had just suffered such a heavy blow, but while that made a logical explanation she couldn't actually feel it. She just felt tired and disappointed. It was habit to come here when she felt like that.

Already the rich forest air was soothing her, as was the huge animal skin she reclined on, sprawled on her belly with her scythes buried in the thick fur. With rock on one side and a matted canopy of vines shielding her from the sky she felt safe, and the elderly, husky voice of Jakinzaa warmed her somehow. The old kabutops had already heard out her woes concerning Tziir and, while she had laughed as Siira explained to her the conclusion that Tziir wasn't a proper hero as heroes were constants, she had been the picture of great-grandmotherly concern while the incident was being related. The raakin's hope of a proper solution had been dissolved fairly quickly, though: Jakinzaa's only comment was that Tziir would no doubt prove her right or wrong in time. She'd said something about the plague too, but Siira had already been too annoyed to listen.

Annoyance never lasted long here, though. Jakinzaa's scythes bore sacramental cuts, marks that showed her acceptance that she was beyond her prime and no longer of use for combat, and she tended to wave them through the air as she spoke, producing a soothing hum. Lengths of hollow wood hung from braids of seaweed threaded through slices in her cracked carapace, clacking together as she moved to rearrange a few dry leaves around her ancient claws. Closing her eyes, the younger kabutops began to drift in and out of sleep. When her mentor began to speak, she was too calm and subdued to stop her, even when she realised Jakinzaa was continuing the Bladesworn tale she'd heard half of last time. When she let herself, she realised she liked the idea of hearing more about the real Tziir, instead of the impostor she'd encountered earlier.

'They ran like the wind! Darting over roots, rocks and rubble; leaping across chasms; and slicing just about anything that got in their way, through the wilderness they raced, three deadly arrows, the Bladesworn, pride of the greatest tribe of Kabutops! Delfiir Shaaca took the lead, silver scythes slicing through vines and branches and DelfiirHaakmin was not far behind her, his green eyes, swifter and sharper than those of any other, darting about in search of danger. DjirnaarTziir followed a few paces behind and with his great shielded head lowered he looked dark and powerful and stern…'

'They'll be heading for the altar!' he shouted forward to Shaaca, the red light from the setting sun glinting off his mahogany armour and gilding his silver chest plates. 'The path there is narrow; if we can gain the ground overhead we can crush them from above!'

'But to get onto the cliff!' cried Haakmin, looking back to his friend. 'It's too high, too steep, we'll never scale it!'

A high pitched whine pierced the air, accompanied by Shaaca's wild laugh, 'Leave that to me, my friends, just wait and you'll see!'

Incredibly speedy as they were, the three reached their destination in a fraction of the time it would take the slow, hideous omastar. Here, so far from the path, the grass was punctuated by thick spars of grey rock lancing skyward and as these grew more frequent the further up the incline the three progressed, they soon took to leaping artfully from one to the next, leaving deep scars in the stone from their powerful claws.

'Hah! This is play, not war!' cried Haakmin, landing atop a towering protrusion and balancing precariously there, 'There is no effort in it!'

Tziir, ever focused and dedicated, called back to him, 'You think that only because you lack foresight – it is easy here and so there is no effort, but further up, there! There it will become a challenge, and you will think yourself fool for dancing so on the rocks!'

Shaaca halted nearby the mightyDjirnaar and said to him, 'You are too severe – we have little to fear that would be made worse by fleeting jest. Might you not quarrel?'

Haakmin leapt from the rock at this; he landed beside the obsidian creature, so close that their shoulders brushed and scythes hung in close parallel.

'I am sure there was no anger in the words, Shaaca,' he assured her, 'Tziir wants the work done fast and so it shall be done, before the omastar can fulfil their wicked design with the kabuto.'

The biggest of the three nodded at this, and his mind was clearly full of concern for the people they had left behind at the bay and the young stolen away by the monstrous shelled beasts. Both friends felt urged to console him, but they knew well that no words could soothe Tziir's mind, only action. And so they proceeded up the treacherous hill, Haakmin watching behind them for sign of the omastar, for now they were so high that he could see through the tops of the trees to the path the foe was undoubtedly following.

'And here it becomes impossible, or seems thus at first judgement,' said Tziir.

They had reached a sheer wall of slate, towering the height of four kabutops and seeming even higher where they were, standing at the base gazing upwards. The djirnaar turned to the stronger of his two delfiir, whose wings trembled at her back. Her eyes were bright and clear, body taut with anticipation.

'Your plan, Shaaca?' he inquired.

She spread her four wings as far as they would go, each gleaming silver.

'You help me to fly.'

'But wait… Aashnin Shaaca can't fly,' Siira interrupted, sitting up abruptly.

The elder's eyes crinkled genially. 'And she couldn't then, either, even though she was younger and smaller at the time. Both Tziir and Haakmin knew it, too, and said so, but what other option was there? Even Haakmin, wild spirit though he was, was as reserved as sensible Tziir at the thought of putting his precious Shaaca in danger and it took a great deal of convincing to make them give in, but she was persistent. Finally they moved back from the cliff and hefted her onto their shoulders, a shaky pyramid of kabutops, then charged…'

She waited until the last second and then leapt from their shoulders with all the force she could muster, powering her wings as hard as possible. And for a second it was like she flew; the two males, staggering to a halt, looked up and were immediately awed at the sleek black shape soaring overhead so effortlessly. But it was not effortless, not at all: Shaaca struggled to maintain lift, she was in pain to the point of nausea and the urge to cry out was building. Yet the cliff face loomed close, and reaching out her blades she touched the surface just before her wings gave way.

'Shaaca!'

The cry from below was unanimous – both Haakmin and Tziir lurched forward as though they could somehow help her from the ground, but she was far out of reach, struggling on the edge of the cliff, her talons digging into the rock in search of traction but instead simply kicking out fragments of stone. Her scythes were buried deep at the top but she could not pull herself up; her arms lacked the strength.

'Will she die?' asked Haakmin, his voice quiet and trembling abnormally, 'If she falls?'

'No,' growled Tziir, shouldering past him and reaching up with his scythes, hunting for a soft spot that he might cut into and use to help him climb, 'Because we won't let her fall.'

'Climbing is impossible!' cried the other, glancing up to Shaaca, still fighting for grip, 'If her talons won't dig in, why should yours?'

'Because I am not panicking,' came the forced, steady reply of the wise elite.

Finding a place to dig in his blades, the djirnaar began to climb. Like Shaaca, he could not support himself with scythes alone, but he sought carefully for footing and managed to dig in the talons on his feet. Bewildered, Haakmin watched his friend begin to ascend. Progress was slow, but he was rising and Haakmin strove to do the same. His scythes were not sharp enough, however, and his claws not as hard and strong as those of the two born warriors, and he could not even get both feet off the ground.

So he stood and watched, the most adventurous rendered spectator.

'Hold on!' he cried to Shaaca but his voice was drowned out by the metallic shriek of her wings finally finding the strength to flap once again.

Feeling that little bit of lift as her wings beat the air, the warrior hauled herself upwards and with a triumphant hiss stumbled up onto the top of the cliff. Tziir and Haakmin's joy was short lived, however, for her victory against gravity turned into nothing but a stalling manoeuvre: her scythes had dug so deep that they had hewn a great crack inside the cliff, and as she stood tall her weight pushed too hard, and the face of the cliff shuddered and began to fall. Shaaca leapt forward from her precarious place, the ground where she had stood collapsing and tumbling away behind her, but Tziir could not move so swiftly for his scythes and talons were pushed into the stone. He barely had time to utter a cry before the rubble hurled him down, crashing against the ground below. For a split second his gaze met Haakmin's, the delfiir staring in frozen disbelief, and then the debris covered him completely, crushing him into the earth.

Shaaca was quick to bound down, for the fallen rock had made a slope from the top to the bottom, and she landed beside Haakmin, the two of them calling in vain to their friend and attempting to push away the rocks. They could not lift a thing, however, for the stone was heavy and their scythes curved alarmingly when they tried to lever rubble aside. Keening in horror and disbelief, the two huddled together in mourning over the death of the djirnaar.

'We must keep moving,' said Haakmin at length, the traits of a hero enshrouding him as he released Shaaca from his grasp, 'He would only chide us for not being focused, would he not?'

Shaaca nodded her head, though grief and regret gripped her heart harder than it could that of the hero, for she knew Tziir better than anyone and it had been her plan that had killed him. The two remaining Bladesworn paused now only to make a cut through Haakmin's sandy armour and drip an offering of blood onto where they thought the body was, then they advanced up the pile of rocks and gained the top, where they again began to run.

'They just left him…?' Siira asked, horrified, 'But he was still alive!'

Jakinzaa laughed, the withered skin visible through the joints in her armour cracking and shaking weirdly. Siira tried not to look at it. Such blatant signs of age unnerved her.

'Unlike you, who have seen thekabtaar striding about quite alive,' the elder explained when she had calmed enough to speak, 'The duo had no way of knowing that their friend Tziir lived on. If your friend Zetaahn was crushed and covered would you think he was not dead?'

Siira raised her head, sky blue eyes narrowing, 'I would have at least searched more than they did. Tziir was worth a lot more than both of them, and he was Shaaca's best friend too!'

The older Kabutops was already crossing and uncrossing her scythes, disagreeing. 'Sweeping statements, Raakin! Did Shaaca not go on to prove herself to be stronger than our grand kabtaar and become Aashnin? Was Haakmin not the one she chose as mate? And do you think Tziir himself would have approved of the two abandoning their mission to try and dig him from the rubble, when he could very well have been but a corpse?'

'I- Well…' Siira trailed off, struggling to riposte.

Jakinzaa waved a scythe, the air sighing softly through the tribal incisions, 'Don't worry about it, don't worry about it. The rest of the story will tell you, won't it, eh?' Seeing the younger female's expression clear at this thought, she continued, 'Soon, of course, they reached the chasm in the rock and down far below inside that there was the long, narrow path that led to the omastar's brutal, evil altar. The catastrophe had slowed them a lot because they looked and saw that the procession was approaching already, and the prisoners could be made out easily amongst the white barbarous shells of their captors…'

'There's the kabuto, and the two shiraari and the kabtaar!' whispered Haakmin to Shaaca, both hunkered down at the lip of the crevasse, 'If we attack from above we can deal with the ones holding them easily, and then they can help us to fight too!'

When Shaaca spoke her voice was quiet not just because she did not want to be heard but because the death of Tziir was almost too much for her. She drew back from the edge and said, 'We should have more of a plan than that. There are many of them. They managed to overpower the other two djirnoi and a fewdelfiiri, as well as the kabu captured down there. We need a plan or we will fail.'

Haakmin shook his head at this; he saw clearly that the death was affecting her and so set about bringing to the front her battlelust. He called upon her obligations to the tribe, to him and to Tziir, and with the spirit of the hero behind them the words overcame the female's inhibitions and swayed her to attack with him. Yet it had taken time, and to their horror they found their targets had almost reached the end of the thin chasm and would soon be out in the wider area before the altar, where they could manoeuvre more easily and bring their numbers to bear!

Jumping to stop this from happening, Shaaca and Haakmin raced along the lip of the chasm and then leapt as one: Shaaca striking hard at the two omastar dragging the unconscious kabtaar while Haakmin attacked those hustling along the young kabuto. They cut down their targets easily and went for more, dealing terrible damage to the bewildered enemy before one underhandedly grasped a healer in his tentacles and threatened to kill him if they did not halt their vicious attack. While the kabuto had already hidden amongst the rocks and were temporarily safe, Haakmin and Shaaca were beaten horribly, frozen for the sake of the hostage shiraar, and blood seeped from the gaps in their armour and dribbled from their mouths while the monstrous omastar roared their approval of this brutality.

Finally, glutted on violence and seeking a final atrocity, the omastar forced the two together and the largest wrapped his tentacles around their necks and arms to hold them in place while another, the leader with his long spikes and wicked black eyes, aimed the deadly spines at them. One shot through them both, he declared, because there was no need to waste. Shaaca and Haakmin squirmed and fought, but they were weakened and it was all too much. The leader took aim and they prepared themselves for death.

But it did not come, because the leader took too long lining up that one attack, and with a resounding crack his shell was split into two by a heavy impact from above and the sharp, skilful blade of a kabutops tore through his soft, weak face, killing him instantly. A cry went up from the captured kabu: it was Tziir, alive and balanced on the back of his kill, wrenching his blade free from the flesh and casting his intelligent gaze about.

Although injured, Tziir was still swift: he leapt from the dead body and quickly struck down the omastar holding captive the poor healer, then dealt the same blow to the barbarous monster that held still Shaaca and Haakmin. Whirling again whilst the two freed themselves from their bonds he cut down three more, then as quickly as he had arrived he collapsed, right in front of the four remaining omastar of the force. Lying face down revealed the horrendous damage to his back; the rocks had crushed his narrow fins and his tail was bloodied and limp. Haakmin and Shaaca were still bound at the neck with the dead creature's tentacles – they attempted to move forward to protect their friend but their movements were not together and they fell. Unlike their leader, the four remaining warriors wasted no time in firing a barrage of deadly spikes at Tziir. They flew straight and true.

Right into Kabtaar Zaahira.

'The kabtaar stumbled and fell, her chest full of spines, just as Tziir found the strength to regain his feet and, joined by Shaaca and Haakmin, now freed fully from their bonds, cut down the enemy. Thus all the omastar were dead, but there was no joy amongst the kabu, as they gathered around the dying kabtaar, the Bladesworn kneeling closest. Haakmin supported her carefully as one of the healers looked over the wounds, but the spines were buried too deep, having hit at such short range, and the blood ran thick and black from the joints in Zaahira's chest armour.

'Horrified, Tziir asked why the kabtaar had sacrificed herself thus, and the leader coughed a little as she declared that it was to ascertain the tribe retained its most beneficial member, he who cared most for his fellows and possessed the great skill and strength that allowed him to protect them. She said she valued the Bladesworn as a unit above herself also, and would forever regret it had she allowed one of them to perish, cutting short their time as a team. And as she spluttered out the end of her life, Kabtaar Zaahira foresaw with a glint of utter faith in her darkening gaze that the alliance of equals would indeed bring an end to the bloody war between the oma and the kabu.'

Jakinzaa sighed, lowering her head. 'And we did believe her.'

Silence expanded between them, heavy in the air, and Siira squirmed uncomfortably under its weight. She was desperate to hear the end of the tale - the uplifting, happy conclusion that invariably drew to a close even the most melancholy of Bladesworn legends – but Jakinzaa made no sign of continuing.

'Jakinzaa…?' she inquired at length, raising up onto her elbows.

The old kabutops stirred, blinking slowly before shaking her head to clear it.

'I'm sorry,' she told Siira, 'But the ending of that story is more real to me than any tale of exaggerated heroism. You, my dear, must keep in mind that Tziir is not just a legend or a hero but a living kabutops, and in time you will realise he is all the better for it.'

'That's the end?' the raakin exclaimed in disbelief, 'But that's a boring end, what about when they got back and celebrated victory and things?'

'What victory was there to celebrate?'

Siira missed the unusually sharp edge to Jakinzaa's reply, too disappointed with what the elder had previously declared to be the most important of all Bladesworn tales.

'They defeated the omastar and saved the prisoners,' she insisted stubbornly, 'That kabtaar was only one casualty.'

Jakinzaa was on her feet faster than Siira had ever thought ancient ligaments could lift her, and as she stumbled back in shock at the sharp movement she became aware that the elder loomed. Usually so calm, slow and magnanimous, Jakinzaa had never registered in Siira's mind as anything but a peaceful storyteller, but now fear pricked at the young female's nerves.

'Have you listened at all, Raakin?' Jakinzaa rumbled, towering tall as the kabtaar and suddenly just as commanding a presence. 'KabtaarZaahira was a real Kabutops, not just an element to a fanciful story. Would you be so dismissive of a death if it was Zetaahn's? If it was mine?'

Siira shook her head frantically, cowering lower.

'No, Tmiirin,' she bleated, 'I just. I just wanted a nice ending. I'm sorry. I'm very sorry.'

Although still grim, Jakinzaa's expression lost some of its thunder as she stared down at the petrified raakin. She let out a long, steadying breath.

'No, I'm sorry,' she said. 'In times like these, what are stories for, if not to take us to happier places?'

Siira peered up at her cautiously. 'To make me think before I open my big mouth...?'

She was rewarded with a short chuckle from the elder.

'Yes, yes, there is that,' she said, glancing over Siira and down towards the beach as she spoke. 'I think perhaps it's time you depart, my dear... But truly. Don't be so quick to condemn anyone in these difficult times. You may find we are all quite good company when we're not fearing for our lives, hm?'

The younger kabutops nodded quickly, still somewhat on edge after the swift change in Jakinzaa's demeanour, and darted to her feet. Her goodbyes to the last remaining elder of the tribe were delivered automatically whilst her mind tussled with a plethora of new notions, most prevalent of which she found raising her spirits ever so slightly. If Jakinzaa of all people could suddenly become so menacing because of something foolish she had said, maybe Tziir had just suffered a bad moment out on the dunes. That would mean he could still be the intelligent, passionate and reserved creature of the legends, just with the ability to get particularly angry tagged on because he was a real kabutops.

A spring forming in her step, Siira made towards the exit. Jakinzaa really did know how to cheer her up, she thought, even if she had to scare her to do it. She never should have doubted the old kabu. Head raised and shoulders back, the revitalised raakin strode airily from beneath the overhanging bracken and around the boulder protecting Jakinzaa from the wind. Straight into the kabtaar himself.

Warrior reflexes stopped both sharply, though not fast enough to avoid the blunt front edges of their scythes clacking together. So close as to be able to see the flesh around his eyes, Siira had no time to panic: Tziir took one sharp step back and tilted his head to her.

'Raakin,' he said respectfully, his deep voice rumbling.

'Kabtaar,' she blurted back.

For a few seconds she stood dumbly, not quite sure what to say or how to excuse herself, while the kabtaar peered at her expectantly. Finally, he raised a blade in the direction she had come from, and she realised she had frozen right in Jakinzaa's doorway.

'Might I be allowed to pass?' Tziir enquired.

'Oh, certainly, I mean, I'm sorry, I didn't realise I was in the way so, so I'll move right now,' she babbled, forgetting to actually stand aside until he gave her a more pointed look.

Showing the sharp edges of his blades in thanks, he went to step inside, only for Siira's mouth to get the better of her again.

'Does she, uh, tell you stories too? Kabtaar?'

He gave her a sideways glance, frowning slightly, and a plethora of reasons not to talk with the kabtaar surged into her mind. She was just a lowly raakin, for one, so it was unseemly; there was their disagreement earlier that day; he obviously wanted to be on his way; they weren't friends; he was decades her elder; her question was stupid and, when she thought about it, insinuated he was big headed because, well, listening to the Bladesworn legends would essentially be him listening to stories all about himself; and, more pressingly than all those other things, she was highly likely to babble again.

'Yes, Raakin, some time ago she did. Not the same tales you hear, undoubtedly, but similar in spirit, I suspect,' he said, frown deepening as he continued, 'This visit is for far less pleasant reasons, however. You should be on your way.'

The shock of receiving such a reply actually brought her mind back from the gibbering stage. Bringing her heels together sharply, Siira gave a swift salute.

'Yes sir,' she said clearly, then turned and strode down the beach with a warrior's gait.

It was only when she was sure that Tziir could no longer see her that she gave the air a victory slice, laughing. An encounter with the kabtaar that didn't involve shouting or humiliation. She was on her way up.