Lion's Heart, page 11
part #1 of Chevenga Series
All my will and strength drained out like water down a hole. He was coming, his sword and hands bloody already, so much closer now, close enough to smell, still fresh like at the butchers'. I wanted only to throw up. There was no escape to the window; he had blocked it off. Nor to the door; more Lakans were that way. There was nothing I could do; presently this nut-brown man with great wiry arms would strike me down. The urge suddenly seized me to throw myself into his embrace, bury my head in his neck and let him do what he would; it was the child, I suppose, who had never met an adult who did not wish him well. The other guffawed again, behind me. Then, as he raised his blade, there was a pricking and a tightening all through me, and the world went still as a held breath, my thoughts freezing like flies in ice.
His stroke began. I remember being admonished, at its slowness. Instead of readying my parry I turned and cut the other Lakan, aiming between his leather-clad shoulder and the tip of his beard. Not expecting it, he did not move except his eyes' widening. From his neck-vein blood spurted, splashing a red crescent on the wall; a part of me absently marvelled, "So that is what it looks like." He made no sound; I had cut his windpipe. Now the sword behind was coming at my head from shield-side—the flat, for he had begun the stun-stroke, wanting his gold—so I ducked as I turned, just as I had done a thousand times with Azaila, felt it fly over whistling, and whipping from the turn, cut side-height, which my hands guessed would be his thigh-height. It went in to the bone; I felt the grinding in my hands, and remembering Esora-e's warning that an edge can get stuck, jerked it free fast. He kept his feet, but flatly, with a gape of surprise and then a teeth-clenched moan as the pain reached him. While his attention was on that I stabbed into the thigh-artery of his other leg; it was just where my teacher had said it was. But my wrist and fingers were too weak to make the correct finishing twist. In the Lakan style the sword had a long narrow guard with curving ends; I grasped them with both hands like levers, and did it that way.
He fell, shooting up blood, and lay staring amazed at me, trying to stanch the bleeding with his hand. I saw him consider calling to his comrades in the hearthroom, but they were making too much din themselves for him to think it worth the effort, which would have been very great for him then; such a wound drains ones strength fast. The blood kept pumping out; he yawned, then whispered something to me in Lakan, and lay still.
Silence rang. I heard panting—my own. Suddenly I was so tired I thought I would break. Esora-e had said one tires very fast in a real fight, especially the first. All-spirit, I thought, I've just been in a real fight. I'm blooded.
Once I had pretended to know what to expect: the singing wind guiding my limbs, or Esora-e's voice, calling "Strike!" as in training, when I ought to. I saw now I had known nothing, that indeed I never could have, until I had done it. The land of the training ground and the land of the fight are as different as two continents, and before he has been to the latter the student can never know, but only hope, that what he learned at home will work here. He will invariably find that it does, having been taught by those who have visited before him, and is free from doubt from then on. But until then, he must just trust.
My hands were slippery as if with oil; without thinking I wiped them and the sword-hilt off one by one on the skirt of my sleeping-tunic, then saw the color of the oil: scarlet. The iron taste in my mouth I knew from having bitten my lip in the past. There was more blood on the floor and walls and ceiling—the ceiling, how?—than I had believed could come out of two people.
Rigra lay staring at me wordlessly, the Lakan still lying across her, the bruises on her face coming up red under the spattering of his blood. I pushed him off her with my foot, the naked thighs limp and grey-brown now, and knelt beside her. I tried to say "Mama, are you all right?" but it came out a croaking like a frog's; my mouth and throat were dust-dry.
She had been preparing herself to die, or become a slave; now to know herself free as before she needed pause. She had seen her mother slain too; now I could see a long clothed bundle lying beside the bed: Binchera. Rigra drew in a long trembling breath, and squeezed my hand. "We must save ourselves before we grieve," she said, as much to herself as me. We linked arms to rise; then came the twinge of another straight Lakan blade, swinging toward the door.
Not trusting my voice I said nothing, let go her arm and crept back beside the door. All I knew was that I must not let him make any sound to warn the rest. The wall left me room only for a half-swing, but I steadied my arms, ready this time; I was experienced in this now, and so knew I could hit his throat as I could hit the throat of a practice-dummy.
His face appeared a little lower than I had expected, his thin black brows flying up at the sight before him, and I made the throat-stroke true, a little too fast so that the door-frame and not his spine stopped the blade, but good enough that when his mouth opened no sound came out. I grabbed his shoulder to pull his fall into the room where the others would not see.
"Listen for them for a moment, while I get clothes," my month-mother whispered. "Then we'll go." She opened Naina's trunk. I still wore my sleeping-tunic but hers had been torn, and one wants to be dressed after such. She threw on the first thing at hand: Naina's half-poncho, crocheted proudly in the colors of Krisae. Naina had done it herself, and wore it often. I remembered its warmth, which I had so many times put my arms around, then under. A thought cut through my giddiness.
I should have heard a scuffle, or her cries, as they served her like her mother, or a moan if she was just wounded. But I only heard men's laughter, and the sounds of things being broken. It was a mercy, I suppose, for Rigra.
Naina, I counted inwardly; Osilaha, Bukini and Binchera too. Half the faces that had shone around this hearth, sharing warmth and food, gone as in one stroke; half the hands, strong and graceful with skill learned over years, turned to nothing like leaves in fire. So much easier it is to destroy than create. Rigra a widow now; the two little ones, fatherless.
I thought of what they must go through now, the years they would suffer by this one night's work. I knew it too keenly. But my father's assassin had not been close, in the next room, while I held a sword in my hand, and the knowledge of what I could do with it.
Most would say, I think, that what I set out to do was not evil, given the circumstances. It was not even purely vengeance, but thought for the future too; the worst it cost the Lakans, the less likely they'd be to come back. Yet whether the cause is just or unjust, I think, the feeling is the same, dark and half-numb, always seeming just. I just wanted them dead, as if they were sheep to eat or child-killing bears, not men with homes and children; I wanted to see more of their blood spill, hear more pain in their voices. They had not paid enough, for what they had done.
Rigra was going, pausing only to spit on the dead face three times quick as a snake, and grind it into the floor with her foot. Instead of following, my legs took me to the corridor, winged. The story is that I charged pell-mell, but in truth I peeped first; I had not lost all sense. They might be looking, wondering after their three comrades or wanting a turn at Rigra; I did hear three words called that had the tone of names.
They milled about, ready to go, carrying two wounded: more brigands with crumbs of Rigra's bread in their black beards, laughing, clapping each other on the back for their brave victory, the leader carrying our money box tucked under his arm. When none were looking my way I ran out cougar-footed, gave my war cry when I was close, and struck.
The first I cut on the side of the neck; he fell like a stone into the arms of two others, who dropped him to seize their weapons, crying "Ahai!" The leader had been the first out the door, something I would never do; for now as those still within leapt to face me and those outside yelled back asking what was happening, I imagine, he must push his way through to see. Meanwhile one with a long beard and a red ribbon around his head said something that made the others stand back, gave his torch away, and set his gaze on me. I was in a duel.
He was whip-cord built and looked over thirty, which didn't endear him to me. I would have done better to turn away from him and attack others who were not ready; but his motion had taken me back to the sparring-ground, to measuring, to setting my mind to read his intentions. Close to his body he held a short spear, its blade red-ribboned like his oil-drenched hair, and wet with blood. "Very well," I remember thinking, "if you want me to come in, I will." And I did, like the stupidest of novices. Just as he'd planned, he turned my thrust on his spear-shaft and brought one long dark shin up quick as a wolfs bite between my legs.
I was lucky, for my smallness made the aiming harder, and it did not land where it would have hurt worst; still, I went blind to all things but his spear. Dimly I heard them all laughing, above; I was on the floor. A great weight pressed my ribs; his knee, pinning me. Wiry hard fingers closed on my shield-wrist; opening my eyes I saw him reaching for the other, and above him another Lakan bringing a coil of rope.
So I formed the steel fork with my fingers, and drove it with all my might into his eyes. Lakan bandits don't learn much unarmed fighting, so don't know to expect that sort of thing. He screamed, and threw his hands over his face, freeing my other wrist. The only weapon in reach was a dagger on his belt, so I snatched that, and jammed it into the inside of his leg.
I squirmed free as he staggered off spurting blood, grabbed the sword and dragged myself up, wiping it out of my eyes; warm at first, it always soon turns cold. I must have been a dreadful sight, dripping from head to foot. They all stood still, amazed. Checked, while I felt my exhaustion; it was the time for bravado.
"Who's next?" I said, flicking my eyes from one to another; my voice, to my joy, was there. "Come on, who'll face me? I've only got five of you; I want all." I'd forgotten: they could not understand Yeoli. But they got the gist of it from my tone and my stance, and the five spread fingers of my free hand.
All it would have taken was one to say, "All in at once!" Then I would have run like a rabbit, or they would have got me. But no one did; they all stood frozen, torn, their faces showing the truth of what they were: farmer's sons bearing swords, who had expected easy hunting. Probably I'd downed some of their better fighters: the first in, whom they couldn't know I'd got by surprise, then this last one.
Finally the leader came back in, the box still in his arm. He read the story from me, the corpses and the faces of his men, with old flat eyes unchanging; they had seen such many times before, I saw. He was still chewing something, like a cow her cud; only that moved his heavy face, even as I fight-stared him, while he thought. Then without raising his voice he gave the word and the sign to leave.
I know his thought now. Everything valuable they had, since I was likely too spirited to be worth anything as a slave. Of some fifteen, they had lost nearly half their number, for gain not worth these strong young hands, needed on pioneer farms; I might take one or two more with me. They must have felt shame to run from a boy, but, as I have said, honor did not concern them. And the warriors of Krisne would come soon. They filed out, the last stepping backwards in stance to keep an eye on me, and ran off, throwing a torch or two onto the roof.
I found myself in darkness faintly reddened with the coals of the broken hearth-fire, and quiet as their voices faded. The slowing beat of my heart filled my ears; there was breathing full of death-bubbling too, from near the door. As I tried to light a candle, the tinderbox trembled madly in my hands. It was over; fight-frenzy faded and I went sick and weak with fear.
I realized I was smelling a smell like that of an abattoir, but with vomit and excrement on top, and burning. The candle-flame lengthened and brightened, and I looked around me. All was chaos, cupboards open, chairs smashed, ashes from the hearth strewn across the floor. The bodies lay where they had fallen, each with its seeping blackness: four Lakans, and Bukini. He was alive, lying on the threshold. I took the candle to his side, and knelt, laying my hand on his shoulder. His shield-hand was tucked into his sword-armpit, and blood welled up around it; I knew from my lessons in medicine that his lung must have been pierced. Still I said, "They'll be here soon, Buk, with a healer," again thanking my luck that my voice was there. Likely he knew he was dying; but I did not know what else to say.
His hand gripped mine, weak as a baby's. "You mad boy," he mouthed. "We would have saved you. Even if you can fight; why risk? Ascendant… Why for all the spirits did you come back?" I answered, "I thought I should"; I wasn't about to say, "Your mother was being raped." The words exhausted him, and he had faded enough that it made him wander, though his eyes, green like Rigra's, were full of some concern he could not speak. Finally he whispered, "The others?"
I heard myself say, "Safe," my voice hoarse now. It was one-quarter a lie, but a good one, I think. Then I heard a step from behind; Rigra came, still in Naina's Krisaeni half-poncho, knelt beside him and lifted his head onto her arm. They whispered to each other, things I heard but will not write, it being their business, her hand pressed over his right ear. Once he looked at me, made a brave smile, and breathed, "I wish I could have seen you being demarch. Good luck." After a few more words the rattle ceased, and she drew her hand away, his hazel eyes went still, like glass, and he began to look like my father had. She rose, and went out the door, not even looking to see what the flicker on the roof was. The other two corpses must have been there; I heard her screams begin.
I got up, and was suddenly dizzy almost to fainting; staggering sideways I stepped on a Lakan and nearly fell. I shook my sodden head, and, as I had been taught to do in training, seized myself, slowing my breathing, setting in a straight stance, fighting off the rushing in my ears. Presently, it seemed to me, I should hear the command of Shari the third-rank Teacher and we should go on to another lesson, perhaps archery on the long green field, bright with star-flowers in the sun; then it would be finished and I should find a girl and go up Hetharin, or chase trout in the sparkling stream with the gang.
The whirring in my head I suddenly understood: it was the wings of Shininao, as he had his fill here. Two of these corpses I had put there, three more in the back room. I had been numb, but now it came back: dark eyes mad with pain and shock, dark lips biting for air, choking, brown limbs in death-spasm; the crunch of bone on my blade, running up through my own bone, the warm splashing on my face; the death-rattle, and weakening grip; the black joy that Esora-e had told me I would feel, that to myself I had sworn I would never feel, that I had felt.
My stomach heaved up to my throat, but I held it down; I had been taught that gore does not make a warrior vomit. The end of the Lakan sword that I held throat-height wavered; I tightened my grip, then loosened it, to no avail. All of me was trembling, worse now; not fading as it should, but increasing. The room began to spin and quake; I felt I would fall. But warriors stand steady. "I never want to kill anyone," I had once said. Now I thought, "I didn't even know what it was like then."
We live our first nine moons in a warm enwrapping cave, fed all we wish, sheltered by our innocence, embraced without end by our mother's flesh. Then, for all it hurts, for all it dooms us, we are thrust out naked into blinding winter, to face the world with only our hands and mind; to feel the pain, to dare the trials, to work for what we once had free; to open our eyes, and know.
Thus I felt now, again. I may be forgiven, I hope, for doing what a baby does. It has its comforts: the memory of the freedom of the crib, where one may yell and thrash unfettered by thought of danger or face; the sense that gentle arms will soon enwrap one and a tender breast press to one's lips; the pure pleasure of hurling emotion into the air and out of one's heart, like a singer, to begin its healing. I clenched my eyes shut, and so thrust the house and the blood and the wings of Shininao away; I threw back my head and poured out my soul into the night.
Thus, standing in fighting stance in a burning house, sword in hands, blood-covered from head to toe except where my tears carved out clear streaks on my cheeks, and bawling for my Mama, the warriors of Krisae found me.
I stayed the rest of the month on another farm just as close to the border, that the verdict of a heated Assembly debate and vote. The news was soon all over Yeola-e, and people were saying I would be a warrior as great as my father. The story grew wings of gossamer within a month; I had wept in remorse, I heard, for not killing them all. I avoided accolades, hating to hear joy while I was in mourning.
When I got home, Azaila called me into the inner chamber of the School of the Sword. We knelt facing each other; as always when I was alone with him I felt honored to the point of ill-ease, wondering what I could possibly have done to merit such notice. "Fourth Chevenga, tell me," he said. "From your new knowledge, what do the wristlets signify?"
As always with his questions, I had no easy answer. His pale old green-gold eyes were cool and silent as lakes, no clues to be found there. "Don't answer what you think I would approve," he said, as if reading my mind. "Answer what is in your heart."
I didn't answer what I wanted to: the wristlets signify those who didn't come from Krisae fast enough. The answers I thought he would approve came to mind, the repetitions of what he'd said himself, the quotes from Saint Mother. What, I thought, is in my heart? I'm in mourning. I said, "Those who have to use the sword, for the sake of those who can't."
"Yes," he said. "But is that all that's in your heart?" What is in my heart, I thought, not what should be. All-spirit, must I say that? Azaila never accepted less. "Those who must do terrible things," I answered. "Things that should never be."
Saint Mother, I thought then, let me die, let the wind fling me off the cliff, let anything be but this. For with the memories my words raised in me, tears had come to my eyes, faster than I could stop; I who was three years away from being a warrior, who had had my face ground into the dirt, who'd driven my body near to breaking, all of it dry-eyed, was weeping, in front of Azaila.
