The Call of Dust, page 9
part #1 of Arat Series
The Suten’s cowl turned, his cerulean eyes exuding an unexpected warmth. “Then you understand why I had to be here.”
The Raja straightened, looking out at his people. There was peace in his features, and ever so subtly, he relaxed.
Zatrin Bei watched it all from the side of Swordsman's Fate. Despite the proceedings, she felt a sense of relief for the Raja. She had discerned his inner struggles when she arrived and could feel that the Suten had lifted them immensely. He could handle the weight now. The speech he just gave said as much. She knew that without the Suten, he could have never given one like that. If the Master of Sword’s succeeded, Zaim would have a stronger ruler than it did just a day prior.
She looked at the Master of Swords, and he nodded, then to UiNemtasma, who did the same. The Ulaan ranks hadn't moved when the Raja spoke, but she could feel the unspoken confidence in them. Despite the Raja’s words, they expected their fellow Ulaan to make short work of this duel. She swallowed hard, fighting back emotion, for she felt the same. She walked to the center of the circle.
“Master of Swords come forth.” The Nnesutee came forth, wearing his familiar silver robe with the fruit vine standard of Zaim embroidered on its back. He carried a naked thin-bladed, single-edged sword in his left hand, the hilt wrapped in a crossed silver design. Taking his position, he stood calmly.
“Ulaan swordsman, come forth.” The Ulaan was clothed in her leather armor and flowed across the circle with light feet. She kept both of her swords sheathed and took a position across from the Master of Swords.
Zatrin raised her arms. “According to the tradition of Dris, this challenge ends with death. Its decision is irrevocable. The match begins when the Raja tolls the bell. May the deserving kingdom find favor in their Ancient’s eyes.”
She backed off of the dueling circle and lowered her arms, giving the nod to the tower. A bell sounded, and the match began.
Philomene the Guileless stood shocked. The Ulaan's quickness was inhuman, her attacks so swift that they were difficult to follow. Everything that he had ever heard about the Ulaan he saw first hand. In quickness, skill, and agility, he had never seen the Ulaan's match.
When the bell rang, marking the beginning of the duel, Philomene thought that it was already over. The Ulaan's attack had been a blur of leather and steel, and he was surprised that, somehow, the Master of Swords had rebuffed it. Now fifteen breaths into the duel, the Ulaan attacked in bursts, both swords a mixture of thrusts and swings. It was a wonder to behold.
The two seemed to float more than stand, their movement like a dance upon water. Her attacks were the strikes of a viper, his movements a dandelion seed in the wind. She was a cheetah's burst, and he was a gentle breeze.
Her power was intense, the clangs of both swords against the Nnesutee's thin blade. In every clash, he thought that the Nnesutee's sword would fail him, but it continually held. Appearing to move a fraction slower than the Ulaan, somehow his parries met her thrusts and swings.
Stealing a glance up into the tower, Philomene saw the Raja watching the duel with intensity, his eyes in constant motion. The Suten's eyes were obscured under his cowl, but it seemed to him that the man was grinning.
He turned back to the duel just in time to see the Nnesutee rolling beneath the Ulaan's double sword thrust, her eyes widening as blood sprayed into the air with a hiss. Had he waited another second, he would have missed it.
Both swords clanged against the stone as her grip went slack, her head rolling to a stop near the circle's edge.
The Nnesutee flicked the blood off of his sword with a twist of his wrist, then briefly lowered his head in respect toward his fallen opponent. Two lines were visible on his back, dark spreading from them across the fabric of his robe, making it cling to his skin. He bowed towards the tower, giving a sword salute, then turned to face the Sibulla.
She stepped upon the circle to complete silence, the weight of her authority pulling every stunned eye towards her.
“Dris has spoken, and it is in the Raja of Ceidon's favor. This arbitration is now concluded and recorded in the annals of kingdoms.” Without a further word, she stepped down and walked toward the tower, the Master of Swords following behind.
It had happened so quickly that the Nnesutee was three paces off of Swordsman's Fate before the crowd began to cheer. The sound grew until words were indistinguishable in the roar.
Philomene drew a deep breath in disbelief. Could it be over? Had they actually won? He noticed the Nnesutee stopping, lifting his hand to someone in the crowd, and then noticed the Raja was standing with a hand lifted in the same direction, a warm expression on his face. He spun searching through the gathered throng, and then grinned himself. There in the distance, with arm uplifted, was Jakgrim. Beyond the mixture of relief and exultation on the former Master of Sword’s face, he looked quite well. He lowered his arm, bowed his head to the Raja, then to Iskander, then turned, melting into the crowd.
He didn’t see me, but it does my heart well to have seen him. I should have known that he would come. His grin widened as he glanced back to the tower, then his brows raised in alarm. The Raja still looked in the direction that Jakgrim had gone, but the Suten Lord was no longer there.
11
Clouded Sight
Khiron practiced his sword forms on the deck, the glint of sweat covering his exposed torso. The Nnesutee sat nearby, quietly resting with his head tilted on one shoulder, his staff laying across his crossed legs.
“You have good form and balance, Khiron,” the Nnesutee said. “Your forms are solid, and your footing is sure.”
Not sure how to respond to a blind man giving him a critique, he just frowned. “How do you do that? I mean, can you actually see?”
“Sound, smell, presence, air displacement; no matter how I would try to explain it, you wouldn’t understand. Just take it as a fact, I am aware of what you are doing.”
“Magery then.”
The Nnesutee shook his head. “Does a fish need magery to extract oxygen from water or a trout need magery to climb out of the water and bury itself in mud to survive times of drought? No, it’s an ability born of necessity and discipline, not the slightest bit of magery involved.”
“Then it’s something that can be learned?”
A chuckle. “I am all the evidence…”
Running footsteps caught the attention of both men, and they turned towards the cabin stairs.
Khiron’s eyes widened as the Arat ran passed him and stopped before the Nnesutee in excitement.
“Did you see it? Did you see it?”
The Nnesutee grinned. “The probability that he would win was low, but our tribe has a way of superseding the odds.”
“What happened?” Khiron asked.
The Arat turned to him, a wide smile on her face. “The Master of Swords of Zaim, he defeated the Ulaan in single combat!”
“What? The threat is over? You didn’t know that was going to happen?”
She shook her head, distractedly. “It’s difficult to see outcomes when it comes to Nnesutee and…”
Khiron motioned her silent as a sailor walked by, heading to the galley. No one spoke until the door closed behind him.
“There’s nothing to worry about saying that name now, Khiron,” she said. “They let us live on their island, so it’s unlikely that they would attack us.”
“I wouldn’t care if they were our blood-kin,” he retorted. “Even if they gave us a pass, it doesn’t mean that they would the people who overheard us.”
Her pout took him by surprise, disarming him, and for a moment, he forgot that she was the Arat, and just thought of her as his daughter—the daughter he chose, and who had chosen him. A pang of remorse shot through him at the unjustness of it. She was under threat from so many, and it was unfair that someone so young should have to deal with such pressures.
He was about to apologize when her face went ashen. Just as suddenly, the Nnesutee sat up, straightening.
“What does this mean?” she asked the blind swordsman in a rush. “Do you understand this?”
“It is a convergence of power, young one. It is like a sand storm, and I do not see who emerges from its cloud.”
“Who?” Khiron asked. “Emerges? From what? Are we about to be under attack? What in Dris’ name are you talking about?” His questions ran into each other as if they were one sentence, irritation writ in every aspect of his expression.
Surprisingly, it was the Nnesutee who answered.
“Our friend from the Island is about to face one of the Nine of the Ulaan. Soon they will be standing across from each other in mortal combat, and there is no sign as to who will walk away with their life.” He turned his head fractionally towards the Arat. “Have you seen anything more than what I’ve shared?”
She nodded. “I see them standing across from each other like you do, but behind the Ulaan looks to be the hand of an Ancient.” She shuddered. “Zaim is safe for now, but I fear for the fate of Gaia herself.”
“There is much confusion ahead,” the Nnesutee stood as he spoke, using his cane to pull himself up. “The battle that comes is irreversible, and I am blind to the events that follow.”
Khiron felt helpless, his mind a blur of thoughts. “How long before this battle happens? Should we turn around and see if we can help?” He realized how foolish he sounded even before he finished the question.
Instead of being angry, the Arat rushed him, hugging him tightly, and he felt the trickle of her tears running down his skin. He hugged her back, trying his best to give her the comfort that he didn’t feel.
“As of this moment,” the Nnesutee said, “I see nothing past this battle which is to come. It is a convergence, and the future of Gaia rests on its outcome. For the first time since I was a child, I feel truly blind.” His locks blew in the wind as he stared, open-eyed, into the distance.
“I see dragons,” the Arat said through sniffles.
“That war,” the Nnesutee said as he turned towards the galley, “like Gaia’s future, rests on the outcome of this battle to come…or, so I believe.”
Khiron didn’t understand any of what was being said. It was beyond him, but he gripped the Arat’s shoulders and pushed her from him so that she could see him. “Look at me,” he said. Her wet eyes looked into his. “No matter what happens, no matter what may come, I will be by your side.”
She sniffled, trying to stop the tears from falling, and attempted to smile. “I know. I know. It’s what keeps me going.” She hugged him again, then pulled back, gathering herself.
“Where are you going?” Khiron asked the Nnesutee, who was walking towards the galley.
“Let me share a lesson I learned long ago. When there is nothing you can do, never give in to despair. Find some food and eat, rest, and prepare for when there is something for you to do. This battle isn’t ours, but our battles are coming soon enough. In the meantime, we should eat.”
With that, the swordsman pushed open the galley door and disappeared inside.
Khiron looked at the Arat, and she looked at him, then both bolted after him.
12
A Culling
The festivities were in full swing upon the lowlands. News of the Master of Sword's victory had reached the border of Zaim, and celebration broke out across the landscape like wildfire.
Swordsman's Fate was empty, the blood washed off the gray slate, and the body taken into the Ulaan's care. The Mount of Ceidon had been cleared of everyone who did not live there other than the Ulaan. The royal guard was posted to keep out the curious eyes of those who did.
Zatrin Bei sat in the short tower, relieved but concerned. She was upon the throne to the Raja's left, the Master of Swords on the right, with Philomene standing behind him.
A figure rushed through the soldiers towards the tower. It was Rephna. Before she could arrive, the message that she carried was already evident.
Nine Ulaan, all in leather armor and in cowls with no cloaks, approached Swordsman's Fate. Somehow, in the time that elapsed between the issuance of the Suten’s challenge and now, Ueeha had gathered the rest of the Nine. They seemed to glide across the distance with speed.
The Ulaan swordsman, who had all been sitting in meditation, abased themselves in unison as the Nine passed. Ueeha stepped upon Swordsman's Fate while the other eight stood side-by-side just outside of the circle's perimeter.
Ueeha’s confidence was evident as she spoke. “Where is the Suten pretender who thought that he could challenge the Nine?” The response was immediate.
“Nine of the Ulaan, you are deemed unworthy.” The Suten Lord’s voice tolled out from behind her.
Startled, she spun to see him standing center circle, the Suten called Neftii standing beside him.
He looked at her with a predatory glare, threat pulsing in his singular regard. His voice was a winter breeze. “As Suten, we honor the protocols of swords, but we have a matter elsewhere that needs to be addressed,” he said. “Accordingly, I offer this boon. My duel with Ueeha will be in the tradition of Dris. After that,” he glanced at the rest of the Nine, “you may suspend the rules of tradition by declaration if you deem it is necessary.”
“What?” Ueeha’s expression was utter disbelief.
“I challenged the Ulaan,” he said, letting his cloak fall to the stone, “not Ueeha of the Ulaan. As you lead as Nine, you were challenged as Nine. That you all have come makes this straightforward and efficient. I give you my thanks.”
In the short tower, Zatrin Bei gasped. Mother of Night! He knew that she would bring them! Dris forfend! Her shock was interrupted by one of the gathered Nine, who laughed awkwardly. His voice was like water coursing through gravel.
“We are not your lessors, Suten, despite your airs and graces.”
Another voice spoke from the Nine, this one female. “I recognize that you bear a Katal master sword, so I know that you are a master of note. He does not make many. That said, we do not wish an all out war with your kingdom. I object to this challenge unless we are absolved of guilt and assured of no reprisals from your Isle. To send a swordsman such as you to Nihil's realm is a tremendous pity, but that decision was made before we arrived.”
“A voice of reason amongst you,” he said. “You, I may spare.” He turned to the short tower where the Sibulla and others sat, their joy of the earlier victory washed away by a mixture of fear and awe. “Sibulla, as you are my witness, I absolve the Ulaan from the outcome of this duel and declare that there will be no retaliation from the Suten in response to such.” He looked at the Ulaan woman who had spoken, “Is that sufficient?”
She nodded in affirmation.
Zatrin felt like screaming. It was clear to her now that the Suten had planned this from the beginning. Once again, he had used her role as a Sibulla to give his actions validity. Her hands clenched in frustration. Whether what was transpiring was right or wrong, the Sibulla were the arbiters of kingdoms, not their pawns. This must never happen again.
At a look from her Lord, Neftii backed from the circle, leaving the two combatants alone.
A breeze blew, the scent of jasmine in the air. His eyes squarely upon Ueeha, the Suten Lord spoke. “Ulaan, prepare yourself for Nihil's embrace.”
The bell rang from the short tower, and Ueeha lunged with an impossibly fast double-sword thrust. The Suten deflected both swords with a side-step and swipe from his scabbarded sword, striking the woman in the side of her neck with extended fingers as he shifted past her. She fell to the stone with a disturbing crunch, lifeless.
Every one of the Ulaan stood, hands on their sword hilts.
Zatrin stood distractedly, trying to replay what she had just witnessed in her head. Impossible! This is impossible. He never even drew his sword. She is one of the Nine!
The Suten Lord stood calmly as two of the Ulaan swordsman checked on their fellow leader. They looked up in complete astonishment and confirmed the obvious.
His voice cut through the air like a sharpened blade. “Shall we suspend the rules?”
Silence.
Zatrin stared transfixed. The Suten’s face and form were a vision of perfection: like an artist’s masterpiece, like a god amongst the throngs. She had suppressed it before, but now, at this moment, his allure was almost palpable.
Movement. Another of the Nine ascended Swordsman's Fate. The man was as tall as the Suten and moved like a panther. He assumed a low stance, holding both swords above his head: one directly held vertically, its blade pointing towards the sky, and the other on a downward angle. Seeming to move with the bell, he attacked, his form perfect, swords simultaneously striking high and low.
What seemed a simple circular side-step took the Suten beyond the slashes, his elbow slamming into the side of the man's head as his strike filled the space the swords had just vacated. The crack of the blow split the silence of the night. The Ulaan spun, tried desperately to find his feet, and then collapsed. His body convulsed briefly before it lay motionless.
Zatrin's jaw dropped. The gathered Ulaan were mumbling now, the sound of swords freeing from their scabbards filling the air throughout the Mount.
The Suten Lord motioned to Neftii, and she moved before the tower entrance, taking a defensive position by the door, a naked dagger in each hand.
Zatrin fought back a growing fear. Dris forfend! He stands as if their skill is inconsequential; stands elevated above the rulers of their people as if he’s their better. He waits, yet no one ascends the circle to challenge him! Me’ett’s merciful gaze be upon us; he has stolen something from them. Their beliefs are falling like the two who grow cold upon the circle. He did this for it to be witnessed. Now that it has, he waits for them to say it, and they will. Opassin have mercy, they will! Nihil's borders are growing fat this day, and somewhere that bastard is smiling.
