It was already too late. The moment of no return had passed; the arrow was loose from the bow and speeding toward its target deadly and true. Yes, there’d been other auras about, but they had all been of little significance and even less threat. Certain he’d found his prey alone, he’d launched himself in a finely-tuned fury of focus.
Happy shouts of “Daddy! Daddy, we wanna hug!” died in a terrified gulp. Frozen in horror, the two little girls stared wide-eyed as a dark shadow descended like a hawk on their father. The tall man had only enough time to start as he sensed danger, turning and looking up in time to catch the edge of a longsword on top of his head. A resounding crack filled the chamber, ominously. Light as a cat on its feet, the little redheaded hunter landed in a graceful crouch, eyes closed and golden-glowing sword faintly smeared with blood.
For a seemingly endless moment, the four in the room were frozen in time: the little girls standing in wide-eyed horror, the tall brown-haired man standing slightly braced for an impact he just realized was coming, and the coiled stranger with the crimson-stained blade. Then blood began to trickle down the man’s forehead, the light fading in his light-brown eyes. The cloth headband around the victim’s head fell apart, sheared neatly into two halves. The thong keeping his long hair pulled back in a warrior’s topknot also burst apart, just as neatly severed. Blood exploded outwards, betraying the devastating extent of the assassin’s strike; chestnut-hued hair fell loose as the man’s body began to tumble to the floor. That same blood sprayed the crouching manslayer, spattering his dark-hued clothing and black-dyed, lightweight leather armor, making a rivulet of red run down his deceptively soft and boyish face.
The older of the little girls gasped in utter horror, reaching out to grab her younger sister in a hug as their father’s blood splashed warm and sticky on them. The smaller, darker-haired girl sucked in a deep breath, obviously distressed and about to cry.
The assassin opened his eyes then, ignoring the coppery-scented fluid running down his face. Amber and full of golden power, they were as feral as any wild animal’s and as dangerous as any tiger’s. For a moment he looked at them, an untamed beast sizing up prey or foe. Then those eyes widened in a horror as great as that which ensnared the girls. The slender redhead lurched to his feet, right hand going white as he gripped his sword tighter while his left came up to clutch at his head. He staggered back as if his unarmed target had struck him an equally telling blow. “No. No! I can’t . . .” he gasped, seemingly in agony.
The children couldn’t have been any older than eight and six, so full of hope, promise and potential. War of any sort was often waged in order to ensure that children like them could have a better world, yet these two were old enough to tell the adults in their lives what they’d just seen and could identify him in the future.
His orders had always been clear and absolute: no witnesses.
They screamed then, finally giving voice to their terror. The shrill sound filled the otherwise empty chamber, certain to bring the rest of the household running. “No,” the assassin sobbed, recoiling. For a moment it looked as if he’d drop his sword and collapse to the bloodstained floor. Then he abruptly straightened, his composure regained—and his eyes were once again the impassive orbs of a stalking predator.
Spirit energy crackled golden around him, making his blade glow as if it had suddenly swallowed a sliver of the sun itself. Moving almost too fast for the eye to see, he closed the short distance between himself and the huddled, screaming girls.
The strike was too swift, too fast to even make a sound—though the shrill, echoing screams instantly, ominously stopped. The assassin came to a halt, sword poised two-handed and outstretched to his left; he’d obviously powered a slash parallel to the ground through the children. A tear rolled down his cheek, diluting the blood staining his skin; after a seemingly long moment, the girls collapsed to the floor in much the same manner as their father, their heads rolling across the crimson-stained matting.
Knowing he was short of time, the assassin sheathed his sword without bothering to wipe the blade. He could sense alarm sparking through the household; more auras were swiftly approaching, intent on investigating. Unless he wished to stay and slaughter more innocents, he had to retreat. Regardless what part of himself thought about his actions and motivations, the manslayer wasn’t lusting after the destruction of more innocents. The mission objective had been achieved; there was no reason to linger about the scene of his bloody handiwork. He walked over to the room’s exterior wall, then tugged aside the sliding panel that served as the shutter to the glassless window. Silent as a ghost, he leapt gracefully through the opening into the still night.
He hit the ground running, intent now on making his escape unseen. Spirit energy swirled about him before fading out and obscuring his slender form. Recalling the mental image of the plush estate’s layout, the dark-clad manhunter sprinted for the boundary wall.
In the growing distance shouts of horrified anger and terrified anguish heralded the discovery of the carnage. The auras of those now alarmed and preparing to fight remained behind him; ahead lay peaceful, unsuspecting presences as yet ignorant of their lord’s violent demise. The assassin used the shining beacons of spirit energy as lighthouses, warning him away of the danger of more innocents who would be better off not becoming involved.
Even being cautious while swiftly approaching the wall enclosing the estate’s sumptuous grounds, his hesitation while scanning the section of wall he’d approached was enough for an unlucky guard to spot him.
“Hey there! Hey you!” the warrior clad in the household’s colors of red and gold shouted. Having paused in his assigned patrol to look up at the sky in order to better judge the immediate threat of inclement weather, a movement at the corner of his eye had caught the guard’s attention when he’d returned his gaze to the ground. Noting the presence of a dark-clad, redheaded stranger, the guard became alert, challenging.
The short, red-haired man halted his inspection of the outer wall. Seemingly unsurprised by the guard’s shout, the redhead turned his gaze to the increasingly-nervous brunette warrior.
The guard hissed in fright, instinctively pulling his sword free. Those amber eyes were menacingly golden, full of the promise of death as they stared coolly back from a face the guard could now see was spattered with blood. “Whatever you’ve done, I won’t let you get away with it!” the brown-haired guard shouted, finding his warrior’s courage. Something terrible must have happened in the estate he was charged to protect; honor demanded he make the stranger pay—or die in the attempt.
The redhead slid a foot back while gracefully turning to face the red- and gold-clad warrior. Settling into a quick-draw stance, his slender hand came up to hover over the sword’s twine-wrapped grip. “Come then, and die,” the manslayer said, his soft voice deceptively casual.
With a rousing battle cry, the guard charged forward, intent on slashing the blood-flecked stranger. The assassin drew at the very last moment, his glowing sword spilling gold light into the darkness as he made his sweep. Steel sang out as the guard’s blade shattered under the force of the assassin’s blow. The brunette warrior staggered back, face registering shock and pain before the expressions faded into oblivion. Blood sprayed outward from the massive gash from shoulder to hip as the household guard fell, painting the stone surface of the wall, the verdant grass and the redheaded assassin with its sticky wetness. Hearing more shouts nearby as the man’s companion warriors reacted in alarm to the dead man’s battle cry, the manslayer sheathed his sword again and lifted his amber gaze to the top of the wall. Concentrating, he leapt up into the air.
Even empowered by spirit energy, the jump wasn’t quite enough to allow the red-haired assassin to clear it. It was, however, enough to allow him to grab onto the top of the stone wall. Using his hands as a fulcrum, he vaulted gracefully up and over; orange hair fluttered as he performed first a momentary handstand then an elegant flip. He landed light on his feet on the other side; in an instant he was sprinting again, disappearing into the night-shrouded forest surrounding the estate.
Swift as a deer, the little swordsman dashed through the underbrush. Gracefully weaving between the rough trunks of ancient trees, he left behind the blood and chaos, unerringly making his way to the agreed-upon place. His field agent, Sidhu, had supplies waiting there, and he needed to leave a sign for the agent to find.
The place was a
peaceful clearing at the edge of a pond far enough away from the
His gait changed to a graceful, walking stride as he made his way to the crumbling boulders at the edge of the still pond. Squatting down, he reached deep into a cleft formed by a crack that had long ago broken the stone into two rough halves. The bag was there as he knew it would be; Sidhu was nothing if not reliable. He grasped it tightly and dragged it out into the open.
The bag was sturdy canvas dyed black, a typical container used to store items while traveling. The assassin knelt on the detritus-strewn forest floor. Nimble fingers worked open the knots, then pawed through the contents, pulling them out. A set of clean clothing was present, as was a pouch with some coins appropriate for the local area. No folded paper awaited him, so the manhunter was safe to assume that he was to proceed as usual after a mission attempt.
He kept his
senses on the alert; given how wrong his mission had gone, he was loathe to make the same mistake twice. But no human auras were in range; with luck,
the men given the duty to guard the
He efficiently stripped off the lightweight leather armor covering his lower arms and tossed it into the dark, canvas bag. Shaking out the loose sleeves of his deep royal blue shirt and the pleated legs of his black pants, he swiftly unknotted the black sash around his slender waist and began unwrapping the long piece of cloth. For a moment he fished into the left-hand sleeve pocked of his crimson-stained shirt; his slender-fingered hand emerged holding the small leather pouch containing his personal items. He then dropped the plain pouch to the ground at his feet.
As he tossed the sash into the bag, he carefully set his sheathed sword on the ground. The sash was quickly followed by the blood-spattered shirt and pants, revealing the form-fitting, black leather armor he wore under his clothing. From neck to waist, a supple, sleeveless jacket covered his slender form, while more of the same material encased his legs from the knees down; his fingers quickly undid the ties at the seam under his left arm with practiced ease. After he slipped out of it, the torso armor joined the rest of his blood-stained clothing in the bag. He knelt down then, pulling free the ties securing his leg armor—first from the right, then the left—and then kicked off his sandals. Pulling his legs through the armor, he tossed the matched pair of leather leggings into the bag. Last were the thick, dual-toed socks; they were yanked off and stuffed into the canvas sack as well. Stripped down to only his loincloth, the redhead reached up and yanked off the leather thong holding his hair up in a proud topknot. Shaggy orange hair, the strands ending just above the small of his back, fell to cover his dorsal side as he turned to face the mirror-like surface of the pond.
He splashed into the water, ignoring its chill embrace. At its deepest, the pond was only waist high. Falling to his knees to submerge himself to his neck, he took a deep breath and ducked himself under.
Even there, in that pristine setting with night-chilled, clear water surrounding him, he could feel the hot stickiness of the blood that had covered him, could still smell and taste its coppery tinge. This time, nothing would ever wash it away.
He came up gasping for breath, fighting back the overwhelming urge to break down into sobs of profound grief. Shaking his head vigorously from side to side to both fling off the excess water from his orange-hued hair and to negate the wellspring of emotion within, the assassin murmured, “No. Not yet. Stay back there and be miserable if you must, but we’re not free and clear just yet.” Breathing still harsh, he stood up; water trickled off his fair skin as he settled into a listening stance. “No. I’m not about to throw away our lives just because we screwed up.” Another pause, as if he were hearing a reply from the night-shrouded forest surrounding him. “Blame me if you wish. I chose to follow orders; it would be dereliction of duty otherwise. Hate me if you must because I urged you into getting it over with without being absolutely certain he was far enough away from everyone else for there to be no interference. But I will not allow myself to die just to please your sense of guilt and despair.”
He strode out of the pond, ignoring the cold-induced shivers that jolted through him. The clothing left inside the canvas sack was garb commonly associated with the peasantry: coarse-woven linen in common coloring, sturdy with little decoration. He began donning the humble outfit, muttering, “Yes, I know if we go back we’ll just be sent out again.” He suddenly stiffened, frozen with the light tan shirt half on, left hand in the process of pulling the cloth over his shoulder. “What?” he asked, apparently astounded. “Do you realize—?” He shook his head, wet red strands still dripping water, as if he couldn’t understand what he just heard. Suddenly dropping to his knees, he clutched his head in apparent agony. “No! I won’t . . . Too many . . . will still die . . . Do you really want that? Listen to me!”
Whatever pained him seemed to lessen its hold. Lowering his hands slightly, the assassin murmured, “What about all those young men still dying on the battlefields? There’s only one way to stop the slaughter on both sides, and that’s to end the war. One man is responsible for all of this. Let me stay long enough to bring the war to him. After that, I’ll accept whatever you want. If what you truly want is no more killing, then ending it any other way will only make even more innocents die needlessly.” He took a deep breath then, seemingly waiting; with a sigh of apparent relief, he pulled the tan shirt on the rest of the way and continued to dress in silence.
When he was finished, it seemed as if the night-shrouded clearing held within it only a humble farmer, not a blood-smeared manslayer. His dark brown pants were closer fitting, the socks and sandals nondescript. A belt made of a length of rope encircled his waist; over his clothing he wore a cloak of woven reeds. A wide-brimmed, pointed, round hat also made of woven reed shadowed his head; he’d tucked his hair up under it to give the illusion of having a close-cropped mane. Securing the black canvas bag, the assassin stuffed it back into the cleft of the ancient boulder. Reaching into the right sleeve pocket of his simple tan shirt, he fished around and finally pulled out two lengths of yarn. One was dyed crimson red, the other was plain, still the natural hue of the fibers forming it. Selecting the red one, he stuffed the other back into his sleeve; he then tied the red yarn to a bush next to the weather-split stone.
The signal was set. Sidhu would return here soon and know that the assignment was successfully completed and that the bag was filled with items that needed to be cleaned or destroyed. The field agent and the assassin were then to meet in the morning at a pre-arranged inn—but the orange-haired manslayer had other plans this time around.
Golden eyes narrowing in determination, the assassin slipped his sword through the rope belt at his waist. After picking up his leather pouch and dropping it into his left-hand sleeve pocket, he gracefully rose to his feet. Making sure to conceal the fine weapon under his reed cloak, he glanced upward at the star-speckled sky high above. Then he faced south-southeast, and with a purposeful stride, he walked deeper into the wilderness.
Onward he traveled as the stars wheeled slowly above the canopy of the ancient forest. Even after dawn’s rosy fingers touched the eastern horizon, he pushed forward, golden eyes as determined as ever. Determined to stay unseen by the unsuspecting citizens of Aizhou, he kept to the forest and followed the faint trails made by the wild animals. It wasn’t until a couple of hours after the sun had risen that exhaustion finally settled in and drained him of his ability to continue deeper behind enemy lines.
Eyes sticky and hurting slightly, he was rubbing one with the back of his left index finger to ease the itchy ache when a dragging footstep caught on a tree root. “Ara?” he yelped, suddenly transformed from a graceful, coordinated predator to a silly, clumsy oaf. The redheaded man stumbled about, trying to regain his balance, but lack of sleep robbed him of his natural grace. Tripping over his own feet, the disguised assassin crashed to the forest floor. “Arara . . .” he softly warbled, not even realizing he’d uttered a sound.
Sighing in exasperation, he pulled himself up from a sprawled mess to an upright position. Too tired, he reluctantly admitted. Noting that he’d come to rest against the trunk of an ancient tree, he slid back across the ground and nestled in the sheltering fork between two large roots. He pulled his sword free; resting it against his shoulder, he settled back against the tree and closed his eyes. Just a short nap, and then we can continue . . .
That the little
redhead had returned from the
Sidhu’s scowl deepened. Something was obviously wrong, but he couldn’t figure out—even with his detail-focused mind and his love of mysteries and puzzles—what precisely had gone wrong.
The door to the common room slid open; the movement caused the field agent to look in that direction. A group of local villagers came in, mostly young male shopworkers, crafters and artisans who had no wife or mother hanging about to see to having a lunch ready for them. The motley crew was abuzz about something; their body language punctuated their horrified but excited voices. As the inn’s staff hopped to attention to serve the lunchtime crowd, Sidhu kept his focus on listening to the locals’ conversation.
“It’s just absolutely horrible!”
“I can’t believe it! Not only Lord General Yazbaratu but also those adorable girls of his? What did they ever do to deserve that?”
“Maybe the Lord General—”
“Don’t be absurd! He loved his daughters. Besides, I hear there was a guard killed by the perimeter.”
“No? Really?”
“Probably means someone from outside—”
“Or some thing! Rumor has it they were all ripped viciously to shreds! Blood all over the place!”
“Could there be a demon lurking about?”
Sidhu snorted in derision. Always the talk of a demon. Though I shouldn’t be surprised by now. There’s a reason why his comrades called him “The Demon’s Claw”. Still . . . The blond field agent frowned, mind latching onto something overheard. They’re speaking of the general and his daughters being murdered. His daughters? They’re only children; the oldest is eight if I recall the intelligence correctly.
The field agent’s dark brown eyes widened in astonishment as things began clicking into place. He’d sensed a growing dissatisfaction within the famed Khuradasu, something so deep Sidhu wasn’t sure if the young redhead even knew it was there. As time had gone on and each mission was successfully concluded, the teenaged assassin had returned just a bit more colder, a bit more distant—yet each time he was sent out again, he accepted the orders without comment and proceeded to execute the mission with a skill rarely seen.
This time, however, something had happened—and children ended up dead. Though Sidhu couldn’t for a moment believe that Khuradasu had intentionally targeted the girls as well, the field agent was sure the assassin had believed their deaths were somehow necessary. So why isn’t he here to explain to me what happened? Has he snapped? Sidhu wondered. Finding that thought disturbing and frightening, he quickly downed the rest of his tea. This has to be reported right away. I have no idea what he’d be doing if he has snapped—but Lord Grand General Arjunayazu may know . . .
The coppery smell and taste of blood, and the oppressing atmosphere of terror—his intended targets’ fear—closed in around him. Sword glowing with deadly power, he lashed out as he was always expected to do, trying not to care. It shouldn’t matter; he was merely a weapon, yet another tool that did its job with no remorse, no compassion, nothing. A sword felt nothing as it slashed through flesh and bone, severing body and spirit, leaving behind cooling meat, heartbreak and sorrow. Then came the screams of children, breaking through his concentration; he had to lash out, but the following silence seemed to shatter his own soul—
Gasping for breath, the redheaded assassin abruptly awoke. His amber eyes gleaming with golden Avatar power, he was on his feet with his sword half-drawn before he came completely to his senses and realized he was safe and alone in the middle of an ancient forest. He frowned in annoyance at himself as he relaxed and let the blade slide home in its sturdy, wooden sheath.
Khuradasu then
sighed, glancing about. From the amount
of light filtering through the canopy high above and the few stray sunbeams
striking ground, he estimated it was about halfway between
Sitting tailor on the ground, head still shielded by the large, round hat, Khuradasu pulled his sword out once more. This time he freed it completely, setting the sheath down on the detritus-covered earth. Resting the deadly blade across his knees, he stared down at the well-honed steel.
The sword was a
masterwork of the smith’s art. He’d
carried it with him since he was given it at the age of twelve—though now at
seventeen, the blade was becoming just a bit too short to be properly balanced
to the assassin’s height. Not that that overly matters. I don’t think I’m going to be getting much
taller, Khuradasu wryly thought, knowing quite well he was no taller than
the average Aizvaryan woman and had been so for a while. But it
may be time to get a new sword. I’m
fighting at a slight disadvantage now.
No more killing. Ever, whispered another voice in his head.
“Not this again,” Khuradasu muttered out loud in response. “We can’t stop just yet, not if we’re going to end this war once and for all.”
There’s no guarantee we can even stop the war.
“We have to try. At the worst, Aizhou will be tossed into the politics and internal dissention of replacing a sitting prince unexpectedly. At the best, the prince will be so scared, he’ll seek to end the war.” When nothing more but a frustrated silence met Khuradasu’s reply, the redheaded assassin growled, “Do you want to let the bloodshed continue on both sides? That’s what will happen if we don’t even try.”
Of course not. There’s been too much death already.
“Then we continue to make the attempt. Who knows? Maybe you’ll get your wish and we’re the ones that end up dead. Though I have little desire myself to die simply because I did the job we were assigned.”
They were children!
“They were also witnesses,” Khuradasu responded, his voice harsh but his eyes haunted. “And the orders are clear: No witnesses. So . . . no witnesses remained.”
You . . . are a monster. Is this what I’ve truly become?
“If you want to blame anyone, blame me. And the war. But by the spirits, I will try to make this senseless conflict end—or die trying. Now, let me concentrate here. I need a way to home in on the one responsible, and I have a way here on my blade.”
The other voice fell silent, though Khuradasu kept getting the impression it was one of horror. Sighing, he turned his amber gaze to the blade lying across his lap. He’d fled before having a chance to wipe the blood off the keen-edged sword; the fluid remained on the steel’s surface, a dried, reddish smear dulling the metal’s normally bright finish. The general, his daughters and one guard of the estate had all met their end by encountering this blade; their traces were left behind on the blood, and three of those four were not only members of the same clan that ruled Aizhou—they belonged to the same royal bloodline.
He held the
sword by the grip in his right hand; his left hand rested, palm-down, against
the flat near the tip of the blade. Bowing
his head and closing his eyes, Khuradasu began to concentrate on the psychic
essences trapped upon the surface of his sword. Golden light flickered around his still form
and glowed within the heart of the steel. He willed the remaining blood to speak to him,
to tell him where he could find the one who embodied the Source of their
bloodline: Where is the
Slowly,
reluctantly, the blood responded to the Avatar assassin’s demands. Red light gleamed faintly in the heart of the
gold, then shot forward like an arrow to the west and slightly south. Stretching his awareness out with the guidance
of the blood, Khuradasu found what he sought. He latched onto the sensation, burning it into
his mind, engraving it on his soul. Far
away, miles yet distant, he could see the tiny image of the fiery Bird of the
South—and he knew the one that held the
Under his hand, the traces of General Yazbaratu and his daughters took on a sense of profound dismay. Khuradasu flinched at the unexpected sensation, his golden aura wavering slightly. Please, go in peace, all of you. I intend to seek the prince out merely to stop the war. I don’t wish him harm, but harm him I must if it means the fighting between our lands stops. Even when the faint presences of the royal Phoenixes were gone, burned up in the magic that had allowed him to home in on their essences, the redheaded assassin continued to get the sense of their disapproval—that not only had he stolen their lives, he had, at the last, forced them to betray to the enemy their Source’s location.
The manslayer’s
golden aura faded away. The rust-hued
smears dulling the sword were now gone, the blood completely consumed by
Khuradasu’s working of Avatar magic. In
the back of his mind, the assassin could still sense the
Twilight was stretching dusky fingers across the sky, embracing the forest in deepening shadows, when Khuradasu jolted awake again. Gasping softly, startled, he looked about with a wild-eyed, amber gaze before it finally dawned on him that he had once again fallen asleep and was just now awakening. His lean form clad in peasant farmer’s clothing was still parked cross-legged on the ground, his bared sword lying across his lap. He frowned, taking a deep breath. That must have taken more out of me than I realized, the redheaded assassin mused while picking up his weapon’s sheath. Sliding the blade home, Khuradasu gracefully stood and slipped his sword back in place at his side.
Well, now . . . On to business. Golden eyes scanned over the surrounding woods
as Avatar senses cast about both for nearby dangers and for the current
location of the
Expression grim, Khuradasu settled his reed cloak about himself and broke into a fast-paced, almost loping walk. No matter how long it takes, I will find you—and then I will make you stop this war once and for all.
He traveled far
into the night, following the distant red star of the
Even being cautious—staying off the beaten path and steering away from where he felt various human auras deep in slumber—it wasn’t quite enough. The rosy fingers of dawn were staining the sky when Khuradasu sensed the active aura of a small group of people steadily drawing near. Though somewhat curious, the assassin still attempted to avoid them—until it became clear they were tracking him, if not by his faint corona of spirit energy then by the few physical signs of his passing.
He stopped then, wondering why the quartet was so persistent in seeking him out. Have they somehow guessed who I am and what I’m doing? Or do they merely seek out some poor peasant and believe I am one? Being certain to conceal his sword under his voluminous reed cloak, Khuradasu tugged his broad-brimmed hat down a bit to further obscure his face. Pulling his Avatar power close, the orange-maned assassin concentrated on projecting an aura of humble helplessness, one similar to the one often sensed about the folk who worked the earth for a living. He started forward again then, acting as if he were lost and looking for the way home in the growing light of day.
“Well now, what have we here?” called out an unfamiliar voice. The tones were deep in tone and harsh, mockingly amused.
Khuradasu made himself jerk to a stop, as if the call had startled him. Underneath his charade, the assassin eased into combat readiness. The auras of the four stank of cruelty, having the sense of bullies who’d grown up to find sadistic pleasure in harming those weaker than themselves. Feigning surprise, the disguised warrior turned to face the one that had called out.
They were a group of Phoenix Army, their status betrayed by their clothing. Their deep red pants and brighter red sashes were of the same hue—as was standard throughout the armies of the empire—while their shirts of varying hues of green marked them as being of the Emerald Phoenix: the units charged with the protection of the northern estates, and the units currently involved in the fighting with Derkarya.
“Looks like some silly peasant got himself lost or something,” one of the other warriors responded to the first.
“Just like a commoner,” muttered a third, a smirk settling on his face.
“Please, kind sirs,” Khuradasu said, his deceptively gentle voice taking on the plaintive tones of an inferior addressing more powerful superiors, “I only wish to find my way back home. You see, one of the cattle got lost and I went looking—”
“Shut up!” barked the leader. Nearly in the blink of an eye, the bigger man was next to the peasant; his resounding backhand flung the little commoner right off his feet and made him tumble to the ground in a heap of hat, cloak and clothing. “Your betters haven’t given you permission to speak!”
Khuradasu
tumbled with the blow, being certain to keep his sword hidden. Ignoring the sting on his cheek, he made
himself seem dazed while inwardly growling in rage. These
are among those charged with the protection of the weak and helpless here in
northern Aizhou? Before anyone of
lesser skill could react, the four
The kicking went
on for seemingly an eternity. Any true
peasant would have succumbed, or been close to death by the time the
“Well, he’s not twitched for a bit,” the leader finally said as they turned their attention back to the battered pile of clothing that was their victim. “But just to be sure . . .” Steel whispered against wood as the smirking warrior drew his sword.
Slowly, gracefully, the seemingly beaten and wounded peasant rose to his feet. “I had wondered why four were determined to follow a lone farmer through the woods,” the victim’s voice said, holding within it no sound of hurt or fear.
The quartet gasped, instinctively stepping back from the seemingly inhuman peasant. The little man should have been seriously hurt if not dead or close to dying, yet here he was, moving as if he’d taken no injury at all and his voice full of a menace heard only on the battlefield.
“Now I know why,” Khuradasu continued, reaching up to strip off the concealing hat. Flinging it to the side, he glared at the four enemy warriors. “For your own sport, you sought out someone far beneath your skills—someone you’ve pledged to protect—and wished to make a game of his death.” Slender fingers next undid the ties holding the reed cloak in place. That too was tossed aside by the angry assassin, revealing the sword at his waist. “Such cruelty cannot go unanswered.”
“A sword?”
“He’s actually a warrior?”
“Just who the hell is this guy?”
More steel rang
out in the forest clearing as the remaining
“It matters not who I am. It’s enough to know you face divine judgment,” Khuradasu calmly responded. Though inwardly ready to lash out in mortal combat, the slender redhead remained apparently at ease.
“Insolent bastard!” shouted the Aizhouan leader. With a growl, he charged toward the redheaded stranger.
Khuradasu held
his ground, remaining at ease until the very last moment. Then, in a blinding flash of movement, he
dropped into a quick-draw stance. He
effortlessly dodged the
Digging a foot into the soft earth, Khuradasu pivoted hard and launched himself at another of the remaining three. Steel sang as the one attacked managed to parry, but the redheaded warrior pushed upwards with a spirit cry. The blocked sword was forced back higher, up over its owner’s head. Taking advantage of the opening he created, Khuradasu dropped to a kneeling position and thrust viciously forward. Before his victim could even lower his blade to block, the Derkaryan assassin’s sword impaled him. The wounded warrior dropped his weapon then, hands instinctively reaching toward the source of the agony. Golden light glowed brighter in Khuradasu’s sword as the redheaded assassin used both hands to power his sword to the side and rip through the other’s torso. Blood splashed outward, flung into the air off the now-freed, golden-gleaming blade.
The remaining
pair recovered from their shock. With
resounding battle cries, they struck in almost perfect unison at the
peasant-clad warrior kneeling upon the ground. Metal grated against metal as the two
“Hammer—strike!” intoned a youthful voice from above. A sick-sounding crack echoed through the clearing as a streak of orange and muted dark colors seemingly dropped from the skies above. The blur resolved itself into the little redheaded swordsman; light as a cat, he landed on his feet and turned to face the one remaining warrior. His latest victim stood there a moment, the light of life swiftly fading from his horrified eyes. Before the still-living swordsman could do more than stagger back, Khuradasu sprung forward like a tiger. Blood started as a trickle, then exploded outward from the now-dead warrior with that same eerie delay that particular attack almost always caused; the body slumped to the ground like a felled tree as the swift assassin swung his glowing sword at the final warrior remaining.
Steel screamed
into the dawn as the
“You’ll only slaughter me where I stand,” the warrior responded, clearly frightened. He knew he was in over his head; his three friends had been cut down in a matter of heartbeats.
“No,” the redheaded warrior said, stepping back but remaining in a ready stance should the other rashly attempt to press an attack. “Put down your sword and swear you’ll never again try to harm anyone you are sworn to protect, and you’ll live.”
For a long
moment the two warriors stared at one another. Trembling, the
“Swear,” Khuradasu growled.
“I so swear,” the other man said, voice still breaking in fright. “Never again will I try to harm another in my keeping.”
Another long
moment passed as the orange-haired assassin swept his gaze over his defeated
opponent. The other’s aura betrayed no
deception, no intent to strike back. Clearly
frightened for his very life, the
You gave your word! shouted
that other voice in his mind, and we’re
not on a mission. He may indeed be an
enemy warrior, but he has no idea who stands before him.
True. He’s well and truly beaten; it would be somewhat senseless to cut him down. Khuradasu pointed toward the far side of the clearing with his blood-streaked sword. “Begone!” he growled at the other man. “Get back to your unit before I decide you’re not worth the effort to keep my word.”
Gulping, the
Khuradasu kept his gaze on the other man until his form had disappeared into the forest. Even after that, he kept his senses focused on the other’s aura for some time while wiping clean his sword on the unstained clothing of one of the fallen warriors. Re-sheathing his weapon, the Derkaryan turned back toward the distant red star and began traveling once more. He would need to put quite a bit of distance between himself and the slaughter in order to remain moving among the shadows of Aizhou.
“Mister! Mister, are you all right?”
Amber eyes snapped open; startled from his sleep, Khuradasu reached for his sword. Even as his hand closed over the grip and tugged the blade free, his rapidly awakened mind registered the voice’s youthful concern and the non-threatening aura. The sword slid back home in its sheath as the redheaded assassin lifted his head, allowing him to peer from under the reed hat’s wide brim.
A girl stared back at him, a worried expression on her young face. Probably no older than twelve, her large blue eyes widened a bit as she got a good look at his face. “Oh dear! You’ve been hurt,” she gasped, kneeling down and reaching toward the stranger’s bruised cheek.
Khuradasu frowned. He lifted a hand, intercepting the dark-haired child’s fingers. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”
Amazingly, the girl firmly pushed his hand away and gingerly touched his cheek. “That doesn’t look like it’s ‘nothing’, nor does the blood staining your clothing. Did the bad warriors catch you out in the open?”
“Bad warriors?”
“Yes,” she responded, glancing about for a moment. Her expression turned wary, as if she thought more such people could suddenly appear at any time. “They seem to think that because they are defending Aizhou from the dreaded Derkaryans, they can do anything they like to us village folk. There’s been beatings, robberies . . . and worse.”
“Yes, but the ones that marked me are not going to be hurting anyone else,” the orange-maned assassin responded. He flicked aside the reed cloak just a bit, enough to give the child a quick look at the hilt of his sword.
Blue eyes grew even wider. “Oh,” the girl gasped, looking at him. “W-who are you?”
Khuradasu gave the child what he hoped was an encouraging smile. “Just a wanderer, nothing more.”
For a moment, the Derkaryan warrior couldn’t tell if the brunette girl would bolt like a frightened fawn or stay put. Suddenly she reached out and grabbed him by the wrist. Tugging back with all her strength, she valiantly tried to pull the redheaded, sword-bearing stranger to his feet. “Come on! You look like you can use a meal and a bath,” she insisted.
“You really shouldn’t be so friendly toward people you don’t know,” Khuradasu warned.
“Nonsense!” the girl chirped back, still tugging on him. “You’re not a bad man. I can tell these things. And my sister would be glad to help out a traveler.”
Sighing in mild frustration and amused disbelief, Khuradasu pushed himself off the ground. Standing gracefully, he had only enough time to catch his balance before the girl began dragging him off by the arm through the somewhat sparse forest.
“My name’s Maia, by the way,” the child cheerfully chirped. Still leading him by the wrist, she made her way to the edge of the forest with the ease of one familiar with the territory.
“Nice name,” the assassin responded.
“And you are?” the dark-haired girl insisted.
“Just a simple wanderer.”
“Hrmph. Even wanderers have names.”
That made the redheaded Derkaryan softly chuckle. The persistent sprite reminded him of another girl just as headstrong and confident. “Kara,” he replied.
“That’s a girl’s name,” Maia huffed. Without stopping, she glanced over her shoulder up at her reluctant guest. “Though I guess I can see why your mother would have given you a girl’s name.”
Khuradasu frowned, his cheeks reddening in embarrassment and pique. Continuing to follow the girl across what had to be her village’s plowed land, he softly growled, “It’s a nickname. It’s short for—” he stopped himself, still obviously in a huff. “Never mind. It’s enough to know my full name’s twice as long as the short form—and it does end with ‘u’.”
“Whatever you say, Kara,” Maia responded, her youthful voice taking on a tone of superiority. She suddenly giggled. Picking up her speed, she tugged harder on her “captive’s” wrist. “Come on! We’re almost there!”
“Almost where?” Khuradasu inquired. He glanced about, amber gaze taking in the details of the approaching village. The collection of homes and barns were much like any other in the Empire; simple buildings of wood and paper walls perched atop raised wooden floors, most of the peaked, woven-thatch roofs covered single rooms normally partitioned by simple wood screens into multiple areas, they huddled around a common bathhouse and well.
“Sukishetrah, my home,” Maia answered, cheerfully. “Most everyone’s out at the other fields right now, or hard at work in their house, so you’ll have the bath all to yourself.”
“If everyone else is out working, why were you walking about in the woods?”
“Silly. I was out looking for medicinal herbs. Sister needs them now while they’re growing so there’s enough through winter.”
He gave the child a look of mild frustration. “I’m not exactly an herb, now am I?”
Maia laughed, clearly amused. “Of course not! But you looked hurt, and even with a sword, I just know you’re not like the bad warriors.” She turned loose of him then; he sensed her aura shift around to behind him as she dashed to his rear. Next thing he knew, the little tyke was trying to shove him toward the bathhouse with all her strength. “So you just get cleaned up and relaxed, and I’ll see what can be done about those clothes. You’d look funny wandering about all bloody, Kara.”
She has a point, Khuradasu sighed, allowing himself to be casually shoved along. The bathhouse was much like any other, if perhaps a bit more rustic and well-used. Like the other buildings in the village, there seemed to be a general state of disrepair; it was almost as if the people didn’t have enough energy to keep things as well as they should. Other impressions impinged upon his Avatar senses as he kicked off his reed sandals. There seemed to be an undercurrent of desperation and wariness, as if the people surrounding him were doing their best to continue on with their simple lives while dreading some future event. Inwardly frowning, Khuradasu turned to address his little guide, only to find her stepping back down to the ground with a giggle.
“Now you get in there and get cleaned up!” she cheerfully ordered, her youthful voice holding a note of utter command. Before he could say anything—let alone ask her about what could be filling the village with dread—she was gone.
The Derkaryan
sighed again, shaking his head slightly. Why
did I let myself get talked into this?
What would you rather have done? Take her head off like you did those other girls? responded the other voice in his head, the mental tone scathing.
Khuradasu
reached up, rubbing his forehead in an attempt to assuage the splitting
headache that accompanied the voice. I’m not like that.
You are. How many more are you going to slaughter
anyway?
Do you really think I should have let all those warriors go untouched so they could continue on to beat some true peasant to death? Khuradasu snarled in response. And if I’m the monster you claim me to be, why would I let that last one go? Silence only greeted his internal query, but the headache remained. Growling under his breath, Khuradasu started stripping out of his commoner’s garb. The sword of a Lopayzom is to be used for the defense of the clan, for the helpless and the weak, and for those who have not the strength to defend themselves. The nobility of the Fox are forever pledged to the protection of those under them and those they meet who have no other protection. We who are born noble and trained in our sword-art have an obligation to risk our lives in the stead of another, to shed our blood in place of those beholden to the land, the assassin recited, throwing the words of their sacred pledge back at the other voice.
The silence deepened and the headache lessened. Khuradasu sensed he’d scored a point against the other, disapproving voice. Finally, it whispered back before subsiding completely for the moment, There must be some other way to protect without killing . . .
Swords are inherently lethal, Khuradasu replied by way of a parting shot. Shaking his head to rid himself of the remaining effects of the headache, the assassin began concentrating on washing his lithe body off before stepping into the inviting tub.
He’d been soaking for a while, eyes closed and nearly lulled to sleep from the heat and relaxation, when a knock on the door caught his attention. Immediately awake, he sat up; the auras beyond the wall were that of Maia and another similar—and both were no threat. Before he could say anything, the door opened and two villagers stepped inside.
“Hey, Kara! This is my big sister, Izura. Sister, this is the wandering swordsman I was telling you about,” Maia announced, cheerfully, as she burst into the bathhouse.
The sibling in question was obviously an older blood relative of the enthusiastic girl. They shared the same large blue eyes and chestnut-hued brunette hair, though the older sister had a more delicate, ethereal quality to her appearance. Bowing slightly, her cheeks taking on a light blush of embarrassment, Izura said, “A pleasure to meet you. I do hope my sister hasn’t been an annoyance.”
“Not at all. I appreciate the bath, to be honest.”
“Sister, he got a bit hurt fighting off some bad warriors.”
Khuradasu frowned at the twelve-year-old. Lightly touching his cheek, he insisted, “This bruise is nothing.”
The older sibling walked over to the tub and knelt down. Her azure gaze swept over the stranger’s face, then down to what she could see of his body above the water. “It seems to be just a trifle, as are the other marks I can see. Still, once you’re done here, I can put a salve on them if you come over to my place.”
“You’re too kind,” Khuradasu murmured, sinking a bit into the tub. He hated being fussed over, and the attention was quite embarrassing.
Izura gracefully stood, then gestured at her younger sister. “I’ll take your clothing down to the stream to wash it. In the meanwhile, you can wear these. I’m afraid they may be a bit large for you, but they’re all I have.”
“Won’t their owner be upset?”
As Maia set the green and brown clothes down in a neat pile on one of the benches, Izura gave her unexpected guest a sad smile. “My brother won’t be needing them any longer. He fell in battle almost two years ago now, fighting against Derkarya. He was killed, they say, by the warrior known as Khuradasu.”
It took all of the redheaded assassin’s self-control to keep his surprise from his face. Sinking a bit lower into the water, he asked, “Are they certain of that?”
Izura’s sad smile remained. “They brought him home then, his body shorn in two by a sword. He’s buried in the village graveyard.” Noting the slightly stunned expression in the wanderer’s golden eyes, she did her best to shake off her melancholy. “Iaru was skilled and confident. He had always hoped to gain glory, and he died a warrior’s death. Everyone knew how dangerous it was to challenge Khuradasu, but he attempted it anyway. I guess he thought he’d be glorious indeed if he’d been the one to stop that Derkaryan warrior.”
“I’m sorry,” Khuradasu said, voice soft. So many fights, so many challengers—and I can’t even bring to mind who this warrior must have been . . .
“It’s all right,” the older villager assured her guest. “And I don’t think my brother would mind you borrowing his clothes, Kara. When you’re done, Maia will show you to our house. It’ll be nightfall soon; you’re welcome to eat supper with us.”
As the urchin mentioned beamed a smile at him, Khuradasu managed an answering smile. “A meal sounds very nice, if you’re willing to extend such hospitality.”
“Not at all. Take your time and relax,” Izura encouraged. “Maia will be waiting outside.” She waved at her sibling to follow her out. “Come along.”
“Sure thing, Sister!”
Amber eyes watched the two of them go until the door slid shut, leaving the red-haired warrior alone once more. For some reason, Khuradasu couldn’t shake the feeling that the girls had some ulterior motive for inviting him to their place.
Sure enough, the little urchin ran up to him the moment he walked out of the bathhouse. Blue eyes sparkling, Maia giggled at her unexpected guest. “They are pretty big on you.”
Khuradasu wryly smiled, lifting his arms up. The grass-green shirt hung a bit baggily against his slender frame, gaping open almost all the way down his front. When he held his arms straight down, the ends of the sleeves covered over his hands fully. The dark brown pants were just as loose; he had to be careful walking or risk tripping over the hems. “Beggars shouldn’t be choosers,” he murmured.
“Well, you look even more harmless now,” the girl giggled.
If only you knew . . . Khuradasu just smiled more, ignoring the slight ache between his eyes. “You were going to show me your house?”
“Sure was! It’s right over here,” Maia confirmed. She turned and dashed off.
The sun was low in the sky as they walked across the village commons. The people he saw coming in from the fields were mostly older men and younger boys; there seemed to be a lack of warrior-age men. Women were present in the entire range of ages, many of them greeting their men-folk coming in from the fields. And all of them seemed nervous or wary.
Maia lead him to a cottage much like the others. In a similar state of slight neglect, there was nothing that made it stand out from its wood, paper and thatch neighbors. Stepping up onto the wooden deck surrounding the one-roomed structure, Khuradasu leaned forward and gently put a hand on the girl’s shoulder.
“Tell me,” the assassin ordered, voice soft.
The brunette child jumped. Twisting slightly, she stared up at her guest, her blue eyes huge. “Tell you what?” she chirped, cheeks pinking faintly.
“Why you really wanted me to come here.”
The blush on the girl’s face deepened. She glanced swiftly at the door of her house while kicking off her sandals. “Tonight there’s supposed to be more bad warriors coming. I don’t want my sister hurt again, like they always do when they come.”
“Again? This has happened before?”
Maia nodded, her child’s face serious. “The warriors from the camp nearby go from village to village, and tonight’s the night they come here. They make all of us feed some of them dinner.”
From the way the girl’s voice trailed off, Khuradasu could guess that far more happened at each village than them just eating. A frown settled on the assassin’s face as he tugged the door opened. His sock-covered feet were silent on the reed-matted floor as he stepped inside.
Izura was there, putting the finishing touches on setting dinner on the table. Noting the movement out of the corner of her eye, she straightened up and smiled at her guest. The moment she got a good look, she softly chuckled. “Oh my. They really are loose on you. Well, your clothes have been washed and they’re hanging near the hearth to dry off.”
“I appreciate the effort,” Khuradasu responded, humbly. Though I don’t deserve such kindness from you, not after ending your brother’s life.
“It’s no trouble at all,” Izura assured. She gestured to the table. “Have a seat. I hope it’s to your liking.”
“I’m certain it will be,” the redheaded warrior replied. He gracefully sat down on one of the large, comfortable pillows gathered about the low wooden table. “But what is this your sister says about ‘bad warriors’ are due to come here tonight?”
The older woman gave her younger sibling a look. As Maia blushed and flopped down on another of the pillows, Izura turned her azure gaze back to her guest. “The local commander has been bringing his troops to the villages for the past year or so. He follows a schedule, staying here one night, then going on to the next village for the next night and so on until all have been visited in turn and the whole starts over again.”
“So he’s been quartering his troops among the villagers?”
“Yes. He says that his men are low on food, that the supply lines are unreliable since everything’s being given to those on the front lines.”
“That’s a lie,” Khuradasu growled. Noting the sisters were staring at him, he frowned and gestured for Izura to sit down as well. As she did so, he continued, “It would be foolish to divert everything to the front lines. Derkarya’s never penetrated this far, so the supply lines are not in danger here, and it’s to here that wounded and exhausted men would be transferred in order to recuperate and recover. It’s from here that fresh warriors would come to replace those. Keeping supplies low here means that you’d have less than ready men transferring into the thick of battle while those who have to transfer out would not be ready to return in a swift manner.”
“Then he’s just taking advantage of us,” Izura sighed, starting to serve herself from the dinner she’d made.
“That’s what I suspect,” Khuradasu replied. “And it’s been happening for a year?”
“Not quite a year, but a while now, yes. The commander before this one was a good man. He kept his men under control, but then he was cut down in the middle of the night—and it’s his replacement that’s been doing this. They say that there’s been so many having to be replaced in the chain of command that the armies are losing discipline.”
Which means the blame for that can be put on my head as well as on the other Shadow Warriors of Derkarya. Is there no tactic that doesn’t involve the harming of innocents? Khuradasu mentally sighed, spooning up a small pile of rice onto his plate. That was swiftly followed by some of the simple beef and chopped vegetable topping. “They do more than just eat dinner with you and sleep in the house?”
Izura fell silent, her shoulders drooping some. Instead of answering, she concentrated on eating her meal.
Maia too remained quiet, her big blue gaze shifting from first her sister to the shaggy-haired swordsman while she ate.
He could sense shame clinging to the older sibling, and fear in both their auras. With a sinking feeling, he realized what their suddenly subdued mien must signify. “They do more, don’t they?” he coaxed.
The older girl sighed. Lifting her head, her expression bordered on bursting into tears. “Some of the warriors insist on . . . ‘entertainments’ as well, and they seem to goad one another into horrid behavior. For some, they leave people half-beaten, for others . . .
“If I hadn’t, they would have hurt my sister as well.”
“So to protect your sister—?”
“But you can stop them this time, can’t you, Kara?” Maia blurted.
Khuradasu blinked in surprise, amber gaze shifting to the younger girl. Her big blue gaze met his, full of a child’s hope in a hero who she believed could keep the bad things from happening again. “If your brother hadn’t have been killed—”
“No,” Izura responded, interrupting her guest. “Alive or dead, he would still be gone, off fighting on the front lines. Just as the other warrior-age men are right now. The war’s to blame for all of this.”
And that makes all of this ultimately the
While the younger sister instantly brightened, looking quite cheerful as she began eating again, Izura smiled uncertainly at the redheaded warrior.
The manslayer noticed the older girl’s expression. His answering smile was warm, untroubled. “One against twenty-one, yes, but don’t despair. I will stop them, Izura. I promise. Now eat and try to think of better things.”
The pretty
brunette silently nodded. As the three
of them turned their attention back to finishing their simple but filling meal,
Khuradasu kept his senses on the alert, watching for the auras of the
The orange-maned manslayer had nearly finished when the menacing auras slipped into range. He stiffened slightly, slipping into the mental state needed to wield his Avatar ability in battle.
“What is it?” Izura asked, noting the change in her guest’s manner.
“They’re coming,” Khuradasu replied. The siblings glanced at one another in worry as the slender youth pushed himself up off the pillow. “It would perhaps be best if you stayed in here, away from the conflict,” he suggested while striding over to the door. Picking his sword up from where he’d rested it against the wall, the redheaded warrior slipped the weapon home against his waist then tugged the wood and paper panel open.
“Please, be careful, Kara,” Izura called after him as he stepped through.
Khuradasu paused, and for a moment the sisters thought their guest would glance over his shoulder for one last look. But he didn’t, merely pulling the door shut without turning around or a word to the girls within.
He quickly stepped into his sandals and then walked off the wooden deck to the ground below. Senses on the alert, he crouched down and sprinted from shadow to shadow as he made his way toward the grouping of spirit energy new to the village. Wrapping his own aura close, he pressed against the side of one of the rustic houses and watched as the unit rode into the commons. Around him, he could sense the villagers’ dread; here and there a number of doors could be heard opening as the people living in Sukishetrah peered out in fear at the warriors.
They were, indeed, a full unit of twenty under the command of a leader. Loud and boisterous, they rode in on spirited horses outfitted in what amounted to dress-parade tack: long tassels of red and green swayed from reins and a swath across the mounts’ fronts, gold glittered here and there at joints of bridle and points of saddle, and the saddle-blankets were woven in intricate designs that again showed off the red and green motif of the Emerald Phoenix army. Through the village they rode towards the bathhouse in the center of the settlement, as proud as any overlord while commenting on the innate cowardice of the peasantry; from his observation so far, Khuradasu could tell these were more of the same sort he’d encountered the night before. Egos swollen with their power, they were out to impress others and abuse the strength and influence they had for their own twisted ideas of fun.
Amber eyes narrowed in disgust. Even if some of the men were of the common class called up in time of war, the officer in charge was most certainly of the nobility. As such, he had an obligation to see to the protection of those who worked the land; far too often, Khuradasu had come to find, nobles took freely without a second thought to the give inherent in the divine contract between lord and peasant. Their commander should be the one keeping them in line; instead he seemed to be one of the major instigators.
As the
“All right, men,” shouted out the apparent leader—a barrel-chested, shady-looking character with dark red hair and blue-violet eyes—as he signaled his chestnut mount to stop before the bathhouse. “Let’s get the travel dust off us and while we’re doing that, we can discuss how we’re going to divide up the village for the night.”
With various yells of enthusiastic glee, the equally motley crew of brown- and red-maned warriors stopped in the village common and dismounted.
“Taru, Aiku! You two go put the horses in some poor sod’s barn,” the commander called out as he swung himself down off his mount. “And make sure to give them the guy’s best feed.”
A couple of the youngest of the group acknowledged the order, one of whom caught the spying assassin’s attention. Flame-haired and grey-eyed, the youth’s blue-green aura held uncertainty and hesitancy. Khuradasu couldn’t shake the impression that under it all, the youth was as scared of his unit as the villagers were and he was merely putting up a good front to keep their ugliness from turning on him as well.
A frown settled on Khuradasu’s face as he watched the two so ordered gather up the horses by their long reins and begin leading a few off out of the manslayer’s field of vision. That one may deserve sparing . . .
The redheaded assassin continued to watch, hidden in the shadows, as Taru and Aiku returned to lead off the remaining horses. The warriors left behind stood around in front of the bathhouse, still carrying on their somewhat crude conversation. They were discussing amongst themselves who would impose themselves upon which village family, and Khuradasu noted that a point of contention had come up between a couple of the men over who would be assigned to Izura’s home.
“Jiru says the wench is really hot. I want to give her a try,” one of the older, more loathsome warriors was complaining, getting up in the face of one of his compatriots.
“She’d take one look at you and claw your face off. Besides, I was told I could have a go at her this time around,” the other, brown-haired swordsman growled back.
The conversation made Khuradasu feel ill. In his mind’s eye, he recalled Izura’s fear and shame—and here were a couple more fully intent on adding to her humiliation.
“Well, maybe you can both go there and share. Or at the least, one of you take the wench and the other can break in that little brat sister of hers,” cheerfully suggested one of the others.
No, Khuradasu thought, face paling slightly in dread. That absolutely cannot be allowed. He peeked around the corner of the building again in time to see one of the two assigned to see to the horses return. The youth with the blue-green aura was still somewhat distant. Now would be the time. “If anything’s going to be broken around here, it will be your heads,” the angry manslayer called out as he stepped away from the house and out into the open.
“What the hell was that?”
“Who said that?”
“The hell—?”
“Who’s there?”
Clearly startled
by a soft, menacing voice from out of nowhere, the
Khuradasu took another step forward. He projected spirit energy outward while drawing his sword; the increased presence and cold whisper of steel caught the attention of the twenty thuggish men gathered together. Almost as one, their focus fell on the redheaded assassin, even more of the warriors obviously preparing for a fight. “Which one of you is in command?” the manslayer softly demanded, narrowed amber eyes flicking to stare at the one he’d deduced was their leader.
The burly, dark-red-haired man seemingly in charge stiffened slightly; though the involuntary gesture was subtle, easily missed, the momentary spike in the man’s spirit energy was enough for Khuradasu to know he’d guessed correctly. That one then stepped forward slightly, mouth twisting into a snarl. “Well, what do we have here? Looks like a pathetic puppy trying to pass himself off as a guard dog.”
Khuradasu ignored both the jibe and the soft laughter from the other warriors. “Take your unit and leave this place. You have no business here.”
“You’d best stop your yipping and get your nose out of things that don’t concern you, girly-man.”
“The wanton abuse of strength and power always concerns me,” Khuradasu snarled softly. “With guardians such as you, what does Aizhou need with enemies? No, what she needs,” he said, raising his sword slightly into a defensive stance, “is someone to protect her people from the very ones sworn to defend them.”
The unit’s leader suddenly burst into laughter. “You? Boy, you’d be better occupied sucking cock than wielding a sword.” He turned and gestured at his surrounding men. “A couple of you shut him up.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Gladly!”
Two of the gathered men rushed forward, pulling their swords free. A couple of the larger, older men, they were certain the pretty little teenager in the baggy peasant clothing would be no match for their skills.
Amber eyes
flicked their gaze from one to the other and then back as Khuradasu readied
himself. The one on the left was
slightly faster; the first attack would probably come from there. As the swifter of the men stopped and raised
his sword for a blow, the lithe assassin darted to the right. Ducking under the second man’s wild swing,
Khuradasu slashed viciously upwards under the other weapon’s path. Avatar energy made Khuradasu’s blade glow with
sunlight as it slashed through the warrior from waist to rib cage. The body fell to the ground in two pieces as
Khuradasu whirled and thrust toward where he sensed his other opponent’s aura
to be. A horrible gurgling sound filled
the village’s commons as the
For a heartbeat,
all was still in the commons. Khuradasu
stood ready to react; the
The commander’s expression shifted to one of pure fury, his face turning red. Pointing at the bloody-bladed teenager, he snarled, “Cut that bastard down!”
With a shout, the seventeen remaining warriors brandished their weapons and charged. The commander stood smirking as he watched his men run to engage the short stranger.
In the stillness at the center of his warrior’s focus, Khuradasu bided his time. He sensed the approaching wave of multi-colored auras, ready to react in an instant. The second one of the others’ came near, he burst into movement. He dodged the incoming thrust, then lashed back. His sunlit sword ripped through the torso of one as easily as it swung through air. Khuradasu whirled, piercing another of the warriors through the heart before the body of the first hit the bloodstained ground. A swift, forceful kick dislodged second, now dying, man from off the assassin’s blade; a few of the remaining Phoenix warriors were forced to scatter from the short flight of their comrade’s bulky form.
Pain stung the assassin then, a thin line of fire across the top of his left shoulder. Hissing, Khuradasu slashed upward; steel rang out as swords collided. Another couple of auras crowded closer; the redheaded teenager stepped back, parrying desperately. Another slash got through his defense; blood trickled down Khuradasu’s leg from a glancing wound to his thigh. More of the other auras crowded close, threatening to overwhelm even the extraordina