|
Flames lit up the starless night.
 |
Screams of agony occasionally escaped
the distant conflagration. Mothers, fathers, husbands. Wives and children.
They would perish on this night, Kalatsu knew.
Once the fire had taken root in the
center of the village houses with their dry timber foundations, and with
winds this strong, no effort from a human hand could halt the rampage. |
It recalled to him the flames of
yesteryear. When he was not yet grown to manhood, raiders had come and
razed his village to the ground. His entire family was wiped out before
his eyes. But he survived.
How he wanted to die then. Instead,
he grew to be strong and independent. Strong and independent enough that
no one would cause him such helpless pain ever again.
A melancholic wail from a feminine
throat brought Kalatsu back to his present predicament.
A human hand could not have stopped
it, but a human hand had started it. They should not have stood against
him. Had they opened their storehouses to him, the village folks would not
now suffer their dire fate. Oh, the young women would have been ravished—such
was the reality of war—but they would have lived. And so would the rest.
Alas, a group of fools had picked up
weapons against him. His mercenary army had cut them down in a few
heartbeats. Overcame by the heady rush of adrenalin, a raw recruit had set
fire to a nearby house. The action threw his men at arms, always
bloodthirsty, into a killing frenzy. Soon they were running through the
thoroughfare torching everything that would burn.
Kalatsu had seen the opening incident
but was too far away to stop it.
However much he abhorred the action,
primal emotions were let loose within him as he witnessed the bloodshed.
He tottered between the decision to restrain his men and the baser need
for redemption.
Then, in a defining moment, aided by
the ever-thinning boundaries of good and evil, Kalatsu accepted the events
as unavoidable and walked away from the scene, leaving the village and all
its inhabitants to the mercy of his men.
Now, upon reflection, Kalatsu
understood the webs of self-deceit that had led to his apathy. This was
Ilanith, the village that gave birth to the legendary figure Samaran the
battle king. The man who had forged an empire and united the known world.
The man who had created the Warrior Code. As a child he had worshiped this
man, had hung on desperately to every tales told about him.
Where was this man when his own
village was being plundered and burnt? Where were the Warriors of the Code
when his mother was pleading for her life?
They were gone. All gone. In the many
years that followed Kalatsu's eventful journey to become a mercenary
general, the Warriors of the Code all but vanished. The king's fate became
shrouded in mystery and the once-united known world broke down into
squabbling states controlled by power-hungry warlords.
"I shall be the greatest warlord
of them all," whispered Kalatsu.
"All those who stand against me
shall burn."
* * *
The
man stood before Kalatsu—a statue against the winds and elements.
He
wore a lavender robe of light cloth wrapped tightly around his body with a
piece of thin rope. It was simple attire popular in an age long past,
designed for easy movement of the body.
His
face was pale, lined with age. Graying hairs flowed down to his shoulders,
kept in place by a thin black ribbon near the scalp.
No
sign of anxiety broke the calmness of his face. Indeed, it seemed to
barely register Kalatsu's presence.
Except
the eyes.
They
bore through him, down to the depth of his soul. Light glinted through
them as they locked on Kalatsu, following even the persistent flapping of
his hair in the cool breeze.
The
sunlight had begun to wane, the cold winds slowly seeping into his body.
Yet, still no movement from the man in the lavender robe.
Finally,
when he thought he could wait no longer, the man spoke, his voice clear
and crisp in the evening air.
"I
am Mahenza. I give you greetings from the house of Armen. Choose the
manner of your death."
Kalatsu's
eyes widened in surprise. His heart thumped excitedly against his chest.
His instincts had proven true about his adversary. The risk had not been
in vain.
He
mulled over his words, not wanting to rush the reply. No, not to this man
and not for all the glory in the world. Here was the moment he never
dreamt possible. A tiny slice of time preserved by a man from the past.
Words like these had not been uttered for long decades. He had learned of
them, seen them once in a text of historical accounts. He had not thought
the art of dueling for honor was still practiced in the known world.
But
he was game.
"I
am Kalatsu. I give you greetings from the house of Naraldu. I choose a
warrior's death." And he pulled his left leg back; right leg came
forward, bending slightly at the knee into the stance of iluma. A
position that allowed the fastest draw of the sword.
Kalatsu's
right hand hovered over his sword, sheathed to the left side of his
leather belt. The rough-edged pattern of the hilt felt familiar and
comforting to his fleetingly caressing fingers.
Kalatsu
calculated his chances and mentally shook his head. He could not lose. His
lightweight chain mail, complemented by thin and cleverly crafted metal
plates, provided armor that could not be penetrated easily. Mahenza, in
comparison, had no armor on him. Even allowing that it afforded greater
speed compared to his weighted opponent, Kalatsu had the advantage of
youth, whereas Mahenza seemed to be approaching middle age. The only
advantage Mahenza could possibly claim was to greater swordsmanship. And
that, thought Kalatsu, was not possible.
"You
cannot win," Kalatsu formally told his adversary. The man still had
not make a move for the sheathed sword held loosely in his left hand.
"If
I do, will you honor your word?" came the calm reply.
"I
am Kalatsu. My word is iron. My lieutenant, Bamaras, knows my wishes.
Should I fall here and you return my sword to him as proof of my demise,
he will lead the soldiers away. Your village will not be molested."
The
words sounded fluid and sincere to his own ears. But they were a lie.
Kalatsu had no way of enforcing his promise should he fall. The world had
changed since Mahenza's time. Honor had taken second place. Once warriors
had fought for the sake of principle and a pledge spoken during a duel was
taken as law inviolate. Not anymore.
Mahenza
did not need to know of his lost cause. Kalatsu wanted the best from the
old Warrior of the Code, if that was indeed what he was. The truth might
break Mahenza's fighting spirit. That just would not do.
Ilanith
had not satisfied Kalatsu's hunger for revenge on what he saw as the
failure of King Samaran and his so-called Warriors of the Code to protect
his family. Blood must be shed. He wanted to see fear in the eyes of the
old man who had dared to challenge him; who, even now, stood peacefully
while contemplating the face of death.
There
was one other thing before the killing could commence.
"Tell
me now what happened to Samaran, the battle king. You should know his
fate, if indeed you are a warrior from his time."
The
solemn reply did not disappoint Kalatsu.
"He
was killed by one of his men who challenged his right to rule."
"This
man. Was he a Warrior of the Code? One from the king's inner circle?"
Kalatsu probed further.
"Yes.
He was a trusted friend."
Kalatsu
nodded. This was a story he had come to understand and embrace from the
realities of the world. Honor was a double-edged sword. Those who wielded
it would sooner or later be cut down by their own weapon.
"You
have told me all I needed to know. Prepare to die." Without another
word, Kalatsu sprang at Mahenza.
His
body blurred, bringing him close to his victim. A split second before he
came within range, his right wrist flipped. The sword jumped from the
sheath with a metallic clang, the movement so fast that Mahenza could not
have seen it, near though he was to its execution.
Even
as he moved, Kalatsu's mind calculated the distance and the probable
reactions of his opponent. Mahenza would not have time to draw his sword.
His stance was off. He should have unsheathed his sword before Kalatsu
made his move. Now he would have no more opportunity.
Kalatsu's
sword hissed through the air, arcing toward the neck of his foe. Too late,
he realized Mahenza was not going for his sword. Instead, Mahenza pivoted
toward his left, away from Kalatsu's lunge.
The
sword struck harmlessly into the empty air.
A
backhanded fist came swinging for Kalatsu's unprotected neck. Pushing
through his momentum, Kalatsu bunched his body and rolled out of harm's
way, landing into a crouch. Quickly he stood and turned to confront
Mahenza once again.
"Good
trick," he breathed, cautious now, for he was facing a master with
the sword.
"You
are overconfident." Mahenza gazed coolly at the ruffled man.
Kalatsu
felt his blood boil, the unaccustomed feeling of shame biting at his
warrior's discipline.
He
forced himself to laugh, to take away the sting of Mahenza's reproach.
"You
are good, old man. I shall draw your blood a drop at a time," he
barked, hoping to throw off the mask of confidence on Mahenza's face, but
to no avail.
"Show
me." Mahenza held his unsheathed sword at arm's length, taunting
Kalatsu to come near.
Holding
his long sword two-handed, Kalatsu slowly inched forward, looking for an
opening in Mahenza's defense.
He
was almost within striking distance when Mahenza suddenly dropped into the
iluma. "I will show you how it is done."
Thrown
off his careful advance, Kalatsu stopped and spread his feet, keeping his
body low and his sword perpendicularly held at the hips. The iluma
thrust had a weakness. It could not overcome a direct point lunge with a
long sword. He focused on Mahenza's sword arm, waiting for the moment when
Mahenza would bring his sword out—that was when he needed to strike.
At
the long last, Mahenza moved.
Kalatsu
saw the starting leap and nothing else. Battle reflexes, honed by long
years of training and fighting, took over. His senses felt the swish of a
sword being drawn. He crouched and thrust forward at the same time, making
his body into as small a target as possible.
His
sword did not hit flesh. He had barely registered this fact before
something hard pummeled his blade away from his grip and continued
unimpeded to smash into his armored body, knocking him backward and flying
to the ground. A whoosh of air escaped his lungs as his body met the hard
earth.
The
world swayed. Extreme pain lashed through his being. His mind screamed for
his body to react; immobility on the battlefield courted death. Despite
the excruciating pain, he rolled with the momentum and managed to twist
around to face his enemy, hands supporting himself off the ground. With a
smooth jerk of his right feet, he was standing again, albeit shakily,
right hand immediately snatching a short sword strapped to his back.
Mahenza
stood watching him, twenty paces away, a slightly curved double-edged
blade poised in his right hand.
"I
must congratulate you. You have the heart of a true warrior. Not many
would have gotten up from that." No hint of contempt was evident in
Mahenza's voice; the praise seemed genuine.
"You
have to do better than that to defeat me," Kalatsu managed to say,
between inhaling great swallows of air.
He
tried to compose himself while straining to hear the sound of the next
attack. He was not ready. In truth, he had taken a hard knock, armor or
not. If Mahenza attacked him now, he would be finished.
"You
show great skill with the sword," Kalatsu stalled. "Why is it I
have not heard of you?"
"The
world is far and wide," was all Mahenza said.
"You
know," Kalatsu continued, not knowing what else he could do to force
a longer resting period, "I may not be able to hold to my word should
I lose this fight.
"I
am no coward," he quickly added, "but what you asked will hold
no meaning once I'm dead"
"I
know, honorable Kalatsu," sighed the other man.
"You
knew?" Kalatsu was surprised. "Why, then, did you challenge me
to this duel to the death?"
"Because
even in desperation, there is hope."
That
was madness. If Mahenza killed him, the village would most likely be
destroyed anyway. If Kalatsu won the duel, then Mahenza would be dead, and
Kalatsu would not have owed him anything. It was a lose-lose situation.
Perhaps
Mahenza was mad after all.
Whatever
it was, Kalatsu did not care. He had recovered his second wind and his
mind was busy plotting his next move. He knew now that he could not best
his accomplished adversary with swordsmanship alone. Mahenza was without
doubt the most deadly swordsman Kalatsu had ever encountered. But that
would not stop him. He had never lost a sword fight and did not intend to
now. His heart was filled with rage at a shattered pride, but discipline
kept it in tight wraps, focusing the anger to fuel his bruised muscles.
Fleetingly,
he wished he had had the foresight to deploy a hidden bowman to dispatch
his opponent in the event the duel turned against him. But, of course, he
would not have accepted the challenge in the first place, had he thought
he would be outmatched. Arrogance had caused him to err.
Now
he would have to defeat Mahenza on the warrior's terms—honorably. Even
in his blind rage, Kalatsu knew he was still vulnerable to the charms of
the old world, with its delusions of honor. The child Kalatsu had been so
inundated with ideas of chivalry that even years of hard life as a
mercenary could not totally erase them. Treachery against this man would
only plunge his soul into an abyss of disrespectability from which there
would be no return.
He
took a deep breath and decided on a course of action. Then, with his body
tingling for action, his mind at full alert, he paused.
"Tell
me something, Mahenza, before fate determines which of us is to die. Was
the world a much better place during the reign of Samaran?"
The
question had to be asked.
Mahenza
smiled, making his face look youthful, his eyes turning soft for a moment.
"Ah.
It was a world much like this one. Honor was priced above all else. A
warrior who had no honor had no place in the eyes of the king and those of
his circle."
"Much
like this one?" Kalatsu spat. "You have been away from action
too long, old man. There is no more honor in this world. It is every man
for himself. I know, for I am a leader of men, and none who has crossed my
path has an inkling of what honor means. Death comes to those who are too
trusting or too weak."
"I,
too, can be called a leader of men, dear Kalatsu." Sadness tinged
Mahenza's voice. "And I have lived a long time, been to many places.
Yet I do not think that this world is bereft of honor, Kalatsu. As king,
Samaran set the standards for honor three decades ago. So, too, will the
standards be set again."
"Bah."
Kalatsu's face contorted in dismay at the naivetë of the other. Skilled
with the sword he was, but his mind was as blunt as a rusted blade.
"Honor and respect is what people show when they fear you. Walk away
and they spit behind your back. Act weaker than them and they will walk on
your head! Do not talk to me of honor, Mahenza! Your king has been dead
ten years. There has not been any king since, and the known world is
divided into small groups of barbarians bickering and butchering for
power. Tell me, where among them will you find honor?"
Mahenza
bowed his head, a sign of respect, as though acknowledging Kalatsu's
bitter experience. The act baffled Kalatsu even more about the nature of
this warrior from the past.
But
the time for talk was over. If there ever was a moment in which he would
be ready, it was now.
"Prepare
yourself, Mahenza. Know this: I shall kill you."
Again
the bow.
"Know
this, honorable Kalatsu: I shall defeat you."
Kalatsu
held his short sword high over his head in his right hand. His left
stretched outward, legs held slightly apart in a neutral position; neither
offensive nor defensive. Mahenza must not be able to read his move. Close
by, Mahenza's sheath fell to the ground with a thud. He held his sword
two-handed in a defensive stance.
Long
moments passed without either man stirring a muscle. The only movements
were those of eyelids flashing briefly, closing and quickly opening again;
both men's concentration total.
Now,
thought Kalatsu. He advanced, then ran. Well before he reached slashing
range, his arm drew back and punched into the air, releasing the short
sword into a deadly throw. Without waiting for the sword to connect, he
lowered his body, reached into his right boot for a long knife, and dived.
The ring of metal against metal crashed through the air. Mahenza had
somehow managed to parry the thrown blade.
Now!
Now!
Kalatsu's mind screamed. While Mahenza's sword was swung out of position,
he must strike!
Kalatsu
came out of the roll with arms outstretched, knife pointing straight and
low for the stomach. His target was there and unprotected. Now if he could
only reached it before—
He
could not.
Even
as he dived straight out of the roll, he saw the curved blade come down
impossibly fast in a straight line.
Mahenza's
sword pointed straight into Kalatsu's unprotected face as his body came
crashing forward.
*
* *
A
lone figure strode down the hill. He wore a simple robe of lavender cloth
fastened about his body with a thin rope around the waist. His face was
calm and his manner was that of one who had concluded a business and so
had earned a period of peace.
He
halted at the base, scanning the area before him. It was an inspiring
sight. With the setting sun watching and waving goodbye, two groups of
people faced each other across the open plains.
One
was a huge army of armored cavalry numbering in the hundreds, supported by
thousands of infantry and bowman. It was the biggest organized army
assembled under one banner that the land had seen in a long time.
The
other was a rag-tag group of village men and women who had with them an
awkward assortment of instruments like pitchforks, farming scythes and
ordinary-looking sticks that could well be fallen branches picked up in
haste.
Strange
they were, but certainly not comical. For there was no give in either
group. Dwarfed though they were by the massive army of soldiers, the
commonfolk showed a tenacity that belied their peasant origin. They stood
with their makeshift weapons firmly held in their hands, and though hours
must have passed, none could be seen resting on the ground or be heard
complaining of their precarious plight. Jittery they were, no doubt, and
scared. But courage and resolution was evident on all their faces.
The
groups stood far apart—waiting.
The
man walked slowly to the center of the opposing groups.
The
army recognized him and let him through unmolested.
When
he reached his destination, he hailed a senior ranking officer.
"Bamaras!"
he said in a commanding voice. "Have your men at ease. Make camp for
the night. I want groups of bowman to be organized and led to the forested
area yonder." He pointed to the north. "Light your way with
torches and bring back what game you can find. Be mindful of the dark and
do not travel too far. I do not want to hear of any men lost.
"Now
go."
As
the men moved to obey his commands, he strode and stopped a few paces
before the commoners. So close, that they could have had him if harm had
been on their minds.
"Who
speaks for you?" he asked, not unkindly, of the commoners.
A
small man of elderly appearance stepped forward from behind the first few
lines of people.
"I
am Tanali, the chosen speaker," he declared. Tanali gazed at the man
in the familiar robe and his eyes arched in confusion. "You are not
he," he continued. "Does that mean...?"
"Yes,"
Kalatsu finished for him. "The man you know of as Mahenza has left
this world."
"You
killed him?" Tanali said, not quite accusingly, for he knew of the
duel and its implications. All of them did.
"No.
He died of his own accord. Honorably. The way he would have liked to
go."
A
silence fell on the assembly as all ears strained to listen to the
conversation between the two men. The death of Mahenza elicited angry
retorts. Some sobbed, while others cursed quietly. But none made a move
for Kalatsu, sensing that it would be dangerous to do so.
"I
suppose you want us to surrender to you now and be at the mercy of your
army!" somebody interjected from within the throng.
Kalatsu
allowed his anger to show.
"Mahenza
died to give you life." His voice rose to address the crowd.
"Look
before you," he thundered. "My army outnumbers you ten to one.
They are trained soldiers with weapons and armor that cannot be defeated
by your farm implements!" His eyes pierced through the crowed,
cutting them with the truth of his words.
"One
among you had the wisdom to see the truth and the courage to take a
different course. Do not dishonor his death."
There
was silence, until Tanali spoke.
"I
am sorry, my lord. You have won the duel. I thank you for sparing our
lives. Our storehouses are open to you. I beg only that you leave us some
grain to sustain us until the next harvest."
"On
that accord, you do not need to worry, honorable Tanali. I ask only that
you spare what you can. My men will hunt for game to complement your ...
gifts."
Tanali
met the eyes of the warrior and saw a difference from the general of an
invading army that Mahenza had challenged. Could it be? Kalatsu had donned
the robe of Mahenza. It was a sign of respect for the defeated, something
he had not seen done in the last few decades.
He
bowed to Kalatsu.
"Do
not fear, my friend," Kalatsu said soothingly. "My troops have
been put to ease. You have nothing to fear from them. Now disperse your
people and allow them to return. There shall be no killing today. I have
made my promise to Mahenza. And I shall keep it."
Tanali
bowed and moved to obey his command. When the gathering had thinned and
the field was almost empty, Tanali turned to see Kalatsu walking back
toward his army. He had stayed to ensure there was no incident that could
provoke an unwanted fight.
He
gazed at the retreating general's back. If ever there was a time he had
witnessed a life-changing event, this was it. Whatever had transpired on
the hill where the two men had dueled, it had changed Kalatsu. The person
who had stood before him was not the same man who had charged into the
village elder's house and demanded all the provisions of the people of the
plains, on pain of death.
Tanali
watched until the figure disappeared into the throng of the opposing army.
A
tear found its way down to his cheek. He turned and walked toward his
home, thinking how much the general had reminded him of the late warrior,
Mahenza.
*
* *
Back
at his camp, Kalatsu saw that his personal crew had set up his tent, but
before he could go in, Bamaras approached him.
"That
was a pretty ruse," he said in his gruff voice, "and they
actually believed you!" He smiled crookedly. "Might be easier,
though, to just kill 'em all. Get more supplies that way, eh?"
"Maybe
next time, Bamaras." Kalatsu smiled weakly, feeling the draining
effects of the day. "After the bungle at Ilanith, I want to make sure
we get the supplies we need. No one can eat ashes. Now leave me. I am
tired and in need of rest."
"As
you wish. By the way, the men are getting restless. The fire's left too
little sport in Ilanith. Now that we ain't sacking this one, they'd be
wondering when we could get around to the looting again. You know what I
mean, sir."
Kalatsu's
eyes blazed and the grumpy man hurriedly left the tent without another
word.
Kalatsu's
body dropped heavily to the thin mat that had been spread on the ground.
He had not bothered to undress. Below his robes was the chain mail still.
He felt old and tired, when moments ago, after the duel, he had strangely
felt reborn.
Alone
with his thoughts at last, his mind wondered to his near-death experience
on the hill.
As
he had made his final lunge, Mahenza had been waiting for him with arm
outstretched, sword pointing straight at his face.
Kalatsu's
mind had reeled, knowing the end was near. Flashes of what he could have
done instead of the desperate roll flew past his consciousness. But he did
not die.
Slowly,
as if in a dream, the maddening point of the sword moved to his right,
missing his eye, then his ear, until it brushed harmlessly against his
shoulder plates and onward past the shoulder, where it finally rested. The
hand that held the hilt of the blade became still, needing the support of
his person to keep from falling.
Kalatsu's
heart raced. For a moment he was disoriented, not sure of what had passed;
hoping that it was not just a shock reaction that prevented his body from
feeling the pain of a mortal wound.
But
no, it was true. He was not injured. His eyes finally focused on the knife
he had drawn from his boots. It no longer needed his grip to hold itself
aloft—having become embedded in soft flesh. Mahenza's midriff.
"No,"
Kalatsu whispered, as it dawned on him that Mahenza had deliberately
averted his sword in the final moments to avoid killing him and, in so
doing, ended his own life instead.
Mahenza's
body tilted sideways, then slowly made for the ground. Kalatsu caught him
and gently lowered his body until he held it in a lover's embrace.
"Why?"
Kalatsu whispered.
Mahenza's
eyelids flickered open. Shallow gasps for air came from his mouth.
His
lips moved, the words barely a whisper. "Because I needed to
win."
Then,
expending all the energy his fading body could contrive, Mahenza spoke
again, haltingly. "Honor is not how others see you, Ka... lat... su.
It... is how ... you see yourself ... Fulfill your promise ... my ...
friend."
Kalatsu
had bowed his head, waiting for the inevitable.
But
in the last moments of his life, Mahenza, barely audible, had made a final
pronouncement that would change Kalatsu's world forever. Back in his tent,
Kalatsu opened his eyes.
"The
village will not be harmed. That much I can achieve with ease. But of your
last edict, you have more faith in me than I have in myself."
He
sighed. The army of mercenaries he had gathered could hardly be called
honorable. To prevent them from decimating the villagers, he had to try to
stop the villagers from attacking. To that end, he had taken, indeed
plundered, Mahenza's robe in the hope that the villagers would recognize
it as a gift of honor from the dead man. A tradition of the duelists from
King Samaran's time.
The
ploy had worked. He had them fooled. Ah, but what could he have done? He,
Kalatsu, the general of an army that held allegiance to him only as long
as he could pay it.
Mahenza
had understood. Killing Kalatsu would only see another general of the
mercenary raised among the ranks. The only way for Mahenza to win was to
lose.
"Ah,
my friend," Kalatsu thought, "you have chosen a dishonest person
for an honest act.
"You
have changed me. I cannot go back. But the same cannot be said for the
mercenary army. How do you change a pack of carrion-eating vultures into
proud eagles?"
Mahenza's
final words were inscribed indelibly in Kalatsu's mind. "The
people need a Uniter. Embrace your destiny with honour."
As
though Mahenza had pronounced Kalatsu's salvation, a dam broke within
Kalatsu's heart that he had not acknowledged ever existed. It released him
from the terrible guilt of having outlived his family. Yet at the same
time he felt an overwhelming weight of responsibility placed on his
shoulders.
But
it was a weight he could carry, and one that would not tarnish his soul.
Kalatsu's
first actions would be to restore his men-at-arms to the right path. The
Army of Gold would have to be trimmed and transformed into an Army of
Heart. Many would pay the price of Kalatsu's transformation with their
lives.
Treachery
would still be his weapon, and cunning his tool. Not many of his methods
would change from the days of Kalatsu past. The difference would lie in
his goals. They had become far grander than he had imagined, and more
noble than ever he deserved.
"Perhaps
that is the riddle of my destiny.
"That,
in order to have honor, I must do the dishonorable."
Sleep
was a long time in coming that night, as his mind schemed and calculated.
When
slumber finally came, Kalatsu dreamt that a king once again rose to
conquer and unite the known world, riding atop a magnificent white
stallion.
And
he was not surprised when his dreaming eyes saw his own face and body
riding the white warhorse, as warriors flocked to the banner of Kalatsu
the Fair—Warrior of the Old Code.
<END>
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