Paul Thompson - A warrior's joyrney

“Juramona! Juramona!”

Shouting to distract the beast, Tol ran under an arch of green legs, turned, and thrust his saber hard into XimXim’s gut. The creature convulsed in agony, his front legs twitching spasmodically. Mandes’s left arm was severed at the shoulder.

XimXim dropped the sorcerer and lurched away from his attacker, tearing the sword from Tol’s hand. Tol’s dagger was still buried in XimXim’s back. The young warrior was weaponless now.

Fluids green and black gushed from the monster’s belly wounds. XimXim opened his wings part way, but there was no room in the tunnel for flight. He staggered closer to the edge of the chasm. His middle legs trod on the Oil of Luin and promptly slid out from under him. He fell heavily on the thin pool of oil and slid toward the rim of the pit. Unable to stop himself, legs flailing, the monster skidded over the edge.

Kiya and Miya cried out when they saw the huge monster plunge by their narrow perch. It tried to spread its wings, but failed, and, helpless, clacking his palps in terror, XimXim plummeted into the pit. The awful noise he made was cut off abruptly when he splashed into the pool of molten rock far below.

A thick column of white smoke rose from the pit, filling the tunnel. The Dom-shu choked and gasped. Kiya had been hammering the rock wall with the pommel of Miya’s sword to make shallow toeholds. She began to climb.

When Kiya gained the tunnel floor above, she spied Tol kneeling by Mandes, working feverishly. Both men were covered, as was she herself, with a layer of white ash from XimXim’s immolation. She crawled to Tol, and he didn’t even flinch when she appeared suddenly at his elbow.

“What happened?” she asked.

“The monster cut off his arm. I’ve made a tourniquet, but I fear it’s too late!”

“Let me,” she said. “Help Miya.” Her hands were scored bloody from her climb, but she took over with the tourniquet. Beneath its coating of ash, Mandes’s face was pale as wax. His lips were purple in the red light of the tunnel.

“Miya!” Tol called, crawling on his hands and knees to the edge of the pit.

Miya still had the rawhide rope tied around her, so she tossed the free end to him. It took four tries, but he finally caught it and hauled her up. By the time she reached the top, her face was stiff with pain.

“Mind that silver stuff,” he said, indicating the magical oil. “That’s what did in the monster.”

“Poison?” she asked.

“Bad luck.”

Tol left her lying on the floor, nursing her cracked ribs, and went back to Kiya. She was threading a needle with a length of sinew, supplies from the kit she used to mend tears in her buckskins.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Sewing up his wound. Have you never seen it done? In the woodland, we often do it to gaping injuries.”

He watched, fascinated, as she used deer sinew to close Mandes’s terrible wound. It took time, but when she eased off the tourniquet, no blood flowed from the stump of the wizard’s arm.

“Now, let me see you,” she said.

He waved away her concern. “I’m fine.”

Kiya took Tol’s head in her strong hands and glared at him, looking like a stern ghost in her coating of ash. “I’ll tell you when you’re fine!” she said. “After all, what’s a wife for but to bind her husband’s wounds?”

The moons had set and sunrise was still a few hours off as the victors picked their way carefully down the mountain from XimXim’s cave. Tol and Kiya carried the badly wounded Mandes. Miya followed, slowly and painfully, clutching her sides. They saw no one in the gully at the foot of the mountain. Bloodstained rocks and charred earth gave evidence of the battle that had raged in their absence, yet all was quiet now.

Lowering Mandes’s limp body to the ground, Tol cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted, “Juramona! Juramona!”

The bushes stirred, and soldiers emerged. Some had their heads bandaged, or wore an arm in a sling. Seeing their commander, they raised a glad shout.

“The monster is dead!” Tol yelled.

The jubilant noise became a deafening tumult. Waving swords and spears, the soldiers engulfed them. A few ran down the ravine to inform the rest of their comrades. Tol ordered saplings cut to make litters for Mandes and Miya, then slumped to the stony earth. He sat with arms propped on his knees, head hanging tiredly. Something firm pressed against his back. Kiya had adopted the same posture, her back to his. He relaxed slightly against the welcome support.

The defile soon was full of happy, shouting men. The Ergothians cheered Tol so incessantly he gruffly ordered them to cease.

His officers soon got the troops in order. Torches were lit. Tarthan, Wellax, Allacath, and Frez sorted the men into companies and had them lined up in proper formation by the time Egrin arrived with the balance of the demi-horde.

Egrin, Darpo, Sanksa, and Fellen came forward and saluted. Tol lifted a hand and Darpo, his scarred face wreathed in smiles, hoisted him to his feet. Kiya rose as well, on the arm of Sanksa.

“My lord, I rejoice to see you!” said Egrin.

“I rejoice to be seen,” was Tol’s sincere reply.

“XimXim is destroyed?” Tol nodded. “Then this is a great day!” Egrin proclaimed.

In truth, Tol did not find it so. He was very glad to be alive, and happy the Dom-shu sisters and Mandes lived, but he wasn’t exactly proud of his victory.

“It wasn’t a battle, it was a bloody farce,” he growled. “We went up there just to have a look around! We had no plan. We just fought for our lives and managed to win-barely!”

Egrin nodded. “There’s no antidote for victory. It often leaves a bitter taste.” He told Tol of their losses in XimXim’s attack.

Narren’s death hit the young commander hard. He stood with eyes closed until the burning in them subsided.

When the litters were ready, Miya and Mandes rested a bit more comfortably. Frez, who as a boy had apprenticed to a sawbones in Caergoth, wrapped a tight linen bandage around Miya’s ribs. It was the only treatment he knew for her condition. After a few drafts of strong wine, though, the Dom-shu woman fell asleep.

In addition to his arm, Mandes had lost a great deal of blood, but he was still breathing, thanks to Kiya’s timely attention. Frez had a strengthening broth of bone marrow, herbs, and red wine prepared, and a soldier was appointed to spoon small amounts between the sorcerer’s slack lips.

Kiya washed the ash from her hands and face, and ate cold rations from a leather pouch. By this time the rising sun was beginning to color the eastern sky and Tol realized he was ravenous. He cleaned up and broke his fast.

A young soldier brought Cloud. Muscles aching, Tol swung into the saddle. Seeing Kiya limping along, he held out his hand. “Will you ride, lady?”

“A Dom-shu walks,” she replied proudly.

“Get on and spare your feet.”

To everyone’s surprise, she did just that. She cut a curious figure, seated behind Tol. Her arms and legs were covered in cuts and scratches, and she was a head taller than her ostensible husband. At first, she looked uncomfortable on Cloud, but soon leaned her head on Tol’s shoulder and fell asleep.

“What now, my lord?” asked Egrin.

Tol said, “Back to Hylo town. We’ll rest there a day, then march to the coast. By now Lord Urakan should have reached Old Port. The Tarsans will not sit and wait for him to find them. I mean to join our companies to his army.”

“Very good, my lord.”

Egrin gave the orders, and the foot soldiers assembled in marching formation. They should reach Hylo City by late afternoon.