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The following morning a Myan woman woke Prolur up as she entered his hut carrying a bowl filled with stew. She placed it at his feet, gave him a cautious smile, and said something before she backed out through the opening. Prolur carefully ate the stew and then slipped into his robe. He had decided to sleep without it since the furs were plenty warm. He stepped out of the hut and was greeted by utter chaos. The large fire that had graced the glade was now completely gone, and in its place lay a black patch of charred remains. In the light of the morning sun, the glade appeared much smaller. He could see the surrounding trees that formed a perfect circle around the camp. The huts were all lined up against the trees to keep the space around the fire open. Myans were running from the huts carrying objects to a mass of horses and carriages. There they unloaded the things and other Myans loaded them onto the animals or carriages. They were all running around shouting at each other and barely listening. Prolur had seen the process a thousand times during military campaigns. The Myans were breaking camp, and they needed to do it quickly. He looked around and saw On sitting atop the same log where they had been seated the night before. He walked over to him, trying not to get pushed over by stressed tribe members.
On was talking to a Myan man who was holding a woven straw basket filled with berries. He looked up as Prolur stopped next to him and waved the man aside with a few kind words.
“What is happening?” Prolur asked. “My experience tells me that you need to leave this place in a great hurry.”
“It is so,” On replied and sighed slightly. “That is what I needed to address last night.” Prolur sat next to On to show that he was interested in the rest of what he had to say. “Some of our scouts informed me that they had encountered a group of Haugarian scouts at the other side of those trees,” On continued and pointed at the surroundings. “Our scouts managed to kill most of them, but one escaped and disappeared. This means that the Haugarians know where we are, and as soon as they have gathered enough troops, they will be coming for us to wipe us out. We have too many young ones and those who cannot fight to risk a stand here. We would much rather flee and engage in combat later and somewhere else.”
Prolur thought On’s words through. It was a wise move. To engage the Haugarians in such a tight area would indeed be foolish. It would be much better for the tribe to get to safety and then sneak uon the enemy on the Myans’ own terms. Then another thought appeared in his head, something that had come to him in the night and that he couldn’t help to ask about.
“Why was I spared? How come I was not killed like my brethren?” On did not appear to be taken aback by this question—or if he was, he didn’t show it. Prolur had himself not shown any anger at the slaughter of his young companions. He understood the laws of war, but he couldn’t help but wonder why he had not joined the soldiers’ fate.
“It was your garb.” On looked at him without shame. “We do not kill holy men. It matters not if our enemies do not wish to share our beliefs. It is easy to recognize holy men, and that is why, even in the heat of a battle, you were spared. It did not hinder them from fighting you—they would never have killed you.”
“What will happen when you leave. Am I still to be your prisoner?”
“No, you are our guest. You are free to go any time you wish. We can guide you as far as the borders of these woods.”
As they were taking, a Myan man walked past them carrying Prolur’s sword. The monk jumped off the log and moved at a surprising speed and stepped in front of the man.
“Excuse me, but that weapon belongs to me,” he said knowing full well that the man didn’t speak his language. On was quick to translate, and the man, without much thought, looked Prolur square in the eye, spoke a sentence, and then proceeded to let out a vicious laugh. Prolur turned to On, seeking an explanation.
“His name is Tan, and he says that the sword is now his,” On explained.
“I would like it back. Since I am not dead, he has got no right to plunder my belongings.” Tan laughed in his face yet again.
“Myans do not live by such rules. The only way you can retrieve your sword is by challenging Tan in combat.”
Prolur looked at the Myan standing before him. Tan was as solid as the others of his people. He was half a head taller than he was with arms as thick as his own thighs. He wore no hair on his head and a big black tattoo covered half of his face, climbed up his skull, and ran down his neck. He bared his teeth and smiled a very threatening smile. Prolur was no stranger to intimidation tactics at all. He knew that Tan was younger, stronger, and probably a better warrior, but Prolur also knew that he could not back down. He may have been tired of war, but his nature couldn’t allow him to just lie down. The sword was his only possession, the only thing that was left of him.
Prolur looked at Tan and spoke in a cold voice: “Then I challenge him.”
On translated, and Tan laughed again. A crowd of Myans had gathered around them, and they all laughed together with their tribal members. “We need to leave this place,” On said. “But when a challenge has been laid down, it must be performed on the very grounds where it happened. Tan says he will crush you quickly and mercilessly.” On rose and continued. “The battle will take place in the center of this camp.” He spoke to the Myans who dispersed.
Prolur remained, and On walked up to him and laid his hand on his shoulder. “Some would think you a fool, holy man, a death sentence, but I know why you made this decision. We are all bound by our own laws.”
Prolur stood barefoot on the charred remains of the huge bonfire from the previous night. He could feel the heat that still emanated from it tickle his soles. He had removed his robes, remembering what a hindrance they were before, and On had lent him a pair of deerskin pants. He wore nothing on his upper body as was the custom of the Myan challenge. He felt slightly self-conscious with the crowd of Myans staring at him. His middle-aged body was not as fit as it once had been, and standing before people whose bodies were the mark of perfection to any warrior, he felt more than uncomfortable. He had managed to keep the muscles in his arms from heavy work at the monastery, but his hair-laden chest had lost a few inches, and his equally hairy stomach had gained some. Tan had agreed to let him use his own sword with the reasoning that every warrior should be allowed to die with his own weapon in hand. Both opponents were assisted by one Myan, whose duty it was to hold the weapon and provide water whenever needed. Three water breaks each were allowed, and it was merely to signal it by raising one's left arm. Prolur’s assistant handed him a pair of leather gloves that ended right at the wrist and lacked fingers. They were used so that the combatant would avoid getting blisters and strains on their palms. Prolur looked over at his opponent who also was putting on gloves. Tan then took his weapon in his hand and swung it in a wide arch back and forth. The weapon was a long sword with a curved blade. The edge of the sword was only on one side, which gave Prolur the advantage, but, in turn, it made it quicker than his own double-edged weapon. The hilt and cup were gold, and it looked as if it once had belonged to a Laiden pirate. Tan’s size and strength revealed that he would be able to swing his blade any way he cared with the greatest of ease. On was sitting in a chair that looked as if it had been carved out of a single tree trunk. It looked very much like the throne of a king. The chair was placed on the very edge of the ashen square in the center so that he could see both warriors clearly. He rose from his seat and held up his hands to quiet down the crowd of Myans who had finished breaking down the camp and were now eagerly awaiting the battle so that they could leave. He spoke in their own language and presented Tan to the wild roar of the crowd’s approval. He turned to Prolur and smiled when the crowd had settled down.
“Friend whose name is yet unknown to us,” he said. “This challenge is bound by honor. May the warrior whose honor is more favored by the gods true or false win. Approach the center and begin at my command.”
Prolur was handed his sword by the assistant, and he gripped it tightly with both hands. He did not raise it but let it point downwards as if the weight was too much for him. He moved towards the center, all the while staring at his opponent. Tan walked tall, swinging his sword back and forth with an evil grin on his face. Prolur noticed that he had begun mumbling to himself. He was whispering the prayer of war—an ode to Haugar. He hadn’t said the words since his last battle, and now it had come back to him, born out of nervousness perhaps or of old habit.
Tan looked him in the eye as they met and said something through clenched teeth that Prolur could understand the exact meaning of. On raised his arm and then brought it down with one word.
The word had no more than left On’s lips before Tan swung his sword at Prolur with an underhanded arch upward. It would have cleft him in two if he had stood there, but he had moved his left leg back and now stood sideways next to Tan who had underestimated his speed. Prolur took advantage of the opening and sent his right elbow into Tan’s head. The Myan stumbled a few steps to the side while holding his left hand to his head. He swung his sword to keep Prolur at a distance as he tried to regain his composure. At this time, Prolur quickly moved around him and came to stand at his right side as Tan once again straightened out. He barely managed to parry an attack from Prolur that pushed him backward.
Prolur followed up with a couple of attacks that Tan easily warded off. He smiled with contempt at the attempts of the old Haugarian. So far, the man had caught him off guard, but his follow-ups after the initial blows had been easy, almost too much so. Prolur swung at Tan’s left leg, but the Myan parried and then spun around in a whirlwind motion so that he ended up behind Prolur. He slightly let his blade cut into his left arm. Prolur cringed, turned around, and stepped back at the same time. He parried a blow from above and countered at chest level, but Tan had already moved and punched him in his left side with the hilt of his sword.
It knocked the wind out of Prolur, and he tried hard not to double over while still gasping for air. He caught Tan’s blade with his own as it came down to sever his neck. Another attack cut into his left arm again, and he was once again forced to move back. Tan tried for his head again, but Prolur managed to parry, and he guided the sword into the ground where both their weapons became locked. Tan solved it by crashing his head into Prolur’s face. With his left eyebrow split open, he reeled backward, and with the help of Tan’s sword slicing into his right thigh, he fell.
He was given a little time to wallow in pain, but he knew that Tan was only toying with him now as he narrowly escaped the sword of his enemy by rolling to the left. He reached a kneeling position and swung at Tan’s legs. The Myan leapt into the air to avoid the steel, landed on his right leg, and kicked Prolur in the head. The foot caught him behind his ear, and he rolled around, dropping his sword. Tan laughed, but only for a second before Prolur sent a handful of warm ash into his eyes. Tan staggered, and Prolur saw his opening. He grabbed his sword and leapt at his opponent, shoulder first, to try and knock him over. It was like hitting an oak tree. Tan grabbed Prolur by his pants and kneed him twice in the stomach. He then flung him to the ground, giving him ample time to wipe his eyes free from ashes. Prolur rolled over to his side and looked up at Tan who had a ferocious look in his eyes. It appeared that the time for playing around was over. Prolur mustered all his strength and forced his aching body to rise. He lifted his sword and parried a hard bow from Tan which sent the weapon flying from his grip. He stood there unarmed as Tan moved towards him, putting up his fists for some form of protection. Tan laughed and swung at him. Prolur dodged a blow that would have sliced his belly and punched him in his left arm, but the sword came back, and the cup hit him in his jaw. Once again, he was on the ground. He rocked on all fours with blood running from his eyebrow into his eyes and from a split in his lip. His body was hurting from all kinds of cuts and bruises. From the corner of his eye, he saw Tan coming at him, and he gasped as the Myan’s foot flew into his abdomen. He collapsed and when he could finally breathe, he inhaled the ashes that caused him to cough uncontrollably. He looked up and saw that Tan had stopped for a water break. The Myan let the clear liquid spill over his body as well as his mouth; he was not finished with his opponent yet.
Prolur staggered to his feet and went to take his weapon. If he was going to die, it was not going to be as a pathetic, weak old monk, but as the proud general in Haugar’s army he had once been. He pulled himself up to his full height when Tan noticed him and smiled. Suddenly, he felt a tingling sensation in his right wrist. His right hand, which was holding the sword, was also being affected. The sensation crept up his arm and spread itself through his body. Then it felt as if something snapped in his brain. A rush of strength soared through his muscles, and all the pain he had felt vanished.
Tan was upon him again and swung his sword trying to separate his head from his shoulders. Prolur parried with such force that it sent Tan’s arm to the right, leaving him open. Prolur swung and cut deep from the Myan’s belly button to his chest. Tan grinned with pain and stepped back, touching the wound with his left hand. Blood spilled from it, but the Myan was still full of strength. He sprang at Prolur, desperately trying to run him through. His pain and anger blinded him so that he saw his fatal error too late. Prolur sidestepped the blade, and as Tan overextended his reach, he brought down his own parting hand and wrist forever. Before Tan could react to this, Prolur brought the sword back up, and with one clean swing, he cut off his head.
The Myan crowd held their breath collectively in disbelief as Prolur fell to his knees next to the now-headless body and passed out in a pool of his enemy’s blood.
Once again, a damp cloth woke him up, and he looked up into a young Myan woman’s face. When she noticed that he was awake, she stepped aside, and On took her place. “I am afraid we must move, ” he said and extended his hand, which Prolur grabbed and hoisted himself to a standing position. His body was aching again—especially in the areas Tan had cut him. He ran his fingers over his left arm preparing to feel an open sore, but instead, he felt stitches keeping the skin together.
“One of our women did it while you were sleeping,” On explained as he handed him his robes.
Another Myan led a horse up next to him and then quickly moved away as if the simple monk now scared him. On had his own beast and climbed onto its back with ease. The horse was not wearing a saddle but had a woven blanket instead. On himself was armed with a sword, a bow, and he carried a bag on his back. Prolur’s horse, in turn, wore a saddle that he identified as once belonging to the Haugarian Army. His sword had been hung on the left side of the horse and a pack hung on the other.
“We packed some food and water for you,” On told him. “It should sustain you until you reach the city.”
Prolur used the stirrup to get into the saddle and tried to get comfortable. He looked around and found that most of the Myans had already begun to leave. They rode or walked through the opening that had been Prolur’s gateway into their world. On’s horse trotted up to his silently, and On gave him a silent nod as if it always had been some kind of secret sign between them. He rode on, and Prolur sat a while and looked at the empty glade now only occupied by uninhabited huts. The soldiers would burn them to the ground once they found them—it was how they worked. Eradication was the only cure for the disease of free-living enemies not bending to the rules. He put his heels into the horse and caught up with On as he passed through the opening.
If Prolur had been more conscious when he first had been brought to the camp, he might have recognized the surrounding woods, even though it was daytime as opposed to the dusky night when he became the Myans’ prisoner. The horses and carriages moved through the woods as if they knew every detail of it, both present and what was to come. On held in his horse so that Prolur could catch up to him.
“Was I wrong to kill him?” Prolur asked the burning question.
On stared ahead in silence for a bit before he turned to him. “Tan knew the rules of combat and had himself chosen it. You need not feel guilty, for he would have done the same to you. But I believe you know this. I am surprised at this sort of question from you.”
Prolur fell silent himself and pondered this. It had been him or Tan, and he had been certain that it would be his decapitated body left behind. He had encountered the same thing during war more times than he could count. “Something happened as I was battling Tan,” he said. “I was losing, but something changed. It was as if the sword itself took control of me and fought the battle in my stead. As if magic might have been at work.”
On smiled at Prolur’s words as if they were humorous to him. “The sword that you have at your side and seem very attached to is not a common object for a holy man of any faith,” he replied. “You are a soldier or warrior methinks, turned holy man. Your sword has seen as many battlefields as you have, and with it, you have ended many a life. My people believe that when a life is taken the lifeblood inside the person, the very essence of them will be taken up into that which killed them. When your sword has seen so many battles that war has become its nature. When battle comes to you that nature arises, and it takes over to preserve it. Your sword knows what to do and will do it to protect you.”
Prolur thought about this for a moment. It did make sense. There were hundreds of legends of weapons or objects belonging to famous warriors that were said to contain the powers of their masters, why not? People became affected by the fights they were in, learned from them, and kept them inside, so why not the tools of war?
The caravan of Myans halted, and Prolur was woken from his thoughts when his horse stopped. One of the young Myan scouts rode up to On, and they began talking, discussing their route Prolur imagined.
Before anyone could react, the young scout’s eyes widened, and he became silent. Prolur saw the shiny metal of an arrow protruding from his neck. The Myan fell to the ground, and On called out to his people, a piercing cry that cut to the very bone. The carriages, women and children moved to the center of the crowd, and the riders tried to form a circle around them. Arrows flew through the air and struck mercilessly anyone who might be in the way. Prolur looked over to where the first arrow had come. There, on the backs of warrior steeds, were almost fifty Haugarian archers. He looked around to see more soldiers both on horses and on foot standing all around, waiting for the order. He had moved closer to On, who was directing the defense. The Myans had managed to pick up shields and used them well. The Haugarian soldiers didn’t aim for the animals, but they could, of course, not help them from being hit. The horses would collapse, and their riders would follow them down where they were easy targets.
Just like Prolur, On knew what was coming, and he ordered his people to get ready. He turned to Prolur to give him advice. “Friend,” he said, leaning towards him. “You do not wish to be killed on your own, and we both know what is to come.” He pointed to an opening between two trees. “Ride through there, and you will come to a wider path that will take you out of the woods.”
“Thank you for your hospitality, mercy, and kindness, even though we may be enemies,” Prolur said in haste. “Maybe our paths will cross sometime in the future.”
“Maybe,” On replied as a flaming arrow struck the ground, the sign.
On raised a battlecry that seemed to startle the Haugarian horses, but the riders lowered their lances, and amidst a shower of arrows, they advanced. Prolur spurred his horse and headed for the trees with his body pressed against the animal’s back. He turned and looked back just in time to see On leap from his horse, take down a soldier, and kneel. He moved his sword in a smooth motion and cut the legs off an advancing Haugarian, who toppled to the ground. Prolur hunched back down and tried to flatten himself even more against his horse as it pounded through the brush and away from cries behind them. He kept his eyes closed and body flat, feeling the branches trying to tear him from the saddle as if they wanted him to stay. He decided to open his eyes again when the animal had slowed down and sounded like it was trotting on solid ground. He straightened up and turned to the area he’d come from. It was quiet, and there was no sign of the ruthless fighting that was taking place behind the trees. He noticed the familiar whining sound of an arrow flying through the air too late—not until it buried itself in his right thigh. He grabbed the arrow sticking out of his leg, it was too deep in his muscle to move. He looked down the path, and there were three soldiers on horseback, all of them carrying bows, one of them, in particular, had his weapon raised, aiming it at him. He gritted his teeth through the pain and spurred the horse forward with his hand raised to stop them. He tried to shout at them, telling them who he was, but to no avail. It was too late. The soldier let an arrow fly, the head of it reflecting the afternoon sunlight as it soared. It dug itself deep into the neck of Prolur’s horse, who reared on its hind legs. Prolur struggled to keep himself in the saddle. The animal collapsed on the ground, trapping his legs. He twisted and turned to try and squirm himself out from under the dying beast. He dug his fingers into the ground, but it was all in vain. His fingers kept loosening the dirt, getting him nowhere.
Suddenly, a black leather boot appeared next to his head. He looked up and saw Sir Tarrel di Cambasia standing over him. He didn’t have the friendly look on his face that Prolur might have expected from the young officer. He shook his head, and before Prolur could utter a single word, he said, “Traitor.” With ferocity and hatred, he kicked Prolur in the head so that he lost consciousness for the third time in as many days.