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Rotted by rain and baked by the sun, Chenai steamed in the sultry night air. The city-state’s bright red, yellow and blue stone towers split the night sky before being swallowed by darkness. Rain drummed narrow cobblestoned streets as the city struggled to give up the heat of the day.
The rain burst erupted and ended within minutes. It was as if a drunken deity had tossed, all at once, the contents of a colossal, God-sized flagon on the city. Bright, sharp blue stars pushed their way forward in the black sky after the brief pounding rain.
The rain had little effect on the city-wide festival. Merry makers and revelers danced and splashed in the puddled streets on this the last day of the Festival of Shepin, the Slumbering Frog God.
Nubile slave women tossed their heads, flinging long hair, sending it flying as they twirled and gyrated in diaphanous gowns, heedless of their near nakedness. Metal castanets in their hands and tinkling bells tied to dancers’ slim ankles added to the unholy din. Drunk revelers banged drums, shook rattles and let loose random thunderous blasts on brass horns into the nighttime sky. The cacophony was punctuated by random bangs and pops of Chenia’s traditional festival bang powder. Bang powder was stuffed into small paper tubes that, when lit, hissed and exploded with a loud popping sound leaving behind a pungent, acrid smell. It was as if the night sky was throwing sparks.
The festival didn't interest the brown-skinned man leaning against a building. From querying city residents, he learned it celebrated Shepin’s continued undistributed slumber in the Shepin River. The city's residents celebrated by making as much noise as possible to demonstrate their fearlessness of waking the fierce God. Shepin had never awakened and seemed oblivious to the noise.
The air throbbed around the Thessite. The Shepin River was a dark gash to his left that appeared to squirm and flex like a serpent. It split Chenia into two equal parts, each controlled by a warlord.
The Thessite’s dark eyes peered out from a smooth, angular face the color of burnished leather as crowds surged and stumbled back and forth across the narrow, cobblestoned streets The cloying air was heavy and laced with smells of sulfur, sweat, and fried meats and fish. Shouts and laughter punched into the night air as flickering torches cast weird dark images across buildings and bathed faces in quivering shadows.
Grotesque, garishly painted frog masks worn by many of the revelers displayed long hanging tongues that swayed side-to-side. Others swallowed mouthfuls of Chenia’s fiery fruit-flavored liquor from ornately designed blue glass bottles and leered at the writhing, shaking slave women.
Chenia was the Najar region’s central market for the slave trade. The city-state lived up to its moniker “Fleshpot of the South.”
He crossed his arms over his chest and let out a breath. He had paid money and the cutpurse was an hour past due. The Thessite could wait no longer. He needed to act under cover of the noise and disruption of the festival. He would do it alone.
How would he know where to look? The cutpurse boasted of his knowledge of the building that housed Chenia’s slave records. The Thessite pursed his lips. The thief’s promises had fooled him out of a gold coin. If the thief knew he was a Spearslayer, would he have been so bold?
The crowd was generous with the bang powder and the noise pounded his ears. His nose twitched as billowing clouds of foul smelling bang powder wafted in the street.
Dar the Spearslayer stirred and stretched like a panther, ropy muscles coiling and uncoiling as he peeled his broad shoulders off the wall and grabbed his hardwood staff. He moved like a shadow within a shadow through an empty alleyway on his left, leading toward the river, away from torches and bonfires.
A blackness settled in the alley, untouched by the rising moon. The moist air carried the smell of rubbish and the soft rustling of rats.
Dar crouched low in the darkness, waiting for scudding clouds to blow away across the face of the moon illuminating the alley and washing away undecipherable shadows.
In the stillness, Dar's mind replayed the afternoon a decade ago when warriors from the Three Nation Alliance slaughtered the Spearslayer Sect at the Battle of the River Golga. In a single afternoon, a thousand years of the warrior arts and sciences were wiped out of existence. Chenia was part of the Alliance and had reaped a rich harvest of gold from the sale of the Spearslayer women and children, including his family. The Alliance outlawed any surviving Spearslayer warriors and place a bounty on their heads. Dar’s head.
He shook these thoughts from his mind and exited the alley. The night was oil-black at the river’s edge. Flashes of heat lightening revealed a black river between dark riverbanks. Moist river smells hung in the stagnant air. Lights twinkled in the other half of Chenia, while joyful sounds drifted across the dark water.
Hunched next to the river, the two-story, stone arched Slave Records Building was gloomy and somber at this hour, its thick walls flecked by moonlight. The windows of the darkened building gazed across the river like brooding eyes.
The slave trade was important to Chenia. It brought the city-state its gold and silver, keeping it full-fed, fat and happy. This building boasted armies of clerks tallying meticulous records of slave transactions, identification, prices and place of origin.
Dar had inquired about record access earlier in the day. A sour-faced little clerk had waved him away with a laugh. Tonight, he would not be denied.
He levered open the primitive lock on the front door with his dagger. The most troublesome part of the night’s work would be deciphering the filing system to find the information he wanted. The documents he sought were ten years old. Dar sheathed his dagger and grabbed his staff.
“What have we here?” said a voice behind Dar, followed by the rasp of two short swords sliding from their scabbards. Dar whirled with the staff in the Spearslayer attack ready position. Two grinning soldiers in the green and yellow tunics of the Warlord Janco pointed their short swords at Dar.
“Put the stick down, Thessite, and we won’t hurt you,” sneered the first soldier.
“Looks like we caught another of Flavis’ scum crossing the river,” said the other soldier, taking a step forward.
With fluid speed, Dar closed the gap between himself and the second soldier, using his reach advantage to rake the end of his staff across the soldier’s kneecaps. With a grunt, the man dropped his sword and crumpled to the ground.
The first soldier raised his sword as Dar thrust his staff forward slamming into the soldier’s belly. The quick strike knocked the wind out of the man, leaving him bent over and gasping. Using his powerful hips and shoulders for leverage, Dar snapped the staff upwards and laid a blow to the jaw. The man’s knees buckled, and he folded to the ground.
“By Kol!” groaned the soldier.
Dar whirled and stepped back with his left foot and pivoting into a split stance with a palm up-palm down grip on the staff elevated over his head in a defensive position. The other soldier was on his feet. He feinted once with his sword, and then took a quick step in and jabbed at Dar’s throat. Dar parried the blade and dropped the staff to hip height and delivered a thrust that plowed into his opponent’s chest, cracking bone.
The soldier stumbled backwards. Dar pulled his dagger from his belt sheath and leaped toward the staggering soldier. He smelled the sour wine on the soldier’s breath. Dar sliced the blade across the soldier’s Adam’s apple, feeling muscle and gristle sheer in two until the blade scraped bone. The sword fell from lifeless fingers as blood pumped from the open gash.
Dar spun around like a wildcat with bloody blade in one hand and staff in the other.
“Damn you, Thessite!” growled the first solider rushing forward.
Dar tripped the soldier with his staff, forcing him to one knee. He dropped his staff, grabbed the wrist of the soldier’s sword arm and drove the dagger upwards through the underside of his chin and into the brain. He quickly pulled the razor-sharp blade out. Blood ran freely from the wound across the stone plaza.
Dar dragged the bodies into the building and shut the door behind him, locking it. Inside, it was empty and still. The quiet coolness of the stone building was a welcome relief from the night’s heat and humidity.
He wiped his dagger and hands clean on a soldier’s tunic. The soldiers were probably patrolling the river and would have designated check-in points along their route. He needed to move fast to find what he wanted.
Dar’s sandals padded silently over the stone floor of the high-ceiling entry way. Two long, gaunt corridors stretched out into the darkness in front of him. Where to begin?
Down the hallway to his left, a speck of yellow light from a lantern appeared. It bobbed, keeping time with the sound of scuffing feet. Dar flattened himself against the cool stone of the corridor wall. Not hearing anything more, after a moment, he moved like a wraith down the hallway.
A tuneless humming reached his ears from a room down the corridor. Someone was here? Working? At this hour? During the festival?
Lantern light escaped through the room’s doorway, spilling out into the dark corridor. Dar hesitated as thoughts of losing the opportunity of the night’s work passed a shadow over his face. He ran a hand through his close-cropped dark hair, wet with sweat.
Dar laid on the floor and peered with black eyes around the doorframe. Perched on a stool reading and sorting documents was a wizened old man with a face like a monkey. The rest of the building was quiet as a tomb.
The clerk held a document in a knobby, arthritic hand closer to the lantern and squinted. Dar took this moment to stand, causing the clerk to look toward the doorway with watery pale eyes flexed wide.
“Good evening,” said Dar.
The clerk narrowed his eyes. “More like good morning,” said the clerk in a reedy voice. Bolstered by the courage of age, he added, “Well, you’re here. You must want something. I have no money.” He placed the scroll on the table worn smooth from years of sliding slave paperwork across its surface.
“Not money. Information. About my wife and children after the Battle of the River Golga.”
“Well, the Gods must favor you. I’m too old to sleep well at night, so sometimes I come here and spend the early morning hours filing.”
He rubbed his lined forehead and leaned towards Dar. “Looking for family?” He cleared his throat and smiled, showing teeth blackened by age. The clerk’s smile cracked his dry, lined face.
“Well, if you want information on slaves after the Battle of the River Golga, you must be a Spearslayer, I’ll wager!”
Dar said nothing.
“Well, don’t worry, Spearslayer, I care not for the bounty on your outlawed head,” said the old man with his head cocked to one side. “I am curious how you survived the slaughter at the River Golga?”
Dar considered the old clerk’s request. This old clerk could help find the documents he needed.
“An Oscean Commander spared me. They accepted me as part of their household. Before he died last winter, he released me from my oath of service. It was then I learned they sold my family as slaves after Golga. I thought them dead. I have been searching ever since.”
“Well, this is a good, little mystery. Bring that lantern and follow me,” said the old clerk rubbing his hands together. He rose stiffly from his stool and headed across the hall. His slippers scuffed the stone floor sounding loud in the stillness.
“I file everything in two places. On the shelves and in my head.” He tapped his temple with his index finger.
The old clerk shuffled into an identical room across the hallway and examined a wall of pigeon-holed documents. Then he snatched a few dusty scrolls and spread them out on a table.
“Ten years ago? Ahh! Found the listing.” He scrutinized a parchment scroll and pursed his lips.
Clearing his throat wetly, the old clerk read, “A seven-year-old girl and her brother, three-years-old, were sold at the Chenia Slave Market, etc., etc. Wandering desert clans purchased the girl and the boy was sold to . . .” the old man looked up at Dar and swallowed. “. . . Warlord Janco.”
“My wife?”
“There is no record of your wife,” said the clerk, rifling through the rest of the documents. “She appears to never have made it to the slave market. I am sorry.”
Dar bowed his head and remained silent for ten heartbeats griping the table, eyes staring unblinking.
“Janco? The warlord that rules the city on this side of the river?” Dar asked without raising his head.
“Well, yes.” The wrinkled old clerk replaced the scrolls on the shelf. “Janco rules this side of the Shepin River, and the Warlord Flavis rules the other side. Three days a month for the slave auction, the warlords suspend hostilities so as not to disturb the slave trade that brings gold and silver into the city.”
“Thank you. I should leave now.”
“Yes, Spearslayer, leave–leave Chenia,” said the clerk, wagging a twisted finger. “You know where your son is. He is safe with Janco. Isn’t that enough? I’ll not speak about our encounter. There are those that would chase you to the ends of Najar for the bounty on your head. Think of your own safety!”
Dar decided not to mention the bloody corpses by the door to the old man.
Without another word, he jogged down the corridor and opened the door. He stepped outside avoiding the spilled blood and slammed into a wall of hot air. It was like opening an oven. Ladened with moisture the air had a weight all its own. He closed the door shut with a click of the lock.
––––––––
Dar stripped and lay down on the sleeping pallet in his rented room above a tavern.
He stared unblinking at the room’s dark ceiling. The sound of celebration penetrated the tavern’s walls. He shut his eyes and tried to remember what his son and daughter had looked like when he last saw them. Was his wife really dead? Would his son remember him?
Tomorrow, he would talk to Janco and see his son.
––––––––
Dar tossed for an hour before giving up on sleep. Thoughts of his son alive and living steps from where he lay his head was like a fever that prickled his skin.
Before dawn, he was striding through the streets of Chenia. Darkness lay like a blanket over the city. He could hear pennants on Chenia’s towers snap in the warming breeze. The towers appeared to be tall enough that, from their top, one only needed a stick to knock the last few morning stars out of the sky.
He cut through the metal working district and the abutting cluster of alchemist shops advertising bang power.
The Warlord Janco’s red stone fortress loomed over the center of Chenai with ramparts three stories high. Green and yellow flags ruffled in the breeze as the rising sun inched its way up a black iron door large enough for two wagons to pass through side-by-side. Arrow slits perforated the thick walls at regular intervals.
The purple predawn faded as the rosy fingers of dawn stretched across the sky. Dar stepped forward, making himself visible to the warlord’s soldiers on the ramparts.
“Hold and stay,” rumbled a voice from the ramparts. “State your business.”
“I wish to speak with the Warlord Janco.”
“Off with you. The warlord has no time for you! Begone!”
In a voice used to command, Dar replied, “Open the gate, soldier. I have news of a personal nature for Warlord Janco.” He hoped his tone would rattle the guards’ confidence.
Dar heard the scrape of a metal bolt yanked back. A smaller door within the massive metal gate swung open on silent, oiled hinges. Four soldiers with short stabbing swords drawn hustled through the door. Two took up positions on either side of the doorway. All were wearing the green and yellow tunic of Warlord Janco. Chin straps protecting their necks held round iron helmets in place.
A gray-bearded soldier marched to a point ten feet away from Dar. The other soldier with him moved to Dar’s left.
Dar spoke first to snatch the initiative. “My information is for the Warlord alone.”
The soldier with the gray beard laughed. “Tell me what news you have for the Warlord or we’ll thrash it out of you, Thessite.”
“I want no trouble. I need to speak with Janco.”
The soldier with the gray beard waved the soldier standing on the Dar’s left forward
“Send this dog home,” he said.
The younger soldier grinned and raised his short sword.
Dar snapped into the Spearslayer attack ready position as trained over the years as a member of the Spearslayer Sect. Both hands were on the hard wood staff. His right hand was just off his right hip; his left hand had a relaxed grip halfway up the shaft of the staff. Dar extended the staff along the centerline of his body.
The younger soldier saw the warrior's stance and hesitated. He looked back at the gray bearded soldier.
Dar grabbed the instant of uncertainty and took two quick steps forward with his left foot, finishing the fluid move with a long forward thrust of the staff into the younger soldier’s chest. In the same rapid motion, Dar chopped downward, sending the sword skittering across the cobblestones.
The two soldiers by the door raced forward, sandaled feet slapping the paved street. Dar whirled with the staff in position, ready to meet their attack.
“Stop!” said a deep voice from the ramparts.
Dar scanned the ramparts above him but could not see who had issued the command. The soldiers moved back toward the gate.
After a minute of a wary, awkward silence, the small door in the ornate metal gate swung open and a tall, robust man ducked his head through the doorway. He stopped and consulted with the gray bearded soldier and then strode forward with massive strides toward Dar.
He was unarmed and had a wry smile on his ruddy and fleshy face. He had a lantern jaw and his hair was flecked with gray. His green and yellow tunic trimmed in gold braid did little to hide powerful shoulders and arms. The man carried a layer of fat around his middle that jiggled as he strode forward. A vital man reaching the tail end of middle age. Dar rested the staff by his side with the butt end on the ground.
“You are in range of my archers on the ramparts,” said the large man in a voice that sounded like it would carry over a battlefield.
Dar gazed up at the large man.
“I am Janco, Warlord of Chenia. I decided to meet you before you pummeled the rest of my soldiers with a stick, by Kol!” he laughed. His blue eyes twinkled merrily before turning hard as ice crystals. “I’m told you have a message for me?”
“It is personal. I will not speak of it out in the street.”
“Bold of you to speak to me like that. Speak now or be on your way.”
“Ten years ago, after the Battle of the River Golga, you purchased a young Thessite boy. He is the son of a Spearslayer. My son.”
The warlord's face turned crimson. Bulging neck veins showed the strain of controlling his emotions. The moment passed like a shade.
“What’s your name, Thessite?”
“I am Dar. My son would be thirteen years of age. His name is Karlo.”
Janco forcibly blew through his nose and mouth. “Follow me.”
––––––––
The warlord and the Spearslayer sat in silence at a breakfast table ladened with a riot of colored fruits and vegetables. The scent of freshly baked bread filled the air. The table was placed on an outdoor patio to take advantage of the breeze before the day’s heavy heat and sticky humidity descended on Chenia.
Inside the fort's walls, the warlord’s soldiers drilled, sharpened swords and polished helmets.
“Karlo is my son. I have legally adopted him. He is heir to all this,” said Janco with a wave of his hand.
“He is my son by blood.”
“How do I know you speak the truth? If you are a Spearslayer, there is a price on your head. I could turn you in for execution.”
“You would kill Karlo’s father?”
Janco pursed his lips and stared at the untouched breakfast. “He was barely three when he became part of my household. He doesn’t know you. This is his home. What can you give him?”
“He is my son.”
“I have wealth and power.”
“The treachery of the city states of Usmau, Chenia and Oscean—your so-called Three Nation Alliance—destroyed the Spearslayer Sect and stripped it, and me, of power and wealth.”
Janco glared at Dar, clenching the arm rails of his chair. Dar locked his dark eyes with Janco.
A moment later, a young Thessite not yet filled out in the chest and shoulders but on the doorstep to manhood with the juice of youth frothing within him sauntered across the patio.
“Good morning, Father,” said the young Thessite before turning with curiosity etched across his smooth, brown, triangular face toward Dar.
Dar stared wide-eyed at this handsome young Thessite. His son. Dar’s mouth was too dry to speak. His heart pounded in his chest. He half rose out of his seat just as a series of low-pitched horns sounded from the fort’s ramparts.
“We are under attack!” said Janco, knocking his chair over when he stood.
A soldier ran over to the warlord, scabbard flapping, his breath coming in gasps
“My Lord, Flavis is attacking. He crossed the river in force. He has renegade Usmaurin Magic Users with him.”
“Tried to catch us sleeping off the Shepin Celebrations, did he? Ha! Get my weapons and leather armor. We’ll drive him back across the river.” Turning to Dar, he added, “Our talk must wait.”
The soldier sprinted away, and the warlord turned to his young ward. “Karlo, find the Captain of the Guard and tell him to send men out to the streets to warn people to lock their doors and remain inside until we send the bastards back across the river.”
Karlo spun without a word and, as fleet-footed as a deer, ran across the patio toward the front gate.
“He’s a good boy,” said the warlord to Dar. “And you’ll be wanting a spear?”
“I want to talk with my son. This fight between warlords does not involve me.”
The warlord’s jaw on his fleshy face hardened. “If I lose and am captured, Flavis will execute me–and my heir. Karlo.”
The soldier returned with leather armor, sword and helmet. Another soldier handed Dar a long spear with an iron point on a hardwood shaft.
“I’ll see you down on the riverfront, Spearslayer.” said the warlord, strapping his steel helmet into place. He strode off across the patio.
They left Dar alone at the table with the spear in his hand. The warlord’s fort was all motion and noise. The morning light burned off any hint of nighttime coolness in the air.
Dar rubbed his forehead. Maybe use Flavis’s attack as a diversion and sprit Karlo away from Chenia? Why would he go with me? He doesn’t know me. He had no intention of fighting for Warlord Janco.
He would fight to protect Karlo. He needed time with his son. It was painful and a thrill at the same time to see Karlo, to see what a strong young man he was becoming. Torn between adding his spear to the fight and finding Karlo and protecting him, Dar hesitated and then headed for the river. Karlo would be safe in the fort.
The cobblestoned streets bustled with the warlord’s soldiers streaming toward the river with bows, while others carried the short, stabbing sword and round shield of Chenia’s army.
Dar’s pulse quickened as the harsh sounds of battle floated up from the river. Suddenly, it seemed, he was in the middle of swirling groups of desperate snarling men hacking and thrusting, scorched by the flames of riverside buildings burning lustily. Dar lowered his spear and made three rapid thrusts. Two soldiers in the red and black tunics of Flavis’ men sank to the ground. Dar pivoted in place and knocked away a short sword wielded by one of Janco’s men.
“I’m on your side, fool!” snapped Dar. The soldier peeled off and plunged into a mass of soldiers. Senior officers from both sides thundered above the clashing din of battle for their troops to form line.
Spearslayer training and instinct took over as Dar used the razor sharp spear to thrust, block and counter. Dar’s strikes were dropping Flavis’ men and taking them out of the fight. Janco’s officer pulled together a group of soldiers into a line across the narrow blood slicked street and was advancing in good order.
A cry went up from the Warlord Janco’s men as two bulbous eyes as big as wagon wheels poked through the surface of the Shepin River. Flavis’ men disengaged and ran for cover. Dar squinted and could see five bearded Usmaurin magic users on a river barge. Their mouths moved as they chanted with hands pawing strange signs in the air.
The magic users’ arcane knowledge had awakened Shepin from his slumber in some foul pit of Hell.
Water, slime and mud streamed down Shepin’s dark green, glossy reptilian skin while cascading waves of river water rolled off the enormous chest as he rose from the river. Shepin was as tall as a two-story building. Two enormous web feet flopped on the riverbank, squashing men beyond recognition from both warlords.
“Shepin is awake! Run!”
Some dropped their weapons and ran. Others of Janco’s men organized a rearguard defense as they fell back to the fort. The noise and frantic motion of soldiers running and shouting grabbed Shepin’s attention. He reached slimy, reptilian hands forward and grabbed handfuls of soldiers and popped them into his drooling, gapping maw like grapes. His long tongue darted out and snatched soldiers up and whipped them back into his mouth as if he was catching flies. Shepin’s deep croaking rattled in soldier’s rib cages and shook Chenia’s stone towers.
Dar spied Janco organizing a line of archers to rake Shepin’s chest with a blistering hail of arrows.
He ran over to Janco and grabbed his arm. “Give me a few men. I have an idea,” said Dar as bowstrings twanged again.
“What? Why?” countered Janco. Then, pointing to three soldiers he ordered, “You three! Go with him. Do what he says.”
Dar sprinted up the street to the metal working district, the soldiers close on his heels.
Dar stopped at a bang powder shop. He pointed to each soldier, in turn, saying, “You, find a horse and wagon. You, gather as many sharp metal bits as you can find, like nails. And you, help me break this door down. Grab as much bang powder as you can carry.”
Soon, they hitched a swaybacked mare to a small wooden wagon with spoked wheels. Dar directed the soldiers to dump casks of nails found in a blacksmith shop into the wagon. He loaded small kegs of bang powder in the center of the wagon bed and secured them with rope. The soldiers scattered a layer of small metal objects over the powder casks. Dar stepped up onto the wagon seat.
“Get me a torch!” A soldier took out flint and steel and sparked a torch. It smoldered and flamed to life, releasing the sharp scent of resin.
“Time to celebrate Shepin Festival Week.” Dar pulled his dagger out of his belt sheath and clenched it between his teeth.
Holding the torch in one hand, Dar slapped the reins on the horse’s rump and headed for the riverbank.
Janco’s men were slowly falling back, sending arrow after arrow into the frog god. Shepin continued his plodding, hopping movement straight up the main street that stretched from the river docks to Janco’s fort. Shepin’s snapping tongue fired out and pulled screaming men into his maw.
Dar plowed the wagon through the retreating soldiers until he was within a short bow shot of the monster.
“YAAARRR,” yelled Dar, slapping the horse with the reins. Startled, the old mare leaped across the bumpy cobblestoned street, nearly upsetting the wagon and throwing Dar from his seat. Dar strained to keep control and braced his feet against the side of the wagon.
Shepin’s long tongue darted out and missed the careening wagon, slapping on the stone street.
Nostrils flared and ears racked back, the swayback mare’s eyes rolled back in its head as sparks flew from its iron shod shoes striking cobblestones.
In one motion, Dar dropped the torch in the wagon bed and sliced through the traces with his dagger, freeing the horse. He leaped from the speeding wagon, landing awkwardly and tumbling across the street. The horse ran panicking down a side street with foam-flecked lips.
The wagon sped forward and wedged itself under the squatting Shepin. Shepin bellowed and reached down to pull the wagon out from underneath his haunches.
The first explosion ripped a hole into the frog god’s soft underbelly. Two more explosions widened the wound and catapulted shredded skin and entrails skyward. Blood and gore oozed across the street and choked the city’s open gutters. Shepin emitted a high-pitched scream and retreated to the river, sliding under the water’s surface.
Dar’s left knee ached and was stiffening. He’d lost his dagger. The air reeked of seared flesh while an enormous cloud of bang powder floated up the street. Dar watched Janco’s troops stream forward to attack Flavis’s men like a green and yellow wall. Janco peeled himself away from his men and ran over to where Dar sat.
Squatting, he slapped Dar on the shoulder. “You are a brave man, Spearslayer! You sent that foul thing back to its hole. Are you hurt?”
Before Dar could answer, he heard the shout of “Father! Father!” Karlo was bolting toward him, all arms and legs flying out at wild angles.
Karlo ran to Janco and threw his arms around the warlord.
Dar’s stomach flipped and his heart stopped beating for a few seconds.
Janco pulled himself away from Karlo. “Karlo, run back to the fort and tell my physician to be ready for the wounded.” Karlo raced away while Janco helped Dar up onto his one good leg. “Go to the fort. See my physician. Then we have much to discuss.” Janco followed his troops toward the riverbank.
––––––––
The two men and the boy talked long into the night. Karlo remembered Dar in fragmented snatches of memory. Janco and his wife had no children of their own and doted on the boy. Karlo was happy here. Dar had little to offer as yet except a wandering journey to the deserts of the south to find his sister.
At dawn the next day, Dar was astride a fine, well-boned black horse, a gift from the warlord. The physician had wrapped his sprained left knee. The saddle boot held two spears. He had hugged Karlo and said his goodbye, promising to return with his sister. Then he walked his horse over to Janco, standing at the fort’s gate.
The smell of rotting flesh drifted up from the river. Soldiers covered their noses with rags and washed down the streets, dumping the putrefying parts of Shepin into the river.
Dar was tired from the long, emotional night spent with his son.
“We made the right decision, and we are agreed,” coaxed Janco.
“For now, it is the right decision, while I seek my daughter. Then I will be back.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning now that I have found my son, I will not lose him again,” said Dar. “But I can’t take Karlo on this journey. He is happy here.”
Dar turned his black horse to leave, the rising sun on his back. He felt empty, with a bitter taste in his mouth. Will I lose my son again?
Dar leaned down from the saddle to Janco. “Thank you for what you’ve done for my son. But understand, if anything happens to him, Warlord, your life is forfeit, so says Dar the Spearslayer.”
Janco bristled, and his fleshy face contorted and turned red at the threat.
Dar glanced back and waved to Karlo watching from the ramparts. Karlo waved back.