The following chapter has a particularly tricky scene at the end that I request anyone reading to pay special attention to. It's a duel between two of the main characters, one of them is blindfolded, and the fight is told from that blind point of view. Taking out the visual element is risky (especially in a fight), because we naturally gravitate toward that when writing description. I've combed over it several times, trying to remove any inconsistencies, but I'm sure I missed a couple. I'm also up for input on whether or not that POV works at all, or if taking out the visual element is dead on arrival (which sucks, because it becomes a big plot point later on).

I'd also like to mention that if anyone recognizes the opening scene, you're not going crazy...I posted it as an excerpt in one of my first blogs. It's changed a bit, so if you've read it before please read it again. To those who commented on it before, I think you'll enjoy seeing your suggestions implemented.

Chapter 4

Pharasi

 "How did it go?" Jemah asked.

     "Not well, but I expected that," Darius said, descending the steps of the Imperial Tower.

     I fear that you might be slipping, Darius. Darius frowned, remembering the words Emperor Winterhaven had chosen to greet him, words of reprimand, delivered upon the spoiled holy grounds of Pharen Itself. Fortunately, he had been kneeling, his head bowed and hiding his rage.

     "I take it that means the Emperor isn't going to do anything about Slave?"

     Darius shook his head, un-wrapping the white sash he wore over one side of his face to hide his scar. Winterhaven refused to admit him without it. He folded it, his lips moving discreetly upward, and stowed it under his belt.

     "No, Sen-Teph. He is not." The name meant "Destiny's Gift". Jemah had come to Darius' company to spy for a rival company owner named Westman. Darius had known this, of course, but played along. Six months after Jemah had joined, Slave began his raids upon them. During the initial attack, a "stray" arrow had injured Jemah, courtesy of True. One of Slave's Wolves had fallen upon him and been a hair's width away from driving his blade into Jemah's chest. Instead, his attacker's head rolled from his shoulders. Jemah later told Darius that in the second afterwards, before the body had gone limp and slumped to the side, it had looked as though Darius' head rested on the Wolf's body, because Darius had been standing behind the decapitated corpse.

     Jemah had laughed; Darius only smiled, knowingly.

     Shortly after the attack, Jemah confessed to being a spy. Darius told Jemah that he appreciated the honesty, forgone though it may be, and offered him a job. When Jemah asked why he escaped punishment, Darius' eye shifted to the arrow wound through his right pectoral. Since then, Jemah had become a captain and, on several occasions, served point for secret assignments.

     A group of Imperial guards stood nearby, watching them for any mischief. Darius gestured that they should walk on before discussing the matter of Winterhaven's reluctance further. They made their way through the arched gate, and it slammed behind them. The Imperial Hub rolled slowly out below them, a city of noble houses built of marble cut by Pharasi hands from the quarries to the southeast. His ancestors had lost a piece of their souls fighting the Osernians for those pits. They lay empty now, raped by the Forani's ever driving need for more.

     "I just don't get it," Jemah said. "Why does Winterhaven leave us to the Wolves?"

     "He walks a fine line," Darius said. Amidst the empty cobblestone streets of the Noble District he heard nothing but the wind. It carried the aroma of richly spiced foods upon which the nobility grew fat, food that had cost Pharasi lives in its delivery. "The nobles claim that the widening acceptance of the Pharasi threaten to taint their rule."

     "They fear you, is what," Jemah said. Darius nodded slightly.

     "How go things at the wall?"

     Jemah stood straight and the air of boredom that had crept into his features as the conversation steered toward politics disappeared, most likely pleased to talk of something he understood. Although a dullard in matters of the pen, give him a sword or a tool and Jemah became a scholar.

     "Smooth driving, Captain. The person I left in charge during our run tells me we had a close call the other day, but they took care of it..."

     "How so? They didn't kill them, did they?" An Imperial search party tearing apart the Quarter looking for missing soldiers would prove more disastrous than their discovery of Darius' work at their precious wall.

     "Oh, no, sir. My supervisor gave them a little bribe. Name's May Suvaris. She's quite fetching. Told me they couldn't get their armor off fast enough."

     Jemah winked, and they continued down the main thoroughfare toward the East gate. They exited the Hub and began the half-kilometer walk along the stone wall to where the Pharasi Quarter clung against it like a baby chimp clutching its mother's chest. Darius clenched his cloak around his neck to ward off the gust of northern wind biting at his back. Autumn approached fast this year. He smirked, a puff of breath escaping from between his lips. He had little to worry about, but it would be Punishment on the young girl he now saw clutching her mother's skirts, the patchwork of thin sackcloth hanging from her malnourished body. Her dull eyes met his and she buried her face further into her mother's dress. The gold in his pocket grew cold against his hip as he smiled sympathetically and walked on.

     Thousands of children like her wandered the streets of the Quarter, living in the Thinwood constructs built along a stretch of the Imperial Hub's outer wall. The restrictions placed upon the size of the Quarter had caused it to become a nearly self contained complex of tiny dwellings built chaotically atop each other and over randomly designated roadways and alleys. Most of these streets were only wide enough for two people to walk side by side and had the tendency to double back or abruptly end. Only people born in the Quarter stood any chance of finding their way around and sometimes still got lost.

     They pushed their way deeper into the market. A stranger might assume that every Pharasi man, woman and child had gathered in this small space. People milled about, squeezing past each other from place to place, often with a companion in tow. The merchant stalls stood as crowded together as the people gathered around them, arguing with each other and the vendors over prices. A thick tension rumbled amongst the crowd, threatening to snap the moment someone took an elbow to the eye or said the wrong thing. But such things rarely occurred among the Pharasi.

     Everywhere he looked, Darius saw the evidence of Foranic corruption. Crates and barrels stood stacked here and there, the Imperial seal drawn on rotting wood with flaking white paint. The Guardsman brought the Pharasi an allotment of food every month. Just enough to keep them alive, on their feet, and off the Emperor's back. A couple of men stood next to one of the barrels, fishing around for something that wasn't too bug ridden to eat with his good arm. The other arm was missing below the elbow, ending in an infected stump where it had been torn off by any number of means. Limbs went missing all the time in Winterhaven's empire, either lost to wounds, or the churning wooden gears in work camps, or during "questioning".

     But the Pharasi rarely got angry. They were paid, given food, and protected by a rotating garrison of Guardsmen that patrolled the streets and stood watch along the edge of the quarter. Even now a group of them bartered with a young woman near the entry of an alley. Just contributing to the economy. They pushed themselves against her and groped her body through the moth eaten tunic serving as her only garment, and she gave them half interested smiles that did nothing to hide the emptiness in her eyes. Once they reached a deal she disappeared into the alley, along with four of the guardsman. A fifth stood watch.

     Protecting. Guarding. And the Pharasi gathered in the market took no notice, or pretended not to. They accepted it. This was their life.

     Fight them, Darius thought. He wanted the woman in the alley to fight them. He wanted to see that last guard run into the alley, sword drawn. She would likely die, and more would follow her to serve an example, but never the less, he wanted her to fight. Wanted all of them to fight.

     Like True had fought.

     "Looks like they got some apples in," Jemah said, pulling Darius' attention from the alley. A group had gathered around a cart, no doubt wheeled in during his reverie. Jemah's stomach rumbled.

     "Go ahead," Darius said. "I can walk the rest of the way by myself. Get me a couple, will you?"

     Jemah nodded and joined the throng. Darius shook his head and headed toward his company's headquarters, the White Ox Tavern.

     "Good evening, Dar," a dark skinned man said to him.

     Darius paused on the steps of the tavern, looking up at the man's black rooted grin. "Likewise, Westman," he said. "And please, call me Darius. I have no other name."

     Westman rolled his eyes and elbowed the man next to him. "Look at this guy. So damned prudent about his name, talking like a noble, like he's one of them.

     "You should try coming up for air, Darius. Try loosing your lips from around the Emperor's member long enough to breath."

     Darius lifted the corner of his mouth, and leaned forward.

     "Perhaps if you stopped speaking like a gutter whelp, you and your Company would actually have more than an imagined chance at surpassing me in Emperor Winterhaven's favor."

     Westman's face burned, his teeth grinding.

     "Whew," Darius said, holding out his hands as if to a fire. "That warms things up a bit."

     "I should pummel you..."

     "Darius, what's happening?"

     Darius turned to find Jemah standing behind him with a sack full of apples. He held one in his left hand, a large chunk taken out of the ripe fruit's light yellow flesh.

     "Ay! Westman!" Earling had appeared in the doorway of the Ox, grinning and brandishing a handful of throwing knives. "Come to play?"

     Westman shrunk and backed away.

     "I believe you were saying something about pummeling me?" Darius asked. Westman ignored him, fixed his eyes briefly on Jemah, and walked away.

     "I'm ashamed to call him cousin," Jemah said, biting into his apple. Darius looked down at the sack.

     "That was quick," he said. Jemah grinned, bits of the fruit grinding between his teeth. Darius peered around his companion. Several of the stand's customers now sat on the ground, rubbing arms and examining various lumps and bruises. Those still standing glowered in Jemah's direction.

     Instances of violence among the Pharasi were rare, but not unheard of.

     "Right..." he said. "Come. Let us go inside."

 

***

Death can be conquered.

     Kroog sat in the tavern, turning over Euticus' words in his mind and unable to push away the suspicions that they conjured. Only those that had fought in the Border Revolts and those that served Slave knew that ancient motto. The revolts ended forty years ago, long before Euticus could've been born.

     The boy must be a spy.

     Yet he had fought so intensely with Slave's men, and attacked Slave head on. A sham, maybe? No. Kroog had seen enough pulled punches in his time. Euticus came to his aid with every intention of ending Slave, something only a fool or someone ignorant of whom they were dealing with would do.

     Kroog set his head down on the bar, trying to think of something else, when a light weight rested on his shoulder. He found True settling on the stool next to him.

     "Buy me a drink, Old Man?" she joked. Kroog snarled.

     "I'm not old. Just well aged, unlike this lot," he said, sipping his ale. True smiled and turned around, leaning back against the bar.

     "So, what do you think of our new little warrior?" she asked.

     "Do you really want to know what I think, or do you just want me to tell you how you should feel about him?" he asked, his voice muffled by the stein.

     "What's that mean?"

     "Nothing." Kroog set the stein down and turned to face her.

     "Honestly, girl, I don't know what to make of him, and when I don't know what to make of a man, I more often than not decide I don't trust him...but that's just me, so don't go spreading that around, alright?"

     "But why?"

     Kroog sighed, staring down at the bar. Uncountable scratches and carvings marred its surface. Well aged, like him. He knocked on it gently and grabbed his stein.

     "Because of something he said, and because something about him doesn't add up. He feels...out of place, like he's not meant to be..."

     "Not meant to be? What, you mean here?"

     Kroog paused a moment with his stein half way up to his lips, then said, "I mean anywhere."

     "You're drunk."

     "Not nearly enough, so. Hey, tender! Give me some more!"

     "What'd he say?" True asked, putting a hand on Kroog's massive forearm. "Please, tell me."

     Kroog closed his eyes. If wrong, he would have to deal with yet another innocent death on his hands. But if right...

     He beckoned her forward, cupping a hand over her ear.

     "Death can be conquered," he whispered. True gasped, backing away.

     "No, he couldn't have. You're mistaken..."

     "That's what I've been trying to tell my self, True, and I'd be able to believe it except that he said it twice. Once before the attack, and then again, when Slave had him by the neck. The boy'd be grass now if he'd said anything else. "

     True leaned over the bar and ordered a drink. It came quickly, even before Kroog's refill. He eyed the barman fiercely, but to no effect.

     "We have to tell Darius," Kroog said, letting the matter of his drink slide for the moment. True shook her head.

     "I'm sorry True. He's got to know."

     "But, what if we're wrong? It's possible he picked those words up somewhere else. They're merely words, right?"

     "True..."

     "Let me talk to him. Let me question him, please."

     Kroog smiled, knowing that she would not concede.

     "Think you can get him to talk?"

     True raised an eyebrow and tried to arch her back. The leather breast plate she wore rendered the pose stiff. Kroog scrunched up his face and said... "You might think of ditching the armor first."

     True looked down, frowned, and unfastened the plate. She handed the thick leather piece to Kroog and tried the pose again. Twenty years ago, such a pose in Kroog's presence would've gotten her in serious trouble.

     "Hm...passable."

     True stuck out her tongue at him and downed her drink in one long pull, then disappeared into the crowd. Kroog turned back to his stein, which remained dry.

     "Hey, tender!"

* * *

True approached Euticus' door on cat's feet, her heart drumming in her ears. This was a stupid idea, going unarmed into the room of a man under suspicion of spying, for the sheer sake of defending him. She should just trust Kroog's instincts and let him take care of the matter.

     No...that wouldn't do. Not when her own instincts testified to Euticus' innocence.

     Shifting the bowl of water and bandages she carried to the crook of one arm, True reached out to open his door, stopping when she noticed the faint traces of mud that streaked her arms. Battle sweat had stained her shirt an offensive green hue broken only by blackish-red slashes of dried blood. A musty odor invaded her nose and stirred up an awkward self awareness.

     She needed a bath, but time didn't allow for it. Darius would return soon and Kroog would tell him what he thought. She set the bowl down, wrung out a length of bandage and began to wash away the worst of the filth. She opened up the front of her blouse, just a little bit at first, then to a point where it revealed more than covered, and let her hair down to hang around her face and shoulders in a coppery mass stiffened by the collective grime inherent to Transporter life.

     I look like a bathhouse whore, she thought, ringing the bandage out so the water dribbled down her neck, over her chest, and between her breasts. Perfect.

     She threw the bandage to the floor amongst a cluster of other refuse, took a deep breath, and entered.

     "Hello, Eu..." she stopped, finding the bed empty and Euticus standing by the room's single window. A quick, uninterested glance at her standing there, half exposed, brought a fiery blush to her skin.

     "I thought I told you to stay in bed," she said, trying to make it sound sensual but sounding more irritated than anything.

     "I'm sorry. I got tired of staring at the ceiling. I had to see outside..."

     She came up beside him, intentionally brushing up against his arm. He looked down and his eyes bulged, roaming over her from head to toe. His eyes lingered, predictably, on her breasts, where the wet fabric of her blouse clung to her skin.

     "What's so interesting?" she asked.

     "Uh...oh. The town..." He swallowed, returning to the window. True moved closer, pressing against his arm.

     "Beautiful..." he whispered. True jerked back from him before realizing he referred to the Hub. She peered out the window, thinking that perhaps some trick of the light had cast an illusion of beauty over the Quarter. Instead she found the same view common to any second story window in the town's many: stacks of poorly constructed shanties, their graying wooden walls slapped chaotically together in a splintering, crooked mass. One day they would reach the top of the wall, and have nowhere to build except the already scant space within.

     "It's just the Pharasi Quarter," she said.

     "I've never seen anything like it."

     The breath of his words danced with the hairs on her neck, prickling her skin. She clutched the windowsill, trying not to show.

     "It's...um, not that impressive," she said. Euticus studied her now. Wonder swirled in those eyes, a mixture of innocence and intuition rather than the restless ghosts of victims felled by a killer or spy. He looked like Darius from the side, even though half of his face had swollen a sickly mix of green and purple; but where Darius concerned himself mostly with solving whatever puzzle sat before him, Euticus appeared to have no desire to "solve" anything. He liked to look, to savor.

     "I think it is," he said. "I am sure you could meet someone new here everyday."

     "Yes, you probably could."

     True stood back from the window sill and crossed her arms over her chest. Her seduction had failed miserably, and her motivation to do so had waned. She reached out and took his hand.

     "Let's change your bandage," she said, leading him back to the bed. He followed, keeping one eye toward the window.

     "Did you sleep well?" she asked, sitting behind him.

     Euticus stiffly turned his neck, and nodded. She lifted a new bandage from the water. Steam rose off it in waves as she rang it out and hung it on a hook in the wall.

     "You acted like a fool out there," she said, unwrapping his old bandage. "But thank you."

     "For what?"

     "Helping Kroog, what else? Ugh...this's an ugly wound. You're lucky you didn't lose your scalp."

     She gently ran her finger along the puckered edge of the gash. It had stopped bleeding, and the skin shone a healthy pink.

     "What happened?" Euticus asked, flinching from the exam. True dropped the bandage into the bowl and grabbed the new one.

     "Darius returned with a division of the Emperor's infantry from the Hub."

     "The Hub?"

     True nodded and began to place the wrap on his head.

     "S'right. We're outside its walls now, in the Pharasi Quarter. We're not to go inside, except Darius."

     "Why?"

     "Long story, but it's because we're Pharasi and the nobility're Forani."

     "You are different tribes, then?"

     "Kind of. The Forani used to believe in the Pharen, but they worship Foran now. We believe in Foran, but as a warrior, not a god."

     Euticus tried to turn, but True stopped him.

     "Ow," he said when she forced his head forward.

    "Sorry."

     "What is the Pharen?" he asked. True paused in her work.

     "Pharen is God."

     "God of what?"

     "What do you mean, of what?"

     "Of harvest? Storms? Good fortune? Of what?"

     True frowned. A pagan? If so, it would not set well with either the Pharasi, or their Forani lords.

     "Pharen is the God of everything, Euticus. There is no other."

     "He must be quite busy, then."

     "Not he. Nor she. It. And It can handle the job just fine."

     "It? How can a god not be a man?"

     True tightened the wrap quickly, her frustration getting the better of her. Euticus cried out again.

     "Pharen is not a man, or a woman, because Pharen's above such base needs. That's why the Forani hate us, because we strive to an impossible standard of being, and expect no less from others. It's almost impossible to decry one person's belief without that person taking it as an insult."

     Euticus thought on this for a moment, and nodded. At least he stopped to consider the concept, more than she could say for most outsiders.

     "They think you believe yourselves better than them."

     True nodded. "Yes, and we do, a bad state of mind when outnumbered in population and pocket. Our time's coming, though."

     She looked out the window. Over the rooftops of the Quarter hung the nearly full moon, and she thought of Darius. The tides would be restless along the coast, and so would he.

     "Why would you, a perfect stranger, fight so hard for us?" she asked.

     "I would have died otherwise."

     "If things were so simple I'd believe you," she said, moving the bowl to a table across the room. "But a man simply fighting to survive would not have gone out of his way to save a stranger."

     "Did I do something wrong?"

     "Forget it. I shouldn't question such a blessing. Like I said, if not for you, Kroog would've been killed."

     "Death can be conquered," Euticus said. True's head snapped up, her original purpose flooding back into the forefront of her mind.

     "What?"

     "Death can be conquered. My father taught it to me," Euticus said, laying back. "He was a great warrior, the last living person in my village that had ever been beyond the mountains. Well, before he died, anyway."

     True turned to the window.

     "He ever talk about where he went and who he fought?" she asked.

     Euticus shook his head. "No. I am not sure why, but he never told me about his battles. Could be because I never asked. He did teach me how to fight, though. And he taught me how to see without using my eyes."

     True's heart skipped a beat.

     "Euticus, what was your father's name?" she asked, holding her breath.

     "Ezekiel. Ezekiel Bluejay."

     True gasped. "No. No it can't be..."

     Euticus came to her side, reaching a hand out to her, but she slapped it away and began pacing around the room.

     "True, what?"

     "You...no...but..."

     True stopped pacing and, remembering the state of her blouse, wrapped her arms around her body in a strange bout of modesty.

     "There's an old story," she said. "Tells of a Blind Warrior with two sons. One would bring the Pharasi into slavery through promises of life. The other would deliver the Pharasi into Tephet, a land of freedom, through promises of death."

     Euticus raised an eyebrow and asked, "Is there a third option that does not involve slavery or death?"

     "That supposed to be a joke? Does Pharen make you laugh?"

     "True, I'm still not sure what that is..."

     "Your knowledge of Pharen is not required," entered a new voice, "for Pharen to know you."

     Darius and Kroog stood at the door, faces blank, hiding their thoughts. True hurried to Darius' side.

     "His name is Bluejay, Darius. Euticus Bluejay. His father was Ezekiel."

     "Did you know my father?" Euticus asked.

     "This certainly explains why he knows the motto," Kroog said, ignoring Euticus' question.

     "Yes..." Darius said, more to himself. "Yes. I know your father. Knew him, anyway."

     He turned to True and Kroog, and said, "Leave us."

     Kroog nodded and turned. True did not move until Kroog grabbed her.

     "Come on, old girl. There's no need for you to stay and listen." She went willingly enough, but not without looking back, one curious eye on Euticus until Kroog closed the door behind her.

***

Darius turned back to Euticus, looking him up and down. Despite his naturally tanned skin and clipped accent, his Nepheralian heritage stood apparent to any who looked for it.

     "You must forgive True. She can be most...devout," he said.

     "What is going on? How did you know my father? How could you? You are only a handful of harvests older than me, and my father had not left our village in forty before his death."

     "The autumn is coming..." Darius said, pleased when Euticus' face knit together in confusion.

     "Autumn? The Dying season? Impossible. The Living season just began..."

     "He was my father, also."

     "Huh?"

     "The spring may have begun wherever you are from, but here, it is long past into summer, and now summer fades to autumn."

      "You...you are my brother?"

     Darius smiled, leaning up against the wall. He wondered how long it would take Euticus to catch on. "Autumn is my favorite season. It is the season of change, when the old begins to be swept away..."

     "That is why they call it the Dying Season. I hate it..."

     "So did Ezekiel Bluejay," Darius said.

     "Would you stop that?" Euticus said, shaking his head in frustration.

     "Stop what?"

     "Changing subjects like that."

     "It is clear that father did not teach you."

     "Teach me what?"

     "Winter is the one I hate..."

     Euticus groaned and slammed his fist against the mattress in frustration. Darius's smile grew to show teeth.

     "If he had taught you, then you would be able to keep up with me, and believe me, this conversation is very simple."

     Euticus narrowed his eyes. "My father taught me every thing. How to fight and hunt, how to see with out seeing. I knew him my entire life, until his death."

     "And when was that?"

     "Four harv...two years ago."

     Darius stood straight.

     "Hm. Then I guess we are right back where we started now, are we not, with you a big mystery? See, my father died five years after my birth, killed by a man he called brother, my uncle. The man now known as Slave. That's where I got this..."

     Darius reached up and ran a finger over his scar. When they first met, he'd noticed Euticus staring at it. Now, however, Euticus kept his emotions guarded. On the other hand, perhaps, after coming face to face with Slave, the stranger simply believed such scars common place on the plains of Nepheralia.

     "It also seems that we are faced with our main concern towards you, young Euticus."

     "And what is that?"

     "'Death can be conquered.' You spoke those words before the battle, did you not?"

     "Yes. It is an invocation of courage. My father taught it to me."

     "Ezekiel Bluejay?"

     "Yes."

     Darius' face guarded his thoughts, and Euticus grew tense.

     "Do you know the origin of the words you speak?" Darius asked. Euticus shook his head.

     "My father only told me that it is a very old creed, one held by warriors of a long dead order."

     Darius nodded. "That is partly true, but that is not the meaning of it now. The only people who speak those words are those who hail from the east, under the command of Slave.

     "You are under suspicion, Euticus, of spying."

     Euticus turned white.

     "I can only give you my word that I am not, but I guess that is not good enough?"

     Darius shook his head. "I am afraid not."

     "So, I guess you are going to kill me, or banish me..."

     "No," Darius said, and started to the door. He opened it, and turned back in the doorway. "I'm going to give you a chance. Follow me."

***

Euticus followed Darius at a distance down the stairs and through the tavern, where the two of them drew several glances. Hundreds of dirty faces parted a way to the door before them, cramming themselves tightly along the walls so they could pass. True, Kroog, Earling, and the rest of Darius's men followed behind them into the street.

     "Kroog, Earling, clear the area and have the men form a wall," Darius ordered, and within a couple minutes Earling had cleared a twenty-meter stretch of road. Darius and Euticus stood in the center.

     "What's happening?" Euticus asked. Darius turned to True.

     "Swords, True, and blindfold." She stepped forward, brandishing two blades, and handed them to Darius. From the waistband of her trousers she pulled a long scrap of cloth.

      Euticus repeated his question. Darius began strapping the sword to his waist.

     "We are going to see if you are truly your father's son," Darius said, and True stepped up behind Euticus. She tried to wrap the blindfold over his eyes, but he ducked away.

     "What, you don't get one?" Euticus asked, keeping True at arm's distance. Darius shrugged.

     "You do not have much of a choice," he said, and Euticus allowed him self to be blindfolded after fastening his own sword to his waist. He felt True's hand rest gently on his shoulder.

     "Good luck, Eue," she whispered, then rejoined the crowd.

     Euticus drew and closed his eyes beneath the blindfold. They would do him no good. He kept his ears and heart open, however. Darius moved quickly with no sound but that of soft footfalls. No one in the crowd would hear it, but Euticus did, off to his left. He blocked the attack and their blades locked.

     Darius pushed Euticus and sent him stumbling back. Euticus spun around, knowing that Darius' back would be vulnerable, but his blade only bit steel. Darius parried the blade away from him, leaving Euticus hurrying to recover.

     The crowd around them began to cheer, making things a bit more difficult for Euticus. He could no longer rely on his hearing, but he had obtained a feel for Darius' style: quick and graceful, better fitted for show than battle.

     Which means that he is playing with me.

     Something cold missed his face by a feather's width, nearly ending this little encounter. He needed to concentrate, to focus, but the sound of the crowd cheering for Darius caught in his ears and echoed.

     There, warm air. He swung the blade to his right. A loud clang cut through the air and vibrated down his arms. Darius allowed no pause in his attack and swung around, but Euticus knew he only needed to raise the sword straight up to block it. He parried, guiding the sword down into the muck of the road.

     The air grew hotter. Euticus smiled now, able to block Darius' frustrated attacks. Slowly the grace fell away and Darius' aggression mounted, his form becoming sloppy. He'd apparently had more practice in commanding or mounted combat than on foot.

     Euticus stayed on defense, waiting to feel an opening. One presented itself when Darius' sword glinted violently to the left. This should have meant that Darius flailed, trying to regain his balance. Euticus lashed out.

     Darius blocked his strike. Euticus felt his blade sink into something wooden, and it took a moment to recognize what had happened. He'd been relying on Darius losing his patience; Darius had anticipated Euticus' ill-founded cockiness.

     Euticus almost lost the fight right then, but when Darius cut downwards he jumped, keeping his hand on the sword. He went up and over, feeling the metal break in the middle of the blade. He rolled forward and turned, throwing the sword at Darius and employing another, mostly frowned upon though no less deadly technique: fighting dirty. He heard Darius cry out and charged.

     The crowd gasped when he felt his fist strike Darius' jaw. It hurt, bad, but the winded oomph that indicated Darius falling square on his backside presented Euticus a small victory that helped to deaden the pain. He fell upon Darius and began raining blows on his body. The beat down did not last long. Darius got a leg free and kicked Euticus in the chest, stunning him long enough for Darius to regain his feet. Euticus charged again. Darius must have anticipated the move, and when Euticus swung he felt his fist pass through nothing but air, followed by vertigo when his own movement sent him spinning wildly. Arms weaved under his own and around his neck, and something knocked his knees out. He fell to the ground, Darius coiled around him like a snake.

     "You did well, Euticus. Perhaps what you say is true. Now. Submit."

      Euticus struggled defiantly, which Darius answered by squeezing a bit tighter. Euticus tapped out, and Darius stood, helped Euticus up, and removed his blindfold.

     "Fellow transporters, I would like to introduce you to the newest member of my company. Euticus Bluejay."

     The transporters crowded around him, smiling, welcoming him with various words. The sudden attention caused another whirling sense of vertigo, but Euticus kept his feet, greeting them each in turn.

     "Join me, brother," Darius said, and Euticus turned to find Darius already mounting the steps to the tavern, his hand out. Euticus joined his side and Darius wrapped his arm around his shoulders. The tension drained under that weight.

    Brother. The word repeated in Euticus' mind. Only one other had called him that in his life, and that other had turned his back on him. He looked at Darius, felt connected to him, and examining the crowd, felt the same.

     They entered the tavern and the Pharasi inside began to clap wildly, welcoming Euticus into their fold. The heightened joy of the now suppressed his memories of Sparrow, Crow, and the childhood games they had played.

     "Get our newest sibling a drink, tender!" Darius cried. The bar keep gave him a small salute and poured a dark ale into a mug made of strange material that Euticus recognized, but could not place. When they got to the bar, Darius picked up the mug and handed it to him. When he grasped it, Euticus had a flash, there and gone, of where he'd seen the **** substance before. His smile disappeared, his eyes blank.

     "Euticus, is something wrong?"

     Euticus looked up in surprise at Darius, knowing that his change in demeanor had been drastic.

     "This mug, what is it made of?"

     Darius' face split into a wide grin, and he laughed.

     "Why, this is glass," he said.

     "Glass," Euticus repeated, running his fingers over its smooth surface. The transporters gathered around him had gone quiet, watching with intense curiosity. Earling burst out laughing.

     "You'd think he's seeing some kind of magic!" he cried, and the others joined in the laughter.

     "Drink up!" Darius yelled, clapping Euticus on the back. Euticus lifted the glass and took a drink. It stung his tongue and throat and he began to cough, eliciting more laughter. Darius lifted his glass in a toast.

     "To The Blind Warrior!" he called.

     "Hear, hear!" called the others, and then one called "To the Coachman!"

     Darius' countenance darkened a bit at this sentiment, but he quickly recovered and repeated it, though with notably less vigor. They all drank, and Euticus managed not to choke again. With the toasts said, the celebration began. A woman pushed her way forward and pulled Euticus onto the floor. They danced and others joined in, and soon the mass of Pharasi became a swirling blur of smiles and laughter. They sang and danced and drank long into the night, and Euticus found himself to be home.

This particular chapter has probably seen more changes made to it in the five years since I first wrote it than any other. Originally, it came at the end of chapter 2, but someone pointed out to me that, as I had it, the chapter was twenty pages of talk followed by five of action, and wasn't very satisfactory. So I decided to give the action its very own chapter. Let me know if you think it was the right choice.

It's also the first time we encounter Slave, the antagonist, in this draft (originally he was introduced in a scene where he gives a villainous speech worthy of a saturday morning cartoon, a scene I later replaced with the "Boma Moment"). Slave is an important character to me, because his developement goes hand in hand with what I spoke about in a previous Blog entry about making villains less villainy and more people with their own agenda. It isn't readily apparent here, but hopefully down the road it will be.

Okay, enough chit chat. Time to paint the earth red...

Chapter 3

Proving Grounds

Euticus fidgeted, staring out at the morning fog. In his village, the fog turned the shapes of trees into empty shadows under the low light. Looking out at them he could almost see the ghosts of past lives dancing through the forest, reminders of campfire stories that faded with the day, or the living of life. Here, however, on this flat plain, he only saw the shape of nothingness.

     Darius had taken the wagons Kroog managed to repair the night before and left with the bulk of the men, leaving the remainder with only eight wagons and a handful of grain sacks and old barrels for defense. Kroog somehow managed to organize this meager supply into barricades, though Euticus doubted whether it would be adequate against an attack.

     "This isn't good," said the man sharing Euticus' post. "Almost like this fog's been sent by Pharen Itself. Oh, I wish I'd not gotten caught dipping into the food stores. Again."

     Euticus laughed.

     "Oh, find that humorous, do you? Tickles your funny bone, does it? Tell me then, what did you do?"

     "What do you mean?" Euticus said, popping a piece of dried meat that True had given him into his mouth. He held it under his tongue, enjoying the strange spices and the way they made his mouth water.

     "What you do to get on Darry's **** list? That's the only reason any of us're here, except Kroog and True. We all did something wrong."

     Euticus chewed slowly. True had said something about learning how to kill, and quickly.

    "Simple enough. I'm a stranger."

     The man grinned. "Ah, a test then. Didn't think I recognized you. You're the one they found on the side of the road back a ways. Already making you fight, eh? That's one grasser of a welcome, friend."

     Euticus nodded, dropping his hand down to the sword Kroog had given him. The feel of its tightly woven grip and sure weight relaxed him. He swallowed the bit of jerky in his mouth and tore another piece off the strip in his pocket. The man eyed him while he did so, and Euticus tore off a second piece and offered it.

     "Thanks," he said, chewing the meat and swallowing it easily like a piece of bread. "Name's Jun, by the way."

     The man held out his hand, and Euticus took it.

     "Jun, the delver of food supplies, is it?"

     "Close enough. Actually, it's Glut."

     "Glut? They call you that?"

     "Mm-hm. When I get in trouble. Is my Fault Name."

     "Fault name?" Jun gave him a look that indicated most people were born with such knowledge.

     "Yeah, Fault Name. All Pharasi get a Fault Name and a Virtue Name. With this outfit, my fault name is Glut, because I eat more than my share."

     "What's your Virtue?"

     Jun smiled and said, "Haven't one yet."

     "My name is Euticus. Bluejay."

     Jun laughed. "Bluejay? What kind of name is that?"

     "My father's name," Euticus said, the humor gone from is face. Jun stopped laughing, and turned around back to his watch. Euticus did the same and found the eastern sky getting lighter.

     "Morning coming," Jun said. "Looks like Pharen smiles on...oh, Ox ****!"

     "What?" Euticus asked, moving to join Jun, but his companion had already whirled around toward the center of the camp, putting his hands up to his mouth.

     "Enemy approaching from the South East!" he cried.

     Euticus watched, bewildered, then turned. Where there had been nothing only a second before, he now saw dark shapes moving in the fog, a long, undulating wave of shadow that spanned across the horizon. They were still pretty far out, and Euticus only saw them now that Jun had pointed them out. How Jun had spotted them, Euticus did not know.

     "Hawkeye," Euticus said when Jun returned to his side, sword drawn. Euticus drew his own.

     "What's that?" Jun asked.

     "You're virtue name."

     Kroog, True, and fifty others joined them, carrying bags and barrels and forming a makeshift barricade. Kroog looked down at Euticus and smiled.

     "It's looking like your going to get to test that fancy knife of yours out a little earlier than expected, eh?"

     Euticus nodded and swallowed. The jerky no longer worked to wet his mouth. He shook his head, trying to get it together.

     The enemy advance stopped, and the world quieted around them. The only sound came from his pulse beating steadily in his ears. He stared out at a solid black mountain range of metal and flesh, the only break in the mass the valleys and peaks created by helmeted heads and armored shoulders.

     A strange, guttural cry rolled through the morning air, and the enemy began its charge. Euticus saw the dust covering the crate he used for cover begin to vibrate, then dance.

     Euticus braced himself, his arms heavy with the weight of his sword. The presence of the people on either side of him reassured him, their energy pulsing with his own, and in that moment he felt his self fall away, becoming a part of the whole.

      Becoming a Pharasi.

     The ground now quaked with the enemy's approach. The shadow passed, revealing the attackers, human attackers. Sharp, feral eyes shone from behind slightly slanted lids and flat, stony faces. Black, layered plates formed their strange armor, and they held thin swords high above their heads. Euticus' arms tightened.

     This is madness, he thought. These people look as though they were born during battle...

     "Damn..." Kroog cursed. "They send their foot soldiers first. Oh well...

     "Pharasi! Charge!" The line sprung up without hesitation at Kroog's command. Euticus found himself swept up in their fervor and he ran at the enemy, sword held out to his side. Sparrow, Crow, the village and the Birthing Pool faded from his mind. Only here and now mattered. Only survival.

     He charged ahead, first to engage the enemy. He swung laterally, taking a man in the gut. When his blade connected, it met resistance. Not the resistance of armor, but the soft, elastic resistance of flesh and muscle. Had he hit the man hard enough? Maybe his sword needed some time with a grindstone?

     The resistance vanished and Euticus' sword sunk into his victim's stomach. Blood sprayed from the wound and Euticus froze, watching the man's insides blossom around the point where the blade lay lodged in his belly. The man fell screaming, trying to hold his intestines in.

     Oh, Crow, he was still alive. Why was he still alive? A blow like that should have killed him but he was still alive and his hands were full of blood and meat and ****...

     A sharp pain flared in Euticus' arm, bringing him back to the battle. A squat man stood growling before him, a drop of blood falling from the tip of his blade. The squat man could have killed Euticus, had he not been toying around.

     The Squat Man lunged, his hair trailing in a ponytail stuck through the top of his helmet. Euticus reflexively blocked the blade, only to be blind-sided by the Squat Man's fist. The bandit jumped back, half laughing and snarling, his narrow eyes nearly closed by a jagged smile. Euticus whirled about to face him again. The Squat Man beckoned to him with a finger.

     A game, then, like the Hunters back home played against the wild hogs. Every time they touched their prey with their bare hands before killing it, they gained more respect among their ranks.

     "Two can play at that!" he shouted at the Squat Man, whose smile disappeared. Clearly, he did not care for the idea of his prey being a good sport. He charged at Euticus, this time intent on making the kill. Euticus side stepped the wild attack and cracked the Osernian at the base of the neck with the pommel of his sword. Euticus felt something give underneath the blow, and The Squat Man stumbled and fell face first to the ground.

     While Euticus waited for the Squat Man to get back up, he heard someone coming up from behind him just in time to drop to one knee. An ax sliced the air above his head, and the weight of the throw served only to throw its wielder, a tall, narrow shouldered man, off balance. Euticus drove his sword through the attacker's back. That same resistance traveled through his blade as it slid into flesh, but not so strong now.

     He turned back to his original problem, but the Squat man had not gotten up.

     Taking in the battlefield, Euticus saw Kroog take two men with one swing of his pick ax, already adorned with pieces of flesh, twisted decorations gleaming in the morning light. True impaled another. Jun latched on to someone's back and lifted the man's chin while another Pharasi slit the man's throat. He saw death, and his new benefactors dealt it.

     Euticus spotted a group of their attackers engaged with a woman. They almost immediately relieved her of her sword. Not a fighter, then. Just someone on Darius' bad side. Euticus ran at them but arrived too late. They took the woman down in a torrent of blows and blood.

     Euticus came down on them screaming, killing one outright, parrying the second's attack, and slashing a third's chest before they could effectively coordinate against him. With each strike the resistance he felt grew less and less. Those left alive began to run, but Euticus picked up the fallen woman's sword and threw it, taking one in the neck. He pursued another, splitting the Osernian's back open from neck to waist, exposing the white, spiny back bone against ashen skin. This one died easily, Euticus' blade cut cleanly. He fought on, his blade sharpened by the need to survive.

     Blood from one enemy flew from his blade as he stained it with that of another. Blood ran down his face, over his hands and arms none of it his, all of it warm, all of it comforting.

     He ran his sword through the neck of one man and into the ground. He pulled it out and swung around, only to have his blow blocked by Kroog's pick ax. The blacksmith's thick arms gleamed red from the elbows down, his face and beard caked with a grayish red mixture of muck and blood. Euticus saw the others around him. The crimson fluid of life, the life of people lying broken and dead around them, bathed their skin. Euticus felt cleansed.

     "Lower your weapon, boy. Fight's over."

     Euticus nodded and fell to his knees. Kroog helped him up, putting a huge paw on his shoulder.

     "You did well. We..."

     "Kroog, Slave is approaching from the west! Slave himself is approaching from the west!"

     Kroog started forward, his eyes wide.

     "Cavalry?"

     The scout nodded.

     "Pharen, help us." Kroog turned, facing his men, and said, "Back to the barricade!"

     The transporters turned and ran. Out of the darkness of the west, the last remnant of the night, red banners stitched with the insignia of a sun emerged.

     "Death can be conquered," Euticus whispered.

 ***

Kroog's heart paused when the ancient motto escaped Euticus' lips. His hammer twitched in his hands, thirsty for the boy's blood. The only men who used those words in these times served the rogue Osernian Wolf, Slave.

     Something staid his hand, however. Taking immediate action against Euticus would only cause confusion amongst the ranks while also opening him up to attack. Ox ****, of course. He could easily crush the boy's skull before Slave arrived, and the others would never question his judgment.

     "Get to the barricade!" Kroog cried again, more to quell his suspicions before they got the better of him than to spur his men. The line sat only twenty meters away, but Kroog thought he could feel the breath of Slave's horsemen down his back.

     He reached the barricade and crouched behind it, pushing himself flat against the dew soaked wood of a crate. His ass barely hit the ground before horses flew over his head in a storm of sod and hooves. He heard screams up and down the line as horses failed the make the jump and either crashed through the barricade or landed atop his hiding fellows. Kroog closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable moment when a ton of horse came crushing down upon him.

    It didn't happen, and when the last of the horses landed on their side of the wall, he stood, hammer ready.

     "Attack!" he ordered, and the others jumped to their feet and began hacking at the horsemen from behind. The horses, unable to maneuver in the tight confines of the camp, panicked and reared, throwing their riders to the ground. Kroog's fighters fell upon them and ended their part in the charge.

     A few of the Pharasi took to the saddles of the unmanned horses and began to engage Slave's men in mounted combat. Those still on the ground swarmed the remaining enemy horses and toppled the riders.

     Kroog made short work of a group of men trying to surround him and began to make his way through the chaos toward Slave, sitting atop a mighty black horse in the middle of the battle, barking orders and fighting off the occasional attacker. Torches arced through the air and the wagons began erupting into flame.

     Kroog cleaved a soldier trying to flank him. The blow collapsed the Osernian's chest and lifted him off his feet. He slid on the grass and stopped, gurgling. Kroog made no move to finish him off. Let bastard drown in his own blood. Kroog had more important matters at hand.

     "Slave!"

     Slave pulled his blade out of a dead Pharasi's face and turned his mount to face Kroog. He smiled a grim, red toothed grin and wiped a streamer of saliva from the corner of his mouth. A mane of black hair hung about his face in thick braids and cascaded over his shoulders like water falls. Gore splattered his breastplate, deepening the color of the Crimson Sun insignia. He dismounted, heavy boots sinking into the blood muddied earth, and slapped his horse on the backside to send the animal away. The gray wolf-fur lining of his leather overcoat bristled in the heat cast by the burning wagons.

     "Kroog, the Smith. You forged this sword, I believe." He brandished his blade, a katana made in the Osernian tradition, long, thin, and slightly curved, made for speed and accuracy rather than devastating force. Kroog recognized the blade. He had forged it for a slave master in the borderlands he fought for, decades ago. Slave had carved the obsidian grip into the shape of a snarling, maned wolf.

     "Not for you to wield!" Kroog roared, lifting his hammer above his head and charging. Slave roared back, his face square and faintly lion-like, meeting the blacksmith's challenge. Kroog swung and Slave raised his katana. The two weapons met with a fierce clang that reverberated through their arms and echoed above the battle around them.

     A frustrated growl rose up in Kroog's throat and he parried his opponents blade. The hammer too heavy to bring quickly back to bear, he drove forward with his forehead, landing a blow on Slave's mouth.

     The Osernian Lord wheeled back but recovered quickly. Blood coursed over his chin from a small spit in his upper lip. He spit out a broken tooth, trailing red saliva on its way to the ground. His dark eyes fixed on Kroog's, and he grinned again.

     Kroog rushed forward, bringing his hammer around for massive blow. Slave back stepped gracefully despite the bulk of his muscle and armor. Kroog lost his balance and fell to the ground. He landed on his hammer and the spike gouged his side, cracking his ribs. He grit his teeth against the pain crystallizing through his body and rolled away.

     Another Pharasi tried to come to his aid, but Slave blocked the blow and grabbed the man by the throat. He lifted the transporter and threw him into the wreckage of the burning wagon. The flames flared, choking the air with sparks, ash, and smoke.

     "You bastard," Kroog wheezed, almost inaudible against the sounds of battle and the screams of the man burning alive three meters away.

     Slave's shadow fell over him, kicking the war hammer away like it weighed nothing. Kroog saw him only in silhouette, a familiar shape that wrapped his heart in sharp, steely fingers, and for the first time in all the battles he'd ever fought, Kroog knew fear.

***

"Kroog!" True cried, witnessing the old smith's fall. She began to make her way over, but soon had her hands busy. Watching Slave tower over a disarmed, frozen Kroog, a desperate need to finish with her attackers seized her. Kroog looked scared.

     Kroog never looked scared.

     A short blade passed so closely in front of her eyes she made out the nicks in the metal. Too close. She focused on her own battle and drove her cutlass up into the Osernian's armpit. His narrow eyes widened and he cried out. True stepped under his arm, came up behind him and pulled on her blade, slicing through her opponent's shoulder. Blood sprayed from the wound, soaking her back.

     Two more of Slave's Wolves sprung up, one before and one behind her, snarling in Osernian. One had an obvious erection and seemed to be enjoying it. She kicked him between the legs and he fell limp to the ground. The other attacked, putting up more of a fight. Now on the defensive and unable to find an opening, she knew she would not make it to Kroog.

     A small shape, silhouetted by the fire of a burning wagon, charged silently from Slave's left while the enemy commander prepared to skewer Kroog.

     Euticus...

***

 

Euticus swung just as Slave drove downward. The blow should have fatally gouged Slave, but steel now occupied the space where only a second before had been a leather joining strap. The blow grazed off Slave's armor, but it did knock him off kilter, and his sword sunk harmlessly into the ground next to Kroog's face.

     Slave spun around, backhanding Euticus with a gauntleted fist. Euticus never before felt such a blow. He felt his jaw swelling already, and considered himself lucky that it had not broken. He began to get up when a shadow consumed the light around him. Slave stalked toward him, Euticus' focus drawn to the scar splitting the side of his face.

     Damn the Vulture, it's him.

     His dream of the killer, faceless except for the scar, flashed in his mind. Euticus' blood became paralyzing ice.

     "Gutsy move, boy. Very gutsy, and it proved that perhaps I have gotten careless. Unfortunately, it only served to warn me to this fact. It will not happen again."

     Slave reached down, grabbed Euticus around the neck, and pulled him to his feet. He raised his fist in a clatter of armor and creak of leather.

     "As gratitude for enlightening me to my lack of attention, you get to die slowly," Slave said. Euticus grinned.

     "Death can be conquered."

     Slave's fist wavered.

     "Wha-?"

     Euticus used the opportunity to kick out with both legs, striking Slave in his chest and knocking him back. His grip loosened and Euticus fell, gasping. He rolled back, finding his sword and coming up in a wide stance.

     "That's twice you've knocked me off my balance, boy," Slave said. "I think I might actually remember you after I've removed the head from your shoulders."

     Slave retrieved his sword, taking no notice of the fact that Kroog had crawled away, and lifted it.

     "Do you know what the secret to fighting is, boy?"

     "That it doesn't matter how big your **** is, as long as you have the upper hand."

     Slave laughed.

     "Very good. My father taught me the same thing."

     "So did mine," Euticus said, beginning to circle. Slave found strength in power and experience. His weakness would be dependence on that power and hubris.

     A voice called out in a strange language, redirecting Slave's attention. Euticus followed his opponent's gaze and found one of Slave's men kneeling before them.

     Slave said something in reply, refocusing on Euticus. The man chattered on in his clipped, aggressive tongue, and Slave's face grew increasingly strained. Euticus recognized only one word: Darius.

     He'd come back. Euticus hoped this news would give him an opening, but Slave did not look away, or even blink. He sounded an ear splitting whistle and a massive horse trotted up, its hooves tossing up clods of red earth and trampled grass. Slave mounted, never taking his eyes off Euticus.

     "I very much look forward to meeting you again, boy," Slave said, then called for the retreat of his men. They ceased their attack, turning south and riding from the battle, disappearing into what remained of the fog. It reminded Euticus of a chaotic murder of crows taking wing from the fields back home.

     He lowered his blade, skin streaked with dirt and gore, and stared into the east, now brightening from red to pink. He watched his Pharasi hosts begin pulling the wounded and dead clear of the battle's burning wreckage. True tended to Kroog a few meters away.

     The blacksmith studied him, the welcoming gleam now gone from his eyes. Darius rode up moments later, followed by two large columns of soldiers in armor holding white banners at the front of each. Their eyes met, and Darius nodded approval. Euticus nodded back, and passed out.