Carrion

[Savra]

Dawn was approaching when Savra reached the small cluster of trees. Her lips were cracked, her mount lathered, and her waterskins empty – but she was alive. It was as much as she could ask for under the present circumstances. Light night’s sandstorm hadn’t been so much a problem as the series of dried-up waterholes that preceded it, evoking memories of past hardships. Well, it’s over now, Savra sighed, though not in relief. She could make out the glow of a fire in the darkness. A herder or a mendicant, perhaps, although she suspected she would have sensed the animals by now. Could this be an outlaw’s camp? Savra strung her shortbow as she urged Dust through the trees – just in case. She could feel the stallion’s discomfort from the unevenness of his gait. He needed the water as much as she did. A shaggy-maned horse was tethered near the crumbled well. Beside it was a rough lean-to where a boyish Drykas was braiding strands of leather. He looked up at Savra and smiled. “How are you, lass?” he spoke in the Common tongue. “Well enough,” she replied, her tongue stumbling over the words. It was unusual to encounter a Drykas this far to the west. Dismounting, she slaked her thirst at the well and then tended to her mount – all under the boy’s hawkish stare. His frame was lean and well-muscled, and he looked to be four or five years her elder, the same as Rafah. “Nice bit of horseflesh,” the Drykas said. He put down his knotwork and approached with halting strides. Savra noted his ragged garb and the battered tulwar slung over his shoulder, her expression impassive. “You are a renegade?” “Nah, nothing like that,” the smile returned. “I’m an adventurer.” “Which means?” “I do a bit of this and a bit of that,” he shrugged, “it depends on the time and place. But enough about me – I want to know more about you.” “Such as?” “Your name, for instance. I’m Drek Sunspear.” “It’s Savra,” she scowled, “the First Prophet of the Redeemer.” Drek hadn’t given her reason to recoil thus far, but Savra knew he wanted what all men wanted. It was clear from the glint in his eye and the stiffness of his shoulders. “That some sort of cult?” the Drykas asked. He was playing cat-and-mouse with her, that much was certain, seeing if she’d be a willing participant. If not then he’d force her to submit to his desires. It was that simple. His eyes were a predator’s eyes, and she was his prey. “I would sit down if I were you,” Savra warned, “lest you think me a fool.” Drek paused for a moment, his expression uncertain, and then slunk off to his shelter. “Apologies,” he muttered, and then under his breath, “I was just trying to be friendly.” No, you weren’t. Savra removed Dust’s tack and began to set up camp. She would have preferred to leave this place behind, but that was not an option. Both she and the stallion were bone-tired from the exertions of the past week. If she sought to flee the Drykas was sure to follow her on his fresher mount. “Need a hand?” Drek asked as she started to erect her small tent. Savra cast him a withering look, but he went ahead and helped anyway. If not for lust, she thought, he might make a half-decent person. Drek retreated to his side of the well when the task was complete, leaving Savra to see to her equipment. “You know,” he said a few chimes later, “I could teach you to ride like a Drykas.” “And why would I want that?” Savra asked. “Well, because we’re the best,” Drek grinned, “and it looks like you’ve still got lots to learn.” “I’m not in the mood.” “Are all Benshira like you?” he sighed. “It’s like having a conversation with a stone.” “How unfortunate,” Savra said, and then asked, “did you ever meet a boy named Rafah in your homeland?” “Rafah?” Drek scratched at his wispy beard. “No, I don’t think so. He your brother or something?” When Savra didn’t respond, the Drykas shrugged and returned to his leatherwork. A shroud of silence fell over the camp for a bell or so before Savra climbed to her feet. “Where are you going?” Drek cocked his head. “I need to piss,” Savra snarled. She slipped past the well and embraced the darkness. It was friend as much as enemy, for she could see and not be seen. Still, she couldn’t help but imagine the benachag’s eyes were upon her. Savra slid the kukri from her weapons harness, taking solace in its weight as she relieved herself behind a tree, and then retraced her steps – only to find that Drek had disappeared. Sure enough, a rough hand clamped down on her mouth from behind, while his other arm pinioned her slender frame against his chest. “Quiet now,” Drek had time to whisper before Savra sheathed her kukri in his thigh. Hissing in pain, the Drykas recoiled. It was time enough for Savra to slip under his arm and draw her swords. “I believe it’s time for a lesson,” she murmured. “Bitch!” Drek pulled the knife from his leg and tossed it to the ground. “I was going to let you live, but now…” his tone left nothing to the imagination. Snarling, he drew his tulwar and advanced on Savra, making the curved blade sing through the air. “How generous of you,” Savra grunted as she deflected the blow. Its impact left her arm numb to the elbow. He was strong, she would give him that, and he could handle pain. Perhaps she had underestimated him. Savra retreated from Drek’s sweeping blade and then darted in close, slashing with her right and thrusting with the left gladius. His tulwar parried both attacks and then swept at her again. Savra writhed away from the curved blade and retreated in haste. She bit her lip as he lunged at her again. How could she negate his reach advantage? Savra turned the blow aside with her left gladius, nearly losing the blade in the process, and slashed at Drek’s injured leg with her right. He twisted as the strike landed so that it sliced through cloth and flesh, carving a superficial furrow instead of a serious wound. With a series of curses, Drek redoubled his attack and nearly succeeded in lopping off Savra’s head. “Die, you bitch!” Drek swung his tulwar again, but Savra had already stepped out of range – much too far to permit a counterattack. She tried her best to seem frightened, making her eyes widen and her limbs start to tremble. Drek lunged as she stepped back, and lunged again. When Savra looked over her shoulder as she retreated, as if considering flight, the Drykas charged with his tulwar poised to cleave her in two. However, Savra met his charge with one of her own, slipping low and to his unprotected side. She spun as their paths crossed and slashed at his hamstring, feeling a momentary drag as her left gladius sliced through flesh, and then a hot pain in her forearm as she leaped past him. Drek might have sustained another superficial wound, but he’d given her one in return. His curved blade was a blur as he advanced upon her again, and Savra was hard-pressed to turn the blows aside. She had the advantage of speed and multiple weapons, but Drek’s slashes seemed so inexorable, so… could he be better than her? No, he is not, Savra triumphed as his leg finally buckled. She swept forward, using both blades to deflect the tulwar, and then hacked at his wrist. A spurt of blood, a curse, and the weapon fell to the sand. Drek had time enough to curse before Savra drove the rounded pommels of her swords into his skull – once, twice, thrice – until he toppled and lay motionless. Disregarding the blood seeping down her arm, Savra checked to see that Drek was unconscious. Satisfied that he was, she collected the pegs she’d used to secure her tent, and then stripped her fallen foe and staked him out on the hardpan. It was time for a lesson.

[Savra]

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” Savra removed the heated blade. Her nose turned up at the reek of burnt flesh, but she did not flinch as she finished cauterizing her pupil’s wounds. She couldn’t have him getting infected. After all, what was the good of a lesson that couldn’t be applied later on? Drek was gagged and bound, his dark eyes wide with a mixture of what Savra suspected was pain, horror, and shock. ‘I don’t like to be interrupted,’ she’d explained when she forced the gag into his mouth, sparing herself the nuisance of his pleas. “I will let you live, of course,” Savra reminded him. “After all, did you not mention that you would have spared my life? But you will not be the same after this,” she unconsciously switched to her native tongue. “Once violated, a woman bears scars both internal and external – scars that haunt her for her entire life. I believe you will understand before the end, for that is the purpose of this lesson,” she said as she took up her sword. Savra did not enjoy these lessons, but such was her sacred duty. If she didn’t set unbelievers on the path to salvation, how could she hope to fulfill her role as the First Prophet? Drek needed her to do this. He needed to learn the error of his ways. And if he survived the inferno, Savra had no doubt that he would thank her for her intervention. “You have shown skill with a blade,” Savra stated, “but its purpose offends me. I thus decree that you be hobbled in one foot, so that you cannot pursue those to whom you bear malice.” Her blade flashed out. Drek writhed in agony as blood spattered the sand. It took several strikes to lop off the toes of his right foot, but Savra persevered and cauterized the stump once she’d finished. “Still awake?” she splashed water on her pupil’s face. “Now, there is the matter of your manhood. It must be removed.” Crouching beside him, Savra seized the flaccid organ and reached for her kukri. Her eyes were cold and blank and she regarded him. “As for your stones, I shall leave them as a reminder of the children you will be unable to sire. It is for the best. Leave your sins behind, respect women, and perhaps you will earn salvation.” With that, Savra bent to her task.

[Savra]

“Scuttle away, my little friend,” Savra crooned as she peered at the large, hairy spider down the shaft of an arrow. Making a slight adjustment to the height, she released her hold upon the shaft and the missile thrummed like a bolt of chain lightning, embedding itself a third of the way into the sand. Again the spider crawled away unscathed, its bulbous carapace seeming to glisten with a rust-orange hue. “I’ve heard the Symenestra are renowned for their climbing abilities,” Savra observed as she nocked another arrow and drew it back so the mottled fletchings brushed against her cheek. “It is unfortunate that your cousins are elsewhere. I should like to speak with them.” With that, she loosed the arrow and watched as it sheared off one of the spider’s legs, then stepped forward and crushed the crawler beneath her heel. If her father’s tales were to be believed, the Symenestra would be ideal for breaking the stranglehold upon Hai – but then again, tales were tales. Besides, there weren’t any of the spider-like humanoids within a thousand leagues, much less roaming the scorched deserts. To muster the forces she needed for conquest, Savra knew she had to make contact with the ruler of the reviled tomb-city. If not this year or the next, then whenever she became powerful enough to command Hai's crook-backed legion of lepers and its cruel misfits. Yes, she would lead them into a glorious future, a time of peace and wisdom. Not one of the fallen was beyond redemption. No matter what the rumors asserted, the city’s evils were but reflections of its Benshira and Eypharian sentinels. How else could the captives survive but revert to their primal nature? Retrieving her arrows, Savra paused to regard the mangled spider. She wasn’t averse to eating chitinous beetles and the occasional grub for survival, but she didn’t care to try her luck with spiders. It might be poisonous for all she knew. Savra continued her exploration of the arroyo, her sandaled feet encountering the occasional fragment of wood or sun-bleached bone. A half-empty waterskin hung at her hip. She hadn’t happened upon another source of water since her encounter with Drek – and that was days ago. It seemed as if water was becoming scarcer the further she traveled to the east. With a croak, a buzzard took off from a nearby crag and winged across Savra’s path. Raising her bow, she nocked a shaft, drew the bowstring back while tracking the bird’s flight across the blood-red dusk, and released. Her arrow soared through the air, almost clipping the buzzard’s tail feathers, and completed its arc by shattering upon a rock. Savra scowled at the ungainly bird as it vanished into the darkness. She didn’t appreciate losing arrows, but the fault was hers alone. Even if she’d downed the carrion-eater she wouldn’t dream of consuming its tainted flesh. Savra continued down the rock-strewn arroyo, halting for a moment to retrieve the iron point of the shattered arrow. She couldn’t abide the thought of waste. One day, perhaps, she would learn to fletch her own arrows – but for now she possessed an ample supply. It had been an error to part from Shakapa without taking a closer look at how he shaped his arrows from flakes of flint and obsidian. Savra’s pale eyes flicked from side to side as she scrutinized her surroundings, pausing every now and then to focus on some minute detail; a oddly-shaped boulder, a lose scattering of vertebrae, a plume of sand. She appeared to be the only living creature that trod its surface now that she’d crushed the spider, or at least the only one that wasn’t hiding in a concealed burrow or crevice. Glancing up, she spied the buzzard circling overhead as if waiting for her to expire upon the sands. Nudging a half-buried pelvis with her foot, Savra let her shortbow fall to her side. In this desert there were but three stages of life; predator, prey, and carrion. Today she was the predator, but perhaps tomorrow she would be prey to a tsana or pack of jackals, her half-eaten corpse left to decompose upon the scorched sands. Not even the Redeemer could save Savra from that fate. Her god had yet to enter this world, much less endow her with her a fragment of his vast powers, yet the knowledge only increased her resolve to survive. With a final look at her surroundings, Savra trudged from the arroyo and prepared to break camp. It was time for her to leave this place behind.

[Savra]

Pulse racing, Savra clutched at her fear-crazed mount’s reins as she tried desperately to keep from tumbling from the saddle. No matter what she did, Dust was heedless of her efforts to reestablish control as he streaked through the night. It was all Savra could do to hold on and pray for the best. She bent low over his neck and flowing mane, feeling the stallion’s muscles bunch under her legs as he carried them further and further from the unseen peril. From the way he’d reacted Savra wasn’t inclined to argue with his instincts. Could it have been a Baral that spooked him? She’d heard tales of the mysterious beasts, but she couldn’t conceive of coming close to encountering one. No, it had to be something else. But what? Savra kept a tight embrace on Dust as the stallion swept over ridges and through the barren flats, listening to the wind whistle through her ears. She couldn’t help but suspect that she’d have been able to regain control if was a master of horse. In truth, Savra was a novice where riding was concerned. She could hold a trot and – with a little luck – maintain a canter for a while, but her skills were far from what she wished them to be. As she clung to the back of her mount like a limpet, she felt nothing so much as a passenger along for the ride. It wouldn’t be difficult to saw at the reins, to seek to bend the stallion to her will, but Savra knew that would be a mistake. Her intervention would probably see them both crash to the sands. After a handful of chimes Dust finally slowed to a trot. He was blowing hard, his last reserves of stamina expended upon the wild flight. “Calm yourself,” Savra whispered into his ear, sitting higher in the saddle. She stroked his lathered neck and continued to speak in a reassuring tone until she managed to coax him to a halt. Dismounting, Savra slid her shortbow from its holder and reached for her quiver, still maintaining her grip upon the reins. She couldn’t hear anything in the gloom except for the faint hum of locusts. Might a swarm of the cursed insects have startled her horse? It wasn’t out of the question. “Petching insects,” Savra bared her teeth. She didn’t want to be within a thousand paces of a swarm, much less in its frenzied center to be scraped and scratched by the chitinous insects. It was like being caught in a sandstorm – except worse. Keeping her ears and eyes peeled, Savra led her mount down a rocky slope and into a natural basin, hoping the locusts wouldn’t follow.

[Savra]

Savra blinked the sun from her eyes and ducked back into her tent. It several hours after noon, a time when the desert’s heat was the fiercest, and she could already feel pinpricks of sweat beneath her loose tunic. How much further were the alabaster walls of Ahnatep from these barren dunes? Savra had no conception of the distance. It was clear, though, that she needed to rest and replenish her provisions before she continued onward. Her haggard face and labored steps testified to as much. Slowly but surely, Savra was breaking under the yoke of her trials, perils, and misfortunes - yet she could do naught to prevent the decline of her body and mind. Taking up her quill, Savra turned to a blank page in the Book of Ashes and began to write. Kinslayers are to be shorn of their ties to the faithful, for kinship is one of the most sacred bonds we know. Send the defilers to do penance in exile with naught but rags, stale bread, and a jug of water. No sandals, shawls, or turbans are permitted, nor other possessions, for true repentance arises from hardship. Such is the way of all things. As for the kinslayer’s wealth, it is forfeit to those harmed by their actions. In the absence of blood-ties a council of the faithful will convene to determine its best use. Once the kinslayer has departed from all civilization, it is imperative for them to seek the Redeemer’s guidance. No mortal, from the mightiest warleader to the lowliest shepherd, can set penitents upon a quest for redemption. Such is the sole province of the Redeemer, and in a lesser capacity, his Prophet – for the chosen one transcends the- A-whooo! A-whoooo! the howls of Savra’s wolves penetrated the silence. She sat bolt upright and reached for her shortbow, heart racing, and then rolled from the tent. It was impossible to see anything through the brightness, but judging by the faintness of the howls, she had ample time to prepare. Savra ducked back into the tent and fumbled with the straps of her weapons harness. After fastened the last buckle she took up her shortbow and hastened to a vantage point atop the dune. More howls echoed across the barren horizon. Savra turned to the west, the direction from which the noises seemed to emanate, and selected an arrow from the quiver that hung at her waist. She nocked it to her bowstring and strode across the crest of the dune, seeking the first glimpse of this faceless threat. One chime passed and then two, all while the howls grew louder, nearer, and more frantic. At last a horseman crested the adjacent dune with the wolves in close pursuit. How in the inferno did he follow me? Savra scowled. It was indeed Drek that sat atop the horse, although she imagined his pain must be unbearable. How much time had passed since he’d tried to rape her? Seven days? Eight? It was a miracle that he’d survived this long, let alone in the madness of his pursuit. Drek must have spied Savra atop the dune, for he wheeled his mount in her direction, his tulwar scraping from its scabbard of stiffened hide. So be it, Savra thought as she clenched her teeth and sent an arrow in his direction. It went high. Before she could so much as reach for another the Drykas was charging up the slope, his mount eating up the ground between them. Savra stepped back in astonishment as she nocked another shaft. How fast was Drek’s dark-maned horse? She had thought the beast in a full gallop before, but this sudden burst of speed was… well, unbelievable. Drawing the arrow back to her cheek, Savra steadied her arm and waited until Drek was no more than fifty paces distant. Her heart raced – but not in fear, for she was eager for the kill. Lips curling into a fiendish smile, Savra watched her second shot sink into Drek’s thigh. She heard him curse, and then the man veered off course, bending over the side of his mount. His face was set in a rictus of pain. No more than twenty paces separated them now, but the gap was widening. Savra drew and fired again, seeking to put a shaft in his lower back. Instead the arrow took Drek in the shoulder, toppling him from the saddle. Savra watched him tumble down the leeward bank of the dune and fail to regain his feet. “Leave him!” she shouted to her pursuing wolves, and they drew back for a moment, then loped off in pursuit of the horse. “I warned you not to follow me,” Savra said as she approached with her swords drawn. Drek crawled to where the tulwar was half-buried in the sands, his face drawn and bloodless, fever-bright eyes regarding Savra with an implacable hatred. “I will never… forgive you,” Drek hissed, and then he contorted in pain. His wounds weren’t fatal, but it seemed that he had sealed his fate during the hunt. It was clear that he’d forced his own death by continuing past the point of reason. How tragic. “Luckily for me,” Savra smiled as she beat aside the tulwar, “I don’t want your forgiveness.” Stepping upon the heavy blade, she buried her left gladius in Drek’s chest and then chopped the right into his neck. Blood spattered upon the sands as the unfortunate man breathed his last. He’d neglected to heed the final lesson of all: to learn from his mistakes. Retrieving her blades, Savra wiped them on the corpse’s blood-stained shirt and waited for her wolves to return. They would feast well tonight.

[Savra]

That night, Savra rode only a short distance before she halted at a sandstone outcrop. For some reason she didn’t feel like continuing on. It was as if she was overcome with lassitude, an unfamiliar fatigue that penetrated her flesh and bones and sapped her resolve to continue. Savra set up camp tended to her mount, and then built a fire from scrub. Hunched close to the dancing flames, she opened the Book of Ashes and set quill to parchment, meaning to write of obeisance and other social mores. But no matter how hard she tried, the words didn’t come to mind. What’s happening to me? Savra frowned. Ever since she put Drek out of his misery she’d been haunted by the searing hatred in man’s feverish eyes. Could it be that hatred was all that she inspired? Savra had wandered the desert for over a year in search of followers, yet her search had proved futile to this point. It wasn’t the failure she minded so much as the emotions she evoked in his encounters with shepherds, tribes, and other travelers. At their mildest these feelings ranged from indifference to distrust. Savra remembered how Shakapa had remained aloof with her, except for the brief moment when he’d demonstrated his talents. It had seemed a sociable gesture at the time, but now Savra wasn’t so sure. It was possible the hunter had intended to warn her with this show of prowess, to demonstrate that his teeth were sharper than hers. Had it been like that in Yahebah? For obvious reasons, Savra didn’t like to reflect on her childhood. Her memories were seldom pleasant, but at least she’d had a few friends to help her weather the cycles of abuse, sorrow, and addiction. Here she had no one. In her mind, Savra had withdrawn into a desolate tower whose ramparts she defended with sword and bow, refusing to show her emotions for fear of the weaknesses that lurked in the recesses of her soul. In truth, the Redeemer’s favor was more like a curse. How could Savra ever hope to live up to his demands? No matter how skilled with a blade she was her problems never disappeared. Her speeches were clumsy and uninspiring, while her lessons – well, there were other ways to prove a point. Savra committed those deeds not because she considered them right, but because she didn’t understand what else to do under the circumstances. How was she supposed to make the people understand? How could she trust them? How could she hope to make them love her? Severing cocks and fingers wasn’t the solution – of that she had no doubts. And yet, was fear not as powerful as love? Savra had experienced both in her childhood, and while her last vestiges of that love had drained from her heart, the old fears remained. Still, it was not enough to be feared, for fear and hate went hand in hand. Had she not perceived both in Drek’s eyes? No matter how ruthless Savra forced herself to be, she doomed herself to failure. As she stared into the fire, Savra realized that she was the one that did not understand. How could she have been so blind? If she wanted to save her people, she needed to do so with a minimum of force. She needed to learn patience, warmth, and tolerance – not to mention the arts of politics and deception. In short, she needed to remain in Ahnatep for a time. Had the Eypharians not conquered her people once before? With a smile, Savra tossed a handful of desiccated scrub on the embers and reached for her whetstone. It would also provide an opportunity to test their mettle – provided the freaks deigned to cross blades with a Benshiran.