CHAPTER ELEVEN - WADWO

Sorcha heard DeSilva calling for her in the forest but hid from him. When she heard Drake and the others take up the search, she fled deeper into the undergrowth.

Finding a secluded dell, she threw herself down in a heap and buried her tears in her hands. It was Tendath Drake who eventually found her; the old man simply stepped out of the trees and sat down on a rock beside her. He said nothing until he had rolled and lit a cigarette; all the while, the voices of their companions echoed through the trees at varying intervals.

"So," Drake said, contemplating the glowing tip of his roll-up, "what did that rascal DeKellia say to you?"

“Nothing!” Sorcha hissed, sitting up to glare at Drake with tear-stained eyes. “I nearly told him something I'll have to take to the grave because no one would understand!”

"What, that you'd been enslaved? We know that. It might mean the world to your Silvan way of thinking, but do you think that means anything to a Kellion man? Your problem is that you think being in a harem is unusual, when it's the norm for a Kellion girl.”

His self-assurance touched something Silvan deep inside her; Sorcha glared into Drake's placid smile. “I know you're trying to help,” she said, tightly. “But you can't. Someone else might, DeSilva maybe...”

Drake laughed. “That boy can't help himself, much less anyone else.”

Sorcha's eyes narrowed. Defensively, she said, “You're the reason DeKellia is the way he is, aren't you? You did that to him, and he did it to Monte. They'd be better men if not for you!”

"They'd be dead men, too,” Drake equably replied. “I'm sure you've been told that there's more than one view of the world, but that your view is the right one, eh? That perspective is the very reason you're in this predicament, in your head and in the woods right here. I reckon your problem is believing a bunch of things that you know ain't actually so. I don't know your whole tale and you hardly need me to tell it to you; that's not why you ran off just now."

“I can't tell you.”

“You obviously want to tell someone. I swear I'll take it to the grave; the word of an old scoundrel might not mean spit, but I am very old, my girl, and I'll not have to bear the secret long.”

Sorcha swallowed and took a few deep breaths. Finally, after three false starts, she said, “I fell in love with Goro warrior.”

Despite having been born and spent his entire life in the Red Light District of the Narillion Docks, the son of a prostitute who had grown up to become a gangland boss in a city where men of moral qualms tended to meet horrible fates very early on, even Tendath Drake was shocked.

“See?” Sorcha said, triumphant despite her shame. “Go on, tell me it's bestiality, I don't care! He treated me better than anyone I've ever known. He showed me respect! He was gentle and I loved him for it! He didn't have to let me go and it broke his heart to do it, he told me so, and besides being the Bravest of the Brave, he was the most honest man I've ever met. He spoke his every thought aloud and, oh, how he spoke... you won't believe an Ur-Ite could breathe poetry with every word, but I'll never forget his voice. Whenever I think of him, I wish I'd chosen otherwise and gone to live among his people. I know none of them were as good as him, that's why he lived alone, but it was my fault he had to go back and I should have gone with him, I owed him that!”

Drake was silent after this long speech. Eventually he said, “Those Naril must have done some exceptionally nasty things to you, my girl.”

“Nothing they don't do to every woman they get their hands on. You think it's some kind of trauma, that I just fell for the first man I met because I was terrified he'd rape me otherwise. It wasn't like that; Menalowen didn't touch me until I asked him to. It was the first consensual sex I'd ever had!”

“Well, that... puts a different complexion on things.”

Sorcha folded her arms and turned away. “There, now you think I'm a deviant. You see why I couldn't tell another soul? They might do all kinds of things to me when I get home just because I was enslaved, but if they found out I'd slept with an Ur-Ite... they'll have me burnt at the stake.”

“Then you absolutely must not tell them,” Drake said, falling back in desperation on the most obvious advice. “Or anyone else for that matter. I gave you my word not to tell a soul and I won't, but if you're a deviant then so is DeKellia; he's screwing that cat-woman creature, after all.”

Sorcha groaned and put her head in her hands, suddenly feeling she had made herself look a fool. “I could have told all this to DeKellia then, couldn't I?”

“Yes, but it would make a joke out of my promise to keep silent. And right here we're alone, whereas you had your boyfriend not six feet away back there. As regards your other troubles... If you can't get over it in Silveneir, then find a nice harem in Kellia. I wouldn't trust DeSilva to protect you; there's something broken in that lad, and I think he blames you for it. You'd only be punishing yourself if you shacked up with him; you can't replace your sister."

Drake's insight drew a sharp breath from Sorcha and briefly stole her power of speech. "You filthy old bastard," she hissed when she could speak again. "Have you been listening to us at night?”

"An old man needs a hobby," Drake said blithely, grateful to be back on familiar ground, "but he's also going deaf lately, so no. Leaving aside our little secret, your problems are written in the way you walk. You might call it survivor's guilt."

"I don't blame myself," Sorcha said. "I'm not responsible for the war, or for anything Odacon did, only for being in Daricia when it all happened. I was only doing what I'd been told to do."

"The cry of any guilty soldier," Drake replied, relighting the stub of his cigarette. "But you're right; it would be manifestly unreasonable to lay the blame for the entire debacle on you alone. No; you think your sister deserved to live more than you, isn't that it?"

When she began to cry, Drake offered Sorcha a handkerchief. After she had blown her nose and wiped her eyes, she glanced up at him again. "Where did you get this? It's silk."

"I steal them from ladies I pass in the street," Drake admitted. "As I said, an old man needs a hobby."

Sorcha sat holding the damp handkerchief, unsure what to do with it. Eventually she tucked it into her belt and thanked Drake for his consideration.

"We'd all just said a prayer when I ran away," Sorcha said. Drake had not heard her tale and the remark was all but meaningless to him, but he rolled his eyes and groaned all the same.

"There, that's another problem you'll have to deal with: religion. Deliverance ain't coming, y'know; it's all a lie.”

"Iaran used to speak to me," Sorcha said. "When I prayed, she used to answer."

"Voices in your head," Drake drawled. "Yeah, they talk to me, too. You're still tied up in your skull with that one; if Iaran did speak to you, what would she say?"

Sorcha considered, recalling the quiet voice of her faith that had long been silent. "She'd tell me to fall my sword, which is just what Charn thought I should do... Do you think she really survived the crash?"

"We saw her do it once already; that woman's made of grit and iron, I'm sure she's fine. I think the person we're most worried about right now is you. Give an old man a hand up and we'll head back to camp; they'll be looking for me now as well."

Sorcha stood up and offered Drake her hand, but the old man's eyes widened as he rose to his feet; he stared past Sorcha and she turned, expecting to see DeSilva or one of their companions at the edge of the clearing. What she saw drew a scream from her throat.

The thing standing in the undergrowth was seven feet tall, clad in crude armour over dense fur and skin like leather, with thick inches of fat layering its bearlike muscles. The Ur-Ite's face was heavy set and hideously ugly, a gross parody of human features with heavy brows and piggy eyes wreathed in flaps of dark skin.

Drake was on his feet at once, pushing Sorcha behind him even as he unshipped the volley-gun from beneath his cloak.

“Keep your knickers on, beast-girl; it's a Wadwo.”

The Ur-Ite took a step forward and Drake drew back the hammer but held his fire. The Wadwo was already wounded, its breastplate caved-in and blood matting the fur beneath its armpit. The Wadwo's eyes were dull, stupid with pain and blood loss.

In one paw, it brandished a stone-headed axe. Focussing on Drake with difficulty, the Wadwo flung its weapon at him. The shot fell short, but Drake took a small hop backwards and tripped, first over Sorcha and then the rocks they had sat on. The volley-gun went off in his hand, seven shots roaring skywards while the recoil slammed Drake to the turf and knocked the breath from him.

The Wadwo stumbled towards Sorcha, extending its arms wide for a crushing embrace. She scrambled back over the rocks; although of Ur-Ite lineage, the brutish Wadwo was far removed from the nobility of her lost Goro lover. The creature's proximity terrified her; the thought of actually touching or being touched by it filled her with revulsion.

Behind her, Drake was swearing and crawling to his feet. Barely able to stand upright, he flung his discharged volley-gun at the Wadwo and drew his cutlass.

"Come on, you hairy bastard; I'll have you!" Drake laid a cut across the Ur-Ite's wounded side, eliciting a grunt but barely slowing the giant's advance. The Wadwo took a swipe with one paw and Drake ducked, nimble despite his age, slashing at the furry arm as it swept overhead.

"Ha, you like that you big woolly bitch? I'll bloody do for you!"

Cutting the Wadwo across the thigh, Drake speared his cutlass around in an overarm scorpion-thrust. His swordpoint gored the Wadwo in the throat, but it swung out an arm and caught the old fighter a hefty blow to the chest. He was thrown twenty feet by the impact, landing amid the bracken and bushes bordering the trees. The Wadwo wheeled on the spot to loom over Sorcha once more, but Drake had done enough; wounded sinews ruptured and blood erupted from the Wadwo's throat. With a low moan, it keeled slowly over to lie dead on the grass.

From the trees came a crash of branches; Sorcha's scream and Drake's gunshot had brought their companions to them. DeKellia was first on the scene, DeSilva and Hnasi close behind him. Seeing the fallen Wadwo, DeKellia drew a pistol and ceremoniously shot it through the eye to be quite certain it was dead. Only then did he look to Sorcha and see Drake spread-eagled in the ruined bracken. In a moment, DeKellia was at his mentor's side. Sorcha arrived in time to hear the old man's dying words.

"Damn you, Monte, don't try and save me now." Drake seized DeKellia's wrists and restrained him from giving any help. "It'll do for me to lie here, knowing I took it face on. A man can't ask for more."

"You're senile," DeKellia said. "Lie still and think about girls while I help you, you daft old git."

Drake snarled and dealt DeKellia a slap upside the head. His strength was fading and the effort tore at the wound in his chest. His snarl became a gasp and he turned deathly pale while his lips went almost black.

"Monte?" The old man's eyes were staring. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes, Drake." DeKellia's voice was steady, his eyes dry. "You've got it all fixed, just like always. I can take it from here; you go on ahead."

"Stupid boy," lucidity flickered in Drake's glassy stare. "I meant I killed it, eh, the Wadwo? I did kill him, didn't I?"

"Yeah, old man," DeKellia drawled, "and that hairy sod was four times your size. Tell 'em that when you knock on the gates of hell."

“Tell Sorcha I...” Drake's voice caught in his throat, his gaze flicking from DeKellia to Sorcha even as his eyes glazed towards death. “Tell her I kept my promise.”

Raising Drake's body on a pyre like the Kellion Lords of old, DeKellia sent his mentor to Haroum's embrace on a pillar of fire. Torch in hand he stood beside the bonfire with the ashes dusting his face and the heat singing his brows and beard. Only when the flames reached a howling peak did DeKellia turn away. His eyes found Sorcha, standing among the witnesses to Drake's pyre. Meeting his stare, she took a step back.

Unspeaking, DeKellia drew his sword and offered Sorcha the hilt, still staring at her with the pyre behind him and the embers of an inferno burning in his eyes. He said nothing, but Sorcha understood and shook her head in fear.

"You asked me to help you," DeKellia said, his gaze unwavering.

Hesitantly, Sorcha took the sword. DeKellia roared and set on her with the blazing torch that had lit Drake's pyre. Sorcha yelped and parried desperately. She had been well trained in her youth, and she set the sword's point between them now. DeKellia beat the blade down and swung the torch at her head. She ducked, parried, and backed up, but DeKellia was unrelenting in his assault.

"Fight me!"

"Enough!" DeSilva stepped in to grab the torch below the burning tip; DeKellia let him take it and drew one of the paired swords from his son's belt as naturally as breathing. DeSilva was a split second behind his father, throwing the torch away to reach for the remaining blade in his scabbard. DeKellia's sword was already at his throat; DeSilva froze with his blade halfway out of its sheath.

"You're dead," DeKellia informed him, and twitched his sword to draw blood from DeSilva's cheek. "Try again."

DeSilva drew and cut in a single motion, missed, and slashed again. DeKellia parried without giving ground, meeting every cut with disdain until DeSilva lost his temper and lunged. DeKellia stepped aside and the thrust skewered past him. Before DeSilva could withdraw, DeKellia stepped on his leading foot and swatted the sword from his hand.

"Again," he said, marking DeSilva's cheek with another cut, then tripped his son neatly with a sweeping-kick. DeSilva went down, rolled, and snatched up his fallen sword, coming up in a crouch with his blade twitching between them. DeKellia advanced, batting his son's guard aside to kick him in the chest. Plunging his sword through DeSilva's cloak and into the turf, DeKellia pinned him down and put one foot on his chest. Leaving his sword where it stood, DeKellia beckoned Sorcha on again. "I'm unarmed; have at me."

The fury of grief had abated, and in his eyes now there was only darkness, unreadable.

Sorcha's first cut was a foot short of target; DeKellia did not even bother to flinch. The second slash missed his nose by the breadth of a hair; she cut back at once, close enough now that DeKellia ducked. Evading Sorcha's wild cut, he glided around her, his footwork swift and agile as a dancer. Even as Sorcha spun to keep her sword between them, DeKellia caught her by the wrist and kicked her feet away. Sorcha landed on her back beside DeSilva, staring along the length of DeKellia's sword once more in his hand.

"What are you trying to prove?" Sorcha asked.

DeKellia snorted in disgust and relit his pipe, leaning on his sword now and shaking his head. "Stand up and fight, that's all there is to it. Haroum knows you should have learned enough on the road by now, the pair of you."

"If we're so lacking," DeSilva said, "teach us something."

The tone in his voice and the light in his eyes drew a smile from DeKellia.

"Better," was all he said as he raised his sword between them.

DeSilva feinted, met his father's blade once and leapt back. He seemed to slip and put one hand down to catch himself; as he came up, he threw the dagger hidden in his boot. DeKellia twitched casually aside, and the knife flew past him to lodge in a tree beside Noth Kalidor's head. The Dacoit Master did not flinch, merely glancing at the knife in mild curiosity.

DeKellia let his gaze track slowly around to follow the knife's path. " You missed."

"I didn't actually want to hit you!" DeSilva protested, at which DeKellia laughed.

"And I thought for a second you were learning." With a sigh, he walked away from the hilltop, pausing only collect Drake's volleygun. Shaking his head, he vanished downhill into the trees, loading the barrels of his mentor's rifle one by one.