The Warrior
From Storieswiki.org
Chapter 1
His cold blue eyes watched, constantly moving as he looked over the gently waving grass of the steppes. It appeared deserted, but Jon knew how deceiving the quiet dawn could be. Normally at this hour a chorus of chirps and whistles would provide a welcoming background noise to the plains, but now there was only the rustle of the wind over the browning blades and the creak of leather jesses in his tightening fist. His red-tailed hawk rode silently upon his rough gloved hand.
Warily, he nudged Graeme, his gray gelding, down the rise with a practiced movement of his knees. The heavy hiss of the bindings of his scabbard summoned his opposite hand unbidden as his eyes traced the horizon and the tall horse's ears twitched uncomfortably. The wind blew, a shift of direction stirring something, perhaps a memory. Yes, there it was.
Ambush.
In a single motion Jon wheeled his horse into a full gallop across the plains and let loose the eager red-tailed hawk upon his hand. His eyes narrowed as his face contorted into a savage snarl, an unconcious whoop escaping his lungs as he ripped the slight parrying axe from his belt and he leaned into the nape of his horse for balance.
His hand set upon the gelding's rippling neck, he closed his eyes and forced his mind to the wind and air surrounding him. Deep, deeper, into the summoner's trance, upwards and outwards. Perhaps it was mystical, as some claimed, but it was as natural as the breeze and the summer rains to him. He felt the wind beneath him, holding him aloft. Contact.
Opening his eyes, the queer tunnel vision of the hawk disoriented him momentarily. He sought his prey and found it, a small wagon train surrounded by a horde of Baltish bandits. Lucky bastards, he thought. Most travelers were simply enslaved or killed, but some might live today. That is, of course, unless Jon died first. What an unpleasant prospect. Maybe he should just join the bandits instead.
Shrugging off the random thought, Jon released the trance in time to narrowly evade the hastily thrown blade of one of the surprised attackers. His slim sword flexed as he armed his other hand and swung the axe blade low at one of the bandits. One of the swarthy-skinned plainsmen screamed as Graeme's hooves planted themselves upon the back of his calf with an audible crunching sound.
The bandits were disoriented, undecided whether to abandon their prey or face the horseman. Jon's blade whipped in a blur as he busied himself slicing into the attackers. His axe blade moved within the box-shaped outline of his side, curiously still compared to his swordwork. It moved only to rapidly intercept the ill-chosen blades of the bandits directed to his left, where he handily disarmed them or twisted the inferior plains' steel of their weapons with the notch-like hook underneath the head. Soon, many of the bandits were lying still upon the ground or staying well clear of the pounding hooves of the horse.
Eventually the Balts wavered entirely and in that unspoken manner by which battles are ended Jon wheeled Graeme about and let the remaining bandits gather their wounded and dead and retreat. Some half-hearted spear throws from the wan defenders of the wagons were quelled with a negative gesture of Jon's hand. Even the honorless deserved to be able to gather their dead and return to their women in peace once peace was granted.
As the last of the Balts disappeared, Jon stepped down off the grey horse and knelt in a silent prayer to Rhiannon. Pulling out clods of soil afterwards, he went to the work of cleaning his weapons and tending his wounds while the wagon people looked on with wide-eyes. Out of the corner of his eye, Jon saw them listing uncomfortably. No doubt they were wondering whether their "rescuer" simply intended to make slaves of them in place of the bandits. Perhaps it wouldn't be a bad idea, Jon thought eyeing some of them. They were healthy and fit, even if they were foolish to try to make the plains during the dry season.
Rising to his feet and returning his sword to its scabbard on the horse, Jon cautiously approached the wagonners and dusted off his breeches.
Suddenly, a poorly thrown spear clattered to one side of his feet with a crash.
"Devil! Demon! Rapist! Gone with you!" cried a weeping blonde woman clutching the remnants of her dress to one shoulder. The eyes of the remaining men of the wagons widened in alarm and they rushed to restrain her as she flailed her arms about like a drowning woman.
"Bitch! Whore! D'you want to get us all killed for certain?" hissed an elderly man with an eye missing, the skin hastily stitched over at some point in the past to prevent infection. The rest of the men, boys really, nodded in agreement while looking at Jon nervously. The elderly man capitalized his question with a slap across the face of the now incredulous-looking woman.
"Sir," the elderly man began, "Were the blades of grass coins I could not repay ye enough for what you have done this day. What those dogs would do I know not, but I for one am proud having been rescued by one of the D'Nai. Would you sup with us in repayment for your hero's deed?"
Jon's eyes widened slightly in wonderment. If these people knew of the D'Nai then they were no simple travelers as they appeared. He nodded absentmindedly in response. Were they pilgrims? Spies? Envoys?
"My name is Ar'aeten Jon'Nai," he said formally, placing his fist across his breast in respect. "And who might thee be that know of the D'Nai?" he asked.
The old man's remaining eye twinkled. "With manners too! Perhaps we should ask for this one? What say you, daughter?" he said at the woman behind him whose face was rapidly turning crimson. "Or do you deny that he has not the look of a prince among men?" He turned back toward Jon.
"We are the Moloai people from the far west. All of the Moloai people that still live free, in truth. In the name of Morgu, we formally beg Refuge and the Peace of the D'Nai."
If the wind stirred Jon would not be less likely knocked over. The Moloai, the ancient texts of the D'Nai listed them in the treaties. The words of Refuge and Peace though, were just that, words. No D'Nai had left the lands past the mountains in memory, much less sent the warriors to Peace in foreign lands. Still, the gestures must be followed, at least until Jon had invited these Moloai to meet with the elders of the D'Nai.
"Moloai, blood of D'Nai, I greet thee as brothers. You are Welcomed, may War ever continue." he said stiffly.
The wagonners visibly relaxed, nodding to themselves and to the old man. Even the hellcat they held seemed to find some satisfaction with Jon's reply in the ancient forms. Soon they were picking up the waste of battle and repairing their goods with something resembling forced cheer.
--WarLord 21:34, 21 Jul 2005 (EDT)
Chapter Two
The camp had quickly been established and a central cooking fire started, Jon, escorted by the old man, who revealed that his name was Motaxi was seated, cross-legged before it. The few boys, men he supposed, going by the people he had seen so far, were seated in a circle before him.
The Moloai women hurried around, preparing a meal for the men.
