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It was freezing cold in the mountains, the wind still chill in the heights even as spring was arriving in the lowlands. She had the vaguest idea of where she was — the massive range known as the Worldspine. She knew a little of geography — Hraeme was a trading town, and most there picked up rudiments. If she crossed the mountains here, she would be in the Great Veldt, home of the barbarians who once threatened to sweep the Northern Lands. If she followed south along the mountains, she could come to the lands of the Chakir.

She shuddered. They held slaves there, she knew. She had nearly been a slave.

You are the anchor without which we would founder.

That was right. She’d never be a slave again. Anyone who stood in her way, who tried to enslave her, would die, even as Kell had died. Somehow she would return to Hraeme. Aladrin was dead, she knew. But she would return home.

Suddenly, she looked around her and realized that the rocky walls which had risen up on either side of the faint trail she followed had changed. They looked dressed, like the walls of a building, a castle. Yet they were worn with years, even centuries of weather.

She passed between two broken towers which bracketed the canyon, and came into a courtyard, or what remained of one. Around her, walls rose, jagged, like the teeth of a wild animal. Somehow the similarity did not encourage her. She had heard wolves howling the night before. If they came for her —

If they came for her, they would die. She still held the dagger, and would not hesitate to use it.

Movement caught her eye. She turned, and saw a faint trial of smoke rising form one of the less-decrepit structures in the courtyard. Fire? Warmth! She staggered toward it, the fatigue, the exhaustion she had been fighting off for so long seemingly reaching out for her as though to drag her down at this last opportunity.

She heard the arrow an instant before it shattered on the cobbles before her. "Hold!" a raspy voice shouted from above.

She turned, and suddenly her head spun even further. Desperately holding onto the knife, she sank to the ground, senseless.

It was dark when her eyes opened. There was a fire before her, illuminating the tiny room in which she sat. And on the other side of the fire —

She leapt up — staggered, actually — dizzy but wild-eyed, casting about her for an exit — and abruptly realizing that she still held the knife.

"Sit down, child," came the same raspy voice. The dark figure beyond the fire rose up. Aladris guessed him in his eighties, as she judged human years. Those of her blood rarely lived so long, but they rarely grew so aged in appearance, either. His posture was stooped with time, and as he moved around the fire she could see he walked with a distinct limp. "Don’t worry about old Gerstok.," he wheezed, a slight smile on his face. "After all, I let you keep the dagger. Fine blade, that."

She watched him suspiciously. He stopped when halfway around the blaze, then stooped to open a pot lying upon it, stirring its contents. She glanced again at the knife, as if seeing it for the first time. "Fat lot you know," she said.  She was absently surprised at how hoarse her voice was.  "A cheap blade. I have seen better. I have forged better of my own hands."

"Indeed," he replied, not looking up at her again. "An elf-maid like you? I spoke not of the steel, but how it has been sheathed in blood."

She stared at him as he turned now, rising to his feet. Though still stooped, he seemed to tower over her from across the small room. "It bears the stain of vengeance, of hatred. That makes it a fine blade. So long as those fires of vengeance burn, it is as great a weapon as any in the land."

Aladris shook her head, slowly. He spoke in riddles, but disturbing ones, ones which sent chills along her back. In the light, close now, she could see a large scar on his forehead, vaguely round in shape. The she realized he was moving closer again. "Stay back!" she said, holding the knife up high, ready to stab down at him if he came but another two steps.

He paused. "A fine blade indeed. But wielded poorly. Even against an unarmored foe, a knife should thrust up, not down. Leather or steel will turn that blade, as you hold it, as will bare ribs. But the thrust up, beneath the breastplate, under the ribs, against the grain of the scales — that is the killing stroke."

She stared at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, she lowered the blade, never taking her eyes off him, and shifted it so that now her thrust would come upward.

"Good. Good." He nodded in a satisfied fashion. "You appreciate the weapon, its use. Your blood cries out to use it, to seek vengeance for the pain others less worthy than you have inflicted."

"How — how —"

He smiled again, that same thin smile. "You talk in your sleep, even after passing out from hunger. I sensed the fire in you; that is why I took you in. If you stay, I will teach you how to use that knife. And many other weapons."

She pressed back against the dry, sooty coldness of the wall behind her. Part of her wanted no part of this, wanted to flee, back into the night, to whatever was to be faced out there. And yet — to never know fear again. To carry that always which means protection, which means safety, which makes us strong. To instill fear in those who would hurt us —

"And vengeance," Gerstok whispered quietly, adding into her internal dialog so stealthily that she did not even realize it. "Vengeance against the crew of that ship, and her captain, for what they did to you. To kill them, no matter how hard they fight. To be stronger than they are. That is what I will teach you."

It was a door, opening before her, beckoning her into a darkness full of riches.  It was dark within, but the promise of what it held ...

Aladris nodded. "I accept."

Days turned to weeks, weeks to months, to seasons and to years. For five long years, she learned under Gerstok’s tutelage. He taught her not one weapon, not several, but every weapon she had ever heard of, and some she had not. He showed her how many weapons, different in shape and size, were much the same. He taught her each weapon’s strengths, its weaknesses, how to use it, and how to defend against it.

He drilled her constantly, in everything, both against burlap-and-leather dummies and against himself. He was a dazzling fighter, swift and nimble despite his age and infirmity. He withheld no blows — many of her training sessions left her black-and-blue, or bleeding. Yet she learned better from the pain than she would have any other way. And few tricks worked twice.

All weapons she learned, but some she specialized in. The bow, to strike with deadly force from a distance. The throwing knife, in closer quarters. Light fencing weapons, less powerful in a smaller stroke than an axe or broadword, but far swifter, and the deadlier for it. The sai, a weapon from the Southern Isles, Gerstok said, serviceable both as a thrusting knife and as a parrying weapon, but one which could, with a twist, disarm a foe. All these she learned, and more.

He told her, early on, "You’ll not make a true fighter, a soldier. You’re too light of frame to make more than a weak link in any army line. But there are other crafts which call for a swift, silent blade, or arrow-shot from the darkness." And so he also taught her to move unseen through shadows, to mask herself behind both objects and disguise. If she thought about what career he had in mind, it did not matter to her. Only the weapons mattered.

Of weapons there were plenty. In a hidden recess was a door which led into the depths of the broken fortress. There were arrayed, neatly polished and sharpened to a razor’s edge, a wide variety of weapons and armor. Greatswords, short staves, daggers, whips, scimitars and flails. Scale mail, plate, chain, leather. Some weapons were of plain steel, others of bronze, others of dwarvish metal. Some were unadorned, while others were encrusted with gems and of gilded hilt. Some she recognized as of Northern style, others were elvish, or of Southern make, still more of styles she did not know.

She threw herself into her training with abandon, such that she scarcely noticed the passage of seasons and years, hardly minded the hard labor Gerstok called her to around the abandoned fortress.

Nor did she pay much attention when Gerstok followed their training sessions with prayers before a shrine to Eretun, the Slayer and Master of Weapons. Dark in evil was Eretun, general of the legions of Evil under the gods of darkness. Aladris went through the motions of sacrifices and prayers, but they were not important to her. Only the weapons. Only the steel and gut, the leather grips and oiled blades. She felt naked without a weapon in her hand, and even slept with a blade by her side, though nobody else ever came to that valley fortress.

And she grew and blossomed — though in a trained fashion, like a plant wrapped in wire, trained to sprout in a certain way. She grew faster, stronger. She chalked it up to Gerstok’s drills, teaching her the weak points of men and material, where to strike for the most effect.

Your left arm — keep it straight, damn you!

Watch the gut — he’ll shift his weight there before he moves. Not the eyes. Never the eyes.

They are meat, mere meat, like rabbits to be hunted. They have teeth, but no more. You are the wolf, the fox, the gryphon, the lion — you are the predator, always.

Across, down and through.

Swift and sure. Use caution in your planning, then boldness in the execution. the craftiest liar, the best disguise, all can be seen through in time. A thousand throats can be cut in one night by a running man.

Swing up and twist. Then while she watches it fly, the other blade drives home.

Trust in the weapons. Only the weapons. Only they and Eretun can save you from your enemies. They are all around you. Only Eretun and the steel can protect you.

Even magic can be detected, thwarted. Trust only the blade at your side.

Under the scales, where the armor is weakest.

You are the arrow. You are the knife. You are the sword which pierces the heart of your target. Be as strong as the sword, as straight as the arrow. The vengeance will be yours; wield it against your foes.

And then the day came, late in the month of Flower, when Gerstok told her, that slight smile across his lips once more, that she was finished there. "You are now ready for that which lies ahead. Remember what I have taught you, what Eretun has taught you. Your anger is your weakness — do not let it rule you, but rule it in turn, and make it your sharpest blade, purifying your purpose for the Master of Weapons."

And only when she was half a day’s travel down the mountains did she even wonder what Gerstok had been doing there, or why he had taught her. But it was just a passing thought, subsumed in the darkness of her vengeance.

In Tandrik, she was pleased to see The Talon of Hindor was in port. Her only fear in those long years had been that the ship would have been taken, sunk, before her revenge could be complete.

She was swift like the arrow, and true, striking by night. One by one, she found her former captors. Some found a knife between their ribs when they stepped into an alley, others were pierced by an arrow as they staggered, drunkenly, down the street. She examined each carefully before attacking, to be certain that she recognized them. She would not kill the others, those who were new on ship after five years. But those she recognized — and none of their faces would be forgotten — they were walking dead men.

A thousand throats can be cut in one night by a running man.

It was late that night, that same night which saw the deaths of twenty men in Tandrik, when she stepped aboard the Talon. Two men only were left. Harkis, who had reported her brother slain, stood watch at the bow. The garrote slipped around his neck, like the chain had about his friend’s five years earlier.

The wire about the throat chokes off their brains, she could hear Gerstok saying in his raspy voice. Had they the will, they could bear the pain and attack he who holds the wire. But all thought flees, and they can think only of the wire, of prying it off. As in all things, their fear is your best weapon.

Gerstok was right. Harkis, who was strong enough to break her in two, squirmed and twisted, his face purpling as he tried to get his fingers under the wire which cut off his air. At last he grew limp, and slumped to the deck.

"Better you had let your mate kill me," Aladris murmured, voice passionless, "than that you had me brought aboard."

Then there was one, the captain, a stout, bullet-headed man. He must have heard the commotion, or else the sixth sense which had allowed him to survive as captain of such a band of cut-throats still served him in his last moments, for he was ready with a belaying pin as she entered his cabin. The wooden club smashed into her left wrist, causing her to drop the rapier she bore.

No! Not the weapon! I cannot —

He smiled, leering, as he stepped towards her, as she stood there frozen, defenseless.

Then he stiffened, eyes bulging with shock and pain, as the dagger in her right hand drove up into his gut, under his ribs, and its point lodged in his heart. He staggered back, tearing the weapon from her, crashed into a small table and fell to the ground. A rattling sigh indicated his last breath.

She looked down at him for a few infinitely-long minutes. Her vengeance was complete, she thought. Should she not feel something now? She stood there, waiting.  Waiting to feel someting.

The dripping of water caught her ear. She saw an overturned vase on the table, its water dribbling to the ground. She reached over and picked up one of the flowers, incongruous in its quiet beauty, a blue rose of Chakir. This was all wrong, a part of her thought. All wrong.

There’s nothing wrong with it, gelenri, blue-eyes.

Her brother’s words came back to her, her affectionate elvish nickname jarring her as much as the flower did. She pondered a moment, then lay the blue flower upon the dead man’s chest. She left the dagger — Kell’s dagger — where it sat, but wiped the blood on her hands off on the captain’s tunic. Then she left.

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Copyright © 2001 by Dave Hill

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