Kalac

If ye bleed for it

The arid land of the Central Steppe ended abruptly, when the first Palm trees appeared. The scenery and the ground beneath their feet had changed. Dragontoe River, which was in reality three smaller rivers becoming one that in his turn poured into Jade Lake, was flanked by the Raun River to the Northeast and created a marshy, bamboo infested zone, with patches of Palm trees mixed in between.

It was believed, that if one followed the tepid waters to their sources, he could perhaps discover the ancient passage over the Pale Mountains that lead to Wetull proper. Officially no people made the journey, but despite what was assumed in the mainland continents of Eplas, or Jelin, this wasn’t an unpopulated area.

“The fort is rebuilt,” Their scout Nimra, son of Akenat, reported. He’d managed to catch up with them, three days after their scrap with the Khan’s cavalry. The small built man almost killed his horse in the process. "For the most part.” He added.

Kalac smacked away a huge insect savoring his blood and stared at the barely visible behind the giant-trunked bamboo forest structure. They’d crossed the first two legs of Dragontoe River a day back, opting to avoid the only man-made path reaching this far. The road coming from the distant Eikenport, used three bridges to go over Raun and Dragontoe, reached Jadefort from the other side, than the one they were now standing on and ended in Dia Castle, the last hold of the Khanate this side of Eplas.

“What does that mean? For the most part?” Tarn asked, while Kalac examined the square tower behind the brick walls in silence.

“There’s no wall, on the side facing the lake,” Nimra explained.

“Been there?” Belec asked.

“Aye, cursed place.”

“Is the water foul?” Kalac queried.

“Aye, it is. Plants as well. Irritate the skin. I wouldn’t let our animals touch them.” Nimra replied.

There was vegetation all around them, the shade a welcomed relief after weeks under the sun, flowers of many colors, and fruits green and red, with yellow mixed in. Strawberries large as oranges that smelled of sulfur.

“Nobody eats or drinks anything, without making sure, it is not poisoned!” Kalac announced to his men, turning on his saddle. “It goes for the horses too. Eyes open people!”

“What about the fort?” Tarn asked, sweat on his sunburned forehead.

“There’s at least two crews of workers; might even be slaves, but I couldn’t tell for sure,” Nimra chipped in, before he’d time to answer.

“We hit the guards, cut them from their horses. Use arrows to start, sabers to finish them off.” Kalac decided, having a sip of his water. There was more, all around them, but they couldn’t trust it and their horses seemed hesitant to taste it. “Split in two groups, one will draw them out, the other will hide behind in the thicket until they commit, rush the fort through the opening. Mind the tower for scorpions, or archers. They are not expecting us. Make the most of it!”

“What about the workers?” Tarn asked, as cheers followed his words, the men eager for action and plunder.

“They are mostly living in huts outside the fort, probably waiting for supplies, to continue work,” Nimra had spent the better part of the previous day, watching them.

“Spare them, if they are slaves,” Kalac replied, face hardening. “Slay the Khan’s men.”

Tarn nodded, face grim. He didn’t like it, but they were at the end of their tethers. They needed a win to survive.

They had to earn it.

This was the law of the steppe.

Every young warrior learned that, heard it from his battle-scarred elders, as they herded together tightly, humans and beasts alike under the stars, the campfire’s gleam on their eyes.

You’re free, as long ye can ride.

A Horselord don’t need to breathe,

don’t need to eat, or drink,

Ye are allowed to live younglin’,

if ye bleed for it.

The Khan’s patrol, bringing clean water to Jadefort from a natural spring, situated near the lake and the bridge crossing it, slowed down seeing the riders approaching them. Four guards, white hardened leather armour worn over cotton tunics and five people, four Cofols and a Lorian manning the carriage with the barrels. Three of them women.

Kalac sucked a deep breath in through his nose and held it.

“Who goes there?” One of the Cofol guards bellowed, as Kalac allowed Kind Eyes to move at a gentle trot towards them.

“Caravan from Eikenport,” Kalac yelled back to be heard, armed bow held low before him, strong sun on his back.

The bearded Cofol narrowed his eyes, as he couldn’t make out his weapons and armour. “When did you cross the bridge?” He asked, suspicion clear in his voice.

Kalac raised his bow and send an arrow through his neck, instead of answering.

A perfect shot.

He kicked his legs next and charged, bow now secured on its saddle, long saber in hand, as the man dropped gurgling incoherently, drowning in his own blood, two more of his colleagues following him, nailed through heads and torsos multiple times. The fourth, eyes wild with fear, fumbled with his spear, as Kalac charged him galloping like a madman, hooves digging the soft ground and heart beating, just like his mount’s. He reached him in a breath, blade coming down with tremendous force, splitting the shaft in two, slicing through armour and the hapless guard, from neck to navel.

Kind Eyes crashed into the guard next, man and horse weighting almost a ton and he heard his opponent’s bones crack, the man going one way, his spilt inwards the other, dousing Kalac in foul smelling gore. One of the workers in the carriage sitting at its front, with an outraged cry got up and went for her bow. She raised it deftly and fired, showing great skill, as Kalac wholly engrossed in his task, rode through the momentum of his charge, towards the slow moving target.

The Horselord heard it more, than saw it coming.

He ducked right and under it acrobatically, left hand holding him on the saddle, felt it fly angry over his left shoulder, body almost all out and slashed with his right, catching her below the knee. The saber cleaved through flesh and bone, blood spattering him in the face, severed leg tumbling away and the woman screaming her lungs out, as she fell from the carriage. Her neck snapping, when she landed.

Kalac pulled hard at the reins to turn around the moment he got back on the saddle, his horse’s legs slipping on the ground and the blood thumping in his ears.

But it was all over.

They had killed them all.

Tarn reached him a moment later, jaw tensed, arm painted red to the elbow. Pointed towards the fort’s outer walls.

“Here they come,” He said and Kalac allowed himself to breathe for the first time, since he charged that first guard.