He reached his place with seconds to spare. The rapid rate of his pulse thrummed through his ears making him dizzy. Glancing around, he saw that the others were in their positions as well. His mind refused to be quieted and raced with a hundred thoughts.
There was a bray from one of the donkeys, and soon the clattering of wagon wheels across the hard, rutted road could be heard. Zarek took his knife firmly in his fist and waited, one guard rode ahead and the second rode behind the cart. Arrod and two other men would be dealing with the rear guard, while Zarek dealt with the front one. The other three men would be in charge of capturing the merchant alive and once that was done, they could assist where needed.
The main guard was getting closer, in less than a minute; the guard would be right under him. Once he gave the signal, the other men would also attack.
His muscles bunched together and a surge of adrenaline rushed through his veins. A wild and savage battle cry echoed from off the rocks as he propelled himself through the air, signaling the attack.
He landed against the guard and ripped him from the saddle. They grappled in the sand wildly. Zarek had his hand free and lifted his knife, to bring it down. The man was too surprised to resist him effectively, and Zarek plunged the knife down in a sweeping motion. A stream of red blood gushed from the man’s throat, and then the guard went still.
Zarek heard a wild shout and looked behind him. To his surprise, the second guard was riding toward him and closing the space between them rapidly. He rolled to the side to avoid the spear was hurled, and heard the thump as it landed just inches from him. Wondering why he was being attacked when his father should have dealt with the rear guard already, he scanned the area. For a brief moment, his gaze darted back and forth and then he narrowed his eyes. His father, instead of attacking, was still crouched in the rocks watching him. Gritting his teeth in bitterness he turned to face the guard that had reeled his horse about to come bearing down on him again.
Zarek turned and grabbed the spear. Giving a sharp pull, he freed the spearhead from the sand. He had just barely enough time to drop to his knees and brace himself, before the horse plunged down on him. Angling the spear at a slant, Zarek felt the shudder that went through the wood as it splintered against the impact. The shaft of the spear broke off in the horse’s chest and the guard was thrown to the side as the mount’s front legs buckled. The man was nimble and leaped aside to avoid being crushed by the falling animal.
Dazed from the impact and pain that flared in his shoulder and hands, Zarek shook his head and prepared to fight again. The guard met him and they grappled. The man was much bigger than he was and Zarek found himself lacking the strength to beat down the man’s guard.
They broke apart when Zarek stumbled and rolled a short distance. The man crouched, watching him carefully, but allowing time enough for Zarek to get to his feet. The man was a fair fighter, but to Zarek, fairness didn’t matter in a fight when the outcome was life or death. He pushed himself to his feet and wiped at the sweat that streamed into his eyes.
The man drew his sword, and rushed toward him again. Zarek barely had time to draw his own and brought it up to defend the swiping blow. Their swords clashed and the force of it made his hands tremble.
Zarek knew true fear then. He had trained very little with a sword, and was far from mastering the skill needed to defeat this man. He knew only the basic. Basics that had seemed enough to overcome the nomads, whose main occupation was herding sheep, was not enough against this seasoned warrior, and he was left scrambling in blind desperation, lunging and dodging. Only his instinct for survival and his speed saved him from serious injury.
Still, blood trickled from multitude of wounds on his chest and arms. The fight was draining him of his strength and he moved slower and slower. Blood ran into his eyes from the thin cut across his forehead. The fight became more intense and Zarek became more desperate.
In one mighty blow, his sword was wrenched from his grip and sent flying across the sand. Zarek drew his knife from his belt, the only other weapon he had. He couldn’t recover his sword now, or he would surely be cut down. No one intervened and he soon forgot everything except the blade in his hand and the man in front of him.
His back pressed up against the rocky cropping he had jumped from. Panting, he tried to draw breath enough to ease the cramping in his limbs. The man eyes narrowed and he lunged forward. Zarek mirrored him, not realizing it was a faint until the sword swung around again. The blade plunged into his right shoulder, pinning him to the rocks. Without thinking, his left hand flew to the sword’s blade. The sharp edge cut through his hand and blood coated the metal in a thick, coppery, film.
With one last move of desperation, Zarek wrenched around and transferred the knife from his right hand to his left. He pushed forward, sliding the blade through his shoulder further. The suddenness of it, caught his opponent off guard, and allowed him to move into close enough range to attack again. Zarek stabbed downward and the man clutched at his face and fell to the ground, pulling the sword back as he did so.
Zarek dropped to his knees. Blood gushed from the hole in his shoulder. Someone was rushing toward him, one his men, Haken. There was a tug at his shoulder as bandages were stuffed into the gaping wound to stop the bleeding. He looked past Haken’s shoulder and saw that his knife had gone through his opponent’s jaw and into an artery. The death had been a swift one.
He blinked and his mind cleared. His heart slowed to a calmer beat. The other men were standing close by, though his father was still watching from a distance, cold and distant. The calm beat of his heart quickened as anger gripped his chest in a fiery vise. Pushing himself to his feet, he jerked free of Haken and marched swiftly to his father. “Why didn’t you help me?”
Arrod looked down at Zarek’s shoulder which was still seeping blood. His face was stony and cold. “This was your fight. You were the one who allowed the merchant into our camp, it was you who called for this attack.”
Zarek felt the veins in his neck jump with fury. “You agreed to the ambush! I could have been killed while you stood by idle!”
“Death would have been an appropriate outcome for your foolishness,” Arrod snarled back.
Zarek flinched. Rage replaced the cold feeling of shock and realization of his father’s words. Glancing around, he looked for a way to vent his anger. His eyes fell on the groveling merchant who was beseeching some of the men for mercy. Zarek walked with strong strides to where the man was kneeling in the sand.
The merchant looked up when the shadow fell across him; he crawled over to Zarek and pressed his face to the ground, “Forgive me! I behaved foolishly because of my greed. I beg you to let me live.”
Zarek ignored him and turned to his men, “Take what is ours, but take no spoil.” The men looked confused and some looked displeased that they would have no loot, but they all hurried to do as he commanded. Once their belongings were reclaimed he turned to a man standing close by, “Bring me a torch.”
There was a murmur of surprise, and then one was brought to him. Zarek walked to the cart and while everyone looked on, threw the torch on the rugs. The dry materials caught ablaze and the faint breeze fanned it into a raging inferno.
In a few moments, the cart and all the merchant’s goods were burnt and Zarek stood before the merchant again. The man looked devastated, but said nothing. He looked up when Zarek’s shadow fell across him.
Zarek wasn't finished yet, his need for vengeance seized him with an undeniable grip. “Now, kneel beside the rock and stretch out you hand across it.”
The merchant’s eyes widened as they jerked to his face. “But my lord!”
Still full of wrath because of his father’s betrayal, Zarek’s anger was so fierce he could not bring himself to show mercy. “Do as I say before a worse thing comes upon you!”
One of the men dragged the merchant to the rock and after a long moment of hesitation, the merchant extended his hand timidly. When Zarek raised the sword the merchant pulled back and, cried out, “Oh please my lord, have mercy on me. Do not take my hand!”
“Would you rather it be your head? Or perhaps you would prefer to be bound hand and foot with a rope around your neck and be dragged behind the hooves of a horse! Do not think that I have not contemplated your punishment. There are worse things. Now if you choose one of those then tell me and it shall be so.”
The merchant’s lips quivered and his face paled, but he extended his hand again. Zarek raised his foot to hold the arm in place and raised the sword again, ignoring the pain in his s
houlder. The sword wavered before it sliced through the air and the merchant’s hand. The merchant let out a chilling scream and clutched the ragged remain of his arm.
Zarek turned to his men who seemed to be struck by the sight of blood and severed hand. “Bind his arm.”
Visibly shaken, one of the man, stepped forward and bound the bloody nub with some ragged cloth. Zarek turned the animals free and watched the man cradle his arm close to his body as he rocked back and forth. “Your greed brought this upon you. Conquer it before you lose more than your hand.”
The merchant looked up at him and Zarek could see his eyes smoldering with anger, the man was not repentant and had roles been reversed, he was sure the merchant wouldn’t have thought twice about ending his life. He turned away and his men followed him.
Trudging along, his anger was replaced with an extreme weariness. Journeying back to their camp took more energy than he knew he had. The others had seen the black smoke from the distance, caused by the burning rugs, and had returned ahead of them. They were all glad to have recovered their belongings. Zarek avoided them as he made his way to the campfire.
“Zarek, you are wounded.”
As much as Zarek wanted to snap at Natan for pointing out the obvious, he didn’t. He touched his shoulder and found that the cloth was dripping blood. “It will need to be cauterized.”
Haken cleared his throat, obviously he had been following him. “If you move close by the fire, I can clean the wound and seal it.”
Noting the knife that had been pushed into the coals, he moved toward the fire. Natan helped him remove his blood stained tunic so that his wound could be tended to. The light of the fire fell on the scars made from the lion’s jaws, making them glimmer in a sickly pink.
Haken was careful with the wound, but didn’t spare him the pain as he sponged away the blood and dirt from it. After the wound was thoroughly cleaned, Haken pulled the knife from the coals. Zarek’s jaw hurt from how hard he clenched it to keep from crying out. His fists tightened until his knuckles turned white. When Haken pressed the heated blade against his shoulder, his back arched and Natan grabbed him to hold him steady. Haken pushed the knife into the coals again Zarek took in a ragged breath. Only once more, to cauterize the other side. He steadied his breathing and only flinched when Haken finished cauterizing.
The cruise of ointment made an appearance and was applied liberally to the closed wound. Haken wrapped his wounds attentively with clean strips of cloth and Zarek pulled his tunic back on. The jagged tear on either side of the tunic was noticeable, as well as, the dark blood stains.
The injury hurt, but what hurt most was his father betrayal. That day’s event burned in his memory, making the hatred that smoldered in his heart much more personal. For the longest time, he had hated his father because of the man betraying his mother. Now he hated him for what he was still capable of. It left Zarek to wonder if his father had any honor left at all.
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