(Part II) - Zarek ben Nadin Chronicles - A Warrior's Courage - Chapter #4

    The feast at Captain Basiem’s turned out to be lavish affair.  Rice, gravy, roasted pheasant and duck, bread, cheese, and tomatoes were served on large bronze platters.  Tea was poured in shallow cups and sweetened with wild honey. 

    Though the food was delicious and it smelled wonderful, Zarek ate very little.  His nerves kept him on edge.  His suspicious nature refused to be quieted and he couldn’t help but feel that something lay simmering just below the surface.

    Arrod however, helped himself to ample portions and drank several deep goblets of wine.  The ill feeling grew in the pit of Zarek’s stomach as the evening wore on, and he had to force himself to smile and listen politely.  Both the Captain and his father continued to talk of the old days; and it wasn’t long before they were both drunk with wine.

    Their tales became more difficult to understand as their speech slurred, but Zarek was a careful listener, and he was able to slowly piece together his father’s history.  It appeared as if Arrod had grown up in Nineveh and had trained as a soldier in his youth.  He had been promoted quickly, but a scandal had occurred and so he had left to the fishing village of Issus and had married a woman.  Zarek’s mother. 

    Zarek tried hard not react to hearing his father talk so casually of his mother, but inside, he was seething.  Basiem in turn, was a sympathetic listener and commended Arrod for his course of action.  In all this, Zarek himself seemed to be forgotten.

    He was just contemplating the idea of leaving quietly, guessing that they would not notice his absence when Arrod nodded toward him.

     “I wish my son to become a soldier, he has not learned the art of warfare as I would have liked.”

    Captain Basiem nodded observantly and turned to study Zarek.  Despite his being drunk, the Captain appeared to still be very alert.  “He has not learned to war?  I expected more, with you being a soldier of Nineveh.”

    Arrod’s face twisted in anger and he gestured to Zarek with annoyance, “He refuses to learn what I would teach him.  His mind had been poisoned against me.”

   “Is that true my friend?” Captain Basiem asked Arrod, with brows arched.  “And who, if I may ask, poisoned him against you?”

    At this Arrod got quiet and his lips pressed together.  “His mother.  She was a strange woman, but because she was the cousin of the chief, I married her.  It was a marriage of necessity.  I was forced to turn her over to the priests when the gods became angry and struck our village with famine.”

    “I see.  It must have been terrible indeed.”

    “Yes, it has been difficult.  He became chief of our village just last year, and since then I have had no influence in his life.”

    Zarek remained silent, feeling sullen and regretting his decision to accept the invitation to this dinner.  He discerned that Captain Basiem would not be an ally; and unfortunately, he had learned that Basiem had been given charge of training the newest conscripts, including himself and his men.  He had no choice now, but to give deference. 

    Basiem’s face hardened at the challenge.  “Is becoming a warrior unfavorable to you?” he questioned, as he tilted the wine in his goblet and peered over the rim of the cup with narrowed eyes.

    Zarek felt a prickle go down his spine.  Basiem was watching him, waiting for his answer.  Carefully, Zarek chose his word, “I believe it will honor Ashur if I became a warrior, and I will train hard so that I may also honor my family.”  As soon as he spoke, he realized that his tone of voice was forced and flat.  He stiffened when Basiem smiled.

    “That is good.  We have killed men for refusing to honor the King with their service.  Such refusal is looked upon as rebellion, and we do not tolerate defiance.”  Basiem turned back to Arrod.  “He does not appear as one who had been poisoned, perhaps he is finally seeing that it was all lies.”

    Arrod’s face twisted into a snarl, “Perhaps, but he allows his fears to control him.”

    Zarek clenched his jaw, and felt the tension in his neck and shoulders.  His father’s accusation of cowardice had an immediate effect on Basiem, as the Captain’s eyes grew less friendly.

    “The training will drive his fear from him.”  Captain Basiem said this so forcefully as if his words would drive the fear from Zarek, rather than his training.

     The meal ended soon after, and Zarek’s long strides took him to the barracks ahead of his father.

     The following days proved every bit as grueling as Basiem had promised.  The men that had come with him were split up in other battalions.  Zarek found himself placed in a battalion of older men, seasoned veterans and hard characters.  He had a sinking feeling that it was due to his father’s influence.  Instead of starting with the basics, he was forced to train as if he had already mastered them.

    They were up before sunrise and trained until well after dark.  Zarek was used to hard work, but training as a soldier made him apply himself in a new way.  He received many bruises and welts while training with the heavy oak staves, but giving up was not an option.  Despite the setbacks he encountered, he learned quickly.

     Weeks passed, and then months.  Zarek trained hard, but he made no friends.  He was ignored by the seasoned veterans as an inexperienced novice.  Despite this, he might have made some allies, if it hadn’t been for Eparan.  The older warrior was well favored among the other men, but had taken an instant dislike to their newest member.  Gabri, Husia, and Malicu who were also well admired soldiers, seemed to accept Eparan’s judgment and in turn, also shunned him.

    Once again, Zarek was the outcast, though a curious one.  More than once he caught them staring at the scars that ran alongside his face and down his neck, and he often heard them whispering about the conscripts from the small fishing villages along the coasts.  Zarek rebelled against the idea of being the object of idle speculation and so he distanced himself from them, speaking but rarely and hardly even acknowledging their presence.

    Months later, he was finally willing to admit to himself that he was homesick.  He had not seen any of the men from his village except from a distance.  Even his father was often absent, though he was often seen with Captain Basiem when they reviewed the troops.  Most of all, he missed Natan.  Natan would make this all more bearable.

    As it was, the cold and sometimes cruel treatment from the men made Zarek shorter tempered.  On more than one occasion, he got into fights with the other men.  It took only one insult to set him off and he soon became known for his temper.

     One day, Rarroke approached him.  “Zarek, we’re assigning the duty of cleaning the armor, to you.”

    Zarek looked up from where he was wiping flecks of rust from his sword.  He could feel his gaze darkening as irritation rose to a steamy simmer in his throat. He looked up at the man who had given him the order.  Rarroke had tried to bully him in doing jobs that he himself had been assigned before.  For some reason, the cruelty and hate that burned in the close-set black eyes always seemed to ignite when he was around.

    So far, Zarek hadn’t taken on any of the assignment because usually an officer was around and Rarroke didn’t dare press the issue.  This time though, they were alone in a private courtyard.  The man’s pettiness irritated him.  He pressed his lips together, “I am not doing any of your work Rarroke.”

    Rarroke’s eyes glittered meanly.  “And I say you will.  You are nothing compared to me!  I have been here for twenty years.”

    “And your laziness combined with your lack of intelligence is the reason why you have never been promoted.”  Zarek knew this time, that a fight was inevitable.  He turned back to his sword.  “I see no reason to accommodate you.”

    Rarroke jerked his sword from its sheath with an angry roar, “You will beg for my forgiveness if you desire to escape with your life!”

    Zarek turned to him, his eyes narrowed.  He had seen Rarroke’s sword skills.  Setting his jaw he looked down and saw the forgotten rag that he had used to clean his sword, laying limply across his knee.  Taking it up again, he began rubbing with renewed duty at his sword’s blade.  “You would not show me mercy, even though I begged for it.  And I will not beg.”

    “There has been talk about you,” Rarroke snarled.  “They say you were the village’s chief.  You don’t look like a chief to me.”

    “Appearances can be deceiving.”  Zarek used the rag to wipe his sword again, “You don’t look afraid, but I know you are.”  His heart quickened at the challenge, beating hard and sure.

    “Why would I be afraid of you?  Ready your sword and we will see who is afraid!”

    Zarek glanced up briefly before casting his eyes down on his sword to examine the blade for rust.  “What would it prove?”

    “It would prove you are not a coward.”

    The barb struck a chord in him and the vein in his neck tensed.  He could feel it pushing against his skin as he jaw hardened.  “I am not a coward.”  His voice was quiet and controlled, too controlled.

    “You have yet to prove yourself in battle, and based by what I hear tell of you from the Captain and your father, you are exactly that.  You.  Are.  A.  Coward.”

    Months of training had taught Zarek how to control and bridle his temper; but his temper was there just the same, seething at the surface and threatening to explode.  He was able to apply it in his training, as few effectively could.  He reacted quicker, noticed more detail, and remained even more alert. 

     Adrenaline pumped into him until it seemed as if everything was happening in slow motion.  He stood to his feet and his fingers wrapped tightly around the hilt of his sword, before his fingers relaxed.  A soft, quivering breath left his lips as he moved into a defensive stance.  Rarroke’s lips curled as he also raised his sword and mirrored his movements.  They circle like two tigers, searching for a weakness.   Both wary to make the first move.  Their eyes locked with each other and Zarek knew it would soon be their swords.

    Rarroke feinted and Zarek was ready.  The clash of metal against metal showered sparks across the stone pavement.  Both warriors were well matched, and the fight was a violent one, with each receiving grazes.  Though Rarroke may have been more experienced, his fear made him clumsy.  Zarek kept his face void of all expression, not the least bet rattled by the prolonged fight. 

     Then Rarroke sliced him across the shoulder with his sword’s blade.  Zarek countered by swinging across and cutting a deep gash across Rarroke’s left cheek.  They were both breathing heavily from the exertion of battle, and blood seeped from Zarek’s wound, making his tunic cling to his chest.

    With one hard thrust, Rarroke’s sword was wrenched away and it clattered to the ground.  The warrior quickly bent to retrieve it, but Zarek was faster.  He lunged forward and stepped on it, at the same time pointing his sword downward at Rarroke.

    Rarroke lifted his hands and his knees shook as he backed away.  “I don’t have a sword.”

    “I can’t imagine that would have made a difference if roles we reversed.”  Zarek scoffed through stiff lips.  He straightened from his crouching stance, and lowered his sword. 

    “If you weren’t a coward you would kill me.”

    “Don’t tempt me,” Zarek snarled. 

     Rarrok drew himself up and slunk back, “In the end you might have wished you had finished this.  Nothing good awaits either one of us.”

    Zarek watched him go and was startled when a voice came from the shadows.  “He is right.”  He turned and Eparan stepped forward.  Zarek tensed, he wasn’t sure how long Eparan had been standing there but it was obvious he had been there long enough.

    “How so?” Zarek demanded, irritated that he hadn’t noticed the older warrior’s presence until then.

     “Captain Basiem holds to the law and order of his battalions.  Disputes are to be settled with the battalion commander.  If he gets wind of this, he’ll have both of you flogged.”

    There was an uncomfortable tightness that accompanied the tenseness of Zarek’s shoulders, and he could feel the heat rising to his face.

    “There is no reason to be angry with me,” Eparan said, holding a hand up.  He had misinterpreted the silence and dark face before him, not recognizing that it was because of dreaded anticipation and not of anger that made Zarek’s face redden.  “I will not report it to the Captain, though your wounds will need to be tended to and undoubtable you will be questioned on how you acquired them.”

    “I will tend them myself,” Zarek said, sheathing his sword with more force than necessary.

     “The battalion instructors will notice the stiffness in your shoulder, and know that it is a new injury.”

    “I can explain that.”

    “Can you also explain the sword gash on Rarroke’s cheek?”

    Zarek fell silent for a brief moment, before crossing his arms and feeling the twinge of pain in his wounded shoulder.  “It was self-defense.”

    “And Rarroke will claim that it was you who attacked him,” Eparan countered.

    Zarek turned away and stalked back to the place where he had been cleaning his sword.  “There is nothing to be done then.  I will take whatever punishment that is to be met out.”

    The older warrior refused to leave.  “You may think different when you see the cat-o-nine tail whip.  I have seen the metal barbs tear off a man’s skin.”  Eparan was quiet as he observed him, until at last he spoke.  “Yes, you will your punishment with dignity.  Despite everything else, you are determined.”

      Zarek lifted his eyes from where he had been staring at the cobblestones.  When their eyes met, there was something friendly in the older warrior’s eyes.  Eparan tilted his head in a nod, and left.

     The following morning they stood in formation.  When the officer inspecting them, stopped in front of Rarroke, Zarek’s breath hitched.  The sword wound was still fresh across the man’s cheek, and as noticeable as could be.  “Soldier, an explanation.”

    Rarroke stuttered.  Apparently he had hoped that it would be missed and had not even come up with a decent lie to hide the reason for his wound.

     Eparan stepped forward, his face and eyes trained straight ahead.  “Sir, some of the men were training in private.  Rarroke missed a faint and was grazed.”

    The officer stared at him, “Training is restricted to the training field.  We don’t need men getting laid up with injuries.”

    “Yes, sir,” Rarroke muttered faintly.  The officer dismissed him and continued with the expectation.

    Zarek wasn’t sure why Eparan intervened, but he was grateful.  Later that day, he even received a friendly smiles and acknowledgements from the other men.