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As
it jumped at him, Araknik sliced its head off in movement and strength
contrary to his ancient, taunt frame.
The beast also got a slice in before its death, for in its last
throws it viciously struck Araknik’s left shoulder cleanly opening up
a gaping wound. To the
amazement of all around, the wound did not bleed.
Instead Araknik grabbed at his mauled arm hanging by a thread and
held it tightly in place. He
rose to his feet and backed up, glaring at the still quivering animal.
Then, raising both arms as if the wound was never there, he
declared an open slaughter. At
first, most hesitated having not seen such a miraculous healing before.
But those used to such displayed by the Gray Wolf, rushed in for
the kill. Then the others,
seeing they were to be deprived of a kill because of their wonderment,
joined in the slaughter. It
lasted for hours. Even
fully armed, warriors would often times be carried from the final kill,
wounded or killed by those they hunted or by each other on accident. Into
the late afternoon the frenzy continued, until the yak tail standard
changed from black to white again and the remaining animals freed -- a
mercy rarely afforded to human prey. The dust settled as the feast
began. For hours on end, the raucous noise of warriors resounded
from several large habrits made for this purpose. Koric
sat down next to Septic with a flask of charnic in his hand stumbling as
he did. Too much charnic. “You
know,” he said looking at Septic in the red glow of the fires. “I won the bet.” Koric
turned in disbelief towards him. “What?”
he asked. When he did, he
curled up the edge of his nose so that the weather-beaten wrinkles of
his face doubled. “I had
you more than beat.” “I
think you owe me some vakla,” demanded Septic in slurred words. “You’re
just a sore winner,” declared Koric.
“Of
course, and I’m also hungrier than a korax.
Now I want to collect.” |
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The other reluctantly got up from his spot and bellied up to the counter. He fished out a small pouch from a sash around his waist and slapped down three gold coins. These were not of Salmonil origin. The desert nomads had no means of minting them. Instead, they came from a conquered people allowed to survive solely because they plied this trade. “Vakla!”
he demanded to the short cook, a Malarin, another conquered people.
They were short, stocky, and completely hairless, a good quality
for a cook –- no hair in the food.
Koric grabbed the Malarin abruptly by the collar as the poor cook
picked up the coins. The
cook tried to jump back, but Koric easily pulled him forward so that he
felt Koric’s hot breath. The
warrior demanded, “Make it dry.” The
cook looked up with confusion. No
one liked vakla dry. Koric
slowly released the cook to his duties.
The Malarin backed off, not take his eyes off of Koric until he
backed all the way up. He
should be used to such treatment, but he wasn’t.
Then he quickly turned and prepared the dry vakla.
Koric turned to scan the assembly as he waited.
Their vast number of loosely held together tribes swarming around
this habrit like bees. He
was proud. These were his people in their rightful place as conquerors.
They needed a strong leader to make them into an army.
But who? A
spearman sauntered up to the counter next to him.
And demanded, “Vakla!”
He looked like a rookie trying to prove himself. The
same cook hurried up to him and asked, “Eh, dry?” The
spearman grabbed the poor cook by the collar and spit in his ear, “You
serve me dry vakla, and I’ll cut your nose off.”
The
cook looked back and forth between both warriors.
The spearman released him and the cook backed up again like a
cornered rabbit and darted off towards the kitchen. The spearman shook his head and looked over at Koric. “Dry vakla,” he said. “What’s amatter wit him?” |
