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Hot Obsidian. Olga McArrow
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The shlaks charged, putting everything they had into that. The chargas let them come close, jumped aside with cat’s grace, and attacked their backs. The Lifekeepers did the same. Stepping aside from the line of a direct attack is a simple skill every child warrior knows, so even Jarmin had no difficulty evading the shlak that tried to ram into him.
The shlaks tried to slow down and turn around, but it wasn’t easy, considering all the effort and force they had put into that charge. Most were gravely injured or killed before they could regroup and do any damage. That was when the Shlakers joined the fight.
Most of their assassin brethren were away, fighting their main targets, only five were here to deal with the ambasiaths. With chargas busy fighting the shlaks, the boys had to deal with the Shlakers themselves. The boys: eighteen, six, twelve, thirteen, and… thirteen years old. Milian totally forgot about his birthday today…
Four of the Lifekeepers stepped forward to meet the assassins, shielding Jarmin from them. Every handguardless katana was already red with shlak blood. Every young face was grim and deadly calm.
Adult assassins couldn’t hold back their sneery comments as they faced the boys. But a cry from one of their brethren that fell on the ground with Jarmin’s knife in his throat wiped the smirks from their faces in an instant. The remaining four assassins charged, with a roaring battle cry.
…Orion’s charga got careless or maybe he did… anyway, he found himself in the air – and time slowed down for a moment – before hitting the ground so hard it knocked all the wind out of him. As he staggered up to his feet, he saw Juel and Bala fighting their way to him. Bala was good but Juel… Juel was amazing! Orion made a note to himself to never get on the Faizul’s bad side.
Three skilled warriors and a master archer that had unexpectedly joined the fight messed up the assassins’ plans completely. Soon, the Shlakers were retreating. No one pursued them.
Silence fell on the battlefield, only to be replaced by the forest’s careless symphony of singing birds and rustling leaves. The saviours and the saved ones took a good look at each other for the first time.
The saved ones wore simple black clothes, well-worn and salt-stained, and carried heavy, broad cutlasses bearing an uncanny resemblance to butchers’ tools of the trade.
Shoving his people aside, the leader of the saved ones approached the Lifekeepers. He was a ghastly pale man; the way he was dressed suggested that he wanted to hide as much skin from the sun as possible. He wore a cloak with a tall collar; his thick gloves reached his elbows and were wrapped with extra cloth where they met the sleeves; a pair of obsidian-black glasses and a wide-brimmed hat with a broken feather completed his outfit.
Even though it was obvious that the saviours’ leader was Juel, the pale stranger looked at Orion alone and gave his thanks to him.
“Thanks for your help, guys!” he said in a voice that seemed strangely familiar to Orion. “I’m in your debt forever! If you need any help, any problem solved, just ask for Sumah – that’s me! – in any tavern of Tammar, Gurron, or a port city. I always pay my debts.”
“May I take a look at the wounded?” Bala interrupted him. In a moment, all the eyes were on his dark, lanky figure. “I’m a healer,” he explained.
“Do that,” said Juel. “Orion, let’s go check on the kids.”
“Allow me to keep you company,” Sumah unceremoniously chimed in. No one argued with him. “Meanwhile, my people will stay here and help your healer… So, what are your names, my saviours?” he asked.
“Juel Hak.”
“Orion Jovib.”
“Ah, nice to meet you,” the pale man smiled. “The worldholders’ immortal apprentice’s name! Very interesting!”
Juel shrugged. He didn’t find any of that interesting. Or amusing. He still felt like hitting Orion in the face for endangering the mission and being a reckless fool.
“I see you guys are Lifekeepers,” Sumah kept rabbiting on. “But I must admit that you’re quite good at killing people too.”
“Some lives can’t be saved. Some shouldn’t be,” Juel quoted Kangassk Abadar, his master.
“The situation was desperate,” said Orion, apologetically. “I just had no time to plan anything properly… Had I tried to spare anyone, I’d just die myself…”
“Oh yeah, fascinating philosophy,” nodded Sumah, obviously thinking of something else. “Very, very interesting indeed!”
The picture on the other side of the half-hill changed everyone’s mood in an instant: there was a battle too and that battle had ended just recently. Juel and Orion run to the site; Sumah, now grim and frowning, followed them at a steady pace.
“Anyone’s wounded?” cried Juel in that thunderous voice of his. He was still running but the question couldn’t wait.
“I am. Now what?” grumbled Lainuver. He was sitting in the middle of the road, clutching his bleeding shoulder.
Pai answered too, not with words but with a single pitiful wimper. Curled up on the road’s side, he was holding onto his slashed thigh. Had that wound been deeper, he would have been dead already, but, luckily, the wound was shallow, so it was extremely painful, yes, but not life-threatening.
Milian didn’t answer at all: he had no breath left to do that, having had suffered a blow of a battle staff to his ribs, a glancing blow, not direct, though: otherwise the ribs would have been broken.
The rest of the younger Lifekeepers looked battered too. Still, no one was dead or dying. Both Juel and Orion sighed with relief.
“Jarmin?” Orion called for the boy. “You okay?”
Jarmin raised his head and whispered:
“They killed Varro…”
“Who?” Juel turned to Orion.
“His charga. The kitten,” he explained and turned to Jarmin. “Varro died in battle protecting you. We will remember him as a true hero.”
Jarmin could no longer hold back the tears. He didn’t run up to Orion like he often used to before, he didn’t make a single sound. The six-year-old warrior mourned his friend in silence, alone, and didn’t want anyone to share his pain.
“There were five Shlakers,” muttered Juel, looking around. All the bandits had died of sword wounds, all but one who had a little throwing knife between his clavicles.
“That’s Jarmin’s work,” explained Lainuver. He was not so grumpy now with his charga taking care of his wounded shoulder.
“Great throw,” nodded Juel. “But I wonder why there’s no blood…”
“Because I didn’t kill him!” Jarmin’s voice rang with anger. The boy jumped to his feet, ran to the fallen assassin and took the ‘knife’ out of the wound.
It was a weapon built for throwing all right but it was no knife: instead of a blade, it had a little lead weight to move the centre of mass forward and a short, thick needle. Jarmin sheathed the strange weapon and said,
“He will wake up by the evening. He’ll think twice before hurting anyone again!”
“I