Lorandim Ride
The cascading thunder of hooves told him that the riders were approaching.
Common sense dictated that he flatten himself on the ground in an effort to avoid their whirling blades, despite the danger presented by the churning metal that clad their horses feet.
Dungan Drahl had little left in the way of anything common. He stood his ground.
As the first group came he raised his arms and exposed his neck to the silvered lines that were lord-forged swords, giving them ample access to the most delicate parts of his being. A single cut with one of the blades could easily shear off a limb or pierce a heart, and only a madman would meet a Lorandim Rider’s charge with their head held high, let alone meet a dozen.
Blades flashed, but flew just wide, stopped a hairsbreadth short of their intended target. Dungan kept himself balanced, stable, marveling at the still-new ability to see every blade, predict every strike before it came. Only subtle movements were needed to avoid the slow and clumsy swings of the men on horseback, movements he could see were driving them mad with rage.
As each line passed and none could score a single hit, none could score a killing blow, he saw their grace turned to stump-legged boorishness, saw their fluidity freeze and shatter on the deep cold of their anger.
Dungan smiled.
Two leapt off their horses above him, and met the ground with broken necks. It had been almost too easy; their pulsing veins had been his for the taking, his to twist as he needed. Dungan deplored killing, but the agreement he had made specified a certain amount would be required, certain sacrifices would have to be made.
The Lorandim were a noble people, a group of gentle herders who had been pressed into service by an uncaring god. For fifty generations, they had trained and bred horses for battle, had honed their skills on horseback until they were unmatched in the Land. Now, they were mercenaries for hire, their dedication to the god long-lost, and their only goal to protect their homeland.
No women rode with the Lorandim, and the men who fell in battle were never mourned. Only victory was celebrated; only success was rewarded. The men in the dirt by his hand would never be acknowledged.
He spun on his heel and found a wall of riders behind him. A quick glance over his shoulder showed that he was surrounded, more Lorandim moving in behind those in front to create a circle three deep on all sides.
A movement at the back of the pack caught his eye, and he watched as the black banner of the Commander moved to the circle’s edge. The death of two of his men demanded his personal attention, and any reluctance on his part to fight the killer would mean revolt by his own men.
The life of a Lorandim was hard – and often short.
“You fight well, Outsider,” the Commander grated at him, “we are pleased to meet such a challenge in the Long Wastes.”
Dungan nodded. “I am pleased to give one. Now, come down off your horse and let us attend to this matter like men.”
The Commander bristled, and Dungan could see half-smiles ghost across the faces of the men behind the leader and his black flag bearer.
“Your hesitation does not become a true Lorandim!” Dungan called out loudly. “Are you a coward that you will not fight?” It was a long chance, but enough insults might stay the Commander’s hand long enough for the others to seize an opportunity, to take advantage of a chance for quick promotion.
He could see the desire in the faces of the other riders, but none moved before the Commander swung down from his saddle. Once the brown-clad man’s feet touched the ground, Dungan could see why. On horseback he had seemed larger than the others around him, but Dungan had assumed that was thanks to the quality of the mount he rode. Now on equal footing, it was apparent that the Commander topped the men around him by a full foot, and outstripped Dungan by half that again. Angled cheeks and long hair tied back in a long tail gave him a fierce appearance, one not unlike the roan he had stepped down from. Two blades appeared in his hands, longer than others that Dungan had seen and with jagged edges at their tips.
Dungan spared no time for consideration, and instead charged hard forward, taking the Commander in the chest and knocking him to the ground. Locking his legs around the man’s waist, Dungan reached for the Commander’s neck, but the bigger man bucked him off hard, and he found himself flying through the air to land hard on his back. He was on his feet in a moment, and he met the Commander in the middle of their circle, where they danced around each other warily.
He had not wanted it to come to this. His plea had been answered by the Highest, and while he knew a price had to be paid, he had hoped it would one he could live with, one that would let him return to his people when his goal had been accomplished.
Each body that fell to his skill, each man that died by his hand put him farther from that dream, moved him away from any chance at redemption.
His introspection almost cost him his head as the Commander surged forward, swords swinging high. Only the gifts he’d received from the Highest saved him an untimely end, and the roars from around him said the onlookers would have preferred such a death.
He had hoped this would not be necessary. Why did his loss necessitate more? Why did violence only further itself? Why was this his burden?
No answers came.
Resignation washed over him, chased by a burning need for redemption, for satisfaction. Closing his eyes, he let the power of the Highest wash over him, let the agreement he had made come to fruition.
His right hand moved of its own accord, and he felt a sharp jolt, followed by warm lifeblood coursing over his arm. The cheers of the Lorandim around him told the tale; the Commander was dead.
Dungan felt a part of himself die as well.
- D
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