Chronicles of Vyrdos Ch. 02

Farimih knew when she was being followed. The docks at night of the imperial city were teeming with celebrators on the eve of battle for the imperial tourney tomorrow. And while normally the crowds provided some measure of protection against cutpurses, she knew the two behind her were persistent. They had followed her into and out of two different establishments she had pretended to visit.

She was delighted.

She led her pursuers into a spot she knew would tempt them. A crooked alleyway that dead ended in a narrow canal. She pretended to be confused and intoxicated, doubling back twice before entering while feigning ignorance of her tail.

Sometimes the Shepardess provided.

She even risked overplaying her hand, pretending trouble with her shoe in the narrowest, darkest part of the alleyway. She was glad it was dark so her grin wouldn't be seen easily.

Her pursuers did not disappoint.

She heard the sound of heavy boots quicken behind her, and pretended not to. Two sets, discarding the need for secrecy for that of urgency. And, in the end, failing at both.

Her feigned foot problems magically disappeared as she dodged, cat-quick, out of the way of the rough hands that reached for her. As she had surmised, there were two would-be muggers sharing the narrow, rubbish strewn walkway with her. One was big, with his red hair and eyebrows rushing to meet each other in an expression of shock as his grasping hands met nothing but air. That would be the leader. The other one was shorter, barely taller than her and limping slightly, favoring his right leg. That would be a follower and opportunist. He was particularly ill favored, looking something like a bald frog with a solid ring of fat around his belly and the back of his head. The taller one was almost handsome in comparison.

"Had enough of the celebrations?"

The tall one seemed to convince himself that his initial lunge had only missed by mischance, and after glancing behind him at his backup said "Wallet. Jewelry. Now. Coins too. Be good and we may not make you take us to your house."

"Sorry, I'm out. Of all of that. What are you going to do about it?"

She bounced lightly on her feet, anticipating the rush to come.

Once again, her adversaries did not disappoint. The lead mugger went apoplectic at her challenge, put his head down like a bull and charged with a curse. The other one already was turning his back to the scene to look out for onlookers.

She would normally have swung out of the way with the evasive move called swinging the gate. The walkway was too narrow for that. A handicap she had picked for herself purposely. It wouldn't do to get too dependent on one move to evade.

Sometimes, you had to slap the bull right between the eyes. Because it doesn't think that you will, or can. So, that's exactly what she did. She accepted the man's charge, bringing both hands down in a double fist on the crown of his head with a kiai scream to disorient him. This knocked both of them askew and tumbling to the stone walkway, but she managed to spring up to her feet in a single movement.

She had gained two steps in the engagement. Now she was standing while her attacker was kneeling, and she had the first strike.

She felt the blood flowing from a myriad of cuts and bruises she knew she would feel later, multiple lacerations. Much as she often did, she began to laugh with the pain.

She hadn't hit the bull rushing man as cleanly as she had hoped. She had intended to crack his skull with the point of her knuckle, but she must have struck with the fleshy part of the underside of her hand instead. He might be stunned, or even unhurt. That was a tough move to execute with precision while falling, but she was disappointed all the same.

She heard curses and footsteps behind her, and realized that the kiai scream might have been a mistake. The short man would have mistaken it for a call for help and ran to silence it.

With two on one, she felt justified in utilizing her style.

She pivoted sideways to face the new attacker, legs and arms spread in the fan stance. He was nearly on her when she pulled on the strings binding his feet to the pavement, which his muscle power had temporarily escaped.

The man stumbled spectacularly, having been off balance in his charging motion already. Her back leg came up in a vicious crescent knee, slamming the man in his forehead as his head fell towards the walkway.

This one did not get up.

She pivoted again, just in time to block with both hands the knife thrust of the tall redheaded man. Pulling strings was far easier when you could touch the target, so she tugged hard against his outstretched wrist, leaving him off balance so she could hammerfist him in the back of the head.

The large man did not go down from her hammerfist, instead screaming "mage!" and throwing his dagger at her before running back towards the street. The dagger throw was wild, but she still instinctively ducked it, which gave him time to sprint away. She readied herself to tug him back and slow him, but then listened to her ragged breathing and let it go.

As she often did after a conflict, Farimih let her singing blood cool by listening to her teacher in her head. Two years since she had spoken to Mihei, but her internal teacher was always with her. On one hand, she had succeeded spectacularly against the shorter man. She had used her power in a subtle way and leveraged it into an instant incapacitation. Nearly no risk of being spotted and assensed for the nature of her ability. On the other, she had utilized a major move against the larger man, and failed to down him on two attempts. Technically, letting him go after he had sensed her style was a major mistake, however if the thug was a trained spotter she doubted he'd be out robbing people the night before the great tourney. Her internal teacher was grudgingly proud of her for letting the conflict stop, and strongly disapproved of her letting it start in the first place. And, contradictorily, disapproved of her letting the man get away. She laughed out loud, with small rivulets of blood streaming from her knees from where she had impacted the pavement. She looked at the blood and rejoiced, much to the disapproval of her internal teacher.

It had been months since she had undergone a life or death struggle. Directly at odds with her philosophy, she had felt much like brand new boots on the night of a dance. Now, she was broken in, and she loved it. She thanked her internal Mihei for her advice, but politely disagreed. The conflict was wholly necessary.

There was only one thing left to do. She went over to the shorter man, to ensure that he still lived. It didn't look good. He was lying face down in the sort of unnatural pose that's almost impossible to achieve unless you were knocked out or dead. One arm bent at a sharp angle, cheek resting on the stone walkway. She did not hesitate to turn him over and check for breath with the tiny hairs on the backs of her hands. If he was faking it, she had just been mugged by an all-time great physical actor.

The man's eyes did not open, but she felt his breath against her wrist all the same. Perfect. No need to alert the authorities, then. She rolled him onto his back, then went through his pockets. Four citrine seedlings and a knife were her spoils of war. She flipped the knife into the canal, pocketed the citrines and then went back into the street, humming a tune and with a skip in her step.

Tonight was a good night. She had danced with death and lived once more. Farimih had learned long ago that until you stop fearing death, you're never really alive. Instead, you're dying inside. Fear of death was death itself, as far as she was concerned. And if she refused to fear death, it only made sense to act like it from time to time. It was just that simple in her mind. This was her final resolution that she had taken out of her time of troubles, and it had served her well in the two years since. Her head felt as clear as the pure night air that filled her lungs as she merged back into the crowd. The restlessness that had plagued her all week during the tests leading up to the tournament was gone.

She went back into the nearest tavern and bought a round for the patrons with two of the four seedlings she had pocketed. Generosity of spirit was one of the cornerstones of her stability, and she relished in a chance to exercise it.

When asked what the occasion was, she stood up on a bar stool and exclaimed "because I'm the greatest fighter you'll ever see in your lifetime, bet your soul on it!"

She instantly became the people's champion for that corner of the docks, with many promising to bet their savings on the wild, ring-haired girl with blood streaming down her calves.

After another round of drinking with her newfound friends, Farimih went back to the street that was reserved for fighter's quarters. After passing off her bloody knees as a training accident with the guards posted outside, she climbed the stairs to the third story of the mansion she shared with four other fighters. She had the floor to herself, except one other fighter. Saritha was from the southeastern part of the continent, and sported both tattoos and an ornamented gold chain spanning one nostril to an earlobe. She was in her room, a converted butler's chambers, sharpening her scimitar by lamplight. She looked up at the sound of Farimih's shoes on the stairs.

"Were you accosted? You OK?"

Farimih grinned "yes, and yes."

Saritha was several years older than Farimih, and had naturally taken on the role of a matriarchal figure to the younger women in the house while they went through their tests. Farimih found her both beautiful and exotic, having never seen a woman with tattoos in her young years mostly spent in the emerald isles. However, Saritha exuded a mature air that naturally prevented her from attempting an approach. She valued her as a mentor too much to risk rejection. Or, at least she told herself so.

Saritha sighed. "You do know you'll get your fill of fighting just tomorrow, right? Most fighters treat their bodies like the instruments they are at this time." She sighed, stopped polishing her sword and went to the washroom to get a bowl and some towels.

Farimih allowed herself to be corralled into her room, and got the lacerations on her knees washed one leg at a time, foot on a bathroom stool.

"I couldn't resist. I've been restless the whole time during those horrible tests. Move this brick. Break this board. I tried explaining that it's hard, because bricks and boards only have one string, unlike people. I've been aching for a real struggle, and you should have seen these thugs. Wooly redhead and ugly frog face, looking for a fresh victim on the docks."

Saritha paused, frowning. "Did you get hit on the knee here? It's all purple now. Can you move it?"

"Opposite. My knee in the frog's face. Spectacular knockout, wish you could've seen it. I almost felt bad about the crater I left in his face, except in his case it was an improvement. Ohh! And Saritha, I made friends! The docks will be betting on this girl tomorrow, bet your soul on it."

"Easy, wild child. I want you to extend your knee all the way out here, can you do that for me?" Farimih did so, hiding a wince.

"Well, it's still mechanically sound. No cracks in the kneecap or anything. But lots of swelling, it will be bad tomorrow morning. Hold here."

Farimih did as she was bid, and Saritha returned a moment later with a jar of salve. "Hold still. This will burn a little."

Farimih was not prepared for the burning flashes that ran up and down her leg, and snatched her leg from the stool.

"Sticks! Sticks! Shepard's beard, that burns! What's this made from, nettles?"

"Yes, actually. In the Eastmarch forest there is a plant which has thorns. It produces a powerful blood thinner to coat them with. To make predators bleed more. It's good that it burns, that means it's getting into your bloodstream. Yes, good, blow on it. Your alternative is to be limping tomorrow with a swollen knee, would you prefer that?"

"No, it's fine... it's fine... just... Shepard's flock. It's cooling some." The burning sensation spreading from her cuts was being replaced by a cooling numbness that chased it, washing away the burning.

Farimih allowed her knee to be coated and then bound with a cloth. She found she could flex the knee fully after the ointment had set in.

"Thank you, Saritha. It actually feels good now. Is this ointment common in the east?"

"No. It's a blend unique to my tribe, gifted to me especially for my journey and the tournament. I can only imagine the tribal elder's faces if they could see how it's being used."

"To fight crime."

"Hmm. I suppose so. Others might say it's being used to relieve an impetuous young girl of all consequences of her actions."

"Well, we're both glad those others aren't here, aren't we?"

Saritha nodded her head in approval at that. "It's easy to let others into your head, and hard to kick them out. I can't speak on your judgement always, but I do approve of you following your own path. Your impetuousness shows a certain kind of wisdom to my eyes. I think that you hide a reflectiveness behind that wild exterior."

"Maybe I do. I've never really thought about it."

This made Saritha actually cough with laughter. "In any case, keep that dressing on all night. Your knee should be fine for tomorrow's challenges. Strong mind, daughter of the emerald isles."

"Strong mind, Saritha of Eastmarch."

After Saritha had taken her leave, Farimih closed the door to her room. She needed to perform her cleansing rituals and get some sleep. She took out from the back of a drawer a heavy wooden bowl. Lonwood, worth twice its weight in citrines. She never would have taken the risk of an altercation if she'd had it with her at the time.

The bowl was the white of pure lonwood, just a shade off of marble white. It had runes carved into it, and inlaid in brass. It was to be her tribute to the tribe when or if she decided to go back home and rejoin her village in the emerald isles. The tradition was not to come back until you had something of worth to offer the village. The bowl was a tribute almost too princely for that purpose. She had no desire to be known as the girl who had bribed her way back into the village, for the elders would surely accept. Lonwood artifacts were as rare as they were prized. The knowledge of how to work the difficult material was a closely guarded secret of the Auger's guild, and the material itself was hard to obtain.

Holding the bowl made her think of Mihei. Her teacher, the one who had guided her through a particularly tumultuous passage through the troubles. Tragic Mihei. The teacher who, unlike Farimih, could never go home. She was determined not to pass on the bowl until she learned its significance. For now, she used it to perform her purification.

As she dipped her fingers into the bowl for the ritual ablutions, she was surprised to feel heat on her fingertips as they dipped into the cool water. Certain that she had gotten some of the salve on her hands, she went to get a towel. Returning, she gasped. The water in the bowl was glowing softly green in the candlelight. As she watched, the green glow spread until it crept over the top of the bowl and began to color the table, emerald green.

She rushed over to the table to put out the lamp, then returned to the bowl. She peered in, but the green glow had faded. She touched a fingertip against the water again, and it once again felt warm. The glow returned. She swirled her finger and was greeted with a vision of a curtain of green flame.

She could actually feel the intensity of the heat, and snatched her fingers out of the water. After a few moments, the vision faded, and the heat along with it. She had no idea what the vision had meant, but such things had never happened before, and she had been using the bowl for her nightly cleansing for months. She had a clue as to the bowl's function, though.

Scrying instruments were both rare and dangerous. This might not be an appropriate gift for the village elders. She wouldn't gift them a scorpion in disguise.

After a moment or two in the dark, she tapped on the water's surface. The glow reappeared, but much fainter this time. After another minute, it was unresponsive. Farimih was left alone in the dark with her thoughts.

She knew this was beyond her. She thought about knocking on Saritha's door to wake her, but an instinct told her to keep it secret for now, even from her friends. After the tournament, she would seek out answers to the riddle of the bowl and the meaning of the curtain of green fire.