The Hamaro Avenger Ch. 01

Goben stood next to him, robes flapping in the ever rising wind. He gazed to the west, across the sea. Storm clouds brewed, tendrils of yellow lightning lancing between them.

**********

Goben collapsed to his knee's in the soft grass beside a moss and earth covered boulder, gasping for breath. He glanced back towards Hoiprenia. It was a tiny blur of buildings on the line of yellow sand between the green of the north prenian grasslands and the blue sea. A tiny dot moved away on the ocean- the Bibilodo ship. They would sail on the west winds quickly to Xen, the home of the Heiruru, and from there word would spread to the Nisi spies throughout the Empire.

The thought brought Goben back to his feet with a snarl and he ran on. He could not believe a look, a single baleful glance he could not restrain as that lumbering beast Jataromen had passed, had brought his life to ruin for the second time. Two years he had spent hiding like an animal in the mountain, his mind gone. His memory returned, as Goben recalled it, one still morning on a rare and chilly breeze. Five more years he spent with the people of his beloved village of Soun, working slowly to change his appearance, taking a wife, to fully immerse himself in his false life and try to forget the wrongs of the past. And now that, too, was gone. There was still a chance for Murie and the others, if he could reach them in time, though. Doroki and those who came for the funeral would not betray him, but those in the village, with no word of the happenings, might be fooled by a subtle Nisi spy. Thoughts beyond this were pointless but impossible for him to escape; the Nisi tactics were brutal and swift.

Goben ran through the night, pushing his powerful, stocky body to its limits. The muddy, bloody funeral attire quickly became soaked and he peeled them from his body without breaking stride, tossed them to the wind. He tore through the tall, soft grass of the hills of Pren. The rushing air on his slick skin strengthened him, gave power to his burning limbs. For hours, his world became nothing but the logistics of the run: dodging thorny bushes and logs, splashing through trickling creeks, all the while up and down the steepening hills. He crested a hill topped by a massive old oak, and from there could see the Hill path, winding it's way north-west through the foothills. He took a moment to regain his wind and look for movement on the path.

There were ghosts in the shadows. At first, he was uncertain, but by the third gasping breath he was sure. The Bibilodo ship would still be at sea with no means of communication, yet these were surely those of the burnt hand. Perhaps some Nisi black magiks. He took one more heaving breath and bounded down the hill in pursuit. Regardless of how they got there, they moved slowly, cautiously. He would catch them, and kill them all.

He reached the trail with eikans drawn and rushed towards the shadowy shapes moving between and through the branches of the trees. He was heedless of the noise he made and he saw their eyes flash in the moonlight as they turned to see what crashed through the woods behind them, but by then, it was too late, for he was upon them.

With the deadly speed of a jungle cat he leapt and lunged, hooked both eikans into a black shape which hung from a tree like a monkey and dragged it down with a snarl that tore apart the silent night. He gazed down at the writhing man, who was clad in a single coal black cloth wrapped around the whole body like a mummy, save the eyes and mouth, and tied in a tight bun ontop of the head. The mans eyes burned angrily back at Goben before blood spurted from his lips and he rolled away, dead.

The soft rush of many agile feet grew suddenly loud and near, and Goben ducked and rolled into the open of the path as a volley of tiny thrown darts whistled overhead. He turned to see five more Nisi assassins, their thin, curving blades drawn.

"Dogs! Scum! You leave me no peace!" Goben roared, his face red with fury. The Nisi only advanced at a low lope. One tried to slip behind him by diving and rolling, but Goben ran him down mid-roll, stabbing him repeatedly. He spun around on the remaining four, dodged one blade and slashed another's raised hand off at the wrist as he backed away down the trail. They were wild and reckless fighters, sneaky and dangerous and with little fear for their own safety. Even the handless one regained his small blade from his own severed appendage and continued to fight, face contorted in pain.

"There is no peace for you, Goben Nosai. Sekurn has commanded your death. The Burnt Hands spies and warriors are spread across the empire and beyond," the handless assassin said, his voice cracking, and he began cackling madly. "Your cursed...DAMNED."

Goben's lips curled into a sneer. "Sekurn the Stone? That old demon has plotted my downfall?"

But they did not answer, and instead attacked at once, each stabbing or slashing at a different point. Goben deflected two attacks towards his neck and face with a single sweep of one ekan, blocked another with the blade-flat of the other, but the fourth was low and sliced deep into the meaty muscle of his thigh. In a pain induced fury, Goben moved like lightning. He smashed the butt of an ekan into the head of one, dropping him and leaving a fractured hole in his head. Another stabbed at him and Goben parried the blow into the chest of the attackers ally. As they stood staring in surprise at each other, his arms moved like pistons, driving his blades deeply into their torsos until they collapsed in unison, a bleeding mass.

Covered in blood, salivating, mad with battle lust, he rushed the last Nisi, who screamed in terror and dropped his weapon. The frightened assassin fled, but Goben hurled first one ekan, which missed, then the other, which arched and landed deep in the calf. Goben staggered over, retrieving one weapon from the earth of the trail, then the other, putting a foot on the back of the fallen Nisi's thigh and snatching it free of flesh and bone with no pity. The Nisi rolled over, squirmed away with horror in his eyes; Goben stopped him with a calloused foot on his throat. He'd never been a vicious man, never savoured another mans pain. But now, with this man underfoot, he was surprised to find his lips curling into a vicious smile. He leaned in close to the cowering Nisi.

"What do you see, fool?"

Odd, thought Goben. He felt his lips move, the muscles of stomach and throat and mouth contracting, but the voice was not his own.

"A demon! I see a demon born of the dark pits," screamed the Nisi. Goben lifted his foot and let out a bellowing laugh that echoed through the hills.

"Go. Tell the Stone that his doom has come," he said, and the assasin scuttled away, looking back fearfully as if unable to accept that he alone would live.

Goben turned and took a step towards Soun, but stopped, frozen mid-stride. Where his leg had been cut, there was now clean, unbroken knots of muscle and smooth, scarless skin. How odd, he thought. The horrified shrieks of the fleeing Nisi reminded him that his wife was still in danger. He had likely hallucinated in the heat of the battle. Such things were known to happen, and he was actually relieved to think he would not be impeded by injury. Feeling more himself and energized again, he broke into a brisk run towards Soun.

It was early dawn when he arrived, and the village was still quiet and shrouded in the shade of the mountains. He slid quietly through the streets to his small mud and thatch hut high up in the back of the twenty odd such huts that tumbled down the steep mountainside. Higher up still were the vineyards and mill where they made dark, rich Soun Strong and sometimes raspberry or apple wine.

He carefully pushed the thin wooden door open and peered within. Murie lay sleeping in their bed. Coals still burned in the rough stone fire pit; she always slept fitfully and complained of cold when he was away. In his own, warm home again, he felt at ease. He put his ekans away into their oiled leather sheaths, slipped out of the dirty, bloodstained remains of his robes and threw them in the coals to smoulder and burn. He left his blades on the dining table and retrieved a pair of rough black pants and purple jacket. He looked up to find Murie awake, laying in bed and watching him don his fresh clothes. Her soft, round face and full, clear green eyes were sleepy and happy.

"Your home sooner then I expected," she said, yawning and rubbing her eyes. Upon new appraisal, she sat up quickly and concerned. What's happened?" she asked.

Goben crossed the room slowly and sat beside her on the bed.

"What do you see?" he asked her. She smiled uncertainly.

"My fine and handsome husband, who barrels the finest nectar in the empire," she replied, stroking his cheek lovingly. Goben clutched her to him suddenly, squeezed her so hard she yelped. "My word, what is the matter?"

"I have to go," he said simply. "I told you once that I had a past. That it might find me some day. This is that day, and I must leave."

Murie stared, her eyes icy and hard, her lip curling. It was only the true and terrible sadness she saw in Gobens hard, smooth face that quelled her.

"There is no other way? Will you ever return?" she asked, tears now welling in her eyes.

"I don't know. If anyone comes here looking for me, or anyone, tell them your husband, Tob of Soun, was killed and dragged away by a mountain cat. Do not over-embellish. Keep it simple, or they may spot a deception."

"They? Who are they? What do they want with you?"

He stood, his body rigid, his face hard like stone. "It's best you don't know. I'll return if I'm able," he said. He crossed the room and tied his ekans to his waist. "Look to Doraki for help if you need it." He opened the door to leave.

"Wait!" Murie cried, almost stumbling out of bed. Goben couldn't turn to look at her, but he could feel her eyes on him, feel the caress of her soft skin, the warmth of her body. With no more to say, he left.

**********

Deep in the heart of Hyzador, beneath a grey, cloudless sky at Ronsom Hill- a black-stained timber fort where the future leaders of the powerful armies of the Black Ram trained in brutal and merciless tactics- strode Lord Jaromen of the Bibilodo. He was very large man, shoulders back and square chest forward, thick powerful legs supporting his equally thick frame. He wore training armour made of light, cheap wood and padding, but it, like the regular black ring and mail of the Rank, bore the image of a black ram: it's horns twisted, it's eyes red. He moved easisly between thrusting, thrashing men, commenting on form and technique, occasionally laying out a smart slap to the head with the flat of his own heavy, blackwood training blade to those he thought slacking.

Jaromen's two youngest sons stood on a low, covered wooden deck, watching the training men with gleaming eyes. They were like the light and dark of Evil, standing there side by side: Hytaromen- the light- tall and muscular, emanated an air of physical perfection and the power to command at all times, his pale, heavy-featured face and long black hair like his fathers; Jotoromen- the dark- a twisted mass of sallow mis-shapen muscle and bone, and though his bent posture and monsterous features told of ceaseless and excrutiating torture, never would he cry out in despair, for pain and his father had made him more powerful than most men could dream.

Jaromen came to stand finally with his sons, and with a fierce order split the men into two groups, ten on each side. They rested and a servant brought them water in a deep clay bowl, allowing each man his fill before moving on with head bowed. As the last man took his drink one raised his hand. Jaromen noticed after a moment, nodded.

"M'lord, may I speak?" he asked clearly, if somewhat hollowly. Jaromen wraised one thick, black eyebrow and nodded again. "The teams seem unfair for the next practice, M'lord. These nine and I will receive a sound thumping, if pitted against those others. I must complain."

This particular man had already earned the Lords disfavour with poor performance, and now Jaromen stared in near amazement at his impetousity.

Someone noticed.

"M'lord," called out the water-boy, "I would kill to be in that mans place, and never would you hear words from these lips save those you ordered me to say."

The young warrior, realizing he had pushed his luck to far and suddenly scared, leapt forward, waving his training-sword. "Nonesense! I am the son of a long line of Bibilodo warriors, and could slay this man without effort; he is but a peasant!"

Jaromen smiled broadley in a rare moment of true joy.

"Then do so," he ordered.

Hytaromen fetched two real weapons: simple and heavy, triangular swords, their edges knicked and nasty looking. He hurled one at the feet of each man, and the water-boy instantly snatched the weapon up and grinned like a man set free. The warrior, surprised, looked about desperately, but he found no help in the eyes of his compatriots. While he stood stupefied, the servant screeched and charged, dragging the heavy blade behind him, leaving a wide white scrape on the black wood panels of the floor. The warrior reached for the sword at his feet, screamed frightfully as he realized he could not make it in time, and tried parry with the wooden training weapon. With a fearsome, high-pitched roar, the servant swept his blade up and across, chopping it easily through the wooden weapon and deep into the warriors side, where it stayed. The half-split corpse stood a moment longer, tottering on already dead feet, before collapsing in a plume of blood.

The servant- though never again a water-boy- stood tall and proud, and bowed to Jaromen, who waved him into the dead mans position in the training game. He quickly donned a new set of training arms with wild eyes. The corpse was removed, and with another sharp order, the men on either side rushed and attacked eachother without reserve.

Just as they began, Rondar, captain to Jaromen's eldest son, Jataromen, burst in; his helmet was under his arm, sweat beads poured from his shiny, haireless head. He looked fearfully at his feet as he knelt near Jaromens side.

"M'lord, permission to speak."

Hytaromen, sensing something amiss, loomed over the captain. "Where is my brother?" he demanded.

The captain raised his head slowly.

"Dead, M'lords. While we took on supplies in Hoiprenia, he saw a man he knew...an old enemy.

They battled, and m'lord was defeated."

Deadly, deathly silence suddenly reigned on the deck. Jaromen broke it.

"Who did this?"

The captain shook his head. "I saw not his face, but, during their battle, Lord Jataromen called him, "Goben"."

"Goben?!" Jaromen roared in disbelief, whirling to put his massive, booted foot into Captain Rondors face, who flew off the deck and lay wailing and spitting out teeth.

Lord Jaromen turned back to his men, as if seeking another suitable being to destroy. All he found, though, was the servant-made-soldier: beaten and bloody, but the only standing man on the field, and awaiting his lords next orders breathlessly.

"Go, Hytaromen, and find him. Do not return without his heart."

To this, the mongoloid Jotoromen stomped his foot once, and the impact boomed like rolling thunder.

Hytaromen stood looking at his fathers back for a long moment, face impassive but eyes burning and fists clenching and unclenching with rage, before stalking away.