The Spear Read online

  The Spear

  A Short Story

  A.R. Knight

  Copyright © 2018 by Adam Knight

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN (ebook): 978-1-946554-22-2

  Published by Black Key Books

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters and situations within its pages and places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and co-incidental.

  Black Key Books

  4209 Odana Rd

  Madison, WI 53711

  www.blackkeybooks.com

  Also by A.R. Knight

  The Mercenaries Trilogy

  The Metal Man

  Wild Nines

  Dark Ice

  One Shot

  The Riven Trilogy

  Riven

  The Cycle

  Spirit’s End

  The Rakers Saga

  Rakers

  The Skyward Saga

  The Spear

  Oratus

  Starshot

  Mind’s Eye

  Clarity’s Dawn

  Creator’s End

  Humanity Rising

  The Last Cycle

  Discover More Stories

  Want to find out when the next adventure comes out? I’ll only send out a newsletter when there’s a new release, so no spam, only sweet, sweet story goodness.

  Sign up for the my mailing list at http://bit.ly/bkbnewswn

  To Nicole

  Contents

  1. A Warrior Must Watch

  2. A Warrior Must Track

  3. A Warrior Must Sing

  4. A Warrior Must March

  5. A Warrior Must Try

  6. A Warrior Must Decide

  7. A Warrior Must Teach

  8. A Warrior Must Plan

  9. A Warrior Must Deceive

  10. A Warrior Must Understand

  11. A Warrior Must Fight

  12. A Warrior Must Rest

  An Excerpt from Starshot - The Skyward Saga Book 1

  Also by A.R. Knight

  Discover More Stories

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  1 A Warrior Must Watch

  She doesn't know what's happening, that much even Malo can see. He's keeping an eye on the young woman because they're taking her family. Her whole tribe. The warriors would find themselves under a black-glass knife. The women and children... well, that depends.

  The Charre have uses for them. Plenty of work in the city and fields for those willing. Ignos would accept those who were not.

  Malo keeps a tight grip on his black-glass spear, and a stern expression on his face. Jakkan won't tolerate compassion. Ignos, the high priest says, demands duty, demands that every sacrifice be taken seriously.

  But, if Malo's being honest, he's worried the girl's going to try something. She's old enough to have spirit, and her face is making that telltale shift from shock to fear to anger. The desperate look that comes when you've nothing left to lose.

  There are twelve... huts, Malo decides, though the ramshackle nature of the plants and sticks holding them together gives evidence that this isn't an old village. A case bolstered by the number of people he sees - most of the men must sleep outside, or on top of each other.

  He hears Jakkan call for haste. The priest wants to be out of the jungle by nightfall, where the starlight will show any ambush. And because he's listening to the screeching call of his priest, Malo almost misses the moment.

  Almost.

  The girl twitches forward, unsure of the action even as she commits to it. She's lunging to the remnants of a cook fire, one still sporting what would have been a meaty feast. A large carving stone, a crude version of the knives the Charre forge in Damantum, is her target.

  She manages to get her grip on it, just as Malo reaches her. It's a moment's decision - to kill or stay.

  The former wouldn't be questioned - though the girl's death would be regretted as a sacrifice lost. But Malo's seen enough pain today, so he drops his spear, takes her wrists in his own hands, and doesn't flinch when hell itself turns to look at him.

  "Don't die for nothing," Malo says, and he manages to stop himself from finishing the Charre phrase.

  "I'm already dead," the girl replies and she tries to shake him.

  "Tell me, who are yours?" Malo asks, eyes flicking towards the captives.

  He wants to offer hope. A chance. It's a lie - he won't be able to save anyone from death or labor, but if it lets the girl's anger drain away, then it's worth it.

  The question pulls her attention and he watches her look towards her tribe. They're bunched together, surrounded by Charre troops wielding their own spears and, in his colorful, feathered robes, Jakkan, who is pointing here and there, sorting the sacrifices into those more honorable than others.

  "Him," she relents to hope, nods over to a smaller group, the ones tasked for a quicker death.

  Not a prized captive, then. Malo can't tell which of the men she's referring to, and the afternoon is bright enough - Ignos is glaring today - that the sheen blurs all the prisoners' faces together.

  "Your father?" Malo asks.

  She nods again. More importantly, her grip on the knife relaxes.

  "I'm sorry," Malo tries.

  A miscalculation. She's not grieving yet.

  "Sorry? You're the ones taking him from me," her voice says she hates his words. "You came here!"

  "I don't choose our targets," Malo protests. "Our priests demand sacrifices, noble ones. Your father will go to a great destiny."

  Now she starts to struggle again. Malo pins her hands against the flag of the knife, takes a quick glance and sees a few faces looking their way. The girl doesn't know the danger she's in - show enough spirit and Jakkan might decide she's sacrifice material after all.

  "Don't," Malo switches tactics. "Think about what you want. Revenge?"

  That's the word that gets her to stop. It's up to him to go.

  "If you fight now, you'll be taken in a moment. Do not, and you'll have a chance, someday, to avenge him."

  He's not sure why he's saying this except that he, right now, can't bear to see another fighting spirit die. He just can't.

  She too seems to recognize the moment's futility, and drops the knife.

  "Where will I go?" she says, not really asking him.

  Malo has no idea. There are other tribes in the jungle, many, but they might do the same to her what Jakkan's going to do to these men.

  He must have thought too long, because she slips free from his grip and makes her break. He notices too late - she's vanishing into the trees already - that she's scooped up his spear along the way. Leaves him empty-handed, standing over the cook fire.

  "She took your spear," Jakkan says later, as they're about to march from the village.

  "I did not think she could, high priest," Malo replies.

  "Clearly, you underestimated her," Jakkan says, then turns to the group. "Warriors, the time has come to deliver Ignos' wishes to his altar."

  Malo gets up from the stone he's used as a momentary confessional, but feels Jakkan's strong, gnarled hand grab him before he's gone a single step.

  "I said 'warriors', Malo," Jakkan whispers into Malo's ear. "Without a weapon, without your spear, I don't think you qualify."

  2 A Warrior Must Track

  The first thing Malo notices when all of his fellow Charre are gone is just how noisy the jungle really is. The constant buzz of insects, hooting birds, and the growls of other animals. The breeze rustling through the leaves playing alongside a distant river's gurgle. It'
s a symphony far different from the planes in which he lives, where the wind is often the sole source of music.

  Even with the breeze, though, Malo's still feeling the heat. Sweat drips everywhere, including onto the food he scavenges from the now-empty village. Jakkan took the men, and the remaining women and children left, presumably to head for another tribe before even less friendly raiders find them. The hasty packing means Malo has more than enough for an improvised trip into the jungle's heart.

  Yet gathering what he needs takes time, and it was a late start, so when Malo takes his first steps beyond the village clearing Ignos is already gliding towards his rest.

  Trails go cold. Trails in the jungle especially so, with all the movement and growth. Malo has a few snapped branches and twigs, broken ferns to mark where the girl entered the forest, but not long after, the signs fall away. The ground stops feeding him impressions and the plants refuse to give him any answers. Either she stopped and simply vanished, or she knows how to hide her tracks better than he knows to look for them.

  "Which is more likely," Malo mutters to himself.

  He keeps replaying that moment; she'd been quick, and he'd been happily surprised at her decision to run. So much so that he had lost his most treasured weapon. What was he thinking? Why even bother to save the girl? If she wanted to die right then and there, who was he to stop her?

  Malo slides his hand to the kukri on his belt. It's a knife as long as his forearm, sharp and with a slightly curved blade that gets fatter as it reaches the point. Useful for hacking away at people, or at the vines crowding his path, as he starts doing now. The jungle only gets thicker as he leaves the village and what pruning they did behind.

  He pauses as purple twilight sets in. Brushes away a cloud of insects from his face, sighs as they settle right back. The son of a city stonemason and a weaver has no business here. But he wanted more, and for the Charre commoner, more meant either the priesthood or the military.

  Malo found out quick, in front of smaller congregations, that he had no gift for sweeping speeches. No soft empathy to guide a struggling member through their trials. What he did have was a knack for the kukri, the black glass spear, and delivering of punishment to his enemies. What started as schoolyard brawls progressed rapidly to a deadlier art.

  One that helps him not at all in the thick forest. There's nothing to kill here.

  Nonetheless, he soldiers on. Towards that gurgling river. Since she ran off without supplies, Malo figures she'll have to seek water and food from somewhere.

  It's nearly dark by the time he makes the river, where he startles off a pair of boars who've been drinking from its current. The river's a wide one, and the waters froth over brown and green rocks on the bottom. Not deep, and easy to cross. Malo looks up at the sky - which is actually visible over the swath the river cuts through those trees - at the stars beginning to peek out.

  It's getting too dark to forge through the jungle, and this is as good place to camp as anywhere. Preferably not, though, on ground level. Malo looks for a tree to climb.

  But the jungle here is full of reedy, smaller trees stretching with minimal branches high into the sky. Not easy to scale, impossible to sleep in. So Malo settles for the dirt. Brushes away the sticks and stones and leaves until only black, moist sand sits beneath his feet. Malo takes a small bed roll from his pack and lays it out. Gathers some of the brush and, using a scrap of flint and his kukri blade, strikes a flame.

  There's a chance the fire will draw someone to him. Malo hopes that someone is her.

  Nothing comes. Malo eats a bit of the leftovers he stole from the old village's cook fires, drinks some of the water from the river after boiling it in the small clay bowl he keeps wrapped in the bedroll. Makes plenty of noise doing all this too.

  Still nobody comes. Malo says a prayer to Ignos, asks the great god to forgive his foolishness, asks for Ignos' blessing and redemption. Then, despite the pestering bites and nibbles of curious critters, Malo lets his fire trickle down as he falls asleep.

  3 A Warrior Must Sing

  And wakes up with a sharp point pressing against his neck. It's cool and hard, and as Ignos has not yet returned to the sky, Malo can't see whomever's holding it against his throat.

  "Why did you follow me?" The voice whispers, and he knows in an instant it's the girl.

  "I need that back," Malo replies. He hasn't moved from his bedroll, but his hand inches towards the kukri on his belt. The short knife would, at this distance, be just as effective as the spear.

  "After all you've taken from me, you're coming to ask for something else?" She says and there's plenty of bitter venom in her voice. "I should kill you."

  "Why haven't you?" Malo says, because he's hoping that he can buy another second, another inch for his hand to creep.

  "Because I want to find your friends. I want my revenge." She stands up suddenly, loosens the spear from his neck and stamps it once against the ground.

  Malo hears the rustling ferns, and is blinded by sudden, uncovered torchlight. As he adjusts, Malo finds himself surrounded by women and older children. All of them are armed with a fool's medley of rocks and stone carving knives. A few bear crude swords and spears. One has a bow and, Malo counts quick, four arrows.

  "Your people took ours," the girl says, and it's clear from the way they're looking at her that they think she's the leader. "We want them back. You can find other sacrifices."

  "What do you want from me?" Malo says, sitting up and staring at the stern faces around.

  "Show us where your force is going, and we won't kill you," she replies, then leans in close. "Right away."

  Knowing what she wants and who she has helping her has Malo concerned as he looks over the angry eyes staring out in the dark. The group comes in all shapes and sizes, from weathered to fresh spring, scarred and thin to large and soft. Not one of them looks to him like a warrior. Not a one of them looks like they can hold their own in a pitched battle, even if all of them are tough in their own way.

  Malo thinks his own mother is as tough as they come, but put a spear in her hand and she would be as lost as any of these.

  "I can take you," Malo says at last. "I can lead all of you out of here, away from your homes and the land you know to go after my friends. After Jakkan and his soldiers. But what we find at the end of that road will be all of you dead or taken." He pauses to let the words sink in - an effect he's learned from Jakkan's many speeches. "Or you can choose to stay. To rebuild your lives and accept the course that Ignos has given to you. At least that way you'll have a chance."

  He's hoping to see some expressions change. Hoping another voice will rise up in synchrony with his and calm them down, persuade them to a better course of action. Instead, all those eyes to shift to the girl and wait. She, for her part, shakes her head.

  "I'm not making a deal with you," she says. "We tried that. We tried to negotiate with you. That brought us nothing but sorrow. So now this is what we're telling you to do. Bring us vengeance."

  There's not a wavering soul among the two dozen that stand around him. Malo opens his mouth - he's about to start again. Because as much as he wants his spear, as much as he wants to return home, he does not want to see all these people die, and that's what will happen. Either here or upon an altar. But before he can say a word, a small voice from the back begins to sound a prayer. As if this is some secret signal all the others join in and they drown out the jungles noises with a sacred ritual of the Solare people.

  Malo's heard it before, though only from captives as they're marched away from their homes. It's a defiant oath, an acceptance of their current hardships and the promise, with the help of their god, that they will be strong. That they will rise above, in this life or another, to claim their salvation. It's a powerful song, sung there in the night.

  Their voices rise within them and he realizes he's saying the words too. She notices, the girl, but she doesn't stop.

  None of them do.

  Morning da
wns with Malo starting awake, not even realizing that he'd fallen asleep. All he recalls are the burning torches and the voices rising in one prayer after another, songs and chants that slowly died as people settled into bedrolls or the soft sand and collapse into slumber. Malo's so tired from the march that he didn't make it long, there in the warm shelter of the glowing torches.

  He's not the only one awake now. She's up, for one. Filling a small urn over by the river. He gets himself up. Scoots off his bedroll and goes over to meet her.

  It's a nice morning, cool yet without Ignos focusing too much of his attention on them. Just enough of the god's rays shine through the leaves and scatter rainbows along the still-gathered mist that fills the jungle in the nearly morning. Beyond the river it's quiet; only the ever-present buzzing of insects provides accompaniment Malo's approach.

  "You know our prayers," she says as Malo squats next to her.

  "Your people and ours are neighbors. It wouldn't be smart of us not to know," Malo says.

  "Us." She nearly chokes on the word. "What about you? Did you feel it last night? What makes the Solare who we are?"

  It's true, Malo can't deny it. There's something about a small group singing courage to themselves and their god that he doesn't get in Damantum, where thousands upon thousands throng for daily prayers. Where his voice is washed out by so many others rather than rising in concert.

  "It is different," Malo gives her that much.

  "It's all we have now," she says. "My father used to tell me the Solare only survive because of Ignos. That we have been torn apart so many times we should have died if not for his graces."