Donarec the Swordsman Read online

  DONAREC THE SWORDSMAN

  Book One of the Tale of Donarec

  by

  Zackery Arbela

  Copyright 2019 Zackery Arbela

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  Copyright 2019 Zackery Arbela

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  Inspired by the works of Walter Hill, Akira Kurosawa, and Dashiell Hammett

  I can't say it all went exactly the way I'd planned, but I was right about one thing: they were all better off dead.

  Last Man Standing, 1996

  The late summer sun shone down on the land like the glare of an angry god. Wind kicked up clouds of dust that stung the eyes of those unfortunate enough to be caught in their path. High above in the sky was the face of the Mansion, that broad world-face looking down eternally on the world below. Home of the gods, shaper of mens fates...bringing down punishment on the wicked.

  Dust whipped across the road, striking the rider sitting on his horse. He raised his arm, protecting his eyes for a moment, waiting for the torment to pass. One more indignity in a world full of them. When he finally raised his face, it was to look across fields once rich with grain, now given over to weeds. In the distance he saw a lone farmer still making a go of it, the man hard at work with a hoe, pausing a moment to look at him, one hand on his tool, the other reaching for the blade slung at his side. In these troubled times, men went about their business armed

  The rider continued on his way. He was a young man, somewhere past his second decade. Skin once fair was tanned by the Sun. Dark red hair once cut short now curled past his ears, held back from his eyes by a scrap of leather tied about his head. His eyes were green and had the look of a man who had seen too much too soon. His clothes were worn, and a dark bandage was wrapped about his left arm just below the shoulder. His name was Donarec, if anyone bothered to ask. Few ever did, which suited him just fine. Those who did were likely not friends.

  The road stretched behind him, moving in a straight line east across the flat plain until it vanished over the horizon. If followed to the end, it would reach a city called Avaiea. This was a place wise men avoided. Westward, so he was told, the road continued on until it reached a crossroads town, where other roads might be found, leading to other places where a man might be safe. Where he might start over, where his name was not known.

  The horse grumbled as he urged it on. A spavined nag, the sort only the most desperate sought. Better than walking, if only just. Two saddlebags were placed before his legs, and strapped to the back was a long bundle wrapped in brown cloth and tied with cords Every so often his hand reached back to check it, making sure it was there.

  The wind picked up again. Mercifully there was little dust, cutting the heat for a blessed moment. Up ahead he saw a tree, rising up by the side of the road. Hanging from one branch was broken rope. As he came closer Donarec saw a body lying on the ground beneath it. He rode by the tree and halted, dismounting the horse and rubbing legs gone stiff.

  The body was that of a man, barely out of boyhood. Not dead a day by the looks of it, he’d only begun to smell. Crows glared down at it from the tree branches, but the eyes were as yet unpecked. The hands were tied around the back, suggesting this was an execution, but for what crime, if any, was unclear.

  “An ill thing,” Donarec muttered. An ill thing indeed. One should respect the dead, even those condemned to hang. In his homeland, even felons sent to swing for the worst crimes imaginable had their bodies burned honorably on a pyre. It was a duty the gods laid upon all men…

  Stop that. He pushed the thought from his head. Eburrea was lost to him, he could never go back. And its gods, or God rather, was lost as well. What did it matter that this wretch was now a mea for scavengers? In the end they were all nothing more than dead meat…

  He paused another moment. Then Donarec scooped up a handful of dust and sprinkled it over the dead man’s face. “I commend your soul,” he muttered, “to any god who is listening.”

  Then he picked up a rock and flung it at the crows. Thy cawed angrily and took to the wing,. flying away from the branch and settling on another further up the tree. They glared at him, he glared back. We’ll have our due, they seemed to say. From this corpse and in time from you as well. From all men in the end.

  “Not today,” he muttered. Donarec climbed back on his horse and urged it on. After a moment, when the tree was some distance away, he looked back, just in time to see the birds drop down for their feast.

  “Vermin,” he muttered.

  Further up the road was a stone post. At the top was the image of a man wearing a helmet, his angular face staring out to the west with a look of disapproval. A similar face was on the other side, looking was, only this one had its nose broken off. Carved into the post below was the name SAATHI’S HOLD, written in the local alphabet that was not very different from the one of his homeland.

  Below this, someone had drawn a crude demon’s face, the eyes triangular, and the mouth filled with teeth colored with some red pigment. TORMENT AWAITS THE UNRIGHTEOUS was scrawled below it. Not a good sign. But that could be considered the story of his life, all things considered. He looked towards the west. Then he looked to the north, where a narrow dirt trail of sorts broke away from the road, threading it was between walled fields, headed no doubt to some village.

  East was out of the question...only death lay that way.

  So...north or west. Donarec didn’t put much stock in divine favor these days, but this looked as good a time as any to call on Lady Fate for guidance. He reached into a small pouch hanging from his worn leather belt and plucked one of three copper coins in it. Stamped on one side was the image of a man, similar to the one atop the pillar. On the other was a rose sprouting from the open mouth of a snake. He’d never bothered to learn the significance, it was everywhere in Avaiea but he’d never taken the time to ask the locals.

  Donarec flipped the coin into the air, grabbed it with his right hand and clapped it down atop the left. He pulled his hand way and saw the rose and snake.

  West it was. He put the coin back into the pouch and continued onward.

  Saathi’s Hold. He’d heard the name mentioned. Crossroads grew towns like rotting logs sprouted mushrooms. The Avaiai Passage ran westwards until it reach the Road of Ugaara which ran north and south between the cities of Beremi and Ganascala. The three greatest cities of Raxenora...in peaceful times they would be crowded with travelers on horseback and on foot, farmers hauling their produce to market, soldiers headed to and from various border garrisons. And caravans, numbering hundreds of wagons, camels and pack horses. Headed north to the cities of Raxenora, and beyond them the various kingdoms and principalities of the west. Headed south, towards the fabled cities of Hadaraj...ancient, wicked and above all wealthy.

  Saathi’s Hold was where the roads met. Who Saathi was Donarec had no idea, and there was no sign of a fortress or anything that might be considered a stronghold. But the town was a wealthy place, he’d been told. Travelers entering Avaiai’s territory from the north or the south stopped here first. Those bound for the city paid whatever taxes were owed, those continuing on to other destinations paid a toll. And the town grew wealthy from the coin they spen
t on food and water, on lodging and pleasurable company and the myriad other ways one could profit from travelers looking for a moment’s relief from the rigors of the road.

  Of course that was before the current troubles began.

  He reached the edge of the town late in the afternoon. There was a wall of yellow stone surrounding place, in a bad state of repair. The eastern gate stood open, and judging from the state of the hinges it had not been closed or maintained in some time. No guards on the walls or at the gate, he passed through without so much as a challenge.

  He followed the Avaiai Passage into the town, a wide boulevard that went straight as an arrow, with narrow streets branching off it to the left and right. Houses of gray or brown brick rose up on either side, built in the local style with small, slit like windows and a courtyard surrounded by thick walls topped with spikes. Few people were to be seen, and those who crossed his gaze clung to the walls like rats, women with their heads covered and bowed down, escorted by men whose hands rested on the hilts of swords or daggers. They watched him ride by, eyes filled with suspicion, finishing whatever business brought them into the street and headed back indoors, behind the safety of thick walls.

  Fear was thick in the air. Of the fabled prosperity there was little sign - the few people he did see looked ragged and thin, worn down by hard times. Even as he rode alone through the town, he could sense the threat of violence, waiting in the shadows to break out.

  The road ended abruptly at a large square in the center of the town, far larger than he expected, enough for whole caravans to gather. Now only swirls of dust traveled across the open space. In the center was a large stone-sided well, dark water glistening within. His horse caught scent of it and whickered.

  Donarec dismounted and walked across the square, leading the horse by the halter. To his right was a long building fronted by a long porch. A faded wooden sign hung over the door, depicting a crossed pair of hands...an inn, though there would be precious little custom these days. On the other side of the square, across from the inn, was a house that had the look of a small fortress - thick walls, no windows at ground level, a flat-topped roof with crenellation that would give archers a clear view of any targets below. A tattered banner hung above the door, depicting the snake with the flower sprouting from its mouth. Standing in the doorway was a portly fellow, head shaved bald and wearing a studded leather vest, his belly bulging out under it. He leaned against the lintel, hands thrust under the leather belt holding up his kilt, watching Donarec from across the square.

  Donarec was halfway to the well when he heard the sound of hoofbeats A band of riders entered the square, their harnesses jangling as they cantered. He paused a moment to look, alert to threats from force of habit. Seven riders...four of them clustered around a figure hunched down on a horse, blocking it from sight. Common thugs, wearing leather jacks, if they had any armor at all. The swords at their sides looked ill-maintained. But the two men riding in front were another matter entirely. They say easily on their horses, wearing black lamellar armor with wide, square-shaped shoulder pads. One wore a peaked, opened-faced helmet on his head, the other had his hanging from the side of his saddle.

  The man without a helmet pointed at Donarecs horse and laughed. “Look there, Zingaaru!” he called out in Raxenori. “Yonder fellow has a walking corpse! Hey stranger, do you ride that thing, or does it ride you?”

  He laughed, as did the thugs. Donarec said nothing, continuing towards the well. His tormenter was a young fellow, his blond hair cut short save for a long narrow strip along the top that was bound into a tail with silver rings. Donarec knew that there was a hole at the top of the helmet through which the hair would be threaded when put on the head.

  Only one type of man in this wicked world went about his business with such a look. Irzemya, the warrior elite of the Raxenorans. The thugs riding behind were nothing, this man and his friend were the real threat. Donarec had seen them in action, knew what they could do with the curved swords thrust through their belts, or the black bows racked on the side of their saddles.

  Best keep his head down, he didn't want any trouble. Swaggering bravos were a fact of life in this land, best not give them an excuse to test their weapons. Donarec ignored the laughter, reaching the edge of the well. He picked up an old wooden bucket and dipped it into the well, pulling out a measure of water.

  He heard the arrow a moment before it struck. The bucket flew out of his hand, the arrow striking the side and splashing the water on the ground. He whirled about, hand reaching to his side as if grasping a sword.

  The irzemya lowered the bow, a cruel smile on his face. “Oops!” he called out with a laugh, his companions laughing and whooping at the sight.

  Donarec forced himself to exhale. He bent down and picked up the bucket, dipping it back into the well. Water leaked out of the new hole in the side, dripping past the arrow shaft.

  The irzemya nudged his horse forward, bow still in his hand, headed towards the well.

  “Leave him be!” called out Zingaaru. “We’ve a ways to go, Sorazal!”

  The man called Sorazal waved off his companion. He came to a halt beside the well, looking down on Donarec with a sneer. “What do you think you’re doing, wretch?”

  Donarec didn’t meet his gaze. “Watering my horse, lord,” he said. I don’t need this trouble. He held the bucket under his horses head for it to drink.

  Sorazal kicked the bucket from his hand, spilling the water a second time. Donarec tensed, hand twitching again for the sword that was not at his side, then forced it away.

  “What makes you think,” Sorazal asked, “that this water is for you? A vagrant from the road? Come to beg in the town square, have you? Or maybe sell your backside to any willing to spend the copper? Yeah, you have the look of that sort!”

  Donarec suppressed his irritation. Not at the insults...common, crass, lacking in imagination. He’d been called worse by better...men whose skill at inventive profanity approached true poetry. No...being in the presence of this idiot was punishment enough, some things were almost too much to bear.

  “Sorazal!” Zingaaru called out. “We don’t have time for this. Our lord is waiting for his plaything!”

  Donarec glanced over at the huddled figure in the middle of the riders. She was young, wearing a dress that once must have been very fine and did little to hide her lush curves. Her long hair was a jet black and bound in a tail hanging behind her head, her ears coming to points at the top, her face heart-shaped and beautiful. Her skin was a deep, coppery red, marking her as a kuyei, likely one of the Ashirzaai who labored in this land as servants, serfs, slaves, and in her case, as concubines.

  She looked up, meeting his gaze, her eyes filled with sorrow. Then his sight was blocked as one of the thugs shifted about, moving in front of her.

  Sorazal followed his gaze and then turned back, hand reaching down into his quiver to nock an arrow. “Mind you eyes, scum,” he said menacingly “It’s not a wise thing to look at Lord Tomozaam’s woman. A man should respect that which belongs to his betters!”

  “My apologies, lord,” said Donarec, bowed his head.

  Sorazal’s fingers tightening on the bowstring for moment. Then he leaned over and spat on the ground, barely missing the tip of Donarec’s shoe. “Drink your fill of that,” Sorazal said. “Then get out of town!”

  Sorazal turned his horse about to rejoin his comrades. Donarec watching him go for a moment, then picked up the bucket and filled it for the third time.

  Donarec heard the snap of the bowstring and dove for the ground. A heartbeat later, he realized he wasn't the target. His horse screamed as the arrow punched into its throat, blood gushing out from a severed artery. The beast fell to its knees, wobbled for a moment, then dropped to the ground, kicking out twice with a hind leg before breathing its last.

  He stood back up, looking at the horse, then at Sorazal. The irzemya lowered his bow, a smirk twisting his face. “Looks like you’re walking,” he called out
with a laugh. “Don’t weep for your loss! That nag was better off dead!”

  He turned around. With a wave he rode out of the square the others following after him, not one sparing Donarec a glance...except for the woman. She looked at him as they went past, her face a mask of sorrow and shame. Nothing to be done, she said without saying. They do what they want. We can only suffer.

  Donarec watched them go. He turned back to his now-dead horse, kneeling by the animal. He unhitched the saddlebags, slinging them over his shoulder, carrying the long bundle in his left hand.

  “Better off dead,” he muttered. “You have no idea.”

  Donarec crossed the square, headed for the fortified house at the end of the square. The man in the doorway was gone, through the door remained open. The banner over the door marked it as the home of the town headman. Regardless who was lord of Saathi’s Hold at any given moment, it was the headman who actually ran things.

  He approached the door. A burly fellow in a padded linen vest stood just inside, glaring at him. “What do you want?” he growled .

  “Here to talk to a man about a horse,” came Donarec’s answer.

  The guard stared at him a moment longer then stepped aside. “Take your chances,” he mumbled, letting Donarec into the house. “Turizali is in the room at the end of the hall.”

  There was a musty smell in the house, a mixture of unwashed bodies, spoiled cooking oil and cheap wine. A narrow hallway made up the first floor, with a stairway leading upwards on the right. On the left were two rooms - one had the look of a storeroom, and the one next to it had bars instead of a door. Sitting on the ground inside was a ragged figure wearing dark brown robes belted about the waist with a black sash. A brown turban wrapped about the head, and the face was hidden behind a carved wooden mask shaped like a snarling demon. The bright eyes behind it watched him pass with suspicion, saying nothing and seeing everything.

  At the end was an office of sorts, the walls lined with desks, with a much larger one at the far end. The man who’d been in the door earlier sat behind it, bare feet up on the desk, hands clasped behind his bald head.