Book 6: Chapter 21 - The Blind Swordsman (RAW)

A weak people are the sign of a strong society.

- Attributed to the First Tamkar of the Sultanate of Al-Lazar.

Outside the glow of the city lights, the nights stretched out like tapestries of stars, so many scattered across the sky that I found myself slowly beginning to look forward to them. Estaza, in her way, provided just enough distraction and entertainment to pass the time. The days, by contrast, were a brutal blaze of blue. The sun—ever merciless, ever burning—beat down on us without respite.

She had been a difficult woman to open, both in heart and body. For someone bought and paid for, she carried herself with an aloofness that felt almost aristocratic, as though she’d forgotten what she was. At times, I wondered if she needed reminding. My tactic of avoiding treating her like a paid woman, while still ensuring she was discreetly compensated through small gifts of silver for her “expenses”—had begun to pay off. Why all the song and dance? I often asked myself. But in truth, I knew the answer to that. Giving the Estaza a little dignity meant that I did not have to lie at night with a woman who was cold and unresponsive. At least this way, she showed some enthusiasm in her role.

But my time was not entirely occupied by the soft woman’s presence, of course. In the early hours of the evening, as the group made camp for the night, I would spend some time training my ward, taking Enkidu’s place as her trainer. It seemed right, in some way. And, it also helped serve to remind me of certain things my mind had forgotten.

And, to my surprise, Larynda seemed pleased by Estaza’s presence. Her addition had alleviated the half-elven girl from managing a lot of the day-to-day general business that she was responsible for.   

When the fancy took me, I would sometimes join Damien, the wiry Raedric, or the stocky Nassain for a few games of chance. Damien would question me about Estaza, drawing knowing looks from the other two, much to my chagrin. However, this gentle ribbing was a small price to pay. And, with my reputation and elevated position, it would not do for me to wander about with the common soldiery now. Aiming to lose ever so slightly more than I gained, I did just that, making me always welcome at these gatherings. It cost me next to nothing to build rapport with these men.

Cordelia, however, acted as if the woman didn’t exist, paying her no more mind than a shadow on the wall, which struck me as odd. Estaza, on the other hand, was anything but indifferent. The blonde would cast strange, sharp glances at Cordelia, her meaning veiled, and though her words were always polite, they danced close to insolence. She seized whatever excuse she could to interrupt our conversations—bringing tea or refreshment, claiming the role of gracious host—but I sensed something more in her intent. It was most odd, and at times, verged on the insufferable.

From the red-haired zealot, I gleaned that morale among the lower ranks of the Mercenaries had risen sharply now that I had pledged to fight beside them. Proselytizing among these men for Cordelia was much more difficult than with the ignorant Nas Al-Rimal, however, as life fighting for coin lent them a certain cynicism when dealing with matters of the soul and the hereafter. Still, they thought that fighting in my shadow would greatly increase their chances on the battlefield, it seemed. And that, in a way, was a sort of worship. I would be their god of war if necessary.

In the distance, far off but creeping closer with each passing day, the lights of Narilmu began to shimmer on the horizon. The travel wore on me. I did not care for it. If we had the conveniences of my old world, it would have been a journey of mere hours, not weeks. I missed that ease, as I had so many times before.

But then, back there, I had been no one. Just another face lost in the crowd. Here, I shone bright and terrible. The gifts given to me set me apart, lifted me far above the rabble and common men. Above all things, really—save for the meddling gods.

And still, I wondered: if given the choice… would I have chosen to come here? Or would I have chosen to remain, content and happy, but basically a nobody?

***

Perhaps a week still separated us from Narilmu, and I marched at the very front of the company, dragging four wagons whose iron chains clattered with each heavy step along the road, the hot wind scattering little vortices of dust around my boots. The morning sun already baked the dunes a white gold, and the desert air shimmered, as though the entire world were holding its breath. Ahead, three silhouettes on Huzayfaar—the swift, six-legged reptiles prized throughout these desert lands—were drawing steadily, almost insolently, closer. When the riders reached roughly thirty paces, they leaned back on their reins and came to a synchronized halt; yet none of them deigned to dismount. Their mounts hissed, tongues tasting the tension that suddenly thickened the road.

I could practically smell the stupid nonsense rolling off them.

I was irritable already, Estaza’s inexplicable frostiness at breakfast had ground my good humor to powder, and this promised to become another tedious vexation. With a weary sigh, I released the wagon’s tow-rope and sauntered toward them, keeping my shoulders loose and my spine straight, though every instinct coiled as tight as a bowstring.

As I closed the distance, saw that the trio were  two women and one man. Layered veils masked their faces, yet glimmers of polished steel winked whenever their garments rippled in the wind. Sinuous scimitars, crescent daggers, and even a compact crossbow dangled from their belts. The man, most striking of all, wore a thick black blindfold, its knot cinched so tight the fabric pressed into the hollows where his eyes should have been. The women—dark-skinned, poised, and hawk-alert—had pointed ears poking from the edges of their head scarves. Elves, the dark variety, I was sure.

“Get out of my way,” I said, voice flat as sun-baked slate.

Even before the words cooled in the air, the Mercenaries behind me spread out in a practiced arc, crossbows leveled at the presumptuous three, boot heels crunching in the sand.

“Get out of my way, or die,” I repeated, hands reaching automatically for my twin swords—only to grasp empty air. Damnation. I had left the blades with the boys for polishing and forgotten to reclaim them.

Frustration flared, hot as burning coal. I reached inward, gathering magic, ready to unleash a tide of raw Mana that would scour the road clean of their filth—only for Damien to sidle up, slip between me and catastrophe, and rest a calming hand on my shoulder.

“Let us hear them first, Gilgamesh,” he murmured, lips pulled into that infuriatingly wry grin of his. Narrowing his eyes at the riders, he called out, “You there! I am Damien de Savant, and leader of this company. What business does the Sightless Blade have with my Dragon?”

The blindfolded man scarcely acknowledged us, holding himself like powerful monarch still convinced of his supremacy. His chin tilted, as he looked vaguely in Damien’s direction.

Moments later he spoke, voice gravel-rich and theatrically measured. “A man named Nassain Al-Sinwar rides within your company. Al-Sinwar owes me, de Savant, a great Water Debt—one that may be settled only by a contest of blades.”

“Remarkable how much a blind man would know this,” Damien answered, shrugging broadly. “Are you certain Al-Sinwar even travels with us? Have you seen him?”

The man’s Huzayfaar lunged, snapping its serrated jaws toward us, forcing its rider to yank hard on the reins. “My eyes were taken, yet I received far more in return. I see better now than ever I did when chained to ordinary sight. Al-Sinwar is with you.”

Damien wagged a chiding finger, half amused, half exasperated. “Even if that were true, why would I simply hand him over? I lead this Dragon, and we outnumber you—quite handily, as you can surely—well, perhaps not—see. I am responsible for these men, to hand one over to you, well, that would be a betrayal of their trust.”

“My patience has limits, de Savant. May this answer suffice,” the Sightless Blade replied coolly, raising one gloved hand that glimmered with half-concealed rings.

At his signal, shapes erupted from behind the pale dunes—scores of desert warriors clad in bronze-studded leather and indigo keffiyeh, encircling us like a tightening snare. The hiss of drawn blades and the clatter of composite bows slithered through the baking air. Our scouts, I suspected with grim certainty, would earn flogging for this spectacular lapse.

Damien inhaled sharply; it was, in fact, we who were outnumbered, nearly four to one at that, and perhaps more. Well, more experience for me.

Swiftly I summoned Sage’s Sight, silver threads flowing about me before I let the spell settle upon the blind swordsman. Perhaps he was not merely a wounded cripple after all.

Khalid Ibn Layth - Swordmaster (Human lvl.29)

Health: 645/645

Stamina: 63/64

Mana: 13/13

Advanced Swords: (lvl.4)

Blade Resonance: (lvl.4)

This one, it seemed, might actually offer a modicum of challenge. His level was high, and he had respectable attributes for a human NPC. More importantly, Khalid’s Advanced Swords skill was a level above mine, making him, at least by the game’s judgment, a master. But skill alone would not determine the winner, should we dance.

“You seek Nassain’s head? Is that it, cretin?” I asked, flipping up the visor of my heavy helm.

I waited—politely, even—but he ignored me. So I stooped, scooped up two palm-sized rocks from the sands, and, using the Double Throw skill, hurled one with every ounce of my Strength at him and the other at the mount of his nearest companion.

With breathtaking speed—like lightning descending from the heavens—he drew his sword and sliced the rock in two. The other, however, struck the Huzayfaar to his left. The lizard shrieked, bucked, and threw off its rider.

Now, at last, he looked at me. His veiled gaze locked onto mine. The dark elf scrambled to her feet—bruised, perhaps, but not broken—and shrieked as she charged. Khalid stopped her, maneuvering his mount into her path. She growled like a kicked cur, but he leaned down and whispered something to her. With a huff, she turned away and knelt beside her injured steed to tend to it.

“Now, blind dog,” I said again, “do you seek Nassain’s head? Khalid Ibn Layth the Cretin?”

Despite the situation, my men laughed. Somehow, they sensed my confidence. Their mirth fell on me like sweet rain… like, in, well, the desert.

“You owe no water to my tribe or family,” he said at last, deigning to acknowledge me.

I patted Damien’s soldier. “Get me my swords. I will deal with this presumptuous fool.”

The man relayed my request, then turned to Khalid. “This challenge upon the sands—I must first ask Nassain, if he is present, whether he accepts. Gilgamesh, I presume you’ll stand as his champion?”

“Gladly,” I replied with a laugh.

“Will you not reconsider, Sightless? What grievance do you claim, that my man owes you a Water Debt?”

“Years ago, when he was still a bandit, that soft wetlander murdered my wife, my daugh—”

I guffawed. “We don’t care, cripple.”

Khalid kept his composure, but sorrow flickered across his features. “I take no joy in cutting down one so young. One so ignorant of the evils done by that man…”

“Blah, blah. I’ve heard it all before. I’m sure you’ve got some tragic tale. Spare me. Nassain’s handy with Blessings, and frankly, this is the most entertainment we’ve had on the road. Do not pretend your little sob story outweighs that.”

“So much misplaced confidence,” the blind man murmured, shaking his head with resignation.

“Perhaps your words might carry weight with another, Sightless,” Damien cut in, grinning. “But this is no ordinary champion. This is the First Tamkar of Al-Lazar—Gilgamesh the Unscarred. I fear you’ve met your match.”

He whispered something iquickly into a Mercanry’s ear.

A flicker of doubt crossed Khalid’s face. Good. Let that fear creep in before we cross blades. Let it fester like a worm in an apple’s heart.

“And you are not the only one who can name terms,” Damien added. “You’ve delayed our journey by a day—not a trivial thing, as any coin counter will tell you. Should Gilgamesh best you, I demand compensation: contracts for your companions’ service for fifty years… and of course, you’ll send your little friends away.”

He cast a look toward the dark-skinned elves and smiled evilly. One of our soldiers whispered into de Savant’s ear. “Naturally, if Gilgamesh loses, I’ll order Nassain himself to face you.”

Khalid gripped his mount’s reins. “If I fall, the men will return to the desert. They are here only by oath to me. As for the swords, they are free women. I cannot speak for them.”

Damien pushed. “Surely, you don’t expect to lose? The Invincible Sight Blade? They say none can match you. If your companions are truly loyal, surely they’ll trust in you.”

“We know your strength, Khalid,” said one of the elves. “In only a score of years, you’ve surpassed even our Swordmasters. We believe in you. We accept the terms because we know you will win.”

The other elf nodded in agreement.

“Very well,” Khalid said at last. “I accept.”

Finally, I thought, we can get to the real business.

Rasul trotted up with my blades. I took them with quiet satisfaction.

I drew Song, running my thumb along the flawless edge of the Godmetal. Its polish gleamed.

“I hope your affairs are in order, old man,” I said. “Because I’m going to make this very, very slow.”