Alastair Bloxsom

523 S. Lucerne Blvd.

Los Angeles, CA 90020

(213) 931-4336

FOR LOVE OR HONOR

By

Alastair Bloxsom

Aryll sat reading his book in a canopied courtyard at one side of the Acron--the largest bazaar in the entire jolarg nation of Ak-Gor. Several benches and tables had been arranged so that tired merchants and foot-sore patrons could drink, eat, or simply rest for a moment away from the frenzied haggling. The crowds and noise didn't bother Aryll. The world faded away when he read from his treasure--the Oroguin-Nor--the Book of Honor. Carefully illuminated in the margins with vivid colors alongside bright golds and silvers, the Oroguin-Nor told of the life of Ak-Gor's most famous warrior, Kûlai, and of his many travels. Aryll never grew tired of reading the stories. In fact, he had read the thick tome more than a dozen times, cover to cover. Courage. Honor. Sacrifice. Wisdom. Everything that he considered meaningful was contained in the Oroguin-Nor.

Aryll took another sip of his herbal tea. He made a face and choked it down. The yellow liquid tasted like moldy tree roots, but he had to get it down. It had helped the fever and the congestion in his chest these last few weeks. He just wished he could be back campaigning with the Khan and his army rather than spending his days recovering in the capital. The Khan, however, had given him a direct order. Aryll couldn't disobey.

Now he had to sit, day after day, reading his book and watching the youthful rabble, with their pointed short swords, swaggering through the streets, challenging one another to duels. Fights were always breaking out, but they weren't serious. Insults traded. A few bruised egos. Perhaps a slashed cheek here or there. Peacocks strutting about, hoping to prove themselves. Aryll understood exactly why the young jolargs fought so much. Honor and warfare were highly regarded here in Ak-Gor, even worshipped by some. Perhaps that's why the Acron guards looked the other way during these duels, appearing only after the fight was over to run whoever was still standing out of the city.

Something caught Aryll's attention. Two older jolargs, a man and a woman, were berating a merchant, yelling and shaking their fists. But that wasn't what made Aryll pause. It was the jolarg woman behind them. Garbed in an ankle-length black leather cloak, she stood aloof, uninterested in the noisy haggling before her. With her head held high and her arms crossed, it was clear that she was neither a peasant, nor a merchant. Aryll was fascinated by her detached demeanor. Her bearing. For once, his book could wait. He tucked it under his arm, straightened the shoulder straps of the hooked swords on his back and made his way over.

"I tell you I don't have any more!" the merchant said, his eyes squinting. His thin mustache, not more than a few hairs wide, bobbed up and down, drooping below his chin. "You'll have to come back tomorrow!"

"I will not!" the older jolarg woman bellowed. She drew up her portly figure and practically knocked the merchant over. "All the other sellers said to come to you. You must sell me some draghis fruit."

"Excuse me," Aryll said, bowing his head. "May I be of assistance?"

The older man limped forward. His worn suit of leather armor showed many patches from dozens of cuts and slashes. His hand went to his sword. "We don't need any help from the likes of you, half-breed."

The epithet was harsh but true. Aryll had the coarse black hair of his jolarg father, and the softer, rounded face of his human mother. And his lower incisors didn't even protrude outside his mouth--a status symbol only the males possessed, which they proudly displayed, sometimes even gilding the tips. Aryll's mouth was as smooth and flat as a child's.

The merchant pointed at Aryll. "That's the man who bought my last draghis!"

The portly woman brushed aside the elder man, flicking him out of the way like a meddlesome child. "Excuse Urksig, sir," she began, addressing Aryll, "he has little sense, even after all these years."

The old man struggled to regain his balance, hobbling on his one good leg.

"Might I ask if your draghis fruit is for sale?" the woman asked, giving a broad smile and batting her eyelashes.

Aryll paused. "If they're for your mistress there, then they are yours as a gift." He reached into his knapsack slung across his shoulder and withdrew a fist-sized melon-fruit, magenta in color and bulbous in shape. He handed it to the plump woman.

At this, the younger jolarg woman in the leather cloak looked over. He estimated that she was in her late twenties, a few years younger than himself. Her skin was smooth and dark, a rich walnut tone. Her eyes were an unusual green, strong and piercing. Her hair had been pulled back from her face and fell down her back in a long onyx braid. She narrowed her eyes at Aryll and finally spoke. "And you would ask for nothing in return? Draghis is not inexpensive."

"It is my gift to you for brightening an otherwise plain day with your presence," Aryll said with a nod of his head.

"I am Olcha," the cloaked woman stated, "and these are my . . . traveling companions, Nanki and Urksig-Ku."

Urksig-Ku stepped forward again. "Come, Olcha, our business here is done. Let us leave."

Olcha stared at the book under Aryll's arm. "Is that the Oroguin-Nor?"

"Indeed, yes, my lady."

"And where are you taking it?"

"It is mine, my lady. My father gave it to me when I was young, before he left."

"Then you . . . you can read?"

Aryll set his jaw. "I taught myself. I wanted to learn about the nobility of jolarg culture. I've tried to pattern my life after Kûlai--the greatest warrior in history."

A tiny smile crossed Olcha's soft lips, revealing her small, but pronounced incisors. "I wish you luck then. The Oroguin-Nor is my favorite book too. 'A favor well bestowed is as great an honor to him who confers it as to him who receives it.' I've read it several times--" Suddenly, she groaned and held her stomach.

Aryll reached out and steadied Olcha. "What is wrong, my lady?" He felt her square shoulders and tight muscles, even through her thick clothing. Her body had none of the feminine softness of a maid, but the lean tightness of a warrior. His hands trembled with an inner heat, as if her body were a living flame.

Olcha regained her balance and waved Aryll away. "I . . . I'll be fine. Just a small stomach problem."

"The draghis fruit," Aryll said in understanding, releasing her. "Its juices should relieve your discomfort."

Olcha nodded.

"Mistress," Urksig-Ku said. "You need rest."

"Very well," Olcha said. She turned. "Warrior, what is your name?"

"Aryll, my lady."

"Ar-ill?" she said, trying to pronounce the decidedly human name. She paused, letting the sound hang in the air. "I thank you for the fruit," she said, nodding. Leaning on her aged jolarg companion for support, Olcha slowly walked away.

Aryll bowed. When he looked up, Nanki had positioned her wide girth to block his vision. Snorting in disapproval, she clearly didn't think much of Aryll, a complete stranger, and a half-breed at that, addressing her mistress. After making her distrust clear to all, Nanki swung around and waddled off after Olcha.

Aryll grinned. A mother hen couldn't have shown more protection for her chicks. He watched Olcha disappear into the crowds. She was beautiful, yes, but it was her bearing, her clear and focused eyes which fascinated him. And she had quoted the Oroguin-Nor! But he was not of her rank. With his lesser station, coupled with that of his ignoble birth, for him to think of her as anything other than a member of the nobility was heresy.

Even so, he couldn't take his eyes from her.

"I'd pay money to bed that one!" the merchant piped up.

Aryll spun around and with lightning quickness, reached over the rows of fruit and grabbed the merchant by the collar, lifting him off the ground. Aryll narrowed his eyes and glared at the man. "What did you just say?"

"I--I," the man gagged, choking in Aryll's hold. The man's dark jolarg tongue hung out. He shook his head trying to apologize.

Aryll released him, pushing him back. "Be more respectful of your betters, cur."

The merchant rubbed his throat, taking several breaths.

"You're the only one in the Acron who sells draghis?" Aryll demanded.

The merchant swallowed hard. "The only one who stocks them every day, yes. But only early in the morning, and the fruit is soon sold." He caught his breath. "They're quite expensive. Brought down from the only place they're grown in the north. I--"

"Then set aside a few for the lady," Aryll commanded, tossing down the last of his ten gold tasaks. "Three draghis a day for the next three weeks."

The merchant quickly scooped up the coins and pocketed them. "Yes, of course! Every day without fail." He winked. "And I'll even put in a good word for you, halfer."

Aryll set his jaw in disgust. "No. They're to be gifts from you--as unbelievable as that is. There's no need to mention my name. Is that understood?"

"Clearly." The merchant bit his lip. He looked longingly at Aryll's two swords. He pointed timidly, not wanting to upset the warrior again. "Still don't want to sell them? I've offered a fair price."

It was all Aryll could do to restrain himself. He imagined energy streaming from his eyes, boring a hole into the merchant's head.

The merchant's expression went blank. He took a step back. "I--I was only asking, friend. That's all!"

"I'll say this one last time," Aryll said, reining in his anger. "These swords are my life, my soul. I would rather die than sell them."

The merchant gulped audibly.

Aryll turned and left, returning to his humble dwelling. A night's reading would soothe his spirit, and help erase the memory of that toad of a merchant from his mind. Besides, he could afford little else as he'd given up practically all his money. His coins were supposed to last for a few months--at least until he'd recovered and could rejoin the Khan's army. With the few copper nash he had left, all he could buy now was day old bread and bitter gurah beans.

Several days passed. Each morning, Aryll took up his favorite spot in the Acron and read his book. Normally, the youthful rabble would have provided the day's entertainment. Recently, however, he had something better to look forward to. He waited patiently for the chance to glimpse Olcha. His whole day centered around these moments. A tilt of her head. A wave of her hand. She even dominated his dreams. It was as if his mind were rebelling against a lifetime of control. Aryll cursed himself for having such feelings. He tried to lose himself in the Oroguin-Nor, but even while reading it, he found his mind wandering back to her.

One morning, Aryll was lost in a special passage of his book when he heard a voice just above him.

"Ar-ill?"

Aryll practically jumped into the air, his knees smashing into the wooden table. He looked up into Olcha's rich green eyes.

She raised a hand to her mouth to hide a smile. She looked over at Nanki who simply rolled her eyes in amusement. "I wanted to thank you for the fruit," Olcha said. "Though the merchant denied it, I knew it was you who had it saved for me."

A burst of wild energy shot through Aryll's body from head to toe. He quickly forgot about the pain in his knees. "I would not be so bold as to give you gifts, my lady," he said, trying to conceal his passions, "but if you enjoyed them, then I am pleased."

Olcha tilted her head and gazed at the delicate pictures in the margins of Aryll's opened book. "The tale of the two thieves."

Aryll looked down. "Yes. Kûlai slew the one who lied about his deeds, along with his wife and children--"

"Yet, when the second thief admitted his crime," Olcha continued, "Kûlai killed the thief alone, and spared his family, 'for--"

"'Even a thief can teach honor,'" both repeated.

Olcha fell silent. "It's a shame that so few can quote from the Oroguin-Nor."

"And worse still that more don't follow its teachings."

Olcha's eyes softened as if seeing Aryll clearly for the first time. Her dark hair glistened in the sun like polished lacquer.

Aryll tried to look away, but he could not. She was like a goddess towering above him. Her gaze burned into his heart like a blast of dragonfire. No weapon had ever cut him so deeply.

Then, those focused eyes of hers begin to glaze over. Her noble cheekbones suddenly seemed gaunt. A bead of sweat trickled down her pale cheeks as she slowly leaned forward, and braced herself on the table. Aryll's heart screamed to reach up to her, to take her in his arms, to support her, but, of course, he restrained himself. He was nothing but a poor, journeyman swordsman. He had no right to force himself upon her--to enter her world uninvited. Aryll knew his place, especially considering his birth. Even so, he had to act. He couldn't stand by and do nothing.

"Again, thank you," Olcha said, straightening up and regaining her composure. She locked eyes with him one last time before striding confidently away.

As usual, Nanki had been glaring at him during the entire conversation. Before she could follow Olcha, however, he motioned Nanki over.

"How has your mistress been sleeping?" he asked bluntly.

Nanki's face contorted in anger. "Why, I--!"

"Answer me, woman! Does she have fever during the night--sweating until her bedding is soaked through?"

Suddenly, Nanki's anger fell away. "I . . . yes. How did you know?"

Aryll set his jaw in frustration. He grew more excited, more animated. "Does she feel weak during the day? Have trouble keeping food down?"

Nanki nodded quickly.

"And now the fever comes during the day as well."

"Yes. Yes. What should we do?"

Aryll rose to his feet. He balled his fists. "Olcha has contracted the Black Fever," he said calmly. He paused before pulling out a tiny pouch from his belt sack. He lowered it into Nanki's eager grasp. "This is gharcha. It's a blend of herbs. A kind a tea. Steep it in boiling water and have Olcha drink it every three hours. Wake her if you have to. It's very important that you do this."

Nanki stared at the pouch.

Aryll reached out and grasped her shoulder firmly. "Do you understand?"

Nanki nodded--her fleshy cheeks jiggled back and forth. She pinched the pouch, testing its contents. "Sir, th--there's little here."

Aryll gritted his teeth. "I know."

"But--"

"You'll just have to buy more," Aryll said. He spun around and stepped away. He stopped. He turned his head. "I . . . I'm sorry. I've given you all I have." He paused. "The merchant with the draghis fruit should have the herb." He didn't wait for Nanki's reply before leaving. He didn't have the heart to tell Nanki that Olcha, even with the herb, might not survive the week. All the way home, he tried convincing himself that Olcha wasn't his responsibility. That she was just another mysterious woman in the bazaar. Just another pretty face. The Acron was full of them.

But none with her eyes.

None with her knowledge of the Oroguin-Nor.

Aryll mumbled a prayer for Olcha.

In his bare, one room above the tannery, Aryll lay on his simple straw bedding. The putrid smell from the tanning shop below filled the air with the acrid odor of lye and rotting hides. Aryll barely acknowledged it. He stared at the cracked wooden beams in the ceiling and tried to focus on sleep. Again and again, Olcha entered his mind. He imagined her fiery touch when he had caught her delicately in his arms. Her midnight hair. Her musky scent.

Aryll held his head--squeezing with all his might, hoping that he could crush her from his mind. When that didn't work, he got up and knelt facing the corner, folding his legs underneath him. He concentrated on his breathing--just as he'd been taught by master swordsmen in his youth. In through his mouth, hold it, and out through his nose--feeling the energy run through his body, out to his fingertips. For a while, the ancient techniques worked. He actually felt at peace.

When he rose, minutes, perhaps hours later, the vision of Olcha lying on her death bed returned. A hollow feeling formed in his stomach.

Tears rolled down his hardened cheeks.

The next day, Aryll found himself hurrying, almost running, with his book to the Acron. He took up his usual spot and began reading. His eyes scanned the words, but his mind no longer grasped their meaning. All he could think about was catching another glimpse of his Olcha.

Hours passed.

Every few minutes, he'd look up and scan the crowd, but there was no plump Nanki. No Urksig-Ku. No Olcha.

As dusk approached and the merchants packed up their goods, and the patrons strode wearily home to cook their dinners, Aryll continued to dissect the crowds. Had he missed her? Had she come to another part of the Acron?

He waited until the last of the merchants had gone and the guards, with their long spears and shining pointed helmets, casually began shepherding everybody away. He closed his book slowly, and coughed deep and heavily--loosening the last of the cold lodged in his chest. Perhaps she had died last night.

He wandered the streets, shuffling about until he eventually, somehow, arrived home. His mind wandered, much as his feet had, churning and brooding about what had been and what could have been. How he might have done more to help.

Neither hungry nor thirsty, he simply sat on his bed and gave in to a wretchedness of mind and spirit he'd never known before.

A few hours later, someone knocked at the door.

Aryll instinctively reached for his swords. "Who's there?"

"It--it's Nanki, sir. Please let me in."

Aryll jumped up and unbolted the door.

Nanki pushed herself in and threw herself at Aryll's feet. Her face was lined with anguish. Her normally yellow jolarg eyes were red and bloodshot from crying. She grabbed his ankles and squeezed. "Please, I beg you . . . ."

Aryll took her by the arm. "What is it, woman? Speak!"

"It's my mistress." She looked up. "You were right. Oh, so right. She has the fever. The Black Fever," Nanki sobbed uncontrollably, latching onto Aryll's leg as if he were her last hope at life and she cast adrift on a raging sea.

"Damn it, woman, did you give her the tea? The gharcha!"

Nanki paused in her tears long enough to nod. "She . . . the fever went down . . . for a while, but . . . but it came back stronger than before!"

He peeled her off his legs and lifted her to her feet. "Why didn't you buy more gharcha? Ask the merchant!"

"We have no money!" Nanki blubbered like a baby who's lost its mother. "My mistress . . . she's come to the capital to plead with the Khan to . . .to aid in retaking her castle from the bandits."

"But the Khan's leading a campaign to the north! He won't be back for weeks."

Nanki went limp and collapsed to the floor in a flood of tears.

Aryll raised her gently to a sitting position, but said nothing. He stood above her, lost in thought. Nanki's story explained everything. Olcha's manner. Her two companions, her guardians. Nanki, the nurse. Urksig-Ku the protector--or perhaps captain of the guard at the castle.

Instantly, Aryll knew what he would do.

He let out a long sigh, as if releasing all the despair and passion from his soul. A warrior must always accept his death, when fate decreed it.

Again, Aryll lifted her to her feet. He helped her to the door. "Go to the merchant's stall at noon. He'll give you the herbs."

"Thank you, master, thank you! You're a godsend--a blessing from the dead gods themselves!" Nanki kissed his hands again and again, covering them with tears of joy. Suddenly, she paused and looked around at the bare room Aryll lived in. "But . . . but, sir, the herbs are very expensive. How . . . how will you . . . ?"

Aryll set his jaw. "The herbs will be ready at noon."

Nanki nodded hesitantly.

"And you aren't to tell Olcha that it was I who bought them. Swear it!"

Nanki paused. She stared at Aryll, the half-breed, the half-human, in disbelief. "I . . . I swear it!" She threw her arms around Aryll's broad shoulders and wept for joy.

"Woman, get hold of yourself!" he cried, as he pushed her off him. "Stop your crying, or you'll drown the both of us. Now, go home and tend to your mistress. She needs you."

Nanki retreated slowly, bowing repeatedly, dabbing her running nose with her ample sleeve.

Aryll closed the door behind her. The front of his gray and black striped tunic was damp with the woman's tears.

He knelt down in the corner and focused on his breathing. In all the times he'd considered his death, he'd never imagined that it would come at the hands of a woman. He couldn't think, act, or even read. She had controlled him from the start, like a beautiful enchantress. When he imagined her lying on her deathbed, all his training and fortitude, his strength of will and focus, fell away as if they were nothing. Willingly, oh so willingly, did he give up his life to save her.

He felt honored to do so--more so than with any other act he had ever accomplished. Well, almost any other act . . . .

Aryll was surprised at how quickly the hours passed. A calm had come over him once he'd decided. Early the next morning, as he had done so many days before, he gathered up his belongings and walked down to the Acron. He stopped before the squinty-eyed merchant.

"Come for more draghis?" the merchant exclaimed. "You're in luck, friend. I've just got--"

"Gharcha," Aryll said. "Do you have any gharcha herb?"

"You want more?" The merchant shrugged his shoulders. "I've just one packet left." He reached underneath the rows of exotic fruits and vegetables and retrieved a fist-sized leather pouch. "As you know, friend, it's very expensive. Blessed by priests. Anointed with oils and who knows what else. Picked when the moon is--"

"How much?"

The merchant closed one eye and thought. "That fat cow of a woman was here yesterday wanting to buy it. Kept blubbering on about her mistress, but she didn't have the coins." He paused. "But for you, sir, three hundred tasaks."

Without hesitation, Aryll removed the pair of hooked swords from his back and laid them carefully on the bed of fruit in front of the merchant. The weapons' jet black scabbards glistened like the night sky. The handles had been wrapped with cured hydra tongue--the serpent-like organs having withstood years of practicing and fighting. Each sword possessed an ancient and highly polished gold lion's head for a pommel--the mark of the Haruun--one of the twelve ruling tribes of Ak-Gor--the Khan's tribe.

The merchant licked his lips greedily. He snatched up one of the weapons, handling it as if it were nothing more than another piece of fruit. With a jerk, he pulled the sword out of its sheath. His mouth fell open. The blue-steal blade shone with a dark brilliance as if it held a bottomless pool within its confines. Not a nick could be seen along its razor edge. The merchant closed his mouth and glanced up to see if Aryll had been watching him. "You--you do want to sell these, don't you?"

"For the herbs," Aryll said flatly.

The merchant frowned. "These swords are magnificent to be sure, but the herbs are just as special. The swords plus fifty tasaks and the herbs are yours."

"I don't have fifty tasaks."

The merchant smoothed his thin drooping mustache. "Surely you must have something else to trade. A man of your stature, with your worldly background."

Aryll calmly placed the Oroguin-Nor in front of merchant.

The merchant folded his arms. "What am I going to do with that? Do I look like a scholar?"

Aryll opened the book to show the interior illumination.

"Mmm," the merchant said, nodding his head. "Pretty. Very pretty. What does it say?"

Aryll glanced at the page and immediately knew the passage. "'Even a thief can know honor.'"

"Huh. What a batch of garbage."

Aryll felt nothing inside. Any other time, he would've acted without explanation or comment, instantly slaying the man for such a remark--such an insult to his life, and the legend of Kûlai.

But today was different.

Today, Aryll was trading his soul, surrendering his life.

"You will take the book for the rest of the sum," he stated plainly.

"All right," the man said, snatching up the Oroguin-Nor and the swords. "I'll do you a favor and make the trade, although what I'm going to do with the book, I don't know."

As the merchant offered the herbs, Aryll held up his hand. "The gharcha is not for me. Give it to the nurse who was asking for it yesterday."

The confused merchant just shrugged his shoulders. "If you say so."

"There is something more." Aryll reached out and took up a pitted and chipped wooden bowl full of nuts. He dumped out the nuts and held up the bowl. "This is part of the bargain as well."

The merchant waved his hands, shooing Aryll along. "Of course. Whatever you say, sir. Take it. Take the nuts if you want, I don't care."

Aryll had already left the merchant's stall. Wrapping his hooded cloak around his shoulders, he scouted about the Acron, looking for an appropriate spot. Once he had found an empty nook, he carefully sat down, folding his legs underneath him, and placed the simple wooden bowl in front of him. Neither calling nor asking, pleading nor motioning, Aryll the half-breed, Aryll the half-human resigned himself to his new life. After a few minutes, he heard the clink of a tiny copper nash dropping into his bowl. He bowed his head in thanks.

Days passed.

Whether Nanki had received the herbs or whether the merchant had sold them to someone else was no longer a concern to Aryll. Perhaps the fever had consumed Olcha. Perhaps not. None of this was an issue any longer. To think on such matters--matters which a beggar like himself had no control over--was futile. No, worse than futile, disastrous. That road led to madness . . . or worse. Better to lose himself in his new life with its new problems rather than think on what he had been or what he could have been.

Aryll was dead. He had died the moment he had willingly surrendered his swords--his soul. The reasons why didn't matter. That he had done so was enough. The punishment was clear and merciless.

More days passed.

Aryll slept where he could--under a roof, in an alley, behind some loose boards. He ate discarded scraps and garbage. When he could, after a day of begging, he bought a loaf of stale bread and some curdled goat's milk. Perhaps some moldy cheese.

Even as a beggar, his old ways died hard. He rose at dawn and tried to keep as neat as possible. He washed daily in the animal trough, a practice allowed by the local merchants. During the first few days, two of the other indigents tried to steal his cloak and boots. In the ensuing fight, Aryll broke one man's arm and crushed the other's throat.

No one bothered him after that.

Weeks passed.

A beard grew out, obscuring his face. After a time, he settled into a familiar routine. Eating. Begging. Sleeping. Few people spoke to him, and that was the way he wanted it. Roaming the streets of Ak-Gor, the twisting thoroughfares of the Acron, Aryll was content to lose himself in his minimal existence. He spent his day-to-day life with no worries, no cares. No feelings. He was like a shell of a man--a ghost, haunting the lonely corners of the city.

Then one day, she came.

It was early in the morning. Olcha was standing in the open courtyard, searching, her black leather cloak wrapped about her shoulders like the wings of a dragon. She stood straight and tall, full of life, outlined with a glow from the early morning haze.

He skulked back into the shadows and waited.

After a few minutes, she sat down at an empty table--the same place he had taken to read his book. She placed her hands on the table and waited.

Aryll covered himself in his dirty cloak and moved away to the far side of the square. He had no need of her thanks or her gratitude. She shouldn't see him like this. Not now. Not ever.

Still, there was something inside him, something pulling him to her. It was like a fire, swelling, burning. Even so, he couldn't bring himself to go to her. It wasn't pride or shame or any other emotion. He had simply paid her a service and that was the end of it. A warrior sacrificing his life for another. Nothing more.

Aryll put his back to a wall and knelt down, placing his wooden bowl before him. He was hidden in the shadows so that she couldn't see him, not that she would've recognized him in his current state, shrouded by his hooded cloak.

Morning became late afternoon which turned into early evening. All the time, Olcha had waited patiently, not moving from her spot, scanning the crowd around her. Every now and then, she would straighten up, full of hope, suddenly seeing someone in the crowd, before sighing a moment later, defeated again, when the person wasn't the one she was looking for.

Aryll continued his vigil as well. He never took his eyes off her. He let the fires inside him, the desires, the longings, rage uncontrollably, in the hopes that they would burn themselves out in one last cathartic pyre. He could endure a few hours of pain . . . if it meant that he'd never have to feel these treacherous emotions, or anything else, ever again.

By dusk, the merchants were packed up and departing the bazaar. Soon, the guards would usher the stragglers out and clear the Acron. Aryll would have left earlier, but he lingered. Olcha looked about one last time. Her shoulders drooped ever so slightly. There was a sense of weariness about her, a sadness which seemed to weigh on her. Slowly, she rose and turned back and forth one last time, scanning the area.

Aryll knew this would be the last he would ever see of her. The day had been long, but he believed that he had expelled all the feeling from his spirit. Several side alleys twisted off in all directions like a rat's warren, with Aryll poised just inside one of them.

Instead of walking out of the Acron, she turned and started towards him as he knelt on his long since numb and deadened legs. He lowered his head and sank even deeper into the shadows.

Olcha stopped at the main street out of the Acron and paused. She put a hand to her mouth in thought, gazing about her one last time, as if sensing a presence, almost sniffing the air. If Aryll hadn't known better, he would've believed that she felt his eyes upon her. But that was impossible . . . wasn't it?

Olcha drew out a few copper nash. She gently placed some in the palms of several beggars opposite Aryll across the street, before walking directly in front of him and dropping a coin into his bowl. Draped in his cloak, Aryll said nothing but gave a slight nod in thanks.

Aryll had watched the coin fall from her slender, sinewy fingers. He marveled at the sound it made as it struck the two other nash in the bowl. It was like music which passed deeply into his spirit.

"You there," she said softly. She bent over slightly trying to see beneath his cloak.

Aryll caught his breath, gathering the coarse material closer to his neck.

"I'm looking for a man, a half-human, with two swords on his back. Have you seen him?"

From beneath his hood, she couldn't see his face. Aryll shook his head slowly.

"He carries a book. A tome, actually. You must have seen him. He used to sit out here every day."

Her words washed over him like a gentle stream, cleansing his soul. He had all but forgotten the sound of her feminine yet spirited voice. Again, he shook his head, lowering it a bit more in the process.

Olcha paused. "If you'd like a few coins, here, have a ku." She lifted his hand and pressed the heavy silver coin into his dirty palm. A fire exploded from her touch sending chills through his body.

Aryll fought to remain calm. The coin fell from his hand and rolled across the paving stones.

"You're a strange one," she said. "Any other would've snapped that coin up." She paused. "But you kneel there with the calmness of a priest. As if money meant nothing."

Aryll swallowed hard. It was all he could do to keep still. His hands began trembling, not for the coins, but to run, to flee from here as fast as possible.

"Let me see your face."

Aryll turned his head aside. The humiliation was too much.

A long silence followed. With his hood drooped over his head, he couldn't see where she was or what she was doing.

"Very well. I suppose he's gone forever." He heard her cloak whip as she turned away; her footsteps trailed off.

He let out a silent sigh of relief. He was about to move himself, when the footsteps stopped.

"Then again," Olcha said, as she returned to stand in front of him, "I'm in need of a good right-hand man. Someone who's calm, in control of himself. A man who can bear adversity and keep his wits about him. Someone who'll devote his life to my service. I'm wondering . . . are you such a man?"

Aryll shook his head.

"I think you are."

Aryll felt his hood being pulled back. He reached out and grabbed her hand. "I'm not the one you're looking for. That one is dead." Her wrist was small, yet firm. She strained against him, holding the cloth, not pulling, but tensing her muscles nonetheless. Even with his head bent, he could feel her body through her arm--her balance, her center.

"You've a strong grip for one of the streets."

Aryll said nothing.

"Very well, stranger." She let go of his hood, and he in turn released her wrist. "As you say, that man is dead."

Aryll was glad that she had understood his meaning.

"But," she said, "if he is dead, I'm still in need of a . . . a savior," she said, choosing her words carefully. "A protector and advisor."

Aryll set his jaw. "Surely there are others in your service, older men who've fought for you in past battles." He, of course, meant her guardian Urksig-Ku.

"Older, yes, but my former captain is too old--too crippled to lead men in future battles. I need someone loyal to me. Someone who'll give himself to my cause." She paused. "Someone who's already shown his devotion. Someone like you, Ar-ill." She reached out slowly and pushed back his hood.

He stared up into Olcha's deep green eyes. "Aryll is dead," he stated.

"My new commander," Olcha said. She removed a gold signet ring from her finger and placed it in Aryll's hand. "This is my tribe's seal--the crossed spears. I'm the last of my line. Rise up and join me." She beckoned him up to her.

Aryll paused, unsure.

Olcha took his hand. "You saved my life. You are my warrior."

"You're wrong," he said bluntly. "I'm no longer a warrior. I've no swords."

"Swords don't make the warrior. A warrior is measured by what's in his heart. The strength of his spirit." She paused. "Besides, swords can be regained."

"But--"

"Your swords represented your life," Olcha continued, "but by giving them up, you acted more honorably than if you had kept them. You made a greater sacrifice. You followed not the dictates of man, but a higher moral code. Of mercy. Compassion. Love."

Aryll paused, dumbfounded at the clearness of her words, her convictions. He nodded. It was like the heavens opening up within him. Suddenly, a great weight lifted from his soul. "Indeed. As you say." He pulled himself up ever so slowly on his unsteady legs. "Your words, they speak to me as if the great Kûlai himself had said them."

The corners of Olcha's mouth turned up in approval. "But you'll need a new name. After all, Ar-ill is dead."

Aryll nodded and pursed his lips in thought.

Olcha suddenly pointed her finger at him. "You will be known as Soron-ji."

"'Ghost'?"

Olcha nodded. "It'll match the color of your skin, half-breed."

"Soron-ji . . . yes. I like the sound of it." He held out her gold ring. "But I cannot accept this. Only the head of your clan can wear it--someone by blood, by marriage."

"It is yours, Soron-ji. You've brought me back from the dead as well. You will be my husband. I claim you and make you one of my clan." Olcha caught him close and pressed her soft lips into his.

Soron-ji felt the ravishment of her mouth--the tiny pricks of her shortened tusks. He pulled her even closer, enfolding her in his arms, kneading her strong back. It was as if he were drinking deeply of her spirit, filling his soul with her life, her energies. When they finally parted, he gasped for breath, his whole body tingling with power.

"Then you accept, my husband," Olcha said with a devilish grin.

Soron-ji put on the ring and made a fist. The ring dug into his finger. "It would be my honor, my lady." He bowed low.

Olcha reached out and lifted his chin, fixing his gaze with hers. "Do not think that I ask only for your loyalty and a warm bed."

He raised an eyebrow.

"The swords you sold--they had golden lion-heads as pommels--the symbol of the Haruun, the Khan's own tribe. Few are allowed to display the symbol on their personal weapons. The Khan's family. His guards. And a handful of select retainers. It's treason to do so otherwise."

He crossed his arms on his chest.

"Once I recovered from the fever," Olcha continued, "I explained to the merchant that he was to keep the swords hidden. They could not be sold. When the Khan returns, we will redeem them."

"And the merchant agreed?"

Olcha grinned. "After I threatened to let my dagger explain the situation to him." She paused. "And you, my husband, will use whatever influence you have to gain the Khan's aid in retaking my--our castle."

Soron-ji stood before Olcha, admiring her determination and will. He shrugged his shoulders. "I merely saved the Khan's life once. Do you think he would remember that?"

Olcha's face lit up, clearly seeing through his sarcasm. She immediately hugged him with a strength which surprised even him.

"But the Khan won't be returning for three weeks," he said, trying to take a breath.

"I think we can keep ourselves busy until then," she whispered in his ear. She then nibbled his earlobe with her tiny incisors, growling softly.

Soron-ji felt himself melting in her arms. He kissed her neck again and again before drawing her back. "Let our enemies tremble at our approach," he said, quoting one of Kûlai's favorite expressions.

Olcha interlocked her arm in his. Walking down the deserted streets of the Acron, she laid her head against his broad shoulders. "Let them tremble indeed, my husband. Let them tremble indeed."

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