| By: Henry Otis Clarke |
| Vohl knew what would come next. He’d been through it hundreds of times before. Deathplay is a fickle negotiation. The contest could be swift and fatal, slow and torturous, or bland and unyielding. Anything less than a win on his part would mean loss of income, and loss of face. He intended to win. “Are ye hearin’ me man,” a voice snapped Vohl to attention, “or does our meeting grove interest ye more than the gold I propose to give ye?” Keenan Nalgraith’s glare was softened with bemusement. He sat slouched upon the Clan lord’s chair, his chin resting on his barrel chest. A tuft of golden hair poked through the v-shaped opening of his maroon cotton jerkin and mingled with his short blonde beard. His eyes were large and playful above a thick nose and thin lips. Vohl knew on first viewing him that he was shrewd and pranksterish. His tongue rolled with the gallaecian brogue. “I hear you Clan lord,” Vohl said respectfully, “and I do indeed admire your grove.” Nalgraith ignored the compliment. He continued to study the tall, massive obsidian figure before him. His quadratic face was strong; with cheekbones that stood out below deep set green eyes. Vohl returned the gaze, showing no hint of the discomfort he felt. Around the room members of the clan stood men, women and children. The entire village had gathered around him when he had arrived earlier that morning, abandoning their various tasks. Their clothes mostly of woven wool or spun hemp dyed in earth tones. Most of them stared; some reached out and touched his skin. Children asked openly about why the gods had burned him. The group marveled at his green eyes, his hair that was black and thick yet short and close to his scalp. Vohl endured the moment; all the while feeling as if on royal exposition. “The traders that ye traveled with spoke well enough of ye,” Keenan said at last, “and by the looks of that bundle of arms at yer feet you’re handy with a blade or two.” “Or two.” Vohl said. Keenan’s eyes beamed. His lips curled into a mischievous smile. “But how are ye hand to hand? Breixo!” He gestured with his left hand to a large man leaning against the tree. The man gave a bored yawned and moved across the packed dirt floor toward Vohl. He raised his fists in a pugilistic stance and began circling the Danduian assassin. His dirty brown hair hung ill-kempt about his chin. Vohl made no attempt at defense, but followed the man’s every movement. Vohl heard shouts from the men among the watching crowd. They weren’t for him. “Aren’t ye even goin’ to put up a fight darkie?” Breixo jeered, “Or maybe I’ll skin yer hide and use it to cover me floor?” Vohl raised his brows, tilted his head and formed a soundless “Oh”. His breathing remained calm, eyes watchful. Breixo swung with his right fist, Vohl dodged feeing its wake as it flashed by his chin. The fighter feinted with his left and shot a right at Vohl’s eye. Vohl continued to dodge without blocking or punching back. He knew his opponent was toying with him. Vohl toyed back. He watched the man’s movements, waiting for the right moment. “Is this how ye scared off marauders lad?” Breixo taunted, “Ye’ll not be teaching us much I’ll wager!” From the corner of his eye Vohl saw Keenan looking on with a fox’s expression. He saw the clan leader glanced at the crowd’s edge, behind Vohl. His highly trained senses felt the shift in the air as someone rushed to attack from the rear. Footfalls thudded clumsily and Vohl smiled. As the second man reached him, Vohl’s left arm snapped back, catching him squarely on the nose the man grunted as he felt the crunch and explosion of pain on his face. In one movement Vohl ducked under to jab quickly at Breixo’s midsection and followed with an elbow across the chin. Breixo went down, his face impacting the damp earth. The other man sat holding his nose trying to stave the blood pouring from it. Vohl ignored them both and stared impassively at Keenan. The large Gallaecian burst into laughter. “Well then! I guess we got ourselves a trainer eh?” The clan cheered and clapped. “Here now!” the man with the broking nose said, “What about me nose then?” Keenan peered down at the wounded combatant. “Right-o! Cian, ye’ll be needin’ fixin up for sure, Brithnea, Healer! Come help this deft fighter,” He said and nearly fell off his chair with laughter. The other clan members howled with levity as well. Only the two defeated men failed to see the humor. Breixo raised himself on all fours, cleared his head with a shake, then stood and returned to where he had been standing. Cian remained seated on the earth. From the edge of the grove, through the natural opening made by a gap in the trees, a woman came followed by a little girl. The woman had shoulder length copper hair, wide face with pronounced cheekbones and large blue eyes. Her face bore a perpetual smile tinged with distant sadness. Her body was long and curving but not voluptuous and moved with a grace that seemed born of music. With each stride her hips dipped in a natural manner not meant to be seductive. Her arms swung leisurely when she walked. She wore a brown shift of woven hemp that reached her ankles but did little to conceal the contours of her body. A piece of amber, attached to a leather thong hung from her neck and nestled at the apex of her cleavage. She carried a suede satchel that was held closed by a leather thong she glanced at Vohl as she passed. A fragrance of flower essence trail behind her. The girl that follower her was about six years her hair was coppery like her mothers. She had a playful mischievous look with intelligent eyes set in baby fat cheeks. When she looked at Vohl it was with curiosity, not fear like the other children. The woman kneeled beside Cian, reached into her bag and retrieved a poultice. She placed it against his nose, molding it and pressing gently to secure it. Cian cried out in pain, “Ya killin’ me with yer hands blast ye!” “Hold still or it won’t take,” Brithnea said patiently, “my little girl here is braver an’ you’re actin’ now.” She finished her work and stood looking down at her efforts. Cian’s nose was covered with what appeared to be a small brown pyramid. Holes were made for his nostrils. Brithnea smiled. “Let that stay on for about two days, then come to see me. I’ll change it and put on a new one.” She said. Cian nodded, rose and nudged his way through the crowd and beyond the trees. Keenan stood and stretched. “Right then! Ye train and teach me folk here and we’ll give ye some our little winkie-blinkies, eh?” He nodded his head forward and eyed Vohl shrewdly, “A master’s fee for a master’s skill.” “Agreed,” said the jet-black enforcer, “We begin tomorrow then.” “Aye tomorrow,” Keenan said, “but first we shake, and then we feast!” The fair-haired clan lord spat in his right hand and held it out to Vohl smiling. “Bound and sealed!” he declared. Vohl looked at the thick spittle in the man’s palm and hesitated. Keenan cajoled him, still holding his hand out. “Come on man, if ye agree to it, then we must shake,” he shrugged, “it’s our custom.” Vohl had known many strange customs since leaving his home. He fought the nausea churning in his belly, spat in his own hand and clasped Keenan’s firmly. A grim smile passed between them and they released hands. Keenan’s smile turned mischievous once again. “Oh by the way, when ye shake an agreement with the clan lord, ye must shake with every male member as well.” Vohl knew he’d given away his revulsion when all present exploded into laughter. The men lined up each spitting in his hand and extending it for the warrior to shake. Keenan spoke through his laughter, “Welcome to Clan MacFhaolain.” Vohl could smell the stench of spit and the slickness on his hand. The women and children giggled at the joke played at his expense. His face became an ever increasing mask of disgust. He looked around at the group of men lined up to greet him. The line curved back to the edge of the grove and around the walls. There were at least a hundred males. Only one beside himself seemed not to enjoy the trick. It was an older man who leaned off to one side, his right shoulder against the treed wall supporting the stump of a missing leg. His crutch lay in front of him. A ring of once red hair turned gray surrounded his bald crown. His eyes met Vohl’s and the warrior sensed an even greater disgust in the observer than Vohl felt himself. Just then another villager slapped and grasped his hand for a shake. Spittle flew in droplets, some catching Vohl in the face. He winced at the tiny beads. He wondered how he was going to join in the subsequent feasting. He struggled against throwing up. He knew this night would be a long one. |
| Vohl and the Clan Battle |
| August 2008 |
| Fiction |
| from: The Heart of Alía |
| Copyright 2008 by Henry Otis Clarke |
Editor's Note: I wanted to clarify a couple of things so there would be no misunderstanding.
Vohl is a "Black Man" as a Drow is black. So there is no racial slurring cited here. I also wanted
to add that I am proud to be working with Henry on his new book; I will be doing the cover art
for it! So it is with pleasure that I take this opportunity to introduce him to you all!
Ariana Baer
Vohl is a "Black Man" as a Drow is black. So there is no racial slurring cited here. I also wanted
to add that I am proud to be working with Henry on his new book; I will be doing the cover art
for it! So it is with pleasure that I take this opportunity to introduce him to you all!
Ariana Baer