by Carmine A. Tedeschi
in Issue 102, July 2020
To a Skree fighter, exile is a fate worse than death.
`Better to die in battle and please the Maker.’
In darkness, Hondo hiked to the cliff face. A steady wind blew warm across the semi-arid peninsula. Waves crashed below. The smell of cooked grain wafted on the salty breeze. His eyes caught movement. A tortoise scrambled to gain distance.
Hondo looked up. A dim light flickered in the mouth of the Oracle’s cave.
There were high ranking Skreega who could answer his question, but he dared not ask. Hondo did not wish to arouse suspicion. His superiors would grant no favors. He was not of Leading Blood. Even though he was a Kwee-Kerchak, a Great Killer, Hondo had earned his Captain’s status the hard way, by repeatedly distinguishing himself in battle.
Hondo made certain of every handhold. He kept his waist to the rock, heaved himself up.
The climb offered no real struggle. Others spoke as if it were a challenge. Maybe the Oracle’s power had also been exaggerated.
He gathered himself and rose to stand at the cave’s entrance. Shadows reached out. A figure stepped forward.
“Abalu!” A slave. Hondo almost took a step backwards, if he had, he would have fallen to his death. He could see the whole of the shallow cave. ‘No one but an ugly old human.’
“How can it be,” Hondo said, “The Maker speaks visions to a mahnu?”
The human bore the mark of all Abalu. The tip of his nose had been sliced off. The cartilage removed to resemble the flared nostrils of the Skree and the lesser goblin kind. Hondo walked away from the edge, directly toward the slave, a wrinkled elder with one good eye and the scars of a fighter.
“That’s not what you came to ask.” Dressed in a soiled robe, and wrapped in a blanket, the elder slave held out his hands, as is the rule, to show there was no weapon.
“You are well past the age of usefulness, Mahnu,” Hondo said. He had never seen an abalu so old.
“Kill me then.” The old man laughed. He smiled knowingly and sat, cross-legged in the sand. “Come and sit. Did you bring food, or copper? Never mind.” He shrugged. “A Kwee-Kerchak like you, I help, no cost. Ask your question. My porridge grows cold. A warm meal is my only comfort, that, and the roar of the crowd from the distant arena. When I hear the sound, I know I will dream of the lions playing on the banks of the great river. It is a strange thing, a dream should be so pleasing.”
Hondo looked around. There were few possessions: a bowl and spoon, a few candles, a bottle of water, a length of rope tied to a basket. `Somebody’s feeding him.’
“Tell me, Mahnu.” Hondo squatted. “Does Barter Town exist?” He let his knees hit the loose sand of the cave floor, sat on his haunches, and tossed a silver to the worn and wrinkled human.
“Sah-bo,” said the old man. He picked up the coin. “Maybe tomorrow, if I am lucky, I will eat meat.” He took a ragged pouch from behind a rock and dumped the contents into his palm. Short, flat, bones. Symbols etched into both sides. He rubbed the yellowed rectangular pieces between his withered hands. They made a grinding chirp.
The sound vibrated through Hondo’s chest, until the old man tossed the runes on the sand.
‘The toe bones of a lion; the old mahnu must be half crazed.’
The decrepit human spoke slowly. He stared at the bones. “Tomorrow is Hisah-yungorro. When the sun clears the horizon, the gates will open. The gorros will march through the center, and out the gates, never to return. Your little one will march with them. The Maker sees through to the heart of all Skree. What you truly desire is to know your son’s fate. I can tell you this much, after tomorrow you will never see his smile again, nor will you hear the sound of his voice, or feel the touch of his fingers on your face. Before the sun sets, you will have forsaken everything you have gained, everything you know and hold dear. Everything—except your honor. You shall take your honor to the grave.” The old man lifted his head. He dared to look into Hondo’s yellow eyes.
Hondo put a hand to his dagger. His pointed ears curved back. His thin, dark lips lifted in a silent snarl. “Everyone knows tomorrow is Hisah-yungorro. You are clever, old one. Perhaps you have spies who whisper in your ear. I care not. You will tell me what I wish to know, or I will end your suffering. Right here. Right now.” Killing the seer would be no different than putting any abalu down.
The old man was indeed bold. He did not look away.
“Barter Town,” Hondo said. “Tell me!”
“You are a stubborn race,” said the old man. “If the gorro keep Barter Town in their hearts, then it must exist.”
“Pig shit!” Hondo had enough. He would’ve killed the old mahnu, but by the time Hondo stood, the oracle had grabbed his bowl of porridge. He ate with his head down, a sign of humility.
Hondo untied the rope from the basket, wrapped it several times around the sandstone. It would no longer reach the bottom, but it would save him trouble. He stepped to the edge, grasped the rope tight and descended at a rapid rate. No sooner had he reached the rope-end, the old mahnu pulled it back up.
Hondo climbed the rest of the way down. His heavy, armored boots hit the ground.
“You could not abandon him as an infant,” the oracle hollered. “Because your heart is good.”
Hondo turned and looked up at the old mahnu standing on the cliff’s edge.
“Follow your heart, Kwee-Kerchak! The Maker says you must follow your heart!”
Hondo was not superstitious like most. He considered climbing back up and killing the old mahnu. He didn’t believe in luck, good or bad. But the climb was long, and the wretch had shut his mouth. He seemed to know when he was drawing close to death.
Hondo walked away. The old man’s words played on his memories.
The baby was born in the season of storms, while Hondo was at war. At six months it could walk on its own. Hondo remembered the blank stare, the unseeing eyes. Neither his wife, nor his parents had the will to dispatch the infant. Hondo could not believe his sire had grown so soft. They left it to him.
They spoke not a word when Hondo took it to the seashore, a place in the rocks the people used for such things. He tossed the blanket aside, to cast him out naked. Hondo thought to say goodbye, took a last look at the child shivering in his hands. The little one did not cry. Its dead eyes saw through him.
They said nothing when he returned with the infant. His workers took great cares to teach the child. The boy even learned their language. Though it is forbidden, the abalu still spoke it in private. They taught it to their own children. Hondo allowed it. In some ways the Mahnu could not be broken.
Little One learned fast. He took over the matron’s duties after his mother died of the Bone-Crushing Fever. What would the villa be without him? Nothing, but a place to outlive one’s usefulness. Perhaps when Hondo’s time came, he would walk into the sea, as his sire had done. He would not have to hear his own wife’s wailing. She was already gone. Maybe she had been renewed. “Naw.” Hondo didn’t believe in reincarnation. He only knew this life.
Instinct told him Little One was in danger, yet there was no enemy. In battle and combat Hondo always knew what to do. This was different. There were too many unknowns. Hondo had a strong drive to protect him, but from what?
Hondo took the long way to his Villa, along the shore. The sun would not rise for another three hours and the walk would clear his mind.
He couldn’t keep his Little One, but neither could he let him go. Hondo was torn; his insides ripped out like the spent shellfish strung out on the beach.
To Hondo, anger was a thing to resist. It led to rage, another form of weakness. The sound of the ocean receding, the stillness in the night, these things helped calm. They held for him the remembrance of youthful innocence. As a child Hondo tried not to bother his sire. The old ram could be nastier than snake shit. Hondo saw the regret in his eyes each time the rage subsided. But the grizzled old fighter had gentle moments too; many nights they spent on the beach fishing for sharks, before Hondo came of an age to march.
On nights like this, his sire used to wake him, guiding him half asleep to the washbasin to splash water on his face. Once outside in the darkness, little Hondo followed close in his Sire’s footsteps.
“A fisherman,” he said, “must let the nibbles pass, and wait for the big strike, you will know when it comes.”
For the Skree, childhood is brief. And it ends abruptly. A child took just ten years to mature, ten on the march, and ten more serving the tribe. By thirty-five most Skree had outlived their usefulness. The humans lived twice as long, but lacked the fire that burns in the heart of all Skree. The fire, which drove them to march in search of new conquests, new people to subjugate. And now they were taking sea voyages, thousands of miles away, raiding foreign lands.
`I should have been a Pirate. A Kwee-Kerchak, with my own ship, bowing to no one. The sea offers everything a Skree could want. And she is peaceful more often than she rages.’
Hondo had once commanded his own vanguard, one hundred loyal Skree warriors. They would have followed him into the halls of a Mountain Dwarf King.
When they were big enough to march, many of the tribe’s males were traded out to other clans. Hondo knew why the Chiefs did it, to keep their own sons in power. (The Chiefs took many wives, and had many sons.) They wanted to avoid opposition from others. It likely also explained why he was removed from the front, and given his current assignment.
His sire’s villa became available shortly after he was reassigned to training the sons of Leading Blood. At least it gave him time to spend with his Little One.
He was closer with Little One than he had been with his own sire. And now he was being forced to say goodbye. Something inside him resisted.
Hondo entered the back door to his villa. He went to check on Little One, but he was not in his bed. His bag and staff were gone. `He left early to spare me the pain of goodbye.’
A noise from behind, Hondo turned to see his abalu standing in a bunch, all of them, except the smallest. He must not have ever seen them all together at once. For it seemed he had many more workers than he should. Not counting the littlest ones still in bed, there were well over twenty.
`Six males of an age to fight. The rest are too scrawny.’
His Baluga, the head worker spoke for them all, “We love him like our own kin.”
`That word again, luv.’ It was a weakness most mahnu possessed.
“Sire,” Baluga said, “you allowed us to keep our families, treated us fairly.”
“Speak your mind.” Hondo paced across the room, like the big cats in the Beastiary.
“We Mahnu have long memories. Many times Hisah-yungorro has passed. My people say gifts given to the gorros find their way back to the city market…”
“Say it!”
“Sire, if there is a Barter Town, the gorros never reach it.”
“Rogue blades,” Hondo growled. His lips pulled back in a full snarl. “Assassins who worship Behemit, the dark god of our lessers. It will be an odd numbered group, no more than seven.”
Years ago he had trained one of the assassin sect, a Kwee-Kerchak named Utan Dango. The bastard son of a Chieftain. He could not be gifted any of his sire’s holdings without making enemies of the chief’s legitimate sons. In a twist of fate, Red-Dog was born with the reddish hair of old noble blood. There were so few Skree born red the others were jealous, and extremely wary of him.
Hondo never forgot the look on Utan Dango’s face the one time he came to his villa and saw his son. The bastard had known Little One’s fate all along.
“What would you have us do, Sire?”
“Take all the food, everything needed for a long journey, and meet me on the beach. See that every man has a spear and dagger. Leave the swords on the rack.”
Baluga said nothing, though his mouth opened and closed.
“After tonight, it won’t be safe for your family in the city,” Hondo said. “Hurry! The sun will be up soon.”
Hondo went to his quarters, grabbed his knapsack, a fishing knife his sire had made, hooks and line, canteens, a hatchet, flint and tinder, candles, a woolen blanket. He moved quickly, looked for anything he thought might aid survival. He shoved a handful of silver in his pocket, and tossed the heavy coin bags in the pack. Hondo put on his cloak, strapped on his bracers and warbelt, but left his armor on its stand.
Neither did the humans waste time. They gathered the food, water-skins, warm clothes, and blankets. They understood the danger. The women took kitchen knives. One grabbed a meat cleaver. The men packed several tarps, rope, axes, and a shovel.
On the beach there were more stuffed sacks than people, but somehow they managed.
`We will be slow, and vulnerable.’ Hondo remembered the tortoise. He picked up the pace.
The tide advanced quickly. Waves broke helpless against the rocks, slapped and splashed like drowning things in the darkness below.
Hondo knew the land well. Many times in Skree fighter training, he had been forced to march three leagues in a day around the surrounding lands.
`To keep their secret, the assassins will have to lure the gorros off the road and do their dirty work unseen.’ They would be waiting where the hills met the road.
In the false-dawn’s light, he led the group to a well-hidden hollow with plenty of foliage. Hondo pulled Baluga aside.
“Have them stay here, and keep quiet. If we have not returned by the high sun, they must go on without us. Tell them to follow the long march, toward the western tribes. When you see a lone boulder in the shape of a tortoise shell, you must be fully prepared to cross the waste. Avoid the heat. Travel at night, until you come to the place where the Terra spits steam. Drink only the water from the white encrusted pools. Then you must leave the trail, and go northwest. When you come to the foothills, the hunting will be good.” Hondo handed him the coin bags. “For your families,” he said. “In case we don’t make it back.”
Baluga took the bags and nodded solemnly. He headed back to his family.
Hondo watched from a distance. The men embraced their women, their little ones. They were displaying luv. The women waved. Hondo turned on a heavy heel and walked away.
He had carved the noses of their babies with a razor. If looks could kill, the piercing glances from the women when he returned their little ones, would have impaled him on the spot. The hateful act brought dread to his household every time it needed done.
Marked as such, the Abalu were unable to travel through human lands, and had little reason to escape. They would be shunned by their own kind, for fear of being spies. If just one human pointed a finger, it meant certain death. Now they had no choice but to make their way through savage lands, marked, without the strength of a tribe. And Hondo had done this terrible thing. `Never again.’
He led the men at a dogtrot. A guiding force compelled him. It was not a god, or some form of wizardry. The sun was up, and past the horizon. He thought of the terrain. There was a place, not too far from the road, nestled between hills. Instinct brought him the long way around. He approached the biggest hill, from the opposite side. They followed him up a dry gully. Hondo had them wait. He climbed the rocks and peeked over the edge.
On top of the hill stood a lookout. ‘Light leather armor.’ It had to be them. Hondo returned to his men.
He had always made good use of his workers. They sparred him plenty. Hondo trained them himself. He enjoyed the challenge of multiple attackers. Though it is forbidden to put a weapon in the hands of the abalu, a stick is just a stick. But today the sticks were spears, and the short ones daggers. The men knew how to use them. And they had good reason to fight.
Hondo sized up his troop. The meager one would do. `Borderline scrawny.’ Hondo motioned him forth, took the spear from him.
“Walk out towards the hill,” Hondo whispered. “Keep your head down. Act like you’re following tracks and you don’t notice him. Let him come to you. Wait till he gets close. Close enough to spit on. Then run, fast as you can, back through the gully. We’ll do the rest.”
The boy blinked rapidly. Hondo locked eyes with him, put a hand to his shoulder. “Have courage, to do what must be done.”
The young mahnu set off; the others awaited orders. Hondo set them up behind a narrow spot in the rock, spears at the ready. They obeyed without question.
“Attack as one, and you will slay the enemy.” Hondo moved further back, to observe.
Ten minutes later the boy ran past unharmed, but the skree assassin stopped suddenly by the thrust of spears. Baluga’s spear caught him under the chin. The enemy lay face down, gurgling, spitting blood, and gasping for air.
`Good. Now they are blooded. All but one.’
He took the dagger from the meager one’s belt, and put it in his scrawny hand. Hondo’s lip rose slightly. He lifted his chin toward the dying Skree.
The young mahnu rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand and closed his eyes. He breathed heavily, held the knife out as he stooped. The dying Skree reached for him, and the skinny, fifteen year old jerked back. The boy’s sire muffled a few gruff words. His son quickly regained his bearing and did the deed.
Hondo rolled the body over with the thick sole of his armored boot. Showed them the marks where the hardened leather had done its job. He pointed out the vulnerable spots: the inner thigh, the groin up to the navel, under the arms, the base of the neck.
Caked blood on top of the assassin’s head. And a lump the size of the sweet fruits that grow on the date-bearing palms. Hondo chuckled. There was not one among them who didn’t have a similar lump at one time or another. Little One was alive. The assassins had sent the lookout to cool off after receiving the knock.
Little One’s sense of touch was uncanny. If the tip of his staff touched the arm that held a blade, he was able, often enough, to disarm an opponent. Hondo had sparred his son countless times. Once Little One made hand-to-body contact, he could contort a rival into submission. Hondo showed him a few moves and Little One took it to a level of ability beyond anything taught in combat training. Hondo remembered the confusion and anger he felt, the first time he was forced to submit. It took him three days to get over it and resume training. How many Skree could say that their own offspring had bested them before coming of age? Little One was defective, yes, but he was superior in other ways.
Hondo stashed the assassin’s weapons behind some rocks. ‘Any survivors will come back this way.’ He led them out of the gully and up the hill.
“Keep your spear tips down in the grass. Use them like a staff. Act submissive and get close.”
At the top, Hondo growled low and ominous. There was no mistaking the Red-Dog. The assassins had Little One surrounded. They were making sport of him. Taunting. ‘Six counting Utan Dango, and the dead one makes seven.’ A wagon hitched to a couple of mules told the tale, that, and the dead exiles. `They must have offered the gorros a ride to Barter Town.’ It looked as if the Skree in the wagon were poisoned. Some died clutching their throats. Others tried to flee and were cut down. They lay where they died, in the blood soaked dirt. `Murdered. The Maker despises Behemit for good reason. No honor.’
Utan Dango watched from below. Waiting.
Hondo locked eyes with Baluga and gave a nod. He didn’t even know the man’s true name. No time. All that mattered was the coming battle.
The men gathered around. Six human fighters, sires and their sons, together they would fight harder. `They’ll defend each other.’
“The past is gone,” Hondo said. “This morning marks a new beginning.” He stopped himself from pacing. “Leave the Red-Dog to me. He will want to talk.” Hondo’s upper lip lifted. “They always want to talk.”
He strode down the hill. Baluga took the initiative to lead his men away from Hondo, feigning disloyalty, and self-preservation. Hondo played along. He shot them a disgusted look. Walked right up to the pale, orange speckled, red-haired, smiling bastard. A smile on the face of a Skree is never flattering.
“I knew you would come.” Utan Dango grinned broadly, exposing his yellowed fangs. He held up his dagger. “The blade is coated with the venom of a death adder. Your end will be quick. And after, I will take your villa by the sea, and all your possessions.”
“They mean nothing,” Hondo said. “Let him pass, and I will surrender.”
“Surrender?” Utan Dango laughed. “We will duel, skree-ga-skree with daggers. You will die and we shall both keep our honor.”
“Do not speak to me of honor.”
“My Chieftain says too many abalu make the skree weak. I see that it’s true. You have grown soft like the Mahnu.”
“And you–are no better than a dog.”
Hondo never took his eyes off Utan Dango. He did not so much as flinch when the mahnu attacked. Hondo had fought in four campaigns. He could tell much from the sounds of combat.
His son fought hard, twirling his staff, striking out at the sound of their breathing. The humans helped. They fought fiercely; whoever survived would care for the rest. Luv was common among them. A weakness the Skree learned to exploit, but it was also their greatest strength. Hondo felt luv’s power too. It welled up in his chest, a silent battle cry.
He stood before Utan-Dango empty handed. Hondo resisted the urge to draw his weapon. The fact that the Red-Dog wore a chain shirt and coated his blade, proved him afraid. Poison or no, there are only two ways to wield a dagger. Utan Dango held the knife out, kept it between him and the thing he feared.
‘Better to hold it the other way,’ Hondo thought, ‘and forget it’s even there.’
Utan Dango lunged and slashed wildly. Hondo kept his body slack. He bent, and dodged, stayed just out of reach.
Let the nibbles pass. Wait for the big strike. When it came, he was ready.
In one swift move, Hondo closed the gap and the arm was his.
He twisted the base of the hand, Utan Dango’s body bent. Hondo watched the blade drop, saw the soft leather boots all the sneaky dogs wore. His own toes, encased in metal, were well-protected, steel flaps covered the tops of his feet. Hondo brought a heavy heel down, crushing the fragile bones of the enemy’s midfoot. Utan Dango bellowed.
Hondo increased the tension. Slammed an armored forearm down on the back of the elbow. The limb popped, disjointed. And the Red-Dog slumped in defeat.
Hondo sat him up, knelt behind him. He turned Utan Dango’s head to the extent of its range, wrapped his thick arm around the enemy’s neck.
“They’ll hunt you down,” Utan Dango said. “I have the mark of noble blood.”
“They will see that no blade has touched you.” Hondo flexed. Veins rose under his green-tinted skin as the muscles bulged.
“Then you’ll die—in the arena…”
“Yes,” said Hondo. “And it will be glorious.” He wrenched with his might, and the neck snapped.
He would remember this victory, till the end of his days, the one he shared with his son.
They did well. Not one of Baluga’s men had been killed. Hondo complimented their bravery. He rejoiced in their great victory.
“Today we have pleased the Maker.”
The borderline scrawny youth had a gash in his side. It needed stitches. No one had a needle. Hondo took some fishing line and a hook the size of his thumb. He worked quickly. While the boy’s blood was still hot from the rush of combat.
“The scar,” Hondo said, “will forever be a mark of courage.”
The young man handled it well enough. When Hondo was done, he ruffled the boy’s hair, and told him, “You will be a Kwee-Kerchak.”
“Will you come with us, Sire?” Little One asked.
“I cannot.” Hondo gave his son the knapsack. He removed his cloak and put it on his Little One. Unbuckled the warbelt and handed it to Baluga.
“The oracle was right,” Hondo said. “I’ve given up everything.” He looked down at his feet and smiled awkwardly. “Except the boots and the clothes on my back.”
“Where shall we go?” Little One asked.
“Across the wastes, to the mountains. There are valleys untouched, too high and too cold for the Skree. You must make your own tribe, one that will permit Mahnu and Skree to be equal.”
“What of Barter Town?”
“You will not find Barter Town. But if it is in your heart, you can make it so.”
“Why stay?”
“I must,” Hondo said. “So that I may be remembered, as a warrior, true and complete.”
Together they loaded the bodies onto the wagon. They piled the dead assassins on top. Hondo propped the Red-Dog against the backboard. He had Baluga unhitch one of the mules. Mules tolerated the Skree better than horses, but it was still much easier for humans to handle them.
“The mule will carry your little ones, “Hondo said, “and some gear. When you reach the wastes, you can butcher it, and smoke meat for your journey.”
“I will miss you, Sire.” Little One placed his sensitive fingers on Hondo’s face. “You taught me to overcome my limits.”
“And you taught me to overcome mine.” Hondo embraced his son. An action he had seen the Humans do a thousand times. “Ho-ho Kweega Utor, it is my greatest honor,” he said, “to be, Fah-dur.”
The group climbed the hill. The humans turned to watch Hondo drive the wagon back to the city. Little One lifted his head toward the sun. Tears streamed down his face, even as he smiled.
“You know,” Baluga said, “he’s gonna’ drive that wagon straight through the gates, right to the center for everyone to see.”
“Yes. I know,” Little One said. “That’s my Father.”
Days later Hondo stepped into the dry, sandy dust of the arena. Brightly colored banners waved in the wind. The warden had treated him decent, gave him a proper sword, a katana, and his own fitted armor back. This way everyone could see that a Kwee-Kerchak faced death. It made for a better spectacle.
Hondo removed his horsehair-crested helm to the thunderous applause of a frenzied mob. He peered into the stands. Two thirds were abalu. Many had heard of the rebellious Captain who avenged the death of the gorros, and freed his own slaves.
He raised his sword to the sky. The roar of the crowd raced through him.
`The old mahnu will be pleased. Tonight, he will dream of the lions.’
Hondo stood in line, shoulder to shoulder with the others, some Skree, some human. He shouted in unison with the condemned.
“We who are about to die, salute you!”
Thus began the legend of Hondo.
©July 2020, Carmine A. Tedeschi
Carmine Antonio Tedeschi, born in Picksburgh, Pennsylvania, was an avid reader ever since he could interpret the symbols on the back of a Cheerios box. He graduated from Slippery Rock University’s Geography Department, but he never did set his sights on a career. He went to Alaska instead, and fished in the Bering Sea on a Factory Trawler. Afterwards he used his earnings to buy a Harley Davidson motorcycle. Many adventures later he decided it would be nice to have a place to keep his books. So he returned to his origin, with just enough cash left in his boot to buy a dilapidated shack in Rock Falls Park. Little is known about his time spent in that strange, otherworldly place. Though it is rumored that he continually sought adventure, hiked the Appalachian Trail, and traveled to many exotic destinations. He resurfaced almost twenty years later, married to a gorgeous red-headed woman of Irish and mixed European descent. When Carmine became a Father, he at last discovered ambition and determined to be the best Father he could be. Now a full-time Dad, he uses the down time and his life experiences, to write fantastic works of fiction. “Hondo’s Honor” won an honorable mention in the Writers of the Future Contest.