Bastial Explosion (The Rhythm of Rivalry: Book 3) Page 6

  “I will.” Sawdar’s amusement melted into a scowl.

  “Fight,” Sneary said.

  This time Zoke was ready for Sawdar’s speed, feigning attacks until he got a good sense of how the Human defended himself. But Sawdar surprised him with a sudden lunge. It glanced off Zoke’s hip. Then everything stopped, and Sawdar stepped back with a curious look.

  Zoke smacked himself in the hip with the edge of his own wooden sword. “It wouldn’t have cut me,” he explained.

  Sawdar grumbled, but it was clear by his defeated expression that he knew Zoke was right.

  They continued to fight, the Human becoming more aggressive with each attack. Yet, when Zoke fully blocked an overhead swing, he was able to lock his weapon against Sawdar’s, taking a step into the Human and throwing him off his feet.

  As Sawdar scrambled to stand, Zoke caught him in the ankle with his sword to trip him.

  “Point!” Sneary yelled.

  Sawdar sucked in air through his teeth, nursing his ankle as he stood.

  “Now, that would’ve drawn blood,” Zoke said. “Even on a Krepp.” He’d hit him quite hard.

  “Need a breath?” Sneary asked.

  “No,” Sawdar said. The Human’s prideful glare showed the same ferocity as his grip around his sword.

  As if you could’ve saved Vithos, Zoke almost said aloud. With the Elf’s death in his thoughts, burning rage filled Zoke’s body.

  “Fight,” Sneary ordered.

  Winning no longer mattered to Zoke, just striking as hard as he could. He twisted around with an overhead swing, Sawdar feebly using his weapon to block it. Zoke felt his wooden sword slam into Sawdar’s so hard that it pushed the Human’s weapon into his own body.

  With unrelenting aggression, Zoke twisted around again, this time coming in from the side.

  Only after Zoke struck Sawdar in the shoulder did he discover that he’d already disarmed the Human with his first attack.

  Sawdar hobbled back, hissing and muttering words Zoke wasn’t familiar with.

  “Point,” Sneary nearly whispered.

  It seemed that every Human had his gaze on Sawdar, nervously waiting for him to react to the quick loss.

  After a couple long breaths, Sawdar snatched up his sword from the grass, shook his head at Zoke, and said, “At least the bastard can fight.”

  At first Zoke was curious why—again—a Human was talking about him as if he wasn’t there. But then he realized he didn’t know whether the word “bastard” was a compliment or an insult.

  “What’s a bastard?” Zoke asked.

  “The word has many meanings.” Alex came forward, laughing. “In this case, it means you’ve done something both frustrating and impressive.”

  “Enough talk, men.” Sneary spoke emphatically. “Dueling has its purpose in training, but in a true battle you’re fighting more than one enemy, and there’s an ally beside you. Now that we know the Krepp can fight, it’s time to see how much he actually knows about fighting.”

  Zoke didn’t know what the instructor was referring to, but he was confident that whatever it was hardly would be a challenge. He already was feeling despair at being on the losing side of this war. These Humans can’t fight against Krepps. Perhaps with Vithos, but now that he’s gone, how can they hope to win?

  Zeti, how will I ever see you again if these Humans can’t kill Doe and Haemon?

  Sneary called three men from the group to join Zoke, putting one of them beside him and the other two in front.

  “We’re moving on to two-on-two combat,” Sneary explained. “This is your ally.” The instructor pointed to the Human beside Zoke. “Those are your enemies.” He gestured at the two in front of them. “We keep the same rules as before. If either of you are struck, then the other team scores a point. First team to two points wins.”

  Zoke looked to the scrawny man beside him. Just stay back, he wanted to say aloud but glared instead. The Human rolled his eyes and shook his head.

  If he’s not going to stay back, then I’d better rush in before he can get himself hit.

  “Fight.”

  Zoke stormed his opponents. But they only smiled at him. Something was wrong.

  Quicker than he could blink, they parted from each other and came at him from either side, one striking at his legs and the other at his torso.

  Zoke tried to jump back, but it was too late. He was hit by both their swords—hard. He fell and let out a curse in Kreppen.

  “Again,” Sneary said without sympathy.

  This time Zoke let his partner attack with him. But as the four of them engaged each other, a flood of phrases in common tongue exploded from their throats, and Zoke couldn’t understand anything except that his partner was yelling at him while his enemies were yelling to each other.

  Zoke’s reflexes took over and he attacked the man in front of him. But his overhead swing was blocked, and then the other enemy jabbed him in the ribs.

  That was it. Two points—it was over. Zoke had been struck twice, three times actually, and he knew that each blow was hard enough to have drawn blood. This, he wouldn’t argue against, not when it was true.

  “You three.” Sneary pointed at a trio in the group. “You’re next. Krepp, you stay.”

  This time, Zoke tried to allow his ally to assist him more. But then he ended up giving too much space to the enemy in front of him, who made a quick turn and took out the legs of Zoke’s ally.

  “You can’t let him sneak up on me,” Zoke’s partner complained as he got back on his feet. “That’s what I was trying to tell you before I attacked. Get between us and position yourself to take advantage of an opportunity on my man if I create one.”

  After hearing his ally explain it, Zoke realized this was what the Human had just been shouting to him. But everything had happened too quickly for Zoke to understand it.

  With his team down one point, Zoke fixated on keeping himself between his ally and his enemy, searching for a way to finally win his team a point. But the moment he took his focus off the fourth man, Zoke felt a blade slam into his shoulder, sending him off his feet.

  “That’s two points,” Sneary said, disappointed.

  Zoke wanted to complain to his partner, but when he looked at where the four of them were positioned, Zoke realized he’d moved himself into a dangerous position and the enemy simply had taken advantage of that.

  How do I keep letting these Humans strike me? Then Zoke remembered being with Terren on the mountain atop the Fjallejon Pathway—how quickly the warrior had formed a viable strategy. It was back then when Zoke began to wonder if these Humans had far more training in real battle scenarios than Krepps. And now, after going against them, Zoke knew it had to be true.

  If Doe and Haemon are too stubborn to listen to their Human allies in Tenred, then Kyrro actually might have a chance at winning this war.

  Zoke spat as he got himself back up, determined at least to score a point next time.

  “Don’t spit!” Sneary screamed.

  “I forgot,” Zoke said. “Let me fight again.”

  “Fine. You three. Your turn.”

  Again, Zoke’s team lost without scoring a point, and he’d taken two more vicious strikes.

  “Krepp, take a break and watch,” Sneary said.

  “One more fight!” Zoke yelled.

  “Look at your body,” Sneary said. “You’ve suffered many cuts, and now you’re bleeding.”

  Zoke hadn’t realized it before, but the instructor was right. When he found the gashes along his body, the pain settled in tight, and he knew it would be a long while before it was gone.

  “Tomorrow’s another day, Zoke,” Sneary said, using his name for the first time. Zoke wasn’t even aware the instructor had known it. “Now it’s time to heal and reflect as you learn from your mistakes and those of others. Practice, patience, progress. And while everything is fresh in your mind, I want you to tell me one thing you’ve learned already. Then I’ll ask you for something els
e when we’re done.”

  “I’ve learned what a bastard is,” Zoke answered. “And that you Humans are sneaky bastards.”

  That got a laugh from every one of them.

  Chapter 8:

  ZETI

  Each day had felt twice the length of a normal day during their trip back to the encampment from the Slugari colony. The sun seemed to hold steady in the sky, lingering as if it had nowhere to go. Then finally when it set, the darkness surrounding Zeti’s sleepless nights went on and on.

  Doe was not one for journeying long distances, but none of the hundreds of Krepps who traveled with him ever dared to make a remark.

  Except for Paramar, Zeti thought. He would come up with a joke. But he’s dead. I killed him.

  Keenu’s question plucked at her mind like a child Krepp incessantly ripping up grass. “Would you like me to finish him?”

  How could he offer to kill Paramar with such indifference?

  Paramar had had two friends: Zeti and Keenu—the head of the scout team. And Vithos, Zeti reminded herself. Three friends.

  And I killed him.

  Every time she thought of Paramar, she heard her own voice repeating the same line over and over.

  And I killed him.

  The worst part was that she thought of him often.

  In fact, on the day they got back to their camp along the southeastern border of Kilmar, Zeti realized she’d spent more time thinking of Paramar than not thinking of him.

  At least she had her hut and within it, her bed. She lay on her stomach, hoping so fiercely that no one would bother her that she was on the verge of crying…because she knew it was only a matter of time before someone would come.

  Soon, she began to wonder what she would do for the tribe now that there was no longer a Slugari search team.

  Because I killed its leader.

  No, that wasn’t the reason. It was because they’d already found the Slugari, and the little green creatures had managed to escape. Now the plan had changed. The Human enemies protecting them needed to die. Then the search for the Slugari could continue.

  But without Paramar, because I killed him.

  “Shut up!” Zeti screamed at herself, storming over to her small table, grabbing her dagger, and hurling it across the hut with a guttural shout.

  It slammed into the box where she stored her other weapons. Luckily, only the handle hit the soft wood, bouncing back with a ringing sound that immediately was muffled by the hard dirt of the floor.

  She heard a Krepp grumble outside her hut, his claws reaching around the sheet that covered the opening in order to draw it back.

  Please let that be Grayol. Zeti couldn’t stand to see anyone else besides the young Krepp who looked up to her.

  When her sheet was brushed to the side and her father stepped in, she had an urge to retrieve her knife. In fact, she decided it would be wise to do so.

  “Are the rumors true?” Ruskir asked, his tone wild with desperation. “Tell me it isn’t true or I’ll never live down the shame! Did you let the Slugari escape?”

  Zeti could feel herself scowling. The only thought she had was to scream until her father left.

  “Is it?” Ruskir urged her to answer. “Tell me!”

  “Where were you when I was shedding my birth skin, Father?” Zeti yelled. “Where have you been when I needed you? I haven’t even seen you since we moved our encampment! And now you come in here ready for disappointment.” She spat at him. But Ruskir leaned out of the way so that it hit the cloth behind him.

  “You dare spit at me?” He took the blade from his belt and pointed it at her. “I’m—”

  “How do you even know where I live?” Zeti interrupted.

  “Grayol told me.” Ruskir’s voice calmed as he sheathed his weapon. He sighed. “The child is completely dependent on you. I’m surprised he’s not here already, now that you’re back.”

  Ruskir came forward. With her eyes avoiding him, Zeti could hear the dirt being displaced as her father found a spot just in front of her and squeezed the claws on his feet. He leaned down to match her eye level.

  “Zeti, they say that you and Paramar let the Slugari escape. Is it true?”

  What is this? She’d never seen her father change his mood from anger to anything else without storming off first. Could he actually feel guilty about leaving me to fend for myself during my shedding? He’s still never told me why.

  “Paramar and I were supposed to close off one of the two perimeters,” she explained. “But we were incapable of running past the hundreds of Slugari without eating them…as any Krepp would be.” She felt childish in that moment, especially with tears surfacing. “Doe made me kill him, Father. He made me kill Paramar.”

  Zeti was a grown woman. She knew this was no way to behave, even if it was in front of her father. But some side of her argued that it was justified and that Ruskir should help her feel better. That’s what he’s supposed to do, the voice said.

  There was a greater chance Ruskir would draw his weapon and cut her than offer words of encouragement. His teeth began to grind as anger tensed the muscles in his face.

  “I can’t believe it,” he muttered, turning to walk away from Zeti. He stopped near the opening to the hut. Spinning around, he said, “Are you serious or is this a joke?” It was a hopeful question, in which one answer would bring overwhelming relief while the other would devastate him.

  “It’s true. But it’s not my fault.”

  “Then whose fault is it!” Ruskir drew the blade again. From the way he was gripping it, Zeti wondered if he was going to throw it at her. It wouldn’t have been the first time.

  “It’s Doe’s fault for giving us an order that was impossible to follow,” Zeti said, her tone pessimistic, for she knew it was hopeless.

  “Zoke’s a traitor. And you’re a kushlat.”

  Now Zeti was pointing her blade at Ruskir without even remembering drawing it.

  “I’m no kushlat!” How could he call her that? Zeti couldn’t decide if she was going to throw her dagger at her father or drive it into his stomach. She felt herself taking a step forward.

  Kushlats were female Krepps who were too stupid and proud to ever take a male Krepp as their seshar. They were regarded nearly the same as traitors, outcast and spat upon. The only difference was that they weren’t publicly killed like Zoke would be if he was captured. But many of them were found dead anyway, murdered without anyone claiming to know who did it…nor anyone caring.

  “You are!” Ruskir shouted. “You and Zoke have done nothing but cause me shame. Why don’t you leave like he did, kushlat?”

  Zeti felt like she was filled with boiling water, steam clouding her vision. She’d never felt so enraged, like she couldn’t even see straight until Ruskir was lying on the dirt, bleeding. That image was all she could picture, her hands craving to make it happen.

  But a surprise interrupted her as she took another step forward. Grayol ran into the hut screaming. The little Krepp jumped at Ruskir so forcefully, he managed to take her father off his feet.

  “I’ll kill you for calling her that!” Grayol viciously clawed at Ruskir. It looked like he was going for his eyes.

  Ruskir easily kicked Grayol off him, the little Krepp soaring a few feet before slamming into one wall of the hut. For a moment, her home threatened to topple inward. Then it appeared to hold.

  Zeti knew she had to do something, for Grayol would die if she didn’t. With knife in hand, Ruskir was coming after the now terrified little Krepp. Grayol had made the first attack, even showed intent to fight Ruskir to the death. No punishment would fall upon Zeti’s father if he retaliated, even if he killed Grayol in the act. And Zeti had no doubt that that’s what Ruskir wanted to do.

  He’d always hated Grayol, telling Zeti countless times to ignore him and spend her time finding a strong seshar.

  Zeti grabbed her bow and aimed an arrow at her father. “Stop or die,” she warned.

  Now standing over Grayol, R
uskir slowly looked over his shoulder at Zeti. “You would shoot father to you in the back?”

  “I killed Paramar. I could easily kill you, too.”

  Then everything became too silent for Zeti’s taste. It gave her time to think. But she didn’t want to hear her thoughts. She knew too well that they would just be doubts about being able to shoot him.

  “First you spit at me, now you point an arrow in my direction?” Ruskir spoke spitefully. “I’ll never forgive you for this.”

  “I don’t care,” she said. “I don’t want to see you ever again. Get out of here. Go back from wherever you came.”

  Ruskir turned and spat, his hot saliva splattering against Grayol’s face. “Don’t think I’m done with you,” Ruskir threatened him.

  Then he was gone.

  Grayol started to wipe off the spit, but Zeti threw him a rag that he gladly used rather than his arm.

  “I’m happy you’re back,” the young Krepp muttered. His yellow eyes avoided Zeti, looking at the displaced dirt around the hut instead.

  Zeti had been gone less than a month, but Grayol looked a lot older. His teeth were longer, sharper even, and his mouth was wider to match his growing face. The two nostrils resting just above his mouth were bigger and rounder. In fact, he was taller as well. Zeti knew that she’d grown, but Grayol had grown faster, now coming up to her shoulders.

  One day, he’ll be taller than me, Zeti realized. It was an eerie thought.

  Then Zeti noticed he was holding his stomach, turning away from her as if to hide his injury.

  “Did father to me cut you when he kicked?” Zeti asked.

  “I’m fine.” Grayol still wouldn’t look at her.

  “Let me see it.” She turned him toward her, then pulled down the hand covering his wound. There were two parallel gashes, each deep enough to need treatment.

  “Your skin is still so soft,” Zeti realized aloud. It was the only way the cuts could’ve been so deep.

  His head lowered shamefully.

  “But it’ll get tougher after your pra durren,” Zeti quickly added. “How old are you now?”