Tales of
Erogenia
Episode 1: Princess of the
Moon
Chapter 6: Tren
It took almost an entire
day to get the twenty-seven slaves, the horses, and pack mules
across the
river. The small raft that served
as a ferry could hold no more than two horses at a time and for reasons of
security Ven Rabon would allow no more than two prisoners to be transported
together. The process of removing
them from the others and then rechaining them on the other side was most
time consuming. Fortunately,
the local ferryman was most obliging.
It appeared that this was not the first time he had transported slaves
and he was careful to get his fee each time.
Once across the river the
march resumed. For the first
day the column followed the course of the river, but then Ven Raban turned
inland and the course of the march changed once
again. The farther the column
got from the river the drier the landscape
became. At first it was almost
imperceptible, but by the middle of the fourth day Zenaria realized that
there were no longer any trees along the line of
march.
Stretching ahead of them was a vast grassland
that went on for as far as the eye could
see.
Zenaria had never imagined
a land without trees, and for the first time she began to fear that Ven Raban
might actually succeed in getting her to the slave
market. The flatter landscape
made the going easier and even in their weakened condition the slaves made
better time, covering as many as fifteen miles in a
day. At that pace it seemed almost
certain that in just a week or so they would reach their
destination. But then fate intervened
in a most unexpected fashion.
It happened during the early
evening of the ninth day since the river
crossing. The prisoners were
huddled in the centre of the camp, flanked by Ven Raban’s
men. Most of the slaves were
asleep or nearly so, but it just so happened that
Zenaria was wide awake. There
was no specific reason why she should have been so
alert. Normally she would have
been just as tired as the other captives, but on this particular night her
eyes refused to close. Her senses
tingled, reminding her of the time she had brought down her first
deer. As a result she was in
a perfect position to see the slaver nearest her go down with an arrow in
his throat.
It was a perfect
shot. The slaver collapsed without
making a sound. It was for that
reason that no one noticed him until his body actually hit the
ground. It was then that a second
arrow came out of the darkness, taking down a second
man. This one made considerably
more fuss, but it didn’t save still a third slaver from taking an
arrow. Then pandemonium exploded
through the camp. The remaining
slavers ran wildly in all directions.
Some headed to the far side of the camp, away from the place where
the arrows came from. Others
drew their swords and ran toward the mystery
attackers. A few dropped to the
ground and one even hid among the tethered slaves.
Ven Raban stood in the middle
of the camp shouting orders. He
was only five feet away from Zenaria.
Without thinking she rose to her feet and dragging several other captives
with her charged toward the thuski.
She now knew that the word meant chief, but she wasn’t thinking
of that, as a matter of fact she wasn’t really thinking at all or she
would have realized that attempting to attack someone while dragging four
or five people with her was almost
impossible.
Almost
impossible. Somehow in
the confusion she managed to get to within two feet of the slaver
chieftain. It was close
enough. The chains that connected
her wrists to the iron collar around her neck were just long
enough. She encircled Ven
Raban’s neck with a length of chain and dragged him toward
her. The Sandakar made a gurgling
sound as his breath was cut off. He
kicked wildly as Zenaria’s muscles tensed and there was an ugly crunch
as the slaver’s windpipe was
crushed.
“I said I’d get
you,” Zenaria growled.
Releasing the dead man she got to her feet and looked around for someone
else to kill, but she needn’t have
bothered. Two more slavers with
down, transfixed by arrows. Another
had been savaged by the slaves, emulating Zenaria, and the others were nowhere
to be seen. They had fled the
camp into the night.
There was considerable tumult
and some rejoicing among the slaves, until they realized that they were still
chained together and had no way of breaking the
chains. That quieted them down
a little and they got even quieter when a dark-clad figure stepped out of
the darkness.
Zenaria had little problem
identifying him as the mystery attacker.
He was carrying a short curved bow and slung over his shoulder was
a quiver of arrows. Belted around
his waist were two swords in lacquered black
scabbards. What was just as
interesting was his stature. He
was even shorter than the Sandakar and would barely have come up to
Zenaria’s shoulder.
He was dressed in a
loose-fitting garment of black cloth that covered him from head to toe allowing
only his eyes to be seen. However,
after coming to a halt in front of them he pushed back his hood and revealed
his face. He was certainly not
an Erogenian. His features were
far too dark for that, although not as dark as the Sandakar, but it was his
dark eyes that caught everyone’s
attention. They were slanted,
resembling the nuts called almonds that a trader had brought to the Snow
Leopard stockade. Zenaria was
reminded of the Juree’s eyes although the big leopard’s eyes were
yellow rather than brown. The
overall effect was not displeasing.
Zenaria would not have called him handsome; he was too different for
that, but he certainly was interesting and in spite of his short stature
he had a commanding presence. This
was further emphasized when he spoke.
He voice was deep and well
modulated, and his message went right to the
point. “You’re
free. Now let’s see if I
can get you out of those chains.”
It took a few seconds for
the information to sink in. One
minute the twenty-seven Erogenian warriors had been
prisoners. Now they were about
to receive their freedom. But
Erogenians were nothing if not resilient.
One of the older warriors, a woman called Toloria got to her
feet. “Who are you and why
did you save us?” In spite
of the strange warrior’s promise to free them, her voice held a trace
of suspicion. It was obvious
that Erogenia’s long history of being threatened by its purportedly
more civilized neighbours had left her suspicious of any stranger, even her
supposed rescuer.
“I am Tren
Ja Nyen, and you have nothing to fear from
me. My motives are my own, but
rest assured I have no love for the
Sandakar.” Without waiting
for a reaction he turned on his heel and disappeared into the
darkness. He returned a few seconds
later carrying a small anvil and a hammer and
chisel.
Zenaria’s brilliant
eyes narrowed. What was her
mysterious rescuer doing with the tools needed to break her shackles and
those of her fellow Erogenians? It
seemed there was much more to Tren Ja Nyen than
he was revealing.
Toloria was the first of
the Erogenian warriors released.
After that it was a matter of each warrior waiting his or her
turn. Once freed the warriors
explored the goods Ven Raban’s band had been
transporting. It took them only
a few minutes to find something worthwhile.
“I thought so,”
Toloria said, brandishing a sword.
“The Sandakar scum kept all of our
weapons.”
Her observation proved
true. As the warriors were freed
they retrieved their weapons and other
possessions. It appeared that
the slavers had kept the warriors’ gear with the intention of selling
it.
Zenaria’s turn came
at last. The almond-eyed warrior
looked at her curiously when he noted that she was chained not just by the
neck but by the wrists as well.
However, other than a slight narrowing of his eyes he said nothing
but simply motioned for her to place her head on the
anvil. A practiced blow cut through
the rivet of her collar and two more removed the iron bands from her
wrists. Zenaria felt as if an
enormous weight had been lifted from her and she swayed
unsteadily.
Her rescuer reached out
a hand to steady her. “Are
you alright?” he asked as he caught her
arm.
“I’m fine,”
Zenaria replied, pulling her arm away from Tren’s
grasp. She was ashamed to have
shown such weakness in front of a total stranger and especially one much
smaller than her.
Tren nodded and then turned
away. He seemed completely
unperturbed by Zenaria’s ungracious
response. He moved toward the
other Erogenians, who having found their weapons were milling about in some
disorder. “There is food
enough to last you until you reach the
river. I suggest you rest for
a day or so and then start back.”
“Who elected you
captain?” Toloria asked. Her
tone of voice indicated that she was somewhat irked at Tren’s assumption
of authority.
“No one,” Tren
replied without rancour. “You
seem to be the leader. Perhaps
you should give the orders.”
Without further comment he turned and walked
away. A slight smile flickered
across his face.
“What was that
about?” Zenaria asked.
“Toloria is no more our leader than you
are.”
“I know,” Tren
answered. “Eventually they
will sort that out and do what I
suggested. Like most Erogenians
they like to think that they are in charge.”
Events proved him
right. Within a remarkably short
time the warriors had elected Toloria as their temporary
leader. Since most of the ex-captives
were from the same tribe as she was that was acceptable to most of them.
The reminder decided to tolerate
her until they were across the river and left the main party to return to
their own tribes.
As it turned out, the Erogenian
warriors followed Tren’s advice almost exactly, resting for two days
and fashioning suitable footwear for the return
trek. There were not enough horses
for all of them and there was some arguing about that until Tren suggested
they share out the horses by taking it in turns riding
them. After some discussion his
suggestion was followed and the group of warriors set out in the direction
they had come, taking most of the slavers’ goods with
them.
All except
Zenaria. As Tren watched the Erogenians move
off she made no move to join them an action that caused Tren to raise one
eyebrow. He said nothing, but
she explained anyway.
“They are not of my
tribe. I am not yet finished
my quest. I will stay with
you.”
Tren regarded her impassively,
but his words were not at all inviting.
“I hunt alone. I
desire no company.”
Zenaria drew herself up
to her full height. “I am
a princess of the Snow Leopard tribe.
I go where I wish. If
my course takes me in the same direction as you then you cannot stop
me.”
“Suit yourself,
princess,” Tren replied.
“But I go on horseback.
If you can keep up with a horse then you may come with
me.”
With that the mysterious,
dark-robed warrior, leaped into his saddle and without waiting for a reply
spurred his mount into a gallop.
Within a minute he was little more than a dot in the sea of
grass.
Zenaria watched him go,
her face calm. Then with a slight
smile on her face she broke into a jog, her long legs carrying her swiftly
after the departing warrior. She
knew little about horses, but doubted that they could be galloped all
day. She on the other hand, was
quite capable of maintaining her ground-devouring pace for
hours.
Tren’s trail was easy
to follow. Even when a slight
rise in the ground obscured her view of him she had no trouble following
his track. The two day rest had
restored her strength and stamina and the flat ground made running
easy. An hour after Tren had
ridden off she caught sight on him again.
She smiled again. Let
him see if he could escape her.
She was no longer dressed
in the traditional deerskin of a Snow Leopard
warrior. That costume was long
gone. But she had salvaged Ven
Raban’s boots and modified them enough to fit her and had also taken
his robe and weapons’ harness.
She felt no guilt about
robbing a dead man. After all
she had killed him and in her mind the victor had a right to the
spoils. From his robe and other
garments she had fashioned a cloak to protect her against rain and cold and
had also cut a short skirt and halter.
In typical Erogenian fashion she saw no need to cover her tanned body
unnecessarily. In her mind clothing
simply hampered her movements and she was somewhat bemused at the amount
of clothing Tren wore. To her
it seemed that he would be most hot and uncomfortable and she had difficulty
understanding why he would hide so much of his
body. Nevertheless, she was
determined to follow him. Something
in her told him that he was now part of her spirit quest and she was not
about to let him get away.
She caught up with him just
after
Zenaria caught the offering
and sitting cross-legged on the ground proceeded to rip apart the tough meat
with her strong white teeth.
“So,” Tren commented
as he offered her another chunk of meat, “it seems that you can keep
up with me. Alright, you may
come with me, but if you falter I will not wait for
you. And you should be warned;
where I go there is great danger.”
“And where do you
go?” Zenaria asked.
“There,” Tren
answered, gesturing toward a point on the distant
horizon.
Zenaria squinted, but could
make out nothing. “And what
is there?”
“The Sandakar have
something I want. I intend to
get it back.”
That was all the explanation
Zenaria got and she did not ask for more.
Completing his simple meal, and taking a swig of water from his waterskin,
Tren counted his horse and set off at a walk, Zenaria
following.
They journeyed until dusk,
when Tren finally stopped and set up his simple
camp. During the entire afternoon
neither he nor Zenaria had spoken a word, and although
she was burning to know more about him she kept her
silence.
Surprisingly, it was Tren
who was the first to speak. Upon
completing a meal of the same spicy food she had been served by the slavers
he turned toward her. “You
spoke of a quest. What is
it?”
Zenaria explained, recounting
some of her adventures, but not all.
She could see no reason why she should tell Tren of the humiliation
she had suffered at the hands of Garrod and the trolls, instead simply stating
that she had been captured by the slavers and leaving it at
that. She could tell that Tren
knew she was holding something back, but he made no comment, and now it was
her turn to ask a question.
“And what did the Sandakar
take from you that you pursue them?”
Tren hesitated and then
with look that spoke of intense hatred
answered.
“My sister.”
Tren’s answer ended
the conversation. Without another
word he rolled himself into his sleeping blanket and turned
away. Zenaria sat for a few seconds
digesting his words and then followed suit.
The next day they breakfasted
and continued in the direction they had been
traveling. As Zenaria trotted
alongside Tren spoke to her.
“I know that Erogenians think nothing of baring their bodies
beyond the point of decency, but you might find it wiser if you covered
yourself. The place where I am
going is not kind to those who are not properly
attired.”
Zenaria bristled at Tren’s
comment. “It is you who
are strangely dressed. Like the
Sandakar you smother yourself in unnecessary
coverings. It allows for no freedom
of movement and is a disadvantage in battle.”
“Suit yourself,
princess. But before long you
will see that I am right and you are
wrong.” With a light flick
of the rein he urged his horse ahead, indicating that the conversation was
at an end. Zenaria did not attempt
to catch up but maintained her pace several yards
behind. She was somewhat annoyed
at his criticism. She would see
who was right. Sooner or later
the summer heat would force Tren to remove his unsuitable
clothing.
For the next hour or so
they journeyed in silence. The
sea of grass seemed endless, but as Zenaria discovered, it was not
empty.
Tren spotted them
first. His position on horseback
gave him a height advantage and he could see
farther. “Ready yourself,”
he said, taking his short curved bow from his saddle and stringing
it.
Zenaria readied her own
bow and then caught sight of what Tren had already seen.
At first she could not quite
make them out and then the images outlined against the sky resolved themselves
into a flock of birds. But they
were like no birds Zenaria had ever seen.
First of all, they stood
almost twice her height and were clearly
flightless. That was just as
well. They would have been formidable
indeed if they had been able to get their bulk off the
ground. Powerful legs propelled
them across the ground at a speed greater than that of any
horse. Above a large golden-feathered
body a long sinuous neck supported a head filled with razor
teeth.
“What are they?”
Zenaria murmured, her eyes taking in every deadly detail of the approaching
predators. She now saw that in
addition to the strange toothed beak a wicked hooked claw protruded from
the back of each of their ankles.
“They are called
moaan,” Tren answered
and they will come at us from two
directions. Although birds, they
are not without intelligence and are deadly
hunters.”
That last point did not
have to be explained to Zenaria.
Even the trolls seemed tame compared to the huge
avians. There were six of them
and as Tren had foretold they spread out into a long thin line as they approached
and then split into two groups.
“Take the right,”
Tren ordered, “and be prepared to use that
sword.”
Zenaria growled under her
breath at Tren’s tone of voice.
How dare he order her around?
However, this seemed like a poor time to argue the
point. She nocked an arrow to
her bowstring and drew it slowly back.
The three moaan on the right
had now swung around them in a wide arc as had the three on Tren’s
side. The birds emitted high-pitched
shrieks as they moved, perhaps intended to frighten their prey or perhaps
some sort of communication.
Whatever it was the attack seemed coordinated, indicating a disturbing
level of intelligence.
Zenaria waited patiently
for the moaan to move within range.
Her powerful bow could launch an arrow a good three hundreds yards,
but the moaan were moving too quickly for her to be sure of hitting one at
such a distance. Years of hunting
in the forests of the snow leopard had ingrained in her the ability to wait
until the precise moment her target presented itself before releasing her
arrow. That moment came when
the moaan stopped their flanking movement and came directly at
her.
Zenaria released her
arrow. With a twang and a thunk
the yard long shaft left the bowstring and buried itself to the flights in
chest of the charging moaan. The
charging predator staggered, letting out a horrendous shriek as the arrow
found its mark. Its forward momentum
kept it moving for another two strides and then it somersaulted forward,
flipping head over heels. But
Zenaria was already releasing her second
arrow. This one also hit its
target, but not where she had hoped.
The charging moaan ducked forward, its neck outstretched as it bounded
across the space separating it from its intended
prey. Instead of striking the
predator’s chest the arrow entered its gaping mouth, piercing its skull
and jutting a foot out the other side of its
head.
Unfortunately, the arrow
failed to find the moaan’s tiny brain and it hardly faltered in its
stride. The beast and the third
moaan were now too close to trust the bow and Zenaria let it drop, pulling
her sword from its sheath. The
moaan bounded toward her, covering the remaining distance in huge twenty
foot leaps and then just before reaching Zenaria it jumped high in the air
its murderous hooked claw extended.
If it had struck her Zenaria
would have been ripped open from crotch to breast, but Zenaria was not
there. She leaped to one side
at the same time swinging her blade in a wide arc that lopped the moaan’s
head off. The bird was dead,
but its momentum carried it into Tren’s
horse. The animal, which had
remained steadfast until now, bolted just as Tren prepared to release his
last arrow.
Busy with her own encounter
Zenaria had not noticed how Tren was
faring. In a flash she saw that
he had dispatched two of the three moaan attacking him, but the third now
slammed into him at full speed. The
impact knocked him from the saddle, but fortunately he was not the
predator’s target. Instead
the moaan’s wicked claw disembowelled his terrified
horse.
All of this Zenaria saw
in the split second her attention
allowed. However, there was the
third moaan to deal with. It
came in right behind the one she had beheaded, however,
it was forced to swerve around the body of the bird Zenaria had just
killed. The momentary delay allowed
her to duck under the deadly claws.
She whirled as the moaan passed over her, every once of her strength
in the swing, and lopped off the bird’s right
foot.
The moaan shrieked, its
cry almost deafening at such close
quarters. It attempted to turn,
but put its weight on its bloody stump and toppled
sideways. Neck outstretched,
it tried to sink its teeth into Zenaria, presenting her with an inviting
target. A second later its head
joined that of the other moaan.
Zenaria turned her attention
to Tren. Somehow he had managed
to leap clear of his horse as it fell, and retaining his hold on his compact
bow loosed two more arrows into the last
moaan. The creature slumped to
the ground and lay still. Pumped
full of adrenaline, Zenaria remained in a fighting stance, her legs spread
wide and her chest heaving in excitement.
As the last moaan fell she shouted her tribe’s battle
cry.
Tren whirled on her in
amazement. No doubt to him her
shout had sounded like the death cry of some
animal. He shook his head in
an expression of irritation and lowered his bow.
“I celebrate my
victory,” Zenaria explained.
“It is our custom.”
Tren
frowned. “It is a rather
noisy custom.” He turned
to his horse his face expressionless, but a look of sorrow in his
eyes.
“Now we both walk,”
he muttered. “It will slow
us down.”
“It will slow
you down,” Zenaria
replied.
“Since you have chosen
to accompany me, my speed is your speed,” Tren said,
flatly. He pulled his saddlebags
off the dead horse and began to sort through them, creating two
piles. “Without the horse
we will have to travel lighter until I can find
another.”
Zenaria watched and then
without asking stuffed a few of the food items into her
pack. Tren nodded his approval
and then packed away those items he had chosen and tossed one of the saddlebags
over his shoulder.
Zenaria wandered over to
one of the dead moaan. Deftly
she plucked several of the two - foot long golden feathers from its crest
and tucked them into her belt. Then
she went to the next bird and repeated the
action.
Tren stared at her, his
face expressionless. Zenaria
had never anyone who showed less emotion, but she sensed his
disapproval. “What is it
now?” she asked. “These
may be of some value. Perhaps
if we collect enough we could purchase a horse.”
“But your idea may
have some merit.” Tren answered.
“We may encounter the Zuni.”
“The
Zuni?”
Zenaria asked. “Who are
the Zuni?”
Tren looked at her before
replying. It was almost as if
he could not believe the limits of Zenaria’s knowledge, but as usual
his face gave nothing away.
“Nomads of the
grasslands. They bear
no love for the Sandakar, but they are few in
number. Chancing upon them will
be a rare occurrence. However,
bring your feathers. They may
yet prove useful.”
Zenaria moved around the
other dead moaan gathering their head
feathers. She paused by each
one to ask the snow leopard to bless the passage into the spirit world of
the beast she had helped kill. As
she did so she felt Tren’s eyes on her watching as she performed what
was to him was probably a strange ritual.
However, she ignored him and continued to gather feathers until she
had so many stuffed into her belt that she resembled a bird herself, but
if Tren thought her appearance odd he made no
comment. “What about the
meat?” she asked. There
is enough here to feed us for weeks.”
“No one eats moaan,”
Tren replied. The meat is tainted
by a foul secretion.”
It seemed a colossal waste,
but Zenaria took Tren at his word and gathered only the
feathers. Finally, her plundering
of the dead moaan complete, Zenaria joined
Tren. “There is a village
some three days walk from here,” he
said. “It may have a donkey
we can obtain. I doubt that it
will have any horses.”
“Are horses so rare
in Sandak?” Zenaria asked, setting out beside Tren.
“No, but the thuski
tax their people so heavily they have little left over for anything as costly
as a horse.”
“These
Sandakar sound like fools to treat their people so, and the people equally
foolish to accept such
oppression.”
“Perhaps,” Tren
agreed, “but such is the nature of a people who worship
Aroo.”
“Aroo is their chief
god?” Zenaria asked.
“Aroo is their only
god. To worship any other is
punishable by death.”
Zenaria
frowned. “Surely that is
foolishness. How can one god
attend to everything? He would
have no time for anything else.”
“I am sure Aroo agrees
with you, however, that would not prevent the Sandakar from stoning you to
death for airing such a point of view, although in your case I expect they
might keep you for something else.”
Zenaria flushed in
anger. Tren’s words reminded
her all too sharply of her humiliation at the hands of the
slavers. “I would have preferred
the stoning to that. I permit
no man to touch me.”
Tren turned his eyes toward
her. He had covered his face
again and only his eyes showed. It
was impossible to know what he was
thinking. “Perhaps
I have been misinformed, but I have been told that Erogenians were somewhat
unrestrained in their relationships with one
another.”
Zenaria did not like the
way the conversation was developing.
“I choose who I go with,” she said
hotly. “No man has the right
to decide that for me.”
Tren shifted his pack and
nodded toward the horizon, neatly changing the
subject. “We will camp in
another hour there is water there.”
Zenaria was glad to change
the subject. “It is not
yet midafternoon. Why do we stop
so early?”
“There is water
there. Probably
the only source for miles.”
“How do you know
that?”
“Do you see the
birds? They are found only near
water. We are only four days
march from the desert. Water
is a scarce commodity on these plains.”
Zenaria saw what Tren spoke
of. She could see the shapes
of birds wheeling over the grassland, but she could not discern what type
of bird they were. As she and
Tren neared the place he had indicated she saw that he was
right. A marshland came into
view, nestled in a slight depression in the grasslands.
It was surrounded by willows
and a few aspen.
Selecting a suitable spot
near the edge they unpacked their gear.
Tren set about putting together a simple shelter using willow withes
while Zenaria busied herself looking for
firewood. Within a short time
they had both a shelter and a small fire.
Later while Tren tended to preparing a meal
from their limited food supply Zenaria scouted the area around the marsh
looking for game. She managed
to bring down two rabbits and gutted and skinned them while Tren prepared
the fiery dish that he and the Sandakar seemed to prefer.
“You did well today,”
Tren commented as he and Zenaria finished off the spicy mixture of rabbit
and rice.
Zenaria stifled a smile
of pleasure. For some reason
she found Tren’s words pleasing, but she was not about to let him know
that. “Of course I did
well,” she snapped. “I
am a warrior of the Snow Leopard.”
Tren’s face flickered
in annoyance. “You would
do well to learn to take a compliment or is that forbidden for a Snow Leopard
warrior?”
“Warriors of the Snow
Leopard need no praise. We let
our actions speak for us.”
“Hmmpph!” Tren
snorted. “Your actions were
somewhat muted until I freed you from the iron collar about your pretty
neck.”
Zenaria’s face burned
both in anger and shame. It was
bad enough that she had suffered the humiliation of being enslaved without
being reminded that she owed Tren a debt of gratitude for freeing
her. And the reference to her
“pretty neck” had her fuming.
She leaped to her
feet. “I seek advice from
no man.
Especially one who would be no taller more than
a child.” Without
waiting for Tren’s reaction to her insult she stalked off into the
darkness.
Tren’s voice followed
her. “Be careful not to
stray too far from the fire. There
are more dangerous things than moaan out there.”
“He treats me like
an infant,” Zenaria muttered.
“I slew three moaan.
Have I not proved myself a
warrior? And who is he
anyway? He tells me nothing about
himself.” She turned suddenly
and headed back toward the fire.
“Who are you she demanded?
And how did you come to be near when the slavers passed
by?”
Tren regarded her calmly
from his seat by the fire, his face still hidden by a fold of his
hood. “And why do you hide
your face?” Zenaria continued.
“Are you afraid of what others might
see?”
“You lack manners,”
Tren replied quietly. “You
are a spoiled child who seeks to change the world to her
satisfaction. Remember I did
not seek your company. You forced
yourself on me.”
Tren’s words did nothing
to cool Zenaria’s hair-trigger
temper. “Perhaps you would
like to teach me some manners,” she
snarled. She towered over him,
her bearing threatening.”
“You might try,”
Tren answered. “But what
would that prove? If you defeat
me, then you have beaten a man who by your own description is no taller than
a child of your tribe. And if
I defeat you, then you will have suffered a greater humiliation than your
enslavement.”
“If you defeat me,
then you can have me,” Zenaria blurted out.
“I am not Sandakar,”
Tren replied, his voice rising.
“I take no woman by force.”
“It would not be
force. Defeat me and I would
give myself willingly.”
With an obvious effort Tren
calmed himself. “Come back
to the fire,” he said quietly.
“We will speak no more of this.”
As quickly as it had
risen Zenaria’s anger
died. “I have disturbed
your
cha. I should not have spoken in
anger.”
“You will have to tell
me more about the
cha,
but for now enough has been said.
We have a long walk tomorrow and will have to carry our
water. I suggest you get some
rest.” With that Tren rolled
himself into his sleeping blanket and turned away from the
fire.
Zenaria recognized a truce
and realizing that she
had
forced herself on Tren decieded to let it
go. “Until tomorrow,”
she said.
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