Simarachi’s Shadow

Death was not the fate meant for Dyag. At the culmination of his fall was the resulting impact. The wounded and exhausted Tsuaru warrior found himself miraculously, surprisingly and painfully alive. He could not believe it but was forced to lie there, still and silent, for a time. During that period he could not help but conclude that the edge off of which he was so unceremoniously kicked was not as severe as the Ymbal believed it to be. Fortune had favoured him and he was not about to throw it away. It’s why when he finally found himself capable of movement he tended to the wound on his side. Simple bandages fashioned from torn strips of the cloth worn under his ‘armour’ were all he could manage. It wasn’t much but it would have to do for the time being. And since then he has been crawling through the tall grasses. It’s been slow going, rough on his gut with its nearby wound, but effective.

The flames are taller now, he thinks, than ever. And somehow they are more numerous too. He cannot say as to how long he was out, if he was at all, or how long he lay still in the tall grasses but he would not have considered the flames to have grown in whatever time that was. Rather, he would have expected them to ebb, to die down, to shrink and wither. They have not. It is as if they are possessed and why Dyag has felt it imperative to stick to the grasses. They are the only thing which affords him cover and he needs it. In his state, currently, he does not feel fit for battle. It should pass. Once his body has acclimatised to its new limits, the result of the wounds suffered, he should be capable enough. Not for a war but to escape the camp. That is his goal, to escape this burning ruin. It is no longer the Tsuaru’s. This mound of dirt soon to be topped with ash belongs to the Ymbal now. It is, evidently, intended to be the first of many victories led by a Commander, Eorin. Dyag does not know the name, as far as he can recall. Certainly, there is no face attached when he considers it. Such a thing is not surprising for the Ymbal keep to themselves. They are a secretive tribe unlike the Tsuaru. It’s from this secretive nature which Dyag thinks their dishonour sprouted. And it seems their lack of ethics knows no bounds for it appears as though they will do anything to claim Simarachi. It will not transpire. The Tsuaru will not allow it. That is as sure to Dyag as the dawning of the new day. After all, the Ymbal would need an army, vast and strong, to defeat the Tsuaru. They can posses no such capacity for they have been on the edge of starvation for the last few winters, at the very least, and you cannot raise an army without food and supplies. Yet, the Ymbal are clearly better armoured than the Tsuaru for each warrior Dyag has set eyes upon has been wrapped in metal and leather. It’s a far cry from the rope and clay moulded pieces which cover his shoulders, chest, elbows and knees.

Continuing to crawl through the dirt with the only sound created by his movements being that from the gentle rustling of the tall grass as he pushes forward which is lost in the roaring fires as the night begins to brighten, Dyag hears voices. The words are spoken in that tongue the Ymbal have, which he does not know. He wishes he could understand the words they speak but the Ymbal have long spoken a language of their own making. It holds little in common with the Tsuaru’s own and like most things Ymbal is shrouded in secrets. A good weapon, but another instance of the lengths they will go to, to be dishonourable and dishonest. The Tsuaru, if the shoe were on the other foot, would not have kept their language hidden. They would, like they do, ensure that it is public. Their language is a derivative of the national dialect spoken by everyone from beggar to farmer to warrior to lord to emperor.

It is during this crawl through the tall grasses that Dyag hears a scream. To begin with he thinks it a trick of the wind. A whistle carried far and wide which only sounds like a cry. That is until he hears it again and again. The more it reaches his ears the more his conclusion on the matter shifts until finally it is clear to him that the screams are those of people. Dyag feels hatred boil up from deep down willing him into action. His calm head prevents him from being so rash. That is why he continues to crawl.

Where previously his goal had been to escape the defeat that is the sacking of Herki, his new goal is to find and save those in the clutches of the Ymbal. Likely they are innocent locals and wounded warriors of his tribe. He cannot stand by and allow them to suffer. It would be a strike upon his name, a besmirchment quite intolerable, and so he risks scrambling from his stomach to his feet, making sure to keep low and below the tops of the tall grass. His attempts are not swift or without issue for Dyag learns he is incalculably weak still. It is worrying, shockingly so, and yet he is not deterred from his commitment to save those who require it.

Now moving through the grass at a significantly greater pace he is soon forced to creep past piles of burning corpses, Ymbal laughing and cackling around the flames speaking in their tongue, drinking, while others are on guard, checking for still breathing foes but running through all the bodies strewn about just the same. It is horrifying for Dyag to see, most unlike any battle he has been in previously. But then that should not be a surprise to the Tsuaru as his people do not believe in night time raids and ambushes. It is clear the two tribes could not be more different if they tried, which is why he wonders, while tiptoeing by the severely stacked against him numbers which assure him he would have not a hope of prevailing against if he tried, how his people and the Ymbal ever lived alongside one another. Clearly they could not now. Not that it seems the Ymbal want that and yet it was they who forsook these lands in hopes of finding better, more fertile soils. And they did. But now more than a century later those soils are lacking and they want back what they abandoned. It is madness, of the highest order. But a local matter to be settled by the tribes. Not one befitting of the emperor some thousand plus miles away in the capital. Unlikely he has even heard of this dispute. From time to time Dyag has wondered who the emperor might rule in favour of. Every time his conclusion has been the Tsuaru but perhaps he would not. The emperor of today is not the same emperor who called upon the tribes of his nation to beat back the invading aggressors of old. Would the emperor of now be versed in such things?  

Of course he would. He is the emperor. They are educated in the ways of history. They are aware of what the tribes did and have done not only then but since. And he would rule in favour of the Tsuaru. We are the lords of these lands. Simarachi belongs to Lord Hiromani’s family. It was this way prior to the Ymbal relinquishing them and will continue as so long after his children’s children have left for the great beyond that comes after.

Fresh screams reach Dyag’s ears wrenching him from his thoughts. Those he had been lost within.

Without doubt the screams are louder now, closer. They sound young and tortured. Dyag can only wonder what foul acts the Ymbal might be performing, it sickens him. Yet, when he sees the extent of the barbarity being unleashed he does not feel prepared. While previously he knew the Ymbal lacked honour, the methods of pain infliction being used and clear in front of him make it clearer still. For the Ymbal warriors are burning their prisoners. Some are civilians, farmers and traders captured, but most are warriors, like Dyag. And for being trained in the art of battle to defend their lands they are suffering. It is revolting, stomach churning, despicable. All those words don’t do justice to the disdain and hatred Dyag feels for what is being done and those doing it, yet they are the words which enter his head as best labels for what he is seeing. His thirst to act could not be more engorged and thankfully there is but one Ymbal. He soon, laughing, retires from his torturous deeds to return to standing watch over the captors as they weep and shiver in fear. A few of those in the wooden cages are clearly dead. It seems they could not withstand the crimes committed unto them. It is depressing to see and to have to admit.

I need to strike head on.

Head on, are you mad? You are wounded, injured; you are in no state to fight.

Then what should I…?

You must strike like they do; from the shadows.

I will not!

You must. It is your only hope if you intend to save these people, your people.

I will not forego my honour and stoop down to the depths at which the Ymbal operate.

Then you will fail!

I am…

Wounded, weak, tired. You need rest. You know this to be true. Listen and heed our words, they are yours too. For we are you and you are us, do not deny it. So listen and strike from the shadows. Eliminate he who stands between you and freeing those who you call kin.

No. I will not. I cannot. If I forego honour I am no better than them. I can fight. I can win. He is but one. I can fell one. Wounds or not.

Then why have you not revealed yourself? If you believed these words you speak you would be standing aloft, demanding battle, but you are not. You are crouched low in the tall grasses, those which you have crawled through to keep yourself hidden. Is that not dishonourable? Should you not have faced the Ymbal at first sight following your prior defeat?

Silence! Shut up! I was not…

Yes you were. You were defeated.

I was outnumbered!

Excuses! You were weak. You were beaten; by a Ymbal Captain no less. That is all it took. What hope do you have in escaping, in freeing these captives now?

I have plenty now stop your taunting. I did what I had to too…

Yes. That’s it. Admit it. Admit you crawled through the grass like a coward to survive, to save yourself. Was that not what you first planned, to escape Herki? It was. You know it, I know it. There is no denying and so if you wish to save those innocent and whom you call friend then you must embrace the shadows, the darkness. Strike from them, swift and merciless, for that is how you will prevail. That is how the Ymbal can be forced back. They hold no fear because of Tsuaru honour. It makes the tribe, you, weak. Admit it. Admit it!

Fine, I admit it! You’re right. I’m weak and I’m tired. My eyes are blurred and my sword will feel heavy. I’ll struggle to win but… what choice do I have? I am Tsuaru, we are honourable, we face foes head on.

Your choice is simple. Do you wish to save these people?

Yes.

Then strike; strike from the shadows.

The Tsuaru doesn’t like it but sees no other way forward. It’s why his shoulders drop in defeat, in resignation. It happens in the moments prior to him carefully unsheathing his sword, taking a series of deep breaths to steadies his pulse and bring it under control. Following that he rises from the tall grasses cloaked in shadow and goes to strike. Regrettably the Ymbal catches the sound of movement and instinctively does an about. Both the Ymbal and Dyag are surprised to find themselves face-to-face with one another. Yet, the Tsuaru is the first to attempt his strike. Too close to his enemy he fails and is disarmed with a quick slap of the Ymbal’s wide blade against his. The thing standard sword clatters against the compacted dirt before skittering off with a sideswipe of the Ymbal’s foot. Dyag curses, mentally, his failure but refuses to accept defeat, which is why he throws himself at the Ymbal warrior. They crash to the hard dirt silently. Both men are determined to win. Somehow Dyag manages to get the Ymbal to part company with his sword. It too clatters but does not skitter. However the pair of struggling men roll away from the weapon. The Ymbal is on top now, pressing down on Dyag who is not in a fit state for such a tussle. Nevertheless he steels his determination and throws his weight. It works; the Tsuaru is back on top. He breaks his grip voluntarily, surprising his foe, and delivers a swift punch to his adversaries jaw. It dazes his enemy allowing him to reach for his still sheathed short sword. He grabs a hold of the hilt and begins to pull but the Ymbal has recovered and grabs Dyag’s throat, squeezing. The Tsuaru warrior starts to gasp and struggle for air. The Ymbal grip is tight, strong. If he is not stopped he will choke Dyag to death but because of the angling of their bodies the Tsuaru warrior is unable to free his short sword from its scabbard. Fortune, it seems, has abandoned him as he vision narrows increasing the final darkness with every passing second, until the Tsuaru uses his weight to force the Ymbal’s back hard to the dry dirt. A jolt goes up the Ymbal’s back lessening but not breaking his choking grasp. Still, it is enough for Dyag who in the marginal parting of their bodies manages to pull his short sword and drive it toward the Ymbal. His adversary attempts to react, releasing his grip on the Tsuaru’s throat too late to prevent the strike. The blade of the Dyag’s short blade sinks deep into the Ymbal’s throat, silencing any scream which would otherwise leak from between his lips. However, the Tsuaru does not stop his pressure until the blade is to the guard at the base. The Ymbal flails wildly as if about to buck the orange eyed man off and mount a reciprocal strike. The Tsuaru gives his enemy no such chance and with a quick claiming of the discarded Ymbal sword drives the weapon down vertically into the dying man’s gut. It works, the body goes limp. Dyag breathes a sigh of relief cut short when a voice queries, “Whose out there?” The tone is fearful, small, barely more than a whisper but familiar. In as far as it is an accent which reflects Dyag’s own. The Tsuaru warrior swallows, retracts the short sword from the dead Ymbal’s throat, cleans it of blood, stows it and steps out of the shadows.

“Dyag Velsom, is that you?” A harder voice queries from out of the blue.

The Tsuaru warrior recognises the voice immediately and scans for its owner’s face. His orange eyes once settled upon Felis, see him swiftly cross to his to the man who is locked in one of the nearer cages.

“Felis; why it is good to see you?”

“You too my friend, but where are we?”

“Herki, you’re in our camp.”

“Herki? The Ymbal have assaulted?”

“They have claimed the camp Felis, it has fallen.”

“But you still stand my friend.” Felis’ face with those blue eyes of his is filled with delight. The look does not last and is replaced by a furrowed brow. It is the prelude to a question, “Where is the guard? He could be back at any time, we need to…”

Shaking his head Dyag replies, “Worry not Felis, the guard is dead. I will free you, all of you. Now where are the keys to these cages?”

“The guard had it about his person.” Felis sounds incredulous as he offers his reply in response to the declaration that Dyag has felled the guard. The Tsuaru warrior can only imagine this old family friend and trader is incredulous due to the state Dyag must look. Ordinarily, Felis has shown no doubt in Dyag’s capabilities as a warrior.

Putting such thoughts from his mind the Tsuaru warrior with orange eyes dives back amongst the shadows to wear the body lies and begins to riffle through the dead guards pockets. He finds the key but cannot see his standard sword anywhere nearby; clearly the weapon is lost to him. That may well make things more difficult he thinks.

Strike from the shadows, he hears in reply. He recalls that he tried and that it failed as he scurries back to the captives and wastes no time in releasing the locks on the too small poorly made wooden cages scattered with copious splinters and jointed with protruding nails. Dyag sees the blood from the civilians and wounded that have resulted from the confines they were trapped within as they reclaim freedom. It sickens the Tsuaru with orange eyes. But it is when he gets a proper look at Felis that his blood turns to fire. Yet, at first the warrior cannot comprehend what is wrong with the man other than to say that he is not equal. Then it hits him, Felis is missing his right hand. It ends in a stump, bloody and wound in rags.

“I got away lightly, I still breathe.” Is the statement uttered by the wounded Felis in response to the looks upon the area where his hand had once been.

“You must get free of Herki and back to Pensaftu, warn our people, seek refuge in Hiromani Castle. There you will be safe; Lord Ito will make sure of it.”

“And what about you Dyag, you are in no fit state to…”

“I will remain. I must free anyone else who lives and is not free. They will not be forced to endure the Ymbal and their tortures.”

The Trader, Felis, wants to argue. He wants to demand Dyag come with them, flee this place for it is lost. However, he can see by the look in the warriors eyes that his words will not sway him from this path he has chosen. Were it anyone else he would try but even in the state he is in Dyag remains a warrior. Felis is proud of him and imagines Dyag’s family would be too. Still, it does not escape the wounded trader that this is likely to be the last time he sees this man, this warrior.

In his younger days Felis had counted himself amongst the warriors but no more. That was another life. One he does not understand why he pursued when he looks back upon it now, truth be told. Yet he did and claiming a sword from a rack for the first time in many a year he nods to his friends and assures, “We will get free, these people will be safe, Lord Ito will know, reinforcements will come; good luck old friend.”

And with that Felis with the survivors part ways with Dyag.