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As he watched Nomi danced between his attackers, he found his feelings conflicted. On one hand, one had to admire the man’s ability, Nomi’s skills in combat often bordered on the artistic, yet Jintaru abhorred showmanship and flamboyance. In his eyes, excessive flair made a mockery of battle and those who lose their lives to it.
Jintaru glanced over to where the kitchen hand was straightening and dusting himself off. The boy appeared unhurt but the swordsman knew that this ordeal would not be on forgotten in a hurry. The lad had a choice. Either he could use this experience as fuel for his inner fire and pick up a sword with a vow to defend himself and those he loves through violence, or he could realise what happens to violent men and make the opposite vow. Jintaru knew which one he wished the boy to take.
Through the post battle pall, an unexpected sound rang out from behind the hill from over which the bandits had arrived. The sound of slow, rhythmic applause. As Jintaru slung his bow over his back again, the noise grew louder until a familiar shape appeared atop the hill and made its way towards the gory scene. When he allowed the battle-fire to die down within him, Jintaru realised what it was. Ornestoro, The D’ol Dathri man was smiling from ear to ear, clapping his hands.
“Mecsil hadadtri, fadzir!” He said as he approached Jintaru.
Straightening up, Jintaru turned to face the advancing Ornestoro. “Meczil hadadtri.” He responded. His time fighting the war in D’ol Dath had made him proficient in D’ol Dath Tar. “You sent these men, Ornestoro?”
“But of course…” The tall, dark skinned man smiled. “A ploughshare tells me it wishes to, once again, become a sword, I must ensure its edge is still sharp.” The men ended up face to face as Jintaru met his colleague at the foot of the hillock. Ornestoro was dressed in a long blue velvet tunic with gilded hems and inlaid with silver spirals. Doubtless expensive, but it was not as though the man was short of coin. Atop his bald head, he wore a gold mesh cap with a silver crescent moon hanging from one corner, falling to sit neatly in the centre of his forehead. This was traditional D’ol Dathri noble dress. Despite being far from home, Ornestoro wanted to make no secret of his affiliation with the Czentulu.
“Where did you find these men?” Jintaru asked, gesturing to the scattered bodies behind him.
“Just because you are the best sell-sword on my books, does not mean you are the only one, fadzir.” Ornestoro smiled revealing a perfect set of white teeth, with the exception of one incisor that was made of solid silver. Letting his hands fall to his waist, he turned his thumbs up and pressed the tips of his fingers together, letting them sit at belt level.
“Well, it seems you’ll need some new clientele.”
“Men like these are ten a penny in the city. I can have them replaced by nightfall.” He replied.
The old Jin Long would have found the D’ol Dathri’s disregard for the lives he had wasted by sending ill-trained men to die at the hands of himself and Nomi. But Jinratu didn’t care. A slain man is a slain man, whatever the reason. As far as he was concerned, they drew first and must accept the consequences of their actions. The cackling of carrion birds started up in the trees and one brave individual even came into land in the centre of the ring of scattered bodies. The large black bird twitched its head from side to side, clearing sizing up the men still standing, hopping nervously in a small circle. With a flutter of wings, it came to rest on the open neck of the decapitated man and began to peck at the still warm flesh around the wound.
“You got my message, then?” Jintaru asked.
“Yes, your boy did well. I expect he did exactly what you asked of him.”
Jintaru remembered the boy and turned to where he had been standing since the bandit holding him had fled. He was still there, the colour had drained from his face and he seemed unsure as to what he should do. Once more retrieving his coin purse from the fold in his tunic, Jintaru threw it to the lad. The boy came around long enough to catch it in both hands. It was likely more money than he had ever seen in one place, let alone held in his hands. He nooded his appreciation to Jintaru and turned to leave.
“Boy!” Jintaru called. The lad turned around, still unable to speak and clearly wishing to leave that place as quickly as possible.
“Y-yes Sir?” He called back nervously.
“Never pick up a sword as long as you live. There are other ways to protect the ones you love. I suggest you use that money and find them. Do you understand?”
The boy nodded. Nodding back, Jintaru gave the lad his leave and, as fast as he had taken off from the tavern earlier that day, perhaps faster, he made his way back to it. He turned back to Ornestoro.
“So what have you got for me?”
Jintaru glanced over to where the kitchen hand was straightening and dusting himself off. The boy appeared unhurt but the swordsman knew that this ordeal would not be on forgotten in a hurry. The lad had a choice. Either he could use this experience as fuel for his inner fire and pick up a sword with a vow to defend himself and those he loves through violence, or he could realise what happens to violent men and make the opposite vow. Jintaru knew which one he wished the boy to take.
Through the post battle pall, an unexpected sound rang out from behind the hill from over which the bandits had arrived. The sound of slow, rhythmic applause. As Jintaru slung his bow over his back again, the noise grew louder until a familiar shape appeared atop the hill and made its way towards the gory scene. When he allowed the battle-fire to die down within him, Jintaru realised what it was. Ornestoro, The D’ol Dathri man was smiling from ear to ear, clapping his hands.
“Mecsil hadadtri, fadzir!” He said as he approached Jintaru.
Straightening up, Jintaru turned to face the advancing Ornestoro. “Meczil hadadtri.” He responded. His time fighting the war in D’ol Dath had made him proficient in D’ol Dath Tar. “You sent these men, Ornestoro?”
“But of course…” The tall, dark skinned man smiled. “A ploughshare tells me it wishes to, once again, become a sword, I must ensure its edge is still sharp.” The men ended up face to face as Jintaru met his colleague at the foot of the hillock. Ornestoro was dressed in a long blue velvet tunic with gilded hems and inlaid with silver spirals. Doubtless expensive, but it was not as though the man was short of coin. Atop his bald head, he wore a gold mesh cap with a silver crescent moon hanging from one corner, falling to sit neatly in the centre of his forehead. This was traditional D’ol Dathri noble dress. Despite being far from home, Ornestoro wanted to make no secret of his affiliation with the Czentulu.
“Where did you find these men?” Jintaru asked, gesturing to the scattered bodies behind him.
“Just because you are the best sell-sword on my books, does not mean you are the only one, fadzir.” Ornestoro smiled revealing a perfect set of white teeth, with the exception of one incisor that was made of solid silver. Letting his hands fall to his waist, he turned his thumbs up and pressed the tips of his fingers together, letting them sit at belt level.
“Well, it seems you’ll need some new clientele.”
“Men like these are ten a penny in the city. I can have them replaced by nightfall.” He replied.
The old Jin Long would have found the D’ol Dathri’s disregard for the lives he had wasted by sending ill-trained men to die at the hands of himself and Nomi. But Jinratu didn’t care. A slain man is a slain man, whatever the reason. As far as he was concerned, they drew first and must accept the consequences of their actions. The cackling of carrion birds started up in the trees and one brave individual even came into land in the centre of the ring of scattered bodies. The large black bird twitched its head from side to side, clearing sizing up the men still standing, hopping nervously in a small circle. With a flutter of wings, it came to rest on the open neck of the decapitated man and began to peck at the still warm flesh around the wound.
“You got my message, then?” Jintaru asked.
“Yes, your boy did well. I expect he did exactly what you asked of him.”
Jintaru remembered the boy and turned to where he had been standing since the bandit holding him had fled. He was still there, the colour had drained from his face and he seemed unsure as to what he should do. Once more retrieving his coin purse from the fold in his tunic, Jintaru threw it to the lad. The boy came around long enough to catch it in both hands. It was likely more money than he had ever seen in one place, let alone held in his hands. He nooded his appreciation to Jintaru and turned to leave.
“Boy!” Jintaru called. The lad turned around, still unable to speak and clearly wishing to leave that place as quickly as possible.
“Y-yes Sir?” He called back nervously.
“Never pick up a sword as long as you live. There are other ways to protect the ones you love. I suggest you use that money and find them. Do you understand?”
The boy nodded. Nodding back, Jintaru gave the lad his leave and, as fast as he had taken off from the tavern earlier that day, perhaps faster, he made his way back to it. He turned back to Ornestoro.
“So what have you got for me?”