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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781524615369 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | AuthorHouse |
| Publication date: | 06/24/2016 |
| Pages: | 302 |
| Product dimensions: | 6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.81(d) |
Read an Excerpt
Warrior
"A Kazeem of Zamboria Adventure"
By Jaysen Christopher
AuthorHouse
Copyright © 2016 Jaysen ChristopherAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-5246-1538-3
CHAPTER 1
THE YOUNG MAN was beautifully muscled. Sweat poured from his brow and trickled onto his bare chest, soaking the hollow between rock-hard slabs of muscle. He may have been young, but he knew how to handle a sword. Steel rang against steel in the hot desert air, but his concentration lagged, and he watched in dismay as the old man knocked the blade to the sand.
"Well, go on. Pick it up. We'll have another go at it."
"I don't want to." The boy retrieved his blade; it was beautifully crafted, a saber with an ivory handle carved in the shape of a wolf's head. The handle was hot to the touch. He was tired. He didn't want to practice any more.
"A real enemy wouldn't give you the choice," the old man scolded.
"You're real enough," the teenager snarled, only half joking. "With friends like you, who needs real enemies?"
The old man could have been fifty. He could have been a thousand. It was hard to tell. He had stone white hair cropped close to his head. Like his beard, it gleamed like silver in the fading, orange sun.
He pressed the attack.
The young man barely had time to get the blade up before the teacher was on him. This was a fierceness he'd never seen before.
And this boy, at the tender age of eighteen, was already a man killer.
Up, down, side-to-side, the old man battered his blade. The thrusts and parries were so swift, so savage, that bare defense was the only thing the lad had time for. The ringing of fine Arganian steel was like a song: clang, clang — clang-clang-clang! Again the boy's sword arm went numb. Again, the blade clattered to the ground.
The young man blinked, chest heaving, soaking wet to the waistband of his loose-fitting white pants. The old man had pressed him hard, all the way back to the rocks. He fought for breath, squinting into the rose-orange rays of the sun as it sank slowly into the jagged teeth of the Faylon Range.
"Maybe you should call it a day," the old man agreed. The boy hated him all the more because he was hardly even breathing hard. "If I'd been trying, you'd be dead now."
The youth rubbed numb fingers with a sun-burnt left hand. "If you'd been trying! By the Maker, Windor, it sure felt like you were trying!"
"You're not yourself, Kazeem," the old man said softly. The setting sun made his eyes look like bronze disks.
The lad picked up the blade, held it in his left hand. He sucked the fingertips of his right and winced without looking up.
"Go," the old man said with a wave. "Eat. Sleep. Slay whatever demons haunt you. I can teach you no more today." He turned and walked away.
"Where would I start?" the youth mumbled to himself and went to sit by the pool.
It was a cool oasis, dotted by date palms and a small grove of cedar. It was the only fresh water for miles, and he was glad to have it, even if they shared it with every wild animal in the area.
Kazeem ate from the pot: a stew made of rabbit and carrots and potatoes. There was a piece of unleavened bread to go with it, cheese and water, but the young man wasn't all that hungry.
Windor was right. He wasn't concentrating. That, alone, could get you killed.
He hated when Windor was right.
Kazeem sat back, hands behind him in the saw grass. Like most Zamborians he was blond, and like most Zamborians he had a broad face, tanned skin and very white teeth — the product of a dairy-rich diet. He wouldn't grow much more in height, which was five foot seven or eight, but he had that stringy muscularity common to all lean men, and the promise of more muscle with the coming of manhood.
He wiped the sweat from his chest, made a pillow of his soft cotton shirt, and closed his unusual amber-brown eyes with a sigh. A warm breeze and the scent of conifers heralded the advance of nightfall. Kazeem coughed, settled himself. The birds and the wind and the gentle trickle of the water coming out of the rocks took him away.
He didn't want to go back. He never did.
But the old man was right. If he didn't get past this, he was going to get himself killed.
* * *
The boy was so scared he thought he might vomit, but he wasn't going to let them know it. He'd lost his mother at five, his father at fourteen. He'd been on his own then, stealing, eating from dust bins, sleeping in alleys ... but even that had been better than this.
There was a name for this place, but the other kids just called it "The Home".
To young Kazeem, fourteen year old son of Kaidin, Wrotmar, it was hell.
He'd arrived with a bad reputation, partly due to his own actions, partly because of his father. Either way, he'd been unpopular from the start.
They all had names, Kazeem was sure of that, but he hadn't paid attention. Names were only to tell people apart, and he did that by sight. Still, they all knew his name — wherever he went. It would take years for him to understand why, but by then it wouldn't matter.
"That's the second time this month, Kazeem," the tall one said and shoved him again. "The second time. We let it go at first, you know, because you were new, but now you're becoming a burden."
The shove hurt. The other boy was twice his size, the heels of his palms hard.
Kazeem's eyes watered from the pain, but he blinked fast, willing them away.
He hadn't cried when his father died. He wasn't going to cry now.
There was another shove, even harder. His chest muscles ached, his shoulders cramped. He was against the stone wall now and the three of them crowded him.
"The big fish eat the little fish, Kazeem. That's the way it works. That's the way it's always worked. The sooner you get that through your head, the better off you're going to be."
Kaidin wouldn't stand for this. His father would have dropped all three of them where they stood. He wished he could be that strong, or smart enough to mind his own business; either would have helped.
He steeled himself, gritted his teeth. To answer, to even acknowledge their existence, was to show weakness.
"What's the matter, boy? Cat got your tongue?" The tall one turned to the fat, pimple-faced boy beside him. "Is it just me, Abdar, or is he being unfriendly?"
"All I know is that Miko's got a broken jaw." He jutted his double chin at Kazeem. "Because of him. I say we teach him a lesson." There was hate in the red face, anger in the pale blue eyes. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his breath was rank, like fish.
They all smelled like fish.
"We let him get away with this," the third boy agreed, "people will be walking all over us."
Kazeem knew who he was, knew the other kids called him 'Spinner'; knew he was small and wiry, like himself, but he didn't look at him. He kept his eyes, luminous and stony, on his chief tormentor. The other two would go the way he went, take their cue from him. Kazeem wanted to see it coming.
"What do you think of that, Kazeem?" the tall boy asked with a snarl and shoved him into the wall again.
Kazeem didn't even blink. He studied the brown eyes towering above him, saw fear flicker there like a snake's tongue. Either they were playing with him, or they were afraid of him. He had, after all, sent their friend to the infirmary. His father was, after all, Kaidin, Wrotmar.
Kazeem squinted, hiding his own fear. He was fast. He could run, but where would he hide in a prison he couldn't leave? They may have called it an orphanage, but there were bars on the windows and a gate at the arch.
"I asked you a question."
Kazeem allowed himself the luxury of a normal breath, and let it out slowly. He reminded himself that these boys were bullies, that they raped and beat and terrorized weaker, younger kids — in short, that they were cowards. He told himself that they weren't going to do anything. If they were, they would have done it by now. He decided that, no matter what, he wouldn't let them see fear.
At least he would have that.
"You planning on talking me to death?" he asked, speaking for the first time since they'd cornered him on his way back from lunch.
The tall boy actually gaped, and Kazeem knew it was over.
For now.
He pulled one of the older boy's hands off the cracked wall, pushed it aside, and walked away without looking back.
"You watch your step, Kazeem-son-of-Kaidin!" the tall boy called in a pathetic attempt to save face. "Just because your old man was some kind of a killer doesn't mean you're anything special! You're on our turf now! You remember that!"
Kazeem actually smiled as he turned the corner. He'd gotten away with it. He'd actually gotten away with it.
This time.
* * *
He woke with a start, bolting up, the screams of a young boy ringing in his head as two older boys held him and a third beat him...
Heart pounding, Kazeem stumbled up, trotted to the pool in the moonlight and splashed cool water on his face. Drinking a little helped the nausea, but the images were burned into his brain like a brand. He'd stopped it when he could, hurt the tormentors as much as he'd been able, but in the end, what had he done except become just like them?
Worse than them.
The water made him retch. His stomach muscles cramped at the contact. The oasis was beautiful in the moonlight. That instant of relief lingered in his mind as he gulped cool night air. He held on to the image, made it his own, made it real, felt the nausea slip away and stay away. He sat back on his heels, head back, seeking answers in twinkling stars that didn't even know he was alive.
"You're getting better at that."
"Damn it, Windor, where'd you come from?"
The old man shrugged. "Does it matter?"
Kazeem laughed. He dropped his chin onto his chest and shook his head slowly from side to side. "Just once I'd like a straight answer from you, old man. Just once!"
"And if you got such an answer, what would you do with it?"
The boy started to reply, actually opened his mouth, but thought better of it. This was no idle question, no joke; this was formal training and as serious as a blade.
"Nothing," he answered honestly and off the top of his head, "but I'd know the truth for what it was."
The old man turned his head. The desert was never completely dark; it was too open, too wide, seemed to hold the sun's energy in light as well as warmth. And although it got cool when the sun went down, there was always illumination. Silver moonlight, frosty and surreal, bathed the pink sand in swaths of colorless substance. Sometimes it removed tone as well as color, added depth or took it away; sometimes it crawled over boulders or dropped into gullies.
For no good reason, he shivered.
"And what would you do with this ... truth?" Windor asked in a voice more sensed than heard.
"Use it to my advantage, as you've taught me."
The old man stood, ghostly and ethereal with the silver disk of the moon behind him. "Practical, as always, except that you're forgetting one thing."
"Oh yeah, what's that?"
"That truth isn't an absolute; it's a perception."
The boy thought for a time, then nodded, his face the face of one who has seen a glimpse of the true human condition. "My truth isn't necessarily your truth, is that it?"
"Excellent," the old man answered with a smile. "I do believe there's hope for you after all."
* * *
"Why am I here?" the boy asked the next afternoon. They had spent the day in the cave, avoiding the heat, using the time to study mathematics and philosophy.
Windor looked up from the ceramic bowl, wooden spoon halfway to his mouth. "I'm not sure I understand."
Kazeem laughed. "What part didn't you understand?"
Windor didn't share his mirth. "I didn't understand any of it."
The boy finished his afternoon meal. He put down the bowl, chewed, and wiped his mouth on a small square of muslin. "I want you to answer me," he said. With courage born of need, he met the stare of those steel gray eyes, and held it until he saw the opening he'd been seeking. "I want to know why you took me in, why you train me and no other."
"I teach only one at a time. I thought you understood that."
The teen was already shaking his head. "That's not what I meant. Is it because of my father?"
The old man sighed. Outside, the slant of the sun had changed, and there was shade at the mouth of the cave. Soon, it would be safe to venture out. "You know how your father died." It could have been either a statement, or a question.
"In combat." He could see it like it was yesterday. Three Vendarian rebels. It had taken three of them. "I was there."
"Not combat, assassination."
The revelation shouldn't have been a shock. Deep down, he'd known all along. Still, it came like a blow, like the angry jolt of icy water. He was on his feet in an instant, his dark eyes wide, his voice a hoarse whisper.
"What?"
"When you become a problem to the powers-that-be, they remove that problem. Such was the case with your father." He waved a hand. "Sit down. I've a story to tell you.
"I suppose you're expecting an epic tale, Byzantine in nature," Windor began, rubbing dry hands slowly together, "but that isn't what I have to tell you. There are politics, to be sure, but only that. No intrigue, no mystery — he was just unlucky enough to be on the wrong side at the wrong time. No one knows who really runs this government from day to day. Some say Slagja of Ankoria, others Dar-Mareion of Vendar. Still others speak of rebel bands high in the Faylon Range, with close ties to the provisional seat in Zamboor" He spread his hands, and the rasping sound ceased. He turned and faced the boy. "I'm telling you it doesn't matter, because if you wait long enough, it'll change. Your father wouldn't wait. He was too proud."
He grew silent, and the boy couldn't stand it.
"That's it?" he asked. "That's the story you had to tell me?"
Windor stood. He was tall for an Easterner, his face full of wrinkles, but he moved like a cat.
"No. The story's about you."
"Me?"
"It's about a boy who got the truth, just as he'd asked for, about the supposedly wise old teacher who gave it to him, knowing he would act, and not in his best interests." He held up a heavily veined hand to ward off the teen's protests. "It's about how the boy went off and got himself killed ... or, worse, spent his life killing others."
"Stop it!" Kazeem was livid; his chest was heaving, and there was sweat on his brow. "You tell me that my father was murdered, allow me to believe that the people responsible are still out there, and then you tell me not to do anything about it! You've been out in the sun too long, old man!"
"I'm just trying to keep my promise to your father, Kazeem."
"What are you talking about?"
"Kaidin wanted you to choose your own way, not necessarily follow the Wrotmar path. I only teach the warrior class, son. I don't assign caste to our citizens."
Kazeem was shaking his head. "I've had enough, Windor. You've been training warriors for God only knows how long, you have wisdom beyond measure." His voice dripped sarcasm. "Yes, yes, I've heard it all before. I see your skills, old man, I've sensed your power, and still, you seem incapable of answering simple questions!"
"What would you ask?" The old man sighed.
"I want to know who killed my father! I want to know who ordered his death!"
"I honestly don't know," Windor replied.
"Then I'll have to find out for myself," the boy promised in a harsh whisper and stalked out into the night.
"I was afraid you would, my son," the teacher said, all alone in the empty cave, "but I had to give you that choice."
* * *
The teacher wasn't there to see his pupil off in the morning, but Kazeem hadn't expected him to be. The only traces of him were early, predawn footprints in the sand, winding away into the hills above the cave, disappearing among the rocks where the old man held his daily, morning rituals.
That and the bag of provisions at the mouth of the cave.
The boy smiled as he picked up the canvas bag and tugged at the drawstring. Inside were bread, cheese, salt, a whetstone, rice and various herbs. He cinched it, and tied it to the other baggage on the back of the camel. Already laden with water, bedroll and weapons, the dromedary gargled impatience.
In white robe and turban, Kazeem patted the beast and pinned a sash across the lower half of his own face. "The longest journey begins with a single step."
Kazeem wore two swords; both lashed across his back, the hilts just above his shoulders, within easy reach. He pulled on a black leather belt, and buckled it; from it hung hunting knife, whip and a small canteen.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Warrior by Jaysen Christopher. Copyright © 2016 Jaysen Christopher. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse.
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