Fourth Tale

Chapter 2

2

Amani stayed on the ground, on her back for a long time staring at the sky. She was angry at both the old warrior and herself. How had the old coot known what she'd been about to do? She'd kept her feet moving (The warriors from her clan always kept their feet on the move to prevent their enemies from guessing their next move) she'd done exactly as she'd seen, and it had been for naught.

She ended up on her back, eyes on the sky rather then the enemy. She'd darkened in embarrassment when he'd put a heavy booted foot on her body. As though she were a prize he'd won.

Her blood had boiled, and she had been powerless to do anything.

When she'd stepped off the stagecoach, she'd made her inquiries with the tavern about where she could train and if she would be able to find a sparring partner. The old barkeep had told her about the training ground, but it was the Heir that had advised her that the old Man-at-Arms was an excellent teacher, and the one that she needed.

She hadn't believed her at first. He'd barely looked at her ( he'd still managed to humiliate her though ) as he'd sparred with her. She was in her prime, her pride had more than stung that he'd showed her up. She needed the training badly . She hoped the old man wasn't the only qualified trainer. She was doomed if he was...

Amani muttered to herself and eventually got to her feet. She dusted herself off and picked up her spear. He wouldn't show her up forever, she just had to get better . She had to. She wasn't whole like the rest of the adventurers were (she had something to prove).

The old man had noticed it right away too. Despite the fact that he wore an eye patch (she found it ironic that he wasn't whole either). He'd seen her bandaged arm, her stump.

Her left hand (though no longer there, she still felt it sometimes) had healed a long time ago. Aye, the bandage she used to wrap it was bloody and dirty, but the skin had closed over the wound, the danger of infection had long since passed. She'd used a red-hot burning dagger to cauterize the wound.

A deep breath of the stale, fishy (a term another adventurer had used, she did not know what fishy smelt like) air did not help improve her mood. Since she'd arrived she'd had notice the air was extremely different here. Death had a particular scent that once you smelt it, you remembered it for the rest of your life. And the Hamlet, was drenched in it.

The rotten smell of the sea (she decided she did not like the scent of the water), the decay of the woods, and the filth of the pigmen combined into a perfume that infested every nook and cranny of this forsaken place.

And there was no reprieve to be had.

She missed the sands of her home far, far to the East. The spices and desert flowers enlivened everything. Even the sandstorms had looked alive with their dust devils and twirling sands (they had always reminded her of dancers). That she'd been forced to flee her home bothered her to no end, but she could never go back.

Amani was property in the East.

And with her missing left hand, she wasn't even valuable property any more. She could no longer dance like she'd had before. She could not hold the veils and the silks like she used to. She was forgetting to mention the real reason she could never go back...

She'd killed the last owner she'd had after he'd sold her to a dangerous man. A depraved madman honestly.

She was not considered human in the East. Her crime carried the death penalty to be exacted immediately upon capture (of course she could be tortured and raped prior to execution if her jailers so pleased, so long as her head was returned to the family of her victim). She would get no mercy, no quarter, no chance to explain. And it was irrevocable.

She pressed her lips together resolutely and made her way towards the barracks. The old man was not much different from the men she'd encountered before. He was mean and nasty, but she'd get him in the end. She'd force him to acknowledge her . It would just take time, and Amani had time.

Once inside the barracks, Amani made her way to a bed in a shadowed corner. It was shocking to her that men and women slept in the same room (it was a large room though and the beds were all singles) but not shocking enough that she'd rather sleep outside. Her nightmares rarely came when she was surrounded by four walls, thus she'd sleep with a werewolf if it meant she slept inside.

"Psst," a distinctly muffled female voice piped up close to her (in the bed next to hers to be exact), "Where are you from?"

Amani turned her head and came face to face with a long beak. She blinked twice.

"The East."

"I thought so," the beak said and then a gloved hand appeared in front, "I am Paracelsus."

"And I, Amani."

"We're going on a scouting expedition tomorrow morn and we could definitely use a big spear and shield with us. Care to join?" she asked and then without pausing for breath continued, "You can keep your loot, and spoils you find, and best part, all you can eat fish!" the doctor giggled.

"I've never had fish," Amani answered truthfully, and if it truly smelled like it did outside she doubted she'd like it. The Doctor stopped laughing and seem to stare at her through her goggles.

"So you'll come then?" She cleared her throat. The old man flashed in her mind, the nasty expression on his face. Amani nodded.

"Yes." She'd throw a bag of treasure at his head (she smiled darkly behind her veil). Proof she wasn't completely incompetent.