Clash of the Geeks (2 page)

The Wee-Tin Rider circled twice, then dove toward him. 

“I am not afraid,” Ilzac said, defiantly. He gripped his axe, and planted his feet.

The Wee-Tin Rider pulled up on the reins, and his mount hissed. “RAWR! PFFT!” It beat its wings, blowing dust and stink into Izlac’s face. He turned away and blinked until his vision had cleared. When he turned back, the Wee-Tin had dismounted and stood next to his UnicornPegasusKitten, stroking its fur.

“Why are you here, Scalzorc?” He demanded.

“Mount Kryuzhire awakens, and the hatch is coming. I am here to battle you for the last UnicornPegasusKitten, as is the tradition between our people.”

The Wee-Tin laughed, a deep, throaty, mocking sound that stirred anger in Izlac’s belly. “You mean you are here to die, like those who came before you!”

Before Izlac could respond, the ground beneath them shook violently, knocking them both off their feet. A mighty cloud of ash exploded from Mount Kryuzhire and turned the sky black. Pyroclastic lightning flashed and forked across and through it. 

“The hatch begins!” Izlac cried, leaping to his feet and charging the Wee-Tin. “Ghlag’ ghee Baâkun!”

•••

In two villages, in two valleys, bound by culture and history, but divided by mountains and an enmity so ancient its origins had long been forgotten, elders looked to the darkening skies as the earth beneath them shook.

Rek folded his arms across his chest and watched the lightning crackle through the spreading cloud. “It has begun.” He looked around to confirm he was alone, and added under his breath, “Fight well, Izlac The Chosen, so that we may see another day.” He spit on the ground, just to be sure.

•••

The Wee-Tin rolled to one side, and stopped against his mount. He tucked his feet beneath him and sprung up in one fluid motion, pulling a spear out of his saddle. Izlac’s momentum carried him past too quickly to swing his axe. He stopped and turned, ready for another attack. The Wee-Tin was waiting for him, arm cocked, spear at the ready.

He threw with such speed and precision, Izlac almost did not get his shield raised in time. He threw with such power, the spear’s tip pushed through the ironwood and into Izlac’s forearm. The pain was sharp and instant, and Izlac did his best to mask his yelp with a roar. The spear tore out of his flesh as he threw his now-useless shield to the ground.

“Come on, ’orc,” the Wee-Tin sneered, “I’ll make your death quick.” He reached into his saddle, and drew a jagged sword, covered with sharp barbs along both sides. “My woman waits for my return. She is hungry, and only I can sate her.”

The ground beneath them shook again, and they both felt the heat of the blast, as bright red magma flew into the sky, darkening as it fell to the ground.

“Then your woman will starve!” Izlac growled and advanced, more carefully this time.

The Wee-Tin met him, sword drawn, and they fought. Steel clashed against steel as the mountains around them rumbled. The UnicornPegasusKitten, sensing the hatch, began to flick its tail. It bared its teeth and released a low, droning call.

The Wee-Tin was strong, and fast. He swung his sword with precision and Izlac struggled to deflect his blows. The Wee-Tin drove Izlac back, away from the UnicornPegasusKitten, toward the Kryuzhire Valley side of the pass. The Wee-Tin’s sword cut into his arms and shoulders, and the Wee-Tin Rider’s eyes grew wild with bloodlust and mania.

The Wee-tin bellowed as he drew back his sword and thrust it toward Izlac in a killing blow. Izlac grunted, deflecting some, but not all, of the blow with his axe handle. A deep gash opened up on his side.

The Rider countered his momentum, drawing himself and his sword back. Before he could strike anew, Izlac swung his axe with all his might. The Wee-Tin caught the head with his sword and pulled Izlac toward him with an evil grin.

As Izlac was yanked forward, he saw his shield on the ground, just past and to one side of The Wee-Tin Rider. Using all of his training, the thousands of hours across the years with Rek ruthlessly, pitilessly, relentlessly testing and drilling him, the years spent without friends, only training—always training—the burden of being Chosen at the cost of his only brother, he flexed his powerful leg muscles and drove The Rider toward it.

Knocked off balance and with his momentum against him, The Rider was pushed easily. Izlac hooked his foot beneath The Rider’s leg, and drove him to the ground. There was a muffled crunch as the shield broke under their combined weight. The smile on The Rider’s face vanished, the mania in his eyes turned to surprise. Izlac lifted himself off of him, and stood over him.

The entire head of The Rider’s own spear stuck out from his chest, pushing the evil grin on his armor into a twisted and grotesque mask. Blood gurgled in The Rider’s mouth, matching the blood that covered the spear and flowed down across him. He gasped through foaming bloody spittle, and clutched at it frantically.

Izlac crouched down, and placed his face close to the dying Rider’s ear. “You can’t has,” he whispered softly, “not yours.”

He left The Rider, and walked to the UnicornPegasusKitten. Its bright green eyes shone with reflected flashes of lightning and fireballs. He stroked the fur at its neck, and unbuckled its saddle. “You will never wear a saddle again. You are no longer a slave; you are a companion.”

The UnicornPegasusKitten, for the moment the last of its kind, began to purr. Izlac climbed onto its back, and coaxed it into flight.

•••

They flew together, into the mouth of the volcano, as the eggs began to burst into the sky. As they reached their zenith, they burst open in a spreading of wings and kicking of hooves. The shells fell to the ground, and the hatchlings began to fly: five, then ten, then a dozen, then two dozen, then a swarm. Izlac flew around them all, through the smoke and fire, the UnicornPegasusKitten calling to them, leading them, coaxing them away from danger—but more importantly, leading them away from the Wee-Tins who would enslave them and use them to destroy the Scalzorcs.

When the hatch was complete, Izlac and his mount flew high over the top of the Firespire Mountains, and into the valley. They landed in the pen, at least three score of them, his entire clan assembled around the fences. He stood there, exhausted and badly wounded, in the place of his Choosing, where his life had been defined and forever changed. Rek emerged from the crowd and walked to him. The crowd fell silent.

Rek bowed to him. “This is why you were Chosen,” he said, simply. Then, turning to the floherd of UnicornPegasusKitten Kittens, who were now rolling on the short grass and purring, he added, “and this is why you are our savior.”

The entire clan cheered, but Izlac felt no joy, just relief.

“I was not afraid,” he said, “just like you taught me.”

He walked across the pen, to find his parents, whom he would see now for the first time since his training began and they had lost both of their children. “I was not afraid.”

The Lay of the Eastern King
Patrick Rothfuss

In the high halls of Hrothgar    

The men make a mead  which they savor slowly

To keep quit of cold.

It’s said south of Samarand

They brew a brown beer    bitter with barley 

Yet hearty and hale. 

There are wines in the west

That Serapha sips    flavored and favored  

By her kin and court.    Heavy and hearth-hot

And sweeter than syrup    they mark a man’s mouth 

With the color of coal. 

But all travelers tell

Of the fields to the east    where wheat grows so golden

It shines like the sun.    This wheat brews a beer

That is better than any,    sweeter than sunlight

And stronger than stone.    A man with a mouthful 

Would never want water,    nor food, nor a woman to liven his bed. 

A sheaf of King’s wheat   is much better bottled

Than wasted by those    who would grind it for bread. 

This king of the east    was well-weighted with wisdom;

He built a broad hearth-hall    with timber and tar. 

He bade all the best men    be brought to his banner

And his sweet wheaten beer    drew the folk from afar. 

Strong was his shield-arm    swift was his spear. 

They called him King Wheaton    in praise of his beer. 

Brave were the thanes    the king gathered around him

Loyal as hearth hounds    and fiercer than fire. 

Faithful they followed him    proud of his prowess. 

Stories they sang    how he had challenged

The dread demon Doramun    though just a boy. 

Vile visaged Doramun    taller than trees 

Strong as a sea-storm   face withered and white. 

Doramun hungered    and men were his meat

The demon devoured them    feasting on foes. 

Seven stout soldiers    had fallen before him 

Yet the young boy-king     stood stalwart and strong. 

Bracing the bright blade    of his steady spear 

So swiftly he struck    that damned Doramun fell

His fierce features fixed    in a grin of surprise. 

He hewed off the head     and created his crest. 

Thereafter the boy bore    the face of his foe

Brightly emblazoned    across his brave breast. 

The Wheaton king’s hearth-hall    was fourfold in fame

For both beer and bravery    known far and wide. 

Later his lady love    joyously joined him. 

Fairest Felicia    who sat at his side.  

But when the lord’s lady    had stayed for her hour

Then taken to bed    like a slow-furling flower. 

After beery and bellowing    songs were all sung. 

And the barrels were barren    straight down to the bung

When firelight flickered    and hearth-hall grew dim

Still waited the fourth fame   and they called on him. 

Scalzi the Sharp-Tongue    was welcomed by Wheaton 

For Scalzi was sceop    strong story-shaper. 

Words were his weapons    and wise men did fear.

Warriors wept    at the weight of his wrath.

No man dared slight him    and oft it was spoken 

By all the King’s thanes    how simpler and safer

To open your veins    than anger the sceop. 

For death from a broad blade    is blessedly brief.

But Scalzi’s sarcasm    would strip you of skin 

It was vicious as venom    that bides in the bite

And follows a man    back to his bed at night. 

The thanes savored Scalzi    for he did delight them.

The stories he spun them    were wicked and wise. 

Though frightful of face    the thanes treasured his tales. 

Still sweeter than stories    was Scalzi’s mad ranting

For when he was angered    the sceop would screed. 

Rage roiled in Scalzi    like sparks in the tinder 

Waiting for wild winds    to fan them to flame. 

When full fury filled him    he harrowed the hearth hall

His temper a tempest    scathing his speech. 

Laughed they all loudly    at his wicked word-work

For this the thanes thanked him    and praises they’d sing. 

They hailed him as screedling    and valued his venom

And none loved him more    than the wise Wheaton King

Night upon night    the hearth-hall was happy

When given a subject   then Scalzi would screed 

Venting his venom    at his king’s command. 

Marveled the men    so sharp his sarcasm

So bitter the bile    he would loose for his liege. 

None of them wondered    why rage roiled within him. 

Silent was Scalzi     of what his heart held. 

Love longing filled him    for fairest Felicia 

For his lord’s loving lady    his secret heart swelled. 

•••

Faint flickered firelight    late lay the hour  

All hearts were heavy   for early that evening 

Wheaton warred with his lady    and his mood was sour. 

He sang out for Scalzi    demanding a screed. 

Said, “Sceop speak!    My wrath is waxing 

But I’m wanting for words    that can cut like a knife. 

My mood is most maudlin,    speak sharply for me 

On what woe is woman    both wanton and wife.”

The hearth hall held hundreds    and they leaned to listen

Grimly they grinned    all hoping to hear 

The wrath and the wit    of Scalzi the Screedling 

Porclaim his word-work    in King Wheaton’s ear. 

The sceop stood slowly    and with no small stagger. 

For Scalzi was bold    when it came to his beer. 

He’d broached his own barrel    and battled it bravely 

And all through the night    he had shown it no fear. 

Soused was the sceop    as he slurred to a start: 

Women were wicked.    Woe to the wise man

Trusting their treachery    weak to their wiles. 

Fie to their fickleness.    Fainting and frail. 

Weeping and whining    seducing with smiles. 

The thanes were a thunder    loud was their laughter

Scathing was Scalzi    as he slurred their sex:

Hard-hearted harlots    teasing and tawdry 

Shrewish and shrill    save for one who was sweet.

Faces all false    all painted with promise 

But rare was the woman    who was truly fair. 

Skin soft as sighing    cool cream in color 

Feathered with freckles.    Henna’d her hair 

Shining like sunset    all dappled with shadow.

Eyes light with laughter   lovely as lapis. 

Lips sweet with smiling    your fair flower-mouth     

Is palest of pinks    and all petal-perfect.

Your lips curve with kindness    calling for kisses.

Fair Felicia!    

Silent the sceop.    Hushed is the hall. 

Wrathful was Wheaton    full fury did fill him 

His hand held the haft     of his strong-shafted spear. 

His thanes they restrained him    and spoke of the land-law