Black Leopard, Red Wolf

He squeezed the cloth but did not smell it, held it away from his nose and caught the King sister, her eyes wide, waiting. He threw the cloth away. They covered the cage again. When he woke in the throne room, he knew sleep had taken him for days. That they must have put him under wicked vapors or sleeping magic. The room had more light than before but still it was dark. She sat on her throne, the same women behind her, guards at both walls, and an old woman, her face white, walking towards him. They had left his hands free, but put a copper collar that felt like tree bark around his neck. Two guards stood behind him, moving nearer as he tried to walk.

“I make you an offer again, Tracker. Find my boy. Do you not see that he needs to be saved? Do you not see that he is blameless?”

“Only days ago you said, I shall not let you near him,” he said.

“Yes, near. Seems the Tracker is the only man who knows how to get near my son.”

“That is no answer.”

“Maybe I appeal to the very heart that seeks revenge. An appeal is of the heart too.”

“No. You’ve run out of men. Now you ask the man sworn to kill him.”

“When did you swear? To whom? This must be one of those things that men say, like when he says this is the best, but this is my favorite. I have never believed in oaths or in men who swear by them. I want your word that should I release you, you will find my son and bring him back to me. Kill the monster if you must.”

“You have an infantry. Why not send them?”

“I have. Hence my asking you. I could have ordered you. I am your queen.”

“You are no Queen.”

“I am Queen here. And when the wind in these lands turns I will be the mother of a king.”

“A king you have lost twice.”

“So find him for me. How can I mend your sorrow? I cannot. But I have known loss.”

“Have you?”

“Of course.”

“Then it pleases my heart to know. Tell me now that I am not the only one to come home to find his son with half of his head missing. Or just the hand of another son. Or him most dear with a hole where his chest and belly used to be. Or maybe hanging from—”

“Are we to compare loves murdered and children butchered? This is where you will judge to see if you are better than me?”

“Your child was just hurt.”

“My other children were murdered by my brother.”

“Shall we compare so you can come out victorious?”

“I never said this was a contest.”

“Then stop trying to win.”

He said nothing.

“Will you find your King?”

He paused. Waited. Knew she expected him to wait, to pause, to think, to even struggle within the head, then come to a decision.

“Yes,” he said.

The old woman looked up at him and tilted her head as if that was the way to know a person true.

“He lies. There is no question he will kill him,” she said.

He elbowed the guard behind him in the nose, pushed him away, grabbed and pulled out the guard’s sword, and stabbed it deep in its master’s belly. He ducked without looking, knowing the other guard would go for the neck. The guard’s sword cut through air above his head. He swung from below and chopped him in the calf. The guard fell and he shoved the sword in his chest, then took his sword too. More guards all stepped out as if they had popped out of the wall. Two came at him first and he became Mossi, he of the two swords, from the East, who never visited him in mind or spirit since he wrote in his own blood in the dirt. Mossi did not visit him now; Tracker just thought of him standing on rocks, practicing with swords. He kicked the first guard in the balls, jumped on him when he fell, leapt at two other guards, knocked away their spears with his left sword, and sliced one in the belly with the right sword and chopped the other in the shoulder. But hark, his back burst with blood and the guard who slashed him charged. He rolled out of the guard’s second strike. The guard swung again, but he hesitated—on orders not to kill, this was clear. The guard paused too long; Tracker’s sword went right through him.