streaked past, and part of him wanted to cry out for assistance. But another part overruled. The prince was wide-eyed, but there was something else there too. When the heir of Delfinia spoke, he recognised the sub-text. Was it really sub-text? It didn’t matter. Not really.
“Flee Kantal. Flee. They are coming.”
Yes, indeed they were. He grinned, and then he turned to face his destiny. The anger inside him swelled, and then it flourished. He would be needing that.
________
This was what he’d always been meant for. But he’d only known that recently. He was an anomaly, and he was here to fight the odds. Death was a certainty, but the timing of death wasn’t. That was what he could change. He would control the date of his death, or at the very least, he would bring forward that of another’s. He faced the Grey and he dreamed of victory.
Because you couldn’t beat a mandahoi, until you believed. And he now believed. His moment was here.
Arrows still punctured the fog, but he ignored the interruption. This was between him and the Grey; nothing else would get in the way. The battle was lost – it always was against the Mandari – but he would have his victory. His moment of notoriety. He looked on with manic intent edging his gaze, and he snarled. The anger of a life long-suffered balled in his stomach, and he fed on that emotion. He would be needing that.
Because you couldn’t beat a mandahoi, unless you had the will. And his will was more than that. It was obsession.
Flight was the other option of course, but what option was that? Flight only brought more of the same: an existence of scrabbling indifference; a life of squalid nothingness. And he was here to protect the prince, so what sort of fulfilment would flight be? No. To run was to embrace his past, and he was not prepared to do that. He had always eyed the future because of what it offered. It offered hope, and that could drive a man to greatness.
And you couldn’t beat a mandahoi without it.
He stood firm despite the chaos. What good has ever come from flustering hands? But within the pit of his stomach, his anger boiled. It was controlled, pliant and extractable, but it was definitely there. It was fuelling the determination that drove him on. It was the engine behind his abilities, and it was well oiled today.
Because you couldn’t beat a mandahoi unless you had the tools. And he now had the tools. They were intended for nothing else.
He gazed upon his great-sword, knuckles white with his affection for her. And damn she was a great sword. He marvelled at the glorious multi-coloured smirk of the weapon, smiling at the waves of her construction. She was a beautiful thing, made by the hands of his hateful father, and she was a clone of her enemy’s weaponry. Maybe even better. Born of Mandari steel to defeat the Mandari scourge. His weapon was a true cannibal in the making. But that was required. No, more than that. It was a minimum.
After all, you couldn’t beat a mandahoi without harnessing their world. And he had immersed himself in it.
Time ticked abrasively by. He lusted after the moment of his becoming, and his foot tapped to the beat of his heart. What had brought him here? What had led him to the brink of madness? A great woman once said that: ‘Anything could be solved by curiosity’. Well, this was the culmination of endorsing that philosophy. On this field, facing death. It didn’t bear thinking about, but then the best things in life were rarely understood. Instinct was the only true guide.
Because you couldn’t beat a mandahoi without curiosity, and he had questioned all his life.
But his prince had brought him here too, and he had to smile at the fortune of that. He looked to his superior and tried to break down the mixed emotions that the prince betrayed.
“Get out of here you fool!” He dismissed the prince’s words with a tilting of his head. He didn’t truly mean that. Surely the prince knew exactly why he’d come here? And wasn’t that encouragement in the man’s eyes? Without his intervention the prince was doomed, and that was really all that mattered. It was as simple as that.
Because you couldn’t beat a mandahoi without a purpose, and now he had that purpose. His prince had given it to him.
He turned back to his destiny, and sought the comfort that he would take into battle. Every moment that he’d spent training swam through his mind, and his muscles twitched expectantly. He could feel the flow of the fight already. It would be tough. But there was always a way. There had to be a way – had to be – and if it was there, he would find it. The battle was lost and the Grey would be scouring the field of detritus. And here he was, waiting to shred the cloth.
Because you couldn’t beat a mandahoi without the element of surprise, and standing firm was greatest surprise of all.
Two allies burst from the vapid blanket, pursuing the logical course of flight. He ignored their warning cries, and he only vaguely recognised one of the two being dropped by a burrowing arrow. But there was nothing he could do for them. They would only distract his focus. He was here for a greater purpose, and he had to stay on course.
Because you couldn’t beat a mandahoi without a singular determination; and he had only one purpose.
And they were coming. The shadow in the fog was deepening, and the form of the Grey was approaching fullness. The last fleeing ally grunted past, but nothing would detract him now. He was approaching the moment. His moment. He ground his shoulders by rotating them, loosening himself to the flow of his anger. Death was here, the stuff of nightmares and the eternal rot. But he was wise to the challenge.
The Mandahoi were upon him, but he was an anomaly. The world changed here.
It burst from the eddies of fog, and for just the briefest moment, the Plague seemed mortal. Grey clothed; bare arms; a hood. You could not trust a man in a hood, and he gritted his teeth. Confidence oozed from the approaching mandahoi, but he was a man nonetheless; a man with a mastery in killing. But he too was a master, and he saluted his enemy with a dip of his great-sword. It was almost time.
Because you couldn’t beat a mandahoi without the Father on your side. And despite the animosity, his father had made his blade.
But then the odds grew longer. Two further mandahoi melted into existence and stalked forward. They had equal purpose in their form. The first was almost upon him, coming to make his acquaintance, coming to ply his trade. A tremor of nerves fluttered, but he did not falter. The infusion of his body was complete, the chaos was consumed, and his purpose was set. All his life had been moving towards this moment, and now it was here. Now it was here. He smiled at death itself.
And then he recalled the words: even you couldn’t beat a mandahoi. Here, now, he was chasing the impossible goal. But what if it was just that; impossible? He had never considered failure before, but the steel dance was about to start, and it burst into his head. That was the problem with uncertainty – only the Father had the answers. He looked to the sky, searching for the approval of the gods, but there was nothing to be seen but the bank of fog. If he was going to do this, then he was going to do this alone.
After all, that had always been his way.
________
His hand clawed at the dry earth, the tips of his fingers stinging where he’d scraped them raw. But that was the least of his problems. The spearing sensation would just not abate. It turned out that steel in the gut was just as painful as it looked.
“Arrgh!” The punishment flooded his body and his back arced. It was punishment because he’d faced the ridiculous, and this was the price. A part of him thought he was foolish, but another part soothed that concern away. It had been the only thing to do.
The shooting agony eased, and his body flopped in response. He opened his barely functioning eyes, noting the sight before him. There was assistance there. Salvation perhaps. His prince was still alive, still trapped beneath his dying mare, but the tide had now turned. His master was the strength, and he was the weakness. He was dragging himself towards a meagre san
ctuary, and he was dragging himself to his…
Could he call the prince a friend? Certainly not, that was too strong, but he was dragging himself to the only place he now had. He needed help, and the prince seemed to have been there recently. Only here and now, they were alone. So utterly alone. What could the prince realistically do?
The taste like rust in his mouth made him retch, but he resisted, tonguing the acid to the back of his mouth. His wounded stomach scraped across the parched earth, and again he all but vomited. It took an almighty effort to stop himself – a strength of will that he barely had left in him. His jerking motion dislodged something from the crease about his tongue, and he shifted it around his stained mouth. And given the taste, it could be only one thing; flesh. They didn’t tell you about that in the books.
The prince looked at him, sorrow in those eyes even despite the heir’s own predicament. But he was now the weakness, and the prince was his hope. The flesh in his mouth forced another heave, and he ejected the offending item involuntarily. A tooth went with it. He checked with his tongue and confirmed. The second upper right incisor was gone. And he’d always been so proud of his fine teeth.
His head left him, a symbolic grey haze shrouding his senses. When it cleared, he was face first in the dirt. His tongue was in contact with