Title-- The Demon-God of Jubagh (part ten)
Rating and Warnings-- PG-13; violence.
Species and Characters-- Rai Gerring, defected black magician (human male); Brandon "Exile" Styhan, exiled paladin-warrior (human male); Lhafa Softstep, native guide (baghan woman); the Rockhide tribe (baghans).
Previously-- Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven, Part Eight, Part Nine.



The forest was empty of other baghans as she prowled among the trees, walking on low boughs and fallen logs to avoid the noisy undergrowth. It hadn't rained recently, so the bark was dry and provided good traction for sharp-edged hooves. She was swift and quiet as she trotted along, the little clothing she wore never catching on grasping twigs and thorny brambles.

She had taken the territory marker down; the blue-painted blade stayed close to her body, held carefully by the blunt edge. Even the sharper edge could barely scratch the small hooves tipping her fingers, but it could still do damage to flesh or foliage, and so she had taken it. It had no hilt, but she wouldn't need it long enough for that to matter.

A slim, straight sapling caught her eye, and she dropped off the log on which she'd been running, landing lightly on crumbling soil. She knelt at the base of the tree and hacked it down, catching it before it could make more noise than a light rustle of leaves. Quickly, casting wary glances around her, she proceeded to strip the branches from the trunk and cut it so that it was as long as she was tall, roughly sharpening both ends to jagged, splintered points. The entire process took only a handful of minutes.

She stood again, casting the painted blade away and kicking the branches over it. I was unarmed!, she had protested when her ability to hold her own had been questioned. Never before in her life had a holy man doubted her. It was shameful and insulting, but he was an outlander, and so she would forgive his ignorance. She had not said she'd stay behind; she had merely ended the argument before such a promise could be wrenched from her.

But she was armed now, albeit crudely. She leapt onto the log that served as a piece of her path and resumed moving forward, the cut sapling solid in her hand. It wasn't balanced enough to be a spear, the base thicker and heavier, and it made a poor staff, but it was better than nothing. She kept trotting, switching from dry log to wide branch to mossy boulder to broken log again. The Rockhides had set up their territory well, felling the largest trees and laying them out as a discreet pathway. It was an effective deterrent against non-baghans, especially most predators, but she could use their roads as easily as they.

In the distance, a roar rose up from three-score throats in unison, shouting and howling. Had her detour taken longer than she thought, or did the outlanders pick up the pace after they were out of her sight? She quickened her gait into a run, maintaining her balance with tail and makeshift staff. After a moment's hesitation, she angled her path towards the rear of the noise, on the opposite side of where she judged the outlanders would be. She was not the holy man's warrior, and so she had no need to stand at his side - but it tasted bitter like betrayal all the same.

She slowed as she realized that she would have to make her way through the Rockhide village if she wanted to come behind the warriors. The women, children, and elders there were not fighters, but they would have arrows and fishing spears - enough to stop her. She circled back towards the flank of the quieted mass, straining her ears. There were voices talking - the two holy men, the Rockhide and the outlander. She caught the name of Zeh Gurhai and heard the gathered warriors hiss and mutter. That hadn't been a wise admission.

She reached treeline just as the shadows around her came alive and snaked forward; a light was burning where the outlanders stood, and she managed to squint past the radiance to see the dark silhouette of the robed man. They stood together, and it surprised her. Would they fight, if they survived the tribe's warriors?

"You are no spirit warrior!" the Rockhide holy man shouted, pointing an accusing finger at the robed man. She blinked; he had lied? "You have no spirit warrior! You are dishonored!" he yelled to the holy man, who was glowing golden from head to boot, one hand upraised.

"That is a lie!" she found herself shouting in turn, leaping from the writhing shadows and holding her weapon aloft. "I am here!" It was a foolish move; the Rockhide spirit warriors focused on her, and there were four of them. Spirit warriors fought each other, and then would attack the holy man of their enemies. This battle would, at least, keep with tradition in that way.

"You are shamed to be the warrior of an outlander, Softstep!" the Rockhide holy man snarled, scowling blackly at her from his place in the front ranks. "Your death will be unsung, your body cast away for the animals to desecrate." His words held the ring of a curse.

"With all due respect, holy one," the robed man called evenly, "you have other things to worry about than how you might dispose of a body. Especially considering that she will not be the one killed." The shadows of the baghans began to writhe, rising like living things from the ground and wrapping tendrils around legs and tails. Warriors shrieked and bellowed, trying ineffectually to stab the darkness with their spears.

Unaffected by shadowplay, the spirit warriors were still focused on her, moving gracefully through their fellows. They had fine weapons and were not tired; they knew every inch of this land, and their holy man was already feeding their talismans with powerful magic. She thought about the talisman that was nestled against her chest, hidden by her vest, and knew that the strength in it was limited, exhaustable, unlike that of her opponents.

She whispered a prayer to the spirits of her own lands, far away, then hefted her makeshift spear. The four other warriors actually gave pause, looking around and behind her expectantly. "You are alone here, Softstep?" one asked.

"I am," she confirmed.

The speaker eyed the sapling-turned-weapon. "You carved your weapon from our lands?"

"I did." She waited, half-crouched, ready.

The speaker turned and gestured for two of her companions to step back, leaving only her and one other warrior. "This is fair, then," she stated calmly. Their talismans were aglow with life, and Lhafa's own was dim. They would be stronger, faster, more agile.

Past them, she could see the tribe desperately battling their own shadows. The Rockhide holy man was trying to aid them, but he was hard-pressed to pull his attention away from the white fire ringing him; the flames roared higher with each moment he took to weaken the shadows. The outlanders could not be seen past the light and darkness that wreathed their bodies.

The speaker lunged, her spear dancing out as though a test; Lhafa batted it aside and stepped well within range, sweeping the heavier end of her staff towards the Rockhide's body. Rather than dodge, the speaker attempted to parry - but the sapling was twice as heavy as a normal spear, and the parry only resulted in a messy gash across her chest.

The other warrior leapt in, moving more gracefully but cautiously as the speaker stumbled backwards with a stifled yelp. She and Lhafa exchanged blows, the weight of the sapling countered by the speed of the lighter spear. It was only the very beginning of the battle, calm and smooth as it should be, and Lhafa could feel her lungs begin to protest the exertion. She hadn't slept in two days, nor had she paused more than a moment or two to rest. The Rockhides would easily wear her down and kill her.

So, she broke the pattern. She allowed the other warrior's spear to bite into her flank, a shallow but painful cut, in order to have the space to ram her sapling-spear into the other woman's body. A startled shout arose from the two spectators as Lhafa kicked the dying baghan off her weapon and whirled in time to block the speaker's attack and move backwards. Blood flowed freely, staining white-silver and mottled-brown fur, as the two spirit warriors faced each other.

"You are a disgrace," the speaker growled, her blood-soaked talisman burning redly against her collarbone.

Lhafa didn't smile or argue. "I will not die easily," she replied. Her own talisman was throbbing like a living heart, beating in time with her body's pulse. The speaker opened her mouth to retort and Lhafa sprang, kicking aside the other woman's spear and ripping the splintered tip of her own weapon through the Rockhide's throat. Red liquid spattered her face as the speaker fell, and the Softstep turned to face the remaining two.

They looked shocked at her brutality, the younger one almost seeming afraid. "Will you fight me?" Lhafa asked them quietly, her side burning as blood ran a crimsom river down her leg.

The spirit warriors exchanged glances, and the older spoke. "I will fight you, but she will not. She is too young. Do you understand?"

"I do," Lhafa said gravely. The youth dropped her spear and fled, leaving only the other to begin pacing forward, spear held at the ready. Lhafa focused on her breathing as she lifted her weapon and circled to the right.

They clashed: once, twice, thrice, and as the Rockhide drew her spear's blade into Lhafa's upper arm, the light-furred baghan kicked out. Cloven hooves sank into a soft stomach, and the other warrior crumpled with a gasping groan. Lhafa knocked the woman unconscious with the blunt length of her weapon, then glanced towards the rest of the battle as she struggled to catch her breath.

Both holy men had fallen, and the robed man alone stood against the remainder of the tribe's enraged warriors.