CHAPTER 3

A fierce gale stormed its way through the streets of the city. It was a black, clouded night but a gibbous moon could still be discerned with a soft yellow light, made slightly cold and greyish by the clouds. A few stars had decided to brave the gale but they occasionally hid and seemed timid and only winked through shyly. Rain fell in a thick sheet and the tall pine trees in the distance conducted wildly to an orchestra of thunder for the mountains illuminated by lightning in the distance. I stood out on the balcony of the sick bay having sneaked out. I felt like a child. I had to tell people were I was going. I was not allowed outside. They said it was because otherwise I wouldn't get better. What did it matter? I didn't have anything to get better for. My whole life and meaning was slowly being stripped away. They had found the blonde haired girl, but after the Curanque. I had seen them bring her in and demanded to look at her. She wasn't dead, because I had seen her run. I had heard her screams, now I wished I would never have to hear them again, but they played over in my brain. I felt even the storm was echoing her. The rain, also running down my face and the battlements showed the rivulets of panicked tears still marked down her stony cheeks. And the trees that had sheltered her were waving a farewell to her in the wind, flowing among each other and all I could see was pure blonde hair.

My mind was in total turmoil; I was lost and couldn't turn to anyone because no one could know who I was. I had never wanted someone to help me before, but I more than wanted it now. I needed it so badly. I shook my head vigorously. The stone streets below had looked very inviting at one point, but I had changed my mind. I never gave in, and that would be giving in. I would die in battle and no other way. Now I just needed to figure out what to do. I was having doubts about my people. If I were to go back I was not sure I would be able to forget the blonde haired girl. My mind had been exposed to new feelings and I doubted they would be buried easily. I couldn't help thinking about all the girls I had killed over the years. I wondered who had looked on their bodies as I had looked on my girl's. I didn't even know why she was affecting me so much. I had killed my own niece! She was a stranger! But I suppose you can't choose what you feel about who can you? I was experiencing emotions I had never felt before, and I was scared. I made up my mind that I could never go back to the Curanque now. I shook my hair again and raised my face to the rain, revelling in it pouring down on me. I felt it wash me of the battle and my confusion and its steady drumming drowned out my girl's cries.

I felt lighter than I had in a long time. I postponed thinking about what to do and concentrate on getting fit for fighting again. I didn't know what side to choose, but I knew I needed to fight. I still shied away from those I still regarded as unfaithfuls and in conversations I would often find myself having to bite my tongue to keep from screaming out and defending the Curanque in a discussion about the wars, which was often. I had been given a few simple dresses to wear, which felt strange, and I was encouraged to grow my hair again, but I refused. I was not ready to give up everything. My mind was starting to heal and think for itself again nevertheless. I still wore Gwidikista with my dress. I had made a plain belt from the black material of my old cloak and I kept her slung round my waist in her sheath. Newcomers found it strange, but I never took chances. And she was still the one thing I had of proper comfort and I still took the greatest care of her. I also took up my training again, early in the mornings before anyone was awake. I still found myself yearning for that power I had had, and substituted it by destroying smaller things than myself. A fly, or moth, a piece of wood. The months passed and I gradually started becoming accustomed to my new surroundings, my suspicion and wariness I doubted would leave me for a while. Everyone was wondering why the Curanque had not attacked Colhala. Tensions were beginning to run high as people waited for an inevitable attack. I on the other hand knew the invasion would be a long time in coming. Colhala would be saved as the final jewel in the crown, the last piece of bitter sweet revenge. As well as this there was shrewd tactics involved. The master wanted people anxious, as people become nervous arguments break out and discord spreads. He wanted people to be scared, to want the attack to come to end the waiting. He also needed troops. I knew this as I had been a commander and knew of the favourite strategies.

No one outside of the highly trained, skilled and most valued officers, one of whom I had once been, knew the true numbers of the troops. They were surprisingly small. That was one of the reasons we were trained in combat so thoroughly. We could not rely on sheer numbers to win battles, we needed skill. And it worked. We were able to create an illusion to the outside world that we had vast numbers, it was basic psychology. Strike fear into peoples minds, seem invincible, and you have a better chance. That was why we rarely took captives from battle. They all needed to die to enforce our image of power. It was also a custom to retrieve most of our soldiers' bodies from a battleground after the fight, this was partly due to a strong sense of decorum, if not fraternity, but also to make it appear as though we had not lost men. However, we had all known that we would need the huge army we appeared to have if we were to take Colhala. It would take stealth and cunning to breach the walls more than strength, it was true, but once inside we would need the mass of well armed, well trained fighters we claimed to have. Colhala had that army, though maybe not as skilled as ours, but they were better than many and had fantastic weaponry and armour as well as cavalry, infantry, archers and plenty of willing volounteers ready to do service. I kept quiet about this due to a sense of loyalty to the Curanque that had been beaten into me over the years and lingered yet inside.

It was one evening when I was given a second chance. I had been in Colhala some time and was deemed to be officially well again. It was a cold night and I had passed a huge milestone in my head. I had laughed. People take laughing for granted and I didn't even realise what I was missing but I had not laughed properly, not laughed with someone instead of at some victim in two decades. It was a cold night and the chief had decided to have a gathering in the hall to try and relax people and to encourage them to forget the impeding war. Huge fires were dancing in each of the three gigantic fireplaces set in the three of the stone walls and spits rotated in them, with whole carcasses slowly roasting, juices dripping in to the flames. I was getting hungry and starting to feel impatient. I looked over to the platform that was at one end of the hall and saw over the crowd a group of men climb onto it. They struggled up, apparently to lazy to use the small stairs at one side, dragging musical instruments with them. One of them yelled over the noise and everyone turned to look. He grinned out at us, cheeks shiny and red from climbing up, drink and the heat of the crowded room and fire. A few people laughed and cheered. Apparently these men were known in the city. "While we wait for our wonderful, if slightly slow cooks to finish our dinner…" he paused as chuckles were heard throughout the room. I just stopped a smile cracking onto my face. "How about a dance?" There were whoops and people grabbed each other whirling into the spaces between the tables. I slinked back into one of the few dark corners. I had no idea how to dance, nor did I want to. When I saw everyone had a partner I stepped out again, deciding to watch. The man on the stage grinned again, turned and nodded to his band. A fantastic, lively tune sounded out, echoing off the walls, the fast music spun the dancers round in blazes of colour, the slow cooks almost let the meat burn as they turned to watch and laugh. I watched them, the dancers smiling and gasping from exertion as they crashed around the room. A smile crept onto my features and stayed there. I was feeling dizzy just watching them, the musicians were sweating from playing so fast but it looked as though none of the dancers were about to stop first. Everyone was dancing differently, and, dare I say it, slightly dementedly in their wild enthusiasm. Suddenly, a man of elephantine proportions, his legs having the better of him, spiralled out of control and with a look of pure shock as his mouth formed an o, he toppled. His partner tried to grab him as she shrieked in hilarity, but he fell with a resounding almighty crash onto the table (it was a miracle it didn't break in two under the weight!) and into a huge pile of the long awaited meat, complete with honey sauce and trimmings. He sat up in confusion, and looked around dazedly and then he burst out into peals of laughter and proceeded to sample a particularly succulent piece of beef. I grinned at this, but my great moment came as he turned, cheeks full to the cooks and gave them a thumbs up and a wink. I began to laughed along with everyone, the man was helped down and the feast commenced. I passed through it in a daze, the evening dashed by. Once I had started, I laughed the whole way through. It was an amazing feeling; I never thought something so simple could be so wonderful. Now, though I might not have realised, now I was on my way to recovery at last.