Chapter 22

Novemeber 15th, 2020

Zechariah wandered through the streets and alley for a while, partly to think, partly, because with the tall buildings and tight winding streets, he couldn't seem to find his way out and back to the main street. The Red Haired Woman. He rubbed his forehead in tired frustration. He was a fool to have chased her into the Barrens, and a fool doubly more so for what he was considering doing next. He wanted to go find her. He felt like he needed to. There was this...burning in his chest. This itching in his feet. Like he had to keep moving. But where to? She likely wasn't with Ghabar Rijali any more, and the chances of finding anyone here in Sumud who was going to help him travel to Uthar was next to nothing. He kicked at the sands in frustration. Being pressed into service was bad enough. Having to do so on the front lines of a war with minimal martial training? It was suicide. No...it was murder. Sirpa cared nothing for them, and she was going to get them killed. Even with the Ghabar Rijali reinforcements, it was only a matter of time before Draconian reinforcements arrived, and then it would be too late. They a far shorter distance to march to siege Sumud than Uthar did to reinforce it. Sumud was lost, and so was the rest of Umar.

The brief moment of relief he found as he stumbled back onto the main road, was quickly lost. Heading towards the keep, a figure detached itself from the shadows of an alley before him. Khayrat strode into the center of the road, a quarterstaff held in one hand. Stopping, he stared blankly at Zechariah. His blood ran cold. Surely...he wouldn't try to kill him? Not here, in broad daylight?

“Khayrat...” Zechariah began, hoping he could somehow talk some sense into him or, at the very least, talk his way out of this. “Listen. There's n...” He was cut short as Khayrat tossed the staff to Zechariah with a firm throw. Zechariah caught it deftly, the weight of the wood in his hand a familiar weight, similar to a shepherds crook, or a scythe handle, though scythes were far unbalanced towards the head. “Khayrat. I'm not going to fight you.”

It didn't matter. Khayrat was going to fight him. Unarmed, Khayrat strode toward him, his eyes dark, and his steps firm with determination. He approached quickly and the faint idea Zechariah had of tossing down the staff quickly faded as his hands tightened around the wooden shaft, knuckles turning white. He took a stance that Nawfa had taught him, lower to the ground, nimble, and he held the staff at the ready. Waiting for Khayrat to approach, Zechariah calmed his racing heart with slow breaths, but began to panic suddenly when Khayrat suddenly burst into a sprint, charging right at him. Zechariah brought his staff back, waiting to strike Khayrat.

Khayrat crouched low just outside of Zechariah's reach and lept at him. Zechariah swung his staff hard, catching Khayrat left arm that was raised in a defensive block. He felt his hands jar as the staff cracked against Khayrat's arm, and then felt Khayrat's knee drive through the tangle of Zechariah's arms and blast the wind out of him as she slammed his knee into Zechariah's chest, knocking him down onto the floor.

Zechariah gasped for breath, and scrambled away from Khayrat, stumbling to his feet and spinning around as he grabbed up the staff again, expecting another attack. Khayrat stood a short way off looking at his left hand as it shook. He opened his fist stiffly, his fingers trembling, then clasped it into a tight fist again. The blow on his arm must have hurt quite a bit, but so did Zechariah's chest. He felt like his whole core was bruised, he wondered if his ribs were fractured as each breath he managed to gasp was sheer pain. Khayrat looked form his hand to Zechariah, and began to advance once more. Panting, Zechariah readied himself again.

Khayrat strode straight at him again, this time at a slower pace, but none the less determined. As he came within reach, Zechariah stepped forward and swung his staff again. Once to the same arm, but Khayrat ducked low, rising up within Zechariah's reach. He tried to bring the staff back down across his back, and step way but Khayrat raised both hands. With his right, he blocked Zechariah's strike, and with his left, he slammed a fist into Zechariah's ribs. Zechariah stumbled back. He was sure it wasn't as bad as it felt, but he was also sure that Khayrat hadn't gotten as solid a hit as he'd hoped.

Stumbling back into his stance, Zechariah readied his weapon again, but paused. This time, he gripped the staff with both hands at one end, and raised the staff high above his head. Kharyat looked at him with a look of utter disbelief and mockery. Shaking his head, Khayrat lept forward, charging once again into the fray, keeping low, ready to dodge Zechariah's blow. Zhechariah stepped forward flexing his muscles, bringing the staff down. Khayrat dodged to the left and was grinning as he swung a fist up to Zechariah's solar plexus, but his grin turned to shock, as Zechariah's fist slammed down against Khayrat's face first, knocking him off balance. As Khayrat had stepped to dodge an attack, Zechariah followed through with his feint. He stopped bringing the staff down and instead released it with one hand and flung all his strength into a back hand that met Khayrat square in the face.

Zechariah's hand burst with pain and he was almost equally as shocked as Khayrat was that it had worked. Khayrat stumbled into him, and tripped over Zechariah's foot, sending him sprawling onto the sands. Thinking quickly, Zechariah regained his composure and stepped towards Khayrat crying out fiercely as this time, he did swing the staff down with both hands. Khayrat rolled towards Zechariah, managing to avoid the worst of the blow and though he raised both his arms to block Zechariah's attack he cried out in pain as the staff bore down upon his arms. Zechariah moved to kick him in the side, but Khayrat grabbed hold of his leg and pulled him off balance, sending Zechariah careening over him.

Stumbling hard, he caught himself on the wall of a building, and quickly turned to face Khayrat, to see him throwing himself at Zechariah. He tried to raise the staff but was too slow as Khayrat deftly took hold of his arms and twisting them in a painful way, disarmed him. The staff went flying out of Zechariah's grasp and he gasped as Khayrat, using the wall as support, turned Zechariah into a punching bag, slamming his fists into Zechariah's chest over and over with furious speed for a brief moment. Being winded for the second time, Zechariah doubled over and fell at Khayrat's feet, gasping for breath, holding his aching ribs, his eyes watering with pain. Khayrat kicked the staff up into his hands deftly and winced as he caught it, his arms smarting painfully. He slammed one end of the staff into the sand in front of Zechariah's nose, and squatted before him.

“There are...two reasons you live.” He panted heavily. “One, is because...I respect you Zechariah. You fought...far better than I expected any farmer to and,” He stopped as he inhaled deeply, Zechariah still gasping on the floor, “from what Nawfa says, although naive, you handled the horrors of the Barrens well.” Zechariah managed to get a breath and sucked air in hungrily, gasping with audible groan. “The second reason...is because Nawfa asked me not to. But...” He said looking into Zechariah's eyes. “If I hear that you have slept with her ever again, I will kill you both.” With that, he stood up tossing the staff before Zechariah, and walked back to the Keep. Zechariah rolled over in the sands, panting heavily, his whole body felt bruised and protested in pain. It had been such a brief encounter, but he already felt exhausted.

Slowly, sat up and lent against the wall of a building and watched Khayrat leave. “I'l...I'll fuck whoever I goddamn want to!” He shouted after Khayrat in anger but immediately felt foolish for saying it. What was he? A child? From the sound beating and apparent 'naivety' that other's saw in him, he supposed he was. He knocked his head against the wall of building gritting his teeth. He was tired of this. Tired of being useless. Tired of being weak. Maybe being pressed into the army was actually good for him? If it didn't just get him killed that is. The least he could have done is break an arm. That way, at least I... The thought died in his mind as a plan began to form. One that just might save him. Getting up from where he sat, his heart began to race once more. Grabbing up the quarterstaff, he laid his arm upon a small wall nearby and, taking a deep breath, he brought the staff down upon his arm.

“You what!” Sirpa roared at him. “Are you really that stupid? Here I am, trying to save Umar from complete annihilation, and you're fucking the wives of our most powerful allies!”

Zechariah cringed, not particularly because of the beratement. He'd expected that. It was more because this was going to be associated with the memory of his first time. Having his sexual actions shouted across a room of bystanders. “I'm sorry sir.” He said, wishing he could sink into depths of Gorgoth's Maw.

“Sorry isn't good enough! You deserve more than a sound beating for what you did. I swear by Almaran, if this has any major impact on our relations with the Ghabar Rijali, you'll be the first to be disciplined. Do you understand!”

“Yes sir.”

Sirpa flopped down in her seat, her armor clinking loudly. It must be horribly uncomfortable in that armor, but she had to set an example to the others, especially in a time of war. “So Khayrat gave you a sound beating for fucking his wife, and broke your arm in the scuffle?”

“Yes sir.” Zechariah said avoiding her eyes. He hoped she would take it as shame, and not see through the deceit.

“Get to the med wing and have a physician inspect it. You're only out of training if I get a report from one of them. But as soon as you can wield a sword properly, you're going right into training. Now get out of here.” She said with a scowl, dismissing him. He bowed to her, and left the room quickly.

November 16th, 2020

All things considered, he was lucky it had gone as well as it had. Sirpa was an ill tempered commander. Who knew how long she had been banished to this forsaken assignment? Could have been many revolutions. Banished from home, from honor, from a job she loved. She had become as harsh and furious as the Barrens themselves. Still...she could learn a bit of tact. Squeezing past a soldier he brushed his arm up against a door and sucked air in through his teeth. Korvic's axe that hurt. He wasn't entirely sure he hadn't broken his arm. It was swollen, and bruising badly, deep purples and blacks. It certainly looked broken, if not bent in the wrong ways.

“Zechariah!” A voice called out to him somewhat astonished. He turned and saw Nawfa pushing her way towards him. “Oh by Al'harrabu...you look awful.” Her brow furrow, guilt written all over her face. “Oh Zechariah, I am so sorry. I thought he would listen. I know this is what you feared, and yet I continued to tempt you.”

Zechariah smiled weakly, “I've heard about people getting sore from sex but I didn't think it'd be this bad.” She didn't smile, the guilt weighing too heavily on her. “Nawfa, he did listen. He didn't kill me after all.”

“He might as well have! Look at what he did to your arm! Crippling a man is as good as a death sentence.” She placed a hand gingerly upon his swollen right arm, and another upon his left shoulder, it looked like there were tears coming to her eyes.

Zechariah looked around quickly and, seeing no one present, he lent in whispering, “Nawfa...Khayrat didn't do this to me. Well, he did this,” he clarified gesturing to the rest of his bruises, “but he didn't break my arm. It's not broken. I...I did this to myself.”

“W-why?” She asked bewildered, stepping back a bit.

Zechariah sighed. He really didn't want to tell her but, he felt he ha dno way around it. “I can't be pressed into service Nawfa. It's not that, well, I suppose it is.” He paused trying to find his words. “I'm not a coward Nawfa, but do you really think Sirpa will put the time or effort in to training us? A bunch of traders and farmers? Even if she does, we'll die in the first battle. More likely than not, she'll put us in the vanguard and we'll be dead in the first moment of combat.”

Nawfa looked at him with a critical eye. “I don't really blame you Zechariah, but that does sound cowardly though you clam it isn't due to cowardice.”

He ran his good hand over his face. “I'm not meant to be here. I came looking for someone, and...” He trailed off seeing the look in her eyes. “Nawfa...”

“I understand.” She said coldly. “You were always after her in the end, weren't you?” They stood in silence for a moment. She, waiting for him to explain himself. He, trying to find the right words. He took too long. “I wish you luck Zechariah.” She said, and turned away.

Damnit! Why couldn't he find the words to say? Why couldn't he help her understand what this meant to him. But he knew why. It was because there were no words to say. He knew what he was doing, and how it selfish it was. But she was being a hypocrite anyway. Her, of all people, being mad that he might want to love two women, when she has several husbands herself!

His mood soured. Now it soured. Not having the wind knocked out of him several times. Not being publicly humiliated. Now he was mad. By the gods he hated himself. Brow furrowed, head low, he marched through the halls trying to find the physicians wing. After several awkward encounters in which he asked for directions, he finally made it, and flung open the door with more vigor than he had intended. It banged against the wall loudly as he stopped in the door way, eyes closed, taking a deep breath.

“Was that really necessary young man?” Said an elderly gentleman making his way over to Zechariah. “Really. This is a physician's ward. There are people trying to rest here.” He chastised in a firmly quiet voice, without any hint of hostility. Simply telling off an unruly child.

“I'm sorry meister.” He mumbled quietly. “I didn't intend to open it with such force.”

The old man nodded quietly. “Apology accepted. Now come young man, and take a seat. It seems like you have seen the losing end of quite the fight.” He lead him over to a bed. “Now, take off your clothes young man, so I can inspect the extend of the damage.”

Zechariah quietly complied, stripping down. The man gingerly poked and prodded at his bruises, on his chest mainly, some on his arms and face, thighs and shins from when he'd been thrown. He looked worse than he felt. The old man called to a nurse quietly, asking form tinctures and balms that Zechariah didn't understand. She brought them over along with bandages. “So, what ever did you do to deserve a beating like this? Sleep with another man's wife?” He asked seemingly absent-mindedly.

Zechariah paused for a bit, somewhat surprised. “Yes, actually. How'd you know?”

The old man just nodded simply and continued working. After a few minutes he answer, “Not much else that gets a man beat like that. Sex or money and, considering your clothes, scars and mannerisms, I'm guessing your not a solider, which means you're a peasant, which means your beating was unlikely to be related to money.”

Zechariah stepped away from the man with rising suspicion. “How did you know all that? Who are you?”

The old man looked up at him with tired eyes. “I am Asa, Meister physician here in Sumud.”

“But...how?” Zechariah asked incredulously.

“Practice I suppose.” He gestured for Zechariah to step forward again, to which Zechariah complied.

“Why end up here? In Sumud?” Zechariah asked as the man applied balms to his wounds with a very practiced hand.

“Some people don't like it when other people can see through their deceit.” He offered up no further information, and Zechariah felt as though it was a subject which he shouldn't press. Eventually, as he bandaged Zechariah up, he got to his bruised and swollen arm. Holding his elbow and his wrist, he moved his arm around. It hurt and smarted, but more so when he prodded the bruise itself. He inspected it carefully, taking his time. Eventually he said, “Good news is it isn't broken. You might have lost some sensitivity, it's quite the beating. Honestly, I'm surprised the bone is okay. But you should be be healthy and fit soon as the bruising wears off.”

Zechariah's heart began to race. “Um...are you sure? Are you sure it isn't broken?” The man looked up at him with a somewhat accusatory look in his eye. “I mean, it's just that, it's quite swollen. How can you be sure the bone is fine?”

“You trying to dodge something hmm?” Asa asked his eyes narrowing.

“N-no.” He began to panic. Why did it have to be such a practiced old crow? “W-well...” He tried to find a convincing lie but knew that the man was looking right through him. He deflated and sat on the bed.

“You best tell me whats what young man.”

“Sirpa is drafting me and the others prisoners tomorrow. I thought that maybe, if my arm got 'broken' in a fight, that I wouldn't qualify.

“I've seen a thousand men in your exact same position. You think that none of them wanted out either?”

“I'm not sure I'm legally allowed to be drafted!” Zechariah exclaimed frustrated. “I'm not even Umarian! I'm Norgrathian!”

“But you live inside the Umarian borders?” Asa asked.

“Yes.” Zechariah said in defeat.

Asa took Zechariah's arm and began to apply a balm to it. Zechariah gritted his teeth and winced, forcing his arm to stay motionless as the man did his work. “Unfortunately for you then, you qualify for the draft. Which means trying to avoid the draft, is a criminal offense.” He said calmly as he applied the bandages.

Zechariah's eyes widened and he began to protest. “No no no. I'm not trying to avoid the draft. It's just I got in a fight and just hoped that it would disqualify me.”

Asa eyed him critically, and Zechariah knew that his deceit wasn't being bought. “I'll do you a favor, and not report you to Sirpa. However, you're arm isn't broken young man, and if you come back here with a broken bone before you are drafted, then I'll have to write you up. Understand?”

Zechariah deflated. “Yes Meister.”

Asa lifted his bandaged arm, and wrapped a sling around it. “Now then, you'll need to keep this arm elevated, and not sleep on it. The bandages are simply to keep the balm protected and clean.” He reached over to grab up two scraps of parchment. “This, is the ingredients of the balms, and how best to prepare them, so you can either purchase some or make your own.” He handed the first small sheet of paper to Zechariah. “This,” He said handing him the other, “is my report to Sirpa that you arm is not broken and that you'll be fit for duty in two ports time.” He stood up, and patted Zechariah on the shoulder. “Good luck young man.”

Zechariah stood as well, and put his clothes back on with the help of Asa. Confused he turned to Asa and began to ask, “But why did...” But he was rudely cut off. “Goodbye and good luck. May Aleen keep you safe.” He said as he pushed Zechariah towards the door and quickly scurried off to tend to another patient. Being left along, and very confused, Zechariah made his way out of the physician's wing.