The Recruit - An Adventure in the World of Draxis: Part Two

This is Part II of The Recruit, a short story which started with my last blog. For those who read the previous post, there's a brief recap below, or you can read Part I here:

The Recruit: Part I

If you'd prefer to read the entire story posted to date, you can find it here: 

The Recruit - All Parts to Date

Recap

In the last snippet post, Baranar had just met a new recruit to the Death Rangers--a company of hardened men who patrol the ancient, dark and menacing forest nicknamed The Green Death. 

Baranar and his peer, Gallin, wager about how long this new recruit will survive (not long) but the stranger counter-wagers them his sword that he'll survive the tasking. 

Then something catches Gallin's eye...

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The young man turned away and made for the quartermaster stores to pick up his issued gear.

“Good wager.” I gave Gallin a smirk. “Tributes on your new sword.”

I turned toward the stores, but Gallin caught my arm, his voice like gravel in my ear. “Did you get a look at it, Bara?” His eyes twinkled with greed...or was it mirth?

I gazed at him, not answering. Not admitting my powers of observation were less than his.

A slow, hideous grin crawled over his lips. “He carries a Blade of Duumarr.”

I squinted, then frowned. “Not possible. The Duumarrakhan were all destroyed, twenty suncycles gone. And their swords with them.”

“Yet, no other would carry such a blade.” Gallin sank his teeth into his lower lip as if he needed to keep from laughing out loud. “Good luck to you.”

I glanced in the direction the young man had traveled. If Gallin was right…

“Duumarrakhan?” The word surged from my mouth in a hoarse whisper. Most who spoke that word followed it with a self-blessing to ward off harm. I wasn’t the superstitious sort.

Gallin grunted and a chuckle rumbled deep in his throat.

Duumarrakhan. Such a man would have good reason to conceal himself in the ranks of the Tahila Death Rangers. The Order of Duumarr had been hunted to extinction by High Priest Tigus over a generation ago. Or near extinction, so it now seemed. If one yet survived, his neck most certainly had a date with the Temple guillotine.

It might explain the confidence, the feel to the man. No man was more deadly, not even a seasoned Death Ranger. Still, those of the Order were trained to hunt and kill men, not farratora packs. Not the darkest of demons that roamed the Green Death and polished their fangs on treasure troves of human bones.

I knew if the farratoras didn’t kill him soon enough, I could help them along. I wanted to see nine seasons; I didn’t need an assassin at my back.

“My wager stands. First rush,” I muttered to Gallin.

I parked my hand on the hilt of my sword and followed the recruit’s path to the stores.

#

To be continued...