ties with any
known country on the face of the earth. They’re reclusive. They
make a statue look gregarious. They don’t allow anyone to visit
their country. Anyone entering would be greeted with as much
hostility as an invading army.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Oh . . . my former master used to talk
from time to time. Not necessarily to me . . . but I heard
things.”
“Where is your former
master?”
A tear came rushing towards Harold’s
right eye but was shot down right before it reached the surface. A
knot entered his throat, and he was silent for a while before
answering, “I don’t like to talk about it.”
Righty felt a sudden pang of anxiety at
the thought Harold’s loyalties could be torn to pieces at a
second’s notice by the arrival of his former master, yet he dared
not ask a follow-up question.
“I can research this matter for you,
you know.”
Righty was tempted to respond by
telling him the konulans would be far better for a mission of that
sort, but Harold’s newfound assertiveness caused him to hold his
tongue.
“I’d be most grateful, sir,” Righty
said.
“Don’t mention it.”
Chapter 15
Righty decided the best way to alter
the course of his rocky day was a little nature and a little sword
practice. He surveyed the mountains below, searching for a spot no
human could reach without difficulty, if at all. He soon settled on
a large mountain below that had a broad section with a smooth rock
surface at a very slight angle.
Both sides approached it steeply,
leaving it out of reach to all but the most avid hiker with spikes
and climbing rope. He sent the konulans below to scour the area for
any humans or large beasts, and when they reported the area was
clear, he had Harold set him down.
The sun was shining brightly, and he
welcomed the rays as he took off his shirt, his skin soaking up the
warmth eagerly.
“I’ve got a mission, and I need twenty
volunteers,” he said, looking eagerly at the twenty konulans before
him.
Their current number escaped their
awareness, as they began vying eagerly for the task.
Righty sent them to go inspect all of
Tats’ mansions and usual haunts to locate and then watch him and
make sure he was okay and to report back in a few hours.
Harold announced he was going to go
hunt, and after a flurry of wings and feathers in various
directions, Righty found himself all alone atop the
mountain.
Though the loneliness in a spot from
which he most likely could not extricate himself did cause some
distress, it simultaneously provided a degree of exhilaration,
perhaps serving as a metaphor for combat, in which survival was
never certain.
Breathing slowly in the manner Pitkins
had taught him, he pulled his sword from its sheath in unison with
his breath. Just when it seemed he would exhale until the end of
time while moving in slow motion like a man waking up from a
hangover, he brought the sword down in a quick chopping motion,
crouched low to avoid a slice to the head, inverted his grip on the
blade, and thrust the tip straight into the midsection of the
warrior approaching him in an apparent moment of
weakness.
“HAAAAA!!” he exhaled sharply,
springing to his feet and sticking the sword deeper into his
opponent before pivoting around with the precision of a first-class
dancer and combining the withdrawal of his blade from the man’s
stomach with a brisk upward slash to an advancing opponent’s groin,
cutting him up to his navel.
His breathing slowed again as three
attackers circled him. He was building up his oxygen levels for the
flurry that was about to come. On the count of five, he charged,
unwilling to wait for their attack.
Pitkins would have remarked that the
performance was as good if not better than the already flawless
execution Righty had given earlier that day. Righty felt there was
something magical about this height. The exhilaration of
known country on the face of the earth. They’re reclusive. They
make a statue look gregarious. They don’t allow anyone to visit
their country. Anyone entering would be greeted with as much
hostility as an invading army.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Oh . . . my former master used to talk
from time to time. Not necessarily to me . . . but I heard
things.”
“Where is your former
master?”
A tear came rushing towards Harold’s
right eye but was shot down right before it reached the surface. A
knot entered his throat, and he was silent for a while before
answering, “I don’t like to talk about it.”
Righty felt a sudden pang of anxiety at
the thought Harold’s loyalties could be torn to pieces at a
second’s notice by the arrival of his former master, yet he dared
not ask a follow-up question.
“I can research this matter for you,
you know.”
Righty was tempted to respond by
telling him the konulans would be far better for a mission of that
sort, but Harold’s newfound assertiveness caused him to hold his
tongue.
“I’d be most grateful, sir,” Righty
said.
“Don’t mention it.”
Chapter 15
Righty decided the best way to alter
the course of his rocky day was a little nature and a little sword
practice. He surveyed the mountains below, searching for a spot no
human could reach without difficulty, if at all. He soon settled on
a large mountain below that had a broad section with a smooth rock
surface at a very slight angle.
Both sides approached it steeply,
leaving it out of reach to all but the most avid hiker with spikes
and climbing rope. He sent the konulans below to scour the area for
any humans or large beasts, and when they reported the area was
clear, he had Harold set him down.
The sun was shining brightly, and he
welcomed the rays as he took off his shirt, his skin soaking up the
warmth eagerly.
“I’ve got a mission, and I need twenty
volunteers,” he said, looking eagerly at the twenty konulans before
him.
Their current number escaped their
awareness, as they began vying eagerly for the task.
Righty sent them to go inspect all of
Tats’ mansions and usual haunts to locate and then watch him and
make sure he was okay and to report back in a few hours.
Harold announced he was going to go
hunt, and after a flurry of wings and feathers in various
directions, Righty found himself all alone atop the
mountain.
Though the loneliness in a spot from
which he most likely could not extricate himself did cause some
distress, it simultaneously provided a degree of exhilaration,
perhaps serving as a metaphor for combat, in which survival was
never certain.
Breathing slowly in the manner Pitkins
had taught him, he pulled his sword from its sheath in unison with
his breath. Just when it seemed he would exhale until the end of
time while moving in slow motion like a man waking up from a
hangover, he brought the sword down in a quick chopping motion,
crouched low to avoid a slice to the head, inverted his grip on the
blade, and thrust the tip straight into the midsection of the
warrior approaching him in an apparent moment of
weakness.
“HAAAAA!!” he exhaled sharply,
springing to his feet and sticking the sword deeper into his
opponent before pivoting around with the precision of a first-class
dancer and combining the withdrawal of his blade from the man’s
stomach with a brisk upward slash to an advancing opponent’s groin,
cutting him up to his navel.
His breathing slowed again as three
attackers circled him. He was building up his oxygen levels for the
flurry that was about to come. On the count of five, he charged,
unwilling to wait for their attack.
Pitkins would have remarked that the
performance was as good if not better than the already flawless
execution Righty had given earlier that day. Righty felt there was
something magical about this height. The exhilaration of
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