KUHL - Fantasy Adventure Fiction

The following are the opening chapters to this work in progress:

 

Resistance

Amus Kuhl stood at the top of the ridge, revealing himself to be a man of medium height, but muscular.    His once handsome face was now craggy with worry lines and obscured by a thick, beard. His formerly groomed scalp now resembled a wild jungle of long, wavy hair, the dark-brown now going grey at the temples.    The skin around his eyes was deeply wrinkled.    Only his piercing blue eyes, below bushy brows, revealed that he still retained any of his youth.    He stood before the elderly, tall, sallow-skinned, clean-shaven man, trying to appear as humble as possible, for he respected the older one greatly and felt bad for what was inevitably going to befall him.

“Kev Voorlan!    I beg of you,” began Kuhl.    “The barbarian, Isham, drove us off our lands and pursues us; he is not two days behind.    He has ravaged all in his path, offering nothing but conversion or death.    Will you take a stand and join us in the fight?”

Voorland, the Tov, “Kev” being the more informal term used between equals.    Both meant “chieftain” or “leader”, with Voorland being the Tov of the Menomite City-State called Druhn, and Amus Kuhl the Tov-prince of the once-great City-State of Pamon, now under control of the Ishmanites.   

Voorland gave the strong warrior leader a long, sad, probing look before he answered.    “Our way has always been one of peace.    We have cooperated with you, given you drink, food and a place for your men to sleep.    Is that not enough?”

Kuhl, the warrior, held the older man’s gaze, forcing his face to go sadly blank as he asked.    “What will you do when Isham comes?”

“The same that I’ve done with you – offer hospitality.    I will give him food, shelter and a place for his men to rest.”

The warrior-prince smiled.    “You will not fight him?”

“It is not our way.”    Voorlan replied calmly.

“You and your people will die!” barked Shimatu Arteel, Kuhl’s second-in-command and friend since childhood.    Kuhl held out his arm, placing it against the man’s chest to both caution and quiet him as he spoke softly to his friend.

“They have their beliefs and we have done well by their kindness, Shim.    Do not insult our hosts.”

“But-“

Kuhl ignored him and bowed to the city leader.    “Thank you Kev Voorlan.    We are grateful for your fabled Druhnian hospitality.”    The broad-shouldered Kuhl turned to the young woman standing next to Voorlan.    She was impeccably dressed and her hair, lavishly braided and bejeweled as would befit the daughter of the Tov.    “Lay Kavi, you have done your father proud.    I respect you.”    He put his fist to his chest and bowed to honor her.

“I can do no other way,” she said, haughtily, “even for those whose chosen path is one of darkness and violence.”

Kuhl felt Arteel bristle, but signaled him to hold his tongue and continued his bow.

“It is a last resort, Laya.    It is not the path I chose or would ever wish to pursue, but Isham desired our lands and drove off all who would not accept his Gods and does so with all those he and his tribes come up against.    You join him or you die.”

“So, you would meet belief with belief, violence with violence?” she barked.    “In the end, it still leads to death for the innocent.”

“Kindly silence your tongue, daughter,” advised the Kev softly.    “We will not antagonize those who will not do the same with us.”

Amus Kuhl bowed again and took a step back, acknowledging the end of his audience.    “Thank you, Tov.    Hail to Their Names.”

“Hail to Their Names, Tov Kuhl.    Ayshon and may you find peace in your heart and safety on your path.”

“Ayshon to you as well, Kev Voorland. And may your Spirit and Soul dance joyfully in the eternity,” replied the warrior-prince, who took three steps backwards, as was customary for respect toward one slightly more equal. He then turned and strode out of the room, followed by his second.    The young woman’s stare bored into the Tov’s back until the door shut. Then she spoke with sincere bitterness.

“The Pamonites have brought a pestilence upon us, father!   You should not have allowed him and his men to come here.    Now a more violent people will descend upon us!”

“Yes, my dear, dear Kavi.    And we shall treat them with respect and kindness as is dictated by the fourth precept.”

She snorted. “I fear, though, that the Pamonite Prince is correct in his concerns.    Perhaps we should…”

Her father was not moved, though her speech had conveyed the same deep sadness that he’d felt. “That may be, my beloved daughter, but it is not our way.”

She hung her head.    “Yes, of course.    Our way.”

Amus Kuhl, Tov of the exiled Pamonites, stopped his men at the high ground a day’s march outside of Kev Voorlan’s city of Druhn.    They were in the hills above it and they watched as Isham’s forces descended upon the town like a swarm of insects in a pestilence.

“What shall we do, M’lord?” asked Shimatu Arteel, his armored bulk standing by the side of his friend and Master.

“We shall wait and watch, Shim, my dearest friend” said Kuhl, mounting his steed and beginning to set off towards camp.

The ceremonial gate guard watched as the two men rode off, shaking his head. The two could not have been more different. Shimatu Arteel was a large, rotund man with a bald pate and hairless face – lacking even eyebrows over his slanted brown eyes, whereas the Tov had a mane of wild, dark brown hair that hung in an untamed, wiry explosion down to his shoulders, his face all-but-hidden by a massive beard and bushy eyebrows, which only served to make his piercing icy-blue eyes all that more prominent.

Within a day, the Hoardes of Isham appeared on the horizon, soon surrounding the walled city of Druhn and camping out for the night. They observed emissaries from Isham’s group approach the gates and talk to the guard there, then walk in unchallenged.

It was on the eve of the second day that they noticed the fires within the city proper.    Even at this great distance, they could hear the screaming of the women and children.    The fires spread from the city's outer-walls, proceeding slowly inward until it reached the center.    Kuhl observed in silence as Arteel continued with angry commentary.

“Those barbaric weshla!    I can only imagine what they must be doing to those poor folk!    I would bet that they now wish they’d joined us!”

“Don’t be so sure, Shim.”

“What?    You don’t think they aren’t having second thoughts about joining forces with us?”

Kuhl laughed.    “I am thinking that they are probably cursing us for bringing this down upon their heads!”

“Surely you jest!”

“Not at all.    As they see it, we involved them by stopping there.    They may believe – however wrongfully so – that if we had not but passed by or gone in another direction, they would have been ignored by Isham and his hoard.”

“Surely no one can be that foolish!” spat the man.

“Who are the foolish and who are the wise in this matter, my friend?” asked Kuhl rhetorically.

“But Isham is a fanatic.    He wants to conquer the three continents and convert all in his path to his false gods!”

“Aye, he does,” agreed Kuhl.    “Just as our forefathers swept over these lands seven generations back and converted all to believe in the Lord and Lady, least they meet them from the edge of a sword!”

“Surely, my Tov, you blaspheme!”

Kuhl smiled at Arteel’s reaction.    “I do not,” said Kuhl sadly.    “I merely state historical fact.    Those who were here before believed in Isham’s Creator, just not in the same twisted way.    Our ancestors are just as responsible for his perverted interpretations as he is.”

Arteel looked at his liege and muttered a prayer to the Lord and Lady under his breath, hoping to ward off any retribution from the doubts and blasphemies the Prince had uttered.

ALLIES

A half-night later, as a strategy meeting was being held in earnest, the perimeter guard came forward to the outside of Kuhl’s tent and called out.

“My Tov!    I have prisoners!”    Kuhl and the others looked up upon his interruption.

“Who are they?” barked Arteel.

The guard was about to answer when a woman pushed past, shaking off attempts to stop her.    She was dirty and disheveled, her clothes were torn and hastily mended, but there was no mistaking her regal manner.    It was Lay Kavi, Kev Voorlan’s daughter.    Kuhl smiled and Arteel looked at her with surprise and disgust.

“Good midnight to you, my Laya.    To what do we owe this honor?”

“You have brought this curse upon us,” she said, pointing toward the still-burning glow of her city.    “I am bringing what survivors as could escape the carnage.    We ask that you help us as we helped you!”

“It would be my duty to do so,” replied Kuhl agreeably.    You may take as much food as you wish and whatever supplies you need for your journey.    We welcome you to bed down for the evening within the safety of our camp.”

“That is not of what I speak!” she barked.    “Come defend us!    Drive this devil, Isham, from our city so that we may, once again, live in peace and harmony!”

“Why do you not defend yourselves?” countered Shim Arteel sneeringly.

She turned to him and gave him a look of contempt.    “That is not our way!”

“No,” agreed Kuhl, “it is not.”

“So, you will come help us?”

“I have offered you the help that I can.    We will give you comfort and aide, but I can offer nothing more.    You are more than welcome to return to your city once Isham has either raised it or has finished his plundering.    I fear, though, that you will find it much changed and wouldn’t be surprised if a new minister is put into its governance.    I doubt he would recognize your title by any means other than marriage or as his concubine, though.”

“You bastard!” she accused.    “You bring this upon us and now you won’t clean up your mess?”

“The world is messy, Laya.    Sometimes you have to pick-and-choose how and when you clean so that it doesn’t overwhelm you.”

“But,” she sputtered, “they have murdered half our men!    They tried to enlist us, like you did.    When my father and the men refused, they lined them up, ten heads at a time, and impaled them with spears as their women and children watched!”

“What did your father do?”

“Told them the same thing he told you.”

“And what was his fate?”

“They…” she choked up.    “They tied him to a cross and burned him alive after Isham’s archers used him for target practice. They… they laughed… and placed bets on where the arrow would strike!”

“I am saddened to hear that,” said Kuhl.    “He was a good man.    Why did you not defend yourselves?”

“I have told you, that is not our way!”

Kuhl sat back, steepled his fingers and asked, “Some, more wise than I, have said that freedom comes at a price, and that the price is usually the blood of those that desire it enough to defend it… with their own blood.    If you are not willing to fight and bleed for your freedom, why should others provide that blood for you?”

“We helped you!    You brought this nightmare down onto the heads of my people!”

Kuhl sat up abruptly, slamming his fist onto the table, shocking her into silence.   

“The only thing changed was that Isham’s Horde came down upon you now rather than later, but make no mistake, Laya,” Kuhl banged his fist on the table, emphasizing each of the next four words, “Isham would have come!”   

Kuhl was breathing hard from anger and frustration as he sat down. A sudden weariness overcame him and he put his face in his hands and rubbed as if trying to wipe away a memory before he spoke again.    “And WE could have done this to your people as well, but for the fact that we are not barbarians!”

She made a dismissive sound, causing the Tov’s face to snap up and glare at her.    She stared back in contempt as he glowered a moment longer.

When he saw that her look did not waiver, he finished with, “Understand something, Laya. His followers offer no quarter.    They obey the words of their leader, ‘They will have only two options, either enlist with us or be consumed by my wrath, whether they desire it or not.’    We flee to join ranks with others who resist his hordes.  It is where we are now heading.   I ask once more, will you join us in this fight or will you choose enslavement?”

“We will not fight!” she said coldly.    “Violence is the path of the weak!”

“Then perish,” said Kuhl dismissively.    He turned away from her and began gathering his things, opening the back tent that were his quarters.

“I said we would not fight,” announced Lay Kavi to the Prince’s back, though her tone softened.    Kuhl stopped in his tracks, so she continued, “Father anticipated this response and we discussed it.    I will not ask my people to pick up arms.   

“But,” she continued, “we are willing to provide you with our healing skills and other non-combatant support.”

Kuhl smiled, but didn't turn around.    “That will be enough.    Bring all that will come.”

Shim Arteel looked at the receding form of Lay Kavi in disgust. When he saw that she was out of earshot, he asked,  “Why have you let her join us?    She will poison the minds of fighting men with her talk of peace and love!”

“She will provide temperance when and where it is needed,” said Kuhl.

Arteel spat.    “Her kind are cowards, refusing to fight for the freedom they hold so dear, but wanting all the benefits of the blood shed by others!    You would allow that among us at a time when some would question the hardships we endure?”

“We need their healing arts and herbal skills, Shimatu,” said Kuhl wearily.    “Our own healers bore arms and many have perished, possibly because they were more skilled at healing than at killing.”    He laughed derisively.    “It is not all one-sided, though!    Perhaps we can teach some of their kind to fight?”

“Those girly-men?” responded Arteel with incredulity, “I would doubt it!”

“Maybe not the men,” stated the Toya, cryptically.

The march over the mountain passes took much longer than expected and the snows began before even half had crossed.    Tov Kuhl mulled things in his tent as Lay Kavi replaced the bandage on his arm where he had been gored by the falling supply wagon which had broken loose from it’s team, rolling backwards and killing his steed before it toppled off the side of the cliff. In his fall, he had put a severe gash in his arm.

“Remain steady, Varma grab you!” she groused, her vulgar usage of The Lady’s name unusual for her.    She looked haggard, her eyes surrounded by dark circles from sleepless nights.    The Ishamic hordes continued to harry their rear, but were unable to gain any advantage because of Kuhl’s position in the pass. Lay Kavi and her healers had proven to be an asset, healing his men in half the time that his own healers had been able to accomplish. The quick healing of his own arm was testament to her skills. That, and he’d detected… something… in her demeanor.

Oh, she was still as difficult as ever, constantly criticizing and admonishing him for any war-like plans or injuries to her own people by the Ishmanic warriors, but the way she ran to his aid when he’d fallen belied her disagreement with his actions.

“It is not broken, thank the Lord and Lady,” she told him as she tenderly rubbed the salve onto his wound and wrapped it up in clean cloth. She tied it off efficiently, but tightly, making him wince. When he was finally able to open his eyes again, he half-expected her to be laughing at his discomfiture. Instead, he felt her hand on his cheek.

“It will take about a week to heal and it will be sore. I’d advise a sling for your arm until then.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. We cannot afford to lose your leadership.”

He smirked. “The leadership you criticize at every turn, Leya?”

“I do it to keep you mindful of the precepts,” she said, her demeanor changing.

“You put too much emphasis on the seventh, and not enough on the fourth, Laya.”

She hmphed and promptly left to go care for the others that were injured and to instruct his own healers.

Kuhl had been correct as well.    They had recruited no more than a handful of men from the refugees, but a majority of the Druhnian women and children stepped forward to learn to fight.    With each one, it had been those whose husbands, fathers, mothers and sisters had perished in front of their eyes at the hand of the barbarians. Isham’s people had no use for children and slaughtered everyone that was not of breeding or fighting height, meaning that they had to be at least 10 seasons old. Many of them had watched in horror as the younger ones were impaled on spits and then roasted alive. But many more children had been wily enough to avoid capture and escape the city. Almost a third of the refugees had been children between 5 and 12 seasons old. Newborns and toddlers hadn’t been as lucky.

“I am surprised at how quickly they learn,” said Arteel when Kuhl asked for a report. “I am even more surprised that it is the younger children that excel at combat.”

“Shim, what happens to a fighter when his back is against the wall and they’ve nothing left to lose?”

“He fights or dies.”

“Exactly.    That is why I said to ignore the men and train the women and children.    They have lost everything they held dear, other than their lives, to Isham and his people.    They will become your fiercest fighters.”

Shim Arteel chuckled.    “I would never have thought it from those peace-groveling Druhnian Menomites.”

Kuhl slammed his fist down, shocking Arteel.    “That is what you must learn.    Never, ever, underestimate your enemies… OR your friends! ESPECIALLY not your friends!”

Kuhl sighed and tried to soften his rebuke by casually walking over to fill his cup from the wine flask.    The wine was watered down because it was now in short supply.

“You should have seen the signs right off, my friend.”

“Where?”

“From when Lay Kavi entered our camp and offered her skills.”

“All I saw was a stubborn peace-loving bitch who wouldn’t fight for what she believed in!”

“And that,” growled Kuhl, “Is why you will not make a great leader.”    He held his hand up.    “Understand me, Shim.    You are a excellent second in command. You execute my orders promptly, are my closest advisor, and a stout, brave warrior – one of my best – but you get swept up in the emotions and blood-lust of war and lack the temperance needed to lead in peace.    Great leaders seek peace first-and-foremost, as well as temperance in the passionate art of war.

“Lay Kavi is correct.    Reactionary violence is the path of the weak.    It becomes a crutch that crushes all dissent, just when you should be listening to the arguments of those who disagree with you.    When you dismiss disagreement, you stifle men who might otherwise do great things. Instead, you merely encourage sycophants, creating a cancer of corruption from within.   

“It was our ancestor’s refusal to be tolerant of anothers beliefs that has eventually lead to the rise of Isham… and that same intolerance shall be his… or his heirs… downfall.”

“Tov Kuhl!” called a lady’s voice from outside the tent.    “I request an audience!”

Arteel grimaced upon recognizing the voice.

“Think about what I have said to you, my friend,” said Kuhl, dismissing his number two.    “Enter, Lay Kavi!”

Shimatu Arteel brushed past the woman. She was now dressed in a simple white tunic held together with a belt of rope. It was little more than a sheet with an embroidered hole in the middle for her head.    As she strode up to Kuhl, the sides would open to a man's gaze, exposing the flesh of her smooth, tanned legs and the gentle curves of a desirable young woman.    Amus Kuhl closed his eyes and refocused his attentions before opening them again and looking directly into hers.    He saw anger and determination there.

“How may I help you, Lay?”

“Why are you demanding to teach my people your ways?”

“We aren’t demanding, we are merely offering.”

“It is not our way!    I told you we would not take up arms!”

“No, Lay Kavi, you said you would not ask them to, and you haven't. As the spiritual and political leader of your people, you have made it clear, it is simply not your way! Yours!  All that  we have done is make the offer to teach them if they wished to learn!”    He leaned back in his chair and smiled to soften his words.    “We do not stop our own from accepting your philosophies...”

“And few, if any, have!”

“More than a few have,” he said, his tone heavy with exhaustion.    “More, actually, than we can afford to spare!”

He sighed and sipped some more of the watered-down wine. “We simply offered those who accepted our hospitality the chance to learn how to defend themselves should the time come up again.    I was told only a handful of your men…”

“It is not the men I am worried about!    You are teaching our women and children your evil ways!”

He slammed his fist down and shot back, “We are teaching them how to defend themselves should the time come, Lay Kavi, nothing more!    They simply agree that it is better to go down fighting than to be raped and slaughtered like animals.”

“After training, they talk of revenge in the camp.”

Amus shrugged.    “I cannot police their talk or control their feelings. That is not my way.”

“You are corrupting them!”

“Corrupting?  CORRUPTING?  Tell me, Laya, do Menomites not believe in , or have, free will?”

“They… do.”

“Really? So, tell me, am I forcing them?    Did I force you?    NO!    I merely made an offer to those you brought here, and some of them used that ‘free will’ and took us up on the offer! Despite your way, that is their prerogative!    Or does your belief system now say that a Laya can now dictate that her people should not learn to defend themselves and, instead, behave like cattle going to slaughter?”

Lay Kava colored and anger flashed in her eyes. Instead of providing a rebuke, she simply spun on her heel and brusquely walked out of his tent.    Amus leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table and rubbing his palms against his face.    He had not handled that as well as he’d wished.

Perhaps it is time I slept.

Lay Kaviluda Voorland stormed out of the Toya’s tent in a blind rage, walking through the camp and avoiding the stares and greetings of those around her.

“Halt!” barked a sentry.    “Oh, it’s you, Lay Kavi…”

The voice of the guard startled her out of her anger.    It was one of the older boys from the city.    His father had been one of the first ones to be slaughtered.    He’d witnessed his sisters raped and then taken as slaves by the Isham’s soldiers – the youngest not even 10 seasons old – and his mother’s throat being cut when she wouldn’t reveal where the boy had been hidden.    He was a mere 12 seasons, but tall for his age.   

“Faemir!    You startled me, boy.    Why are you here?    I thought you were working with the breadmakers?”

“I do, Laya.    But I stand guard duty one night per week.    Archer Daemil has taken me under his wing as well.    He says I’m a natural.”

“Archer?    You wish to commit violence against another?”

“No, Laya.    I wish to find and free my sisters from their slavery, defend my people, my friends against those who bring discord, so that we may again live in peace and harmony.”

She shook her head sadly.    “They are filling you with those thoughts.    Perhaps it was a mistake to come here.”

“No, Laya.    You did what you needed to do to preserve our people!    Never have any of us felt so helpless than when the Ishamites descended upon us, running roughshod over our hospitality and not respecting our neutrality!    They answered out kindness and charity with death and destruction, unlike these people here.”

“It was because of the people here that the Ishamites came upon us!”

“No, my Laya.    I heard them speaking.    The Ishamites want to conquer all of the Continent and convert it.    They do not respect neutrality nor do they accept anything other than total submission and conversion to their beliefs!    The Pamonites respected us, respected our beliefs, and respected our desire not to be involved or take sides.    You feel that they should have charged down to avenge our city, but that would only have meant suicide and the end of both the Druhn and the Parmon.    And what would that have accomplished?    Even I saw that.

“But, they are making you learn the ways of violence…”

“No, Laya, I have asked to learn to defend myself, not to wage war.    I still believe that peace is the answer and that war is the last refuge for a peace-loving nation.    Even the Parmonites believe that!    They did not come to us to wage war or bring it.    It was forced upon them.    They did not want or ask for it, the same as we did not.

It is the Ishamites that are the true war-mongers.    They have twisted the words of their religion so that it justifies violence instead of condemning it.    I have read their Qi'sosa when I studied for the priesthood and nowhere does it say that people must convert or die.    It is this Isham that preaches those words.    Like our own Tablam, it denounces violence but advocates defense.    Our own people took that to the extreme as well and we denounced violence in all its forms.    In that way, we have misinterpreted the Tablam.    When you gathered us together and led us here, I thought you had recognized that as well.

“Those of us that came to this camp respect them because they respect us.    They treat those who choose not to take up arms the same as they do those of us that do choose that path.    And, it is our choice to make, not something forced upon us or demanded in return for their protection.    As long as we provide a service in some way, we are accepted, whether that be as a baker and cook, healer, archer, swordsman, mechanic or a dung-gatherer.    We all play a part, sometimes more than one.    The only ones the Parmonites have no use for are those that refuse to do anything, yet still expect nourishment and protection to be provided to them.    They soon find themselves shunned and hungry – outside the camp.    The only exceptions are the sick and wounded.    All others contribute, even the crippled, the elderly and the children.”

The Lay Kavi looked at the boy for several moments as she contemplated what he had said to her.    It was the same thing that many of the others had tried to tell her, but Faemir had articulated it in such a manner that the truth and honesty of his words hit her so hard she nearly fell to the ground as if stunned.    He accurately summarized the situation in a way she had refused to see because of her own narrow-focused belief in peace and harmony that it hampered her ability to adapt.   

The one called Faemir watched as his Laya's face where, just a few moments before, was grim with anger and determination, and now. gradually relaxed and was once more at peace.    She staggered for a moment and he caught her, then began to apologize for touching her.

“No, Faemir, there is no need to apologize.    Here, we are all equal.    Thank you for your insight and wisdom, which I greatly needed.    I very much miss the counsel of my father and you have spoken much the way he would have.”

“I... have?”

“Yes, my brother.    You have provided answers and insight to an internal debate that was troubling me greatly!”    She hugged the startled boy.

“Laya?”

“Nevermind, my brother.    Continue your work.”

“Ayshon, my Laya!”    He stared at her in wonder – and just a little admiration from her words of praise – and watched as she walked back into the camp.

Laya Kavi Luda Voorland returned to her tent and did her meditations to the Lord and Lady for the first time in a dozen sunsets.    She then slept soundly for the first night in as many as well.

 

 

Traditions

The next day, she presented herself to Mishlam Kuhl without the usual frown and confrontational manner she had used since arriving at camp.    As befitting her status, she had been invited to sit in on the strategy meetings, but had normally refused.    Today, she attended and listened as they outlined battle strategies.

“May I make a point?” asked Kava, softly, with a deferential, yet regal, tone that could not be refused.

“Please do,” said Kuhl, startled to both see her here, and to hear the respectfulness in her voice.

“Your plans for the wounded.    May I suggest that we wait for battle to pass before gathering up the wounded?”

“We leave no warrior behind!” growled Arteel.

Instead of rising to the bait, she remained cool.    “I am not saying that we leave them behind.    I am saying that we should wait until the battle has safely passed before we bring them back to the medical tent to be administered medications and help.”

“You would leave them to be trampled or bleed to death on the field?”

Again, she did not rise to the bait.    “Arteel, I will acknowledge that you are a great warrior and general...”

“Thank you.”

“However, was it not you that said just a few days ago that for every warrior that falls in the field, you lose three to five healers and possibly one or more warriors that try to drag him or her to safety?”

“We leave no warrior...”

“I heard that, Arteel.    Tell me, on average, how many are wounded or killed in a battle?”

Arteel stared at her blankly while Kuhl smiled.   

“How would I know?” he finally sputtered.

“They are in the reports made to you by the Healer's tent.”

“Do you think I have time to read every report I am given?    My lieutenants read them and report to me if there is anything significant that I should know.    So, no, I do not read them.”

She smiled.    “Obviously not, otherwise you would realize how many are lost doing actual fighting and how many are slaughtered because they have put their weapons down to drag the fallen warrior to a healer... while in the midst of battle.”

“Do not try to tell me my trade, peace-monger!”

Kuhl slapped his palm down on the table.    “That is enough!” he barked, then waited a few moments as he worked to push his anger back down before speaking.   

“My father once told me that, in every criticism, no matter how much one felt it was unjustified, there is a kernel of truth and importance.”    He was about to speak on a personal level and decided against it.    “Sometimes..., we become so immersed in... traditions... that we do not see where those traditions may be... failing us.

“In order to be not just a strong warrior, but a strong army, we must know when to keep certain traditions and when to adapt to new situations, would you not say so, Shim?    Isn't that what we do in battle to take advantage of a weakness in the enemy lines that we see?”

Kuhl's second-in-command sputtered for a moment, then admitted it was true.

“And yet, because you are bound by certain traditions, you will let some of your most important people be slaughtered, simply because tradition says that they cannot wait?    That they must also fight?” inquired Laya Voorland.

“Who is more important than the warrior?” he asked, incredulous.   

The Laya smiled.    “Who is more important, the one doing the cooking or the hungry sitting at the table?”

Shim Arteel frowned angrily.    “I do not understand your inferrence, Laya.”

“Let me ask you this, Arteel... you have been wounded in battle what, seven times now?    If it had not been for the healers tent, would you be here with us?”

“Well, I...”

“Did you not end up in the Healer's tent for almost seven months after one battle, fighting an infection?”

“How did you hear of...?”

“The woman that treated you... the Healer that saved you life?    It was my cousin, Luera.    She died in the next battle, dragging one of your sacr... one of your warriors off the field in the midst of battle.    I ask again, who is the more important, the cook or the hungry?”

Arteel stared at her blankly for several moments before admitting, “Neither.    They are both important.”

“Thank you!”    She did not smile at her victory.    Instead, she undid a scroll and glanced through it.    “You have lost over 1400 fighters in the past year.    Of these, only 170 were killed outright in fighting in the battle.    Another 100 received wounds that might or might not have been fatal and fell on the battlefield.    We will never know which, because they were slaughtered along with those trying to pull the wounded to safety.    By not leaving one warrior behind for a short time, instead, you lose three or more.    And the more seriously wounded ones will die enroute to the healer's tent, or in it.    Is that any different until waiting for the safety of the battle to pass in order to bring in the wounded?”

“Tradition...”

Laya Voorland looked at him calmly.    “Tradition is getting the bulk of your fighters killed, Arteel.    Sometimes traditions need to change... or be altered.

Arteel colored at being reprimanded in such a mild manner, so he looked to Kuhl.

“I've looked at those same figures, Arteel.    Before the Laya came to us.    I have watched her people work and save lives that, before, we would have lost.    I have seen them pull a wounded, yet unconscious, warrior from a pile of bodies, after the battle has passed, and take him to safety to heal them.    I agree with the Laya.    Some traditions outlive their usefulness and this is one tradition we cannot afford to continue.”

“And, if we are in full retreat?”

Amus Kuhl sighed.    “Then the wounded will, in all likelihood, be slaughtered by the Ishramites, despite anything we do.    Which is better, to leave one behind in battle or to lose five?”    Kuhl saw the look on his friends face and then said, “If possible, we will send scouts out after dark to search for our wounded.    I doubt they will find any alive, and those they do find will be used for sport by the Ishramites, so that their death-screams will be used in an attempt to demoralize us.    They will be beyond saving.”

Shim Arteel gazed at his friend and leader, and understood the correctness of his words, but ingrained traditions were difficult to shake.    The veteran warriors might not be as accepting, and he said so.

“Then, my friend, it is your job to convince them to accept it,” said Kuhl.