Culling of the Blood

Chapter 2-Final Sight

Leaning precariously in the saddle, Darach cantered up to Driprock Arch, one of the many historic bridges in Central Park. He reined the police horse to a walk and then a halt, lethargically throwing his leg over the saddle cantle to dismount. He was not fully in control of the motion and faltered, falling headfirst. 

    Quadir kicked his feet free of the stirrups. Having practiced many staged falls for the joust shows at the Pennsylvania Renaissance Faire, he agilely landed on both feet and ran to catch the old man before he could hit the ground.

    Darach leaned on him, panting. His face glistened with sweat in the park lights. "Just need to catch my breath." He pressed his hand just above his right hip and doubled over, leaning his forehead against the saddle.

    "Shit!" Quadir swore. "Have you been run through?" Blood seeped through his threadbare gloves. He confirmed his fears by sniffing and then recoiling from the irony scent on his finger tips.

    "I need to sit," Darach said, "but only a moment."

    "You need more than that." Quadir ducked beneath the old man's arm to support him. Taking the reins of both horses, he half carried him beneath the arch.

    Propping Darach against the stonewall, Quadir gently undid the linen cloth holding the old man's dreadlocks and stripped the fabric with his teeth to make a dressing. Bundling the strips into a thick pad, he pressed it against the wound and winced as the swordsman grimaced, gasping in pain.

    "Jaliya."

    "What?"

    "The answer to the question you have not yet asked. Your mother's name," Darach said. He laid his head against the wall and took a deep, shuddering breath.

    Jaliya. Quadir pretended to be busy tearing more strips from the cloth to avoid Darach's piercing eyes. "How do you know my mother?"

    "I took her in when her parents were killed. Raised her as my own. Trained her to be a proper Dakaari. My finest pupil. Prominent noblemen and more than a few archmages sought her to serve as their guardian. Many had the coin, too, but your father was a man of great means and persuasion."

    "Some guardian. Didn't do him much good. He's dead." Quadir felt his lower lip quiver with emotion. His jaw muscles twitched with fury at his abandonment as an infant. "He was poked full of holes, like you, according to the police report."

    Darach laid a hand over Quadir's and looked into his eyes. "Have you lived believing she would not come for you? Protect you? You are wrong. Word is she fell in battle, securing the way for your father's escape into this world."

    The truth of those words struck Quadir like a coffin nail. Twenty years of resentment flushed through him, a bitter poison, replaced by a burning shame, and then the cold reality of a tomb where every aspiration of meeting her died in the darkness.

    Darach squeezed his hand. "You, Quadir, are a Dakaari, like your mother, born into the House of the Horse, and like her, you are meant to serve a noble lord or lady, peasant or farmer, it does not matter so long as a bond exists and is strong enough for binding."

    Quadir threw himself back onto the ground and crossed his legs. "None of this makes any sense."

    "You had to have known it, my boy. Felt the subtle scratching in the back of your mind, telling you that you didn't belong. You cannot stay here."

    "Story of my life," Quadir whispered. The words were familiar, spoken whenever his foster parents would send him away for being too morose.

    Behind him, Merlin tried to rummage through his pockets for treats. Quadir relented, dropping a few mints for the stallion, who greedily ate them up. The noise of his crunching echoed in the hollow beneath the bridge.