The cascading water almost sounded like laughter to Gar, as he crouched on the opposite side of the pool to the waterfall washing the blood from his hands. The knife lay on a rock in front of him. He was loath to clean the blood from its blade though, for fear he’d forget what had happened and whose blood was on the blade.
He’d woken that morning to the stench of death, his hands, clothes, and face covered in blood and with the unfamiliar knife clutched in his hand. The Chief of Gar’s village and a slaver were dead upon the floor. Gar had never seen a slaver before and only knew that this was one because of the scarlet and black cobra tattoo emblazoned upon the dead man’s neck and face.
Then the serving girl had come in seen the bodies, the blood, and the knife in Gar’s hand and before he knew what he was doing or had thought of offering an explanation he had pushed past her, running out of the hut as her screams roused the villagers.
Gar did not know how long he had been running or where he was now. All he knew was that if he rested too long the pursuers would be on him. The gods might be playing a joke on him, but the blood on the blade was a reminder that those that followed him would want payment in kind for the blood that had been shed.
Gar picked up the knife and began to move away from the pool. There was forest in the valley beyond and Gar turned toward it.
“Gar,” a voice cried out.
Gar turned and there at the top of the falls stood Kel, the son of the Chief. More of the men of the village, armed with knives, spears and clubs, appearing beside him as Gar watched.
“I’m going to tie you out for the ravens to devour, you scum.” Screamed Kel.
© 2016 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.