Jayda's Honor

Jayda cautiously tried to make her way through the tall, wild grasses as quietly as possible. While overall the grasses still held enough green to be supple, the encroaching fall was causing much of the grass to start adopting the browning that signaled winter was not far ahead. The tall grasses grew in abundance around the tribe’s watering hole and provided the perfect camouflage for a young girl hunting for creatures that might give their life so that she could eat. With her small frame and slender body, Jayda was able to move quietly through the grasses, though some were almost as tall as she. A gentle breeze rustled through the grass, providing a mask for the sounds she made as she navigated through the grass in search of anything that she could hunt and kill for food. The breeze carried the deep smells of water and earth as it brushed pleasantly across her face, rearranging her wavy, auburn hair. Jayda had always liked the early mornings, when the sun was just rising and the world was quiet, free from the sounds of men. The chill of the mornings was bitter to some, but since Jayda spent every night outdoors, she had grown accustomed to the cold. She even welcomed the solitude that it afforded.

The small, but deep watering hole was perhaps the main reason her tribe had stayed in this location for so long. Jayda was Kordari. The Kordari people were split into seventeen tribes that freely roamed the great Taran Plains and the foothills that surrounded the plains in search of prolific hunting grounds. The Kordari where known by all in the Twelve Kingdoms for their prowess as warriors and hunters both. The tribal elders usually moved her tribe every one or two annums, on the never-ending quest to provide for the basic subsistence of the tribe.  The abundance of water and game in this area, however, had held the tribe for almost three years. With winter soon to set in, it seemed likely that the tribe would sit more seasons in this area, as the tribe rarely moved once winter set in.

As Jayda walked into an area of grass trampled by man and beast alike on their way to the waterhole, Jayda could have easily missed her chance at her next meal. The sleek, russet colored body, speckled with black, and the tawny feathers under the wings may have escaped Jayda’s notice against the background of grasses starting to take on generous portions of their fall browning. But the splash of red on the head was an alert that tugged too strongly at her senses to be missed. Jayda knew she would likely have only one shot, but pheasants were becoming less common this time of year, and she had not eaten well in the last few days. The tribe provided a communal stack of firewood that anyone was welcome to use for warmth and cooking, but Jayda had no one to provide for her honor and sustenance otherwise.

Honor was a central feature of the Kordari lifestyle. All males were raised from a young age to be warriors and hunters, and to seek honor through all of their actions. Warriors in the tribe fought for their honor, which in turn impacted their standing and influence in the tribe. Women and children carried no honor, instead their husbands and fathers were expected to carry their honor. This meant that as a husband and father, the men were expected to provide for and protect their wives and children. An insult visited upon a woman or a child was owned by the man carrying their honor as well. Any affront to honor was ruthlessly avenged.

With her father dead, Jayda had no one to carry her honor, as honor was held and fought for by men.  With her mother also dead, the tribe would not carry Jayda’s honor in his place. The tribe would often take on the honor of a widowed woman and her children, and would then seek to marry the woman off to the next available warrior. Since she was not a boy, she had no hope of any warrior taking her under his honor and tutelage until she was able to come of age to marry. From a young age, Jayda had learned to hunt and care for herself.

The orphaned daughter of the tribe carefully eased her sling out of her side pouch, both made from scraps of leather she had procured from around the tribe’s encampment. Warriors of the tribe wore softened leather clothes around camp and totemic Kordari hardened leather armor into battle, so scraps were in abundance. The tribe obtained cloth from traders in order to provide underclothes for the men and full clothing for the females and children of the tribe. Jayda was a girl child, but with her father no longer alive to provide for her, she was left to scrounge for scraps of leather and cloth to piece together clothing and blankets to shelter her from the elements. Most expected her to experience a merciful death shortly after her father’s own death, but Jayda had always been determined to survive.

The pheasant landed only a few spans away as she eased a stone from her pouch and nestled it in the sling. She knew she would only get one shot, and her aim would be the difference between a substantial meal and spending another day with her stomach aching. Some of the women of the tribe would sometimes slip her small amounts of food, but since her family’s honor had died with her father, the other tribesman were discouraged by the now influential Krom and his family from helping Jayda out. Since Krom held honor and was a strong and brutal warrior, that discouragement carried a heavy force behind it. 

Krom had never liked her. Krom had even been strong as a boy. Always stronger than her and her family. He’d always been stupid though. In his foolish arrogance, he had once killed a bear cub, thinking himself more than a match for the cub’s mother.  His overconfidence had brought the death of two other hunters from their tribe when they had fought to protect the boy from the cub’s enraged mother. Her father was one of those hunters who had died to protect him. He died from consumption, days after the attack, but only after publicly renouncing Krom’s actions. Her father had brought punishment and shame to Krom and his family. Krom had never apologized for that day. Krom had never forgiven her father.

If the world were a just place, then Krom would have died from the mother bear’s attack, or at least would have lived his life in disgrace for his capricious actions. The world was not a just place, however. As a young man now, Krom had strength, honor and influence in abundance, while Jayda wore and ate scraps. Jayda often daydreamed of finding some justice enough to deflate Krom’s honor and propel her into some fitting circumstance of profusion. In her mind, she had defeated Krom in battle thousands of times and reveled in all the dishonor that being defeated in a fight with a girl could bring.

In reality though, she was hungry. Her hunger was even more compelling recently. Since she had seen eleven annums, her body was growing and stretching and demanding even more food.

Jayda gently started twirling the sling, hoping to slowly build momentum in an effort to avoid scaring off her intended prey. Girls were not supposed to know how to hunt, but from an early age Jayda had taken it upon herself to learn things that girls were supposed to be disinterested in and unable to learn. So she had learned to use the bo staff with a little proficiency and the sling with even more proficiency. Slings were thought to be toys for young boys, and bo staves were only used by the tribe to tend flocks of sheep and goats. But as long she could fend off the advances of pubertal boys and bring in hunt from her sling, Jayda was content with her chosen tools.

A sharp pang of hunger stabbed at her stomach, perhaps goaded back into her awareness at the uncommon prospect of a considerable meal. Jayda was truly lucky to have found the bird, and knew her aim had to be true.

As she released the stone from her sling, she knew it was off the mark. She had a keen sense for where her blows would land or would not land even as she was releasing the force behind them. She imagined that the tribe’s warriors were even more skilled than she at this. Still, she knew her stone would miss its mark. Another hunger pang punctuated her impending failure.

Sure enough, the stone flew a little wide, and a flurry of brown colored feathers illustrated the pheasant’s hasty escape upward and away from the reach of Jayda’s sling. Jayda’s heart sank.

Jayda then sank to the ground on her knees, and she started to do two things that she never allowed herself to do. She started to feel sorry for herself and she started to cry. She knew the world was a cruel place full of injustice. She knew that she had only herself to rely on and that weakness was just not an option for her. She had eaten nothing but a relatively few wild onions and mushrooms lately. Much of the wild plant offerings were slim due to winter’s approach and the tribe’s extended presence in this area. She really needed a hot, filling meal. Like so much of her life, her meal had easily escaped her. Nothing ever came easy for her, and just once she wanted to have something turn out as right as it should.

While she gave in to her emotions, she habitually silenced her crying. The only thing worse than succumbing to her emotions, was anyone witnessing her at her weakest. Silent sobs convulsed across her body as tears leapt uselessly from her face to the cold earth below. This just wasn’t fair.

In the stories, the Gods had always rewarded those with courage and conviction and intervened, or sent their blessed animal Companions to intervene, in times of great need. Those were just stories though. No Companion or God was helping her now. She was alone. She could not seem to stop herself from crying. She was weak.

Swimming in the depths of her melancholic reverie, Jayda almost missed it. She almost missed the solution to her problems as she allowed self-pity and sadness to overcome her reason. The bird had returned. Perhaps in such need of water or a place to rest, the bird had impossibly returned. Jayda brushed the tears from her eyes, and slowly stood as quietly as she could while she readied another stone.

Jayda brought the sling to a twirl above her head once more. She silently apologized to the Gods for her blasphemous thoughts about the Gods moments ago. She let the stone fly from her sling, and again she knew her aim before the blow landed. Her problems never seemed to ease. She could never seem to have even the simplest things in life go smoothly. She would have to risk walking through the middle of camp in order to fetch firewood. She would need a fire to cook with. She knew the stone would hit its mark.

The stone caught the pheasant in the neck, and the bird began to thrash its wings frantically as it struggled to escape death. Jayda erupted through the grasses that had been partially concealing her, unconcerned now with camouflage. She grabbed the bird by the neck with both hands and gave it a twist. The bird ceased its thrashing and Jayda held her hunt by its feet and slung it over her shoulder as she started off toward the tribe’s encampment. She would finally eat a good meal tonight. She relied on no man. 

As she arrived at the encampment a few moments later, she heard the rustlings of tribesmen stirring from their slumber and preparing to face the day. The smells of earth and grass gave way to the smells of men. The smells of bodies, of cook fires, and the sharp, tangy smell of hides being cured into leather. Her tribe’s encampment was a collection of huts made from dried grass and mud, and arranged in a rough but wide circle. The grass had been beaten down and trodden by the tribe for so long that much of the floor of the encampment was now just dirt and pebbles. The center of the encampment held the hut where the tribal elders met. Great piles of firewood were stacked neatly around the central hut. While the hunting and water were abundant, the firewood had to be brought in from a distance by the tribal warriors and their horses. The firewood was free for use by everyone in the tribe, even those who had no honor, like Jayda.

This should be her home where she was welcomed, but instead she hoped that few enough tribesmen were awake and that she could make it through to the center of the camp and collect her firewood, unencumbered by those in the tribe that made it their business to try and make her life even worse than it already was.

She had almost made it to the wood pile when she felt the pheasant being tugged away from her grasp by someone behind her. As she turned to investigate, a strong blow landed across the side of her head.

The force of the blow flattened Jayda to the ground. Her senses lost focus, scattered like birds frightened by an overzealous hunting dog.  In what seemed like many annums, but must have only been moments, Jayda’s senses slowly recomposed. She became aware of the scent of earth as it broached the fog in her mind and filled her nostrils. Dirt and pebbles pressed against her cheek. She tasted the tangy iron of her own blood. After a space of time, laughter cut through to her clearing thoughts and she focused on the man who had knocked her down.

Krom was much larger than she was. He loomed even taller above her as she lay pressed to the ground. A virtual giant, he was dressed in the softened hides that were common among the Kordari warriors. The softened leather were worn by the Kordari warriors around camp.  Krom saved his decorated, hardened leather armor for battle, as every Kordari warrior did. Krom’s scanty, downy chin hair marked him as one of the tribe’s youngest warriors.

After sitting up, she pressed her lip with the back of her hand where she still felt the throbbing from Krom's blow, and her hand came away with spots of blood. She glared at Krom and stated defiantly, "Huntin’ is so hard for you that you gotta steal the hunt from a lil’ girl?"

She didn’t think of herself as a little girl any longer, but the sudden end to his laughter, along with the rage that flashed in his eyes was evidence that her remark had found its mark. “Surely my head must be crushed like an overripe melon,” she thought as his muscled arms brought a crushing slap across her face once again. 

Since Jayda had no one, her clan could take her hunt whenever they wished in exchange for the protection they offered by letting her live separately amongst them. Krom was especially cruel, and would take her hunt just because he’d hated her father. There was nothing that could be done about it. Until now. She dreamt often of this moment.

"I would fight for my honor," Jayda attempted to stab him with her words. She had naively expected to anger Krom further, perhaps even to invoke some fear or respect for her. Instead, he laughed.

"You are a lil’ whelp of a girl. You can’t fight," he parried her insult and stabbed back around guffaws. He turned to walk away with her pheasant in hand.

Jayda felt panic set in. This was not how she pictured it would go. She had imagined this moment for as long as she could remember. This was to be her culmination. Her revenge. Her freedom. She had known this day would come, but she had also known it would go much differently. She would finally have the respect of others. She would fight for her own honor. She would never have to scrounge for scraps ever again. As importantly, she would be vindicated and her name would not be spit out in contempt. She should have had her justice.

“I have challenged you,” she faltered. She sounded weak and desperate, even to her own ears.

“We should consult with the priestess,” a nameless voice offered from the small crowd that was beginning to form as members of the tribe shook off the final remnants of sleep and left their huts to investigate the commotion. The nameless voice continued, “She is a girl, sure, but once Daak-Tar has been challenged, it must be met. We should not anger Zakaraad by ignoring Daak-Tar unless a priestess of Zakaraad wills it so. You, boy, go get the priestess.”

Of the twelve Gods, Zakaraad was worshiped by the Kordari. While all male elders commanded respect, only the priestesses held any actual influence or power among women. Zakaraad had a fondness for the taste of women, and spoke through the priestesses of the tribes. Though Seriah had once been a woman warrior of legend where only males traditionally held sway, no male had ever been spoken to by Zakaraad. In the running of the tribe, the priestess had some little influence, one voice among the many elders who were otherwise men. In areas of worship and ceremony, however, the priestess was the unquestioned authority. When the priestess spoke with the voice of Zakaraad, no one ever questioned His word, even though his chosen vessel was that of a woman.

Daak-Tar was the ceremony of adulthood and was every boy’s right. Daak-Tar was Zakaraad’s rite of passage for the young men of his people. A young warrior could challenge any other warrior of his choosing, and if he could best that warrior in single combat, then he had earned Zakaraad’s favor and would carry his own honor from that day forward. From that point forward, the young warrior would no longer live under his father’s honor or his father’s roof. He would be given the tools and respect needed to provide for himself. The village would provide a hut for him, and in time, a wife. It meant both freedom and responsibility. The boy was no longer protected under his father’s honor, but he was no longer burdened by living his life in the shadow of another. He would fight for his own name. Defeat in Daak-Tar carried no loss of honor, since it was seen as Zakaraad’s will, and even the strongest of warriors could not overcome the will of a God.  The boys challenging another warrior in Daak-Tar only had three chances total to triumph, and if unable, they would then be banished from the tribe. Banishment from the tribe was considered by many to be worse than death.

Jayda had never known a girl to attempt to fight for her own honor, except for Seriah of legend.  She had always known she had no choice in the matter. Since her father and mother had died a handful of annums ago, she had no one to fight for her honor. With no one to fight for her honor, she had to scavenge to provide for herself and she would never be able to marry. With no honor to live under, she would become one of the tribe’s whores when she reached what would have been marrying age a few annums from now. If she lived that long. It was hard to survive on abandoned scraps of food, meager kills from her hunts with a shoddy sling, and the scraps of hide and rags that were little protection from harsh winters that threatened to tear ruthlessly through her body every winter night.

The elder Priestess Aylin made her slow arrival, shuffling down the path with the debilitate authority that only an old woman of her stature could muster. Her hawk feathered priestess shawl only added to the air of authority that she wore as naturally as she wore her hair or her ears. Her authority was as plain to see as the nose on her face. The path she walked down was well worn with use, the tribe being in place for as long as it had. Blessed with a bountiful hunt from Zakaraad, the tribe had remained in this place long enough for the path to become worn with continued use, imparting its well worn experience to returning warriors, guiding their feet toward their families and shelter. Only when the path had become too worn to be useful, when the path no longer led to a bounteous hunt, would the tribe move on to cut a new path elsewhere. Until then it was maintained and respected.

“What would you have of me?” The aged Aylin intoned.

Krom was the first to speak. “This wretched nithling is trying to invoke Daak-Tar, but she seems to have forgotten that she hasn’t the balls to do it.” This brought some chuckles from the small crowd, but the presence of the elder priestess endangered the mirth at Jayda’s expense.

Emboldened by a supportive crowd, Krom continued. “I would gladly forgive her madness and let her live if she would give me a squeeze of her teets next to the fire tonight, but she hasn’t any of those yet either,” Krom shouted to the crowd. This brought peals of laughter from the crowd. More gifted a warrior than she, Jayda knew that her only chance of defeating Krom was through this arrogance, exploiting his overconfidence. It was his only weakness, if he could be thought to actually have any at all.

“The girl will fight.” Priestesses were not known for their wordiness. 

“But,” Krom started. Priestesses were said to speak with the voice of Zakaraad. They were also not known for their tolerance of those who challenged their wisdom. The priestess’s surprising quickness and slap across Krom’s face interrupted whatever objection he was going to voice.

“The girl will fight for her honor,” the priestess proclaimed once again.

“Yes Mother,” was Krom’s tight reply.

Krom stripped down to his loincloth. Daak-Tar was traditionally fought in only the loincloth, allowing no other protection from the prowess of the other warrior. Even as the chill of the morning held the air in its grip for a bit longer, the warriors were expected to lay themselves bare to Zakaraad’s judgment. In her capricious desire to engage Krom in Daak-Tar, she had not thought of this. Daak-Tar would mean removing the rags she collected around her to form a shirt and pants.

Krom seemed to notice, “Do you need some cloth and lace to cover yourself in?” The laughter from the crowd was more subdued following Aylin’s recent assertion of her unforgiving authority.

Jayda felt her determination set in once again. Jayda shrugged herself out of her clothes; after all, she had nothing more or less on her chest than a boy of her age would.

As if sensing her resolve, Krom’s face twisted up in further irritation. “What weapon?” Since she had invoked Daak-Tar, it was her choice what weapon would be used in the fighting ring.

“The bo staff.”

“Are we to be tending sheep then? Perhaps this stray goat needs to be guided back to her pen!” The crowd openly laughed once again.

A young boy soon brought up two staves, after retrieving them from near the small livestock pen at the edge of the tribe’s encampment. Jayda and Krom both accepted their staves and began to limber and stretch as young boys from the crowd gathered and placed stones in a circle around them. Each of the boys was probably dreaming about the day of their own Daak-Tar as they used the stones to create the traditional boundaries of the Daak-Tar circle where Zakaraad would place his divine judgment. The small stones that delineated the fighting ring felt like boulders to Jayda. Like oppressive walls, locking her into an almost impossible battle she had to win in order to ensure her very survival.

A gnat's breath later, the two combatants danced around one another, testing each other with quick tentative strikes using the upper and lower portions of their staves. Damn, Jayda thought, she had hoped that Krom would be arrogant enough to wield the staff like a sword out of his shame in using a sheepherders tool in a fighting match.

It did not take Krom long to connect with his staff. Like an asp, his bo staff swayed and swirled around her, connecting with deft strikes that left her several bruises and a fattening and bloodied lip. His considerable muscles pulsed and rippled with each movement of the staff, a testament to how outmatched she truly was. She began to tremble more with each landed blow.  His half-hearted strokes with the staff discounted her guard completely. He could have landed a lethal blow anytime he wanted, but he was obviously enjoying her suffering and humiliation now that he had been forced into the fight. Jayda was now nothing but sport for him, and it was obvious that Krom could end this fight anytime he wished.

Jayda’s hope rose as she saw an opening as Krom had extended his staff low to try to connect with her feet. She adroitly avoided his staff, and countered with a blow of her own up under his arm. She knew the blow would connect before it hit. Krom recovered from his overextension more quickly than she thought was possible though, and she felt his staff explode into the side of her head, knocking her helplessly to the ground once more. Jayda knew that she would feel Krom press in to force her to surrender at any moment.

As she shook off the spots in her vision, she noticed Krom was actually turned away from her, playing to the now cheering crowd. Once again the crowd had warmed to Krom, and was emboldened into cheering by his success in the ring. Though he was turned away from her, it was not hard for her to picture Krom’s broad smile greeting the crowd that was now starting to chant his name. Arrogance. She knew this might be her only opportunity. She willed her vision to clear, and her uncooperative limbs to respond. She knew she was fighting a losing battle on this front as well.

She pictured her life after Krom had won this contest. He would be forever taking her hunt. Krom would grow more and more abusive, and when she was older, make her his doxy on the nights he did not want to lay with his own wife.

Through a surge of energy brought on by a culmination of her annums of desperation, she leaped to her feet and brought all her force to bear as she swung the staff around and connected with Krom’s head. She quickly swung the bottom of her staff around to the back of his knee, and he crumbled onto the ground at her feet. As he tried to recover from the shock, she brought her staff around to rest on his throat. Just as had occurred with the sling earlier, she had seen the blows and knew they would connect even before they landed. She knew this apparent victory was only possible because she had taken Krom completely by surprise. In his arrogance, he had turned his back on her. She knew that would never happen again.

“Choose your mercy.” Satisfaction and aggression soaked through Jayda’s words. Krom could choose whether he wanted to die, or live with the defeat. The choice of mercy was the traditional accord that was offered by the victor at the end of each Daak-Tar. Jayda had never known any warrior to choose death, but it was a tradition to offer the choice.

Jayda saw Krom’s arm twitch toward her, his last attempt to thwart his defeat. She pressed the end of her staff harder into his throat. She hoped he understood her willingness to crush his throat.

Korm’s arm relaxed. “I will live,” he stated softly.

“I can’t hear you,“ was Jayda’s cold reply.

“I will live!” Krom shouted as best he could with the tip of a staff pressed to his throat. Jayda could hear in his voice that she had now made an enemy for life. He had disliked her greatly before. Now he would hate her vehemently. Though defeat in Daak-Tar traditionally carried no loss of honor, since it was the will of Zakaraad, Jayda knew that losing to a young girl would adversely impact Krom’s reputation as a warrior.

In the time that followed, Jayda was numb. She had pictured this innumerable times in her imaginings, but the reality was still staggering. She had become only the second warrior in the history of all the seventeen Kordari tribes to fight for her own honor. And the first was only a legend, not as real and as the solid walls of the hut that was now hers. Not as real as the fire ring and soft leather clothing provided for her by the warriors of her tribe that were now her peers. Not as real as the first taste of the pheasant, her recovered hunt that she had cooked over her own fire outside of her own hut, dripping juices down her chin onto her own new softened hide warrior clothing. Jayda now carried her own honor and it tasted even better than she could have imagined.  Justice for her father, however, would have to wait for another day.

Coming soon, Jayda’s Pride.