Level: Attendant

“No ! Forget killing,” Pukilavu whispered. “Get the weapons! All we want is the weapons!”
For four-hundred and fifty, long years Pukilavu had led his men on night raids into Quytur’s territory, harrying, stealing, killing when they could. He had proved a strong and wily leader. Tall, black-haired and muscular, his blue eyes seemed to see in the dark. He moved like a cat through the scrub on the shoulders of the mountains, striking like a black jaguar, that shadow of death that all men feared. His men would have followed him anywhere, but after a lifetime of fighting, they were prepared to disobey him if it meant killing one of the hated Peroturnakans.
Pukilavu himself slid over the stream first, stepping from cold boulder to boulder in bare feet so silently that an owl still hooted contentedly, not far above him. B’katan followed, using his spear to balance, and crouched beside his leader, among the reeds that whispered in the night breeze. A moment later the rearmost of the raiders reached the near bank and hooted softly, the agreed signal that they were all ready. The owl in the tree stopped hooting, listened for a moment and took to the wing like a ghost under a cold January moon.
While they had been exiles, Sumatanaki’s tribe had not been idle. Aided by the Amaka people, to the South, they had equipped their portable shelters with many luxuries, including exotic furs, spices and imported goods. They had continued to study the stars and finally established the exact length of the Sun’s cycle, naming it the ‘Year.’ But they had not been able to purchase weapons capable of subduing the Peroturnakans and still awaited the time they could retake the City. While the mine continued to spew forth iron ore for the Anakuna enslavers, the exiles probed the Peroturnakan forces for weaknesses and struck when they could. Led by the brave Pukilavu and organised by the aging exiled Prince Sumatanaki, they could not gain a foothold, so Pukalavu spent many hours in atttempts to persuade the old Prince to change tactics:
“Sire, we cannot win with such inferior weapons! The Anakuna have now supplied Quytur’s whole army, including the mercenaries from other tribes, with the fire-sticks, which they call guns. We must change our ways and use them ourselves. It’s the only way!”
“But Pukilavu, these things are evil! Why do you goad me so? I have told you a thousand times. Your father would not have permitted it, and I will not permit it. Were I not the true Prince of Peroturnakar, I might grant your wish.”
In the last extremes of frustration, Pukilavu paced the large shelter of the Prince and blurted:
“Then what do you fear from the sticks?”
“I fear that we will succumb to evil and never regain the City.”
“Then what do you fear even more than that?”
“That we will become nothing more than blood-drinkers of the night, like the bats that men most despise.”
“Then let me take 10 men and capture the weapons. Even one. Let me prove that they can bring us victories and one step closer to taking the City!”
Prince Sumatanaki stared at the young warrior, shocked at his impertinence, but more than half-convinced by his argument.
“Just ten?” he whispered.
Pukilavu nodded, afraid to speak his mind again.
“Very well,” the Prince replied. “But tell nobody else. It must be kept secret, for now.”
“Very well Prince Sumatanaki. I’m sorry for my impertinence, but I …”
“It’s quite alright. I had forgotten what it sounded like to hear an uncomfortable truth. I haven’t forgotten that you lost your mother and older sister to the enemy. Go now and plan the raid. God go with you. And never forget that nobody moves more stealthily than you at night. The moon is your friend. That’s why your mother named you after it.”
Now Pukilavu took a deep breath and stood up among the reeds. Holding up one of only two iron swords owned by the exiles, so that the moon glinted on its lethal blade, he pointed to the camp and began to creep into the midst of the enemy. He had almost reached the first burning torch when a guard saw his movement.
“Halt! Who goes … Argh!”
Pukilavu’s knife protruded from the man’s neck, but he withdrew it before the body hit the ground. Though the Peroturnakans were well drilled and seasoned fighters, they had been surprised and could not organise themselves quickly enough. Yells of “How many?” and “Where?” competed with the clash of weapons and yells of dying men in the cacophony that enveloped the camp.

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