Ashar waited in the cover of the jungle. Dark river mud covered the majority of his body. Portions already dried out, flaking and cracking over the still damp soil beneath. The buffalo wandered out, but didn’t approach closer to the encampment of foreign soldiers. His knee shook with nerves. He willed the watchmen to come after the bait. His brother placed a hand on Ashar’s shoulder. At a glance his sibling managed to quiet the jitters that had taken Ashar since they left home with the bait.
Ashar focused again on the two men guarding against the unknown in the jungle. Guarding against them. The younger man took aim and shot at the buffalo. The arrow connected with a gut rocking squelch. Only waiting for the two men to come claim their prize remained. Then Ashar and his clan could take out the foolish sentries and ambush the camp later. The laxity of the foreign army never ceased to surprise him. One of the watchers came running to the fallen livestock. The other turned and ran the opposite direction. Ashar’s brother cursed softly.
He hoped the man had only gone off to find the butcher for such a prize as a fatted buffalo. The terse moments of waiting stretched ever longer. He felt each of his waiting clansmen straining their ears. The telltale ringing of an alarm carried over the din of the amassed soldiers. With jaguar like grace, he and the other warriors melted a good distance back into the trees before scaling to the lower canopy. If the foreigners decided to search the jungle for the source of the animal that had been delivered to them, they would find only ambush from above. It meant more waiting.
Shouting and more bells carried with the wind into the canopy. If Ashar listened close enough he could hear some inept bungling at the very edge of the jungle, but no white skinned men ventured within his view. He could hear shouting. It sounded angry to him. he wished he understood the tongue they spoke in. It seemed the only language common to both Ashar’s people and these invading soldiers was violence. Something brushed against his shoulder.
Ashar shifted with surprise. His kukri half raised in unconscious response to a perceived threat before he realized his brother managed to move from a neighboring tree without being heard. He marveled at the appropriateness of his brother’s warrior name, Ghost of the Jungle. He felt keenly the lack of his own warrior name in that moment. Silently he prayed that their contingent would remain and still attempt the ambush. He acknowledged his brother’s silent indication that they were going to stay put and wait until the clamor caused by the buffalo calmed down. He watched his brother’s fluid motions as he moved to confirm with the other warriors. As Ashar perched in a squat on the vine as thick as his own torso his legs ached. They ached to match his thirst for his first blooding.
Apropos of: Arathania