A Knight of the Sacred Blade by Jonathan Moeller

throat. 
    “Thank you,” said Arran. He felt a little better. 
    She smiled and wiped his chin. “It is I who should thank you. That Ugaoun would have killed me if you had not come along just then.”
    Arran blinked. “The Ugaoun? You mean…wait. I saw you. Baal-Mar-Dan was about to kill you.”
    “The devil had a name?” She shrugged. “It is said that you should know a man’s name before you kill him, but I doubt the Ugaoun count as men. Yes, it was me. You killed the Ugaoun, but you were near death. I took you back to our Hold and have tried to heal you since.” Her brow furrowed in a frown. “For several tendays I thought that you would die. It will surprise many that you have awakened.”
    “Tendays?” said Arran. “How long have been here?”
    “Two turns of the moon,” said the woman.
    “Two months! Gods,” said Arran. He licked his lips. “Where am I? And who are you?”
    She smiled. “I thought you would ask those questions sooner or later. You are in the Hold of Clan Hadazer. And I am Siduri, wife of Jabir, daughter of Shamadan.”
    “Scorpions,” said Arran. “You’re the Scorpions. The clans of the desert.”
    Siduri laughed. “Aye, there are those that call us such. Now, I expect you to pay me in kind. Who are you?”
    “Arran,” he said. “Arran Belphon, of Carlisan.” His smile was bitter. “At one time.”
    “Are you a Knight of the Sacred Blade?” She pointed at the wall. His Sacred Blade, Luthar’s sword, and his guns lay in a heap. 
    A muscle in his face trembled. “I was. Now I…I am…” 
    “Now you will sleep,” said Siduri. “You must rest, and conserve your strength. The Shan and my husband will come to question you tomorrow. It will be…trying.”
    Arran yawned again. His eyelids felt weighted with lead, and he slipped into sleep. 

    ###

    “Wake him,” a harsh voice said. 
    “That may not be wise,” said Siduri. She sounded displeased. “He is on the mend, yes, but not yet whole.” 
    “We shall wake him, my Shan.”
    “Jabir,” said Siduri, anger creeping into her voice, “that is not…”
    Arran opened his eyes. “I’m already awake.”
    Siduri stood by the door, her arms crossed. Besides her stood a squat, hook-nosed man wearing the same style of dust-colored clothing. A tall old man in a brown robe stood next to him. The old man held an ornamented wooden staff, and pitiless black eyes glittered in his gaunt, weathered face. Unlike Siduri, both men wore their heads bare. 
    Siduri blinked. “Honored Shan, this Arran Belphon, a Knight of the Sacred Blade from the kingdom of Carlisan.” She touched the arm of the hook-nosed man. “This is my husband, Jabir son of Jabaan.” She said it without any trace of affection. “And this is the Shan of our clan.”
    “My greetings,” said Arran. 
    The old man grunted. “It is customary to rise to greet the Shan, but given your condition, I shall excuse you.”
    Arran’s broken leg clenched. “Most gracious of you.”
    A thin smile appeared on the Shan’s face. “Indeed. Tell me, Sir Arran Belphon of Carlisan, how you came to the lands of my clan.”
    “I already told you what happened,” said Siduri. 
    The Shan didn’t blink. “Nevertheless, I would like to hear it from his own lips.”
    “As you wish,” said Arran. “I was walking through the desert. I heard a scream, and saw a winged demon attacking Siduri. I managed to slay it, but it wounded me. Mortally, I thought, but I woke up here.” 
    The Shan tapped Arran’s weapons with his staff. “Tell me, are these your guns?”
    “Yes,” said Arran.
    “Where did you get them?”
    The muscles in Arran’s arms tensed at the memories. “I killed their owners and took them. I caught the first one by surprise, in the Crimson Plain, on the other side of the world. I killed him and took his Kalashnikov. After that, it was easier. I used that gun to kill more of Marugon’s soldiers, and I took their weapons.”
    Jabir sneered. “He