The First Book of the Pure by Don Dewey Page B

his backswing he cut into a bandit’s
neck, slicing a major artery, which prompted a fountain of blood as
the bandit screamed and fell. The one to the left of the two brash
frontrunners fell with Max’s blade in and out of him so fast the
man wondered what was happening to him as he died, and the others,
a rabble really, fell quickly to his homicidal blade. Only one had
the time and sense to run for his life, and Max calmly took a small
throwing knife from his pouch and flung it expertly into the back
of the bandit. That one fell to the road, scrabbling to keep going
without his legs working properly. Max walked to him and lifted his
head by his hair. “I did tell you to leave while you could. Fool.”
He slashed the bandit’s throat with one clean movement, dropping
his neck to bleed out on the road.
    Max walked from that corpse back to where the
seven other bodies were lying about in various tumbles and heaps. A
couple of arms and one head were no longer attached to bodies, and
lay by themselves. The bloodlust held him for a moment when all was
done, in the abrupt stillness. As the adrenaline faded away he
shook himself, and turned to face Mu’dar.
    His teacher was aghast, having now seen the
other side of his pupil. He gripped folds of his cloak, his hands
clenching and unclenching, sweat running from his shaven head like
a small stream. “What have you done , Max? They’re all dead!
By the true God of heaven!” The anguish in his voice cut Max to the
quick, and disturbed him.
    “They are dead, but we’re alive. We
would not be if they were. It’s simple deductive reasoning, that to
eliminate them was the best and more secure path to our continued
living.” He looked at his teacher for a response.
    “Oh, Max, my friend. Just who are you,
that you are able to do this, and that you could do it in
seconds?”
    A long lifetime of killing could not be
erased by the time he had been with Mu’dar. Maximus was taking all
of this very casually, which seemed to be callousness to Mu’dar.
Max decided to treat it as a lesson, howbeit a grisly one. “Is my
logic flawed, good teacher? Are not these men most probably wanted
for banditry and murder? Did I not just execute justice and also
save our lives? Are you wroth with me?”
    “This is not a new thing to you, is it Max?
The killing I mean.”
    “Of course not, master, but it’s been a long,
long time.” He lifted his blade to look at it, saw the blood
dripping from it, and knelt to clean it on the tunic of a dead
bandit. “A long time indeed, but my skills are still good. I had
wondered about that. Hmmm, I seem to have not escaped injury after
all.” He looked down at his side to see blood running in a sizable
stream from his side to his leg, leaching into the ground around
his sandal, turning the dry soil into a discolored mud.
    “Max, you’re injured!” Mu’dar knelt to
inspect the wound, trying to stop the flow of blood with his bare
hands.
    “It’s nothing my friend, so leave it. We must
be away from this soon, or others will come upon them and we’ll
have to answer too many questions. And how would you answer those
questions?” He gave Mu’dar a very pointed look. As he’d been
speaking, Maximus had torn a long strip of cloth from a fallen
bandit’s cloak, and tied it tightly around his mid section to stop
the bleeding. It wouldn’t do to leave such a trail for others to
follow.
    Mu’dar was an educator, a wise man, and ever
practical. “And you can travel with that wound?”
    “Come, let us away, Teacher.” Maximus hurried
Mu’dar down the road with his left hand on the small of his
master’s back, and his right hand holding his Roman short
sword.
    That night they chose to camp, instead of
seeking out a lodging place, which might have invited too many
questions. As the fire created stomach stirring smells from the now
succulent looking hare Maximus was slowly turning on their wooden
spit, Mu’dar broke their silence. “What would you