//------------------------------// // Chapter 44 Kirabo's night // Story: Spike the Knight // by vadram //------------------------------// Kirabo's night It must have been a hard night for Zecora, but it surely paled in comparison to the kind of night Kirabo had. Kirabo spent most of it searching for the best weapons and armor he could find in the armory making sure that all of them were as sharp as possible, but also keeping in mind his size. A sword ten times his size could provide little aid against such a small target. After finally picking the best the Black Sun’s armory could provide he went to his private stash. “Nothing but the best for little Adanna.” Kirabo’s room was simple, a small cubical space dug into the rock that surrounded the large cave with the giant crystals. Light was provided by a few glowing gemstones that were hanged from the ceiling, filling the room with just enough light that you would not trip or bump into anything, not that there was anything to trip over. The furnishings matched the room. A couple of identical cloaks hanged from metal shards thrusted into the walls, elevated on stumps a few dead trees were tied together and formed a bed. Atop of them a few inches of straw covered by what remained of a hand woven blanket, and a piece of fur, just large enough to cover him was all the bedding he needed, as well as all the bedding he had. Aside from a plain wooden box, that he used as a footstool to get into bed, nothing else was visible in the room. Kirabo removed his still wet cloak and neatly folded it, placing it on his bed and carefully removed the carved piece of bone that served as a clock pin placing it on top of the folded cloak. He unbuckled his belt and placed his sword and scabbard next to his bed, from the back of his armor he pulled a dagger and placed it on his bed. Then he unhinged his cracked cuirass letting it fall unceremoniously to the ground. He took a minute to examine himself, checking old wounds to see if they have healed or if they have reopened, newer wounds were examined more closely. He took a seat on the cold stone floor and opened the lid of the box. He grabbed the dagger from the bed and started cutting the hair from his larger injuries. From the box he took out a wooden bowl as well as a couple of small bags of powders and dehydrated plants, and a few colorful glass vials filled with various ready mixed potions. He placed the dried plants firs using the blunt end of the dagger to squash them and mix them with the other ingredients until they formed a poignant and chunky yellowish paste. From the box he then pulled a bottle of brown liquid. After taking a few large mouthfuls of what it contains and letting out a muffled “ahh” he poured some on a wound. His eye twitched and some of the muscles near the wound contracted, a small white piece of cloth was used to wipe it clean, before the he rubbed the yellowish paste on it. The paste started bubbling at it came in contact with the expose piece of flesh, and he wanted to scream from the pain it caused him, but years and years of this got him used to the sensation, to the point that he, at least, did not scream anymore. He cut a long piece from a even longer strip of linen wrappings, and used it to bandage his wound. “One down, only a dozen more to go.” He said before taking another gulp from the bottle and moving on the next wound. When he finished only a few hours remained until sunrise. He put what remained of the medical supplies back in the box and made a mental note to get more after the dance with zecora, he knew he was going to need them. After closing the lid and returning it to its place next to the bed, he walked on top of it and using his long arms pulled himself into bed. He grabbed his cloak and let it drop on top of the box, but not before removing the carved bone pin from ontop of it. Firmly grasping it in both hands he used his feet to pull the piece of fur on top of him. “I so hate it when she comes along. She can be such a pain.” he told himself before closing his eyes and trying fall asleep. These two days, while not far from what his usual days were like, made him, to his surprise, incredibly tired. He thought about what he went through today. First he had to teleport himself, a filly with two minds trapped inside her, and a dragon a couple of miles using a ritual that he hated from the depths of his heart. After that he had to hang for dear life from the fur of a frightened ursa minor while using his cloak to collect the beasts tears, all this while a full grown purple dragon breathed fire towards them and did his best to scare the stars out of the little starbeast. Then he had to jump from the beasts face and climb onto the back of the dragon, all this while making sure the liquid held in his cloak did not spill. Again he had to hang on, only this time, with one hand he had to hang onto the razor sharp spikes that the dragon had on his back, while with his other and one of his legs he firmly gripped his cloak, again making sure it did not spill its precious contents, and, with his other leg he had to hold onto said filly, while she held onto his tail using her teeth. And that was not the worst part. The worst part was actually chasing them. Behind them, and gaining, was an enraged ursa major, more than twice the size of the dragon they were riding on, and filled with motherly anger. Eventually, they got close enough to Imamu’s lair that the ursa slowed down and eventually turned back, but not before it sunk its claws into the dragons behind and tore away most of the dragons tail. And the moon was barely visible in the horizon. He managed to ‘rest’ a little while Zecora prepared the ritual. At that time he was fine except for a cut on his hand where he held onto spike, a bite mark on his tail, and some smaller scrapes and bruises that would not require treatment. That changed shortly. While Imamu and Zecora were busy creating a new body for the zebra and separating her mind from that of Apple Blooms he felt a presence. It was old, and he knew it well. Fearing that she could disturb the ritual he went to have a ‘talk’ with her, sword drawn of course. The battle did not last long, only a little over an hour, but the difference between them made it clear who was going to win even before the first blow was landed. She was stronger, physically, mentally and their magical abilities did not even compare, also she was faster and more agile, she was older and had more experience, both on the field of battle and in other fields. He never expected to win. They had met in ‘battle’ many times, and all he ever hoped for was to land a couple of hits and hopefully not die in the process. That night, as in any other of their meetings he managed to complete his main goal, to delay her until the ritual was finished, he landed a few hits, one even managed to pass through her armor and nick her making her bleed, if only for a moment. She used her telekinesis to remove the dagger from her side before the wound healed and the armor repaired itself. He remembered her smiling at him, licking her lips with the tip of her oversized tongue, and in a split second she was in front of him. A gentle tap of her leg sent him flying through some trees before coming to a stop after hitting a large rock. The force of the hit caused his cuirass to break as well as a couple of his ribs. A few bolts of green lightning hit him, but he managed to deflect all but two with his sword. He thanked both the goddesses that she was only playing with him, or else he wouldn't be here, in his bed, thinking about it. What followed was the sight of a filly Zecora, that brought back many memories that he had no time to think about, a problematic, to say the least, operation on a dragon, and a day of patrolling and a minor skirmish with an abnormally large pack of dire wolves. A brief argument with Imamu, he still could not believe that he raised his voice at him and lived, and finally Zecora’s challenge. “Ikenna Kirabo chipo Otieno, it does sound nice doesn't it.” he told himself with a smile on his face, before trying to get to sleep again. It did not take him long to do that, a few minutes at best. Two hours, two hours of bliss followed, then Imamu woke him up, breakfast was ready and the day was about to begin.