2 The caravan of death

“You’ve done a good job, boys,” captain Zorvun commended as the Xalya patrol arrived breathlessly on their horses. On the nearby hill, the scaled corpses of the creatures were starting to spark, and soon, they would explode, leaving only ashes behind.

Recovering his breath, Dashvara patted his horse’s neck and glanced at his comrades. They had spent three weeks following the trail of a nadre herd that had devastated a Xalya farmhouse; the relief of all of them at seeing these beasts vanquished was almost tangible. At last, they would be able to return to the dungeon.

The first nadre exploded. Lately, some of them burst as soon as they died; that is why the captain had ordered to spatter them with cold-oil using a trap before attacking. The fight had turned out well: no warrior had gotten serious injuries… Well, his cousin Miflin, one of the Triplets, had twisted his wrist. These three boys certainly didn’t lack guts or enthusiasm, but they still had so much to learn. Especially Miflin.

Suddenly, a fresh breeze rose. Awaking from the torpor after the battle, Dashvara gave a heavy look at the west. The sun was disappearing beneath the horizon, painting in red the Rocdinfer Steppe.

When the last explosion died away, the captain got off his horse, and all of them did the same. They set up the camp, cleaned their injuries, and prepared dinner. This night, the captain was gloomy. Something worries him, Dashvara guessed, as he was sitting by the fire. It wasn’t so hard to know what troubled him: they had had no news of Sashava’s patrol for a week. But Sashava has more men than us, he thought. Nothing bad could have happened to him, could it? Makarva recalled him from his reflections when he put his katutas board on a reversed pot.

“Who’s up for a game?” he asked. “Lumon, of course. What would we do without your damned good luck? Dash? You too, right?” He pulled an innocent face as he continued: “Sigfen? No? Sure? Oh! You’re not intending to abandon us, are you? With four people, it is funnier,” he protested.

“I have not forgiven you your dirty tricks yet,” Sigfen grumbled.

“Bah! I hope you’re not talking about the pawn I moved by accident, huh? I just wanted to know if you were paying attention, that’s all. I promise you I will be a gentleman this time,” Makarva swore. His mischievous smile didn’t inspire confidence in anyone at all. He sighed. “Yuck. You’re as stubborn as a stone, Sig. Placid! Sit down and play. This time you won’t escape. Where are the dice?”

“I have them,” Dashvara said as Boron the Placid settled down, smiling calmly. Makarva craned his neck to inspect the dice.

“Which have you brought?” he muttered.

Dashvara smiled and threw the dice on the board. One and five.

“The normal ones,” he answered. “Don’t you see I haven’t got two six?”

“Aw man. Do you have the others? I think I’ve lost them.”

“I bet my hair that a red nadre had run off with your dice,” Miflin intervened, installing himself with his two brothers to follow the game. The bet was an old silly joke: out of the three triplets, Zamoy and Miflin were born hairless; on the contrary, Kodarah had a black and impressive mane.

Dashvara replied:

“Bah, red nadres don’t cheat, cousin. Sigfen must surely keep them for the day he decides to take his revenge.”

“Or it can be Lumon,” this last one hazarded with an uninterested grimace; he was sitting not far. “It’s not for nothing that he is said to be lucky.”

The targeted person smiled mysteriously.

“Since when to be lucky is to cheat?” he replied.

“Since you play katutas with us,” Makarva gave back without hesitation.

They started to play. Soon, Boron the Placid began to yawn, and Dashvara copied him unconsciously. Makarva complained:

“Eternal Bird, stop yawning!” And he yawned too. Zamoy said:

“Kodarah, I bet my breakfast that the next to yawn will be the Placid.”

“You’re on,” Kodarah accepted. Zamoy grumbled when Dashvara yawned again without even doing it on purpose. The Maneman giggled. “You’ve lost your breakfast, bro.”

The games of katutas were usually that chaotic.

The Placid was moving a piece and just capturing a Dashvara’s pawn when a sentinel warned that a rider was coming. This one emerged from the night riding faster than it was safe. He dismounted and headed straight to the captain.

“It’s your move, Lumon,” Makarva reminded.

“Yeah, I know…” this one said, lowering his eyes.

As he would be the next, Dashvara focused his attention on the game while the captain and the messenger were talking quietly. Bad news, he predicted.

The captain confirmed that quickly when he went toward the two fires and barked boisterously:

“Break camp! The savages are marching towards the dungeon.”

Dashvara raised his eyebrows. Another attack? Lately, the savages had definitely developed a taste for the Xalya lands. He stood up with promptness. If Dashvara had learned one thing during these six years of being a patrol, it was to obey the captain’s orders without question. To be sure, he was the firstborn of Lord Vifkan, but to the captain and his companions, the fact was irrelevant: he was still a Xalya like everyone else. With efficiency, they kept the katutas, took their effects, and extinguished the fires. The horses snorted restlessly, guessing that the workday had not finished yet.

They were climbing onto their mounts when Lumon asked the messenger:

“How many are they?”

It was the captain who answered:

“About a thousand.”

During the days following the massacre of the Xalya Dungeon, Dashvara pretended to heal.

There were disorders between the Akinoas and the Shalussis to distribute the Dungeon and the lands. Moved by a foolish ambition, Qwadris of Shalussi tried to betray the Akinoas and slaughter them during the night, but eventually, he became the one betrayed: before dawn, two tens of mercenaries changed to the side of the Akinoas after murdering Qwadris and his captain in his own tent.

One less, Dashvara thought as he walked slowly through the barren steppe of Xalya. He was following a caravan of Shalussis without saying a word. After distributing the part of the gained plunder, the clan decided to go back home and let the Akinoas and the betrayers barricade themselves in the dungeon: apparently, they judged that the Xalya lands were no longer useful.

You miserable rats. Damn thieves. Assassins… His mind reviewed all the possible synonyms that might describe the horror these savages had perpetrated. At least the Essimeans had only assaulted with their catapults and hadn’t taken anything. Who knew if they had done so to honor their Death God or simply to annihilate those who represented, because of their blood, the tyranny of the last king of the steppe.

Dashvara felt empty. He had cried during the nights, but crying did not relieve his suffering. He had promised himself he would stand up and kill the Shalussi chieftains once and for all. But then he always recalled his father’s words. He had to not hurry. He had to be cautious. He had to be dignified. Anguish and hatred were finally replaced by a deep emptiness and an icy anger.

It took two days until they went into the Shalussi territory and another two days until they arrived in Nanda’s village. At the beginning of the journey, he didn’t speak with anyone. He responded to the comments only with grumbles. He received the meal as if they were giving him poison. His Xalya life was over, and although he knew that he was still the son of the lord those warriors had killed, he did not manage to identify with this rather macabre and sarcastic young man of ironic nature and strict principles. The little of his childhood that might linger had vanished. Two days later, when a woman offered him more decent clothes, he refused them with a rude gesture.

“You’re not totally right in the head, are you?” she said. Her deep dark brown eyes looked at him naughtily. “But it doesn’t matter. This ripped shirt suits you amazingly,” she teased, moving her face closer to the Xalya. She smelled strong of flowers. A shiver ran through his body as the woman added in the same teasing tone: “I’m Zaadma. And you?”

As he did not answer, she smiled and said:

“If you weren’t blinking, I would think I’m talking to a wall.”

She moved away in her red dress with a flashy walk, and Dashvara made a face of repugnance as he realized what this woman was doing in the middle of a troop of Shalussis.

You bloody savages.

All of them were. The Essimeans were fanatics of the Death God. The Akinoas were barbarian warriors who had been wandering for years in search of a land to defend with the blows of their axes. As for the Shalussis, they were the savages of gold. They were capable of selling everything for this metal, except their weapons. It was even said that they were capable of selling their wives and children to the merchants who came from beyond the Dazbon Republic. The Shalussi men sold their honor at the price of the grass. And it seemed the women did the same.

Savages, he thought again, his heart as lifeless as a stone.

That Zaadma spent all day watching him intently. Dashvara shot her deadly glares, but she did not get scared.

When the sun set and the armed caravan halted, Zaadma left him in peace. The campfires were lit, but instead of approaching them, Dashvara sat down, leaning back on the wheel of a carriage, and he lifted his gaze to the sky, where a shining Moon was gleaming. Soon, the healer woman came to bring him the dinner, a bowl full of hot rice; surprised that they had not forgotten him, Dashvara nodded silently as he took it. When the woman left, he looked at her. She was relatively older than Zaadma, and there were gray locks in her black hair. He saw her talking lively with some warriors; at some point, she let out a laugh, and some men smiled. They seemed to treat her with respect, he observed.

He glanced at the farthest tents, where they kept the hostages. Where they imprisoned Fayrah. What if he managed to save her? he wondered. What if he managed to free her and steal a horse, and then he galloped to the south, to the city of Dazbon? It was said that it was doable to hide even a whole clan there. Two people could easily hide. He ought to be cautious like a snake, yes, but snakes were also effective.

However, first, he needed a saber.

He put on the ground the bowl not even touched, and he stood up. Even as he began walking, he heard the soft clearing of a throat.

“Know what? You look like a dead man who has just been buried.”

Dashvara snorted and turned to look at Zaadma. The young woman sat on the rear of one of the wagons, her arms folded.

“Come on! You’ll never say anything?”

You’ll never leave me alone? he replied mentally.

He turned his back and walked toward the fires.

“You’re a Shalussi hard to convince, aren’t you?” Zaadma commented. She was following him. “You look like you had lost a battle. You’re supposed to have won one, all of you, right? Aren’t you pleased to be free? Or perhaps you have always been that talkative? Hold on a minute… Hell! Have the Xalyas ripped your tongue out?”

Zaadma blocked his way, and Dashvara stepped backwards abruptly.

“Get back!” he hissed.

The mindless stupid girl laughed.

“One point for me: you still have a tongue. Now I just need to…”

“Get lost,” the Xalya coldly rumbled.

Something in his voice frightened Zaadma, but she recovered herself quickly.

“You have a bad temper, Shalussi,” she noticed. While Dashvara kept walking, she continued: “Around the fires, there are plenty of boys ready to offer good coins in return for my favors, you know that? And all of them have the purses full… and you haven’t. Tell me, what’s your name?”

Dashvara would have gladly gagged her, tied her hands, and put her in a cart until the dawn.

“Odek,” he answered finally under his breath. “Odek of Shalussi.”

“Odek!” she cried, smiling. “I knew an Odek in Dazbon. He was my first true love. A saint. But he died. You don’t know how I envy these Xalyas,” she sighed. “Dazbon is a dream city. I should have never fallen in love with that Shalussi. That one wasn’t an Odek, but an Aldek.” She laughed softly. “What funny names you have, you Shalussis. So, the thing is that Aldek took me to his village to live together as husband and wife. And after not even a few months, he died too, in a stupid duel, and he left me alone in the middle of nowhere, with some goats and a mud hut smaller than a wagon.”

Dashvara stroke his beard thoughtfully while Zaadma was prattling.

“So they’re taking them to Dazbon?” he whispered.

“You mean the Xalyas? Yes. Well, Nanda will intend to sell them to a slave trader, a foreigner from Diumcili, you know, the federated state, in the south. The federates pay mountains of gold.”

Well, at least they are expensive slaves, Dashvara wanted to reply sarcastically. He stopped.

“And exactly what does that trader want to do with them?” he inquired.

Zaadma raised an eyebrow.

“Do you really care about it?”

Dashvara glanced at her annoyingly. He wanted to say: You ask me if I care? Not at all: I will free the Xalyas before that scum can even see them. But he just said:

“I just ask it to talk about something.”

“Oh! Don’t worry, you don’t need to talk about anything with me. Truth to tell, I’ve already wasted enough time. One cannot live on curiosity alone. Have a good night, Odek of Shalussi,” Zaadma said, waving at him with mocking deference.

Dashvara saw her going toward the fires, and he kept in his mind the troubling image of her beautiful dark brown eyes. After glancing at the prisoners’ tent, he looked again at the Moon.

Don’t hurry.

First of all, he had to learn to act only after thinking deeply about the consequences, as captain Zorvun did. One mistake might cause not only his death, which honestly no longer scared him that much, but also the assassins’ impunity. He had to concentrate on that, he repeated.

Deep down, he fervently wanted to grasp some sabers and use them in that camp to death. But that, besides being idiotic and barbarian-like, wouldn’t punish the Akinoas and the Essimeans. Dashvara sighed.

All right, father. You ask me to revenge ourselves on the chieftains. Okay. But what do the children have to do with all that? Don’t you think it is, er, well, I don’t know, to act just as roughly as the savages?

He had no doubt that Lord Vifkan was a man of the Dahars; but he belonged to another generation, and he did not always have the same view of honor as his son. Actually, there were a lot of things both of them had never agreed about.

“Don’t think about them,” he whispered. And he tensed up, suddenly realizing that he had spoken in Oy’vat, the Wise Tongue, the speech of the Ancient Kings. If the Shalussis caught him speaking so, he would survive in this camp as long as a spark. Keep calm. You will go only so far if you lose your sanity and your self-control, Dash.

He began to walk toward the tent where Fayrah was, without sabers or any other weapon, and without any idea about what he was going to do. There were two guards before the tent. Not even a sound came out from this one, as if the prisoners were gagged, asleep, or… dead. But that did not make sense, he reasoned: there was no way they would kill them after forcing them out of the dungeon to sell them.

One of the guards looked at him up and down.

“What the hell are you looking at?” he inquired finally.

Dashvara gazed at him, shrugged without even blinking, then let out:

“How many are they?”

Both guards exchanged a glance.

“Man! It’s none of your business, is it?” replied the same who spoke before. “You’re the Xalyas’ prisoner, aren’t you? You won’t receive even a grain of gold. You didn’t take part in the assault. Nanda is the one who sent us to capture the girls, and only those who work for him will get a bounty, is it clear?”

It is clear, you ignorant pig.

Dashvara nodded silently, then wordlessly turned around and moved away. He would not free Fayrah that night. Anyway, he could not save her without saving the others. These were Xalyas too, and he bet that some of them had attended Maloven’s lessons in childhood, as he did. He would not abandon them.

He went back to the wagon next to where he had left the bowl. The rice was cold now, but he ate it regardless. One after the other, the names of the assassins went through his mind. Lifdor and Nanda, of Shalussi. Shiltapi of Akinoa. Todakwa of Essimea… He closed his eyes. They were four. Only four. That did not make up for the crime, but did that actually matter? His father had ordered him to do it. And he would. He opened his eyelids and gazed at the cold Moon of the night; then, he lowered his eyes to his hands, and a fierce grin twisted his lips.

For the sake of the Xalyas, of my father and my family, I swear that I, Dashvara of Xalya, will kill you all.