6 A party for a defeat

He found Rokuish sleeping and snoring, leaning back on the fence that enclosed the horses. The sun was already falling to the west, and the stable kindly shaded the sleeping young man.

The Xalya rested his arms on the fence and looked at the enclosure. In all, there were fifteen beasts, and half of them seemed more like draft animals than war horses. Among them, there was a black one. He snapped his lips, and the animal lifted its head, shook it, and approached the fence docilely. Dashvara smiled when he caressed its nose. It was a good beast, and it reminded him so much of Lusombra, the mare he had ridden for the previous five years. At least, no Shalussi, Essimean, or Akinoa will be able to ride her, he told himself. Four months ago, Lusombra had been stolen by a Steppe Thief. Well, not exactly “stolen”, actually. The Steppe Thieves didn’t usually steal horses, and truth to tell, they just didn’t steal. The so-called thief had been found by captain Zorvun and his patrol in the Xalya territories, and as he had no horse, or water, or weapons, it was decided to bring him to the dungeon. Finally, after spending several days speaking with the prisoner, Dashvara had committed one of the so many crazy things that drove his lord father to despair: he had helped the Steppe Thief to flee, offering him his own horse. He could still remember the final words the mysterious steppeman had pronounced: ‘I will repay you for that, Xalya’. He had raised his fist to his heart and ridden off like a bolt into the dark of the steppe. The two patrol comrades that were on guard duty that night had just shaken their heads without sounding the alarm: it was said, after all, that, if a Xalya defended his freedom tooth and nail, a Steppe Thief defended it to death.

Dashvara smiled. For some reason, among all the clans and tribes he knew, he had always respected the Steppe Thieves more than any others. According to that Steppe Thief that he had saved and whose name he did not know, the first priority of his clan was to protect the Rocdinfer Steppe from the avaricious hands of the “civilized people”. That was not easy at all.

A snore louder than the previous one drew his attention to the Shalussi. The black headscarf of this one had fallen smoothly forward off his head, and now his face was barely visible.

Dashvara sat down in front of him, on the grass, and he glanced at the sky. The sun was already setting. After a while, as he saw that Rokuish didn’t wake up, he stood up and went into the building. All the horses’ stalls were clean. He noticed a table placed beside a wall, with two benches, and on this table, he saw a slice of cheese.

Immediately, Dashvara salivated. He glanced around him, as though he were going to commit a terrible theft.

‘You shall flog the thief who robs your neighbor,’ the shaard Maloven once said, in his usual grandiose voice.

Flog, huh… Well, I’ve already flogged three bandits with my own whip, Maloven, but one thing is to steal, and another thing is to eat, he reasoned.

His thought drew an ironic smile on his lips, but that didn’t prevent him from taking the cheese and swallowing it with delight. It was goat cheese. When he went out of the stable, Rokuish hadn’t moved an inch.

As placid as a donkey, huh?

Dashvara snorted mentally.

“If only all the Shalussis were like you,” he whispered.

And if only the Xalyas could sleep as quietly as you do, he added gloomily, in silence.

Then he turned and went to the river. He drank water in large gulps: he felt as if forging those damned links had left him as dry as a sunned canvas.

He tossed his head up abruptly when he heard a lively tune of guitars. Frowning, he looked at the hill, rose to his feet, and began to ascend. On the square before Nanda’s house and beside the watchtower, was a Shalussi group with guitars, calling all the inhabitants. The neighbors had gathered, and now they were sitting in a circle around a man with gold necklaces. Nanda of Shalussi.

Dashvara stopped in the dusky darkness, several steps away from the ring of light shined by the torches.

“People of Nanda!” the headman exclaimed, and the inhabitants fell into an expectant silence. “As you all know, a week ago, the last bastion of the ancient steppe realms has been destroyed. The Xalya Dungeon has fallen, and the Xalya warriors who were threatening our lands have been defeated thanks to the Shalussis, thanks to our warriors!”

He leaned his head respectfully in some direction, and a pale Dashvara sighted the warriors who had traveled with him to the village.

“And thanks to our chief!” a voice yelled out among them.

This one was Walek’s comrade. Nanda smiled.

“We are not so damn greedy as the Xalyas were,” he continued. “We don’t want to dominate the whole steppe: we only want to live in peace in our lands, without worrying about conquests and oppression. The dignity of the Tyrant’s spawns is dead. You are free men, Shalussis. Our people’s revenge has finally been settled, and led by me, Nanda of Shalussi!”

If I ever had qualms about killing you, you have just removed them all, Nanda of Shalussi, Dashvara spit mentally while the villagers were accompanying Nanda’s shout with acclaims. There’s a great difference between avenging the death of your family and avenging the oppression of a people caused by a tyrannic king who died two hundred years ago. Or is it that your point wasn’t as much about avenging as it was about hoarding gold, you scoundrel?

Finally, Dashvara sat down on the ground so as not to draw the attention, and he concentrated his efforts on calming down his heartbeats.

“Yet, also, let us weep,” Nanda pronounced, “because we have lost five brave men. Three were married and had children. Two had parents who had educated them to be honorable Shalussis. Let us weep, my brothers, for our dead.”

The warriors didn’t exactly weep, but they kept a respectful silence. Nanda moved closer to a child who was crying silently, and he laid a hand on his head.

“Cry, child, for tomorrow you shall be a strong man.”

He straightened and concluded:

“The bounty of this fight has been generous. The food makers will double their efforts, and we won’t have to go hungry this year.” He smiled. “The merchants of Dazbon will come in two weeks. We will sell our prisoners, and a part of the profits will be shared between all the inhabitants as a sign of my generosity. Now bring on the party!”

The villagers let out high-pitched screams of gratitude, and the guitarists began to play music again. Everybody rose and continued to howl like raging lunatics. Dashvara shook his head, amazed.

This is clear proof of who the Shalussis are in fact, don’t you see? They are savages capable of committing the worst monstrosities for a fistful of gold coins. He paused abruptly, fixed his gaze on the square, and shivered. No way! Are they really going to dance?

The Shalussis, still screaming rhythmically, raised their fists to the sky and danced in a ring, smiling at each other.

“Eternal Bird,” Dashvara whispered. And he sealed his lips, cursing himself.

Fine. Everybody is happy because my people have been hacked to death. What a great joy. Seriously, can’t they find other less macabre reasons for celebrating?

They were absolutely repulsive. He stood up, and he was going to move away when Orolf emerged from the crowd, calling him.

“Odek! How did it go with Bashak?”

The blacksmith was smiling and holding hands with a little girl with tangled hair, who had just put a soiled thumb in her mouth.

“Er,” Dashvara said, lifting his eyes. “Very well. I’m going to work as a warrior. With a certain Rokuish.”

Orolf vigorously clapped him on the shoulder.

“So you’ll have to start training and eating more. Come to have dinner with us. My wife is a wonder at cooking.”

Come to have dinner with the ones who have robbed you of the blood of your blood, translated the macabre part of Dashvara’s mind. A shiver coursed down his spine.

“No, thanks, Orolf. I am not hungry.”

The blacksmith frowned, surprised; then he glanced in one direction, and he seemed to understand something.

“Don’t go to the White Hand tonight,” he whispered. “Walek will be waiting for you there to kill you if you approach that… woman. He is a warrior with a confused mind. Everyone tells him to get married and forget that Silkia, but it seems that that snake has chained him. That house is a poison to the village.”

Dashvara listened to his words, interested.

“So Walek wants to kill me.”

“I don’t believe he wants to. He just doesn’t want you to approach that woman. If you are not totally dumb, boy, don’t approach that den.”

“If nobody likes it, why is it still open?” the Xalya asked.

Orolf made a face.

“I never said that nobody likes it. Actually, it was a sort of ‘present’ gifted to Nanda by an important Diumcilian lord to maintain good commercial relations. You see, Nanda sells prisoners and salbronix grains, and Arviyag, the envoy from Diumcili, gives him gold. Though, honestly, I haven’t seen Nanda enter this house, not even once. Our chief gets drunk more easily with gold than with Diumcili smoke,” he joked. “Believe me, young man, don’t approach that woman, and everything will go well.”

The blacksmith waved his hand, and with his daughter, he went back to the feast. The guitarists had begun descending the hill. Behind them, flourishing the torches, the villagers danced, and from time to time, they let out a long burst of jubilant screams that pierced the night.

Dashvara watched them as they moved away. They were celebrating the victory. Their victory. And the death of his father. Of his family. Of so, so many people… It nauseated him.

“What are you doing out there, my darling?” a distant and sensual voice suddenly asked.

Dashvara looked up at the White Hand and distinguished a pale face at a window on the second floor. He breathed out noisily, and he was going to move away to find a place where he could sleep, but then he stopped short. He reflected. What if Walek really intended to kill him if he approached this woman? What would happen if he killed that Shalussi in self-defense? No one could accuse him of murder, right?

But he needed a saber to defend himself, and he wasn’t quite sure that Walek would be knightly enough to give him one in case of a duel. Yet, he had not forgotten the metal bar hidden in his boot. Depending on the situation, he could use it effectively.

Be cautious like a snake. And when the time has come to kill, do it. He shuddered on recalling Lord Vifkan’s words.

Has the time already come, father? he asked. He shook his head and glanced at Nanda of Shalussi’s house. He could not spend his whole life in this village of savages, waiting day after day for his father to answer: “now”. His lord father would never answer him anymore, neither would captain Zorvun. Now it was up to him to choose the best way and assume the consequences of his acts, be these good or bad.

He took a deep breath and walked toward the White Hand, keeping his senses cautiously alert. He expected to see, at any moment, a shadow popping up from one corner, a saber in hand. He could disarm him if he was dexterous enough. And then he would kill him.

He was so concentrated that, when a voice sounded behind him, he jumped from the ground like a crazy demon:

“There you are! I’ve been looking for you everywhere! You tell me you’d come tonight, and I find you here, in front of the White Hand door?”

As he turned, his eyes caught the glimpse of a form just moving behind a brush. Another human figure was crossing the square, looking like a woman scorned.

“Zaadma,” Dashvara muttered, narrowing his eyes. Argh, what had gotten into her now? She went on complaining out loud:

“You who promised to love me till death, you jump into the arms of someone else so soon?”

Window shutters suddenly clapped, and Zaadma chuckled wickedly.

“You are an idiot,” she added in a lower voice while coming close to Dashvara. “There are two men hidden behind a brush, waiting for you to kill you if you get near the door.”

Dashvara tried and failed to swallow his anger.

“Damned bastard,” he hissed. “I already knew that.”

Zaadma stopped short. A smell of flowers began to float on the night air.

“Oh. So your purpose was to die. Good. Great. Go ahead. If you insult me like that, I have no qualms about delivering you to those men. All in all, you’re just like the others. Hey, Silkia!” she called out all of a sudden in a more normally pitched voice. “I was kidding. This fellow is an ingenuous good man. I’m sure he has fallen in love with you. I’d even bet that he would gladly bring you a treasure full of gold coins only for you. Silkia! Hey, Silk—!”

She stopped yelling when Dashvara grabbed her by the shoulders and began to shake her as if she were a maraca.

“Let go of me!”

Dashvara let her go, suddenly feeling ashamed. He had never in his life shaken a woman.

“I’m sorry. And I’m sorry I called you a bastard. I didn’t mean to.”

I can’t believe it—are you seriously apologizing? Zaadma stared up at his eyes. Her own were glittering as if she was ready to cry.

“Go to hell,” she snapped. She turned her back on him and swiftly strode away.

“Is what Zaadma said true?” Silkia asked far away.

Dashvara drew a deep breath and exhaled loudly. He didn’t respond to Silkia. Two armed Shalussi warriors were too many. He could not disarm one of them while being attacked by the other.

Abruptly, he started running after Zaadma.