9 Faster than a red snake

When he returned to Zaadma’s, it was already getting dark. Rokuish had assured him that, that night, it wasn’t their turn to go up to the watchtower and that there were several warriors who usually took turns. Their own night’s watch wouldn’t be until a few days later.

Dashvara stepped close to the house door, falteringly. Now that he was starting to put things into perspective about the indiscriminate hatred he felt toward the Shalussis, he wondered whether he had acted correctly agreeing to sleep in her house. But, on reflection, Zaadma had demonstrated a good heart by guesting him even knowing full well that he hadn’t the slightest piece of gold. As the ancient steppe wise men said: ‘Don’t repel the person who, instead of abandoning you, gives you bread, and a bed to sleep in.’

Whispers came from the inside. Dashvara sighed and withdrew his hand that was about to knock on the door. He turned back, sat down beneath the olive, and spent his time gazing at the Moon’s twinkling reflection on the river. This one was hardly one foot deep. He bet that, in periods of prolonged droughts, it probably diminished down to a brook.

He waited a long time before hearing louder voices and the creak of an opening door. Hidden behind the olive tree, Dashvara discerned the figure of a man… He rolled his eyes. Of course it was a man, what could it have been? His eyes widened when he recognized him. It was Nanda of Shalussi.

He could hardly keep himself from rising up and rushing at him. He was alone, far from the village—it was the ideal moment.

He let him pass. He could not believe what he was doing. He growled lowly when the Shalussi’s footfalls died away. It was one thing to be cautious, and another to be a coward. And he had the tremendous impression that, just right now, he had acted like a bloody coward.

Think a bit. If Nanda has come, he will come back again. You just have to ask Zaadma to warn you when he comes back. You kill him, steal a horse, and leave this place. You have already hesitated too much.

He stood up and crossed the doorway, which Zaadma had left open. The candle lit the inside. A scent of jasmine floated in the air. And Zaadma was singing to herself while slightly squashing the soil of a pot with white flowers. Dashvara observed her.

This woman has just offered herself to the man who allied himself with the Akinoas and the Essimeans to destroy my family. And, unbelievably, I accept her hospitality. Where did my honor get lost? Dashvara shook his head. Demons. If you really want to know, your honor got lost in the Xalya Dungeon, Dash. Anyway, it is too late to get it back.

He set aside the thought with a snort, and Zaadma started, just noticing his presence.

“Ah! Odek. Come in. I have prepared your bedroom—” She stopped speaking on seeing the Xalya’s expression, and then she smiled playfully. “Did you see him leave? You didn’t dare punch that man to conserve my dignity, not him, eh, did you?”

Dashvara clicked his tongue.

“How can you joke about dignity? Don’t you have moral values?”

Zaadma took a loud breath and raised her eyes to the heavens.

“Demons, Shalussi. I see you have your prejudices well embedded in your mind. My values are in good health, thanks. Okay, well, do you want us to philosophize or do you want to have dinner?”

Dashvara had to acknowledge that, after so much training, he was hungry.

“Let’s have dinner,” he declared.

Zaadma smiled with amusement and gestured to the cold plate of vegetables and figs that was set on the golden carpet.

“This is the meal that you should have eaten this afternoon,” she cleared up. “I prepared it with all my dedication and all my heart, and I waited, waited… I waited like a married woman for you to return, but you didn’t return. So I decided to keep it faithfully for you and make sure not even the smallest fig will be missing when you come back.”

Dashvara stared at her, not knowing at all how to take her mocking response. He apologized:

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think to inform you. I ate with Rokuish’s family.”

Zaadma sat down and crossed her arms.

“I suppose I have to be happy that you haven’t eaten at the White Hand.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow. He sat, and he replied:

“I thought about you and about the terrible jealousy you would feel, and I decided not to approach that house.”

Zaadma smiled.

“Thanks for your understanding. Would you want me to warm up the vegetables? I have a heating slab made in Dazbon. It still runs like a charm.”

Dashvara shook his head negatively.

“No, no, really, couldn’t be better. Thank you,” he added, and he took a spoonful of vegetables.

When he finished the plate, he realized that Zaadma was looking at him. He frowned.

“What?”

Zaadma shrugged and smiled shyly.

“I don’t know… It has been a while since I have had someone to eat with. Well, I already had dinner. I mean, it has been a while since…” She gestured. “I’m sure you see what I mean.”

“Er, not quite, honestly,” Dashvara mocked.

They exchanged a gaze. Outside, only an utter silence could be heard. Zaadma cleared her throat.

“Your room is there,” she pointed.

Dashvara nodded and stood up.

“Thanks for taking me in. And thanks for the dinner.”

“Stop thanking and apologizing, and go to bed,” Zaadma replied.

Dashvara paused beside the curtain that separated both rooms.

“You don’t expect another visit, do you?” he asked a little sharply. “Because, in that case, I would rather sleep beneath the olive tree.”

Zaadma puffed.

“Don’t worry. This night I will sleep like a saint. Good night, young Shalussi. And, by the way,” she added, “I hope you’re not still thinking about taking revenge on Walek, are you?”

A sinister smile twisted Dashvara’s face.

“No. Don’t worry, I won’t kill Walek. Good night.”

He withdrew the curtain and felt his way to his bed. The chamber was small, but it had a window, and if one drew the curtain, one could see the Moon’s light reflected on the river. He took the headscarf off, removed his boots, and then glanced to the other room. The candle was still lighted.

He lay down, feeling agreeably tired. Even so, he could not deny it: as a fighter, Rokuish was a disaster, and what had exhausted Dashvara most had been to repeat recommendations in order to prevent him from making the same mistakes again and again. All in all, he had wielded a saber, yes, but it was a wooden one. And he would not kill Nanda with a wooden saber.

He made a wry smile in the darkness. Zaadma had already quenched the candle. He heard cloth murmurs, and then the silence. He closed his eyes and sharpened his ears. He listened to Zaadma’s quiet and rhythmic breathing. He listened to the light breeze. And, finally, he fell asleep.

He woke several times during the night, with a feeling of being lost. Oddly, he did not dream that he was murdering the savage chieftains, nor that he lost his family. He dreamed that he was fighting against red nadres with his patrol comrades. Makarva, Lumon, Sigfen, Boron, and the Triplets… and Captain Zorvun. All of them were well alive, and their faces were impressively clear. At some point, they began playing katutas.

He wrinkled his nose when he awoke in the dead of night. So much perfume befuddled him and kept him from sleeping deeply. The sun was scarcely peeking over the horizon when he got up. He pulled the headscarf on, put on the boots, and left the bedroom stealthily. The window curtain was half drawn, and a morning light faintly illuminated the inside. The sunbeams reddened the petals of the emzarreds, beautified the immaculate white kalreas, ploughed the firm earthy floor, slid onto the blanket, and caressed Zaadma’s back, half bared under the sheet.

Dashvara looked at her, wondering how such a beauty could have chosen a so little appropriate way of life. But maybe it didn’t seem to her inappropriate, who knows? He shook his head as though he wanted to awake himself utterly, and he stepped to the door. Silently, he went out and walked directly to the training field before Fushek’s house. The village was still half asleep, but it seemed that it would get alive before long.

He settled on the court ground, and after a while, he surprised himself drawing in the sandy soil with one of the wooden sabers. When he realized that he was stupidly writing his name in Oy’vat, he quickly removed the trace. I will never cease to surprise myself, he sighed, glancing around nervously.

Rokuish didn’t show up. After waiting in the court for a good while, Dashvara finally stood up, and he was going to put the wooden sabers back when his eyes suddenly fixed on something that was slithering toward a group of three children sitting on the ground, before a house.

It was a red snake.

For a second, Dashvara was petrified. Then he remembered his father’s words: ‘But before killing them, son, kill their families.’

Dashvara wavered. How many possibilities might there be that one of these children was a son of Nanda of Shalussi? Very few. And besides… He shook his head, astonished at his own thoughts.

No, father. I don’t kill innocents.

And he rushed forward.

“Don’t move,” he commanded as he saw the three children turning toward him.

When it was a question of giving orders, Dashvara gave them as Zorvun and Lord Vifkan did. The children didn’t move. In any case, they rapidly realized what was happening.

Dashvara approached the snake cautiously. The reptile wasn’t very long, but its venom was lethal, and its body moved at the speed of a bolt. Dashvara aimed with one of the wooden sabers, getting ready for any attack from the snake. A wrong move could cost his life.

Nimble like the wind. Subtle like the sand. Strike.

Dashvara struck, and he made no mistake. The snake’s head was crushed in the sand soil. Good. He twisted the stick and jabbed the head, assuring himself it was completely, utterly dead. Losing their silent expectation, the children burst into joyful cries and surrounded him to thank him. One of them squatted to grab the dead snake’s tail, and he dashed downhill, shaking the dead reptile like a trophy.

“A red snake!” he was crying. “He’s killed it! He’s killed it!”

Dashvara smiled.

“He will manage to awake even Rokuish if he keeps screaming like that.”

He heard the laughter of the little girl who was grasping his sleeve, and he suddenly realized that her face looked quite familiar.

“My, my, you’re the daughter of Orolf, the blacksmith, aren’t you?”

The girl nodded.

“And I am her brother,” said the other child, who seemed to be even younger.

Dashvara made a smiling face.

“Are you aware that, if that snake had bitten you, you would have died in a matter of minutes? Always beware of your surroundings, kids.” And as both of them were nodding, gaping at him as if they were eating up his words, his smile widened. “Go on. Go home and tell your father to give you a saber to defend yourselves next time.”

He saw them run to the blacksmith’s house, and he cloaked a laugh by clearing his throat. It was getting harder and harder for Orolf to refuse him this blessed saber he had promised.

Well, he thought, looking around. Where did you get lost, Rokuish?

He was supposed to be here now. Dashvara put down the wooden sabers, went downhill, and as he was passing before the Shalussi’s house, he saw his sister Menara taking clothes off the line; he greeted her.

“Is Rokuish still sleeping?”

The Shalussi woman denied with a shake of her head.

“No. He said he was going to train. He’s been gone for a while, now. Didn’t you see him?”

Dashvara gestured to reassure her.

“No, but maybe he was in Fushek’s house. Don’t worry. I’ll find him.”

“Come to think of it,” Menara suddenly said when Dashvara was already moving uphill again, “he didn’t go toward Fushek’s court but the river.”

To the river? Raising his eyebrows, the Xalya thanked her, returned to Fushek’s court to take the training weapons, and went to the river. When he arrived, he glanced at both sides, he looked straight, and… he let out a guffaw. Leaning sideways against a mutsomo bark, Rokuish was doing stretching exercises. Dashvara crossed the river and stopped before the Shalussi. This one was so focused on trying to lift his leg as much as he could that he did not even notice his presence.

“Exactly what are you doing, Rokuish?” Dashvara inquired, hardly suppressing his laughter.

Rokuish jerked up, and he almost lost his balance.

“Odek! You nearly scared me to death,” he gasped.

“Does that mean you are learning to walk diagonally?” Dashvara persisted, amused.

“Nope,” Rokuish replied, lifting both hands toward the sky. “I’m doing as you advised. I have run, and now I do stretching exercises. That is what you told me to do, isn’t it?”

Dashvara was grinning broadly.

“Well, more or less, yes. I’m glad you take the training so seriously. Where there’s a will, there’s a genius.” He raised one of the wooden sabers. “Look at this.”

He stepped backwards, stretched his saber-arm, and bent it; he lifted one boot, quickly spun around, and leaned backwards up to the point that a common man would have fallen; he supported himself on the ground with one hand and immediately propelled himself up, jumping aside and sweeping his saber.

Rokuish was laughing.

“I may go diagonally, but if you really fight throwing yourself onto the ground… well, I can’t tell if you’re going forward or backward. Nevertheless, it was not bad at all. I wish I had your agility.”

“Well, you just have to practice then.” Dashvara smiled. “And now that you’re stretched, there’s nothing like practicing against an adversary.” As Rokuish was nodding, he added: “And this time, Rok, it’s your turn to attack.”