12 The Tunnels of Aïgstia

“Don’t spit it, darn it!” Zaadma exclaimed.

Dashvara swallowed, and then he coughed to force out the liquid that was choking him. A shooting pain jolted through his stomach, and he blindly tried to find a grip and cling onto it not to faint. He came across a hard stone and then across a tight hand that moved his own away from the rock.

“And now he’s stabbing his hands. That’s all we need,” Zaadma grumbled.

Dashvara could not find out who had just held him: his vision blurred, and he drifted into unconsciousness.

When he came back to his senses, the first thing he saw was the young face of the alchemist, leaning over him. She was frowning with a concerned expression. Her presence calmed Dashvara a bit, and he blinked to look around. The place was unimaginable. Gray rocky blocks, about forty feet in height, towered above him. Recovering his breath, he asked in a whisper:

“Am I alive?”

Zaadma twisted her mouth, worried.

“It seems so. I don’t know how much longer, though. I did what I could, but I’ve never healed such an… ugly wound.” She hesitated. “I know you said to Rokuish that I make miracles, but unfortunately, it’s false. It’s flattering but false.”

Dashvara frowned when he saw a familiar shape appearing from behind a rock holding a hare in one hand.

“Rokuish!” he breathed out, surprised.

The Shalussi smiled and crouched beside him.

“Well? Does it still hurt?”

Dashvara gave back a silly smile that turned soon into a painful grimace.

“My pride hurts,” he puffed. “I made a mistake of beginners. I believed Zefrek was too dazed, and I was fooled by him like a child. What are you doing here, Rok?” he added.

“Taking care of two crazy fools,” the Shalussi smiled.

“What a coincidence,” Zaadma said teasingly.

Dashvara felt as if someone had forcefully pushed an anvil spiked with needles between his ribs. It took him an infinite effort to string together two rational thoughts. However, a memory made him breathe out and speak with difficulty:

“What about Walek?”

“Oh. The great Walek has succumbed to my charms again,” Zaadma answered. Her playful smile twisted into a pout of sadness. “I told him there were five hundred gold coins hidden in the pots and the barrel. Walek is not as greedy as Nanda, but” —she shrugged— “he’s a Shalussi. He agreed to let both of us live in exchange for my gold, and since Rokuish showed his worry about your health, I had him help me carry you to the end of the steppe.”

To the Rocky Maze, Dashvara understood as he lifted a vague look again at the blocks of rock. Then he frowned.

“Walek agreed?” he repeated, incredulous.

“Yeah, he did. I told him about Nanda’s disease. You know how the Shalussis are. Well, on reflection, perhaps you don’t: when a disease strikes a chief, this one is discredited as well as his descendants,” she explained. “So Walek has spared your life on condition that you don’t come back to the village ever again, and he has proclaimed himself chieftain by giving an infernal howl. He’s gone back home with Zefrek tied up, and…” —she sighed— “he’s also gone away with my gold. But I still have my narcissus,” she informed, as if it was the happy touch that was putting an end to the story. “Do you want to eat something?”

Dashvara opened his eyes wide at the bare idea of gulping down food, and he shook his head carefully.

“No.”

Rokuish and she exchanged a look.

“So rest,” Zaadma concluded. “And try not to die while we wait for the merchants to pass by.”

Dashvara felt a soft breeze caressing his sweaty face, and he closed his eyes. A thought forced him to open them again.

“Zaadma, is it you who caused that… explosion?” he asked, with pain tensing his voice.

The alchemist smiled slightly.

“It was the only potion I had. I untied the horses, mounted one, lit the fuse of the flask, and threw it to Andrek when he got closer with his sabers. Believe you me, I’m sorry for your brother, Rokuish. The odds are that the damages will last for ever.”

“I would be more sorry if he had killed a woman,” the Shalussi assured.

Dashvara smiled weakly and closed his eyes again. Whatever remedy Zaadma had made him drink, he felt more lucid a while later. His head stopped boiling, blood ceased throbbing against his temples, and a deep drowsiness overwhelmed him. He sank into sleep.

He found himself back to Zaadma’s house, surrounded by flowers. The young woman, sitting before him, was crooning a song, and as she was combing her long black hair, she gave him occasional, captivating looks. Outside, the ground was shrouded in shadows, even though the sky was bright and clear. The sun was burning like a perpetual fire. Painful screams ripped the open air, and the harmonic peace broke. The people of Xalya were screaming. His father, his brother Showag, and captain Zorvun were fighting fiercely against the Akinoas and the Shalussis while Dashvara was still sitting in a house only ruled by tenderness and serenity. Why are they fighting? he asked himself. When he could not stand the screams any longer, he knew doubtlessly why. He stood up hurriedly, sprung the door open, and drew his two sabers out of their scabbard. Zaadma begged him to stay, but Dashvara just gazed at her with aversion. At this moment, Zaadma’s face changed into his mother’s, who smiled at him and showed him a shelf full of skulls of defeated foes. She was inviting him to fight. With barely a thought or a doubt, Dashvara went out to defend his people, or at least to die with them. Shadows engulfed him. Cries changed into howls of death. Dashvara lunged forward blindly and killed all over the place, his heart seething with rage. And then, he had nothing: he was alone. He had not even rescued his sister Fayrah. Shadows had caught her. Why am I fighting? he asked himself. He dreaded even to think. He was simply striking back, in return for the caused pain… He could not stop fighting or they would think he had yielded.

The shadows became denser. The figures disappeared, and the screams with them. Now he was completely alone, he thought. He did not even have enemies. Everything was silent. It seemed he had died. Or perhaps it wasn’t only an impression. Zaadma’s house wasn’t anymore. Nor the flowers, nor the song, nor happiness. A thick smoke wreathed Dashvara, wanting to crush him, end his soul, and strangle him for ever.

In life, you have to take a lot of decisions, and sometimes you’re wrong. But when it comes to not surrendering to death, you are never wrong.

Dashvara repelled the thick smoke and saw the light of the sun. This one was beating like a heart, lighting his eyes fleetingly. Dashvara opened his mouth.

“Water.”

Someone gave him water. He slowly drank the warm liquid. His mouth was as dry as a rock in the desert. He blinked and looked at the face of a man with a garish blue turban and greenish scales on his eyebrows. He frowned when he noticed the continuous rattle, and he finally understood. He was in a wagon. The light of a big candle lit the inside.

“More water?” he muttered. He was thirsty.

The man gave him more water.

“Who are you?” Dashvara asked. He felt better. His body was exhausted, yet he felt better.

Only then he recognized the merchant. It was this Dazbonish sajit who had tried to sell him his magic contraption with the red light. He had claws at his hands. Dashvara gazed fixedly at them, trying not to show his apprehension.

“My name is Aydin Kohor,” the merchant introduced himself, withdrawing the bowl. “And from what your cousin told me, you’re a certain Odek.”

Dashvara looked at him, perplexed.

“My… cousin?” he repeated.

Aydin Kohor got him wrong.

“She is in another wagon, with master Shizur and your brother. I could not work with them by my side. Don’t worry about her, she’s fine,” he assured as he saw Dashvara still gazing at him.

I just discover I have a cousin and a brother, and you tell me not to worry, Dazbonish man? Dashvara suppressed a snort and tried to sit up.

“Does it hurt you?” Aydin asked.

Yes, it hurt, but Dashvara only grunted, glanced at the boy who was holding the carriage reins in the front, and asked:

“Where are we?”

“Getting out of the Tunnels of Aïgstia, now,” the merchant answered calmly. He held out a plate with a smooth piece of bread and dried fruits. “In four hours or so we will arrive at the village of Rocavita.”

Dashvara frowned as he accepted the food. Rocavita. The name sounded familiar, but he had spent the last six years riding and watching over the Xalya lands, and the days when the shaard Maloven was teaching him geography were long since gone… Not to mention that he had never been interested in learning by heart the names of places he didn’t even know.

Then he remembered the huge blocks of rock he had seen before. Those merchants came from Dazbon, and logically, they were on their way home after having sold and bought goods. Therefore, Rocavita and the Tunnels of Aïgstia were in the same direction they had taken.

He left the plate almost full and lay down again.

“Are we far from Dazbon?” he inquired.

“Not so much. We’ll arrive tomorrow about noon,” the merchant answered.

Dashvara jerked up.

“Tomorrow?”

Aydin smiled and nodded.

“Tomorrow. It’s only normal you feel surprised. You received a major stab that didn’t puncture the lungs by pure chance. You’ve been delirious for four whole days. From what I can see, you don’t remember a thing.”

Dashvara received the news with an impassive expression.

Four days, huh? And you’re taking me to Dazbon, far away from the steppe, and Zaadma appropriated the title of my cousin. If my father knew it, he would turn over in his grave.

But, obviously, Lord Vifkan was very likely in no grave. Dashvara slightly shook his head and sat up again. He could stand the pain, he deemed.

“How long before sunrise?” he asked.

“It must be about three o’clock after noon,” Aydin estimated. “It is not nighttime yet,” he added as he saw Dashvara give him a confused look. “As I was telling you, we are passing the Tunnels of Aïgstia. You’d better not move or else the stitches will break,” he commented when he saw the Xalya dragging himself to the front.

Dashvara avoided several rolled Shalussi carpets, and he stopped beside the Dazbonish boy who held the reins. This one immediately stiffened and cast an apprehensive look at him.

“Give me the reins, Hadriks,” Aydin suggested.

The boy hastened to give up his place to Aydin. Dashvara sat on the bench, perplexed.

“Well… Do I look like a hungry dragon, and that’s why he avoids me?” he asked.

Aydin smiled.

“Not quite, but the boy is still a newcomer, and he hasn’t got used to the… Shalussi customs yet.”

Dashvara frowned and began to understand.

“Are you talking about what happened with my pursuers?”

“Somehow, yes.” Aydin shrugged. “But since you, the Shalussis, are smart enough not to quarrel with the Dazbonish, I don’t care about your problems, be reassured.”

Dashvara finally realized that this man did not know who he was. He had probably assumed he had killed the village chieftain out of some internal clan matter.

He kept silent for a long time, gazing at the tunnel and the torches of the two leading carriages. The rock was uneven, and dark holes peered in the shadows. Some appeared to be true tunnels, though narrower than the one they were traveling through.

He thought about Fayrah. His heart told him she was in one of those wagons, only a few steps away from him. If he managed to save her before arriving at Dazbon…

“You should lie down,” Aydin Kohor said suddenly.

Dashvara averted his eyes from a sort of big beetle that was moving slowly near a rock, and he looked at the merchant. His claws had disappeared inside his hands. His skin was unnaturally pale, and his eyes were green. Dashvara had never seen anyone with green eyes.

Aydin shifted on his bench as if nervous for being watched so blatantly.

“You’re not human,” Dashvara let out.

Aydin raised a scaled eyebrow, and he smiled.

“I am not. I am a ternian. Haven’t you ever seen one before?” Dashvara shook his head. “I suppose it’s normal. In the steppe, there are only humans, aren’t there?”

Dashvara nodded, and as it seemed to him that Aydin was beginning to think of him as an ignorant, he pronounced:

“When I was a kid, I was told about the sajits and the various races. I know what the ternians are. This is the first time I see one, though.”

Dashvara kept silent for a moment before adding:

“Why did you show the claws when I woke up and now you don’t?”

Aydin looked at him sideways as though the question surprised him. He shrugged.

“I suppose that, before, I bared them instinctively. Sometimes I bare them when I’m nervous or scared.”

Dashvara screwed up his face; Aydin gasped, and his voice changed when he said:

“Look, our cultures are noticeably different. I had never in my life healed a man who, whenever he wakes up, repeats the words ‘I will kill them’ like a fanatic assassin.” He cleared his throat. “I just feel a little apprehensive, you know, about that.”

Dashvara looked at him fixedly for a moment, and then he turned away his eyes to gaze thoughtfully at the tunnel walls.

Well… Now I understand the fear of that Hadriks.

He glanced inside the wagon. The boy, quite younger than him, was scrutinizing him motionlessly. When he met his gaze, Hadriks immediately withdrew his eyes to the wagon floor.

Dashvara sighed, and he recalled some words he had said to Rokuish the day he had killed Nanda: ‘After all, all of us, in the steppe, are heartless savages, don’t you think?’

Deep down, Dashvara had always thought that it was not true. That the Xalyas were different from the Shalussis and Akinoas. They were the heirs of the lands reigned by the Ancient Kings. In Dashvara’s veins ran the blood of the steppe lords. The blood of a knight of the Dahars.

And still… the Dazbonish people seemed to see him as a savage. Without even knowing the reasons for his acts. Yet, certainly, that hadn’t prevented the ternian from healing his wound and bringing him back to life.

The Xalya looked again at the merchant and gestured his gratitude.

“Thanks.”

Aydin’s face reflected surprise, and Dashvara specified:

“Thanks for saving my life.”

Aydin relaxed a bit.

“You’re welcome. I was once a healer.”

And is that a reason for healing a ‘fanatic assassin’ you don’t know? Dashvara smiled. He began to think of Aydin as a sympathetic man.

“And why aren’t you a healer anymore?”

The ternian shrugged again.

“Well. Life and its decisions. I married the only daughter of a merchant family. We inherited some wagons and commercial favors, and my wife convinced me that healing poor people wouldn’t help us pay the education of our children.” He smiled. “For all that, I still offer my services as a healer whenever possible.”

Dashvara looked at him with increasing respect.

“Have you saved a lot of lives?”

Aydin breathed out as if amused.

“Yes. Quite a few. But I can only heal the physical wounds,” he added.

Dashvara met his thoughtful gaze before the merchant turned it forward again. What wounds can’t you heal, merchant? Do you believe I’ve lost my sanity? The Xalya cleared his throat almost imperceptibly.

“The other wounds heal by themselves very well, given time,” he commented.

“Maybe,” the ternian agreed. “You should lie down and sleep or else you will end up ruining my bandage. Your wound on the side needs rest and time too.”

Dashvara made a face but didn’t reply. He got up with difficulty, he passed by Hadriks giving him the hint of a smile, and he lay down again on the straw mattress. No sooner had he shut his eyes than darkness dragged him far away.