3 Green cloud

“What is it?” whispered Makarva, his voice strained.

Motionless, close to the palisade, they could hear loud footsteps, splashings, and thunderous breathing in the middle of the night silence. A… brizzia, perhaps? Dashvara preferred not to think about it. There were only six of them. It was not at all clear that they would be able to send a large, mucky golem back into the swamp. Before nightfall was complete, Alta, who was on guard at the tower, had warned them that he had noticed movement to the south. Lumon’s patrol had gone to check what was going on. But if the creature turned out to be a brizzia… If it’s a brizzia, we’ll run like hell and go back to Compassion for reinforcements. That much Dashvara was sure of.

“The noise is getting away,” Arvara the Giant observed.

Zamoy and Miflin were fidgeting, worried. Kodarah had stayed in the barracks because he had twisted his ankle; of the three, there was always one that broke something: it was almost a custom. Dashvara knew that the captain didn’t like to leave the three of them in the same patrol… but there are some things you just can’t avoid. Of the twenty-three Xalyas, the Triplets were the youngest, twenty years old, and while they were good warriors, everyone, including Dashvara, considered them to be… well, the kids of the Tower of Compassion.

Dashvara squinted. Arvara was right: the footsteps were moving south. But there were other ominous sounds. And those, too, were moving away. He scanned the shadows and tried to see something in the dense swamp vegetation. He thought he saw movement, but he couldn’t have sworn it. That’s what I hate most: not being able to see the enemy lurking around.

Dashvara continued to scan the shadows as he and the others moved south, following the footsteps. They had turned off the torches, and he wasn’t sure if that was a good idea. It had been over a week since they had needed to draw their weapons, since the morning before Inspector Chubby had left promising them a horse that had not yet arrived. They had enjoyed a blessed peace and even some sunshine. And now he had a sad feeling that things were about to get worse.

They had been wading through the mud and darkness for two hours when they heard screams, followed by a roar. As if the swamps themselves were suddenly about to conquer the meadows, a great four-legged, horned mass sprang up a hundred paces to the south. It left behind it a heap of broken and crushed rushes and trunks. Dashvara stopped and sighed again, this time with relief. This was not a brizzia, this was a…

“BORWERG!” Lumon cried. “He’s going straight for the palisade!”

The Xalya took off running towards the creature, and Dashvara, Arvara, Makarva, and the two Triplets followed. They ran along the fence, glancing fearfully toward the edge of the swamp. The borwerg was now running at full speed as if it were running away from something. And what might frighten a borwerg was likely to frighten them too.

The animal reached the palisade long before they could catch it. It hit it hard, like a battering ram, bent the stakes… and knocked them down in one blow. Dashvara swore through his teeth as he ran. The Border wall was a damned decoy: he felt it served only to discourage the prairie people from foraging plants or hunting illegally. It wasn’t there for borwergs, nor for brizzias, nor for… A fierce scream ripped through the night air. Dashvara blushed and added mentally: nor for the twisted minds of the milfids.

When they reached the gap, the borwerg was already far away, running towards the meadows.

“Hell and damnation!” Lumon lamented. In three years of patrolling, there had been few times when creatures had passed by, and they had always managed to track them down and kill them before they reached a village or a barn. But, this time, that borwerg was running like crazy, and the milfids kept yelping in the swamps.

“Don’t panic, it could have been worse,” Makarva assured, “It could have been a brizzia…”

Dashvara, who was scanning the swamp trying to catch his breath, gulped the air and roared:

“They are coming to us!”

No one asked who was coming: it was all too obvious. The bipedal figures had just emerged from the trees and were rushing towards them, shouting like filthy beasts. Did they intend to recover their lost prey? Well, they were going to have to do without it for their dinner.

Dashvara unsheathed his sabers; Arvara gripped his axe with both hands—he had become quite skilled with it; Lumon was drawing his bow, looking for an easy target.

“How many?” Makarva asked.

Dashvara tried to assess them in the darkness. It was not easy. Normally, milfids carried sticks and even spears. This time would be no exception.

“Nine,” Lumon then estimated.

He shot the arrow. A muffled scream echoed between the angry hisses of the creatures, and there was a brief flash of light. Dashvara had always marveled at Lumon’s skill; it was almost as if he didn’t need to see to hit his target. Zamoy let out a vengeful chuckle.

“Eight,” Lumon corrected.

“We can handle it,” Arvara said.

They were almost on top of them and they didn’t seem to want to slow down. Lumon fired another arrow, but he obviously missed because there was no cry of pain.

“Let’s get it over with quickly,” he threw out his sabers: “then we’ll go after the borwerg.”

They approved. And the milfids fell on them.

Dashvara finished with the first one in a jiffy, he dodged the spear of another, disarmed this one, avoided its fangs, but not its claws, which would have torn his whole forearm to the bone if he hadn’t had a chain mail under his uniform. He raged. Damned milfid, you’ll see what a Doomed man’s steel is worth…! He needed only a few seconds to stick a sword between its ribs. The milfid’s blue skin sparkled slightly before fading away. They always sparkled before they died. A matter of darsic energies, according to Tsu.

In a few minutes, silence returned, interrupted only by hurried breaths.

“Well, that’s it,” Miflin panted, cleaning his blade on his sleeve.

“May the Eternal Bird guard me!” Makarva growled. “What are you doing cleaning that on your shirt, Miflin?”

The Poet shrugged.

“It’s good to throw away anyway. It has so many holes that it’s barely got any fabric left.”

“Are you talking about your head, brother?” Zamoy asked in a biting tone.

The two Triplets gave each other mocking shoves. Dashvara shook his head and glanced back at the meadows. The borwerg had not been swallowed up by the milfids but by the shadows. Did Lumon really want to pursue it? As if guessing his thoughts, Lumon sighed.

“Let’s fix this mess,” he said, lifting a stake from the palisade. At least the trunks hadn’t broken: they’d just been uprooted. Yeah, Dashvara had never doubted it: that fence was indeed a damned decoy.

They lit torches and immediately began to raise the stakes and replant them in the furrow. It took them about an hour, and they ended up muddier than mud itself. Zamoy went over to the other side to backfill the ditch with earth.

“Hey, there are only seven here,” Arvara observed. His huge figure leaning over the corpses straightened. “It’s rather odd, isn’t it?”

Nobody had counted them? Dashvara couldn’t believe it. He himself had forgotten to do so. He glanced around apprehensively and snatched up a torch he had stuck in the ground. Milfids were more treacherous than demons. Only two stakes remained to be replaced, and Dashvara poked a concerned head through the gap.

“Zamoy! Be on your guard. Arvara says there might still be a milfid left alive.”

“What?” the Baldy gasped. He was raising one of the last two missing stakes.

“Miflin, go with him, will you?” Lumon said. The Archer’s eyes scanned the swamp. They still heard the occasional shout, but it was more distant. Perhaps a clash between milfids and orcs, Dashvara ventured.

The Poet, being as thin as a stick, had no trouble slipping through the fence. They decided that the two Triplets would return to Compassion on the other side, and they replaced the two remaining stakes, securing them as best they could.

Then they heard another crash, further south, in the palisade. Makarva whistled.

“What the hell…?”

“The borwerg!” Zamoy shouted from the other side. “It’s passed by again. Rather far away from here.”

The palisade curved slightly, and Dashvara could not see where it had been, but a few seconds later, with the help of a faint Gem beam, he could see a large shadow in the distance, speeding into the swamp. The poor beast was more terrified than they were.

A scream of horror rose over all this, and Dashvara felt the blood run cold through his veins. The one who just screamed was Zamoy.

Lumon, Makarva, and he shouted his name, and Arvara rushed to dig up one of the trunks.

“I’m fine, I’m fine!” Zamoy cried out. “It was the milfid. We finished it off.”

Arvara stopped, breathing a loud breath of relief. Tense, Dashvara spied the edge of the swamp again as Lumon ordered over the fence:

“Go back to Compassion!”

“What about the other breach in the palisade?” Zamoy inquired.

In silence, the four Xalyas on the swamp side looked at each other. Dashvara understood that they were all thinking the same thing.

“The border with the Dignity sector is right here,” Lumon answered loudly. “That breach must be theirs. Not ours.” He paused, and when Zamoy did not respond, he added, “Let’s go!”

Dashvara looked north with undeniable relief. They had repaired their palisade, and the borwerg had returned to the swamp… Everything was in order.

Lumon went to retrieve his arrows. He found one, the one that had been stuck in his victim’s throat, but no matter how many times he passed the torch between the grass and the mud, he could not find the other one. Dashvara and Makarva exchanged impatient glances when they saw that the Archer was still looking.

“Lumon…” Dashvara said with a clearing of his throat. “There’s no shortage of arrows, you know?”

The Archer sighed, nodded, and they finally set off.

It took them almost two hours to return to Compassion. They walked heavily, they were tired, and they continued to scan the vegetation from time to time, without stopping. At one point, it began to drizzle, then the blue rays of the Gem glowed in the sky and disappeared again. Finally, they saw the light of the tower and unconsciously quickened their pace. Footsteps could be heard on the other side of the stakes, and Dashvara wondered what the hell Zamoy and Miflin had been doing to let the rest catch up with them despite the fact Lumon had taken some time searching for his arrows. They had about a hundred more steps to go before they reached the gate of Compassion’s palisade under the tower when Zamoy’s voice rang out from the other side.

“A race to the barracks, brother!”

“Are you crazy?” Miflin replied with a tired grunt.

Dashvara’s face lit up. All his fatigue vanished.

“Up to the tower, I’m in!”

“Ah! That’s good, cousin!” Zamoy rejoiced.

“Pff, I’m going to beat you both up, you’ll see!” Makarva said.

“You bunch of fools,” Miflin muttered.

“Would it do any good to remind you that you’re in chain mail and wear weapons?” Lumon intervened in a calm tone.

Dashvara just smiled broadly at him.

“One!” Zamoy said.

The Baldy must be at about the same distance, Dashvara estimated.

“Two!” continued Zamoy’s count. “Will you join us, brother?”

“No way,” the Poet replied.

“And three!”

Zamoy shouted, and they took off running. Their boots sank into the mud with every step. Makarva went ahead of Dashvara, and Dashvara tried to catch up, but that cursed man was still better at running than he was. The hurried footsteps on the other side indicated that Zamoy was ahead of him too. Mmph.

Makarva had only a few steps left to reach the door when it opened and Zamoy came out looking triumphant. Makarva almost bumped into him, and the Baldy had to take him by the arm to stop him. They laughed. A few steps back, Dashvara grunted and stopped running, gasping for breath.

“Come on, cousin, don’t stop!” Zamoy encouraged.

Dashvara hid his cough with a throat clearing and ignored the taste of blood. This often happened when he was running or when he felt nervous. Tsu said his condition was not curing because of the climate; the drow had tried to make him completely well, but it had been two years since Dashvara had asked him for a miracle cure. Don’t worry, I think you lost more blood fighting than coughing, he thought. He finally walked through the door and muttered:

“Bah. I let you win. What did you think? In Compassion I live and with compassion I act.”

Makarva greeted his assertion with a skeptical clearing of the throat, and Zamoy assured:

“I don’t believe a word of it, cousin.” He struck a proud pose. “Admit it, Mak, come on, who’s the red snake now, huh?”

As Makarva rolled his eyes, Dashvara looked up at the watchtower. He saw a figure leaning against the edge, with his back to the lantern, but he couldn’t identify it. It was probably Pik or Kaldaka. Normally, it was their turn to be on guard. As if the grip of fatigue had suddenly seized them, an attack of yawns took them by surprise. They climbed the slope in silence to the barracks, wishing to get rid of the mud, crawl under the covers, and sleep soundly for the rest of the night. This was one of the best moments of the Doomed’s lives. Cradled in the arms of Sleep, they were suddenly free of all chains, and their spirits soared away from the Ariltuan Border, free as the Eternal Bird.

Free as we should be.

Dashvara took off his helmet as he walked forward and scratched his head. Sometimes he almost envied Zamoy and his baldness. Eventually, he would have to shave his head to get rid of the lice.

Boron was sitting at the entrance on the platform. When he saw the expression on his face, Dashvara was immediately alarmed. Something had happened: Boron the Placid was not placid.

“What’s going on, Boron?” Dashvara worried.

Boron gestured vaguely to the north.

“The captain’s patrol,” he explained, concisely. “They’re back. Something strange happened to them.”

“Something strange?” Zamoy repeated, taking off his helmet.

“Is it about the ones from Sympathy?” Dashvara asked immediately. They had always had a bad relationship with the northern Doomed…

Boron shook his head negatively.

“They have monster diarrhea. Tsu says it could be from the water. But the captain says it was a strange green smoke cloud. He says it took a few hours for it to affect them. But they are not sure where this cloud came from.”

A cloud of green smoke that produced diarrhea? Dashvara had never heard of such a thing. Meanwhile, Lumon, Arvara, and Miflin arrived.

“They’re inside,” Boron added after repeating the story. “Tsu is overwhelmed.”

“Who’s in the tower?” Lumon asked; he moved toward the entrance while the Placid answered:

“Pik and Kaldaka.”

The Archer pushed open the door, and they entered what at first seemed to Dashvara a den of dead rats. It stank like hell. Don’t worry, Lumon, I don’t think even the milfids would be able to get in here…, he thought, horrified.

The scene before his eyes was awe-inspiring. Pale as specters, eight Xalyas lay prostrate on their pallets while Tsu ran from side to side with bowls of boiled water.

“Make sure everyone keeps drinking!” the doctor repeated.

Dashvara had never seen him so distraught. Alta, Maltagwa, Atok, and Kodarah were busy giving drinks to the sick and emptying pots. With a complexion as gray as that of a sibilian, Sedrios the Elder and Sashava were watching the commotion from the table; the latter looked up with exhausted eyes at the patrol that had just arrived.

“What a night,” he let out in a whisper.

You said that… Dashvara looked around the pallid faces for the captain’s face. He was groaning and grumbling, bending over in his stomach as if trying to hold in his entrails. Morzif, Maef, Ged, and Orafe did not look much better. Taw and his nephew, Shurta, were calmer, leaning against a wall, but Tsu kept insisting that they keep drinking. It wasn’t the first time they’d caught an illness like this, but Dashvara had to admit that none had ever been so… acute.

Little by little, Shurta told what had happened.

“We were near the edge of Sympathy,” he said. “The green smoke cloud formed around us almost at once. Then it disappeared, but when Ged started complaining of a stomachache, the captain suspected something, and fortunately, we turned back. The last hour before we got here was abominable,” he admitted in a hushed voice.

Dashvara would have liked to do more than empty pots and give water, but that was all he did for the next few hours. The sky was already beginning to turn blue when, dead tired, he dropped to the ground. He had had some horrible nights, but this one surpassed them all. Or at least that was the impression he had at that moment.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Alta despaired, slumping into a chair.

Now the eight unfortunate people were sleeping, thanks to a drink Tsu had given them to bring down their fever. Dashvara suspected, however, that they would soon wake up. Unless they died first. In fact, the captain looked more dead than alive. And Dashvara felt himself dying with him.

Eternal Bird, don’t let any of them die, okay?

He knew that it was useless to address such wishes to an Eternal Bird. It was not a god, it was not a superior being capable of performing miracles. The Eternal Bird was limited to what a man could do. And a man could not perform miracles.

“Maltagwa,” Tsu said suddenly, staggering forward between the straw mattresses. His drow face, naturally rigid, was the vivid image of Death.

Dashvara saw him, trembling, resting both hands on the table. He feared he would collapse at any moment. You don’t, Tsu. You never collapse, do you? As the drow did not add anything else, Maltagwa the Gardener, encouraged him:

“Yes, Tsu?”

This one shook his head to revive himself.

“You and Boron go to Rayorah,” he croaked. “Get a doctor.”

Dashvara thought he heard his own heart breaking into a thousand pieces.

“A doctor?” he stammered. “But you are a doctor, Tsu.”

The drow gave him a dark look.

“Maltagwa, do as he asks,” Sashava interjected, opening his eyes. “Go with Boron. Sedrios, Alta, replace Pik and Kaldaka in the tower. Atok and Kodarah, stand guard outside. And the rest of you,” he added, addressing Dashvara’s patrol, “sleep as much as you can. You don’t look much better than the captain.”

Neither do you, Dashvara sighed mentally, but he didn’t protest. Even if he had wanted to stay awake longer, he couldn’t anyway. He and Makarva staggered back to their pallets, and already half asleep, patted each other on the shoulder to say good night. Dashvara didn’t even think about his goddess’ beautiful eyes. As soon as he had pulled his blankets over him, he fell asleep like an anvil.

He woke up a few hours later when a doctor from Rayorah arrived. He came alone because, naturally, he came on horseback whilst Maltagwa and Boron came on foot. From the look on his face, he had moved reluctantly, and for a moment, Dashvara feared that the smell of the barracks would deter him completely from helping them.

“For Serenity’s sake…” the doctor gasped. He recovered, however, with commendable speed.

When Dashvara saw that Tsu was fast asleep on his pallet, he sat up and woke him up with a few shakes.

“What…?” the drow groaned.

“The doctor, Tsu.”

“Mm?”

“The doctor!” Dashvara repeated, louder.

The red eyes appeared, fully awake.

“Oh…” he said. And he got up at once. A few minutes later, the doctor and the drow were talking over a patient, their expression very concentrated. The patients didn’t seem to be getting any better, but they were all still alive. Dashvara felt a little relieved. Being treated by two doctors, how were they not going to make it?

The first thing he did after drinking water from his goatskin was to get out of that hellhole. Although the door and window were open, the air in the barracks would have scared off even a red nadre. He found the Hairy and Atok playing cards on the platform… They were bathed in sunlight. Dashvara let out an exclamation of jubilation. He couldn’t believe it:

“The sky is blue!”

Kodarah smiled despite the fatigue, looking away from his cards.

“It’s been blue for a few hours.”

Dashvara shook his head in disbelief.

“But it’s blue!”

This time, Kodarah let out a soft laugh.

“It is, cousin. It is. Tell me, Dash, this smoke thing, what do you think?”

He and Atok looked at him curiously, perhaps thinking he had a clever answer to give. Dashvara shrugged.

“Since we’ve been here, I’ve never heard anything like this.” He looked at Kodarah’s cards and cleared his throat. “A terrible game, cousin. How’s your ankle?”

“Better,” the Hairy assured. “Even though Tsu asked me not to move for a week.”

His voice sounded relieved. Kodarah wanted a vacation, Dashvara observed, amused. He teased him:

“So you’ll be in charge of the kitchen, will you?” He clasped his hands together briskly despite Kodarah’s plaintive sigh. “Oh, come on, did I ever tell you that you cook much better than Zamoy?”

“As if it was an achievement…”

Dashvara smiled but stopped joking.

“You’d better go to sleep,” he advised them. “I’ll take over.”

Both of them stood up with obvious relief. As soon as he was alone, Dashvara sat down on the chair and moved it forward to enjoy the sun and the fresh air. Only the joyful chirping of birds in the swamp and murmurs of voices in the barracks could be heard. A few minutes later, he heard a noise in the watchtower. It was about sixty feet high and the wood of the ladder was getting really old. Dashvara wondered if Titiaka’s Council cared at all. Well, I’m just a bad mouth, aren’t I? I’d even bet that these gentlemen think about us every day. They even put a new and very nice federal flag on top of the watchtower. Out of Compassion, surely. They love us like their own sons and dress us in their uniforms. What the hell! I can hear their praise of our honorable work from here. He wiped away his crooked smile as he watched Alta and Sedrios climb down the tower and up the muddy grassy hill to the barracks. Someone should take their place. The Old Man went straight into the shack to sleep, while Alta took a detour to the shed to check on the donkey, Grumble. As he passed by the platform, Dashvara asked him the ritual question:

“Is Grumble okay?”

“She grumbles,” Alta smiled. Looking wearily at the swamp, he added, “How I wish I could fly out of this abyss. Wouldn’t you, Dash?”

He didn’t even wait for him to answer: Alta patted him on the shoulder, and shuffling along, disappeared inside the shack. Dashvara sighed.

Fly away, huh? If only the feathers of the Eternal Bird could be real feathers. If only we could have wings.

After a few moments, he came to a conclusion again:

So much monotony is beginning to make us lose hope. We’ll have to think of a new plan to escape from this place. He shook his head. But which one?

It was ironic to think of this just when an entire patrol found itself unable to take four steps without emptying its bowels. Right now, we’re not exactly in any condition to run anywhere, he sighed.

“Why are you sighing?” Makarva asked. He had just leaned against the wall behind him to escape the stench.

“Did I sigh?”

“You sighed,” Makarva confirmed. He picked up the broom and began to clean the platform. “Ah,” he smiled, “you just sighed again.”

Dashvara returned his smile.

“I was thinking about the escape. That is, the seventh escape.”

Makarva stopped, leaning on his broom.

“I’ve thought about it too,” he admitted. “To tell you the truth, we all have, probably. You know? We should think about the eighth. The federates say that the number seven brings bad luck.”

Dashvara laughed, astonished.

“Are you superstitious now, Mak?”

“Me?” His dark eyes twinkled. “A professional katuta player is never superstitious.”

Dashvara rolled his eyes, and as Makarva resumed his sweep with an amused pout, he rested his gaze on the treetops far below. A sudden thought brought a mocking smile to his face.

“Mak, have you thought that the day we leave this place, we might miss it?”

Makarva gave one, two more sweeps before turning to him, frankly surprised.

“Miss it?” he repeated. “You mean, the mud, the orcs, the milfids, and the diarrhea?” Dashvara had crossed his arms, absorbed in his thoughts. Makarva laughed. “That was one of your philosophical questions, wasn’t it?”

Dashvara stood up and looked at the swamps. Yes, they were beautiful, impressive, magnificent, gigantic. And disgusting.

“Think about it,” he said, however. “Life is full of mysteries. We have learned a lot in these three years. If once we were brothers, now we are almost like one man. We all bear with each other with impressive ease. Have you noticed that I no longer complain when you fool around while playing?”

“Because you play games fooling around too.”

“Oh. Really?” Dashvara laughed. “But I am speaking seriously. Despite all the bad things that can happen, the good things are always more important, and therefore, they should hold our attention more. That’s why, when we leave, I’ll think of the swamps of Ariltuan, remembering our conversations, our races, our games, our—Damn flies!” he exclaimed; he slapped his hand on his forehead.

Makarva laughed loudly.

“You’ll probably remember the flies. And I’ll remember how you learned to slap yourself,” he commented.

They heard the characteristic sound of Sashava’s cane and fell silent. In a situation like this, Dashvara could clearly guess Sashava’s thoughts: one should not laugh when eight brothers are in critical condition. The man had just stopped in the doorway. His eyebrows were furrowed. And when Sashava’s eyebrows were furrowed like that, it didn’t bode well. He looked at both of them with a piercing gaze.

“All of them have one foot in the grave,” he growled. “The doctor says it’s the food’s fault. The strange thing is that it only affected Zorvun’s patrol. I ate the same thing, and yet…” His bony shoulders heaved. “Tell me, you two were on guard duty when we dined with the others, weren’t you? Afterwards, did you taste the soup?”

Dashvara turned pale. Makarva swallowed his saliva.

“Are you asking if… if we tasted the soup?” Dashvara stammered.

Sashava closed his eyes briefly and sighed.

“If it hasn’t affected us yet, hopefully it won’t affect us now. Go to the shed and bring some wood. We’ll boil all the water we have left. Maybe it’s coming from there. It could also be Maltagwa’s vegetables, but…” He cleared his throat without finishing the sentence. “No one has replaced Sedrios and Alta?”

“No one,” Dashvara confirmed, growing more and more nervous. “Do you really think it was the soup, Sashava? But, what about the cloud of green smoke?”

Sashava’s eyes were on the palisade.

“No idea,” he replied.

Dashvara would have preferred a clearer answer, but Sashava had his head elsewhere. Finally, he said:

“I’ll wake up Miflin and Zamoy. You go get the wood.”

As soon as they were in the shed, Makarva let out a groan and Dashvara worried:

“Do you already hurt?”

“It’s my soul that hurts,” Makarva breathed out, taking a log.

Dashvara shook his head.

“I drank a whole bowl—”

“And I’ve finished everything that was left,” Makarva communicated in a suddenly relaxed tone. “Dash, keep your spirits up. You know that Compassion and Solidarity have always been very close. We weren’t going to let the captain suffer without suffering too, were we?”

Dashvara just looked at him and sighed. If they started to have more sick than healthy patrolmen… this could be the beginning of a disaster. Before leaving the shed, he called out to the donkey:

“Hello, Grumble. Let’s hope you don’t end up out here all alone with no patrolmen to look after you, eh?”

The donkey returned his gaze with intelligent and affable eyes. Good donkey, Dashvara smiled. But his smile faded when, glancing up at the sky, he saw it that sunny. The day was so beautiful… and they were enjoying it so little.

In the barracks, the doctor from Rayorah had the patients chew herbs. A few minutes later, he made them drink boiled water and advised them to throw away the water from one of the barrels where he had found a dead bug. He had a sorry expression.

“I don’t understand how these things don’t happen to you more often. This is a pigsty.”

Leaning in close to the captain, Dashvara frowned and suppressed a hiss. Sashava huffed from the table.

“A pigsty? We clean the place every week, doctor. And the water we have is perfectly clean rainwater.” Sashava paused for a moment, perhaps realizing that he was making a statement that was obviously not very true. “So they’re going to be okay, right?”

The doctor shook his head, standing between the patients.

“I couldn’t say for sure, but I would say it’s very possible… if you keep giving them water regularly. They must not get dehydrated, that’s the biggest danger they face now. Hopefully, they’ll be up and about in a few days.”

“What about the cloud of green smoke?” Shurta inquired in a hushed voice.

The doctor pondered.

“Maybe it was a hallucination. I don’t know,” he added, seeing that several of the patients were coming out of their torpor to protest. “I’m sorry, there’s nothing more I can do for you. I’ll leave you to your doctor. Let them continue chewing the leaves I gave you. And call me if things get worse.”

Sedrios the Elder stood up and gave him a cordial greeting.

“Thank you, doctor. If there is anything we can do for you, all you have to do is ask.”

Several Xalyas echoed his thanks, and the doctor smiled forcibly; his eyes were shining. Dashvara didn’t know if it was because of the emotion or the smell. In any case, he was anxious to get out of there.

“Just stay alive,” he replied simply.

He nodded eloquently to Tsu and left the barracks. No sooner had he left than a movement by the captain caught Dashvara’s attention. Zorvun’s skin was greenish and his eyes were dry but bright with fever. He had just pushed the water bowl aside and grabbed his hand, as if to ask him not to move away. Dashvara stayed by his side, struggling with concern.

“And you, my boy, why didn’t you thank him?” murmured Zorvun.

Dashvara raised an eyebrow, understanding that he was talking about the doctor. He knew from experience that when one was ill, the importance one gave to things was quite random. Of course, it was only a step from there to delusion. He sighed and was about to reply that there was no need to shower people with thanks, but he thought better of it.

“Well, Captain. I think it’s because the first official doctor I knew didn’t leave me a very good impression,” he mused. He smiled as he remembered how, in Dazbon, he had expelled Dr. Exipadas from that ternian’s house to prevent him from bleeding him.

The captain smiled. He knew the story. Everyone knew the story.

“Keep drinking,” Dashvara advised him, bringing the bowl closer.

Very slowly, the captain opened his mouth.

“Drink,” Dashvara insisted. He sighed with relief when he saw him drink it up.

“My boy,” Zorvun croaked, as he lay back down. “I wanted to tell you two things. Two important things.”

Dashvara scanned him, uneasy.

“I don’t like your tone, Captain. You don’t intend to tell me your last wishes, do you?”

Captain Zorvun grunted and ignored him.

“The first is a promise.”

“That’s what I was afraid of.”

“Shut up and listen.” His voice was so weak that Dashvara had to bow further. He felt his heart grow cold. “Listen,” Zorvun repeated. “I want you to promise me that if I die, you will accept to be the new captain.”

Dashvara repressed the urge to look up at the ceiling. Captain? he thought. What the hell, Zorvun: you’re not going to die and you know it. And you also know that I don’t have enough charisma to be a captain. Half of my companions should be before me. I’m the youngest after the Triplets and it doesn’t matter now if I’m the heir of Lord Vifkan. But whatever, keep raving if you feel like it.

The captain insisted:

“Will you promise me?”

Dashvara shrugged.

“If my promise is so important to you, I promise. But I warn you that I too have drunk of this soup. If you die, I will die like you. Probably.”

Zorvun looked him in the eye, and for a moment, Dashvara felt that he was probing him as if he were gutting a rabbit. Then he gently shook his head and said:

“I also wanted to tell you, Dash, that I am proud of you.”

Dashvara gasped. He had not expected this.

“Proud of me? And why should you be, Captain?”

Zorvun smiled and replied:

“Because you’re a good guy and because I know you’re going to make it out of Compassion with all the Xalyas alive.”

He closed his eyes, and Dashvara looked at him, horrified, thinking he had died suddenly, just like that, cruelly abandoning him. Then he saw that his chest continued to rise with his breathing, and he calmed down.

Your trust honors me, Zorvun, he thought, as he rose heavily to his feet. But the shaard Maloven once told me that I was going to save the Xalya lands from a terrible storm, and obviously, his foresight left much to be desired. He staggered toward the exit and passed Boron and Maltagwa on their way back from Rayorah. He simply gave them a shaky smile before exiting. Was he already starting to feel the effects of the contaminated soup? He collapsed into the chair in the hallway, and after a few moments of not knowing whether what he was feeling was discomfort or just nervousness, he thought with complete certainty, I will do everything I can to get out of here alive with my brothers, Zorvun. But you will come with us.

A dark hand appeared before his eyes with moon-shaped leaves in its palm. Dashvara looked up and met Tsu’s sympathetic gaze.

“Chew.”

“I’m not sick, Tsu.”

“It’s good for the intestinal flora anyway,” the drow assured.

Dashvara did as he asked. The taste was particularly unpleasant and he winced but continued to chew.

“Don’t swallow it,” Tsu advised. “It’s a dorcho leaf. The doctor was very generous in leaving us all the ones he brought. This plant is expensive. It comes from the south, from the mountains.”

“From the mountains of Duhaden? The place your ancestors come from?”

The drow nodded, and Dashvara looked at him. Tsu was exhausted, but he was still healthy and on his feet. Obviously, he was even more indestructible than Captain Zorvun.

“You don’t chew dorcho leaves, Tsu?” he asked.

A white smile appeared on his friend’s face.

“I am a drow. I’m more resistant to these kinds of infections. Besides,” he added, more seriously, “I’m not so sure now that it’s from the food. It’s strange that only Zorvun’s patrol felt the effects. This green cloud… could be more than a hallucination.”

Dashvara frowned and stopped chewing.

“You think a creature we don’t know…?”

“It could be.”

“Or maybe the ones from Sympathy,” grumbled Dashvara.

“It could also be.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow in surprise.

“Really?”

“Well. Technically yes. Toxic smoke magaras exist. But I don’t see why the Sympathetics would do that. They may be bullies, and they’ve done quite a bit of bad stuff to us before, but it’s not in their best interest to be without neighbors to protect their flanks.”

“It is enough if one of these fools is capable of doing it,” Dashvara sighed.

Tsu was right. The smoke cloud was too strange a coincidence to believe. And if eight Xalyas said it wasn’t a hallucination, then it wasn’t. Whatever Rayorah’s doctor thought, the soup from the night before was most likely in perfect condition. If he put aside the tension that was eating away at him inside, he himself felt great. He breathed in and out calmly for a long minute, and Tsu was about to go back inside when a sound of a bell from the tower stopped him. Four or more blasts indicated an attack on the barracks. Three blows indicated an attack to the south, and two indicated an attack to the north. A single knock meant a visit. Intrigued, Dashvara turned to the meadows and stroked his beard as a mixture of curiosity and annoyance washed over him.

Three horsemen dressed in black cloaks were riding towards Compassion.