7 The Eye of Death

They were smaller figures than the swamp orcs, dressed in dark cloaks and boots—an outfit that coincided perfectly with that of the sajits.

So it’s like this, we are attacked by strangers from the Eternal Bird knows where…

“Do you see them?” Lumon asked.

Dashvara nodded, leaning against the tower railing.

“I do.”

The Gem kindly illuminated the area between the swamp and the palisade. Three Naskrahs had emerged from the vegetation, but they were moving so stealthily that it was clear their purpose was to act without being seen. For this very reason, neither Lumon nor Dashvara raised the alarm.

“Go down and warn the others, Lumon,” Dashvara said. “I think they have already seen me.”

Lumon, lurking in the shadows, nodded.

“Don’t forget to watch the north and the south too,” he murmured.

The Archer stepped aside and began to descend the tower as quietly as possible.

Tonight there would be no patrols: all the Xalyas were in the barracks, preparing for what might be a deadly battle. With tired eyes, Dashvara scanned the shadows to the north and south before turning his attention back to the Naskrahs. He had trouble finding them: they were moving forward, perfectly camouflaged.

Feigning tranquility, Dashvara leaned against one of the watchtower beams and counted the arrows in his quiver while watching the Naskrahs from the corner of his eye. He was not as good an archer as Lumon, but he had been a patrolman on the steppe for six years: like Makarva and the Triplets, he had trained under Captain Zorvun and had taken part in the Xalyas’ defensive attacks against the red nadres and other wild creatures. Certainly, on the Border, they could not use the same retreat tactics, but more than once, they had driven back bands of orcs under threatening arrows.

Sometimes Dashvara was appalled to think how ridiculous it was to defend the territory of the very people who kept him enslaved. It was more or less like being surrounded by poisonous snakes and choosing to serve the one with the slowest venom.

A snake that offers us a slow death in exchange for working arms that know how to handle a weapon… Dashvara could not imagine a more repulsive behavior. It wasn’t just that slave master and the Titiaka Council that needed to be condemned: it was the entire Federation.

Are you trying to console yourself by whining in your last hours of life, Dash? he scoffed. Stop looking for guilt: you’d better focus on what these Naskrahs are doing.

The three Naskrahs continued to crawl toward the palisade. They seemed to be following a specific tactic, but Dashvara couldn’t figure out what it was. They couldn’t have been planning to attack them: there were only three of them, and that day, they had clearly seen that at least ten Xalyas were still up and about. Surely they were up to something.

Dashvara frowned as a cloud passed in front of the Gem. The sky was clouding over, and he guessed it would soon rain.

The first drops were just beginning to fall when Lumon came back.

“Anything new?” he asked in a whisper.

Dashvara shrugged.

“They’re still moving at a snail’s pace. You know what I think, Lumon?” he added as Lumon peeked between the boards of the railing. “I think they’re setting a trap for us. Something like the green smoke cloud. These Naskrahs seem rather prone to trickery. They remind me of the Essimeans,” he muttered with a grimace of distaste.

“How can they think we can’t see them?” Lumon breathed out after a silence.

“Mmph. Maybe they think we have the same vision as the orcs.”

Lumon glanced north toward the Tower of Sympathy before inquiring:

“What about the shadow?”

Dashvara swallowed. After returning from Rayorah with Alta and Latish, Tahisran had hidden in the shed, but upon hearing Dashvara’s voice in the barracks, he had finally showed himself to the Xalyas. Dashvara had already told them about it, but he knew that hearing a story is not living it, and seeing a bunch of shadows in the form of a sajit talking through one’s mind was bound to… scare some people. Everyone was left in shock. Including Sashava. Dashvara had even caught Pik making the federate holy sign and mumbling something about “bad omens”. Guessing that the shadow’s presence would undermine their morale more than boost it, he had convinced Tahisran to go to Sympathy to check if the only two healthy ones were still alive; Tsu had given him some dorcho leaves for the sick, but Dashvara guessed that, if Tahisran really did show up in front of those in Sympathy, more than a few would not dare chew on anything from a shadow spirit anyway.

He silently cleared his throat, and without losing sight of the Naskrahs, he replied:

“It hasn’t come back yet.” After a long silence, he continued: “Look. They are moving forward as if they’re pulling something.”

Lumon looked away from the north and back at the Naskrahs.

“A rope?” he ventured.

What the hell were they doing pulling a rope in front of a fence? No, it didn’t make sense. Nor did it make sense that they were pulling it from the swamp, all unfolded. Dashvara gave up speculating. Now the three Naskrahs were barely twenty paces from the stakes. They were well within the range of an archer.

Reckless fools…

Dashvara grabbed his bow and an arrow.

“Are we going to kill them?” he muttered. If they did well, they could kill two out of three. All three, if they did very well. And if we do very badly, none, Dashvara growled inwardly.

Lumon did not answer immediately. His face, shrouded in shadows, looked almost like Tahisran’s.

“The captain says no rushing,” he said at last.

Dashvara almost jumped.

“The captain?” he repeated hopefully.

“He seems a little more lucid,” Lumon informed him. “He says that, if they are sajits, we may be able to reach an agreement.”

Dashvara stared at him for a few moments. Then he considered Zorvun’s proposal. What possibility was there that these Naskrahs would agree to negotiate and accept Compassion’s surrender?

The rain had doubled, and the wind was pushing the drops into the tower. If Dashvara moved away from the edge, he would lose sight of the Naskrahs, so he simply put on his hood.

Soon after, the Naskrahs began to retreat. It was not easy to follow their movements. Their cloaks concealed them pretty well.

“I don’t think they intend to parley, Lumon,” he sighed at last. “Besides, if we parley with them, we’re dead men to the federates.”

Lumon did not argue with that statement: it was obvious to any Doomed. Dashvara scratched his beard thoughtfully. Perhaps the Naskrahs were not planning to attack tonight. Unless some murderous spirits came out of that rope, capable of flying or crossing the wood to stab them in their sleep. A sardonic smile stretched his lips. Sometimes his imagination terrified him more than anything.

The Naskrahs were quicker to retreat, as if in a hurry to return to the swamp. Finally, the edge of the forest became deserted again, whipped by the wind and icy rain. Dashvara stepped away from the railing just as Lumon hissed:

“The North!”

He turned abruptly and squinted. It was raining so hard, how could Lumon see anything?

“What’s going on up north?” he replied.

“I don’t know,” Lumon admitted. “I saw a light. But I couldn’t swear to it.”

Dashvara tensed up. If the Naskrahs had broken through the palisade further north, their trenches and repairs were not going to do them much good.

At last, he saw a light. No, not just one light. Dozens of them. Several dozen. The water did not seem to affect them. Standing on the watchtower, Dashvara felt as if the stars had fallen from the sky along with the rain. For a few seconds, he was unable to speak, and he saw that Lumon was also slow to respond.

“We sound the alarm?” the Archer finally asked in a hoarse voice.

Dashvara looked at him without knowing what to say. Lumon was supposed to be the patrol leader, not him.

“What do you say we ring a few bells?” he said at last. “After all, if they come with so much light, it’s because they want us to see them.” He paused for a moment. “I’m going down. How many lights are you counting?”

Lumon’s answer came as a dying whisper:

“A lot.” Then after a few seconds: “Too many.”

Dashvara’s hands were sweating feverishly. He tried to dry them on his clothes, but they were already soaked with rain.

“Well,” he said with a voice from beyond the grave. “At least we have a horse. Maybe we can get the Triplets on it. They don’t weigh much.” He swallowed hard. Try to force them on and they’ll wring your neck, Dash. You know them: they won’t want to leave. He glanced toward the swamps. Those were strangely silent. They must have put up some kind of rope to make sure we don’t retreat to the trees. A magic rope or something. The federates had equipped them to defend against orcs and milfids. Not against wizards. Not against an army. Suddenly he felt the urgency to do something. “I’m going down,” he repeated. “Sound two strikes and warn us in case they attack from the east or south as well.”

“What for, Dash?” Lumon said as Dashvara began to descend.

“What?”

Lumon explained:

“I mean, why should I warn you? If we’re attacked by this even from just one side, we’re already going to be slaughtered anyway.” He had regained his calm tone, and a deep resignation now vibrated in his voice. He saw no way out.

“Bah,” Dashvara said. He thought for a few seconds and repeated, “Bah. You’re right. Come down if you want. That way you won’t miss the final battle of the Xalyas.”

Sounds very solemn, the way I say it, doesn’t it? He smiled wryly as he continued to climb down.

One week… They had spent three years in this hole and for one week, one little week, they would have to die away from the steppe and be eaten by milfids, flies, and crows. What a feat.

Do you still feel proud of me, Captain? I guess you do. Of me and all of us. We survived the siege of the dungeon, reluctantly choosing life over death, we lived as long as we could, and now, as the Essimeans would say, Death is calling its lost sheep back to the fold. Things are what they are. I feel sorry for you, Rowyn. I have the unfortunate impression that the Pearl Brotherhood only saved corpses. But, well, all things considered, the Doomed were always doomed to die. Good luck with your work, whatever it is, Duke.

Two alarm bells rang. Grumbling, Dashvara chased away his farewell requiem like a pesky fly. When he landed downstairs, his companions were already coming out of the barracks, armed to the teeth. He even saw most of the sick on their feet. Zorvun was sitting on a chair on the platform in the pouring rain, white as a marble statue.

“They are coming from the north!” Dashvara shouted as soon as he rounded the trench. “There are more than a hundred of them. Perhaps many more. They are probably not orcs. They carry blue lights. Lots of them. They must be lanterns because they don’t go out with the rain.”

The captain nodded. He looked like he was about to faint.

“Sedrios?” he called. “You know what you have to do.”

The old man nodded, and Dashvara saw him enter the barracks again. He came out immediately with a white cloth attached to a spear. Dashvara’s eyes widened. White was the color of war for the Xalyas, but for the federates it was the color of peace. Who knows what white means to these Naskrahs… But they may not even notice the color of the flag.

Well, in any case, there was nothing to lose by trying to talk, even if the other side only answered with war cries, arrows, and axe blows. The Xalyas would behave in a civilized way and try to negotiate.

Dashvara smiled and felt his nerves relax, his heart calm down… Typical symptoms of a man who sees the fatality falling on him.

He reached Tsu and saw him standing there, unmoved except for a slight tremor in his hand as he gripped the sword. He shook his head. The drow did not know how to fight. In fact, the doctor had even assured him that he would never think of grabbing a sword unless it was absolutely necessary. He patted the drow on the shoulder, realizing how lucky he had been to have known such a kind-hearted torturer physician.

“So, Tsu? How do you feel in the dawn of your first battle?”

The drow remained inexpressive.

“It’s dark, Dash,” Makarva interjected, faking a casual tone. “The sun won’t rise for several hours.”

And we won’t see it again, Mak, that’s what you mean, right?

Dashvara gazed at the faces of his brothers, grave and troubled, rippling with the fire of the torches. Zamoy the Baldy, usually so talkative and exalted, clutched his swords with the calmness of a veteran fighter; Miflin had his eyes almost closed and was moving his lips, perhaps reciting his last poem; Makarva, who was always attentive to what the others were feeling, who was so good at fooling them all when they were playing, was now shaking his head, meditative, perhaps searching for a meaning in all this. Dashvara turned his gaze to the rain curtain.

It’s too late to look for meaning in anything, Mak. Perhaps it has always been so.

He thought of them all, of their years of patrolling the steppe, of their years on the Border… Of the twenty-two brothers who surrounded him, all without exception were worthy Xalyas of the Eternal Bird. All of them, with their faults and virtues, had behind those beards and hard eyes a radiant spirit. Suddenly Dashvara felt his heart swell with pride. A sudden impulse made him speak up.

“Men of Xalya!” he said in a loud voice. He drew surprised eyes from everyone. “Since our chances of getting out alive are practically non-existent, I would like to say something to you all.” He cleared his throat. “For the sake of variety, I’ll start with the obvious. We are Xalyas. That means we are brothers, not by blood, but by our ideas and by our affection for each other. We are brothers because we have faith in ourselves, and we are Xalyas because we have faith in our feather and in our Eternal Bird. Having said this, I wanted to tell you that, even though logic tells me that we should be terribly desperate, I feel happy,” he smiled. “Have you ever felt so happy that you came to think absurdly: ‘Well, if I die now, my life will have been complete’? That’s how I feel right now. I feel that, considering our destiny, I could not have found a better way to die than to die on a pile of mud with twenty-two brothers and a flag dirtier than white.” He laughed softly. “I feel that everything I’ve been through, the good things as well as the bad ones, I wouldn’t change them for a long life as a federate. That doesn’t mean I won’t regret many things, but I do it in the way of an old man who gives up his existence knowing that his duty is to give it up, for the sake of natural laws. And I wanted to tell you, with all that, that I love you all in such a way that there is no word in Inspector Chubby’s dictionary to describe it and—” He lost his breath, coughed, and swallowed blood. “Demons, brothers, if it is true that there is an afterlife as the republicans claim, be happy.”

He breathed in loudly, and he was not the only one, far from it. Makarva and Zamoy were more expressive and had to wipe off their tears. The captain blinked. Miflin murmured a verse that only the rain heard. Sashava let out a roar.

“Eternal Bird, my boy!” he growled. “We’re not dead yet.”

Dashvara swallowed his saliva mixed with salt water. He couldn’t feel ashamed of what he had said because it was true, and besides, they were going to die.

“If we were, Sashava, I could not have made my Philosopher’s speech.”

Several of them let out a laugh. And they weren’t nervous laughters: now all the Xalyas were sitting up straight, even the sick ones, and confidence sparkled in their eyes. The confidence of knowing that, even if they died, no one would take away what they had already lived.

What a great consolation, Dashvara thought wryly.

But that was all the lord of the steppe could give them that night.

Then, softly, Alta started to sing a song Dashvara had not heard for a very long time, since the fall of the Dungeon, when the Xalya soldiers had sworn before Lord Vifkan not to surrender and to fight until the last descendant of the old clans died. Ironically, those who were singing the anthem again were the only ones who had not kept their oath. Soon, almost everyone joined in the singing.

A few seconds after the last note of the Xalyas died in Compassion, Dashvara realized that the rain had almost let up. Then he heard the unmistakable sound of hooves hitting the wet earth. The light of two lanterns emerged from the darkness.

“Horses,” Maltagwa murmured.

“Four,” Lumon counted. “And one banner.”

The riders appeared in front of them before they had time to fully understand what was going on.

“Captain Faag salutes the Doomed of Compassion!” cried the herald carrying the banner in a powerful voice.

The twenty-three Xalyas stared at him in amazement. Dashvara could have sworn that the Grace of Compassion herself had come to rescue them.