11 Farewell, flies and swamps

Despite the Xalyas’ questions, Tsu would not reveal what he had told Captain Faag that night. Nor would he tell the truth about what had happened. He only repeated that he was anxious to leave Compassion, to travel to Titiaka, and to know this new master who had appeared out of the blue. When Tsu put on a stony expression, as on this occasion, even Makarva had learned to leave him alone. The drow then reminded them all that, although he considered them his brothers, he had had a previous life in which silence had been one of his greatest occupations.

How many secrets did you have to keep after torturing your victims, Tsu?

Dashvara himself did not insist on getting anything out of him, basically for two reasons. On one hand, if Tsu didn’t want to talk, he had every right in the world to remain silent; that, for the Xalyas, was almost a lemma. On the other hand, he was afraid that, if he insisted on knowing what this Hakassu had told him, Tsu would end up telling him. And Dashvara wasn’t sure he wanted to learn anything about it. He considered the matter closed and began to think about Atasiag and the journey ahead of them.

Soon you will be free, Dashvara of Xalya.

This thought made him exultant inside. Especially because he was going to see Fayrah, the Brothers of the Pearl… and maybe Zaadma again. Now that the possibility of actually seeing his goddess again was not so far away, Dashvara had begun to laugh at himself and his fantasies. More than once, in those two days of anxious waiting, he remembered one of the phrases of the shaard Maloven: ‘If a person mocks his fantasies, it is because he fears that disappointment will hurt his soul when he discovers that they are false.’ Well… Dashvara was almost certain that these fantasies could be nothing more than that, fantasies. All in all, he had fed them out of an excess of free time and lack of freedom. What value could a feeling born out of boredom have?

When the new platoon of Doomed arrived at the barracks, much of Faag’s company had retreated to Rayorah. Clearly, they no longer feared drow attacks, and for the past two days, the federates had only fought milfids. They had also let a borwerg through, and the Xalyas could not help but laugh at them amiably, diplomatically pointing out that in three years there had never been such a slack job at Compassion. The borwerg, apparently, had hit a barn, completely demolished a fence, and sent a whole herd of panicked cattle fleeing to the meadows.

“What will happen to Compassion without us?” Dashvara sighed, amused.

He was sitting on the platform, Tahisran’s bulging bag beside him and some maps of Hadriks in his hand. While they all waited for the imminent arrival of some envoy from Atasiag, the captain, already almost fully recovered, was busy giving advice to the new platoon leader. The new platoon leader didn’t seem very receptive; in fact, he had the face of one who sees death coming at a slow pace, much like all his fellow Doomed, actually. Dashvara shook his head with compassion.

“This will become one more hell of the Border, I suppose,” Lumon finally replied, throwing down a card.

“Do you guys think these men are all criminals?” Kodarah the Hairy inquired with a concentrated grimace: he was repairing a hole in his left boot, and so far, the result left a lot to be desired.

“Not all of them,” Lumon assured. “Just a moment ago, I spoke with one of the federates who brought them. Apparently, among these twenty-five recruits, there are two slaves from the Desert of Bladhy, an elf guy who seduced an important financier from Titiaka—”

“What?” both Makarva and Zamoy exclaimed.

“No, sorry,” Lumon corrected with a big laugh. “I mean that he seduced the daughter of a financier from Titiaka. The financier, otherwise, would not have sent him to the Border!” They laughed. “And then there’s a dwarf who won I don’t know how many thousands of dragons in a casino in the capital by cheating. Didn’t you see him? I don’t even think the poor guy knows how to handle a weapon… Ah!” he exclaimed abruptly, showing his cards. “Straight of Senators!”

The Archer seemed enthusiastic. In fact, they all did. They were leaving twenty-five unfortunate people at Compassion, and they were leaving for the unknown. Well, that wasn’t quite true: they had already traveled once from Titiaka to Rayorah, on foot and in the heavy autumn rains. This time, Dashvara hoped that the trip would be a little more clement. And that, once they arrived in Titiaka, the man named Atasiag would soon set them free. After all, if the Brothers of the Pearl knew the trader in question, it was possible that he shared their honorable opinion of slavery, right?

“He’s coming, he’s coming!” Pik shouted suddenly, running to the platform. He was so nervous that he was shaking all over.

Everyone threw away their cards, and Dashvara quickly picked them up before putting them in the bag with Tahisran.

‘Are you still going to put a lot of stuff in there?’ the shadow sighed.

“This was the last thing,” Dashvara assured him. He had already put in Bashak’s figurine, his bowl, and the piece of swamp wood, as well as Chubby’s dictionary and a sanfurient wolf sculpture that he had done particularly well; he had left the rest of his works with the new Doomed as compensation for their valiant sacrifice.

He slung his bag over his shoulder with one of the straps he had used for his swords. Weapons, of course, were for the replacements, and Dashvara suspected that they would need them more than they did in the near future anyway. He only regretted not being able to take a dagger with him to carve his piece of wood, but the rules were clear: no Doomed were allowed to take sharp objects out of the Border.

He stepped down from the platform, glancing around with emotion. The barracks were as tumultuous as ever, with the old Doomed eager to get out of there, the new Doomed bustling about, glancing nervously at their future home, and the federal soldiers watching the commotion with interest… So much excitement was invigorating, he thought.

When he joined the Xalyas’ troop and looked west, he saw a rider approaching with exasperating slowness in the distance.

“Ah, here comes Alta too,” Lumon said, turning to the south.

The Xalya arrived at a trot with Latish. He had left with Grumble before the new pack arrived and had handed the donkey over to Dignity’s people. Obviously, he couldn’t trust the new guys to treat Grumble with the respect she deserved. Dashvara smiled as Alta stopped Latish in front of them.

“Looks like I’m just in time,” Alta noticed good-humoredly as he saw the rider to the west.

“Well?” Arvara the Giant inquired. “Is Grumble well?”

Alta rolled his eyes.

“She grumbles. Towder promised me he’d take care of her like his own daughter.”

Makarva huffed, mocking.

“Towder has a daughter?”

“Mmph. No idea, but I trust Towder to take good care of the donkey. He better be worthy of my trust.”

“Worthy, that he is, since he is from Dignity,” Miflin joked.

“Yeah. Anyway, the whole Dignity crew wishes us a safe trip, and Towder asked me to tell the captain that we’re the best neighbors he’s ever had in his whole damn life as a Doomed.”

“Of course, we even bring them a donkey, why would they complain?” Dashvara smiled.

Alta went to leave Latish in the shed, and when he came out, Dashvara saw him walking towards the new Doomed to give them lessons on how to care for a horse.

“I’m a groom,” a man muttered, looking weary. “I know how to take care of a horse.”

A mixture of distrust and relief appeared on Alta’s face. Near Dashvara, Lumon commented in a low voice:

“If I recall correctly, that guy was a horse thief.”

They exchanged eloquent looks and cleared their throats.

“You’d better not tell Alta,” Zamoy concluded, cautiously.

All agreed, and Sashava called the captain, exasperated that he was still talking to the new chief. He impatiently waved one of the crutches that Dashvara had carved for him since that damned brizzia crushed his leg.

“He’s coming, Captain!” he bellowed.

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” Zorvun replied. He said a few more words to the Doomed man, greeted him, and finally joined the Xalyas. He looked at the rider with a radiant expression that was rarely seen in him. Dashvara half-suppressed an impatient gasp.

“You can tell he’s in a hurry to get here,” he commented. The damned horseman was moving as fast as a hedgehog on two legs. However, everything that moves forward eventually gets somewhere, and the rider finally reached Compassion.

“Do you know him?” the captain asked in a low voice.

Dashvara said no with a disappointed gesture. His face did not look familiar. The man was young, with an emerging beard, brown eyes, and an old hat. He stopped his horse in front of them.

“Are you the Xalyas of Compassion?” he asked.

The captain stepped forward in confirmation, and after a quick glance at the area, the federate waved his hand.

“Get moving. We will review you at Rayorah.”

Dashvara glanced questioningly at Makarva before heading west with the others. Obviously, the bipedal hedgehog was in a hurry all of a sudden. He noticed that his gaze fell on each face as they passed him. He’s counting us, he realized. Was he an envoy from Atasiag, or just an employee who handled the slave convoys? Not knowing, they could not risk asking prying questions.

They were already a hundred steps from the barracks when the rider asked, surprised:

“Is the drow also a Xalya?”

“He is a Xalya,” Captain Zorvun assured.

The federate looked skeptical but made no further comment during the trip to Rayorah. Sashava led the way with Sedrios the Elder, wielding his crutches with energy. The day was not warm, the sky was cloudy, and the morale of the Xalyas was high, so they took much less than three hours to arrive. Before the Ariltuan swamps disappeared behind a rise in the terrain, Dashvara took a quick look at them. Inexplicably, he wondered if leaving this shack was really a good thing. But, of course, you should stay: what sick mind could possibly have the idea of abandoning such a bucolic and pleasant place?

Dashvara smiled.

“Are you already thinking about the flies you left behind, Dash?” Makarva mocked. He walked beside him. The other Xalyas chatted animatedly while the rider supervised their progress.

Dashvara shrugged casually.

“The truth is, I didn’t leave them behind. The flies follow me. What do you bet that in Titiaka they reappear?”

Makarva smiled.

“The same ones?”

“Well, prove to me that they are not the same,” Dashvara challenged him, amused.

Rayorah was a walled city of about two thousand inhabitants. It was the least populated of the Communes, followed by Pearl, Suhugan, and Akres. Of the three cantons in the Federation, Atria was the least friendly to the Council. Ruhuvah had been waging an eternal war against the Shjak drows for eight years, and Titiaka was getting rich as a magic treasure by trading with the entire coast of the Pilgrim Ocean. Almost everything Dashvara knew about Diumcili he had learned it from talking with Tsu and the Doomed of Dignity, since the people of Rayorah avoided talking to them whenever possible.

They did not get very far into the city: the federate led them through the wall, directly to the adjacent barracks. Several guards watched them pass with wary expressions. Surely, it was not every day that twenty-three hardened Doomed were seen together in Rayorah. Normally, the rules of the Doomed forbade them to enter more than three at a time.

They passed through the gates of the barracks, and Dashvara reached out to catch the lively rumble of the city. There was the screeching of wheels and the distant voice of a crier. And over those, the sound of Xalyas’ boots echoed against the pavement. The federate in the hat waved them into a courtyard and asked them to leave their bags in a corner. When Dashvara dropped his, he whispered:

“If I were you, I wouldn’t stay in the bag, Tah. They’ll control everything.”

The shadow did not answer but stirred slightly.

“Line up, warriors!”

Dashvara turned around, surprised at the powerful flash, and almost gasped when he saw a human with a pair of large black glasses enter the courtyard on a wheelchair. He recognized him well.

It was Kroon, the dragon-monk of Dazbon.