33 To death

Dashvara returned to the straw pile with Lumon and Makarva. That night, he fell asleep quickly and woke up the next morning feeling oddly light-hearted. It took him a few moments to understand where this lightness came from: he had not had any nightmares. Barely had he made this encouraging observation when someone threw something in his lap. It was a bow. And the person who had thrown it at him was Captain Faag. Two men wearing the uniforms of the Compassion Company were escorting him.

“Get up, sleepyheads,” the Legitimate said. “We have a long day of training ahead of us.”

Dashvara shook Makarva and stood up, grabbing the bow. It was very similar to the ones they used on the steppe. Without another word, Faag led them into the vast courtyard, where the three Honyrs were already waiting. The murderous glances they gave the captain augured a peaceful and friendly atmosphere…

“Well,” Faag said as he positioned himself in front of the six steppemen. “I think you all know me already. I am Captain Faag, son of Shaag Yordark, and since I will be staying for a few days in Titiaka, I have decided to take care of you to begin your training in solfata.” He turned to the Honyrs. “If you prove to be skilled, it is likely that, after the games, I will welcome you into my company as auxiliaries. Depending on your service, you will be able to aspire to emancipation much more quickly than by remaining in Titiaka. Therefore, it is in your interest to strive as hard as possible.” He gave them all a satisfied smile. “Put the bows down here. First of all, I want you to run four laps around the yard to warm up. Then you will place the targets over there at the back. Come on, get moving,” he encouraged them.

The Honyrs grumbled in their beards, and Dashvara gave them an amused pout.

“Try to catch me, Honyrs,” he challenged them. And he started to run, followed by Lumon and Makarva. Both of them quickly overtook him, and then the Honyrs did as well. As he passed by, Cloud gave him a mocking look before accelerating. Dashvara smiled back at him. He didn’t try very hard, and when he finished the fourth lap, he received an annoyed look from Faag.

“Next time, try harder, will you?” he recommended.

Dashvara nodded silently and picked up his bow while the others finished setting the targets. Faag himself brought a cart full of arrows and was the first to fire, hitting the center of the target.

You don’t expect us to admire your incredible abilities, federate, do you? Dashvara scoffed. He glanced at Lumon, and they all held up their bows. They fired. The six arrows went into the center of each target. They shot ten arrows in a row, and finally Dashvara saw a glimmer of respect in Faag’s eyes. I would have more respect for someone who has never shot an arrow or drawn a sword, he reasoned. You show little wisdom, good man.

They continued to pull until Faag’s two companions left for a few minutes before returning with stable boys and six beautiful white horses. Dashvara accepted the reins of one horse and stroked its forehead with a trembling hand. Its eyes were docile and of a strange bluish color.

“These are Agoskura mares,” Captain Faag said. “They are the fastest I have ever known. Come on, get on.”

The Xalyas were soon in the saddle, but the Honyrs, following their ritual, began whispering to their horses, and Faag had to intervene to cut short the introductions.

“Um, sorry, but we don’t have all day,” he said impatiently.

The Honyrs turned back, each bowed respectfully to his horse, and they climbed into the saddle.

For the next few hours they rode around the courtyard, aiming at targets and varying the speed of their mounts. When Captain Faag ordered them to dismount, he looked satisfied. He handed out large snacks of vegetables, meat and eggs, and as he settled down with the others, Dashvara was surprised to see him sit on a bench with his two soldiers and eat the same thing.

“This guy reminds me of something a militiaman said at the Joyful Nadre,” he commented suddenly. “He said more or less: there are masters who hit, masters who threaten, masters who respect and want to be like fathers, and then masters who pretend to be brothers. But, in the end, all of them are still masters.”

He then noticed that the Honyrs had stopped eating, and he rolled his eyes.

“Sorry, don’t mind me.”

The Steppe thieves continued to eat, and the Xalyas kept silent until everyone had finished their snacks.

“Thank you,” Hoof murmured, the old man, in a low tone. “You are indeed the first to respect our traditions in these lands.”

Dashvara smiled, and Makarva said:

“Well, we Xalyas have always been very tolerant. Have you seen the horses? I had never seen such strange creatures.”

“They run fast,” Hoof appreciated. “But I bet they have less stamina than the horses of the steppe.”

They spoke nostalgically of the steppe, the horses, and their old life. Dashvara listened to Hoof tell how a group of treacherous Essimeans had captured seven of their own and sold them to the Diumcilians. One had died in the arena, two had been sold to a prince of Agoskura, and the fourth had disappeared on the border with Shjak.

“I don’t think he’s still alive,” Hoof admitted. “But, considering the end of the Xalyas, I take comfort in the fact that the majority of Honyrs still live on the steppe.”

Dashvara breathed in slowly, and without answering, turned his gaze to Captain Faag. The federate was walking towards them with a quiet gait.

“We were just commenting…” he began. “Apparently, you Xalyas are as good fighters as the Honyrs. Is that true?”

Dashvara suppressed a clearing of his throat.

“I can’t say for sure. I’ve never fought against a Honyr, and I’d just as soon not have to. But I would say they have an advantage over us.”

“An advantage?”

“Well, they say they have belarch blood in their veins.” He gave the Honyrs a questioning look and saw them smile mockingly.

“There is nothing less true,” Hoof replied. “We are humans in our own right, and all our ancestors were. Historically, we too are descended from the Ancient Kings, even if it costs us to admit it,” he muttered.

His assertion did not seem to scandalize anyone; only Dashvara remained speechless.

“What?” he breathed out loudly. “Impossible. The Old Kings have always pursued you.”

“And for a good reason,” Hoof smiled with some bitterness. “According to our story, a certain Sifiara, son of kings, betrayed his brother and tried to kill him to inherit his lands. He did not succeed, but instead of being beheaded, he was banished to the north with his sons and their wives. We are the descendants of a traitor.”

Dashvara looked at him, dumbfounded. He had always believed Maloven’s theory that the Steppe Thieves were a people from the north, like the Akinoas. Finally, he observed:

“It’s surprising that you remember such an unfavorable… event in your history.”

Hoof smiled, revealing his teeth.

“We are Honyrs. And Honyrs are always true to the history and to everything that happens to them. They don’t lie, they don’t fabricate, and they don’t hide the truths. Our shameful provenance plays a sanctimonious role.”

Listening to his calm and wise voice, Dashvara felt as if he was talking to the shaard of the Steppe Thieves. Captain Faag intervened:

“This is all very interesting, but I suggest you get up and continue training. The past is the past. Come on,” he urged them.

Dashvara stood up but couldn’t help asking:

“And the Eternal Bird? Do you too—?”

“Xalya,” Faag interrupted him curtly.

The captain’s tone of voice reminded him that he was talking to a Titiaka Legitimate. He kept cautiously silent, but as he climbed back on his beautiful white horse, he continued to think about it. The Steppe Thief to whom he had left his Lusombra horse more than three years ago had spoken to him of fighting techniques, and he had told him about their philosophy and principles, but at no time had he used the words “Eternal Bird”, nor had he seemed to know anything about Oy’vat. In any case, if what Hoof said was true, it meant that the old clans were not completely dead. There were still the Honyrs.

Children of traitors, but brothers after all, he considered.

He was so moved by the news that he could not concentrate on what he was doing. He began to fire the arrows so badly that Captain Faag ordered him to stop. Dashvara, irritated, put his foot down.

“What’s the matter?”

Faag looked him in the eye.

“What’s the matter? You’re not focused, that’s the matter, soldier. First you run like a turtle, then you shoot arrows like a beginner after proving you’re a good archer. What’s up with you?” he concluded.

His question demanded an answer. Dashvara gave him none.

“By Compassion,” Faag sighed. He turned to one of his men. “Bring some sabers.”

Dashvara blanched, already imagining that he was going to be executed without Atasiag’s knowledge. Then he reasoned more logically, but he didn’t really relax until he saw the soldier handing him the two weapons. He was going to fight a duel. But against whom?

When he saw Captain Faag pick up his shield and draw his sword, he thought he felt his life ebbing away.

“Don’t make that face, Doomed,” the Yordark smiled. “I assure you, if you hurt me, I will make no complaint. You fight with two swords, don’t you? This is a fair duel. I won it over a Honyr a year ago. I’m curious to see how good fighters Xalyas are.”

Well, personally, I’m not curious, federate. But I guess my opinion doesn’t matter to you.

Faag shouted at the others to stop their horses, ordered them to sit down a few paces from where he and Dashvara were standing, and finally said:

“This time, focus, soldier.”

Dashvara gave him a weary pout and for a moment thought of saying something like “I’m sorry, but I twisted my ankle,” or “I’m sorry, I’ll be careful now, I won’t miss the target anymore”, but he understood that the first excuse was not going to be credible and the second one was not going to prevent the duel the Yordark wanted so much. With a sigh, he waited for Faag to make the first move.

They assessed each other for a while when, finally, impatient, wanting to end the fight regardless of who won, Dashvara rushed in. A few seconds later, he retreated under the blows.

He is strong, he had to admit.

This was a relief to him: if the federate had really succeeded in beating a Honyr, he didn’t see why he couldn’t lose, too.

“Focus,” Faag hissed. His blue eyes flashed with frustration. “Focus or I’ll skewer you right here and send your corpse back to your master.”

Dashvara didn’t know if he was serious, but the mere threat stopped him from trying to hasten his defeat. He moved to the left, attacked, and then retreated again, swearing through his teeth. At one point, he saw a gap, lunged and made a small cut in the federate’s arm. He might have been able to take better advantage of the attack, but he didn’t: he stepped back, pale as death. This time he had really blundered. Faag smiled.

“There, that’s good. Attack without hesitation.”

For a moment, Dashvara thought he was going to declare the duel over and without a winner, but no: the federate attacked again, and Dashvara huffed and puffed, dodging sword and shield blows, moving like the good Sand Prince that he was. However, when the Xalyas had given him that nickname, he was younger and in perfect shape. After a moment of moving like a red snake to avoid Faag’s blows, he felt his breathing stop and his lungs fill with blood. He parried another blow, feinted, bent over, knocked the federate off balance, and kicked him in the crotch just before he remembered the phrase ‘this is a fair duel’ Too late. Faag gasped, bending over, and Dashvara took a step backwards, distraught. He opened his mouth to apologize, but only let out a bloody gurgle. He tried to free his lungs, his head spun, and he staggered.

“What… the hell…?” Captain Faag breathed out. Half-recovered, he watched in amazement as his opponent spat out blood.

The coughing fit was brutal. Dashvara swore inwardly while coughing like hell. He had tried too hard. Cursed federate. He let go of the swords because with a coughing fit like that, he could have hurt himself. He slumped shakily to the ground, trying to get down slowly.

“Dash!” Makarva’s voice cried.

Dashvara saw his friend jump to his feet and Lumon wisely pulled him up by the arm to hold him down. Unlike the other times, he didn’t feel like the bleeding in his lungs was going to stop, and he was still expelling blood. A nameless fear invaded him. Even though he had experienced the imminence of death countless times, he had never stopped fearing it.

“I suppose this leaves the duel without a winner,” Captain Faag said. “Forisag, call the doctor.”

Faag leaned over to Dashvara and asked softly:

“This isn’t the first time this has happened to you, is it? That’s why you weren’t pushing yourself too hard this morning.”

Dashvara did not answer; instead, Lumon did while approaching.

“He has been ill for three years, Captain. It’s because of a dart soaked in red snake venom.”

The blood began to clot in Dashvara’s throat, and he coughed and spat again. When he recovered a little, he met the saddened gaze of the old Honyr, breathed in as much as he could, and croaked:

“Keep your word, federate, and skewer me with your sword. If killing amuses you so much, at least have a shred of compassion and kill m…”

He gasped for air, choked, and tried again to dig a space to breathe. Faag stood up, but not to skewer him, only to move aside. This time, Lumon did not hold Makarva back. The young Xalya knelt beside Dashvara, his expression distressed.

“Dash, you’re going to be fine. You’re not dying…”

His voice was shaky and unsure. Dashvara looked up at Lumon. He saw him standing there, looking grim, and he knew he wouldn’t have bet an old horse on his life expectancy either. For weeks, his health had only gotten worse. When he got his breath back, he gave them both a slight smile and patted Makarva on the shoulder without saying anything. He remembered what Captain Zorvun had said to him at Compassion: ‘That arrow was not the last, Dashvara. I’m sure the last one will be the best.’ A hell of a lot better, yeah.

“Dash,” Makarva gasped. “The doctor is coming. Don’t choke, brother. You’ll see, I’m sure you will heal.”

Even you don’t believe it.

The doctor was a huge, strong individual with a human face who lifted him like a feather and carried him in his arms like a newborn baby.

“We’re going to make you well, kid,” the giant said with a big, soothing smile.

For a moment, Dashvara felt relieved, but then he was seized with an irrational panic when he realized that he might die far from the Xalyas, from his folk, from his people. Distraught, he stirred, trying to escape.

“Brothers!” he bellowed. He let out a stream of blood, and his vision grew dim. He groaned, called out to his brothers again, and added in Oy’vat, “Father… Mother… Nandrivá…” He choked. He coughed violently and used his last remaining strength to exclaim fervently: “Liadirlá, kayástaram, aswuri fasrinur gat…! Munda, Xalya, sizana hunaskam, kay fadula dundat, Liadirlá…!”

Eternal Bird, do not abandon me, until death I will be faithful to you. You have made me lord, Xalya, and brother, and I give you my life, Liadirlá…