13 The orcs’ orphan

With the preparations for the trip, the next week passed like a flash. Since Kuriag Dikaksunora was busy writing and answering letters and attending invitations from Titiakas and city Republicans, the Xalyas took care of everything, so to speak. In any case, they knew better than anyone else what was needed to travel the steppe.

To get in shape, they resumed intensive training in the courtyard of the inn, wielding swords, bows, and spears. When Kuriag offered to train with the Ragails from the embassy, they refused outright. These warrior-mages brought back very bad memories of the Rebellion to Dashvara.

On the eve of departure, Dashvara, the Triplets, Lumon, Boron, and Makarva visited Zaadma and Rokuish at the Golden Dragon to leave them the hundred or so dragons they had left, and while they were at it, to see how Rahilma, Aodorma, and Sizinma were growing. Neither Zaadma nor Rokuish protested much before accepting the money, and even less when Dashvara assured them that, out on the steppe, they would not need it.

“Our cousins seem to have calmed down since last time,” Zamoy observed, as he approached the large crib where the three newborns slept.

“Rahilma and Aodorma, yes,” Zaadma said, “But Sizinma is still insufferable.”

“It must be the reincarnation of Miflin,” the Baldy concluded. The Poet elbowed him right in the ribs. “Ouch!”

“How’s the herbalist shop project going?” Makarva inquired.

Zaadma sighed loudly.

“Boo! This town is going to hell. Now it turns out that you have to have a degree from the Citadel to open a herbalist shop. We’re thinking of moving to Twach. There, at least, they let people live without needing a degree. It’s half a day’s ride from here by cart, so it wouldn’t be too much of a fuss. And with that money you brought us, I’m sure now that we’ll get by, even with those three little devils,” she smiled.

They dined with them in the tavern room, and as they left, Dashvara thought it appropriate to renew his offer to the couple.

“If one day you feel like returning to the steppe, our clan will receive you with great joy,” he told them.

Rokuish smiled, touched, and stood up to shake his hand.

“Thank you, brother. You as well: if any of you decide to travel to the Republic, please don’t forget to stop by.” He patted him on the shoulder, his expression deeply moved. “Be careful and may luck smile upon you.”

Dashvara almost felt as if he were saying goodbye to him forever. And maybe that was true. Especially if the Essimeans caught them on their way. Brushing these thoughts aside, he walked out of the tavern with his brothers and glanced darkly at the stormy sky before putting on the hood of his new cloak and walking down the street in the downpour. They were walking in silence through the streets of Dazbon when suddenly Zamoy shouted:

“Brothers!”

Everyone jumped and looked at him in alarm.

“What’s the matter?” they asked him.

Under his dark blue hood, Zamoy smiled with all his teeth and exclaimed:

“Tomorrow, we’re going home!”

He gave a shout of victory and took off running with the Hairy towards The White Pearl. Dashvara exchanged a smile with his companions and they resumed their walk in the rain. They were going home, yes, but inwardly, he couldn’t stop thinking about the Essimeans. They would run into them on the way for sure.

But that doesn’t mean we won’t be able to get through, he thought as he moved forward. The Death worshippers don’t have to know that those steppian guards wearing Titiaka uniforms are Xalyas… do they? He grinned crookedly. Not until we shout it in their faces.

The next morning, when the steppians mounted their horses and left the inn, following Kuriag Dikaksunora, their hearts were filled with joy. They were leaving loaded with provisions, weapons, and above all, hope. Their enthusiasm cooled a little when, already leaving the city, they saw twelve Ragails approaching the group. For a moment, Dashvara feared they might bring trouble, but Kuriag merely greeted them as if he was waiting for them and trotted off. Sensing the captain’s questioning glance, Dashvara sighed and spurred Sunrise to join the Legitimate. He cleared his throat.

“Excellency.”

The young elf turned his head slightly. He wasn’t a bad rider, but anyone could tell he wasn’t a seasoned one.

“Yes?” he replied with some tension.

Dashvara smiled.

“You don’t need to hold the reins so much. Just relax. No one likes having a worried monkey on their back.”

Kuriag pressed his lips together, but instead of taking offense and sending him off to plant grass in the desert, he listened. He tried to justify himself:

“In Titiaka, I barely rode.”

“It shows,” Dashvara assured with undisguised mockery. He received an annoyed glance from the Legitimate and smiled at him before making a grimace and asking, “Why did you hire Ragails?”

Kuriag frowned. He did not answer immediately.

“I didn’t hire them,” he said at last. “Faag Yordark sent them to me for protection. I could not refuse.”

Really? Dashvara thought. Or are you afraid that we Xalyas will let you down?

But he kept his doubts to himself. Besides, Kuriag’s answer could be true. All things considered, the Yordark had no interest in the new Dikaksunora leader being lost forever in the Rocdinfer steppe.

And remember, Dash, neither do we have any interest in Kuriag being suspicious of us Xalyas…

With a hint of exasperation, Kuriag added:

“Djamin is one of the best Ragail captains in Diumcili, and he has volunteered to accompany us. It is an honor to have him with us… I hope that no unnecessary arguments will arise.”

Dashvara rolled his eyes, and as the said Ragail captain approached in turn on his mount, he assured:

“I’ll see to controlling my own temper, Excellency.”

And he let himself be left behind to give way to Djamin. The Ragail captain did not make a bad impression on him. He was a middle-aged human, with a tan complexion like the steppians, and if he hadn’t had blue eyes, he could have been mistaken for a Xalya. He exchanged a curt nod with him before riding away. He continued to watch him talk with Kuriag for a few moments, then returned to Zorvun, who was eager for news. He explained the presence of the Ragails, and the Captain nodded thoughtfully.

“I guess their company was only to be expected,” he commented.

They were already reaching the Dragon Road, and noticing that the pace was slowing, Dashvara craned his neck. He saw two sajits waiting at the side of the road with a mount. He immediately recognized the tall figure of the caitian. It was Asmoan, the Agoskurian scientist, the Eternal Bird enthusiast… and the demon. Beside him, laden with two well-bounced bags, with an expression that alternated between impatience and mockery, stood Api, the dark-haired boy. Dashvara arched an eyebrow, suppressing a sigh. Well, in the end, they would have to travel not only with twelve Ragails but also with not one but two demons.

“Hello!” Asmoan called out, “Forgive me for the delay, I have a little problem: my horse is already overloaded, and I don’t know where to put the heaviest load!” He laid an eloquent hand on the boy’s shoulder. “This is Api, my assistant.”

Kuriag promptly solved the problem of the bags the boy was carrying by having them loaded onto another mount. Then turning his attention to the assistant, he asked:

“Someone willing to take him?”

He would have finished sooner by ordering. The Xalyas looked at each other. The Ragails scratched their heads or pretended they hadn’t heard. And Dashvara cleared his throat.

“He will come with me.”

He would rather do that than having Kuriag put the demon on the mount of any other Xalya. The youngster bared his teeth and bowed.

“I’ll be very happy to travel with you. By the way,” he added, as Dashvara grabbed him by the arm to help him up, “I rode a dragon once, but I’ve never ridden a hors—Demons!” he gasped. “We’re higher than I thought.”

“Hang on tight,” Dashvara replied.

The boy clung to him, and they soon resumed their march, at a rather slow pace. Passing Republicans stopped to watch the parade of horses with curiosity. Api asked:

“So, these are the famous steppe horses?”

Dashvara grunted in agreement. Api continued:

“Asmoan says that in a few days we will already be in the steppe, but we will have to go through tunnels. The tunnels of Aïgstia. A true labyrinth, he said. From what he’s been told, of course, because he doesn’t know the area. I hope you know where you’re going, because I don’t trust this scientist’s maps one bit.”

Sitting in front of him, Dashvara suppressed a sigh.

“We’ll try not to get lost,” he assured.

There was a silence, then a cheerful:

“Well, great. Gosh, I’m not going to miss Dazbon,” he opined. “Though the empty plains aren’t my favorite place either, but between that and the Ariltuan swamps, I think I like the plains just as much.”

Dashvara arched an eyebrow.

“You’ve been to Ariltuan?”

“Yes, why?” the boy replied with natural vivacity.

Dashvara shook his head.

“My brothers and I guarded the borders of Diumcili along the swamps for three years,” he explained.

“Oh my,” Api let out, taken aback.

Dashvara moistened his lips.

“Can I ask you how you got out of there alive?”

“Oh. Well, that’s easy,” the boy replied. “My foster mother said, ‘’Get out of here or I’ll wring your neck, you little demon.’ And I took off running before she could wring my neck.”

Zamoy, who was riding alongside, whistled through his teeth.

“Nice foster mother!”

“She was!” Api assured, laughing. “I, on the other hand, am a true demon. That I am. The orcs took me in as their son, and all I did was annoy them. I couldn’t even climb a tree without falling half a dozen times a day! So when I was nine years old, my mother told me to go away and seek my fortune in the big wide world. Six years have passed and I’m still looking for it,” he joked.

Wondering how true his story was, Dashvara exchanged an amused look with Zamoy; the Baldy coughed:

“You mean, you were raised by orcs.”

“Yep,” Api confirmed naturally. “Actually, they were swamp orcs.”

He said no more, and Dashvara breathed out, more quietly. He’d been afraid the boy would be bugging him the whole trip with made-up stories. Or maybe they weren’t, who knows. But then the boy said:

“I will always remember Shifi. He was my best friend. And he was the best tree climber.”

When no one answered, hidden in his bag, Tahisran intervened:

‘Dash, ask him where he went after he left the swamps. I’m curious to know.’

Dashvara sighed but asked anyway. He guessed Api’s shrug.

“A little at random,” he replied. “I went towards the east and found myself in a town called Ied. It took me a whole week to dare to enter it, because I had never seen anything like it. So many houses and so many strange people. The ones who scared me the most were the ones with white skin. Imagine the fright I had the first time I washed and saw myself in a mirror!” he laughed. “Finally,” he continued, “over there I got to know a guy who taught me the common western language and a bunch of other stuff. He was from the Bladhy Desert,” he explained, “and he told me wonders about the desert and the steppe, so I thought, one day I’ll go west. And here I am.”

Dashvara shook his head slowly.

“You know, my boy? You haven’t chosen the best time to travel the steppe. It is infested with Essimeans.”

“But… they’re sajits, aren’t they?” the boy asked, confused.

Dashvara smiled wickedly.

“In theory.”

There was silence.

“In short, what are they like, these Essimeans?” the boy inquired.

“Despicable scum,” Zamoy replied at once.

“Fiends!” Makarva added in the rear.

“Traitors like snakes,” Aligra spat.

Atsan Is Fadul added calmly:

“The Essimeans worship Death and Science.”

To Dashvara’s exasperation, the young demon stirred on the mount to turn to those who were answering. Atsan’s words caused him to flinch slightly, and Dashvara felt his arms cling a little tighter to his waist. However, his tone was light when he said:

“I see. But isn’t the Tower of the Eternal Bird surrounded by Essimeans?”

“It is,” Dashvara confirmed calmly.

He waited for the next question, which he imagined to be a: but then, how do you expect to escort the scientist and the Legitimate there without them slaughtering you? But the question did not come. The boy must have been lost in thought.

As they moved away from the City of Dazbon, they quickened their pace. Although it was a sunny day, a cold, persistent wind whipped at them. One of the drawbacks of having that young demon on his horse was that Dashvara didn’t dare approach Yira anymore. Atasiag was probably right when he said that it was unlikely that anyone would perceive the mortic energy of his naâsga, but since he didn’t know what demons were capable of, the doubt kept him away.

They arrived in Rocavita before noon. The mere sight of the town on the high hill reminded Dashvara of the endless night he had spent there three years ago to rescue the Xalya women, passing through catacombs and sewers… To tell the truth, he had kept a dark memory of Rocavita, but on seeing it again, he had to admit that those white houses clustered together and surrounded by vines had their charm.

Still, when they reached the main square of the town and Kuriag ordered a short break, Dashvara held back an impatient sigh. If they started taking breaks every two hours, they wouldn’t reach the steppe before spring… As the Legitimate and his wife headed to a tavern with Asmoan and the Ragail captain, Dashvara ordered Atok to follow them as a bodyguard. It wouldn’t do to have something happen to Kuriag before he left the Republic. The others waited in the square and took the opportunity to eat. They barely spoke a word, not only out of respect for the Honyrs, but also because of the presence of the eleven elite Titiaka warriors nearby. The two groups did not speak to each other, but exchanged appraising glances, not hostile, but clearly distrustful. On one side the oppressive guards, on the other the slaves who were returning to their steppe…

“The journey promises to be busy,” Dashvara murmured.

Api gave him a curious look. Lying on the cobblestones of the square, looking very relaxed, the young demon had pulled out several elongated figs and was chewing them energetically. He had barely spoken a word since his story about the orcs. He had a strange way of looking at everyone cheekily and with a mocking glare, as if he was amused by the smallest detail.

“What’s the name of the one in the bag?” he asked suddenly.

Dashvara swore inwardly. Devils. Had the shadow spoken too loudly? He glanced sharply at the Ragails, hoping they hadn’t heard the question…

“This one?” a little voice said. “That’s Tah.”

Dashvara turned his head again to see little Shivara approaching, spinning top in hand. He sighed loudly, and he was not the only one.

“Tah,” Api repeated.

“Tah,” the child confirmed, and he paused, looking at the fig, puzzled, before asking, “What is it?”

The demon smiled.

“This? My mentor called them amulikas,” he replied. “It’s a fruit from the east. Some call it the fruit of the two Roses. Too bad I’m almost out of them. Would you like one?”

He gave the kid one, and Shivara crouched beside him, putting the fruit between his teeth.

“It’s hard!”

“Of course, it’s a dry fruit. You have to chew. Do you like it?”

Shivara pondered for a few moments before nodding. Dashvara sensed the slight tension in Morzif, who was sitting a little further away, and he gave a not entirely peaceful smile.

If you knew, good Blacksmith, that the boy was not only raised by orcs but is also a demon, you would not let your son near him.

However, despite his strange behavior and even foreign origins, Api didn’t look like a bad boy.

Careful, Dash. You’ll end up becoming more trusting than Arvara, and you’ll believe that even Todakwa of Essimea can be a nice person.

The thought troubled him. How many times had he dreamed and repeated Todakwa’s name in his head? How many times had he sworn to kill him and Lifdor of Shalussi? As far as he knew, those two were the only tribal leaders left alive.

But remember you no longer seek revenge, he reminded himself. What matters now is that your clan accepts the Honyrs and rises from the ashes.

By the time he stopped spinning his plans in his head, little Shivara had already swallowed two amulikas. Now the demon was telling him stories of fairies and castles, and more than one Xalya was listening.

“Yet people dare say legends aren’t true,” he snorted. “Fairies do exist! The proof is that this ternian I knew saved one in the Underground, one almost as young as you. She wore a dress whiter than foam and lived in a tower without ever having seen the sun or spoken to anyone. Can you imagine? And, suddenly, one day…”

Abruptly, Api stopped and straightened up on the cobblestones.

“Ah, I think the journey continues,” he declared, excitedly.

In fact, the foreigners had just left the tavern with Lessi. Finally. The Xalyas rose impatiently, and Dashvara was already grabbing the reins of Sunrise, preparing to mount her, when Kuriag called to him. He sighed and joined the Federate, pulling his mount behind him.

“I would like to formally introduce you to Captain Djamin,” Kuriag explained. “This is Dashvara, the lord of the Xalyas. And this is Zorvun, their captain… and my father-in-law,” he added with a half-amused, half-awkward smile.

The Ragail captain and the two Xalyas exchanged polite greetings as they stared at each other.

“My men and I,” the Ragail said, “will join our effort with yours to secure the protection of the Legitimate Dikaksunora and his wife in these wild lands.”

Dashvara nodded wordlessly, and Zorvun replied:

“It will be an honor for us to… uh… travel with the elite Diumcilian Guard.”

Yes, what an honor…

Dashvara nodded curtly in agreement, and there ended the first exchange. It was a little cold, but it could have been worse. They mounted their horses again and soon left Rocavita behind. They rode along the field-lined path for a while before they saw the black opening that led to the tunnels of Aïgstia. Theoretically, because of the detours and the dim light of the lanterns, even if they took shortcuts where the carts couldn’t go, it would take them three whole days to get through these tunnels. That is, if all went well. And then, who knows what they would find.