21 Rebels

They barely exchanged words with the Shalussi riders, one of whom informed them that they were patrolling the area and had been ordered to escort them to Lamasta. Makarva was accompanying them, and he added details. Apparently, Alta had stayed behind to arrange for the arrival of the Xalyas after Zefrek had promised that they would be welcomed. Orafe couldn’t help but comment aloud:

“Well, I hope this Shalussi knows that I’ll rip out his eyes, tongue and head if he sets a trap for us. In that order.”

“And so will I, by the Liadirlá!” Maef approved.

Both of them were met with a glare from the captain, a grimace from Dashvara, and an offended expression from the savages… Realizing that he had not been able to hold his tongue, Orafe stirred, coughed, and looked away, crossing his arms nervously. Maef, on the other hand, remained quiet: he was probably thinking it was just his heart that had spoken, after all. Dashvara sighed.

And this is Xalya diplomacy at its finest…

They were exhausted, but as no one was particularly keen on sleeping between two armies, they continued their march, escorted by the Shalussi patrol. They arrived at Lamasta in the middle of the afternoon, worn out and with only one thought in mind: to sleep and not to open their eyes until the next morning. And that’s what they all did. Dashvara the first. Since when was a Xalya able to close his eyes and sleep with an armed Shalussi only a few steps away? Well… sometimes fatigue put the most ancestral enmities to sleep. So, after settling down half-awake in a shelter with a more or less waterproof roof, the Xalyas let the savages watch over them and their horses.

Dashvara woke up to the sound of birds cooing. He opened his eyes and found himself face to face with a pigeon. It was enclosed in a small circular cage. A child, perhaps of Shivara’s age, crouched beside it, trying to stroke the bird’s feathers by running a finger between the bars, his expression very attentive. The rest of the Xalyas, for the most part, were already awake.

And the lord of the steppe sleeps like a lazy bodun.

Dashvara rubbed his eyes, glanced at his arm, and saw that Tsu had changed his bandage while he was asleep. He had slept so soundly that, if an Essimean horse had come along and trampled him, he would not have even noticed.

He straightened up on the dirt floor of the shelter, scanned the area, and noticed a group of Xalya children standing nearby glancing at him curiously. Not at him, he realized, but at his arm with the rolled-up sleeve. At the three marks he wore. He gave them a comical pout, and gesturing to his marks, he said casually:

“Nice tattoos, right? Good morning, kids.”

They answered him with a certain shyness, as if they did not dare to speak to him. Dashvara rolled his eyes, and after glancing around and making sure that all seemed to be relatively peaceful in the village, he spotted the plate of ogroyes, winced, and let out:

“If anyone manages to find me something edible for lunch, I’ll tell you a story that only the descendants of the Eternal Bird remember today.”

To his delight, they hurried to find him something to eat besides the ogroyes, and after settling down in front of this group of children, he began to tell the story of the wolf wanted by his brothers, the same story he had told Atasiag in Titiaka in the autumn, except that this time he told it with more theatrical effect, adding dialogue and onomatopoeia. He managed to elicit laughter and expressions of delight and amazement even from the older ones, who must have heard the tale more than once. He ended with this:

“Then the lone wolf thought: Liadirlá, how lucky they found me! And, for the first time in years, he howled with his brothers, AWOOOOOO!” As the children burst out laughing at his demonstration, he raised an index finger. “In the language of the wolves, that means: long live the pack! And he howled again: AWOOOOOOO! Which means… You already know that: Dignity, Trust and…”

“Fraternity!” several cried, glad to know the end.

Dashvara smiled.

“You too are Xalya wolves,” he concluded. “Did you like the story?”

Yes, they had liked it, and they showed it with big smiles and a loud uproar interspersed with more or less successful howls. Makarva came up to him with a half-mocking, half-amused expression.

“They’re starting to take on Xalya manners,” he commented, pointing to the noisy children with his chin, and resumed in a lower but no less quiet voice, “By the way, Dash. Just you know, we have an army at our doorstep. There’s a leaders’ meeting.”

Dashvara pouted and nodded.

“I’m going.”

With Makarva’s help, he fastened his belt with the sabers, then he put on the blue cloak of the Dikaksunora, ruffled the hair of the pigeon kid, who was in his way, greeted his young company and the other Xalyas who had stayed at the shelter, and finally went out with his old friend.

The day was fine, a little windy and cloudy, but few days were not so on the steppe. Dashvara looked around the village carefully as he walked up the hill behind Makarva. After seeing Aralika, Lamasta seemed small in comparison; the streets were imprecise, the herds roamed freely, and the only significant building was the Essimean temple under construction. However, during the revolt, the temple had suffered much damage, and Zefrek had decided to take refuge at the foot of the hill, in a small stone house surrounded by Shalussi warriors. The warriors observed them warily as they approached. In a quiet voice, Dashvara introduced himself:

“Dashvara of Xalya. Zefrek—”

“Come in,” one of the Shalussis cut him off.

He stepped aside with a haughty expression, and Dashvara suppressed a grimace before walking with Makarva to the open door. To no one’s surprise, he found that the Captain and Sashava were already there, chatting with Zefrek and other Shalussis. When he saw Yodara’s face in the midst of all those stern faces, he couldn’t help but smile. The officer had come out of the revolt alive. His smile froze and changed to a stony face when his eyes fell on a figure sitting before the large table. He had barely seen him three years ago, but he would have recognized him anywhere. Lifdor. His lips formed the name in a silent hiss. Lifdor of Shalussi had survived.

Lifdor, Qwadris and Nanda, of the Shalussi Clan. Shiltapi, of the clan of Akinoas. Todakwa, of the Essimean clan.

The words echoed in his head with his father’s deep, stern voice.

Lifdor of Shalussi. Murderer, thief, assassin…

He still remembered his fierce smiling face when he had chained his people and stolen their horses. He could still vividly remember his savage battle cry and the victorious kick he had given a dead Xalya officer in the middle of the battlefield… The captain’s strong hand on his left shoulder brought him back to reality. Only then did he realize that his left hand had grabbed the pommel of his sword and was starting to pull it out…

“Dashvara,” Zorvun urged him in a low, strained voice. “Come back to the real world, will you?”

With some effort, Dashvara finally looked away from Lifdor’s mocking expression and met the captain’s dark eyes. He cursed himself inwardly for allowing himself to be carried away by his impulses in such an irrational manner.

And you’re the one calling them savages, Dash? he snarled wryly.

He sheathed the sword completely and heard the clearing of Zefrek’s throat. The young Shalussi leader stepped forward.

“Welcome to Lamasta, Dashvara of Xalya. It is a pleasure to welcome your people into my ranks.”

He held out his hand. Oh, hell, damn the handshake habit… Dashvara put his hand out and shook it. Zefrek shook it vigorously, probably with no ill intent, but the pain brought tears to Dashvara’s eyes, he gasped, and the Shalussi let go of him, looking sorry.

“Oh, sorry, I forgot that you—”

“It’s all right,” Dashvara assured him under his breath. “It’s all right,” he repeated. Liadirlá, what an image of a steppe lord you give your hosts… He inhaled and added, “Thank you for welcoming my people, Zefrek. I see you’ve been efficient since the last time we met. Uh… Well. How is the matter with the Essimeans going?”

Zefrek shrugged.

“We are confident that we can drive them away.”

Dashvara nodded and spent the next few moments listening to the Shalussi warriors, not without noticing that the Xalyas were more of a spectator than an actor in this whole story…

Bystanders, but afterwards, no doubt we’ll have to draw our swords to help them. Well, except for me, who will just listen to Tsu and keep eating ogroyes.

At any rate, he noticed that Zefrek’s new position and recent power had made a radical change in him. Less leery, more confident, Nanda’s son led his little band of rebels with the air of knowing what he was talking about, as if he hadn’t spent the last three years earning his keep as a lowly pirate. Beside him, Lifdor was obviously trying to play the experienced guide, and Zefrek took his advice respectfully, but treated it as what it was, advice, not orders. The veteran warrior seemed to take his inferior position patiently, surely because the one who had brought the weapons and led the rebellion so far was Zefrek and not him. Despite the urge to remove him from his sight, Dashvara had to admit that Lifdor probably didn’t have the same venomous spirit as Todakwa: he was a Shalussi, and like the Xalyas, he probably had a sense of honor. He was, in the end, a damn savage capable of killing for gold, but who would never have had the idea of enslaving the entire steppe, let alone trading with such distant foreigners.

While the five Xalyas silently watched the defense plan, messengers came regularly to inform of the advance of the Essimean army. Apparently, they had not rushed forward, probably because they were waiting for reinforcements and because they did not want to provoke the Shalussis unnecessarily, knowing that they were holding several of their own prisoners, including Ashiwa of Essimea, Todakwa’s brother. Lifdor considered it very possible that a detachment would attempt to cross the river to surround the village and cut off any possible escape. Dashvara inwardly agreed that they would try to surround the village, but he doubted that it would be for fear of escape; rather, they must have feared that the rebels would receive more help from Dazbon at the south. However, throughout the conversation, no Shalussi mentioned the Dazbonians. In the end, who knows, maybe those didn’t yet know whether it was beneficial for them to intervene in the relations between Essimea and Diumcili and just wanted to sow discord. More discord. As if there wasn’t enough of it already. It was no wonder the Ancient Kings called this land the Rock of Hell. And yet, it wasn’t as if a thousand tribes lived here: now, they were basically just four big clans, plus the Honyrs… The thought of them tearing each other apart again made Dashvara very sad. Why was fate so intent on making their lives hell?

A change in tone in Zefrek’s voice made him turn his head towards him again.

“… enough weapons,” he was saying, “since we still have men expert in the art of war who do not possess adequate weapons. As I have seen, there are some of your people who are armed and have hardly been trained. I was wondering if you would be willing to temporarily surrender these weapons to us. This is about defending Lamasta as best we can.”

This stuck in his craw. Was Zefrek asking him to give up weapons to the Shalussis? Was it a joke? Abruptly, he forced himself to suppress any impulsive response and reasoned. Technically speaking, Zefrek was right: it was better for these weapons to be in the hands of experts than in the hands of dismayed teenagers, even if the idea of handing them over seemed no less risky and demoralizing. He glanced at Zorvun and Sashava. Whereas the latter was glaring at Zefrek, about to explode, the captain nodded slightly. Dashvara sighed inwardly, and under the watchful gaze of the ten or so Shalussi warriors, he crossed his arms, nodding calmly and saying:

“You shall have the weapons.”

Zefrek smiled.

“Thank you.”

In his slight smile, Dashvara thought he read a, “You see, lord of the Xalyas? Your people have barely a few capable warriors and you are not even in fighting condition: whether you like it or not, I am now in command.” Well, sure, and the ilawatelks fly too. Dashvara made a slight sardonic grimace and retorted:

“You’re welcome. These are weapons of the Ancient Kings. I hope that those who use them will shed murderous blood and save innocent lives.”

His words were met with impassive expressions. Perhaps some people saw some reproach in it. However, at this moment, Dashvara was not thinking so much about the past actions of the Shalussis, but rather that these weapons, old as they were, must have also defended murderers and shed the blood of the innocent. A sword had no other master than the one who wielded it.

It wasn’t long before they ended the meeting, and as the Captain hurried out of the house, Dashvara, Yodara, Sashava, and Makarva followed him. They did not forget to slow their pace so as not to leave the Grumpy behind.

“That’s the last straw,” this one muttered as he moved forward on his crutches. “As soon as they push the Essimeans back, they’ll come down on us and we won’t have anything to defend ourselves with.”

“First, they must repel the Essimeans,” the captain replied without stopping. “Those devils will bring reinforcements from Ergaika and more cavalry from Aralika. Let’s say about seven hundred in total. Zefrek’s army is barely two-hundred men strong. And even though they are very skilled in combat, they lack organization. Anyway, I don’t think Zefrek is coming after us, my friend. If I were him, I would worry about my own people first. A rider must control his horse before he can ride it.”

Back at the shelter, the captain took care of collecting the weapons, and Dashvara took Makarva aside, drawing a puzzled pout from him.

“What’s going on, Dash?”

He hesitated, for he knew that his idea would not be well received. He glanced at the clouds, at the dusty path, at the Xalyas’ faces listening intently to the captain’s orders, and finally, he made up his mind:

“Listen, Mak… I’d like someone to leave from here and head north to warn my naâsga of our position.”

His friend immediately turned darker.

“You’re not asking me to go, are you?” He let out a disgruntled snort. “Dash, there are only twenty warriors among us, the Essimeans are going to attack us, and you want me to leave you behind? You could send someone else…”

“Well, okay, then who?” Dashvara replied calmly.

Makarva frowned and shrugged.

“How could I know, anyone. Atok. He never complains.”

Unlike others, Dashvara completed. He gave his friend a mocking smile and nodded.

“Okay. Then I’ll just—”

“I can go,” a voice suddenly intervened, interrupting him.

Surprised, Dashvara turned and rolled his eyes when he saw that the young Tinan had been listening to the conversation. The teenager added seriously:

“I have an amputated arm anyway, so I cannot really be a warrior… But I am a good rider. And I want to help.”

His hopeful expression and desire to be of service drew a wave of affection from Dashvara. He hesitated for a moment, because the idea of sending Tinan out on the steppe alone worried him…

“I’ll go with you, friend,” Api’s cheerful voice said then. The young demon had emerged through a window. He passed inside the shelter with an acrobatic leap, adding, “I don’t like the prospect of being stuck in this village at all. And I’m a good rider too,” he joked. He turned sparkling grey eyes to Dashvara. “Is there any particular message we need to convey?”

Dashvara examined his eager face and shook his head. That demon…

“Let’s do that,” he agreed. “You’ll both go. Tell Yira everything that has happened and tell her that we are all fine, that the Shalussis are our allies, and that it will probably take a while for the Essimeans to decide to do something because the Shalussis are holding Todakwa’s brother prisoner.”

Tinan nodded, his eyes shining.

“I will deliver the message, my lord. Thank you for trusting me.”

Dashvara smiled and patted him on the shoulder.

“Thank you, sîzan. You better be careful.” He stepped aside, adding, “Bypass the area as much as you can from the east, then ride north. If you don’t find the Honyrs, hopefully they will find you. Good luck.”

“Good luck to you too!” Api smiled. “I’m afraid that you need it more than we do. Come on, let’s go, mate!” he said to Tinan.

After grabbing some food, the two teenagers soon mounted on horses, but it wasn’t until Zefrek gave his permission that the Shalussi warriors finally let them out of Lamasta. From the top of the temple hill, Dashvara watched the two riders gallop eastward until they became mere black dots. Then he turned to the north, to where most of the Xalyas who had walked up there were looking… to see the dark swarm of hundreds of Essimeans who had just settled on a hill about five miles from Lamasta.

Dashvara felt a disturbing sense of deja-vu at this situation. The Essimeans, the impending siege, the waiting… everything was so similar to what he had experienced three years ago! However, unlike then, they didn’t have a dungeon, but they did have allies. They were all rebellious slaves, no matter if they were descendants of the Ancient Kings or the savage tribes. All of them were seeking the same thing: their freedom.

And we’ll find it, in one way or another, Dashvara promised himself fervently.

Turning away from the enemy, his eyes wandered to the northeast, to the vast, simple, lively, peaceful steppe that the Steppe Thieves—as well as the Xalyas—loved like a mother.

“Mâ Sêt,” he murmured in Oy’vat to himself, calling to the steppe, and he whispered even lower, like a prayer, “Make your land mud and needles under the feet of your murderers.”