26 A Xalya does not surrender

Alta jumped down from his horse.

“Too late, he crossed the lines,” the Xalya gasped hastily. “I’m sorry.” He looked tormented. His brothers tried to console him despite their own disappointment and nervousness, and Alta exclaimed, “May the Liadirlá protect this boy! If I’d forced my Alrahila more, maybe I could have caught up with him… but doing so in this dark was madness. That boy… Devils. If the Essimeans were to hurt him…”

“They won’t hurt him,” the captain assured in a steady voice. “They’re waiting for an answer about the pact. It would be absurd to stir up trouble.”

“The Essimeans are absurd,” Orafe croaked. “To think that they branded a kid as an object…!” He choked and roared: “Wretched devils!”

More than one Shalussi had approached to see what was going on and were casting curious looks. Dashvara raised a hand.

“Take it easy, brothers. The captain is right: they will not harm him. And, tomorrow, I will go in person to bring him back.” Anticipating protests, he raised another hand—inwardly rejoicing that he no longer felt pain in his arm—and said, “I feel personally responsible for this incident. Besides, the captain is right: until this pact thing is settled, there will be no bloodshed. Todakwa will respect the truce.”

“Like he respected it three years ago, you mean?” Zamoy retorted sarcastically.

Dashvara grimaced and faced skeptical expressions. He insisted:

“That was different. Look, I’m the first to be suspicious of that snake, but in this case, he’s not interested in conflict. He wants peace with the steppe clans.”

“Peace, as if!” Zamoy protested. “He wants to see us subdued, Dash! He wants to humiliate us.”

Orafe elbowed him, and the Baldy huffed but fell silent. There was a deep silence during which Dashvara caught his brothers’ insinuation: they would follow him no matter what he decided. They understood the risks now better than ever and what was at stake: the future of two hundred Xalyas. But if Dashvara felt the risk was necessary, they would throw themselves body and soul into battle.

And you don’t know how much I fear you for that, brothers…

Dashvara breathed in and finally broke the silence.

“Today has been a very long day. Tomorrow will be a new day. And it will no doubt light up my head with more constructive ideas than I have right now, so… I bid you all good night, brothers.”

They answered him, and all but the watchmen went back inside to their makeshift pallets and extinguished the torches. As he did every night, Tsu again used his ointments and spells on his arm, and while the drow worked, Dashvara kept a pensive silence. Finally, despite the energies that were beginning to dull his mind, he tried to brighten up and said:

“Tsu.” The drow looked up, slightly arching a questioning eyebrow, before returning to his work. Dashvara hesitated, “How is Fushek?”

“Not very well,” Tsu admitted. “I pulled the bolt out, and he lost a lot of blood. But he’ll live, I think. He’s a strong man.”

Dashvara nodded, glad to hear that despite the rather hostile reception the Shalussi had given him.

“Good,” he muttered. And then he turned his head to the bouncing bag and inquired: “Tah? Are you sleeping? I was wondering—”

The shadow interrupted him with a mocking cough, completing:

‘Wondering whether I could go and see if everything is all right with the boy, don’t you? I’ll go.’

Dashvara smiled.

“Thank you, Tah. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

The shadow answered with a mental smile, stepped out of the bag in the dim light of the shelter and disappeared in a perfect silence. In the room, one could hear only whispers, throat clearing, and a few coughs. Tsu stepped aside.

“I’m done. You know, Dash? The more you think, the more you stress, and the more you stress, the longer it will take for the wound to heal and I’ll be forced to give you more of these ogroyes.”

In his eyes there was a slight joking glint. Dashvara looked at him with amusement.

“If you don’t give me any more of that nasty food, it’s because you ran out of it, admit it.”

Tsu shook his head, and a slight smile came over his dark, drow face.

“Bah, go sleep already,” he told him.

He got up, and Dashvara wished him good night. The essenciatic energies spared him a bad moment trying to fall asleep: entwined with his naâsga, he sank into a deep sleep.

He awoke after hours—or perhaps days—of climbing and climbing Mount Bakhia to the sky. He straightened up on his straw mattress, discarding the last fragments of his exhausting dream. His naâsga was not beside him, and the shelter was relatively empty: there was only a young woman sitting near the entrance with the youngest children of the group. Dashvara met her gaze and shook his head with a snort.

“Uh… Hello, Morgara. Where the hell is everyone?”

“We didn’t want to wake you up,” she explained. “The others are outside. Can’t you hear the commotion? Zefrek and Lifdor are about to duel.”

Dashvara was putting on his boots, but at these words, he looked up abruptly. They were going to duel? Seriously? He let out a scornful growl followed by an incredulous laugh, finished putting on his boots, and promptly buckled his belt, grabbed his cloak, and headed for the exit wishing all the brats good morning. As soon as he stepped outside, the cold whipped through him. He wrapped the cloak around himself, glancing up at the leaden sky before turning his attention to the large group that had gathered for the duel: it was taking place in one of the paddocks adjacent to the Xalya and Honyr horses, and many of his people had climbed on the fences to try and see over the Shalussis’ heads without needing to mingle with them. While there was a peaceful hubbub among the Xalya spectators, among the Shalussis it was different: they were shouting like brutes.

As he approached, Dashvara thought he heard a dull thump above the din, like a sword hitting a shield. Joining the captain, he asked:

“And do we know why they’re doing this exactly?”

Zorvun huffed, quietly stepping away from the fence.

“Just a matter between savages. By the way, Dash. Guess whose horse Youk took last night.”

Dashvara’s eyes widened in alarm.

“Wasn’t it ours?”

Zorvun sighed.

“No. It was a Honyr horse.”

Dashvara turned pale. Oh, devils. It wasn’t hard to imagine its owner’s state of mind. And even less so knowing the attachment the Honyrs showed to their horses: if the Xalyas took care of their mounts as if they were close friends, the Honyrs treated them like true goddesses.

“They’re trying to be understanding,” Zorvun assured, bringing his head closer to make himself heard over the ruckus the Shalussis were making. “But that horse… we have to get it back at all costs.”

Dashvara nodded.

“Surely. Where is the Honyr? Did you try to appease him?”

“I did, of course. But it’d be nice if you’d appease him too. He’s that big fellow with the red belt. That’s Sirk Is Rhad’s father. He doesn’t want to give his name.”

Dashvara detailed the man. Knowing Sirk Is Rhad’s initial contempt for all “zoks”, he guessed that his father must not be an example of tolerance either. He approached him, and as he got near, the Honyrs observed him gravely. Clearly, they didn’t seem to enjoy the duel as much as the Xalyas, and far less than the Shalussis. He stopped in front of Sirk Is Rhad’s father and got straight to the point:

“I apologize, Honyr. Your horse will be returned to you as soon as possible. I will try to make up for this… uh…” He was about to say “mishap”, but thought better of it and said, “this misfortune.”

A thunder of shouts and chants went up among the Shalussis. Dashvara snorted, and turning again to the Honyrs, he raised his voice and added:

“On the other hand, I promise you all that, if I agree to this pact, Todakwa will have to let you return to your land without causing you any trouble. You need not worry about that.”

Sirk Is Rhad’s father glared at him, his eyebrows furrowed.

“First you stole my son,” he pronounced in a bark, “then my horse…what’s the next surprise?”

Dashvara frowned in turn, tense.

Well, Dash, did you think that everyone came here to swear loyalty and die in exchange for forgiveness to their people for the actions of Sifiara the Traitor? You are so naive. Sometimes you seem as ingenuous as Maloven.

He forced himself to relax and said:

“You are mistaken. If you wish your son to return to the north, so be it. I have no right to interfere with a decision like this.” The Honyr watched him as if trying to guess whether this zok was sincere with him. Dashvara took a step back and added for all the Honyrs: “The Great Sage told me the history of your clan and said that some of you would welcome forgiveness from a steppe lord and… since I am most likely the only one still alive, I would like to take this opportunity to express this forgiveness to you in person, though I fear my word may not be worth much, but… as the last lord of the steppe, let me reassure all those who continue to doubt and tell them that Sifiara’s descendants don’t have to be ashamed of their ancestor’s betrayal. It’s enough for a man to be ashamed of his own mistakes; he doesn’t have to feel shame for the actions of all his ancestors.”

He fell silent, and only then did he realize that now not only were the Honyrs listening to him, but also the Xalyas. The commotion had died down. The duel had ended. And Dashvara had missed the result. He tried to guess it from the commotion he had heard, in vain. But then, who could have won? Lifdor most likely. He was a veteran warrior.

He bowed to the Honyrs, not quite sure if he should expect a response to his speech… Then Sirk Is Rhad’s father spoke:

“Your words are well received. I respect the wish of our Great Sage and appreciate the esteem he has aroused in you. But, you see, our history has taught us many things. And that is why my people will never agree to be reborn to a clan willing to give up their Eternal Bird under the Essimean yoke.”

His voice was steady, unyielding, but not hostile. Dashvara nodded with his throat tightened. Clearly, this Honyr had an obvious influence on his clan. He breathed in and acknowledged:

“I can’t feel hurt by your accusation.” Unlike others, he noted, seeing Xalyas’ expressions around him. “Besides, I can’t see it as a real accusation either. The Eternal Bird is not an unalterable mountain. Just as yours has learned lessons from your distant past, so ours has learned them from a more recent but no less harsh past. If I am to accept the Essimean yoke, it will be because I will have considered that not to do so would be to send my people to the slaughter. As Nabakaji said: death to the man who leads his brothers to certain death.”

Sirk Is Rhad’s father returned an indecipherable look and replied:

“The dissensions I have had with Lord Vifkan in the past will not fade with time. However, the Great Sage says that his son has an Eternal Bird more like ours. I have come to verify this.”

Dashvara arched an eyebrow, wondering what this Honyr expected him to do, in this case, for it was clear that he would not approve of him sending his people to their deaths, nor would he find it worthy of a lord to bow his head to zoks who had destroyed the ancient steppe. Not knowing quite what to say, he made a gesture and said in an affable tone:

“Well, you’re free to verify anything you want, good man. Meanwhile, our home is yours.”

He bowed, the Honyr did the same, and Dashvara joined his brothers. He pointed his chin towards the enclosure where the duel had taken place and asked:

“Is he dead?”

Zamoy laughed.

“Of course not! The pirate is a gentleman. He let him live.”

Dashvara gasped in surprise.

“Did Zefrek win?”

“By a stroke of luck,” Lumon confirmed as the others began to comment on the duel animatedly.

That caught him off guard. On the one hand, it was good news, and on the other, not so much. One good thing was that Zefrek was obviously in favor of a more peaceful arrangement of the siege: he must have thought that the pact would give him the official legitimacy he lacked, and as a matter of fact, what he had to worry about most now were the dissensions among his own people and the stories of internal revenge within his clan. The trouble was, the latter could potentially hurt them all, for if the Shalussis started fighting in the middle of Lamasta… the Xalyas would have to take sides or run away and accept the pact without possible renegotiation.

Dashvara turned his head in several directions, his eyebrows furrowed, increasingly agitated.

“Where is Yira?”

Several people looked for her with him, in vain. A dull fear came over Dashvara. She hadn’t gone off by herself to look for Youk, had she? Or, who knows, maybe a Shalussi had caught her prowling the village at night and… Then, to his relief, he saw her. The sursha had just appeared at the end of the village’s main street, along with Shokr Is Set. Everyone watched them approach with curiosity. Before anyone could ask, Shokr Is Set said:

“We’ve been talking with Ashiwa of Essimea. I think we should convince Zefrek to release him right away.”

Dashvara frowned in surprise. Free Ashiwa even before they agreed to the pact? Well, why not? At this point, it wasn’t going to do them much good whether they accepted or refused the pact, and with his brother freed, Todakwa couldn’t refuse to return the favor by handing over Youk. So he approved of the Great Sage’s advice without hesitation and promised:

“As soon as the Shalussis calm down, I’ll go see him.”

Except that the Shalussis refused to let them pass to headquarters: “we’ll send for you”, they said. As if we were their subjects, Dashvara hissed as he walked back to the shelter, seething with anger.

But they had no alternative but to wait, and so he waited impatiently. He ate a frugal breakfast, and after tending to Sunrise, he spent the morning carving a small wooden horse while receiving regular reports about what was happening in the village. Tah had not returned, and that worried him, but as Yira said, it could be that the sun had caught him in the middle of the Essimean camp and he had not dared to cross the sparse grassy terrain that separated him from Lamasta. Unless he’d stayed to talk with Api. As far as he knew, the young demon had been reaccepted into the camp thanks to the intervention of Asmoan of Gravia. The lucky boy seemed to be able to move with almost as much freedom as the shadow.

There were at least two more duels between the Shalussis that morning and more than one heated argument in the streets. The Xalyas who wandered off to nose around all told him the same thing: Zefrek was still locked up at headquarters, in a meeting with the chieftains. Some said he had been murdered, others that he had fled, and still others, inspired by the old Shalussi woman sage, believed that he was the Chosen One of their clan, that he was, by virtue of his travels, a learned man, and thus would finally, somehow, bring peace and freedom to their families… In short, Lamasta was tearing itself apart under the distant gaze of the Essimean army, and the Shalussi warriors, as ill-informed as the Xalyas, spent the entire morning worried and infuriated, nerve-racked and expectant. This explained why, in a few hours, there were more clashes with the Xalyas than in all the previous days: to begin with, after having accepted that the Xalyas milk their cattle, several Shalussis refused to give them a share of the milk as usual and demanded it all for themselves, stating that the devils “did not need to eat”; others even refused to let them work for them, and more than one provoked them with insults that were no longer hidden but clear as water… Since the Shalussis did not have the same scruples as the Akinoas towards the dead, their words made more than one Xalya explode with anger inwardly. But, to Dashvara’s astonishment, none of them violated his order not to respond to provocation. Not even Maef. Something Dashvara would not have thought possible. Surely, his people were beginning to show admirable composure.

In any case, the unspoken agreement of mutual respect fell apart, the alliance wavered, and it was on the verge of breaking completely when, around noon, four Shalussis came to him at the shelter, dragging a boy and accusing “that Xalya rat”, of stealing a cheese. They were beside themselves with rage.

“You know we’re not going to kill children so you send them to steal from us!” one roared. “You sons of rats… Now that the Honyrs are here to kiss your asses, you think you’re safe, huh? Well, you’re mistaken. This is Shalussi territory here. If you start not going straight, we’ll let you starve to death and cut your legs off!”

He violently shoved the alleged thief, who lay at his lord’s feet, holding back his tears like a brave man. Dashvara took the kid by the arm and lifted him up effortlessly.

“Tell me, boy. Is it true that you tried to take a cheese that wasn’t yours?”

The child shook his head without daring to speak. His movement generated more cursing from the Shalussis, which made Dashvara grimace with deep weariness. Unable to determine who was lying, he apologized in a gruff tone, and the story fortunately ended there.

He followed the four complainers with a dark look as they walked away with a kingly gait. The renewed hostility of the Shalussis troubled him deeply. Until now, they had treated the Xalyas with relative leniency and compassion… but the arrival of the Honyrs had reversed the situation. Was it because they feared the Xalyas would unite with the Steppe Thieves? With this union, the Shalussis would become the weakest clan in Rocdinfer, except perhaps for the Akinoas… and the prospect frightened them. Unlike Todakwa: he would not move a finger to prevent this union as long as Dashvara accepted to become his vassal, because he would be justly delighted to, at long last, have some influence over the Honyrs. But the Shalussis… they would have preferred that the lord of the steppe be buried fifty feet underground.

Well, let them try to bury me, he grumbled inwardly. When he lost sight of the four Shalussis, he spat out loud:

“Shalussis. They will never change.” He ruffled the little thief’s hair without holding him to account and admitted to Zorvun, “Either Zefrek is truly dead or he is deliberately ignoring us.”

It turned out that the second hypothesis was the right one, for in the afternoon, just when Dashvara was about to go and inform the Shalussi chieftains that, seeing the way things were, the Xalyas would make their own decisions without consulting anyone, a messenger arrived to announce that Zefrek had invited him to join him north of the village.

“Faster than a bodun,” Dashvara commented mockingly, pleased in spite of himself.

The young messenger merely made a puzzled face. Dashvara was ready. Accompanied by a dozen brothers, he strode to the north. Seeing him, Sirk Is Rhad hurried to separate himself from the Honyr group and join them, clearly determined to show his father who his true lord was. Dashvara couldn’t help but give him a brotherly smile despite the dark look the father was probably giving them at the moment.

The sky had become cloudless, and a cold sun now shone down on Lamasta. To the north of the village, near the barricades of rubble, was a large group of horsemen. The dense dust kicked up by their mounts mingled with the warm breaths emanating from their mouths in the winter air. No voices could be heard, except for some murmuring intermingled with the horses’ snorts. They were obviously preparing to go somewhere. Whether it would be with weapons drawn or with heads down remained to be seen.

Dashvara spotted Zefrek and approached with a firm gait and cautious eyes. He noticed the half-concealed bandage the pirate wore on his wrist, probably injured in the morning’s duel. Other than that, he looked much better than he had the day before, and he exuded a clear, bright confidence. The duel had been beneficial to him.

“Zefrek of Shalussi,” he greeted him in a deep voice.

“Dashvara of Xalya,” the Shalussi chief replied, without dismounting. “I apologize for not inviting you to the meeting this morning, but, as you must understand, I had to deal with matters that concerned only the clan. We have finally settled them, and we have also thought long and hard about the pact proposed by Todakwa… I suppose you must have done the same, and I would like to know your conclusion on the matter.”

Dashvara glanced at the Shalussi faces and scanned Zefrek’s expression, trying to guess what his conclusion was on the matter. Finally, he answered truthfully:

“It all depends on yours. If you accept, we will have no alternative but to accept as well.”

His answer drew an amused pout from Zefrek.

“Quite right,” he conceded. “And if I decided to refuse?”

Dashvara frowned. Are you playing with me, pirate? He shrugged.

“If you refuse, it’s probably because you know you’ll get more help from Dazbon soon.”

Zefrek’s smile widened. Yes, he didn’t care about his opinion, Dashvara confirmed without batting an eye. It was clear that he had already made up his mind.

“It’s not just the Republicans who could help us,” the Shalussi leader replied. “There are also the Akinoas.”

Startled, Dashvara squinted, watching him carefully.

“Have you heard from Raxifar?”

The Shalussi nodded calmly.

“He attacked the northern mines with about twenty men and women of his people.” As the Xalyas looked at him in amazement, he detailed, “Apparently the miners were almost all Akinoas. He rescued them, and since they were being chased and had no horses, they dug themselves into the Dungeon of Nayul, northeast of Aralika. And they are still there.”

Dashvara huffed. Clearly, Raxifar was in as much trouble as they were…

“How did you get that information?”

“Through an Essimean messenger,” Zefrek replied. “Todakwa must have thought that the news would prompt us to accept the pact more quickly.”

Dashvara wondered what other news this pirate could be hiding from him, and with a sardonic smile, he replied:

“Very kind of him. Let’s speak plainly, Zefrek of Shalussi: are you going to accept the pact, yes or no?”

Zefrek exchanged a look with his companions before nodding.

“I’m thinking of imposing new conditions, and I want to talk to Todakwa privately about it. But yes, I consider the pact to be beneficial to us. I have decided to release Ashiwa at once and speak with Todakwa. I invite you to accompany me.”

It took Dashvara a few seconds to digest his answer, though it was no surprise. He could feel the Xalyas’ lack of power in this matter painfully.

“So be it,” he said in a husky voice. “Todakwa had better keep his word. I’ll be right back.”

He greeted him and turned his back with some abruptness. He returned to the Xalya area, heavy hearted and surrounded by silence. As soon as he returned, he said to everyone in a loud voice:

“Xalyas, we surrender. Gather everything together and prepare to leave Lamasta. We are not going to stay in this Shalussi lair any longer than we have to.”

They all obeyed promptly without commenting once on Dashvara’s decision. They must not have wanted to think about it too much either: after all, the lord decided what was best, didn’t he? Dashvara sighed.

Stop complaining about your responsibilities, Dash: you were supposedly raised to handle them.

He climbed onto Sunrise’s back and gently patted her neck. His father’s voice resurfaced from death at that moment and resounded in his head with the force of a hammer: ‘A Xalya does not surrender!’ it thundered. And Maloven’s softer, calmer voice whispered to him, ‘To surrender because you’re facing an unavoidable outcome is not to surrender but to act wisely’. Dashvara’s lips curved into an ironic pout.

Surrender? Devils, no. A Xalya does not surrender: he signs pacts.