5. Bashak

Bashak lived in an isolated small house near a mutsomo wood, on the opposite side of where Zaadma lived. When Orolf and Dashvara sighted the old man sat in front of the doorstep, the blacksmith waved at him and invited the young man to go on.

“If Bashak says that you’ve been born to become a blacksmith, I will think he has gone blind,” the blacksmith just added, and he began to walk back to the village, whistling an unknown song.

Dashvara scratched his forehead before going up the gentle slope to the house. Bashak was the oldest man he had ever seen. Or at least the wrinkliest. He had a black turban on the head, the way the Steppe Thieves wore it. In his hands, he held a piece of wood and a knife with which he was sculpting.

Dashvara stopped a few steps away from Bashak.

“Good day, old man,” he pronounced. “Orolf advised me to go see you to get a job.”

Bashak raised pale eyes toward him, he looked at him quietly, as if he had all the time in the world, and he finally nodded, smiling.

“Well, son,” he answered in a quivering voice. “Come and sit down.”

If my lord father could see me now speaking with an old Shalussi man… But Lord Vifkan was dead. He could not hear him, nor see him, nor advise him against anything. Dashvara went into the shade of the house and sat down on the dry ground in front of Bashak. The ancient was still carving the piece of wood.

“What are you carving?” Dashvara asked, curious, after a moment.

The old man moved aside the knife and lifted the wooden piece before Dashvara’s eyes.

“What do you think?”

Dashvara shrugged.

“You have just started the work. It doesn’t have a concrete shape yet.”

“What’s concrete?” Bashak asked.

For a moment, Dashvara believed that the old man had never heard the word “concrete”. Then he realized that it was not the case.

“Well. Concrete is an object that you can identify,” he responded. “Something you can name or feature. Something you can see and touch. Something that has a recognizable shape. And that,” he added with a gesture, “is only an unfinished piece of wood.”

Bashak smiled.

“Dragons exist, but I’ve never seen or touched one. Therefore, a dragon isn’t concrete, and yet it exists. Is it that what you meant?”

Dashvara got troubled.

“Air exists,” Bashak continued. “You breathe it all the time. But would you know how to recognize its shape? Would you know how to identify it by seeing it? This piece of wood,” he said further, “has a shape and can acquire any shape you want in a few days. It can be a lynx. A snake. A scorpion. A spoon. Or a piece of wood to which you can give a unique name.”

Keep raving, grandfather. Go on. It’s not like I didn’t need twenty gold coins to forge my saber.

Bashak was still smiling.

“What if I told you that this piece is finished? What if I told you that this is what the Ancient Kings were seeking for generations and that they named it the Jewel of Gold? Then it would be a little more concrete, don’t you think?”

Dashvara nodded ironically.

“Besides, that would explain why they haven’t found it yet,” he replied. “I bet that a lot of kings have died searching trees for gold.”

Bashak’s face wrinkled even more when he raised his eyebrows.

“The same happens with feelings,” he went on. “And with attitudes. Insolence, vanity, and pride, all are truly concrete ways. They can be easily identified, and one can almost even see them without using eyeglasses.”

Dashvara breathed out, amused, but didn’t respond. Bashak put the wooden piece and the knife on the floor.

“That is one of the Shalussis’ big flaws. They are too proud, and they’re convinced that they can understand everything on their own. Okay, young man. If you’re a real Shalussi, you should also learn to correct your flaws.”

Proud? The Shalussis? He almost let out a guffaw of disbelief. He frowned, however.

“I’m sorry if I’ve offended you, old man, but patience isn’t one of my virtues. I know I have faults, as anybody has, but I assure you that my pride is not among them.”

Bashak joined his both hands before him.

“The education is concrete too,” he observed. “And stubbornness. Not to mention that you speak clearly, without hypocrisy. All these things are virtues.”

Dashvara lifted an eyebrow.

“Is stubbornness a virtue?”

“Yes, it is, to a certain extent. It allows you to do a job that may seem to you laborious. And that may be a positive point. All the food makers are stubborn. They have to struggle to safeguard their farms against dryness. They hoe, cultivate, and don’t give up in face of plagues.”

“Warriors don’t give up either.”

Bashak leaned his head.

“That’s true enough. Warriors don’t give up either. Some, at least. You must have given up if the Xalyas imprisoned you.”

Dashvara remained as expressive as a rock.

“I assure you I didn’t give up,” he whispered coldly.

There was a silence in which only the rustle of mutsomo leaves could be heard, stirred by the breeze. Then, Bashak recovered his smile.

“So you want me to tell you what you have to become?”

Dashvara raised his eyes to the heavens.

“I know what I have to become, and I know what I am. I am a warrior. What I do not know is how to earn money to buy a weapon.”

“If a warrior doesn’t know how to earn money to buy a weapon, how could he possibly know how to fight?” Bashak kindly mocked.

Dashvara stared at him, and after several seconds, he stood up.

“I think I got it. I’ll manage alone,” he declared. “Thanks for your time.”

He turned his back on Bashak and began to walk, sloping down.

“They’re convinced that they can do everything on their own,” the old man’s voice said quietly behind him.

Dashvara took a pace forward… then stopped.

“All right,” he muttered, not even turning. “Do you intend to give me twenty gold coins so I can pay a saber? Or are you going to give me magic powers so I can pull knives out of my hands like the King Lanandar of the Steppes?” With a joyless grin, he twirled around to face the sitting old man. “Come to think of it, you look like a prophetic wizard.”

Bashak laughed.

“Learn to hold your tongue, and it will be already a big step forward! Let me tell you one of the most known sayings in our village: children play, youths work, men command, and ancients speak. Don’t grow older too early, boy. Go to Fushek’s court, next to the high hawthorn,” he added. “There’s where warriors train. Tell Fushek I send you. If you are smart enough, you’ll learn soon to be humble and follow whatever Fushek will order you to do. He’s a good man, and he’ll probably give you a chance. Now go.”

Dashvara nodded.

“Thanks.”

He left Bashak and returned to the main hill, with a confused mind. This old man had inspired something in him, something that no Shalussi technically should have inspired. Dashvara shook his head.

Begin respecting your enemies, and you will end up forgiving their atrocities, he reproached himself.

The sun was burning pitilessly, but Dashvara could tolerate heat rather easily: as a patrol, he had spent a lot of hours riding through the steppe under a deadly sun. He found the hawthorn not far from the White Hand and Nanda’s house. He scanned his surroundings and realized the village was still and drowsy at this time of the day. Fushek’s house had a large, empty court on one side. In front of the building door, an old woman was sweeping quietly with a broom. Dashvara saw her stop to look at him while he was crossing the court.

“Does Fushek live there?” Dashvara inquired.

“He does,” the old woman nodded. “What do you want with him?”

“Bashak sends me.”

The old woman stretched her lips thoughtfully, and then she called in a powerful voice:

“Fushek!”

She tilted her head to one side, as though sharpening her ears, then she kept sweeping. A tall, short-haired man with bushy eyebrows appeared on the threshold, rubbing his eyes as if he had just woken up.

“What happens?” he asked. “Who are you?”

A bit apprehensive, Dashvara looked up at that big head.

“Bashak sends him,” his mother explained, laconic, before straightening and entering the house.

Frowning, Fushek lowered his gaze to the young man.

“And what has Bashak told you?”

“That you’ll give me a job,” the Xalya responded.

The Shalussi pushed out his lips and then slightly smiled.

“A job, eh? I’m a master-at-arms, child. Are you sure you haven’t mistaken the name?”

Demons! Since when was a twenty-year-old man called a “child”? I have made no mistake, big fellow, Dashvara growled mentally.

“You are a master-at-arms, and I’ve come to ask you to hire me,” he pronounced. “Someone once told me that victory or defeat doesn’t care about sizes. That you are taller than me doesn’t mean I cannot beat you.”

Immediately, Fushek grinned.

“Why does Bashak always bring me all the most stupid boys that live in our village?” he said.

Dashvara blushed.

“I am not from this village,” he corrected him. “As for the stupidity, I suppose we each have a point of view about that question.”

“I see. Did you come alone? Don’t you have a family?” As Dashvara darkened, Fushek added: “No offense meant by these questions: just answer.”

“I have no family. But I need a job.”

“So you plan to stay in this village?”

Dashvara nodded sharply.

“So far, yes. Otherwise, I would have already left.”

Fushek raised an eyebrow. Apparently, the answer seemed to him not explanatory enough. Dashvara looked him in the eye.

“I’ll work like ten men if you promise me that you’ll pay me decently.”

Fushek appeared to think thoroughly. He examined Dashvara with a piercing look, and finally moved aside, on the right, picked up two saber-shaped sticks, and declared:

“Show your paces.”

He gave him one of the sticks, and Dashvara stepped away from the house and placed himself in the middle of the court. He nearly assumed a typical Xalya position; he managed to control himself and then shuddered, unsure. ‘Learn their combat techniques and don’t show yours’, his father had advised him. But, in that case, what techniques could he show when all those he had practiced were Xalya?

He sighed when he realized that he had put himself just facing the sun. Exactly what did Fushek have said about stupidity?

Focus.

He narrowed his eyes when he saw the Shalussi moving forward, and he took some hesitating steps to the left. Would that master-at-arms be able to recognize a gesture or suspect anything?

If he discovers you, you’re dead. But if you keep moving like an old and useless beetle, shame will kill you.

The Shalussis didn’t fight like the Akinoas nor like the Essimeans. The Akinoas charged headlong; the Essimeans planned all their acts carefully and didn’t like battles in open fields unless they had set a good trap. The Shalussis were a blend of Akinoas and Essimeans. Less cautious than the latter and less hotheaded than the former, they relied on their shields to protect them from the mortal blows, and they didn’t seem to be as much attracted by the Dance of Sand as the Xalyas were. But obviously, with such a weight and size, it was difficult to move as agilely as a snake and have as much endurance as a wolf.

Fushek attacked. Instead of bending down, dodging, and striking back, Dashvara blocked the blow, and he felt as though an anvil had impacted against his arm at the speed of an arrow. He leaped backwards, breathing out loudly, but Fushek didn’t leave him time to damn the Shalussis. He parried a series of blows, and he was so focused on avoiding any Xalya usual movement that he not only didn’t attack but also received some blows on his shoulder, flank, and arm. When he saw that Fushek was getting bored, he got alarmed.

He is going to tell me to buy a wooden saber and play against the bushes, he guessed.

In fact, Fushek seemed about to say something when Dashvara lunged forward and started to attack. He narrowly avoided making a Xalya feint, and he transformed it into a more common Steppe Thieves’ attack. He involuntarily moved too swiftly, but well, the Shalussis moved as well, didn’t they? Besides, he was a nomad Shalussi. Not an ordinary Shalussi.

He was just about to reach his opponent’s chest when Fushek performed an odd maneuver, whirled, and struck him in his stomach with the saber point. Dashvara let out a painful growl, and the Shalussi smiled, lowering the training weapon.

“I have to admit that, at first, I felt as if I were fighting against a ten-year-old child. But, if I consider only the end, I think you have good potential. You must have the same level as Rokuish. You’ll train with him, and you’ll work with him. The boy is your age. He’s as placid as a donkey, and he’s not very talkative, but I’m sure you will get along very well.” He took back Dashvara’s wooden saber and leaned both weapons against the wall. “You both may come here to practice when you want.”

Dashvara looked at him, pleasantly surprised.

“So you hire me.”

“I give you an opportunity; that is not the same. Don’t expect me to talk about wages. The village will feed you, as they do with the other warriors, but it is Nanda who gives the money. Until he decides to hire more men, you won’t receive any coin.”

Dashvara restrained a nervous tic as he heard him mentioning Nanda of Shalussi. He nodded.

“It’s okay. But at least you will give me a weapon, won’t you?”

“If I send you out of the village as a sentinel, yes. But, for now, you’ll just do what Rokuish does: cleaning the stables, taking care of the horses, and going up to the watchtower at night. You will find your new companion just downhill, next to the corral with the horses.”

While speaking, he walked to the door then paused for an instant on the threshold.

“By the way, what’s your name?”

Dashvara of Xalya, firstborn of the Xalyas, knight of honor, Prince of the Sand, and fighter of the Wind.

The young Xalya cleared his throat and just answered:

“Odek.”