88. Freedom

What the captain had not anticipated was that Todakwa would invite Kuriag Dikaksunora to be among the spectators who would watch as the Essimeans gloriously crushed the Shalussi revolt. Naturally, Kuriag had felt obliged to accept and had decided to take the opportunity to send all his new slaves to the port of Ergaika: he thought he would part with them halfway while he continued his journey to Lamasta. Dashvara had heard about it from Api: the Legitimate had not even felt it necessary to come and inform him directly. The news had stunned him. Why on earth was Todakwa going to travel for what he himself had apparently called “a riot of savages with machetes”? Well, maybe because he wanted to show the Titiaka how admirably his men put down revolts. In any case, Aralika awoke very early that morning, and the first rays of the sun found His Excellency under the morning drizzle, dressed in brand new sowna scale armor and surrounded by Ragails and Xalyas. Seeing the bustle of the Great Square from a loophole in the tower, Dashvara sighed. Why make plans if they always fell through?

They weren’t really going to fall through, anyway: the escape was still going to happen. Except that instead of running away from Aralika, they would be running away from a camp full of soldiers on the alert and armed to the teeth…

“Dash!” a voice whispered.

Dashvara looked away from the embrasure and saw Miflin waving at him with a big smile. Finally, he sighed, relieved. They had managed to hide the weapons. He walked down the stairs to the busy room.

“Are they all there?” he asked.

“Not the bigger shields,” the Poet admitted. “Those, we hid in the tunnel, in case one day… you never know. But there’s not a saber left, and the spears are all on the litter. You’re going to be lying on one hell of an arsenal, cousin,” he laughed.

Dashvara glanced at the litter the Xalyas had requested the day before to carry the injured steppe lord… He wasn’t particularly thrilled about having to travel in a litter instead of riding Sunrise, but he had to admit that it was a perfect way to conceal the weapons… It was Lumon’s idea: the Archer always had good ideas. The problem was, the thing was going to weigh a ton.

Makarva took him by the left shoulder, inviting him to come closer.

“We’ve put cushions and everything in to make you comfortable, my lord!” his friend cried out with mocking enthusiasm. “You’ll be like a king.”

Dashvara rolled his eyes. Well, no choice. He briefly examined the litter to make sure the weapons were well camouflaged, then climbed in and sat down with a broad smile.

“Like a princess,” he declared.

His assessment generated bursts of laughter, which turned to grunts as several lifted the palanquin. Orafe called out:

“Bah. I would have thought this thing would weigh more.”

“It was the ogroyes that made him skinny as a spear,” Kodarah lamented, jokingly.

Smiling, Dashvara stretched out among the cushions, listening to his brothers’ comments, and he chuckled good-humoredly:

“Forward, my brothers, gallop on! Let us not stay behind, or the Essimean will think us lazy.”

His words generated snorts. Sashava replied:

“Try to act sick, Dash. If you don’t, our people will think ill of you. Makarva, draw the curtains. It’s better if they don’t see him. Let’s go, boys.”

The Grumpy waved his crutch to encourage the troop, the tower doors opened, and the litter went out. Hidden in his comfortable palanquin, Dashvara concentrated on the sounds he heard: horses’ breaths and hooves, voices, shouted orders… Aralika’s exit was endless. At one point, he tried to look out, and someone slapped him. Devils, he sighed.

After crossing the river, the going was terribly monotonous. Fortunately Dashvara had borrowed a box of books from Kuriag Dikaksunora. He had started one on the history of the University of Titiaka, but he soon got bored and moved on to another volume. This one told of the life of a religious order of Cili who sent missionaries to places as far away as the Northern Empire of Iskamangra… He was not particularly interested in the subject, but at least, he understood it, and he read on, comfortably ensconced in his princess bunk as his brothers carried him off… All for the sake of those spears!

The thought of having all the surviving Xalya people following the litter moved him so much that he regularly interrupted his reading, and more than once, he stopped himself at the last moment from opening the curtains to make sure his people were alive and on their way to freedom.

Or to death.

He gritted his teeth in exasperation.

Well, you’re going to damn well encourage your people with such thoughts, Dash. Read your missionaries and stop thinking.

He followed his own advice and found himself finally captivated by the lives of these Cilian clerics who were landing in distant lands without even knowing what they would find. At noon, they took a break, and Tsu’s dark hand reached between the curtains to feed him. Ogroyes. Dashvara swallowed with a grimace that turned into a small smile when he saw that, on the other side, a human hand had slipped a generous piece of cheese inside the litter. He ate the whole thing, and then took a nap like a good Xalya. When he woke up, they had already started walking again, and a heavy rain was pounding against the ground. Ideal for an escape, Dashvara grumbled inwardly: they would slip and sprawl every two steps, and the Essimeans would get them back muddy, exhausted and ridiculed.

Liadirlá… sometimes I wish I could stop thinking.

He received a drop of water on the top of his head and looked up. The canvas above was not completely waterproof, apparently. Soon the drops turned into a steady stream and Dashvara had to change places and put all the books back in the box. After putting on his blue hood, he waited, getting wetter and wetter. Then the wind began to blow and, in a gust, the canvas flew away. Dashvara could not hold back a loud burst of laughter. Orafe grunted, Miflin clicked his tongue, and a Xalya child shouted through the crashing rain:

“The lord! I see the lord!”

Dashvara felt hundreds of eyes turn towards him. He gave them an emotional smile and a bow of the head. He couldn’t see their reactions very well because of the rain, and to his disappointment, his brothers were quick: they quickly retrieved the main canvas and put it back without almost having to stop.

When they camped for the night it had stopped raining, but the wind continued to blow stubbornly. Someone drew aside the curtain soon after the litter was laid, and Dashvara called out in Oy’vat:

“You guys are not going to leave me locked up here all night, are you? I’m as wet as a fish.” He swallowed his words as he recognized Kuriag. “Oh, Excellency,” he snorted in the Common Tongue.

Careful not to move his right arm, he stepped out of the litter box and straightened. Kuriag cleared his throat, took a quick glance at the Xalyas who were watching him out of the corner of their eyes while going about their tasks, and said:

“I need to talk to you seriously.”

“Of course,” Dashvara agreed. And, noticing the captain’s annoyed pout, he cried out loudly, “I feel much better right now than I did this morning. If I keep on staying in here like a man at death’s door, I’ll end up dying for good. Of boredom.”

No one protested. After all, what really mattered was to get the litter out. Pretending to be sicker than he was did not help dispel the suspicions of the Essimeans, nor did it contribute to the morale of the Xalyas. And the latter was fundamental. So he tried to keep himself upright, strong, and serene… As did my lord father, he thought wryly.

As his tent was not yet set up, the elf pointed to one of the many desert hills in that area, and they both walked away, watched by both the Xalyas and the Essimeans. As soon as they were out of range of prying ears, Kuriag blurted out:

“I know you’ll try to leave. I don’t know how or where to, but I know it. And I warn you that the Essimean know it too.”

He almost sounded apologetic. Dashvara shrugged and grunted in pain as he moved his arm. He replied:

“Fantastic. Everyone knows it and everyone knows that everyone knows it. What’s the big deal?”

The Legitimate frowned, and Dashvara smiled as he concluded:

“You listen to your Eternal Bird, Kuriag, without knowing it. Know that you are helping us escape. Otherwise, you would have split us up and had Garag escort the unarmed Xalyas directly to Ergaika. But you didn’t. It is you who is leading us to escape, Excellency. And yet,” he shook his head sadly, “you are still a prisoner of your obligations. You must maintain your family’s reputation, its trade agreements… and continue to support the Essimean people your father supported. But you could also do something different. I’ve been thinking about it for the last few days, and I’m certain now that Todakwa will never in a million years let the Xalyas settle freely on the steppe. Still, we want to stay. So… we will fight to stay. And we will not lose. Not if we can ally ourselves with the Shalussis and the Akinoas and get the support of the Honyrs. Essimea will tremble,” he asserted in a low, deep voice. “Don’t look at me like that, Kuriag. My Eternal Bird hates war. It really hates it. But this is not a war. This is a fight for our clan. For our steppe and our freedom. I don’t want to shed any more blood, except perhaps Todakwa’s, but it is what it is, Excellency. I cannot change the twisted ways of the Essimean. And I cannot give up freedom. So, in the midst of so much absurdity, I choose hope. I choose swords, Excellency. And now… it’s up to you to decide whose side you’re on.” The elf looked at him with wide eyes. Dashvara concluded, “Todakwa has betrayed the truce he made with my father. He is a traitor. And there is no dishonor in betraying a traitor. If you help us… if you prevent Titiaka from intervening, I swear on my life that once peace is won, I’ll give my Eternal Bird into your hands. I know I owe it to you.”

He cleared his throat, moved his arm unintentionally again, and cursed under his breath. Kuriag’s expression was one of fear, sadness and bitterness.

“You don’t owe me anything,” he said finally in a whisper. “You saved my life.”

Dashvara remembered the murderess and pouted. No, he hadn’t actually saved him, but, at that moment, he thought not to disabuse him. You’re worse than an Essimean snake, Dash…

“Maybe,” he replied. “Or maybe not. Who knows whom that steppian was aiming at, Excellency.”

Kuriag straightened up, stunned.

“You mean she wanted to kill you?”

“No idea,” Dashvara admitted. “Anyway, what does it matter now. I’m alive, you’re alive: it remains to be seen which side you want to live on.”

Kuriag bit his cheek, nervous.

“I see… In that case…” He scratched his head. “I don’t know, Dashvara, I’m in a tight spot here. I wanted to visit dungeons, I wanted to see the ancient monuments of the Ancient Kings… But Lessi is right. The sajits here are no better than in Titiaka.”

Dashvara wondered if he meant him or others. He wisely did not ask. He understood that Kuriag needed time to decide whether he should send the Essimeans to hell—along with his family’s agreements—or whether he should follow the straight and narrow, which Atasiag would most likely advise. The problem was that they had no time left.

“The Shalussis,” Kuriag said then, absorbed. He looked up at Dashvara with troubled eyes. “You say you’re going to ally with them?”

Dashvara couldn’t help but glance around uncomfortably before nodding.

“That’s the plan. Let’s just say… that’s what the Captain, Lumon and I thought we’d do. We haven’t told the others yet. I don’t know how they’ll take it. But it’s the best escape route, and certainly the Essimean won’t expect it: the Shalussis have always been our sworn enemies. This is our best bet,” he assured. “The Honyr lands are too far away. We don’t have enough horses. The Essimeans would have us surrounded before we got there.”

Kuriag moistened his lips.

“What if the Shalussis don’t want to join forces?”

Dashvara shook his head.

“If Zefrek is leading the rebellion, he will ally himself. I have no doubt of that.”

Kuriag nodded, breathed in, then out, saying:

“Then… I wish you luck, Dashvara of Xalya. But, as I told you once before, I disapprove of any conflict. I will disapprove of you using weapons. And I will disapprove of the Essimeans using theirs. I may be ingenuous in saying this, but I’d rather be so than have my hands stained with blood. I am fully convinced of that. Lessi too,” he added with a faint smile. “She and I have the same worldview. The same Eternal Bird. But I know that not everyone is fortunate enough to be able to keep an Eternal Bird so intact. So… may Cili guide your soul, Dashvara. You are free.”

For a moment, Dashvara nodded without fully grasping the meaning of these last words. Then he arched an eyebrow.

“Free?”

“I’m setting you free,” Kuriag asserted, getting a little flustered. “I don’t know who that murderess wanted to kill, but it doesn’t matter. You stepped in. And that’s a strong reason to set you free. No one can deny that. Even though… I suppose you already considered yourself a free man, anyway.”

Dashvara smiled.

“I will not feel free until my people are effectively free. But that doesn’t just depend on you, Kuriag. It depends on this,” he gave the pommel of the sword a firm tap, “and also on my ability to raise the spirits of a broken people,” he admitted with a chill.

Kuriag made a muffled sound. The young elf was now showing a distant attitude, as if he already imagined that this whole thing was going to end badly, yet he didn’t dare prevent Dashvara from throwing himself headlong into hell either.

“I understand,” the Legitimate muttered. “I suppose that… it’s better that I don’t know any more than this. As a matter of fact, I already know too much.”

Dashvara hesitated.

“Indeed,” he conceded. He reached into his pocket and handed him back the golden key. “Asmoan was right. There is a crypt beneath the Feather. It opens from the pedestal of the Eternal Bird. You will find down there the tomb of the first shaard of the steppe. On it… you will be able to read wise words that will surely be to your liking, Excellency.” Kuriag looked at him in amazement. The Xalya took a step back. “Know that… you will always be welcome in my clan, if one day you return in search of dungeons and Eternal Birds…” he smiled, “or even if you wish to stay forever. You know. Our Dahars is not so different from yours, I assure you.” There was a silence, and before Kuriag could replied, Dashvara said: “Good night, Excellency.”

He didn’t give him time to answer either: he bowed his head respectfully, turned around and went back to the Xalyas’ camp. The sky was darkening fast, and by the time he ate his dinner, it was already completely dark. Luck was on their side: there would be no Gems, no Moon, and no Candles to light the Essimeans that night. Only the stars.

During the meal, Dashvara glanced at his people, and they glanced back at him, as if waiting for him to do something… to tell them something, perhaps? And what could he tell them? That they should have courage? That now that he was here, he would save them all? Ha, that couldn’t be more pretentious.

His brothers had been more effective in reconnecting with the lost people. Miflin and Kodarah had been reunited with their mother, Sedrios with his grandson, Lumon with his bride, and Kaldaka with his son… All of them had been reunited with relatives, Dashvara included. But for some stupid reason, instead of going to them, he sat there, increasingly nervous and sure that if he opened his mouth, he would give his people the image of a mad philosopher and not a capable leader. Interrupting his crisis of confidence, Zorvun said:

“Go talk to them, Dashvara. I think they need it as much as you do.”

Dashvara didn’t require to be told twice; nevertheless, when he got up, he opted to approach them in a roundabout way, without entering directly into the midst of his people.

“You’re prowling around us like you don’t know if we’re nadres or sheep,” a voice suddenly scoffed.

Dashvara turned, and in the light of the torches, he saw a young Xalya who, though seven years younger, looked surprisingly like him. He laughed and exclaimed in disbelief:

“Eternal Bird, Tinan, my brother!”

They were not blood brothers, but they had grown up together in the dungeon despite the age difference. Tinan, as the son of an officer, had started patrolling with Zorvun at a young age, and Dashvara considered him just another little brother. They wanted to shake hands, but they ran into a silly problem: Dashvara still had his right arm in a splint and Tinan had his left arm amputated. They rolled their eyes, and Dashvara patted him hard on the shoulder, assuring:

“More like nadres than sheep. You have no idea how intimidating an entire camp of Xalyas can be. Terrifying.”

Tinan smiled broadly, and so did those beside him. From then on, Dashvara ceased to shy away and immersed himself in the midst of his people; he shook vigorous hands, ruffled the hair of curious children, and answered all sorts of questions:

“It’s almost healed already, thank you,” he assured, speaking of his arm. “Diumcili? Bah. Well, the others must have told you already. A country of civilized people. The boat trip was the worst part. Ah,” he smiled as he heard someone mention his two deaths, “the resurrections, yeah, what an odd story, huh? It all started with the red snake I killed in Nanda’s village. Since then, its spirit has been stalking me. But I left the evil spirits in the Feather for good… And now the Eternal Bird is smiling on me. But tell me how those years with the Essimeans went.”

The mere mention of their former masters made many of them gloomy. The stories poured in, and Dashvara listened to them. Most of the surviving Xalyas had been enslaved first by the Akinoas and Shalussis and sold almost immediately to the Essimean in exchange for food, horses and gold… gold for the incorrigible Shalussis. The abuse of their masters, the work in the mines, the prohibitions, the dehumanization that his people had suffered during those three years outraged him to the point he could not contain his grunts and cursing.

“They whipped my brother Namozara to death,” interjected a youth of about twelve, in the Common Tongue.

“Not Namozara, no: he died on his own,” a cousin of Dashvara’s replied. “They left him halfway between Xalya and Aralika because he couldn’t walk any further.”

“Because they had riddled him with lashes,” the kid insisted. “And, when we arrived, nineteen died in the name of Skâra. Isn’t that right? All because we are Xalyas. Because we are the cursed people.”

“We’re not cursed, Youk,” the cousin replied.

“The priests say otherwise,” the boy retorted. “And they say that that’s why we don’t have a dungeon anymore. And that Skâra—”

“And do you believe everything the black-tunics tell you, kid?” Miflin scoffed.

The child raised his head, looking at him with confusion.

“No?”

He said it hesitantly, as if questioning. The adult Xalyas gasped, Miflin gave Youk a friendly knock, and Dashvara shook his head in concern. How successful had the Essimeans been at indoctrinating Xalya children? From what he’d been told, during those three years, everyone who worked in the city had to attend at least one daily oration in honor of Skâra or face punishment. And it was clear that, for Youk, Skâra was not a foreign deity. Perhaps she was now even more familiar to him than the concept of the Dahars. Just thinking about it made him shudder.

“Cursed, yeah, perhaps we are,” Miflin’s mother then let out bitterly. “May Vifkan of Xalya still be alive! His death has taken the lives of us all.”

Several nodded darkly, and sitting down with his people, Dashvara… kept silent. Let’s face it, could he claim to replace his lord father? No. He didn’t have the same charisma or experience. He was, in truth, simply a slightly educated soldier who had spent his life thinking and not commanding, doubting and not deciding. He knew he could not inspire the same confidence as the previous steppe lord. And yet… He noticed the Captain’s watchful gaze from the other side of the circle, and he understood… he understood that, despite everything, his people wanted someone to take the reins. And the power of tradition demanded that it be him. He cleared his throat and stood up. His movement silenced the conversations and a respectful, appraising silence settled among the Xalyas. Dashvara cleared his throat again. Liadirlá, he frankly was not made for this… He finally spoke up:

“Xalyas. I wanted to tell you that… I’m glad to see you all at last and… Look, I’m not going to lie to you: I know I lack experience. I’m not like my lord father, and I certainly don’t intend to be either. Be that as it may, be sure that, as Xalya, I desire more than anything else the good of our people. That’s why I ask you… I just ask you to trust my decisions and those of the captain. Our goal is not to send you to Death, but to Life.”

There was a silence, and Dashvara tried not to fidget. There you go, Dash, rushing in demanding their trust when you’ve only just met them again. The perfect leader. It shows that you’re your father’s son…

Then Tinan intervened in a firm and fervent voice:

“Even if it were to my death, I would follow you, my lord. In Aralika, we lost everything. Even our dignity. Death doesn’t scare me. I only want revenge.”

This immediately generated a vehement wave of support and confidence. With some unease, Dashvara wondered where this support was directed, to him or to Tinan.

Revenge, he repeated to himself with a shudder.

That one word oozed all the pain of the vexations suffered during those three years. It oozed hope.

And blood, Dash. Your people are thirsty of blood.

But hey, being realistic, wasn’t he himself? He hesitated and said to himself: no. Yes, he wished to stay in the steppe, he wished to be done with the Essimean kingdom and with Todakwa. He wished for justice to be done. But he was not willing to send his people to their deaths for it.

However, this was not the right time to try to calm the spirits. It was good that they were heated: it would have been worse if they were downcast and discouraged. So he simply replied in a loud voice:

“The Eternal Bird is flying again for all of us, and with your help, I will do everything I can to make sure it does not fall again.” As he saw that many were nodding, he concluded, “And now rest and be ready to go. We will distribute the weapons as arranged. Do not show them and, by the Eternal Bird, do not use them without express permission. To do so might send us all to the grave.”

He glanced at the faces barely lit by the torchlight. They all looked so young… including most of the women that had been spared by the Essimeans. Very few of them knew how to wield a sword, and yet Dashvara saw not a single face that expressed fear: after three years of slavery, they were eager to embark on any path that would lead them to freedom.

He bowed his head, and instead of sitting back down, he left the circle, which quickly scattered. Makarva soon joined him, calling out:

“You’re not doing as bad as you think, Dash.”

Dashvara rolled his eyes. His friend had always had this uncanny ability to guess his brothers’ state of mind, and his own more than anyone else’s.

“If you say so,” Dashvara replied, rubbing his neck. “So, are you ready for the ride?”

“Of course,” Makarva assured with a slight sigh.

The plan was simple: they would take advantage of the darkness of the night to escape, without forgetting to show that they were armed so that the Essimeans would think twice before attacking them and prefer to wait until dawn to do so. In the meantime, Makarva and Alta would ride to Lamasta, ask to see Zefrek of Shalussi and offer him the support of the Xalyas if he would grant them refuge behind his lines in exchange. And, if he did not accept… they would always have the option of continuing east, leaving the Shalussi between them and the Essimean. What he knew for certain was that Zefrek would not fight the Xalyas when he had a stronger enemy at his doorstep.

They barely spoke for the next two hours. The Essimean watchers passed around the Xalya camp more and more often. The Ragails had settled in front of Kuriag Dikaksunora’s tent, and while some were sleeping, others were only pretending to do so.

Everyone is waiting.

Lying on his cloak by the litter box, Dashvara glanced down at his bag. It was almost empty. Who knows where Tahisran was now. Probably in the Agoskurian’s tent, chatting with Api: those two got along just fine.

Only the crackle of torches and the wind broke the silence as Atok crept up beside him and whispered:

“Everything is in order, my lord.”

Dashvara nodded, stopped fiddling with the pommel of Siranaga’s sword, and without further hesitation stood up. The Xalyas followed suit, and almost simultaneously, the torches around the Xalya camp went out. Darkness enveloped them almost completely as they grabbed their packs, weapons and reins and headed east. The alarm was immediately raised.

First, there was a shout in Galka, then someone blew the war horn. It was a sound so startling and so powerful that for a moment Dashvara feared that the Essimean would risk fighting them in the dead of night. Perhaps they had light spells like those of the Ragails. He had not thought of that, but in any case, he had no alternative but to continue to move away, so he bellowed to his people:

“Don’t stay back! Move forward. And silently.”

The flight turned into a breathless race. Dashvara, now riding Sunrise, was watching for movement in the Essimean camp. The warriors had already formed a defensive line, but for the moment, they did not seem to want to launch an attack. As for the Ragails, he did not see them anywhere. Captain Djamin must have stayed near the Legitimate.

They went down the hill, and more than one stumbled and fell in the mud, but all of them got back to their feet. The younger ones had been ordered to stay in the lead; the armed Xalyas led the way, some on foot, others perched on their mounts. The horses, disturbed by the sound of the alarm, unaccustomed to riding at night, stirred and snorted, but nothing a veteran rider could not handle. Alta and the Honyrs had done an excellent job in choosing them.

The first Xalyas were already reaching the next hill when Dashvara saw a horse ride through the lines of torches in the camp and into the night, towards them. He arched his eyebrows. An Essimean messenger, perhaps? It didn’t look like one, the way it galloped… Then he understood and muttered:

“What an idiot! His horse will end up twisting a leg.”

It was Api, no doubt. When the young demon caught up with them, Alta had to step in and grab and pull the reins to bring the mount to a stop. The boy called out cheerfully:

“Mawer, I’m not doing so bad, did you see?”

Alta grumbled something about unconscious riders. Approaching on Sunrise, Dashvara ranted at the demon:

“Exactly what are you doing, boy?”

All they needed now was that the Essimeans rushed in on them under the pretext of retrieving the young man. He could not see his face, but he guessed that he was smiling when he replied:

“I carry a shadow. I am curious to know: where are you going?”

Dashvara looked up at the starry sky and grumbled:

“That is our business.” He glanced around the Essimean camp again and called out: “Alta, Mak! You may leave. They don’t seem to want to attack, and the sooner you leave, the sooner we can get help.”

“If we manage to get any,” Makarva muttered. He obviously didn’t like the plan to go to the Shalussis, but Dashvara knew that he and Alta would make the best diplomats of all. At least, unlike the others, they were able to control their impulses.

As the two Xalyas waved and trotted off into the night, Api mused:

“Getting help, huh? The Honyrs are close, then.”

Dashvara huffed.

“I’d head back to camp if I were you, Api. This is not a game. If the Essimeans catch you in the middle, they are capable of mistaking you for a Xalya and ripping your head off.”

“Thrilling!” Api retorted with obvious mockery. “If you’ll allow me, great immortal lord, I’ll stand by your side and watch over your shadow. What do you say?”

Dashvara huffed again.

“How ridiculous. Tahisran can take care of himself. I’ll say it again: for your sake, go back to camp,” he growled at him.

He spurred Sunrise and started down the next hill. After a moment, he turned and thought he saw the figure of Api, following the troop. He suppressed a swearword that turned into a sharp sigh. Damn demons.

For the next hour the progress became more regular. No one, not even the youngest children, made a single complaint. They walked in silence up and down the barren hills of the ancient lands of Lifdor, barely lit by the stars.

The Xalya horsemen followed the advance from afar, forming a wide circle around it to ensure that no Essimean detachment would take them by surprise. It would not have been so unlikely that the Essimean would have sent their cavalry to surround them. However, time passed, and no one raised an alarm. That was not surprising either. All in all, Todakwa could at most offer to retrieve the lost slaves, but he would not dare slaughter them. Not without Kuriag’s prior permission. And Dashvara knew perfectly well that the Legitimate would never give such permission.

Even so, Todakwa could also take action without Kuriag’s knowledge. He was an Essimean. He was a treacherous snake. And Dashvara was suspicious. That’s why, even if allying with the Shalussis meant committing to a camp, he still thought it was safer than crossing half the steppe with two-hundred people without sufficient food and horses… The Essimean would just have to wait until they were weakened, then appear and sacrifice them to their cursed god without telling anything to the Titiaka good master.

They advanced eastward, with the objective of deceiving the Essimean’s surveillance and making them believe that they were heading for Xalya. After a while, however, the captain ordered a change of direction to the south. Now Dashvara was walking with his people, pulling the reins of Sunrise. His right arm was burning. Tsu’s ointments barely numbed the pain, and only the darkness managed to hide his strained face.

“My lord,” a voice came from his left. Dashvara turned his head. “Can I ask why we are heading south?”

It was young Tinan. Dashvara silently cleared his throat.

“You can. We are heading south because there is an ally there.”

There was silence.

“An… ally?” Tinan hesitated.

“That’s right, an ally,” Dashvara asserted casually. “Zefrek of Shalussi, son of Nanda of Shalussi.”

His answer generated gasps and murmurs. They already knew the story of Nanda’s murder and had recently been told about the reunion with Zefrek on Matswad Island… but until then, they had no idea that he and the captain were leading them to Lamasta. More than one must have thought: now I understand where Alta and Makarva have gone. And others must have thought: now I understand why our new lord said he was not like Vifkan of Xalya. Tinan inhaled sharply.

“A Shalussi,” he spat in a trembling voice. “The Shalussis killed us in Xalya too. They threw stones at you in Aralika! They are savages. They are enemies.”

Dashvara felt as if he were hearing himself a few years back. Liadirlá, how these words now seemed ingenuous. In any case, the young Xalya’s strong protest displeased him. He replied:

“They were enemies. Times are changing, Tinan. They too have been enslaved. You yourself have had to cohabit with them, I bet. And you must have seen… they are not demons.”

An amused murmur was heard: a little further on, Api muttered something in a low voice, perhaps to Tahisran. In a muffled voice, Tinan protested:

“But… excuse me, my lord, but why don’t we go north, to the Steppe Thieves people? The captain said they would help us.”

Dashvara sighed loudly.

“I’m sure they will. But, for now, they are too far away for us to do so, given our situation, sîzan. The Shalussis are our best option. The captain thinks so too, these are not delusions of mine, rest assured.”

He couldn’t help the hint of exasperation in his voice. It annoyed him that Tinan would try to question his decisions, not so much because it made him lose credit and legitimacy with his people, but because it only added doubt to the mountain of doubt he already had in his head. As if guessing that his intervention was not welcome, Tinan cleared his throat.

“All right, my lord. I was only trying to understand.”

Dashvara pouted in the darkness, both embarrassed and mocking. Had he said “all right”? Had he? He couldn’t remember any of his lord father’s officers ever saying “all right” to his lord father, as if he could disagree.

A thousand demons, Dash, you pay attention to truly ridiculous details… You who didn’t want to be a lord, now you’re going to take offense because you’re treated more like a brother than a steppe lord? Liadirlá, stop trying to imitate Vifkan, get off your pedestal, and be glad that young Xalya is willing to consider a Shalussi as an ally… That’s already quite a feat.

He shook his head and finally answered:

“I know, sîzan. And I would have explained it to you all better… if we hadn’t had the Essimeans spying on us. Don’t worry. Everything will be all right.”

The conversation ended there. There were still murmurs among the Xalyas, but none of them objected further. It was almost surprising. Was it because they were too tired? Or was it because they didn’t have such blind hatred for the Shalussis after all? Unless it was because they were used to being commanded and wanted to trust him and the captain. A mixture of all that, perhaps.

They went on for hours under the starry sky. They passed a barn and a slope full of bushes, but other than that, the path they took was simple: they just kept going straight on, sometimes crossing flat areas, other times small hills with more or less even ground. In the immensity of this space, one could only hear the murmurs of the wind and the furtive steps of two hundred Xalyas.

They were crossing a great plain, and the sentries had drawn nearer, seeing no danger, when they suddenly saw a light in the darkness. Dashvara was not the first to see it, because not only had he dismounted but he was also still a little weak, his arm was hurting more with every movement, and all in all, his mind was not very keen or attentive to what was going on around. He was even beginning to feel dizzy. If only that assassin had been less deft and his arrow had reached Todakwa…

He looked up when he heard the captain’s voice thunder:

“Halt!”

Dashvara frowned, stopped with the others, and felt his legs wobble. He breathed in, gritted his teeth, and since Sunrise was carrying two half-asleep children and he didn’t dare mount without help anyway, he left the reins in a random hand and walked up to the head of the line to see what was going on.

Then he saw the light, in the distance. To the southeast, he determined, after glancing at the constellations. In fact, there were several lights.

“… barn,” Lumon’s voice was saying from atop his mount. “There are too many lights.”

“Devils, and they’re coming!” Pik hissed.

There was a silence during which the Xalyas watched the lights, then Lumon asked:

“How do you know they are approaching? I don’t see it so clearly,” he admitted.

“It’s dark, that’s why,” Miflin joked. “If you can’t see, Archer, we cannot either.”

“I feel like they’re coming too,” Kodarah interjected.

There were murmurs, some approving, some not. Dashvara unintentionally hit the side of a horse and gasped in pain. Liadirlá… The Poet called out:

“Dash? Are you around here? I can’t see anything…”

“Down here,” Dashvara answered, exhaling and cursing his arm. “I can’t see much either, and even less from below. Maybe it would be a good idea for someone to approach the hills; hopefully they’ll manage to find out more from up there… Lumon?”

The Archer immediately replied:

“I’m going.”

He spurred his horse and rode off into the darkness. They waited with impatience and exhaustion.

If it’s the Essimean, we’re in big trouble. If it’s the Shalussis… maybe not so much.

Dashvara tried not to give vent to either his hope or his enormous doubts. Then the captain broke the silence by saying:

“They’re coming. And fast.”

Dashvara nodded. That was his impression, too. The problem was that they didn’t have time to run for the hills. So he bellowed orders to create a line with those who carried spears or swords, and the children and unarmed moved behind. By the time Lumon returned, the distant lights had become torches and a thunder of hooves was heading straight for them.

“There are about forty of them!” the Archer informed, stopping his mount.

More than one gasped, and muffled voices rose among the Xalyas. Forty, he said forty, they repeated. Forty horsemen. Dashvara could feel the anxiety of his people growing by the second. There were about eighty of them armed, but most of them had never fought in their lives.

They waited, their hearts clenched; then, amid a flood of tension, Sashava the Grumpy declared:

“The sky is beginning to clear.”

It was true. The sky to the east was no longer as dark as it had been a moment ago. And this allowed them to see the light-colored coats and leather helmets of the approaching horsemen. They were not wearing Essimean uniforms. Dashvara smiled with pure relief, and the captain murmured:

“Shalussis.”

Dashvara nodded. They were Shalussis. And the best news was that they were carrying a black flag as their standard. Not white, but black. The color of peace.