90. The power of Skâra

No needles formed under the feet of the Essimean and not a drop of water fell during the next three days. The weather was good, and the Essimean army waited patiently for the rebels to surrender. Todakwa had warned that, if Ashiwa was mistreated, they would suffer the wrath of Skâra doubly and that the maximum punishment would be meted out only to the leaders of the rebellion as long as the Shalussis surrendered in time. Despite the overwhelming Essimean superiority, his insidious response had only served to inflame the Shalussis’ rage.

In the midst of the storm, the captain and Dashvara had given orders to minimize contact with the Shalussis to avoid tension. So the Xalyas tried not to get too involved, they helped with the daily chores, fetched water from the river, fed and milked the livestock, and all in all, they were basically doing the same thing as they had done in Aralika, except now they were working for savages and not for the Death worshippers… Although the improvement was small, it was encouraging. As the steppian sages used to say, when you’re at the bottom of a well, you can’t go any lower.

A growing thunder of hooves made Dashvara look away from the distant Essimean tents. A Shalussi patrol had just returned from the east, and from the hillside of the ruined temple, he could see the lead rider quickly dismount and enter the Zefrek headquarters.

News and more news, and we Xalyas are not informed of anything, Dashvara grumbled inwardly.

Fortunately, he had Tahisran. Without him, he wouldn’t have learned half of what was going on in Lamasta, let alone what was going on behind the Essimean lines. The shadow was capable of creeping around just about anywhere; however, it had never yet dared to approach the tents of the death priests when they were awake, so he could not tell much about the Essimean leader’s intentions. When, the night before, Miflin had suggested that he stabbed Todakwa while he slept, Tah had been horrified; though the Poet had assured everyone that it was just a joke, the shadow had remained very pensive, then he had gone out at nightfall for a walk and had not appeared since. Dashvara had rarely seen Miflin so ashamed. Some thought Tah had gone to kill Todakwa and been captured, others that he was gone forever… Knowing him, Dashvara bet that he had simply gone for a long walk and maybe taken a detour to pay Kuriag a visit. According to Tah, the young Dikaksunora, as a worthy student of Maloven, was desperate for a peaceful solution to the conflict. Well, may he find it, but Dashvara doubted very much that the ancestral contempt all these clans had for each other could be swept away by common sense.

“Dash!” Kodarah exclaimed suddenly. “Did you see that?”

Following the Hairy’s gaze, Dashvara turned his attention back to the Essimean camp. Something was going on there.

He approached the wall of rubble and scanned the distance along with Kodarah and Lumon. He frowned. It seemed that…

“Dammit,” a Shalussi hissed, not far from them. “Dammit, dammit, dammit…”

You can say that again, Dashvara agreed darkly. The Essimeans were lining up Shalussi slaves in front of their lines. The warriors moved them forward enough to show them to the rebels. Then they stopped and waited. Dashvara shook his head in bewilderment.

“What do they expect? That we would hand Ashiwa over to them in exchange for these slaves?”

Lumon kept his gaze on the eight Shalussis for a few more moments before stating:

“They are not slaves. They are rebels. I think I recognize one of them. They were part of the patrol defending the southern route.”

Dashvara winced and preferred not to imagine what had happened to the rest of the patrol… but he didn’t have much hope for the survivors either. As new spectators crowded the hill, the Essimeans decided they had enough of an audience already and, one by one, they made the eight prisoners kneel down. A dead-priest who had arrived in the meantime passed behind the prisoners, and laying his hand on each head, he recited words which were hardly perceptible from the distance but which sounded terrible nonetheless. Then, inexplicably, one of the prisoners collapsed, convulsing and screaming in pain. The others quickly followed. A few moments later, none of the eight prisoners was moving. The Essimeans returned to their camp, leaving eight bodies behind them and an icy silence.

Were they still alive? Two Shalussis went to check it out, and by their gestures, everyone guessed the truth from the distance: the prisoners were dead. The priest had killed them with his incantations. Skâra, Death Itself, had stolen their lives through its servant. Faced with such a display of power, fear of the God of Death gripped all the hearts of Lamasta, including Dashvara’s.

“It was nothing more than a crude show,” the steppe lord spat out loud, however, as he walked down the temple hill, surrounded by Xalyas, “They must have poisoned them first.”

More than one Xalya nodded, but none of them seemed to quite believe him, least of all the young men who had been slaves in Aralika: all of them were deeply affected by what had happened. When Dashvara caught one of them muttering a prayer in Galka, he gave him an incredulous look, and the boy blushed like a garfia.

Liadirlá, what have the Essimeans done to our people… he lamented.

At the foot of the hill, a large and noisy group of Shalussis had formed. Above the din of voices, someone roared with sharp gestures:

“Let’s destroy the temple! Let’s show these rats that their God does not scare us!”

His vindictive roar was accompanied by approving thunder, and within moments, without even consulting Zefrek or Lifdor, dozens of Shalussis were returning to the top of the hill with tools of every kind. They spent the rest of the day eagerly demolishing the temple of Skâra and using the rubble to build obstacles around the village. In the evening, they buried the eight murdered Shalussis at the top of the hill, and Zefrek himself conducted the ceremony, assisted with Lifdor. From afar, Dashvara and his brothers watched as they passed by, one by one, to pay their respects to the dead and to offer them objects of daily life that had characterized their lives in one way or another. As the rite was about to end, Dashvara stood up.

“Dash,” Makarva coughed, “Where are you going?”

Dashvara watched the curious looks of the Xalyas and shrugged.

“To act like a Xalya,” he replied.

And he walked away up the hill. He had hardly taken a few steps when a dozen Xalyas were already following him. At first, the Shalussis who noticed them looked suspicious, then curious, and when Dashvara arrived in front of the tombs, bent down and placed the wooden Eternal Bird on one of the mounds of earth, they were hesitant, surprised but not hostile, for they understood that his gesture had no other intention than to show respect. So both Zefrek and Lifdor nodded their heads in acknowledgement. Dashvara suppressed a gasp.

I’m not doing this for you, Lifdor, he muttered inwardly.

Then he actually wondered why he was paying such tribute to Shalussis who may have been involved in the fall of the Xalya Dungeon. Perhaps simply because of their death, he thought. Perhaps simply because dying in this way, defenselessly, as a prisoner, before the helpless eyes of their own people, was one of the worst possible deaths. And that made him feel such rage against the Essimeans that, at that moment, those eight dead men were almost like brothers to him. Almost.

He was about to get up and leave the Shalussis behind when he saw a Xalya toddler bend down beside him and place a feather next to his figure. His name was Jokuey, and as far as he knew, he was the son of a family of goat herders. Unlike the other children, he barely made a sound in the shelter, but for the past four days, he had never forgotten to feed his precious caged pigeon. Dashvara smiled and ruffled the child’s greasy hair before lifting him off his healthy arm and congratulating him:

“Your Eternal Bird is already beginning to understand the Dahars of your people, little boy.”

The toddler did not answer, but as they walked away, he kept looking over the shoulder of its bearer and did not take his eyes off his offered feather. Dashvara had scarcely taken ten steps when, moved by a sudden inspiration, his heart aflame, he turned to the faces of the Shalussis and thundered:

“Men of the steppe!” His deep voice tore through the air. “The Essimeans will pay for all these deaths. And their murderous leaders will pay with their lives! They think they are the masters of this place. The Ancient Kings thought the same thing, and they ended badly. These snakes have not yet understood that no one should rule the steppe. No clan has the right to enslave another as Essimea did. And, if the Essimeans do not understand this, we will teach them by the sword!”

He turned to Zefrek and Lifdor of Shalussi and concluded:

“If we don’t attack now, they will.”

The two Shalussis exchanged glances. Among the others, there was a grunt that turned out to be rather approving. Nevertheless, the Xalyas adopted a slightly defensive formation just in case; Boron took hold of little Jokuey, whose eyebrows had furrowed at the commotion.

Finally, Lifdor reacted before Zefrek did. The big man approached Dashvara without apprehension and said calmly:

“I’m sorry to tell you this, but your proposal proves your lack of experience, young Xalya. Attacking now would be a tactical mistake.”

Dashvara arched an eyebrow and replied:

“Really? Well, I think this is the perfect moment to buy time. We need to nip at their heels. We need to harass them enough to keep them from launching a major offensive before our reinforcements arrive.”

And before morale drops dramatically, he added to himself. Lifdor gave a mocking cough.

“Reinforcements?” he repeated. “You mean the Steppe Thieves? Those people have never intervened in any war. They won’t be coming.”

“They will come.”

It was not Dashvara who had spoken this time, but Sirk Is Rhad, the only Honyr left among the Xalyas. His face, distorted by the scar, reflected an unwavering confidence.

“My people will come and unite with the Xalya Clan,” he affirmed.

Voices rose from all sides. Lifdor raised a hand to calm the spirits, and his gesture alone was enough.

“Even if they do come,” the Shalussi chief said with less mockery than before, “I doubt that there are more than a hundred warriors. And correct me if I’m wrong, but I thought the Steppe Thieves were not allowed to fight the sajits.”

This generated a mixture of mocking smiles and curious expressions. Sirk Is Rhad rolled his eyes.

“Our Eternal Bird forbids us to kill without first knowing the deeds of our victim,” he admitted. “But I assure you, if anyone tries to steal our cattle, he will not go away without knowing our justice. It is not for nothing that foreigners say we are the best warriors on the steppe.”

His voice was not arrogant, but rather frank; however, Dashvara was certain that, at that moment, more than one Shalussi felt eager to verify such a statement. Zefrek intervened:

“Some little diversionary maneuvers can’t hurt. Do you have a particular attack in mind?”

Dashvara nodded.

“Mainly, attack the vanguards, seize their weapons… and regain control of the southern route.”

Zefrek nodded, convinced.

“Mind to take care of it?”

Dashvara smiled.

“With pleasure.”

“I’m joining the expedition,” interjected a voice among the Shalussis.

Dashvara turned, saw the brown-bearded face of the man who had spoken, and cocked his head to one side. It looked familiar. Then he understood, and his smile widened. It was Andrek of Shalussi, Rokuish’s older brother. He hadn’t found him particularly likeable three years ago, he had seemed an impulsive man with narrow-minded ideas, but time had changed them both. Perhaps for the better. So he bowed his head solemnly.

“Any help is welcome.”

And certainly very welcome, for now that they were down to eighteen armed Xalyas, without their allies, they would be hard pressed to do much. But, as he expected, the Shalussis were in a sociable mood that day, they had only one thing on their minds: revenge for their dead brothers.

* * *

After four days of inactivity, Sunrise was tugging at her bit, anxious to gallop away, but Dashvara held her back firmly. With all the healing energies Tsu had lavished on his injured arm over the past two weeks, it was almost healed, and despite the drow’s instructions, Dashvara was confident he would be able to fight and use at least one sword if needed.

The dusk was already filling the sky when the troop of horsemen, consisting of fifteen Xalyas and thirty Shalussis, reached the Rocky Meadows of the Bakhia River, southwest of Lamasta. They detoured to the south, and as the sky darkened, they emerged from the hills and spotted the Essimean squad’s campfire. According to Zefrek’s spies, there were about twenty of them. Dashvara did not wait to organize or plan. After observing the camp for a few moments, he only said in a low but deep voice:

“Remember, the more prisoners we take, the better. Let’s teach them a lesson, steppemen.”

And they launched the attack. They were already halfway there when a sentry gave the alarm. They still arrived at the camp, surprising their victims with shouts, screams and the thunder of hooves. The Essimeans reacted by making a desperate defensive formation, but some remained separated, and the attack lasted the time of a sigh: the Xalyas surrounded them around the campfire, and with an immaculate sword in his hand, Dashvara roared:

“Surrender, lay down your weapons, and we’ll let you live!”

The faces of the Essimeans, lit by the fire, reflected a glow of hope. It was not long before they all surrendered. Two of them had received slight wounds. The rest were unharmed. They stripped them of all their possessions, weapons, blankets, horses, and food.

“What about the sentry?” Andrek asked.

Dashvara glanced towards the dark steppe and replied with a touch of amusement:

“Let him run and explain to Todakwa what happened.”

The return to Lamasta was made along the river on the south bank. Although the way was more direct, it was dark, and they were leading prisoners, so they took as long or longer than on the way out. When they saw the distant lights of Lamasta and the Essimean camp, one daring man tried to escape. Having freed himself from the rope that bound him, he rushed towards the river… and he did not manage to reach it alive. When Dashvara heard the hiss of the sword and the splash of water, he grimaced but made no comment. Especially since the Shalussi who had acted was the father of one of the eight murdered that day… He could hardly talk to him about mercy and tact, and could only hope that it would at least ease his pain a little.

At any rate, the treatment received by the escapee convinced the other prisoners that they had better behave themselves, and they arrived at Lamasta without further incident. The success of the excursion was greeted with joy, and arms and horses were soon redistributed. The lives of the prisoners were respected, though the Shalussis abused them as much as they could by spitting insults at them and blaspheming against Skâra. Nevertheless, they did not touch them. By tacit law, they recognized that Dashvara, as leader of the expedition, had the right of life over them. The problem was that Dashvara would also be responsible for feeding them if he decided to leave them alive… and the Shalussis had no obligation to help him.

Well, they’ll starve if they have to, but I won’t kill them with my swords, Dashvara decided.

And so he ordered the eighteen prisoners to be taken to a stone house, and there, they were locked up. As they were returning to the shelter, Captain Zorvun approached. He had not participated in the outing, for he had spent the whole day giving combat lessons to the Xalya people, and so much activity had exhausted him.

“Congratulations,” he said, greeting him.

Dashvara smiled.

“Thank you, Captain. That was quite easy. We attacked them by surprise.”

“Hmm… Too bad I didn’t see it,” Zorvun admitted. “What are you going to do with the prisoners?”

Dashvara huffed, and as they entered the shelter, he said:

“For the moment, just interrogate their leader.” And, answering an implied question from the captain, he asserted, “I am not going to kill them. That would be playing into the hands of Todakwa and Skâra. We Xalyas are not like that.”

Zorvun nodded thoughtfully.

“That seems about right to me.”

With a smile, Dashvara accepted the bowl of milk handed to him by young Youk and drank as the captain added:

“By the way, Dashvara. Tahisran has returned. And he says the Essimeans have located a large group of people heading here from the northeast.”

Dashvara nearly choked on the milk. He looked at the captain, his eyes wide and his heart pounding.

“How far away?”

It was Tahisran who answered in a mental voice:

‘At two days. That is, at one day, now. Kuriag begs you to leave Lamasta at once, go east, separate yourself from the rebels and unite with the Honyrs. He says that, if you manage to get far enough away, Todakwa will not pursue you.’

The shadow didn’t put much conviction in his voice, and Dashvara knew why when he added:

‘I think Todakwa knows that Kuriag manages to communicate with you in some way, Dash. I don’t think he knows about me, but… I feel like the information he’s giving Kuriag is skewed. I don’t think the Essimeans have any intention of letting you leave Lamasta.’

Dashvara shook his head and handed the empty bowl back to Youk, saying:

“Even if they let us run, only a scoundrel would be abandoning the Shalussis at a time like this. But we will still have to clear the way to the northeast somehow.”

Despite his fatigue, excitement was coursing through his body. To think that his naâsga was so close, and to find that Shokr Is Set had actually succeeded in making the Steppe Thieves take action in favor of his people… it was the best gift he could have asked for in those moments. He turned his eyes to the dark shape looming between the shadows and the flickering light of a torch, and he smiled, happy.

“Thank you, Tah. You are a champion. Do you know that, all this time, the Poet has been more restless than Pik because he thought that you had gone to kill Todakwa and that you had been captured?”

“Beh, I didn’t think he’d actually do it,” Miflin protested, walking up to them with an embarrassed pout. “I was afraid he had got mad at me, that’s all.”

Dashvara caught Tah’s smile and let them both chat as he moved away to his pallet. He was exhausted, and his arm was starting to burn again. So when Tsu approached, he let him examine his wound without protest. It was already closed, though not quite healed. Dashvara felt the sense of peace that came over him every time Tsu cast his healing spells. For a few moments, he fought sleep, thinking of the Essimeans surrounding the village, thinking of his new prisoners and of the friendlier relationship that had begun to emerge between Xalyas and Shalussis, and, of course, thinking of his naâsga. Her soft voice echoed in his head as if she were actually speaking to him. Before fatigue overwhelmed everything else, he heard her whisper in his mind:

Just because you can’t see me, it doesn’t mean I’m not close to you.