91. The Queen of Death

Lamasta awoke to the burst of horns and chaotic screams. Dashvara woke up with a start and unintentionally moved his arm, which made him wince in pain, but that was an improvement: he did not see stars anymore and was no longer bent double. As the Xalyas were shaken out of their sleep in the shelter, he fastened his belt and cloak and was putting on his boots when, drawing aside the curtain of the entrance, Alta appeared and vociferated:

“The Essimean infantry have advanced from the north! They’re setting up their damn catapults.”

Dashvara made a face. Apparently Todakwa had given up hope of Lamasta surrendering on its own and was going to force the issue, starting with his infernal machines. The loss of his southwestern squad must have irritated him…

Suddenly, they were startled by a crashing sound like a dead red nadre exploding. For a moment, Dashvara stood still. He exchanged a look of confusion with his brothers.

“Liadirlá, what was that?” Orafe gasped.

To the warriors’ surprise, it was Lariya, Miflin’s mother, who bitterly declared:

“Explosive disks.” Seeing that everyone was looking at her in amazement, she coughed and explained, “A while back, I heard from a death-priest that they were perfecting a new weapon invented by Daeya, Todakwa’s wife herself. She is a powerful alchemist. And beautiful and cold as Death.”

Dashvara shuddered, remembering the pale, tattooed face of Todakwa’s wife. He had only seen her once, but he remembered well the absolute serenity that emanated from her. The serenity of Death.

To think that that witch of Skâra is now riding Lusombra…

Hearing another explosion, he let out a grunt and headed outside without a word. By the time the Xalyas approached the edge of Lamasta, dozens of magical explosive projectiles had already been launched. Many of them exploded in the air or didn’t even reach the village, but some hit the rubble walls, destabilizing them, causing them to collapse and damaging the ditches that had been dug on both sides of the hill. One of them even hit a house and created such a gap that Dashvara stood for a moment staring at the hole with bulging eyes, before another explosion drew him out of his stupor.

“We should keep the horses away,” Alta considered.

He was right: the horses in the paddocks sensed the danger and whirled around in anguish at the unusual noise. When one of them managed to jump over the fence, the Xalyas rushed to help the Shalussis calm the commotion, which was not an easy task. The Essimeans were probably having a great time watching the turmoil from afar… Throughout the morning, the damn devils kept using their catapults, throwing rocks, bags of black powder, or explosive disks depending on the mood of the moment. When a projectile shattered a hut and nearly burned an entire family alive, indignant Shalussis tried to ride out against the machines. Fortunately, Lifdor intervened in time and brought them to their senses: a charge in that situation would have been a massacre, they would have lost men and horses stupidly and, in the end, for nothing. The catapults, all things considered, caused more chaos and smoke than real casualties, for they had all taken cover out of their range. Moreover, when the attacks diminished, they took advantage of the stone rubble of the damaged outlying houses to reinforce the defenses. These were beginning to resemble real barricades, and after many hours of deafening noise and bangs, the realization that Lamasta was still standing proudly lifted everyone’s spirits.

It remains to be seen for how long, Dashvara thought as he stroked Sunrise’s forehead over the fence of the paddock.

Under his hand, chilled by the winter wind, Sunrise gave a snort and gently shook her head, shaking her freshly brushed white mane before leaning toward a shoot of grass at the foot of the fence. Now, the horses were quiet, and several Xalyas were busy petting them and giving them water, mentally exhausted after the stressful morning. In the air, there was still a slight cloud of smoke mixed with a strong smell of burning and dust. After the Shalussi rebellion and the explosions of Daeya, the beautiful Lamasta of Lifdor looked messy and ruined. But so what? The houses could be rebuilt. The important thing was that no one died that day.

Not yet, Dashvara thought darkly.

Stepping away from the paddock, he glanced toward the nearby Xalyas’ shelter. The women were busy, as were the men and the younger ones: they were shaking off the ever-present dust, bringing buckets of water from the river, stuffing arrows, and caring for each other. Just seeing them like this, hearing their voices and feeling the familiarity of the past come alive again, made Dashvara feel an unconditional respect for his people in that moment. The Xalyas might have seemed quite alien to the siege if they had not glanced frequently, like prey on the alert, at the dusty, treacherous sky. Did they fear another catapult attack, or a new and even more terrible invention by Daeya of Essimea?

Dashvara heard a rumour going up in the village and he stopped, his heart anxious and hopeful at the same time. His optimistic side was already showing him the approaching Honyr warriors led by his naâsga while his pessimistic side was telling him: this is it, Dash, we are doomed, Todakwa is attacking. However, no alarm horn sounded. Eager for news, he was about to head into the racket with his brothers when, seeing young Youk appear running, leaping through the rubble, he arched an eyebrow questioningly, and the boy’s face lit up with excitement.

“Guess what happened? The Essimeans have surrounded us!” he cried, stopping his run in front of the Xalya warriors. “They crossed the river last night, and Zefrek’s patrols saw nothing. At least two hundred riders, according to Lifdor. Hold on, there’s more!” he added as Dashvara and his brothers swore through their teeth. “Apparently, the Essimeans also attacked a village east of here. And they crushed them like rats! So said a man named Fushek who just arrived. He is wounded, and Zefrek wants to know if the drow can treat him. I know who Fushek is. A friend of mine from Aralika told me that he was a great master-at-arms and that for the last three years he has been living in the desert without water or anything to eat, waiting for the right time to return and free his people and…”

Lumon ruffled his hair to thank him for the information, and the Xalya warriors stopped paying attention to him. Some of them immediately moved away towards the river to check on Youk’s claims about the Essimean cavalry; the captain remained deep in thought, and one of Dashvara’s cousins scolded the boy for wandering around the Shalussis by himself… As a response, Youk snorted loudly, and Dashvara gave him a light knock on the head.

“Have some respect, boy. Atok, warn Tsu, will you? Captain,” he added and gave a quizzical nod to Sashava and Yodara. “What do you think of all this?”

Zorvun let out a long sigh.

“First, Zefrek would do well to rely on competent people. Second, if Todakwa launches the attack this afternoon, I doubt we can hold out for more than two or three days, at the most. They have more cavalry than we have, more ammunition, more men, more everything. These barricades will hardly delay them, and Todakwa knows it.”

Nothing new, but Dashvara had to acknowledge that the picture was indeed not encouraging.

“Then what is he waiting for to launch the offensive?” Orafe growled.

“Especially if he knows the Honyrs are on their way,” Miflin commented. “He should hurry up.”

As soon as the Poet had spoken, Dashvara noticed that both Taw and Ged changed their expressions slightly, as if they weren’t too sure that the Honyrs would actually come to their aid. And well, who could blame them for their distrust? The Steppe Thieves, after all, had always been perceived by the Xalyas as a distant people, full of secrets, and anything but sociable with other clans. Still, after listening to Shokr Is Set’s stories, Dashvara had come to understand that their two peoples were, at heart, very similar, and he trusted the new shaard and Yira to urge the Honyrs to at least help them get out of this siege alive. He opined:

“Todakwa is a very theatrical man. It would not surprise me if he wanted to make this rebellion a lesson for his slaves. He cut us off by seizing Nanda’s village… Now all he has to do is attack.”

And flood the land with rebel blood, he added to himself with a gloomy heart. Unless Kuriag can minimize the damage and manage to get them to let us live despite everything… but there are limits. Todakwa may be willing to do a lot to win Kuriag’s favor, but he won’t act as a weak leader. Lenient maybe… but not weak.

He suppressed a grunt.

Already thinking about surrender, Dash? he snarled at himself. It’s one thing to not be as stubborn as your lord father and another to start flapping your wings at the slightest sound. To run away or surrender now would be to throw yourself into the mouth of the wolf.

At that moment, he met Zorvun’s dark eyes and realized that he was nervously smoothing his beard. He stopped, uncomfortable, and the captain cleared his throat.

“Let’s go see Zefrek,” he suggested. Dashvara nodded, and as he walked down the dusty street, the captain added, lowering his voice, “You know? You should be a little more… how shall I put it, indignant about not being kept informed by the pirate. This is starting to get insulting.”

Dashvara pouted.

“It is,” he admitted. “I was thinking… maybe Zefrek thinks that giving us more attention would be detrimental to his charisma.”

The captain let out a dull laugh.

“Zefrek is losing his authority among his people for other, more obvious reasons,” he assured. “This young man could be a good leader, but he lacks experience. And, in a situation like this, it is understandable that a warrior would rather follow a veteran than a novice.”

Dashvara nodded, looking grim.

“You mean Lifdor.”

“Right,” Zorvun confirmed. “That man lost his reputation by resigning himself to being enslaved, but now he’s getting it back and… truthfully, if he can get his clan in order, it can’t hurt us.”

Dashvara did not reply. He preferred not to talk about Lifdor. The name alone irked him. Although he didn’t trust Zefrek completely, he would have preferred that he didn’t delegate decisions to this savage chieftain.

By the time they reached the Shalussi headquarters, the atmosphere was restless, and the arrival of the Xalyas went largely unnoticed. Anger and worry vibrated in the air. No wonder, for these Shalussis had companions and relatives in the village of Nanda, and now they had to wonder what the Essimean had done with them. A burly, gray-haired man sat outside Zefrek’s hut, a crossbow bolt still stuck in his leg and his clothes bloody. At that moment, Dashvara heard him refuse the blanket that was handed to him with a sharp gesture and insist in a deep voice:

“I couldn’t see everything. I was patrolling the northern area. By the time I galloped into the village, those bastards had already devastated everything. If I had been there from the beginning, I would have fought to the last drop of my blood, have no doubt.”

As the Shalussis hissed curses against the Essimeans, Dashvara detailed Fushek’s face curiously. Nanda’s master-at-arms was noticeably skinnier than the last time he’d seen him, and the rebellion, the injury, the flight on horseback had clearly exhausted him, but he nonetheless exuded a powerful force of rectitude and confidence. Remembering the beating Fushek had given him the first time they’d fought with training swords, Dashvara thought with amusement that, while outsiders might admire the elegance of Xalya close combat, the Shalussis’ was, frankly, more practical and less risky.

“You,” Fushek said suddenly.

The sudden silence that followed this word snapped Dashvara out of his thoughts. He then noticed that the master-at-arms had stood up despite his injury and was glaring at him. His lips managed to relax to spit out:

“You Xalya traitor murderer. You killed Nanda of Shalussi, and you dare to approach these honorable men?” His voice reflected anger and disbelief. He drew his sword in one swift motion, roaring, “You should be dead!”

Dashvara felt his brothers tense up and put their hands on the pommels of their swords. Alarmed, he abruptly raised a hand.

“Calm yourself, brothers. He won’t do anything,” he assured in Common Tongue.

At that moment, he saw how Zefrek, alerted by the voices, promptly exited the headquarters. The young Shalussi analyzed the situation at a glance and stepped forward, intervening:

“Fushek! The Xalyas are here to fight for freedom just like us.”

Fushek’s eyes flashed.

“His own son,” he growled in a hoarse voice. “Is his own son capable of fighting side by side with his father’s murderer? If, at least, he had killed him in a duel, but no!” He waved his saber angrily at Dashvara. “This man posed as a Shalussi. For two weeks, he stayed in my village, feigning like a snake to treacherously attack Nanda with the help of a whore.” This time, he really spat towards Dashvara, irate. “The Xalyas are incapable of accepting defeat and do not deserve the mercy we have shown them. After Nanda’s death, nothing but misfortunes happened. The death of innocent people. You Xalya rat,” he croaked. “Perhaps I will die fighting the Essimeans, but I will never agree to fight alongside such vermin. I would rather die than ally myself with a scoundrel.” His lips twisted. “Look at him! He can’t even defend himself and explain how a warrior can stoop to such vileness.”

Dashvara restrained himself from rolling his eyes or putting on an expression of disbelief and tried to remain impassive. Clearly, so much desert sun had not done this good man any good, he thought, trying to relax. He took a quick glance around. The Shalussis, friendly in the morning, seemed to have completely changed their attitude and were now looking at him with contempt. Without even touching the pommel of his swords, fully aware that he and his brothers were in a very bad position surrounded like this, Dashvara replied:

“I admit it was a villainy, Fushek. But Zaadma had nothing to do with it…” Fushek let out a contemptuous snort, and Dashvara hesitated. He thought to explain that the reason he had done all this was to obey his lord father’s orders even if it meant going against his own Eternal Bird. But he held back. The Shalussis could see him as a scoundrel if they wanted but never as a son who washed his honor over his own father’s. Finally, he concluded, “The past is the past. Our clans have been enemies, but they have no reason to be anymore. In the last three years, we have all suffered because of the Essimeans. And it seems to me that, at the moment, Todakwa is a more pressing problem.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Lifdor interjected. Surrounded by his most loyal men, the Shalussi leader took a few steps forward. “But, given that you have only eighteen warriors and we have two hundred and twenty… your presence doesn’t exactly help us. Zefrek’s hospitality has its limits. Your people use up our food, distract my men, and don’t work hard enough. Except for your doctor,” he gestured with his chin at the drow who was cautiously approaching Fushek, “the others are dead weight to Lamasta. I think they should play a part in the defense as well.”

Dashvara stared at him with a mixture of irritation and amazement.

“And with which weapons?” he replied.

“With rocks, rubble… I’d improvise something,” the Shalussi leader assured. “Given their lack of experience, they wouldn’t be much help, but we could use the faster kids to retrieve the arrows and send messages.”

Dashvara clenched his jaws. Was he really suggesting sending children into the middle of a battlefield to retrieve arrows? He suppressed a low growl.

This Shalussi believes that we Xalyas are, as the Federates would say, Doomed flesh. Damned scoundrel.

The answer was simple, so he didn’t hesitate and shook his head, saying:

“I am sorry, but I refuse to let you use my people in this way, Lifdor.”

The Shalussi leader’s eyes smiled, mocking.

“I thought so. Well. If it’s like that, you won’t mind going back to the shelter Zefrek lent you and letting us clan members talk in peace.”

Dashvara suppressed a grimace at his dismissal and nodded, feigning a calmness he didn’t feel at all.

“But of course,” he said.

He glanced at Zefrek’s dark face, met Fushek’s even darker gaze, and without further ado bowed his head curtly, turned his back on them, and left, returning with his brothers to the shelter, feeling the renewed hostility of the Shalussis upon him. The conversation had been a disaster. Not only had he failed to propose a negotiation plan to continue delaying Todakwa’s attack, but Lifdor had made it clear to him in front of his men that the Xalyas were there only thanks to his generosity and that it was better that they keep quiet. And all Dashvara could do was bow his head. He sighed inwardly.

Liadirlá, may the Honyrs come quickly…

A glance at his brothers informed him that Lifdor’s change in attitude worried them as much as it did him. Except for one of them: to his surprise, he saw that the captain was smiling. Faced with Dashvara’s questioning expression, Zorvun blurted out:

“Let’s rejoice, boys. Lifdor has given us the perfect excuse not to fight on the front lines. It will give us time to think. And time, my son, is the unarmed man’s greatest weapon.”

He patted Dashvara on the shoulder, and Dashvara coughed and smiled.

“Your optimism puts my mind at rest, Captain. Though, frankly, I’m out of ideas,” he admitted, stopping in front of the shelter. “This isn’t a typical clan fight where only a few die, we steal some loot, and make peace. Todakwa has Titiaka’s backing, a well-equipped army, plus explosives and all… He’s not going to negotiate.”

The captain walked into the shelter, replying:

“Let’s not rule out any possibilities. We still hold his brother prisoner, plus eighteen Essimean warriors, it’s not small matter. As long as they’re in Lamasta, Todakwa won’t dare push too hard.”

“But he won’t back down either,” Yodara pointed out. “Even with the arrival of the Honyrs. He will not leave without crushing the rebellion.”

“And even less so with the support of the Federates,” Sashava conceded, and he raised one of his crutches to tap Dashvara on the calf as he said, “If you ask me, boy, we should make sure the Honyrs are on their way, and if they are, try to breach to them. We’ll get nowhere by staying here putting up with this Shalussi scum.”

Dashvara nodded, fully in agreement, and turned to the Xalyas in the shelter; while some were looking at him out of the corner of their eyes, others stared openly at him with obvious expectation… Dashvara swallowed. Once, long ago, his father had told him that a good lord should be able to allay the fears of his people and allow them to understand his actions. He remembered that he had asked him then why they should understand; were they not men of the same Dahars? Didn’t they owe loyalty to their lord anyway? Lord Vifkan had nodded solemnly as he replied, Of course they owe me loyalty, but loyalty is earned with trust, my son. The Xalya lord leads the Dahars of his people and he must be strong. He must show at all times that he is a worthy reflection of the Eternal Birds of his people.

A worthy reflection… Well, Dashvara now understood how difficult it was to make decisions for an entire people. And he understood that he wasn’t born to do this. Because otherwise he wouldn’t have been standing there, motionless and mute in front of his people, his heart pounding with indecision and fear and with the shameful urge to gallop out of there… would he? He wished to do all he could for his people, of course, but as a man, as the man he had always been, not as a lord whose role he was far from understanding and who was supposed to get a whole people out of a deadly trap alive and with the Dahars intact.

Makarva slid in front of him, his expression worried.

“Dash? Are you okay?”

Dashvara gave his friend an absorbed look, mumbled something unintelligible by way of assent, made a vague, embarrassed gesture, turned, and walked out of the shelter.

Damn coward.

He strode toward the horse pen, growling inwardly:

Worse than that. A fool. If your own people frighten you, lord of the steppe, go back to Matswad, make yourself a pirate, and get busy boarding ships and freeing slaves. These will not frighten you, because you don’t know them, do you? Because they don’t expect you to do anything for them.

He snorted loudly and, leaning on the fence, exchanged a look with Sunrise. The mare approached and gently nudged him with her nose while Dashvara ran a hand through her white mane, between her ears.

“You are right, daâra,” he told her in Oy’vat after a silence. “There’s nothing worse than having a philosopher lord.”

The horse seemed to smile at him, and a voice behind him said in an amused tone:

“Of course there are worse things than that. Having an unconscious young man blinded by power would be far worse.” Rolling his eyes, Dashvara turned to see the captain approach and add, “Or a man capable of sending children to retrieve lost arrows. Or a man unable to doubt his own actions at a time when it is vital to do so.” He leaned against the fence and concluded with a shake of his head, “See? We Xalyas cannot complain about our lord.”

Dashvara shrugged.

“Well, I’ll be the only one complaining, then.” He gave a meditative pout under the captain’s questioning gaze. “You understand… I can’t help but think that my lord father would have done things with more discernment. He would not have accepted Zefrek’s hospitality, he would have crossed the steppe, I know that, and even if some had died on the journey, others would probably have survived. And we would have walked straight to Mount Bakhia.” He sketched a smile. “In the Tower of the Eternal Bird, I told myself that, if we reached that mountain, we would be safe at last. It’s something I keep thinking about lately,” he admitted. The captain arched an eyebrow, and Dashvara made an embarrassed pout. “I know it doesn’t make any sense… What the hell would we do on that mountain? Starve, at most. But my instincts keep telling me that we need to get to that mountain.”

In fact, the persistence with which he thought about it had managed to worry him. It was as if he had pinned all his hopes on a great pile of earth and rock… a pile that was somehow sacred to the Xalyas, true, but all in all, a mere mountain. The captain received his words with an intrigued expression.

“Who knows,” he mused. “Maybe your instincts are leading us down the right path. I won’t tell you not to listen to instinct. Although, as my father used to say, don’t let the future blind you. We are still in Lamasta surrounded by Essimeans…” His gaze wandered past his lord, and Dashvara saw him squint with interest as he finished, “And it looks like there are some breaking news.”

Dashvara turned and saw that Andrek of Shalussi was approaching them at a fast pace. The brother of Rokuish rounded the paddock and stopped a few paces from the two Xalyas, unceremoniously calling out:

“A messenger from Todakwa has arrived. He proposes a diplomatic meeting, and Lifdor and Zefrek are willing to attend. But Todakwa demands the presence of the…” His lips twisted into a mocking pout as he pronounced: “lord of the steppe.”

Dashvara frowned. A diplomatic meeting? Knowing the Essimeans, this smelled like a trap.

“Where is the meeting place?” he asked.

Andrek pointed to the northeast.

“When Zefrek leaves, he will blow the horn.”

He was already about to walk away when the captain called out:

“Wait. How many men can go with him?”

Andrek shrugged.

“No one specified anything, but… since this is a diplomatic meeting, I suppose it’s not appropriate to bring too many. Besides, I don’t think Zefrek would allow anything to happen to your leader.” He hesitated, and his eyes alternated between the two of them before he added, “From what the messenger said, there are going to be other guests at this meeting.”

Dashvara straightened up at the good news and smiled.

“Thank you.”

Andrek nodded and left. Dashvara watched him walk away with a mixture of impatience and concern. More guests… It could only be the Honyrs. Or the Akinoas, he corrected himself. He shook his head, and before the captain could comment, he said cheerfully:

“On second thought, I don’t think it’s a trap, and that means there’s not going to be an attack today. That’s good news.” He paused, thoughtful. “I’m curious as to what Todakwa wants to tell us.”

He clicked his tongue at Sunrise and, after opening the gate to the paddock, took the reins of his horse. He didn’t even need help getting on her back, proof that his arm was beginning to be not totally useless anymore.

“I hope you’re not thinking of going alone,” the captain coughed after quietly watching him move around.

Dashvara tugged on the reins and hesitated before admitting:

“Hm-no. Warn Lumon and Sirk Is Rhad. They will accompany me.” As the captain pouted, clearly displeased that he had only planned to have two men escort him, Dashvara observed, “Right now, there’s more danger in Lamasta than out there. And if Todakwa has planned to trap us…” he shrugged, “well, we already are trapped, aren’t we? I’ll be back alive, Captain, I promise.”

Zorvun frowned, but eventually nodded.

“You better.”

And he disappeared into the shelter to warn the Archer and the Honyr. Zefrek soon sounded the horn, and nearly all the Xalyas and Shalussis watched the little procession depart. There were nineteen in all. Sixteen warriors, Zefrek, a Shalussi sage named Meyda, and the lord of the steppe. Lifdor had remained in Lamasta as the relief leader, perhaps secretly hoping that Todakwa would liquidate Zefrek, allowing him to replace Zefrek for good… or perhaps not. Who knows what this Shalussi might have in mind. Maybe those thoughts were too twisted even for him. Maybe. But Dashvara didn’t trust him at all.

As they rode across the vast expanse of grass toward a wing of the Essimean army, Zefrek positioned himself beside him. The last three days had not gone well for him. His face was tense and dry, he had dark circles under his eyes… If he’d seen a Xalya with that look, Dashvara could only say: go to sleep, brother. With a face like that, he would inspire more pity and mockery in the Essimean than fear. Even Dashvara felt pity. The young pirate had thought himself very clever in obtaining weapons from the Dazbonians, he had initiated the rebellion, he had reclaimed the Shalussi territory in a matter of days… Until then, everything had been overwhelming victories, and now that he saw defeat approaching at the hands of the Essimean power, loyalties were waning, trust was wavering… and Zefrek was sinking.

Dashvara suppressed a compassionate pout. He found it stupidly comforting that, while he had no experience as a leader, Zefrek had even less.

The Shalussi then broke the silence.

“When you spoke with Fushek… you didn’t give him the real reason why you killed my father.”

Dashvara said nothing, and Zefrek continued:

“A son’s duty is also essential among the Shalussis. Mine should have been to kill you. But I didn’t.”

“You tried,” Dashvara replied with a hint of amusement in his voice.

Zefrek grimaced.

“I did. But in a way that makes me ashamed today. The past is the past, as you well said…” Dashvara nodded calmly, and Zefrek added, “But it is also the present. Fushek is right. My honor depends on this revenge. I betrayed my father when I promised not to kill you and when I allied myself with the Xalyas.”

He paused, and Dashvara gave him a confused look. What was he getting at by speaking to him with such frankness?

“I’m curious to know,” Zefrek admitted. “What would you have done in my place?”

Dashvara arched an eyebrow.

“If you had killed my father and spared my life for trying to take yours?” The young pirate nodded, and Dashvara pondered for a moment. He shrugged and gave him a sardonic smile. “I would think of other things, like doing everything I can to save my people and free them from the Essimean clutches… Fixing my people’s problems before my own. Out of curiosity, what would you have done if the Xalyas had destroyed your clan and your father had ordered you to kill the Xalya leader and his children?”

Zefrek’s tired eyes sparkled. He was silent for a moment before answering:

“I wouldn’t even need an express order.”

Dashvara nodded, and the conversation ended there. They had resolved absolutely nothing… but at least it was clear to those around them that the issue of honor between them was a complex one: both were right to have acted as they had, and both had decided to make peace… For the moment, the alliance still stood, which was all that mattered.

They came to the foot of a small elevation. Up there was the meeting point, a point supposedly equidistant from the two camps. As they climbed the hill, Dashvara could not help but notice that, in reality, it was significantly closer to the Essimean camp.

Todakwa was already there with his personal guard, as was Kuriag Dikaksunora with the Ragails. As he reached the top of the hill, Dashvara surveyed the area and could see a line of horsemen approaching from the north. They were little more than sixty or so. From a distance, they might have looked like Essimeans, since they were all dressed in black. But they wore scarves covering their faces, and the mere way they rode identified them as Steppe Thieves. The joy of seeing them at last made Dashvara forget the rather small number of riders, and he exchanged a broad, hopeful smile with Lumon and Sirk Is Rhad before turning again to follow the progress of the Honyrs. At the head of the line came two riders, one hefty, the other slender. Dashvara fixed his eyes on the latter feeling a flash of emotion welling up in his chest. It was Yira, wasn’t it? It had to be her. Yes, it was her! His heart confirmed it before his eyes. For a moment, he forgot all about Todakwa and, guessing that the Essimeans would not let them all get any closer than they had to, he rode out to meet them. It seemed to him that months had passed since he had seen his naâsga. When she dismounted with Shokr Is Set, he did the same and strode towards the Honyrs with a broad smile.

“You are a thousand times welcome!” he said in a deep Oy’vat voice.

Shokr Is Set replied:

“We would be more if we had arrived earlier. And there aren’t many of us… But we all come with the desire to help.”

“Thanks to you, Great Sage,” Dashvara said, moved. “And to all of you for coming,” he added, bowing to the riders who had stayed a few steps behind.

“The pleasure is all ours, Dash!” Zamoy replied in a loud, teasingly voice, as the Honyrs responded ceremoniously by bowing their heads in turn from their mounts. “I hear you did another makarvary in Aralika. Liadirlá, what you want is to scare us to death, cousin! How are my brothers?”

“They’re all fine,” Dashvara assured, and he bowed to the Honyrs again. “May the Eternal Bird bless you.”

He watched the Honyrs with the same intensity with which they watched him; it was the first time he had seen so many Steppe Thieves. They gave off those very same legendary mysterious vibes that Dashvara had admired as a child. And it was not only because of the black scarves: they rode with the pride of some steppian kings… and, at the same time, they looked like shadows from the past. He tried to guess, in spite of their veiled faces, whether there was a leader among these warriors who was willing to speak, someone who represented them… but no one spoke. Then he resumed:

“Honyrs, thank you for hosting the Xalya women who traveled to your lands, you have my gratitude. I would have preferred our meeting to take place in a quieter place but… Anyway, I hope we can talk more soon.” Then he spotted the teenager that was approaching them, pulling the reins of his horse with his one hand, and he added with a smile, “Good work, Tinan.”

The young Xalya blushed with satisfaction. Dashvara looked around for Api, but saw him nowhere, and deciding that he would worry about this demon later, he finally turned to Yira. Her eyes scanned the Essimeans with a strange intensity, but as Dashvara approached, the sursha raised her gaze to him, and lowered it with amusement when he bowed respectfully and kissed her gloved hand.

“Ayshat, naâsga. A thousand thanks for coming back safe and sound and bringing hope with you,” he said in common.

Yira rolled her eyes and whispered:

“I felt like an undead without you, Dashvara of Xalya.”

Dashvara widened his eyes and laughed.

“Careful, naâsga, that’s Xalya humor,” he warned her. He kissed her forehead covered by the black scarf and whispered, “It was I who felt like an undead without you. Your absence is worse than red snake venom,” he assured her. “But I am alive again now. It remains to be seen for how long,” he confessed casually, and he turned to the Essimeans, saying, “Now I have hope. Maybe a horse will just fall from the sky on Todakwa’s head, and he’ll finally leave us alone. That would be perfect.”

Yira laughed quietly, slightly tense. By now, all eyes were on Todakwa. The Essimean leader had already started a conversation with Zefrek, and it would have been natural for him to join them… but Dashvara did not approach them immediately. He left his horse in the care of his brothers and took advantage of the moment to ask the most important thing:

“Great Sage. How many days on horseback is the Honyr territory?”

“About five days at a brisk pace,” Shokr Is Set replied.

Five, Dashvara repeated to himself.

“How many others do you think would be willing to take up arms?”

Shokr Is Set gave him a curious look.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Given the short time we had to convince them, and given that it’s not easy to reach all the families in the clan… fifty-six volunteers is more than I expected at first. It’s also true that in winter, they don’t have much else to do. But it’s understandable that many of the warriors didn’t want to leave their lands unprotected.”

Which means that we will hardly get more, Dashvara completed. He did not lose hope. That fifty-six Honyrs were willing to leave their lands to help a people of the Eternal Bird they had previously looked down upon was rather miraculous. Shokr Is Set must have been really convincing. And so must have been his naâsga.

Dashvara watched Todakwa’s and Zefrek’s movements for a few moments before taking a breath and saying:

“Well, let’s go.”

And with a quiet walk, accompanied by Shokr Is Set and Yira, he made his way towards the meeting. As he approached, his eyes met those of Todakwa. He gave him a defiant, mocking look.

If you lay a trap for us now, you rotten rat, I’ll send you go meet Skâra Itself…