100. Night of Immortality

Apparently, the Night of Immortality did not impose peaceful laws like the Alkanshe, for the Essimeans planned to surround the Titiakas’ house that very night. Still exhausted, Dashvara took advantage of the last hours of the day to sleep. He awoke several times from nightmares and, for a moment, feared that his mind would relapse, but the closeness of his people gave him strength to put aside any concerns other than the impending betrayal. Betrayal? Yes, betrayal to the treacherous invaders.

It was past midnight, but religious music and songs could still be heard throughout Aralika when a death-priest came to the stables on the pretext of blessing the Xalya children and asking them to recite a prayer in honor of Skâra. The children obediently responded by creating a Galka chorus, and the Xalya warriors struggled to suppress their grimaces, but they did not protest, or if they did, it was in a low voice. In any case, they soon realized that the death-priest’s purpose was not to make the children sing: as soon as the song rose in the stables, the Essimean took advantage of the noise and bowed to the captain and Dashvara, saying:

“Todakwa sends his respects to Dashvara of Xalya and reiterates his offer of peace and alliance. Accept it and our warriors will act tonight and protect your people. Todakwa gives his word.”

This time, no need for civilized scrolls, Dashvara remarked with amusement. And they were even bowing to him. That an army of Honyrs was headed for Aralika was a game-changer… He replied:

“Tell your leader that we Xalyas accept the alliance and are ready to neutralize the foreigners.”

The death-priest bowed his head again and pointed to one of his assistants.

“Myarandi will give you all the information you need about the sibilian guard and the Titiakas’ house.”

“Thank you,” Dashvara said. “Just one thing. I would like to be sure that Kuriag Dikaksunora will not be harmed. As well as his wife and the Agoskurian accompanying her, her assistant, and… the Ragails. Killing the Ragails would be a mistake. They are the elite Diumcilian guard.”

The priest hesitated.

“I believe Todakwa and your captain have already agreed on the subject.”

Dashvara arched an eyebrow, surprised, and Captain Zorvun cleared his throat.

“I must have forgotten to mention it. Todakwa said he invited them all to the Temple to witness the sacred rituals of the… er… Arazmihá. Apparently they’re going to stay there all night.”

Dashvara was confused, for he had the impression that the Captain had already told him all this. Yet he couldn’t remember. Devils. Tsu may have freed his mind from alien energies, and his people had undoubtedly given him back hope, but it hadn’t fixed his head completely… far from it. With a shudder, he nodded, feigning tranquility.

“Oh, right, you did tell me, Captain.”

“In any case,” the death-priest interjected, “as Todakwa told your captain, our objective is to stop the invaders and drive them back to Ergaika and their ships.”

Invaders, Dashvara repeated to himself mockingly. Since when had Todakwa been calling his old civilized allies “invaders”? Since the Titiakas thought of getting rid of him for the sake of their plans of conquest, certainly.

The death-priest did not stay for long, but left the man called Myarandi to answer all the technical questions and to act as a messenger. On his way out, he made a sign of blessing to the children who were continuing their religious singing under the supervision of a disciple of Skâra. As soon as the priest and the disciple were gone, Orafe grumbled in exasperation:

“You can shut up now, kids, that’s enough of that!”

The song lost its harmony and died, and silence fell in the stables. The torch at the entrance barely lit them. There was no wind, it was cold, and a blinding fog seeped in, choking the light.

They learned from Myarandi the exact number of sibilians in the camp and the number of night guards watching the courtyard and the Titiaka house. The latter had been built by the Diumcilians themselves four years ago and had, as far as Dashvara could tell, all the amenities of a typical Titiaka house… not to mention the underground torture chamber, he thought wryly. The Essimeans would take care of the camp’s forces, leaving the Xalyas to neutralize the house’s guard of about thirty men and arrest the citizens and workers inside the building.

“The weapons will be here soon,” Myarandi assured. “The attack will take place two hours before dawn. The house will burn and those inside will have to come out.”

The Essimeans and their fire tactics… Dashvara thanked him for his explanations and inwardly hoped he wouldn’t forget them the next minute. Tension hung in the air. Some of his people were still convinced that Todakwa was setting a trap for them; they didn’t trust him, and that was understandable: three years of servitude at the hands of the Essimeans had scarred them for life. On the other hand, other Xalyas seemed even more willing to accept an alliance with them than their brothers on the Border. Dashvara could feel it. And yet, he knew that none of them were going to spit on what looked to be the salvation of their clan. Dashvara smiled.

A few more hours and you will have your freedom, lord of the steppe. A few more hours and you won’t have to fight anymore.

How many times had he said the same thing to himself! And how many times had he had to suffer a disappointment. But a disappointment was always better than nothing. It was better to walk and receive blows than to remain passive forever.

The steppe is vast, but if you keep riding, you’ll get everywhere, he thought with conviction.

The Ragails and sibilians may have been watching the stables just in case, but they didn’t know Aralika’s secrets. Among other things, the ancient Kark Is Set had many tunnels under the city. At one point, they heard a faint sound against a trap door hidden under a thin layer of earth, and Dashvara straightened up to see the boards lift and reveal, amidst the shadows, the figure of an Essimean. He came out and, not recognizing the Xalya leader in the darkness of the night, he bowed randomly and said in a low voice:

“Todakwa keeps his word.”

Other Essimeans were coming up, carrying bags. They brought weapons. Almost without making a sound, they laid their burdens on the ground, and the one who had arrived first said:

“Todakwa has asked me to guide those of you who will not fight to safety.”

Dashvara nodded. That was decided. He gestured, and the women and children began to descend through the hatch. The boys over fourteen had stubbornly stayed, and Dashvara had eventually accepted them, making them promise to follow his instructions to the letter. Some of the women who had led a more nomadic than sedentary life in Xalya and had learned to wield spears and bows also stayed. Aligra was not one of them… but she had expressed her desire to join them and Dashvara had not dared to say no. That Xalya had a way of getting what she wanted with a simple look.

In total, seventy-two of them remained, which was more than enough to defeat the Titiaka guard with Essimean help. The thought of killing these sibilians saddened Dashvara, because, all things considered, they were mere slaves who had given their lives for their families… But he wasn’t going to let them take away the lives of his own.

As the Xalyas worked silently to distribute weapons, one Essimean wavered, undecided, two blades sheathed in his hands. He scanned the faces until his gaze fell on Dashvara. Then he stepped forward, and Dashvara sensed more than one of his brothers turning, wary, to watch the Essimean’s movements. The latter bowed as he presented the two weapons:

“The Arazmihá sends these swords to the lord of the Xalyas.”

He bowed more deeply than any other Essimean, probably because this was a matter in which the Arazmihá in person was involved. Dashvara grabbed one of the weapons and understood that Yira had just sent him Siranaga’s black swords. By some means, she had managed to retrieve them from Arviyag, thanks to Todakwa probably. The best part of this gift is knowing it came from you, naâsga… Smiling, Dashvara accepted the swords, saying:

“Tell the Arazmihá that tonight these swords will dance together as our Eternal Birds.”

The Essimean bowed his head and soon disappeared through the trapdoor with his companions. They had done all of this so quietly that the Federates had not bothered to look in the stables. Dashvara girded his sabers as he approached the entrance. He came to where Lumon was standing guard and leaned over to look out to the southwest. In the fog, the torchlight of the sibilian camp, not much more than a hundred paces away, was barely visible. By the time the sibilians realized, the steppians would have fallen on them.

About three hours before dawn, instruments and songs could still be heard in the town square. A moment later, a young messenger appeared through the hatch, and the Xalyas led him to Dashvara in the dark.

“It is time,” the messenger declared in a whisper. “All are at their posts and ready to attack. I must guide you to your position.”

Dashvara frowned.

“Is Kuriag Dikaksunora still in the Temple?”

“In the Tower,” the guide corrected to his astonishment. “After the rituals of the Arazmihá, Todakwa has just invited him to contemplate the constellations above the mist atop the Feather. We don’t betray in the Temple. It is a sacred place.”

Mmph, and the Tower of the Eternal Bird is not? Dashvara shrugged, and the guide added:

“The Ragails are at the foot of the Tower except for the two who were standing guard out here: two of our own neutralized them,” he informed.

Dashvara tensed.

“Dead?”

“No,” he assured. “Unconscious. Ah, Todakwa doesn’t answer for the safety of the Ragail guard, but he assures that the Dikaksunora and his wife will suffer no harm.”

Dashvara sighed.

“Good.”

“I must lead you to your position,” the guide repeated with some impatience. “We must act quickly, for the wind will soon rise, and it will blow away the fog.”

Dashvara nodded.

“Well, let’s go.”

After scanning the darkness again, he waved, and Miflin extinguished the torch at the entrance. Grabbing the spears, they marched out in a line, the veterans in front and the younger men behind. They left only Sashava and a boy in the stables to watch over the horses and Tsu: the drow was still in a deep sleep, and it didn’t look like he would wake up all night.

The Essimean guide led them around the sibilian settlement, down a street to the north, and then out past the Titiakas’ house. The lights of the camp were visible, but not much more could be seen through the dense fog. The festive music and religious chants continued to drown out any noise that might betray them. The guide stopped, approached a figure in the mist, and for a terrible moment, Dashvara imagined that this had all been a set-up to highlight yet another betrayal by the Xalyas and force Kuriag to execute them all… But then there was an obvious cry of pain from the other side of the sibilian camp. The Essimeans were attacking. Dashvara squinted at the night and wondered how the hell they could fight in this darkness when suddenly there was thundering noise with a flash of light, followed by high flames… then more thundering flashes and more flames.

“Devils,” Dashvara muttered.

The Essimeans were using explosive discs against the sibilians to confuse and separate them. And they had just set fire to the roof of the Titiakas’ house. After listening for a few moments to the chaos of shouting and clashing, Dashvara reacted.

“Uh… Captain? Shouldn’t we be attacking?”

Zorvun took a moment to reply, and when he did, it was to comment calmly:

“The Essimeans are real snakes.” He said it in an impressed, not reproving tone. He paused and admitted, “Yes, I suppose it is our turn to attack. The Essimeans are leaving us a clear path to get to the home guards. And, by the way, Dashvara: stay back and see that the boys don’t advance any further than they have to.”

Dashvara nodded, the captain barked orders, Yodara repeated them, and the Xalyas approached the house. The sibilian guard was clearly visible from the flames rising from the house. There were about thirty of them, as expected. Once they were close enough, the Xalyas started running and shouting like savages, roaring in unison:

“XALYAS!”

The front line threw the javelins, the sibilian formation broke, and the Xalyas attacked with spears and sabers without ceasing to shout.

Obediently, Dashvara stayed between his brothers and the younger ones, making sure that the latter did not give in to their desire to imitate their elders and merely had their backs. From his position, he could see two sibilians trying to open the door to the courtyard of the house, but to no avail. Clearly, the brave Titiakas had locked themselves inside, leaving their soldiers with only one option: to fight. Seeing a sibilian fleeing the fight and running towards them blindly, Dashvara raised his black swords. In one motion, he wounded him, the sibilian rolled to the ground, and only then did Dashvara realize that he was unarmed. He was about to finish him off when a thought held him back. On his sword, wasn’t it written “Life Saver”?

But you do save them, Dash. You are saving some of them…and killing others.

The sibilian on the ground watched death come, unmoved. There was a mixture of resignation and immense fatigue in his eyes, but not a hint of fear. You can’t fear death when you think you’ve lived through it for eight years. Dashvara understood him so well… He shook his head and drew away his sabers before vociferating:

“Surrender if you want to live, slaves of Titiaka!”

Surprise shone in the eyes of the downed sibilian. Dashvara perceived his slight assent. He was surrendering. Perfect. Dashvara stepped aside and, seeing a group of young Xalyas who had come forward, he told them in an authoritative voice:

“Boys, get back! Don’t throw yourselves into battle. Search the man. He’s surrendered.”

In fact, the battle was over very quickly. The sibilian guards knew that they had lost, their companions in the camp were fleeing in disarray… At Dashvara’s request, the Xalyas repeated:

“Surrender!”

And finally, to everyone’s relief, the sibilians surrendered. It was a surprise in a way, but a good one. Dashvara counted them. There were thirty in all: none had escaped. Of the fifteen or so on the ground, more than one had suffered fatal wounds. Even in their agony, they managed to keep their faces inexpressive, Dashvara observed, impressed and glum at the same time.

“Don’t try to run and we’ll let you live,” he clamored loudly for the survivors.

None of the sibilians said a word or moved, not even when Orafe cut short the suffering of one of their own before their eyes. Makarva stopped beside Dashvara to inform him.

“We have some wounded, but nothing serious,” he announced, and he grimaced wearily as he admitted, “It’s kind of sickening to think we’re killing each other among slaves.”

Dashvara arched an eyebrow.

“Slaves?” he repeated. “We’re not slaves anymore, Mak. We’re free.”

Makarva opened his mouth, confused, and smiled.

“Right, Dash. We’re free.”

Dashvara sheathed the sabers and glanced at the flames rising from the Titiakas’ house. He observed:

“If I were them, I would get out quickly, unless they want to burn to death.”

“Devils die in fire,” Zamoy grumbled.

Yes, Dashvara conceded mentally. And yet, he couldn’t stop remembering that Titiaka priest who had forgiven him the day before… That priest didn’t deserve to die in the flames. He was an intelligent man who had even shown unmistakable compassion for him by guessing what Arviyag had done to him… Compassion for the compassionate, he affirmed inwardly. Yes. If it were possible, he would let this benevolent man live. And he would expel and send all his companions back to where they came from.

After removing the prisoners from the house and leaving them with the Essimean with a promise to treat them with respect, the Xalyas set about forcing open the main door while the Essimean patrols still surrounded the house. Meanwhile, the Titiaka workers managed to put out the fire, and all that could be seen was the flames from the torches that surrounded the building. The wind had picked up, clearing the fog, and the sky was already turning blue when the door finally broke. The Xalyas and Essimeans flooded into the courtyard of the house like a tide. The servants made no attempt to resist and surrendered immediately. The Titiaka citizens, on the other hand, defended themselves and entrenched themselves on the first floor. At the foot of a staircase in the courtyard, Dashvara bellowed:

“Put down your weapons, Titiakas! In the name of your Eternal Bird, put down your weapons!”

There was no more wild shouting in the courtyard. The workers had all gathered in a corner and were not making any noise, the Xalyas were searching the rooms on the ground floor, and the thirty or so Essimeans who had followed them were busy plundering everything before setting fire to all the furniture. Eventually, they all came out, and the Titiaka citizens, surrounded by flames, were forced to surrender. At last. The steppians saw them come out of the broken door, scorched, with various expressions that ranged from pure terror to the deepest hatred.

Dashvara sighed and turned to see the first rays of sunlight illuminating the steppe. It was a bloody day, both in the sky and on the ground. The sibilian camp had been ravaged by fire. Few of the tents had not been reduced to ashes, and between them the Essimeans dragged the corpses of the defeated to pile them in one place. In comparison, Essimean losses were minimal. And ours even more so, Dashvara rejoiced.

“Let’s take them to Todakwa!” an Essimean warrior shouted.

The Titiakas numbered more than thirty in all. Some were young, some not so young. Some were merchants, some were simple travelers, and some were adventurers who had come with their workers and wives to settle in the steppe and get rich… Dashvara recognized the priest from the day before. His three followers were surrounding him closely, perhaps to protect him or perhaps to make him protect them. As the line moved on, heading for the Tower of the Eternal Bird, Dashvara felt a growing restlessness in his heart.

“Where…?” he muttered.

Demons. Where the hell were Arviyag and Paopag? He spotted Garag in line, and without thinking, he stepped forward, grabbed him by the collar of his cloak, and pulled him out of line with a growl:

“Where’s Arviyag?” The citizen looked in shock and let himself be shaken for a few seconds without uttering a word as Dashvara barked, “Your cousin, damn you. Where is that assassin?”

Finally, the diplomat stammered:

“I-I don’t know. I swear I don’t know…”

Dashvara gave him an angry expression and let go, annoyed. Had he stayed inside the building? If so, at this point, he must have turned into a pile of ashes. But if, by some means, he had managed to escape, then… Liadirlá, then…

A shout drew him from his thoughts. He turned abruptly to see Youk running like a hare towards his clan. Hell, shouldn’t the boy have stayed with the rest of the Xalyas? However, his exasperation vanished and was replaced by a chilling fear when he realized why one of the Xalya boys had screamed: Youk had blood on his hands. The child came huffing and puffing and shouted hurriedly:

“My lord, my lord!”

He reached Dashvara and grabbed him by the sleeve, staining it with blood. Dashvara’s anxiety soared.

“Breathe, Youk. What happened?” he asked.

The boy was breathing heavily. He blurted out:

“Sashava is hurt and so is Okuvara, you must come to them!”

He pulled him by the sleeve, and livid, Dashvara hurried off to the stables with his brothers. When they arrived, more than one Essimean had gathered there, Tsu had woken up, and he and a priest were both trying to save Okuvara. The boy had a long cut on his back, he had bled a lot and was lying on the ground, unconscious. As for Sashava… Dashvara felt his heart clench as he saw the old Xalya lying on his back, his eyes open and fixed and his hand barely a span away from where one of his crutches had fallen. The crutches Dashvara had made for him at the Border. They had not helped him to defend himself.

He knelt by the body, and the captain did the same, his expression grave and mournful.

“Your Eternal Bird has guided you to your last breath, old friend,” Zorvun whispered.

He took off his glove and reached out to close Sashava’s eyelids. With moist eyes, Dashvara said in a deep, trembling voice:

“You died a free man, Sashava of Xalya. Ayshat for having lived this far with us.”

“Ayshat,” his brothers repeated in a low voice.

Dashvara looked at the fatal wound for a few seconds: it had been caused by a dagger. By Arviyag’s or Paopag’s? Who could tell, but knowing that Paopag had once stabbed a man in the back in Dazbon…

And what does it matter, Dash: you’ll kill them both, anyway.

He stood up silently, bowed his head stiffly, and walked to the back of the stables with a dull anger in his body. Anger at Arviyag, but also at himself for not leaving more Xalyas in the stables. Leaving a child and an invalid had been foolish. And he guessed that Captain Zorvun must be blaming himself for the same thing right now. However, what was done was done: Arviyag had simply signed his death.

He looked around at all the mounts and saw that Arviyag had stolen two steppian horses, leaving his great white Agoskurian horse behind. Boron’s horse and Alta’s horse, no more and no less. He heard Alta’s indignant imprecation as he became aware of the fact. He shook his head and, stroking Sunrise’s forehead, whispered to him:

“Arviyag is dead, daâra.” He closed his fist then opened it, suddenly calming down as he stated, “Dead.”

His mare huffed and puffed, guessing that she would finally be able to get out of her prison. Dashvara stared at the saddle, and when he took the reins, he found that most of his brothers had followed suit. They didn’t need words. He tugged on Sunrise’s reins and only stopped at the entrance to glance at Tsu and the injured boy. The drow was so focused on tending to him that he preferred not to disturb him, and without further ado, they exited the stables, mounted, and rode away.

The first thing they did was to ask the Essimean if they had found a trail indicating where the two Titiakas might have gone. They spent a good while circling around without getting any reliable information, until a dozen Essimean riders approached; Dashvara recognized Ashiwa among them.

“Hail to you, Xalyas!” the Essimean shouted. Dashvara bowed his head briefly, and Ashiwa added, “Our sentries say that two horsemen dressed in Essimean clothes crossed the river about half an hour ago. Todakwa saw them from the top of the tower. They headed east.”

“East?” Captain Zorvun repeated, surprised. “I would have thought they would be heading southwest, toward Ergaika.”

Ashiwa smiled.

“Arviyag must have assumed that Ergaika would not welcome him with open arms. The Titiaka Council sent a warrant for his arrest a few days ago.”

Dashvara arched his eyebrows. Really? Pff, if the Federates ordered Arviyag’s arrest, he doubted it would be for his crimes… Unless Atasiag had intervened… Yes, unless Atasiag had reached an agreement with the Yordarks and was up to some incomprehensible shenanigans of his own. He shook his head and threw out with a hint of sarcasm:

“Well, let’s go arrest him then.”

He spurred his mount to cross the river to the east, and all followed him, including Ashiwa.

They rode at a steady trot up the endless snow-covered hill. At one point, the slope became gentler still, and they could see the two riders galloping eastward past a stream which they had just crossed. They were about four miles away. Sunrise pulled on the reins, as if anxious to gallop behind them, but Dashvara held her back and watched the progress of the two Titiakas. They had just put their horses into a gallop. Dashvara suppressed a bewildered grimace. Their horses would tire and get nowhere. And to think that Arviyag was capable of trading, torturing, betraying… And he wasn’t capable of taking advantage of the two best mounts the Xalyas had.

After a while, the Titiakas’ mounts slowed down. They were no longer able to sustain any gallop. The Xalyas were now moving at a fast trot. As their figures drew nearer, Dashvara again calculated the distance and finally called out in a thunderous voice:

“Aswué, Xalyas!”

Death to them… They sent their horses galloping. They would catch up. Dashvara did not doubt it. When they were only a few hundred paces away, the Titiakas put their horses back into a triple gallop, and for a moment, Dashvara wondered if they had been faking… but no: soon, their horses slowed down again. Alta cried out in indignation at their mistreatment of his Alrahila, and as if sensing his indignation, the horse he had borrowed sped up even more, moving ahead of all the steppemen. The hills of Xalya were not far off, Dashvara observed. His heart was vibrating wildly, flying like Sunrise. The race frightened a band of wild horses, which fled south. Then Alta shouted:

“Yaoy-yaoy-yaoyiii!”

The Xalyas echoed the cry, and Dashvara smiled fiercely, betting that the steppe hadn’t heard such a barbaric yet magnificent howl in the last three years. Dropping the reins, Alta brought both hands to his mouth and whistled. Despite the wind, the horse keeper’s shrill whistle echoed across the steppe like the cry of an eagle. Alrahila heard it, recognized it, and reared up with a start. Arviyag lost his balance and… unaccustomed to the simple saddles the Xalyas used, he fell. Contempt filled Dashvara. Not only was he a murderer, but he couldn’t ride a horse, and he claimed to be conquering the steppe? Crazy foreigner!

Alrahila’s agitation had spread to Boron’s horse, but Paopag managed to keep himself in the saddle, pulling on the horse’s bit… Surely he was hurting it. Damned man…

Fortunately, they were already upon them. Without slowing his mount, Lumon shot an arrow at Paopag. And he hit him right in the chest. The Titiaka, however, did not fall or try to flee: his attention was fixed on his master. He had shouted something at him, Arviyag had answered, and Paopag, spitting blood, was now muttering incomprehensible things. At last, he fell, and the steppemen stopped their horses. Several Xalyas were pointing their arrows at Arviyag. Dashvara jumped down from his mount and shouted:

“Throw away that dagger, Titiaka. You won’t save your life with it.”

Arviyag had risen to his feet and was clutching his pretty dagger in a trembling fist. He had lost his elegant confidence. But that snake found it again at once when, throwing down the dagger, he replied:

“Well, savages, what are you going to do? Kill me? Nothing very difficult, but all you’ll get is more blood needlessly spilled on the steppe.”

Dashvara uncovered his teeth and asked loudly for Ashiwa:

“Is there a compelling reason to arrest him alive, Essimean?”

Ashiwa shrugged, and an amused twinkle in his eye told Dashvara that he, too, had no respect for this Titiaka. Dashvara nodded, and seeing that his aplomb had no effect, Arviyag stepped back and finally knelt down:

“You win, lord of the Xalyas. I was wrong about you. My goal was to bring peace to the steppe to enrich it and make Aralika a vibrant center of trade, but Todakwa is a traitor. He betrayed me. Just as he betrayed you three years ago by destroying your people. And he will betray you again.”

Dashvara shook his head. Unbelievable. Was he now trying to sow discord between them and the Essimeans? As he didn’t answer immediately, Arviyag thought perhaps he was on the right track, he opened his mouth to continue speaking without even glancing at his companion, his longtime slave, who was dying beside him. Dashvara didn’t let him say another word: he drew one of Siranaga’s swords with lightning speed and sliced off his head. Clean and fair.

He knelt down beside Paopag, met his gaze shining with pain, and felt a strange sadness for the man. He hated him, and at the same time, he had come to see him as his lifeline during his days of torment. It was… such an absurd feeling. But, in the end, everything about the man was absurd. Paopag was not a murderer’s soul, and at the same time he was; he was not a torturer’s soul, and how often had he had to assume that role? What he did have was the soul of a slave. Until the end, he had tried to save Arviyag. It made Dashvara’s heart ache just to think about it.

Then he saw Paopag’s lips move. He was saying something. Perhaps he was asking for a quick death? Dashvara leaned over and managed to hear the word:

“Sorry.”

Dashvara put his hand on his head, nodded, not knowing if he would ever truly forgive him, and then picked up Arviyag’s dagger, placed it over the Titiaka’s heart and gave him eternal rest. It was right that he should die with his master’s dagger, for it was his master who had led him to his death. He threw down the bloody dagger with contempt, and turning to his clan, he observed their grave but approving glances, and he uttered:

“The Eternal Bird flies on the steppe, my brothers.”

He staggered, and Lumon held him up with one arm. His mind was confused but clear at the same time because he knew he had just done the right thing. And happy and sad too. And very, very tired. He said again:

“It flies on the steppe. And freely, brothers. Freely.”

Then, turning towards the hills of Xalya, he saw a rider watching from the top of one of them. Soon another joined him. Then another…

The Honyrs had arrived.