Chapter 10:
Dreams to Ripen, Dreams to Rot
The next day was out across an almost uniform, flat landscape for many hours, a terrain mostly a breeze to scout, but also fairly boring and barren, with only occasional signs of life. Once, they spied a wild aloga herd in the distance, to the north, but the animals kept their distance. Deros inspected them as best he could with his enhanced vision, out of curiosity. They weren’t common sights around the canyon. Compared to the domesticated variety, they were smaller, furrier, and more ragged, with coloring a completely uniform match to the sand they traversed.
Though no one talked to him about the ‘future arrangement,’ Deros got some knowing looks from his sister as well as Urchon. It was not a question of if his sister would tease him about it, but when. He was afraid Daexo or Aerion would catch wind, at which point he’d never hear the end of it and probably the whole camp would know, but fortunately the women could apparently keep a secret. He was grateful — Eursett would be the real issue if she knew.
Well before Azrom would set, they came upon a slight incline and suddenly rockier terrain, with a cluster of taller jagged cliffs in the distance. As the terrain sloped back down well before the cliffs, there was something of a plateau of hard-packed sand, and in the center was a well, with three long stone troughs extending out from it. Geissa’s Well. As he understood it, the well was only a few generations old, built by the Founderfolk to open up the ease of travel and trade that had been dependent on seasonal storm drainage for countless generations before.
He noticed the party grouped up part-way down the slope before the well, and also a general hesitation in the aloga as if they in fact did not want to go down there, with significant grunts of disagreement. Enseres was no different, tossing his head and rolling his eyes around, flicking his tongue at the air and clearly not liking the taste. As Deros rode up to the others, he saw Thalamon next to Aerion, the latter holding his arm up to his nose and mouth, eyes watering and looking rather nauseated.
“Aerion says there is a foul smell about,” Thalamon declared as everyone was in range to hear. “Let’s be cautious, though it doesn’t seem like a direct threat. Obviously, only the aloga and Aerion here are particularly bothered by it.”
“I think I catch a bit of it now,” Ryza said while sniffing the air with an expression of concentration.
“And what exactly does it smell like?” Eursett asked.
Aerion had to take a moment to pull down his scarf, his face all a red grimace. Blinking his running eyes, he shook his head and said, “Gah, sorry. It hit me like a boulder when I turned my sensitivity up. It’s… I can’t rightly describe it. It is alien to me, but is… something like the scent jotaworms leave in their territory, but a thousand times stronger.”
“Jotaworms don’t have a scent,” Daexo replied, dubious.
Aerion scoffed and gestured at his friend, annoyed. “To you, loghead! There’s a world of subtlety beyond your dull senses, Daexo, trust me. If I had to describe it, it-it’s insect-like, acrid. Like vile excrement fumes fermented and concentrated. Strong. And skrófa-pólo, it is nasty!”
“Watch your mouth, boy,” Eursett admonished sharply.
“Before we camp in this vicinity,” Thalamon said loudly to squelch any further bickering, “I want the entire area thoroughly searched. For threats, potential signs of the source of this, anything. Could be a corpse somewhere. It’s further possible this is the site of the original trouble that led us this way. Whether one has anything to do with the other, I have no clue. Hopefully, we will before sundown. Get to work. Stay in pairs.”
Deros paired with Olarius, utilizing makar’osa for enhanced vision, sweeping his focus from far to close in the hopes of finding something noteworthy. Nearer to the well, he could smell the mentioned scent, as if it had originated there. It had a way of hitting suddenly, and it was nothing he’d ever smelled before. Vaguely like rot or something dead. He peered down the well but all it held was water. Hauling up a bucket did not produce a stronger scent either.
Ryza found aloga tracks on the outskirts and asked him to do a once over with his enhanced vision, but he saw nothing more than she did. Likely, they were the wild aloga they’d seen earlier in the day. Footprints were a longshot to be visible after even a few days, with the desert winds as they were.
After a couple of hours of intense staring at rocks and sand, Deros was feeling the fatigue. He was slowly walking Enseres through a smooth, sandy region up the slope, near some sparse rocky outcroppings, when his eye caught a bit of a glint from the light. When he first inspected the spot — an upraised area of rocks peeking out of the sand — he discounted it, quickly seeing numerous other subtler glints that he identified as a mix of quartz in the stone. Even a slightly different angle made the glint disappear. But he went over anyway and crouched down, to run his hand over the surface. To his surprise, there was a small piece of something, not stone at all. He picked it up to inspect it further and realized it was a piece of metal, misshapen but pure.
Standing, he spotted Thalamon and whistled loudly, meeting his eyes to wave him over. When the vaeton and several others rode up, Deros handed the metal piece up to Thalamon and said, “Found it camouflaged on the rocks here.”
Thalamon held it up and squinted at it, then grunted. “Looks much the same as the piece removed from the Bluehand’s leg.”
“They said it was like a ricochet, right?” Olarius queried, from nearby.
“Stranger things have happened,” Thalamon replied neutrally.
Deros formed makar’osa once more, to analyze the rocks nearby as close as he could, looking for an impact location.
“So what does this mean?” Ryza asked as Deros continued his search.
“It means some people this way use shoddily-manufactured sling shot,” Thalamon replied. “Bandits or raiders. And — maybe — this was where our incident involving the Bluehand happened. But I’d honestly expect to see more than this. This man was a caravaner. Where are other signs of a caravan being attacked? Could be something from longer ago.”
“Or the battle was on a smaller scale than we thought.”
“Or,” Daexo interjected, “It was picked up by some stupid bird to put in a nest somewhere, and dropped it along the way.”
Deros had moved over to the larger outcropping, beginning to circle it, while looking back to the spot of the shard, wondering if there was an angle…
“Yes, It doesn’t change much,” Thalamon said, “but at least there is some shadow of us being on the right path. If the culprits are so apparently limited in number and long gone, we have only to finish our mission in Many Sands.”
“What about the stinky matter?” Olarius asked.
“Hard to say. Some unknown exotic animal. Maybe with the bandits. Maybe completely unconnected.”
The outcropping didn’t immediately reveal a striking point, but it was a large surface. Further complicating the search was it being in the shadow of Azrom. Deros kept at it though, hoping for something to jump out at him.
Look Deeper. Further.
As he was sweeping his gaze back and forth, he suddenly felt dizzy from the action, and makar’osa slipped out of his grasp like soap in a wet hand. It evaporated as he tried to keep hold with a stubborn twist of will, and the effort made his head spin even more, in a way he hadn’t anticipated. The focus of daug’makar was quick to also blink out, completing the spiral. The feeling was bizarre, like the spinning went too far and cut itself off…
He was aware of a hand on his back. When he looked up, it was right after he realized his hands were pressed on the ground, and he’d fallen to his knees in a sequence that he entirely didn’t remember.
“Deros!” His sister had a hand at his cheek, staring at him eye-to-eye in shocked concern and fear. “Are you alright?”
He blinked a few times and noticed a cluster of others all bunched up and dismounted immediately behind her, watching. Meanwhile, Eursett and Palamera were riding hard in their direction.
Quickly, he got to his feet, despite a nonverbal protest from Ryza. She held onto him, regardless. “I’m fine,” Deros said, feeling embarrassed by the attention. “Just overdid it.”
“You’re damn right you did,” Thalamon barked, his arms crossed. “Do I have to tell you not to every time I assign you to something?”
“No, Vaeton. I don’t want to experience that again.” Whatever it was. He’d never quite been warned of such strangeness, though weakness and sudden strain had been mentioned.
One that didn’t seem concerned, nor even bothered to get off his aloga, was Daexo. He ‘tsked’ loudly. “All this nannying hubbub. Why don’t you lot give him some bloody space? Not the first time someone miscalculated, won’t be the last either. Part of being Azakan. Learning limits.”
Ryza glared over at her husband, her grip still firm around Deros’s arm. “Fainting is much more than a miscalculation. It is dangerous.”
“Like every other thing in our lives. Besides, look at him: he’s no worse for wear. Maybe I would make my noggin go pop if I did what he did, but we’re different. Hells-of-below, all Blessed are. Some, it was more like the Cursed. Some went to bed and didn’t wake up, bleeding out of their eyes, and the Hospital says their brain looked like razor blades danced inside. And I’ve heard even worse. Bodies half-melted; pain that drove a woman mad enough to throw herself off a cliff. Pretty lucky compared to that fate, eh?”
“Thank you so much, husband, conjuring such dread images when we’re talking about my brother. Also irrelevant. That doesn’t happen to the trained, but ruining one’s ability could.”
“And so it’s still luck-”
“Enough!” Thalamon commanded, and glared them both down somehow, despite being in opposite directions. At the same time, Eursett and Palamera arrived.
“What happened — is he alright?” Palamera called out anxiously, to the gathered.
“He’s fine,” Daexo said, shrugging. He then trotted off from the scene on his mount.
Ryza ignored her husband as she addressed the two Hospitallers. “He fainted, briefly. Seemed disoriented. He was pushing himself with his senses.”
Eursett didn’t say anything, just fixed her gaze on Deros like a predator to prey and stalked right up to him, putting a tattooed palm to his head and spinning that unique brand of makar’osa into his skull, soon thereafter also flipping it through the rest of his body. He tensed immediately, feeling aversion both for the act and Eursett in particular. It was not painful, but shocking, like a dunk in cold water, and like a bright flash of intensity to his farsense, even without active use. There was a feeling like a ripple up and down through him, which made his skin break out in goosebumps. Further, he always had to fight the instinct to push back, to slap it away, for some indescribable reason, though he couldn’t actually do it. His ability had nothing to do with theirs, after all.
After a few moments, Eursett released him, eyes focused downward in concentration for a moment before rising briefly to his — then her head twisted aside to address the party in general. “He is hale, but once again deprived of proper sustenance for his labors. He’s exhausted himself mentally and physically. Worse, this time. I’d suggest rest and extra rations. I’ll prepare a tea as well.”
Both Eursett and Palamera fixed him with a gaze, the former one of clinical judgment, the latter one of clinical judgment and flat-out personal vexation. Ryza rounded them out with her own frowning frustration.
I am a man rich in concerned caretakers, he thought sardonically. At least Eursett was entirely a professional one.
Instead of anything smart, he cleared his throat and said, “I apologize for all the worry, everyone. I will try to be more careful in the future.” The trio did not seem convinced.
Thalamon hopped back up on his mount. “Alright, then. We’ll make camp on the far eastern side of the well. Deros, you are not to lift a finger in labor, do you understand? I’m considering you injured until the morning. Just rest. Try to sleep early. We need you healthy and alert.”
He rode off. Olarius did the same, after nodding once to Deros in sympathy. Sympathetic, but abandoning him to his fate. Where was Aerion when he needed him?
Still wrapped around his arm, Ryza seemed to have shed her concern. Or pretended to. She reached her other to pat him on the head. “Aww… going to get pampered tonight, are you, little brother? Because you got too big for your leggies? Don’t worry, all will be cared for.”
Deros glared at her face-to-face, maintaining his dignity despite her mockery. “Would you please let go of my arm, Ryza?” The last thing he wanted to do was wrestle with her over it. Technically she’d be more in the wrong if they did, considering the circumstances.
She grinned rather mirthlessly at him, but did as requested, holding her hands palm up, briefly, before crossing her arms in front of her. Deros only briefly glanced at the others — Eursett appeared amused, shockingly, but Palamera was eying him with continuing worry. She didn’t stop him from getting up on Enseres and riding away, however.
When he arrived down on the little plateau, he saw Bariaki at the edge, looking off afar, and up. When Deros followed his gaze, he saw, barely, what looked like a bird or winged reptile in the distance. It didn’t seem that relevant. Deros dismounted and walked over to the old man, still watching it.
“What is it?” Deros asked.
Bariaki seemed almost to be gazing off into another world, to where Deros wasn’t sure the man even heard. But after a pause, he said, “Too high.”
Deros frowned and regarded the shape again, barely recognizable. It did seem quite high. Sadly, he was better off not using his better means of seeing at distance, much as his curiosity was piqued. He looked around for Thalamon again, and when he caught sight of him, whistled to get his attention. Deros mimed the shape of a spyglass and pointed at the wings high up.
Thalamon came over, pulling out his short telescope and stopping at the edge of the plateau next to them. He raised it to look for a few moments, then soon lowered it. “It’s just a featherwing,” he said dismissively without looking at them. “Forget it. We’ve got plenty more to worry about.” He walked away immediately, essentially allowing no argument.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
Bariaki didn’t relent in his gaze, but Deros took Enseres’s reins and quietly turned away. That was that, he supposed.
As he was a few steps away, though, Bariaki called, “Keep an eye out for it, Deros. If you would.”
Turning back around to the old man’s back, Deros replied, “I will, Mister Bariaki.” With that he left the veteran scout to his meditations, mysterious as they were. Something was bothering him, at least, as otherwise he’d never make such a request. The man preserved his words like water across a sea of dunes.
The rest of the night was miserable for Deros. He had to sit and watch everyone work, which was torturous in and of itself without his friends teasing him about it the entire time. Ryza was the worst, sticking to her talk of ‘pampering’ by insisting on doing his every chore and tending to him like a child. She put his tent up, handled Enseres for him, and brought him his food, even tried to feed him though he snatched the spoon from her hand, much to her amusement. She’d pat him on the head and ask if ‘little brother’ needed anything else. He endured it all stoically, understanding what she was doing. Trying to make the experience as terrible as possible so he’d never do it again. He’d take his licks, of course, but her boundless enjoyment of it was entirely too much… he’d have to get back at her somehow, for it. One day.
It didn’t help that progressively his head began to ache. Starting slowly, by the time dinner came it was pounding in his skull in a way he’d never experienced. A pulse that only got more and more painful, and his vision at the edges blurred. He kept his composure as an effort of will, despite feeling a measure of panic — he really did not need more worry being doled over him. He wanted to go to his tent immediately after dinner, but Eursett insisted on a foul herbal tea to drink. Where the sweeter tastes she’d engendered had gone he didn’t know, but he suspected it was purely to punish him.
When he finally finished and retired to the tent, swishing his mouth with water to — ineffectively — get the bitter taste out of his mouth, he was exhausted as well as pained, the two sensations well at war. As he lay down, his head pulsed even worse at first but very gradually abated. Sleep did not come immediately. In the almost fevered wakefulness, he dwelled on the pain and its most terrible imagined consequences. There were incidents of Blessed crippling their ability, with all sorts of horrible remainders. Sometimes they could simply not use it anymore or use it but the barest fraction of before. Other times there was unstoppable pain, confusion, or insanity. The brain was nothing to toy with, yet that was what they did day-to-day, and sometimes it didn’t go right. Pushing oneself too far was one way to experience that error.
The worst was indeed what Daexo had brought up, generally taboo to dwell on or mention: terrors occurring in ignorance, at the very beginning of one’s abilities awakening, usually around juvenescence. The most capable Hospitallers could detect an ‘echo’ of it before that point, and thus cause such awakenings to be under control, but it was not a sure thing. The tales of what could happen would be fanciful if not existing from every land and culture, and saturating even their ancient histories. People going mad, or entire buildings collapsing down on a scene of profound gore. Latent powers erupting in a terrible act, as alluded to in the tale of Elserel, though the manifested intent there seemed far-fetched. If there were ever good, logical things that came of it, came of the ‘curse of the gods,’ it was as rare as diamond and fit for legend. There was an ancient word for the effects that came of it, that brought its special brand of ruin, disaster, madness, and despair.
Chaos.
🙦⚜🙤
The next morning Deros felt significantly better — though his head still ached, it was much improved. He was quickly followed up with by Eursett, to whom he was honest with in that he still felt nauseated and was dry of mouth. She claimed it was normal, at least in part a side effect of ‘hetaworl’, whatever that was. She brewed him another tea, somewhat bitter but not unpleasant, tasting strongly of mint. She gave him a mix of salted, dried meat bits, seeds, and berries in a small sack and told him to eat it through the day, along with ‘as much water as you can stand’. As soon as she walked away, Palamera appeared as if she were waiting in a line, ordering him to the well, where she watched him drink several cups ‘to get a good start’ before she was satisfied.
Hospitallers. This is my life, forever. Despite his inner thoughts, he smiled quite sweetly to the diligently-observing Palamera, as he downed the last of the water.
Thalamon set a faster pace in the morning as they resumed their travel, alternating between a walk and a trot, everyone on reserve mounts, wanting to get them back on pace after a couple of hours off of it the day prior. Deros hung back as usual across the flat expanses, trying to keep from using his abilities as much as possible. His nameless mount was young but rather mild and seemed to like him. Giving him the rest of the treat reserves probably helped.
Enseres gave the Hospitallers plenty of trouble trying to gravitate toward Deros, so that they had to tie a lead on him, and even then their voices were often raised correcting him from trying to move ahead or needing to be tugged, or just generally being ornery. A rebel, truly, and Deros hadn’t the foggiest where he got it from.
Late in the day, with the pace reduced to normal, Deros heard a whistle sound out, a signal of gathering, though not urgent. He cantered ahead, seeing a gathering with Bariaki and Thalamon at the center. Bariaki had Thalamon’s spyglass in his hands, looking up, practically straight up. Meanwhile, Thalamon was looking around for Deros, frowning — when he caught sight, he gestured upward with a hand, as if that were necessary.
Deros flashed a thumb’s up, then called daug’makar and formed makar’osa to amplify his vision, which was several times better than the spyglass. He located his target almost simultaneously with the alteration. The flyer was, once again, barely visible to the natural eye — even less so than when it was on the horizon. If it was the same beast, anyway.
As it came into focus, he was somewhat perplexed. He expected to see what Thalamon had said, a ‘featherwing,’ another word for a winged reptile. Instead, the thing looked like an overgrown bird with a massive wingspan and a nasty hooked beak. Its feathers were a gleaming metallic gold on top, and mostly white from below. It was bizarre and magnificent. He did not think birds could even fly that high.
The image became a vague recognition and a word that popped into his head: eagle. It was from the dictionary he’d read years ago, and he struggled to remember the words, but it was one of the rare illustrated bits, so it was retained to some degree. An eagle. A legend come to life.
Releasing makar’osa momentarily, Deros galloped the remaining distance to the others and drew rein.
“... is this relevant enough to stop the party?” Thalamon was demanding, frowning and somewhat annoyed. “Carrion flyers have learned to expect and hope for death around Hamaleen. An arrow won’t reach that high, so there’s nothing to do about it.”
“An ill omen,” Bariaki said vaguely. He dropped the spyglass as Deros rode up and looked his way. “Well?”
“A strange, great bird. Majestic, really. Not a carrion reptile. Gold and white feathers, a curved beak, and large talons. Nothing we have a word for.” He paused, considering how to phrase his knowledge of the dictionary. “The south has tales of such creatures. I’ve seen illustrations. It’s called an eagle. I don’t know much more.”
There was a collective pause as everyone absorbed the information.
“Brother,” Ryza said, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen or heard of this creature in all my travels.”
“Nor I,” Urchon added.
“It could be from afar off, even in the south,” Deros replied, shrugging to dampen what might seem a contentious tone. “All I know is what I see and what I recall in a southern book.”
Bariaki had his eyes shifted down and away. “It looked off. Too high,” he murmured, almost to himself.
Thalamon removed his goggles, rubbed his face with a hand, and sighed, clearly quite weary. “I wish I could make sense of strange scents and sights, but sometimes mysteries have to be left out in the dust where you find them. We can’t chase after every mirage, no matter how lovely. Keep this oddity in mind, but I say let’s continue. Urchon?”
She nodded once. “I’ve not seen this, but I’ve seen strange creatures. In Konamanduras they sell or make a show of them at market. Large snouted furry things with lolling tongues, giant serpents; colorful dumb-looking birds with a little feather tail curling all the way to the floor from a wooden perch. This could be a captive pet that got free. Whatever it is, I can’t see how it’s much of a threat. Unless it can swoop up people?”
Deros shook his head. “It’s hard to say exactly how big, but I doubt that. The picture I remember showed one perched on a branch. I’d guess smaller animals are what it would hunt if it isn’t a carrion feeder. Doesn’t hurt to be cautious, though.”
Bariaki was shaking his head. “It’s all off. Queer. We should stay here, send two ahead.”
“And if they don’t return?” Urchon asked, arching an eyebrow at the old scout. “The rest know nothing, and whatever enemy you’re fearing comes for us anyway. Or waits. Meanwhile, our mission gets slowed down by many days, regardless. If there was nothing, we’ve wasted time and resources and maybe even lingered around a target this enemy wants to hit again. And we’ve verged from a preparation already capable of handling trouble. I don’t find that to be sound reason, Azakan.”
“Nor do I,” Thalamon offered simply, rubbing at his eyes in a further show of weariness.
Bariaki’s lips twisted around in a sour expression. He didn’t respond, instead lifting the spyglass up to look once more.
Thalamon watched him for a moment, then put back on his goggles and said, “Keep it for a spell, then, my friend. But watch our flanks with it. Let’s continue, Taldecs.”
As the others began riding onward with little ceremony, Deros looked up and zoomed in on the strange bird once more. It had veered southeast, gliding on the currents elsewhere. He wondered if it sought prey or carrion, but it seemed likely to remain a mystery.
When he dropped his eyes, Bariaki had lowered the spyglass as well. “Ill omens,” the old scout muttered, and rode off to the south, his back stiff and his head swiveling around trying to look in every direction for further evidence of the doom he seemed possessed with. Deros worried about him, wondering if perhaps age was touching his mind, as sometimes happened. Urchon had said the war had spooked him, though. Perhaps it was just a bit of paranoia.
Travel before nightfall did not reveal much more, the routine of the journey playing its usual cadence of aloga grunts and whines, riding aches, and the dry barrage of sandy winds, all while chasing a generally flat, vast horizon. It was one to make the leader glad for a compass, which thankfully Thalamon did and surely referenced — even still the margin-of-error was probably significant. The stretch just had no landmarks. The high-flying bird inevitably disappeared to the southeast, perhaps forever, the presumed promise of Hamaleen violence left unfulfilled.
They camped on a plain like any other of the region, as Azrom was halfway set and Deros spied Níamara like a reddish flake poised over the southern sands, falling likewise. The campfire was a sorry one compared to prior nights, made of charcoal for intensity and scant logs of wood and dried thornfingers. It was enough for cooking at least — they ate the rest of the dried meat along with the routine textures of root and dumpling. He was not spared another bitter tea of Eursett, though he felt reasonably fine. She informed him he should continue the same pattern for a few days, though she’d gradually weaken the tea, and he could ‘catch up on rest hopefully at Many Sands’. He nodded along but laughed internally at that, feeling rather devilish with his secret plans for their destination.
Aerion and Urchon continued to get along famously, a smitten couple if ever there was, flirting continuously, whispering close, feeding each other morsels by hand. Aerion in particular seemed wholly in love, despite his supposed reputation.
Deros understood that to be partly him and partly a string of poor matches and circumstantial misfortunes, from the shreds of information he’d happened to gather. Perhaps some exploratory liaisons, as he clearly had long had an attraction to both the feminine and masculine. Aerion himself, if one paid close attention, shrouded his love life in vagueness, dressed with his endless verbal elusiveness and comedy. Deros did not necessarily want to know or to analyze, but it was his nature, for better and worse. But if he had to guess how the current coupling would go, it would be like magic for a fiery period then explode catastrophically. That or smoke out when Urchon was away for many months.
He caught Palamera watching them too, and they exchanged a smile. Would they be the same, so publicly, shamelessly, perhaps obnoxiously in love? She wanted a bit of that, and so did he. Maybe they’d already be, if not for their little plot, but it was fine. It was like the final pieces moving about in a game already decided, knowing reality was all too near to fruition. Then it would be over with. Forever. That understanding — exchanged in the meager firelight between one set of eyes and another — was as deep as Hamellion’s core.
Thanks to the despised dead-middle watch shift and insisting he engage it as normal whatever his errors the day before, Deros turned in as early as he could. Sleep came easily enough and felt all too short when Daexo awoke him for his watch. With an effort he resisted using daug’makar, to conserve his energy, even as it made waking up a slower process. He bundled up and left the tent, still yawning. Bariaki was awake when he did, laying down in his blankets and staring up at the center poles. Deros wondered if he’d been inconsiderate and made too much noise. Then again, Daexo was not the quietest of visitors.
When his sentry tours were done and he’d woken up Ryza to relieve him, Deros tried all he could to return to his bedding quietly and not wake his tentmate. But as soon as he but peeked in, Bariaki was nowhere to be seen. Deros hesitated. He was concerned, but at the same time, the man might’ve needed a walk to settle himself, or take a piss, or… the paranoia thing. Drawing a deep breath, Deros dropped the tent flap and began looking around.
The old man was not by the fire, but instead well out from the tents, sitting cross-legged on a blanket with a spear over his lap, staring up at the stars twinkling within the bulk of Keramus. He couldn’t have been there long, as Deros would’ve spotted him in his circuits during his watch. He’d hope, anyway.
Once again, Deros hesitated. Should he just leave the man to his meditations? He was a solitary soul, after all. But something was bothering him terribly and maybe he needed an ear. So Deros grabbed a blanket and made his way over.
Bariaki didn’t stir or stop his stony-faced vigil as Deros approached and set a blanket down across from the old man to sit on the cracked earth. He said nothing for many minutes, wondering if waiting might stir some words. It did not. Finally, Deros eyed the stoic figure and asked, “Mister Bariaki? Are you… alright?”
There was a barely-discernible flicker in the old man’s features that showed he’d heard. He took a long breath, and didn’t otherwise stir any further, nor turn to Deros.
Long moments went by. A minute. Deros began to wonder if he’d wasted his time. “Is there anyth-”
“It’s a dream.” Bariaki’s eyes did not shift position, and his voice was the thinnest whisper.
Deros blinked, uncertain of his meaning, glancing at the stars. “What is? You… had a bad dream?” It felt strange and stupid out of his mouth, considering who he was talking to. The man was as rugged and unshakeable as any he’d known, despite his recent uncertainty.
The scout didn't answer immediately, to where Deros was unsure he’d heard the question. Or perhaps found it too stupid to answer. But finally, Bariaki's mouth opened, and a few moments later words formed, grave and haunting. "Terror comes. Sweeps across the face of Hamellion like a blanket of death. Smothering us all. Like tiny goba drowned in dark waters. Azrom casts only a shadow forever more and we are nothing in the darkness. Taldecca, Bluehand, Sylmex, Algoeen, the many more powerful tribes, where are they? Nowhere. No one is anywhere. There are no tribes, there are no peoples. There is just dust and sand and the ashes of misery, scattered to nothing by the blighting breath. The Hamaleen have vanished before these terrors, as northern snow before the rays of Azrom."
The words, especially from him, were gut-clenching. Bewildering, for the surprising eloquent emphasis from the man, like the dream was speaking more than him. Deros felt a shiver pass over him, and not from the cold. Silence stretched and all seemed held down by the weight of such banal, harrowing visions. Bariaki stared up at the stars still, his eyes gleaming from their light.
Deros finally swallowed and forced himself to speak. “How long have you had this vision?”
“Long enough.” He turned his head further upward and left, then pointed. Deros looked to see him pointing to a constellation. The Bow of Esteron. “When the moon of streaking fire shot from the Great Bow, and doom or glory was on every lip. When I awoke screaming to the beat of the warring drums and my screams joined those of battle and pain. Where snow fell from the sky, in the north. At the failure of Omnadeia, where every day I saw what was false seem to grow darker. Truer.”
Omnadeia. It was the site that marked the true beginning of the war, where Tensipok made a slaughter out of supposed peace grounds, taking the opportunity of many of his foes gathered together with small contingents, to descend on them with an allied horde. The ‘moon of streaking fire’ was a comet, one Tensipok took as a sign of approval for his authority and even divinity over the land. And so he poured out his wrath on the defiant, blessed by the heavens. It had been one of the few losses of the Taldecca, cut down and fleeing with few survivors, like the rest. Bariaki had been one such, and the one to catch and warn Beyaugus on his way, fortunately late to arrive at the site. After that, Miracle Springs truly blew the horns of war and sent a strong force to help rally resistance against the seemingly unstoppable.
Somewhat, it actually eased Deros’s mind: of course the man would have such a nightmare on the eve of such events. Have it engraved in his memory long after.
“We won’t let it happen again,” Deros offered, trying to lend some encouragement to the venerated soldier. “We stopped it back then and if we face it once more, we’ll face and fight it together. And if we’re destined to fail, well, we’ll go down snarling defiance. That’s our way, hmm?”
Bariaki’s eyes dropped to the ground. He took a long breath, then said wearily, “So all young men think. Glory and heroics. I don't want my grandchildren — and my great-grandchildren — to die for anyone, not even for each other. To die for anything. I want them to live. That's why I keep going, even when my bones creak and my flesh screams to be pushed through one more day.”
Shaking his head slightly, the old man continued in a whisper, more to himself, “I don’t want to see this thing… time and again, I thought I would. Found respite, time and again, to be wrong. Hope. Now my fear is at its deepest and I am shamed, but I will face it once more. Curse me, but that it won’t turn and face me once more, that it chases away — curse me if only I die in peace in my bed after kissing every smooth and wrinkled forehead I love… finally believing it all a devil’s lie…”
The man was silent then, his stony weathered face seeming entirely ancient with him so full of worry and melancholy. It was a shock to see, as the rest had been a shock to hear, from a man who’d typically say so many words in years — at least to Deros. All-in-all, he could think of nothing further to say to such baleful utterances. There was nothing he could say or do, and even trying seemed somehow sacrosanct. It was Bariaki’s journey to work and walk, the vision a part of him to the core. Could a man truly argue with another man’s heart? To an enemy, one could argue only with iron and bronze, and to a friend, one could only wish him well in the resolution.
“Please try to rest,” Deros said as he rose. “We still need your sharp senses and deduction on this mission. Everyone is vital. Good night, Mister Bariaki. I hope and pray you have peace.”
But the haunted old soldier was too lost in his own thoughts and didn’t respond, just continued his torturous meditations alone. Deros picked up his blanket and headed for the tent, shaking it out along the way, hoping such visions of doom were not contagious. He needed a restful sleep, even if Bariaki seemed cursed to be without.
His rest was spotty and fitful, and running through his head again and again as he’d wake and then go back under was his sister’s ancient, long-dead question, fit only for the boy-him — ‘What do we do to our enemies, little Deros?’ But he never seemed to answer, and it was like it was mocking him, somehow.