In the darkness, an inhuman shriek. A frantic horse, out of the fog and shadow, kicking wildly, eyes crazed.
Echoing, a voice: He thanks you… for your sacrifice.
Heror’s shoulders and lungs compressed, as he felt the weight of 2,000 soldiers on either side. Ahead, out of the void, a monolith monster materialized. Spears stood. They multiplied, until there were dozens dominating the length of the pass, eyes of red and fury.
They grew closer. The pine trees collapsed inward. Twin tsunamis of sand and dune rose above the conifers and then crashed down, filling the air with dust. There was the rap of metal and torn flesh. Closer. Soldiers fell one by one, the luster of gilded armor gone and dead. Screams and cries rang out and surrounded him, layering and swirling and growing – a maelstrom of sound and terror. Closer. Blood on the grass, like dew.
Heror tried to move, but his feet were trapped in quicksand – knuckles white against the grooved bronze sword handle. The screams suffocated him. He tried to join them – to call for help – but he was mute. Closer. Louder. Closer. Louder – until above all of it, his heart pounded, accelerated, in a doomed rhythm. They readied their spears and lunged. The three-horned beast swung its club…
And then he woke with a gasp, in a cold sweat.
His chest heaving, Heror sat up from his bedroll, in the dark of the night. His heart was racing. He entered a cycle of deep breaths to try and calm himself. The Midan camp was quiet. A light rain fell on the burlap tent canvas, adjoining the whisper wind.
Heror breathed and blinked, and bit his tongue to keep quiet. His brow creased, and his lip quivered – but he did his best not to make a sound. It took a long time for him to lie back down. When he did, he did not fall back asleep.
~:{~}:~
Days passed. The sun would rise to the east, over the red rocks and the trees, and set in the west, submerging below waves of golden sand in an implosion of light. Tattered blankets of cumulus and cirrus clouds passed through, carried by cold and dry winds that sank to the ground and flowed through the camp. Every now and then, a small misting of rain drifted eastward. But on the edge of the desert, blue sky was always visible somewhere above.
The others often kept to themselves, and so Heror did, too. He would eat, head to the riverbank and refill his flask, and then return to his tent. He acquired a dagger from the camp’s armory and used it to sharpen his Midan sword. He studied his Midan leather armor, and though he did not wear it – the blue tunic was lighter and cooler – he learned where each and every pouch and pocket was, for future storing. When he had nothing to do, he would try and catch up on sleep – often to no avail.
On the seventh day after his arrival, he was once again inside his tent. He sat with his legs crossed, sword in his lap. The honing motion with his knife had become second nature, but as Heror made each new pass over the length of the blade, he slowed, until finally, he dropped the dagger and stood with his sword in hand. He swung it in the air slowly a few times.
It had been over two weeks now since he’d truly swung a sword in combat. Almost a month since his last lesson with Ucankacei. He knew, if he was to fight again, he would have to stay ready. But the nightmares made him wary. He’d only had them twice now; on the best nights, he’d only been unable to stay asleep. But he didn’t know what the nightmares meant. He’d never had them like this. Thinking about it all, the sword was just a bit heavier in his hand.
But as he did so well, he was eventually able to brush these thoughts of worry aside, and he slid his sword back under his belt. He stepped out from his tent, into the open air. It was around midday. The air was calm. The sky was clear and blue. To the north, a thick haze had settled in over the slopes of the desert. To the south, distant bird calls emanated from the trees and thickets.
By now, Raldu was most likely in his tent, conferring with his officers. There had been no more visits since the three-horned bull arrived the week before. But a few days earlier, Raldu had sent a contingent of soldiers – around two-dozen – south to the border. They’d left on horseback, leaving the camp with only around a half-dozen horses left, and the elinji had taken the largest ones for themselves.
Brocus was off somewhere, no doubt diving into ancient Pylanthean texts – though Heror hadn’t kept track of him through the week. And Adjaash, he assumed, was out on her own as well. Heror let out a short sigh and glanced around the camp, curled brown hair rustling in the breeze. It was becoming more difficult to keep himself occupied. There was more freedom at the Midan camp than there had been in Ardys, but that freedom also gave way to aimless time.
After a moment of thought, Heror glanced back down at his sword, nestled between his outer thigh and his leather belt. He’d seen a few Midan soldiers sparring with wooden swords near the riverbank a couple days earlier. Perhaps he’d set off in that direction and join the sparring, to keep himself fresh.
And so he headed east, through the rows of burlap tents. The camp was emptier now, but there was still activity. Some soldiers carried logs, fresh meat, and grains to the mess pavilion to prepare for cooking. Others carried materials to the armory and smithing area to make and refine tools. And spaced out through the camp, a few pairs of Midan soldiers made their rounds on patrol.
In minutes, Heror reached the riverbank on the eastern side of the camp. Sure enough, to the right of the southernmost tent, near the forest boundary, he saw the two djauuls he’d seen several days ago, sparring with wooden swords on a small, open plot of gravel. One was older, with a full black beard that covered his cheeks and chin, and a mop of hair thrown back in a long ponytail. The other was younger than Heror, and smaller – his face bare.
As he approached, Heror watched their forms. The younger djauul didn’t know what he was doing. He struggled to load his base and manage his footwork, and his swings were arm-dominant. The older djauul’s technique was a bit cleaner, but even he wasted motion at times. These were people who had grown up with the bow and arrow. The art of the sword was unnatural to them.
Heror watched from a short distance for some time, and soon, on the ground next to the two djauuls, he noticed a couple extra wooden swords for sparring. He knelt down to grab a wooden sword, then approached the older djauul, who was in mid-swing when Heror arrived.
“Excuse me.”
The older djauul finished his swing, and then they both looked at Heror, confused. Heror cleared his throat and continued.
“Kivvenean – either of you speak Kivvenean?”
Heror glanced toward the younger djauul first, who shook his head. Then he looked at the older djauul, who offered a half nod.
“Little bit,” the older djauul said, voice heavy with a rustic accent.
“Do you understand it well enough?”
The older djauul nodded again. Heror returned the gesture. He’d at first intended to join in on the sparring, but both of these djauuls needed to improve their form.
“I’d like to help you two,” Heror said, glancing at the older djauul. “Can you translate for him?”
The older djauul affirmed he could. Now Heror stepped into the circle and positioned himself between the two. He readied his wooden sparring sword and glanced at each of them.
“The first thing I noticed when watching you, is that you can improve your stance,” he began. “If you’re looking to enter a combat stance, you should position your feet around shoulder width. Instead of being square to your opponent, bring your dominant foot back, so that you can load your hips on your swing.”
The older djauul began to translate for the younger one, but he paused at one part of Heror’s explanation. He stopped and looked at Heror.
“Domi-nant…?”
“Which hand do you use to swing? To write?” Heror asked, lifting his hands in sequence. “Left, or right?”
The older djauul seemed to understand. With a nod, he lifted his right hand, and then he turned to the younger djauul and gave a short explanation in Midan. The younger djauul gave a quick nod as well.
“In Kivvenean, we call the side where you write, swing, and do other tasks your ‘dominant’ side,” Heror explained. “With the same side that you swing your sword, you should have that same foot back in your stance.”
After a quick translation from the older one, the two djauuls tried out the new stance, and then the older djauul looked at Heror with confusion.
“Why domi-nant foot back while sword swings forward?”
“It’s all about preparing your swing,” Heror replied. “If your dominant foot is forward, you have no power to draw from on your swing. When you place your dominant foot behind you, you load energy and power for your swing. Your sword should be an extension of your hips as you channel that energy through. And each movement feeds into the next. Here – get your dominant foot back, and try it for a minute.”
As the two djauuls tested the new stance, Heror felt a short tinge of anxiousness. This was all terminology that Ucankacei had imparted on him a long time ago. He had been trying not to think about the old man. He turned back to his students, to banish those thoughts.
“Good, good,” Heror affirmed, before turning to the older djauul and gesturing to the younger. “Tell him to take a swing at you with this new stance. You will have your sword up in a defensive position, and he’ll be able to see how this new stance works.”
The older djauul gave this instruction, and the younger one understood. Once they set up their stances, the younger one sent a powerful swing toward his counterpart. This time, he was able to channel more power from his back foot, rolling his hips through the swing. As he made contact, the older djauul let out a small grunt, losing his balance.
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The younger djauul stood in shock for a moment, then gave off a gleeful smile and started to laugh. The older djauul rolled his shoulder and let out a chuckle. As they turned to Heror, their teacher nodded.
“Good,” he said with a smile.
“Good,” the younger djauul echoed, starting to understand this word. “Good!”
The djauuls listened intently now, and by late afternoon, they were sparring at almost full speed – with renewed footwork, counters, and blocks – and a few other Midan soldiers had come to watch. Each swing carried into the next, and with each new progression in the fight, the djauuls would adapt and reset. The younger one was small, but he was fast and quick, with wiry limbs, and his improvement was noticeable. He reminded Heror of someone.
At one point, the two djauuls stopped sparring for a moment. And then the young one said something to the older one. The elder nodded with a smirk, then turned to Heror.
“He wants to spar with you.”
Heror smiled. The older djauul stepped away, and Heror entered the fray, positioning himself across from the younger djauul. They entered their stances. The younger djauul raised his wooden sword, and so too did Heror. And then, the younger djauul eagerly made the first move.
Heror held back, letting the young djauul practice his attacks. The djauul led with a simple outside strike, and as he transferred his weight, he followed it with a backhand swing from the left. Heror blocked with the forte and reset his feet, pulling his sword tight to limit attack angles. The djauul reset and came back with the same combo, and this time, Heror hit him with a swift counter on his second swing, collapsing the djauul’s stance and forcing him to backtrack. Heror’s feet were quick and controlled; the djauul tried to emulate.
The young djauul’s technique was still unrefined at times, but Heror let him take his time. And then, once the djauul had gotten enough swings in, Heror used one of Ucankacei’s old moves – the spin. He blocked a forehand swing with a horizontal blade, then carried that momentum into a sudden stab inside the djauul’s abdomen. The djauul recoiled and pinched his arms in an attempt to slow the stab, and as he narrowed his stance, Heror whirled like a vortex, bringing his sword around. And before the djauul could react, the sword was frozen at his side – unobstructed. His position was compromised.
The move was second nature for Heror, but he heard a collective gasp behind him, and he turned to see a dozen Midan soldiers watching, eyes wide with awe. They had never seen swordsmanship like this. They began to cheer. The young djauul said something Heror couldn’t understand in Midan, brimming with excitement, and then he held out his hand for Heror to clasp. Afterward, the older Midan did the same.
“Thank you,” the older djauul managed, with a final nod.
Heror smiled and nodded. As he did so, he looked beyond the older djauul – toward the river – and saw Adjaash standing at the edge of the forest. Her bow was slung over her shoulder. In one hand, she had a bucket full of fish, and in the other, she held a Midan leather sack, with what looked to be game meat inside. She had returned from the woods, and she too had stopped to watch Heror as he trained the Midans. He eyed her only for a moment, before she dropped her gaze and started back along the riverbank, walking into camp.
The sun was starting to descend in the west, and so Heror said goodbye to the soldiers and left them to keep sparring, while he returned to his tent. He set his sparring sword on the floor and sat down on his bedroll, then laid down to rest. It wasn’t more than fifteen minutes later, however, that he heard footsteps outside. As he sat up again, the tent flap opened, and he saw the silhouette of Adjaash standing there, reddening skylight seeping in behind her.
“Come with me,” she said simply.
Confused, Heror stood and followed her outside, emerging back into the open air. Without a word, Adjaash started back to the east, toward the river. A few minutes passed, and they reached the riverbank. A few Midan soldiers were still sparring and drinking water near the stream’s edge, trying and failing to replicate Heror’s moves. The pair carried on past the soldiers and ventured south. Then, as the cliffs began to rise up from the riverbank to the west, Adjaash turned and followed the cliff’s edge through the forest, as Heror walked beside her.
For a long time, it was silent between them – the only sounds being the calls of the birds above and the light wind brushing through the forest canopy. And then Adjaash spoke, her voice low.
“I’m sorry for our first encounter. You startled me, that’s all.”
Heror eyed her, then looked ahead.
“It’s alright. I’m sorry, too.”
The wind rushed in again. Far above, a woodpecker’s rattle.
“Thank you for training the soldiers,” Adjaash offered, quiet and reserved. “Most of them grow up only knowing the bow and arrow here, so any sword experience is good for them.”
Heror glanced at her again, then nodded.
After a moment, he asked: “Where are we going?”
“The fields,” Adjaash answered. “There’s something you need to do before we go into the desert.”
The forest underbrush crunched beneath their boots and moccasins as they walked. In the leaves and vines below, a small snake slithered for shelter. Through the breaks in the canopy above, the red light of a young sunset flowed into the woods, mixing with the emerald light in a blaze of color.
As they walked, Heror spied Adjaash from the edge of his sight. It was still silent between them, but she was not avoiding him. He could see that she was taking in the sights and sounds of the forest. At every call and cry of the wildlife, she turned her head, always on alert – but at the same time, she was calm. As if relaxed by the sounds of life, and the sweet smell of the grass and the moss.
They walked for around twenty minutes, and eventually, they came back to the treeline, north of where Heror had originally entered the forest a week ago. Ahead, he saw the steppes splay out once again – miles and miles of tall, olive grass growing atop rolling hills and low-sloping mounds. In the distance to the north, the red rock flats gave way to the Great Desert – but here in the south, the steppes dominated. And in the fields beyond, Heror saw dozens of wild horses, roaming and grazing in the evening light – coats giving off a metallic shine in the light, of colors ranging from black and brown to cream and silver.
After a moment, Heror turned to Adjaash, who met his glance and gestured out to the fields.
“When we go into the desert, we travel by horseback,” she explained. “Most of our horses were taken south to the border a few days ago. You’ll need to tame a horse for yourself so you can join us.”
Now Heror surveyed the open fields, with light-littered blue eyes.
“These are Tekhal horses,” Adjaash continued. “Fast and strong. Native to the steppe. They roam around these plains. They know of us, and they have some comfort around us, and they never stray too far from the northern fields here.”
She paused again, orange sunlight radiating off her hair. After a moment, Heror did a double-take.
“You want me to tame one… by myself? Right now? I’ve never…”
“No, not right now,” Adjaash reassured him, gifting the smallest of smiles. “You’ll have to learn roping technique, and you’ll have to use one of our other horses to keep up with your target. I’ll help you when the time comes. Today… you’ll choose your horse.”
“How do I do that?”
Adjaash gestured ahead to the fields, and again gave that small smile.
“Just go out there. Slow. You’ll see.”
Heror looked on, squinting as the orange sun hovered above the horizon. The first horses were around fifty yards out, and so he began his walk through the tall olive grass, leaving Adjaash at the treeline. Beneath his thin linen pants, he felt the soft brush of the stems. A warm wind from the west washed across his face. The grass whistled as the breeze traveled through it. Far above, there was the call of an eagle.
There was a nervous lightness on his breath as Heror approached the herd, eyes focused beneath brown curls and bangs. He’d rarely seen horses growing up. In fact, his chariot ride from Cephragon to Alaris Khi Thung had been his closest exposure.
As he neared, he watched their mannerisms. Farther out in the fields, a group galloped, racing in the evening light. Nearer to the forest boundary, another dozen were spaced out sporadically. To the north, a couple danced and rubbed their necks against one another, and a pair of young broncos bucked and played. To the west, a cluster of stallions idled and grazed, heads low in the grass. Farther south, a mare and foal sauntered through the sun-kissed blades.
Heror approached the cluster of stallions, now within ten yards of his first target. It was a male, with a tan coat and a dark brown mane. Heror stepped toward it. He turned to his side and held out his hand. His pulse picked up. He drew his hand closer, and the horse lifted and bobbed its head from the grass, ears fluttering. Heror slowed his steps now, and his hand rose – when the horse suddenly jumped to its right and turned away from him. Startled, Heror jumped back as well. The animal gave him one last look of consideration, before letting out a gruff exhale and trotting away.
Heror blinked and took another breath. These horses appeared to be docile creatures, and so he started to calm. He collected his thoughts, and then turned to his next target – a chocolate brown horse with a long, thick black mane.
This one was larger and already closeby to him, and so he inched toward it, delicately rolling his feet from heel to toe – settling softly in the silted soil beneath the grass. He only got half as far this time, however, before the brown horse brought up its head and veered away from Heror with a low, dismissive snort, prancing to a plot of grass farther west.
Heror let out a quick, isolated sigh – but he didn’t let this discourage him. In the open air and wind, he surveyed the area, and his eyes fell on a third target: A dark, almost black stallion of medium stature, with a silver-gray mane, a smoky mark above its nose, and a long forelock that almost drooped over its eyes. This horse was younger – not long ago, it must’ve been a juvenile – and it was off on its own. It didn’t take long for the horse to notice Heror, as he started his approach.
Heror was ten yards out now. He paused when the creature looked his way, but neither of them were scared off. The young man took another step, careful and slow. The horse stared with focused, curious, anxious eyes. Its ears perked; otherwise, it didn’t move a muscle.
Another step – softly. And another. He was almost within arm’s reach now, and he started to lift his right hand. The young stallion jolted ever so slightly to the left, its posture stiff and tense. Heror paused again, then took a deep breath and started his next step. Midway through, the horse suddenly reared up and kicked its front hooves, neighing in an impulsive outburst.
The sudden action frightened Heror, and he took a quick step back – but to his surprise, the horse did not run away. It fell back to its feet and matched Heror’s step back – but stood its ground and kept its focus on him.
One last time, Heror recollected himself. He took another step – finally closing the gap between them. Slow and cautious, he reached out and placed his hand on the bridge of the black stallion’s nose. The horse stared, but did not flinch or recoil. After the first pat, Heror ran his hand down its muzzle, petting it twice – and then for a brief, timeless moment, he left his hand on the horse.
The dark horse let the hand rest. Seconds felt as minutes. And then, it whisked away with a quick and light murmur, galloping into the fields.
Heror looked on as the stallion shrunk in the distance, joining the rest of the herd – and a small smile found its way onto his face. The sun now touched the western horizon, droplets of amber light pooling over the hills. He let his eyes linger a moment longer, and then he turned and started back toward the treeline. Adjaash was waiting for him when he returned. He gave her a smile.
“I think I found him.”