In the morning, orange light crept through a dark cloudscape that stretched from the east to the north – cold and shaded tufts that intermingled with the cobalt sky. There was a cold wind on the air, but as the first rays of sunlight hit the desert sands, a tinge of heat began to break through.
Heror emerged from his tent at dawn, and he traveled the length of the camp to reach the tall tent, at the foot of the forest cliff. There – as he said he would be – Raldu was waiting for him. Raldu led him back out into the camp, past dozens of other small lodging tents, until they came to a tall wooden pavilion, where many Midans had already flocked for breakfast.
The pavilion was the largest structure in the camp. Around a dozen long wooden benches and tables were evenly spaced out. At the center, a Midan elinji cooked over a contained fire with a cast iron pot and pan. In the pot, he boiled water and cooked rice. In the pan, he mixed together eggs and chopped trout with a cured wooden spoon. On a nearby support beam, a metal shelf was secured by a nail, with various spices and seasonings hanging down to be plucked and mixed into the food.
As he entered the pavilion bounds, the swell of low morning chatter met Heror’s ears. A few Midans glanced his way as he followed Raldu to the center, but Heror paid them little mind. Once they reached the center, the elinji dished up plates for the two men.
“Sa lantu, Bohsa,” Raldu said to the bull-person as he took his plate.
After the two grabbed their food, Raldu led Heror to the far eastern end of the pavilion, where another man sat by himself. This man was dressed differently from the Midan soldiers. He still donned their light leather armor, but overtop his cuirass, he wore a rich green tunic with golden embroidering. He was an older else – a kind Heror hadn’t expected to see at a Midan camp – with a short, stocky build, balding black hair, and a patchy beard that had been trimmed with a blade at the cheeks.
Raldu walked around the end of the table, patting the man on the back as he ventured past.
“Brocus,” he chimed. “How are you this morning?”
Brocus hadn’t heard Raldu coming, and so he jumped in his seat with surprise. He grabbed a nearby cloth and wiped his face clean of food, then looked at Raldu and gave a nod.
“Was just stellar until you gave me a scare,” he muttered dryly.
As Heror followed Raldu around the table, Brocus gave another nod in the young man’s direction.
“Who is this?”
“This is Heror Heran,” Raldu replied. “He recently arrived from the south, and I’ve asked him to join the search party. He’ll provide whatever assistance is needed. Heror, this is Brocus Elius, our linguistics expert. He studied language and archaeology at Peranon College in Ghiovan.”
Although he did not know of the second study, Heror nodded to Brocus and sat down with his plate. Brocus eyed the young man for a moment, then glanced at Raldu.
“I’m surprised you think I need assistance,” Brocus prodded.
“I don’t think you need it,” Raldu countered. “But whenever ancient Pylanthean texts are involved, having more than one set of eyes to lean on can be valuable.”
Brocus didn’t appear satisfied with this answer, but after a moment, he nodded quaintly and began eating again. Between bites, Brocus glanced at Heror.
“Heror Heran,” he said to himself. “Your name sounds Pylanthean. From what city do you hail? Pylantheus? Eonos? Marbal? Or perhaps Galan?”
Heror took a bite of his food, chewed and swallowed, then shook his head.
“None,” he answered quietly. “I lived in Ardys as far as I can remember.”
“Ah, that’s disappointing,” Brocus said simply. “So no experience reading with the Sparhhan priests? The Geisrund? The ancient logs of Caitan Nehlox and the explorer, Garriel?”
Heror shook his head. Brocus raised an eyebrow and let out a sigh.
“Well… at least it’s another set of eyes, I suppose,” he grumbled.
“Truth be told, Heror is just as much an addition made with protection and survival skills in mind,” Raldu noted. “Most of our forces are closer to the border, and I can only spare so many men for this kind of mission.”
At the mention of the border, Heror’s mind flashed to Thaeolai and Ucankacei, and his breath hopped. He repressed this feeling and kept eating his meal, as Brocus carried on.
“I concede that more eyes could be helpful,” Brocus offered half-heartedly, before continuing: “And there are commonalities in the syntax and morphemes from ancient Pylanthean texts to present-day Kivvenean language. Heror, do you know why Pylantheum and Ardys both speak Kivvenean?”
Heror shook his head.
“Kivvenean is the most prevalent speaking and writing language of Kivveneth,” Brocus began. “And it all started with the ancient elsish and elvish peoples – the elses coming from the great and vast arctic continent of Cyngoth, and the elves coming from the southern swamps, jungles, and wetlands of Betzanys. By the time they reached Kivveneth, both peoples were already adept in their nomadic ways, and they soon crossed paths on the Kivvenean continent. In ME 134 – near the very start of recorded history in Kivveneth – the Opelite elves and the Cyngoth elses first made peace in the Pact of Hlyndhis. That peace was strained at times, but millennia of trading, communicating, and intermingling from that point onward made Kivvenean a prominent language across the land, and that language spread to Hithain, Tephire, Mathingar, Ghiovan, all the Kingdoms. The language has changed a great deal since ancient times, but there is more relative uniformity now. In olden times, the different Kingdom dialects were even more distinct.”
“There are tribes and civilizations across the Nine Kingdoms who speak different languages,” Raldu added. “And as you might’ve noticed by now, Heror – the Midan djauuls and elinji have their own language as well. That’s why, in spite of Kivvenean being the most prominent language, having a linguistics scholar like Brocus can be invaluable in parsing through the different dialects, and the changes that have been made over the millennia. The ancient texts are indeed very different, even if their roots are the same.”
There was a short silence, and a quiet breeze flowed through the pavilion grounds. Heror was almost finished with his meal. Raldu had only just begun to eat. After a moment, he stopped and looked at Brocus.
“Where is Adjaash?” Raldu asked.
“Ate early,” Brocus replied, a tone of dismissal breaching his voice. “Then went back to the river.”
Raldu nodded, and was about to speak when suddenly, he heard commotion from the eastern side of the camp. Raldu stood and looked out past the pavilion bounds, and Heror’s eyes followed. Soldiers called out from the east, past the rows of tents, and through the gaps in the canvases, Heror could see figures walking through the camp. As they grew closer, making their way to the pavilion, Heror saw that it was a war party – led by the three-horned bull from Kraana’s Pass.
The hulking half-man – standing almost eight feet tall – led a contingent of Midan soldiers – djauul and elinji alike – to the pavilion. The ground shook with each step he took, and his red-streaked chestplate rattled. Atop his head, Heror saw the bull’s three ivory horns – two sprawling out to the side, and one jutting out from its forehead. And as the bull grew closer, Heror saw its scarred left eye, and the monstrous barbed club in its right hand.
At the sight of the barbed club, Nihlukei’s death played back in Heror’s mind. The parabolic whir of the club as it stretched upward into the sky, then came down on the siekarum’s head. And the siekarum’s loud cough when the three-horned bull stabbed his own aspidan through his stomach.
Heror’s nostrils flared, and his hands curled into fists. And as the three-horned bull approached the pavilion – seeking out Raldu – it too saw Heror. The elinji stopped for a moment – its golden right eye narrowing as it recognized an enemy from the pass. In his throat, Heror felt the fumes of a returning rage, and he might’ve gone back on his promise to Raldu, simply to retaliate. But with a shred of self-control, he kept his rage at bay; it would be unwise to indulge it, he thought.
The bull might’ve thought the same, for after a short moment, it turned its glare away from Heror. Now the elinji stepped toward Raldu, who came forward to meet the warrior, emerging into the open air.
“Humsa, my friend,” Raldu greeted the bull, craning his head – his voice low. “You have news.”
The three-horned bull nodded slowly. Raldu gestured to the south.
“I’m almost finished up here. Wait for me in my tent, and I’ll join you shortly.”
Then Raldu turned to the rest of the war party – perhaps just over a dozen men.
“All of you: Tie up your horses, find lodging in our tents, and rest! You’ve come a long way, and you’ll be headed back soon enough.”
The three-horned bull shot one more glare at Heror – which Heror reciprocated – before turning and walking away to the south. As it turned, Heror saw a long cut on the back of its neck – one that Nihlukei had made. Once the three-horned bull was gone, Raldu stepped back inside the pavilion bounds and picked up his still-full plate of food.
“I will take this to my tent,” he decided. “Heror, you are welcome to walk about the camp grounds today. Get yourself acquainted. But at some point, make your way down to the river. That’s where Adjaash likes to spend most of her time while she’s in camp. Make your introductions.”
And with that, Raldu left – following the three-horned bull to his tent.
Brocus finished his food soon after Raldu went away, and he left without a word, leaving Heror alone at the table. Heror quietly finished his meal as well, and then he sat with his empty wooden bowl, glancing across the pavilion at the many Midan soldiers who sat and talked in the early hours of morning, in languages he did not understand.
After a moment, Heror’s eyes dropped, and he took a deep breath. His thoughts took him again, but soon enough, he stood and grabbed his bowl. He carried it back to the center of the pavilion and stacked it next to several other dirty dishes. The cook glanced at him and offered a thankful nod, before turning back to his work.
Now Heror emerged back out into the open morning air. The sky above was blue, but the light was low. Dense stratocumulus clouds carried east and covered the sun, as it wrapped the clouds in a red glow.
Heror’s first thought was to head to the northern edge of the camp, where he observed the Pylanthean desert once again. At every time of day, the sands of the desert somehow looked different. In the shade of the morning clouds, Heror could see how empty it was. Beneath a brilliant sunset, the golden waves would roll and radiate light, making themselves known. But in the dark, under shadow, the desert appeared as a cold and endless waste, where wind and time and distance were all too punishing.
Heror watched the wind flow over the desert crests for some time. And then, as the sun began to peer above the clouds, casting amber light over the dunes, he turned to the east and headed for the river.
The camp was large enough that it took several minutes for Heror to reach the eastern edge. Once he passed the final row of tents and the horses tied to their posts, Heror at last came to the foot of the river. Here, the woodlands from the southern cliff snaked down a slope and lined the river, separated from the water only by a stony, sandy riverbank. On the other side of the stream, the woods thickened again, extending east and south.
As he reached the river, Heror looked around. This was where the one they called Adjaash was supposed to be, but he saw no one. He heard only the sounds of the wind in the trees, the birds in the canopy, and the distant chatter of the Midan camp behind him. At his feet, the water of the river softly kissed the banks.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
Heror glanced back toward the camp for a moment, and then to the north – where the river faded against the rock fields which gave way to the desert. And then he turned south, following the riverbank in that direction.
Soon enough, he was surrounded by woodlands again – gravel crunching and soot-like soil pasting beneath his boots as he carried on. The water of the river hummed and bubbled, as a soft current carried it forward. On both sides of the river, densely packed trees formed a thick green canopy, through which beams of orange and amber from the morning sunrise trickled through, permeating the air. The chirps and calls of birds composed a constant melody, echoing in the heights.
He followed the river for some time and saw nothing. As he walked, the river widened and deepened, and ripples gave way to small rapids, as smooth rocks jutted out intermittently across the strait. For a moment, he stopped and thought to turn back. His legs and feet were still sore from the days of walking before reaching the camp. Nevertheless, he decided to go just a bit farther. Up ahead, he saw a rightward bend in the river, as it disappeared behind the trees. He would follow this bend and return if no one was there.
There was a slight gap in the tree canopy at the bend in the stream, and the orange sunlight shone through as the clouds shrank into the east. Heror reached the bend and stepped over a fallen log, and as he turned the corner, he saw something on the other side of the river – perhaps twenty yards across and a ways down the bank.
Crouching on the opposite bank, in the near distance, was a younger brunuul woman of medium height, around his age – wearing a patterned brown poncho, light linen pants, and wool moccasins. Her skin was matte gray, like volcanic ash, and her long hair was a brown-silver that shined with iridescence in the morning sunlight. Her hair flowed down over her shoulders, and strands hung over her face – but much of it was pulled to the side by a braid fixed with twine. She had a clear, heart-shaped face with angled ears, and even from where he stood, Heror could see her intense, bright amber eyes fixed on something.
As Heror took a quiet step around the bend, he could see that the ashen elf girl had a bow in her hand. A wooden bucket was set by her feet. From the bank, she surveyed the waters at the wide river bend. There, the river current slowed and food settled for the fish. The girl was waiting for her shot.
Heror stepped behind a tree and watched her, as she crouched silently – still as stone. For minutes, it seemed, she was frozen in focus. And then, all of a sudden, in a lightning-quick flash, she reached back, nocked three arrows at once, and let loose a deadly spread of fletched blades into the water. Just seconds later, three dead fish emerged on the river’s surface, arrows lodged in their midsections.
The girl now lifted a small net from the ground and retrieved the fish, scooping them free from the water and dumping them onto the riverbank. Then, she carefully removed each arrow and placed the fish one by one in the wooden bucket.
Heror slid back behind the tree on the riverbank and turned away from the girl. He had tracked her along the river, but now he could see she was occupied with her own task. After a moment of thought, he decided he’d leave and head back to camp, then speak to her once she returned.
Now he glanced back around the tree one last time before setting off to leave – but the girl was gone.
Heror narrowed his eyes and glanced to the right. But just as he did so, he heard rushed footsteps crescendoing to his left. As he turned, he saw the girl on his side of the river now, lunging forward with a dagger in hand.
Before Heror could react, the girl slammed him against the tree trunk and trapped him against the bark with an arm. She grabbed his tunic at the collar, while her other hand lined up the dagger against his neck. With fiery eyes she glared, as brown-silver strands of hair fell over her face.
“Who are you??” she snarled, with a clear, husky accent Heror had never heard before. “Why are you following me??”
With the hand that clasped Heror’s collar, she pressed down on Heror’s neck, and the young man coughed, gasping for air. He shook his head and held up his hands, in an attempt to indicate surrender.
“Raldu… told me to find you,” he said through strained breaths. “Maybe that wasn’t… a good decision.”
At the mention of the Midan leader, the brunuul girl loosened her grip and allowed Heror to catch his breath – but her glare remained. She took a step back and brought the dagger to her side.
“He should know I like to be left alone,” she muttered, casting a glance to the north.
“You’re Adjaash then?” Heror surmised after a deep inhale.
Adjaash offered him a single nod, but only half of her attention. Heror was caught by surprise, as his eyes bounced between her daggers and her bow. He cautiously opened his mouth, and his thoughts spoke.
“You’re… you’re a woman,” he observed.
“That’s right,” Adjaash said, with a harsh tone that made Heror instantly regret his words.
“I’m sorry, it’s just… I’ve never seen a woman with a weapon before.”
“Now you have.”
Adjaash started to turn away, and Heror realized he was losing her attention. He took a step forward and stammered.
“M-my name is Heror,” the young man rambled nervously. “I’m new to camp. Raldu told me you were the leader of the search party for a mission into the desert. He assigned me to your team and told me to introduce myself. That’s why I’m here.”
Adjaash eyed Heror for a moment, then shook her head.
“Good of him to get my input first,” she grumbled. “Another jelema who doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing.”
She started to walk away. Heror’s nervousness turned to confusion, and he stepped forward from the trunk, as Adjaash made her way back toward the stepping stones in the river.
“Can you tell me what I can do to help?” Heror called out.
“Just stay out of the way,” Adjaash replied without turning her head.
Before Heror could say another word, Adjaash was crossing the river again, meticulously hitting each stone with her moccasins before she reached the opposite bank. She went to collect her tools and her fish bucket as Heror looked on – and then she carried on to the south, leaving Heror by himself beneath the quiet noise of the forest.
Disheartened, Heror went back the way he came. He traveled north through the forest, along the riverbank – and soon, he found himself back at the edge of the camp, where the tents met the water. By the time he arrived back at camp, the sun had almost risen to its apex. To the west, more clouds stewed. Wind rushed in from the north.
As Heror was returning to camp, he saw the three-horned bull and the rest of the war party approaching the river. The Midan soldiers mounted onto horses they’d taken north from the mountains, while the three-horned bull stepped into a chariot with another soldier. Heror stepped to the side and peered out from behind a tent, and he watched as the bull led his party out of camp and to the south. They followed the riverbank, and soon, they were gone from the eye.
Heror wondered what the three-horned bull had traveled north to discuss with Raldu. He couldn’t read its expressions, to know whether or not the news was good or bad. And ultimately, he chose not to dwell on it any longer.
He entered the camp and spent the rest of the day on his own tasks. Close to Raldu’s tent, he found another large tent stocked with armor, and picked up a set for himself. Where the Ardysans had equipped themselves with light metal armor, the Midans had a preference for leather – thick, but light, and more flexible. Midan leather was dark, with brown straps banded across it, but the spaulders and tassets guarding the shoulders and thighs were partly made of steel, as were the shin guards. Heror tried on a helmet, but they were not made for his kind. Even with the djauul helmets, the brow area was too wide for him, and it sank below the bridge of his nose, impacting his visibility – so he chose to go without it.
Once he had his armor, Heror returned to his tent. He took off his Ardysan boots and let his blistered feet breathe. An unintentional sniff made it clear he’d be leaving his Ardysan boots behind, or burying them, or burning them – whatever worked. He went back to the river and washed his face and skin, scraping dried dirt off his arms and legs. Then he dried off, clothed himself, and went back to his tent. He washed his feet in a water bucket, clipped his toe and fingernails, and slipped on his new Midan boots. He used his toothpick to scrape food out from between his molars.
But eventually, even these mundane tasks ran dry, and Heror soon found himself back at the northern edge of the camp, overlooking the vast desert beyond. He could’ve tried to find Brocus and help with reading, but the welcome he’d received thus far dissuaded him. So instead, he kept to himself, and stood alone in thought as the sun moved up and then down.
In Ardys, it had been different. Whenever Heror had been talked down to, or cast aside, it was because of what he looked like, and how he wasn’t the same as everyone else. But here – while there was the freedom he’d longed for – he still wasn’t sure if he belonged.
Before long, the sun started to sink in the west. In the far distance, an isolated rain cloud spewed over the desert slopes. Thick and dark virga occluded the sky, as the clouds glowed orange on their fringes. It was at this time that Heror heard footsteps behind him, and he glanced behind him to see Raldu approaching. Raldu stepped next to Heror and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“There you are,” Raldu started. “How was your first day?”
“I imagined you’d be too busy to talk to me,” Heror commented.
“I make time for my own,” Raldu assured him with a small smile. “How was your day?”
Heror took a deep breath, then turned his gaze to the rain over the desert.
“Still getting settled,” he said simply.
Raldu nodded and bit his tongue, and Heror could feel that he understood. The old man folded his hands behind his back, and his eyes followed Heror’s.
“You will have a chance to prove yourself,” he told the boy.
Though sparse, these few words were comforting to Heror. He took another deep breath and nodded to himself, then glanced at Raldu.
“Thank you.”
Raldu smiled and nodded again, then turned and squinted at the sunset.
“It’s getting late. Be sure to get some rest soon.”
Now Raldu turned – leaving Heror with more quiet confidence than he found him with.
~:{~}:~
While Heror lingered, Raldu made his way back into camp. Most of the soldiers had retired for the night, and so in the quiet, Raldu returned to the tall tent at the southern end of camp. By the time he made it back, the sunset was lower – obstructed by rocks to the west. And so Raldu’s tent was shrouded in shadow, with only the illumination runes to emanate light.
When Raldu pulled back the burlap tent flap and took a step inside his quarters, the thin, bearded, black-haired djauul was waiting in a chair. Raldu paused his entry – his brow furrowed – and then he entered.
“Shaail,” he acknowledged, his tone low. “What is it?”
The man called Shaail stood, gaunt face shaded under the golden light.
“You spoke to Humsa earlier?”
“Yes,” Raldu confirmed. “He provided an update on our standing at the border. We’ll be rolling more troops forward from Mote.”
“Things are going according to plan?”
“Yes,” Raldu confirmed again. “Is this all you wished to discuss?”
Shaail paused before he spoke again. Then he eyed his leader with concern.
“Humsa told me one more thing before he went south again,” he revealed. “The new arrival. The young man in the blue tunic. Heror Heran.”
Raldu raised an eyebrow.
“What of him?”
“He said he recognized Heror from the battlefield,” Shaail replied.
“Well, it’s not surprising,” Raldu said. “He was an Ardysan siephall, after all. He was conscripted into the army.”
“It’s not just that,” Shaail went on. “He recognized Heror from Kraana’s Pass. There were no survivors in the pass. It was a slaughter. Humsa said Heror and another man cut down dozens of our soldiers single-handedly, before he killed both of them. All of the wounded were finished off. And now, Heror turns up alive, in our territory.”
“His allegiances were never with Ardys to begin with,” Raldu noted. “He chose to run away.”
“It is not his allegiances that concern me,” Shaail countered. “He survived a battle that was not survivable.”
“Strange things can happen in battle.”
“And then he survived a days-long journey through the swamps, forests, and steppes, with barely any food or water.”
Raldu looked at Shaail, asking with his eyes what the djauul was trying to say.
“I am concerned… that the young man is favored by the Gods of the Divine Consortium,” Shaail concluded. “I do not think we can trust him within our ranks. He may act against our interests.”
Raldu thought for a moment. He did not shake his head, nor did he nod.
“He is a skilled warrior, a skilled survivor, and he understands the cause,” Raldu said finally. “I believe he could be an asset for us. We need more soldiers like this one. And once we have the Diaphanae, we will be able to quell any concerns about meddling by the Consortium.”
Shaail was not satisfied by this answer. Raldu’s face lightened. He forced a smile.
“Please, my friend,” he went on. “Do not let this trouble you. Go rest. In the morning, our search team will continue making preparations for the next expedition into Sparhha. We are on the path. Achlach Sim.”
“Achlach Sim,” Shaail echoed with a stern voice.
The emissary walked past Raldu and exited the tent, leaving the Midan leader alone in the burlap cave. Raldu then walked to the council table at the far end of the tent. He placed his hands on the wood graining over the table’s edge and leaned forward, taking a deep breath.
In the far distance, carrying over the wind, a low roll of thunder rumbled from a lonely desert monsoon. A breeze caused the tent walls to swell again. Above, on the sloped tent ceilings, the illumination runes hummed and flickered ever so slightly in the night, as if smokeless fire.
Deep in thought, Raldu turned his head and narrowed his eyes.