Rain lashed down hard against the thatched straw roof. Lightning flashed the pitch-black dwelling with a bright blue glow for a brief second, leaving his vision blurred until the room returned to darkness. The loud cracking of thunder followed.
Every now and then a drop of rainwater fell on his face from a leak in the roof. How do these barbarians live in such clumsy huts every day of their lives? Darius Zaman thought. Then he remembered Quarneem’s words as their trading galley sailed out of port, leaving them in a dusty village. “Welcome to Rodevia!”
Darius pulled the cotton blanket over his shoulder as he turned to avoid the droplets. Sleep came hard in this humble little Rodevian village. He appreciated the tribe’s hospitality, for they were honoured to host guests of Yarikhad itself, but the accommodation was lacking. A straw bed hastily made up in the corner of the village elder’s hall. The straw prickled into his back, causing the skin to itch every few minutes. His hands and feet leaned over into the cold, hardwood floor past the bed. The blanket was also itchy, crawling with mites. The snores from the elder’s family and slaves ruined the peaceful ambience of the rain. Though none of that seemed to bother Quarneem Mirza, who slept as peacefully as ever.
The expedition so far was not as glamorous as he envisioned it. I should have expected as such. He grunted in irritation, trying to sleep.
The rain reminded him of being out at sea again—his stomach grumbled at the memory. It had rained out there too, on the ship. They sailed on the edges of a storm after the second day of the voyage. The huge waves had sent his stomach in a knot and had him bent over the railings retching, but the captain assured him the ship could handle it. He had prayed in the storage deck alone that day, hoping his fellow shipmates wouldn’t catch him. But how terribly the boat rocked, swaying from side to side as though it would tip over. The groaning wood, the crash of the water against the hull. In that moment nothing mattered but getting on land. Not his gold, not his fine clothes, or even his wife Tanitha. I just had to get on land.
And land they did. On an abandoned beach far to the east of Yarikhad, where nothing but sand, green patchy bushes of prickly plants, and reddish-brown rocks stretched on for miles. Seagulls circled overhead, squawking and fighting for scraps of food. The slaves hauled the trading galley onto shore and pitched it on the shore, throwing the anchor out. Then the crew began setting up their tents. For days, near a week, they camped out on the dreaded beach as the captain eyed the grey overcast each day with worry. “I will not sail into a storm. The gods will sink this ship in an instant for our foolishness were we to do that. We will wait for as long as I say so.”
Quarneem had tried to argue with captain Baran, urging him to sail through anyway, for he was losing time, and feared he would lose his clients. His gold. Clearly that was more important to him than his life. To think the merchant had jibed about Darius’s ‘lust for wealth’ as he had called it. Nothing could have convinced Darius to sail through a storm.
Maybe that is why he is a rich man, and I am not.
There was something about Quarneem’s determination to get to his destination despite the danger that Darius admired. That is the will of a conqueror, he thought. Only this man fought with gold instead of steel. And for those days while they were stranded on the beach, Darius pleaded with the merchant to allow him to join his caravan in Rodevia. Quarneem kept refusing the first couple of days, but Darius eventually wore him down, and the merchant agreed to allow Darius to invest in the caravan. Only for that one trip, but that was all Darius needed. He would make a business partner of the merchant yet, and learn many secrets from him, no doubt.
The morning crow of a rooster awoke him as the dawn came.
Across from Darius, Quarneem’s straw bed lay empty, the merchant nowhere to be seen. The elder’s slaves ran back and forth around the wooden hall, a fire already lit in the hearth. Over the hearth a pot bubbled, the smell of meat and vegetables drifting up from it.
Darius untangled himself from the cotton sheets and got dressed, heading out into the village. The ground was a brown wet sludge from last night's rain, quickly drying under the hot sun. Villagers wandered back and forth, carrying water and fruits and other goods. A stray muddy dog paced through the center, trying to pick at any scraps people fed it. Around the gardens of the small round thatched mud-houses were shoddily constructed fences of twisted logs housing pigs, chickens, and goats. Some of the larger houses had cattle.
He wondered where Quarneem had gone. After spending a few minutes roaming around the village like a headless chicken, Darius saw Quarneem emerge from one of the small mud-houses. Topless, his robes wrapped up in a ball around his head, wearing brown linen trousers. He scratched his crotch and threw a golden sun to a fat, older man who waited by the door. The coin glinted in mid-air before being caught by the ragged villager, flashing a ugly green smile at the gold coin. Behind Quarneem emerged a young fiery haired Rodevian woman.
“Thank you for the wonderful morning, my dear.” Quarneem kissed her. She barely managed a smile in return, looking rather glum, then said something in the Rodevian tongue in response.
Quarneem noticed Darius standing in the middle of the village, looking like a lost child, and walked over. “Ah, Darius! Shall we make ready to depart? The caravan is just by the stables.”
“Did you just… was that a brothel?” Darius asked, looking back at the little house and the girl Quarneem had kissed. It didn’t look like a brothel. Then again, none of the houses really looked like houses, not as Darius had been used to back home. Humble round huts, some built from stone.
“No, just another house as the many others here,” Quarneem said as they walked to the stables.
Darius frowned. “Then who was that whore?”
“She wasn’t a whore, just a farmer’s daughter.” The merchant scratched his chin. “At least I believe he was a farmer. The house stunk of shit as it was.”
“But you paid him?”
“Yes.” The merchant grinned like a child. “Anyone can be made a whore, Darius, because everyone has a price. I take great pleasure in finding out what that price is. Today, that price was quite cheap.”
He raised a brow. “So you don’t even care for laying with her, only that she submitted to you?”
Quarneem looked around for a moment, searching for an answer, then shrugged. “That’s one way to put it. Laying with them is a joy, to be sure, but there is a certain satisfaction in making them your slave.”
Gold’s sweet corruption… Darius recalled this very man saying the words to him. They got to the caravan, and Quarneem wrapped himself up in his black robes. “Your wife cares not for these little games of yours, then?” Darius asked.
“She may care, she may not,” Quarneem said. “I have never thought to ask, for I care not. What will she do, run away from the big stone house she lives in?”
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
“Well, she might.” Darius fastened his scabbard around his waist.
The merchant shrugged. “Then I’ll find another.”
How does this man have even the remnants of a soul left? Darius didn’t know what to make of this man. How could he be so wise and accomplished in matters of business, and yet be such a depraved fool anywhere else? The thought of laying with another woman was unbearable to Darius.
“We still have time,” Quarneem said. “I’m sure her father will let you have a go if you throw him a golden sun.”
He shook his head. “My wife would never forgive me. Would you get the horses?”
“Your wife.” The merchant laughed, stroking his long silky beard as he went to get the horses by the stable. They huffed at his touch. “Your wife has likely taken another lover already. They get lonely when we are away—”
Darius grabbed the hilt of his short sword. “Do not speak of her that way.” He trusted Tanitha with his life, and never lost a night's sleep over such things. She would not do that to me.
The merchant glanced at his sword, and the grin ran away from his face. “Forgive me. Too much time around freeswords and sailors.” Then a laugh escaped him. “We’ll break you down yet.”
“You’ll be waiting a while for that—” Darius was interrupted by the sound of wooden and metallic tinkering coming from the carriage. Frowning, he turned and walked toward the front of the carriage. A boy, an adolescent by the looks of him, patched with dirt on his face and bushy brown hair on his head, was trying to get into Darius’s chest of gold. The boy saw Darius, froze for a moment with wide eyes, and made to run away.
But Darius snatched him. “Thief!” he roared. The boy tried to struggle free, tearing the brown linen tunic he wore, but Darius clutched the lad’s arm by then, ignoring his cries for help. Quarneem came around, investigating, but all around, the villagers stopped what they were doing to watch the scene.
“What is the meaning of this?” Quarneem said.
“The little savage is trying to get at our gold!” A hot rage filled his belly, remembering all the blood, sweat, and tears he had to shed for that gold. To think a barbarian tried to get his fingers on it unleashed a beast within him.
Among the small crowd of Rodevian villagers, an older man with long white hair and a beard to match, and some blue tribal tattoos across his neck and shoulder, came to the forefront.
He did not speak the chosen tongue of the civilized world, instead the strange sounding Rodevian. Quarneem spoke to him in his tongue.
“Tell him to execute this criminal!” Darius yelled.
The merchant frowned but spoke the foreign tongue to the village elder. The man’s face contorted as the two bickered for a while. Quarneem’s hand darting between the boy and the chest, his tone getting more irritated. The elder shook his head, first screaming at the boy, and finally sighing. Then he muttered some more words to the merchant.
“You may exact your justice on the boy,” Quarneem said as the boy wriggled around in Darius’ grasp. “But they will not do it for you. There are no executioners here.”
“What?” Darius spat. “I’m no common executioner!”
“You are if you want your justice.”
Darius looked to the boy once more, the fear in his young eyes, then looked to the hilt of his sword. “How can this be? Does every man resort to the blade when they have been wronged here?”
“This isn’t Yarikhad, boy,” the merchant said. “Hurry up and do your business. We can’t stand around here all day.” He muttered something more to the village elder, who just shrugged in response, looking at Darius.
His heart picked up in his chest. He had never killed someone before. Not that he was against such things, but Darius always imagined his first kill would be another man, someone who was his match. Not a helpless child. He looked to the hilt of his sword, suddenly aware of the sweat on his palms. The boy cried something to a woman in the crowd, who now burst into tears, screaming at the elder.
Darius unsheathed his short sword from his scabbard and kicked the boy in the back of his knees, forcing him to the ground. He cried out in pain, tears streaming from his eyes. Screaming words at Darius he did not understand. Perhaps that makes it easier…
Pressing the blade against the tender flesh of the boy's neck, Darius caught his own terrified eyes in the steel’s reflection. And the way the boy jumped at the mere touch of the cold blade made Darius shudder.
After raising the sword, the woman, who he assumed was the boy’s mother, screamed in terror. Darius grimaced, and just hit the boy on the back of the head with the flat of the blade. The boy fell to the ground, clutching his head in pain. “Don’t steal again,” Darius said to him.
But the merchant grabbed Darius in an instant. “What are you doing?” he hissed.
“You told me to exact my justice,” Darius said, lowering his short sword. “So I did. He’s just a boy. I will not kill him. The pain and fear of this day will be a scar in his memory and remind him not to steal again.”
“No.” Quarneem snatched the sword from Darius’ limp hand. “You said you would kill him. I told these villagers you would kill him. So he must die now.”
“What?” His eyes widened. “Why?”
The merchant rolled his eyes, sighing in frustration. “Oh, my boy. You have much to learn.” He raised the sword and drove it through the boy’s back.
The thick, drawn-out sigh of the boy’s last breath would haunt Darius’ memory forever. That, and the horrifying, near animalistic shriek his mother made as she collapsed on her knees into the damp mud, clutching the tunic of another woman.
Each villager looked at the pair of merchants as though they were monsters or invaders. Quarneem gazed over the crowd as he handed Darius his sword back, wet with blood. “Now you get the horses, since I did your dirty work for you. Let’s go.”
Darius did as he was bid in silence, the blood gone from his face. Meanwhile, the merchant went over to the village elder and placed a jingling leather pouch of coins in his palm. He did not have the strength to look back on the scene as they rode away on the carriage out of the small Rodevian village. A vulture circled overhead.
“By the gods, why did you do that?” Darius said as he cleaned his sword with a cloth. “I gave him his punishment.”
“No,” Quarneem snapped. “You loudly announced you would execute the boy for his crime, and then backed down when the honour of the task was placed upon your shoulders. By backing down, you made the pair of us look weak, and would have shown that we do not mean what we say.” He looked Darius in the eye now, those grim, flint eyes staring through his soul. “These lands are wilder than Yarikhad, make no mistake. Rumours spread like fire, and if we are known to be weak, then other people—far more dangerous than little boys—will seek to steal from us. I will not have you put this caravan in jeopardy. You will never do that again. Do you understand?”
Darius pressed his lips into a grimace. “He was just a boy—”
“You decided his fate!” Quarneem roared, his voice thundering through the trees around them, sending some birds into flight. “Not me, you! Don’t make threats you don’t intend to carry out. That’s the last I will hear of it. You wanted to join me. You want wealth and riches, so you do what is required of you. That is the last time I bloody my hands on your behalf.”
He went to say something, but then held his tongue. Quarneem was right, and in that moment, Darius realised why the man had that gaunt, grim look about him. The way he always looked tired, exhausted, or demoralised. Maybe every time he’s had to kill or commit some vile act, it left a scar. And now he is a shadow of what he was. Then Darius wondered if the same would happen to him—the thought sent a chill crawling up his spine.
You decided his fate… The words rang in his head, and he remembered the look of terror on the young boy’s face.
They continued riding on the bumpy dirt road, the horses struggling with the wagon over each steep hump. Rodevia had left a grim taste in Darius’s mouth so far. A land of elm and twisted old oaks and ash trees. A land that was green in some areas, dusty and barren in others, and mostly somewhere in between, with patches of bushes and grass amidst the dusty landscape. It was not as hot as Yarikhad, and rained a little more frequently, though it was still warm.
“Don’t worry,” Quarneem said as he spurred the horses on. “It’s not all muddy little villages along our route. There are many Yariki settlements around Low Rodevia, usually on the coast, but we have a few in the heartland too. With any luck, we shall stumble upon an inn during our travels as well.”
An inn, or a proper settlement would be most welcome. Darius had grown sick of the stale water from his waterskin. He yearned for sweet wine or lemon flavoured spring water. He wanted to bathe in a proper bath house to wash the dust of the land off him.
Their route would take them through the city of Mahonad, Quarneem assured him. The seat of Yarikhad’s power in Low Rodevia. By some accounts, a miniature Yarikhad itself, with bathhouses and marble temples and great monuments to Yarikhad’s power. Built over an older settlement of a great, ancient Rodevian civilization. And from there they would travel north to visit Quarneem’s clients, as well as silver, iron, and tin mines, in search of new business.
And perhaps they would see more tribes along the way—no, that was a certainty. Darius tapped his foot against the carriage nervously. He thought of the boy who he had sentenced to death and kept cleaning his blade.