1. A knight of the Dahars
“I’m going to diiiiie…!”
The cry, loud and desperate, rose from the clamor of the battle, soared to the top of the dungeon, and made the young Dashvara grimace painfully as he leaned against the battlement.
This is chaos, he thought.
Chaos as he had never seen. It wasn’t the first time that the dungeon of Xalya was besieged by the Shalussis. It wasn’t the first time, either, that the Essimeans attacked it. Nor that the Savages of Akinoa scorched it. But, as far as he knew, it had never happened that the Shalussis, the Essimeans, and the Akinoas attacked together. That was unthinkable. However, apparently, their chieftains were capable of thinking the unthinkable.
Who would have imagined that these savages would collude to destroy us? By the Eternal Bird! The blood of all of them is already far too stained with dishonor for me to be surprised. Yet, what interest did they have in attacking lands as little covetable as ours? They will plunder them, they will take everything of value and then leave behind them nothing but a graveyard.
Dashvara glared at the distant catapults and the columns of smoke, he contemplated the desolation that more than a thousand enraged men had left in their wake, and a grimace of disgust distorted his face, already twisted by tension.
What to do or not to do in a lost battle? he thought, stroking his beard.
They might still survive another two days. Maybe. Or maybe only some hours. It all depended on the Xalyas’ morale.
Morale, he pondered then, smiling gloomily. What morale can we hope for, surrounded as we are by monsters? We are already dead men. Maloven was right. We should have at least found a safe place for the children and the women. The Xalyas are tired of all of this. Tired of fighting, tired of killing. Tired of dying.
Nevertheless, however much they were tired of all that, they were not going to surrender. Not to ruthless savages. That would have been like surrendering to a scale-nefarious army.
We will die killing.
The Xalya soldiers were well known throughout the steppe for their courage and their skill in wielding sabers. During those last two decades, every Xalya man in the dungeon had had the honor of receiving intensive training… and most of them had been also honored repeatedly with actual field practice. But still, two hundred starving men could not fight a thousand.
A howl of pain rang out—the frightening howl of a dying archer, who fell over the wall screaming at the top of his lungs. Dashvara shuddered. Recalling the desperate shout of the one who had foreseen clearsightedly his own death, he joined both hands on the battlement with a bitter certainty.
You won’t be the only one to die, brother. He looked at the gates, which miraculously held on under the assault. Many will die. All of us will die. Don’t forget that, demented savages: Xalya soldiers do not surrender.
Dashvara knew that, as soon as the gates fell, his death would be sealed. The firstborn of the Dungeon Lord would not be allowed to live. Perhaps the savages would let his two sisters live if Lord Vifkan did not kill them both before so that they wouldn’t be used as slaves, but in any case, no savage chieftain would let a male of a hostile family alive. The next-to-last lord of the steppe had seen it for himself twenty years ago. And the last lord of the steppe would see it very quickly.
Father, if you had let me guide these men, I could have died honorably alongside my comrades.
He rolled his eyes at the thought. Die honorably, huh? There was no honorable death in a battle against savages. Each death caused by an Akinoa deserved the massacre of his whole clan of brainless monsters.
Suddenly, the crackles of catapults and the shouts died away and a sepulchral silence reigned. The Essimeans had stopped their machines, and now the only visible foes were the Akinoas in front of the walls, shaking like bloodthirsty beasts. It was said that their tribe came from the north. They were tall and strong men with black skin, all brandishing giant two-handed axes. A ten of them were grabbing chains and holding a huge, hairy troll. Lord Vifkan had always admired the blacksmithing skills of the Akinoas, as well as their skill to tame monsters. Actually, Dashvara’s father was a great admirer of anything that filled his son with repulsion.
Dashvara turned his eyes away from the wavy, dry lands, and gazed at the blue sky. Did they intend to wait until the night fell before resuming the attack? Or was the alliance between the Essimeans, Akinoas, and Shalussis dying so soon? Lord Vifkan had sent secret agents to reach an agreement with the Essimeans, but no one had returned, and the officers had assumed that they had been slain. However, the doubt would still subsist; an honorable man would have at least sent their heads back—but what honor could those savages have?
He looked back again at the wall walk and the soldiers. There were fewer and fewer of them, but he could have bet that there had been more casualties on the other side so far. Certainly, that was a cold comfort since the adverse faction was five times stronger.
Footsteps clacking against the stone stairs warned him that someone was approaching—probably a guard coming on Lord Vifkan’s orders to request him to shelter himself into the Dungeon. He was his firstborn, after all, the heir of the family, and his safety was a priority, was it not? Such consideration irritated Dashvara as there were so many wounded soldiers who needed at this moment more help than he did. Wasn’t a knight supposed to fight side by side with his brothers to protect the Xalya clan?
“Dashvara of Xalya,” pronounced the shaard’s authoritative voice, behind him.
The… priest? Dashvara thought, startled. He turned around and made a face of confusion. Before him, four soldiers of Xalya were standing behind Maloven. The old wise man had been serving the family forever. He was the only shaard guested in the Dungeon, and as far as Dashvara knew, he was also the last priest of the Eternal Bird in the whole Rocdinfer Steppe.
“Maloven. Can you tell me what happens?” he asked. The shaard had never ever been escorted by four swordsmen.
“The Dungeon is going to surrender,” the old man explained. “We’re going to avoid a massacre. And your father asks you to escape as a Shalussi prisoner. To this end, you must put on these handcuffs.”
For an instant, Dashvara was so shocked he wasn’t even able to react. He would have felt the same if Maloven had asked him to kneel in front of a dark orc and pledge allegiance. The shaard cleared his throat, and he was going to break the silence again, but then Dashvara recovered himself, and he roared.
“I’d chop your head off for saying that if you weren’t who you are,” he warned. “My father will never surrender.”
The shaard sighed.
“I knew it. Cooperate, Dashvara, or I will have no choice but to persuade you by force.”
Dashvara’s eyes widened at such an offense.
“Try to put these handcuffs on me, Maloven, and your corpse will end up feeding our pigs.”
The shaard turned slightly pale, but he easily regained his composure. He looked at the four soldiers, and these pounced as one on Dashvara. After a second of astonishment, the young man shouted:
“Treason!”
He leaped back, and skimming along the parapet, pulled the dagger from his belt and the dagger from his boots.
I am an idiot.
He had left his two sabers in the room, downstairs.
“What are you doing, Maloven?” he snarled while trying to stay away from the four soldiers. These guards were quite old, and Dashvara had not worked with them in any patrol, but still, he knew their names. They were supposed to be men of the Dahars who did not betray their Eternal Bird. And now they wanted to surrender and have a humiliating death? Damned cowards. He hissed. “You’re gonna pay for this.”
“Don’t resist,” replied the shaard. “I want to save your life. I just want to avoid a massacre. Calm down and listen to reason.”
“You madman!” Dashvara shouted. “They will kill us all anyway!”
For an instant, he thought of throwing himself over the parapet. Soon, he reasoned and judged it foolish. No doubt it was better to die trying to kill these traitors. He attacked one, but this one reacted fast: he hit his hand with his saber and made him lose a dagger. Dashvara screamed in pain and rage.
“You’ve just soiled the blood of your family with your vile treason, soldier!” he spit out.
He saw the man hesitate, and he took advantage of it: he pushed him, trusting that the guard would not impale him, and he got away from the circle. He ran as fast as he could toward the stairs, praying that no one would have knives to throw. Of course, they weren’t supposed to try to kill him but rather humiliate him by helping him escape.
“Damnation, stop him!” ordered Maloven.
They caught up with him when he began to go downstairs. Dashvara threw his dagger to one of them, who miraculously avoided the strike. Perhaps forgetting Maloven’s intentions, another soldier attacked seriously. Dashvara saw the saber blow coming, and the traitor would have probably slashed his chest if he hadn’t fled in an unexpected manner. While he was backing on the stairs, one of his boots stepped on nothing. The young man lost his balance and began to roll down the stairs, protecting his head as much as he could. Once down, he felt as though all his body had been crushed under a huge rock. A throbbing pain pulsed in his back and in one leg. Moreover, he noticed that his right shoulder was dislocated. Fortunately, he was still conscious.
Excellent diagnosis, he grumbled mentally with derision. And now: run.
He stood up and hobbled into the dungeon, hearing hurried footsteps from the stairs. In the room, he grasped his two sabers, which he had left on a corner of the table; or rather he tried to.
Oh, how I hate traitors.
Growling a curse, Dashvara finally decided to leave the second saber back, understanding that his right arm wasn’t in any condition to fight. Trying to ignore the pain, he ran to the door, which led to the upper floor of the dungeon. He turned the knob. Locked.
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Ha. Nice going. That’s all I need. Brilliant, Maloven. He swore under his breath.
He heard the soldiers entering the room, and he punched the thick wood door with his bloody fist before turning and facing the four attackers like a trapped wolf. The soldiers stopped apprehensively. They knew the qualities of Lord Vifkan’s son. He was said to wield the saber as fast as a red snake, and that’s why he was called the Prince of the Sand.
The old shaard arrived behind them, breathless.
“Maloven!” Dashvara roared. “You who have always preached honor, faith, integrity, and virtue… you! You dare betray your own clan? Is this how you put into practice everything you taught me as a child?”
The old coward did not dare approach any closer than the soldiers had; he answered calmly:
“If you were a man of honor, you would save the families of these soldiers, your brethren, and everyone who trusts you to do everything for their good. Your duty is to save them,” he insisted.
“So that they serve savages?” Dashvara laughed loudly, enraged, and looked into the eyes of the man who had hesitated just before. “Are you going to surrender and let the savages decide the future of your wife, of your sons and daughters?” He glared at the soldier who had almost killed him, and he noticed the small burned mark on his cheek. He grinned fiercely. “Munderef, would you betray the son of the man who, despite the fact that you were a fugitive slave of the Essimeans, gave you safety and allowed you to become a free member of Xalya?”
None of the soldiers gave him an answer. He hissed, and Maloven spoke.
“The escape is already prepared, and Lord Vifkan has decided to negotiate the surrender.”
Dashvara gritted his teeth, his ears seething at the mere word “surrender”.
“There is no way my lord father has accepted the surrender,” he bellowed. “It’s just impossible.”
“A shaard never lies,” affirmed Maloven.
Dashvara looked him straight in the eye. The old man was convinced he was acting correctly.
“Then, that means Lord Vifkan went mad just like you,” he said finally, and he studied the five traitors’ faces, one by one. “You want me to surrender? I won’t. So, if you are already dogs of the Shalussis, kill me here. Now. At least, I will die as a Xalya.”
Well, well, Dash, I love when you act in such a lofty way, a small inner voice murmured ironically. Maloven shook his head.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Sometimes the time comes when surrendering may be the right thing to do, Dashvara. To surrender because you’re facing an unavoidable outcome is not to surrender but to act wisely. Now put this saber down.”
Dashvara glowered at him.
“Are you giving me an order?”
“Just a piece of advice. Don’t pretend to be a knight, Dashvara. You’re still a child. You’re not even twenty. You can’t go against your father’s decision. He wants you to escape. And you shall escape, even though this means you have to pass yourself off as a Shalussi prisoner. Put on these handcuffs, and I will lead you to Lord Vifkan.” He paused. “Are you going to disobey your father?”
Dashvara’s heart was burning with rage. Rage because he simply could not send the Shalussis, the Essimeans, and the Akinoas a thousand leagues away. Rage because he could not protect anybody. And rage because his father did not even let him try anything.
Suddenly, he dropped his saber, and one of the soldiers moved forward almost with reverence to manacle him with the handcuffs. They replaced his dislocated shoulder, and Dashvara saw stars. Then they took off his blue headscarf and tousled his black mane. Under his deadly look, they ripped his white shirt, soiled him, and gave him some old and black Shalussi pants. These seemed to have belonged to a real Shalussi until recently. In a matter of minutes, Dashvara felt as if he had suffered the worst humiliation in his life.
“Death is preferable to that,” he groaned.
“Disobeying a father is worse than surrendering to an enemy,” Maloven replied.
“If you want me to cooperate, it would be better for you to shut up,” Dashvara hit back.
The old shaard shut up. He opened the door, and they went right to the Dungeon Lord’s chambers, walking through corridors barely illuminated by the arrowslits. When the shaard knocked at the door of Lord Vifkan, this one opened almost instantly. A strong man with a certain age and sharp features appeared in the doorway. He wore a leather armor and the white tunic of war.
“When I asked you to shake him a little, I didn’t believe you would really dare do it, Maloven,” he said. “He looks perfect,” he added as he saw Maloven turn pale. He stepped aside. “Come in, son. I have a few minutes to talk to you. After that, we’ll go out to deliver you with the Essimean prisoners. And during these few minutes please don’t speak. I need you to listen to me.”
Dashvara shut his mouth reluctantly and limped into the room. This one was simple without being rudimentary. It smelled of incense, courtesy of the Dungeon Lady. Dashvara’s mother was not especially refined, but she did like perfumes. And she also liked collecting the skulls of the hostile chiefs that her lord spouse had defeated. Dashvara averted his eyes from the shelves. That did not mean he feared death, not at all—he had seen it so many times—but he could not completely understand the point of such a collection.
His lord father turned to look at him as soon as he closed the door.
“All right, son. Today you have to be the strongest man of all,” he pronounced. “When we deliver you, you will survive, and we will die. But do not think I let you live by some weakness of the heart. I govern the Xalyas with honor and dignity. I would never let a son of mine be humiliated for anything if there wasn’t a good reason to do so. My son, I entrust a mission to you. And you mustn’t fail. You mustn’t.”
He loomed over Dashvara, glancing at his firstborn with an intimidating and earnest expression.
“I command you, as a man of Xalya and my son, to kill all the chieftains who caused the fall of the Xalya Dungeon with that perfidious alliance.” His black-as-night eyes sparkled. “Kill them all without exception. You know their names, don’t you?”
A heavy sadness overwhelmed Dashvara. He nodded.
“I do.”
“Lifdor, Qwadris, and Nanda, of the Shalussi tribe,” recited Lord Vifkan. “Shiltapi of the savage Akinoas. Todakwa of the Essimean clan. Kill them all,” he repeated, and he growled showing his teeth: “But before killing them, son, kill their families. Dishonor them as much as you can.”
Dashvara looked him in the eye, not knowing how to respond to this. However, there was only one possible answer. His father was not mad: he was just acting like a hopeless man thirsty for a revenge he could not complete. For a moment, he was about to ask him why he did not demand this disgraceful sacrifice from one of his three younger brothers and let him die on the field with his family, with his father. Showag was sixteen. He could also… ‘Today you have to be the strongest man of all.’ Dashvara had no doubt: what Lord Vifkan was ordering him to do was much harder than dying. He was ordering him to let his family die and join the hostile faction in a surreptitious and shameful manner. He was ordering him to kill the clan chieftains. Not to defeat the clans on a battlefield. He was ordering him to renounce the code of the Eternal Bird to carry out a vindictive and traitorous justice. He expected a bloody vengeance.
“If that is what you want, father,” Dashvara whispered in a dying voice.
“That’s what I want and what I command,” Lord Vifkan replied.
He put his hand on his son’s shoulder, and only a slight shivering informed Dashvara of all the tension that the lord of the Xalyas was keeping hidden.
“Your name is Odek of Shalussi,” he claimed. “You have neither wife nor children. Your parents are dead. You belonged to a family that was annihilated by Xalya bandits. You were captured when you were stealing in the Xalya lands and you were jailed a month ago. You hate the Xalyas, you don’t like the Essimeans, and you don’t trust the Akinoas. You’re a typical Shalussi: savage, unreliable, someone who works and betrays for money and who doesn’t even know the meaning of the word ‘honor’. You’re a damned, freaking Shalussi,” he spit, and a dreadful smile appeared on his face when he fingered at his son’s heart. “But deep down you will always be Dashvara of Xalya, son of Vifkan of Xalya and Dakia of Xalya, knight of the Dahars, Prince of the Sand, and fighter of the Wind. Answer me. Why does your father force you to live, Dashvara?”
Dashvara did not look away as he answered:
“So I can kill the chieftains of the Akinoa, Shalussi and Essimean clans.” He bowed his head and added: “So I can avenge the Xalyas.”
It was probably then that his father was convinced of how well Dashvara had understood what he was ordered to do. Making a gesture he had not made for many years, Lord Vifkan held him with an arm and embraced him with tenderness.
“There is no dishonor in this revenge,” he whispered. “If they attack assembling their armies against one clan alone, there is no rule, no mercy that can stop you. The chieftains of these clans are vile. And their children will be too. Don’t hurry. Infiltrate into the Shalussis’ lines and act like them. Learn their combat techniques and don’t show yours. Learn to be clever, my son. Be cautious like a snake. And when the time has come to kill, do it.”
He stepped back, and after regarding his son for the last time, he went to open the door. Maloven was awaiting there with some guards.
“Deliver the prisoners,” he declared to the guards. “And put the shaard in jail. You can insist all you like, Maloven, but cowardice is neither part of my flaws nor of my men’s. We are not going to surrender. We’ll feign negotiate by delivering the prisoners. If we must die, friends, we will die stylishly. If you want to live as a slave, it is your problem, but then it would be better for you if they find you in a cell when the dungeon falls.”
The old priest went extremely pale. He did not answer, and a guard led him away. Turning to Dashvara, Lord Vifkan slightly inclined his head, and his eyes glowed.
“All the Xalyas trust you… Lord of the steppe.”
Dashvara could not think what to say. He was surrounded by the Xalya guards, who looked wan and tense but unquestionably dignified. In such a company, he went to what seemed to him to be a death in life.
* * *
The charge led by Lord Vifkan out of the dungeon inspired respect even in the savages. They went out and rushed forward with all the cavalry, desperately. First, they endured the catapult rocks. Then, they suffered the arrows. The horsemen were about a hundred, and a certain number fell before reaching the front line of the Akinoas. However, once there, they caused a lot of casualties.
From the Shalussi tent intended for the injured, Dashvara stared at the battle with an expression as fixed as that of an inanimate statue. His brother Showag’s red helmet lay on the battlefield near a catapulted rock. His lord father, unhorsed, was fighting among his loyal warriors, waving his two sabers against the huge war axes. Dashvara saw him die, and he saw how all the Akinoas and the Shalussis hastily ran to the broken gates of the dungeon, howling savagely. Immediately, screams and shrieks of horror started to pierce the evening. With the eyes wide open, Dashvara swallowed a deep breath of air. He understood that, even though there were no more warriors in the dungeon, the Akinoas weren’t going to stop until the last Xalya soul ceased to exist or surrendered. A frozen fire was burning within him.
The Dungeon was already taken by the savages when unexpectedly the Essimeans began to withdraw. Didn’t they want to get a part of the ruin they had left behind? Dashvara soon gave up on trying to find a reason for anything.
“They tortured you a lot, didn’t they?” suddenly asked the healer who had healed his wounded hand. Her gaze was… merciful?
Impossible, Dashvara thought.
“Damned Xalyas,” he only said. He staggered, and he fell awkwardly to the ground, before the healer’s tent, on the dry grass. “Damned, freaking Xalyas,” he muttered, his mind in fire.
The healer shrugged.
“You’ll get well—unlike the people inside the dungeon. I doubt that they’ll ever get well, if it reassures you.”
For a moment, he thought about ripping out that Shalussi woman’s tongue so hard that he believed he had stood up to do it. Lifdor, Qwadris, and Nanda, of the Shalussi clan. Shiltapi of the Akinoa clan. Todakwa of the Essimean clan. Like a litany, he repeated these names over and over. ‘Be cautious like a snake.’ It was getting dark, and the red sun covered with blood the white stones of the Xalya dungeon. Gazing at the sky, with his thoughts petrified, he came to the conclusion that life was a cursed illusion. A dream which breaks at the slightest sound. All the rest was emptiness.
Later, he looked away from the dusky sky, and he saw several lines of prisoners going out of the Dungeon, escorted by the Shalussis and the Akinoas. There were men among them, but most were women and children. After all that bloodbath, it was a solace to know that, at least, the savages intended to take prisoners.
Maybe one day they’ll manage to escape, he thought hopefully, straightening. He batted his eyelids. Perhaps we should have surrendered before, like Maloven said. He is a wise man, and he was usually right about a lot of things… He repelled the thought. Lamenting now was utterly useless. And it was useless, too, to want to tell Lord Vifkan that his hopeless charge would have been more proper to a pack of beasts than a group of Xalyas. And that this vengeance was more typical of a crazy man than of an heir of the steppe. All in all, when a man sees death coming, he is no longer a Xalya, nor a man, nor anything. And when a man has lost everything that matters to him, he is even less than that. And if he has a final wish he can cling onto, he clings onto it. Because that is all he has left.
The lines were divided and distributed. Some Shalussi men approached, pushing forward a queue of prisoners only made up of women. When Dashvara discerned among them a very familiar face, he felt dizzy, and he did not even know how to react. They had captured Fayrah, his eighteen-year-old sister. They had robbed him of everything. His patrol comrades. His parents. His family. His dreams. His entire life. And now they seized Fayrah.
He let himself fall onto the ground with a feeling of complete, endless, and terrible emptiness. He was finally utterly convinced that he had changed into a cold and dead statue. He didn’t know how long he stayed there, lying on the ground, gazing at the sky without seeing it, letting the pain overpower him, crush him, and freeze his blood to death. Afterwards, strong hands gripped him and led him into the healer’s tent. He let the savages guide him as one guides a lost child. That is what I am, he thought. He was not a knight of the Dahars anymore. He was not a Xalya of the Eternal Bird. He was Odek. A savage.
A damned Shalussi.