3. The White Hand
The next morning, when he awoke, lying next to the food wagon, Dashvara found a black shirt painstakingly folded beside him. It was the same one Zaadma had brought to him the day before. Sighing, he took off the ripped white shirt and pulled on the other. This one was not new, but it looked clean and was in much better condition. There was also a traditional Shalussi black headscarf, and he only wavered a little before adjusting it around his head. When the caravan resumed the march, he noticed Zaadma’s gentle, knowing smile. Dashvara would have gladly cast her in the prisoners’ wagon.
When they penetrated the Shalussis’ territories, the warriors began to disperse in groups. Lifdor, the most important Shalussi chieftain, headed for his village, followed by his warriors and his stolen horses; while all of these were drawing away, Dashvara looked at them with a frozen heart then followed the wagon with the prisoners, led by Nanda of Shalussi. From what a warrior said, Nanda did not want to make the Xalyas walk. Considering the greed and the ambition of these people, perhaps the Shalussi chieftain merely didn’t want his wares to lose value by getting sick or sunburned.
Dashvara had no trouble identifying that evil bastard. And not for the clothes, since these looked quite similar to his men’s: Nanda wore a dark tunic, black boots, loose-fitting pants, a belt, and a saber… But his belt was adorned with silver, and the saber had precious stones on its hilt; two big necklaces of pure gold hung around his Shalussi thick neck.
A Xalya could never have such bad taste, Dashvara thought.
When they crossed a large, shallow river, he realized that they were very close to Nanda’s village. They saw farmhouses appear, and the landscape changed abruptly. There were no longer plains covered with dry grass and sand soil, sprinkled with stunted plants. Now there were holm oaks, carob trees, bushes, and big shrubs with blue berries and leaves with a strong smell. The Shalussis’ lands were rich. That was why the Xalyas had always trusted that their own lands would never attract the Shalussis or the Essimeans. Of course, for decades, they had had to confront the savages, the bandits, and the steppe creatures; for centuries, they had endured the plagues, the summer droughts, and the dry winter cold. The Xalya people had survived everything but greed.
As they progressed, some farmers approached the caravan and received money, the selfsame treasure that had been plundered in the Xalya Dungeon; Dashvara was surprised to see the sudden generosity of the warriors. The cattle breeders and the peasants left, carrying money, jewels, and others stolen goods, not giving anything in return. And the warriors seemed satisfied.
“You look surprised.”
Dashvara jerked up slightly; when he turned, he saw two big, dark brown eyes. He grunted but didn’t answer.
“Don’t your people offer gifts to the food makers in return for their work?” Zaadma asked.
“The food makers?” Dashvara echoed, raising an eyebrow. “You mean those who work the land?”
Zaadma’s eyes narrowed.
“Yes… Indeed.” She cast a mild smile at him, and without adding anything, she walked away with an odd expression on her face.
Dashvara got troubled.
Something I said has surprised her, he guessed. Something that had made her think that Odek of Shalussi didn’t know things he was supposed to know. A small, silly voice inside his mind advised him to kill Zaadma, but he didn’t listen to it.
I’m not a savage. If I have to kill, I’ll do it to survive, not because of vague suspicions, he decided.
They arrived in the village before nightfall. It was a hamlet on a hill, with white houses and courts as there were in Xalya. They were scattered, surrounded by grass, soil, and sheep flocks. At the foot of the hill, the same river they had crossed slid to the southwest, stroking stones and reflecting the last rays of the evening sun.
A cluster of children ran downhill from the village to greet the warriors, and these embraced them, laughing and singing a triumphal tune. Three children, however, stayed away with solemn and grave faces, searching for their fathers, to no avail. A bit surprised, Dashvara saw Nanda approaching them and patting them on the head with a fatherlike hand. It seemed as if… as if the Shalussis of this village formed a united family, like the Xalyas’.
The Shalussi chieftain did not utter a word, but in that instant, Dashvara felt a shadow of compassion for those children. All in all, they were humans, even though they were savages.
All the queue dispersed, and each Shalussi man went back home. The wagon carrying the Xalyas was led to the top of the hill, escorted by Nanda and another five warriors who must be his most loyal men.
I’ll probably have to kill these too, Dashvara thought as he followed them, barely looking around.
The wagon stopped in front of a two-storied house. Dashvara saw the prisoners go into the building without putting up any resistance. Did they have renounced freedom so soon? he wondered sadly. Unconsciously, he stepped forward, and one of the guards turned to him and stood in his way. He was the same he had talked to in front of the tent, last night.
“Where are you going?” he snapped. “Do you think that Nanda will take care of you in his own house only because the Xalyas have imprisoned you? Come on, my friend, move on. Get yourself home, wherever you come from. I’m sure you have a family that cares for you. Move along,” he persisted.
Dashvara looked at the man’s belt. He bore a saber and a dagger.
I could snatch your weapons and make you shut your mouth, you savage rat, he growled inside his mind.
He may not have as much war knowledge as Zorvun, the Xalya captain and master-at-arms, did, but with a saber, he could cause terrible ravages. However, acting rashly seldom brings any good.
“You look more sluggish than a sheep in a desert,” the Shalussi taunted. “Hey, Walek! Wait, you’re not planning on going home now, are you? Come back, let us help this poor boy and see if he perks up. Come on, son, come with us.”
He had approached him, laying a hand on Dashvara’s shoulder; the Xalya stiffened but hesitated to react. He could not make a mistake now. He remembered that his father had ordered him to act like the Shalussis so as not to arouse suspicions.
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What an excellent piece of advice, father, but I wonder if you yourself would be able to act as one of these savages.
When the second Shalussi, Walek, took hold of his other shoulder with a kind expression, he let them draw him to a building different from the others, with a picture of a white hand painted on the door. As soon as he entered, he regretted not having resisted. He was immediately overwhelmed by smothering smells of strange herbs, which made him dizzy instead of “perking him up”. A slow-paced piece of guitar music was gliding lazily in the stifling smoke that shrouded all the room. Right after they had gone in, the music stopped.
“What the hell is that smoke?” Dashvara coughed. He blinked. The establishment danced before his eyes.
“Why, he can speak!” Walek laughed.
“Take a good breath, boy,” the other said, following his own advice. “These are herbs directly imported from Diumcili. That’s how gold and glory smell after a battle.”
Yeah sure! This place is rather a bloody den of vipers, Dashvara thought. He confirmed it when he saw a smiling, rosy face coming into view, through a green smoke spiral.
“Silkia! Fima!” the woman called loudly. “They’re back!”
Dashvara stopped dead and struggled with both warriors’ arms to get free. He would have never imagined that the Shalussis would be so “refined” to appreciate a foul air corrupted by drugs. As far as he knew, it was a pastime for the south people.
“Well, you’re already perking up a bit, but now stop shaking!” Walek complained without releasing him. “Let me buy you a drink. I’m sure you will cheer up after breathing this air for some minutes.”
Dashvara had no intention of staying here a second more. He perceived footsteps coming from the stairs as well as two women’s voices. With a pull, he finally wrenched himself free of the two warriors.
“Go deep to hell!” he rumbled.
He moved backwards to the door, and Walek and his companion shrugged. The latter replied:
“Go to hell yourself, boy. That’s too bad for you.”
“He seems to be as boring as Zefrek,” Walek gasped, sounding amused.
“Waleeek!” one of the three women yelled in a voice filled with emotion. “You don’t even imagine how much I missed you!”
“Oh! My dear Silkia!” the warrior laughed happily. “I missed you too.”
Dashvara was getting out of the establishment, walking backwards, when he suddenly hit a thing as hard as a stone. He turned and stood amazed. In front of him was a rock of flesh. A human being taller than seven feet, with iron muscles and a steel jaw, was looking at him, half-closing his small eyes. Oh, no, no, wait, is this really a human? It was huger than Arvara, one of his patrol comrades.
With his mouth open, Dashvara gaped at him and drew another breath of that disgusting substance that was floating in the whole store’s air. He coughed and tried to go around the well-built beast, but this one blocked him.
“No one leaves without paying. It’s the rule.”
It seemed to Dashvara that his voice made even the earth quake. He blinked, dazed. Then, he looked down and saw an enormous paw presenting its palm.
“Paying?” he echoed.
“Let him go, Shamvirz!” said a woman voice. “He hasn’t even drunk anything.”
The said Shamvirz knitted his eyebrows, and without moving back his hand, he suddenly gripped Dashvara by the collar and pulled him closer to his own face. The Xalya swallowed hard.
By the Eternal Bird, this beast could crush me with only one hand, he realized.
“And why did you not drink?” Shamvirz asked.
In a corner of his mind, Dashvara thought that the brain of that colossus was very likely inversely proportional to his mass. With a twisted smile on his face, he tried to answer in the most concise way not to breathe more than it was absolutely necessary.
“I don’t feel like it. I only want to leave.”
Shamvirz shook him, squinting his small eyes.
“I don’t hear you. Speak louder!”
Dashvara winced and attempted to get free, without success: Shamvirz’s grip was as iron as a steel hook. He glared at him. He was starting to feel seriously furious.
Don’t get upset, he admonished himself, clenching his jaw. Just don’t breathe.
“Let him go, Shamvirz!” a woman said.
“Wait, no!” said another one. “Bring him to me, Sham.”
“What? Silkia!” Walek exclaimed indignantly. “Get him out of here, Shamvirz. He wanted to leave, in any case.”
Silkia said something about how stupid the jealous men were, while Shamvirz correctly put Dashvara down back to the ground with an expression of uncertainty on his face. Keep hesitating, big boy… The Xalya made use of the opportunity: he pushed himself forward in a rush of despair, passed by the colossus… and crossed the threshold. He filled his lungs with clean air, then staggered and ran downhill, followed by the surprised looks of a knot of children. When he arrived at the river, he fell on his knees and spit out:
“Shalussis.” He washed his face, trying to rub off this stinking smell that was dulling his senses.
Walek was a murderer. As well as all the comrades with whom he had returned. He had killed Xalyas. As all of them had. And he did not even feel a precious little regret. Of course he doesn’t, how could he feel it? He is a savage.
As the sky darkened, Dashvara looked up at the top of the trees and their twisted branches. In the dusky silence, he pronounced:
“Lifdor and Nanda. Shiltapi. Todakwa.” His jaw clenched when he added: “Walek. And all the other warriors.”
And all the murderers of the whole Hareka, while you’re at it… And the last on the list will be you.
Obviously that wasn’t reasonable. But, in a certain way, it was more impartial than his father’s revenge. Sure, it was the clan headmen who had set up the attack. But each warrior who had assaulted the dungeon had taken part in the massacre. All of them were guilty. All of them had profited from the bounty.
True, but in a battle against the savages, people kill and plunder, what do you expect? It’s the main rule, after all. To kill, live, and win. Or to kill, die, and lose. The only solace is that, at the very end, everyone must die.
The thought didn’t especially cheer Dashvara, and it didn’t even help him soothe the rage that was consuming him. He knew that the uncontrolled wrath was counter-productive, but he couldn’t help it: after spending entire days with a heart as cold as death, he felt as though the flame of life was resurrecting inside him; however, by then, the flame cried only for vengeance. His fists clenched around invisible sabers.
I’d better try to calm down a bit, he thought, breathing quickly. A red snake doesn’t get overexcited like that, and it attacks when one expects it the least. He had always been a cautious man, not very patient, but not very given to act foolishly either. He had to get over all that had happened and become again the same Dashvara as before. One did not fight well with confused thoughts.
Night fell, fresh under the soft wind gusts. Dashvara drew away from the river and returned next to Nanda’s house. He wondered in which room the prisoners were being kept. He wanted to see Fayrah again, with her funny and shy smiles. He knew her well. She was two years younger than him, and both had played together when they were little, along with their brother Showag. They had shared secrets and tales, discovered the dungeon secret passages, and attended Maloven’s long lessons. Later on, when he had been fourteen winters, his lord father had named him as a patrol. Thereafter, Dashvara had spent more time in the steppe and the neighboring farmhouses than in the dungeon. Soon, he had realized that their childhood was over. Fayrah had become a shy and lovely girl, more ingenuous—if that was possible—than when she was eight. As for Dashvara, he had met a Steppe Thief, whipped bandits, fought monsters, and cut off the head of a criminal before Lord Vifkan’s merciless eyes.
They both had followed very different paths.
I need someone to talk with, he suddenly told himself. I need to stop thinking and remembering.
He wanted to go into Nanda’s house and talk to Fayrah. He wanted to tell her that things would get better, that she was not alone, and that he would take care of her come what might. Nevertheless, something kept him from even attempting to talk to her. It wasn’t a fear of being discovered. Actually, he was afraid that his wish to put her in safety would utterly destroy the anger simmering inside him. He needed to control that anger and kindle its fire to keep going. He needed it so that his hand wouldn’t tremble when the time came.
Like a shadow, he sneaked away from Nanda’s house and slipped downhill again. He avoided a watchman, and suddenly realizing he was weary, he sat down against the bark of a tree and fell asleep.