34. A captain's pride

More than three hundred federal soldiers camped that night in the Compassion sector. They were not regular Rayorah forces: they were a company that had just arrived from the border with the Shjak lands in the south of the Federation, and according to the herald of the vanguard, had been sent north to ‘take a rest’. Several Xalyas, including Dashvara, had been unable to suppress wry smiles upon hearing this.

“Does taking a rest mean being sanctioned in federal jargon?” Zorvun inquired in a voice that denoted pure linguistic interest.

The captain of the Xalyas was still sitting in his chair on the platform, pale but conscious. He said the night air had invigorated him, but like everyone else, his clothes were soaked, and he was chattering his teeth, freezing. Damned big-head,, Dashvara sighed. He and Makarva had already insisted twice on taking him inside and making him change his clothes… However, even though he didn’t look it, of the twenty-three Compassives, the captain was the most stubborn of them all, and he wanted to learn what was going on in person.

The federal herald was a human, but he was as inexpressive as Tsu, if not even more.

“Not at all,” he replied. “I assure you that the border with Shjak is a living hell. We have just won a crushing victory against the drows.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow. Was he trying to impress them? He looked at Tsu out of the corner of his eye, but he couldn’t read any feeling in his face: the drow, in any case, assured that he didn’t belong to any of his race. He had always lived in the Federation. He had always been a slave. Now, in addition to being a slave, he was also a Xalya; Dashvara smiled.

A boy was approaching at a run. He braked, skated through the mud, and Arvara the Giant held out a hand to keep him from falling. The young federate stammered and stuttered:

“Thank you. Captain Faag wants to speak with the leader of this tower.”

Without waiting for an answer, he turned his back on them and ran off again; these federates were always in a hurry. With impenetrable gravity, the herald waved.

“You’re the leader, aren’t you?” he asked Zorvun. This one nodded extremely slowly, like a ghost. “Then get up. I will take you to the captain.”

Zorvun nodded again and stood up without help… He staggered but pushed Sedrios’ hands away when he tried to support him. Exasperated, Dashvara boldly intervened:

“Wait a moment. Our captain also needs a break. Give him a few minutes, will you?”

Zorvun had frowned, but the herald merely gave his consent.

“All right, you have ten minutes.”

“Incorrigible, Dash,” the captain sighed in Oy’vat as the herald walked away.

“You’re going to change those clothes,” Dashvara replied, opening the door to the barracks. “You don’t want to look like a wet dog in front of an enemy. But honestly, you’d better appoint a spokesman to go and talk to this Faag. You can’t even walk.”

“Of course I can walk,” Zorvun replied. He entered the barracks with the help of Arvara and Makarva; they all followed him. They hurriedly removed his soaked cloak and dressed him from top to bottom without his protesting. When Dashvara fastened his white belt, Zorvun muttered, “I feel like you guys are pampering me like a five-year-old.”

Dashvara smiled broadly at him.

“It’s just that sometimes you do look a bit like one,” he scoffed.

Far from being offended, the captain uncovered his teeth, amused.

“By the way, my boy. Your Philosopher’s speech wasn’t as elaborate as other times, you know?”

Dashvara rolled his eyes, barely concealing his blushing.

“Well, just as they say the first arrow never hits its target, the last one usually isn’t glorious either.”

Zorvun patted him lightly on the shoulder, his eyes smiling.

“That arrow was not the last one, Dashvara. I’m sure the last one will be the best. And now, change yourself, too. You will accompany me.”

Dashvara opened his eyes wide but made no comment. He hurried to change with the others and was putting on his muddy boots when the herald appeared through the door. Zorvun and Dashvara came out, the former supported discreetly by the latter. Dashvara could clearly see that the captain was about to collapse with every step.

“Pride will kill you,” Dashvara whispered as they walked between the tents and lanterns.

“You’re one to talk,” Zorvun replied in a low voice.

Dashvara looked at him, surprised. It had been a long time since his own pride had been consumed like tinder and pierced by many a dagger. What did Zorvun mean by that ‘you’re one to talk’? Certainly, as time heals physical wounds, so it heals spiritual wounds, and as the eternal feather rises, so pride can have its wounds healed. But these wounds always leave a scar. Perhaps, in the past, he would have acted like Zorvun, pushing away illness to remain haughty, but now, that attitude seemed relatively foolish. Of course, he wasn’t going to tell the captain: a Xalya’s pride is sacred, and everyone had the right to see life as they pleased. Besides, he suspected that, in Zorvun’s case, a wound to his pride could be more serious than any other wound.

He stopped rambling on about the captain’s behavior when they arrived in front of the tall red canvas pavilion.

“Your weapons,” said one of the soldiers guarding the entrance. “You must leave them before entering.”

Dashvara nodded silently and cautiously let go of Zorvun; Zorvun stood very straight, and Dashvara disarmed him himself, guessing that if the captain stooped to pull the dagger out of his boot, he was quite capable of sprawling all over. Immediately afterwards, he removed the strap with the swords, the dagger hanging from his belt, and his own dagger.

“Only one of you can enter—” the guard began to say. But an energetic voice inside cut him off:

“Let them both in.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow when he saw Zorvun move first. He followed with some trepidation on a floor that seemed to be made of waterproof material. He was almost chagrined to get it dirty with his boots.

The interior was intensely illuminated by the lanterns and Dashvara blinked for a few seconds, blinded. The pavilion was simple, with a table, seats, a cot, and a large closed trunk. A man in a red uniform with a square human face faced them. He had blue eyes, and his skin was as black as the Akinoas.

“Captain Faag, of the Compassive Company,” he introduced himself in an affable voice. “Yes, we bear the same Grace as a name,” he confirmed. “That is why I am deeply curious to know you.”

He looked at them, eloquent, waiting for the usual introductions. Zorvun croaked proudly:

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

“I am Captain Zorvun of Xalya.”

Dashvara blushed. He would have felt the same way if Zorvun had told the Federate that he was thinking of running away and rebelling against Diumcili.

“Captain…” he whispered through his teeth. Then Captain Zorvun’s pride reached its limit, and the man collapsed. Dashvara rushed to support him before he fell completely. “Damn you, big-head. I told you so,” he muttered as he knelt on the tent floor. If your intention is to die, you’re on the right track with your behavior, Captain…

Faag’s voice rang out in surprise and concern behind him.

“Did he pass out?”

Without taking his eyes off Zorvun, Dashvara nodded. He put a hand on his carotid artery, searching for his pulse. It was still beating. He sighed, calmer, and when he looked up, he was paralyzed for a few seconds as he saw that Faag had crouched beside them.

“He looks bad,” he observed. “Help me lay him on the bed.”

It was only when they had settled him on the mattress that Dashvara thought the federate’s attitude was most strange. Who the hell would want to lay a Doomed on a bed?

“I’m guessing it’s the same disease that decimated those in the Tower of Sympathy,” Faag surmised. “Please sit down. I’ll call the doctor.”

Dashvara wasn’t particularly happy about having to replace the captain as spokesperson, but… it couldn’t be helped.

“Don’t bother, Captain Faag,” he assured. “We have our own doctor. The captain just fainted. I’ll call some companions and we’ll take him back to the barracks…” Faag’s white smile made him forget what he wanted to add.

“Sit down,” the federate repeated. “I’m going to ask you a few quick questions, then you can take your… captain home,” he said.

Dashvara did not falter. After all, what did the federates care about the titles they gave each other, huh? Zorvun was his captain, always had been; and, to him, the word “captain” was almost synonymous with “father”.

He inhaled and sat down on a stool in front of the table. He noticed that another person was in the tent, sitting behind a folding screen. Probably a guard, he assumed. Captain Faag, without sitting down, crossed his arms and looked thoughtful.

“Well,” he said after a silence. “The informants told me that your platoon will leave in a week. Is that true?”

“It is,” Dashvara replied.

“And where are they taking you?”

“We don’t know that.”

“Mm.” He gestured as if disinterested in the subject. “I’ve also been told that one of your people questioned a swamp orc this afternoon and that the swamp orc told him of beings called Malkraths who are said to be planning to break down the defensive line of the Doomed.”

“Naskrah,” Dashvara corrected him. “The orc said Naskrah. I questioned him,” he explained. He added to himself, a little relieved, that if this federate knew about the orc, it meant that the Doomed of Sympathy had survived.

For some reason, Captain Faag’s face was filled with intense satisfaction. On the other side of the screen, the figure had moved a little. Then Faag sat down on the other side of the table, clasped his gloved hands together, and took a suave tone:

“Are you sure he said Naskrah?”

Dashvara nodded calmly and stifled a yawn.

“Sure. He said it several times. Apparently, these Naskrahs have found a way to pressure the orcs into attacking us. And they’re using traps.”

“Ropes of smoke?” Faag asked.

Dashvara brightened up, alarmed. Clearly, Faag knew more about the subject than he did.

“Ropes?” he repeated. “We don’t know. In any case, a cloud of green smoke caused the illness of eight of our people last night. Another attacked those in Sympathy and another in Dignity. I don’t know about the other towers.” He squinted his eyes. “Last night, three Naskrahs approached the palisade pulling something. Maybe it was one of those ropes. Who are the Naskrahs, Captain?”

Captain Faag had remained meditative and replied absentmindedly:

“That’s what the swamp orcs call the drows.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow. So the Naskrahs were drows. But what were drows doing in Ariltuan? Didn’t they live in the south, in the lands of Shjak and the mountains of Duhaden?

Then Faag stood up and repeated as if he didn’t remember answering before:

“Naskrahs are drow. Thank you, soldier. One last question.” He paused for a moment as Dashvara got to his feet. “If you believed that those marching against you were the drows, what were you doing in front of the barracks with a white flag?”

Dashvara quietly swallowed his saliva.

“White is the color of war for the Xalyas,” he replied in a neutral voice.

Faag smiled at him again, which made Dashvara shiver.

“The color of war, huh? Another question, if it’s not too much to ask,” the Federal captain scoffed. “Who the hell are the Xalyas?”

Had he been asked that three years ago, Dashvara would have thought he was being mocked. But three years on the Border had taught him that the Xalyas were on the verge of oblivion throughout Hareka.

“You’ve never heard of the Xalyas of the Rocdinfer steppe?” he asked, however, feigning surprise. “We people of Compassion come from there. We are the descendants of the Ancient Kings. An alliance of clans destroyed us, we were taken prisoner and sold into slavery.”

Faag looked thoughtful but still smiled, and Dashvara wondered if he had ever heard of the Ancient Kings.

“I see. How funny. To console you, I’ll tell you that you’re not the only steppe people in the Diumcili lands. Even in my company, I have a… Shalussi,” he articulated carefully as if it were a terribly exotic word. “Maybe you know a few personally.”

Dashvara shrugged.

“I don’t think so, Captain Faag. The steppe is large.”

“I have a Namurek among the sappers,” Faag observed after a little thought. “Do you know him?”

Dashvara shook his head. It would have been a great coincidence if I had known him, federate.

“I have never known any Namurek,” he replied. “In any case, we, Xalyas, have never had very good relations with the Shalussi clan.”

In fact, since the fall of the penultimate lord of the steppe, the Xalyas had no good relations with anyone…

“You are a slave,” the figure behind the screen suddenly said in a vibrant voice. “But you can stop being one.”

The voice was strange, though unmistakably female. Dashvara blinked in bewilderment whilst Faag breathed in as if to be patient.

“Saazi,” he said. “Sometimes you could change your tune a little, you know?”

Dashvara scanned the screen and suppressed the urge to point out to that woman that ceasing to be a slave was not such an easy task. Suddenly, he saw a glowing light behind the panel, followed by a crackling, the sound of chains, and a hiss of frustration. He met Captain Faag’s blue eyes just as Saazi said in a squeaky voice:

“The Federation will fall and be crushed by the people of Shaazra, who is the true queen of these lands—”

“Enough,” Faag interrupted her, exasperated.

But the woman continued fervently:

“And then the slaves will be expelled, and the citizens imprisoned—”

“I said, that’s enough!” Faag thundered. “Soldier, try to wake up your companion. If he doesn’t wake up, I’ll send for a stretcher.”

His tone was cold and tense. It’s time to get out of here, Dashvara thought. However, he could not help but glance curiously at the screen before approaching Captain Zorvun. Just then, Captain Zorvun stirred and came to his senses with a grunt of pain; he raised his head and his eyes shone like two wounded lanterns.

“Did I faint? Where the hell are we, Dash? What the…?” He blinked and seemed to remember. Dashvara helped him to his feet as the captain cleared his throat and said with great dignity, “Eternal Bird. I beg your pardon, Captain…”

“Faag,” completed the federate, more quietly. “Don’t worry, Doomed. It caused me no inconvenience. Your companion answered my questions as if you had dictated the answers,” he exaggerated. “My men will stay here until you all get well. In fact, they have orders to patrol these lands for at least a few weeks. I think we got here in time to avoid a massacre at the Border. Wouldn’t you like a stretcher so we can bring you back…?” He paused under Zorvun’s glare and smiled, “Good night, and thank you for your time.”

This captain was definitely courteous, Dashvara observed. Was he a special case, or had the lord of the steppe just gotten too used to the gruff treatment of the neighboring Doomed?

They greeted him with a brief nod, and as they left the pavilion, Dashvara relaxed a little. It wasn’t Captain Faag that had made him so nervous, but this mysterious woman and her prophetic threat against the Federation. She had spoken of a queen. But what queen? He shook his head. What did it matter? It was almost funny that she had wanted to remind him that his condition as a slave was enforced, not intrinsic. As if I didn’t already know that…

They retrieved their weapons and returned to the barracks step by step.

“What did that federate say to you?” Zorvun asked calmly as they approached the platform.

“Nothing important,” Dashvara admitted. “But…” he smiled, “now I can assure you that we’re going to get out of this alive, Captain. And you first.”

Zorvun sighed.

“Yes, it looks like it. You know, Dash? I think the day death comes to take us for good, we won’t see it coming.”

Dashvara huffed, amused.

“A few days ago, I got up with a question in mind,” he revealed to him: “What good would time do if we knew its mysteries? I even engraved the question on the table in the barracks, didn’t you see it? A wise man from the steppe said that one of the worst things a person can do in life is to foresee his own death. And he also said that the awareness we have of death makes us more alive. Of course, this statement depends on—”

“Dash,” Zorvun interrupted him.

Dashvara flushed. Sometimes you’re worse than the Triplets, he chided himself.

“Yes, Captain?”

“Don’t tell the others about what happened in the tent, is that clear?”

Dashvara shook his head. Like a five-year-old, a small voice mentally confirmed. However, he simply assured him with mocking solemnity:

“It’s very clear, Captain. Not a word, I swear.”

He yawned, and Zorvun sighed.

“I’m under the impression you use the word ‘captain’ more than usual.”

Dashvara smiled broadly and patted him affectionately on the shoulder.

“It’s because you are the captain. And you’re going to be for many years to come, you can be sure of that.”