6. Shalussi life

He found Rokuish sleeping and snoring, leaning back on the fence that enclosed the horses. The sun was already falling to the west, and the stable kindly shaded the sleeping young man.

The Xalya rested his arms on the fence and looked at the enclosure. In all, there were fifteen beasts, and half of them seemed more like draft animals than war horses. Among them, there was a black one. He snapped his lips, and the animal lifted its head, shook it, and approached the fence docilely. Dashvara smiled when he caressed its nose. It was a good beast, and it reminded him so much of Lusombra, the mare he had ridden for the previous five years. At least, no Shalussi, Essimean, or Akinoa will be able to ride her, he told himself. Four months ago, Lusombra had been stolen by a Steppe Thief. Well, not exactly “stolen”, actually. The Steppe Thieves didn’t usually steal horses, and truth to tell, they just didn’t steal. The so-called thief had been found by captain Zorvun and his patrol in the Xalya territories, and as he had no horse, or water, or weapons, it was decided to bring him to the dungeon. Finally, after spending several days speaking with the prisoner, Dashvara had committed one of the so many crazy things that drove his lord father to despair: he had helped the Steppe Thief to flee, offering him his own horse. He could still remember the final words the mysterious steppeman had pronounced: ‘I will repay you for that, Xalya.’ He had raised his fist to his heart and ridden off like a bolt into the dark of the steppe. The two patrol comrades that were on guard duty that night had just shaken their heads without sounding the alarm: it was said, after all, that, if a Xalya defended his freedom tooth and nail, a Steppe Thief defended it to death.

Dashvara smiled. For some reason, among all the clans and tribes he knew, he had always respected the Steppe Thieves more than any others. According to that Steppe Thief that he had saved and whose name he did not know, the first priority of his clan was to protect the Rocdinfer Steppe from the avaricious hands of the “civilized people”. That was not easy at all.

A snore louder than the previous one drew his attention to the Shalussi. The black headscarf of this one had fallen smoothly forward off his head, and now his face was barely visible.

Dashvara sat down in front of him, on the grass, and he glanced at the sky. The sun was already setting. After a while, as he saw that Rokuish didn’t wake up, he stood up and went into the building. All the horses’ stalls were clean. He noticed a table placed beside a wall, with two benches, and on this table, he saw a slice of cheese.

Immediately, Dashvara salivated. He glanced around him, as though he were going to commit a terrible theft.

‘You shall flog the thief who robs your neighbor,’ the shaard Maloven once said, in his usual grandiose voice.

Flog, huh… Well, I’ve already flogged three bandits with my own whip, Maloven, but one thing is to steal, and another thing is to eat, he reasoned.

His thought drew an ironic smile on his lips, but that didn’t prevent him from taking the cheese and swallowing it with delight. It was goat cheese. When he went out of the stable, Rokuish hadn’t moved an inch.

As placid as a donkey, huh?

Dashvara snorted mentally.

“If only all the Shalussis were like you,” he whispered.

And if only the Xalyas could sleep as quietly as you do, he added gloomily, in silence.

Then he turned and went to the river. He drank water in large gulps: he felt as if forging those damned links had left him as dry as a sunned canvas.

He tossed his head up abruptly when he heard a lively tune of guitars. Frowning, he looked at the hill, rose to his feet, and began to ascend. On the square before Nanda’s house and beside the watchtower, was a Shalussi group with guitars, calling all the inhabitants. The neighbors had gathered, and now they were sitting in a circle around a man with gold necklaces. Nanda of Shalussi.

Dashvara stopped in the dusky darkness, several steps away from the ring of light shined by the torches.

“People of Nanda!” the headman exclaimed, and the inhabitants fell into an expectant silence. “As you all know, a week ago, the last bastion of the ancient steppe realms has been destroyed. The Xalya Dungeon has fallen, and the Xalya warriors who were threatening our lands have been defeated thanks to the Shalussis, thanks to our warriors!”

He leaned his head respectfully in some direction, and a pale Dashvara sighted the warriors who had traveled with him to the village.

“And thanks to our chief!” a voice yelled out among them.

This one was Walek’s comrade. Nanda smiled.

“We are not so damn greedy as the Xalyas were,” he continued. “We don’t want to dominate the whole steppe: we only want to live in peace in our lands, without worrying about conquests and oppression. The dignity of the Tyrant’s spawns is dead. You are free men, Shalussis. Our people’s revenge has finally been settled, and led by me, Nanda of Shalussi!”

If I ever had qualms about killing you, you have just removed them all, Nanda of Shalussi, Dashvara spit mentally while the villagers were accompanying Nanda’s shout with acclaims. There’s a great difference between avenging the death of your family and avenging the oppression of a people caused by a tyrannic king who died two hundred years ago. Or is it that your point wasn’t as much about avenging as it was about hoarding gold, you scoundrel?

Finally, Dashvara sat down on the ground so as not to draw the attention, and he concentrated his efforts on calming down his heartbeats.

“Yet, also, let us weep,” Nanda pronounced, “because we have lost five brave men. Three were married and had children. Two had parents who had educated them to be honorable Shalussis. Let us weep, my brothers, for our dead.”

The warriors didn’t exactly weep, but they kept a respectful silence. Nanda moved closer to a child who was crying silently, and he laid a hand on his head.

“Cry, child, for tomorrow you shall be a strong man.”

He straightened and concluded:

“The bounty of this fight has been generous. The food makers will double their efforts, and we won’t have to go hungry this year.” He smiled. “The merchants of Dazbon will come in two weeks. We will sell our prisoners, and a part of the profits will be shared between all the inhabitants as a sign of my generosity. Now bring on the party!”

The villagers let out high-pitched screams of gratitude, and the guitarists began to play music again. Everybody rose and continued to howl like raging lunatics. Dashvara shook his head, amazed.

This is clear proof of who the Shalussis are in fact, don’t you see? They are savages capable of committing the worst monstrosities for a fistful of gold coins. He paused abruptly, fixed his gaze on the square, and shivered. No way! Are they really going to dance?

The Shalussis, still screaming rhythmically, raised their fists to the sky and danced in a ring, smiling at each other.

“Eternal Bird,” Dashvara whispered. And he sealed his lips, cursing himself.

Fine. Everybody is happy because my people have been hacked to death. What a great joy. Seriously, can’t they find other less macabre reasons for celebrating?

They were absolutely repulsive. He stood up, and he was going to move away when Orolf emerged from the crowd, calling him.

“Odek! How did it go with Bashak?”

The blacksmith was smiling and holding hands with a little girl with tangled hair, who had just put a soiled thumb in her mouth.

“Er,” Dashvara said, lifting his eyes. “Very well. I’m going to work as a warrior. With a certain Rokuish.”

Orolf vigorously clapped him on the shoulder.

“So you’ll have to start training and eating more. Come to have dinner with us. My wife is a wonder at cooking.”

Come to have dinner with the ones who have robbed you of the blood of your blood, translated the macabre part of Dashvara’s mind. A shiver coursed down his spine.

“No, thanks, Orolf. I am not hungry.”

The blacksmith frowned, surprised; then he glanced in one direction, and he seemed to understand something.

“Don’t go to the White Hand tonight,” he whispered. “Walek will be waiting for you there to kill you if you approach that… woman. He is a warrior with a confused mind. Everyone tells him to get married and forget that Silkia, but it seems that that snake has chained him. That house is a poison to the village.”

Dashvara listened to his words, interested.

“So Walek wants to kill me.”

“I don’t believe he wants to. He just doesn’t want you to approach that woman. If you are not totally dumb, boy, don’t approach that den.”

“If nobody likes it, why is it still open?” the Xalya asked.

Orolf made a face.

“I never said that nobody likes it. Actually, it was a sort of ‘present’ gifted to Nanda by an important Diumcilian lord to maintain good commercial relations. You see, Nanda sells prisoners and salbronix grains, and Arviyag, the envoy from Diumcili, gives him gold. Though, honestly, I haven’t seen Nanda enter this house, not even once. Our chief gets drunk more easily with gold than with Diumcili smoke,” he joked. “Believe me, young man, don’t approach that woman, and everything will go well.”

The blacksmith waved his hand, and with his daughter, he went back to the feast. The guitarists had begun descending the hill. Behind them, flourishing the torches, the villagers danced, and from time to time, they let out a long burst of jubilant screams that pierced the night.

Dashvara watched them as they moved away. They were celebrating the victory. Their victory. And the death of his father. Of his family. Of so, so many people… It nauseated him.

“What are you doing out there, my darling?” a distant and sensual voice suddenly asked.

Dashvara looked up at the White Hand and distinguished a pale face at a window on the second floor. He breathed out noisily, and he was going to move away to find a place where he could sleep, but then he stopped short. He reflected. What if Walek really intended to kill him if he approached this woman? What would happen if he killed that Shalussi in self-defense? No one could accuse him of murder, right?

But he needed a saber to defend himself, and he wasn’t quite sure that Walek would be knightly enough to give him one in case of a duel. Yet, he had not forgotten the metal bar hidden in his boot. Depending on the situation, he could use it effectively.

Be cautious like a snake. And when the time has come to kill, do it. He shuddered on recalling Lord Vifkan’s words.

Has the time already come, father? he asked. He shook his head and glanced at Nanda of Shalussi’s house. He could not spend his whole life in this village of savages, waiting day after day for his father to answer: “now”. His lord father would never answer him anymore, neither would captain Zorvun. Now it was up to him to choose the best way and assume the consequences of his acts, be these good or bad.

He took a deep breath and walked toward the White Hand, keeping his senses cautiously alert. He expected to see, at any moment, a shadow popping up from one corner, a saber in hand. He could disarm him if he was dexterous enough. And then he would kill him.

He was so concentrated that, when a voice sounded behind him, he jumped from the ground like a crazy demon:

“There you are! I’ve been looking for you everywhere! You tell me you’d come tonight, and I find you here, in front of the White Hand door?”

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

As he turned, his eyes caught the glimpse of a form just moving behind a brush. Another human figure was crossing the square, looking like a woman scorned.

“Zaadma,” Dashvara muttered, narrowing his eyes. Argh, what had gotten into her now? She went on complaining out loud:

“You who promised to love me till death, you jump into the arms of someone else so soon?”

Window shutters suddenly clapped, and Zaadma chuckled wickedly.

“You are an idiot,” she added in a lower voice while coming close to Dashvara. “There are two men hidden behind a brush, waiting for you to kill you if you get near the door.”

Dashvara tried and failed to swallow his anger.

“Damned bastard,” he hissed. “I already knew that.”

Zaadma stopped short. A smell of flowers began to float on the night air.

“Oh. So your purpose was to die. Good. Great. Go ahead. If you insult me like that, I have no qualms about delivering you to those men. All in all, you’re just like the others. Hey, Silkia!” she called out all of a sudden in a more normally pitched voice. “I was kidding. This fellow is an ingenuous good man. I’m sure he has fallen in love with you. I’d even bet that he would gladly bring you a treasure full of gold coins only for you. Silkia! Hey, Silk—!”

She stopped yelling when Dashvara grabbed her by the shoulders and began to shake her as if she were a maraca.

“Let go of me!”

Dashvara let her go, suddenly feeling ashamed. He had never in his life shaken a woman.

“I’m sorry. And I’m sorry I called you a bastard. I didn’t mean to.”

I can’t believe it—are you seriously apologizing? Zaadma stared up at his eyes. Her own were glittering as if she was ready to cry.

“Go to hell,” she snapped. She turned her back on him and swiftly strode away.

“Is what Zaadma said true?” Silkia asked far away.

Dashvara drew a deep breath and exhaled loudly. He didn’t respond to Silkia. Two armed Shalussi warriors were too many. He could not disarm one of them while being attacked by the other.

Abruptly, he started running. He caught up with Zaadma downhill.

“Wait!” he said.

The woman turned and rumbled noisily before she went on walking.

“Now you’re pursuing me, Shalussi?”

“Before, you were pursuing me,” Dashvara replied, keeping pace with her.

As she said nothing, he continued:

“Orolf, the blacksmith, warned me of Walek’s scheme. That’s precisely why I wanted to pretend to go into the White Hand—to force him to reveal his presence.”

“And why should I care about all this?” she retorted.

For a moment, Dashvara stayed speechless, not knowing what to answer.

“Well… Actually, I suppose you shouldn’t care. But still, you came to warn me. Making a scene.”

“Making a scene?” Zaadma stopped not very far from the olive tree and her house. “I was just trying to convince Silkia to let you be. She is one of the worst vipers and the most ambitious of all. She has even succeeded in driving Walek mad. Ever since he met her, that fool isn’t the same.”

“You wanted to save my life,” Dashvara murmured. “Just like Orolf.”

Zaadma let out a brief, sarcastic laugh.

“Oh, come on! Why would I want to save the life of a shameless scamp who tells me over and over how brazen-faced and bastard I am?”

Dashvara saw Zaadma entering her house like a whirlwind and shut herself in with her flowers. She quickly withdrew a curtain, adding:

“And don’t even think about sleeping beneath my olive!”

She tugged the curtain close, and the light of a candle lit up the inside. Dashvara sighed. He didn’t know exactly why he felt so bad, whether because he had let pass the opportunity of getting rid of Walek or because Zaadma, on pretending to be an honorable woman, was messing his mind up.

He sat down next to the olive and listened to the distant music of the feast while his eyes were peering at the flickering light beyond the window. When he heard footsteps approaching, a naughty smile twisted his mouth. He stood up and got in the way of a young and beardless Shalussi that was not only somewhat drunk but was also following the wrong path.

“Go away, knave,” Dashvara pronounced in a low voice. “This is a decent home.”

The youth blinked.

“What are you talking about? She told me to come today.”

Dashvara gave him back a disgusted face, and without thinking twice, he drove his fist precisely straight in his stomach. The boy doubled up, out of breath, incapable of screaming.

“Who told you what?” the Xalya asked in a mild voice.

Some seconds later, he helped him to his feet and kindly steered him away from the house. Finally, as the Shalussi dropped himself down again on the grass, he advised him:

“Don’t come back around here, understood?” He saw him nodding mutely, the eyes wide open, and he smiled. “Good boy.”

He drew up and came back to the olive tree. He let himself down against the rough bark and gazed at the Moon, cold and distant. Like a litany, he repeated inside him the names of the clan chieftains, over and over. He finally fell into a fitful sleep.

He had a dream that was different and yet always the same. He saw his father falling on his knees before him with an Akinoan axe wound in his stomach. He whispered something to him, something important, but Dashvara could not hear him. And his father vanished. Then, he saw his brothers, and his mother, and Makarva, Boron, and all his patrol comrades. Inexplicably, all of them were smiling. Like a sand mermaid, Fayrah emerged from a light ring and appeared in front of him; her dark eyes were gleaming with tears, but inexplicably, she was also smiling. Why the devil were they all smiling? Dashvara asked himself. When he saw Walek, he spun and dashed toward him, his sabers unsheathed; he leaped as lightly as the wind and whirled like a red snake; a sunbeam flashed in his blades, and then…

He woke up in a start when he received a water bucket right on his face.

“Whoops!” Zaadma covered her mouth while the Xalya was spitting water and rubbing his bloody forehead. “I didn’t mean to throw the bucket. Did I hurt you?”

Dashvara was completely soaked. He sighed and shook his head.

“Then answer my question, you insolent rascal!” Zaadma exploded. “Can you tell me what did you do to this poor Fatiek? He didn’t come last night. It’s the very first time someone missed one of my dates, do you know that? Well, almost the first time. Now answer,” she hissed.

Dashvara moved his hand away from his forehead and realized that this one was bleeding significantly. He lifted his eyes to the red dress, then to the cleavage, the neck, and finally to the clenched lips and to the dark brown eyes, which, right now, were sparkling dangerously. He opened his mouth and uttered:

“Do you mean that child who came yesterday evening to visit you?”

“He is eighteen, Odek. He is only three years younger than me. So he came and you didn’t let him pass.”

“I told him this house was a decent house, and I helped him find the right way. That’s all.”

Instead of shouting, Zaadma kept silent and didn’t respond right away.

“A decent house?” she echoed. And suddenly, she gave out a loud laugh. “Did you really tell him that? You’re such a rascal, Odek. I tell you not to sleep beneath my olive, and here I find you. And what’s more, you meddle in my affairs. I have lost three gold coins because of you.”

Dashvara shrugged.

“I’m sorry. I believed you wanted to become an honorable woman.”

Zaadma gasped but kept smiling.

“You sure love making fun of people, eh? I don’t know what to think of you,” she confessed. “Sometimes, I get the impression that you’re keeping a terrible secret inside, and I’m dying to know more things about you. And other times, I just want to forget about you and let these Shalussi warriors thrash you as soon as you open your mouth and say one of those brilliant ideas of yours. And now come in so that I can control the bleeding.”

Dashvara got up and followed her into the house, confused.

“You don’t speak like a Shalussi,” he said abruptly as Zaadma was setting a water bowl and a white rag on the golden carpet.

“Well, as I already said to you, I am not a Shalussi,” she replied patiently.

She drew nearer, softly touched his forehead with the wet rag, and then withdrew it. She wet another corner and used it again on the wound. If he had not felt so confused, Dashvara would have at once taken care of cleaning his wound alone, but… something kept him from taking the rag from Zaadma’s hands.

“Since you always repeat that you’re sorry, I’ll also tell you that I’m sorry,” she said, not looking very guilty. “I never meant to throw you the water bucket. Only the water. But as you can see, I’m very angry at you. Who’s going to pay me now these three gold coins I lost forever?” she lamented, very sad.

Dashvara caught her eloquent look and shook his head.

“Yesterday, Fushek hired me—”

“Great!” Zaadma exclaimed.

“—But he said he wouldn’t pay me with money until he gives me some more important works… so I’m afraid you’ll have to survive without those three gold coins. I feel for you in your sorrow,” he taunted, holding his hand up to his chest.

Zaadma glared at him and threw the bloody rag to his face before scrambling to her feet. Dashvara laughed.

“Dignity costs much more than three gold coins, woman. The punch I gave to this brute was priceless.”

Zaadma folded her arms. Her face reflected a mix of incredulity and exasperation.

“How can it be that, whenever you cross the threshold of my house, I always feel the urge to kick you out of here?”

Dashvara made a pensive face as if pondering seriously upon the answer.

“Perhaps because we are too much different?”

Zaadma drummed her fingers on her elbows.

“Perhaps,” she admitted.

“And still, we may have something in common,” Dashvara added.

Don’t speak more than you should, or else you will regret it…

His words, however, had already aroused Zaadma’s curiosity.

“We are both human, is that what you mean?”

Dashvara rolled his eyes.

“Apart from that. You want to take revenge on Walek.”

Zaadma looked annoyed.

“Walek? What do I have to do with that man?”

Dashvara narrowed his eyes. Maybe my instinct leads me on a wrong path. Or maybe not.

“Walek betrayed you, didn’t he? You hate that man.”

Zaadma frowned.

“I don’t hate him. Hatred doesn’t bring any good. Besides, a man cannot betray me as long as he pays well.”

Dashvara noticed a slight quaver in her voice. He shrugged without responding and passed the rag upon his forehead. It was scarcely bleeding now.

Zaadma growled.

“And what if he did betray me?” she said finally, sitting before the Xalya. “In that case, it wasn’t his fault but mine, for believing that a Shalussi warrior would really marry me. For a wonder, after so many disappointments, I believed what that fool told me.” A wry smile stretched across her face. “Sometimes my stupidity amazes me. It was my fault,” she kept on talking. “And I already got my revenge: now he is with that Diumcilian woman, that Silkia, and because of her, he is going crazier than he already was. That viper will manage to send him to find the Hidden Treasure of the Ghost-Pyramid. Well,” she sighed. She lifted a curious gaze at the Xalya. “In conclusion: you want to take revenge on Walek for some reason, and you want me to help you.” She laughed teasingly. “Dream on: I won’t help you.”

“I only want you to give me twenty gold coins to buy a saber,” Dashvara pronounced.

Zaadma shook her head.

“Even if I had the money, I wouldn’t give it to you as a matter of principle. I don’t want you to harm anyone. Don’t you think there have been enough dead men for this year?”

Dashvara looked at her, surprised.

“Oh, of course,” Zaadma continued. “Perhaps it has been a good thing for you that the Xalyas died and the Shalussis saved you. But for my part, these absurd wars do not make me laugh at all. You are right, Odek. We are very different. You’re a Shalussi and a dignified warrior. And I’m sure you have already killed some man in your life. As for me, I’m a bastard, and I raise flowers. To be honest, I prefer my situation. And now, if you don’t mind, leave me alone. I’ve got to water my plants and fill the bucket I have thrown to you.”

Stunned, Dashvara saw her standing up lively. He took a deep breath.

“I’m not aiming to kill Walek.”

“I’m glad you aren’t,” Zaadma said in a level voice as she grasped up the empty bucket. “Would you be so kind as to leave?”

Dashvara nodded silently, pulled down the bloody rag onto the bowl, and stood up. A hint of a smile curved his lips.

“How can it be that, whenever I cross the threshold of your house, you want to kick me out of here?” he asked.

Stop talking and leave, a more serious voice commanded. Go out, steal two sabers, kill Nanda, take a horse, and disappear. And leave that Walek alone: he is not the chieftain; he is just a mercenary. Go away…

Zaadma’s dark brown eyes reflected a slight surprise.

“Do you want… do you want to stay here?”

Dashvara jerked up.

“No!” he said. Then, realizing that his refusal had been too rude, he added: “I’m not… I mean. Never mind. I’m off.”

He was crossing the doorway when Zaadma said in an affable tone:

“Stay if you want. I offer you again the same deal as before. A room to sleep in. Which you may not find so easily elsewhere unless you have already got along with some family. A room and good meals… in return for half of your future profits.”

The deal was generous and, therefore, suspect. What did Zaadma earn by suggesting that kind of deal to a person who was not likely to get more than a gold coin once in a while?

Dashvara ignored the small voice of his conscience and preferred not to think about tricks. He needed a bed to sleep in, and he preferred a thousand times more the house of a lady of easy virtue who was horrified by war to that of a Shalussi family full of murderers. He turned to Zaadma and half grinned.

“Is the indefinite time still valid?”

Zaadma grinned back.

“It most certainly is.” She held out the bucket. “Take it, start working now, and bring me the water. Later, you’ll attend to what you have to attend.”

Dashvara shrugged, took the bucket, and went to the river to fill it. It was the right decision, he told himself. It would be ridiculous to keep sleeping in the open. When he went back, he heard a melodious and joyful song.

Ho! I came to pick a carnation

in your eyes, sweet girl, in your eyes!

I got lost in the sea of your mouth,

’cause I thought it was blossom and light.

The Xalya stopped for an instant, amused, before extending the bucket through the window. Zaadma stifled a scream.

“Are you crazy? Next time, enter with the bucket through the door. And don’t you dare touch even one petal of my flowers while staying here. Do you understand?”

Dashvara breathed out.

“I do understand. Have a good day.”

Zaadma looked surprised and responded falteringly when the Xalya was already leaving:

“Likewise.”

When Dashvara arrived at the stable, Rokuish was already working. Apparently, Fushek had informed him that he had a new comrade, because he greeted him at once, calling him by his name, and smiled friendly at him.

“The last time I saw you I couldn’t say hello,” Dashvara mocked. “I said hello to the horses, though. Well, what do I have to do?”

“Technically, the same as I do,” answered the warrior apprentice. “Right now, I was cleaning the saddles. Do you know how to clean saddles?”

“Of course I do,” Dashvara affirmed.

He and Rokuish sat down at the table from where that famous slice of cheese had disappeared, and they began working. As Fushek had warned him, Rokuish was not very communicative, but Dashvara did not mind. Actually, it was better that way. It would have been much more annoying to stay beside a prier asking him about the past and forcing him to improvise.

“Do you like horses?” Rokuish suddenly asked.

Dashvara smiled. That was the kind of question worthy of conversation.

“A lot,” he nodded. “Especially if I know them. As a matter of fact, it is pretty much the same for humans.” He twisted his mouth. “And what about you?”

Rokuish smiled frankly.

“My mother says that the very first word I pronounced was ‘Breeze’, the name of my father’s horse. My father was a warrior.”

Dashvara looked sad.

“Did he die?”

Rokuish shrugged.

“Yes, he did. The Xalyas killed him.”

He added nothing more, but his words struck Dashvara like a frosty stab. He inhaled soundlessly to calm his breathing, and he said:

“I share your pain.”

Rokuish smiled.

“Thank you. But it happened fifteen years ago. I barely remember him.”

Dashvara nodded silently with his head and pretended to focus his attention on cleaning the saddle while recalling a maxim of the Ancient Kings: Skia distalur hunás kay vayhatur gas distalur askalonat duk. Revenge yourself on your enemy, and you will discover that he was taking revenge on you.