7. Training

He spent all morning in the stable with Rokuish, and at lunchtime, he saw the Shalussi wave with his hand, go out of the building… and come back, peeping his head through the door.

“Hey, Odek, by any chance, wouldn’t you want to eat with us?”

Dashvara raised his eyebrows.

“Me?” He hesitated, and then he smiled. “With great pleasure.”

The Shalussi smiled back, and they both headed for his home.

“Are you married?” Dashvara inquired.

The question seemed to amuse him.

“No. I live with my family. I have a sister and two older brothers. The oldest, Shuwaga, is indeed married. To our chief’s sister.”

He fell silent, as though he was surprised to speak so much. He gave Dashvara another smile and pointed to a house near to which a white-haired Shalussi was hanging up clothes.

“Rokuish, my son!” she greeted him. “Who’s your companion?”

“He is my new workmate, mother,” the young man explained. “I have invited him to eat… May he?”

The mother nodded instantly.

“Of course he may. Go in. Your brother Andrek will come soon, and we will be able to eat.”

“Thank you,” Dashvara said, slightly bowing his head.

“And he is polite as well!” The Shalussi woman smiled, pleased. “Come on, come in, I’ve almost finished.”

Rokuish and Dashvara went into the house. The inside wasn’t very large. There were some carpets and a big, iron cooking pot steaming on a slab of stone. The bowls were already set thanks to a shy-eyed, graceful young woman who was wearing a simple but practical dress.

“Let me introduce my sister, Menara,” Rokuish said. “He is Odek, my workmate.”

Dashvara briefly bowed his head.

“My pleasure.”

He sniffed the meal. There was a smell of wheat and mint.

“It’s semolina with beans,” Menara said shyly. “Water is almost completely evaporated. Had a good morning?”

“Excellent,” Rokuish replied.

Suddenly, an exclamation came from outside:

“Rok, I just learned you’ve been saddled with the stranger—!”

The voice of the new arrival died abruptly when, on crossing the threshold, he noticed who was inside.

Dashvara tensed. He knew this man. It was Walek’s friend, the one who had led him into the White Hand. He had also taken part in the fight against the Xalyas. How many of them had he killed? Dashvara instantly regretted having accepted the invitation.

Embarrassed, Rokuish attempted to fix his brother’s blunder.

“Andrek, this is Odek. He was a nomad Shalussi. And he knows a lot about horses.”

“Pf.”

Andrek, making a face not easy to interpret, advanced and sat down beside the cooking pot, giving a simple nod to the guest. The mother had followed him, and she promptly went on and on in a cheerful voice while Menara was serving the meal in the bowls.

“So, you’re a nomad Shalussi?” the mother said as they were eating. “One of those who spend their time going up and down the steppes? That sounds very interesting. And how come you’re not with your family?”

Dashvara swallowed the semolina and the beans. They were delicious. However, he would rather have eaten them alone.

“They were killed by the Xalyas,” he replied in an even voice.

The mother opened her mouth and closed it; an expression of sympathy appeared on her face.

“They also killed my husband. These swines thought that they could hand out justice everywhere with everyone. Now I understand why you’re out to become a warrior. Are you going to train with Rokuish this afternoon? A little of training would be good for both of you, don’t you think?” she added, directing a meaningful look at his son.

This one blushed.

“Yes, mother. We will train this afternoon.”

“That’s perfect,” she approved with satisfaction.

They didn’t speak much more. Dashvara thanked them for the invitation, and when he praised the meal, the mother exclaimed that he could come back anytime. Dashvara would have smiled before her kind welcome if he hadn’t met Andrek’s contemptuous look.

How many Xalya soldiers did your saber stab, Shalussi? he wanted to ask. And another troubling question came to his mind. How many Shalussi men were executed by Xalya sabers? He frowned. What of it? The Shalussis were still existing whereas the Xalyas were now a mere shadow of sand.

Joyfully, Rokuish said goodbye, and they both went uphill to Fushek’s house. When they got to the court and picked up the wooden sabers, the Shalussi cleared his throat.

“My mother is right. I should train more often. I guess you think I don’t know how to fight.”

Dashvara shook his head.

“Never think that the adversary doesn’t know how to fight before making sure he actually doesn’t,” he smiled.

He attacked. He knew that Rokuish had probably never seen a Xalya fighting, but even so, he didn’t lose his concentration: any Shalussi might be watching them. Fushek might be watching.

Even moving like a lame horse and attacking straight, he defeated Rokuish easily. The young Shalussi was panting, out of breath. He was clearly not accustomed to training. ‘You must have the same level as Rokuish’, Fushek had said. Only now he realized that his words weren’t particularly flattering. Dashvara straightened and looked at the Shalussi.

“You know what you should do?” the Xalya reflected out loud. “Run every day. Do stretching exercises. And acquire agility. Right now, you look like a turtle trying to defend itself, but the difference is that you have no shell.”

Rokuish made a face and sighed loudly.

“I know. I warned you. I’m afraid you won’t learn much by training with me.”

Dashvara smiled.

“Don’t worry about what I learn; just focus on your own learning. If you don’t train, you won’t progress.”

As the young Shalussi was nodding and drawing himself up again, a burst of laughter rang. Dashvara turned around and saw Andrek and Walek coming up with their own sabers unsheathed and their shields.

“A novice teaching another one! This is a first!” Walek pronounced nonchalantly. “Can we keep you company? Andrek and I want to train here too.”

Dashvara guessed that their point wasn’t so much to train as to annoy them. And looking at Rokuish’s sudden paleness, he saw they had apparently succeeded.

“Sure, you can,” Dashvara said, keeping calm. “The field is large.”

Both warriors took position a little farther away and began to fight. They moved swiftly; their shields clashed; their footwork was precise and correct. Dashvara shot an expecting glance at Rokuish, but this one was so occupied gaping at his brother that he didn’t take the hint. Dashvara cleared his throat, and with the training weapon, he gently hit his arm to awake him. The Shalussi jumped.

“Never let anything distract you in a fight, or else you will die,” the Xalya uttered.

He charged, and they both got into a fight during which Dashvara gradually noticed the numerous mistakes his adversary was making. He was also aware of his own mistakes, some of them made on purpose. ‘Never show your enemy what you can do’, said captain Zorvun’s authoritative voice. ‘But still, don’t pretend to be weak before your sworn enemy’.

He leaned aside, easily dodged a blow from Rokuish, and knocked him on the back with the flat of the weapon. Dashvara damned himself as soon as he saw Fushek watching them with interest from his threshold.

“He fights like a Xalya,” Walek’s voice suddenly spit.

Dashvara moved away from Rokuish and glared at the warrior.

“This is a Steppe Thieves’ technique,” he hissed. “Not Xalyas’. The Xalyas only attempt to copy them, without success.”

“Well said,” Fushek approved as he approached. “The boy is right, Walek. Our young nomad Shalussi seems to have learned to fight from a Steppe Thief.”

Andrek breathed out.

“Pfui. The Steppe Thieves are nothing more than females who stab in the back.”

Dashvara let out a sarcastic, restrained laugh.

“Tell me. Have you ever seen a Steppe Thief fighting?”

Andrek shrugged.

“No. But I’ve heard stories.”

With a lingering dark smile, Dashvara approached him, brandishing the wooden saber to make it more dramatic.

“The Steppe Thieves move like the wind,” he told. “At some point, you believe they are in front of you, and the next second, you find two of them right behind you. They are like lynxes running on soil and sand. They use two sabers, as the Xalyas do, but when they fight, it seems as if the air itself tells them their adversary’s secrets.” He murmured: “They know… exactly… what their next move will be.”

He lowered the point of his saber and came back to Rokuish as Andrek and Walek looked at him, frowning.

“Wait,” Walek said then in a taunting voice. “If what you say is true and if you have learned their techniques, you must be a master fighter.”

Dashvara smiled and replied humbly:

“I have only learned from them by observation. I’m very far from being a Steppe Thief.”

Walek approached, holding his saber.

“Take these two sabers of wood. And try to wield them. Show us how those Steppe Thieves fight. Go on! Or is it that a nomad Shalussi fights as poorly as Rok the snorer?”

“Walek,” Andrek warned him. “Don’t bother my brother.”

Walek shrugged without turning away his eyes from Dashvara. This one glimpsed at Fushek, who seemed to be more willing to watch than intervene. Sighing, he took the wooden saber from an expectant Rokuish, and Walek and he stepped away from the others.

“I’ll put a protection on the saber not to hurt you,” Walek smiled mockingly, doing what he was saying.

Dashvara looked at him with irony.

“You didn’t have such qualms yesterday, before the White Hand,” he whispered.

Walek raised an eyebrow, surprised, and then he declared in a low voice:

“As long as you don’t approach Silkia, we are in peace.”

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Dashvara nodded.

“That seems fair to me.”

Walek let a chortle out and positioned himself.

“So you prefer the bastard?” he asked, very amused.

He attacked, and Dashvara jumped backwards, perplexed.

“Bastard?” he echoed.

Walek’s smile widened.

“Didn’t she tell you? This witch is the bastard daughter of a senator in Dazbon,” he explained. And then he lunged at him in earnest.

Dashvara set aside all the thoughts when he saw the shield blow coming. This time, he did not control himself as much as before. He was trying to copy the movements of the Steppe Thieves, and since he did not know them very well, he moved awkwardly enough not to impress and nimbly enough not to get blows.

Truth to tell, he had never fought against the Steppe Thieves, but captain Zorvun had taught him some techniques of them, and Dashvara knew that, if he had had to contend with a Steppe Thief, he would have probably ended up feeding the vultures.

He leaped sideways and counterattacked. At some point, he almost made Walek lose his saber, but then this one executed an unexpected movement. It was the same that Fushek had made the day before. The only difference was that this time his rival had a shield. He banged him in his side, and Dashvara was violently ejected to the ground. He lifted his head, frustrated. He would have been able to get up in one bounce, but he didn’t. I am not here to fight Walek, he remembered. Calm down and let this big boy relish his victory.

The Shalussi, in fact, looked quite satisfied.

“Not a bad fight, boy,” he recognized. “Not all the Shalussi warriors last so long against me. But still, you didn’t hit me even once. You have to attack, Odek. And not dance in the wind,” he laughed.

Dashvara saw him turn his back and leave with Andrek after saying goodbye to Fushek. This one went back into his house, half stifling a yawn.

The more I know the Shalussis, the more I am in a puzzle, he admitted. Walek did not look as cruel as at the beginning. However, he had killed people.

But I have killed too. Or is it that now I’m going to become a sainted hermit of the Eternal Bird?

He was going to stand up when he realized that his metal bar had nearly slipped out of his boot. Slightly pale, he put it back furtively as he rose up from the ground, and he held back the wooden saber to Rokuish.

“For my mother’s sake, you’ve been impressive,” this one said, enthusiastic. “You almost beat Walek! He is one of the best warriors in the village. Along with my brother.” As Dashvara was rubbing his painful side, he proposed: “Let’s take a break.”

Dashvara nodded, and they both sat down in the shade of a line bent with hung clothes.

“Tell me, Rokuish, with whom did you use to train before?”

The question seemed to embarrass the young Shalussi.

“Well… Sometimes with Fushek. And with some friends.”

There was a silence; then he rectified:

“To be honest, I barely train, actually. My old friends that wish to become warriors don’t want to train with me because, in their opinion, I don’t make any progress. Fushek is the only one who sometimes tries to teach me some lessons, but… I myself don’t insist quite much that he teach me. Andrek says that Bashak mistook my vocation and that it was my mother who dictated the old man what he had to say to me.” He smiled, but with no joy. “Bashak and Andrek can say whatever they want, but Fushek is the master-at-arms. He will decide whether I’m good at something or not.”

Dashvara stayed silent for a bit. He was beginning to like Rokuish, he realized. And that wasn’t a good thing.

“If Fushek is the master-at-arms, why didn’t he take part in the assault of the Xalya Dungeon?” he asked.

“Oh.” Rokuish looked surprised. “Didn’t you notice? His shield arm is crippled. He can’t fight on a battlefield. But he’s the son of the old master-at-arms, and he knows more combat techniques than anyone.”

Dashvara perceived in his voice a distinct hint of respect. He nodded.

“I see.” He got up. “So, it will be better for you if you take the training more seriously because I’m not a patient man. I promise you that, if you do your best, you will progress.”

Rokuish made a face but rose to his feet.

“Okay then. I’ll do what I can.”

“You shall do what you must,” Dashvara replied, and as the young Shalussi raised an eyebrow, disconcerted, he smiled and moved away to the training field, thinking: Know what, Dash? Just say to yourself what you must do, and let the others do what they can, okay?

* * *

When he returned to Zaadma’s, it was already getting dark. Rokuish had assured him that, that night, it wasn’t their turn to go up to the watchtower and that there were several warriors who usually took turns. Their own night’s watch wouldn’t be until a few days later.

Dashvara stepped close to the house door, falteringly. Now that he was starting to put things into perspective about the indiscriminate hatred he felt toward the Shalussis, he wondered whether he had acted correctly agreeing to sleep in her house. But, on reflection, Zaadma had demonstrated a good heart by guesting him even knowing full well that he hadn’t the slightest piece of gold. As the ancient steppe wise men said: ‘Don’t repel the person who, instead of abandoning you, gives you bread, and a bed to sleep in.’

Whispers came from the inside. Dashvara sighed and withdrew his hand that was about to knock on the door. He turned back, sat down beneath the olive, and spent his time gazing at the Moon’s twinkling reflection on the river. This one was hardly one foot deep. He bet that, in periods of prolonged droughts, it probably diminished down to a brook.

He waited a long time before hearing louder voices and the creak of an opening door. Hidden behind the olive tree, Dashvara discerned the figure of a man… He rolled his eyes. Of course it was a man, what could it have been? His eyes widened when he recognized him. It was Nanda of Shalussi.

He could hardly keep himself from rising up and rushing at him. He was alone, far from the village—it was the ideal moment.

He let him pass. He could not believe what he was doing. He growled lowly when the Shalussi’s footfalls died away. It was one thing to be cautious, and another to be a coward. And he had the tremendous impression that, just right now, he had acted like a bloody coward.

Think a bit. If Nanda has come, he will come back again. You just have to ask Zaadma to warn you when he comes back. You kill him, steal a horse, and leave this place. You have already hesitated too much.

He stood up and crossed the doorway, which Zaadma had left open. The candle lit the inside. A scent of jasmine floated in the air. And Zaadma was singing to herself while slightly squashing the soil of a pot with white flowers. Dashvara observed her.

This woman has just offered herself to the man who allied himself with the Akinoas and the Essimeans to destroy my family. And, unbelievably, I accept her hospitality. Where did my honor get lost? Dashvara shook his head. Demons. If you really want to know, your honor got lost in the Xalya Dungeon, Dash. Anyway, it is too late to get it back.

He set aside the thought with a snort, and Zaadma started, just noticing his presence.

“Ah! Odek. Come in. I have prepared your bedroom—” She stopped speaking on seeing the Xalya’s expression, and then she smiled playfully. “Did you see him leave? You didn’t dare punch that man to conserve my dignity, not him, eh, did you?”

Dashvara clicked his tongue.

“How can you joke about dignity? Don’t you have moral values?”

Zaadma took a loud breath and raised her eyes to the heavens.

“Demons, Shalussi. I see you have your prejudices well embedded in your mind. My values are in good health, thanks. Okay, well, do you want us to philosophize or do you want to have dinner?”

Dashvara had to acknowledge that, after so much training, he was hungry.

“Let’s have dinner,” he declared.

Zaadma smiled with amusement and gestured to the cold plate of vegetables and figs that was set on the golden carpet.

“This is the meal that you should have eaten this afternoon,” she cleared up. “I prepared it with all my dedication and all my heart, and I waited, waited… I waited like a married woman for you to return, but you didn’t return. So I decided to keep it faithfully for you and make sure not even the smallest fig will be missing when you come back.”

Dashvara stared at her, not knowing at all how to take her mocking response. He apologized:

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think to inform you. I ate with Rokuish’s family.”

Zaadma sat down and crossed her arms.

“I suppose I have to be happy that you haven’t eaten at the White Hand.”

Dashvara raised an eyebrow. He sat, and he replied:

“I thought about you and about the terrible jealousy you would feel, and I decided not to approach that house.”

Zaadma smiled.

“Thanks for your understanding. Would you want me to warm up the vegetables? I have a heating slab made in Dazbon. It still runs like a charm.”

Dashvara shook his head negatively.

“No, no, really, couldn’t be better. Thank you,” he added, and he took a spoonful of vegetables.

When he finished the plate, he realized that Zaadma was looking at him. He frowned.

“What?”

Zaadma shrugged and smiled shyly.

“I don’t know… It has been a while since I have had someone to eat with. Well, I already had dinner. I mean, it has been a while since…” She gestured. “I’m sure you see what I mean.”

“Er, not quite, honestly,” Dashvara mocked.

They exchanged a gaze. Outside, only an utter silence could be heard. Zaadma cleared her throat.

“Your room is there,” she pointed.

Dashvara nodded and stood up.

“Thanks for taking me in. And thanks for the dinner.”

“Stop thanking and apologizing, and go to bed,” Zaadma replied.

Dashvara paused beside the curtain that separated both rooms.

“You don’t expect another visit, do you?” he asked a little sharply. “Because, in that case, I would rather sleep beneath the olive tree.”

Zaadma puffed.

“Don’t worry. This night I will sleep like a saint. Good night, young Shalussi. And, by the way,” she added, “I hope you’re not still thinking about taking revenge on Walek, are you?”

A sinister smile twisted Dashvara’s face.

“No. Don’t worry, I won’t kill Walek. Good night.”

He withdrew the curtain and felt his way to his bed. The chamber was small, but it had a window, and if one drew the curtain, one could see the Moon’s light reflected on the river. He took the headscarf off, removed his boots, and then glanced to the other room. The candle was still lighted.

He lay down, feeling agreeably tired. Even so, he could not deny it: as a fighter, Rokuish was a disaster, and what had exhausted Dashvara most had been to repeat recommendations in order to prevent him from making the same mistakes again and again. All in all, he had wielded a saber, yes, but it was a wooden one. And he would not kill Nanda with a wooden saber.

He made a wry smile in the darkness. Zaadma had already quenched the candle. He heard cloth murmurs, and then the silence. He closed his eyes and sharpened his ears. He listened to Zaadma’s quiet and rhythmic breathing. He listened to the light breeze. And, finally, he fell asleep.

He woke several times during the night, with a feeling of being lost. Oddly, he did not dream that he was murdering the savage chieftains, nor that he lost his family. He dreamed that he was fighting against red nadres with his patrol comrades. Makarva, Lumon, Sigfen, Boron, and the Triplets… and Captain Zorvun. All of them were well alive, and their faces were impressively clear. At some point, they began playing katutas.

He wrinkled his nose when he awoke in the dead of night. So much perfume befuddled him and kept him from sleeping deeply. The sun was scarcely peeking over the horizon when he got up. He pulled the headscarf on, put on the boots, and left the bedroom stealthily. The window curtain was half drawn, and a morning light faintly illuminated the inside. The sunbeams reddened the petals of the emzarreds, beautified the immaculate white kalreas, ploughed the firm earthy floor, slid onto the blanket, and caressed Zaadma’s back, half bared under the sheet.

Dashvara looked at her, wondering how such a beauty could have chosen a so little appropriate way of life. But maybe it didn’t seem to her inappropriate, who knows? He shook his head as though he wanted to awake himself utterly, and he stepped to the door. Silently, he went out and walked directly to the training field before Fushek’s house. The village was still half asleep, but it seemed that it would get alive before long.

He settled on the court ground, and after a while, he surprised himself drawing in the sandy soil with one of the wooden sabers. When he realized that he was stupidly writing his name in Oy’vat, he quickly removed the trace. I will never cease to surprise myself, he sighed, glancing around nervously.

Rokuish didn’t show up. After waiting in the court for a good while, Dashvara finally stood up, and he was going to put the wooden sabers back when his eyes suddenly fixed on something that was slithering toward a group of three children sitting on the ground, before a house.

It was a red snake.

For a second, Dashvara was petrified. Then he remembered his father’s words: ‘But before killing them, son, kill their families.’

Dashvara wavered. How many possibilities might there be that one of these children was a son of Nanda of Shalussi? Very few. And besides… He shook his head, astonished at his own thoughts.

No, father. I don’t kill innocents.

And he rushed forward.

“Don’t move,” he commanded as he saw the three children turning toward him.

When it was a question of giving orders, Dashvara gave them as Zorvun and Lord Vifkan did. The children didn’t move. In any case, they rapidly realized what was happening.

Dashvara approached the snake cautiously. The reptile wasn’t very long, but its venom was lethal, and its body moved at the speed of a bolt. Dashvara aimed with one of the wooden sabers, getting ready for any attack from the snake. A wrong move could cost his life.

Nimble like the wind. Subtle like the sand. Strike.

Dashvara struck, and he made no mistake. The snake’s head was crushed in the sand soil. Good. He twisted the stick and jabbed the head, assuring himself it was completely, utterly dead. Losing their silent expectation, the children burst into joyful cries and surrounded him to thank him. One of them squatted to grab the dead snake’s tail, and he dashed downhill, shaking the dead reptile like a trophy.

“A red snake!” he was crying. “He’s killed it! He’s killed it!”

Dashvara smiled.

“He will manage to awake even Rokuish if he keeps screaming like that.”

He heard the laughter of the little girl who was grasping his sleeve, and he suddenly realized that her face looked quite familiar.

“My, my, you’re the daughter of Orolf, the blacksmith, aren’t you?”

The girl nodded.

“And I am her brother,” said the other child, who seemed to be even younger.

Dashvara made a smiling face.

“Are you aware that, if that snake had bitten you, you would have died in a matter of minutes? Always beware of your surroundings, kids.” And as both of them were nodding, gaping at him as if they were eating up his words, his smile widened. “Go on. Go home and tell your father to give you a saber to defend yourselves next time.”

He saw them run to the blacksmith’s house, and he cloaked a laugh by clearing his throat. It was getting harder and harder for Orolf to refuse him this blessed saber he had promised.

Well, he thought, looking around. Where did you get lost, Rokuish?

He was supposed to be here now. Dashvara put down the wooden sabers, went downhill, and as he was passing before the Shalussi’s house, he saw his sister Menara taking clothes off the line; he greeted her.

“Is Rokuish still sleeping?”

The Shalussi woman denied with a shake of her head.

“No. He said he was going to train. He's been gone for a while now. Didn’t you see him?”

Dashvara gestured to reassure her.

“No, but maybe he was in Fushek’s house. Don’t worry. I’ll find him.”

“Come to think of it,” Menara suddenly said when Dashvara was already moving uphill again, “he didn’t go toward Fushek’s court but the river.”

To the river? Raising his eyebrows, the Xalya thanked her, returned to Fushek’s court to take the training weapons, and went to the river. When he arrived, he glanced at both sides, he looked straight, and… he let out a guffaw. Leaning sideways against a mutsomo bark, Rokuish was doing stretching exercises. Dashvara crossed the river and stopped before the Shalussi. This one was so focused on trying to lift his leg as much as he could that he did not even notice his presence.

“Exactly what are you doing, Rokuish?” Dashvara inquired, hardly suppressing his laughter.

Rokuish jerked up, and he almost lost his balance.

“Odek! You nearly scared me to death,” he gasped.

“Does that mean you are learning to walk diagonally?” Dashvara persisted, amused.

“Nope,” Rokuish replied, lifting both hands toward the sky. “I’m doing as you advised. I have run, and now I do stretching exercises. That is what you told me to do, isn’t it?”

Dashvara was grinning broadly.

“Well, more or less, yes. I’m glad you take the training so seriously. Where there’s a will, there’s a genius.” He raised one of the wooden sabers. “Look at this.”

He stepped backwards, stretched his saber-arm, and bent it; he lifted one boot, quickly spun around, and leaned backwards up to the point that a common man would have fallen; he supported himself on the ground with one hand and immediately propelled himself up, jumping aside and sweeping his saber.

Rokuish was laughing.

“I may go diagonally, but if you really fight throwing yourself onto the ground… well, I can’t tell if you’re going forward or backward. Nevertheless, it was not bad at all. I wish I had your agility.”

“Well, you just have to practice then.” Dashvara smiled. “And now that you’re stretched, there’s nothing like practicing against an adversary.” As Rokuish was nodding, he added: “And this time, Rok, it’s your turn to attack.”