96. Race to the sunset

The Federates had set up camp on the riverbank west of Lamasta; there, dozens of workers of all kinds and races were busy doing chores. All were dressed in blue uniforms with gold patterns, and many wore black belts that marked them as recent slaves. Hearing a sibilian barking orders while gesticulating, Dashvara realized that these workers couldn’t even speak the Common Tongue. He assumed they were from some remote land, though he could not determine from where. No doubt Tsu would have guessed at a glance. The drow had a lot of experience in this area.

As they set up the other Xalyas near the camp, they led Dashvara between the tents to a pavilion as large as the one the Essimeans had set up for their feast; however, on it were many blue designs of the Dikaksunora bird next to a golden flower, Arviyag’s personal symbol.

They did not take him into the pavilion but into a small adjoining tent, and not surprisingly, they tied him in irons to a heavy chest. And there they left him, under the indifferent gaze of a sibilian who stood watch at the entrance. His guard looked as talkative as a rock. Sighing, Dashvara tried to find a comfortable position, and not finding it, he sighed again, crossed his legs and stopped fidgeting.

Arviyag was seemingly in no hurry to speak to him, for the next few hours he gave no sign of life, and Dashvara spent them in that same position, listening to the sounds of the camp. The more time passed, the more he wondered if Arviyag was not waiting for the end of the Alkanshe so that he could unsheathe the sword and execute the Xalyas without offending the Essimeans. Would he execute them all? Or only the warriors? Or only the leader, as he had said. And how would his people react then?

They’d try taking revenge, Dash.

He shook his head sarcastically.

Without swords? Do you really think they are that suicidal? No. They have a people to defend, and they would defend it. They would try to run away. And they’d probably end up just as badly.

He sighed.

Always imagining the worst, Dash. Think of Kuriag. He’s your final salvation. The son of the one who poisoned the entire Pilgrim Ocean coast. The loyal student of Maloven. And the boy who has kept an Eternal Bird intact until now. Let’s see if this one will still remain intact when he returns and discovers two-hundred dead bodies of the Eternal Bird.

He huffed, and his irons creaked and bit into his wrists. His thoughts swirled, and a growing anguish roiled inside him, an anguish that had to do with his people, but not only, no, it also had to do with him and Arviyag. With the fear that that man inspired in him. He had feared death, the brizzias of the Border, the loss of his people… but this fear was different. This was a fear branded into his memory with a red hot iron. And with it came that shame he had never been able to fully overcome, though he knew rationally that a tortured man rarely stood firm. Probably, his lord father would have. But he didn’t. And that was why he felt unmasked before Arviyag, he felt defenseless because that snake had seen that, in reality, the lord of the Xalyas was only a coward and, worse, a broken slave.

Will you please stop thinking nonsense? he lectured himself. Arviyag tortured you, Dash. You are not an Eternal Bird made of iron, you are a man. And Arviyag is one too. He too makes mistakes. Think about it. He too makes mistakes, he repeated to himself.

Outside it was dark, the crickets were chirping, the river water was murmuring, the wind was whispering against the tent, and Arviyag still did not appear. Now Dashvara was regretting that Yira had gone with them: he thought he was selfish to have fallen in love with such a beautiful soul and to have asked her to join his clan, only to see him die on the steppe two months later. Or to see him return to Titiaka, a slave as before.

Come now, Dash, have you forgotten that, when you were in Titiaka, you wished more than once to give up your freedom and stay with your naâsga? Your life there was good. Atasiag gave you everything you needed except freedom. Kuriag was even willing to make you free. The only condition was to leave the steppe. Only that. Only to say goodbye forever to the mother who saw you being born. Only to exile your clan and kill it inside.

He moistened his dry lips. His tongue was thirsty. And the position was so uncomfortable that he frequently moved, trying to improve it, but that only made the irons attached to the trunk shake and flay his skin, causing him searing pain.

Everything was dark except for the light of the torch shining outside. His eyes were following the hypnotic flickering of the flames as they suddenly saw a shadow pass in front of them. For a moment, he didn’t pay attention to it, thinking his own eyelids had just blinked, but then he felt a slight draft and heard a whisper.

“Dash…”

Dashvara squinted and turned his head in several directions before saying:

“Tah?”

But what he had heard was not a mental voice, it was a sajit voice. He called himself a fool for not recognizing it at once.

“Naâsga,” he gasped softly, suddenly worried, “you shouldn’t—”

“Shhh…” Yira shushed him, crouching down beside him. “I think I’ve figured out Kuriag’s whereabouts. I heard one of Garag’s secretaries mention Amystorb’s dungeon. And Alta says it’s located to the west. I’m going to go look for it. And you’re coming with me,” she affirmed. “Arviyag will not touch you.”

Dashvara’s eyes widened in the darkness in disbelief.

“What?”

Yira had just grabbed the irons and focused on freeing him, muffling the noise with spells. Who knows how she’d managed to steal the key… Dashvara shook his head.

“Naâsga,” he whispered. “I can’t—”

“Your people know nothing,” Yira interrupted him even quieter: “they will not be able to punish it any more than they already do. Trust me. Come,” she insisted.

Dashvara didn’t protest. Running away with Yira was risky, but the idea was a thousand times more attractive than staying in this tent and waiting for Arviyag to use his torture thimbles on him again… probably using Tsu once again. That possibility alone terrified him. No, it was better to leave and hope they could find Kuriag before Arviyag found them.

Freed from his shackles, he pulled the shelshami up to cover his face and followed Yira into an unearthly cloud of darkness. They were surrounded by harmonic shadows, he realized. It remained to be seen whether these tricks would be enough to fool the Essimean vigilance…

Instead of going through the entrance in front of the guard, they went through the back, tearing open the tent. The camp was relatively quiet compared to the distant drumming in Lamasta. A light brighter than the others caught Dashvara’s attention. He sighted four long rows of lying silhouettes between the tents, and his heart sank. For a horrible moment, he imagined that Arviyag had killed them all… but then he saw movement and sighed with relief: his people was still alive and well. Under close surveillance and chained, but alive. Everything seemed to indicate that his people had had a much more terrible day than he had… Suddenly, Yira tugged at his sleeve, and Dashvara followed her, barely controlling his rage. He was still wondering if he shouldn’t have stayed behind after all when they found themselves outside the camp, apparently unseen.

They walked along the riverbank, and the trees and shrubs soon obscured the camp and Lamasta. For a good while they said nothing and just kept walking in the dark. Then Dashvara said:

“Naâsga…” He felt Yira slow his pace. “How did you find the key?”

“Mm…” she said, amused. “A child’s game. I stole it from the guard. Problem is, he could find out at any time.”

Dashvara huffed, shaking his head.

“I don’t know if this was a good idea…”

“Would you rather have stayed and let Arviyag torture you?” Yira replied. “I know what he was planning. That man…” her voice trembled, “talked to Tsu. I couldn’t hear what they were saying. But Tsu looked… very shaken. Especially when Arviyag gave him that black case. The poor drow threw himself at his feet. Really, Dash. Tsu… is always so quiet and reserved… By Serenity, I couldn’t believe my eyes,” she admitted in a whisper.

Dashvara’s heart sank. He remembered perfectly the black case where Tsu once kept his torture thimbles…

“That snake,” he hissed. He stifled a growl, calmed himself, or at least tried to, and blurted out: “We need horses.”

“Zefrek will give them to us,” Yira assured, and perceiving Dashvara’s amazement, she explained, “I gave him the three hundred dragons my father gave me.”

Dashvara blinked, stunned.

“Atasiag gave you three hundred dragons?”

“Yep. I didn’t think I’d need it, but the captain says that, with the Shalussis, it’s a technique that always works. And it did work,” she declared, regaining some cheer.

Dashvara frowned.

“The captain,” he repeated. “The captain knows what we’re trying to do, then.”

Yira hesitated.

“Yes… And Alta too. Just them, I think. And Sashava.”

All of them then, Dashvara deduced. He shrugged.

“As long as Arviyag doesn’t take it out on them…”

The mere thought that his escape might bring retaliation on his people filled him with extreme anxiety. He only hoped that Arviyag would focus on pursuing him.

Interrupting his thoughts, Yira took him by the arm to stop him, and they crouched. They were already perhaps six hundred paces from the Titiaka camp, they had moved away from the river, and the trees had given way to shrubs. Beyond them lay the vast plain of the Kawalsh, which separated Lamasta from the ocean and the dunes of Ergaika. He asked:

“And you’re sure Kuriag is in the Amystorb domains?”

He heard the sigh of his naâsga.

“No,” she confessed. “That’s what I heard the secretary say. I could be wrong, but it makes sense that they’re to the west. That’s the safest area. Everything else could be infested with Shalussi rebels or red nadres or… well, I don’t think his cousins would let Kuriag go to a more dangerous area, do you?”

Dashvara huffed.

“No,” he agreed, “unless they intend to get rid of him. This murderess—we don’t know yet who she meant to kill.”

The idea seemed to catch Yira off guard.

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

“Well,” she coughed, amused. “You’re starting to think like Atasiag Peykat too, Dash.”

Dashvara rolled his eyes.

“I’m getting civilized. In spite of myself. Is this the meeting place?”

“It’s a little further. Can you see anything?”

Yira had straightened up slightly. Dashvara scanned the darkness. A winter wind was whistling in his ears. It was coming from the east, he noted with relief. This would be an advantage for them: the wind would carry any noise that might betray them away from their enemies’ ears and alert them to their pursuers. Besides, the Gem was clearly visible in the sky tonight and would light their way through the Kawalsh.

The Eternal Bird of the Steppe Lords is with me, he rejoiced. Or at least It hadn’t completely abandoned him… He shook his head. He could see no sign of a sentry in the area.

“Let’s go,” he said finally.

They stood up and walked on between the bushes. It was not long before they located the horses. They were saddled, fresh, and, wonder of life, they carried flasks full of water. Dashvara hastily pulled the shelshami away from his face for a moment to drink before slowly turning around. There didn’t seem to be anyone around. And, yet, he would have bet that there was someone. He gently stroked his mount’s forehead and then, to his amazement, he realized that he knew the horse. It was Sunrise! Surprise gave way to confusion. Had Tinan not been able to convey his message to Kark Is Tork? Had the Honyr refused the horse? And how was it that Zefrek had it in his possession if…?

He snorted.

“We bought our own horses?”

“Lifdor and his people stole some random horses to escape and continue the rebellion,” Yira explained. “And, before the Titiakas confiscated them, Zefrek took advantage of the mess to hide these two among his people.”

“Four,” corrected a voice among the shadows. “Four horses. Four riders.”

Dashvara turned, stunned.

“Sîzan!” he exclaimed. What in the world was Sirk Is Rhad doing here? The Honyr was approaching, pulling his horse, and he wasn’t coming alone. When he saw the fourth rider and recognized Tinan, Dashvara huffed, “And you expect me to believe that Todakwa didn’t notice?”

“Perhaps he’s realized something,” Yira admitted while taking the reins of her mount. “But, at the moment, he doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to help the Titiakas get their slaves back.”

Dashvara smiled.

“Devils. Now that’s good news.” He inhaled. “I propose we ride straight west. I think I remember where Amystorb’s dungeon is. I’ve never been there, but, fortunately, Maloven hammered the maps into my head…” He suddenly fell silent as he heard distant shouts from the camp. Oh, no, demons… so fast? He swore. “Mawer… we’d better get out of here.”

They led the horses out of the shrubbery before mounting them and heading west. They moved at a steady trot, not wanting to tire their mounts. With a little luck, by the time the Titiakas found their trail, they would be far enough away. Dashvara glanced back frequently, expecting the light of the torches to appear at any moment. And he was not mistaken. After a while he could see them in the distance. They were perhaps two miles off. Maybe less. It was difficult to calculate distances in the dark.

They crossed a small river by the light of the Gem, and the small undulation of the land made them lose sight of their pursuers. They took the opportunity to pick up the pace for a good bit of the way up the stream before dismounting to give the horses a rest. By now the torches of their pursuers were a good three miles away.

Though the cold wind continued to blow and numb them, all was deserted and quiet on the vast expanse of grass. Only now and then could one see some cloud of shining insects rising in the night to rest a few steps away.

“Those are alurhias,” Tinan said in a serene voice, addressing Yira. The boy walked beside her, a few paces behind Dashvara and Sirk Is Rhad, and the wind carried his words. “In Oy’vat, it means messengers of peace. They are the first to flee when herds of red nadres or scale-nefarious approach. In Xalya, we knew how to read their movements, and thanks to them, we could guess where the red nadres were before they attacked our herds. When they land on your hand, it means that you are trustworthy and that your Eternal Bird has no evil thoughts. And it is true. They used to land all the time on Boron’s hand.”

Dashvara smiled as he remembered. Well, really, the reason the alurhias landed on the Placid so much was more due to his lack of response than to any stories of good or bad thoughts, but the belief had its charm nonetheless. Tinan’s and Yira’s whispers were lost in the distance, and Dashvara could hardly hear them anymore. Sirk Is Rhad walked by his side, scanning the night. Out of the corner of his eye, Dashvara studied him and wondered for the umpteenth time: why has he returned? Finally, he broke the silence.

“Sirk Is Rhad,” he pronounced. “I am glad you have returned, and I thank you for your help. But I think you should return with the Honyrs now.”

In the light of the Gem, he saw the steppeman sigh and shake his head negatively. Dashvara insisted:

“By coming with me, you will only succeed in becoming a slave like me. My Eternal Bird owes you more than you know. And I would owe you even more if you would do me one last favor.” He moistened his lips and whispered to himself, “Take Tinan. He’s the only one you can save. And he’s a smart boy. In the absence of a direct heir… I appoint him lord of the Xalyas. You are witness, sîzan. If I die or if I return to Titiaka, I count on you to tell him.”

The request had come out of his mouth spontaneously. He guessed Sirk Is Rhad’s surprise. Perhaps he was surprised that he would choose a sixteen-year-old boy he hadn’t even seen in the last three years? Well, as Maloven said, know the boy and you’ll know the man. He knew Tinan as a blood brother: he was not sensitive like Makarva, he was not impulsive like Zamoy, nor lazy like Kodarah. He was young, that was a fact, but Dashvara perceived in him a lordly soul far more seasoned than his own. His decision, in the end, seemed quite wise.

“You have my word,” the Honyr said at last. For a moment, there was only the whistling of the wind. Then he said, “My father has left with another horse. He asked me to thank you for your gift, but he says he cannot accept it because he does not feel worthy of such an honor. I assure you there was no irony in his words.”

Dashvara nodded slowly, not quite understanding what kind of honor he was talking about.

“I believe you,” he said, however.

“I know he feels guilty for leaving you behind,” Sirk Is Rhad resumed after a silence. “And I ask your forgiveness again on his behalf, sîzan. And in the name of my people. My people have failed you. And they failed their Eternal Bird in condemning the last lord of the steppe…” He breathed in, “Perhaps you do not see it, sîzan, but what my people will lose, what they are giving up, is hope. From this day forward, they will be nothing more than a dead clan, forgiven by a lord they have abandoned… The worst betrayal of all, it was not Sifiara of Rorsy who committed it,” he murmured, “but my father.”

Dashvara shook his head and was about to protest his unjust conviction, but Sirk Is Rhad continued:

“I told Kark Is Tork that if he left behind the last lord of the steppe, he should also leave behind his own son. He answered me to follow my Eternal Bird. And that is what I have come to do, sîzan. I did not think to join my people because it is my people who must join you. But, if you wish me to take the boy to safety, I will. I will take care of him. But I will not go unless you tell me there is no hope.”

His words seized Dashvara’s heart for a moment. Well, Dash, what have you done for this man who used to despise you to be now willing to do anything for you? The Eternal Bird of the Xalyas must be rubbing off… But come on, Dash, he chided himself inwardly. Would you mock those who offer you their loyalty?

In reality, he was far from mocking the Honyr; rather, he felt even more crushed.

“Hope,” he repeated. He stopped Sunrise and glanced at the lights that continued to chase them. They had gained quite a bit of ground. He sighed somberly. “There is hope, there is. However, not in me, sîzan, but in Kuriag. I may be a lord of the steppe, but he is the heir to an infinitely more powerful family. Our beliefs, our values, cannot open the cage where the clan is locked up. Brute force would be fatal to us; so we will bow our head and wait for the young Titiaka to use his key to free us… or take us as prisoners to the Federation.” He climbed onto Sunrise, trying to move his arm as little as possible, and concluded, “That’s the reality, sîzan. As a steppian sage said, if you are weaker than your enemy, learn to be weak and not stubborn: your defeat will be less violent. And now choose: either you save my heir or…” a sardonic smile stretched his lips, “you come to humiliate yourself with me.”

Dashvara hardly waited for an answer. Immediately, he called:

“Tinan! Follow Sirk Is Rhad wherever he goes. That’s an order. Did you hear me?”

He saw the boy’s figure in the darkness, and his answer came with a touch of confusion:

“Yes, my lord.”

“Perfect. And now let’s move on. With any luck, by dawn, we will manage to see the dungeon.”

They all got back on their horses and rode on. For the moment, the best they could do was to follow the stream and hope they didn’t go the wrong way. One good thing was that their pursuers were wasting time groping their trail in the dark and their horses might not have as much stamina as theirs. The problem was that they were most likely accompanied by an Essimean or Shalussi guide who would lead them with much more discernment than Dashvara could, since he knew this area only from maps he had not studied for perhaps more than six years.

More than half the night had already passed when Sirk Is Rhad called out:

“You don’t leave me much choice, sîzan.”

Dashvara nodded with a slight smile and replied:

“Cross the stream and follow the path north. With any luck, they won’t see your tracks until tomorrow.”

“What…?” Tinan gasped. “I don’t understand…”

Dashvara replied:

“Safe journey, brothers. May the Eternal Bird light your way. Especially yours, Tinan.”

He heeled his horse, and as he and Yira rode away from the Honyr and Tinan, he felt a strange and consoling hope grow within him. Tinan was to be saved, along with the five Xalya women and the little Shivara who had remained with the Honyrs. Tinan would remain in the steppe. And there would still be a lord, no matter what Todakwa and the outsiders said… He shook his head, smiling. He couldn’t quite explain why that idea filled him with peace.

Hypocrite. Really, you can’t explain it to yourself? I’ll explain it to you, Dash: you just thought that, with a second steppe lord, the first one doesn’t have to act like one, right?

Dashvara sighed heavily, but he couldn’t help feeling oddly light. The lights behind were getting closer and closer.

As long as those lights don’t catch up with us before the lights of dawn, we’ll have a chance to see the dungeon and gallop towards it…

When the sky began to turn blue, their pursuers were significantly closer. They had wasted no time in making sure they were going upstream: they knew where the creek was. Also, seeing them so close, Dashvara had started to ramble, imagining that they were being captured. And killed. And his hope slowly turned into an unbearable and strange fatality.

“Dash!” Yira shouted, a few steps ahead of him. “Is this the dungeon?”

Dashvara’s heart leapt. He stopped watching his pursuers and looked with anxious avidity at what Yira was pointing to. There, in the distance between the morning shadows, perhaps five miles away, stood a ruined stone structure. Dashvara tugged on the reins and gave a thoughtful pout, his eyes glinting at the tower.

“I couldn’t say for sure,” he confessed. “But it may be.”

They gave their mounts a drink and drank in turn before resuming their ride. They were exhausted. Even Yira, for, even though she didn’t need to sleep that much, she had used a lot of harmonies to get around the Titiaka camp without being seen, and she hadn’t quite recovered yet. Fortunately, they hadn’t overtaxed their horses so far, and though they’d been trotting all night, they still seemed to have some energy left. And they were going to have to prove it, Dashvara understood, glancing back: their pursuers had accelerated their pace.

“At this rate, they’ll catch us before we reach the tower,” he calculated aloud. Yira returned his worried look, and Dashvara smiled, “Now you’ll see what steppe horses are capable of, naâsga. Don’t worry: trust your mare. Mine will guide her.”

He patted Sunrise’s neck and said in a powerful voice:

“Prove that you are the queen of the steppe, daâra. Oahey!”

And the race began. The ground was slightly uphill, but it was steady. Dashvara and Yira kept up a fast trot for a while until their pursuers, already seeing them without difficulty in the rising dawn, urged their mounts into a gallop. There were about twenty of them, and not all of them were Arviyag’s sibilians, far from it. Ten were. But the other ten were Essimeans, no doubt, and they went ahead, happy to show these sons of the sea that their horses were better, that they were better riders and that the steppe was their land. After a while, they were less than half a mile away… and the tower was still several hundred paces away. Dashvara scanned the tower. There were horses and tents near the ruins, and a standard. A white standard. The Dikaksunora’s, with any luck.

“Gallop, Sunrise!” Dashvara cried in Oy’vat as he rose in his stirrups. “Gallop like the wind!”

Sunrise bolted in excitement and dashed off. At that moment, she was just as fast as Lusombra: she rode across the steppe with a clatter of hooves and the elegance and confidence of a true queen. The Titiakas’ horses were fast… but Dashvara was sure that Sunrise would win the race. He made sure of that by continuing to prod and praise her, and not to be outdone, Yira’s mare followed closely behind. He only hoped that his naâsga, unused to riding, would trust her mount’s instincts.

“Arigá rhad kab, dawana is set!” he shouted. “Liá Liadirlá kab!”

Gallop like the wind, queen of the steppe, fly like the Liadirlá!

They arrived at the small dungeon of Amystorb having outrun the Essimeans. Dashvara let Sunrise slow her pace as he surveyed the area. In addition to the twelve Ragails, there were about twenty armed sibilians, he noted with a twitch. The arrival of the two pursued riders had caused a ruckus and awakened everyone. He saw the tall, strong figure of Asmoan of Gravia emerging from his orange tent, and he saw a Ragail stop the young Api from leaving the camp to satisfy his curiosity. But he did not see Kuriag Dikaksunora. However, given the presence of the Ragails, he had to be there.

He leapt down from his horse and stroked Sunrise’s forehead, whispering in her ear:

“Ayshat, Sunrise. The soul of the steppe vibrates in your heart. Bless you a thousand times over…”

“What’s the meaning of all this?” a voice roared.

Dashvara turned and found himself facing Captain Djamin. The Ragail wore a stern expression. Not hostile, for it was difficult to be hostile to a man who carried no weapons. But it was clear that he was not happy to see him again. In all fairness, since they had known each other, Dashvara had done nothing but deceive his vigilance.

And the time had come to atone.

As a group of Ragails approached with less and less apprehension, seeing that there was no danger, Dashvara stepped aside from Sunrise. And, dismissing his pride, he knelt on the steppe earth and uttered loudly:

“I have come to apologize to my master, Kuriag Dikaksunora, and ask him to have mercy on my people.”