Part II: The Madness of Shaddon
ሾ
Grains of sand pushed their way between Isbibarra’s toes. It was a sensation he loathed to experience again. He knelt down, his knees cracking as he pressed his hand into the desert. He was heading in the right direction, but navigating the Eivettä would become much more difficult from this point forth. Traveling as a blind man was never easy. A blind man traveling by himself was suicidal.
Judging by the heat of the sand it was almost high noon. It was sizzling, but not yet searing. Isbibarra needed to find shelter before the heat became unbearable. Thankfully, he still had plenty of water and his quick flight from Ash had not yet drained him of energy. But after years of traveling through the Eivettä, Isbibarra knew he was far less likely to die if he planned now while he was still lucid.
The old man had grown used to the deprivation that came with desert travel. He required little nourishment other than the barest of water and grain, which in turn eased the burden of his camel. His journey necessitated as few supplies as possible, for he also carried with him prized cargo: a portly man dangled between the second and third humps, his mouth gagged, eyes blindfolded, and limbs bound.
Despite his blindness, Isbibarra was far from helpless. The desert communicated its essence through Isbibarra’s feet, allowing him to ‘see’. With his exposed skin, Isbibarra felt all nearby movement with exquisite detail. On the rockier terrain of the hamada, this sensation heightened immensely; he could feel the position of anything larger than a pebble within a hundred meters. But once the hamadas inevitably gave way to the more flowing dunes, the infinitesimal sensations of the sand would overpower him. He would soon be as helpless as any other blind man.
Of course, Isbibarra knew all this. He had traveled this path before with Mikal, whose perfect eyes were more than enough for the two of them.
“If only I could have saved that healer,” Isbibarra thought.
Isbibarra wiggled his toes, visualizing the image in his head. The noise was stronger, but he still had his sense of distance and depth. He felt the pulsating hooves of the camel blazing in his periphery. They were between two dunes now, each rising five meters higher than himself and sixty meters apart on each side. The dunes were a gradual slope that paved a clear path for his camel. He counted fourteen small boulders within a hundred meters, and a large boulder possibly two hundred meters away. He sensed no caves, cliffs, or other promontories that could otherwise provide him with shade. But perhaps more importantly, he was alone. For now, that was very good. If he stayed in this heat however, it could be very bad.
Isbibarra strained as he rose from the ground and brushed the sand off his well-worn tunic. He adjusted his turban, careful not to irritate his unbandaged eye or untrimmed beard. He paced back towards his camel, placing his hand on its side. The camel’s steady heartbeat pounded against the racing thump of the portly man. Isbibarra checked the straps against his many water pouches that slung off the side of the camel, still holding strong.
He checked his periphery again. "Still fourteen small boulders, but that large boulder... it seems farther now." It had moved five meters since Isbibarra had touched the sand.
Unless it wasn’t a boulder at all. Untamed beasts weren’t common in the Eivettä. At least unless they were close to death. But a dying beast could still be trouble. It could also attract raiders.
Isbibarra yipped at his camel. They were reliable creatures, but Isbibarra had only known this one for a few moons. He still needed to build a relationship with it, lest it go berserk and abandon him to the dunes - they were faster than many expected. He grabbed one of his water pouches and held it near the camel’s mouth. He wasn’t exactly sure where to place it, but the camel knew where to find it.
Isbibarra made his way between the dunes toward the ‘boulder.’ It was certainly a living mass, trudging its way one step at a time, dragging its large tail behind him. Whatever it was, its outline was as large as an elephant. But elephants never traveled alone this far away from water.
A hundred meters away, Isbibarra felt the low thump of the beast’s heartbeat. It was certainly an elephant. He grabbed his longbow, locking an arrow as he trudged alongside his camel. The portly man squirmed as the bow bumped against his body. Isbibarra made sure not to give him any leeway.
Sixty meters away. Fifty. Forty. Isbibarra could make out most of the elephant now. It was slouched, dragging its trunk in the sand. It was moving slowly. What made little sense to Isbibarra was the elephant’s tail. It was massive, heavy, and limp. Nothing anatomically made sense about it.
Twenty meters away, Isbibarra picked up a faint murmur at the base of the 'tail.' He was starting to grasp the full picture: it was the elephant’s rider, his feet tied within the reins. Isbibarra’s senses were dulled, but if he was only now picking up the heartbeat, the rider was about to die.
It was certainly a risk to stay in the open, but Isbibarra needed to check. Supplies were few and far between out here.
The elephant squeaked at the presence of the camel but continued to trudge forward. As Isbibarra rounded the elephant, he grabbed one of his water pouches. Isbibarra clicked his tongue, allowing a few drops to spill to the ground before holding out the pouch. The elephant stopped in its tracks, reaching out with its trunk. The elephant slurped as much of the water as it could as Isbibarra petted behind its ear. Dehydrated or not, this elephant’s survival instincts were keen.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
Isbibarra patted the belly of the elephant. A few water pouches strung off its side, but not nearly enough. It saddened Isbibarra to know that this elephant was doomed to die. Even if he could take it with him, the elephant was too big and would attract too much attention. He briefly considered shooting one of his arrows behind its skull, but even that could cost him an arrow or two. The best course would be to leave it where he found it.
Isbibarra felt his hands over its tough, wrinkly hide. He felt a coin purse with loose change. Saddles filled with scrolls, all of little use to someone who couldn’t see. There wasn’t even any food to acquire. Whoever packed this elephant had done so in a hurry, or they were a fool of substantial nature.
Isbibarra followed the strap that led off the elephant down behind its hooves. It was wrapped around the rider’s leg. Isbibarra felt the heartbeat drum stronger now, but it was still faint. As Isbibarra patted the rider, he felt a strange sense of recall. The shape of this person felt familiar to him. He recognized foreign-laced sandals and an unusually thick tunic. It all came together once Isbibarra realized why the left arm seemed shorter than the other: the rider was missing his left hand.
“Appo?” Isbibarra asked.
Isbibarra had followed Appo closely back in Ash. Ever since he arrived in the town, the healer had seemed different than the others. He was no bragadocious trader, or an imbecilic Ashfolk. He had a sense of curiosity. As Isbibarra followed Appo, the more he realized that perhaps this medicine man could be a possible companion. He seemed to understand what had been happening to the city better than anyone else, and Isbibarra needed someone like that. And there was the manner of the healer's peculiar God, one that perplexed the city guards but intrigued Isbibarra even more... Yet Isbibarra had waited too long. When it was time to leave, Isbibarra found Appo trapped by the Guard Corps, surely doomed to die after having his hand sliced off.
But here Appo was. Isbibarra would have his eyes. He just needed to save his life.
The old man forced his knees to lower him to the sand again. He took another water pouch and pressed it over Appo’s cracked lips, much of it spilling out into the desert. He felt the heat expanding off the healer’s face. He was sunburnt and feverish. Isbibarra ran his hands down Appo’s wounded arm, feeling tightly wound bandages soaked in cracked blood. As Isbibarra touched the end of the arm, Appo recoiled violently. He was unconscious but still responded to pain. Isbibarra couldn’t imagine how the healer had survived for so long.
The elephant bellowed a loud roar. Isbibarra was startled, but as his attention turned away from the fallen healer he again noticed the fourteen boulders that surrounded him. Three had moved closer. Isbibarra could once again palpate faint heartbeats through the pebbles, these far stronger than Appo’s. Whoever these people were, they were far from dying.
Isbibarra groaned. If Mikal had been with him, they likely would have been dealt with leagues ago. He was far more helpless than he realized.
“Zsalkt!” a deep voice cried out. Isbibarra couldn't speak the Steppe language, but it was impossible to mistake it. It was a guttural and cacophonic sound to most. He could only hope that these Steppe people were lost traders.
“Jhallom!” Isbibarra called, greeting the Steppefolk with one of the few words he knew. He raised his empty hands; he had placed his bow down when he was looking at Appo, and he had no idea what weapons the Steppefolk possessed. He sensed three figures, one directly in front of him and two others flanking around. One of them approached his camel, no doubt looking at the portly cargo bound at the end.
The middle figure called out again. Isbibarra couldn’t understand this time, but it sounded inquisitive. Almost playful. He could imagine him saying “What are you doing here? Are you lost?”
“Do you speak Jyväskish?” Isbibarra asked. “Or Merkish? Merckasya?” No response. This was going to be difficult.
The figure near the camel started poking the bound man with a stick. Or perhaps a scimitar? It was impossible to tell. The bound man squirmed as he tried to yell through his gag. They grabbed the gag and tore it off.
“HELP ME! BLESSED ATI, HELP ME! PLEASE! HE’S TRYING TO KILL ME!”
The steppefolk stepped back, turning awkwardly back to his companions.
“WHOEVER YOU ARE PLEASE HELP! MY NAME IS DAGRIM GIZZAL AND I HAVE BEEN BEATEN, HARASSED, AND KIDNAPPED BY THIS MERCK SCUM! RETURN ME TO ASH AND I WILL REPAY YOU WITH TITHINGS GREATER THAN YOU COULD EVER DESIRE!”
Gizzal continued to yell, but the steppefolk turned to each other in confusion. Gizzal was still blindfolded, so he was as oblivious as Isbibarra was to the situation, if not more so.
“Hush, fool,” Isbibarra snapped.
“Where are you, Merck bastard?! Fucking beating me, dragging me out through this hot fucking desert… Just wait until the Corps get you! They’ll… they’ll hang you by your entrails for what you’ve done to me!”
Isbibarra sighed. Did he really have to make this so difficult?
“Aslavgagt!” one of them yelled in excitement. That was a word Isbibarra understood, one that had been passed around many languages, simplified to something much easier on the tongue in Jyväskish: ‘Slave.’ Seemed they thought Isbibarra bought Gizzal at a slave market in Ash. In Isbibarra’s opinion, Gizzal was too fat to have been reasonably mistaken as a slave, but perhaps a slave was just anyone captured by another to the people of the Steppe.
“Slave?!” yelled Gizzal, “ The fuck you mean I’m a slave? I’m one of the NINE HEADS OF ASH! I’M NOT A SLAVE!”
“Be quiet!” Isbibarra hissed.
“NO! NO NO NO I WILL NOT!” The camel groaned as Gizzal swung his body around in protest.
“AH!” the middle figure yelled at Gizzal. It shut him up.
As the three approached, Isbibarra finally got a sense of what they were wearing. He felt long robes brush against the sand as they paced forward. They each walked with a long spear. They were well equipped for life in the Eivettä. But that was unusual for any random traveling Steppe tribe.
The middle figure gestured at Gizzal. “Aslavgagt!”
“These aren’t people of the steppe," Isbibarra thought.
The middle figure turned his hand towards Appo, still unconscious from his desert trek. “Aslavgagt!” he commanded again.
“These are raiders.”
The middle figure now turned his hand towards Isbibarra, placing it on his shoulder. Isbibarra was consumed by his rotten breath. He could feel him smiling.
“Aslavgagt.”
They were all slaves, now.