It was obvious. But what did it matter anymore? How different were these two stories, I wondered. Both were prophecies of death.
The Reghen, with their two hundred eyes, came the following morning and saw Baagh for the first time wandering around our tents. They would have remembered from the first time they had seen him in Malan’s tent as an envoy of Varazam. The claws of the Witches around me were closing fast; they were in control now—a thirst for power, a hunger for my destruction.
Did I have magic on my side? That still I had to know. Did Baagh really have any magic? Was he truly a Sorcerer, unlike Zeria?
“Don’t try to escape. I will find you and deliver you to the Ouna-Mas,” I told him one night when we were talking again.
“That is a good threat. Crucifixion?” he asked with a smirk.
“Dogs. They don’t spare anyone.”
“Better. Quicker.”
“Do you have magic, old man?”
I fixed into his eyes. I wanted to see them when he answered.
“Have you seen any magical powers up till now? I know how to set broken arms, but to a barbarian like you, that would seem magic.”
“Don’t play with me. I first saw you before the duel in Varazam. Later, when we broke through the walls, you weren’t there. Not even a mouse survived once we broke in. And then I see you after many moons at our camp, a prisoner of the battle of Apelo. How did you ever get out of Varazam?”
He offered me the skewered lamb, but I wanted his answer before anything else and ignored it. He offered his wineskin, and I gladly took it.
“Well, as I said, there are always two different truths, Da-Ren. The one of magic says that I can turn myself into any bird I choose. I have the gift of metamorphosis, and I usually prefer a dove. So I flapped my wings when the city was betrayed and disappeared into the clouds. I flew away.”
“This is no moment for silly talk, Baagh. I have to know who I have with me.”
“The other truth says that I knew a secret crypt in which I stayed for five whole days inside total darkness, only some air, bread, and water. On the fifth night, I stole clothes from a tent of yours and a horse. I speak your tongue. I slipped quickly among your men in the darkness of the Varazam celebrations. If you can call them that. Which truth do you want?”
Fly away. Metamorphosis.
“The first. The one of magic.”
LXIII.
Drink the Gold
Twenty-Fourth Autumn. Nobody
Only a fool or a dead man could ever hope that he has already fought his final battle. Before I had time to make any choices, fate made them for me.
The Trackers from the East came in haste, bringing words of war.
“The Fareasters are marching against us. They are crossing the desert!”
The eastern borders of the Empire had been invaded countless times in the past from the curly-bearded tribes. They were eternal enemies of the Cross. When they heard of the Empire’s demise they assembled an army and were marching fast toward the cities of Apelo and Antia.
At first, the Crossers were not at all eager to join with Malan and fight under an infidel’s emblems. But the Khun threatened to retreat north and leave the decimated remnants of the Cross’s army to the mercy of the Fareasters. The Crossers decided to honor the newborn alliance and fight for the first time under a Khun rather than their Emperor. At least the Khun was flesh and blood, standing strong next to them, while their Emperor had hidden in the palace of Thalassopolis. Not everyone agreed immediately. Blade, stake, and sweet promises were used, though common sense and mutual interest proved more effective at the end.
Thousands of the Tribe’s Archers and the Crossers joined and headed east, reaching the westernmost edges of the desert at the end of summer. They would wait there, at the end of the desert, where the Fareasters’ hordes would arrive fully exhausted. Among those who were called to join Malan were most of the Blades. It all happened too fast for anyone to mull over, and the Khun appointed an othertriber to rule over my men. He was a man with long straw hair locks who marched into our camp riding tall on his even taller southern horse. I had spent my whole life trying to get rid of the curse of my brown hair in a Tribe of ravenhairs only to be replaced by a blond othertriber. He was accompanied by Reghen, Rods, and his own armored riders, yet they decided wisely to stay away from me. Malan had rewarded him, for—for what?
“I say he is way too proud for a defeated dog,” Leke said, the first time he saw him.
It would be the last time too.
The seeds of jealousy didn’t have time to grow inside me. Betrayal struck as fast as a desert viper. There were no ceremonies, no announcements, and the Reghen wanted to avoid confrontation. The afternoon the new Firstblade came, the Reghen summoned me to Antia.
“You are to stay here with fifty men and patrol Antia. The rest come with us,” the Reghen said.
“They left here whoever has served a long time under you,” Leke informed me.
They were the most loyal, the ones whom the Reghen didn’t trust.
“The ones who won’t accept a new Leader,” I said. Or so I hoped when I gathered the fifty men under the last full moon of summer.
When they all gathered in front of me, I was surprised that I didn’t know half of them; they were not the Pack of the Smiths and the Tanners.
“The Firstblade,” Leke announced me, but he was wrong. On my fifth summer away from Sirol, I was stripped of all titles. I was Nobody.
“I am no longer Firstblade,” I started my brief speech, “but I’ll be your leader if you want me. We ride back to Sirol!”
A handful, the only ones whose names have lived in my Story, cheered. Noki, Leke, Temin, Vani, Lebas, Leti. But my best, the fallen of the First at Apelo, were lost forever. Rikan, Kuran, and everyone else.
The rest of the men stood there cautious, looking at one another, searching for the one who had the courage to speak. It was a humiliating silence broken only by the crackling sounds of the campfires. I spotted the one man who wasn’t looking around but had fixed his eyes on me, confident and eager to speak.
“Who is this?” I asked Leke.
“Garag of the Fourth. He is a Chief now.”
I turned to face the young man. He towered over me, his back and arms naked, strong, and sweaty. A giant, even his name reminded me of Gunna, my old Uncarved comrade. He was young, and I was old, and I had no chance if I had to fight him with a lame left arm. “Speak, Chief,” I addressed him.
He looked around, gathering approving nods, as if he were talking on behalf of most of them.
“We’ll follow you to Sirol, Da-Ren, but not like this. Not empty-handed. You get us the gold that you promised, and we’ll follow. Else—”
At else, Noki took two steps forward, his fist clenching the blade’s handle, but I raised my right hand and signaled for him to stand down. Garag was right. I never promised them gold, but the Tribe had, and I had been the Tribe’s Firstblade. I had to deliver the gold. Baagh was sitting next to me, dressed as one of us, though everyone knew he wasn’t. It didn’t help that I turned and whispered to him.
He whispered back, “Wherever we go, you’ll need the gold, Da-Ren. That young beast is right, and you don’t want to fight him anyway.”
I looked at the men again. Garag and his followers were waiting for my answer. “We’ll ride east at dawn. We find Malan, we get our gold, and then we keep north to Sirol!” I struggled to find a roaring voice to mark those last words.
“To Sirol!” This time, the fifty men gave one shout.
We rode early and hard the next day, determined to catch up with Malan. We had made little preparation and took a few supplies, but we didn’t account for the heat. The autumn sea breeze was gentle on the plains of Antia and Apelo. But Malan had marched east, away from the sea, and we soon had to hide from the desert sun and look for cover. It was midday, and not even the tall rocks’ shade would do. We raised tents and took cover there, roasting until sundown.
> I shared a small tent with a sweating, patient Baagh. I had suffered all day from the heat, my body was still weak and the pain of my recent ordeals was all over my face. He found the chance to advise me once again.
“You know, these cities, Antia, Tarus, and Noria, they mark the only blessed strip of land in the south ends of the Holy Empire. Everything else on the east is scorching hell and arid rock, except for the riverbanks and what used to be Varazam. Antia, Tarus, and Noria, the sea licks their feet, and the winters and summers are mild. Are you sure you want to go back where you came from, Da-Ren? This would be a journey I wouldn’t wish even upon my worst enemies.”
“We are your worst enemies, Baagh. And you’re coming with us.”
I sat under the tent gazing at the sea of gold sand from the open flaps, pondering Baagh’s words. The heat shimmered as if we were trapped in a bubbling cauldron. My mind painted fantastical objects, gray steaming forests and liquid castles at the end of the desert. At some point, I even saw the sand outside the tent dancing and moving. I didn’t trust my eyes. And then the sand started trilling an eager birdsong. I didn’t trust my ears either. But that was no dream. As I watched closer, the ground became alive with dozens of desert larks, each one the same color as the dirt, nibbling the last seeds of life among the rocks. Then, the tiny survivors of the desert opened their wings.
“Fly away, little birds,” Baagh sighed.
“Is this how you flew away from Varazam?” I joked to the old man.
He didn’t answer.
“I have made up my mind, Baagh. We’re going back to Sirol. No matter how treacherous the journey.”
Fly away. Metamorphosis.
I was done with Malan’s conquests. My fate was pulling me back to the only dream left. The Beginning and the End, the Forest of Kar-Tioo, where I was once First, and she was always Last.
Love, Baaghushai had called it.
I don’t know what it was. Zeria flooded my mind whenever I was weak. Was it love, or was it only the densely-wooded shelter in which I could hide away? Would I care for Zeria had I become Khun? Would I have become Khun if I hadn’t lost myself in Zeria’s eyes? Did these questions even matter when the answers were always the same?
Could I live without becoming Khun? I was alive.
Could I live without ever knowing Zeria? Yes. I would live with half the colors.
Could I live without seeing her again? I could, but what would I live for?
Malan’s army was only a couple of days ahead, and we caught up by riding as fast as the horses could endure at the beginning and the end of the day. I located the Khun’s banners among the colorful ones of all the othertribers he had gathered under his command. We changed direction to meet him directly without passing by the Blades and their new Leader.
The three metal spheres of the Khun were standing next to a dark tent that rested in the middle of the desert like the belly of a heavy-breathing monster. The tent was made of woven pieces of a fabric, which looked like goat hair, thrown over poles so low that a tall man would have to stoop or crawl to move inside it. They were black and white and lightweight compared with the felt-covered tents of the steppe. Malan was sitting close to the entrance when the Rods let me in.
“That’s not quite a palace, great Khun.” I mocked him.
“Still, you have to kneel to see me, Da-Ren.” He laughed back as I crawled inside the tent. “When the sandstorms come unannounced, these tents will save your life. The goat hair lets the air in and keeps the grains out. What are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to ask—”
“Not for the Blades leadership, I hope. This arm of yours looks done.”
“I have decided—”
“Yes?”
“I have decided to return to Sirol, Malan.”
He was not my Khun, and I would not call him that anymore.
“Wine? Drink with me.”
I didn’t want to drink, but I let him fill the cups.
“To Sirol! A long and tormenting journey,” he said.
“I’ll need the fifty Blades I have kept and two hundred gold coins.”
The Reghen next to Malan groaned for the first time and rolled his eyes. Malan was looking at my left arm, but he heard my voice strong and clear.
“You can take one Pack of Blades only and four small pouches of gold. Eighty coins. Do with them as you wish.”
“And five horses for each of my men.”
“Two. We are at war here. You can’t expect me to give you the whole world.”
I would have left even with half a mule.
The Reghen leaned close to him and whispered something into his ear, all the time keeping one eye on me. Malan’s face changed to one of increased interest, and as the Reghen receded, the Khun asked me.
“What are you going to do in Sirol?”
“I want to go into the Endless Forest. Find the path to the West before you return…” the Reghen was already disapproving, “…great Khun,” I finished my words.
Swallow my pride or get buried in the sand. Those were the only choices.
“Let it be so. We’ll meet again. Be careful of those sandstorms, Da-Ren. You might want to trade some of your gold for a tent of mine,” he said.
I turned to leave, but he stopped me. The Reghen had planted his seed of doubt.
“But you will take a Reghen and two Ouna-Mas with you,” he said.
“What for?”
“I want them to tell our Stories back in Sirol.”
Messengers came and went faster than arrows from every corner of our campaign.
“I thought the news had long ago arrived in Sirol,” I said.
“We doubt it. None of our messengers has brought news from there. I can tell you that no one has made it back and here again. Maybe no one has made it back either. You could be the first.”
“They will slow me down.”
“I am losing my patience, Da-Ren. I am letting you go is because you said that you are going to Sirol. I want the Reghen to tell my Story there. Half of our people stayed behind. Too many. We need them when we return. They must learn of my triumphs. And I want to learn what is happening there from the mouth of the Reghen, not the messengers. See to it that they arrive safely,” added Malan.
The Reghen did not hand over the gold gladly, but Malan wanted to send me as far away from him and his Story as possible. I returned to my men with eighty gold coins, a different Reghen who looked left and right hoping his fate would change, and two Ouna-Mas who rode on one horse in silence. The oldest one was a woman, naked of any female warmth, whose blank, icy stare soon earned her the name Ironskull among the men. The younger one was quite the opposite, a girl with a gentle nose, curved lips, and a small deerlike face that made her dark eyes glow even bigger and darker. Noki named her Raven, and he didn’t take his eyes off her ever again.
Garag was the first to greet me, half of the remaining Blades waiting beside him.
“That’s not enough for all of us,” he said.
“I don’t need any. We make it back to Sirol, and it’s all yours. Here, take half already,” I said and threw one of the pouches for him to catch. Baagh had kept the other three pouches.
“A few of the men escaped while you were away. I think they joined the other Blades with Malan,” Leke told me. “We should go get them back. And bid farewell to our old comrades at the Blades. We shouldn’t escape in the night.”
“Nah, we are forty-two as I count. That’s enough, almost a Pack. We ride north, now. No farewells.”
The time for farewells had long passed and the remaining warriors had already saluted their dying Firstblade. They had shouted their irons high one last time, and now they were only wondering why I didn’t die like everyone else. Even those last forty men who stayed with me were thinking it. Could the Ouna-Mas be right? I was still alive when most of my men were not. My arm had healed when all the others had withered.
At my command, Leke and Temin were already galloping forward. Nok
i followed last with the Ouna-Mas, and the Reghen stayed closer to me, as always.
“To Sirol, we ride!”
We had to cross what I thought was a small strip of desert, then the valleys and the ashen dunes of Kapoukia, the salt lakes, and the steppe. And then the Iron Valley. It would take us a long time, but we were riders and warriors. No one could stop us, I thought, at least for a couple of days. Except the gods and the ghosts. As the wind whispered their names at the twilight of the third day of our journey, they woke up and saw me. My joy, the feeling of riding back to my land in freedom, lasted only one day and night.
Their curse came fast upon us from the east as the desert sun was setting. It blended with the coming darkness of the night, and it took too much precious time for any of us to realize what we were seeing. It was as if a mountain of dust had grown legs and was coming upon us with a deafening roar. A handful of the men ran away to take cover on the back slope of the closest sand hill. It was too late for the rest of us.
The curse of the ghosts came in the rage of a sandstorm.
“Run!” I shouted.
Baagh knew better than that and shouted harder, “You can’t outrun this. Make a circle with the horses, their rumps out. Cover their heads and yours. Hold each other tight.”
The first grains of sand were whipping our faces relentlessly. A circle of men and horses on our knees, our faces veiled as ghosts, praying for our lives as the howling mountain swallowed us. For a while, the embrace of my comrades on either side was the only reminder that we were still alive. “Stay strong. Stay strong,” I shouted a couple of times but my words drowned in sand. My left arm was tangled with that of a young man of the Eighteenth. He was a muscled lad and was hurting my healing bones. My right arm was linked with that of Raven, the younger Ouna-Ma. I couldn’t see anything, even the couple of times I opened my veiled eyes. Rivers of sand, rock, and ash.
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