by A. C. Cobble
The next day, Ben, Rhys, and O’ecca stepped into the dry morning air. It was warm but not yet the blistering heat of full day. Tiny clouds of dust puffed up as they walked down the street.
“Does it ever rain here?” wondered Ben.
“The locals say there is a rainy season,” answered O’ecca, “but for those of us near the coast, calling it rainy season is being a bit generous.”
Ben kicked at the dry dirt and followed O’ecca. She was taking them to the goat pens where she said they could find someone who knew the desert. If a goat herder knew the watering holes well enough to keep a pack of goats alive, he could do the same for them.
Halfway there, a brawny, black-haired man stumbled drunkenly out of a tavern directly in front of them. The man crashed into O’ecca and she went flailing backward to land on her bottom.
She scowled up at the man and Ben bent to lift her to her feet.
Before he could, the man took a swig from a battered leather drinking horn and snarled, “Watch where you’re walking, bitch.”
O’ecca’s foot lashed out and swept the man’s feet from under him. He flopped down on the hard dirt street. A grunt of pain and surprise burst out of his mouth. O’ecca sprang up and kicked the man again, hard in the gut.
“Speak to me like that again, peasant, and I will geld you,” she shouted. She raised her naginata menacingly.
The man curled into a ball on his side and coughed weakly. One hand reached out to grasp his now empty drinking horn. The contents were quickly soaking into the dust.
From the door of the tavern, several men burst out laughing.
“Thyr,” called one of the men. “How’s Lana going to cut off your balls if this girl has already done it?”
The man rolled over onto his stomach and looked longingly at his disappearing ale. He slurred, “The only thing either onna them is gonna do to my balls is lick ‘em.”
The fallen man’s companions wailed with laughter.
O’ecca glared down at the man, her hands shifting dangerously on her weapon.
Ben placed a hand on her shoulder. He knew the lady in her wanted to teach the man a painful lesson, but there was nothing to be gained from it. It was critical they avoid trouble with whatever passed for the authorities in this place.
“You sure about that?” jested one of the man’s companions. “Looks to me like you’re groveling before this little thing. You’re wiggling on your belly like a worm. She made you look like you’re a little boy still on your mommy’s teat.”
The man on the ground snarled. Shockingly fast, he sprang up and snatched O’ecca’s naginata away from her. Before she could react, he spun the weapon around, the heavy blade streaking toward her body.
O’ecca stumbled back and the tip of the spear sliced her shoulder, a thin spray of crimson flying from the wound. She cried out and gripped her shoulder, blood immediately welling up around her fingers.
The naginata continued to turn and the man swung it back at her, this time the sharp blade directed at her head.
Ben shoved past and raised a hand. The wooden haft smacked painfully against his palm. He stumbled back, but he stopped the weapon from hitting O’ecca.
The man blinked uncertainly at Ben, the naginata hanging motionless in his hands.
Without thinking, Ben swung a haymaker at him, putting all his weight behind it.
His fist crashed into the side of the man’s head with a smack. Ben saw all awareness flicker out of the man’s eyes. His body went limp as a wet rag, and the man crumpled into the dirt street.
An angry growl alerted Ben to the man’s friends. He turned toward them, dropping a hand to his sword. Rhys had already interceded. He was standing between the men and Ben, his longsword held steadily in his hands.
There were three of them, all dressed like the first with black, braided hair, leather vests studded with bone trinkets, loose trousers, and broad-bladed scimitars hanging from wide belts.
One man dropped his hand to the hilt of his scimitar.
Rhys stopped him.
“Do the Dirhadji no longer allow a man to fight his own battles,” snarled the rogue. “You think so little of this man that you will dishonor him?”
The man glared at Rhys. His companions spread out behind him, preparing to fight. “You know nothing of us foreigner. Do not speak of dishonor.”
“He injured an unarmed woman,” snapped Rhys. “He was trying to kill her. By your code, he should be gutted and left on the rocks to die.”
“She was armed with that spear,” retorted the man.
“Then he took it from her and attacked,” admonished Rhys. “Look at her. She is grievously injured. She may be crippled.”
Calling O’ecca unarmed was a tenuous distinction, thought Ben. She really was wounded, though.
He met her eyes and saw she would be okay. A steady trickle of blood made its way down her arm, but the naginata hadn’t hit bone or vital organs. As soon as they got back to the inn, Towaal could heal the girl.
The strangers didn’t know that, and Rhys was using it.
“That is desert law, and we’re not in the desert,” growled the man.
Rhys stared at him, not responding. The man shifted uncomfortably and shot a glance at his companions.
“Only a chieftain can administer the code,” claimed the black-haired man. “We do not have the authority to do as you say.”
“Then I demand you take us to your chieftain,” replied Rhys coldly. “Unless you are refusing to follow the code, in which case we’ll settle this now.”
Rhys tilted his blade and a faint shimmer of silver smoke oozed along the blade.
The two silent Dirhadji, for Ben realized that must be what they were, backed away from their leader nervously. The confidence was leaking out of their stances as more of the silver smoke drifted away from the rogue’s blade.
Rhys, evidently sensing their hesitation, pressed harder. “I’ll make sure your tribe learns about the dishonor you brought upon them. Injuring a young unarmed girl, refusing to acknowledge the code, getting drunk and fighting foreigners, getting knocked unconscious. I’m sure your chieftain will be glad to hear about this. Your wives will be passed to more honorable warriors and your children will be turned out of the tribe. Your friends will spit on your names.”
“This is just a misunderstanding. The girl was not seriously harmed,” complained the leader. “Thyr is drunk. Let us pay the price in gold. There is no reason for this to go further.”
“This girl is the daughter of a powerful lord in Ooswam. She’s unspoiled, a virgin.” The rogue glanced back at O’ecca and winked. “As you can see, she was quite beautiful before your friend mauled her. We are owed the full price, in blood.”
A grimace crawled across the leader’s face and his shoulders slumped. “Thyr is meant to take my sister next week. She will become first among his wives. She will be devastated if he does not return. If you think nothing of him or of me, think of her. If she was here, she’d fall at your feet and beg you. Gold, gemstones, anything you desire. My family is very wealthy for Dirhadji. Let me pay you.”
Rhys looked down at the unconscious Thyr and drawled, “Take me to her.”
The leader blinked.
“Take me to your sister,” insisted Rhys. “Let me see what you can offer, and then I will decide if we shall extract the blood price.”
The leader’s mouth opened then closed.
“You want to go into the desert?” questioned one of his companions incredulously.
“Yes, or we’ll settle it here,” demanded Rhys. “Since your chieftain is not available, the code instructs the most senior of you to enforce it. Which of you will slit his throat?”
Thyr, still motionless, groaned.
“R-Raim,” stammered the companion. “We are to meet Jordi. We have to be there.”
The leader, Raim, held up his hand and addressed Rhys. “You are right. I have shamed myself by needing a foreigner to hold me to the code. Ingar is right too. We hav
e a commitment we cannot break.”
Rhys tightened his grip on his longsword and didn’t back down.
Raim continued, speaking fast to placate Rhys, “There is another solution.”
Ben eyed the three Dirhadji. They were tense, but hands had drifted away from weapons. None of them were preparing to strike. Around them on the street, passersby steered wide of the confrontation. No one made any move to interfere, and no guards or watchmen had arrived to intervene.
“Thyr will take you himself,” stated Raim.
Rhys turned to look questioningly at Ben and O’ecca.
Ben nodded consent.
He knew what Rhys was at. Enlisting a Dirhadji to take them to find more Dirhadji was a brilliant entry to the desert. They weren’t going to get a better guide, assuming the unconscious man was willing.
“He will do this?” questioned Rhys.
“He will,” continued Raim. “When he sobers, he will not risk dishonor on himself, his family, and our tribe by refusing this. If he did, he would have to deal with me, but I believe you will find he is a good man.”
Rhys stood up straight and sheathed his longsword. “We shall see.”
5
Rock, Sand, Lizards
Ben woke to see the Dirhadji Thyr squatting on the other side of the camp and staring south. His expression was tight with anger. When the man had come to the day before in Vard, his friends explained what he’d done. His eyes had fallen to his feet and a pressing weight seemed to settle around his shoulders. Surprising Ben, he didn’t protest taking the party into the desert to find his tribe and his promised wife. He hadn’t made a move to flee either and didn’t plead for mercy.
Ben watched him silently. The Dirhadji wore sturdy britches, an open leather vest, and an undyed linen shirt. Around his head, he’d wrapped a turban of the same undyed linen. The material was loose and hung down around his shoulders, covering most of his head and neck. Good for keeping the sun off. On his hip, he carried a broad-bladed scimitar, similar to the ones they’d seen on men in Vard and Ooswam. He also had a utilitarian knife and a sort of half-pack that he carried high on his shoulders. Under the pack he wore a huge water skin. It didn’t take an explanation. In the desert, water was a precious commodity. Changes of clothes, cooking implements, they were all nice to have. Without water, you’d die.
The man didn’t turn, but he must have sensed a change in Ben’s breathing.
“You’re wondering if I’ll turn on you,” suggested the Dirhadji.
“The thought crossed my mind,” responded Ben, shifting into a sitting position. “We’re on the way to your death sentence.”
The man stood and glanced down at Ben. “Life in the desert is fragile. A poisonous snake or lizard bite, drinking tainted water, sandstorms, heat exposure, death in combat, these things can happen to any man, any day. To live in the desert is to accept that death is always waiting for us. It can happen at any time. Those who cannot accept it leave. They move to the fringe towns like Vard. I am of the desert. I am not afraid to die.”
“No one wants to die,” argued Ben.
Thyr shook his head. “You misunderstand. I do not want to die. I want to live very much. Everyone in the desert wants to live. They have to. Death is easy. Life is difficult. But while I do not want to die, I will accept it when it happens.”
Ben grunted.
“Besides,” continued the Dirhadji, “if your friend wanted my death, I never would have woken. I do not know what it is you want, but I know you are no more interested in meeting my future wife than I am in introducing you to her. I was drunk and foolish when we first met, but do not assume I am always a fool.”
Ben stared at the man, unsure how to respond.
The light scuff of Rhys’ boots announced his arrival. He had the latest watch, so Ben guessed he’d either been making rounds outside of the camp or napping. The rogue wasn’t the most trustworthy sentry.
“Ben,” suggested Rhys, ignoring the Dirhadji. “Should we practice the Ohms?”
Ben shrugged and rose. The girls were still sleeping, and they only had sausage, cheese, and hard biscuits for breakfast. Nothing to prepare and nothing to do until everyone else woke.
Thyr watched suspiciously as the two friends began the sequences. By the third, a low growl emitted from the back of his throat.
Ben and Rhys paused and glanced at the man.
“My friends told me you know the code,” said Thyr. “More than a foreigner should. A foreigner shouldn’t know these movements either. Teaching them is a violation of the code. It’s punishable by death.”
“I spent some time in Qooten years ago,” offered Rhys. “The man who taught me is already dead.”
“Good,” muttered the Dirhadji.
“It’s not a death sentence to join us in practicing the movements, is it?” asked Rhys. “As you can see, we already know them. I’m told the Ohms are best when performed as a daily ritual. Some Dirhadji consider the Ohms just as important as breaking fast. Have you done them today?”
Thyr glared at Rhys, considering his choices. Finally, he took a position beside Ben.
The three of them dropped into the start of the fourth Ohm and slowly began rotating through the positions. Ben watched Thyr out of the corner of his eye. The man moved with absolute discipline. Every foot placement, every breath, every turn of his body was perfectly controlled.
The Dirhadji moved slower than Ben was used to, and unconsciously, Ben fell into the man’s rhythm. It was difficult, moving so deliberately. After half a bell, Ben’s arms and legs were trembling with the effort. It would be so easy to simply set a foot down, but at Thyr’s pace, it was a measured, intentional moment when boot touched dirt.
“Move with purpose,” said the Dirhadji softly. “Nothing should affect you, and you should only effect what you mean to.”
Ben grunted and studied Thyr openly as they moved through more of the sequences. They did a dozen more. When they were dripping with sweat in the early morning desert heat, they stopped for a water break.
Ben opened his mouth to thank Thyr for the instruction, but the man turned away. The Dirhadji squatted on the side of the camp and peered into the distance, ignoring the party.
By then, everyone was awake and preparing for the travel ahead. The girls set out breakfast and Milo folded and packed the few tarps and sleeping mats they’d brought. In the desert, explained Rhys, extra weight could be fatal. Besides, thought Ben, it wasn’t like it was going to get cold.
They ate quickly, drank sparingly, then slung packs onto their backs.
Ben glanced around the campsite. It was hard rock and loose dirt. A skilled tracker may be able to tell someone had stayed there, but it would be nearly impossible to know how many or which direction they left in. If Eldred was following them, she’d have a bear of a time keeping up.
“Six more days then I suggest we pause at the village of Frisay,” remarked Thyr. “It’s the only permanent settlement south of here that we can safely stop at. After Frisay, we’ll be at the mercy of the tribes.”
“I didn’t think there were any towns in the desert,” questioned Amelie. “Aren’t the Dirhadji nomadic?”
Thyr nodded. “The Dirhadji are nomadic. The people in Frisay are not Dirhadji.”
“Who are they?” asked Towaal, suddenly interested.
Thyr shrugged. “Outcasts. Like the Dirhadji, they follow no lord. Unlike us, they are not from the desert and do not follow our code.”
“The Dirhadji haven’t run them off?” pressed Rhys. “The desert is considered sacred. I’m surprised the chieftains let someone else settle there.”
Thyr looked uncomfortable. “When these people first arrived in the desert, they were raided. As you say, the chieftains meant to run them off. Instead, the people dug in and fortified their settlement. They have an unnatural ability to determine when raiders are coming close, and their defense is highly organized. Many Dirhadji were killed before the chieftains decided that particular
part of the desert was no longer sacred. Now, the people are allowed to stay there and trade with the tribes. They do not venture deeper into the desert, and my people no longer harass them.”
Ben caught Towaal and Rhys sharing a look. The mage was curious about his settlement. Even if it wasn’t a natural stop for them, Ben suspected she would have steered that way. Anything out of the ordinary could be a clue.
“If there is nowhere else to get supplies,” agreed Towaal, “we should take advantage of it. Thyr, lead us to this place.”
Ben blinked, trying to clear the grit from his eyes. It was futile. The sand was embedded all over his body like a second layer of skin. In his eyes, in his hair, under his finger nails, it was everywhere. He was being scraped raw by the harsh material.
The beating sun didn’t help matters. It felt like one of the fires he used to boil wort at his brewery was constantly blazing down on him, heating his skin like it did his copper kettles.
Amelie shuffled one foot in front of the other ahead of him. She was tired, bone tired. She no longer bothered to lift her feet off the sunbaked rocks. Her hair was piled in a loose bun that Ben definitely wasn’t going to mention was similar to O’ecca’s. It kept the sun off her neck and allowed the rare stir in the air to cool her sweaty skin. Below the neck, her clothing, recently acquired in Ayd, was coated in the gritty red sand that blew everywhere.
Ben understood why the desert folk didn’t bother to dye their clothing now. Before long, it was going to be red regardless of what color the fabric was.
“How much longer did you say?” Ben asked Thyr.
The Dirhadji glanced over his shoulder at Ben. “Four days, though two of them will be across the sand sea. Depending on how the dunes have shifted, we could be delayed there.”
Ben grunted.
The sand sea. The Dirhadji seemed to take pleasure in telling them awful tales about the vast, open plain of loose sand. Wind whipped across it, unblocked by rock or hill. Water was nonexistent, and the terrain shifted constantly. Frequently, the sun was obscured by blowing walls of grit. Thyr was certain without his help they’d be hopelessly lost within two bells. He was probably right, but Ben was getting tired of hearing about it.