Tak’la pointed, and Rahi’sta looked back at Ahi’rea. Now Haaph’ahin was shouting, trying to shame her into listening to him. But Tak’la was pointing not at them, but at Revik, standing beside Ahi’rea.
Tak’la was right. He was different. He looked smaller, somehow. He no longer appeared as a proud prince held hostage. He looked like nothing more than a frightened young man, dirty, tired, and hurt. She might have felt sorry for him under different circumstances.
Rahi’sta knew no one would interfere between Ahi’rea and Haaph’ahin. They were both seers, one an elder, and many considered Ahi’rea an elder as well, despite her age. Siding with one or the other in the argument might lead to repercussions later.
Their voices quieted, and she did not hear how it ended. Ahi’rea walked away, proud and silent, with Revik in tow. His arms were bound, but no guards accompanied him. None of the Huumphar followed Ahi’rea too close, or gathered around Haaph’ahin.
Ken’hra had already left, leading the Whispered Thunder tribe north. They were not far away, still visible among the boulders littering the plains. The sun was rising, reflecting a vibrant red off the black stones, dragging long shadows like spires across the grasses. The Monument stood, darkening the plains for what seemed miles. Tak’la bounded off of his rock and began loping north. Rahi’sta secured her son’s traveling basket on her back and set out after him. The tribe followed.
—
Over the next weeks, the knowledge that Revik had admitted he was not Lasivar spread among the Huumphar. They also learned that Haaph’ahin had now predicted the true Lasivar’s return. Excitement and hope gradually made themselves felt once again during the long trip to the northern Gharven coast. Even as they marched, however, they began to find refugees, Huumphar whose tribes were lost, who spoke of fire and death coming from the south, of deadly raiding parties.
They traveled by night to avoid heat and detection, moving far slower than they'd have liked. On the fifteenth night, Tak’la, as usual, had ranged far past the others in his zeal for scouting. He could hear them, far behind, but all around was the sound of the plains at night: grasses whispering in the wind, the chirping of insects. The cool, dry air chilled the sweat on his skin as he paused to gaze at the sky. The moon was but a dim, narrow sliver, and the stars overhead were bright crystals hanging in the dark. He smiled, relishing the purity of the moment—the night sounds, no light but the stars and pale moon. The war and bloodshed seemed for a moment like a bad dream.
The prisoner—now nameless and silent—had spoken with Tak’la a little when Tak’la had been assigned to watch over him. Tak’la knew a few words of badly accented Gharven—enough to ask him “What is… yourself?” although he knew it was not the right phrasing.
The prisoner had looked at him—a look that made Tak’la flinch to recall.
“I have never known,” he had said. “I am lost, only lies.” Despite the intensity of the stare, Tak’la had steeled his resolve and stared back. Neither had looked away—though the prisoner appeared to be looking at something other than the burly Huumphar youth.
“Huumphar… give you, um, truth,” Tak’la managed, smiling at himself. He furrowed his brow, moving on to a slightly simpler thought. “Help you. Ahi’rea save your life.” It was frustrating, to try to express himself to one so thoroughly different.
“Ahi’rea,” the prisoner had breathed, as if savoring the sound. After a long pause, he said, “No. It has all been taken from me. Understand? Huumphar gave truth, but took everything else.” He had not spoken further after that.
Tak’la had shrugged it off—it was natural that the prisoner would be confused and angry. Standing on the plains beneath the stars, though, he wondered if he could feel the peace and purity he felt now if he had lost what the prisoner had. Tak’la’s friends and family had died—but he could not imagine losing all of himself.
His reverie was interrupted when he heard a faint sound, almost indistinguishable above the whispering of the grasses. If he had been closer to the other Huumphar, he would surely have missed it. He turned to the west. It was dark, and nothing out of the ordinary was to be seen, but as he studied the landscape he saw something—far off, grasses being pushed and bent against the wind.
Tak’la hesitated—the next nearest scouts would be hundreds of yards away. He wondered if he would have time to alert them without whatever was there noticing him. The next sound, however, the distant clank of steel, told him all he needed to know. No Huumphar wore steel.
He flew through the grass, head low, spear in one hand and machete unsheathed in the other. He paused, regaining his bearings as he neared the movement and sounds.
Tak’la came upon the first of them within moments—a small, frail body, slumped in a heap, blood still warm and oozing from fresh wounds. The grass around the old woman’s corpse was trampled and hacked. A broken machete lay a few feet away, a testament to her futile attempt to defend herself.
It was something that they had heard of from the refugees—even without its leader, the southern army was decimating the tribes of the Huumphar. After the warriors were all dead, fleeing elders and children too young to fight were tracked down and slaughtered. Any who survived would be death-touched, like Tak’la. Fury rose in him. Not tonight.
The trail was easy to follow—a wide, trampled path headed northeast and the sound of voices speaking in Cheduna. Snarling, Tak’la charged along the trampled path, white-knuckled hands gripping spear and blade. He pushed through the brush and caught sight of a dozen soldiers, leather armor stained dark for camouflage, and clustered ahead of them was a small group of old and young refugees. They were Western Huumphar, wearing silvery rock-bird feathers in their hair and sheepskins instead of deer. They were near dead from fatigue—their home was hundreds of miles west. They must have been moving for days, or even weeks, as fast as they could.
Despite his speed, Tak’la’s approach went unnoticed. His steps were silent and drowned out by the gloating of some of the soldiers as they menaced the refugees. He noticed that a few seemed less enthusiastic about their task, grim-faced, but determined to do their duty. As he chose his targets, he merely relegated them to the end of the list.
He lunged. A broad sweep with his spear to the backs of their legs brought two soldiers to their knees with yelps of shock and pain. A swift chop with his machete took one of them out of the fight before it began. With that, the others spun around, crying out their alarm at the surprise attack. The one who seemed to be in command put the others between himself and the hulking Huumphar, bellowing orders and pointing in turn at Tak’la and the refugees. His dirty, crooked teeth looked too small for his face, like an old wild dog’s. Tak’la had hoped to kill the leader first, but he had positioned himself too well, too fast.
The other he had knocked down regained his feet and with four more of the soldiers surrounded Tak’la. The rest, under their commander’s direction, approached the refugees. Some of the Huumphar held broken or makeshift weapons, but none of them were in any shape to fight.
Experience told Tak’la to dodge back out of reach into the grasses, to make the soldiers careless and angry, get them to chase him, to make mistakes. Logic told him that if he did, they would kill the refugees to draw him back. He told himself that he could kill every one of them on their own terms.
The commander shouted. As one, the soldiers lunged, axes and swords held high, spear points darting forward.
Ducking to one side, Tak’la avoided some attacks and deflected another with his blade. A spear managed to find its target, biting into his leg. Gritting his teeth, Tak’la barreled into a soldier, slamming him to the ground. Swiping at another, he cut deep through armor and felt hot blood splash onto his sword-arm. He wasted no time, stomping on the throat of the fallen soldier as he turned, finishing the machete swing.
He darted back amongst the soldiers, tripping one of them and in one movement driving his spear into the man’s gut. A blade raked Tak’la’s back. Roaring,
he swept his machete around and dived straight backwards. He crashed into his attacker and they both rolled to the ground. Tak’la swore as he lost his grip on his spear. He twisted, landing atop the soldier as they came to rest. Pulling the man up by a leather armor strap, Tak’la butted him full in the face with his forehead. The soldier jerked and fell back, but Tak’la was already moving again, rolling, pulling the dazed soldier on top of him. An axe blade crashed into the unconscious man’s back instead of Tak’la.
The Huumphar warrior shouted, whipping his machete into the nearest pair of legs. Their owner shrieked, falling hard to the ground, blood gushing from his ruined ankles. Tak’la pushed the body off and leapt to his feet, faltering on his own injured leg.
The other soldiers were beginning to withdraw, and the lone remaining man facing him was backing away. Tak’la did not see their commander. He spun around to look just as a spear drove into his back.
Tak’la fell without a sound, dragging the spear out of the commander’s hand. He saw the crooked-toothed man stand over him, saw the knife in his fist. The other soldiers were shouting. The commander looked to the east and shouted as well. He smiled down for a long moment and plunged the blade into Tak’la’s chest.
—Thirteen—
Ahi'rea knelt while Ken'hra stood looking over her shoulder. “It is his time. He died back when the rest of his tribe was killed. You have to let it happen.”
Tak’la lay where he had fallen, blood pooling beneath him and seeping into the ground. They had found him amongst the trampled and crushed grasses by following the shouts and cries of battle. The knife in his chest rose and fell with his every shallow breath. Tak’la’s eyes were wide, but he gave no indication that he saw or heard the Huumphar around him.
At first, they had not recognized him in the dark. There had been a group of western Huumphar standing around him, all children and old women, and five dead or dying southern soldiers. Ken’hra had been the first to discover him and had called for the others’ aid before realizing who the fallen warrior was.
Ahi’rea looked up at Ken’hra. “We have so few warriors, and he saved these people. We have to try to help him.”
Ken’hra shook her head. “Death follows him. Taking him with us would be a mistake—we don’t want him with us when it finally claims him.”
“She’s right, Rea,” Ruun’daruun said behind her. “Death has come for him. There’s nothing we can do without inviting it to follow us further.” Ruun’daruun shrugged. “I am sorry. He was a powerful warrior, but we need to see to the living.”
“He is yet alive, as long as he can draw breath,” a grizzled voice called out. They looked up to see Haaph’ahin pushing his way through the gathered scouts and warriors. He stopped and stood over Tak’la, looking down at him with his eyes aflame. “This young one… his time may have come and gone, but we will do what we can. Send for healers. We will help him and keep moving, and if Death will claim him it will do so on its feet.”
No one contradicted him. Haaph’ahin caught her gaze and Ahi’rea nodded her thanks. Tak’la was soon being carried back to the rest of the tribe. Few expected he would survive the journey, but all through the night he kept breathing.
—
He did not dream or feel the passage of time. When Tak’la awoke, he started in anticipation of the knife blow and felt his body wracked by the pain of his sudden movement. When his vision cleared it was not the face of the southern commander that greeted him, but that of Rahi’sta. Her fiery hair framed her face as she looked down at him.
“Try not to move. You were badly hurt.” She put a hand on Tak’la’s forehead. “They thought you wouldn’t live.” She was smiling. “You seem to have a knack for escaping death.”
Tak’la blinked and turned his head from side to side. Just that made his eyes water. He groaned. “You have been watching me?” Bracing himself, he looked around, trying to get his bearings.
They were beneath a stand of thick brush, the only shade in sight. Rahi’sta’s child lay sleeping in his traveling basket beside him. The sun was high. The other Huumphar were scattered about, using their woven grass capes like tiny one-person tents to shield them from the sun.
“Many were afraid.” Rahi’sta reached for a waterskin and held it to his lips. While he drank she continued. “They didn’t want to be beside you when Death came for you. But you said you are already dead… so I knew there was nothing to fear.” He finished drinking and she smiled again, putting her hand on his. He smiled his thanks.
“Rahi’sta,” he said. “I’m hungry.”
She laughed and ducked out from under the brush. “Well then I will find food for you. Don’t run off.”
Tak’la laughed, then groaned at the pain spreading through his chest. Rahi’sta bounded off through the camp and Tak’la found himself looking at her son, sleeping beside him. The child’s nose twitched and he squinted, making faces. As Tak’la watched, the boy struggled against the basket holding him, gradually working one tiny arm free. He reached up, swiped at his nose, and lapsed back into comfortable stillness. Tak’la grinned and looked up through the brush into the clear sky beyond.
Throughout the rest of the journey, nearly a dozen more refugees were collected. Even more were found too late, killed and left for the vultures or dead of starvation or fatigue. Every time they were found alive, they told of a massive force of Cheduna who chased off the game, poisoned waters, and drove fire before them like a herd of maddened bulls. Tak’la’s injuries were slow to heal, but the Huumphar’s pace left little time for recovery. Though they sighted no more soldiers, the nightly red glow in the south grew ever brighter.
Tak’la had to be pulled on a litter behind a pair of Huumphar at first, bouncing along in a cloud of dust. After a few nights of choking and crashing, he forced himself to run on his own. It was not easy, but he bore the pain of his wounds in silence. He was forced to stay with the main group rather than scout ahead. If anything the other Huumphar avoided him more than usual, although Rahi’sta spoke with him often and Haaph’ahin even sought him out once to ask about the Cheduna. Desperate to contribute, Tak’la volunteered to guard the prisoner, allowing others to take on more important duties.
They were unsure what to call him, now that it was clear their prisoner was not Lasivar. The change in the prisoner’s demeanor intrigued Tak’la. He resisted most attempts at conversation at first. Tak’la had many questions he wanted to ask him, but most of his queries were met with one word answers at best. Tak’la noticed, however, that he spoke more freely whenever Ahi’rea was nearby.
They were on the move for weeks. The peak of summer had gone and the nights began to lengthen. By the time they reached the northern edge of the plains and passed into the unfamiliar forests of The Gharv, Tak’la’s wounds were still not healed.
—
The prisoner ran without thought, following the Huumphar and scarcely noticing the passage of weeks on the move. He was more lost than he had ever felt. He had been so sure of his place, but Halkoriv had used him. He did not even know his own name—had never known it. More lies. Moreover, he did not even know his allies from his enemies. Ahi’rea, the person he had felt was most likely to kill him, had risked her life to save his. She had not spoken to him since that day. He wished she would.
As the sun was rising and the tribe settled in to camp amongst the tall, dark trees, his guard wordlessly placed a portion of dried meat with the more meager rations meant for him. The prisoner stared at the gift for a moment, as if contemplating the gesture, and nodded his thanks to Tak’la. The big warrior smiled, nodded back, and leaned against a tree trunk and proceeded to concentrate on his meal.
The prisoner ate slowly, savoring the dried meat. He was reminded of his time in Cunabrel’s cell and Halkoriv’s arrival. Strange, he thought. I was given the finest food in Feriven in Halkoriv’s palace. I forgot that a tough little piece of venison could taste so good.
He stared at his Huumphar guard in the dim forest
light. He nearly died fighting me, and again saving those others from soldiers I once led, and here he is sharing food with me. He had been led to believe the plainsfolk were cruel savages, more like beasts than men. His guard displayed more compassion than he would have shown were their situations reversed.
The prisoner suddenly broke his silence. “Thank you.” Tak’la, as he had heard his keeper named, looked up in surprise. His youthful face slipped into a grin, and he nodded. As if taking the words as a cue, Tak’la spoke, summoning up his halting Gharven.
“Why Cheduna hates Huumphar?”
The prisoner answered without hesitation. “You attack us,” he said. “We want one land, and peace. The Huumphar fight, so we fight them.” As Tak’la considered this, the prisoner asked “Why do the Huumphar hate the Cheduna?”
“You attack us,” Tak’la echoed. “Cheduna leave, we… forget hate.”
“The Cheduna bring knowledge, safety, and peace. We want to make one land for everyone.”
“Cheduna bring war and fire and pain,” Tak’la answered, his face souring. “Land is… always one. Cheduna gods not Huumphar gods, Cheduna ways not Huumphar ways. Cheduna want land and power. Cheduna do not rule Huumphar.” The prisoner was about to protest when Tak’la added “and Huumphar do not want fight Cheduna.”
The prisoner stopped and closed his mouth. Tak’la sat for a moment, then opened a leather pouch beside him. He looked down and probed his leg wound and began changing the dressing on his chest. The wound was healing poorly—the flesh surrounding it was discolored and pus ran from the deep puncture. As Tak’la gingerly set about his task, gritting his teeth, the prisoner felt a strange sensation—a grim whisper in his mind. He saw for a moment the wound worsen, grow darker and fouler. He saw Tak’la in great pain, unable to run or even to breath. He closed his eyes tight, breathed deeply, and said, “I can help you.”
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