Rise of a Hero (The Farsala Trilogy)

by Bell, Hilari

CHAPTER SEVEN

  JIAAN

  HE CALLED HIMSELF WHAT?

  ” “Sorahb, sir.” A grin lifted the miner’s scruffy mustache. “By Azura’s hand, I swear that’s what he said. Oh, not that he was Sorahb; he was just passing on his commander’s instructions. But that’s the name his commander’s using. Someone’s got a pretty fair nerve, if you ask me. But aren’t you working for him too? When you showed up, I thought—”

  “We are,” said Fasal swiftly. “We just hadn’t realized that someone else had reached this camp. I . . . ah, I take it he delivered the message?”

  Jiaan glared at him, though he could see Fasal’s point. To tell these men that the so-called Farsalan resistance was so scattered and disorganized that the army didn’t even know who else was involving themselves . . . Well, it wouldn’t generate much confidence.

  Lamplight glowed on the face of the mining camp’s headman—which seemed very odd in midmorning. But when Jiaan had mentioned that it might be better if few people saw their faces, the headman had led them to a small room carved into the rock off the main mine shaft. It obviously served as a place for the miners to eat, and perhaps even sleep when the winter cold set in. But now it was empty except for themselves and the headman, seated at the dusty table.

  Jiaan and Fasal had spent the last hot, dusty month training their new army, and trying to visit enough towns and villages to get the word out that the army was gathering and needed more men—and offhand, Jiaan couldn’t decide which task was going worse. At least the archers and foot soldiers who had survived could teach what they knew to the totally ignorant men who trickled into the hidden croft. But trying to recruit more men, without getting caught by the Hrum themselves or revealing their secret to anyone who might pass it on to the Hrum, was like trying to balance on the edge of a sword. And juggle.

  The good news was that few Farsalans were inclined to help the Hrum. The draft, which had now been formally announced in all the towns, if not yet in the smaller villages, was bitterly resented. No one was thrilled about the new taxes, either, though as far as Jiaan could tell they weren’t much different than those the deghans had collected—lower in some places, higher in others, but averaging out about the same. And the Hrum taxes would go for good roads, and straight, well-drained canals, where most of the money the deghans collected had paid for the gold plates and fine furnishings the Hrum had looted from the deghans’ houses.

  When he’d mentioned that to Fasal—once the young deghan finished sputtering with outrage—Fasal had pointed out to Jiaan that telling that to men they hoped to recruit to fight against the Hrum was a really bad idea.

  Jiaan knew that—it was why he’d only offered his thoughts to Fasal. Concealing how very disorganized they were was just more of the same, but lying to men he hoped to lead felt . . . awkward. Jiaan sighed.

  But the miner was answering Fasal without a shadow of suspicion in his voice. “Yes, he asked us to show the Hrum only our worst ore, and advised us to hide our young men so they couldn’t be drafted—not that we hadn’t figured that one out ourselves. As for the ore,” amusement lit his eyes, “well, that seems to be taking care of itself.”

  “What do you mean?” Jiaan asked. This “Sorahb” had advised the miners to hide their best ore from the Hrum? How clever! And why hadn’t he thought of it?

  “Word spreads among the camps, you know,” the miner replied. “We passed Sorahb’s message on to the west, but the Hrum who are occupying Desafon had already visited several of their camps before they could receive it.”

  “So they’ll know that our ore is good,” said Jiaan wearily. Too bad. It had been an excellent idea.

  “Well, they saw our ore right enough,” said the miner. “But according to what we heard, they sneered at its quality, and offered far too low a price. Seems our steel’s not good enough to serve the ‘Iron Empire.’ Though having seen that bit of blade the . . . Sorahb’s messenger brought, I can understand that.”

  “He had a Hrum sword?” Jiaan’s voice was sharp with excitement. That had been the other thing he intended to ask the miners about, but without a sample . . .

  “Not a whole sword, just a piece of one. Though that was actually better, since you could see the layers inside. If you looked close, in a good light, that is. I never imagined you could make steel that thin.”

  “Layers?” Fasal asked.

  “The whole piece was a series of layers, dark metal and light,” the miner confirmed. “That’s what’s making the pattern on the surface, where they break through each other. But they’re unbelievably thin, and I’ve no idea how the Hrum do that. Ask a sword smith—that’s what I told the other one. I’ve a guess as to what the layers are, but that’s all.”

  “What are they?” Jiaan asked.

  “Well, different kinds of iron ore make different colors of steel,” said the miner. “You likely haven’t noticed, for it’s subtle. But the lighter steel is softer and more flexible, and the dark is better, at least for weapons. It’s harder, and will take a sharper edge. Of course, if it’s too dark it gets brittle, so swords are made with a mid-to-hard mixture. But that Hrum sword was made of hard and soft layers, not a mixture—and the dark layers were darker than any steel I’ve ever seen. So maybe they’d a right to be sneering at our ore, though djinn take me if I understand why putting the steel in layers makes the sword both sharp and flexible. When we mix the metals, we just get steel that’s medium flexible and medium sharp.”

  A cart rattled past in the main shaft outside, but the miner didn’t even look up.

  “The ore that makes dark steel isn’t common, not even in the mountains,” he continued. “I’ve heard men say they’ve seen signs of it in the badlands, and rumor has it that their ore works better than our dark. In fact, rumor has it that their ore is better than any ore ever found, more valuable than gold, and when you dig it up, it’s already been shaped into swords by the hand of Azura himself. But that’s rumor—the only thing I know for truth is that folk who go into the Suud’s desert aren’t coming back.” He shrugged, leaning back in his chair, but his gaze was intent.

  “We’re going—,” Fasal began, but Jiaan elbowed him sharply in the ribs.

  “I’m glad you got the message,” he said. “And our commander will be glad as well. Could you tell us who passed it on so promptly? We’ll see he gets proper credit for it.”

  The miner scratched his chin. “Well, he asked me not to be giving out his name, just as you did. And since you’re both working for the same luna—ah, person, you can find out from him if you need to.”

  “Sorahb isn’t a lunatic,” said Fasal firmly. “We will free Farsala from the Hrum! And your refusal to sell them your ore will help our cause.”

  It sounded pretty crazy to Jiaan, listening to Fasal say it, but the miner just smiled and nodded. Though all he’d really agreed to do was to sell the Hrum substandard ore for a high price, so he could afford to smile. Nonetheless . . .

  “We thank you for your assistance,” said Jiaan, rising to end the interview. “If any of your men chose to join the Farsalan army instead of yielding to the Hrum’s draft, have them go to the place where the Khaquan River flows out of the foothills and wait there. A guide will appear to take them to the army camp within a few days.”

  Fasal was frowning. “But why don’t we—”

  “No,” said Jiaan. “Forgive us for leaving so abruptly, but we have far to go.”

  Emerging from the mine’s dimness, the summer sunlight was blinding.

  “All right,” Fasal muttered, shielding his eyes with one hand. “Why didn’t you want to tell him that we’re going to the desert next? You said that miners looking for better ore have been sending expeditions into the badlands for centuries. They might have offered us a guide.”

  “And we’d have had to refuse,” said Jiaan. “Which would be embarrassing at best, and insulting at worst. I told you, the commander thought the Suud killed the miners he was sent to find—and would have killed h
im and his troops, except that he offered them no harm. If the Suud and the miners are at war, the last thing we want is to show up with a miner as our guide.”

  Jiaan’s vision had cleared enough to find his way to the post where Rakesh was tethered. Jiaan untied his reins and mounted, knowing that the well-trained horse would find the way, even if his rider was still squinting.

  Fasal, fumbling with his horse’s tether, snorted. “Peasants squabbling with barbarians hardly constitutes a war. If you want to create a secure base camp in the desert, then take some men and build it! We’ve got over a thousand men now—I can’t imagine why you think you need the Suud’s permission.”

  “You’ll see,” said Jiaan grimly. “Soon enough, you’ll see.”

  BUT FIVE DAYS LATER . . . “We haven’t even set eyes on the Suud!” Fasal complained. “If they’re afraid to show themselves to just two men, what makes you think they could do anything to an army?”

  “They haven’t shown themselves,” Jiaan admitted. “But that doesn’t mean they’re afraid. I wonder what they’re going to do, now that we’ve stopped letting them lead us in circles.”

  The moon was just past full, so there was plenty of light for the horses to find their way through the maze of rock spires. But the still, moonlit landscape was so eerie that a distant jackal’s howl was enough to make Jiaan jump. And the light clearly displayed Fasal’s grin when he did so.

  They had descended to the desert three evenings ago. Even Fasal had been impressed by the trail that snaked down the great cliff, though Jiaan was annoyed to see it hadn’t left him damp-palmed with fear. On the other hand, if Fasal hadn’t been present to remind Jiaan of his dignity, he might have succumbed to his own impulse and crawled down the trail—a fine picture that would have presented to the watching Suud.

  After several nights in the desert, Jiaan was certain that their every move was being watched, even during the day, when the Suud had to wear robes to protect their white skin from the blazing sun.

  Jiaan had insisted that he and Fasal sleep during the day and search for the Suud at night, as a matter of courtesy. To show up at a Suud camp in midday would be as rude as waking anyone else up in the middle of the night. That was why he’d timed his visit to coincide with the full moon.

  But after his first day in the desert, Jiaan had realized another advantage to the Suud’s habits—he wasn’t certain either he and Fasal, or the horses, would survive the heat of the desert on a midsummer day. Jiaan had never encountered anything like it; the dry air seemed to suck moisture from his mouth and body. Even sleeping in the shade, he woke at dusk with an aching head and a ravenous thirst.

  The first two nights, he and Fasal had followed the Suud’s small, clear footprints wherever they led. Fasal, because he believed they were about to come upon the camp at any moment, Jiaan, because he hoped that eventually the Suud would get tired of leading them in circles and make contact. And the fact that the tracks had crossed streams often enough to allow them to fill their water skins and let the horses drink, assured him that at least the Suud weren’t trying to kill them. If they hadn’t been led to those streams, and the stream they now followed, they’d have been forced to leave the desert on the second night. But if the Suud weren’t trying to drive them off, why didn’t they reveal themselves? The last time he’d been in the desert, his Suud guides had made him feel welcome.

  Of course, Jiaan reflected grimly, the last time he’d been invited.

  “I still don’t know why you let them lead us around like that,” Fasal grumbled. When Fasal had finally realized they were traveling in circles, the rocks had rung with his outrage. Jiaan hoped none of the watchers spoke Faran. “There’s hardly any water in this Azura-forsaken pit. If we keep following this stream we’re bound to come to one of their encampments, sooner or later.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” said Jiaan. “If we start heading straight for one of their camps, what do you think the Suud are going to do?” Though he had to admit, he too was tired of simply going where the Suud led them. That was why he’d agreed to the change of plan.

  “Don’t be such a . . .” Peasant coward. “. . . so silly,” Fasal corrected himself. “What could a bunch of barbarians possibly—”

  Fasal’s mare began to buck. Fasal wrapped his legs around her barrel and swore. Jiaan eyed the ground at her feet, looking for a serpent or a scorpion—anything that could have caused her reaction, but there was nothing there.

  Then Rakesh snorted, shied like a gazelle, and began to kick as if surrounded by a swarm of hornets. Jiaan’s legs could get no grip on his slippery hide. If he was to be bucked off, he’d best do it with as much control as possible. Rakesh bucked and Jiaan, feeling his rump leave the saddle, released his death grip on reins and mane and let himself fly free.

  By some miracle he managed to land on his feet, off balance, staggering. But he might have remained upright if not for the spear butt that struck his ankles, sweeping his feet from under him. He hit the ground hard and lay still, blinking up at the cloud of spear points that hovered over him. It was several moments before he could tear his eyes from the glittering steel to look at the grim, white faces beyond them.

  The sound of thudding hooves drew his attention. Fasal was a true deghan, and he rode like one. It took a carefully timed blow from a spear butt to knock him off the gyrating mare, who promptly stopped bucking and stood, snorting and shivering. Rakesh had also quieted, and Jiaan’s gaze returned to his captors.

  At least they were using the spear butts to subdue them, not the points. That was a good sign, right?

  “I hope you speak Faran,” he said.

  If they did, they weren’t admitting it. Only the bouncing babble of Suud sounded as a man approached the group around Jiaan. He was even shorter than most of the small, fine-boned Suud, his hair a cloud of white curls around his stern face. He said something and the spears withdrew—but not very far. He held out a leather cord and motioned for Jiaan to sit up. The Suud was small, but his arms were banded with muscles. Jiaan still might have tried something stupid, if it weren’t for those hovering spear points. Besides . . .

  “I didn’t come here to fight with you,” said Jiaan. He sat up slowly, and at a gesture from the man, turned and knelt with his hands behind him. “I came to ask for your help.”

  Firm hands bound his wrists together. The cord was tight, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. “Not fight,” Jiaan repeated. “Help. I need your help.”

  If they understood, they showed no sign of it, and Jiaan cursed himself for his lack of forethought. The Suud he’d dealt with before had spoken Faran, rough and fractured, but enough that Jiaan could communicate. But those Suud were traders the high commander had found in the marketplace at Setesafon—of course they spoke Faran. He had been foolish to assume that all the Suud did.

  But since the Hrum had invaded, no Suud had come to the Farsalan markets, so he couldn’t have brought a translator even if he’d thought of it. Their absence was one of the things that had made him hope they might be willing to help. Now that hope seemed naive.

  Four of the spear carriers remained to guard him, while the rest went to surround Fasal, who seemed to have been stunned by the fall. It was the first time Jiaan had ever seen a large group of the tribesmen; in the markets there were never more than three or four of them, and the tight-woven robes they wore to protect their milk white skin also obscured their strangeness. Here, in their moonlit desert, they wore only a cloth wrapped around their hips—even the women. Did they allow women to hunt, perhaps even to fight, as the Hrum did?

  Jiaan looked away from their naked breasts. Ordinarily he would have found the sight . . . interesting, at least. But the Suud women, moving over the sand like ghosts, with their white hair drifting around their shoulders, were just too strange. Jiaan would as soon have bedded a corpse.

  Last autumn, dealing with the Suud who had helped him escort the lady Soraya to the hidden croft, Jiaan had dismissed the rumor that the
Suud were some sort of lesser djinn, or related to them. Many deghans believed in the djinn, or at least claimed to, when it was to their advantage, but his father hadn’t, and his peasant mother had called them deghan nonsense. Watching now, as several spear butts prodded a dazed-looking Fasal to his feet, Jiaan’s mind still knew the Suud were human, but his prickling nerves were no longer quite so certain.

  A spear butt connected with his rump, bringing him to his feet. The Suud talked among themselves as they marched Jiaan and Fasal through the rock maze. They still followed the stream, Jiaan noticed, so Fasal had probably been right that their camp was beside it. Jiaan was concerned for Fasal, who staggered along in silence. His hair was dark, so Jiaan hadn’t seen the blood till it ran down the back of his neck and stained his shirt. But when he tried to speak to Fasal, a white-skinned hand rose and cuffed his head. The blow was more warning than punishment, but it still made him stumble, and Fasal looked over and met his eyes, shaking his head slightly.

  Jiaan subsided, aware of the Suud’s sharp gazes. He had met peasants whose eyes were pale, but none who had eyes with that unnatural, crystalline iris. In the moonlight you could barely see the irises at all, just black pupils lost in a sea of white. Like djinn. But the Suud traders he’d dealt with just a few months ago had eyes like that, and though Jiaan had found their appearance strange, he had laughed and joked with them. He had liked them.

  Being invited made a difference, it seemed.

  But if he had led himself and Fasal to their deaths, why hadn’t they been killed already? No. Jiaan took a shuddering breath. The only reason for taking prisoners was because you wanted them alive. They hadn’t even been harmed, except for the damage they’d sustained being bucked off their horses.

  Those same horses were now being led by the last of the Suud, as quietly as if nothing had happened. How had the Suud made Rakesh buck like that? Throwing small rocks? Jiaan wouldn’t have thought Rakesh would react that violently, but horses feared what they didn’t understand, and if several had struck him at once . . . Jiaan pushed the thought of djinn magic from his mind. The commander had lived among the Suud for a time, and he said they were just people—good people for the most part. And the commander was never wrong. Right?