Then, on the eve of their second day crossing the savannah, they’d encountered the first patrol.
Raz, Syrah, and Akelo, leading the train, had made out the figures easily enough in the flatness of the plains. Then a favorable wind brought the smell of the men to him, and it was that scent—that taste of iron and oil and sweat in the air—that had concerned Raz. He’d told Akelo and Syrah what he suspected, then proceeded to hide as he usually did, praying to the Sun and Moon that everything would go smoothly.
Unfortunately, the Twins appeared to have been preoccupied with other matters that day.
When the groups met, the encounter turned sour almost at once. Raz made out a brief exchange, but it wasn’t more than a minute before he heard a stranger’s shouted order, and the sounds of blades being drawn. Leaving Ahna where he’d leaned her against the cage in the dark, Raz had bolted from beneath the cover to join the fray, drawing his gladius and sagaris as he did.
He made it just in time to keep his men from getting slaughtered by the five trained soldiers they’d pitted themselves against.
After the fight, Akelo had explained quickly what went wrong. Apart from the five men in white-and-gold leather armor—the colors of Karesh Syl, according to the Percian—there had been a horse and sixth figure, a boy in tattered clothes, weighted down with a heavy pack and fettered by iron chains about his ankles. No one was able to say if it was typical for patrols to travel with slaves, but the concern had been irrelevant in the moment. Apparently Akelo and Syrah had had a difficult enough time restraining the men of the caravan from the moment they’d made out the boy.
Then the patrol commander had asked for Syrah to lift her veil and show her face, and the dam broke. The former oarsmen of the Moalas had charged, and Raz had been forced to finish the fight.
In the end, fortunately, no one but the soldiers of the patrol had been hurt, but Raz was forced to implement several changes to their routine. First, he’d called them all to gather, and together they’d formed the ploy of Syrah as the “Lady Ilyane,” which Akelo and the other kuja thought would be a passable cover. Then, he’d started drilling his men daily on the basic skills of combat, enlisting Cyper as an assistant when the West Isler demonstrated himself to have been a skilled swordsman in another life.
The slave-boy, a Northerner who’d called himself simply “Esser,” had joined them with all the enthusiasm one could expect from an adolescent who had spent his life dreaming only of freedom.
And like that, they army had gained its first new recruit.
Thinking of the lad shook Raz from his thoughts, and he looked up the road. There Esser sat, garbed in the loose bits of armor the others had pulled together for him, cross-legged in the dirt beside Akelo. The Percian had called him over after the fight, likely hoping he would be a voice of comfort for the slave who’d been attending this most recent patrol. Raz himself hadn't approached the man yet. The look the slave had given him when he’d stepped out onto the road to challenge the soldiers, so full of a confusing wash of terror and hope, still pulled at him, weighing him down. It reminded him of the war he was rekindling, of the hardship he was dragging himself ever closer to with each soldier of Karesh Syl he felled.
Himself, and every soul who braved joining his cause.
Raz spent the next quarter-hour with their now-three horses, seated in a patch of shade on the side of the path, using a claw to free Ahna and his gladius of the dried blood that had managed to cling to their blades. In that time, the men who’d gone off to bury the dead returned to the cart, making for Syrah as the woman continued to hand out the looted gear. Soon after, Akelo, Esser, and the newcomer pulled themselves to their feet. Together they approached, the Percian’s hand resting on the slave’s shoulder encouragingly, and Raz sheathed his sword and set the dviassegai aside carefully as they neared. Slowly he got to his feet, doing his best not to look too intimidating, but the look on the newcomer’s face told him he wasn’t succeeding.
“Raz,” Akelo said when the three of them stopped before him, “this is Aleem. Like Esser, he was indentured in the Tash’s palace in Karesh Syl.”
“Welcome, Aleem,” Raz told the man with a nod, trying a smile. “I apologize if I made a poor first impression. I judged the fight to be more pressing than the niceties of a proper introduction.”
In response, all he got was a gaping mouth and wide eyes, like the slave couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
Akelo coughed pointedly. “Aleem had some insights we agreed he should share with you. His observations generally confirm some of the suspicions we developed after what Esser could tell us.”
“Oh?” Raz asked, watching Aleem expectantly.
Still, though, the man appeared unable to do anything but stare.
It was Esser, finally, who got a sound out of the man. With an impatient roll of his eyes, the blond-haired man jabbed an elbow into the slave’s side, making the man yelp and jump.
“I-I am Aleem!” he shouted foolishly, his mind clearly struggling to catch up to the conversation that had happened around him as he’d stood dumbstruck. “I can be of service to you, great Dragon! I cook! I cook very well. I could cook for you and your men, provided you are in need of a cook. I am not good at much else. I only cook. I was a hand in the kitchen. I was a—”
“Aleem,” Raz cut across the poor man’s rambling gently. “Calm yourself. You are safe here. You are free.”
Again, Aleem seemed unable to speak. This time, though, the silence came from somewhere other than his shock. Raz watched the man’s face quiver, his cheeks and lips twitching, his eyes beginning to grow wet.
“Free.” He said the word like it were new to him, but full of enough wonder to make his voice shake. “F-free…”
Then, with a breaking gasp and a smile of endless relief, Aleem fell to his knees and began to sob into the palms of his hands.
Raz gave him the time he needed, easing himself down until he crouched before the man, reaching out to grasp one of his shivering shoulders comfortingly as Aleem howled in joyful disbelief. At his touch the man flinched, but did not pull way, one hand even moving from his face to clutch at Raz’s wrist like it were the lifeline to this new understanding of his own value. Above them, still standing, Akelo and Esser looked on, the old Percian’s face a heartbroken picture of pride, the young Northerner’s full of embarrassed fascination.
By the time Aleem got control of himself again, the doubts Raz had been having about his path had long faded.
This is why we fight, he reminded himself, watching the man’s shaking start to subside. This is why we hold nothing back.
“M-Master Akelo says I can be of h-help?” the former slave finally managed to choke out, wiping his eyes and looking up at Raz. “What can I do, great Dragon?”
“First,” Raz said with a pained grin, releasing Aleem’s shoulder, “you can start by never addressing anyone as ‘Master’ ever again. You have no master now, Aleem. On the same note, stop calling me ‘great Dragon.’ ‘Arro’ or ‘Raz’ is fine.”
“Or just ‘Dragon’!” Esser offered up excitedly, earning himself a raised eyebrow from both Raz and Akelo.
The boy lapsed back into silence at once.
“Next, though,” Raz continued, returning his attention to Aleem. “Akelo says you might have information. I would very much like to hear anything you think might be of value to us.”
The man’s nod was jerky, his body still shaking. “I-I do. The patrol. The orders the sergeant was giving…”
It took some time, but slowly Aleem opened up, repeating for Raz everything he must have already told Akelo and Esser. As he spoke, Raz put the pieces together, sometimes glancing up at the old Percian to get a silent agreement on something, sometimes frowning as the breadth of what they truly faced was revealed to him a little more. In the end, the man couldn’t offer much Esser hadn't already been able to tell them, but the confirmation of the Northerner’s observations and Raz’s own suspicions had great value al
l its own. The frequent stops the patrol made. The horse and rider. The instructions the unit’s commander—Rafik, Aleem called him—had given just before Erom had put him in the ground.
By the time he finished, Raz thought he had a good picture of the situation they were walking into.
“Thank you, Aleem,” he said gratefully when the man finally trailed off. “This is of great use to us. Now—” he looked up at Akelo uncertainly “—has it been explained to you where we are going? What we mean to do?”
Aleem’s nod was stronger now, and his voice no longer shook. In fact, he sounded almost resolved. “It has. You are making for Karesh Syl.”
“Yes,” Raz said gravely. “Back to the city you just escaped. You offered your help, and we will gladly take it. Sun knows we could use a decent cook. But it is your choice. It is—”
It was Aleem’s turn, this time, to cut Raz off.
“I wish to serve,” he said firmly, lifting his face to meet Raz’s eyes defiantly.
“You’re sure?” Raz pressed him cautiously. “Think on this.”
“I am.” Aleem’s gaze was hard as steel. “And I have. You have offered me the chance to give my life meaning again, Arro. I think this is the place I’d like to start doing that.”
Raz studied the man a moment more, seeking doubt in him. There was nothing there, however. Aleem might not have the strength of Akelo and his men, or the enthusiasm of Esser, but even on his knees his determination was palpable, his conviction almost tangible.
Finally, Raz nodded.
“Esser will introduce you to Syrah,” he said, standing up again and offering a hand for the former slave to take. “She will see to it you are clothed and armed, if you desire it. She can also show you where we keep our provisions. Noon approaches, and I for one am eager to see your skills at work.”
Aleem accepted his help, pulling himself unsteadily to his feet. He seemed to have no more words to say, but his fingers lingered around Raz’s palm, like he thought that if he let go, that lifeline to his freedom would be severed.
Then Esser put an arm around his shoulders, speaking with surprising gentleness for a lad his age as he turned and led the former slave away. “Come on, old man. Let me take you to the only one of the group who’s prettier than the Dragon.”
Together, Raz and Akelo watched them go, and it wasn’t until they saw Aleem bowing to Syrah that the Percian spoke up.
“At least two-dozen patrols like this.” The man whistled. “As far as I know, there are four or five ways that could be taken east from Karesh Syl.”
“Which means we have another four or five encounters to prepare for,” Raz agreed thoughtfully. “Assuming the Tash is spreading his men evenly across all possible roads.”
“If memory serves, this is one of the smaller trade routes,” Akelo said with a shrug. “There’s a chance fewer soldiers were sent down this path.”
“Or more,” Raz responded. “If the Tash and his Hands guess that Syrah and I would have wanted to avoid the traffic and eyes of the main road, it’s possible they planned to guard these smaller routes more carefully.”
“Anything is possible,” the Percian said with a shrug. “We’ll prepare for the worst, regardless. Which means we should devise a battle-plan for these patrols. Five soldiers might not be enough to make you break a sweat, Arro, but it seems their orders are only to get word back to Karesh Syl if something is amiss. It’s nothing more than luck the first troop didn’t send their rider back at the first sign of trouble, like this sergeant Rafik was ready to. We’re already planning to enter a city of sharks. Pouring blood in the water before we get there would not bode well for us…”
“No, it wouldn't,” Raz grumbled in agreement. “Not to mention that Syrah pointed out it would be nice to have more horses. Now we know what we’re up against, we can strike preemptively.” He glanced at the bow slung over Akelo's shoulder. “Speaking of which, I have to commend you on that shot. If the rider had gotten past me, I don’t think Gale would have had the stamina to run him down.”
The Percian smirked, patting the top of the quiver slung behind his back. Their stores of arrows were minimal, but hopefully sufficient, given that Akelo had the only bow among them.
“I’ve been practicing,” the man said. “While you work with the others every morning.”
“So that’s where you disappear to.” Raz laughed. “I’ve had to hold Cyper back from going to look for you. He’ll be pleased to hear.”
Akelo gave a reminiscent sort of smile. “The kuja live off the land and its bounties. Mastering the bow and arrow is an essential of survival. I admit, I thought I’d lost touch with that part of my life…”
The Percian’s attention drifted away, his dark eyes on the distant edge of the morning horizon to the south. Raz realized, with an uncomfortable pang, that he had failed to consider how Akelo and the other Percian must feel, entering the savannah again. He’d been so preoccupied with his own thoughts, burying himself in his own wonder at the place and worry after their skirmish with the patrols, that he hadn't had time to consider that his own feelings were very likely eclipsed by the emotions the former wild men must be experiencing.
“Are they out there?” he asked after a moment. “Your family?”
Akelo drew in a long inhalation, letting it out with some difficulty.
“No,” he answered with a shake of his head. “No, they are gone. My sons were young when the slavers came. Too young. My wife, Xula… She didn’t live long, after we lost them. She and several of the other mothers stopped eating, then drinking. They died before we even reached the city.” He frowned, and despite his bulk the man looked suddenly very much his age. “It was a kindness, I think, in the end.”
Raz sighed unhappily. “I’ve had the same thought, many times over the years. When I miss my mother and father, or my sister. I dream of them, sometimes. I like to think it’s the Sun giving me a glimpse of the happiness they have now. Afterward, I always wonder who suffers more: those who pass on, even in terrible ways, or those they leave behind to struggle through life without them.”
“One can only hope it's the latter,” Akelo grumbled, crossing his arms and watching a line of gazelle bound across the prairie in the distance. “There’s enough misery in life, don’t you think? I admit I hold out hope that whatever awaits us in the Moon’s embrace is better than this.”
He held up a hand, and Raz thought with some disappointment that the man was indicating the vastness of the plains before them, glistening as the Sun rose overhead.
Then he realized Akelo was presenting his scar about his wrist again.
“You’ve given us a purpose, Arro,” the Percian said with an appreciative nod, dropping his hand, “but I struggle to convince myself that whatever we achieve now will be worth the struggles we faced to reach this point. If you tell me that death is no better than this… Well…”
“Syrah’s faith believes that we all return to this life, after we pass,” Raz offered thoughtfully. “She believes her god, Laor, spends eternity plucking the wicked from the cycle, pushing the world to perfection with every death and every rebirth.”
Akelo scowled, but his face softened quickly.
“If that is the cycle of life, then perhaps the process is simply slower than I can see. It is hard to comprehend such a view, once you have seen the auctions in the markets of Karesh Syl, or the slave-trains that run a mile long from the savannah into the city.” He gave Raz a grim smile. “Perhaps you and I will earn ourselves an easier path, in the next life, then? Perhaps with what we do now, we will be granted all the comforts and wonders we would have in the Moon’s embrace.”
“Doubtful,” Raz said with a dry laugh. “The Laorin believe that life is the most precious gift their god has provided for man. They see killers as little short of blasphemers, as men and women willing to spit right in His face.” He looked around at Akelo. “If anything, I wouldn’t be surprised if you and I fall under the ‘wicked’ side of things, in th
e eyes of the Laorin. Perhaps we are only meant to be plucked from the world by Laor and cast into oblivion in order to make the world a better place.”
At that, Akelo cracked a smile, a real one this time, if a little dry.
“If that’s the case,” he said, reaching out to clap Raz on the shoulder as he started to move back toward the cluster of men at end back of the cart, “I think I’ll stick to hoping it’s the Moon that judges me, when all is said and done.”
CHAPTER 37
It was just under two weeks later that Karesh Syl announced itself on the horizon.
“What do you see?” Syrah asked.
Raz didn’t turn as the woman led Nymara up beside him. His eyes were shaded and set westward, in the direction they’d been plodding along for well over half a month now.
“Towers,” he grunted, dropping his hand to pat Gale’s neck as the stallion huffed under him. “Still a ways off, yet.”
As Iron Falls (The Wings of War Book 4) Page 41