Chapter 10
“Your sister is remarkable.”
Pokkal, Luttu thought, had many virtues. Stubbornness. Passion. Loyalty. Those were some of them. Intelligence was not.
“Do you mean as a woman?” Luttu asked. “Or is the end to that sentence for a Warbred?”
The young warrior’s olive skin blushed, then paled, then flustered in panic, the campfire making his eyes glitter nervously. He looked away, eyes locked on the boat in the sea below, now painted in red and pink hues as the sun was setting to their right. They had camped on the side of Snake-in-Sand, where only a little earlier that day the boat had sailed in. as per their arrangements. Much to Luttu’s surprise and despite his sister’s assurances that he would come, Ezimdala had answered and answered fast, that they were to meet tomorrow. Avoiding the deadly turtles that frequented these shores, they had remained high on the cliff path, so the boat looked small and insignificant from there, but Pokkal calculated it could house three dozen strong, at least. And the Fallen King could be one of them.
“Answer,” Luttu pressed. “How is my younger sister remarkable?”
“As a… I meant as a leader,” the youth stammered. “And an orator,” he added. “The way she tells the Song is…”
“Honest,” Luttu said. “It is honest. That is why Cuatal chose her, I think.”
Pokkal nodded in agreement, then swiftly changed the subject. “What about the Fallen King? Do you think he will be honest?”
Maybe not so foolish after all, Luttu thought, holding back a smile. He wondered if he should press the boy more; playing the silent, threatening type was his way of getting to know people, or, often, his favorite way to keep himself entertained. Shukuan always tried to get him to open up more, but he did not see the point. People either got him or didn’t and those who did could silently laugh with him. Those who didn’t… well, not everything’s for everyone.
“I think he will but only to the extent he is willing to share,” he answered, deciding to give the lad a break. “I think he is more political than the tales about him would admit. I think the Fallen King is pondering what this means for him and his people, more than anything. If he could return and, if so, as what.”
“You also held things back,” Pokkal commented. “You did not extend the invitation, as Shukuan said. You insisted on us meeting him already here.”
“My sister is not a political woman,” Luttu growled. “She wants the message spread and that is good. But for now, the Ukunfazane simply keeps track of us and holds her Scions like leashed raptors. But if we bring back the Fallen King as our guest? Then we stop being a theosophical debate and become insurgents at best, challengers at worst. I am not sure how well the leashes will hold then.”
“He must hear the Song, Luttu…” the young warrior insisted. “He must meet Shukuan.”
“We will tell him the Song,” Luttu replied. “Perhaps not as good as Shukuan but still. It is his choice what he does with it.”
“Luttu…”
Choice
- Alright! I will invite him to meet Shukuan.
- We will tell him the Song ourselves.
Chapter 9
Weeks later, in Huenantli
The water drip continued.
It was part of the world now, Cuatal realized. There had never been a time he could remember when the water didn’t drip. No matter what memory he conjured, from his childhood to his days before his capture, his mind rushed to this room, telling him that even then, in this room, the water dripped and dripped and dripped, counting the days until the end of days. Or, at the very least, until the end of his days.
Okoshan’s visits offered some reprieve – and he felt conflicted about that. A point of resistance would be to endure without them. But the point of his capture had never been about resistance. It had been about proving a point, about showing that the Cults were not the savages she’d claim them to be, without her guidance. And even though it hadn’t been about martyrdom either, he had expected that possibility and had even accepted it, knowing it could be made to spread the Song. But the Ukunfazane had stayed her hand, with him as she had with Shukuan, Bhokali and the rest of the singers, at least if Okoshan was being truthful.
He had to be. What possible gain could there be in spinning tales for him? Every time he visited and spent time with him, he had updates. A few weeks ago, his followers, as he called them, had contacted the Cult of Death. They had listened but few took an open stance – for them, after all, their business came first, as ever. Some ten days after that, a group from the Cult of Famine began spreading a new tale; their tale. Not even the Lady’s agents have heard that. Then, the Song of War was recorded, taking its place among Talethirst’s endless stories and making it a part of W’adrhŭn history, and a group of Famine cultists, calling themselves Quenchers, left Talethirst to spread the Song. Some of them fled east, guided by Bhokali. Others fled southwest and due south, searching for Tribes among the Cities – and for the apostates of Ezimdala, the pirate. All this, the Ukunfazane had allowed to happen, never interfering, never losing her temper, never prosecuting those who spread the Song. To those of the Song, Okoshan had told him that Cuatal was known as Scion, meaning Scion of War. And yet, still, Okoshan, a Scion of Conquest, Her Scion, had done nothing. She had done nothing. Cuatal wondered why. And when Okoshan visited next, he answered:
“People expected the Ukunfazane to give chase to Ezimdala. She did not. Then they expected her to stop Nagral. She did not. Now, everyone is telling a tale in hushed voices, fearing the time she cuts off the heads of all who whisper it. She has not. And will not. Has it ever occur to you, Cuatal, that these things were of her design?”
“They were not,” Cuatal answered, sharply, almost offended, but Okoshan had said no more on this.
“Do you wish to hear my Song, today, Okoshan?” Cuatal asked and the Scion simply shook his head with a smile.
“Another time, perhaps,” he said, “for today I cannot linger. Would you like to hear of your followers, next time I visit? Should I ask for news?”
Cuatal nodded.
“Alas, even I cannot promise I will know of all for they are spread all over. Bhokali leads Quenchers across the mountains. Shukuan is missing, last I heard. But I am confident that until the next time we meet, I will know more. Her brother, Luttu, is with the Bound fugitive, Pokkal, travelling to meet the so-called Fallen King. Ask of one and I will make sure I have news of them next time we meet.”
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Choice
- Find out about Bhokali, who crosses the Claustrine Mountains.
- Find out about Shukuan, who remains in the Wastelands.
- Find out about Luttu and Pokkal, who are looking for Ezimdala.
Chapter 8
A few days ride from the Awlery
They came on foot, two lean, tall figures and a bent one, walking on the dirt of the Wastelands barefoot. They were clad in white which shone under the moonlight against pale olive and sand skin, loose ribbons of light held in place by dark straps of leather, which held places for delicate tools, herbs and pouches – and sharp tools. Endless sharp tools, from bone, wood and metal, to slice, to pierce, to cut – too small, Bhokali thought, for any real use outside of their craft. Then again, she thought we a shiver, one heard stories. One knew better than to doubt the Cult of Death. A chill run up her spine.
“Peace,” Shukuan said, sensing her discomfort.
“I hope they agree,” the huntress replied in her usual, sharp voice. “What are you going to say to them?” she asked.
“The Song,” the Warbred replied, in the soothing tone so contrasting her physique.
“Then?”
“Then they will speak. Or they will not.”
“I am sure they have heard the Song before,” Bhokali commented, shifting more uncomfortably as the trio was coming ever closer.
“Not from me,” Shukuan said simply.
They stepped a few steps away from them, no more or less than a plunge would need, Bhokali noticed. A youth, barely an adult, an elder woman with eyes covered under her elaborate headpiece, bent by years of performing her craft of life and death and a woman mature. Hiding her growing discomfort, she tried to look calm, knowing she was failing. She was, she realized, intimidated. ‘All meet them twice,’ they said about the Cult of Death. ‘Once when they are born, and once after they die.’ None of them nodded, greeted or asked them their names.
“You are not being tricked,” one said. “We are here to listen,” said another. “Speak,” said the third.
“This is the tale of Cuatal,” Shukuan started, “which I say as I remember and I name Song of War. In the east, under the shadow of the tall peaks…”
She told the Song as she had heard it and as she had come to know it. Bhokali never could exactly say or even be sure if the words were changed in each telling, but it always felt different. Shukuan had a way with words, one her physique and generations of superstition would never betray, that allowed her to always tell the same story in the manner and tone that would make the listener pay attention. To the Death sisters, she spoke in calm tones, not expressionless but soothing and certain, a quiet confidence that required no approval but demanded acknowledgement.
When the Song was over, Shukuan fell quiet, as did everyone. Bhokali hated moments like these; silence was for hunting, she thought, and it always put her on edge, her instincts kicking in, as if responding to the lack of sound. She tried to steel herself, but the elder woman smiled wickedly, as if sensing her discomfort. Then, with no other word, the woman and the elder nodded and departed, without a word. But the youth stayed back.
“Say it again,” she said and Shukuan did.
Six more times the tale was told to the young woman. Six times Bhokali had to stop herself to from yelling at her to stop toying with them. But after the seventh time the Song was said, the Cultist spoke.
“My sisters will listen,” the girl said in the end, and she nodded and turned to leave. After a few steps she stopped but did not turn as she spoke.
“Your Cuatal is held in Huenantli,” she said. “He has not been brought to our sisters. She holds her hand, against him and against all who tell the tale. She watches and waits but one must wonder for how long. Much Death shall come of it if you do not walk gently. Much Death shall come anyway, in the end, I think. She cannot leave this unanswered.”
“The Song of Death will be yours to tell,” Shukuan answered. “Not Hers. And not mine. I must do what I must do.”
“Will you tread gently, then?” the girl asked. “Or will you force her hand?”
Choice
- I am of War. I must force her hand. – Shukuan will move more aggressively from now on, beginning with trying to release Cuatal.
- I am of War. Let her try to outsing me if she wants. – Cuatal knew his fate when he decided to bring the Song to Talethirst. Shukuan will continue to work slowly.
Chapter 7
Somewhere in Huenantli
“We both know that the only reason I am being kept alive is not to make a martyr of me, Okoshan.”
The Scion did not answer. He barely lifted his head to look at Cuatal, then closed his eyes once more, as if meditating. The room would have been quiet were it not for the water. Drip. Two more would follow before the next breath. Then two before the one after that. Then three again. Then two. Again. And again. And again. Almost exactly like the cog-things the southerners used to measure time. Tic – tic – tic, those went. Was it a coincidence? Or was…
He shook his head and reached for another piece of meat, trying to dispel the erratic thinking. He had to keep his mind intact. It’s been weeks, he thought, since he was put into the room. Deep inside the Old Mother, there were no windows, nor was he allowed any light, except when the Scion brought his food. He was not bound yet he was not free either, for he was not allowed to leave the room, or read, or write, or do anything but think. Think and listen to the water dripping. It was beginning to drive him mad.
“So, if the waterglass is supposed to intimidate me, if it is supposed to make me think of it as a metaphor for my approaching demise, it is not working. She won’t make a martyr of me.”
This time, the Scion acknowledged him properly. He threw a glance at his prisoner’s plates, mostly full still, for Cuatal was eating slowly, then looked at him in the eyes.
“You are alive because She does not wish you ill,” he said, calmly. “Not because she fears your death.”
“What does she fear then?” Cuatal asked, almost immediately regretting it. The Scion never answered any of his questions. But he could hope. He was, after all, the only interaction he was allowed. He quickly reached for another bite – pre-cut pieces, of course, he was not allowed utensils – trying to leave the question behind. To his surprise, Okoshan spoke.
“Your misguidance, Cuatal,” the Scion said. “Which you would freely share with the rest of her children. That is what she fears, not for her, but for us. You do not believe it, Cuatal, but she admires your passion. Your dedication. Even your discovery. But they are misplaced, and they would lead us to doom, turning us into the instruments of our own destruction. It happened before. She stopped it. Now you would have it happen again.”
“We are not spawnlings of history anymore, Scion.”
“And who are we to thank for that?”
“Gratitude is not a reason for blind obedience.”
The Scion sighed. “She does not expect you to listen to her because you are grateful, Cuatal. Is she really the tyrant you would portray her as?”
“Any tribe in history that would testify to that is gone.”
“And yet, you are here. And yet, none hunt your people, your… disciples. I am instead here, talking to you. And through me, She is too.”
“This is the longest conversation we have had since we met, Scion.”
“This is the best you have ever been prepared to talk. It was you who chose silence when we met, not me.”
True enough, silence fell once more. Cuatal ate quietly, while Okoshan waited patiently. drip – drip – drip the water went. And time passed slowly, until, finally, Cuatal pushed his plate gently. Without saying a word, Okoshan looked at the empty plate, nodded and started getting up but Cuatal spoke before that.
“Why have me here then?” he asked, motioning around the baren, windowless room, “with a candle and a waterglass as my only company.” Okoshan smiled. It was an awkwardly soft smile on such a hard face.
“I do not know, Cuatal,” he said. “Perhaps She feels that returning you to the womb of the Old Mother will help you be reborn anew.”
“What a beautiful way to describe breaking my will in a dark, empty room.”
“I am here,” Okoshan said, smiling still. “And there is light. Should we talk?”
“An interrogation…”
“No,” the Scion shook his head. “No need to tell me about your companions. If She wants them found, they will be found. We can just talk.”
“Will you hear my Song, then?” Cuatal asked, challengingly.
“Not today. I will not ask about your comrades, and you will not repeat that tale. Surely, there are other things to talk about.”
Cuatal hesitated, counting the drips between breaths before he answered.
Choice
- “I am done,” he said, pushing his plate away from him.
- “We can talk,” he said, hesitantly.
Chapter 6
“Shukuan!”
The voice was almost ululating in elation, as it screamed the name, rising above the thuds of an all too familiar galop. The Warbred turned, her calm, rugged face brightened by a smile, but did not return the greeting, for she was telling the tale; the third time this morning. She never tired to do so, word for word as she had heard it, some few weeks ago, in Talethirst. What amazed her was that her people did not tire of hearing it either.
The rider yelled the name again, then noticing the taletelling, she quieted, allowing her raptor to slow to a canter, for the remainder of the distance, before she brought it to a halt. By that time, the tale was over and Shukuan was on her feet, stretching her back, as a Taleteller of Famine took her place and was getting ready to repeat it.
“Bhokali-sister,” she smiled as she leaned to hug the newcomer before the huntress had a chance to jump off her raptor even. Bhokali chuckled, returning the hug and patting the Warbred’s broad shoulders happily. “You return,” Shukuan said as she pulled back, hand on the huntress’ shoulder still but eyes meeting squarely and shining happily. “I feared.”
“I return and bring word,” Bhokali smiled back. “From the Awlers,” she hurried to clarify, seeing hope kindle in Shukuan’s eyes. The Warbred nodded, sadly, and made way for the huntress to dismount. “They are interested to hear the Song,” Bhokali said as she slid off the raptor’s back and worked on the reins, “but we are not welcome in the Awlery yet.”
“Where then?”
“Somewhere neutral, away from the Paths,” the huntress replied. “They spoke of a place, two days’ walk from where Snake-in-Sand meets the Lady’s Reach. It is close to them and they will decide if we will be allowed to disturb the Awlery after they hear us.” Shukuan remained silent, thoughtful. “It is good, Shukuan!” Bhokali said. “It is more than we feared.”
“It is close to Huenantli. And to Her path. Trap?”
Bhokali shook her head. “I don’t think so. Lie to ease, that is what the Cult of Death says, is it not? They would have refused us, I think, if they weren’t interested. Or they would have invited us to the Awlery, if it were a trap. Bait us in with hospitality where the Ukunfazane’s Scions could wait in hiding in the caves.”
Shukuan shook her head. “Invite Him and He will take more than you offered, they also say. No. They do not like to invite Death in their caves. They only welcome it when it comes. They would dislike a fight if we did not surrender.”
Once more, Bhokali was ambushed by Shukuan’s capacity for eloquence, her education and her thinking. It was hard, she realized, with some shame, to overcome the stigma imposed upon the Warbred, and which she herself had been placing on them, without thought, simply by habit. Perhaps that was why they were their most eager listeners, so far.
“That makes sense,” she said in the end. “We could ignore them. Or send a Taleteller. It would be a little dismissive but we could explain why we did so. Can we afford to alienate them, though?”
Choice
- Yes – Shukuan will not risk an ambush to speak to the Cult of Death.
- No – Shukuan will risk an ambush to speak to the Cult of Death.
Interlude
“The song of metal is the song of War.”
The crowd was growing. Around them, the endless ribbons, banners and knotted strings, the secret language of the Cult of Famine, was dancing lazily in the soft breeze, as if the very tales of the ancestors were quieting down, whispering softly comments, much like the assembly around Cuatal. Two of the Cult of Famine were there, listening passively, expressionless, unlike the crowd who shifted uncomfortably often, grimacing in disgust or fear or both. Not all of them, though, he noticed. Not the Warbred that Shukuan had gathered. And not the cultists of Death, sitting a small distance further from the crowd. Cuatal knew what their positioning meant but hoped he knew what their reaction meant as well. He swallowed uneasily but steeled his nerves and steadied his voice, before he went on.
“That is what my meeting taught me. Metal has a soul and it is a soul I had known, a soul I had caressed and admired and struggled to embrace and understand all my life. And I knew then, when the Deep Warrior spoke. I heard in his words the echo of the truth in my mind and soul, that there lied the discord in the song of my smithing before. I hammered my metal, my late God’s bones and soul, as if it were clay, meaning to forge a tool in the hands of someone else. And the metal protested, for I was ever singing another’s song with its voice.”
Someone booed. Others growled threats between their teeth. He ignored them. Someone had booed before, someone had growled and someone had even shouted before their Famine hosts had escorted them out of talethirst; no one was allowed to interrupt a tale here. No one could silence the story of a W’adrhǔn. You could ignore it, condemn it and ridicule it beyond the confines of the town-sized camp. But under the dancing, waving stories of Famine, no tale was to be silenced. And so, he finished his tale as he had before, drank some water, and began anew. Again. And again after that. The crowds came and went, growing small and big. Few remained to hear Cuatal’s tale more than once from the crowd. Few but the Death cultists and the Warbred, whose crowd ever grew. Grew and stayed. Until the Scions came.
He didn’t even nod to Shukuan. She knew what was to be done. The Warbred left, one by one, or in small groups, following the thinning crowd around them, and Shukuan went with them. So much rested with her, Cuatal thought, as he kept telling his tale, eyes meeting the Scion’s unblinking but calm. By the end of the tale it was only him, the Famines and the Death cultists, with only the Scion standing where once a crowd was gathered.
“…another’s song with its voice,” he ended his tale and reached for his waterskin.
“No tale can be silenced here,” one of the Famine cultists said to the Scion when he opened his mouth. He nodded, not drawing his eyes from Cuatal.
“By the Lady’s law, it is so,” he answered then nodded towards Cuatal. “It is my hope that your tale-telling has ended for today, Cuatal of War. Is it so?”
“Did you hear all of it, Scion?” Cuatal asked. He swallowed hard, again, fear crawling up his spine like a bug with endless legs. He looked around. A crowd had gathered once more now, but it was distant, circling them from afar. In his fear, he searched among their faces, hoping to see Bhokali, as much as he dreaded seeing her. She was nowhere to be seen and fear and hope clashed within him.
“I did,” the Scion answered.
“Then it is so,” he said and got up with trembling hands.
“Your companions?” the Scion asked.
“Will you condemn all who listened?” Cuatal asked. “If so, I cannot point to all of them.”
The Scion hesitated for a moment.
“Let us go to Her, then,” he said in the end and Cuatal simply nodded.
* * *
And so it was that Cuatal told his tale. It was not the grandest tale. Nor the most memorable. But to us, it was a tale that gave us voice, when we had none. It was a tale that offered purpose, when we had only the burden of our birth’s sin. The song of metal is the song of war. And we are its chosen singers.
So spoke Shukuan, that day and for days to come, to the Warbred that gathered to hear her. Bhokali listened too, as did her brother and Pokkal. Every day and every night, without fail, as they travelled and found eager ears. Bhokali had cursed at her for allowing Cuatal to be taken but the Warbred listened and endured and said nothing. Rarely did she speak and never with eloquence, except for when she told the tale. And those who listened, soon named it the Song of War.
And it would change the Wastelands forever.
Chapter 5
Days of hunger passed. Then weeks.
Pokkal proved useful, delivering on his promised knowledge of the ways in the area, guiding them through the barrens of the Wasteland through lands that had at least some water and some foraging or game, so the hunger was staved off but not satiated. Not fully. Not for weeks.
Tensions rose and Bhokali had found an easy target in Pokkal, who took it with experience. Cuatal at first privately berated her but, in the end, he let her have her outlet, realizing he was using the hunter as his outlet in turn. Shukuan fell even more silent than the rest of them, now barely talking even to her own brother, who dogged her steps protectively. When he could, he offered part of his portions to her, which she refused, without fail, even as it was obvious that she found the hunger – and the demands of her stomach – harsher than the rest. Her muscles, unlikely as it would have seemed but weeks ago, looked diminished, her stretched skin the only thing that reminded of their presence. She was fading, the others realized, and Luttu spent each dawn arguing with Cuatal about her, until she gently put her hands on his shoulders to calm him down.
In the beginning of the third week, Bhokali returned with proper food, a herd-beast, juicy and well fed, probably having escaped from a Tribe. She did not celebrate her kill, and the others thought it was because herd-beasts were honored by the roaming tribes, like hers. Cuatal, however, knew better but said nothing to her or the others. His suspicions were confirmed when she did not allow them to rest that day until the sun was high, leading them further south than Pokkal had suggested. Bhokali was especially angry with Pokkal that day.
The meat gave them strength for some time and they picked up the pace, even as Bhokali’s mood did not improve. Then, finally, Bhokali returned with a smile on her face.
“Talethirst,” she said, almost ululating the word as she rode, and the group burst into cheers.
“I will go with Shukuan alone,” said Cuatal at noon. They had camped for the day, under the shadow of a cliff, the colorful banners, flags and knots of Talethirst painting the horizon in the east. “Pokkal will come with us to bring you food, but you must stay here.” He raised his hand as both Bhokali and Luttu opened their mouths to protest. “They are looking for a group. We must give them less. Tomorrow you can follow.”
“No,” Bhokali said, regardless. “By now they will be looking for you. Chosen, perhaps even Scions.”
“Let them find me,” he answered. “Not even the Lady’s Scions would raise a hand in Talethirst. It is a place of peace and stories. I cannot be denied telling mine.”
“You trust in her, even as you doubt her,” she scoffed.
“If she struck against me in Famine’s sacred grounds, she would only help my voice be heard,” he retorted and to this Bhokali said no more.
“You intend to be a martyr,” Luttu said.
Cuatal shook his head but did not answer.
“Why Shukuan?” Luttu pressed on. Cuatal simply looked at the Warbred and she nodded. Luttu and Bhokali tried to argue but Cuatal said no more. Instead, he lied on the ground and urged them to rest as well.
Choice
- Bhokali will secretly follow – We will follow Bhokali next.
- Bhokali will wait for a day – We will follow Cuatal next.
Chapter 4
“Scion.”
Makkata bowed with reverence, as the hooded figure walked in, carrying the smell of incense and burned leather with every step, accompanied by the ringing of chains and the greatsword tapping against his back with every step. It had never occurred to her, she realized, how the Lady’s Scions carried some of the best swords, crafted from the best alloys. It had felt… natural. Until now. Until Cuatal.
The Scion grunted and nodded sharply in response then stopped but a couple of steps from the tent’s entrance. He had come at night, as the messenger had said, and he would not enter the Forge. Instead, she had been sent to meet him a day’s ride east of the Cult’s home. Makkata eyed him nervously, expecting a prompt which never came. Dark eyes glittered sharply under the hood, a heavily scarred face half-hidden from the shadows.
“Erm, I am Makkata, Scion and I have been sent to bring you up to date about…”
“We have no time for this,” a rough voice growled. “The Lady knows what has transpired here, up to two nights ago.”
“A…As you say, Scion,” Makkata answered hastily. “I have a report from our hunters, come only yestereve. The heretic and his retinue head south into the empty Wastelands, using the Gecko Steps to hide their tracks. We believe they will eventually follow the Longpath south and have sent word to wait for them and apprehend them.”
“No,” the Scion said. “They will not go South. They will not flee.”
“But…”
“There is only one place where they will be going. I am not here for them. They will be taken care of by others. I am here about the situation in the Forge.”
Makkata gulped.
“Yes, well,” she said, “it is under control, now, Scion. Rest assured.”
An eyebrow was raised along with the head under the hood, more scars revealed around the crooked mouth of the Scion. “Is it not that some remain that spread the heretic’s words?”
“Yes, but, it’s mainly Warbred, Scion,” she smiled. “Blessed they are in the ways of War, but preaching is not their strong suit, is it?”
“You are missing the point,” came the answer. “Which tells me your seniors are missing the point as well. Are there still Warbred insurgents in the Forge?”
Makkata paused, thoughtfully. This was dangerous. If the Scion was given command of the heretics’ hunt, even inside the Forge, it could only fuel the twisted fires that Cuatal’s words had kindled. On the other hand, Makkata knew that such words, such thoughts even, could not be allowed to fester.
“There are,” she said, carefully, “but on your order, and assuming the Lady’s patience, the Cult of War can handle this. We will remind them of the truth in the Lady’s will, Scion, I assure you.”
“I am here to be Her will.”
“Of course,” she said, gulping. “May I ask, in what manner, Scion?”
Choice
- With the Lady’s strength of wisdom – The Ukunfazane is dealing with the heretics with a gentle but sure hand.
- With the Lady’s unbending will – The Ukunfazane will attempt to quench the fires of the heretic Cuatal swiftly and efficiently.
Chapter 3
“I remember little of the Dessert Snakes,” Cuatal said calmly, as he offered his waterskin to the warrior. He was just waking up, dragged under the shade of the crevice, as the noon sun pierced the dusty air of the Longpath and heated everything and everyone.
It had been over quickly. Few Braves were capable of facing a Warbred and Pokkal proved less than an average Brave, as far as Cuatal could tell. And even if he had been better, even if Shukuan’s muscled body somehow had not proven enough, her skill would have finished the job. The dazed warrior eyed her cautiously as she casually walked barefoot on the scorching stones of the Longpath, walking away with her brother.
“And you don’t seem like their champion,” Bhokali jumped in, before he had a chance to respond. “Why would you present yourself as one?” To Cuatal’s surprise, Pokkal seemed neither offended or challenged by her words.
“I never claimed to be,” he said instead meekly, rubbing the back of his head.
“You were not sent by your Tribe to make the pilgrimage then?” Cuatal asked and the warrior shook his head.
“No. I decided to take it for myself.”
“Ah…” Bhokali nodded, knowingly. “You failed the trial. You were to be bound. You run away, trying to prove them wrong.” Again, he neither challenged nor seemed offended by her words. He simply nodded and Bhokali turned calmly to Cuatal.
“A traitor to his Tribe,” she said bluntly.
“No!” for the first time, Pokkal fired up, his brown eyes flaring with anger and his olive skin blushing in grey, as Bhokali turned to look at him, almost annoyed. “I am no traitor. I simply…” Ignoring him and cutting him off, Bhokali turned to Cuatal once more.
“We offered water but cannot spare the food,” she said bluntly. “Send him on his way. The Path will claim him.”
“Are we traitors too, then, Bhokali?” he asked. “Our path, I think, is not that different from his.” She sighed, angrily, but kept quiet. Turning to Pokkal, Cuatal went on. “Do you know the way to Talethirst, Pokkal of the Dessert Snakes? Through the Wastelands? A way with water wells and game?”
“I… I do,” he said, hesitantly.
“He lies to remain,” Bhokali scoffed.
“No, I do!” Pokkal repeated.
“You said it yourself, Bhokali,” Cuatal said. “These paths are not known to you. He could help if his tribe travels here.”
“We do,” Pokkal rushed to cut in, with urgency. “We walk the middle Longpath, from Omgorahuly to the Second Step. I know the paths well.”
“He lies, Cuatal,” she said again. “And we cannot spare the food. Be wise.”
Choice
- Keep him
- Force Bhokali to scout with him
Chapter 2
They found a roaming Tribe already on their first day on the Longpath. Kiikri their name was, announced their drums as was custom on the Longpath, named after a small rodent of the Huenantli, and in the name was their whole history as far as Cuatal could tell. A small tribe, perhaps great once but no longer, edged out long ago from the Mother Oasis, during the Time of Absence, when the Ukunfazane had left to know the world and learn how to carve a place for her people. Bhokali suggested the tribe was too small to risk making them Bound; they were too few to be of benefit compared to the resources they would need and a small roaming tribe could spare. Antekki disagreed, claiming a Bound Warbred was always of benefit, but Shukuan simply grunted she would cost in lives more than in resources. So, they stayed on the road and did not flee from them and the Kiirki simply passed them by, even as they eyed hesitantly at Shukuan.
On the second day, they found a monument on the side of the path. It was a carving of a featherless bird, carved on the side of the path as it traversed a crevice, put there by a tribe called Shakaa’Ti, which none among the company had heard of before. It marked the day of the tribe’s first passing through the wastelands, again during the Time of Absence, only to be swallowed by the Wastelands or be destroyed by another tribe, most likely remembered today probably only by this monument and the tales of the Cult of Famine. He’d ask about it, thought Cuatal, when they reached Talethirst, partly out of a feeling of reverence for an entire tribe lost and partly out of sheer curiosity. They camped around the stone bird that night for there was a well-hole on the rock. The next day, Bhokali started leaving early and roaming in the Wastelands proper, scavenging for scraps to keep them going.
Until the fifth day the path had been empty, and tension had begun to rise among the company. Everyone was hungry, fed barely enough to be sustained. Bhokali, as she had expected, was the first target of everyone’s frustration, with Antekki accusing her of eating more before she brought back food. No one commented, least of all Bhokali, and the matter rest, but Cuatal began to share Bhokali’s concerns about hunger. Luckily, the next day, game was found, or at least Wastelands game, some few dozen dust mice that Bhokali brought, ululating with joy.
On the seventh day, they found Pokkal. He saw them before they saw him, as they were sitting under a rock’s shade in midday. He stood in the middle of the path, sword drawn and ready, but eyes hollow and dark with hunger and thirst. Still, he screamed his name with might when he saw them appear, his voice travelling like thunder over the Longpath.
“The tribe’s champion,” Bhokali said. “Many tribes still abide to the old custom of travelling the Longpath once per generation, even if by sending a champion to do it in the Tribes name. He must be starving. He will challenge us for food and water. One of us, at least.”
Cuatal nodded and sure enough the challenge came.
“Stand still, for I am Pokkal of the Dessert Snakes!” the warrior shouted. “Spare your food or spill your blood, as the Longpath demands!”
Shukuan shrugged, drawing her great club as she got up, but Cuatal sighed, seeing the warrior’s posture deflate. To his surprise, the Warbred paused, looking at him.
Choice
- Let Shukuan fight him.
- “Don’t kill him.”
- “I will go.”
Chapter 1
“No fires,” Bhokali said and the Cultists turned to look at Cuatal, as if waiting for him to confirm the order. Unaccustomed to such a reaction, Bhokali frowned and allowed herself to weigh her company once more; a Warbred named Shukuan, her brother Antekki and an old, greyed Chosen of War named Luttu, who could shame any warrior or hunter Bhokali had ever met with his speed and might. Perhaps a hunter’s voice to one such as them bore little weight, she thought; or perhaps Cuatal’s voice weighed a little too much, her thoughts went on as she saw him sitting alone a little way away the forming campfire, not paying attention. Annoyed, she threw dirt over the fire herself, ignoring the looks of her company, and walked purposefully to Cuatal. He simply turned, smiled at her, and bid her to sit. Deflating, she did exactly that, offering dry meat, which he accepted.
It was a quiet, dark night, with no moon to glow over the majesty of stars and dark clouds hovering over the dark mass of the Claustrine in the western horizon. Clouds rarely passed without emptying their life-giving bowels on the mountain slopes first, though. Almost no sounds but for those the company and their raptors made disturbed the wasteland’s peace. They had ridden as hard as they dared for two days, before Bhokali declared they had escaped their pursuers and sent all but her raptors and one more back. Then, it had been a week of walking, and already the empty tundra of the northern wastelands was turning into rocky, barren wastelands proper, adorned with the odd cactus and little else. The pair looked at the stars in silence, quietly munching their rations.
“We’ll need to resupply soon,” she said, in the end, after his stomach growled. “Meeting anyone in the Wastelands without a tribe is risky but we might not have a choice. We didn’t have time to properly gather provisions.”
“Where are we?” he asked. “Are we close to any paths?”
“A day’s walk from the Gecko Steps in the west. I tried to keep us heading south and close to it, thinking we could take food from the Sky Farms if needed.”
“No,” he said. “Not west. Our destination is east.”
“Destination and path to get there can at times be in very different directions in the Wastelands,” she said but added shrugging. “But as you wish. We’re a couple of days north of the third Gecko Step. Some comes and goes there, after the Sky Farms, but not a guarantee. Three days or more from the Longpath in the east. There’s usually traffic there. That increases our chances of meeting a tribe or group to trade with or, if they refuse, steal from. Now, any Path will be risky, and the Longpath more so; it is patrolled, as much as it can be, at least. There is also no guarantee we will find trade on the Longpath – even less so on the Step – and not a fight or nothing at all. But we’ll need to cross it anyway so we might as well try and wait for trade. It could be some wait.”
“Do we have to trade?” he asked.
“I can find us food to keep us alive, sure, and we still have some rations left. But they won’t stave off the hunger properly,” she answered. “You would be surprised how fast people’s loyalties begin wavering when hunger takes over,” she went on, eyeing the rest of their company over her shoulder.
He grimaced but said nothing and they fell into silence again.
“You know, I always wondered,” Bhokali said after a while. “Mistress Aatta kept calling you Scion. Soon enough we were all in the tribe calling you Scion. But there are no Scions of War. There are no Scions but of the Ukunfazane and yet you never tried to stop her or us.”
“You think I never tried to stop her? For the first month of our travelling together, that’s all I was telling her. She told me it wasn’t meant as an honorific, but as a tease; such was the tragedy I was going through, one would think I carried the Goddess’ burdens themselves, like her Scions, she said. In the end, I think I just accepted it as such. Or maybe I just got used to it, flattered even.”
“Well… They might call you one now,” she nudged him, teasingly.
“I intend to champion for more independence for the Cults and their pursuits,” he said. “I very much doubt Scion is the word I will be remembered by,” he said.
“Maybe not by them,” she muttered.
Choice
- The group will move south, to join the path of the Gecko Step.
- The group will move East, to join the Longpath.
- The group will stick to the Wastelands proper.
Prelude
“At it again, I see, Cuatal.”
He nodded, even smiled a little but did not answer. Even a tribe’s mistress had to make allowances to the Cult. Instead, he kept his eyes fixed on the piece of iron before him. CLANG. CLANG. CLANG. The hammer kept falling, the iron twisting and denting under his skillful hands. Aatta sighed.
“Or rather I hear. We all hear. No, I listen. I listen to your relentless smithing and to the tribe’s complaints about not sleeping.”
He paused for the first time but did not turn to face her, swiping his forehead with the bear back of his forearm, then, in a soft, mechanical gesture, rubbed his pierced ears. “I remember not how this conversation went last time,” he said. “Something about enduring the sounds of the Forge, I think,” he said with a sigh as he caught his breath, then looked up to face her, smiling.
“Fitting that we do not repeat the same conversation,” the Mistress said. “Your smithing is different too,” she added, motioning with her head towards the anvil. “It has not improved, perhaps” she went on, chuckling, “but it is different.”
“That it is,” he said laughing himself. “I am not forging anything. I do not fail at it either. I simply talk with the metal. Rather, it talks. I try to learn how to listen.”
“Aha…” Aatta exclaimed, unimpressed. He smiled. “We reach the Forge tomorrow. I am sure your Cult will appreciate your findings and the tales of your adventures. And of course your singing metals.”
Cuatal’s smile faded, little by little.
“I doubt all will like it, Mistress Aatta. I doubt it very much,” he said.
* * *
Go, the hand signal said and Cuatal moved, his head low, hidden under the brown hood of the light cloak he had been given. It was not hard to move stealthily around the Forge. The forges clanged and banged at all hours and the fires roared and spilled fumes, dipping the streets in constant haze, a mist smelling of coal and heated metal. Usually, it did not matter. The way of the Cult of War did not favor clandestine dealings. But an escape, by default, demanded secrecy.
They went on slowly and cautiously for a good quarter of a watch. His speech had caused a stir and his confinement had caused tension, so patrols, usually a rare site, were this night numerous and diligent. Still, little by little, they were reaching the southern gate, where apparently they were expected but he grew nervous that ‘little by little’ would prove too slow. It would not be long before his escape was discovered and then they’d be trapped. Unable to do much, he steeled his nerves and went on, corner by corner, street by street, until the gate was reached and was opened for them by a man he had never seen before. Behind it, four raptors were waiting, led by one with a rider on top. Before he had a chance to thank him, he saw who the rider was.
“Bhokali!” he exclaimed, surprised.
“Heard you are in a bit of a spot,” the huntress smiled slyly. “Again.”
“And you just can’t stay away,” he teased back, as he and his companions rushed to the raptors, the gate already closing silently behind them. She shrugged and soon they rode off.
As the Forge kept growing smaller behind them, Cuatal rode to Bhokali’s side.
“Why are you here?” he said.
“Why are they?” she answered, motioning with her head towards his Cult-brothers who had helped him escape. “Because we know you have something to tell worth listening,” she said before he had a chance to answer. “And unlike them, I was there when it was first said. Even if I couldn’t understand it.”
“You will be hunted,” he said. “It was made clear to me that the Ukunfazane will not take kindly to my tale.”
She gave no response. Behind them, the alarm bells rang frantically and the Forge sprung to life.