“ARE WE FAR from the next village?” Isaiah asked. It was their third day of riding, and the darkening sky bore a cloudy promise of an approaching storm. Though feeling slightly less clumsy in the saddle, Indra seemed more tense in her movements, despite the road having straightened as they got closer to the center of Nahbí.
“We will be in Bharoos in a few hours.” Tzelem grunted. “Hopefully it won’t be completely uninhabited…”
“Uninhabited?”
“People are fleeing to where the grass is greener.”
“To Delta?”
“Most go to Nagár.“ Isaiah had never been to the capital before, but his grandfather had described it as chaotic, stinky and so noisy only deaf men could hear themselves think. Why anyone would flee there, he could hardly understand, but then again people often seemed to make awfully odd decisions for themselves.
“The town has been an important merchant center for years. My brother has contacts there and knows the Patron. Should be safe enough. We shouldn’t stay too long though.”
“You don’t trust the village people?”
“I don’t trust people. Everyone has an agenda these days, and we don’t have time for any other than our own.”
“Your own.” Isaiah thought, but remained silent. The sooner they could get down south, the faster he’d be back north.
Arriving in Bharoos, it soon became clear it was nothing more than a large ghost town – similar to the many they’d ridden by, but the size somehow made the sight more daunting. They rode by rows of abandoned homes (mostly made of rusty, red bricks). The shops seemed to be placed around the center of a square, rooming a large, waterless fountain, sculpted by the same white material as the statues in the Huxley’s ballroom. Flower beds circled it, and it might have made it beautiful if anyone had bothered investigating what bloomed this time of year. Instead, it just made the site look browner. Blending to the dusted, gray stone that made up the foundational flooring. Loose hens and half-filled sacks of grain spread across it. As they rode past broken store windows, and locks, hoping to find someone that might be able to assist them with supplies, an elderly man appeared in front of them. He was well-dressed, in a long, black cape reaching to his ankles, and a silver brooch holding his linen shirt together at his thick neck – equally tight as his expression.
“There is nothing left here, you need to carry on to the next town.” His brown eyes were empty and his mouth carried a polite, hopeless smile that seemed to struggle against gravity, along with the rest of his face.
“When did people leave? Everything seemed fine a few weeks back.”
“People have always been fleeing from here Sir. And dying…” He sighed.
“Are you the only one left? We’re seeking the town Patron, Damien Orin. We’re on a mission on the behalf of the Huxley fortress, and Lord Huxley…”
“The Patron has departed too, I’m afraid.” The man interrupted him.
“Are you… alright, Sir?” Isaiah asked. Away from the struggling smile, he didn’t look well. He was fortunate enough to never have seen anyone taken by plague, but knew the skin turned paler, then grayer, before finally spreading red and black spots across the body. Most didn’t live long enough to reach the latest stages of it.
“Yes, young man. I have everything I need. In fact, I’ve never been better. It was always so very noisy…” he responded non-convincingly, then paused as he met the young man’s eyes. Had it not been for the long, brown locks of hair, hiding the familiar, firm outlines of his chin and jaw, he might have allowed himself to believe he’d seen another ghost that day. It hardly mattered anymore, so he regained some momentum as he resumed: “If you ride north for a few hours you will find another town. From what I’ve heard there are still people there. Not as many as before, but their fields are still fertile, and they seem to be doing… alright at least.”
“Thank you, but we’re moving south.” Tzelem said, turning his horse abruptly.
“You’ll be riding for days, Sir. The plague has acted most cruelly in this area. Most managed to flee before it reached us, but I assure you there won’t be anyone left in the next three villages...”
“We shall see what we find. Goodbye.”
As usual, Tzelem seemed to have little time to spare, and the flatness in his voice revealed his annoyance all too clearly. Indra was eager to follow along, but Isaiah slowed her down, feeling they’d acted impolitely towards the poor stranger. Even if he claimed he’d chosen to stay, he pitied him, but as he turned to make some sort of apology, the man was already gone.
“We didn’t pass any village a few hours back, did we?” Isaiah asked, finally catching up with Tzelem.
“No. That village fool doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
“Are you certain?”
“Of course I’m certain.” He quickly regretted the question, reminding himself that though he didn’t trust Tzelem’s judgement as far as his plan went, he should with anything geography related. After years of wandering, he ought to know the area as well as a Zura.
“Will we need to ride for days with no supplies then? What about the rope you needed? They must have left some rope there…”
“Let’s see what happens. These journeys are all about the unpredictable...” It was true, and other than the constant discomfort of hunger and fear (both being rather predictable), it was what Isaiah found the least appealing about it.
They’d only ridden a few miles before hearing the sound of galloping hooves behind them.
“Somebody is coming. They might know something, a town closer to here or…”
“I know these roads, boy. We have all the information we need, and I don’t like talking with strangers. You can’t trust anyone in this area.”
“Why are we speeding up?”
“They might be bandits, angry tribal men – or worse.” He hissed, and with that in mind Isaiah gave Indra a kick of encouragement. He had no desire to meet with any of it – especially not whatever might be considered worse than a bandit or a tribal man. The Zuras were fortunately far away, but he knew there were other tribes. For the most part, you could avoid them as long as you stuck to the roads, but there was no certainty to it. Whoever they were, they were getting closer, and when a man’s voice demanded them to stop, it became very clear they were indeed being chased.
Tzelem took a quick left turn, leaving the road and riding into the woods on what could barely be considered a sideroad. All of a sudden, Isaiah felt he had no control over where Indra was taking him, and they followed right behind the stallion’s wringing, black tail. The further away from the path, the more the forest thickened, and he had to duck down to avoid the heavy branches throwing him off the saddle.
“We need to change direction!” Tzelem ignored the suggestion and continued riding at what seemed a deathly speed, hardly noticing the thorns rasping his face. Turning back for the briefest of moments he saw the boy taking a sudden right turn. “This way you fool!” he hissed, but Isaiah was even less in control of Indra. Even if he had been, he thought he much prefered the far more open path she’d chosen for them (though he’d somehow forgotten how to breathe, he could at the very least see the path ahead). Tzelem came after them, cursing vicious insults that Isaiah could only hear half the content of, as Indra leaped over fallen trees and rocks. The chase seemed to have no direction or end, but just as his master caught up with them they reached a sharp, grassless cliff, leading straight down a long valley. For a moment Isaiah thought it looked like Tzelem wanted to take his chances and ride down the ridge, but before such a wild escape plan could be further considered, the three chasers had surrounded them.
“You both ought to be deaf men. We commanded you to stop in the name of King Amnos.” The one in the middle spit, in a sharp, unrecognizable accent. He had long, rope-like braids, and a pair of thick black eyebrows under his narrow forehead. At first sight, Isaiah thought he resembled a Zura, but he wasn’t dressed like one. He had boots for one, and they were all wearing the same black uniform, leather pants and cloaks open enough to reveal prominent shields, placed upon the sigils on their chests. “Guardians?” Isaiah wondered, thinking it looked like Gs. Then, as he met the vivid, dark eyes of the braided man again, he thought “Zura”.
“We are just travelers passing through to get to Mudir.” Tzelem’s voice was fragile and out of breath. His head was bent, and he crooked his back in a way that made him look severely older.
“Mudir is no more. The only village near here is Hoshonto.” Another of them said, a large, broad-shouldered beast of a man, with a fair, northern complexion.
“Then I guess we shall go back in that direction.” Isaiah said, filling in for his master’s absence of words. The braided man, who seemed to be the commander of the three, and the last of them (a fair, young-looking, red-headed one) turned their attention towards him.
“Why didn’t you stop?” The commander asked, clearly suspicious.
“There are lots of bandits around here...” Tzelem said, his head still bent.
“Speak up, Sir, I can’t hear you well.”
“We worried you might be bandits.” Tzelem said, a tone louder.
“We are guardians of the Kadoshi.” The large one affirmed, clear pride in his voice as his tall, white horse took a step closer to them. The Kadoshi recruited men and women from the villages, and guardians ranked just over the gate guards and right under the collectors. They were the protectors of Araktéans, and their task seemed to be keeping the roads safe. Though not as beloved as they seemed to think themselves to be, collectors were the least popular, as children were often recruited at a very young age these days. After their training period, they would receive different rankings. The fiercest and most talented became soldiers and were sent to fight the barbarians in the north. It was considered an honor, but they rarely ever returned to their villages. One of the triplets, Khair, had claimed he’d spent most of his life as a guardian. The reason he’d ended up in the fortress had apparently been an unfair matter, where he’d been forced to kill a man. Isaiah had thought the situation seemed mostly unfair for the dead man, especially considering Khair seemed quite pleased with his captive-life. Fortunately, killing had been strictly forbidden in Araktéa for a long time now. The guardians wouldn’t hurt them.
“We appreciate your service, gentlemen. Will you please let us go, for we have done nothing wrong, nor do we have any intentions of doing any wrongs on our way south.” He tried, sensing rather than seeing Tzelem’s long, vicious gaze turning towards him.
“People don’t always intend to do harm, yet a lot of harm happens every day.” The commander said seriously, and the northerner turned towards Tzelem with a rather striking pair of blue, suspicious eyes.
“You seem awfully familiar… do I know you from somewhere?” he asked, moving his horse a few steps closer. Isaiah noticed he had no hair underneath his hood, and a long, deep scar arrowed through his right eyebrow, making it look as if someone had attempted to cut him in half – unsuccessfully. Had they gone through with it, he would’ve still been considered a big man.
“I’ve ridden through these woods many times – so likely from right here.”
“Raise your head.” He demanded. Tzelem looked up slightly, revealing his piercing, silver eyes, carrying tiresome sacks of early ageing underneath them.
“Rise your head, properly.” He repeated, and so Tzelem did. Blood running down his temple and a crude cut on top of his nose.
“Hold on now – aren’t you the shoemaker from Hoshonto?”
“No.”
“If you must know Sir, we are on a mission on behalf of the Huxley fortress.” Isaiah said as confidently as he could, hoping it would lift their status a little. Perhaps they wouldn’t be considered the finest of gentlemen, but neither were the guardians, and despite the looks of him, Tzelem was a knight. They wouldn’t have the right to interfere with a noble mission, unless the realm had commanded it. The guardian ignored him, his eyes fixed on Tzelem.
“Nonsense, I’ve seen you there many times. You even fixed my boots once.” He argued, showing off one of them – large, muddy and otherwise seemingly intact.
“You must be confusing me with someone else.” Tzelem said between tight lips, and the commander turned his head slightly towards the redheaded one. He was yet to say a word and now only made a nod – so subtle it was hardly a nod at all. Isaiah met his gaze right after, and it almost felt as if it could have thrown him off the cliff if he’d bothered nodding again. His eyes were green, and with his background being the faint, gray-like forest and a sunless sky, they looked unnaturally bright. His cheekbones were tall, and he had a narrow, almost feminine, chin without a single facial hair to cover it.
“Both of you are coming with us back to Hoshonto.” The commander affirmed.
“We’re in quite a hurry, and I see no legal reason for this interruption.” Tzelem’s voice was steadier now, the same he’d used with Lady Huxley – but it didn’t seem to have any effect on them.
“Do you have papers proving you are who you claim to be?”
“We don’t…”
“Perhaps there’s no punishment for making shoes or lying in this land, but no papers mean you could be anyone. You’re coming with us.” They were not just anyone and Isaiah sensed the guardians knew this. Still, it seemed to give them the right to legally bring them. The realm was not fond of undocumented drifters.
“You will regret this.” Tzelem’s voice was almost inaudible, but furious enough for everyone to hear.
“You like it the hard way, don’t you?” the commander sighed. Then they tied up their hands and horses, before leading them back to the path. Once again heading north, Isaiah realized.
“At least we found some strong rope.” He said, attempting to lift his master’s mood. Tzelem gave him an almost murderous look, as there had probably never been a worse time to try cheering him up.