Chapter 13: 13

Barrin utilised all the skills he had to bear to lead them from the desert. A discovery of a recent camp. A trail of disturbed sand not yet retaken by the drifts and the biting winds. Until they found the very rear of a sprawling herd of goats, led by Nastarri nomads. Not a moment too soon, either. Their meagre provisions had become exhausted the day before and they had continued on with thirst pricking at their lips and hunger turning their stomachs.

They could not have found better saviours than the Nastarri, for whom hospitality was not only a custom and tradition within their travelling people’s, but a necessity in the unforgiving, brutal wastes of the desert. Barrin and Maeal soon had full stomachs and fresh clothing and companionship for a short time. They soon had to part ways, the Nastarri continuing East, to more fertile feeding grounds at this time of year.

Barrin and Maeal turned westward, furnished with enough food and water to last until they reached the nearest town and, from there, onward to the North-West and their intended destination. Tesh. The town all-but owned by the Company of the Golden Moons. There, Barrin offered Maeal her freedom from his side once again and, once again, she had refused. For what reason, Barrin could not imagine. He did not fair well with others, but she had insisted. Now, they both sat, squatting in the shadows of a building, watching the fortified headquarters of the Company.

At one time, Tesh had had a thriving trade route passing through it but, over time, that trade had drifted further and further West, where caravans and individuals took advantage of new routes that had opened up after the war. The Company of the Golden Moons had taken advantage, themselves, of the increasing desperation of the flagging fortunes of Tesh. Only a few miles from a good, deep river, the Abhu, from where the Company could traverse to the North with greater ease.

All this, Barrin had learned from passing conversations in the town that now carried the bare minimum of a population, replaced by taverns and brothels, all the better to feed the excesses of the mercenaries that streamed in and out of the imposing structure at the edge of town. In there, the man, Gaharri, sat in peace and comfort, awaiting his next assignment. Perhaps another group of slaves to escort to the kingdoms to the South. Perhaps as guards for some rich merchant. He had to leave at some point and Barrin would then have him.

If he managed to keep himself hidden, of course. Thanks to the hospitality of the Nastarri, both he and Maeal wore the loose, voluminous and light robes of the nomads. Those robes could hide his muscular bulk, but not his height. Likewise, the scarf and veil, both vital in the desert against sandstorms and the baking sunlight, served to cover his features and his hair, but not those piercing green eyes. The kind of eyes that had a distinct rarity in Khaddush. Either his eyes or his height could still give him away.

Maeal had no such problems. She could move about the town with impunity, and did so, leaving Barrin to sit and glower toward the fortress. Alone, he would find his hand falling to the hilt of his crescent-moon blade, reciting the reasons why he could not enter the fortress and kill everyone within until he found one that could answer questions. Each time he thought that, another phrase of his father’s would come to mind. Never assault a greater force head-on. Never fight on your opponent’s ground. Never. Never. Never. All wise words, but only words in the face of Barrin’s loss.

“Are we to sit here forever?” Maeal huddled against him as the Sun travelled the sky, reducing their shadowy cover. “You have circled the fortress several times. Save for a siege engine, you can only enter through the gates. I know this because you have said it, several times. Barrin?”

Her elbow nudged his ribs beneath the pale, sand-coloured robes but he did not answer. He knew the thoughts that ran through her mind. That it was now weeks since he and Kahri, and she, had succumbed to that sorcerous fog and become captives. That the longer he spent observing this place, the greater the chance that he would never find Kahri again, but he had to maintain that sliver of hope. Kahri healed people, but he had a strength to him. Any slaver worth their salt would have sent him to fight in the pits along with the others, but they had not.

Whoever had taken them had had a different destination for Kahri and, Barrin didn’t doubt, others. While in Tesh, rumours reached his ears of other villages attacked by a creeping fog and other people disappearing. Some put it that the djinns of the desert now stalked the people, taking them and carrying them to the Underworld. Others that Shumma-Vohk had indeed returned and needed sacrifices to raise an army of the dead. Barrin listened with sharp ears to all of them.

“Why does he not leave?” The hand resting upon his knee flicked out toward a passing group of mercenaries, loud laughter drifting from them as they passed. “Others come and go. Gambling. Drinking. Whoring. Not him. Why?”

One Tesh resident had pointed out Gaharri as the captain crossed the yard within the fortress. A strong, beautiful man who kept his armour and equipment spotless and gleaming. Hair cut short. Beardless. Not tall, but not short, either. Barrin had learned much from that passing glance, the man’s brow furrowed in thought, but not why he remained ensconced in the fortress. He did not act like a mercenary, who, to a one, were well known to have excessive appetites for all things and the money to pay for them.

“Perhaps he prefers to set an example?” Maeal shifted, scuttling around to his other side where the shadows remained deep. “I hear he expects only the best from the warriors in his troop. A stickler for rules and discipline. Not exactly the type you would expect to work for slavers, but who is the type?”

“No. Not the type at all.” A frown furrowed his forehead beneath the scarf. “This man is the kind that chooses his contracts with care. A man that has principles. I see it in those eyes.”

“Then the man you tortured, the guard, lied.” From beneath her loose robes, Maeal produced a handful of dates, offering one to Barrin. “It is one or the other.”

“He did not lie.” He took the date and split it with his fingers, not even attempting to eat it. “And this man is not the kind of man to work for slavers. Something is amiss here, but I do not know what.”

Barrin had looked into the remaining eye of that guard and had seen the man’s soul. He had still held a misplaced dignity even as he saw his death approaching. He thought himself honourable. Had he lied, in that moment prior to his impending death, he would have befouled his honour. Not that his honour had stopped him beating a man half-to-death for little reason other than he had spoken. Not that his honour had stopped him escorting slaves to lives of servitude, brutality and a lingering death of their own.

He looked at the broken date between his fingers. Men of honour. He understood it, but had never subscribed to it. Honour rarely won battles. Honour stopped a man from performing at his best and Barrin could countenance nothing that could compromise his fighting abilities. Except Kahri, or not? Of that, Barrin did not feel altogether confident. Had he not languished in bed with Kahri, would he have ever suffered capture? Would he have acted with greater speed? Had Kahri compromised him?

No. Kahri complemented him. Without Kahri, Barrin’s life had returned to the emptiness that only battle could fill. Honour and love. Both dulled a warrior’s abilities to fight, but Barrin would take love over honour every time. Love over honour. The only thing that could, in the mind of a warrior, force them to put aside their honour was, perhaps, love. A mercenary that does not gamble, does not drink to excess and does not take their pleasures from a whore? That was a mercenary in love. At least, Barrin could only imagine that was true.

“Wait!” Maeal scrambled to her feet, dark eyes squinting as she shifted from the shadows, following him as he rose. “What are you doing?”

“Diplomacy. I am going to speak with this man.” He tugged the Nastarri robes over his head, revealing his muscular body and already causing heads to turn. He pressed the robes into Maeal’s arms. “Watch our belongings. I shall return.”

They had few belongings. A couple of bags and water-skins given them by the Nastarri, but Barrin did not want to carry them. Nor did he want Maeal to accompany him. What he intended may not work. Diplomacy. He had not considered it, thinking only of violence and vengeance. Father had always scoffed at the very idea of diplomacy, but had learned its nuances and passed them on to Barrin. Diplomacy, after all, was only war with words.

With his crescent-moon sword revealed at his side, Barrin soon caught the eyes of those mercenaries at the gates to the Company’s fortress and spears lowered toward him as he approached. He assessed those holding the spears and felt almost impressed. Steady hands held the points of those spears aimed at his chest. Against any other, he expected they could look competent and intimidating, but Barrin had made intimidation his art.

He glowered down upon the guards and, as one began to open his mouth to speak, Barrin caught the tip of his spear, slipped his hand down to the first inches of the wooden shaft, and gripped. He pushed down, breaking the stance of the guard, then yanked upward, tugging the guard stumbling forward. With a twist of his wrist, he trapped the other spear, turning and twirling until that spear spun and fell from the hands of the second guard.

Barrin tossed the spear in his hand to the side and stepped forward, pressing his hand upon that of the first guard, who had started to draw his sword. Barrin did not strike him, instead, he crushed the man’s fingers against the pommel of his sword and dragged him forward again, spinning him until his back pressed against Barrin’s chest. Barrin reached around, clamping his other hand against the man’s throat and controlling him while he dealt, once again with the second guard.

With a flick and a flip, Barrin sent the first guard’s sword rising from its sheath, catching it by the flat of the blade, and swept it outward, catching the second guard on the jaw and sending them spinning backward, their own sword falling to the ground, dust puffing into the air around scuttling feet and himself as he fell to a heap beside the gates. The man that Barrin held by the throat tried several, ineffectual, attempts to escape Barrin’s grasp, but Barrin held on, strengthening his squeeze until the man struggled no more, almost unconscious.

By this point, the commotion had drawn the attention of several more mercenaries, not to mention passers-by, and Barrin counted a half dozen spears heading his way. Only now did he draw the crescent-moon sword, noting the flicker of eyes to its pristine, black blade. The first time he had drawn it since the ruins, days before. He grinned, knowing that grin would cause doubt. No one man grinned before a half-dozen warriors.

“Stop!” A commanding voice brought everyone to a standstill. “He’s toying with you. The only question is, why?”

Gaharri. Barrin had humbled the man’s warriors and that could only draw the attention of their captain. The two guards Barrin had assaulted had regained their senses enough to stagger to their feet, swaying, the both of them, as they retrieved their weapons, turning bitter gazes toward Barrin. He had made his point, but they could persuade him to emphasise it if they so wished.

“When a loved one is lost, one can compromise much.” Barrin sheathed the crescent-moon sword and caught Gaharri’s eyes. “Is that not so? Gaharri.”

Diplomacy. Sometimes it needed a little incentive.