Kitobni o'qish: «Cold obsidian»
To Alan Jackson,
my friend and mentor
who made this translation
possible.
Thank you!
Cold obsidian
Book 1 of “Obsidian Trilogy”
All poems in the book translated by Alan Jackson
Omnis is a world of unstable magic where all creatures are born with a natural ability to stabilize and use it. All creatures, besides humans. They were the only species that inherited the flaw of their creators – the immortal worldholders responsible for the very existence of Omnis.
To make things right, the worldholders created a system of three Horas with Hora Tenebris as the magic disperser and two other Horas – Solaris and Lunaris – as the stabilizers existing in equilibrium with each other. Inside the stabilized areas humans are free from their natural flaw and have full access to stable magic. But in a broad area where the stabilizers’ zones of influence intersect the magic is wild, anomalous. That area, known as No Man’s Land, divides Omnis in two.
Horas are the foundation of human civilization in Omnis. They look like precious gems encased in gold and silver. They are protected by magic that would destroy anyone who dared to touch them unless it’s a worldholder as well. They are impossible to steal. Even more: stealing them is useless, because they have no secret powers at all. Yet someone has stolen them nonetheless.
Who is the thief? What does he or she want? How did they overcome the protective spell? Worldholders themselves are puzzled. One thing is certain here: something big is going on.
Wise are my deeps, dark my coldness;
One I have sought, a warrior-poet –
Not thou, seeker! No swordwight thou,
No wise maker of the world’s song,
But a wild passion in thy pure breast
Hefts thy young soul; my heart trembles
Foreseeing thy death, myself thy bane,
Fate inescapable. The folk I see,
Hungry for fame, heart-slaved, mind-slaved,
Their shining lust by lich-light drawn
To the candle-flame of coveted pride,
Burn gloriously in battle with me –
Not thou! Not thou! No gleam-grabber thou!
Not thou! Not thou! No war-drum’s beat
Dances for thee! No dern magecraft,
No snake-syllables with sophistry snare
Thy unmarred soul; my timeless chill
Warms with thy touch; no woning in thee
For cold sin's taint; tears openly scape
Thy meek eyelids; thy mind soft clad,
Thy heart borne low, hands widely spread,
Scorning to bully or beat down others,
Opens to truth, to all truth’s source,
Each listening mind; thy light their praise.
One day thy cause shall call thee hither,
Facing my hero with failing power;
His part, his lot, thy life to shend
On that day forelaid, thy loss, thy doom.
Chapter 1. At the edge of No Man’s Land
It was blazing hot in Aren-castell that midday. Every fountain and every patch of shade was occupied by the citizens trying to escape the sun’s wrath. Life stood still. Dusty wind ruled the empty streets, sweeping sand, called “aren” by the locals, in tiny tornadoes leaving neat miniature dunes behind.
“Aren-castell” means literally “sand castle” and indeed the city looked like one, its little houses and towers resembling the ones a clumsy toddler would make while playing in a sandbox. A perfect illusion. The cement locals make with their “aren” is on a par with the Wanderers’ monolith when it comes to durability.
Vlada strode along the road, her thick boots breaking the neat wavy patterns of sand and dust settled there with every step.
“On a hot day every desert city looks abandoned,” she thought as she entered the city gates, unattended and wide open. “Quite creepy.”
She met citizens soon, though, beside the very first fountain on her way. If she hadn’t known what to expect she’d find this sight even more creepy than the seemingly abandoned city. There were only two types of faces there. All women and girls looked exactly like Del, their female ancestor: dark hair, black eyes, pale skin, and aquiline nose. Men and boys looked exactly like Emer, her husband, who had blond hair, green eyes, and dark skin.
Every city in Kuldagan desert is like this: copies on copies on copies, the founders’ features repeated in their descendants’ faces forever, without fail. Once you’ve seen a few you’d miss the noisy and annoying port cities of Mirumir or Adjaen where population is so diverse no face in the crowd is similar to another.
Children that looked like twins splashed in the fountain and laughed shrilly. Adults that looked like twins chilled in the shade, chatting and nibbling on fried nuts. Innumerable nut shells littered the square answering every step with a loud crunch.
Vlada was promptly noticed by the locals but immediately dismissed as uninteresting. In their eyes she was just another Wanderer paying a brief visit to the city. Someone might have approached her and asked her for news if it hadn’t been day.
True life in desert towns begins at night when the cruel sun sets allowing the sand to cool down. Then, amid the black velvet of desert darkness, the awakened cities shine as bright as the stars in the sky. People of Kuldagan work, trade, and live in general mostly at night. Days there are lazy, hot, and slow, filled with the idle chatter and the sounds of children splashing in fountains.
The Wanderers’ ways are different. They honor the day as much as the night. It occured to Vlada how nice it was to feel like a Wanderer again. Kuldagan had always been a jewel among Vlada’s memories. Its “aren” which is not exactly sand, monotonous rows of dunes, weird cities… all had a special place in her heart. She should’ve visited them more often without waiting for a reason. Then she could have just walked there at her own pace, enjoying the singing sand, the velvety nights, the lazy flow of daytime. Instead, she must prepare herself for an unpleasant conversation she’d rather not have…
Little houses scattered along the street like oversized toy cubes. Each sported a sign or two advertising the goods their owners were selling. Vlada wasn’t interested in souvenirs, though. What she needed now were food, weapons, and an inn. The word “inn” (dlar in the local tongue) marked five identical houses in a row. Not much of a choice. Food store was to open “with the last ray of the sun”, according to the sign. As to the weapon store, Vlada found it at the end of the street. A huge, screaming sign written in a fancy cursive suggested that the owners didn’t see customers often and were getting desperate. Being open in daytime despite the merciless Kuldaganian weather was a telltale sign as well.
Vlada shifted the backpack on her sore shoulders and headed to the door. The street was so silent she could hear the old clock on top of one of the dlars ticking under the dusty glass.
Thick windowless walls of the store kept most of the heat away, so it was pleasantly cool inside. Several lamps hung from the ceiling on long cords keeping the lower level of the building well lit and the upper dark. Weapons were everywhere: on every wall and a dozen of wooden stands below, in the open, inviting anyone to hold them, take a closer look, drop a hair on the blade…
The shopkeeper sat in a tall armchair with his back to the door, peacefully sleeping, it seemed. Kuldagan citizens are nocturnal beings. Staying awake during the day is not their thing.
Vlada decided to let him rest for now. She put her backpack on the floor and walked along the stands. She liked weapon stores since she was a kid. Such a pleasant distraction from the grim news seemed like a good idea at the moment.
She weighed a two-handed sword in her hands. That used to be her father’s favourite weapon, so she knew how to handle it, even though she found it too heavy to her taste. The morning stars took her attention next – her grandfather’s weapon of choice. Vlada took a closer look at each of them imagining what he would say about their designs, which things he would praise or curse, and how he would add a loud “tsk!” to every sentence when his emotions took over. It was always nice to remember him.
Bows and crossbows interested her less. Halberds, the city guards weapon, decorated in a peculiar way, took her attention for a while. Clubs and spears she passed.
The last stand displayed several katanas made by a local smith. Vlada stopped there. A katana was her weapon of choice. Of course, she didn’t come to this shop for them, but why not take a look?
She cast her eye down to the collection of katanas. They looked good and were made in the same style, obviously by the same master. All but the one that looked just a little bit different as if someone really wanted to imitate the master’s style but couldn’t yet. An apprentice, maybe…
A warm smile touched Vlada’s lips. She took the imperfect katana from the stand and made a few moves to feel the balance.
“Whoa, lady!” She heard a young voice. “Careful!”
It was the shopkeeper, now wide awake and watching her with a keen interest.
“Sorry, master,” Vlada apologised and put the katana back with a respectful bow.
“It’s okay,” he waved carelessly. “I’m glad I was smart enough not to come too close to you… What’s your name?”
“Vladislava. You can call me Vlada.”
“Kangassk. Just Kan to you.” The young man bowed courteously.
Vlada gave him a closer look. Kangassk had dark skin – its tone wasn’t the pitch black the local men had, though, but rather chocolaty brown, – black hair, and green eyes. He was shorter than the locals, and his face resembled neither Del nor Emer.
“You’re not from this city, are you?” she asked.
“Oh, I’m from here all right,” Kan growled, obviously irritated. “I’m just a freak, the shame of my ancestors and all.”
“I wouldn’t call you a freak,” said Vlada, frank and straightforward as usual. “I think you’re a very handsome young man.”
Kangassk shrugged, unconvinced.
“So where are you from? Who are your ancestors?” he asked.
Vlada smiled as she realized that the poor guy expected to hear the names of her city and its first people.
“My family is known as Wanderers in Kuldagan,” she said.
“Wanderers, huh?” Kan’s eyes brightened up. “So it was your family who drove the rare fire dragons into extinction?”
“Yes. Kind of…”
“You have my huge thanks then!” Kan beamed. “Aren-castell used to be their favourite resting spot during their breeding migrations. Imagine these scaly jerks perched on every roof like some crazy giant chickens! Everyone who dared to leave the house risked being eaten, fried, or both… May the master forgive me, I’m giving you 50% discount on everything!”
“So you’re not the master?”
“No, just an apprentice. And a poor one if you take my master’s word.”
“Okay… so, will you show me your guns?” Vlada went straight to business.
“Ah, guns… Firearms…” Kan hesitated.
“Yes, them. I need one.”
“Why?”
“I’m going to visit the Burnt Region.”
“Why? I wouldn’t ever go there, not for love or money! I heard…” He took a deep breath, obviously preparing to tell her some cool story.
“Guns, Kan,” repeated Vlada in a cold, slightly impatient voice.
“We don’t have any,” Kan confessed after an awkward pause. “We used to have a lot while the gold rush was still a thing, but now people don’t travel through the Burnt Region anymore, so we don’t make guns and haven’t ordered gunpowder in years. You can go to Torgor and…”
“Too bad!” said Vlada, adding the disappointed “tsk!” sound, just like her grandfather used to do when he was displeased. “I’m in a hurry, Kan. I can’t afford going back to Torgor. I guess I’ll go to the Burnt Region as is: with a sword. How much do you want for this katana?”
Kangassk gasped. During the next minute he made several attempts to say something, yet no sound came from his mouth. He looked like some unfortunate fountain fish suffocating on the sand. Finally, he gave up.
“Fifty coins,” he uttered painfully and then almost exploded with emotions: “Vlada, please, no! Even with a gun, it’s dangerous to go there!”
“Calm down, Kangassk. It’s not my first trip there.” Vlaga gave him a condescending smile and put the coins into his hand.
“Would you… maybe… like going somewhere tonight?” Kan asked hopefully. “We have a theater and…”
“No, thanks. I’d rather take a nap and be on my way in the morning.”
Kangassk followed the girl everywhere like a homeless puppy looking just as sad and miserable. He carried her backpack; he made awkward attempts at small talk – for he still wanted to talk her out of going to a certain death. She wouldn’t listen. Finally, clearly tired of Kan’s attention, Vlada gently took him by the elbow and walked him out the dlar door. The conversation was over.
Back in his store, Kangassk still couldn’t calm down. He either paced the room like a caged lion or sat at the table drumming his fingers on the laquered wood. Either way, his own thoughts were driving him up the wall. The utter silence of the typical Kuldagan midday made everything even worse. In a final attempt to distract himself, he grabbed the book he knew was an emotion killer: a thick and heavy Encyclopedia of No Man’s Land. It was far too advanced a read for someone like Kangassk, so he never tried to storm the paragraphs, he went straight to the summaries instead. Those were nice and clear as if some kind soul, definitely not the author, took pity on the students the monstrous book had been written for.
“No Man’s Land is a region of unstable, wild magic. Even the weakest spells become unpredictable and explosive there.
Rule one: never use magic in No Man’s Land and do not carry magical objects with you while travelling there.
Gunpowder’s explosive power varies from one region to another. In several regions (like Dead Region and Moon Region) gunpowder does not explode at all. Presumably, some gunpowder components may have a weak, residual magical powers, which the unstable magic of No Man’s Land affects.
In the North and South areas where magic is stable gunpowder explodes only when used in large quantities. That limits its use to city cannons and mines. Same stays true for the most regions of No Man’s Land, with small variations. Burnt Region stands out against the rest because of how little gunpowder you need there to produce an explosion. It makes the use of small guns possible.
Rule two: when travelling the No Man’s Land choose the weapons appropriate to the regions you are planning to pass through. Keep a sword or a dagger with you always and use a gun when appropriate.
The borders between different regions are blurry, so the regions are marked as intersecting circles on the map. Be extra careful in the interstitial areas…”
Kangassk closed the book with a slam. A tiny cloud of dust that had risen above it made him sneeze and obviously also brought these unseemly tears to his eyes. He felt sick.
Whenever he tried to cover his face with his hands in a pathetic gesture or to blink he saw Vlada’s face in front of him. That beautiful, smiling face under a messy heap of curls, bleached and gilded by the sun; her eyes, as deep brown as strong tea; her freckles… She looked absolutely alien among the perfect copies of Del he got used to see around him every day. She was brave. She was beautiful. She talked to him nicely unlike the locals…
Also, she was going to die. Alone. In the Burnt Region. Without even a gun to protect herself. And he, Kangassk, was going to let it happen. Or was he?
He looked around the store, taking it all in – the dull glint of unsold weapons, the dust slowly dancing in the the air – and thought about the life he had there, in that city. Pleasant memories were rare. For the perfect citizens praising the purity of ancestors he was a freak, an abomination…
“She called me a handsome young man…” Kangassk thought bitterly.
“To hell with all this!!!” he shouted. The next moment he jumped out of his armchair and started packing without saying so much as “May the master forgive me.” Having grabbed all he thought he would need, Kan went straight to the dlar where Vlada had rented a room and sat in front of her door, determined to meet her in the morning.
The curtains in the dlar room were so thick they let no light in when drawn, but the silence that came after a noisy desert night said it all: it was morning and the city was falling asleep. Vlada sat at the table, poring over a map of No Man’s Land where the circular borders of unstable regions were marked with red ink. She had a lot of plans already, starting with getting herself a fast charga in Border.
She had at least two weeks before the unpleasant conversation she dreaded, but they didn’t seem enough.
Vlada rolled up the map, grabbed her backpack, and pushed the door. The door didn’t even budge.
“What the…” Vlada cursed and kicked the stubborn thing with all her strength making the soft heavy object blocking it, a person, as it turned out, roll heels over head into the opposite wall. She recognized the young smith from the weapon store. He looked drowsy.
“What are you doing here?” asked Vlada.
“I… I’ve been waiting here all night, felt sleepy by the morning, and thought that if I took a nap with my back to the door you would wake me up. So you did!” He beamed, looking victorious.
Vlada raised her brows in a silent question.
“I’m coming with you!”
Silence.
“I mean it!” Kangassk insisted, his hands crossed on his chest. “I will follow you anyway. I can’t let you go into the Burnt Region alone!”
“Why not?” thought Vlada. “It’s not like a healthy young man will be a burden on the journey, and what a life can he, a “freak”, have here anyway? Getting away from that city might be a life-changer for him.”
“Are you good with weapons?” she asked quietly.
“Yes!” shouted Kan, unwillingly letting all the energy he prepared for persuading the Wanderer go into this word alone. It made Vlada chuckle.
“Which ones?” She smiled.
“Short bow! I’m the best archer in all Kuldagan!” That could’ve been true considering how rare archers are in a desert with too many rocks and too few trees. “Also swords, daggers, clubs, you name it. I’m a smith’s apprentice, so I’ve had some practice with every type of weapon I ever made”.
“Okay, I got it. Let’s go…” Vlada shrugged and signed Kan to follow her.
They left the city through the gates, still unattended and wide open.
Close to the mountain pass between Kuldagan and No Man’s Land the desert suddenly decides not to give up without a fight. Every dune becomes a tall rampart you have to storm if you want to keep going, every step takes you twice the effort.
Kangassk and Vlada travelled on foot, the Wanderers’ way. At first, the young man walked with a spring in his step, feeling all brave and inspired. He even tried to take the backpack from Vlada again to carry it along with his own. Two hours later he was secretly glad she hadn’t allowed him to do this. After two more hours, the journey, however short it seemed, had tired him out completely. He could barely walk, too exhausted even to be ashamed of himself for dragging his feet on the sand like an old man. Meanwhile, the girl kept walking at a steady pace like a true Wanderer raised among the dunes would.
“Wouldn’t it be better to travel in the night when it’s cool?” Kan asked her.
“No, it wouldn’t,” she answered in a peremptory tone and kept walking.
Kangassk was too tired to demand an explanation. Instead, he focused on trying his best to keep up with Vlada. Staying awake in daytime was another struggle that kept him busy. Nocturnal habits die hard.
He woke up from his monotonous half-slumber when a hard stone had suddenly replaced the dragging, soft sand under his feet. Kan found himself standing on the ancient road made of grey, time worn cobblestones obviously enchanted to keep the sand away. The edge of the Mountain Ring separating Kuldagan desert from the outer world seemed so close now! The monstrous dunes, Kuldagan’s last ramparts, ended there, fading into a flat rocky surface beside the mountains. Not that it changed much for Kan and his guide, of course, they still had a long way to go, but the view was uplifting.
A shady spot under the lofty black obelisk at the end of the road looked like a good place to rest after all the hours of walking under the merciless sun, so rest they did.
What is the easiest way to make people happy? Just take their basic comforts away for a while, then give them back.
Oh, how pleasant it felt to enter a shade again, to lie down on the ground, to stretch their tired legs, and quench their thirst! Especially the thirst! The best thing? There was no need to ration water: they were just a few days of journey away from Border, so they could drink all they wanted!
Exhausted, but genuinely happy, Kangassk fell asleep in the obelisk’s shade. He dreamed the airy, breezy dreams full of pure emotions, sparkling and gentle like a spray of fountain water back at home.
It was already evening, burning red and orange at the horizon, when Vlada woke him up. They were no longer alone. A caravan was approaching them by the ancient road, breaking the desert silence with lively human chatter.
“I travelled with them all the way from Torgor,” Vlada explained, “until we parted on the crossroads. They went to Aldaren-turin to trade there. Meanwhile, I made a detour to buy a gun in Aren-castell. I’m glad we’ve caught up with them. They will give us a ride.”
Kangassk nodded. Soon, after Vlada’s brief conversation with the merchant, he found himself travelling in the greatest comfort possible: on the back of a dunewalker. These huge beasts of burden, both obedient and quiet, have been traversing deserts since the beginning of days, heat and dust storms notwithstanding. Riding one felt like being gently rocked in a giant cradle. Kangassk found it quite pleasant, especially considering the fact that he shared a saddle with a beautiful girl. He even took the liberty of holding onto her waist pretending he’d fall otherwise.
“If it weren’t for the caravan, we’d be in for a rough journey,” explained Vlada. “The road is not safe. There can be bandits.”
Kangassk nodded knowingly. He had heard his share of merchants’ tales, most of which involved raids and bloodshed.
“You may stop clutching on to me, by the way,” Vlada mentioned casually. “Dunewalkers are not wild bulls, you won’t fall.”
“What if I get drowsy and fall asleep?” asked Kan. He didn’t like the idea of keeping his hands off the girl.
“Don’t.” Vlada refused to get the joke. “Stay awake and keep looking around. Tell me if you see anything suspicious. Lives may depend on it.”
It was getting dark. Kangassk, a typical city dweller used to associate nights with noisy crowds and brightly lit streets, faced the real darkness of a wild Kuldagan night for the first time. The darkness was terrifying, blinding, impenetrable. Evil. It swallowed the caravan whole, weak torchlights that people were carrying were barely visible against its cold black velvet, under a gorgeous milky way of stars burning above. Every noise, even the most harmless one, now made Kan’s heart race.
“We’ll have to stay in the saddle tonight,” Vlada whispered to him. “It’s not safe to camp here.”
“In the saddle…” Kan sighed, unhappy with the news. “Damn, my ass is already all numb and tingling…”
Vlada burst out laughing. It was such a brief moment of joy – for she had covered her mouth with her hand almost instantly – that it barely disturbed the silence of the night, yet it was enough to kill Kangassk’s anxiety altogether. He could no longer be serious about the horrors he used to imagine behind every dune. He caught himself smiling like a foolish child and thinking of how nice it would be to hear Vlada’s laughter again. This was the last thought the young man remembered before he saw the world suddenly swing above him and go dark…
There was no proper waking up. Kan’s consciousness was returning to him gradually, bit by bit: first the pain, then everything else. He touched his head and felt something warm and sticky in his hair. Blood? As he opened his eyes and raised himself upon an elbow to look around be found himself in the middle of the battlefield, most of which was hidden from his eyes in the darkness, but the sounds – cries of pain and clashing of steel – said it all.
Nobody seemed to notice Kan yet, considering him being just another corpse. Vlada almost tripped over him on her way to her next opponent. Then, still half stunned from his injury, Kan spent several immensely long moments watching his “damsel in distress” fight alone against a group of five swordsmen, her new katana in her right hand and a satellite sword in her left. She was methodical, keeping her opponents huddled together so they would constantly get in each other’s way, giving them no chance to use the advantage in numbers they had. Slowly, it sank in: the pretty girl Kangassk wanted so badly to protect was a much better fighter than he was.
The pulsing pain in Kan’s head twisted his perception in a nauseating way, muting sounds and turning everything in a blur. It felt a lot like being drunk. Kangassk had been drunk once, on his master’s famous cactus juice. It felt so bad he swore never to touch alcohol again. The most rational thing to do for a warrior in such a condition was to stay on the ground, pretending to be a corpse, yet Kan made himself stand up, draw a sword, and join the battle.
He must have looked ferocious, a screaming, drunken warrior with mad eyes and bloody head. Indeed, the group of little, non-human bandits he targeted fled in fear before him at first. They regained their courage pretty quickly, though. Soon, Kangassk had been surrounded and was fighting for his life. It didn’t take him long to realize he was doomed. Back home, he was so proud of the fighting skills he learned against his mother’s wishes, so eager to test them one day in the outer world! Here, they meant little, so very little…
Luck was on Kan’s side that night, though. Someone blew a horn behind the dunes signalling the bandits to wrap up the raid. They changed formation, surrounding a single heavy laden dunewalker, and retreated into the darkness they had come out from. Nobody tried to pursue them. The stolen dunewalker’s cries faded away soon. Dunewalkers are simple beasts, affectionate enough to feel sad about being taken away from their owners, but too stupid to fight on their side.
Non-human slingers standing on top of the dunes on both sides of the road were the last to retreat. Kangassk half expected to get another stone to the head from them as a parting gift, but nothing happened. After they were gone, it was a quiet velvety night again, the sea of undisturbed pitch black ink under a gorgeous starry sky.
There are two ways to gather honey. You can kill the bees with smoke, then open the hive and take everything. There will be no honey for you next year, though. Or you can take little, leaving enough for the bees to survive winter. This way you can have a new pot of honey every year. The bandits’ leaders weren’t stupid. They took what they could and let the caravan go.
The caravan stood still. There were scared dunewalkers to be calmed down, the wounded to be tended to, the dead to be buried. Grim, exhausted people moved around the makeshift camp in utter silence.
As Kangassk’s adrenalin rush ended his pain and horror caught up with him. Feeling sick and shaking, he fell to his knees. That was when he accidentally took a closer look at one of the bandits defeated by Vlada…
“Are you okay, Kan?” asked Vlada squatting down next to him.
“Yeah…” he exhaled and pointed at the dead men, “Do you know who they are?”
“Who?”
“Freaks," answered Kan, bitter grief in his voice, “like me. This one is even from the same city as I am. I see my ancestors’ features in him. Must’ve been treated like shit every day… ran away… became a bandit… His life could’ve been so different if he just weren’t ugly…”
Vlada put her hand on Kan’s shoulders in silence.
Finally, Kangassk got himself together. He stood up and wiped the blood from his new sword, a katana similar to the one Vlada bought in Aren-castell, but made by the master, not his stupid runaway apprentice. Kan turned his face away from the dead “freaks”. Desperately wanting to change the subject, he approached one of the goggle-eyed non-human bandits he had killed and touched the little furry body with the nose of his boot.
“I’ve never seen these creatures before,” he said.
“Maskaks.” Vlada shrugged. “There are lots of them in the North. No idea how they got here, though.”
“…So you’ve been to the North?” Kangassk kept questioning Vlada while she was bandaging his injured head.
“Yes. Many times,” she answered.
“What is it like?”
“Cold. Windy. Snowy in winter. You’ll like it there.”
“Oh, I read about snow! It’s frozen water. They say it’s beautiful…” Kan stopped dead mid sentence. “Wait! Are we going to the North?”
“Maybe, later. Right now we have to pay a visit to one special little region in No Man’s Land, then we’ll see. Now, off with the questions!” she said in a strict tone. “The caravan is departing soon. Get up onto the saddle, lean against the dunewalker’s hunch, and have some sleep. I’ll make sure you won’t fall. Go.”
“North…” whispered Kangassk, tired and drowsy. “Magical North…”
Gentle rocking of the saddle lulled him to sleep. On the very verge of the sleepy oblivion he felt Vlada’s little hands on his waist, carefully holding him so he wouldn’t be afraid of falling down.
Another day and a half passed. The caravan followed the road in complete silence, everyone tense, alert, and constantly looking around. Kangassk was no exception. His injured head hurt mercilessly, and the very thought that he might get a hit with a stone again made him furious, so staying awake wasn’t a problem. Also, he was prepared this time, bow, arrows, and all. No wonder a maskak who was unlucky enough to peek at the caravan above the dune, got an arrow to the eye.
“Yeah! Get it, sucker!” Kangassk growled victoriously.
“Good job!” Vlada clapped him on the shoulder. “You’ve got the scout. There won’t be a second raid now.”
“Who knows?” There suddenly was a doubt in Kan’s voice. “Maybe he wasn’t alone.”
