Olga McArrow - Cold obsidian

“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.”

“Even so, they will know we are alert and ready, not an easy prey at all. They won’t risk it.”

A merchant riding a dunewalker in front of Vlada and Kangassk turned his face to them and nodded in approval.

Indeed, there was no second raid.

The dunes grew smaller and smaller with every hour. Soon, the ancient cobblestones of the road were clearly visible again, their sand-repelling runes heavily worn by wind and time, but still working their magic. The feeling of being watched, hunted, gradually faded. People began to talk again. Vlada explained to her companion how the road magic worked and shared some stories from her life as a Wanderer. With all the dangers behind them the journey became quite pleasant again; the time flew.

By the next morning they had entered Border. The town was small, but well defended, both from the ever-advancing sands and possible bandit raids. Unlike the rest of Kuldagan population, Borderers didn’t bother with preserving the ancestors’ purity, so there wasn’t a single pair of identical faces in the crowd. They also were diurnal people, busy during the day, sleeping at night, just like the rest of the world behind the Mountain Ring. Kangassk was shocked at the diversity of faces, at the bubbling, noisy day life, at the coolness of the air which was so different there, close to the mountains… Needless to say, he looked hilarious in his endless shocked excitement. Vlada couldn’t help smiling every time she looked at him.

Local inns went by the word “dlar” as well, but, having many storeys connected by winding staircases, resembled little towers. Vlada rented a whole storey on top of one such tower. There were three rooms there: one for her, one for Kangassk; the third room stayed empty for the sake of the perfect peace and quiet she wanted after the journey.

Kangassk had hoped to sleep through the day as he did most of his life, but Vlada didn’t allow it. His objections ignored, the wounded guy was dragged to the nearest healer to have his head treated properly. Since using magic is too dangerous so close to No Man’s Land, the healer treated him with some nasty smelling ointment and a decoction of burngrass root, which felt precisely like what its name implied: burning mercilessly. After Kan’s head had been treated and bandaged Vlada took him to the market to buy some armour. To his surprise, they passed by all the heavily laden stalls displaying chainmails, breastplates, helmets, and all kinds of exotic items. Vlada spoke to the local weapons dealer directly and asked him for kevlar. The old master had just snarled at first, but then changed his mind and brought her a couple of thick lined cloaks, time worn, dusty, and discoloured by the sun. The price the old man asked for them made Kangassk’s jaw drop. Vlada paid it in full, not even bothering to haggle.

Vlada tried her luck again, asking for a gun, but no, the old man didn’t have one.

“No one goes into the Burnt Region anymore,” he said. “Everyone goes around. It adds two weeks to the journey, but, hey, you’ll arrive in one piece, so that’s worth it.”

The kevlar armor he sold them was some kind of family legacy from the gold rush times, hence the high price.

“Maybe we should go around as well?” Kangassk asked Vlada that evening at dinner, meek hope in his voice.

“No,” she replied.

“Why? Just why!” Kan threw his hands up in indignation.

“Because I’m in a hurry.”

“To do what?”

“Hmm…” Vlada hummed, contemplating. “Okay. Let’s say, I’m going to the Dead Region to redeem my good name and help an old friend… You can stay here, Kan. It’s a free town. No one will ever see you as a freak here. Live your life. Be happy.”