Chapter 1
THE WAY OF THE DESERT
Somewhere in the Great Desert between Harad and Kand
Early spring, 3018 T.A.
The sound of the blades clashing together was deafening. Despite the scorching sun and the dust, the people who crowded the small arena were excited, and their cheers rang out in the hot air. Such fights were not uncommon, as the Ihaggaren firmly believed that nothing could resolve a dispute better than a traditional combat. But today was a feast day in the sietch, the camp, and no blood would be shed in the sand.
Not too much, at least.
The fighting had been raging for several minutes. Attack, dodge, counter-attack. The balance between the two warriors was perfect. From time to time, there was the rattle of a coin tossed into the pot. The last bets accepted by the bookmaker.
The physical disparity between the opponents was considerable but, if the taller and thicker of the two was certainly stronger, the little guy had a good dose of speed and shrewdness on his side.
Block, lunge, and off again.
The choice of weapons had fallen on the kris, the asymmetrical daggers with a waving blade. The kris were considered sacred, as the fighting technique required a certain closeness to the opponent, an intimacy that hardly other weapons allowed.
The shorter warrior leaped from side to side in a mad dance, with the clear intention of confusing the opponent.
"That crafty little rat!" suddenly exclaimed a big man in a thunderous voice, one of the many merchants of the sietch.
"He's out of breath, look how he keeps running away. Ten silver pieces on his surrender, in five minutes!"
Coins were quickly added to the already substantial stake.
Only one person in the crowd hadn't bothered to bet, and the gesture didn't go unnoticed.
"Master blacksmith! Is it indecision or fear that stays your hand? Or are your tired eyes no longer able to distinguish a good fighter from an amateur? What are you waiting for?"
Steel-grey eyes stared at the man.
That piercing gaze was the only thing visible, as the rest of the face was covered by a tagelmust, the traditional cotton garment with the appearance of both a veil and a turban, wore by Ihaggaren, the nomads of the desert, the last free people of the East.
"My eyes may no longer be what they used to, master Amergiw, but your inability to see when a deal is lost perplexes me."
Under the layers of dark cloth that hid the features, came a vibrant, young feminine voice.
Despite the veiled insolence, Amergiw did not seem resentful, and burst into a deep laugh.
"This fight has never started, my dear lady blacksmith. To be the tournament in honour of the Raìs' birthday, it is proving to be a boring disappointment. That little rat has no hope of victory but, bless the Great Desert, his defeat will fill my pockets!"
A few other bystanders joined in the laughter. With a sigh, the grey eyes return to observe the two fighters in the arena. The little guy received a merciless kick in the abdomen and was thrown against the wall that separated the pit from the stands. He nearly lost the short kris dagger.
"See, master blacksmith? How can that rat think he can compete with Zzahi, one of our best warriors? Now that's just a desperate resistance."
She slipped her hand into the saddlebag, weighing the pouch of coins she had earned that morning from repairing some wagons. Twenty silver pieces. Enough to pay the price of water for a month, maybe a couple. She glanced at the little fighter who was slowly getting up, shaking off the dust. Since when had she become so attached to money?
"Desperate people are the most dangerous, master Amergiw. This is the way of the desert."
Gracefully, she tossed the entire pouch into the pot. "Twenty silver pieces on the little rat, my lords."
Incredulous, and certain that they had found the fool to pluck, many bettors called, and the bookie, a small man with a sharp face and a shrewd look, rubbed his hands in satisfaction.
The steely gaze focused on the fight once again.
Come one, little rat. Show me you are worth the risk.
The pain in the ribs was excruciating.
Damn Zzahi.
The brute had a brain soaked in wine and beer, but he could be swift as a snake.
The metal and ivory mask that served to protect her nose and mouth choked her, as did the light leather armour. At that moment, she realized that she had made a mistake in wanting to participate at all costs in the challenge. Her weapons master had made it clear: she wasn't ready yet. But, of course, her pride had once again outweighed her common sense.
"You should give up before you get hurt, kid," Zzahi commented, passing the sharp kris from one hand to the other.
In response, she pulled the mask away from her face and spat blood on the hot sand.
The fleeting sight of a female face did not cause a ruckus. Mixed combats were not unusual, as among the Ihaggaren women were regarded as much as men and, since ancient times, many of them were trained as warriors.
"I'm serious, little one." Zzahi sneered. "Give up and go back to weaving your dowry, as long as you still have all your fingers."
The crowd burst into laughter.
Feeling anger boiling in her veins, her ebony eyes reduced to slits, she burst out, "And you could go back rolling in the mûmakil dung you came out of, Zzahi!"
The laughter turned to hushed mutters at her audacity in addressing one of the strongest warriors in the sietch in that manner. Even the blacksmith raised her eyebrows at her confidence.
Blind fury veiled Zzahi's eyes. With a growl, the man charged the little warrior, gripping the kris with his right hand. For him, the blade was an extension of his arm. From childhood he had been trained to become one of the tribe's most renowned warriors. He was a capable and terrible opponent.
The only advantage she possessed was the speed dictated by her petite form.
She dodged at the last moment the blow directed at her chest, and took advantage of the momentary disorientation of his opponent to get behind and wound him superficially in the shoulder blade.
Zzahi cursed, but a moment later he lashed out at her. The blade nicked the protection of her forearm, and she avoided further damage by ducking and regaining distance. Out of breath, both opponents allowed themselves a moment's respite.
They circled each other. She waited for the attack.
It soon came; without warning, Zzahi whipped his kris around and swung at her from above, using his height. She raised both arms to parry the blow. Impacting against the man's bony wrist, a pang of pain radiated from her elbow to her fingertips, numbing her armed hand.
With a series of quick swipes, the girl tried to back away. He parried smoothly and moved in closer, giving no respite.
Suddenly, she dove forward, passing between Zzahi's legs.
She took the momentary advantage to hit him with a kick in the back.
The man leaned forward with a grunt of pain, but recovered quickly and, a moment later, the two were face to face again.
He was much stronger than she was, and that fight had to be closed quickly. She increased the number of swipes, the kris swiftly moving from one hand to the other in a mad whirlwind that the cheering crowd struggled to follow.
Caught off guard, Zzahi was driven back and forced to fight defensively.
In a desperate attempt to shake off that little fury, the warrior tried to hit her again with a kick in the ribs.
Now!
Quickly, she snapped her right leg, hooking Zzahi's foot with hers, and knocked his legs out from under him. The sweep unbalanced the man, who fell heavily on his back. The kris fly from his hands. A moment later, Zzahi felt a knee press into his chest and the opponent's cold blade against his neck.
"Do you yield?" she asked, mirth in her voice.
The man's response was slow in coming, so she pressed a little deeper, tracing a thin red line on the skin.
"I-if I must." Zzahi's voice was almost inaudible.
"Forgive me, but I think I didn't hear right..."
She pressed the kris a little deeper, tracing a thin red line on the skin.
"For the Maker's sake, you are obnoxious, Sihaya! I YIELD! Now, could you move?"
Laughing, she jumped back on her feet, momentarily forgetting the pain in her ribs, and victoriously raised the dagger to the sky.
The crowd exploded in an exultant roar.
She removed the turban and the mask that protected her face, revealing elegant features, very black curly hair styled in a multitude of braids, and ebony eyes. Many bystanders jumped to their feet, cheering their warrior princess, Sihaya, daughter of the Raìs Barur.
On the stands, two grey eyes met the annoyed gaze of Amergiw, the cloth merchant, and many other unfortunates.
She held out a hand to the bookmaker.
"Apart from the fact that you repeatedly called the chieftain's daughter 'a crafty little rat', my dear merchant, I told you not to underestimate the desperate."
Sihaya, finally sheltered from the scorching sun, carefully inspected the steel and ivory mask. The dusty fingers reverently traced the intricate patterns that recalled the fangs of undawu, the lion of the Great Desert.
No visible damage, thankfully.
That mask was an heirloom of his clan, and was said to have originally belonged to his ancestor, Amalya, the fearless bride of Bòr the Faithful, who had led the Ihaggaren away from the drowned lands after her husband's death, many years ago.
"The glory of our ancestors shines on you, sister."
Upon hearing that familiar voice so solemn, Sihaya turned around with a smile, lifting her gaze to meet his eyes, so similar to hers.
"I hope I honoured them, today. And I hope you enjoyed the challenge, dear brother."
At only sixteen winters, Baḥsis exceeded Sihaya, who was two years older, by a good span. His face was young and beardless, but his gaze was already that of an adult man, loyal to his duty as future commander of the Ihaggaren warriors.
"The fight was interesting, and our father appreciated it. However, you still have a lot to improve. You always leave the left side exposed when you swing." Bahsis pointed out.
Sihaya stared at him in disbelief. "Are you lecturing me?"
The young man chuckled. "I would never allow myself to disrespect the future Raìssa of the Ihaggaren, as I fear her wrath."
Sihaya glared at him. "Stop making fun of me, silly brother. Rather, tell me where I can find our father, since I wish to dedicate my victory to him."
"You can find it in his ahakit," Bahsis replied, pointing to a large tent made of red-dyed leather, which stood out distinctly among the other tents in the camp. "Many envoys of the tribes of Khand and Harad have come to pay homage to him, as have several merchants from the City of Corsairs."
The warrior girl smiled. "I am glad that, despite the current times, our father and our clan are still highly regarded among other peoples."
Bahsis nodded and placed a hand on Sihaya's shoulder. "Indeed. But don't forget, dear sister, that this respect comes from our reputation as formidable warriors, both in the Rhûn and in the Harad." The young man lowered his voice, "Sometimes I think all this respect is actually fear."
The warrior girl stared at him in disbelief. "You can't be serious! The policy of the Ihaggaren has always been about maintaining excellent relations with the tribes of the territories in which we live."
"And keep the legends of our valiant ancestors alive and well spread. I know." Bahsis interrupted her "But how long have our people not been fighting a real war? And I'm not talking about the raids of some Haradrim in the mood to steal a few goats. What will happen when someone decides to attack us for our weapons, our knowledge, or to enslave us?"
Before Sihaya could reply, someone cleared their throat loudly.
"Well well. The two sons of the Raìs, the crown princess and the future captain, intent on whispering in a corner. I want to hope that it is not again a conspiracy against my poor forge, like last time."
Caught in the act, the two brothers jumped. However, they had noticed the amusement in the voice, and both turned to look at the tribe's blacksmith.
"In my defence, I can say that we were dying to try some of your creations." Said Bahsis, smiling sheepishly.
The blacksmith raised an eyebrow. "So you thought about stealing my crossbows and hunting undawu in the desert, only to run away with your tail between your legs because you enraged a herd of mûmakils, if I remember correctly."
Sihaya scratched her head. "Um, that was a calculated accident..."
"What a curious choice of words, princess, to describe the possibility of being trampled by an oliphaunt. This language of yours never ceases to amaze me, even after all this time."
The trio burst out laughing at the same time, and this went on for several minutes.
Wiping away a tear, Sihaya proceeded to formally greet the blacksmith, bringing her right arm, hand clenched into a fist, on her left shoulder. "Welcome back, Nariel, master blacksmith and heval of the Ihaggaren. We missed you, my friend."
The newcomer's grey eyes lit up.
Heval. Friend of the tribe. Hearing her old title again, after all those years, was still an emotion. One of the few happy memories of remote and dark ages.
"It is a joy to be back again, my friends. These months of travel have been long and exhausting, but I am happy to have arrived in time for the celebrations in honour of the Raìs". Her voice had a melodious timbre, which contrasted nicely with the clicking harshness of Bórian, the native language of the Ihaggaren.
Bahsis repeated the gesture of greeting, with a broad smile. "I can't wait to hear what stories you have to tell us! Is it true that in Far Harad a man can have many women?"
Sihaya smacked him in the head. "Silence, you fool. Consider yourself lucky if one day you find one woman who can stand you! And does that seem like a proper question to ask?"
Nariel chuckled, amused. She had missed those squabbles. "I met a chieftain with more wives and concubines than cattle, and I can say that the poor fellow was being commanded by all of them. But this is a story for an evening by the fire and, believe me, I have a lot to tell you. Now, I wish to congratulate your father, and give him my gift."
Bahsis nodded. "Of course! I go ahead and announce you." he said, assuming a solemn air again. "Sister... you better clean up. Right now, you look like anything but a future Raìssa."
Before Sihaya could hit him once more, the boy ran to the large dome tent hoisted in the centre of the sietch.
The girl shook her head, hands placed on her hips. "What an insolent pest!"
The blacksmith watched the fugitive boy run nimbly through the sand dunes. "Like all male brothers to their only sister. However, even if he teases you, never doubt his affection for you."
The Ihaggaren princess glanced at the other woman as she tried to fix the dusty armour as best she could. "Do you speak from direct experience? Did you have many brothers, Nariel?"
She heard a deep intake of breath, and saw the pain in the irises of steel. After a long moment, Nariel replied sadly, "I have never had blood brothers. But those whom I have considered brothers are long dead."
Sihaya mentally cursed herself. She sometimes forgot that, behind a perfect mask of joy, her friend was hiding a never healed pain.
Desperate to relieve the moment, she gazed at the bulky package the blacksmith carried on one shoulder. It was neatly wrapped in different fabrics, and looked like a sword.
"Is it a gift for my father?" she asked, pointing at it. The blacksmith slightly nodded.
Sihaya clapped her hands, excited.
"Did you make it? But of course you made it, with your talent! Was this the reason for your trip? Oh please, can I see it?" she practically begged her friend, jumping around and trying to grasp the fabric wrap.
Overwhelmed by that glee, Nariel snatched the package from Sihaya's hands, lifting it out of her reach.
"Look what a nosy you are, princess!", she commented amused. "You remind me a lot of your great-grandmother Chani, she was a pretty curious one too. Come to think of it, this must be a hallmark of your family!"
Sihaya nodded vigorously. "You should know we're meddles. Please, just a peek!"
With a theatrical sigh, the blacksmith unwrapped the hilt of a one-handed sword.
The workmanship was exquisite, with silver filigree decorations that recalled the desert dunes. It was definitely light. Sihaya felt that the blade was straight, which was unusual, considering that the Ihaggaren favoured curved blades, like all peoples of the East.
As Sihaya tried to loose the wrapping further to reveal the rest of the sword, Nariel stopped her.
"Not here. I ask you to be patient and wait for me to deliver it to your father. This is something unique that I won't be able to replicate for a long, long time, and I don't want prying eyes to see it now."
A little disappointed, the warrior hastened to rewrap the precious weapon. "I'm sorry. I know you care a lot about your creations I didn't want-"
Nariel shook her head. "That's not the point. Coming back here I had the displeasure of meeting unpleasant people and, sadly, the sietch is on their way. Greedy eyes might think that we possess similar riches in abundance."
Sihaya turned pale. "You too, like Bahsis... You speak as if a catastrophe were to befall us at any moment. Look at me," she said, taking her friend's hands "do you think the sietch is in danger?"
Another sigh. "Honestly, I don't know, nor I want to frighten everyone but... The Way is full of scoundrels, from the south the Haradrim are marching east, and the Variags from Khand are gathering under one banner. I saw it with my own eyes and I think it is appropriate to report it to your father."
The Ihaggaren princess swallowed hard.
"What banner?" She asked apprehensively, even though in her heart she knew the answer.
The blacksmith's concerned gaze did not lie.
"The Flaming Eye."
I love combats.
Some historical references from The Simarillion, some ideas from my beloved Dune and many friends contacted to get some words in their languages, so as to give life to the Ihaggaren language.
Unfortunately, Tolkien did not leave many notes on the idioms of the Easterlings but it is still fun to bring a culture to life and imagine its traditions, the way its people speak, etc.
Stay tuned!