- TMK -

Like Byarlun said, the dust storm came in the night.

           

It was a phenomenon otherworldly to Farsald. The storm was fierce. Fine powder whipped into every gap of their armor and caked their eyes with chalk. There was no sand though, no coarseness to the wind. Stranger still, the night did not grow colder with the setting sun. The world was just covered in swirling, tepid dust. So much dust, Farsald could barely see Byarlun’s lamp before him.

           

They followed that hazy auburn glow for hours, each wayrunner tethered to the one before them–a string of men, birds, and rope. Farsald knew the Crusaders behind him were weary as was he. Probably more so.

           

His men were devout Crusaders, but not disciples in the most literal sense. They had not given their freedom to God for the gift of magic. Not like the talbrüders. The gift that flowed in Farsald’s veins made him something greater, more resilient than the average soldier. True, all in the party held the Crusaders conviction, a willingness to weather extraordinary suffering for their faith. Regardless, they were still men. Men trained to battle pagans, not dust. 

           

The train stopped then, Byarlun’s auburn lamp swaying in the haze. The glow fell closer to the ground, Farsald assuming Byarlun dismounted his wayrunner. However, that glow disappeared a moment later.

           

Panic took hold of Farsald.

           

“Sir?” the Crusader behind him called, his words further stifled by the cloth masks they all wore.

           

“Wait here,” Farsald’s voice barely carried through the storm. He leapt off his wayrunner, feet sinking into shin-deep powder. He grabbed the rope tethering his wayrunner to Byarlun’s. Hand over hand, Farsald pulled himself through the dust until he found his way to Byarlun’s saddle. The wayrunner jolted as Farsald placed his hand on the saddle. Quickly, he calmed the bird with a few affectionate strokes over the wayrunner’s neck.

           

Then, Farsald realized why Byarlun had stopped. The shape was vague, but it was there. A felt tent stood unmoving in the darkness. The faint aroma of cooking meat mixed with the dust.

           

Farsald followed his nose until he at last found the yurt’s wooden door. Reaching for the doorknob, the door ripped open, a surprised Byarlun standing with a lamplight halo behind him.

           

Byarlun grimaced. “You should’ve stayed put.”

           

“Xeta khém ghûi?” An elderly man appeared beside Byarlun. The brown skin along his face was cracked with wrinkles. His white, coarse hair dropped to the small of his back while his copper eyes had lost the sheen Byarlun’s had.

           

Byarlun spoke a smattering of Ybechin to the man, who responded with a grin that stretched from ear to ear. He grasped Farsald’s arm and pulled the talbrüder into the yurt.

           

Farsald yanked the cloth mask off his mouth. “Byarlun?”

           

“This is Mothgedhäi, village chief. He’s inviting you to shelter from the storm.”

           

“What about the men?” Farsald asked.

           

“I will bring them in and corral the wayrunners.” Byarlun pushed past him. “Do something useful and eat their roast.”

           

“Or what?”

           

“Or you’ll insult them. Then we’ll be sleeping outside,” Byarlun said, leaving the yurt.

           

Mothgedhäi tugged on Farsald’s arm, gesturing to the ring of stumps used as chairs in the yurt’s center. On those chairs were what Farsald assumed was Mothgedhäi’s family. There was a young woman, no, a teenager wrapped as tightly as Mothgedhäi in felt garments meant for the rugged lands of the divide. Beside her was a child who stared at the seven-foot talbrüder. The woman delivered a friendly gaze to Farsald. They all did really.

           

Save for the boy in the corner.

           

He, too, was a teen. Farsald could tell that much though the boy kept his face hidden in shadow. Farsald could make out no expression, but he felt the hostility in the boy’s stare.

           

As did Mothgedhäi.

           

The chief barked an order to the teen, who responded with a defiant rasp. Eventually, the teenager stormed from the yurt as Mothgedhäi continued to chide him in Ybechin. The young woman snatched Farsald’s attention, handing him a plate of greasy, roast wayrunner.

           

“Ralbahkt,” she said tenderly, leaving the metal plate in Farsald’s hands.

           

“Thank you.”

           

Farsald grasped the hunk of meat with armored fingers and took a generous bite. If anything, the roast needed more than a little seasoning. The only flavor in the meat was grease. There was no semblance of basic spices and the flesh was chewy. Of course, Farsald felt the dusty grit between his teeth. But the meat was fresh and the yurt warm. That solace gave him the strength to continue chewing.

           

The woman laughed, aware that Farsald did not enjoy their harsh cuisine. Yet her gaze remained as sincere as before. She pointed to herself and said, “Öyana.”

           

Farsald choked down another glob of oily meat, pointing to himself and saying, “Farsald.”

           

The woman spoke a few more sentences more welcoming the talbrüder.

           

“Banah, banah!” she pointed to the stump, Farsald assuming she was asking him to sit. He did as instructed while another Crusader entered the yurt to Mothgedhäi’s greeting.

           

The yurt itself was an unusual spectacle of comfort in the Divide. The walls were made from thick felt decorated with a myriad of vibrant geometric patterns. There were several bedrolls and a metal stove with a chimney gliding its way out of the hole in in the ceiling. The cloth floors brushed the dust from Farsald shoes as he walked. He felt safe in this tent, like inside these walls the misery of the divide was only a memory.

           

“Are you Crusader?” a squeak bedside Farsald startled the talbrüder. More because the words were Common and not Ybechin.

           

Farsald turned to the child. “You speak Common?”

           

“Little. Lehren sometimes come. Teach us,” the little boy said cheerfully. “I am Galacheg. Good say hi Crusader.”

           

“Nice to meet you too.”

           

“Are eat?” Galacheg grasped the plate holding the roast wayrunner lightly.

           

“Oh, uh, no.” Farsald let the boy take the plate. “Hungry?”

           

“Öyana say I eat much. I get like toad. But I still need. You know?” Galacheg kept his mischievous grin as he stuffed his face with gritty wayrunner.

           

“I suppose,” Farsald shared his own genuine grin with the boy. He looked back at the door, three of his men now finding themselves choking down roasted wayrunner.

           

Farsald sighed with relief as a fourth Crusader showed himself.

           

At last they were beyond the storm, with people who were more than ready to review Athraiél’s gospel. They were ready for the word of God.