- TMK -

When the dust storm passed, Farsald saw a new world entirely. Dust settled like snow over the tents. Grey had given way to cerulean skies. A rocky hill invisible in the lashing storm shaded the whole of the village. A spring flowed along the hillside, delivering surprisingly clear water to a pond at its base.

           

Children like Galacheg scurried about much like they did in Khergat. Öyana and other young women of the village tended the fire at the camp’s center. They sliced meat to dry or bury in one of their salt barrels. Mothgedhäi watched over them in a creaky chair. As he did, the chief smoked from a meerschaum pipe gifted by one of the missionaries come lately to woo them. Those efforts were shown to be fruitless by the Iron Mask charms hanging from every yurt.

           

Farsald’s Crusaders eyed those charms with a mix of confusion and weariness. Mainly, because they did not know what they were supposed to be doing other than watching the nomads. Those were their orders though: Secure the village until Daiseric came.

           

As mundane as those orders were, it was succor to Farsald. Here there was shelter from the Divide. Shelter enough to keep Farsald from swallowing a mouthful of mud every time he took a sip from his canteen. It was always better to be grateful for what respite the Deus gave.

           

Out of the corner of his eye, Farsald spotted Byarlun walking from behind a yurt. When he saw Farsald, Byarlun approached the talbrüder with an unusually sprightly gait.

           

“I spoke to Mothgedhäi,” Byarlun said. This time, his usual dust layer stunk of tobacco. 

           

Farsald tried to rub the itch out of his nose. “Smoked with him more like it.”

           

“As is tradition,” Byarlun replied. “You know, they call talbrüders ash people.”

           

Farsald raised a brow. “Ash people?”

           

“It’s your hair, well, and your height. When my people first encountered your order, they thought you were demons born from the depths of a volcano. How else could men so tall with eyes and hair like ash come to be?”

            Farsald grimaced. He had pale skin, grey eyes, and an aquiline nose like any other Gepid. The only truly distinctive traits about him were his talbrüder-grey hair and stature. Then again, these people saw little of the world outside their dust bowl. Anything besides birds and sand must have been frightening.

           

“What did Mothgedhäi say?”

         

Byarlun’s smirk vanished. “He’s agreed to keep the village put until Daiseric arrives. Not that he has much of a choice.”

           

“Why is that?”

           

“Take a look around. Do you see any of the men? They’ve gone off to Trasap and taken most of their weapons with them. The only people left are teens and children. How long do you think they’ll will last away from here? At least this place has a spring and some shelter from the storms.”

           

“I suppose,” Farsald replied indifferently. “No chance we’ll find bombers or powder here?”

           

“None.”

           

Farsald sighed, watching a young woman approach one of his metal-clad Crusaders. They pointed to a series of bulging flour sacks and pantomimed carrying the seventy-pound bags on their back. The hesitant Crusader looked across the village to Farsald, who nodded in response. A moment later, another Crusader joined his comrade, hauling the heavy sacks into Mothgedhäi’s yurt while the teens giggled. 

           

“At least the men will be put to use,” Farsald said.

           

“Not exactly the use of a soldier Daiseric intended,” Byarlun quipped.

           

“Better use than watching an old man smoke.”

           

“Funny.”

           

“What?” Farsald asked.

           

Byarlun pushed himself off the wall of the yurt and stretched. “We actually agree on something.”

           

“Miracles never do cease in this land, do they?”

           

Byarlun tilted his head to the left. “I would not be so sure.”

           

There Farsald saw the teenage boy from Mothgedhäi’s yurt. He kept his dusty felt hood over his face, his copper glare shining beneath the silhouette.

           

“That is Täkar, Mothgedhäi’s runt. As you can see, he is not fond of your kind.”

           

“Our kind,” Farsald corrected him. “There’s a black falcon on you as well.”

           

“There is.” Byarlun nodded. “However, I do not need to earn their trust.”

           

Farsald leaned off the yurt and said. “Fair enough.” 

           

Slowly, Farsald crossed the village to the scowling teenager, kicking up powder as he went. Instantly, Täkar’s body stiffened. His scowl followed Farsald as the talbrüder towered over him. The scowl did not soften in the slightest when Farsald offered a smile.

           

Farsald extended his hand. “I am Farsald, my friend. And you are?”

           

Täkar’s hood fell as the boy backed away. He had the brown skin, jet black hair, and flanged ears typical of the nomads. It was the three-pronged scar running along the side of his cheek that caused Farsald to recoil crudely.

           

He attempted to compose himself, but Täkar clearly took offence.

           

The teen snorted loudly and spat a wad of phlegm at the Crusader, staining the tabard over Farsald’s chest.

           

“Khi vud disém jun ze!” Mothgedhäi screamed from his chair. The old man lurched forward, his pipe rolling in the dust as he charged at the boy. More Ybechin followed as Täkar remined defiant, even when Mothgedhäi’s backhand found its mark. Soon, the old chief herded the boy out of sight, though the furious words continued to carry over the village.

           

“That was spectacular,” Byarlun said with a slow clap.

           

“Yes, yes. You’re so clever.” Farsald wiped the phlegm on the side of a yurt. “Instead of being a witling, why don’t you tell me how to earn their trust?”

           

“Your eyes work as well as mine, talbrüder. You see how my people live. Life is grueling on the Divide. To survive one must constantly be moving or risk being swallowed by the dust. You do not have to do much to win these people’s confidence. Just help them survive. Like your Crusaders are doing now.”

           

Farsald gazed back at the train of Crusaders hauling spring water and flour across the camp. He saw the relieved expression on the young women, able take a rare rest as Crusaders, even if just for a moment, took on their daily burdens.

           

“You’re right, Byarlun,” Farsald admitted. “I am a fool.”

           

He left Byarlun there, walking over to Öyana who had since moved to Mothgedhäi’s chair. Galacheg was with her, the boy happily rising to his feet as Farsald approached.

           

“Tall man,” Galacheg sputtered.

           

“Galacheg,” Farsald kept his eyes on the exhausted Öyana as he spoke. “Will you ask Öyana what she needs me to do to help the village?”

           

Galacheg passed on the message, Öyana’s face lighting up with every word. And as Farsald saw the surprised, ecstatic expression that came over the young woman, he realized they had heeded God’s command after all.