- TMK -

Evening came over the village once again. From the top of the hill, Farsald saw a sun wane pink against the scrubland. A breeze delivered cool air to his temple, helping dry the sweat on his brow.

           

More than likely, this was God’s way of thanking him for heeding his call.

           

Farsald and his men had toiled for hours with the villagers. They disassembled yurts, butchered livestock, and loaded enough supplies to keep the village fed for months. Their reward was the trust Byarlun had promised them.

           

Or, at least the beginnings of it.

           

As his first talbrüder assignment, Farsald had done what was asked of him and more. He had seen what God wanted him to see. Pagans, toiling for naught in the waste, yearning for salvation. Children left unattended to find their own way through the world. A people needing the light of heaven. This was why the Crusade chose him and his cohort for this mission. There was more glory in shepherding the gospel to the needy than spilling blood.

           

“By wings of the Deus, I guard sacred light. A shepherd of thy father, a falcon of blackest night,” Farsald spoke his oath. The oath all Crusaders, regardless of order or rank, had to make. An oath these nomads–Mothgedhäi, Öyana, even Täkar would come to revere, just as Farsald had.

           

Unfortunately, Farsald would not see such a day.

           

They would not remain here long. The pigeon received from Khergat indicated by tomorrow Daiseric would relieve them. As for Farsald and the Crusaders, they would be off to the next village, sowing the seeds of faith just as they had done here.

           

And as the sun rolled under the Divide, Farsald felt whole.

           

“Care for a bite?” Byarlun’s voice cut the silence. He trotted up the rocky path that led to the peak. In each hand was a metal plate with steaming wayrunner laying in a bath of bird grease.

           

“How could I refuse?” Farsald faked a smile as the took the plate.

           

“Easily if you ask me. I grew up eating this tasteless mush. If you think it was the gospel that won me over, you’re mistaken. I saw the light of heaven the first day I went to Holstain and ate Gepid scones. Before that, I had never seen or heard of such things as sugar or pepper. Food in the Divide has a different meaning than food in the Holy Land. Food is only meant to keep you alive here. It’s a necessity, not a pleasure. And by all the angels and consecrated in paradise, I know now that is no way to live.”

           

“It’s not…inedible,” Farsald was unconvincing even to himself.

           

“Is that why you’ve chosen hard tack over wayrunner for every meal?”

           

Farsald sighed. “That obvious?”

           

“You could’ve at least dipped your tack in the grease,” Byarlun’s tone softened.

           

Farsald let out a brief chuckle.

           

“Hold on.” Byarlun went for a hide pouch around his neck. He opened the bag and sprinkled the meat with the first black pepper Farsald had seen in days. “Living out here as long as I have, you learn to adapt.”

           

“See?” Farsald said smugly.

           

“See what?”

           

“God is rewarding his Faithful. Even if that reward is nothing but pinch of pepper.”

           

Byarlun shook his head. “The Deus has indeed lowered the standard for a miracle if black pepper accounts for one.”

           

“Black pepper in the desert,” Farsald corrected him.

           

“Fair enough,” Byarlun said with a shrug as he dug into his roast.

           

They sat atop the outcrop for some time, enjoying piquant bites of slick meat.

           

Eventually an old question came to Farsald’s mind as they ate in silence.

           

“Why the Iron Mask?”

           

“Pardon?” Byarlun was surprised.

           

“Why does Arrcus revere the Iron Mask? I never understood it. There are far more Ikarans in the Union than Asylent or Humans. Considering Ikarans are birds, I’d imagine they’d choose something more fitting of their species. Maybe even a wayrunner. But the Iron Mask? It makes little sense.”

           

“Spoken like a true Crusader,” Byarlun said with a chuckle. “The Iron Mask is not Arrcosi at all. It is the token of the nomads. The symbol of war. While to outsiders it means death and destruction, in Arrcus it has taken a new meaning.”

           

“Oh?”

           

“Yes. See, Arrcus is not a nation like the Holy Land or the Empire. It is dozens of loosely connected cities and fiefs pledging their loyalty to the electorate of Arrcolan. All things must be voted on by the electorate. That makes the electorate the slowest institution to mobilize. It is a sickly, ineffective government dominated by the most powerful cities of the nation. Truth be told, each city and fief are run independent from one another. There are only three things tying the Union together–troops, taxes, and their redistribution. For example, Cathlod is among the richest nation in the Union. Kane Van Therr has built his own private army, has cane fields filling the city with wealth, and controls all trade from west to east. However, instead of donating the services of his armies to the Union, Kane opted instead to pay heavier taxes to the electorate. Taxes which the electorate distributes back to fiefs who need them.”

           

“Like the Divide,” Farsald spoke.

           

“Indeed. However, the question arises what can the Divide give back to the electorate? There is no wealth here. Much of the coin that enters these lands comes from the electorate itself. No, we nomads provide what Cathlod refuses. In lieu of coin, we provide our soldiers. We defend the electorate,” Byarlun explained through a mouthful of gristle-ridden wayrunner.

           

“What does that have to do with the Iron Mask?”

           

“Like I said, the Iron Mask has always been the symbol of the nomads. You just misunderstood. Arrcus adopted the mask to show thanks to their poorest fief. A gesture to show conviction, loyalty and skill were valued more than coin in the Union. That they understood the value in the Divide is not in its riches like in Cathlod, but in its people. That is why the Asylent have been loyal to Arrcus. They gave us a purpose and we have never shied from it.”

           

“Until now,” Farsald stated. “God has come to these lands.”

           

“He may have,” Byarlun responded skeptically. “But our God will not be th–”

           

“Crusader! Help!” The familiar squeak of Galacheg quavered behind them.

           

Instantly, their plates clattered to the ground as the two Crusaders they leapt over rock and bush to find the child.

           

Farsald was faster than Byarlun, though. Using his supernatural strength, he vaulted over the boulder where Galacheg’s yelps arose.

           

There he found Galacheg, pinned to the boulder by Täkar. Snot and tears flowed down the child’s face, a black eye forming where Täkar’s knuckles made their mark. The teenager’s head jolted in Farsald’s direction, his scarred face contorting into a scowl. 

           

“Crusader, you go now!” Täkar shouted, tightening his grip on Galacheg’s arm.

           

“Crusader, he die me! Help!” Galacheg bleated.

           

“Drop him, Täkar,” Farsald uttered a grating warning. His huge, armored hands curled into a fist as he took a step closer to the boy.

           

Täkar reached for something in his boot only to bring a hunting blade against the child’s throat. “He die all you! Go, leave!”

           

“Inlach ak gyum, Täkar.” Byarlun appeared behind the boulder with his revolver drawn. “Let him go.”

           

Täkar shook his head. “You leave. No all die.”

           

Farsald saw his chance. He lunged for Täkar, his immense strength helping him cross a distance unthinkable to Takar in a single bound. His vision blurred as they tumbled against the rock. He felt a dull clink against his breastplate as the hunting knife glanced against steel. He had the boy in his grasp though. Before he knew it, Täkar was face down in the dust, snarling between clenched teeth as Farsald pinned the teen’s arms against his back.

           

“Enough,” Farsald shouted. “I know you don’t want us here, but this is how things are.”

           

“You no hear! You need go!” Täkar struggled to break free, his felt coat matted with powder as he rolled in the sand. “Galacheg, atäbig kalakah ono!”

           

“Byarlun?” Farsald turned to his companion.

           

“He’s threatening the boy again.” Byarlun holstered his revolver. “We should take him to Mothgedhäi. There’s no telling how Daiseric will react if he sees something like this.”

           

“Not after the mines in Khergat,” Farsald, agreed. He hauled the squirming teen to his feet. “Just behave until tomorrow.”

           

“Why tomorrow?” Galacheg surprised the two Crusaders as he spoke. “Crusader do something tomorrow?”

           

“We will be leaving tomorrow,” Byarlun told him. “There will be a new garrison to help the village, but we must be going.”

           

Galacheg looked down rubbing his neck. “I see.”

           

“Galacheg?”

           

“Yes?”

           

“Why did he attack you?” Byarlun asked.

           

“I friend with Crusader. Want to get Crusader food they no eat. He hate Crusader.” Galacheg pointed at Täkar. “He think Crusader friend worse than Crusader.”

           

“Might’ve known…” Farsald sighed. He pushed the teenager down the hill, keeping Täkar’s hands bound in an inhumanly strong grip.