Jiadin warriors started pouring into the administration building. Some of them glanced questioningly at Fisher, but no one actually challenged his right to be there. When all of the leaders had assembled, Harmagan ordered the door closed.
“I want to talk to all of you before Wyant gets here,” Harmagan began. “Most of you probably heard that Brakas is back in town and urging us to make Wyant mention the location of Angragar. As far as the Jiadin are concerned for now, let Brakas ask Wyant what he wants to. What we are interested in is much different. We want to know when we can get out of this city and kill something.”
The Jiadin cheered and raised their fists in the air. Harmagan grinned and waited for the commotion to die down.
“Not sure if any of you remember him,” Harmagan said as he put his arm around Fisher, “but this is my little brother, Scarab. You old timers will remember him for sure, but not you young pups.”
Amazingly, some of the older Jiadin professed to remember Scarab. Fisher figured that they were either drunk and couldn’t see, or they wanted to act as if they were founding fathers of the Jiadin clan and remembered everyone. In the end it didn’t matter much. Scarab was enthusiastically welcomed by the Jiadin leaders.
“Scarab here has brought me some disturbing news,” Harmagan frowned as he regained everyone’s attention. “It appears that there is a plot to kill Wyant. Now, we all know that no good will come to the Jiadin if that happens.”
“Does this have to do with Brakas?” asked one of the men.
“No,” Harmagan shook his head. “As I said, Brakas has already left the city. No, this is some type of scheme to kill Wyant and blame the death on the Jiadin. We can’t let that happen.”
“What scum would do such a thing?” one of the men shouted angrily.
“Let’s not worry about the who for now,” replied Harmagan. “I want each of you to be responsible for Wyant’s safety while he in our city. What happens to him after he leaves here is not our concern, but that man will not die in Meliban. Everyone clear on this?”
The Jiadin leaders all acknowledged their understanding about Wyant’s protection. Harmagan was pleased and opened the floor for discussion on what they wanted to talk to Wyant about. Scarab listened to the Jiadin complaints, which centered mostly on the inactivity of being cooped up in the city, but his mind was on Clarvoy. He wondered what the evil mage had up his sleeve, and who he would look like next.
The door to the administration building opened and Wyant entered with a group of six Jiadin warriors surrounding him. Harmagan and the other leaders greeted Wyant while Fisher tried to fade into the background. Fisher had been in Angragar at least once while Wyant was there. Although they had never been introduced to each other, Fisher was slightly concerned that Wyant would recognize him and inadvertently expose him. The spy’s fears were overblown. Harmagan grabbed Fisher by the shoulder and pulled him forward to meet Wyant. The Marshal of Fakara nodded as Harmagan introduced Scarab, his younger brother.
“Have there been troubles in Meliban?” Wyant opened the discussion.
“Little outside the normal problems,” shrugged Harmagan. “The men are tired of being held in this city. When can we leave?”
“Soon,” answered Wyant. “Very soon. I was asking about troubles because you seem to have afforded me an escort on this visit to the city. Why?”
“The men have been rowdy lately,” smiled Harmagan. “I wouldn’t want to see you hurt. Does the protection bother you?”
“No,” frowned Wyant. “I just sense that there is more to the story than you are telling me.”
“Well,” shrugged Harmagan, “that is all there is to it. Tell us what is new in this supposed war we keep hearing about. I have to tell you that many of the men are beginning to doubt that there will be a war.”
“Oh, the war is coming,” stressed Wyant, “and much sooner than we had thought. Already the enemy has destroyed a city down south. The full invasion cannot be far off.”
Harmagan shot a glance at Scarab as he addressed Wyant. “What city was destroyed?” he asked.
“A Sakovan city,” Wyant replied. “You probably never heard of it. It was called Duran.”
“Duran?” echoed the Jiadin leader. “I think that I have heard of it recently. Were the city defenders beaten badly?”
“Beaten?” Wyant frowned heavily. “They were utterly destroyed. It was not a fight; it was a slaughter. I am not talking about a city like Meliban that is filled with Jiadin warriors. Duran was a farming and fishing city. The Motangans literally killed every living thing in the city. You do not understand what we are facing, Harmagan. These Motangans have no use for prisoners. They already hold thousands and thousands of slaves on the Island of Darkness. They have no need for more slaves, nor will prisoners have any value in negotiations, because there will be no negotiations. This coming war is a fight to the death. Either our civilization wins, or theirs does. There will be no in between.”
The assembled Jiadin leaders glanced at one another in silence. Finally, Harmagan broke the quiet.
“You must explain this to all of the men in the park tonight,” Harmagan demanded. “I also think the Jiadin should be returned to the plains and the mountains. We are not a defending army. Our strength lies in the swift attack on slow moving armies. Our talents are wasted in Meliban.”
Wyant stared at his old foes and suddenly saw them in a new light. His main focus as Marshal of Fakara had been to avoid fighting the Jiadin. Segregating them in Meliban and Taggot had solved that problem, but now he saw that he was wasting a valuable resource, if they could be trusted.
“I am willing to talk about a change in duties for the Jiadin,” offered Wyant, “but I cannot allow the lawlessness that existed in the past to reoccur. How can I be assured that the Jiadin will fight the same war that the Free Tribes are fighting?”
Harmagan fell silent for a moment as he tried to figure out how to answer the question. The other Jiadin leaders looked on in confusion. They were not quite sure what Harmagan was trying to accomplish.
“There is no easy answer to your question,” Harmagan finally replied. “The Jiadin have been very deceitful lately, but they have also been deceived by others. Truth has become elusive for all of us. What I can tell you is that the Jiadin were once valiant warriors, before the time of Grulak. Unlike many of the present day Jiadin, I was born with a red scarf. That honor still runs through my veins. If what you are saying about the Motangans is true, and I now believe it to be true, I will offer up my life in the defense of our homeland. No foreign army has the right to march through the Land of the Tribes. All I am asking of King Rejji and the Free Tribes is the chance to fight like a warrior, to die like a warrior, with honor.”
Wyant stared at the Jiadin leader for a few moments before nodding. “The Jiadin are one of the tribes,” Wyant conceded. “No one has the right to deny them the option of fighting for Fakara, but our only chance of survival rests in the coordination of efforts. To win this war, we must fight together. Otherwise, we will all die. Are the Jiadin capable of putting their rebellion behind them and rejoining the Free Tribes?”
Harmagan turned abruptly and walked to the fireplace. He picked up a piece of charcoal and carried it back to the table. While the other leaders watched, Harmagan tore off his red scarf and firmly rubbed the charcoal across it to create a black diagonal stripe.
“This is my answer to you, Marshal of Fakara,” Harmagan said loudly. “Let any Jiadin who will unite with the Free Tribes to battle the infidels mark his scarf in this manner. This will be the mark of the Jiadin of the Free Tribes.”
The other Jiadin leaders appeared frozen, each afraid to be the first to commit to a drastic change to the only life they had ever known. Harmagan’s statement was clear to all of them. To accept the black stripe was to put behind them the hatred and animosity of the other tribes that had driven the Jiadin for so long. It was a commitment that could not be reversed, for they would be placing themselves directly under the rule of the other tribes. Any rebellion would not only be crushed by the Free Tribes, but by the other converted Jiadin.
While the room stood silent and frozen, Scarab walked to the table. Everyone’s eyes focused on him as he tore off his scarf and grabbed the charcoal.
“Harmagan is right about this,” Scarab said loudly. “We have been outcasts long enough. It has gained us nothing. Over the years tribal alliances have come and gone, but this time is different. We are fighting an enemy that wants us all dead. I would rather ride alongside my former enemies than die like a rodent in a trapped box. The Jiadin rebellion is dead!” he added as he rubbed the charcoal across his red scarf.
The other Jiadin leaders watched the display, their eyes large as they listened to what could only be called a call to war. When Scarab was done, the other leaders cheered and shouted insults to the Motangans. One by one the leaders removed their scarves and created black stripes across them. When they were all done, Wyant smiled and nodded.
“Welcome home,” grinned the Marshal of Fakara.
“You have us on your side, Wyant,” declared Harmagan, “but there are many more Jiadin who wear the red scarf unadorned. Your speech tonight must convince them to accept the stripe. We are giving you our loyalty. Show us that it is not mistaken.”
“I will do more than that,” promised Wyant. “Help me win over your men tonight, and I will give orders to evacuate Meliban. The Jiadin will be returned to the wilds. Food and supplies will still be delivered to specified places at specified times.”
“What of Meliban?” asked Scarab.
“It is only wood and stone,” shrugged Wyant. “We built it once; we will build again when the Motangans’ blood has drained from their bodies.”
“One more gesture is in order,” stated Scarab. “Many of the Jiadin believe that Angragar is a city of gold and spoils. They believe that the Free Tribes are hoarding it for themselves. As a show of good faith, I think you should take some of the leaders to see it for themselves. That will prove once and for all that King Rejji is dealing honestly with the Jiadin.”
Wyant stared at Scarab for several moments before nodded.
“Done,” agreed Wyant. “I will take six men with me to Angragar. It will be up to the Jiadin to select the men. Talk it over. I am going to the park to await the rest of your people.”
The Marshal of Fakara left the administration building. The leaders of the Jiadin grinned and congratulated each other after he had left. After all of the years of division, they felt good about returning to the tribes. Many of them slapped Harmagan on the back. One of them even dragged Scarab into the circle and spoke loudly.
“I say that Scarab should be one of those who goes to Angragar,” he proclaimed. “I never thought that I would live to see anyone enter the fabled city.”
Scarab grinned but shook his head. “I will not go,” he announced. “I hold no illusions about Angragar. I never believed those old tales about gold and riches. No, let six of you go. I must leave the city in the morning anyway. I will continue my search for friends lost in the wars in Khadora.”
* * *
Fisher lurked around the edges of the large gathering overflowing the park. He tuned out Wyant’s speech and the speeches given by the Jiadin leaders. His eyes continually scanned the crowd, hoping to catch sight of a Jiadin with Clarvoy’s deformity, but he could not find the Motangan spy. He had been hoping, when he made the suggestion about visiting Angragar, that Clarvoy would find a way to be included in the six. That now appeared to be Fisher’s last chance to snare Clarvoy.
The meeting disbanded with loud shouting and cheering. Boisterous insults regarding Motangans flowed down every street as the Jiadin rejoiced the decision to abandon Meliban. Fisher watched Wyant leave the park and retire to the Kheri Inn. The Marshal of Fakara appeared weary as he passed through the common room and ascended the stairs. He did not even bother with the evening meal.
Fisher halted in the common room and gazed at the customers. Most of the Jiadin in the room were eating, which made looking for the deformity difficult at best. Some of the men that were eating shouted his new Jiadin name and waved for him to join them. He smiled in return and waved to the men, but he shook his head and started up the stairs. When he reached the door to his room, Fisher stood in silence for a moment as he studied the corridor. The corridor was dark with no torch at the end of it, so the entrance to Wyant’s room was in complete darkness.
Fisher spun and headed back downstairs. He entered the kitchen and deftly avoided the large woman who spun with her knife ready to gut any unexpected visitors.
“You again?” the large woman snapped.
“Have you any nuts?” asked Fisher.
The woman grunted and pointed to the corner of the room with her knife. Fisher walked to the corner and gazed at the barrels of nuts. He grabbed two large handfuls of peanuts and shoved them into a pouch. Without a word, the spy left the kitchen and returned upstairs. He entered his room and reclined on the bed, eating the peanuts and wondering where Clarvoy was at the moment. He also wondered what he would do when he found the Motangan spy.
Fisher was not a mage, and Clarvoy appeared to be a rather accomplished one. The Motangan spy could not only appear as someone else, he had other capabilities that Fisher could only dream of having. It was not a contest of equals, yet Fisher could not back away from the challenge. Clarvoy’s successes had to stop if there was to be any chance of defeating Vand.
By the time Fisher had finished eating the peanuts, the noise throughout the city had diminished. Only an occasional shout could be heard through the window. Fisher gathered up the peanut shells and quietly opened the door to the corridor. Seeing no one present in the corridor, Fisher crept out of his room and sprinkled the peanut shells on the floor in front of Wyant’s room. He silently retreated to his room and stretched out on the floor near the door. After a while, the spy drifted off to sleep.
* * *
Fisher set his jaw firmly and refused to speak. He would not give Vand the satisfaction of hearing him whimper and cry. The spy cringed and ground his teeth together as another bone cracked somewhere in his body. He thought it was strange that he could not feel the pain of the torture that they were inflicting on him. A dozen bones must have already been broken, but Fisher felt nothing. He glared at Clarvoy as if to say that a Chula could not be broken. Clarvoy only smiled in return, his smug face suddenly changing in appearance to look like Brakas. The soft click of a door lock floated through Fisher’s mind, and he immediately sat up. He looked around the dark room and realized that he had been dreaming. He was not being tortured in Vand’s temple, and Clarvoy was not standing there smiling at him.
It took only a second for Fisher’s mind to register where he was and what the cracking noises had been. The moonlight flowed through the window of his small room, illuminating the floor he had been sleeping on. He quickly rose to his feet, a knife sliding into his hand. He slowly opened the door to the corridor and peered out. A small sliver of moonlight pierced the darkness of the corridor, but a much wider swath of light overpowered it. The door to Wyant’s room was open.
Fisher knew that the peanut shells would now help his adversary as much as they had helped him. He ignored the need for silence and rushed into Wyant’s room. A Jiadin warrior stood bathed in the ghostly moonlight from the window. The light reflected off the blade the warrior was bringing down on the sleeping form in the bed before him. Fisher did not hesitate.
“Assassin!” Fisher shouted as he threw his knife at the Jiadin warrior.
Suddenly, a brilliant light flared in the room. Fisher closed his eyes and rolled into the room, pulling a knife from his boot as he rolled. He heard a snarl from one direction and a body hit the floor in the other direction. Fisher came out of his roll and opened his eyes, quickly seeking the target to skewer with his blade. The assassin was gone.
Jiadin crowded into the room from the corridor while Fisher ran to the window and looked out. There was a low roof below the window, but there was no one in sight. He turned to see Wyant getting up off the floor. He appeared unhurt. Fisher started to search the floor for the dagger that he had thrown.
“What was all that about?” asked Wyant. “What is going on?”
“Someone jumped out the window,” replied one of the Jiadin. “He had a knife buried in his arm.”
Wyant turned and stared at Fisher. “Your knife, Scarab?” he asked.
“I wasn’t sure if I had hit him,” Fisher nodded. “A bright light filled the room. I could not see.”
“You got him alright,” stated the Jiadin standing in the doorway. “All we need to do is look for a Jiadin with knife deep into his arm.”
“He was not a Jiadin,” countered Fisher. “That bright light was magic. He is only disguised to look like us.”
“So look for someone who is disguised as a Jiadin with a hole in his arm,” Wyant ordered. “Move. Find that assassin.”
The Jiadin crowded in the doorway turned and ran. Within minutes the entire city was awakened in its hunt for the mage. Fisher sheathed his knife and tried to return to his room, but Wyant grabbed him by the arm.
“Heck of a shot,” complimented Wyant. “How is it that you just happened to be in here to halt the assassin?”
“I am in the next room,” shrugged Fisher.
“The next room?” echoed the marshal. “I would have suspected that you would be staying with your close brother, Scarab. Do you not get along with Harmagan?”
“We get along just fine,” replied Fisher. “If you are wondering if I was in on the assassination, think again. I have no reason to see you dead.”
After a few moments of silence, Wyant nodded. “I can accept that,” he said, “but I find it hard to believe that you just happened to be here. It does not take long to enter a man’s room and stab him. You had to be waiting for him.”
“I was,” Fisher admitted. “I took the room next to yours and sprinkled peanut shells outside your door. When I heard the shells crack, I came running.”
“So you knew there would be an attempt on my life tonight?” frowned the marshal.
“Not for sure,” Fisher shook his head. “We knew the mage was in the city. He is seeking the location of Angragar. He first appeared as Brakas with a plan to force you to tell of its location, but Brakas is already dead. We had no idea who he might look like the next time, so I waited for him to show up here, just in case. Why do you think Harmagan insisted on protection for you today?”
“You could have warned me,” sighed Wyant.
“The reconciliation between the Jiadin and the Free Tribes is too important,” answered Fisher. “If you had been scared out of the city, it would never have occurred. Besides, we didn’t really think he would just kill you. It is information that he is after.”
“And you took it upon yourself to protect me against a mage with your knife?” questioned the Marshal of Fakara.
“You are still alive, aren’t you?” grinned Fisher.
“I am at that,” chuckled Wyant as he slapped Fisher on the back. “I am indebted to you, Scarab, not only for saving my life. Do not think that I did not notice your pivotal role tonight in swaying the other Jiadin towards the Free Tribes. I will not forget that. I hope they have chosen you as one of the ones to go to Angragar.”
“I cannot go to Angragar,” replied Fisher. “I am leaving in the morning to continue my search for lost friends from the Khadora wars.”
“So you were involved in that fiasco?” frowned Wyant. “Many died in Khadora. I doubt that you will ever find them, but I can’t blame you for looking. I hope we meet again some day.”
“I am sure that we will,” smiled Fisher. “Good luck, Marshal. I am going to try to get some sleep.”
* * *
Marshal Wyant watched the Jiadin warriors ride out of Meliban. Thousands of riders bearing red scarves with a black slash through it surged through the gates of the city and turned to the west. The men were in a jubilant mood at being released from the confines of the city. At the tail end of the procession were a dozen riders who halted next to Wyant. Harmagan gave orders to the group, and six of the men turned eastward, heading for the city of Taggot. The other six sat waiting for Wyant to lead the way to Angragar.
“It has been a long time since I saw so many happy faces, Marshal,” grinned Harmagan. “Lead the way.”
“I am still uneasy about this,” admitted Wyant. “Not one of your men refused the black stripe on his scarf. Am I really to believe that all of the Jiadin have accepted the move to return to the tribes?”
“All of the Jiadin in Meliban have,” replied Harmagan. “There are still those in Taggot. That is why I sent six men there. I cannot force the rest of the Jiadin to make the same choice as we have, but those six will be persuasive. Truthfully,” he smiled, “I cannot imagine any Jiadin not accepting the chance to rejoin the tribes. Living in a city has been like a prison to us. I am sure that those in Taggot will feel the same. It is high time that Grulak and his plans be discarded as past mistakes. The wars of the horsemen are over. Now we join with our brothers to bring death to the invaders. Lead on.”
“I will have to take you at your word,” nodded Wyant, “but I must warn you. The location of Angragar must remain a secret. If the Motangans find out where the lost city is, many of us will die trying to defend it. I prefer to meet our enemy on the plains as any horseman would.”