Chapter 18 - A New Direction

There will be ten men to a Scale, five Scales to a Claw, ten Claws to a Wing, and two Wings to a Dragon.

- Manuals of the Mercenary’s Guild.

We reached the camp’s outer ring just as the sun dipped low enough to turn the world bronze—and found Cordelia waiting for us, utterly alone. No guards flanked her, for the magical long sword strapped across her back was the only protection she needed. 

She wore desert-tribe raiment of bleached white and light grey thrown loosely over plates of steel. Not a single line marred her face; the unkind desert sun and rigors of conflict had failed to touch her, as though forever was her mirror. Her eyes—emerald and unnervingly ancient—caught mine with the same calm certainty I remembered, and her hair remained as red as a forged flame.

“Lord Herald,” she intoned, voice low yet carrying like a temple gong in the silence. “We have awaited your coming.”

“Cordelia,” I answered, my words thinner than intended. The woman always unsettled me; devotion that pure can wither or burn.

That smile deepened, serene and unshakeable—the smile of a believer staring directly into her Goddess’s light. It was not me she revered but the ideal I embodied, and the weight of that mistaken worship pressed heavily. 

“Permit me to offer you the hospitality of my tent,” she said, inclining her head with ceremonial grace. “There is much I would hear…and more I would learn.”

She turned, and like a comet’s tail, we followed her deeper into the camp, Theodore a curious ball behind me.

Larynda, irreverent as always, mimicked the beautiful woman’s tone and voice, as she would often do in years long past. If Cordelia noticed, she showed no sign beyond an enigmatic curve of the lips, as though even her insolence had already been forgiven by some vast and merciful decree.

The camp itself was a riot of silken chaos. Tents of crimson and indigo, saffron and viridian jostled for space, their colors clashing so violently that the whole encampment seemed a living field of spring flowers transplanted. 

Yet the faces moving among them were carved from sterner stone: warriors tightening spear-thongs, scribes weighed down with clay tablets, healers guiding patients past braziers that hissed with incense. Children pointed at us, at me, or perhaps just at Theodore’s large form, before their mothers hushed them and tugged them aside. The elders watched with expressions balanced between suspicion and sacred awe, but none dared offer a single word of scorn.

I saw something that gave me pause: men walking hand in hand like lovers. They spoke softly to one another, heads tilted close, and their manner unsettled me. I had not thought such open displays of affection between men would be so common among these barbarians. The sight stirred in me a quiet confusion, even discomfort, and at last, unable to reconcile it, I turned to Cordelia.

She laughed—light, crystalline, like rain falling on marble. “Lord Herald,” she said, eyes gleaming with faint mischief, “that is not what you think. Among the tribes of the Whispering Wastes, holding hands is simply a sign of friendship. When the sandstorms rise and the world turns to dust, only by linking arms can you avoid being lost to the wind.”

I looked away, my face burning with shame. I had assumed perversity where there was only survival, mistaken tenderness for deviance. Her smile lingered, and though she said nothing more, I felt the sting of my ignorance keenly.

Our destination soon loomed: not a tent so much as a stitched-cloth palace, its pavilions linked by covered corridors, its panels dyed a regal, bruised purple that softened the gaudy clash around it to obedient hush. Men took our mounts away from us, calming even Theodore with soft coos and gentle touches. I warned them to be careful, but they were all polite, servile smiles. They were skilled, for not once did my Lumashitu thump the ground with his spiked tail, a sure sign of the six-legged beast’s annoyance and a prelude to violence.

Seeing that our animals would be well taken care of, Cordelia swept aside a heavy flap and ushered us in.

The air inside was improbably cool. Tall clay jars brimming with water stood open-mouthed at the entry, each vessel bleeding a whisper of evaporation that fought the desert heat. Beyond them stretched a carpeted avenue thick enough to swallow footfalls, leading into a hall wide as a chieftain’s dream. Zajasite crystal lights shone up overhead, dripping blue light onto tapestries of battle. Silent servants bowed so low their foreheads nearly brushed the rugs, reverence shining in their eyes.

Cordelia gestured to a low cedar table at the chamber’s heart, its surface polished to midnight. “Please, sit, Lord Herald,” she said, a single clap summoning attendants with trays of chilled wine and dishes piled high with fruit shimmering in honey. Her gaze lingered, poised between inquiry and benediction, as if the next words we spoke might shift the very axis of the war beyond these walls.

I took my seat, feeling the hush coil tighter around us.

And lastly they brought out tea, spiced and hot, the steam curling upward in fragile ribbons that carried hints of cardamom, cinnamon, and some rarer desert blooms which I could not name; the first sip burned my tongue yet spread a slow amber warmth through my chest, loosening some of the tension I felt.

Larynda and I partook of the tea and refreshments before us, and once the forms were met, it was time to start the conversation in earnest.

I told Cordelia everything. She shook her head at Kidu’s death—like many, she had respected the wild man of the frozen north. Elwin’s death drew only a sigh and a resigned nod, as if she had expected it. I described my fight with Alexandros, how I escaped his trap, the Trial of the Goddess, and defeated him. She shivered, as though struck by a revelation. When I spoke of the battles with the Mer and the Elves, she looked thoughtful, for she had been a direct participant in those bloody engagements. I kept silent about Vincenzio the Necromancer and our dark pact; some matters are best left unspoken. Finally, I recounted Aelayah’s betrayal, and Cordelia’s eyes darkened.

“That they would reject the Herald himself…” she said angrily, her flawless features flushed with indignation.

I raised a hand to calm her. “It’s for the best. We’ve stayed too long in this corner of the continent. This conflict has changed me—opened my eyes. I think it’s time I saw more of the world, not just this patch of sand beside the sea.”

“As you say,” Cordelia replied, offering a small nod. “Still…”

“It grates, I know. But it’s of no real consequence. Let them play their games—I’ve no interest in it anymore.”

“And what is it that you wish of the Faith?” she asked, voice softer now.

“The Faith?”

“Those I’ve gathered in your name. What would you have them do?”

I paused, letting the question settle before a new idea took shape—one equal parts vision and strategy. “I want them to integrate with the people of Al-Lazar. Let them become one people again. The Green Road should bring prosperity to all. Let the city manage the trade, but let the tribes control its movement. That is my wish.”

Her brow furrowed as she considered it. “I worry such a life will dull their edge. It’s a harsh land that shapes harsh people. So much water, so much ease—these things soften the spirit. Life away from the Whispering Wastes will change them.”

“Times change,” Larynda cut in with a pointed smirk.

I nodded. “As my ward says, times are always changing. Let them know peace. Let them flourish. The dead deserve more than memory—they deserve legacy. Weakness isn’t the mark of a dying people; it’s often the sign of one that has succeeded. And not all will stay. Some will keep to the old ways. There’s room enough for both.”

“There is wisdom in your words, Herald,” Cordelia said with a slow, knowing smile. “With the Djinn defeated, the deep deserts may finally be a safer home. The people of the Wastes have always been free. Now, at least, they will have choices.”

A shame, really. I felt nothing for them—not hatred, not fondness. Strangers, all of them. They could die by the hundreds and I wouldn’t flinch. But allies? Allies were always useful, especially in a region I no longer planned to call my own.

After all, who could say what the future might demand?

A servant approached—comely, her head wrapped in a pale scarf—and leaned close to whisper something into Cordelia’s ear. A flicker of annoyance passed briefly through her green eyes.

“I have a guest who wishes to speak with you, Gilgamesh,” she said smoothly.

“This is going to be fun. I can just feel it,” Larynda muttered, sipping her tea before popping a sweet into her mouth.

“Who is it?” I asked.

Cordelia’s eyes met mine with quiet intent. “He claims to be a former associate of yours. A Mercenary.”

She paused, then added with a touch of dry humor, “His name is Lord de Savant. Another Aranthian, far from home. I know of his family… troublesome people. Many dark rumors surround them.”

“I’ll see him. If you’d extend to him the hospitality of your tent, Cordelia,” I replied with a nod.

“Very well,” she said, turning to the servant. “Elissa, tell Lord de Savant we will receive him.”

“At once, samasa,” the girl replied sweetly. I watched her go—robes swaying just enough to tease the eye.

It had been a long time since I had last lain with a woman.

Elissa soon returned, drawing the veils aside to reveal Damien de Savant. Midnight-black hair framed his porcelain features, and the familiar sneer on his lips softened—though never vanished—into a knowing grin meant only for me.

“Gilgamesh,” he began, lowering himself into the seat at my right with practiced elegance. “It has been quite some time.”

“Damien,” I replied simply with a curt nod.

“Oh, I have heard a lot of news about you. The whole city is afire with it. A fine reward, isn’t it? Spill rivers of blood, force a people to peace, claim a throne for your lady love, and our dear Aelayah thanks you by showing you the door.”

I hid a flare of irritation behind a slow reach for a honey-glossed fig. “Fortunes shift. I am at peace with it.”

“Oh, they do.” Damien’s grin widened, all dry charm and calculation. “You’re not the only one with ’shifted fortunes.’  I thought it would be a wonderful thing, a battlefield promotion and filling in empty shoes. But the whole thing is such a big bother. I finally understand why Calder was always looking like he had swallowed a sour plum. My Dragon, one thousand men good and true, when we first pledged to the Salahaem, now has but seven men in ten. Keeping the Holder Houses pacified, ambushes in alleys from disgruntled locals… too bloody a place to stay longer without a clear enemy.”

Across the table, Larynda peeked at him over her teacup. I ignored it.

Damien plucked a single honeyed seed, rolling it between two fingers. “After a tally like that, even I know when to quit the field. The dwarves of Bronzegate Hold have offered terms. Gold by the ingot, iron-clad contracts, and more ale than a regiment can drink. You always said that one day you planned to visit their Holds… All we have to do is help them deal with a problem of theirs.”

I raised a brow. “I do not recall saying such, and things are never quite so simple as they seem.”

“Well, I do,” he insisted. “They are offering so much wealth that you could go blind just thinking about it. Still, I must warn you, Bronzegate lies far beyond these deserts. Weeks of travel through the goblin-infested jungles to the North past the desert. A hard road, but the reward?” He snapped the honeyed seed into his mouth. “Enough to buy back every life we lost and a thousand more.”

Larynda set down her cup with a decisive clink. “You should go.”

“Meaning?” I asked, keeping my eyes on Damien.

“I will tell you later,” she said, masking her expression behind her sleeve. “There is something that you need.”

Obnoxiously, text intruded upon my vision.

New Quest: Travel to Bronzegate Hold.        

Accept: Yes/No

Gritting my teeth, I pretended to smile, the choice already being taken from me as I chose to accept. Bronzegate Hold, it was a good a destination as any, but I felt that I was being herded down a certain path. 

Perhaps the man was right, perhaps I did speak of Bronzegate to him. A name rose to the fore of my mind… Durhit and a promise I had made to him. But why did I make an important promise to a traitor?

Damien pretended not to notice my little episode, peeling back the rind from a spiked fruit. “Think on it. The dwarves pay in heavy coin and heavier favors. They are a people who value men who finish what they start.”

I filled my goblet with watered wine and lied smoothly. “I will need the night to think upon this.”

Cordelia, silent till now, inclined her head. “Where the Herald travels, I follow.”

Damien lifted his wine in salute, smoke-grey eyes gleaming. “Then I await your word. We must go as soon as possible.” He swept his gaze over us—Cordelia’s calm, Larynda’s curiosity, my guarded stare—before washing his fingers in a scented bowl and wiping them with a napkin. “Sleep quickly, old friend. Opportunity seldom waits for second thoughts. I will bid you adieu for now.”

He drained his cup, rose with effortless grace, and let the veils fall closed behind him, leaving only the lingering scent of his cologne and the promise of dwarven gold.