An Aarn "of the Victories" tale. Let me have it.

Shadows of the Dambraga Vale

By

Kirk Johnson

     Yeodan stared out into the far-off horizon; his dark eyes scanning for signs of men or beast. Nothing stirred within his vision. Bandits were much less a danger than an annoyance to the keen-eyed nomad, but the beasts along these roads were legendary. Another glance of the western slopes eased his nerves. He wheeled his horse around and galloped towards the column of dust rising along the road. The caravan scout needed the vigilance of a leopard on the hunt. If not for the greedy merchants who employed him, then for the men with whom he rode and bled with.  He felt fortunate that he didn’t have to suffer the foolish harping of the man who financed the enterprise.  He eased his horse to a cantor along the line as the grunts and snorts from the mammoth gougouns greeted his return. He could hear the incessant arguing of the merchant and lead driver as he passed them in search of the captain of the Caravan Guards.  

     “No!  Are you an imbecile!” the merchant cried. “The gougouns would be trapped if you were to take the Pass of Dabulati.  Just stay on the road east of the Bebensa River and than northeast across the Nlani.  It will take longer, but the safety of the van must be ensured.” 

     The upbraided driver hung his head in reply.  It was his first mission as lead-driver.  The tongue-lashing from the Zarman would not have stung if it were not for the hired-sword standing with to them. He knew the man as a valued member of the Caravansary Guards of Toukar.  The warrior was always a welcomed sight on the craggy hills of the Xargaa terrain, but he was an outsider.  He was not of the Xargaa, Asuah, or of the Ngomaa tribes in the east.  He towered well over most of the men and his accented Xargaa marked him as a Den of the West.  Though no one could decide of which nation.  A simple helm guarded his head and a leather banded-corselet protected his chest.  His expression was stoic as if his mere twenty-years bore the addition of twenty lifetimes.  They called him Boumadjan “the Grim”.  His friends called him Aarn.  But the whispers told that he was once known as Sangara “of the Victories”.

     Another man rode up next to him.  Fasugul was the captain of the guards and an experienced soldier.  His mixed Xaftaan and Daehan blood was tolerated thanks only to his skills with a bow and horse.  Most men had the good-sense not to bring it up.

“Babba Beno”, Fasugul interjected.  “The river will be too deep for the gougouns to cross without molestation from crocodiles. This past rain season has brought the water levels to a dangerous height.

“I sent Yeodan to scout ahead for any possible traps. His report tells of easy passage. Still, I will keep the guards on high alert. This valley is known for its cunning beasts.  So far we’ve been lucky, but soon we’ll be coming into the Dambraga Vale and we must be prepared for anything.”

     Babba Beno and the driver nodded their heads in agreement.  They would have to safely make it through the valley before they can decide on the river or the Pass of Dabulati.  The soft dirt road continued into the valley entrance, as a savannah trail.  It would be slow at first but they would makeup for it once they’ve left the trail. 

*

     The sky darkened and large tears began to cover them in sheets of water. The air chilled in the torrent of the seasons and puffs of smoke exhaled from the living. Aarn dismounted and led his horse along the lumbering line of beast.  He got used to their size and smell, but he could never ride one.  They were too slow for his liking. These were lumbering, thick-skinned behemoths deprived of tusks or horns--only good for bearers.

     Fasugul rode up next to him; a leather cloak shielding him from the hard rain.  “I wish I had stayed when you offered me the chance.  Now I'll never be dry.”

     “Look into my pouch.  I have a gift for you,” replied Aarn.  “I thought you might get like this.”

     “Like what?”

     “Moaning and disagreeable.”

     Fasugul reached into Aarn's saddlebag and pulled out a large long-necked gourd.

     “Kujinga's wine.  I thought you may need it,” Aarn said.

     “'Boumadjan the Grim' now decides to bear gifts”, mocked Fasugul.  “Careful, or the men may lose respect for you.”

     “And the first one who voices it losses more than their teeth,” joked Aarn.

     They shared the gift of warm wine as brothers at a feast.  They had shared more in the service of Toukar, with the sweet to be gratefully shared and the bitter to solidify their friendship. 

     “I still have misgivings about this enterprise. We should have gone around the valley instead of through it” Aarn confided. Fasugul handed Aarn the gourd with a long exhaling belch.

     “Why? Have the tales of misfortunate curled your liver?”

     “The prattling of cowards presses not my concerns. It’s the beast who leave their spore in the road.” A quick nod directed Fasugul to the crisscrossing tracks left in the mud. He could make out the strange paw prints, which resemble a lion or hyena, but also human. Bandits and beast frequent this pass and the thought of their company kept his nerves on edge.

     “Here take a swallow and let it ease your concerns,” Fasugul said, waiting for Aarn to take it. “We have trained recruits and veterans in our company.”

     Warm wine rolled from the fluted neck and filled his mouth. Drops of rain slipped through mixing with the liquid courage. It’s sourness burned his throat. He recalled the tales of vanished goods and missing cargo. The merchants swore they were no ordinary bandits, but ghost or phantoms of the haunted pass. The wine reminded him of the realities of the world, not phantoms just very hungry cats or exceptionally clever thieves.

     The rain mixed with the mist rising through the valley and night was not far behind. The travelers pressed on, as their once easy road became a muddy wet hindrance, meandering deep into the Dambraga Vale.  The gougouns padded feet kept them from sinking, but it slowed them down to a steady and deliberate pace. The sky kept up its heavy down pour creating a miserable scene for any who watched. Rain covered their hooded heads and turned manes into stringy, limp strings. The mud covered their legs with its sloppy, brown grime. And the dark clouds covered the skies so no one saw solitary shapes in the distance. Amber eyes gazed from a far-off rise to the east. A short shaggy mane blew in the wet breeze as seven more joined the vigil. Silently, they watched the caravan. The rain soaked into their manes and drops of fresh water dripped onto their snouts as paws squeezed the mud. Their interest focused on the small carts hanging off the sides of one of the gougouns. The lead lion, whose mane was streaked with black moved downed the opposite side of the hill and the others followed in a ragged line. And as the rain eased and the clouds drifted south, the night sky opened with a hundred twinkling stars in a deep blanket of azure as a cloak bejeweled with diamonds. 

     The caravan halted within the vale, to the consternation of the Toukar Guards. Fasugul urged Beno to continue on, but the plump merchant would have none of it. He was so accustomed to the easy life that these long marches were taken with as many breaks as he could squeeze in; a break for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and as many in between for the luxury of light snacking. Night was steadily approaching, so Fasugul ordered his men to raise camp.  They would rather have marched on through the night and emerge out of the valley at dawn, but this was not to be.

     Tents were raised and fires stoked. They fed the gougouns and their horses a mixture of hay with Balazan leaves and then covered their heads to ease them into sleep. The Fouta and M’bayar mares were particularly restless and their hooves constantly stamped the muddy slop. The scouts, mostly Gurchen and Urkgin nomads from the Southern continent, slept close to them.  The chill air and wet ground did little to dampen their watchfulness. In their land the horse was their most treasured possession, a custom they readily took with them from across the sea.

     Fasugul had just checked on the gougoun riders before he decided to settle in. He approached a small campfire were Aarn and a few of the other guards had been drying themselves. the rains had stopped, but the mist clung to them as the mud it created.

     “Aarn! How are the sentries?” he said.

     Aarn seemed more focused on oiling his sword then the duties of the guard. “I placed some of the night-watch close to the packs and perched archers on top of the gougouns for support.