ROPE SCOUTING p.1

“ARE we far from the next village?” Isaiah asked. It was their third day of riding, and the darkening sky bore a cloudy promise of an approaching storm. Though feeling slightly less clumsy in the saddle, Indra seemed more tense in her movements, despite the road having straightened as they got closer to the center of Nahbí.

“We will be in Bharoos in a few hours.” Tzelem grunted. “Hopefully it won’t be completely uninhabited...”

“Uninhabited?”

“People are fleeing to where the grass is greener.”

“To Delta?”

“Most go to Nagár.“ Isaiah had never been to the capital before, but

his grandfather had described it as chaotic, stinky and so noisy only deaf men could hear themselves think. Why anyone would flee there, he could hardly understand, but then again people often seemed to make awfully odd decisions for themselves.

“The town has been an important merchant center for years. My brother has contacts there and knows the Patron. Should be safe enough. We shouldn’t stay too long though.”

“You don’t trust the village people?”

“I don’t trust people. Everyone has an agenda these days, and we don’t have time for any other than our own.”

“Your own.” Isaiah thought, but remained silent. The sooner they could get down south, the faster he’d be back north.

***

Arriving in Bharoos, it soon became clear it was nothing more than a large ghost town – similar to the many they’d ridden by, but the size somehow made the sight more daunting. They rode by rows of abandoned homes (mostly made of rusty, red bricks). The shops seemed to be placed around the center of a square, rooming a large, waterless fountain, sculpted by the same white material as the statues in the Huxley’s ballroom. Flower beds circled it, and it might have made it beautiful if anyone had bothered investigating what bloomed this time of year. Instead, it just made the site look browner. Blending to the dusted, gray stone that made up the foundational flooring. Loose hens and half-filled sacks of grain spread across it. As they rode past broken store windows, and locks, hoping to find someone that might be able to assist them with supplies, an elderly man appeared in front of them. He was well-dressed, in a long, black cape reaching to his ankles, and a silver brooch holding his linen shirt together at his thick neck – equally tight as his expression.

“There is nothing left here, you need to carry on to the next town.” His brown eyes were empty and his mouth carried a polite, hopeless smile that seemed to struggle against gravity, along with the rest of his face.

“When did people leave? Everything seemed fine a few weeks back.”

“People have always been fleeing from here Sir. And dying...” He sighed.

“Are you the only one left? We’re seeking the town Patron, Damien Orin. We’re on a mission on the behalf of the Huxley fortress, and Lord Huxley...”

“The Patron has departed too, I’m afraid.” The man interrupted him.

“Are you... alright, Sir?” Isaiah asked. Away from the struggling smile, he didn’t look well. He was fortunate enough to never have seen anyone taken by plague, but knew the skin turned paler, then grayer, before finally spreading red and black spots across the body. Most didn’t live long enough to reach the latest stages of it.

“Yes, young man. I have everything I need. In fact, I’ve never been beer. It was always so very noisy...” he responded non- convincingly, then paused as he met the young man’s eyes. Had it not been for the long, brown locks of hair, hiding the familiar, firm outlines of his chin and jaw, he might have allowed himself to believe he’d seen another ghost that day. It hardly mattered anymore, so he regained some momentum as he resumed: “If you ride north for a few hours you will find another town. From what I’ve heard there are still people there. Not as many as before, but their fields are still fertile, and they seem to be doing... alright at least.”

“Thank you, but we’re moving south.” Tzelem said, turning his horse abruptly.

“You’ll be riding for days, Sir. The plague has acted most cruelly in this area. Most managed to flee before it reached us, but I assure you there won’t be anyone left in the next three villages...”

“We shall see what we find. Goodbye.”

As usual, Tzelem seemed to have little time to spare, and the flatness in his voice revealed his annoyance all too clearly. Indra was eager to follow along, but Isaiah slowed her down, feeling they’d acted impolitely towards the poor stranger. Even if he claimed he’d chosen to stay, he pitied him, but as he turned to make some sort of apology, the man was already gone.

“We didn’t pass any village a few hours back, did we?” Isaiah asked, finally catching up with Tzelem.

“No. That village fool doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

“Are you certain?”

“Of course I’m certain.” He quickly regreed the question, reminding

himself that though he didn’t trust Tzelem’s judgement as far as his plan went, he should with anything geography related. After years of wandering, he ought to know the area as well as a Zura.

“Will we need to ride for days with no supplies then? What about the rope you needed? They must have left some rope there...”

“Let’s see what happens. These journeys are all about the unpredictable...” It was true, and other than the constant discomfort of hunger and fear (both being rather predictable), it was what Isaiah found the least appealing about it.

They’d only ridden a few miles before hearing the sound of galloping hooves behind them.

“Somebody is coming. They might know something, a town closer to here or...”

“I know these roads, boy. We have all the information we need, and I don’t like talking with strangers. You can’t trust anyone in this area.”

“Why are we speeding up?”

“They might be bandits, angry tribal men – or worse.” He hissed, and with that in mind Isaiah gave Indra a kick of encouragement. He had no desire to meet with any of it – especially not whatever might be considered worse than a bandit or a tribal man. The Zuras were fortunately far away, but he knew there were other tribes. For the most part, you could avoid them as long as you stuck to the roads, but there was no certainty to it. Whoever they were, they were getting closer, and when a man’s voice demanded them to stop, it became very clear they were indeed being chased.