Once in a while, along the road, they passed travellers. The first two were merchants, whom Aralim spoke to briefly, before continuing on. They passed two or three men in sandy robes who did not speak their language. These three encounters were spaced out by days, for the road from Crossroads to Tal’lashar was long indeed.
When Aralim and his friends were coming down from the arid mountains, they spent a few days walking through the foothills, up and down each ridge, or between when they could. On the second of these days, they came down a hill toward a man that was untying a sizeable dead rodent from a trap. He spotted them coming along the road and hurried what he was doing, yanking at the rope that held the critter.
“Hello,” Aralim called, as they got close.
“Az acha wah’erez adiheh.” The young man’s language was gibberish to Aralim. He scrambled to his feet, leaving the long-tailed mammal in its snare, and hurried away, up the next slope.
Aralim watched him go and looked at Dullah and Devran in confusion. He stepped closer to examine the rodent. It had a forward, prolonged nose, dark coloration on its paws and face, and small clawed feet. Its neck had been snapped—likely by the man who had set the snare that caught it by the hip.
“Look,” Grendar said. He pointed up the slope the man had fled up.
Several travellers stood up there, laden with packs and garbed in long grey or tan robes. One spread his hands over his head, palms out, to show he did not intend to draw arms on them. The hunter who had fled Aralim’s arrival was greeted by two of them. Aralim waved them down to speak.
The people who came down were wearing proper desert attire, despite the mountain slopes around them blocking most of the sand and dryness that Aralim had begun to experience. Some wore masks, but removed them politely. A man with a greying beard came forward, using a gnarled wooden staff as his staff. His raspy voice seemed to match the convolutions of the wood grain in his staff. “Greetings of the road, fellow travelers. You have hailed from far, I see.”
Aralim was relieved the man spoke the common tongue. “Greetings,” he said. “We’ve come from far indeed. Rema, in fact. I’m sorry if we scared your friend.”
“They are, perhaps,” said the man. He smirked through his beard and looked at Dullah and Devran, with their night skin. This man’s comrades were olive-skinned like many Raderans Aralim had seen since coming north from the Ehdburn Coast, but their complexion shone more like bronze metal. “But you… oh, I haven’t seen skin as pale as yours in about thirty years, I reckon. From where have you come?”
“Likely farther south than you are familiar with,” Aralim said, with a smile. “Have you heard of Lantern Town? Although Rema has been my home for the last year.”
The man nodded. “I have heard of Lantern Town. The Asha value knowledge, of any measure, so we do not easily forget the things we have heard. Where do you travel to, if you are willing to share?”
“We’re bound for Tal’lashar,” Aralim explained. “The Asha? I haven’t heard of them before. Are they a religious group or a nation?”
“The Asha are those from Tal’lashar!” The man seemed to be a collection of smiles. He spoke with mirth and delight, though his welcoming demeanor ignored Aralim’s companions. As if cued by that observation, one of the Asha began to speak with Devran. They spoke quietly, intentionally not interrupting the conversation between Aralim and the leader of these journeyers. “Do you have business in our home city, or are you travelling for leisure?”
“Ah, forgive my ignorance about your people’s name. I’m not as well versed in cultures as I should be.” Aralim tapped his staff against the ground as he changed tones: “Though, your value of knowledge has me excited for my time there. I suppose it’s business that has brought me. I’m the Ambassador to the Eternal Emperor.”
The man’s eyes lit up even more. At that juncture, his pleasure was interrupted by the young man Aralim had scared off earlier. The twenty-something tapped the older man on the shoulder and whispered something in their local language. The leader turned back to Aralim. “My son would like to ask for your favour. He knows you are important and that he should not have run as he did.”
“It was only natural,” said Aralim, waving a hand. “We’ve seen our share of dangers on the road. Your son seems like a good young man to me. Though we’ve only just met.”
“He has only just begun speaking, and nothing in other languages.”
Aralim blinked.
Seeing his confusion, the leader smiled endearingly and explained, “In our culture, speaking is something for those with maturity, especially speaking in public. Most children are not invited to speak until they are young adults.”
“I see,” Aralim mumbled. It was certainly a good thing he had not invited Miresh.
“Young ones may speak among each other, but the assertiveness to make one’s voice truly heard comes later.” The man shrugged, as though it wasn’t really something enforced. It was just the way of things.
Aralim looked at the young man again, then back at his father. “Interesting. Is that due to a belief that wisdom comes with age? Or just a tradition that has carried forward?” They were just standing here in the road, having a cultural discussion.
“It has always been. Our words are important to us, and the words we hear is as important,” the man said, scratching his beard. “Those without anything to say choose to respectfully remain silent.”
Aralim decided to move on. “Fascinating. My name is Aralim, by the way. Will you be away from Tal’lashar for long?”
“A pleasure to meet you, Aralim from Lantern Town. I am Vishol Kim’alu,” the traveller said. “We are bringing supplies for the Sentry of Dathadar, who defends the way from Yarik to our great city. It is a little over a Moon’s journey for the round trip.”
Aralim chuckled. “I’m sorry, but I prefer Aralim of the Path. It’s a pleasure to meet you Vishol Kim’alu. Might I suggest we meet again in a Moon’s time? I’m unfortunately a man of great curiosity. I could keep you standing here for days.”
“Of course. I frequent a chillhome near the Dusty Docks, known as Palmleaf Rest, but I will be reporting to the First Tower immediately upon my return to the city,” Vishol explained. He took a deep breath. “If my current venture was of any other goal, I would suggest we continue standing here and set up a camp for our two groups. However, that is not an option today.”
Aralim smiled and bowed his head and shoulders to the man. Vishol returned the gesture. Aralim added, “Safe travels, until we meet again.” He paused, as they started to step to the side of the road. “Oh… there was at least one walking corpse on the road behind us. I don’t know if that’s a concern for you. We left it stumbling along about three weeks ago.”
Vishol Kim’alu looked down somberly for a moment, then explained, “Yarik sends them as taunts, stumbling through the wilderness to the gates of Tal’lashar to upset the populace and demand tribute. The Sentry we go to support patrols the lands around Yarik to prevent such things—and to provide taunts of our own. Every once in a while, one gets through.”
“So you’re at constant war with Yarik?”
The man tilted his head and waved a hand back and forth. “There are no battles… yet. So ‘war’ may not be an apt word. But the ambitions of the sorcerers there are often made known.”
“You can tell me more when next we meet. It sounds like time is of the essence for you.” The sun beat down on them; Aralim was certain he would burn.
“Thank you, Ambassador,” Vishol said, bowing again.
Aralim’s friends walked past. “Stay safe, friends,” called Aralim, over one shoulder, as he followed them up the next hill. Aralim belatedly thought he should have asked them how many more days it would take to arrive in the city. He would have to find out the slow way—despite his excitement for a city full of knowledge-seekers like Master Kim’alu. One foot in front of the next, up the hill and down the other side.