The door to Madame Sho’s swung open, and several humans bustled in. As they weaved through the crowded room, Yechvan thought he recognized the woman in the lead.
“Zeni, is that you?” Zu asked, bouncing from the bench to approach her. The woman in question was the same one he’d lain with before their trip to the temple, the one Grask had immediately fallen in love with.
They embraced and exchanged a few sweet words and a sweeter kiss before Zu led her over to the booth. “You two, I’d like to introduce you to Zeni. A dear friend of mine, and one I was glad to learn hasn’t yet left the area.” Zu looked at her as if she were the only person in the room. Yechvan knew how good that felt. Zu had a way of making a person believe they could take on the entire world with him by their side.
“Zeni, this is Yechvan—”
“Yechvan Uldi. It is such an honor to [finally] meet you.” Pushing past Zu, Zeni clasped Yechvan’s forearm with both hands, jostling Ulula in her fervor. “You’ve no idea how much I’ve heard about you.”
He had some idea, based on her reaction.
When Zeni managed to tear her eyes away, she turned to Ulula. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“Ulula,” she grunted, hackles raised.
Zeni blinked in surprise. “Ulula of the Wind?”
Mollified slightly, Ulula bobbed her head in acknowledgment.
“Gods to hell, Zu Godra, Yechvan Uldi and Ulula of the Wind, all at the same table.” She shook her head in astonishment. “The tales of your exploits on the western front are legendary. I myself was stuck in the east.”
“Oh, you fought in the Great Northern War, did you?” Ulula’s chin tilted up a fraction as she reappraised the woman.
“If you can call it fighting.” Zeni said, slipping nimbly into the booth. Zu followed. “There were a few battles, but you caught the brunt of it, from the stories I’ve heard.”
“Zeni tells the greatest stories.” Zu’s admiring eyes hadn’t strayed from her for an instant.
“Come now, Zu,” she said, smacking him on the arm.
“What brings you to the sister cities?” Yechvan asked.
“I am come to ask the qish for his blessing and assistance to open a school in Dura-Se. I’m not cut out for the life of a soldier.”
“I didn’t know we had a choice,” Ulula laughed.
“Last year my father died and left me a modest fortune, the only good thing he ever did for me. I felt it was my responsibility to use it for something respectable. There are hundreds of children with no family, orphaned by the conflict and the hard times that followed. My friend and I thought we could give them a purpose and an education.”
Ulula nodded her approval and poured Zeni a cup of mead. “How did the two of you meet?”
A bright smile spread across Zeni’s lips. “Before the war, Zu and I were both stuck in Oonkowt. I was training as a soldier at the local garrison while Zu was busy learning from the masters. As Eroa would have it, we frequented the same establishments. Not terribly exciting, but there it is.”
During the two years Yechvan had lived in the Five Nations, the qish had sent Zu to the south to hone his skills with the best polearm masters that the nations of Banx and Peryn had to offer.
“Oh, come now.” Zu pounded his cup on the table, a few drops splashing over the rim. “We spent almost a year together, laughing and exchanging stories.”
“But then the war,” Yechvan finished.
“Zu rushed home to find you,” Zeni said. “He worried you might have gotten caught in the Five Nations. We agreed to see each other the following year, but the fighting lasted so long.”
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“I left word with the innkeeps in Oonkowt, but I never heard from you. Why didn’t you come to the capital sooner?” Zu asked.
Zeni shrugged. “I guess I never had your courage.”
“Is that why you’re leaving soldiering behind?” Ulula asked.
Zeni chuckled uncomfortably. “Yes, I suppose so. I found I had little taste for battle when it came to it.”
“That’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Yechvan said. He shot Ulula a scathing glance and nudged her under the table. She waved him off.
“I’ll never make a name for myself on the field as you have done, but I can teach discipline and proper technique. I can train boys and girls to defend themselves and follow commands. My friend grew up in a temple devoted to Koruzan. The school was her idea.”
“Your friend is an orc?” Ulula asked.
“Aye. She’s been blind since birth, but she’s quick as a whip and passionate about teaching the children histories and numbers and magick.”
“Why not send them to the temple in Dura-Se?”
“It was destroyed during an earthquake a few years back. Many of the priests died in the collapse too. The city has begun to rebuild, but the children need homes and food now, lest they get caught stealing and lose more than their childhood.” She shook her head. “Gods to hell, too much time has passed already.”
Ulula opened her mouth to ask yet another question, but Yechvan cut her off.
“Why don’t you share some of your stories?” he asked, ending Zeni’s interrogation. Ulula huffed in disappointment, but Zeni smiled.
She obliged, sharing anecdotes about spreading mischief with Zu around Oonkowt, cavorting in taverns, exploring the city and its First-Age ruins when they weren’t training or cleaning or building. She had nothing but praise for Zu’s prowess with the yari, claiming he’d bested all his teachers by the end.
Several patrons had gathered to listen in. By then, even Ulula had warmed to the gregarious woman. It wasn’t hard to see why Zu and Zeni had got on so well.
“But what I really want to know”—Zeni hiccupped, working on her fourth cup—“is if the story of your duel with Dorin the Deadly is exaggerated.”
Yechvan grunted and turned away. He hated to hear that awful moniker used to describe his old teacher and friend, one of the few from the Five Nations who had treated him with respect and love.
Zu had the presence of mind to make eye contact with Yechvan, to correct her. “His name was Dorin Sen, and no, the story is not exaggerated.”
“Exaggerated,” Ulula scoffed. “No story can capture the brilliance, the sheer divinity of these two. Let me tell you—” she hesitated, knowing Yechvan would object to being dragged into her tale. But she did it anyway. With a half-hearted, apologetic grin, she pointed at him. “The way this one moved us about the landscape, always ten steps ahead. We were—”
The chanting began. “Yechvan toh Zu—”
“Not yet,” Ulula commanded, recapturing the crowd’s attention. “The Great Northern War had been raging for two years. We were tired and hungry and freezing, outnumbered, our blades and bodies and armor beaten and battered. We’d lost too much ground to Dorin Sen, one of the greatest generals in the long and storied history of the Five. But Yechvan Uldi, Yechvan Uldi, at just fourteen years of age, outsmarted him. First, we fended off an attack meant to cripple us, holding out at Shuju Pass. Then we took the fight to him, harrying his supply lines and giving our reinforcements time to arrive. With fresh troops, we gained the upper hand in the Battle of Uryu Hill and forced Dorin Sen to agree to Lokanu. Single combat, a duel to the death, to decide the fate of our two great armies.”
The rattle of the chant recommenced, but she closed her fist and rose dramatically, forcing it back into the deep caverns of their throats. “Dorin Sen himself chose to fight against the mighty Zu Godra, the only blooded to be touched by Koruzan. The Senda Clan’s greatest warrior. Divine wielder of the yari. As if possessed by the goddess of war, Algernica herself, Zu danced around the battlefield. And when he ended Dorin Sen’s life, his roar descended from atop that hill like rumbling thunder born of Karata’s breast.”
An avalanche of voices broke through Ulula’s barricade. “Yechvan toh Zu han groch Koruzan, ni droch ga. Ni droch koh, ni droch kah! Yechvan toh Zu! Havadrach oog!” They built upon one another in a rolling crescendo, sending gooseflesh up Yechvan’s arms and neck.
The room swelled with the sound of their voices—a skin filled to bursting. The revelry, so loud it shook the cups upon the table, buried Yechvan in his warring emotions.
Pride in what he and Zu and Ulula had accomplished half a decade ago, stealing an impossible victory from the maw of certain defeat. Heartache for the void left by Dorin Sen, the absence of his brilliant mind and wise counsel. Sorrow for his lost comrades and friends. Shame for the eager anticipation he felt when he envisioned the late nights devising stratagems—the euphoria when they worked gloriously, the agony when they failed spectacularly. Trepidation for all the men and women he would soon be forced to bury or burn.
A hundred hundred lost souls watched him. They had listened to Ulula in disapproving silence, occupying every space the living flesh didn’t consume. When the conflict with Peryn was finally over, if Yechvan had the misfortune to survive, how many more would he send to join their number? Perhaps even some of the people in that very room, listening to that very tale of victory against all odds. Surrounded by the raucous cheers and effusive celebrations of the living and the stony faces of the dead, Yechvan nearly succumbed to his bleak thoughts.
And then Zu dragged him back from the brink. Pulling Yechvan to his feet, he wrapped one strong arm around Yechvan’s shoulders, raised the other in triumph. And Zu’s light beat back the darkness, if only for a moment.
