Seszil: Sliver
Ohu Mond’s canyon walls rise high over Seszil, cutting the Orb’s bright light to a thinning sliver this late in the day. The beam of light tracks higher up the ravine’s vertical face, towing shadows behind, as the Krysar walks into the Maroe’s largest city.
Covered in dust from the long walk into the deep valley, the Krysar barely sparkles as lights flicker to life in the stalls running along the ravine’s floor. Oil lamps begin dimly dancing in the hundreds of cutouts dotting the canyon wall older Maroe have claimed as their homes. The sound of hissing comes from high above, the clang of metal striking metal, and the crash of rock. Seszil looks up and sees a fount of rubble blow out of a cutout, along with the dark shape of a Maroe squirming in the midst of the falling debris, its wings beating hard to get free. There’s a flash of midnight blue hex in the dust and a pair of wings are detached from their owner.
A shriek of pain cuts through the air, and the wingless Maroe drops to the ground with the stones. Seszil doesn’t need to approach the pile to know the Maroe is dead. Neither, apparently, does anyone else.
Seszil looks back up and sees the cutout’s occupant—old or new, Seszil doesn’t know—slither back into the shelter, sheathing a giant, double-edged sword.
What a permanent way to determine occupancy. Requires less paperwork, however.
“You disapprove of our me’ods, pilgrim?”
Seszil turns, looks up, and discovers a Maroe has taken a particular interest in it. While this Maroe stands head and shoulders above Seszil, the Krysar can tell it is not fully grown. Rivulets of blood drop from a shallow cut across the Maroe’s chest, and the wound looks even deeper in the advancing night.
“I am a missionary. Not a pilgrim, thank you.”
“’ere’s a difference?”
“Yes. A pilgrim seeks freedom. I seek to provide assistance. I suspect you quite need it,” Seszil says, pointing at the Maroe’s injury.
“No. ‘is is nothing. Nuziarm wanted to greet you, guide you. ‘e High Marovet gave me ‘at honor and I kept it,” the Maroe says in his ticking voice, puffing his chest out and causing the wound to bleed freely again. “I can survive ‘is easily. He cannot survive wi’out his ‘roat.”
“Ah, that is why no one met my shuttle. You killed him,” Seszil says.
“I did. Easily.”
“Why?”
“He would have done ‘e same to me.”
“Death is life on Sareste.” I didn’t think it was so literal.
Seszil cranes its head up, nearly standing on its toes as it tries to look the youth in the eyes. The Maroe stares back at the Krysar, eyes dark, maw firmly shut, and arms crossed above the cut. Seszil lets the moment drag on, waiting for the Maroe to blink, flinch, or realize he is bleeding all over himself. There isn’t even the slightest twitch from its leathery wings.
“What’s your name,” the Krysar finally asks.
“Igarosh,” the Maroe says. “‘he Over Marovet bids you welcome to Ohu Mond, Krysar.”
There’s a complicated movement about Igarosh’s wings as he bends where his waist would be if he had legs and spreads his arms wide. Seszil attempts to mimic the gesture and ends up striking a passing Maroe in the tail. A heavy fist slams into the Krysar’s head, snaps it to the side, and Seszil eats dirt as it falls. When it props itself up onto an elbow and starts to apologize, it realizes the Maroe is gone.
So, too, is Igarosh.
Wings thump behind Seszil. The Krysar rolls over to face the new threat, clenching its fist.
Igarosh stares down at Seszil. His maw is folded into the shape Seszil will come to recognize as a smile.
“If you are my guide, I assume you are also my guard, yes?” Seszil gets to its feet and uselessly tries to brush the dirt off itself.
“Not when ‘ey’re bigger ‘an me.”
“You don’t strike me as someone to back down from a fight.”
“Only when ‘ey’re bigger ‘an me, or ‘ey’re facing me, Krysar.” Igarosh glances up, seeing the thin ringlet of light tracing the canyon’s rim. “Come. ‘he Over Marovet is waiting for you. ‘ey’re having a feast in your honor.”
“Why? I do not eat.”
“‘ey do.”
Seszil follows Igarosh, and watches as he flutters and slithers through the crowds of Maroe doing the same thing. Fights break out at random intervals, with fists, pottery, mugs, knives, and swords doing far more talking than their owners. Stalls crash and crumble in the larger melees, while thin throwing knives dart through the air like bugs.
How does anything get done around here? Does this only happen at night?
The Krysar voices its question aloud.
“Sometimes it does, but you can fight anytime. Somebody may be in your way, missionary.”
“That’s enough reason to end someone’s life?”
Igarosh flaps his wings in one fast motion and somersaults in the air. His face nearly touches Seszil’s as he answers.
“Life, dea’, it’s all ‘e same ‘ing, Krysar. We leave, we come back. Lose ‘e fight ‘is life, win it ‘e next. Get over ‘e rest and stay ‘ere.”
With another graceful flip, Igarosh turns and leads the way to the Over Marovet, where the city’s leaders are waiting to greet the first missionary they’ve received in more than 100 years. The seven Maroe will feast into the early hours of the morning, leaving Seszil to stand off to the side and marvel at their prodigious appetites.
In two days, one of those seven Maroe will be dead, having lost a fight—and his head—to his greatest rival.
Seszil will follow Igarosh through all of Ohu Mond, from the Marovet in charge of the water collection canopies to the dens under the city where they care for the Maroe young. One night soon, Igarosh will succumb to seven stab wounds and bleed out behind the armory.
Seszil will greet its new guide, Norion, with the respect she deserves, and she will hold the honor for an entire year. Seszil will buy her a set of bracers and chestplate as a reward for her long service, and when Fragrosh arrives wearing them the next morning, the Krysar will feel more sadness than it expected. It will add to the Krysar’s understanding of Maroe culture and its reliance on conflict at every level.
Seszil will watch the midnight dances preceding every Maroe raid on the Agoa with awe. The drums will pound in its ears and rattle its crystals against each other. Howls will echo endlessly down the canyons, pouring into the night air, and filling the Krysar’s soul. On those nights, seeing blades casting warped reflections of firelight, Seszil will begin to understand how such murderous creatures can be so graceful. Watching the entwining, writhing Maroe preparing for their next battle, and perhaps their own death, will send a singular thought running through Seszil’s mind.
One day I will move like that.