Riding with the Ki'Shii

The wind caressed the prince’s cheeks as he rode in the palankeen; he had been too weak to ride as the nomads did – on the bare backs of their beast- steeds. The animals were called mamuts in the King’s tongue of Allaria, they were larger than oxen yet with a common build. They had hairy manes and hair on the ankles as well. Most were a dull orange in color a few others were dark brown. They did not gallop as did horses, but rather heaved their massive bodies forward as would a charging bull; though no bull would stand a chance against a mamut. The prince sat and wondered how it was that he had come to this – a royalman betrayed and thought dead, a man forgotten and lost, a soul abandoned but for the whims of the Dirt People. And then Prince Cedrik did something he had not done in quite some time, he laughed!

Gwyn heard the laughter for she was the rider of the mamut which pulled the palankeen of her new-found brother. She did not know what to make of this man, this stranger who should have perished in the fields of grass. She did not know what to make of herself; what had prompted her to speak up for him, to ally with him though he could not but barely even speak? He was Ou’lager, an outsider and not even human.*** But she was inspired to speak, to ask, to do that which would keep this man alive. She turned her head and looked at him, he sat upon the cushion even as would an old woman, and yet his smile drew her from contempt to compassion. He was older than she, probably by some ten seasons. His hair was full of white and yet his skin had not wrinkled as did that of the men in her own tribe. To be old yet young, she thought, perhaps this is what prompted her? She shook her head and returned to goading her beast.

By nightfall they came to an outcropping of rock and built a sheltered camp. Cedrik knew that these people did not trust him, he still did not comprehend why they had saved him. He sat under his lean-to – made by the woman Gwyn and another named Tilip. He watched the women as they set it up, he had lost count of the nights since almost dying, since his mind had returned. He also watched the men, and he noticed that they curled their lips when they looked at him, that they murmured to each other and chuckled. Cedrik wondered if he was paranoid, but then shook his head – no, the signs were all too clear – the men saw him as a burden.

Cedrik looked upon his body as the flames of the communal fire roared. The play of shadow and of light created a dance upon his blanket. He removed it slowly and let the dance of the play beam upon his chest, the flesh of his stomach. He looked further down and wondered at what kind of people would do this – what kind of god or goddess would allow such a thing. Cedrik was not angry, he was not sad. The pain he had felt when first coming to consiousness was much lessened and more so by the tea which they gave him to drink. Cedrik looked at his body, desecrated at the hands of these Vile-Faces, desecrated in the name of life! Cedrik looked but did not feel a thing, not anger nor remorse nor frustration. Then he thought of home, a place he carried within him as a memory - it had been so long since he had last spied the spires of his Family castle! He began to laugh again, yet it was bitter-sweet. He wondered of the Knight Fred and the boy Velus, had they survived that horrid night in Mudspot? He wondered of the princess-warrior, what had become of her after leaving him in the wood? He wondered of his friends and his people in Caemlyn; how would his people react if they were to see him now, their Prince whose flesh was carved and painted like a no-good thief in the night! Cedrik lifted the drinking goblet which had been given him and in the firelight he saw an image reflected upon the shiny surface: the image of a man with blue swirls and angles upon his flesh, and that man was him!

Another days ride and Cedrik knew that he was getting farther and farther from his own lands. He had desired to reach Edusalem, the grand City of the Geldan horsemen, but that was before his madness took him to the nightmare realm. By the time he had been revived, by the time his madness had been driven from him, the lands of the horsemen were far to the south. They traversed the lands of the Three Kingdoms now, a land friendly to Allaria, yet these wildmen would not bring him to any towne or city, of that he was sure.

“Old woman!” cried out a voice from beside Cedrik’s palankeen. It was Thom. Cedrik barely spoke to the man but he had already grown a great dislike for him. Cedrik did not answer, he did not even look, to do so would be to acknowledge that he was, indeed, an old woman. After some moments Thom grew tired and faded back into the pack.

At midday they stopped at a stream. Cedrik saw that the waters flowed clean and strong, he drew in a deep breath and felt his lungs expand with ease and power. He was healing; not only from the mad dash from Mudspot, but also from the torture and deprivation he endured within the Caves.

“Old man,” said Brock from behind Cedrik. This was a term he more easily accepted. Cedrik was an elder in the eyes of his own people, and the prince could see that had a number of years on most of the nomads with whom he had found refuge.

“What do you want?” said Cedrik.

“You are too slow.” It was an insult, Cedrik knew – one of many. Gwyn tried to help him, tried to explain how her people lived. The men wanted to ride the wide plains and hills with their game, but with the palankeen all were made to wait. Gwyn had told Cedrik without any hint of emotion that he rightly should be dead, but now that he was ‘one of them’ they would help, but some only begrudgingly.

“Make me faster,” answered Cedrik.

Brock smiled at that. Then he nodded and gestured for Cedrik to follow. Getting up he felt his leg muscles, they were lean – the result of little food in the Caves – but they were stronger now. Brock brought him to the mamuts, they were grazing near the river. Brock pointed to a calf – though a youngling it was easily the size of a milk cow back in Caemlyn. Brock pointed at the calf and Cedrik noticed that a few other of the men and women had gathered as well. “You want me to mount?” asked Cedrik. Brock nodded yes. Cedrik looked at the crowd that had gathered, among the people was Gwyn, she did nothing to stop this. Cedrik wondered if this was their way to prove him; they had kept him alive even though to do so they had bled him and painted his scars. He looked at the crowd, their faces eager with anticipation, they wanted him to become one of them.

*** Ou’lager: in the tongue of the Ki’shii it means outsider, literally it is “non-human.” The Ki’shii believe that if one is not of their blood, their tribe, of their people scattered across the world then one is not human. As such it is acceptable to do any kind of deed to one who is not Ki’shii (this word may be translated as to mean “human”). To have compassion for outsiders is not common, at best it is likened to have pity for a dog or a wildebeast.

1. Cedrik attempts to mount the calfling and fails...
2. Cedrik attempts to mount the calfling and succeeds...
3. Cedrik reconsiders and says he cannot mount the beast just yet...

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