Richard Tuttle - Winged Warrior

The assembled Jiadin leaders glanced at one another in silence. Finally, Harmagan broke the quiet.

“You must explain this to all of the men in the park tonight,” Harmagan demanded. “I also think the Jiadin should be returned to the plains and the mountains. We are not a defending army. Our strength lies in the swift attack on slow moving armies. Our talents are wasted in Meliban.”

Wyant stared at his old foes and suddenly saw them in a new light. His main focus as Marshal of Fakara had been to avoid fighting the Jiadin. Segregating them in Meliban and Taggot had solved that problem, but now he saw that he was wasting a valuable resource, if they could be trusted.

“I am willing to talk about a change in duties for the Jiadin,” offered Wyant, “but I cannot allow the lawlessness that existed in the past to reoccur. How can I be assured that the Jiadin will fight the same war that the Free Tribes are fighting?”

Harmagan fell silent for a moment as he tried to figure out how to answer the question. The other Jiadin leaders looked on in confusion. They were not quite sure what Harmagan was trying to accomplish.

“There is no easy answer to your question,” Harmagan finally replied. “The Jiadin have been very deceitful lately, but they have also been deceived by others. Truth has become elusive for all of us. What I can tell you is that the Jiadin were once valiant warriors, before the time of Grulak. Unlike many of the present day Jiadin, I was born with a red scarf. That honor still runs through my veins. If what you are saying about the Motangans is true, and I now believe it to be true, I will offer up my life in the defense of our homeland. No foreign army has the right to march through the Land of the Tribes. All I am asking of King Rejji and the Free Tribes is the chance to fight like a warrior, to die like a warrior, with honor.”

Wyant stared at the Jiadin leader for a few moments before nodding. “The Jiadin are one of the tribes,” Wyant conceded. “No one has the right to deny them the option of fighting for Fakara, but our only chance of survival rests in the coordination of efforts. To win this war, we must fight together. Otherwise, we will all die. Are the Jiadin capable of putting their rebellion behind them and rejoining the Free Tribes?”

Harmagan turned abruptly and walked to the fireplace. He picked up a piece of charcoal and carried it back to the table. While the other leaders watched, Harmagan tore off his red scarf and firmly rubbed the charcoal across it to create a black diagonal stripe.

“This is my answer to you, Marshal of Fakara,” Harmagan said loudly. “Let any Jiadin who will unite with the Free Tribes to battle the infidels mark his scarf in this manner. This will be the mark of the Jiadin of the Free Tribes.”

The other Jiadin leaders appeared frozen, each afraid to be the first to commit to a drastic change to the only life they had ever known. Harmagan’s statement was clear to all of them. To accept the black stripe was to put behind them the hatred and animosity of the other tribes that had driven the Jiadin for so long. It was a commitment that could not be reversed, for they would be placing themselves directly under the rule of the other tribes. Any rebellion would not only be crushed by the Free Tribes, but by the other converted Jiadin.

While the room stood silent and frozen, Scarab walked to the table. Everyone’s eyes focused on him as he tore off his scarf and grabbed the charcoal.

“Harmagan is right about this,” Scarab said loudly. “We have been outcasts long enough. It has gained us nothing. Over the years tribal alliances have come and gone, but this time is different. We are fighting an enemy that wants us all dead. I would rather ride alongside my former enemies than die like a rodent in a trapped box. The Jiadin rebellion is dead!” he added as he rubbed the charcoal across his red scarf.

The other Jiadin leaders watched the display, their eyes large as they listened to what could only be called a call to war. When Scarab was done, the other leaders cheered and shouted insults to the Motangans. One by one the leaders removed their scarves and created black stripes across them. When they were all done, Wyant smiled and nodded.

“Welcome home,” grinned the Marshal of Fakara.

“You have us on your side, Wyant,” declared Harmagan, “but there are many more Jiadin who wear the red scarf unadorned. Your speech tonight must convince them to accept the stripe. We are giving you our loyalty. Show us that it is not mistaken.”

“I will do more than that,” promised Wyant. “Help me win over your men tonight, and I will give orders to evacuate Meliban. The Jiadin will be returned to the wilds. Food and supplies will still be delivered to specified places at specified times.”

“What of Meliban?” asked Scarab.

“It is only wood and stone,” shrugged Wyant. “We built it once; we will build again when the Motangans’ blood has drained from their bodies.”

“One more gesture is in order,” stated Scarab. “Many of the Jiadin believe that Angragar is a city of gold and spoils. They believe that the Free Tribes are hoarding it for themselves. As a show of good faith, I think you should take some of the leaders to see it for themselves. That will prove once and for all that King Rejji is dealing honestly with the Jiadin.”

Wyant stared at Scarab for several moments before nodded.

“Done,” agreed Wyant. “I will take six men with me to Angragar. It will be up to the Jiadin to select the men. Talk it over. I am going to the park to await the rest of your people.”

The Marshal of Fakara left the administration building. The leaders of the Jiadin grinned and congratulated each other after he had left. After all of the years of division, they felt good about returning to the tribes. Many of them slapped Harmagan on the back. One of them even dragged Scarab into the circle and spoke loudly.

“I say that Scarab should be one of those who goes to Angragar,” he proclaimed. “I never thought that I would live to see anyone enter the fabled city.”

Scarab grinned but shook his head. “I will not go,” he announced. “I hold no illusions about Angragar. I never believed those old tales about gold and riches. No, let six of you go. I must leave the city in the morning anyway. I will continue my search for friends lost in the wars in Khadora.”

* * *

Fisher lurked around the edges of the large gathering overflowing the park. He tuned out Wyant’s speech and the speeches given by the Jiadin leaders. His eyes continually scanned the crowd, hoping to catch sight of a Jiadin with Clarvoy’s deformity, but he could not find the Motangan spy. He had been hoping, when he made the suggestion about visiting Angragar, that Clarvoy would find a way to be included in the six. That now appeared to be Fisher’s last chance to snare Clarvoy.

The meeting disbanded with loud shouting and cheering. Boisterous insults regarding Motangans flowed down every street as the Jiadin rejoiced the decision to abandon Meliban. Fisher watched Wyant leave the park and retire to the Kheri Inn. The Marshal of Fakara appeared weary as he passed through the common room and ascended the stairs. He did not even bother with the evening meal.

Fisher halted in the common room and gazed at the customers. Most of the Jiadin in the room were eating, which made looking for the deformity difficult at best. Some of the men that were eating shouted his new Jiadin name and waved for him to join them. He smiled in return and waved to the men, but he shook his head and started up the stairs. When he reached the door to his room, Fisher stood in silence for a moment as he studied the corridor. The corridor was dark with no torch at the end of it, so the entrance to Wyant’s room was in complete darkness.