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Cultural Relations

Part 1

©2025 Bruno Hirschkoff

For Irving

The following is a work of erotic fiction intended solely for adult audiences. It is not intended for commercial publication nor for widespread distribution without the permission of the Author. The Author asserts the exclusive right of ownership of Asantrea, and all characters, settings, concepts, locations and events described herein.

Approx 6,700 words / 30 minutes reading time

_ _

Cultural Relations is set in the heart of the continent of Ambriel, on the fictional world of Asantrea. Ambriel is, roughly, intended to be analogous to Africa in certain ways, however, it should not be inferred that this geographic analogy extends to all aspects of the continent, nor that all historical or cultural events which occur in Africa can be found in Ambriel.

That said, the peoples of Ambriel, all of whom are anthropomorphic animals with human sapience, cognition and emotion, loosely reflect the fauna one would expect to find in Africa. As it pertains to this story, the key cultural groups of the central Ambrielese plains and the great green vastness of Ammunash’s Garden—the Lamaye, the Y’Dasz, and the Sagunu—are predominantly anthropomorphic giraffes, a Caprin people. They also have smaller populations of zebra, okapi, various antelopes, and other typically herbivorous creatures. Further to the west, and to the south, the Isheqi and the Il-Qahra are more dominantly zebra, with smaller populations of other herbivores. Alongside them, and deep within Ammunash’s Garden, a variety of other cultural groups live, with highly diverse anthropomorphic populations ranging from tigers, servals and leopard to buffalo, stoats and gazelle.

Key to this diverse population is that among anthropomorphic peoples of Asantrea, there is never a predator – prey dynamic. No anthropomorphic gazelle is at risk of being hunted for food by any other sapient creature, although cultural mythologies may at times imply otherwise.

Cultural Relations is set in what would, according to the calendar system of the continents of Doregal and Valasea, be approximately the 10th Century after the martyring of the Lupa prophet Arahan (Arahan Domini); at the time of the events of this story, Doregal is in the grips of an Aethyric dark age in the wake of the Third Crusade, and the First Arahanic Empire, a theocracy founded on the rising Arahanic religion, rules over Valasea under the banners of Quintus Spiuso VI.

The astute reader may notice that even this story contains an oblique reference to the Crusades, and to the prophet Arahan – whose influence stretches far into the heart of Ambriel a few centuries prior to these events. And, perhaps, it was that historical incursion of Arahanic Crusaders in the 7th Century Arahan Domini which set in motion events which led to where we find ourselves, on the grasslands and sweeping plains of central Ambriel, among the Lamaye people.

“Shuva, my son. Approach.”

Chieftain Iseaos of the Lamaye beckoned. The flickering orange glow of the fire glimmered from the giraffe warrior’s eyes, and from the gleaming copper, ironstone and amber jewelry that dripped from his body. He sat with the regal arrogance of one whose position was unquestioned and unquestionable; he had vanquished all who stood against him, and sat at the head of the Lamaye tribe surrounded by his wives and children as his reward. His mahogany-spotted pelt was plastered to his skin with scented oil, and his muscles shone in the stifling heat of the chieftain’s hut.

Shuva stepped forward into his father’s presence. As Isaeos’ eldest living son, he was the obvious choice to be Isaeos’ successor. The young warrior made no secret of that. He was broad shouldered, stood a head taller than many of his peers, and conducted himself with the same arrogance as his father. But in his father’s presence, he seemed to shrink. For Isaeos was not only a great warrior in his own right. He was also Aethyr-touched. His father, Shuva’s grandfather, was Beltezaar—an Aethyrborn. A demi-mortal entity with the ability to straddle the corporeal and the Aethyric in the name of his patron deity, Bezar, the god of fire. It was common for Aethyrborn souls to choose corporeality from time to time; to live a lifespan among mortals, before returning to the Aethyr upon the death of their mortal body. Their progeny, half mortal and half Aethyrborn, drew people around them like moths to a flame. Isaeos’ flame, then, shone brighter than most. The same was true of Shuva, although the young giraffe knew he would need to prove himself to a far greater degree than his father had, for he was only one-quarter the Aethyric warrior his grandfather had been, and thus only half as Aethyr-touched as his father.

The chieftain tapped the butt of his spear on the ground when Shuva approached. All eyes turned to the young warrior, and with a flick of his hand, Isaeos dismissed all but his son.

“Father,” Shuva said reverentially once they were alone.

Isaeos rose from his throne with a jingle of jewelry. “Report,” he said simply.

Shuva’s ears flicked. “Yes, Father. All seems normal. I took a dozen warriors to scour the southern reaches of our lands, and have found no sign of the Forest Demons.”

He spat the words out like an insult; precisely how it was intended. The Y’Dasz were reviled by the Lamaye. Stories of Y’Dasz warrior women melting out of the vast southern jungle to kidnap weak Lamaye males were told to the tribe’s calves to frighten them into obedience.

“They are stealthy, when they wish,” Isaeos said. “They are there. Four Lamaye offerings to Bezar have been taken instead by the Y’Dasz this season alone. We must send an offering directly to the Y’Dasz, to protect the worthy Lamaye from Bezar’s wrath.”

Shuva grunted. It was well known that the Y’Dasz had developed a taste for Lamaye men—although they seemed only to steal away those who the Lamaye had rejected and condemned to die anyway. The Lamaye Chieftains took this as both an insult to their patronage of Bezar, and a sign of weakness. Precisely why the Y’Dasz took any interest in Lamaye men at all was unclear, particularly in the weaklings, traitors and criminals that the Lamaye offered to the altar of Bezar. But as these things tend to be, the stories were wildly embellished around campfires. Some said the Y’Dasz were cannibalistic and took Lamaye men to feast upon so as not to thin their own numbers. Others said they were the corrupt spawn of Aktis, the Keeper of Souls, and offered Lamaye men as blood sacrifices to the Farseers of Hadriel—Aethyrborn of the dark god. Whatever the truth may have been, no Lamaye man who had been taken by the Y’Dasz had ever been seen again.

“Go out on patrol again, my son. Take a dozen young warriors; those who have not yet earned their scars.”

“Father? Is it wise to provoke the Y’Dasz?”

“Do not presume to question me, Shuva,” Isaeos said icily.

“Aye, father, my apologies.”

“Among the dozen, ensure you take one who shall be offered to the Y’Dasz, as well as four to send forth to Bezar. The Forest Demons must take him alive, and those to ascend to the cleansing fire of Bezar must do so, instead of being taken by the Demons. I entrust your hand to this task, since so many others have failed recently.”

Shuva processed this slowly. He had never been asked to perform such a task before. But, he supposed, if he was to ascend to chiefdom himself one day, he would need to face unsavoury tasks for the good of the tribe—at least as long as his father lived.

“Who is to be our offering to the Forest Demons?” Shuva asked.

Isaeos’ lips parted in a cruel grin. “Araxes. He is the son of Atatafi the shamaness.”

Shuva frowned. “What is his crime?”

“None,” Isaeos said. “But I am the Chieftain, and if I say he is to be sacrificed, he is to be sacrificed. His weakness brings shame to the Lamaye, but will appeal to the Y’Dasz. He may just provide them enough entertainment for those chosen for Bezar’s forge to ascend to the fire.”

The young warrior knelt before his father and kissed both of his palms, then retreated.

The village of Impili was one of five permanent Lamaye settlements that dotted the hot, arid interior of Ambriel, but as the seat of the Chieftain, it was the largest. Isaeos’ hut was the largest and grandest structure, of course, constructed from stone, timber and cob, with a high, conical roof of thatch. Around it, the smaller, domed huts of the Lamaye crowded among sparse acacias and the various industries of an ancient agrarian society; granaries and mills, stone, timber and thatch works, weapon and toolmaking, textile works, and a slew of other smaller and more specialised activities. Further from the centre of Impili, larger longhouses provided shelter for young unattached Lamaye; warrior initiates, unmarried women, travellers and outsiders. Shuva’s hooves kicked up dust as he walked through the village, weaving between huts, trees and dozens of Lamaye giraffes, antelope, gazelles and zebras going about their business.

Shuva did not know Araxes, although he had heard of him. Atatafi had only a single child, and no one was sure who the father had been. He was concerned how the shamaness would react to knowing her only child had been lost to the Y’Dasz. He suspected he would need to construct an elaborate lie to make her believe it had not been intentional.

But shamans were not known for being easily fooled.

*

Araxes sat alone atop a low, rocky outcrop, gazing across the open landscape that was the only home he or any of his people had ever known. It was far from flat or featureless; much intersected by ravines, outcrops and ridges, its areas of open grassland were highly prized for their productive capacity and ease of navigation.

To the north beyond the shimmering golden grassland, sparse forests and rocky hills lay the sweltering ocean of sand that was the Great Desert of Ambriel. Several days’ travel to the east, the savannah ended abruptly at the edge of a dizzying precipice known as Y’Hantu Haré. The end of the world, as far as the Lamaye were concerned. To the west of Lamaye lands, Equid and Caprin societies much like the Lamaye—the Sagunu, the Il-Qahra and the Isheqi among them—occupied the belt of savannah that continued all the way to the distant River Akad. For such an ‘empty’ place, central Ambriel was lively and dynamic. Barely a season seemed to pass where the Lamaye were not engaged in some skirmish or other over land, water or women. Araxes picked up a stick and poked irritably at a termite nest. It crumbled and partially collapsed. Immediately, swarms of the industrious insects set about repairing their home, ignoring their aggressor utterly.

The young giraffe was plagued by apprehension. The Y’Dasz were on the hunt again, he had heard. All the shamans of the five Lamaye villages agreed. In the preceding months, several young warriors of the Lamaye had gone missing, vanished without trace along with the condemned souls they had been preparing for sacrifice to Bezar out on the open plains. Those that had the honour of ascending to Bezar’s realm to be cleansed in fire were always supposedly criminals of the worst kind— and thus it was not true sacrifice, the shamans reasoned. Rather, it was the honour of redemption and the cleansing of the tribe. But Araxes knew that Isaeos was a Chieftain who valued the power, loyalty and masculinity of his warriors, and physical weakness was derided. Sacrificing the runts of the villages to Bezar as traitors or criminals solved this cultural conundrum. It was cast as a sacred practice, although a comparatively recent one. But the Y’Dasz, the Forest Demons, had made a habit of confounding the spiritual ambitions of the Lamaye Chieftains. They never showed themselves. They were mostly giraffes, like the Lamaye, but were cowardly and evil. They captured Lamaye men, but only those who were prepared for their glorious ascension to the hand of Bezar, or their uninitiated executioners. Never did they directly attack initiated Lamaye warriors. This only made the Lamaye despise the physical characteristics that appealed to the Y’Dasz even more, for the very reason that it made a man more likely to be taken by the Forest Demons. The irony of swarming impotently like termites when a man who was condemned to die, died in a way that was unexpected, caught like a barbed spear in Araxes’ mind.

To the south of Lamaye lands lay darkness. More terrifying than the bottomless chasm to the east or the desiccated endlessness of the northern desert, the homogeneous, seething mass that was the jungle known as Ammunash’s Garden oozed with life. It stood like a cliff in the landscape; the boundary between forest and plains was as if a god had simply drawn their spear through the soil, marking a line south of which would be forest, and north of which would be savannah. Somewhere in that vast forest’s impenetrable depths lay the villages of the Y’Dasz, although no Lamaye ventured further into the forest than was absolutely necessary to harvest timber, forest fruits, or medicinal plants.

Araxes knew only what he had been told by his mother, Atatafi, the shamaness of Impili—although not from her own lips. Her words were conveyed to him through the voice of Isaeos and other warriors during his training. In Lamaye society, shamans were permitted to speak to no-one but each other and the Chieftain. Not even to their own offspring, if they had any. It polluted their communion with the Aethyr, it was taught. What Araxes heard frightened him. The Y’Dasz, Araxes heard, were ruled by evil spirits made flesh. Fierce, bloodthirsty warriors who ate the flesh of their own children and drank from the skulls of their victims. Indeed, Iseaos relayed to Araxes, that was why the Y’Dasz took Lamaye sacrifices. To deny the Lamaye the favour of Bezar, and to gain favour with Aktis, the Keeper of Souls.

Araxes was, by the standards of the Lamaye, shamefully weak. A runt. That he had survived to adulthood among the Lamaye was unusual in itself; smaller, less sedentary Lamaye groups were known to leave weakling calves out to be taken by the Y’Dasz or, if they were lucky, to be eaten by wild creatures. Araxes was lucky, he was told, to be the offspring of a shaman. He might, later in life, become a shaman himself. But he was still, like all Lamaye men, forced to undergo extensive warrior training and initiation.

Barely a week from his initiation rites, the ceremony at which he would become a man, he was slender and fine-limbed. His sternum was visible through his skinny chest, and his peers joked that the staves of their spears were thicker than Araxes’ long, arched neck. They made no secret of their disdain for him. It was only a matter of time, they told him, before the Y’Dasz would come for him. Perhaps they wouldn’t even wait until he was prepared to be a sacrifice to Bezar. Perhaps they’d snatch him from his hut while he slept. Perhaps they’d even eat him alive, though he was hardly a feast. Araxes’ outlook on life was bleak, all told. It seemed that no matter which hand the Gods dealt him, it was to be a short and brutal journey.

Araxes heard the cajoling shouts of his fellow initiates from a distance behind him and turned irritably. It seemed he was in for another round of insults and jeers. Two young giraffes from his village approached, along with another warrior who stood a head above them all and carried himself with the easy swagger of one who had truly earned the ritual scars on his chest and shoulders. Araxes squinted. He recognised this warrior, but could not immediately place him.

“There he is!” yelled Xanaf.

“Hoy! Runt! Come here!” bawled Oaal.

Araxes stood his ground. The least he could do, he supposed, was maintain his dignity and make them come to him. His eyes remained on the third warrior while they approached, and the young giraffe wracked his brains. It was not until he caught sight of the gleaming amulet of flamestone-inlaid gold around his neck that he recognised Shuva, eldest son of Chieftain Isaeos. Araxes’ eyes widened and, when Shuva came closer, he fell to one knee in deference.

“This is him?” Shuva demanded.

“This is Araxes, the one you seek,” Xanaf said.

“Stand, Araxes,” Shuva said.

Araxes rose. Oaal, a typical bully, could barely contain his glee. Clearly something horrid was about to happen. Jokingly, Xanaf held his spear alongside Araxes.

“Definitely him, look, my spear’s thicker than he is!” Xanaf chuckled.

Oaal snorted derisively. “My spear is thicker than he is,” he said, juggling his manhood under his loincloth.

“Silence, the pair of you,” Shuva commanded. “Araxes, my father has seen fit to bestow upon you a great honour, in advance of your initiation at the next transit of the moon Saliel. You, and your companions here, are to accompany me to the fringes of the Garden, to patrol for Y’Dasz, and to deliver condemned souls to Bezar. Succeed, and none shall ever question your manhood again. You will be absolved of your… weakness… and allowed to train to be a shaman.”

Araxes’ mouth opened and closed a few times. He knew he should be reacting with deference and gratitude, but he knew with a sinking certainty that all was not as it seemed. Shuva was lying, but why?

“When do we leave?” he said, simply.

Shuva snorted. “Arrogant little turd. You have that, at least, if not the body of a warrior. Perhaps there might have been hope for you. We are to assemble at dawn tomorrow. If you are not present, you shall join those who are to be gifted to Bezar.”

With that, Shuva spun on one cloven hoof and strode back towards the outskirts of Impili.

So, Araxes thought calmly. Death at the hands of my own people, or death at the hands of the Y’Dasz. He quickly dismissed any notion that he was being offered a pathway to continuing life among the Lamaye. A hope like that—such as it was—would do him no good.

The young giraffe’s mind ran through all possible escape routes he could think of. His options seemed extraordinarily limited. If he fled to the west to the neighbouring Sagunu, he would be tracked and the Lamaye would make war until he gave himself up—and then they would kill him anyway. North was certain death in the scorching heat of the Great Desert. East was Lamaye land all the way to the impassable Y’Hantu Haré. South was certain death lost in the jungle. At least there was water and shelter in the jungle. But no-one knew how far the tangled mass of vegetation stretched for. To the end of the world, for all Araxes knew.

Perhaps the Y’Dasz won’t be so bad…

*

Chieftain Isaeos’ stare was like a lens held to the suns. It seemingly burned into the souls of the two young warriors cowering in his hut, and there was no escape. Neither Xanaf nor Oaal dared to move, even as sweat stung their downcast eyes and matted their pelts.

“You are faithful warriors of the Lamaye,” Isaeos intoned. It was not a question, but an observation, though it seemed to leave a foul taste in the Chieftain’s mouth.

“Yes, sire,” Oaal replied.

“Be silent! You are uninitiated, and shall speak when prompted.”

Oaal clamped his mouth shut.

“Your dumb, unquestioning loyalty, and your demonstrated cruelty to those who do not uphold our tenets of strength and power, is why you are here,” Isaeos continued. “I find myself in a predicament. The runt you introduced to my son Shuva – you hold no love for this man, yes?”

Both giraffes remained silent.

“Speak!” Isaeos snarled.

“N-no sire. He is not worthy of gaining his scars. He is weak!” Oaal gasped.

“Tomorrow at dawn, Shuva leads you out on patrol. Araxes is to be left to the Forest Demons. He is not worthy even of being gifted to the Forger of Souls. You two are to ensure this happens. Is that understood?”

Oaal and Xanaf risked exchanging a glance.

“Sire, your will shall surely be done by your most worthy son, the mighty Shuva?” Xanaf said tentatively.

Isaeos’ tone softened, to the amazement of both warriors. “This is my predicament. I do not know that he shall obey me. The waters are murky and I cannot discern his path. That is why you are to ensure my will is carried out. You are a contingency. Do this, and you shall earn your scars, regardless of your… lacklustre skills and weak-mindedness.”

Both men swallowed the insults smoothly, for to do otherwise was certain death, one way or another.

“Rise, and get out of my sight. I shall know when you have succeeded. Go!”

Oaal and Xanaf needed no further prompting. Both men scurried from the chieftain’s hut into the comparatively cool and fresh air outside.

“Why do you think he keeps it so hot in there? I feel like I’ve been roasted over a cooking fire in the midst of the wet season…” Oaal complained.

“He is a Bezari, you oaf! They all burn hotter than us anyway, and cannot stand to be cold. I am sure he keeps his hut even hotter than he needs, though, just to remind everyone of his heritage. I wonder if Shuva will be the same…”

“Do not mention him that way!” Oaal warned. “Isaeos is probably listening to us right now. We cannot speak of a future without him as Chieftain!”

“Oh douse your fear, Oaal. It is what holds you back, and always has been. Come, I need to wash off this stinking sweat, and then I need a meal, a large pot of urba’azi and a woman to rut until my nuts turn inside out.”

*

Shuva gazed east across the rolling plains in the pre-dawn glow of a new day, sitting still as a stone atop a high rocky escarpment a thousand paces or so east of Impili. The moons Seilyr and Saliel hung low in the eastern sky, a pair of slender crescents a hand’s breadth apart in the brightening sky. From here in the centre of the continent of Ambriel, the plains looked endless, stretching away over the horizon both east and west. Aror, the red sun, broke the horizon first. Its dull glow was like iron in a forge, and cast a sickly blood-red luminance across the golden plains, until some minutes later it was joined by its larger companion, Kesh, across which Saliel the silver moon was due to transit in only a few days, a grand cosmic dance of heavenly bodies high above the world.

Shuva waited a short length of time, until Kesh was a fingers’ breadth clear of the horizon, and then rose from his eyrie to walk between his twinned shadows back to the outskirts of the village to collect his warriors. He did not relish the mission he had been given. Deep in his heart, Shuva knew that the Y’Dasz were not the enemy. The Lamaye had made them so, along with most of their other neighbours, through their relentless aggression and missions of conquest, seeking forever to appease Bezar. It had not always been the case.

Shuva had recently lain with a shamaness’ daughter from the western Sagunu tribe. Arashi had been intended as a pleasure gift, to save their villages from Lamaye torches and spears. Isaeos had gifted her to Shuva, a subtle insult to the chieftain of her people. She was incredibly pretty – her pelt was the colour of mahogany shot through with amber, so much darker than his own. Her feminine curves had been clearly shown at the peace ceremony, only tokenistically covered by scraps of silk. She had fired Shuva’s lust the moment he saw her, and piqued his interest with her defiant stare and outward display of strength and quiet dignity.

Instead of rutting her like a wild animal as he was expected to, Shuva had guided her to his hut and shown her courtesy. She had ventured inside and seated herself upon his cushion, that defiance flashing in her gaze. He had handed her a bowl of urba’azi, the Lamaye’s fiery liquor made from fermented acacia root and moonflower stem, and sat on the reed mats opposite her. Arashi had coughed delicately at its strength at first, but he had quietly encouraged her. She was terrified of him. Terrified of her fate, even through her display of strength. But in accepting his kindness, Shuva saw hope in her inky eyes. He fed her dried forest fruits and rubbed scented oils into her limber body, and in time she began to relax to his presence, beginning to understand that he was not intending to harm her. She had tentatively returned the oil massage. Their contact allowed a new, shared arousal to grow, fuelled by the urba’azi, to a point where she had initiated the escalation that had lasted until the following dawn. And between sessions of wild, urgent lovemaking, she had finally spoken. And Shuva had listened.

The Lamaye had always been devotees of Amel, the river goddess. She provided them with succour – water to drink and fertile land in which to grow their crops and forage for seasonal foods. She was the conduit between the Lamaye, the Sagunu and the Il-Qahra, and Lakesh, the goddess of storms. Amel ensured that Lakesh brought the heavy seasonal rains when they were needed, and had blessed them with many healthy calves. The Sagunu, and indeed the Y’Dasz, to Arashi’s knowledge, were also primarily followers of Amel.

And then Beltezaar had come. A Bezari Aethyrborn, he had stormed into Lamaye lands one day following a mighty volcanic eruption many miles away to the east. Many from the Sagunu theorised that he was born of the burning magma within the fire-mountain. Beltezaar was a cruel but charismatic warrior, and proclaimed himself chieftain of the Lamaye while ash rained down across their lands and turned the sky a sickly yellow-black. Beltezaar’s ascension had occurred perhaps not quite so easily, but Arashi’s words were necessarily a second-hand telling of a second-hand story, passed down from the elders of the two neighbouring tribes. His chiefdom lasted until he died, and was passed to Isaeos, his eldest son—who, as the offspring of an Aethyrborn, was Aethyr-touched himself. And so, therefore, was Shuva. So began the Bezari dynasty of the Lamaye, and so their aggression continued. Arashi had told Shuva with tears in her eyes of how many Sagunu had died defending their lands from Lamaye raids. He had enfolded her in his arms and shared her grief, and in that moment Shuva made a promise to Amel that he would not be like his father or grandfather. He would not be a brutal tyrant. But he also sought the forgiveness of the River Goddess, for before he could be declared Chieftain, he may have to behave according to his father’s will—or in a manner similar to his father.

So began a double-existence for Shuva, one which he knew would test his will until his father’s dying breath.

That had been almost a year ago.

Arashi had lain with him almost every night for a month, until Isaeos had noticed their burgeoning relationship and taken her away from him. Still, she stole away from his gaze when she could, and they shared a furtive, forbidden romance, played out in urgent moments of passion under the stars, or amongst the rocks that surrounded the waterhole in which the Lamaye bathed.

His last moment with her alone had been almost a month hence, and Shuva was acutely aware that his body desired her again—he struggled now, to contain the obvious signs of his carnal need. He laid awake at night, listening for her, hoping that she would slip into his hut in the darkness and wordlessly straddle him.

Lately, the only times he had ever seen her was within Isaeos’ hut. It sickened Shuva to think of his father mounting Arashi. Iseaos clearly knew that, because he went out of his way to display her nudity to him whenever he was summoned.

Shuva’s mind was full of Arashi when he arrived to where a ragtag band of aspiring Lamaye warriors stood, on the edge of the village. The tasks he had been given by his father cooled his ardour, at least, and he focused on his distaste for what he must do, steeling his mind against the softness of his amorous dreams.

Among the gathered Lamaye giraffes were Oaal and Xanaf, the coward and the bully. Behind them stood Araxes, leaning on his spear and doing his best to avoid the notice of anyone else in the group.

As Isaeos had ordered, four hapless and wretched souls knelt in the dust – sacrifices to Bezar. None of them were giraffes. Among them, Shuva saw two antelope, and two zebra; one of them barely more than a colt. All were naked and had their arms bound. Shuva forced himself to look away. Ostensibly, only the very worst of the worst were to be condemned to die in Lamaye law. Those who had committed murder, grievous harm on a neighbour, or the most severe offences of desire. Such crimes were exceedingly rare in a society such as the Lamaye, and traditionally the punishments were carried out by the chieftain or the shaman, in a quick and painless manner some distance from the village to save the innocent from the sight. Yet almost every patrol since the ascension of Beltezaar had seen multiple souls condemned – most for the crime of treason. Shuva knew that ‘treason’ could take any number of meanings. That was its purpose. To eliminate opposition, weakness, disagreement – freedom of thought.

These four did not have the bearing of individuals who could commit crimes such as murder, rape or treason. They were half-starved, frightened and had clearly been beaten. Shuva felt rage in his heart at such treatment. He did not know any of their names, or recognise them; all were strangers to him. Probably guilty of little more than questioning the Chieftain’s practices, or defying him in some minuscule way. But Shuva had no options. He could not set them free. He was already planning to take the biggest risk of his life as it was.

Shuva swallowed his disgust and adopted the bearing of a man who was destined to be Chieftain.

*

The pace Shuva set was gruelling even for the fittest of the Lamaye initiates. He loped across the scrubby plains with graceful ease at the head of the ragtag band of young warriors and their stumbling captives.

Shuva was grateful, albeit guiltily, that he was not tasked with executing the captives. He did not know if he could. Shuva had killed before, it was true; but in battle, against a warrior who sought to kill you, it was different. There, his Bezari blood rose and he moved and fought with instinct and bloodlust. Executing condemned traitors was entirely different, particularly where their crimes were not known. But such a thing was not about the crime, or its punishment. Rather it was a test of loyalty. Shuva knew this. Those who were chosen to dispense ‘justice’ on behalf of the Chieftain would automatically earn their ritual scars and be initiated to the tribe as warriors, regardless of their martial prowess or any failings. To a tyrant like Isaeos, loyalty was worth more than skill, in most cases.

The suns hung an arm’s length above the horizon by the time those initiates tasked with delivering the condemned souls to Bezar peeled off from the group, towards a high, rocky outcrop known as Bezar’s Anvil. The ground over which the Lamaye patrolled had become broken and rocky, and the well-worn patrol paths began to wind between larger and larger outcrops and clusters of trees, forced closer and closer to the edge of the southern jungle by the terrain.

This was Y’Dasz raid territory.

Shuva increased his pace. Even the fittest warriors in the patrol group could not match him. He ran like the wind, leaping across the broken terrain with almost supernatural confidence. The breathless cries of his warriors to slow, to wait for them, went unanswered. Shuva had a purpose.

*

Araxes was left behind. At first, a few initiates fell back to prod and jibe him into moving faster, but their energy even for tormenting him was soon eroded by Shuva’s relentless pace.

Ahead, in the distance, Araxes saw four initiates dragging their captives off the path, towards Bezar’s Anvil. Their blood would soon darken the red rocks, Araxes knew. He stopped and doubled over, feeling nauseous. He was breathing hard and salt stained his pelt. He leaned against the trunk of a tree, coughed and spat dust.

“Araxes,” came a low, familiar voice from behind him.

Araxes spun and instinctively raised his spear, just as Shuva stepped out from behind a large boulder.

“You show courage to raise your weapon to me, Araxes,” Shuva said.

“Shuva. What is happening? Did you fall back to make sure I did not abscond? Or to kill me yourself?”

“No, Araxes, I waited until I was beyond the sight of the front-running warriors, and then doubled back and hid amongst these rocks until you arrived, precisely to ensure that you do abscond.”

Araxes’ mouth opened and closed several times in confusion.

“My father…” Shuva began, then paused. “My father tasked me with ensuring that you fall into the hands of the Y’Dasz, I suppose to distract the Forest Demons while those destined for Bezar’s realm are ushered on their way.”

“While they are murdered for disagreeing with the tyrant?” Araxes suggested. He was about to die anyway, so there was no reason for him to not speak his mind.

Shuva’s gaze dropped, and the Chieftain’s son nodded agreement. “Aye, as you say,” he said quietly, and then met Araxes’ gaze with fire in his eyes. “It has not always been this way. It will not always remain this way. The Lamaye shall find their path again, I promise you that.”

Araxes fell back to lean on a rock behind him. “Words are easy when they have no meaning to the recipient. Why tell me this? Why promise me anything at all?”

“You have the bearing of a man who faces his destiny with courage. I admire that. A thousand strides back the way you came, beneath an outcrop that resembles a giraffe’s head, you will find a waterskin and food to last a few days. Take it, and disappear. If you are not seen, it shall be believed that you were taken by the Y’Dasz as intended, and none shall pursue you. Head west, to the Sagunu. Tell them… tell them Arashi lives. Arashi lives, and she shall be safe.”

Araxes narrowed his eyes. “What are you playing at, Shuva?”

Shuva sighed. “Arashi has shown me the truth. Told me of the stories of Sagunu elders. Of Beltezaar and Isaeas and the blood they have spilt. It should not be this way. We are all suffering from it.”

“Some more than others,” Araxes sneered.

“As you say,” Shuva said quietly. Then he backed away. “Survive, Araxes. And… may Amel bless you and guide your passage.”

Shuva stepped back behind the boulder, and by the time Araxes recovered his senses enough to follow, the Chieftain’s son was gone.

*

Araxes followed Shuva’s instructions, remaining as low as he could and moving from rock to tree to rock to maximise his cover. The Chieftain’s son’s blessing echoed in his mind. Shuva was the grandson of an Aethyrborn of Bezar—if he was courting Amel, he was treading on dangerous ground indeed. The faintest glimmer of hope rose like a spark from a fire in Araxes’ soul.

He found the rocky outcrop that resembled a Lamaye tribesman’s head after a short time, and after scanning to ensure he was unseen, he fell to his knees and began to search through the scrubby bushes around its base. Nothing. Araxes cursed, and the spark of hope fizzled to a cinder. He supposed he should have known Shuva wouldn’t have been truthful about such a thing, even as sincere as he had sounded. Perhaps this was just the preferred collection spot of the Y’Dasz.

Then he heard a belch from the other side of the rock.

“Ahh, mighty fine of Shuva to leave us a snack!” came the unmistakeable voice of Oaal.

“Aye, just what we needed after running all that way,” replied Xanaf’s voice.

“Say, Xanaf, why do you think Shuva left water and food here, and then told this weakling runt where to find it?”

“Bezar only knows, Oaal. Perhaps he was intending the runt to escape, instead of being captured by the Forest Demons.”

“But that would make Shuva a traitor to his own people, would it not?”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right, Oaal! We shall have to inform the Chieftain, of course.”

“Mighty Isaeos will be most pleased with us.”

“Maybe he’ll let us share one of his women for the night.”

“Speak for yourself, I’m not putting my cock anywhere yours has been!” Xanaf snorted.

“Oh look, Araxes is running away.”

Oaal and Xanaf gave chase, and caught up with Araxes within a hundred paces. Oaal tackled the skinny giraffe to the ground, knocking the wind from him. Xanaf loomed over him. Araxes struggled and tipped Oaal off of him, then surged upright to stand his ground.

Xanaf levelled his spear at Araxes.

“Xanaf, you can’t kill me, that would make you a traitor as well!”

“Chieftain’s orders, runt. I’m not going to kill you. They are,” he nodded to the forest on the southern horizon. “Chieftain said that Shuva hasn’t the balls to get his hands dirty with you; something about conscience and wanting to keep in the good graces of the River Goddess. Seems he doesn’t have the stomach to be Chieftain after all. So it falls to us to make sure you get what you deserve, and Bezar is well enough pleased.”

Araxes’ mind whirled. Xanaf and Oaal were the sort of gutless idiots who would take great delight in destroying Shuva if it meant they would gain favour in Isaeos’ eyes. He felt a pang of regret – Shuva had shown him what little kindness he could, and it looked like he would pay for it heavily. But Araxes had more immediate concerns than theology, or Shuva. Xanaf and Oaal had him cornered. There was nowhere to run. Even if he made a break for the treeline some hundreds of strides to the south, the two larger men would catch him long before he reached its cover.

“Shuva did not intend me to escape,” he offered, a last ditch attempt to save both himself and Shuva. “The water… the food… only to keep me alive until the Forest Demons come… so they do not raid the villages if I am found dead…”

Oaal hawked and spat at Araxes’ hooves. “Hah! We’re not that stupid, are we Xanaf?”

“I’m not, but you are,” Xanaf retorted.

“I’m lots cleverer than you! Who was it what found the food?”

“You found the food because you are a glutton!”

Araxes watched the two bicker, searching for a split second in which he might break and run. He took a step. Oaal darted forward instantly and Araxes dodged to the side. Oaal’s hand closed around a loose fold of his tunic, tearing it clear and leaving him naked. Xanaf threw a punch that connected with Araxes’ midriff. His breath left him in an explosive rush and he crumpled to the ground.

“Bezar’s fiery bollocks!” Oaal suddenly bleated. “Look at the size of his cock!”

“I would not have guessed that. Useless runt like you with a staff like that?! Good thing we’re feeding you to the Forest Demons,” Xanaf laughed, and prodded Araxes’ genitals with the butt of his spear.

Araxes sucked air into his lungs with gargantuan effort, but still managed to glare daggers at his attackers.

“May Amel cause your nuts to shrivel like dates in the sun,” he gasped, “and your seed to be dust on the wind. I would curse you to have tiny pricks as well, but that is already true!”

Oaal struck Araxes with the butt of his spear. Stars exploded inside the skinny giraffe’s skull, and blackness engulfed him.

*