"Neither Border, nor Breed, nor Birth"
Released under the Creative Commons BY-NC-SA license...
Released under the Creative Commons BY-NC-SA license. Share, modify, and redistribute - as long as it's attributed and noncommercial, anything goes.
_Yes, I like Rudyard Kiping -- so sue me. Here is a slightly more cynical and rather more gay reimagining of "The Ballad of East and West," set in a fictional mid-19th century universe. The fourth in a series of vignettes I've been writing to hone my erotica-crafting skills, this is also my first effort at writing anything m/m. So help me out, folks; let me know what I can do to improve. _
"Neither border, nor breed, nor birth" by Rob Baird
Now (10/2012) anthologized in the e-book _Matters Out of Place, for your pleasure!_
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His Majesty's Army is the grandest place for a young lad to find adventure! -- From a recruiting poster in Stanlira, Aernia
All quiet in the sector. -- Full text of the last 114 dispatches from Fort Dranenven
He had been promised excitement but, after a full year at the outpost, Levander Adratha had experienced only sand. Sand, wind, and the scorching white heat that lanced down from the sun and made a fool of anyone naïve enough to wear the uniform of the Royal Aernian Army.
Levander was not sure, exactly, what was worse: staying cooped up behind the wooden palisades of Fort Dranenven, or being sent out on the useless, wandering patrols that meandered past its range of visibility. Carrying a rifle, a few days of food, and a crippling weight of water this was, indeed, what the caracal was doing now. Patrolling. Patrolling! It was to laugh. Every time he had gone out his report had been the same: "all quiet on my patrol." And this, with similar reports from the other men, had made up the garrison's report back to headquarters week after interminable week.
He had not seen a Sujetai yet. Not a living one, anyway; dead ones, he had seen on occasion. Even in death they seemed fearsome, with their long muzzles and their sharp teeth. They looked like a Tiuri?kü might, if they were stretched out and reduced to utter primitiveness. At least those desert dwellers were civilized -- had cities, even! Metalworks, universities, railroads... what had the Sujetai contributed to the world? Corpses -- theirs and his people's own both.
And they hid, skulking. Their villages were easy to find, but the soldiers were never there -- they slunk off in the night, hiding in the rocks and the bare scrubland, emerging only to pounce on an unsuspecting convoy or an unguarded train. Completely undignified!
At the moment, however, Levander could not have cared less about the Sujetai. He had been as horrified by the massacre at Gwenafen as anyone, to be sure... but that had been six months ago. They had seen no action, and the only result had been the interminable patrols -- platoons at first, then squads, then eventually single men sent out to scour the wasteland for any signs of where the Sujetai might have gone.
Levander's friend Arus had seen a scouting party, two months before -- he claimed. He also claimed to have shot one, but they had dragged the body away before he could take any trophies. Beyond that all they saw were tracks in the sand, or midden piles. All they heard were stories -- and there were plenty. That the Sujetai drank the blood of their horses. That they raped their women as a matter of course. That they poisoned certain desert wells. That they tortured any captured Aernians by removing their ribs carefully, one by one.
Was it true? Only the gods knew. Certainly the Army did not.
He sat heavily, uncorking his canteen and taking a long drink. The generals who had given the patrol orders, he thought, had no idea what they were talking about. If they had, they would not have ordered the patrols to be carried out in full daylight. They certainly would not have ordered them carried out with the same heavy blue tunics as the Army wore back in the highlands.
Abstractly he thought, as he pulled himself back to his feet, that the Aernian presence at Fort Dranenven was a good thing. The Sujetai needed to be punished, certainly. But they also needed to be civilized. Aernia had so much to offer those unfortunate desert souls -- iron, of course, which the Kingdom could supply in quantity... but also medicine, machined goods, tractive power, modern firearms. Telegraphs, even, perhaps -- and a stable government, if they would accept the rule of the Iron Throne.
It was a good thing, yes. Just not for him. He no longer really cared about the Sujetai and their crimes and their barbarism. He wanted to be home, away from the blinding sun and the sand that got in everything and the ridiculous orders and the loneliness. There were just over a hundred men at the fort; they had long ago discussed everything there was to discuss. Now they just sat around and made up stories -- like Arus, he supposed.
He failed to notice the rock and stepped off it poorly; unable to catch himself, he went sprawling. There was sand in his mouth; this he washed out, courtesy of his canteen and a round of cursing that invoked every god in the Aernian pantheon. But now the sand was in his fur, his uniform... Levander shut his eyes, and tried to forget for a moment how miserable he was. This effort having failed, he trudged onward, until the incessant rolling desert was broken by dark stone.
As he drew closer, he saw that it was an oasis; water bubbled up from deep subterranean aquifers, in places, and formed a logical spot for watering horses and men alike. For now, he wanted a bath. He wanted the dust gone from his eyebrows and his ears and his paws. He walked faster, and so he did not see the other person in the water until it was very nearly too late.
Sujetai -- unmistakably Sujetai, with a coat that was dust-colored like Levander's own. The man had not noticed him, and now Levander was torn. He could possibly ambush the man, it was true. But then he would have to deal with the body, or a prisoner. He would have to carry more weight back to Fort Dranenvan. He would have to pull the trigger of his rifle...
He had been so proud of the rifle, once -- back in the city of Tinenfirth, which had paved roads and pubs and steady, warm gas streetlights. The smart design of the needle that set off the primer had seemed so clever, the fact that it used cartridges instead of ball and powder so modern. Its weight had been a reassuring reminder of the strength of the Iron Throne. Now it was a nuisance, its weight a burden... and the sun was so hot, so damnably hot...
The oasis was surrounded by tall stones that prevented the sun from falling directly on it and boiling away the water. They also helped to shield Levander's approach. The other man's clothes -- and a weapon -- lay in a bundle on the shore, but by the time the man noticed him Levander was close enough to brandish the rifle menacingly and thereby prevent their retrieval. "Halt!" he shouted -- his voice sounded clearer than he had thought it might; more commanding.
The Sujetai froze.
At the edge of the water Levander spoke again -- even though, he suspected, it didn't really matter; what were the odds that the barbarian even understood his tongue? "Look," he said. "I don't want to kill you. I don't even want you to be here. I just want to rinse this godsforsaken dust out of my fur and take a drink, and get out of the sun for a little bit. I hope you don't want to kill me either." He locked eyes on the Sujetai -- all angles and points, with tall ears and a sharp muzzle -- and very carefully, very deliberately, took his hand off the rifle's trigger, setting the gun down on the rocks.
The Sujetai watched his every movement, as he slung off the bandolier and the canteen packs, as he unbuttoned his tunic and shrugged it off, folding it carefully and setting it aside. It was not until Levander was naked, and up to his knees in the warm water of the pool, that the man said anything. "If you don't want to kill me, why did you begin the conversation with a gun?"
Levander froze, immediately caught between a desire to answer the question and the confusion that it was posed at all. His response highlighted the second. "You speak Aernian?"
"I attended a school in the village -- during your government's efforts at peaceful assimilation. I speak your language, yes." His voice was clear, unaccented, and direct. He had more pride than Levander would've thought, for a desert dog with no culture to call his own. The man looked young; perhaps he had as many as Levander's 19 years, perhaps a little more or less.
"I didn't want you to shoot me. I don't really... I don't want to be in the desert anymore. I'm not interested in killing you."
"Then leave."
"It's not that simple. I didn't ask to go here, my commanding officers told me to... the Army told me to. If I had my choice, I'd be... I don't know. A blacksmith. A farrier. A sailor -- anything but this. They told me it would be an adventure."
"Glamorous."
"Yes."
"Exciting."
Levander nodded. "Yes."
"They told you it was the only way you could prove yourself to be a man. That you would be helping your race; that you would be doing your duty to your people."
"Yes."
The Sujetai's long muzzle turned in a fatalistic smile. "Then it turns out that you do nothing for weeks at a time. Absolutely nothing -- clear debris, walk in a line, look for people."
"And there's this rush of excitement and energy, and it's not until afterwards that you realize that it's just about... well, about killing people, isn't it?"
"If you had known that, would you have enlisted?"
Levander shook his head. "No."
At this, finally, the other man's face broke into a full grin. "I would not have either. Isn't it funny that the people who tell you to join are not the same people who have to do the killing? Or the patrolling, or the trench-digging? You should come in closer; the water gets cooler as it becomes deeper."
Levander did so, letting out a sigh as the water came up to his waist, and then his shoulders -- it felt wonderful, soaking into his fur; his movements worked the cool water over him, drawing away the persistent bits of dust. "My name," he offered, after a few moments of silence, "is Levander."
The other person nodded. "Kiba, I am called, like my father before me. Kiba Ar-Kiba Elari, of the Setel clan. But it's strange to think of clans when it is just two people, without even the clothing of their tribal affiliations, meeting at a waterhole. Have you traveled far, Levander?"
"The fort, half a day's journey that way. They send me on these useless patrols, to try to find your people... to launch a raid, I guess; I don't know. We've never seen any of you." Now, up close, Levander attempted to right this. Like the caracal, Kiba was sand-colored -- except for his limbs, which were a creamy white. When he moved them, they flexed with an easy grace. His frame was less stocky, but he was boyishly handsome -- in a barbaric way.
"We don't go looking for you, and therefore you don't find us. Not before now, anyway..." The other man's face seemed to darken, clouding over. "Now they are talking about an attack on the fort. They've gathered two hundred men to march on it."
"Do they think that will be enough?"
"They don't care," Kiba said, shaking his head and sliding deeper into the water. "They are hotheaded, and they long for blood. From what I heard around the campfire last night, they mean to strike in a week's time."
"You have to stop them." Levander wasn't sure why he said this -- why he even cared. It was, after all, the fate of his enemy. But there was something about the pool, and the warm face of his companion... "They'd be slaughtered."
"They feel that we must do something. That if we do not, your kind will never leave us alone." Kiba paused, and his head tilted in an expression of dispassionate curiosity. "Why do you wish to kill us, anyway?"
Levander felt his ears go back, and his tail flicked through the water as he pondered this question. "I... I don't know. We wanted to help you, at first. Genuinely. Over time it became more... bitter. Less charitable. There were the attacks on the trains..."
Kiba tossed up his hands, scattering droplets everywhere. "You come through our territory, pouring smoke into the air. You take our water and you give nothing back -- of course we attacked the trains. You never even asked. You just assumed that it was your birthright!"
Levander frowned, staring down into the water. "But the massacre at Gwenafen... those weren't railroad men, they were just farmers, just people trying to make a living." He had been part of the column dispatched to police the site; a pile of bodies, slowly desiccating in the sun, had been all that remained of the town.
"After your men attacked a peaceful trading caravan -- and desecrated the bodies. How could we let that go? How?" His canine features narrowed -- not angrily, but the question was pointed and emotional. "How could we?"
"That's not fair. Every time we've come across you in battle, we've always been sure to accord you full military honors. A proper funeral, with --"
Kiba cut him off with a pained yelp. "You put them underground! You trap them in their earthly garments so that their souls won't be able to escape their body, and -- and even if they could, you bury them in the dirt so that they can't see the sun!" He was tense with emotion, his muzzle quivering. "You separate them, each one, so that they are alone. At least when we attacked your camp, we treated your dead nobly!"
For a moment, he remained frozen in shock. Then Levander's ears flattened, as reality struck home in full force and he suddenly understood what had been happening. "No..." he breathed. "No, no, no... We didn't... I didn't know. That's... that's how we treat our dead, we commit them back to the ground; it's a sacred ritual for us. We didn't mean to dishonor you, we didn't even know. We thought that the pyre at Gwenafen..."
"Pyre?"
"The bodies. We thought that you were going to burn the bodies, to remove all the evidence."
The Sujetai soldier looked confused, for a moment, and then shook his head. "No, of course not. That's simply the ritual -- as people have died together, so they must be kept together. That way they have company, when their souls journey upwards to the sun. If they can't see the sun, they don't know where to go. That's why we must leave our dead in the open, so that the souls can escape and the empty shell can be destroyed..."
Of course. In the dry scrubland, there would be no miasma, no disease; the bodies would dry out or be consumed by the desert animals. Levander rubbed at his temple with two fingers. He struggled for words, and eventually settled on the only ones that came to him: "I'm sorry... we thought you were trying to be deliberately disrespectful."
"We thought the same thing... All this time. All this time, we could've been drinking the same water... " Kiba dipped his white paws into the pool, bringing them out and watching as the liquid drained through the fur, running down in cool, clear streaks. "May god forgive us..."
Levander paused, taken for a moment by curiosity. "Which one?"
Kiba tilted his head, repeating the question. "Which one? There's only one god."
An hour before, at this revelation, Levander would've scoffed. These savages -- they don't even know how many gods there are! Now, though, he merely looked at the man, genuinely intrigued. "There are hundreds -- thousands. Every rock, every stream, is imbued with a deity..."
"No, no." For Kiba, too, it seemed to be a friendly discussion. "There is only one. Only one god created all of this. All of it..." The canine lifted his paw, and swept it in an arc that encompassed the oasis and the sands far beyond.
Levander followed the path of Kiba's hand, and then nodded, raising his own paw in answer. "But... consider this. You'd agree that there's only one world, correct? Then the same supernatural force must've created it. Perhaps it's just that where I see a hand, a foot, an ear, a claw... you don't see separate things, you see them as part of one whole. Perhaps we just have different names for the same phenomenon."
Kiba seemed to agree. "Of course, that makes sense." Then he grinned. "Or perhaps not. My god would not have created those paws -- they're like clubs! And those ears..."
Levander was proud of his ears -- the sharp angles and the tufts of fur that graced the tips. He narrowed his eyes, and pointedly splashed his paw towards the tribesman. "But he permitted your muzzle? Was your mother a swordfish?"
"Was yours a tarboosh?" Kiba laughed -- a warm, open sound that carried against the rocks. "If your jests are any indication of your aim, it's no wonder you have such trouble in the desert."
Levander bared his teeth. "Ah -- insult my mother, but not my marksmanship. Do you see that tree, seventy yards hence? I could put a hole through the trunk."
"With your rifle? There's a rock... Just on top of the large boulder there." Kiba pointed to a stone the size of Levander's fist, perched another sixty yards further than the tree.
Levander had to squint. "What of it?"
"I could hit it from here."
"That lie," Levander said, with a wag of his finger, "is as pointed as your muzzle, dog."
"Give me your rifle." The way he said it was warm, but firm and, for some reason, Levander complied.
It was a breech-loaded rifle of the recently developed needlegun variety, a precision instrument entirely unsuited for the harsh desert -- Levander had to spend the better part of an hour each day cleaning it so that it would not jam at an inopportune time. He slid a cartridge into place and closed the bolt, handing it to Kiba, who had moved to lie in the shallow end of the pool.
Kiba took the rifle with the sureness of a man who had viewed his entire adult life down the barrel of a gun. As Levander watched, the jackal squinted, his breathing still. His finger closed on the trigger so carefully that Levander was not aware of the movement, and the sudden report of the gun was so shocking he let out a gasp.
The rock was gone. Levander eyed Kiba skeptically and then, still dripping water, padded the distance over to the boulder. Where the rock had been there remained only fragments; he found the bulk of it, split in two halves, ten yards beyond. The halves were flat, the cleavage so precise it might've been trimmed with a saw. "You got lucky," he told Kiba, returning to the edge of the oasis. The other man had, he noticed, set the rifle back with Levander's clothes and pack.
"It's your fingers, I think; they're too indelicate. They don't caress the rifle to its fullest potential. Mine do not either, always, but... still, you underestimate me."
"I suppose. I've done worse." Levander sat at the edge of the rocky pool and skipped one half of the broken stone over the water until it clattered against the far wall.
"What was that? How did you do that?"
"Skip the rock? You just impart a little spin to it, and it skims over the water. Here, you try." Levander leaned over, and handed the remaining half to Kiba.
The rock hit the water at a bad angle, wheeling into the pool and vanishing beneath the water. "Witchcraft," Kiba hissed with a wry grin. "You're bending the water somehow."
Levander swam over to where the rock had vanished and dove beneath the surface of the water. It was cool, and painfully clear -- some silt still billowed where the stone had fallen, and he retrieved it easily. He fetched the other half, too, from the water's edge, and swam back to Kiba. "No such thing. It just takes dexterity. It's your fingers, I think." He stuck out his tongue. "I'll teach you."
So he did -- over the course of the hour, as the sun slumped dejectedly from the exuberance of its high point into the languor of the afternoon, like a schoolchild awaiting the final bell. He stepped behind Kiba, holding his arm to demonstrate the proper position, guiding it through the toss, the flick that spun the stone. The first time he skimmed the rock over the pool to the far side, Kiba gave a canine bark of delight.
They were still soaked, the two of them, and finally Kiba allowed that they should leave the water. The broad, flat stones around the edge were warm, and they sprawled on them like lizards. Propped up on an elbow, Levander looked over his companion's form. It was lean and lithe, but not powerless... impulsively, as he watched the jackal's fur drying in the still, hot, late-afternoon air, Levander ran his hand down the man's side.
"What are you doing?"
"Admiring you," Levander said, plainly. "Marveling at what it is that we wished to destroy. We're so concerned about how much something is worth, we never stop to consider..."
Kiba smiled wistfully, and reached out a long, straight arm to tousle the hair between Levander's ears. "Let me show you something," he said, and sat up slowly. As Levander looked up at him, the canine's fur caught the light, so that the dying sun lent him a mystical aura around the edges -- as if he was taking part in an eclipse.
He followed Kiba back down to the oasis, until the man halted and he came up behind him. Below, the pool was suffused with light from the waning afternoon, and it glinted like a daydream given form. "Ah..." Levander breathed, captivated.
"My people believe that the wealth of a tribe is its water... we call it liquid gold, and when the sun goes down, sometimes, it reminds us of why. But that is just the wealth of a tribe. The wealth of a man, we say, is here." Kiba brought his paw up to rest it on his chest, directly over his heart.
Levander placed his own paw over it. Kiba's fingers were slender and long, and they intertwined between Levander's easily. He embraced Kiba warmly, putting his other hand on the man's stomach, feeling the fur, still slightly damp, as it parted between his fingers.
Kiba fell back, pressing firmly into Levander's body so that he had to take a half-step back to steady himself. "If only we could have all met like this..."
"If only," he agreed. "But we didn't. We are only two people..." Levander rested his chin on the man's shoulder as he held him, savoring the solid touch of man's back, and the light, flicking presence of his wagging tail as it danced between Levander's legs.
"No. It is as with you and your gods again... we are meant to be one person, with two bodies..." The jackal's hips ground back against Levander's -- perhaps by reflex, but it was devilishly provocative.
Levander felt himself beginning to purr at the incessant warmth of the man's slight frame and the firm press of his hips, stirring a sensation that, earlier in the day, he would've found inconceivable. He let his paw drop lower; it brushed lightly between Kiba's legs, and the hint of firm flesh there, before falling upon the man's thigh.
Kiba gasped -- and again, when Levander drew his paw back up, enfolding his fingers surely about the soft fur that downed the tribesman's sheath. As Levander began to stroke over that fur, Kiba gave a shaky sigh. "I take back everything I said about your fingers..."
Levander grinned, and began to widen the track of his movements. Kiba's shaft grew more rigid, protruding further and further from the fur with each pulse of the man's heart, and Levander stroked it now with the pad at the tip of his thumb. Every touch drew a moment of tension from the jackal. For his part, Levander marveled at the warmth of the man's flesh; he added a second finger to his exploration, and a third. "It's so smooth... do your women not mind?"
"I wouldn't know..." Kiba's words were soft, a slurred half-moan. "I don't think there's been any complaints amongst my people."
Levander grinned, and leaned up to nip the jackal's ear -- broad and pointed, much like the caracal's. He moved his paw faster now over the desert dweller's shaft, stroking it swiftly, letting the short, silky fur of his fingers glide along it in smooth, eager movements, all the way from the pointed tip back down to the base, where Kiba's member bulged with a swelling that grew more pronounced by the second.
Levander squeezed this gently, and was rewarded with a deep, growling groan and a bead of wetness at the tip. He brought his free paw down, caressing the knot warmly as his other hand lavished attention over the remainder. Kiba's breathing was growing deep and strained; it left him each time now as a deep growl, and he was starting to tense. This movement brought their two bodies close, and Levander was made aware of his own arousal, pressed into the thick fur of the jackal's back.
Suddenly Kiba stiffened; his shoulders arched, his pointed muzzle lifting skyward as he gave a choked snarl. The rigid length caught between Levander's fingers jerked quickly; he could hear the sound of the man's seed as it fell, first on the water of the oasis and then the stones closer to them. He continued to squeeze, softly, until Kiba shuddered and fell back, slightly limp and dazed. "Ah, my god..."
Levander said nothing -- just held him, supporting the man until he got his feet beneath him once more and turned. His eyes were fierce with passion, and he wrapped his long, delicate arms around Levander's back, pulling him close as their muzzles met. When the kiss finally broke, Kiba was as out of breath as he had been before, and Levander had joined him.
"Please. Let me return the favor, enkütay." Seeing the flicker of confusion, Kiba grinned shyly. "It means 'man of my people.' My tribal brother." He leaned forward to kiss Levander again and, before he could respond, the jackal had dropped down to his knees.
Levander was aware of his tongue first -- a soft, velvety warmth, so unlike the rough texture of his own. He was fully erect, and Kiba's broad, smooth tongue coursed over each inch of bared flesh. Levander could only purr, feeling his tail flick and curl and dance behind him. Still Kiba continued the attention, lapping softly over him until Levander was moaning wantonly.
His eyes were closed. He lived in a world of touch only; the heat of the setting sun on his face, the light wind as it tickled his fur. To this was added, suddenly, the wet and wonderful presence of Kiba's lips as they parted over the tip of his erection. Levander groaned again as this warmth surrounded him; Kiba used his soft tongue to shield him from the jackal's fangs, leaving only a soft, silken caress.
Then he began to suckle on the rigid length within his muzzle, a sensation so exquisite that Levander could do nothing; his paws fell limply to his sides. His companion did not let up; the jackal moved eagerly, bobbing his muzzle along Levander's shaft in an easy, smooth, tender rhythm. His muzzle was hot, slick with saliva and the precome that spilled readily forth against Kiba's questing tongue.
He was being drawn inexorably to his end; Levander's hips started to buck lightly, sinking himself deeper into the jackal's muzzle -- he had derided it, he thought at a great distance, so terribly foolishly... it was a maddening pressure, all around him. He could not, he knew, endure; his purring, already, was beginning to deepen to a snarl. His sac drew up more snugly -- then Kiba's paw brushed over it, teasingly, and Levander's resolve failed him.
Kiba let out a grunting woof at the first pulse of seed that painted the roof of his muzzle; then he drew back, sucking on the tip of Levander's manhood as he spent himself in spurt after warm spurt against the jackal's tongue. When his climax eased -- though it seemed to Levander that it might never do so -- Kiba cleaned his shaft thoroughly, tenderly, lovingly. He let it go only after several long, wonderful seconds, and then stood.
Levander was giddy, his breathing shaky. Still he returned the embrace that Kiba wrapped him up in; still he returned the panting oath of affection. By the time he could think straight, the sun lay halfheartedly on the horizon -- as though it was as spent as he. It was Kiba who said the words that neither wished to hear.
"It's late. You should be going, and so should I..."
"I know," Levander murmured plaintively, as if protesting reality might defer it. "But will we ever see each other..."
He had not phrased it as a question, for the questioning tone alone spelled the answer. "Not this season, no," Kiba admitted. "Nor perhaps the next. But in this lifetime... Ah, well, more interesting things have happened, have they not?"
"They have." Today, Levander did not need to add. Today was so much more than the sum of its hours...
They dressed reluctantly; in his loose-fitting garments Kiba looked almost like a monk. "And you a postman," the jackal said, teasingly; Levander returned the smile, but it was soft and wistful. As each slung their weapon, and gathered their possessions, Kiba gave him a final hug. "I'll miss you."
"Every oasis I pass, I'm going to find myself looking hopefully there..."
Kiba nodded. "Every shadow I see, silhouetted by the afternoon sun, I will feel my heart pause a moment..."
"Ah, and one day..." Levander grinned.
"One day," Kiba agreed.
"How heavy is your pack?" Levander gripped, in his paws, two halves of a broken stone. He held them out in his upturned palms.
"Never too heavy for that." Kiba took one, and nodded, as if he had seen an answer there. "Until the next time a sunset paints the afternoon golden."
"Until then."
He reached Fort Dranenven in the early morning, with the sun at his back. When he reached the palisade, he became aware of a flurry of activity within. Captain Canley, the garrison commander, met him directly beyond the gate.
"What's going on, sir?"
Canley was gruff; an old military man with the air of unquestionable authority. "The Iron Throne has become tired of our lack of activity. They've given us a choice -- fight them, or give up the post and withdraw back to Tinenfirth for new orders. But we can't fight them if we don't know where they are... the other patrols have all come back empty, so we're packing up. We've got the wagons loaded and the camels are resting; we can leave tomorrow. Unless you saw something?"
They mean to strike in a week's time, he heard Kiba saying. If they did, then they would die -- Kiba perhaps among them; who knew? They would perish, and the Sujetai resistance would be over. The Royal Army could move in, then -- bringing its civilization, its railroads, its water pumping stations. He might even win a medal for his reconnaissance action; he might be permitted to retire. He would be doing his duty to his people -- he would be a credit to his race...
"Private?"
Levander shook his head. "Sorry, sir. All quiet on my patrol."