Seia Ilk Mizrak Dishi Kirimyzi strode the sands, the crowd following behind growing with every tent they passed. His brothers and sisters kept close, almost forty in all, armed with the heavy quarter-staves they favoured for training and bedecked in the thickly padded leathers that helped stop their bones from breaking. He could see the mumakil over the tents, as good a landmark for his destination as any, their enormous grey mass looming over their surroundings, even at rest.
The gentle curve of the road straightened out to show the tent, bigger than any other in the camp. He had been told bigger than even the palaces of the Great Cities of old. Outside the tent was a chariot, the one the Varadja had come in on, with its weak bay horses hobbled nearby. A man was there, inspecting the horses, sometimes shaking his head and sometimes nodding.
Two men flanked the entrance to the tent, each holding short spears and round fur shields, wearing the gold-enameled steel and crimson silk of the Red Fang Tribe. They lowered their spears when Seia's company came into view, steel pointing toward the children. Seia stopped just out of reach, and spoke.
“We are not here for violence, only to speak,” he said. His voice still squeaked with youth. “Step aside. Do not force us to break the tenets of this place.” Both men chewed the thought over, and one raised his spear to let them pass. The other began sliding down to prepare to fight the boy before him, but one of Seia's followers threw their staff and rang the man's head like a bell. As he stumbled, Seia stepped forward, his staff whirling, and broke the man's jaw.
The dark-skinned boy made a signal, and his cohorts formed a tight circle around the closed entrance to the tent, their staves pointed outward. Two of Seia's brothers joined him as he threw open the flaps to the tent. Inside was the Varadja, flanked by his two bodyguards, standing before the Mahud and her council. To her left was her Firstman, resplendant in his gold and red robes, and to her right was her Secondman. Seia's father, showing more gold than crimson in his ceremonial armour, was on his feet in a moment. His face was like a stormcloud, his eyes like lightning, and his voice like thunder.
“You dare intrude on this, coshuklar?! And you dare come armed, to a meet beneath this sacred shade?” He stepped down from the wooden dais and towards the boys.
“We will not be slaves, like this Varadja invites us to be!” Seia shouted. “What does he promise us? Gondor, but at what cost? That we serve, and that our descendants serve, until the end of time! We are the Muhad! We do not serve these weak-kneed foreigners, and we never will.”
The remainder of the Mahud's council rose, descending with scowls painting almost every face. All but the Chieftess herself surrounded the three boys.
“This is your son, Amiro Ilk Adam? You have not trained him well, for a Secondman. Is that not your duty?”
They are not listening, Seia thought. It was infuriating. These men and women were meant to hear the concerns of their people. They worry more about me than these foreigners!
“Perhaps he should be sent back to Baski, to learn our ways.”
Learn-- Seia punched the man who spoke, square in the nose. Blood pouring from his nostrils was the last thing he saw before his father forced him to the ground and broke the offending arm. The boy screamed.
As he was being dragged outside, he saw his friends. They had all been forced into a circle, surrounded by true warriors, their spears level with the childrens' chests. He knew what was happening, long before the edge of the camp came into view. No one said anything as he was pressed against a block of stone, his arms outstretched, his palms facing skyward, the two boys that joined him forced down into similar positions.
His mother stood within view, her eyes dull, red from weeping. His father's face was blank, the man's dark features emotionless. The councilman was still nursing his nose, the Varadja had an odd little smirk, and the Mahud stood, imperious as always, listing Seia's crimes.
It was Seia, now. His titles had been stricken from him, his tribal name torn away. His people would turns their backs on him, never allow his return. They would expect him to die in the desert. Bleeding, with little food and water, and a broken arm. The death of a criminal, of a traitor.
As the short list of crimes came to a close, Seia looked to his friends. One gave him a questioning look, and he shook his head. The boy ignored him, and bucked against his captor. He slipped out of the man's grip and drew the dagger from the other's belt. An arrow pierced his throat, and he fell to the ground. Seia almost wept.
The Mahud came forth, a thrice-tailed whip trailing from her hand. Seia bared himself for what was to come, tensed, and screamed all the harder when the leather stripped the flesh from his back. With each descent of the whip, he screamed again, again, and again until he slumped against the block and could scream no more. When it was time for his wrists, his arms were limp and he made no noise.
They left him and his friend on the edge of the camp, bleeding and broken, while their lives went back to normal. Negotiations continued with the Varadja, his other cohorts were punished, and in a few days time they would prepare to leave their camp, their tribe smaller by three.
