Episode 28
So this is what true stillness feels like.
The blazing sun scorched overhead, and the relentless wind swept across the dunes. Even the sound of Kusille’s hooves was swallowed by the sand, fading into a scattered whisper. Ian gazed at the shimmering horizon, where heat waves danced like mirages, and an inexplicable calm settled over him.
“Ugh…”
Every now and then, Beric’s dying groans drifted through the air, but no one paid them any mind. In the Great Desert, those destined to die must do so quickly, and those meant to survive must find a way to live.
Ian handed over the half-full water skin and asked, “Are you holding up?”
“Feels like I’m about to die…”
“Is it really that bad?”
“Not exactly…”
They’d only been in the Great Desert for a day since crossing the border. The unexpected variable was Beric’s heat tolerance. His fiery red hair, soaked and limp, seemed to have absorbed the desert’s heat entirely. Su, who had been leading ahead, came back up beside them.
“If you’re going to die, I’ll let you off here. I feel sorry for your Kusille.”
Su’s sarcastic tone earned only a scowl from Beric. This was lawless territory beyond the border, Su was a member of the Cheonryeo tribe, and, damn it, Beric’s master was the ‘peace offering’ they were escorting. Still, maybe flipping the bird wouldn’t be too much trouble? Even gasping for breath, Beric pondered and muttered under his breath.
“Wait.”
Whoooosh!
The wind shifted direction. The guide at the front halted, and the entire caravan came to a stop. The guide shook a dry twig, reading the wind’s signs.
“What’s going on?”
“A sandstorm. It’s moving faster than expected.”
“How close?”
“In about four hours, we’ll meet it.”
The chieftain and other leaders gathered, eyes fixed on the sky. Unfortunately, it was daytime, so no stars were visible.
“We’ll set up camp for a while.”
That meant the meeting would be prolonged. Following Kakantir’s orders, a large shade was spread out, and everyone gave their Kusille water, taking a rest. Ian did the same. After tending to his Kusille, he helped Beric drink some water.
“Escorting you has been quite the challenge.”
“You never said it’d be this hot.”
“Not expecting you to be unfamiliar with the desert was the real surprise.”
“I know the desert! I do! Damn it. Give me more water.”
Ian handed the water skin back to Beric and rummaged through a small bag. Inside was a carefully folded map of the Great Desert and a list of climate predictions, given to him by his teacher.
‘How far have we come?’
He had marked their route on the map each time it changed. They must have traveled quite a distance. Though Beric was groaning, the Cheonryeo tribe showed no mercy, urging their Kusille onward. Probably out of concern for Chief Winchen’s health.
“…Sandstorm.”
Ian traced the map with his finger. The storm’s path, labeled A12, overlapped exactly where they stood. Since they’d set out yesterday, the margin of error was about four hours—just as the guide had guessed.
“What are you staring at?”
“Su, you’re not sweating at all.”
Su chuckled, chewing on a dried date.
“I was born in the heat and raised in the sand. A warrior like me doesn’t sweat.”
“Right. How long’s the break?”
“About ten minutes. Start loading the gear again soon.”
She seemed pleased that no one questioned her warrior status. She handed over a couple of dates and spun away with a smile.
“Attention! We leave in five minutes. We need to move quickly to avoid the storm!”
“Which way should we face the Kusille’s heads?”
“East.”
“Understood.”
Following the chieftain’s orders, everyone turned their Kusille’s heads to the right. Amid the chaos, only two remained still—Ian and Beric. Though Beric was barely conscious.
“Is there a problem?”
“You said east just now?”
“Yes.”
“…Not south?”
The unexpected question made the tribe members stop and look at Ian. What was he trying to say?
The guide was the tribe’s protector, inheriting the wisdom of their ancestors. Even the chieftain would usually accept the guide’s judgment on desert matters.
“What’s he babbling about now?”
“Talking like he’s never stepped foot in the desert.”
“Leave him be. Typical noble behavior.”
“Ha! True! Coming from the great empire, after all!”
They spoke in their own language, so Ian only caught the gist beyond the first comment. The chieftain looked displeased but didn’t seem ready to lash out. If Ian caused trouble, though, he might face the same fate as Derga’s elder brother.
The chieftain approached.
“Why mention the south?”
The Cheonryeo’s homeland lay to the north. Heading south meant a detour, adding time and effort. Naturally, he was curious.
“There was a Great Desert researcher at the mansion. According to the information I received, the storm is currently approaching from the northeast. It seems large, so avoiding it is wise. I mentioned the south because we can’t turn back the way we came.”
They had crossed a massive sand dune yesterday—so steep that two Kusille had accidentally tumbled down while descending.
“Chieftain?”
With time pressing, the chieftain simply stared at Ian. Urged by the tribe, he finally extended his hand.
“Let me see that information.”
“Here it is.”
He looked surprised at how willingly Ian handed it over. If they tried to use it against him, Ian was ready to abandon it. The chieftain examined the paper and called over Nersarn.
“Nersarn, translate this.”
It was written in Bariel cursive. Kakantir, Nersarn, and the guide huddled together, heads bent in discussion. Judging by their expressions, a new plan was forming.
“Why the sudden change?”
Ian whispered to Su, who glanced around before quietly replying.
“It’s certain the storm’s coming from the north. But one of the Kusille that tumbled yesterday belongs to the guide. The branch got damaged, so his energy must have weakened.”
The world of the gypsies was truly mysterious. How could they predict the weather with just a worthless twig? Ian wanted to cut in and ask, but he nodded patiently instead.
‘Heading south is safer but more grueling. East is a shorter detour, though it’s uncertain if we’ll encounter the storm.’
With Chief Winchen’s condition critical, two injured Kusille, a pile of trade goods, and outsiders unfamiliar with the desert, the chieftain chose the most efficient option—unaware that the east was also within the storm’s reach.
“Very well. Let’s proceed as planned.”
After a lengthy discussion, the decision was made. Kakantir scanned the group for suitable candidates.
“Jangyarung, Tan, Turom! You three will take the eastern route and enter Cheonryeo first. Inform them that the storm will delay us, and if there’s news about the chief, return immediately.”
They were the largest and strongest among the group—capable of pushing through the sandstorm.
Without hesitation, they packed only the essentials and mounted their Kusille. The rest could probably endure the storm, but there was no guarantee the Kusille or their cargo would hold up.
“Keep a wide angle as you move. Don’t pass the Eternal Cactus or the Praying Rock. The storm is fiercer inside those areas.”
“Understood.”
“We’re off!”
“See you in Cheonryeo!”
Whoosh!
No time for farewells. They spurred their Kusille, and in an instant, the three vanished into the distance.
“So, what about us…?”
The chieftain looked back at Ian, then folded the map and tucked it away as if to say, ‘We’re heading south.’
“Southward, then.”
Everyone adjusted their Kusille’s heads again. Ian grabbed Beric’s collar and helped him up, and the chieftain assisted in hoisting Beric onto his Kusille.
“Who made this map?”
“My teacher.”
Kakantir’s face was expressionless, but inwardly, he acknowledged the clear difference in skill and knowledge. They had traversed the desert on foot to create the map. Some oases had only been discovered a few years ago, yet the map marked them with an ‘85% chance of existence.’
“Drink sparingly.”
He glanced at Beric’s sweat-drenched face and offered a warning. With the journey extended, water would be scarce.
“Yes, chieftain.”
Ian nodded, thinking it was time to start infusing magic instead of water.
The wind began to blow again—this time low and brief.
“Hmm?”
Several days passed.
As they grew accustomed to the desert’s scorching days and freezing nights, the guide who had been leading broke the silence. He was usually quiet.
That was the signal. Kakantir and then Nersarn lifted their heads, and soon the entire group stared ahead.
“Trees?”
Ian saw it too.
A streak of green stretched along the horizon. Then the Cheonryeo’s horns sounded, and the tribe erupted in joyous shouts.
“We’ve arrived! Cheonryeo!”
“Well done, everyone.”
“Thank you! Demosha!”
“Demosha!”
Beric, half-dozing atop his Kusille, rubbed his eyes. His already sun-darkened skin had turned even darker.
“We’re here?”
“Yes.”
As they neared their destination, the sand hardened beneath their feet. The Kusille picked up their pace, and within an hour, they would reach their goal.
“That’s Chieftain Kakantir!”
Ian scanned the land of the Cheonryeo tribe.
For a barbarian tribe on the frontier, their architectural skills were surprisingly advanced. Inside the white stone walls, tents were packed tightly together. Palm trees stood tall and lush against the sand, while colorful fabrics, faded by the golden desert sun, fluttered in ashen hues. The roads were in good condition, and there even seemed to be some form of drainage system…
“Khan! Welcome back!”
“Thank you for your hard work. This way, please!”
“Everyone, get water and food ready!”
“Is that Ian the author? Or the author Ian?”
“Just by looking, you can tell he’s blond. The one beside him looks fiery.”
Amid the noisy crowd of well-wishers, everyone exchanged cheerful greetings. The three who had set out earlier to report on the group’s status had also recovered from their fatigue and returned to their daily routines.
“And Chief Winchen?”
“He’s said to be improving.”
“That’s a relief.”
Khan Tir nodded toward Ian, signaling him to follow. As Ian stepped down from the Kushile, all the tribe members stared openly, their curiosity impossible to hide. Beric rubbed his sleepy eyes and trailed behind Ian.
Rustle—
Pulling back the beaded canopy, a sharp scent of cinnamon hit them. Inside, the air was cool and dim.
An old man lay on the bed in the center of the room. His skin, marked by the passage of time, hung loose and tattered as if it might fall away at any moment.
“Winchen. Khan Tir has returned.”
“Ah… Chief, I am ashamed.”
“How is your health?”
This was Winchen, the tribe’s chief, believed to be the root of the celestial spirit, a gypsy who could discern truth from lies. The old man slowly sat up.
“This is Ian, who will join the tribe through the treaty with Bratz.”
As Winchen stood, a shaft of light fell across his face. His pupils were clouded, like mold had taken hold. The rumors were true—he was blind.
“I must confirm if Ian is the right one.”
“Ian, answer my questions.”
“Yes, Chief.”
The old man muttered quietly to himself, as if pondering something, then asked an unexpected question.
“Did Ian Bratz come here by the will of the gods?”
…In the desert, Ian realized, the unexpected was always just around the corner.