No Matter How Far

7. The Path Home

 With his horse dead, Tafari stumbled back to the last village. Like a lance, he hefted the stake to one shoulder. When they saw him stumble along with the head, the people of the village slowly poured out from hiding. They gathered in lines formed alongside the unkempt dirt path. Silently, they watched. No one offered to aid or spoke a word. Just watched him with vague and distant looks in their eyes.

On the following day, the people of the next village reacted much the same. Gaunt hollowed-eyed people, his solitary procession silent as ghosts. Tafari kept his eyes focused on putting one foot in front of the other, not sparing the silent watchers one glance.

The sun dangled at its zenith, a molten eye of gold watching Tafari drag himself back to the spot where he left his men. Six days had passed, and he expected his men to be long gone. Yet, a well-organized camp remained at the spot, and Tafari could not help but smile as he trotted towards it.

The men lounged around cookfires while the camels and pack horses grazed lazily on picket lines not too far off. He went unnoticed as he staggered into the camp. No one paid him any mind, even as he walked up to where Izem sat sullenly staring into a fire.

"You are a terrible postman," Tafari said, forcing a smile on his weary face and leaning heavily on the makeshift staff bearing the head. At the sound of his voice, Izem hopped to his feet with wide, disbelieving eyes.

"Tafari! You have returned. We did not give up hope. We waited. You have returned!" The grizzled veteran said breathlessly. A wide gap-toothed grin cracked the worn leathery face. With Izem's words, the other men sprang to their feet and rushed to be at his side. A hushed silence gathered around the camp in awe. A long-dead loved one had returned from the grave. The silence broke like glass under a hammer. Shouts and cheers arose from the men who pushed eagerly to grab at Tafari. He winced as both Izem and Andile rushed forward and pulled him into a firm embrace unbecoming of the two stoic men.

Spears beat against shields, and feet stomped as voices were raised in a cry of jubilation. During the celebration, someone finally noticed Tafari's wounds. The carousel ceased. The men scrambled about like ants, turning over the camp and searching for supplies for Tafari. Izem and Andile fretted over him, mother hens barking orders to fetch poultices and bandages, neither leaving his side until all his harms were seen.

That night, they feasted. The following night, they feasted. And the night after that. And the night after that. A feast every evening until Tafari ordered a stop to it. If they kept eating, they would not have the supplies to complete their journey.

Even with an end to the constant feasting, the men's elation lasted the entirety of the trip. For weeks, they danced and sang at every halting. Jokes and stories are told around campfires to the sound of laughter and clapping. Never had Tafari seen the men in such high spirits. The times when they traveled back to Kalanduguba with pockets full of coin and in the arms of beautiful women were a funeral dirge compared to the joy they displayed now.

It was with this tangible expression that Tafari finally came upon his village. He rode at the head of the long train with Izem and Andile flanking either side of him. Andile was to his left, the banner of the Silver Tree held proudly in his hands. On his right, Izem with the devil's head on its stake. Two columns of men with hide-covered shields and polished spears marched in lockstep side by side. Their precise movements and unified step exuded their pride. Loaded with their burdens, the pack animals formed a long tail snaking back into the distance.

The word of their approach traveled on the wings of birds. The cramped dirt paths of Tarafi's village were packed with every man, woman, and child. More than his town held. More than the following two villages ever had. Atop his horse, Tafari could see the totality of his tiny home. Once the boundary of his entire world, the low mud wall was seen so much smaller now than it did back then. How could he have ever imagined as a child that wall, barely higher than a man's chest, could hold off an army of orcs? The border around the Ma'ké's palace was an impenetrable mountain compared to this tiny thing.