Dragonworld: The Drive For Power

Part 13: The Warband

Homesick

Pafe stood in the space between a group of tents. Before him, an old woman crouched beside a broad-bellied goat, milking the animal. The goat chewed slowly, its ribs rising and falling with the rhythm of its breath.

The woman's hands moved with the certainty of muscle memory, fingers tugging in a quiet, practiced beat.

Squirt-squirt-pause, squirt-squirt.

The milk struck the bottom of the tin bucket with soft, rhythmic splashes, like rain on stone. Pafe stood nearby, half-lost in the sound. Milk. The drink of infants, of beginnings. In the Dragon lands, the drink of warriors.

Before battle, each fighter would drink a cup of warm milk. It was meant to symbolize strength, to give the warrior energy. 

The memory left a strange warmth in his chest as he watched the old woman finish her work, her hands steady, the goat calm.

Two months had passed since he first set foot in the village. Slowly, the strangeness had begun to dull at the edges. He'd learned enough of the language to trade greetings, ask for water, point at things. His tongue still stumbled, but the people smiled when he tried.

After watching the old woman milking the goat, Pafe turned to walk around the camp. While wandering past the cookfires and wind-fluttered hides, Pafe crossed paths with an elder standing near a half-bent wooden post. 

The man's eyes opened up wide when he saw the foreigner, his mouth turning into a smile. 

Pafe muttered a greeting in the local language. The man replied, but seeing his unease, switched into the Western Tongue. Just like many in the village, he could speak it quite well. 

They spoke, first with cautious formality, then with growing ease.

Pafe found himself leaning in, almost without realizing it. There was something in the elder's calm presence that pulled at the questions circling his mind. He didn't just want to hear the words, he wanted to understand. 

These people, this land, their quiet way of being, it was all so different from the strict traditions of the Dragon clan. And yet, something about it called to him.

Perhaps the old man saw it in his face, the way his good eye searched for meaning. Without needing to be asked, the elder offered more.

A bird fluttered in the wind. Pafe watched it, as it landed on a wooden table nearby, and then flew off again. The elder smiled, him too observing the bird. 

"We call ourselves the People of the High Flying Birds, if you translate the name from our tongue," the elder explained. "Birds have a special place in our tradition."

"Why birds?" Pafe was still having a hard time understanding the way these people functioned. Having grown up among the clans, the prairie people seemed strange to him.   

"They symbolize quickness, intelligence, and freedom," said the elder. "These are the  qualities highly prized among our people."

Pafe had known from the beginning that the tribesmen were nomads. Their lives were rooted not in place, but in motion. They could strike a camp within hours, folding tents, gathering tools, loading supplies onto horses, and be gone before the dust settled. 

Even so, this current village had stood in this place longer than usual. Months had passed, and still it held.

Yet something unsettled him.

There was something strange in the air, something he couldn't quite put his finger on. On the surface, everything seemed fine. Laughter rose from fire circles. Children played games in the dust. Even the elders sang old songs in the shade of the tents.