Ekleipsis (Fantasy Romance - LGBT, manXman)

9.9

When they stepped out of the portal, the sun was setting. There was a wide monotonous heath stretching in every direction. Only in the west there were some hills and bushes.

"Damn witch, she has swindled us!" Alva said, annoyed, still using Khattal's vocabulary.

"Not by much," Kintaro objected. "The border of Ilmaer is this way, and Selkhir is that way. No more than a three-days' ride, I'd say."

Kintaro's ability to know the Wild Steppe as the back of his palm had never been doubted. Ithildin closed his eyes, as if listening to his inner voice, and said in a dreamy tone, "I know this land. I fought the Essanti thirty miles east of here."

"That's right. That's the Teraisa Plain. That's where everything had started between us."

"I kinda don't want everything to end here too." Alva giggled nervously.

"Come on, sweetling. That's the Wild Steppe. We'll hunt some game in the morning, roast it over the fire. The smoke will make my Essanti to come checking if they haven't moved their camp too far. Or we'll meet a patrol from Selkhir. In any case we won't have to walk. We could spend the night in that hollow between the hills. But I must warn you, my sweet, you'll get no sleep tonight!" the nomad looked at Alva with meaning. "I always work up such an appetite in the Steppe."

While they walked, the dusk crept upon them, and then, as if by magic, a campfire flared up in the hollow of their destination.

"Ah, must be us they are waiting for," Kintaro said, carefree, never even slowing his pace.

"At least take out your sword!" Alva said, trying to invoke some caution.

"It's the steppe. What do we have to be afraid of here? What do we have to be afraid of anywhere, come to think of it?"

"True enough," Alva admitted, and all his caution vanished in a flash.

Once they came near the campfire, they were rather taken aback. The camp itself gave no reason for concern, it was like some classical painting Supper in the Steppe coming to life: a motley tent, like one a southern merchant would use, pitched on poles; venison hissing and spitting over fire, emanating a mouth-watering smell; a small field cask with its lid open, about ten pints of dark wine inside. But those who made that camp seemed strange, to put it mildly.

"Escaped from a masquerade, did they?" Alva muttered, the only one of them who was able to put his amazement into words.

A tall black-haired woman, who was drawing wine from the cask, smiled and saluted them with her mug. Not like greeting strangers. Like she had been long waiting for her guests, and here they were at last, deigned to show up. Among the three persons in the camp she seemed the least exotic. Swarthy skin, hair braided into four braids, as was the steppe custom. She wore knee-high jackboots and an old-fashioned leather breastplate with a heraldic dragon inlaid with gold. There was also a leopard skin dramatically draped over her shoulders. Her ringed fingers glittered in the firelight − sapphires, rubies, sunstones, expensive and cheap gems indiscriminately.

The combination of a soldier's attire and flashy jewellery made one think of brigands − or warriors of old who roamed the earth some three thousand years ago. She had no weapons, though, except maybe a knife in her boot. But a few steps back, at the tent's entrance, there was a marvellous black shield with a lion's head skilfully carved out. The lion's head was huge and gilded and stuck out of the shield up to its mane, like the National Emblem of Creede. It looked pure gold, but couldn't possibly be, or else the shield would be absolutely unwieldy, right?

The two others were men, and neither their clothes, nor appearance, nor even race resembled the tall woman's. The first was wrapped up in a snow-white cloak from head to toe, as if they were not in the steppe, dozens of miles away from any comforts of civilized life, but in the garden of the RoyalPalace in Trianess. His long, fair hair streamed down his shoulders like melted silver. His eyes were light-coloured and shone like stars in the dark. His cloak was fastened on his breast with a fibula in the shape of a tree-leaf with dew-drops − such a clever piece of work, that it was undoubtedly done by the Ancient Race. Or by someone able to imitate their work perfectly. By his side there was a typical elven blade, which looked more like a lance or a scythe than a sword: with a long wide blade, on an even longer handle.