Free 5: The Holy Road by Ginn Hale Page A

fanfare. He stopped on the platform to wait for Alidas and found himself, instead, gawking at the fortress like the provincial peasant he claimed to be.
    The scale of Vundomu astounded him.
    Huge iron torches jutted from the walls, illuminating the wide street to afternoon brilliance. Columns of rashan’im stretched back as far as John could see. Countless other men gazed down from the towering black walls above. Nothing in Rathal’pesha had prepared him for this. He had grown so used to half-abandoned halls and wilderness that he had come to think of Basawar as a world devoid of populace and technology.
    Here the streets were not made from packed dirt but paved with iron tiles. The black walls gleamed like polished glass. John couldn’t see a single stain of rust or any corner where a weed had gained a foothold. The air churned with steam and smelled of pungent veru oil, used to lubricate guns, pistons, axles, and engines alike.
    It was like being swallowed by a huge machine. Only the distant, darkening sky reminded John that he was still outside at all.
    Ahead of John, a group of mounted rashan’im rode to meet them. One of them dismounted, led his tahldi to Ravishan, and dropped to the ground before him. John saw the man’s mouth move. Ravishan inclined his head slightly, then took the reins of the tahldi and mounted. As he rode forward, mounted rashan’im closed in behind him and followed him up the road. Then the ranks of rashan’im on foot also joined the procession.
    John stayed put. It would have been pointless to attempt to push his way through the crowd of rashan’im. And he could tell from the smooth organization of their departure that he wouldn’t have too long to wait for a clear path. Perfectly spaced columns of men poured smoothly up the road and through a second gate. There had to be ten times the number of people who had been at the Amura’taye Harvest Fair and yet the street stood half empty in just a few minutes. John supposed such efficiency was the defining difference between the chaos of a crowd and the discipline of an army.
    Alidas stepped up next to him and scanned the sea of uniformed men. More than half of them had already gone. The street suddenly seemed cavernous. John could see where other train tracks formed a junction with the ones they were on. Far to his left, he made out a variety of boxcars as well as the thick cables and awkward arms of primitive cranes. There were workmen there and animals. Now that the chants of the rashan’im had grown more distant, John could hear the sounds of sheep and goats coming from the boxcars.
    The few rashan’im who remained appeared to be on guard duty. One, a slim man with black hair drawn back in a multitude of warrior’s braids, led two saddled tahldi towards them. There was some kind of mark on his forehead—a Prayerscar, John realized, as the man drew closer. The red, crescent moon curved upward on his brow like a set of horns. John recalled that the kahlirash’im wore a scarlet moon as a symbol of their sect.
    The man waved and John almost returned the gesture before he realized that it had been meant for Alidas.
    “Wah’roa,” Alidas called out to the slim kahlirash. Despite the awkwardness of his right leg, Alidas bounded ahead to meet him. John hefted his and Ravishan’s packs and followed.
    “Alidas! Pivan wrote saying that you would be passing through, but I didn’t know when. It’s good to see you again.” Wah’roa smiled broadly, exposing a set of unnaturally sharp teeth. Ravishan hadn’t been joking about the kahlirash’im filing them.
    “I’ve had the good fortune to travel with Ushiri Ravishan and his attendant, Ushvun Jahn.” Alidas gestured towards him. Wah’roa took John in as if he were appraising an unusually large tahldi. John guessed having an animal’s name never helped the first impressions he made.
    “Ushvun Jahn,” Alidas introduced him formally, “this is Kahlirash’im Commander Wah’roa.” This