Nassan and Seia were nearing on the city of Umbar, rounding a natural cliff face along the shore. The stench hit them even out here, of rotting fish and nightsoil, of salt and spices. They had wrapped long bounds of cloth around their wounds, slicked in salve, taken in barter from a group of sand-sledders they had met on their way here. The sandfolk had taken too much for what they gave, but Seia would have given much more to get them to the shore safely.
Nassan was not the same. His eyes were sunken, his flesh taking a sickly grey palour. He stumbled when he walked, and what was once a tall, proud posture was now slouched. Seia did not think he would last to see whatever came after Umbar, but he would not let the boy simply slip into the long sleep. If Nassan could not fight for himself, then Seia would take up his spear for him.
The shanty town came into view first, its leaning buildings stacked high into the sky. The wood was all fresh, and the outskirts still had the charred remains of the old shanty town from before it was set alight. People milled about those ruins, scavenging like vultures for whatever valuables they could steal. They were disgusting people, with not a scrap of honour between them, though Seia could no longer judge them, stripped of his names as he was.
Few stopped to watch as the two desert boys passed, and a defiant glare kept any that thought of them as easy pickings from approaching. They kept on the main streets while Seia searched for a healer, someone that could help Nassan. He found what he was looking for within the hour and barged in through the front door, asking for help in three different tongues before the woman even moved to help him.
Nassan died before nightfall. Seia wept for him openly, ignoring what odd looks the savages gave him. Where was the shame in sorrow? But he could not remain for long. He had to leave the desert, or his shame would be all the greater. He had decided that he would go north, beyond Gondor and into the greenlands past the White City that his father had told him about.
Not his father. Mizrak. He had no right to call anyone family but Nassan, and his brother was riding alongside no one in Yildiz Arazi. The thought almost brought more tears to his eyes, but he hurriedly paid the healer with what little he had, and left, forcing his thoughts to the north. He had to find a way there, across the ocean. There was no way he could find a way past the Korushu.
Rangers, he thought to himself. He had to accustom himself to greenlander tongues if he were to travel there. He went through his lessons in his head, over and over. Which words went where, and when not to use them. He tried accents on his tongue, limping through the streets toward the great port of Umbar, but none quite fit. Untruths seemed so much easier in these northern languages.
He kept muttering the words to himself, his steps taking him to the sea. Moored against the docks were ships, enormous things, several times larger than even the Mahud's meeting tent. And then, past the great vessels, he saw it.
The ocean. As far as the eye could see, water. So much that it lapped against the ships, against the docks, as if some giant past the horizon had thrown a boulder into it so hard that it would ripple for years to come. Seia had to pause, everything forgotten as he watched the sun shine off the water. He had never seen so much water in one place. Men had fought and died over puddles the boy could step over in Harad, and yet here was this.
He was snapped out of his reverie when a man clipped the back of his head.
“Out of the way, sandcastle. People're walking here,” he said in a northern accent. His friends laughed. Three. Too many with my arm bound.
“You are from the north?” he asked instead, and the men nodded. “How much for passage? Only me and my things.”
The men exchanged glances. “You'll have to talk to the captain.”
