Drakon Omnibus

by C. A. Caskabel

  Zeria’s next words pierced me like ice blades between the ribs. “You will leave tomorrow, Da-Ren.”

  She was right. There was no more magic to find in the Forest.

  “I have to find out who came after me. I am the First Uncarved.”

  The First Uncarved.

  I took a long look around me. There was nothing else I wanted from this Forest. Except her. And I have had her, already. As if I had just woken from a deep stupor that had lasted a whole moon and more, I said the words that I had forgotten, the words that had been lost in the wood.

  Run away. Gallop free again. Conquer her, conquer fate, conquer Enaka. Rule the Tribe.

  I was growing weak next to the invincible Forest Witch.

  Wield the Blade. Avenge. Rule. Ride with men again. Leave this forest.

  “I don’t want you to leave, Da-Ren. I see only death where you go.”

  The night had still not settled around us. Half the animals sought shelter, and the other half sought their prey. I saw sparkling dark-yellow eyes following me and heard the hoot of an owl very close. The rustling sounds of men’s feet were close behind us. Veker was already in front of me. His men had surrounded me with axes and cudgels. There were more than ten of them.

  “Your time here is long past. We are going to get you out of the forest. You won’t make it on your own,” said Veker.

  My fingers were around the blade’s grip, but I couldn’t take all of them. The time had come for me to leave.

  I had entered Zeria. She had kissed me. Her magic had rejuvenated me as if she had dipped me whole into a jar of honey. A horse and the open sky. The stars that the canopy had mantled. Any horse. I had to get back to the Tribe’s warriors. I was the First Uncarved. I would let no one hunt me like a helpless deer.

  Zeria was hitting Veker on the chest with her fists. She wrapped herself around her father’s knees.

  “No, let him stay.”

  “If he stays, he will bring death to all of us,” said Veker. “Listen to Saim.”

  Zeria turned to me. “Throw down your blades. Plead on your knees to stay here,” she said. “Stay here.” Those were her last words for a long time to come.

  I dropped my blades, but I did not know how to plead on my knees. It was time. I turned to Veker. “Fear not, Dasal. I will leave tomorrow. But you must first take me to Saim. We will go together, only the two of us.”

  I didn’t want to go with Zeria. I wanted to hear the true prophecy.

  The sleep of the last night was cold. The cold of late autumn, the cold away from her skin. I dreamed of the chained hearts of the sons of the Ouna-Mas, beating alone and bleeding in their mothers’ tents.

  Veker and his men woke me at first light and gave me my blades, my bow, and Rouba’s horse. He took me deep into the Forest through untrodden paths. The Forest was bleeding autumn. A bronze leaf tangled in my long hair. I had stayed there too long. His men followed from a distance. I was not afraid. If he wanted to kill me, he wouldn’t have given me my blades.

  I spotted a shadow appearing and disappearing like a spirit through the trees as we kept walking.

  “Don’t be afraid,” Veker said.

  I wasn’t.

  Two breaths later Saim suddenly appeared in front of us like a wind-ghost emerging from a tree’s trunk. He looked at me without saying a word and only made a grimace to Veker. And yet Veker translated to me.

  “Saim asks, ‘Why have you returned?’” Veker said.

  “I want to know. About my future. Am I cursed by my ninestar mark? Will I bring darkness and blood to my Tribe?”

  Veker looked at me, but the fear gave his face the color of the yellow-green leaves.

  “What madness is this? Is that what you came here to learn? Tribe of mad beasts!” he shouted.

  Saim hissed his next words, his palms covering his temples as if he saw the end of all living things and his despair flowed into Veker’s words.

  “Blood first, then darkness; that is the end of all of us. Cursed or not, Da-Ren.”

  “The end of my Story, I mean. Is it glorious or bitter?” I asked again.

  “Yes!” Saim uttered the word in my tongue.

  “Yes, what?” I asked, my hands raised impatiently with clawed fingers, ready to grab his throat.

  He didn’t say another word.

  I looked back at the rest of the Dasal. Zeria had come and was standing among them, her hand raised and unmoving. A last goodbye.

  I pointed to the sky.

  “I’ll come back soon. By the next moon. One moon, Zeria.”

  There would never be many words between Zeria and me. The first time I saw her, I saved her life. As soon as I found her again, she saved mine. From the first moment, without thinking or deciding, like blind servants of a forbidden faith, we wove our lives and our death into the same wreath. Words were precious.

  It was the only way I could leave. They would have to peel me off the trunks with force, like the Reekaal who had been forever trapped within. I held her last gaze and turned my back on her. My legs were walking fast; the Dasal were dragging my soul. They took me out of the Forest in haste. The next nightfall, they left me alone with my horse under the moonlight, at the clearing of the Forest’s eastern end. I held onto the horse’s mane and started my journey back to Sirol. The stars, the glowing dust of Enaka’s body, startled, recognized me and in all their brightness asked me, “Is it you, Da-Ren? Do you live?”

  I asked them to slide through the dense branches and find her for me. Only the stars could now see both of us at the same moment. The wind whipped me, like a Guide’s forgotten punishment in the Sieve. I had days to gallop and nights to pray to the stars ahead of me. I had to find who had killed Rouba. Who had tried to kill me. If the Ouna-Mas had given birth to male monsters. If these monsters had been sent to kill me. If the Reghen did touch the Tribe’s condemned on the shoulder.

  If there was still a chance for me to become the next Khun, then all these snakes would be under my boot. I’d crush them all. I had tied the red cloth of the First Uncarved on my arm again. Maybe I could still make it. I had been away from the camp of the Uncarved two whole moons. Not more. Couldn’t be sure. Blue was their color. But, if I managed to fool Sah-Ouna, if I could convince her that I had passed the trial, if Chaka believed me, and if Khun-Taa granted me audience, then there was still hope.

  Too many ifs gathered, one for each dead star up there.

  When I arrived at Sirol, it was already too late.

  XXX.

  Iron End

  Eighteenth autumn. Uncarved—Wolf.

  I dismounted outside the camp of the Uncarved at midday. The wind was howling, lifting and rolling the hay bushels from the ground. It brought all the curses of the Ouna-Mas, all the questions of the Guides upon me. Young Starlings and Owls, children of our camp, saw me first and ran ahead to spread the word. By the time I had reached the hut I shared with Malan and Gunna, everyone knew. They avoided my eyes as if I were a ghost. My weapons and my clothes were gone.

  “Everybody said that you were dead for sure,” Chaka said bluntly.

  “Everybody who? I was alone.”

  He had nothing else to say. The red band of the First Uncarved was tied again around Malan’s arm. Chaka didn’t even bother to untie mine. He just looked at it for a breath, and I knew I had to cut it away. I was given new clothes, but they were old and worn; whatever had been left behind by the dead and the unfit Uncarved who had been sent away.

  It was not the clothes or the red band or the second bow I’d left behind and was now gone. No, I didn’t miss any of these. Not even her eyes. It was the Guides and the Uncarved whom I couldn’t stand to look at anymore—those, staring at me as if I were a man condemned. Any moment I expected them to come in with their knives and carve my terrible end.

  What if the questions came? What happened to Rouba? Why I left the Pack? How I survived so long in the Forest? Did I kill him? What happened to my horse? Why had I returned with Rouba’s horse
? Did I steal it? Some of this was going on in their minds for sure. If I started telling a Story about a girl and a pond, the true Story, it would be even worse.

  “You drink the truth; you can’t vomit the lies,” were Saim’s words. He had poisoned me with crystal water. I didn’t want to lie or defend myself.

  But there were neither lashes nor carvings. I had one bitter end only: their cold indifference. I told them little. Chaka avoided asking anything, and he wanted to hear even less. He was relieved. His search for the One had ended, and at last he was on the same side as Sah-Ouna. He didn’t have to bother with me anymore.

  The ninestar Bera didn’t lose any time; he walked toward me shouting, immediately when he saw me: “You had no reason to leave the Archer Packs and go search for the Dasal. Who asked you to do that?”

  “The men.”

  Lies.

  “The Leader tells his men where to go; they don’t tell him. But you are a ninestar. You would have found some way to drown in pigshit in the end.”

  I said nothing. I had become nothing, and they didn’t even allow me to demand anything. I was just relieved that they were not asking.

  Had Sah-Ouna demanded it, I would have been carved. But the First Witch didn’t even bother herself with me. She had sent me on the campaign but never once cared to learn whether I had returned or what I had done there. She would never again call me to her tent. Chaka went to speak to the Reghen about my fate, and the two of them returned with Sah-Ouna’s answer.

  “The Reghen says not to carve you.” That was all Chaka said and then he stood stiff-lipped and shook his head left and right.

  The Reghen wanted to erase any hope I still had. “There are only three of you Uncarved Wolves remaining, and so it should be. We must have at least two to choose from till the final night. But the way you are all dying out lately, we are safer with three rather than two.”

  I was finished. What in the demon’s curse was I thinking? How could I still expect to be First after being lost in the Forest for so long? I had thrown it all away to find Kar-Tioo.

  On the fourth afternoon of my return, Malan and Gunna were to compete on the bow. Chaka didn’t even let me mount my horse. I watched together with the younger Uncarved—my arms crossed and useless.

  It was late in the evening. The day’s light was fading, and the horses were tired from galloping back and forth in the field all day. Malan and Gunna continued to aim with their bows at the pumpkin heads that stood on stakes, looking like the servants of the Demon. Harmless, unarmed, and motionless servants were those pumpkins.

  Malan had kept up all day with Gunna, but now he was losing. His horse had slowed down and was coming in second. As the sun was setting, he stopped completely and approached Chaka and the Reghen who were watching next to me.

  “This field is beaten badly, and there is no light. Let’s move to that one,” said Malan pointing to his right.

  Chaka agreed.

  “Da-Ren, get the Starlings and go fetch torches. Put them around the stakes on that field,” he said.

  I did as I was told and as night was falling the trial continued in the new field but without any change. Malan was still losing. He seemed to be holding back sometimes, as if he didn’t want to follow. Gunna’s arrows always reached first. He made his rounds faster and aimed better, while all the others were beginning to mock Malan the First with long boos and jeers.

  “Gunna will take the red band,” I heard someone next to me say.

  Gunna was unstoppable and continued to crush the pumpkins and all doubts about who was the best warrior. As if that would mean anything.

  I could beat them. I had beaten them not long ago when I was First. Just two moons had passed since I had fought in a bloody campaign. Bearded warriors and Archers had shivered listening to me telling Er-Ren’s Story in the Forest. Now I was nobody.

  Chaka sent me to put new pumpkins on top of each man-tall stake for one final round, and so I did. I was walking backward instead of running as Gunna and Malan were approaching the targets on horseback. I didn’t want to miss the spectacle. Gunna was galloping way ahead, already aiming, and I would be in real danger if he were not a great archer. I didn’t know if he’d ever be Khun, but I was certain he’d be one of the greatest warriors of the Tribe for many winters to come.

  He was balancing on the horse with boots on stirrups, both hands free on the bow, screaming with rage after each arrow shot. He passed next to the stakes, galloping even closer to me, as I was backing away. He was aiming backward for the most difficult shot, showing off. Gunna, the greatest warrior I had seen. That, I was certain. We are all so certain of so many things when we’re young.

  And then it happened right in front of me. The brown mare’s front leg sank in the ground. A blind puddle? The horse’s back arched hard, both knees and its head bent forward and hit the dirt. Gunna came flying out of the saddle, landing flat on his back a few feet away from me. A dull thump came out of the ground and a deadly cracking snap out of his bones. The horse rolled to its right side breathing heavily, while Gunna lay on his back next to me, motionless like a fallen tree trunk. I knelt next to him, my torch illuminating a rictus of pain. His back and left leg were at bad angles, and he was still as a corpse. He wasn’t screaming in pain. Those who are in the worst kind of pain never cry. They can’t. It hurts. He only tried to whisper.

  “Red…”

  “Stay put. Don’t talk,” I answered.

  He whispered again something like “Red…first.”

  Red first? Red band? What on the Demon’s name are you trying to tell me, Gunna? “Shhh, shut up now, here they’re coming, we’ll help you. Stay put, Gunna. You’ll be fine.” Damn you! No, you won’t.

  I had seen that too many times before. Long ago, in the second spring of the Uncarved, another two of our Pack had fallen. One had broken his head, and the other, a wrist. Fiery rage consumed our Guides whenever this shame came upon the Pride of the Sieve. Someone they had raised for so many summers, chosen by the Ouna-Mas and Enaka. Someone they had ripped away from a mother and a father he would never know, without shedding a tear, just to die like that. To be killed or crippled by a bad fall without even seeing the face of an othertriber in battle.

  Gunna was still alive. The pain had turned his cheeks into the color of white cloth and he couldn’t utter a word despite trying hard. The Guides and the Uncarved had gathered around us now, but no one was trying to move Gunna. They knew.

  “Iron End! Iron End!” shouted those around me.

  “Give him an Iron End!”

  Iron End. Another not-so-ancient custom. Some of the eldest remembered when Khun-Mervak, the fourth Khun, had initiated it not many winters ago. Someone from the same hut had to end the boy’s suffering with an iron. A blade, an arrow, a quick end that Enaka would favor. Either Malan or me. Gunna was crying silently in front of us, desperate tears that couldn’t even run down his cheeks.

  Chaka turned to Malan with a dejected look and made the move I dreaded: his palm facing down flying fast and flat across his throat. And yet I was relieved he hadn’t chosen me, though only for a moment.

  Malan left the field for a while and came back with a stretcher. He approached Gunna and gave him from a waterskin to drink, but Gunna couldn’t. He tried to pull Gunna onto the stretcher.

  “Don’t touch him! He is in pain…he…” I shouted. I had no words.

  Malan was on one knee, trying to pull Gunna onto the stretcher without luck. He raised his head, his angry stare fixed on me.

  “‘Iron End,’ they said, Da-Ren. Are you going to help? Else get out of here, now.”

  Gunna’s moaning hid much greater pain. Malan called a Guide to help him. The Guide obeyed, and they carried the stretcher with Gunna on it away.

  “Where are they going?” I asked.

  I looked around me. Not a single face I knew. A few Uncarved Starlings were there, but I didn’t even remember their names after two moons in the Forest. A Reghen with no other name.
I was alone. There were no other Uncarved from my Pack still alive around me. No one answered me. They were looking at Malan, his red band.

  Malan stopped close to the hole where Gunna’s horse had fallen and put the stretcher down. He filled that hole and another next to it with dirt and knelt to whisper something into Gunna’s ear.

  The brief Story that would be on everyone’s lips around our fires from the following night onward was this: “Malan told Gunna why he had woken in the middle of the night before the trial: to mark all the holes of the fields. That was why he was coming second most of the day because he avoided all the bad spots. He had marked them in his mind, one by one.”

  Good Stories become immortal, even if they are only a big lie. This Story would live forever if Malan was chosen as the next Khun, the One Leader of the Tribe. A Leader needed his own Stories, and a Tribe without Stories could not survive. Whether they were lies or real or—as usual—something in between the two, mattered not. They just had to be good.

  But on the night I heard the Story for the first time, I knew right then why Malan had asked that they change fields and why he had woken up in the middle of the night: to dig out the holes himself.

  We all followed Malan and Gunna at a distance. They had reached the Forest’s edge. Malan stopped, took out his blade, and carved Gunna twice, in both arms and his chest. The injured boy’s white tunic was soaked on his own blood. Malan took off Gunna’s boots. Gunna lay in the dirt, only his eyes twitching and darting from side to side. Malan left him there all alone and turned to walk toward us. Gunna’s wrists and ankles were bare.

  “How do the Uncarved die?”

  “They bleed to death,” the older ones had told us on our first moon as Starlings.

  Not even the Guides stopped Malan. They knew that in three moons he would be the One Leader.