The stone-built horse troughs of the city became the altars for the beheadings. Men, and not only men, were pushed to their knees, facing the severed heads rolling in the trough before the blade fell on theirs. We expelled the curse of the three winters, a merciless journey, a never-ending ride that had mixed the blood of our butts and the skin of our horses into a thick pulp. We had regretted the day we were born, and we had spewed out black the milk of our mothers to conquer Varazam.
“Firstblade, the men are sick of slaughtering women and children,” Noki told me on the second night, his gaze fixed low on the dirt. He was carrying wine and redflower powders in his hands to get through the night. His blades were dripping fresh blood onto his boots.
A Firstblade could not easily hide away from the massacre of Varazam. I hid most of the day, and when I couldn’t, I would go to execute the othertriber men. I would give some of them a blade to fight me. A few did. Most stayed with their heads down, looking only at the blood of their families. I hated their cowardice; they had let down their women and children.
I went to see Malan.
“What is this madness? No Tribe Legend speaks of killing the weak and the young who can’t hold a blade,” I told him.
But there were many such Legends. As long as you called the others Offspring of Darhul rather than children.
“Oh, come on, that’s our One Legend since the Sieve. There are many such Legends, Da-Ren. The best ones. Those who stay with us, and those who will reach the next cities.”
Why was I hoping? I had known for a long time, and before everyone else, that he was a madman and there was nothing that could reach his heart. Malan was rarely attending any such massacres. He never raised a blade. His eyes, ears, and nose would not be poisoned from all this. For him, it was just a way to scribe Stories, to trade, and to sell. Malan was a merchant of horror Stories, nothing more.
I was still trying to keep the promise I had given Zeria in the Forest.
“Think about the slaves we are losing, Khun.”
I had failed miserably. I had betrayed Zeria. I had betrayed every dead child in the Sieve.
“We will herd many times over the slaves we lost here. You leave no one alive,” Malan insisted.
Once again, I ignored orders. Not to save the innocent, who were already doomed. To save my own soul and the souls of a few of my men. It was too late. The gods, all of them, had seen. No god, no matter how weak or powerful, could miss sight of this terror. They would have their revenge.
It was not just me. A lot of the men, Noki first, were shying away, disappearing all day away from the screams.
“Why do you hide?” I asked my friend when I found him sitting next to an empty wineskin. He had chosen a rare silent spot, resting his back against a water fountain with a drakonhead near the masters’ graveyard.
“It’s been five moons now, Da-Ren. I can’t fuck; I can’t get my cock up—can’t get my sword up. A screaming woman, a dying mother, is not a good fuck; that I can tell you. Never was. Back at Sirol, I rode them when they were sad and knew they would be filled with joy when I was done with them. Not here. They are dead before I even touch them. It’s these screams, Chief. Each one drives through my dick like a dagger on coals. Why the fuck are we here? Malan—we’ve seen this; we knew long ago.”
“They won’t stop; those Reghen—they won’t stop until there is not one scream left.”
Even the old Reghen started to lose his wits after what he had seen those first couple of days and nights. He talked to me as if he felt obliged to explain:
“You’ve seen small children when they gather around to watch? To see the old crones who cut the chickens? Rabbits? Lambs that we kill and skin on the second moon of spring?”
“Yes, many times.”
“We’re killing animals. The children don’t pity or cry, they don’t puke. They keep their eyes wide open and the heads closer to get a better look. They want to join in, even if it’s just to touch the knife’s handle. They want to be part of death.”
I had seen children like that, but the first time was tough. When their blade tried to cut through the lamb’s windpipe, their hearts raced.
“Do you believe that these are men and women we are killing?” the Reghen asked me.
“No, they are endless herds of chained demons, living-dead-buried whatevers who rise again from their bones, the scum of Darhul and enemies of Enaka,” I answered. It was the one Story that pushed the blade through the windpipe faster.
“Many of those demons are only up to my knee,” said Noki.
“Ask for volunteers; there will be plenty. Those who are sick of the killing will not have to,” the Reghen advised us.
“Might as well end this sooner.”
“Will you volunteer, Firstblade?” asked Leke.
“Me?”
How many times had I wished they were real demons. Even one demon rising from his tomb, uttering Darhul’s name, could justify all the blood. I went to the only place demons existed, to the tales of the Ouna-Mas, again. Maybe they would reach deeper into my heart. Unlike the Witches, though, I had fought in battle too many times against the othertribers. I had looked into the eyes of the defenders of Melea who rose from the dead and stood in formation to fight us. And I hadn’t seen Reekaal, I hadn’t seen Deadwalkers, and I had seen brave men who died defending their tribe. They were the ones I wanted to kill.
“This is not work for a Firstblade, Leke. Not for any Blade. There is no honor.”
I can’t take it anymore, Zeria, is what I wanted to cry out. Why had she let me go? I never forgave her for that.
We did find volunteers like the ones the Reghen imagined. They were the few who still believed in the tales of the Buried servants of Darhul, those who thought it was their sacred duty to the Tribe. But even they didn’t last three days. Killing without stopping got to the depths of their heads soon and melted everything else. By the second day, some started killing their comrades, the horses, and anything else that came on their sight. They had turned mad—othertribers, brothers, corpses, and demons meshing into the same nightmare.
But we found volunteers who lasted until the last throat. They were the ones who took pleasure in it. Jackals like Urak who tossed babies up in the air, above the horse troughs, and split them open like watermelons with one move of their long blades.
At the time of the massacres, Varazam made me sick but didn’t break me. I didn’t know yet; I didn’t know that I would never escape it. I was in the middle of it. My whole Tribe around me was slaughtering as one. I was part of the monster. It had not spat me out yet. I was not exiled. I hadn’t looked at the monster from a distance.
Many summers later, when I saw my own child, Aneria, Zeria’s child, my half-othertriber child, I fell to my knees and cried for all the children of Varazam. It was the first time I had cried from sorrow after Elbia’s sacrifice. I can cry for just about anything in my cell at the Castlemonastery now. For the sparrow that died of cold and the dog that died of old age.
I never cried for the men of Varazam. They should have gone through their Sieve and faced us on the battlefield. I wouldn’t shed a tear for the masters of the city, the cowards, and the traitors. I didn’t even cry for the young maidens we took, for they deserved better men. I cried only for the mothers who were torn away from their children, moments before our blades sent them to the darkworld. Many times. The Castlemonastery is the ideal solace for my punishment. It offers me endless nights to cry alone for the children and the mothers of the annihilation. The sea imprisons me, and the salt runs down my cheeks, a useless balsam.
I forgive no one, and I ask for no forgiveness.
The winter wind swirled among the narrow cobblestone streets and embraced us like a shroud of ice on the deserted marketplaces. The awning flaps and the creaking doors of the houses of the dead continued to scream long after the last beheading. There was no animal, no rat, dog, or cat, left in Varazam. The besieged must have starved for a few moons. The victors
were sleeping the winter’s nights with women who had already gone to the afterworld, half-alive, dreaming of their children who would never again see the light of the sun. Black insects, too many to name, were feasting and multiplying. There was rain to wash the blood, and when it stopped there was fire to burn the dead, not to celebrate. There was not much to roast, a lot less to dance around.
I learned fear that winter, the fear of doing wrong, of living in the belly of Darhul, and I would often go to hear the stories of the Ouna-Mas and the Reghen to find strength. I feared the stone walls that were engulfing me in the city of the Buried. I was one of the Leaders who had been offered a stone building of my own. As an honor. But those stones above my head buried me every night I slept with their weight on my heart. I was dying a shameful death far from the valley of Sirol and the Endless Forest, away from my horse that couldn’t gallop through the ashes and the bones of the burned city. And I was swimming in bile and envy because I didn’t fight in the duel. The sky was always gray or brown—dust, smoke, and clouds. I had lost the blue. I had found the hell of the Crossers. It was a place one could not escape, only forget about for a while with a wineskin. I had defeated the Deadwalkers. In revenge, they gave me their Stories as my only spoils. The siege had erased thirteen moons from my life. The few days of slaughter painted all the rest. One color everywhere, the color no one would even name. Rosebuds and amaranth flowers.
We found about fifteen thousand alive when we broke into Varazam. A few hundred of them survived. The first to be spared on Malan’s direct orders were the othertriber craftsmen who could help us build better siege machines, weapons, even stone houses. We let some scribes live. A few of the most beautiful women. Very few of the envoys, though none of the traitors, remained with us because we needed them to bring our demands to the other cities. Malan freed four of them and sent one along with our messengers to each of the four great cities ahead of us. He gave each one a wagon to carry the gifts that we had chosen for the masters of the other cities. It was the feast of their god of the Cross, and it was their custom to exchange gifts on the Longest Night of winter. The message that our envoys delivered was as clear as Enaka’s Unending Sky. Every city that didn’t want to share the fate of Varazam would pay us three wagons of gold every winter and surrender immediately their arms and machines. They had to deliver to us all their horses, oxen, and sheep. Tear down their walls. We had finally become merchants, as Malan always planned.
The masters of the other cities didn’t wonder what we were selling. Our envoys carried the jars with our merchandise.
At the city of Tarus, I heard they broke the jar in front of the palace throne. It was filled with the severed tongues of the countless dead of Varazam.
It was ears for the city of Vaster.
A jar with the ripped-out hearts of the weak nobles was sent to the city of Noria.
The message was delivered loud and clear. We had entered the world of trade and were selling to the kingdoms of the Southeast the most valuable commodity, the only thing that was worth more than gold. Their lives.
In the largest city, Antia, we sent only one small jar, painted violet, green, and black. It was filled with the bronze honey of Kapoukia. Inside the syrupy nectar of the gods rested the head of the coward traitor, the old master of Varazam. The Tribe had reached the ends of the world, and the desert sun shone over us dark but triumphant.
We were the invincible merchants of Varazam.
LIX.
Desert Stars
Twenty-Fourth Summer. Firstblade
It is as simple as that: what I devour devours me back; what I kill kills me back.
It was the one truth that conquered us all, whether we were Chiefs, warriors, or slaves, whether we dueled in the middle of the steppe, the desert, the forest, or the sea.
The Deadwalkers fell from our blades only to rise again in our nightmares.
We hunted the last woman and child, and every woman and child would hunt us to the ends of time, their ghosts watching with a cold, silent grin as we bled out.
We sought victory, but our victories would lead us to the greatest defeat.
Gold is a sly poison. It is a false prophecy carved with the sweetest words. Gold had no power when we were isolated in Sirol, obeying only the law of the blade and the Witch. It became the One God when we clashed and traded with the other tribes. Gold promised peace and victory in war, and the freedom to escape, to turn back, and to move forward. Gold was shiny like all the promises, and heavy like all curses.
“Damn your gods and goddesses, damn your stories and your blades. Give me gold, and I’ll run away. I’ll be free.” That was the one Legend all tribes agreed to when they came to know the others well. Gold was the only god that spoke the same Story to all the tribes. But gold wouldn’t help any one of them run away. Instead, it attracted even more enemies.
It was a fast poison too. Once men sensed its power, they couldn’t think of anything else. It all started with the Khun. Once he wore the first gold chain on his neck, the rings on his arm and his finger, everyone wanted the same. Malan collected colorful statues, dresses, and spoils from the palaces of Varazam and kept them in his tent. Soon, the camel traders around him outnumbered the Ouna-Mas. They kept bringing treasures in exchange for slaves. The traders were not scared at all; their numbers grew every day once Varazam had fallen.
Even I would seek the traders, to bargain for some of the magic dust that forgets and remembers. I usually went to Khormi, the first trader I had met. By now, he spoke our tongue fluently.
“War is very bad for trade,” he said as he was passing me the brown dust of death. “Almost as bad as peace. But once war ends, that’s the best season for a trader.”
Malan craved the gold of Varazam, and the Tribe craved the same, but that was Varazam’s revenge. The Story of Gold. The Stories of the Reghen, the Sieve, the Ouna-Mas, the carvings that marked our skin, were all fading away. Gold gave common men the power to demand things they had never dreamed of before—but only for a while, sometimes only for a few breaths. How much quickly became more important than how many carvings. How much for them? How much more did he stash away than I did? Why him? Why not me?
At the Great Feast of Spring, the one thing that was devouring everyone, the one question that tortured them, was how much. How much gold did the Archers take? More than the Blades? Was it true that the Rods kept a lot of the gold because they were close to Malan? How much had Malan hoarded? Even those who couldn’t count to twenty became good at numbers when it came to gold. And was it true that the Ouna-Mas despised gold and were cursing men who worshiped it, yet Sah-Ouna kept for herself as much as Malan?
The Tribe drank the poisonous opion of Varazam and asked for more.
“Bring on the other cities. Bring Sapul!” everyone roared.
The jars arrived in the four cities that were lying to the southwest between us and the Sea of the Thousand Islands. When the spring desert warmed, we left behind the walls of Varazam and headed for the cities without waiting for their replies.
Antia, the richest city, sent her envoys to convey their acceptance of our terms as well as a full cart of gold, as a gesture of complete submission. There were rumors that Apelo was now deserted—whether it was due to a plague or they fled south in fear, the Trackers couldn’t tell. The other three—Tarus, Vaster, and Noria—had received the jars filled with the ears, the tongues, and the hearts of the innocent of Varazam. One of the envoys we had sent came back with both of his ears cut, the other without a tongue. As for the third, his corpse arrived on an open cart, his chest wide open and hollow.
The seventh city, the Reigning City of the Empire of the Cross, Thalassopolis, the one we called Sapul, was to the northwest of us and very far from the rest. The straits of Thalassopolis joined the two seas of the world: the Sea of the Thousand Islands and the Black Sea of Darhul, the one that drank the Blackvein of our Tribe up in the north.
Sapul sent no message. She was untrodden and fearless,
protected by walls made by giants as everyone claimed. It would take many moons of traveling through impassable mountains to reach her. We had chosen a path through the steppe and the salt lakes just to avoid going through the straits of Sapul.
The three cities of the South joined as one army against us. Our emissaries relayed to them all that occurred during and after the siege of Varazam, and none of them wished the same fate. The Trackers had seen the Crossers armies ascending from the south, many thousands assembling and moving in our direction. Their masters were in a hurry to confront us while it was still early spring when our horses would be weakest and in mating. Their horses were stable bred. They had not suffered the hardship of winter and didn’t rely on the scarce pastures of the South. Our warriors were also in a hurry. They were impatient and hungry to pass the coming winter with the women of the othertribers.
Everyone was in a hurry to face his enemy, to triumph, to vanish into dust, to join the afterworld. Everyone except Malan. The Khun ordered us to camp in Varazam until early summer, regrouping and trading with the easterners while our horses gained back their strength. The othertribers would not attack Varazam, they kept assembling their forces near their cities.
Our armies, including slaves, help, and women, had grown to forty thousand strong. Only thirty-five thousand started the journey from Sirol, and many of them left their ashes along the way, but the young we gathered in the North and enslaved in the South were now with us. Like a greedy and immortal snake, the Tribe shed its dead skin and swallowed whatever it found on its path to be born again.
We marched forward at the crescent waning of the Flower Moon. Many of the forty thousand remained barricaded within Varazam or camped at the banks of the river Uruat. We sent the younger warriors in Kapoukia and the oldest to the garrisons back at the steppe, to patrol the lands we had passed. The most battle-tested of the warriors, about twelve thousands of us, packed blades and bows and set out to meet the army of three great cities for the final battle of the campaign. They let me keep all the twenty Packs of the Blades together, and we followed Malan who was leading in front this time. Even the butchers and the volunteers had nothing more to do in Varazam.
Drakon Omnibus Page 67
