Before that next moon came, the last of autumn, Malan became Khun. Witches, men, and stars conspired for that to happen before the end of winter, when the two of us would have to be carved. The weaver of the fates unraveled the events in one night. The Leader of all the Blades had died, and the Story that would be told was that a mosquito, huge as half the nail on his little finger, defeated him in a duel. Keral, the meanest and stupidest Chief of the Fifth Pack, asked Khun-Taa to make him the new Leader of all the Blades’ twenty Packs. But Khun-Taa told him that he would not decide yet.
It would be Khun-Taa’s last decision: to remain undecided.
Keral summoned his loyal Blades, attacked the sleeping Rods, and stabbed old Khun-Taa in the back in his own tent. For a few moments, he bragged about being the new Khun, defying our Truths and spitting upon the stabbed body of Khun-Taa, who had remained standing for thirty winters on his throne and saddle.
The news slithered like a thousand venomous snakes from tent to tent and soon reached the Uncarved camp. It was a cloudless, windless night, and Selene’s heart shone half of half in the Sky, her shape a curved blade. Maybe Keral saw the blade shape and thought the stars favored him. Maybe the Witch had whispered her false prophecy to mislead him, cloud his mind.
Malan gathered all the younger Uncarved who could fight like men, about twelve boys, and the few Guides and gave us his first order:
“The moon has come when we become Leaders and guide our Tribe, out beyond the Endless Forest and into the Final Battle. Follow me tonight, and know glory tomorrow.”
What he really meant was that he would become Leader. But in those very first words, he had given us the vision, the mission, and the adventure. He had already said things that no one else dared say and shoved the scepter of insatiable imagination deep into our assholes. My first instinct was to run a hole through him that very instant. But it was futile. The Guides and the Uncarved youths already followed him with their blades and bows in hand.
I stood frozen, only my fingers twitching on the blade’s handle, next to the horses outside of the huts of the Uncarved. Two Uncarved Eagles, one spring younger than us, stayed next to me.
“What?” I asked. “Don’t you follow?”
One tried to mumble an excuse; the other looked away biting his lips. Their faces were identical, twin brothers, real brothers from same mother and father. I’d seen them many times. Handsome boys with broad shoulders, slim waists; brown-haired like myself.
I had to choose whether to follow or not, and that decision would determine how and when I would die.
“And you? Don’t you follow?” the one mumbled to me.
“Tell me your names again,” I said.
“I am Alian, that one is Olian,” said the one who asked me.
I am thinking, Alian.
As Zeria had said, the moment decided for me. We heard first the trampling hooves of the horses, and then we saw Keral’s warriors storming through the main gate of our camp. The Blades hacked two kids first, a couple of young Owls who were standing guard there. They came to murder Malan in the darkness.
“Are you coming?” I asked.
Alian had already grabbed bow and quiver. Olian was stepping back to hide in the darkness.
The Blades wouldn’t stop at Malan. They were coming too fast, the irons shining high. They wouldn’t ask; they wouldn’t see. They would have to get rid of every Uncarved. One more breath of indecision and my flesh would be the lamb, their blade would be the spit.
I had already reached Malan, Chaka, and the rest and stood right next to them.
“Stay close to me,” I said to Alian.
“For glory and Enaka,” he answered.
It was a stroke of good luck that we were fighting against Blades, the worst archers of the Tribe. Selene’s light was weak and their arrows blind.
“Shoot now, the horses!” Chaka shouted.
I grabbed five arrows between the fingers of my left hand, and the others did the same. The shafts ripped the air, and we took down most of the horses and a few of their riders. They outnumbered us, and they were on foot now, yelling and chasing after us. I took out both blades and charged upon them with the younger Uncarved and the Guides. I cut through horse, leg, man, and parried irons, again and again. I kept swinging, and heavy bodies fell around me. I fought next to Chaka, Bera, and Malan himself. A tall bearded man was ready to hack Malan, but I pushed my long blade into his chest.
It was a night soaked in black blood, a night that came close to being our last. There were a dozen of us left, surrounded by about twenty of Keral’s men.
“Stupid choice!” Alian said as our backs were facing each other to defend against the coming onslaught.
It was still possible. If I could take out three or four more. But I had boys around me and only two Guides, while Keral had sent strong warriors.
“We can’t win here,” Malan screamed in panic.
“Make for the gate. Now!” yelled Chaka. He had fought bravely to open a way out but his right arm was bleeding crippled and the short blade on his left hand was equally useless.
We were backtracking to get to the gate, whirling and swishing blades faster and higher. I took down seven men that night, fighting on the side of the next Khun. That in itself was Story enough to stuff down Enaka’s throat once I saw her. Seven traitor warriors of the Tribe. Traitors like me.
We had opened our way and had almost reached the gate when we heard the beating hooves, and saw the torches of dozens of riders charging toward us. We were trapped in the middle. I turned and smiled a bitter smile at Alian. There was no breath left for words.
“Yeah, we made the stupid choice, kid,” were the words I never got to say.
But those riders were not foes. They were the Rods and the Archers sent by Sah-Ouna and Enaka to protect the One. The Goddess cared little for my deeds and my Stories but I had chosen the right side. Keral’s men were hacked to pieces.
Drenched in victory’s sweat and blood, we all galloped toward the tent of Khun-Taa. The cheers and the shouts of praise and glory grew louder as we got closer to the Khun’s tent. The rest of the Rods and Reghen were there, the Ouna-Mas next to them. The Tribe was honoring us. Us? Him.
Before we had time to rush into the tent, the Rods dragged out Keral’s body, his bloodied mouth sealing his death.
“The crazygrass avenged the Khun,” said Sah-Ouna, and she pointed somewhere in my direction and a little to the side of me where the new Khun stood. I wondered who had given Keral the crazygrass—who had put him up to murdering Khun-Taa. What Witch had whispered to him about the night of the blade-shaped Selene?
Malan dismounted, and we followed his lead. Sah-Ouna pulled him by the hand, like a mother pulls her only son, lifted his fist high, and shouted to all around: “The sixth Khun, Khun-Malan, the First Uncarved.” Her words, her prophecy, the same as Malan’s. “The One who will cross the Endless Forest.”
Steal all my dreams away, bitch, one day I’ll do the same to you.
The killing continued into the night in the camp of the Blades, or so I heard. I didn’t go with them. The fighting stopped at dawn when the few warriors who remained alive and faithful to Keral were brought in neckropes in front of Malan and the rest of us. They had gathered all the traitors, and those who stood next to Malan at the Wolfhowl. The Tribe had a new Khun, and the traitors had to fall to his feet and plead for mercy. It was Khun-Malan’s first decision, but there would be no mercy for them, as there would be no mercy for entire tribes and proud cities that were later to get in his way.
Chaka, the loyal Chief, found the right moment to ask Malan for a favor. He was allowed to return to the Archers and be a warrior again despite his old age. Even at that moment, with his one hand severely wounded, that was all he wanted: to have another chance to slaughter Garol, Dasal, and whatever else he found in front of him. Meat. Horse. Woman. One Leader.
Olian, the Uncarved boy who had chosen not to fight next to us, was also brought in front
of Malan.
“Did you think you’d become Khun by hiding? If they killed all of them?” Chaka slapped hard the cheek of the kneeling boy with his open palm.
“Carve me,” the boy begged.
“Oh, don’t worry, they’ll carve you wide-open,” Malan grinned.
Alian, his brother, was the one standing still and biting his lips now.
“I think your brother dies,” I said to him.
Malan looked at Alian too.
“No, not this one. This boy fought bravely next to us,” I said. “Even the other one, deserves some mercy. It was dark. He got scared…he froze,” I said to Malan.
Malan leaned right next to my ear and whispered only for me to hear. “Are we still arguing here, Da-Ren? Your turn hasn’t come yet.” His nails were pushing into the flesh of my uncarved arm hard, and I could do nothing anymore. He turned his back on me. “That boy lives,” he said pointing at Alian.
“So my brother dies,” said Alian lowering his head. He lifted his eyes up again one last time and looked at Olian. “Stupid choice, brother.”
“You wish he dies,” Chaka said.
The next sunset, Khun-Taa was laid to rest in the funeral pyre, together with his finest hides, but without his bow and blades. These were sacred weapons that were bequeathed to Malan. Khun-Taa’s slaves were put to death at once, so no one would ever hear a different tale about what had happened on that fateful night. The last raindrops of the Squirrel Moon were wiping out the funeral embers when Malan turned to me.
“You fought like a true Chief. The Tribe owes you, and you will be rewarded.”
My witch, the blue-eyed one, had told me so: “There are no servants of the goddess or the demon. Only moments. One moment, you kill, and the other, you save.”
How does one choose?
He doesn’t. If I wasted my breath thinking, it would have been too late. Whatever I had decided wouldn’t matter if I were slow, and Zeria, Malan, and I would all be dead now. When the moment comes, the Goddess has already planted everything. The hand will reach toward its fate on its own. If it moves the wrong way, an iron veil will fall down upon it and stop it. If it moves in the right direction, then it will get there faster.
That night, before any thought even began to run through my mind about what I did and didn’t want, my blade had saved Malan, Alian and, with them, my ass from the stake.
It was the right moment for the Tribe. Khun-Taa had long lost his vigor and his judgment, and Malan had to bring the Change. The Change came the following morning. But not for me. Just like before, my life would hang by its last thread—day and night.
I have a strong preference of stopping this Story here. I did so, the first and the second winter we came upon the events of that night. But Eusebius would always ask me every time that we’d reach that point: “But, what happened to Olian and Alian?”
The monks of the Cross have a craving for such tales of torture and death. They blend well with their delusions of divine salvation of the weak and the innocent. “I’ll tell you, Eusebius. It’s not hard to bring back the images. The sounds…well, that’s much tougher.” But the ink is silent, and we are thankful for it.
The four warriors pledged to Keral who were captured alive were impaled outside of the new Khun’s temporary tent. And so was Olian the Uncarved boy. Their screams, the stink of shit, mixed with the lard slathered on the sharp, long stakes and the blood coming out of their assholes, reminded us for the three days it took them to die that we had a new Khun.
I found Alian looking up at the screaming stakes and the trembling faces of unending pain on the second morning.
“He still doesn’t die,” he said, staring at Olian who would only mumble, pleading for death with the last of his strength.
“No, you see, they don’t pierce the guts, the pointy wood just passes next to the spine and out the shoulder. Skewered. It will take another couple of days.”
“Damn! Stupid choice,” he said looking straight at his brother’s body faintly twitching on the stake.
“Let’s go, Alian, you don’t have to see and hear this anymore. He was your brother.”
“He still is. One of my brothers. So are you.”
Alian had already turned his back on the identical twin whom he had just called stupid for the last time.
XXXIII.
Yes, My Leader
Eighteenth winter. Uncarved—Wolf.
The celebrations to honor the sixth Khun lasted for three whole days after Khun-Taa’s pyre, and so did the torture of the traitors. Sheep, goats, chickens, rabbits, Keral’s best, even horses, were slaughtered and put onto the spit. The animals roasted slowly over the fire. The traitors were not so lucky.
The slaves milked the mares dry and poured the milk into buckets that they sealed tightly. They tied the buckets on the animals’ backs and rode them around to shake the liquid until it took on a bitter, stinging taste, becoming a white spirit. If one drank a lot of it, it made the head dizzy and light. We called it milk spirit. But it was not as potent or dangerous as crazygrass. The milk spirit flooded the men’s bellies and clouded their heads. Archers holding hands in circles danced wild war dances, and their shouts became a true devotional chant for the new Khun.
Ouna-Mas were constantly coming and going from the makeshift tent that had been set up for Khun-Malan. More of their sisters were outside singing. The Khun would not sleep under the same hides where his predecessor had been murdered. Sah-Ouna would not allow that. The ground was still boiling angry from the Khun’s blood.
The milk spirit wasn’t helping me swallow this reality. Some were slapping me on the back, praising me for my bravery in saving the life of the new Khun. Some were ending their slap with a hug, out of gratitude or fear that I would become some important Chief next to the Khun. Others were slapping me softly on the shoulder. Slapping me farewell. I just wanted to disappear, the earth—or the Forest—to open up and hide me from everyone’s stares.
On the third day of the celebration, I asked to see Malan, and the Rods led me to his tent. He was sitting outside on a coarsely carved wooden throne, larger than Khun-Taa’s. He had put the West and the sunset on his back to sing his victory in bright dazzling colors of blood. Chiefs and Reghen were waiting in line in front of me to pay their respects and to offer simple gifts: an amulet, a bow, a dagger. Back then, my Tribe did not have much gold. Jewelry and fancy artifacts were considered signs of the weak and the demon servants.
Malan was holding a cup and raising it to everyone. A slave girl refilled it twice while I was waiting to speak to him. He had acquired the taste of the previous Khun’s pleasures from the first night.
I knelt.
I knelt.
“Welcome, loyal Da-Ren. Are you here to claim victory’s spoils already?” he asked, raising his cup again.
But I wasn’t there to claim anything he could offer.
Wasting no time, I said, “I have to leave for the Forest. The Ouna-Mas asked for belladonna.”
I did not ask for permission. I did not realize that from now on I would have to ask him where I could go and what I was allowed to do. He made an immediate gesture with his left hand as if he were saying, “Go wherever you want,” but his hand froze midway. He looked at me for a breath; the skin around his eyes crinkling and questioning silently. As if he understood amid his stupor that I was talking total nonsense. What foolish liar would go to search for belladonna in the middle of winter and leave these nights of triumph and celebration?
I didn’t wait. I thought he had let me go, and I disappeared. I hadn’t brought any gifts.
Before dawn, as I was galloping for the Forest of Kar-Tioo, I heard the stomping of hooves approaching behind me. Six Rods were on my trail, and they stopped me at the edge of the Forest just before I managed to disappear inside.
“The Khun orders you to return to the camp.”
“I have to…the Ouna-Mas…”
“He said to wait for his orders in your hut. He’ll call you
when it is time to carve your fate. Follow us back to Sirol now.”
I had promised Zeria to return after one moon since I last saw her. Two had already passed, and I still could not fulfill my vow to her.
I returned to the Wolves’ hut completely alone now, the last Uncarved Wolf, abandoned. The Tribe had a new Leader, and unless a tragic accident befell Malan, no other Uncarved would be needed anytime soon. The celebrations gave everyone a reason to stop and rest for a while. All of our Guides had died in the last battle defending Malan or had disappeared, except for Bera.
I was almost alone in what was now a camp of ghosts, the closest one to the Forest. I made another attempt to leave, but the Rods were patrolling the paths to the Forest, and I returned before they tried to stop me. I wasn’t going to sneak out like a rat. That would only bring death to the Dasal and me if I ever made it there. I still hadn’t found the Reekaal who had killed Rouba. I stayed among the few unfortunate younger Uncarved who would not become Leaders either. Alian and a handful of the rest were left fighting aimlessly with the pumpkins.
A few days after the festivities, I went out and started meandering about Sirol. It was the end of autumn, and the north wind was blowing strong. Not so strong as to stop people from working or send them for cover into their tents, but enough to quicken everyone’s pace. Everyone was dancing to a frantic rhythm under the commands of the new Khun. Even if there wasn’t anything important to do, they ran around looking busy.
“The Change. Finally, we are preparing,” a Reghen who visited the Uncarved Camp one evening told us.
“What are we preparing for?”
“Khun-Malan leads.”
The Reghen’s eyes were glowing with pride and anticipation; his voice chanted the glory of the new Khun. The men needed the Change, even if it meant death for most. It was so much better than rotting in the same valley forever. The Change, the meat, the woman, the Story.
I rode all the way to the tents where the new Khun resided. The Rods recognized me and allowed me to approach.
Drakon Book II: Uncarved Page 19
