“Have you unearthed the old horrors from your stories? They will never let you do that. Neither the monks nor the peasants.”
Da-Ren smirked.
“That is very fortunate,” he said. “I hate rotting corpses.”
“This is madness, Da-Ren. Not one of you will survive. And I can’t imagine the torture if the pirates capture you alive,” I told him as we walked up to the library.
“They won’t. But the torture cannot be escaped whether I stay or go.”
“The boat will hold. Please, come with us.”
“Faith, Eusebius. Don’t you believe in the Sorcerers? In eternal life for those who redeem themselves by doing God’s will?” His eyes had become watery despite his smile, as he continued: “Tonight, your Sorcerers will make me invincible. And I will redeem the lives of my wife and daughter. And you will escape and save the manuscript. You will see.”
“If the pirates don’t show up by noon, or whenever the boat is ready, you can come with us. No reason for you to die here.”
“Stop hoping. The pirates will be on time. You’ll barely escape.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because it is your Devil who is sending them. One thing I learned from all your holy books, the Devil is never late.”
When night fell, everyone, peasants and monks, doomed and hopeful, gathered to pray in the church. I didn’t join them. Instead, I stayed with Da-Ren for one last time.
“I wish I never had to read this final chapter,” I said.
A chapter for the demons.
We wouldn’t have much light, but I now knew the text by heart. One candle would be enough for me.
I ate like a king, ignoring the rules like a man condemned. Warm chickpeas, salted fish, raw onions, and baked fresh from the wood-burning stove. No wine. I wanted to keep a clear head.
It was very late at night when the monks joined us in the library. Rufinus was walking in and out, busy trying to save the manuscripts, to bury them in a safe place. There was a breeze reminiscent of late autumn, rather than early summer, and the monks had wrapped their cloaks around them twice.
“We won’t be long, wise Elders,” I said. “It is only one chapter.”
Once again, I was wrong.
“The one that ends with his words ‘I believe,’” said Baagh, pointing to Da-Ren, and looking at his peers.
Once again, he was wrong.
“I can’t wait,” said Nagpaal.
“When we left this library a few hours ago, you said that you’d rather not listen to the last chapter,” Zeev scorned him. “What changed?”
“I won’t like it, but I have to. You see, this story doesn’t make sense to me. Not yet.”
Those strange words attracted everyone’s interest, and they all leaned closer to listen.
“What do you mean?” said Baagh.
“It is better we hear the last chapter first, and then I’ll tell you. But would you let me try something?” asked Nagpaal.
“What?” I asked even before Baagh did.
“I humbly request that Da-Ren reads the final chapter. Not Eusebius.”
“He is not that good a reader,” said Baagh.
“I am sure he can manage. I am sure that he doesn’t need to read anything. He can recite it from memory. Will you come closer and read to us, Da-Ren? Or will you leave, scared of the truth?” said Nagpaal.
“I will read. I will stay,” said Da-Ren and walked up to the bookstand where I had already opened the last codex.
“Only if he promises to say the same story that is written in the codex,” said Baagh. “Not change a word.”
“I promise,” said Da-Ren, and then asked me with a silent gesture to join the other listeners at the table. He shut the codex, and said: “I am ready.”
“So, we can finally unveil the truth. We’ll know,” said Nagpaal.
“Know what?” asked the First Elder.
Nagpaal wiped the smirk from his face, sat on the bench and turned to Da-Ren, addressing him with eyes unblinking and solemn:
“Now you must tell us, Da-Ren. How did Zeria die?”
XCIII.
Puppies
Thirty-Second Spring. Wolfhowl
Here I stand, Evagus, delivering to you the Final Chapter, the one that I must conclude with the words “I believe.” And in exchange, those monks will consider whether they can help me. You see, I have been following your eyes, and those of Zeev and Nagpaal, for the last seven days, trying to guess if you have immense powers, powers one cannot even imagine. To defeat death, to change the fates. You may not believe me, but I believe. Not always. It comes and goes throughout the day, mostly at night, but there are a few moments every night, every one of the thousand and more nights that I spent here, where I believed. I believed in your tales of eternal life, in Agathon’s tales about the powerful monks who drained the blood of the sea drakons and achieved immortality. When the sun shines bright, which is most of the time on this island, all these thoughts become ludicrous and false, and I lose all hope, but at night, the ghosts return and I have no choice but to believe.
But before I begin my Story, there is still one thing I want to ask, Evagus, Eusebius and all the rest of you:
Do you still believe?
I read all those scrolls that Rufinus rushes to save now. Scrolls about gods and our debt to them, demons, sorcerers, about revenge, repentance, and forgiveness. Why are your gods so furious with us?
From the moment we’re born, they just can’t swallow the fact that we dare to walk the earth freely under their sun. The only thing they care about is that we repent and fall to our hands and knees and ask for their forgiveness, drowned in the blood of our love. Do they laugh with us up there? Can you bear to listen to this chapter? And still believe when I finish?
But you won’t answer me. You’re only interested in my punishment, the price that the infidel pays.
Enough of that, let’s get back to my story. We stopped at the moment when my horse collapsed, and the Rods captured me. That happened close to the Warhammer camp, about a half-moon ride north of Sirol. And there is not much to say for the next fourteen or so days that followed. I don’t remember how many they were; they were all the same and nothing to remember. We rode back to Sirol, two Packs of men surrounding me, a Reghen always by my side. My hands were free, but they were watching every move I made and at night when we’d get a brief rest there were guards around me. They even tended my wounds; the armpit and the thigh were quick to heal after they stitched them, but the foot kept bothering me for a long time. The truth is, it still bothers me when the winters get cold.
“Why do you care for me?” I asked.
“Do you realize what you did, Da-Ren? We are all too small and unworthy to decide on your punishment. Only our King and Sah-Ouna can.”
“Where are the rest?” I asked.
We were riding with the fastest horses. When they met Archers or others of the Tribe with fresh horses, they’d demand an exchange, “by orders of our King,” they said. On the first seven days, as we were riding south, we would encounter only a few men of the Tribe, some wounded, others on foot, traveling south in bands, always south, everyone trying to make it back to Sirol. I barely counted a few hundred men all together, but as we kept approaching the Blackvein, many more scattered men would crowd the paths.
When the Archers asked what the hurry was, the Reghen and the Rods would not answer, or mention my name.
“I don’t need anyone seeking glory to kill you here,” the Rod said to me.
“Where are the rest?” I said. I kept repeating the question; it was the closest I could get to asking about Zeria and Aneria.
I didn’t get much of an answer.
Three days out of Sirol, the road had become busy with all kinds of warriors returning from the battle. The wounded and the cripple were carried in carts or even in tumbrils. The corpses of those who didn’t make it were piled up every few thousand paces, waiting for the pyres. Women and young gi
rls were ululating in grief as we passed by, piercing the ears of the men, not letting them forget the defeat for a single breath. The women waved pieces of cloth dyed red as we passed by.
“Why do they do this?” I asked.
“They call for the Ouna-Mas,” said the Reghen. “This is the time of the Goddess. You can guess how they painted the cloths red, can’t you?”
We didn’t encounter a single Ouna-Ma along the way; the rumors were that they had all taken refuge before the battle, back to Sirol. The only ones who seemed to be in control and ready for this moment were the Reghen. Almost every day the one who accompanied me came upon another of his brothers on the road to Sirol.
“I guess there are still one hundred of you,” I said.
“Yes, we are,” said the Reghen. He was one I’d never seen before. His bushy eyebrows dominated his tired eyes and thin lips.
“Not enough to lose count, but enough to be everywhere.”
The brotherhood of the Reghen must have delivered the news very fast.
“The ninestar traitor is on his way to Sirol. We got him!”
The Uncarved huts were the first ones I saw, and to my surprise, they seemed all full of life with thin white tendrils of smoke escaping their roofs. A few boys were training as we passed by, some of them older than I’d expect. Could it be that the Tribe was breeding the next Khun?
“Is Malan dead?” I asked the Reghen.
“See, that’s the mistake everyone made with you. I had warned them long ago, you know. I remember you, back from when you were Uncarved,” said the Reghen. “You don’t remember me, we all age, but I brought the Legends a few times to your Pack back then and watched your training. I told my brothers about you even then. And we were together in Varazam, didn’t talk much back then, but I was there, and I remember you. The duel you never fought and all that.”
“What did you tell them?”
“How does a ninestar survive five winters Uncarved? A miracle. I told them that you were a smart one. And that would mean trouble for the Khun as you grew older.”
“So, is Malan dead?”
“A smart one!”
“Dying?”
“King Malan, Khun of the Khuns and Emperor north of the Blackvein, is very much alive. In fact, we are only half a day away from his palace, where you will face him this evening.”
All of them. More than I had ever seen. Ouna-Mas on the left side silently waving their red veils, in circles above their heads, as I climbed up the man-made hillock to Malan’s Palace. Reghen on the right holding red cloths, dipped in blood, doing the same. I guessed it was blood, the way it spread and stained the white, I guessed it was blood as the maulers had gone half-mad outside the three-curtain entrance of the palace.
The day was sunless, and the clouds packed gray and bleak. It was cold inside Malan’s great hall, colder than I’d expect in spring. The torches were burning in the cressets as I walked down among the two rows of columns, but the wooden planks on the floor were not heated as before. I didn’t even remember for how long I hadn’t been there; must have been since the evening that Malan decided to leave for Sapul. Seven times spring, back to when Aneria was born.
The twin skulls under the cressets glowed brighter than ever. The last two skulls were long and charred, and they were real. The Ssons I had killed in the Forest. They were here already. To the sides of the black lacquered throne stood the remaining two Ssons, Blue and Skullface, their arms crossed, their red-rimmed eyes peering at me. Everyone’s eyes were red-rimmed, whether Reghen, Ouna-Ma or Rod in the hall. It seemed like no one had slept since the battle of Lenos. The air was heavy with smoke. All three circles on the wall the Sun, Selene and the third for the earth were painted red. I remembered the first two being gold and silver, but that was a long time ago. I could afford to observe all those details, as they had me facing an empty throne.
But not for long.
Malan came first and ascended the steps to his throne slowly. Sah-Ouna followed. She was not wearing the black veil, and her face looked healthy and vibrant, her eyes darker and fuller than I ever remembered them as the belladonna glowed potent in them. She stood next to Malan, taller than the Khun.
Malan avoided my face; his own was pale as a corpse’s. He made a gesture to the Reghen who brought me.
“Speak, Reghen,” said Sah-Ouna.
“My King, with great sorrow I bring you here Da-Ren, the ninestar traitor of the Tribe. We captured him a fortnight north from here, close to Warhammer, as he was riding east.”
“Speak of his crimes,” said Malan.
Two other Reghen stepped forward. One stood to my right and spoke:
“Da-Ren led us into a trap. He ignored clear orders and charged to the battlefield earlier than we had planned. We lost six thousand men. More are wounded and crippled.”
The murmur of the crowd grew loud. Six thousand.
The Reghen continued.
“All but a thousand perished at the Drakontail. Another two thousand, the first to come out of the White Doe; all of them gone. Most of the survivors were those who had stayed far behind at White Doe. Many suffocated from the smoke and the fire in there as the legions chased us and sealed the caves with wood and fire. Many of our men will remain unburned in there forever.”
Silence.
“Do you deny any of this, Da-Ren?” asked Malan.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“You don’t know!” he shouted, standing up and supporting himself with both hands on the arms of the throne.
“I didn’t tell you to go to battle, I told you not to lay siege on Sapul, I never…I never…” I lost my words. I never cared to offer any excuse to him; I knew there were no excuses, no word for mercy, why was I even trying? It would only make this moment more disgraceful if I begged them to listen to my excuses.
Sah-Ouna diverted the discussion away from me.
“How many left?” he asked the Reghen.
“Three thousand, a couple of them Archers. Another two who returned with you in Sirol, First Witch, but they are not the most battle-tested. And about a thousand othertriber allies but they seem to diminish by the day. They leave on their own for north, south and east.”
“Let them leave. What of our enemies?”
“There are ominous tidings that Sapul’s armies are marching north; they could be at the south bank of Blackvein in a few days. The legions of the West are not proceeding. Fortunately, they have put garrisons all the way to the deserted Warhammer, but most of them are back in Lenos.”
“Are you certain of this?” said Malan.
“We can’t be certain; these are reports that we acquire with great difficulty. By the time we learn something, it might have changed already.”
“The time for judgment is here,” said Malan, turning his gaze to me again.
“Judgment. Who sent the Tribe to fight into the caves of Darhul?” asked Sah-Ouna.
Men started whispering. Sah-Ouna was not looking at me. I had not given the order.
The Reghen tried to put all the blame on me.
“If he hadn’t betrayed us—”
“Who ordered the Archers and the horses to creep like worms into the caves, where the Goddess cannot see?” asked Sah-Ouna.
The Reghen understood. He could see the future with the two hundred eyes of his brothers, and he turned to speak to Sah-Ouna.
“What is to be done, First Witch?”
“The Empire of Sapul is seeking revenge,” she said.
Everyone was seeking his revenge in the last chapter of the Story.
Malan spoke first.
“Everyone must be prepared for battle. Get word to the Craftsmen to prepare the war machines. Burn the Blackvein bridges.”
Sah-Ouna interrupted him and overturned his words.
“The signs of Selene are clear and the auguries she brought today clearer. The Goddess has spoken and commanded differently. In two days from now, we must ride for the steppe. Retreat as far back as we can. S
irol will be abandoned. That is our path.”
Most of the Reghen and Rods nodded and whispered in agreement. No one spoke against her.
Malan got up to strike the Witch, but before he did, Skullface grabbed his arm and stopped him.
“The Khun must rest now,” said Sah-Ouna.
Malan tried to regain control, turning again to me.
“This is all on you, Da-Ren. And tonight, you’ll pay. Wolfhowl,” he said, shouting the last word with rage.
“That he will,” said Sah-Ouna, her icy gaze passing over my face for a couple of breaths.
“Da-Ren, I had promised you that if we were victorious, you could reclaim your woman. A wedding!” Malan said. Boos and curses rose around me at those words. “But you didn’t bring us victory. You brought—”
“Blood and darkness,” said Sah-Ouna. “As I had warned you.”
“And this is the reward,” said Malan, pointing to the third Reghen to my left. He was holding an earthenware urn, gray with a red circle same colored as his robe.
Those were the urns of death, that preserved the ashes of the dead. As the custom called, they were reserved for great warriors, but during the last winters and after the campaign of Varazam everyone was using them, everyone believed that they deserved them. The urns meant only one thing now.
The Reghen placed the small urn at my feet.
“Zeria,” said Malan. “Isn’t that the name of the one who you favor.”
I took two steps back as if the Reghen had thrown a venomous snake at my feet.
“No, Zeria was north with Sani, she left with Baagh,” I said, talking to myself rather than anyone else in there.
“Why would I send women and children with Sani? To slow him down? I kept them with us back safe. I only needed you to think they’d be there. But even that, didn’t seem enough. I told you not to cross me. I kept them here; Blue loved her eyes, he wanted to kill her himself.”
“No, you’re lying,” I said and as I finished my words Blue walked up to me and punched me in the face.
“Enough of all this,” shouted Sah-Ouna. “Judgment will be passed tonight in the Wolfhowl. We must appease the Goddess and then ride east to the steppe.”
Drakon Book IV: Butterfly Page 28
