What Was Forgotten

by Tim Mathias

“Unless you want to rot along with us…” Zayd said.

  “Cohvass,” Sera said. “Enough.” Zayd gave her an appreciative nod.

  “I freed you because…” Zayd struggled with an explanation. He did not doubt that the temperamental Cohvass would explode at the real reasons: that he had only ordered it done to create confusion and aid in their escape, and, if Barrett happened to be killed, that he could manipulate them into attacking Praene again with the promise of giving them whatever it was that they had attacked the column for to begin with. He had no real use for them otherwise. Barrett would return in a few days in force and they would either capture Praene and his men, or kill them.

  Yet the situation had become more complicated than expected, and he at least should have expected that. His men were on the verge of defection as well, and it was unclear if the possibility of Barrett’s return had even convinced them to stay.

  So what could he really say? That their plight was pitiable? He looked around and realized that it was no more pitiable than his own. At least Sera and her kin were in their home country, whatever its condition. Zayd would rather be in Tauth with his family even if all of their ancient forests had been burned to ash.

  “Vahr,” Daruthin said. He spun and aimed his bow into the forest. All of the Tauthri were on their feet. How had Zayd not heard their approach? He heard angry voices speaking Dramandi.

  “Lower your bows!” Zayd barked. There were dozens of them approaching. Then dozens more. Sera and the rest of the Dramandi were on their feet as well. “We’re here,” she called. “Don’t kill them yet.”

  Zayd looked back. Sera was trying to remain expressionless. He wondered if it was for his benefit. Cohvass had a wide grin at the irony. The Dramandi approached them, armed with swords, spears and bows, and began to disarm all of the Tauthri. Zayd drew his only weapon, his dagger, and tossed it to the ground.

  “Why don’t we kill them now?” Cohvass asked Sera. “For all of the pain they inflicted on us. On our people.”

  Sera shook her head. “Not yet. They still have a purpose.”

  Symm took the bandages off of his arm. The morning air felt cold against his wounds. Zayd inhaled sharply. The shards had left trails on his forearm where they grazed the skin before biting into the flesh, leaving several long marks that introduced them. It looked like someone had painted long raindrops there. His hand, though, was in the worst condition, swollen and so dark a colour of blue that it was almost black.

  “It doesn’t look any better,” he said. Symm frowned.

  “It doesn’t look any worse. It hasn’t even been two days yet. Should I get Nithlan to look at it again?”

  “The others need him more.”

  Their healer had not slept since the survivors returned from the attack. Those with minor wounds like Zayd’s were given cursory treatments, quick care to prevent the wounds from becoming diseased. He spent of the rest of his time with Tyroda and Ellom. They had been engulfed in fire and were clinging to life only because of the salves and the incantations that Nithlan administered. Kalyn had carried Tyroda on his back through the forest and told Zayd that he could hear Tyroda’s flesh cooking as they went. “What I wouldn’t give to forget that hideous sound,” he had said.

  The village was quiet even though dozens of men and women were about as normal. There was an uncertainty, a fear that gripped them all. Like many of them, Zayd had known no darker time than this. War was a familiar aspect to them, and even death. They issued from disputes and old rivalries with other clans. What they faced now was the same dire threat to every clan: a threat to their people’s existence.

  The silence, too, almost gave the impression that they were listening for the march of the enemy; the rhythmic, disciplined steps of hundreds of men and the beating of the drums that preceded. It would only be a matter of time before those sounds were upon them.

  Zayd took his bow to the practice range at the edge of the village. There were stacks of wood of varying sizes as well as logs and branches twined together in the shapes of men. Even at the furthest range of the bowshot, Zayd could land an arrow on the chest with repetitive accuracy. He drew an arrow tight and winced as the wounds awoke. Eyes shut, he released.

  There was no arrow in his target. He looked at his hand to see blood running down his arm. The arrow was on the ground next to him. He drew another arrow and, as he pulled it tight to the string, fumbled again, this time even before the bow was fully taught.

  He pulled another arrow. It fell from his blood-slicked hand even before it knocked the bow. Zayd screamed. He hurled the bow towards the target. People had stopped to watch him.

  He thought of the time when he was a boy, standing the same place, bow in hand. That was the last time he remembered not being able to shoot.

  There were fewer than a hundred Dramandi, and Zayd thought they were likely the same warriors that attacked that column before, but he could not be certain. They looked just as haphazardly armed and equipped. Sera’s intent was all but obvious.

  They were taken through the woods on a barely visible path and, as had been done to them, the Dramandi separated Zayd from his men. They, too, were probably kept separate from each other, but every time Zayd tried to turn to look around, someone gave him an enthusiastic shove as a reminder to keep his eyes trained forward.

  None of the Dramandi spoke to each other, either. At least, not that he could hear. They were eerily silent. It was no surprise that they had been able to ambush the Ryferian column so swiftly.

  Zayd looked ahead, trying to see past the numerous warriors ahead of him, looking for Sera, but he could not see her. He was almost certain she would use him and his men to make another attempt to retrieve something from the column. Whether it would involve another attack as a diversion or not…

  He jostled his arms to ease the stiffness in his shoulders. They had bound his hands behind his back and they were slowly going numb. His right hand, which bore the scars of an older war, made especially strong protests.

  “Can you loosen these ropes?” he asked the Dramandi walking behind him. A hard push forward was his only answer.

  The deepest part of the night had past, and Zayd realized he had been staring at the ground in front of him and nothing else. It felt like a long time. His mind had wandered, giving him a temporary reprieve from the oppressive knowledge of captivity. For a few moments he had even mistaken his present company for the Trueborn, a mistake that was full of truth. He always had been a prisoner ever since he admitted defeat and chose life over death. And now he had only migrated from one form of imprisonment to another.

  He risked another look about, not looking for the others, but looking at the Dramandi around him. Some faces still wore the stern and rigid masks of defiance. Many more, though, wore one of expressionless shock, the inability to realize what was thought to never be able to happen had already come to pass: the utter loss and destruction of their endeavours and those of their ancestors. Surely his choice had led to a better life than this. Even if he was a fighting slave as some said, which he did not think he was, was it not better than losing everything? Another voice asked him, in his head, what is the difference between the two? It was Symm’s voice. What is the real difference? Has not everything been lost, no matter the choice? What good was it to stay alive to witness it?

  They came to a halt without warning, and a hush fell on the already-silent soldiers as though they all held their breath. There was something ahead of them. Zayd could hear it. Heavy steps and breaking branches. Breath coming from powerful lungs. He heard someone whispering ahead…

  Does he have a weapon?

  Can we get past?

  We’ll have to kill him… quietly.

  There were more footsteps and they were coming closer. It spurred a few Dramandi into action as they stepped off the path with bows drawn. One of them motioned for more to come. Zayd counted fifteen moving forward, not making a sound. And then, through the trees, he saw a familiar form: the hulk of the execu
tioner. Talazz had escaped! He was not, could not have been part of Willar Praene’s plot. Zayd had never doubted it, even when Talazz stood beside them, ready to kill him and Barrett. He was loyal to the Empire, and would be to the death.

  “Run, Talazz! They are coming after you! The Dramandi!” Zayd yelled as loud as he could. Dozens of heads swivelled and looked at him in shock. He kept yelling. “Talazz, go! The Dramandi are coming to kill you!” A blow to the head dizzied him and he fell to the ground. He still heard the sound of someone crashing through the trees, making a quick escape. Zayd smiled and laughed. It took only a few seconds for the sound of Talazz’s flight to become distant and faint. Despite their stature, the En Kazyr could be remarkably quick.

  Zayd was pulled to his feet, then off his feet. He stared into Cohvass’s face. “I’m going to rip out your tongue,” he growled. There was a flash of light and Zayd was thrown to the ground. Blood poured out through his nose and into his mouth. Cohvass climbed onto him and wrapped his hands around his throat. The Dramandi’s grip was like a steel vice, and Zayd could see the muscles in Cohvass’s forearms become more and more taught. A hangman’s noose could not even compare to this.

  As Zayd’s vision began to flicker into darkness, he did the only thing he could: he spat a mouthful of blood at Cohvass and saw, with no small degree of satisfaction, the red gob splatter onto his forehead. He would have laughed if he could. He heard someone’s voice, a woman’s, screaming, though it sounded distant. All he could hear was the sound of his slowing heartbeat.

  Then there was air rushing into his lungs. His throat still felt as though there was something constricting it. He turned onto his side and began coughing and gasping uncontrollably. Cohvass was fighting against three other Dramandi that had pulled him off of Zayd, and Sera now stood between them, offering soothing words to calm her berserk sword-kin. “Not now. You can’t kill him yet.”

  He was only just clinging to consciousness as they moved again. Zayd felt himself being dragged, held under each arm. They went with urgency, gaining distance from where they had revealed themselves. Where he had revealed them. And they stopped after a while, amidst thick undergrowth where they were difficult to spot. Zayd was lying on his side where they had dropped him, not able to remember the last time he felt as tired as he did. Refusing to give up his life had taken its toll.

  “I want you to remember that this is because of you,” Sera whispered in his ear. He looked up to see his men, lined up, standing side by side. A Dramandi stood behind each one, and Cohvass stood to the side, a menacing blade and eager grin bare for all to see. Kneeling over him, Sera grabbed his hair and pulled, forcing him to look up. “Now you have to choose which one dies. If you don’t, then I’ll let Cohvass choose.”

  Cohvass’s grip tightened around the hilt of the sword and he looked at Zayd as if daring him not to choose.

  “This is not what I want,” Sera continued. “But this is what you’ve forced to happen. You. Remember. Now choose.”

  Zayd tried to lift himself up off the ground but his strength failed immediately.

  “Choose,” Sera hissed in his ear. “Choose the blood of one of them to be shed because of your foolishness.”

  Zayd looked up at her. “I’m not yours to command.”

  Her grip tightened and her teeth clenched. “That is all you are. Your man-god will not save you from me. Now choose.”

  “What are they saying, vahr?” Tascell asked. The question was met with a hard kick to the back of his legs, dropping him to his knees.

  Zayd looked at his men. Daruthin stared forward, steadfast and unafraid. Tascell and many of the others showed their fear, their eyes darting from him to Cohvass, to the blade he held.

  “You want something,” Zayd said, his voice barely forcing its way out of his throat. “You’ll need all of us to get it.”

  Sera shook her head. “Haven’t you spent your entire life taking orders, Tauthri? You only need to do so again.”

  “I will not… condemn one of my own men to die.” Zayd looked at Sera and saw his words reflect uselessly off of her. She would not compromise. She would not be weak in front of her sword-kin. The woman that stood before him was not the same one who was taken prisoner.

  “You already did,” she said. “Cohvass, the task is yours.”

  She had barely finished speaking the sentence as he shoved Daruthin down to the ground. On his knees, Daruthin managed to look at Zayd, his fearlessness replaced by surprise. The fearlessness, he realized suddenly, had been trust. While the others had talked openly of treason and defection, Daruthin had not for a moment averted his mind from his duty.

  “Stop!” Zayd nearly choked as he said the word. Cohvass held the blade frozen in the air when Sera put up her hand.

  “Go on,” she said.

  “Whatever you need us for, I will need him. He is my most trusted…” Zayd did not know if there was a Dramandi word for lieutenant. “… My most trusted sword-kin.”

  The rest of the Tauthri were wide-eyed, perhaps with a glint of hope, not understanding what was being said, but imagining that their leader had intervened against imminent death. Sera waited for Zayd to speak again.

  “Second from the end,” Zayd whispered.

  Sera smiled. “Why him?”

  Zayd dug his fingertips into the dirt as he tried again to push himself upright. “There is no one to grieve over him.” Perhaps only me, he added silently. A grief like many that would be borne out of guilt. For actions not taken. And for Turald, an action forced to be taken.

  At Sera’s behest, Cohvass lifted Daruthin back to his feet and pushed him back towards the others before moving down the line and taking Turald by the collar and pitching him forward to the earth as everyone watched. Cohvass looked to Sera briefly to see if there would be another intervention, smiled when there wasn’t, and lifted his sword overhead. Turald only began to look at Zayd. The sword cleaved into his right shoulder and plunged nearly to the sternum. Blood shot outward. Zayd felt the warmness of it on his hand and he could not help but recoil. Much of it splashed on Cohvass and he smiled wider before pulling the sword free and swinging again, sideways this time, into Turald’s cheek. The sword went clean through, severing everything below the nose.

  His eyes were open, looking straight up at the forest canopy, as his lifeless body fell over. His eyes still held the look of confused helplessness, his fearfulness arrested and yet immutable. A look that Zayd now saw on the face of his men. If they did not fully comprehend what had happened, that Zayd had spared one man for the life of another, it would not be long before they realized. And if they did not, it was enough for him to know. It was nearly too much.

  “Now I know who your favourite is,” Cohvass said as he wiped droplets of Turald’s blood from his face. “The next time you try to undermine us…” He pointed to Turald. “And it will not be over so quickly as it was for him.”

  The Dramandi began to move again, shoving the Tauthri into motion with them. Everyone walked widely around Turald’s mutilated body. Someone pulled Zayd to his feet. Sera stood before him, looking at him with neither malice nor pity. “I’m not cruel. If I was, I would let him do that to all of you.” Someone pushed Zayd from behind and he took a few unsteady steps before he found his balance again. He refused to look away from her even as he walked.

  Chapter 14

  It was the longest afternoon he had ever known and would ever know in his life. He thought it might feel like what a man sentenced to death must endure on the day he knows he will die. Maybe this was worse since it was not only his life. Behind him, Symm held Cassian in her arms, rocking him gently. He had been crying as if he too knew that something dire awaited them. And truthfully, Zayd felt like crying, too. He felt like crying even more than he felt like taking Cassian in one arm, taking his wife by the hand, and running. It was a difficult instinct to fight.

  He sat outside on a bale beside the door to their hut, his legs jittering, his heels bouncing on the ground. In
side it had kept Cassian from falling asleep, but out here, he didn’t seem to mind it. Zayd turned and looked through the doorway every few minutes – at least every few minutes – just to make sure they were still there.

  His short sword was stuck in the ground behind his legs. The dirt was hacked and scarred. Evidence of his uneasy anticipation. He pulled the sword loose and started running it through the soil yet again. He stood, walked around the hut, and sat back down. The ground was becoming worn around the hut from the countless number of times he had walked its circumference that afternoon. He imagined that if he kept at it then the ground would be worn away into a serviceable moat, and he and Symm and Cassian could stay here and watch the world around them in safety.

  But that happy image always gave way to another, the Night of Fire as it was now being called. There was no safety. The feeling of fighting with the gods on their side and righteousness in their hearts was only a memory now, and even in his mind he found the soldiers of the Empire battering at its gates. The clan’s hunters always taught to take shelter when the weather turned. You cannot outrun the storm. And so it was at this realization he waited. He waited for the storm, a long afternoon, peaceful with his family; the last day he knew as being free in his own land.

  It was an oddly restful night. Zayd and the other Tauthri, from what he could tell, slept undisturbed, as did their captors. The display they witnessed placated both groups in a way none of them had expected. Many of the Dramandi had yearned to return the horrors they experienced during the siege upon their tormentors, while the Tauthri, having stepped out from under one oppressor, were uncertain of the severity of their situation. The Dramandi were a defeated people. Nearly dead. Were they still to be feared or to be pitied? Now, though, the question had been answered and the Tauthri were certain they had only escaped one captor to be welcomed in by another.

  They spent the daylight hours on the move, navigating the woods in utter silence. Two defeated peoples, their causes unaligned, marching against the same foe. Once the task had been accomplished or moved beyond their grasp, their temporary union would be ended. Not every path in the forest led somewhere. Zayd hoped he would recognize the point where they started down that path. If they had done so already, though, there was no point in obedience or delaying what was to come.