by Sam Sykes
“No,” Ululang said. “Not a chance in hell would we fight alongside the Mak Lak Kai.”
“Why not?” Gariath asked. “They’re crazy, stupid, and smell like shit. Why would you let all that go to waste?”
Daaru grimaced. “They are malaa. Outside the Tul.” At Gariath’s confusion he sighed and made the sign of the Tul from left to right. “When Rua Tong or Chee Chree dies, they go back to the Tul. They return elsewhere as Yengu Thuun or Dei Hun Jaan or Kalak Ka. The Mak Lak Kai never return to the Tul. They never leave.” He reversed the sign of the Tul. “If the Tul will not take them, they are not meant to be in our company.”
Of course. It would have to be something that stupid.
Fighting was supposed to be simple, easy, like any other part of life. Humans sullied it by hiding behind walls and refusing to die. Tulwar complicated it by bringing all manner of ridiculous superstition into it.
Like any other part of life, only the Rhega knew how to do it right.
Gariath stalked off down the dune, saying not another word. He ignored the confused calls of the tulwar as they shouted after him. He ignored the sounds of carnage rising from the field. He ignored everything.
“And where are you going?”
Except a question carried on a voice thick with pipe smoke.
He turned and glared at the old tulwar, snorted.
“Speak plainly, speak honestly,” the dragonman said, “or I’ll smash your skull and no one will blink an eye. Did you bring the Mak Lak Kai?”
The old tulwar’s face hardened. “I did.”
“Then you lied to the others?”
“That, too.”
Gariath nodded. “You are good at lying, elder. Do it one more time.” He pointed to the field. “Go to the vulgore. Tell him to be ready to charge when I give the signal.”
“And what do you intend to do?”
Gariath turned, stalked away toward the line of Mak Lak Kai mustering down upon the field.
“Everything. As usual.”
“Aha!” Chakaa looked down from her mount, grinning broadly. “The daanaja comes to grace me with his presence! I can take it that I am blessed this day, no?”
Gariath fixed her with a curious glare for a moment, half tempted to ask, half taken by her stench, before he remembered that he had come here with a mission.
“What is your plan?” he asked.
Chakaa looked taken aback. “Plan?”
“You want to attack the city, right? What are you going to do?”
“I am not sure I understand the question.” She pointed over the heads of the tulwar invaders to Jalaang’s distant walls. “I have a big sword. I am going to use it to kill a lot of humans. Then we will see how I feel. Maybe lunch.”
“Yes,” Gariath growled, “but how are you going to do it?”
Chakaa blinked, then shrugged. “Chakaa does not ponder ‘how’ a thing is done. Chakaa intends to do it, so it gets done.”
Gariath blinked. Slowly.
She smells like shit. She’s got shit for brains. She says shit like this.
He let out a long breath.
This is a good idea you had here.
“We need to get over the walls,” Gariath said. “Once we break their stupid toys, the others can break down the walls. Can your gaambol jump?”
“A Mak Lak Kai’s gaambol jumps higher than any other’s.” Chakaa gasped, smiling with delight. “And just like that, Chakaa knows what to do. You see, daanaja? It simply works out.”
“Can your beast carry me?” Gariath asked, with some reservation. Not that it seemed a particularly intelligent idea to get so close to the woman, but he needed to make sure this worked.
Chakaa, in reply, scooted forward on her mount and patted the beast’s back. “He is the troop leader, strongest of them all. He could carry twelve daanaja.”
Gariath nodded, then glanced to the field. The tulwar still held in a thick wave at the wall.
“I’ll go tell the warriors to make way for us,” Gariath said, “then we can—”
“No need,” Chakaa said. “They will move for us.”
“You’re sure?”
She smiled, a little less crazed, a little more sad. “I am malaa.”
At this Gariath felt the need to ask, if only to sate his curiosity before he died.
“They hate you,” he said. “But you want to help them. Why?”
Chakaa stared out over the field, at the roiling waves of tulwar. At the dying warriors, screaming as arrows put them down. At the impotent archers, flinging arrows at a wall that could not be moved. At the stoic shield bearers, their line wavering beneath the hail falling from the walls.
“The Tul does not make mistakes,” she said softly. “If it has cast us out, it has done so for a reason. If that reason is that we may do what they, with their wailing children and their weeping spouses, may not, then I am happy to see it done.”
She looked down to Gariath and grinned broadly.
“But come, daanaja,” she laughed, extending a hand to Gariath, “you are ruining this with your serious talk. This is a slaughter. We should be celebrating!”
He had doubts. But no time for them.
All that he had sacrificed to get to this point, all the blood spilled and bodies fallen, they could not be in vain. He reached out and took her hand. Chakaa paused as her fingers wrapped around his, looking reflectively at him for a moment.
As though wondering which of their hands was dirtier.
She helped haul him up and behind her. He settled upon the gaambol’s back, felt the muscles of the beast reverberate between his legs as it let out a low growl of irritation at this new rider. But any thoughts it might have had of rebellion seemed to dissipate the moment Chakaa opened her mouth and let out a roar.
It was a language Gariath could not understand, a language of a single sound. And whatever it was, it commanded the attention of her clan and their beasts. The Mak Lak Kai warriors immediately fell in behind her, forming a thick spearhead formation. Steel hissed as they drew their bizarre weapons. Their gaambols hooted in excitement.
There was no order given. No command spoken. They did this, Gariath knew, out of instinct. They did this because they knew nothing other than this.
War.
Blood.
Fury.
And as they spurred their gaambols forward and broke into a trot, they moved with a self-assured, unquestioning resolve. Like horses going to water for a drink, so went they to war.
Chakaa’s roar flowed from her mouth, coursing from tulwar to tulwar, each of them taking up the war cry whose sound tore above the sounds of carnage on the field. Like a disease it spread to the gaambols, the great beasts loosing bestial shrieks in agreement of their riders’ fury. Their howls became a storm that rose from the Mak Lak Kai as they spurred their mounts forward, the gaambols’ feet thunder beneath them.
The other clans—the Rua Tong, the Chee Chree—looked up at the sound. And, as Chakaa had said, parted like a wave. Their eyes were filled with dread, turning away as the Mak Lak Kai riders tore through them. But the Mak Lak Kai had eyes only for what lay ahead, only for the woman riding at their front, only for the massive blade she hefted over her head.
“The Tul won’t take us back!” she roared, her voice splitting the battlefield. “There is nothing for us but this moment! This battle!” She thrust her blade forward, spurred her beast to a charge. “MAK LAK KAI!”
“MAK LAK KAI!”
The roar was taken up by each warrior, it burst from their mouths like blood from an artery, uncontrollable and unstoppable. The sound of battle ceased to be so noisome, the sound of death ceased to be so impressive. With the howl of their fury and the thunder of their mounts, the only sound was Mak Lak Kai.
The walls of Jalaang loomed large. Gariath could see the humans reorganizing their troops, deploying them to the section of wall where Chakaa’s charge was heading. Arrows flew from the battlements in mosquito clouds, falling to gnaw at flesh
and drink of blood. Gariath could hear gaambols shriek behind him as their hides caught arrows. He heard bodies fall, struck from their saddles. He felt Chakaa’s body shudder before him as she was struck once, twice, two arrows quivering from her flesh.
And not once did she stop screaming.
“MAK LAK KAI!”
Another shriek, another spur, and they were aloft. Gariath felt the great beast beneath him tense and leap, hurling itself at Jalaang’s wall. The human defenders fell back, scattering in a shriek as the creature scrabbled at the battlements with its paws. Gariath clung to its harness, struggling to keep hold of it. Chakaa merely laughed.
“Knock knock!” she roared, swinging her sword at the humans as the gaambol found its footing and clawed its way up onto the battlements.
More followed. The wall shook as more gaambols hit it—some impaled themselves on the spikes, others crawled over the carcasses of their brethren. Neither the Mak Lak Kai nor their mounts seemed to notice their many wounds, wading into battle with flailing claws and swinging weapons.
The humans struggled to find their nerve. Gruff-looking sergeants pulled weapons free, barked orders at their soldiers to draw steel. Some fled, more stayed, wading into the fray with swords drawn and hacking at their massive foes. Many fell beneath the Mak Lak Kai’s wild swings, many more were plucked up and crushed between powerful gaambol claws.
But there were more. There were always more. In the distance a bell tolled. In the city below, Gariath could see more soldiers flooding out of their barracks, armed with crossbows and swords to reinforce the lines. There were many. Too many for even the crazed Mak Lak Kai to fight.
He leapt from Chakaa’s mount, tumbled to the stone walkway of the battlements. He shot to his feet, darting beneath a leaping gaambol that crawled its way onto the battlements, leaping over a tulwar corpse as it fell, arrow-riddled, to the stone.
He ran, bowling over humans who tried to flee, smashing aside those who tried to stand, ignoring the nicks and cuts of those who scored glancing blows against him as he tore across the battlements toward his goal.
The gates of Jalaang.
And the ballistae that hung over them.
He picked up speed as the great weapons came into view. Their crews—two men to each weapon—turned to see him coming, too late. They struggled to pull free their short swords. But by the time steel had cleared sheath, Gariath was already charging.
Leaping.
Falling.
His fist came smashing down upon the helm of the man in the lead. He staggered backward, flailing blindly as he backed into a ballista. His companion lunged at Gariath, his feeble blow batted away as Gariath seized the man’s sword arm and twisted. A sharp snapping sound followed, but the ensuing scream of pain was cut short as Gariath seized the man by his throat and hoisted him off his feet. He pressed forward against his last two foes, letting the man in his hands take their swords as he continued to shove forward, his bulk driving them backward until they reached the edge of the battlements.
And fell.
They disappeared beneath the mass of tulwar below, who spared only a glance for them before looking back up to the dragonman standing tall atop the battlements. Gariath unfurled his wings, outstretched his claws, and let out a roar over the tulwar. A roar that was soon answered.
And none answered louder than Kudj.
The vulgore came charging forward, lumbering on his hands and feet like a great ape. He hit the gates of Jalaang, sending the wood cracking, the doors shuddering. He bellowed, pounding on it with great fists until the doors finally swung open.
And the tulwar poured in.
Just as Gariath had hoped.
Their war cries were renewed, their weapons flashing as they fought to get through the gates and meet their foes in the city streets. The humans fought to get into formation against this new threat, clashing with them. The world below was a riot of color, the facial colorations of the tulwar and the armor of the guards splashing red with each other’s life.
And yet Gariath hardly had time to appreciate it. For his attentions were drawn across the city, to the far side of the wall and the other gate. The one facing Cier’Djaal.
From which reinforcements were supposed to come.
A great cloud of dust was rising some distance away. He couldn’t see what it was from here. He rushed to the edge of the battlements where a lookout tower stood. He quickly scaled his way to the top over a crude wooden ladder, took a moment to dislodge the two archers at the top and throw them into the melee below.
From so high up, he could see it. A massive cloud of sand was rising, kicked up in the hustling trail of a team of sixteen oxen. The great beasts bellowed in protest, whipped along by human drivers as they hauled an incredibly oversize carriage.
More troops? No. The carriage was built too oddly for that. Its wheels were oversize and reinforced, meant for carrying a heavy weight. But the carriage was built too small for a lot of men. It seemed as if it had been constructed for a few very large individuals.
And then Gariath’s heart fell.
For he knew what was coming.
The beasts arrived within only a few more breaths. The team of drivers immediately hopped off the carriage and ran to its side. There they seized a great chain and pulled it down.
The metal wall of the carriage came crashing down, forming a great ramp. And it shook upon its wheels as a great gray shape rose up and emerged into the daylight.
Ten feet tall. Broad as a rock. Hefting an ax the size of a man over his shoulder as he lifted a horn-topped snout to the sky and inhaled deeply.
Gariath didn’t need to smell him to recognize Kharga. Just as he didn’t need to see the other two dragonmen emerging to know he had to act.
“Come on! Hurry!”
Over fallen human soldiers.
“Keep going! Bring whoever you can bring!”
Past knots of fighting.
“How many? More. We need more!”
Through the streets of Jalaang.
Gariath ran with a dozen tulwar warriors at his back. Those he could tear away from the fighting and who respected—or feared—him enough had come with him. But a dozen was not enough, and there was no time to explain why.
The main street of Jalaang was a clear shot from one gate to the other. The sundered gate that Kudj had broken through stood open, with tulwar warriors still flooding in. It was the one that loomed before them, still barred and blocked, that Gariath was concerned with.
The battle behind him was going well. The sound of tulwar battle cries grew louder and louder, drowning the sounds of humans barking orders to each other. Their fury could not be stopped and, in a short time, they would have this city.
If Gariath could just keep that gate shut.
But the scent came with each breath he took: the scent of an old hate, a familial anger, one that felt tender inside his chest as it filled his lungs. And it grew stronger by the moment.
“Now! NOW!” he roared. “Up against the gate!”
Gariath slammed his body against the door. He felt every shudder of the wood as a dozen tulwar added their weight to his. He drew in a breath and held it and hoped that it would be enough.
And as his ear-frills filled with the sound of the earth shuddering beneath the thunder of heavy feet charging, he knew it wouldn’t.
A heavy roar split the air. A heavy weight struck the door. Wood exploded. The sky spun. The earth left him.
And amid a shower of splinters, Gariath flew.
His breath exploded out of him as he struck the earth and tumbled across the sand. He could feel the impact of other bodies as the tulwar landed around him. Some clambered back to their feet with agonized groans. Some did not move at all. Gariath tried to find his vision in a swimming head, tried to find his breath in his lungs.
He did. And with them came a familiar stink.
“No shit!” a booming voice bellowed.
He smelled her before he had sight to see her.
A Drokha. Female. Reeking with angry excitement. When he opened his eyes, the vision matched.
Ten feet at least. A slab of muscle and bone and sinew wrapped in a thick coat of gray scales and walking on two thick legs. The single horn topping her snout had been polished to a high gleam above a savage, toothy grin.
“They’ve got a Rhega.” The female’s grin grew broader as two heavy hands tightened around the grip of an even heavier hammer. “And here I thought this was going to be boring.”
The reek of her joy was overpowering. Not quite as much as the sight of her, of course—no dragonman ever felt all right around a female of the breed—but Gariath’s knees felt shaky as he clambered to his feet. He held out his arms in challenge, calling her to him, if only to catch his breath.
She seemed all too happy to oblige, stomping forward to meet him.
“RUA TONG!”
A war cry hit him a moment before the tulwar passed him. Youths, reeking with fury and their faces and weapons painted with blood. Six of them, howling a challenge, rushed past Gariath to meet the female. She hefted her hammer. They leapt at her. She swung.
And three limp bodies went flying, smashed out of the sky like errant flies. The remaining three tumbled to the earth as they all but bounced off her hide. Two let out choked screams punctuated by snapping sounds as she brought her foot down upon them. The third rose, tried to flee.
And failed.
She plucked him up in one hand. Her grin broadened savagely as she began to squeeze. There was a short shriek, a wet pop. And her teeth were painted red.
Gariath had no prayers for gods, no sacred words to utter, no deity or creature or heavenly body that had given him vocabulary adequate for what he had just seen. And so he said the closest thing he had.
“Shit.”
Didn’t quite cut it.
“Come on, you old men!” the female called out over her shoulder, making a beckoning gesture. “You’re going to miss all the fun!”
“Yeah, yeah,” another voice replied. “If you kill them all, I still get paid.”
