An Ill-Fated Sky

by Darrell Drake

  “Now, these were no ordinary divs. His pursuers paled in comparison—as you will soon come to learn. Erash saw in them the vile blood of Eshm, and he knew it in his bones that his quest had come to an end. For Eshm is the messenger of Ahriman, the embodiment of wrath itself. So zealous is his wrath that he slaughters divs and men alike. Woe betide any man who crosses paths with Eshm or his offspring. Erash was doomed.”

  A pause for effect. “Or he would have been. See, my little goats, Erash had inspired more than heroes. It just so happened that these sisters were in the area, and upon learning of his plight, even their half-div hearts had been moved to action. They said as much in a roundabout way, and the archer of the two expressed her respect for Erash’s mastery, then they bade him good luck and promised to hold off his pursuers. Erash thanked them for their uncommon bravery, and asked them their names. ‘Waray,’ said one. ‘Shkarag’, said the other.”

  Tirdad glanced to his side. Shkarag was staring in the direction of the star-reckoner, but she wore the faraway gaze of reminiscence, and had never looked as old as she did then.

  “With that, Erash proceeded to the peak without interruption, and secured his place in legend. Meanwhile, the sisters chose a pass better suited to defense. There, they waited. The host of divs and mercenaries filed into that pass, confident that they were the only force in range, and so eager to catch their quarry that they would have taken the direct path regardless. Their blood boiled, and they all argued over who would be the one to make the killing blow. That was until the sisters blocked the way. At first, whispers arose.”

  Adur-mah cast left to right confusedly, shrugging and making faces that drew giggles from the children. “The warriors quarreled. Some scoffed at the display—surely a bluff. Others suspected a trap. The ranks grew more unsettled when it became clear what they were up against. Even the divs were having second thoughts. All signs had pointed to them catching Erash without incident, so their morale was sorely unprepared for this development. Even the fiercest of hearts are frightened by Eshm’s bloodline. Rightfully so, too.

  “Perhaps they would have turned back, but a lone warrior charged from the line, sword raised and naively thinking he would steal the glory while the others squabbled. Well, they could not have that now could they? The host swarmed forward—” Adur-mah threw his hands out toward his audience. “—to bring a swift end to the sisters.”

  He tapped his chin, chewing as he did. “Come to think of it, maybe you are too young for this after all.” He got up as if to leave, dusting off his rear and patting his robe.

  The children were all leaning forward by now. Even Tirdad was engrossed in the story, though he was getting irritated by the display much as he appreciated the effort Adur-mah was putting into it.

  “Please tell us,” blurted a boy, unable to hold it back any longer.

  “Please!” said another. “We have been good!” Soon enough, they were all pleading.

  Adur-mah lifted his hands to quiet the children. “Shush now. I will finish the tale on one condition: that you keep it from your parents. I have had my fill of earfuls.”

  Full of enthusiasm, the children nodded.

  “Ah, I suppose I can break the rules just this once. Told your parents stories when they were your age. Who are they to tell me which I can and cannot tell?” Adur-mah reclaimed his seat and cleared his throat, returning once again to the scene and his storyteller tone.

  “The swarm advanced with shouts and shrieks, shoulder to shoulder in the narrow pass and clambering to reach their prey. Meanwhile, the sisters watched, still as can be—unshaken in the face of death. And just when the swarm was upon them, swords and spears reaching out for first blood, it collapsed.

  Clever as they were brave, the sisters had rushed to dig a ditch and lined it with spikes, on which the swarm was gored. More and more fell in, unable to stop or shoved from behind, until it was full of bodies. Only then could the swarm cross. And cross it did.”

  Adur-mah threw his hands in the air. “Oh, what a sight! In a flash, Shkarag set her axes to whirling—” He spun his finger to demonstrate. “—like an angry dust tornado, winding and unwinding, and between those lethal spins she would throw off her attackers with one of the many techniques she’d learned in her travels. Those she fell upon, and those who fell upon her, they were all cut down.

  “What of Waray, the half-div archer who had been so inspired by Erash? Well, any archer worth the skin on a buck’s back would have taken the high ground, but not this one. Not Waray. She inserted herself into her sister’s routine as if they were snakes coiling around one another. Where Shkarag left an opening, Waray would plug it with an arrow. As quickly as the horde could advance, they would fall to axe or bow. These half-div sisters had spent lifetimes together, and together they had survived by coming to know their weaknesses. So, one complementing the other, Shkarag and Waray continued their display, gradually giving ground so that Waray could snatch up the quivers they had stowed along the pass.”

  The star-reckoner took a gulp of wine to soothe his throat then went on. “They fought and fought, drenched in sweat and fangs bared, while high above Erash struggled to draw his bow.

  “Now, it is no secret that an Eshm sister is worth thirty men. Their numbers may be few, but their battlefield presence is unmatched by any but a yazata or forty-armed div. This was different. Eshm sisters cooperate. Shkarag and Waray fought as one. In that, they were worth thirty Eshm sisters. Even so, eventually they tire.

  “After dealing with a quarter of the host, Shkarag’s exhaustion finally got the best of her. Her valour faded, and with it came one too many holes for her sister to plug. So a spear did instead.” Adur-mah doubled over and clutched his stomach. “Oh, it got her good. Went clean through.”

  At that, the shoulders in his audience slumped as one. They had all been rooting for these mysterious sisters despite their lineage. “No one really knows whose spear caught her in the gut,” he said. “The chaos made it impossible to tell.”

  Daggers shot up Tirdad’s forearm from where Shkarag had applied an iron grip. Any tighter and it’d fracture. He gritted his teeth through the pain, once again drawn to her thousand-yard stare. “Should I ask him to stop?” he whispered. Shkarag gave a brisk shake of her head, and retracted her grip.

  “That, my little goats, was the last anyone saw of the sisters. For that would be the spear that would unleash the full extent her bloodlust. An injured Eshm sister . . . well, they are formidable and throw caution to the wind. Shkarag answered by snapping the spear and disappearing into the host. What followed was not recorded, or has been lost to time, but we do know Erash fired his arrow without incident all thanks to those sisters.”

  Adur-mah yawned and sat back. “And that is the tale of ‘The Wrath of Erash’. You should take it to heart, because there is much to learn from those unsung heroes. Waray and Shkarag were a shining example of your freedom to choose your fate, to serve good or evil, the Truth or the Lie. Recall that they were half div, which meant they were also half human—a distinction most would rather not acknowledge, because in that duality they might see themselves. Whether they chose to follow the sway of Eshm or their human mother, they would be making the same decisions you and I make every day. At the end of the tale you were each and every one of you rooting for them, because Shkarag and Waray had walked the path of justice. See to it that you take heed. Because if they could fight the pull of their lineage, you have no excuse for falling into the clutches of the Lie.”

  Adur-mah waved his audience off. “Now, go spend Tirgan with your parents. I am not as young as I used to be. Need some rest.”

  The children surrounded him for a parting hug, all thanking him for the tale, some curious about one detail or another, before they went on their way. In parting, they were already re-enacting the story, and many claims were made for the role of a sister.

  Tirdad watched Shkarag as she followed their departure with interest. He’d learned more about her in the l
ast few months than in all their many years together. To think she had a role in one of the most ubiquitous legends of his culture. He would have found it far-fetched at best if he hadn’t been around to witness the effect it had on her.

  Adur-mah approached, chewing as usual, his brows trained on Shkarag as she got to her feet. “Tried to keep to the record,” he said. “Time in the archives was not kind to it, so I had to fill in some of the blanks.”

  “I’ve never heard or read anything of that before,” said Tirdad. “Not in any of the frahangestan lessons, or in my travels.”

  The star-reckoner’s eyebrows shrugged alongside his shoulders. “Those schools for nobles are grand for culture, but it is a dictated culture. Measured. No one wants a legend painting divs in a positive light, and I cannot say I blame them. When the sun has set and we must take up arms, divs are still the enemy.” He turned his brows on Shkarag. “Most are. How close were the records to the truth?”

  “Enough,” she muttered, weary enough to have been there. “I think. Going to . . .” She looked around as if she were still half in the past. Glossy-eyed and dazed, Shkarag left for the stairs that led up the wall.

  “Bad form?” asked Adur-mah. “Thought I would recount the legend as thanks for what you did for me back there. Really is forbidden to repeat outside the archives, you know.”

  Tirdad tore his gaze from the half-div and leveled it on the star-reckoner. “She wanted to hear it,” he said. “Seemed to take her back.”

  Star-reckoner. That’s right. Heading to Ecbatana, a merchant, and that ominous explanation for the egg ruse: Adur-mah could very well have been the star-reckoner he’d been seeking all along. Tirdad’s palm, steadied by wine but tense with alarm, came to rest on the ram’s head pommel. He entertained the idea of running him through, but he needed Adur-mah alive. Well, alive long enough to get some answers. No, that wouldn’t do. Simply being a star-reckoner wasn’t enough to justify such treatment. Tirdad would not become Ashtadukht. He would get his answers without resorting to violence if circumstance allowed it.

  He’d intended to strike up a conversation to that end when Shkarag’s footsteps signaled her return. She ambled over, ewer in hand, took a swallow, then offered it to Adur-mah. “Here,” she said, shaking it to the sound of sloshing. The gloss in her eyes was all but gone, driven out by granite. “For the . . .” Shkarag squinted at the ewer, giving it another slosh. “For the overturned memory.”

  Adur-mah accepted with a toothless grin. “Sharing wine with a div,” he mused. “Even at my age there are firsts to be had. Never fails to surprise.” He summarily downed the wine, ending with a smack of his lips. “You know, almost tastes unalloyed coming from such an uncommon hand. One of legend no less. Ah!” He slapped his thigh. “Do an old man a favour and tell me how you escaped the horde. Been eating at me.”

  Shkarag cocked her head. She stepped back. Her stare flashed back and forth. “Don’t know. The pomegranate-red was . . . I was in its possession like some, like some—” She cocked the other way, and took another step back. “Like the pollen on a bumblebee, along for the ride. All bobbing about, fanned by its fluttering wings, thinking this isn’t so bad while you’re connecting the stars, arms tucked behind your head. The buzzing irks you something fierce. Blood splashing your face. There’s—” She cast sidelong at Tirdad. “Wrestling soon.”

  “Oh,” said Tirdad. “It’d nearly slipped my mind. Wouldn’t want to miss your matches—either a chance to see you embarrassed or a chance to see you triumph. Either outcome is a victory for me.”

  Shkarag canted so sharply she nearly capsized. Her expression was surprisingly soft, almost amused. “Maybe,” she said.

  “Be a shame to miss,” agreed Adur-mah. “You two go ahead. Joining me on the road to Ecbatana tomorrow?”

  “You can bet your life on it,” said Tirdad, hoping it didn’t come to that.

  VIII

  “Yeah!” Tirdad shouted as Shkarag swept her opponent off his feet, throwing up a cloud of dust and claiming yet another victory. Next, the semi-finals. Tirdad shared a full-toothed grin with Chobin, who had been generous enough to grant Tirdad a seat to his right—a gesture of true substance that named the planet-reckoner his closest companion in trust and status.

  “Hah!” Chobin belted a too-loud laugh and stopped short of slapping Tirdad on the back. “That skink-slicker is a wrestler worth her weight in gold. Wasn’t expecting much, and her style is foreign, but fuck can she wrestle.” His grin became a sly smirk. “Bet you know that already.”

  “Oh, give it a rest,” said Tirdad as the half-div strolled over. “You’re going to make her get the wrong impression if you keep at it.”

  “Is it the wrong impression?” asked Chobin.

  While her veil, secured by beaded ropes, obscured her frown, it was plain in her delivery. “Wrong impression?” Shkarag asked. She bent to rub her leg. “Not impressed?”

  “All right,” conceded Tirdad. “The first few matches might’ve been flukes, but you’ve convinced me. That was an impressive throw.” He leaned forward, and she canted to stare at him through the veil. “And the sweep, you moved as if you were lighter than air, like brocade in a breeze.”

  Chobin grunted. “A poet now. You aren’t even trying to hide it anymore.”

  Tirdad shot him a glare that didn’t reach his smile. “Don’t be jealous. When you wrestle as well as her I’ll send for the King of Kings himself to compliment you.”

  “Better,” grumbled Chobin, playing cross. “Besides, if we learn to wrestle before we pick up a weapon because it’s the foundation of everything that follows, how’s it work for someone like her who learned after the fact?”

  Shkarag cocked her head, though it was still trained on Tirdad.

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” said the planet-reckoner. “Maybe it’s just like learning from the end of the curriculum.”

  “Maybe,” agreed Shkarag. She took a seat in front of him, which was a heinous breach of protocol, but no one seemed to mind or be paying her any attention. All eyes were on the next semi-finals bout. “What if I win?” she asked.

  Tirdad was already engrossed in the match. A skilled warrior under Chobin’s command was pitted against the other newcomer, a pale middle-aged man with knobby joints who looked as if he couldn’t wrestle himself out of a whore’s embrace. They circled, the warrior plainly disturbed by his opponent having made it this far, and the knobby one moving as if only one joint could bend at a time.

  “Who is this guy?” asked Tirdad, leaning toward Chobin.

  “Must be a traveler. I’ve never seen him around. But he volunteered, and far be it from me to turn him away when we’re short on contestants.”

  “What if I win?” Shkarag piped up, a hint of a hiss in her tone—likely at being ignored.

  “There’s a prize,” answered Chobin. “But it’s only symbolic. Hope you weren’t expecting gold.”

  Shkarag leaned back on one elbow to crane at Tirdad. “Wasn’t asking the goat-fucker. What’ll you bestow if I win?”

  Tirdad pried his attention from the bout long enough to say, “Whatever you want,” only affording her a glance before the match was underway. The warrior moved in for a clinch, which the knobby one returned. They circled head to head, exchanging attempts to steer the other but neither willing to make too bold a move just yet. After a few revolutions, they broke the clinch, each sizing the other up from a safe distance. Tirdad had expected the warrior to be more aggressive given his opponent.

  Instead, they continued their circling, each shuffling in and out to feign a takedown. The third such takedown belonged to the warrior, who burst forward at the tail end of a feint in an attempt to sweep the knobby one’s leg. He countered by sprawling on top of the warrior, digging his twig-like forearm into the warrior’s neck, and using the leverage to counter by coming around his side and flinging the warrior overhead and out of bounds. Claiming his victory with an upraised fist, he threw Tirdad a smile that, while ou
twardly friendly, made the planet-reckoner’s hair stand on end.

  “Well, he wrestles better than his build lets on,” said Tirdad, probing his mind for any memory that’d explain the smile or the goosebumps.

  “What build?” grunted Chobin. “He’s all branches and knots. Technique doesn’t explain it.”

  “Doesn’t add up,” Shkarag declared, sounding as if she’d made the observation. “Think your manifest is all reconciled, really šo-balanced inventory, and you’ve tallied with the finger calculations.” She demonstrated by flashing the gesture for ten thousand (and homage to kings and gods) by tapping the tip of her index against the tip of her thumb so that the nails were parallel. “Even pulled out the abacus because something isn’t right.” She cocked her head. “Something isn’t right.”

  “Yeah,” said Tirdad. He toyed with his sword where it lay in his lap, departing from his usual ministrations to trace his fingers thoughtfully over the feathers of its gilded scabbard. “It seems like I know him, too. But I can’t recall us ever meeting.” He leaned in so that he could speak into Shkarag’s ear. “Whatever the case, you’re up. I’m rooting for you, so give us a victory and take the tournament.”

  “Maybe,” said Shkarag. She limped back into the arena, which had braziers situated in a diamond, generously stoked to ward off the night and all its dangers, and to liven the crowd by casting the wrestlers in billowing sheets of bronze.

  Tirdad soaked in the whole of that image. Shkarag flanked by flames, casually favouring one thigh, never bothering to hunker down into the ready stance of a wrestler. She just waited. Confidence, apathy, boredom—he couldn’t pin a name on it. She wore it well all the same. Framed as she was in the haze of dust and smoke between matches, he could scarcely believe she had no love for the tradition. This improvised tournament in the dead centre of the main thoroughfare, children watching from the rooftops, the chanting and drums that gave the wrestlers their tempo, the utter lack of pomp found in the capital—this was wrestling, a scene that suited a rock relief or silver plate. When the match was called to a start and Shkarag started limping to her left, he gripped his sword in both hands, utterly invested in her triumph.