Dagger 2 - Blood Brothers - A Dark Fantasy Adventure (Born to Be Free series)

by Walt Popester

  “With twelve men? Sweep away what remained of such an army, with just twelve men?”

  Marduk grinned smugly. “Let’s say Crowley brought with him an unconventional weapon. He took from the custody of Angra the Sword where Skyrgal’s soul is trapped. Someone must have helped him to find it and I still wonder who and why. Crowley weighed sacrilege against revenge, then took his decision.”

  “…and you didn’t do anything to stop him.”

  Marduk trembled. He moved in a flash and hit Crowley right between the eyes. Tears of blood trickled down the stone face of his old friend. “I didn’t make it on time. As soon as I was informed of what had happened, I left the Fortress with my Faithful ones. Where the Main Road meets the peripheral ruins of the ancient holy city, the Tankars had ambushed Crowley. I found myself marching among the dismembered corpses of men and women—Guardians that I saw grow up, and switch the wooden sword with that of manegarm. Inside my head rang the voices of the children they had been, as my feet got soiled with their blood and entrails. Lost in that reddish and sandy swamp, amid the silent laughter of the stone faces watching me, I soon realized that Crowley’s Faithful Twelve hadn’t been granted a quick death. The Tankars wanted to leave a clear message to whoever would come on the trail of his Warrior King. I’ll spare you the most obscene details, since the wolf-men have a soft spot for the sexual metaphors, but there’s one of them that’s been haunting my sleep since then. From a distance it looked just like a woman decapitated and half-buried in the sand. Approaching, I saw that six arms had been sewn onto her trunk, and the severed head was embedded in her breast, emptied of the brain of which the beasts had probably fed as in one of their most ancient rites—the slaughter of the soul, homicidal final art. That was nothing more than a faithful representation of Sep-Hul-Turah: the mistress of the road that accompanies the dead on the way to Almagard.”

  “Is she a Tankar divinity?”

  The Dracon shook his head. “Almagard is our afterworld. The red lady who probes the souls of the dead, to let them pass or not into the great tavern of the afterlife, is one of our—I dare say—unofficial divinities. By extension, she’s the protector of travelers, wanderers, and exiled people.” Finally, like getting rid of a burden that weighed on his conscience, Marduk added, “That slaughtered woman was just their signature on the massacre of our Blood Brothers. The Disciples were behind the Tankars’ attack.”

  The Scream of Skyrgal fell on the Fortress, shaking their robes.

  Are you doing it on purpose, Daddy?

  “The biggest desolation was to discover that Crowley was not among the corpses. You know the rest of the story: they used his body and the Sword to bring Skyrgal back on this world, and then…and then…” The Dracon clenched his hands and looked down on him. For a moment, his face seemed suspended between grin and tears, then he shook his head and walked away without another word, as the wind died down again.

  The boy followed him on the tree-lined path that cut the Glade in half. They turned on a trail, walking through the trees until they found themselves in the presence of an imposing structure, which perfectly followed the curvature of the dome. It was articulated in long rows of arches, getting smaller and smaller on the way up. The complex was dug in the rock wall to steal space to the mountain. It looked out over a vast arena, dug deep into the ground and surrounded by a portcullis. As for the rest of the Fortress, different architectures, styles, and materials were fused to each other or against each other. Alternated monoliths of granite and basalt found place on the lowest floors. Above, they gave way to columns of white marble veined with green and red, with capitals getting increasingly elaborated on their way to the rounded top, now carved into leaves, now in the head of a monstrous beast with open jaws.

  Higher and higher, straight to the black sky, stylized sandstone sculptures faced the mortal world and stared in silence. It was time fighting against time, melting, reshaping, and destroying everything it met on its ruthless way, until matter came back to matter.

  And then nothing more.

  “What the Ktisis are you thinking about?” the voice of Marduk, somewhere beyond his thoughts.

  “Sometimes I digress, too,” Dagger answered.

  The Dracon offered an amused snort. “This place often leads to do it. Everything in here seems to be a metaphor for existence, and just like existence it doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”

  “Araya can be a bit more deep-thinking, you know?”

  “Araya gets high!” Marduk silently watched the wondrous structure in front of their eyes. “This is the Nest—your new home. Your magic adventure will continue here, and if I know you like I know you, everything will be a mess. Ktisis, maybe you should really become a Delta.”

  A travertine balustrade overlooked the underground arena, where the Faithful Twelve of the four orders were training the novices. They maintained a strict discipline; some kids had been bound to the columns of the portico and were being whipped by their own comrades.

  As he looked at the blood-soaked sand, and listened to the painful screams, Dagger felt again a strong desire to escape, the instinctive aversion to authority that had characterized his childhood. “Is this really necessary?”

  “This is a world of war, Dag. Where do you think you’ve ended up, in the school of the little magicians?”

  “Who?”

  “Nothing. Queer characters who thought they could change reality by acting on other parts of it, in one of those stories we tell to…” A howl ripped through the air. “…children. Ktisis! In my time, we didn’t scream like that! All novices are trained in the arena, by the Faithful Twelve that each Dracon chooses at his election—trusted and responsible teachers from whom to learn the meaning of sacrifice. This is the first thing a novice must learn: sacrificing himself for the common good. And I guess there’s no easy or painless way to learn it.”

  A wide lava rock stairway led to the first floor of the Nest. Here they found a huge, austere hall that had nothing to do with the splendor of the Fortress: long oak tables organized in rows; wicker chairs blackened by smoke; a large counter on one hand, and, on the other, wide arches overlooking the tree crowns of the Glade. The stone still showed signs of the scratches and the same columns, supporting the arches, had no other form of groove. Behind the large counter, dozens of huge barrels were arranged in two pyramids, flanking both sides of a large brazier with blackened skewers placed above it.

  They reached the first floor; a long, cold, dark corridor with many doors. Judging by their close proximity, Dagger thought he had ended up into a new prison made of narrow cells.

  “This is what you’d call the main floor of the Nest,” Marduk said, as he accompanied him to one of the central doors. “The rooms are wider than the ones on the upper levels and there are fewer stairs to climb. At a rough guess.”

  It must be also the place where, at a rough guess, you can easily keep an eye on me.

  “Join Olem in the Arena,” the Dracon continued, unperturbed. “Your training can’t wait any longer. And…Dag?”

  “What?”

  “Don’t do stupid things. We don’t need it.” His uncle went away as if he had many urgent matters to attend to.

  Dagger watched him disappear into the shadows, then opened the door of his cell. This time he didn’t find a fireplace, fine carpets or balconies with breathtaking views. The room was small, bare, and it stank. At the walls were two worm-eaten wooden benches, supported by rusty chains and covered with straw, probably clean. The arched window was supported by a mullion, surely recycled from some old structure in ruin.

  His eyes fell on the one element of furniture in the whole cell; a sword on its support. A note of yellowed paper was stuck on the handle. It read, This belonged to your father. Make good use of it.

  Dagger wondered what good use could ever be made of a sword, before asking himself what father did the message refer to, and who wrote it. He grabbed the weapon. It was a bastard sword, one hand and a half, st
eady grip, sharp and bright blade, with purple hues at the dim light coming from outside.

  Manegarm. Market value: priceless, he thought, realizing he was still a petty thief who gave a price to everything and everyone. The edge of the sword was so sharp that it looked like it had never seen a battle, but this couldn’t be the case: close to the groove, he saw dozens of cuts, one for each dead delivered to destination.

  The presence of two pallets in the room told him he wouldn’t be alone. That meant he was supposed to recite all the time. There was no way out of that stage, so he might as well start acting like everyone expected him to do. He assured the sword on his back and forced his mind to silence on his way back down the stairs.

  When he set foot in the arena, the sound of a whip made him turn around. He saw a girl tied to a pillar, with her back exposed and her face frozen in a stubborn grin. He realized she had been looking at him for some time.

  A Delta Guardian was on her side. “Stupid bitch. Sooner or later you’ll scream!” The man looked at the novice of the Hammer wielding the whip. “Harder!” When she was whipped again, the girl just closed and opened her eyes. For a moment she seemed to smile at Dagger and he nodded, as if it wasn’t the first time he saw her.

  Olem interposed to break their eye contact, and invited him to come forward with a gesture of his hand. Many novices stopped training to watch them. “He’s the son of Crowley,” someone whispered, before a series of vulgar jokes raved about Aniah.

  The twelve teachers of the Sword brought back the order in a quick and efficient way.

  “And so, here we are,” Olem said when Dagger got face to face with him, as the canine tooth of a novice flew just before his eyes.

  Dagger pulled his sword over his shoulder and handed it to him. “I give up, master.”

  The Dracon snatched it from his hands and turned it over, watching it with a mixture of admiration and contempt. “The sword of your father, as it seems.”

  “Of Crow—”

  “Your father,” Olem repeated. “A manegarm blade. It was forged by Adonna in person, the last Warrior Queen of the Guardians. Do you know that?”

  “My hand was molded around a knife’s handle.”

  “Not just that. All your useless person has been shaped around a knife. Your mind, your feelings…you’re a thief and you’ll never be anything else.”

  “How deep of you, master.”

  Olem made sure that no one had heard. He didn’t love being ridiculed in front of others. Dagger was sure that if Olem had noticed the slightest amused reaction of his novices, he’d find himself on the ground with a smashed jaw.

  “Take that look off your face. We’re being watched. If they see you smiling, they’ll think you’re not afraid of me. Then I’ll have to beat you until I have proved the contrary.” The Dracon too had a part to play—the master who bent his disciple at all costs, and he would do it to the end.

  “A manegarm blade doesn’t easily adapt to its new owner,” Olem said. “They all come from the original Sword of Angra, stuck in the middle of the Glade. A weapon was made of each chip, also of the most internal one, which contained the soul of Skyrgal. The ones shaped by Adonna are legendary. Try to thrust a common blade in the flesh of a man, when it loses the edge…it feels like stabbing him with a wooden stick. But with the ones forged by the last Warrior Queen you kill the hundredth man as if it were the first. You feel it elegantly slipping through guts and bones, you feel the metal sing. I think I know what was her secret: Adonna forged her weapons using the manegarm shards closer to the heart of Angra’s Sword, and therefore to Skyrgal’s soul. They were contaminated by it. They’re alive, and cursed.” Olem made it dance in his hands. “After some years you handle one of them, you can even sense their feelings. You don’t suit her. This bright lady had owners more illustrious than you…damn more illustrious.” The Dracon watched the sword one last time, before throwing it away.

  “What the f—”

  “Despise the sword.” Olem froze Dagger with his eyes, as the white metal capsized in the sand. “Its own shape incites to violence. Earth and dust is where it belongs, because the most horrible things happened in this world have passed through the edge of a blade.”

  The boy hardly resisted the temptation to pick it up from the sand.

  “I will guard it for you, until the day you’ll take it with you in war…and get yourself slaughtered like that dog of your father.”

  “Which one of the two?” Dagger muttered. He didn’t even try to shield himself against the fist that struck him.

  Boundary crossed, he thought. Olem must be particularly sensitive about Crow.

  The Dracon said no more. He nodded to one of his Faithful, who brought Crowley’s sword to a safe place, then blatantly pushed him down a staircase. They came to an underground training room. It was moist, dark, and the stench of mold filled the air. Rays of violet light came through high slits and fell obliquely on the floor covered with soil and blood-soaked straw.

  “We’re almost in the dark,” Dagger said.

  “Gorgors attack at night, I recall.” The teacher grabbed an old sword from the wall and threw it to him. He took one for himself, then lunged at Dagger screaming like a madman.

  The boy lifted the heavy, rusty tool and pushed back the attack, though it seemed that Olem had hit his blade on purpose. Dagger moved to the right with his heart already pounding, and didn’t dare to move another step.

  “Are you waiting for another blow?” Olem yelled. “For Ktisis sake. It was a good opportunity to attack me on the uncovered flank. Even a Guardian of Sabbath would realize it!” He attacked again, several times, letting the rough metal sing in slow and calculated movements.

  Clang! Clang! Clang!

  “AH!” Dag brought a hand to his shoulder. The wound was deep and ran through the entire skin, to the muscle—not really a smear cut to teach him a lesson. “What the fuck are you doing?”

  The Dracon raised his sword to divide their gazes. “You may have noticed I’m not the kind of guy who reflects on the consequences of his actions. Make yet another mistake and you’ll pay it dearly. Now there’s just a cut to remind you; soon there could be a stump. After all, your arm will grow back, won’t it? And I’ll cut it again. I like to see you suffer. It repays the pain of all those who’ve suffered because of you.”

  Looking at the baleful light reflected in Olem’s eyes, Dagger realized that he meant it, and that the blood soaking the straw had belonged to someone who had not learned his lesson. You’re completely insane. He reacted, but Olem dodged his ridiculous strike and elbowed him in the face, pushing him to the ground and saying, “You fight like Varg!”

  The boy put a hand to his face. “Do you know you’re an asshole?”

  “What is it? Did I hurt you? You’re not going to tell me how hard was life in the streets all over again?” The Dracon blew him a little kiss.

  Blinded by rage, Dag let his sword go and rushed at Olem with closed eyes and head bent down.

  The teacher shook his head as he tripped Dagger, making him fly into the straw. “If you continue to attack with your stomach, rather than with your head, you’ll just get yourself killed again.” Olem looked down to him. “You’ve already fought and not like a coward. The instinct of the best Guardians hides in your blood, together with a hopeless hatred. You must bind them together and tame them with the reins of reason. Otherwise you’ll be another junkie who tries to fuck the world with a poisoned dagger, or a barbarian who wields his hammer against his brothers—one of the many that sooner or later will end up with six feet of earth above his face.”

  “But I cannot d—” When Olem glared at him, Dagger began to understand the meaning of never stop playing your part. “Then you really want me to become a Guardian?” He got up. “You care about me?”

  The Dracon took a step forward. “There’s no future already determined, no fate that isn’t fulfilled day by day. Choice is the ink with which we write fate, and a choice always exi
sts.” He took another step. “Often it can be difficult to predict the consequences of our decisions, difficult to see where the broad and flat way leads, and where you’ll go following the winding path that climbs up a mountain, around and around.” The Dracon forced his way directly in Dagger’s face. “You’ll learn it only here with me, in the parenthesis of truth you’ll be granted during this whole fucking staging. Mine is a story no one will ever tell you. They will talk to you about predestination, about how everything is already decided at our birth. Bullshit. People like me, who went through the gates of hell—the gates of hell themselves!—can tell you there’s always a choice. There are infinite compromises between perpetual happiness and sadness, and it’s these to make life real.”

  He wants to help me, Dagger realized. This huge asshole wants to help me, now. I see it in his eyes, yet he is undecided, torn by a doubt that keeps him awake at night. “It’s at the end of the steep path that you enjoy the best view.”

  Olem silently returned his gaze. He seemed about to beat him again, then he let out a deep laugh. He shook his head and lowered his blade. “It’s a start.” He dropped the sword. “First lesson: the guard!”

  * * * * *

  5. Draug drinkers

  Dagger wondered what Olem wanted to teach him by breaking him apart.

  At sunset, he went back to his room. He didn’t return the gaze of the novices who crossed his path. Now, he no longer had the strength to feel uncomfortable with strangers looking at him. Not quite able to follow a straight path, he climbed the stairs with only a hope to find that pallet of straw that, for the moment, was his only possible redemption.

  On the bed, he found a bag of green powder and a basin of water, as well as a new message:

  ‘With time, it will get better. I know Olem, he’s never killed a novice, except for that one time, but that’s another story. Clean up your wounds and then get down with the others. Being in company will do you some good, but always remember who you really are. In the end, everything will be fine. Know yourself!’