Now that Kushtrim stood still beneath the sun, sweat trickled down his back, making his tunic stick to him. He wiped his forehead with the edge of his sleeve.
“Blasted heat.”
His personal guard, Gerwyn, dismounted nearby from his dragon. “I miss the mountains, too.”
In the hazy distance rose the Maddions’ snow-capped mountain home. There, the air would have a bite to it and smell of fir. Kushtrim thought of the large hearth in his home, the tapestries covering the granite walls, the way the hum of thousands of voices—his people’s voices—would weave through the air like ribbons. He forced himself to turn from the sight of home, focusing instead on the large tent before him. It housed five Jeguduns, captured early that morning. And now, a solution to his most pressing problem presented itself in those captives.
Kushtrim unsaddled his dragon. Light, running footsteps approached from amid the tents, and a moment later, an adolescent boy burst around the corner of a storage tent. Panting, he fell to his knees before Kushtrim and said, “Most Worthy, forgive me, I didn’t see you landing until just a moment ago.”
“Make sure she has some water, and give the saddle a once-over.” Then to the dragon he said, “Don’t go far.”
Kushtrim rolled his shoulders, trying to work out the constant ache that had settled in them days before. Then he straightened, raised his chin, and swaggered into the tent. Gerwyn slipped in behind him, letting the tent flap fall with a snap.
The storage tent had hastily been converted to a prison. The five Jeguduns sat on the ground in the center, ropes binding their snouts. More rope held their wings folded tight to their bodies. Chains led from their wrists to stakes in the ground.
The stench inside the tent was that of Jeguduns—a mixture of bird and bear and sun-warmed earth. Animal, primitive. The hot, still air exacerbated the smell. Kushtrim brought the back of his hand to his nose, trying not to gag in front of the beasts. The sooner he was done with the filthy creatures, the better.
Ravlin and Niktos stood guard, their bearing proud despite the sweat streaming down their faces and the heat inside the tent. When they caught sight of Kushtrim, they both fell to their knees and touched their foreheads to the ground. “Most Worthy,” they said.
“Rise,” Kushtrim said.
They did so. Kushtrim stepped forward, his hands clasped behind his back.
“So these Jeguduns were trying to dismantle our dam.”
Ravlin answered. “Yes, Most Worthy.”
“And they were caught alive. Good.”
He approached the only female of the group, smaller and a deep tan color. Although all five huddled together, she clung especially tight to the sable one. She would be their weakness.
“All you Jeguduns have done,” Kushtrim said to them, “is trade one kind of servitude for another. Do the Taakwa even know you risked your lives to restore their river?”
They all averted their gazes.
“I didn’t think so.” Kushtrim made his voice soothing. “It must be frustrating, working to protect people who hate you, fear you. They don’t even know what you do for them. They have no appreciation for you.” He paused. “I will set you free.”
They fixed their attention on him. Five pairs of tufted ears swiveled towards him.
“All you have to do,” Kushtrim said, “is bring me a Taakwa.”
The female blinked. The others did nothing.
Behind his back, Kushtrim grasped his hands tighter together. He didn’t want to give these creatures any details of what the Maddion were going through, but he saw no way around it. He could tell them how the Maddion were needy, harmless, too focused on their own problems to stir up new ones. Then maybe these beasts would do what he wanted.
“My people are dying,” Kushtrim said.
The Jeguduns stirred, rattling their chains. One tried to speak, but all that came out was a muffled trill.
“I see you didn’t know that. I’m sure you probably find it just, us dying and unable to get to the healing waters inside the valley. But Maddion children are dying. Do you find that just, letting innocents die?” Many adults were dying, too, but he kept that to himself.
The female turned away. Good. Kushtrim hoped guilt was starting to eat away at her. He hoped she had little ones waiting for her at home, little ones she could imagine as Kushtrim spoke.
The same illness that plagued many of the Maddion had taken Kushtrim’s only grandchild a few weeks before. Each time he thought of the loss anew, it was like a raw cut reopened. He grimaced.
“Would you want to watch your children grow lethargic, cough up blood, wither away to a wisp before dying?”
The female’s shoulders sagged. Kushtrim almost had her.
“All I need is a little Taakwa blood, a little Jegudun blood. Nobody has to die.” Kushtrim squatted, bringing himself on level with the Jeguduns. If his ancestors knew how he lowered himself to these beasts, they would be ashamed. But he would do anything for his people. “Will you help us? Will you bring us a Taakwa?” He kept his focus on the female. “I promise, the Maddion will not hurt any Jeguduns. We only need access—temporary access, at that—to the valley. Once we have what we need, we’ll leave you alone. It will be as if we were never here.” He held his breath, waiting.
A growl built low in the Jegudun’s throat. She lunged for Kushtrim, the chains clinking. She let out a grunt as they pulled her up short, her bound snout so close that a stream of her hot breath blasted Kushtrim’s face. He stared unblinking at her for a few moments before slowly rising.
Kushtrim imagined his axe in hand, hefting its weight, bringing it down on this Jegudun’s head. His fingers twitched. Generations had passed, and these creatures still held a grudge against the Maddion. He left the tent, Gerwyn falling in step directly behind him.
Although the same age as Kushtrim, few strands of gray tainted Gerwyn’s dark brown hair which hung in thick ropes down his back. He wore it tied at the nape of his neck as many of the other men did, trying to keep cool.
His men repaired the dam farther upriver where the Jeguduns had made a breach. Tents spread from the river’s edge. Dragons rested beneath a smattering of pine trees lining the far bank of the river. They all pulsed as they breathed, shades of red and orange and brown.
Had the river flowed as usual, it would span about two hundred paces across. The water passed through the unseen barrier without trouble. Anything living or otherwise, so long as it didn’t hold Maddion blood, could pass through the barrier and so leave or enter the valley. If Kushtrim tried, he would die.
To be so close, to see the valley spread before him, yet remain locked out—his stride quickened.
Those men who weren’t working on the dam or tending to the dragons sat in the shade of their tents, cleaning and sharpening axes and daggers, making arrows, or mending clothes. Before the illness came, such a scene would be accompanied by the men trying to outdo one another with loud, outrageous stories about nights spent with the unmentionable women or about their hunts, laughter filling the air after each tale. Today their voices rose without mirth, punctuated by the occasional chink of stone against blade. As Kushtrim walked among them, they sat on their knees and bowed low, touching their foreheads to the ground as he passed.
Towards the center of the encampment, Okpairo sat alone in the shade, sharpening the small blades on the weapon Kushtrim had given him on the occasion of his son’s birth.
Okpairo looked up from his task as the two men approached. His fair skin, brown hair hanging in thick ropes, and features were almost exact copies of Kushtrim, but his light blue eyes had come from his mother. Four years had passed since her death, and still a pang of loss tore through Kushtrim with any thought of her.
Okpairo stood and bowed. “Most Worthy.”
Kushtrim indicated the weapon Okpairo held. “Have you had a chance to practice with the dragon’s claw?”
Okpairo slipped it over his hand. A band curved around his palm. Two sharp points protrud
ed straight out, hidden between his fingers when he made a fist. A third point extended from the end, its base just below his smallest finger.
“It’s a fine weapon, Father, made for a stealthy approach upon an unsuspecting enemy. It would have been an honor to pass it to my son.”
“We will have a cure, and you will have another son.”
An unreadable expression passed over Okpairo’s face. Ever since Agoryn’s death, Okpairo had been silent and his thoughts a mystery to Kushtrim, a far cry from the companionship they used to share.
“Forgive me,” Kushtrim said, “for speaking of the future when you are still mourning Agoryn.”
“You have all Maddions’ future in mind, Father.”
“Walk with me.”
Okpairo slipped into the tent and returned empty-handed a moment later. The two men strolled side-by-side through the camp, Gerwyn following at a respectable distance. Leaving the camp behind, they walked towards the cliff. They strode through ankle-high grass, crushing starflowers and releasing their garlicky odor.
To their right the river flowed, a shadow of its former majesty.
“The river has been dammed for days upon days, yet no Taakwa come to find the problem,” Kushtrim said.
“Perhaps they sent the Jeguduns. They have had generations to bend them to the Taakwa’s will.”
Kushtrim shook his head. “Their terror and confusion towards the Jeguduns was considerable following the great war, and I’m sure they still fear the creatures. They did not send them.”
“It was better when the Jeguduns belonged to us. Those were the glory days, when our ancestors commanded them.”
“Those days are long gone. We create our own glory now.”
“But this could be our chance to return mastery of the Jeguduns to the Maddion. We could live the civilized, elite lives our ancestors did, spend more time on improving ourselves and less doing menial tasks.”
“I will not be remembered as the Most Worthy who led his weakened people in a war against Jeguduns.”
Okpairo grimaced. “Then you will be written as the one who passed the opportunity when it presented itself. Nobody will read your scrolls.”
“I would rather pass on knowledge than destruction. Knowledge would have gone much farther towards helping save your son.”
“If we had taken the valley before this, that would have saved my son. Knowledge does not take down that barrier.”
“Not knowledge alone, no. Maybe someday you will understand if you become Most Worthy. The responsibility is heavy, and grows heavier every day.”
They both fell silent. Okpairo’s brow wrinkled in anger. Kushtrim knew he sought to blame someone, or something, for his son’s death, and he suspected Okpairo directed his blame towards him. Okpairo would be able to put that angry energy to use once they brought down the barrier, but such anger had, in the past, driven men to overthrow whomever was Most Worthy. His own son couldn’t be capable of such a thing. Could he?
Okpairo stopped before Kushtrim and knelt, bowing his head. “Forgive me, Most Worthy, for speaking so harshly against you. My grief,” his voice cracked, “clouds my words at times. It will not happen again.”
Kushtrim laid a hand on Okpairo’s head, glad his son had not been privy to his thoughts moments before. Grief clouded the minds of many of his men. It seemed they had all lost someone they loved. “I do not blame you for words spoken through grief. Rise.”
They continued on, drawing near the cliffs. Forty or so strides away, a stand of pines lined them, and the river leapt over the edge, its normally thunderous roar now muted.
The unseen barrier began pushing them. A mild annoyance at first, it grew stronger until it felt as though Kushtrim tried to shove his way through a granite wall. If only he could take a fist or an axe to the barrier. He stepped closer and closer. If he could not find a way through the barrier, if this illness threatened to take him, he could always walk into the barrier one day, ensuring his immediate death.
“Father.” Anxiety tinged Okpairo’s voice.
Kushtrim stepped away from the barrier, rejoining Okpairo who waited out of its reach. Gerwyn stood a few paces away, one hand on the battle axe that hung at his side.
“Fear not,” Kushtrim said to him. “I won’t be throwing myself into the barrier.”
Gerwyn straightened. His hand fell to his side. “My apologies, Most Worthy. Being so close to the place where thousands of our ancestors died makes me uneasy.”
“The magic can’t leap out to take us.”
“There are plenty of other dangers that might, Most Worthy.”
“You speak wisely as always.” Kushtrim turned from the cliffs and began walking back to camp, Okpairo beside him and Gerwyn a few paces behind. Gerwyn sometimes reminded him of an old dragon mother fussing over her hatchlings.
Okpairo said, “Father, may I speak privately with you?”
“We seem to have privacy here.”
“I mean for only your ears to hear this.”
Kushtrim hesitated, then said, “Gerwyn, give us room, please.”
Gerwyn moved away, his hand back on the axe’s handle, his attention unwavering, until he stood well away from them.
In a low voice, Okpairo said, “The men grow restless. They question whether we’ll find a cure within the valley.”
“I’ve spent endless nights poring over our history. The scrolls clearly talk about the hot springs within the valley and their healing powers.”
“Some say that is an old myth.”
“Yes, I’ve heard the warrior apprentices at night as they sit around their fires. They speak of the great war and how they would have done things differently. They believe the scrolls are more fantasy than truth. But if they would read them as they’re supposed to, they would find otherwise.” Kushtrim’s voice steadily rose until he practically shouted the last sentence. The ache in his shoulders grew, promising to soon move to his scalp and form a headache. He forced calm into his tone and said, “It is my job to know the thoughts of my men. These in particular are foolish and must be squashed before they have time to put down roots and grow. Now more than ever we must be united, for the good of our people.”
“That is what has me concerned. Some men say it is time for a new Most Worthy.”
“There are always men planning on ways to kill whomever is Most Worthy and take the position for themselves.” He allowed himself a wry grin. “I never forget how it was I came to be Most Worthy.”
“But there is one in particular you should take notice of.” Okpairo glanced at Gerwyn.
Kushtrim followed his gaze. “You’re suggesting Gerwyn seeks the position for himself?”
“He hasn’t spoken openly with me for many days now. I’ve caught him speaking with small groups of men, out of earshot of anybody else. They always fall silent when I show up. What else do you make of it?”
Cold dread washed over Kushtrim. “Gerwyn has been my personal guard for years, ever since I became Most Worthy. He’s never shown any desire to take the position for himself. Why now?”
“The most recent messenger brought news that his wife is showing signs of the illness. Add that to two of his children having died from it already, and it’s enough frustration and grief to drive a man to do things he wouldn’t normally attempt.”
“I don’t believe it. There are many who would attempt to take leadership from me, but Gerwyn? And now, when we’re in the midst of this trouble? Trying to take over as Most Worthy would set us back. He wouldn’t do that to our people, especially if his wife is ill.”
“You’re distracted. What better time than now to take control as Most Worthy?”
“This is disturbing.” Kushtrim studied Gerwyn. The man had fought by his side a few years ago when that upstart Arknyn had tried to kill Kushtrim. Gerwyn had taken Arknyn’s dagger in his back, keeping it from its intended target of Kushtrim’s belly, and then fought on. “Gerwyn is the last man I would suspect of treachery.”
�
��That would certainly give him an advantage, wouldn’t it?”
The tone of Okpairo’s voice, the glint in his eyes, hinted at his earlier anger. It smoldered beneath the surface like the gases in dragon bellies, waiting to erupt in fire. Who else would have as much advantage as Gerwyn at plotting against Kushtrim? He needed time to look into the matter, and proof. For now, he would treat Okpairo as if he suspected nothing, and he hoped his suspicions of his son proved futile.
He kneaded his forehead. “I have to focus on the problem of bringing down the barrier. Bring me evidence of Gerwyn’s treachery—if he’s treacherous—and I will deal with him then.”
“Of course, Father.”
“Now, what do I do with the Jeguduns? They refuse to cooperate.” Kushtrim quickened his pace.
The sun would set in a few hours, bringing relief from the heat. The faint smell of sprinko, his favorite meal, reached Kushtrim. The camp’s cooks had woken early to rub spices into the goat flesh, then seared the meat before letting it roast slowly all day. Kushtrim’s stomach grumbled in response, and he realized he hadn’t eaten yet that day. His appetite had declined lately as his anxiety had grown.
Something tickled at his memories, something about one of the scrolls he’d read. When Jeguduns had belonged to the Maddion and had been irrevocably disobedient, they’d been fed to the dragons before their peers, as a message to any others who might have harbored similar desires. According to the scrolls, it had been quite an effective method of punishment. Perhaps he could use an old method to solve a present-day problem. Otherwise, the Jeguduns would be content to remain his prisoners and he would be no closer to having the Taakwa blood he needed.
Kushtrim strode to the prisoners’ tent, Okpairo and Gerwyn hastening to keep up. Inside, the Jeguduns sat clustered. The air had grown more oppressive and hot. Kushtrim had trouble drawing his lungs full.
“I gave you a chance,” Kushtrim said to the Jeguduns. “I offered a solution to everyone’s problems without any of us having to resort to bloodshed. But you turned me down.” He turned to Ravlin and Niktos. “Bring me that one.” He pointed to one with black feathers and a white belly. Kushtrim stepped outside the tent.
Shards of History Page 3
