Shards of History

by Rebecca Roland

  Enuwal trotted up. “The men are ready. Or ready as they’ll ever be. Most of them are willing but scared, and we keep losing men.”

  The Jeguduns had landed a good distance away and waited in the long shadows cast by pine trees. They stood mostly still and silent, with only the occasional rustle of readjusting wings. They had chosen an area of thicker canopy where the Maddion would find it difficult to make out details of what they were doing or attack from the air.

  “Let’s bring the Taakwa to them,” Malia said.

  The clan father nodded. “I’ll lead them myself. And I’ll be the first to connect with one of the Jeguduns. I think that will relieve some of the men’s fears.” He paused. “What exactly will I need to do?”

  “It’s simple, really.” There was still a thickness in Malia’s mind from the power Vacir had drawn from her. “You just introduce yourself and take one’s hands. The Jegudun will do the rest. It feels strange, but it doesn’t hurt. But you’ll come out of it with a heavy feeling in your head and without your most recent memories.”

  A moment of doubt flashed across his face, but Roktin hid it well.

  Behind the men, a dragon crashed into the trees, flames and smoke trailing. It let out a dying roar, and the sound was ancient and melancholic, pulling at a deep and primitive part of Malia before it fell silent. Her spirits lifted a little knowing that the huge beasts could be brought down.

  Roktin glanced up. “Let’s go, then, and drive these horrible creatures out of our valley.”

  Malia led them in a trot towards the Jeguduns, limping as the pain flared in her knee and thigh.

  The men who had been holding Rasmus ran to join them. Rasmus came with them, leaving plenty of space between himself and the rest of the Taakwa. Malia’s steps lightened. He would help, and when this was all over, she hoped he would head straight for the safety of his home.

  Some of the trees had caught fire. None near the waiting Jeguduns, but the wind carried the acrid smoke to Malia. For a moment she was back in the fire with Rasmus, both of them trembling in a trench as the flames roared over them. She stumbled, and Enuwal caught her elbow.

  “Are you ill?” he asked, his brow furrowed.

  “I just—” She swallowed the knot in her throat and shook her head. “I’m fine.” But the dragons could burn down the entire valley if they chose.

  They reached the Jeguduns. The creatures stood spaced out among the trees. Males and females were represented equally, and every shade possible. Vacir stood just ahead of them. He bowed as Malia reached him.

  She said, “We have those willing to share power with you and those who will guard you.”

  Men began spreading out around the Jeguduns as she spoke. They all wore wary expressions, but because their attention divided equally between the Jeguduns and the Maddion, Malia didn’t know which they feared more.

  She turned to face the Taakwa. Roktin stood before them.

  “Are you ready?” she asked him.

  “Yes.”

  She led him to Vacir. The creature had to crane his head to look up at the clan father, his snout coming only to Roktin’s waist. “This is Roktin, Posalo’s clan father.”

  The Jegudun bowed low.

  “And this is Vacir. He’s a member of what we would call the men’s council among the Jeguduns.”

  Roktin spoke with hardly a quiver of fear in his voice. “May our clan mother’s blessings fall upon you.”

  Malia joined the clan father’s large, callused hand with Vacir’s small, leathery hand and covered them with both of hers. A jolt passed through her. Roktin must have felt it too, because his eyes widened.

  She nodded. “It’s working.”

  The clan father turned to the other men. “We have no time to waste,” he called out. “Find a Jegudun to work with.”

  They hurried forward, each man pairing off with a Jegudun. And around them the other Taakwa stood ready with their weapons. Their wary gazes turned towards the sky now. Yes, that’s where your enemies are, Malia thought.

  Enuwal turned away. Malia grabbed his arm. “Where are you going?”

  “To find a Jegudun and help.”

  She shook her head. “Your skills as a healer are too valuable. You need to be able to attend the injured. And you need to observe all of this so these men know the truth of what happened here today through your memories. These men won’t have their own memories to draw upon when this is done. You need to stand witness for them.”

  His head dropped. “To stand by and not help … I feel like a coward.”

  “You have another job to do, one that no other man could do as well as you.” She ached for him. She wanted to help, too, but somebody had to make sure this all went smoothly and ensure misunderstandings wouldn’t arise as they did after the great war. “What you could do in the meantime is look among the men for my brother. Do you remember Vedran?”

  “Of course. But he’s a boy.” Enuwal shook his head. “No, that was last year.”

  “He’s braided his hair. He might be here.” Malia selfishly hoped he was home in Selu. More shadows passed over her, trailing the stench of smoke, blood, and death. Then again, Selu was probably no safer right now than this place. Oh, Vedran.

  “Of course I’ll look for him. And if I find him, I’ll make sure he remains safe.” He laid a hand lightly on her cheek.

  Her skin warmed at his touch. She let herself sink into it for a moment.

  “Be careful,” he said.

  “And you.” More words swelled, wanting to spill out, but she had no time, and this wasn’t the place. Later, if they both survived, she could say all that was in her heart.

  Enuwal hesitated a moment, then turned abruptly and made his way through the men. Malia watched him until he disappeared among Jeguduns, Taakwa, and forest.

  The air all around her hummed with power and smelled of a lightning strike. The Taakwa holding onto Jeguduns wore empty, slack faces. A surge of hope rose in Malia at the sight of her people and the Jeguduns working together.

  More screams came from overhead, and more shadows passed over her. The air grew hazier with smoke. Somewhere in the distance, a man called out for someone named Leeyah, his voice filled with pain and sorrow. Malia ached with him.

  Beyond the fighting, the shards of the barrier had slowed their descent. No, they were actually rising, like snow falling up. The magic was working. If the Jeguduns and Taakwa could reassemble the barrier, this would soon be over. Malia allowed herself to think that victory could be theirs.

  The air around Vacir and Roktin hummed. The hairs along her arms stood on end. Malia backed away, not sure what was happening. Was Vacir pulling too much power from the clan father? Should she stop them or let it go on? Roktin’s face remained impassive, but would she really be able to tell if he was in pain or distress?

  She started forward. She’d put a hand on Vacir, just to check what was going on. But as she reached for him, the air buzzed stronger. Sparks danced along Roktin’s arm to Vacir’s. Malia pulled back again.

  The pine tree beside her trembled. Near the top a large branch bent and creaked, then broke from the trunk with a crack. Malia cried out, sure it was about to fall on Vacir and Roktin. Instead, it flew straight up in the air, hurtling towards the Maddion.

  * * *

  Kushtrim’s dragon began its descent. Okpairo was closing in on them. Given the speed with which he swooped down, he’d catch them before Kushtrim had a chance to land. Okpairo brought his crossbow up, steadying it on his other arm. He’s not my son. My son is gone. When had it happened? When had Okpairo turned on him? With a sinking heart, Kushtrim realized it happened when Okpairo’s son died. Somehow he blamed Kushtrim for the infant’s death. A rift had grown between them. Kushtrim had assumed it was grief and that time would heal it.

  A sharp crack sounded from the woods below. Then a tree branch flew straight up, like an arrow fletched with leaves, and pierced the belly of Okpairo’s dragon. Kushtrim winced at the ferocity with w
hich the branch buried itself into flesh.

  The dragon’s wing beats stuttered. She struggled on, but blood poured from the wound, rolling down the branch and dripping off. Her eyes glazed, and she went into a spiral.

  Okpairo worked fiercely at the straps holding his legs to the saddle and tried to hold onto the crossbow as he freed himself.

  Just drop it, Kushtrim thought. He squeezed the dragon’s side with his left knee, turning her away from his son.

  The dragon, with Okpairo still in the saddle, crashed into the woods. Kushtrim braced for the heavy thud when they hit the ground, but it never came. They must have gotten hung up in the trees.

  The men following Okpairo drew up, hesitating for a moment. Kushtrim grasped the pommel with sweaty hands and held his breath. If they turned on him, he was dead. There was no way he could fight off a dozen men better armed and with uninjured dragons.

  Then their lead man guided his dragon down, after Okpairo, and the others followed.

  Kushtrim let out his breath. He picked a level, open area free of Jeguduns and Taakwa and aimed his dragon for it.

  The dragon was approaching the ground too fast. No amount of leg signals or curses from Kushtrim could make her pull up. He braced himself for a rough landing as the ground rushed to meet them.

  She took a few running steps to slow herself. The first step jarred Kushtrim, making his teeth clatter together. When she came to a stop, she swayed. Her legs trembled, and she collapsed.

  Kushtrim’s heart raced and his body ached. He clambered down from the saddle. His knees buckled when his feet hit the ground, and he grabbed the saddle to hold himself up. His muscles quivered as if he’d just sprinted up a mountain trail all day without rest.

  The smell of burning and blood filled the air, as did the screams of dying Jeguduns. Kushtrim would normally revel in those signs of battle, but the deaths of Gerwyn and Okpairo—and his son’s betrayal—coated it all with bitterness. And the barrier he’d worked so hard to tear down had begun to close together. He could not rest now. He would see that the barrier remained broken even if it meant his own death. Better that some other man fight his way to the top as long as the Maddion survived. Determination infused his muscles with new energy.

  Gerwyn always carried a water pouch on his saddle. Kushtrim loosened it, popped off the top, and took a long drink of the cold river water. “So good,” he gasped. He drained half of it, then looped it to the leather belt beneath his white sash. He made sure his dagger still hung from the belt as well, then pulled Gerwyn’s crossbow off the saddle and fitted a full quiver over his shoulders.

  A quick assessment of the area showed that all the Taakwa had disappeared back into the woods. Most of the Jeguduns had taken to the sky, fighting Kushtrim’s men. Several of the creatures’ bodies littered the ground nearby. Plumes of smoke rose from the woods where Kushtrim’s original dragon mount had fallen. Most important, nobody stood between him and the woods hiding the Taakwa.

  Kushtrim raced through hip-high grass towards the woods. Cicadas sprang up all around him, buzzing angrily at his disturbance. Dragons and men roared overhead, but the woods loomed, oddly quiet.

  As he reached the cool shade of the forest, he paused to nock an arrow in the crossbow. Some of the smoke from fallen dragons crept through the woods like fog and teased his nostrils with its acrid odor. He made his way forward cautiously.

  Nobody moved nearby, although Taakwa darted through distant trees and smoke like ghosts. They all moved away from him. Run, cowards.

  Kushtrim’s men—save for those who’d been loyal to Okpairo—would carry on their mission no matter that he was gone. He didn’t have to worry about them. What he needed to do was find out if Okpairo had survived that crash. And if he had, Kushtrim had to kill him. Bile rose at the thought. He’d have no children, no grandchildren. He’d have to begin a family all over again. He was too old for that.

  But maybe this was his opportunity for a new start. The healing waters would give him a second chance at life. Being Most Worthy and the man who had saved the Maddion meant he’d have his choice of women. He could do things differently this time around.

  He estimated the place where Okpairo had fallen and trotted in that direction. If he killed his son, then Okpairo’s men would probably fall back into line and Kushtrim could take care of them later. For now, he needed every single warrior.

  Voices rose from somewhere to his right. Kushtrim crept towards them. He made out the lilting language of the Taakwa. Two men spoke, arguing by the sound of it. Then came a woman’s voice. Something she said silenced them all. Just like the Taakwa to bring a woman into battle with them. Their reverence for their women was their biggest weakness. If Kushtrim could find this one and kill her, it would go a long way to bringing down their confidence. They might even give up the fight altogether without a woman telling them what to do. But he’d have to come back to her later. He gave them a wide berth and continued towards Okpairo. He had to get there before his son’s men did.

  He found the dragon twisted in a copse of pine trees that grew close together, hanging at about the height of two men. The branch protruding from its belly had helped catch it in the trees.

  Okpairo lay sprawled on the ground beneath the dragon, his crossbow near his hand, his face down, covered by the coils of his hair. His back rose and fell slowly, shallowly. It would have been easier if he’d been dead already.

  Kushtrim couldn’t shoot his son in the back. He would watch him die just as Okpairo had watched his son die. He could do that much. “I’m sorry, son,” he whispered. He squatted beside Okpairo and rolled him over.

  Okpairo’s eyes were wide open and filled with hate.

  Kushtrim leapt back, whipping the crossbow around to take aim. Okpairo swung his bow up at the same time. The bow twanged as he fired.

  Chapter 25

  Kushtrim fell to the ground and lay prone. The arrow whistled past his ear, leaving a hot, burning line of pain behind. He touched his ear, pulled his hand away. Blood covered his fingers, but not much. The arrow had only grazed him.

  He grasped his crossbow and rolled right, away from Okpairo. He came up on his knees, then stood and aimed at his son.

  Okpairo rushed him, hands curled in fists. He lowered his body, apparently intent on hitting Kushtrim with his shoulders.

  It would be so easy to shoot Okpairo at this range. Earlier he’d seen this as a new beginning. Now he saw it as the end of him. He had no heart to start a new family after killing his son. He’d always imagined giving up position as Most Worthy to Okpairo when the time was right, wandering into the mountain forest to live out his time alone and die naturally. This was never what he’d imagined.

  Then Okpairo grabbed the end of the crossbow and twisted it out of Kushtrim’s grasp. He tossed it aside and leapt forward. He raised his hands. The dragon’s claw Kushtrim had given him glittered in the palm of his right hand, two short, sharp blades protruding from his palm and one from beneath his pinky finger.

  Kushtrim sidestepped. He grabbed Okpairo’s right arm and yanked, using his speed to send him sprawling on the ground. Okpairo rolled smoothly to his feet and into a crouch.

  Kushtrim pulled his dagger free. “I don’t want to kill you.”

  Okpairo let out a bark of laughter. “Then you’ll die, because I most definitely want to kill you.”

  Kushtrim shifted his weight to the balls of his feet, then back and forth, from one foot to the other. “All you had to do was ask. I would have stepped down. I would have allowed you to take my place as Most Worthy after all this was over.”

  Okpairo narrowed his eyes and shook his head. “You think that’s what I want? You think that’s why I do this? I hate you.” Each word dripped with venom. “My son is dead because of you. You thought the illness would pass, you told us to be patient and wait it out. You did nothing until your own grandson died. And by then it was too late.”

  “If I had known—”

  Okpairo charged. Kus
htrim raced forward to meet him this time. Okpairo’s eyes widened, and his steps faltered enough to allow Kushtrim to slip in close. Kushtrim wrapped his left arm around Okpairo’s shoulders, drawing him into a sort of hug as his right hand slid the dagger into his son’s belly with ease. He had honed the blade himself only the day before. Warm blood spilled over his hand.

  Okpairo slapped at Kushtrim’s back with the dragon’s claw. But already his life was slipping away, and he put little force behind it. The arrow grazing Kushtrim’s ear had hurt worse.

  Okpairo’s body grew heavy in Kushtrim’s arms. Kushtrim couldn’t help but think of the day his son was born and how he’d cradled the tiny, squirming bundle the entire time people had stopped by to welcome the new life. His heart had never been as full as it had been that day. Somewhere, somebody let out a long, low moan as if in agony. He realized the sound came from him.

  His arms trembled as he lowered his son to the ground. Okpairo’s mouth opened and closed a few times, but he said nothing. The brightness of his eyes faded. They glazed over, and he went still. Something in Kushtrim faded along with Okpairo’s life, leaving a rift behind.

  Words rose but caught in his throat. He slipped the dragon’s claw off Okpairo’s hand and dropped it into his tunic’s pocket. Then he folded Okpairo’s hands over his abdomen, lacing his son’s fingers together. He’d come back later, if he survived, and see that Okpairo was brought back to the mountains and given a proper funeral.

  He pulled his dagger free, wiped the blade on grass. With each pass, he pressed heavier, wanting to wipe every last trace of blood from the blade.

  The rage he’d been holding in pressed against him, then broke through the dam. Kushtrim rocked back on his heels, raised his head to the sky where the barrier’s shards winked in the morning sun, and roared. He came forward onto his hands and knees as the cry faded and plunged the dagger into the soft ground over and over. Clods of dirt flew into the air. Sweat dripped from his brow. Kushtrim tore at the earth until his breathing became ragged and painful. A coughing fit overtook him. Then he sat back on his heels again.