The Creed

by Perla Giannotti

  “Yes,” one of the two finally answered. “All. There are more than a hundred of us here. A messenger arrived yesterday. We tried to help her escape in time, but she was captured. She revealed nothing and was killed after…” he broke off without being able to finish. “The letter was passed around in secret between those of Atiarav.”

  “What are you waiting for?” Selot said in agitation. “Run!” He looked into their souls, but could find no trace of the woman he was searching for.

  “We will fight with you!” the one of higher rank, unaware he was being scanned by a Vetem.

  “No, damn it,” Selot shouted. “Go to the Marquis, immediately! Don’t waste another moment.” He was turning to fight off still more praetorians. They were everywhere. It seemed to him that the world was made up of only the black of the night and the redness of blood. He felt there was an infinite energy within him. He had the impression that his heart could pump blood inexhaustibly. He saw the blows of the enemy well before they’d even made them and he was never where they thought he should be. He was always next to them, almost touching them, bringing them death with his sword. He turned to the men of Atiarav and again yelled at them to go. “What shall we tell them of you? Who are you?”

  “He will know, go now!” The two then decided to go and left the tent in a run. Inside the tent, Selot faced the enemy. There were too many of them. It was if they were coming out of the earth itself, continually generated. He had to move faster. Marrhit was facing Yellow Eye and had to assist him. There was no sign of the woman he was supposed to find inside. Selot did not dare call her by name so he wouldn’t betray his intentions. He dealt with another two praetorians, who had materialized from who knows where. Before killing them, he looked directly into their eyes. He saw no trace of the Rotmandi woman being held prisoner. There was no information whatsoever in their minds. He killed them without delay. He decided to go and bring reinforcement to his brother. He saw no solution, other than to try and flee, regroup and then, if the heavens wanted it, they would attempt this rescue another time. He headed directly for the opening of the big tent. Cutting his way through the other soldiers, he reached it and got out. Marrhit had engaged in a furious duel with the Xàmvetem. Their barrage raised sparks on the blades of their swords and the praetorians sat by, enraptured by that superhuman duel. It appeared to Selot that Marrhit was using enormous strength, whereas Yellow Eye was only evaluating his opponent. His face expressed what was supposed to be a smile. As he received a series of formidable blows from Marrhit, he saw him nod to a praetorian who wanted to intervene. He told him to stay where he was. He wanted this encounter all to himself. It thrilled him to have one of his own species in front of him. Selot sensed his gloomy satisfaction. His superiority was evident. Sabre was right. That Xàmvetem had strength and unimaginable powers, well-trained, polished and amplified over the course of his very long life. Selot got as close as he could to the duelists, as the praetorians pushed in on him, impeding him from giving aid to Marrhit. While he was getting rid of two adversaries driving his knives into their hearts, he distinctly felt a kind of sizzling in his head. He knew the reason straight away. Marrhit’s faculties were being pushed to the limit during this extremely difficult battle, and he was about to freeze up, falling victim to his illness. He was ten steps away from him. Too far.

  “NOOOOO!” he screamed with all his might. “Marrhit!!” He called him two, three, five, seven times, in an attempt to stop him from slipping into the void; if he was still vigil, he could perhaps knowingly contrast that terrible oblivion. Marrhit however, had already let his hands hang beside his body, and stared absently ahead.

  Yellow Eye was not surprised at all. He knew about Marrhit. He knew of his illness. He knew everything. That was how Selot understood it was true: there was a corrupt member in the Council who had informed the Congregation of everything. Selot was as certain of it as if he could touch the truth with his hands. Yellow Eye snickered dismally, as his tongue ran over his lips ready to savor the moment. Selot witnessed the obscurity of the Xàmvetem; the quarter moon and a pair of lit fires at the tent entrance cast light on him. He was deciding on how to dispose of Marrhit. Selot renounced fending off the continual attacks of the praetorians and grabbed his bow.

  His bow. The symbol he wore round his neck. Estela. Janavel. Prasheema. Marrhit. Sabre. Var. Atiarav. It was all concentrated in his mind in a split second. He took aim and fired the arrow at the feline eye of the Xàmvetem, who was about to execute his brother. While the arrow was still in flight, he took out his twin swords and blocked the blows from the praetorians who had been striking him in the meantime, but he couldn’t avoid them all. A very powerful strike of a saber was only partly blocked by his sword, and came down on his left arm, wounding him deeply. With his right arm he miraculously blocked a blow to the face; he hadn’t had enough time to put strength into his defenses though, and his wrist bent back to injure his temple with his own blade. The praetorians realized with amazement they had actually managed to wound that devil and called others to take advantage of the situation. As if in a dream, Selot heard someone say: “The nets! Throw the nets!” From up high, who knows from what direction, a giant net made of iron rings came down and imprisoned him. As he attempted to rip free with his swords, there were eight, ten, many more, knocking him to the ground. They could have pierced him so easily. His demon came to. He lost all rationality within himself. He lifted his head to intercept the stare of the first adversary in that pile of bodies and screamed wildly.

  The arrow did not reach its target. A praetorian had put himself in front of its trajectory and was run through in order to save his General. But in doing so, he’d also placed himself in front of the General and Marrhit. It allowed Marrhit a few instants to disappear from Yellow Eye’s view. In those same moments, Selot’s scream had reechoed in the head of his brother and awakened him. The two brothers screamed in unison, unifying their energy. The Praetorians were wrapped up in a gloomy, heavy commotion, so dark they were left paralyzed. Selot got up and distanced himself from the men leaning over him, who were conditioned by Marrhit’s voice. Without their weight, he lashed out of the metallic net.

  Yellow Eye threw his head back and laughed horribly, a type of strangled gargling that couldn’t create sound due to his lack of vocal chords. He seemed to be amused by what was happening. Marrhit was still weak, Selot knew it. He went to his side. Yellow Eye had liberated himself from the body of the man who had saved him from the arrow. He squared them up with a terrible smile.

  The sons of Sabre. Both in front of me. What a marvelous occasion.

  They heard his thoughts like a blade penetrating their heads.

  Now that I have captured you I will be sure to let your father know. He will come back for you and I can finally kill him. And then it will be your turn. But before I do that, I will have fun with you.

  Marrhit groaned. That had been the plan from the very start. Capture them to get at Sabre, and let him fall into Yellow Eye’s trap.

  “We have been so stupid,” Selot mumbled darkly. “I didn’t find the woman. I didn’t find a single person here who knew something.” The two brothers looked around them. They were surrounded by scores of praetorian survivors who now held their bows aimed directly at them; one of the most fearsome beings ever to have existed now stood in front of them. They’d fallen into his trap like baby deer in one of the most predictable nets of the hunter.

  “We should have listened to our father. He warned you,” Selot whispered again.

  “Yes. We should have.”

  Under the threat of arms, the soldiers chained them, blindfolded and gagged them. They led them to the center of the encampment where they were bound to two poles in the open, kneeling down and guarded by fifty guards on each shift.

  In the general chaos, the frenzied dash of the two officials who belonged to the special Atiarav corps had not been noticed. They spread the word, calling for all of their men. They set up a meeting point in the
night, to the far south of the encampment. It didn’t take long. They counted and called the men forth by name. The highest ranking, the one who was on duty in the General’s tent and who had spoken to Selot, recounted events succinctly. In very few words, those men went back to being men of Atiarav. They tore the Dar symbols from their uniforms and shouted their cry of Atiarav to the heavens: ‘Advance at any cost!’ With the horses they’d procured from the stables, they galloped towards Atiarav, their hearts in their mouths. As soon as the clamor of the battle ceased, everyone would come to know of their mass desertion. The General would hunt them down persistently. They knew his heinous methods far too well. There would be no escape for them. They would have to cover the greatest distance in the shortest amount of time, leaving no traces behind. Truth be told, none of the one hundred men would bet on making it at that moment, but no one would turn back. They had all decided to answer the call of the Marquis of Atiarav.

  XIV

  It was evening in Solzhaz. Flash still had the vision of Ucal’s arrest playing over in his mind. The child’s soul was having difficulty managing that vision. He clung to the words of his friend, and to the trust he had given him for that task. He clung to the affection he had for him too.

  Ucal had told him he should only return empty-handed after seven days without finding anything, so he’d assumed nothing would happen for at least a couple of days. He began his first patrol, more to go over the terrain than anything else; to scrutinize the grates of that ambient that led down into the prisons of the fort, where his warrior friend was now being detained. He walked seemingly carefree, as his childhood dreams took him to imagine being great hero, a warrior as strong as Ucal. He dreamed of saving Var and his people, and of being admired by the kids of the Marquisate of Atiarav. Then he saw the leather pouch. It was in a corner, half-hidden away, impossible to see if one wasn’t purposefully looking for it. He smiled. His friend, his hero had already finished his mission. He clutched the small wrapping, and let his legs fly in the direction of the horse. He had to stay out of trouble and head straight for Atiarav. He would not disappoint Ucal.

  XV

  The wound to Selot's arm bled profusely. The way their arms were twisted and bound together didn't help. He felt cold, and his strength was ebbing away. With his mouth gagged, he began emitting the vibrations of music suited to healing open wounds, but a short while later, one of the praetorians stood over him and drove his knee into Selot's face to make him stop. He took it without complaining. He looked within himself for the calm he needed, and through meditation, reduced the blood flow until it had almost ceased. He felt Marrhit immobile beside him, locked in his own thoughts. The night drew on. Being blindfolded, the two brothers could not see the circle of stars turning above them. They heard footsteps and the orders that signaled the changing of the guard. They counted two changes. They were far too alert to give in to sleep. Neither of them dared picture the future; not even the upcoming hours that awaited them. They had played their cards badly. They'd wasted every advantage like fools. They knew Yellow Eye would not kill them. Not immediately anyway. Well, not both of them. They were needed alive to draw Sabre into the trap. All of it unfortunately, had been easy to imagine. Marrhit was gathering his strength and his concentration to endure the torture that was sure to come. He wanted to invite Selot to do the same. Yellow Eye would have something special in store for them. He had seen him gloomily savor the occasion. He had days, weeks, maybe even months at his disposal. They would need all of their courage and determination to survive. Selot felt guilty for having dragged Marrhit into that situation, to look for his mother. This more than anything else was what tormented him. He had placed his brother and his father in the hands of the most feared rebel Xàmvetem. He'd been reckless and shallow. He hadn't weighed up the danger, at least that this might be one of the possible scenarios. However short his life might be after this night, he would never be able to forgive himself.

  Suddenly, they heard a short salute and the sound of soldiers who were standing to attention. The marked rhythm of steady footsteps approached, and certainly those of just one man. The man stopped in front of them. He planted a kick in Marrhit's stomach. Then he lowered his gag.

  “Who are you?” Marrhit recognized the voice. It was that of the captain of the praetorian guards. Yellow Eye must have sent him to lay the ground and prepare for his eventual fun.

  “I don't remember,” he answered with his foreign accent. Another kick was delivered. He took the brunt of it.

  “I could ask your brother. That is your younger brother, am I right?” Their resemblance was obvious thought Marrhit in disappointment.

  “I don't remember if he is my brother. But, yes. I think it's best you ask him.” The Captain did not expect him to hand over his comrade in arms so freely and so quickly. He raised an eyebrow. He found him to be dishonorable. It could have been a sort of challenge he didn't fully understand. In any case, he didn't make him repeat it. He lowered Selot's gag.

  “Thank you...that's very kind of you,” said Selot to his brother in the Uicic language. A well-aimed kick was planted on him too.

  “Do not speak to each other or you'll be sorry. I want your names and your origin.”

  “Has your General not spoken to you of us?” said Selot, with his perfect Dar accent, adopting an arrogant tone of one who wishes to pick on someone and start a fight. “I do not believe he holds you in high esteem.” The Captain stiffened and then threw himself onto Selot with a series of kicks, square on his stomach. Selot gasped. It looked like Marrhit was smiling. Selot sure was a good whipping boy; no one knew how to be one better than him. He waited for the series of blows to subside, then using the power of his voice he said:

  “Leave him alone and free us.” The Captain had grabbed Selot by the hair and was laying into him with a knee to the head. He stopped and stared emptily in front of him, as if he were trying to understand what he was doing there.

  “Damn it,” Marrhit said. “Yellow Eye has conditioned him. He won't free us.”

  “So?” Selot asked coming to his senses well-enough to speak.

  “He'll wait here for a bit, then he'll leave without remembering what he was supposed to do.”

  “And then?”

  “In my opinion, our friend Yellow Eye will make his entrance.”

  “Well...” Selot said, bracing himself for the worst. The praetorian guards watched their motionless Captain and the apparently vacant stare on his face. They were too far away to hear the conversation that was taking place between the two prisoners, but that stillness seemed very odd. Nevertheless, they dared not intervene.

  “Before this idiot comes to his senses, I have to give you two pieces of information, for whatever it might be worth.”

  Selot tilted his head slightly, surprised.

  “They captured a man in Solzhaz, I think he might be one of your human friends. I took it from the head of a villain as we fought earlier, before Yellow Eye came out of his hiding hole. He knew this man. There was a sense of satisfaction in his capture, personal resentment between the two. The captured man goes by the name of Ucal.” Selot gulped.

  “They will execute him by the next full moon.” Selot was winded.

  “They caught him like a fool. Those imbecilic guards of the Governor, who do not even know how to hold a sword. He showed up drunk in front of the palace. It was only afterwards they realized who he actually was. A deserter who had joined forces with the Marquis of Atiarav and his war for independence.“

  That's not possible. Ucal would never make such a foolish mistake,” Selot murmured. “There must be something more.”

  “They want to wipe out your marquis. They're hunting him down. They have completely destroyed his cities and they have forced his people into the mountains, reducing them to a people in exile with no homeland. The circle is tightening around them. They have no hope as far as this Praetorian Captain is concerned.” Selot tried to reason with this new information. He and Marrhit we
re prisoners, live bait for their father. The Council was the enemy. Ucal was going to be executed, Var and all his people hunted and scattered over the mountains. It was all coming to an end. It couldn't be true. He didn't want it to be true.

  “You're wrong,” he said with desperation. “The people of Atiarav have their land. All the peaks of Eizco belong to them. The mountains will hide them, help them, keep them alive. Var and his people have a greater determination than anything you can imagine. They are a warrior race which never gives up. Var sent his messengers throughout the kingdom to summon his men who are in the army of Dar. He is taking action. I met some of them at the encampment while you were dealing with Yellow Eye. A thousand of them on the mountains will not be easy to defeat. They will be ready to resist for a very long time.”

  “They may, yes. As long as they can resist, yes, it will be long. Much less for the Rotmandis. The Council was right regarding this. They will not resist long, knowing nothing about war. And the forest does not hide like the mountains. The fires can destroy them. A summer that is too hot and too dry will be enough...like this one. The Rotmandis are less numerous than even the Uicics. They could be extinct before winter.” Selot lifted his head up to the sky where he could not glimpse the stars. He let the smells of the encampment, combined with those of the nearby forest, fill his nostrils. He asked himself for what and for whose purpose he was dying that way, after everything that had happened.

  The Captain of the guards was coming to his senses, no longer under the influence of Marrhit's voice.

  “Now get ready, half brother. In the next few hours and days, it will be our turn to try and survive.”

  “Yes...” he could not say anything else, as a violent blow was landed to his temple.