Drakon Omnibus

by C. A. Caskabel

  “What is a Judas?” I ask.

  “He was a traitor.”

  The Judas trees have betrayed us; the beacons are dead, the rain and the wind having stolen their flowers. Around their thin black trunks, the purple petals float like tiny boats on a sea of mud and horseshit.

  We are late, and the rain persists.

  We rest again; it makes no sense to kill the horses, riding them in the blinding storm. The rocks are naked of soil, and there are so many of us that the trodden path becomes treacherous. I try to fall back to the middle of the marching line, to get a better feel for the speed we can make.

  “The Khun rides last but follows us,” the Reghen tries to assure me or scare me.

  “Good. He’ll be safe,” I answer.

  “He wants to be at the battle.”

  “He’ll be there for the triumph,” I say.

  By the time the Khun makes it out of the White Doe, the battle will be over.

  On the third day the rain stops, and we ride harder now, but the Archers are cold and dejected. They have been fighting forever; at Varazam, Apelo, Sapul, they have never stopped. Vigor seems to have abandoned them.

  I see Bera among them, the old ninestar Guide who trained me on the bow back at the Uncarved.

  “Bera? Is that you?” I ask.

  “Surprised? It makes two of us. I heard that Da-Ren the Firstblade is leading us. Didn’t believe it, unless I saw it. The Archers are scared. They think you are some damned ghost who died long ago in Apelo.”

  They’re right.

  “Ready for the Final Battle, old man?” I say.

  “About time for me. I don’t even know what I am fighting for anymore. All those othertribers among us. Their gold chains and armbands. This Tribe has changed.”

  “It will change again,” I say.

  “If anyone survives this,” he replies, looking at the men around him, huffing and puffing with exhaustion.

  “Enaka awaits you.” I bid farewell to him.

  We’re all resting again, and the men eat their last meal, drinking wine and water. They suck all life and raindrops from the Forest like Reekaal sucking the blood of the living.

  I wouldn’t stop for the men. But the horses don’t share our madness. They can’t live with Stories of blood and vengeance. They need grass, water, and rest or they’ll betray us at the worst time.

  “We’ll enter the White Doe soon,” says Leke.

  “We must make it to the caves before anyone else,” I shout to the Reghen. The twelve Rods are guarding me closely; they still haven’t given me blades.

  At the entrance of the White Doe, Leke passes shiny white mantles to twenty of my trusted men. The short mantles have cords at the hem that tie back at the waist, making the fabric swell with the air as we ride, and billow like a small tent covering our back.

  “What is this?” asks the Reghen.

  “White cloths. So that all others can spot us from far away,” I say.

  But I am lying. This is the densely woven silk we bought in Thalassopolis many springs ago with Baagh. Baagh taught us how to make a shield out of it. An arrow shield of silk for a rider. We’ve tried many times to shoot at a rider wearing the silk as he gallops away on his horse. We marveled at first, but Baagh was right. As the arrows get tangled and swallowed in the billowing silk, they lose all their strength and don’t pierce the body. It is magic!

  I sure look like a ghost covered in my milk-white cloak as we enter the White Doe. We scream our lungs out for the frightened Archers to follow. The sun will soon rest on the west side of the White Doe, and when it rises again, it will be a day for blade and slaughter.

  “Faster! Faster!” I bellow.

  This is hopeless; we should have entered the caves by early afternoon, and now it is sunset. The rain, Enaka, the Sky have betrayed us. The trees of the Forest have stopped us. I won’t have five thousand by my side against the legions; I see that now. Half if I am lucky, because the other half will still be trying to get out of the White Doe when it is time to unleash my attack. If I wait for them…

  If I wait Zeria dies, Aneria dies, they all die on the Drakontail front.

  I catch a glimpse of shadows running on foot nearby. Three, maybe four of them. For a moment I think they are Dasal—who else can run so fast among the wood—but then I recognize their long heads and their unusual pace. The Ssons are tracking me close. I thought I saw them the previous night too.

  The waterfall is hidden under a wet purple mist as the sun sets for the last time in the Forest. Bats swarm out of the caves and fly over my head. The torches awoke the bats and they are coming, black clouds of them, screaming through the night. They can’t do much harm with their claws, but they crush our spirit.

  We enter the White Doe. Two by two and we don’t stop.

  “You stop, you die. You stop, everyone behind you dies.”

  The first few hundred riders are in the caves. The bluefire worms illuminate the ceiling with their velvet glow.

  “What magic is this, Firstblade?” asks Leke.

  “The gods and demons have gathered, my friend. And they bid farewell with splendor. They waited so long for this battle. All those Stories they gave us, we must repay them with blood.”

  We pass through the dark paths and the cavernous tunnels, the bridge over the sea of the black worms.

  It is my second time in there, and it all feels faster. Not much later, we are at the vast caves of the stalactites. The hooves and the falling Archers crush the rounded salt sculptures.

  “Faster! Faster!”

  We have to keep moving; if one stops, he blocks thousands. Whoever falls is pushed out in the sea of worms. We can’t wait.

  We exit the caves, and I squint to see. No enemies, no fires. We’re still a brief ride from the vale of Lenos. We must pass the narrow gorge first, and then hide in the woodland at the edge of the vale. I look up at the cliffs on each side of the gorge. They are quiet and empty under the few fading stars. Clouds cover most of the sky. The first breath of dawn brings a hazy blue light. The soil is dry as if it never rained on that side of the mountain. The clouds are dark and packed above us—Enaka and our forefathers have descended to witness the Final Battle. We’ll fight in their shadow.

  “Careful and quiet now,” I say. The twenty Blades in their white cloaks are signaling with both hands for the riders to quiet down. The first of us have made it, and we are gathering in the fir woodland, awaiting my command to charge. We must wait. It is past dawn now, but on that side of the mountain the sun rises late. Sani is late. This is an unexpected gift. I look across the vale, and Sani has not started his attack. “How many do we have?” I ask Leke.

  “Not many. Maybe twenty Packs here, if I count right,” he replies.

  “Where are the rest?”

  The Reghen looks from one face to another, his brow sweating.

  Irhan approaches on horseback: “They are moving through the caves, but very slowly. I heard that one of the bridges collapsed. They are trying to repair it.”

  “Repair it with what?”

  “I don’t know, that’s what I heard. There are a couple of thousand men trapped before the bridge.”

  “We’ll have three thousand, at best.”

  “Not enough,” says the Reghen. “We must wait.”

  Wait for what? For death to find her?

  It is a smooth downhill slope from where we stand now to the battlefield. It would be a glorious ride if only I had a few thousand Archers.

  The sun rises higher now and finds a brief escape through the patchy clouds. I see them. The sunrays fall on the shields of the Crossers’ legions as they await in square formations.

  “Wait behind the firs. Wait for our Archers.”

  Wait, Sani. If you could just hear me.

  “If you see any Crossers approaching, let them come close and shoot them down or else it’s all over,” I tell Leke.

  “Must be four legions of Crossers down there,” Irhan says.

  T
wenty thousand iron-clad beasts spread in front of Lenos.

  “More than we expected,” I say.

  Bellows and kettle drums rise to my right as Sani’s hordes debouch from the Drakontail down the vale.

  Too early.

  “It starts.”

  Sani’s Archers charge first; it must be Karat leading them in waves. They do what they have learned since they were kids. Ride and shoot the arrows, never get too close to the enemy, then go to a feigned retreat, and repeating. Our Archers keep coming in waves against the legions, but the sky is spewing stone and fire. The catapults of the West are unloading relentlessly. So many of them, so powerful. Only then it dawns on me. Those legions are trained to fight in the open valley like us, even if they fight in a different way.

  “That’s why they retreated,” I say to Irhan.

  “You mean from the Forest?”

  “Yes, they didn’t want to fight us in there. They opened the path, but they lured us back here. This is…this is…their trap, not ours.”

  “Should we turn back?”

  “Malan will kill us. And those down there, Sani, the Archers, will all die.”

  “At least we’ll save the other half of our men.”

  “Lose half the men, Irhan? Noone will forgive us. Shut your mouth.”

  Zeria is there.

  More battle drums but those are not of the Tribe. The othertribers who follow Sani charge on foot behind the Archers. Why? Why? This is all so wrong, they never should. The onagers of the West keep firing, our Archers retreat again, and the charging othertribers are confused now, many of them falling back in fear as they see the horses coming toward them, others scattered around, the horses and their riders in disarray, not knowing where to go. It is a bloody mess. Sani’s forces ride to their doom, the infantry of the West is advancing slowly, and the catapults are spreading fire across the grassy fields of spring.

  “Shit and poison! This will be over before we even make it there,” I say.

  “Fall back,” says Irhan.

  “We must wait,” says the Reghen.

  “My blades,” I say to the Rods’ Chief. “Come on; we have no time I need to be ready.”

  He gives me the two blades, and my trusted men get their own too.

  “Don’t do anything stupid now,” says the Rod.

  Next to him is Skullface and Crazyeyes, half-naked, face and body painted. They’re on horseback. I don’t think they’re here to fight but just to watch me.

  The smoke and the screams are rising a couple of leagues north where Sani is fighting a desperate fight.

  “We must charge, Reghen. Wake up!” I scream.

  “No, we follow King Malan’s orders. Not too early. We don’t have enough men.”

  “It is now or never!”

  “Da-Ren, no! Don’t do it!” he screams.

  My horse stands on his hind legs and neighs as I try to keep it calm. My men gather around me, shielding me from Rods and Ssons.

  I can’t see what’s going on. The dust rises and swallows the battlefield. Dust, fire, and smoke. Sani’s Packs are trapped; the woodland behind them is already ablaze.

  “Their cavalry will go in soon,” says Irhan pointing toward the Crossers.

  “We wait,” says the Reghen.

  Wait for what? No one lives if we wait.

  “No, we charge now!” I shout.

  “If you charge now, you’ll burn us alive,” the Reghen says.

  I still wonder after all those years of exile at the Castlemonastery. Every night I ask myself.

  Why do I charge despite the Reghen’s warning? To save Zeria? To avenge Malan? To save the Tribe from defeat? To steal the victory, surpass even Malan in fame? To betray him? To fulfill the prophecy of the ninestar curse? To bring darkness and blood to the Tribe? To save the two thousand children of Lenos from the Ssons.

  I still wonder every night.

  Save the children. I hope it is for that.

  What if I didn’t charge?

  Whatever I did, defeat was our fate that day. I search for the whys, the lost, the buried, the defeated whys. I find nothing. At that moment, as the sun makes a sudden appearance half-high above the valley of Lenos, I give the loudest battle cry of my life.

  “Charge now! Irons high! White cloaks, follow me!”

  Why did I do it?

  Why does everyone die?

  Because of me?

  Why do I still live to ponder all this?

  “No!” the Reghen shrieks but his screams are already far behind me.

  The silk-white cloaks of my trusted Blades gallop behind my horse, the sun illuminates us, and we stand out like shiny white pebbles on the dirt.

  “For the Firstblade!” yells Leke.

  Arrows come aiming at our back, and they are ours. Our Archers are shooting at us. They’re trying to stop us.

  It’s too late now, Reghen. The Final Battle has begun.

  I can feel them, two arrows in my back, like a gentle touch, but they get trapped inside the silk and fall feebly to the ground. One pierces me at the shoulder, but before I reach my arm around to pull it out, it falls on its own, leaving just a scratch, barely cutting the skin. Some of the horses are hit. My horse is sweating and foaming exhausted; it still gallops, but it won’t last for long. Soon, I’ll have to fight on foot.

  The dust and the distance still shield us from the enemy, and their cavalry hasn’t joined the battle. We keep riding, but now hundreds of our Archers are following behind us. What else can they do? There is no stopping, no turning back anymore.

  We’re almost there; just a few more breaths and we’ll crash in the center of the battlefield. We are getting too close for bow and arrow. They have no place in the Final Battle. Body to body, man to man, throat to blade, the West and the Tribe fight. Iron to flesh. Dust, fire, and smoke. Nothing else. Nothing more.

  I stand up on my horse’s back and dive into the Crossers with two blades. Without a shield. I’m not dying today. Today I am a Blade for the last time and whoever crosses my path finds doom.

  I cut the first man in the back of the neck. The second thrusts with his spear but I dodge the blow, and I strike him hard with the pommel of my short blade. He falls to his knees. To my right, one of my men slashes the arm of the third one before he pierces me.

  There are no shield-covered tortoises, or formation, or lines, or bows or horses here. Only men and dust. I strike with both blades. The legionary is down on his knees, but the shield protects him. I find a gap and push the short blade down into his eye.

  You all die here until I find Zeria, no one stops me.

  Two more come charging from opposite directions. I fall on the first one, but the other’s spear comes down on my foot, piercing it all the way. Screaming pain. My blade drives deep at his throat as he loses control of the spear. I pull the tip out of my foot, but the pain is crushing my head. I’ve twisted my knee; I’m slower now. It hurts.

  Men fall around me, Archers without shields who can’t fight up close. The legionaries are too many and keep charging like iron-covered bears. I see the milk-white cloaks painted crimson. Is that Temin staring at the sky with blank eyes? Is that blood coming out of his mouth? I take one step toward him, but I slip on a severed arm. I fall back atop of the body of a man. His guts are spilling out all over me. A legionary lunges at me, chainmail and shield sparkling, and brings his spear down hard. I lose my footing, and he’s on top of me. He tries again, I swerve to the side, and the tip finds the mud, next to my ear. I grab his arm before he lifts it up again. I knee him in the ribs, and as he grunts in pain, I jump up on two legs. He strikes me with his shield.

  Are you brave, you son of Darhul?

  He hits me again with the heavy plate, and I stumble back dizzy.

  You think you’re going to live? Be a hero? Under the earth is where you’re going.

  I fall on him with my bare hands. I take his shield, and I bring it down on him, its sharp edge like a blade. I strike him four times; he tries to
cover his head with both arms. That damned man is still writhing half-dead, and he thrusts his spear. I move to the side, and it rips through me between the arm and ribs, tearing the flesh on both sides. One more blow of the shield and he loses his senses. I fall on him with two blades; I plunge the sharp edge of the shield above his collarbone where the armor doesn’t protect him. I can’t see from all the blood and dust. The deafening screams of the dying.

  That spear tore through me. It didn’t hit lungs or heart, just a long gashing wound of flesh, but the pain is driving me crazy, like my arm has fallen into salt and vinegar, sweat and dust falling on the bleeding flesh. Every time I wield my blade, it’s like Darhul spewing poison on my skin.

  I bring down two more, but a third one I thought dead raises his arm and with his last breath cuts through my thigh with his sword. I can barely walk now; I’m dragging my one leg. I must go on.

  I don’t know how many I’ve wasted, ten, I’m going to put you all in the dirt, even if you bring me a thousand.

  I take one of their shields. Not for defense. I slip on another dead man. A cudgel falls hard on my shield. He’s one of us, othertriber but on our side. He doesn’t bring it down on me again. He sees we’re on the same side. I get up again, dazed. I continue to push. My boots are full of mud, mud mixed with thick blood. I’ve brought down about twenty legionaries now. Maybe more. Never have I killed so many in one day. Horses lie dying in agony, foam coming out of their mouths. Horses without their Archers gallop among us, some screaming in flames.

  Strong legs. Isn’t that what I always told them when I was Chief of the First Pack? Legs. Steady. Hold.

  “Push them back, push the snakes back into their holes. Irons high!”

  Horns blow, signaling retreat.

  My eyes see shadows now, not even faces. Did the whole day pass or did the sky go darker? Shadows fall on me, and I strike with my blade before I recognize them. This is no battle for glory and grace, for plan and strategy. Hack before you’re hacked.

  The men of the Tribe gather around me; I am their Firstblade again, I am the one still shouting, and they need a leader. Now, more than ever. I can even see a handful of the silk white cloaks. I can’t see Leke. Where is he? If only I had Noki by my side.