by NS Dolkart
And why shouldn’t the captain be bold? The stormy season should have begun by now, and yet, to judge by the gentle rocking of the ship, the weather remained fine. If the captain’s gambit was working just as he’d hoped, maybe the islanders’ powerful God didn’t mean to punish him after all.
Hunter wondered whether God Most High had indeed forgotten about them, or whether this latest reversal was all part of the plan. He wasn’t sure which possibility worried him more. Now that the crew was made up of men who echoed their captain’s blasphemy, he found himself simultaneously hating them and fearing for their lives. After the miracles God Most High had already performed on his and Phaedra’s behalf, He seemed bound to intervene again soon enough.
Hunter hoped He would be merciful.
It was miserable being confined below decks, even though there were no cells in which to hold him and Phaedra. They stayed in the same old sleeping bunks as before, in a compartment they shared with six crew members. But the crewmembers got to leave, and he and Phaedra didn’t, and that made all the difference. Without access to the fresh air above, Hunter developed a constant, low-level nausea that would sometimes quite unexpectedly grow out of control. One moment he would be talking with Phaedra, or perhaps trying to rest, and the next moment he would have to stop whatever he was doing and focus all his energies on keeping his stomach down.
Then one morning it finally happened. Hunter awoke before dawn to the sounds of a fight abovedeck. It was all the stomping that woke him, but soon there was a piercing scream and then Phaedra was awake too, fumbling about in the near-dark with short, fearful breaths. Hunter’s brain was still processing the situation – they had dropped anchor two days ago at Belinphae, an island on the western end of the archipelago, not far from Tarphae, and they hadn’t moved since. Much of the crew would still be ashore at this hour – he and Phaedra were alone in their compartment. Now there were voices above, barking orders. The anchor was being lifted – they were setting sail.
An unfamiliar head appeared at the hatch. “Anyone down there, you just stay. The fight’s all over, and my friends and I are up here waiting to stick anyone who feels like starting another. We’ll be away from here by breakfast time, and then we’ll let you up.”
“All right,” Hunter called back. “We’ll stay. We don’t want trouble.”
The man snickered. “Oh, you’ve got trouble already.”
16
Criton
They washed Delika with buckets from the well, but had no dry clothes to change her into, so they wrapped her in a blanket from Belkos’ house while her own clothes dried. The more he gathered about what had happened to her, the more horrified he became. How proud he’d been that he’d found a caring family to adopt those children!
She’d hidden herself in the Temple of Magor, poor thing, and had climbed into a vat of sacrificial pigs’ blood when it burned. Apparently, Magor’s priests used the blood in some of their rituals, watering it down just enough so that it wouldn’t congeal. It still took some scrubbing to get it off Delika’s skin, though.
Iona helped them, while Dessa held Goodweather. Criton secretly wished Iona and Belkos would offer to adopt the girl, but he knew they wouldn’t. Delika was his problem now, and Bandu’s – the fact that they had only become parents a few months ago was irrelevant. Besides which, the girl had sought him out personally, and the last time he’d tried to get her adopted had turned out disastrously. He and Bandu might be only ten or eleven years older, but they would still have to be parents to her.
It might not be so bad, though, he thought, as he changed the clothes of a wailing Goodweather. At least Delika could talk.
The next morning, the Dragon Touched began their journey northward. Traveling in a caravan with them reminded Criton of a time nearly a year ago, when the islanders had left another village with all of its inhabitants and made for the shelter of Silent Hall. His people moved just as slowly as those villagers had, traveling as they were with children and livestock, and setting up tents each evening. It was even more or less the same time of year, perhaps a month away from the start of the rainy season.
Of course, that didn’t make the two journeys identical. Psander’s villagers had been looking for a protector, and they had found one. For the Dragon Touched there would be no shelter, no safe haven at the end of the road.
On the other hand, now he was here with family, venturing into the northern plains with a clan of his own kin. That made him happy in a way he had never felt before.
Bandu was less happy, though he could tell that she appreciated how good it felt to him. And it helped that Iona and Dessa kept offering to hold Goodweather, or to change her clothes, or to help Bandu bind the baby to her back with wide strips of cloth. He had less time to devote to his infant daughter, now that he had to lead his people and watch over Delika too. The girl clung to him like he was still the only thing saving her from drowning. Even when he met with Hessina or with his cousin to talk about strategy or ask about their religion, Delika wouldn’t leave his side without a good deal of cajoling.
That caused its own troubles for him and Bandu. He could tell that his wife resented his inattention to Goodweather, and his supposed favoring of Delika. But what could he do? Goodweather didn’t really care who changed her swaddling clothes, and it was barely even his choice anyway. He had duties to his people, and duties to the girl who had braved fire and blood to find him, so at least for now, Goodweather would have to come third. There was nothing he could do about that, and he wished Bandu wouldn’t give him so much trouble for it.
Besides, he was doing his best with Goodweather. He held the child plenty, and changed her clothes often enough. He gave her as much attention as he could afford.
But he spent most of his time getting to know the members of his new community, and learning their ways. He had once read a screed against the Dragon Touched that had been written by a friar of Atel, claiming all manner of evils for Criton’s people, and he had always wished that he knew which parts were true and which weren’t. Now he had the opportunity to find out, and even with his troubles multiplying and Delika clinging to his side, he did not squander it. He asked Hessina all about the worship of God Most High, and she was happy to oblige.
The friar’s screed had apparently been right about at least one thing: the respect and worship of other Gods was anathema to God Most High. His worshippers weren’t permitted to use other Gods’ ritual objects, and they didn’t eat other Gods’ sacred animals. Magor’s pigs, Ravennis’ crows, Karassa’s jellyfish – they were all forbidden. Criton gasped when he heard this, because he and his friends had all eaten from the Boar of Hagardis, but Hessina assured him that her purifying ritual had wiped his transgressions away.
Even so, he worried. What if he ate other sacred animals without realizing it? He didn’t know which animals were sacred to which Gods – what else should he be avoiding? Luckily, Hessina was well versed in these things. Sharks and whales were sacred to Mayar; moths to Elkinar; falcons to Atun; mules to Atel; hares to Eramia; cats both great and small were sacred to Pelthas. There were other animals that she knew were forbidden without knowing which Gods they belonged to: ants and termites, cockroaches, scarabs, snakes, lizards, jackals – the list seemed endless.
“Eat what the rest of us eat,” she said at last. “You’ll be fine.”
Criton wondered what it meant for God Most High to be so firmly in opposition to all the other Gods, but Hessina disagreed with his characterization. It wasn’t a matter of opposition, she said. The “Lower Gods” weren’t rivals to God Most High, They were more akin to disobedient servants, who would all eventually be punished.
“Are there some He won’t punish?” Criton asked. “Are some of Them allies?”
“God Most High does not need allies,” Hessina answered. “But He is merciful, and will tolerate those who obey Him.”
Criton nodded, but it seemed as if she could no sooner answer a question than he thought of another. �
��Does God Most High have special holy days? When do you give sacrifices?”
Hessina sighed at that. “In the old days, we used to make offerings during the draconic festivals. After the purge we started making our sacrifices on Magor and Elkinar’s holy days, whispering the prayers of dedication so that our neighbors wouldn’t suspect us of worshipping any God but their own. But the draconic calendar is not the same as the common one. In the end we lost track of where we were on it, and when that happened, we lost our own holidays.”
That was so unspeakably sad that Criton forgot what other question he had meant to ask.
The northern plains through which they traveled were a flat expanse of mostly grasses and farmland, their farmers and herders paying taxes to Ardis without any conceivable benefit to themselves. Criton meant to put an end to that, but in a way he too had chosen for his people to prey on these poorest and weakest of their neighbors, building their army and their reputation on the backs of the desperate. Especially now, at harvest time, his decision to raise an army from these plainsfolk was too cruel. If he took all their able-bodied men just as they were most needed for the harvest, in a few months there would be starvation.
But what could he do about it now? His people had to survive, so they needed an army. He had chosen his path.
It only took them a day to reach their first village, a hamlet of no more than twenty houses whose people immediately surrendered upon hearing the conditions Criton offered them. Criton took a man from each house and some livestock besides, and the Dragon Touched continued on their way. The livestock were mostly sheep and pigs, the latter of which would of course be useless to the Dragon Touched, but perhaps it was a good thing that their allies would have a food supply dedicated to them alone. Hessina wanted to demand that the pigs remain behind, but Criton overruled her. It was bad enough that he was raising his army here. He wanted the northerners to think of the Dragon Touched as allies, not tyrants.
The men from this village did not have weapons of war, but they took sticks, hoes, whips, or whatever else they could use in a fight without harming their families’ ability to harvest their crops. Criton doubted these tools would be much use against an Ardisian army, and he hoped it would be a very long time before they all found out. But that day was bound to come sometime. The Ardismen would catch up to the Dragon Touched eventually, and besides, the Dragon Touched would meet resistance among the plainsfolk too, sooner or later.
In fact, the very next village they came to met them with scythes and spears, held by a ragged line of men who yelled at them to keep away. Criton steeled himself and led his kin in the assault.
It was too easy: the Dragon Touched slaughtered their resisters, seized their families and their property, and moved on. Criton put his cousin in charge of dividing the spoils, with instructions to give special privilege to the northerners who had joined them. It was the best way he could think of to encourage more plainsmen to ally with the Dragon Touched.
Even so, Belkos insisted on giving Criton and Bandu a flock of sheep, as well as the widow who had owned them.
“My Ma didn’t raise me to own slaves,” Criton told him.
“It doesn’t matter,” Belkos answered. “You’re our leader. It’s expected.”
“They expect me to own a person and call it normal.”
“By the old laws,” Belkos said, “slaves were kept only until they had repaid their debts. Would you be happier with that? What debt do these people owe, do you think?”
“How about a year of service?” Criton asked. “Or until we take Ardis, whichever is sooner. For all of them. We’re only punishing them for not helping us against Ardis, after all.”
“Good,” Belkos said. “Then let these people serve us until then.”
Criton accepted that, even though it still bothered him. At heart, he knew that these townspeople had done nothing wrong, that it was terrible to punish them at all. But this was war. He was a leader now, a leader of his people, and if the Dragon Touched didn’t develop the sort of reputation that would cause villages to surrender and bolster their camp with fighting-age men, they would all perish. The Ardismen would crush them.
Besides, with all his new obligations, he didn’t have time to herd all those sheep himself.
So he made an arrangement with their new slave Biva, one modeled on the relationship between Psander and her villagers. Though he and Bandu theoretically owned both the sheep and the woman who herded them, in practice they let Biva keep both her autonomy and her sheep in return for a share of the milk, wool, and meat. They did not speak of her husband, whom his men had killed, and Criton did his best to pretend that she was just a neighbor who owed him money. She ate and slept separately from his family, and their only contact with her was transactional. In a year’s time, they would part ways and never speak to each other again.
Criton took to war easily. He did not have the trained, fluid motions that Hunter had displayed time and again, but he was good at the simple, brutal work of beating down an opponent’s defenses and sticking him with something sharp. He liked to intimidate his enemies with an early burst of fire, then slip his spear past their guard and finish them off. It was a dumb trick, and unfair to boot, but if he had learned anything from Narky and Bestillos it was that winning didn’t have to be fair. And as long as nobody who fought him survived, there was nothing wrong with using the same technique over and over again. It would be new and surprising every time.
Village after village, town after town was given the choice: cooperation or death. And it worked: the ranks of the Dragon Touched were swelling, and over time, fewer and fewer people resisted them. Their growing numbers slowed them down, of course, what with the livestock they were herding and the difficulties of coordinating such a large group, but that was a good problem to have. The important thing was that they really were raising an army, ragged though it was. Their reputation preceded them now, and there were whole villages that welcomed the Dragon Touched with open arms and gladly joined their cause, hoping to free themselves from their southern oppressors. Slowly but surely, Ardis was losing control over its tributaries.
As the weeks went by, Criton began to develop his own reputation among the plainsfolk. They called him the Black Dragon, just like Belkos’ mother-in-law had, and his enemies cowered at the sight of him. For the most part, he didn’t mind: the name made him sound powerful, even awe-inspiring. Who could stand up to the Black Dragon in battle? It was a catchy name, too. Soon a number of his kinsmen were using it, and even Hessina occasionally asked him semi-sarcastically, “What does the Black Dragon think?”
On the other hand, being the Black Dragon also made him less of a person. If his enemies were frightened by the idea of him, all the better, but he should have been more than an idea to his own kin. It was alienating, and he didn’t deserve to be alienated from the family he had wanted his whole life. He could feel that added distance turning him into a harder person. He didn’t think his mother would have liked that.
It helped in the evenings to retreat to his own tent with Bandu and Delika and the baby. They all loved him in one way or another, and not because he symbolized anything to them. It was frustrating to have Delika there sometimes, since her presence made it harder for him and Bandu to be intimate, but he appreciated her presence anyway. She was a talkative girl, which could be nice when Bandu was in one of her quiet moods, and despite all she’d been through she smiled and laughed much more easily than the two of them did. If Bandu’s presence was full of love and of wisdom, Delika’s was full of joy.
And there was need for joy. This war of conquest did not sit well with Bandu. It struck her as savage and pointless – what did the Dragon Touched need all these sheep and slaves for, anyway? Criton tried to explain how it was really about gathering force, a necessary step toward defeating Ardis, but she didn’t seem to care for that goal either.
“Why your people need Ardis?” she asked. “Why not go far away where they don’t try to kill you?”
“They want us dead everywhere,” Criton reminded her. “Ardis is where we belong.”
“So you kill other people and take their things? Why? Ardis is that way!”
“I know, but they’re too strong for us right now. We’re building an army, Bandu, just like Bestillos did when he moved against Psander.”
Bandu gawked at him. “Like Bestillos? Let me remember you something.”
“Remind.”
She waved a hand dismissively. “Let me remember you something: Bestillos is a wicked man. Very, very wicked. You hate him. So why you want to do things his way?”
“Because that’s how it works! The world hates us just for existing. Just for being. We need an army, and this is the only way to build one right now.”
Bandu rolled her eyes. “Does Bestillos’ army help him?”
“That’s not fair,” Criton answered. “We had Salemis then, and the element of surprise. But Salemis said he wouldn’t be coming back. We have to build an army.”
“If your God is so strong, he can send Salemis back. Or he can do something Himself instead. You want to make army the red priest’s way, the wicked way. Why your God helps you if you are wicked like Bestillos?”
“I’m not wicked like–” Criton began, but it was no good. Whether she was being purposefully obstinate or not, he knew very well that she couldn’t see the distinction between borrowing an enemy’s tactics and borrowing their wickedness. And when it came right down to it, was there such a distinction? It was hard for the Dragon Touched to remain morally superior when they were emulating their enemies.