“Rawrrr!” echoes off the stone wall behind me.
I rub furiously at my eyes as I move down the ramp. The sounds of fighting are joined by shouts and more screams. My eyes clear at last and almost I wish they hadn’t. The huge Zmaj, Drosdan I believe, is facing off against Ladon. The two of them circle each other, a crowd around them shouting and screaming. Blood is streaming down Ladon’s face from a cut over his eye but he shows no sign of slowing.
In a sudden, surprising burst Ladon leaps into the air, wings spreading wide, arm cocked back, fist dropping towards Drosdan. Drosdan, bigger and slower, looks up and starts to raise his arms in defense but too late. Ladon’s fist slams into him with a sickening crunch. Drosdan stumbles backwards, tail swinging wildly and wings batting at the air as he struggles to remain upright.
A round of gasps are accompanied by cheers.
“Kick his ass, Ladon!” someone yells, a human voice by the accent, but I can’t see past the bodies to see who it is, now that I’m off the ramp.
“Drosdan!” a chant starts.
Feet pound the ground, creating a thunderous cacophony along with the chants of the name of the larger Zmaj. Visidion is just ahead of me, rushing for the crowd. The red-tan cloak he wears flaps in the wind behind him. He’s stopped by the crowd.
“Make way!” he yells as I catch up to him.
The crowd parts around him. I follow in his wake, taking advantage of the opening. Before we can pass through the cheering and chanting crowd, I hear another hard slam and more grunts of pain. My chest constricts as my heart beats faster. The crowd is too close, making it hard to breathe as we push our way through. My left thigh trembles, wanting to give way. No, not now. Gritting my teeth, I push past the pain, but the trembling of my hands isn’t something I can control.
The problems have been less but are not gone. Every time they return it’s a reminder of how precious time is and how little of it I have to accomplish my goals. Another loud crack and the crowd gasps. Someone screams. The chanting resumes.
Shifting bodies press in and out. How many people are there here? How can we not be through this crowd already?
Stumbling, I’m free of it. Visidion grabs my arm, steadying me.
“ENOUGH!” Visidion yells, his voice loud enough to echo off the cliff wall.
Silence drops like a blanket. No one speaks. I can’t hear anyone even breathe.
Drosdan and Ladon face each other a couple of feet apart. Blood drips off both of them, pooling on the ground. Drosdan’s left wing droops too. They’re both panting but their fists are raised and ready to continue their battle.
Walking beside Visidion we move between the two men. Strategically I shift my position so that I end up closer to Drosdan, forcing Visidion to stand closer to Ladon. A quick shift of his eyes in my direction tells me he notes it, and the hint of a smile is his approval.
“What’s going on here?” I ask, taking the lead.
“He called Illadon ugly,” Ladon hisses.
“No, I said his father was as ugly as a bivo’s droppings,” Drosdan retorts.
The crowd laughs, and Drosdan stands straighter, grinning. Ladon hisses, balling his fists as he steps forward. Visidion stops him with a hand on his chest.
“Drosdan, we are guests in your home. Is this how the Tribe treats its guests?” I ask.
“Tribe,” Ladon turns his head and spits the word. “Gathering of sismis is more accurate.”
Sismis are tiny sand snakes with a very deadly poison. Calling the Tribe that must be a high insult in Zmaj judging by the reaction of the crowd. Drosdan roars, his tail springing straight up and his undamaged wing opening, the other struggling but failing to expand.
“Ladon,” Visidion says, “is this the way you treat your hosts?”
Ladon locks eyes with Visidion as I turn to face Drosdan. Placing my hand on his massive chest I look up and stare until he glances down. Once he does our eyes lock and by my will alone I force him to keep his gaze on me. He’s huge, with arms like tree trunks, shoulders wide enough I could stretch out across them and have room left. Still, he doesn’t move from my touch or look away.
“No,” Ladon says, defeat in his voice.
“And you Drosdan? Is this in line with the Edicts?” I ask.
His eyes widen, his jaw falls open as he shakes his head. His wings and tail drop and his hands unclench.
“We have differences,” Visidion says, speaking to Ladon but pitching his voice to carry.
“But they are not so great,” I finish his thought.
“There is enough in this world trying to destroy us,” Visidion says.
“Storms, heat, zelmja, and Zzlo,” I say.
“Do we need to destroy each other as well?” Visidion asks.
“Together we are stronger,” I say, the crowd gasps and the tension lowers.
I know there is a power in the Edicts they follow. If only I could get my people to accept them. Soon, once Gershom is dealt with, it should be possible. The ideals they express are no different than my own but diametrically opposed to Gershom and his Human First movement.
“What about them? They don’t follow our Edicts,” a voice from the crowd.
“No, they do not,” Visidion says.
“But not because we don’t respect them,” I continue.
“Are our ideals meant to be enforced? Should we make them follow our ways? Beat them down until they submit?” Visidion says.
“You are better than that, we all must be.”
“Together we are stronger,” Visidion repeats.
The crowd murmurs, the tide shifting. There are too few of us, even with the size of the Tribe and the new survivors who have chosen to live here. Too few for us to be at each other. The viability of both our races hangs in the balance.
“There is hope,” I say. “Hope for a future for both our races. Open your minds and hearts and look forward.”
“Yes,” Visidion agrees. “Hope, that long-lost glimmer we have all but forsaken has come. In a new form, the form of the Humans and an alliance between our races. That is the future we see. Will you not follow me into it?”
“I will,” Padraig says, stepping forward.
Padraig is as unmistakable as Drosdan, being second in size only to him. Big, burly—if Zmaj grew facial hair, I’d imagine him with a big, black thick beard to go with his bulging arms and chest. Even his voice is deep and booming. Other Zmaj follow suit, and then the humans among them are also agreeing. In moments, the near-riot passes as people return to their work, leaving Visidion and me standing between Ladon and Drosdan.
Both of the Zmaj are wounded from their fighting. They’re breathing heavily, and neither of them will meet the gaze of the other. Drosdan rubs his jaw, moving it back and forth until it cracks loudly. My stomach clenches at the sound in sympathy.
“You hit good,” Drosdan says.
“You don’t,” Ladon says, wiping blood away from his eyes.
“Ladon, be nice!” Calista storms up.
She was probably blocked out by the crowd, but she’s here now, and Ladon shrinks before his wife. Calista rises on her toes to look at the wound over his eye. Tsking as she inspects it, she pinches around the area. Ladon yelps, and Drosdan giggles in response. Ladon glares over his wife’s head at the bigger Zmaj.
“You hit like a female,” Ladon snaps.
“Go ahead, tiny man,” Drosdan says.
Visidion and I exchange a glance, then leave the two men to work out the rest of their differences, the danger in the situation gone.
“We work well together,” Visidion says.
He walks towards the wall. A short way off, two Zmaj and a woman are working. She lays a mud mixture down on the wall then the two Zmaj lift large stones up and place them, taking the wall higher.
“Yes,” I agree.
“Perhaps we should do it more often?” he asks, staring out at the empty desert.
“Perhaps we should,” I agree.
A slow smile
spreads as he nods. We stand in comfortable silence, side by side, staring out into the great emptiness that is our home.
“You should leave soon,” he says, but is that regret in his voice?
It couldn’t be, could it? Focus, Rosalind.
“Yes,” I agree, carefully controlling my voice so that my own regrets don’t come out.
“We did not finalize the terms of our trade agreements,” he says.
“Unfortunately no, we did not,” I agree.
“Epis is vital to life, so there will be no restrictions but the supply is limited. We will have to control that,” he offers.
“That is very generous of you,” I say, though in fairness it’s only right. They did claim our epis source without asking.
“I’ve instructed my hunters to range south of here. That will leave north of the City for your hunters,” he says. “That should help with the food supply though it will take some time to let the balance return.”
“Also very agreeable,” I say.
“There has been a suggestion on that front,” Visidion says.
“Oh?” I ask.
“It would be very dangerous but with a joint effort, it might be possible,” he continues.
“You’ve got my interest,” I say.
“A zemlja,” he says.
“What about them?”
“They have enough meat to feed all our people for a long time,” he says. “If we could survive killing one.”
“Well, I know it’s been done,” I say.
“Yes, it’s been done,” he agrees. “Small ones.”
“How big do they get?” I ask.
“They have no predators,” he answers, as if that says it all.
“Sure, but I mean how big can they be?”
“Once, before the devastation, there was one that destroyed a city when it came up from its tunnel underneath the buildings.”
“You’re kidding me!”
He smiles and shrugs.
“Perhaps,” he says. “It is a tale. Though all tales have some truth in them.”
“Let’s talk about this further,” I say. “I’d also like to work out equitable trade for your craft goods. Plates, cups, the pottery, and baskets your people produce.”
“Of course. No matter what my people believe, the City has things to offer us. Metal, glass, materials to ease our life.”
“Good,” I say, holding out my hand.
He clasps my wrist and we shake. I’m staring up into those stunning green eyes and wishing, for all the world, that I could kiss him. Regret causes bile in my stomach as I turn away from his gaze. As I suspected, we’re being watched, albeit with some semblance of covertness.
“Round it up,” I call out. “We need to return home.”
4
Visidion
Something touches my shoulder, jerking my attention away from the horizon. When I turn, Errol pulls his hand back. His face is grim, pensive, as he waits.
“Yes?” I ask.
“Uh, we need to work here sir,” he says, motioning at the wall.
I’m confused for a long moment, still lost in thought, and then I notice that the workers have reached the point of the wall where I’m standing.
“Yes,” I say, shaking my head.
My shoulders knot with tension as I turn away. I haven’t been able to see her for some time, so there is no point in standing here any longer. Rolling my shoulders to relax the muscles, I head through my morning rounds. Padraig’s hammer clanging echoes off stone, conversations mix, and life continues for the Tribe.
“Put that over here please,” Olivia says, motioning Delilah and Bailey to set the crate they carry between them down.
“What is this?” I ask.
“Oh, hi,” Olivia says, turning, her swollen belly sticking out between us.
It brings a smile to my face. Soon we will have a child among us. An image flashes through my mind of Rosalind, dressed in white, with her own belly swelling with our child. Ridiculous, how could we ever make that work? Our dedication is to our people, both of us, and neither group is accepting of the other.
“Hello,” I say, motioning my staff at the crate.
“It’s cloth,” Bailey says.
“Cloth?” I ask.
“Yes, from the wreckage, we thought we could use it to make some other things,” she says.
“We’re thinking clothes,” Olivia adds. “Ours are getting… thin.”
She looks down at herself, and I take in the noticeable tears and holes in her outfit.
“Why not use skins?” I ask.
“Ugh,” Delilah says, placing a hand on her hip. “Seriously? You have to ask? They’re stiff for one; they’re hard to move in; they have a weird odor; and can we just say no on style?”
I don’t understand the way she is using some of the words, but her aura of righteous indignation is enough for me to gather her intent and to make it clear I don’t want to insert myself into their project.
“Well, best of luck,” I say, moving away to extricate myself from the situation.
“Thanks,” Olivia says.
My rounds this morning go quickly. The Tribe members are all industrious in their own right. My inspections are for morale more than any other purpose. The gardens are growing nicely, the wall is coming along, and soon we will have a gate that Padraig is forging right now. A small protection perhaps, but better than none at all. My chest aches, an empty throbbing with each beat of my heart. The knots in my shoulders grow tighter no matter how often I roll my shoulders to ease the tension. Melancholy settles over me like a heavy cloth, weighing me down in its grip.
Climbing the ramp towards my father’s chamber. I turn and look out over the Tribe’s lands. Below, everyone is busy, working, talking, and they are happy. They squabble, they talk, life is happening. Everything is fine, good even, but it does nothing to touch the empty ache inside. Sighing, I turn and continue.
A dark, oiled skin covers the entrance. I pull it aside and slide into the cool dark. After walking down the short tunnel, I emerge into the circular chamber that my father has taken for his own. Falkosh, an elder in his own right, sits with my father. They both look up at my entrance.
“Welcome, my son,” Kalessin says.
“Father,” I greet him, grabbing a stool and pulling it over to sit in front of them.
“Hello, Visidion,” Falkosh greets me. “Are the suns warming you today?”
“Yes, and may they continue to warm you,” I respond, formal.
Falkosh more than any other has held on to things from before the devastation. My father stares at me for a long moment then turns to his friend.
“Thank you for your visit, Falkosh, perhaps we can enjoy supper together?” father says.
“Hmm? Oh, yes, I’d be honored,” Falkosh says, taking the hint and rising to his feet.
Falkosh’s chest is covered with old, puckered scars, scales torn from sections of his stomach and arms that was replaced by scar tissue. He makes his slow, shuffling way out. Once Falkosh was an amazing warrior, but it took its toll on his body. Only after he is gone do I speak.
“How are you, father?” I ask.
“Well, son, well, but the weight is heavy on you today,” he observes.
“It’s fine,” I say.
He grips my shoulder and nods.
“I have had a vision,” he says.
“Yes?”
“Darkness for you, a white light at your side. Trials. Blood and sand,” he says. “Long, hard, arduous, trial after trial, you must persevere. Be strong, my son, your strength and your will are going to be challenged. The hope of our people rests on your shoulders.”
“How is this different than what we’ve already come through?” I retort, red anger rising like a sandstorm cutting through me. “Since the devastation it’s been nothing but a trial. One challenge after another. Tell me father, what is there new in your vision?”
He smiles, shaking his head.
“I tell
you what I can,” he says. “What I see is not clear, you know this. It must be interpreted, and often only in hindsight do we see the truth.”
“You saw the devastation coming,” I snap. “Why can you not see this more clearly?”
“I was lucky. I interpreted what I saw correctly,” he answers. “That was not easier than this.”
“Bah,” I say, slashing my hand across the space between us. “I have not time for mysteries.”
“A circle, surrounded by spectators, a monster roaring, crowds cheering, and a blue sky,” he says.
“This is what you see?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says.
“A blue sky? Where would such a thing exist?”
“I do not know,” he says.
Shaking my head, my jaw clenched tight, I consider his words.
“It will be what it will be,” I hiss, turning away.
“Yes, it will,” he says, resignation in his voice.
Tingles run across my scales as my stomach churns, boiling in anger. Clenching my fist, gritting my teeth, I push down the bijass rising to engulf my thoughts.
I am myself, repeating the mantra until the red rage recedes.
Control of myself returns, the tension drains from my shoulders, and I take a deep breath.
“Do you see anything more?” I ask.
He sighs heavily, giving me all the answer before he speaks.
“No,” he says.
“Well,” I say. “Then I will face what comes.”
My chest aches, an empty void needing to be filled. The stone under my hand is cool and hard, but my fingers long to touch the softness of flesh. Tingling runs up my arm, striking deep into my hearts, making them beat faster. Kalessin places a hand on my shoulder and I start. It’s an unexpected gesture, an unusual display for my father. He grips tight, then lets go before turning and shuffling away.
Pulling the skins aside I step out onto the ledge. The warmth of the double red suns hits my scales. Staring out at the horizon across rolling red and white dunes of shifting sand, my eyes find the hazy edge of the world. Out there, coming fast, is our future. Everything is different now. The Tribe had resigned itself to our inevitable demise. Strangely, it had become comfortable, an accepted reality that our race had reached its end.
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