Drakon Book IV: Butterfly

by C. A. Caskabel

  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.

  A dozen legionaries come rushing. Three Blades on my side, two scalemail men of the Far East. A wiry woman, chestnut-skinned and naked, holding a wicker shield, fights by my side.

  Are we the rams on the altars of the gods? Do the immortals finally quench their thirst today? All worthy warriors gathered from the four corners of the earth to die on the same battlefield, the same day. To earn their gold. There’s nothing for you to earn here. I hit with my blade, armors, and bodies; some are on my side, others are enemies. How can I tell them apart?

  Two men with wicker shields fight by my side. The woman warrior lies slaughtered, and they try to recover her body. They are of a desert Tribe who followed Malan. Damn! Wicker can’t fight iron. Why did Malan bring them here? The Tribe is no more. A towering gray-haired old man from the north wields his ax next to me. Four legionaries try to bring him down. I don’t know. I don’t know who’s mine and who isn’t. No one from my Tribe is next to me now. I am leading othertribers, fighting against othertribers. Madness!

  Is this my plan to save Zeria?

  The sun starts falling toward Lenos, barely visible behind the black dust. The Sun and the Goddess have abandoned us.

  Where are you, Zeria?

  I run up a small hillock, and I look around. My men have scattered, and the Crossers keep coming in waves against us, more than before. I am left alone in the front to conquer the West. And I’m not going to make it. I climb down the slope and run back toward the Drakontail.

  Leke? Have you seen him? Where is Sani?

  Bera, my ninestar Guide, he fell, his bowels spilled over his hide; I just saw him.

  I retreat, running among the corpses of everyone I grew up with. There’s Matsa. His throat is wide open. I saw brave Danaka, the girl with the nine toes. Brothers and sisters of the Sieve. Her Archer sisters next to her. Their blood still gushing out of their chests, boiling hot. The vultures start to gather, some even swooping down. Among them is a white dove.

  Where are you, Baagh?

  Here lies Urak the mad jackal, his head smashed by a stone. Hundreds of Sani’s Guardians, not even sixteen-winters old, next to each other on the ground.

  Arrows like black rain, our arrows, are flying over my head, coming from the edge of the Forest. I keep running; I retreat toward the Drakontail trying to avoid them. Our Archers stop the Crossers’ advance for a while, and I make it safely. We hide in the trees; the darkness is spreading faster under the canopy. The Crossers raise their shields and continue to advance in countless numbers and at a steady pace. We defend ourselves with volleys of arrows, but it’s not enough to stop so many iron-clad men. They regrouped after our retreat and now advance in tortoise formation. Their catapults move forward and keep spewing fire and rocks. We are trapped in the dense wood. Malan always dreamed of burning the Forest; the Crossers will do it in one day. Enaka’s sky isn’t raining now. Now that we desperately need the rain, she has abandoned us. I take two breaths. I fall upon Irhan.

  “What’s going on? The White Doe?” I ask.

  “Doom! They turned their catapults toward the White Doe.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know. Do you? You charged too early, Da-Ren. They sent their cavalry there. We’re getting massacred, retreating to the gorge and in the caves. I barely made it out.”

  “We’re destroyed,” I hear Bako. He’s Chief of one of the Archer Packs.

  “They betrayed us,” I hear someone behind me.

  Half of them were betrayed because I came too late. The other half because I charged too early. They’ll say that I shouldn’t have done it. The Crossers had the time they needed to turn their catapults as the Reghen feared. The Reghen’s truth will be the only one that matters to Malan.

  “Betrayal,” I hear again.

  “We must defend here, inside the Forest!” I hear the Reghen. “Until reinforcements come from the White Doe.”

  “No one’s coming, run for your lives,” Irhan says.

  “Malan? Did you see the banner of the King?” asks the Reghen.

  “Never made it out of the cave,” says Irhan.

  “Fall back to the Forest!” I yell. “Retreat, all the way to Sirol. Don’t stay on Drakontail, don’t return to Warhammer. Back to Sirol!”

  Where is Sani? I must find him.

  I shout his name, ten times and more, running where I see his own. That must be him, sitting on a stone in the half-darkness among the firs. I approach him from behind. This is not a time for rest, Sani. I grab him from the shoulder; his body falls backward, heavy like an oak trunk. His eyes are wide open and so is his belly.

  The legionaries have made it into the Forest. They’re chasing us now. We retreat and fight through the night. Men fall blindly upon men in the darkness; they strike first if they don’t hear a familiar word. There are no birds. No animals. No song. Moans, screams, torches. No one stops.

  “Kill them all, every last one.”

  I know the words of the Crossers. Baagh taught me.

  Only the clouds came out. Selene is hiding, the stars of the brave will not shine this night. They are all hiding under the cloak of death.

  “Get out of the Drakontail!” I shout to my men.

  The Drakontail is an open path, one the Crossers know. There is no refuge there, and they will catch up with us.

  “Hide yourselves in the deep wood.”

  They won’t chase us here as the night falls. Why should they? We are defeated, many have fallen from Sani’s army and I don’t even know how many of Malan’s.

  “Water! Help!” scream the shadows around me.

  No one can tell me where Zeria is.

  I find an old Blade, one of the men I left back in Sirol with Sani. I don’t even remember his name. He too screams at everyone to retreat. He must know.

  “You! Blade! Did you see the children? The women?”

  “What?”

  His ear is a bleeding mess.

  He lifts his blade to hit me. He recognizes me at the last moment, just before it’s too late.

  “What children? Da-Ren, is that you?”

  “Tell me, man. The women, the children!”

  “No women or children here. They stayed behind.”

  “Behind where?”

  “Not here.”

  He tries to cover with his hand his bleeding ear. He screams for water. I don’t have any.

  “Where did you see them?” I ask.

  “I don’t kno
w. They left, someone took them, a Reghen. Days ago.”

  “Where?”

  He looks away from me, yelling at the others to retreat.

  “Back, to Sirol, everyone back, don’t stop.” Then he asks me. “Is that the plan, Firstblade? Back to Sirol?”

  We had no plan for retreat. No one had such a plan.

  “Yes, tell me, the children.”

  “He took them. He was like a Reghen. Maybe that Cross Sorcerer.”

  He turns and runs away.

  Sorcerer, did you manage to save them?

  Did they leave for Hieros Island? Zeria? Aneria? Are they waiting for me at the harbor by the Black Sea?

  Shadows screaming, shadows crying for help, bleeding slowly to death. They run in the gloomy woodland, down the rivulets and the craggy slopes of the Forest. Wolves are watching and running next to the men; the beasts can’t ignore the smell of the blood any longer. So much blood, staining the white flowers of spring. No one will sing of this day, this defeat.

  I see the shadow of a girl, a wind ghost, running among the wolves, jumping from tree stump to boulder and back on the fallen leaves.

  “Careful, Da-Ren. Nothing is over yet. Careful of the Witch,” she says.

  White eyes. Mulberry lips. She then disappears behind the night trees. It is the time of the ghosts. I chase after her.

  “Elbia! Wait!”

  “Da-Ren! Here he is!” I hear my name, but it’s not her voice. I hear a bone-chilling laughter. The man-hunters are looking for me. “You die now, dog! There. It’s him,” someone shouts. The torch illuminates a longskull face.

  “May the oaks hide you and protect you, my love,” whispers Elbia, as she vanishes into the mist.

  Ironbleed and Crazyeyes. I cannot escape them. Those battle wounds are getting worse; I am hobbling on one leg.

  “You, fucking traitor. Drop your blades. Kneel!”

  The Ssons aim their arrows; so many springs and they still haven’t managed to kill me. They scream and shriek with laughter together. My silken cloak is torn; I threw it off long ago. The wood is too dense, and the arrows don’t find me, I hear them swishing, but they are stopped by the oaks.

  Crazyeyes is a fast one; I know him from long ago. Even if I could run full speed, he is faster. I hide behind the old oak, the dirt on my skin the same color as the bark. They slow down and silence their howling laughter. I hear his boots crushing the dry leaves. He is almost here. Two more breaths. One breath, the gray-white owl flies out of the tree, and the Sson freezes on his feet in surprise and covers his eyes. He is in front of me; I leap with my blade and slash his throat open in one thrust.

  “It’s too late, Sson.”

  You bleed, Reekaal. You bleed and die just like all the others you ever tortured. You’ll rot in here; the roots will strangle and carry your corpse down to the caves.

  For the first time, one of Malan’s Ssons gasps for his last breath. Another howling laughter. I grab the Sson’s bow and aim. Ironbleed is not far behind him. My arrows won’t miss, I hope.

  The first arrow misses as my bad leg trembles. He keeps running toward me. He dodges the second arrow; I aim straight, but he is fast. He throws the neckrope, trying to catch me.

  Neckrope? You think you can bring me down like a colt?

  He falls on me. I grab him by the wrist and stop him from thrusting his blade. He pushes the iron edge closer to my throat, his spit falling on my face, as he is over me. The drool disgusts me, and with all my rage, I bang his nose hard with my head. A second and a third time. I grab the arrow I was nocking and pierce him low in the belly. I pull it out and thrust it under his jaw.

  Did you try to capture Da-Ren with a neckrope? Today? On the day of the Final Battle, the night you stole Zeria?

  He still breathes. I take a few steps back.

  Why are you still trying?

  The blood running out of his mouth gags him. He can’t pull the arrow out; it went up from under his chin and into his mouth.

  You’re dying you damned monster; no bitch should have ever bore you. I rip your heart open in the Forest, you cursed Reekaal, for the wolves to eat. Trees, hide him from all eyes; may the sun never see such an abomination again.

  They won’t make a Legend for me, for the two Ssons I killed in the Forest, or the dozens of Crossers I’ve slaughtered since daybreak. Those who didn’t even make it to the battlefield will call me a traitor.

  How many Crossers did you kill today, Ironbleed? You, Malan? Reghen? None? Why did Sah-Ouna spit you out? To hunt your brothers? To murder women? Don’t you have anything to say? What can you say? How can you even speak one word when your blood is pouring black over the white flowers?

  I’ll take your skulls and bring them to the Khun for his trophy case. See how he’d like that! Would I become Khun in his place then? Have Zeria as my queen?

  My thigh is bleeding; I’m limping. I tie it with the few pieces of the white silk cloth that I still carry. My knee is sprained badly, and the open wound under my armpit is drinking sweat and dirt and torturing me.

  I must find water to wash off, clean the wounds before they fester. There is a pond close by.

  “Da-Ren! Here. Da-Ren!” I hear a voice.

  It isn’t Zeria or Leke but another one of my Blades.

  “Lebas?” He is still wearing the milk-white silk. “Take that off, damn you, or they’ll mark you a traitor too. Get away from me. If they see us together, you die.”

  “I won’t leave you, Chief!”

  “Forget the Chiefs. They have all betrayed you. They’re finished. Get out of here!”

  “I have horses. Here, Firstblade,” he says.

  “Go! Everyone’s dead.”

  He embraces me and leaves one of the geldings. He doesn’t believe that I betrayed them. I don’t even know if I betrayed them, if I was too early charging to the battlefield. Would I have done anything differently if I cared only for victory instead of saving Zeria? But that is what everyone will be saying when the next day dawns. No one has excuses for defeat. I won’t even dare make one. “Time to die with honor,” Zeria said.

  Did Baagh take Zeria? Did you, Sorcerer, manage to save her? Maybe she hid on her own; she knows the Forest.

  Malan was defeated. There is no forgiveness for his Firstblade. Our army was crushed. The Final Battle ended in defeat. The Rods will catch me and then there will be no more hope for me, or for Zeria if she’s still here. Where should I go? I can’t go to Sirol. She won’t return to the White Doe or Kar-Tioo, they’ll get her there. She left with the Cross Sorcerer. That’s what that man said. Was he speaking the truth? They may be heading for the harbor, to make it to the Black Sea. If I hurry, I might just get to them in time.

  What do I do?

  “Horse, I don’t know you, you’re not one of mine, but listen to me and run like the wind. To the Black Sea harbor. We must find Baagh. Baagh took them with him. They are sailing for the Thousand Islands, and they’ll hide in the Castlemonastery where the wise elders grant eternal life. Where they have defeated death. Run horse, and take me to the shore.”

  I ride to the east alone for a whole day. It is morning again when I make it out of the wood; I am delirious from bleeding, hunger, and despair. I rest my head on the horse’s neck, I hold the reins tight, and it just finds its way back to the eastern valley.

  Tendrils of smoke rise to the northeast; we came too close to Warhammer, and I must get out of here fast. I pull the reins and kick it. The horse gallops and its sweat burns my wounds.

  I hear riders shouting behind me. I turn and see them; they’re wearing black bearskins. A handful of them, then many more. I can’t outrun them; this horse is spent. More of them. The horse stumbles and throws me down, and I don’t get up again. I am on my back, trying to open my eyes.

  The morning sun is blinding; the spring soil warm like fresh bread. Flowers around me as far as I can see. White starflowers rising up to catch the sun rays. Milky cupflowers falling back to the earth like a young girl’s
tears.

  I hear the wind whispering the words of the Rods.

  “No more, Da-Ren.”

  XCII.

  I Will Stay

  Island of the Holy Monastery, Thirty-Sixth Summer.

  According to the Monk Eusebius

  I hear the wind whispering the words of the gods:

  “More. More. I need more blood. Obey me humans, you, the vilest of all the monsters. Go ahead, spill your blood, but the earth will bloom again, flowers will grow, and leaves will turn green, nourished by your rotting corpses. Give us your blood, and we’ll paint poppies, your hatred will become yellow daisies; give us bloated carcasses, and we’ll grow bluebells around our altars. Life will never cease, monsters, some you kill, but more will be born next spring. You’re just humans. You’re no gods. You are flesh and blood, to feed the young.”

  All of them, the wind, Enaka, our One God at Hieros Island, repeated the same words. They just changed the names slightly every time, in every generation, to make that same story more exciting for the children, different and fresh. All tribes wrote it down with ink or recited it by heart, mostly to give their young a purpose, to give them courage for their Final Battle; rarely to teach their old humility. Courage, the communion of the fools, humility, the wisdom of the wool-haired.

  “No more, Eusebius,” said the First Elder. “You must rest. We all must.”

  “Now? But we have only one chapter left,” Da-Ren complained.

  “No more. We are all aware that it is not going to be a joyous chapter. Not one to endure after all we have heard today,” added Baagh. “Let’s get some supper first. Pray. One needs to know when to stop reading.

  “I wish we could stop this story here. But we can’t,” said Nagpaal, his words coming out very slowly, as if he had lost all strength.

  Nathan, the novice monk, filled my wooden cup and I sipped the honey water slowly, awaiting their decision. The honey had helped me to keep my voice throughout the recital of Da-Ren’s story, for seven days and evenings.