Dagger 2 - Blood Brothers - A Dark Fantasy Adventure (Born to Be Free series)

by Walt Popester

  ‘Let me…let it go!’

  ‘Wow, look at that. Relax, big boy, let me think about you!’

  The bittersweet smile slowly faded from her face. “It’s all an illusion, Holly. Open your eyes. It’s always been for the likes of us.”

  “Missy, why?”

  That was the old name of the Muse, when they were both two street rats in the old Orah’s guild. Then fate separated them permanently: he, kissed by fortune and adopted by Pendracon Crowley and his wife; she, unable to pass her Test and thrown down into a hell even worse than the one from which she had escaped.

  Fate sometimes gives a chance to a street child, but only one, she thought. “The house painted in white, with a garden and fruit trees,” she answered. “That’s why. The house we used to dream about with bare feet buried deep in the mud, waiting outside a tavern for our next customer. Do you remember, Olem? Do you remember the cold and dark? I wanted things to turn out differently for us, but the choice was up to you. I was here, waiting day and night, hoping that you…” Her gaze got lost in nothingness, and only then did she see senseless were her illusions. “…would give up everything to start all over again.”

  He snorted a sad and amused laugh. It hurt more than anything else that had happened or was about to happen to her.

  Missy shook her head. What am I asking you? To give up your favorite game just for me?

  To her eyes, Olem was still that kid who would never give up being the hero who saved the world at the last moment, with all the bad guys falling dead at his feet. His need to rule was born from a hopeless suffering, the pain of the humiliations endured when he couldn’t defend himself. The Muse thought Olem had always been a Guardian, even when he was just white trash, a knife in the night, a little thug the men of the Fortress themselves used to hunt.

  We could be happy together, if only you believed like I believed.

  When he was elected Dracon, all hope for a future together had disappeared. So she decided to betray him in turn, and in the worst possible way. “If only you had believed in it,” she said, giving voice to her thoughts. “If only you could realize that no illusion is worth more than that of love. Glory and power are nothing but circles in the water.”

  He did not answer, bowing his head instead.

  “With this, you’ll deserve your statue in the colonnade of the Fortress,” she said. “What you’ve always wanted—to be important to someone. But don’t you see? You were important only to me, because I’m as alone as you are.” She rested her head against his chest, but now she did not find the warm skin of the man, only the cold and rough shell of a Guardian come there to do justice.

  Their justice. The one of those who can defend themselves, not us. For those like us, there’s no redemption. She began to cry, and in a whisper asked, “How did you figure it out?”

  “I heard them chirping,” the Dracon replied coldly, as if he were already far away, the operation concluded. “A messenger of the gods does it rarely, usually when it’s in love or when it dies. It has a unique voice; you only need to hear it once in a lifetime—clear drops falling into crystal water. As a child I spent a lot of time with Araya, since Crowley was often too busy to take care of me. You learn a lot of interesting things from Messhuggahs, stories that many have forgotten. It was their preferred means of communication, as I recall. Apparently, it still is.”

  She nodded. “And you’ve seen me when I thought I was alone. Something I should have expected from a Dracon. That was stupid of me.”

  “Nothing someone shouldn’t expect from a whore,” he spat back.

  The Muse froze. It had been horrible—with those words he was killing her twice. After all, I deserve it, she thought. She had betrayed the one man who had shown her affection, the only boy who had always defended her when a thousand dark hands could have claimed every part of her young body during the long Agalloch nights.

  “You will come to the Fortress and talk, Missy. You will tell us where They are and what They have in mind. Most importantly, you’ll tell us when They will come back!”

  The Muse shook her head. “You will let our paths split now and here. You owe me. You won’t leave me in the hands of the Black Guardians. You know I won’t speak, as I didn’t speak when old Orah punished me in a way you’ve never experienced. I will behave no differently now, after seeing every single hope dying out like a candle in the wind. They could understand my pain. They understood the dismay of those who were left outside in the rain. Please forgive me for surrendering to that last illusion. They were the only answer to my loneliness.”

  “At least, tell me if—”

  She put a finger on his lips, silencing him. “I’ll answer one of your questions, just one. When will They come back? you asked earlier. Well, They are not coming back.”

  Olem was astonished by those simple words, but for a reason she couldn’t understand. It didn’t matter anymore.

  The Muse turned to the window and looked for comfort in the breath of night. “Kill me softly.”

  When she heard him crying behind her, she smiled at the stars. Olem had never cried for anyone. He still loves me, she thought, closing her eyes and bringing her hands to the sword blossomed out of her womb.

  He loved her very much.

  Stuck in the pink painted wall, now tinged with red, the sword held her up as she gazed out the window. Her eyes slowly closed on the illusions of the mortal world.

  * * * * *

  Olem descended into the depths of the one place that had always represented a small, private corner of happiness in the misery of his existence. He crossed the room full of men of all kinds, who were laughing and drinking as half-naked prostitutes sat on their knees and hugged their sweaty necks. The men rubbed their ruddy faces against the shapely breasts, kissing passionately but without love, fingers sinking into the soft flesh.

  At the counter, Olem looked blankly at the damp circles bequeathed by generations of mugs.

  The Lady approached. “My little girl has really worn you out, huh?”

  The Dracon looked up and she stopped smiling. “My baby said she doesn’t want to be disturbed. Not until tomorrow morning. You will let her sleep.”

  “Of course I’ll let her sleep. You know I reserve her only for you, Holly. It’s been a while since you had to compete with all these old, greedy bastards for her attention.” She laid before him her full breasts framed by her crossed arms. “And then…you have the rare gift of always leaving her exhausted. It would be really cruel to have her work again, after being with you. To tell you the truth, something has changed in her, you know? You should treat my precious creature a bit better, and take her to a clean place. A nice house with a garden, yes, and some fruit trees: she speaks about it often, and she deserves it after all this time. The pact in utero has expired, so I could sell her to you at a special price. You’ve never had any cause for complaint with me, have you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, my boy, I don’t have paper and charcoal, so I can’t draw you a picture, but…the girl will soon be of no use to me. You don’t fuck pregnant women—you know it’s a taboo in this city.” The Lady raised an eyebrow, as if to say, Now you know what I mean?

  Fate locked its icy hands around Olem’s neck, strangling him as the whole ruddy world kept on laughing.

  “Come on; wipe that look off your face. A child is always a blessing, right? Ah, you men are always the same! You fuck whatever has the shape of a humid hole, and then you complain if a poor Angrian gets pregnant.”

  “No. You don’t understand.”

  “A drink drowns all of life’s sorrows. What can I offer you, Daddy? On the house!”

  Olem did not think about it for long before answering, “Beer. A lot of beer.”

  * * * * *

  1. Balance

  Dagger opened his eyes in the dimly lit room. His hand immediately flew to his waist, reaching for the one object from which he would never be parted. But Redemption, his knife, was gon
e.

  The light of the setting sun penetrated in thin blades between the shutter slats, advancing through the dusty air to illuminate his surroundings. His Spider’s instincts suggested that this was not just any room: the furniture was well made, as were the carpets; their intricate patterns depicted colossal stone faces surrounded by dunes, ruins, and statues. Red birch logs burned in the gaping purple maw of a massive fireplace, its mantel sculpted in the shape of a wolf’s muzzle. The flickering ruby reflections danced against the portrait of a man placed above, making the subject’s armor gleam and giving a sinister light to his eye—his only one, as the rest of the painting had been ripped off in what looked to have been a fit of uncontrollable rage.

  Dagger knew that gaze—or at least he had once, in a time and a world distant from this one. The Divine. He shifted his weight and pain shot through his body. Wincing, he brought his hand to the thick bandage wrapping his bare chest. Suffering was the constant thread that led him back to the labyrinth’s entrance. He recalled the flight…the claws penetrating his flesh. He remembered Sannah’s guild and the sewers, the stench. He remembered a red smile under the white sneer of Seeth.

  “Seeth!” he whispered as he turned, half expecting to find her at his side. But she was dead. He had died as well, twice, and twice he had been resurrected thanks to the blood flowing in his arteries. There was no Spiders’ guild anymore, no old Mama. That horrible yet comforting world—where, despite everything, he had learned to survive—was no more.

  Now there was nothing, and nothing frightened him.

  He watched the fire burning in the jaws of Angra, the god who had saved him from the Divine—from Crowley, from the man in the portrait. So his mind got back to the starting point—that one eye staring back at him above a sarcastic half-smile. There was nothing more. It was as if a black hole had replaced what was left of his memory up to the moment he had awoken looking for his knife.

  He threw the blankets aside and put his bare feet on the floor, the chill of the large marble slabs in different shades of yellow slicing through his skin. He felt wind-borne sand rising within the four walls, and screams of pain swirled around him. He squinted and tried to drive them out of his mind. Once he had regained control, he stood up on weak legs and reached for the window.

  Between the shutter blades was a cloudless sky, and the sun had sunk halfway below the horizon. Two moons had already arisen in its place: a small golden one and a larger red one. Dagger opened the window and the desert sent a warm caress of wind to welcome him back.

  Small gray smoke columns from dozens of fireplaces rose toward the blood-red sky under the watchful eyes of the winged sculptures at his side. They depicted the god of Creation, carved in the ocher stone that seemed to enclose him.

  The room was at the top of a tower. At his feet lay a dark city, warped by a thick fog that flowed like sluggish blood along its narrow streets. On the facades of the twisted buildings he noticed stony, inhuman eyes and colossal fragments of bodies, claws, and monstrous faces. A few dilapidated windows projected distorted shadows into the streets, and only the smoke from the chimneys and a strain of slow and distant music, pinched by inexperienced hands, suggested the presence of life inside the dark houses.

  Further on, the lights thinned out even more, becoming isolated stars in a darkening sky that led up to the mighty city wall that crossed his field of vision in a wide arc. Houses were built practically on top of each other, stealing space to space—the most recent buildings seemed to push aside the oldest ones or devour them outright, creating hybrid and malformed beasts with eyes to see and lips to speak. They reminded him of the ship cemetery and the depraved life inhabiting it, wrecks fused together in unlikely architectures.

  Just then, on the summits of three lopsided towers, Dagger spied a group of humanoid shapes silhouetted against the sunset. At first, they seemed to climb long poles as if in play, but when he looked closer, Dagger saw that the poles crossed their entire bodies from pelvis to shoulder, where they emerged out of flesh.

  When he saw slimy intestines gushing out from their slashed bellies, Dagger realized they were not men but Gorgors, the shadows that had hunted him to his present destination. There was also a man with them, who had probably tarnished himself with a crime so serious he deserved to die the same way the sworn enemies of the Fortress had.

  Dagger retreated inside the room and opened the door, looking down the depths of a spiral staircase. Descending, he encountered other doors, but ignored them when he heard the rumbling voices of two men in the dark. He began to walk slowly, careful not to reveal his presence.

  Two thugs wearing black-plate armor sat around a table at the bottom of the stairs. Two faithful war hammers kept them good company, as they guarded the three equidistant doors that opened on the ground floor.

  Bald and with a long reddish-gray beard, the older one said, “I don’t know,” as if continuing a conversation already begun. “If Angra himself went through the damn portal to save what was left of the expedition, it means some big fucking trouble was going on there.”

  “That boy is the key, I tell you,” answered the younger one, whose red hair fell on his huge armored shoulders. “Not the girl they kicked down in the prisons—no—they’re just afraid she’ll talk to someone. But the boy…in these months, Marduk has only left his bed to shit. He’s even had food brought inside the room, as if there were a treasure hidden beyond that damn door. That boy saw something, I tell you. Maybe he’s the reason for all this mess.”

  “I just wonder how it could happen.”

  “What?”

  “That Ktisisdamn Tankar! How could she slip by us with no one noticing?”

  “Kugar is NOT a Tankar!” Dagger yelled, bringing his fist to his mouth a second later.

  The Guardians stood up, one hand already on the handle of their weapons.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Who the Ktisis do you think it is?” the older one said, sitting down again but not letting go of the grip on his hammer. “Come forward, little asshole!”

  Dagger felt like the stupidest creature that had ever walked the world, or both worlds, as he climbed down the last steps to find himself in front of the two. Standing before them, he had the terrible awareness of being disarmed. He raised his open hand in greeting. “She saved our lives. She’s not a Tankar.”

  “Yes, we have no doubts about it. We were just talking, nothing personal. I am Hamon, he is Hamarth.”

  Hamarth, the young one, said, “Sit down here with us. Shall I fetch a mug of draug? Recovering from a long convalescence is easier, if you warm your bones and guts with draug!” He laughed, but neither the older Guardian nor Dagger laughed with him.

  “I think I’ll get back to sleep,” the boy said. “Where are the others?”

  Hamarth frowned. “The others?”

  “Olem, Araya and—”

  “You call the Dracons by name, as if they were your friends?”

  “They’re somewhere, they’re talking about…something.” Hamon extended a hand to silence his companion. “What happened beyond the portal? Do you want to talk about it?”

  “We were attacked.”

  “Wow. Like that’s news. Look at what they did to you. Of course you were attacked, but by who?”

  “By…Gorgors?”

  “You lie! That’s not possible!” Hamarth said as every trace of mockery disappeared from his face.

  The boy quickly came to the conclusion that he should speak as little as possible.

  “Hey!” Hamon said. “Don’t feel threatened by us! We’re just wondering, okay? So, Gorgors were in the world Beyond, huh?”

  “Go ahead. How did they get there?”

  “It’s that…I don’t remember much.”

  “Sure,” the old Guardian agreed, standing up to lay a giant hand on the boy’s shoulder. “After all, you’ve been away for a long time. You looked dead and your memory must have been affected, right? That’s how these things work.”
r />   “How long have I been gone?”

  “Two months,” Hamon said. His smile slowly froze as he tightened his grip on the boy’s shoulder. “And now you will speak. You will not be a fool. How the Ktisis could Gorgors be on that world?”

  “Hamon, stop!” Hamarth got up to look out of one of the doors. He didn’t see anyone, because when he closed it he turned back with a grin on his face. “Leave him to me.”

  Hamon shoved Dagger forward and Hamarth immobilized him, pressing his face against the table with his armored elbow against the nape of the boy’s neck.

  The boy quickly weighed the situation. “Watch out. You’re crushing my foot!” he screamed. “Oh, Ktisis! Olem will never forgive you!”

  The jailer took a moment to check if it was true, and Dag moved in a flash. Pushing himself off the table, he landed a powerful blow on the man’s teeth, breaking some. When the Guardian let him go, the boy ran to grab one of their hammers and smiled as he lifted it…or, at least, as he tried to. The hammer was so heavy that it stayed stubbornly stuck to the ground.

  Seeing him like that, Hamarth laughed hard even though his face turned blood red. “I know a way to get you talking!” He advanced menacingly. “Come here. After a while you’ll like it, I promise!”

  Just then, the sound of footsteps came to Dag’s aid, rapidly coming closer until one of the three doors burst open. Out of it appeared a man dressed in an amaranth coat, a sword on his back, a belt of daggers on his chest and the inseparable knife on his calf.

  “Marduk!”

  The Delta Dracon strode through the room and punched Hamarth with an upper cut, sending a splash of blood from his torn mouth. When he tried to reach his hammer, Marduk drew a dagger and nailed his hand to the table.

  “Aahh!”

  “I’ll kill you all! Do you hear me?” Marduk said, turning the knife in the wound. “I’ll kill you like mangy dogs!”

  “Venerable, be reasonable,” Hamon uttered, advancing with open hands in a sign of surrender.

  “You stop there!”