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

by Walt Popester

  Messhuggahs usually spoke more when they were dead than when they were alive, driving the actions of their children and descendants. But in those days, even Dracon Varya had closed himself in a deep silence, together with all his predecessors.

  You will not be afraid. You will be still and silent in the storm, a faint grin on your lips as is worthy of a Messhuggah, he remembered. Oh, Dad…you repeated it until your last day on this world.

  He raised a hand. From the branches behind him landed a young Messhuggah, already kneeling on the ground as sign of obedience.

  Araya asked, “Something new?”

  “No,” the young one answered. “He’s behaving as expected. His aura is strong. Have you felt its fucking effect on the magnetism? And then he smells of—”

  “Use appropriate terms, Kerry,” Araya said. “You’re my son, not the one of any Hammer Dracon.” Then he added, “Yes. I felt it. It won’t be hard for you to hound him. If he steps on a turd, I want to know—”

  “Which smell it precisely has, yes yes, I know, it will be done.” The young one faked a yawn. “They will wait until the boy is on his own, right?”

  “Yes. And you must see that this never happens. He must never be alone.”

  “But it might be a good way to make them come to—”

  “NEVER,” his father said again. “It’s a simple word, made of few unmistakable letters. Which of the five didn’t you understand? It must be the final one. You always struggle to listen to the last part of an order, when you don’t like the first one.”

  Kerry didn’t answer immediately. Then he repeated, “It will be done.” He came forward and handed a letter above his father’s shoulder. “It arrived this morning. From Agent Orange in lizard.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “I recognize the smell of my brother,” the boy promptly replied, knowing that his father was just quizzing him. “You can fake the calligraphy, voice and any other appearance of a spy. Never his smell. The nose of a Messhuggah never lies.”

  Araya nodded in satisfaction. “Never,” he repeated. “It seems that tasking you to sort our intelligence really taught you something, after all.” He opened the envelope. He didn’t care that his son could read, since the message was encrypted in symbols that only two in that world knew: he and his eldest son, the infallible Agent Orange.

  The content of the letter managed to get a smile out of him.

  “What does it say?”

  “Nothing a simple ivory agent should know, especially one that has yet to learn not to ask questions.” Araya crumpled the paper. “It’s a heavy task the one I entrusted to you, my son. Delicate issues require care, and you still have to learn that. Waiting often leads to success, where acting on impulse only leads to a worsening of your position, and you still have to learn that. Your brother did. Your brother has discovered something that will turn the table on someone.”

  There was silence.

  “What?” the ivory agent let out, before putting his hands to his mouth.

  Araya turned to him, clouded over. “How many times must I repeat the same things?” Looking at the awkward aspect of the boy, however, he found it impossible to hold back a laugh. “What, you ask me. Well, it’s your lucky day so I will tell you what: he’s still alive.”

  “Who?”

  “Do you think I will answer this question too?”

  “No?”

  “Of course not! Now shoo, disappear! We’re going to keep an eye on Dagger today. You go snag me that particular kind of mushroom, there where you know. I need one to get a decent vision, it seems.” Araya looked at the portal. “You were right, you know? His aura is strong. It changed the magnetism of the whole Glade. That hadn’t happened since…” Since Crowley came back to pay a visit to his family. He only thought this part.

  “The weight of your secrets will come to crush you, Dad,” the boy said. “When you appear in my dreams, try to speak to me a little more.”

  Araya turned around, but as fast as he had appeared, Kerry was gone. What did I do wrong to hear such a thing from my son, who’s been walking on this world no more than seventy years? Young people today totally lack respect and responsibility! Then Araya remembered what he had been like at his age. Things were different then! We needed to be insolent and reject the rules imposed from above. Now there’s just the need to be guided by those who have more experience.

  He got up and, stretching his legs, reached his blood-red armor, streaked like the muscles of a flayed man.

  How many adventures lived together, old girl…he thought, though now he considered it just a stage costume to wear for the new lord of the Fortress. He shook his head doubtfully, stroking the perfectly forged metal plates. He remembered another caress, centuries ago, of a man condemned to oblivion for not having been able to wait. Araya had that armor forged in his own image, yet only he could know. After all, Araya was the only survivor among those who had witnessed their departure, that distant day.

  Except, of course, They themselves.

  My child. Learn the value of time and the advice it gives to those who respect its rhythms. History may be made in a few instants, but you pay its price for ages.

  Finally, he chose the poor red robes of his order. As he dressed, he heard a loud flapping of wings.

  A messenger of the gods landed on the floor.

  The Poison Dracon only needed to observe the message tied to its tarsus to understand that he was soon going to die. He smiled slightly and ignored it. Barefoot, he left his refuge directing himself to the Council of the Five.

  Because there are still five of us sitting at that table, right? Even if you were tied to your throne and burned with it, you still sit there with us and your advice is as important as ours. Kill me too, Aeternus. I will stop you all the same. Now I know the Hermit is still alive!

  * * * * *

  Dawn was breaking when the rhythmic beat of a thousand boots welcomed him back to the world. Dagger stood up. Looking down from the balcony at the top of the tower, he saw long columns of black Guardians marching in perfect synchrony on the main street of Agalloch. With their hammers clutched in both hands and their armor covered with a thin layer of sand, the black Guardians looked like brutes compared to the crowd that watched them parading in the shadow of their flag: a red hammer on black background. Then Dagger saw the man at the head of the procession, and who redefined the meaning of the word brute. He was bald and sinewy. He wore an armor of shiny black plates, bruised and carpeted with repairs, except for the skirt that consisted of thick rust-colored rings that went down to his boots. He dragged a Tankar, holding his mane tightly. The beast was screaming in rage and pain, bringing both hands to the giant armored sleeve, but the man continued to advance until, arriving at a small square, he pushed the wolf-man in front of him. He planted a foot on the beast’s chest to keep him down and raised his mayem hammer to the sky. He looked around in a dramatic way, then the hammer went down. The eyes of the Tankar squirted in two bloody spurts. Damp pieces of his brain flew to sully the great Guardian’s armor, the bystanders’ clothes and the worn robes of some street kids who had run there to watch the grisly show. The hammer struck and struck again, so fast and powerful that soon nothing remained of the beast’s head except a shapeless mess of hair, bones, and pink, whitish flesh. A child rushed to pick up a piece of skull. He lifted his marveled eyes at the big, black man standing in front of him, who lowered the huge, bloody left hand to ruffle his hair, before continuing on his way with the green mallet held in his right one.

  Agalloch’s citizens struggled to touch at least a foot of the great man, as if he were their savior. They were quickly warded off by the Guardians of Sabbath, with fists in the belly and jabs in the open face.

  Ktisis! Even Olem looks consumptive in comparison, Dagger thought. He got back inside the room and dressed in the same, old leather armor he was wearing the last time he had died. The wounds left by Gorgors, Cruachans and Tankars had been stitched up, but marks and
scratches were still there to remind him of the long, hard road to a home where he didn’t belong. He decided to wear the boots he found next to the door. From what he remembered, it was the first time ever he was not barefoot. Losing contact with the floor, his awareness of the environment was reduced—no more vibration, no touch, no contact with the ground. He was tempted to take them off, but going barefoot to the Council of the Five would be a bad start. He decided to open the door and get down.

  The Guardians crowded the corridor leading to the Council Hall and, probably, the entire Fortress. He snaked among them avoiding any form of contact, surrounded by their veteran looks, deep scars, and then daggers, swords, and the mighty hammers just come from Sabbath, grabbed in an act of open hostility toward the Sword Guardians, who kept their arms crossed over their chests.

  The Poison Guardians stood aside with their hoods pulled over their heads, for the most part Messhuggahs dressed in their robes and barefoot.

  I troubled myself too much about my clothing.

  They noticed him. They were talking quietly in groups of three or four, communicating with their eyes more than with words, only to turn around to watch Dagger as if they had heard him coming. Or sniffed him coming.

  As a good thief, he slipped through armors and blades managing to reach the door at the end of the corridor. When he looked inside the huge hall, he saw that the ground floor was deserted, while the upstairs gallery was huddled. A confused clamor arose and increased until, from the door to his right, entered the same giant he had seen parading in Agalloch. The man was greeted by a roar of exaltation to which he replied raising his arm, disquieting in his height. As he walked, the skirt of rust-colored rings produced a threatening sound: klang klang klang—metal on metal. His shaved head gleamed in the light of day. His black eyes were hostile and hateful. On his back, ready for use, was the giant green hammer. It had a sting on one end and the shouting face of Ktisis carved on the other, the god’s lips still soaked in the Tankar blood it had just tasted. On the handle were three grips.

  Three? I bet Olem had a four-hand sword forged just to top him! However, Dagger was sure the man could wield such a weapon just with one hand. When he saw him reach the Pendracon’s throne, he realized once and for all what the situation at the Fortress was.

  An opposite door was nearly torn down by a kick. Entered Olem, wearing his Amorphis armor marked by the silver sword on the chest. On his shoulders rose the hilt of the inseparable broadsword. He reached his seat with a slow but firm pace and fixed his gaze on the lord of Sabbath.

  The third door was silently opened. A Dracon came in, dressed in a humble tunic of wool as red as blood. It had the green symbol of a vial on the chest and a hood covered his head, exposing only the lower half of his wrinkled face. Araya was carrying a ceremonial katar, a short blade mounted on a horizontal handle like a lethal extension of the arm.

  Dagger felt a pat on the back. Marduk entered the room accompanied by his faithful blades. The Dracon Delta marched, calm and discreet, until he reached his seat.

  Silence fell. The Pendracon put the three-handed warhammer on the table, so hard it seemed he wanted to smash it. The three Dracons followed suit with their sword, dagger and katar, then they sat; and the great hall was silent. For a moment, Dagger remembered the silence that hung in the Melekesh amphitheater when a sacred slaughter was about to begin, with all the spectators waiting to see what would happen.

  “I, Varg Belhaven the third,” the Pendracon’s voice was powerful and profound. “Warrior King of the Guardians, Dracon of the Hammer and lord of Sabbath, shining beacon in the night of the Pacific desert and knife on Tankars’ throat, declare open the Council of the Five, summoned to discuss issues of vital importance for the order, led by me at the behest of Angra come down to earth, Lord of Creation and of all things visible and tangible.”

  The Hammer Guardians responded with a chorus, “U-NION! U-NION!” whirling their black fists up in the still air.

  “I salute Olem Nightfall, Dracon of the Sword,” Varg continued when calm returned. “And Marduk Quandary, Dracon Delta, winners of the last holy war against the Gorgors, after the terrible defeat that deprived us of our beloved Warrior King, Crowley Nightfall the first. Lastly, I warmly greet Araya of Obzen, son of the earth, and with him all the Poison Guardians arrived today at the Fortress to enlighten us with their ancient wisdom.” Once he recited the opening formula, with the tone of voice he would use for simple rhetoric words, Varg stroked the handle of his hammer. “Blood Brothers. We’re all disturbed by the reported infiltration of Gorgors in the world Beyond.” None of the Guardians was horrified at the news, a sign that the rumor had already spread. “You Deltas have behaved as if certain matters were just your business, when they affect us all. You’re our elected body, responsible for the walls of Agalloch, the Fortress, the portal and the world Beyond. But you’re not their owners. So please shed some light on the whole affair, if you please.”

  “Eternity, is it their fault if Deltas are the first defenders of Balance?”

  Olem said.

  The Pendracon answered dryly, “Please, do not use that epithet. I decided to abolish it at my election, together with the barbarous custom of getting an eye popped out of the person of the Warrior King as a tribute to Angra.”

  “Oh, but it’s not the only innovation introduced to the Fortress, right-right little brother?” hissed a Messhuggah just behind Dagger.

  To whom another one, probably the little brother, replied, “Oh no, not indeed! Brutal torture in dark, endless prisons, there where no one can set foot except for the cockroaches.”

  “Oh yes!”

  “Oh yes.”

  “Who was on our side, when we closed the eyes of those who died on the mission?” Olem continued.

  “Are you by chance denigrating the importance of Sabbath, and the task we of the Hammer carry out?” the Pendracon growled. “Look how red and fresh is the blood blessing my weapon, child. How many times have we sacrificed the strongest of us, so that the young gentlemen of the Sword could stay safe in the brothels, under the sheets with their…muses?”

  Olem closed his eyes, and for a moment he seemed about to grab the sword to resolve that issue in the only way he knew. “We won our historic war against Gorgors,” he replied, taming the beast inside. “Do you see Gorgors around you?”

  “Of course not! Now they are all in the world Beyond, it seems!”

  Olem locked his hand into a fist, but his voice was still calm. “All your scars are there to witness your inferiority against your enemy. Parade your prisoners through Agalloch’s streets and smash their heads in front of everyone, my Pendracon. You’ll certainly impress a lot of louts, not someone who’s spent his whole existence kicking the shadows in the ass back to their native lands!”

  Pendracon Varg Belhaven the third locked his fist, too, but remained silent.

  “Oh, must we suffer all this again?” the Messhuggah behind Dagger hissed again.

  “Shut up, maybe this time they’ll finally kill each other!” the other one replied.

  “I’m not so lucky. Today I stepped on a piece of shit, you know?”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “What did it smell like?”

  “What problem do you have with shit, lizards?!” a third, human voice broke in. “Let me hear!”

  Now Marduk was talking, with one hand stretched out toward Olem. “What the Sword Dracon is trying to say is…that nothing has been hidden from you. The same convocation of this council reflects our desire to share with the Pendracon and all our Blood Brothers, the new knowledge. You should only listen, even if I know how hard it can be at times.”

  “The loyalty and good faith of the Delta Guardians are not in question,” Araya interjected, unperturbed. “In the end, we were all in the world Beyond to save what could be saved. Everyone except you, Varg Belhaven the third.”

  The Pendracon didn’t answer, but a chorus of indignation came from the
gallery. Dagger looked up. The Hammer Guardians were, by far, the most numerous among those who attended the Council, more than the Guardians of the Sword, Delta, and Poison put together; these last two groups, just amaranth and crimson spots lost in the crowd and quiet as ever. Except for the two Messhuggahs behind him, it seemed.

  “Are you insinuating something?” Varg asked.

  “I never insinuate,” Araya replied. “On the other hand, I found it very noble of you to not give up the title of Hammer Dracon and the tower of Sabbath when you wore the sacred white robes. Although, this term is quite metaphorical, since you refused the white armor in order to keep on wearing the black one, in addition to the long list of sacred traditions you abolished.”

  “That’s my place,” the Pendracon said. “My only vocation and the only favor I ask from my god: to defend the civilized world from Tankars. Blood Brothers, no more old discords! As a sign of good will, I’ve forgiven Dracon Marduk for kicking out of his tower the guards I had personally selected to help him. Now time is running out. Wasting it in old, useless quarrels would be an unforgivable mistake.”

  “He calls them old and useless!”

  “Unbelievable. It’s he who’s old and useless! And bald too!”

  It was Marduk who spoke next. “A new portal between the two worlds has been dug out. And the enemy owns it.” That revelation caused such a stir that it was impossible to continue, until the Pendracon raised his big hand to bring silence back.

  The Poison Dracon continued, “In the world Beyond, the new portal is close to the one we know. Its side on Candehel-mas, instead, is located in the Pacific desert: that’s where the Tankars and the Gorgors came from. Apparently, the world we’ve always used as a prison hosts both the magnetism Fractures caused by the Exile of the forces lived—”

  “Oh, who the Ktisis has ever understood you!?” Varg interrupted. “Explain what happened so that everyone can understand, not just those who have spent their lives locked inside a library dug into a fucking tree!”