Below that was Araya’s frenzied signature.
He emptied the content of the bag into the bowl, watching it bubble and turn into a greenish pulp. He took off his leather armor and immersed the cloth into the foul-smelling concoction, waiting for it to soak. When he wiped it on his arms and legs, the liquid burned like the braziers of Almagard, yet he disinfected each lesion. He had no intention of dying from an infection—he was sure that Olem wanted just that. His immortality had pushed his teacher to hit him deeper and harder. At the end of the training session, Olem had attacked him as if he did not hold a sword in his hand, but an ax with which to amputate his arm. The result was a second gash on his shoulder, deep enough to reveal flesh under leather.
Once he had finished cleansing his wounds, he leaned out of the window to catch the last rays of the setting sun paint the Glade with blood, penetrating in a bar of red light above the black silhouette of the Fortress. His gaze was drawn to a light on top of the Poison tower that together with the abandoned one, overlooked the sacred forest. Kugar was there, he knew. He wondered if she too was looking out at the bright arc of his window in the Nest. Then he realized that a thousand lights lit the latter, while only one the top of the tower—her new prison. Being separated from her felt meaningless to him, despite all the reasonable explanations that Kugar herself had given him. They wanted to alienate him from his human nature as well as from the divine one, and leave him there caught in the middle, drowning in an existential void that was tailor-made for him.
He looked out of the window until the light disappeared, giving up the world to the night. He heard noises now, louder behind the wall of silence: voices, laughter, and clinking glasses. Being in company will do you some good, Araya’s voice reminded him. He left the room and went downstairs, stepping into the large dining hall located on the first floor. It was now full with novices, a few years older than him, sitting around the long tables covered with dishes and full mugs. Many still had their armor on, with swords at their sides, war hammers on their back, daggers within easy reach of the steak knives, and their faces dirty with dust…and some with blood, too. They drank and ate like there was no tomorrow.
Dagger went to sit at the long bar. Long intestines, red as fire and filled with more trite innards, were being roasted on the impressive brazier behind it. Above them, the carcasses of ten unidentifiable animals performed their last dance in the arms of the flames, blessing the room with the heady aroma of burnt fat.
A big blonde woman, with breasts he could only describe as epic, divided herself between the brazier and the barrels from which she drew a reddish, frothy drink. When she saw him, she handed him a wooden pint overflowing with foam. “It’s free for you,” she said smiling. In the confused clamor, Dagger caught only fragments of the unconnected words that followed: “…‘cause it’s not in the spirit of Guardians to complain, you know…drink, rather, for Ktisis! You won’t live forever, so…yes, he was about your age, your father, when he used to say It’s been a day of war! before downing a pint of draug in one breath. When he died, I had that sentence engraved on this damn stone, hard as your little assholes’ head!” She concluded by indicating the phrase carved above the barrels. “Always remember: Drink! It’s been a day of war!”
“What’s that?” he asked, shouting to be heard.
“It’s draug: the nectar of the gods!”
The woman spat on the ground and left him alone. Dagger thought she was rude even for the standards of Melekesh. Almost. He sipped the drink and found himself squinting his eyes. It was strong and dense. It left a metallic and sweet aftertaste in his mouth, like blood, flooding his guts with heat. He smiled, soon intoxicated with pleasure as the world vanished into a benevolent mist. Everything was fine now. He looked around and no one was watching him, no one was asking who he was or where he came from. For the first time since he was at the Fortress, he was only one of many, neither Skyrgal’s child nor Aniah’s burden. The alcoholic nectar clouded his vision and took away all the pain, including the physical one.
He smiled at the mug, when the door was nearly thrown open. A dirty, shabby boy entered the room, wearing a gray wool coat and tattered boots caked with mud, spreading sand everywhere. He was unarmed and looked like a tramp in desperate need of something to eat. And to drink, Dag thought, noting his split lips and other signs of dehydration.
As he entered, the boy lowered his hood revealing short-cropped, platinum hair and piercing white eyes, from his pupils to his irises. A brief moment of silence surrounded him, then laughter and singing began to loudly echo again under the high, rocky ceiling. The newcomer dropped himself onto a stool next to Dag, and absent-mindedly nodded at the waitress. She immediately brought him a mug, bowing in a sign of respect and not wasting time with chatter.
Just then, another novice stood up from the table behind them. He was two or three years older then the other boy and came to sit at the bar, bringing his pint of draug with him. He had platinum hair too, but his was long and disheveled. The same restless light shone in his eyes white as milk.
“It took you fifteen days to return to the Fortress, brother,” he said. “Ten days longer than it should have, and look at the state you’re in! Araya will find a reason to be angry even with you, this time.”
The boy turned away, not looking. He met Dag’s eyes for a moment, then lowered his gaze.
“Oh, don’t be like that, Ash,” the older brother continued. “I know it was not easy, but you had to fend for yourself this time. You’re no longer a little girl who piddles around rubbing a finger on her pinky pussy, right? You should–”
In answer, Ash stood up and grabbed him by the neck almost lifting him off the stool. “You left me among those fucking ruins with no provisions and not even a rusty dagger!” he hissed through clenched teeth, taking a step forward. “It’s a miracle if I’m still alive, can’t you see? Ktisisdamn! I’m your brother, Warren! The only person left to you since Dad died, and you… you’re just a pathetic asshole!”
Warren looked him straight in the eyes. Then he pushed his hand aside. “It was your Test,” he spat out. “Accomplishing it would have made a Guardian of you. What did you expect, that it would be easy?”
His brother grinned. “You screw it up because you knew I’d become a Guardian before you, right? And you couldn’t bear it. It hurt your pride, your fucking pride. You’re just a…” He stopped.
“Come on, little sister. Say what you think of me once and for all! I have a thick skin, what do you think?”
“Go to Ktisis!” Ash concluded, and walked away without another word.
“Spoiled girl,” Warren murmured. He took another sip, then put the mug on the bar and silently contemplated the pathetic struggle for survival of the draug bubbles. “What are you looking at?” he said. He turned to Dagger with his icy eyes. “Jerk, do you know you’re not even allowed to look at me?”
The red-eyed boy nodded and stood up with a fist already clenched, ready to solve that issue in the only way he knew.
But another novice interposed between them, practically popping out of nowhere. He put his arms on both their shoulders, as if he were their best friend.
“You… you be a good boy, okay?” he said to Dag. He was a novice of the Sword, judging by the mark on the shabby leather armor he was still wearing. With shiny emerald green eyes, he winked at the white-haired boy. “This is Warren,” he said. “Leave him alone. For your own sake.”
Warren went back to his table, taking his mug with him as if the two of them were no longer worthy of his attention.
The Sword novice sighed. “So. I did my good deed for the day.”
“Which one?”
“Saving you from certain death! The only possible ending that comes to mind after seeing you hit Warren in the face. You don’t know what the draug is and you try to beat the son of the late Pendracon Hammoth Korpiklan. You’re Dagger, ain’t you? The son of Crowley?”
“So they say.”
“So
they say? If only I had a father like Crowley!”
“And who’s your father?”
“Ah! No one can ever really be sure of that, but the one who claimed to be my mother said that my father was the one who claimed to be my father. So I considered my father the one who said he was my father.”
Dag cocked his head sideways. “You’re trying to make me laugh, aren’t you?”
The boy became serious all of a sudden. All the facial muscles that were keeping up his galling smile seemed to relax, opening on a hopeless emptiness. “Your face was not made to laugh,” he said, and Dag felt his every bone freeze. Then the boy in front of him laughed again with all his considerable teeth, in the middle of a freckled face that seemed to shine in its own light. “I am Ianka. Come take a drink and drown your sorrows, and all of our doubts will be gone until tomorrow. Oh yes, all the answers lie deep in a barrel of draug!”
Dagger was about to answer, when Ianka dragged him to the table where Warren too had sat. A girl sat next to the latter, with long hair that shone in the torch light like threads of gold and copper. The innocent, childish eyes clashed with the dagger stuck into the table, between the knife and the fork. Dagger felt that the girl had been watching him for some time, with the saddest look into the greenest eyes he had ever seen—two emeralds set in ivory. He realized he had already met her somewhere, and when he noticed the imprint of a bandage under her amaranth tunic, he remembered: she was the girl whipped in the arena.
“What’s the problem?” she asked. “You want to make a pass at me?”
“What?”
“You’re watching me as if you’ve never seen a single pussy hair in your whole life.”
Ianka grinned. With a kick, he pulled away the stool in front of her, inviting Dagger to sit, which practically meant putting him down by force.
“So, what were we saying?” Ianka asked, once he was sat again in front of his five empty mugs. He grabbed one of the two that were still full, and resumed the conversation he had interrupted only to save him from Warren. “Oh, yes! That damn Hammer asshole claims he can challenge me to a duel and survive, so what do I do? SBAM!” He slammed his hand down on the table, making the pints jump. “I attack him without warning! Ktisis shit, he didn’t expect it! That asshole fell with his ass on the stairs and began to climb them one by one, shaking like a small Tankar with her period and saying, Hey, it was just a joke. Ah, can you believe it?”
“Stupid Sabbath novices,” said the girl. “Almost as stupid as some of us.”
Warren glared at her from behind a lock of white hair. She readjusted it on his forehead, so that it wouldn’t impede her stare full of hate.
“Yes, but that’s not the end,” Ianka continued, slightly raising his voice. “Another one of those dickheads full of crap—I mean, seriously, just full of crap—sees him in trouble and what does he do? He runs to his aid! Ah, fuck it! I found myself fighting simultaneously against two of the Hammer. With their childish battle screams, they thought to be superior to a sword stuck into the right place!”
“And how did it end?”
“How do you think it ended, my sweet girl? You know how cockroaches are—all talk. I disarm them and what do they do? They look at each other and run away in terror. Maybe they were afraid I’d drive my sword in their asses, so I picked up their hammers and wanted to bring them back to Sabbath, saying that…I don’t know, that someone had let them fall or something, but Ktisis they weighed a lot so I let them fall into the ditch. I got back to the Nest and went to sleep, but before that I masturbated thinking about that girl—after all, she was the reason for all this mess. AH! At the Sanctuary, the Holy Father used to say that only two things move the world, and one is money!” With that, he laughed and drank again while the girl just frowned.
Warren kept a straight face.
“They must go back to their place, right?” Ianka concluded. “I mean, they think they can get the better of us, and it’s time someone makes them stop. Someone must kick the black metal ass of those infamous BASTARDS!” He said it aloud, on purpose, looking around as if he just hoped to meet the eyes of a Hammer novice.
Dagger realized that the skinny boy in front of him was somewhat feared, when he saw that no one reacted.
“Their Dracon is the new Warrior King,” Warren pointed out. “Varg Belhaven succeeded my father, I wouldn’t forget it so easily.”
“Someone will fix him too.”
“Do you think you’re the one who’ll do it, Schizo?”
“No, maybe one of you two, the children of the Pendracon they SUICIDED to get his beautiful chair!” This, too, was said aloud. Once again no one reacted.
“Be careful when you walk around the Fortress, Ian,” the girl said, serious in face. “They are very touchy. And sturdy too. You may even be good with your sword, but you’re still smaller than their TINY PRICK.”
Ianka shrugged. “A good girl shouldn’t talk like that! You’ll have to put some more effort in it if you want to hurt me, little sister. I have a good relationship with my body, you know?”
“We know. You have a good relationship with your body every night, this is why no one wants to sleep in the same room with you.”
“He gave them what they deserved.” Warren twirled the mug between his fingers. “If even the novices of the Hammer begin to boss around in here, soon their parents will pile it on to be no less so. Then Gorgors will just need to clean the Fortress of the corpses left behind by the civil war.” At those words, he sipped his draug.
Ianka turned to Dagger. “It’s a matter of politeness.”
“What?” Dagger said.
“I say, it’d be polite to nod once in a while and say something like—I don’t know—like Yes, I heard that too, or that’s right! One of those sentences used by most of us mortals to keep a discussion going. You sit there like a—”
“Ktisis, let him breath!” Warren exploded, giving Ianka a slap on the back of his head, to which Ianka reacted faking a whimper.
Pathetic, Dagger thought. Yet he still felt uneasy thinking about the glacial expression he’d seen on his face just before. Ianka frightened him, even if he seemed the most extroverted one of the group. For a moment, Dagger thought that his behavior hid something deeper and darker, but his ability to understand people stopped there. It was like looking into a dark well and not seeing its bottom. The eyes of that guy were unfathomable even for him.
“How did it go, down with Olem?” Erin asked. “Does he still scar his novices on the first day of training, to put his signature on them?”
Dagger looked up, into her eyes as green as the grass of the Glade. The fire glare hopped on her light freckles, turning on her thin lips. She looks like Seeth, he realized, but full-color. “I survived,” he answered. “Olem and other things, but…exactly, who are you guys?”
“Yeah!” Ianka interjected again. “There’s nothing worse than three strangers trying to strike up a conversation. Well, tell us who you are, while we’re at it!”
“Dagger Nightfall, I come from the world Beyond. I am Crowley’s son.”
“Dagger Nightfall, I come from the world Beyond,” Schizo mocked him. “I am the son of Thefuck!”
“Even the walls know that,” the girl said. “But it’s good to hear it from you, Dag. I’m Erin, future Delta Guardian, and I come from nowhere—a bit like all the Deltas. We only know where we’re going; that is, generally, to kill someone. Your uncle must have already explained that to you.”
“Admirable,” Dag said.
She nodded at Ianka. “By now, you should have learned to avoid Schizo. Don’t bother listening to him every time he speaks. We use selective listening, that’s why I think I haven’t heard his voice in years. Oh, Ian! Are you here, too?”
“Fuck you, little sister”, Ianka answered.
“But if you want to see something original,” she continued. “Put a sword in his hands, in front of someone who’s seriously pissed him off or disrespected one of his pack fellow
s—roughly the people sitting at this table. He’s a novice of the Sword like you, but the day that you’ll be like him, they’ll elect Pendracon a mogwart. Can you imagine a mogwart at the head of Fortress? I can’t. It wouldn’t fit the armor.”
“Well, with the present IDIOT we came pretty close, ah-ah!” Warren said out loud, as Ianka and Erin had before. Of course, the son of the late Warrior King didn’t want to be outdone.
The girl continued. “The one you understandably wanted to punch is Warren, the son of Pendracon Hammoth, who—they say—committed suicide. War doesn’t believe it, so he’s made up his mind to find the truth, the whole truth, about what happened…which means he carries a boulder on his back even when he goes to shit. And you just try taking a dump with a boulder on your back. Mourning explains the questionable color of the clothing he’s so determined to wear, which marries with the shitty one of his hair. He’s a Korpiklan, a descendant of the men who came down from the Silver Mountains a long, long time ago: the so-called white blood.”
“White goes with everything,” Warren murmured.
“Lately, black goes with everything,” she answered.
“Pussy hair goes with everything!”
“Ian!”
“War has long been old enough to become a Guardian,” Ianka continued. “But he hasn’t found the courage to undergo the Test, which we all must face at the conclusion of our training. He doesn’t like to be reminded of this either, so—”
“Shut the fuck up!” the white blood interrupted him.
“Yes. Stop it, Ian.” Erin said.
“So, whatever you might think, stay away from him.” Schizo took a long drink of draug, putting down the umpteenth empty mug. “He sees blades hidden in the darkness, everywhere, especially where there are!” He stifled a belch. “Dracon Araya adopted them—both him and his sweet little brother—after Pendracon Hammoth had the bright idea of experimenting with the effect of gravity on a human body. But Warren has no great influence over the lizard, unlike the younger brother, so every now and then he tries to kill his brother and afterwards he begins to regret how life was better when their real father was still alive. Typical of orphans, isn’t it?”
Dagger 2 - Blood Brothers - A Dark Fantasy Adventure (Born to Be Free series) Page 13