by Sam Sykes
“You are not one of us,” she said, “if you ever were. You are not welcome among us anymore. You have no family, you have no tribe, you have no people. You are not a shict, Kataria.” She thrust her spear out into the darkness. “Go back to the humans. Or go out and die. It is not our concern anymore.”
Kataria wanted to leap up and strangle her, but her body wouldn’t will itself to rise. She wanted to snarl and spit and cry and hurl herself on the spear, but she could not find the strength to do so. Failing all of that, any of that, she simply wanted to scream.
But she couldn’t.
She couldn’t do anything but look past Shekune, past the other khoshicts, to Kwar, kneeling upon the sand with eyes wide and mouth open and ears up and trembling and her Howling wailing in her ears.
You promised.
Somehow, Kataria found her feet.
Somehow, she found her bow.
Somehow, she turned and ran. Into the desert. Into the night. With not a sound but the long, mournful wail of Kwar’s Howling in her ears. And the lonely, tired sigh of the wind.
TWENTY
THE KING IN RED
Past the high dunes that formed a barrier around the Green Belt, he could barely see the outline of houses and walls and spires that rose at the edge of the ocean. At night, it was just a collection of shadows huddled in the dark, their lights too dim and too distant to see.
A tiny little city was all it was. A tiny little city full of tiny, stupid people. Cier’Djaal was nothing more than that.
The last time, he told himself. The next time I look at it, it’ll be a pile of ash and rubble.
And it started tonight.
He glanced back at the gates to Jalaang. Atop the battlements, a trio of tulwar archers glanced back down. He gave them a commanding nod. One of them looked over the other side of the wall and made a gesture.
The great double gates let out a pained, rust-covered moan as they were pushed open. Damage done during the city’s seizure had been hastily repaired, and even the best Tho Thu Bhu craftsmen couldn’t have done much better than holding the broken gates together with chains.
From the darkness beyond the gates, there was the hush of rattling iron and the tremble of earth. An immense shadow appeared, trudging forward slowly, its huge silhouette painted by the torches burning within. But though the shape was dim from this far away, Gariath could make out the scent well enough.
The bitter reek of resentment was just as keen as ever. But the ashen stink of rage had subsided, burnt itself out, and been doused by a sour odor of fear, which in turn had slowly become a stale smell of exhaustion.
By the time he emerged out into the light of the moon and stars, Kharga did not look much better than he smelled.
Though he was still immense, the colossal dragonman no longer stood quite so tall, nor quite so proud. Chains wrapped his body and secured his arms. His tremendous stride was hobbled by the shackles around his ankles, yet even so, he shook the earth with each step. His head was not quite bowed enough to conceal the glare of his black eyes as he lurched forward.
Beaten though he might have been, his captors didn’t seem to believe it. Five nervous-looking tulwar led him by his chains, and they seemed ill-equipped for the task should Kharga decide to make it difficult. Even the ten tulwar surrounding him, following along in a semicircle, pointing thick spears at him, seemed like they would be inadequate if the hulking dragonman put up a fight.
But as he lumbered forward, Kharga made no effort to resist. A few weeks in darkness would dim any fire, no matter how big it might be. And Kharga had been given not nearly enough food, water, or rest to give him the strength to fight back.
“He came willingly enough.”
At the head of the tulwar, Daaru came forward. Slung over his shoulder, he carried an immense ax. Despite the security of such a massive weapon, he wore a mask of concern.
“I don’t like it, though. He could be plotting something.”
“He could,” Gariath replied, staring over the defeated dragonman.
“And you still want to do this?” Daaru asked.
Gariath looked at the ax for a long moment. “I do.”
Daaru glanced back at Kharga. “It’s not a good idea.”
“It isn’t.”
Concern gave way to resignation as Daaru realized this particular line of dialogue wouldn’t go further than two words. With a grunt, he hefted the ax off his shoulder and into his hands. He proffered the handle to Gariath, who took it. It was of Chee Chree make, heavy enough to fell thick trees. Suitable for his work.
“Ready?” Daaru asked.
Gariath grunted.
The tulwar turned around and barked a weary order. The other tulwar exchanged nervous glances, fear and confusion plain on their faces, before finally acceding. They dropped the dragonman’s chains and backed away, all fifteen of them and Daaru warily stalking back behind the gates of Jalaang.
The last thing Gariath saw before the twin gates groaned closed was Daaru’s face, full of pity.
Gariath had spent these last few years surrounded by small things: small humans with their small problems and their small wars. He did not consider himself small, even in the shadow of Kharga.
Yet he wasn’t unaware of how the great gray dragonman towered over him. Three feet taller, several hundred pounds heavier, jaws that could break stone topped with a thick, rhinoceros-like horn; Kharga didn’t need to be unchained to be threatening. He could simply fall forward and crush Gariath, if he wanted to.
But he didn’t. He simply stood there, staring down at Gariath, an empty expression on his face and reeking of a dying scent, as though he had known how this would end.
And Gariath, for his part, simply stared back.
“Nice ax,” Kharga finally rumbled, breaking the silence.
“Heavy,” Gariath replied.
“Looks it,” Kharga said. “I had one like it myself.” He sniffed. “It was bigger.”
Gariath looked down at the ax. It looked big enough to him.
“You know,” Kharga grunted, “for a while, I thought you were going to grant me the dignity of letting me die in a pile of my own shit and be eaten by rats.” He sneered. “I can only wonder what I did to deserve being dragged out here.”
“It’s not about you.”
“Fine. Why’d you drag me out here?”
“To make a point.”
“Oh yeah?” Kharga’s sneer turned to a derisive grin. “What? You come up with a little quip you just can’t wait until morning to say after you gut me like a coward?” He let out a black, bellowing laugh. “And then what? Go give an inspirational speech to your pet monkeys? Maybe have someone paint your portrait?” His nostrils flared. “I can smell the stink of humans on you. Right down to your bones, Rhega.”
And suddenly, the ax in his hands did not seem quite nearly big enough.
That thought must have shown itself in the growl rising in his throat and the tremble in his claws as they wrapped tightly around the ax’s haft, for Kharga’s rumbling laughter grew softer and uglier.
“Not in the mood to trade words?” the bigger dragonman grunted. “Good. Me neither.” He stared Gariath down, unwilling to look away or blink. “Do whatever the fuck you need to do and quit wasting my time.”
Gariath met his gaze, breathed him in—his anger, his bitterness, the very faint whiff of fear lurking beneath it. He hefted the ax in both hands, took three great strides forward, raised it over his head.
And he did what he had to.
In four great swings. In the rattle of chains and the sound of metal falling to the earth. In the puzzled stare Kharga shot him as his limbs, now free, suddenly stretched out.
“Huh. Didn’t expect that.” He blinked, then looked at the bright red gash suddenly painting his arm. “Shit. I think you got me.”
“Oops.” Gariath yawned as he lowered the ax, slick with blood. “If you want, I can take another try at it.”
Kharga sneered but di
dn’t move as he stared down at Gariath. “So do I just assume you’re stupid? Or should I ask why?”
“Should be obvious, even to you,” Gariath growled back. “I want you to go back to your masters in Cier’Djaal. I want you to tell them to make their prayers to their imaginary sky-people. I want you to tell them to make beds out of their gold and hide under them.
“Tell them that I am coming. Tell them that we are coming. We come with fire. We come with steel. We’ll burn that rotting carcass they crawl over like maggots to ash and force-feed the ashes to whoever’s left alive. The day of the humans is over and all the gold they hoard and broken meat they eat won’t save them when I come to drive my foot down their throats.”
Gariath jammed the ax into the earth. His eyes narrowed to slits. His growl was low and dirty as a knife in the dark.
“Tell them that, Drokha. Tell every last one of them, down to the last weeping, screaming, wailing infant.”
Granted, Gariath was forced to admit, perhaps he had picked up a habit for the occasional speech from his former companions. But in their hands, speeches were long, droning, posturing things. In his, they were short, vicious, necessary to spread the fear he needed the city rife with.
And while Kharga stared at him blankly, he knew that his had had the desired effect. Beneath the odors of ire and resignation, another aroma had began to blossom. A familiar reek, sour and stale in his nose, bitter on his tongue. He had smelled it before. Fear? Terror?
“Oxshit.”
Or maybe just regular old contempt.
“I’ve heard your monkeys talking,” Kharga said. “Cier’Djaal’s had a week to be afraid of you. You don’t need me to do it.” His nostrils flared, drew in a deep breath. “And I smell you. I smell your weakness. I smell your doubt.”
Gariath was not used to weapons. Humans needed swords, axes, spears to make up for their natural deficiencies; the Rhega required only claws and teeth to do what needed doing. And yet the ax in his hand felt decidedly comfortable in weight and heft. He could feel just how easy it was to swing.
Just how easy it would be to plant it in Kharga’s face.
“There was a time I would kill you for that,” Gariath muttered, more to himself. “Maybe a time I would kill you just for existing. Drokha are cowards who traded blood for gold, selling themselves like meat.”
“And Rhega are—”
“I’M FUCKING TALKING!” Gariath roared. “But that was before I went out into the desert, before I realized how many weak, stupid races there are out there …” He stared at the ax, slick with Kharga’s life on it. “And how few of us there are.” He snorted. “I still thought about how I’d kill you. I thought I’d boil you down and have you sold by the bowl on the streets by one of those four-armed things …”
“Couthi,” Kharga grunted. “You couldn’t afford them.”
“I wouldn’t do it because that’s what a monster would do.” Gariath stared up at him, eyes hard and black as iron fresh from the dark earth. “I am not a monster. We are not monsters.”
He hefted the ax in both hands, considered it for a moment, then tossed it aside.
“If you want to die,” he said, “I’ll be happy to kill you. I’ll rip your spine out and choke you with it for good measure.” He folded his arms. “But that’s your decision.”
The lie smelled bitter in his nostrils. But the truth tasted foul on his tongue. How could he look upon a Drokha and see anything other than a foe? He saw a tool for spreading fear, and that was true. He saw a beaten enemy, and that was true. But beyond both of those, he saw one of the very last dragonmen in the world. And the thought of killing him no longer made his hands twitch.
It was Kharga’s decision what to do next. It had been Gariath’s decision to pretend it wasn’t his.
Kharga glanced at the ax for a moment, as if he were considering picking it up and putting it to better use. Then he glanced at the chains that had once bound him for a much longer moment.
When his sigh finally came, it was not with the stink of anger, or resentment, or the slightest whiff of fear. All the reek seemed to leave him in one great breath, leaving no scent at all behind. Nothing but a very large, very tired-looking Drokha.
“‘We,’” Kharga said.
“What?”
“You said ‘we,’” he grunted. “Like you’re one of them.” He shook his head. “I fought them, Rhega. I killed them. By the score, I killed them. I looked into their eyes when they hurled themselves at me. I smelled them as they fled.” He waved a massive hand. “You don’t want to call them monsters, fine. They aren’t monsters. But they aren’t us, either. There aren’t enough of our kind left for there to be an ‘us’ or a ‘we.’”
With a great, hulking stomp, he turned to face Cier’Djaal and began to lumber away.
“There’s just you. Nothing else.”
Gariath didn’t turn to watch him go. He simply listened to the sound of heavy feet shaking the earth as he lumbered away. Over the sound of Kharga’s stride, he barely heard himself when he muttered.
“The Uprising.”
The shaking stopped. Kharga stopped.
“The tulwar fought their way to the heart of the city,” Gariath said, “to the Silken Spire.”
“They did,” Kharga said. “We arrived hours later to fight them off, when the fashas agreed to pay us.”
“They could have destroyed the city before you got there.”
“They could have.”
“But they didn’t,” Gariath said. “One of them saw something … and he stopped the attack. What was it?”
Kharga was silent for a breath.
“Same thing I saw when I entered the city,” Kharga said. “Same thing I saw when I decided to take their money.”
He didn’t elaborate. Gariath didn’t ask him to. Neither of them said another word as Kharga began to stalk off toward Cier’Djaal and Gariath trudged back to the gates of Jalaang.
They groaned open at his arrival, then slammed shut once he had crossed their threshold. He took ten paces into the city and stopped, staring up through weary eyes at the crowd assembled before him as he sighed deeply.
“What now?”
The tulwar—a hundred? Two hundred? It was late and counting was tiresome—did not smile at his comment. Just as well, he hadn’t intended to sound funny. Rather, at his weary annoyance, they met him with faces turned down into snarls, eyes wide with anger and faces painted bright with fury.
And none were angrier or brighter than the tall, rangy tulwar standing before him.
“You let him go?” Dekuu, Humn of the Chee Chree clan, was almost as tall as Gariath, despite being much scrawnier. And though his body was worn with considerable age, his lean muscles tensed as he snarled, baring yellowed teeth at Gariath. “The murderer? The butcher?”
“I called him Drokha,” Gariath replied.
“Because you weren’t there!” Dekuu all but roared, drawing up close to Gariath’s face. Though the colors beneath his skin had dulled with age, the Humn’s visage was still bright with anger. “I was.” He whirled about, swept a hand over the assembled tulwar. “We were.”
The tulwar said nothing. But they didn’t have to. Gariath could see the anger scarred across their eyes, etched in every scowl turned toward him.
“We still remember, daanaja,” Dekuu said. “We remember the Uprising. We remember those barbarians hacking us apart. We remember the blood of our grandfathers painting our skin. We remember the road they made of our corpses when they trampled us underfoot. That one, the one walking away right now, could have killed a hundred or more of us at that point.”
He whirled back to Gariath and thrust a simian finger in his face.
“AND YOU LET HIM GO!”
His howl was taken up by the crowd of tulwar, their roars joined by fists upheld and trembling at Gariath. The dragonman breathed, drawing in a reek of anger so powerful that he got a little dizzy.
“You promised us victory! You promised us ven
geance!” Dekuu roared to be heard over the anger of the tulwar. “We gave you command, gave you power, and what have you laid at our feet?”
Dekuu spit on the sand.
“You let malaa, the tainted and unclean, walk among us as though they belong here!” Each word was met with a rising roar of angry agreement. “You name the great failure, who led us into disaster so long ago, as your adviser! You give us a city far from our families and at the doorstep of our enemies. And now …” His anger ebbed into contempt as he sneered at Gariath. “You spit on the lives lost in the Uprising, spit on the blood shed there, by turning the dragonman loose.”
Gariath took it all in: the stink, the sound, the sneer. He accepted it with unblinking silence, staring at Dekuu quietly. The roars carried on for some time and he let them. When they died low enough for him to be heard, he spoke softly.
“You don’t think I can lead,” he stated, calmly.
“I do not,” Dekuu replied.
“Then is this a challenge?” Gariath asked. “You want to fight me for leadership? Some kind of ancient tulwar tradition?”
Dekuu furrowed his brow. “The tulwar have no such tradition.”
“Ah.”
Gariath’s fist shot out. The sound of Dekuu’s jaw cracking echoed louder than any roar could have. The sound of Dekuu’s body hitting the ground begat a silence deeper than any death could have.
“Then that was just for you being an idiot,” Gariath snarled.
Some looked at him with shock. Many more with anger. And just a few with genuine terror. Not one of them moved toward him. He drank in their scents as his lips curled back, baring his teeth.
“And that,” he said, “was my speech. It wasn’t as dramatic as his was, maybe, but this isn’t a time for speeches. This isn’t a time to remember the past. This isn’t a time to whine about how many of you died long ago.” He swept his gaze, hard and slow, across the crowd. “Because if you don’t fight now, if you don’t follow me now, all of you die.