David: Savakerrva, Book 1

by L. Brown

  Silence deepened, grew thicker still. Every gaze fixed on Logaht’s yellow eye, and though the G’mach wanted to stay quiet, he had no choice.

  “In truth—”

  “Hah!” mocked the Blood General. “We ask this spawn of a brute for ‘truth?’”

  A few mumbled, but most just waited on the G’mach’s ground-gravel voice.

  “In truth,” Logaht resumed, “attack with a thousand Phantoms or a thousand times more, the J’kel towers will repel you all, and Tribes or not, we’ll all be slaughtered in the blink of an eye.”

  No one spoke. Which suggested, to Garth, that mocked or not, Logaht’s truth hit home.

  “My friend,” Dahkaa began — and to Garth’s ear, ‘friend’ left Dahkaa’s throat as easily as a hook — “Logaht’s opinion was formed by the past, by what he’s experienced and seen. But do we really know the Tribe arsenal, every weapon they have? Could they not have a surprise, some tactic or insight or — who knows, is it not possible the secret of the glass is true?”

  The question sparked interest, jangles of comments here and there, but then came ridicule, waves of laughter and wince.

  “And yes, I agree, it might be foolish, nothing at all!” Dahkaa replied. “The rumor of night glass could be simply that! But until we know, until we actually meet with the Tribes—”

  “Never!” shouted Yellowhair.

  “Then we’ll never know what might have been!” said Dahkaa. “Now is that our path? Will the Zahlen fail because we never gambled, will our Clans die because of pride?”

  “If such is our choice—” The General of Blood faced the men. “If one path leads to the black eyes and the other to pride — if we have the chance to attack the J’kel at the site of the greatest Zahlen victory in history, then yes, brothers, let us now choose. Who sails for Ovaalia!”

  Swells of “Ovaalia!” shook the deck.

  “But he knows!” railed Dahkaa. “Atta Ra knows us, has studied our past! You think such a plan would cause the least surprise? I tell you, brothers, if we attack the J’kel at Ovaalia, Logaht will be right and we’ll just bloody the ice, we need the Tribes!”

  “Blasphemy, we need only the gods!” shouted a warrior.

  “And now,” added the Blood General, “we need to choose. Have my brother Generals finally found their voice?”

  Glances quickly traded, the General of Moons stepped onto the map. “As for me,” he began, “I curse the Sand and revile the Tribes, Ovaalia!”

  “Ovaalia!” echoed the warriors, now also the Generals of Blade and Ice. Yet as cheering swelled, Garth noticed the General of the Clan of the Dead watch quietly from the bridge. But when he lifted his hand, just as fast as a Z-rifle blast, the racket collapsed.

  “The Tribes,” the old General began, addressing Dahkaa. “They want to unite?”

  Dahkaa took a breath. “As you know, General, travel to the Sand is forbidden, so regarding my — idea, I can’t speak for the Tribes, they must first be asked.”

  “Yet you assume they’ll agree? That they’ll join us, trust our word?”

  “I’m not the one they must trust, General,” said Dahkaa, and then he clapped Garth’s back.

  “Him?” the Blood General cracked. “The boy who cried on the ice and lived as a Worm, that’s who the Tribes will trust?”

  Warriors jeered and laughed.

  “Fate has spoken!” Dahkaa retorted. “This boy is the last Savakerrva, the Promise foretold, and when he proves it, when he enters the cave—”

  “No!” cried Garth, finding his voice. “I won’t do it, I never said I would, and whatever this cave, I’m not going in!”

  V-masts crackled the only reply. Garth felt liberated, suddenly free, but when he met Dahkaa’s stare, he also succumbed to guilt, the shame of letting him down.

  “I’m sorry,” Garth said. “But like I always said, I can’t be something I’m not.” The ace of clichés, it should have worked, yet somehow, the Man of Scars remained unmoved.

  “You’re right, David, you can’t,” Dahkaa replied. “Not if you quit.”

  Expecting compassion, Garth instead felt the slap of a dare, an opportunity to excel by dying in a cave.

  “Quit?” queried a voice in the crowd. “By the evidence, Dahkaa, I’d say he’s just begun!”

  Wedging through warriors, out came Tusk. Who carried, Garth saw, a lumpy quilt, a blanket last seen on his bed.

  “Just in time, Captain,” remarked the General of Blood. “You may now strike the flag of Retta Dahz, this boy hasn’t the spine of a Worm.”

  “No, well—” Tusk lugged the quilt to the map. “You might be right, General, but whatever his spine, it’s apparently enough.” Then spilling the quilt, the ship captain dumped both a hysterical catch and a historical first.

  But as warriors gaped, as crinkly-eyed crewmen who’d seen everything now saw something new, all turned atheist, just refused to believe. Not just a female on a Zahlen Man-of-War, the woman now struggling against her bindings and gag flashed the black eyes of the Tribes.

  “Ioso?” Unable to reconcile her with here, Dahkaa staggered a moment, then rushed to her side.

  “A woman?” sputtered the General of Ice.

  “It’s been a while,” Tusk sighed, “but yes, so she quite appears.”

  “But—?” Blinking as if bedeviled by sand, some Hot-side grit in the eyes, the General of Blood roared the first question that came. “How’d she get aboard!”

  “That, General, should be asked of him,” said Tusk, nodding to Garth. “Though speaking just for myself, did you bring any more?”

  Looking for words, Garth found only sputter, had no idea where to begin.

  “Him?” cried the General of Moons. “The Son of the King brought her aboard?”

  “And he didn’t stop there,” said Tusk. “For when I found her, she—?” He glanced at Dahkaa. “Well, I’m sure she was only tired, but when I checked his cabin, she was deep in his bed.”

  Shock, the first response, then some laughed, but most just waited for Dahkaa’s violent retort. About to remove her gag, he instead held back, just tried to read Ioso’s wild, sparking eyes.

  A gun blasted from the helm. Z-rifle in-hand, the General of the Dead glared down at Tusk.

  “Your charge, Captain, is serious,” the old General began. “What you imply is true?”

  “What I said, General, is fact. But for what it implies? That, I leave to you.”

  Ioso squealed into her gag.

  “Nothing’s implied,” the Blood General growled. “And nothing appears more plain, Dahkaa’s black-eyes is a spy!”

  “You accuse me of treachery?” retorted Dahkaa. “Of hiding a spy?”

  “Hiding, Dahkaa, is not your strength,” Blood replied. “You think our women don’t talk, you assume we don’t know?”

  Dahkaa approached the Blood General, stopped face-to-mask. “Your charge, General; be clear.”

  “What’s clear, Dahkaa, is you make friends with G’mach and make love to the Tribes. And though you’re not the first Zahlen to father a child with a slave—”

  Ioso writhed against her restraints.

  “You will now be the last,” the Blood General declared. And as the General drew his second X-blade sword, Logaht, Garth noticed, seemed a bull ready to charge.

  “I’m not a spy!” Ioso garbled, spitting out her gag. “Nor am I a slave!”

  “Nor was she ever,” Dahkaa added, returning to her side. “Ioso is, and always will be, my wife.”

  Logaht sighed, lowered his head, and mumbles and whispers flashed on all sides. Noting the reaction, Garth wondered if Dahkaa’s admission had been more confession, if he’d just elevated illicit rumor to illegal fact.

  “So.” The General of Ice faced Dahkaa. “You of course know the Law?”

  “We know,” snarled Ioso, now throwing off her ropes.

  “Then let us begin!” shouted the General of Blood, and he thrust out his hand.

  Saying nothing, Dahka
a unsheathed his X-blade knives, then handed them to the General of Blood.

  “All of this, it’s your fault,” Logaht whispered to Garth. “Do something!”

  Startled by the accusation, even moreso the command, Garth watched two warriors escort Dahkaa and Ioso to the side of the ship.

  “Do what,” Garth whispered. “What can I do, what’s happening?”

  “Punishment,” Logaht answered. “Dahkaa broke their Law.”

  “What law, he married Ioso? That’s a crime?”

  “The crime was the secret, he broke the Clan trust. And for that—”

  Electricity crackled between Dahkaa’s X-blades, knives now held by the General of Blood.

  “They’ll be punished?” asked Garth.

  “They’ll be killed,” said Logaht. “And since you refused Retta Dahz — since you rejected all claim to Savakerrva, you’ve lost all standing and may not intercede. Unless—”

  Hearing the word hang, Garth suspected the worse. “Unless?”

  “Unless you become,” Logaht growled, “something you’re not.”

  Garth had no answer, could not fathom the insanity that just boomeranged back toward the Cave.

  “Tell me, dear wife.” His voice carrying through the silence, Dahkaa stood with Ioso at the rail. “There’s a reason you came?”

  Ioso had no reply, just stared at the deck. But as the General of Blood approached with the blades, she lifted her head.

  “That day,” she began. “When I found him gone, you were away.”

  Dahkaa squeezed her hand.

  “And every day since and whenever you left, I did nothing but wait, just sat there and knew — just like our son, you’d never come back. So if you ask my reason, why I came?” She leaned in close. “When my world ends again, Dahkaa, I refuse to die alone.” Then closing her eyes, Ioso felt her husband pull her in close.

  “For the crime of deception—” X-blades now silent, the Blood General addressed the warriors and crew. “For breaking our trust, we welcome this warrior to the Clan of the Dead — and send this woman to the cold of the deep!”

  The sentence pronounced, Blood turned to Dahkaa. And though the General’s face was hidden, his tone betrayed a malevolent thrill. “She was worth it, brother?”

  “Worth every breath, General. Even my last.”

  Dahkaa held Ioso tighter and closer still, and that was it, his last defiant act.

  Lighting the X-blades with a great, crackling arc, the General of Blood prepared to end it, sunder this Clan-Tribe embrace. But the two showed no fear, and as their melancholy beauty and magnificent scars held fast, even the warriors couldn’t watch; and one-by-one, every face turned.

  “Stop!” Garth shouted. “Stop it, you can’t!”

  Incensed by the outburst, the Blood General looked back. “Take him!” shouted Blood. “By my command; that deceiver is next!”

  “Then your command, General,” countered Logaht, “will also be your last, this boy sails under the flag of Retta Dahz.”

  “Not anymore, G’mach! He refused Retta Dahz!”

  “So he did,” replied Logaht, now looking up. “But the flag of the blades has yet to be struck, and until it is, he who sails to the caves shall receive all support. And if Dahkaa and Ioso provide such aid? Then yes, both must live. Is this not Clan Law, are Generals not bound?”

  Blood’s eyes flashed his mask. “You tell me the law? You think you know?”

  “I believe he does,” said Dahkaa. “My friend, you see, is a G’mach.”

  “Was a G’mach,” said Logaht.

  “Enough!” shouted the General of the Dead. “Now, in this moment, yes, the G’mach speaks true. But—” Reaching overhead, he grabbed a V-mast rope, then lowered the flag. “Until the boy speaks on his own, unless he swears to enter the Cave of the Beast before I touch our ancient flag, then it’s not just Dahkaa and his wife who will die, but by Law, so also the G’mach.”

  Suddenly nauseous, Garth watched the General’s bony fingers draw down the flag. Five feet left, then three, and though he tried to speak, the fright constricted, choked the voice that would lead to the Beast.

  “Boy!” boomed Logaht.

  “Okay!” Garth yelped, the word scared from his throat. “I’ll enter the cave, I swear!”

  Just three inches left, but the old General paused. He stared at the flag just a quick swipe above, then — repositioning his grip, he tugged the rope and hoisted once more. But as the flag of Retta Dahz ascended, an uvah horn wailed, turned all attention to the lookout boat.

  The drama on deck interrupted, Garth followed every gaze to the phenomenon ahead, the roil and swirl of a deep, murky fog.

  Chapter 16

  Into the Mist

  Fog?

  It had to be, the vaporous veil just miles away looked like the same stuff that crept the earth, fog was fog even on C’raggh. Yet as Garth gripped the rail and the flagship plowed on, the impenetrable roil rising higher and wider seemed not just a meteorological act, some intercourse of temperature and dew, but an enchantment, a misty rhapsody of sirens and furies tempting come in, come in.

  Then came a howl. Now a few haunted more, and though his eyes burned with squint, Garth perceived no cause. Yet deep down, he knew. Nerves frayed and thoughts in a frenzy, the boy on the boat heard his welcome, a ravenous greeting from the Cave of the Beast.

  But as V-masts sparked and the far howls sang and the reach to the fog inexorably compressed, so did the pressure, Garth’s apprehension within. Every plank of sanity bowed from the strain, the runaway fear of this test ahead, and as the view filled with fog, a deep intuition whispered it would soon serve as dirt, the airy fill of his grave.

  Then why do it, why even go? To save Dahkaa and Ioso, Logaht as well? But what did he owe them, was his life a fair trade? Dahkaa saw fate in every blow of the wind and hop of the toad, and other than her screams in the tower and the slap to his mouth, Ioso had neither acknowledged or thanked him, never even said hello. And Logaht? A lockbox of secrets key-holed by an inhuman eye, the G’mach defied discernment, does he just want me dead?

  No answer came, no answers were left, every question asked or answered or simply ignored hadn’t stopped his progress or changed his course, so gripping the rail and approaching the fog, Garth knew only one thing, this boy going in would never come out. Horrors awaited, were howling his name, and though he sailed with hundreds, he would go it alone.

  Almost alone. Feeling it again, that torn-out note, he wished it were magic, could save him from death. But as the legion of gnaw marched up from his stomach and into his throat, Garth knew he held only paper, just words wadded up; and flogged with fear, he retched over the rail.

  “Good.”

  Garth glanced to the side, to the warrior he saved just six feet away.

  “Fear’s good,” said Yellowhair. “At least for the fish.”

  Unsure what he meant, Garth followed his nod back to the waves.

  Dark and hungry, some sub-surface thing nibbled Garth’s chum.

  “They say you brought me back,” Yellowhair continued. “There’s a reason you did?”

  Garth shrugged. “I wanted to help.”

  “And because you did, they now call me weak, unfit for the Clan of the Dead. I’ve lost my woman, my brothers—”

  Eating and drinking nearby, Bengal and a few more avoided Yellowhair’s gaze.

  “So when it attacks,” Yellowhair resumed, turning to Garth, “when the Beast of the Cave tears you apart, but leaves you alive, it’s not death you’ll fear, but the dying. The path, boy, we all walk alone.” And with the smallest of nods, Yellowhair left.

  Wondering what the limit was, how much bleak a life could hold, Garth flinched from a shout. A lookout now signaled to Tusk, and taking his cue, the captain hauled back on a lever. Motor hum died, the big ship slowed, and when Garth looked for the reason, it curled just ahead. No longer miles off, the first foggy tendril curled a stone’s throw away. And if this wasn’t the en
d of C’raggh, they’d certainly found its edge.

  “Hold!” ordered Tusk, now angling the ship. “No closer than this, call the Generals!”

  Three quick blasts of an uvah horn wakened the warriors and roused the vaaliks, and as boots clattered the stairwell, the General of the Clan of Blood led his peers on deck.

  “We touch the fog, brothers!” the Blood General yelled. “Let us wake — the Beast!”

  And if this wreck of a moment wasn’t mangled enough, a cacophony of drums and horns launched warriors into bellows of roar, a chorus of such wallop it dropped Garth to his knees. Unable to stand, he now felt himself slide, and as he watched his boots scrape the deck, he realized two warriors dragged him toward a spot on the opposite rail. A rail, he noticed, now opening like a gate, an access to a length of piratical board.

  A plank?

  The sight lit a fresh panic, churned up his limbs. But the warriors were strong, never slowed, and though Garth looked for Dahkaa, for any possible support, he saw only laughter and scorn and splashing mugs of ale. Spectacle, his drag and flail, but for the Zahlen and crew? This was it, their very last show.

  “Stand, David!” shouted Dahkaa, unseen. “You will prevail!”

  An insane assertion from an asylum of din, Dahkaa’s shout fit right in. Yet irrational or not, the voice brought comfort, proved someone cared. But then it didn’t matter, then the hands that dragged dropped Garth to the deck an inch from the plank.

  His arrival greeted with silence, it stopped every uvah and drum and ale-soaked shout.

  “In this time—” Voice raspy, boots tired with scrape, the General of the Clan of the Dead paced toward Garth. “At this place, we send you now to the Cave of the Beast. And once inside—” A guard now strapped Dahkaa’s gift, two new X-blades, around Garth’s waist. “Once in the Cave, you’ll find a worthy bull, battle to the death — and should it be you who survives, you will bring us its head. You accept this test?”

  Everything jumbled, Garth clung to the deck, to this ship of mad Clans and a captain with tusks. He had no plan, no last second escape, but he wondered, finally, if the fog might hide a place he could hide. Not much to live for, but with nothing else left, he stuffed the note deep in his coat, then replied with a nod.