Shards of History

by Rebecca Roland

  She continued, “The Jeguduns are gathering because there is an army of Outsiders just beyond Tuvin’s Falls. They call themselves the Maddion. They are the ones who dammed the river. They have been preparing to attack us, and the Jeguduns have been preparing to help us.”

  The clan father scoffed. “I might believe there is an army of Outsiders camped outside the valley. But I can’t believe the Jeguduns would help us. They’re vicious beasts. I don’t even want to think of what they’ve done to that poor boy.”

  “I know why she says such things,” came a familiar voice from the crowd of men.

  “Oh, no,” Malia whispered to herself as all eyes turned to Dalibor.

  Chapter 21

  The night air held the musky scent of dragons, the nervous sweat of men preparing for battle, and the fading smell of cook fires as Kushtrim strode among his men, choosing individuals at random and checking their weapons, their saddles, and their general readiness. With all the dragons spaced out at regular intervals, there was no need for torches. Their bellies, brightening and fading with each breath, provided enough of a glow to see by.

  The Peerless, his chosen squad leaders, set apart by their purple sashes, walked among their men, making sure all understood their orders. The dragons snorted and snuffled, releasing plumes of smoke.

  Save for Kushtrim and the Peerless, nobody spoke. Anticipation buzzed in the air and pulsed through Kushtrim’s veins. It took all his self control to keep at a steady pace, to not rush, to not overlook any little detail. Patience, patience, he chanted to himself. Soon they would bring the barrier down, and the valley and its healing waters would be theirs.

  Okpairo fell into step beside him. “My squad is prepared.”

  “Good.”

  Gerwyn trailed behind as always. He would ride into the valley beside Kushtrim.

  Okpairo cast a surreptitious glance towards the guard. “What will you do about Gerwyn?”

  “All my attention is focused on getting us inside the valley and taking it for the Maddion. Gerwyn I’ll take care of later.” And Okpairo. He still had not confirmed the nagging suspicion that his son might be the one plotting against him, and he’d run out of time now that breaking through the barrier was imminent.

  “Maybe you should take additional guards, in case he makes his move against you.”

  “Now? When we are about to succeed? His wife is ill. Even if he harbored thoughts of killing me and becoming Most Worthy, he would wait until she was seen to.”

  “Now would be the perfect moment for him, seeing as this is when you least expect it.”

  Kushtrim’s shoulders ached. He suppressed a cough, hiding it by clearing his throat. For a few moments, he had forgotten his own very personal reason for wanting to take the valley. He kneaded at his shoulders despite knowing it would do nothing to assuage the pain. When had he last taken willow bark? He would take more before mounting his dragon. Gah, one more thing to worry about.

  “Father, did you hear what I said?”

  Kushtrim shook his head. It felt stuffed full of wool. When had he begun to feel this way? “No,” he snapped, then winced inwardly. He hadn’t meant the word to come out so sharp.

  But Okpairo ignored his tone. “I said, why not take Mortat as an additional guard? He’s one of my men. I can vouch for him.”

  Kushtrim didn’t want one of Okpairo’s men beside him on the off chance that his son planned to move against him. But to deny the extra guard might tip Okpairo. He’d have to rely on Gerwyn to protect him in such a situation.

  “Fine.” He dismissed his son with a wave of his hand. Watching Mortat would be one more thing to occupy his mind. “Gerwyn,” he called over his shoulder. His guard took Okpairo’s vacated spot. “The prisoners have been brought to the river?”

  “Yes, Most Worthy. They wait for you, and the other items you asked for are there as well.”

  Kushtrim hesitated, then said, “Once we’re in the valley and the Jeguduns and Taakwa are dead or under our control, what will be the first thing you see to?”

  “I will see that you take the healing waters before any of the rest of us.” Gerwyn kept his gaze steadily ahead. “To address that cough.”

  Kushtrim felt as though someone had thrown ice water in his face. Gerwyn knew he had the illness. “You would not hasten back to the mountains to bring back your wife?”

  “Wives can be replaced. But I have pledged my life to your service, Most Worthy.”

  “What have I done to earn such a standing with you?”

  Gerwyn seemed surprised at this. “You have brought us this far, and now we are about to take the valley that’s been denied to us for generations and save our people. Who else could have done as much? Who else has sacrificed himself for the good of his people?”

  A knot formed in Kushtrim’s throat, and he found himself unable to speak. He squeezed Gerwyn’s shoulder. This man would never betray him.

  Which meant it was more likely that Okpairo would.

  But, what if it was someone else altogether? What if someone had been planting doubts in Okpairo’s mind, and he’d passed them on to Kushtrim? Maybe he’d been looking in the wrong place all this time. He’d have to find out where Okpairo had been getting his information.

  Dragon and warriors thinned, revealing the river. Torches lined part of the bank. Guards held the two Jeguduns and the Taakwa boy.

  The Jeguduns bowed their heads, their shoulders hunched and ears flattened to the sides. They no longer fought their captors but simply sat on the packed dirt. The boy, however, howled and struggled against the chains that bound him. Small as he was, he sometimes drew one of his guards slightly off balance.

  “The boy is tenacious,” Kushtrim said to Gerwyn.

  “He does seem to have gotten over his earlier fear.”

  “I rather think he’s just putting it to better use.”

  Kushtrim’s personal healer, Lankwis, stood to one side of the prisoners. A blanket covered the items on a small table beside him, forming a wool mountain range. As Kushtrim approached, Lankwis sank to his knees and brought his forehead to the ground.

  “Most Worthy,” he said, his voice muffled.

  “Rise.”

  Lankwis pushed himself to his knees, took a deep breath, then rose to his feet, one hand pressing heavily on the table to steady himself. Gray shot through his coils of blonde hair, and crow’s feet marked the corners of his eyes. His face and body were soft, unlike the hardness that marked Maddion warriors. The wind played with his black sash which marked him as servant to all warriors.

  “You have the items I asked for?” Kushtrim said.

  Lankwis lifted the blanket from the table. On it sat a wide, deep wooden bowl, worn to a smooth polish. Beside it was a ceramic pitcher depicting black pansies trailing from delicate vines. The flowers almost seemed alive, as if Kushtrim could run his hands through the soft petals. Their shape suggested that sensual part of a woman’s body that resided between her thighs. He raised an inquisitive brow at Lankwis.

  The healer cleared his throat. “It was the only pitcher I could find that suited your needs. It came from the unmentionables’ tent.”

  “Of course.” The healer often visited the tent, presumably to ensure the health of all the women.

  The final item on the table was a knife with a finely honed blade, the kind Lankwis used whenever he had to perform a surgery. Kushtrim suppressed a shudder at the sight of it, all his humor blown away like smoke on the wind. Once the healing waters belonged to the Maddion, no one would need to subject himself to that knife again.

  Kushtrim picked it up, hefting it in his hand. It was light. He turned it to Lankwis, handle first. “You shall do the cutting.”

  “Ah, me? I am … honored to be an intimate part of such an event.” He carefully took the knife. “Thank you, Most Worthy.”

  Kushtrim’s shoulders ached. A slight doubt niggled at him. He might not be able to hold the wooden bowl steady to catch the precious blood, and at t
his moment he could not show any weakness to his men or the one who plotted against him. He took it from the table and proffered it to Gerwyn.

  “And Gerwyn, you shall receive the blood into this bowl.”

  Gerwyn bowed from his waist. “It would be my honor, Most Worthy.” He took it.

  “We shall bleed the Jeguduns first.”

  Kushtrim snapped his fingers at the nearest guards. They separated a Jegudun from the other prisoners, its feathers dark as shadows. The creatures hobbled along, head down. The other looked up for a moment, swiveled its ears forward, then let its head drop again.

  Lankwis stood beside the Jegudun, the creature’s head reaching his waist, then hesitated. “Do you want the creature to live?”

  “I gave them my word that I would not kill them.”

  The healer nodded. He mumbled instructions to one of the guards who then yanked out the Jegudun’s arm and held it straight.

  Gerwyn kneeled and held the bowl just under the arm. Lankwis made a long slice down the Jegudun’s forearm. The guard turned the arm over, and blood began to trickle into the bowl. The metallic tang of it filled the air, so strong Kushtrim could nearly taste it on his tongue.

  When the bleeding slowed, the guards led the Jegudun away. Gerwyn poured the blood carefully into the pitcher. Then they repeated it all with the second creature. Both Jeguduns disappeared into the prisoners’ tent. If the barrier came down successfully, they’d be free to go.

  The boy had watched it all with wide eyes. At a gesture from Lankwis, the guards led him forward. The boy threw his head back, dug in his heels, and roared. The healer winced at the sound. The boy threw himself to one side, yanking a guard with him. The guard took one step, caught himself, and tightened his hold upon the boy.

  “Is he to live as well, Most Worthy?” Lankwis said.

  Kushtrim stroked the tuft of hair on his chin. “The boy has a lot of fight in him.” There had been so much death already, including many Maddion children. He didn’t think he could bear to watch another die, not even a Taakwa. “Don’t bleed him to death. Let him live. I’m not sure what I’ll do with him yet, but having him around could be interesting. And besides, if something should happen to this first blend, we’ll need more of his blood.”

  Lankwis nodded. He waved two more guards over to hold the boy steady. Gerwyn knelt, ready with the bowl. Lankwis moved in, raising the knife, cleaned of Jegudun blood, to the boy’s arm. The boy snapped his teeth at the healer.

  Lankwis jerked his arm back. He glared at the boy and raised a fist.

  Kushtrim grabbed Lankwis’ wrist and twisted his arm behind his back. Lankwis cried out, dropping the knife on the ground.

  Kushtrim leaned close to whisper in Lankwis’ ear. “Raise your hand to that boy again, and you will find yourself hanging from a stake. Understand?”

  “Y-yes, Most Worthy,” Lankwis croaked.

  Kushtrim shoved him as he let go his arm. Lankwis stumbled, caught himself before he could fall.

  “I’ll hold his head,” Kushtrim said as he stepped around the guards to the boy’s back. “You’ll bleed him, then see to the wound. Then leave him with the unmentionables. They love cooing over helpless creatures.”

  Lankwis bowed his head in acquiescence.

  Kushtrim buried his hands in the boy’s hair and grabbed fistfuls of it. The boy froze.

  Lankwis quickly made the cut and stepped back. The boy hissed sharply when the blade touched him, but made no other noise. His blood welled and then dripped steadily into the bowl.

  Moments passed, then Lankwis said, “The bleeding has slowed. Do we have enough, Most Worthy?”

  Kushtrim leaned over to peer into the bowl. He nodded. Gerwyn moved out of the way, then brought the bowl to the pitcher. Kushtrim let go of the boy and joined Gerwyn.

  Kushtrim wrapped his hands carefully around the pitcher as Gerwyn poured the blood in it. It swirled and coiled around itself, then blended with the Jegudun blood. The mixture pulsed once with light like a dragon belly, then faded.

  Okpairo stepped out of the crowd and joined them as Gerwyn poured the last of the blood into the pitcher. He passed the guards leading the boy away, Lankwis trailing behind them. He wore a deep frown.

  “Father, it will be dawn soon.”

  “This is not a matter that can be rushed.” Pain exploded in his shoulders and upper back. His knees went weak with its intensity. Gerwyn dropped the bowl to put an arm around Kushtrim, steadying him.

  “Father, what’s wrong?”

  “Back spasms,” he lied.

  “Will you be able to ride?”

  “Of course.” He shrugged out of Gerwyn’s hold. “Okpairo, why don’t you come with me? Carry this,” he said, handing the pitcher to him.

  Okpairo cradled it, peering into the pitcher as if it held answers, perhaps wondering why they couldn’t have done this earlier, when his infant son still lived. Kushtrim’s heart grew heavy. Only a couple of weeks’ time and he could have saved his grandson, and so many others. He would have gladly given up his own life to this illness if he could have saved his grandson.

  “Let’s go,” Kushtrim said softly. The pain between his shoulders ebbed.

  They walked side by side, Gerwyn trailing behind them, to the river. They paused at its bank. The river rushed past, tugging at the branches of small willow trees and grasses that hung over.

  “We’ll walk out as far as possible,” Kushtrim said. “Then we’ll pour the blood into the river and let the water carry it to the barrier.”

  They stripped out of their heavy wool clothes, taking turns holding the pitcher for the other to doff his clothing. Kushtrim folded his neatly and handed them to Gerwyn. He stood shivering in the pleasant coolness of the air. His testicles drew up.

  Naked, Okpairo took the pitcher again, and Gerwyn handed a torch to Kushtrim. He gasped as the cold water swirled around his ankles. His skin rose in gooseflesh. By the time they’d waded to where the water reached his waist, he had grown used to the cold.

  “This is good,” Kushtrim said. They stood nearly a quarter of the way into the river. “Pour out the blood.”

  Okpairo poured the blood into the river. It swirled into the water like a dark ribbon, and the current carried it swiftly away.

  “Back to shore,” Kushtrim said.

  Mortat, the extra guard Okpairo had assigned to Kushtrim, waited with Gerwyn. Mortat handed Okpairo a large blanket to dry himself off, and Gerwyn exchanged Kushtrim’s torch for a blanket.

  It was thick and soft and warm. Kushtrim’s shivering eased as he wrapped it around himself and began vigorously rubbing his skin dry. He hurried back into his clothes. He was tying his white sash around his tunic when Okpairo spoke.

  “Nothing appears to be happening.”

  “Patience,” Kushtrim said.

  Okpairo whirled on him, hands clenched. “According to those old scrolls, this was supposed to work. What happened, Father?”

  Gerwyn’s hand strayed to the handle of his axe. Kushtrim held a hand out to him, staying him. He gestured beyond Okpairo’s shoulder, towards the valley.

  “Turn around and tell me what you see.”

  Okpairo hesitated, then turned. “I see nothing.”

  “Look where the river plunges off the cliff.”

  “Oh,” Okpairo breathed.

  The air over the river shimmered, like the distant horizon of midday in a desert. The shimmering spread from that spot until it formed an inverted bowl over the entire valley, lighting the sky with a false dawn.

  And then, spreading up from the river, a crack appeared in the air—in the barrier—like a crack in an eggshell, and it began to spread.

  Chapter 22

  Dalibor was going to ruin everything. Malia should have suspected he’d find a way to follow her to the cliffs. The rage on his face in Posalo had been too much like the rage she’d seen the night she set his things outside her home. He just wasn’t going to let her go.

  He limped from the crowd
and stood between the men and the clan father Roktin. Tuvin’s talon gleamed from where it hung over his breast bone. Malia’s hands clenched at her sides.

  “She is a Jegudun sympathizer. These injuries,” he said with a wave of his bandaged hand for all to see, “came from the creature she was helping. It was hurt, and rather than tell our council members, she hid it and cared for it.”

  Deep grumblings came from the crowd. The lines of light and shadow from the torches lengthened over their faces until they were pointed like teeth.

  “Is this true?” the clan father said. His hand reached ever so slightly for the dagger at his side.

  Malia held her head high. “It’s true.”

  The grumblings rose in volume, punctuated by gasps of disbelief.

  Roktin’s face fell. “And here I thought our finding you was a good omen of the fight to come.”

  “It is.” She rushed to put her disjointed thoughts in order. “There is a cave not far from here covered with paintings that are both Taakwa and Jegudun, and they show the true history between our ancestors and theirs. I’d like to show it to you.”

  “She’d like to lure as many of us as possible into a Jegudun trap,” Dalibor said.

  A few men in the crowd cried out their agreement.

  “That’s not true.” Malia sensed she was losing the tenuous hold she had on these men. How could she prove her words to them? How could she show them? “Together, Jeguduns and Taakwa can produce powerful magic. Our ancestors and theirs fought together in the great war against the Outsiders who call themselves Maddion.”

  “The ones you say dammed the river,” said Roktin.

  “Yes.” Did he believe her? Or did he only hope to lead her into admitting more of her connection with Jeguduns so he could justify punishing her?

  Dalibor strode forward. “My wife has always been given to daydreams, more than is normal. Someone like that would be only too easy for a Jegudun to sway, using the very magic she’s speaking of.” He shook his head sadly. “She’s not thinking for herself right now.”