Sign of the Dragon Page 3

  “Is something bothering you, brother?” Skapasis muttered, acknowledging his brother’s glance.

  “My Chieftain, you do not seem to be entertained,” Turnaz said.

  “Skapasis is entertained.” The Chieftain responded in third person, with his deep eerie voice and his eyes wide open at the world above only he could understand.

  Turnaz looked at the wrestlers. One of them, the young Karanaz, with his long statue like body, managed to slip behind his opponent. He locked his arms around the Samartian’s torso and used his strong legs to lift him up. The Samartian was surprised when Karanaz threw his wide back against the floor and growled in humiliation.

  Karanaz lunged at him again, circling his wide arm against his head and grabbing him in a choke hold. The Samartian wrestler shut his eyes, clenched his teeth, and tapped on the Gadalian’s arm, surrendering.

  The armoured audience clapped, and the winner jumped to his feet. He raised his thick arms and let out a war cry.

  “The dragon will swallow the world!” he cried and looked at his Chieftain.

  The Chieftain remained still and seemed to acknowledge the victory instants later, when he softly clapped his hands, and the crowd followed.

  “Why are you so worried, my brother?” Skapasis asked, raising his voice over the crowd, clapping as softly as ever. “Our victory is coming. Skapasis knows well, our men know it with all their burning hearts.”

  Turnaz had to let his brother know what he thought. But with every passing day, it seemed, he cared less for the lives of his own men. Turnaz couldn’t forgive how he’d ordered the death of one of his own generals. For deserting. General Gadarthas had only fallen ill and decided to go home for a few days.

  The counsellors had told Turnaz to be careful, that he could be next. But how could he be? Turnaz knew Skapasis, his brother, the red-haired boy who loved chicken stew, the slave who had rebelled against his masters and risen, the great strategist who had broken the yoke for himself and delivered his fellow men. He was still there behind the armour, the merciless orders and the executions, it was his brother, and he loved him.

  “I’m anxious for the battle and its outcome. That is all,” Turnaz said.

  “Skapasis has already spoken.” The red-headed chieftain rose up from his chair of gold. The rest of the men awaited his next move. He dismissed them. It was time to get ready for the last night before battle.

  “Yes, my Chieftain,” Turnaz said. “But what should we do if we reach the Eternal City. I mean, if we defeat them all in battle and take the throne of the Emperor. If we hang the consuls and take over… Then what?”

  “If, you ask? My brother, do not dare to question our victory.”

  “I trust in you, my brother and Chief.” He looked deep into his red eyes. “I’ve trusted you since we chose you to lead us. Alas, it is hard to understand. It’s all happened too fast, like a raging storm that floods the cities. But what will our victory mean to the world? How will we rule a world that lives in an entirely different way? With cities, and villages, and fields of wheat.”

  “It almost sounds as if you pity the demise of their Empire.”

  “I…”

  “Please stop this bickering and trust,” Skapasis snapped. “Trust the gods of the sky.” He pointed upward. “The dragon of blood and fire. It showed us all, every man, woman, and child! It showed us its vision of might!”

  “Yes, my Chieftain. And yet, I cannot see.”

  Turnaz swallowed what he thought about the ordeal. A massive dream of power and might could be felt by all the warriors of his tribe. It could mean the irremediable fall of the Itruschian Empire, their foe. But what would that entail? The entire world would burn. Was their strength enough? Fifty thousand men who did not have a land of their own to rule the world.

  “What does Skapasis dream?” the Chieftain asked. His sanguine eyes sparkled under the freezing moon, reflecting the dark sky. “My brother, this is our age. That is why I pity these old priests with their cosmic conservatism. Their age is long past, the age of the Ram is gone. This is the time of the Dragon, and the stars show it clearly.”

  “My Chieftain, Skapasis, I understand. We’ve fought together, all your men fought with an iron will to avenge the brothers the Empire destroyed, but the world has already been built in a way, and our passing will burn their homes, will slay their men, their view. And we will change it so much we...”

  “I tell you again, Turnaz. Skapasis has no pity nor mercy. For no one, his only will is to bring the age of the Dragon, so please do not provoke his ire.”

  Turnaz frowned and raised his voice boldly.

  “Skapasis, I am your brother. I would never think of betraying you, but I am also your counsellor, so I beg you consider my word.”

  “You may be my brother, but not the brother of Skapasis. Skapasis is someone else.” His brother’s voice rose unnaturally, becoming rough and sour. His eyes burned. “Skapasis is the coming of the Dragon Age.”

  Turnaz sighed patiently. He bowed his head and cleared his throat.

  “I ask for your forgiveness.”

  Skapasis’ eyes flashed. “I only require you to stop doubting me. My brother, do not worry about us. The gods have shown us their favour and we are marching on. Nothing can stop the Dragon. Remember those men and women starved to death by the Empire? The gods heard their cries and called me to avenge them and deliver justice to the earth. We are the hammer of Ares and Jupiter, and I am. I am the Dragon, and I am them!”

  “But our men have already harvested their revenge. At least ten times. How many times more?”

  “Remember the prophecy!” Skapasis bellowed. “We were all there when it happened, when the Dragon flared in the sky.” He pointed at the heavens with tense fingers. “Remember what it did?”

  “It swallowed the sun,” Turnaz recited half-heartedly.

  Skapasis turned around and faced the dissipating crowd. He screamed:

  “Warrior blood of Gadalia. Great Dragons of will. What is the will the gods of the sky declared!”

  “The Dragon will swallow the world!”

  “Aye!” Skapasis turned, as the Dragon Knights raised their swords high.

  Many warriors stepped out of their tents, responding enthusiastically to the call.

  “The Dragon will swallow the world!” They repeated in unison. Skapasis smirked. Turnaz breathed slowly, fidgeting with the sides of his belt.

  “No one can stop us now,” Skapasis growled.

  Turnaz had to comply with his chieftain. That was tradition, and he bowed, as if surrendering his soul and mind to his leader’s whims.

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  “Brother.” Skapasis’ voice returned to normal. He narrowed his eyes and looked at the high hills overhead where two riders approached; one, the messenger woman with whom he had to deal almost daily, and the other a Dragon Knight he did not recognize from the distance. “Please call the emissaries. It’s time to hear the voice of the goddess.”

  ***

  Alan climbed down from his saddle and stretched his back. From there, he could see the chieftain, with his messy fire-coloured hair, and his brother Turnaz, High Counsellor and General, both in full armour, Turnaz with a band tied around his forehead and a ceremonial armour of gold, and Skapasis in his segmented armour and dark cape.

  “Hail to you, our Chieftain,” Alan and Ira said, raising their fists high.

  “So, it is you, Alan, the Master Craftsman.” Skapasis raised an eyebrow, walking with his brother to greet him. His body was slightly bent forward, although his shoulders were broad and muscular, still noticeable under the armour. “What are you doing here?”

  “I have been called by General Ileria for an urgent matter,” Alan said.

  “Your wife? Urgent?” Skapasis narrowed his eyes.

  “Yes, my Chieftain. Have you seen her recently? Has she come to any of the meetings?”

  “No,” Skapasis answered. “Where is that woman? Last time she sent that teenage lancer instead.”

  Alan regretted opening his mouth. He didn’t want to put his wife at risk, and according to Ira, their Chieftain grew more impulsive with each passing day.

  “So,” the Chieftain cleared his throat. “You came all the way here just to see your wife? Do you miss her too much? Do you want her to make love to you? Keep those hands to your sword only,” Skapasis mocked him.

  “I came here because of omens in my dreams,” Alan declared.

  “And what omens?” Skapasis asked. Alan knew his chieftain was a believer in the gods. A faithful one, as they said his every action was guided by the movements of the sky.

  “Of her death,” Alan said.

  “How very noble of you,” Skapasis muttered, then twisted his lips. “But you are a Dragon Knight. You have no time for this.”

  “I must, my Chieftain. And thus, I beg for your forgiveness. But I must, and I have also spoken to my direct leader about it,” Alan said, trusting the Gadalian custom of freedom to choose and act according to one’s will.

  “I see, so the old Ulmas thought it was alright. You’re leaving your duties, Master Craftsman. In any case, you are already here,” Skapasis said. “Go see the woman and tell me why she does not come when summoned. I have asked the lancer girl. She said she is in health, but I don’t trust her words nor judgement. Why do we put young virgins on the edge of battle? A foolish old tradition, I often ask myself. And now married women, that is unprecedented and perilous.”

  “I shall inquire with her,” Alan bowed his head lightly.

  “And now, young master,” Skapasis examined him from head to toe. “Did you finish all the armours we required of you? If you came all the way here, I assume we have the production ready.”

  “The last batch is ready, two hundred breastplates of the best quality, reinforced steel in each of the scales and segmented shoulder, and they should arrive...”

  “Fine,” Skapasis interrupted him but seemed pleased. “The initiates are waiting patiently. And now, Skapasis has other business to attend. With the goddess.” Then, he turned toward Ira.

  “And you, woman… Have you the Child of the Morning Star?”

  “Aye, my Chieftain.” Ira bowed her head and smiled, revealing the vase of gold.

  “I yearn to know of Her words,” Skapasis said with a sigh, glancing at the stars above. “Let us visit the Oracle. And you? Will you join us, Master Craftsman?”

  “Aye,” said Alan.

  “So be it,” the Chieftain said, and then turned and walked down toward a small tent of dark green colour with linen strands depicting golden flowers.

  The emissaries from other divisions gathered around it. Ira delivered the vase to one of the assistants for the preparation of the rite. The dawn of the great siege was at the gates, and the goddess of life and passion would speak.

  The Oracle of Venus peered out of his tent, holding a prayer wheel in his right hand. He seemed terrified, his eyes low like those of a scared dog, as the ritual could drive the practitioners to madness. His clothing was long and feminine, with ropes around his waist and silver jewels dropping from his neck. His hair was long and yellow, braided on the side.

  “Come out, Hadarthas!” Skapasis cried.

  “Has the time come?” the priest asked in a feminine voice, lifting his head shyly.

  “Yes, these messengers have come a long way. Now we need your answers.”

  “Yes, my lord,” the shaman replied with a pale face, then swallowed.

  The shaman prepared the ritual, placing a rug with an encircled stave, as one of his assistants, similarly dressed, sat on the side and started to bang a drum covered with deer skin. Another one started to throat sing.

  A fire was lit on a high torch, and Hadarthas knelt over the rug.

  Alan knew it was his only chance. He stepped toward the rug and addressed the shaman.

  “Please, Hadarthas before you start. Ask the goddess about my wife Ileria. I have seen her death in my dreams,” Alan said.

  “I will try,” the shaman whispered.

  “Enough,” Skapasis blurted, eyeing Alan. “Now, Hadarthas; High Priest of Venus, you will visit the Goddess. Please ask for her favour and bring to us knowledge on how to act to achieve victory. Please tell us the strategy of our enemy, and how to strike them. And if the Goddess doesn’t help us, these people will abandon Her favour and curse Her forever.”

  Turnaz lifted his head in shock. He exchanged glances with Alan.

  Hadarthas shut his eyes and bent his neck to the side. The drumming continued as Hadarthas lifted the small prayer wheel and shook it. Its sound reverberated in their ears.

  Another helper knelt on one leg and presented the mushroom on a gold ceremonial tray, his long red sleeves hung like caverns. Hadarthas lifted his left hand, touched it, and drove it to his mouth. He chewed it with a grimace, then forced himself to swallow it.

  Hadarthas started to recite an arcane enchantment, or perhaps gibberish. He kept his eyes shut, twisting the drum in his left hand. He opened his mouth and a croak came out. His eyes were open wide, now white, and he jumped to his feet.

  His voice morphed into the voice of a woman, high and warlike.

  “The world… The world… The world will cease to be.”

  Skapasis smiled faintly, as if he’d expected those words.

  “The world…” The screams became louder and screechy, piercing through Alan’s ears.

  “The world will end in fifteen years. The world… It is better to die… It is better to die than to see them return.”

  Skapasis’ expression of pride turned into uncertainty.

  “Please die, die, let us, let the whole world die before their return… They await, dreaming they await… Inside the earth… They wait… They will rise, in fifteen years, they rise… It is better to die than to see them return.”

  The attendees exchanged glances. The drummer kept banging, and the one who had presented the Child remained on his left knee.

  “Enough with this farce!” the Chieftain demanded.

  Hadarthas’ screams didn’t stop. He moved around the rug, as if bound to it by some invisible energy, then stared at Alan with bloodshot white eyes. He dropped the prayer wheel and lunged at Alan’s feet and grabbed him by the legs; looked up and opened his mouth.

  “Do not let them touch it!” he cried like a rabid dog.

  Alan stepped back, confused. Instinctively, he thought of unsheathing his sword, but he braced himself.

  “Do not let them!” Hadarthas cried. “Do not let them! Do not let them!”

  “Whom?” Alan asked, pulling his feet away.

  “Do not… Do not let them… Do not let them!” Hadarthas shrieked. Alan’s eyesight moved slightly up, and he blinked in surprise as he saw Skapasis’ sword penetrating the shaman’s spine.

  “I will not tolerate these defeatist scams,” the Chieftain slurred, releasing the sword, as the priests’ body contorted, then fell lifeless on the ground.

  The banging of the drum stopped. The assistants’ faces were as pale as paper.

  “Miss Ira, there was something wrong with the mushroom this year,” the Chieftain said, then wiped the blood on his sword with a hemp handkerchief. The observers stood silent. “The ritual to conceive it might have been wrong. Or else, the Goddess has betrayed us.”

  “Well.” Alan blinked in distress. He felt his skin pale and his heart rate increase.

  Skapasis looked up. His face turned red and veins emerged from his neck.

  “Wanton goddess, we begged for thy protection, and yet you cursed us with confusion? We wanted understanding and thy blessing, and you betray us by driving our priest into madness!”

  Silence reigned by his side, and Ira dared to kneel behind the body and look for signs of life. She shook her head and looked up at the Chieftain. He ignored her glance and instead, arranged his red hair and cleared his throat.

  “Is anybody hungry?” the Chieftain asked with a smile. “We acquired potatoes from the last village we sacked, and my personal cook is preparing a big cauldron of chicken stew for everybody.”

  Alan cleared his throat.

  “If you’ll excuse me, my Chieftain, I must get going,” he said as he turned his back, his arms and legs shaking, and mounted his horse.

  Chapter IV - Friends and Foes

  Alan of Vharzia rode for another evening, up into the White Mountains, where he saw the Itruschian enemy camping in the valley below, under the red sky, filling the valley like white sand next to the rocky shore, their golden standards visible from afar, their simple tents, arranged symmetrically. Their numbers were superior, and their strategy was strong. And yet, Alan trusted that they were no match for the Gadalians and their Hunnic and Kaltanian allies.

  The scene he’d witnessed the night before was stuck on his mind like blood stains on woollen clothes. There, he had wished to kill the Chieftain himself, but that would get him dismembered for treason. His pride in the Dragon Armour that bound him to his Chieftain now seemed like a heavy yoke. He thought, like Ira, he would ride to the end, defend his people, and bring war to his enemies. Hopefully, the world would be peaceful after that. As he climbed on the valley, he decided to approach the camp of an allied tribe, the Sons of Hunas, exactly where Ira told him it would be.

  He rode through the hill until he found the camp with around a hundred ornate yurts, their style different from Gadalian, as their tapestries depicted flowers and geometric patterns more than animal figures. Each yurt was almost seven feet in height, and their diameter was around nineteen feet. Groups of men were sitting around them, some starting bonfires for the coming dusk. Most had removed their padded coats, rolled dice, and drank hemp milk. Alan dismounted. Many looked at him with suspicion, and an armed warrior approached him.

  “Good evening, traveller,” the young warrior said, raising from his post as a sentinel. His skin was tanned, his face broad, and his eyes slanted, like most of his tribesmen, a long folding robe covered his shoulders and a wool hat covered his head.