DAWN, the Ultimate Saga, I-i-1/4

THE SUN STONE


HE

 
A startling scar splitting his side, he'd limped back from the hunt, learning only then of the outrage inflicted on his people. He wiped his wounds away. What use in looking further? Insulted honor cannot be expected to wait.
He had only a name upon which to base his quest: Kleworegs, king of the Clan of the Winged Horse -- also, his target. This was enough. And so he set out.

Why had he been absent on that day of infamy? He would have known how to prevent it. Instead, he had been busy escaping it -- his former life -- so dull, so grim.

And yet, the world was in motion all around him. He himself was unaware of it. But how could the son of such a distant land have known the mysteries of the times, the secrets of kings?


Still Night

 
A dark-red blaze was crossing the steppe and in its wake a lone, gory young man. He ran, his matted hair stiffened in thick, prickled tufts, his face looking drawn under the black layer of dried sap, his clothes impregnated with the red liquor of life, the sole survivor of the recent tragedy. It had been an indiscriminate slaughter, a feast for the crows. The blood-stained warrior had led a merciless fight. The harshest of blows had been exchanged and the losers annihilated. Now only the hares bounding before him as he moved forward saw his pain, his shame.
He didn't flee. He moved swiftly, his strength strained, refusing all respite. He worried only about gaining on his assailants before they, laden with loot, had gone too far. But first, he would have to find a group of the strongest warriors of his own kinsmen. He’d sworn he would not stop running until he did so.
He would have to cut them off before nightfall. Any later and the cursed Mutes would have gained too much ground. Then, there would be no hope at all of catching them. At this pace, he would be able to honor his commitment. He would not allow himself to collapse, to tumble into the slumber of the dead, allowing the enemy flee ever further still. Every stride moved him closer to vengeance, and any repose would be a sacrilege.
He ran, his heart filled with shame and wrath, his body soiled with blood. If only such blood flowed from the slit throats of those who'd vanquished his people! But grim was the reality. This fugitive sap of life, his own bitter blood, seeped from his gnarled flesh and burned his skin, his soul. He had to find them, to wash away his blood in theirs. If not, he would for eternity feel this sting. (Press on. Your people are near. Run. Run as if your life depended on it! It does. The life of one who has not avenged his people is no life at all. )
The scenes of battle replayed in his mind and would live there, in every second, in each minute detail, for the rest of his life:
They had just returned from an unforgettable raid -- his first. Their loot had been copious, and of course, they'd wanted neither for hard-hearted captives (let them enjoy it while they can, for servitude would soon break them!) nor fat cattle nor agile horses nor skins, supplies, jewels or salt. And most importantly, there were the idols of the vanquished, those rude, worm-worn statuettes. None of the other spoils were of equal worth. Taken by force from worshippers ready to die for them, they were of priceless value. His clan would appropriate their virtues, and the victims, immolated with wrath, would smart at their defeat from beyond the grave. Those who had become victims of sacrifice in honor of these idols would be grateful to their avengers and would compensate his people by informing them of peril by slipping into their dreams.
His tribe felt safe; its spoils were great and the souls of its warriors serene. Even their slow march, women and children lagging behind, hardly disheartened them. The gods had granted them victory; why should they suddenly turn their backs on them? The clan had, after all, the deepest respect for them. What chaos for the god who refused to answer their prayers! He would pay for his ingratitude; no more the many sacrifices in his name and the fires on the altars in his honor would, one by one, die. Quickly would he come to his senses!
There was a gale. The elder clansmen shivered. They had gone through the woods. "It will be a shelter, a shortcut," the king had said, and all had praised his wisdom. They lacked nothing for their happiness except, perhaps, a break. But as of yet, no glade had been suitable. Perhaps the next one a bit further on.
About what were his brothers thinking of then? He - his last pleasant memory - of a young captive -- a girl, pretty as the moon, dirty as a sow. He would ask for her at the time of the sharing. He had accomplished quite enough at this, his first raid, to earn her as a reward. No one could deny a valiant brother such a reasonable demand. Once deloused and washed, the plump girl would bring joy to his long nights.
Just at that moment, a howling had sounded.
The enemy, who had no doubt had been spying on the clan for some time, had mounted the ambush cleverly. His people had gone too far into the bush; it would be a fight to the finish tangled amongst the branches and brambles. They sprang upon them in a dissonant concert of cries and curses. Their archers riddled his troops with their barb-tipped arrows, arrows withdrawn only accompanied by a hunk of flesh. Others threw their javelins, barb-tipped like the arrows, and equally treacherous. The rest rushed upon them hand-armed with spears and short flint-daggers. The spears pierced their flesh, the flint-flakes tore at it. From mead and light, the future had become blood and darkness. He had seized his blade and rushed at the enemy into the ardent thick of the battle.
Had this fury which had invaded him been a thirst for blood? What was this whirlwind of madness into which he had sunk? He had struck, possessed by the fury of the slaughter. His blade had dug deep into hostile guts, slit the throats it sought to slit. Kill, kill, kill! The cry resounded in his head, and he knew it would only stop once the last of the enemy had perished.
And then all had gone black.
He had awoken later, the same scarlet-streaked night overhead. A horrible silence reigned, hardly broken by the cawing of the crows. He had tried to move. His muscles reacted, but a weight pinned his shoulders to where he lay. He managed to free one arm; by half pushing, half pulling, he had opened a space. He had moved his hand and felt the wind blew over it. Now he would have to part his heavy eyelids.
Blurs of memory came back to him like scraps of frayed light, like the small clouds of good weather. And yet the event had been great, grave -- even tragic. Surely he had taken part in it somehow. Why was the memory of it so hazy, so thin? Why did his mind remain immobile -- captive -- like his body under this heap of bloody corpses?
The corpses! He soon found that all his questions were of little use. Finally, and rather unfortunately, he managed to open his eyes, and when he did he was faced with the sight of it. Such slaughter! He started frantically trying to climb out of the mass grave where he had been lain (for how long?) buried. He saw clearly now. With some effort, he was able to make his way out from under the heap of corpses of his brethren and also, thank the gods, his enemies.
Standing up, he examined the mass grave. Warriors, elders, women, children and enemy corpses heaped one on top of the other. Somehow he stifled the urge to gag. He took a deep breath. Was he injured? His skin. bloody-red -- he had surely been grazed by some blade or the other, but he didn't feel any pain. Yet the amount of blood was considerable. But perhaps it was not his own. His own injury had been so slight that they had, in fact, left him in his garments. He searched his body for any further sign of injury. The Mutes, said the elders and guardians of tradition, mutilate their victims, severing their ears and manhood, prizing the former as trophies and the latter as emblems of virility won, for their male victims, stripped of manhood, were men no more. These lesser men, ambiguous creatures at best, would not dare ask vengeance from the gods. Such heinous acts were these! And yet, he was intact, whole even. He caressed his temple in thought only to discover raw flesh. His ear -- they had taken his ear! He felt the wound again, the only evidence of aggression dealt against him, and felt stunned. The feeling started to spread throughout his body, causing him to stiffen like one of the many spears that lie inanimate on the ground below.
He continued to check for injuries but found none. How had he, unlike the rest of his people, been saved? O welcome wound! It had saved his life! They had left him for dead.
He returned to the heap of corpses that had protected him. During the final assault, the tribe must have regrouped, making a square around him, and then fallen in on him, covering and concealing him from the enemy's carving frenzy. In their haste, the cursed enemy had not taken the time to claim all their trophies. They had handled the most urgent matters first: stripping and mutilating the leaders and the best-clothed. Even had they had more time, they surely wouldn't have given him a second glance; his mangy fur was unworthy of stealing, his ears, hemmed like a woman’s, no worthier -- certainly not worthy of a place among the trophies. Only the goods from the wagons and the decorations and garments removed from chiefs justified the risk they'd run forging this attack so far from their home camp. They would surely not linger longer than necessary, not for an old bloody skin and the cheap pleasure of cutting off a child’s ears. They would have left quickly, taking only the time to honor their own dead.
Curse his dead king! "A shelter, a shortcut!" A shelter against the gale indeed, but a shortcut to slaughter. He sank to his knees. The intent of the gods was clear; they had left him alive to witness this savagery of this affront. They had willed it. And now he would obey them. He would serve them.

He bent over and observed the tracks. Those of the wagons were deep; no risk of losing them, except if it were to rain a long and violent rain. He raised his face towards the sun; he had surely been unconscious for its last three passes overhead. He inhaled the scent of ox dung. It was still warm. The last of the assassins had left perhaps only one pass ago. He verified this, as well as their numbers and their route by the many details they had left behind them, for this was one of the many lessons he had learned from the wise elders. Since his infancy he had learned many precious skills, including sign-reading, from them. The elders had used their last strength and pride teaching the young people of the clan -- those who had been eager to gain their knowledge, to equal them. Their efforts would not have been vain, for it was serving him at this, a most critical, moment.
He started running. Where he was going, he would find a clan of his people and their warriors. He would tell them of his people's misfortune and ask them for their help in avenging this horrific act; he himself prayed with all his heart that this vengeance would be of great wrath and executed by the strongest, most valiant of men. The enemy had suffered heavy losses and their ranks counted many casualties. But no matter -- he needed the best troops. He would not lead a raid; he would simply make them pay for the blood they had spilt.
He ran. The sun sank lower and lower, and the shadows were lengthening. He ran. Soon the night, in which no one dares wander (for it is then that dark powers prowl and prey -- where waking life, like men, sleeps), would be upon him. The muscles in his legs were pain, his lungs a blazing inferno. He ran and would run until he found his brethren and had their pledge, their solemn oath, to avenge his clan. And after all that, after that he might think about his aching. After.
The rain came and cooled his throat, a drenching rain that seemingly soaked only the space around him. It gullied in the gore that had dried on his face, running into the rifts where the gore had cracked, and the black islets it left on his tanned skin gave him an even grimmer mask. This shower was the aid of the gods. He breathed clearly, the pace of his running refreshed. Despite the fall of night, he would continue, even if it meant facing its evil forces. What matter petty demons when vengeance waits to be taken?
He would run, run, run until death took him. Night had fallen, and the white moon-god, the Brilliant, had advanced a pace in the darkened sky above, which was reason to despair. Yet, the gods wished for his clan to be avenged -- he had understood this. And, in exchange, they would take him. He would only have time to show to his avengers the tracks of the culprits. If this were their price, so be it.
Hidden below by a small levee, several fires appeared in the distance. The gods had willed this as well. He had surely, finally, found a camp of his people! He headed toward them. Sudden barks sounded, and the watchdogs rushed towards him bearing their tearing jaws; though the driving rain had cleansed his face, he still looked like meat. They would devour him. An order sounded. They pointed. A voice commanded him not to move.
He recognized the voice and the words. He had arrived. All was well. The gods could take him.
But might that they first allow him to deliver his message…