DAWN, the ultimate saga I-i-2/4

Twice already had his host’s chief listened to him. He was not yet satisfied and continued to interrogate him, riddling him with questions, greedy to understand everything, attentive to not miss even the finest thread in this maze of images – his description of the assault; even the slightest detail could prove important.
In return, he attempted to answer everything as best he could. Finally, the chief made up his mind: he would perform his duty and avenge his people; he would do everything in his power to help him bring about a successful resolution to the matter. Other warriors, seated at his side, lent him their ears. Occasionally, they themselves also asked questions. Some seemed strange, insignificant, or merely senseless, but each was eventually justified and attested to their knowledge of the science of combat.
He felt well. The gods had fulfilled his wishes; those to whom they had sent him knew the art of the war better than anyone, enjoyed it, and, unlike most, would not enter into it blindly. Had it not been for their jolly appearance, he would have believed himself sitting before Thonros and his men.
But Thonros, the god of combat, would not have needed to ask such questions, to have each point elucidated as such, for neither would he have kept at his side careless warriors who wasted his mead on what they believed to be a thirsty ground nor runny-nosed warriors who whimpered at the slightest ache. No matter though, for though himself not present, he had assisted the young man by leading him to this armed elite. This was obvious by the beauty of their maids, next to whom that object of his brief desire seemed a mere trollop, and by the many jewels encircling their throats and wrists; never had they known defeat.
Such men fear nothing. Trembling with the anticipated pleasure of crushing the villains, he heard the chief order his men to go rally the closer clans: copious loot and blood to bathe in awaited them. Cowardly and vile were those who would not join his ranks!
They left in the night, without fear, for demons hide when avengers ride. He returned to his first thought: under the guise of ordinary warriors, the gods of the war were before him. Of what importance his death, seeing as vengeance would be served?
But does a god tell you, all the while holding his nose, that you stink like a corpse and order you to wash? Does he offer you a small jug of mead and tell you to sip it so that you don’t choke? No, the gods aren't so solicitous. He was alive! Standing before him and smiling was the avenger of his tribe, the soon-to-be bane of the assassins of his people. The young man doubted no more; man or god, he would make them atone.
Exhausted by his journey, he slept. Fatigue had overtaken him, though fear of dreaming might have prevented him from falling asleep. But his rest was quiet, dreamless. Perhaps the horror of his hardship had forever robbed him of his dreaming. And yet, a greater gift could not have been bestowed upon him, for the prospect of reliving those horrific scenes each night was far too dreadful.
The sun was already high when the sounds of excited activity awakened him. Or perhaps it was been the delicious scent of grilled meat -- a dish brimming with it was at his bedside. He pounced upon it under the half-ironic, half-tender gaze of two giants at the back of the tent. They were the bodyguards of the chief of the ever-busy troop and, though ruffians they looked, were good fellows. A vile or cruel man never smiles at the appetite of the grief-stricken. Passing his hand over his face, he smiled at them. They burst out laughing. His sparse, newly-born beard was sprinkled with dried crumbs of gore. He shared in their laughter; his face was surely as fit to frighten a child as to amuse a warrior -- so proud were they of their fearlessness.
"We are ready. We await only our neighbours!" The chief, already harnessed and dressed for combat, had entered his tent. He frowned. Why this deferential tone? Ah, yes! As the only surviving warrior of a clan, he had become king and chief, the equal of he whose help and vengeance he sought. He knew that he would soon have to enter under the chief’s protection, to become a member of his clan, but for the time being, they were equals.
He rose and, washing his face, spoke to the chief. Using the tone he imagined a chief would use, he inquired about his forces. A tough troop indeed! He had reason to be satisfied. No Mute would escape their wrath. They had the forces, the will and the element of surprise on their side; the others would have only the heavy burden of their loot.
The chief offered him a tunic and a new breastplate, but he refused them. He was already regretting having washed his face, as he felt it was in some way impious. He mustn’t leave behind his gory clothes yet; he would wait to have avenged his people, even if it took years. He would continue to wear them even if they began to rot on his body. No one disagreed. He would certainly be changing them soon enough.
He accepted the offer of a horse, however, with gratitude. All would be riding, and most importantly, the chiefs would be. Would he make the right impression? He had ridden on rare occasions and even then only briefly. Horses had been reserved for the clan's more experienced warriors. And yet, he would have to do his best, and gallantly. After all, what would they -- the chief and his companions and all those called to help avenge the affront made on his tribe and, through it, his people -- think of him? As long as his beast somehow was able to understand what was at stake…but he trusted this horse and horses in general, for there was no nobler animal.
A well-armed troop, great in number, accompanied by proud, strong steeds. Blessed were the gods for having offered him such champions! He would seek neither praise nor gifts. After all, what greater gift than these acts of grace? Nothing came to his mind. These arms put at his service, at the service of avenging his people, was undoubtedly the ultimate gift. He had neither words nor notion of how to express his gratitude.
Leaving the tent, he had everything he needed to feel satisfied. The bodyguards had told him throughout the meal of the chief’s care in preparing the raid. So vivid was their description that he already saw the enemy dead at his feet, and the sight of these warriors armoured from head to toe in no way undermined this certainty; on the contrary, it only whipped his determination into frenzy. What a feast it would be when the troops rushed upon the assassins! They would hardly have had time to enjoy the spoils of their raid or brag of their exploits.
He was bathing in this red euphoria when a cry sounded. A thousand flashes of light bright enough to burn the eyes that beheld it struck him. He discovered its source high above him. It hovered over the riders. Yes, it was the sun reflecting on the blades bared in his honor. He observed this gleaming of swords attentively.
Red - their blades gleamed red, as though to harmonize with his thoughts and intentions. He wanted to understand. To thus reflect the light, they could not be coated in blood or dye; this red was their natural color.
What rock thus gleamed? Garnet, perhaps? And yet, garnets were never so large. Also, by his calculation, every blade would have been equal to a year’s worth of loot. No -- the answer lay elsewhere.
He was troubled, feeling that he had to solve this mystery (no, it was much more than a mere mystery). His eyes finally adjusted and he returned his gaze to the troop, its rich attire. Suddenly, he knew of what matter the blades were forged and was seized by the greatest respect for them.
They were made of metal, stone extracted from the belly of the earth and as strong, shaped under the force of fire – he was now sure of it. He was the only one of his clan to have seen the sorcerers melting it. He had learned after, during his tribe's wanderings, that it was used to make jewels. It was the first time he had seen it in such quantity and fashioned as weaponry -- this is what had misled him. While his hosts were not gods, possession of such swords proved they were not mere mortals. What had he done, after having undergone such great hardship, to receive such a gift? What was this star of chance that shone upon him?
His allowed his gaze upon them to linger. The tapering blades were as long as two strong flints from end to end -- a promise of invincibility. From where had they obtained them? But then again, what did it matter, for it was certain that they knew how to use them. That was what mattered. He no longer wondered at their riches; such instruments of war in the hands the bold and righteous paved the way to any hidden treasure, to measureless wealth.
Before the vision of these jewelled warriors offered, his eyes shone and reflected a thousand flames. His face, still marked by trial, glowed. Those closest to him noticed this and laughed with mocking pride at his rapture. He trembled, more excited than the lone warrior who, after a season of combat and many moons of separation, is reunited with his lovely wife. Desire exuded from each of his pores. At the hands of these warriors, the Mutes could resist no more than a feather resists the wind.
Forced to merely observe without the experience, the pleasure, of touching one, even briefly! The chief saw the young man’s preoccupation; though burning with desire, he dare not ask for a blade of his own. Bound by the sacred rules of hospitality, he would just as soon die as voice his wish. The chief, so as to not let him be consumed by the embers of the fire burning within his eyes, took one of his best, lightest, strongest blades and offered it to the young man.
"Bathe it in enough enemy blood, and you may keep it!"
The boy took it. His arm bent immediately under its weight -- how heavy it was! Heavier than two normal flints put together! He would get used to it, though. It was a good omen, and the power of the metal was manifest by this weight. He gave a slight bow. Effusive gratitude in moments of great tension, as before sanctified combat, was surely not the way of chiefs. Having become chief by mere, cruel chance, he exaggerated this self-taught forthrightness.
"Bid it farewell, then!" he answered.
"In the right hands, a blade offered is never a blade lost!"
He acquiesced. If the gods were auspicious, more enemies would perish at his hand than at those of the two strongest warriors. To keep this promise, he would position himself at the battlefront, asserting his new rank. He would allow no another to strike the first blow.
The chief was delighted to oblige, for in his place, at his age, he would have done the same. And yet, he had a last misgiving: what if the young man were to perish in the assault? Aryamenos, the god of hospitability, would surely hold it against. He who receives a guest must protect him and keep him out of harm’s way.
"I am committed to facing this danger, however great it may be! The god of war would be angered were I not to, and the god of hospitality even more so were you to refuse me the opportunity! "
And thus did the boy’s response absolve him of his protective duty in favour of an even stronger, more sacred one. His determination calmed him; even were he to perish -- may the gods forbid -- his blood would not sully the tribe that had lost him. It was better this way. Were there a clan or parents to whom to pay a loss price, the chief would be running a risk. As he was but a lone orphan, he would have only the gods to avenge him, and no one would dare act so as to risk their condemnation. The young man suddenly felt the need to save them from their wrath. He had been born for royalty, though, according to tradition, only priests enjoyed this right of succession.
The chief was greatly touched by his decision. And so it would be; they would lead the attack together on the battlefront and neither would be frustrated by his desire for vengeance or show his virtues in combat.
The young man would have, in fact, preferred to fight on his own, before the other ranks, but insisting further would be offensive to his host. One does not ask for vengeance only to then demand conditions of battle (“Stand back, blade in sheath, until I have had my fill!”). No, he could not. He suddenly wished they would forget him! He had put himself in the hands of the gods; the others need not fear his death. It would be enough that they avenge his people, and that they not leave a single assassin alive to draw another breath. While his fury was his and his alone, revenge belonged to all. Heaven always smiled upon the vengeance of the righteous.
The chief grumbled. The young man fell silent. Of what use this idle chitchat? Does one demand of a flooding stream a promise to lay no waste? In the rage of the assault words and oaths would burst into pieces, overwhelmed by the sheer pleasure of crushing the enemy.
He lowered his gaze, but the gods tended to forgive such effusions of courage. Even now, one of them, Mawort, the twin brother of the celestial god of war, was presiding over them, for men are touchy. His avengers would think him above all presumptuous, though valiant in his way.
"I did not express myself clearly. Each stroke will count. The gods will allow none to perish," he apologized.
The chief grumbled again, faintly approvingly this time.
He raised his head. He had rectified his mistake quickly; but it was obvious that he did not yet know to behave in such situations. Until this misfortune fell upon his shoulders, nothing had prepared him for his present rank. The loss of his people had made him king – it had not taught him their manners and their ways.
A slight tension still hovered over them waiting for a kind word would to make it fall.
"I praise the gods again. Your valour and your arms will make our revenge swift!"
The chief smiled. The boy took advantage of this and continued.
“Do we leave at once or will we wait for the others?"
"The king will ask the gods to favor our raid. It won't be long – we will not offer a sacrifice just now. He will simply invoke the divine warrior and consecrate the Mutes to him. We will leave immediately afterwards. "
"May your friends not linger. Vengeance burns within me! "
“Worry not, the Mutes have oxcarts. We shall go faster than them. And this night we will reunite with the four other clans. What do you think of that? "
"Wonderful!"
"Six clans in all.” (Ah, the chief had counted him, the boy, though alone, a clan unto himself! Perfect, so long as the other clans were more numerous) “Your Mutes! All that will remain of them will be stains reddening the grass. "
He grimaced.
"They would have come anyway,” the chief continued, “but to further motivate them I have promised them metal arms."
He looked contrite; he had relinquished part of his power for the cause of avenging a people he’d never known. The young suddenly had quite a different understanding of the situation. What was his clan compared to this people? He had nothing to regret – far from it.
"The more good arms we have, the more easily shall we succeed in imposing our peace on the enemy. And then, further will our power and notoriety be spread."
"Yes. Yes, perhaps," conceded the chief.
"And those you have rallied will assist you again and speak in your favor at the councils. Who knows, perhaps they will even decide to make you their king. They will have seen that only those who wield the blades have the true, gods-given strength. "
The chief looked around warily. The king mustn’t hear such ideas! With his bushy eyebrows and his forehead creased in concern, he turned toward the young man. His words bordered on blasphemy, sacrilege. How his ears, for having listened to them, and the boy's mouth, for having uttered them, hadn’t burst into flames at once he did not know. And the worst was yet to come. How could the boy have vomited such horrors at the moment of their departure into battle? He was about to speak but didn't have time as the boy continued.
"The priests have always sacrificed to the gods in our name. They must always be prepared to receive their messages, to win their favor and, through their prayers, waylay assaults and ambushes. And yet, they did not warn us of this ambush. And once the danger was upon us, in spite of our piety and courage, the gods did not answer the priests. I no longer have faith in them! In your values, yes, but not in them!”
“And now they are dead. Castigated by the gods themselves for their failings!”
“And we, the innocent, perished alongside them!"
"Silence, fool! Our king and the other priests are devout, and we prosper thanks to them…and to me, his chief, to whom he guarantees the support of the war gods. When I seek their aid, I bring him an ox or a fat pig, and it is done. "
"Meaning the king does what you tell him?"
"Enough!" cried the chief, and then fell silent. The teenager was wiser than he; he had said in a mere phrase what he himself had felt for years now and never dared express. It was he who, shielded by his king high priest, decided everything within his inner circle. The priest was only his spokesman, his mouthpiece. Why had he not realized it sooner? Often in his presence had he expressed an idea that was forgotten after one or two quarters of the Brilliant. Then would the king come, drawing the villagers together to proclaim that the gods had spoken to him and had ordered this act or that act, and then as if by chance, the very idea that he, the chief himself, had proposed. This seemed to happen all the quicker and more frequently when he was generous with his offerings…
What had he thought? He could no longer deny it. But how to banish this realization from his mind right now? How might he put it aside and think about it later? If they succeeded, there would be time for this later, but not now. Especially not now. Though his warriors and their arms were strong, it was nonetheless not prudent to disregard the spiritual aid of the priests. No one knows better than the priests how to speak to the gods. But were they as apt at commanding and leading men? This was a practical thought, not a sacrilege, he told himself. The king was most worthy, and the chief most valiant. But perhaps one man could be both.
There would be time for reflection later. Now, the time for battle had come. Combat would erase these blasphemous thoughts, bathe them in blood. There would be a sign: if the boy perished, all he had said and thought would be forgotten forever. But if not… Ambition is a warrior's virtue, and no one else embodied this virtue more than the chief.
The king arrived. The boy showed no sign of his mistrust, nor did the chief of his quandary. They greeted him with ostentation, and he, in turn, invited them to the call of divine protection. Once finished, they would leave.
They followed him. Knowing the urgency of the pursuit, his blessing was short. The gods appreciate the call for vengeance; it suffices to solicit their assistance. The feasts and rejoicing would take place later and be lengthy.