Pact - The Gathering Tempest

            The last burnt orange rays of the sun are falling beyond the horizon, and the storm is getting heavy now. None of the boys has yet returned, and so of this crop, there shall be no new men. This does not surprise you. In fact, you expected at least one of your number to die- the one who boasted the loudest, who clamored of his family’s great history as slayers of the Dragyn. You take no joy in his death, but you also recognize that your village is no worse off for the loss of him. His mother and father will not think so, and that is a conversation you do not relish having, but it is what must be done. The rites will tell the aspiring boys of the risks, but only gently. The truth is, dragyns are much more terrible than one who has not seen them up close can fathom. Simple words and exercises can prepare one only so well.
            The sun is gone now. All that remains is you and your fire. As the storm begins to turn and roil overhead, lightning budding, you give one last sweep of the caves with your eyes. Were it day, it would be a simple task. This is the real reason the test ends at sundown. As the landscape darkens, it becomes difficult to pick out movement, even with your enhanced vision. Just as well. The boys have been slain, and so there is no purpose to remaining here longer. Setting a torch aside, you begin to douse the fire. It will be a long trek down the mountain.
            Then you hear something in the darkness. It comes from up the slope, the direction of the caves. Lifting your torch, you see…
            Nothing.

            It is dangerous, even for you, to wander blindly in the dark so close to the caves of dragyn. Certainly, one might become a man by slaying such a beast and drinking deep of its blood; you suspect such a ritual exists only because the dragyns have so thoroughly drank the blood of eukin tribes for generations beyond counting. Nonetheless, you set out with care. The dragyn prefer day to night when it pertains to their hunting, and, though it is grim to think, since the boys have not returned, it is likely the creatures are sleepy and sated.
            Picking your way over the hard stones and broken ground,  you wave your torch before you. The light it provides is very little, less and less as the rains begin to fall. Truly, it is your ears that do the work, listening for any sound amongst the water that strikes the earth. And then you hear it; the sound of a loose stone skittering down the mountainside. The thud of a clumsily placed limb. Straining your eyes, you can see a dark shape, much too small to be a dragyn. It freezes, seemingly looking in your direction. Then, it slumps over, moving no more.
            The wind shifts and the smell of blood hits you. It is intense and overpowering- the smell of eukin blood, one of your tribesmen. The boy who dies in the fight against a dragyn dies the death of a man, and so, among the youths you led to this place, this is the champion of the village. With the last of his strength, he crawled from the cave, mortally wounded, only to die some yards off from you. His body you can take to the village, to be honored as a man.
            But you smell something else, too. More blood, different blood- the blood of a dragyn. As you approach, you peer more closely; it’s not a trick of the storm, shifting his body with raging winds. It’s not a trick of the light as lightning bolts crash down upon the mountain. His breast shudders. He’s alive!

**

            We are the storm. It is our blood and our birthright, and no ill-concieved halfbreed or lowly manthing will ever take that from us; nor shall they share in the glory. And how could they? When the winds rise, the manthings build their fires high and sit close, passing their meager rations. No better are our lesser ‘kin’, taking to their caves to wait out the worst. When the clouds build, and the rain falls, the simple oafs cower in their huts, wrapping themselves in the crude hides of simple beasts. Meanwhile, the lizards enter hibernation, sleeping out the storm, dreaming of the sun. Such frail things.
            And when the lightning strikes, oh… the manthings…they turn tail and run, fleeing for cover with their wailing babes and livestock—it is hard to tell the difference, we admit. And our ‘kin’, though they would never say it, they too fear the lightning, cowed into submission by the storm…this is why they are lowly. This is the true mark of the halfbreed: weakness. Cowardice. To call themselves dragons at all is to do them more honor than they deserve, the lizards.
            When the winds rise, we rise with them, soaring into darkened skies, reigning over this patch of world. It is glorious, and it is ours.  We float above the clouds, or dally within them, cleansed by the torrent of the storm’s rain, shedding  the old for the new, reinvigorated by the raw fury of the tempest’s power.
            Oh, and the lightning…. When it strikes, the power dances across our magnificent scales. Lit and alight by that purest energy- it fills us, and as the thunder sounds, we howl along with the echoes of its passing. You see, we are the storm, and the storm is we, and the sky belongs to us.

***

            Tribes all gathered in the dark, dark broken only by fires and storms high above. Lightning crackles, even bold warriors flinch. We once proud peoples, once strong peoples. Then the Thundas come. Big. Strong. No mercy, like storm. No honor, like rivals. They call us, they find us, they kill us.
             Thunda lizards come at night; never day. One to come among tribes soon, this night. Once killed us, but now, they only talk. ‘Serve us,’ they say, ‘and we not kill you no more.’ Uthuk don’t like that. Uthuk know, like warriors know, like other tribes know, that bargain is bad. Bad, but good. No haggling with Thundas.
            Each full moon, tribes meet. Was that we talk, trade, share story. Now, Thundas come and talk to us. They want Uthuk’s clan, other clans to fight their enemies. It make no sense, what tribe can best a Thunda? But choice, no choice.
            “Evening, tribes.” This Thunda their messenger. It speak to us. It walk on two legs, it talk with small mouth, but Uthuk don’t think it like us. Thundas too strong. “We can tell by the smell that most of you are present tonight.”
            Thunda provoke us each time; first, warriors attacked. Now, tribes know better. Thunda look disappointed. Small triumph.
            “As you all are well aware, we have stopped our attacks on your wretched kind and offered mercy instead, in exchange for tribute, which is fitting, considering your tiny standing.”
            Insults are way of dishonorable. Honor mean strength, but Thundas too powerful even though they do us dishonor.
            “What you ask of us?” Chieftain say. My Chieftain. Strong. Noble. True honor. Not waste time.
            “Straight to it, then?” Thundas reply. “We will make it simple for you simpletons. We. Want. More.”

****

            Pain and darkness. Nahk could remember that much. The smell of blood on his skin, the lurch and shift of the Man’s step as he carried Nahk down the mountain. The sharp jerk of pain every time the Man moved too quickly, and the darkness that seemed to press in on them. Nahk couldn’t see, his limbs dangling limply, every breath filled with pain. 
            The Man seemed to know that Nahk was trying to speak; he looked at Nahk closely, and shook his head. The journey home was important, the Man said, and for their arrival among their people, they would both need their strength. Strength? The thought was laughable. What had their strength done for them against the Dragyn? Though he could not see, Nahk didn’t hear the voices or steps of the others, and his own cavemate had been slain. In fact, it was that death that had allowed Nahk to strike true. What sort of strength was that?
            Nahk did not, could not voice these questions. He suspected that the Man would give him no satisfactory answer. As it was, the Man did not speak much; he had never told them of his own tale of glory against the Dragyn. Even as they descended and the storm receded, the trend of silence continued. The cold air dried the blood on Nahk’s body, and with this change came blessed numbness. Painful still, but much less so.
            Eventually, the sun had begun to rise. Nahk had not slept much, on account of the Man’s vigorous, yet careful descent. The Man, apparently, had not slept at all. The trickle of warmth that day brought heralded other surprises. Nahk, covered in blood, muscles torn, of course knew of his own injuries. But in the light of dawn, Nahk could see that the Man also bled- or at least, he had. Along his left forearm, a deep reddish purple bruise, graced by the cut of a knife, and further riddled with toothmarks.
            When the Man caught Nahk looking, he said nothing. After all, his goal was the village.

Pact- Manhood

The wind whipped through the crags, mercilessly cold and swift. Though the sun shone mostly unobstructed, a bright, white-hot sphere in the nearly cloudless sky, the air, even when still, was anything but warm. Sparse vegetation gripped the dirt in small patches, often tinged with frost. The hard earth did not yield for much, certainly not for their footsteps. Here, they had drawn very near to the rim of the Corner; further still would take them to the Dreadspires, but they did not need to travel that far, for their quarry had not yet fled this particular range. Likely it wouldn’t. The same laws of territory that made dragyns fierce also made them predictable. Today, at least one of them would become a man.
                They wore only the barest of clothing. This was done for both the respect of the beasts, and respect for their own power. The ancient Rite had accounted for everything, and so they were most thoroughly prepared. Foot wrappings, of course, open toed for grip, thick enough to protect the soles. Similar lashings for their loins, lest such fly free and make an enticing target. Furs upon their shoulders to keep them warm; for a lad on the cusp of manhood, to be defeated by the cold before even facing the dragyn would prove the ultimate loss of honor. Lastly, their hands; these were clad with gauntlets of metal. Heavy is the hand that slays the Dragyn.
                He was ready. From birth, he had occasion to witness the dragyns in flight. He carried boulders to build his strength, braved the cold whilst other clans held their boys close; in the words of his father, so close that they would always be boys, never men. He would never allow that to be the case for him. The last day of his childhood had come, and so when the night fell, he would celebrate as a man, as had his father, and his father’s father, and the long line of champions before them. Because of such status, he walked just behind the Man. Having slain a dragyn himself and drank deep of its blood, this Man had earned the right to lead the boys into battle. He stood head and shoulders over them, well-built and well weathered from time in the mountains.
                Their journey had begun in the cradle of the refuge, where the land was somewhat more arable, and the cutting chill of the winds did not quite reach. It had carried them over the tall hills that quickly became mountains, and past the little fields that grew smaller and more isolated the further they traveled. Such a journey had already taken one of their number; crossing the great river that bisected their territory, one of the boys had slipped. He was not the biggest, nor the strongest, nor the smallest, nor the weakest. He was, by all accounts, an average boy, who now, swept away and forced under the icy waters, would never become even an average man.
                Just as well; the world knew enough of average men. The cowards and the mightiest survive, but those who could not decide whether to be strong or weak had no place. He had long ago decided that there was no way he would let such happen to him. As such, he had crossed the river the fastest, beating even the Man across. While the others judiciously found careful footing upon the stones, he had calculated a path as they approached, and so spryly bounded across it. He nearly slipped but once.
                After the river, however, the real sojourn had come: a hike up the cliffs that only grew steeper and steeper. The temperature had plummeted, and, wet from the river, it was very easy to be cold. He wasn’t though. Not cold enough to stop. Some of the others had begun to fall behind, or resorted to leaning on one another for support, but he took second position and held it. The only reason boys existed at all was to turn into men, his father had said. Then again, his father had been born a man.
                Sometimes, it is obvious, but either way, it is up to the boy to become the man, and for that, he must exhibit the most manly qualities. For him, every step was a man’s step. Every breath was a man’s breath. When they came to the cliff and the pass became so narrow that they had to shimmy along it one at a time, the others hesitated. He did not.
                Once across, they had to scale the slope of said cliff; here they could find some purchase. Even so, it was a climb that brought soreness into the muscles to stay. Still, he held his place. Cresting the mountain revealed even taller ones beyond. Here, however, they were close enough to see the dragyns fly. At this distance, they were but shapes diamond in form, pale blurs against the blue-gray sky.
                It was bad luck to be noticed by a dragyn airborne. Even ignoring the clear perils of such a situation, the Rites clarified that such was among the most grave of mistakes, taboos, and trespasses. He smiled at the thought. After all, how could one trespass in his own home? If anything, the dragyns did the trespassing, and today, as a man, he would rectify that fact. They took a path close to the jutting rocks, a route that often blocked them from the view of the flyers. It was slow and winding, but it would take them to the caves, the nests. There, treasures awaited; for him, the greatest glory of them all: his manhood.
                It was best to approach near the end of flights. The dragyns might be tired. They might be feeding. They would be vulnerable, and the superior strength of men would triumph over them. Him especially. Come of age, he was the latest in a long line of dragon killers. On this mountain, many of them had died at the hands of his family. He had no need to drink from the blood of a dragyn. After all, the Dragyn was already in his veins. Still, he would anyway- for the Rite most of all, but also his family. As such, he would return victorious, though everyone would surely expect this. After the feast, he would soon enough lead the next generation of boys up the mountain, and under his care, they would become men. This he knew more than anything.
                The sky was clear. Not of clouds, certainly, for they now crowded the sky. The dragyns had vacated. Soon enough, it became clear why. A drop here, on his shoulder. Another on his nose. More and more fell, until the dry dirt beneath them became blanketed with moisture. Thunder began to crawl through the clouds overhead. He didn’t scare so easy, even if the dragyns did. They hid in the caves, but he would not.
                And yet, the Man drew them to a halt. They too took cover, despite his own personal protests to continue forward. He found it incredulous, the looks on the faces of the others. Relief. Exhaustion. Fear. He wore fury in response. How could they? How dare they? He thought to press on himself, but as he started out, the Man grabbed him. Danger? Of course! That was the line that separated a boy from a man. That was what clarified strength! How could this Man, so cowardly, hold the title?
                Still, he waited. There, under the last of the jutting rocks, they waited, crouching like insects, ready to scurry at a moment’s notice. Infuriating! Then, the Man laid a hand on his shoulder. Pointed to the caves. Soon enough, the rain would stop. Soon. They could press in. As they waited, the Man assigned two of them to each cave. As they were now one short, he told the Man that he would go alone. At last, every moment he had trained for, freezing in the snow… every trial that he endured… every day that he spent pushing boulders, scaling cliffs, battling fox and boar, while the other children played... the tests of focus, the endurance of pain after starvation after pain, every moment committed to learning dragyn behavior, thinking tactics… all of these things would soon realize his ultimate desire.
                The rain had grown heavy initially. Now it was light. As with the others, he began to cover himself with mud; it would limit the dragyn’s faculties against them. The Man gave a few last terse instructions, and then settled back into an abscess in the rock, where he began to build a fire. The penultimate test.
                They could Stay, and warm themselves by the fire until the Goers returned, or the sun set, whichever came first. They could return, as boys, to the village, with no shame on their heads, for there was no shame in recognizing one’s limits. Or, they could elect to complete all that they had set out to do, strike at the dragyn, and claim their Rite of passage. There, they might die, but do so with at least the glory of a man, though a boy.
                There was but one shameful end: The Indecision. For those who departed to face the dragyn, and then retreated, emptyhanded, for those who lingered by the fire, only to be boldened by the victories of the new men, and choose to venture out… all that remained was a shameful boyhood. He knew several such boys, old and gray, never knowing true life as a man, never knowing the love of a mate. At best they might trade with the islands in the south, gathering and plying goods with the women. This was no life, as far as he was concerned.
                It was certainly no way for him to live. So, when the rain stopped, and the warm fire was lit, he told the Man to keep it so, that he might cook dragyn flesh for them all. They did not find his confidence as charming as they should have. They did, however, move out as he did. Full Goers, no Stayers. The way every Rite should begin. He knew then with certainty, that the boy who had fallen into the river had surely been, at best, a Stayer.
                But these, perhaps, were real men; they only needed to be told so, and only after it had been proven with valor. His cave was the furthest into the gulch atop the mountain- the furthest from safety. A cave worthy of his bloodline. He stormed into it, more fierce than the brief tempest moments ago. Dim, it was, and he almost wished for a torch or strike of lightning.  No. He was the torch, burning bright on the mountain. He was the stroke of lightning, parting the dragyn’s breast with power, precision, surety. It was a fate beyond fate.
                There, in the dark- a shallow cavern it was- the dragyn cowered at the very rear. Deceptively small in flight, it presented a most sizely beast up close. Fiercely, he stepped in and struck out with his hands- but the creature drew back its head and spewed a spurt of pitch at him. It seared him like fire, but only for a moment. He smeared it off his midriff and kept moving. Another blast, but he stepped around it. His reflexes threw him off balance for a moment; he recovered quickly. Hot pitch splashed over his feet, and a hiss escaped his lips. He fought the pain and started forward—slowly. He was slow, suddenly so slow. The pitch had begun to congeal, and it became harder and harder to fight against. He could almost…
                The dragyn bit him. Its rows of teeth, sharp like thorns, tore into his collarbone and shoulder, shredding his flesh and chipping pieces from his bones. The pain surged through him, except for his right arm…his right leg. He slumped forward, heavy with tar, limbs dead. Still, he struggled on his good leg, swung his good fist. There was glory left to be had!
                The dragyn’s maw closed over his left arm, splintering the bones in his forearm and tearing the ligaments of his elbow. The jaws did not carve the muscle from him so thoroughly as before, but the dragyn tore him from the muck and slammed him into the cave wall. Vaguely, he could make out the crunching and snapping of freshly broken bones. He struggled, but the motions only tore his body further. The dragyn slammed him back to the ground, dislocating his arm, and knocking the breath from his lungs.  He writhed in the muck and his own blood, choking on it, and the dragyn blurred in and out of focus. Its hot breath washed over him, and it nudged him with its snout, sending him tumbling.
                Light! The entrance to the cave beckoned. He squirmed, pushing with his good leg. He clawed along with his mangled arm. Then the dragyn’s foot came down on his back. It pressed him, pinned him. And then, to his horror, the creature spoke.
                “Worry not, manthing. One tell none you coward. Die honorably, for manthingkind.”
                Then, its foot pressed harder, pulverizing his ribcage, and its jaws crushed his skull.