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.