David Durham: The Sacred Band

Dagon lofted a bit of phlegm into the air, watched it splat on the water below. It floated until the gaping oval of some fish’s mouth opened below it and sucked it in. The brig was near enough now that Dagon expected it to furl its mainsail. There were sailors up in the rigging, but whatever they were doing it was not tending the sails. Perhaps it was not going to dock at Orlo at all. On to Thrain, maybe.

Then there was all the business about Mena becoming queen. A neat maneuver for her-it avoided all sorts of unpleasant manipulation of the two illegitimate children. The leaguemen were unsure whether the crown had been thrust upon her, or whether she had arranged it for herself. Mena had never seemed interested in rule, but Akarans-especially Akaran women-had proved surprising before.

As for the whole notion of a “Sacred Band” of independent nations… Aliver’s work, obviously. Nathos doubted that it would result in anything but a new round of wars, but Revek had offered that it might actually be for the best. It made for an entire continent of individual monarchs, all of them new, even Mena. The potential for the league to enrich themselves exploiting them was considerable.

Tired as the thought made Dagon, he had to admit it was true. The league would worm its way back into the commerce of the Known World. The Sires Faleen, El, and Lethel surely had hold on Ushen Brae by now. The Auldek might be marching back that way even now, but they were not to be feared anymore. Not really. For many in the league-the Raptured, of course, and the young as well-the future remained bright.

“For yourself, Dagon, not so…”

He paused midsentence, realizing that the brig really had not lessened its speed at all. It grew larger by the second, plowing through the water most recklessly. It was sure to pass too close to the docks. Shouts of alarm confirmed that others thought this, too. Dagon could hear the strange, almost inaudible hiss of the prow cutting through the water. He started to back away.

He paused when he saw the sailors in the rigging release a flag. As it rolled out, and then snapped full, Dagon felt the color drain from his face. He knew it immediately. How could he not? He had lived years beneath it on Acacia. The Tree of Akaran, the black shape of an acacia tree against a yellow sunburst. Unmistakable, even if it lacked the perfect craftsmanship of the flag that flew atop the palace. It made no sense. A joke of some sort? Had one of the sires gone mad on the voyage home?

A figure waved and shouted from the deck. Dagon ignored him, searching for the conical head that would distinguish a fellow leagueman.

“Sire Dagon!” the person yelled. “Sire Dagon!”

Dagon squinted him into sharper focus. The man moved along the deck as the ship slipped past. Others crowded the deck, shouting and waving also. But the single figure held Dagon’s attention now. As he ran, others leaped out of the way. He was in a state of mad euphoria, pointing to his chest and gesturing in the air. “Look at me! You see me?” Though Dagon could not make out his features, he could see that the man wore a smile as radiant as the sun. Watching him, Dagon failed to heed the warning shouted by those around him.

The wave thrown up by the ship’s prow hit Dagon with a force that knocked him off his feet and sent him sprawling, sliding across the pier, grasping for something to hold on to. He slammed into a pylon. His breath escaped him, and for a few moments the tide of water held him in place, wrapped around the plug of wood. By the time he gained his feet again, breathless, sopping wet, and bareheaded, the brig was almost past the pier.

“It’s me, your friend Dariel Akaran,” the madman on the brig shouted. “It’s Spratling. I’m in a hurry now. Can’t stop and chat. Too much good news to spread. I’ll come back soon and settle our business!”

The stern of the brig cleared the pier. As it carried on, Dagon lost sight of the prince for a moment. Then he appeared once more, looking out from the rear deck. He yelled, “Tell your brothers that Spratling is back! And he’s brought friends!” He pointed at the bulky figure beside him, a gray man who climbed upon the railing, turned around, dropped his trousers, and wiggled his buttocks over the stern.

As the ship charged away, Dagon barely heard the commotion of the others rushing around him and the leaguemen pouring out onto the pier to watch the ship as it carried on to the east. He sat down on a pylon. He went to take off his cap and hold it on his lap, but he did not have a cap. He glanced around for it, and then gave up and watched the vanishing brig. He could have thought a thousand things, but what came to him was something small, something that Grau had said back in Alecia. How had he worded it? He had said… What use is going to Rapture if it all comes crashing down in a few years?

Sire Dagon chuckled. What use indeed? he thought. What use indeed?

In a perverse way, despite the unfortunate magnitude of what had just been revealed, he felt a little better than he had just a moment before. He wondered if he might gain entrance to the Rapture vessel just long enough to find Grau’s chamber. He would knock on his casing and say, “I hate to wake you, brother, but guess what? Guess what…?”