This is the Sound We Make

There weren't always Dragons in the Valley. The scriptures contain forbidden memoirs of a time before soldiers in the streets, in epistles that spark rebellion in the minds of the few who can read, and all those who listen to the blasphemous folklore carried down through generations. Subscribers to the Occult of Dsuena mark this time as the 217th year of Awakening from the control of Ušhumgal, the Great Beast. Those who claim that there never was a Slumber live in fearful service still, with no knowledge of the past, and no hope for the future. All in the valley are subjugated to the control of the Ušhuméren, the Dragon Soldiers; human as they are, their power is absolute.

True to the season, the skies sit low on the mountains, heavy with the promise of rain. The living quarters stand empty as the sun begins a slow descent above the valley, pressing warmly behind the clouds. On any other day, the narrow alleys that connect the five spokes of the City of the Watcher would be dense with tired and overworked crowds, as the people returned from an interminable day of labor in the quarries and mines. On this day, even the children and most feeble elders have been summoned from their meager houses to bear witness in the central commons. The streets are silent and still, save for the sparse patrols of Ušhuméren, and the occasional straggler walking steadily to reach the commons before sunset.

Súr steps soundlessly through tight channels and blind turns, traversing the vein-like paths to the heart of the city with caution. It is a dangerous route for speed, and each hurried step brings the risk of confrontation with a soldier, bored and hungry for violence as always. The gray of his thinning cloak floats listlessly behind as he shifts to a forbidden half-run. Better to face an entire Thunder of Ušhuméren than to miss his contact, or worse, the execution itself.

“Alad?” he whispers, turning the corner of a side street, littered with empty barrels and broken carts.

Light filters sideways over clothes lines and ancient stones, pressing gently through the clouds in defiance of the encroaching dusk. Súr searches the alley carefully, overpowering his anxiety with action. At the sound of footfalls from behind, he presses himself to the wall and crouches, coiling the lean muscles of overworked thighs, ready to spring into a run at the first sight of red armor. The aproaching figure moves hesitantly into the alley, tall and thin in a cloak of green, like a reed sprouting up in a swamp. His left arm ends abruptly at the wrist, capped in tight binds of dark leather. The remaining hand holds tightly to the strap of a satchel, wrapped carefully in bandages at the palm.

“Súr?” His voice echoes far too loudly.

“Šàabarra, where have you been?” Súr steps from hiding and pulls Alad into a hug, pressing tightly as the other man sags in relief.

“I made it as quickly as I could, Dsuena protect.” Pulling back, he searches Súr’s dark eyes for answers before he asks the question. “Face any trouble?”

“We will soon enough.” Súr squeezes his hand and pulls a small leather pouch from inside his cloak. “Did you bring yours?”

Concern shifts to reverence as Alad pulls a similar bag from his satchel, clutching it tightly. “As promised. I hope the others are prepared.”

“They’ll be ready,” Súr carefully pulls the red strip of cloth from his bag, smoothing it softly between calloused fingers as he forms it into a collar, “but will they fight, when the time comes?”

“Dsuena protect.” Alad murmurs again. Súr winds the cloth around his own neck, deftly tying the ends in a knot at his throat. Reaching down with strong, field worked fingers, Alad shifts it in circles until the knot is hidden beneath Súr's dark fall of curls.

Súr takes a moment to revel in the touch of Alad’s hand, confident and steady at his throat. He had spent too many years watching Alad hide his surviving hand in fear from every passing soldier, forever under threat of being rendered helpless if any Ušhuméren decided to finish the job.

Those without Dominion, like Súr, were little more than mules to the Ušhuméren; an endless supply of disposable labor, and seemingly powerless in their own right. For the unfortunate gifted, like Alad, their Dominion sets them apart as a higher caliber of instrument to be marked, monitored, and feared. Alad’s Dominion over water, though weak compared to some, had secured him a lifetime of work in the fields, as well as the loss of one hand at first manifestation, as is administered to all with Dominion.

“And the gray?” Unaware of Súr’s spiraling thoughts, Alad gestures impatiently for the final token.

Emptying the bag, Súr repeats the process, tying a gray scarf over the red. He leaves this knot loose enough to pull away with force, and Alad twists the fabric once more until he can feel both ties resting securely at the nape of Súr's neck. Alad’s hand lingers there for a moment, splayed firmly against the undercut of his chin, and Súr knows he is feeling the pulse racing there. To wear the color of the Dragon is a sacrilege of the gravest form, the ultimate rebellion. He rubs his fingers reassuringly up Alad’s wrist, past the wrappings that shelter his palm, and smiles through the fear.

“Your turn.”

Where Súr’s token had shone brightly crimson against his tan skin, cut from the cloak of a Dragon in the chaos of a skirmish, the cloth Alad has brought is a paler shade, painstakingly hand-dyed from dried berries and crushed flowers. Had either been caught in the process of securing these symbols, there would not have been a public execution in the commons; they would have been thrown from the cliffs, into the quarry, without ceremony or delay.

Shaking the image from his mind, Súr ties the soft red cloth around the column of Alad’s throat, covering it carefully with a broad swath of green fabric. He works nervously, pulling the dark edges further out and flattening them over again, meticulous in covering any hint of the sacred color beneath. If all goes as planned, there will be no need to reveal the mark of the Sikku, and consecrate their deaths to the cause.

“When we get there, stay by the southern arch and don’t do anything until you see me reach the pyres,” Súr reminds him as he works. “Keep it hidden, and keep your Dominion wrapped until you’re sure I’m close enough to get to Húlla and Dnin.”

“I will,” Alad reassures.

“And you only need to act if the pyre is lit. No unnecessary risks, agreed?”

“I promise. And if the others back down, if it’s just us two…”

“They’ll do their part.” Súr pats the collar once more and steps back.

“But if they don’t, Súr. Promise me we call it off. You don’t have Dominion to sever as punishment, they’ll kill you. No unnecessary risks?”

The first distant cries of the solemnity echo out above the streets from the eastern mountain, and they glance to the mottled sky.

“Blessed are the Watched, who walk in the path of the Dragon.”

The sun has begun to set.

“Well.” Súr checks the band of his tunic for the crude stone daggers he has carefully stowed at his waist. “Almost out of time.”

He turns to walk away, and is stopped by Alad’s hand on his arm.

“Time enough for a prayer?”

“Alad, don’t.”

“Please. You don’t have to say it with me, but don’t make me watch you do this without a true blessing.”

They stare at each other for a moment, beseeching warm eyes at war with Súr’s dark expression. Súr has little patience for the piety of the Sikku, this ragged sect of the old rebellion. He has heard the stories of a city asleep, working tirelessly, as they do now, but with no free thought and no true emotion. He isn’t sure he believes the hidden scriptures, that a statue of the Great Beast was once used to subjugate the people with the diffraction of a sacred red stone atop the mountain. Illiterate and practical, he commends himself to their ranks as an apostle of revolution, not religion. Alad, ever the believer, holds his gaze entreatingly.

“Be quick about it,” Súr concedes.

Alad’s smile is gratitude enough as Súr stills himself beneath the other’s rag bound palm, bowing his head to receive the blessing.

“Sum Šúde, Dsuena, sum Súr á-áš. Da gitlam, kuli, sum á-dah, da-ri, á-kúš-ù, da-gal Alad.”

Súr’s mouth is open in surprise as Alad’s quiet murmur fades. “Did I hear ‘husband’ in there somewhere?”

Alad stands frozen, his hand half lowered. “It means lover.”

“'Gitlam', it means husband. Honored husband, if I’m not mistaken. What exactly are your intentions, Alad?” Súr teases affectionately.

Ruffling his cloak, Alad shifts on his feet. “Survive the night, and you might find out.” He turns to secure his satchel on his shoulder and scans the corner of the alley, readying himself to move. Súr watches him, heavy with awareness of a lifetime of joys they may never see.

“Alad,” he tugs at the cloak’s vibrant fabric, “don’t I get to give a blessing in return?”

Alad arches a brow. “Since when did you learn so much about the Occult?”

“Maybe I’ve been watching you more than I let on.” He brushes Alad’s hood away, winding his fingers gently through the hair at the back of his head, pulling him slowly forward. “Or, maybe, I have sacred practices of my own.”

Their mouths press softly together, a communion of affection and consolation shared between them.

“Don’t die,” Alad sighs faintly against his cheek as they part.

“Tomorrow, you can teach me to read one of your verses,” Súr promises with a smile. “And after, we’ll practice a different kind of worship. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

They separate reluctantly and secure their hoods. Súr checks his weapons once more, and eyes the scarf at Alad’s neck. With nothing more to keep them, they make their way cautiously toward the nearest of the five entrances to the commons, each holding a hopeless promise in his heart.

The commons are full to the brim as they approach the southern arch. A restless mass of gray robed figures converge around the central platform, with shocks of green, blue, and yellow interspersed at random. No more than two Dominion holders are permitted to congregate together, and never with a gift unmatched to their own. The Dragons' fear of an uprising had grown over the years, resulting in stricter confines and crueler punishments. Their short-sighted demand for control had only increased the minor rebellions and riots, which finally led to the quiet rebirth of the Sacred Order of the Sikku: the Dragon Slayers.

Súr scans the platform grimly as they stand at the back of the throng. The pyre towers above the people, built twice as high as the tallest victim lashed to the structure, with no less than ten naked captives tied to one another in a circle around the base.

“Nam-érim…” Alad curses softly under his breath. They had only known of two captives, Húlla and Dnin; two Dominion holders who had been pulled from the quarry at random when lightning struck the barracks that sit at the base of the eastern mountain. Witnesses swore that no light of Dominion had been seen, but no amount of pleading or protestation had spared them. The order to witness their execution for conspiracy to harm the Ušhumgal was spread throughout the city by midday. Now, nearly a dozen martyrs, gifted and not, stood lashed to one another at the center of the city, with a wall of Dragon soldiers at guard between them and the people.

“Súr.”

“I know.”

“Dsuena guide them.” Alad murmurs, keeping his face carefully neutral as he watches friends and strangers struggle futilely against their bonds. Those with Dominion are clearly marked by their lack of hands, the brutally cauterized stumps a mere precursor to their impending fate.

Súr looks to the eastern gate, his eyes scanning for a particular woman in blue. The sun has sunk below the crest of the mountain, casting an eerie glow of orange over the city, and muddying the colors of their robes. The Ušhuméren often chose darkness for these noteworthy executions, but not out of a reverence for the sacred color, as some of those still blinded by the power of the Great Beast claim it to be. The cover of darkness is one more tool of oppression, used to quickly identify and capture any apostate whose Dominion, linked heavily to the emotion of the wielder, would flare to life in the face of violence, whether by reflex or intent.

From the corner of his eye, Súr can see Alad twisting his fist slowly in his robe, and knows that the hopeless urge to call water from the sky has already set in. Alad’s gift alone is far too weak to stop what is about to happen, and the smallest hint of green light from his hand would bring the soldiers cutting through the crowds to add one more sympathizer to the flames.

“Wretched are those who reject the path of the Dragon, for the suffering they incur is vast.” The solemnity booms from the western mountain, startling the crowd.

Súr turns once more to the East, searching for their accomplices. Time is running out. A blue cloaked head turns in the crowd, meeting his gaze. Gina is already far from her post, and her pained expression and the gentle shake of her head tells Súr all he needs to know. Beside her, Halba stands clad in gray as planned, his mandated blue cloak left behind and buried in the quarry. Súr wonders if Halba managed to secure the additional two cloaks of gray needed to disguise the rescued captives, and effectively blend them into the safety of the indistinguishable crowds. He remembers himself with a twist of anger, and looks once again to the impossible number of prisoners held in the center of the dais.

“I can still get to the pyre,” Súr murmurs, tilting his head toward Alad as the final dregs of the city press close, ushering them steadily forward.

“No.”

“Alad, if I can get past the Ušhuméren, there’s a chance that-”

“There is no chance.” Súr flinches as Alad’s hand grips tightly on his wrist, pulling him closer to the cover of his green hood. “Swear to me now, Súr. Do not do this.”

Súr looks at Alad, severe in the flaring light of the torches that line the walls of the commons. He takes in the slow shake of his head, the tension of his broad shoulders. There is a determination and authority in his face like Súr has never seen before, and a wet gleam of terror in his eyes.

“If nothing is done, there will be endless chances, an eternity of chances. But not for them. Where does it end, Alad?”

"You are one man. They will kill you, and for nothing. Please." Alad tightens his grip. "Súr, do not do this."

“My love," He whispers the words carefully beneath the cover of their meeting hoods, "I am Sikku. We are all just one of many.”

Slowly, Súr pulls Alad’s hand from his arm and wraps it carefully in folds of green, as Alad closes his eyes in grief. "Šà-ki-áĝa." He murmurs as he raises the shaking hand to his lips, pressing a kiss firmly against Alad's palm before he releases him, turning and weaving his way into the formless multitude.

Without the aid of Gina’s lightning, and Halba’s manipulation of the unseen energies, there is little hope of penetrating the ring of Ušhuméren that surround the base of the dais. Still, there is a fire in his guts that propels Súr forward; a fear, and a rage, that sit like coals beneath his ribs and center him in a distant kind of peace as he moves. He twists his solid frame to press between bodies, moving slowly but steadily in the darkness to avoid attention. Reaching the front lines at last, he frees himself from the throng and searches the miserable faces of the prisoners.

There is Dnin, shuddering painfully against the ropes as blood drips from the blackened stump of her amputated hand. Powerless, and hopeless, she scans the crowd with a fevered shine in her eyes, reflecting the brazier fires that reveal the crowd in flickers and jumps of light. Húlla is nowhere to be seen.

Súr raises one hand slowly, holding steady until Dnin’s glassy stare sweeps past him. A slight flick of his fingers brings her attention back to him, and his heart twists at the sudden and manic relief on her face. She laughs, open mouthed and gasping, as sweat and saliva string from her chin and down her bruised and beaten form.

He feels carefully for his daggers beneath his cloak, strapped securely at the base of his spine, and Dnin begins to shake her head.

“No, there’s no hope,” her slurred words echo eerily over the front lines. Rolling her head loosely against the bundles of firewood and brush that hold the prisoners together, Dnin lifts her voice and scratches out a ragged scream.

“They will kill you all!” she curses at the recoiling crowd, spittle flying and speckling the red helms of the soldiers that stand guard. “For the sin of living, they will kill you all, they will...” Beside her, a nongifted prisoner begins to weep loudly, as the final solemnity overpowers their cries.

“Vigilant is the eye of the Great Beast, and swift the retribution of his hand.”

The sun has fully set. A soldier pulls her torch from the brazier with a flurry of sparks, turning to the pyre with clear intention, and the surrounding Dragons turn their backs to follow suit. Súr looks once more at Dnin, bracing himself, and breaks free from the crowd with a lunge.

Stunned at the collision from behind, the nearest Dragon drops quickly as Súr plunges his stone blade deep beneath the gap of leather at his armpit, pressing down, and in, until he feels a rib give way. Stumbling forward with the weight of the body, Súr curses the loss of his weapon, lodged deep against bone and held fast by the suction of hot blood and clinging flesh. He abandons it, leaping over the prone form to climb the dais before the remaining torches fall.

A cry rises among the Ušhuméren and a hand grabs his heel, pulling him back down the stairs. The rounded metal beneath the soldier's studded helmet does little to protect her face as Súr kicks hard, shattering her nose in a spray of blood. Free once more, he scrambles backward and up the stairs, distantly aware of shrieks from the crowd, and the pounding of hard leather boots below him. Dnin begins to laugh again as he reaches her, staring at him in wonder and shaking with crazed glee at the sight of his red splattered face. He swipes his remaining dagger frantically at her bonds, severing layer after layer of tightly wound cord, sure that every moment is his last. Flames begin to rise on the opposite side of the pyre, and soft cries turn to screams as an acrid smell cuts through the air.

There is a fondness behind the tears of Dnin’s eyes as the first Dragon grabs Súr by the throat, wrenching the weapon from his hand. The heavy blow of a sword hilt crushes his ear, dropping him to the ground in a daze. Staring up at the sky, he is paralyzed by a flash of green that sweeps across his vision, arcing like a blade of color through the haze of smoky darkness above. The Dragon stumbles in shock, releasing Súr's blade, and the people and Ušhuméren turn as one to the southern arch. The fading curve of Dominion is answered by a hungry boom of thunder from the sky, as the first sharp drops of rain ping like ice against the high stone walls.

Alad.

The people begin to panic, cowering to the ground or running in terror, as the first soldiers break through the crowd with swords drawn.

“Da gitlam Alad, Dsuena,” Súr slurs to Alad’s Saint. “Protect him.” He is abandoned to the fire as the soldiers jump quickly from the platform in search of the apostate who called down Dominion against them.

The rising flames of the pyre hiss and spit in fury as the rain begins to pour, smothering the commons with a smog of black smoke. Painfully, Súr reaches for his abandoned dagger and pulls himself upright by the bundled wood that braces Dnin’s feet. He swipes at the blood in his eyes and takes aim at the ropes once more, moving sluggishly to take advantage of this final hope that Alad has granted them. The stone blade slides deeply through the cords, spinning tiny arcs of water as he picks up speed. One final press from Dnin against her bonds has them snapping to pieces around her, and Súr stumbles to catch her as they fall to the dais together. There is a rush of naked bodies as the remaining prisoners topple away from the flames, some crawling to the edge to make their escape, and others lying still where they fall.

Screams cut from the darkness below as the Dragons crush their way through the people, grabbing at any green robed person they find. Shifting his sodden cloak to cover Dnin’s shaking body, Súr reaches up to his throat and pulls free the gray scarf Alad had so carefully positioned less than an hour ago, revealing the vivid strip of sacred color.

“City of the Watcher!” His voice is feeble below the onslaught of misery, and no one seems to hear. “My people!”

Lightning strikes the bulwark of the garrison, flashing sparks of gold amidst a wave of blue Dominion that shatters the darkness. For a breath of a moment, he can see Gina’s face below her brightly lit hand, haggard and determined, with Halba at her side. A second flare of blue erupts from Habla’s outstretched palm, lapping like cold fire across the heads of the crowd. Súr gasps, and hears his voice amplified across the whole of the courtyard, lifted and carried by Halba’s Dominion. Soldiers and citizens alike shudder in fear beneath the light, and Súr seizes his opportunity.

“How long will we serve, like animals?” His voice is a grating rasp in his throat, but every head turns to him as he speaks. “How long will we suffer, at the hands of the Ušhuméren? There is no Great Beast! These are men and women, subjugators of the innocent, and no more powerful than we allow them to be!”

Twisting a bloodied hand through the red token at his throat, Súr pulls it free and lifts it high above his head in the light of the smoldering pyre. “We are the Sikku! Know that you are awake, and know that you are free!” A lament rises from the believers in the crowd as the divine words of Dsuena wash over them. “We are the Dragon Slayers, and tonight we will take our freedom. Rise up, Sikku!”

A shock of gold emanates from somewhere behind, and Súr hears the grateful sobs of a scorched prisoner as she is slowly soothed by the Dominion of a healer.

“Rise up, Sikku!” The cry comes from amidst the people, somewhere in the darkness near the outer wall, and Súr’s chest tightens with hope.

“Rise up, Sikku!” he answers, one voice in chorus with a hundred.

“Rise up, Sikku!” The chant becomes a battle cry, as the commons are lit from all sides by the flash of soldiers' swords, and the answering flair of unleashed Dominion.

Reaching hands lower Dnin gently to the ground as a swarm of healers scale the dais. Súr moves behind them, blade at the ready to protect them while they work. There is chaos in the commons, and lightning rends the sky as the clash of blades overpowers the sound of rain. From beyond the pyre, Súr can see Húlla moving slowly, twisted and broken from the flames.

“There!” He waves a healer’s hand away from his own wounds and gestures to the tortured man. Smoke swirls from around her yellow cloak as Súr limps behind, struggling for equilibrium as his ruptured ear bleeds freely down his neck.

A sword levels suddenly at his navel, emerging slickly from the healer’s back as her body is pierced through to the hilt. An Ušhuméren emerges slowly from behind the smoldering ruins of the pyre, pushing the gasping woman from his sword as he approaches.

His armor is heavy, with a full helmet of silver that streams water down his beard, and reflects the fury of the fire that surrounds them. A studded leather plackart adorns his chest, as red as the blood on his blade. Stepping easily over the dying woman, he catches Súr in the chest with his boot, and sends him backward into the burning coals with a flury of sparks and embers. Súr pushes himself to roll through the heat, to the outskirts of the platform, stripping his smoldering tunic from his back as he moves.

Like a gidim from a nightmare, the Ušhuméren leaps out from the inferno of the dais, dropping down on him with sword braced to kill, and Súr dives forward without thought, catching the Dragon at the knees and twisting them both off the edge, to the courtyard below.

Breathless and disoriented, Súr drags himself slowly toward the southern arch, oblivious to the rising sound of marching soldiers. There is only a moment to register the gloved hand at the back of his head before he is pressed face down to the ground, submerged in a blackened pool of rainwater and blood, and crushed against the flagstones below. Grappling behind, he claws desperately at the arm that holds him. Sparks pierce his vision, and the muddled sound of the world begins to roar in his ears as he thrashes against the hold. A sharp, icy sting slides smoothly between his ribs and he gasps, choking on mire even as the soldier rolls him onto his back in defeat. Staring down in bewilderment, Súr sees the curved handle of his own dagger, buried flush in his heaving side. The Ušhuméren kneels astride him, watching the feeble scrabbling of Súr's hands at the wound. Slowly, the soldier removes his helm.

“Lú-érim?” Súr gasps wetly, a froth of blood foaming at his lips.

The man smiles, a cold and distant expression. More familiar than the curl of his hair is the calculating shine in his eyes, and Súr can feel his grasp of reality begin to break apart. He struggles to rise, bucking his hips weakly to remove the weight that smothers him. The man sets his helmet aside and removes his blood soaked gloves.

Leaning down, he braces his fingers together, pressing open palms toward Súr’s gaunt face. A soft red glow begins to shine, pooling like a droplet of blood below his hands. The light that breaks free is blinding, debilitating Súr in an instant as the unknown Dominion washes his mind free of worry, numb to pain, and devoid of fear. His arms drop beside him in quiet submission, the dagger still rising and falling with the heaving of his chest, and the two men watch each other in peace for a moment.

The Ušhuméren rises slowly, replacing his gloves as he surveys the commons. The Thunder of soldiers that he led from the barracks has made quick work of the uprising, subduing the scattered remnants of the rebellion. The ground is littered with bodies of the slain, soldier and citizen alike, but most of the people have long since run back to their homes to nurse their wounds through a long and sleepless night. He raises a hand, summoning a soldier to his side.

“Spare the rest. The Ušhumgal needs workers, not corpses.”

“As you say, Aušhumen.”

“Aušhumen,” Súr muses from where he lies in a growing circle of blood. “The Dragon Lord.”

Hearing his whisper, the soldier looks down at Súr, stooping to pull the dagger from his chest.

“I said spare the rest,” the Aušhumen speaks quietly, watching with piercing eyes as the soldier cowers away. “Bring a healer, and be quick.”

“My Lord.” The soldier disappears into the smoke.

The commons have quieted as the fires burn low. A healer is brought to the platform in a blood soaked tunic, shaking as he unbinds the cloth from his hand and extends it over Súr’s languishing form. The flash of gold is quickly absorbed into the body of the dying man, and the stone blade is gently removed. As the healer is dragged away once more, the tall Lord moves back to Súr, looking down at him without emotion.

“Stand.”

Súr struggles immediately to obey, pushing bloodless arms against the floor, shaking with the effort to rise. The Aušhumen watches for a moment before he stoops, pulling Súr up by the waist to heave across his shoulder.

“Bring the rest of the prisoners to the barracks. Leave the city at rest until dawn.”

For a moment, swinging upside down, Súr thinks he sees a tall man in green, laid out motionless on the ground where they pass. He feels a pang of anguish sweep through him and quickly fade, like a dream upon waking. The colors on the ground begin to swirl with the smoke, dancing in the light of torches as he is carried away from the commons, and Súr relinquishes his mind to the darkness with ease.