Tatters

Tatters was not good at many things. 

Writing was beyond him; reading difficult, conversation an impossibility. He could not work a trade, compose a poem, or carry a tune. And he had not the temperament for horses.

But he was good at walking.

When he wandered into the bandit camp years ago, they had asked few questions, grateful as they were for a fresh blade. His crude mask passed without question, as did his impossibly leathered skin. They dubbed him Tatters, from the layers of ragged bandages poking from his robes. And for a time, he had purpose.

But soon the bandits overstepped, and the satrap’s men drove them deep into the desert. The water ran out first, then the food. One by one the sand claimed them, until only Tatters was left, walking slow but steady through the dunes. 

He didn’t mind the heat, or the hunger, or the thirst. He didn’t feel it.

He hadn’t for thousands of years.

There was a time when he still felt the kiss of the wind and sun, when he swam in cool waters and ate sweet fruit. He remembered cities of clean-cut sandstone in a kingdom without equal. They called him Akvala then, the Arm of God. They clad him in armor of gleaming gold and a mask of blue lapis; gave him a sword that would not chip or shatter, and a place by the throne to stand.

He lived his life in service to the king, the body divine. Seven times men came to sully the king’s royal flesh; seven times they fell before the Arm of God. He was not good at many things, but in this he excelled.

And when he first began to feel the touch of age, the greatest priests were assembled on the king’s command to remove his mortal weaknesses. His organs were removed and fed to sacred beasts, his skin preserved with herbs and salts. As the perfume-soaked wrappings bound his body, so too did the prayers catch his spirit and bind it to his flesh. His soul was not meant for the paradise beyond, but for this world, and this alone.

Interwoven with the magics that sustained him were spells cementing his servitude. Not merely to the king, but to the Line: the dynasty, the royal blood. He would guard the body divine, and the next, and the next after that, onward and endless.

But in time the winds changed, the wells dried, the barbarians came sweeping in, and in less than a millennia the glorious kingdom lay buried beneath the sand. Soon Akvala found that he could not protect his charges from starvation, or age, or disease. With empty eyes he looked on, helpless, as the Line dwindled and died. And then there was nothing left to do but to walk off into the desert; to some bandit camp, and the next, and the next after that.

But he was good at walking.

The sun had long since set and night had set its icy teeth when a noise caught his shriveled ears. Thin, ragged howls; a pack of the ravenous red dogs that roamed the desert sands. They tended to leave Tatters alone, him being practically inedible. He paid them little mind.

It was a woman’s scream that turned his head. 

Tatters paused. The Line had been lost; no obligation bound his spirit. He could continue on his way, if he so chose. But it was not as if he had a destination. And it would be good to serve again, if only for a moment. 

He turned, and began walking towards the sound.

As he crested the dune, the woman shrieked again. He could see her now; perched atop an upturned wagon, clutching two children to her. All around the dogs swarmed by the score. They jumped and snapped at her with frothy jaws, or feasted upon the disemboweled horses.

There was a man as well. When the dogs attacked he had charged out bravely, sword in hand, to defend his family. Now he lay on the ground, his throat torn open. 

The woman had a knife. She jabbed desperately as the dogs leapt higher, but it did her little good. In only a matter of moments, one dog or more would clear the wagon. They would go for the children first; dragging them away to draw her down, and it would be finished. 

But before those moments passed, Tatters had closed the distance.

The first dog was killed before it even saw him. By the time the pack recognized the threat, another three had died. But soon enough they swarmed about him. Even the dogs neck-deep in horseflesh reluctantly turned towards the interloper, their fur matted with gore.

They circled Tatters, staying out of reach of his blade. He turned, and turned again, but he could not face all of them at once; it would be a dog at his back that would make the first move. It was their way. The man had been killed in much the same fashion. He was brave, and he was strong, and as soon as his back was turned they had taken him down.

But he was not the Arm of God.

When the first dog leapt, Tatters’ khopesh met it halfway. The first half hit the ground shortly before the second. Tatters whirled in time to catch the next dog with an upward strike that scattered its entrails to the wind. 

Were it a wolf pack, or a band of coyotes, that would have been the end of it. They’d have counted their losses and scattered to the dunes. But the red dogs of the desert are possessed of a peculiar madness when their blood is up. It burns away their fear, drives them to acts of mindless savagery.

A howl went up: a deeper, hoarser cry, the kind that makes the desert folk bar their doors and leave the goats to their fate. The safe stalk had failed; now, the dogs began the mad mauling rush, gouging each other in their haste to get to Tatters. There was not a man or beast alive that could stand against the snarling tide for long; the moment they tired, they would be dragged to the ground and torn apart.

But Tatters did not get tired. And he was not alive.

It was not quite dawn when he put down the last slavering beast. The blow that cleaved its skull was as fresh as the first. As the first blazing rays broke over the dunes, he climbed over the piles of the dead, taking a moment to wipe the gristle off his blade before sliding it back into its sheath.

The woman knelt by her husband, murmuring some prayer as she reached out and closed his blind eyes. As Tatters approached she stood. She pushed her children behind her and stared at him with a peculiar mix of wonder, defiance, and fear. 

From their clothes, he marked them as of a low class; the drifters eking out a living just outside the city walls. The wagon and horses would have cost them everything; they were striking out, hoping for a better life. Instead, they had found the dogs.

Tatters came to a stop before her; then, on some inexplicable impulse, he reached out to touch a thumb to her forehead. She flinched, bringing the knife up, but did not push his hand away. He studied her, feeling the upswelling of a sensation he had long thought lost.

She was of the Line. Some far diluted strain, yes, weakened over thousands of years, but unmistakable. The royal blood had survived; not with austere dignity and grace, but dragged through the muck and the dust, enduring uncountable humiliations, for millennia. And yet here it stood; humbled and diminished, but standing nonetheless.

Just like him.

He knew what happened next. With practiced motion he drew his blade, plunged it into the sand, knelt beside it with head bowed. The woman drew back at the sudden movement and grabbed for her children’s hands, as much for her own reassurance as theirs. 

For a long time they remained that way: Tatters kneeling, the woman standing, even as the sun began to beat its merciless heat upon them. Tatters didn’t mind, though. He’d waited an age already. He could wait a little more.

Slowly, cautiously, she released her children, stepped forward. Whether by the shreds of some long-forgotten story, or the faint call of heritage within her, she found she knew the motions. With hands growing more assured by the second, she clasped his sword arm; laid a palm against his mask. In her ancient mother tongue, she spoke the words. And though it had been Tatters had knelt, it was Akvala who rose.

He sheathed his blade and approached the children. They stared at him blankly, their fear long since burned out by exhaustion and shock. He slung one over his shoulder; the other he held to his chest. They clung to him fiercely.

He began walking slow and steady through the dunes, with the woman following close behind. It was a long way to civilization. And the sun would not be kind.

But he was good at walking.