Black Bird
Bodéwadmi Territory (Modern-Day Michigan)
Fire! Fire in the village!
He saw the smoke first. It billowed upwards like an ill omen into the winter sky, gray-black clouds of impending doom. His pace quickened, his heart began to race in his chest. It must be a bonfire, he thought, trying to reassure himself. They’re throwing some kind of feast. Maybe they know I’m coming back. Maybe it’s something else. But it was still mid-day, far too early for a party, and there was more than one trail of smoke. Rather, the sky beyond was littered with them, and that could only mean one thing.
He quickened his pace again, going even faster. And faster. And faster. Until he was sprinting full-speed, terror clutching his heart. His panting breath fogged in lily-white gasps, fleeting moments of life in the dense forest air before fading back to nothing. The smell of burning cinder began to fill his nostrils, but not before he heard the sounds. The clashing of iron and steel, the screaming of frightened women. Black Bird coiled his body like a spring, contracting every muscle as he ran, ready to burst out at a moment’s notice.
He took no time to look around, gather his bearings. That was a privilege he couldn't afford—not now. He knew full well what was happening the moment he saw the smoke rise up past the horizon, and he knew full well what he would do the moment he reached it. He reached the end of the treeline, and it was time. The coil that was his body unleashed all its pent-up energy in a single moment. He exploded onto the scene, crashing into two Snakes before they sank their spears into a defenseless woman. In the commotion, he tumbled forward, keeping his momentum to roll forward and regain his composure. In an instant, he was back at his feet, and used the now-dislodged spears against their wielders, stabbing them both clean in the hearts with each hand.
Another Snake saw him emerge from the woods, and raised his musket to fire on him. Black Bird noticed in time, and brought one of his downed foes up to him, using his body as a shield. The Snake had pulled the trigger too late, firing freely into his still-gasping comrade. Black Bird seized the moment, and pulled the spear from the chest of the dead one, hurling it straight towards the chest of the living one. It was not a perfect throw—Black Bird’s aim was unsteady now, hampered by his trembling arms in their unshakeable fury. Nevertheless, the spear landed where it needed to, slicing the right jugular of the Snake as he tried to avoid it. The Snake keeled over, trying frantically in vain to plug the wound gushing blood from his neck. Black Bird ignored him, running past him towards the chaos beyond. Both of them knew he was already dead.
Two more beyond him rushed towards him, tomahawks drawn. There seemed to be no end to them. How many would he have to kill before they turned tail? He banished the thought. As many as I need to. No. More. It’s not enough to make them run. It’s not enough to survive and live another day, because as long as they live, they’ll be back. Like a festering wound, like an eternal blight on the sanctity of this holy earth. They must all die. I swear to you now, Gitche Manitou. Hear me, and know my vow. On my honor, on my life, every Snake here today will die by my hand.
He turned his attention to the two assailants. He unholstered his dragon, holding it steady at his waist. He let them come—let them think he was defenseless. And right when they were upon him, right as they raised their hatchets to strike him down, he raised the gun. He spun the wheel around, the metal screeching in a serpentine hiss. Then he pulled the trigger.
The dragon roared, spewing gouts of fire and shrapnel. The Snakes screamed and recoiled, but it was too late. The dragon’s breath flayed their flesh from their bones, shredding their chests and necks like they were made of paper. Black Bird held the dragon aloft, its gaping maw still smoldering, and began to pack another shot. This was not over. No, it was nowhere near over.
By now, he had attracted the attention of other Snakes nearby. Some had started towards him to support their comrades, but upon seeing how the dragon destroyed them, they stopped in their tracks, frozen with fear. One turned, and began to flee, as they always did. But now, things were different. Black Bird was not content enough to rout them. He could take no chances. Whatever damage they had done, whoever they had killed (though he could not begin to think about it), he could not change now. What he could do, and what he would do, was make sure they never set foot on these lands again.
Black Bird squatted for a moment, cocking his bent legs like the hammer of a gun. Then he pulled the trigger—he lunged forward like a shot let loose, sprinting at a blinding speed to give chase to the runner. The Snake panicked at seeing him come, and tried to hurry his pace, but Black Bird was so much faster. His arms and legs were veritable weapons on their own, battle-hardened by countless fights with these so-called ‘warriors’. So proud were they, in their fighting prowess, so much that they had deluded themselves to think that they were some superior and inalienable race, mandated by the heavens to conquer and kill all the others. But their pride had blinded them. It was cruelty that had won them their wars, subterfuge and dishonor. They had mistaken their villainy for ingenuity, and that ultimately made them complacent.
Years ago, when he was new to this game, he wouldn’t have caught a fleeing Snake. More than that—he would never have gotten this far in the first place. There were so many here, and even now, most of his foes were older than him. But he had fought their ilk before, time and time and time again. Each time he had narrowly escaped death, and each battle had made him stronger, smarter, more ferocious. Now, strengthened by these years of hardship and emboldened by his unbridled rage, he was unstoppable. They had unleashed a monster, wild and destructive as a maelstrom.
Black Bird caught up with the coward runner in a few short strides, leaping onto him from behind. They crashed onto the snowy ground hard, and before the Snake beneath him could turn around and muster a defense, Black Bird grabbed his head with both of his hands, and pulled hard to the right, snapping his neck. The sound of it breaking sent chills through his arms and down his spine, but he could afford no sympathy now. This was what he had become. This was what they had turned him into. For years they had sowed the seed of animality and hatred into their neighbors, into him. And now they would reap it. They would reap it all.
Black Bird took a moment to breathe. His whole body screamed at him. Despite his successes so far, he was not invincible. His arms and legs were strong, but beginning to tire. No, he thought. Not yet. I’m not done yet. He lifted one leg, then the other, standing above the Snake’s dead body. The others around him broke into a chaotic fracas, their morale shattered, their minds confused. One ran towards him, another away from him, and another stood his ground, trying to regain his composure. Black Bird took a moment to look at the scene unfolding in front of him, just long enough to know what to do.
He lunged forward again, firing his dragon into the belly of the one rushing him. In the same swift motion, he grabbed the tomahawk from the man’s belt as he fell, then raised it to strike the one standing his ground. The Snake readied himself to dodge, unprepared for Black Bird’s feint. Black Bird brought his dragon swiftly upward—he did not have time to reload it, so he used it as a club instead, slamming the Snake in the jaw. The Snake stumbled backwards, now defenseless to the swing of the tomahawk. The axe-blade caught him in the shoulder, and the man cried, falling on his back. But Black Bird was relentless—he coiled over the man as he flailed frantically with his arms to protect himself, hacking away at him with the tomahawk over and over. Each strike would claim another chunk of the Snake’s scales, and the man screamed in horror and agony. But Black Bird could not hear the man’s cries, or the sound of his axe cleaving flesh. He could hear nothing but the anguished pleas of his best friend’s family and neighbors, of the people fleeing for their lives. And all he could see was red.
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As the man beneath him started convulsing in his death throes, Black Bird whipped his head to the sky, screaming a mighty war cry. It rang through the village like rolling thunder, echoing out to the forest beyond, so all the world would know his rage. Then he rose, and began to give chase to the other one fleeing. All he could think about was killing him. And then the next one. And then the next one. And on and on until the screaming in his head grew silent.
Suddenly, he saw something out of the corner of his eye. He froze. All the malice and hatred and strength in his mind vanished, and terror filled the hole it left. Dr. Härkönen lay on the ground, his back propped up by the wall of a wigwam. He clutched his side with one hand—it was bleeding. With his other, he weakly beckoned towards Black Bird. Black Bird rushed to the old man’s side, kneeling next to him.
“Doctor,” Black Bird began.
“My creation,” the doctor replied. His voice was frail and raspy, his hand grasping towards him. “My machine of destruction… I saw it all. You were beautiful.”
Black Bird moved past Härkönen’s words, confused by them. He’s losing a lot of blood, he thought. It’s making him delirious.
“What happened to the others?” Black Bird asked. “Where’s White Sky?”
“Don’t know… it happened so fast… I told him to run… you are too important to lose to this filth…”
“Did he run? Did he make it out?”
“He didn’t want to… said he would stay and defend his family…”
The doctor hacked up blood, spilling onto his chest and stomach.
“He’s a fool…” he said. “And he’s not as good as you. No, you’re something special… You’re a killer.”
Black Bird stood, ignoring him.
“I’m going to find him,” he said. He started to turn away.
“No!” The doctor called out, somehow finding his voice. Black Bird turned back to him. The doctor’s eyes, hazy before, were struck with a strange clarity. Black Bird knelt back down.
“I can try to close your wound,” Black Bird told him. “But I need to find White Sky first. I need to make sure he’s okay. Besides, he’s always been better at—”
“Forget all that,” Härkönen barked. He took a strange, dire tone that Black Bird had never heard from him. He grabbed Black Bird’s shirt with his hand and pulled him closer.
“Forget him,” he rasped. “Forget me. We’re dead already. If you die, too, this’ll all have been for nothing. I won’t risk my life’s work on your stupid little friendship. It’s too important. You’re too important.”
“What… what are you saying?”
“Shut up. Listen to me. In my cabin by the lake, under the rug. Take the key around my neck. My research is there. It’ll explain everything.”
“I don’t care about your fucking research,” Black Bird shot back. “I’m going to find him.” He started to rise again, but Härkönen kept his grip on his collar, keeping him there.
“This is bigger than you!” The doctor hissed. “And it’s bigger than me. You want to save your people? You want to make sure this never happens again? The doom of the Iroquois lies in my basement, and only you can see it realized now.”
The doctor coughed up more blood. His grip weakened, as did his voice.
“Take my journals,” he said. His breath came heavy and labored. “Find Robert Dalton. He was in Ipswich, last I knew. Tell him The Rose is dead. He’ll know what to do.”
The doctor’s hand dropped, falling to his side. His eyes looked past Black Bird, gazing at something beyond, something that wasn’t in this world. Dread gripped Black Bird’s heart. He knew those eyes. It was the same look his father had in the last few moments of his life. Black Bird couldn’t bear to watch it again. He turned and ran, leaving the old man behind.
Beyond him, the village still stood in ruin. Men and women killed, some captured, dragged away by Snakes to their dens. Despite having killed so many, even more still lingered, more than he could have possibly imagined. More than he could ever hope to kill. He reloaded his dragon, started towards a pack of two, tears streaking down his face. He loaded the shot, spinning the wheel with the speed of all his fervor and anguish. The dragon roared again, consuming one in its flames. The other drew back in time, and fired on Black Bird with his own gun. The bullet caught him in the right shoulder, and the dragon fell from his grip. He reeled, his mind swimming from the pain. At once, both shared the same look—right to the loaded musket of the Snake that had fallen. They set off in at the same split second, but Black Bird was faster. He sacrificed his right arm further, slamming it into the Snake as he grabbed the gun with his left hand. He fumbled with it in his off hand, but the Snake was close, still recovering. He fired it into the Snake's stomach, and the man toppled over, dead.
Black Bird fell to his knees himself, exhausted and badly wounded. He looked at the rest of the village. It was not enough—it would not be enough. There were so many, more than he had ever seen. Despite his conviction, despite his hatred, he was one man against a hundred. He could not even kill enough of them to break their resolve. His arm blared in pain—it was unusable now. Even his fight against the last one came down to some luck.
It was not enough. Despair filled him, the fire of vengeance in his chest wavering and weak. No matter how angry he was, no matter how bad he wanted his vengeance, he would not find it here. Sure, he could fight. Take out a few more, if fortune continued favoring him. Perhaps that defeat would spur the others to flee, like they had before. But no, there were too many. It was one thing to make a small group of five turn tail and run. It was another for a whole warband. Try as he might, try as he wished he would, there was nothing he could change now. His resolve had gone the moment he saw the doctor's dying eyes, and he cursed himself for his weakness. I… I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Gitche Manitou. I pledged to you… I promised… but I can’t. I can’t kill them all.
His eyes scanned the rest of the village. In some macabre and twisted hope, he wished he would see White Sky lying dead on the ground, just to know his fate, to be spared of the thoughts plaguing his mind. But he didn’t. He saw Wasegishgonene, the eldest, strung out in front of the council fire, his hands and feet bound to four different poles, his head split in half. He saw Méyéwkét, the Trailblazer, scream in agony as three men took turns cutting off his fingers and eating them in front of him. He saw White Sky’s father, who had treated him like another son, face-down in the snow, blood seeping from his scalpless head.
It was too much for him to bear, too many for him to fight. Despite it all, Black Bird took his time—he needed to take one last look. He needed to be sure. Still, he did not see his friend. His spirit screamed with sorrow, his conscience wracked with guilt. Once again, he was powerless. All this time, all his efforts. The hours spent sparring with White Sky, studying tactics of war. The torture of variolation, the drinking and dancing and merriment afterwards, knowing that change would soon come. None of it mattered. In the end, nothing he did changed anything. Despair hung like an unwelcome guest in his throat, and it took all the willpower he had left to not surrender to it. There was no hope. Nothing he did could change the past, or even the present. So he took the only option left, the only thing he could do now. He ran.