Dylmion's Odyssey - Part 1.

Dylmion was the first to storm out of the enormous hall of the Voulí Keráton, the “Council of Horns”, which governed the polis of Triapotamia. He could not have been able to stay even a moment longer. He felt he was going to explode under his grey fur; his tail flapped in irritation behind him. He wanted nothing more than to tear off his aristocratic himation robe and toss himself into the coldest of the three rivers that run through the city before he rammed someone with his horns in his anger. In his anger, from which only his frustration was greater.

“I see the tiles voted against us, my leader,” called out his old comrade, Xlyakonthos, who had been waiting in the grandiose peristyle while the assembly lasted. The reddish-brown fur of the bull was woven through proudly worn scars of countless battles, and his left eye was covered by a cloth twisted over one of his horns. The long chiton tunic did not fit the veteran at all, as it warned to tear over his muscular frame at any moment.

“Cowards... they are supposed to be the finest bulls of our people, yet cowardice guides their hands!” burst out of Dylmion as he leaned against one of the marble pillars with a deep sigh. “The work of ten years, my friend, ten years! How much we toiled and fought to build those fortresses! They have protected us for ten years, saving countless lives. And now we simply abandon them!”

“Did they eat rotten barley to be gone mad like that? They had elected you as the strategos for ten times in a row because they had seen that you had been leading us on the right path. Yet now, as soon as you resign from your position, they forget everything you had done for them?” Xlyakonthos asked, puzzled. “What is going to happen? Whose proposal was accepted? Anything but Ker...”

“The Voulí Kératon has put the hoof next to my proposal, scar-veteran,” another voice finished the warrior’s words from behind.

Dylmion did not turn to meet the other. He closed his brown eyes and pursed his lips.

Behind him, Kergalaklos emerged from among the bulls leaving the council chamber. Although his scarred yellow fur showed battle scars, his voice belonged to a politician. A wide ring sat in his nose; additional golden rings glistened on his horns. His tunic was adorned with the shining badge of the strategos, of the leader of the city’s military, which he had received from the stepping-down Dylmion only a few weeks ago.

“We will immediately dispatch couriers and evacuate the outer fortifications and watchtowers. If the grace of the gods and the weather permits, we will have all of our hoplites inside the city walls within a few days,” he continued.

“Strategos, is this wise? To give everything up?” Xlyakonthos asked calmly. He didn’t like the yellow bull, let alone his plan, but he tried not to show it.

“The Voulí Káraton voted in favour of it with a great majority, and its members are chosen from the wisest of our society. In the crisis that we, the people of Kérata, have to face, mine is the only wise decision,” Kergalaklos explained while pounding with his hoof, indicating that he did not wish to explain himself any more to a “mere” warrior.

But Dylmion spun around at this, seething with fury.

“Wise decision?! You have just doomed us all! If the forts will ring empty, if there will be no one to light the beacon in the watchtowers, if all of our soldiers will be hiding inside the city walls, then who will protect our people? What about the simple bulls, cows and calves out there? You know all too well, Kergalaklos, that our foes, be it the horn-thieves, the horse-mistresses or the mountain-squats, are only waiting for the opportunity. As soon as they notice that the fortresses, from whose walls we have repulsed them again and again, are not defended anymore, they will not hesitate to attack the defenceless!” he raged.

“That is why we are going to warn the farmers, lumberjacks, ore miners and everyone else to take shelter behind the city walls, as they will not be safe outside anymore,” Kergalaklos replied. He spoke calmly as if this was just a tiny matter, not a colossal peril.

“Oh, yes, let everyone leave the land they have been cultivating for generations, abandon the homes they have built with hard labour, and come into the city, where plenty of free houses and food are awaiting them...”

“You heard the reports. We have stockpiled enough food to last us until the disaster passes,” the other pointed towards the massive door of the council room. “This is only temporary. As soon as the storm has passed, we will take back what is ours, and everyone can return to their possessions.”

“Do tell, what good that will be to us? Our enemies are not fools. While we hide inside the city, they will destroy the forts, or worse, nest themselves into them. They will demolish the houses, steal the crops, and set fire to the granaries. All plantations and orchards will be gone. Even if we get them back, the damage will be so grave that we will suffer for generations!”

“Would it be better to do nothing at all? As you just said yourself, our enemies are not fools. They are watching the forts day and night and must have noticed by now that half as many guards can be seen on the bastions. They will soon realise that something is amiss and will not hesitate to take advantage of the opportunity,” Kergalaklos argued loudly. “Understand it already, Dylmion; while the disease is raging, we simply do not have the strength to defend the outskirts!”

The grey bull would have liked to spit at the mention of the disease, so disgusted it made him. It had started spreading a few weeks before, and since then, it had swept through the kérata people like an ever-strengthening storm. The symptoms began with a simple lack of appetite, but it weakened the body like a leech. The infected seemed to age years in a matter of days. Their fur began to fade, their hooves cracked, and their muscles withered. Weakened, they could not get out of bed and finally fell into a sleep from which not a single patient could have been waken up so far. Then, after sleeping for multiple days, their bone-thin bodies silently succumbed to death.

Many blamed the spoiled grain, while others saw the hand of the vile enemies behind the epidemic. Some others suspected a politically motivated poisoning between the aristocratic houses that had gotten out of hand. Most, however, saw it as the scourge of the pagan gods, a vengeful curse received because so many had turned away from the old faith for the new Light. Yet no matter how much the priests prayed and sacrificed, no matter how tirelessly the physicians searched for a cure, they had nothing to show for their work so far. They did not know where the disease could have come from, how it spread, let alone how the infection could even be mitigated. However, as the days went by, the kératas fell to bed at an alarming rate. Farmers, artisans, merchants, priests and soldiers – commoners and aristocrats alike.

“Do not tell me to understand, Kergalaklos! It is you who should understand instead! What do you hope will happen if you herd every single kérata into the city? The overcrowding and the lack of food will weaken even more people, and thus, many more will catch the disease. We must try to avoid close contact until we know how to defend against it. The people living on the outskirts should better stay put, and we should continue to protect them as best as we can!” Dylmion finally spoke.

“Oh, yes, what a better fate to be not claimed by the disease but slain by the enemy's arrows and blades! If our soldiers will be gone, we will not be able to defend the city itself! You would lead all of us to death by inaction. The others saw this during the poll. You can rage here as much as you want, but the question has already been decided,” Kergalaklos smiled.

“Mark my words, we are all going to regret that the council listened to you! Have a pleasant afternoon, strategos, I have better things to do,” Dylmion hissed and with that, turned away from his rival.

“Do you know what you should do if you really want to help? Scrape that damned paint off your forehead and return to the gods of our ancestors! They sent this disease as a punishment; it is no wonder that those who are so close to you fell into bed. Repent, and perhaps we will receive forgiveness!” the new strategos called out after him.

Dylmion halted and reached up to the yellow sun icon that was dotting his forehead. Then he clenched his fists with all his might, his hands shaking with ire. He was about to turn to ram the other when Xlyakonthos placed a gentle hand on his shoulder and shook his head, which bore the icon of the sun as well.

“Ruminate bile, Kergalaklos!” Dylmion grunted at last, then walked away. His hooves clattered loudly on the marble floor; no one dared to stand in his way.

***

The Nosokomeío Asterí, the “Infirmary of the Star”, was a real hospital dedicated to the Lightbringer. While in the temples of the old gods, in addition to mainly ritual healing, visitors were also offered other, even fornicating services, but here, there was only room for true renewal.

Dylmion walked through the halls very carefully; infected kératas were lying all around him. One of the most disturbing things was that those who had been stuck by the mysterious plague were not like ordinary patients. They were not tormented by a non-stopping cough, they were not shaken by fever, and their bodies were not covered with pus. They merely lay weak and feeble, too exhausted to even ask for a cup of water.

Physicians and nurses in uniforms were working around them. Their snouts were covered with multi-layered cloth, and thick gloves were put on their hands for protection. Unfortunately, these seemed to matter little, as they fell victim to the disease just like anyone else. They worked without a pause; there were dozens of patients for every nurse. And yet, they tirelessly fed the sick, washed their fur, and changed their soiled underwear. Other healers refilled the censers over and over again so that the scent of the burning herbs could hide away the stench of hopelessness and death.

Dylmion could only feel the most profound respect for them. He passed more than one bed where bulls and cows dressed as healers were lying. Even the sight of them did not deter their healthy companions from fulfilling their sacred vow.

He made his way to the back of the building, heading to a small room there. As he got closer, his steps became harder and harder. He was terrified of what he would find inside. As he reached the entrance, which was sealed with a thick veil, he stopped, hesitating, then finally took a deep breath and entered.

Inside, he was greeted by a plainly simple room. Sunlight poured in through a wide window, and the breeze brought in fresh air. On one side stood a low table, on which were various bottles, vials, bowls, bunches of herbs, and half-open scrolls. Next was a small chair where an older, brown cow was sitting. Her head was tilted to the side as she was dozing.

Dylmion was surprised to find Kyrana still there, who had been his family’s loyal servant for decades. She sensed that someone had arrived and woke up immediately. As soon as she noticed him, she jumped up, forgetting her tyre, and bowed.

“My lord…” she greeted him, and it was apparent how she struggled to stifle a yawn.

“Kyrana… How long have you been here?” the grey bull asked softly.

“Since last night, my lord. I felt that my company was required, so I stayed,” the maid explained. “I just dozed off for a little. It’s good that you woke me up, as it’s time for dinner.”

“Leave it to me, kind Kyrana! You have already done more than I could ever ask for. Go, get yourself some food and rest,” Dylmion placed his hand on her shoulder.

“Thank you, my good lord!” the servant nodded, and as the bull gave way to her, she left the room.

Dylmion gazed after her for a while, silently thanking her loyalty and commitment, then turned back towards the room with a heavy heart. Now that there was no one in the way, he caught the sight of the bed under the window, and, lying in it, who he had come to visit.

It was a cow with dark fur decorated with white spots. She was a true matron, tall and graceful, her beautiful raven-black mane falling over her shoulders. Every day, Dylmion thanked the heavens for knowing her. But now… he could hardly recognise her. Her fur has started to turn grey, even though she wasn’t old at all, and the cascade of her hair has also begun to fade. Her once gorgeous body has collapsed, and she seemed lost in her own clothes. There was no point in denying that she presented a pitiful sight.

Dylmion felt his heart sink. He gently reached out, stroked the patient’s head, and scratched her ears.

“Arkiona… dear Arkiona… my beloved wife…” he whispered in a weak voice.

The cow’s eyes slowly opened at his words. Although the mysterious disease consumed her body, but her gaze, that magnificent turquoise blue gaze, still shone heavenly. As he looked into it, Dylmion felt that there was still some hope yet.

Arkiona opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out. She had been able to whisper a few days ago, but now she lacked the strength for even that. Yet her gaze said it all.

“I am here, my dearest! Tell me, how are you feeling?” the bull kept stroking her.

Of course, he didn’t get an answer, but he was forced to get used to it.

“I’m coming from the council. Unfortunately, I was voted against, and Kergalaklos’ proposal was accepted. We are abandoning our external defences and withdrawing everyone within the city walls. May the light grant that they know what they are doing!” he continued. He would have preferred not to say anything; he didn’t wish to trouble his wife with bad news. But he also knew that she would have asked him if she still had a voice. She had always supported him both in life and politics.

“The view from here is so wonderful! You can directly see the painters’ and sculptors’ quarters. When you recover, you, too, will be able to return to your paintings. I will make sure that when you come back to us, fresh canvas and paint will be awaiting you,” he continued, forcing his lips to smile. “Have you seen a beautiful bird, perhaps? If so, you could paint it down later. You have always loved the rich colours of their feathers.”

He talked about everything that came to his mind just to divert both his own and her wife’s thoughts. Then he turned to the bowls and bottles on the low table. Those who were already in such a weak state would have suffocated on solid food. Therefore, the healers put together an easy-to-swallow “strength brew” containing nutrients and herbs. However, neither its taste nor scent was the best.

Arkiona didn’t have an appetite, but at Dylmion’s urging, she finally allowed him to feed her a little. Her husband smiled the whole time as if he was just feeding a calf, but deep inside, his heart broke over how helpless her wife was. He wouldn’t wish his worst enemy, let alone his beloved, such a fate.

That little food didn’t go down easily, either. Yet he cleaned up without a word and washed the cow’s soiled fur.

It was also visible in Arkiona’s eyes how embittered she was by her weakness. The bull knew she was not afraid of death but of this shameful end, which she could not even fight. Yet her wife housed a fiery nature that knew no fear. But now only those turquoise eyes remained from this spirit and form which now tears were flowing.

Dylmion was surprised to notice that a silver tear was crossing his own facial hair as well.

“Everything is going to be fine, my dearest Arkiona! I will not let you down. I will find a way to save you! Just hold on, my love! Sleep now, rest; you need your strength! Sleep and dream wonders!” he whispered to her. He took her hand, kissed her cheek, and caressed her until she finally fell asleep.

Then he just kept kneeling next to her, kept caressing her. He didn’t count the passage of time.

Finally, he was startled by the sounds of hooves clattering into the room.

He jumped up suddenly, hoping that a physician might have come to tell him the good news that a cure had been found, but he had to be disappointed. Yet, at the same time, the new arrival was just as dear to his heart.

At the entrance stood a young cow. Her ebony black fur was dotted with white and grey spots, and her peplos tunic hardly hid her powerful yet at the same time slim body. Long and dark hair fluttered behind her in braids, and from it emerged twisted horns ending in white tips. Her mother’s turquoise blue reflected in her gaze.

“Dylmiona, what are you doing here at such a late hour?” Dylmion asked quietly but impulsively. “You shouldn’t be here; you could catch the disease!”

“Look who’s talking! No one knows how the disease spreads. I’m just as safe here as at home between the four walls,” the girl confronted him.

“No, you are not! You are my only child; you cannot put yourself in unnecessary danger! The future of our house rests on you!” the grey bull explained.

Dylmiona was a young, mature cow, enjoying the most beautiful of her years. Dylmion had planned to secure his family’s future soon, and she would have had plenty of suitors, but the epidemic prevented everything. He was terrified that the worst might happen and his daughter would have to cremate them both. Although, in the absence of a male heir, the cows could also inherit and continue the lineage, but only through marriage, connected to another family.

No, actually not. For the worst would not have been if Dylmiona survived them. Instead, it was that he would lose both his wife and his only remaining child. From there, his life would have no meaning left. Therefore, it was natural that he wanted to protect her at all costs.

“Then I’m not even allowed to visit my mother anymore, father?” his daughter asked loudly. She inherited not only her eyes from her mother but her defiant nature as well.

Dylmion felt ashamed at this and resignedly stepped aside so that his daughter could also step next to the bed. As soon as she saw the cow sleeping in the bed, her fire immediately went out.

“I… I am sorry for being loud, I apologise. Thank the Light she didn’t wake up. How long has she been sleeping?” she asked softly, her voice heavy with emotion.

“I fed her recently; she has been resting ever since,” Dylmion replied calmly.

“Did she eat properly?”

“No, she did not, just a very little. I was afraid that little wouldn’t stay in her either, but…” his father answered, then looked away painfully.

“Don’t give up, father! Everything will be fine! My mother will recover,” Dylmiona said, taking his father’s hand.

At this, the grey bull pulled her close and embraced her warmly so she could not see the tears that had started their journey again.

“Hah, would you look at that! The daughter is giving support to her father. Would I be so old?” he asked as they broke out of their embrace after long, silent minutes.

“Come on, father, you could still run the Messenger Path in the first place! Well, maybe only in the second because I would reach the finish line much sooner, of course,” Dylmiona smiled. “And then again, someone has to be there for you. After all, you care for all of us. It’s only fair to return the favour.”

“Thank you, my daughter. But I’m afraid I did a poor work with caring. If I did what I had to do, then maybe we wouldn’t face… this. If I…” Dylmion began but was stopped by her daughter.

“It’s better if we don’t even get started on this! Everyone thinks you’re a wise and brave bull, yet still, you can utter such foolish things sometimes,” she said. “We will find the cure, father!”

“How? The healers haven’t succeeded, and we’re not experts. Or maybe you know something I don’t, Dylmiona?” he asked.

“Unfortunately, I do not,” the girl shook her head and pointed beyond the window. “I know only that the light of the setting sun might provide the answer.”

***

A thousand and one steps led up to the Asiménios Pyrgis, “the Silver Tower”. Although he was in good shape, Dylmion was exhausted by the time he reached the top. Panting, he leaned against the railing, and while he rested, he enjoyed the unparalleled panorama that opened up for him from so high above.

Lying below him, Triapotamia was a magnificent city. The legend told that when their ancestors, the kérata settlers had set out several hundreds of years ago, their journey had been guided by a prophecy. According to this, they had to find where the horns of three rivers meet and found a new polis there. When they finally arrived after the arduous journey, they immediately knew that they had found the promised land, as there were few such exceptional places in the world. Three vast rivers met there: the Afródis descending from the high mountains in the north, the Kalámia flowing from the eastern steppes, and the Fydi winding between the hills to the west. The city was built along the banks of these, and the various districts were connected to each other by enormous bridges.

Temples, sanctuaries, baths and theatres built of marble and with roofs made of coloured tiles stood majestically next to the various agoras, and rows of brick-walled apartments hid in their shadows. The city was surrounded by a double line of stout walls from all directions, lofty bastions rising from their lines. Beyond them lay the countless smaller villages, homesteads, farms, plantations and orchards. At the end of the horizon were the distant silhouettes of the outer forts. Beyond them, there was the world which, while promised adventures, but was also full of danger.

Dylmion took his gaze down from the endless horizon and looked back at the city. Beneath him, even the tallest bulls looked like mere insects as the kératas went about their evening chores. The vendors were packing their wares, the workers were heading to the taverns, the priests were preparing to present the evening sacrifices, and the guards were kindling the torches and braziers.

He didn’t want to notice how many fewer people filled the streets instead of the usual hustle and bustle, so instead, he raised his eyes towards the most beautiful spot in the polis. The Ieró Nisí, meaning the “Sanctuary Island” in the language of the kératas, was an island floating at the confluence of the three rivers. It was the heart of Triapotamia, where the citadel with the grand hall of the Voulí Keráton was standing. The largest temples built for the old gods were also located there. However, despite the increasing number of the kératas who followed the new Lightbringer, they were not allowed to build a place on the holy island.

Even though they didn’t ask for much. While the old gods required colossal temples carved from marble and decorated with gold from their followers, for Dylmion and his companions a sufficiently wide space where they could gather and from where they could see the noble light of the sun, the moon and the stars sufficed. While the colossal statues of the pagan deities demanded even life sacrifices to appease their impossible nature, the Light only needed the chance to shine. In contrast to the dozens of cults that sometimes even waged fights with each other, the lesson of the Lightbringer called for cohesion and unity. Something that the kératas needed now more than perhaps ever before.

Yet it was also a big deal that they could now gather in the city at all. In the beginning, they were exiled outside the walls for a long time, and the pagan clergy blocked the new faith with hostile envy. They would have trampled without a thought on something simply good because they feared their own power and wealth. What an awful lot of work it took Dylmion and his companions to build this single tower to get as close as possible to the celestial bodies! In order to save face, the priests only allowed the construction on the basis that, in principle, it was intended exclusively for astronomers.

Dylmion could no longer feel an iota of respect for them, let alone for their sects. Even though he had spent most of his life worshipping the old gods before they had failed him in his hour of greatest need. While Dylmiona was his first-born child, but she was far from the only one. After his daughter, the gods gifted him with two sons, but they were soon taken back. What he had believed to be a blessing had been actually intended by the gods to be a cruel jest.

The grey bull grimaced at the bitter memory and instead lifted his gaze off from the temples below. He did not come up there to remember his grudge. But to find hope in the light, just as he had done back then, after the loss of his sons. To find hope, and perhaps answers.

The sun had already descended halfway down over the horizon, covering the world in a flood of orange-red light. Above, the very first stars began to light up faintly, and the wide ring became more and more visible with every passing minute.

Dylmion slowly knelt before the reclining red giant, a slight pain shooting through his hip. He smiled involuntarily at his daughter’s words about how well he could still run. Although he was in good shape, but he had already left his best years behind him. As he finally settled down, he took a deep breath and turned to the sun with a pleasing prayer. He was glad that no one could hear him up there because he didn’t exactly have a voice suitable for singing.

Yet even if he didn’t have a melodious voice, he did have the stamina to sing the hymns and pleases for long minutes. In the meantime, the sun continued its decline, and although it caressed the bull’s soul as it always had, it also left him without an answer.

“... hear me out! Show me the way to save my wife and my people! Please, have mercy on me with your light...” he hummed and then stopped as the red fireball settled down completely.

He closed his eyes disappointedly and sighed in resignation. But when he looked back up, something extraordinary happened.

Perhaps it was just the play of a cloud, but it was as if the sun had returned for one last smile, and a thin ray of red light was once again projected onto the world. It only lasted for a few moments, but that was more than enough for Dylmion to follow it. In his surprise and disbelief, he thought he was going to fall backwards.

For with its last strength, the sunbeam unmistakably illuminated one of the peaks of the mountains stretching to the north. And not just any peak, but the Mávri Koryfí: “the Black Peak.”

Dylmion has come for guidance, and lo and behold, his plea was heard. However, the Light would lead him nowhere but straight into the darkness. Yet it was enough for him to think about his sick wife to know that there was no price he would not pay for saving her.