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The Chronicles of BALTRATH
THE
DARK
WIZARDS
An epic tale by
Gary Kuyper
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This is a first edition
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author
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Copyright © Gary van Nikkelen Kuyper 2009
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental
Smashwords Edition
This book is available in print at amazon.com
ISBN 1 44869 531 7
DEDICATION
For my son and father, Artreju and Bill, the book-ends of my remarkable life.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I wish to thank the following for help, support, friendship, motivation, information, inspiration, and/or love.
Firstly, my wonderful wife, Nicolene, and then Vincent Butler, Edwin Knopf, John Kearney, Charles Kearney, Roddy Blom, Ronnie Du Plooy, Thuli Senona, Charl and Linda Engelbrecht, Ray Bradbury, Ray Harryhausen, Boris Vallejo, Stan Lee of Marvel Comics, the rock group Uriah Heep, Time magazine and last but not least – Smashwords who finally turned my lifelong dream into reality.
CONTENTS
Foreword
Suggestion for exploring words in the Glossary
PART I: MATTERS OF LIFE AND DEATH
Prologue
Chapter One - Golden Dreams
Chapter Two - The Eldritch Blade
ChapterThree - The Keep
Chapter Four - The Relief of Frybur: Part 1
PART II: A HISTORY LESSON OF THE FUTURE
Chapter FiveThe Relief of Frybur: Part 2
Chapter Six - Renaissance and Reconciliation
Chapter Seven - The Return to Bryntha
Chapter Eight - Treasure Hunt
Chapter Nine - The Dark Prophecy
PART III: LIES AND ALLIANCES
Chapter Ten - The Gift
Chapter Eleven - Deceit and Deception Most Foul
Chapter Twelve - Kith and Kin
Chapter Thirteen - The Great Battle
Chapter Fourteen - Revelations and Retribution in an Artanian Ale-house
Epilogue
Glossary
About the Author
Map of Kithian Empire and surrounding Nations
# # #
FOREWORD
It was novelist/poet James Dickey (Author of Deliverance) who referred to writers as secondary creators. He said, “We take God’s universe and make it over our way.”
Fantasy novelists in particular, have the means of taking the known universe and changing it to suit their own designs.
Some would say that it is sinful, even evil, to imagine a world not the same as originally designed by the Great Architect. But is the real physical world of today anything like it is supposed to be? I sincerely doubt it.
Mankind, assuming itself to be incredibly clever, has done a damn good job of wrecking the only planet most of us will probably ever set foot on. Look at what we’ve done and continue to do on a grander scale each year. In our self-centered egotistical and selfish ways we’ve depleted the ozone layer and rain forests. What of pollution, global warming, systematic extinction of thousands of species, the abuse of nuclear power? The list is endless.
Now think of the social disruptions. War, murder, rape, theft, the population explosion, millions starving, violent dictatorships, genocide, ethnic cleansing, exploitation of the poor and weak third world by rich and powerful nations, drug trafficking and chemical abuse. Once again the list is endless.
Advances in science and technology are happening at such a rapid pace that it makes even the most avid new generation techno-junkies’ heads spin.
The worlds we create within the Sword and Sorcery genre are able to whisk you away from all of that for awhile, just long enough so that you can catch your breath in a pristine atmosphere, an atmosphere that is not filled with the junk that is constantly being spewed into the air by the millions of vehicles, machines and factories around the earth. Here you may bathe in the rivers and lakes without the fear of coming into contact with toxic waste. Here, although the worlds are new, undiscovered, savage and unpredictable, you may forget that the doomsday clock, although set slightly back, is still yet ticking away towards civilization’s demise. Here there exist beings more substantial than those in the real world. On the fictional worlds, emotions are still raw and jagged like an unpolished stone; the inhabitants although creations of the authors imagination are sometimes more significant than the dehumanized sterile tragic brainwashed cyborg creatures that inhabit genuine time and space in front of the television sets spewing out their endless propagandizing in the real world.
But of course the most important reason the genre is read, is because it allows cowards like myself to go on amazing quests without ever leaving the safety of my sofa.
So, dear reader, I now invite you to join me in an exciting journey, filled with mystery, deception, intrigue, humour, romance, danger - but most of all high adventure.
Sit back, put your feet up, turn the page (or click it if you're reading an e-book) and enjoy the ride!
Gary Kuyper
Ps. Remember always to take pleasure in The Gift of Being.
# # #
Suggestion to exploring words listed in the Glossary
It is important to note that when any Kithian, Artanian or Valacian word/s are used for the first time in the text that they are written in italics and contain an asterisk (*) - e.g. Gu Tibor*.
This is merely to remind you that it is possible to get clarification on these particular words by referring to the Glossary near the back of the book.
Readers who find that this practice impedes the natural flow of the story may refrain from doing so without concern that they could be deprived of any important facts or information pertaining to or influencing the main storyline.
# # #
PART I
MATTERS OF LIFE AND DEATH
PROLOGUE
‘Death to the enemies of Kith!
May their blood further temper the metal of our swords!
Death to the enemies of the Empire!
May Dakur grant us victory or suffer us to die with honour!’
A Kithian War Chant
Since the beginning of time, fear of the unknown persisted amongst all inhabitants of the savage and unpredictable world of Baltrath.
Death, the greatest unknown of all, being a state or condition that all living creatures must eventually succumb to, contributed to being the greatest cause of fear.
It was ages ago that the first of the great warriors dared to crawl forth from the mire of fear, and spat defiantly into the face of death.
To him, tempting death was tasting the fruits of life. The more daring he became, the more flavourful and meaningful became that short existence between the cradle and the grave.
Through this perverted, symbiotic relationship, he learned to understand and control the great power that fear was to bestow upon him.
With fear and death to command, he was soon to carve his name into the flesh and minds of all those who dared to challenge his will.
This warrior was Kith, father of the Kithian nation, ancestor of Baltrath’s mightiest empire.
# # #
CHAPTER ONE
Golden Dreams
Groad kicked his heels all the more harder into the sides of the mighty tawny-coloured stallion. For the first time he cursed the fact that the Kithian war-horses were bred for their incredible strength and not for speed. Bred to carry the enormous weight of a fully armoured warrior into the glorious throes of battle.
Such were the Kithians themselves, a race bred and refined for the sole purpose of wondrous war and destruction.
The sound of sword upon sword is the sweetest music to a Kithian warrior. The foe’s screams the loveliest of songs. The saltiness of perspiration, blood and leather mingled with the delicate aroma of fear, hatred and anger are heady and intoxicating, like that of a bouquet of freshly picked lavender.
The battle is the dance itself, a palpable sensation surrounding and filling the senses like too much good wine; coaxing the participants of its macabre drunken revelry into absolute ecstasy.
Truly a magnificent banquet of death.
Groad was one of the finest warriors to come out of the Kithian Empire. If he were able to stand erect (a difficult and uncomfortable feat for all Kithians due to their ape-like anatomy which causes their head and shoulders to slouch forward), he would stand approximately seven and a half feet tall.
He was not considered enormous in stature as the average height of the Kithian male was considered to be about nine feet tall.
In fact, Groad was considered to be rather short by his peers, but what he lacked in height he certainly made up for in sheer ferocity, skill, cunningness and, a trait most sorely lacking amongst most of the inhabitants of Kith, namely intelligence.
It was by choice and not some sort of genetic impedance that Groad, apart from his dark eyebrows, had no other hair upon his entire head. He had found that the long locks and beards displayed by many of the Kithians were merely a hindrance in battle and required too much attention to keep properly groomed.
Out of nothing but the purest of respect was Groad nicknamed Gu Tibor* by his fellow warriors.
Although Groad considered the name degrading and an insult to both his physical and mental personality, for some inexplicable reason, he thought it best to remain silent about the matter.
The fact that Groad had survived the Ten Cyclan War against the Artanian barbarians with only so much as a small scar above his left breast was proof enough of his prowess on the battlefields.
Unfortunately, he was not pleased with his situation. After all, were scars not the marks of battles fought? Were scars not the true signs of a great warrior?
The solace he received from fellow warriors sporting their limps, stumps and eye-patches was of utterly no comfort at all.
Groad saw only a dim future where his gruntlings* sat in a circle, the campfire reflecting from their eager, expectant faces, begging for their father to tell them tales of his military exploits. But in how many ways can the tale of a single, small cicatrix be told?
When the war had finally ended, the Artanians forced back across their borders, Groad had returned to his home village in Bryntha. His brave and daring accomplishments had preceded him, making him a legend in his own time. A living legend to be respected and feared.
The expected heroes’ welcome awaited him, as well as a selection of beautiful young nubile maidens vying with each other for the attentions of the handsome warrior.
It is important at this point to note that the human concept of female beauty and male handsomeness, as opposed to the Kithian concepts, differ rather profusely.
For example, the male is primarily attracted to the female by the size and shape of her eyeteeth. The larger the fangs, the greater the attraction. Good strong teeth are a sign of a good strong healthy gruntling-bearing body.
Most females keep their persuasive talents hidden behind closed lips, displaying them only, and ever so subtly, in the company of fair game. Compared to the female, the eyeteeth of the male are relatively small.
Under extreme emotional conditions a Kithians tear-ducts excrete small droplets of blood. This gives the eye a glistening red tinge.
In anger or pain it adds a terrifying ferociousness to the facial expression; in joy or passion it evokes, in other Kithian onlookers, a certain stimulus that promotes sympathy or physical attraction.
Marriage and gruntlings were soon to follow, but Groad being Groad, and Groad being a warrior born and bred soon felt the insatiable call to adventure. The homely life had begun to squeeze its fist on his physical and mental well-being.
His wife and gruntlings became the constant scapegoat to his frequent outbursts of physical and verbal abuse.
Groad knowing all too well that the fault lay solely in himself, arose early one morning, strapped his battle-armour onto his horse’s saddle and without looking back rode off into the rising sun.
It took him the best part of two moons* to lose his unsightly paunch. It had been an unforeseen necessity due to the fact that he had experienced difficulty donning the custom-made battle-armour.
It had taken even longer before he was able to move about in the armour without feeling faint or winded from its enormous weight.
But it had taken no time at all before he was able to wield his sword again like the true warrior he had once been.
Even Zarkas, the weapons-master, who had been Groad’s trainer and mentor, was amazed and impressed at his uncanny ability to adapt most weapons to become a natural extension of himself.
Groad was truly the ultimate warrior; a death-dealing machine made of flesh and bone.
Four times the snows had come and gone since he had left his family in Bryntha. He at last felt that his appetite for adventure had been appeased, at least for the time being.
He sincerely longed for the company of his wife Lorra and their three gruntlings, Zemth, Groadlid and Lorralel.
Lorralel, literally meaning daughter of Lorra, was Groad’s youngest gruntling.
She would be six cyclans* now, but even at two, the evidence was clear that she was going to be the spitting image of her mother. Groad often smiled, thinking about how the young warriors of Bryntha and beyond, would one day flock to his door with gifts of tibor skulls and mollok sap*. Adolescent female Kithians regarded the extent of their tibor skull collections and jars of mollok sap as extremely serious status symbols. These were, after all, a reflection of the owner’s popularity and physical attractiveness. It was a rare occurrence for a young Kithian warrior to court a female purely because she had a stunning personality.
Quite often the fathers of the less attractive females were obliged to please their daughters by undertaking the arduous task of obtaining these coveted symbols of vanity.
Lorralel would pose no such threat to her father. Instead, the male that wished to marry her would fill Groad’s purse with many golden pieces according to the ancient custom of loballa*.
The price of the loballa is generally in proportion to the size of the daughter’s tibor skull and mollok sap collections, which in turn is usually in proportion to the size of the daughter’s eyeteeth.
Groad with wishful foresight had arrayed the walls of Lorralel’s sleeping quarters with crude wooden shelves that he hoped would one day be filled with an abundance of perfume and putrescence.
Groadlid, literally meaning son of Groad, was the younger of two sons. But younger by only minutes. Lorra had blessed Groad with one of the finest gifts in the Empire. It was a known fact that one of the greatest honours that the elder gods could bestow upon a Kithian couple was the parturition of identical twins. They would be seventeen cyclans old when the next season of warm mists arrived. There were certain physical traits about them that resembled Groad, but already they were showing the natural signs of rapid Kithian growth.
Groad was pleased that they would not have to face the humiliating jeers and taunts about diminutiveness, which he himself had once been subjected to many cyclans ago by the other village gruntlings.
The twins were energetic and stalwartly gruntlings who would have little trouble passing the grueling initiation into savden*. The initiation, also commonly known as the Ana Iram*, consists of three dangerous and trying tasks.
Firstly, the youth to be tested, is taken by raft and under safe escort to the centre of the great Ana Weezi*, a vast swamp lying on the northern border of Kith. Here he would be left alone, weaponless and stripped completely naked. He would then have to find and fend his own way back to the outskirts of the swamp, where the escort would set up camp to wait a quarter cycle of the moon for the young warrior’s return. Should the youth fail to return within this set period, the escort would return to their home village. It is against Kithian law to send out a search party to retrieve any stripling undergoing the trials of savden.
The second task is to procure two large feathers from the aerie of an ana-rod noc*. This fowl, although remarkably large, is rather docile by nature. Its domicile, on the other hand, is not quite as friendly. Having an enormous wingspan, ana-rod nocs are able to soar to great heights and so have a partiality for building their nests upon steep mountain crags; especially on the cliffs of the treacherous Chaxer-ran*.
The magnificent spectacle of the Chaxer-ran mountain range rises abruptly and awesomely above the plains and valleys of central Kith. Only on a clear day is it possible to view the plateau’s ridge, which is more often than not, hidden in the low-lying cloud formations.
Ana-rod nocs have a preference to build their nests where, for someone trying to negotiate the sheer rock-face, it would be a similar experience to that of ascending the side of a steep wall.
It is strictly forbidden for a competitor, under penalty of death, to remove more than two feathers from a nest. The price of obtaining these feathers could literally cost an arm and a leg. Many times it has cost more.
The third and final task is for the youth to hunt and slay an ana desh-gla*.
These beasts’ habitat are chiefly amongst the close stifling foliage of the humid and oppressive Kriti Dakur*. The ana desh-glas are primarily nocturnal hunters, making the task of finding, capturing and slaying these powerful predators the most difficult feat of the Ana Iram.
Once the final task of savden is passed, an honourary feast and ceremony is held, wherein the young warrior discards all possessions related to his past into a raging pyre.
This is considered an outward symbol of bidding farewell to the weaknesses of youth and gruntlinghood.
The stripling next presents the pelt of the ana desh-gla to his father as a token of gratitude for past services rendered and as a symbol that he is no longer dependent upon his parents for advice or security.
In return, the family of the new warrior gives honour by presenting him with a number of gifts. These gifts are mainly in the form of weapons that the young warrior can use in battle or hunting excursions.
Finally the father presents the young warrior with a necklace made from the ana-rod noc’s feathers and the teeth of the ana desh-gla. The two large fangs of the ana desh-gla are considered to contain mystical properties that can enhance the virility of the wearer. In the centre of the necklace is hung a small scroll, fashioned from thinly beaten metal, onto which the father is obliged to engrave a written blessing concerning the future of his son. The small metal page is then rolled into a tube that is sealed at both ends with molten metal.
Not is it only against Kithian law, but it is also considered to be extremely unlucky to ever break these seals. This makes it possible, for any father harbouring a contemptuous attitude towards his son, to engrave instead of a blessing, a curse upon the beaten metal. This practice is not too uncommon amongst Kithian fathers who have suffered constant regret in the wake of a son’s over-egotistical behaviour (A practice not too uncommon amongst Kithian sons).
The feathers of the ana-rod noc are believed to produce pleasant dreams. It is also alleged that these feathers, symbolic of flight, will carry the warrior’s spirit form to the other side in the event of his demise.
All Kithian warriors wear their Ana Iram necklaces with exceptional pride and possessiveness.
The most convenient opportunity to safely remove this hard-earned symbol of savden from a Kithian warrior’s neck is only after being absolutely certain that he is entirely deceased.
With the completion of the feast and ceremony, the lid part, should there be one in the warriors name, would fall away. Groadlid, for example, would then become Groad.
It was just shortly after Groad himself had passed the Ana Iram that he experienced a great tragedy that would haunt him for a very long time.
Zarkas, the weapons-master, who had become Groad’s best friend, had decided to take him along on his annual hunting trip. A journey which Zarkas normally endeavoured alone, enjoying the solitariness of the rugged Kithian panoramas.
It was said that Zarkas was proficient not only in the use of over thirty different types of weapons, but also in five different forms of martial arts, which he had studied in his many travels around Baltrath.
He had also painstakingly constructed a unique suit of armour for himself. The armour had long metal spikes that were strategically placed on the helmet, shoulders, elbows, gloves, waist, knees and boots. This enabled him, when in battle, to not only use his sword as a weapon, but his entire body as well.
To allow himself to become one with the armour, he would wear it as often as possible, removing it only to bathe or sleep.
He too received a nickname from the other warriors of Bryntha. They called him Gu Shora*.
Once a cyclan Zarkas went on a major hunting expedition. The walls of his enormous log cabin in Bryntha were decorated with the heads of many of the most dangerous beasts that roamed the world of Baltrath.
This time he had decided to take his protégé along, not only for the learning experience, but also for the sheer adventure as well.
Their travels took them to the northwesterly quarter of Kith, half a day’s ride from an area known as Grimwald forest.
The forest had become notorious as the domicile of the zin-zas*.
The zin-zas are renowned for their ferocity as well as their stupidity. They are not partial or prejudice about who or what they eat. It is their lifestyle. Simple, yet effective.
They get hungry. They eat whatever is available. They get tired. They sleep. They wake up. They get hungry. So on and so forth.
Whether their prey is dumb or intelligent makes no difference. The zin-zas themselves are too dim-witted to make any distinction. All they are interested in doing is appeasing the anger of their primeval god, the rumbling in their bellies that frequently wake them from their serious and laborious slumber.
The fact that these creatures are able to procreate is a mystery to many of the learned biologists of Baltrath.
“Why do you not have a zin-za’s head on your wall?” Groad had asked staring into the campfire.
Their journey so far had been rather fruitless. Apart from the few animals that they had killed for sustenance, there had been no real challenges. No prize worth taking back to Bryntha as a victory trophy.
“I would not waste the time or the effort on one of those useless beasts!” Zarkas had answered with a sneer. “We hunt only dangerous game. For it to be dangerous, it has to be intelligent.”
“I do not agree with that. When a creature’s actions are motivated by pure unthinking rage, then it is more unpredictable and therefore more dangerous.”
“So then, you believe those dumb beasts to be dangerous?”
“Yes!”
“And you would not mind hanging a zin-za’s head upon your wall?”
“A head would be too big to haul all the way back to Bryntha, but I would proudly hang its horn over my fireplace.”
“Well I would certainly be too embarrassed to do something like that!”
“I think you are scared!” Groad had said in a serious tone whilst hiding a smile.
“You know what they will say back in Bryntha?” Zarkas had replied, ignoring Groad’s remark. “Zarkas is getting too old for hunting real game. So now he amuses himself by slaying the poor, dumb defenseless zin-zas. Next he will be nailing insects to his wall.”
“You are definitely scared!”
Zarkas had glared at Groad. “Very well, young Groad! We will go and get you a zin-za’s horn, but on one condition only!”
“Which is?”
“You must never tell anyone that I helped you to get it.”
“Am I allowed to tell them what happened if you should get killed?” Groad had asked barely able to conceal his mirth.
“By the elder gods!” Zarkas had exclaimed chuckling. “That would be tragic. Gu Shora, Baltrath’s finest warrior, slain by a zin-za. I will be bashing on Dakur’s* golden gates for all eternity!”
Through the ages and through circumstance, the Kithians had developed into a nation of thanatophiliacs, worshipers of Death and the dead. It was more than just a belief in ancestral spirits. Dakur, in all his forms, represents only that which is good and positive. Death to Kith’s enemies means victory. Death to a Kithian, especially in battle, is the glorious uniting with the all-powerful Dakur himself.
Grimwald forest consists mainly of high trees that are widely spaced. This made it possible for fast and easy traveling on horseback. It is probably also the reason why the zin-zas took up residence in this particular woodland. They are able to move their enormous bulks around without much encumberment.
Groad had been first to see the zin-za. It was male and was obviously hungry because it was awake and sniffing the air. Pulling back on his reins, he had given a silent prayer to Dakur, not only thanking him that they were down-wind, but also for the fact that zin-zas always hunted alone.
“Do you see him?” Groad had whispered.
“Yes!” Zarkas had said in a brazen tone. “Now let us put a quick end to this foolish and unnecessary excursion so that we may renew our quest to hunting something more worthwhile and challenging.” Dismounting he had removed the crossbow strung across his back and marched off between the trees. Without looking back he had shouted, “Come on, young Groad, or it will all be over by the time you get here!”
Groad had quickly jumped down off the horse, and stringing an arrow into his bow, followed after Zarkas. His blood had turned cold at the sight he had seen before him.
Zarkas had reached the edge of a clearing, in the centre of which, its back towards them, towered the enormous zin-za. It had obviously picked up Zarkas’ scent as it was now sniffing the air in a state of frenzy.
Zarkas stepped forward into the clearing, and raising his arms shouted, “Ho, stupid! Here I am!”
“Have you taken leave of your senses?” shouted Groad taking refuge behind a large tree.
Zarkas spun around. “What are you doing all the way back there? Do not tell me the beast frightens you?”
“Be careful! The zin-za has seen us!”
“Us? I doubt even with such a large eye he could see you cowering so far back there in the shadows!” smirked Zarkas turning to face the zin-za. “Come, you vile, ugly brute! If you want me, you are going to have to come and get me!”
The zin-za stood there blinking and frowning. Its head leaned to one side as it studied the small noisy creature. It could not understand why its next meal was just standing there yapping instead of trying to flee. Then with a snarl that revealed a set of jagged yellow teeth it began to advance on Zarkas.
“That is it!” shouted Zarkas bringing the crossbow in to his shoulder. “Just keep glaring at me with that big, soft eye, because behind that eye is your small, soft brain.”
Zarkas was one of the finest archers on the face of Baltrath. His skill with both crossbow and longbow were legendary. He could remove the tail-feathers from a small bird at fifty paces.
The zin-za was a mere twenty paces and closing.
“Now, Zarkas, now!” shouted Groad, his heart racing loudly in his ears.
“Not till I see the white of his eye!”
“I can already see the white of his eye from back here.”
Zarkas smiled. He was going to savour this moment for a very long time. Friend or not, he would enjoy embarrassing Groad on many occasions, repeating the story of how he had killed this asinine animal, whilst Groad was busy voiding his bladder behind a tree. This would also be a lesson to Groad that he should never again question the judgment of the great and learned Shora.
Zarkas’ aim was true, but nature has a marvelous way in its multitudinous designs. Should it give a creature but a single eye, it will no doubt grant it the instinctive knowledge to safeguard that valuable solitary organ of sight at all costs. It will also, most likely, confer the beast with a means to protect it as well.
The reflex action was so fast that Groad had hardly seen the actual movement. The zin-za bent its head forward and the once deadly bolt ricocheted harmlessly off the hard fibrous substance of the horn. In the same movement the beast had closed the gap between itself and the weapons master.
Zarkas’ brain still had not comprehended the gravity of the situation when the zin-za’s left paw closed tightly around his torso and lifted him off the ground.
He was helpless. His arms were pinned at his sides and he felt himself losing consciousness as the brute squeezed the very air out of his lungs.
The spikes on Zarkas’ armour bit into the tough flesh of the creatures paws, but the pain was nothing compared to the pangs which it felt deep inside its belly.
Groad’s fear was quickly replaced with unthinking rage. He rushed from his place of concealment towards the zin-za. He pulled back on his bow almost to the point of breaking before letting the arrow fly straight at the creature’s chest.
The shaft struck the left breast, but did not penetrate deep enough through the tough hide and thick hair that covered most of the beast’s trunk.
Still holding onto Zarkas with one paw, the zin-za brushed the shaft off its chest as one would do to an annoying insect. Content with its catch for the day, it turned and lumbered off between the trees with its prize.
Groad chased after it, sending shaft after shaft into the creature’s hind.
The result was always the same; they had no more influence than the irritating bite of some small insect.
Groad cursed, wishing the zin-za would turn around once more so that he too may try a shot at the beast’s eye.
The zin-za entered another clearing. Groad saw that the opposite side of the clearing did not contain more trees, but a wide ravine.
He hoped that this would force the creature back towards him, but with uncanny ease the beast leapt across the gorge, landing solidly on a wide ledge. Without hesitation and still clutching tightly to its prey, the zin-za trudged off along the ledge, moving parallel with the ravine, its back still towards Groad.
Groad surveyed the length of the ravine. It was too wide and too deep. There was no way he could cross it in time to save his friend.
In the distance the gorge curved inward. If he could reach there in time, and if the zin-za remained on the ledge, he would be able to get a clear shot at its eye as it entered the bend.
Groad’s lungs burned from the crisp air as he sprinted across the clearing. He would have to enter the forest again to reach the bend in the ravine.
In between the trees he would have no visual contact of the zin-za. He would just have to hope and pray that he had guessed the beast’s route correctly.
It seemed to Groad as though it had taken him an eternity to reach the bend in the ravine. He had fallen along the way, losing his quiver and arrows amongst the long grass. There had been no time to search for them. Holding on tightly to the bow and arrow in his hand, he had continued the race.
Standing on the edge of the chasm, his view blocked in both directions by thick foliage, he could not tell if the zin-za had already passed or if it was yet to come around the curve on the opposite cliff-face. Now he could only wait anxiously, hoping for the beast to appear.
He studied the ledge on the far side of the gorge. It was narrower at that point than where the creature had leapt across. This would probably slow the zin-za down, making the shot less difficult. It also meant that if he managed to fatally wound the beast, it would most likely tumble into the ravine, taking Zarkas with it.
These thoughts were still rushing through Groad’s head when the zin-za began to round the bend. Groad went down on one knee, resting one end of the bow on the ground. He had always found this position most suitable for a difficult shot that needed steadiness. Taking a deep breath, he pulled back hard on the bowstring.
A trickle of blood ran down out of Zarkas’ nose and formed a pool in the corner of his mouth. His eyes flickered open.
Even across the distance, Groad could see the intense anguish that filled those bloodshot orbs.
A wave of nausea passed over Groad, and in that same instant it became clear to him what had to be done. Adjusting his aim, he slowly exhaled until there was no more air left in his lungs. Then with one last prayer he released the arrow.
Time seemed to slow as the shaft flew across the ravine on its deadly mission.
The shot was perfect, entering the brain through the middle of the forehead, exactly where Groad had wanted to place it. Zarkas would have been impressed with Groad’s excellent marksmanship, but Zarkas was dead. His head hung limply to one side, the back of the missile protruding just above the bridge of his nose and just below the rim of his helmet.
The deed done, Groad collapsed to the ground in a sitting position. He was still sitting there, long after the zin-za had ambled off into the distance, trying to rationalize his thoughts into some form of coherent order.
This had not been some sort of mercy killing, a quick means to ending pain.
Surely Zarkas would understand that and forgive him? In fact Zarkas was now in his debt.
Groad could not have allowed the great Shora to enter the hallowed halls of Death in such a degrading manner. Zarkas himself had said that he feared he would be bashing on Dakur’s golden gates for all eternity.
Zarkas’ life may have abruptly ended at the hands of a fellow warrior, but this was more acceptable than a humiliating demise at the paws of a dumb beast.
Now he had died respectfully, a warrior’s death.
Zarkas had taken Groad along on the hunting trip for the adventure and for the learning experience.
There had been no doubt in Groad’s mind that the journey had been venturous enough. As for his education, well, Groad had learned more than one invaluable lesson.
A dumb, unpredictable creature is far more dangerous than an intelligent one of predetermined behaviour. Also, never be over confident or underestimate the foe. Most importantly, he had learned how to lie extremely well. He would never tell the truth to anybody as to what had happened that fateful day on the outskirts of Grimwald forest.
Groad’s wife Lorra was considered by Kithian standards, to be a female of superior breeding.
Her mother, Leesha, was a large jovial female who was pleased with her lot in life, which was serving her husband’s every need.
Although Lorra’s father, Ublar Tar, had never accomplished any truly great heroic deed, he was still regarded with much respect and envy amongst his fellow warriors. He, after all, had sired no less than sixteen gruntlings, of which only the last was a daughter.
This was deemed to be a remarkable achievement, and demonstrated clearly that the elder gods, especially those whose forte lay in fertility, smiled most favourably upon him.
Sons represented blessings on the father as well as the whole Kithian nation. Sons represented future service on the battlefields of tomorrow. Sons, therefore, represented increase to the Kithian Empire.
Daughters represented blessings and help for the mother alone. Daughters represented future service in the kitchens and bedrooms of tomorrow. Daughters, therefore, represented mere vessels for increasing the Kithian population.
Unfortunately, not all Ublar Tar’s sons had seen those battlefields of tomorrow. The ten ana desh-gla pelts that hung above his large fire-place were a constant reminder of his family’s loss.
Although Lorra was certainly one of the most beautiful females in Bryntha, if not the most beautiful, Ublar Tar had asked Groad a very small loballa price for his daughter’s hand in marriage. He had felt it would be payment enough that his daughter wed one of Kith’s mightiest warriors.
Groad truly loved Lorra and sensed that her love for him was just as strong. He knew that she would consider it an insult were it ever made public that she had been purchased for a rather meagre sum. The other females of the village would not fail to use this information to their advantage. It would be an ideal weapon to use in their frequent skirmishes of vanity.
Groad had accumulated much wealth during his lengthy service on the Kithian border. He had felt that it was the right time to put his hard-earned gold to some good use.
One morning in the bustling Bryntha market place, Groad had spotted Ublar Tar examining a fine young stallion that was to be auctioned off in the market square. It was clearly evident by the gleam in Ublar Tar’s eye that he thought the beast to be magnificent, and coveted its usefulness for his breeding stables.
“Do you think the seller is going to get a good price?” Groad had asked stepping out from behind the stallion.
Ublar Tar was surprised and pleased to see his future son-in-law. “Too good for me. I would have to sell two of my best mares to have a chance at the bidding.”
“Just one,” said Groad with a mischievous grin.
“What do you mean?”
“Be at the auction,” said Groad walking away. “I guarantee that it will be to your benefit.”
At the auction Groad had climbed over the stockade and walked boldly to the centre of the small arena. After beckoning to a puzzled and reluctant Ublar Tar to join him, Groad had started a very long and very loud speech in front of an inquisitive gathering crowd.
A speech about what a hard bargain Ublar Tar drove, demanding an enormous and ridiculous loballa in exchange for his daughter’s hand in marriage.
The speech concluded with Groad agreeing that the price, although high, would certainly be worth every gold piece paid, and that he would have paid even more, had Ublar Tar been bold enough to demand it.
Groad had next produced a leather purse from which he slowly counted out forty gold pieces into Ublar Tar’s cupped and trembling hands; twenty times the actual price asked.
Groad left Ublar Tar standing dumbfounded in the centre of the arena, but not before whispering a warning to the older warrior that he would be sure to incur a lifetime of Groad’s wrath and displeasure if the true nature of this transaction were revealed to anyone.
The villagers returned to their homes with a story that would heat many ears and many tempers for many cyclans to come.
Ublar Tar returned to his home with a prize stallion to add to his collection of thoroughbreds.
Groad returned to his home with an empty purse but a heart filled with happiness.
The price for Lorra had been heavy, but well worth it, just to see the shocked faces of the Bryntharian women.
Groad considered the expression of absolute joy that later radiated from Lorra’s face an added bonus.
Zemth, Groad’s oldest son by a matter of minutes, had inherited Groad’s father’s name. Groad’s father had been one of the coveted few who had managed to attain special burial privileges.
During his final and most glorious battle, a shaft from the crossbow of an Artanian marksman had found an opening in his battle-armour. The arrow had entered his body just below his left armpit, piercing both lungs.
Even through the cacophony of the fray, his fellow warriors had heard him scream and immediately noticed the extreme nature of his predicament.
For an instant it seemed as though the whole battle ceased, focusing its attention on this single combatant. The battle held its breath waiting for this nine foot bulk to collapse to the bloodied ground like so much useless rubble, his last breath expiring amongst the leather-clad feet of his hated enemies.
But no, his final breath was no death rattle at all. Instead, it seared his throat like a belch of liquid flame, surging forth from his mouth in the most fearful of battle cries.
Then, sanguine sword raised high, he rushed forward once again to meet the foe.
The result was devastating, causing a wave of anxiety to ripple through the once mettle-wrought lines of the enemy.
One man had caused this amazing effect, and as one man the enemy was routed. In a fit of terror and confusion they turned on their heels and fled like whipped bog hounds*.
The Kithians were quick to press their advantage. They pursued the fleeing scattering horde, mercilessly cutting them down in their fruitless retreat.
By the end of the day the Artanians had managed to reach the outskirts of Grimwald forest. Here it was futile and dangerous for the Kithians to pursue any further.
The enemy could lick their wounds, regroup and plan new strategies for future battles. But more important, they would have to be wary of the zin-zas.
The Kithians, content to let the remaining Artanians find sanctuary amongst the foreboding foliage of the forest, returned to the battlefield to plunder the dead of their weapons, armour and goodluck charms which were frequently encrusted with precious metals and stones.
When the victors reached the main battlefield (here the pickings would be best), a lone warrior of tremendous proportions stood, silhouetted against an enormous red setting sun. It was the discernible figure of Zemth.
Still clutching his sword, which was driven deep into the breastplate of an Artanian barbarian that lay at his feet, Zemth stared indifferently at the approaching warriors.
The sight of the lone warrior amongst the carnage was both magnificent and ominous at once.
The Kithian forces rushed forward, encircling their hero with a roar of jubilation and approval. Never before had the Kithians experienced a victory of such vast proportions. Never before had the acts of a single warrior caused such devastation.
Ten cyclans ago, the Artanians had encroached upon the borders of the Kithian Empire, sparking what seemed to be a war that would last an eternity. But now, total victory was something tangible.
The story of Zemth, the Kithian warrior that could not die, would spread like wildfire amongst the Artanian forces. A seed of doubt would be sown about their hopes of total victory, causing a substantial breakdown in morale.
Without hope of winning, they could never win. Why, even many cyclans from now, the Artanian mothers would chastise their misbehaving offspring with the threat of a visit from Zemth the indestructible Kithian.
The Kithians, on the other hand, would evoke more positive emotions of pride in their gruntlings with tales of one of Kith’s mightiest warriors, Zemth the Immortal.
“Zemth! Zemth! Zemth!” chanted the Kithian army raising their swords and spears into the darkening sky.
“Zemth! Zemth! Zemth!” they chanted whilst a silent yet universal thought swept feverishly through the ecstasy-thick atmosphere.
From these unspoken thoughts wafted a stench of insurrection and treason most foul. “At last a true leader. At last a warrior worthy of the crown. Yes, Zemth will be our new emperor.”
It was quite some time before the frenzied crowd came to realize that there was something seriously wrong with Zemth.
The chanting gradually died down to be followed by an uncomfortable silence.
A short, broad shouldered, boyish-looking warrior in the front of the gathering lowered his sword and gingerly advanced on the all too still figure of Zemth.
Groad stopped three feet from his father and stared into the dull unblinking eyes. Eyes that were covered with dust. Eyes that should have been staring back at Groad, but instead seemed to stare right through him. The eyes, in fact, saw nothing at all.
Groad turned slowly to face the bewildered horde. “He is dead!” he exclaimed, “Zemth …is dead.”
Zemth had died in a most bizarre fashion. By chance his body armour had locked at strategic joints, preventing him from collapsing to the ground. The whole framework of flesh, bone and battle-armour balanced intricately against the sword that he clutched in a death-grip.
Groad felt more envy than remorse as he stared upon the ultimate monument of the dead. A prickling of goose flesh crept up his arms as he drank in this masterpiece of pure genius, allowing it to permeate his very being. The sheer beauty of it almost made him weep.
His father, in dying the way he had, had created without words, an epitaph of unequal proportions. After all, how many great warriors had died, not only standing tall and proud, but also watching the backs of the enemy as they fled in sheer terror and amazement. Above all, as the last few seconds of life ebbed away, knowing that the victory belonged to you and you alone. A true warrior could ask no more.
Groad was furious. A son was meant to follow in his father’s footsteps and eventually equal or surpass the deeds of the father. Groad saw only a bleak future where he would be perpetually sustained in humility by the overbearing shadow of his father’s fame. Groad would cease to exist, destroyed in the conflagration of endless praises that would be bestowed upon him in his father’s name. Words meant to extol and comfort the family of Zemth would instead be as fiery coals heaped upon Groad’s head, burning him into an insignificant pile of ash.
From these ashes, so unlike the magnificent Phoenix, would arise a replica of Groad. Not Groad, but instead the Son of Zemth, a title that left a somewhat bitter taste in the mouth.
It was primarily this reason that pushed Groad to become the fine warrior he became. It was an obsessive quest to live a fuller life and eventually and hopefully, die an even better death. To be the ultimate warrior he would have to die the ultimate death.
Unfortunately Groad had absolutely no idea of how he was going to accomplish this final action of supreme commitment.
For the moment it was decided to leave Zemth standing where he was. The fact was, nobody really had the fortitude or sheer guts to disturb what must surely have been a tribute to a most worthy recipient, even if the tribute was constructed by and with the recipient himself.
It could have been the vibrations caused by the great wooden wheels of the wagons transporting the dead, wounded and plunder from the battlefield. It might have been the contractions of rigor mortis. Maybe it had been a combination of both, but just after the moon had risen full and purple above the horizon, Zemth collapsed to the ground like so much useless rubble.
It was later discovered that Zemth’s sword had mysteriously vanished from the Artanian’s breast, as well as from the battlefield. This gave birth to a secondary rumour; wherein it was believed that Dakur himself had spirited the great hero’s weapon away to his personal hall of trophies. It now hung upon Dakur’s wall in the most respected of positions, above the golden throne.
The Kithian warlords had presented the facts of the Artanian massacre before the Royal Kithian War Council.
The decision of the council had been unanimous; Zemth was granted the highest of honours, special burial privileges known as The Golden sleep.
This was a long and meticulous process lasting almost a full cycle of the moon. Zemth was stripped naked. His shoulder-length hair and red beard were shaven off and his eyes scooped out of their sockets. Excess liquid was drawn out of the body and replaced with embalming fluid. Strips of cloth were soaked in a mixture containing preservative properties. These were then carefully wrapped around the corpse, making sure that as far as was possible, most of the detail of the warrior that lay beneath these bandages was retained on the surface of the mummified figure.
The Royal Kithian Treasury donated gold. The value of it being equal to one tenth of the spoil taken at the great Artanian slaughter. This was melted, refined and then beaten into the finest gold-leaf. From this was cut a multitude of small scale-shaped segments. These were then painstakingly imbricated onto the body using fine gold wire to join the segments together. Once again care was taken to preserve detail. This was done by rubbing the gold-leaf until the impression of the hero that lay beneath, formed itself onto the surface of the skin of the fine gold scales.
All Kithian warriors have two large rubies encrusted onto each side of the handles of their double-edged broadswords. The principal goal of all Kithian warriors is to attain the honour of The Golden Sleep. Should a warrior be granted such a privilege, the large orb-shaped gemstones are removed from the sword and securely fixed into the hollowed out eye-sockets of the deceased champion.
For the majority of Kithians who fail to earn this coveted glory, it is customary for their swords to be inherited by the first-born grandson of their first-born son. The grandson receives the sword only once he has passed the grueling initiation into savden (considering of course, that the grandfather has no more use for the item himself).
Groad’s son, Zemth, would receive no such gift. It was also Groad’s obsessive desire that this first born son’s first-born son should also fail to receive the customary inheritance.
The fact that Zemth’s sword had been miraculously spirited away was no problem at all. A new sword was duly commissioned. It was to be fashioned from purest solid gold. Also, two of the treasury’s finest and largest rubies were donated.
The rosy gleam in Zemth’s newly acquired eyes gave him a terrifying hint of animation. It created the impression, that no matter where one stood, the ruby eyes would always seem to look right at them; accusing them of crimes both remembered and forgotten. Especially those crimes, no matter how trivial, that had been committed against Zemth himself. One lacking in mettle-substance could easily disintegrate beneath that ever-accusing stare.
The heads of ten Artanian invaders killed in the battle were severed from their now useless bodies. After being picked clean and polished were also embellished with gold. These golden skulls would later be placed around Zemth’s mummified corpse in the Tomb of the Golden Sleepers. It was believed that they would keep constant vigil over the sleeping warrior in order to guarantee that the passage to the other side be peaceful and undisturbed.
Zemth’s boots, loincloth, leather belt, gloves and helmet were likewise all covered in a fine layer of gold. These were then replaced on his preserved and gleaming corpse.
Strand for strand, Zemth’s shaven hair was worked into the gold-leaf on the inside of the helmet and across the chinstrap. When placed in position and neatly combed, the hair appeared to be growing from the golden chin and scalp beneath the helmet.
With these final touches completed, Zemth was ready to be displayed to the adoring public and to those who were just idly curious.
This had been a period of great embarrassment and humility for Groad. Maidlin, his mother, on the other hand, reveled in the atmosphere created by her husband’s demise; gladly receiving and welcoming all verbal gifts and blessings; receiving even more willingly the material gratuities which had made her the wealthiest female in Bryntha. This in turn, despite her rather small stature and even smaller eye-teeth, had nourished a stream of greedy suitors clambering to her doorstep. An all too hasty marriage to an all too handsome elderly warrior, who had managed to hide his vices well whilst courting, paved a path to sorrow and destruction. He was killed during a drunken brawl at one of the local drinking taverns, but not before he had managed to evenly distribute all of Maidlin’s wealth amongst the brothels and gambling dens of lower Bryntha.
At her death, Maidlin had been poverty stricken. The legacy she left to her only offspring was a large debt and her genetically short stature.
Zemth was taken by cart, under full military escort to the great Kithian crossroads known as Gu Kazor Dee*. It is here at the centre of the Kithian Empire where most of the main highways meet, that a huge circular pavement has been constructed from large flat stones. The circle is of such dimensions that it is near impossible to throw a stone clear across its diameter.
In the centre of this paved circle lies a rectangular altar carved from a single chunk of marble-like stone. Onto this altar was placed the reclining figure of Zemth.
A temporary tent was then erected over the altar. Here Zemth lay in state for a single cycle of the moon.
By the end of the moon’s first quarter, the outer circumference of the paved circle had become a teeming market place and entertainment fair. Dealers, merchants, artists and of course an assortment of thieves, confidence tricksters and pickpockets had all made good use of this prestigious event. Many of the stall owners had even been so bold as to sell carved stone and wooden effigies of the mummified hero.
The hustle and bustle and general hubbub of the market place and fair were a contrary reflection of the stifled solemnity that took place within the tent of honour.
Groad and his mother, being Zemth’s only immediate family, were expected to remain at all times within the canopy to receive the praises of the Kithian nation that had come from far and wide to pay their final respects to the great warrior.
The line of inquisitive mourners, to Groad’s displeasure, seemed endless. The ceremonial actions of the bemoaners became as pedantic and predictable as their fruitless, mincing words of consolation. The procedure was as follows: Ascend the altar steps. Gaze in awe at the sleeping giant. Gently kiss the golden cheek. Spit upon the death dealing crossbow shaft that had been removed from Zemth’s chest cavity and now lay at the foot of the altar. Descend the altar steps. Offer words of praise and comfort to the hero’s grieving wife. Lastly, before exiting the tent, offer words of praise and advice to the champion’s grieving son.
By the end of the moon’s cycle, Groad had eventually succumbed to the constant barrage of words. He had felt worthless and all but drained of his self-esteem.
This relatively short period of time had seemed an eternity. He had felt old, near to death himself. To add to his frustration, the news coming in from the Artanian border was good. Too good. It seemed that by the time he was finished with the necessary formalities involved in honouring the golden sleeper, the war would be over, the peace treaty signed and sealed. It was going to be one of the Kithian Empire’s greatest moments in history, and he would not have had a part in it. At least not the part that he would have liked. He decided that even with the war over, he would not be returning to Bryntha for a long while. If it were now possible at all, he would seek fortune and adventure in areas where he was unknown.
Zemth was then carted a short distance from Gu Kazor Dee to the imperial metropolis of Tar Ta Rus*. Tar Ta Rus is a veritable impregnable fortress with its spires rising and disappearing into the lower cloud formations above the Chaxer-ran mountain range. The only safe possible access to the city is across a lowered drawbridge which spans a seemingly bottomless ravine.
Beyond Tar Ta Rus’ enormous wrought metal gates, lies the nerve-centre of the vast and powerful Kithian Empire.
Firstly, there resides there the Royal Kithian Family, direct descendants of Kith, original father of the Kithian nation. The main purpose of this royal family being to inspire a sense of unity and patriotism amongst the Kithian masses. Although this deed was accomplished with little effort, its influence did not permeate deep or strong enough to affect everyone. Groad, like many others, harboured a contemptuous attitude towards this group of overfed weaklings, especially towards Karta Kithlid, the cowardly emperor who had never dared to venture further than the gates of his own Tar Ta Rus.
Secondly there resides there the Royal Kithian War Council. This was comprised of an elderly group of wise and learned males. Their prime objective being to instill fear, not only into the nations that refuse to bend to their iron-will, but primarily into the Kithians themselves. Fear being a delicate emotion, is capable of fashioning a nation into a mighty war-machine. Fear, unlike other secondary emotions, is capable of being molded, ever so subtly, into hatred, envy or yes, even love. With almost absolute control of these powerful emotions dangling from the fingertips of master puppeteers, it was a simple task to subdue a nation to do the will and bidding of the authorities.
The third and last main organization that resides within the stronghold of Tar Ta Rus is the Order of Dakur Priestesses. This group, although small in number, hold sway to the most influential power. They, after all, represent the focus point of the Kithian religion. They represent the worshipping of Dakur, the great god of Death. Where patriotism and fear failed to reach, the priestesses were certainly able to evoke unbridled subservience from the plebeians. What better quality can be expected from loyal subjects, other than a feverish willingness to die for their god and country?
Just beyond the gates of Tar Ta Rus, the leading representatives of each major organization welcomed Zemth and his cortege. Karta Kithlid, the emperor, Bel Shedor, the chief overseer of the war council, and the extremely beautiful high priestess, Leeja Fay were all gracious, yet dominant in receiving the honoured burial party.