
The Chronicles of Varuk: Book One
Scott Reeves
Books by Scott Reeves:
Billy Barnaby's Twisted Christmas
Phantoms of the Mind: Short Stories
The Bone Boy and Other Stories
The Miracle Brigade: Episode One
The Chronicles of Varuk: Book One
A Crackpot's Notebook, Volume One
Liberal vs. Conservative: A Novella
Graphic Novels:
The Adventures of Captain Bob in Outer Space
Varuk: Rites of Passage
Varuk, the Maiden and the Demon
Copyright © 2001 by Scott Reeves.
Varuk and the Razorbeast
Copyright © 2005 by Scott Reeves.
Varuk and the Princess
Copyright © 2011 by Scott Reeves.
All rights reserved.
Varuk: Rites of Passage
Ko Yingh Varuk sat on the cold bare ground in a clearing at the center of a sea of tents. It was past midnight and most of the clan was asleep in the tents, except for the Elders, who huddled in a circle a short distance away, discussing Varuk's future, and Ana Yingh Shaya, standing at the opposite side of the clearing, watching Varuk with eyes that twinkled coldly like the stars in the sky above. He ignored the mingled accusation and hurt in her eyes, instead trying to concentrate on making sense of the snippets of the Elders' discussion that were carried to him on the cold breeze. But it was futile.
Finally the Elders dispersed and, without so much as a glance at Varuk, wended their way between the tents until they were lost to sight. Only the Chief remained. He stared at Varuk for a moment before approaching and kneeling beside him. Ruk Yingh Shimol was old, the oldest man in the clan. His huge, barrel-chested body was laced with scars, a testament to the many battles in which he'd fought for the honor of the clan. Varuk had always hoped to earn as many scars as the Chief, perhaps even more, to become the most honored man in Clan Yingh.
But now that would never happen, for Varuk intended to leave the clan and find his destiny in the land south of the Great Mountains. If the clan would allow it.
Varuk held his breath in anticipation of the Chief's answer. "It has been a hard year for the clan," the Chief began. "We lost much of our strength to the Munghs. Thus many of our women have deserted us to find mates elsewhere. You know this. Yet still you choose to leave us, knowing that your loss would be a blow to us. Why?"
Varuk was glad for the darkness, for it would hide his red-faced shame. "I...am not satisfied here. I feel my destiny lies there." He pointed to the shadowy, huge mountains that loomed above the clan's camp. Their slopes were dusted with snow that sparkled pale ghostly white in the moonlight.
The Chief sighed. "You have always been so fascinated by tales of the fabled lands beyond those mountains. Your mother feared that one day they would steal you from us, that you would join the ranks of those who have crossed, never to return. Is there nothing that will keep you here?" The Chief's eyes glanced over at Shaya.
Varuk looked at her. She was the most beautiful woman in the clan, tall and lean, with long blond hair, large breasts and wide, fertile hips. They had grown up together. But he was eighteen now, and at seventeen, she was still a girl. Even her delectable body could not hold back his restlessness. He could not allow desire for a woman to divert him from his chosen path. He turned away from her haunting, imploring eyes. "There will be others."
The Chief chuckled slyly. "I'm sure there will." His somberness returned swiftly. "The Elders are angered by your selfishness, your lack of loyalty to the clan. Your father does not think we should allow you to leave. You shame him."
Varuk bowed his head. He had no wish to shame his family, but he could not stay.
"We cannot afford to let you go," the Chief continued. "But the stars say we must. They agree that your destiny lies elsewhere. And we cannot argue. They also say that, unlike the others who have gone before, you will return to us."
Varuk looked up at the star-scattered night sky, looking for meaning in the seeming randomness. He shook his head. "I see only stars. Nothing more."
"If you stayed you would be taught to read their secrets."
"I...will not stay."
The Chief nodded in acceptance. "Then this is all I can give you in preparation for your journey: high in the mountains is the Great Rift, where the world was cracked during the Sundering. A wind blows northward from the crack, up out of the underworld, a wind that is the breath of a nether demon. Sometimes spirits are carried upon this wind, and they become trapped in the mountains on the northern side of the Rift. Should you happen upon one, unless you are protected, it will possess you. Your flesh will no longer be your own, and it will ride you as one rides a horse, to the end of your days." The Chief reached into his robe and drew forth a bronze amulet engraved with a rune, attached to a leather string. "This will ward you against the spirits. Wear it around your neck."
Varuk took it, placed it around his neck. It lay heavily against the muscles of his chest. "Thank you, Eldest."
"You will leave the clan at dawn," the Chief said. "Tonight, there is one last duty you must perform for us."
"As you command."
"You must lie with Ana Yingh Shaya. You must do your part to replenish our clan. You must give her a child."
Varuk's heart raced. He had never been with a woman. By clan law, it was forbidden before his nineteenth year. A true warrior, so he had been taught since boyhood, ruled his flesh; he did not let his flesh rule him. Varuk tried hard to suppress a smile. "I would be happy to perform this last duty, Eldest."
\*\*\*\*\*
Varuk wended his way through the narrow dirt avenues between the tents. The morning air was crisp and chill in his lungs. The sun was a hazy, dim smudge in the eastern sky. An auspicious start to his new life. He'd dressed in thick wool robes this morning, for it would be cold in the mountains. The bronze amulet given him by the Chief lay snug against his chest beneath the layers of wool and leather. A leather traveling pack was slung over his shoulder. The clansword that had been forged for him at his coming of age swung at his hip. Most of the clan was indoors, where they would stay until he'd disappeared over the horizon. As far as they were concerned, he was no longer a part of them.
At the edge of the camp all ten of the Elders had gathered, including the Chief. Behind them stretched an empty plain of tundra, which eventually crumpled into foothills that rose and blended with the Great Mountains. The Elders stood like a wall between him and the mountains. By law and tradition, anyone wishing to leave the clan had to prove his ability to survive apart from the clan by fighting his way past the clan's best warriors. If Varuk could not get past the wall of Elders, he would be trapped within the clan, still bound by his duty to the clan, until his shame at his own failure had sufficiently faded and his fighting skills had improved enough that he could make another attempt to leave. If he failed to pass the Elders this day, the Elders would laugh at him and he would return to his family's tent, sullen and shamed in his own eyes and the eyes of the clan.
Varuk stopped and dropped his pack to the ground. His father, Martok Yingh Ko, stepped forward and clasped Varuk's gauntleted wrists. Ko smiled at his son, a tight smile that was like a layer of oil floating atop a sea of sadness and anger. Ko released his son's arms and stepped aside.
Varuk drew his sword, gripped it resolutely. The Elders drew their swords.
Varuk leapt among them, his sword singing. The battle lasted only a few moments, only long enough for each of the Elders to clash swords with him. The wounds inflicted were merely scratches that would heal in a day or two. It took all of Varuk's strength and skill to make it through the group. Even so, he knew they were holding back, toying with him. This was just an easy ceremony to them, but for him it was the hardest trial of his life. It showed him that despite all his cockiness and strength, he was still only a boy compared to them. And for the first time he began to wonder if he was truly prepared for the difficulties that might lie ahead. When he was through the knot of men, and the open plain lay before him, eight of the Elders turned their backs to him and marched back into camp. The Chief paused a moment, watching Varuk bent over, panting and gripping his knees. "You will return to us," the Chief said, and then he too turned his back and walked away.
Ko, hanging back beside his son's pack, reached down and picked up the heavy bag. He tossed it across the space between them. Varuk caught it and slung it around his shoulder. He stood and began the long walk across the plain to the mountains.
He heard his father cry out, heard the running, booted feet crunching across the grassy, frozen ground. He braced himself for what would come next. His father's sword cut through the wool and leather and raked down his back, leaving a trail of icy fire. He had to bite his tongue to keep from crying out, tears of pain squeezed from his eyes. He wouldn't further shame his father by showing weakness.
"Goodbye, boy," he heard his father whisper behind him.
Onward he marched toward the looming mountains.
\*\*\*\*\*
He crossed the plain swiftly. The only sound in the chill morning air was the crunching of the brittle grass beneath his boots. Midmorning he saw a herd of shaggy, horned ruk off in the distance, grazing. Near noon he arrived at the foothills and trudged up and over, up and over, climbing ever higher. The icy ground gradually became coated with snow. Finally he came to the mouth of a valley that slashed up and into the mountains. Here he paused, sitting down on a bare rock that thrust up through the snowdrifts. He pulled a lump of bread from his pack and as he ate, looked behind him, northward, at the barren curve of the world. Far away, tiny on the horizon, smoke from cooking fires smudged the sky above the clan's camp.
From the valley onward, the going was slower. Varuk had to pick his way carefully up the sides of the mountains, for there was no path and the way was treacherous. Often times he scrambled up sheer slopes. It would be so easy to slip in the snow and ice and tumble to his death. The mountains closed in around him, blocking off everything except the snow and towering rock. When night fell he would find a cave or an overhang to pass the night. Several nights later the top of the range seemed no closer; the constant upward movement through narrow icy ravines and broad snowy valleys began to discourage him.
At dusk of the fourth evening since leaving the clan, he hunkered around a fire in a high, narrow valley, warming his hands and preparing his blankets for sleeping. As he watched the sparks snapping around the burning logs, a fog began rolling down upon the valley. The chill became a biting cold. Then a roaring wind began to blow, and, strangely, did not dispel the fog. Thunder rumbled through the valley, slightly muffled by the fog. Varuk's fire whipped about, and he tried to shield it from the wind with his body, fighting to keep the flame alive.
The wind's howling rose in pitch until it became a voice, roaring in his ears, calling his name. "Varuk! Varuk!" it whispered.
He gave up trying to save the fire. It flickered and died as he moved away and pressed his back against a large boulder. He drew his sword, held it ready.
"Swords cannot protect you from me," the voice whispered in his ears. The wind buffeted him.
He knew then what it was. One of the spirits from the underworld about which the Chief had warned him had been trapped in this valley. He reached into the folds of his coat and lifted the amulet the Chief had given him away from his chest, shoving it into the wind. "Perhaps a sword won't protect me, but this will." He said it with more confidence than he felt.
"Yes, I felt your vile little charm the moment you entered the valley. It may stop me from stealing your flesh, but will it save that flesh from my wrath?"
A gust of wind swept over the valley like a fist, knocking him from his feet.
He climbed to his feet, sheathing his sword. He had to get out of the valley, beyond the demon's influence.
The wind increased to gale force, bringing with it a rain that pelted him, drilled into his skin like a million razor-sharp needles. Leaning into the wind, he fought his way forward, past the blackened, cold remains of his fire. He stopped long enough to pick up his traveling pack and sling it around his shoulder before continuing on. Unable to see more than a few inches beyond his nose, he felt his way forward with his feet, following the rise of the ground. Going against the rise meant a return to the clan, which he did not want.
Rather than going forward, up the length of the valley, he turned to the right, toward the steep slope that would take him up to a ridge above the valley. Although that route was more dangerous, it was the quickest way to escape the spirit's influence.
The ground rose quickly beneath his feet. The slope continued to increase until he was scrambling on his hands and knees. The wind continued to push at him. Several times he had to grab at a rock to keep from being lifted from the ground and blown into the void. The rain continued needling him, rivulets of blood snaked across his skin to be snatched by the wind and mixed with the rain blowing past him. His fingers grew numb and swollen, ice formed in his long blonde hair.
"It would be so much easier to give yourself up to me," the demonic voice whispered. "You would have the strength of twenty men. You would live forever."
"And be a prisoner in my own body," Varuk said through gritted, chattering teeth.
"You are already a prisoner of your flesh. Your destination is the land beyond the mountains. That is my destination as well. Let us journey there together. Your thoughts will still be your own, your secrets hidden from me. Your mind, freed from the ponderous task of moving your flesh, could relax and enjoy the ride."
Varuk made no reply. The spirit, sensing Varuk's imminent escape, redoubled its effort. Varuk very nearly died in that valley. But the strength of his will was great. As the spirit redoubled its effort, so too did Varuk. He had scrambled several dozen feet higher up the slope before he realized that the cloud and the wind were behind and below him, and that he'd reached the crest of the ridge. He looked back and saw the fluffy top of the fog, arcing across the valley like a dome, gleaming a pale white in the moonlight. Even as he watched the fog dissipated, leaving the barren rocky valley as he'd found it, a deceptively tranquil, inviting spot to pass the night. But he knew now that a spirit waited there. It might have to wait years for another traveler to happen by, an unwarded traveler who might not fare so well as had Varuk.
Varuk stood and dusted off his hands. Though weak and exhausted, close to collapse, he preferred to put some distance between himself and the spirit before he made a new camp. So he trudged along the ridge to the head of the valley, then climbed upward several hundred feet until he found a narrow shelf of rock where he passed the night.
\*\*\*\*\*
Two days after his encounter with the spirit, Varuk traversed a narrow pass between two towering, snow-covered peaks. At the far end of the pass he came upon a seemingly impassable obstacle: an immense canyon cut across his intended path, slicing cleanly through the mountains, further than three stone-throws to the other side, he estimated. It extended as far as he could see to the left and right. A hazy fog hung in the canyon, like the spray of water at the base of a fall. The walls were smooth and sheer. The floor of the canyon was not visible; after what must have been several miles, dark shadows swallowed the sunlight. This must be the Great Rift, the crack in the world of which the Chief had spoken, a wound in the world that went all the way down to the underworld. A cold wind whistled up from the depths of the canyon, raising gooseflesh upon his arms, not because of the cold but rather in response to something eldritch carried upon the wind, a clammy moistness that spoke of the grave. The touch of death. The accompanying foul stench was almost tame compared to the wind.
Varuk stood upon the brink looking across the gulf to the mountains on the opposite rim of the canyon. They might as well have been on the other side of the world; he couldn't see a way across. He sighed. Was this the end of his journey, then? Had the Chief been right that Varuk was destined to return to the clan? If indeed that was his destiny, why fight it? Why not just turn around now and return in shame?
He shook his head and squared his shoulders. He would not return. Perhaps one day, but for now, his destiny lay beyond the mountains. There would be a way across, he was certain.
Looking to his right, he saw a narrow shelf of rock between the canyon rim and the mountains. Barely wide enough for him to walk. With determination, he stepped onto the shelf and moved forward. He would walk the entire length of the Rift if necessary, until he found a way across. Acutely aware of the endless fall that awaited him should he slip, he trudged onward. When night fell he sat down and leaned back against the slope of the mountain that loomed over him and, his feet dangling into eternity, he fell asleep.
\*\*\*\*\*
Shortly after he resumed his walk the next morning, he found his way across the canyon. A wide stone bridge arced across the gulf. Varuk was amazed that it was able to span the immense distance without collapsing, for the bridge seemed unutterably ancient. Beside the bridge on the opposite rim of the canyon a castle had been carved into the side of a mountain. It seemed to squat over the bridge, dark and brooding, ominous, seemingly more ancient than the bridge. Varuk looked at the castle with wonder in his eyes; such magnificent structures were unheard of on the plains. Clansmen had always lived in tents, never aspiring to anything greater. This castle, now, this was why he was crossing the mountains; he was certain things even more wondrous awaited him in the fabled lands.
He stepped out onto the bridge. As he walked, he stayed close to the edge so that he might peer into the canyon's shadowy depths. Halfway across, at the vertex of the bridge, he was stopped by a group of men he hadn't noticed from the other side, hidden as they had been by the bridge's steep arc. They were all large and burly, wearing chain mail and leather kilts over thick woolen clothing to keep out the cold. Helmets covered their heads, their wrists were gauntleted and swords dangled at their sides. There were ten of them, and they drew their swords as Varuk approached.
"Halt," one of them called, larger than the others, with a red sash on his shoulder.
Varuk stopped and watched them warily, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword. He'd seen his father face men such as these, men from other clans ready and eager to do battle; indeed he'd trained all his life for the day he himself would face their like.
"What do you want here, boy?" the man asked.
"I am no boy," Varuk spat, offended. "I am a man." Shaya had seen to that. "My destination is the land beyond these mountains."
Several of the men sniggered. The red-sashed man smiled coldly. "Go home, barbarian boy. You may not cross."
Varuk gritted his teeth, ignored the remark in an attempt to remain civil. He nodded his head at the castle beyond. "That is a magnificent structure. It seems very old. Who constructed it?"
"The Ancient Ones," the leader replied. "Though I don't suppose you barbarians have ever heard of them. They built both castle and bridge when the world was new. The bridge is the only way to cross the Rift."
"Then this bridge does not belong to you. By what right do you presume to block my passage?"
"We've claimed this place in the name of the Emperor. And by his authority I forbid you to cross, barbarian boy."
Varuk cursed the man and insolently stepped forward.
"What is your name, boy?" the man asked.
Varuk continued walking toward them. "I am Ko Yingh Varuk of the Clan Mordra, and I will not be turned back."
The man stepped backward even as he waved his men forward. "If you make it back to your clan, boy, tell them that the Remikxians will be coming for them."
Varuk drew his sword as the nine men surrounded him, swords drawn. He spun around in a slow circle, pointing his sword at each of them in turn.
"You're a brave one," one of the men said.
"I think he's just stupid," another said.
One of the men behind him booted Varuk in the rear. Another sliced neatly through Varuk's coat, lightly scoring between his shoulder blades.
"Don't the northern barbarians teach their children better than this?" said the one who'd kicked him. "You've got to be on your guard, boy," he said in the tone of a teacher to an obtuse student. "You should never have let us surround you."
Varuk growled in rage and spun, his sword flashing out. And the fight was on. The clash of steel on steel shattered the brittle cold air. Although it wasn't much of a fight. Varuk gave a good accounting of himself, but there were just too many of them. He could only engage two or three of them at a time and while he did so, the others hung back, jeering at him and insulting him by offering helpful tips. He had no hope of winning, but he would die before turning back. He was somewhat heartened by the fact that his swordplay was truly impressing them; he could see it on their faces.
Finally the red-sashed leader, who'd been relaxing against the railing, rose and said wearily, "Enough of this. Finish it."
With that, all nine of the men sheathed their swords and leapt upon Varuk. He toppled to the ground, his sword clattered against the stones and was kicked away. He disappeared beneath a mountain of flesh unable even to struggle against such a crushing weight. Fists battered against his body, ribs cracked. His head rang like a gong as his ears and temples were struck repeatedly. The final blow sent all his other pains scattering like a flock of birds: a foot slammed into his testicles. A white-hot wave of nausea rippled through his body. The blows stopped, the men backed quickly away, as a torrent of vomit erupted from his mouth, spewing in all directions. He curled into a fetal position, trembling.
Through a haze of pain, he heard a voice say, "Take him back across the bridge. He'll think twice about coming this way again."
He felt hands roughly take hold of him.
"Wait!" the leader's voice said again.
Varuk opened his eyes, squinting up to see the leader bent over him. The man grabbed the bronze amulet, rested it in his palm as he examined it. "Very nice work." The man pulled on the amulet and the string holding it around Varuk's neck snapped. He closed his fist around it, looked at Varuk's pain-filled eyes. "I'm sure we'll meet again, boy, when we come for your people." The man stood and walked away, studying the amulet, as the others picked Varuk up and carried him back the way he'd come. They tossed him to the side of the bridge like a sack of garbage and walked away. Several seconds later his sword came clattering down next to him.
By now the white-hot haze had receded and the hundred other pains came flooding back. He lay panting and moaning for a few moments longer, then climbed to his hands and knees, squatted back onto his haunches. He wiped away a salty stream of blood that was dribbling into his mouth from his nose.
After a time Varuk decided upon a course of action. He could not go forward, and he would not go back to the clan. But if the odds were in his favor, he could defeat the men and pass on to his destination. Therefore he had to even the odds, and there was only one conceivable way to do that.
He climbed to his feet and stood swaying nauseasly, waiting for the bile to sink back into his stomach. By now the wind had frozen the blood leaking from his nose and various wounds. Finally he was able to stumble weakly forward. Over the next several days, he retraced his path, his dazed mind swimming in and out of consciousness, tumbling headlong down slopes, until he reached the valley where he'd encountered the spirit from the underworld. He collapsed to the cold barren valley floor, near death.
The wind picked up, fog rolled down the sides of the valley. "So," the wind whispered. "You have returned. And this time you have nothing to ward you. Why would you do this? No matter."
As Varuk lay there, breathing shallowly, he felt something forcing its way inside his mind. His soul, his essence, was pushed aside, growing narrower, narrower, until finally he'd become a small mote perched on the shoulder of something huge, dark and monstrous. His mind whimpered, feeling suffocated, and he wondered if he'd chosen the wrong path. What if his plan didn't work out as he'd hoped?
The spirit began to heal his body. A wave passed outward, washing away wounds and dried blood, leaving in its wake healthy, revitalized flesh.
Not of his own volition he stood. His body threw back its arms and stretched as the spirit accustomed itself to its new shell. His lips curled into a smile.
Varuk, in a sudden panic, tried to move his arms, tried to jump up and down. But it was like being trapped in a dream where he tried to scream and couldn't, where he tried to outrun an enemy but his legs were rooted in place. His attempts were in vain; the spirit was now in control.
"So long," the spirit breathed, "I've waited so long."
Varuk calmed his panic as best he could. Can you hear me? He formed the thoughts as if they were meant to be spoken aloud.
"Of course," the spirit replied through Varuk's mouth.
Now can you hear me? Varuk formed the thoughts as if he were thinking to himself.
There was no response from the spirit.
Varuk inwardly grinned. The spirit had said that Varuk's thoughts would be his own, hidden from the spirit. Apparently the spirit had spoken the truth. And Varuk's plan had depended on that.
The spirit began climbing back the way Varuk had come. You truly intend to cross into the lands beyond the mountains? Varuk asked.
"Truly I do," the spirit replied. "I shall make myself a prince among men. Your life through me will be better than it would otherwise have been."
Varuk, not wanting to arouse the spirit's suspicions by appearing to give in so quickly, pounded with mental fists at the usurper of his body. The spirit merely laughed, swatting away Varuk's weak thrusts.
The spirit moved clumsily up the mountains, stumbling often and at times almost pitching headlong into the ground. Either the spirit did not have full control of his body, or it was still acclimating itself.
When they came to the Rift, Varuk began to worry. Careful, Varuk cautioned, else you'll pitch both of us to our doom.
"Silence," the spirit said, and began walking along the edge of the abyss.
A large number of men guard the only way across, Varuk said.
"They are no match for me."
Are you sure? At present you appear clumsy, your movements uncertain.
As if to punctuate Varuk's thought, his body suddenly stumbled. It teetered over the precipice for a terrifying moment before the spirit managed to shift weight and tumble his body against the solid comfort of the mountain to the right.
Give me control during the battle, Varuk urged reasonably. With your strength backing my skill, we have a better chance. You can easily take control back from me once we're on the other side. Please. I don't want to die any more than you do.
The spirit remained silent, and Varuk despaired.
Soon the bridge spanning the gulf could be seen in the hazy distance. The spirit stopped in the shadow of a rock near the bridge and studied the ruined castle brooding above the trail on the other side. "I... remember this place," the spirit said. "But that was long ago." It began walking slowly up the arc of the bridge. "What you said earlier makes sense."
Varuk, who had feared that his plan was doomed due to the spirit's lack of consideration, perked up.
"It will take me another week or more to fully acclimate myself to this new body. That is precious time I do not wish to squander."
The soldiers, having seen Varuk's approach, appeared at the vertex of the bridge. They stood in a line across Varuk's path, watching his approach.
"Even with control restored to you, you will be unable to evict me," the spirit said. "I can easily push you back down. So come forth, and let my strength power your skill so that we may pass this obstacle."
Varuk swam up out of the dark recesses of his mind into which he'd sunk. Like a rushing wind his consciousness swelled back into its proper place. He flexed his fingers, relishing in that simple movement of bones. His flesh felt unnaturally invigorated, pulsing with tension. The demon was a malevolent presence breathing over his shoulder. Gazing at the soldiers, he rested his hand on the hilt of his clansword.
The red-sashed leader of the soldiers smiled mirthlessly down at Varuk. "Boy," he called out, "didn't you learn your lesson? Why have you returned?"
"I told you before, I intend to cross this bridge."
"Your return is an insult to my previous mercy." He waved his hand, and his men drew their swords. "Kill him!" the leader shouted. His men roared a battle cry and rushed forward.
Varuk bellowed joyfully and leapt forward, his sword rasping free of its sheath. He danced among the soldiers like a dervish. Every thrust and slash of their blades was easily parried. He seemed able to anticipate every move of each individual man, and his blade was there to counter and snake past their defense. He toyed with them at first, enjoying his almost godlike---or demonic---prowess. But finally he pressed the attack and soon the bloodied corpses of nine men littered the bridge. Varuk stood with chest heaving, glowering at the remaining man.
The red-sashed leader had stood apart, watching with a critical eye. His awe at Varuk's newfound strength now changed to anger and indignation at the slaughter of his comrades. Uttering a cry of rage, he leapt at Varuk. Their swords clashed. Varuk smiled at the leader, and casually hacked off the man's sword hand. Both weapon and severed hand sailed out into the misty air and plunged down into the Netherworld.
The moment to fulfill his plan had arrived.
Before the man could collapse to the ground in agony, Varuk threw wide his arms and seized the man in a powerful hug. Beneath the man's leather shirt the hardness of the Chief's amulet pressed against Varuk. The spirit within Varuk screeched at the contact, and was driven from Varuk. The spirit's sudden absence left a gaping emptiness inside him. His own consciousness thankfully rushed in to fill the void.
Varuk was whole again, and had a new appreciation for the wonderful isolation of his mind.
A moan sounded behind him. He turned, and saw one of the dead soldiers twitching. Ragged wounds began closing.
Varuk dropped the weeping leader and ran to the dead man, who was slowly standing. Vacant eyes looked up at Varuk.
"Very clever," said the spirit through the deadened lips. "You tricked me."
"Yes," Varuk agreed. "Thank you for your help." He heaved against the body, and it toppled over the bridge and dropped like a stone into the great chasm. Likewise he rid the bridge of the remaining corpses. This done, Varuk returned to the leader, who lay clutching at his fountaining stump. Crouching down, he reached under the man's shirt and yanked free the charm. Varuk stared into the man's pain-wracked eyes. "I told you I intended to cross," Varuk said. "You should have let me pass when I first came here."
"Barbarian boy..." the leader rasped.
"I am a man who gets what he wants," Varuk said. He grabbed hold of the trembling leader and pushed. With a scream that followed him all the way into the Netherworld, the leader toppled over the edge and fell.
Varuk rested for a time under the ancient, watchful gaze of the castle, made a final salute in the direction of his birth land, then passed down the mountains into the lands beyond.
Varuk and the Razorbeast
In the late afternoon, Ko Ying Varuk trudged down a snowy, tree-covered mountain slope. The snow-capped peaks towering above him were a day's march behind. Crossing them had been an ordeal, but he had made it over the mountains. The Great Mountains now lay between him and the plains that his clan called home.
Clan Yingh Mordra had no knowledge of the lands south of the mountains, the lands that Varuk was now entering. That lack of knowledge had driven him to abandon his clan and strike out for the mysterious southern lands. Since childhood, he had dreamed of this journey, where each step carried him further into mystery and excitement. No man of Clan Yingh who had journeyed beyond the Great Mountains had ever returned. Ruk Yingh Shimol, however, had foretold that Varuk would return.
But Varuk knew his chief was mistaken. He would never return.
The wooded mountain slope was beautiful. Birds chirped. A squirrel shivered in a patch of snow nearby, watching the muscular intruder.
Varuk soon came to a clearing where men had erected a camp. Five bloody bodies lay scattered amidst a circling of tents. The bodies were covered with gashes, such as might have been made by sword strokes. The wounds were fresh. The embers of a campfire smoldered at the center of the camp. A cooking pot sat atop the red-hot coals. Near the camp rose a small hill. In the side of the slope was the dark opening of a mineshaft.
He surveyed the grisly scene. Death was nothing new to him. The wounds on the men were not from swords. He recognized the handiwork of Palawa, and paid it no mind. These men must have angered Palawa, so their deaths were of no concern to him. But his growling stomach, now. That concerned him. Crossing mountains made one quite hungry.
He lifted the lid of the cooking pot and peered inside. The aroma of cooked meat wafted into his nostrils. Some sort of stew. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. It smelled delicious.
He knelt and blew at the ashes, trying to restart the fire. A tiny flame burst out and spread to the rest of the charred wood. Soon a blazing fire roared. He found a dented tin bowl and spooned a generous helping of the stew into it. Then he lounged back against one of the bodies, the cook perhaps, who had died while tending the fire and the meal.
As he ate, Varuk stared into the fire. The dancing flames recalled his mind to a time eight years earlier, on the night before his tenth birthday.
In his memory, he and his father, Martok Yingh Ko, stood in the tent of the clan's blacksmith. They had watched the blacksmith use a pair of tongs to pull a red-hot sword from a roaring fire.
In the clans, a man's life had only four important days---birth; the day he received his doh; his coming of age; and his death.
Tomorrow, on his tenth birthday, Varuk would receive his doh, his strength.
The blacksmith held the red-hot sword out for inspection. Varuk and his father had moved in close. Varuk had stared at the sword wondrously, his mouth open and eyes glowing with pride.
This was his first glimpse of the sword that would contain his doh. The blacksmith held the sword upright in front of Varuk's eyes. The red-hot blade cast a fiery glow on his face. He stared at the sword longingly, entranced by it. For a clansman, such a moment was as precious as the first glimpse of a lover's naked flesh.
Varuk's father placed a loving hand on his son's shoulder. The blacksmith took the sword over to an anvil, preparing to hammer it further into shape.
"She's a fine blade, boy," Martok had told his son. "You must protect and care for her as you would a wife. Perhaps moreso, for many's the time she will be all that stands between you and death."
Varuk shook off the memory and wolfed down the last of the soup. They day grew long, and he wished to put these infernal mountains behind him before too much longer. Mountains did not interest him. He was familiar with mountains. The unknown mysteries of these southern lands called to him, and the sooner he encountered them, the better. No one in Clan Yingh had ever accused him of being patient.
He hiked onward down the mountain, across a saddleback ridge and down into a valley between two towering peaks. He came to the outskirts of another mining campsite much like the one he had so recently left. This one, however, was larger, and there were no dead bodies. Three men gathered around a cook fire, eating. As Varuk approached, two others emerged from the mouth of a mine off to the side. One of them pushed an ore cart. The other had a pickaxe slung over his shoulder.
One of the men at the campfire was very large, with huge biceps. The second man at the campfire was shorter, less hulkish, with a patch over his right eye. The third man was slender and somewhat sickly looking.
Varuk boldly approached the campfire. Caution was for the weak.
The miners noticed Varuk and stood warily.
"Approach no further, stranger," said the large man with the huge biceps.
"Who are you?" demanded the one with the eye patch. "State your business."
"I am Varuk," said he. "And my business is my own. May I approach your fire?"
The man with the biceps pointed at Varuk's waist. "Swords aren't welcome here. Leave yours at the edge of camp, and you can share our fire. If not, you'd best be on your way."
Varuk rested his hand on the pommel of his sword. "My sword never leaves my side. But I swear by Valla not to harm you unless absolutely necessary."
Even as Varuk spoke, a sixth miner raced into camp from behind Varuk. He wore a look of stark terror on his youthful face. "Derek! Bolo!" he called out, addressing himself to the man with the biceps and the man with the eye patch. "They're dead, all of them!" The newcomer pushed past Varuk and stumbled to a halt before the man with the biceps, who wore an expression of concern.
"Who, Willem?" The large man asked. "Who is dead?"
"Asa and the others up at the second mine!" the newcomer panted out. "They were slaughtered, Derek! Hacked to death with swords, by the look of their wounds."
Derek and the others turned their attention to Varuk. A few other miners crept into the camp, surrounding Varuk, blocking off any retreat. Varuk crouched slightly, tense, readying for a fight. But he had not yet drawn his sword.
"Killed by swords, you say, Willem?" said Derek, the man with the biceps. He didn't take his eyes off Varuk.
"That's right, Derek," replied Willem.
Derek scowled and gestured to Varuk. "Give us your sword, boy. Let us see if it's tasted the blood of our comrades."
Varuk drew his blade. "I did not harm your friends. But if you wish to inspect my blade..."
One of the miners behind Varuk had managed to creep up unnoticed. He struck the back of Varuk's head with the haft of his pickaxe, knocking Varuk into blackness.
\*\*\*\*\*\*
Deep in the heart of the territory of Clan Ying Mordra was an enormous pit. As wide as fifty ruk placed nose to tail, the pit's sheer walls allowed nothing trapped inside to climb out. This was the arena of doh and puyo, where good men fought and weak men died.
On Varuk's tenth birthday, a crowd of his clansmen ringed the rim of the pit, staring down into the pit, ready to bear witness as their young clan brother received his doh.
Inside the pit, Varuk's parents knelt beside their young son, fawning over him. Varuk stood proudly, naked save for a loincloth. He stared defiantly up at his fellow clansmen, they who had come to witness.
Behind him was a dark maw in the base of the pit wall, blocked with an iron grate. Next to the opening, a crude wooden ladder had been propped against the wall of the pit, so that people could climb into or out of the pit.
"Be brave, boy," Martok told his son. "It is important that you show no fear. Animals have a nose for it."
"Stand your ground," his mother advised him. "Greet your fate as one greets the dawn of a new day. Don't shame your father in the eyes of the clan."
This was the day Varuk would receive his doh.
Varuk's parents, having imparted the last of their wisdom and encouragement to their son, left his side. His mother climbed the ladder out of the pit, while Martok struggled to shove the grate away from the opening. Varuk stood in the center of the pit, looking around anxiously. His pride and calm demeanor had deserted him.
The grate removed and tossed aside, Martok climbed the ladder and pulled it up from the pit, denying his son any avenue of escape. Varuk looked with trepidation at the black, mysterious maw of the opening in the pit wall.
Several sets of eyes appeared in the darkness, gazing out at the young boy.
Varuk cringed away from the opening as three ferocious beasts crept out, their eyes fastened hungrily on their young prey. None of the beasts were alike. One was a huge lion with a twisted bony spike protruding from its forehead; another a snake-like creature the size of four men; the last a hulking brute that resembled a man but twice as large, with a protruding brow, a broad, flat nose and shaggy fur like a mammoth.
The snake slithered toward Varuk, uncoiling and rearing high above him, fangs bared.
Above, on the rim of the pit, the crowd looked on stoically. Only Varuk's mother looked away, unwilling to watch.
This wass the day Varuk would receive his doh... or die.
\*\*\*\*\*\*
Varuk's mind swam up from the memory and out of darkness. His eyes fluttered open. He looked around. Half-dried blood matted his hair and his head ached where he'd been hit from behind. He sat in a chair with his ankles bound to the chair legs and his wrists bound behind his back. His sword was nowhere to be seen
He was in a room that had carved out of solid rock. Darkness ate the corners of the room, held back by an oil lamp that flickered on a nearby wooden table. An iron door in the wall would firmly bar any escape attempt. He assumed that he must be in a room inside the mine he had glimpsed earlier.
Derek, the miner with the biceps, perched on a corner of the table, studying Varuk. He had been waiting patiently for Varuk to regain consciousness.
"We found traces of blood on your blade, boy," Derek told him.
Varuk twisted his hands, trying to wiggle them free of their bonds. As he worked, he replied, "It surprises you to find blood on the weapon of a warrior?"
Derek leaned forward, stabbing an accusing finger at Varuk. "You're no warrior. You're a murderer! Do you feel no shame, no remorse, for your crimes against my brethren?"
"The only shame I feel," Varuk said, "is that one of you was able to club me from behind. The only remorse I feel is allowing my blade to fall into unclean hands."
Derek scoffed in disbelief at Varuk's words. "Unclean hands? Unclean hands! I--- I... You leave me at a loss for words, barbarian. I don't know what to do with you." He shook his head. "But Captain Bors and his troop will be passing this way tomorrow, on their way to relieve Captain Garret up at Gap Station. He's got the authority for a drumhead. Much as I'd like to strangle you myself, I'll leave it to him to decide your fate."
"I did not kill your men," Varuk said.
"Oh? And who did, then?"
"Palawa."
Derek raised an eyebrow. "And what is this Palawa?"
"Palawa, the razorbeast," Varuk said. These men were indeed unclean if they had not heard of Palawa. "You have awakened the Earth with your mining. These mountains are sacred. You would know that, if civilization hadn't wiped out your ancient, animal memories. Your digging here has angered the land. Palawa has risen up to stop you."
Derek stood, preparing to leave. He waved a hand, dismissing Varuk's claims. "Razorbeasts? Pah! Childhood fables! Monsters under the bed!" He barked a laugh. "That is your defense for your crimes? Enjoy what little remains of your life, barbarian. Tomorrow, I think, you die."
Derek blew out the lamp and left the room, leaving Varuk in darkness.
\*\*\*\*\*\*
Varuk held his ground at the center of the arena. The beasts circled, stalking him.
According to clan tradition, one of the beasts would turn on the others and defend the young clansman, thus revealing itself as the young clansman's doh.
The horned lion swiped at Varuk with a taloned claw. Varuk dodged.
Above, on the pit's rim, Martok watched with intense concern.
"None of the beasts take up his defense," he reported to his wife. She still refused to watch. "They all attack."
On rare occasions, no beast took up the child's defense, and the child was devoured. There was no sorrow in this, and no shame fell on the clansman's family. It simply meant that the child was unfit to survive into adulthood.
The wooly man-beast swiped at Varuk with a taloned hand. Varuk managed to dodge, but a deep gash was sliced out of his side.
Patches of the ground around Varuk, the loose sand and pebbles of the arena floor, began to glow, to sparkle. The sand drew together, forming into the outline of some vague shape.
The snake and the horned lion tensed, preparing to launch a concerted attack on Varuk, who had fallen to the ground, barely escaping fatal injury during the man-beast's attack
The sand around him tightened even more, and the ground rose slightly as something extruded itself, erupting from the very Earth itself.
Varuk was sent reeling backward as an awesome new beast erupted from the ground and towered over the other beasts, shielding Varuk from them. The new beast was a ferocious-looking hulk, a creature made entirely of glistening metal. It bristled with thousands of razor sharp spines, some small like daggers, others huge like swords. The other beasts cowered away from it.
Varuk gasped, recognizing the creature from legend. He beheld Palawa, a Spirit of the Earth clothed in metal that had coalesced into life from the dust of the earth itself.
Using the sword-like spines on its forearms, the razorbeast raked a huge gash in the horned lion's side, and guts spilled out, steaming in the cold morning air. Varuk lay in a half-sitting position behind the razorbeast, stunned, watching in open-mouthed awe.
Even as the razorbeast attacked the horned lion, the snake sank huge fangs into the side of the razorbeast and clamped down. The razorbeast looked invulnerable, but it was not. The razorbeast swiped at the huge snake chewing on its side, managed to dislodge it and fling it savagely across the pit.
Up on the rim of the pit, the spectators pointed and muttered excitedly among themselves. Martok smiled widely, waving a fist in the air. "It is Palawa!" he crowed. "The Earth itself rises to the defense of my son!"
Ruk Yingh Shimol, the barrel-chested clan chief, was joyous. "This is a good omen for the clan!" he shouted. "Palawa has not chosen a ka'doh in three hundred years!"
\*\*\*\*\*\*
A noise in the darkness pulled Varuk up from his memories. There was no telling how much time had passed since Derek had left. Without daylight as a telltale, it could have been minutes, hours, or days later.
No, not days, he realized. If it had been more than a day, Captain Bors would already have been there, sitting in judgment upon him.
Varuk cocked an ear, listening to a scream beyond the door.
"Aaaaagh!"
More screams followed, and the ringing of steel came from beyond.
"Oh my Gods! Aaaaagh! Aaaaagh!"
The chaotic sounds of men dying in battle. Someone... some thing... was sitting in judgment, but not upon him.
Varuk sneered. "Palawa is dealing out justice to the miners who defile these mountains with their tunneling."
The door burst open. A terrified Derek stood framed in the doorway. He was covered in blood and gashes, but not mortally wounded. He slammed the door and leaned back against it, terrified and exhausted, using the door as a shield between himself and whatever was out in the tunnel beyond.
\*\*\*\*\*\*
In the pit, the razorbeast tottered on wavering legs, breathing raggedly, mortally wounded. Blackish fluids leaked down its glistening metallic skin from jagged-edged gashes. The broken bodies of the other beasts were scattered around it. At the center of the chaos, young Varuk knelt, untouched and no longer frightened.
The razorbeast had vanquished all opponents. But the great beast had itself been mortally wounded. It toppled to the ground beside Varuk. He reached out and touched the razorbeast, greatly saddened by its death.
Behind him, the ladder was lowered into the pit.
Varuk hugged the razorbeast, carefully avoiding the sharp, sword-like spines that thrust outward from its metal body.
The tribal shaman approached. He was old, wearing a necklace of skulls around his neck and a bleached-white skull upon his head. Magical charms dangled from his waist. He carried the sword forged by the clan blacksmith the previous evening. The shaman held it respectfully out toward Varuk.
Martok followed a short distance behind the shaman.
"Take your sword, KoYing Varuk," the shaman commanded. "Place its point against the beast as you have been instructed."
Varuk stood before the razorbeast, held his new sword at arm's length and pressed its tip against the razorbeast's belly.
The shaman stood beside Varuk and closed his eyes. He laid one palm flat on the razorbeast's belly and placed the other palm on Varuk's heart. A glow, a surge of power, traveled from the beast, up along the shaman's arms and across into Varuk. The shaman was a bridge, transferring the razorbeast's power into Varuk.
"Now, Ko Yingh Varuk," the shaman intoned, "receive your doh."
Varuk writhed briefly as the power engulfed him and settled deep into his bones. When the last twitches had ceased, the shaman turned away from the razorbeast and faced Varuk.
"Palawa has given you his doh, his strength," the shaman said loudly for the benefit of the spectators up on the rim. "You are in his debt. You are now ka'doh to Palawa---you are his strength. As he has protected you, so must you always protect him."
The shaman took Varuk's sword arm and raised it above his head, pointing Varuk's sword at the sky in victory. The spectators gathered on the rim of the pit waved their arms and cheered, chanting, "Ka'doh! Ka'doh! Ka'doh!"
\*\*\*\*\*\*
Derek cowered beside the door, his arms shielding his head. He trembled, still traumatized by the carnage he had witnessed out in the tunnel. The door to the room was shut tightly behind him. Or so he hoped.
The screams and the sound of metal on metal coming from beyond the door soon died out. Varuk and Derek sat in silence, Derek trembling, Varuk sneering.
An unknown time passed. The door was flung violently open and two uniformed, armored men with crossbows peered cautiously into the room, covering the room with their bows.
One of the crossbowmen knelt beside Derek and examined him. The other stood with his crossbow warily trained on Varuk. A third large, muscular, armored man strode imperiously into the room, hands on hips, like a conqueror surveying his territory.
"Only two survivors, then," the man said, his voice tinged with regret and sorrow. He used the tip of his sword to lift Varuk's chin and examined Varuk's face. "Master Derek. Who slaughtered your men out in the tunnels? Is this... barbarian... responsible?"
Derek had stopped trembling, calming down now that soldiers had arrived. "We thought so, at first, Captain Bors," Derek said. "But he was locked in here when... when that out there happened. As guilty as he looks, he's innocent of this."
Bors turned to Derek, who stood. "Then who slaughtered your miners?"
"A razorbeast," Derek said.
"A razorbeast? Impossible," Captain Bors said flatly. "There's no such creature."
Derek shook his head. "Begging the captain's pardon, I saw it with my own eyes. Straight out of the underworld, crucify me if it wasn't."
Bors stroked his chin thoughtfully. "You may be right. I've heard tell of stranger things in these mountains recently." He sighed. "Well, I suppose we'll have to find the beast and kill it, before it does more harm. I suppose it's my duty. But I can't say I like the thought of facing such a demon." He thrust his face into Varuk's. "Still, I can't believe this brute has nothing to do with the demon's sudden appearance. He has the look of a killer about him. He's likely guilty of some crime."
Varuk glowered and bared his teeth.
Bors turned away from Varuk and strode toward the door. Derek began to untie Varuk, while the two crossbowmen covered him.
"Bring him," Bors commanded. "We'll put his innocence to the test. At the same time, we'll use him to lure the razorbeast to us."
The two crossbowmen forced Varuk through the door and out into the mine tunnel. There, he found a group of armored men standing at attention, halberds in their hands. Bors barked a command and they leveled their halberds at Varuk. They prodded him forward, down the tunnel into a gathering, mysterious darkness. An oil lamp carried by Bors, at the back of the group, cast a dim illumination. Varuk, at the front edge of the light, was prodded forward by the halberds into greater darkness.
Bors called up to him, "This thing likes to kill, barbarian, so we're giving it something to kill. You understand? You're bait. If the razorbeast kills you, we'll know you're innocent. If it doesn't, we'll know you're guilty and working with it, and we'll impale you."
One of the soldiers jibed, "Now, we can't see you very well up there in the dark, so you be sure to yell real loud if you run into the razorbeast, okay?"
Varuk seethed, but his anger was tempered with the certainty that these men would soon be dead.
He trudged ever deeper into the mines. Then, the ground in front of him began to sparkle, glowing. The ground quaked and the dirt and pebbles of the tunnel floor began oozing together, forming into a vague shape. He noticed this and smiled knowingly. At his back, he felt the men slowing, felt the points of their halberds withdrawing from his skin.
Palawa, the razorbeast, erupted up from the earth, taking on shape as he arose. Varuk watched in awe; he had rarely encountered his doh since that day eight years ago, and the sight of the beast was like the return of a long lost, beloved friend. The soldiers behind him stared in slack-jawed terror, lowering their halberds.
"Greetings, old friend," Varuk said.
He pressed himself to the side of the tunnel as the razorbeast stalked past, intent on the soldiers, who dropped their halberds. A few still had the presence of mind to raise them again and prepare for battle. All were terrified, panicked.
The razorbeast attacked. It swung a massive arm at one of the soldiers, sharp spines extending from its forearms like living swords. The swing cut an arc across the soldier's belly and blood flowed in the wake of the arc.
Off to the side, Varuk felt the strength of the beast surging through his bones. He mimicked the attack of the razorbeast, matching its moves as if guiding the creature. He smiled, taking pleasure in his revenge.
The razorbeast attacked another soldier, an uppercut into the man's chin. Razors sank deep, impaling brain. Varuk mimicked the attack, his arm moving upward.
It was over in mere seconds. When the spray of blood and bits of flesh cleared from the dank tunnel air, most of the soldiers lay dead or twitching at the feet of the razorbeast.
Bors, however, still stood. He took a massive swing at the razorbeast. His blade sliced into its metallic skin. Varuk clutched at his side, in the same spot where the sword had skewered the razorbeast. He grimaced with pain.
The razorbeast swung at Bors and flung him down the tunnel, mortally wounding him.
Varuk recovered from his psuedo-wound. He strode up the tunnel, toward where Derek had been cowering against the tunnel wall. Behind him, the razorbeast melted into the ground, dissipating into the earth, its job done.
Derek cringed away as Varuk knelt in front of him. "Palawa is merciful this day," Varuk told the leader of the miners. "You are free to go. Palawa says you are to carry word of his displeasure at your digging to whoever tells you to dig. The digging must stop."
Daruk trembled. "We---we're working for the Emperor. He won't stop. He needs the metal."
"For what?"
"For---for---I can't say," Derek said. "I just work. I don't ask questions. Please. I'll tell him, but I don't think he'll stop the mining."
"Then more men will die, until this Emperor of yours sees reason. Leave this place, unless you wish to be one of them." Varuk put a gentle hand on the wounded man's shoulder, for he was not without sympathy. "Where is my sword?"
Derek weakly pointed up the tunnel. "That way. In a shack at the mine entrance."
Varuk walked toward a square frame of bright light: the mine entrance. He stepped from the mine and into the light of an early morning. Dead bodies lay all around the clearing in which the camp sat. He recovered his clan sword from the shack, raided one of the tents for food, and then continued on his journey down the mountain.
Two hours later, the forest began to thin and the slope lessened until eventually he walked upon level ground. Not long after, the forest ended and he stepped forth onto a plain that stretched into the distance.
He had made it across the mountains and put them behind him.
He paused and looked out across the vast plain, surveying the land before him, the unknown lands he had struggled so hard to reach. In the distance, a city sprawled across the plain, a huge, walled city, with tall spires and elegant stone buildings. A stream of people and wagons drawn by horses passed in and out of the city through an enormous gate, moving along a nearby road that receded into the distance to the east and the west.
His name was Varuk. He was a barbarian, and his journey had just begun.
Varuk and the Princess
The road into the city crossed an elegant stone bridge that soared high above a wide river. Gazebos made of brick, spaced at intervals along the bridge, offered a place to rest for travelers passing in and out of the city. And there were many travelers, in great variety: on horseback, in horse-drawn carriages, on foot, alone, in groups, lords, ladies, common folk and peasants. Some were dressed in gaudy pantaloons and wore dazzling jewels that sparkled in the morning light. Others wore turbans and flowing white robes. Some wore rags covered in dirt and held out a hopeful palm toward anyone passing by. Others wore veils. Some women displayed a generous amount of cleavage, dressed in tight leather outfits. Varuk was staggered by the sheer variety of clothing and physical characteristics.
As he passed among them, heading toward the city gates, he studied those with whom he shared the road. He had never seen their like. He had only just crossed the Great Mountains that towered in the distance, at the edge of the great plain on which the city sprawled. The only people he had ever encountered had been members of the various nomadic clans that wandered the tundra north of the Great Mountains. The only dwellings he knew were tents made from the leathery hides of the ruk that roamed the tundra. Cities were unheard of, north of the mountains. The people he saw entering and exiting this city were strange beyond belief. But strange in a wonderful way. This was why he had left his clan.
He longed to stop the people he passed and speak with them. But he was no fool. These people were strangers. Every one of them was a potential enemy. He could not let down his guard while he was among them the way he would have if they had been members of his own clan.
He reached the far side of the bridge. The city gates loomed above him. He had never been in a city before. He had only seen them in his dreams... and even in his dreams he had not envisioned something of this magnitude.
He gazed in wonder up the sheer sides of the city walls that towered above him. Why would men willingly imprison themselves behind walls so high that the sun itself might be shut away from them? How was it even possible to erect such an edifice?
He passed through the enormous gates into the city. Guards standing on either side of the gates watched him pass without much interest. Foolish, to let a stranger wander unchallenged past your perimeter.
The wide avenue just beyond the gate was lined with stalls from which merchants hawked magical charms, weapons, food, and anything and everything imaginable. Whores stood on the corners or leaned out from balconies high on the tall stone buildings that lined the street. Beggars cowered in the gutters, holding out bowls for coin in helpless dependence upon the generosity of passing strangers.
Varuk wandered through the packed crowd. He stood head and shoulders taller than most everyone else. People nearby drew back from him, in mixed awe and fear of the half-naked savage in their midst.
Around a corner far up the street came a curtained palanquin, carried on the shoulders of four muscular slaves. Four heavily armed foot soldiers marched along behind, bristling with weapons: swords swinging at their hips, pikes resting on their shoulders, daggers sheathed in braces upon their forearms.
It was a very fine palanquin, with royal purple siding, gold trim on every edge, and a curious flag flying above it. A pair of eyes peering out from the shadowed window was all that was visible of the occupant of the palanquin.
Varuk became aware of the palanquin when people around him began stopping to point up the street and whisper among themselves.
As if on some prearranged signal, everyone fell to the ground, prostrating themselves, their arms outstretched toward the palanquin, which drew ever closer to Varuk's position. Varuk himself remained standing, a lone, defiant figure.
The palanquin came abreast of him and stopped. The eyes in the shadowed window stared straight at him.
From within, a haughty female voice said, "Captain Scapius, why is that man not kneeling before Us? Who is he?"
One of the heavily armed foot soldiers growled as he drew his sword. This, apparently, was Scapius. "He's a dead man, Highness," said Scapius. "That's who he is."
A delicate hand with sharp, lacquered nails appeared on the gold-trimmed rim of the palanquin door. "Hold, Captain."
The palanquin was lowered to the ground. The slaves knelt beside its poles with bowed heads, ready to lift it again at a moment's notice.
The door opened and a stunningly beautiful young woman emerged from the palanquin. She was dressed in a very revealing yet somehow regal outfit. Her generous bosom gleamed alabaster white in the morning sunlight. Her beauty was stunning; her magnificent body beckoned to Varuk almost as had these unknown southern lands, begging to be explored. She stood with a hand on the palanquin door, gazing haughtily at Varuk, who met her gaze without intimidation. Everyone else around him was still prostrate against the ground, their faces hidden.
The young woman moved closer to Varuk. "Why do you not kneel before Us? These others around you would lose their heads for such insolence."
He sneered at her. "I bend knee to no one. Especially a woman." He stepped forward and smiled. He put a hand under the woman's chin and lifted her face, examining her appreciatively. "Though one as beautiful as you might almost deserve such homage."
Scapius leapt forward, moving his sword into striking position. "Dog! You dare to touch the Crystal Rose?"
Varuk drew his own sword. Their two blades meet with a resounding CLANG!
The woman calmly stepped between them, laying a hand on Scapius's chest. "Stand down, Captain Scapius."
She walked slowly around Varuk, looking him over, as if examining merchandise. "This barbarian fascinates Us," she said. She whirled to face Captain Scapius, planting her hands decisively on her hips. "From now on, he will attend Us constantly, so that We might... observe him further."
Scapius scowled. "But... Lord Cadon will not allow such a beast at his table. It would dishonor him. As it would dishonor you."
The woman raised her nose haughtily. "Mind your glib tongue, Scapius. We are the Princess Sayaka. Only We have the right to say what dishonors Us. But since Cadon would undoubtedly take offense at Our new friend's presence, We shall have to cancel Our evening dinner with Cadon. You shall send Our regrets, Captain."
Sayaka stood at the door of her palanquin. She smiled seductively and held out a hand to Varuk, who returned her smile. Behind them, Scapius glowered with ill-concealed displeasure.
"Would you attend me, friend?" Sayaka asked Varuk, with a wink that seemed to add double meaning to her words.
"It would give me great pleasure indeed to... attend you," he responded.
She turned, and he watched her narrow hips sway delightfully as she climbed the steps into the darkness of the palanquin. Then he followed her inside and shut the door behind him.
\*\*\*\*\*\*
As it turned out, despite Scapius's misgivings, Lord Cadon grudgingly allowed Varuk to dine with the nobility. Thus it was that later, in the evening, Varuk found himself seated beside Sayaka at a very elegant polished table in the center of a cavernous dining room with arched, stained glass windows, attended upon by many servants.
Guests lined the long table, noblemen and women all, wearing the finest clothing in the current fashion that money could buy. A rich spread of food was laid out on the tabletop. Everyone ate with dainty little bites using silverware, but Varuk tore into a haunch of meat with his bare hands and stuffed it into his mouth, without concern for manners. Sayaka, to Varuk's left, smiled indulgently at him.
She had proven herself to be an interesting companion throughout most of the day. He had accompanied her as she shared tea with a small old woman in a large house in the countryside. He had accompanied her to a theater, which was a grand building in which a group of men and women had pretended to be people they were not. Finally, he had accompanied her back to the palace, a sprawling edifice of stone and marble on a high hill at the city's center, where he had stood outside a door as she bathed within. Yes, an interesting companion indeed, full of promise.
At the head of the table sat a lady who looked a bit like Sayaka. In fact it was Sayaka's younger sister, Sarela. She watched Varuk with open disapproval. "Your guest is quite... interesting, sister. Honestly, sometimes I feel as if I don't really know you."
Sayaka turned her attention away from Varuk and onto Sarela. "You don't know me. It's such a pity, too. If only father had allowed you to live with us in the Royal Palace at Zendra, we might be better acquainted today."
A skinny servant with the features of a dimwit was in the process of refilling Sarela's wine. He slopped some on her hand and she glared at him. "Strap, you clumsy oaf!"
Varuk narrowed his eyes at Sarela as he gnawed on his haunch of meat.
As if the whole incident with Strap had not occurred, Sarela beamed at Sayaka. Strap stood in the background, once again waiting to serve. "Speaking of Zendra, when will you be returning? Your visit here has been most enjoyable, but I can only imagine how homesick you must be."
"My heart does yearn for home," Sayaka said, "but I've heard that brigands are waylaying travelers south of the city. I fear such folk would even dare attack a royal wagon, and my small Bodyguard, though capable, might not withstand such brutes. Thus, I fear I must wait until that threat has abated somewhat, before I return home."
A servant, a man of rough appearance, reached toward Sayaka with a sharp steak knife. She didn't appear to see the servant and the approaching knife as she said, "Fortunately I have the safety of your palace walls to protect me during my stay here in the north, little sister."
Varuk reached out and seized the servant, taking the knife from the man's hand.
The servant cringed. "Please, sir. I only meant to cut her Highness's... steak."
Sayaka pushed her plate toward Varuk. "Thank you," she told the servant haughtily, "but We think Our companion better suited to that task."
Sarela watched as Varuk clumsily began slicing up the steak on Sayaka's plate. "Amusing," she said, smirking. "Does it... does he... even know how to use eating utensils?" She gestured imperiously at Varuk. "You. Barbarian. What did you say your name was?"
He glowered at her as he sliced. "My name is Ko Yingh Varuk," he told her through gritted teeth. "Son of Martok Yingh Ko, of the Clan Yingh Mordra."
Sarela clapped her hands and smiled. "Marvelous. Well, you are certainly amusing to watch. Perhaps if you accompany my sister to Zendra, our father will make you court jester."
Strap, the servant, once again slopped a bit of wine onto a noble as he poured. The noble, enraged, shoved Strap backward, causing Strap to drop his pitcher. It shattered on the floor.
"Bungling imbecile!" the noble shouted at him.
Varuk leapt up and pointed his steak knife one by one at each man and woman seated around the table. "The next person who insults or lays a hand on that man," he gestured at Strap, "gets this blade in their heart."
Sayaka took a sip from her wine glass to mask her grin.
Sarela leapt up in rage, leaning forward with her palms planted on the table, glaring at Sayaka. "Sayaka! How dare your guest threaten members of my court! I demand an apology!"
Sayaka raised her nose in disdain. "Does one apologize when one's horse defecates? Does one apologize when a stable boy breaks wind?"
"Very well then! If that is your attitude, I do not dine in the company of horses and stable boys." She nodded to the man seated beside her: Lord Cadon. "Please excuse me, husband." She whirled and stalked from the room.
Sayaka giggled with amusement, ignoring Cadon's glare. She leaned against Varuk companionably as the nobility chewed their food with great concentration, desperately trying to pretend nothing was amiss.
\*\*\*\*\*\*
Varuk was given a guest room in the palace. It was very ornate, with marble columns and an immense bed, softer than anything he had ever slept in. Artwork depicting the history of the realm hung on the walls. Everything had gilded edges hanging tassels.
Varuk held a statue in his hands, examining it curiously. It was the likeness of a prissy man with a weak chin, a hooked nose and skinny arms. Such a man wouldn't have survived long in the north. Yet here, apparently, he was a great enough man that he had been deemed worthy of being carved into stone.
He threw the statue against the wall. It shattered into half a dozen large pieces.
Staying too long in a room such as this would make a man weak. If these were the typical quarters of the southern leaders, then the southern leaders were weak and should be removed from power.
There was a knock at the door.
Varuk drew his sword and opened the door.
Scapius stood in the hallway outside. He held a bag of gold coins toward Varuk.
"I'll not waste pleasantries on you, barbarian," Scapius said gruffly. "If you leave immediately, you may take this gold. It's enough to see you comfortably for at least a year."
Varuk took the bag and opened it. He examined the coins inside. "Discs of metal? What am I to do with these?"
Scapius sneered. "It's money, fool. Don't they have money in the northern wastes? What do you use to barter with? Goats, perhaps? Cow chips?"
Varuk returned the bag to Scapius. "This metal has no value to me. I value the company of the princess. I will not leave."
Scapius sneered again. "What do you hope to gain by staying? The Princess's bed? She would be more likely to couple with a stable boy than with you. You don't belong here, barbarian. Take the gold."
Varuk raised his sword and pressed it to Scapius's throat. "I suggest you leave me now. My sword has not tasted blood in more than two days. It thirsts."
Scapius turned to leave, pointing a finger at Varuk and scowling. "Mark my words, barbarian. You will come to regret not having accepted my most generous offer."
\*\*\*\*\*\*
Varuk lay on his side in the disgustingly soft bed. The oil lamps were dim. It was near midnight. His eyes were closed and his chest rose and fell in a slow rhythm.
Eyes hovered in the shadows near the headboard. Varuk's eyes fluttered open. He whirled and reached into the darkness, yanking the intruder forth from the shadows.
It was Sayaka. She was naked save for a golden bra that cupped her succulent breasts and a wisp of silky red fabric draping her loins.
Varuk pulled her down onto the bed. She wrapped her arms around his neck, tilted her lips expectantly up toward his.
"Why have you come here?" he asked.
"Why do you think?" she said breathily. She released the clasp of her bra and slipped the fabric from her loins.
He had his way with her. Afterward, they rested, naked limbs entangled.
"Why, Sayaka?" he asked her.
"Why what?"
"Why do you allow yourself to be so used by one you consider inferior?"
She snuggled closer against him and ran her finger along his chest. "I need an ally in the city, someone I can trust, who I know is not conspiring against me," she explained. "It's been some time since I felt I could trust my Bodyguard. The day I met you, I believe Scapius was taking me to be assassinated at the theater."
He cocked his head. "Yet you willingly went with him?"
Her face filled with helplessness, or anxiety, or sorrow. Varuk was too unfamiliar with such emotions of weakness to know for sure. "I had to," she said. "Due to pressures you couldn't understand. Imperial etiquette would not let me refuse to visit whom Lord Cadon had arranged for me to visit. My meeting you has thrown things out of balance. Carefully laid schemes are being reworked even as we speak."
She sat up on the edge of the bed, pulling a gown around herself.
Behind her, still lying down, Varuk watched her. "Why would Scapius betray you?" he asked.
"Because my sister told him to," she said. "He's having a secret affair with her. Since she is one step below me in the family line, if I were to be quietly assassinated she would assume my rank in the court. Now, by letting you into my bed, I have given you reason to protect me."
Varuk smirked. "But perhaps I am the assassin Scapius was bringing you to meet."
Sayaka laughed. "My sister prefers the direct approach. Her lack of subtleness in courtly intrigue is one of the reasons she couldn't hold her place at court in Zendra. It's why she's exiled here in the north, in her husband's city, Tolmanaria. Scapius and my sister could not be so brilliant as to hire you as assassin."

"How would hiring me be brilliant?"

She stood and fastened her robe, preparing to leave. "Having you assassinate me would have given my father a legitimate reason to invade---"
Varuk reached out and yanked Sayaka back down onto the bed. He reached to undo her robe. "Enough talk. I wish to invade you again, and I don't need to kill someone to justify it."
He pulled her close and ground his lips into hers. He closed his eyes as he devoured her with his mouth. Lost in the pleasure of her skin against his, he failed to hear the intruders until they had surrounded the bed.
His eyes flew open in alarm. Three men, led by Scapius, had surrounded the bed. Varuk reeled backward in stunned surprise, scrabbling for his sword, as Sayaka was ripped from his embrace. Scapius yanked her up toward himself, impaling her on his sword. He grinned widely as he did so.
One of the soldiers kicked Varuk's sword out of reach of his seeking hand.
Denied his weapon, Varuk took the only course of action available to him. He leapt out of bed, lashing out with bare fists at one of the soldiers, sending him reeling backward.
Scapius stood back, holding Sayaka's limp and bloodied body in his arms. "Take him alive!" he commanded. "We can use him!"
The other two soldiers came barreling at Varuk from both sides, taking him down onto the bed. A gauntleted fist pounded into the side of Varuk's head.
Blackness.
\*\*\*\*\*\*
Varuk languished in a dark, dank dungeon cell. He could hear rats squeaking in the darkness. When they skittered near, he batted them away.
Nearby, in the dungeon's guardroom, two guards sat at a table, playing cards.
Strap, the servant, entered the room, carrying a tray with a loaf of bread and a glass of water. "Food for the prisoner, m'lords," he said, ducking his head obsequiously.
"Well, hurry about your business and be gone," one of the guards said. "You smell even worse than the dungeons, and I can barely tolerate the odor down here as it is."
Varuk heard feet on the stone floor outside his cell. A rectangular grate in the middle of the cell door slid aside, and a tray was shoved through.
"I know you didn't kill the Crystal Rose," a voice whispered through the grate. "There are two guards in the room at the end of the hall. They're preoccupied right now. As a favor to me, please try not to kill them. I don't want blood on my hands."
Varuk went to the tray. He lifted a loaf of bread, revealing a rusty key lying on the tray beneath, along with three gold coins. He tucked the coins behind his belt and took the key to the door.
Reaching his hand through the rectangular opening, he managed to unlock the cell door. He opened it and slipped into the dimly lit hallway beyond. His mysterious benefactor had left as quickly as he had come. He peered up the hallway at the rectangle of light coming from the guardroom.
Varuk crept up the hallway and peered cautiously into the guardroom. The two guards were still playing cards, their backs to him.
He sneaked into the room and quietly retrieved his sword from a rack along the wall. Drawing his sword, he turned to face the guards. They had heard the sound of his sword sliding from its sheath. They rose, drawing their own swords as they faced Varuk.
Surprise was on his side. In one swift move, he clubbed the heads of both guards with the hilt of his sword rather than the blade. The guards fell to the ground, unconscious. Varuk towered over them, sword in hand, looking down at them. "Never has my sword been used in such an unnatural manner," he told them. "The blade hungers for your flesh. But today I must deny it at the request of my benefactor, and for that I curse you."
\*\*\*\*\*\*
Elsewhere in the palace, Scapius stood before an open, circular hearth at the center of a cold, stony room. A huge fire blazed in the hearth. A gnarled old witch-hag stood to the side of the fire, her eyes closed, her arms extended to the fire, as if she were working some sort of magic at the fire.
Scapius looked at the fire, speaking to it. "I have terrible news, Holy One," he said. "The Crystal Rose has been slain."
On the other side of the fire and a thousand miles away, a powerful, regal man stood gazing into the flames. He was the Holy Emperor of the Everlasting Empire. A witch-hag, who might have been the twin of the other, stood to the side, eyes closed, working magic. The fire was formed into a likeness of Scapius.
"By whose hand?" asked the Holy Emperor.
"A barbarian from the northlands," Scapius reported. "She let him into her sister's palace as a guest. He repaid her hospitality by brutally murdering her and raping her corpse. And... he has managed to elude our justice."
The Emperor bowed his head in sorrow. Then he drew erect, his face filling with wrath. "I shall hold off the invasion no longer. Send the troops over the mountains. Secure the northlands for expansion. And... wipe out the clan of he who has slain the Crystal Rose. Plaster his likeness across all the lands. Captain Scapius: you will see that he is brought before me... or you will die trying."
The fiery image of Scapius nodded and bowed. "Most Holy, thy will shall be done."
\*\*\*\*\*\*
Somewhere out in the crowded city, Varuk pressed his back up against a brick wall in the shadows of an alley. On the street immediately beyond the alley, a soldier nailed a large strip of paper onto a wooden post. The paper bore a likeness of Varuk. At the top in bold letters: "WANTED." At the bottom: "DEAD OR ALIVE 10,000 crowns."
He was Varuk. Barbarian. Fugitive.
Varuk, the Maiden and the Demon
The bar was situated at the northern edge of dok Shibar, a town twenty miles south of Tolmania, which Varuk had recently fled following accusations that he'd murdered Princess Sayaka, the Crystal Rose. The air inside the bar was dense and clammy, filled with smoke and the chatter of the bar's many patrons. The beams that held the roof were worn and weak. The roof itself sagged with age, for the bar was old. It had been in business since the reign of King Renault, nearly two hundred years before the rise to power of the present Holy Emperor, Wulonar.
Varuk had learned much of the history of this region since he had crossed the Great Mountains, two weeks earlier. He had learned enough to know that much remained to be learned. Unlike the clans where he had grown up, southern history was complex.
In the many years that the bar had served the people of dok Shibar, it had become the most popular in the city. There were many reasons for its popularity: the best whores hung out there; it was the main headquarters for the black market of dok Shibar; and last, certainly the least: it served the tastiest mug of beer in the city. But, while the bar was the most popular among the people of the city, the law enforcers of dok Shibar frowned it upon, because murderers, cutthroats, and other seedy types often sought refuge in its dark corners.
The bar was named, ironically, "The Angel's Halo."
Ko Ying Varuk opened the heavy oak door of the bar and inside. A cacophony of noise, smoke and putrid smells assaulted his senses. Full-bodied whores immediately surrounded his masculine form, each vying to be the one to serve the ruggedly handsome young stranger. He reluctantly shrugged them off and made his way to a table in a secluded, dark corner. The nubile wenches pouted after him for several moments and then moved on to other potential customers drifting in from the street.
Varuk had just eluded the law of dok Shibar after a particularly tiring pursuit through the city. One of them had recognized his face on the posters that had gone up around the city, and had raised the alarm. He'd come into the Angel's Halo to rest for a while. Apparently he had overstayed his welcome in dok Shibar. He would hide out in the bar for a while and then move on to new adventures in another place.
The owner of the bar, a big man named Dylan Numidon, came over and stood in front of Varuk's table. "What will you have?" he asked.
"A tall mug of your best beer," Varuk replied, his voice soft but commanding. He had been trying to speak in the accent these southerners used, without much success.
Dylan nodded and left. Varuk looked after the man for a moment, then unhooked his sword from his belt and laid it on the table, the sheath loose and unbuttoned.
Soon Dylan returned with the beer, setting it down on the table before Varuk, next to his sword. Dylan glared at the sword with distaste. Varuk flipped a coin into the air. Dylan snatched it up and left. Picking up the drink, Varuk took a long swig then set it back onto the table and looked into it. The dark purple liquid reflected his handsome face. He studied his black hair and his deep blue eyes, then the rest of his face: fine, pointed nose; thin, dark red lips; and the scar that ran from his right ear all the way to the corner of his lip. He had received that in a battle with the Munghs, not so long ago.
"Excuse me, sir." Ah, Varuk liked the sound of that voice! He looked up.
And he definitely liked the body and face to which it belonged!
A slender, voluptuous young lady stood across the table from him. Her hair was light blond, her lips full and deeply crimson, with a slight pout that could bend even the hardest of hearts. The leather outfit she almost wore left her shapely arms and legs bare, and revealed a generous amount of cleavage. And those eyes, deep blue and piercing, so full of innocence! That innocence, conspiring with the tanned, luscious flesh, ripped Varuk's heart out, and ignited a hellish fire in his loins.
"What can I do for you?" he asked her, betraying no sign of his inner cravings.
"May I seat myself, sir?" she asked, her soft and lilting voice like music in his ears.
He gestured to the seat across from him, pushing it out with his foot. She settled herself onto it, and blushed under his bold gaze. Varuk estimated her to be around twenty years old. She was so soft, but he sensed an inner strength in her, which only added to her attraction.
"So?" he asked.
"I'll get right to the point," she said. "My fiance, Raol Lumi, has been kidnapped by a sorcerer who lives outside the city. I want you to rescue him for me."
Varuk smiled slightly. "What's in it for me?"
"Raol is the Record Keeper of dok Shibar. I saw you being chased today, and I've seen your likeness on the posters that have appeared around the city. Whatever it is you did, he could have the posters taken down and destroy the local records of your crimes. You would then be free to come and go as you like. In dok Shibar, at least."
Varuk winced. He had committed no crime. It was not he who had murdered the lovely Sayaka. But still, public records of his 'crime' were an inconvenience, regardless of his guilt or innocence. If they were destroyed... "That's it?"
She sighed. "I'm sorry, but that's all I can offer. My family is not rich, and cannot afford to pay you an amount worth mentioning."
Varuk let his eyes roam her tender form. "You have something else more valuable that money," he said.
She gave him a shy smile. "You would rescue Raol for a night of passion with me?"
"That, and your first offer," he said. He reached out and touched her silky hair. "I would go to the Underworld and back for a night with you."
She gently pulled herself out of his reach. "But only after you rescue Raol."
"Very well. This sorcerer lives outside the city, you say? I shall leave late tonight."
She smiled, and then, clearly having to force herself, she briefly caressed his leg beneath the table to show her good faith. "What shall I call you, sir?"
"Ko Ying Varuk. And you?"
"I am Yannah." She looked into his eyes for a moment, then down at her hands.
Varuk leaned back and crossed his arms on his massive chest, studying her. She was such a gorgeous young lady. A bit timid and aloof, but extremely attractive. He would enjoy bedding her. He had only experienced one other since his night with Ana Yingh Shaya: the delectable Sayaka. He longed to experience more.
\*\*\*\*\*
Varuk took a room at an inn near the Angel's Halo and rested for the remainder of the afternoon. He took stock of his coin: of the three gold crowns given to him by his mysterious benefactor in Tolmania, only one remained. These bits of metal were more important to the southerners than he had first realized. To provide for his needs, he would soon need to obtain more.
But first, Yannah and her sorcerer must be dealt with.
Shortly after midnight he arose and left for the manse of the sorcerer who'd kidnapped Raol. During the five-mile walk through the dark, moonless night, Varuk occupied himself with thoughts of the wild time he would shortly have with Yannah. He silently thanked the gods that the night was cold as well as dark, for the chill kept the lust from overwhelming him. He would need a clear head to steal Raol from the sorcerer.
Finally he saw a light in the center of a large field. Right where Yannah had told him the sorcerer's dwelling lay. He slowed his step and kept the sparse bushes between himself and the sorcerer's abode. As he drew close he concealed himself behind a large, lone oak tree. He was surprised to see that the sorcerer's home was a simple, small cottage made of brick and logs. The bricks were cracked and chipped, and the logs were rotting, covered with moss. Soft yellow light spilled through the three windows and seeped around the edges of the warped door. By this light, Varuk saw that the crops in the fields surrounding the house were ill tended, and the farming equipment scattered around the yard looked very old and worn out.
Not the house Varuk had expected for a sorcerer, based on what he had thus far learned of southerner ways. Surely someone who could work magic would not live in such obvious poverty. And crops? Farming equipment? This was no sorcerer's house. It was the house of a poor farmer.
But this was the location Yannah had described to him. There could be no mistake.
Sorcery! Such an illusion! Perhaps he actually stood the gates of an enormous, foreboding castle.
Several yards from the house stood a small, dilapidated shack. A small ribbon of water, ten feet across, surrounded it---a moat, apparently. The door was secured with a rusted iron padlock. An assortment of charms, large and small, was hung on the walls and the roof.
Varuk studied the shack for several long moments, perplexed as to its purpose. Surely it was not an outhouse or storage shed. His impression was that it was some type of prison. But what a crude, ineffective prison it must be! The shack seemed at odds with the illusion of a poverty-stricken farm. Why had the sorcerer integrated it into the illusion? It spoiled the desired effect.
The incongruity of the shack made Varuk think that perhaps this farm was no illusion; the sorcerer really did live in such decay and filth. Which meant this sorcerer was mightily secure in his power, and deviously cunning. Or it meant that the sorcerer was so weak he didn't command enough power to house himself in a more hospitable place.
Whichever was the case, the strange shack must be the place where Raol Lumi was sequestered.
Varuk cautiously crept forward, keeping to the shadows cast by the light from the house. He stopped at the edge of the pitiful moat and stood looking down at the water. It was utterly calm, a perfect, silvery mirror reflecting Varuk and the shack.
Did the water conceal a trap? Varuk wondered. What magicks guarded the shack? How to proceed?
Varuk lithely leapt across the water, the wind of his passage sending waves across the calm surface. His sword smashed against the padlock, shattering it---he preferred the direct approach. There was no other way when dealing with magic.
But apparently no magicks guarded the shack. The water in the moat returned to its calm state, and the lock fell from the door and into the water with a heavy PLOP. Varuk suffered no apparent ill consequences of his actions.
Before opening the door he studied the charms draping it. He recognized most of them as talismans to block the passage of evil spirits. But in this case were they meant to keep evil out of the shack, or trapped within? Raol Lumi, trapped within, was not an evil spirit, nor was Varuk. So why the charms?
This was a most perplexing sorcerer, Varuk thought to himself. With a brush of his sword he swept the charms from the doorway. Then he opened the door and peered inside.
A candle that had nearly burned itself down stood upon a narrow bench, casting a wan, flickering light in the room. And shackled to the wall of the small shack was a tall, muscular man with unkempt hair and a wild look in his flame red eyes. Better looking than Varuk himself, that one noted with some chagrin. How would the man react when he learned the price Yannah had agreed to pay for his rescue? Varuk shrugged. It didn't matter. "Raol Lumi?" Varuk asked softly.
The man nodded, looking up at Varuk with those disturbing, wild eyes.
Varuk felt uneasy under that gaze. Something about the man didn't seem quite right.
Varuk struck off the chain binding the man to the wall. The man stood up and stretched langorously. The silver shackles on his wrists rattled loudly. Then he snarled gleefully, and faster than Varuk's eyes could follow, he darted past Varuk, leapt through the door and disappeared into the night.
Varuk turned in belated startlement and looked out the door. It had only been a few seconds, but already Raol had made it across the field and into the forest. How could any man move so swiftly?
Suddenly Varuk leapt out the door and whirled, bringing his sword up until its sharp point rested against the neck of a man, pinning him against the wall of the shack. The man pressed himself flat against the wall, trying to draw away from the sword. Varuk only pressed harder, showing his willingness to slit the man's throat, without hesitation. Never give a sorcerer even the slightest chance. So why did Varuk hesitate now? he wondered.
It was because the man didn't look like a sorcerer, Varuk realized. The man was relatively young, perhaps in his early forties. And he had a kind, open face, one not twisted by the working of magic.
"Do you intend to kill me?" the man asked.
"You're no sorcerer," Varuk said. He had begun to realize that he'd somehow been duped.
"No, I'm a farmer."
Varuk lowered his sword.
"Why did you let him go?" the man said tersely, rubbing the small stream of blood trickling down his neck where Varuk's sword had pricked him. "Do you realize what you've done?"
"A girl named Yannah told me the man was her fiancé, and you were a sorcerer who'd kidnapped him."
The man shook his head. "Yannah is my daughter. That 'man' has bewitched her: she'll tell any lie, or do nearly anything, to get him back. He's a slurteen, an evil spirit cloaked in flesh."
Varuk cocked his head; he'd never heard of a slurteen.
"Barbarian," the man muttered upon seeing Varuk's blank look. Then: "They are demons that take human form to beguile virgin women. Drive them to commit various crimes, small and large. Eventually they deflower their victim and kill her immediately after." The man shook his head. "This one managed to bewitch my daughter while I was at the market in Remikxia. I returned and found Yannah in our house, dining with a strange young man. I recognized him for what he was. But feigning ignorance, I managed to catch him off guard and drugged his wine with ratwort. The amount I used would have killed ten human men, but it merely sedated the slurteen. Fending off my daughter, who was enraged by what I'd done, I dragged the man to this shack and shackled him with silver manacles, for silver weakens slurteens."
As they talked, the man had led Varuk to the house. They went inside, into the light. The man offered Varuk a glass of juice as he continued, "I'm no sorcerer, but I've dabbled lightly in the art magic. I know many charms and herbs. So I constructed charms and placed them on the shack, to keep the slurteen trapped within. I then had my brother take Yannah to dok Shibar for safe keeping, until I could determine what to do. She was in a terrible state, cursing and lashing out, determined to get to the slurteen. This was yesterday." He looked up at Varuk. "Apparently she has escaped my brother."
"Why didn't you just kill it before it awakened?" Varuk asked as he drank the sweet nectar.
"Because he'd bewitched my daughter!" the man shouted. "Once a slurteen has a virgin in his power, a supernatural bond is formed. Killing him will kill her as well. To break his power over her, she must be deflowered before he gets to her. Due to the nature of the spell, she cannot be forced; her deflowering must happen with her consent. But she now desires only the slurteen."
So, Varuk thought. She had no intention of fulfilling her promise to me.
The farmer took a heavy gulp of his juice, and a sob, quickly suppressed, shook his body. "Forgive me. I love Yannah dearly. She is the sweetest girl, and talking about her this way sickens me." He sighed. "But it must be done, or she'll be dead within the week." He looked at Varuk. "Do you know, you look remarkably like the slurteen? In the dark, you could probably pass for him."
\*\*\*\*\*
Varuk jogged swiftly through the dark night, back to dok Shibar. Irritation sat in his gut like spoiled milk. Yannah's father had made it seem that losing her virginity to Varuk was the most hideous thing imaginable. "But it must be done, otherwise she is lost," he'd said, as though he were making a great personal sacrifice by consenting to Varuk's ravishment of her. But of the few women Varuk had ravished thus far, none had found the experience repulsive. Besides, he'd fulfilled his part of the bargain, made with a woman who had deceived him and had had no intention of keeping her end of it. It didn't matter that she was bewitched. She owed him and he meant to collect, and to thoroughly enjoy himself in so doing.
It also satisfied Varuk's sense of honor that he was working for a good cause. That he would enjoy the favors of a beautiful woman as a necessary task in the fulfillment of that cause made it even more satisfying.
Varuk increased his pace to a light run. He counted time by the sword slapping against his thigh. Time was of the essence. The slurteen would have begun searching for Yannah immediately after its release. It would be drawn to her like a moth to a flame. But, according to her father, the silver shackles that bound the slurteen's wrists would weaken it, confusing its senses and thus slowing it down. Hopefully Varuk would be able to find Yannah and deflower her, thus breaking the slurteen's power before it found her.
As he ran he wondered whether he could fool Yannah long to bed her. Even if he did somewhat resemble the slurteen and kept the candlelight low to enhance the illusion, wouldn't she be able to sense that he wasn't the slurteen? Surely she would, if her father hadn't exaggerated the strength of the bond between her and the demon. An uncharacteristic apprehension ate at him as he ran.
As it turned out, he needn't have worried.
He passed through the outskirts of the town and entered into the narrow, winding alleyways of dok Shibar. The night was quiet; the only sound he heard was a creaking made by the wooden walkways which spanned the dirty stone buildings above ground level as they swayed in the light wind whistling through the city.
At the end of a street, as he drew near to the inn where he had arranged to meet Yannah after he had rescued Raol, a chill raced up his spine. Shadows seemed to race past him and he imagined he heard a loud roaring wind. He whirled and looked behind him, bracing himself for an attack. But none came, and as he blinked the shadows were only shadows again, and the night was silent. He attributed the incident to imagination and continued until he reached Yannah's door.
As he raised his fist to knock, the door was flung open. Soft arms reached out and led him inside. Yannah stood magnificently nude, the dim, flickering light of an oil lamp painting her skin golden. Varuk smiled, doing his best to imitate the feral smile that the slurteen had given him. A shadow crept through the doorway just as he was shutting it, but Varuk failed to notice. Yannah had reached past the waistband of his leather trousers. Her gentle caress transfixed him with lust. He quickly removed his clothing and pushed her insistently backward to the bed.
As he lay her down, positioning himself, listening to her lusty encouragements, it suddenly occurred to him that perhaps she was responding to him so passionately because the slurteen was very close and that nearness had enflamed her. He looked up warily, cursing his foolishness. His eyes widened. The shadows near the door drew together and slowly coalesced, first taking on the vague shape of a man, then clarifying into the handsome, devilish features of the slurteen.
Bloodlust and the need to defend himself almost deflated his desire for Yannah. But her expert fingers wouldn't allow that. Which saved his life.
As the slurteen gave a rageful howl and rushed toward the bed, its fingers elongating into razor-sharp talons, Yannah made union with Varuk. As she did so, she heard the enraged scream and took her eyes off Varuk. For half a second she saw the slurteen rushing at her and her heart filled with desire for it and she almost threw Varuk off her in rage. But the slurteen vanished almost as soon as she saw it, its substance dispelled back to the netherworld from whence it had come, and she quickly forgot about it as she felt the satisfying weight of Varuk above her. She gave herself over to him.
Near midday Yannah fell asleep in his arms. Varuk roused himself and pulled on his cloak and his loincloth. He bent over and kissed her on the forehead. She had been as incredible as he had anticipated, and more. He strapped on his sword and quietly left the room and dok Shibar. He stopped by her father's farm briefly to tell him that Yannah was free from the slurteen and would shortly return home.
Then he set off up the road, and as the farm faded into the distance behind him, he wondered what adventures awaited him in the days to come.
Books by Scott Reeves:
Billy Barnaby's Twisted Christmas
Phantoms of the Mind: Short Stories
The Bone Boy and Other Stories
The Miracle Brigade: Episode One
The Chronicles of Varuk: Book One
A Crackpot's Notebook, Volume One
Liberal vs. Conservative: A Novella
Graphic Novels:

