The Chronicles of Caylen-Tor

by Byron A. Roberts

  “I have assented to this ritual only to honour your tribal traditions,” growled Caylen. “I was a king once before, and although my tenure as monarch of my clans ultimately served a greater purpose, I am less than eager to take up the burden of a crown again.”

  “And yet Akamai’s prophecy may well be fulfilled by your enthronement here.”

  “Bah!” fleered Caylen. “Such tales are fine for telling around the hearth-fires on dark nights, but I place scant little faith in the cryptic auguries of seers and soothsayers. Although having said that, I do believe that I was guided here by my gods to face the Serpent King.”

  Nalani emitted a sullen sigh. “Why would your gods guide you here simply to die?”

  “We shall see, lass,” grumbled Caylen. “I’ve carved my own bloody path through life thus far. I can but hope that my journey has not yet reached its end.”

  “If we survive, you realize that the king must take a consort?” offered Nalani with a coy smile. “It is our tradition that he has a woman to share his bed.”

  Caylen’s brow arched. “I’m sure it is. Although I’m not sure how my wife would feel about that.”

  “Your wife is not here,” scowled Nalani. “She will not know.”

  “Oh, she’ll know,” muttered Caylen with a mirthless grin. “She has the witch-sight for such things!”

  * * *

  Caylen gazed tensely about the great, lithic cavern to which Akamai and the tribal procession had led him. Hewn into the very heart of the vast black mountain, the sweltering cave was illuminated by a myriad rivulets of searing magma which oozed and seeped sluggishly from the vesicular walls, imbuing the spacious grotto with a disquieting, rutilant radiance. At the centre of the cavern, raised upon a broad, cracked dais, squatted a spicate throne carved of darkling obsidian. Only Akamai, Nalani and two tribal elders had accompanied Caylen into the torrid, sulphurous depths of the sanctum, the remainder of the villagers waiting at the foot of the rocky slope which led to the mountain’s hidden vault.

  “Here have we anointed our kings for more generations than can be easily reckoned,” proclaimed Akamai as he moved reverentially into the chamber. “The mantle of power awaits thee. Proceed.”

  Caylen warily approached the eldritch throne, watching the writhing shadows which skittered across the blackened surface of the cavern’s jagged walls. Grudgingly and with some trepidation, he slowly assumed his seat. Immediately, he descried a series of elaborate glyphs which had been etched into the atramentous stone above the cavern’s narrow entrance. The strange sigils appeared to be inscribed in the same cuneiform language as those which he had beheld after imbibing Akamai’s malodorous potion. To his surprise, Caylen found that he could presently discern the meaning of the odd pictograms just as easily as he had during his feverous, venom-induced trance. Casting his gaze over the inscriptions, he studied them in grim and ruminative silence…

  “Know, O seeker of forbidden truth, ye who deigns to claim sovereignty within the caverns of the Fire God, that inscribed in the Antediluvian Scrolls was the Sixth Chronicle of Chaos, an ancient and malign tome first committed to crumbling parchment during the final days of the ruinous War of the Lexicon. That baleful and curse-bound grimoire did tell of the nefarious Lord Angsaar, Bane of the Atlantean Kings, Scourge of Lemuria, Arch-foe of the Immortals of Ultima Thule, and how the benighted Chaos Liege engaged his Immortal Nemesis within the sorcerous walls of the monolithic Seventh Temple of the Serpent Kings, a slime-flecked ziggurat now long since given over to the ravening embrace of ice and shadow. Know also that those death-clad titans did wage righteous red war over not only the arcane lore and occult artefacts enshrined within the primeval pyramid, but also over the fate of the perfidious sylphine enchantress who had appointed herself the fell guardian of that most vril-steeped and star-wrought of sites. Queen Tanit Vyperia! The divine Adelinda Coaxoch Ophidia, seventh wife of Amaalphagus, Beguiler of Zurra, Bane of the Grand Arbiter of Temporal Jurisprudence, Sorceress Supreme of Lyonesse, Majestrix of the Praesidium of Ys, former paramour of the Lemurian Emperor, Scourge of Atland and Immortal Consort of the Demon Lord Maalech Xul! Bitter was their struggle and harrowing was their clash, for when the witch-fires of dark sigaldry at last guttered and died about that thrice-riven tomb, the aegis of tyrannic evil had triumphantly cast its maleficent shadow upon the doom-fraught kingdoms of the world...”

  “The fell words of this sanctum were carved by those who first excavated this hoary chamber,” rasped Akamai as he moved to Caylen’s side. “It is said that the lore revealed by the glyphs is ever changing, unique to each king who reclines upon this darksome throne. What did they disclose to you, outlander?”

  “A load of cryptic nonsense,” snapped Caylen. “Let’s get this damned ceremony over with.”

  “As you wish.”

  In response to a gesture from Akamai, an elderly, white-haired tribeswoman approached the throne bearing a crude staff fashioned from human bones and adorned with the mottled feathers of a sacred hawk. Silently, the woman passed the grisly sceptre over Caylen’s head three times in a formalized, ritual motion before beckoning the remaining elder to her side. The wizened, heavily tattooed man nodded and duly ascended the dais in a venerational manner. In his gnarled hands he carried an ornate headdress crafted from a sabre-cat’s skull, decorated with an array of broad and vivid plumes. Murmuring an almost inaudible ceremonial blessing, the man carefully placed the elaborate crown upon Caylen’s head. The elders then turned and strode briskly from the chamber.

  “Is that it?” asked Caylen, nonplussed.

  Akamai nodded. “Our ceremonies are brief, outlander. We have scant need for ostentation and the elaborate rituals of the progenitor tribes.”

  Rising from the throne, Caylen sighed ruefully. “So, I am once more Caylen-Tor, it would seem. As strange as this new kingdom appears to me, mayhap it is not as starkly different as I first surmised. At any rate, I fear that my reign may be a fleeting one.”

  A crooked smile suddenly creased Akamai’s rugose face. “If that is what the Fire God has decreed, then best make it a memorable tenure, yes?”

  Stepping down from the dais, Caylen removed his osseous crown and thrust it into Nalani’s arms, noting the nervous smile which the gesture elicited from the beauteous woman. “My thoughts exactly, old man.”

  “When you have gathered your thoughts, the People of the Black Mountain have assembled to pay tribute,” breathed Akamai, motioning to the cavern’s entrance. “Your glorious destiny awaits, great king.”

  “Oh, I don’t doubt it,” muttered Caylen. “Once again I stand ready to lead men to their deaths against an implacable foe. The burden of kingship evidently does not change, and past deeds cast long shadows. And yet perhaps it is in the very flaws unique to kings that a solution to this dilemma may be found.”

  Suddenly, a tribal warrior rushed desperately into the cavern, his expression grave. “The army of the Serpent King has gathered at the Circle of Flame!”

  Nalani gasped, her eyes wide with fear. “So swiftly has the devil followed us to defile the sanctity of this sacred site! What shall we do?”

  Akamai nodded solemnly, leaning upon his gnarled staff. “As it was foretold, the day of reckoning is at hand. Our people await your command, Caylen-Tor!”

  “We cannot prevail in a pitched battle,” said Caylen grimly. “But I have a plan in mind.”

  “What plan?” asked Nalani, her elfin nose wrinkling in puzzlement. “How will you avoid this clash of tribes?”

  “By communing once more with the snake lord.”

  “Folly! What could you possibly say to him that would serve to avert this impending massacre?”

  Caylen smiled coldly. “I shall appeal to his hubris, for that is a quality which all kings possess in abundance.”

  Chapter VIII

  The Wolf and the Serpent (The Clash of the Kings)

  Sauruuk’s forces had assembled upon the rocky plateau in the shadow of the black mountain, ta
king position at the western perimeter of the Circle of Flame. The Serpent King sat astride his striped, bipedal steed, flanked by his ophidian generals who were perched atop their hulking, reptilian mounts. Well over two hundred serpent warriors and human tribesmen had marched with their fearsome liege-lord and they now waited silently in serried ranks, their martial array of weapons poised for battle.

  Caylen-Tor stood defiantly at the centre of his own tribal army, the mountain of fire at their backs. His tribesmen were armed with long, barbed spears, curved wooden clubs inlaid with the teeth of vanquished beasts, flint daggers, corded slings and slender bows. Many also bore broad oval shields of woven cane covered with animal hides upon which had been emblazoned vivid totemic pictograms. The elder, veteran warriors of the exiguous army were clad in wicker helmets adorned with great crests of vibrant feathers and cloaks woven of multicoloured plumes. Caylen’s lupine gaze remained fixed upon the imperious figure of Sauruuk some two hundred yards distant.

  “Your weapon, my king,” intoned a young tribesman as he proffered the great blade Wolf’s Tooth to his newly crowned monarch.

  Caylen smiled grimly and accepted the ornate sword, admiring its gleaming, rune-etched steel and the engraved knotwork bands which adorned its stout crossguard. “My thanks, lad. This blade has saved my life more times than I can count. Mayhap it will do so again today.” With that, he buckled the belt and scabbard about his waist. “And my axe,” growled Caylen, turning to another retainer who waited anxiously in the ranks. The tribesman duly presented to Caylen the great wolf-axe, its curved blade glinting balefully in the morning sunlight. An exultant grin spread across the clansman’s face as he hefted the fearsome, long-hafted weapon. “Now, I am ready to address the Serpent King.”

  Nalani appeared suddenly at Caylen’s side bearing a black palm-wood bow strung with a braided cord of plant fibre. Across her shoulder she carried a rawhide quiver of arrows, all of which sported cruelly barbed wooden points. “Words will not avail us this day,” she hissed. “It is a waste of time.”

  Caylen brushed a lock of raven hair from the woman’s eyes. “Just be ready, lass. And if I fail, make sure your aim is true with that bow.”

  Nalani frowned, her violet gaze downcast.

  Grim of visage, Caylen turned to the assembled tribesmen. “Today, I am proud to stand with you, warriors of the Black Mountain. I hereby vow that I shall strive to avert bloodshed. But if it comes to a clash, begin with volleys of arrows and then spears. When the devils are close enough that you can see the hatred in their eyes, meet them with blade and club. And above all, die with honour.” And without another word, he turned on his heel and strode towards the waiting horde of Sauruuk.

  “You are a fool, Caylen-Tor,” whispered Nalani forlornly.

  Caylen vaulted over the great rutilant trench and halted at the very centre of the rocky, circular arena. Slowly, he surveyed the direful war-hird ranged against him before levelling his unflinching gaze at the Serpent King and smiling icily.

  “We meet again, human,” rasped Sauruuk, his forked tongue flickering in vexation. “You escaped my clutches once. You will not do so again.”

  Caylen’s grey eyes narrowed malevolently. “Escape is not my plan. I mean to end you this day.”

  “Ha!” roared Sauruuk, his echinate skull-crest brightening with ire. “Do you aspire to pit this tribal rabble against my horde? I shall butcher every last one of these mewling primitives!”

  Ignoring Sauruuk’s threat, Caylen addressed the human tribesmen in the enemy ranks directly, his voice deep and resonant. “Men of the old tribes! I am Caylen-Tor, the Wolf of the North! Hearken to me, sons of the Black Mountain, the Red River, the Crystal Caverns and the Sky Tree! Today I offer you freedom! Today I offer to liberate you from the tyranny of your cruel serpent masters!”

  Low murmurs arose amongst the warriors within Sauruuk’s ranks, although no man present made so much as a move.

  “Cast off the shackles of the Serpent King’s venom magicks!” thundered Caylen. “You need not bend the knee in obeisance to this monster who preys upon your children and corrupts them with his virulence! Today, your servitude ends!”

  Many of the tribesmen began to cast furtive and wary glances at the serpent warriors with whom they shared the ranks.

  Sauruuk shook his scaly head scornfully, the cranial ridges which adorned his skull abruptly flaring crimson. “Such an entreaty will avail you naught,” he rumbled. “It is not only the sacred Rite of Venom which enthralls these savages. You have no idea what a simple task it was to exploit the ancestral enmities of these disparate tribes.”

  “Oh, I have some experience of warring clans,” said Caylen with a wry grin. “Believe me.”

  Sauruuk’s ophidian eyes gleamed balefully and he brandished his crystalline staff. “Enough talk! I grow weary of this preamble. If it is an insurrection you seek to incite, you shall fail. Now, prepare to perish with your pitiful warband.”

  “I see the fear in your eyes,” growled Caylen, loud enough that Sauruuk’s assembled warriors could clearly hear his words. “I saw it when we battled within your sanctum, and I see it magnified tenfold now.”

  A resonant clacking sound suddenly issued from Sauruuk’s throat as he strove to calm his agitated steed. “I fear nothing! Least of all a weak and flaccid manling!”

  “Words are just air, lizard-man. Let deeds be the measure of truth.”

  Sauruuk’s hulking mount abruptly uttered a staccato roar, its great foam-flecked jaws snapping ferociously.

  “Keep a tight rein on that damned palfrey,” rumbled Caylen. “Or I’ll carve my next pair of boots out of its scaly hide!”

  “Be wary, human,” spat Sauruuk. “And choose your next witticism with care, for it shall most assuredly be your last.”

  Caylen’s cold smile grew wider. “I challenge thee, Sauruuk. Single combat. No sorcery, no tricks. Just steel on steel.”

  Something akin to a crooked sneer slowly creased Sauruuk’s coriaceous snout. “And why, pray tell, should I agree to this vulgar pageantry? I have the overwhelming advantage upon this desolate battlefield.”

  “Perhaps just to prove that you are not afraid after all. Or simply to affirm that the race of the serpent is indeed superior to the race of man.”

  “Bah!” gnarred Sauruuk tersely. “Such an axiom requires no validation! I need not fight you to prove that!”

  Caylen eyed the assembly of warriors surrounding Sauruuk. “See, my brothers? He does fear me after all! The great and glorious Serpent King, vaunted master of this atoll, trembles before the sword-arm of a lowly human! Perhaps cowardice is a trait common to all snakes!”

  The murmurous prate amongst the gathering yielded abruptly to shouts and tersely barked oaths as voices both human and ophidian rose in burgeoning unrest.

  “I would crush you!” roared Sauruuk irefully, his talons curling around the hilt of the great, curved sword which was scabbarded at his side. “You are not my equal by any reckoning!”

  “Then prove it,” growled Caylen. “If you best me, the day is yours. But should I prevail, you must swear before your kinfolk that my tribesmen will be allowed to go free, and that no retribution shall be visited upon them.”

  Sauruuk’s scaly lip curled in contempt. “Such insipid and pathetic stipulations. How very like a human.”

  “This is a covenant made before our gods,” said Caylen. “It cannot be broken.”

  Sauruuk’s great armoured chest swelled pridefully. “So be it!”

  A chorus of gasps and exclamations arose from the assembled warriors as Sauruuk swiftly dismounted his steed and stalked to meet Caylen-Tor, leaping across the span of the calescent trench with contemptuous ease. Caylen stood well over six feet tall, but as the two kings faced one another within that grim, ash-wreathed arena, it was apparent to all who witnessed the confrontation that the ophidian fiend towered over his human foe by at least ten inches.

  “Mark me, no sorcery,” said Caylen, hefting his axe.


  Sauruuk nodded. “Agreed. I shall dispense with the Envenomed Sceptre which laid you low. And in turn, you vow not to invoke your wolf spirit.”

  “Aye,” assented Caylen. “Such are the terms of this duel.”

  Sauruuk casually tossed his gnarled cobra-staff to one of his mounted generals before dragging his sword from its scabbard. The great curved blade was forged from some manner of scintillant blackened metal and its razor-sharp edge bore cruel serrations akin to the teeth of a colossal shark. “Why did you not summon your wolf totem when you stood before my throne, human? It would have made our encounter marginally more entertaining.”

  “I underestimated you,” replied Caylen drolly, aware that the statement was not entirely a lie. “I shall not repeat that error.”

  “It matters not!” growled Sauruuk, brandishing his fearsome denticulate sword. “I need no sorcery to put you down!”

  “Then let our steel exchange words of war,” whispered Caylen, his eyes agleam with the rapturous joy of battle.

  With a fearsome hiss, Sauruuk immediately arced a mighty blow at Caylen’s neck, but the Wolf-King’s axe met the ferocious assault defiantly with a resonant clang and a shower of rutilant sparks. Thrice more the Serpent King attacked his foe, and each strike was parried by Caylen’s great, lupine axe-blade. Pressing his attack, Sauruuk lunged savagely, aiming his jagged sword at Caylen’s heart. The clansman barely knocked the blow aside, the cruel edge of the black-toothed blade opening a crooked and crimson furrow in his chest.

  “I claim first blood,” hissed Sauruuk, brandishing his weapon and circling his foe like a ravenous ferine predator. “This shall be a day long remembered by the savages of this isle… the day they witnessed the harrowing of the Wolf-King!”

  Caylen instantly directed a thunderous blow at his adversary’s scaly skull, but Sauruuk parried the strike contemptuously and riposted with blinding speed. The counterattack scored a broad gash in Caylen’s bicep and blood began to course freely down his heavily muscled arm.