by R. T. Donlon
A swift, angled back step to Curala’s left side forced open a gap between the shoulders of two guards. He pushed forward between them, using his elbows to split the space even farther back. One spear jabbed the air at his ear, but he avoided it cleanly and used the momentum to throw the hilt of his sword into the side of a guard’s skull. His body fell to the ground in an unconscious splay of limbs, toppling over another guard unable to move out of the way.
A female guard swiped at Curala’s feet with a swish of her legs. She made contact with the muscle just above his torso, but the momentum of her body was not enough to send any sort of shock through his frame. The Right Arm stood proud against his low center of gravity and simply sent a quick flex of his foot into the crease of her chin. She, too, fell backward in a splay of limbs unconscious.
The remaining guards attempted to withstand the onslaught of Curala’s agile, schematic movements, but they proved to be nothing more than mere childish displays of defense against a Warrior too strong and quick to be matched. The fight concluded in a matter of moments. The Right Arm stood over the twelve fallen guards in a stilled, bended warouw pose, sheathing his sword against the quiet.
“Rest now,” he growled. “You have made your choice, as have I. I have spared your lives in the name of Chieftain Ultara, in the name of Turisic.”
These guards only wished to protect their Chief above all else and so, despite his thirst for blood, he spared their lives. Taerji had emptied their minds of emotion. They would wake to the pain of pulsing headaches, a few good bruises, and perhaps a couple of shallow lacerations, but they would wake…and the taerji would vanish as quickly as it had come.
He peered to his left, then right, at the unconscious bodies, smiling quietly. He stepped casually over a few and knocked with the flat of his fist on the large wooden doors of the Study. The sound of each thud resonated through the corridor like screams. A few silent moments passed. The gentle tap-tap of footsteps approached from within.
“I told you to leave me—” yelled the Chieftain, swinging the door wide.
He suddenly stopped, realizing that Curala was not the person he had been expecting.
“Curala,” he said, lowering his voice. “I did not expect you. The guards were told—”
The Chieftain’s voice trailed off as he noticed the twelve motionless bodies scattered across the corridor. His eyes darted from one to the next.
“Do not worry, my Chief,” Curala spoke, bowing into minjori pose. “They are merely unconscious. They would not allow me through to you, so I was forced to improvise.”
Ultara centered his eyes. He had always known Curala to be a true Warrior, but to impart such careful violence on—not one Portizu guard—but twelve, simply shocked him.
“All twelve?” Al-We asked.
Curala lowered his eyes, satisfied.
“All twelve.”
Al-We ushered forward and offered a gesturing arm to his Right Arm.
“Come. We have much to discuss,” he said.
Curala followed the Chief, closing the door behind him so that Al-We did not have to.
“So,” continued Ultara, “is the Wall still standing? Should we be gathering our army? Have the Shadows taken the East?”
Sarcasm resonated through the Chieftain’s attempts at humor, but Curala could not join his sentiments. It would not lessen the burden of the dangers within the Portizu borders, nor abroad. The Wall had begun seriously deteriorating recently, but it was still standing. The Wall—the topic of most political Portizu conversation—could not be further from the moment’s importance and the pertinent thoughts running through Curala’s already cluttered mind.
“Relu’s Wall is upright, my Chief, but the Shadows are finding ways through the Eldervarn more so now than ever. It is only a matter of time before the tide changes once more.”
“So the lands are in danger,” Al-We replied, not as a question, but in statement.
The Chief’s voice suddenly felt harsh, as though the situation’s brief cordiality had all but evaporated.
“I wish I had been able to bring you better news from the East,” Curala continued, “but, unfortunately, I only have more of the same to offer.”
Al-We dropped his eyes, then quickly fluttered his hand to motion for Curala to follow him into the suite. He followed without hesitation.
Al-We had far surpassed middle age. The stress lines in the skin of his face proved that to be true, but in these moments before he told the Chief of more danger—and these moments happened frequently these days—Al-We always appeared even older. Fatigue drew black shades under his eyelids so dark that the shade of his skin blended perfectly into the hollow shape of his sockets. His shoulders braced a neck lightly aged with faint sunspots. Not even his hands held the same sturdy, callous strength they had prior to his election as Chieftain.
This man is not what he once was, Curala thought. He is wise. He has seen too much. The Right Arm paused, then looked up into the eyes of his Chief. But has he seen something like this? Is he prepared for what I am about to tell him?
Ultara creaked silently as he bent into a squat, allowing himself to fall back into a wood chair at the far end of a back room. Books lined the shelves on either side of him, laden with dust. It seemed they had not be in touched in months, maybe years. He had only laid eyes on these transcripts once before—the day Al-We had invited him here to formally ask if he would take the position of Right Arm. The urge to flip through these ancient Portizu dialogues had been there then and, even now, persisted.
“Now,” the Chieftain spoke, “tell me what concerns you, Curala.”
The Chief sat still against the chair, lifting his eyes to the Right Arm. Curala cleared his throat, then crouched down onto one knee, eye level with his Chief.
“I have witnessed something this morning that disturbs me greatly. We may have a traitor among us that threatens the lives of all Portizu Tribes.”
Curala winced internally. He should have omitted the word may—too vague, too circumstantial. The Chieftain, without worry nor panic, simply edged forward in his seat.
“This morning I met Kyrah Laeth coincidentally as she left counsel with you. We exchanged a bout of heated words and—”
Chieftain Ultara held up his right hand, palm forward, shaking his head.
“With due respect, Right Arm, you have had too many altercations with the Laeth bloodline for me to take your plight seriously. This feud you see as crucial must wait until the Wall is secured.”
A similar rage boiled within the Right Arm. He swallowed it down.
“My Chief, I am the first to admit that the bloodline feud between the Laeths and the Shuths has reached new levels, but this is much more than that. You must hear what I have to say.”
Ultara breathed heavily, then rested his chin against the fist halted by the chair’s armrest.
“Very well,” Al-We sighed. “Proceed.”
“Our words broke open into a duel, which I had pinned as an easy victory, but something overcame the girl in her fit of anger. Her eyes…They spread into an ocean of black. Her strength suddenly grew insurmountable. If it was not for the sudden look of shock in my gaze, I swear the girl would have crushed my throat then and there. I knew it could only be one thing, my Chief, because there is only one thing that can exude such powers. Darkness, Al-We. Kyrah Laeth is infected and, somehow, we have not witnessed it until now.”
Ultara only stared blankly into the eyes of an excited Curala. The Chieftain did not speak. Seconds passed, then minutes. The Right Arm shifted uncomfortably against his pivoting knee.
“Is that all you have come to discuss with me?” Al-We finally spoke, half-affectionately. “Surely you have thought this through before attacking twelve of my most honest guards and interrupting my most-adored solemnity?”
Curala lowered his eyes, hunching a bit further down into his chest.
“If Kyrah is indeed infected with the Darkness—as you have apparently witnessed—she would
be dead in a matter of hours. Infection cannot live within its host for longer than that. It is a killer, Right Arm, not a harvester. Secondly, if Kyrah is keeping something from her Chief, she must have her reasons. As the next in line for the Warrior Elite position in the wake of Velc Tahjir’s death, I am willing to allow her to move forward and prove herself to her people.”
Internal panic suddenly burst into the real. Curala breathed hard against Al-We’s words.
“Al-We,” Curala continued, “if we allow her to persist, then—”
“Then what?” the Chief barked. “We have the most powerful Warriors in the Great Range scattered amongst all the Tribes. If Kyrah changes into a Shadow, you do not think our Portizu brothers and sisters can handle their own lands? Surely you have more trust in our people than that.”
Curala grimaced.
“Yes, my Chief. I do. I only wish to protect my people proactively, before any violence can ensue.”
“We live in violent times, Curala. You must learn to adapt or you will be swept away into the Darkness that lives beyond the Wall.”
Curala lowered his head even deeper, then hinged his hips into another minjori bow.
“One more thing,” Ultara interrupted. A darkened annoyance filled the whites of his eyes. “Do not bother me with such petty concerns again. We must focus all of our energies on the growing concern beyond the Eldervarn and nothing else. Am I making myself clear?”
Curala’s head spun. He thought of the mess he could make here, thrusting forward, ripping the longsword from the Chief’s shoulder and holding it tight against Al-We’s neck. He breathed against the nearly insatiable urge and allowed it to subside through the gritting of his teeth.
There are other ways, he thought. Perhaps the Chief does not understand what he cannot see.
“Yes, my Chief. Perfectly,” said Curala.
“Very well. You are dismissed then. I will be out into the Hall in one hour. The Ix’a Elders have sent word of an important meeting. They are traveling many miles for counsel. I suggest you respect their journey by attending.”
Curala fought off another urge to pounce at the leader to which he had pledged all allegiance.
“With honor, my Chief.”
“Good,” said Al-We, “then farewell.”
The Chief knows nothing of what I have seen, Curala thought.
The guards had begun to stir into consciousness as he exited the long, winding corridor. Some had even opened their eyes as he turned the corner into the atrium at the center of the Palace. He stopped there completely immersed in sunlight and thought. Al-We had made it very clear—avoid confrontation with Kyrah Laeth. Anything else would be considered treason.
If the Chieftain will not take matters into his own hands, he continued in thought, then I must. I cannot allow a single girl to take the mantle of Warrior Elite with Darkness within her. How can the Portizu allow this?
Curala closed his eyes, inhaling hard. The oxygen cleared his thoughts.
“When this is over, they will thank me. I will be welcomed back to the Highlands with open arms and warmth in their hearts. This is what I was meant to do. I will protect my people.”
He squinted his eyes against the sunlight, but felt no warmth there.
At the edge of the jungle, a single red-robed man held both arms in the air as he was met with the Highlands welcome of arrow and spear. Few visitors to the Portizu Tribe Lands lived to tell the tale of what they had seen, but Al-We deemed himself a tolerant leader, so when an outsider brought news of danger, he listened.
“The Ix’a Scout is here,” the guard spoke. “Shall I bring him forward?”
Chieftain Ultara, Right Arm Shuth, and Counsel Merasda Trena sat quietly at the distant end of the Palace’s communal room table. Only Ultara nodded.
The red-robed man entered the room and bowed—not quite exaggerated enough for minjori, but it seemed respectable enough for an outsider.
“Chieftain Ultara—” the man began, but was interrupted by Trena before he could continue.
“You have traveled very far to request counsel,” Merasda began. “Would you like some water? Wine? Nourishment?”
The Scout halted his thought and shook away the embarrassment of beginning too quickly.
“A glass of water will be enough,” he replied. “I apologize if I seem hurried. It’s just that your people may be in immediate danger. Have you noticed anything strange recently? News from the Tribes that does not make sense?”
A flicker of genuine panic flashed through the Ix’a’s eyes.
“What kind of danger do you speak of?” Ultara asked.
There was a sigh as the Scout opened his mouth to speak.
“You have heard of the prophecy, yes? We hold true to its dangers in the Ix’a. That is why we have Scouts.”
Curala leaned forward against the wood-framed table with his fingers outstretched.
The Scout continued.
“It is said that a boy will join the ranks of the Ix’a only to defy the Elders and become the Prophet of…the Prophet of the Ruganon. I am here to tell you that this has, indeed, happened.”
Merasda lowered his head and talked.
“And if the Ruganon has begun its calling, then—”
But he could not find the will to say the name.
“Yes,” the Scout continued. “Brax the Finisher has escaped his prison.”
“How can we know for certain?” the Chief asked.
“We can’t. If he’s escaped, we won’t know for years. By then, it will be too late. Chieftain Ultara, the Ix’a beg of you, if you see this boy, please do not wait to send word.”
The Scout slid a piece of parchment across the table. On it, a sketch of Lider York drawn impeccably clear.
“The monster is the only way to defeat the Shadow King,” Merasda continued. “If we keep the Prophet from releasing it, what else can we do to stop Brax?”
The lighthearted panic in the Scout’s eyes flickered away, leaving nothing but the angry vitality of a man with tenacious belief—a true Ix’a Scout prevailing in the Elders’ philosophies.
“The Magic of long ago no longer has a place in our Range. If the Ruganon is unleashed, we will all perish,” continued the Scout. “That, Chief Ultara, is fact.”
Another pause filled the room as Curala, Ultara, and Merasda sat in stillness.
“I will confer with my best Warriors,” the Chief spoke, finally breaking the quiet, “and, if the boy is seen, we will notify you immediately.”
“The Ix’a are grateful for your hospitality,” the Scout spoke. “That is all for now.”
“Before you go, I should remind you to exit the Territories quickly. I cannot guarantee your safety if you linger in the jungles with the Portizu name. These are our lands and our lands only. Foreigners are not allowed here unless given approval. For good reason, of course.” The Chief raised an upraised palm, showing the Scout the door. “The Guard will show you out.”
The Scout shifted his eyes from one man to the next in hopes to analyze any sort of suspicion. When he had had his fill, he smiled, took to his feet, and bowed once more.
“Certainly,” the Ix’a replied. “Thank you for your time.”
The guards met the Scout at the chamber doors and ushered him out to the front of the Palace. The three remaining men sat still against the news.
“The Ruganon,” Curala whispered. “It is—”
“Yes, Right Arm,” Merasda interrupted. “It appears so.”
Ultara rose from his seat and paced the outermost length of the room.
Too much bad news in one day, he thought. First Velc Tahjir’s death, then the East, and now the Ix’a boy? What next?
“I have much thinking to do,” the Chief spoke quietly. “You can show yourselves out.”
No other words were spoken between them that day. They had all heard too much, each thinking their own angles would emerge as the focal problems. Ultara thought of the Wall and the Shadows taking the villages one b
y one. Merasda believed that magic loomed so close he could nearly taste it. But Curala—the Right Arm had already been driven mad by Kyrah Laeth once.
This, he thought. This is her doing.
The village roared with excitement. She could hear the distant tribal calls roll from the village common space behind the forefront of her heavy breathing. She ran wearily through the outer wood fences of the Northern Lands, wanting nothing more than to be home—to relax—but leisure would not be in the Tribe’s best interests today.
No, she thought. Today is the Great Hunt!
Even thinking the words sent excitement shooting through her. She had been waiting for this Hunt her entire life.
“When you are older, you will lead a pack of the finest of our Warriors into the jungle,” her father had said.
Her childish brain had not yet possessed the ability to fully comprehend what he had just told her, but she had understood enough to gaze in awe as he spoke.
“We will all be proud of you on that day, Kyrah. You are destined for great things. You will show the world what kind of Warrior you have become.”
Even then, she had fingered the amulet in quiet nervousness, knowing full-well the implications of her actions. Her father’s eyes told her everything she needed to know. The memories of the outstretched Shadow haunted her dreams nightly. It refused to let her sleep. It had been a year.
“I know you are scared,” her father had said, “but it is over. You must overcome your fears to become the person you will one day need to be. Believe me, Kyrah. The Shadows will not hurt you here.”
The memories came and went. She cleared her mind as she approached the village square.
A mob of people danced wildly in circles across the open space. Older men—with blood smeared onto their expressionless faces—cracked at homemade drums. Waves of rhythmic sound, each pitched slightly differently, resonated through the people and up into the air of the disappearing afternoon light. It was evening now and more bodies began to dance in a half-circle, flailing limbs in every direction while keeping their chins religiously angled to the sky—a reverence for the god of the Portizu—Turisic himself.
