by R. T. Donlon
“No more! Please!”
The moment! Zazana thought. I have him.
“The pain will stop,” the Chieftain urged. “Just tell me the truth.”
And, in that moment, Jennison—loyal diplomat of King Altruit and his home, the Light City—confessed to everything. He rambled about Altruit’s plans to reveal the Portizu as a people of half-Shadows. He cried through the unedited version of Relu’s actual death. He even described the softened gaze, hidden in the Warrior’s eyes, when he knew that death would be his only escape.
And, in the end, when he had confessed it all to the Chieftain of the Portizu Tribes, he wished he had more to speak of. He wished he had shown more bravery, more courage…but he had not. He had shown nothing but the ability to be persuaded by a King manipulated by his own struggle to keep power.
Zazana listened to the weary diplomat with intensified concentration. He crouched in front of Jennison as he concluded, bathed in silence and awe, unable to speak.
“I am so sorry. You must believe me when I say that I never meant for this to happen…” the diplomat muttered through heavy sobs. “I had no idea that the King would do such a—”
“But because your King asked you to lie, you did,” Zazana interrupted.
“You must understand. Loyalty is everything! If I disobeyed my King, I would be exiled! Banished for treason! I didn’t have a choice! Would you not expect the same thing from your Warriors? Undying loyalty?”
Zazana bowed his head and exhaled into a deep sigh. As much as he had expected tragedy, he had not expected something of this magnitude, something that could shake the foundation of all the Range.
“I would never put my Warriors in a position of treason. My Warriors are family. When one dies, a part of me dies with them. I am their Chieftain—the father of the Tribes.” Zazana’s eyes grew wild. “There is always a choice in every action. Choices simply dictate what direction our lives lead, but you will not have to worry about that any longer. Your opportunity for redemption has long passed.”
Zazana lifted a violent hand to Jennison’s throat and slashed a perfectly straight-line midway down the neck. Spurts of blood pushed outward as he fought to breathe, clutching at the opening with a set of panicked hands.
“I’m sorry it had to end this way,” Zazana continued, “but your King chose this path for you. Using my best Warrior as an experiment is an unforgivable act. Your blood, for the sake of his, will have to do for now. How’s that for bravery? May Xan never grant you rest in the other world.”
Jennison fell limp with empty eyes fixed wide. As he took in the last of his worldly sights, he pondered how he would be remembered, if he were to be remembered at all. The pain had all but vanished now, leaving nothing but a distant, gurgling cough and a dirty set of stained teeth.
“Drale,” the Chieftain called. “Burn the body. Make sure the Light King never discovers what has happened here tonight.”
Without question, Drale turned to start his work.
It would be a long night, indeed.
It took six months to erect the wall, even with the strength of hundreds of Portizu, but it rose high above the onlooking Chieftain now as a sleeping, towering giant. Zazana stood alone in the shade of it, wondering how long it could stay upright against their Shadow enemies on the other side. They had lost nearly a dozen Warriors to the Darkness during the construction, fending the monsters desperately away from the Portizu Lands. Zazana felt the lives of each and every one he had lost, standing amidst the blood-stained sawgrass blades of the Tension Fields.
Could I have saved them? he asked himself. Turisic, why must I feel such pain?
He already knew the answer to that question. Worshipping the god of pain meant that he must endure it more than most.
He carried a white rose delicately in the cups of his hands, crouching at the base of the wall where the grass met the foundation of the Eldervarn wood. He lowered his eyes to look at the flower, turning the stem over with his fingers to find each pedal, and avoiding the heavy thorns as best as he could, but every so often, one found its way into the flesh of his palm, pricking him lightly. Splashes of red stained the white.
Now, Zazana thought, it is perfect.
He dropped the rose at the base of the wall, then lifted his eyes to the Eldervarn markings that crossed and shaped the wood into its distinctive, angular patterns.
You did everything you could to save your people, Zazana thought, closing his eyes. May Turisic favor you in the next world. You have done your part here.
A slight breeze suddenly picked up where he stood, sending a chill down his spine.
“From this day forward, we will call this wall Relu’s Wall, so that no one shall forget your name. The Light King will pay for what he has done to you, for what he has done to our people. I vow, from this moment forward, if a Light civilian ever passes the jungle threshold again, we will strike down the Light Empire with everything the Portizu possess. We will strike with no mercy. We will live in peace for the rest of our days or we will one day avenge your death with absolute glory.”
He turned to leave, but a pair of bright yellow eyes near the edge of the jungle caught his attention. He froze, watching them watch him.
“Do not be scared,” the eyes spoke. The voice sounded wild, lost within itself, but it also felt distant, yet inside the deep crevices of the Chieftain’s head. “My Chief.”
Memories clicked into place and a smiling image of Relu bowing into minjori filled Zazana’s mind.
“Relu?” the Chief whispered. “Is that you? It cannot—”
From the jungle’s vegetation line, the largest jungle cat Zazana had ever seen emerged, slinking its way forward. It held its head low and its eyes up, never parting from the Chief’s awestruck gaze. The image of a smiling Relu planted itself in his mind, taking full control. Zazana, consumed by a distinct sort of fear, attempted to shake it away. The image would not budge.
“Do not be scared, my Chief. What you see is my way of communication now. It is my way to show you that I am me.”
“How has this…happened?” the Chieftain asked.
The paranoia in his voice had never been so apparent, never in the presence of Relu, never in the presence of anybody. The jungle cat stopped its approach and reclined against the grass, propped up by its haunches.
“It is me,” the cat spoke quietly. “Perhaps it is too much for you to handle so quickly, so I will be brief.”
Zazana shook his head. The image of Relu began to fade now.
“Turisic has granted me a second life. This time, I will not waste it with naivety. I have a plan to uproot the Light King—in due time.”
Zazana could only listen, paralyzed by the distant, smiling Relu in his brain. It repeated itself in the same motion over and over, dulling as the image wore on.
“I need you to listen carefully, Zazana. It is very important that you understand what I am about to say.”
Zazana nodded, but minimally.
“When the Light soldiers come asking questions, send them on their way. Pretend as though everything Jennison told you was the truth. The King will suspect nothing. Leave the rest to me. King Altruit is mine to kill. Turisic has made it known that he favors the Portizu.”
“But how—” Zazana replied, but the words caught in his mouth.
“It will take years—maybe more—before the right time presents itself, but that is more my worry than yours. I have heard the voice of Turisic with my own ears! Never have I ever felt true purpose like this!”
The cat stretched its front legs, then sharpened its gaze, reaffirming the minjori-bowing Relu in the Chieftain’s brain.
“Turisic has given me the gift of unending life. I will live for as long as I need,” Relu continued. “The day will come when my purpose is fulfilled. Only then can I rest.”
Zazana fell to his knees in front of the cat, the image of Relu blurring his vision.
“Bait the King, then protect your people from the Shadow
s. The Portizu will have tough times ahead, but you must be their rock and, when you die, you must make certain your legacy lives on. Forever will you be the Chieftain known for saving the Portizu from certain death. Neither Light nor Dark will overcome us.”
And Zazana accepted.
Relu disappeared into the jungle while Zazana watched. When the figure disappeared, he hunched over and wept for the first time. Tears ran down his cheeks in streams, sobs overcame his nervous breathing and, when he had nothing left to give, he rose to his shaky feet and returned to the Highlands where the Light soldiers waited for him outside the Palace gates…
“All of this is true?” Kyrah asked.
She had not drunk all of the vile concoction Velc had given her, so she tilted her head back and finished it.
“Every word,” Velc affirmed. “Chieftain Zazana died as one of the most revered leaders in Portizu history and, somewhere in this world of ours, Relu lives in the body of a jungle cat. That is why we must protect our lands from the Shadows and prepare for a war with the Light Empire. You, Kyrah Laeth, may be our biggest asset when that day comes.”
A nervous flutter crept through Kyrah’s body. Perhaps it was the crinaco, but it felt more like the burden of an entire people on her fourteen year old shoulders.
“Learning how to control the Darkness within you will make you strong. You will be the Warrior Elite our people need,” Velc continued. “You are what the King fears, Kyrah—a half-Shadow.”
Kyrah shook her legs from underneath the blanket.
“Teacher?” Kyrah asked. “What would happen if someone entered our lands—a person of Light?”
Velc turned, peering meticulously out the grimy window into the village streets.
“Your training would be over. We would send everyone to war. We would honor Zazana’s vow to avenge Relu, even if Relu is somewhere out there.”
“Do you believe he lives?” Kyrah asked. “Do you really believe in Relu?”
It was the only time Kyrah could remember Velc stretching the lines of his lips into an upturned, visible smirk.
“Not everything in our history needs explanation,” he replied, “but sometimes it is nice to simply believe. If the Light King can live for as long as he has, why can’t Relu live in the body of a jungle cat?”
“But we kill jungle cats in the Hunt!”
Velc lowered his head.
“Not all jungle cats are Relu,” he spoke. “They are predators that will kill if they are not killed first.”
“And the Light King still lives?”
Velc turned to his apprentice, leaning in with stern eyes.
“Of course he lives! He will live until the day he dies.”
THE GREAT HUNT (PRESENT)
The jungle inhaled, pressing leaves and branches against the silent hunters slinking through. The Warriors disturbed nothing, stalking a particular prey just out of sight. Each step forward brought them closer to a kill—one that would bring praise to the Portizu of the Northern Lands.
No one spoke. Razor-Beak birds cawed their haunting melodies somewhere far above the canopy. Greenback hoppers chirped loudly through patches of ferns and leaves. Even the chimpanzees were out and barking, swinging above the Warriors quietly from vine to vine, watching. The Warriors, however, made not even the slightest of noises—not the snapping of a branch, not the patter of a heavy foot against crunching leaves, not the soft push of used air from an overworked set of lungs.
They only moved with the swiftness of the wind.
The pack halted at the first sound of jungle stillness. Jae Laeth held a sturdy hand against his chest exactly twelve steps in front of his daughter. The rest of the pack stopped between father and daughter to hold rank with spears jutting high against their shoulders.
Jae signaled to circle. A single finger spun small waves in the air by his head.
Second in command, Kyrah thought. Roll to his side. Protect the shot.
Even in his older age, Kyrah admired the relentless passion of her father. There had always been glimmers of the Warrior he used to be, especially when hunting together. That was not the problem. He had just lost his prowess somewhere along the way.
Her father’s eyes met hers. He called for her once more, so she angled herself to swivel between the other Warriors and the feet of her father. She loved him deeply, but it was clear every time she pondered it—her father missed his wife.
He missed Taris unendingly.
She watched as the flexing muscles in her father’s shoulders tensed, still motionless. Fatigue had all but worn him to a shell of what he once was, yet still, he stood against the greens and browns of the jungle with a sort of authority she admired. He turned toward his daughter, concentrating with intense precision, then nodded.
Kyrah understood what this meant.
Be ready, she thought. You’re next.
The elk stood alone in a small clearing, surrounded by dew-dripping trees and crackling insects. Jae shifted against his kneeling leg and brushed against the trunk-bark of a particularly loud Eldervarn tree. The elk craned its neck, suddenly aware of the Warriors’ presence. It stiffened, bucked its legs, and perked its ears.
“Now,” Jae whispered. “Move now.”
Archers disseminated into the woods. The elk listened with panicked ears. Several seconds passed, then four simultaneous arrows sliced the air from opposite directions, each ripping into a single leg of the defenseless animal. It wailed in pain and fell to its side. Blood spurted from each limb and began to pool. Jae sprinted to the dying animal, unsheathed a small hunting dagger from his waist and looked up into the eyes of the approaching Warriors.
“Spearmen, be ready,” Jae spoke.
Once more, he turned his gaze upward to the forest’s canopy, jutting his neck even farther towards the bits of cobalt sky peeking through the dense brush of trees in full bloom. “Xan, Master of the Dead, take this life with my hands. Our kill shall never be in vain.”
He ran the blade against the animal’s throat with one, clean swipe. There was a quiet gurgling sound, a few moments of dripping blood, then silence.
“The kill is done,” Jae spoke, “but our work is not over.”
Kyrah lifted her nose to the passing breeze weaving through the trees. The faint odor of blood—a healthy dose of iron and heat—rose from the animal’s body. If she could smell it, the other jungle predators could, as well. She gripped her spear a bit tighter, keeping her eyes focused on the jungle’s myriad of changing colors. She scanned the rim of the clearing. It would only be a matter of time before—
“Eyes!” Jae yelled.
He cut into the elk’s belly without shifting focus, sieving through handfuls of innards and useless coils of intestines. This required Jae’s full attention.
“Clear!” someone yelled from the south.
“Clear!” another yelled from the east.
“Clear!” a third bellowed from the north.
“Cl—” said Kyrah, but something three hundred feet into the brush caught her attention.
“Ky?” her father replied. “Status?”
She remained quiet, allowing her eyes to settle on the spot where she had seen the rustling brush. The moment stretched into minutes. She maintained complete focus.
“Kyrah!” her father screamed. “We have to know—”
A brightened yellow eye poked through the razored leaves.
“Cat!” she screamed.
The other Warriors maintained their positions, unaffected by her call. She gripped the spear tightly in a wrapped fist, holding it tense against her fingers.
When there is one, her father had always told her, there are more.
Kyrah kept her eyes on the beast. She could hear its low growl reverberating through the leaves. The cat watched her and she watched the cat.
In her peripherals, her father sliced at the fallen elk. His arms flailed, pushing and pulling at the innards with fingers and flicks of wrists, slopping it all into piles on either side of h
is kneeling body. In the cold air, the warm animal organs steamed, floating wisps of vapor into the air. A thick pool of blood began to filter from the elk carcass to her father’s knees. It spread evenly, but darkened in color to a deep black-red.
Blood and insides covered her father’s hands. He had used his fingers to draw crude images—a sign that he had completed the first step in the arduous Portizu dressing process—a triangle with a line shot diagonally through its center, two dots over three straight lines.
A good kill, Kyrah thought. Meat to last the winter.
Razz crouched in a nearby brush. The flush on his face and the grip of his spear spoke of nervousness.
“Nothing will be wasted,” she whispered. “The cats can have the bones.”
The cat lifted its massive head and slunk slowly towards her. Its enormous body spanned nearly six feet from head to tail. Its giant claws grabbed at the jungle dirt and pushed handfuls backward in stride. Its black coat shone despite the filtered canopy’s light, smeared with its own oily finish and the blood of its past prey. The tail stood erect, curling at the tip to sway and distract.
A female, she thought. A pack leader female.
Kyrah had seen her fair share of violent animals—so much so that the danger of these situations no longer phased her, but she had never seen a cat of this size before.
“It’s a big one,” she said.
She held the spear at her side, angling upward with taut fingers.
Her father’s blood patterns had reached his arms. Clean lines dropped from his shoulders to his elbows in parallel pairs, intersecting just below the forearms. He had reached the last moments of the dressing. The meat had almost entirely been cut away from the corpse.
“Approaching,” Kyrah spoke calmly, mostly to herself. “Be alert for others. This one’s tail shows signs of pack calls.”
The cat’s eyes danced between shoulder blades, bowing to attack. Kyrah stilled her spear and waited patiently for the moment.
Come on, Kyrah thought. Make your move…
