by Tiger Hebert
The murmuring among the small crowd of townsfolk grew louder as they talked amongst themselves. Then an old man hobbled his way to the front of his people, clutching a rickety old walking stick. His long white beard swayed under his bent over frame.
“Nothing good comes from a dragon’s presence. It never has, and it never will. Snakes are snakes, and the only good one is a dead one,” fired the defiant old man with unusual vigor.
“Don’t be a fool, old man. You don’t know what you are talking about,” said Colonel Jun as he tried to put the crowd at ease.
“You are the fool, snake charmer!” hollered the elder. “Karthusa herself has proven this. She was once a great city, but now she is nothing more than a venomous snake pit.”
The commander sharply said, “Someone get this man into the shade. I fear he has been out in the sun too long.”
“Your words are lies, and they are full of poison. It was the black dragon’s army who burned Trellion to the ground,” retorted the old man, refusing to back down.
“Someone get him out of here before he deceives you all,” argued Colonel Jun.
The old man fired right back, shouting, “No, you get out of here!”
The crowd began shouting in clear agreement with the elder as they rejected the conversion attempt. They grew loud, and they pointed for the visitors to leave. The colonel dipped his head down slightly, showing that he acknowledged their request. Grabbing the reins, he steered his horse away from the crowd. When the villagers saw this, they cheered loudly.
Without delay, Jun coldly said, “Kill them! Every single one.”
The beautiful smiles of the soldiers were replaced with malevolent glares. Pulling hidden blades from their robes, the women unleashed a storm of throwing knives upon the crowd. Horrific cries rang out, and then there was only silence.
As they marched down the coast, they left a wake of terror and devastation in their path. Those who would join out of fear or folly would soon become servants of the shadow drake. Those that would deny their calling would be cut down and left for the jackals. Their tactics were brutal but effective, quickly bolstering their ranks. The army of the black dragon grew as thousands of new recruits were eventually escorted back to Karthusa.
High Priest Ekrin made his way through the jungle as he neared his destination. He knew he was getting close when he heard the Yaresh River in the distance. It was not long before the jagrel and his rider reached the riverbanks, where they could see the flickering lights of the hanging lanterns.
“Let’s find them. Krotieri lo fearon,” whispered the priest.
Tawny snarled in response to her master’s command, and she obediently leapt toward the scent of their target. The beast crashed through the underbrush as they traveled south, away from the river’s edge. As the scent grew stronger, the powerful jagrel gained speed as if securing a kill. Then the chilling chants broke out below the jungle canopy, and flames began to slowly close in on them from a distance. The beast burst forth from the dense foliage into a large clearing, and the priest called for her to halt. The chanting grew louder, and torchlight surrounded them. The unified voice chanted the familiar refrain:
Eee ton bono vie,
Cha chun ji ki deno vo tkri
Kugan su taro bas ili,
Donon ji kugan wath utzi ko vie
The unclean savages climbed through the trees and the bushes as they closed around their prey. Howls erupted from all directions as painted bodies and spear points pressed in upon the rider. Wicked cackles rippled forth from the ghoulish tribe. Tawny growled and swiped at those who closed in around them.
Then in a sudden twist of irony, fear swept over the fear mongers. The would be captors stumbled and fell back with wide eyes. The crowd murmured and muttered in their native tongue as the circle of spears expanded, quickly giving way to the beast and its rider. The priest, garbed in his purple robe, sat unflinchingly atop his mount, with his staff held high in the air above him. The long black-and-bronze staff stretched upward. The Heart of Darkness, a shiny black stone, sat atop the staff in in the clutches of golden dragon claws. The torchlight danced upon the smooth surface of the stone, and the eaters of the dead fell to their knees.
Amidst the fear, a man who was all hunched over crept forward, moving closer to the rider. His dark body was covered in markings and trappings made of bone.
“Bono vie guti tu trakiz,” roared the Danji.
Then after getting no reply, the witch doctor spoke in the common tongue, asking, “Who calls upon da’ dead?”
In keeping with their rituals, Ekrin pointed the dragon staff at the medicine man and replied in their own tongue, “Wie Charo Drako,” which means the black dragon.
A gasp rushed through the small crowd, and then the witch doctor asked, “What is da’ will of da’ black dragon?”
“The time has come for the fulfillment of the prophecy which was spoken over you by the black dragon. It is the hour of the Danji. It is time for you to take your rightful place as rulers of the An’wari! You will march into the land of your fathers. Death and fear will sweep over the land and the An’wari nation will bow to you!” declared the high priest fanatically as he worked the crowd into a frenzy. “They will join you, or you will feast upon their flesh! Rise, Danji, rise!”
23 Rise of the Danji
Dark-bodied figures swarmed through the jungle in droves, roaming through the darkness of night with the light of burning torches to lead the way. From camp to camp, they scurried through the deep jungle. The tribal folk gathered their kin, and while the moon still reigned high above the impenetrable canopy, their numbers grew. Soon the head count of the Danji horde reached nearly seventeen hundred, and then it was time.
Slowly a wave of those who would feast upon the flesh of their own dead washed through the final stretch of jungle between them and the wooden gates of Um’batri, the home of the An’wari. They all knew this place well. It was once their home too before they were sent into exile by their kin. The very sight of their home rekindled the fires of hatred that burned in many of their embittered hearts. The roaring fires of torchlight and bitterness illuminated the darkness just beyond the palisades of Um’batri.
Foul chants of the wickedly twisted Danji rose over the walls in the moments before the dawn. Howls and shrieks that should not belong to a man or a woman echoed into the stifling jungle air. The warbling hoot of the carved wooden horn roused the sleeping An’wari. Fires sprang to life throughout the town as people rushed out of the countless stick and straw huts. The wide carved heads of hundreds of short wooden spears were stretched forward toward their unwanted guests. The eerie chants of the Danji continued as the two forces stared each other down. It was only when two figures emerged that the chanting died down.
Out from the midst of the Danji swarm crept an especially dark-skinned elder, the same one who had stood before the high priest. He wore many bones. Some were even driven through his ears, nose, and other parts of his body. More bones hung about his neck and were draped across his chest. A hollowed jagrel skull rested upon his wild mane. His skin, too, was decorated with the smeared markings of black and green paint. His gait was awkward and disjointed as he staggered forward. He stood at the gate between the two armies.
The crowd of An’wari parted as they made way for their champion. He was a large fellow and of a lighter skin and a much younger age. The spotted pelts of jaguars wrapped around his hardened body in the same way that his fingers wrapped around the wooden handle of his pick. The weapon itself was crude. The slightly curving handle was more than two but less than three feet long. It was accentuated with a curved blade that must have been formed out of the jawbone of some great jungle beast. His raven hair fell well past his broad shoulders. His steps were long and prideful. The two men stood on the threshold of Um’batri, face-to-face between the two armies.
“Through the night, you have stalked us. Why?” asked the young An’wari champion in their native tongue.
“D
a’ cub weahs da’ spots now,” said the witch doctor in his own peculiar manner of speech as he referenced his adversary’s new rank and position.
“You are here now. Why?” demanded the tall warrior again.
“A choice fah yous, yes, a choice, oh mighty Bogbaan,” answered the witch doctor with mock reverence.
“Choices? Through the night you prowl with spear and dagger. Is that the choice you bring?” asked Bogbaan.
The witch doctor answered, “Chooses to take da’ call or not is da’ choices.”
“You are mad. Speak plainly,” barked the An’wari champion. “Called, oh yes, called by da’ dahk wyyhm we ah,” he hissed.
Bogbaan replied, “Betrayed by your mouth. You are snake still, Ungbuu, and exiled too. Leave Um’batri!”
“Yous no serve him, yous die!” Ungbuu spat defiantly and pointed over the masses, shouting, “All yous!”
Provoked by his forked words, the massive crowd began to shout back and forth at each other. They shook their fists and their spears as they verbally sparred until Ungbuu stepped up to speak again.
“Dumb an’ stubbahn as yous fatha’ are yous. Yous dumb cub, now yous dumb spots. Lettin’ die da’ An’wari. Dumb, dumb, dumb!” shouted Ungbuu as he shook his head in disapproval.
“By worms or wyrm are eaters eaten by!” threatened Bogbaan with raised fists.
“Wohms makes tendah yous before da’ Danji chews,” rhymed Ungbuu.
Bogbaan was clearly becoming enraged by the remarks of the exiled priest, and he responded out of anger. “Curses be on the Danji!”
“Not cursed, da’ curse ah we to yous!” said Ungbuu as he pointed his long skinny finger at Bogbaan. An eruption of hideous laughter followed.
“I challenge you. When I defeat you, the Danji leave here and return to exile,” declared Bogbaan.
“Fail, an’ fail yous will, an’ yous ansah’ da’ call of da’ mastah’,” shouted the crazy witch doctor to the An’wari crowd behind Bogbaan. Then with a wicked grin, Ungbuu added, “Not make me chew bones of spot and cub.”
A deep chill and a great uneasiness surged through the area. Ungbuu closed his eyes as he soaked in the ecstasy that came with the atmospheric change. Then he stroked the bone that was shoved through his nose and made a smacking noise with his mouth as he ran his tongue over his lips. That bone was Ungbuu’s greatest trophy, and it was all the remained of Bogbaan’s father, Ungbuu’s brother.
That gesture was the final straw, and Bogbaan charged toward the old man, slashing through the air with his pick-like bone scythe. His attack missed as Ungbuu staggered to the side. The crowd on both sides frantically cheered on their champions as the battle began. Bogbaan recovered his balance and charged toward Ungbuu fiercely, but yet again his scythe only cut the air. The elder looked wobbly and out of breath after just the two maneuvers. The fight could not go on long. He sidestepped another two sweeping attacks before Bogbaan sent him reeling with a powerful kick. It was butt over teakettle as Ungbuu tumbled over backward.
Once over, he went until he came back again to rest on his chest. He lay face down, struggling get his wits about him, and then it was finished. Bogbaan held his weapon high and drove it toward the neckline at the back of the old man’s head. What happened next could barely be seen or explained, but with an unnatural quickness, the old man spun. And as he spun, he rolled toward his executioner until his back rolled up against Bogbaan’s legs. In the same spinning moving, he reached inside his belt and then stretched out his right arm, driving his balled fist into Bogbaan’s gut.
A ferocious howl of agony and terror shot out of the warrior’s mouth as the sickle fell from his grasp. His empty hands clutched at the balled fist in the middle of his abdomen. He stared at the flowing streams of blood that dripped upon the old man below. As shock came over his body, his legs gave out, and he crashed to the ground. As Bogbaan pulled the carved bone dagger from his stomach, his people raised their own weapons in defiance against the Danji and prepared for war.
From behind them, there was a horrible sound greater than any roaring wind or crashing tide. The sky burned hot and bright with orange, red, and yellow flames from the volcanic eruption as the dragon spewed forth all of his glory into the morning sky. The terror of the black dragon that fell upon them was a crushing weight that brought them all groveling to their knees. The blackened beast must have snuck into the city behind them during the commotion. How something that big could go altogether unnoticed is an entirely separate matter. As they all cowered in fear, the dark-hearted beast slowly moved toward them. His fiery eyes were narrowed in on the fatally wounded warrior as he moved in close. His long neck reached out over the masses that were gripped by dragon fear.
Then the black dragon spoke, saying, “By worms or wyrm are eaters eaten by?”
There was no response as his presence overcame them all, even the Danji. The expression on Bogbaan’s face might have told you that his fear was greater than his pain, but it would have been a lie.
The dragon leaned closer still and growled, “So human, is it worms or wyrm?”
The man shook with pain and spasms as his body began to reach its end.
“Serve me, and you will surely not die now, human,” promised the dragon.
As the strength was departing from his body, the warrior cried out, “Help me!”
“Declare allegiance to me! Declare Slayvin as lord!” roared the dragon with a voice that shook their bones.
“Slayvin is…lord,” whispered Bogbaan with the last sliver of strength that remained.
A deep rumbling resonated from the beast as his dark whispers fell upon Bogbaan. Then to their amazement, a tiny conjured dragon of pure flame flew out of Slayvin’s smoldering maw. The miniature fire wyrm fluttered in the air, and then in the blink of a dragon’s eye, it quite literally dove into the forehead of the frightened man, searing the flesh. All that remained was the scarring brand of the black dragon. Their pact was bound and sealed. Slayvin then put his dark mouth over the man’s wound and quietly spoke some dark incantation. Slowly the blood stopped flowing, and the wound grotesquely closed up, leaving scars far more gruesome than the wound merited. The white scar tissue was bulging and knotting right before their very eyes. Then the pale brown scarred flesh began to become discolored as the flesh near the wound grew black as the shadow drake’s heart. The blackness of the skin was much like the Kuri thorn bushes that grew in these parts. They grew widely and wildly, seeming to have no rhyme or reason for their rampant and chaotic growth. Like those cursed spiny brambles, it grew fast and spread far out from his abdomen and out to parts of his chest and thighs, but he lived.
Yes, he lived. Only minutes after reaching what should have been the end of his life, Bogbaan cheated fate, or so it seemed. The offer was on the table, and ultimately he took it. The shaking stopped, and he was able to breathe normally once again. Even the strength returned to his body, but the pain did not leave, not completely. It was greatly subsided and was not disabling, but there was a gnawing ache somewhere deep within the pit of his stomach. He struggled to understand the pain. After all, the very skin of his forehead had just been singed right off as he was branded by the dragon. But a very real ache existed in his gut. Strangely it wasn’t at the site of the wound. It was, but it wasn’t, you see. Perhaps physically it felt as if it were at the site of the dagger’s bite, but it wasn’t there at all. It was…deeper, somewhere deep down past the flesh, beyond the bone, and into the expanse of nothingness that was seemingly reserved for this type of hurt.
He grabbed the bloody dagger made of carved bone, and with a scowl, he said, “You might need this again.” With that he tossed it at the feet of the witch doctor. Ungbuu squatted down and picked up the grayish-white blade and began to chuckle as he wiped it clean with the dingy cloth that covered his loins.
The two champions stood side by side and turned to face the black wyrm while everyone else remained cowering on the ground. The dragon’s massive head rose up and
away from them as the large arrowhead-shaped scales of the ebony dragon’s neck pulled away from the crowd.
The true nature of the demonic beast was fully exposed as the morning light grew on. Slayvin was wicked and terrible to behold. The dread of the dragon fear continued to batter them like a rushing wind, shaking even the bravest men to their core. His presence sucked the very warmth of life itself from the air.
Dragons, by all accounts, were terrifying, but Slayvin was something different. The very essence of the shadow drake crippled the minds and the hearts of the living, corrupting their every thought and desire, prying and twisting until they were manipulated at every turn. They all shook and trembled in his horrible presence, most of them too afraid to even look at the towering figure. His eyes burned and the bright red flames rolled as he surveyed the two armies.
The deep resonating voice of the dragon shot out, “The An’wari are no more! You are all Danji in the army of the black dragon!”
Those wretched words were a curse upon the An’wari, but how could they resist? They could reject the dragon’s offer, but they would simply be destroyed. They did not know about the dragon or his plans; they just knew that resistance would mean the end. The An’wari were a very superstitious people, and their fear of the dragon went far beyond the grave. They believed Slayvin and all dragons to be deities of great power and that to reject the calling of a god would mean to be cursed into servitude in undeath. No, they would not reject Slayvin’s offer; they would serve him, fearfully. They would all receive the mark of the black dragon, Danji and An’wari alike.
They shivered in the unrelenting cold and terror of the dragon fear as High Priest Ekrin issued the marching orders. They were to gather the people of the outlying An’wari tribes. They would join the Danji forces, or they would be offered up to the black dragon himself. Then they would march upon Tempour! Few would stand up against the conscription, instead taking up their spears as they joined the growing army. The army of the jungle realm grew rapidly, and soon their combined forces numbered more than seven thousand spears. The primal forces were united by a common bond. They were united by the fear of a worse fate.
