The Chronicles of Varuk: Book One

by Scott Reeves

  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 r
eplied. “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 int
o 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.