The Chronicles of Varuk: Book One

by Scott Reeves

  “Greetings, old friend,” Varuk said.

  He pressed himself to the side of the tunnel as the razorbeast stalked past, intent on the soldiers, who dropped their halberds. A few still had the presence of mind to raise them again and prepare for battle. All were terrified, panicked.

  The razorbeast attacked. It swung a massive arm at one of the soldiers, sharp spines extending from its forearms like living swords. The swing cut an arc across the soldier’s belly and blood flowed in the wake of the arc.

  Off to the side, Varuk felt the strength of the beast surging through his bones. He mimicked the attack of the razorbeast, matching its moves as if guiding the creature. He smiled, taking pleasure in his revenge.

  The razorbeast attacked another soldier, an uppercut into the man’s chin. Razors sank deep, impaling brain. Varuk mimicked the attack, his arm moving upward.

  It was over in mere seconds. When the spray of blood and bits of flesh cleared from the dank tunnel air, most of the soldiers lay dead or twitching at the feet of the razorbeast.

  Bors, however, still stood. He took a massive swing at the razorbeast. His blade sliced into its metallic skin. Varuk clutched at his side, in the same spot where the sword had skewered the razorbeast. He grimaced with pain.

  The razorbeast swung at Bors and flung him down the tunnel, mortally wounding him.

  Varuk recovered from his psuedo-wound. He strode up the tunnel, toward where Derek had been cowering against the tunnel wall. Behind him, the razorbeast melted into the ground, dissipating into the earth, its job done.

  Derek cringed away as Varuk knelt in front of him. “Palawa is merciful this day,” Varuk told the leader of the miners. “You are free to go. Palawa says you are to carry word of his displeasure at your digging to whoever tells you to dig. The digging must stop.”

  Daruk trembled. “We—we’re working for the Emperor. He won’t stop. He needs the metal.”

  “For what?”

  “For—for—I can’t say,” Derek said. “I just work. I don’t ask questions. Please. I’ll tell him, but I don’t think he’ll stop the mining.”

  “Then more men will die, until this Emperor of yours sees reason. Leave this place, unless you wish to be one of them.” Varuk put a gentle hand on the wounded man’s shoulder, for he was not without sympathy. “Where is my sword?”

  Derek weakly pointed up the tunnel. “That way. In a shack at the mine entrance.”

  Varuk walked toward a square frame of bright light: the mine entrance. He stepped from the mine and into the light of an early morning. Dead bodies lay all around the clearing in which the camp sat. He recovered his clan sword from the shack, raided one of the tents for food, and then continued on his journey down the mountain.

  Two hours later, the forest began to thin and the slope lessened until eventually he walked upon level ground. Not long after, the forest ended and he stepped forth onto a plain that stretched into the distance.

  He had made it across the mountains and put them behind him.

  He paused and looked out across the vast plain, surveying the land before him, the unknown lands he had struggled so hard to reach. In the distance, a city sprawled across the plain, a huge, walled city, with tall spires and elegant stone buildings. A stream of people and wagons drawn by horses passed in and out of the city through an enormous gate, moving along a nearby road that receded into the distance to the east and the west.

  His name was Varuk. He was a barbarian, and his journey had just begun.

  Varuk and the Princess

  The road into the city crossed an elegant stone bridge that soared high above a wide river. Gazebos made of brick, spaced at intervals along the bridge, offered a place to rest for travelers passing in and out of the city. And there were many travelers, in great variety: on horseback, in horse-drawn carriages, on foot, alone, in groups, lords, ladies, common folk and peasants. Some were dressed in gaudy pantaloons and wore dazzling jewels that sparkled in the morning light. Others wore turbans and flowing white robes. Some wore rags covered in dirt and held out a hopeful palm toward anyone passing by. Others wore veils. Some women displayed a generous amount of cleavage, dressed in tight leather outfits. Varuk was staggered by the sheer variety of clothing and physical characteristics.

  As he passed among them, heading toward the city gates, he studied those with whom he shared the road. He had never seen their like. He had only just crossed the Great Mountains that towered in the distance, at the edge of the great plain on which the city sprawled. The only people he had ever encountered had been members of the various nomadic clans that wandered the tundra north of the Great Mountains. The only dwellings he knew were tents made from the leathery hides of the ruk that roamed the tundra. Cities were unheard of, north of the mountains. The people he saw entering and exiting this city were strange beyond belief. But strange in a wonderful way. This was why he had left his clan.

  He longed to stop the people he passed and speak with them. But he was no fool. These people were strangers. Every one of them was a potential enemy. He could not let down his guard while he was among them the way he would have if they had been members of his own clan.

  He reached the far side of the bridge. The city gates loomed above him. He had never been in a city before. He had only seen them in his dreams… and even in his dreams he had not envisioned something of this magnitude.

  He gazed in wonder up the sheer sides of the city walls that towered above him. Why would men willingly imprison themselves behind walls so high that the sun itself might be shut away from them? How was it even possible to erect such an edifice?

  He passed through the enormous gates into the city. Guards standing on either side of the gates watched him pass without much interest. Foolish, to let a stranger wander unchallenged past your perimeter.

  The wide avenue just beyond the gate was lined with stalls from which merchants hawked magical charms, weapons, food, and anything and everything imaginable. Whores stood on the corners or leaned out from balconies high on the tall stone buildings that lined the street. Beggars cowered in the gutters, holding out bowls for coin in helpless dependence upon the generosity of passing strangers.

  Varuk wandered through the packed crowd. He stood head and shoulders taller than most everyone else. People nearby drew back from him, in mixed awe and fear of the half-naked savage in their midst.

  Around a corner far up the street came a curtained palanquin, carried on the shoulders of four muscular slaves. Four heavily armed foot soldiers marched along behind, bristling with weapons: swords swinging at their hips, pikes resting on their shoulders, daggers sheathed in braces upon their forearms.

  It was a very fine palanquin, with royal purple siding, gold trim on every edge, and a curious flag flying above it. A pair of eyes peering out from the shadowed window was all that was visible of the occupant of the palanquin.

  Varuk became aware of the palanquin when people around him began stopping to point up the street and whisper among themselves.

  As if on some prearranged signal, everyone fell to the ground, prostrating themselves, their arms outstretched toward the palanquin, which drew ever closer to Varuk’s position. Varuk himself remained standing, a lone, defiant figure.

  The palanquin came abreast of him and stopped. The eyes in the shadowed window stared straight at him.

  From within, a haughty female voice said, “Captain Scapius, why is that man not kneeling before Us? Who is he?”

  One of the heavily armed foot soldiers growled as he drew his sword. This, apparently, was Scapius. “He’s a dead man, Highness,” said Scapius. “That’s who he is.”

  A delicate hand with sharp, lacquered nails appeared on the gold-trimmed rim of the palanquin door. “Hold, Captain.”

  The palanquin was lowered to the ground. The slaves knelt beside its poles with bowed heads, ready to lift it again at a moment’s notice.

  The door opened and a stunningly beautiful young woman emerged from the palanquin. She was
dressed in a very revealing yet somehow regal outfit. Her generous bosom gleamed alabaster white in the morning sunlight. Her beauty was stunning; her magnificent body beckoned to Varuk almost as had these unknown southern lands, begging to be explored. She stood with a hand on the palanquin door, gazing haughtily at Varuk, who met her gaze without intimidation. Everyone else around him was still prostrate against the ground, their faces hidden.

  The young woman moved closer to Varuk. “Why do you not kneel before Us? These others around you would lose their heads for such insolence.”

  He sneered at her. “I bend knee to no one. Especially a woman.” He stepped forward and smiled. He put a hand under the woman’s chin and lifted her face, examining her appreciatively. “Though one as beautiful as you might almost deserve such homage.”

  Scapius leapt forward, moving his sword into striking position. “Dog! You dare to touch the Crystal Rose?”

  Varuk drew his own sword. Their two blades meet with a resounding CLANG!

  The woman calmly stepped between them, laying a hand on Scapius’s chest. “Stand down, Captain Scapius.”

  She walked slowly around Varuk, looking him over, as if examining merchandise. “This barbarian fascinates Us,” she said. She whirled to face Captain Scapius, planting her hands decisively on her hips. “From now on, he will attend Us constantly, so that We might… observe him further.”

  Scapius scowled. “But… Lord Cadon will not allow such a beast at his table. It would dishonor him. As it would dishonor you.”

  The woman raised her nose haughtily. “Mind your glib tongue, Scapius. We are the Princess Sayaka. Only We have the right to say what dishonors Us. But since Cadon would undoubtedly take offense at Our new friend’s presence, We shall have to cancel Our evening dinner with Cadon. You shall send Our regrets, Captain.”

  Sayaka stood at the door of her palanquin. She smiled seductively and held out a hand to Varuk, who returned her smile. Behind them, Scapius glowered with ill-concealed displeasure.

  “Would you attend me, friend?” Sayaka asked Varuk, with a wink that seemed to add double meaning to her words.

  “It would give me great pleasure indeed to… attend you,” he responded.

  She turned, and he watched her narrow hips sway delightfully as she climbed the steps into the darkness of the palanquin. Then he followed her inside and shut the door behind him.

  ******

  As it turned out, despite Scapius’s misgivings, Lord Cadon grudgingly allowed Varuk to dine with the nobility. Thus it was that later, in the evening, Varuk found himself seated beside Sayaka at a very elegant polished table in the center of a cavernous dining room with arched, stained glass windows, attended upon by many servants.

  Guests lined the long table, noblemen and women all, wearing the finest clothing in the current fashion that money could buy. A rich spread of food was laid out on the tabletop. Everyone ate with dainty little bites using silverware, but Varuk tore into a haunch of meat with his bare hands and stuffed it into his mouth, without concern for manners. Sayaka, to Varuk’s left, smiled indulgently at him.

  She had proven herself to be an interesting companion throughout most of the day. He had accompanied her as she shared tea with a small old woman in a large house in the countryside. He had accompanied her to a theater, which was a grand building in which a group of men and women had pretended to be people they were not. Finally, he had accompanied her back to the palace, a sprawling edifice of stone and marble on a high hill at the city’s center, where he had stood outside a door as she bathed within. Yes, an interesting companion indeed, full of promise.

  At the head of the table sat a lady who looked a bit like Sayaka. In fact it was Sayaka’s younger sister, Sarela. She watched Varuk with open disapproval. “Your guest is quite… interesting, sister. Honestly, sometimes I feel as if I don’t really know you.”

  Sayaka turned her attention away from Varuk and onto Sarela. “You don’t know me. It’s such a pity, too. If only father had allowed you to live with us in the Royal Palace at Zendra, we might be better acquainted today.”

  A skinny servant with the features of a dimwit was in the process of refilling Sarela’s wine. He slopped some on her hand and she glared at him. “Strap, you clumsy oaf!”

  Varuk narrowed his eyes at Sarela as he gnawed on his haunch of meat.

  As if the whole incident with Strap had not occurred, Sarela beamed at Sayaka. Strap stood in the background, once again waiting to serve. “Speaking of Zendra, when will you be returning? Your visit here has been most enjoyable, but I can only imagine how homesick you must be.”

  “My heart does yearn for home,” Sayaka said, “but I’ve heard that brigands are waylaying travelers south of the city. I fear such folk would even dare attack a royal wagon, and my small Bodyguard, though capable, might not withstand such brutes. Thus, I fear I must wait until that threat has abated somewhat, before I return home.”

  A servant, a man of rough appearance, reached toward Sayaka with a sharp steak knife. She didn’t appear to see the servant and the approaching knife as she said, “Fortunately I have the safety of your palace walls to protect me during my stay here in the north, little sister.”

  Varuk reached out and seized the servant, taking the knife from the man’s hand.

  The servant cringed. “Please, sir. I only meant to cut her Highness’s… steak.”

  Sayaka pushed her plate toward Varuk. “Thank you,” she told the servant haughtily, “but We think Our companion better suited to that task.”

  Sarela watched as Varuk clumsily began slicing up the steak on Sayaka’s plate. “Amusing,” she said, smirking. “Does it… does he… even know how to use eating utensils?” She gestured imperiously at Varuk. “You. Barbarian. What did you say your name was?”

  He glowered at her as he sliced. “My name is Ko Yingh Varuk,” he told her through gritted teeth. “Son of Martok Yingh Ko, of the Clan Yingh Mordra.”

  Sarela clapped her hands and smiled. “Marvelous. Well, you are certainly amusing to watch. Perhaps if you accompany my sister to Zendra, our father will make you court jester.”

  Strap, the servant, once again slopped a bit of wine onto a noble as he poured. The noble, enraged, shoved Strap backward, causing Strap to drop his pitcher. It shattered on the floor.

  “Bungling imbecile!” the noble shouted at him.

  Varuk leapt up and pointed his steak knife one by one at each man and woman seated around the table. “The next person who insults or lays a hand on that man,” he gestured at Strap, “gets this blade in their heart.”

  Sayaka took a sip from her wine glass to mask her grin.

  Sarela leapt up in rage, leaning forward with her palms planted on the table, glaring at Sayaka. “Sayaka! How dare your guest threaten members of my court! I demand an apology!”

  Sayaka raised her nose in disdain. “Does one apologize when one’s horse defecates? Does one apologize when a stable boy breaks wind?”

  “Very well then! If that is your attitude, I do not dine in the company of horses and stable boys.” She nodded to the man seated beside her: Lord Cadon. “Please excuse me, husband.” She whirled and stalked from the room.

  Sayaka giggled with amusement, ignoring Cadon’s glare. She leaned against Varuk companionably as the nobility chewed their food with great concentration, desperately trying to pretend nothing was amiss.

  ******

  Varuk was given a guest room in the palace. It was very ornate, with marble columns and an immense bed, softer than anything he had ever slept in. Artwork depicting the history of the realm hung on the walls. Everything had gilded edges hanging tassels.

  Varuk held a statue in his hands, examining it curiously. It was the likeness of a prissy man with a weak chin, a hooked nose and skinny arms. Such a man wouldn’t have survived long in the north. Yet here, apparently, he was a great enough man that he had been deemed worthy of being carved into stone.

  He threw the statue against the wall. It s
hattered into half a dozen large pieces.

  Staying too long in a room such as this would make a man weak. If these were the typical quarters of the southern leaders, then the southern leaders were weak and should be removed from power.

  There was a knock at the door.

  Varuk drew his sword and opened the door.

  Scapius stood in the hallway outside. He held a bag of gold coins toward Varuk.

  “I’ll not waste pleasantries on you, barbarian,” Scapius said gruffly. “If you leave immediately, you may take this gold. It’s enough to see you comfortably for at least a year.”

  Varuk took the bag and opened it. He examined the coins inside. “Discs of metal? What am I to do with these?”

  Scapius sneered. “It’s money, fool. Don’t they have money in the northern wastes? What do you use to barter with? Goats, perhaps? Cow chips?”

  Varuk returned the bag to Scapius. “This metal has no value to me. I value the company of the princess. I will not leave.”

  Scapius sneered again. “What do you hope to gain by staying? The Princess’s bed? She would be more likely to couple with a stable boy than with you. You don’t belong here, barbarian. Take the gold.”

  Varuk raised his sword and pressed it to Scapius’s throat. “I suggest you leave me now. My sword has not tasted blood in more than two days. It thirsts.”

  Scapius turned to leave, pointing a finger at Varuk and scowling. “Mark my words, barbarian. You will come to regret not having accepted my most generous offer.”

  ******

  Varuk lay on his side in the disgustingly soft bed. The oil lamps were dim. It was near midnight. His eyes were closed and his chest rose and fell in a slow rhythm.

  Eyes hovered in the shadows near the headboard. Varuk’s eyes fluttered open. He whirled and reached into the darkness, yanking the intruder forth from the shadows.

  It was Sayaka. She was naked save for a golden bra that cupped her succulent breasts and a wisp of silky red fabric draping her loins.