Karnic halted the caravan in front of the Vandegar Temple. He dismounted and waved his hand over the dozen horses pulling the wagons. With a final look at the desolate encampment, Karnic turned and strode up the steps of the temple, his long white robe swaying with his movement. He paused at the top of the steps and pulled his hood over his head and then stepped through the large entry doors.
He stopped inside the great doors to let his eyes adjust to the dimness of the interior of the temple. His eyes narrowed as he viewed the debris scattered about the floor of the entrance hall. Walking silently, Karnic moved through the hall into the center room of the pyramid. The center of the pyramid was open to the apex and his eyes were automatically drawn upward to view the magnificence of the monument to Vand. He stood there for a long time, his eyes viewing the balconies of each level as he sought for any signs of life.
Karnic did not see anything but the leavings of the massive army that used to be housed there, but his ears did detect the sound of distant voices. Karnic scowled as the rage inside him grew to a fury. He headed to one of the stairways and started climbing upward. He walked quietly and let his ears guide him towards the voices. When he had climbed seven levels, Karnic turned along a corridor, the voices becoming decipherable. He listened to the conversation of the two men as he silently moved towards the speakers.
“I should kill you now,” shouted Zygor. “Your actions have brought failure to our endeavors.”
“My actions?” retorted Brakas. “You are the one who brought that cargo of poisoned fruit for Grulak to eat.”
“I had not way of knowing what effects the fruit would have,” snapped Zygor. “Remember that it was you who brought the fruit to me in the first place.”
“Like yourself,” countered Brakas, “I had no way of knowing its effects either. At least I tried to redeem myself by scattering the horses of that traitor General Winus. You merely hid here in the temple to see who would win.”
Karnic paused outside the room as he heard a sword being pulled from its sheath.
“You think that sword will save you from my powers?” cackled Zygor. “You are a foolish man, Brakas.”
“Look, Zygor,” Brakas pleaded, holding his sword up for defense as he backed away from the magician, “There is no reason for us to quarrel. We are both committed to the same goal. If we work together, perhaps we can salvage this mission yet.”
“Salvage it?” screamed Zygor. “Our army is scattered all over Fakara. Worse, they have lost the leadership needed to make them into a viable fighting force. We will both be dead when Vand sends someone to find out what went wrong.”
Karnic chose that moment to clear his throat and step into the room. “Your display of emotion is unbecoming, Zygor,” Karnic declared as the two men in the room turned towards the new arrival.
“Karnic?” Zygor said hesitantly. “How long have you been listening?”
Brakas frowned as he gazed at Karnic. He still held his sword defensively in front of him and continued to edge further backwards.
“Put the sword away, Brakas,” Karnic commanded in a voice that left little doubt as to his feeling of superiority. He turned to Zygor and said, “I have heard enough to determine that our operation in Fakara has failed. Vand will not be pleased.”
Zygor opened his mouth to explain, but Karnic held up his hand to stifle the excuses. “I will hear no more bickering and excuses,” he stated sternly. “What I will hear is the state of our army here in Fakara.”
Karnic turned to glare at Brakas, and the Fakaran hesitated slightly before returning his sword to its sheath.
“We have no army,” Brakas stated nervously. “The free tribes have scattered them across the breadth of Fakara.”
“He speaks the truth,” admitted Zygor. “The free tribes have aligned with the Astor. Grulak and Veltar are both dead.”
“Grulak is of no consequence,” replied Karnic, “and Veltar has been rewarded for his failure.”
“Of no consequence?” frowned Brakas. “He was the leader that a hundred thousand followed. Nobody can replace him. The army is gone.”
“Never tell me what cannot be done,” Karnic spat as he fixed his gaze on Brakas. “Grulak was a fool, but a useful one. His life brought us the Time of Calling. His death cost us nothing. We do not need a hundred thousand men to bring chaos to Khadora. The task can be accomplished with much less.”
“You plan to continue the attack on Khadora?” questioned Zygor.
“No,” smiled Karnic, “I have plans for you to conquer Khadora. My services are needed in Omunga.”
“It is not possible,” interjected Brakas. “We could never get a quarter of the men that Grulak had amassed.”
“You need even less than that,” declared Karnic. “We have three clan lords in Khadora that have agreed to work with us. Do you know of them, Zygor?”
“I do,” Zygor nodded. “They agreed for their own selfish reasons, though. I believe they planned to use Grulak as a distraction to gain more power for themselves. I warned him about that.”
“We do not care about their reasons for cooperating,” Karnic said. “We are changing the agreements made with them, and the terms are not negotiable.”
“What do you wish for me to do?” asked Zygor, feeling relieved that he was not going to be executed for his failures.
“I have brought a caravan of food with me from Khadora,” explained Karnic. “Brakas will gather the former Jiadin warriors. The food will lure them in. You, Zygor, will visit these three lords in Khadora. You will change our agreements with them. Each of their estates will host five thousand Jiadin warriors. The Jiadin will wear the uniforms of the host clans.”
“So no one will know that the three groups are aligned,” Zygor nodded appreciatively.
“Precisely,” continued Karnic. “You will assume the leadership of a fourth clan. That estate will also host five thousand warriors under your direct command.”
“Assume?” frowned Zygor. “The clan lords of Khadora are very old men. Surely you know what you are asking of me?”
“No more than I am asking of myself,” nodded Karnic. “I will also assume a leader in Omunga to prepare for the Time of Cleansing.”
“But you are already old,” protested Zygor. “I have many years ahead of me yet.”
“You have given away your youth by your failure here in Fakara,” Karnic replied sternly. “Do you wish to refuse this order from Vand?”
Sweat broke out upon Zygor’s brow. He bit gently on his lip before bowing low before Karnic.
“I am most grateful for this opportunity to serve our master,” recited Zygor.
Brakas looked puzzlingly at the two magicians. He did not understand what horrors were alluded to by assuming a clan lord, but he knew that Zygor was fearful. He could smell the fear emanating from the young magician.
“How will we get these clan lords to accept five thousand Jiadin?” Brakas asked.
“Zygor will tell them to expect some new warriors to bolster their ranks prior to their expansion,” explained Karnic. “By the time they realize the magnitude of the number of new warriors, it will be too late for them to do anything about it. The clan lords will be told to follow the instructions of the lord that Zygor chooses to assume.”
“Still,” Zygor interjected as he regained his composure, “twenty thousand men is not enough to conquer Khadora.”
“You do not need to conquer the whole country,” replied Karnic. “I have spent much time in Khadora since the Time of Calling began. We will use their own culture to defeat them, one small step at a time. Your four clans will slowly, but steadily, encroach upon your neighbors. When you devour an estate, annihilate the family of the clan lord and dissolve the clan. There will be no survivors to appeal to the Lords’ Council. You will gobble up half the country before anyone thinks to object, and by that time it will be too late for them to object.”
“You mean to grow the army by assimilating other clans?” nodded Brakas. �
��That is brilliant.”
“It is perfection,” nodded Karnic. “Brakas you will gather up the Jiadin that are required for this plan. Offer them whatever you wish. There will be gold aplenty when we descend on Khadoratung. In the meantime, there is food outside that you can use to gather the starving men.”
“If the free tribes get wind of this,” frowned Brakas, “they will come here and destroy our new armies.”
“Then make sure that word does not pass to them,” shrugged Karnic. “Move the men out as soon as they reach five thousand in number. Then start with the next recruitment group. Even if the free tribes find out, we will have only five thousand men at risk at any time. Also, order the first group of men to clean up this area. Vandegar Temple is a holy shrine. I will not see it desecrated with filth and garbage.”
“It shall be as you command,” declared Zygor. “How will I report our successes to you?”
“There will be no need to report to me,” answered Karnic. “If you are successful, the world will know. And if you fail, you will not be alive to report. You will not find me in any event. I will be bringing chaos and mayhem to Omunga.”
Zygor opened his mouth to offer some vague praise to Karnic, but the elder magician was no longer in the room. Zygor blinked and gazed about the room, but Karnic was gone.
“Did you see him leave?” Zygor whispered to Brakas.
“No,” Brakas replied unsteadily. “What is this assuming that he talks about?”
“I have been ordered to take another’s body,” frowned Zygor. “It is irreversible. It is how Vand has managed to live for thousands of years. When he ages, he assumes a fresh young body.”
“And you can do that?” Brakas gasped. “Why then do you fear doing it when it means that you can live forever?”
“We can only do it once,” replied Zygor. “Only Vand can do it multiple times. By assuming the body of an old man, I am shortening my lifespan. It is my punishment for failure here in Fakara.”
“I think I would prefer dying,” mused Brakas as he thought about being an old frail man.
“That is the only choice available to you,” spat Zygor. “I am paying for my part in the failure here. You are not. Fail me again and you will surely beg for death, but that death will linger for an excruciatingly long time. Do not fail me again, Brakas.”
Chapter 2
Torak and the Shaman
Marak flicked his wrist towards the target. A bright stream of light shot forth from his hand and streaked towards the vertical log. As the stream of light traveled, it flattened into a disc, and tendrils of light spread out from the center. The mass appeared much like a spinning disc with multiple blades of shiny steel rotating rapidly around the center. The disc struck the log with tremendous force. Chunks of bark and wood splinters flew through the air as the disc sped through the log. It was cleanly sawed in half, and Marak watched in amazement as the top portion of the log toppled over and fell to the ground.
“See how the disc disintegrated after cutting through the log?” smiled Ukaro. “If that was an enemy’s body, it would have continued onward to strike what was behind it. You must learn to gauge the amount of force needed in any given situation. Sometimes you can use the spell to fell multiple foes. Other times you will prefer not to harm what is behind your enemy. You must practice this spell until you learn how to measure the force needed.”
“Amazing,” Marak muttered as he stared at the severed log. “I would not have believed that it would be so simple.”
“It is not simple, son,” replied the Chula shaman. “You have great power. Were you to live with the Chula, you would become a powerful shaman.”
“Like you are,” nodded Marak. “Sometimes I wish for nothing more than to do exactly that. Mother and you are so happy here.”
“We are,” grinned Ukaro, “but your path lies elsewhere, Marak. The Torak cannot walk away from his responsibilities.”
“The Torak,” frowned Marak. “I still do not have a clear idea what the Torak is, or what I am supposed to do.”
Ukaro stared at his son, his split lips pressed tightly together. He absently brushed his golden mane away from his face and suddenly smiled.
“Come and sit with me by the lake,” Ukaro said. “Enough practice for one day and you must return to your flatlanders in any event.”
“I must, father,” nodded Marak. “The Sakovans are preparing to leave for home, and I would be remiss if I was not there to bid them farewell.”
The young lord of the Torak clan and his Chula father strode across the open field and sat beside the lake. Marak gazed at his father’s face. The shaman’s face resembled the face of a lion. Long whiskers spread outward from above his split lips, and his mane was more than just long hair. It flowed from every portion of his face and head. His eyes sparkled with the clarity of a hunter.
“You still find my appearance strange,” smiled Ukaro. “It can only be achieved by a powerful shaman. It demands respect within the Chula. You have the power to look like me, although I doubt your flatlanders would find it appealing.”
“I suppose they would not accept it very well,” Marak conceded. “Do you like looking that way?”
“I do,” grinned Ukaro. “It is a constant reminder of who I am, but I do understand how others could find it discomforting.”
“Perhaps when I am finished doing whatever it is that I must do,” posed Marak, “I will live with the Chula and learn the ways of my ancestors.”
“If you survive,” frowned Ukaro. “Do not make light of what the Torak must endure. Your task will be fraught with danger.”
“What is my task, father?” asked Lord Marak. “Tell me about the Torak.”
“I think you already know much more than you let on,” declared Ukaro. “The painting you saw in Angragar must have made you think about what god will require from you.”
“God,” mused Marak. “I grew up with the flatlanders, father. They speak of many gods, but value none of them.”
“I understand,” nodded the shaman, “but you have learned from your Sakovan friends that the one true god is Kaltara. Have you not?”
“Yes,” agreed Marak, “but I know little about him. Why does this god put his favor on me? What makes him think that I can change the world?”
“He has chosen you, my son” Ukaro smiled proudly. “Do not question his motives. As to why he thinks you can change the world, he will endow you with what is necessary, and he will guide you. This you must believe with all your heart.”
“So he will just make everything turn out all right?” questioned Marak.
“No, no,” Ukaro shook his head vigorously, causing his mane to sway from side to side. “You must work hard to achieve his goals. By choosing you to be the Torak, he is giving all of humanity a chance to redeem itself, but only a chance. You must strive to make sure that you do not fail us. Another Torak may not come for thousands of years.”
“So I can fail,” pondered Marak. “What exactly is prophesized about this Torak?”
“Our scrolls state that the Torak will rise to reclaim our lands,” stated the shaman. “Most people believe that means that you will reclaim the land of the Chula from the flatlanders. It is said that you will destroy their armies and chase these invaders from our shores.”
“Most people believe that,” puzzled Marak. “I know you well enough to understand by your choice of words that you do not share that interpretation. What do you believe?”
“I used to believe as the others do,” explained Ukaro, “but hearing about your journeys to Sakova and Fakara has changed my perception of what must be done.”
“How has the telling of my travels changed your thinking?” inquired Marak.
“The painting in Angragar for one causes me to see things from a different perspective,” Ukaro continued. “It is clear that your future is tied to the Star of Sakova and the Astor of Qubari as they are pictured by your side in the painting.”
“I agree with that,” nodde
d Marak. “I have seen that painting many times in my dreams. It causes me to wonder what is to come.”
“I have spent many days since your return from Angragar going through the oldest of our archives,” stated Ukaro. “The invaders that came to our shores were fleeing from some great evil. There is nothing in our records to indicate what they were fleeing from, but I cannot help thinking that whatever was chasing them is what you must truly battle.”
Lord Marak nodded slowly as his mind drifted back to his short time in Angragar. They had found a scroll in the old temple that spoke of burning ships and searing minds.
“I believe you are correct,” declared Marak. “An old prophecy spoke of a great evil. It was an evil that defied Kaltara thousands of years before the invaders came. The evil was banished from the land to a new land. I suspect the invaders came from that new land. I think they were fleeing from that evil.”
“That would explain the great fear that pervaded the invaders,” mused Ukaro. “The histories tell much about the trials of my people during the invasion. The invaders were skilled warriors, much greater than anyone who lived here. They certainly were not cowards and did not shy from battle, but they were driven by fear of something chasing them. Our records offer no hint as to what that evil was.”
“One of the Qubari suspected that the great evil was a priest named Vand,” offered Marak. “Vand declared himself a god and gathered a great host of followers. Legend states that he defied the other gods and was banished to some unknown land.”
“Then the pieces fall into place,” sighed Ukaro.
“How?” Marak shook his head. “This all happened thousands of years ago. Some priest who thought he was a god would not be alive today to bother us.”
Aakuta: the Dark Mage fl-4 Page 2
