by Judah LaBrie
Chapter Five
Omar had been quiet for the past hour, he wanted to see his little statue again. There in his satchel he carried a symbol of beauty and power, a statue made by man to be worshiped. He felt his head clearing from everything else, the young apprentice felt the pull of the statue, preoccupied with his treasure left him silently distracted. Omar followed Shamal down a path that would lead them further from the castle; he could not return the golden Eve now. It was his, his own idol, an exalted piece.
His shoulders tingled, he could feel the statue grabbing for him, she wanted him to see her again.
Soon he would.
He needed to get her out of his thoughts until he could be alone, to cast his full attention to her majestic entity.
Blood fell in the pathway ahead of Omar, small drips with each step Shamal took, Omar watched as the old swordsman continued unaware, or seemingly. An amount insignificant in the measure of survival, but as Omar tried to focus on his mentor, he could sense the pain his master was feeling.
“Your wound is open again.”
“It will only release what is needed. By morning it will be closed.” Shamal answered with confidence. He had been pierced an innumerable amount of times, he was not alarmed by the injury any more than he needed to be.
“Why the scroll now? You have been my master for three years, and never mentioned the scroll.” Omar was asking random questions, his mind back and forth with the idol.
“Few know of it, and even less can read it.” Shamal answered brief, then paused for at least three minutes. Omar did not speak, he knew Shamal would divulge deeper, if given the chance. The old man continued after they hiked a small incline in the terrain.
“King Hethro tried to go to Eden when the scroll was first found; But with its discovery came another, the giants. No one knows how long they were breeding, or where they came from, it explained why so many women were disappearing in the outer regions.
“The Great Slaughter changed everything. The scroll was hidden, then the language of the ancients faded with each generation. When king Altair inherited the throne, he killed the remaining priests who spoke and read the old language, I was the only one who escaped. I watched from a distance for the last seventy years, then the giants began to emerge, some settling in the desert, others in the mountains, some as far as the forest.”
Shamal turned his head to Omar, to see if he was even listening. Hard to tell.
“In the language you taught me?” Omar was listening.
“Yes, you and I are the last ones to know the ancient language of Adam.”
Omar was proud to hear the exclusiveness of the language, “So who hid the scroll?”
“It was one of the king’s musicians.”
“Where is he now?” Omar was able to take his thoughts off the idol, after all this was very interesting.
“One of Altair’s guards told me it is in the Forest of Arolla.” Shamal said assuredly.
“Is that where we are going then?” Omar asked sighing.
“Omar, do you not want to be a great fighter?”
“I want to know where my father disappeared to, I want to know why my mother was killed, and I want to avenge their deaths. So, yes I want to be a fighter.”
“Then you must decide, the choice will always be yours. I have spent my life looking for the garden, the scroll, and now I must train you to figure out the direction we are heading?”
“Hmm, I might not want to go with you, not to the forest of Arolla I am not ready to go there.”
“Your mother was killed there long ago, it has changed Omar”
“My father disappeared there too, he never came back from going after whoever killed her. I am not ready.”
“We are never prepared for what lay ahead, it is only when we are confronted that we become ready.”
“Or die... the dying part is what I am not ready for.” Omar was terrified of death; a haunting face of his mother would keep him awake at night, her laugh, and her tears, screaming.
Omar closed his eyes, the fear clung to his soul, he could almost just go there now, to her side, when he was holding her, watching her fade from this world, she was his life, his nurturer, his peace, his lose.
The idol nudged his mind. He had a woman again. A mother, a golden mother.
Shamal looked concerned, he took some steps over to a large oak tree.
“Omar, come here.” Shamal spoke quietly, whispering to his apprentice.
The statue is my mother now. Omar was confusing himself. A small crisis brought on by just the mention of the Arolla forest. His youth showing more than Shamal would like.
“Omar, Omar!” Still keeping his voice hushed, Shamal yelled softly, the boy broke from his thoughts to his master.
“What?” A blank starred youth.
“Will you then do this one thing for me?”
Omar closed his eyes, he had to find himself, the statue was there, he would figure out who she was later, his mother, a goddess? “What can I do for you master?”
“Take the scroll I have given you to the land of Gad, there is a man who is undertaking a great task. Soon all will know who he is; give him the scroll. I will meet you there in seven days.”
“I will, I will!” His response was immediate, as was the voice of Eve in his head.
Then we will be alone. Alone with you, my dear boy, I am your god.
“Then we shall part at the Tigris, you will know your way from there, and I shall go through the Forest of Gates. I believe I shall find my old friend there.”
They walked in silence as they came to a steep embankment, rocks and tree limbs were in reach to either grab or step up onto and pull oneself to the next elevation.
The old swordsman grunted a few more times than his younger apprentice.
“Should I carry you?” Omar seeing his struggling did not hesitate to make Shamal aware of it.
“Oh am I a burden to you young man?” Shamal smiled, glad for the jest, yet his wound was finding a way to let him know he was older.
“If I was your enemy, I would fight you in these hills.” Omar did not know the weight of what he had just spoken, Shamal would forgive this, but a lesson would be in order.
Shamal took his sword, which he had been carrying over his back, and struck through Omar’s clothes just above his knees, the blade missed his legs, and came out of his cloak and into a maple tree, he was pinned.
“If you are ever my enemy, there is no good place to fight me, and I should like to see you carry me up these mountains you call hills.” Shamal pulled his sword out of the maple tree Omar had been pegged to. He smiled back at Omar’s dumbfounded expression.
Shamal noticed something heavy in Omar’s side satchel when he withdrew the sword, a curious lip curled on Shamal’s face. He would watch this play out.
Chapter Six
“Now?”
“Not yet Halim.”
“I’m confused...” Halim starring out at the desolation that surrounded them. The two giants hid behind a boulder.
“What controls your thoughts.” Burhan, an elder in their giant tribe called Baku, teaching his young pupil the ways of the Havilah.
“My wife, our third child.”
“Second child.” The old elder correcting him.
“Third, Merku breathed the air of this world.” An amount of trust in his teacher was slowly being lost.
“Have you taken this matter to our god recently?”
Halim nodded in agreement.
“You have given your first born to her?” Burhan reminding him of his commitment, clearly making a point with his questions.
Again the younger understudy agreed with a movement of his head.
“Your wife is due any day now correct?”
Halim sighed, annoyed from the rapid inquiries. slowly lifting his chin, dropping it again.
“Now!” Burhan jumped from a slouched position, revealing his hiding place. His trainee followed as quickly as the elder had risen
.
“I do not want them too kill her. You can help us Burhan!” Halim, sprinting beside his elder, attempting to continue their conversation.
They dodged through the desert valley, Halim, maybe a step or two behind at times.
The expanse in front of them was a landscape of sand, rock, and a graveyard of all sorts of bones.
The Havilah Desert was a prime hunting area for the giants. Few humans dared to enter, and those that did take the chance were vulnerable in this hellish maze of dry terrain.
Heat came fast in the mornings and did not cool down until much after the sun set. Only a few hours before the sun came back with its warm intentions did it actually seem bearable.
Halim pulled his dagger from his belt, Burhan already gripping his weapon tight.
“Wait until the birth Halim, Enorstide will speak to you through the birth.” Burhan trying to sound comforting.
I do not believe in Enorstide anymore... Halim thought as he tried to keep pace with Burhan. They kill unbelievers.
The two giants caught up with their target, a sluggish elephant detached from its herd, losing its strength from the dry, heated atmosphere. A deadly sun pulling the moisture from the skin of the dehydrated animal. Its herd was now well out of range to turn back and help defend it.
Burhan leaped first, inserting his blade into the back of the unsuspecting elephant. Halim waited for the reaction from the beast, which focused its attention on the invader on his back. The large animal turned its head left, his body following behind. Then Halim struck. Jabbing his dagger below the creature, into his stomach, gutting it.
After an abrupt attempt at throwing the giant off its back, the elephant finally collapsed in surrender.
“Yeah!” Burhan shouted as he rode the beast down, landing on his feet after the animal struck the sand below. “Feels good,” he added as he removed his weapon from the nearly dead elephant.
Halim was less enthused with the kill, his pregnant wife and his ten year old son were at the forefront of his mind. Burhan could see that on his face.
The elder giant opened his arms to invite the full view of the massive creature they just hunted, imploring his fellow hunter, “Look at this beast Halim. You and I will feed the village for a week, you cannot overlook that.”
“Will you help me? will you speak with the other elders on my behalf?” He asked as he bent down to begin gutting the elephant.
“I will offer counsel in your favor, but it is the majority of the elders that will make any final decisions.” Burhan placed his hand on Halim’s shoulder, gripped it, then released, joining him in the meat removal.
“What if we are wrong about...” The younger giant held his tongue, regretting he actually started to ask a blasphemous question. He stood, holding his blade in disgust, blood dripping from the tip, an image of his firstborn’s sacrifice shot across his mind.
“About what?” The Elder stood, breaking from his slicing of the elephant. Standing tall in the face of Halim, eyes holding steady on his. “About what?” repeating himself, only softer this time.
“Everything, what if we are wrong about everything we have been taught?” Halim spoke generally. About our stupid god who wants us to sacrifice our infants, what if there is no god? His thoughts more narrowing.
“We will ask Enorstide when we return to the village.” Burhan chuckled and followed it with an unfriendly grin. “Come, take some meat over your shoulder, the village awaits us.”
Halim knelt just enough for about two hundred and fifty pounds of stripped elephant meat to be thrown over his shoulder, a decent load for a giant, his elder grabbed nearly three hundred pounds.
Chapter Seven
Waves crashed against the shoreline’s rocky cliffs, children played at the edges, daring each other to get closer. Itamar paid little attention as the youth around him tossed stones and broken branches into the rough waters below.
His mind was still on the kill. Events of the beast he had conquered continued to entertain his thoughts. In his own profession, he was godlike. No other hunter could live to tell of the places he had been, the depths of the forest he plunged, the bleak chances he turned into victories. And this last hunt, he felt his pride topple the throne of heaven.
Itamar was reliving the hunt in his mind. How close the leviathan approached, seeing its teeth ravaging for his flesh, the smell of fresh blood oozing after he killed the animal... and the fire from his nostrils.
He was obsessed with hunting the great leviathan. He wanted to be there again. Soon.
He checked his quiver, he was low on arrows. Pulling one out, he clutched it tight, held the back end to one eye, closing the other. He aimed it out towards the ocean, his mind guiding its flight, where are you God?
“Sir!” A small voice interrupted Itamar’s assault.
“Young one, what is it you want?” Itamar was now aware the boy had been asking him for something.
“Have you water to spare good man?” the boy inquired again, possibly for the third or forth time.
“No.” Itamar shook his head gently, looking down at the boy, he saw himself in the child, the hunter wished he did have the water to give.
The boy turned to leave, Itamar searched himself for words.
“Boy!” He shouted to him, the small child turned, not more than ten steps from the hunter. Itamar continued, “The ancients say; if you shoot an arrow high enough into the heavens, water will fall from its windows.”
“Have you seen it done?” the now intrigued boy asked.
“I have tried my little friend, but I have never seen it. Here, take this arrow, maybe one day you can try too.” He tossed the arrow from his hand, the boy caught it, thanked him, and was off to show the other children.
Itamar watched the boy for a minute, then hummed a line from an old swaddling song,
“Where children play by day
At night they run away”
The village he despised most was only a few hundred paces from here. Five years ago would be the last time he set foot in this small seaport village called by foreigners as Samak, Although known for the trading posts and hundreds of exotic foods from the sea, the town still was best described as smelling like fish. Though no official name was ever given to the village, Samak was appearing in maps and writings with that very label. Samak was a word northerners called a school of fish, and so the name lasted throughout the years.
As much as Itamar loathed and despised this village, he enjoyed the value of his goods at the trading outlets. Each Leviathan he killed carried one the most valuable commodities; a firebone.
A Leviathan’s firebone was easily worth a bag of gold, a rare item in a world that created and destroyed things daily. The small object retained value, as nothing like it could be duplicated. Its function of replicating a wall of fire, shooting its flames at distances beyond the reach of a sword, and the ability to burn houses down in minutes made it a weapon of choice for those who could afford such luxurious item for self-defense.
Itamar had a small satchel of these bones, none of which had been used, the oil still full, their danger still great. He smiled at his prize, it was proof he was a master at his craft, and the payment for his achievement would be great.
He approached the village with usual caution; thieves and bandits would be watching all who entered the town. The hunter had a small encounter his last visit, and was already prepared for one again.
Looking back at the children one last time, he hummed the lines again, recalling his own experience, “where children play by day, at night they run away...”
He argued with himself to not think about his own childhood, his parents’ death at a young age, the fear he transformed into anger, becoming fearless, yet so hateful towards God. He did not need to know of pleasantries other than the killing of the great beasts of the forests.
As fires killed the old, the young were traded for gold. He continued the song, trying to remember the next lines. A sad song, sung to him by
the woman who raised him, a survivor of the horrors that overtook his village in his weaning age. This village.
Giants from the darkness, we are slaves to all of this. Itamar often thought of the giants, but never thought of them as real, only as mythical as his childhood memories. A distant summoning within himself always wondered, he did not allow himself to think on it long enough, or dare mention it to those he rarely encountered. It was merely a drumbeat he grew familiar to, enough that he ignored it.
At the entrance to the city now, the weary traveling hunter was looking for a trade post, and searching for the last line of the song, something about lost hope and revenge.
The children on the rocks had brought back so many of the memories he worked so hard to push back, now he was scrambling to put them back in the hidden borrows of his head, but he wanted to think about them, he needed to know the last lines of the song. He found a bench outside of a tavern, men came in and out of the wooden doors, and some smelled of alcohol, others were soaked in it.
The last line popped into his head. Is God to blame for this, or just a moment he missed.
Chapter Eight
Below the dungeons, in a chamber known by the ancients as “The Bitter Trench,” Malik met with five other men for a private council.
They were concealed in a room they all knew as well as each other. Secrets kept down here, haunted their nights above.
Candles lit the chamber. Sluggish flickers of dim light sent six shadows splashing against thick decaying stonewalls. Low ceilings demanded all guests to hunch over, an uncomfortable circle of chairs forced everyone to lean into each other. They could see each others souls, and smell each others day.
They were all seated, Malik watched as his men struggled to find comfort in the small cavern, there was non to be found, for any of them.
Malik, being the top advisor to King Altair, a meeting like this would be considered treasonous, and why not, it was.
