AN ALCHEMIST LORD
Who am I? I am Markav Shrang an Alchemist Lord. I know that you do not recognize what that means. My civilization is gone, destroyed by the Shrake warlords that now rule your world. For hundreds of years, we kept the peace, made and broke nations, defied armies and even controlled the very elements. Although I am gone, I still reach out to you as a whisper on the wind. We have preserved our histories and the secret of transmuting matter to come again to our descendants when the time is right. I am Markav Shrang, an Alchemist Lord.
-From the Personal Journal of Markav Shrank-
Dela landed lightly upon the ground, between the Morian army and the savage horde of Neo warriors which was pouring forth from the gorge onto the Field of Cushan. Their bodies were painted red and white and their battle horns filled the air causing even the bravest of warriors to tremble at the sight of the on-coming host. But not Dela----she smiled and straightened from a crouch to her full height. Her sudden appearance caught the advancing Neo warriors off guard slowing their advances as they focused on the solitary figure standing tall and erect before them. Dela slowly pushed back the cowl that hid her face, as the Neos continued to pour forth from the gorge. Reaching out with the Flux, Dela felt the river of energy flow into her and she began to pull the earth up towards her outstretched hand forming a swirling vortex of sand which solidified into a dark wooden staff. Then with a yell born of adrenaline, excitement, and a little fear, she charged the oncoming army.
The Neo warriors in the lead recovered quickly from their shock and before Dela could reach them, a hail of arrows, spears, and knives swept toward her. Again she reached out with the Flux transforming the oncoming projectiles to water. The mist sprayed her as momentum carried her forward, soaking her from head to toe----then she was among the savage horde.
Everything around Dela seemed to slow as she began to flow among the Neo warriors. Her senses sharpened, her body felt alive and invigorated as she spun and whirled through and among her enemies. Her staff shot out, catching one alongside the head, another in the belly, and swept the legs out from under a third. Dela’s hands and feet were busy as well, lashing out with blurring speed. She was a true Alchemist Lord, flowing like water through every hole and crack in their ranks. Everywhere she went warriors went down in heaps. The forward motion of the Neo army ground to a halt as they confronted this new opponent, giving the Morian forces time to regroup into a coherent battle front.
When the Morian army reformed their lines, Dela leapt into the air flipping backwards so she landed between the two armies. The Neo warriors picked themselves up--looking out at Dela, who stood all alone. Her green robes swirling around her, the wind shaping them to the contours of her body. She stood confident her red hair fluid in the wind--her black staff held boldly in front of her. Her very confidence and manner, as well as the pummeling they had just received, gave the Neo army pause----after all who would stand all alone to defy an entire army?
Then a leaders of the Neo warriors cried out, Veneratio pro vita. Death before dishonor. Soon the entire army took up the call, Veneratio pro vita. The ground and air vibrated from the thunderous roar. At the command of their leaders they knelt as one, notched their bows, and fired a hail of arrows which filled the open sky. Again Dela reached out with the Flux converting the arrows into dust which rained down upon the Morian army.
With the battle cry, Veneratio pro vita, the Neos leapt forward again. Dela braced, ready for action. She heard Ryker Hamar, the leader of the Morian army, call out, “Ready your arms,” and the front two rows of Morian soldiers lifted their shields and planted their spears to repel the oncoming attack.
Just before they reached her, Dela flipped backwards through the air, clearing the heads of the Morian soldier’s front line. At the same time, she turned the ground in front of the charging horde of Neo warriors into a pool of water. They charged into the knee deep water and she let them come until they had filled the pool. Then using the Flux she changed the water into rock. Howls of dismay and fear filled the air as the front ranks of the Neo army found themselves encased in stone.
Dela landed nimbly among the Morian ranks and looked out at the Neo horde that still continued to pour out of the gorge. She set her jaw as she thought of the events that had thrown her and Zen into a war that was sweeping across the nation of Morian and in the end would probably cover the entire world of Iora. Well, she thought as she watched the now petrified Neo horde, the people of Iora will once again remember what it means to face an Alchemist Lord. With that thought, Dela strode over to converse with the leader of the Morian army. The battle for the city of Gem had begun.
CHAPTER 1
UNREST(Six Months Earlier)
Zen Storm stopped, a grin spreading across his face, as he looked up at the structure towering before him. A few people grumbled as they stepped around him, but most were far too anxious to get inside to stop and make a fuss. The games of Maltar were about to begin.
The Town of Maltar hosted the best arena games for fifty leagues in any direction. People came from as far as Camlen Lakes and Tholton to participate in and watch the games. Zen watched as people filed through the three arched openings which allowed entrance to the arena. Stop gaping like a country lad come to town for the first time, he told himself and followed the crowd into the arena.
Zen had come to Maltar to talk to the army recruiter about joining the garrison that protected the Maltar area; that, and of course, to participate in the arena games. He was sixteen and large in stature for his age. The Storms were blacksmiths by trade and he had developed a powerful build from his work in the forge. At sixteen, he was of age to be choosing a career. In fact, as his father was fond of saying, it is past time for you to decide what you are going to do with your life Zen. You need to grow up and take on your responsibilities.
“The problem is, Dad,” Zen said, to no one in particular as he recalled his father’s words. “I don’t know what I want to do.” A few people turned their heads to look at the strange boy talking to himself. He felt his cheeks heat up when he realized he had said the words out loud. Setting his jaw, he determined not to make the same mistake again and followed the crowd through the arched entrance to the arena.
Zen's older brother Hanar chose to follow in the family’s footsteps and apply his skill at the forge, which had made everyone happy. His father reminded Zen often that they would be happy to have him join them as well. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy the work, because he did. He just couldn’t see himself settling down to it.
Lately he had been training with their village weapons master, Deka. Deka felt that for his age, Zen was one of the best athletes and weapon handlers in the entire area. It was he who mentioned that Zen might think of joining the garrison around Maltar.
He liked the idea of going beyond his small village and fighting for the freedom of his people, but there was a problem. He loved the thrill of combat and rush of adrenalin that came with it, yet when it came to taking someone’s life . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I’m not sure I can do it, he told himself. There it was, his dilemma; how can I be a soldier and be afraid to take someone’s life? Stop thinking about it, he told himself and pushed his worries from his mind.
When he entered the arena, Zen was immediately assailed by the smell of sweat and un-washed bodies, which caused him to wrinkle his nose. Dust hung thick in the air and stung at his eyes. What I wouldn’t give for a breeze right now he thought, as he reached back and pulled his long black hair off his neck, then quickly tied it back with a leather strap. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the palm of his hand and looked around.
The arena was a wide-open dirt field in the shape of an oval which measured one-hundred –fifty feet long by sixty feet wide. A small fence about chest high ran all the way around the dirt arena. Bleachers were built behind the fence upon a lattice work of wood rising to over twenty---five feet high. Long boards worn smooth from bodies that had occupied them over the years made up the seats.
Zen turned right and walked down the dirt path in front of the bleachers, his feet sending puffs of dust into the air. He squinted, looking up at the seats, when he heard his name yelled over the din. Shading his eyes, Zen swept the crowd, looking to see who had called his name. Half--way up the wooden bleachers and to his left he saw Deka waving his hand for Zen to join him. Zen grinned then started his climb up the bleachers, stepping over and around those already seated, and murmuring apologies as he went.
“Hello, lad,” Deka boomed out in a friendly voice. He reached out a hand, pulling Zen up and slapping him on the back. “I was hoping to see you here today.” There it was again, he thought. Everyone is always calling me a lad. They say grow up, yet they won’t treat me as an adult--All the responsibilities and none of the privileges. Wisely, he kept his thoughts to himself, besides he liked Deka.
Deka was a medium-sized man standing just under six feet tall. He was clean shaven except for long side burns which ran down the side of his face. His brown curly hair was set off by eyes of brilliant blue. With a lean face and sharp jaw line, Deka always made the heads of the ladies turn. He currently wore a brown shirt tucked into buckskin trousers with a large leather belt to hold them up. Deka was wire thin, but as Zen had learned the man could put power behind a punch.
“I didn’t know you were coming in today or I would have joined you,” Zen said.
“I actually didn’t come in today,” Deka responded. “I came yesterday to meet some old acquaintances and pay off some debts.”
“Would one of those acquaintances be Ryker, the army recruiter?”
Deka grinned like a man who knew a secret. “So you did see him, I figured you would. How did it go?”
Zen shrugged and looked out over the arena. “All right I guess. He was friendly enough and seemed interested in me.”
“So do you think you will join the garrison?” Deka asked slowly as if hesitant to know the answer.
“I don’t know. A part of me says yes I should go and then another part says . . . well, I just don’t know.” Then he changed the subject. “Ryker said you guys fought together in the last Neo wars. He also said you were a good man to have around.”
It was Deka’s turn to stare out over the arena, his mind wandering back to the wars. “He was too,” he said softly, almost to himself. “That was a long time ago and yet it seems like yesterday. I experienced a lot of things and made some great friends, but just between us, I hope that we don’t ever have to go through those days again.”
Hesitating, his training master looked down at his hands. “However, I fear that we will. There is talk of Neos having been sighted up in the Black Root Mountains above Camlen Lakes. Hunting parties are disappearing and the garrisons are recruiting everywhere. There is a spirit of unrest."
“So is this how the war began last time?”
“No, it’s different this time,” Deka replied, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Last time they came over the mountains in droves. Now it’s like they’re after something, but I don’t know what.” He shrugged and said, “It just feels different.”
A crease crossed Zen's forehead as he considered what Deka just revealed. It brought back the decision that weighed on his mind. Do I go to war? Can I handle the brutality of it all? It is one thing to compete in a game but can I take another’s life? Zen wasn’t sure he had the answers to these questions.
“Are you all right?” Deka inquired, noticing the change in Zen’s face.
“Yeah, I was just thinking.” Then, not wanting to talk about it, he asked, “I noticed there were quite a few guards in the gate houses and arrow towers, is that common?”
“No,” Deka said, “With so many people here today and the sightings near the Camlen Lakes, Ryker said they were just being careful.”
“This morning on my way in, I stopped to get a drink at the Ivory River,” Zen said, “You know where the old river trail comes in on the west side of the river?” Deka nodded his head in acknowledgement. I was sitting there for moment just thinking, when I saw a flash of red movement in the brush on the other side of the river. It thought it was a person but I only caught a glimpse.”
Deka was about to respond, when the audience around them broke into cheers. They looked out over the audience to see the mistress of the arena sauntering toward the center of the ring.
CHAPTER 2
THE ARENA
The Mistress of the Arena was dressed in a vest made of white fur that reflected the light causing it to sparkle in every direction. She had on tight leather pants and boots that laced all the way up to her knees. Her long black hair cascaded down her back and she held a long whip that dragged lazily in the dust. Cheers and whistles grew with every step her supple body made.
“Shut your mouth before you start drooling,” Deka said, grinning from ear to ear. Zen blushed at the thought that he had been caught being so enthralled by the ring mistress.
“Her name is Hefa," he continued, "And don’t let looks deceive you. She is as hard as iron and could take off my whiskers with that whip. You don’t become the mistress of the arena by being soft.”
As if on cue, Hefa brought her whip up and around snapping it so hard the crack silenced everyone. The crowd stood and thundered their applause as Hefa slowly turned in a circle scanning her audience. She's a beautiful woman by anyone’s standards, he thought. Her body was slim but firm and curved in all the right places as if a master sculpture had carved her that way. A face smooth with a slight hint of pink to her cheeks, stared out at the assembled audience.
Two men entered the arena and made their way over to the large cabinets built against the walls. Opening the cabinets, they pulled out wooden stands that were about eight feet high. They attached a round disk on a string to each and began placing them around the arena. Next they went to the stalls and released two white horses. The horses had long silver mains flowing down their necks and gigantic hooves that sprayed dust into the air as they pranced to the center of the arena where Hefa stood.
Flipping her whip up and around her shoulder, she tucked the butt of it under her arm and sprang onto the back of the nearest horse. Taking the rope of her first mount in one hand, she reached out and grabbed the second horse’s rope. She pulled the two ropes together, then stood up with one foot on each horse. She placed the ropes in one hand, then used the other to unwind the whip from her shoulder and brought it around her head with a sharp crack.
The two horses reared up and then shot forward as one, dirt flying and hoofs pounding as they raced toward the entrance that led to the main thoroughfare of Maltar. As they neared the gate, Hefa pulled the horses to the left and began to circle the arena. Approaching the first stand that had been set up, her whip came up and around with a snap, shattering the round disk which had been tied to it into hundreds of tiny pieces. The sound shot across the assembled crowd making them flinch. Racing around the arena, she repeated the feat flicking her whip with breath taking speed. At the last one, after shattering the disk, she flicked the whip back catching the stand and flung it into the air. It soared up over the fence and hung suspended in the air for a breathtaking moment then plunged toward the crowed seated in the stands. The audience dived out of the way as it hurtled into the benches, shattering on impact. The bench it landed on did not fare much better, breaking in half, it dangled from the lattice work that held it aloft. The crowd leapt to their feet and roared with excitement.
Returning to the center of the arena Hefa dismounted with a backwards flip, while the horses were still running. The crowd exploded again with shouts that shook the bleachers. With three quick cracks of her whip she brought them back to silence.
“Let the games begin!” she shouted, and strode calmly out of the arena surrounded by the deafening roar of the crowd.
The next person to enter the ring was the Wilderon cat fighter. He was tall with long flowing limbs and his head was completely shaved. His muscles rippled under bronzed skin, a hint at the power and agility he possessed. The only clothing he wore was a loin cloth made from the hide of the great Wilderon cat. A short knife hung at his belt and a coil of rope slung over his shoulder.
“He looks to be from the Mammoth Gorge area,” Deka said. “Most of the really good cat fighters are.” Zen nodded his head in recognition of the comment.
The crowd fell silent as a metal cage was rolled into the arena. The cage contained the biggest Wilderon cat Zen had ever seen. It was at least five feet tall at its shoulders and weighed over six hundred pounds. His fur was glossy black and covered with small flecks of orange. The cat paced back and forth on abnormally large padded paws, the silky black hair on the back of its legs trailing like spider webs caught in the wind. Snarling and pacing in its cage, it frequently charged the bars screaming its rage to the world. Two long canine teeth hung down six inches past its upper jaw and when it snarled, you could see the true size of these pearly white weapons of death.
The Wilderon fighter walked over and pulled the pin holding the cage’s front door closed, letting it crash to the ground with a dull thud sending a cloud of dust into the air. Out sprang six hundred pounds of pure muscle and sinew, roaring its anger to the assembled crowd. The cat hit the ground in a crouch and began to scan its surroundings, ready to spring into action.
Yelling, the Wilderon fighter focused the cat’s attention on himself. It barred its fangs in a snarl, bunched its feet underneath its body, then sprang at the fighter. The warrior darted straight for the lunging beast but at the last moment slid under its outstretched claws. The cat pivoted and slashed out again but the warrior was gone - a quick roll having placed him several feet away.
The cat grew cautious and began to circle reappraising its prey. It seemed to realize that this scrawny two-legged beast would be more of a challenge than it had originally anticipated. Its screams and snarls stopped and its golden eyes focused on the bronze-skinned warrior before it.
At this point, the warrior pulled the rope from his shoulder. He created a large loop holding it in his right hand and kept the rest of the rope, still coiled, in his left. He began to taunt the big cat, throwing his hand forward with the open loop. The Wilderon cat swiped his large paw out swift as a snake trying to snag the loop.
After circling each other for a few seconds, the cat charged again. The fighter rolled under one of the swinging paws, grabbed the hair on the back of the big cat’s leg and used his momentum to swing up onto its back . Before the cat could react, the fighter slipped the noose around its neck. The Wilderon cat went crazy. It leaped and spun in the air crashing onto its back trying to dislodge the bronzed fighter, but the man hung on.
Zen realized at this point it would be a battle of endurance. If the cat tired first, the warrior would be able to loop its foot, plunge the knife under the right foreleg and sever its largest artery. The cat would bleed to death in a matter of seconds. But if the fighter lost his grip, he would be ripped to pieces by the Wilderon cat.
Their mad struggle brought them close to the cage and the cat made an unexpected twist, slamming the fighter against the metal bars. The warrior lost his grip and slipped from the its back. Luckily he landed underneath the wagon and with a quick push backwards rolled even further under, avoiding the claws that swept down to catch him. The crowded around Zen all sat silently on the edge of their seats waiting to see if the warrior would re-appear as the cat paced back and forth snarling and swiping at the wagon. Finally, it leapt backwards, roared and charged slamming its full weight into the wagon.
The wagon exploded, sending splinters of wood flying in all directions and the metal cage soared fifteen feet into the air then plummeted back to the arena floor. The few moments of reprieve, however, gave the Wilderon fighter the time he needed to get his breath and wits back. He sprinted for the metal cage, the cat following on his heels. Just as the warrior reached the cage, the cat sprang. With wondrous agility, the bronzed fighter ran up the side of the cage and did a backwards flip over the top of the Wilderon cat. Reaching out he caught the fur right behind its head and pivoted landing on the cat’s back as it slammed into the cage.
The frenzy began again but this time the cat did not have its original stamina. A few minutes later it began to stagger and its chest heaved as it fought to get enough air. The fighter quickly made another loop with his rope and caught the cat’s right foreleg pulling it tight. With one swift move he pulled out his knife and swiped it across the cat’s main artery under the right leg. The fighter then rolled free of the cat and began circling, watching the beast warily. The cat rose and then fell again to the ground. It snarled and tried to get up but was losing blood too fast. It shuddered and convulsed one last time then lay still in a pool of blood.
The bronze warrior approached the big cat and dropped to one knee before the carcass of the giant beast. He stretched out his hands as he bowed, his right hand in a fist, the left enveloping the right. Then the fighter arose, walked over to the beast’s head, stroked its mane and turned to stride out of the arena, the crowd’s cheers of excitement rolling after him.
He doesn’t care, Zen thought as he watched the man go. In fact he feels contempt toward us. He does not even acknowledge our cheers or the applause. Peering more closely at the man, Zen felt he could see a haunted look upon the man’s face.
“You seem to be deep in thought, Zen. What is on your mind?” Deka asked.
Zen turned to look at his companion “What did you think of that fighter?”
“What do you mean?” Deka inquired, not sure what Zen meant by the question.
“Did you see the look on his face when he exited the arena? Do you think he enjoys doing what he does?”
Deka shrugged and said, “Honestly, Zen, I came just to enjoy the games. I really didn’t think much about his reactions. Is there a reason you’re asking me?”
“No,” Zen said, shrugging it off as he pushed the thought from his mind.
“Good then let’s go down to the arena,” Deka said, “After all, this is the part we came for, the combat in arms. Are you ready?”
“You bet,” Zen responded, excitement returning to his voice. They both stood up and headed down the bleachers toward the arena.
CHAPTER 3
SHRAKE WAR LORD
Zen and Deka leaned against the fence which ran around the arena, waiting for Hefa to call the contestants into the arena. Out of the corner of his eye, Zen noticed a man step through one of the gates and stride toward the arena. A murmur passed through the crowd as others noticed him as well. It was against the rules for a contestant to enter the arena before the mistress had called for them.
This man, however, moved with a confidence that suggested the rules did not apply to him. He was a few inches taller than Zen with blond hair spilling down to his shoulder blades and a red bandana holding it back from his eyes. He wore a loose fitting pair of black pants and was shirtless, showing off his muscular frame. Strapped to his back were two kantanas which stuck out over his right and left shoulders. Where the scabbard, hilt, and handle met, was an image--the same symbol appeared to be on the bandana as well.
The Mistress of the Arena, sensing the change in the mood, turned to see what was going on. Anger flared in her eyes, then Zen saw her look change to fear.
Curious, he turned to ask Deka about it only to see the same look on his face as well.
“What’s going on?” He asked as a feeling of dread began to build in his stomach. “Do you know who that is?”
Deka slowly turned to look at Zen. “That is a Shrake warlord, Zen.”
Zen's eye brows rose with the statement and a smile crept onto his face. “Shrakes are just legends. Myths, made up over the ages about unbeatable warriors,” Zen said, his tone of voice clearly reflecting that he thought that Deka was playing a joke on him. “We pretended we were Shrakes when we were kids but they are just that … made-up.”
“Oh no, they’re real,” Deka responded his voice wavering. “I saw one in battle and it was the most frightening thing I have ever seen. You can tell by the markings on his swords and bandana. They are of a Calamari. This man is every bit as fast and mean as the Calamari, not scared of anything or anyone.”
“Why is he here?” Zen asked.
“That’s the scary part,” Deka responded. “There’s no way he just showed up for a little entertainment and I doubt he just walked in through the gates. When a Shrake shows up, you can bet that there is something very important at stake.”
They brought their conversation up short as they heard the Shrake’s voice, cool and smooth, call out to the gathered crowed.
“I have come to join your competition today,” he said, as he turned around in a circle eyeing the crowd. Reaching down to his waist, he untied a leather bag and tossed it on the ground in front of him “There are one hundred silver pieces for any person who can defeat me in combat--who will take the offer?”
Zen let out an involuntary gasp. That’s two years wages, he thought. The crowd began to mutter but no one stepped out to take the challenge.
Finally, a grin split the Shrake's face and his voice rang out again. “Fine, if no one is brave enough perhaps we can even the odds. I will challenge ten of your best fighters. If they can defeat me, I will double the amount. What do you say to that? Are there any takers out there or are you all a bunch of cowards?”
“I don’t like this,” Deka said turning to Zen. “Something is definitely wrong. I am going to go find Ryker. Promise me, Zen, you won’t have anything to do with this.”
“I promise, but . . . ”
“No buts,” Deka exclaimed, grabbing Zen by his shirt, his grip hard and his jaw set. “Promise me, you have no idea how dangerous this man is!”
“Ok.” Zen said as he slowly removed Deka’s hand from off his shirt. He was taken aback by the urgency in his friend’s voice.
“Good, I will be back as soon as I can.” Deka said as he turned and rushed out of the arena.
Watching him go, Zen felt a ball of dread begin to tighten in his stomach. The spirits take me, he whispered, as he nervously ran his hands through his hair. Deka was always so calm and collected. He had never seen him like this before. Surely it was not just the presence of this Shrake warlord that would cause him to act this way.
Zen turned his attention back to the arena and noticed that a group of people were in a circle conversing together. By their hand gestures and the looks on their faces they seemed to be in a heated debate. Finally, two of them shook their heads in disgust and walked away. The warrior saw them as well and sensing that a decision had been made he spoke to the group.
“I will offer the same proposal to you. Is that acceptable?”
A smaller man, with a long drooping mustache, stepped forward. He bowed, his hand over his heart, never taking his eyes off the Shrake. “Yes, we do accept your offer,” he replied.
“Very well, arm yourselves,” the Shrake said. Then the Shrake turned his back on them walking to the middle of the arena. He reached back and grabbed both kantanas and as quick as lightening he brought them out of their sheaths, flipped them around, and drove them half-way to the hilt in the ground. Kneeling on one knee he placed his hands on his swords, closed his eyes, and waited.
The group of eleven combatants hesitated for a moment and then hurried to retrieve their favored weapons. The atmosphere was charged. The hair at the back of Zen's neck stood on end. He looked down at his hands which were white from gripping the railing so tight. He forced himself to relax his hands. Light, why am I so uptight?
The combatants began to assemble and the man with the drooping mustache began to point them in different directions, so that they encircled the Shrake warlord. This man must be insane, Zen thought. I don’t care how good you are, no one can beat eleven men in combat, when the eleven are well-trained and at the top of their weapons class. At that moment a weasel faced man with a whip brought it up and around striking at the kneeling Shrake’s face. The whip never found its mark.
The Shrake warrior’s eyes snapped open and his hand shot up catching the whip with his left hand. Without flinching he yanked the man with incredible force toward him. Dropping both hands back to his kantanas, the Shrake kicked out and up, catching the man in the chest. There was a crunch and the man flew back crumpling in a heap. The warrior followed through with his momentum flipping backwards and at the same time yanking the two swords out of the ground. This brought him in front of the man with the mustache who was the group’s leader. The men met the Shrake’s attack, their swords colliding as the other nine closed in.
A man with a quarter staff struck at the Shrake’s head but the warrior’s sword came back and up with such speed it cut the staff in two perfect halves. The Shrake flipped up and out over the heads of the combatants, his foot catching the man with the quarter staff in the chin. The man was out cold and dropped to the ground in a motionless heap and the Shrake landed out of the reach of the group. He sat there crouched on his feet waiting for them--a wicked smile across his face.
“Come and get your reward,” the Shrake said, his voice as cold as ice. Then he charged and Zen could not believe what happened. One minute the warrior was in the air vertical to the ground, the next, crouched under a swinging sword. He could bend over backward and still swing his sword with perfect accuracy. His kantanas swirled and flashed so quickly they looked like one solid sheet of metal. His feet shot out in one direction, his swords flying in another. In less than thirty seconds it was all over. Eleven superb fighting men lay motionless on the ground.
The Shrake strode over to one of the dead men and wiped his swords off on the combatant’s robes and then stood slowly sheathing his swords. Zen realized this man was as dangerous as Deka had said. He was indeed the invincible warrior Zen and his friends had made him up to be. Cold fear crept over his body. .
“Is that the best you have?” the Shrake asked, laughing at the assembled crowd. “Who will challenge me next?” he yelled, throwing his hands into the air. He turned in a circle boring into the crowd with his eyes. When his eyes met Zen's, they stopped. They were hard silver eyes that shined like polished metal. An evil grin of triumph crossed the Shrake War Lord’s face and with a determined step he started forward.
Zen felt his stomach drop and all thought fled. Fear gripped his body, freezing him in place. One thing he was absolutely sure of - he was about to die.
CHAPTER 4
FLIGHT
As the Shrake approached Zen two things happened: a loud boom shook the arena and the back wall shuddered violently. A second boom sounded and the wall shattered throwing splinters of wood in all directions. A metal battering ram, with the head of an eagle, thrust its way through the wall. Immediately Neo warriors painted white and red sprang through the gaping hole. Their heads were shorn in the Jaimary style, with only a small patch at the back of the skull which was long and braided down their backs. They carried the traditional battle axes and bows of their clans. Their battle cries filled the arena as they swarmed inside.
At the same time the garrison of Maltar began to poor into the arena. The front row knelt at the command of Ryker and sent a hail of arrows streaming toward the Shrake warlord. It was as if the Shrake’s swords leapt into his hands and he began to swing them in a circle, knocking the arrows aside - shattering shafts and scattering arrow heads in all directions.
Zen still felt terrified, frozen in place, as if he were only a spectator watching a game play out around him. People screamed, fleeing in terror. Soldiers rushed forward to meet the horde of Neo Warriors. The Shrake was in the mist of it all creating death and destruction and still Zen couldn't move. A hand grasped his shoulder and spun him around.
“We’ve got to go!” Deka shouted above the roar. Yet Zen stood frozen in place. His master shook him. “Zen, snap out of it, we have got to get out of here. This is a death trap!”
Finally, Zen felt his lungs began to breathe and the blood began to flow back into his limbs. His mind snapped into place as he sprang into motion. They moved up the benches to the top of the arena and climbed down the scaffolding on the other side. As Zen turned to climb down, the Shrake warlord turned also, fixing him with a cold iron gaze. The Shrake pointed his sword at Zen and his face clearly said, this is not over yet. Then the Shrake was again surrounded by assailants and had to turn his attention from Zen. Not hesitating to see what else might happen, Zen was over the top and climbing toward the ground below.
Jumping the last few feet he landed in a crouch and sprinted, with Deka, toward the center of the town. Fires were beginning to leap through windows and onto the roofs of the homes and shops of Maltar. Black clouds of smoke filled the sky and the screams of the dying filled the streets. This can't be happening, Zen told himself as Deka turned down a side street.
A Neo warrior stepped into the street and Deka plowed into him sending the man sprawling to the ground. They skidded to a stop as they realized that the courtyard before the main city gate was full of warriors and soldiers engaged in battle.
“We need to warn the village," he said, "I think our best plan will be to force our way through the Neo warriors at the gate.” Deka pointed at a cluster of Neo warriors assembled there. “Then we will head for the river. If we get separated, keep going.” Zen nodded to show his understanding and pushed down his fear as both of them sprinted across the courtyard.
Deka drew his sword in preparation for their rush. Zen realized belatedly he had no weapons on him. It's too late for that now, he thought, as they headed for the gates. He moved behind Deka as he began to push through the fighting throng of Neo and Maltarian soldiers. They made it past the first gate house without any incidents but at the second they encountered a knot of Neo warriors. Deka snarled and leapt at the closest one.
One charged towards Zen, swinging his battle axe in a figure eight. The man grunted as an arrow sprouted out of his chest and the axe slipped from his fingers. There was no time to wonder who his benevolent benefactor was for another Neo was already aiming a wicked slice at his head. Zen ducked under the blow and pushed up with his shoulder, flipping the warrior over his back. He then picked up the axe from the fallen Neo and began swinging it in a figure eight before him. The other Neos seemed more interested in obtaining the city and scrambled past him toward the gate.
Zen saw Deka was still in combat with two Neo warriors and quickly hurled the axe at one of them. His throw was off and it only bounced off the warriors back. It was enough to make him turn and Deka finished him off. An arrow sprouted in the neck of Deka's other assailant and Zen looked up to see several archers in the towers on top of the walls. We were lucky, he thought as they both sprinted free of the gates and into the clearing beyond.
Zen thought he was going to be sick and felt the bile rising in his throat from all the death and carnage he had just witnessed. Don’t think about it. Just run, he told himself pushing the nausea down. But the images kept flashing through his mind. I killed those men, was the consistent thought that kept intruding its way into his brain. He could see all the city gates being attacked and battering rams were pounding at the walls. This city is going to fall, Zen realized as he ran. Again, sorrow and regret filled him for the loss of the city of Maltar and the inhabitants that would die this day. The Neos were known for being ruthless in battle sparing none but those they wanted for slaves or torture. Stop thinking and run, he told himself, or you’ll be the one dead.
Deka was running about thirty feet away, parallel to his course which would take them into the forest. Most of the Neo archers were occupied with the city’s towers and gates and took no thought to shoot down two fleeing men.
They were still in shouting distance of each other and only a hundred feet from the forest when Zen heard the twang of a bow string. He reacted instinctively springing to the side and rolling as a shaft whistled past his head. A dozen Neo warriors sprang out of the trees to cut them off. Jumping back to his feet, Zen ran a zigzag course for a few seconds, to avoid more arrows and then with every ounce of strength left in his limbs, he raced into the trees. He saw Deka had done the same, heading the opposite direction into the tree line. The leader of the Neo warriors pointed at six warriors and motioned for them to follow Zen and the rest followed Deka.
He was a swift runner, but his limbs were tiring – the burning and fatigue building as he strained to get ahead. The Neos kept a straight course forcing him to continue straight as well, which was leading him away from Deka and their village.
Realizing he would have to pace himself or he would be spent too quickly he gave up the attempt to join Deka and ran in a course parallel to the Neo warriors. He was a good hundred feet ahead and he should be able to stay in the lead and out of the range of their arrows. The dense forest made it hard for them to shoot on the run, but running became more difficult as well. The branches snagged and whipped him causing minor cuts and scrapes. He ignored the discomfort, pushing on as fast as he could. Zen knew the river was not more than half a league ahead, his fear lending him strength.
After what seemed like an eternity, he heard the dull murmur of the river in the distance. His lungs heaved and gasped trying to get enough air. Tired muscles screamed for him to stop or they would collapse in agony. Run or the Neos will stop all of this pain for you, he thought, shoving the pain and worry away like a man throwing an assailant from him.
Without warning, an axe barreled straight at his head and Zen had no time to think. He let his feet go out from under him as he went vertical and the world began to move in slow motion. He slid under the whirling blade watching the head and shaft as it spun over the top of him. He thought if he wanted to, he could reach out grab the blade and look at the craftsmanship of the weapon. Then everything went back to normal speed as a Neo warrior stepped out from behind a tree. The warrior leapt at him, a large knife in his hand. Zen rolled to the side missing the knife that buried itself in the ground beside him, but was too slow to avoid a kick in the ribs. Grunting at the pain, he rolled with the kick back onto his feet and again headed for the river. He was about twenty feet away and could hear the Neo warriors right on his heels. Run, was the only thought that entered his brain as the edge of the gorge hurtled toward him.
This part of the Ivory River went through a rocky ravine forcing the river from a smooth flowing stream a hundred feet wide to thirty. The water flowed swift and strong down the gorge determined to tear the very rocks from the cliffs and send them hurtling down stream. Without a thought or hint of hesitation he leapt out over the gorge into the open air.
For the second time in only a few seconds he felt the sensation of weightlessness as he sailed out and over the river, raging almost forty feet below. Then his stomach lurched with the sensation of falling as he started to descend toward the churning water. All these thoughts and sensations were shattered like glass exploding into a million fragments as an axe hurtled into his shoulder. It bounced off but pain shot through his body and the impact spun Zen around. This put him looking straight up at the Neo warriors as they reached the edge of the cliff. His eyes went wide with terror and his hands and legs began to cartwheel trying desperately to flip himself around as he fell backwards toward the river below. The last thing he saw, before he hit the water, were the Neo warriors standing on the edge of the bank with bows knocked ready to fire.
He landed on his back and felt the air pushed out of him. He was rolled over and over by the churning water until he did not know which way was up or down. Finally, he found footing on the river bed, and pushed up to the surface. He came to the surface gasping for air. Water and air filled his lungs causing him to cough and splutter yet somehow he was able to keep his orientation.
The canyon walls were steep, almost straight up channeling the water down the narrow gorge. Zen tried to keep himself in the middle of the stream and let the current take him. He felt completely spent from both the run and his fight with the current. His shoulder was numb from where the axe had hit him. The butt had hit him instead of the cutting edge so the skin had not broke, but it was sore and would be bruised severely by morning. In addition, it was the rainy season making the water ice cold, it felt like a million arrows had hit him all at once. At this rate, he thought, I won’t be able to stay afloat for long.
Looking up, he could see the Neo warriors running along the top of the cliffs. The river was swifter than they could run and they were slowly losing ground. None of them had attempted to follow him into the river but many were shooting arrows in hopes a lucky shot might catch him. His luck held and they whizzed harmlessly into the water around him.
As he rounded a bend he noticed a calmer pool of water to his right, about two-hundred feet ahead. At that point the cliff came down and formed a small beach on the opposite side of the river as the Neo warriors. If he could get into the calmer water and up onto the beach, he could make for the top of the cliff on the other side. A will of iron gripped his soul pouring energy into his aching muscles and joints. No matter what, he decided, I have to make it to that pool. If I spend any longer in the river, I will freeze to death.
He paddled toward the far side, but the current was strong and he found himself moving too slowly toward his goal. Panic began to drive his limbs and he swam with everything he had. He could feel his shoulder protest but he pushed the pain aside. At the last moment, before passing the pool, he found himself freed from the current. With what seemed like superhuman effort, he pulled himself out of the water and rolled onto the beach gasping for air.
The shouts from the Neo warriors across the river aroused him and he rolled over and slowly climbed to his feet. It was like wading through mud as he fought the fatigue and willed his muscles to move. Zen felt like he was standing outside his body, screaming at it, talking to it, telling it to move. Up the side of the hill he trudged placing one foot in front of the other until he reached the top. He heard the twang of bows but didn’t waste time to see what was going on. He went over the crest of the hill pushing through the brush until he was out of sight.
Zen was not very familiar with this side of the Ivory River. However, he did know about a league away was a large out cropping of rock that would make an excellent shelter.
Not knowing if he had the energy to make it he began to plod toward the rock formation. The trip was a blur. Zen felt as if he were in a dream. As he trudged along, he remembered nothing, saw nothing, only moving forward. One thought penetrated his mind. I have to reach the rocks. Night came and he pushed on. The wind began to pick up, trying to bar his way. Still, he pushed on. He finally reached the rock as a torrent of rain burst from the heavens. He rolled into the hole to conceal himself. His last thoughts were, Maybe the rain will hide my tracks. Then exhaustion and fatigue took over and he faded into a deep sleep.
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Who am I? I am Markav Shrang an Alchemist Lord. I know that you do not recognize what that means. My civilization is gone, destroyed by the Shrake warlords that now rule your world. For hundreds of years, we kept the peace, made and broke nations, defied armies and even controlled the very elements. Although I am gone, I still reach out to you as a whisper on the wind. We have preserved our histories and the secret of transmuting matter to come again to our descendants when the time is right. I am Markav Shrang, an Alchemist Lord.
-From the Personal Journal of Markav Shrank-
Dela landed lightly upon the ground, between the Morian army and the savage horde of Neo warriors which was pouring forth from the gorge onto the Field of Cushan. Their bodies were painted red and white and their battle horns filled the air causing even the bravest of warriors to tremble at the sight of the on-coming host. But not Dela----she smiled and straightened from a crouch to her full height. Her sudden appearance caught the advancing Neo warriors off guard slowing their advances as they focused on the solitary figure standing tall and erect before them. Dela slowly pushed back the cowl that hid her face, as the Neos continued to pour forth from the gorge. Reaching out with the Flux, Dela felt the river of energy flow into her and she began to pull the earth up towards her outstretched hand forming a swirling vortex of sand which solidified into a dark wooden staff. Then with a yell born of adrenaline, excitement, and a little fear, she charged the oncoming army.
The Neo warriors in the lead recovered quickly from their shock and before Dela could reach them, a hail of arrows, spears, and knives swept toward her. Again she reached out with the Flux transforming the oncoming projectiles to water. The mist sprayed her as momentum carried her forward, soaking her from head to toe----then she was among the savage horde.
Everything around Dela seemed to slow as she began to flow among the Neo warriors. Her senses sharpened, her body felt alive and invigorated as she spun and whirled through and among her enemies. Her staff shot out, catching one alongside the head, another in the belly, and swept the legs out from under a third. Dela’s hands and feet were busy as well, lashing out with blurring speed. She was a true Alchemist Lord, flowing like water through every hole and crack in their ranks. Everywhere she went warriors went down in heaps. The forward motion of the Neo army ground to a halt as they confronted this new opponent, giving the Morian forces time to regroup into a coherent battle front.
When the Morian army reformed their lines, Dela leapt into the air flipping backwards so she landed between the two armies. The Neo warriors picked themselves up--looking out at Dela, who stood all alone. Her green robes swirling around her, the wind shaping them to the contours of her body. She stood confident her red hair fluid in the wind--her black staff held boldly in front of her. Her very confidence and manner, as well as the pummeling they had just received, gave the Neo army pause----after all who would stand all alone to defy an entire army?
Then a leaders of the Neo warriors cried out, Veneratio pro vita. Death before dishonor. Soon the entire army took up the call, Veneratio pro vita. The ground and air vibrated from the thunderous roar. At the command of their leaders they knelt as one, notched their bows, and fired a hail of arrows which filled the open sky. Again Dela reached out with the Flux converting the arrows into dust which rained down upon the Morian army.
With the battle cry, Veneratio pro vita, the Neos leapt forward again. Dela braced, ready for action. She heard Ryker Hamar, the leader of the Morian army, call out, “Ready your arms,” and the front two rows of Morian soldiers lifted their shields and planted their spears to repel the oncoming attack.
Just before they reached her, Dela flipped backwards through the air, clearing the heads of the Morian soldier’s front line. At the same time, she turned the ground in front of the charging horde of Neo warriors into a pool of water. They charged into the knee deep water and she let them come until they had filled the pool. Then using the Flux she changed the water into rock. Howls of dismay and fear filled the air as the front ranks of the Neo army found themselves encased in stone.
Dela landed nimbly among the Morian ranks and looked out at the Neo horde that still continued to pour out of the gorge. She set her jaw as she thought of the events that had thrown her and Zen into a war that was sweeping across the nation of Morian and in the end would probably cover the entire world of Iora. Well, she thought as she watched the now petrified Neo horde, the people of Iora will once again remember what it means to face an Alchemist Lord. With that thought, Dela strode over to converse with the leader of the Morian army. The battle for the city of Gem had begun.
CHAPTER 1
UNREST(Six Months Earlier)
Zen Storm stopped, a grin spreading across his face, as he looked up at the structure towering before him. A few people grumbled as they stepped around him, but most were far too anxious to get inside to stop and make a fuss. The games of Maltar were about to begin.
The Town of Maltar hosted the best arena games for fifty leagues in any direction. People came from as far as Camlen Lakes and Tholton to participate in and watch the games. Zen watched as people filed through the three arched openings which allowed entrance to the arena. Stop gaping like a country lad come to town for the first time, he told himself and followed the crowd into the arena.
Zen had come to Maltar to talk to the army recruiter about joining the garrison that protected the Maltar area; that, and of course, to participate in the arena games. He was sixteen and large in stature for his age. The Storms were blacksmiths by trade and he had developed a powerful build from his work in the forge. At sixteen, he was of age to be choosing a career. In fact, as his father was fond of saying, it is past time for you to decide what you are going to do with your life Zen. You need to grow up and take on your responsibilities.
“The problem is, Dad,” Zen said, to no one in particular as he recalled his father’s words. “I don’t know what I want to do.” A few people turned their heads to look at the strange boy talking to himself. He felt his cheeks heat up when he realized he had said the words out loud. Setting his jaw, he determined not to make the same mistake again and followed the crowd through the arched entrance to the arena.
Zen's older brother Hanar chose to follow in the family’s footsteps and apply his skill at the forge, which had made everyone happy. His father reminded Zen often that they would be happy to have him join them as well. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy the work, because he did. He just couldn’t see himself settling down to it.
Lately he had been training with their village weapons master, Deka. Deka felt that for his age, Zen was one of the best athletes and weapon handlers in the entire area. It was he who mentioned that Zen might think of joining the garrison around Maltar.
He liked the idea of going beyond his small village and fighting for the freedom of his people, but there was a problem. He loved the thrill of combat and rush of adrenalin that came with it, yet when it came to taking someone’s life . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I’m not sure I can do it, he told himself. There it was, his dilemma; how can I be a soldier and be afraid to take someone’s life? Stop thinking about it, he told himself and pushed his worries from his mind.
When he entered the arena, Zen was immediately assailed by the smell of sweat and un-washed bodies, which caused him to wrinkle his nose. Dust hung thick in the air and stung at his eyes. What I wouldn’t give for a breeze right now he thought, as he reached back and pulled his long black hair off his neck, then quickly tied it back with a leather strap. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the palm of his hand and looked around.
The arena was a wide-open dirt field in the shape of an oval which measured one-hundred –fifty feet long by sixty feet wide. A small fence about chest high ran all the way around the dirt arena. Bleachers were built behind the fence upon a lattice work of wood rising to over twenty---five feet high. Long boards worn smooth from bodies that had occupied them over the years made up the seats.
Zen turned right and walked down the dirt path in front of the bleachers, his feet sending puffs of dust into the air. He squinted, looking up at the seats, when he heard his name yelled over the din. Shading his eyes, Zen swept the crowd, looking to see who had called his name. Half--way up the wooden bleachers and to his left he saw Deka waving his hand for Zen to join him. Zen grinned then started his climb up the bleachers, stepping over and around those already seated, and murmuring apologies as he went.
“Hello, lad,” Deka boomed out in a friendly voice. He reached out a hand, pulling Zen up and slapping him on the back. “I was hoping to see you here today.” There it was again, he thought. Everyone is always calling me a lad. They say grow up, yet they won’t treat me as an adult--All the responsibilities and none of the privileges. Wisely, he kept his thoughts to himself, besides he liked Deka.
Deka was a medium-sized man standing just under six feet tall. He was clean shaven except for long side burns which ran down the side of his face. His brown curly hair was set off by eyes of brilliant blue. With a lean face and sharp jaw line, Deka always made the heads of the ladies turn. He currently wore a brown shirt tucked into buckskin trousers with a large leather belt to hold them up. Deka was wire thin, but as Zen had learned the man could put power behind a punch.
“I didn’t know you were coming in today or I would have joined you,” Zen said.
“I actually didn’t come in today,” Deka responded. “I came yesterday to meet some old acquaintances and pay off some debts.”
“Would one of those acquaintances be Ryker, the army recruiter?”
Deka grinned like a man who knew a secret. “So you did see him, I figured you would. How did it go?”
Zen shrugged and looked out over the arena. “All right I guess. He was friendly enough and seemed interested in me.”
“So do you think you will join the garrison?” Deka asked slowly as if hesitant to know the answer.
“I don’t know. A part of me says yes I should go and then another part says . . . well, I just don’t know.” Then he changed the subject. “Ryker said you guys fought together in the last Neo wars. He also said you were a good man to have around.”
It was Deka’s turn to stare out over the arena, his mind wandering back to the wars. “He was too,” he said softly, almost to himself. “That was a long time ago and yet it seems like yesterday. I experienced a lot of things and made some great friends, but just between us, I hope that we don’t ever have to go through those days again.”
Hesitating, his training master looked down at his hands. “However, I fear that we will. There is talk of Neos having been sighted up in the Black Root Mountains above Camlen Lakes. Hunting parties are disappearing and the garrisons are recruiting everywhere. There is a spirit of unrest."
“So is this how the war began last time?”
“No, it’s different this time,” Deka replied, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Last time they came over the mountains in droves. Now it’s like they’re after something, but I don’t know what.” He shrugged and said, “It just feels different.”
A crease crossed Zen's forehead as he considered what Deka just revealed. It brought back the decision that weighed on his mind. Do I go to war? Can I handle the brutality of it all? It is one thing to compete in a game but can I take another’s life? Zen wasn’t sure he had the answers to these questions.
“Are you all right?” Deka inquired, noticing the change in Zen’s face.
“Yeah, I was just thinking.” Then, not wanting to talk about it, he asked, “I noticed there were quite a few guards in the gate houses and arrow towers, is that common?”
“No,” Deka said, “With so many people here today and the sightings near the Camlen Lakes, Ryker said they were just being careful.”
“This morning on my way in, I stopped to get a drink at the Ivory River,” Zen said, “You know where the old river trail comes in on the west side of the river?” Deka nodded his head in acknowledgement. I was sitting there for moment just thinking, when I saw a flash of red movement in the brush on the other side of the river. It thought it was a person but I only caught a glimpse.”
Deka was about to respond, when the audience around them broke into cheers. They looked out over the audience to see the mistress of the arena sauntering toward the center of the ring.
CHAPTER 2
THE ARENA
The Mistress of the Arena was dressed in a vest made of white fur that reflected the light causing it to sparkle in every direction. She had on tight leather pants and boots that laced all the way up to her knees. Her long black hair cascaded down her back and she held a long whip that dragged lazily in the dust. Cheers and whistles grew with every step her supple body made.
“Shut your mouth before you start drooling,” Deka said, grinning from ear to ear. Zen blushed at the thought that he had been caught being so enthralled by the ring mistress.
“Her name is Hefa," he continued, "And don’t let looks deceive you. She is as hard as iron and could take off my whiskers with that whip. You don’t become the mistress of the arena by being soft.”
As if on cue, Hefa brought her whip up and around snapping it so hard the crack silenced everyone. The crowd stood and thundered their applause as Hefa slowly turned in a circle scanning her audience. She's a beautiful woman by anyone’s standards, he thought. Her body was slim but firm and curved in all the right places as if a master sculpture had carved her that way. A face smooth with a slight hint of pink to her cheeks, stared out at the assembled audience.
Two men entered the arena and made their way over to the large cabinets built against the walls. Opening the cabinets, they pulled out wooden stands that were about eight feet high. They attached a round disk on a string to each and began placing them around the arena. Next they went to the stalls and released two white horses. The horses had long silver mains flowing down their necks and gigantic hooves that sprayed dust into the air as they pranced to the center of the arena where Hefa stood.
Flipping her whip up and around her shoulder, she tucked the butt of it under her arm and sprang onto the back of the nearest horse. Taking the rope of her first mount in one hand, she reached out and grabbed the second horse’s rope. She pulled the two ropes together, then stood up with one foot on each horse. She placed the ropes in one hand, then used the other to unwind the whip from her shoulder and brought it around her head with a sharp crack.
The two horses reared up and then shot forward as one, dirt flying and hoofs pounding as they raced toward the entrance that led to the main thoroughfare of Maltar. As they neared the gate, Hefa pulled the horses to the left and began to circle the arena. Approaching the first stand that had been set up, her whip came up and around with a snap, shattering the round disk which had been tied to it into hundreds of tiny pieces. The sound shot across the assembled crowd making them flinch. Racing around the arena, she repeated the feat flicking her whip with breath taking speed. At the last one, after shattering the disk, she flicked the whip back catching the stand and flung it into the air. It soared up over the fence and hung suspended in the air for a breathtaking moment then plunged toward the crowed seated in the stands. The audience dived out of the way as it hurtled into the benches, shattering on impact. The bench it landed on did not fare much better, breaking in half, it dangled from the lattice work that held it aloft. The crowd leapt to their feet and roared with excitement.
Returning to the center of the arena Hefa dismounted with a backwards flip, while the horses were still running. The crowd exploded again with shouts that shook the bleachers. With three quick cracks of her whip she brought them back to silence.
“Let the games begin!” she shouted, and strode calmly out of the arena surrounded by the deafening roar of the crowd.
The next person to enter the ring was the Wilderon cat fighter. He was tall with long flowing limbs and his head was completely shaved. His muscles rippled under bronzed skin, a hint at the power and agility he possessed. The only clothing he wore was a loin cloth made from the hide of the great Wilderon cat. A short knife hung at his belt and a coil of rope slung over his shoulder.
“He looks to be from the Mammoth Gorge area,” Deka said. “Most of the really good cat fighters are.” Zen nodded his head in recognition of the comment.
The crowd fell silent as a metal cage was rolled into the arena. The cage contained the biggest Wilderon cat Zen had ever seen. It was at least five feet tall at its shoulders and weighed over six hundred pounds. His fur was glossy black and covered with small flecks of orange. The cat paced back and forth on abnormally large padded paws, the silky black hair on the back of its legs trailing like spider webs caught in the wind. Snarling and pacing in its cage, it frequently charged the bars screaming its rage to the world. Two long canine teeth hung down six inches past its upper jaw and when it snarled, you could see the true size of these pearly white weapons of death.
The Wilderon fighter walked over and pulled the pin holding the cage’s front door closed, letting it crash to the ground with a dull thud sending a cloud of dust into the air. Out sprang six hundred pounds of pure muscle and sinew, roaring its anger to the assembled crowd. The cat hit the ground in a crouch and began to scan its surroundings, ready to spring into action.
Yelling, the Wilderon fighter focused the cat’s attention on himself. It barred its fangs in a snarl, bunched its feet underneath its body, then sprang at the fighter. The warrior darted straight for the lunging beast but at the last moment slid under its outstretched claws. The cat pivoted and slashed out again but the warrior was gone - a quick roll having placed him several feet away.
The cat grew cautious and began to circle reappraising its prey. It seemed to realize that this scrawny two-legged beast would be more of a challenge than it had originally anticipated. Its screams and snarls stopped and its golden eyes focused on the bronze-skinned warrior before it.
At this point, the warrior pulled the rope from his shoulder. He created a large loop holding it in his right hand and kept the rest of the rope, still coiled, in his left. He began to taunt the big cat, throwing his hand forward with the open loop. The Wilderon cat swiped his large paw out swift as a snake trying to snag the loop.
After circling each other for a few seconds, the cat charged again. The fighter rolled under one of the swinging paws, grabbed the hair on the back of the big cat’s leg and used his momentum to swing up onto its back . Before the cat could react, the fighter slipped the noose around its neck. The Wilderon cat went crazy. It leaped and spun in the air crashing onto its back trying to dislodge the bronzed fighter, but the man hung on.
Zen realized at this point it would be a battle of endurance. If the cat tired first, the warrior would be able to loop its foot, plunge the knife under the right foreleg and sever its largest artery. The cat would bleed to death in a matter of seconds. But if the fighter lost his grip, he would be ripped to pieces by the Wilderon cat.
Their mad struggle brought them close to the cage and the cat made an unexpected twist, slamming the fighter against the metal bars. The warrior lost his grip and slipped from the its back. Luckily he landed underneath the wagon and with a quick push backwards rolled even further under, avoiding the claws that swept down to catch him. The crowded around Zen all sat silently on the edge of their seats waiting to see if the warrior would re-appear as the cat paced back and forth snarling and swiping at the wagon. Finally, it leapt backwards, roared and charged slamming its full weight into the wagon.
The wagon exploded, sending splinters of wood flying in all directions and the metal cage soared fifteen feet into the air then plummeted back to the arena floor. The few moments of reprieve, however, gave the Wilderon fighter the time he needed to get his breath and wits back. He sprinted for the metal cage, the cat following on his heels. Just as the warrior reached the cage, the cat sprang. With wondrous agility, the bronzed fighter ran up the side of the cage and did a backwards flip over the top of the Wilderon cat. Reaching out he caught the fur right behind its head and pivoted landing on the cat’s back as it slammed into the cage.
The frenzy began again but this time the cat did not have its original stamina. A few minutes later it began to stagger and its chest heaved as it fought to get enough air. The fighter quickly made another loop with his rope and caught the cat’s right foreleg pulling it tight. With one swift move he pulled out his knife and swiped it across the cat’s main artery under the right leg. The fighter then rolled free of the cat and began circling, watching the beast warily. The cat rose and then fell again to the ground. It snarled and tried to get up but was losing blood too fast. It shuddered and convulsed one last time then lay still in a pool of blood.
The bronze warrior approached the big cat and dropped to one knee before the carcass of the giant beast. He stretched out his hands as he bowed, his right hand in a fist, the left enveloping the right. Then the fighter arose, walked over to the beast’s head, stroked its mane and turned to stride out of the arena, the crowd’s cheers of excitement rolling after him.
He doesn’t care, Zen thought as he watched the man go. In fact he feels contempt toward us. He does not even acknowledge our cheers or the applause. Peering more closely at the man, Zen felt he could see a haunted look upon the man’s face.
“You seem to be deep in thought, Zen. What is on your mind?” Deka asked.
Zen turned to look at his companion “What did you think of that fighter?”
“What do you mean?” Deka inquired, not sure what Zen meant by the question.
“Did you see the look on his face when he exited the arena? Do you think he enjoys doing what he does?”
Deka shrugged and said, “Honestly, Zen, I came just to enjoy the games. I really didn’t think much about his reactions. Is there a reason you’re asking me?”
“No,” Zen said, shrugging it off as he pushed the thought from his mind.
“Good then let’s go down to the arena,” Deka said, “After all, this is the part we came for, the combat in arms. Are you ready?”
“You bet,” Zen responded, excitement returning to his voice. They both stood up and headed down the bleachers toward the arena.
CHAPTER 3
SHRAKE WAR LORD
Zen and Deka leaned against the fence which ran around the arena, waiting for Hefa to call the contestants into the arena. Out of the corner of his eye, Zen noticed a man step through one of the gates and stride toward the arena. A murmur passed through the crowd as others noticed him as well. It was against the rules for a contestant to enter the arena before the mistress had called for them.
This man, however, moved with a confidence that suggested the rules did not apply to him. He was a few inches taller than Zen with blond hair spilling down to his shoulder blades and a red bandana holding it back from his eyes. He wore a loose fitting pair of black pants and was shirtless, showing off his muscular frame. Strapped to his back were two kantanas which stuck out over his right and left shoulders. Where the scabbard, hilt, and handle met, was an image--the same symbol appeared to be on the bandana as well.
The Mistress of the Arena, sensing the change in the mood, turned to see what was going on. Anger flared in her eyes, then Zen saw her look change to fear.
Curious, he turned to ask Deka about it only to see the same look on his face as well.
“What’s going on?” He asked as a feeling of dread began to build in his stomach. “Do you know who that is?”
Deka slowly turned to look at Zen. “That is a Shrake warlord, Zen.”
Zen's eye brows rose with the statement and a smile crept onto his face. “Shrakes are just legends. Myths, made up over the ages about unbeatable warriors,” Zen said, his tone of voice clearly reflecting that he thought that Deka was playing a joke on him. “We pretended we were Shrakes when we were kids but they are just that … made-up.”
“Oh no, they’re real,” Deka responded his voice wavering. “I saw one in battle and it was the most frightening thing I have ever seen. You can tell by the markings on his swords and bandana. They are of a Calamari. This man is every bit as fast and mean as the Calamari, not scared of anything or anyone.”
“Why is he here?” Zen asked.
“That’s the scary part,” Deka responded. “There’s no way he just showed up for a little entertainment and I doubt he just walked in through the gates. When a Shrake shows up, you can bet that there is something very important at stake.”
They brought their conversation up short as they heard the Shrake’s voice, cool and smooth, call out to the gathered crowed.
“I have come to join your competition today,” he said, as he turned around in a circle eyeing the crowd. Reaching down to his waist, he untied a leather bag and tossed it on the ground in front of him “There are one hundred silver pieces for any person who can defeat me in combat--who will take the offer?”
Zen let out an involuntary gasp. That’s two years wages, he thought. The crowd began to mutter but no one stepped out to take the challenge.
Finally, a grin split the Shrake's face and his voice rang out again. “Fine, if no one is brave enough perhaps we can even the odds. I will challenge ten of your best fighters. If they can defeat me, I will double the amount. What do you say to that? Are there any takers out there or are you all a bunch of cowards?”
“I don’t like this,” Deka said turning to Zen. “Something is definitely wrong. I am going to go find Ryker. Promise me, Zen, you won’t have anything to do with this.”
“I promise, but . . . ”
“No buts,” Deka exclaimed, grabbing Zen by his shirt, his grip hard and his jaw set. “Promise me, you have no idea how dangerous this man is!”
“Ok.” Zen said as he slowly removed Deka’s hand from off his shirt. He was taken aback by the urgency in his friend’s voice.
“Good, I will be back as soon as I can.” Deka said as he turned and rushed out of the arena.
Watching him go, Zen felt a ball of dread begin to tighten in his stomach. The spirits take me, he whispered, as he nervously ran his hands through his hair. Deka was always so calm and collected. He had never seen him like this before. Surely it was not just the presence of this Shrake warlord that would cause him to act this way.
Zen turned his attention back to the arena and noticed that a group of people were in a circle conversing together. By their hand gestures and the looks on their faces they seemed to be in a heated debate. Finally, two of them shook their heads in disgust and walked away. The warrior saw them as well and sensing that a decision had been made he spoke to the group.
“I will offer the same proposal to you. Is that acceptable?”
A smaller man, with a long drooping mustache, stepped forward. He bowed, his hand over his heart, never taking his eyes off the Shrake. “Yes, we do accept your offer,” he replied.
“Very well, arm yourselves,” the Shrake said. Then the Shrake turned his back on them walking to the middle of the arena. He reached back and grabbed both kantanas and as quick as lightening he brought them out of their sheaths, flipped them around, and drove them half-way to the hilt in the ground. Kneeling on one knee he placed his hands on his swords, closed his eyes, and waited.
The group of eleven combatants hesitated for a moment and then hurried to retrieve their favored weapons. The atmosphere was charged. The hair at the back of Zen's neck stood on end. He looked down at his hands which were white from gripping the railing so tight. He forced himself to relax his hands. Light, why am I so uptight?
The combatants began to assemble and the man with the drooping mustache began to point them in different directions, so that they encircled the Shrake warlord. This man must be insane, Zen thought. I don’t care how good you are, no one can beat eleven men in combat, when the eleven are well-trained and at the top of their weapons class. At that moment a weasel faced man with a whip brought it up and around striking at the kneeling Shrake’s face. The whip never found its mark.
The Shrake warrior’s eyes snapped open and his hand shot up catching the whip with his left hand. Without flinching he yanked the man with incredible force toward him. Dropping both hands back to his kantanas, the Shrake kicked out and up, catching the man in the chest. There was a crunch and the man flew back crumpling in a heap. The warrior followed through with his momentum flipping backwards and at the same time yanking the two swords out of the ground. This brought him in front of the man with the mustache who was the group’s leader. The men met the Shrake’s attack, their swords colliding as the other nine closed in.
A man with a quarter staff struck at the Shrake’s head but the warrior’s sword came back and up with such speed it cut the staff in two perfect halves. The Shrake flipped up and out over the heads of the combatants, his foot catching the man with the quarter staff in the chin. The man was out cold and dropped to the ground in a motionless heap and the Shrake landed out of the reach of the group. He sat there crouched on his feet waiting for them--a wicked smile across his face.
“Come and get your reward,” the Shrake said, his voice as cold as ice. Then he charged and Zen could not believe what happened. One minute the warrior was in the air vertical to the ground, the next, crouched under a swinging sword. He could bend over backward and still swing his sword with perfect accuracy. His kantanas swirled and flashed so quickly they looked like one solid sheet of metal. His feet shot out in one direction, his swords flying in another. In less than thirty seconds it was all over. Eleven superb fighting men lay motionless on the ground.
The Shrake strode over to one of the dead men and wiped his swords off on the combatant’s robes and then stood slowly sheathing his swords. Zen realized this man was as dangerous as Deka had said. He was indeed the invincible warrior Zen and his friends had made him up to be. Cold fear crept over his body. .
“Is that the best you have?” the Shrake asked, laughing at the assembled crowd. “Who will challenge me next?” he yelled, throwing his hands into the air. He turned in a circle boring into the crowd with his eyes. When his eyes met Zen's, they stopped. They were hard silver eyes that shined like polished metal. An evil grin of triumph crossed the Shrake War Lord’s face and with a determined step he started forward.
Zen felt his stomach drop and all thought fled. Fear gripped his body, freezing him in place. One thing he was absolutely sure of - he was about to die.
CHAPTER 4
FLIGHT
As the Shrake approached Zen two things happened: a loud boom shook the arena and the back wall shuddered violently. A second boom sounded and the wall shattered throwing splinters of wood in all directions. A metal battering ram, with the head of an eagle, thrust its way through the wall. Immediately Neo warriors painted white and red sprang through the gaping hole. Their heads were shorn in the Jaimary style, with only a small patch at the back of the skull which was long and braided down their backs. They carried the traditional battle axes and bows of their clans. Their battle cries filled the arena as they swarmed inside.
At the same time the garrison of Maltar began to poor into the arena. The front row knelt at the command of Ryker and sent a hail of arrows streaming toward the Shrake warlord. It was as if the Shrake’s swords leapt into his hands and he began to swing them in a circle, knocking the arrows aside - shattering shafts and scattering arrow heads in all directions.
Zen still felt terrified, frozen in place, as if he were only a spectator watching a game play out around him. People screamed, fleeing in terror. Soldiers rushed forward to meet the horde of Neo Warriors. The Shrake was in the mist of it all creating death and destruction and still Zen couldn't move. A hand grasped his shoulder and spun him around.
“We’ve got to go!” Deka shouted above the roar. Yet Zen stood frozen in place. His master shook him. “Zen, snap out of it, we have got to get out of here. This is a death trap!”
Finally, Zen felt his lungs began to breathe and the blood began to flow back into his limbs. His mind snapped into place as he sprang into motion. They moved up the benches to the top of the arena and climbed down the scaffolding on the other side. As Zen turned to climb down, the Shrake warlord turned also, fixing him with a cold iron gaze. The Shrake pointed his sword at Zen and his face clearly said, this is not over yet. Then the Shrake was again surrounded by assailants and had to turn his attention from Zen. Not hesitating to see what else might happen, Zen was over the top and climbing toward the ground below.
Jumping the last few feet he landed in a crouch and sprinted, with Deka, toward the center of the town. Fires were beginning to leap through windows and onto the roofs of the homes and shops of Maltar. Black clouds of smoke filled the sky and the screams of the dying filled the streets. This can't be happening, Zen told himself as Deka turned down a side street.
A Neo warrior stepped into the street and Deka plowed into him sending the man sprawling to the ground. They skidded to a stop as they realized that the courtyard before the main city gate was full of warriors and soldiers engaged in battle.
“We need to warn the village," he said, "I think our best plan will be to force our way through the Neo warriors at the gate.” Deka pointed at a cluster of Neo warriors assembled there. “Then we will head for the river. If we get separated, keep going.” Zen nodded to show his understanding and pushed down his fear as both of them sprinted across the courtyard.
Deka drew his sword in preparation for their rush. Zen realized belatedly he had no weapons on him. It's too late for that now, he thought, as they headed for the gates. He moved behind Deka as he began to push through the fighting throng of Neo and Maltarian soldiers. They made it past the first gate house without any incidents but at the second they encountered a knot of Neo warriors. Deka snarled and leapt at the closest one.
One charged towards Zen, swinging his battle axe in a figure eight. The man grunted as an arrow sprouted out of his chest and the axe slipped from his fingers. There was no time to wonder who his benevolent benefactor was for another Neo was already aiming a wicked slice at his head. Zen ducked under the blow and pushed up with his shoulder, flipping the warrior over his back. He then picked up the axe from the fallen Neo and began swinging it in a figure eight before him. The other Neos seemed more interested in obtaining the city and scrambled past him toward the gate.
Zen saw Deka was still in combat with two Neo warriors and quickly hurled the axe at one of them. His throw was off and it only bounced off the warriors back. It was enough to make him turn and Deka finished him off. An arrow sprouted in the neck of Deka's other assailant and Zen looked up to see several archers in the towers on top of the walls. We were lucky, he thought as they both sprinted free of the gates and into the clearing beyond.
Zen thought he was going to be sick and felt the bile rising in his throat from all the death and carnage he had just witnessed. Don’t think about it. Just run, he told himself pushing the nausea down. But the images kept flashing through his mind. I killed those men, was the consistent thought that kept intruding its way into his brain. He could see all the city gates being attacked and battering rams were pounding at the walls. This city is going to fall, Zen realized as he ran. Again, sorrow and regret filled him for the loss of the city of Maltar and the inhabitants that would die this day. The Neos were known for being ruthless in battle sparing none but those they wanted for slaves or torture. Stop thinking and run, he told himself, or you’ll be the one dead.
Deka was running about thirty feet away, parallel to his course which would take them into the forest. Most of the Neo archers were occupied with the city’s towers and gates and took no thought to shoot down two fleeing men.
They were still in shouting distance of each other and only a hundred feet from the forest when Zen heard the twang of a bow string. He reacted instinctively springing to the side and rolling as a shaft whistled past his head. A dozen Neo warriors sprang out of the trees to cut them off. Jumping back to his feet, Zen ran a zigzag course for a few seconds, to avoid more arrows and then with every ounce of strength left in his limbs, he raced into the trees. He saw Deka had done the same, heading the opposite direction into the tree line. The leader of the Neo warriors pointed at six warriors and motioned for them to follow Zen and the rest followed Deka.
He was a swift runner, but his limbs were tiring – the burning and fatigue building as he strained to get ahead. The Neos kept a straight course forcing him to continue straight as well, which was leading him away from Deka and their village.
Realizing he would have to pace himself or he would be spent too quickly he gave up the attempt to join Deka and ran in a course parallel to the Neo warriors. He was a good hundred feet ahead and he should be able to stay in the lead and out of the range of their arrows. The dense forest made it hard for them to shoot on the run, but running became more difficult as well. The branches snagged and whipped him causing minor cuts and scrapes. He ignored the discomfort, pushing on as fast as he could. Zen knew the river was not more than half a league ahead, his fear lending him strength.
After what seemed like an eternity, he heard the dull murmur of the river in the distance. His lungs heaved and gasped trying to get enough air. Tired muscles screamed for him to stop or they would collapse in agony. Run or the Neos will stop all of this pain for you, he thought, shoving the pain and worry away like a man throwing an assailant from him.
Without warning, an axe barreled straight at his head and Zen had no time to think. He let his feet go out from under him as he went vertical and the world began to move in slow motion. He slid under the whirling blade watching the head and shaft as it spun over the top of him. He thought if he wanted to, he could reach out grab the blade and look at the craftsmanship of the weapon. Then everything went back to normal speed as a Neo warrior stepped out from behind a tree. The warrior leapt at him, a large knife in his hand. Zen rolled to the side missing the knife that buried itself in the ground beside him, but was too slow to avoid a kick in the ribs. Grunting at the pain, he rolled with the kick back onto his feet and again headed for the river. He was about twenty feet away and could hear the Neo warriors right on his heels. Run, was the only thought that entered his brain as the edge of the gorge hurtled toward him.
This part of the Ivory River went through a rocky ravine forcing the river from a smooth flowing stream a hundred feet wide to thirty. The water flowed swift and strong down the gorge determined to tear the very rocks from the cliffs and send them hurtling down stream. Without a thought or hint of hesitation he leapt out over the gorge into the open air.
For the second time in only a few seconds he felt the sensation of weightlessness as he sailed out and over the river, raging almost forty feet below. Then his stomach lurched with the sensation of falling as he started to descend toward the churning water. All these thoughts and sensations were shattered like glass exploding into a million fragments as an axe hurtled into his shoulder. It bounced off but pain shot through his body and the impact spun Zen around. This put him looking straight up at the Neo warriors as they reached the edge of the cliff. His eyes went wide with terror and his hands and legs began to cartwheel trying desperately to flip himself around as he fell backwards toward the river below. The last thing he saw, before he hit the water, were the Neo warriors standing on the edge of the bank with bows knocked ready to fire.
He landed on his back and felt the air pushed out of him. He was rolled over and over by the churning water until he did not know which way was up or down. Finally, he found footing on the river bed, and pushed up to the surface. He came to the surface gasping for air. Water and air filled his lungs causing him to cough and splutter yet somehow he was able to keep his orientation.
The canyon walls were steep, almost straight up channeling the water down the narrow gorge. Zen tried to keep himself in the middle of the stream and let the current take him. He felt completely spent from both the run and his fight with the current. His shoulder was numb from where the axe had hit him. The butt had hit him instead of the cutting edge so the skin had not broke, but it was sore and would be bruised severely by morning. In addition, it was the rainy season making the water ice cold, it felt like a million arrows had hit him all at once. At this rate, he thought, I won’t be able to stay afloat for long.
Looking up, he could see the Neo warriors running along the top of the cliffs. The river was swifter than they could run and they were slowly losing ground. None of them had attempted to follow him into the river but many were shooting arrows in hopes a lucky shot might catch him. His luck held and they whizzed harmlessly into the water around him.
As he rounded a bend he noticed a calmer pool of water to his right, about two-hundred feet ahead. At that point the cliff came down and formed a small beach on the opposite side of the river as the Neo warriors. If he could get into the calmer water and up onto the beach, he could make for the top of the cliff on the other side. A will of iron gripped his soul pouring energy into his aching muscles and joints. No matter what, he decided, I have to make it to that pool. If I spend any longer in the river, I will freeze to death.
He paddled toward the far side, but the current was strong and he found himself moving too slowly toward his goal. Panic began to drive his limbs and he swam with everything he had. He could feel his shoulder protest but he pushed the pain aside. At the last moment, before passing the pool, he found himself freed from the current. With what seemed like superhuman effort, he pulled himself out of the water and rolled onto the beach gasping for air.
The shouts from the Neo warriors across the river aroused him and he rolled over and slowly climbed to his feet. It was like wading through mud as he fought the fatigue and willed his muscles to move. Zen felt like he was standing outside his body, screaming at it, talking to it, telling it to move. Up the side of the hill he trudged placing one foot in front of the other until he reached the top. He heard the twang of bows but didn’t waste time to see what was going on. He went over the crest of the hill pushing through the brush until he was out of sight.
Zen was not very familiar with this side of the Ivory River. However, he did know about a league away was a large out cropping of rock that would make an excellent shelter.
Not knowing if he had the energy to make it he began to plod toward the rock formation. The trip was a blur. Zen felt as if he were in a dream. As he trudged along, he remembered nothing, saw nothing, only moving forward. One thought penetrated his mind. I have to reach the rocks. Night came and he pushed on. The wind began to pick up, trying to bar his way. Still, he pushed on. He finally reached the rock as a torrent of rain burst from the heavens. He rolled into the hole to conceal himself. His last thoughts were, Maybe the rain will hide my tracks. Then exhaustion and fatigue took over and he faded into a deep sleep.
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