Hunter: Warrior of Doridia (The Saga of Jon Hunter Book 1)

by Ronald Watkins

  The swords clashed in midair with a sharp, clear ring. Ctesias slashed savagely down in an effort to quickly disembowel his opponent, who at the same moment met my friend’s sword as he circled to his right. Ctesias swung his weapon repeatedly with all his power and skill, seeking to drive the upstart against the wall with sheer power and numbers of blows. The young man deftly countered them and stepped aside from the last, failing to meet it with his own blade. Ctesias was thrown forward by this unexpected action, temporarily off balance. Both Koptos and I tensed, but even had our interference been allowed it would have arrived too late had the stranger sought to capitalize on the opening.

  As Ctesias leaned forward, off balance, the stranger struck him on the back of his neck with his sword butt. Our friend crashed to the floor as the young man placed his sword tip to Ctesias’s throat.

  A sudden silence filled the room. Most present had known of Ctesias’s prowess and none had expected his defeat. A sharp intake of air emitted from a nearby slave girl as all of us prepared for the final thrust that would pour the blood of hearty Ctesias onto the brightly polished stone floor.

  Instead, the young man sheathed his sword and facing the crowd, with uplifted arms as if in praise to deity, cried, “I am a Seker at last, set free from the bondage of the farm. I seek a patron. Who will have me?”

  At once the mood changed. The Sekers now understood. The hisses turned to cheers and a mighty roar of approval leaped spontaneously from 50 throats. The men rose to their feet as one and raised their goblets in tribute. Such courage! Such boldness! Such skill!

  This was no outlaw, no contemptuous upstart. This fine young man, this splendid swordsman, was a Seker trapped in the birthright of the farmer without a sponsor into the Seker’s ranks. He had trained himself and sought the help of others, no doubt for years. Saving every coin he could, he had outfitted himself and then, with sword and courage had sought out a tavern of fighters and set about to become a Seker or die. Only with the Guildless Sekers could one join a Doridian profession in this manner. Several Sekers had now come forth and were clapping the new young Seker on the back, seeking to buy him wine. He would have a patron before the night was over.

  Koptos returned to the slave girl beside him once he realized Ctesias would not perish as we had first feared. I watched my friend closely. After a bit he groaned, slowly returning to his senses. Several sympathetic slaves bathed his brow and comforted him. Somewhat embarrassed, he staggered to our table pushing them away and gulped a goblet of wine before speaking.

  “Good of me to give the lad a break, wasn’t it?” His eyes were not yet in focus. Koptos and I both looked at him quickly.

  “Well,” he continued, “my mother always said I was too soft- hearted to be a Seker.”

  Before I could speak the roar of the crowd silenced me. Fanfare from the musicians and shouts of approval from the crowd announced the slave dancers of Rashmalan. They darted through the sea of men, bells ringing and cymbals sounding, as they raced to the dancing floor amid a wave of heady, florid perfume. Each assumed her position, the musicians now silent, waiting for the crowd to be still.

  Slaves of every sort were common to Doridia yet these were in a class all their own. Slaves were mostly born to the condition. The ranks were swollen by periodic wars and grew from outlaw raids. No native could be a slave within her or his own city. There were other rules and customs as well.

  My freedom had depended on one. Dangerous as the life of a Seker might be, I preferred it to that of a slave cleaning out cellars wondering when some Free Man might tire of his pretty wenches or slave boys and turn his attention to me.

  The skin of these slaves was a light copper in color. They wore makeup and their hair was styled exotically, braided in a manner foreign to Taslea. Each dancer was arrayed in a costume which best displayed firm, jutting breasts glistening already in the amber torchlight. Some held a precious gem in their navel, all wore flimsy trousers made of a sheer material, split from hip to ankle exposing finely formed legs. The women had not even begun to dance and already they were breathing heavily. So were all the men at my table.

  I could easily believe the stories Koptos had told me of the slave dancers of Rashmalan. These creatures appeared to be in heat as they awaited silence before the dance would begin. I saw several tavern girls pushed away by men whose attention was now firmly fixed upon the seductive women before them.

  The dance began slowly, the women clapping their upraised hands in unison, their bodies barely moving. But to the observer, every undulation of the stomach, every breath, every ripple of muscle was magnified a thousand fold and turned these already magnificent creatures into sensuous, feline animals to be seized and possessed.

  The quickening tempo brought the dancers to greater abandon, all eyes fixed on them, confident smiles upon their lips. They worked the audience like a fisherman playing his catch. These slaves knew that for this moment they were the Masters.

  The music grew in intensity, cymbals clashed, the rhythm of the drums intensified, horns blared, a strange, string instrument like a zither carried the melody. I’d never heard anything like it. The musicians swayed as they played, their eyes closed, perspiration streaming down their faces and arms.

  As long as the dance lasted not an eye strayed, we sat transfixed by their beauty and naked abandon. The dance carried me along with it. The torchlight played across the sweaty brows of the men and lithe bodies of the dancers. As they reached a climatic frenzy, the slaves sprawled across the highly polished floor in orgasmic rapture, their bodies convulsing, consumed by wave after wave of ecstasy, sweat glistening on their bodies. Several, in the grip of passion, tore at their clothing.

  Whether or not the passion was real I could not say. It certainly seemed real at the time and brought every man to a fierce pitch of desire. The dance, which might have lasted a minute or an hour, ended in a mighty crescendo followed by deafening silence.

  Suddenly, the crowd was nearly uncontrollable, clapping and cheering and whistling as the dancers, roused from their stupor, stood erect and then hastened to exit through a side door. I feared they would have been raped on the spot by men quickened to mindless and nearly uncontrollable desire.

  The musicians began another, less abandoned tune, and the owner of the Four Feathers, for this moment, flooded the tavern with every girl he owned to serve his patrons’ needs. The alcoves were occupied until dawn with the lust stirred by these barbaric creatures from Rashmalan, but the Taslean wenches were like dust compared to their barbaric sisters.

  I wondered why none of the dancers had been made available to the men, for outrageous prices could have been charged for their use. To my knowledge none of them served the needs of any in the crowd that night. I thought it peculiar and as I was to learn, there was much more to it.

  6. THE BANQUET

  My first night free in Taslea had been exciting and I was sorry to see it end, but my training resumed the following day. Ctesias and Koptos were prepared to remain at the Four Feathers until first light.

  I wasn’t made of such stern stuff. I was tired and left alone to catch at least some sleep before my training resumed. An hour before daybreak I slipped from the stifling tavern into the cool, predawn air. The streets of Taslea were quiet and my new sandal- boots echoed softly on the cobblestone as I walked towards the Great House of Rahdon. Filling my lungs with clean, pure air I marveled at my vitality. My body was really fit for the first time in my life, and my mind clear. I was just learning what it meant to be a man, the greatest hunter and predator the world had ever seen. My old world had sought to turn us into docile cows. Taslea made no such mistake.

  ###

  Three days later, just after the midday repast, Tonak came up to me. “Hunter,” he said. “Tonight is a banquet. You’ll serve as one of the guards.”

  I was excused from further training. I was told to soak at length in the steaming baths, was given a massage then rubbed down with fine oil, then had my hair groomed. K
optos took me under his wing and led me to the ceremonial dressing room. Twelve of us were meticulously dressed by the most attentive of slaves. I was carefully attired in a dazzling white tunic bordered in crimson, set off with the golden flourishes of the Great House of Rahdon. A well-polished ebony breastplate with glowing brass trim was placed on me and matching sandal-boots were fitted to my feet. A magnificent sword was hung on my hip and a gleaming buckler affixed to my left forearm. A fine hoplite style helmet with T-cut face surmounted by an ebony horsehair plume was placed on my head. Finally, I was given a new heavy black spear with the typically Taslean oversized broad bladed bronze tip. Glancing at the other Sekers, I must say that we were an impressive sight.

  When we were prepared we stood inspection for a scowling Tonak who passed down the line examining each of us carefully, adjusting straps, pulling our tunics straight. “All right,” he said at last in his gravelly voice. “You’ll do. Now listen up those of you doing this for the first time. You’re human statues. With one exception, don’t hear a thing, don’t gawk. Pretend you’re made of stone. The only duty you have besides looking good is to protect the Urak and as everyone here tonight is a friend there should be no trouble. But,” then he paused, “these are troubled times. So don’t turn your mind off. Be ready to act if necessary. Now take a rest. I’ll tell you when to form up just before the first guests arrive. No wine and leave the slaves alone. I’ll not have you going in rank with the smell of a dalliance.”

  We did not have to wait long. A short time later we filed in and assumed our places along the outer wall of a sunken oval shaped banquet room. We were placed between the supporting pillars so each had a clear view. On each pillar hung shields, swords and spears, all very old, most marked with the signs of combat. War trophies I was certain. The room was lit by the finest oil lights, both along the walls and scattered about the table. Festive decorations were already in place. It too was oval shaped and quite low as all Doridian furniture tended to be. Around its perimeter were spread multicolored pillows rather than the usual low stools.

  The guests, all male, streamed in, nine in all, dressed nearly universally in the formal wear of the High Caste, standing at their places as Urak Rahdon entered last. With assistance he assumed his place at one end of the table. The others gave a short bow then sat, the chatter and laughter beginning at once.

  The number nine was no accident. As was the case with Roman banquets the number was selected to match that of the nine Muses. Here also nine women represented the arts and learning. The similarity of numbers, of seven, twelve, now nine, was no coincidence as they were stellar in origin and common in civilizations.

  When the moment to begin arrived, Urak Rahdon rose a bit unsteadily to his feet. Lifting his goblet he invoked the blessing of the god of his Great House on this night’s gathering. All lifted their cups in agreement and the festivities began. The Urak sat, looking frailer than the last time I’d seen him. He seemed uninvolved in conversation and drank heavily from his goblet.

  Plates of steaming food were soon delivered and carefully placed on the table. This repast had nothing in common with what I ate each day, food that was common in Taslea to nearly everyone. Our usual diet consisted of a porridge for breakfast taken with salted vegetables and wine, well laced with water. Our midday meal was the primary one and likewise tended to be vegetarian, consisting of lentils, beans, a form of flat bread, fruits eaten in season, vegetables served with stronger wine. Dinner, taken just after dark, was a light meal, often nothing more than flat bread and cheese with wine. We ate animal flesh or fish on average every ten days or so and it came during a mildly festive midday meal when we had no duties to follow.

  What I saw now and throughout the evening was very different. Fowls, which had been fattened in the dark, and fed a special diet, along with wild fowl of every sort were carefully placed about. There were as well exotic birds with gorgeous plumage set in place with the flesh cooked. From lakes and even the distant ocean, brought by swift courier, were fish, oysters, snails and mussels.

  There was as well wild game of every sort, boars, deer and other animals unknown to me. There were sausages of various kinds. I’d never seen them before. They were very popular, both hot and cold. There was also an abundance of salads and vegetables, peas and beans, mushrooms and truffles, as well as many plants and herbs used for flavoring.

  Nor was there any lack of choice wines, served from small jars laced with intricate decorations. They were prized, I learned, in proportion to their age and each jar bore a label, showing when and where it had been made. These came, I was told, from across Doridia. Distilled liquors were unknown to the Doridians.

  The customs at the table were dictated by tradition as much as spontaneous conduct. At first the wine was consumed diluted with water and cooled by snow brought to Taslea by another team of fleet footed couriers. A popular early serving was a wine mixed with water, honey and spice. For this a special vessel with a small furnace of charcoal was set up within the banquet hall. As the night progressed the wine became increasingly strong so that it was no longer diluted.

  But first I watched the lords of Taslea in their private habitat. I’d been given a description and explanation of some attending that night and set about matching what I’d been told to what I saw. The most striking of the men was a tall and well-formed young man with flaxen hair and piercing blue eyes. His name I’d been told was Lonnan. He sat to the immediate right of the Urak, attired as a Commander of One Hundred. Young for such a position, I knew. He was the only guest who was not of the High Caste and it was unusual for him to be present here.

  To the left of the Urak was another Commander of One Hundred. His hair was black as night, his skin a light olive and his eyes a deep brown. He was a handsome man, just a few years older than Lonnan, with fleshy lips and a reserved manner. This would be Fastidian, one of the Urak’s most trusted confidants.

  Others I did not know. Most attending were from other allied Great Houses. But there was another Koptos had described for me named Torkid. Like Fastidian, his hair was black, his eyes brown, though they lacked his constancy. His olive skin was a shade darker and he was also a short, heavy set man. Though still of a good form, he was beginning to go to seed and I noticed he drank frequently from his goblet, holding it repeatedly aloft for refill. He had a ready smile though and seemed an amusing companion as those near him laughed frequently.

  This socialization and feasting continued for some time then at the foot of the table a blind white bearded man rapped a wooden rod three times and the gathering slowly grew quiet. I’d not seen him enter, nor the young boy standing beside him with his harp. These were the two I’d seen and heard on the caravan.

  When all was quiet the bard began in his surprisingly rich strong voice. As before, the words were set to a recurring rimed cadence. He chanted, all but singing, telling an epic story. The boy added drama and moments of transition from one scene to the next.

  I had first heard this man tied to a caravan wagon, frightened, cold and hungry. I’d known nothing of the language. Tonight, fit, well fed and cared for, I understood and listened to the tale enthralled.

  I was to learn that he sang the most ancient and honored story of Doridia. Incidents varied a bit, depending on the bard and his origin, but the essentials of the story remained the same. It contained powerful imagery and evoked great emotion and even this slightly drunken gathering listened in respect, more than a few moved to tears from time to time. When the moments came to chant in unison as those on the caravan had, many did, though in quiet voices.

  The epic contained a number of mythological elements familiar to me. It concerned the great mythic hero of Doridia, Semerkha. He was a demi-god, created from the liaison of the goddess of beauty and a mighty warrior. Though not immortal, like Hercules he possessed great strength and virtues. He traveled ancient Doridia, engaging in 12 acts of heroism. At the conclusion of each he cast his defeated opponent into the sky where he took his place as
one of the constellations.

  The stories were often gruesome and as is the case in mythology didn’t make a lot sense if you applied logic to them. The recurring theme was the presence of two women. Both were beautiful and enticing and both claimed to love Semerkha. One was dark and mysterious, the other blond haired and open. Semerkha was torn between the two, switching his devotion frequently. It was pretty clear early on that the dark haired one, called Ateth, was trouble no matter how sexy she was. She was obviously up to her own game, which meant controlling the great hero to her own ends. The other, named Mena, was a goody-goody, too good to be true. But time and again she stood by our hero, admonishing him away from temptation, reminding him of his duty to the right. The stories were not only bloody but pretty sexy as well.

  The climax came with the twelfth labor, to use the mythology of Hercules. This was the longest and most complex. It went back and forth a number of times but slowly Ateth showed her true nature and though Mena saved our hero time and again it was clear she had her hands full. In the climax, Semerkha summoned fire from his goddess mother, used it to defeat the army of darkness he fought, then gave fire to mankind as a safeguard against the night and all evil.

  For this, like Prometheus, he was chained in the mighty Khashan Mountains where he was endlessly tortured, yet never allowed to die. There he would remain until mankind turned from all evil and embraced the good. Ateth returned to the cave from which she’d come, pretty satisfied with how all this worked out, while Mena established an altar at Semerkha’s feet where she lives to this day, offering sacrifices to the gods for the release of her true love.

  And so the story ended with more than a few tears shed. After a long silence the men broke into a hearty applause. Urak Rahdon expressed his pleasure at the telling and ordered the bard be given a purse of gold coins.