The Rising

by SC Huggins

  The Rising

  SC Huggins

  Published by CGS, 2018.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  THE RISING

  First edition. January 16, 2018.

  Copyright © 2018 SC Huggins.

  ISBN: 978-1519942975

  Written by SC Huggins.

  To Jehovah, my family, and my mentor William McCullough.

  The rising

  SC Huggins

  Contents

  The First Priest

  The Deji

  Dawn of creation

  The Rebellion

  The beginning

  Jamak

  A disappointment

  The rumble

  The betrayal

  Wereu

  Sorcery

  The First Priest

  Virai, Uwan. 9950 AME

  The glint of moonlight reflecting off the blade saved his life. Did he see the blade coming? Rork wasn’t sure, but he saw something—a trick of the moonlight playing with the well-sharpened point of a blade. Rork turned his head to the left and the blade came crashing down on his side with a rush of air and sound. His head felt lighter as his head and hair parted ways. The cool breeze of the early morning caressed his just shorn scalp and the first shiver of real fear lit his spine. The sword landed hard against the hard ground of the room, shooting off small sparks of lightning. Rork let his body roll off the pallet, towards the door to the throne room and away from his sleeping parents. He watched the dark shape rise with the long sword held out. His mind quickly processed the events playing out before him. The throne room and the room attached to it housed the Qiga of Virai—his father, and his family. The foundation and ground of both rooms were created from rocks cut off the Jandi Highlands to the east. The circle of magic in the perimeter of their compound should have repelled the intruder. The sword shouldn’t have survived a crash against their rocky ground.

  This was no ordinary murderer and that was no ordinary sword.

  Rork looked around for a weapon, anything to fend the intruder off. He took a quick glance towards his parents’ pallet and was gratified to make out their shapes sleeping peacefully. He had to handle the situation. Rork was confident the murderer must be from one of the twelve villages come to wrest the rulership from his father. As he watched the dark shape of the intruder come towards him, Rork cursed his first instincts to run towards the door. His actions pulled the intruder away from his parents but his small hunting knife lay useless under his pallet.

  The intruder lunged and fell against the mud wall near the door. The smell of determination, fear and something familiar he couldn’t put his finger on, hit him with full force. Rork rolled into a ball and launched himself at the legs of the man intent on cutting short his breathing days on Uwan. He stretched his hand in between the open legs and grabbed a firm hold of the intruder’s member and squeezed for all he was worth. With his sword stuck in the wall, the man flayed about frantically. With grim satisfaction, he heard the hiss of pain from the murderer just as he struck Rork’s exposed shoulders. Twisting to the side to evade more blows, Rork held on. The intruder managed to wrest his sword from the mud wall where it was stuck and turned. Rork gave the flesh in his fist one more painful squeeze and listened to the man wheeze in pain. To his surprise the intruder struck at his hand to save his member, thankfully leaving his exposed neck. Immediately Rork released him, he lurched out through the door, leaving as quietly as he’d come.

  Rork approached the door and examined the wooden lock. It was intact with not a single mark to show a struggle. He frowned. Who had access to the house of the Qiga of Virai? No one, not even his uncle Tafik or one of the chiefs had such freedom. He walked past the door to the wall and froze at the sight of the slice in the wall the sword had made.

  What kind of sword sliced through well-molded mud walls? As Rork stood on the threshold of their one-roomed chamber thinking of the attempt on his father’s life, he silently vowed to do all he could to protect their powerful ruler. The silence of the sleeping village surrounded him and he squatted down on the small stoop on the threshold to await daylight.

  “IF NOT FOR MY SON’S hunter’s instinct where will I be?” Rami, the Qiga of Virai asked his chiefs that afternoon. “I owe him my life.”

  “I suspect the Chaldis would have been rolling out the celebratory drums,” Tafik said, smoothing back his silky blonde hair like a girl.

  Rork didn’t believe it was his hunter’s instincts, because of what use was a hunter’s instincts when you had no defenses? The murderer had gained access to the throne room with no struggle.

  “Why do you think the Chaldis did this?” Old Pena one of the foremost chiefs asked. “From what the young heir has said, the man passed through the circle of magic, walked passed your threshold, fought your son and escaped while you slept.”

  Rami’s beard twitched. “You are telling me something.”

  “I preach caution. We shouldn’t go pointing hasty fingers at Chaldi— “

  “We aren’t afraid of the Chaldis!” Tafik said with clenched fists.

  “Of course,” Pena murmured, “you wouldn’t be because you will stay right here while our young men and priests go to war.”

  Tafik took a threatening step forward and winced, rubbing his shoulders as he glared at the old chief. Everything about the man irritated him, from his white hair to his stooped shoulders.

  “Are you alright?” Uche one of the chiefs asked.

  “One of his many women must have worn him out,” another said with a good-natured laugh.

  Even the worried Rork had to smile at that. His handsome uncle was well known for his love of women.

  “I’ve heard you all,” Rami said and rose, his stout heavily muscled frame pulsing with energy, “I don’t care where the murderer is from. I need the fool caught and duly punished.” He squeezed Rork’s shoulder. “I owe you my life, my son. I blame myself I shouldn’t have slept so deeply—”

  “No father, you returned late from your hunt and—”

  “The father is the head of the household and is responsible for the safety of those under him,” Old Pena replied, “accept your father’s words young heir. He shouldn’t have overslept.” His eyes moved to his Qiga and he bowed respectfully. “Sema.”

  Rami nodded. “Now, I need you to consult with the priests until the murderer is found.”

  “One good thing came of this attack though,” Uche said with a grin.

  “What?” one of the chiefs asked as Rami took his seat on the throne.

  “Our young heir now stands where he belongs beside his father’s throne.”

  Rami nodded and squeezed Rork’s shoulders. “It seems oversleeping is not my only crime, my son.”

  Rork’s heart swelled in his chest. Happiness suffused his handsome features with warmth and he smiled at his father.

  “But if the villagers hear about the attack and Chaldis supposed role in it, they will panic,” Uche said bluntly.

  The other six chiefs nodded solemnly and an old familiar tension, as fear gripped them all. The holocaust was a war everyone in Wakay, even the unborn children knew about and lived in dread of its reoccurrence. A fight for the throne of the Qiga among the twelve villages of the Wakay clan had started the war. The bloodiest war that lasted a good decade, even though the holocaust was a long time past, everyone in the Wakay clan avoided any imbalance that would ignite another war. As the meeting drew to a close and the chiefs began to depart, Rork remained by his father’s side, reluctant to leave. Tafik passed the long blonde strands of his hair to Rami. The last of the chiefs to leave, Old Pena stopped and eyed the strands.

  “Sema, this strikes too close to home. The A
ncestral Mother herself watched him,” Old Pena declared.

  “Not even my Deji Yas?” Rami said lightly.

  The older man nodded. “I’m sure he also did.”

  “And Rork is a skilled fighter,” Tafik added.

  “Let me go, I have a murderer to catch.” Old Pena gave Tafik one last glance and shuffled out.

  “And you need to go help your mother with the chores,” Rami told Rork.

  “Thank you, father,” Rork said and walked off in the same direction as the chiefs as he would be joining his mother in the farm. Outside the throne room he bumped into Old Pena. Rork smiled at the older man and father of his best friend, Dago.

  “I don’t want to be old.”

  Old Pena raised an eyebrow. “And I don’t want to be young. I’ve been young and now—”

  “I’m old, a Deji cannot become a mortal again,” Rork finished with a laugh.

  “Come tell me about the sword.”

  Rork stopped. “You want to hear about this again? Aren’t you going to the priests to find out the murderer?”

  “I am, but I need some information first.” He folded his hand over his cane. “Tell me.”

  “He came at me— “

  “You didn’t see him?”

  “He came through the door—”

  “And yet you didn’t see him?”

  “I was asleep.”

  “Rork, you and my son spend days and nights hunting. Has an animal ever gotten past you because you slept during a hunt?”

  “No but—”

  “Do you fully sleep?”

  “No,” Rork repeated calmly, “but somehow he slipped past me so I must have been asleep.”

  Old Pena’s old eyes glittered beneath his white bushy brows and Rork understood while the boys of his age group called him ‘old’.

  “So, he opened your door, walked past the door and stood over you, and you the best hunter and wrestler in the village for the past three years took no note, even your father took no note.”

  Rork shook his head. “I gave it some thought, but I can’t undo what has already happened.”

  “No, but you can reason through the obvious. Did you lie on your stomach?”

  Rork was already shaking his head. “I always lie on my back to see everything coming.”

  “Like the hunter you are. So, if you took no note all these time, what alerted you?”

  Rork frowned, dark brows pulled together in a puzzled expression. Old Pena stared at the boy and marveled at how complete he was. Rork was the heir and pride of the village. Never in all his eighty-three years has he witnessed a situation where the villagers loved the heir so much more than the Qiga, some even more than their own children. They would readily lay down their lives for the young heir, and it was only fair because he would also do the same. As he had done for the father, if the account of this morning’s attack rang true.

  “It makes no sense because I saw white.”

  “White,” Old Pena sounded skeptical.

  “Very bright white like the edge of a well sharpened blade.”

  “That’s impossible. It’s our greatest mother, The Ancestral Mother’s colors.”

  “It must have been the moonlight since the door was open. I’m just grateful I could save father’s life—”

  “And find his favor to stand in court beside him for the first time,” Old Pena added quietly.

  Rork tilted his head to the side. “Is that wrong? Does that make me a bad person? That I want something? I know I shouldn’t want something for saving my father’s life.”

  “The circumstances are different. Your magic will—”

  “It’s no concern of yours, I’m sorry,” Rork replied quietly.

  Old Pena smiled. “You answered correctly. Never assume anyone is on your side.”

  “You are my best friend’s father.”

  “Won’t I benefit if the rumors that you have no magic is true?”

  Rork narrowed those odd eyes. They had no color Old Pena could readily identify and the contrast of straight black brows against his silvery hair made it worse.

  “Why are you telling me all these?”

  “You are just ten, same age as my boy. You—”

  “I will soon be eleven,” Rork interrupted.

  “Ah,” Old Pena smiled. “You and Dago began running around together right from the time you could walk. Sometimes, I think your friendship is destined.” His mouth worked. “Your family serve Yas because that’s the Deji you have chosen. Serve him well.”

  “Why did we choose Yas to serve?” Rork asked.

  “Your father is better placed to answer that question.” Old Pena placed a hand on Rork’s chest. “I think the intruder used magic to get past you,” he said quietly.

  Rork raised his chin defiantly and Old Pena marveled anew at his composure. Many had forgotten the boy had only spent ten years walking on Uwan. His unusual maturity might serve him in good stead for what Old Pena suspected. But it wouldn’t save him.

  “You know what that means?”

  “If he used magic to slip past me, it means I either have no magic or too little magic and it also means you want information I will never give you.”

  Old Pena smiled. “You are a remarkable young man Rork.” He tipped Rork’s chin up. “But you are hungry. A hungry man gifted food should open the food and be sure it is not spoilt before thanking the giver.”

  “What does that mean?” Rork asked.

  “That you should be careful.” He smiled. “At least you no longer have hair as long as a girl’s. I thought you were taking your uncle’s footsteps,” he finished with a grimace and walked off.

  Rork watched Old Pena shuffle past with a puzzled frown. With a shrug, he turned and raced to the farm to help his mother. He was stopped exactly twenty-four times by the villagers calling to greet and ask how he was. Rork shook his head in amusement at the thought of how father’s plan to keep the attack a secret was going. Maybe one of the chiefs had said something. Six more greetings later and a dozen promise to help with firewood, palm frond or meat, he finally made his way into the farm.

  “Mother.” Rork grabbed a sword and sat to sharpen it with one of the few Jandi rocks.

  “You are late,” his mother said without turning around from her position. She was bent over a ridge, planting the seeds for the tazi they needed all year round. It gave soup a lushness and was good for healthy teeth and bones as the First Priest taught them last week. He would be planting gea, a male crop. As the First Priest had explained, it was to be planted by fathers and older brothers because of the fragility of the seeds. Rork loved watching the plants grow.

  “You are late.”

  “I’m sorry,” Rork replied.

  “You always are. Till the soil, plant the seeds for the gea, harvest some crops for our food today and get some firewood.”

  Rork nodded eagerly. “I will.”

  “I heard you promise Rita’s mother some meat,” she continued.

  “Yes, her son usually goes hunting but he’s sick—”

  “Let them take him to the priests, you are no healer.”

  “Yes, they have.” Rork pressed his thumb against the sword to test for sharpness. He shook his head, grabbed the stone and continued sharpening it. “And her husband is—”

  “Dead, I know and you are not a resurrecter of the dead. You can’t go giving meat around just because someone’s husband is dead. Will you be doing that for all the widows in the village?”

  Rork frowned. “I’ve been doing it. It’s not difficult.”

  “Well, I don’t care what you do. Also make sure we have meat.”

  “We have meat, mother. I cut and roasted it yesterday—”

  “We need more. Your uncle Tafik will eat—”

  “Uncle Tafik is a grown man who is not a widow. He can fend for himself—”

  “Never interrupt me again and get enough meat for your uncle. If you can do it for all these people I see no reason why you can�
�t do it for your blood.”

  Rork rubbed his temple and fought to hold back his anger. “I will, mother.”

  “I will be at the shed,” she said pointing at a crudely erected shed made of palm fronds and strong wood Rork created for that purpose.

  Rork worked until the sun rose over the clouds to peek on him. As he drank from his water plate, he laughed at the sun when it peeked over again to see if he was done.

  “If you want to stay, stay. Stay with me and tell me how you stay this bright,” he called out.

  “Who are you talking to?” his mother asked.

  “The sun.”

  She laughed. “I now have a son no better than the mad Wereu of the Chaldi.”

  Rork managed a smile, dropped his water plate and went to work. When the sun said good bye and walked away slowly as if to prolong their moment, Rork felt a little sad. He gathered the crop for their meal, placed it on the shed beside his sleeping mother and went off to get firewood.

  He'd tied the wood together and was thinking of how he’d balance the lot on his head without help when the hair on his nape rose to stand on end. He turned and met the eyes of a masked man with the same sword used in the last attack held in his grip.

  “Why would anyone want to kill you?” Dago asked softly, using his magic to sidle up beside him without making a sound.

  Rork envied him such power.

  “I mean it’s not like you’re special,” one of the boys of their age group joked, coming to stand on Rork’s other side.

  Rork sighed in relief. “Thank you. I was seriously too tired to fight this fight.”

  Dago scoffed. “You? Too tired to show off your wrestling skills?”

  “You can take him,” another boy said confidently, “it’s only the sword I fear because I’ve never seen it’s like.”

  A sliver of fear wiggled its way beneath Rork’s skin. “I thought the same when I saw it last night. It brought sparks off the Jandi rock.”

  “This is the same sword from last night?” another asked, completing their hunting group of five.