by Scott Reeves
He hiked onward down the mountain, across a saddleback ridge and down into a valley between two towering peaks. He came to the outskirts of another mining campsite much like the one he had so recently left. This one, however, was larger, and there were no dead bodies. Three men gathered around a cook fire, eating. As Varuk approached, two others emerged from the mouth of a mine off to the side. One of them pushed an ore cart. The other had a pickaxe slung over his shoulder.
One of the men at the campfire was very large, with huge biceps. The second man at the campfire was shorter, less hulkish, with a patch over his right eye. The third man was slender and somewhat sickly looking.
Varuk boldly approached the campfire. Caution was for the weak.
The miners noticed Varuk and stood warily.
“Approach no further, stranger,” said the large man with the huge biceps.
“Who are you?” demanded the one with the eye patch. “State your business.”
“I am Varuk,” said he. “And my business is my own. May I approach your fire?”
The man with the biceps pointed at Varuk’s waist. “Swords aren’t welcome here. Leave yours at the edge of camp, and you can share our fire. If not, you’d best be on your way.”
Varuk rested his hand on the pommel of his sword. “My sword never leaves my side. But I swear by Valla not to harm you unless absolutely necessary.”
Even as Varuk spoke, a sixth miner raced into camp from behind Varuk. He wore a look of stark terror on his youthful face. “Derek! Bolo!” he called out, addressing himself to the man with the biceps and the man with the eye patch. “They’re dead, all of them!” The newcomer pushed past Varuk and stumbled to a halt before the man with the biceps, who wore an expression of concern.
“Who, Willem?” The large man asked. “Who is dead?”
“Asa and the others up at the second mine!” the newcomer panted out. “They were slaughtered, Derek! Hacked to death with swords, by the look of their wounds.”
Derek and the others turned their attention to Varuk. A few other miners crept into the camp, surrounding Varuk, blocking off any retreat. Varuk crouched slightly, tense, readying for a fight. But he had not yet drawn his sword.
“Killed by swords, you say, Willem?” said Derek, the man with the biceps. He didn’t take his eyes off Varuk.
“That’s right, Derek,” replied Willem.
Derek scowled and gestured to Varuk. “Give us your sword, boy. Let us see if it’s tasted the blood of our comrades.”
Varuk drew his blade. “I did not harm your friends. But if you wish to inspect my blade…”
One of the miners behind Varuk had managed to creep up unnoticed. He struck the back of Varuk’s head with the haft of his pickaxe, knocking Varuk into blackness.
******
Deep in the heart of the territory of Clan Ying Mordra was an enormous pit. As wide as fifty ruk placed nose to tail, the pit’s sheer walls allowed nothing trapped inside to climb out. This was the arena of doh and puyo, where good men fought and weak men died.
On Varuk’s tenth birthday, a crowd of his clansmen ringed the rim of the pit, staring down into the pit, ready to bear witness as their young clan brother received his doh.
Inside the pit, Varuk’s parents knelt beside their young son, fawning over him. Varuk stood proudly, naked save for a loincloth. He stared defiantly up at his fellow clansmen, they who had come to witness.
Behind him was a dark maw in the base of the pit wall, blocked with an iron grate. Next to the opening, a crude wooden ladder had been propped against the wall of the pit, so that people could climb into or out of the pit.
“Be brave, boy,” Martok told his son. “It is important that you show no fear. Animals have a nose for it.”
“Stand your ground,” his mother advised him. “Greet your fate as one greets the dawn of a new day. Don’t shame your father in the eyes of the clan.”
This was the day Varuk would receive his doh.
Varuk’s parents, having imparted the last of their wisdom and encouragement to their son, left his side. His mother climbed the ladder out of the pit, while Martok struggled to shove the grate away from the opening. Varuk stood in the center of the pit, looking around anxiously. His pride and calm demeanor had deserted him.
The grate removed and tossed aside, Martok climbed the ladder and pulled it up from the pit, denying his son any avenue of escape. Varuk looked with trepidation at the black, mysterious maw of the opening in the pit wall.
Several sets of eyes appeared in the darkness, gazing out at the young boy.
Varuk cringed away from the opening as three ferocious beasts crept out, their eyes fastened hungrily on their young prey. None of the beasts were alike. One was a huge lion with a twisted bony spike protruding from its forehead; another a snake-like creature the size of four men; the last a hulking brute that resembled a man but twice as large, with a protruding brow, a broad, flat nose and shaggy fur like a mammoth.
The snake slithered toward Varuk, uncoiling and rearing high above him, fangs bared.
Above, on the rim of the pit, the crowd looked on stoically. Only Varuk’s mother looked away, unwilling to watch.
This wass the day Varuk would receive his doh… or die.
******
Varuk’s mind swam up from the memory and out of darkness. His eyes fluttered open. He looked around. Half-dried blood matted his hair and his head ached where he’d been hit from behind. He sat in a chair with his ankles bound to the chair legs and his wrists bound behind his back. His sword was nowhere to be seen
He was in a room that had carved out of solid rock. Darkness ate the corners of the room, held back by an oil lamp that flickered on a nearby wooden table. An iron door in the wall would firmly bar any escape attempt. He assumed that he must be in a room inside the mine he had glimpsed earlier.
Derek, the miner with the biceps, perched on a corner of the table, studying Varuk. He had been waiting patiently for Varuk to regain consciousness.
“We found traces of blood on your blade, boy,” Derek told him.
Varuk twisted his hands, trying to wiggle them free of their bonds. As he worked, he replied, “It surprises you to find blood on the weapon of a warrior?”
Derek leaned forward, stabbing an accusing finger at Varuk. “You’re no warrior. You’re a murderer! Do you feel no shame, no remorse, for your crimes against my brethren?”
“The only shame I feel,” Varuk said, “is that one of you was able to club me from behind. The only remorse I feel is allowing my blade to fall into unclean hands.”
Derek scoffed in disbelief at Varuk’s words. “Unclean hands? Unclean hands! I— I… You leave me at a loss for words, barbarian. I don’t know what to do with you.” He shook his head. “But Captain Bors and his troop will be passing this way tomorrow, on their way to relieve Captain Garret up at Gap Station. He’s got the authority for a drumhead. Much as I’d like to strangle you myself, I’ll leave it to him to decide your fate.”
“I did not kill your men,” Varuk said.
“Oh? And who did, then?”
“Palawa.”
Derek raised an eyebrow. “And what is this Palawa?”
“Palawa, the razorbeast,” Varuk said. These men were indeed unclean if they had not heard of Palawa. “You have awakened the Earth with your mining. These mountains are sacred. You would know that, if civilization hadn’t wiped out your ancient, animal memories. Your digging here has angered the land. Palawa has risen up to stop you.”
Derek stood, preparing to leave. He waved a hand, dismissing Varuk’s claims. “Razorbeasts? Pah! Childhood fables! Monsters under the bed!” He barked a laugh. “That is your defense for your crimes? Enjoy what little remains of your life, barbarian. Tomorrow, I think, you die.”
Derek blew out the lamp and left the room, leaving Varuk in darkness.
******
Varuk held his ground at the center of the arena. The beasts circled, stalking him.
Ac
cording to clan tradition, one of the beasts would turn on the others and defend the young clansman, thus revealing itself as the young clansman’s doh.
The horned lion swiped at Varuk with a taloned claw. Varuk dodged.
Above, on the pit’s rim, Martok watched with intense concern.
“None of the beasts take up his defense,” he reported to his wife. She still refused to watch. “They all attack.”
On rare occasions, no beast took up the child’s defense, and the child was devoured. There was no sorrow in this, and no shame fell on the clansman’s family. It simply meant that the child was unfit to survive into adulthood.
The wooly man-beast swiped at Varuk with a taloned hand. Varuk managed to dodge, but a deep gash was sliced out of his side.
Patches of the ground around Varuk, the loose sand and pebbles of the arena floor, began to glow, to sparkle. The sand drew together, forming into the outline of some vague shape.
The snake and the horned lion tensed, preparing to launch a concerted attack on Varuk, who had fallen to the ground, barely escaping fatal injury during the man-beast’s attack
The sand around him tightened even more, and the ground rose slightly as something extruded itself, erupting from the very Earth itself.
Varuk was sent reeling backward as an awesome new beast erupted from the ground and towered over the other beasts, shielding Varuk from them. The new beast was a ferocious-looking hulk, a creature made entirely of glistening metal. It bristled with thousands of razor sharp spines, some small like daggers, others huge like swords. The other beasts cowered away from it.
Varuk gasped, recognizing the creature from legend. He beheld Palawa, a Spirit of the Earth clothed in metal that had coalesced into life from the dust of the earth itself.
Using the sword-like spines on its forearms, the razorbeast raked a huge gash in the horned lion’s side, and guts spilled out, steaming in the cold morning air. Varuk lay in a half-sitting position behind the razorbeast, stunned, watching in open-mouthed awe.
Even as the razorbeast attacked the horned lion, the snake sank huge fangs into the side of the razorbeast and clamped down. The razorbeast looked invulnerable, but it was not. The razorbeast swiped at the huge snake chewing on its side, managed to dislodge it and fling it savagely across the pit.
Up on the rim of the pit, the spectators pointed and muttered excitedly among themselves. Martok smiled widely, waving a fist in the air. “It is Palawa!” he crowed. “The Earth itself rises to the defense of my son!”
Ruk Yingh Shimol, the barrel-chested clan chief, was joyous. “This is a good omen for the clan!” he shouted. “Palawa has not chosen a ka’doh in three hundred years!”
******
A noise in the darkness pulled Varuk up from his memories. There was no telling how much time had passed since Derek had left. Without daylight as a telltale, it could have been minutes, hours, or days later.
No, not days, he realized. If it had been more than a day, Captain Bors would already have been there, sitting in judgment upon him.
Varuk cocked an ear, listening to a scream beyond the door.
“Aaaaagh!”
More screams followed, and the ringing of steel came from beyond.
“Oh my Gods! Aaaaagh! Aaaaagh!”
The chaotic sounds of men dying in battle. Someone… some thing… was sitting in judgment, but not upon him.
Varuk sneered. “Palawa is dealing out justice to the miners who defile these mountains with their tunneling.”
The door burst open. A terrified Derek stood framed in the doorway. He was covered in blood and gashes, but not mortally wounded. He slammed the door and leaned back against it, terrified and exhausted, using the door as a shield between himself and whatever was out in the tunnel beyond.
******
In the pit, the razorbeast tottered on wavering legs, breathing raggedly, mortally wounded. Blackish fluids leaked down its glistening metallic skin from jagged-edged gashes. The broken bodies of the other beasts were scattered around it. At the center of the chaos, young Varuk knelt, untouched and no longer frightened.
The razorbeast had vanquished all opponents. But the great beast had itself been mortally wounded. It toppled to the ground beside Varuk. He reached out and touched the razorbeast, greatly saddened by its death.
Behind him, the ladder was lowered into the pit.
Varuk hugged the razorbeast, carefully avoiding the sharp, sword-like spines that thrust outward from its metal body.
The tribal shaman approached. He was old, wearing a necklace of skulls around his neck and a bleached-white skull upon his head. Magical charms dangled from his waist. He carried the sword forged by the clan blacksmith the previous evening. The shaman held it respectfully out toward Varuk.
Martok followed a short distance behind the shaman.
“Take your sword, KoYing Varuk,” the shaman commanded. “Place its point against the beast as you have been instructed.”
Varuk stood before the razorbeast, held his new sword at arm’s length and pressed its tip against the razorbeast’s belly.
The shaman stood beside Varuk and closed his eyes. He laid one palm flat on the razorbeast’s belly and placed the other palm on Varuk’s heart. A glow, a surge of power, traveled from the beast, up along the shaman’s arms and across into Varuk. The shaman was a bridge, transferring the razorbeast’s power into Varuk.
“Now, Ko Yingh Varuk,” the shaman intoned, “receive your doh.”
Varuk writhed briefly as the power engulfed him and settled deep into his bones. When the last twitches had ceased, the shaman turned away from the razorbeast and faced Varuk.
“Palawa has given you his doh, his strength,” the shaman said loudly for the benefit of the spectators up on the rim. “You are in his debt. You are now ka’doh to Palawa—you are his strength. As he has protected you, so must you always protect him.”
The shaman took Varuk’s sword arm and raised it above his head, pointing Varuk’s sword at the sky in victory. The spectators gathered on the rim of the pit waved their arms and cheered, chanting, “Ka’doh! Ka’doh! Ka’doh!”
******
Derek cowered beside the door, his arms shielding his head. He trembled, still traumatized by the carnage he had witnessed out in the tunnel. The door to the room was shut tightly behind him. Or so he hoped.
The screams and the sound of metal on metal coming from beyond the door soon died out. Varuk and Derek sat in silence, Derek trembling, Varuk sneering.
An unknown time passed. The door was flung violently open and two uniformed, armored men with crossbows peered cautiously into the room, covering the room with their bows.
One of the crossbowmen knelt beside Derek and examined him. The other stood with his crossbow warily trained on Varuk. A third large, muscular, armored man strode imperiously into the room, hands on hips, like a conqueror surveying his territory.
“Only two survivors, then,” the man said, his voice tinged with regret and sorrow. He used the tip of his sword to lift Varuk’s chin and examined Varuk’s face. “Master Derek. Who slaughtered your men out in the tunnels? Is this… barbarian… responsible?”
Derek had stopped trembling, calming down now that soldiers had arrived. “We thought so, at first, Captain Bors,” Derek said. “But he was locked in here when… when that out there happened. As guilty as he looks, he’s innocent of this.”
Bors turned to Derek, who stood. “Then who slaughtered your miners?”
“A razorbeast,” Derek said.
“A razorbeast? Impossible,” Captain Bors said flatly. “There’s no such creature.”
Derek shook his head. “Begging the captain’s pardon, I saw it with my own eyes. Straight out of the underworld, crucify me if it wasn’t.”
Bors stroked his chin thoughtfully. “You may be right. I’ve heard tell of stranger things in these mountains recently.” He sighed. “Well, I suppose we’ll have to find the beast and kill it, before it does more harm. I
suppose it’s my duty. But I can’t say I like the thought of facing such a demon.” He thrust his face into Varuk’s. “Still, I can’t believe this brute has nothing to do with the demon’s sudden appearance. He has the look of a killer about him. He’s likely guilty of some crime.”
Varuk glowered and bared his teeth.
Bors turned away from Varuk and strode toward the door. Derek began to untie Varuk, while the two crossbowmen covered him.
“Bring him,” Bors commanded. “We’ll put his innocence to the test. At the same time, we’ll use him to lure the razorbeast to us.”
The two crossbowmen forced Varuk through the door and out into the mine tunnel. There, he found a group of armored men standing at attention, halberds in their hands. Bors barked a command and they leveled their halberds at Varuk. They prodded him forward, down the tunnel into a gathering, mysterious darkness. An oil lamp carried by Bors, at the back of the group, cast a dim illumination. Varuk, at the front edge of the light, was prodded forward by the halberds into greater darkness.
Bors called up to him, “This thing likes to kill, barbarian, so we’re giving it something to kill. You understand? You’re bait. If the razorbeast kills you, we’ll know you’re innocent. If it doesn’t, we’ll know you’re guilty and working with it, and we’ll impale you.”
One of the soldiers jibed, “Now, we can’t see you very well up there in the dark, so you be sure to yell real loud if you run into the razorbeast, okay?”
Varuk seethed, but his anger was tempered with the certainty that these men would soon be dead.
He trudged ever deeper into the mines. Then, the ground in front of him began to sparkle, glowing. The ground quaked and the dirt and pebbles of the tunnel floor began oozing together, forming into a vague shape. He noticed this and smiled knowingly. At his back, he felt the men slowing, felt the points of their halberds withdrawing from his skin.
Palawa, the razorbeast, erupted up from the earth, taking on shape as he arose. Varuk watched in awe; he had rarely encountered his doh since that day eight years ago, and the sight of the beast was like the return of a long lost, beloved friend. The soldiers behind him stared in slack-jawed terror, lowering their halberds.