by R. A. Denny
I returned to Tuka, who was drinking from a skin. He handed it to me. I drank deeply.
“There is no finer blade smith in all of Hattom. Nor any man with a bigger heart. She will wait for you,” Tuka assured me.
I imprinted Tuka’s words on my heart, like the anvil carved on the leather palm glove. I intended to hold those words close throughout our journey.
We gave water to Star, who also drank deeply, then continued on. After walking a long way past many rock homes, we came to the outskirts of Hattom where the rock spires were thinner and closer together, and stubby patches of dried brown grass grew between them. Star stopped to graze, but there was not much that had survived the scorching sun. I looked back across the homes carved into the spires, with a backdrop of our hillside home and saw the shadows stretching across to the east. I mused that far out of sight on the side of the mountain, Rhabdom would be praying for us. I turned to face the unknown maze of paths between the mysterious spires that reached across the valley before us and braced myself for what might lay ahead. This area on the outskirts of our village was rumored to be full of escaped slaves and other bandits.
“Let’s stop here for a bite to eat,” I said as we reached the dusty edge of the village. “Do you mind if we review everything that Rhabdom said before I left? We need to remember it as best we can.”
“Yes, let’s do this every time we stop to eat. Then we won’t forget,” Tuka said.
“Let’s see. First, Rhabdom told me that the jug itself, not what is inside it, is the most valuable item that I bring with me, and I must guard it with my life since it is crucial to our journey. We may rest in the pools in the White Rocks, but beware of the Gates of Hell. If you meet a stranger, draw a circle, and if he draws a circle inside, he can be trusted as a follower of Adon. Man does not live just by eating food, but by digesting every word that comes from the mouth of Adon. When we arrive in Tzoladia, we must find a young man named Amanki, with feet like a duck, and give him the jug. He will have a blue cylinder seal. He will be following the same star that we are.
“And what is the purpose of the jug and the blue cylinder seal?” Tuka asked. I was not surprised that Tuka was interested in the cylinder seal.
“You know the tales of the three cylinder seals that lead to a fabled city of great wealth? They originated in the prophecy about three seals which guard the hidden land of treasure. This Amanki duck man must have one of the seals and he needs the jug to save mankind,” I answered. I had to admit it sounded pretty ridiculous. Every time I pictured a duck man I wanted to laugh.
I was not the only one. Tuka started laughing, his eyes sparkling. “I bet this Amanki guy can swim. Hey, does he have wings too? If he looks like a duck, maybe he can fly?” He lifted his arms up and down as if about to take off.
“Rhabdom didn’t mention wings, only large webbed feet like a duck, so I doubt that he can fly. He said there would be lots of men with webbed feet in Tzoladia.”
“And we will help him save the world? Maybe everyone is going to drown?” Tuka said.
I looked closely to see if he was still laughing. He was smiling, but in enjoyment like when solving a riddle rather than in a way that was making fun. I felt relieved. Tuka was so easy to get along with. Unlike father, he knew how to dream, and dream large.
“Apparently everyone will not drown, or burn up, or whatever…if we can deliver our jug,” I answered. I felt like there was something else Rhabdom had said that I was leaving out, but I could not think of it.
We finished our last bites of the hardtack biscuits and checked to see if Star had finished the grain we had given her. Then we prepared to leave our village. There were no paths straight across the valley, so we would have to go in and out of the spires as if through a maze.
There were many natural and rough-hewn man made caves in the rocks, and desperate robbers could be hiding behind every turn. It was basically a non-defensible position to be in. Before going forward, I put on my mask and took out my obsidian sword, which was a long wooden baton with a row of eight short, deadly sharp, obsidian blades sticking out on each side. It had a two handed grip. I had constructed it myself in such a way that the blades could not be pulled out or broken. I had made Tuka a similar sword, and he armed himself in the same manner.
Although Tuka was too young to have more than a sparse scalebeard, mine had already grown in pretty well, though certainly not as thick or full as our father’s beard. Our facemasks were made from the back scales of our ancestors: mine from the back of my grandfather, Moshab; and Tuka’s from our deceased oldest brother, Samube, who died in a spin battle. Samube and my father had been spinning together with only their armored backs exposed to the enemy when Samube released too early and was sliced through his soft abdomen. Our father had never recovered from the loss, but had grown more embittered as the years went by.
Our scales were made of many layers of the same material as our fingernails, and overlapped to provide maximum protection but also flexibility. They covered our backsides from the tops of our heads down to our heels. The ancestral facemasks were physically tough and also protected us through the powerful goodwill of our dead family members. Each boy was given a new full mask each year, when the sun was positioned in reference to the stars where it had been at his birth, during a circle celebration. Manhood was bestowed in a great festival where the man put aside his full mask and was granted a half mask by the Leader of his Tribe, then given a new name that always included a portion of his dead ancestors name. If the ancestor had died in battle, the mask was considered more powerful. As a young boy, I was called Shoi, but once my scalebeard had grown, as a man I had become Moshoi.
Cautiously, our obsidian swords in hand, we began our journey beyond Hattom, leading Star behind us. The further we walked among the supposedly uninhabited spires, the more uncomfortable I became. There were just too many hiding places for bandits to lie in wait.
As we rounded the next outcrop, a small boulder rolled down the side and onto the ground, stopping in our path. It was an ominous sign. I looked up to determine from whence the rock had fallen, and then to my right and left, knowing that it might have been purposely thrown in another direction to distract us.
My bodied tightened and was filled with energy. “Prepare for battle!” I commanded Tuka.
Star turned backwards. I was relieved to find that she was well trained and responded to my commands without hesitation. “Stay, Star!” I commanded the yakama.
Star could spray the enemy to disable him, but if there was more than one, which there was sure to be, they would try to surround us. We needed to work with Star to protect ourselves and the load she was carrying. We adjusted our ancestral facemasks, just as an Unarmored man appeared from behind a boulder.
“Spin fight!” I commanded, making the choice to battle defensively, since we were likely to be outnumbered. I faced Tuka and I wrapped my arms around him, holding my many-bladed obsidian sword with two hands at his back. He did the same so that we formed a protective circle. Then we began to spin together in circles, looking over each other’s shoulders. This meant that our soft front sides were protected and only our armored backsides were exposed.
The men that came at us were dirty and lean. Fortunately, all but one was Unarmored and they did not appear to have bolas with which to tangle our legs. Still, they dangerously wielded swords. Six of them came at us from two angles. As Star turned her back on one group, Tuka and I spun toward the other, always staying in front of the yakama.
Dizziness was never a problem with the Armored. As young children, spinning had been a favorite game, and later it became a sacred part of our religious rituals and serious training regimen for battle.
No further commands were needed for Star, as it was her natural defense to spray. A putrid smell filled the air, permeating our noses, as Star sprayed, moving her back legs one way and then the other.
One man fell to the ground, covering his eyes, while another fled. The third doubled o
ver, vomiting violently. The other group headed toward Tuka and me, stopped short, but then rushed toward us.
“Star, stay,” I yelled, to be sure she didn’t turn and spray us all.
The man’s sword came down hard across my back, jolting me, but did not cut through my thick scales. Before our assailant realized what was happening, Tuka and I completed our turn, and my razor sharp blades sliced through his midsection, hewing him in half. Unscaled, his back was as tender as his underbelly, with only a spine for protection. That’s why we sometimes referred to humans as softbacks. Blood poured onto the dry ground.
These were desperate, mangy bandits, probably refugees from the trade post, who approached us in a disorganized fashion. One of the last two men circled round Star, trying to reach her sides. She turned her rump toward him as he advanced. Meanwhile, the scaled man lunged at us in desperation, but my sword knocked his sword from his hand as we spun toward him. He turned his back and pulled a dagger from his belt, but then foolishly began turning in circles like us. He may have been smoking the lizard skin drug, a hallucinogen popular among humans, which was produced locally from a lizard skin and plant concoction. On one of his turns, we sliced his abdomen, causing his insides to spill out on the dry ground like worms.
As the world spun by me, I took in the scene. The two men that Star had incapacitated were still retching on the ground nearby, while a third was trying to pull one of them onto his feet to escape. Star had edged closer to the rock wall, leaving only her rump exposed, as she strained her neck to look, readying to spray again. We began to spin toward her right side, to cover her. Just in time, I looked up and saw a man on the ledge above her, about to jump
. As he leapt off the ledge right above Star’s back, I yelled, “Run, Star!” and our yakama bolted. Tuka and I spun and as the man came down, I sliced off his legs at his knees, and then Tuka sliced off his head with the sharp edges of his sword as we completed our circle.
The last man standing saw this and began to flee, disappearing behind one of the rock spires. Another, more favorable name we had for humans was sprinters, because since they were unencumbered by scales, many of them were very fast. As I turned, I scanned for more men, and on each turn tried to catch a glimpse of Star.
“Release,” I commanded to Tuka who obediently followed all my commands. This was the most important command. An Armored warrior must never release before the command is given, or it could mean instant death. We disentangled and sheathed our swords. Tuka leaned over and vomited. I knew it wasn’t from yakama essence or dizziness.
“Come on!” I said.
I grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the direction Star had run. Side by side, we zigged and zagged between rock spires, pointing each time a choice needed to be made. But Star was nowhere to be seen.
I hoped that other bandits lying in wait nearby had not captured her and run off with the jug. As we rounded the corner of a sheer natural rock tower, I caught a glimpse of the backend of Star. She was running through a small gulley between two spires. As I had feared, a man was running toward her to cut off her escape. With no time to lose, we dashed toward them, vainly trying to beat the bandit to Star. But just as the man was about to reach her, she suddenly seemed to disappear. I heard her bleating, but I could no longer see her at all. The man who had been headed toward her leapt into the air, crossing in front of us, the instant before we would have reached him.
The ground seemed to fall out from under me as I felt myself sliding down a hard ramp. I lost my balance and fell on my belly, still sliding from the momentum of my run. Tuka had been at my side, only a step behind me. I was terrified that my sword would fall loose, and Tuka would be disemboweled like our adversaries only moments before. I started to grab for my cestus from my belt, but realized just in time that it would be better if Tuka used his. “Use your cestus,” I shouted to Tuka. Then, only after I heard him come skidding to a stop, did I grab my own cestus and drive it into the softer rock, beneath the upper layer of hard crust.
“Moshoi? You ok?” Tuka yelled to me.
“Yes. Let me get up first,” I called back to Tuka. I pulled out my cestus and stood up carefully. Tuka, did the same. Still worried that the bandits would come after us, we continued down the ramp, leaning back on our heels. At first our pathway down into the earth became darker, but then I could see light coming from the bottom. This must be one of the entrances to the underground city of Trenggol. I hoped that we could find Star and that she would be unharmed.
At the bottom of the ramp, I was surprised to see an open archway that was not blocked by a millstone. This time of year all of the entrances should have been blocked. I nodded at Tuka, and we each held our swords at the ready, knowing that a quick offense was the only way to win a fight that might be over in seconds. We slowly approached the opening. Star was nowhere in sight. Just as we crossed below the arch, a guard came at us from each side, one with an obsidian sword and the other gripping an axe.
“Drop your swords!” the guards commanded.
These men were dressed as city guards with facemasks and leather pteruges dyed in red ochre and I knew it would be best to obey them, since many more would be nearby and prepared to back them up. The size of the cave we had entered must mean that this was the main gateway to Trenggol, under which the guard barracks lay. Holes were drilled in the floor, so it was likely that the soldiers below could hear the conversation. At this point we needed to rely on our brains instead of our bodies.
I nodded to Tuka. “Do as he says.”
We both dropped our weapons, and the guards instantly closed in on us.
Chapter 36
Mud - Amanki
As we drifted along, I told Baskrod my dream, trying to remember as many of the details as I could. Baskrod listened thoughtfully, ignoring the mullets that jumped into the air and then flopped back into the water near our boat. Then, then he spoke:
“Bladar is the horseman you watched murder your mother. I knew him when he was a child hostage in Tzoladia. He is now the leader of the Sparaggi, the people you call mud beasts. It appears that he has been ordered to kill you and take the seal. In fact, all of this revolves around that seal you wear. As you know, many Tzoladian officials and wealthy merchants proudly wear cylinder seals around their necks as identification, as jewelry, and as amulets. The picture engraved on the rock or seal is used to roll an impression onto a surface. But your seal is special. It is one of the ancient Titilanzur Seals from the prophecy of the star. The Tzoladians believe that these seals contain the secret to finding a city of fabulous wealth. It is rightfully yours because long ago it belonged to a Webby named Rigiluk, from whom you are descended
I was so amazed at what I was hearing that I was speechless. It was difficult to take it all in. Could it be that the deep blue cylinder seal which I wore was really one of the seals from the prophecy of the star?
“The room in your dream is the throne room in the emperor’s palace in Tzoladia,” Baskrod began, slowly, stroking his braided beard. “I have been there many times. It is amazing how true to life your description is. The king you described with the long curls is the current Emperor Zoltov, the youngest son of the late Great Emperor Wazador. Wazador had three sons, each of whom had a different mother, and after the death of their father, the oldest brother became emperor. He soon died under mysterious circumstances, leaving no son as an heir, so the middle brother, Dazbun became emperor. I served as Dazbun’s vizier throughout his reign. Dazbun was a fair and just philosopher ruler but he too was without a son to be his heir. Zoltov was next in line. His ambitious mother, Serpotia, the older woman in your dream, plotted to depose Dazbun, so Zoltov could become emperor. She spread many rumors that turned the people against Dazbun.”
"At that time, Daqqara, the last living descendant of Rigiluk and the heiress to the seal, was a member of Emperor Dazbun’s court. Daqqara is the Webby woman who gave you the blue seal. As Emperor Dazbun’s advisor, I was present at a high level meeting involvin
g Dazbun, Prince Zoltov and Serpotia, that became heated. I remember it well:
'How dare you give the seal to that duck woman? You have no right. That is treason,' Zoltov yelled at his brother, the emperor, who was seated on the throne.
'It is not treason but justice to return the seal to its rightful owner.' Dazbun replied.
Zoltov jumped up and yelled 'Traitor!' Then he cleared his throat and spit directly in Dazbun’s face. Dazbun responded by pushing him away.”
"This threw Zoltov into a rage. He struck Dazbun, knocking his head into the hard rock throne. I can still hear the thud as the emperor’s head hit. His body crumpled limply in the throne. I rushed to his side and examined him. He was still breathing. I could have saved him, but Serpotia summoned her personal healer, whose slaves carried Emperor Dazbun out of the room. I was ordered to stand back. Since Emperor Dazbun was unconscious, Zoltov, as next in line to the throne, immediately announced that he was in control. Realizing that Zoltov would kill Daqqara for the seal, I slipped away to find her. We fled through underground tunnels to where my fishing boat was moored in the water. That day we became refugees. I thank Adon that I was able to escape the palace with my life, but that is a story for another day. As I’m sure you realize by now, Daqqara, the woman who gave you the seal, is your birth mother.”
I had suspected as much from what Manhera had told me earlier, but to hear it confirmed was still jarring. None of this seemed real to me. I remembered Anada’s indefatigable efforts to save me when I suffered from the illness that had killed my father. She had tended to me like she had tended to her babies that had died, repeatedly placing cool cloths on my forehead throughout the night, never leaving my side until the fever broke. To me, she would always be my mother. The story Baskrod was telling seemed like just that: a story or a dream, not real events that actually involved me.