by Matt Moss
“King Hobba of the Great Plains. I seek council with Emperor Xar.” Hobba walked towards the grand vizier and the guards. “You will escort me to him,” he stated.
“I don’t care who you are. Defilement of the city requires punishment,” the vizier said and motioned the guards to arrest Hobba and his men. Hobba’s men pulled their crude, curved weapons—a one-handed design of a scythe for harvesting grain—and rallied around the king.
“You can arrest me. And you will die trying,” King Hobba said. “Or you can take me to the emperor, now.”
The palace guards hesitated and looked to the vizier for guidance. The vizier scowled and threw his arm in the air. “Fine, then. I will take you to him. May the gods favor you this day for the emperor won’t be as hospitable as I have been, especially when he learns of your desecration.”
“We were thirsty,” one of the king’s men spoke up, drawing a glare from the vizier. Hobba raised a hand towards his man, commanding him to hold his tongue. He bowed to his host and beckoned him to lead the way. The vizier snapped around in his purple robe, his rose-colored cloak flowing about him, and began to stomp towards the palace. King Hobba looked at his men and pointed at the vizier’s clothing, drawing a laugh as he pompously stuck his chest out and strutted along, mimicking the vizier.
The gold-paved road led through the royal gardens and into the palace. Massive pillars of stone were placed in a circle for support and the top was left open, allowing sunlight to stream into the place. Plants and trees were scattered about; a rarity for such a desolate place. The emperor stood under a palm tree in the main hall of the palace as an artist painted his likeness onto a canvas.
“Emperor,” the grand vizier addressed him with a bow. “These men defiled…”
“King Hobba!” the emperor said and left his post. He walked to his guest and embraced him. “It’s been a long time, old friend.”
King Hobba smiled. “It is good to see you. The god of time smiles upon you,” he said, noting the emperor’s fair, smooth skin and full head of graying hair.
The emperor smiled within his dark, cropped beard. “What brings you to The Oasis? Pleasure, I hope. There is plenty to be had here.”
King Hobba grinned before turning away. He looked back to Xar. “I need your help, old friend. I’m here to discuss uniting the clans.”
Xar looked around to each of the men’s faces. He looked at the grand vizier, who wore a comfortable scowl upon his face. “Walk with me,” the emperor said. He guided them through the palace halls and into the back courtyard. “Less ears here. You can speak freely now.”
“I always speak freely,” King Hobba replied.
Xar grinned. “I know. It’s one of the things I admire about you.”
“Our lands are desolate and our people, dying,” King Hobba said.
“The seasons come in cycles, Hobba. Some years are worse than others. You know this.”
“But the gods have always provided before, no matter how bad the year. They used to answer my prayers. Now, no more.”
“They will again,” Xar consoled.
“No, they won’t.”
Xar frowned at his friend. “Why do you say that?”
“I fear that they no longer listen because they have left us. They left the world because man is wicked and does not pray to them any more.”
“I still pray to them. Have they forsaken me, too?” Xar asked, extending his arms out to his luxurious city.
Hobba looked down. Both men walked on in silence.
“It’s not just me who believes this, the shamans do as well.” Hobba said.
“How many shamans? From how many tribes?”
“Three. Each of them saying the same thing.”
The emperor turned away. He rubbed his chin, deep in thought. “What do you propose?” he finally asked.
“The gods have left because nobody prays anymore. And they have left because there is one who seeks to take their place. This has infuriated them even more. He sits on the throne in a faraway kingdom. Kingsport, I’ve heard it called.”
“I have heard of this city,” Xar said.
“The shamans have foretold of this man in their dreams, saying he is the one to usher in the end of days.”
Xar raised an eyebrow at the king. “The prophecy?”
“Yes.”
“It cannot be. I have heard nothing of this from my seers,” the emperor said, his tone certain of their word. “Besides, if he was the one that the prophecy speaks of, what would you have me do?”
“Unite the clans,” Hobba pleaded. “Unite them and make war upon this king.”
“Ha! You would have me do the impossible, old friend. It would be easier to move that stone by just saying the word,” Xar said, pointing to a large boulder that sat among the courtyard.
Hobba frowned at the stone. “The clans can be united, but only if you beseech them to. We must join together and fight. Then the gods will return to us once more.”
The emperor looked up into the sky. “I need more than just the ramblings of spirit-drunk shamans to unite the clans and wage war halfway across the world. I’m sorry, Hobba.” He gave an apologetic grin.
“What would it take to convince you?” Hobba asked.
“I need proof that this king is the one the prophecy tells of. And I need the support of more than just three tribes saying that the end of days is near.” As soon as he spoke the words, Hobba turned to leave. “Where are you going?” Xar asked.
Hobba didn’t stop. He spoke to the emperor behind his back.
“To get proof.”
SEVEN
The small village had turned into a fortification in a short amount of time. Barricades of logs and brush had been formed around the perimeter—a primitive, yet deadly, effective palisade. The tips of the logs had been sharpened and charred, ready to impale a horse or its rider. Given the short amount of time they had to prepare, Arkin was pleased with the defenses.
“There are no more logs to be used,” the translator noted, wiping the dirt and sweat from his forehead.
Standing on the outside of the village, Arkin looked to the hills in the distance as the sun began to set—painting the sky a magnificent red and orange below remnants of blue. “It will do,” Arkin stated in confidence. He turned and placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Good work.”
The man nodded and walked alongside Arkin as they made their way to the center of the village. The chief barked orders, and men scrambled around gathering weapons and armor, making final preparations. Arkin watched the men run about while the women prepared for war by dawning armor and weapon. “Are they fighting?” Arkin asked the translator, referring to the women.
The translator looked at them with pride. “They are.”
“What about the children? Who’s going to look after them.” As Arkin spoke the words, the last few little ones were being ushered into the large huts at the back of the village.
The translator turned to Arkin. “If we fail, then it doesn’t matter because they will all die. The Ungaki leaves only the dead. All the tribes know this. That is why the women fight.”
Arkin peeled his eyes at the warriors and did another recount, adding the women to his calculations. By his best guess, they numbered less than two hundred. Hours ago, the last scout delivered the enemy numbers close to a thousand strong, with more than half armed with spear on horseback. Arkin could feel the dread throughout the village, but the people didn’t let it show. They were strong and, in the short span of one day, had gained Arkin’s respect and he admired them greatly.
The chief shouted and pointed to a small pack of riders coming from the east. The village stood still as all eyes went to where the chief pointed. A dozen tribesmen ran to the makeshift wooden ramparts at the entrance of the village and drew the short bows that rested there. Half the length of the bows that Arkin was familiar with, these shorter ones were bent and curved like a snake slithering on the ground, which made the strings draw tight. Looki
ng more like a child’s toy, Arkin feared the thing would break in his hands. But earlier in the day, he tested the bow for himself and was amazed by the power and dexterity the weapon possessed.
The leader of the riders raised his hand in peace as he approached. A dozen villagers armed with spears funneled out the narrow entrance to meet them. The riders dismounted and walked into the center of the town like they owned the place.
The chief laughed upon seeing the leader and spoke to the man as a friend. They clasped hands, and the soldiers that accompanied the leader greeted the villagers in kind.
“Who are they?” Arkin asked the translator. Then he saw the translator had already left to greet the men. He stepped towards the chief and drew the leader’s gaze.
“Who are you?” the leader asked firmly, turning to Arkin.
Arkin’s eyes went wide. “You speak my language?”
The man stepped to Arkin. “Yes, I speak your tongue, man of the west.”
The chief intervened, vouching for Arkin. The leader waved the chief off. “I don’t care if he’s here to help. I asked him who he was.”
“My name’s Arkin.”
The leader narrowed his gaze. “Arkin? What are you doing in the tribal lands?”
Arkin crossed his arms. “The kingdom from where I come is under a great threat. The only way to stop it is to unite the clans. So, that’s what I’m here to do. That’s what I’m going to do.”
The leader pondered him for a moment. He burst out in laughter and announced to the village in their native tongue. The people began to laugh at Arkin and shake their heads.
Arkin looked to the translator. “What did he say?”
The translator smiled. “What you just said.”
Arkin felt his blood grow hot and glared at the leader. “I will unite the clans,” he boldly promised.
The leader’s laugh faded as he walked to stand in front of Arkin. “I, like you, desire to unite the clans. There has been much war over many generations, much bloodshed and death. I want peace. The people need peace. But this is impossible for someone like you to do. I am sorry, man of the west, but it seems you came here in vein and now will die among the rest of these people. The Ungaki will destroy this village.”
“You’re not fighting with us?” Arkin bit back, already frustrated with the man.
“No.”
“So why are you here?”
The leader eyed him and thought about his words for a moment. “I am on my way to where you come from.” He motioned one of his men for a drink and continued after quenching his thirst. “If the clans are to be united, then I must bring proof that the threat in the west exists. It is something that only I can do.”
“Then we are on the same mission,” Arkin noted with hope.
“I suppose.”
“Who are you?”
“I am King Hobba of the Great Plains.” Hobba waited on a reaction from Arkin, but Arkin just stared in reply. Hobba turned to the chief and gave his blessing before turning to leave.
Arkin stepped to him. “Wait, you’re leaving already?”
Hobba looked to Arkin in annoyance. “Yes. As I’ve said, my mission is far greater and I must be on my way. I leave two of my warriors here to help you fight the Ungaki. It is all I can give.” Hobba’s three remaining men gathered around him and made ready to leave.
Arkin followed them out. “These people will die. They need your help.”
Hobba turned in anger. “People live. People die. It is what we do. Many more will die if I do not go. I must find proof.”
“You want proof? Alright, I’ll show you proof,” Arkin stated and took a step back. He pulled the soul stone from his pocket; the one he found inside the puzzle box. It glowed white and blue in his hand, pulsing with energy. Hobba’s eyes went wide as he gazed at the stone in wonder.
“What is this magic?” the king said, almost a whisper. Every eye turned to Arkin and people began to gather around to marvel at the stone.
“This is a soul stone. They contain unspeakable power. And in the wrong hands, can unleash untold devastation.” He met Hobba’s eyes. “This man you seek—this threat you speak of—his name is Victor. And he has many of these stones.”
“Victor. I have heard that name spoken in my travels,” Hobba stated. More people began to gather around Arkin to view in wonder at the stone. Hobba looked into Arkin’s eyes. “Let me have the stone. I will take it to emperor Xar and that will be the proof I need. He is the only one who can decree law and unite the clans.”
Arkin closed his fist. “I can’t do that. It won’t work for you, anyway.”
Three of Hobba’s men drew their curved blades, threatening Arkin. Hobba didn’t stop them. “Give me the stone,” he declared.
Arkin took a step back. “Don’t do this. I’m warning you.”
“Give me the stone!” Hobba demanded. The men drew tense as they prepared to strike Arkin down. The villagers stepped back, away from Arkin.
Arkin shook his head, not wanting to hurt any of them. They weren’t the enemy. “Here,” he said and tossed the stone to the king. Hobba caught it in his hand—nothing more than a dull stone. “What is this? What did you do?”
“I told you, it won’t work for you.”
Hobba’s eyes were desperate. “You stole the magic from it. Put it back!” he commanded and gripped the stone with an outstretched hand. Arkin walked towards him slowly and, as he did, the stone began to glow once again. When Arkin took it from the king’s hand, it pulsed with energy.
“Only you can wield the stone,” King Hobba gasped in revelation. He motioned his men to put their weapons away. “Then you must come with me to show the emperor. He will see this power and understand that we must unite the tribes to overthrow the king of the west.”
Arkin tucked the stone and extended his hand to shake in agreement. “I will go with you to see the emperor.” King Hobba grinned and shook to seal the deal. “After we fight the Ungaki,” Arkin added.
The king’s grin disappeared. “It is no wonder I’ve never been outside the tribal lands.” He shook his head. “The people of the west do not think right.”
Night began to fall as the village lie in waiting for the Ungaki to reveal themselves. Silent and anxious, the people peered into the coming darkness with peeled eyes. Fires were put out long ago, leaving no wisp of smoke in the sky.
Arkin felt the nervous energy in the village and tried to mask his own. No matter how much he believed in his abilities, his nerves always got the best of him before a fight. The people showed that they didn’t fear death, but the mask of courage can still rattle the bones when faced with what could be the last precious moments of life.
Arkin was a seasoned warrior now, and he knew that in war—to live one moment and possibly die the next—the relationship between courage and fear is a fine, delicate line.
He prayed for the people and for victory over the enemy.
He stopped, realizing it was the first he’d prayed in a long time. Shame washed over him. I know I don’t ask for much, and who am I to ask for anything after everything I’ve… But it’s not for me. It’s for them. Preserve them by your hand. I’ll do the best I can. His soul stirred and felt renewed as if a heavy weight was lifted; one that he’d been carrying for so long. A weight that he couldn’t even remember picking up.
Arkin looked to Hobba. “Do you believe we will win?”
Hobba spoke to Arkin as he stared into the growing void. “Belief is like a river. It grows strong with rain, and dries up with the sun. Like the river, belief is natural and necessary to belong in the world. Without it, what do we have?”
Arkin pondered the king’s words and thought about the past. Flashes of his life—his desires and fears—filled his mind as he waited on fate’s hand to deliver what it willed. His faith in the Almighty wasn’t settled yet, but it was stronger than it was before. He smiled at himself. I’m working on it.
Behind him, the blind medicine woman began to howl.
She scrambled into a hut with the children, and her wail sounded through the thick, hide walls, and rippled through the darkness, away from the village. The warriors tensed upon hearing the sound and made their weapons ready, knowing that the Ungaki must be near.
The chief lit a small torch and walked to meet Arkin and Hobba at the entrance, the flame lighting his painted face. “They are here.”
Arkin stepped outside the village and peered into the black. He tapped slightly, and his vision became as clear as day. Looking to the south, nothing moved on top of the hills. All around, as far as he could see, nothing stirred. Then, one rider came into view on the southern hill, carrying what looked like a staff that would belong to the chief. But the head of the staff was made from the skull of a child.
He sat upon his steed alone and overlooked the valley. Soon, the hill became lined with riders, and spears, and men on foot. Just the ones overlooking the village outnumbered Arkin and the others, not counting the rest of the Ungaki that were behind the hill.
Hobba stepped beside Arkin. “What do you see?”
“Five-hundred there, on top of that hill,” Arkin replied, pointing.
Hobba didn’t even question how Arkin could see through the darkness. “Maybe they don’t know we are here,” he said with a hint of humor.
On top of the hill, the light from a torch suddenly emerged.
“Or not,” Hobba noted.
“Go inside and get ready,” Arkin told him.
Hobba did, but stopped a few paces away. “What are you doing? Come on.”
Arkin didn’t answer him. He slowly walked towards the Ungaki.
Hobba shook his head. “Men of the west.”
Inside the village-turned-war-camp, Arkin heard the chief barking orders. One man carrying a torch ran past Arkin and began to light the torches that were placed around the perimeter of the village. Others did the same. Soon, a broken ring of fire circled the war camp, providing the light needed for the warriors to fight the Ungaki.
More torches blazed from on top of the hill and lined the horizon. In the darkness of night, it reminded Arkin of a fire wyrm from the tales his father used to read him among his favorite books.