Chapter 5. The Rite of Kings
Two warriors shall enter the challenge pit.
But only one will rise from it.
And that warrior will be called Leader and King.
And all will know that he is The Chosen of the Gods.
From the Book of Isarie.
The twin suns of Gorn were just emerging over the horizon, their golden shafts of light slowly filtering into the Almadra's sacred valley, bringing a new day and a new beginning.
The entire tribe was up, long before Sun-birth, they had spent the night feasting and singing, now it was time for more serious matters. They were dressed in their finest, older women wore brightly colored robes, their hair fixed in the traditional way of the tribe. They adorned themselves with their finest gold and silver necklaces and large hooped earrings, set with stones and seashells.
They held sacred artifacts of their many families, small statues and icons, pieces of pottery that had belonged to their mothers and their mother’s mother. Worn, rusty weapons, once wielded by their father and his father before. Some even held chests filled with the bones of their long dead. Every family had an ancestor chest, a movable crypt that was prayed to and displayed on ritual days. There were few things, more important to a family, than their ancestor chests.
The children played as they always did but they were careful, not to dirty or rip the ceremonial garments, they had been forced to wear. They played and giggled as all children will do, if they became too rowdy their Elders would give them a hard stare and their frolicking would abruptly end.
Their parents also wore the same costumes and headgear, marking them as members of a certain family. They stood with the old people, who did not seem to understand what was about to happen.
The warriors had cleaned their armor and sharpened their great battle-axes. They painted their faces the dark red color of war, male and female warriors, stood together, shoulder to shoulder. As well as coloring their faces, the female warriors, braided their long hair with brass, bone, and beads. On their wide belts, hung the twin war daggers, carried by all Almadra. Called the dragon’s teeth, they were for close combat, also used in a final act of defiance. Nomads would use them to end their own lives, rather than submit to being taken prisoner.
The rising suns, shone off their horned helmets, giving them the appearance of bronze statues, they stood waiting in a long line, no one spoke.
They had gathered at the tribe's Great Stone Circle, a pit dug out of solid rock. Ten meters across and three meters deep, its walls carved with intricate designs, showing the tribe's history, from its beginnings long ago, to the present. There were figures of the great Kings and Queens, who had ruled the tribe over the many centuries. The wars they fought and their great victories. Around the circle were huge statues, of long forgotten Gods and heroes, now standing as a reminder of other times. They stood looking down into the pit, like visions of the great Gods, watching over the men and women of the Almadra.
There was a dome-like structure overhead, like a lattice work. Made from the colossal bones of Outland beasts, it must have taken many cycles to construct. In the middle of the dome, hung the skull of a small Earth-shaker, ruler of the Outlands, the only creature the Almadra truly feared.
As the suns rose higher, the light filtered through the bleached bones, making a pattern on the ground. It was an impressive sight, giving a magical atmosphere to the whole site. It was a scared place, a place of worship and power.
The tribe gathered here from time to time, as witness to the Rite of Kings, the choosing of a new leader.
Arn stood on one side of the great circle, holding his war-ax tightly, he looked silently ahead. He had waited all his life, for this day, the day when his strength and courage, would be tested to the full. He had been trained from childhood, every battle he had ever fought was training for this moment. All of these memories, were now put aside, there was no time for idle reminiscence, only today and the battle ahead.
Karn stood on the other side of the great circle, looking across at his son, with his one remaining eye. He could not help but think of the day, when he first saw his son, it was one of the greatest moments of his life. Those days were long past, lost forever in the cycles of his past. Now it was time for a new King, his reign must end, this was the way of his tribe, the laws of Kingship, a law he could not break.
Egmar stood with the Elders of the Tribe, she looked at her husband, then at her son. She loved them both, each with the special love that only mothers and wives know. She too remembered the days past, how she cried for joy, when she first saw her son, he was a twin like most of the births of the tribe.
How strong he looked, how much I loved him; she thought. She remembered the Day of Choosing, the day all mothers dreaded. It was the darkest day of her life but it had to be done. The Gods made it so, no Almadra would go against the will of the Gods.
Karn looked up at his Queen, their eyes met and in that look, she could see all the love he had shown her. How beautiful she looks, how beautiful; he thought.
Egmar looked at her husband; how wonderful to feel his arms around me, on winter nights, to feel the touch of his hand on my skin. How young we were, I will love him always, in this world and all the worlds to come. She wanted to rush to his side, to hold him once more but she knew that could never happen; he was King and I was his mate, Isarie made it so and no Outlander can change that.
At the same time, she longed to hold her child in her arms again, to speak to him and sing him the songs of his childhood. In her mind, she saw the long years as he grew to manhood, his training as a warrior and becoming a man. It all seemed to pass in an instant, all the years gone, with nothing left and now, the day all Queens dread the most. There were still so many things to be said, so many unfulfilled dreams but time had run out.
Seeda and Agart stood side by side, they were both dressed in Almadra battle armor. Agart was proud as he looked at his father and brother, in his mind, there were no questions. He knew the ways of his tribe, he knew that this was how a new King was crowned, a son must face his father in combat. There would be no mercy and no interference, in his life, a King must standalone. They would fight to the death, it was their way and in his mind, it was right.
Seeda stood beside her bother but her mind was filled with doubt; why does this have to happen? Why do the Gods demand such trials?
She had always believed in the Gods, she spoke their prayers and practiced the rituals they demanded. This was different, this was not the killing of a fattened Burrow hog, or a fasting day, this was human life or death. She tried to believe it was all necessary, she forced her mind to accept, what was to come but no matter how much she tried, she could not. She did not believe, she desperately wanted to open her mouth.
No! This must stop, this cannot happen! I will not let this happen! The rage and love, swelled inside her body, she could feel it rising. She opened her mouth, ready to scream to the tribe and the Gods, “This cannot be allowed to happen!” Nothing came out.
There were no words, she stood, frozen. The world around her did not seem real. She thought to herself. This must be a dream, a walking dream from which she would soon wake and all would be right again. Her father would speak to her once more, and they would ride in the morning light. She could be a child again, her bothers would tease her and tell her she was too ugly, to win a mate. They would hide her hair braces and put bore worms into her bed, then listen to her screams and she in turn would call them weaklings and food for the Sun-droppers. She smiled as she remembered the days of their youth, it was all like a dream but this was no dream, there was nothing to be done now, the suns were up and it was too late. Too late, too late!
Seeda stood waiting quietly, she looked at her bother beside her, she wished she was as strong as he, so certain of the ways of the Gods. She had been taught that the ways of the Gods, were not for her to know. That was left to the Priestess and the Soul Shepherds, she was a warrior, it was her role and she ac
cepted it. Deep inside she knew, the Gods would no longer have a special place in her heart.
Obec the High Priestess, rose slowly from the ornate chair she had been sitting on. She wore the impressive headdress of her station, colored Onyx-bird feathers and Forest-crier plumes. In her wrinkled hands, she held the golden orb of the Gods, Handmaidens stood beside her.
The Handmaidens carried out all the tasks given to them, they did not mate or speak unless spoken to, they spent their lives praying to the many, Outland Gods. They wore tattoos marking them as Holy, their heads covered with saffron hoods. Next to them stood the Thungodra, the loyal body guards of the High Priestess. They were armored from head to toe in black steel, with gold and silver markings, symbols of the Gods, on their chests. It made them look like large dark sand beetles. Heavy war clubs and axes were at the ready, in case anyone, should be foolish enough to challenge Obec’s authority.
The old women stood looking at the tribe for a long time, she was waiting, waiting for the right time, to begin the ceremony. She had been High Priestess for a very long time and knew the power that was hers. She knew that the sight of her, struck fear in the tribe, she understood how real power worked. Now she would stand and let the tribe wait. She believed in the Gods but she believed in her own power more. As the first shaft of morning light, shone on the faces of their stone Gods, she spoke, her voice filled with the power of belief.
“In the beginning there was Isarie, she made the planets and the creatures of the land and sea and the air. She bore many children, who are the Gods of all things. There came a time, when she battled with her father, Arm-Ra, for the Eternal light and power over all. They fought in the dark Pit of Marloon, for a thousand cycles, they battled until Arm-Ra perished. His twin hearts became suns in the morning sky, Isarie looked at the golden discs and she wept, her tears fell to the ground, to become the children of the earth. We give thanks to Isarie, for life and for her life giving gift, the Salt of the Earth.”
The old woman waited, as a young Handmaiden, handed her a golden bowl. Obec reached into the bowl, she lifted her hand, in her claw like fingers, was a small crystal. Greenish, in color, it glimmered in the morning light, she held it up for all to see. When she did, the tribe raised their right hands, they all held a small crystal of the salt in their fingers. The whole tribe, from the smallest child to the oldest elder, all held the small green crystals, they bowed their heads and spoke as one.
“The Salt of the Earth.”
They put the crystal into their mouths and swallowed, after a moment the High Priestess spoke, “The Rite of Kings has come, let the Gods choose,” she sat down and everyone waited in silence.
Arn looked at his father, then held up his heavy battle-ax, his father did the same, they turned to the High Priestess and saluted her. They turned back to face each other, there was a tense moment, as they waited, then with a loud war cry, both of them leapt into the stone circle.
The war drums began to beat loudly, the tribe's warriors cried out and beat their axes on the ground. They shouted and made terrible battle cries, the blood of their enemy ran cold at the sound. They had all traveled far to see this battle, the Rite of Kings.
Karn now forgot, his own son, was the enemy facing him. His experience from his long years as leader and the many battles he had faced, now took over. He was no longer a father, Arn no longer his son, now he was a warrior. He would do, whatever it took to defeat his enemy and if that meant killing his own son, so be it. It was their way, the tribe would accept anything less. If he showed mercy, or did not fight to his full potential, then the tribe would kill them both. He had to fight with all his power and all his skill.
Arn moved like a great Sager Cat, every muscle tensed, ready to spring, every nerve in his iron body, ready to fight. He knew, this was what he must do, he must kill his father, to become King, there was no other way. He too, forgot that the man he was facing, was the man who gave him life. He saw only an enemy, one that must be destroyed.
They both circled each other, looking for any opening that might give them an advantage. They could hear the shouts and war cries of the tribe but they paid no attention. Their eyes were fixed on the battle before them, the old King made the first move, with a loud shout, he swung his battle-ax with all his might.
Arn had less than a second to react, he blocked the strike. The razor sharp edge of his father's war-ax, cut his cheek, sending a trickle of blood down his face. A thought entered his mind. My father will kill me, if I do not kill him first! I must kill him, it is our way.
He lifted his weapon, swinging it with all his might, at his father’s head. The old warrior moved out-of-the-way, just in time, the blow bounced off his shoulder armor. More blows were struck, sending sparks flying and making the watching warriors shout their approval. They both moved back and began to circle each other once more.
From the rim above the pit, the warriors watched intently, they knew, this battle would decide the tribe's Kingship. Their future, was being put to the test but they did not think about that now. They saw, only a great battle, a clash of warriors, one they could tell stories about, for many years to come. They continued shouting, the ancient war cries of their tribe, beating their weapons on the rocky ground. The sounds of the war drums, grew louder, as they were struck with a savage fury.
In the pit, the two champions fought like wild beasts, the sounds of their axes striking rock or armor, resounded in the morning air. They screamed and cursed and invoked the Gods to their efforts. The blood lust was upon them both, if anyone had fallen, or leapt into the pit, they would have been killed, it mattered not, if they were friend or foe, they would die. They fought without mercy or compassion or remorse, this was what made them so feared and so strong.
Arn was strong and agile but the old King, had skill and cunning on his side. He had faced countless enemies and the Gods had seen fit, to make him the victor. The old man knew that to please the Gods, he must fight with every fiber of his body. This was how he remained King, this was how he defeated so many strong enemies, this was no different, he would fight to the death, as would his son.
Seeda looked down at her father and brother, now the fight had begun it felt different. All thoughts of mercy and forgiveness, faded away like a walking dream, the blood lust of the Almadra took over. All she saw, was two mighty warriors, in a battle to the death, her eyes shone with battle fever.
They fight well, they are warriors, they must kill, kill, kill!
She lifted her war-ax and beat the ground, like all the others. She screamed for blood and bit her lip until blood flowed but for Almec, holding her back, she would have gladly leaped into the pit to fight with her father and brother until death took her.
Almec looked at her and thought; she is so beautiful, so brave, she would make a strong mate, my mate. He turned back to the pit and screamed for blood like the others.
This was how warriors of the Outlands lived and this was how they died, never asking for quarter and never giving it.
Beside her, Agart watched too, his heart filled with pride, he understood the ways of his tribe. He knew how things were done, The Gods will decide, the Gods are all powerful and Isarie is merciful; he thought.
Although he shouted and screamed like the rest of them, he did not feel the blood lust. He only felt proud that his father and brother were doing what must be done, what had to be done, for the good of the tribe. Long ago, he had accepted the fact that only one could remain alive. Either his brother or his father would emerge from the pit, if his brother died, then the task of fighting for leadership would be on his broad shoulders. He would have to kill is father, for the good of the tribe, it was the Rite of Kings. He was satisfied with this, it was their way.
Karn was now bleeding from numerous cuts and scrapes, he was covered in blood and sweat. His once shiny armor, was dented and dirty, one of the curved horns of his war helmet was missing, cut off, by a near fatal blow from his son. The walls of the pit, were smeared with th
e blood of them both. He fought on but he knew his strength was slowly ebbing. The long cycles of his hard life, were taking their toll. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and watched his son's every move and he prayed, not for victory but instead, to die with honor.
I have done what a King must do, I will sit in the Halls of the Gods and they will know my name; he thought
The Elders of the Tribe stood stoically, they did not shout or scream, they watched with the detachment that comes with age. They had seen this ritual before, Kings came and passed on, good leaders and bad, all had to endure the pit to secure their right to rule. They would remember this day and tell the story in writing and song, for ages to come.
Near the Elders sat the Frail-legs but unlike the rest of the tribe, they did not watch. They sat, looking up at the morning sky, smiling, some spoke to unseen visions, or sang ancient songs. They did not hear the sounds of battle, or the drums, they listened to a voice, only they could hear. They swayed back and forth, to a song understood only by them.
Arn was tiring, his war-ax felt heavy, his eyes were blurred with blood and sweat and he was breathing hard. He had faced many enemies in his time, rival tribes who invaded their lands, Shadow-men and the people of the stone cities. In all his days, he had never fought a warrior like his father. In his younger days Karn, would fight with him, to teach him the ways of war. He now knew that his father had always held back, never fully letting loose, his strength. Now it was different, life or death, his father was using all his cunning and skill to defeat him. If he was going to live, he would have to do the same.
I must kill my father, I have no choice, his time has come, I must fight!
Egmar watched the battle, with each strike of their axes, she died a little, her heart pounded in her chest and her legs began to tremble. She stood quietly, showing no emotion but thoughts raced through her mind; I am Queen and a Queen must be strong, Karn? My husband, my mate, I will always love you. I am Queen, I will not betray my tribe, I will not betray Isarie but you did betray the Goddess, so many cycles ago, so many. Betrayed! No tears, no tears.
There would be time for tears later, in the long cycles to come. There would be time for her heart to heal, now was the time for a King's wife to stand-alone.
Karn was getting weaker, the blood loss from many cuts, slowly draining him. He knew, as did the other warriors of the tribe that he would not last much longer.
The Gods will know my name.
He moved in, swinging his ax hard, he had trained his son, so he knew his weak spots and his strengths. He knew he would drop his left shoulder, when he was about to strike. When the time came, he aimed high, then went low and wielded the ax with all his might.
Arn saw the blow coming. Jump!
It was only by luck that he was not killed, at the last moment, his father had slipped on a piece of loose rock and his blow went wide. He managed to block it, thus saving his life.
The warriors shouted, again and again, this was by far, the greatest battle they had witnessed in many cycles. It was one, they would remember all the days of their lives. There was one, who did not see a great battle, he only saw revenge.
Anais watched his brother and father in the pit, while the others shouted or witnessed the battle with pride in their hearts, his heart was filled with a cold emptiness. He had dreamed of this day, for a very long time, he would see the end to one of his many hatreds. He smiled, wanting to remember every second; fools, they fight and die for nothing, there are no Gods, there is no Great Hall, there is only darkness, fools!
In the times ahead, he would look back and feel the same cold vengeance he was feeling now, it was his way, it was his life.
Arn knew, the end was near, his father was all but spent, he also knew that a trapped beast is the most dangerous, he must not let down his guard for an instant. He moved carefully and held his ax at the ready, he moved in close and studied his father’s eyes. They did not look the same, he could see, the battle lust was gone. His father's soul was no longer taken over by the blood rage. Instead, his soul was filled with love, the love of a father for his child, the old King smiled at his son, Arn smiled back.
My son has fought well, he will make a good King, I will wait for him in The Great Hall of Isarie, my son, my son; he thought.
Arn looked at his father’s face; my father was a great King, he will sit on the right side of Isarie and he will wait for me.
With one last flurry, the King attacked, he lifted his great weapon, Arn saw an opening, he ducked the swinging blade, then drove his ax, deep into the old leader's side. There was a cry from his father, then he dropped to his knees.
It was over.
The war drums stopped beating, the warriors stopped their cries for battle, they stood quiet and noble once more.
Arn looked down at the fallen King, he was finished. The Gods will smile on my father.
The old King held his side, blood flowed freely, Karn looked up at his victorious son; my son, my son.
There was pride in his eyes, he had fought well, he had won the day and he would be a great King. The young warrior nodded once to his father, his father did the same, no words were spoken, there was nothing to be said, they had done what must be done, they were satisfied.
As the Almadra looked on, Arn lifted his war-ax, he swung it with all his remaining strength; the Gods will smile. It whistled through the morning air, cutting off, the old King's head.
The warriors of the tribe let out a great cry, Karn was dead, long live their new King. Egmar bowed her head, her eyes filled with tears...Wait for me my husband, I will come.
Seeda dropped her weapon, she looked up at the clear sky...Father? I will pray for you.
Agart nodded and whispered a prayer to the Gods...Take my father to your hearts, let him see the face of Isarie and sit beside her for all eternity.
In the pit, Arn looked down, at the body of the man, who gave him life. The fighting fury that had overcome him, was gone, his mind cleared and his heart began to beat slower. He had won, now he was King, from this day forward, his life belonged to the tribe. At this moment, he should have offered a prayer to the Gods. A prayer for guidance and strength, if the Gods willed it, he would be a good King, with them at his side. He did not pray, he bent down and touched the bloodied head of his dead King.
Very quietly, he said, “Forgive me my King, forgive me father,” he stood up holding Karn's severed head. His body dripping with the blood of battle, he looked up at the warriors of the Almadra and spoke in a loud strong voice. “I have proven myself before the Gods, if there is any who challenge this, let them come forward to face me,” he waited.
The warriors stood silent, no one would enter the pit this day, they were satisfied, the Rite of Kings had been done.
Obec slowly stood up from her chair and lifted her hand, “The Gods are satisfied, Arn Is King!” She smiled to herself; Arn is King but for how long?
With those words, the warriors cried out, their cries shook the ground and rose up past the circling moons and into the twinkling stars. The sound of triumph, continued outward until the Gods themselves heard their joy, now it was over, the Almadra had their King and a new beginning.
Nomads of the Gods Page 6