Flame Soul
The Chronicles of Kasim Book I
“To subdue another tribe, you must strike it once and for all.”
--Shaka
Sandler L. Bryson
This work is dedicated to God, my family, friends, and educators who inspired and supported me.
Copyright© 2018 by Sandler L. Bryson
All Rights Reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, or by photocopying or recording without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law, or for the purpose of brief quotations for articles or reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, purely coincidental. Geographic locations are used in a fictitious manner.
A Sword & Soul Production.
I. Born of Flame and Sand
Broken bones and cadavers of charred flesh were all that remained of a once vibrant people. Their blood congealed in thick pools on the bright sand of the Sudin desert. Kasim stumbled through the ruins of his village like a zombie fresh from the grave. To an extent he was.
When the attack had come and the screams started Kasim had been on the western edge of the village with his friends enjoying the Ayosa festival (the festival celebrating the ending of summer and the coming of autumn). It was the time of year when the sun, while still fierce, beat down with a few degrees less fury. Autumn was also the time that gave the Sudin most of its rainfall. For a few brief hours during a few brief days the skies would darken and precious water would spill down onto the rugged tribes that called the vast desert home.
Kasim looked around in dismay as he walked amidst the carnage.
“No matter how much it rains, the blood of my people will forever dwell in these sands,” he said.
A carrion bird called in agreement.
Kasim recalled when the raid had first hit. When the screams started he ran back towards the village to help his tribe defend themselves. The raiders were from the neighboring Banula tribe. The Banula were skilled warriors and horsemen. Though they were from Nambe like himself the Banula worshipped Xoja, the Lord of Flame. Xoja was the god of the Zahn people who lived further east. The Banula considered Xoja the only true deity. They often warred with and captured as slaves those who worshipped anything else. Kasim recalled how the Banula raiders had poured into his camp with the fierceness of a sandstorm destroying everything in their path. The males of his tribe, from the newborn infant to the village elders, were cut down under a maelstrom of steel blades and iron-shod hooves. The women who were not fortunate enough to be slain were captured and taken to a far worst fate. Then the raiders had set fire to the tents and huts of the village before disappearing like banshees into the night.
Like the other men of his tribe Kasim had taken up arms to defend his home. Though he had seen only fifteen summers and had not taken his right of passage into manhood Kasim fought with the bravery and ferocity inherent to his people: the Naban. He managed to kill two of the invaders. Then one of the Banula threw a club at him. Kasim tried to dodge but despite his efforts the weapon hit him square on the side of his head. His world had exploded in a flash of pain and light before he slipped into darkness.
His attackers must have thought the blow had killed him for they left him lying in the dirt. Kasim rubbed the side of his head, then found a large lump on his forehead. His fingers came away sticky with drying blood.
“They nearly did the job but they failed,” Kasim said. “The ancestors be praised. Though hurt I am still alive.”
Again the caw of a carrion bird gave him a lone response.
Kasim ignored the pain that thumped like a war drum in his head as he staggered home. He soon came upon his house or what was left of his dwelling. Like the rest of the village the small hut had been destroyed. The thatched roof of the hut had been burned to ash. The earthen walls once decorated in vibrant red and blue concentric patterns were now black and covered with soot. The soot matched the blackened bodies stacked against the door like discarded dolls.
“No!” Kasim yelled.
He ran over and knelt by what remained of his parents. Smoke still rose off their bodies giving off a sickly sweet smell that turned Kasim’s stomach. His father had died like a true Naban warrior, fighting valiantly to the end. Around his father’s body lay several dismembered Banula. His father’s scimitar was still clutched tight in his burned hand. The old man’s roasted face was twisted into the rictus of bitter grin.
His mother’s corpse rested beside his father’s body. Her left hand held a dagger grasped in her stiff fingers. The other hand held grasped that of her husband’s. Kasim knew his mother to be a gentle woman, but she was also protective of her house. She had fought at bravely at her husband’s side: a lioness defending her home. Now, their hands were locked in an embrace that would last for an eternity. Kasim felt his throat tighten with grief. He forced himself to swallow. His father had taken many of the enemy with him. This was expected.
All of the Naban tribe were blessed by the orishas. Each person born into the tribe had an affinity to a particular element and the ability to control and manifest that element to a limited extent. This ability usually displayed itself sometime after puberty, although in some rare instances the gift displayed itself when a person was born. Kasim was one of those rare individuals.
What was even more peculiar was that out of the five pure elements (earth, air, fire, water, and spirit) Kasim was born to the element of spirit. This was the rarest of all elements for a person to have an affinity with. The only exceptions were those said to be born to the darker elements of shadow and death. One born to these two elements was so rare that they were spoken of only in legend. No one could recall a time when such an event had ever happened other than in myths.
Kasim felt tears creeping into his eyes as he stared at the cadavers of his kin. Before the drops could swell and fall he blinked to hold back from crying. He swallowed hard as he replaced his sadness with the white fury of anger. Kasim stood looking at the corpses of his parents. His eyes turned from dark brown to opalescent. A sound like voices moaning echoed from the dead bodies strewn around the camp. Despite the preternatural phenomenon Kasim felt no fear. He was familiar with the event for he was born to the element of spirit. This was simply his power manifesting in accordance with his current emotions: sadness and rage.
Come the fall Kasim would turn sixteen. It was the age that he would have been allowed to take his passage to manhood and become a full warrior of the tribe. It was also the age that like all members of his tribe he would have been appointed a mentor to train him in the usage of his elemental powers. Now that would never happen. Thoughts of this milestone turned his mind to the man who was meant to be his mentor.
“Yobachi!”
Kasim ran towards the home of the old man as he yelled his mentor’s name aloud. As he neared Yobachi’s house he could see that the structure was a smoking heap the same as the rest of the village. Kasim cautiously entered the ruins. He found the old shaman inside with a dagger plunged hilt deep into his chest.
“Oh! Yobachi.” Kasim moaned.
He bent down and cradled the man’s head in his arms. The wizened priest’s eyes were rolled back in his head displaying the whites. Kasim cursed aloud. The elderly man was the one who initiated the final rite of passage for the warriors of the tribe. Moreover Yobachi like Kasim had been born to the discipline of spirit and had been more than a mentor. He was more like a beloved uncle.
Kasim closed his eyes. He fought to keep the rage and despair he felt in check. When he opened his eyes they blazed with a fire that belied his youth.
“I swear upon
the ancestors Yobachi that I shall not rest until vengeance has been served.”
Kasim clenched his jaw with grim determination. He strode out of the wreckage that he had once called home. He had taken a scimitar from the body of one of his fallen tribesmen. The scimitar was clutched tight in his hand.
◆◆◆
II. A Deal of Blood and Wind
The wind on Mount Munga blew cool across Kasim’s skin. The air helped to dry the sweat on his body. The young warrior wiped his forehead and looked at the valley below: a panoramic view of the land of Yamba. Kasim looked down upon the great Buntu plains. The Buntu was a sea of low verdant grass broken by occasional patches of umbrella thorn trees. Further south the low grass of the Buntu eventually gave way to sparse shrubbery that itself yielded to the sands of the Sudin; his home.
The Sudin had been a place whose sparse beauty once conjured images of love and friends and family but now thoughts of his former home only spawned flares of pain and sadness and loss. All of those emotions converged into a fiery blade that was pointed firmly at one person: Tumo, a famed warrior amongst the Banula. Also, called Tumo the Terrible it was Tumo who had lead the Banula into his village to plunder and slaughter. It was Tumo also called the Sand Scourge who had come like a plague wiping out all in his path. Kasim, had not encountered the giant of a man personally but he had spied Tumo from afar sitting astride his russet warhorse Mguu Damu, (whose name in the common tongue meant Blood Foot). In the slaughter Tumo had been like a demon given flesh. He had been in the thick of the battle, his great falchion called Kifo Moto (Death Flame) sweeping left and right and as it seared and cut through any flesh. It was a blade true to its name.
Kasim forced the image from his mind. He looked up. The peak of Mount Munga loomed above him. Though it was only perhaps a hundred feet more from where he now stood the scree and scarce footholds on the mountain made the climb treacherous. The bones of many would-be climbers rested forgotten beneath the soil at the base of the ancient mountain. Despite the challenge Kasim felt no fear. The duty of what he believed he had to do surpass any sense of trepidation.
Though not yet considered a full man by his tribe Kasim already stood nearly six feet tall. During the climb he had removed his tunic but kept on his sandals and baggy trousers. Beads of sweat glistened on his chiseled physique giving an oily sheen to his near coffee black skin. He had also kept his kufi and scarf on to help keep the wind out of his face. Beneath the brimless cap Kasim felt sweat running beneath his tightly curled hair. The moisture caused his scalp to itch and though he was grateful for the hat he wished he had removed the kufi also.
Kasim felt himself falling. The handhold he had reached for had contained loose rocks. With the grace of a leaping panther Kasim jumped and firmly grasped the ledge of the mountain’s peak. The clatter of the loose pebbles sounded like bones shattering as they crashed against the mountainside then tumbled away into silence. Kasim cursed himself for being distracted.
The young warrior gritted his teeth. He growled like an angry leopard as he pulled himself atop the peak of the mountain. For a few moments he lay on the stony ground letting the coolness of the rock sooth his muscles. After catching his breath Kasim rose to his feet and stared at the object that was the source of his excursion. A few feet before him stood an altar of roughly hewn stone. The altar was nondescript. No decorations or frescoes adorned the structure. Russet stains of dried blood ran down the sides of the altar. A testament to past sacrifices made upon the stone.
Kasim took a deep breath. He walked to the altar. Though the elements were powerful and surrounded all things there were other forms of magic as well. Magic that came from other sources (other beings); beings whom some said were old when the world was young, beings whose power rivaled that of the orishas. Unlike the elemental powers and orishas whose gifts could be mastered through years of practice and steadfast faith, the gifts of the Nguvu Ya Kale (The Ancient Powers) required only strength of will. It was said these beings could be bargained with provided one was strong enough to bend the Nguvu Ya Kale to their will. Kasim was determined to find out if he possessed the will for such a purpose.
Ya-Sudala was an ancient being whose name was mentioned in the legends of his tribe. It was said that when the Nguvu Ya Kale and the Orishas went to war for the shape of the world Ya-Sudala had betrayed his brothers and sided with the Orishas. The legends stated that some of the Orishas believed that this was out of altruism but later the tales state it was for Ya-Sudala’s own selfish and mysterious reasons. After the world was shaped and the tribes given breath it was said to be Ya-Sudala that helped the darker Orishas to foment conflict between the nations so that brother fought against brother and father against son and mother against daughters. Ya-Sudala’s reason for instigating such chaos is unknown. Perhaps it was because the Nguvu Ya Kale were the embodiment of chaos or perhaps it was at the mandate of an even higher power?
Kasim shrugged.
Who really know?
To contemplate the intentions of such entities was an exercise in futility. All he knew was that he hoped to invoke the aid of said being now.
Kasim winced as he sliced his right palm across the blade of his scimitar.
Blood flowed in a rich dark stream down Kasim’s hand and dripped like crimson rain on the stone altar. Kasim ignored the pain as he started chanting. The incantation he spoke was an ancient one. He had learned of it while studying ancient writings he had found tucked away in Yobachi’s home. The old man had said they contained knowledge both noble and foul and that only the most trained of initiates could comprehend and resist the dangers inherent in the texts. Other than giving vague directions Yobachi had mostly left Kasim to his own devices once his assigned chores were done. Yobachi believed that in order for a student to grow in power and magic a teacher could only teach so much. Yobachi had taught a student must learn and master his art mostly by himself. The shaman had been found of saying “The teacher lays the foundation but the student builds the house.”
Even now the thought of his mentor lying lifeless in his arms threatened to break Kasim’s concentration. Kasim renewed his focus. He continued chanting. One error in the casting of the ritual could be fatal to the caster. The spell he was attempting was a dark one. In fact, it was forbidden by the faith of his people. Still Kasim justified it as a necessary deed.
Unusual times call for unusual methods, Kasim thought.
Kasim continued the recitation. At first the spell seemed to have no effect. Kasim felt frustration flare like a volcano his gut. Then he noticed the top of the altar where his blood was dripping had started to ripple. As Kasim watched he saw that the entire top of the stone altar was bubbling like water in a boiling kettle. Waves of smoke began to pour forth from the structure. The smoke wasn’t black but instead consisted of various shades of yellow, pink, bright green and hues of blue all swirling together in kaleidoscopic miasma of color. Kasim noticed that within the smoke their drifted myriad crystal spheres about the size of his palm. Within these bubbles were various images. The images appeared to be of people from various lands and places. Some of the pictures he could recognize as parts of Yamba. Other images were of lands and places that he did not recognize.
One bubble floated a few feet from his face. Within the sphere Kasim saw a man dressed in strange garb consisting of a skin tight black suit and a white cape. A mask, also white covered the upper portion of the man’s face. On the stranger’s chest was a symbol that was half-black and half-white. In the center of the circular symbol was an eye that looked like something the Agapten people of the northern lands etched on their temples and pyramids. What was even more amazing was the fact that the image within the sphere showed the man flying over a row of buildings. As he watched Kasim did not know what was more peculiar the fact that the man was flying or the strange buildings that the man was flying over. The buildings appeared to be made of glass and metal. Below him Kasim thought he saw streets made of some sort of black material. Kasim cont
inued to stare at the flying man. He felt a sort of kinship with him for some reason he could not explain.
“Boy! You disappoint me!”
Kasim’s battle instincts kicked in. He spun to face the speaker who had appeared behind him.
The face of Kasim’s father looked at him. The man’s face was twisted with anger. His father’s dark brown eyes were bloodshot with rage.
“Baba!” Kasim said.
The young warrior almost dropped the scimitar he carried only instinct allowed him to retain his grip on the sword.
“Don’t Baba me boy!” his father said. “No son of mine would disappoint me so!”
Kasim noticed his father held a scimitar in his hand. The older man darted forward blade swinging. Kasim raised his own weapon up just in time to keep himself from being decapitated. Sparks flew as steel crashed against steel.
“Baba! Please I have no wish to fight you!” Kasim said.
He did not attack his father but instead took up a purely defensive position using his blade to parry his father’s attacks.
The older warrior seemed to ignore him. Though he was at least forty summers older than Kasim his father was a warrior of the Naban (one of the best in fact). The old man moved with the reflexes of a striking mamba. Each one of his blows seemed to have the strength of a charging rhino behind it. Kasim’s right arm went numb. His hand tingled in pain under the barrage of sustained blows his father was rained down on him.
Through the attack his father’s eyes remained red and bloodshot. Spit flew from his lips as he cursed and yelled at Kasim.
“You were always weak and mewling!” his father spat. “You were born with Oma’s Curse on you!”
Flame Soul Page 1