Richard Tuttle - Star of Sakova

Ages ago…

Khador stood in the clearing of the mountain pass and watched the small army approach out of the west. He signaled to his own men to aid and direct the arriving bodyguards, although Omung’s followers did not appear to be weary or in need of assistance. The leader of the arriving army walked over to Khador and hugged him in a familiar embrace.

“Greetings, brother!” exclaimed Omung. “I see you are the first to arrive. I trust Fakar will be along shortly.”

“It is the appointed day,” stated Khador, breaking the embrace.

“Where is father?” Omung queried. “I thought he was to be with your army.”

“I had little need for him or his men,” grinned Khador. “The people in my sector were no match for my men. Father elected to aid Fakar. He should be here shortly. What of your efforts? Your men appear to free from battle weariness.”

“Battle?” laughed Omung. “There was no battle, only slaughter. The peasants have neither weapons nor any desire to fight. My armies control the entire coastline. They start the sweep towards the center now. The hard part is chasing them through the mountains to make sure we get them all.”

“But get them all we must,” frowned Khador. “I too am having troubles tracking down the savages in my area. My armies also control both coasts of my sector and push towards the center. We cannot let a single soul escape.”

“Yet you fought with father over his plan to kill everyone,” Omung pointed out.

“True enough,” nodded Khador. “I do not relish senseless slaughter, but father is right. What chased us from our homeland, may we never say it’s name, must never be allowed here. If we must kill all to keep it from these shores, then so be it. That does not mean I must enjoy the task.”

The makeshift camp erupted in murmurs and the two brothers turned towards the commotions. A dozen armed but ragged men were making their way into the pass from the east. Khador peered into the new arrivals and barked harsh orders to his men.

“I see Fakar, but not father,” Khador hissed.

Omung merely nodded as the third brother trod over to join his siblings.

Khador received the traditional embrace of Fakar and felt the weakness in his brother’s body. He returned the hug firmly and released Fakar.

“Where is father?” Khador asked.

“Dead,” Fakar replied, his eyes cast down upon the dirt at their feet. “We followed the plan as instructed. We burned our ships and began the attack. It appeared easy at first as the savages were not used to warfare, but as we entered the hills, things went poorly.”

“Poorly?” inquired Omung. “Our scouts reported no armies of any kind. What trouble beset you?”

“Not armies,” Fakar reported as he slumped down with his back to the cliff wall. “Their horses are much faster than ours. The savages would gather in packs and poke our flanks and then outrun us as we tried to catch them. Our formations broke and were scattered. They lured our army into the jungle and that is where it happened.”

“Where what happened?” demanded Khador. “What happened to father?”

“The jungle was full of giant spiders,” twitched Fakar. “Spiders much larger than horses. The spiders were intelligent and attacked us from all sides. Father tried to rally the men out of the jungle. He died killing one of the huge beasts, but by doing so he allowed us to escape.”

“Escape!,” howled Omung. “Your men fled the battlefield?”

“Where is your army now?” questioned Khador.

Fakar clenched his teeth and nodded towards the small knot of weary men that had accompanied him. “That is what I could find of my army and father’s army,” he spat.

“Out of tens of thousands, you bring back twelve?” gasped Omung.

“The rest are probably scattered all over my sector,” sighed Fakar. “I will gather them when I return there. I dared not miss this meeting. Your help may be required in conquering the east.”

Khador paced away from the meeting as Omung continued howling at the youngest brother. The loss of the two huge armies was serious, but not terminal. Still, the savages in all three sectors had to be exterminated, lest the evil follow them to these shores. Khador nodded to himself and strode determinedly back to his brothers.

“The three of us are the only ones left who have yet to receive the magic of forgetfulness,” Khador stated. “We shall receive those rites tonight. Tomorrow we gather all of our armies and march on the eastern sector. I want that land destroyed completely. Salt the fields and kill every living thing we find. Let our mages ensure that it becomes a wasteland forever more.”

“What of the savages we both still chase?” asked Omung. “We cannot afford to have any survivors to stain the bloodline. One intermarriage and we have failed. You know what the mages have stated. One stray thought could bring the horror to our doorstep and nothing will save us then. Nothing!”

“The savages in our two sectors are nothing compared to what father has faced,” declared Khador. “We will return to hunt our savages after we are done in Fakar’s sector.”

“Will breeding really cause the memories to resurface?” puzzled Fakar.

“I do not know,” conceded Khador, “but I will not chance it. We cannot face the likes of what we fled in our ships. We are fortunate to be alive today to talk of it and after the rites tonight, none will ever talk of it again. Even a mention of its name is enough to draw it here.”

“We cannot survive another encounter with it,” agreed Omung. “We shall destroy the land of Fakar and return to our own battles after.”

Excitement rippled through Lyra’s body as she leaned out of the castle window and spied on the two figures below. She felt the morning breeze blow through her short blond hair as she watched them sally back and forth with jabs, thrusts, and deadly swings. Quickly, she pulled away from the window and scurried under her bed. Stretching against the cold stone floor, she reached into the dark corner and seized the hilt of her forbidden sword. Rising with a swagger, she smoothly slid the sword under the belt of her plain, gray tunic with a practiced flourish. Quietly, she crept to the door of her room and eased it open slightly. Her blue eyes scanned the corridor for any signs of life as she slipped her young, lithe body through the doorway. Tiptoeing down the corridor, she peered ahead for any open doorways that might spell disaster for her plan.

Lyra stiffened as she reached the stone stairway and the dull sounds of voices drifted up to her. Bracing her back against the cold stone, Lyra edged her head around the corner and glanced down at the next landing. It was empty and Lyra swiftly raced down the steps, her bare feet gripping the rough stone steps where they met the wall. The center of the stairway was smooth, eroded by centuries of traffic, but it was also in the center of the steps where dirt gathered and Lyra could not afford to slip on any loose material, which might be present.

Lyra halted just short of the landing and peeked around the corner. The aroma of acids and herbs permeated the air on this floor where Master Malafar taught most of his classes. All of the classroom doors were open, but only one student stood in the corridor in a position capable of seeing her. Lyra recognized him. Walak was the son of a rich Lord and a pompous brat. He had no real comprehension of magic and Lyra was sure that his father had sent him to the Academy just for the prestige associated with having a family member attend classes under the Great Master. Lyra couldn’t imagine what Walak was doing out in the corridor while classes were going on, but she could not afford to be seen by him.