Aakuta: the Dark Mage (3 page)

“If the free tribes get wind of this,” frowned Brakas, “they will come here and destroy our new armies.”

“Then make sure that word does not pass to them,” shrugged Karnic. “Move the men out as soon as they reach five thousand in number. Then start with the next recruitment group. Even if the free tribes find out, we will have only five thousand men at risk at any time. Also, order the first group of men to clean up this area. Vandegar Temple is a holy shrine. I will not see it desecrated with filth and garbage.”

“It shall be as you command,” declared Zygor. “How will I report our successes to you?”

“There will be no need to report to me,” answered Karnic. “If you are successful, the world will know. And if you fail, you will not be alive to report. You will not find me in any event. I will be bringing chaos and mayhem to Omunga.”

Zygor opened his mouth to offer some vague praise to Karnic, but the elder magician was no longer in the room. Zygor blinked and gazed about the room, but Karnic was gone.

“Did you see him leave?” Zygor whispered to Brakas.

“No,” Brakas replied unsteadily. “What is this assuming that he talks about?”

“I have been ordered to take another’s body,” frowned Zygor. “It is irreversible. It is how Vand has managed to live for thousands of years. When he ages, he assumes a fresh young body.”

“And you can do that?” Brakas gasped. “Why then do you fear doing it when it means that you can live forever?”

“We can only do it once,” replied Zygor. “Only Vand can do it multiple times. By assuming the body of an old man, I am shortening my lifespan. It is my punishment for failure here in Fakara.”

“I think I would prefer dying,” mused Brakas as he thought about being an old frail man.

“That is the only choice available to you,” spat Zygor. “I am paying for my part in the failure here. You are not. Fail me again and you will surely beg for death, but that death will linger for an excruciatingly long time. Do not fail me again, Brakas.”

Marak flicked his wrist towards the target. A bright stream of light shot forth from his hand and streaked towards the vertical log. As the stream of light traveled, it flattened into a disc, and tendrils of light spread out from the center. The mass appeared much like a spinning disc with multiple blades of shiny steel rotating rapidly around the center. The disc struck the log with tremendous force. Chunks of bark and wood splinters flew through the air as the disc sped through the log. It was cleanly sawed in half, and Marak watched in amazement as the top portion of the log toppled over and fell to the ground.

“See how the disc disintegrated after cutting through the log?” smiled Ukaro. “If that was an enemy’s body, it would have continued onward to strike what was behind it. You must learn to gauge the amount of force needed in any given situation. Sometimes you can use the spell to fell multiple foes. Other times you will prefer not to harm what is behind your enemy. You must practice this spell until you learn how to measure the force needed.”

“Amazing,” Marak muttered as he stared at the severed log. “I would not have believed that it would be so simple.”

“It is not simple, son,” replied the Chula shaman. “You have great power. Were you to live with the Chula, you would become a powerful shaman.”

“Like you are,” nodded Marak. “Sometimes I wish for nothing more than to do exactly that. Mother and you are so happy here.”

“We are,” grinned Ukaro, “but your path lies elsewhere, Marak. The Torak cannot walk away from his responsibilities.”

“The Torak,” frowned Marak. “I still do not have a clear idea what the Torak is, or what I am supposed to do.”

Ukaro stared at his son, his split lips pressed tightly together. He absently brushed his golden mane away from his face and suddenly smiled.

“Come and sit with me by the lake,” Ukaro said. “Enough practice for one day and you must return to your flatlanders in any event.”

“I must, father,” nodded Marak. “The Sakovans are preparing to leave for home, and I would be remiss if I was not there to bid them farewell.”

The young lord of the Torak clan and his Chula father strode across the open field and sat beside the lake. Marak gazed at his father’s face. The shaman’s face resembled the face of a lion. Long whiskers spread outward from above his split lips, and his mane was more than just long hair. It flowed from every portion of his face and head. His eyes sparkled with the clarity of a hunter.

“You still find my appearance strange,” smiled Ukaro. “It can only be achieved by a powerful shaman. It demands respect within the Chula. You have the power to look like me, although I doubt your flatlanders would find it appealing.”

“I suppose they would not accept it very well,” Marak conceded. “Do you like looking that way?”

“I do,” grinned Ukaro. “It is a constant reminder of who I am, but I do understand how others could find it discomforting.”

“Perhaps when I am finished doing whatever it is that I must do,” posed Marak, “I will live with the Chula and learn the ways of my ancestors.”

“If you survive,” frowned Ukaro. “Do not make light of what the Torak must endure. Your task will be fraught with danger.”

“What is my task, father?” asked Lord Marak. “Tell me about the Torak.”

“I think you already know much more than you let on,” declared Ukaro. “The painting you saw in Angragar must have made you think about what god will require from you.”

“God,” mused Marak. “I grew up with the flatlanders, father. They speak of many gods, but value none of them.”

“I understand,” nodded the shaman, “but you have learned from your Sakovan friends that the one true god is Kaltara. Have you not?”

“Yes,” agreed Marak, “but I know little about him. Why does this god put his favor on me? What makes him think that I can change the world?”

“He has chosen you, my son” Ukaro smiled proudly. “Do not question his motives. As to why he thinks you can change the world, he will endow you with what is necessary, and he will guide you. This you must believe with all your heart.”

“So he will just make everything turn out all right?” questioned Marak.

“No, no,” Ukaro shook his head vigorously, causing his mane to sway from side to side. “You must work hard to achieve his goals. By choosing you to be the Torak, he is giving all of humanity a chance to redeem itself, but only a chance. You must strive to make sure that you do not fail us. Another Torak may not come for thousands of years.”

“So I can fail,” pondered Marak. “What exactly is prophesized about this Torak?”

“Our scrolls state that the Torak will rise to reclaim our lands,” stated the shaman. “Most people believe that means that you will reclaim the land of the Chula from the flatlanders. It is said that you will destroy their armies and chase these invaders from our shores.”

“Most people believe that,” puzzled Marak. “I know you well enough to understand by your choice of words that you do not share that interpretation. What do you believe?”

“I used to believe as the others do,” explained Ukaro, “but hearing about your journeys to Sakova and Fakara has changed my perception of what must be done.”

“How has the telling of my travels changed your thinking?” inquired Marak.

“The painting in Angragar for one causes me to see things from a different perspective,” Ukaro continued. “It is clear that your future is tied to the Star of Sakova and the Astor of Qubari as they are pictured by your side in the painting.”

“I agree with that,” nodded Marak. “I have seen that painting many times in my dreams. It causes me to wonder what is to come.”

“I have spent many days since your return from Angragar going through the oldest of our archives,” stated Ukaro. “The invaders that came to our shores were fleeing from some great evil. There is nothing in our records to indicate what they were fleeing from, but I cannot help thinking that whatever was chasing them is what you must truly battle.”

Lord Marak nodded slowly as his mind drifted back to his short time in Angragar. They had found a scroll in the old temple that spoke of burning ships and searing minds.

“I believe you are correct,” declared Marak. “An old prophecy spoke of a great evil. It was an evil that defied Kaltara thousands of years before the invaders came. The evil was banished from the land to a new land. I suspect the invaders came from that new land. I think they were fleeing from that evil.”

“That would explain the great fear that pervaded the invaders,” mused Ukaro. “The histories tell much about the trials of my people during the invasion. The invaders were skilled warriors, much greater than anyone who lived here. They certainly were not cowards and did not shy from battle, but they were driven by fear of something chasing them. Our records offer no hint as to what that evil was.”

“One of the Qubari suspected that the great evil was a priest named Vand,” offered Marak. “Vand declared himself a god and gathered a great host of followers. Legend states that he defied the other gods and was banished to some unknown land.”

“Then the pieces fall into place,” sighed Ukaro.

“How?” Marak shook his head. “This all happened thousands of years ago. Some priest who thought he was a god would not be alive today to bother us.”

“Can you be sure of that?” questioned the shaman. “You already know of many things that defy what is supposedly known to be true. The flatlanders believe that magicians can only be female. An untruth. They believe that slavery is necessary for the survival of their economy. A lie. You were told that nobody ever escapes the Qubari jungle, yet here you are. Do not be so quick to rule out an old priest as the source of the evil that will plague you. Even if this Vand no longer lives, the evil that lived within him might still exist.”

“All right,” shrugged Marak. “The prophecy stated that the people of his new land would flee from him. It states that they will burn their ships and sear their minds, whatever that means.”

“I will tell you what it means,” the shaman said. “The invaders that came to our shores so long ago burned their ships upon arrival. It made no sense to the Chula of that age, but it was recorded, so it is true. I have read all of the histories from that time. There is little in them except the harrowing tales of brutal slaughter, but I do recall reading one that spoke of captured invaders. I said before that the invaders were afraid of something, but that we never found out what it was. One of the scrolls suggested that the invaders did not know what they were fleeing because their memories were destroyed.”

“Do you mean intentionally erased?” asked Marak.

“The scroll did not make that judgment,” shrugged Ukaro, “but if it was intentional, would not that be a searing of minds?”

“It would,” nodded Marak. “Is that possible? Do you know of magic that can block a memory?”

“No,” admitted Ukaro, “but that does not make it impossible. Tell me more of this scroll you found in Angragar.”

“It mentioned that the searing magic would fail because of intermarriage and that the evil would be summoned because of that failure,” Marak continued. “The scroll called this the Time of Calling. It is during this Time of Calling that Kaltara will send forth the Torak, the Star of Sakova, and the Astor. The three of us are to gather the faithful and the faithless to stand against the evil in the Time of Cleansing.”

“When is the Time of Cleansing?” interrupted the shaman.

“It starts when the evil arrives,” answered Marak. “That is all the scroll stated.”

“So you are to gather the faithful AND the faithless,” mused Ukaro. “The faithless to me are the flatlanders. I feel more strongly than ever that what the others expect of the Torak is not what is required of you. If you were here merely to reclaim our land from the flatlanders, then why did Kaltara send the Star and the Astor?”

“They each have their own lands to reclaim,” Marak offered weakly.

“Perhaps that is how others will interpret it,” shrugged Ukaro, “but I see both of them as being among the faithful. It is the Khadorans, the Omungans, and the Fakarans that are the faithless. It is not referring to the Chula, the Sakovans, and the Qubari. They could never be considered faithless. We have lived for many generations waiting for you to come. We have not wavered in our faith.”

“So I am to make allies with the flatlanders in all three countries?” Marak questioned skeptically.

“It would appear so,” nodded Ukaro.

“Impossible,” Marak shook his head. “The Khadorans will kill me. It is only a matter of time before they do, but I am sure that they will succeed. In any event, there is absolutely no chance that the Khadorans would ever agree to follow me.”

“Come,” Ukaro smiled as he rose. “It is time for you to leave the Chula and return to your flatlanders. Have you found a mate a yet?”

Lord Marak rose and stared at his father with his mouth hanging open.

“A mate?” he echoed. “With everything that is going on, how can you ask such a question?”

“Life continues even through troubled times,” chuckled the shaman. “I wonder what kind of parent you will make.”

“This is no time for me to be distracted by such things, father,” Marak shook his head. “Whatever brings such thoughts to your mind?”

“Let me ask you a question, son,” grinned the shaman. “When you do have a son, no doubt he will be a rascal like you. How will you protect him from making mistakes?”

Marak stopped walking and gazed at the ground with a puzzled frown. “I suppose that I will explain right from wrong to him at the earliest opportunity,” he replied. “Some mistakes he must endure to grow into a man, but I will explain the need for him to avoid the deadly ones.”

“And if he doesn’t listen to you?” pushed Ukaro. “What will you do when you have explained what is right, but he insists on doing what is wrong?”

“He will listen,” Marak answered firmly. “I will not raise a fool.”

“But if he doesn’t?” Ukaro persisted.

“As I said,” Marak shook his head, “sometimes letting him make a mistake will be good for him. I will not try to control his every thought. I will only seek to protect him from harm.”