Defend Karuk

Defend Karuk

  Copyright 2017 Nicholas Everritt

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  If you enjoy reading this book please consider reading my other novel, Warlord Slayer. It’s set in the same world as Defend Karuk, but the two novels are standalone stories rather than direct sequels.

  Chapter One: Taurus XVII

  Taurus remembered little of his parents. He had little notion of his life before the barbarians came, before his parents were taken away from him. He had no memory of the daily routines his mother and father went through. He had brothers and sisters, that much he could recall, but he didn’t know how many. He remembered them only as shades, fleeting and indistinct, and he couldn’t tell one from another. He couldn’t even remember what his name had been back then.

  Only one memory of those peaceful years stayed with him, a memory which revisited him from time to him in half-remembered dreams. He was lying down on the soft brown grass, safe in his mother’s arms. He looked up at her and she smiled back at him. He remembered her beautiful. Taurus didn’t know for sure if she had truly been a beauty, or if this memory of her was merely an idealised image that had built up over the years. Certainly, her beauty was indistinct and hard to describe. As he lay there in her arms, feeling her warm breath on the back of his neck, he watched his father toiling in the fields of red earth and parched scrub. Tall and broad-shouldered, he laboured beneath the glare of the furious sun which shone off of his black skin. There, in the fields, he guided the plough, slapping the flanks of the oxen at its yoke.

  Then the Cimrans came. Taurus remembered those days all too clearly, burned into his memory by the fear and pain of a childhood ended so abruptly. He was woken from sleep by a fraught sibling and ushered out of their hut by his distraught parents. It was pitch dark, but the whole village was on the move. Taurus soon saw why, thought he was too young to fully understand it.

  In the distance, patches of the Calclaskan savannah roared with fire as villages blazed. Taurus could hear the distant howls of the barbarians. He saw the fear in the faces of the fleeing villagers, and so his young mind imagined the savages as monstrous fire-breathing minotaurs, more beast than man.

  His entire village fled for the river. No torches would be lit – they could not afford for the savages to see the distant lights, and so they left in complete darkness. Taurus sensed his mother’s fear. Even in the dim moonlight he could see the glistening of the tears which fell from her eyes, and her despairing glances back at the blazing horizon where the monsters sowed their desolation.

  When they finally reached the river there was consternation. Taurus didn’t understand it at the time, but when he was older he replayed events in his mind and pieced together what must have happened. The river was swollen. It was deep. The water ran wild. There were ferries which could get them across to safety, but if they were overloaded they would sink and those aboard would drown. There would not be time to get everyone across, for their panicked exodus had not gone unnoticed. Fear began to spread through the crowd as the barbarian torches were spotted, coming closer, heralded by war-horns and whooping howls. They could hear the thunder of galloping horses.

  “Into the caves!” called his father. He didn’t know for sure if it was his father who had shepherded off a band of villagers, taken them under his wing along with his family, or if deep down he just wanted to remember his father as a hero. Whoever it was who led them, they continued their hurried flight along the river and towards the hills. They thought they would be safe in there, hidden in the ancient caves. They thought they had not been spotted – that the barbarians had given up their pursuit of bloodshed once they reached the river to find their prey out of reach.

  The villagers felt safe enough when they reached those cold, musty caves. They lit their fires, confident that none would find them there. Taurus and his family lay down and slept, huddled together, all together for one last time.

  Screams heralded the wildmen. The fires were doused, but it was too late. The Cimrans ransacked the caves. Taurus’ father tried to lead his family to safety deeper in the labyrinthine tunnels, but the barbarians came swiftly to hunt them down. His father tried to fight them off with his spear. Taurus didn’t see him die – his mother, panting through stifled tears, picked him up in her arms and ran deeper into the darkness. His brothers and sisters were gone, too – escaped, perhaps? Hidden in one of the many tunnels? Maybe it was too much to hope for.

  His mother nestled herself and her young boy in a crevice in the rocks, as deep as she could go. She covered her mouth, trying to stifle her tears and remain silent even as the grief of losing everything hit her – her home, her husband, her children – everything except for Taurus.

  The barbarians were thorough. They came with torches, scouring the caves, searching for stragglers. They found her. Taurus watched helplessly as a monster dragged her away screaming. He would never see her again.

  Taurus hid there, pressed deep into the rock, shaking and terrified. He saw the light of the fire as the beast who had dragged off his mother peered in, searching for more prey. He was a monster – horned, red-skinned, with a skull-like face. But he did not see Taurus in the gloom.

  Taurus lay there through the night, wide awake, haunted by the howling and laugher of the barbarians as they whooped and gloated in their savage tongue. He was too young to really understand death – but in his heart, in his gut, he knew that those he loved were gone, and that the end was coming for him too.

  Morning brought the light. Taurus was awoken from his fevered slumber by the clashing of metal and the howl of savages. A second war-party stormed the caves, slaughtering all they found there. Taurus was terrified at first, thinking that they too were monsters. He tried to creep to the edge of the crevice and peer out, curious to see what horrors came for him now.

  He jumped as the horned barbarian fell to the ground right in front of his hiding place. Moments later a bronze shield slammed into the beast’s face, and the bison skull he was wearing shattered. Beneath was the face of a man, painted red with warpaint. Not such a monster after all.

  Standing over him was a Reclaimer, an angel in bronze armour and gleaming white tunic, tall and broad-shouldered. He knelt down to deliver the killing blow, ramming his falchion into the barbarian’s chest, and as he did so he caught sight of the shivering boy. Taurus gasped as the man reached into the crevice and grabbed him by the arm. Taurus was wary, but not scared this time, for the Reclaimer’s grip was firm but not harsh. Lost and alone, this mighty warrior reminded him of his father.

  The Reclaimer led Taurus to the entrance of the cave in silence. The caves were littered with barbarian dead. The Reclaimers had been thorough. A troupe of them were assembled at the cave’s entrance, wiping the blood from their falchions. Taurus’ rescuer presented the boy to his assembled comrades.

  “We have a survivor.” he said, his voice deep and imperious, or so it had seemed at the time.

  One of his battle-brothers looked Taurus up and down. He grabbed him by the jaw and inspected his face, then opened his mouth and peered at his teeth.

  “No signs of pox or malnutrition. We take this one back to Arkataka.”

  The Reclaimers may have seemed like angels and saviours to that shocked, frightened young boy, but they were grim and hardy men. There would be no hugs, no soothing words to ea
se his pain. The Reclaimer who had rescued him hoisted him onto the back of his horse like so much baggage, and he and his comrades rode off across the Calclaskan savannah, the torched villages still billowing smoke upon the horizon.

  The journey could have lasted a few days or many weeks for all Taurus knew. He slipped in and out of consciousness, shock and exhaustion draining him of all his energy. When he was awake he said nothing. He barely moved, and never roused from his state of shock long enough to do anything more than drink a cup of water or eat a bow of stew. But even in that state he would not have been able to deny his amazement at Arkataka.

  The great temple-complex, house of the Reclaimers and seat of the High Priest, was wondrous indeed. It was a cluster of temples and ziggurats built from orange-brown stone. It sat in a sea of dry savannah, and yet aqueducts and pools ran through it in concentric circles, and lush greenery grew up from the red earth. Creepers clambered all over the temples and cool grass grew underfoot. Crops grew in vast irrigated fields surrounding the temples and training complexes.

  The Reclaimers were the sword of their god Hatra, answerable only to the High Priest. They were drilled daily on the training fields, clashing swords and shields in sand-covered arenas. The fields and farms were tended by civilian farmers who toiled daily to produce the sustenance needed to feed the garrisoned Reclaimers. Youngsters, boys not much older than Taurus, were put through their paces by grizzled old instructors and grumpy old priests. The sight of it all was bewildering to Taurus, and also glorious for a boy who had never seen a structure bigger than a chief’s hut or a settlement larger than a village.

  He was taken to a priest in one of the many temples, and was left, without ceremony or sentimentality, by the Reclaimer who had rescued him. Taurus would never learn his name.

  The priest inspected Taurus closely. “You’re tall enough...Strong, fit.” he said as he inspected the boy from head to toe. Then he opened his mouth and inspected his molars. “You’re a bit older than what we usually get. I’ll estimate…Six years old. That means you have only four years to ready yourself for Hatra’s Judgement. You are unlikely to succeed.” Taurus didn’t know what he meant. Lost and bewildered, he said nothing.

  “It is the seventh day of the fourth month.” continued the priest. “Henceforth this day shall be assumed to be your birthday. In accordance with the celestial charts, your name will be Taurus, and you are the seventeenth Taurus to count yourself amongst the Reclaimers. Yes, my boy, you are a Reclaimer now. You will report for training with the rest of the six-years in two hours, Taurus XVII.”

  It was a swift and unceremonious initiation, and Taurus couldn’t comprehend it at the time, but as the days and weeks passed the true weight of what had happened began to dawn on him.

  The boys would train daily. The youngest would mainly train their fitness; running, lifting stone blocks of increasing weight, hauling buckets of water. As the boys grew older and stronger they spent more time sparring, training for combat. Brawling with fists and feet. Fighting with wooden swords and wicker shields.

  At first, Taurus was punished by the regime. He was beaten up in training by the bigger, stronger boys. Most had been training at Arkataka from birth; orphans, the unwanted, children born of rape or out of wedlock were left at the steps of Arkataka by the farmers and villagers of Calclaska. He was bullied by them, teased for being weak, mocked when he started to cry and taunted for missing his dead family. The boys were cruel.

  The priests who trained the youngsters were no less harsh. They whipped the boys with canes when they underperformed. They chastised them, humiliated them at every opportunity. Weakness or compassion were not allowed – breaking down in tears would see a child tied to a post and left outside for the night to be bitten by the cold night air. And Taurus’ excuses, that he was new, that he missed his family, were given short frith by the wily old priests. For they were training these boys for one thing and one thing alone. War. And that meant lashing every ounce of weakness out of them, and they did it with relish, for it was Hatra’s work.

  Besides the training, they were also intensely schooled in the glory of Hatra and the teachings of her prophet Jynset. Failure to memorise her ninety two followers by name, executed as heretics by the evil King Ahmentep, would see a boy dragged behind a galloping horse reciting prayers.

  The story of Jynset would be told and retold countless times over the course of their training. The retelling Taurus would always remember best was delivered by the High Priest himself. The boys were in awe of this man, ancient even then, and it was the first time he had laid eyes on the wizened old cleric.

  “Jynset was born, and lived most of her life, as an insignificant whelp.” he said, his voice hoarse and somewhat frail, but all the boys hung on his every word as they sat around him and listened to his tale. He was a gripping storyteller, and his verse was more playful and irreverent that the other priests’. “The daughter of a harlot and a blacksmith in some shite-stained village in Arcon, full of other insignificants – shepherds, peddlers, goat-fuckers. She was nobody. But nevertheless, Hatra chose her as her prophet.”

  “Evil King Ahmentep sent his Azurian Guard to plunder her village, Karuk. They were scurrilous dogs, evil and corrupt, send to drag off pretty young girls for Ahmentep to sacrifice to his debased god, Venhotek. Jynset was young – only fifteen - and ripe for the taking. She fled the village when the Azurian Guard came, but as she fled into the hills she stumbled into a tomb.”

  “The tomb was ancient – it belonged to a long-dead priestess. She was the last prophet of Hatra, her name long-forgotten even by the faithful, and by stumbling upon her tomb the fates had deemed for Jynset to take up her mantle as prophet. She took up the Eye of Hatra, a black stone that glitters with a thousand stars, the mark and seal of Hatra’s prophet. She emerged to find her whole village slaughtered, or dragged off to Ahmentep’s dungeons, and the village torched and ruined.”

  “What was she to do? A young girl. Weak. Powerless. Up against the mighty Ahmentep. She could have forgotten the revelation she had felt upon taking up the Eye of Hatra – she could have tossed that old stone away, and returned to a life of meek irrelevance. But no! She decided to spread the word of Hatra amongst her people.”

  “Progress was slow. She was mocked. Threatened. The people were in thrall to Venhotek and other base gods. But gradually, Hatra’s love and Jynset’s reason won a portion of them over. She had amassed ninety two followers by the time of her death at the age of twenty three.”

  “King Ahmentep would suffer no dissenters. He burned them alive, all ninety two and Jynset with them, hoping to curry favour with the false god Venhotek. But his son and heir Mamos watched them burn. He saw that none screamed even as the fires devoured them, and so Hatra’s light shone within him too.”

  “When his father died, assassinated by his own Azurian Guard, Mamos began to worship Hatra. He built a Mausoleum to Jynset and the ninety two martyrs where Karuk had once stood. He purged Venhotek and the other Old Gods who demanded suffering from their subjects. Arcon, then, became the servants of Hatra, and she asked only for their love.”

  “One hundred years later, Arcon and Calclaska fought a war which would one day be known as the War of the Martyr. Calclaska at the time was in thrall to a cabal of shamen and soothsayers – peddlers of a false faith. Our King Tzaxos was converted to the worship of Hatra mid-duel by the Arcite King Topal, who died of his wounds days later, martyring himself for a greater cause. Tzaxos spread his revelation amongst his people, and they tore down their false idols and cast out the shamen. United by faith, Arcon and Calclaska built an alliance which has lasted for a hundred years.”

  “Not bad for a whore’s child.”

  “And you, young ones, if you survive your training you will one day fight for Hatra in her glorious wars of conquest. Once, before the coming of man, the whole world belonged to Hatra. Now, much of the world is in thrall to demons and false gods. The barbarians tribes worship innumerable horror
s. We must fight them back, reclaim their territories for the glory of Hatra, convert them to her wisdom at the points of our spears and the blades of our swords. For that is the duty of the Reclaimers.”

  Time passed, and as it passed Taurus grew stronger. His fighting skills improved until he was able to best most of his classmates. As he grew older Taurus made friends, gradually bonding with his sparring-partners. As the priests’ lessons of discipline and trust in your battle-brothers began to sink in the boys formed strong bonds, and spurred each other on to train all the harder. As they grew their drills became more and more testing, and as they approached their tenth year they would spar in full arms and armour, swamped by wargear made for grown men, barely able to lift their bronze shields and weighed down by their heavy breastplates.

  But over all of their training one thing loomed large: Hatra’s Judgement. It was a test from which fewer than half of the boys would emerge alive – a test which was shrouded in utter secrecy. One which would determine which of the boys were worthy of one day joining the ranks of the Reclaimers on the battlefield, and which of them would die an unceremonious death.

  Whenever the Reclaimers marched out to make war with Hatra’s enemies the boys would line the streets of Arkataka and watch in awe as the bronze column of Reclaimers sallied out. They were impressive in their battle-gear. Tall, powerful and muscular after years of training, clean-shaven and stern-eyed. They wore gleaming white tunics, bronze breastplates, greaves and helmets. Most carried a round bronze shield adorned with the image of the winged goddess Hatra, two spears for throwing, and a falchion at their side. They were glorious warriors indeed, and famous for their potency, but a life of war is often a short one. As these columns returned from battle, depleted, Taurus’ name would occasionally change. First he became Taurus XVI, and then Taurus XV, as the older Tauruses died in battle.

  This was the life he led – one of training, discipline, rigour, and Hatra’s wisdom. Women were not permitted in Arkataka. Taurus forgot about them almost entirely, save for that vague memory of his mother. Some of the boys swore they had never seen a woman in their lives. To consort with women, to engage in acts of passion, was strictly forbidden, for one cannot live purely for the glory of Hatra if you are distracted by earthly pleasures, and one cannot sacrifice everything for Hatra if you are shackled by love. Now and then there would be a commotion when erring trainees were punished for consorting with women or their fellow battle-brothers. They were first starved, and then exiled into the barren savannah where most would soon die of exposure. Those who survived the ordeal lived out their days in disgrace as beggars or soldiers of fortune.

  There was no room for love or compassion. Little room for emotion besides love for Hatra and fondness for one’s comrades. No room for family or attachment. No room, certainly, for Taurus’ memories of his family, and the desire for revenge which he secretly harboured.

  He stood with his shield-brothers in the training ground, laden with wargear, when a priest strode down the line of child soldiers and asked each one in turn “What is your desire?”

  “To fight and die for the glory of Hatra.” said one.

  The priest bowed his head. “A good answer, thought to die should never be your aim. Merely the inevitable consequence of your oath to wage war in Hatra’s name until death comes for you. What is your desire?”

  “To reclaim the lands of the heathens in Hatra’s name.” said the next boy.

  “Good, good. What is your desire?” he asked Taurus.

  “To slaughter the barbarian heathens. To reclaim Hatra’s lands. To lay waste to the foul Cimrans.”

  The priest slapped him. Taurus’ blood boiled with shock and embarrassment, but he kept a straight face and stared straight ahead of him.

  “The Cimrans, eh boy? Why single out that tribe, one foul people amongst hundreds? I know you, Taurus XIV.” mocked the priest. “I know the Cimrans slaughtered your village. Killed your family. Butchered your mother in front of you. So you think this is your lot in life, eh boy? To avenge your family’s death? To punish the Cimrans for the pain they’ve caused you? And in between settling personal scores, I hope you will make some time for the glory of Hatra! No. You must dedicate your life to Hatra entirely – become her sword in the fight against evil. It is my job to remember your past, boy. It is your job to forget it. Only your future matters now – and it is a future spent in Hatra’s service, not in service to your own petty wants and desires.”

  He was Taurus XIII by the time of Hatra’s Judgement. Each of the boys was led into the training court one by one. They lined up at the gates, and as each trial ended the doors would swing open, revealing the pristine, sand-covered court inside, surrounded by watching priests and Reclaimers. A single boy would enter and the gates would close again, whereupon the next in line was bedecked with a full set of adult-size battle-gear: a heavy shield, breastplate, greaves and helmet, two spears and a falchion.

  The boys tried to remain straight-faced and composed as they waited for their turn. Under the watchful eye of priests who paced their way along the line, they dare not show their fear. But they couldn’t help but listen to the carnage unfolding within the arena. They heard beastly howls. The clang of metal on metal. They heard screams, prayers from the boys, and sometimes the wails of the beasts that were pitted against them. Some of the waiting boys lost their nerve – they began to cry, their hands shook, they wet themselves. The priests, for once, did not chastise them. Hatra alone could judge them this day.

  Taurus did indeed feel fear as he watched the boy ahead of him enter the arena, walking unsteadily beneath the weight of his armour. As the gates slammed shut he closed his eyes for a moment to steel himself. He said a prayer to Hatra, asking her to guide him through this trial. Whether she would come to his aid he did not know. Today of all days she would surely be over-subscribed.

  The Reclaimer who armed him at the gates – strapped the shield to his arm, put the spears in his hands – gave him a little smile and a nod of encouragement.

  “Good luck, lad.” he said even as the boy in the arena shrieked in pain. It sounded like he was being gored by a wild boar or some other beast.

  “I do not need luck. Hatra will bring me victory, or she will bring me honourable death.” said Taurus, coldly, trying to bury his fear beneath courage.

  The Reclaimer nodded and smiled. “Maybe. But Hatra rewards strength. She rewards preparation. And most of all, she rewards strategy.” he said, tapping his index finger against the boy’s bronze-clad temple.

  Taurus looked him in the eye for a fleeting moment, and the man patted him on the shoulder. It was the littlest of things. But for a young boy who had lived a life without warmth, it felt very significant indeed. At the time he did not know the man’s name. He would later learn it was Meridon V.

  The doors swung open. Taurus couldn’t help but let out a little gasp as he looked upon the gleaming white sand in the arena ahead of him. There was no blood on the sand. No body parts, no corpses. The boy before him, who had surely not survived his ordeal, had been taken to be buried with the others, and the arena had been briskly cleared.

  Weighed down by arms and armour, Taurus staggered in, and at once he was aware of the countless eyes set upon him. He recognised the priests who had trained him, onlooking impassively, looking down their noses at him. Reclaimers watched on, come to inspect the new crop. And there, at the far end of the court, was Optimus, his white-crested helmet on his lap. He was the military patriarch of the Reclaimers – the High Priest’s proxy on the battlefield. Whenever an Optimus died, another would be chosen from the ranks of the Reclaimers to take up the mantle.

  The doors slammed shut, and Taurus gasped again. His eyes were drawn to another door at the far end of the arena. His steeled himself as he heard it creak as it slowly swung open. Running through his mind were the many terrible beasts which might be unleashed upon him. And his foe would be terrible indeed – though more human than he had been expecting.

>   It was a barbarian. He seemed like a giant to young Taurus. His muscular body was painted white with chalky warpaint. Black dreadlocks fell to his shoulders. His lips, nose and ears were pierced with metal and bone. A huge falx was in one muscular hand. His eyes were wild, flitting about madly, drunk on berserker fumes. He must have been as confused and disorientated as Taurus was, his wild eyes glaring at the ranks of observers. But nonetheless, as he set eyes upon the boy he snarled, for all he saw was an enemy.

  The wildman roared as he charged at Taurus, and the lumbering giant was terrifying to behold. Taurus had the wherewithal to hurl a spear, but, weighed down by all the armour, his throw was poor and it fell short of the barbarian. The brute was upon him in a few more strides. He threw himself at him, swinging his mighty falx down upon him.

  Taurus raised his shield, and he winced as the weapon hit. Under the power of the blow he was forced onto one knee as the clang of metal on metal rang through his ears. In the struggle he dropped his other spear. He reached to draw his falchion, but before he could the barbarian swung his weapon again, and the force of the blade against his shield threw Taurus to the ground.

  Taurus was prone, dazed, at the mercy of the berserker. The brute hefted his weapon overhead and howled in battle-rage as he was about to hew the boy in two. But just then Meridon’s words rang through Taurus’ mind.

  Strategy.

  Taurus rolled aside, dropping his shield as he did so. The falx swung into the sand, harmlessly, and Taurus staggered to his feet. As the barbarian fixed his eyes on him once more Taurus unclasped his breastplate and discarded it, and he tossed the helmet from his head. The wargear was weighing him down – it had been made for a fully grown man, not a boy. Unencumbered, he was able to dart aside of the barbarian’s next clumsy blow.

  The next part of Taurus’ plan raced through his mind as he dived aside of another wild strike, the barbarian’s howl ringing in his ears. His blood pumped, his heart thundered. He knew he couldn’t evade the beast forever. He had to strike back. He rolled past another blow, picking up a spear as he did so, and he backed off from his foe, jabbing out with the spear, defensively.

  The barbarian grinned and paced slowly towards the boy, who seemed to be hiding behind his spear, quaking in terror. The savage enjoyed the fear in the little boy’s eyes.

  But this was only a ruse. Taurus’ fear was gone now as his brain was filled with battle-sense. When the time was right, when the barbarian was gearing up to charge, he struck back.

  As the barbarian barrelled toward him, Taurus hurled his spear. It flew straight and true, for he had calmed his nerves with a prayer to Hatra. Unencumbered, the spear flew far, and plunged into the barbarian’s unarmoured stomach. The beast’s eyes shot open in sudden pain. He looked down at the spear lodged in his stomach. In his shock and stupor, the brute yanked it out of his bleeding gut and looked at the reddened tip. And then, moments later, he fell down dead, still unable to comprehend that he had been killed by the little whelp.

  Taurus had faced Hatra’s Judgement, and he had been found worthy. There was no fanfare, no applause, no victors’ banquet. All that awaited him was more training.

  There were remarkably few survivors that year. Many of Taurus’ friends and buddies, boys he’d grown up with and come to see as his brothers, did not make it. But there was no time to mourn. No time for sentimentality. The next day all the boys returned to their drills.

  It would be six more years before Taurus IX marched out of Arkataka with his fellow Reclaimers to make war with the enemies of Hatra. Boys took a break from their training to line the streets and watch as Taurus marched out of Arkataka with the column of Reclaimers led by Optimus. He would march out to war many more times over the coming years, and he would do so under many names. Taurus VIII, Taurus VII, all the way down to Taurus I.

  Twenty nine years later he marched out again, and his name was Optimus. At his side was Meridon I, the self-same man whose counsel had seen him through Hatra’s Judgement. He led the mighty, glittering column of Reclaimers as they marched out on their god-given mission. He had received his order from the High Priest himself. Defend Karuk.