"The Talisman of Darien Kaur: Book one: "Swordmaster Priest of Kaull"

By R. James McCord

For twenty-six years Warrenk has waited. The night before the last battle, when the campfires of the northern invaders filled the plain at the base of Mt. Nebok, the sorcerer-king Darien Kaur called his cupbearer, young lieutenant Warrenk of the queens guard into his personal paillion. To Warrenks shock, Darien Kaur took the talisman from around his neck and hung it around Warrenks, charging the young lieutenant to protect the orb at all cost.
The talisman led Warrenk through the surrounding enemy camp and across the uncharted southern ocean to a small island inhabited by primitive natives. Then, whether it died or simply slept, Warrenk didn't know which, the light within the talisman dimmed. Though once possessed of a mysterious power and intelligence, it now seemed like a lifeless lump of metal and stone.
For twenty-six years Warrenk has lived among the natives, becoming one of them. His son is now eighteen years old. The Talisman, all but forgotten, resides in the bottom of an old sea chest in the corner of Warrenks hut. His life has become idyllic until one afternoon, returning from a fishing trip at a near-by reef, Warrenk sees a column of smoke above the village...
Thus begins book one of "The Talisman of Darien Kaur : Swordmaster Priest of Kaull"

• Language: English
• Publisher: R. James McCord
• Release date: Feb 17, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310142246

Book preview

THE TALISMAN OF DARIEN KAUR

~~~~~

BOOK ONE

(of four)

SWORDMASTER PRIEST OF KAULL

by

R. JAMES McCORD

TEXT COPYRIGHT 2013

R. JAMES McCORD

SMASHWORDS EDITION

All Rights Reserved

TO MY MOTHER

Without whose encouragement, support and active participation, my being born would have been highly problematic

CHAPTER ONE

Warrenk leaned back against the cockpit of the Royal Sailfish, stretching his legs over the weathered deck. He flexed his back, digging his heels into the wood and pointing his toes. Tightening the fingers of his right hand, he ground the old scar on his palm into the tiller. Warrenk winced at the pain, but it helped him stay awake as the sailboat churned through the rolling, open sea. The morning sun blazed over Warrenk’s left shoulder, casting a long shadow over the neatly coiled halyard. The morning breeze was growing stronger, tugging at his hat and setting the rigging lines to a low thrum. Warrenk tucked his chin toward his chest, moving his head from side to side to work out the kinks. These early morning fishing trips were a chore to stay awake through.

Leaning his head back with a wide yawn, his left hand came up automatically, covering his mouth. Warrenk looked at the fist in front of his face and laughed. Back on the Island the natives would yawn openly, their mouths wide, dark cheeks taunt around glistening white teeth, making a game of seeing how many others couldn’t resist joining in. His mother would be shocked At his present appearance, of course, but proud that even after all these years Warrenk still covered his mouth.

Warrenk thought of his mother once again. The scene coming to mind, that always came to mind, was of her standing atop the battlement waving fare well as he rode out the main gate right behind the king. The rest of the mothers, wives, children of the queen’s guard cheered from alongside the road, but his mother chose instead to stand on the city wall and wave from a distance. Warrenk wondered where she was, or even if she was still alive. ‘ It’s been so long,’ he thought, ’she would be old now, even if she had lived…’.

Warrenk lurched, hunching his shoulders as a wave slapped the stern, sending a line of cold spray against the back of his neck. ‘Be here, now’, he said to himself, sitting up straight. Squinting beneath his hat, Warrenk searched the horizon. In over twenty years of fishing these waters he had never seen another boat. ‘But that’s no reason to grow lax’, he thought. ‘Whether by friends or enemies, a prudent man is never taken by surprise.’

Puffy, scattered clouds were drifting high out of the southwest. ‘Good’, he thought, ‘smooth sailing for the next few days’. Warrenk glanced at his son lying on the bow. The main sail shadow swept across the boy’s brown skin as the boat rolled through each wave. Warrenk envied him his nakedness. Ardan had inherited the long, black hair and dark skin of his mother’s people. Skin much better adapted to the tropical climes of the Island. Warrenk’s own pale complexion was suited to the northern mountains of his birth. He wore the rough weave tunic, breeches and conical palm hat out of necessity. Without them he would soon blister beneath the tropical sun.

Warrenk glanced at the back of his hand. It was deeply freckled. He wondered what his face looked like. His hair, once bright red, was flecked with gray. Warrenk saw the silver hairs in his brush every morning. Other than murky reflections in still water, he hadn’t seen his face since coming to the Island over twenty-six years ago. In his haste to leave Carlonis he had neglected to bring a mirror, and there was no way to make one on the Island. There was no glass, metal, leather, nor much of anything else he had grown up taking for granted in his northern homeland.

Warrenk reached for the gourd of coconut oil grandfather had made for him, slathering a few drops on the back of each hand. Resuming his sweep of the horizon, his eye caught a wisp of sea spray blowing off a barely exposed coral head. ‘Good.’ He had known they were close, but it was reassuring to see the spray. The tide had peaked two hours ago so the coral ridge, hidden beneath the waves at high tide, was now just barely awash. Warrenk Toun Kaur, knew exactly where he was in the middle of this vast, uncharted ocean.

Coming up on the reef, he called, time to bait the hooks, The reminder was unnecessary. Ardan knew these waters, probably better than Warrenk himself. Like all the Islanders, Ardan had an uncanny way of knowing exactly where he was, and how to find his way home.

Ardan rolled over, leaping to his feet. Skittering nimbly as he came aft, he ducked through the main hatch to go below. Warrenk wondered if Ardan would grow any taller. He was eighteen years old; full-grown by the standard of his mother’s people, but shorter by a head than Warrenk. Like all the Islanders, Ardan was beardless. The only part of himself Warrenk saw in his son was the boy’s jade green eyes.

What are we after, Da? Ardan called from down below.

Bring up the shallow lines, we’ll troll the ridge close in. They would go after the molaca fish that schooled along the reef. Ardan brought up two woven cylinders with the fishing lines wrapped around them. Each line had five medium sized hooks hanging freely from the spool. Ardan carefully set the bait on each barbed hook. When finished, he laid each cylinder in its cradle and glanced over the bow to the approaching reef.

Ready to come about, Warrenk said without taking his eyes from the coral head. He knew this reef, it rose sharply here and then ran south. Soon other parts of the reef would be exposed, but this was the peak, the highest point that always came out of the water first.

Coming about, Warrenk called, pulling the tiller hard to starboard. As the boat started coming about, Ardan ducked under the mainsail, and lowered the jib.

Run out the lines, Warrenk said as Ardan tied a fish line to the starboard pole. The commands were unnecessary. Warrenk and Ardan had worked this same reef ever since the boy could barely walk and began accompanying his father on these weekly fishing voyages. Warrenk loosened the mainsail sheet, letting the boom swing just enough to catch the wind. The boat glided a prudent distance from the reef.

Ardan sat, leaning back against the cabin bulkhead, waiting for the fish to bite. It was his job to tend the line while Warrenk piloted the boat. His father had just swung the bow a few points into the wind when Ardan rolled to his feet and went below. When he came back on deck he carried a hand spool, the one with the heavy line with the single, barbed hook.

What are you going to do with that? Warrenk asked.

Borrega fish, Ardan replied with a shy smile.

Ah, Warrenk replied knowingly. You feel lucky today?

Grandfather said I was getting old enough and that I should practice my fishing.

Warrenk nodded, though the answer puzzled him. His son had been fishing since before he could talk. Ardan sat on the stern beside his father. Unfastening the big hook from the side of the spool, he began lowering it into the water. After unreeling a fathom or so, he tied a circular stone weight to the line and continued lowering it.

Ardan. Son, you forgot the bait, Warrenk said.

No I didn’t, Da, Ardan replied, staring down into the ocean. This is the way Grandfather told me to do it. Just like in the lagoon, but I have to think deep out here by the reef.

Think deep? his father puzzled. What foolishness is this, put some bait on that hook. Why waste your time?

Grandfather told me to do it this way, Ardan replied, shrugging his shoulders. Warrenk was about to chide his son when he caught himself.

Well, suit yourself, he said with a bemused smile. It seemed silly, but he had come to respect the old man’s ways. Grandfather wasn’t the chief on the Island. There was no chief as far as Warrenk could tell, but the old man held a special place among the people. Grandfather was the healer, and a walking fund of knowledge about anything on the Island. When Warrenk had first landed there, it was Grandfather who had welcomed the young warrior and showed him the native’s way of living. Though the old man had never said so, Warrenk was even sure that Grandfather had sent his daughter, Ardan’s mother, to appear unannounced one night in Warrenk’s hut. She stayed there with him until her equally abrupt death several years later. If Grandfather had told Ardan to try fishing without bait, then Warrenk would sit by and wonder what the old man was up to.

~~~~~

Da, would you steer a little further out from the reef? Ardan asked looking up from his line in the clear, blue green water. Warrenk nodded as Ardan returned his attention to the fishing line. The bottom was at least two fathoms beneath the keel, but the good fish, the tasty ones as big as Ardan himself, were in the deeper waters further out. If he could catch one of those, then the village would feast tonight and thank him for being the provider of such a delicacy.

As Warrenk nudged the tiller over, Ardan returned his thought to the fish line. Down he went, sending his mind to follow every curve, every ripple in the line. Past the round stone weight his thoughts went to the hook swaying in the current.

‘Look at me,’ he thought suggestively. ‘I’m slow and I am tasty. You can eat me if you’re fast enough, and bite hard to swallow me whole’. Ardan saw in his mind’s eye the clear vision of a little parrotfish, casually nosing about the reef, making the occasional lunge at an even smaller fish. Its tail fins were short; its body puffed from easy living in the lagoon. Then, as Grandfather had showed him in the clarity of his mind, Ardan coalesced that image around the hook. ‘I am slow and I am tasty,’ he crooned to the deep-sea leviathans. ‘I’d make a fine meal with not much effort in the catching.’

The chub came first. It was a stupid, greedy fish. Coming fast, it was almost there before Ardan knew it. It was big enough, Ardan supposed. Edible, but not tasty. Ardan let the vision vanish while yanking on the line. The chub charged in with mouth wide, snapping on empty water. Ardan sensed the big fish’s annoyance as it jerked around in quick circles, looking for the easy lunch it had somehow missed. Unnoticed, the hook floated away.

Catch anything? Warrenk chuckled as his son lowered the line again. Ardan glanced quickly at his father with a sheepish grin before turning back to the depths.

Once again Ardan closed his eyes, letting his mind follow the line down to where the hook fluttered in the undersea current. Another small lagoon fish, yellow with white and green stripes formed in his mind and then coalesced around the hook. ‘I am tasty; I will not swim away,’ Ardan thought.

Next came the borrega; a different fish altogether. A wily old denizen of the reef, the borrega followed slowly, sizing up the flitting apparition. It circled, darting close to get a better sense of this little fish idling along the reef.

Ardan tried to ignore the saliva pooling in his mouth at the thought of tasty slabs of firm, pink meat skewered on a stick and roasting over a fire. It was hard to concentrate, to keep the vision of the little, striped fish together. The boregga darted in, but just as quickly turned and darted away. Had Ardan’s thoughts betrayed him? Had his anticipation warned the big fish? Ardan pulled himself back from useless speculation, concentrating on the illusion.

In Ardan’s mind, the lagoon fish darted at a passing sea grub. With lunch flitting away, the borrega lunged, biting hard on the little, yellow reef feeder. When Ardan pulled to set the hook, the borrega took off with a powerful beat of its tail. The stern lurched when the line pulled taut, jerking Ardan up out of his seat.

Give him some line, Warrenk shouted. Ardan struggled to regain his balance as his father wrapped a strong arm around his waist. As the boat started to spin, Ardan tilted the hand reel, letting the line spool off freely.

Steady now, slow him down, make him work for it, Warrenk called as he settled back to manning the tiller. Ardan sat in the cockpit planting both feet solidly against the stern brace. He tilted the hand reel back to slow the line. As the boregga dove, Ardan leaned back, feeling the pull of it in his legs.

Fight him now, Warrenk shouted. Don’t let the line go slack. Ardan pulled on the line to take first one, and then another wrap of the line around the hand spool. The borrega was a big fish. Ardan knew that before he hooked it, but now he was finding out how strong it really was. If the force on the line was any indication, Ardan was in for a long afternoon’s fight.

The fish headed out to sea, diving deep once he left the reef. Ardan held the line taut across the stern to keep the fish from diving any further. The boat lurched once, but then the fish, knowing he could go no deeper, changed direction, making for the surface.

Reel him in, Warrenk shouted as the line went suddenly slack. Ardan wrapped the line around the hand reel as fast as he could, wondering what the fish was up to. Before he could reel in the line, Ardan looked up to see the long, pointed nose of the borrega breaching the water.

Hang on, Warrenk yelled, lunging for the line. The fish left the surface in a mighty leap, clearing the water by at least an arm span. As the boregga reached the apex of his jump, he snapped his head away from the boat. The line went suddenly tight and then fell slack.

It broke, Ardan cried, looking dejectedly across the water. Warrenk gazed dumbfounded at the fish disappearing beneath the waves.

That was a monster, he whispered. He was half as long as the boat.

It was a she, Ardan sighed. Warrenk shook his head.

There wasn’t any bait on that line. How did you do that?

I just thought--. Ardan's father continued staring at him. I mean, I dropped the line like Grandfather said and started to think about the hook on the other end and--

Yes, and then what happened?

And then the borrega fish came--.

Warrenk looked mutely from his son out to where the fish had disappeared beneath the water. The loss of the metal fishing hook was a disappointment, but a minor one. Warrenk shook his head in wonder. As he heard the crackle of the sail luffing idly in the breeze Warrenk threw his head back and laughed.

Before you decide to go deep sea fishing again, we’ll need to make a heavier line. That fish had to be at least three times Ardan’s weight. Warrenk sat back at the tiller, pulling the sheet until the mainsail caught the breeze.

We’ll have to untangle these drag lines, son. We’ve still got a morning of fishing ahead of us, he said, still chuckling to himself. ‘I’ll have to talk with Grandfather when we get back,' he thought.

~~~~~

It was mid afternoon before the fish barrel was full.

Last tack, Warrenk called, get ready to swing the sail.

Ready, Da, Ardan shouted from the bow. They came about one last time, turning to ride the following wind all the way back to the Island.

Warrenk relaxed in the stern, his right hand curling around the tiller. He squinted off to the distant horizon where he knew the island would soon enough appear. Hooked that monster without using any bait. ‘I dropped the hook and started thinking about it, just like Grandfather said’. Thinking about it?

Grandfather was a puzzle. When Warrenk had first come to the island , he thought the old man was just a primitive, like all the other villagers. A simple people with a rudimentary language that sounded like birdcalls. Over the years, the villagers seemed to adopt more of his language than he of theirs, at least when talking with him. They had accepted him into the village and now Warrenk felt himself part of their family. On the surface they seemed so child-like, but they were also strangely complex in ways he still couldn’t fathom.

He wondered, again, if perhaps the Talisman had made a mistake in leading him there. ‘It’s been asleep these past twenty-six years. Just dead metal and stone.’ Perhaps it hadn’t been right toward the end, before it drifted off to either sleep or die; Warrenk still didn’t know which.

~~~~~

‘Such a rude place’ thought the priest, walking along the harbor shore. In spite of the heat, Saurdock, priest of Kaull, reached up and drew the hood of his black robe even tighter around his face, holding it shut with his left hand. A cloud of ravenous mosquitoes hovered over his head, quickly covering the exposed skin of his left hand. Saurdock’s right hand beat the air, vainly trying to drive the flying tormentors away. He took pleasure at the sight of bloody, crushed insects on his hand; but for every one he killed, it seemed there were a thousand buzzing around his face.

The huts were deserted. The captain and his warriors were searching the village, looking for anything that might be useful. Three long months they had been at sea, mapping the great ocean, looking for anything that could be useful to their god, the great Kaull, and his empire. Other than the occasional crab infested atoll, there had been nothing. Water was running low and they were reduced to eating soaked beans and moldy biscuits. The last of their rotten meat was thrown over the side weeks ago. Even the sharks hadn’t been interested.

The men were excited. A tall mountain on an island with trees and a harbor meant fresh water, maybe even fresh meat. When they spied the village huts, it seemed a gift from the great Kaull himself. Instead of hunting, they would simply loot the village, taking the food and women to make the long voyage more pleasant. Now as they ransacked the simple huts, the men weren’t finding anything. No meat, no stores, nothing of any use, and they hadn’t seen a single native since landing on this bug infested shore.

Saurdock’s mood turned black as he walked past the bamboo huts. He saw the men running from hut to hut, their swords in hand. Signs of habitation were everywhere: cook fires smoldering, food baskets on the ground. But where have all the people gone? Who has taught them to fear the wrath of Kaull?

Damn these flying scorpions. Who opened the gates of hell to let them out? Captain Zearov, a florid faced sea dog with a blond beard and greasy hair growled as he strode up brusquely. The captain held a sword in one hand and a leafy branch in the other that he was using to beat the air about his head. Look at what we found going through a hut at the far end of the village, your Holiness. He offered the sword to Saurdock pommel first. Someone’s gone through the trouble of keeping it sharp. I wonder who it could be?", Zearov grinned. The priest took the sword, holding it up by the blade. There on the pommel was a golden sun with twisted rays fanning out along its periphery. The priest’s eyes grew large.

The flaming sun of Carlonis, he whispered. How could it end up in a place like this?

I don't know the way of that. We found it wrapped in an oiled cloth in a hut that was different from all the others; bigger, better made. The chief probably lives there. Come, you'll see. The two men walked briskly, trying to stay ahead of the trailing mosquito cloud. The village huts were simple affairs; thatched palm roofs held up by bamboo poles with little to no furniture inside.

The hut at the far end of the village was different. It had four walls of thatched palm with doors and windows. A chimney of seashells, stones, and mortar, rose above the roof.

This looks promising, said the priest.

There be more inside, Your Holiness, Zearov said, opening the door. A woven mat hung across the hut, dividing it into two rooms. Inside the front room was a table with sturdy chairs and a bench fashioned from a palm log. A fireplace and oven stood to one side of the room. Clay pots and other implements lined the wall. There seems to be a sleeping room in back, Your Holiness. That be where the men found the sword and trinkets.

Trinkets, Captain? the priest asked, looking through the passageway.

Yes, Your Holiness. Captain Zearov led the way into the smaller room. There were two sleeping platforms made from lashed branches covered with woven mats. To one side of the room stood a large, intricately carved chest. A tarnished brass plate with a small keyhole was inlaid in the chest front.

The key, Captain? Saurdock asked, holding out his hand.

It’s not locked, Your Holiness.

How very trusting, Saurdock crooned bending over the chest. He lifted the lid, releasing the smell of oil and old leather. Reaching into the chest, the priest removed one of many bundles of oily rags. It was heavy, and bound with twine. Cutting the bundle open, the oilcloth fell away revealing a chain mail tunic. As Saurdock held it up, he saw the blazing sun design worked into the left shoulder with golden thread.

No common foot soldier wore this, the priest said. The flaming sun was worn only by the royal family or their personal servants.

Returning to the trunk, they found a full suit of fighting armor that had been carefully oiled and packed away.

This trip may not be a total waste of time after all, said Saurdock, holding up the tunic and admiring the artistry of its construction. If we can find the warrior who brought this here, we may find a prisoner worthy to present to Bishop Gaedock.

Captain Zearov looked unimpressed, casually waving his hand around his ears and face. The mosquitoes weren’t so thick here inside the hut, but the captain couldn’t ignore their buzzing around his head. He reached into the chest and brought up another oily bundle. When he cut the twine, the cloth fell away to reveal, a plain, wooden box. It was smooth, with a brass hasp and hinges. Picking the latch open with his thick, stubby fingers, the captain lifted the lid and caught his breath. Zearov’s eyes grew large as the room lit up from the gleaming contents. He stared into the box, captivated by the scintillating gems. This was more treasure than he had ever held in his entire, plundering life. Swag from the central jewel alone would keep a man in ale and wenches for the rest of a long, debauched life.

Saurdock dropped the iron tunic as he looked into the open box. There, as if melted into the dark wood was a dazzling, golden-rayed sun the size of a man’s open hand. The twisting rays of each arm were encrusted with tiny crystals in subtle, intricate designs. The light given off by every scintillating arm joined in a swirling vortex that drew the eye to a huge, multi-facetted diamond shimmering in the middle of the medallion. This, perhaps, was the treasury of Carlonis, or one of the many fabled treasures that were never found when the realm fell to the D’Kaull army.

That’s more than just a pretty bauble, the priest said in a hushed voice over the captain’s shoulder. If that’s what I think it is--, his voice trailed off. This will be presented to the great Kaull himself when we return to port. There may be other plunder here, but this is a power orb to be kept apart for the great Kaull. Hand it to me!, the priest said, stretching out his hand.

Zearov's eyes narrowed. As the captain turned with the open box in his left hand, his right hand dropped to his side, stealthily reaching around back to his knife. Zearov froze when he felt the tip of the priest’s dagger pressing firmly against his lower ribs.

A tempting bauble, I should think, but surely not worth your command, the priest hissed. Or your life.

From the great Kaull I withhold nothing, Zearov protested, holding the box out with both hands.

I thought not, replied Saurdock, taking the box. Bring a few of the men and have this chest carried aboard the ship. Form the rest into patrols to search the island. I want the owner of this chest brought to me alive. Hear me, Zearov, I really do mean alive. Saurdock’s eyes bored into the captain. If this warrior is of the royal house of Carlonis, then he will be a noble gift to the great Kaull himself. ‘And a great feather in my cap,’ the priest thought. ‘After this voyage perhaps I can be done with stinking ships and sweating men. Perhaps I’ll be made an archdeacon or even a bishop.’

Oh, and Captain, before you set out to search the island, send a few men through this village with torches. I want you to burn it. Maybe that will get rid of these cursed mosquitoes for a while.

Yes, Your Holiness, the captain replied. Zearov turned and grimly strode from the room, the corners of his mouth tightly twitching.

~~~~~

Ardan sat on the bow looking toward the island. At first he thought he could see mist rising on the far side of the island, but it was the wrong time of day for that. It was late afternoon and the sun was shining brightly. Da, do you see a cloud on the other side of the island, he asked.

On the North side, isn't it? Warrenk asked, peering off in the distance.

Yes, and now it's getting darker.

Smoke, said Warrenk. A dark patch of cloud rose in the sky.

What could they be burning to make that much smoke?

Maybe one of the huts caught fire, or maybe they’re smoking some fish in seaweed, Warrenk replied, but he didn't sound very sure of himself, there was too much smoke for that. Ardan kept staring, his expression blank.

Look, there’s Grandfather on the shore, he said, pointing across the water. I don’t know what he wants, but he needs to talk to us right away.

How do you know that? Warrenk asked. I can barely see the shore.

I don't know how, Da, I can’t really see him either. I just know it. There’s a break in the reef ahead. We can pull in close to the beach and talk to him. Warrenk knew his son was telling the truth. There was a close bond between the old man and his son that Warrenk didn't understand and envied the old man for. He had seen Grandfather and his son sitting together for hours, raptly engaged without uttering a word.

The language of the islanders came naturally to Ardan; he had been born here and was raised as one of them. ‘He is one of them,’ Warrenk reminded himself. But Ardan had also learned the language of his father’s people and Warrenk valued that as a link to his homeland. Warrenk could still lose the subject of a conversation while listening to a group of villagers talking amongst themselves. The villagers always talked slowly when he was around to help him understand, but even after all these years, Warrenk could still feel like an outsider.

Warrenk steered for the gap in the reef. The rising tide carried the boat swiftly through the channel. Ardan dropped the mainsail to keep them from running aground in the shallow waters inside the reef.

Grandfather stood up from the shore. After wading into the water, he dove in and started swimming out to the boat. Warrenk gazed across the water at the old man. He didn't know how old Grandfather was. The old Islander looked much the same as Warrenk remembered from their first encounter: Old enough to have accumulated an air of wisdom, yet lithe enough to glide through the jungle and swim with strong measured strokes out to the waiting boat.

The old man pulled himself up beside the tiller and sat on the stern, shaking the water from his ears. Your enemies have come for you, he said to Warrenk.

Me? Warrenk asked incredulously. I came here alone. When I left Carlonis even I didn’t know where I was going. Who would remember me after all these years?

They sailed into the harbor this morning in a great ship with the skulls of men nailed to the back, the old man said casually. I felt the evil they carry with them. They came to the shore in little, hide-covered boats. Big men with hair the color of dry grass. They searched the whole village swinging their long metal knives.

Was anyone hurt? Ardan asked. Grandfather snorted.

No, We saw them coming and walked into the jungle. They can’t follow us there. They are not of this island. We have little that they would want, but still they search the village.

Won't they follow the people, Grandfather? Ardan asked. Grandfather laughed as he pointed across the water.

There is no danger, they can never find us. We spoke with our brothers, the mosquitoes, and asked for their help. We asked them to come, to feast on the blood of the invaders so that they will want to leave. The skies above the village are dark with their swarms. Now the invaders pull their clothes tightly around them and beat the air about their heads. The old man laughed as he playfully waved his arms in the air. They search for us now, but when their heads swell and their skin turns raw, they will leave. He held his head in his hands, swinging it back and forth as his eyes bugged out in mock agony.

My hut, blurted Warrenk, his eyes growing suddenly wide. The old man’s laughter left him.

Yes, they have found your great metal knife and the box of your metal clothes, the old man said sympathetically. They took them to their ship before they burned the village.

The Talisman, cried Warrenk, looking wildly to the shore. They have the Talisman, I have to get it back, I’ve taken a vow. Grandfather nodded again. I should have buried it, Warrenk said bitterly.

They can not last long with our friends the mosquitoes after them, Grandfather said.

Da, let them keep the chest, Ardan said. You never needed any of those things anyway. Grandfather looked knowingly at Ardan, silently nodding his head.

No, I’ve got to go before they leave and the Talisman’s lost forever. Take the boat deeper in the lagoon, Warrenk said, turning to his son. You'll be safe there. I'm going to pay a visit to these pirates.

Then let me go with you Da, I can help.

No. You don't know them like I do, he said. If these are the northern pirates, then they’re treacherous. They’ll smile in your face while cutting your belly open. Ardan slumped, his eyes downcast. Warrenk reached over, laying his hand on Ardan's shoulder. Son, if it has to be, your time to fight will come soon enough. Right now I have to move quick and take them by surprise. It's the only way. I know the jungle. When I’ve recovered what’s been entrusted to me, I’ll meet you back at the lagoon. Wait for me there.

You are not of this island, the old man said to Warrenk. Our brothers the mosquitoes will not know you from the invaders. They are ferocious. They will attack you as they do the invaders if you go near the village.

What can I do? Warrenk asked.

Before you come to the village you must find the nest of the bird that sounds like this. When Grandfather whistled a series of low chirps, Warrenk knew exactly the bird he was mimicking. On the ground underneath the nest you will find the dung of this bird. You must scoop it up with the dirt just under it and rub it on your body. Then you will appear to the mosquitoes as one of us and they will not feast on your blood.

I can't--, Warrenk started to protest, but the old man cut him short.

Our friend the mosquito is simple, but ferocious. You must speak with him and the dung of this bird is the only way he can hear you, the old man said sternly. Warrenk knew better than to dispute Grandfather’s wisdom. He turned back to Ardan.

In the lagoon. I'll meet you there when I get the Talisman. Warrenk took his hat and shirt off and swam to shore.

~~~~~

Saurdock paced the shore, scowling at the smoking ruins. The Talisman sparkled against his chest, hanging from the thin, gold chain around his neck. The priest knew for certain that this was a sacred object. When he hung it around his neck, a tingling passed through his chest, surging all the way to his fingertips. The heady feel of power passed quickly once he stepped outside the hut and the cloud of mosquitoes descended once more. The flame and smoke had driven the flying pestilence away only temporarily. The huts had burned hot, but they had also burned quickly. Now the mosquitoes had returned and they were even more voracious.

Your Holiness, the captain shouted as he came running from his flying tormentors. The patrols have returned. The men are near exhaustion; these damned mosquitoes are eating them out of their boots. They can't stand it much longer, we have to get back to the ship.

No. I will have the owner of this Talisman. The great Kaull would find particular delight in questioning the owner of a golden sword of Carlonis.

Golden sword be damned, the men will mutiny if I hold them here much longer. Already they grow faint from loss of blood.

‘Spineless fools,’ thought Saurdock. His greed for the glory this prisoner would bring mingled with his fear of returning without such a valuable prisoner.

If you must, order the men back to the ship, but remember the water barrels must be filled. You choose who will fill them, but tell them to look for any sign of the h’aggow while they are searching for fresh water.

~~~~~

Warrenk saw the invaders as he peered out from the jungle. ‘Reevers,’ he scowled. Not just common freebooters, but the hated northern pirates. Yellow haired marauders that had plagued the civilized countries for ages. He had fought these plundering Northern scum while still a young member of the Royal guard. That war had been lost even though he had escaped the final butchery. Here they were again; somehow they had found him. This time he wouldn’t run away.

Lying beneath the wide, green fronds of an aldus bush at the edge of the jungle, Warrenk looked out at what used to be the village. The charred huts were still smoldering. Warrenk could hardly stand the smell. He wanted to dive into the water and wash away the gray, oozing bird dung, but at least he didn’t have to battle the mosquitoes. Warrenk shook his head. For all the years he had lived with these people, he had never seen a mosquito in the village. He allowed himself a quick smirk as the pirates with their chain mail and swords beat wildly at the swarming clouds. Grandfather had a great sense of humor.

The black-robed leader stood alone by the shore. Warrenk studied him as he looked across the water to where his ship lay at anchor. Warrenk didn’t know if this was the ship’s captain, but he had seen the others bowing to him. Warrenk caught his breath as the leader turned around. Hanging around the invader’s neck was the Talisman of his liege and master, Darien Kaur.

The patrols were returning from the jungle. The reevers looked faint, their faces swollen. Twenty yellow haired warriors stood near the shore waiting to go back to the ship. Some were wading up to their necks to try and escape the tormenting mosquitoes.

‘I've got to try something fast,’ Warrenk thought. They would soon be leaving for the ship, and then it would be too late. He had to get close enough to the black robed reever to grab the Talisman and then dash back to the jungle before the soldiers could stop him.

Captain, have two men retrieve a boat to take me to the ship. Before you return, take the rest of your men and see what’s beyond that point over there, the priest said pointing to a spit of land jutting out at the edge of the harbor.

Warrenk smiled, marveling at his good luck as the pirates trotted off along the shore. After a few seconds, two of the reevers broke off from the group and started dragging a boat toward the water. Breathing deep, Warrenk gathered his mind in sharp focus. Crawling out from beneath the jungle foliage, he walked quickly, silently across the sand toward the black robed reever. ‘Don’t concentrate on his back, he’ll feel you coming,’ Warrenk told himself. He concentrated instead on the knife he held firmly at his side. Fifteen paces and closing, Warrenk walked lightly, muffling the sounds of his approach.

The priest was still gazing out to the ship when Warrenk reached his back. The two reevers by the boat started shouting, but it was too late. In one fluid motion, Warrenk reached over Saurdock’s shoulder with his left hand to grasp the Talisman while his right brought the short, broad knife through a smooth arch into the small of the priest’s back.

A groan escaped Saurdock’s lips as the knife came crashing into his kidney. Saurdock reached up and grasped the arm over his shoulder with both hands and rolled his whole body to the right.

Warrenk felt the knife turn in his hand as the priest rolled away. While pulling the knife back for another plunge, the priest fell heavily, pulling Warrenk to the ground with him. Warrenk tried skewering the struggling priest again, but he couldn’t get a good swing. He heard the two reevers running toward him. His left hand grasped the Talisman, but the struggling priest held his arm tight. Warrenk raised the knife to try and cut Saurdock’s throat, but was too late. The reevers arrived with their swords drawn.

Don’t kill him, Saurdock screamed. Seeing the knife in Warrenk’s right hand, the first reever swung down, catching Warrenk’s hand with the flat of his sword. The knife handle absorbed most of the impact, sending the blade flying across the sand. Then they were on him.

The first reever piled on, seizing Warrenk’s knife arm, thrusting his knee into the guardsman’s exposed side. The other grabbed Warrenk’s hair from behind, yanking his head back, and pressing a blade to Warrenk’s throat.

Don't kill him, the priest croaked again, crawling from his attacker. Saurdock collapsed on the sand gasping. The captain with the rest of the men came running along the shore.

Form a perimeter, you fools, the captain cried. There are probably more like him in the jungle. Are you hurt, Your Holiness? he asked, kneeling beside the priest.

No, Saurdock gasped. He reached around and put his hand to his back. Not so bad, I think. How could he just walk up and put a knife in my back with no one to stop him?

It must be some trickery, said the captain. And how is it you are unhurt? the captain asked, looking down at the priest’s sliced robe. You are hurt, he said, gazing at the blood oozing between the priest’s fingers.

Only a few scratches. Saurdock replied, slowly rising to his feet. The cut in the priest’s robe parted, revealing a freshly scraped chain mail tunic.

But who is this? Saurdock asked, turning to Warrenk. One of the soldiers picked up Warrenk’s dagger and handed it to the priest. It had a small golden sunburst on the pommel. The seal of the royal house of Carlonis Saurdock said, looking down at the dung-smeared prisoner. The priest’s face wrinkled as he smelled his robe. Who are you, peasant? Warrenk glared defiantly up into the priest’s face. Speak, damn you, Saurdock yelled, driving the toe of his boot into his prisoners ribs. Light skin showed through where the dung was scraped from Warrenk’s side. The priest looked closely into Warrenk’s face. Through the grime he saw a gray-streaked, red beard. In spite of his wounds, Saurdock laughed out loud.

So my prisoner has come to me. How very convenient. A red bearded, fair skinned savage who carries a knife of the royal family of Carlonis. The great Kaull will find you amusing, he said with a cruel smile, most amusing indeed.

~~~~~

From the treetop Ardan looked down on the ashes of what had been the village. He didn’t mourn its loss. As Grandfather had said, it would be easily replaced, but he didn’t understand why the invaders would go through the trouble of burning it. What had they gained? The ship was still riding at anchor in the harbor. Ardan knew that the mosquitoes wouldn’t cross so much open water so perhaps now the invaders wouldn’t be in such a great hurry to leave. ‘Just as well,’ he thought. Ardan was curious about what sort of men these invaders were. He gazed attentively across the water but couldn’t pick up any of the men’s thoughts. That was disappointing but, as Grandfather had said, he must be patient. He was still growing. He knew that his father, however, was on that ship.

Ardan could sense Warrenk’s presence across the water even though he couldn’t tell what condition his father was in. Warrenk had always been mute to Ardan, one reason Ardan had learned to speak his father’s language. With the rest of the village, Ardan had only to look into the eyes of any other adult to know what that person wanted to tell him. The adults made clicking, whistling noises, but those were more decorative singing than communication. With the other children, Ardan had to use the mouth talk, but Grandfather said that it wouldn’t be long before he could exchange thoughts with just the mind speak alone.

When he looked in his father’s eyes, Ardan could tell whether Warrenk was happy, angry or apprehensive. He could tell his father’s feelings, but he couldn’t exchange specific thoughts. Ardan was neither happy nor sad about this; he had never stopped to think about it. It simply was the way it was.

~~~~~

By the rotten farts of Kaull, the captain swore. The whole ship stinks of ‘im. Come on, lads, let’s take him up on deck so's we won't have to smell em. Captain Zearov ordered two burly sailors to drag the prisoner above deck from where the priest had him chained below. They bound Warrenk’s hands and feet with braided leather strips and hauled him up from the hold before dropping him on the main deck.

Where you want him, Captain? one of the sailors asked.

Tie him to the mast, the captain replied. That should keep him out of the way. They dragged Warrenk to the main mast and retied his wrists with his arms stretched around the mast behind him. Warrenk sunk to the deck once the sailors left him to go about their chores. Saurdock wrinkled his nose in disgust as he circled the prisoner.