Starlin's Child: The Wrath of Destiny

By Jack Cherbourg

Orphaned and raised by a clan that never fully accepted him, mokka-dal Alnir Searfoss goes to war to save the Wisdom texts of his race from destruction and to find his true destiny along the way. Leaving the only clan he ever knew, he finds adventure, wisdom, and ultimately, himself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Oct 16, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477234273

Jack Cherbourg

Jack Cherbourg was born a writer. Active in the Orthodox Jewish community, he currently resides in New York.

Book preview

STARLIN'S

CHILD

THE WRATH OF DESTINY

JACK CHERBOURG

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© 2012 by Jack Cherbourg. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 10/11/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4772-3448-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-3427-3 (e)

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

The Legion of Gornath

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2

3

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The New World

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I

The Legion of Gornath

1

"Around Balas Valley stood an enormous forest whose dense flora had protected the dwellers of the valley for nearly three thousand years, since the world had come into being. It was a forest of naji trees, blood red trees that are as large in girth as a small horse and as tall as twenty or more humans, and they stood one next to the other, leaving little space between them, allowing for only little creatures such as the mice and weasels who dwelled in the forest to scurry amongst them.

"To those who lived in Balas Valley, this forest was known as Najiwango, Friend of the Naji, but without the valley, even in the most distant of lands near the Sea of Turwain, it was called Charnan, Guardian, for all knew that it was a forest impenetrable to serve as protector to those elusive souls who dwelled within its borders.

"Whether or not other peoples knew of Balas Valley is difficult to determine, as Charnan guarded it well from all outsiders for millennia, and no outsider in fact had made footprints in the Balas soil for time unmeasured. Likewise, never has the story been told that one from within Balas sojourned beyond the naji trees of Charnan. Such histories, if they in fact exist, have gone unrecorded, and the dust of history’s volumes has paid them no heed.

"The breaching of Charnan, then, began with one particular mokka-dal of the Madon family of the Sinon clan. This mokka-dal bore the given name Westil, and in the beginning, he was known and respected by all mokka-dal, his fame’s having been earned by his invention of the written alphabet that is used today by all the mokka-dal clans with the sole exception of the clan of Dorinue, who continue to use occidental pictographs in the manner of the mokka-dal of the Old World. Westil was considered to be the wisest of all mokka-dal, and though his name today is cursed like the smoke of fire, he was in his time among the most revered of all of our species.

"As is known by all mokka-dal, the earth was created by two gods. Starlin, the god of benevolence, created all that is good on the earth. Teddar, the god of havoc, created all that is antithetical to good, be it pain, wickedness, impurity, fear, pride, and other such states. Woven into the creation of the world is the task of each creature on this earth to choose whether he will go with Starlin or with Teddar. Teddar, with all his magnificent power, is capable of manipulating the will of creations to his will, and it was in this very fashion that Westil Madon v’Sinon became a faithful servant of his, the most villainous and heinous of Teddar’s children, like no other mokka-dal in history.

"Teddar chose Westil Madon not only because he was the wisest and most respected of all mokka-dal but also because he was mokka-dal, and Teddar needed mokka-dal especially for it was his wicked intention to destroy the Wisdoms that the mokka-dal Elders brought from beyond the Sea of Turwain so many ages ago. It is the Wisdoms that give force to Starlin and to all of his creation. Thus, to destroy the Wisdoms of the mokka-dal would be to gain power over the whole of the creation, which had been Teddar’s goal since light first shone upon this earth. How perfect, then, it was that Westil would cow-tow before him.

"The legends that surround the turning of Westil’s allegiance to Teddar are as countless as the drops of water in the Sea of Turwain, but the most accepted account of this tragic history is that Westil was once on the northern coast searching for shells to bring for the impoverished of his clan, and there Teddar appeared to him in the form of the temptress, Dorowarne, who lured him into the darkened depths of a cave and bestowed upon him the greatest pleasures of this world. In this fashion, Teddar was able to bend Westil’s will to his, and Westil in fact lost all free will in that cave, becoming entirely subjugated to Teddar. Thus began his wicked fall from grace and glory.

"Westil returned home with five hundred bags of shells, which was wealth enough for his entire clan, and all praised his name under the heavens, for who was to know that the shells had come to him as payment for his loyalty to Teddar? He was rewarded for his heroic charity with the daughter of Parnane Astad v’Sinon, the senior elder of the clan, and all called him the High Benefactor and accustomed themselves to standing in his presence.

"Had the Sinon clan known whence the shells came, they would not have accepted them, and Westil would have been banished from the clan and sent into exile, and perhaps thousands of lives would have been spared, but that was neither the desire of destiny nor the wish of Teddar, and the truth remained concealed, the command of Teddar upon Westil’s soul.

"How Westil succeeded in destroying Charnan is a tragic history that is engraved on the hearts of all who know it. Teddar willed him to gather an army from clans without his own. Westil sought out willing souls, promising them wealth and honor in turn for their services in a holy war, as he called it. Mokka-dal from clans such as Fardor, Antin, Plaslos, and Oran, drunk from the promise held out before them—as hedonistic mokka-dal can be—agreed to lay their strengths before whatever cause that might be, and thus Westil was able to recruit a legion of hundreds with a thirsty fervor to earn their reward in this world. So weak is the master of honor, the servant of blindness, and they all gave themselves to serve as Teddar’s faithful, hundreds of mokka-dal from otherwise respectable lineages, one by one. With Westil under his hand, Teddar had gained his army.

"It was with malicious intention and villainous deceit that Westil declared Charnan his target. He claimed that the strength of the naji trees threatened expansion of the mokka-dal clans. The destruction of the forest, he proclaimed, would give the mokka-dal the ability of the mokka-dal to spread the influence of their wisdom to the unenlightened, thereby bringing peace to all the earth, but peace was far from what he wanted.

"The subsequent war was great. Westil Madon and his vicious army fought lawlessly. Mokka-dal, witches, sparls, and even humans, with the sole desire to protect the earth from evil, scattered their bodies over the plains that surrounded the naji forest, and some sonnets tell that the Sea of Turwain in the north turned red from a river of blood that flowed far to its mouth from Charnan, which was far in the southernmost territories.

When the war had ended and its heroes had been silenced, the forest was destroyed, the casualties were as the stars in the heavens, and Balas Valley for the first time was greeted by foreign eyes. It was thus that the history of the mokka-dal was changed forever.

The old mokka-dal finished his story with little expression on his withered face, which seemed to give his horrifying tale more force. The wide-eyed children who were gathered around the small bonfire stared at him with keen interest, for never had their elders told them such a daring history. Their forefathers never had told the story of a Charnan forest. Of a god of evil all children knew, but that the earth bore proof of his malevolence nobody had counted for these children. The hunched-up mokka-dal, whose full height was six and a half hands, had given them the first insight into the roots of their species, a true history of the secrets of the world beyond their own clan, making them thirsty for more.

One of the children piped up in an excited voice, Elder, how was history changed forever?

That, said the elder, is not a story for now, for it is a tale that will last into the greatest depths of night, and at present, the heavens are pregnant with stars, which means that the hour to sleep has arrived, and your parents will have me for keeping you up so late with these tales. He smiled, revealing a mouth with a few missing teeth. The answer to your question will have to come at another time. For now, the whole lot of you must sleep.

Elder, are you aware how it was that the history of the mokka-dal was changed? asked another child.

My young one, I am quite well acquainted with the history. With these words, the old mokka-dal stood on his feet. His slow movements and the creaking of his joints revealed that he was of the more senior of elders, which gave his story more credibility in the curious minds of the children. Despite his low physical stature, he was of typical mokka-dal features. His eyes were close together on either side of the bridge of a pointy nose, and on either side of his head were stubby ears covered in coarse hair. A long chin ended in a scraggly grey and yellow beard. Hands were slender, but feet round as eyes. Long, thin fingers and toes bore thick claws that aided in agile tree climbing. On the whole, he was quite plump, which was typical of older mokka-dal, and it was evident that he had been quite attractive in his youth. The only feature he had that distinguished him from other mokka-dal was the honey color of his tired eyes.

With great reluctance, the youth dispersed, each in another direction, to retire for the night, their young hearts filled with awe, delight, adventure. Of those young mokka-dal, some would sleep well that night and dream of fantastic battles between the forces of good and evil. Others would not be able to fall asleep at all, too excited from images of glory, visions of conquest and defeat; suspense would take the place of fatigue as their minds would search for the answers to questions and conjure up imaginative scenarios of the continuation of the elder’s story.

2

The trumpeting cacophony that roared from the other side of Najiwango had continued for nearly a month, and that its end might be nigh was nary apparent. The Parnan clan, mokka-dal who had dwelled in Balas Valley undisturbed for thousands of years, give or take a century, were preparing themselves for the fearful unknown as an unknown entity now threatened to penetrate the forest that had protected them throughout their existence. Already realizing that they no longer could rely on the protection of the forest, most had found methods by which to barricade their meager huts. Some already had taken shelter in caves in the hills beyond their virginal village, enduring cold and hunger and overcrowding in anticipation of a strong and faceless enemy. Few were those who had continued carrying on life as normal, gaily singing ancient Parnan melodies in the open air as though today were no less usual than yesterday.

Pillar Oronoro v’Parnan was of those less valor of heart who had opted live behind barricades. With the naiveté that was a typical trait of young mokka-dal, Pillar was apprehensive of the unfamiliar, having been married and away from his parents’ home for less than a full year. In weeks passed, he had stocked his hut with breads and vegetables and, bringing his two younger brothers under his wing, blocked his hut with cloud-white even stones, behind which he attempted feebly to forget of the threat without the valley.

Pillar’s young mate, Silia, had been bedridden since the intruding noises had begun. She was close to bearing a child, and her small frame was too weak for the strain that pregnancy placed on her, on top of the ceaseless disturbances without the Najiwango. In good times, she could spend hours preparing a root stew or some succulent dish of roasted goat, but she was now too weak to move, which quite agitated her most of the time. Pillar’s brothers, Grace and Khilish, had recruited themselves to kitchen duty, which on more than one occasion had resulted in overly burnt dishes, which in turn had resulted in a house full of thick, black smoke, which in turn had resulted in angry shouts, which in turn had resulted in the two boys’ accusing one another for the culinary disaster, which only added tension in an environment that already was teeming with tension.

One overly rainy day, Silia felt especially weak and declared in the loudest voice that mokka-dal could imagine, that she must have carrot pepper soup lest she die within the approaching hour. Threats of such nature were now infamous in the family and usually called no attention from anybody, but it was her bellowed screams that could strike terror to the heart of the mightiest of warriors, and when she screamed, everybody would jump, even those who were some distance away.

Grace set to work at once cleaning and chopping peppercorn into fine grains much in the manner of respectable Parnan cookery, for he considered himself a culinary master of sorts. As he did so, flecks of peppercorn were wont to fly randomly throughout the kitchen and dining area, making a prickly mess on the floor for bare feet that dared to tread through the hut. A large chunk of peppercorn flew wantonly into the fireplace, causing a loud pop and a whiff of smoke that sent Khilish into a coughing spell.

Cut it out, you fool, Khilish snapped at his older brother. You will yet succeed in killing— cough, cough me before you save Silia. Then, Pillar will see what a fine mess you have made.

If I were to want your advice, retorted Grace, I would hang myself beforehand. Now, come you here and help me with these infernal horse carrots, you measly beast.

Khilish went to the sink, which was full to the top with carrots as long as arms and as fat as blueberry muffins, which were quite fat indeed as the Parnan loved blueberry muffins as much as fish love the water. He took one in his hands and poured hot water from the kettle over it. The water spilled onto the carrots in the sink, and Khilish repeated the process on each carrot individually until they all shined from remarkable cleanliness, by which time Grace had finished with the peppercorn and begun putting it into a pot of boiling water that hung over the fireplace. Khilish followed suit and added his carrots to the pot and stood back, staring at his work with pride.

I must say, Grace, where would the Parnan clan be without us?

Oh, if only we could know.

The soup crackled. The two brothers jumped, startled.

With uncannily poor timing, Silia shouted at that very same moment, My soup! My soul! My baby!

As though in response to Silia’s cry, a blast erupted from the direction of the Najiwango, causing the small hut to shake and rattle.

Do you ever have a day when you regret you awoke in the morning? asked Khilish, his eyes on the pot of soup, which now was swaying to and fro from the force of the blast.

I think this is that day, as was yesterday, as was yesteryesterday as was yesteryesteryesterday and so on and so forth, Grace answered. Yes, my brother, I know what you mean.

Pillar ran from the bedroom into the dining area. He trampled over the peppercorn shards and fell on his backside, which, luckily, was quite capable of cushioning his fall. What was that racket? he asked as he stood up and brushed peppercorn shards off his tunic.

Which racket? asked Grace.

The crackle of the soup? asked Khilish.

Silia’s shouting? suggested Grace.

The blast from the Najiwango? both asked in unison.

The noises from the forest are getting nearer, Pillar said with a slightly detectible twinge of fear in his otherwise stable voice. He turned momentarily to look at the kitchen. The youth had made quite a mess of the remains of peppercorn and carrot, as could be expected of juvenile mokka-dal. The floor in the kitchen was nearly invisible, carpeted with peeled skins that were brushed aside only in the spots where the boys had laid their round feet. The sink was full of all means of cutting apparatus. Sacks of spices lay strewn on the counters, making a rainbow of sweetly aromatic powders like the concoction of a shaman.

When will the soup be ready? It looks like your preparation today was exceptionally thorough.

When your wife has screamed two more times, Grace replied, "will it be properly edible.

Who will mourn me when I die? shouted Silia with frustrated anguish from the bedroom.

One more time, said Grace.

Khilish took a broom from the kitchen and began sweeping the mess that he and his brother had made. With each gesture Khilish made with the broom, another blow sounded from the Najiwango. Sweep, boom, sweep, boom, sweep sweep, boom boom. The noises were almost to the inner edge of the forest, very nearly in their humble valley, and no mokka-dal had anything to do about it. The Parnan were helpless to the lottery that destiny suddenly had in store for them, and quite soon their fate was to be revealed to them.

Floor, o floor, sang Khilish as he cleaned the mess, how do I sweep thee? Yea, how do I sweep thee? Lo, how do I sweep thee? Let me count the ways.

Floor, o floor, chimed in Grace, how does he sweep thee? Yea, how does he sweep thee? Lo, how does he sweep thee? Let us count the ways.

Soup, o soup, added Pillar in a cracked singing voice, when will I taste thee? Yea, when will I taste thee? Lo, when will I taste thee? Let me—

Where is my life-saving pepper soup? bellowed Silia with a gurgling moan, followed by a plaintive wail. My soup already! Peppercorn! Oh, my peppercorn soup! Am I to die on such a rainy day? Farewell, my unborn child, for my soup makes no haste this day!

It is ready! exclaimed Grace happily. With a spring of the feet, he took the pot from the fire and set it on the floor. Taking mugs from the kitchen, he spread out servings of soup for everybody, even one for the baby, just in case. Pillar and Khilish took their mugs in their hands but had to hold them very carefully so as not to burn their hands from the scalding heat. The smell wafted into the air, burning their nostrils both from the sheer heat as well as from the spiciness of the soup. It was like a summer jubilee. Khilish guzzled his soup greedily with obnoxious slurps, making an unsightly mess around his lips, as Grace ran carefully with two mugs into Silia’s room. Silia took one mug and, as was the custom in her family, she blessed the god, Starlin, before ravening what she thought might be her final meal.

She drank the whole mug in one gulp and belched as she shook the last drops into her mouth. My mortality rate has dropped, Khilish, she said, wiping her lips with the backside of a hairy arm. She took the second mug from Khilish’s hands and devoured it as fast as the first one. Another belch erupted from the depths of her gut. For this hour, at least, it appears that my life has been spared. Praised be Starlin, our great Benefactor, who has not cut away my soul in the prime of my life. Ah, my carrot pepper soup.

My carrot pepper soup, Khilish said quite under his breath.

Thunder struck outdoors, and the whole hut trembled for a moment, jolting its residents to return their thoughts to the secret that lay yet unrevealed behind the Najiwango. As the rain pounded the roof over their heads, they turned their eyes to the water-stained windows with a frightened uncertainty of the immediate future. The thunder was little more than a mere mask. It was counted among the ironic of respites, and they knew that the last of their fears would it not be.

Silia, being preoccupied enough with the anticipation of the baby, was the only one whose mind was not too involved in the din of the great forest. She laid the mug on the bed beside her pillow and closed drowsy eyes. Satiated for the present, she slipped softly away into a deep sleep, which for mokka-dal was quite easy even on a full stomach. Khilish picked up the mug and returned to his brothers, triumphant that, at least from Silia, they would have some rest at last.

Around the little, square table in the center of the dining area were seated Pillar and Grace on chairs of tightly woven wolves’ grass, a yellow grass abundant in the southern end of the valley that was commonly used in the production of furniture as it was reputed to have a durability unmatched by most other common materials. Khilish, worn out from the preparation of the soup amidst Silia’s antagonism, a rain storm, and the ongoing noises that waged ceaselessly from the Najiwango, sat together with his brothers and released a deep sigh.

What in Starlin’s name could possibly be next? asked Khilish. Even simple mokka-dal need to rest.

Pillar chuckled. Simple mokka-dal, brother, but not those like us.

I am tired of being locked up inside, Khilish grumbled. I want to go in search of berries with my friends, Woodchuck and Barbarm. I want to feel dew-dropped grass between my toes. I want to catch bumblebees in my bare hands. He held up his hands before his brothers and pretended to grasp at unsuspecting bees. A month’s time we have been blocked up inside this infernal little hut! A month’s time we have been sentenced to tolerate Silia’s constant complaining. Mokka-dal are free creatures not meant to be bound up. I am too young to be a captive. I must be on the outside lest I—lest I—well, I know not what may become of me if I am to stay in here like a prisoner. I promise you, though, that my fate will be no pleasant one, and I know quite whom to blame, my older brothers.

Grace responded with a gentle tone, Where is your sense, brother? Danger unknown awaits us on the other side of the Najiwango. It is a matter of time before that forest will cease to protect us, and Starlin above knows what nemesis waits for our reception. Time is short, and Parnan are naive and without experience in the arts of self-defense or battle. Only our meager homes and our wits—which are not as they could be—can protect us, and even such protection in the end may prove itself also lacking if our enemy is truly strong and formidable, at which time only the heavens on us can have mercy.

Khilish knew that his brother’s words were true, bet he was little comforted by that knowledge. He was young and quite spritely and needed his friends and the curious adventures of youth. The young were free of spirit, created from innocence and free of culpability, and incarceration, though for their good it might be, was antithetical to their nature.

I am certain, said Pillar, that our worries soon will meet a valiant end. We soon shall know that our fears are for naught, and in the fantastic event that my prophecy is disproved, then we are to face an adventure that no mokka-dal before has faced, such as the adventures of the legends of Prince Aporoll himself.

The Parnan had moral legends of a great Prince Aporoll from the Mista clan who often battled with fierce enemies and ferocious creatures and more often than not rescued from the clutches of fate a fair maiden who rarely remained a maiden thereafter. The Parnan were well versed in the myriad stories of the adventures of this great hero, which were recounted often for the children of the clan, and near the end of his days on this earth, Prince Aporoll not only had become a legend for storytelling but also had achieved the status of demigod, an honor bestowed upon him by no less than Starlin.

If lives must be saved, Pillar declared with enthusiastic heroism, then we will save them. If arms must be taken— here he jumped to his feet —then we will take them. If blood must be spilled, then we will spill it. If damsels must be spared— Silia coughed loudly in her sleep, causing Pillar to lower his voice almost to a whisper —then we will spare them. Yes, we will defend our lands with pride and honor in the glory of battle if need be.

Lightning flashed and thunder struck, rattling all the windows of the hut. Even the potted plant near the door swayed, perhaps from fear.

I doubt that sparing blood and spilling damsels is quite the adventure that a young mokka-dal like myself needs. Perhaps a horse ride to the northern end of the valley might suit me better. Khilish scratched his head thoughtfully. I do fancy horses, you know. Whosoever sits on them bounces as they trot along through the rugged terrain of the valley, and it is on horseback that you really have all the fun as well as the best vantage point from my point of view.

In short, Grace added, there is nothing for us to do save wait until the danger—if there indeed is any danger—has passed. Make the best of the situation we must, and all will pass before we realize. His eyes he closed for a moment, trying to believe the words that he had uttered. It was quite the trial, for he was no less frightened than Khilish, though he was less bothered by the tedium of the lengthy period of isolation than his younger brother. All will pass, he said again, more to himself than to Khilish.

At length, they heard the rain outdoors begin to turn into a mild drizzle. The sun attempted to make its appearance through the thick clouds in the heavens, shining a light of bliss on small patches of Balas, filling Parnan hearts with the sprouts of joy. Soon, it would shine on all of Balas and permeate even the impermeable. Soon, with the halting of the rain, the dreariness of the clan at least would be lifted.

As the interval between the falling of rain drops spread out, Silia’s eyes shot open. The pains in her belly had begun to fill her honeydew eyes with terror unsurpassed. She opened her mouth as wide as she could and released an unbridled scream that sent the three Oronoro brothers crashing onto the floor with incredible thuds.

It is coming! Starlin above, this thing is going to kill me!

The baby Pillar shot to his feet with lightning speed. What to do? He ran haphazardly into the kitchen looking for something, though he knew not what it was that he might need. The baby! Oh, and I never find what I am looking for when I know not what I am looking for.

The soup, said Khilish. We must not forget that the baby will need to eat. Imagine how hungry he must be by this time, not having tasted our delicious cookery for as long as he has been in existence.

Pillar grabbed a dirty mug and ran to the pot. He dished out some soup and hurried it to his wife, who simply responded with more screams. Evidently, soup would not be enough to lure this child into the world. He returned with matching speed to the kitchen, looking quite panicked. She needs something better than carrot pepper soup. Maybe water. Yes! Water! Water will do the trick. It always seemed to come in handy with our dear mother.

Blankets, Grace suggested. Our father would always use blankets. Take blankets. He entered a room and returned with four woolen blankets piled on his arms. He tossed them into Pillar’s arms as Pillar was gripping a pot of cold water with both hands. Again, Pillar rushed to his wife’s aid.

Grace and Khilish sat at the table with furious anticipation as Silia’s lurching screams reached ear-piercing pinnacles. They heard their brother attempt to calm her, but his attempts were quite futile. A blanket flew out of the bedroom onto the kitchen floor, and Silia wailed. The mug whizzed through the air and shattered on the wall not a hand’s breadth from Grace’s head. Silia cackled with agony, and Pillar began to sob as his efforts seemed fruitless. Accompanied by more screams, a pillow flew into the dining area, hitting Khilish square in the face. Not wanting to be victimized any longer, Khilish disappeared into the second bedroom, leaving Grace alone in this critical hour.

The screams continued as Khilish cowered, and though the rain now had come nearly to a complete stop, the noises from the forest had become almost deafening. Pillar felt a constricting in his muscles as his heart raced and his thoughts became mixed and confused from the confusion of the moment. He never had been one who could work well under pressure.

Grace sat at the table with quiet bravado, leaving each of his brothers to attend to his own affairs. The time for the child to enter the world had arrived, and it was this great wonder alone that held his nerves together. He had some respite in knowing that the responsibility of giving birth to the child was not on his shoulders.

The rain stopped entirely, and the clouds slowly began to drift apart, each on its own journey into the unknown of the majestic heavens, leaving Parnan to fend for itself under bluing skies, and rays of golden sunlight shone into the hut through cracks in the barricaded windows, bringing glimmers of hope to the brothers who took heed of them.

Silia’s eyes weakened as her body lost the last of its strength and allowed for the natural course of events. The only sounds from within the house were whimpers and heavy breaths as she gave in to the pain.

From the northern edge of the Najiwango could be heard now a thundering conflict of voices. The forest had nearly been breached. All too soon, the Parnan would host their first visitors in millennia, be they friend or be they foe. They were closer than ever, and inevitable now was their coming.

A child! burst Pillar. My child!

The screams stopped.

Eerie as it was to Grace, the noises from the Najiwango stopped at the same moment.

A baby cried.

Pillar ran into the dining area from one end, nearly sliding across the floor, and Khilish ran toward him from the other end. Grace leapt to his feet, and all three brothers embraced each other and burst into a spontaneous dance of joy, an ancient tune of the Elders of Parnan on their merry lips.

They halted the revelry after a few moments, and Grace looked at Pillar’s face, which was red from excitement. What is it? he asked.

A baby, Pillar responded matter-of-factly.

A boy or a girl?

Oh. Pillar ran into the room and returned immediately. A girl.

A girl? said Khilish, who nearly had doubled over from the great excitement of the moment.

Pillar stroked his blond beard thoughtfully and ran into the bedroom again. When he returned, he said with the same enthusiasm, A boy.

Oh my, a boy, Grace declared with glee.

Pillar ran into the bedroom a third time to be certain. He returned to his brothers and said to them with a definite nod of the head, A boy.

Only a moment passed before the three brothers’ stubby ears took notice of the silence. They all looked outward through the cracks in the window, caution in their hearts. The rain was gone. The sun shone. The forest, which had been the center of turmoil for a month’s days, was suddenly still as in time before the creation of the earth. No sound could be heard from all about them. The unveiling of Balas Valley had come to be. They knew that now they would have to prepare themselves.

It is over, said Grace solemnly.

No, said Pillar, whose thoughts were intensely focused on the secret that the forest had just revealed to Balas Valley. It has just begun.

What do we do now? asked Khilish. He looked about the room. This little hut will be enough to protect us? You know, Pillar, were you not such stingy mokka-dal, you could have a stronger, more sturdy house, and we would be better protected from—

Quiet already, Pillar interrupted him in a low tone. All that we have done we have done. From now can we no more do. Our moment of reckoning is nigh. Its outcome is already sealed in Starlin’s heavens, and we must accept all that is the will of our creator.

Pillar somberly returned to his newborn child. Silia was sitting upright in her bed, holding the baby to her bosom, and the baby already was sleeping soundly, wrapped in a small scrap of cloth, a hairy bundle of pink folds that rose and sank with each breath of fresh air. One of the ancient wonders of the world this was, thought Pillar, that babies did not snore. Pillar extended his hands, and Silia handed him the greatest gift known to mokka-dal. The baby snuggled his own face into Pillar’s bosom to make his sleep more comfortable.

What for a name shall we give her? asked Pillar in a whisper, not wanting to disturb his child.

Perhaps Garwan might be suitable, Silia replied.

A name for a boy is that.

A boy he is, my enchanted husband.

Pillar lifted the blanket and checked the baby. Correct, my dear wife, as usually, he said with a nod of his head.

The noises outside have stopped, have they not? said Silia after a moment’s time, having returned to herself. Our fate is unknown. Will we be greeted by explorers? By warriors or by troubadours? By heroes or by barbarians? Will peace remain in our humble valley, my comforting husband, or will we know now chaos? Will our son grow under our care, or will he be an orphan to wander the lands searching for a home? So many questions unanswered, dear Pillar, and the answers to them all now await us at the edge of the Najiwango in the hands of strangers. My heart bears not only uncertainty but also fear, trepidation.

Pillar wanted to comfort his wife, to silence her fears, but his mouth found no words of solace. How many words of solace could be spoken after the lots had been cast already? Their only consolation was that this time would pass, be it good or be it otherwise, and days of harmony surely would follow. What precisely today held in store for them, only Starlin above knew.

Pillar heard at last a noise. Clutching the baby fast to his chest, he went to the window. He heard a noise like thunder, daring thunder, and it was coming nearer. From the forest to his hut was no more than a twenty parsas, and for one mounted on a steed, the distance was quite insignificant. Those who had breached the forest would reach the small village with lightening speed indeed.

As the uncertain moments passed more quickly than Pillar could wish, his ears caught strange noises. Horses’ cries soon could be heard together with voices that spoke in a foreign tongue, so close were they. The wind outside changed its direction, perhaps in its own attempt to escape from danger. No Parnan voice was to be heard. All surely were cowered inside their huts with a terror fresh on their hearts.

Through the cracks in the bedroom window, Pillar saw the foreigners enter the village. Their horses brought with them an immense cloud of dust, but as the dust began to settle, Pillar’s eyes fell upon the faces of the strangers. There were at least fifty horses, black as the winter mud, and on most of them were mounted what appeared to be mokka-dal. Ten or fifteen horses bore other creatures, most quite larger than mokka-dal. Two creatures, though, were half the size of mokka-dal and fat like wild pigs, covered in thick, coarse, brown hair.

The riders of the horses had fierce expressions in their eyes as they gazed around the defenseless village, and Pillar saw blood caked on their hands and garments. The horses, whose legs were covered with mud and bile, also bore villainous airs as they snorted with the cold pride of merciless victors.

In front of all the others was a horse twice the size of any other, the rider of which was mokka-dal. This mokka-dal had a long, silky beard of white that ended in a sharp point and was so long that it was brushed to one side of the horse’s neck. He wore a tunic blue like the spring skies and a cap that appeared to have been woven from threads of gold. His eyes were black, perfect for the horse upon which he rode. His fingers were longer than the average Parnan’s fingers, and they were gnarled, perhaps from years of difficult labor. His claws curled into his hands, and Pillar dared not imagine what would happen to the throat that might be caught by those hands.

The leader of the mob turned his horse to face the others and, with a wave of a hand, declared something triumphant in a tongue that could have been somehow related to that of the Parnan. All the others nodded their heads with unbridled submission.

The mokka-dal with the gold cap dismounted from his steed. The horse let out a cry as its rider’s sharp claws dug into its neck. The others followed suit, relieved to stand on their feet after apparently having ridden for a lengthy stretch of time. Most of them were armed with swords, which they bore in sheaths strapped to their backs. They removed the swords from their sheaths and prepared themselves for attack. Pillar seemed to recall that he had seen a sword as a child, but the Parnan had been so well-guarded by the Najiwango that they never had had need for arms, and no Parnan knew the art of war, so he was unsure of the true ramifications of this piece of sharp metal that the invaders carried.

One of the tall creatures walked past Pillar’s hut, and Pillar ducked beneath the window before he had the opportunity to peer into the bedroom. Luckily, the bed was far from the window, so Silia also remained unnoticed.

Pillar, still clutching the baby, crawled on the floor to the bed. Silia was lying in the bed on her back, both weak and drowsy, moaning faintly and only semiconsciously. Pillar put a hand over his own mouth, silently warning her not to make any noise. He handed her the baby, who let out a stifled cry. Silia rubbed the baby on his back to calm him, and he continued to sleep tranquilly. Pillar glanced at the window. The intruders had not heard his son’s cry. For now, they remained safe.

The intruders made noises, kicking up dirt and lifting heavy stones from the ground and shouting maliciously to one another, but Pillar was uncertain what they might want until he heard one of them wield a sword and hack the door of a neighboring hut. Voices raised screams of horror into the apprehensive valley. Pillar recognized the voices of Lulda and Istamo Telz and their children. More hacks were made until there was space enough through which the intruders could enter the Telz hut. They marched into the hut, smashing jars and chairs and all things that could be smashed. Lulda Telz let out a war cry as though he were charging the enemy. With the swing of a sword, which made a loud slice through the air, his cry was silenced. Istamo raised her screams to volumes heard in the northern end of the valley as she wildly attempted to protect the lives of her children. Her efforts proved fruitless as the mercenaries razed her house and fell her children with no mercy in their icy, black hearts.

It was as Istamo Telz declared Starlin above! for the last time that the merciless intruders burst into other huts and wreaked havoc on other helpless Parnan families. The Godos, the Incas, the Napors all succumbed to the terror of the enemy. Pillar heard them all. All met the same fate that the Telz family had met. Fathers, mothers, and children were slain by the brutal invaders that could have been sent only by the darkest of forces. The fate of the Parnan, a question for so long, had been tragically revealed. The evidence was now before them that theirs was not a fate that they would be able to recount to their descendants.

Pillar looked at his wife and child. Miraculous for the moment, both were securely asleep and undisturbed. With a silent prayer in his heart, Pillar kissed them both softly and crawled on hands and knees into the dining area to check after his younger brothers, whom he expected to find bundled up under blankets or curled up under beds. He clenched his eyes shut lest he see some evil on the earthen floor of his humble home. When he reached the dining area, which he recognized from the smell of boiled soup, he opened his eyes, and his stomach leaped into his throat from shock.

Khilish had broken the barricade over the window in the salon and was trying to climb through it with the soup pot situated on his head in the fashion of a helmet that was far too large for its purpose. Grace was standing in a puddle of spilled soup, clutching one of Khilish’s pudgy legs with both hands, pulling with all his strength to keep Khilish from leaving the sanctuary of their shelter. Khilish frantically tried to shake himself free of his brother’s clutches, but to no avail. He and Grace matched one another in strength, and neither one made any headway over the other.

In Starlin’s name, cried Pillar as softly as he could in light of the absurdity of the spectacle. What is this madness?

I have sat in this house quite enough time, Khilish managed to say over his shoulder. No more need we wait for the noises in the forest to cease. They have ceased, and the time has arrived for me to go in search of juvenile adventure. My blood is young, and it rushes through my veins, and act upon it I must. Khilish continued to squirm.

Pillar grasped Khilish’s second leg. Your blood is going to rush all over our village if you go out there, fool that you are.

Grace attempted to explain to him the true madness of the situation. He wants to fight the intruders. The tall ones, Pillar, may be witches, who could vanquish the life of our folly-spirited brother. Those mokka-dal out there, on the other hand, could slice off his head like a carrot top with those long knives they wield. They could slaughter him. I tell you, he had to spill his mind from his head in order to spill the soup from that pot to use it as a helmet. What good will a helmet do for a head that has no brain inside it?

Khilish thrashed his legs. Release me, you cowards. Our people’s lives are in danger. This little hut is not enough to protect us anyway, a product of your stinginess, Pillar, so it is inevitable that we anyway shall meet the enemy face to face for certain if we remain trapped in here. Locked up inside this hut, we will be vulnerable, and every last one of us will be made into horse feed, along with that fresh babe of yours, be it girl or boy. If horse feed I must be, my idiotic brothers, I prefer to leave this world quite valiantly that all mokka-dal will sing my name forever more, and not as a barred-up wolverine.

Mad you are, said Pillar through gritted teeth as he yanked on Khilish’s leg. After this raid has come to an end, I shall trade you in for a goat. Remember that, you dear fool.

Very—naïve—you—are. Khilish wrenched his feet from his brothers’ hands and toppled on the ground outside. He stood on his feet, adjusted the pot on his head, which had fallen over one eye, and scanned his surroundings. Chaos tore through the village, but the raiders were ahead of him, and he remained momentarily undetected.

He scurried to the hut of Linca Inca. Complete carnage was all that remained in the once peaceful home. The whole hut was in shambles with broken shards of pottery and glass and torn fabrics strewn about the floor. Fallen walls and caved-in roof lay in rubble in all corners of the hut. The bodies of Linca and Faga Inca and six of their seven children lay in a heap in the middle of the floor. A fire in the fireplace gave out a choking black smoke and a charred smell, and Khilish saw that the body of the seventh Inca child was lying head-first and face down on smoldering coals. He winced from the sight.

A great, heroic idea began to form in Khilish’s head, small though it might be. He dug through the debris. The splintered wood and thatch that stuck into his hands and feet went unheeded as he searched frantically, oblivious to all of the valley. In the rubble, through the dust, he finally laid hand upon a long piece of wood. Its shape was similar to that of the fierce knives of the raiders, but it was not quite as long. Were anything to suffice, though, it would have to suffice, and he gripped it with pride and with great firmness. Khilish felt his courage gather itself as he saw himself the hero of Parnan, conqueror of the enemy, the savior of their race, who would be known from this day forth as the greatest of all mokka-dal.

He snatched his new-found weapon and sprang to his feet. To practice using the weapon, he thrust it into Linca Inca’s torn gullet. (As he was dead already, it would inflict no pain upon him, which made stabbing him quite easier.) The pierce was smooth, and Khilish removed his weapon with as much ease, proud that he was now armed for battle.

He crept stealthily to where the door to the Incas’ hut had stood and peered cautiously into the war-torn open. He saw a fire blaze perhaps half a parsa away. For now, it appeared that the Oronoro family had been spared, be it by luck or by design. He stepped from the hut, and the glowing sunlight momentarily blinded him as though the earlier rainstorm never had been.

No sooner had he stepped vulnerably into the naked open than a force hit him from behind and sent him flying at least ten hands’ breadths away, where he landed on his belly, his face in a pile of horse manure. When he sat up and wiped his face, flinging the manure disgustedly to the side, he was relieved to see that his assailant was none other than the closest companion of his youth, Dorman Berrybaker.

Dorman Berrybaker, he said with relief and suspicious fear at once, the outside is hardly the place for you today. We are presently under attack by blood-thirsty ransackers who show no mercy to the weak and defenseless. Have you failed to notice?

I slipped out of my house, Dorman responded, just as you did, evidently. I do not wish to be locked up like a wolverine, anticipating my demise like the rest of my poor family. I believe that we must escape quite speedily from this valley.

How do you intend to do that, my friend? We are without horses, and these strangers are both well armed and horse-mounted. Were we to run now, I hardly believe that we would succeed. It really appears to me that our only chance is to pray for divine intervention and ambush these ruthless ruffians. With a serious tone, he added, Or get killed.

If such is my fate, said Dorman, then I am prepared to lay down my life for Parnan honor. Together with my loyal friend—from whom an unpleasant stench is now wafting—I shall battle the enemy valiantly, and all mokka-dal will sing my name forever more in their greatest ballads. Starlin above help us.

He suddenly shot Khilish a quizzical glance. Have you a pot of carrot pepper soup on your head?

It is my protection, young hero. Khilish adjusted the pot proudly. I became today an uncle. He smiled a triumphant smile. What could be more delicious on such a day of uncle-becoming than carrot pepper soup, my dear friend? Can you answer me that?

Booming shouts rocked the two youths back to the graveness of the situation, and they perked up their heads and turned their eyes in the direction of the raiders. Their jaws dropped as their eyes beheld quite an awesome spectacle. Fifty or so Parnan, most of whom had heads helmeted with soup pots—which Khilish knew without a doubt was an idea that had come from him—had come into the open. Some were armed with knives, some with sticks like Khilish’s, and still others with long loaves of stale bread, which very well might hold their own against the most savage of weapons. They had attacked simultaneously, taking the raiders by surprise, if only for the perfectly crucial moment.

Dorman and Khilish, with stick in hand and pot on head, ran swiftly to the scene of the battle, where Parnan had begun to fall in every direction. Their calloused feet kicked up dust as they fled to their friends’ aid. Parnan heads toppled to the ground under the might of the insidious enemy, whose swords and knowledge of battle were much mightier than those of the Parnan. Blood splashed on the horses, which reared their heads and neighed at the cataclysm, less enthusiastic about the raid than their dark masters.

Dorman and Khilish managed to come near to the scene undetected, which gave Dorman the opportunity to spring on a mounted mokka-dal from behind. Instantly, a witch shot at him an electric bolt, and his body fell to the ground and rolled into a lifeless heap.

The witch, a gangly, evil creature with icy, sea-blue eyes and long, yellow hair, cast a cold look at Khilish. He raised his hands, making a v with his fingers, and shot an electric bolt at Khilish. The bolt hit the pot and bounced into the air. The vibration of the pot caused a tremendous ringing in Khilish’s ears, which he immediately covered with his hands.

Khilish ran under the legs of the horse of the mokka-dal that had killed Dorman, and the horse cried out in fright. The rider looked down and flailed his clawed hands at Khilish in an attempt to catch him. Khilish ran out from underneath the horse, and the rider lost his balance and, flailing his arms in the air, tumbled onto the ground, landing on his head.

The witch shot a second bolt at