K'Zarina the Blood Queen

By Laurence Clark

K'Zarina of the Olkanian Clan is on her wander, a tradition of her people where young adults find their place in the world. Idyllisus, an Earth like planet, was settled by transhuman colonists thousands of years ago by a people whose DNA was modified for their dangerous mission, and their descendents have long forgotten their starfaring colonial past. In Sydjordal, those who are discovered with these latent attributes are labeled as witches and put to death. After K'Zarina, new to the city, is attacked, a strange blood trait is exposed. Now labeled a witch, for K'Zarina it's a dangerous place in the world, but is it dangerous for her, or everyone else?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Laurence Clark
• Release date: Jul 22, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393481652

Laurence Clark

A technical writer by day, but at night, with the sounds of neighbors barking, dogs whining, caterwauling cats…  caterwauling, airplanes at full engine take-off, I'm a guy spinning yarns on a laptop on the back porch with his dog barking at everybody to shut the heck up!

Book preview

Chapter 1

The rainbow after the storm, the calm before, and the ebb and flow of the tide of the Moon cycle; if you cannot remember this, then your pain will last the forever of the instant you die.–Zha'Athanar

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After a week of travel, instead of fatigue, K’Zarina was almost skipping and dancing along game trails toward Syjordal, the closest Viajshrian city, her mood soaring with the beauty and joy she found in the jungle. Even in this state of joy, she maintained constant vigilance, stopping every so often to watch, listen, and sniff. She gleaned most of her information from watching and listening, but loved how the smells of the jungle, with the rotting vegetation, loam, and faint animal musk revealed a complex world hidden from her other senses. Walking along a straight section of trail, she stopped for a moment, then leapt from the path, sprinted to the nearest tree and climbed. She was nearly a third of the way up the tree with her bow strung and an arrow half way nocked before she realized it. Far below her was a large, dull, mottled-green shadow just a few feet from where she had been walking. She squinted and examined the shadow; it was a six-legged ground dragon lying in a ditch parallel to the trail, hidden behind tall grass. That was close. She completed nocking the arrow, but didn’t draw, just watched it. He, or she, was sleeping. What gave it away? How did she know it was there? Her mind worked on the problem as she watched it sleep. She saw no movement except its chest slowly rising and falling with its shallow breathing.

With the bow and nocked-arrow held in her right hand, K’Zarina carefully shifted her pack and sword with her left hand before slowly climbing further down the tree for a better look. Interesting, he hadn’t been disturbed at all, and didn’t seem to be going anywhere soon. For now, she dared not descend any further with it only a few feet from the tree. What to do? She had her bow, and thought about shooting the dragon, but to hit it somewhere fatal, especially through its thick scaly skin, would require a precise shot, something she didn’t feel too confident doing from her precarious perch in the tree, so she reinserted the arrow in her quiver and slung her bow around her shoulder.

Could she scare it? Ridiculous. Should she risk climbing down the tree and sneaking away? After all, it hadn’t seemed to notice her presence when she was on the trail. To descend and proceed, cautiously, that seemed the only option, at least without waiting a very long time. She descended about halfway and stopped to watch it, waiting. She move again, slowly at first, then more quickly, and still it remained asleep. What had given its presence away? A child of the jungle, an apparition to most, she stepped to the ground, and slowly and quietly made her way past the dragon and to the trail, and then continued with more confidence.

A child of the jungle she might be, but she had never encountered a dragon of any kind. This one was far from its hunting range, and much farther from its homeland. A ground dragon was extremely dangerous, even while sleeping. She thought about her reaction to it. It wasn’t fear, just caution. Why? Why wasn’t she afraid of it?

At some distance from the dragon, she relaxed a bit and wondered again about his presence. Was it a he, or a she? The idea of dragons had always fascinated her, especially the ones in the stories told by the elders. What she remembered of them, the six-legged ground dragons, besides being nocturnal, preferred hunting smaller animals and were usually only deadly if cornered.

Out of character for her, she slowed her walk, and then stopped and sat under a small tree a few feet from the path without paying too much attention to her surroundings. Much wilder and more vicious were their cousins the flying dragons. These were slightly smaller, and somehow, could still carry a man. At least they had been able to many generations ago when the Thalwinians had succeeded in taming a few of them for their raids against the Viajshrian kingdoms. She smiled. Stories were stories, but seeing this dragon excited her, especially the idea of riding a flying dragon.

Almost like coming out of a daze, she shook her head slightly, realizing that she had been lost in thought for quite some time, which was not like her at all. She stood and glanced around, listened, and sniffed. Nothing unusual, she stayed poised for a long while, looking for any sign of anything. How had she sensed its presence? The wander, I’m on a wander. Back to it. She stepped away from the tree and continued walking.

Her thoughts drifted again, this time to the wander. The wander was an Olkanian rite of passage, where males and females alike would travel far beyond the Olkanian lands to work and learn among the Viajshrians. The Viajshrians for their part welcomed the Olkanian wanderers, as their craftsmanship was highly sought-after. K’Zarina loved the idea of the wander for exploring the world, but dreaded the thought of living in a city. Her reverie was interrupted by riders. She darted into the jungle to elude them, but not fast enough before they saw her and gave chase.

Back and forth, slow and fast, she moved quietly, then quickly, then holding still, then darting. Strange, she wasn’t heard nor seen during the chase, and yet, somehow they kept up with her. Stranger to her was that she could sense their presence, as she was certain they could feel hers, but she didn’t know why or how, like the dragon. One of the men, his presence felt stronger, and she was sure he could sense her more strongly than did the others.

After over an hour of evasive maneuvering, K’Zarina snuck through the underbrush a few feet from the Thalwinian brigands as they entered a small clearing, five scarred and brutish men on horseback. Each man, though dirty and unkempt, wore heavy leather armor and chainmail that they’d stolen or killed for, and their horses were a bit smaller and shaggier than Viajshrian bred horses. Only two of the five men carried Viajshrian horse bows, four of them wore swords they’d taken from victims, and one held an unusual sword that looked somewhat like a stick. He seemed familiar, but she couldn’t say why. Beyond the strange sense of their presence, she could almost close her eyes and know where each one was with his individual foul musky smell, smells which together almost masked the smell of their mounts. Retaining her bow and sword, she carefully and quietly set her pack down under a bush by a large tree, and then slipped around its large roots to begin an ascent.

The acting leader of the group, Roa’Nihc, a tall thin wiry man with a murderer’s brand on his forehead, dropped to the ground and led his horse into the narrow stream that cut through the clearing, looking on both sides for signs of their prey. His voice was thin and quiet when he said, Our Olkanian wanderer is near; I’m sure of it.

When his four companions searched the brush around the clearing, riding their horses in a pattern to cover every inch of ground, one rode his horse through the bush where she had crouched. She moved unnaturally up the tree like a squirrel, then a sloth, then a squirrel, moving around and up and freezing if any glanced her way. She noiselessly strung her bow and nocked an arrow.

One of the men stopped, held still and quiet to listen, and stared toward the direction they had come. Riders.

In a fluid motion, Roa’Nihc leapt and mounted his horse, trotted it from the stream and through the clearing to stop by his companions, and also listened. Yes, definitely two riders. Heavily laden, harder prey, but probably more worth our efforts. We can come back for the wanderer. He kicked his horse into a gallop along the game trail toward the riders to set up an ambush. The other four nodded to each other, shrugged and followed him, hoping this venture would yield easier and more lucrative prey.

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A few moments after they’d left, K’Zarina climbed down the tree, unstrung her bow, gathered her pack, and continued her wander, almost skipping with her delight at having evaded her pursuers when they were so close. It was because of these bands of Thalwinian brigands that the tribe escorted wanderers as a group through the jungle to the nearest walled Viajshrian city, usually a dozen at a time. The wild child, the only child of T’Groak, the Olkanian Clan chief, K’Zarina felt hindered by this tradition, so had left early without her escort, the other wanderers, her horse, or her dowry. K’Zarina took advantage of their distraction, and sprinted through the jungle, taking some care to leave as little evidence of her passing as she was capable in the situation.

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Eventually she emerged from the jungle to join the trade road that led down to the city far below the cliff. Two faint wispy clouds on the horizon marred an otherwise clear, dark-blue afternoon sky, a rare sight to a young woman used to the thick jungle canopy of her home village. Also marring the tranquility of the scene was the thunderous sounds of stomping feet and clashing metal from below.

K’Zarina stalked to the edge of the cliff, carefully looking upon the fortified city of Syjordal. In a large open field just outside the city’s main gate, she watched a platoon of men paired off and training in loose rows and columns, their highly burnished armor sparkling in the late afternoon sun, their weapons, curved stylized swords designed to resemble a dragon’s tongue, flicked and twisted in complex patterns as the men circled each other in ritualized dance patterns, striking sword upon shield in a carefully choreographed fight dance.

Her voice was musical and light when she laughed and said, They move like wounded grunters. She unwittingly touched the hilt of her own sword, which she wore on her right hip, fingering its large knotted wooden pommel, stroking its simple leather wrap, the sword her father had grown and forged for her in the tradition of her people, with her blood to nourish its growth, and the only Olkanian weapon, aside from her father’s axe, nourished that way. He had told her why, or she read it in the scrolls, but she only remembered something about a hybrid connection of tiny bits, the biological with the metallurgical.

With her left hand she drew it from its scabbard. Its blade was unlike any weapon in the world outside the valley of her people, an amalgam of ironthornbrush and forged star-metal, where vines from the ironthornbrush were grown around and through holes in a bar of forged star-metal, then when the vines were nearly matured, forged into the final blade shape, the edge a double curve. She traced the fingers of her right hand along its length. Ironthornbrush, native only to the valley of her people, once matured, could withstand the heat of forging, its fibers light, strong, and supple, allowing her to move it with an almost supernatural speed and agility. It whistled demonically as she whipped it around in mocking imitation of the men below, thrusting, slashing, faster and faster, the movements wilder and more intricate, blurred and woven between pattern and chaos. She stopped as a dancer, poised and balanced, and then with a tight spiraling flourish, re-sheathed it precisely as Olkanian ritual dictated.

K’Zarina laughed again, stooped to retrieve her pack and bow. Shouldering them, she turned toward the well-worn road that descended to the valley below. The descent was easy for a girl who’d spent her youth climbing trees and cliffs, and running barefoot through the thick and thorny underbrush around her native village, so her mind wandered. She thought of her mother, who had gone back to the world, leaving the village to see what was beyond the horizon. Her father often laughed when he teasingly chastised her for being a wild child, feral like her mother, and never once did he try to corral her spirit. After reading hundreds of scrolls at the guidance of her father, and hearing many more stories told by him and the elders, now that it was the time for her wander, her right-of-passage, she wanted to experience it all.

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When she reached the valley floor, almost as an afterthought, K’Zarina tried to make herself as presentable as possible; she dusted and arranged her clothing, straightened her hair, and walked in the upright formal manner she observed others walking as they entered the city. She passed a few famers pulling empty carts along the road and they did not seem to notice her, she walked around several very slow moving religious groups headed to the main gate and they did not seem to notice her, and when she reached the main gate, relatively unkempt with unruly hair, despite her efforts, and not arriving with the usual escort or fellow wanderers, none of the Syjordal citizens took notice of her either as she entered the city.

Chapter 2

Stay your hand, my friend, for the gods of chaos reign here. There is nothing to do, nothing you can do. In this, their kingdom of chaos, mankind is a child. –Zha'Athanar

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The two riders guided their horses up the steep trail. T’Groac, the massive chief of the Olkanian Clan, rode the lead horse. His size was surreal, and seemed to dwarf the massive black warhorse he rode, and especially the roan mare he led. He was followed by his warrior chief, T’Cheli, who rode an appaloosa while leading a large pack horse.

T’Groac’s walked through loose gravel and stumbled, nearly unseating the old warrior. Recovering his balance with some effort, he sighed deeply and said, T’Cheli, I’ve no idea how much longer I can do this.

T’Cheli remained silent for some time, letting his horse find its way through the maze of dried brush, rocks, and fallen trees. You have much yet to do. When you feel you cannot, I—we’ll do this together.

Abruptly, almost instinctively, T’Groac reined his horse in, pulling them off the path and behind some rocks, T’Cheli following closely. He gestured toward the top of the hill, speaking in a barely audible rasp. I feared this. They’re already here.

T’Cheli had long ago learned to trust T’Groac’s instincts. The two men dismounted with practiced ease and prepared for battle. With his unnatural size and power, T’Groac wielded a double bit battleaxe he made in the tradition of his people, with ironthornbrush and star-metal, and like the weapon he’d forged for his daughter, also nourished with his blood. T’Cheli, with his lithe, almost effeminate frame, preferred dual wielding a basket hilted saber, comprised of ironthornbrush and star-metal, and a silver filigree-handled poniard, which he’d acquired during his own wander many years ago. In addition to their melee weapons, each man carried an Olkanian hunting bow.

They efficiently tethered the roan mare and pack horse, and then prepared for battle. They removed their extra gear and equipment, strung their bows, and remounted their horses. T’Groac laughed when he held up his bow. He glanced at T’Cheli held up his bow, which