Chapter Four
DRAGON HUNTERS
EVEN MANUUWAN WAS NOT PREPARED for the effect the final reinforcement had on the death dreams spelling the Darkwall boundary. The uncanny fossilization of the prophet’s skull into the cliffside at the main opening on the Na Jao side of the passage, which had been merely an imprint before, became steadily more manifest as the day wore on. The caverns filled with a vaporous, effervescent light and the layered rock of the Sannarka Peak groaned and rumbled as the condensed essence of Davada Cruz’s ten lifetimes articulated the skeletal cast, cementing itself into tomblike reality. The soul-catcher seemed just as astounded as Yano and Javari at this, and Elandon noted a hint of pride in his smile as he admired the spectacle.
There is divinity in death capturing life, Lan.
Indeed, this theme of mortality occurred to Elandon in other ways as well, and seemed like an embryo that grew quickly in his thoughts―as quickly as the dimensions of the rock wall coalesced into a deathface. All of them, sorcerer and boundary warriors and spirit totems alike, the legions of the wild that had gathered in the surrounding forest and along the shores of the Naleotra, were captivated by the profound power emanating from the shrine, the lambent force channeled through the dreamscape by the shrunken heads of the prophet.
Later in the afternoon Tongo scampered into their midst with the news that the horde of Shadowkind were approaching. Elandon again went and climbed to his perch in the great tree along the path to the lake, where Renyo awaited. After issuing his familiar greeting, one caw followed by two, the glossy black bird spoke the name of the warlord.
“Chenghist,” said the raven. He then pointed his beak and cawed again. At the mouth of the distant valley below, just visible in the mists rising from the Na Jao jungle, Elandon spied the glittering army of Horks and Trolls.
“It is you they have come for, Topengorang,” said Manuuwan.
“I know,” replied Elandon, jumping down from the tree.
“What does the voice of the dragon say to you?”
His witch-eye flashed. “Show them death.”
“And so we shall,” smiled the soul-catcher. “Such is the way of the Bayang Penari. It is commonly known the Shadowkind are unborn creatures that do not die naturally. But by witnessing how the sordid blood magic forms them, the boundary warrior comes to understand their superstitious nature and why the numinous reckonings of death, distilled effectively, can breach the blood bond to their warlord and undo them.”
“The sword thrust into the heart of darkness!”
“Have you found what you came here for, Topengorang?”
Words rolled off Elandon’s tongue. “The warlords are hosts for the rebel spirit beings of Nèahm, those whom the lore names the Aisling. Despite their formidable powers of dark energy the Aisling harbor an abiding fear of death. Thus the warlords may be rendered vulnerable.”
“They are afraid of the imponderable afterworld of Eidolon,” said the soul-catcher, “where they must present themselves before the Ceann and face the treachery for which they were exiled from their celestial haven in the Nèahm Islets, in the time before time.”
Elandon’s witch-eye gleamed and he looked at Manuuwan curiously. He wondered how the Mischanter came to reference Eidolon, the most cryptic of all the folklore and that which many, including the priestesses of the Cathonian Sisterhood who educated him, considered mere fable. The soul-catcher apparently read his thoughts, for he again smiled his sly smile.
“As you have already realized, Topengorang, the ancient stories aren’t all parables. The purpose of meeting the Golden Dragon is to be shown the greater truths of our path. Only then are we Bayang Penari, each with a unique perspective and calling.”
Continue to weigh the greater truths and your pathway will become clearer.
“Soon we must go to meet the dragon hunters of the Na Jao,” said Manuuwan. “Until then, it would be wise for you to take some time and consider all you learned from your second serpent vision.”
Elandon heeded the soul-catcher’s advice and began walking down the pathway to the lake, contemplating his journey through the mystic peripheries of the dreamscape, as the Golden Dragon had called them. Near the shoreline he came upon a large slab of granite still warm from the day’s sun and sat down upon it. For a fleeting instant he felt as if he were once again on the dragon bone seat, traversing the currents of consciousness, the dual realities; the dream within a dream that had carried him on his totemic journey with Renyo.
Looking out across the pristine waters and slowing his breathing, he began saying Naleotra to himself, repeating the mantra of cleansing and renewal that was the serene mountain lake. As the sun began to dip behind the clouded pinnacles of the Sannarka Peak, he watched the graceful muntjacs gather to drink and a deep calm came over him. In the quiet moments that ensued, Elandon revisited certain profound insights, including how the sensual communion of Naguia learned from the soul-catcher, as well as his Second Sight and inherent ability to channel the Spirit and recognize the old magic of creation―all of which seemed like differing phenomena as they had occurred in his life―were in fact one in the same and embodied his instinctive forays into the dreamscape. What he now came to realize, however, was the linguistic aspect of his Second Sight, the voice of intuition and wisdom he heard in his mind, was Almayath’s voice―had always been her voice.
The mantra focuses your crystalline vision, Lan.
The revelation inspired Elandon to further test his newly catalyzed gift. The most perplexing facets of his serpent vision were the stirring of the Black Dragon within the volcano of Nios Isle, and the deviant presence of the Terrible Spirit, Puta Hantu; these were the envisagings he sought to better understand. Taking another deep breath and focusing his vision inward, he repeated the mantra and retreated further within himself.
Probing the mystic peripheries merely embellishes that which is already known. The pure potential of your intention allows the greater truths to be revealed.
The insurgency of Nèahm at the dawn of creation tugged at Elandon’s expanded sensitivities as the place to begin his contemplation. Yet rather than try to recall the history, he was moved to simply revisit the joy and curiosity he had experienced studying the old writings. He focused on these emotions and revered in the child-like whimsy and wonder that came to him; before long, his subconscious took over and remarkably, the tales began recounting themselves. Page by page the pertinent sections turned over in his mind, as if he were re-reading the transcriptions from the oral traditions of the Fair Folk inked into the bound parchment that comprised the annals of the Sea Kings.
It began with the exile of the rebel Aisling:
Interpreting themselves through the One Dream of the Ceann, the Elementals and Temporals of the Spirit, also known as the Wisdoms of the Cosmos and the highest ranking spirit beings, fashioned two magnificent renderings of sentient entropy that bridged Moirai to the heavens at the Nèahm Ìslets. These prismatic tapestries of cosmogonic energy, called the Arc of Light and the Dancing Sky, were multi-dimensional intertwinings of vibrational frequencies and gravitational force that translated the essence of creation. Alas, from each of these supernal constructs, a tiny gleaming tassel was severed and secreted away by one of the Aisling, a gifted yet vain and rebellious spirit being of fire named Diuul. Like each iridescent thread stitched into the embroidery of the great tapestries, the tassels contained gossamer strands of creation’s encoded mystery. This deceitful act corrupted the woven borders of the renderings at these points, compromising the One Dream and granting Diuul access to knowledge forbidden to all but the Ceann and the Wisdoms of the Cosmos.
Once discovered, the disgraced Diuul was banished from Nèahm along with his rebel followers. The immensely clever, charismatic and ambitious nature spirit, along with his insurgents, had sought to leverage the forbidden secrets of dark energy realized from the stolen tassels and seize dominion for the Aisling over the Wisdoms of the Cosmos.
Diuul and his rebels, many of whom were also spirit beings of fire, claimed the volcanic and molten ravaged Nios Isle as their domicile. Once settled into their infernal lair beneath the volcano, Diuul devoted himself to applying the shadow essence of creation’s old magic gleaned from the prismatic tassels which he still possessed, into reforming himself and his brethren, who had been stripped of their spectral powers by the Ceann.
Diuul began mutating creatures with sordid alchemies of evisceration that later became the basis of necromancy and black sorcery―fashionings that invoked the anti-force of dark energy to remake beings. As a result, Nios Isle began to slowly change, for this abject conjury affected an inverse power within the fiery crater, a dynamism that gradually reversed the volcanic flow and turned the surrounding seas into inward spiraling undercurrents. Many of Diuul’s specimens were victims caught in these swirling tides, which eventually extended all the way to the island of Dramhaíl. Yet the dark energy also permeated the air, ensnaring beings of both land and sky in subtle yet potent whirlwinds that compelled them to Nios Isle. Diuul used his forbidden knowledge and dark artistry to create the first regiments of Shadowkind: the underworld Nargs & Gebbeths, the fearsome Baebben Siths with their sonic malice, and the soldiering Horks & Trolls. By chance or design, these foul and demonic creatures, all of which were transmutations of his rebel spirit beings, were distinctively saurian in nature.
Thereafter, having beguiled the ferocious pterodactyls drawn to Nios Isle from the southern seas into becoming willing specimens for his refined ensorcelling of the flesh, Diuul transmogrified his most powerful brethren into mighty Draaguls―winged reptilian creatures with human-like skulls capable of casting a malefic blaze with their eyes; this vortex of shadow-limned radiance became known as luciform, and could entrance or incinerate their prey at the whim of the beast. So envious had Diuul become of the Ceann’s new and most favored conception, humankind―and so determined was he to corrupt and subjugate them―that he adapted humanoid features, including skulls and dexterous, opposing digits for his potent and cognitively evolved Draagul exemplar.
Elandon refocused on his mantra and deep breathing. The crystalline vision seemed to have enhanced his recall and he now allowed his mind to ingest the details as the remembered writings turned to the tale of the Black Dragon and the Golden Dragon:
Deep within the belly of the Nìos volcano, from which emanated a dank and ancient brume that filled the steamy tunnels, something besides molten lava undulated and caused the murky passageways to tremble. Diuul was nonetheless certain that his stronghold, reinforced by the afflux of dark energy, would withstand these pressures throughout the coming eons. This sweltering abyss was his cradle of destiny; and he knew that in its womb dwelled the Black Dragon, the most magnificent of its kind. Just how it was that Diuul conjured possession of this greatest of all dragons came to be considered one of the eminent mysteries, for dragons themselves are a mystery of creation and are notoriously indifferent to the affairs of other beings. Yet it was this immense and powerful serpentine form that Diuul chose and appropriated for himself―a creature with its own magical aptitudes and spellbinding artifices, including certain telepathic abilities akin to the spectral powers Diuul lost upon being banished from Nèahm. Yet what Diuul did not know and would soon discover, was that the Black Dragon had a mate, a splendid female dragon of golden hue that bore its offspring. This violation of the coupled dragons and their hatchling would prove to be a casualty of considerable consequence. Thus began the long standing enmity between the Black Dragon―possessed by Diuul and proclaimed ‘the Bornless One’ by its legions of vile creatures and those subjected to its tyranny―and the Golden Dragon, its lost mate who would exact a degree of vengeance by spelling an abiding boundary upon the territory of the Shadowkind.
The written memories then seamlessly shifted to the distant legend of the Goliaths and their intervention:
Borea is an icelandic region beyond the home of the north wind where the Jöhunn, the Goliaths of the Tundra, reside in a glorious province of midnight sun. Legends are vague about its actual physical location, for neither by land nor sea can one find it, and only the great eagles know the way there. Tales of the Jöhunn and their unusually temperate region, surrounded by verdant plains and steppe lands inhabited by herds of great wooly mammoths and glacial mountains with rich deposits of gold guarded by mighty griffins―distant cousins of the eagles―originate from their exploration of Moirai in the Age of Darkness, when the afflux of dark energy generated from Nios Isle befouled the currents of sea and sky such that the pristine climate of Borea was altered. Materializing out of the frosty mists of the north wind in a thundering stampede, the enigmatic Jöhunn and their mammoths and griffins reined an epic maelstrom of preternatural might upon the volcanic island. Working together to move boulder, cliff-face and mountainside amidst a ferocious blizzard that buried Nios Isle in snow and ice, these primordial giants utilized the unnatural draw of dark energy against itself, extinguishing the fiery volcano in its own suction force and sealing the crater, trapping Diuul and scores of his minions deep within the passages below.
The last recollections evoked by Elandon’s etheric meditation upon the annals of the Sea Kings moved forward in time from the translated lore of the Fair Folk to the history of the Awen, and reflected upon the plight of the fallen mage, Maershyl:
Maershyl was one of the original Mages of Awen who came to discover Moirai with the Sea Kings of Ein. But he eventually fell into disfavor with the Order over who would bear the Star Cross Pentacles, talismans forged to battle the Shadowkind which he played a major role in conceiving and consecrating. Maershyl felt strongly that the complex and powerful pentacles, which were years in the making and integrated both Rhangorian spellcraft and Elven magic with the refined theurgies of the Awen, should be bestowed upon the mages. He particularly coveted the greater Wind Pentacle, the master talisman, and believed himself best qualified to wield it. However, after a lengthy debate the Order ultimately deemed the noble Paladins least likely to abuse the power of the talismans and decided they were best suited to bear them. This resolution left Maershyl embittered and at odds with the other mages, particularly Cedwyn, High Mage of the Order.
When he was later discovered practicing dark sorceries―those involving necromancy and unbounded shapeshifting―which were known to be subversive and thus prohibited by the strictures of the Awen, Maershyl was expelled by the Order. Accounts had been gathered from the other mages, some in whom Maershyl had confided and some speculative, but all confirming the dire suspicions of Cedwyn and others. Indeed, the reports indicated that Maershyl had secretly become enamored by the legacy of the Bornless One, Diuul. There was evidence beginning with the raising of the Darkwall boundary by the mages along the coastal regions of Dramhail, that he had devoted considerable time studying the evil Black Dragon, the ancient and powerful enemy of Moirai, with his dark energy magicks and hideous legions of Shadowkind. Black moods, sardonic expressions and divisiveness had come over Maershyl’s demeanor, and many suspected that despite being entombed beneath Nios Isle, Diuul had breached the universal consciousness of the One Dream, that which is also known as the dreamscape, to inhabit Maershyl’s thoughts and seduce him into allegiance with the forces of darkness. He avoided a tribunal by mysteriously disappearing; at about the same time, precious artifacts of the Order went missing, and he thereafter became known as Maershyl the traitor. Some years later rumors arose that he had fled to the Na Jao jungle, and the Wind Pentacle, the very talisman Maershyl desired, was used to girdle the castles of Rimlock & Stonehaven in an elemental warding against his presence.
Elandon returned his perceptions to their ordinary dimensions. The aftermath of entranced remembering found him adrift in the gilded clouds gathered overhead, folding across the sky and playing their dappled light down upon the lake as the gentle lapping of the tide brought him back into the moment. Awash in an uncanny tranquility, he was in no hurry to sort out the revisited history; nonetheless, a restless sense of urgency was present, beckoning to him from distant places. In no uncertain terms, he understood that despite the spells of the death dreams and their reinforcement over recent generations by the sacred flesh of the prophet, the threat of the Shadowkind continued to grow. And in the marrow of his being, Elandon knew his calling to become a Bayang Penari had inexorably merged with his honored charge as the last Paladin, forming a pathway which lay far beyond the Sannarka Peak and the spelled passages of the Darkwall boundary.
Another Bayang Penari walked abroad in the world, Lan. His name was Davada Cruz.
♦♦♦
The journey of trial and discovery―the quest to pass into the heart of darkness, had taken nearly a month and was now reaching its fateful climax. The sinister drum songs of the Shadowkind rang out from the jungle below, announcing the war raid of Chenghist and his army. There was little time for Elandon to deliberate further upon his second serpent vision or his recall of the old writings, yet the themes of his uncanny witnessing readily clarified in his thoughts: insurrection, power and dominion, banishment and exile, the forbidden deceits of conjuring with dark energy and blood magic, and the forces that countered these evils of the Bornless One and his minions. The motifs mingled with the curios paradox of the spelled passages of Darkwall, the irony that the ferocious saurian creatures rendered by such foul sorceries―those with regenerative capabilities that broached immortality―could be stayed by the fear of death.
Elandon simply allowed these reckonings to come into focus naturally as they embarked upon their trek into the Na Jao to find the dragon hunters. Hurrying to keep pace with the deftly quick soul-catcher, his attention was soon diverted to memorizing landmarks along the dizzying maze of cliff paths and labyrinthine mountain corridors. From their elevated vantage, the sun descended over a horizon of tangled grasslands, gorges, knolls, derelict glens and wide ranging valleys. Swift travel was possible only on the high trails of the Sannarka Peak traversed by the Bayang Penari, the shadow dancers.
Like phantoms floating in the mists, they balanced upon cliff ledges leaning over chasms of clouds and rock spires, negotiated narrow verges and crossed plunging thresholds, steadily winding their way down through the dizzying array of rents in the mountain. Finally a long tight fissure, its entrance covered by a hardy outgrowth of fir and tucked behind a massive shoulder of granite, opened into a secluded dell with flowered meadows rolling among immense stands of evergreens. The scent of jasmine tinted the breeze as they descended a steep switchback into a dark hollow of great trees, where they were met by two painted dragon hunters who silently stepped from the shadows and escorted them into the camp of the Rainwalkers.
Manuuwan had explained that these savvy tribes were of the last in the Na Jao to manage resistance against Puta Hantu and his warlords, and this dell, which they long ago named the Tempat Suaka―its location a carefully guarded secret even among their own, had served as their communal retreat throughout the ages. The fierce and cunning Rainwalkers steadfastly refused to pay their yearly tribute of slaves and fell back on the inherent protections of dwelling near the spelled passages of the Darkwall boundary. Survival depended upon the strict rigors of stealth and a furtive nature that precluded, among other prohibitions, sharing their native tongue with outsiders. The success of these tribes and their dragon hunter ethos, known as the way of the Naga Pemburu, also entailed an age old symbiosis with the Bayang Penari, a mutuality of honor, courage and trust. The Rainwalkers were a proud and ancient people, and asylum on the Ungorath side of the boundary was not their chosen destiny.
The dogs knew to keep quiet and the children were hushed even as they wove playful paths through the elder tribal women, who were wrapped in simple dresses sitting together on the ground, readying cookware and gently pounding and grinding grains and roots for the evening meal. Adolescent girls with short cropped hair were gathered nearby, lending help with the preparations and watching over the young ones. The boys toted water from a nearby stream and busied themselves shoring up the temporary huts and tented dwellings. The painted dragon hunters, comprised of both men and women of varying ages, came and went from around the perimeter, preparing defenses and delivering reports from the sentinels beyond the dell. Cooking fires were small and confined to grottos deep in the rocks, from which hot coals were transferred to pits in the ground used for baking. A somber mood hung over the camp, for in the distance the knelling of war drums announced the presence of the Shadowkind in the jungle approaching the Sannarka Peak.
An old tribal Mischanter in vibrant headdress, the plumage fresh from recently hunted birds, came to greet them. His woad markings were similar to Manuuwan’s except the tattooed serpents were winged and whip tailed, depicting wyverns like they had seen in the skies and on the overhangs of Darkwall. Raising a bushy eyebrow and cocking his head slightly, the gray bearded sorcerer studied Elandon for a moment before turning to exchange a ritual touching of open hands with Manuuwan. The two men then smiled fondly and embraced.
“Tomorrow bring mighty warlord and great army of Puta Hantu,” said the elder Mischanter, his common speech delivered carefully, the words slow and deliberate. “Big enough destroy Rainwalkers once and for all.” He squeezed his stenciled eyelids shut, acknowledging the inevitable possibility of defeat at the hands of such a force. “Yet earlier today, we feel energy shift of spells and our Naga flock to Darkwall boundary, with other spirit totems? What to make of it, Manuuwan?”
“How many turns for you now, Lebatuh, on the great wheel in the sky?” asked the soul-catcher.
“Seventy-three,” he replied, gathering himself up tall. He took a step back and looked at them strangely. “Why?”
“When you were twelve turns,” said Manuuwan, “when you were still Naga Anak, the spells of the Darkwall boundary were last reinforced. Do you recall?”
A look of recognition came over his face and Lebatuh smiled. “Before your time, eh Manuuwan. Yes, I remember. Shadowkind stay away. Many good seasons follow for Rainwalkers.”
“Today, the spells were again reinforced, possibly the final occurrence of such a thing. But the warding was much stronger than ever before. Indeed, we saw the firedrakes and the other totems come.”
“Still, this great warlord called Chenghist marches vast army to raid boundary. What means it?”
“The Shadowkind grow bolder, Lebatuh, but we do not believe they have come for the Rainwalkers.” The soul-catcher then turned and placed a hand on Elandon’s shoulder. “We think they come seeking this man, who we have named Topengorang. Though he is not one of us, he has survived the serpent visions of the Bayang Penari. He is a shadow dancer.”
“Topengorang,” said Lebatuh, weighing the name. “Tell me translation?”
“In the tongue of the Ungorath people,” replied Manuuwan, “it means mask of the soul.”
“Why mask of soul?” he implored. “Why Puta Hantu and his warlord bring such force against you, Topengorang?”
At the soul-catcher’s gentle urging, Elandon stepped forward and offered a simple explanation. “On the island of Saorsa, I am an avowed enemy of the tainted witches and the Shadowkind, which is how I came to be disfigured many years ago. I journeyed to the Na Jao to learn more of the warlords, but my presence here appears to have been betrayed by the dark sisters at Mission’s Cross. The timing . . . and other portents, suggest the forces of darkness come for me.”
“Perhaps they judge you vulnerable in Na Jao, Topengorang. Shadowkind own jungle!”
“So it would seem,” replied Elandon.
Lebatuh’s expression had changed from alarmed resignation to bemusement. “Question becomes,” he smiled, “why not escape? Just go back through boundary?”
“Turning back is not the way of my Bayang Penari path,” replied Elandon, his witch-eye gleaming. “Nor is it my nature as their enemy. Besides, my predicament has placed the Rainwalker tribes in harm’s way.”
“That is part of why we have come,” said Manuuwan. “Chenghist is the mightiest warlord ever molted by the blood magic of Puta Hantu, yet perhaps his brashness can be used against him. If we can draw him all the way to Darkwall, the spells and death dreams may be powerful enough to unbind his army. It is our only hope. And even if we are defeated, they will have been diverted from discovery of the Tempat Suaka, affording the Rainwalkers an opportunity to flee.”
“Beyond protecting our own, Naga Pemburu will aid you. That is given, Manuuwan. Tell me your plan.”
“We wish to bait traps,” replied the soul-catcher, “in the vacated Rainwalker villages.”
Lebatuh squinted curiously at them. “How it works, these traps?”
Hesitating a moment and taking a measured breath, Manuuwan looked into the eyes of his Na Jao comrade. “We need five of the Naga Anak,” he said, finally, “the youngest and bravest of the dragon children whose talents are fully manifest. Two of them must be Lalar, the other three Denai.”
♦♦♦
Assembled under one of the tents and conferring among themselves were the Chiefs, Chieftesses and Mischanters of the various tribes. The five youngsters had been called in from the watch, for it was the Naga Anak who served as the outlying sentinels of the Rainwalkers. Their parents had come to join them. Any misgivings Elandon may have had about suffering children in the path of Chenghist’s army were allayed in the proud, if not still fearful and emotional manner in which the mothers and fathers blessed this perilous rite of passage, bestowed upon their gifted offspring in an unprecedented time of need. Lebatuh came to stand with the parents and children, one of whom was his granddaughter; her name was Kahya. The other girl was Diah, and the boys were named Yntan, Jemi, and Velang.
His crystalline vision granting percipience beyond the ambit of previous experience, Elandon intuited the gestures, postures and tonality of the tribal leaders’ communication, gleaning the essence of what was being shared. He was reminded yet again of how the serpent visions of the Bayang Penari had effectively expanded his perceptions, allowing for keener interactions with his surroundings. It was also clear that Manuuwan understood more of the Rainwalkers’ language than he let on, and even though they perhaps realized this, it was their custom to converse in their own tongue. Thus the soul-catcher, speaking quietly and smiling as the curious children looked over at them, explained more of the dragon hunter ethos.
Not all of the Rainwalker young became Naga Anak; only those possessing an inborn and enigmatic connection with the cryptic wyverns of the Na Jao, a bond that was evident at an early age. Once this trait appeared, the dragon children began being trained in the skillful arts of tracking, hunting and self-defense, first with stone slings, spears, garrotes and bone daggers; and later, upon gaining size and strength, mastery of the bow and arrow. Eventually the boys, the Denai, developed the ability to focus their innate bond and summon the elusive firedrakes for the great hunts, when the aged and weak were culled from the mighty herds to provide meat and furs for the tribes. The girls, the Lalar, came to be accepted by the wyverns as riders and learned to direct the flaming respires and tail whips necessary to isolate and take down large prey, as well as fend off other predators that moved in on the kills.
Alas, the inexplicable gift subsided at about the age of fourteen and the Naga Anak became Naga Pemburu, the renowned dragon hunters of the Na Jao. Their formative years of fostering with the firedrakes bestowed the deeper wisdoms of the wild, inuring them to the inherent hardships of survival and fine tuning their sensory interactions with the multi-voiced landscape of the jungle. Inherent in this maturation was an emergent horror and outrage at the tyranny of Puta Hantu and his warlords upon the tribes of the Na Jao, a fury evidenced by the fierce dragon faces they painted on themselves. Not only were the Naga Pemburu hunters of the finest ilk, bearing bows, arrows, blades and slings galvanized by the eldritch breath of wyverns, they were brave and ardent warriors that for generations stood against all odds, resisting the savagery of the Shadowkind.
Later, when they sat with the tribal leaders and shared stew and corn cakes similar to what Manuuwan had prepared in the little hollow on their first night together, Elandon gained deeper insight into the tilled ground of commonality that existed between the Bayang Penari and the Rainwalkers. In a most unusual and tactile confluence of inner knowing, he smelled, tasted and felt the warmth of their fealty filling his stomach, quenching more than physical hunger and stirring his soul. There was a complexity of sadness and gravity in the implacable courage of these people, a conviction of purpose belied by a communal rapture that could not be abjured. Even as the baleful drumming sounded through the mountains announcing the invasion of the Shadowkind, the Rainwalkers quietly celebrated their sovereign unity. A generous helping of the human spirit was served with the meal, elemental nourishment that was both humbling and inspiring. Elandon again found himself deeply moved by the calling to become a Bayang Penari, and swore a private oath not fail the dragon hunters and their tribes.
Manuuwan gathered the leaders around and in the flickering torchlight drew a map of cliff paths on the ground, the route up through the Sannarka Peak that would methodically lead the scouting parties of Chenghist’s army past the Tempat Suaka and toward Darkwall. The chosen five of the Naga Anak were then brought before them. At Manuuwan’s bidding, each had donned a tunic of barkcloth, the delicate but sturdy blanched fabric common to the Rainwalkers. From his pouch the soul-catcher removed a bamboo shoot and shook into his palm some of the glowing rime scraped from the dead tree they had passed days ago; the fungi had grown and multiplied prolifically and now sparkled like crystal. Gently, he cast bits of the lambent dust over each of the dragon children and sent them to stand in the surrounding trees.
“Behold,” said the soul-catcher, “how shadows can be formidable weapons.”
Commanding a brand of sorcery Elandon had not before witnessed from him, Manuuwan extinguished the flames of the nearby torches with a mere wave of his hand. And there in the twilight of the dell, faintly glimmering from within the towering stands of evergreens, stood what appeared to be five apparitions. Beneath the eaves of the forest and aided by the distance that lay between, the youngsters affected the haunting appearance of spirit children. Gasps of comprehension issued from the tribal leaders and onlookers, as all now better understood the nature of the ruse that would be employed to entrap the scouting parties of Chenghist’s army. Of course, success would require more than trickery and illusion and all involved faced grave peril, but the demonstration put to rest a certain unease that existed about the fate of the brave dragon children, the oldest of which had not yet seen his ninth year.
Farewells were exchanged all around and everything was made ready for their departure. The Naga Pemburu would remain behind to defend the tribes in the event the Tempat Suaka was discovered; if possible, some would later follow Chenghist and his army to Darkwall. For now, Elandon and Manuuwan and the five young Naga Anak were on their own against the scouting parties of the Shadowkind that even now moved through the jungle. In single file with the soul-catcher in the lead and Elandon trailing, they made their way up the switchback and through the fissure, stealthily moving beyond the cover of the firs and easing their way from behind the great buttress of granite. One by one they stepped out onto the ledge. Except for the incessant tolling of the drums which had steadily grown closer, all was quiet. At Manuuwan’s whispered prodding, the youngest of the dragon children, seven-year-old Jemi, fearlessly stepped forward and closed his eyes. Without a sound, his glowing form silhouetted against the sprawling vista of soaring peaks and plummeting cliffs and vapor filled gorges, ravines exhaling like graves, he summoned the first of the wyverns.
♦♦♦
The ominous drumming abruptly ceased and a foreboding wind arose. Mercilessly buffeting the Sannarka Peak, its intensity was both subtle and searing and instantly invoked a sense of dread, permeating the mountains like a whispering war hammer of doom. In his focus of crystalline vision, Elandon at once recognized the roiling force crossing the boundary of this lost land as a conjury of forbidden dark energy, signifying that which is and that which aspires to be. With a molten stench that mingled and swirled with the rising mists, it blew from the south, from Nios Isle and Erang Kastil, where souls are sacrificed and lizards arise on two legs to march as soldiers of corruption, molted into the infinite service of evil.
As the tumult swept across the remote ridges and trails familiar only to the Rainwalker tribes and the Bayang Penari, Elandon and Manuuwan and their charge of Naga Anak crouched down and took its foul measure. The dragon children whispered of the Terrible Spirit while the soul-catcher’s eyes gleamed with potency, a vigor matching the pestilent flurry. Yet his ferocity was not angry or filled with ravenous loathing like that which gusted about them; rather, it was of the transcendent, healing power of life and love, and struck Elandon as astonishing under the circumstance. More at one with his surroundings than any mortal he had ever encountered, the soul-catcher’s spirit was piqued by the formidable challenge that lay before them, and his sly smile instilled an abiding confidence.
“Surrender the masked Paladin to us . . . your comrades and loved ones will be spared.”
As the sinister wind hissed enticements in their minds, Manuuwan empathically drew their awareness together. “Listen not to Puta Hantu,” he warned. “His are the clever intonations of deceit.”
They then rose as one and quickly fled down into the Na Jao. Manuuwan led, his blowgun resting across his shoulders as he shambled through the sweltering rainforest, ducking under branches and vaulting over logs, the obstacles all one great challenge to be surmounted. Though Elandon and the dragon children were each nimble in their own practiced ways, they still managed to keep pace only because the soul-catcher had the presence of mind to look back now and again and wait for them to catch up.
None of them spoke as they hastened on, but they all listened intently for the sounds of pursuit. Jemi’s wyvern had alerted them to the proximity of the scouting party and the deadly Gebbeths they were using for tracking. Still, the little company had enough time to lay their trap.
Gliding on ghost legs, they avoided the spring-triggered nets strung through the trees and stepped around spike-lined pits dug in the ground, creeping silently into the abandoned Rainwalker village. Some of the fungi had shaken off during their journey through the jungle, so the soul-catcher shook more of the evanescent powder onto the dragon children, renewing their haunting visage. Then Elandon and the boys, the wily and resilient Denai, hid in a storage hut on the far side of the village. Manuuwan and the girls, the young but shrewd and perceptive Lalar, waited in the Spirit Lodge, a clever structure built into the ground with an intricate, tree-covered entryway that served as the main gathering place of the village.
They did not wait long.
The faintest of rustling, barely audible amidst the swirling winds, announced the arrival of their adversaries. The dark hollows of the forest fluttered with irregular movement and the scouting party strode out into the clearing. Three agile Horks, all of the black lizard variety and bearing scythes and scimitars, were followed by two massive Trolls with distinctive reptilian muzzles wielding spiked cudgels and mighty war axes. A third troll brought up the rear; heavily muscled and wearing thick leather wristlets attached to harnesses, he commanded the savage Gebbeths being used to track scents. These ancient serpentine creatures were apex predators and among the oldest of the Shadowkind; their acute senses and evolved instincts gave the Horks and Trolls a distinct advantage, and left them impervious to the dangers of the jungle after nightfall.
Still, they were leery and took their time; finding a deserted Rainwalker village was clearly not what they had anticipated. Looking in every direction and moving cautiously, the hulking lizard-men rounded corners, stepped through blustery swaying trees and shifting shadows, and slowly made their way to the Spirit Lodge at the center of the village. There, standing before the sheltered entrance, the powerful Gebbeths pulled brusquely against the leashes and raised their immense pebbled snouts in the air, snapping rows of razor sharp teeth and snarling viciously.
After a moment one of the Hork trackers, their leader, called out. “Comesss out here, sssorcerer. The Gebbethssss have your ssscent.”
Manuuwan did not reply. All remained dusky and quiet, save for the swirling gusts.
“You warn Rainwalkersss to leave village,” the leader continued, his sibilant voice carrying menacingly on the breeze. “You tell them go into mountainsss. But we ssstill find them, sssorcerer. You knowsss we will.”
The soul-catcher held his tongue.
“We are sssearching for the masked stranger, the Paladin with a witch-eye. Help ussss find him and you and Rainwalkersss go free.”
The pestilent wind then repeated its persuasions.
“Surrender the masked Paladin to us . . . your comrades and loved ones will be spared.”
Chenghist and his army, along with their vanguard of savage scouts and trackers, of which this was merely one party, were poised for slaughter. Elandon did not believe even for a moment that this massive force would settle for simply killing him or taking him prisoner. Yet the predicament created a troubling crisis of conscience, for he had brought this onslaught upon the Rainwalker tribes and Bayang Penari. And if their salvation could in fact be secured by his surrender, he would have been compelled to consider it; in the same way his comrades would have been compelled to consider giving him over. But the staggering number of Shadowkind postured to march upon Darkwall gave credence to the lie, a deception intended to divide them and play upon their fortitude, a thorn to burrow in their collective side.
At that moment Velang, the oldest of the Denai, reached over and handed him a stellar arrowhead, honed to a razor sharp point. He knew the dragon children called their arrowheads thunderstones and this offering was a token of loyalty. They took pride in knapping their own thunderstones from flint, which were then hardened by the breath of the firedrakes and gifted to one another for launching with slings and later, for mounting into the tips of arrows. Yntan and Jemi followed suit; each stepped forth and offered him a finely crafted thunderstone. Elandon was touched by the gesture, and by the manifold looks of compassion and savvy on the boys’ faces, expressions of maturity beyond their years. Despite their age, they were battle tested and ready.
Presenting him a small leather pouch in which to keep the lethal arrowheads, Velang declared in a hushed tone, “we make you brother of thunderstone, Topengorang.”
“I am honored,” Elandon whispered. He knelt down and touched palms with each boy in the customary, open-handed gesture of the Rainwalkers.
Jemi then spread his arms and quietly said, “Naga now surround village.”
A microcosm of the Rainwalkers’ survival played out in the simple maneuvers of the ambush. The dragon hunter ethos, the way of the Naga Pemburu, revolved around the intuitive connection of the dragon children with the wyverns—ancient and elusive creatures considered in some ways more mystical even than their larger brethren, the fabled dragons—for there was little known lore that existed about them. It was immediately evident that a profound enmity existed between the firedrakes and the Shadowkind, particularly the Gebbeths. The antipathy manifested in the Naga Anak when they encountered the saurian beings, who spurred them to transcend from hunters to warriors.
This was Yntan’s native village and he had helped position everyone. There was no genius of martial strategy involved; naturally, the scouting party had come to the middle of the empty huts and was now surrounded by the little company. However, they were not yet aware of this fact. Three wyverns, one summoned by each of the boys, had flown down into the jungle from the mountains and quietly taken up posts around the perimeter. Staying in the shadows, Elandon and the boys broke from the cover of the shed and silently moved toward the Spirit Lodge, coming upon their adversaries from behind. They awaited Manuuwan’s signal.
The hide that curtained the entryway of the Spirit Lodge was gently pulled aside and the glimmering silhouettes of Kahya and Diah could be seen through the opening, teasing glimpses of what appeared to be spirit children. Momentarily unnerved by the sight, the trackers were cowed not just by specters of a lost part of themselves, but by the female aspect of the illusion. While Horks and Trolls took on male characteristics upon being transmuted by the blood magic, some had been females in their human existence and a residual mourning of this loss endured in their shared essence. Indeed, women were known to have a persuasive effect upon them, a phenomenon which had long been exploited by the dark sisters. In this instance, Manuuwan was taking advantage of the vulnerability.
Velang, Yntan and Jemi took the opportunity to climb into the surrounding trees and now, with amazing speed and accuracy, began pelting the scouting party with thunderstones from their slings. Again, the saurian beings hesitated at the sight of the glimmering children, which was their undoing.
The Troll holding the Gebbeths was the first to go down; tangled in the leashes and pulled to the ground as the beasts roared and thrashed in every direction trying to break free, Elandon’s gleaming sword ran him through from behind and then slit his throat, the black blood gushing and filling the air with its acrid stench. He stepped aside as the enraged serpentines snapped and lunged and pulled until the Troll’s arms were torn away at the shoulders. Yet they were still restrained by the leashes, which had twisted together and continued to bind the beasts. Only one of the four Gebbeths broke away, leash collar still around its neck and a Troll appendage in tow as it attempted to escape, only to meet its end in the blazing breath of a firedrake.
Deadly spears amassed beforehand and set inside the Spirit Lodge were hurled by Kahya, Diah and Manuuwan, piercing reptilian scales from point blank range. The wyverns descended and dispatched the three remaining Gebbeths, casting them into flames. The little company moved in with their wicked-edged daggers drawn; the throats of the wounded Horks and Trolls were cut and the husks bled, preventing them from regenerating. Elandon severed their heads with his glowing sword. The village began reeking of burning flesh and black blood.
Just that quickly it was over. They managed a similar performance with a second scouting party of Chenghist’s army later that evening at another of the Rainwalker villages, the home of Diah and Velang. The little company was efficient and deadly; they suffered no casualties and none escaped their clever traps. By morning they were asleep inside the spelled passages of Darkwall, having left behind a trail marked by the heads of seven Horks and five Trolls impaled on poles, inviting a passage up the Sannarka Peak that bypassed the Tempat Suaka and the hidden Rainwalker tribes.
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Copyright © Shawn Quinlivan, 2019. Shawn Quinlivan asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. All original images used by permission. Digital artistry by Shawn Quinlivan.
