Jiakka

Jiakka

By Valance Patriarche




Just before sunrise, Kristop leaped astride his sturdy pony and rode out across the still-cool sands. Tiri's hooves crunched and ground as Kris steered him across the dunes.

"We could leave now, you know," he whispered in Tiri's ear. The pony snorted in response. "I know, I know. I'll never really get away from the Yrecros." He gazed across the desert at the sands, turning gold as the first of Nehwreven's three suns peeked above the horizon. Tiri plodded along at a medium pace, then Kris touched his knees to the pony's sides and Tiri took off. Alone under the triple eyes of Nehwreven's celestial god, the thirteen-year-old boy and his equine friend raced playfully with the warm breeze.

Eventually, Tiri slowed, hot and tired. Kristop turned the pony's nose back towards camp and sighed. If he stayed out longer, he would have to find an oasis-for Tiri, if not for himself. He knew that he had to return, but he was tired, sick and tired, of watching his father argue with those men. Razzan's soldiers had been hanging around the camp for a month now, and Kris had had more than enough of their red tunics. He knew that they would never get what they were after-not from any of the nomadic desert tribes, but especially not from his father's. More than any other leader, his father hated to give way. Many times, Kris had heard the man swear that he would never give his oath of fealty to any man, least of all a city-dwelling toad like Razzan. Never mind that his only son wanted to live in a city, or at least see one. The red-coated soldiers had attempted to sway Kris's father by reminding him that Abanazzar was a desert city, a desert man's city, nothing like the jungle metropolises or the sprawling ports of Mikkal and Bissal-yne, but he merely spat in their faces. Once, they had made him so angry that he had refused them water-right for a week. Kristop remembered the way his mother had fumed until finally his father had lifted the ban. After that, the soldiers had been a little more polite, but no less persistent.

As Kristop and Tiri approached the camp, almost four hours after they had left, Kris strained his ears to hear the normal chatter and clatter of the lively camp. In the unexpected silence, he felt suddenly nervous. His first thought was for his sister, Haniya, and he kicked Tiri a little viciously in an attempt to hurry the last short distance. His mind was filled with all the horrible possibilities-a sudden illness, natural or magical; an attack from a neighboring tribe, or even Razzan's men looking to set an example; a stampede by the horses. Kris urged Tiri on towards the camp, and after what seemed an eternity they arrived at the crest of the last dune.

For a moment, for a brief moment, the camp looked all right, and Kris almost smiled in relief. Then the wind shifted, and Tiri, who had been standing still and blowing hard, reared and shied away. Although Kristop was only thirteen, he recognized the sharp-sweet tang of blood. He cried out and leaped from the winded Tiri's heaving back, racing pell-mell down the sand. Kris was dimly aware of the pony behind him hurrying off as fast as his tired legs could go, but he didn't think of that until much later.

"Haniya!" he screamed, and his voice broke as he cried her name into the wind. Besides his twin sister, he imagined the mutilated faces of his parents as he arrived breathlessly among the outer tents. Without stopping to think, he hurried through the huddle of dwellings. Out of the corners of his eyes, he saw people dead and dying-almost all of them people of his tribe. A body lay in his path and he absent-mindedly grasped the sticky hilt of the blood-slick blade and pulled it free of the woman's ribcage it had been lodged in. He walked on, and finally he thrust his way into his parents' tent. Thankfully, neither his mother nor his father was there, but what he saw was worse, an image that he would remember for the rest of his life.

Haniya, his twin sister, was lying on the sandy floor, her dress ripped to shreds. A man with his red Abanazzar tunic in disarray and his breeches around his ankles, lay on top of her. A second man licked blood off a gleaming knife. Haniya's throat had been cut, sometime in the last few minutes.

Kris felt anger flood through him as he charged them, sword swinging. "Sh'kine," he thought, and then rational thought became impossible because of his berserk rage.

For a long time, Kristop thought perhaps several days, life was a blur of hatred, rage, and blood. Periodically he would regain consciousness long enough to eat something, or take a few mouthfuls of water at an oasis. He saw several lone travellers during this time, and he left none of them behind to tell the tale. Kris was dimly aware of the passage of time, and tried vainly in his lucid moments to figure out how long it had been. He thought over everything he had been taught about sh'kine, trying to remember how long the rage would last. He thought of his sister lovingly and often. As the sword he had picked up rusted, he stole a new one from one of the dead bodies he left behind in the desert. His dagger remained, surprisingly, bright and clean.

One afternoon, he saw a wall rising out of the sand. He strode unsteadily towards it, noticing the men in front of the gate. He saw red tunics in among the gray and brown, and his sanity was swallowed up by the sh'kine madness. Somehow, he fought his way through a mob of screaming, fighting demons to the relative safety of the recessed gateway. He burst through the double doors and arrived in a courtyard.

For a moment, Kris thought he was alone. Then he saw a figure advancing towards him. He wasn't sure whether or not the other was one of Razzan's demon-soldiers, as Kris thought of them, but he decided to kill first and ask questions later. His delirious mind seemed to crave blood.

Kristop leaped towards the other, his sword flashing redly, covered in blood. His dagger, clean and shining, flickered in and out of his field of view. The man opposing him-a boy his own age, really-fought hard with a big two-handed sword. Kris fought as well as he could, but after a time, his sword went flying across the courtyard. Kris dropped his dagger and leaped for his opponent's throat, clawing and trying to bite. There was a sharp pain somewhere at the back of his head, and he completely lost consciousness.

Kristop was next aware of something cool on his brow. As his consciousness expanded to include the rest of his body, he noticed a dull throbbing in his head and an ache in his throat.

"Water?" he whispered, hoping that someone was nearby to hear. Somebody pressed a cup against his lips, and he let the cool liquid flow through his mouth. He opened his eyes.

"What's your name, boy?" asked a middle-aged man.

"Kristop," he croaked. "Kristop Nayrab."

"Well, Kristop, how do you feel?"

"Terrible. And thirsty." The man handed him the cup again, helping him sit up. "Where am I?" Kris asked, looking around. He was in a small, windowless room with bare stone walls and a thick door of imported wood from the North Continent. The bed he had been lying on was simple, hardly more than a board laid overtop of two bricks. Kris shuddered at the feeling of being enclosed. Like all desert people, he hated thick walls.

"Dalsuth," said the man, pulling Kris's attention back to himself. "You do know what Dalsuth is, of course."

"The Tower of Swords," exhaled Kris in awe.

"I see that you have heard of us."

"Who hasn't?" cried Kris. "What boy does not dream of studying with the SwordMasters at Dalsuth?"

"Well, my son, for one." He grinned wryly. "Jass says you nearly bested him," the man commented.

"Is Jass your son?" asked Kris.

"No!" laughed the other. "No, but I wish he were. That boy, Jass, will go far. He is the fastest learner I have ever met, and the best student I have ever taught."

"He was the one with the big two-hander, wasn't he?"

"The very same." From somewhere outside the room, a shrill voice called,

"Tirion! Tirion, where have you got to?"

"Sorry, Kristop, I have to go," said Tirion. "I'll send Jass up, if you think you can stay awake long enough to chat for a bit." Before Kris could respond, the man was gone. While he waited for the boy named Jass to arrive, Kris thought about Dalsuth.

The Tower of Swords! To study here had been his dream since early childhood, but by the time he was old enough to hold up a sword, Dalsuth had closed its doors. The SwordMasters had decreed that every tenth year, they would hold a gala competition, and if talent worthy of their instruction appeared, it would be then that young men would be accepted. Kris had been waiting, counting the days until his seventeenth naming day, when the first such competition would be held.

"I wonder if they'll let me stay for the next four years, or if I'll have to go and come back," he thought aloud. A light tap on the door startled him.

"Come in," he said uncertainly. The door opened and a boy of about Kris's age walked in. He was almost the same height as Kris, but thinner. Kris supposed that he'd filled out a bit in the last year or so, while this boy hadn't yet. The boy's skin was light, even through his tan, but his hair and eyes were so deep a black as to look almost blue. Kris finally broke the long silence while they studied each other, saying,

"I'm Kris. You're Jass, I presume?"

"Jassnak Srobijan," answered the boy, sketching a bow with one hand. "I'm glad to see you finally awake. You've been delirious with fever. It's been a week, you know."

"Since I came here?"

"When you tried to kill everybody in the whole Tower, yes. Would you mind telling me what that was all about?"

"Razzan's red," explained Kris. Jass looked at him quizzically. "Razzan's soldiers all wear red tunics. Razzan's soldiers killed everybody I know-no, knew. I saw some red tunics, and I went into sh'kine. That means, roughly, rage-I went berserk."

"When you say they killed everybody you knew," said Jass, awestruck and slightly horrified, "do you mean...were you a survivor of the massacre at Jiakka?" Kris nodded mutely. In his mind's eye, he saw Haniya lying on the ground, the blood from her cut throat still wet.

"That was a year ago," said Jass. Kris's eyes flew wide open in surprise.

"A year?" he whispered. Jass nodded affirmatively. "I spent a year in...that's impossible! It might have been a month, but not a year!"

"It's been eleven months." Kris shook his head, unwilling to believe. "You must be the killer we've been hearing about," Jass commented.

"Killer?" queried Kris, his mind still slightly numb with shock.

"People have been turning up dead all over this part of the Yrecros, pretty much since the Jiakka massacre. There are several more missing and presumed dead-who's going to comb the desert for them, especially with a killer on the loose?"

"Did I do that?" asked Kris, mostly of himself. "I don't remember very much, but I think I remember some people. I guess they aren't people any more."

"I don't think you're as dangerous as the rumors make you sound. You seem almost nice to me."

"Three years now," muttered Kris, thinking aloud again.

"Three years until what?" asked Jass. "Or since what?"

"Three years until the competition."

"Which one?"

"The first competition here. I've been waiting and practising, and now I have only three more years to wait."

"Didn't Tirion tell you?" asked Jass, surprised.

"Was that the man who was just here?"

"Yes, and one of the highest SwordMasters."

"He didn't tell me much."

"Well, he was going to tell you, but I guess I get to break the news," said Jass, looking happy to have the chance. "Tirion was watching when you arrived. He wants you to stay and study with me!" Kristop's face lit up.

"Really?" he asked breathlessly. Jass nodded. From the hall outside, Tirion's voice rang out,

"Absolutely! As soon as you're ready to begin, you can join Jass." Kris struggled to get up, exclaiming,

"I'm ready now!" He stood for a moment, then had to sit back down, dizzy.

"You'd better wait until you can stand, first," laughed Tirion as he entered. Kris and Jass grinned at each other in happy anticipation of the future, and just for a moment, Kristop forgot about Haniya.

THE END

Copyright 1998 by R. V. Patriarche

I am a Canadian high school student who has been interested in writing her whole life. I enjoy reading Science Fiction and Fantasy novels and short stories as well as writing them. I am interested in constructive criticism, which may be e-mailed to me at phantasy@home.com


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