Book of Kayal: Strength of Unity Read online

  “We do not fear you,” the Highborn leader grunted. “Why are you so keen on seeking an audience with our leader?”

  “To claim that which is mine,” Ganis said, still following Eos’ whispers.

  “And what might that be?”

  Raising the Progenitor Sword up high in the sun for all to see, Ganis replied, “The allegiance of my people.”

  The three Highborn looked in shock at the sword of which they had heard many stories - the Progenitor Sword, Eos Teeban. Once the shock wore off, the Highborn leader released a thundering laugh, echoing through the snowy mountains and the struggling trees. The other two joined him, but their amusement did not seem genuine.

  “Someone as frail as you cannot wield the Progenitor Sword. This must be some sort of cheap trick. Perhaps I should send you to the afterlife myself, but that would rob King Ragnar of a good laugh.” The Highborn leader wiped the laughing tears with his right hand, doing a poor job and smudging his face with dirt instead, and ignored the unintended decoration. “We will escort you to our keep, but be warned that it might be one of the last things you do.” At his signal three others emerged from behind the thick bushes. “The alternative would certainly not be to your liking.”

  “We will allow you to escort us to your leader,” Ganis said, receiving a disapproving grunt from the man, but he complied regardless of his disappointment in the lack of a fight.

  While still keeping a watchful eye and a readied arm, the Parthans sheathed their weapons and broke formation. Hephaestion was uncertain about the decision to walk straight into the enemy’s territory and his gut warned him against it, but, as the Highborn leader suggested, it was better than the alternative.

  Eos’ plan had finally been put in motion. A group of able warriors were on their way to Scandur, to guide his people away from the destructive path he himself set them on.

  2

  The Parthans arrived at the Scandurian keep, mistaking it for a minor fort protecting its hinterlands. Just as Ganis was about to speak, the Highborn leader announced, “Welcome to Scandur Keep, where the Highblood live.”

  Ganis smirked at the almighty people. If only they knew the cities the Nosgardians built, perhaps they would be convinced that they were indeed not as superior as they thought. They entered a palisade circling a small village housing no more than six hundred Highborn.

  Wood and hay appeared to be all what the structures were built of. They were warm huts, but not sturdy to survive the elements for long without maintenance, not with the punishment nature bestowed upon them.

  A smithy marked by an anvil at its door seemed to be the single building not meant to house Highborn. The Scands had no economy of their own, living a life far more different than the villagers of Hearthdale. Other than battle and violence, they knew nothing of life. They were, indeed, a dying people, as Eos so often said.

  Their renowned battle prowess had come at a cost, technological and economic development. Without trade, the Parthans knew, civilizations came to a halt, and without advancement they were consumed by their neighbors.

  Looking at her captain, Ganis leaned to ask, in a whisper of a voice, “Isn’t it odd that they haven’t been invaded yet?”

  “I can only think of one explanation.” Hephaestion paused for a moment, looking right and left to make certain no one was eavesdropping. “A civilization without threat is a civilization with no cause for development. They never needed better weapons, taller walls, or warmer huts. My guess would be that not much has changed in the way they live since the days of Eos’ rule.”

  Eos’ selective breeding programs and intensive training gave the Scands the ultimate defense at the time, before the advent of steel would make their wooden spears useless, or gunpowder would make their skill obsolete. Eos had been too successful for anyone else to amass the courage needed to defy his ways.

  Their cycle of extinction resembles that of the Elder, if the books speak true. A threatening success, they called it, Ganis projected to Eos. As part of Asclepius’ training, she had studied whatever books and scrolls the School of Knowledge had gathered about the Elder, the first and greatest of all sentients.

  Ganis looked at one of the Highborn escorting them – she did not like having to look up to meet his eyes – and asked, “Would you follow me if I save you?”

  He produced a sarcastic laugh, brief and fake.

  “I will prove my worth before asking you again,” she said.

  When they reached the humble keep - a round structure resembling an ancient and small wooden fort, much like those the Parthan soldiers were trained to build on military campaigns, with four wooden towers protruding from each corner - The Parthans were relieved. They knew that it would not be difficult to impress a people whom they had much to teach.

  Inside, a large hall with a long banquet table led the band to the throne. Two rows of plain wooden pillars, extending from the entrance to the throne, supported the roof.

  As soon as the six Highborn scouts entered the chamber, a loud cry announced them, “Bjor, King Ragnar’s eldest son, has returned.” A pause. “They bring captives.”

  “Should they not prepare such matters in advance?” Ganis whispered, intending to project to Eos – a mistake.

  We do things differently than your people, Eos responded, but not much different that your predecessors many generations ago. Custom takes time to change.

  The Parthans approached the King, observing him and his guards wearily. He bore a grand resemblance to the one called Bjor. Like his son, King Ragnar had wild and long yellow hair matched by a thick beard. He was even taller and more muscular than his son, a trait Ganis though impossible when she first saw Bjor.

  King Ragnar’s blue eyes fell upon the Parthans, each getting scanned briefly until finally they settled on Sigurd. They were impressed by the man’s size, and the way he carried himself, it seemed to Ganis.

  “Why do you bring me farmers, children, and hounds?” King Ragnar asked, condescendingly.

  “They challenged you, King Ragnar. I thought you would like to address it yourself.”

  The King released an angry breath of frustration. “For your sake, I hope this does not prove to be a waste of my time.”

  Eos projected and Ganis spoke. “I bring the Progenitor Blade with me.” She unsheathed the blade and raised it for all to see. “I claim my rightful place here in Scandur.” She pointed at the throne. She then approached a small altar beside it.

  The altar, a small crevice in the ground marked with ancient symbols – runes incomprehensible to most – which made their path from the lowest point in the crevice to a large stone obelisk at its far edge. In the obelisk, taller than two Highborn standing atop one another and wider than the thick wooden beams which carried the roof of the throne room, a clear glass semi-sphere protruded from its center. Once Ganis placed Eos in a fitting crack in the crevice, the symbols came to life, pulsing with a faint yellow light reaching for the sphere absorbing its glow.

  “Impossible!” King Ragnar rose from his throne, revealing a hulking frame dwarfing all those around him.

  Ganis then removed her armor and lay down her weapons. She intended to prove her strength for all the Highborn. If she could challenge and defeat King Ragnar, Eos promised, she would tame them and gain their allegiance.

  King Ragnar eyed her, unimpressed, and said, “You should have never come here. I will spare you no pain of humiliation, Indignus.”

  Indignus! Eos projected to Ganis. He calls you unworthy, an offense no Highborn would tolerate. You must retaliate. Prove that you are one of them and gain your honor amongst the Highborn.

  Heeding the other Highborn, the Parthans steeped back, joining with the crowd that formed a circle around the two contenders, watching the encounter. Tables and chairs were cleared to allow for a spacious arena. Eirene and Monolos each guided their responsibilities away from the demonstration, well behind the crowd. They would miss it, but the pups and children would be safe.

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sp; Once the area was cleared, Ganis and King Ragnar slowly entered, eyeing one another carefully, thinking of the best method to attack.

  King Ragnar, twice as large and more than Ganis, circled his prey. His expression was cold, certain and ruthless. He stood proudly, making little effort to grant his foe the respect of readiness.

  Ganis stood still, trying to analyze the Highborn, looking for a weakness she could exploit. Now was not the time to hold back. Her Dark Gift would finally be of use. She had nothing to hide anymore, just strength to show – a display for both Highborn and Parthan.

  Eos commanded her to attack first. She lunged at her opponent, intending to gauge his abilities, with a flurry of punches and kicks. Hitting his sides first, testing his endurance, she struck. The Highborn King grimaced in pain. She was, after all, a match for him.

  Reactively, King Ragnar dodged, with little success, and parried. Even where his wrists would meet Ganis’ fists, he would feel the pain brought upon them by the fierce Indignus. One of his many blows made contact. He had struck Ganis in the gut with all his might. The impact pushed her backwards and nearly tripped her. She could be hit, but what little effect it had. Her body was like iron.

  Ganis, crouching and supporting herself on both feet and her left arm, looked up at King Ragnar and revealed a cunning smile. His blow, it seemed, was not enough to inflict any harm on her. She had the advantage. King Ragnar was indeed no match to her - not with the Dark Gift of which he knew nothing.

  King Ragnar’s face suddenly twitched in surprise. His eyes widened at his unnatural adversary. And for the first time, he felt fear. She could kill him if she wanted; him and all remaining Highborn, but that did not stop him from continuing his assault. He had to try, make certain that she was the rightful heir to the Progenitor - his duty as king.

  Ganis waited for King Ragnar to strike next. He dashed at her, intending to grab the little figure and run her into the wooden wall. She was quicker. As his shoulder made contact with her chest, she steadied herself and tossed his massive frame behind her. Back first, he crashed into a thick wooden beam supporting the roof, cracking it and nearly felling a portion of the structure.

  Dazed and humiliated, King Ragnar stood. He backed away to allow himself a moment’s worth of thought, but Ganis did not give him a chance to do so. It was time to finish the fight. She approached the man with unnatural speed and struck at his colossal frame with ruthless blows. Blood flew and muscle bruised. A combination of Peacekeeper and Parthan martial arts targeted at his body’s vulnerabilities crippled his movements. Killing the man, she deemed, would not be wise. He had to be subdued.

  King Ragnar’s neck met with the unwavering grip of Ganis’ firm hands. She was squeezing the life out of his body, and his hands intending of freeing him from her deadly grip were useless. His vision started to fade. He was defeated without even putting a dignifying fight. Then her grips loosened.

  “Do you submit?” Ganis asked with a firm voice and a stance ready to unveil a hidden fury.

  He could not speak at first, but as his breath returned he managed to say, “I submit.”

  She helped him up. “I have come to save your people. For many centuries you have stopped moving forward, it is time to continue. The Scands, the Highborn, are dying. Those are Eos’ words.”

  Holding his sore neck, rubbing it, he said, “You have proven your worth, Dignus. The Highborn have been patiently waiting for your arrival.” He bowed on both knees and cocked his head down. “What are your orders, Excelsis Dignus?”

  Dignus, Eos projected, is what they call outlanders whom they deem worthy of being considered their equals. It is a title that has not been given out in many ages. Excelsis Dignus, which you have been referred to as, is the worthiest of all Dignii, a great honor.

  “I do not wish to take your place, King Ragnar of the Scands, for I have no interest in leading a dying people. You need to prove your worth to me.”

  “How, Excelsis Dignus?”

  Ganis looked at the Parthans, who all stood now heading a crowd of tall men, even Eirene, Monolos, and their additional passengers. Her eyes fell on Hephaestion who gave her a slight nod. She was to assure them a place among the Scands until they decided how to best exploit their position.

  “I will need to convene with the other Dignii. Prepare us accommodation here within the keep.” She raised her arm suddenly gesturing their dismissal.

  The confused Highborn did not know whether they should heed her command, and looked at Bjor for approval. He quickly granted it with a gesture from his arm, to the same small crew which accompanied him, and they left in haste.

  Hephaestion, the most anxious of them all, was finally put at ease by knowing that his calculations had, once more, been wrong. Ganis deserved more trust than that he had given her. She deserved more command. Perhaps Pertinax could have lived if she was his second.

  3

  An entire wing in the second tier was dedicated to accommodate the new Highborn champion and her companions. Besting their King gave Ganis credibility, just as Eos foretold.

  Once the Parthans arrived at their new quarters, which could not have been prepared so hastily, within Scandur Keep, Ganis asked of Bjor, “Whose quarters are these?”

  “Eos’ quarters, Excelsis Dignus. We have been awaiting this moment for many generations,” Ragnar’s eldest responded. His tone bore more fear than respect, for it was the Highborn way to fear one’s leader and strongest of their race, unless they deemed them unworthy and intended to challenge them for their title.

  “I have not yet decided if the Highborn are worthy of my leadership. Do not call me ‘Excelsis Dignus’.”

  “What then should we call you?” Bjor barely held himself from adding ‘Excelsis Dignus’ to address Ganis.

  She remembered the early days of the Second Civil War when the Kolians recognized Rostam as their deity, the Blood God. He had them call the Demigod Servak ‘Razul’, the messiah, and saw it fit to use the same title, considering that she was Eos’ messiah, in some form. “You can call me Razul.”

  Bjor offered her a respectful nod, ignoring the others, and left, gently shutting the door behind him. He did not want to convey any aggressiveness to Ganis, fearing her to interpret any of his gestures as a challenge to her authority, an interpretation she would have never guessed unaided.

  The room, lavish by Scandian standards yet humble by Parthan ones, was about half as large as the throne room. Wooden beams extended from below and through the ceiling, supporting the structure. A large spacious area with a lit hearth and some dry wood to feed the fire stood under an oculus.

  With the exception of five leather chairs covered with white and brown furs, a few bronze torch holders, and some animal skins serving as carpets, there was little decoration. Six opened thick wooden doors, three on each side, revealed additional rooms with a single window, some hangers protruding from the walls, and a fur-covered bed in each. The finest Scandur had to offer was a disappointment to the Parthans.

  Looking at Hephaestion, Ganis asked, “What now?”

  “I do not know. It is Eos who should be guiding us, not I.”

  Remembering Eos’ words, Ganis added, “We need to prove to them that there is strength in unity.”

  “And how do you propose we do that?” Thalia asked. She tried one of the leather chairs, fidgeting to find comfort.

  “We have to demonstrate. A simple test where we pit one of their warriors against one of ours and ensure that ours gets defeated. Then we pit two of their warriors against two of ours and ensure a different outcome.”

  “A fixed fight!” Hephaestion hummed in contemplation. He rubbed his chin and stared at one of the animal skins decorating the floor.

  “They are a strong people. It will not be easy to defeat them in a duel, even with our most attuned warriors fighting alongside one another.”

  “I volunteer,” Sigurd said.

  “Not you, Sigurd.” Hephaestion eyed the man, casually approaching him.
Once he was close enough, Ganis noticed how much larger Sigurd was than the Parthan captain. “I do not believe you are capable of purposefully losing a fight. For Ganis’ plan to succeed, we need someone who is willing to be defeated and two who are deceptively capable.” He looked at the twins. “Percival and Dindrane, would you be willing to take such task?”

  The twins exchanged a glance between one another then Dindrane said, mischievously smiling, “Gladly, captain.”

  “Then it is decided. Percival will fight the first Highborn then Dindrane will join in when they face two.”

  “Be weary,” Eos addressed the Parthan group.

  Ganis unsheathed the Progenitor Blade and held it amidst its circling audience. It seemed a fitting thing to do when Eos spoke, in spite of the lack of necessity.

  “It will be a challenge. You will need every shred of strength to survive a duel against the weakest of the Highborn. Even then, you will most certainly fail at defeating them in a fair fight. You will need to fight at your best. It is not to be taken lightly.”

  “Then we will need some rest,” Hephaestion noted. “Tomorrow we demonstrate to the Highborn what strength lies in unity.”

  The Parthans nodded in agreement. They were eager to rest, especially after such a draining day.

  4

  Sleeping within Scandur Keep was relieving. Even though the place was poorly furnished and provided few comforts, it was safe. They could rest without worry of ambush or predation. They could rest without interruption of watch.

  Even Percival and Dindrane, the heroes-to-be of the day, had a rejuvenating sleep.

  As Ganis, the Excelsis Dignus, descended from her quarters, she heard the sound of quickly scattering boots upon aged wood. It was a distinct sound that was only heard within populated ancient structures. Once she appeared below, she was greeted with a curious troop of Highborn. They were, in a sense, her personal guard – if she would accept her new post.