“I was saving this story for a special day,” she said while pulling me into her arms. “I always imagined telling you when you completed your training as a warrior.” She smiled at me with pride.
LoPa played lazily on his lute, “She doesn’t have to be a warrior. Just tell her now.”
HoPa shook his head in the corner and mother stared hard at LoPa who was staring off into the distance. Somewhere past the walls of our home. Akmuo and Medis shrank towards the walls. Mother’s silence was like the suns burnt out. But LoPa kept talking, “Ever since the wars ended here, there’s little need for warriors. The clans are content with their peace. Besides, there’s a much larger tradition of poets, singers, and teachers than there is of warriors. The whole world is changing, turning towards peace. Bauruk made peace with Lapsa and Yuli, and all the world is better for it.” LoPa brought his gaze back to mother and blinked in the faint glow of the fire. He swallowed, then lowered his head and put down his lute. He opened his mouth to speak but then recoiled from mother’s expression—I didn’t see it, but I imagine it was fierce. LoPa nodded to himself, swallowed, then put on his furs, and walked outside.
He brought his lute with him and soft notes came through the walls for the duration of mother’s story. Sometimes a soft melody came as he sang.
Mother’s face softened and she smiled. “The story begins during my second season with the caravans. We were transporting Soarean silk from one place to another. Back then, I didn’t know where anything was in relation to one another, or even which city belonged to which empire. The Lapsan people were generally brown with red hair while the Yuli were paler with dark tilted eyes and black hair. The Bauruk look like us. Sort of. But even that was only useful to a point. They all spoke several shared languages and there were many Yuli looking people who were Lapsan and the same goes for the rest. Each empire and city were full of people of all types. Especially around merchants. Merchants have no homeland, as far as I could tell. Their homes are their caravans and shops. Their culture is one of trade, and their language is whichever one you speak. But it always revolves around trade and the metal bits that make up money.
“This caravan traveled on wide stretches of land where no trees could be seen, where rivers were far apart, and it was always windy, dusty. It was far away from Lapsa and Bauruk and Yuli, but I don’t recall where. East and east and east, I think. Mountains ran alongside us endlessly on the south. The wind came howling from there and I became used to its constant blowing, drying out my skin and eyes. We wore cloth over our faces to protect our skin from the wind. It wasn’t a pleasant wind, like we get here through the forest. It was a brutal, savage wind. The wind is why no trees grew, I think. Even they couldn’t withstand the constant blowing. At certain stretches, the ground didn’t even hold grass. It was just days of redbrown dust they call sand. To make it worse, the lack of shade made the suns beat down on us, burning what wasn’t blown away.
“There were only a handful of warriors to protect the caravan. One for every ten merchants. Each merchant had a handful of slaves as well. Slaves who dyed the silk into a hundred different colors. Slaves who wove the silk into long patterned blankets and scarves of dizzying imagery.
“To put it quickly, there were too few of us. One warrior for every fifty people, or something like that. The merchants didn’t want to spend the money to hire more of us, and only hired warriors like me. New to the world beyond the forest. None of us even spoke the same language, so we never learned to work and fight together. It wasn’t long until bandits discovered us.
“Their horses kicked up dust in the distance. Like a cloud hugging the land’s skin, rapidly approaching and growing. The merchants pushed their own horses hard to keep away. They knew they couldn’t protect themselves from the enormous cloud of banditry that approached.
If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
“First, they abandoned their slaves. They threw them from the caravan and left them behind, in the dust and dirt and beaten down grass.” She exhaled loud, “I don’t know what happened to them. Died, I suppose.
“The bandits weren’t trying to kill us. Not yet. They just wanted to wear out our horses so the catching would be easier. I saw what they were doing. Sending dozens of riders after us at a time so their pursuit seemed constant and endless. They were just a cloud in the distance still, but I saw how the cloud dilated in size. How it would appear close and then farther away. It became smaller over the course of a few days. One group would ride after us for a time. Then they’d stop to rest and the next group would pass the first group, still riding after us. They continued this process till our horses frothed blood and would run no more.
“They made no noise when they descended upon us. Their heads were covered except for their eyes. They were a mix of men and women. They never spoke. Only the sound of hooves on the dirt and hard grass. One of the merchants—the one who hired me—stood up in defiance only to find an arrow through his neck. The other merchants were stripped of their goods and left in the great plains, naked and horseless. I didn’t turn back to see what happened as the caravan left them, now in possession of the silent bandits. The warriors—me included—were taken. Bound and forced to run behind the caravan for days. Three of the other warriors fell and were dragged until we stopped.
“They died that way. Run to exhaustion and then torn apart by the ground. Or maybe that didn’t kill them. Either way, their bodies were left behind.
“I don’t know if the Deathwalkers took them. Not sure the Walkers exist way out there in that nothingness of open sky and open plains. That dry terror.
“I survived. I disappeared into myself during the long runs. I was delirious with fatigue and thirst but the image of your HoPa kept rising to the surface of my thoughts. He kept me going. Running. Just the thought of him saved me. I repeated his name over and over again to give me strength.
“On the day that the other surviving warrior collapsed and was dragged, I found strength in being the last one. I knew I would die out there in that endless place. The wind would rip the skins from my bones and my screams from my lungs. Nothing would be left of me. Fear consumed me, and I found strength there. A strength born of desperation and horror.
“Night came and with it the seven moons and still I was pushed forward by my desire to see your HoPa again, my fear of Death. When they stopped to water the horses and cut the warrior free, I caught the bandit’s arms. They were like braided metal, but I surprised her. I threw my forehead into her nose and bit through her neck. Then I dug my fingers in that torn out hole, ripping at the tendons and bones till she collapsed, spewing blood, her eyes as wide as the moon.
“I lifted her sword and cut myself free. I cut the other warrior free, too. I crept through the caravan then, like a ghost washed in blood. They were building fires and talking loudly. They drank from pouches and the same clay water jugs that filled the caravan. I was so thirsty I almost ran to them just so I could drink. But I held back, sword still in my hands.
“I didn’t know how to fight with a sword. Had never even seen it done, but it felt right in my hands. It was light and well balanced. I would be told much later that it had the look of an ancient Soarean blade, but I never believed that story. Even if it was true, it doesn’t matter now. Never even met a Soarean or learned who they were.
“In the darkness, I thought of stealing a horse and escaping, but I knew they’d run me down and kill me. There were thirty-seven bandits. I know because I killed them all. Under the cover of night, with the desperate fire burning in me, I waited. I waited until they were drunk or asleep, and I killed them all with this sword you now see.
“Then I took the caravan and kept heading east. After a few days, I came to a city and sold the caravan and silk.” Mother smiled, then giggled lightly. “They gave me so much money for it all but I had nowhere to put it. I knew they gave me less than it was worth but I didn’t care.
“I left most of the money in that world beyond the forest.”
Akmuo’s brow was furrowed, “But why didn’t you come home then?”
“What?” Mother cocked her head to the side.
Akmuo bit his lip, “Loving HoPa gave you strength but you didn’t come home.”
“Huh, that’s true.” Mother leaned back, and I watched her stare at the ceiling. “I guess I didn’t know the way home.”
Akmuo’s expression deepened until Medis took his hand and squeezed it.
"Did I choose to be reborn? Or was I chosen?"
Once, he was a Reaper—The Silent Hunter. Now, he walks a new path in a world of silver-tongued devils and blood-soaked politics. A gritty, high-stakes Dark Fantasy Progression story with a touch of horror.
What to Expect:
- Gritty Dark Fantasy
- Atmospheric Horror
- Deep World-building