“Precisely,” continued Karnic. “You will assume the leadership of a fourth clan. That estate will also host five thousand warriors under your direct command.”
“Assume?” frowned Zygor. “The clan lords of Khadora are very old men. Surely you know what you are asking of me?”
“No more than I am asking of myself,” nodded Karnic. “I will also assume a leader in Omunga to prepare for the Time of Cleansing.”
“But you are already old,” protested Zygor. “I have many years ahead of me yet.”
“You have given away your youth by your failure here in Fakara,” Karnic replied sternly. “Do you wish to refuse this order from Vand?”
Sweat broke out upon Zygor’s brow. He bit gently on his lip before bowing low before Karnic.
“I am most grateful for this opportunity to serve our master,” recited Zygor.
Brakas looked puzzlingly at the two magicians. He did not understand what horrors were alluded to by assuming a clan lord, but he knew that Zygor was fearful. He could smell the fear emanating from the young magician.
“How will we get these clan lords to accept five thousand Jiadin?” Brakas asked.
“Zygor will tell them to expect some new warriors to bolster their ranks prior to their expansion,” explained Karnic. “By the time they realize the magnitude of the number of new warriors, it will be too late for them to do anything about it. The clan lords will be told to follow the instructions of the lord that Zygor chooses to assume.”
“Still,” Zygor interjected as he regained his composure, “twenty thousand men is not enough to conquer Khadora.”
“You do not need to conquer the whole country,” replied Karnic. “I have spent much time in Khadora since the Time of Calling began. We will use their own culture to defeat them, one small step at a time. Your four clans will slowly, but steadily, encroach upon your neighbors. When you devour an estate, annihilate the family of the clan lord and dissolve the clan. There will be no survivors to appeal to the Lords’ Council. You will gobble up half the country before anyone thinks to object, and by that time it will be too late for them to object.”
“You mean to grow the army by assimilating other clans?” nodded Brakas. “That is brilliant.”
“It is perfection,” nodded Karnic. “Brakas you will gather up the Jiadin that are required for this plan. Offer them whatever you wish. There will be gold aplenty when we descend on Khadoratung. In the meantime, there is food outside that you can use to gather the starving men.”
“If the free tribes get wind of this,” frowned Brakas, “they will come here and destroy our new armies.”
“Then make sure that word does not pass to them,” shrugged Karnic. “Move the men out as soon as they reach five thousand in number. Then start with the next recruitment group. Even if the free tribes find out, we will have only five thousand men at risk at any time. Also, order the first group of men to clean up this area. Vandegar Temple is a holy shrine. I will not see it desecrated with filth and garbage.”
“It shall be as you command,” declared Zygor. “How will I report our successes to you?”
“There will be no need to report to me,” answered Karnic. “If you are successful, the world will know. And if you fail, you will not be alive to report. You will not find me in any event. I will be bringing chaos and mayhem to Omunga.”
Zygor opened his mouth to offer some vague praise to Karnic, but the elder magician was no longer in the room. Zygor blinked and gazed about the room, but Karnic was gone.
“Did you see him leave?” Zygor whispered to Brakas.
“No,” Brakas replied unsteadily. “What is this assuming that he talks about?”
“I have been ordered to take another’s body,” frowned Zygor. “It is irreversible. It is how Vand has managed to live for thousands of years. When he ages, he assumes a fresh young body.”
“And you can do that?” Brakas gasped. “Why then do you fear doing it when it means that you can live forever?”
“We can only do it once,” replied Zygor. “Only Vand can do it multiple times. By assuming the body of an old man, I am shortening my lifespan. It is my punishment for failure here in Fakara.”
“I think I would prefer dying,” mused Brakas as he thought about being an old frail man.
“That is the only choice available to you,” spat Zygor. “I am paying for my part in the failure here. You are not. Fail me again and you will surely beg for death, but that death will linger for an excruciatingly long time. Do not fail me again, Brakas.”
Chapter 2
Torak and the Shaman
Marak flicked his wrist towards the target. A bright stream of light shot forth from his hand and streaked towards the vertical log. As the stream of light traveled, it flattened into a disc, and tendrils of light spread out from the center. The mass appeared much like a spinning disc with multiple blades of shiny steel rotating rapidly around the center. The disc struck the log with tremendous force. Chunks of bark and wood splinters flew through the air as the disc sped through the log. It was cleanly sawed in half, and Marak watched in amazement as the top portion of the log toppled over and fell to the ground.
“See how the disc disintegrated after cutting through the log?” smiled Ukaro. “If that was an enemy’s body, it would have continued onward to strike what was behind it. You must learn to gauge the amount of force needed in any given situation. Sometimes you can use the spell to fell multiple foes. Other times you will prefer not to harm what is behind your enemy. You must practice this spell until you learn how to measure the force needed.”
“Amazing,” Marak muttered as he stared at the severed log. “I would not have believed that it would be so simple.”
“It is not simple, son,” replied the Chula shaman. “You have great power. Were you to live with the Chula, you would become a powerful shaman.”
“Like you are,” nodded Marak. “Sometimes I wish for nothing more than to do exactly that. Mother and you are so happy here.”
“We are,” grinned Ukaro, “but your path lies elsewhere, Marak. The Torak cannot walk away from his responsibilities.”
“The Torak,” frowned Marak. “I still do not have a clear idea what the Torak is, or what I am supposed to do.”
Ukaro stared at his son, his split lips pressed tightly together. He absently brushed his golden mane away from his face and suddenly smiled.
“Come and sit with me by the lake,” Ukaro said. “Enough practice for one day and you must return to your flatlanders in any event.”
“I must, father,” nodded Marak. “The Sakovans are preparing to leave for home, and I would be remiss if I was not there to bid them farewell.”
The young lord of the Torak clan and his Chula father strode across the open field and sat beside the lake. Marak gazed at his father’s face. The shaman’s face resembled the face of a lion. Long whiskers spread outward from above his split lips, and his mane was more than just long hair. It flowed from every portion of his face and head. His eyes sparkled with the clarity of a hunter.
“You still find my appearance strange,” smiled Ukaro. “It can only be achieved by a powerful shaman. It demands respect within the Chula. You have the power to look like me, although I doubt your flatlanders would find it appealing.”
“I suppose they would not accept it very well,” Marak conceded. “Do you like looking that way?”
“I do,” grinned Ukaro. “It is a constant reminder of who I am, but I do understand how others could find it discomforting.”
“Perhaps when I am finished doing whatever it is that I must do,” posed Marak, “I will live with the Chula and learn the ways of my ancestors.”
“If you survive,” frowned Ukaro. “Do not make light of what the Torak must endure. Your task will be fraught with danger.”
“What is my task, father?” asked Lord Marak. “Tell me about the Torak.”