Chapter 14 of Servant of the King

Longest chapter yet. Nearly 4500 words. 

Chapter 14

Flaming torches flickered in the hut's interior, lighting brightly the home of the spiritual leader of the Separated. Lakhoni wondered that had no idea how he should address this man. He had never heard Gimno, Corzon or Anor—or any of the other Separated for that matter—ever make mention of the man. A heavy, almost wet aroma that made his nostrils tingle filled the house. It smelled like nothing he had ever experienced. It was spicy, like one of the ointments Salno had used to clean wounds, but it also felt cool, like a mountain breeze. But there was also an undercurrent of meat that had been boiled too long.

Lakhoni glanced around. The walls of the hut were round, curving out and back to Lakhoni's right and left. He followed Gimno, who followed the red man, deeper into the hut, skirting small tables and stoned covered in the hides of animals of all kinds. A badger skin glittered, looking almost wet, from the flat, round stone it was draped on. Nearby was another, smaller stone with a beaver hide. On the beaver hide were gathered a variety of shining stones.

The curving walls seemed like they should bowing under the weight of the multitude of items hanging from them. Hundreds of bone and wooden pegs had been driven into those stone walls, and hanging from those pegs were more hides and skins along with weapons, raiment, instruments and things that Lakhoni could not identify. One long item that sat on two pegs caught his eye. In the bright light provided by what must have been more than twenty torches, the thing's handle looked to be made of white, polished stone. The base of the handle was wrapped tightly in deep, black leather and the handle—or haft—extended the length of Lakhoni's arm, ending in an oddly shaped head. The head was a combination of a hatchet on one side, and a long, wickedly serrated knife on the other side. But a jagged spike also extended from the head, making the total length of the thing almost as long as one of Gimno's legs.

And the head was made entirely of metal that had been tightly seated on the bone haft.

Lakhoni hurried to catch up to Gimno, then realized that somehow this hut was bigger than he had thought. From the outside, it was clear this was the largest hut in the cavern. But now, as Lakhoni took the time to look, he realized that the hut that could be seen outside was just the beginning. He had assumed that the back wall of the hut would be the wall of the cavern, but it was now clear that the hut had been built to take advantage of a cave that branched off from the main cavern.

More than a cave, Lakhoni realized as they passed a small cavern to their left. A series of caves.

The entire complex was filled with the aroma that had greeted them when they entered. As they walked, they passed more caves, some with hides stretched over wood planks for doors and some open. Lakhoni snuck a glance into one of the open caves, but even as he saw piles glittering things, he heard Gimno's harsh, quiet whisper.

"Cub! Respect this place."

Lakhoni met the tall man's eyes, having no trouble seeing their grim expression in the still-brightly lit cavern. Nodding, Lakhoni lengthened his stride, wondering how long this journey would take. Even as the thought departed, they came to a ladder. The red man stood to the side of the ladder and gestured for Gimno to ascend. Without a sound, Gimno flowed up the ladder, Lakhoni following.

At the top, Lakhoni stopped in total stupefaction. The ladder led to a large, mostly round cavern. But it wasn't the size or shape of the cavern that stunned him. The cavern floor was completely covered with luxurious animal hides, as were the walls. A huge table dominated the room. It seemed to have been cut from one massive tree. The top was flat, while the bottom appeared to be the rounded trunk of the original tree. Standing on many thick legs, the table had been polished to gleam wetly in the light of torches and a fire that blazed in what looked like a large hearth on the far side of the room. Chairs of wood, made comfortable with soft hides, surrounded the table. There had to be at least twenty chairs, one of which was larger and more ornate than the others. This one had been turned to face the hearth.

Hoping his surprise hadn't been noticed, Lakhoni pushed himself off the ladder into the room and stood next to Gimno, the soft hides under his feet a surprisingly warm and pleasant sensation.

"Bonaha," Gimno said, respect in his voice.

"Gimno, my boy." The voice seemed to flow, slick and smooth, like oil from the ornate chair. Nothing else stirred.

"The cub," Gimno said.

"Of course," said the voice. Now Lakhoni saw movement. A small form—Lakhoni recognized its size from the sacrifice of the boy—separated itself from the chair. The figure's hair no longer stood on end, but Lakhoni felt sure that this was the same man that had murdered the young boy.

The man stepped toward Gimno and Lakhoni, a bright smile on his face. "This is the cub you've spoken of?"

"Yes, Bonaha."

The man, Lakhoni couldn't tell if Bonaha was a title or name, squinted and seemed to examine Lakhoni for several long minutes. He faced Gimno, looking up at the tall man.

"And you have brought him for his grooming?"

Gimno nodded. "Yes, Bonaha." Lakhoni heard the respect and adoration in Gimno's voice. It seemed strange for such a tall, imposing man to give such great respect to this small man.

"Well, cub," the man said. "I am Bonaha Comnor. Bonaha means 'Teacher' in the language of our First Fathers and Comnor is my name." The small man raised a hand to Lakhoni's face. His palm felt soft and moist on Lakhoni's cheek. It smelled of flowers. "You will call me Bonaha."

Lakhoni nodded, trying not to squirm under the uncomfortable touch. He forced the images of this same hand gripping a shiny dagger out of his mind.

"Today you will be groomed," the Bonaha said. "Do you understand what that means?"

Lakhoni shook his head. He knew he should say something, but the revulsion in his heart seemed to be choking him. I can't show him. He'll kill me if I do. He forced himself to swallow past the tightness in his throat.

"What?" the Bonaha said, laughter in his voice. "Can you not speak?" The moist hand slapped Lakhoni gently. "Come on boy, you need not fear me."

"Show some respect, cub!" Gimno said, nudging Lakhoni.

"Yes," Lakhoni said.

"Yes what?" the Bonaha asked.

"I can speak."

The small man gave a satisfied nod, his hand sliding down Lakhoni's cheek, onto his neck and then stroking down Lakhoni's arm. Lakhoni forced the need to shudder deep inside himself.

"And do you understand what it is to be groomed by the Bonaha of the Separated?" the man's dark eyes seemed to flash with a wet hunger.

Lakhoni shook his head. "No."

"With respect, cub!"

"Leave it, Gimno," the Bonaha said, patience dripping from his voice. He turned back to Lakhoni and smiled. "It is proper to affix 'Bonaha' to what you say to me."

Swallowing again, willing his heart to slow, Lakhoni said, "Yes, Bonaha." He tried to understand the fear that filled him with every word Bonaha Comnor spoke. The man was small, nearly the same size as Alronna. His voice was soft and kind and he smiled almost constantly. His touch was light and affectionate.

But something in the man's eyes terrified Lakhoni. He frantically tried to find somewhere else to look, but the Bonaha seemed to have trapped his gaze as effectively as a barbed hook would catch a fish.

"Now, being groomed by the Bonaha of the Separated is an important step in your journey," the Bonaha said, turning and stepping back toward his chair. "Through this process, you show your strength and determination to join with us in our divinely appointed mission."

After a long pause, Lakhoni realized he was expected to respond. "Yes, Bonaha."

"How much has Gimno explained of what you will son experience, boy?" The Bonaha turned and walked back toward the crackling fire.

At the same time that he spoke, Lakhoni realized that there must be some kind of chimney that extended from this cave to the outside world. He watched the Bonaha's back as the small man lifted his left hand toward the cave entrance. "Nothing… Bonaha."

It seemed the Bonaha's gesture had been a signal to a man Lakhoni hadn't even seen yet. It was another tall red man who had been standing completely still in the shadows at the end of the cave furthest from the fire. This man folded into a deep bow, then, looking over the edge of the cave floor, snapped once.

"That is fine," the Bonaha said, standing just inside the circle of light cast by the fire. "This grooming takes place sometime around the completion of your fourteenth year—but can change depending on your readiness."

Taking long strides, the red man moved toward the fire, skirting the huge table and passing in front of Lakhoni.

A moment after the man passed him, Lakhoni caught a strong smell of sweat, blood and animal musk.

"Gimno has decided you are ready." The Bonaha turned his gaze on Lakhoni. In the bright glare of the fire, Lakhoni thought he could see the small man's eyes fill with a frightening intensity. "Not that it matters, but what is your age, boy?"

"In the spring I'll have finished my sixteenth year." A memory of the cakes and festivities that happened in his village during that season of birth celebrations flashed into his mind.

"So you are a little old, but that is fine."

A tall shape appeared at the top of the ladder and immediately crossed the room, followed by another of the red men. These two, with the man who had called them, rolled the soft hide on the floor near the hearth back, exposing rough stone.

"My halkeens will assist in this ceremony."

Hearing the strange word, Lakhoni looked back at the Bonaha. The small man must have detected Lakhoni's lack of understanding. "Surely Gimno has told you of these men. They are the Consecrated. Halkeen is the word for 'consecrated' in the language of our First Fathers."

Glancing about, the Bonaha gestured toward the fire. "Now come."

Lakhoni stepped forward, unsure of how close he should move.

"Gimno, you will purify."

Lakhoni felt Gimno's familiar presence to his right as the man moved forward. "Yes, Bonaha," Gimno said. He set his hand on Lakhoni's shoulder and Lakhoni, despite himself, felt a slight comfort steal over him at the well-known feeling of Gimno's rough, strong hand.

Realizing that something he had never seen or experienced was about to happen, Lakhoni berated himself for not paying better attention. He looked closely at the preparations the halkeen were making. One stood near the fire with a long stick of some kind, with which the man was poking at the fire, spreading embers and coals. He seemed to be looking for something.

Another man stood nearer the table and a rasping sound filled the large room as this man began to sharpen a long, slightly curved knife. With a second glance, Lakhoni saw that the curved knife was made of metal. So much metal! Where do they get it all?

The third man had just finished brushing a bundle of dried grass over the space that the rolled up hide had been covering. Now he slipped a soft-looking pouch off a short peg in the wall near the hearth. Crouching down, the Consecrated shook out a pile of jagged bits. By the sound of them on the stone floor, Lakhoni guessed they were rocks and realized they must be obsidian by the way they shone and glinted in the firelight.

"Now, Gimno, take your place at the fire," the Bonaha said.

Gimno took two long strides and took the place of the man who had been prodding the fire. This Consecrated handed his stick to Gimno and moved toward the peg that had been holding the obsidian bits. He pulled a rod of some kind off another peg, where it had been looped with the small leather strip on its end.

"Boy, what is your name?"

Lakhoni tore his eyes away from what looked like sharp thorns on the rod in the Consecrated's hands. "Lakhoni."

"Lakhoni," the Bonaha intoned. "You wish to join the Separated. The Living Dead. Those who will reclaim the Birthright."

The long pause made Lakhoni glance around, wondering if he was to say something. He saw Gimno staring intently at him. Gimno nodded deliberately.

"Yes, Bonaha," Lakhoni said. First Fathers, please help me hide this lie. And please forgive me for it! He didn't know if the Fathers' teachings allowed for necessary lies, but Lakhoni saw no other way.

The Bonaha nodded gravely. "And you willing do this Trial of the Gate?"

"Yes, Bonaha." Lakhoni tried not to think too much about what he was getting into. The wickedly barbed rod continued to draw his gaze. He wanted to slow things down so he could think this through. He looked at the barbed rod, the obsidian chips and Gimno standing at the hearth. What was this Trial of the Gate? Panic began to flutter in his chest.

"This is a test of your strength of character, your determination, and your will," the Bonaha said. "Your knees will rest upon the obsidian. You must be still in the face of that discomfort; showing your ability to stay and fight when all is pain. If you flee this, you will be known as a coward. Cowards are not warriors."

One of the Consecrated appeared behind Lakhoni and gestured for Lakhoni to move to the pile of obsidian.

"You will grip the thorny rod," the Bonaha said. Lakhoni felt a burst of laughter rise in him at the funny-sounding name. He knew that if he gave in to the panic and ran, he would likely be killed. And if he failed this, he guessed he would be very restricted in his movements.

"And you must hold it tightly to prove your determination to fight alongside the Separated, even when it is painful and difficult," the Bonaha said.

The Consecrated who held the rod handed it to Lakhoni. Lakhoni held it carefully at its ends, waiting for whatever signal he assumed would be given. He tried to keep his breathing even, shouted mentally at his heart to slow. He could do this. Gimno must have done it. Every warrior in the Separated must have done it.

He could do this.

"You will be purified with each stroke of the grooming blade. During the grooming, you must remain completely still—demonstrating your will to overcome all difficulty, pain and struggle in the battle to reclaim the Birthright."

"Remember Lakhoni," the Bonaha's voice became soft, intimate. Lakhoni met his gaze. "You must not move. If you do, the grooming blade will cut you, and you will be scarred. A warrior must not have a scarred scalp."

Lakhoni felt as if he could almost believe the Bonaha was concerned about him, but the glittering hunger in the small man's eyes belied that. He glanced down at the obsidian. That shouldn't be too bad. The thorns on the rod looked to be somewhat barbed. If he could hold it just so, he might be able to avoid jabbing them into his hands.

"Now kneel, Lakhoni."

Clenching his jaw tightly, Lakhoni lowered his knees to the pile of obsidian chips. He let out a breath as his weight came fully down. He flinched at the sharp pain that greeted his knees. No, I can't move or jerk. I can't be scarred. He took a deep breath and raised his head, hoping that by not looking at his knees he could put the building pain out of his mind.

It felt like some creature with barbed talons had grabbed him by the knees and was now pulling him downward. He had to fight the instinct to get to his feet and escape the pain.

"Grip the rod tightly. Prove your will to the Great Spirit."

Lakhoni tentatively wrapped his hands around the rod and squeezed. Pinpricks filled his palms, but it wasn't anywhere near as bad as the obsidian.

"Tighter."

He realized he had closed his eyes, so he opened them. He saw that a Consecrated was kneeling next to him, his hand on one end of the rod Lakhoni held. Lakhoni followed the Bonaha's command and tightened his grip. The pinpricks transformed into small, razor sharp knives slicing his hands open.

"Tighter, boy." The Bonaha's voice penetrated the pain filling him.

Lakhoni realized his breath was coming in short, quick bursts. At least he wasn't gasping, but he felt moisture at the edges of his eyes. Tighter? I can't do this.

He took a breath, trying to make it smooth and to calm his panicking heart.

He wanted to stand. He wanted to throw the poorly named thorny rod into the fire and fling himself to his feet and run away from these people. He wanted to be with his family again. He wanted to hear Sana's singing, his father's kind voice. He wanted to play at hunting with Alronna and talk dreams with Salno.

Alronna. She was out there. Alive.

Put the pain away. Lakhoni felt the command come from deep inside; deeper than the pain and deeper than fear.

He took a breath as slowly as he could. Gritting his teeth, he imagined that the thorny rod was a barbed branch that held Alronna over a tall cliff's edge. He had to hold it so she wouldn't fall.

Lakhoni tightened his grip. Hundreds and thousands of small knives sliced his palm to the bone. His jaw trembled with the pain of holding it closed to keep from crying out. His knees felt as if they were being chewed on by a jaguar.

"It is well," the Bonaha said.

He had closed his eyes again, without meaning to. Lakhoni forced his eyes open, feeling a tremble pass through him. No. He had to be still. Being a warrior meant more freedom.

"We will begin the grooming and purifying."

Lakhoni carefully looked over to the Bonaha, who held the curved knife before him. As the Bonaha moved forward to stand to Lakhoni's left, a band of orange light slid from the hilt to the tip. Lakhoni fought down the urge to throw himself backward, away from the jagged obsidian tearing into him.

"Gimno, come."

Gimno nodded, poking his stick into the fire. He came away with a small, glowing coal whose heat shimmered across its surface in waves. Deep in his mind, past the wall of agony, Lakhoni realized the stick was actually a set of tongs. Gimno stood before Lakhoni, the glowing ember darkening into ash where the tongs gripped it.

Purified with each stroke.

Understanding cut through the haze gripping his mind. Gimno's going to' purify' some part of me with that.

"You must not move," the Bonaha said. "Be the victor. Do not allow the pain to corrupt you. Rather, let it purify." The Bonaha let out a slow, even breath. "Or you will be called coward and will spend your days doing the work of those who cannot fight for truth."

This was too much. No human could suffer this without moving.

But Anor was a warrior… and Lakhoni had never seen any scars on his head. Gimno's head was covered in smooth, unbroken tattoos.

Somehow he had to do this.

Before he could think or take another breath, he felt the cold edge of the Bonaha's blade on the back of his neck. Gimno raised the coal until it was a foot length in front of Lakhoni's mouth.

My mouth? He had to focus, put the fear away. He had to control the pain.

The pressure on the back of his neck increased.

No, wait-

He sucked in a breath as the blade scraped up the back of his neck, up to his head. No added pain. Not that Lakhoni noticed anyway. He tried to put the pain away as the glow of the coal moved forward, but it was too fast-

Bright, freezing pain exploded on his lips. It instantly filled his mouth and triggered a pounding headache. Lakhoni instinctively jerked back, but before the movement grew, he clamped his jaws tightly and planted his rear-end on the backs of his legs. Words and thoughts fled in the face of the burning agony that followed the first instant of explosive cold.

All was silence in the room, save for the sound of the Bonaha cleaning his blade on something that sounded soft.

Lakhoni's heart hammered, his breath coming quickly. His arms trembled. His stomach revolted and he swallowed to keep its contents under control. Burning, throbbing, stabbing—an ecstasy of agony was all he knew. He had to get away.

He must not.

Put it away. He couldn't.

Pressure, then scraping, then a bright inferno on his face. He jerked again, this time more severely. He felt the blade nick him gently.

NO!

Alronna's face swam into view.

He sucked in a breath through lips that felt bigger than his face.

He pictured his knees, chewed and bruised by the obsidian. He saw the pain, bright red and deep black. He saw tendrils of pain reaching up his legs.

He cut the tendrils short. Pictured his knees on a soft hide.

He saw his hands, slashed to ribbons. Pictured them whole and grabbing onto a tree branch.

The pressure of the blade returned, this time on the top of his head.

He forced a slow breath into his lungs.

The cooling coal floated near.

He held the breath; felt his heart slam once, twice, then again.

The blade scraped.

Heat near his face.

Lakhoni slowly let out the breath as the coal touched his bottom lip.

He saw the pain explode, willed it to stop. He turned it around and tried to push the agony out with his breath.

Better, but a violent red haze still filled him. The need to flee softened his focus.

He flung his mind after the vision of Alronna.

Focus. Center.

Another breath punctuated by the sound of the Bonaha's blade being cleaned.

Alronna's face.

Like in the training circle.

Put the pain away. Find a place for it and shut the door.

Center!

The blade's edge pressed the right side of his head.

In his mind, he forced steel into his spine. He breathed deeply, slowly.

He reached into the stone under him, willing himself to become one with it.

Scrape. Heat.

Knives and fangs.

Alronna's face.

A new sensation broke him out of his forced trance. A hand on his shoulder.

Pain exploded all over his body in the moment that he reconnected with his surroundings.

"Lakhoni, you can release the rod," Gimno said softly.

The hand was Gimno's. The tall man's other hand was pulling on the thorny rod. "Let go, cub." Concern filled his voice.

Lakhoni had to remind himself how to open his hands. He had to envision them opening and then deliberately force each finger to move.

The rod dropped slightly as Gimno took it. He quickly hung it back near the hearth and returned to Lakhoni's side.

"Now stand," Gimno said.

"Arise, Lakhoni of the Separated." This time it was the Bonaha who spoke. "Sit down a new being, a new man. A warrior of the Living Dead."

Done? How-

Lakhoni flexed his leg muscles, pushing himself up. He got halfway up when he swayed, fresh pain in his knees making them buckle.

Gimno caught him under his arms and eased him into a chair that someone had moved nearby.

He wondered how long he had been in the trance, forcing fresh waves of pain into a place deep inside. How had he found that place? How could he find it again? Did I really pass?

A Consecrated appeared, handing Gimno soft bandaging cloths and a gut of something that sloshed. Another followed, carrying a sachet of something that smelled crisp like a new morning.

"It is well, Lakhoni," the Bonaha said. "Very well indeed. Your will is strong."

Gimno placed the sachet, which was moist to the touch against Lakhoni's lips. "Hold this."

Lakhoni obeyed, gently pressing the small packet to his mouth. Whatever it held felt incredibly cooling against the fire pulsating there. He felt gentle touches on his knees and looked down. Gimno was kneeling in front of him, washing his injuries.

"And now Gimno administers to you and his Rite of Consecration is completed," the Bonaha said. "Two rebirths in one day." Lakhoni turned to see the Bonaha pouring the contents of a clay bottle into an ornately carved wood cup. The Bonaha took a long sip. "A good day for the Separated."

As Gimno ministered first to his knees, then his hands, Lakhoni felt like mists in his brain were finally dissipating. I passed. And Gimno's a Consecrated. What had the Bonaha called them? The word came to him as a fresh stab of pain in his left hand made him flinch. A halkeen. So what does this mean?

"I know you are not familiar with our rites and traditions, my boy," the Bonaha said. "So listen closely. Gimno will continue to train you, as is his right. But you will shoulder some responsibility for the protection and sustenance of the Separated. When the wounds of your Trial have healed sufficiently, you will receive your first symbol."

Lakhoni wondered at that for a moment, but the Bonaha indicated the tattoo on his chest. "This first symbol is that of the Separated. You become worthy of a new one each time you take a life in defense of the Separated."

Now that the mists had dissipated from his mind, Lakhoni felt clean and sharp, almost supernaturally focused. Understanding immediately what the Bonaha implied, he looked down at Gimno. Gimno: covered in tattoos. The tall man must have had hundreds.

Hundreds of 'symbols.' Symbols of death.

He wondered what was meant by ''in defense of the Separated." He remembered the young boy.

As Gimno's gentle hands wrapped his injuries in soft, soothing ointment and cloth, Lakhoni knew what "in defense" meant.

Murder. 

Chapter 13 of Servant of the King

Chapter 13

The apple crunched satisfyingly in his mouth, sweet juices bursting and then flowing down his throat. Lakhoni edged closer to the fire, looking around at all of the people gathered in Gimno's fire circle. The small circle seemed to tremble with the intensity of the conversation going on around him.

When Gimno and his warriors had arrived, Lakhoni in tow, with tales of Usurpers in the area, people had flocked around them, asking questions. Many of those people now sat or stood in Gimno's fire circle, nervous chatter echoing off the stones. Tattoos glistened and flickered in the firelight. Food was being served and eaten at the same time and Lakhoni felt like he might make apples his only meal for the next few days.

It felt like a lifetime ago since the last time that Lakhoni had eaten a fresh apple. And having this one was really due to luck anyway. One of Gimno's warriors had spotted an apple tree full of ripe fruit soon after leaving the village. They had all filled pouches, blankets, pots and even tunics with as many apples as they could carry. Arriving at the cavern laden with apples and news of Usurpers some hours previous; the chaos had yet to subside.

Lakhoni knew he shouldn't eat so many apples in one sitting, but he couldn't stop himself from grabbing a fifth one. He felt like he hadn't eaten a piece of fruit in years. Weeks of dried, roasted, boiled meat and bland root vegetables along with heavy, coal-baked bread made the apples taste as if they were a gift from the First Fathers.

Chewing more thoughtfully now, and fully warmed after the journey through the cold winter day, Lakhoni rose and wandered around the fringes of the crowd. As he moved, he caught snatches of conversation, voices raised in angry tones.

"- find them and destroy them!"

"We must take things slowly and carefully. They are the invaders and-"

"- retrieve our birthright.."

This last caught his attention. It seemed strange that any of the Separated—a people that seemed to have left behind their birthright with Lemal's people of their own free choice—would want to reclaim a birthright that the Usurpers had stolen from Lemal's great grandfathers. Why would a people so determined to remain aloof and apart from a society that used to be home want to take back power stolen so many years before?

Lakhoni knew that every child of King Lemal's people heard the story—it seemed that the chief of the village had told it every year during the mid-autumn celebrations. After the First Fathers had all traveled across the great waters to the east, guided by the light of the Great One, a conflict had erupted. The father of the First Fathers had died, leaving his four sons and their families and cousins on their own. The two youngest sons had claimed to be chosen by the Great One to rule, but the two oldest, knowing it was a sin to fight family, had argued gently. When the younger brothers had raised their arms in anger, the older two had taken their families and fled into the wilderness to the south.

King Lemal was a descendant of one of those two older brothers. The Usurpers, somewhere far to the north, often invaded, trying to claim all of the earth for their greedy power, but Lemal's people—the People of Promise—had always fended the Usurpers off.

It was said that the Usurpers practiced all kinds of evil, sacrificing humans and doing unthinkable things with animals and innocents.

Now it seemed the Usurpers had made it farther south than anyone could remember seeing them.

And, for some reason, they had visited Lakhoni's village, and maybe even gone into his family's hut. Why? Lakhoni drifted away from the crowd, heading in the direction of one of the training rings in the middle of the cavern. After a long minute of drawing a complete blank, Lakhoni stuffed the core of his apple into his mouth and shook his head.

It was none of his concern. His only thought now should be to do all he could to gain the total trust of the Separated so that he could find a way to escape and get to the city of Lemalihah. And there he would find his sister and guide the sword of justice to fall upon those who had murdered his family.

He stepped between the two tall stones that had been placed as a portal to his favorite training ring. A cursory examination of the four circles where warriors trained made it seem that they were identical. But Lakhoni had quickly found that appearances were deceiving when the floor was stone of multiple hues and shapes. His favorite training circle had several dips and a small knoll near the center. When he stood upon that knoll, he felt like he gained a height advantage—and he knew he needed all the help he could get.

Gimno had agreed that Lakhoni was probably at his adult height—which was not much taller than the head of a donkey. Lakhoni remembered that the last time he had been measured, his father had declared him to be just over eleven hands tall. While this was probably average among the descendants of the First Fathers, it seemed like the men of the Separated were all unusually large.

So Lakhoni liked his knoll. He had run, dodged, ducked and rolled around this training circle enough to know where all of the depressions and bumps were. Looking around, he was glad that most of the people were still at Gimno's circle, leaving him free to work alone. He didn't like having an audience, especially when he was practicing Feather Leaps.

He strode across the circle and stood atop the small, rough knoll. He placed his feet shoulder-width apart and closed his eyes, letting out a slow breath. Sucking in another long breath, he focused on the feeling of his feet on the stone, willing his body to become completely still. In a brief moment, he had centered; his body feeling nearly one with the stone beneath him. Gimno said that he would learn to center so well at some point that if a running boar were to slam into him full-tilt, while he was centered, he would not be moved.

Lakhoni didn't know yet if he believed that, but he knew that he felt strength infuse him with each moment that passed as he stood still and calm.

Reminding himself to keep his breathing even and steady, Lakhoni began to flex his leg muscles. He pushed them to become tighter and tighter, willing his breathing to remain even. When he felt his legs might snap, he bent his legs slightly and launched himself forward. He stretched his right leg forward, aiming the ball and toes of the foot at a small rise on the ground. He tightened the muscles of his right leg and bent it the moment before his foot came in contact with the rise. Pushing off almost before he landed, he flung himself to the left now, his left leg tight and his foot aimed carefully at another small rise.

This was the Feather Leap; it was how Gimno had descended the entrance shaft to the cavern of the Separated on the night that Lakhoni had first been taken in. The objective was to be in such control of your muscles and actions that you could push off anything quickly and easily—and through this be able to change your movement and its direction with astonishing speed. Gimno insisted that a man could dodge arrows from an army with the Feather Leap.

Lakhoni knew he couldn't dodge an apple core thrown by a child yet, but he intended to master this technique. Pushing off his left leg, he sprang across the ring to another rise, and then another. Soon he was nearing the portal stones. Elation filled him. He knew he was spending too much time on the ground before each succeeding leap, but he also knew he was doing better than ever before.

Gathering all of his strength and forcing it into his right leg until it practically hummed with tension, he pushed off the last rise. He shot off the ground and reached toward the top of the stone. Gimno had done this and had leapt easily to the top of this portal stone two weeks previous.

He was going to make it!

His knees slammed into the stone with an explosion of hot pain. In a flash he knew that if he were to hit the ground as askew as he was, he could break a leg. Frustration at himself filled him even as he instinctively pushed off the stone with his arms before he could slide too far down and hit the ground. He arched his back as far backward as he could, envisioning himself doing a back flip and hopefully landing on all fours. He had to tuck his legs—like this—tight up to his body and fling his arms hard in the direction of his mid-air tumble.

He hit the ground, balls of his feet landing first, his legs bending quickly to absorb the impact and his right hand coming down immediately after. He stopped moving, feeling as if he had landed lighter than he could have hoped for.

Lakhoni stayed that way for a moment. The dark brown and black hues of the cavern floor filled his vision. By the Fathers. He glanced at his posture. He felt like he had landed like a cat, or a spider—lightly and in total control. The flip he had done passed through his mind; he felt like he could almost see what he had made his body do.

"How did I do that?" he asked the ground. He pushed himself to his feet and glanced around. Nobody was near; nobody had seen. He briefly wondered why he cared that none of the Separated had seen him, but the thought left him as a glimmer of understanding lit his mind. "I thought I was going to make it. I lost focus on my actions and forgot the moment." He knew this was why he hadn't gained the top of the portal stone. Gimno had said, countless times, that he had to be in total control of each muscle and that anticipation, fear, and other emotions too often got in the way of that control.

That must be how I did the flip. It was like I was watching myself. Lakhoni shook off the surprise at what he had done and focused on his state of mind during the flip and his landing. He needed to be able to do that kind of thing again. It must have been the danger of breaking my leg. I knew I couldn't afford to do that. I wouldn't get out of here for months. It had been the need that made him focus. The urgency of staying healthy seemed to have cleared his focus so much until it was sharp as the edge of a fine obsidian dagger. I need to be able to focus like that again.

The pain in his knees faded as he walked slowly inside the perimeter of the training ring. He thought about justice and rescue; the mission he felt commanded by his family to fulfill. As he did so, keeping his breathing calm and even, envisioning his family and village, he felt his focus sharpening. It was almost as if he could look around and see the stone huts of his village instead of the stone walls and huts of the Separated. His family and friends walked and smiled in his imagination.

This is my focus. Purity of intention. Justice for the death of innocents.

He strode across the ring again, gaining his knoll and centering himself quickly. He took a deep breath and flung himself forward. He feather-leaped from rise to rise, feeling a delicious strength and clarity fill him.

As he leapt, he considered trying the portal stone again. He decided against it. He would try another day when he was stronger.

He landed lightly back on his knoll, his breath still even and feeling as if he had taken a refreshing walk.

"Cub!"

Tingles of surprise splashed up his neck and on his scalp. He spun toward the voice.

Gimno leaned casually against a portal stone, regarding him with bright eyes. "Well done! Still needs work, but you've been practicing, I see."

Digging frantically for the crystal-clear focus he had felt moments ago, Lakhoni grinned at the tall, fiercely tattooed man. With a feeling of sudden rightness, Lakhoni felt his focus return. "Who needs practice?"

"You still do, but that is good work." Gimno smiled at Lakhoni's insolent tone.

"I've got time."

"You do." Gimno turned and gestured for Lakhoni to follow. "Come now. You are due for a haircut."

Lakhoni followed, stroking his head with one hand. Gimno was right. Lakhoni hadn't noticed it, but he now had some thick fuzz covering his entire scalp. And his youth patch at the top and front of his head was almost a half-thumb length.

He followed Gimno as the tall man wove between huts, making his way toward a side of the cavern Lakhoni had never been to. This was the side where the small man who had led the sacrifice of the boy lived. This was-

Lakhoni could tell by Gimno's body language where the man was heading: directly toward the hardened leather-covered wood door of the spiritual leader of the Separated. Was it possible that the man who had killed the boy was to be the person who would shave Lakhoni's head?

Would he use the same knife that was used to kill the boy? A tremor of fear ran the length of Lakhoni's body. Fury followed on the fear's heels. Then fear came again. How could Lakhoni hide his revulsion from this man? And if the man detected Lakhoni's true feelings, there was no doubt what would come next.

Gimno stopped a few paces in front of the door and clapped loudly three times.

Lakhoni glanced around, wondering if he could make his escape now.

It would be certain death.

The door to the hut swung outwards, and one of the red-dyed men stepped out. He looked at Gimno questioningly.

"This cub is due for a haircut."

The red man glanced at Lakhoni.

Fear made Lakhoni's muscles go soft. He suddenly felt the need to use the privy. He had to focus again!

"Come," the red man said and turned back into the hut.

Gimno followed, ducking slightly to avoid knocking his head against the top of the doorway.

Lakhoni stepped forward, the darkness inside the hut and the darkness he knew to be in the murdering man who lived there filling him with terrible fear. But that darkness beckoned him forward and he could not resist it. 

This is Chapter 10 of Servant of the King,

and it was tough to write. But the story took over and I swear I felt like I was just typing as fast as I could to get it out.

I know it will need editing and revisions, but I feel good about the images, scenes and goals here.

Okay, I'll just say it. I love this story. I love Lakhoni and can't wait to see what he does next. The poor kid.

Alright, so here it is. I understand that a new reader will have to do a very counter-intuitive thing to read this book from the start, because they will have to scroll down to read each chapter, but the earliest chapters are all the way at the bottom.

Enjoy!

Chapter 10

            Sleep ebbed gently as Lakhoni blinked in the pleasant cool of the stone hut. He pushed himself to a sitting position slowly, enjoying the sensation of warmth under the woven blanket he guessed Corzon had put over him. He didn’t remember lying down. His dreams had already faded and he might have wondered if everything in the cavern had been one of those dreams if he could not feel the foreign tightness in his side and on his scalp.

            He sat in the quiet of the hut, looking around. The interior looked much like his family’s – no, his – hut back in the village. Sleeping mats were arranged against walls, leaving space to walk in the middle of the one-room home. Stone and wood boxes, simple and without adornment, acted as dividers between the sleeping mats. Pouches, hides, and water guts hung from hooks pounded between the large, gray stones used for the walls.

            The smell was different. Lakhoni was used to the fresh, just-awoken air that greeted him each morning at the village. Here in the cavern, despite the current of air that took the smoke away, there was a distinct aroma of old smoke. But Lakhoni also smelled a fresh aroma—meat of some kind and even something that smelled like flatbread.

            He emerged from the hut, noticing on his way out that he was the last to awake, and found himself in a scene much like the one of the previous evening. Many people crowded the fire circle, most of them with a hunk of meat impaled on a knife or steaming from a stone platter. Vena stood at the fire with three other women, using long, flat boards to remove—yes, it was flatbread—from the stones surrounding the fire.

            He stood, unsure of himself. Hunger, stronger than he had felt in a long time, awoke at all the good smells. Vena noticed him, calling out, “Lakhoni! Finally! Come get some food.”

            He straightened his shoulders. He would not look cowed by the unfamiliar. He walked to the woman, accepting a platter of meat and bread. “You’ll find water in the bucket,” Vena said, indicating a wooden bucket off to the side.

            He nodded and moved back toward the hut he had spent the night in. He sat on the stone ground just outside the hut and dug in. He couldn’t chew fast enough, and it seemed like the waking of his mouth and hunger had awoken his nerves as well. Dull pain in his side and head set in. It wasn’t as bad as the night before when Corzon had done his work and Lakhoni felt he could probably ignore it for the most part.

            He would have to be careful to not break the thread holding his wounds together. He glanced around as movement to his left caught his eye. A young man, probably only a year older than Lakhoni and obviously very strong, sat down next to him, chewing a large bite of meat.

            “You snore,” the stranger said around the chunk of deer in his mouth.

            Lakhoni chewed for a moment, swallowed, and said, “What?”

            “And you talk in your sleep.”

            Confused, Lakhoni studied the fellow. He understood after a moment. “You’re… uh…”

            “Anor,” said the stranger.

            “Yeah. The hut.” I’ve got to work on that. My mind goes way too blank.

            “Right. That’s why I could hear you snore. I bet the king of the Usurpers heard you snore!” Anor said.

            “It can’t be that bad,” Lakhoni said, glad to finally join the conversation.

            “Oh it is,” Anor said. “And you need a bath.”

            Lakhoni looked at the other boy. “Are you always this pleasant?”

            “Yes.” Anor tore another huge bite off his meal. “Do you always sleep until lunch?”

            Taken aback, Lakhoni looked around. Of course. There was no way to tell what time of day it was down here. “No. Only when I snore.” No wonder he felt so rested.

            “Lakhoni, right?”

            “Yeah.”

            Anor fixed Lakhoni with a baleful glare. “Don’t snore any more. Corzon just brought you back from the dead. I don’t want to have to make those lovely stitches useless.”

            “I’ll do my best,” Lakhoni said, talking mostly to Anor’s back as the other boy rose and walked away. There’s a future best friend, Lakhoni thought wryly. As he ate, he saw Gimno step from a group of people and approach.

            “How do you feel?” Gimno asked.

            Lakhoni shrugged carefully. “Okay. Not perfect, but not terrible.”

            “Good answer.” Gimno lowered himself to the spot Anor had just vacated. “You get to learn what it means to be one of the Separated today.”

            Something in Gimno’s voice caught Lakhoni’s attention. This sounded important. “What do you mean?”

            “It’s more than living in a cave,” Gimno said. “It’s about living according to a certain set of principles.”

            “Okay.”

            “Eat fast. You don’t want to miss this.”

            Lakhoni felt urgency from the warrior, sensing tension in the man. He gobbled the last of his meal in a few large bites. As he choked it down, he walked to the water bucket and got a drink. The water helped him swallow. Even with his hurry, he had to almost run to catch up to Gimno, who was the last person to leave the fire circle and head toward the large circle in the center of the cavern.

            Their group was nearly the last to arrive. People stood in tight bunches, all facing the altar of stones that Lakhoni had seen the night before. He noticed that the people had left a cleared path between the altar and the largest circle of huts. Everybody’s eyes were fixed on those huts.

            Soon Lakhoni saw movement. A circle of people strode from the large huts and made its way through the onlookers. When they got to the altar, they spread out and Lakhoni got a good look at them. There were eight tall, thickly muscled men in the group, along with a smaller man with hair that was made to stand straight out from his head so that he looked as if he had a porcupine up there. Two of the tall men held a young boy who seemed to be sleeping on his feet.

Lakhoni did not like the look of the eight men. Their skin was painted red from head to toe. Bones pierced their lower lip and their earlobes. Their heads were bald save for a patch in the back, just above their neck. They wore leather loincloths, along with belts and leggings that were died black. Each man had a unique tattoo on his back. Lakhoni saw one man with a bear, another with an eagle and another with what looked like a wolf.

They each carried a long dagger of what must have been steel, but Lakhoni had trouble believing that these people could use so much steel on one weapon. This dagger was strapped tightly to the right leg of the men.

Lakhoni’s attention was grabbed by movement. The two men holding up the young boy—who Lakhoni realized was not sleeping but looked as if he had drunk several guts of wine—strode toward the altar. Looking closely at the altar, Lakhoni realized that it was just big enough for-

His eyes widened in sudden fear and shock. No. This couldn’t be. These people were kind and caring. No, he was imagining things.

The two mean lifted the young boy to the altar, laying him on his back and stepping backward one small pace, although they kept a firm hold on the boy’s wrists.

No. This is not… Dread filled him as the small man with the hair slid a shining dagger from his belt. The man raised his arms, surveying the crowd. Lakhoni thanked the First Fathers that he was in the back of the crowd so that the man couldn’t see his reaction.

“Brothers and sisters!” The man called out in a surprisingly large, full voice. “We are the Separated!”

“We are the Separated!” repeated the crowd. Lakhoni looked left and right. Gimno, to his right, his eyes wide and intent, was staring at the man, a strange smile forming on his mouth. To his left, Lakhoni spied Anor looking at him through hooded eyes. Anor gave Lakhoni a strange smile, then turned his attention back to the little man.

“But we are united!” The man said.

The crowd repeated this too.

Lakhoni’s throat was tight. He swallowed, trying to keep a neutral expression on his face.

“But we know the truth of this land,” the man said. Now he did all the talking and the crowd watched with rapt attention. Lakhoni didn’t dare look around him for fear he would stand out. “We who follow the true God, the creator of the Great Spirit and this world, we know the truth. We follow the true God and we will inherit this promised land!”

The man took a small step and was at the boy’s side. The boy squirmed weakly, his eyelids fluttering. “This is the promise! We will be cleaned by the blood of the son and we will take this land and serve the true God.” The small man jabbed his dagger, quick as a heartbeat, into the left hand of the boy, pulling it out quickly. Blood followed and dripped to the ground. He stepped quickly around the altar. “The son’s blood, pure and willing, makes us mighty! We will be clean.” This last was timed perfectly and the man arrived on the other side of the boy and jabbed his dagger into the right hand. Blood spilled again.

“These are the signs of the son. Through these signs we are justified and we know we must take this land back. We await our prophesied leader- he who comes from shadow but brings us to light.” The man slashed both of the boy’s feet. Blood, thick and red oozed down the small feet. The boy moaned and squirmed more.

Lakhoni swallowed, terrified. How? Why? he thought, his mind paralyzed and repeating these words in a mantra of disgust and horror.

“As our First Fathers’ father did, we offer this pure son on the altar of the true God and we await His time. The time when we will come back to light!” With this final pronouncement, the man raised the dagger high and-

Lakhoni stood frozen. The dagger slammed smoothly into the boy’s stomach and Lakhoni felt his own body jerk at the moment of impact. Sick fear made him feel like throwing up. He swallowed hard, every muscle in his body tight. He thought he might snap like a dry stick.

The dagger rose, a trail of blood following it up. “We will come back to the light!” the man screamed. The crowd repeated it, then it became a chant as the dagger rose and fell. Lakhoni shook each time the dagger penetrated the young boy’s still body.

“Be cleansed!” the man screamed, his high-pitched voice carrying over the shouts of the Separated. The crowd surged forward. Lakhoni was carried with them. He tried to push backward, to fight the tide. He succeeded somewhat, but not quickly enough to miss what came next.

The image of Gimno, Vena, Anor and Corzon, along with hundreds of other people dipping their hands in the dead boy’s blood and smearing it across their faces and bodies would never leave him.

He wanted to run, climb back to the surface and leave this world behind. But they were kind. They fed me, took me in. I thought they were good! He took a step backward, meaning to find the entrance to the cavern and get out immediately. Panic filled him. He had to get out. This was not right. Now. He had to leave now.

Gimno appeared before his terrified eyes. Lakhoni gasped, realizing he had been holding his breath in his paralyzed terror. “The first time is hard,” Gimno whispered with a kind smile on his face, a rivulet of blood running down his neck. The warrior lifted a hand to Lakhoni’s face. Lakhoni felt wet warmth cover his forehead. It dripped into his eyes. “But you are Living Dead now. The blood of the son purifies you.” The hand painted both of Lakhoni’s cheeks. He was holding his breath again, revulsion slamming inside of him, trying to burst free in a scream of pure fury and disgust. “With this blood, you become a son of the son. A warrior for the true God.”

His face warm and wet, the thick, sweet smell filling his nostrils, Lakhoni closed his eyes for a moment. He could think of nothing that he could do or say. He had to get away. He wanted to learn nothing from these people. Suddenly he wondered where the slain boy had come from. He couldn’t have been more than eight years old.

He opened his eyes. Gimno still stood there, watching him. Gimno caught Lakhoni’s gaze. “You will understand; I will teach you. I will make you a warrior and you will help me become a Consecrated.” Gimno looked over his shoulder and Lakhoni followed his gaze. He understood somehow that the eight tall, red men must be the Consecrated.

Gimno turned back to Lakhoni. He wrapped his long arms around Lakhoni in a warm embrace. His whisper, its tones soft and kind, sent a bright flare of fear and fury into Lakhoni’s soul. “Welcome to the people of God.”

This is 2250 words, making the total word count so far 17,220. That's not really where I should be to finish this as a NaNoWriMo project, but that's okay.

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