The Chronicles of Varuk: Book One Read online

  The Chronicles of Varuk: Book One

  Scott Reeves

  Books by Scott Reeves:

  The Big City

  Billy Barnaby’s Twisted Christmas

  The Dream of an Ancient God

  The Last Legend

  Colony

  A Hijacked Life

  Phantoms of the Mind: Short Stories

  The Bone Boy and Other Stories

  The Dawkins Delusion

  The Miracle Brigade: Episode One

  The Chronicles of Varuk: Book One

  A Crackpot’s Notebook, Volume One

  Snowybrook Inn: Book One

  Liberal vs. Conservative: A Novella

  Graphic Novels:

  The Adventures of Captain Bob in Outer Space

  Varuk: Rites of Passage

  Varuk, the Maiden and the Demon

  Copyright © 2001 by Scott Reeves.

  Varuk and the Razorbeast

  Copyright © 2005 by Scott Reeves.

  Varuk and the Princess

  Copyright © 2011 by Scott Reeves.

  All rights reserved.

  Varuk: Rites of Passage

  Ko Yingh Varuk sat on the cold bare ground in a clearing at the center of a sea of tents. It was past midnight and most of the clan was asleep in the tents, except for the Elders, who huddled in a circle a short distance away, discussing Varuk’s future, and Ana Yingh Shaya, standing at the opposite side of the clearing, watching Varuk with eyes that twinkled coldly like the stars in the sky above. He ignored the mingled accusation and hurt in her eyes, instead trying to concentrate on making sense of the snippets of the Elders’ discussion that were carried to him on the cold breeze. But it was futile.

  Finally the Elders dispersed and, without so much as a glance at Varuk, wended their way between the tents until they were lost to sight. Only the Chief remained. He stared at Varuk for a moment before approaching and kneeling beside him. Ruk Yingh Shimol was old, the oldest man in the clan. His huge, barrel-chested body was laced with scars, a testament to the many battles in which he’d fought for the honor of the clan. Varuk had always hoped to earn as many scars as the Chief, perhaps even more, to become the most honored man in Clan Yingh.

  But now that would never happen, for Varuk intended to leave the clan and find his destiny in the land south of the Great Mountains. If the clan would allow it.

  Varuk held his breath in anticipation of the Chief’s answer. “It has been a hard year for the clan,” the Chief began. “We lost much of our strength to the Munghs. Thus many of our women have deserted us to find mates elsewhere. You know this. Yet still you choose to leave us, knowing that your loss would be a blow to us. Why?”

  Varuk was glad for the darkness, for it would hide his red-faced shame. “I...am not satisfied here. I feel my destiny lies there.” He pointed to the shadowy, huge mountains that loomed above the clan’s camp. Their slopes were dusted with snow that sparkled pale ghostly white in the moonlight.

  The Chief sighed. “You have always been so fascinated by tales of the fabled lands beyond those mountains. Your mother feared that one day they would steal you from us, that you would join the ranks of those who have crossed, never to return. Is there nothing that will keep you here?” The Chief’s eyes glanced over at Shaya.

  Varuk looked at her. She was the most beautiful woman in the clan, tall and lean, with long blond hair, large breasts and wide, fertile hips. They had grown up together. But he was eighteen now, and at seventeen, she was still a girl. Even her delectable body could not hold back his restlessness. He could not allow desire for a woman to divert him from his chosen path. He turned away from her haunting, imploring eyes. “There will be others.”

  The Chief chuckled slyly. “I’m sure there will.” His somberness returned swiftly. “The Elders are angered by your selfishness, your lack of loyalty to the clan. Your father does not think we should allow you to leave. You shame him.”

  Varuk bowed his head. He had no wish to shame his family, but he could not stay.

  “We cannot afford to let you go,” the Chief continued. “But the stars say we must. They agree that your destiny lies elsewhere. And we cannot argue. They also say that, unlike the others who have gone before, you will return to us.”

  Varuk looked up at the star-scattered night sky, looking for meaning in the seeming randomness. He shook his head. “I see only stars. Nothing more.”

  “If you stayed you would be taught to read their secrets.”

  “I...will not stay.”

  The Chief nodded in acceptance. “Then this is all I can give you in preparation for your journey: high in the mountains is the Great Rift, where the world was cracked during the Sundering. A wind blows northward from the crack, up out of the underworld, a wind that is the breath of a nether demon. Sometimes spirits are carried upon this wind, and they become trapped in the mountains on the northern side of the Rift. Should you happen upon one, unless you are protected, it will possess you. Your flesh will no longer be your own, and it will ride you as one rides a horse, to the end of your days.” The Chief reached into his robe and drew forth a bronze amulet engraved with a rune, attached to a leather string. “This will ward you against the spirits. Wear it around your neck.”

  Varuk took it, placed it around his neck. It lay heavily against the muscles of his chest. “Thank you, Eldest.”

  “You will leave the clan at dawn,” the Chief said. “Tonight, there is one last duty you must perform for us.”

  “As you command.”

  “You must lie with Ana Yingh Shaya. You must do your part to replenish our clan. You must give her a child.”

  Varuk’s heart raced. He had never been with a woman. By clan law, it was forbidden before his nineteenth year. A true warrior, so he had been taught since boyhood, ruled his flesh; he did not let his flesh rule him. Varuk tried hard to suppress a smile. “I would be happy to perform this last duty, Eldest.”

  *****

  Varuk wended his way through the narrow dirt avenues between the tents. The morning air was crisp and chill in his lungs. The sun was a hazy, dim smudge in the eastern sky. An auspicious start to his new life. He’d dressed in thick wool robes this morning, for it would be cold in the mountains. The bronze amulet given him by the Chief lay snug against his chest beneath the layers of wool and leather. A leather traveling pack was slung over his shoulder. The clansword that had been forged for him at his coming of age swung at his hip. Most of the clan was indoors, where they would stay until he’d disappeared over the horizon. As far as they were concerned, he was no longer a part of them.

  At the edge of the camp all ten of the Elders had gathered, including the Chief. Behind them stretched an empty plain of tundra, which eventually crumpled into foothills that rose and blended with the Great Mountains. The Elders stood like a wall between him and the mountains. By law and tradition, anyone wishing to leave the clan had to prove his ability to survive apart from the clan by fighting his way past the clan’s best warriors. If Varuk could not get past the wall of Elders, he would be trapped within the clan, still bound by his duty to the clan, until his shame at his own failure had sufficiently faded and his fighting skills had improved enough that he could make another attempt to leave. If he failed to pass the Elders this day, the Elders would laugh at him and he would return to his family’s tent, sullen and shamed in his own eyes and the eyes of the clan.

  Varuk stopped and dropped his pack to the ground. His father, Martok Yingh Ko, stepped forward and clasped Varuk’s gauntleted wrists. Ko smiled at his son, a tight smile that was like a layer of oil floating atop a sea of sadness and anger. Ko released his son’s arms and stepped aside.

  Varuk drew
his sword, gripped it resolutely. The Elders drew their swords.

  Varuk leapt among them, his sword singing. The battle lasted only a few moments, only long enough for each of the Elders to clash swords with him. The wounds inflicted were merely scratches that would heal in a day or two. It took all of Varuk’s strength and skill to make it through the group. Even so, he knew they were holding back, toying with him. This was just an easy ceremony to them, but for him it was the hardest trial of his life. It showed him that despite all his cockiness and strength, he was still only a boy compared to them. And for the first time he began to wonder if he was truly prepared for the difficulties that might lie ahead. When he was through the knot of men, and the open plain lay before him, eight of the Elders turned their backs to him and marched back into camp. The Chief paused a moment, watching Varuk bent over, panting and gripping his knees. “You will return to us,” the Chief said, and then he too turned his back and walked away.

  Ko, hanging back beside his son’s pack, reached down and picked up the heavy bag. He tossed it across the space between them. Varuk caught it and slung it around his shoulder. He stood and began the long walk across the plain to the mountains.

  He heard his father cry out, heard the running, booted feet crunching across the grassy, frozen ground. He braced himself for what would come next. His father’s sword cut through the wool and leather and raked down his back, leaving a trail of icy fire. He had to bite his tongue to keep from crying out, tears of pain squeezed from his eyes. He wouldn’t further shame his father by showing weakness.

  “Goodbye, boy,” he heard his father whisper behind him.

  Onward he marched toward the looming mountains.

  *****

  He crossed the plain swiftly. The only sound in the chill morning air was the crunching of the brittle grass beneath his boots. Midmorning he saw a herd of shaggy, horned ruk off in the distance, grazing. Near noon he arrived at the foothills and trudged up and over, up and over, climbing ever higher. The icy ground gradually became coated with snow. Finally he came to the mouth of a valley that slashed up and into the mountains. Here he paused, sitting down on a bare rock that thrust up through the snowdrifts. He pulled a lump of bread from his pack and as he ate, looked behind him, northward, at the barren curve of the world. Far away, tiny on the horizon, smoke from cooking fires smudged the sky above the clan’s camp.

  From the valley onward, the going was slower. Varuk had to pick his way carefully up the sides of the mountains, for there was no path and the way was treacherous. Often times he scrambled up sheer slopes. It would be so easy to slip in the snow and ice and tumble to his death. The mountains closed in around him, blocking off everything except the snow and towering rock. When night fell he would find a cave or an overhang to pass the night. Several nights later the top of the range seemed no closer; the constant upward movement through narrow icy ravines and broad snowy valleys began to discourage him.

  At dusk of the fourth evening since leaving the clan, he hunkered around a fire in a high, narrow valley, warming his hands and preparing his blankets for sleeping. As he watched the sparks snapping around the burning logs, a fog began rolling down upon the valley. The chill became a biting cold. Then a roaring wind began to blow, and, strangely, did not dispel the fog. Thunder rumbled through the valley, slightly muffled by the fog. Varuk’s fire whipped about, and he tried to shield it from the wind with his body, fighting to keep the flame alive.

  The wind’s howling rose in pitch until it became a voice, roaring in his ears, calling his name. “Varuk! Varuk!” it whispered.

  He gave up trying to save the fire. It flickered and died as he moved away and pressed his back against a large boulder. He drew his sword, held it ready.

  “Swords cannot protect you from me,” the voice whispered in his ears. The wind buffeted him.

  He knew then what it was. One of the spirits from the underworld about which the Chief had warned him had been trapped in this valley. He reached into the folds of his coat and lifted the amulet the Chief had given him away from his chest, shoving it into the wind. “Perhaps a sword won’t protect me, but this will.” He said it with more confidence than he felt.

  “Yes, I felt your vile little charm the moment you entered the valley. It may stop me from stealing your flesh, but will it save that flesh from my wrath?”

  A gust of wind swept over the valley like a fist, knocking him from his feet.

  He climbed to his feet, sheathing his sword. He had to get out of the valley, beyond the demon’s influence.

  The wind increased to gale force, bringing with it a rain that pelted him, drilled into his skin like a million razor-sharp needles. Leaning into the wind, he fought his way forward, past the blackened, cold remains of his fire. He stopped long enough to pick up his traveling pack and sling it around his shoulder before continuing on. Unable to see more than a few inches beyond his nose, he felt his way forward with his feet, following the rise of the ground. Going against the rise meant a return to the clan, which he did not want.

  Rather than going forward, up the length of the valley, he turned to the right, toward the steep slope that would take him up to a ridge above the valley. Although that route was more dangerous, it was the quickest way to escape the spirit’s influence.

  The ground rose quickly beneath his feet. The slope continued to increase until he was scrambling on his hands and knees. The wind continued to push at him. Several times he had to grab at a rock to keep from being lifted from the ground and blown into the void. The rain continued needling him, rivulets of blood snaked across his skin to be snatched by the wind and mixed with the rain blowing past him. His fingers grew numb and swollen, ice formed in his long blonde hair.

  “It would be so much easier to give yourself up to me,” the demonic voice whispered. “You would have the strength of twenty men. You would live forever.”

  “And be a prisoner in my own body,” Varuk said through gritted, chattering teeth.

  “You are already a prisoner of your flesh. Your destination is the land beyond the mountains. That is my destination as well. Let us journey there together. Your thoughts will still be your own, your secrets hidden from me. Your mind, freed from the ponderous task of moving your flesh, could relax and enjoy the ride.”

  Varuk made no reply. The spirit, sensing Varuk’s imminent escape, redoubled its effort. Varuk very nearly died in that valley. But the strength of his will was great. As the spirit redoubled its effort, so too did Varuk. He had scrambled several dozen feet higher up the slope before he realized that the cloud and the wind were behind and below him, and that he’d reached the crest of the ridge. He looked back and saw the fluffy top of the fog, arcing across the valley like a dome, gleaming a pale white in the moonlight. Even as he watched the fog dissipated, leaving the barren rocky valley as he’d found it, a deceptively tranquil, inviting spot to pass the night. But he knew now that a spirit waited there. It might have to wait years for another traveler to happen by, an unwarded traveler who might not fare so well as had Varuk.

  Varuk stood and dusted off his hands. Though weak and exhausted, close to collapse, he preferred to put some distance between himself and the spirit before he made a new camp. So he trudged along the ridge to the head of the valley, then climbed upward several hundred feet until he found a narrow shelf of rock where he passed the night.

  *****

  Two days after his encounter with the spirit, Varuk traversed a narrow pass between two towering, snow-covered peaks. At the far end of the pass he came upon a seemingly impassable obstacle: an immense canyon cut across his intended path, slicing cleanly through the mountains, further than three stone-throws to the other side, he estimated. It extended as far as he could see to the left and right. A hazy fog hung in the canyon, like the spray of water at the base of a fall. The walls were smooth and sheer. The floor of the canyon was not visible; after what must have been several miles, dark shadows swallowed the sunlight. This must be the Great Rift, t
he crack in the world of which the Chief had spoken, a wound in the world that went all the way down to the underworld. A cold wind whistled up from the depths of the canyon, raising gooseflesh upon his arms, not because of the cold but rather in response to something eldritch carried upon the wind, a clammy moistness that spoke of the grave. The touch of death. The accompanying foul stench was almost tame compared to the wind.

  Varuk stood upon the brink looking across the gulf to the mountains on the opposite rim of the canyon. They might as well have been on the other side of the world; he couldn’t see a way across. He sighed. Was this the end of his journey, then? Had the Chief been right that Varuk was destined to return to the clan? If indeed that was his destiny, why fight it? Why not just turn around now and return in shame?

  He shook his head and squared his shoulders. He would not return. Perhaps one day, but for now, his destiny lay beyond the mountains. There would be a way across, he was certain.

  Looking to his right, he saw a narrow shelf of rock between the canyon rim and the mountains. Barely wide enough for him to walk. With determination, he stepped onto the shelf and moved forward. He would walk the entire length of the Rift if necessary, until he found a way across. Acutely aware of the endless fall that awaited him should he slip, he trudged onward. When night fell he sat down and leaned back against the slope of the mountain that loomed over him and, his feet dangling into eternity, he fell asleep.

  *****

  Shortly after he resumed his walk the next morning, he found his way across the canyon. A wide stone bridge arced across the gulf. Varuk was amazed that it was able to span the immense distance without collapsing, for the bridge seemed unutterably ancient. Beside the bridge on the opposite rim of the canyon a castle had been carved into the side of a mountain. It seemed to squat over the bridge, dark and brooding, ominous, seemingly more ancient than the bridge. Varuk looked at the castle with wonder in his eyes; such magnificent structures were unheard of on the plains. Clansmen had always lived in tents, never aspiring to anything greater. This castle, now, this was why he was crossing the mountains; he was certain things even more wondrous awaited him in the fabled lands.