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.”
“I think you already know much more than you let on,” declared Ukaro. “The painting you saw in Angragar must have made you think about what god will require from you.”
“God,” mused Marak. “I grew up with the flatlanders, father. They speak of many gods, but value none of them.”
“I understand,” nodded the shaman, “but you have learned from your Sakovan friends that the one true god is Kaltara. Have you not?”
“Yes,” agreed Marak, “but I know little about him. Why does this god put his favor on me? What makes him think that I can change the world?”
“He has chosen you, my son” Ukaro smiled proudly. “Do not question his motives. As to why he thinks you can change the world, he will endow you with what is necessary, and he will guide you. This you must believe with all your heart.”
“So he will just make everything turn out all right?” questioned Marak.
“No, no,” Ukaro shook his head vigorously, causing his mane to sway from side to side. “You must work hard to achieve his goals. By choosing you to be the Torak, he is giving all of humanity a chance to redeem itself, but only a chance. You must strive to make sure that you do not fail us. Another Torak may not come for thousands of years.”
“So I can fail,” pondered Marak. “What exactly is prophesized about this Torak?”
“Our scrolls state that the Torak will rise to reclaim our lands,” stated the shaman. “Most people believe that means that you will reclaim the land of the Chula from the flatlanders. It is said that you will destroy their armies and chase these invaders from our shores.”
“Most people believe that,” puzzled Marak. “I know you well enough to understand by your choice of words that you do not share that interpretation. What do you believe?”
“I used to believe as the others do,” explained Ukaro, “but hearing about your journeys to Sakova and Fakara has changed my perception of what must be done.”
“How has the telling of my travels changed your thinking?” inquired Marak.
“The painting in Angragar for one causes me to see things from a different perspective,” Ukaro continued. “It is clear that your future is tied to the Star of Sakova and the Astor of Qubari as they are pictured by your side in the painting.”
“I agree with that,” nodded Marak. “I have seen that painting many times in my dreams. It causes me to wonder what is to come.”
“I have spent many days since your return from Angragar going through the oldest of our archives,” stated Ukaro. “The invaders that came to our shores were fleeing from some great evil. There is nothing in our records to indicate what they were fleeing from, but I cannot help thinking that whatever was chasing them is what you must truly battle.”
Lord Marak nodded slowly as his mind drifted back to his short time in Angragar. They had found a scroll in the old temple that spoke of burning ships and searing minds.
“I believe you are correct,” declared Marak. “An old prophecy spoke of a great evil. It was an evil that defied Kaltara thousands of years before the invaders came. The evil was banished from the land to a new land. I suspect the invaders came from that new land. I think they were fleeing from that evil.”
“That would explain the great fear that pervaded the invaders,” mused Ukaro. “The histories tell much about the trials of my people during the invasion. The invaders were skilled warriors, much greater than anyone who lived here. They certainly were not cowards and did not shy from battle, but they were driven by fear of something chasing them. Our records offer no hint as to what that evil was.”
“One of the Qubari suspected that the great evil was a priest named Vand,” offered Marak. “Vand declared himself a god and gathered a great host of followers. Legend states that he defied the other gods and was banished to some unknown land.”
“Then the pieces fall into place,” sighed Ukaro.
“How?” Marak shook his head. “This all happened thousands of years ago. Some priest who thought he was a god would not be alive today to bother us.”
“Can you be sure of that?” questioned the shaman. “You already know of many things that defy what is supposedly known to be true. The flatlanders believe that magicians can only be female. An untruth. They believe that slavery is necessary for the survival of their economy. A lie. You were told that nobody ever escapes the Qubari jungle, yet here you are. Do not be so quick to rule out an old priest as the source of the evil that will plague you. Even if this Vand no longer lives, the evil that lived within him might still exist.”
“All right,” shrugged Marak. “The prophecy stated that the people of his new land would flee from him. It states that they will burn their ships and sear their minds, whatever that means.”
“I will tell you what it means,” the shaman said. “The invaders that came to our shores so long ago burned their ships upon arrival. It made no sense to the Chula of that age, but it was recorded, so it is true. I have read all of the histories from that time. There is little in them except the harrowing tales of brutal slaughter, but I do recall reading one that spoke of captured invaders. I said before that the invaders were afraid of something, but that we never found out what it was. One of the scrolls suggested that the invaders did not know what they were fleeing because their memories were destroyed.”
“Do you mean intentionally erased?” asked Marak.
“The scroll did not make that judgment,” shrugged Ukaro, “but if it was intentional, would not that be a searing of minds?”
“It would,” nodded Marak. “Is that possible? Do you know of magic that can block a memory?”
“No,” admitted Ukaro, “but that does not make it impossible. Tell me more of this scroll you found in Angragar.”
“It mentioned that the searing magic would fail because of intermarriage and that the evil would be summoned because of that failure,” Marak continued. “The scroll called this the Time of Calling. It is during this Time of Calling that Kaltara will send forth the Torak, the Star of Sakova, and the Astor. The three of us are to gather the faithful and the faithless to stand against the evil in the Time of Cleansing.”
“When is the Time of Cleansing?” interrupted the shaman.
“It starts when the evil arrives,” answered Marak. “That is all the scroll stated.”
“So you are to gather the faithful AND the faithless,” mused Ukaro. “The faithless to me are the flatlanders. I feel more strongly than ever that what the others expect of the Torak is not what is required of you. If you were here merely to reclaim our land from the flatlanders, then why did Kaltara send the Star and the Astor?”
“They each have their own lands to reclaim,” Marak offered weakly.
“Perhaps that is how others will interpret it,” shrugged Ukaro, “but I see both of them as being among the faithful. It is the Khadorans, the Omungans, and the Fakarans that are the faithless. It is not referring to the Chula, the Sakovans, and the Qubari. They could never be considered faithless. We have lived for many generations waiting for you to come. We have not wavered in our faith.”
“So I am to make allies with the flatlanders in all three countries?” Marak questioned skeptically.
“It would appear so,” nodded Ukaro.
“Impossible,” Marak shook his head. “The Khadorans will kill me. It is only a matter of time before they do, but I am sure that they will succeed. In any event, there is absolutely no chance that the Khadorans would ever agree to follow me.”
“Come,” Ukaro smiled as he rose. “It is time for you to leave the Chula and return to your flatlanders. Have you found a mate a yet?”
Lord Marak rose and stared at his father with his mouth hanging open.
“A mate?” he echoed. “With everything that is going on, how can you ask such a question?”
“Life continues even through troubled times,” chuckled the shaman. “I wonder what kind of parent you will make.”
“This is no time for me to be distracted by such things, father,” Marak shook his head. “Whatever brings such thoughts to your mind?”
“Let me ask you a question, son,” grinned the shaman. “When you do have a son, no doubt he will be a rascal like you. How will you protect him from making mistakes?”
Marak stopped walking and gazed at the ground with a puzzled frown. “I suppose that I will explain right from wrong to him at the earliest opportunity,” he replied. “Some mistakes he must endure to grow into a man, but I will explain the need for him to avoid the deadly ones.”
“And if he doesn’t listen to you?” pushed Ukaro. “What will you do when you have explained what is right, but he insists on doing what is wrong?”
“He will listen,” Marak answered firmly. “I will not raise a fool.”
“But if he doesn’t?” Ukaro persisted.
“As I said,” Marak shook his head, “sometimes letting him make a mistake will be good for him. I will not try to control his every thought. I will only seek to protect him from harm.”
“Fair enough,” smiled Ukaro. “It is wise to give a young man a long leash as some lessons are best learned through our own failures, but what if his life is endangered by his own folly?”
“I will explain the need for him to choose wisely,” answered Marak.
“And if he still doesn’t listen?” pushed the shaman.
“If it is a matter that threatens his life,” frowned Marak, “I will impose my will upon him to protect him.”
“By force?” questioned Ukaro. “Would you actually use force on your child to make him behave?”
“If his life was in danger?” Marak sighed with frustration. “Of course I would. Then I would again explain things to him so that he truly understood. What good is sparing the rod if the child is to die? Why are you pursuing this conversation, father? I have no intention of starting a family anytime soon, if at all.”
“You will make a great father,” Ukaro said seriously. “I mention this now because you already have a family. The Chula are your children now. The Khadorans are your children, too. Teach them what they need to know to survive. If they refuse to listen, punish them with force until they obey, and then explain things to them again. As I said before, Kaltara will guide you. You already seem to know how to manage unruly children.”
Marak shook his head in wonder, but he eventually smiled and hugged his father. “If I grow up to be as wise as you, Ukaro,” he chuckled, “I will be a good father indeed. I must return to Fardale now. I will try to visit again after the Sakovans have left.”
* * *
Lord Marak detoured to his secret mage training field on the way back to the Fardale mansion. When he arrived at the field, he saw Master Malafar talking to a group of women. He scowled inwardly as he turned abruptly and headed towards the mage, Klora.
“What is he doing here?” snapped Lord Marak. “How did he find out about this field?”
Klora looked at the Torak lord with surprise in her eyes. “You did not tell him about the field?” she asked. “He has been here since you left the estate. I assumed that you had sent him to explain Omungan magic to us. He has been doing just that for the last three days.”
“I did not send him,” Lord Marak retorted sharply, more sharply than he had intended to. “I am sorry, Klora. I should not be taking this out on you. I wonder how many others now know about our secret field?”
“Nobody else has been around, if that helps,” Klora shrugged. “Calm yourself. He has seen us and is coming this way. He really has taught us new approaches, Lord Marak. Do not be too hard on him.”
“Ah, Lord Marak,” greeted the Omungan mage. “You have the makings of a wonderful academy here. Why do you hide them?”
“I hide them because knowledge of their existence can threaten the survival of my people,” Lord Marak retorted. “How did you find out about this field?”
“You cannot hide the use of such magic from a trained mage,” shrugged Master Malafar. “I hope that I have not transgressed too much by being here, but I did want to offer you something for what you did for me in Omunga. Teaching your mages was the least I could do.”
Lord Marak sighed in frustration as he tried to calm himself. “Walk back to the mansion with me, Master Malafar,” he eventually said. “Now that you have spent time with my mage corps, tell me what you think of them.”
“I think they are wonderful students,” smiled Master Malafar as they started walking towards the distant mansion. “There is much talent among them, and it appears that they are extremely dedicated to learning. A master could not wish for a better group of students.”
“A pity that you are returning to Sakova,” Lord Marak said. “Knowledge of Omungan magic could be helpful to them.”
“Actually,” Master Malafar said hesitantly, “I am not returning to Omunga. I have not told Lyra yet, but my mind is made up. I have caused more than my fair share of grief for both the Omungan and Sakovan people.”
“What are you planning to do?” asked Lord Marak as his mind suddenly gave thought to having the mage stay and teach his mage corps.
“I need time alone,” answered Master Malafar. “You know from your trip to my homeland that I have messed things up rather badly down there. I no longer can live among the Omungans, and I do not feel at home with the Sakovans, even though my daughter rules them.”
“You are welcome to stay here in Fardale if you wish,” offered Lord Marak as his attitude towards the mage softened, “but I think you are judging the Sakovans harshly. They have accepted Lyra as their leader, and I know enough about them to know that they would welcome you into their homes.”
“I am sure that Lyra would demand that they welcome me,” sighed Master Malafar, “but I have wronged them as well. No, it is better for everyone if I just disappear. I have given this a tremendous amount of thought, Lord Marak, and I am determined in what I plan to do. I would like to spend another three days with your mages before I leave, but I cannot stay here any longer than that. I need time alone and I suspect it will be years before I sort out my own problems. Hopefully by that time, some of my mistakes will have been forgotten.”
“You are very harsh with yourself, Master Malafar,” declared Lord Marak. “Most of your mistakes were not of your own making. Others used you. Do not blame yourself for such things.”
“What you say is true,” nodded Master Malafar, “but I have erred plenty by myself. I have to atone for what I did to Rhodella and Alfred, and I cannot begin to understand what I can do to make things up to Lyra. She is in a difficult position now and having me around will only complicate things unnecessarily. I will leave Fardale in three days.”
“Where will you go?” questioned Lord Marak.
“I have no idea,” shrugged the Omungan mage. “I seek solitude, and if I did know my destination, I would not tell anyone in any event. Frankly, I want to be forgotten. If you are concerned about the secrecy of your mage corps, do not be. I will not tell anyone that it exists, but I think you are making a mistake.”
“A mistake?” echoed Lord Marak. “You surely do not understand my situation here in Khadora. I am as much a foreigner to these Khadorans as Lyra is to the Omungans. They will seek every avenue to eliminate me. The mage corps is my secret army for when it is needed. If people learn of it, they will hasten to destroy me. Besides, I am buying mage slaves from every clan in Khadora. If they found out that the mage could be a military asset, those people would never see their freedom. I can not allow that.”
“I understand more than you give me credit for,” grinned Master Malafar. “If Khadora is anything like Omunga, you are correct in your assumption about the other clans learning of your secret mage corps. They would attack instantly to nip you before you became too powerful. There is another way, however. Can I make a suggestion?”
“Please do,” nodded Lord Marak. “I am always open to new ideas.”
“Make your mage corps very public,” chuckled the magician. “Set up a mage school in one of Khadora’s cities. Do not align it with yourself, but make it appear as a legitimate business, a school for training those with magical talent. Other clans might send their mages to your school, and unless I am mistaken about human nature, those mages will become excellent spies for you. You could also hire out the services of the mages at the school to estates so that the clans would no longer have need to maintain their own mages.”
“They would be eager to shed their estates of the untrained mages they already have,” brightened Lord Marak, “especially if I were to sell the mage services inexpensively.”
“Exactly,” Master Malafar nodded vigorously. “You will actually end up controlling all of the mages in Khadora. Oh, someone might try to start another school to be in competition with you, but mages cannot be treated as slaves and still prosper. No Khadoran would free his slaves to be your competition.”
“You are a genius, Master Malafar,” laughed Lord Marak. “We have acquired so many mages that I am having a hard time keeping up with the housing needs here in Fardale. Sooner or later their practice field would have to become known to my enemies. I shall see to having that school set up right away. I do wish you would stay here longer. You may have other ideas that would prove helpful.”
“I cannot delay any longer,” Master Malafar objected. “Three days is all I will spend here. I should have left when we first arrived last month, but I wanted to do something for you as a payment for your help in Omunga. Without your interfering, I would have remained ignorant of my own people’s deceit. Now I can consider you repaid.”
“Very well,” Marak frowned as he realized the Master Malafar was being helpful just to ease his conscience and not because he wanted to help with the problems facing Fardale or Sakova. “How will you break this news to your daughter?”
“Lyra has no say over what I do,” Master Malafar stated sternly. “She must rule her Sakovans, and I want no part of that. That chapter of my life is over. I merely want to find a hole to crawl into and disappear. She will just have to accept it.”
“I am having a meeting tonight with Lyra and some of the clan lords that swear allegiance to me,” Lord Marak mentioned in a last attempt to lure Master Malafar into helping out. “I would like you to attend if you don’t mind. As long as you are spending three more days here, let me see if I can tap into your brilliant mind for some more help.”
“Were I a woman, Lord Marak,” chuckled Master Malafar, “I would learn to be leery of your soft-spoken words. You sprinkle honey across the ground hoping to attract something useful. I will attend your meeting, but you will be disappointed if you expect me to suddenly carry your banner. I know the future of my life, and it does not intersect with yours or Lyra’s. In fact, it does not intersect with anyone’s. I just want to be left alone.”