Chapter Three
Kaholia Drums. Mainland villagers.
They belonged to Ashwa's children, one of the old gods. The loud, uneven booming beat woke Tarn. Short-haired, brown-skinned, built long and lean, Kaholia men generally wore nothing more than soft and supple leather booties and a waist wrap that fell mid-thigh. Most wore belts to which they fastened poison pots for darts and arrows, and from which hung food bags, water skins and quivers. The woman adorned themselves with decorative leather and cloth straps that crisscrossed bare breasts. Their waist wraps were shorter and more colourful, artistically dyed and decorated in distinctive patterns that identified their house like a coat of arms. Small children rode their mother's hips and hung on to the leather and cloth straps for purchase. The Kaholia were renowned for their hunting and tracking skills. Atlantean caravans often employed Kaholia guides, camp cooks, and hunters to carry goods far inland to the major cities.
Yesterday's events flooded back, washing over him in heart-rending waves of poignant grief. Ash clouds yet dimmed the sunlight, and a blanket of ash layered the ground. Tears filled his eyes when memories of Atlantis slipping beneath the water rose in his mind. And though he fought them back, salty rivulets ran down his ash blemished cheeks. Never again would he see his mother, or his people. All his friends were gone. His life had been turned upside down and inside out. A mouth-watering smell of roasting rabbit caused his stomach to lurch and grumble, reminding him that he had not eaten since lunch yesterday. The sound of his father's strong voice chased his sad thoughts into the background where they slumbered.
"Get up boy. Eat. We have a long journey to make."
"Father, what do the drums say?" he asked, joining his father at the fire.
Connor never looked up from honing his sword with the whetstone as he replied, "They speak of a hell-spawned wave that devours islands and villages. Now eat," he said pointing to the spitted rabbit roasting over the fire.
As Tarn obeyed, Connor reflected on the rest of the drum song. Atlantean merchants and traders had been captured on the trade road and sacrificed to appease Ashwa, the mainland village deity. If he had deciphered the drum song correctly, all people who belonged to the once-great city of Atlantis were to be hunted and sacrificed to appease the Gods' anger. Let them try; they'll taste cold steel sure enough. They would find an Asgard warrior formidable prey, unlike the city-bred traders who spoke with blankets, mirrors, and glass trinkets instead of steel and death.
Tarn sat on his haunches beside the fire, watching his father slide the whetstone along the length of his broadsword. A soft ring reverberated at the end of each stroke. Longer than Tarn was tall, the blade measured four inches wide at its base where the weapons smith had etched the Atlantean symbol next to the crosspiece which caught descending blades and protected the hands. It was too heavy for Tarn to easily lift, yet his father held it like it weighed nothing at all. Satisfied Connor had brought the blade back to full sharpness, he slid it noiselessly into a well-oiled, fleece-lined scabbard.
"Father, will thee teach me sword skills?"
"Aye, lad; that I will. But first, thee must learn the Song of Steel. Thy mother's people were renowned as engineers, master craftsmen and sword makers, envied across three continents as builders capable of erecting magnificent structures with hot and cold running water, and a waste system to carry night soil away, but this was not always so. 'Tis most certainly true their artistry improved over the centuries as they refined their techniques, but not all their skills came from hard lessons. Some began as divine gifts. Legend proclaims that Kalen, the Battle God, descended out of the heavens astride His flaming chariot to lend aid to the people of Atlantis in their time of need."
Tarn's inquisitive eyes urged his father onward.
"Before mankind learned to count time, before recorded history, the Gods and humankind dwelled together, but not all the Gods held similar views about our fate. Some believed we should spend our lives in service to them, subjugated to do their bidding, no better than chattel without the right to self-govern. Kalen and Vulcan, along with a host of other minor deities, felt otherwise. They felt we had been created in their image to lead lives the best way we saw fit, and if we were to love and to serve them, it should be because they were just and ethical beings worthy of adoration. Humankind was deeply divided as well. Some factions believed a God should be obeyed and worshipped blindly, without question, because who were they to argue with a God? Others refused to be subjugated and wanted the choice to establish their own beliefs and to pick the deity closest to their hearts. Following centuries of debate and turmoil where small squabbles grew bigger to become open conflicts, sides were chosen, and the God Wars began.
��At the height of the God Wars when Atlantis was but an island village, no more than a collection of thatched huts, the Gods and mankind battled across the land for supremacy. All villages and nations were the spoils of war. Each side sought to build their numbers. Kalen through attraction and Wotan through destruction. Wotan, the God of the Hunt, sought to conquer Atlantis and to bring her into his fold. Wotan thought to claim this part of the world as his own. Kalen despised Wotan and his underworld hoards, for Wotan regarded mankind as little more than cattle with which to feed his army and to be kept as slaves. Both Kalen and Vulcan had spent several millennia battling Wotan in order to prepare the world for mankind, who they thought of as their children. Thus, when Kalen witnessed the brave and honourable Atlanteans falling to Wotan's soul-drinking blade, and to His legions of demons and old-world creatures that now exist mostly as stories to scare misbehaving children, Kalen and Vulcan joined forces and slew many dark creatures and their ilk," Connor paused as he recalled the remainder of the tale to his mind.
"After winning the confrontation, Kalen fell in love with Jayleen, an Atlantean woman, and your mother's namesake, whose heroic efforts to protect her infant son singled her out. In the end, the boy died when Jayleen's spear-tip broke and she could no longer hold the beasts at bay, but her failure did not diminish her courageous deeds. Kalen took pity on her poor steel and beseeched Vulcan to let him show the Atlanteans how to harvest the molten metal from the caves beneath the city, and then taught them the Song of steel song that renders steel harder and lighter than any metal known to mere mortals. Some say it is God steel, the steel only the Gods may use to forge their weapons.
"Kalen lived among they people until Jayleen died of old age. Struck down with grief, for our lives are but a blink of the eye to a God, Kalen granted all the people of Atlantis long life and cached His sword in a cavern deep within the earth alongside the Song of Steel Scroll as proof of his blessing. It was whispered that Kalen might be summoned with the sword to rise up and conquer her enemies again. Other voices claim that it was Kalen's sword itself that granted the people their extra years."
"If we had the sword, might we summon Kalen and ask Him to restore mother and the island?"
"Nay son. Kalen be a mighty God, but now thy people belong to another. It be a worthy thought, but even Gods can only do so much."
"What about his sword, father? Does it yet exist?"
"I know not, lad. Likely it does, it being made of God-steel and all, but it is buried in a cavern unknown to anyone except the Sword Chamber Guardians. Mayhap even under Atlantis herself, now deep underwater. Enough talk. Put out the fire and let us be on our way," he concluded, failing to add that he wanted to put as much distance as possible between them and Ashwa's followers before nightfall.
Tarn's thoughts swirled with visions of Kalen's sword. In his child's mind, he could swim and dive for the sword if it rested underwater, no matter the depth, or under how much rock. No task lay beyond a God. Maybe Kalen would return his mother. Following his father down a ridge into the thick undergrowth of the ravine Tarn imagined himself wielding Kalen's sword against enemies of Atlantis.