Chapter Twenty

Dusk's charcoal mantle cloaked the sky when he returned with an elk hide bulging with fresh red meat. The leopard lay where he had dropped it, untouched. Torrocka sat close to the fire in hearthside ease, reading a page of parchment, unaware that anyone had entered the cave. Tarn unceremoniously dropped the meat-packed hide and shook the snow off his cloak. Torrocka glanced up thoughtfully as Tarn placed a piece of fresh venison on the end of a wood skewer and began to roast it over the open flame.

"When ye be done eating, we'll begin thy lessons in deciphering Atlantean script. 'Tis time we remedied thy lack of instruction. Even a ten-year-old Atlantean child can read. We have much work ahead. Ere ye may understand today, or plan for tomorrow, we must endeavour to fathom the intricacies of yesterday. 'Tis my thankless duty to impart our history to ye."

Tarn grunted non-committally, deferring comment. Torrocka was an elder and a priest. Respect for elders was driven deep into his upbringing. No village member maliciously insulted an elder, and no one instructed a shaman of his duties. Only the village headman had absolute authority, but even he accepted the shaman's interpretation of village law.

When the meat on his skewer dripped fat, Tarn removed it from the fire. Ere he sunk his teeth into it, Torrocka asked, "Ye weren't planning on dining alone, were ye? Thy manners need work, as well."

Torrocka thought that he had gone too far, for Tarn's eyes blazed a brilliant green as he uncurled to his considerable height, and crossed the cave. Closer to stalking the cave like the great cat that he had felled, thought Torrocka. Towering over him, Tarn appeared ready to put him on the skewer ere he presented him with the rare, fire-roasted piece of elk meat, and stalked over to the bulging hide to get another, mumbling incoherently about the ineptness of city-bred men.

* * * * * * *

Tarn spent the deep winter months learning to read and write Atlantean script, as well as the common trading language of the land, which shared similarities. While it was true that other languages were spoken in different lands, the common trading language was a bastardisation of several languages that allowed commerce to flow more easily in the absence of an interpreter. Several dozen leaves of furled parchment, whose pages were meticulously penned with a fine feather quill, the ink fashioned from an iron oxide compound, rested safely from smoke and moisture in a wooden chest covered by a fur. Each winter, partly to combat boredom, partly to keep Atlantis remembered, but mostly out of a cultural sense of responsibility, Torrocka had set down as much of Atlantis' history as he could remember.

From these lovingly scrawled pages, Tarn received his instruction. When he wasn't being enlightened, as Torrocka termed it, he hunted and wandered the adjacent hills searching for a route to his village. Between hunting and enlightenment, he spent endless hours practising his sword lessons. He swung his father's sword by the dim light cast by the fire and the single, fish oil lamp. Working with his shadow helped to increase his speed and agility. When his wrists, shoulders, and arms burned with fatigue, he forced himself to move faster and faster until his sword fell out of numb hands.

To compensate for missed lessons, Tarn improvised, creating his own style, imagining a multitude of stances, and strikes. Without an experienced teacher to guide him, Tarn joined traditional moves with unorthodox, self-taught strikes and counters. When he felt comfortable with his routine, he switched hands and started over, working tirelessly until his sword became a natural extension of his arm, lethal and perfect. Instinctive.

* * * * * * *

Halfway through winter, the temperature plunged, rendering Tarn and Torrocka cave-bound. Unnaturally dark, heavy clouds gathered over the rugged spines of the western mountain range flanking White Steppe village, swirling and joining like dancers trying to keep the time of a changing beat. For long hours Tarn looked to the sky. A queasy sick feeling sat heavily upon his senses, making him uneasy, off-balance somehow. And though he could not see over the mountain top and view the odd cloud formations that had gathered above his village, he looked in that direction, to the source of his unease.

While Tarn pondered the unnatural cold, Torrocka withdrew into himself, seated for hours on end in front of the hearth-fire in gloomy silence. When Torrocka came out of his reverie, he called Tarn to sit beside him.

"'Tis time ye learned of thy enemy, the Rings of Mahnaz," Torrocka said, straightening his robe. The grave tone in his voice earned Tarn's complete attention. "The Rings of Mahnaz are not rings at all, but sorcerers, wizards, and magi. The inner ring is made up of six of the vilest and malefic sorcerers who ever walked the land. The outer rings comprise lesser wizards and magi who carry out the inner ring's evil intent. They cast a rippling, festering disease out of the dark lands of the far south and across the ocean. The priests who occupy the temples train their parishioners to recruit family and friends. Some of the depraved, lusty, and greedy find themselves willing to serve Mahnaz, but many others sold into slavery, tricked into service, or lured by promises of money and power. Once indoctrinated, none may leave except by death or a worse fate. It is they who honour Wotan's teachings."

"It is said that Imaran, the inner ring's high sorcerer, is more than a thousand years old. Now I fear that he has learned how to harness and control the combined power of the inner ring. Too many like rumours lend me to believe that Imaran channels the inner ring's powers to a single task, thereby increasing his reach and his influence. Ye must face this ancient evil, lad. Though Kalen vanquished Wotan, the God of the Hunt, and imprisoned Him behind the seven seals, the Rings of Mahnaz offer human sacrifices. Those offerings nourish the Dark God, for He feeds upon souls. Left to his devices, Imaran hopes to strengthen Wotan so he might escape his prison. To this end, Imaran has extended his influence, building more and more temples in which to fulfil his machinations. There can be no other reason."

Torrocka noted Tarn's beetled brow, the superstitious fear, and leaned forward, letting urgency enter his voice, "Mahnaz are deceivers. Their temples are fronts to mask Imaran's true intent. They are bases from which Imaran solidifies his power, from which Imaran nourishes Wotan with souls. He builds an unholy army to aid Wotan when he has broken free. 'Tis thy sacred charge to take up Kalen's sword and halt Imaran's insanity. Kalen foresaw this day. The prophecy is coming true. Only Kalen's Sword can stem the destruction Wotan brings. For this day, for this sacred and holy task, did He promise that one of His blood would be among us to wield it."

Ill at ease with the oration of wizards and sorcerers, Tarn shunned reply. Mad, insane light emanated from the priest's wild eyes. Fanatic desperation keened from the Sword Chamber priest like a lost lover. Unbending fanaticism, the same irrational belief that the ancient Atlantean attributed to Wotan's followers also flowed from him. Once he possessed Kalen's sword and the scroll, he planned to rally his headman to unite the clans against the raiders. Torrocka's fanciful assumptions were not his. What proof did Torrocka offer? What threat had been made? Wild rumours served no purpose. One could not wage battle against a rumour. Imaran would not dare enter Asgard. No wizard ever had, and none ever would. Let him try. Those of Asgard shunned the use of sorcery. It was anathema them, punishable by exile or death. No threat would unite the clans quicker and bring about Asgard justice. Asgard did not fear any sorcerer or religious cult. No strangers were welcomed in Asgard. No temples would be built.

Tarn felt eager to test himself in battle and claim his rite of vengeance against those who slew his father. A sorcerer living in another land, on another continent, was neither his concern nor his peoples. His life and future were his own. Destiny and fate were not predetermined. They were not ordained by Gods and prophecies. An Asgard warrior determined his fate. Not even Vulcan had ever deigned to directly interfere with their lives.

With his decision arrived at, he prepared to go hunting. The cave closed in on him and Torrocka made too much noise. The silence of the hunt and the wide-open spaces of the mountains called to him.