A Warrior's Path Read online

  A Warrior’s Path

  By J. A. Goguen

  Copyright © 2012 J. A. Goguen

  All Rights Reserved

  For my wife, Denise, who patiently respected my "Work In Progress" sign while I created a new world.

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to Chris List and Doug Lagemann for being willing to subject themselves to some of the earliest revisions of this book. Without their comments and insights, this story would not be nearly as good as I think it has become. A big thanks to Justin Walden for churning through multiple revisions and helping me refine this into something polished. His dedication and tips on the structure of the story and consistency of the characters were invaluable. And a special thank you to Denise, who was more than just a beta reader. She supported me every step of the way through this process and is the best wife an author could hope for.

  Table Of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1 - The East Lands

  Chapter 2 - Divination

  Chapter 3 - Precedence

  Chapter 4 - Start of the Journey

  Chapter 5 - Invocation

  Chapter 6 - Discovery

  Chapter 7 - The Aggressor

  Chapter 8 - Progression

  Chapter 9 - Ill Omens

  Chapter 10 - Excitement

  Chapter 11 - Lament

  Chapter 12 - Plans

  Chapter 13 - Perception

  Chapter 14 - Awakening

  Chapter 15 - Difficult Lessons

  Chapter 16 - Change of Plans

  Chapter 17 - Reunion

  Chapter 18 - War

  Chapter 19 - Aftermath

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  The young boy padded silently into the dimly-lit room and approached the bed where his father was resting fitfully. Thick, black hair cascaded down his forehead, partially obscuring the full eyebrows and light brown eyes that he had inherited from the man sleeping just a few feet away. The balance and grace that had also passed from father to son was evident as the boy drifted to the bedside like a ghost. Despite the care he took in not waking the man, his father stirred. He seemed to sense the boy's presence.

  “Urietsin,” the man whispered with half-opened eyes. “Come closer, my son.”

  Urietsin saw the sweat glistening on his father's pale forehead. He should not have been in here. His mother had told him to wait until his father felt better, but the illness seemed to be getting worse each day. His father's skin had grown deathly white, and his eyes were rimmed with redness, and always there was the feverish sweat. It had been nearly two weeks since he had seen the man for more than a few minutes, but it seemed like an eternity to the son who looked up to his father as a hero.

  “Hello, father,” the young Urietsin whispered. “How are you feeling?”

  The man's eyes opened a little wider to take in the sight of his boy's worried face, and it seemed as though his lip quivered for a moment, but then he smiled. “A bit stronger today,” he lied.

  A momentary look of doubt sculpted the boy's expression, but he bowed respectfully. When he stood straight again, he also wore a smile. “When do you think you will be out of bed?” Urietsin asked.

  “Once I gain a bit more strength,” his father replied. “Perhaps after another good night's rest.”

  The boy nodded and bowed again. “I shall let you sleep, then, father.”

  “Wait, Urietsin,” the man called urgently. “Please stay a while. It has been too long since we have spoken.”

  “Yes, father,” the boy said obediently.

  The man regarded his son for some time in silence. Urietsin's father had done much in his lifetime, and he was proud to know that many of his countrymen held him in high esteem. But no deed or accomplishment gave him more pride than his son. He knew the boy would carry on the Retso family name and, more importantly, its honor.

  “Would you like to hear a story, my boy?” the elder Retso asked.

  Urietsin's eyes brightened and he nodded eagerly. His father told wonderful stories. He told of his days as a warrior, fighting beside his kin against the dragon Reisothin and of the days before, when the tribes were at war with one another. Though they were firsthand accounts, his father never overemphasized his own part in events, and he always spoke of the bravery and honor of his countrymen. The stories always made the boy proud of his father, his kin and his heritage.

  “Long ago, when the soil was younger,” the man began in the tradition of many of the old legends, “our land was the center of a great kingdom that spread from the mountains to the ocean. So rich was this kingdom, and so beautiful were its people, that visitors came from cities far, far away to trade with and admire them. Many different kinds of people came to this kingdom, even the elves, and went back to their homes with spices, art, exotic fabrics, and sometimes even our beautiful people.

  “But the gateway between east and west was guarded by a great mountain, and on top of this mountain lived the Keeper of Erulin. He was a demon who would let no visitor to the east pass without an offering of libation at the foot of his mountain. If any walked by without at least a drop of cool water onto the ground, the demon would shake the mountaintop and cause the ground to tremble so that none could move their feet under them until he was appeased.”

  Urietsin stared at his father in fascination. So far, this was like no story his father had ever told him. He had heard some of the older legends from his mother about Emperor Teomin and his two cities, but none of those included a demon. The boy listened, enthralled.

  “As generations passed,” the man continued, “more and more people desired to visit the great kingdom, and the Pass of Erulin swelled with visitors. With so many people on the road, many thought they could slip by the mountain without the Keeper noticing. But the demon had a keen eye and many friends who could shape themselves any way they wished. Somehow, he always knew when someone had not paid the toll. The more travelers sneaked by, the harder he would shake the ground until they satisfied him.”

  The man paused for a moment and heaved a deep, wheezing breath. As he exhaled, he began to cough fitfully.

  Urietsin’s fascination became concern. “Are you alright, father? Would you like a drink?”

  The man put up his hand and cleared his throat loudly. “No, son. I am fine,” he said reassuringly. He turned away for a moment to take a few breaths and to wipe the sweat from his forehead.

  “Now, where was I? Ah, yes. One day there came a wealthy merchant whose trade was beautifully-sculpted wax candles. When he and his son arrived at the mountain, they found that they had no drink to offer. They pleaded with the demon to let them cross, but he would hear none of it. As was his wont, he shook the ground, and the candlemaker and his son fled.

  “When the two men stopped running, they looked in their cart and saw that every candle that had been so painstakingly sculpted was broken. The candlemaker was furious and vowed that they would cross Erulin without giving the demon so much as a drop. He instructed his son to go out and hunt pheasant for their dinner. Right away, the merchant began to melt down his wax and sculpt.

  “His son came home later that night with two armfuls of pheasant, and the candlemaker and his son ate well. The next morning the son awoke to find his father placing the last pheasant feather on two sets of enormous wings. 'You see, my son,' the candlemaker said, 'if the demon will not let us walk across Erulin, we will fly.' So, the two men set out again for the pass. When they arrived, they donned their wings and took to the sky.

  “Now, when the demon saw these two strange beasts flying past his mountain, he asked, 'What are these new creatures in the sky?' His demon friends answered, 'It is the candlemaker, O Keeper, and his son who denied you yesterday. They've grown wing
s like us!' At this the demon became enraged and began to shake the ground as never before, but it was in vain. The men flew over the quaking ground and laughed. The other demons shrieked, 'Quickly! They are escaping!' Then the Keeper of Erulin shook the mountain so hard that it broke apart and spewed forth fire from the center of the earth.”

  Urietsin's father heard his son gasp in surprise. He hid his grin and continued in a dramatic whisper. “The ground trembled in tumult, and fire rained from the sky. Ikiu'iu, the son of the candlemaker, could not keep up with his father, and so his wings caught fire and melted. When the candlemaker reached the other side of Erulin, he turned to see that his son was not behind him. He flew back again, searching for his son as he went. He finally found his son's body lying broken on the rocks at the foot of the mountain. His hubris had cost him his son's life, and the God of Fate collected the payment. The candlemaker wept and flew back and forth over Erulin until his wings caught fire as well. He fell to his death at the foot of the mountain.

  “The demon was pleased that the candlemaker and his son were dead, but he refused to be tricked by humans again. He laid a mighty blow upon Erulin with his fist, and half the earth fell into the sea. No more would people from the west visit the rich eastern kingdom,” Master Retso finished, noting the look of awe upon his son's face.

  “What happened to the demons, father?” the boy asked.

  The man gave a slight shrug. “Some believe the keeper still lives in the crater of his mountain, far beyond the forest and over the mountains. His friends are rumored to have made their homes in the swamps that now grow on what remains of Erulin, beyond the mountains in the west named after the candlemaker's son.”

  Urietsin looked suddenly thoughtful. “Father, is it really possible to fly with wings of wax?” he asked.

  While it hurt his lungs to do so, the boy's father couldn't help but chuckle. “I don't know, son. Perhaps.”

  The night wore on, and many more of Urietsin's curiosities were answered. His father told him a few other stories. Some of them were of his battles with the dragon. Others were much older stories that had been passed down from his grandfather. All of them captivated the young Urietsin until, finally, the hour drew very late and both of them could hardly keep their eyes open.

  “I will go to bed now, father, and let you sleep,” the boy said respectfully.

  “Yes,” his father replied in a hoarse whisper.

  Despite his mother's warning about illness, Urietsin half-climbed onto the bed and gave his father a hug. “Good night, father. I hope you are well in the morning.”

  The man gripped his son as tightly as his weary muscles could. “As do I. I love you, Etsin,” he said in a wavering voice, calling the boy by his nickname.

  Urietsin climbed down from the bed and bowed. When he looked at his father again, he thought he could see tears in his eyes. “I love you too, father,” he replied with a smile.

  In the years to come, Urietsin would cherish this night as more important than any other he had spent with his father. He could not know, as he blew out the oil lamp and crept off to his own bed, that it would be the last time he would ever see the man alive. That night, in the darkness of his room, the head of the Retso family succumbed to his illness and passed into the halls of his ancestors, leaving his son and wife to care for themselves.

  1. The East Lands

  Kiusu Tho-Shoishu marveled at the majestic vista before him. For twenty years he had lived among the white-capped mountaintops of Ikiu'iu. Every morning he witnessed the sun breaking over the snow-covered peaks, bringing tantalizing hints of natural warmth with its yellow-tinged brightness. He never tired of the view. Even at his venerable age of one hundred and twelve, Kiusu felt the energetic rush of younger days return with the sun's warmth. He felt as though the years fell away from him, and a spring-like flexibility returned to his joints. And though there were few youths who could boast this old man's elasticity and dexterity, there was a time in his life when performing his daily physical routines was easier. Now, as he stretched his muscles in the warming but still crisp morning air, Kiusu began the combat training portion of his workout.

  Time yielded to motion, and without seeming to, the old man shifted. It would have been easy to consider this one frail, considering his short stature and the long gray hair that surrounded his bald crown. His drooping moustache and the obvious wakes that time had left on his face with its passage made his instantaneous motion seem like an affront to possibility.

  He was now in a lunge, as steady as if he were relaxing flat on the ground. His hands extended out slowly and began to move apart. In a blur, they swiftly drew back and shot out and up, ending in a double spearhand that would have relieved any opponent of his sight. Pulling back his palms, Kiusu advanced a step, now snapping out two fists with devastating quickness.

  Falling into a broken rhythm, the deceptively fit man bounced on the balls of his feet. He took a few short steps forward and flipped into the air, twisting to land facing the other direction. His arm came up to block a strike from his invisible foe, wrapping his hand around an imaginary deflected wrist. Shifting his balance, he snapped his leg forward in a straight kick to the midsection, then pulled the leg back in, pivoted on his other foot and shot out the leg again in a powerful sidekick.

  Kiusu advanced quickly, imagining his invisible sparring partner stumbling backward. His front foot lifted into a low kick to the knee and then swung up and around, the tip of his toes easily exceeding his own height. Then, suddenly, the old man began to topple forward.

  It almost appeared as if the he had pushed himself a little too far, not surprising, considering his apparent age. But just when it seemed that he had fallen beyond the point of recovery, his arms swung down by his side and up in the other direction. His front foot hit the floor and pushed his body up, providing impetus for a leap that brought Kiusu spinning into the air. In a single fluid motion, this small old man had lifted a full three feet off the ground, spun around in a complete circle, and swung out a kick that would have surely broken his opponent's neck. Back on the ground, as steady as if he had been standing there the whole time, Kiusu smiled. He was just getting started.

  Jogging over to a nearby tree, the old man reached for his staff. As his hand went toward the smooth wood of the familiar weapon, a chill wind from the peak of the mountain blew through the trees and halted his motion. He turned into the wind and glanced around. There was something on that breeze. There was a familiar feeling that pulled the chill down into his core. Kiusu stepped away from the staff and hurried to his nearby hut.

  Many years ago, before he had come to this place, he had known this feeling for the first time. It was a whisper on the wind that had told him a terrible truth. His old master had once told him that there would come a time when he would know of things that had yet to happen. He would hear the word carried on the wind in a primal language that only his deepest spirit could interpret. He would know that things were converging toward one great event that would shape his own life, as well as the lives of others.

  Kiusu had hoped to never have that feeling again. Something was brewing in the amalgam of his destiny. The urgent whispers on the wind overcame his usually rational senses, and he began to feel frightened. The only other time in his life that he had felt the pull so strongly, it had shown him disaster. It had shown him things that he should have been able to prevent, if only he had been more attentive. Old memories within him welled up and struck at his center, imposing upon his balance and stability. Kiusu fought back, desperately grasping for control of his senses. He knew he had to compose himself and receive the messages on his own terms. It had not been this way the first time, but now he understood the nature of the premonitions. He would not be caught unaware again.

  The old man made his way to the altar at the back of the hut and sat down on a little woven mat. He closed his eyes and began to go within. Down through the layers of his consciousness, Kiusu traveled to the core of his very being.
He sat within a pulsating void that moved in time with his breathing. In this deep, meditative trance, the wizened master began to control the flow of the images that assaulted his mind.

  The grayness of the blank canvas before him faded. He saw a rolling green hill, which blocked the setting sun. Suddenly, two silhouettes appeared up on the hill. One of them he obviously recognized as his own. The other seemed to be of a younger man. He could not make out many details from the black outline of the other man. The two shadows, one behind the other, went through a combat routine that was perfectly synchronized. The image faded to black.

  His next vision was not one of sight, but one that attacked his other senses. He felt as though he were in battle. He vaguely felt the sensation of air passing quickly by his hands and feet, as it did when he was fighting. He felt a twinge of concern as he realized he had underestimated something. What was it? There was something close to him, something that exuded hatred for him. He felt a rush of adrenaline take over his actions, whatever they might be. A harsh metallic taste flooded the back of his throat, and he felt as though he were suffocating or drowning. Each of his hairs stood on end, electrified by the tension. He could hear the beating of his own heart. The sound grew fainter and slower as he felt the vision fade. When the sound stopped completely, he was left with a single thought.

  'Prepare.'

  Kiusu opened his eyes to find himself lying on his side, his legs drawn to his chest. He sat up quickly and looked around the quiet room. He suddenly felt very alone, something he hadn't experienced in more than twenty years. He brought himself to his feet and took a deep breath, shaking the almost alien emotions from his mind. After a moment’s thought, he turned and got to work. His mind began to race with plans of the next several weeks. He had to hurry. There was much to be done. He had to prepare.