The Wars of Zegandaria, Atanas Marinov, Atanas Marinov, Atanas Marinov, Atanas Marinov [inspirational books txt] 📗

the mythical mountain of Eclec Zon, where Midriel defeated him. Desperate and broken, Gimlin retreated to the Misty Mountains northeast of Rodwell. There, however, he plotted his terrible revenge against the humans. Most of the Guarron were indeed waiting for the day when he would appear from somewhere and lead them onward to conquest.

Prince Nundrag had some doubts about the legend, as there were definitely major holes in it. But that didn't stop him from internally agreeing that the guarron were created solely to defeat their enemies.

Moreover, he had heard some disturbing rumors about the origins of his race. He hoped in time he would be convinced of what was right to believe.

 

^^^

The desert seemed to really have no end. And the winds continued to blow ever so relentlessly. Each successive sand wave polished the already smooth as glass surface of the nearby dunes. Barely visible to the eye, grains of sand were sent into infinity, where they became completely invisible, only to have this crude dance of nature continue again and again. Finally, the boundary between heaven and earth was completely lost and everything became one. For the last thousand years human civilization had definitely changed its course, but the primal logic of the cycle of nature had remained intact. In the middle of nowhere was pitched a huge tent of a very fanciful shape, resembling the ancient Babylonian ziggurats erected in praise of the gods. Surrounding it were a strong guard of guarrons and a few groandus, who, unusual as it was for their kind, seemed to feel something akin to awe, and were less gap-toothed than usual.

Suddenly there was a commotion in the makeshift encampment as the guards caught sight of riders in the distance. In a flash, loud cries rang out all around, and even a few of the huge monsters growled defiantly, startled by the sudden noise.

- The prince is coming back! Prince Nundrag is alive!

It was hard to describe the 'semblance' of joy that was written on the rugged faces of those stern warriors as they uttered those words. As already mentioned, the guarrons understood considerably of warfare, for it was in their blood to fight. They would waste no time in idle talk, for they spoke the language of nature; moreover, they were its element. The victor with them was greeted as a deity, but at the special ceremony his mortal origin was necessarily emphasized. The simple warriors even believed that touching the purple cloak of the ruler of Ugrok Sin would bring them, if not happiness, at least some protection against bad luck.

The dust cloud of the approaching caravan was growing larger and clearer in outline, and if hitherto the guarrons had still had some misgivings about a possible human attack, boldly and cleverly disguised as it was, they were completely dispelled. Their huge paws loosened their grip around their weapons, always held at the ready, but the guards remained ever so vigilant.

- 'I would never mistake the roar of the guarrons of Nas Radal,' one of the guards standing nearby growled softly, 'Mark my word, this is a good omen.'

- 'The Mother Goddess protects us,' added another standing nearby.

However, it was unlikely that any of the others heard him, and even if they did, they paid him no mind. As banal as it sounded, in those few moments time seemed to have stopped its course, so anticipated was the joyous event that could upend the entire history of their kind. For a few split seconds, even the desert was in absolute sync with their desires to survive and regain their former might, and it was as if the relentless sandwind of Zegandaria had subsided. Nature's silence, however, was a lull before the storm.

Prince Nundrag nearly leapt from his groandus before the animal had fully stopped its progress, eliciting cheers of approval from his subjects. He was followed by several of his personal bodyguards, as well as a few lookouts who walked alongside the caravan. Farther on, as far as the eye could see, a long line of Guarron warriors was descending like a centipede. One could easily sense how much they desired to see him on the throne as supreme leader. He honoured those present with a regal nod and growled approvingly at their congratulations. Even before they came to their senses, he flew into the huge tent that was not meant for mere mortals, but only for the rulers of the last dynasty.

The inside of the tent was worthy of description, as it was covered with elurian skins of slain noble animals that were only found in the Misty Mountains, or that were almost no longer even found there. In the middle of the huge tent stood Zarag Tu, the supreme lord of the guarrons, regally.

- 'Nundrag, did you take what was left? You understand yourself that we had to go back to strengthen our position and secure our rear,' the voice boomed mightily and implacably.

- 'Of course, Your Majesty,' Prince Nundrag was strictly official, because the protocol of the hierarchy required it. In practice, the ruler stood higher than the prince. 'Everything was executed exactly as you ordered.'

Zarag Tu nodded, slightly bored, but continued in the same implacable tone.

- What do you think of the fighting spirit of the people? They showed more resistance than we expected. They even dared to show unheard of audacity and tried to humiliate our warriors.

Nundrag was prudent enough to pause a moment and wait a moment longer to see if his father was going to add anything else, then answered slowly and completely calmly.

- I think this biohuman species holds a lot of surprises, but it's pretty helpless without its modern toys, whereas a guarron can overpower a human even with its bare hands, in any weather.

The king nodded affirmatively.

- Have you distributed the spoils among the warriors, Nundrag?

- 'Yes, Your Majesty,' replied the son.

- The common warriors brought us victory, Nundrag, not that traitor. He just helped them a little. That is all. Never forget that your power rests on them and their loyalty. And now leave me.

The prince bowed respectfully and left the tent. Of course he had done everything he had been ordered, and more. But it did not escape his gaze that, despite his father's stern face, a certain despondency plagued him. He even tried to banish that thought, aware of its futility.

- 'Well now was the time to savor the victory, and flaunt it like a trophy.,' Nundrag heard a mocking voice behind him. 'There was no need to even try to guess who the owner was. His older brother, Kier Zoh, stood a few steps away from him, but you're Daddy's favorite after all. Whatever they're saying, maybe it really is true that he's claiming you as his heir.'

Nundrag pretended he didn't even hear him. He didn't want to get into conflicts just today. He didn't want to cloud his victory. But he was clearly aware that though close to the tent, the usual guards were not around them for some unknown reason. And suddenly he stood at attention.

- 'Do you think you can command our glorious armies, appear a worthy substitute for our great father?,' asked Kier Zoh, baring his teeth like a rabid dog.

Nundrag instinctively gripped the hilt of his hajjar, ready for any unpredictable action from his brother. He knew the two would eventually fight to the death, for such were the rules of succession to the throne, bequeathed according to legend by Gimlin Orn himself.

- 'Relax, don't take yourself seriously. This is not the time or place for it though. That would be to sully the blood of the royal family. Something, practically, unacceptable.,' growled his brother, slightly scornfully.

- 'I'm not afraid to confront you,' Nundrag replied calmly. 'You know that very well.'

- 'You may have the opportunity to do so very soon,' Kier Zoh ground out through his teeth, moving away with quick steps.

The prince turned, but his brother seemed to have sunk into the ground. A hundred yards or so past the tent a few Groandus were lazily munching away, apparently not so comfortable under the rays of the scorching sun despite their thick skins.

Nundrag thought for a moment. He remembered that his father had looked dejected, and only now did he realize the reason for it. The apparent challenge had started the so-called Guarron ritual, the Dance of Death. The tradition was stronger than even the High Lord of the guarrons and he could do nothing. Moreover, while the games lasted, hostilities with the enemy usually ceased, and this could make them vulnerable to possible attacks by the human race. This ritual gave the more neglected of the sons the right to gain the upper hand over their favored brothers by declaring a duel. Usually it was not held immediately, for the one who announced the challenge, symbolically speaking, took the role of ‘hunter’ and the challenged one took the role of ‘victim,’ no matter what place he occupied in the line of succession. His status was retained until the moment he pierced the throat of his blood rival. The whole cat-and-mouse game could have lasted even a whole month. Of course, such cases were not at all some kind of exception or precedent, as Nundrag still had some recollection that their glorious father had come to power in the same manner. In practice, it was rare for the previous ruler to pass away from natural death. The guarrons who had taken over as co-viewers ensured that others would not interfere in the duel. They were usually among the rest and did not beat about the bush, but they were unreservedly devoted to their sovereign and clearly understood the importance of their task, which in practice meant the highest possible honor for mere mortals.

- 'Well, if you really want war, my dear brother, you shall have it,' he murmured thoughtfully. 'Even though you put our entire race in mortal danger with your mindless jealousy and greed.'

The ceremony of welcoming the victor began only when darkness had almost completely fallen over Synthros. The Guarron camp was about two hundred zegandarian miles from Diomedes Base in a north-northeasterly direction. Like wise warriors, they had left the mountains behind, which on the one hand provided them with safe cover, and on the other provided a backup route for withdrawal back north to Xanderar, or even to the Misty Mountains northeast of Rodwell. And the endless wilderness before them would preclude any attempt at an unrecruited assault. Not that such was very likely, given the devastation throughout the surrounding area and the significant amount of human warriors slaughtered.

- 'Time. The prince should get ready.' shouted the specially trained 'heralds'. 'The ceremony of blood baptism should begin.'

Every victory won gave the victor the exclusive right of inviolability regarding his status as leader. The only thing that could violate such immunity was the ‘Dance of Death,’ which had to be played with or without the consent of the participants. That was why Kier Zoh was in no hurry to attack his brother, because that could have conflicted with the second most important tradition and that could have brought disunity among all the guarrons. And even he couldn't allow that, not after all these years, when the brave warriors had finally come down from the mountain to avenge their humiliation and reclaim their right to rule this planet long before humans set foot here. Great care and caution had to be exercised, and the Prince was well aware that he would in no way miss the opportunity presented by fate or tradition (and he was not sure which!). The guarrons might have many princes, but only one king!

The battle drums of the guarrons of Nas Radal (as the royal family's personal elite guard was called) boomed rhythmically and solemnly. Each of them literally bristled when they heard that sound. Hundreds of years of history and tradition echoed in each harsh hum. These sounds were sacred to every