(Part I) - Zarek ben Nadin Chronicles - Chapter #7

    Two full years went by, and the seasons changed.  Zarek was nineteen years of age now, and respected by the men of his village.  There was a nobleness in his features, a quality of leadership that seemed to radiate from him.  The time that had passed was sufficient enough so that his strength and mobility returned.  Even his scars had faded to some extent.  

     His shoulders had become broader, though they were often bowed with a weight only others could imagine.  Arrod’s cruelness had not abated, and Zarek was often the target of his father’s rage and verbal abuse.  He suffered the beatings and humiliations by turn, outwardly calm and unaffected, but beneath the emotionless mask, he was raging with anger and hurt.

     Arrod’s viciousness had not succeeded in breaking his spirit, but the constant abuse succeeded in twisting him into a distrustful and wary creature.  It became easier to doubt others’ good intensions, and his bitterness prevented him from forming friendships with other boys his age.  His temper flared at the least provocation, and he lashed out, needing to vent some of the abuse he suffered.

     When the nomadic tribe paying tribute to their village revolted, Zarek found another source to exhaust some of his pent up emotion.  He was fierce in battle, never showing mercy and always destroying his opponents in clean cut blows.  The skirmishes dwindled after a while, but the chief felt that it only set the stage for an upcoming battle.  His intuition was proven right when a scout brought word that the tribal warriors were gathering for the last battle, and were just beyond the village.

    The order of the village quickly dissipated and became an anthill of activity.  The men scrambled to collect anything that could be used as a weapon: fishing clubs and spears, gutting knives, rods, and the occasional sword.  Zarek strode through the village, bearing his own and calling out commands, trying to restore some order to the chaos that surrounded him.

    He had participated in every skirmish and was by far, one of the more experienced warriors.  His keen eyes for detail, and his ability to be effective in a fight made him one the lead warriors.  The chief had noted this, and placed him in a position to give orders and organize their raids. 

    Arrod was unusually eager to also participate in the skirmishes, though he often acted on his own.  In battle, Zarek saw something in his father that he had never seen before.  It was as if he was suddenly transformed from a complacent fishermen to a capable and fierce warrior.  His skill with a sword was matched by none, and he held the unmistakable air of a seasoned soldier.  Despite this, he possessed no such skill for leadership, or following of orders.

    This served to increase the tension that was already between Zarek and his father.  Yet, their differences were put to the side as they both prepared for the upcoming battle.  As it was, the battle was a fierce one.  They proved victorious, but the cost was a high one.  Many of their best men had been slain, but their greatest loss, was that of their chief.

    Zarek stood on the battlefield after it was all over.  Already, the body of their chief had been borne away to be prepared for burial.  The carnage that stretched out before him was enough to make him sick.  Perhaps his greatest frustration was that he had been unable to prevent their chief’s death.

    His mind worked through the battle, as he tried to think of anything he could have done different.  The possibilities were endless, but it was all too late now.  Turning on his heels and walking quickly, he left the field of battle behind him.

    “Zarek, Zarek wait up!”

     His steps quickened as his agitation increased.  He was in no frame of mind to carry conversation, and admitted to himself that the battle had been very draining.  Someone caught his arm, and he shrugged the hand away.  His own failures festered like open sores, cutting him to his heart.  He clenched his jaws.

    He realized that it was Natan who had fallen into step beside him.  Stopping abruptly and fixing his friend with sharpest glare he could, he snarled, “Go away Natan, I wish to be alone.”

    Natan crossed his arms.  “You always wish to be alone.”  He met Zarek’s gaze boldly, but concern made him appear anxious.  “It wasn’t your fault.”

    “Then whose was it Natan?” he snapped.  His friend took a step back and Zarek raked a blood stained hand through his hair.  He felt his shoulders sag, and he stared at the ground.  “I couldn’t save him,” he whispered.  “He trusted me to help lead the men in battle.”

    “You did what he expected you to do.  You led the men.  Our victory today was because of you.”

    Zarek’s head lifted and he locked eyes with Natan.  He knew his friend was trying to give him an easy way out, but he had never taken the easy path, and he would begin to do so now.  He would take the responsibility and the outcome of today on his shoulders.  The burden was incredibly heavy, and he knew his friend wouldn’t understand.  Still, he spoke, his voice grave and strained.  “If I claim the victory, I must also claim the failures Natan.”     

    His friend shook his head.  “It was out of your hands.  There was nothing you could do.  It was in the hands of the gods.”

    Zarek’s shoulders tensed, “The gods!” he snarled.  He walked on further before kneeled beside a pool to scrub the blood from his arms.  The leather armor was suffocating him and he tugged angrily at the straps.  It only succeeded in working the leather straps into knots.  He hissed in frustration and jerked again at the armor.  A hand touched his shoulder, and he didn’t have to turn to see who it was.  Natan began to loosen the knots and tug at the buckles. 

     When the amour was removed from his shoulders, Zarek felt some of his burden lessen.  The breeze brushed against his hot, sticky skin.  The relief was instant and he hardly notice his side twinging in pain.  His hand dropped to his ribs and he was surprised to feel a sticky warmth covering them.  Looking down, he saw that dark, red blood seeping through his stomach.

    Natan also noticed, and instantly kneeled by his side.  He brushed the wound gently and Zarek winced before he could stop himself.  He glared at his friend, and pushed Natan’s hand away.  “It is just a flesh wound.”

    “It needs to be cleaned, and bandaged Zarek.  Let me do it.  Please.”

    He studied his friend for a moment and noting the determination in his friend’s eyes, he nodded.  Natan ripped the hole bigger to expose the wound.  Zarek leaned his back against a rock and closed his eyes.

    “Do you think it will always be like this Zarek?  Will we always be fighting for our survival?  It seems that we have made more enemies than allies, at times.”

     Zarek pondered Natan’s questions, they had been ones that he had asked himself.  At last he spoke.  “The tribes from the desert are a curse to our existence.”  Bitterness edged his voice as he added, “What people would move across the desert and dwell in tents?  They have no dwelling place established, yet they surround us on all sides.  We have nothing but the sea at our backs, no place to flee even if we want to.  We will fight, and many of us will die.  It is just the way things are.”

oOo

     Later that night, as Zarek sat beside the fire, his thoughts returned to that morning’s battle.   His eyes clouded in remembrance.  The nomadic warriors had staged an ambush and they walked into it.  It was chaos from the beginning.  Any sense of order he had managed to establish earlier, had vanished.  He had fought back to back with the chief; and for a while, they managed to hold their lines.  Then another stream of nomadic warriors plunged into the fight, and they were separated in the crush of fighting bodies.

     Zarek managed to keep a wide enough space between himself and the enemy, so he was able to effectively wield his sword.  As the battle progressed, he was forced to sheath his sword and resort to his knife.  It was literally, hand-to-hand combat.  Then for a brief moment, the enemy had parted and Zarek was able to catch his breath and spare a quick glance around the battlefield.

   He was much further away from the others, than he had originally thought.  The dust was beginning to settle and he realized that only small battles were going on around him.  A thought came to him, and his eyes began to search for their chief.  His attention was drawn to one of the small skirmishes to the side.

   A red robe flashed.  It was the same robe that his chief had been wearing earlier that morning.  Zarek started to run forward.  As he neared, he was able to see several nomadic warriors battling.  It was a heated fight and though his chief possessed the skill of a warrior, his many attackers were beating down his guard.

     One particularly big man, hacked away at the chief’s defense.  The instant the chief faltered, his comrade thrust his sword forward, plunging it into the chief’s chest.  With the chief down, they turned to fight against him.  He swung his sword, battling with all his might, in a desperate attempt to reach their chief.

     When the last enemy had fallen to his sword, he dashed forward to the place where their chief lay on the sand, blood soaked in the golden grains turning them scarlet.  He couldn’t bend to check on the wounds, though a glimpse told him that they were lethal.  Several more nomads bared down on him, as he stood over the chief to keep their enemies from finishing him off.

    At last, after several more intense moments of battle, the nomads fled.  Zarek had looked around and seeing that their men were now surrounding them, he dropped to the ground beside his chief.  The old man’s breathing was labored and blood trickled from his mouth.  The chief’s mouth moved but no words came out as life drained from his features.  The eyes that locked with his, slowly glazed over and became dull. 

    At that moment, the anger had burned in Zarek’s chest with such a scorching heat, it felt as if he had been touched with a live coal.  Helpless tears of frustration dripped down his cheeks.  The old chief had been one of the few men to show him kindness after his mother’s death, and now he was dead.

    The thought continued to reverberate in his mind as he stared at the dying coals.  He had allowed the fire to go out during his reflections.  Exhaustion weighed down on him, and he found himself unable to dwell on the events of the day or his failures any longer.  He would need to rest for tomorrow.  Some of the elders had called a council meeting tomorrow to decide what to do with the nomadic warriors that they had captured.

    With those thoughts flickering through his mind, he allowed himself to drift off into a restless and dream filled sleep.