Saga of 5 Ages: The 12 Rings of the Emperor - Tales 1 & 2

Year 693

T aruk-sem thrust the stake of his last spirit totem into the dry, cracked ground that was the land of Urok. He knelt in front of it and looked up reverently into the eye sockets of his great grandfather’s skull. He prayed to it as he had prayed to his grandfather’s and great-uncle’s totems, asking their spirits to watch over his family, his nation and the land itself. The waste-tracker then rose and threw a handful of red dust into the air, watching as it showered over the totem and then scattered to the winds.

Taruk-sem, son of Anuk-Semba, had proudly chosen to serve his people, though it meant sacrificing his blood ties, as evidenced by the shortening of his family name, the symbolic tradition for his life of solitude. Never again would he visit his home or kin. His way was the Way of the Wastes: he would live off the land, patrol its territories and care for its native wildlife. Rarely did the life of a waste-tracker take him beyond the borders of the red sands of Urok, and Taruk was no exception.

He gazed fondly at the totem one last time. It had been his only companion on his journeys that had taken him to the farthest reaches of the desert. He drew comfort and strength from his ancestor that he had known only through prayer and meditation, though the tales of his shamanic great-grandfather were many. These earthly remains were to be placed in accordance with the seasons, in hopes of bringing rain and crops in abundance, as well as protecting the roads and paths that led into other lands. Today, with the advent of spring, it guarded the eastern pathways, though in truth the season had already begun to feel like summer.

Taruk began his trek northward, the parched soil of the Eastern Lowlands crunching beneath his sandaled feet. The ever-present waves of heat shimmered in the distance, but Taruk knew every angle of every approach into and out of his country. He would not be fooled by mirages. His keen eyes scanned the landscape before him, searching for any signs of distress. Few who traveled to Urok left the roads or villages and those who lived here knew better. There was little to be seen in the wastes but death and dryness, yet Taruk, and the honored dead who had tracked the wastes before him, thrived in this, the harshest of environments. The practice was simple, if one mimicked the native life forms of the desert: conserve energy and resources, find shade when you can and kill if you must to survive. Taruk-sem had practiced these and other skills for nearly fourteen summers.

Taruk paused to sip from his waterskin. As he absorbed the life-giving drops, he noticed that he stood near a stand of small rocks, one of the few features to rise up out of the flat terrain. It was here that the dance of life and death was being played out before him, as a large black scorpion faced off against a much larger pit viper. He kneeled to observe the battle, both combatants vying for this particular piece of barrenness that offered shade and protection from the elements.

The scorpions claws were wide, his tail poised for the sting. The snake’s posture was less menacing: apparently he didn’t consider the scorpion much of a threat. The two circled each other slowly, waiting for the right moment. Finally, the viper struck, but his aim was off and he overshot the mark. The scorpion sank its stinger deep into the snakes’ body, injecting its deadly venom, then backing away. The viper twisted and writhed in agony as the poison coursed through its body. Its eye caught Taruk’s, seeming to notice his presence for the first time. Its gaze fixed upon him, as if begging to be released from its pain.

“I’m sorry my friend,” uttered Taruk, his voice dry and whispery from heat and lack of use, “it is the Way of the Wastes.”

As the snake died, the scorpion quickly claimed its prize, scrabbling deep into the crevices of the rocky formation. Taruk collected the viper corpse and put it gently into his leather satchel, voicing a short prayer as he did so.

“Thank you, friend scorpion. Your gift will sustain me.”

As Taruk-sem lay gazing at the night sky, he reflected upon the four generations of waste-trackers that had come before him. His family name was originally Sembatuwani, and each successive generation had ritualistically shortened its name to serve their people. Taruk would be the last of his family to bear the honor, before another was chosen. The Sembatuwani’s had seen over a century of distinguished service, and all descendants of the tribes of Urok would look back on his family’s history with respect.

Many changes had come to the outside world in that time, but the land of Urok preferred to remain insulated and as traditional as possible. Though he was still young, Taruk himself had little interest in the affairs of other nations. The knowledge he had gleaned from his family, the other waste-trackers and travelers passing through his land was more than enough to satisfy his curiosity. It seemed that power, greed and corruption were common traits in foreign countries, and he wanted no part of that. Lineage was of extreme importance to each son and daughter of Urok, a fact reinforced by their lengthy oral histories. From this, Taruk had learned how the first settlers of Urok were a small, brave group of wise men and women who had left their sweltering jungle home in search of a place where their people could grow and prosper. While most would have seen the dry wastes of Urok as less than ideal, the early settlers saw great potential. Mountains formed natural barriers to the north and west, while a great forked river delineated its southern border. To the east lay the expansive forest of Ithil Marin, ancestral home of the Ethulin, whom many believed were older than the trees themselves.

It was Taruk’s sacred duty to patrol this eastern border, but in all his years he had only caught a fleeting glimpse of the reclusive Ethulin. Urok respected the solitude and privacy of Ithil Marin’s inhabitants, though their histories were very intimately intertwined. Shortly after Urok had been settled, the Ethulin came en masse to greet their new neighbors. It was found that the two peoples had much in common, including an appreciation and devout following of the natural ways. Many of the bloodlines became intermixed, and this led to the forming of a new nation, Tul, to the southeast.

This matter of family history was one of the few things that would cause Taruk’s mind to wander. Did he have Ethulin, or even Tulian, blood within him? His darker skin and rounded ears caused him to doubt this, but the thought still intrigued him. And if it were true, what had those ancestors been like? Were they honorable? What feats had they accomplished?

The oral histories of Urok and its families, while exhaustive in length and content, tended to lose their accuracy as the decades passed by. Details, even if once known, were often forgotten or exaggerated. This sometimes led to family tales that seemed larger-than-life, but were, more often than not, still true at their core. The value system of the Urokan people made lying deplorable, and grander tales only meant that each family had to accomplish greater deeds to impress and earn the respect of their fellow countrymen. Indeed, the very leadership of the nation was chosen by blood or by deed.

Though Taruk, in his capacity as a waste-tracker, was already well-respected by his people, and had brought honor to his family by continuing its traditional service, he intended to perform many great deeds for his country. As last of the Sembatuwani’s to serve, he would not sit idle.

It was this silent vow that gave him the peace and comfort needed to fall into a deep, restful sleep.

The life of a waste-tracker was generally a lonely one, but it appeared that today would be an exception. Even in the pre-dawn twilight, Taruk-sem was able to make out not one, but two pairs of tracks. They were fresh, less than four hours old, and showed obvious signs that the owners wore boots. All Urokans wore either sandals or went barefoot, and it was unlikely that any travelers had strayed this far off the established roads.

Between the two sets of tracks, the dirt was flattened and scraped, as if something was being dragged. Since the barrenness of the Eastern Lowlands precluded any form of animal life larger than a sand streaker, Taruk found it doubtful that these two individuals were carrying a carcass of freshly killed sustenance. He knew that this left only one or two possibilities and he didn’t like either one.

Quickly, he followed the tracks back a league or so, hoping to determine their point of origin. This was an easy task, as it seemed the track-makers showed no interest in hiding their passage. Taruk stopped short, realizing that the tracks came directly out of the huge wooded kingdom that was Ithil Marin. Yet he knew without a doubt that the tracks were not made by Ethulin. These feet were far too broad and heavy.

Taruk was getting an image he didn’t like, one that he hoped was false. He turned and strode purposefully, following the trail left by the interlopers. It was doubtful that he could reach them before sunrise, unless they had stopped to camp. If not, he would have to rely on stealth and his intimate knowledge of the landscape to take them by surprise.

After two hours of a steady, quickened pace, Taruk-sem came upon his quarry. They had indeed made camp at the foot of a towering mesa, probably just as the sun was coming up. It seemed they had some knowledge of the Way of the Wastes. Yet still they had done nothing to conceal their position.

They are bold and confident, thought Taruk, not generally the disposition of ones who are lost.

The situation warranted closer examination. Taruk approached the mesa from the side opposite their camp, treading lightly over the dry ground. Once at its base, he began to climb expertly up the vertical northern face. This activity directly mirrored the training he had undergone before becoming a waste-tracker. One was required to scale a hundred-foot mesa, cross its flat plateau and climb down the other side safely in less time than it took for a torch to burn. Though Taruk had passed this test easily, he would have to slow his pace considerably to keep his presence hidden today.

The morning sun fell hotly upon his bronzed skin, as Taruk climbed carefully, hand over hand, finding secure grips on worn rocks and inside stony crags. As his steady ascent continued, he broke a light sweat, but he did not curse the heat; the sun and wind had made Urok, his beloved homeland, what it was. Taruk crested the topmost ledge and hefted himself onto the plateau. Though hardly winded, Taruk took a deep breath of the dry air. From this vantage point, he could survey the surrounding arid landscape for leagues on end. To the northeast, he spied the ruins of Vorska, an eerie shell of a long abandoned ancient fortress. Pivoting to the right, he saw the Eastern Lowlands, where he had been only yesterday, and the infinite greenery of the Ethulin forest beyond them. Finally, far to the west were the rolling mounds known as the Broken Hills.

Taruk fully expected the strangers to sleep well past the heat of the noonday sun, but he wanted to make sure that he was in a position to observe them more closely well before they awoke. He quickly and quietly crossed the flat top of the mesa. Once he reached the other edge, he peered down the sheer cliffside. The camp was still there, the strangers unmoved. Odd that they had not posted a lookout or guard. Thus far, their behavior had perplexed Taruk, but the mystery would soon be solved. The waste-tracker began the slow, careful descent of the southern face, making certain that his movements created no sound and loosed no stones. Very little wildlife nested in these mesas, so he didn’t have to worry about startling any fauna that could alert his quarry below. All of his concentration was focused on retaining a strong, perfect grip on the rocks around him, gently lowering himself step by step.

About the time Taruk’s muscles started to ache, he found an ideal crag within which to nestle his powerful physique. He was directly over the interloper camp, about twenty feet from the desert floor. From here, he could see them perfectly, and suddenly, everything made sense. The two wanderers were Dothik, short, stout and mean. Apparently, they had been dragging a large bundle all the way from Ithil Marin and across the arid Urokan terrain, probably towards their mountainous home of Barak Düm. But that was nearly two weeks away on foot. What could be so important that they would risk breaking the trespass treaty that had been in place since the Ethulin slaughter?

Taruk had no head for politics and he had never dealt with the Dothiks before. The families of the Sunbringer tribe traditionally patrolled the northern reaches of Urok, where the Dothik people often tried to cross from their land into the Ethulin’s home. Whatever was tucked away in that bundle was none of his concern, but it was his duty to uphold the laws of the land. Taruk-sem had to confront them, as a representative of his family, his tribe, the Windrunners, and of Urok.

Unfortunately, he didn’t speak Dothik.

This complicated matters greatly. The people of Urok, Tul and their ally, Gildrah, spoke the Tongue of the Triad, as well as a good deal of Ethulin and a smattering of the ancient tribal tongues. The Dothik were never particularly interested in teaching any outsiders their own language, and their great contempt for the Ethulin people insured there would be no common tongue there. It was possible that the Dothiks resting below him spoke Triad, but if not, and if they were in the midst of committing some sort of mischievous act, Taruk’s presence may well unnerve them to the point of violence. The Dothiks were renowned for their strength in combat and they had Taruk outnumbered two to one. Waste-trackers were protectors, not killers, and, thus far, the Dothiks did not appear to be threatening the land of Urok or its people. Perhaps he would merely let them go their own way, following at a great distance, and being sure to report this incident afterwards to the borderwatch.

Taruk relaxed a little, having decided that it would be best for all involved not to confront the Dothiks directly. He would rest here until the Dothiks broke camp and were on their way. As he was about to settle in and offer a prayer of thanks to his ancestors, something unexpected happened: the bundle moved. Not a subtle movement, as if by the wind, but a large shifting from within the canvas package. Whatever was inside the bundle, it was alive.

Dothiks trophy hunting in Ithil Marin?

Taruk could not conceive of a way that this would be allowed by either the Ethulin or Dothik people. Ithil Marin was a forest with a life all its own. Many strange, exotic and even magical creatures dwelled within it. The very trees themselves were alive, with thoughts, feelings and actions of their own. No doubt the Dothiks had discovered this two generations ago when they had forcefully invaded the idyllic and tranquil woodland. That incident had ended in the slaughter of nearly half the Ethulin population and the despising of the Dothiks by most of the world. This shameful act upon a harmless people was supposedly provoked by a Dothik holy man who had experienced some sort of divine vision that threatened the existence of all Barak Düm. So a Dothik army had trekked across the northern portion of Urok in order to reach their alleged enemy.

This was all before Taruk’s time, so he had no direct experience with the politics between Dothiks, Ethulin and the Triad. All he knew was that Dothik travelers were not allowed within the confines of his homeland, unless they had good cause. Even then, they must be accompanied by an “honor guard” at all times.

It appeared that these two interlopers had neither cause nor guards. Something was foul and it was up to Taruk-sem to find out what. He knew the answer lie within that squirming bundle.

Carefully, he began to make his way down the last few feet of the mesa, moving each hand and foot in synchronicity, as a spider slowly creeping across its web. One slip would alert them, but Taruk’s years of stealth training insured that this would not happen. Eyes wide, wary as a puma, Taruk stepped gently onto the red and dusty earth at last. His muscles rippled with each flawless movement, until finally, his outstretched hand reached the bundle. He grasped it firmly and lifted it straight up, being careful not to let it drag and thus make a sound that could awaken the Dothiks. The bag was heavier than he thought, and he broke a sweat across his brow as he set it gently in front of him. There was still movement coming from within the bundle, but he had little fear of being bitten or poisoned. All waste-trackers were subjected to small doses of venom as they grew older. It helped acclimate their bodies to its effects, until it eventually gave them little more than an upset stomach and a headache.

Taruk pulled his flint knife from his belt and deftly opened a small hole in the bundle, tearing it wide enough to get a glimpse inside. What he saw made his heart sink. It was a face, battered, bruised and bloodied. The pallid skin beneath was purple and blue from multiple beatings. The nose was broken and teeth were missing. But worst of all, the Ethulin’s ears, usually long and pointed, had been sliced off. All that remained were two bloody holes on the side of his head. Yet in spite of all this, the Ethulin still lived. He had apparently survived being tortured, stuffed into the canvas parcel and dragged across the desert. Taruk was impressed with this Ethulin’s resilience, but was more worried for his health and safety. He could bind his wounds, as well as give him water and food, but not here. Taruk needed to examine the Ethulin further, to determine the extent of his injuries. Ripping the bundle open completely, he found the Ethulin bound at the wrists and ankles. One of his legs was also twisted at an unnatural angle, probably broken. Taruk would have to carry this poor being away from his torturers. Moving him would be difficult though. He didn’t want to risk injuring the Ethulin further. But if he didn’t act quickly, the Dothiks would rouse and realize they were in danger of losing their prize. He was unsure of what to do.

Then, as if in answer to a prayer yet uttered, a warm wind whispered in Taruk’s ear, and he had all the inspiration he needed. He quickly uncoiled a twine rope from his belt. At the center of these stringy cords was a length of bone, filled with dozens of tiny holes. He attached the twine to one end of the bone and let out the cord to its full length. Taruk then spun the makeshift item as fast as his brawny arms could. This caused the air passing through the porous bone to whistle in a shrill, ear-piercing manner.

It had the effect he had intended.

The Dothiks, from a dead sleep, jumped nearly two feet off the ground. Each of them fumbled for the weapons they had been sleeping next to, one an axe, one a crossbow. Adrenaline rushing, they looked all around for the horrible creature that could have caused that awful, spine-tingling noise. Because of their groggy state, and the brightness of the morning sun, they nearly didn’t see Taruk, standing brave and resolute over the bleeding body of the Ethulin. They squinted against the light to size up this unwanted visitor. Taruk-sem stood like a bronze-skinned statue, powerful and lithe in musculature, jaw set and his will unbreakable. He held no weapons in his hands, but his fists were balled in defiance.

Not giving them a chance to recover, Taruk spoke first.

Loudly.

“I am Taruk-sem, son of Anuk-semba! I am a waste-tracker and son of Urok! You have trespassed upon these sacred lands and will now begone!”

The Dothiks were still a bit shaky but were recovering their composure quickly.

“Give us our goods,” the one with the crossbow prattled in broken Triad.

At least they understood me, thought Taruk. Now for the rest.

“That sound you heard was a call used by my people to summon help. Across these sands, that sound travels for leagues. Soon, a dozen waste-trackers will run to this area seeking to assist me. They will wish to know whether you are friend or foe.”

Taruk let the insinuation hang in the air, though he had a feeling that most Dothik warriors were used to facing overwhelming odds and had a grim, death-before-dishonor outlook on life.

“We will take it from you and be gone before they come,” said the second Dothik, still struggling with the human tongue.

True enough, Taruk admitted inwardly.

“You cannot outrun a waste-tracker, and you cannot hide from one, not in his own land. For once he has your trail, you will be found. With each foot print left in the dirt, he learns more about you, how you move and how you think.”

Taruk could see in their eyes that they were gaining courage. Their words echoed that sentiment.

“Then we defend ourselves and our property,” the first Dothik threatened.

One chance left, thought Taruk.

“There is something you must know,” began Taruk. “Since you are unfamiliar with my land, I will tell you this and no more. The bone that made the sound you heard was from the tail of a sand dragon. When endangered, the sand dragon will whip its tail quickly, making that noise. This calls its mate, its brood, and any other sand dragons in the area. Even I cannot outrun or defeat a dragon. Can you?”

To their credit, the Dothiks did not immediately turn and flee. They remained silent for a moment as if actually considering Taruk’s question. Taruk couldn’t afford to wait for their decision. Pressing his psychological advantage, he lifted the tailbone, still dangling from the cord he held, ever so slightly. It was just enough so that the desert breeze could whistle through its tiny holes once more. The sound was softer than before, but still eerie enough to unnerve the Dothiks. They looked at each other with uneasy eyes, muttered something in Dothik, and ultimately decided that returning home empty handed was better than not returning home at all.

As they fled, Taruk breathed a sigh of relief. The Way of the Wastes had prevailed, for everything he had told the Dothiks was true. Except that sand dragons had been extinct in his land for the last five generations. Taruk raised his hands to the risen Urok sun and spoke his prayer aloud. “Oh grandfather, your spirit has given me the strength and wisdom to survive and triumph. Now, inspire this one with the will to live.”

Taruk knelt over the tormented Ethulin, deeply concerned for his well-being. Taruk had never seen a body ravaged so. He was unsure whether this one would live, but he would not give up on him. “Can you hear me, friend?” Taruk said gently.

The Ethulin opened one ragged eye to acknowledge Taruk. Taruk smiled in response, glad that the stranger was still lucid.

“I am Taruk-sem, of Urok,” the waste tracker introduced himself. “I will care for you as best I can until the others arrive.”

The eye blinked once in understanding, and the Ethulin attempted to verbalize something as well, but he could utter nothing more than a wheeze. Taruk grabbed his waterskin and put it to the Ethulin’s cracked lips, letting him drink as much as he could. This seemed to refresh the Ethulin greatly, as some of the pain and discomfort in his eye melted away. Very slowly, the Ethulin raised his slender hand and clasped it weakly with Taruk’s. His words were barely a whisper, but they were both heartfelt and familiar.

“Thank you, friend Taruk. Your gift will sustain me.”

Scarcely an hour had passed until three other waste-trackers had answered Taruk’s call and gathered at the foot of the tall mesa. The first two began the tedious process of carefully removing the Ethulin from his painful confinement. Taruk watched with the utmost empathy; it was shameful that such peaceful people were treated in such a manner. The third to arrive, Aknon-Jorvaknir, was the senior waste-tracker of the group, approaching his forty-fifth summer, quite an accomplishment for their trade. Seeing that the Ethulin was receiving all the care that could be administered at this time, he turned to Taruk to find out the reasons for this tragedy.

“Who is he?” Aknon asked.

“He says his name is Fylonthe Glimmerglade, a member of the Ethulin council,” Taruk explained. “Apparently he was out for his afternoon stroll with his niece when they were ambushed by two Dothik scouts. His niece was killed, but they spared his life, if only to torture him.”

“Where were they taking him?”

“He isn’t sure. The Dothiks were asking odd questions about some sort of rune or inscription near one of the mesas. They weren’t very clear about it.”

“Was it this one?” asked Aknon, indicating the mesa towering above their heads.

“No, I believe it was further north, towards the border.” Taruk paused. “Which is the direction the two Dothik scouts fled…”

“We should begin a patrol at once, examine all the mesas near here.”

Taruk nodded. “What about the Ethulin?”

“I will have them take him to Torgoth, so that he can rest and heal. It will be safer than returning him to his homeland.”

Again, Taruk nodded, in total agreeance with the wisdom of the elder waste-tracker. He then moved to Fylonthe as they readied him for travel. “Goodbye, my friend. You will be safe and well-cared for. I will find who did this to you and why.”

The Ethulin merely smiled as they toted him away.

“I will head east and search the rocks where you came from,” stated Aknon. “Perhaps I will see something your eyes did not.”

“And I will head north, follow their trail.”

“Signal if you need me,” Aknon said, as he turned and sped off at a brisk pace. Taruk left quickly as well, though not at a full run. It would not be difficult to follow the heavy tracks of the Dothiks, but he wanted to be careful about this. Something strange was occurring and it would require all his vigilance to sort it out. The life of a waste-tracker was indeed a solitary one, but Taruk knew that he could always be assured that help was never far away.

It was deep into the hours of darkness before Taruk found his first clue.

Approaching the northernmost mesa, the last one before the border of Diathilos, Taruk could see a good deal of light emanating from the flat-topped plateau. Moving closer, he saw the torches that created the light; closer still, and he could hear a raucous clangor floating down from above. Whoever it was, they weren’t worried about making noise. It sounded as if there were a great many voices up there, and he wondered how so many people had scaled the treacherous cliffs without being noticed. More importantly, why were they up there? It was no Urokan ritual; of that, Taruk was certain.

Taruk began to circumvent the mesa. He saw no bodies lying at its base, so it was obvious that these individuals were expert climbers. The tracks he had been following led off further to the north, but he was certain that the cause and explanation for all of this was on top of the mesa. He couldn’t make out the language from where he was, and he doubted that any further information would come to him waiting at the bottom of the rocky tower.

Taruk examined the rock face as best he could in the darkness, looking for the safest place to start an ascent. He whispered a quick prayer and dug in with his feet and hands, going slowly so as to avoid any slips. His earlier exertions, as well as lack of sleep, were beginning to take their toll on him. Taruk-sem had a constitution that was built for long term exposure to the elements and extended periods of endurance-draining efforts, but even he had his limits. Luckily, his mind was still sharp, and his soul cried out for justice on behalf of Fylonthe Glimmerglade.

He knew not how long he had climbed, but the sky was still dark when he reached the lip of the precipice. Now, close enough to recognize their clipped and forceful tongue, he knew that the gathered throng were none other than Dothik soldiers. Peeking over the edge, far from any torches, he was astounded to see dozens of the harsh warriors milling about the plateau. Most of the commotion was taking place near the center, as several important-looking Dothiks – and a pale-skinned human – hovered and toiled over something on the ground, something Taruk could not see.

Then, without warning, a pale blue light shot from the ground and into the night sky, carrying on all the way to the stars. Taruk had never seen a light so bright, save for the noonday sun itself. Most of the Dothiks backed away from this glaring beacon, some all the way to the edge of the plateau, as if they would rather jump off the mesa than share the same space with that magical light. The leaders in the center, however, remained steadfast, continuing to chant and emote, one striking the ground with a large warhammer.

Taruk stood spellbound at the spectacle. He knew they were working some manner of foul magic, but he could not stop them, nor call for help. For now, he could do little more than watch and pray.

The one with the hammer kept making a clanging noise with every swing of the weapon, as if he was pounding on something large and metallic. Taruk thought he would go deaf before long, but a sudden explosion of energy knocked the Dothik backwards and off the plateau, silencing the noise permanently. The quick and blinding burst rocked the entire mesa and Taruk had to hold on for dear life to keep from plunging to a quick death. Only his iron grip saved him, but he had to readjust his footing to find a safer balance on the cliff face. Several of the other Dothiks had fallen as well, those that were too close to the edge. The ones that remained could merely stare in superstitious awe at what came next.

Taruk watched as a metal plate, about four feet across, rose and rotated into the sky, directly following the beam of light that illuminated the mesa. As it faded out of sight, the Dothiks gave a slight murmur of surprise and Taruk, too, was shocked by what he saw: a human female surrounded by a shimmering blue nimbus rose up out of the ground, standing vertically. Taruk guessed she had seen thirty to forty summers. She was dressed regally, but had a scar on her left cheek. As far as Taruk could tell, she was asleep, but he couldn’t see her breathing. Either she was dead or the magical glow around her was keeping her from life.

Even in the wildest stories of the Wastes, Taruk had never heard of anything like this, and he didn’t like it. Apparently, neither did the Dothiks, as one of them ran forward and tried to pierce the woman with a sharp poniard. It merely bounced off the blue shell, sparking harmlessly. The lead Dothik then barked an order and several of the soldiers lifted the encased female and carried her towards the opposite side of the plateau. They then began to descend with her into what looked liked a ready-made hole.

What is this?! thought Taruk in confused frustration, as he ducked down behind the lip of the mesa. He decided to wait until the entire Dothik troupe had disappeared into ground before taking any action. It wasn’t long before their stomping and clinking faded into the distance. Taruk poked his head up; all was dark and silent. The Dothiks were gone. The torches were gone. The beam of light was gone. Taruk hefted himself on top of the mesa and had a look around, keeping low and moving stealthily. All that remained was a non-descript circular hole in the ground, about six feet deep. This was the one that the woman emerged from, he reasoned. So where was the other one? Taruk tested the dirt in several places, wary of falling into a pit. Near where the Dothiks had disappeared, he found a large piece of canvas covered with dirt and rocks. Pulling it aside, he discovered their means of egress. That piece of canvas was camouflage for a wide tunnel dug deep into the heart of the mesa, heading downward into darkness. The engineering was incredible, and given that Taruk had seen no openings near the base of the mesa, he knew that this passage went deep into the underground. Dothiks were renowned for their ability to mine immense tunnels and caverns and now, Taruk bore full witness to that claim.

They have found a way to enter our lands undetected, thought Taruk, his fury rising. This portent boded grimly for his people. He would have to forego the rest of his patrols – a rare occurrence – and return to Torgoth with this news. For regardless of who that woman was or what the Dothiks wanted with her, their presence meant one thing:

For the first time in history, Urok had been invaded.