Lor Dak Book One Diane
Published by John Northern at Smashwords
Copyright 2010 John Northern
Table Of Contents
Chapter 8 - The Unforgiven Dead
Chapter 11 - The Usurper's Army
Foreword
The Galactic super-computers estimate that once every 10 million years a child prodigy is born, who could reshape the future of the entire galaxy by becoming a power that cannot be stopped.
The computers go on to state, however, that the necessary conditions for this occurrence are so far-reaching, and that the child would have to overcome so many obstacles that the Galactic Government need not be concerned that it will ever happen.
But this logic is, indeed, proven false when Lor Dak arises from a backward civilization on an obscure planet—a planet with no space travel capabilities. This complication and others would not be able to stop Lor Dak.
With an urgent upward stroke, the blade rose and came whistling down as it cut a tunnel of escape through the foliage.
What cursed luck is this, thought Lor Dak. If I had known this thicket was here I could have gone around it, speeding my escape and avoiding any bloodshed. He took another swipe with his sword.
An orange snake quickly coiled and hissed at him, then it slithered away and disappeared into the underbrush.
Lor Dak ceased the slashing with his sword and lowered it, until the tip of the sharp blade touched the ground. He stopped to listen for a moment.
He didn’t know how far behind the Sartoris were, but he knew that once they got to the underbrush they would quickly be upon him—since they would only have to follow his path without having to cut and slash a path of their own.
He stopped and took off his backpack. There was only one thing he could do to slow them down—he would have to revert to chicanery of the deadliest kind. He cut a branch off a nearby tree and quickly hacked out five sharp stakes. He pulled a small glass bottle from his leather pouch and removed the cork, then cautiously he dipped the points of each of the stakes into the black liquid in the jar—a deadly poison.
He cut more of the underbrush until he found a limb, which was hanging naturally low to the ground—no more than waist high. He cut off the end of the limb, then cut five grooves equidistant, about half a foot from each other in the limb. With leather straps from his backpack he very carefully tied the stakes to the branch. He pulled the branch out of sight and tied it off. There, he thought, let’s see if they can get around this.
Lor Dak ducked and stepped carefully over the trip mechanism. He was about to start slashing through the underbrush when he quickly looked up. Something was falling from the night sky with incredible speed, coming straight at him. He paused and watched as it maneuvered through the branches. Then he saw a glint of silver as the moonlight reflected off it, and he realized what it was. He looked down and took a swipe at the underbrush, clearing out another big patch. Just then a silver thrush landed on his shoulder.
“Hello, Silver,” said Lor Dak.
Silver skipped the greeting. “You made a trap, I see.”
Lor Dak growled, “I had to find a way to slow them down. After they encounter it they’ll have to slash their own path through the brush, or chance another deadly trap.”
“Good thinking. Of course, that has always been one of your assets.”
Lor Dak could hear an insincere tone in Silver’s voice. “Why do you make that sound like an insult?”
“It’s no insult. After all, if it wasn’t for your creative genius, I wouldn’t be alive.”
“Alive?”
“Oh, come on, now. Don’t start that again. I’m just as much alive as any creature in this jungle. And you know it.”
“You say that, but I’m wondering if it’s not just the intricate computer program with a highly advanced computer core.”
As Lor Dak took another swipe with his sword the little thrush cocked his head and said, “It would please me if we never had this conversation again. So, for the last time, let me say that as soon as you flipped the switch, sort of speak, I became one with this body that you created for me, and I am eternally grateful and definitely alive.”
“Good,” said Lor Dak. “That actually makes me happy. I would hate to think I was talking to an unimaginative machine with no original thoughts.”
“Don’t consider me just a machine anymore, and we’ll both be happy.”
“That’s fine,” said Lor Dak. He took another swing, cutting through the brush, and then he asked, “How far back are they?”
“About five miles, and moving fast.”
“Five miles? Good. That should be enough distance for us to get through this brush and out of this blasted jungle. Maybe even to a white man’s city before they catch up.”
Silver chirped out as if to make an exclamation, then he said. “If you’re looking for a city, you have a long road ahead of you.”
“How far?”
“Several days.”
“That far, huh?” He paused while ruminating. “In that case, I’ll probably have to find a place to fight them.”
“I know you’re not afraid of these Indians. You’ve dealt with them in the past.”
“That doesn’t mean they can’t kill me. They’re very cunning warriors.”
“What!? Don’t say that. The mere thought of your death makes me shudder. If you were to die and that little ear piece/microphone thingy of yours was lost, I would never have anyone to talk to for the rest of eternity. I’d be talking to myself.”
“You don’t have to worry about eternity. Your power supply won’t last much longer than a hundred thousand years.”
“Talking to myself for that length of time, believe me—that would be eternity. I would welcome the day my power supply ran out.”
Lor Dak ignored Silver’s last statement. He said, “I don’t understand why they would come for me after all this time. Over the years I have more than made up for the dishonor I brought to their tribe—even though they deserved it. With a lot of hard work I brought them and the other Indian tribes into a more civilized existence. I taught them more advanced farming techniques for yielding better crops with better tasting and more nutritious food. I helped cure several diseases and brought them better health with a medicine I discovered from a mold growing on a fungus next to Lake Lolai.”
“I remember that. You called it ‘Lapsin.’
“Yeah, and I had to do a lot of talking to convince the Indians that a medicine man dancing around the bed of the sick and shaking rattles had no more of a cure than lifting the sick Indian up and kicking him in the butt. In fact, the kicking would be better as it would be a slight stimulant to the immune system.”
“I’m sure they don’t know what an immune system is,” answered Silver.
“Yeah,” agreed Lor Dak, and then he said, “The most important thing I taught them was cleanliness—a way of life that will double the lifespan of the average person. I also showed them how to domesticate the wild boar, so they will always have fresh meat when they want it.
“That was a good one. But I remember you having a terrible time trying to convince them that raising pigs in captivity and going out of your way to feed and take care of them everyday is a good thing.”
“I also brought them an alphabet and a written language, which they had never before had. I set up a system of schools for teaching the young. I united the tribes and formed a governing council, which made the Indians of the southern continent a power of which to beware. I created an army to protect their nation. There will no longer be slavers and slave ships coming to our shores. I even invented an explosive black powder—something which has never been seen on our planet—as far as I am aware. And I taught them how to build houses with lumber and other materials.”
“I would applaud you, but it sounds like your already doing that yourself.”
“Now, you’re being cute. But you know I’m not a braggart. The point is I have brought the Indian nation from uncivilized to civilized. So, why are these Sartoris after me?”
“Maybe thirteen years ago when you completely destroyed their army, in the process you killed the father of one or more of those who are now following.”
“Perhaps, but they killed my father, first. As far as I’m concerned that makes us even.”
Silver became quiet, and Lor Dak thought about his father for a moment, and then he thought about the story his father told recounting the time Lor Dak was born.
He took another swipe at the brush.
*
*
It was the first night in thousands of years that the full moon was blood-red. It sent its omen shining upon the jungles and the fields like paintings of fire. It sent its warning to the village telling that something strange was about to happen. High above, dark-red clouds swiftly moved in blotting out the stars. But they could not shut out the light of the moon—sending its rays upon the night sky in a ghastly red.
Without warning or any sign of a coming disaster, a furious storm of hurricane force came up. In an instant it released raging winds upon the small village. Thatched roofs were torn from many of the huts. Nearby jungle trees were snatched from their roots and tumbled into the crop fields. Crops were whipped out of the soil and blown away. The air was so thick with dust it was impossible to see more than a foot ahead. Men and women headed for shelter, any place for protection from the winds. The dakai—their small, four-legged, work animal, ran away in fear, squealing as they went.
And inside a dimly lit room with the wind howling outside, a pregnant woman was having a terrible time giving birth. She was howling louder than the wind. She turned her face toward her husband and without seeing him and with lines of pain creasing her forehead, she screamed for it to be finished.
As the sweat dripped from her brow, the wind tore apart the roof of the hut and sent part of it disappearing into the dark and dusty, red night. The witch doctor looked up at the gaping hole, for a moment, then continued his dancing around the pregnant woman shaking his rattles and praying to the jungle God that He would bring forth a safe delivery. The old birthing woman was peering between the pregnant woman’s legs. She had her hands close to the thighs waiting for the baby to slide out. But all she could see was part of a head. Something was wrong!
The pregnant woman pushed, then screamed again. More of the head started to show, then it slid back.
The birthing woman cried out in frustration, “The baby’s not coming. Stand her up!
The husband put his hand behind his wife’s back and pushed her into a sitting position, then he grabbed her just under the breasts and stood her up. The birthing woman spread the pregnant woman’s legs and watched as gravity began to help the process.
Outside the crashing sounds continued as the wind continued its destruction in the village. The husband knew that some of the people of his tribe needed help. He wanted to rush out and come to their aid, but he couldn’t leave his wife. Suddenly, a large branch crashed into the hut. The witch doctor was knocked off his feet and landed on the dirt floor. There was a hole in his skull from which blood poured. A smaller offshoot of the branch hit the birthing woman and knocked her down. Part of the wall was destroyed causing the remainder of the roof to lean to one side. Red, drizzling rain fell through the hole.
As if by instinct the pregnant woman—still in a state of delirium, reached out with one hand and grabbed hold of a supporting pole.
Quickly the husband let go of his wife and helped the birthing woman to her feet, then he bent over and examined the witch doctor. After a moment he could tell there would be no helping him, so he stood up and grabbed his wife as she once again started screaming. In her pain she had taken no notice of the branch, no notice of the gaping hole in the roof, and no notice of the hurricane storm.
Red blood from the vagina started to run down the insides of her thighs. The baby’s head and face appeared.
Pulling leaves from her hair, the birthing woman exclaimed, “The baby comes!”
And just like that, the wind was gone with only a few swirls left and a sprinkle of rain falling through the hole in the roof from the dark clouds above. Was it a coincidence?
After the rest of the baby came out—easily, the mother collapsed to the mat on the ground. In spite of her brown skin, her face was pale from exhaustion and loss of blood.
“Look at the baby,” said the old, birthing woman as she held him in her arms. “Do you see!”
The father, who had kneeled beside his wife, looked up.
“Since this was her sixth child, the birth should have been easy, but look how large the baby’s head is.” The old, birthing woman clucked, then said, “Your wife is lucky she lived through this!”
*
*
They named the baby boy Molinokai Inama Lo-lolokai.
His father said that the red moon and the hurricane force winds were signs that their sixth child and fourth born son would bless their tribe bringing forth an abundance of good fortune.
The natural occurrences in Molinokai’s life happened quickly after he was born. Much to the surprise of his parents and everyone else in the tribe he started talking when he was two months of age, and by the age of five months he was walking and had potty trained himself,—which for the Indians meant finding a bush where no one could watch. When he was six months of age he mastered most of the Daki Indian language.
By the time Molinokai was three years old he was giving his parents and the neighbor’s advice. And he wasn’t shy about it. He showed them how to rotate their crops to get a better yield. He showed them where and how to build a dam to extend the watering season for their crops. He developed a new method for harvesting, and among other things he showed them how to structure their huts to stand stronger against the winds.
The parents thought it was wonderful that they had such a gifted child, a child who was truly born of the red moon, but some of the neighbors began to wonder if he had been sent by the devil to trick them and eventually destroy the Daki Indians. How could a three-year old child come up with such designs and strategies? The members of the tribe began to shun him. They treated him with disdain, and they went out of their way to avoid him whenever possible. If it hadn’t been that his mother and father were liked by the other tribe members, and that they had influence with the chief, then they probably would have been banned from the village.
Being so young at the age of three, little Molinokai was not aware that the tribe members were treating him differently than the other children. And so he continued to live life as normal, giving advice and trying to take charge of all situations.
When he was four years old he informed his parents he was changing his name to Lor Dak. They thought it was cute and told all the neighbors. When Chief Molinai, however, found out what the child had declared, he didn’t think it was funny in any sense of the word. In the Dakinian language the translation of ‘Lor Dak’ is ‘King of the Indian Nations.’ The chief forbade anyone to call the child by this name. For one thing there was no Indian Nation, and there were no kings, and for another reason Lor Dak was not even in the line of succession to become a chief.
At the age of six when he finally realized the tribe members were treating him differently, and that they thought he came from an evil source, he started telling them it was pure nonsense. He was finally able to convince them that he was not the son of Satan. It took several months of tirades, and sometimes it took a shouting match, which looked weird coming from a six year old boy, but he made them realize that Satan wouldn’t be giving them this knowledge to make their lives easier. He would be sending misery and hardship. He would plague them with diseases and many natural disasters. “These are the evil actions of a wicked person,” said Lor Dak to the people. “And that is why you must understand that I have been sent by the jungle God.” He wasn’t sure he really believed that, but he had to get the people of his village to accept him. “I am here to help,” he said.
With constant verbiage telling them that he was bringing good to the people, they finally accepted him as one of their own. And from then on he would be looked upon as one who could be trusted and as one who could help the people in many different situations. It was then that they started coming to him for advice.
The nineteen year-old Lor Dak continued to hack his way through the underbrush.
He hacked and slashed for another half hour, until he hacked himself into an opening in the jungle. Finally, he had slashed his way out of the jungle barrier. He quickly studied his surroundings looking for jungle predators, but seeing none he sheathed his sword and started out at a fast pace. He needed to put some distance between him and the Sartoris. Eventually he would need sleep, but the question was—would he have to fight these fools first? If he could get far enough ahead of them, he would be able to find a tree to rest in, and perhaps get some sleep. They would need sleep, too, but since this was unknown territory, they would have to post watches during the night. They would be getting interrupted sleep, which would give Lor Dak a slight advantage during the coming battle.
Lor Dak ran for five minutes before he heard one of the Sartori warriors scream in the distance.
“It sounds as though they found your trap.”
“Unfortunately for them.”
Overhead, hiding in the trees, away from nighttime predators, a night bird made its mating call, which was nothing more than a loud, irritating screech in the moonlit jungle night.
“What an annoying bird,” said Silver.
“Careful what you say. You’re talking about one of your feathered friends.”
“He’s no friend of mine. He’s just a horny bird looking for a mate.”
It called out several times as Lor Dak and Silver passed beneath the branch where it was sitting. Lor Dak, with Silver sitting on his shoulder, continued through the jungle at a steady pace running between the tight-knit trees. He watched for the end of the jungle, which would be a transition from the Indian nation of the Southern Continent into the white man’s land.
The screeching of the bird began to fade.
Lor Dak jumped over a fallen log and kept an even pace down the slope toward the valley. On the grass-carpeted, jungle floor, growing around the trunks of the trees were large leafy plants behind which invidious lurking creatures could be hiding, waiting to attack a passerby. The plant with its large leaves grew five feet out and four feet high. Lor Dak had never seen such plants, but this was new territory for him since he had never been this far north. He avoided the plants as he ran.
Suddenly he jogged into a wide area in the jungle, which had been leveled. It was most curious. The wide area ran in two directions, to his left and his right, at such a distance that Lor Dak could not see the ends. Because of the grass and the plant life, and even a few trees growing from the surface, it took him a moment to realize that this had once been a highway, maybe even a freeway—he had read about them in books. They were passageways, which were paved with an artificial substance to make them strong and flat. The only road he had ever seen was the one leading to Zee Zee’s castle, built by the Ancients. It was made of a black shiny material that had lasted through the ages. Only here and there was it cracked with large pieces missing due to earthquakes or other natural disasters.
He turned his head in both directions studying the long highway. “Which way should we go?”
Silver didn’t hesitate, “The nearest white-man city and the fastest way to the City of Id is north west, which means you need to go left.”
Lor Dak followed Silver’s direction. He jogged for several hours upon the road. Without stopping to rest, he followed the road out of the transitional area, across the valley, and up a small mountain, which was covered with colossal trees.
The road disappeared into the ground where grass and bushes grew over the top of it.
Lor Dak ran up a seldom used path. Even though he had the problem of the Sartoris to contend with, he was glad he was out of the jungles, out of the Indian Territory and in the white man’s land. He stopped and stood beneath a tree, which he had seen from the valley floor. He studied it more closely. It was enormous. The trunk was wider than two Indian huts put side by side. The bottom branches were thicker than the height of a grown man, and it had leaves coming off smaller branches, which were three feet across. The most unusual characteristic of the tree was its lower branches, which spread out to a greater distance over the landscape than the tree was tall. It was so wide that half the people of Lor Dak’s village could fit comfortably under the tree for protection from the rain. Large globular objects hung from the smaller branches. In the dark he couldn’t tell if it was some sort of fruit or seed pods.
He studied the tree because he knew it was time for him to stop and rest, to sleep. He climbed the tree and chose a huge limb, which was on the side of the tree facing opposite the direction from which the Indians would be coming. He removed the blowtube from the sling where it hung on his back next to his backpack. He took a dart out of his leather pouch and put it in the mouth hole, then he placed the blowtube on his lap. He removed the backpack and put it on a limb within reaching distance.
“So, you’re going to sleep, now?”
“Yeah, give me a little peck if anyone comes down the path.”
“I wish I could sleep. Don’t you think my computer needs a rest once in awhile?”
“Since the core is made up mostly of electrons traveling in a vector of sequential patterns relating to a computer language, I would have to say ‘no.’ Plus, one of the reasons I made you was to be my lookout.”
“Still . . . .”
“It doesn’t do any good to pine for something that will never be. Your construction cannot be altered.”
“I wish you had given my needs a little more thought when you constructed me.”
“Quiet now. I want to go to sleep.” He gave the blowtube a little pat, and then he thought about the time he invented it.
He was six years old when the idea came to him—not the original idea, of course. He knew that in the vast reaches of infinity there is no such thing as an original idea. Everything is already in existence—always has been and always will be. But inventions can be made in relativity. And he had done just that with the blowtube. None of the Indians of all the tribes of the Southern Continent had ever seen one nor contemplated one, until he invented it.
*
*
When the Sartoris attacked Lor Dak’s village it became a fateful day that would change the course of not only the Indian culture of all the tribes forever, but also the Galactic Federation.
Lor Dak was in his hut with his mother asking her questions about the origins of their culture. These were questions, of course, which she would be unable to answer, the fact was, she didn’t understand what he was asking. Suddenly Lor Dak heard a great shouting and commotion of men coming from the trees of the jungle.
He ran out of the hut just as his mother was telling her children to stay where they were and not to come out. She would have told Lor Dak the same, except he was already running down the dirt road between the other huts. He was just coming to the outskirts of the village when his mother caught up with him. Strange men were running out of the jungle and into the field. They were fierce warriors with swords raised above their heads and daggers or shields in their other hands. Some carried bows and arrows, and they started shooting the Daki men who had been peacefully working their crops.
Men howled in pain as they went to the ground dying or wounded. The attack was so sudden and furious that the Dakis had no chance to defend themselves. Some of the men ran behind their dakais to keep from being shot. Others ran for their huts. Little Lor Dak didn’t know why they would run to their huts until he saw one of the men reemerge through the doorway with a sword in his hand. The man ran into the melee and started fighting, and shortly after he was killed by a mean looking Sartori warrior.
Lor Dak’s father was running across the field toward his hut, but he never got there. Lor Dak would never forget the face of the large Indian who bore down on his father slicing him and stabbing him in the chest with his sword. He would never forget the look on his father’s face as he lie on the ground in the field just outside their hut, a look of regret that he couldn’t save his family, that he couldn’t live to see his children grow older, that he wouldn’t be able to see his grandchildren, and that he couldn’t complete his purpose in life. Lor Dak would never forget his mother screaming out, “You heathen dog!” She picked up a rock and threw it at the Sartori warrior, and she fought fiercely with her fists, but the big Indian picked her up and slung her over his shoulder. He ran for the jungle and disappeared into the trees.
The one-sided fight lasted another ten minutes as the Sartoris killed men, stole women, food, and tools, and then vanished as fast as they had appeared.
Little Lor Dak stood upon the edge of the field with his mind in a state of turmoil. Twelve Daki men lay dead upon the ground, and five more were wounded—three with arrows shot through limbs and two with sword wounds.
Lor Dak’s sister, Leilani, ran beside him and started crying with great sobs and many tears, then, still crying, she ran with the other women to help the wounded.
Suddenly Lor Dak understood the term, ‘weapon.’ He had only heard it a couple of times during his short life, and since he had never seen one, and since it was of no use to him, the term had no meaning. But now he had a full realization that the term meant ‘a tool of death.’ With the emotions of anger and sadness welling up in his mind, and revenge becoming his goal, his thoughts began lunging forward into a vast array of devices. Weapons suddenly became visible in the realm of his imagination. All sorts of devices were pondered, then discarded or kept as a possibility to be considered in greater detail when he was finished sifting through the other ideas. Many of the ideas that he came up with for weapons he knew he wouldn’t be able to create because either the necessary materials weren’t available or the technology was lacking, but in spite of this it didn’t take little, six-year old Lor Dak long to mentally come up with his weapons of choice.
The next day as the village began to recover from its terrible ordeal with the Sartoris, as the women and children lamented the loss of their loved ones, and as they made ready for the funerals, Lor Dak went to the chief of the dakis and asked for a sword.
“You are too young to wield a sword,” said the chief. “I understand your anger because of the loss of your mother and father, but you cannot find revenge, not today, not at your young age.”
“You misunderstand,” replied Lor Dak in his high-pitched, child’s voice. “I don’t want to use it against the Sartoris. There is something I need to make, and I need a sword to do it.”
The chief gave him a suspicious look. “You want to make something?”
“Yes,” said Lor Dak, “I am not so ignorant as to think I could attack the Sartoris to regain my mother’s freedom, nor do I think I could sneak in at night, kill that Indian dog, and escape with her. As I said, I want to make something.”
“Okay,” said the chief still giving Lor Dak a suspicious look. He knew that six-year old Lor Dak’s mind was like that of an adult’s, and because Lor Dak was progressive, he and the chief had already had several differences of opinion. “In that case,” said the chief, “all the Daki men have swords to protect themselves from wild beasts and from the Sartoris. I’m sure if you look through your father’s belongings you will find it. But I command you . . . .”
“I assure you,” said little Lor Dak, “it will not be used for revenge.”
He went back to his parent’s hut. He lifted the grooved wooden lid off his father’s long chest, and after lifting out two leather balls, used for sport by the men of the village, and after digging through various farming tools, he found a sword, sheathed and laying on the bottom. He lifted it, and found it to be too heavy for his small arms and small stature. Still, he would be able to use it with the assistance of his oldest sister, Leilani.
While he waited out of respect for the dead and for the sorrow of the loss of his father, he continued to come up with new ideas for deadly weapons. His mind had wandered into the realm of traps. He thought about the traps that his people used. For hunting and for protection of the their villages the Indians oftentimes used camouflaged pits with sharpened stakes protruding from the bottom, but over the years this trap became useless. The enemy knew to walk around leaf fronds lying in the path and even the animals had developed an instinct to avoid such traps. But little Lor Dak thought of a better one—one that could not be detected. Indeed, his mind kept working. And by the time the mourning was finished, several weeks later, he was ready to begin.
He found his sister gathering berries in the brambles to the east of the village. “I need your help,” he said.
“With what?”
“I need you to get our father’s sword out of his chest and follow me to the pond.”
Leilani knew her six year old brother well enough to know he was planning something. There came a glint in her eyes. “What are we going to do, and why are we doing it?”
As casual as looking at the sky to talk about the weather, he said, “We’re going to make a weapon to free our mother.”
“Oh, Moni,” she said, “if you could do that, it would be the greatest gift you could ever give me.”
Lor Dak smiled an adult smile, which looked eerie on a six-year old child, he said, “The Sartoris will regret the day they attacked our village, killed our father, and stole our mother.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “If you can do it, it will be a good thing.”
“I can, and will do it.”
Together they went back to their hut and retrieved the sword, then they went to the pond where they found a patch of bamboo. He instructed her to cut a medium sized stalk, which he explained to her he was going to use for the weapon. “When you have finished cutting the bamboo,” he said, “we will go back to the village, and I will invent the blowtube.”
He spent the next two days hollowing the tube and the next seven making the dart, which through trial and error he found he had to add bird feathers to the end of the dart to make it fly straight. After a minimal amount of practice he realized it was easy to hit a target, even at forty paces if the target was as large as a man.
Before little Lor Dak had started making the blowtube he had already realized the importance of poison—without it a dart would be worthless. But where to get it? If the poison from a jungle spider would kill an adult when bitten within two minutes, then it would surely kill a man if a dart tipped with this poison were to penetrate his skin. But there was a problem—the jungle spider was too difficult to catch, and you were taking the risk of being bitten by it.
On the other hand, if a person were to eat the kackai plant, he would die within five minutes or less, so he extracted the poison from this plant and let it thicken in the sun until it was syrupy in mass. He found that once it thickened it was even more potent than that of the poison from the jungle spider.
Now, he had to prove to himself and to others, especially the chief, that the blowtube would kill as efficiently as he thought it would. The next day he went hunting for yurkai, a large land bird, which had big legs and was a very fast runner. They were tasty, but difficult to catch and kill. The hunter would lie in the tall grass waiting for the land birds to come by, then he would quickly jump up and shoot with his bow and arrow, but the birds were extremely skittish and very fast, and would run at the slightest movement. Because of this Lor Dak had never eaten yurkai meat, but had only been told about it.
There was a difference with the blowtube that gave Lor Dak an advantage—he didn’t have to jump up. He laid very still in the grass and when the birds came along he would puff on the tube sending a deadly dart into the Yurkai. That afternoon he and his older sister came home with three of them and would have had more if they could have carried them. Lor Dak and his brothers and sisters had a feast to which they invited the entire tribe, including the chief and his family.
Now it was time for Lor Dak to start his plan. When they were finished eating he stood up and with a slight tinge of anger in his voice, he said to the chief, “I know I am small and that I am young, and I know how adults feel about small children and their ability to solve problems encountered in life, and in this case—enemy tribes, but I am telling you,” he said, “that I can show you how to defeat the Sartori Indians, how you can bring them to their knees.”
Everyone knew that Lor Dak was more like an adult than a child, and most began to treat him like an adult. On the other hand, because of Lor Dak’s innovative thinking, the chief was always suspicious of his new ideas.
The chief looked at Lor Dak with the facial expression, ‘oh no, here it comes again.’ “Your thoughts on this matter cannot become real,” said the chief. “Not only are the Sartoris experienced warriors, but they outnumber us three to one. You should not talk such nonsense.”
“We call ourselves ‘the People,’” said Lor Dak, “which means that God has honored us with the task of performing His great works. Yet, we let the Sartoris kill our men and steal our women. Where is the honor in that. Maybe we should call ourselves, ‘the Sartoris’ People.’ ”
The men shuffled about in their seats, and several of the women gasped. It was unheard of for anyone to be so disrespectful with the chief or to blaspheme the jungle God.
Lor Dak saw the anger cross the chief’s face. To make him angry was counter productive for what he had planned, so he quickly added, “I mean no disrespect to you, great chief. From stories of past times I realize that you are the greatest chief the Dakis have ever had. You are wise and intelligent, and I know that if I show you a way to kill the Sartoris, then you will know whether or not it is a good plan. Please, let me bring you a gift that will show you that I can devise a plan for conquering the mightiest of foes.”
Instantly the portrayal of the chief’s face went from one of anger to one of being pleased. “When will you bring me this gift?” he asked.
“I will bring it tomorrow,” responded the little, six-year old Lor Dak.
“Okay,” answered the chief, “bring me the gift, and then I will consider what you have to say.”
With that the feast ended and everyone went about their business.
As Lor Dak leaned back and closed his eyes, he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep right away. He was too keyed up from the chase and the flight from the Sartoris. He thought back to the time when he brought the chief his gift—a way to convince the chief to go to battle with the terrible Indians who had murdered his father and kidnapped his mother.
*
*
Little Lor Dak took his blowtube and went hunting for the gift, and he found him sooner than he had anticipated—a few miles from the village where the fields met the jungle . The gift was a huge, black, hairy monster with fangs glistening in the sunlight and saliva dripping from his mouth onto the newly cultivated soil. He had just run out of the field of the tall melaise plants where he had been eating malaise—the Daki’s primary crop.
The Daki Indians had a name for him, “Helmai,” which in Dakinian meant, “the evil pig.” For four years now he had been ravaging the farms of the Daki Indians, destroying large sections of crops. Several times they tried to stop him, to kill him, but he was smart, and he was fast. Two Daki men had been gored to death by this wild boar, and three had been injured, one seriously.
Little Lor Dak stood holding his breath. His plan had been to find and kill the beast with his blowtube, but he hadn’t expected to find him this quickly, or was it the other way around—did the pig find him!?—did the evil pig sense that death was coming?
Whatever the reason, it was too soon. Little Lor Dak stood holding the leash to the dakai, a small four-legged animal, which the Daki used to pull their plows and for other work. He waited to see if Helmai was going to ignore them and go back into the field.
Helmai was fifty paces from Lor Dak, and for Lor Dak the nearest haven of safety, which was the nearest tree on the edge of the jungle, was twenty paces away.
He was still trying to decide what to do when the necessity for making the decision was taken from him. The giant pig snorted and charged. Lor Dak dropped the leash and churned his little legs as fast as they would go, making for the nearest tree. Helmai was much faster and caught up with Lor Dak just as he jumped as high as he could up the trunk of the tree. He hung onto the smooth bark and started to shiny toward the low hanging branch, but to his dismay, he wasn’t high enough. Helmai jumped and one of his fangs caught Lor Dak on the inside of his right heel. Instantly there was blood and pain. Lor Dak wrapped his legs higher and tighter around the sides of the tree to keep himself from sliding toward the black monster. Just then the pig jumped and barely missed Lor Dak’s butt by two inches. Lor Dak watched with a gasp. He had no idea pigs could jump. This was motivation enough, and he started quickly up the tree. When he got to the lowest branch, he climbed onto it and sat there panting and looking at the pig.
Helmai was not content with chasing his foe up a tree. He was angry, and he wanted more blood. He kept pawing the ground and snorting and looking up at the young boy.
Lor Dak looked at his heel, then he dabbed at it wiping away some of the blood. It wasn’t a serious wound. He unstrapped his blowtube from where it hung on his back. He took a dart out of his leather pouch and inserted it through the mouthpiece. “Stupid pig,” he yelled down.
Helmai snorted and then gored the trunk of the tree. He stood back as the tree swayed a bit from the force. He kept glaring up at Lor Dak, but finally he turned and started walking toward the crop fields.
Lor Dak raised the blowtube to his lips and blew mightily. The little black dart sped through the air with accuracy. It hit the pig in the hindquarters.
Helmai snorted and turned around. Something had caused him pain, and he was angry. He started looking for something to charge and that’s when he saw the dakai standing in the freshly cultivated field. He took off charging with the dart still in his butt. He ran about fifteen paces, slowed down, then came to a sudden halt as his front legs fell out from beneath him. His snout with its large fangs plowed into the dirt making a new furrow. The pig was dead.
Lor Dak waited a few minutes, making sure he wasn’t moving, before he climbed out of the tree. With another dart in the blowtube he walked over and kicked Helmai, then jumped back, waiting. Nothing, so he kicked him again. Nothing, the pig was definitely dead.
He had previously strapped a leather harness around the neck and chest of the dakai. Now, he tied the ends of the harness around the pig, and started the dakai moving out of the field and onto the path. His heeled still caused him pain, but it was worth it. He had killed the pig and could prove to the chief that his weapon was a deadly instrument that could be used to kill the Sartoris.
The dakai drug the corpse of Helmai to the village, and by the time they arrived it was late afternoon. The Indians who were working outside started shouting and hooting with praise. Others came flooding out of their huts to see what the commotion was all about. Soon most everyone in the village, including the chief, was standing around Lor Dak and the fallen Helmai. They were talking rapidly, firing exaltations and compliments at Lor Dak. His older sister hugged him and said, “You have done a wonderful thing.” She smiled broadly. “Now is it time for you to retrieve our mother?” Leilani knew that Lor Dak was a gifted child. His mind didn’t work like most people. He had an intelligence she had never seen in any of the adults. He was extremely fast to learn, and he could invent weapons or tools, which no one had ever thought could exist. The blowtube was one such weapon.
The chief stepped forward and patted little Lor Dak on the head. “This is indeed a grand gift,” he said. “Tomorrow I will hear what you have to say about the Sartoris, but tonight we feast!” And in his loud, deep voice, he shouted the word ‘feast’ again, so that everyone would hear.
The crowd cheered, and they went to make ready for an evening of good food and laughter. They made a fire in the huge pit, which was located in the middle of the village. They gathered vegetables to cook and fresh fruit to eat. When the fire was nothing but a huge bed of coals, they gutted and skinned the wild boar and mounted him on a spit, which they placed on forks at each end of the pit, then they roasted him by turning the spit every few minutes.
The feast and good times lasted until late. It was indeed a joyous night. No longer would the wild boar be destroying crops, and no longer would he be harassing the Indians. No longer would he be a danger to the men, women, and children of the village. Lor Dak was viewed as a hero, and more importantly the chief was mightily pleased.
The next morning, after the council had been assembled and when all was ready, the chief sent for Lor Dak. They wanted to know how he had killed the pig and if the same could be used in battle. As he left the hut, his sister wished him luck and said that she would pray to the Gods that he could convince the chief to go to war with the Sartoris.
As he walked toward the council meeting he realized that now was his chance to convince them that they could defeat the enemy and bring back the captured women, and once and for all to rid themselves of this danger to their people.
When he arrived he entered the lodge and stood before the chief and his council of seven. Lor Dak was smart enough to know that it must have been a strange sight—a six year old child standing before the governing body lobbying for war. And because of that he knew that he had to be very convincing, even a little sly. He would subtly work in the idea that if they did not attack the Sartoris, then they would be seen as cowards.
At length, Lor Dak explained to the chief about the weapons he had recently developed. He showed them his blowtube and the darts. He demonstrated it by blowing mightily upon it causing the dart to stick in a pole. Some of the men grunted and nodded their heads. He continued as he explained to them how the poison was made and how fast it worked its deadly magic. Then he told them of the traps, which no enemy could detect. Finally he told them that only brave men could use his plan, because there would be some danger involved. “But I know there are only brave men in our village,” he said. Then he explained his plan and stated that they could not lose, and that when they defeated the Sartori army, it would bring honor to their tribe. All the Indian nation would look up to them, and the chief of the Daki Indians would be known as the greatest of all the Indian chiefs for all time.
After much deliberation the chief and his council consented to the plan. How could they not, Lor Dak was not only good at inventing things, he was good at manipulating people.
Lor Dak turned a bit making himself more comfortable on the limb of the tree.
“Aren’t you asleep, yet?”
“If you stop your chattering, I’m sure I’ll be able to nod off.”
“It probably won’t be soon.”
“You’re still talking.”
“Okay. Okay. I’ll be quiet. In fact, I’ll make sure the Sartoris are still camped where I saw them last.”
As Silver flew away Lor Dak started thinking about the man who lured the Sartoris to their deaths.
*
*
It was a cloudless day in the northern region of the southern continent. Cholai gathered dry twigs and grass from the floor of the forest and put them in a little pile next to his arrows. He noticed his hand was shaking as he pulled the flint from his leather pouch. The chief and his council had chosen him for this task. He was the fastest and most conditioned runner of the Daki Indians. For his entire life, even as a child, he loved to run, to pump his legs, to move quickly through the jungles and the fields, to feel the air as it rushed past his face and through his hair. Everyday of his adult life he would rise early, kiss his wife, and now his two children, and then take off on the jungle path running an hour and a half south to the Grand River and another hour and a half back to his village.
During all his years of running it never occurred to him that his training would bring him recognition from the chief and his council. But now it pleased and honored him that they had chosen him for this dangerous assignment, even though he knew it could end in his death.
The morning he left, his wife kissed him and said, “You are the fastest runner of all the Indians, but this time you must run like the wind, and you must run sure of foot, no stepping on rocks or limbs, and spraining your ankle. Do you hear me, husband? You must come back safe to me.”
He assured her he would, and now was the time he would find out if he had told her the truth. He started the little fire on the edge of the tree line a hundred paces from the village of the Sartori Indians. When he was finished with his task, the Sartoris would be angry, indeed, and ready to kill every Daki Indian—men, women, children, and babies, who lived on the face of their planet, for perpetrating such an affront.
He looked across the field. The chief’s hut was approximately one hundred and twenty paces from where he stood. He picked up an arrow and placed the tip in the fire. As it burst into flame, licking skyward, he put the notch of the arrow to the string of his bow, pulled it back, and let it fly.
The flaming arrow was a spectacular sight as the flames licked toward the tail feathers and as it soared through the sky like a meteor on fire crashing through the air with the intent of destruction. The shot was true and the flaming arrow stuck in the roof of the chief’s magnificent hut. The fire started slowly, but once it got going it spread quickly on the dry timbers of the roof. Cholai’s heart started to pound as he waited. It wasn’t long—half a minute until smoke started billowing into the sky and the alarm was wailed throughout the village. As the clamor arose from the Indians, two of the bucks climbed onto the roof and tried to put out the fire, but it was too late. The heat from the flames overcame them, and they had to jump to the ground and watch as the hut burned to the ground.
Cholai was amazed. The fire had nearly burned itself out, and they still hadn’t noticed him. Didn’t they wonder how the fire started? They weren’t even looking for enemies hiding in the forest. They were so ferocious and ruthless in their attacks on other Indian villages that it never occurred to them that Indians of another tribe would attack them. He put another flaming arrow to the string and let it fly. Again it flew straight and landed in another roof spreading the fire and sending smoke into the air. It was then that they saw him. While some of the bucks started pointing in his direction, he could hear them shouting angry insults.
Cholai stood in front of the trees, so that they could clearly see his stature, the feathers that hung from his armband, and the markings on his face. He had to make sure they knew he was a Daki.
The Sartoris were experienced warriors, experienced enough that they wouldn’t go charging after Cholai without orders from their superiors. The chief called together his commanders for a pow-wow, but it wasn’t Cholai’s intention to give them much time to think it over. He lit another arrow and let it fly. It stuck in another roof and another hut started to burn to the ground.
The angry shouting increased. The pow-wow broke up, and soon after that the Sartoris formed ranks under the command of their captains, and then they were ordered to charge.
It was at that time that Cholai dropped his bow and arrows and started running along the path through the woods. The Sartoris’ village lay in a low mountain valley about eighty-five miles from the Daki. It would take Cholai nearly four days to return to his village, and he had to be careful not to let the Sartoris catch him. If they caught him, it would be his death.
The sounds of the meadows with the strange and unique animals and insects were different from the noises of the jungle. It was a whole new symphony, which Lor Dak would have to become accustomed,—which of those sounds depicted danger, and which did not.
Because of this new land he was sure the Sartoris wouldn’t be sleeping well that night.
It amazed him that they followed, but it didn’t amaze him, that after all this time, they wanted him dead. He remembered the day, thirteen years before, when the Daki used his plan to take on the entire Sartori army.
*
*
Little Lor Dak sat in a tree in the jungle thirty paces from a cultivated field with eager anticipation. He was wondering if his plan was a good plan. Being only six years of age, there were times when his imagination, the creator of his inventions and his plans, overwhelmed him, and he began to doubt his decisions. “Would this battle go as planned? Should he have allowed himself to get involved in this situation? The answer was, ‘Yes. Of course he should have.’ He couldn’t let the Sartoris keep his mother as a slave. Because she was not a Sartori woman, she would be considered second class, and they would treat her with contempt and disdain. They would make her do the unwanted chores, carrying the firewood and water, making her chew the leather while the Sartori women laughed at her. They would probably beat her. Lor Dak wouldn’t have it.
Contrary to the chief’s orders, Lor Dak shinnied down the tree and stood looking at the path. Three Daki warriors had been given orders to take the women and children to the caves of the Great Falls, a day’s march from their village, where they would hide while waiting the outcome of the battle. If the battle took a turn for the worst and the Daki lost, and if no one contacted the three warriors and the women and children, then on the fourth day they would scatter and blend in with other tribes. Then the Sartoris could not find and kill them. In essence, the Daki tribe would cease to exist. This battle was all or nothing, and Lor Dak knew they were taking a great risk, but he had shown the chief and the others his new weapons—deadly and efficient, and then he convinced them that the Daki God would not want the evil Sartoris to continue to raid Indian villages, that the Sartoris would lose because they were not on the side of good. In the end, in order to save face, the chief was almost forced to accept the plan.
Lor Dak was careful not to use the jungle path as he made his way to the Daki warriors where they waited at the edge between the field and the jungle. It had been seven days since Cholai set off for the Sartori village, which meant, if the plan went well, he would be arriving shortly.
They didn’t wait long. Lor Dak, standing in the rear, heard shouting from the warriors, and knew that Cholai had returned and was probably running across the field. He knew the Sartoris wouldn’t be far behind.