Zenak Read online

  The shock did not last long for either fighter and, after discarding his useless sword, Zenak rushed the demon with fear of the demon furthest from his thoughts. The demon also regained its senses quickly and calmly lashed its knobby tongue at Zenak with the savagery of a cat-o’-nine-tails. The tongue slashed the king’s mighty forearm ripping pieces of the skin from it but, even though he must have been in excruciating pain, Zenak did not hesitate a moment. And before the monster could lash out again, his adversary had embraced him in a hold from which death had been the only exit for other enemies in this similar situation. The demon, who was as strong as Zenak, also began squeezing. And not only was Zenak being squeezed harder than the tree had squeezed him earlier in the day, but he was also being lashed about the back by the demon’s tongue which hung over Zenak’s shoulder.

  This was too much even for Zenak and he went limp, thus allowing himself to get free of the monster. He stepped back again. He could feel the blood dripping from his back and his strength ebbing from him but he was determined to prevail. Again, the two faced each other. A look of victory, written by a smirk, stood on the demon’s face. Defeat, however, was no­where to be seen on Zenak’s countenance; only a fierce, relentless look of confidence shone on the great barbarian’s face. So once again Zenak attacked the demon and once again the demon darted his tongue swiftly at the king. This was the pride of the underworld’s undoing: in a battle never follow the same pattern twice, for your adversary may have devised a plan against it. Zenak had.

  Zenak was prepared for the tongue and ducked the lash. After ducking the tongue he then jumped sideways throwing his massive body into the ghoul’s knees, knocking the monster to the floor. Quicker than a flicker of fire Zenak grabbed the demon’s short muscular legs and flipped him on his stomach. This whole time the demon was in a daze and was virtually letting Zenak do all this to him for he had never fought while on the ground. The move of flipping the demon on his stomach was an excellent one for this rendered the razor claws almost totally useless. Then Zenak reached for his sword and ran it through the softer but dangerous tongue nailing it to the floor. A scream of pain and anguish hailed from the demon. The room seemed to shudder at this never-before-heard scream. Zenak set his powerful hands about the demon’s neck and be­gan to squeeze. The monster began squirming and trying to free itself, but he was helpless and the more he squirmed the harder Zenak squeezed. Soon Zenak could feel the demon’s neck breaking beneath his engulfing fingers. The demon, in his dull mind, also perceived this and began struggling frantically to get free of this human vise that was taking his unholy soul from his unearth­ly body. The struggle was futile for Zenak had him pinned down well and nothing could escape Zenak’s hold once he had it secured, not even a mark.

  Slowly, very slowly, the neck began to crack. It was barely audible at first and then the cracking became louder and louder until it snapped like one of the limbs on the bewitched trees. The struggling stopped and Zenak released his hold on the neck and let the monster’s head drop to the floor. Except for the involuntary movements of the legs, the demon was never to move again.

  The blood oozing from his slashed back, Zenak rose stiffly and looked about the room. All the women were now dead including the little girl Zenak first saw when he entered the room. It appeared that she had died from loss of blood. The stench of death pervaded the small damp room, so Zenak left quickly. There was no reason to stay behind.

  The fresh, clear air of the outside was a healthful relief to Zenak and he walked with a brisker step to the well in the center of town. He removed his clothes quickly, pulled a bucket full of cold fresh spring water out, and poured it over his head so it would cleanse the many wounds he had received in his recent en­counters. Looking around, Zenak could not see Gam and he whistl­ed the familiar whistle to Gam to bring him over. Seconds after Zenak whistled for him, Gam galloped to Zenak’s side and his master felt even better upon seeing his magnificent steed. A sight of beauty is always a healing agent. Zenak stood in the warming sun for a few minutes to dry off and to let the rays do their cathartic job upon his wounds. Then he donned his bloodstained clothes and mounted Gam so they could once again begin their long journey.

  While riding out of town and just before reaching the out­skirts Zenak saw the shutter of a window in a small tavern close quickly. Zenak could not conjecture what or who this was, for he thought the whole town had been killed off by the demon. He decided to go into the tavern and find out what life was left that could shut a window.

  When the king approached the tavern door, he heard the latch on the door lock. He then quietly knocked, but no answer. He knocked once again but harder and louder and announced who he was.

  “Open this door, King Zenak of Deparne seeks entry. I have good news to tell you people (if you are people). I have killed the thing that terrorized your small town,” Zenak said.

  No one answered and Zenak was losing his patience. His ner­ves were already worn thin from his wife and child’s abduction and then his encounters with the bewitched trees and the fierce demon did not help in calming his nerves. Now, this insolence and fail­ure to heed the order of a king, even though in normal times Zenak could not have cared less, caused Zenak’s temper to flare and with one hard impact of his massive shoulders he brought the door down ripping the hinges out of the wall.

  The room, save for the light coming in the doorway, was dark and it took a few moments for the king’s eyes to adjust to the light. What he finally saw made him repent his good eyesight. Huddled together in this small tavern were some fifty men. They were cringing and hanging together. The sight of Zenak caused them to back up even further into the tavern.

  “What is this?” Zenak asked. “Could you be the men of Magay? Did the demon spit you up?”

  No one answered and the fear written upon their faces grew in paragraphs.

  “Damn you all, answer, me,” Zenak bellowed.

  From the corner of the room a small, fat, gray-haired, middle-aged man crept cautiously up to Zenak. The little man was obviously terrified, for he kept his head and shoulders down.

  “The monster did not get you?” the man asked as he touched Zenak’s arm.

  “I killed the infernal demon. How in all blazes do you think I got all these cuts on me?” Zenak answered in a rather ar­rogant tone.

  “Then he is dead. Long live our king,” the little man said in a braver tone as he raised his head and shoulders.” We are saved the demon is dead!” yelled out another man.

  “Long live our king!” the rest of the men bellowed.

  The tavern, all of a sudden became lively; the shutters were thrown open and the ale began to flow quickly and freely. The men also began to badger Zenak about the details of the demon’s death, but Zenak did not answer. He stared intently at the men and grasped his sword.

  Then he spoke, “Stop!” The tavern again became deathly quiet. The men stopped their chatter and drinking. They did not look at Zenak squarely in the eyes.

  “A woman, probably one of your wives, told me the men had all been eaten by the demon, all except the hotel owner who ap­peared to have stood his ground. But now I do not see men who have met a grisly death. I see men who are laughing and drinking as if nothing has happened to their town. What goes?” Zenak remarked.

  The little fat man spoke up, “We tried to fight the monster but our swords were useless and he ate three of us before we knew what had happened.”

  “Why did that dying woman think all of you were dead?” Zenak asked.

  “She probably saw the demon chase us into the tavern and assumed it got us all,” he answered quietly.

  “Why didn’t he get all of you?” Zenak asked.

  “The proprietor’s daughter was here and the monster grab­bed her and turned around and left,” the man answered. His face was lowered at this answer.

  “You mean you gave her to the demon? Was she a young girl of about twelve?” Zenak asked.

  The little fat man nodded ashamedly
in the affirmative. The hero’s blood of Zenak could no longer be stilled. With a great stroke from his sword he shattered one of the tables. Anger shook his body and his eyes burned. The men once again cringed in the corner of the tavern. The little fat man stood near Zenak with his head lowered. He said nothing.

  “Cowards, every one of you. Your women lie dead in their own dried blood as a testimony to your bravery. A mass of men could have easily vanquished the monster,” Zenak yelled, “but instead you hid and let your women die.”

  The little man spoke up, “We tried, but three of our men were eaten horribly.”

  “Three? That’s terrible, but now all the women of Magay lie desecrated and dead. I guess that’s an even trade,” Zenak yelled.

  The spokesman shuddered at the sarcasm but spoke again, “We felt that the monster would kill only a few women and leave.”

  “Ah, the proprietor’s daughter was a sacrifice. Yes, of course, I understand now,” Zenak said in a normal tone, but his temper was reaching its limit.

  “Yes, yes, that’s it, a sacrifice. We felt if we gave her to the monster he would leave,” the little man said thinking that had struck an understanding note with Zenak.

  Zenak smiled at him and then with a lightning-fast stroke beheaded the fat little spokesman. The head bounced across the room into the mass of screaming men and Zenak had to push the headless body to the ground for it would not fall.

  “I have just killed your brave spokesman,” Zenak said to the other men. “Do something about it.”

  The men huddled even closer in the corner and tears welled in many of their eyes.

  “Rush me, you cowards,” yelled Zenak.

  The men did nothing except fall upon their knees and beg forgiveness.

  The king looked at them with disgust and spit on the dead body of the spokesman. He then turned abruptly and left the men in their own misery and fear.

  Zenak walked slowly to Gam. He was saddened at the thought that men of his kingdom could be such cowards.

  “My kingdom,” he said to Gam “What a kingdom! A land of soft-bellied cowards. This is not my kingdom. It doesn’t belong to me. I took it over for my own selfish gain and I felt I could rule this kingdom in a much fairer manner that its pre­vious kings had. What a fool! Yes, Gam, I have grown and aged twenty years in this past year. I have learned from all that maturing that the one thing I despise is being a king. I want my freedom. I will free my queen and my son and we’ll ride to my true home in the west and live like people should live—hunting, fighting and loving, not this flabby gut existence of Deparne. Let the people of this miserable kingdom find a king of their own blood. From this moment on I am no longer King Zenak, but Zenak free man and warrior.” Upon saying that Zenak stripped any trappings defining his kingship from himself and Gam and threw them at the tavern door. “Find your own king, dogs, one that will grovel at your level.”

  A glow of confidence overwhelmed him. Then he mounted Gam and quickly rode out of town so he could catch up with his be­loved wife and son. He had never felt freer and he knew that all would be well.

  Chapter 11

  It was the worst electrical storm that had struck Deparne in years. Throughout the kingdom houses were being boarded up and storm cellars hastily stocked with dried mark meat, water, and wine. Only the very oldest citizens could remember a storm that equaled this one in ferocity. That earlier storm had flooded many of the towns and killed thousands of people, some being en­tire families, who had been completely wiped out by flash floods that would wash down mountainsides like tsunamis over coastal towns.

  Gaston was one of the towns that had much to worry about. She was nestled in a valley surrounded by some of the largest mountains in the Volski region. This was the region that only a week earlier was ravaged by the battle decisi­vely won by Deparne’s beloved King Zenak. Now, however, Gaston had much more to worry about than any army of mercenaries. She had to worry about Nature herself and Nature could be more des­tructive, more annihilating than any mercenary army could ever be. The people of Gaston knew that they were in for the worst floods in their memories. Many of the townsfolk took their food and arms and moved to the center of the city and to the top floors of the houses and stores in that part of town. A few stubborn ones stayed behind in their houses on the River Volski. They did all they could to protect themselves from the inevita­ble flood that was coming, but sandbags would not be enough. Some people tried to migrate to higher ground, but the dangerous lightning and the pounding, defeating rain drove them back to the temporary protection of the town. Three families, however, made it to the bridge on the River Volski. After a much-debated con­ference the families decided to cross the river and try to get out of the valley. The high winds, however, were now to receive their first offering. The wind whipped hard over and under the bridge and without warning snapped the bridge in half like the snapping of a demon’s neck. The three families had no chance and they were thrown to their deaths into the churning waters of the rampaging river. No one saw them die and their deaths were never known to anyone within the town.

  The violent storm was a blessing, though, to one person : Vokar. He and Mara, with the child, had been riding all day from Magay when the storm began quickly to build. In moments, mountainous black clouds converged overhead and lightning bolts began to be thrown randomly about the sky in great multicolor flashes and ear-splitting thunder. The storm was striking with such a vengeance that they were forced to detour to Gaston for cover. They could not get there before the storm worsened, and thus had to take refuge in the hollow of a huge starn tree that stood on a hill overlooking the River Volski and the city of Gaston. The tree spread over the top of the hill and ruled over its area with more power and sobriety than any king could rule over his kingdom.

  At first Mara did not want to enter the tree; she didn’t like the idea of getting her clothes dirty. But, upon looking in­side, she walked in happily, for the tiny fursd had cleaned the in­side out so well that it resembled a neat room more than the hol­low of a tree. The fursd was a small furry animal that lived off the wood of the starn tree. Its favorite part was the inside. It would bore a hole into the middle of the tree and eat its way out. As far as this starn tree was concerned, the fursd had eat­en all it would and thus left much of the center of the tree hol­low. To the starn tree’s luck its life juices flowed up tubes on the outside of the tree, so the fursd could live on the starn and the starn was not killed.

  Mara went hurriedly to the back of the tree so she could sit down. The prince was crying for he was hungry and cold. Mara, concerned for her child’s welfare (her only redeeming feature), cuddled him to her breast, and fed him her rich mother’s milk.

  “Let’s go to Gaston,” Mara cried to Vokar.

  “No,” said Vokar ferociously. Mara drew back in fright. Vokar looked more evil than ever. “My chance has arrived. Now I will be able to receive all the cosmic forces at one time. This storm contains all the powers that I can receive.”

  Vokar then went quickly out of the tree and stood on a grassy ledge near the tree. He raised his hands to the sky and threw his head back; his eyes were alive with fire. His black robes flapped in the wind causing the image of a vulture to enter Mara’s mind as she looked at her lover. Vokar stood among the elements for what seemed to Mara an eternity. Then a great flash of lightning, greater than anyone on the Island had ever seen, struck Vokar. Mara screamed for no one could live from such a jolt, but Vokar stood as steady as the great stern tree be­hind him. He appeared to be hanging on to the lightning for it would not dissipate, and then he sucked it into himself through his up-stretched hands. Then more bolts began striking Vokar with increasing velocity, until it appeared that the lightning bolts were originating from within Vokar. Mara was spellbound as she watched this great light spectacle. She could not fathom the power that Vokar now seemed to have. All she could think of was that she would reap the profits of his power and that was her only care.

  After about two h
ours the lightning holocaust stopped and Vokar stood quietly on the grassy ledge. He stared at the sky for a long time and then slowly turned around and walked, as if on air, into the tree hollow.

  He was a different person. Mara was somewhat aghast at what she saw, but she tried to conceal it. Vokar could not have cared if she had screamed from panic, though, for he had accom­plished what he wanted. His face was as white as ashes and it seemed much thinner, revealing his high cheekbones. His fingers were now very bony and long and he looked as if he were a dead man returned from the grave. His eyes were tightly shut when he walked into the tree but he maneuvered himself as if his eyes were wide open. Mara could not hide her distaste now and Vokar smiled slightly at her expression when he came in. Then he opened his eyes and Mara was dazzled by the light that came forth lighting up the hollow as if the sun itself were in­side. Mara could not stand it and she felt very weak. She could feel herself dying as Vokar’s eyes drained the life from her.