Then a howl shattered the dead silence, challenging him as it echoed throughout the cavern. And from out of the surrounding rock hurtling towards him seven ragged and rough rogues brandishing cruel blades and savage eyes. The godless Ramaasou, which he had so ardently pursued, were now thrown at him by the mysteries of fate.
Sangara charged the wild men with eyes ablaze and dark abandon pumping through his veins. His hungry blade swung left and right, severing matted heads and shoulder joints; mallet-hard fist dislodged decaying teeth from ruined lips. He battered his way through the blood-keen mob, creating a wedge in their ranks toward the cave wall. There he braced himself. His swarthy visage hid behind grisly streaks of gore and sweat; his sleeveless jack dripped black-red with scars and cuts, as he realized his long-awaited dream of battle and blood.
“Come dogs, and test skills with the Daan Toura’s son!” he roared.
A full-on charge answered him and he replied with heavy blows, gashed skulls, and severed muscles. He had become a giant-king of old, towering over the desecraters of his tomb; arching his coated blade back and forth, summoning death cries and crimson screams, which painted his ebon arms and quilted chest. No more a lost child in the dark, but a wraith of war feasting on the brutal thirst of battle-madness.
The marauders neither wavered nor faltered from their labor, scarring Sangara’s flesh with long damp slits. But he felt none of their stings. And as the last foe fell; a great call rang throughout the cavern walls warning the ancestors —- a Da Bouran is born.
Exhausted, his powerful chest heaved in tempo to the beating of his heart as the battle-rage slowly flowed out of him. Heavy erratic breathing resounded within the lifeless space surrounding him. He sat against the cave wall staring at the carnage left in his wake. The reek of death choking the damp air.
This was not his first kill. Twelve cycles ago, he alone hunted and slew the kura of the west, and whose massive fang now adorned his corded throat as a charm. That was the greatest triumph of a youth . . . until now. He had prevailed against a greater number of armed men and trophies were necessary for ceremony and honor-bound gifts.
Wearily, he rose from against the wall, brandishing his arm dagger and set forth to work with his trophy-hunt when a chilling laugh echoed through the blackness. A maniacally ancient tone that traveled in and about the depths, chilling his heart. It seemed to come from every crack and cavity of the ancient den.
“Welcome slayer” crooned the voice. “Rejoice! You have survived your first ordeal and so are marked!”
The strange accent was of neither Xaftaan nor Zarman in fashion. His acute ears also caught the mark of scholarship and madness, the brand of cursed men.
“Look yonder man-boy and accept refreshment from my spring,” invited the voice.
With sword and dagger still drawn, Sangara quickly turned. He saw a crowned eagle-head carved out of the raw stone, bowing over a basin jutting out underneath. Its skillfully carved beak spouted a stream of crystalline water, the clearest he had ever seen. The glittering splashes moistened his dry mouth. And as if in a dream, he found himself gliding over towards this most inviting of apparitions, forgetting well-fought trophies and the curse of giants. He stared long into the water as it flowed out of the walls.
“Go on! Drink!” the voice commanded. “You have earned it.”
Sangara sheathed his dagger and gingerly stretched out his dirtied palm into the spouting liquid. The taste sprinkled his palate with a peppery, honey-sweet taste and as cool as the western breeze. A delicious mixture that excited his mouth and beckoned him to take more. He braced himself on the edge of the basin and submerged his crested pate deep into the pool. The ever-flowing water washed away the sweat, blood, and uncertainty. A strange surge coursed throughout his soul. He felt the ease of control and his body straightened itself, like a great baobab tree in defiance of hard winds. There was neither exhaustion nor fear. He felt the power of his entire bloodline boom within him and felt the rule of gods bend to his will.
Laughter from the gloom echoed once more with mocking delight. “Ha. you have been poisoned!”
Bewilderment shot through Sangara’s face, but instead of grief or sadness, he felt fury and determination.
“Then if I am to die! Show yourself! ‘Toad of the dark’! ‘Knave in rock’! Come and allow my passing to be painted with your blood!” he defiantly cried.
“Stout words for one so young. I do believe the effects have taken hold,” answered the voice.
Sangara’s eyes narrowed as he realized that the voice was right. He was bolstering with the voice of his father, granting him the timbre of a warrior in full prime.
“To arms gallant!” called the voice. “The mist beckons you!”
Quickly, Sangara turned and spied an eerie glow illuminating from a tunnel he had not noticed before. Across the chamber, the pale, glowing mist that greeted him earlier had returned carpeting the cave floor. Fallen weapons and butchered bodies vanished into the undulating phantasm as it crept toward him.
“What? Does the slayer fear lighted corridors?” Sinisterly mocked the accent. “Go! Hurry before the light fades and I leave you in black bewilderment!”
Sangara warily approached the tunnel mouth with sword gripped and jaw clenched, stalking cautiously into the glowing maw of rock and stone.
* * *
The ashen mist trapped within the wide corridor pulsed with a disturbing aura. The stench of foul, butchered flesh alerted his battle-honed sinews to the black doom that awaited him. The tunnel meandered on for endless paces. The floor felt marred with grooves and furrows beneath his sandaled feet, and adding to his ever-growing unease crept the eerie fluorescence. Eventually the tunnel opened up into an expansive sub-terra identical to
