The Children of Banjul Part 3

Flailing arms and legs threw water into the air in every direction as the fight ensued.  Briefly Zaire broke the surface allowing his lungs to expel the water and refill them with air before returning to the struggle to maintain his life.  Their icy touch sent chills through his blood compelling him to frantically fight for his life as he swung the curved blade over and over having no affect on his tormentors.  Sinking back beneath the shadow waters the short reprieve gave him enough strength to break free and find his way back to a dry patch of earth as he reclaimed his composure breathing heavily.

Meanwhile in the citadel Mazula howled in madness by the news of Zaire’s escape,” incompetence,” he screamed at the captain of the guard as he swung the overly large hand across the man’s throat slicing him open.  Blood sprayed across the walls and his advisory's face shocking him.
 “Gather a dozen of my best warriors and ready my armor…I will oversee his capture… I will eat his heart.”

Finding their way through the darkness was like second nature as the smell of the stream’s running waters penetrated the air with nature’s nocturnal residents claiming their territory chirping and buzzing along the way.  A small and humble fire was lit where the women began to chant throwing herbs into the flames causing them to crackle. Bluish colored smoke spiraled up into the air as the flames danced wildly.  The elders began reciting the ancient prayer once recited by their ancient ancestors.  Children gathered more herbs and roots to throw into the dancing flames.  Young men fashioned hand instruments from nature’s fruits; rattles and hollowed wood would create rhythmic vibrations to accompany their melodic mantras enticing young women to dance to the rhythms that flowed through the night stirring the heavens.  One by one their consciousness became the collective.  The drumming continued the chanting continued the dancing continued.

Zaire stood upon the dry patch of small earth staring out into the unrelenting darkness,” this is madness,” he growled glancing up at the moon that appeared so close it was as if he could reach up and touch it.   Then the foul stench of the wind returned taunting him whispering,” there is nowhere for you to go warrior allow the shadow waters to claim you,” it whispered spinning the warrior’s head around in all directions to search for the words that stalked him.  Suddenly his heart began to race as if it were filled with a great burst of energy as his chest began to heat up beneath the chest plate with a surge of energy flowing empowering him, “I will be claimed by no such thing,” he said with new vigor silencing the ill words of the shadow waters.  Placing his hand over the chest plate he felt the heat radiating from the amulet as it spoke to him,” you have come too far to allow Mazula’s evil to impede your destiny.  For many generations the blood amulet has protected your line. It is not your destiny to perish at this time,” the amulet spoke clearing away all doubts and apprehension.”

“The blood amulet…it speaks to me?  Am I going mad it has never uttered words before,” he said to himself confused.

“Only in times of dire need does the blood amulet speak to the warrior’s heart…there is no need to be confused trust in your faith,” the words came.

“Your faith is sealed warrior…here in the shadow waters.”

“I think not foul works of Mazula,” he said taking the dagger from its sheath and swiftly cutting across his palm then smearing the blood over the chest plate diving deep into the shadow waters past the dead souls into the black abyss.    

Suddenly the small stream swelled running over their feet, and then up to their ankles.  They continued chanting the ancient prayers as the water grew deeper with its banks growing wider. Up to their waist they continued chanting.  Then suddenly a huge arm broke the surface followed by a leg just as huge.  Then coughing up water the great warrior emerged.  Bulging eyes peered out at the entranced villagers. 

“What manner of being is this we have conjured, is it a god…is it a water spirit,” they thought as the water born Zaire rose up.  The ground beneath his feet welcomed him with every step taken as he towered in height with strength displayed throughout his massive muscular frame.  The villagers remained speechless as stones; pleasantly surprised the magic of their ancestors was still strong and powerful almost making them apprehensive of their own power.   However a small boy named Ekewe walked up to the giant like figure.

“I am Ekewe,” he said with curiosity streaming through his small body. 

Towering over the small boy who only reached to his waist deaf to his words; looking with an undeniable fascination around at his surrounding for only seconds ago he was in an unfathomable watery abyss.  “The amulet returned me to its makers…the ones of the first magic,” he thought returning his attention back to the small boy.  Never had Zaire thought anything so unbelievable was possible.

“I am Ekewe. Did you come from the land of the ancestors?”

Zaire looked thoughtful, carefully contemplating his words. Ekewe spoke again thinking that maybe his words did not reach his ears. 

“Did you come from heaven… the land of the ancestors… in the kingdom of the dead who sit at the feet of the creator?  We pray to the ancestors to protect us from the man-beast Mazula.”

Zaire gathered his composure with the villagers standing around him.

“You must be from the land of the gods,” Ekewe said to the warrior, which brought a great burst of laughter from him, “no… I am no god,” Zaire chuckled, “I came through the watery abyss by way of the amulet into this realm.” 

The boy looked incredulous, “my elders chanted the sacred words, and I did not know what they meant… all I know is that they are words of power.”

Akosuwa then came forth with great wisdom radiating from her; the ancient one having lived over a century.  Zaire gazed at her with great admiration feeling her spirit.

“The prophecy is true,” she whispered walking around the great warrior inspecting him with diamond sharp eyes.

“You are Akosuwa the wise… my great grandmother told me of your kind when I was a small boy… people of the earth who birthed the blood amulet worn by my line.” 

“We thought we had lost those powers when so many of our holy people were stolen many moons ago and we were forbidden under pain of death the use of magic,” she said as tears streamed down her face.  Zaire knelled down on one knee honoring the elder.

Another villager emerged from the darkness; a man carrying a baby in his arms, “they steal from our land during the jackals’ moon.  They steal our people, they have stolen my wife. Our village grows smaller because of Mazula. 

Some of us have vanished without a trace…I have been calling upon you,” Choc said.  Zaire felt the pain of the village as they confided in him. 

“On pain of death no one will ever steel from your village again.”

“You are a god aren’t you,” Ekewe said.

“No… I have come because you have called me here.  An agreement was made with your ancient ancestors centuries ago, that when the heavens were in position the blood amulet would return to the children of Banjul.”

Suddenly loud angry voices penetrated through the darkness with Mazula’s guards wielding swords, chains and shackles waving torches as they burst forth from the forest with chaos erupting everywhere.  The tormentor’s voices penetrated the night denoting their cruelty toward those things sacred to nature. 

“Quickly blend with the essence,” the old woman said with the others in agreement.  Zaire looked intently around all that was left was the fire burning and the drums with the stream’s water steadily growing. 

“I don’t understand…why they didn’t revert to this strategy sooner and saved their holy people,” he thought to himself then realizing the use of magic was forbidden to them by pain of death.   Then shaken from his thoughts his presence was discovered by the king’s guards.

“We have found the prisoner…summon the king,” one voice cried out as they circled him with machetes drawn.

“Do not kill him he is to be the king’s sacrifice…find the others and kill them instead.”  Despite the drawn machete Zaire could sense their apprehension; the tension in their muscles as the smell of fear cloaked them, but he couldn’t distinguish if their fear was instilled by Mazula or if it was due to his uncanny escape and how he survived the shadow waters maybe it was all of the above.

“What is it that Mazula holds over you? You were once good men.”

“Silence you are not worthy to speak to the king’s guard,” one of the men growled with arrogance as the other four surrounded him.  One of the men held iron shackles to be clamped around his throat, wrist and ankles.

“Do you think I would allow you to collar me like some animal,” he said unsheathing the huge curved machete.

“There are four of us can you not count?”  Suddenly a large whiff of black smoke cloaked the man’s complete physical form with his screams ringing through the air shocking the others including Zaire.

“What sort of witchcraft is this?”

“Are you afraid…lackey of the king?” Then again the black plume of smoked appeared before the guard’s eyes cloaking him sending his screams out into the darkness as well.

“Where’d they go…where’d they go?”  Fear wrapped itself around him squeezing him taking his breath away.  Looking around desperately as he backed away from Zaire,” stay away from me,” he shouted steadily backing away from Zaire as he unfortunately backed into the sharpened end of a branch that impaled him through the armor he wore.  On the other end of the branch a young woman faded into view,” we will no longer be hunted like animals for your man-beast,” she whispered into his ear then changing back into a wisp of smoke horrifying the dying man.

“Demon,” the guard shouted as he charged Zaire,” call off your demon.” 

Metal then clashed against metal as the two exchanged blows.  Back and forth the blades swung as the two fought side stepping fallen branches trampling over the camp fire kicking ambers into the air unaffected by the flames while the king and the rest of his guards searched the area calling out into the night,” reveal yourselves we know you are here…by order of the king surrender yourselves,” the guard shouted with Mazula growing impatient.

“We will not be enslaved by the sadistic evil that has taken over our land.  The man-beast is not the true king,” a disembodied voice hissed into the air un-nerving them; causing Mazula to unsheathe the doubled edged sword forged in the devil’s fire giving it powers beyond human understanding.  The skull shaped hilt made for the overly large hand of the king swung effortlessly through the air separating the head from the villager whose words had taunted him spilling his blood on to the soft earth with his body fading into view.  His limp body laid motionless as Mazula stood over him,” find the rest and slay them all if they do not tell of Zaire’s whereabouts.

Zaire and the king’s guard locked into a deadly embrace continued,” surrender to Mazula and he will kill you quickly and I will not have to cut off your manhood,” he boasted until Zaire’s blade found a weakness in his chain-mail; falling to his knees he looked at Zaire in disbelief ,” why do you defend them? They’re nothing…animals scavenging in the forest living in caves.”

“It was because Mazula made them into what you perceived them to be….by taking away their homes…denying birthrights.”  The guard gurgled blood through his open mouth,” please…give me a warrior’s death.  I do not want the last thing I feel to be Mazula’s wrath for failure.”  Zaire looked at him intently with disgust.

“A true warrior does not prey on the weak and helpless…those who can not defend themselves.  You are not deserving of a warriors death you are deserving of the fate of the man-beast who sent you here to kill women and children,” Zaire said as Mazula made his presence known,” he is correct,” he added walking toward the dying man, and with one large hand he tore at the man’s throat slowly and cruelly sending him into convulsions of excruciating pain.

“ You will beg for your fate to be swift, but believe me it won’t…suffering shall be your lot,” he said as his last remaining guards made their appearance.

“Fail me and I will hold your heads as well,” he growled showing them the severed head of their fellow guardsmen with ragged and torn flesh dripping the man’s blood.

“This should prove entertaining,” Mazula chuckled as his two guards prepared to engage Zaire; circling him with shackles they intended to imprison him with.

“Hold still dog this won’t hurt a bit,” one of the guards snarled holding up the shackles intended to humiliate and degrade the warrior.

“Hurry…I don’t want to be in this god forsaken place any longer than necessary,” Mazula said watching his first guard fall prey to Zaire’s powerful blow from the hilt of curved blade that caught the man’s chin by surprise knocking him into the feet of Mazula.  Enraged with his guard’s failure the king’s twin blade cleaved  the man’s head in half,” I said to shackle him not to be plundered by him,” Mazula shouted diverting the other guard’s attention away from Zaire. The warrior took full advantage of the man’s distraction as he swung the blade across the guard’s midsection with such force his body spun around with his entrails splattering the king.  Mazula’s eyes bulged in disbelief his best men not only defeated but slaughtered before his eyes. 

“Am I still dirt beneath your feet?  What does the man-beast have to say now…the one who poses as a king?”  His dark evil began to rise up through him with such force it colored the night with his hate and loathing.  The pointed teeth bared his true nature as they seemed to elongate in his twisted mouth that foamed like some rapid animal.  Picking up the shackles from the blood stained earth,” you are my prisoner…surrender now and your death will be swift...however if you do not I will find everyone in this place and gut them slowly,” he growled as he swung the huge blade through the air manifesting a severed arm with a terrifying scream following; invoking the wrath of the villagers instead of fear. 

“Your evil will fall upon your own head,” the whispers came as a swift shove propelled Mazula forward into a tree.  Zaire watched incredulously realizing he was being given an advantage. 

“The dead await you…they await you for judgment man-beast.”

“The king is beyond judgments,” he roared swinging the blade again as it bore no fruits from his efforts.

“It seems you have no more power here,” Zaire laughed further angering Mazula.

“I have enough…I am the king, guards,” he shouted out,” guards…your king summons you!”

“It seems his majesty has been abandoned…or worse they have died at their own undoing.

“Is that so scum who proclaims himself a warrior…I am curious tell me before you die what dark magic was it you used to escape the shadow waters,” he asked stepping closer to Zaire breathing putrid breath from his lungs into the night air tainting it.  Zaire stood fast unafraid of the man-beast with an unwavering resolve. 

How did I survive the shadow waters….it was with no dark magic I can assure you... let me show you instead,” he said suddenly charging Mazula with the curved blade swinging it so fiercely it was almost a blur shocking Mazula and catching him off guard.  He was quickly backed up a considerable distance.   In an instant the two found themselves at the water’s edge with their confrontation ensuing as the water became waist high.  One by one fading into existence wisp of smoke materialized the villagers to witness the warrior take on the wickedness that had ravished their land for so long nearly stripping them of everything they held dear.  Water splashed high up into the air; over and over the two exchanged blows and matched strength.  At times they would fall beneath the surface thrusting about and then rise again in a fury.  Zaire managed to block the over sized hands as they both sank beneath the water.  The two then broke the surface gasping for air.  “Mazula your reign of terror is over your fate awaits you in the shadow waters,” he shouted seizing him by the throat squeezing with all his might as they disappeared back beneath the surface of the dark water. After a while the water’s surface became still as the massive amount of water transformed itself back to shallow stream revealing only the weapons from the confrontation at the villager’s feet.

I hope you have enjoyed another story from Another reality thanks for visiting

   

The Children of Banjul Part 2

 An explosion of anger threw Mazula into a fit of rage hearing the bitter truth.  Grabbing a torch from the wall it grew as if the king’s anger was increasing its size.  The flame danced wildly as it took on Mazula’s malevolent spirit. Over and over he struck the warrior with its flames biting at his skin as he ranted and raved foaming from the mouth like some wild rapid animal terrifying the council until Zaire fell beneath the savagery.   

“Your majesty you’ll kill him how will he serve as the sacrifice if he is plundered to a pulp,” his trusted advisor said to him snapping him from the rage that revealed the beast within.  Throwing the torch to the floor it returned to its normal size, “take this dog from my sight… to the dungeons with him and at the rise of the jackal’s moon he’ll enter hell’s gates.”

Bruised and battered sprawled out on the dungeon’s floor human waste and filth surrounded him as rats ran across him.  Quickly gathering himself swatting the rats from his body he then backed away from the unidentifiable filth.  As he further gathered his composure he attempted to gain his bearings as he noticed his cell seemed to be isolated away from the others as he found it unusual to be the only prisoner in Mazula’s dungeons.  However in the distance he could hear horrible screaming.
 “The man beast is no doubt satisfying his unholy appetite with the suffering of others.”  Pacing back and forth testing the fortitude of his cell a bitter conclusion and realization almost dampened the warrior’s spirit. “Think…think there is a way out of this god forsaken place.  I will not fall prey to Mazula’s blood lust,” he declared finding a place on the floor suitable enough for him to make himself comfortable as fatigue compelled him to close his tired eyes.  But the horrible screaming went on snatching sound sleep from him, and then suddenly there was silence.  “Poor soul… may his ancestors guide him into the light to cross over to the kingdom of the dead to be with his honorable ancestors… for god has been merciful to him to allow death to take him from his suffering,” he prayed as sleep finally embraced him.

“Warrior…warrior you must escape before they come for you,” the faint whispers urged slowly stirring him from his hard earned slumber.  Looking through the darkness at nothing he stood up,” who is it that calls out?  Is this place cursed playing upon my mind robbing me of my sanity, or have my dreams become torturous…leave me be evil of Mazula.”

“It is not the will of the ancestors for you to parish in this place…the guards they come for you… I will do what I can to help you,” the disembodied voice said,

“Who are you…are you a ghost of this place trapped here?”

“Only one of many I have just passed over I heard your prayers for me…thank you for relieving me of those sufferings.  I will not see you suffer at the hands of Mazula’s evil.  Your words were the first holy words this place has ever heard.  Mazula’s guard are just as twisted as their king.  They will come to torture you and to break your spirit for the sacrifice.  Quickly position yourself to have the advantage then I will do what I can.  You must do the rest.  Take the guard’s tunic and helmet and make as one of them and I will show you the way out of this place, but you will have to survive the crossing waters …it is an evil place with many water ways and they are filled with many horrors thanks to Mazula’s wickedness.  I must warn you your chances may be slim to none in the shadow waters.”

“I’ll take my chances…my destiny is not to be another sacrifice of the man beast who claims himself a king,” Zaire vowed strategically positioning himself for the element of surprise.  The heavy footsteps of the guard echoed in the distance as he concealed himself in the darkness blending in listening intently for the sounds that would spur him into action.  With the heavy cell door swinging open the moment was quickly seized as bodies slammed against the cold dungeon walls breaking bones adding to the blood stained cell.

“Quickly...you will need weapons and disguise yourself as one of them,” the disembodied voice reminded him.  Immediately Zaire clothed himself as one of the king’s guards.

“Follow the passages where the air is the purest.  There you will find a hidden passage way out.  It’s where the guards snuggle out the bodies of women who died at the hands of the beast’s depraved pleasures.   Their bodies are taken to be exposed of at the water’s crossings a cursed place that has now become the shadow waters.  You must hurry I can help you no longer the fates they come for me to judge my soul,” the voice said fading away.

“Thank you,” Zaire said with gratitude.

It wasn’t long before Zaire was out of the citadel, but what awaited him was equally dangerous.  The crossing of the shadow waters; water ways that proved to be unearthly no man ever dared entering the watery realm of the dead for fear of drowning in the shallowest depths of water. Zaire made his way from the citadel through the forest with the ground beneath his feet becoming ever so moist as the earth signaled he was coming closer to the watery place where not even aquatic life existed.  With every step taken he felt as though the earth was in protest of his very presence.  Despite the chill that clung in the air he sweated fiercely struggling to go on through the marsh-like land.  “This place is cursed,” the wind whispered in his ear carrying a foul stench,” are you cursed as well warrior?”
 Zaire dared not to stop fearing the ground would swallow him whole.  “I am Zaire of Banjul son of Jakuta and no curses fall upon my head,” he retorted as the mud began to thin out becoming something that resembled water.

“You trudge through the tears of many…be warned trespasser trespassing in this place will be your end,” the wind whispered.  As he glanced down into the water he could not believe his eyes as a woman’s mutilated body seemed to have faded into view and then became evasive from his sight.  “Mazula’s victims,” he growled as the water became deeper in some places.  As he shook the image from his mind’s eye the ground became solid where he found his footing again where he rested briefly.  Looking around through the light of the full moon the marsh seemed as if it would go on forever in all directions with the water reflecting the moon. Then a strange and hideous sound pierced the still night; a howling that became louder turned his blood cold. 

“The jackals’ moon,” he whispered grabbing the curved blade that hung at his side.  With his heart racing he looked out on to the vast waste with confusion taunting him, how long have I been in this madness…which way is out,” he said desperately.

“It does not matter warrior…killer of maidens.”

“I am no killer of women,” he shouted offended at the accusation,” I grow weary of these accusations,” he shouted again.

“Liar…you wear the stench of woman’s blood on your clothing you carry the dagger that has drank the blood of many a virtuous woman,” the wind whispered as a hand from the water grabbed at his ankle; quickly he shook the disembodied hand from his ankle and began running deeper into the shadow waters without direction or bearings. Soon the water rose up to his waist and then his chest.  His efforts to swim in the cursed waters were almost thwarted as a dozen hands grabbed on to him pulling him under. His lungs began to burn as he fought to reach the surface of the water; with the blade in his hand he swung frantically at the apparitions pulling him deeper into the water.

In another place not far from the citadel the exiled and displaced gathered around a small fire in regret remembering how their land was transformed into a place of sorrow and oppression by the cold and heartless Mazula who believed in nothing; slaughtering at will those who occupied the once tranquil land for the riches the earth blessed them with.  Brutalizing enslaving, and dehumanizing many for what he perceived to be an affront to the natural law they were captured for their spiritual essence; for no commoner was worthy to possess such a power.  Suffering had taken up residence as anguish dominated the once serene land.   Afraid to leave the safety of their homes they were nothing more than prisoners within their own land until they fled Banjul once a place of abundance; now nothing more than a wasteland that held painful memories.   

Thankful for escaping the king’s oppressive rule they still remained in fear being hunted for their spiritual essence; the keepers of the earth and first magic were slowly dying out and they soon became nocturnal as it was the only time they felt secure; concealed within the darkness.  Gathered around in a small group of what was left of the village angry words were exchanged.  The small fire that burned flickered wildly revealing the fear etched on their faces, “Mazula continues to hunts us like animals despite the fact we have abandoned his lands.”

“He hunts us because of who we are… the color of magic flows through our veins…it does not matter that we have not called upon the fates or the earth mothers or any other force of nature,” Choc said looking away from the faces that searched his for something other than the words he spoke as the fire began to pop and crack. 

“The fire says you lie…and someone has called upon the unseen,” the old woman said softly as hushed whispers seemed to intensify the atmosphere.

“I am sick of hiding, being hunted and my people enslaved because of our birth right.”

 “We are hunted and enslaved because you are recklessly angry you endanger us all by whatever it is you are doing in secret Choc,” an angry man added.

“No…it is because we do not fight back with our gifts,” Choc said jumping up from where he sat with anger almost seizing him.  Only by being rational would he be able to remove the fear and despair from those he loved, “how many have we lost I can not begin to count it grieves my heart.  We were not meant to exist in anguish, and our ancestors did not wish this suffering to be our lot.  They were the keepers of the first magic.  How is it we have fallen so far from our destiny?  Condemned for our love of the earth mothers and her fruits… the only thing we are guilty of is being nature itself and being one with the heavens.  That is not to be punishable by death.  It is to be honored and when we do not honor the sacred way that is when we become cursed by those who hate for no just cause. We shame our ancestors by not embracing our birth right…and that is why we do not fulfill our destinies.  We are the keepers of the first magic, and yes I have called on the fates.  It is time for change I will not be led to the slaughter for the pleasure of evil.”

“Then you will die a horrible death in Mazula’s pit of hell.  We have lasted this long without the fates or the forces of the unseen,” one man said.

“This is not living when we only come out at night like stinging insects. We are people of the sun we are of the earth.”

“She is right this is not living fearing whenever the sun rises, and scavenging for food and hiding in caves,” another added.

“At least you are alive to scavenge for food.  How many of our women have met their demise in the citadel and now lay in the shadow waters' mass grave,” his words taunted.

“It is because you will not fight for us…we have a weapon given to us by our ancestors deep within,” she shouted as anger replaced fear.

“Please…we can’t get anywhere by arguing among ourselves,” Choc said,” I have called upon the unseen for aide before we are all dead and gone. Yes I have communed with those whose spirits are no longer with us we can not go on like this.  Those souls must be acknowledged and given prayer,” he went on without remorse or guilt.

“You have doomed us all by calling on the spirits of the dead.”

“No…we are doomed if we do not honor them.  They should be honored they are of our blood…taken away from us by Mazula to endure a horrid death and to be laid in the shadow waters that was once a place that fed us and quenched our thirst and bathed our babies.  Now it’s a place where the spirits dwell and it may be a place of hope for us,” he said.

“Then let us prepare for the old ways to open the way…the stream is where we should be,” the old woman said in agreement with Choc convincing everyone to embrace the ways of the ancestors.

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The Children of Banjul Part 1

The citadel loomed over the city of Banjul oppressive and foreboding.  Its stone structure’s spires seemed to stab into a dark sky with its arch carved towers keeping a watchful eye for the possible invasion of enemies  and enemies of the unseen world as well.  Walls built of volcanic stones and boulders rose up to great heights surrounding the place that was once the sanctuary of its people; now only vacant structures and pathways with the occasional stray goat stood witness to the abuse of power as its population fled their homes, some in exile and others thrown into the citadel’s dungeons for minor infractions of the law, or worse accused of manipulating the forces of nature and put to death. Only the king was permitted the use of the occult.  Those condemned had their essence extracted to be used in spells to vanquish enemies of the petty conqueror that oppressed them now.  

Deceit and treachery from those thought to be loyal instigated political turmoil and in-house fighting among the ranking patriarchs.  Conflict of foreign policies and a lack of alliances became an open invitation to over throw Banjul’s ruler emperor Lagolas.  Chaos and uncertainty ripped away at his being as he watched his kingdom slip from his grasp as his sons died one by one engaged in battles that possessed no strategic value nor rhyme nor reason only that false accusations made stated that the bordering kingdom’s long standing treaty between neighboring lands had been violated there by invoking an act of war.    Lagolas had long suspected Mazula’s treacherous deeds played a part in the events unfolding with his obsession for the sacred essence; an ancient magic that proved to be neither true nor false only a mystery shrouded in darkness.  Many perished in search of it’s the sacred essence; an opiate with many attributes to open doors to the spirit world and summon its occupants to do one’s bidding, or change one’s physical appearance.  It was the key to overcoming death to live as a god, to turn lead to gold possessing more riches than one could imagine.  And last but not least having sway over the forces of nature.  Many have died for this quest that remains elusive leaving behind blood soaked lands whose spirits can never find peace.      

 In the throne room sat the embodiment of barbarity king Mazula referred to as the man-beast cursed by his ancestors a war oriented soul who lived for the sake of battle.  Blood filled dreams afforded him no peace as restlessness fed his appetite for cruelty.  He would never be afforded the simplest pleasantries of life; the scent of jasmine, the sweetness of honey would evade him as bitterness and the stench of death would remain his closest companion.   

 Losing his son in battle his heart pounded with rage as he inhaled and exhaled. An unquenchable thirst for carnage rose up in him with anger flowing through his veins as if it were blood as he denied an unimaginable truth.  The unholy conception of his son was an abomination before nature itself.  That one fateful night a witch an enemy of his ancestors deceived him sending him one where death had embodied her.  In his time of weakness ignoring the faint stench of death that hung over her accompanied by her cold embrace he indulged his urges.  The attempts of his ancestors to return her back to the kingdom of the dead were futile as he did the unthinkable and banished his ancestors, a fate worse than death itself.  But the powerful spirits would not be denied revenge of such sacrilege.  Propelled by fury an unrelenting curse fell upon him never would he know peace again or of life’s pleasantries as he fell prey to lowest of bestial natures.  His thoughts would be of confusion creating his reality around him with a twisted and dark mind that only viewed the world around him as his enemy suspicious of everyone. Uncontrollable fits of anger often led to someone’s execution.   Afterwards when the anger faded he claimed it as the will of the gods.  It was often whispered that the king engaged in human sacrifice to sooth the raging beast inside of him by eating the hearts of his victims; thus the reason for his rather un-nerving appearance.  The sharpened teeth with nails black as slate was reason enough to fear Mazula.  His blood lust nature draped his spirit as if it were a robe, obsessed with power the tyrannical beast ordered those with loyalties to the previous ruler to be singled out for banishment or death according to their rank or status, or more importantly his mood for the time being.   Empowering those from his inner circle he quickly replaced the generals of the old king whom he despised, and replaced them with individuals lacking the ability to think for themselves and would agree to anything to simply appease the twisted notions of the war mongering tyrant.  From such like minded individuals he formed his own political and judicial council to execute his bidding.

*

 Dozens of Torches lit the circular chamber as shadows danced about free of a physical counterpart against the grey stone walls.  Evil had been birthed; taking up residence where justice once dominated.  Zaire stood before the war council scarred and battle hardened exposed like a raw nerve beneath the chain-mail armor as he felt resentment for accusations made against him at the battle of Zokarius defending Banjul against her enemies.  A place where war raged for as long as anyone could remember, in fact it was completely lost as to why the fighting continued some say it was over unclaimed riches of sacred essence, others say it was over land and what was buried deep within the earth.  Many reasons were given as to why countless wars reigned with its casualties populating the ether. 

Surrounded by political enemies his jaw clenched as he gazed out at the faces that gloated over his perceived defeat.  “Mazula’s lackeys… I knew the time would come when honor would be replaced with decadence of heart where cowards who had never held a sword would determine a warrior’s fate,” he thought.  The council knew they could never persuade him to their political view or control him.  “It is much safer to annihilate what cannot be controlled,” they thought. 

The men seated before him in positions of perceived authority formed the council of law most of which were politically corrupt and immoral void of integrity seething with hatred.   Old and bitter envious of Zaire’s strength, and courage they sought to judge the warrior standing before them.  Battle wounds marked his body like badges of honor.  Restrained by the kings guard’s with heavy chains securing him was the only reason why the council felt so compelled to express such condescending and arrogant overtones laced with complete disrespect when referring to the warrior before them.  Only the privileged witnessed the many sessions of innocents on trial for fabricated accusations falsely lodged against them with no recourse.   

“You are hereby accused of a most heinous act… resulting in the death of your captain… the king’s son Mazula the II heir to the throne of Banjul…by the use of the forbidden knowledge of the dark arts….no commoner should have access or knowledge of the occult or conspire with demons or the dead.   Should I go on,” the voice bellowed out condemning Zaire to doom in just a few short words.          

“If you must to confirm your self appointed importance,” Zaire shot back angering the council that sought to dis-credit him and tarnish his character and reputation like so many that fell before the hateful and vindictive council of Mazula’s political Hench men. 

“I was ordered to slaughter those who posed no threat to anyone…women and children, the old and sickly after the battle was won, despite our captain fleeing at the height of the battle… it is where he met his demise.  He was cruel and cowardly he showed more cruelty to his men than the opposing forces we battled across our blood soaked lands,” he declared as his memories slipped back in time to the raging battle taking place in his memory vivid and clear as the events played over in his mind’s eye.  The sound of clashing steel rung out as armor was splashed with blood.  His ears filled with the screaming of dying men as they fell; some with limbs sheared off.  Others fought on with blood streaming down their faces some even with protrusions of the enemy’s weapon still embedded in their bodies.  He remembered the many times the swift breeze of the enemy’s battle ax whizzing by his head missing him narrowly because of the assistance of the powerful amulet and precious gems that adorned the breast plate that covered the massive chest.  Painted with his enemies’ blood concealing it; it blessed its wearer with power and strength making him nearly god-like, and victorious in battle like his father before him and his father before him.  The amulet’s great power protected them while all others perished in the heat of the battle.  No one ever knew where the amulets came from.  Some speculated that the amulet birthed itself into existence in the far reaches of another realm and was only attainable by those whose bloodline was worthy.  Others say it was cursed as it condemned all others around it to befall a most violent death while engaged in battle as it fed off of the blood lust of war, but no one knew for sure.   So many thoughts had run rapid in Zaire’s mind he couldn’t  help but to wonder if he himself were not cursed, but quickly shook the thought from his mind; for there was no room for doubts or fear as he was jolted back to the present.

“How do you plead,” the words thundered.

“What difference does it make to those of no moral standing…it is of no consequence how one pleads when the outcome is predetermined by the ill deeds of those who abuse their authority in such ways,” the warrior stated defiantly.

 “Then so be it you have here by been found guilty of the black craft and here by sentenced to death Zaire of Banjul son of Jakuta.  Have you any last words?”

“Yes I do…How did the war council come to this conclusion? What proof do you have? Where are your witnesses?  I have the right to face my accusers.” 

Then suddenly the room seemed to have chilled and dimmed with the torches’ flames flickering as dread made its presence felt,” what proof do I have…my son is dead and you are still breathing,” the king said circling Zaire sizing him up as if he were to be devoured at a feast.  “He was a most skilled swordsman trained by only the best since he was a boy,” he snapped breathing heavily with gritted teeth; teeth that were filed down to a point.  The overly large hands that hung by his side baring black nails became clenched fist.  Standing before Zaire seething with hate and loathing for a man who had survived a battle that had taken his ill conceived son enraged him. 

“Sire…your hands,” a voice said gesturing to the droplets of blood that were trickling down to the floor forming a small puddle that darkened and then fouled the air.   Mazula glanced down momentarily un-phased by his blood he’d drawn from himself by his unrelenting anger.  “This dog before me dares to ask for proof I am the king and I need no proof.  You asked to face your accuser…here I am,” he growled only inches away from Zaire’s face ranting insults inciting the warrior to challenge him.  Zaire turned his face away from the hate filled words only to have an unbearable strong hand grab him by the jaw as black nails dug into his skin drawing blood, “what does the dog have to say,”  the king said pushing his face away leaving angry wounds that bled down his neck.  The horrific odor nearly took Zaire’s breath away.  Anger began to rise up swelling the warrior’s chest flaring his nostrils that took in the putrid air that seemed to add to the agitation of his spirit.  The insults and blatant disrespect he received after serving his kingdom perturbed his spirit.  To be rewarded with abuses from those whose quality of life had been greatly improved 100 times built a fire of rage he struggled to silence, but it would not be denied.  From deep within his spirit he felt the surge of truth bursting forth,” the demon seed you spawned dealt his men nothing but tyranny and misery gaining him many enemies.  His abuses of his office and authority granted him nothing but hate.  On the battle field he cowered behind sending good men to die in ill conceived battle strategies of poor planning…because they were expendable…and his father was the king.  The general’s advice was ignored because his father was the king.  He was arrogant ignorant and stupid filled with self importance like the rest of your lackeys.  What got your son killed was not magic or the dark arts or demons it was him fleeing from the heat of the battle as it threatened to overtake our position. We pushed the enemy back while your precious captain ran like a whipped dog…you can not blame magic for his cowardly demise.  And since I am to die my words will forever haunt you,” Zaire said with great satisfaction.  Suddenly an ear piercing howl rang out from Mazula somewhere between human and bestial shocking everyone except Zaire who saw the king for what he was. 

Thanks for visiting Another reality visit again for part two of The Children of Banjul. 
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