by Owen G. Tabard
in Issue 110, March 2021
1
It was said that his ancestors had descended from the gods, and after Prince Zaal finally fought down the red-eyed demon of Gharack Ghun, never again would he doubt it.
He had long since lost sight of his younger brother Sephanidar. The two of them had been in hot pursuit of a fine bull elk and Zaal had set out ahead. Without care for aught else but the hunt, he had ridden his steed hard enough to put his brother’s mount to shame. And so, when Zaal came upon the demon in a clearing beneath a rocky outcrop, he found himself alone.
It had a shape that suggested a man, but bigger and hideously distorted. When the demon set upon him, he had hardly a chance to react. It slew and devoured his horse, and then its glowing eyes turned to Zaal.
Their contest had been a mighty one and there were times when even Zaal, that proud prince of Cithra, had feared the demon may gain the upper hand. But at last he overcame it, and the demon now lay before him in a wretched heap, heaving for breath. Long, ebon locks dripping with sweat, Zaal raised his sword in preparation for a crushing final blow.
But before he did, the demon’s voice reverberated over the rocks. “Wait! Spare my life and I will serve you. I shall bring you power such as outstrips even yours, my noble lord, who is without peer among men.”
“Ha! You speak well, fiend,” said Zaal, “but your kind are faithless. And besides, what power could you offer me, who has already bested you in battle?”
“My magic is yet powerful.” The demon’s eyes flashed with a fire that told Zaal the truth of this. “It can be yours to command the very winds of the skies. And I can teach my exalted lord the secret of immortality, which may be had from the Simurgh’s egg. If you spare my life, then this I swear to you upon all the gods of Cithra and upon my own of the world below. May their hellhounds feast upon my flesh if I fail you.”
“That is a powerful oath,” said Zaal. He stroked his chin and murmured to himself, “And a powerful promise.”
“Indeed it is, world-conquering lord.” With some effort, the injured monster came to its feet, then stepped forward in genuflection before Prince Zaal. “Now,” the demon hissed, “how may I serve you?”
2
The long journey through Gharack Ghun, the great Black Desert of legend, was not an easy one for a mortal man to make, especially on foot. But for Hanno the philosopher there had been little choice in the matter. Nothing was left for him to the west, save the haunted swamps whence he had only narrowly escaped. So it was eastward, then.
Hanno counted himself lucky to have made common cause with the stalwart warrior Thrax on his journey. Thrax had proven a doughty traveling companion, and they each had saved the other from a grim fate more than once now. But it was becoming less and less a comfort as they crossed this trackless wasteland, with scarcely a coin between them and rations dwindling.
The craggy peaks of a low mountain range were coming into view. The salt marshes began to give way to ashen dunes. Gusts of cool wind whipped up the sands here and there to reveal the deep black earth beneath that gave the desert its name. So it was this night that on a patch of scrub at the edge of the Black Desert the two made camp.
His travels till now had been hard and Hanno had lost much of the softness of his youth in the long years since he had left the academy. But as the fire crackled and they divided a scrawny hare between them, he could now truly feel the pangs of privation. He could see that Thrax, despite being a full head taller and far more powerfully built, seemed to fare not much better. But they still tried to keep in good cheer with conversation.
“A fine blade, that one,” Thrax said through a mouthful. He gestured with a leg bone at the sword and scabbard which Hanno had laid out at his side. “You pilfered it, did you?”
“I should say not!” Hanno said. “It was a gift, I assure you!”
“Peace, friend,” said Thrax, raising a massive hand. “Only joking. May I have a look at it?”
Hanno held out the sword to him. It was an ancient xiphos of blue-green bronze, graven with mysterious pictograms that even the learned Hanno could not decipher.
“It has a killing edge, no doubt about it,” said Thrax, examining it. “Good for cutting throats. But mind you, it’s not for parrying. One blow against good steel and it’s as likely as not to split in twain.”
“And what would happen then?” Hanno asked.
Thrax laughed. “Then you’d be fighting with half a blade! Of course, with you, your wrist would doubtless smart too much from the shock that you shouldn’t manage to return any blow— least of all with a broken sword— before the other fellow had run you through.”
“I am glad,” Hanno said, “to have played out that fight in hypothetical.” He took the xiphos from Thrax and returned it to its scabbard.
“Ho! Not so fast there,” Thrax said. He sprang upright and cast the clean rabbit bone into the fire. “You may need that blade yet.”
For a moment Hanno sat in puzzlement at this, but he presently came to understand when he heard a fearsome howl in the distance. The ghastly baying echoed across the barren land and seemed to be rapidly coming closer. Hanno scrambled to his feet, fumbling to draw his blade as he looked anxiously about to find the source. The animal cries closing in on him were possessed of a deep, otherworldly timbre unlike those of any mortal wolf. Thrax, meanwhile, was nowhere to be seen.
The fire threw a small circle of orange light around him, and into the light stepped a wolf that was larger by far than any he had ever seen. Its eyes smoldered red with an unnatural glow. Hanno stepped back, and with both quivering hands he gripped the xiphos. How well, he wondered bleakly, might this bronze blade hold up against such a beast?
The wolf roared and leapt at Hanno. Suddenly, Thrax burst out from the dark. His sword flashed as he smote the wolf upon the jaw, midair. The beast fell to the ground with a sickening whimper, but quickly sprang back to its feet. Its snarling mouth now ran with blood.
Thrax poised himself and readied his sword. But before he could strike an arrow flew out from behind him, whizzing past his ear and into the shoulder of the wolf. This was followed instantly by another arrow, sinking deep into the throat. At this last arrow-strike the wolf gave out a sharp yelp and collapsed.
Hanno and Thrax wheeled around to see a man on horseback lowering his bow. He rode atop a magnificent white stallion, and was wearing a cloak and tunic of finest silk, with a veil across his face to keep out the sand, as was the custom in these parts.
“First blood,” the rider said, detaching the veil from one side and allowing it to hang free. His face was deeply lined and covered in a dark, braided beard shot through with gray. He nodded to Thrax. “The hide is yours, sirrah.”
“I should prefer the meat,” Thrax called back to him with a laugh. “We’ve had naught but measly rabbit for days.”
“Nonsense,” replied the rider. “This beast was a demon, its meat is polluted. No, you’ll come with me back to my camp, as my honored guests.”
The rider dismounted and with a flourish of his cape he bowed and introduced himself as Sephanidar, the king of the nomads of Cithra who inhabited this area. They laid the wolf carcass atop Sephanidar’s steed and he walked it by the reigns alongside Hanno and Thrax. After some distance’s walk across a rugged and rock-strewn rise, with the midnight moon above them obscured by black clouds, they came upon the camp of the Cithran nomads.
3
The Cithran encampment was a collection of opulent tents encircled by a fleet of small carts and great wagons. Beyond the camp Hanno could make out a large herd of cattle penned in by a wooden fence. Attendants rushed to Sephanidar’s side as he strode in, taking the reins from him. Hanno and Thrax were led into the largest of the tents where a magnificent feast awaited. The wolf had been entrusted to a tanner, who set about immediately to skinning the carcass. Sephanidar had not been wrong about the meat’s befoulment, for when the Cithrans burned the remains its fumes penetrated even within the feasting-tent and stung at their eyes.
Hanno and Thrax were seated on exquisitely upholstered couches stuffed with eiderdown. Around a long table set with a splendid repast there were several stout men and fine ladies of Cithra already deep in their cups. They took a seat near the fore of the table to the left side of Sephanidar, and were introduced with great dignity to his daughter who sat at his right, a young girl of regal bearing named Satis. Of the party assembled, only Sephanidar and Satis spoke the common tongue of the realm. The others at the feast chattered amongst themselves in the musical language of the Cithrans. It may have only been that he was so thoroughly famished, but the sweet Cithran wine seemed to Hanno to be the best he had ever tasted.
Young Satis relished the opportunity to converse with the foreigners. She bubbled as she related her family titles and genealogy. Her father was a great hero, with a litany of extraordinary deeds to his credit. From what Hanno had seen of Sephanidar thus far, this was no mere exaggeration of filial pride.
“Father,” she said, “is the second son of my illustrious grandmother, who was herself descended from the gods. Father then acceded to the throne after his wicked brother Zaal was banished for consorting with evil sorcerers.”
“Ah,” Hanno replied, mindful of how Sephanidar might react to any comment on the matter. “Being a second son myself, I understand this predicament all too well.”
Their hosts were gracious, and after much exchange of courtly pleasantries and innocuous talk, Sephanidar leaned toward Thrax. He said, “I confess I’ve something of an ulterior motive in inviting you here.” His tone had now shifted to one of some gravity. “You seem a capable sort of man when it comes to the slaying of monstrous beasts.”
“I shouldn’t say that,” Thrax said. “I’ve some experience as a fighting man, it’s true, but I can’t claim to be a monster-hunter by any means.”
“Surely you jest,” said Satis, her lilting voice possessing a flawless command of this language not her own. “By the look of you, you fight as ten men, and your actions speak for themselves. For it is no mean feat to have survived against one of the devil-wolves of Gharack Ghun.”
Hanno, sensing where Sephanidar might be going with this, waved a hand at Thrax, and with a nod toward Satis he said, “Indeed, my friend is too modest. Why, we’ve slain countless monsters in our travels.” Then to Sephanidar he said, “And we could readily be enticed to do so again, my lord— for the right price.”
Sephanidar narrowed his eyes at Hanno, then to Thrax he said, “You’re not of these parts, but you’ve seen the sorts of beasts we contend with hereabouts.”
“Aye, that we have,” said Thrax.
“We’ve been harried by one in particular of late,” Sephanidar continued. “The demon-bird called the Simurgh. I tell you, I wouldn’t have believed the old stories if I hadn’t seen it myself. Indeed it is larger than any elephant! Now it has made off with not less than twenty head of cattle in as many days. That was some weeks ago, but I have no doubt it will be back.”
“Why not pursue the bird yourself?” Thrax asked. “You’re no stranger to fighting, as your precocious daughter has so eloquently declaimed to us.”
Satis beamed at the praise, and Sephanidar sat back with a smile. “Yes, in my youth I should have done so gladly. But as for now I’m content to leave the fighting to the young.”
Satis laughed and placed a hand lightly upon Sephanidar’s shoulder. “You’re not so old, father,” said she.
“And I am not so young,” Thrax said as he took a long draught of the fine Cithran wine.
“I have no doubt that the mighty Thrax here is more than equal to the task, my lord,” Hanno said. “Now, there remain only some minor matters to discuss. There are certain outlays involved in any such expedition, as I am sure my noble lord is aware—”
Sephanidar waved off Hanno and said coolly, “If you can save us from this demon-bird, you may name your price, I assure you.”
Hanno grinned and clapped Thrax upon the shoulder as he replied, “Then, my lord, you have your men!” He took up a gleaming silver decanter from the table and refilled his wine, then said, “Tomorrow, after we’ve rested, we’ll discuss terms.”
As Hanno drank deep of the wine his head began to swim. Perhaps it had been a bit much, or perhaps it was the exhaustion of the journey up till now, but even as the banquet went on around him he soon found himself drifting off to sleep.
His slumber was sound and dreamless, until he found himself roused abruptly by the increasing din of distant commotion. He was now alone in the banquet tent, still upon the down-stuffed couch with the remains of the great feast before him, the first hints of sunlight streaming through the tent-flap.
From outside came the noise of a frenzied crowd. That melodious Cithran language was now being shouted in a clipped staccato. The panic of the people outside the tent was evident though the words were not understood to him. Save for one: “Simurgh.”
4
Hanno peered out from the flap, the sun was beginning to rise over the mountains to the east and golden light fell upon the frantic scene before him. Some of the Cithrans were running about the camp, others among them stood by in pensive conversation, all seemed to be pointing or looking upwards toward the sky above the livestock pen. There Hanno saw Thrax standing near a tight cluster of grunting cattle and whinnying horses, clutching his sword expectantly with both hands and casting his gaze above. Sephanidar was not far off from him, bow drawn and arrow nocked, with little Satis bravely at his side.
Hanno dashed over to them and said, “What goes on here, Thrax?”
“The bird has come. Look there!” Thrax pointed to the hazy, half-lit western sky.
Hanno squinted and he could make out the figure of a magnificent bird of prey, but it was far enough away that with nothing nearby to give it scale it could have been any sort of bird in flight. “Are you sure that’s the Simurgh, not merely some hawk or vulture?”
“It is certain,” said Sephanidar, jerking his head sidewise to indicate towards the herd. Hanno noticed a small brown heifer calf that lay moaning upon the ground, a bloody gash running across it from shoulder to haunch. “We’ve chased it off just now, but see how it circles, preparing to strike again.”
And then, as surely as the day had dawned, the stupendous proportions of the bird became apparent as it drew nearer. Sephanidar was right that it was larger even than an elephant, for Hanno had seen many of these in his itinerancy among the capital cities of the great satrapies. The Simurgh’s gigantic body alone was probably equal to that of an elephant, its wings perhaps four times that in span.
As her father moved forward with bow readied, Hanno noticed Satis was now alone amid the scrub plain, her little knees a-tremble. “Stand back!” Hanno called, swiftly moving to position himself between her and the Simurgh.
In a flash the bird came upon them again, falling to the earth and snatching up the bloodied heifer in a single claw. Thrax had been too slow and the Simrugh’s path downward had been too erratic to follow. The bird made off with the calf to a low crag nearby, where it feasted upon the sad little beast in the same manner as a fish-hawk might do with a trout.
Sephanidar gritted his teeth and nocked another arrow, let fly, this time striking at the thigh with which the Simurgh held the calf. The Simurgh screeched with pain, releasing its talons and letting its quarry tumble raggedly down the cliffside.
On the plain below Thrax and Sephanidar readied their weapons, eyes fixed upon the bird, who had shrugged off the arrow wound as if it were a bee-sting. It beat its wings fearsomely in preparation to strike again, then dove in a screaming corkscrew upon them. But at the last moment, it took another abrupt turn, kiting upward with preternatural grace. As Thrax stood by helpless, Sephanidar loosed an arrow wildly, missed. Then down the Simurgh came behind them, upon Hanno and also Satis, who was now cowering behind the philosopher’s cloak.
In another moment it was over. The Simurgh was back aloft again and soon became a distant figure in the sky, scarcely distinguishable from any hawk or vulture, except that borne in either of its claws were the dangling bodies of Hanno and Satis.
5
It was some small piece of luck that poor Satis had fainted as the Simurgh lifted them into the sky, piercing the very clouds to reach higher above the world than Hanno would have thought possible. Through a misty expanse they flew and soon they were beyond those clouds and looking down on them like a vast field of snow. The wind rushed past them with the chill of a blizzard and a roar matched only by the deafening screech that was from time to time emitted by the Simurgh.
Hanno felt the Simurgh’s talons deep within his shoulder, a grip that ground into him like the wheel of a chariot through clay. Still this was but a dainty touch for one so huge, he knew. If the monster had wished, it could easily rend both of them to shreds.
They descended again through the haze of the clouds and Hanno saw the peaks of the eastern mountains now before them. The Simurgh swooped in and deposited them roughly into a massive nest situated atop one such peak. Satis fell limply into a pile of sticks and roughage, while Hanno landed hard upon his back on a flat patch not far off. Then the Simurgh was in the air once more, fast disappearing from sight.
Hanno’s head was ringing and he had an ache upon his chest from the slashes where the talons had dug into his flesh. A deeper gash still wept blood under his left shoulder from the back talon which had borne most of the weight. He rushed over to find Satis afflicted with similar wounds, and still unconscious. He took care to position her as comfortably as possible on this bed of decaying plant matter, or at least to reposition her more naturally than she had fallen. Near the center of the nest was a gnarled old tree growing up from the dry mountain soil, nearly a skeleton save a smattering of brown leaves. Nestled in a bower beneath the tree was a single Simurgh egg.
The nest was soundly constructed of branches and felled saplings, piled around the perimeter high enough that he could not see over them. Bones and bits of gore were strewn about the interior, likely from the Cithran cattle, but so savagely ripped apart were they that it was impossible to say for sure.
The sun climbed the clear sky, lending a bit of warmth to the chill mountain air. For a time he searched about the walls of the nest, which were solidly bound by some excretion of the bird acting as a cement. At last he found a foothold and with trepidation he hoisted himself up to look out at the terrain beyond. The peak around the nest was sheer on all sides but one, off to the east, where there was a gentle slope that perhaps they could climb down.
As he leapt down, the morning sky amid those lofty peaks darkened and was engulfed, with unnatural suddenness, by clouds of ominous black. A swirling wind kicked up, and the cold bit into him like a set of cruel fangs. Hanno hastened back to the side of little Satis to find her groaning in a restless delirium. He draped his cloak over her to ward against the cold, just as freezing rain began to fall upon them.
Then Hanno heard a rustling across the nest. In the gray light that surrounded them under the now blackened sky, he saw a slithering movement. An enormous serpent was making its way through the debris, creeping steadily towards the egg. Hanno clutched the scabbard at his hip and withdrew the little leaf-shaped xiphos. The bronze rang out like wind chimes as the sleet struck upon the flat of the blade, at the first sound of which the serpent’s head reared up. Its eyes blazed red like coals in the dark.
The serpent was upon him with devilish speed, fangs bared, forked tongue flailing. Hanno scarcely had time to think. As it lunged at him, he held the xiphos forth and shut his eyes tight. The serpent landed upon the blade, the point plunged deep within its flesh and broke off with a snap. The monster recoiled with a ghastly shriek.
Hanno saw the tip of the xiphos remained embedded within the serpent’s flesh where it had struck, the ancient letters etched upon it now giving off an otherworldly glow. In that moment, as a spell being broken, the dark skies parted and the light of the clear day returned on the mountaintop. The serpent retreated back into a far corner of the Simurgh’s nest where it bound itself into a tightly knotted ball out from which peered its fiendish red eyes, now a twisted mask of animalistic pain and wrath.
Then, vaulting over the eastern wall from behind him, came Thrax! He landed forcefully upon the ground beside Hanno, sword at the ready. Behind Thrax, proceeding more cautiously but with no less grim determination was Sephanidar, cutting a striking figure now decked in a resplendent muscle cuirass and spiked helmet, with a long Cithran saber affixed at his belt. Sephanidar’s eyes immediately fell upon his daughter, and he rushed to her side.
“Well done, my friend,” said Thrax. “Not a bad piece of work for a philosopher.”
“Aye,” said Hanno, drawing a ragged breath. “So finish it off then, why don’t you?” He was in scant mood now for banter.
Thrax nodded obligingly and stalked forward towards the serpent. Sephanidar too, having satisfied himself of his daughter’s wellbeing, stepped forth and joined Thrax in advancing upon the snake. But as they did so it let out an awful hiss that became a demoniac howl, such that the mountains echoed and the ground shook.
The clouds around them darkened anew, and wind sprang up like a hurricane, halting them in their tracks. The serpent then began to twist and contort itself. The xiphos-tip lodged within it came clattering to the ground as the serpent became a man. But what now stood before them was no mere mortal man, rather it was a bestial figure. Hunched and bald-headed, skin withered and leathern, but powerful and thick of thew. His huge hands were taloned claws rivaling those of the Simurgh itself. And eyes that still burned as fire. What sort of man was this?
At length it was Sephanidar, mouth agape, who gave the answer. “Zaal! Oh, my dear brother.” He hung his head in sadness and shame. “Have you become the demon or has the demon become you?”
Zaal threw open a mouth of pointed teeth and let out a sickening laugh. “It matters not, for now there is only Zaal.” Then the laughter stopped and the red eyes flared, and he said next in a voice deep and unnatural, “We are one.”
“So this was your doing, then? You’ve summoned this Simurgh to torment us, as your revenge?”
“Not quite,” called out Hanno. “He was after the egg!”
“That’s right, little man. Such power as I have now, in that egg there is yet more!” Zaal’s voice boomed over the roaring winds around them. He then returned his gaze upon Sephanidar and said, “Come brother, there is enough here to share. Turn your blade on these foreign interlopers and join me.”
With nary another word, Sephanidar drew his saber and charged at Zaal. The demon bellowed and bared its claws. Satis, having awakened, now shot up to her feet and let out a terrible wail as father met uncle in brutal combat. Sephanidar landed blow after blow upon Zaal’s hide. Zaal in turn slashed and clawed upon the openings of Sephanidar’s armor, rending flesh.
Sephanidar cast a look back upon Satis, meeting his daughter’s frightened eyes. Even as the blood spurt from his thighs and neck he gave a brief smile. Then with the last of his considerable strength he clasped his hands on Zaal’s shoulders and pushed. The force caused both of the brothers to crash headlong through the nest, splintering branches and sending them flying. Zaal gave a feeble cry and Sephanidar chanted a prayerful Cithran incantation even as they plummeted down the cliffside to meet their mutual doom.
Within moments the winds had ceased and the skies had cleared. Hanno and Thrax had naught to say as Satis quietly wept.
6
It was not long before the Simurgh, having been kept at bay by the winds, appeared in view. Thrax gritted his teeth and readied his sword as the great bird landed with a whoosh atop its egg, which was still nestled unharmed beneath the twisted tree. The Simurgh shrieked its shattering call, and Thrax strode towards it, ready to fight.
But then little Satis came forward. “No!” said she, “There has been too much death already. This creature only seeks to protect its offspring.” The tears streamed from her face as she went on, “Just as any parent would do.”
The Simurgh lowered its neck and cocked its head to peer at Satis with huge golden eyes larger than the little girl’s head. It seemed to understand.
And so the three descended the mountain, unmolested by the Simurgh, and with heavy hearts they made the trek back to the camp. Satis was soon thereafter named the new queen of the Cithran nomads.
“A child for their queen?” Thrax asked at the ceremony.
Hanno bristled at this tactlessness, but Satis merely replied, “I come of age next spring. The council has met and determined this is close enough.”
Her voice was empty but her eyes spoke of her sadness. Seeing this, Thrax crouched to meet her gaze. “Perhaps you are already a child no longer,” he said to her softly. “Your people will need a strong leader now. I can think of none better.”
As queen, Satis was more than good to her father’s word. She ensured that the Cithrans richly rewarded Hanno and Thrax for their service, and outfitted them with tunics of silk, cuirasses of shimmering steel, and warm cloaks from the pelt that had been awarded to Thrax by Sephanidar. They stayed many days and nights among the Cithrans, and during that time the Simurgh harried them not, though from time to time its enormity could be seen in silhouette, alighting from the eastern peaks in search of prey elsewhere.
Before they left, Hanno and Thrax led a party of Cithrans to the ravine where Sephanidar and Zaal had fallen in their mortal struggle. Sephanidar’s body was returned to the camp for a lavish funeral befitting a great hero of Cithra.
Zaal, when they found him, was no longer the nightmarish figure from the mountaintop, but now merely a pale and shriveled husk of a man, neck twisted horribly, the red magic drained from his eyes. His body they left to the devil-wolves of Gharack Ghun.
©March 2021, Owen G. Tabard
Owen G. Tabard is a lifelong fantasy fan who lives in Florida. This is his first published story.