Kalmok Grows Stronger

(Beneath a mountain near the city of Pe’atu)

Thousands of multi-colored scales glittered beneath the water as the young boy’s torch lit the stream flowing along the course of the tunnel, flames reflecting off the myriad fish and casting an ever metamorphosing light show upon the dark walls, the chromatic reflections adding a sort of enchanted, macabre feel to the mysterious symbols carved into the rock. The boy continued on, though the shivers running down his spine urged him to turn and flee the underground temple. His quest pushed him further; the strange, robed man the boy had met in the city told him of an ancient temple of Doxan, the Good Spirit of health, which lay beneath the olden mountain. With the appropriate sacrifice the spirit was said to grant the pilgrim a sanctified panacea, and this elixir was the only hope the boy had of curing his father and combatting the mysterious plague that continued to ravage his village.
The languages of both demons and spirits were lost long ago to the world of men but the boy still grew suspicious of the jagged writing on the walls: it seemed to him as if the letters had been scratched into the stone by the claws of some terrible monster. Still, keeping his father in mind, he battled his growing trepidation as if each step forward was a wave of new enemy troops. A massive assault of fear was launched against his mind as a thundering crash bellowed down the halls behind him, forcing him to his knees in an involuntary effort to dodge some unseen force.
Several moments passed before he realized his unknown attacker was just the cacophony that was the storm he left outside the cave. The dripping and burbling of the many hidden streams did nothing to calm his nerves as he fought his way back onto his feet. Pushing aside his terrors, he forged ahead, following the course until he met a massive wooden door reinforced with intricate iron-work.
A massive, silvery symbol was inlaid in the center of the door and he recognized it from one of the ancient tomes his grandfather had kept. Not knowing the language in which the tome was written, he had no idea for which spirit the symbol stood. But, the mysterious man told him this was a temple dedicated to Doxan, he thought to himself. This was the last barrier before his final test: the sacrifice he must offer to the spirit.
He gathered his remaining courage and pushed the heavy door with all his strength. The wooden portal opened into a massive chamber with high-vaulted ceilings and a foreboding altar centered upon a high dais. Reaching into his satchel, he pulled out the prepared offering for the spirit of health: a mixture of grains and herbs to be burnt upon the altar as a welcoming smell to the Good Spirit. Weary from the excursion he had endured he started toward the altar, his optimism growing with each step forward as the sacred table seemed to burn brighter with hope as he edged closer and closer. Thoughts of his father’s good health and being the hero to save his village flooded his mind as he raced to the sanctified pedestal. Glory seemed within his grasp as he stepped onto the dais and placed his offering atop the altar.
Pulling the flint and tender from his satchel, he was preparing to light his sacrifice when a strange feeling engulfed his entire body, a cold feeling, an amalgamation of disbelief and betrayal. Fighting his worried thoughts, he tried to light the offering, striking flint against steel to no avail. He could not shake the feeling that something about this temple was amiss. Then, the terror struck him like a million needles forcing their way into his body, writhing and spiraling through every vein, as he remembered where he had seen the symbol shielding the entrance before: his grandfather had used it to frighten him when he had done something wrong, or to teach him grave lessons about doing right and the various fates beyond this life. It was the emblem representing the demon of death, the mark of Kalmok.
His life-force drained from his body in a manner that was painless but seemed like an eternity of fear-filled horror as the demon bit into the boy’s back, inhaling his soul as maroon blood pooled in the grotesque mouth, dripping out in variegated streams around the yellowed fangs. All the life drawn out of the young body, the demon dropped the new corpse to the temple floor. The demon’s body glistened in the torchlight, his muscles rippling as he roared with newfound strength. The youthful soul was a welcome addition for the hungry death-dealer. Kalmok was growing stronger.


(The Grand Library in Miatli)

Lanterns sputtered in the drafty hallways casting shadows across the spines of books and loose pages in the massive library giving the many tomes an appearance of sentience. Normally a quiet place of study, the halls had been invaded for many hours now with gruff demands followed by fearful pleas. The library’s caretakers sat tightly huddled in the center of the main hall, surrounded by grizzled and malicious warriors, as the head librarian was dragged into his study to be interrogated by the Daixadani general.
Bulging forearms covered in tattoos slammed the head librarian into a chair, knocking it against a bookcase causing pages to shutter from the shelves.
“Where is the book, Talok?” the general questioned.
The librarian’s gaze remained on the ground. Battered for several hours now, it was becoming clear he had no intention of giving the Daixadani the information he wanted. He looked up through swollen eyes and parted his blood caked lips with a hesitant sigh, “Leave this place, Balrat, we do not have what you seek. The tomes of the gods are gone to this world…”
“No! We know it is here,” Balrat pushed on, “If I have to kill everyone on this miserable island, I will find that book.” In a moment of rage, he closed his fist and backhanded the librarian out of his seat. “Give me the book and we will leave.”
Crawling back into his seat, Talok only shook his head, fresh blood from his split cheek staining his sand colored robes. “It’s not here.”
The large general grabbed the nearest shelf and slammed it to the ground, scattering precious texts across the study floor. Reaching for another shelf, he suddenly stopped: the head librarian’s worried gaze had betrayed his efforts of concealment.
“Of course,” the general mused, “You would want to keep the book as close as possible.” The general strode to the shelf behind the desk and with a grunt pushed the laden case away from the wall. Behind it he found a small niche carved into the brick, covered with a latticed wooden panel. Balrat opened the door with suppressed excitement only to find a single sheet of parchment within. Furious, he ripped the page from the alcove and held it beneath a lamp to get a better look.
There was a low rumbling in the general’s chest, almost a chuckle, as he turned to the librarian. “Clues. More clues.”
Talok began to laugh, “You will not find the tomes, Balrat, the gods took them from the hands of men. Their power is not meant for us.” The obsidian dagger entered the librarian’s throat in a blur and just as quickly was stuffed back in the general’s leather belt, leaving a river of blood to form a maroon lake on the carpeted floor of the study.
Prize in hand, the general left the study and started a rushed pace towards the library’s exit. “Kill them, all of them,” he said as he passed one of his lieutenants.

The heavy rains carved small rivers into the shoreline as Balrat trotted back toward his armada. Flames rose in the distance silhouetting the massive warriors as they loaded the spoils onto the warships.