The Cry of Thunder – Part 1

An Oerikan berserker of the Djurii, Urog was frustrated with his son for knowing so little about the ways of their people. He was even more frustrated with himself for having failed to teach Gharan the things he would need to know to survive. The boy had not yet come of age; he had yet to take a life or taste of the Warana, so his very presence could soil the Hodjuk and ruin the ceremony. Gharan was strong for his age, and his father knew he’d grow to be a great warrior, but strength alone was not enough to survive as a member of the Djurii. The boy needed knowledge; he needed to understand the meaning behind the words uttered by the Voices. Urog tried to banish these concerns from his mind. He’d have time to teach these and many other things to the boy later.

Urog marched through the burned grounds of the Hodjuk alongside twenty other berserkers. Gharan and the other children followed in tow. Some of them had the marks of punishment already, for speaking out of turn. The beat of the drums and rattling noise of the shakers urged the warriors onward, each carrying a newly made blade of Moonstruck obsidian and primordial clay. Urog could hear the Voice of Thunder making her proclamations at the top of the hill, but he could not yet discern what she was saying. Even if he could, his attention was fixed on the Kor-Takra of the Djurii, the Warrior-Prophet reborn, whose roar struck fear into the hearts of his enemies and ignited the rage of Ymiris in his allies: Thundersteps. 

Gharan was in his eighth year, and his little legs struggled to keep pace with his father. What slowed him down most was not his immature body, but the weakness in his heart. The great Thundersteps awaited them at the top of the hill, and the boy could not help but feel afraid. He knew it was wrong, that it went against everything the Voices of Thunder proclaimed, but he felt that fear nonetheless. He had seen Thundesteps only once before, and had felt a kind of darkness from him. It was the sort of instinct that brings a chill to one’s spine, and that the adults pretend not to feel. As young as he was, Gharan had seen the fear in their faces. As they got to the top of the hill, and the other children scattered to join the circle of observers, Gharan hid behind his father’s shield and looked to the glowing red eye of the source of his fear. Thundersteps didn’t move, but for an instant the boy thought the Kor-Takra was looking straight at him. 

Urog prayed to Avakra that his son wouldn’t draw unwanted attention, urging him to join the other children. But the child wouldn’t budge; his eyes were fixed on the great being before them. Urog chose not to chastise the boy, for he remembered the feeling: to be enraptured by the sight of true strength. Urog’s attention was finally drawn elsewhere, as Kali’Rev, the Voice who spoke for Thundersteps today, called the warriors to approach. The ceremony had started.

One by one, the warriors knelt before their Kor-Takra, recognizing his superiority, presenting their blades of black glass to him. Each of the berserkers was to be judged. If Thunderteps extended his hand to cut a finger on the blade’s edge and anointed it with his own blood, the warrior had passed judgment. If he gripped the blade with his entire hand and shattered it, they had failed in the eye of Thundersteps, and their position of honor in the next battle would be stripped from them.

When his turn came, Urog moved forward without a second thought, quickly knelt before Thundersteps and presented his sword. Then he remembered his son. His head bowed, he looked back to where he had stood just a moment ago, but the boy was gone. With relief, the warrior assumed Gharan had come to his senses and joined the other children, or else had been dragged behind the circle by the crowd. He would find the boy later. What Urog could not see from his position was that Gharan had followed him and was standing to his left, hidden by the warrior’s shield.

Gharan didn’t quite know how he had gotten there. He guessed his legs had carried him as they were wont to do, as he gazed into the crimson eye of Thundersteps. For a moment he had even forgotten his own fear. Gharan figured he was probably somewhere he was not supposed to be, since everyone seemed to be looking at him now. The scariest face was that of the mean woman standing next to Thundersteps, on the other side of where his father was kneeling. The boy watched the woman’s visage turn from surprise to rage, as gasps and murmurs erupted all around. His father raised his head above the shield and looked at him with shock. The boy had expected that expression to become one of rage as well, but instead he saw something he had never seen in his father’s face before: fear. Confused and scared, the boy began to cry. 

Urog was too stupefied to move. The boy was crying before the Kor’Takra! What a fool! What a fool had he been for bringing Gharan here, to watch his father’s moment of triumph. The child had not been ready. What would they do with Gharan? The wrath of Thunder was legendary, and Kali’Rev was said to be able to summon it with a single word. She stood there, saying nothing, but with a single look she demanded action from him. He understood what she wanted. He was to punish the boy, to defend his honor as a warrior and the integrity of the ceremony. Here and now, he was to cull the weakness from his bloodline. It had been only moments, but the cry of the child seemed to ring in his ears for an eternity. All were looking at them, waiting. Thundersteps was looking at them. By Avakra, Thundersteps was looking at his boy! Torn between defending the strength of the Kith and protecting his child, Urog chose the path of the weak.

Gharan could barely see through his tears when suddenly he felt his legs being taken from under him, as he was lifted from the ground. As the crowd around him erupted in a cacophony of voices, it took him a moment to realize he was in his father’s arms. It took him even longer to understand that the red glow reflecting off his father’s arm was that of the Storm’s Eye, as he pointed the obsidian blade at Thundersteps. The Voice of Thunder raged now, and the crowd roared. Gharan could barely hear the words, but he was old enough to know the bloodlust of his people, and that today, he was its target. Then, something even louder, something deep and roiling, drowned out all other sounds. While the adults seemed utterly confused, many even fearful, the sound warmed the boy’s heart, even if he did not fully understand it. To Gharan, it sounded like the skies had begun to laugh. 

Urog had lost his mind; he was sure of it now.  First, he had shown weakness before the clan, dropping his shield to pick up his crying son, the one who had disrespected this sacred ritual, choosing to protect his kin instead of his Kith. Then, when Kali’Rev had drawn a dagger and moved towards him, hoping to correct his mistake before the wrath of Thundersteps fell upon the Kith, Urog lifted his blade and pointed it at her. He turned around, frantically attempting to ward off the riotous crowd. Finally, when he felt the gaze of the Storm’s Eye upon him, he pointed his blade at Thundersteps.

As despair took hold, Urog heard a sound that made his heart stop. Thundersteps emitted a rumbling echo, like a mountain being ground to dust in the depths of a deep chasm. He had never heard this sound before, nor had he ever heard one of the Voices describe it. He didn’t know what it meant, and the people around him seemed just as confused, Kali’Rev among them. The Kor’Takra of the Djurii Host rose to his feet, dwarfing Urog and all others around. He uttered something, inscrutable as always, and waited for a second. The father’s sword held steady against the creature before him, despite the fear in his heart. Thundersteps scoffed in frustration, then reached out with his massive hand, engulfing the obsidian blade. So this was it. The blade would be shattered, and his fate would be sealed. He would be lucky if they only took his life and allowed his child to live on in shame. 

Gharan had stopped crying now. He could feel his father trembling, but Urog’s arm was still tight around him. When Thundersteps stood, Gharan watched his father stand his ground, despite his fear. The boy watched his father tense as the Kor-Takra wrapped a giant hand around the black blade. When he released it, the blade was covered in blood, and a deep gash was left running through Thundersteps’ hand. Then, that bloody hand came towards him and his father, but Gharan didn’t fear it now. 

Urog’s blade was intact, and both it and he had been anointed with the blood of Thundersteps. Kali’Rev seemed to want to protest it, but even a Voice of Thunder knew better than to contest such a public display of approval. As relief washed over him, Urog steeled himself for the battle to come.

Tonight, he would drink his fill and hug his child; tomorrow he would scold Gharan and teach him what he could about the ways of his people, before leaving him with the Kith’s caretakers. In the days to come, he would be granted the honor of standing side by side with Thunderteps on the field of battle. The honor he was granted was that of being the tip of the spear, and drawing or shedding first blood. He did not understand why Thunderteps had spared him, but he would serve the Djurri with pride.

Gharan was exhausted by the night’s ordeal. More than that, he was confused by many things and would ask his father to explain them later. Once, Thunderteps had seemed so distant and scary, but now his warmth was so clear to Gharan. He did not understand why all the adults had been so cowed by Thunderteps’ laughter, or why his father had not heeded the commands. “Lower your blade. Don’t fear.” Gharan had heard the words so clearly, so deep in his heart, that he did not understand how anyone could have felt any fear after that moment. 

In fact, Gharan wondered why the people needed the Voices of Thunder to interpret anything, when Thundersteps had a voice of his own.