Exiled Savior: The Udapak Child

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Prologue: The Prophecy

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The known lands are divided into clans. These clans are divided by fear and prejudice. Wars have ravaged the lands for years, filling the empty plains between homesteads with the bones of the fallen. War is their way of life, the way of Man.

The prophecies speak of one who will reunite the clans under a single banner, a warrior of limitless power. This warrior will put a stop to the endless battles between the clans so that they can bring the wars to the lands beyond. According to the prophecies, this warrior will discover a way to cross the Rift, the great crack in the ground that separates their small world from the world beyond.

The time of this prophecy has arrived.

The chieftan of Udapak Clan, currently the strongest of the clans, steps out of his tent, a small bundle held in his arms. The entire clan, as well as its strongest allies, raise their arms and cry out in joy. The greatest moment of their lives is upon them. This child would bring an end to their suffering, and would bring the world into their reach.

The chieftan held one hand high above his head, the thick hide sleeve of his coat falling slightly to reveal his scarred arm. The crowd around him silenced, slowly.

The chieftan took a deep breath as he stared out at the assembled men.
"It is a girl."

The noise that erupted from the crowd was nothing like it had been moments ago: their joy had been replaced by outrage. Their hopes and dreams were shattered, the prophecy they had believed in for generations proven false. The warrior that should have been born this day was replaced by a useless girl. The crowd demanded justice.

The chieftan raised his hand high above his head once again, and slowly the noise ceased.

"She will die," said the chieftan. He lowered his hand to his belt and pulled free his bone knife. He stepped forward, the crowd made room for him. Still holding the bundled baby, the chieftan walked forward through the crowd, and the mass of bodies moved around him like waves against a rock.

Finally free of the crowd, the chieftan quickened his pace. His heart quickened in pace as well. The crowd stayed behind, not given permission to follow. The chieftan walked until he entered the sparse forest just beyond the encampment. He layed the bundle on the ground, and slowly began to unrap it. The child within began to cry as the cold, biting air touched her skin. The chieftan's heart cringed. He raised the knife above his head, both hands gripping the leather handle, twisting slightly as he tried to force the bone tip downward into the soft flesh of the child.

The chieftan's heart won over his scarred hands. He lowered the knife slowly.

"You will live," the chieftan said softly, the sound of his voice slightly diminishing the infant's cries. "You will fulfill the prophecies, and do what all before you could not."

The chieftan rewrapped the small bundle and moved it closer to the base of the nearest tree. He covered it again with leaves and twigs. The chieftan stood and turned back toward his home, where the crowd was still waiting just out of sight.

He would send his most trusted men to raise the babe, to teach her what she needed to know. She would fulfill her destiny, as the prophecies promised. He would see to it.

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Chapter One: The Savior

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Dirt fell like snow, stinging Ranohg’s eyes and sticking to his sweaty skin. The ancient buildings around him were nearly hidden in layers of dirt, testaments to the number of sandstorms they have weathered. This storm had finally ended, and Ranohg had stepped outside to breathe in some fresh air. Unfortunately, the air was not yet as clean as he would like. The winds had stopped completely, and the sky was still brown and orange, a reflection of the ground at his feet. It was hot and…wet. He rubbed a leather-gloved hand across the cover of his prized book; this very book had enabled him to pinpoint the birth of the prophesied savior. Ranohg the Wise, he was called. A man of infinite wisdom and infinite folly, a man who worked for his people by working against their ways. His place in life was balanced on scales of irony and the whims of powerful men. To most, Ranohg’s translations of the book were nothing more than translations of legends passed down from generation to generation, with a few embellishments and additions to strengthen the story. It was disappointing, to say the least. And yet, despite the ridicule by his own people, he had secured his own place in future legends, legends of the Savior and her Teachers.

The buildings around Ranohg had their own legends. Ranohg knew a few of them, most translated from books. But no living man remembered a time when they had been occupied. They were enormous structures of stone, mud and wood. And there were enough of them clustered here to support a large portion of the tribes. He wondered at their true purpose, at their origins and history. As of now, they were nothing more than empty husks of past lives. And a shelter to the Savior, for no tribe would willingly harbor her.

Ranohg opened the book to a particular page, placed a finger at a specific passage, one he had been unable to translate. It seemed that many sections of the book had been written in completely different languages. It was another puzzle he couldn’t understand.

Ke altothus kor’iegnan akka evith enuti cenyian ke ik’anan.

It was a single passage, singled out from the words around it with obscure drawings an illegible scrawling that Ranohg guessed were personal notes or references of some kind. It was important, he knew. Unfortunately he knew not how.

The Savior herself, unfortunately, was a mere distraction. He was charged, as were all of the others, with her safety and training. But how, then, could he focus on translating the text that would show her the path to her destiny? There wasn't much he could offer her anyway, other than teaching her letters and history. Unfortunately, she had little patience for such things. Honestly, if it hadn't been his own work in translating the book of the prophecy, he would have doubted her completely. But in doubting her, he would have to doubt himself. At this point, that was something he could not do.

Ranohg closed the book, again rubbing a hand over the cover. The cover was leather, and carved with strange figures and patterns that he couldn't begin to comprehend. A leather strap wrapped around the book and tied to a small stub near the edge of the top cover. Ranohg kept it tied at all times when he wasn't reading it, and then kept it wrapped again in a leather bag. He couldn't risk letting the pages get damaged. A single lost page could spell disaster for the Savior. It was Ranohg that must determine her path, through this book of prophecy. He couldn't fail in that task.

With the book safely stowed, Ranogh turned back to the building he had exited. It was dark within, lit with only a few candles. Small bits of stone lay at the entryway, and Ranohg wondered if perhaps wood had once been there. The many tribes used various forms of hide or cloth tents for shelter, things that could easily be picked up and moved. Wood and stone to mark a permanent entryway must have been a mark of extreme luxury or unheardof peace and prosperity. Perhaps both. The interior lacked decoration, with the exception of the candles and bedrolls of the Savior and the other warriors. He reverently placed the leather sack containing his book on his bed roll, and then sat beside it on the cool floor. The rest of the warriors were still out, probably training the girl. In a sandstorm. Ranohg shook his head.

Xzadri grunted as she landed flat on her back on the ground for the five hundred time. Her teachers and she had been training all day. It was good practice to train even during harsh conditions because you couldn't always choose when to fight. They might have a point about that, not that Xzadri were going to accknowledge that anymore.

She rolled onto her hands and knees and spat the sand from her mouth as best she could. Her ears and nose was also filled with sand. The sand had even managed to get under her clothing and it chafted. She turned her head when she heard footsteps coming closer.

"Enough! No more!" she half-shouted.

The steps continued and a kick was aimed at her side. She rolled to the side and got to her feet. They circled each other. Out here the wind still blew sand all around them and she couldn't make out who was still fighting her.

"I said enough!" she shrieked.

The second she was distracted, the warrior slammed into her, and they rolled on the ground. Xzadri choked on sand, continuing the roll to try and loose her opponent. Bucking, she threw him off and got to her feet. She took a split second to orient herself before she ran towards 'home'. She stepped as lightly as she could, while still moving fast. The quieter she was, the less chance any of the other warriors would find her again.

When she arrived at the buildings, she sighed. She pulled the cork from her water skin and downed the last water in it. Still her throat was dry and full of sand. Her eyes burned, but rubbing them wouldn't help since her hands were dirty. She put back her water skin on her belt and walked to the buildning they were living in. Squinting to see inside, she made out Ranohg and sighed mentally.

"Water. Ranohg, do you have any water?" she asked in her whiniest voice, just to irritate him.

She swaggered in, dusty and dirty. She went over to her pack and pulled out a cloth. She gently scrubbed her face with it and cleaned her hands as best she could.

"Ranohg..."

With her hands relatively clean, she rubbed her eyes getting as much sand as possible out of them. Her body throbbed with light pain from all the falls and hits she had taken during the day. She'd be a pretty black and blue tomorrow. She didn't mind that so much, but the sand was a pain.

The storm swirled with a temper, gathering up dust and sand in it's tantrum and throwing it at all who lay in it's path. Unfortunately, it seemed that Demroc and his little make-shift family seemed to be one of them. It wasn't anything to worry over since he was typical to their lifestyle. Getting in the way of things, and finding themselves in some sort of trouble had been nothing new. The storm was just one more thing to add to a list of many.

He avoided rubbing at his eyes, remembering the fit his wife used to throw every time he did such a thing. "That will only get the sand in your eyes!" He could hear her reprimanding him even from a distance. He couldn't help but chuckle at the tone of voice, missing the woman like he usually did her and her sometimes shrill tone. Still he listened to it, keeping his hands on the little wood carving he used to occupy himself as he sat with the warriors around him. His attention, like all of them, focused on the girl they were protecting, letting their comrade run through his training with her as they passed the time.

A gust of wind sped by and Demroc tightened his grasp on his cloak, pulling the hood tighter over his head as he grumbled with irritated curses towards the weather. He could no longer see the warriors or Xzadri, but like always it didn't really matter. He could sense them, hear them, feel their presence near by, so like all of them, sight was nothing to worry over when lost.

"I said enough!"

Well that was a sign to head back to the shelter, if their ever was one. He heard her run despite the wind and only gave off a sigh as he brought himself to a stand and followed after her. "It's probably for the best," he spoke up to the others, "The storms getting too strong now anyway." As if to enforce his words another gust of wind blew and the feel of the sand against his skin burned like fire. He was done as well. Couldn't bring himself to blame Xzadri for her escape.

Slowly he followed after her, making sure to hold tight to his cloak and save his exposed skin some pain as he moved in towards the shelter, coughing slightly at the entrance. He prayed in his native tounge briefly for the fact that he was inside before shaking off the sand and dust that had gathered itself on him. He could hear the little savior asking for a drink so he removed his pack and tossed her his water skin.

"There you go, little miss," he said causally as he carried his pack to his bedroll and took off his cloak. With a grunt he set his things off to the side and took a seat a top his bedding before turning his focus back to the small wood carving of two trees with a child underneath that he was finishing in his hand.

He blew off whatever shavings were left on the little piece of makeshift artwork before placing it off to the side where a little grouping of finished carvings rested, all varied in size and subject matter. Then with slow ease he removed his quiver and bows, keeping his knives on his hip. A groan escaped his lips as he picked up his quiver.

"Hate sand storms," he spoke up as he pulled out his arrows and flipped the quiver to let sand fall out on the floor. "They aren't extremely devastating, but the leave themselves everywhere."

The sandstorm had continued to pick up intensity throughout the day, but none of the warriors were willing to let the training stop for any such reason. While the bits of particles stung his skin where they made contact, Kilahi refused to wear any heavy clothing to protect himself from the force of nature. Heavy clothing was restricting, and when everything hung on your ability to be quick, precise, and lethal, such things could lead to death. Kilahi did, however, wear a black face cloth with a slit for his eyes to see. His leather armour held tight to his torso, and his two swords hanging from their positions on his back.

As he kicked Xzadri to the ground once more, he was slightly disappointed. He shouldn't have been allowed that open kick to the chest, and it should have been easily blocked. He was doing his best to teach her the ways of a fighter, but the truth was with the body of a female, she wouldn't be able to bring her strength up to the level of a man without double the effort. From what he was seeing, he was doubting he was getting half the effort. Kilahi watched as she rolled to her hands, and screamed that it was enough. No, she did not get to choose when it was enough, only when blood had been shed would the fighting end. Kilahi walked over, and attempted to deliver a kick to her side to get her motivated, but she rolled out of the way just in time. She is getting faster, that's a good sign. He thought this to himself even as she screamed that enough was enough. Kilahi didn't give her a chance to dodge this one this time, and swiftly tackled her to the ground. After rolling a few yards she managed to toss him loose, and take off running towards their refuge.

Kilahi was up soon enough, and watched as the faint shape of Xzadri ran from the fight. Part of him felt disappointed, and another part of him felt ashamed. He had never run from a fight, and from this point on, neither would she. He tried to wipe some of the dust away from his facemask, but the sandstorm picked up more intensity and he found it to be impossible. His eyes had remained relatively unscathed, but they were just starting to burn from small bits of sand getting through. Demroc then decided to speak up.

"It's probably for the best. The storm's getting to strong now anyway." Kilahi continued to look off after Xzadri, but spoke up just the same.

"We don't get to choose where and when we fight Demroc, you should know this, and she will know this." His grizzly voice was neutral, but if you knew him you could tell simply by the choice of his words that he was disappointed in the actions of their student. Since the Saviour had run off, there was no reason for them to stay out in this mess, and they all made their way back to the refuge.

As he walked in, he could hear her female voice asking for water, and Demroc was obliging to her request. Kilahi looked over at the man with cold eyes, and watched the water skin fly through the air. With a quick grab, Kilahi had it in his hand, and was staring Xzadri. "You know the rules of my engagements ma'am. If you want your water, hold you your hand." Kilahi drew his sword, and let it hang limp by his side. He could see her hesitancy in doing so, but she eventually put her hand forward. Kilahi rested his sword blade down on her palm, and with a quick motion, made a large cut across her entire palm. He watched her recoil slightly, but paid no attention to that.

"We fight until first blood. You do not get to choose where you fight, who you fight, or when you fight. You will fight until there is a clear winner, and even then, you will continue to fight because that is who you are. It is what you are meant to be. Do not forget that ma'am." Kilahi tossed her the water skin, and walked over to his small area in the cave.

A small cot along with several different weapons and a bear pelt were all that littered his area of the refuge, and he quickly took off his head band and tossed it with his bear pelt. He whipped out his own water skin, and quickly poured some into his eyes to get the small amount of sand out of them. Without another word to anyone, he sat down on a nearby rock, and proceeded to wash the blood from his blade.

The sandstorm was growing worse and it would soon make their stay outside unbearable. Nevertheless, old Vroshk watched his ward's training with great interest. The bits of leather armour, in addition to his rough, calloused skin, made the millions of particles a minor annoyance. His one remaining eye followed the regimens the girl underwent keenly. The other warriors were better at handling the practical lessons when it came to physical combat, but the old warchief surveyed the Saviour's spirit carefully. Apart from ensuring her will was strong, he looked at other more practical matters - tactics and her thinking. She positioned herself well enough, but she was not yet strong.

Xzadri was treated harshly, true enough, but it was the only way she would be ready to attempt to fulfill this so-called prophecy . Destiny was destiny and fate was fate, but no man (or woman, he added) had achieved great deeds by sitting idly by. Success came to those who earned it, those who could wrench it away from the hands of others. There could be no other way and the girl had to understand that. He frowned as the wind increased and, with it, the storm. Turning to the side, he used his back as shelter, warding off the worst it threw at him.

When the would-be Saviour fell to her feet his frown deepened. Vroshk drew nearer so he could better see, but not close enough to disrupt the spar. The girl was not one to back down however and she quickly managed to evade the larger warrior. Having done that she ran away. During this One-Eye was a mere observer, nothing more. He noted flaws and strengths in the character of both the girl and his other companions. Such thoughts were kept to himself, but not always. This was one such occasion. A faint heart would do no good here, if Xzadri was to achieve this prophecy, she would never give the enemy her back. In life, as well as on the battlefield, more often than not it meant defeat.

Most of the others had already departed, he could not see them clearly due to the storm, but it was obvious that they had returned to their "home". He lingered behind for a few more moments, thinking on his life up until that point. Truly, he had achieved much both for his clan and his family...his forefathers would be pleased. And yet, this was a challenge unlike any other he had tackled before. Although he had raised two sons, the current situation was much different. Not only was the future Saviour a female, but she was no ordinary child as well. Or at least, she was not treated as such. Then, of course, was the fact that at home Vroshk reigned supreme. He was the one that determined how his boys would develop...here, he had to share that task with other tutors.

He blinked a few times, as his eye was starting to get overwhelmed by the sand. Knowing that staying outside was no longer fruitful, he began walking back towards their current residence. Upon entering the dimly lit room, he took out his water-skin and splashed some water on his face. At once, he felt refreshed. Only after that did he notice the situation around him. Kilahi, the Bryker, was berating the Saviour about something, no doubt the cowardice she had displayed. After that, the warrior stalked off to his part of their small dwelling.

Vroshk was a calm man and he took his time, gathering his thoughts before he spoke. First, he went to his bedroll and left his shield by the wall. The helmet and gloves followed, items which were not needed in training, but he did not want his aging body to grow lax. He had to feel the full weight, no matter how small, of his gear every time he fought. Like many things in life, perfect form was hard to build - taking months and years of hard training to achieve. And only a moment of idleness to lose.

When he was done with that, he finally turned towards Xzadri and spoke.

"Girl, what the Bryker says is true. Cowardice, a sign of a meek will, will do you no good." -his voice was rasp, unpleasant - "His counsel was wise, so I will speak of a different matter."

He took a few steps towards the Saviour.

"There will be times when victory is beyond your reach, every warrior, great or small, has faced such times. It will be for you to decide if a fight can still be won, or if it has been completely lost." - he pointed a finger accusingly at her - "When it is lost, flee...needless sacrifices are foolish. But never show the enemy your back. Never."

The last few words were spoken quite sternly. Vroshk, being practical, knew that codes of honour and such meant little when a war was waged. As such, he was not displeased by the fact that the girl had ran away. It was a show of cowardice true enough, but it could be viewed as thoughtful of her. The manner in which it was done though...pathetic. When one was forced to retreat, they had to make sure the enemy would not follow. Could not follow. It was not a matter of character, it was a concept of strategy. One she would doubtless have to use some day.