Culpug the Cavelord and the Swamp Sorcerer

Michael Panush

The road had never been there before, and still bore signs of its recent creation. The newly cut stones lay uncomfortably on the flattened ground, and a traveler’s footsteps sounded odd as they fell upon the smooth pathway. Hollow, somehow? Culpug the Cavelord decided so. He had walked this road many times, and never before had his feet graced the flat stones, so similar and yet so different from the harsh mountainsides of his home.

Even Reliable, the aptly named pack mammoth which walked faithfully by Culpug’s side, seemed to notice the difference, tentatively moving his thick shaggy feet atop the paving. Culpug noticed Reliable’s strangeness, and gently patted the mammoth’s flank.

“Get used to it, old boy. They’ll be more soon enough.”

“What do you mean, father?” from atop Reliable, Culpug’s young son peeked down to stare at his father. Urven had just passed ten summers last season, and he was a thin, precocious child just as his father had been. Father and son were similarly dressed, both wearing homespun shirts, trousers, leather shoes with rawhide laces, and cloaks made of saber-tooth fur, all made by Culpug’s wife Mayna. The same brown hair sprouted from their heads in unruly curls, though Culpug also wore a thick brown beard, growing from his chin like some wild plant. Weaponry was the other distinguishing feature. Culpug carried a spear, using the stout weapon as a walking stick, and he wore a bow and quiver on his shoulders and carried two sickle-shaped knives on his leather belt.

“Reliable is surprised by the paved road. I was telling him he can only expect more. Maybe even in our mountains.”

“But the Valley Tribes will never go there. Our traders come to them,” Urven pointed out.

“Very true, my son. But perhaps the Council of the Mountain Clans would see fit to create paved roads on its own accord. The Mammoth Shepherd Clan could make great use of them, and they speak with many voices in the Council.”

“But father, that goes against all tradition.” Urven stood up on Reliable’s back, and had to grab a clump of the mammoth’s thick hair to keep from falling. “You always say how we must preserve our ways from the Valley Tribes.”

“We must not grow fat-bellied and weak-boned, very true.” Culpug smiled at his son. “But some traditions are best done away with. This road may come in handy. I remember when your mother had to climb up to Old Shaman Icks’ hut, her large with you. A paved road would have been quite welcome. And see-Reliable has already become used to the new footing.”

Sure enough, the great mammoth had increased his speed, steadily walking forward. Culpug patted Reliable’s haunch again. “And now that your mother is large with child again, we will make the journey to Shamman Icks together.”

“I’ll help!” Urven promised.

“I’ve no doubt of that. But first we must get there.” Culpug looked up to the mountains on the horizon, where Mayna and the child awaiting them. He had to hurry, so as not to miss the birth. Culpug and Urven had left with great hesitancy for the saber-tooth hunt on the far mountains, and they were taking the shortcut back, even though it lead through the lands of the Valley Tribes.

Culpug was worried. Not for Mayna, though he always feared for her when he was away. But she was as strong as she was pretty, and she had friends and relatives to rely upon. No, it was the shortcut through the valley that bothered Culpug, particularly now that Urven was along with the ride. This was Urven’s first time at the saber-hunt and Culpug wondered what hazards awaited him and his son as they walked across the valley. The landscape was strange, lush with jungle and tall grass. The animals were strange, reptilian beasts some of immense size and terrible ferocity. And the people-the Valley Tribes, who did not hunt or work for their food, but farmed-were the strangest of all.

Still, Culpug knew was the best way. Taking the shortcut through the valley shaved weeks off of their journey. It only took two days to cross the valley and they had made good time across the new paved roads.

“Father! Look!” Urven clambered up on Reliable’s head, pointing at the horizon. “Smoke!”

Culpug saw not one, but a great many plumes of smoke drifting lazily in the darkening sky. “A village, I think. And it is growing dark,” he said. “Perhaps we could spend the night there, and set out early the next day.” He nodded. “Yes, that is a good plan. Come, Reliable.” He urged the mammoth onward, towards the settlement of the Valley Tribes.

It was like no village Culpug had ever seen. Instead of a collection of huts clustered together against the wilderness, there was one great hall, a veritable fortress mound of stone and dirt, surrounded by open fields and small houses. Culpug stared at the great palace in the center and shook his head.

“Valley Tribes,” he muttered. “Of Lor they know nothing. Of Ren, all too much.” The Mountain Tribe Gods of War and Greed seemed to sum up what the Valley Tribes had and what they lacked very well. Culpug led Reliable and Urven towards one of the outlying fields.

A group of farmers were hard at work, tilling the fields and harvest their crops. One of their scaly pack-animals, a large three-horned lizard, sat placidly at the end of the field, and the farmers diligently loaded the harvest grain onto its back. When Reliable saw the three-horned beast, he trumpeted and stamped his foot.

Some of the farmers looked up from their work to see the mammoth and the Mountain man and his child. Culpug calmed Reliable, gentling cooing into the mammoth’s flapping ears.

“Please, old boy, tolerate their stinking dung-eating lizards.”

Dutifully, Reliable ceased his trumpeting and stood still. Urven slid down the side and stood by his father as one of the Valley Tribe farmers approached. He was short and tan, as all Valley Tribesmen were, and he wore a white loincloth, a wide-brimmed straw hat, and sandals. He was an elderly fellow, a wispy beard on his face, and he bowed respectfully before Culpug.

“Peace, Stone-Child, the Green Grass welcomes you. I am called Rinks.”

Culpug bowed back. “A thousand thanks for your welcome, farmer. I am Culpug, called Cavelord by some, and this is my son, Urven.”

“Hello, sir,” Urven said politely. His father had instructed him well about proper protocol and manners.

“We are traveling home across your valley, and ask for your hospitality for the night.” He stepped back towards Reliable and opened one of the packs strapped to the mammoth’s side, revealing several saber-tooth skins and teeth. “We will gladly pay you in skins and teeth for shelter and some food.”

The Farmer looked at the skins with wide eyes. “These are beautiful,” he said. “We could make rugs and blankets of them, or many other things.” He looked back up at Culpug. “Stone-Child, and I am very sorry that the pleasures of my house are small and few, not worth these rich pelts.”

“I will accept gladly whatever you can give me,” Culpug said. “My son and I are guests here, and we must be generous.”

“And that you are.” Rinks motioned to some of the other farmers. “My sons and I tend these fields, and we live in those huts not far off. I think we will retire now, as the sun is setting, and bad things happen to those that work in the darkness.”

“What sort of things?” Urven asked curiously.

“I do not wish to discuss it here,” Rinks said. Urven was about to say more, but Culpug put a hand on his shoulder and the boy fell silent.

“Very well, generous farmer. We’ll depart to your house.” Culpug, Urven, and Reliable followed Rinks and his sons as they led the three-horned lizard back to the collection of huts at the edge of the fields. The homes were small and sparsely furnished with little more than woven mats for sleeping and eating. Culpug saw how much a simple saber-tooth would be appreciated.

Rinks’s family was large, but they seemed malnourished. Culpug could count the ribs on many of the children, and they all seemed greatly fatigued from the day’s labor.

After the grain had been unloaded and safely stored, the men gathered outside in the center of the huts and ate a small simple meal of mush and bread. Urven stared at the sticky mush on his eating mat.

“I’m supposed to eat that mud?” he asked Culpug.

“It’s all they have,” Culpug told his son, picking up some of the mush in his hands and stuffing it in his mouth. “It doesn’t taste of mud. Or of anything else for that matter. Shovel some in and pretend its meat and marrow so as not to insult our hosts.”

Urven nodded. “Yes, father. They have been very nice to us.” He ate some of the mush and gulped it down with a gasp.

“Again, Stone-Child, I apologize for the paucity of food,” Rinks said, his eyes downcast. “This is all we have.”

“It is fine,” Culpug reassured his host. “But, I must ask. You work hard and well, and you grow great amounts of grain. How come you do not have much more to eat? I see your children are thin and scrawny, and do not play much. Your men and women are little better.”

“Well, most of it goes to Ju’ak the Grainlord. Normally, he leaves us enough to get by, but circumstances have changed. He takes more than ever, and the things from the swamp always harry us. A few growers have perished, some from starvation, and more from the swamp’s wretched spawn.”

“What manner of spawn?” Culpug asked.

Rinks shivered and was about to answer, when one of his sons came running in. The youth pointed to the edge of the camp. “Ju’ak’s men are here! They wish to speak with you.”

“They can speak with me here,” Rinks said, remaining seated. “The fallow grain-rats!”

The youth came back, and soon directed Ju’ak representatives to Rinks. The two men were burly and well-muscled, dressed in simple skirts and leather armor studded with gold. Each one carried a large spiked club, wore a flat, round helmet and had a permanent sneer etched on their faces.

“Did you get the grain we left for you?” Rinks asked.

“We got it,” one of Ju’ak’s enforcers stated. “But the Grainlord wants the shipment doubled. The harvest have been poor. Your people are getting lazy, old man.”

Rinks came to his feet. “We work harder than ever! The malignant swamp creatures have killed many of my children, leaving fewer hands to work the fields! How dare you call us lazy, when you do nothing except steal our food to fill your own bellies and leave nothing for my family!”

One of the enforcers put his hand on Rinks’s shoulder. “Shut your mouth, old fool! You know how Ju’ak deals with disloyalty.”

Culpug gently set his plate down on his mat. He turned to Urven. “Son, please do not interfere in what I am about to do.”

Urven was watching the argument between Rinks and the two thugs intently, but he nodded. “Yes, father.”

“Thank you.” Culpug raised his voice so that the enforcers could hear it as he came to his feet. “It seems to me that a man is a wretch indeed if he steals food from the mouths of others. Your boss has taken too much from these good people. Leave them in peace.”

“A stone-child?” one of the enforcers through his back his head and laughed. “Too stupid to leave the freezing mountains and yet he thinks he can tell us what to do! What a load of fallow.”

“What are you going to do? Drool on us?” the second enforcer hefted his club.

“No. I don’t even need a spear to deal with scum like you.”

“Let me guess,” the first enforcer asked, pushing Rinks aside and raising his club. “That was our last warning.”

“No. My first words to you were my last warning. Now I’m going to beat you bloody.” Culpug swung a punch at the first enforcer, striking him in the face and sending him reeling. He aimed a kick at the man’s chest and followed up with a brutal head-butt that sent teeth tinkling to the ground. The second enforcer swung his spiked club at Culpug, but the nimble Mountain Cavelord ducked under the blow, and then slammed his elbow into the thug’s exposed throat.

“Fat-bellied, weak-boned, Valley Slime!” Culpug shouted, aiming a kick at one of the fallen enforcers. “You’re not worth a mammoth’s dung heap in a real fight.” He picked up the first enforcer by the scruff of his neck and raised his fist to strike again.

“Stone-Child, cease your violence,” Rinks said. “Please.”

Culpug nodded and lowered his fist. “Yes, I suppose justice has been dealt.”

“No,” Rinks pointed to the edge of the village. “I won’t let a guest die in my house.” Standing in front of the Rinks’s family and covering Culpug with a dozen loaded crossbows stood a dozen armed Valley Tribesmen. A tall Tribesman in a long flowing robe stepped forward. He had a small braided beard of dark hair and wore a silk turban. A large curved schimatar hung from his belt.

“Desert Kind,” Culpug said, letting the enforcer drop with a thud. “You’re a long way from home, sand man.”

“As are you, rock dropping.” The robed man raised his hand and the enforcers lowered their crossbows. “My name is Shahazz. I can see by the weapons you carry and you way you dealt with those thugs that you are a warrior.”

“Are you going to kill me?” Culpug asked.

“No. I am going to hire you, or take you to someone who can.” Shahazz pointed to the great stone palace far in the distance. “I will take you to an employer who will pay handsomely for your services.”

“The Grainlord?”

“The one and the same.”

Culpug looked towards Rinks, and then to Urven before nodding his assent. “I’ll see what he has to say. But my son will stay here, and you will not take a single grain from Rinks and his family.”

“Done.” Shahazz snapped his fingers and the crossbowmen fell into step behind him. The two enforcers, recovering from their beating, crawled into the ranks. “Meet me by the outskirts when you’re ready.”

After he had gone, Rinks approached Culpug and bowed low. “A thousand thanks, stone-child. You may have saved my life.”

“And a thousand welcomes.” Culpug patted Rinks’ shoulder. “Would you watch my son while I am gone? Make sure he goes to bed at a good hour, and that he has enough to eat.”

“I’d be glad to.”

Culpug then turned to Urven, who was staring at his feet. “Father?” Urven asked. “Are you going to work for Ju’ak? And what about mother?”

“I’ll see what he has to say. As for your mother, she would want me to help these people as best I could. I promise you we will not be delayed for long.” Culpug kneeled down to his son’s level and kissed Urven on the forehead. “Be a good boy now. Do your father proud and make sure Reliable is fed and watered.”

“Yes, sir.” Urven nodded vigorously.

Culpug came to his feet and waved goodbye to Rinks and his family before heading for the edge of the village. A humongous lizard, long-necked and long-tailed, stood grazing in the moonlight. It pulled a large wagon behind it, and was covered with armored plates. Culpug stared at the strange beast. Maybe he was in over his head.

“So tell me,” Culpug asked Shahazz as they hopped off of the wagon and stood before Ju’ak’s palace. “How does a Desert Kind find himself in the valley?”

Shahazz shrugged. “I am a mercenary. I have served the people of the swamp, the hills, and even your own mountain clans in times past. This job I like more, as there is little to do but frighten peasants. Though recently, things have become more exciting.”

“The swamp spawn.”

“Ah, if only it was that simple.” Shahazz shook his head. They stood before the entrance to the palace, a great wooden gate that opened with a slow and ominous creaking. Numerous soldiers and servants went about their business, and several three-horned lizards as well as other scaly beasts made their way about as well. The high stone walls protected a large multi-chambered complex within. The walls were carved with designs and dynastic information, battle scenes and pastorals, all painted and gilded.

The two of them walked into the palace, servants and soldiers stepping out of the way to let Shahazz pass. “The swamp creatures are summoned forth by a wily sorcerer. Try as we might, there is no dislodging him. Ju’ak the Grainlord is most displeased.”

They walked into the main complex, labyrinthine halls all surrounded one massive throne room. Torches on the wall lit the place, revealing rich carpets, elegant tapestries, furniture and statues. Guards stood at every wall and servants bustled about.

“Will he not be displeased at the lateness of the hour?” Culpug asked.

“You don’t know Ju’ak,” replied Shahazz. They passed through a cloth partition and entered the throne room. Culpug stared at the debauchery before him. Nobles lay around cushioned couches, downing great quantities of beer while serving girls satisfied their every whim. A full band, trumpets and a harp, played in the corner while scantily clad women danced before the throne. In the center room, seated on his throne and unmistakably the man in charge, sat Ju’ak the Grainlord. He was an immensely fat man, lost in his own girth. He wore a silken loincloth, elaborate headdress of feathers and precious stones, and jewelry dangled from his every inch.

“Shahazz!” Ju’ak clapped his hands and the band, nobles, dancing girls and all fell silent. “You have brought someone to us!”

“This is Culpug, called Cavelord.” Shahazz and Culpug approached the throne, both bowing low. “I saw him defeat two of your soldiers in that many seconds. He is a man of great strength, cunning, and tact.”

Ju’ak leaned forward and reached out a swollen hand, his arm fat and jewelry swaying pendulous. He cupped Culpug’s chin and stared into his eyes. “You are a hard man, Stone-Child. But can you cure us of our swamp problem?”

“That depends.” Culpug pulled away from Ju’ak’s hand. “What is your problem, and what’s the reward? I am in a hurry, so I can’t dally with trifles.”

“He thinks we trifle. Hmmph!” Ju’ak clapped his hands and two serving girls came forward with a large chest. They opened it and spilled gold coins out on the floor. Ju’ak blew his nose, noisily spraying snot all over his nose-ring and other facial piercings. “Gold is not in want in our court.”

“I can see that.” Culpug stared at the riches. He could buy many luxuries with that. But that was not the Mountain Clan’s way. “I also see that it has been taken from the sweat of the poor farmers. You and all your kind are leeches.”

The nobles gasped and waiting for Ju’ak’s answer, but the Grainlord merely shrugged. “We care not what you think! If you can fight, we will hire you. Someone must defeat the terror from the swamps, and perhaps that is you.”

“What is this terror?”

Ju’ak sighed. “A sorcerer dwells in our swamp. He summons beasts that raid and kill the farmers, ruining our grain. He has gathered dark followers to him and may some day attack our fortress. He must be killed. The people are afraid, and they need a champion.”

Culpug nodded. “They are good people, and they deserve to have this sorcerer killed. Pay me some of your gold, point me in his direction and I will kill him for you.”

“Not until the morrow. We must show the people that we love them and support them.” Ju’ak clapped his hands and the merriment resumed. “Until then, enjoy our palace. Sample our beer. Sample our women.”

One of the serving girls moved behind Culpug and gently caressed his shoulder. The Cavelord remember Mayna and stepped away. “I’ll get some rest for tomorrow,” he said simply, and departed to an adjoining chamber.

Every farmer in Ju’ak’s territory was there to watch Culpug depart. Ju’ak went to the walls of his fortress, sitting on a large cushioned litter, and addressed his people. Culpug stood next to him, and stared at the vast crowd of tan, skinny Valley Tribesmen.

“My children!” Ju’ak said, raising his hand. “The Swamp Sorcerer’s days are over!”

The cheers were deafening. Culpug stared into the vast crowd, trying to find Rinks or Urvin, but there were simply too many people. He grinned at them and waved his hand a little.

“Yes. Place your home in him, and surely he cannot fail. Culpug, called Cavelord, all of the people’s hopes are with you!”

Culpug nodded. “I will do my utmost to fulfill those hopes.”

“See that you do.” Ju’ak clapped his hands, and Shahazz came to his side. “Shahazz. Direct our friend to the swamps. He will know what to do.”

The two of them left the wall and headed towards one of the three-horned scaly beasts and the wagon it pulled. The gate to the palace opened, and out rode Culpug and Shahazz. The crowd parted to let them through, cheering all the while. Flowers were hurled into the air, some of them landing inside the wagon. Shahazz kept a firm grip on the reigns and headed for the edges of Ju’ak’s kingdom. Neither of them said anything during their long journey.

Finally, they reached the place where the grassy ground gave way and the swamp began. The color of the ground seemed to change from a vibrant green to a morbid black, and the stench of fetid greenery and gaseous discharge filled the air. Culpug stared into the dark recesses of the fen.

“He’s in there, you say?” he asked, taking his spear from its sling across his back and holding the weapon with both hands.

“Don’t worry.” Shahazz cracked the reins of the lizard, and the scaly beast turned round. “The Swamp Sorcerer will find you.”

Culpug muttered a quick prayer to Lor, and then walked straight into the swamp. The fetid waters swirled between his legs, soaking his leather shoes and the tips of his homespun trousers. Skeletal trees hung above him, and the only sounds were the rushing of waters and the otherworldly calls of reptilian birds winging through the trees. Culpug shook off the feeling of wetness and doom with quick steps through the dark water. He clambered up to a small hill and dried to peer through the dimness, only to find his visibility horribly obscured.

Something slithered below him. Culpug struck blind, stabbing his spear down with both hands. When he raised it, a swamp adder lay impaled on its point. Culpug tossed the snake off and said a quick prayer of thanks to Lor, then spotted some movement out of the corner of his eye. A dark figure loped through the trees, staying to the underbrush.

“Show yourself!” Culpug shouted and the assailant showed himself, jumping from behind and striking at Culpug with a bladed axe made from the legbone of some animal. The ambusher was a lithe warrior covered in war paint, his skin dyed black to blend in with the swamps. He swung at Culpug with his club, and it was all Culpug could do to ward the blow off with the haft of his spear. He was forced backwards, into the swamp water.

“Your soul is mine!” the ambusher shrieked. “I will feast upon your flesh!” He smiled a pointy-toothed grin, and Culpug blocked another of his blows, then struck out with the butt of his spear, cracking the hard wood into his attacker’s head. He brought the point around.

“The only thing you will be feasting on,” Culpug said, “is the edge of my weapon.” He drove the spear through the swamp dweller’s mouth until it projected out the other side, then kicked off the dark painted warrior and cleaned off his spear point in the water.

Another shriek distracted him, and Culpug spun round. Torches glowed from the trees, held by a score of dark figures moving swiftly towards the Cavelord. Each of the warrior was painted black, many with intricate bone designs on their bodies. Some of them wore helmets and clothes fashioned from human bones and skin, and their weapons were also fashioned from human remnants.

“Your soul! Your soul!” they shrieked in terrible unison.

“It is like the underworld has coughed up its detritus upon the shores of the human realm.” Culpug stabbed his spear into the swampy muck, anchoring it in the muck. He drew his bow from his back, and plucked an arrow from his quiver. He notched the shaft and narrowed his eyes.

“Come on, you fetid fiends,” Culpug whispered. “Come forth and die.”

The black-painted warriors surged forward, splashing through the swamp water and bellowing out war cries as they drew closer. Culpug sucked in his breath and held it, and then let his arrow fly. The barbed shaft struck one of the charging warriors in the neck, knocking him backwards and sending up a stream of bloody black water. Culpug had already notched another arrow and chosen a second target. This shaft struck deep into the swamp dwellers chest. The bestial man sunk to his knees and vanished under the shallow waters.

Still the warriors came. Culpug fired another arrow, and then another, each time hitting his target. One of the warriors went down with a shaft between his eyes, another with an arrow wedged in his gut. The surviving warriors hurled bone-handled throwing axes, and the weapons splashed into the waters around Culpug’s feet. The Cavelord stood his ground, and sent out another arrow, piercing two swamp dwellers with the same shaft.

Now the warriors were upon him. Culpug replaced his bow on his back and pulled the standing spear from the muck at his side. He struck out with the weapon, slicing open an assailant’s chest, and then buried the spear into the side of a second swamp dweller. A bone club crashed into Culpug’s back, doubling him over in pain.

“Lor!” Culpug shouted. “Give me strength!” He stood up and struck backwards with his spear, impaling the warrior behind him. Another club cracked against his legs, and they seemed to go out from under him. Culpug found black swampy water soaking through his clothes, touching and chilling his skin, and it was all he could do to lash out again, and drive his spear through the skull of one more leering black-painted warrior before the darkness took him.

Culpug dreamed of Mayna and Urven and he moaned with regret. He opened his eyes, expected to be in Lor’s golden halls, but found he was instead on the floor of a dank hut, stinking with death and decay. Culpug opened his eyes and looked at the cramped, tiny hut, empty except for him and a pile of bones. Some of the bones still had flesh attached, and it didn’t take long for Culpug to realize they were human remains. He wretched.

“Mountains crumble,” Culpug whispered. “Where am I? Did I perish in battle, and is this the dark halls of the underworld?” Most of his weapons were gone, spear, arrows and bow vanished. But on his belt, the two sickle knives were gone. He was bound tightly and unable to move.

“You fought well, stony warrior.” The voice was raspy, coming from the entrance to the hut and resounding through the tiny structure. “You have great strength. Many of my followers are dead by your hand.”

“Show yourself!” Culpug cried and then regretted his command instantly.

The sorcerer walked into the tiny hut. He was an old man, a long thick white beard covering most of his body. He wore a giant reptile’s skull on his head, his own eyes staring out of the beast’s sockets, and he held a wickedly serrated bone knife in his withered hand, and a long walking stick in the other.

“They call me the Devourer,” the sorcerer said. “An apt name. True strength only comes from the utilization of outside resources. You are strong, stony warrior. We will have that strength.”

“Go on and take it then!” Culpug shouted. “You old slime-sucker!”

“Not yet. First, there must be a test.” The Devourer stepped aside, and several of his black-painted followers entered the hut. They picked up Culpug and dragged him outside. The Devourer made his hut on a small island, surrounded on all sides by the black stinking waters. Severed heads in various states of decay grinned at Culpug from poles positioned around the island. Towards the edge of island, a wide pit had been dug in the dark loam.

“There is only one other who has dealt such damage to my people as you have. You will go into the pit with him and then you will fight. The strongest survives, and that is who we eat.”

Culpug nodded. Whoever was in the pit would certainly recognize the pointless of fighting with a fellow prisoner. Together, the two of them could conspire and perhaps find a way out. Then, he would personally slaughter the Devourer and the rest of his hideous ilk.

“Very well. Toss me in.” Culpug spat at the Devourer. “But I’m telling you. Ju’ak the Grainlord sent me here to slay you, and I will do as he asked.”

“Ju’ak? That fat fool.” The Devourer grinned a toothless smile. “It was he who sent me here and told me to pray upon his farmers. He needs them starving and scared in order to intimidate them. Tell me, did he make you to be the people’s champion?”

Culpug gasped. “That is so.”

“Then it was but a ploy. He wished to bring the hopes of the farmers, before crushing them low.

“But my son…” Culpug thought of Urven, under the protection of old Rinks and his family. Ju’ak would not tolerate the boy’s existence.

“Dead, or soon to be,” the Devourer said with a grin. “Know this, stony warrior: you have no chance.”

He stepped in front of Culpug and cut the mountain man’s bonds with his bone handled knife, and then two of the dark-painted warriors pushed Culpug forward into the blackness of the pit. Culpug landed on his hands and knees and then came to his feet.

“Friend!” he called into the darkness. “Don’t worry! I don’t want to win this ridiculous contest where the only prize is being devoured! Come out and we can think of a way out of here!”

Culpug’s opponent came forth. It was one of the lizards, a scaly raptor that stood a head taller than Culpug, with a mouth full of daggers, razor-tipped claws, and a waving tale. It let out a low roar and ran towards Culpug.

“Mountains crumble!” Culpug ran from the raptor, narrowly dodging its snapping jaws. He realized that this was going to be more difficult after all. The raptor leapt over him, the long sickle-shaped claws on its feet poised and ready to strike. Culpug stood his ground and grabbed one of the feet, knocking the raptor on its side.

The raptor was up in an instant, aiming a bite at Culpug’s face. Culpug grabbed the upper and lower jaws of the raptor and held them apart, staring at the beast’s pink, wiggling tongue as he pushed the head back. The teeth sunk into his hands, and he felt his own blood weakening his grip. The raptor struck out with a clawed foot, the sickle piercing Culpug’s leg and forcing him to his knees.

“Pity, stony warrior!” the Devourer called from the top of the pit. “I had expected better from you!”

Culpug let go of the raptor’s mouth and dashed backwards, running straight into the walls of the pit. He leapt to the side, avoiding another swipe from the raptor’s legs. His wound was not life threatening, but it slowed his movement and would make him an easy target for the raptor. Culpug knew he had to end this quickly. The raptor came at him again, and this time Culpug was ready. He grabbed one of the raptor’s outstretched legs and held fast.

The beast let out a shrieking scream and tried to free its foot. It lashed Culpug’s back with its claws, but still the strong mountain clansman held on. Culpug noticed the sickle shaped claw on the raptor’s foot, and was reminded of his own weapons. He grabbed the blade with both hands and pulled. His muscles strained as the raptor shrieked, and soon the sounds of the ripping flesh and spouting blood filled the air as the claw was free from the raptor’s foot.

“Now, Devourer, I’ll come for you.” Culpug threw himself into the air, sticking the claw into the sides of the pit. The curved claw sunk deep into the dirt walls, creating a handhold. Culpug held on with both hands and then began to pull himself up.

“No!” the Devourer cried. “This is not the way it ends! Push him back in!”

One of the Devourer’s dark-painted followers grabbed a long spear and struck down at Culpug, but the Cavelord was ready. He grabbed the wooden pole of the spear and pulled downwards, toppling the surprised swamp dweller into the pit. He let out a single scream cut short as the raptor finished him.

A few more scrambles, and Culpug’s climb was at an end. He came to the top of the pit, and faced the Devourer.

“Show me your strength,” he whispered, holding the raptor’s bloody foot claw with both hands. “Show me your strength!”

“Kill him!” The Devourer yelled, pointing with his walking stick. A few swamp-dwellers ran forward, brandishing their bone clubs. Culpug was struck in the chest and again in the head, but he shook of the blows and returned them, slitting throats and slashing chests with the raptor’s claw.

Seeing the defeat of his minions, the Devourer turned to run, but Culpug was faster. He grabbed the swamp sorcerer’s arm and dragged the crying old man back to the edge of the pit.

“Enjoy eating people, eh?” Culpug asked. “Well, slime-sucker, let’s see how you enjoy it!”

He shoved the sorcerer into the pit, and then looked in as the raptor finished off the old man with a single bite. The Cavelord nodded to the raptor, and tossed in the foot claw.

“I owe you, friend,” he said. “But first-there are some other debts that need paying.”

It was a weary man indeed who walked out the swamps. Culpug found his weapons in the recesses of the Devourer’s hut and he wore them once more. He had bandaged the wounds on his knee and hands and he used his spear to support himself as he walked through the shallow, fetid, waters.

When he came to the edge of the swamp, Culpug was not entirely surprised to see Shahazz and a dozen of Ju’ak’s enforcers, many armed with crossbows, waiting for him. Culpug stuck his spear into the dirt, Lor’s rage flowing through him.

“Culpug, called Cavelord.” Shahazz bowed low. “You did better than I expected.”

“Better than anyone expect,” Culpug snorted.”Why was a sorcerer allowed to terrorize the people when Ju’ak had soldiers enough to fight him? Why was a lone traveler, accompanied only by a mammoth and a boy, sent with the people’s hopes into the dark swamps? And why is a desert kind and a cadre of armed men sent to meet him?”

“You’re smarter than Ju’ak gave you credit for.” Shahazz drew his scimitar as the crossbowmen leveled their weapons at Culpug.

“Where is my son?” Culpug asked. “Where is he?”

“Ju’ak has him, I belive. My master has quite a…predilection for boys of your son’s age. He’ll live well enough, though it will be pain-filled and short. But then again, it’s better than your going to get.” Shahazz nodded to the archers. “Kill him.”

Culpug leapt backwards, throwing himself into the swamp water. Crossbow bolts splashed around him, one grazing his cheek and staining the dark waters red. Culpug waiting until the last bolt had been fired, and then he reared out of the water and threw himself at Ju’ak’s enforcers.

He hurled his spear with both hands, and two enforcers were pierced by the weapon and fell together in a jumble of body parts and armor. Then Culpug drew his sickle blades from his belt and let the battle-madness of Lor flood through him.

Ju’ak enforcers swung at him with spiked clubs, but soon reasoned that their energy better served them in retreat. Culpug was unstoppable, hacking every which way with a blade in each hand, sometimes slashing them like scissors to lop off heads, sometimes hewing off arms and legs in a single blow.

“Hold your ground! Reload the crossbows!” Shahazz called to his fleeing troops. “Drown him in arrows!”

Some of the enforcers rallied and began to reload their weapons. Culpug was too far from the swamp’s edge to dive beneath the waters, so he decided on another course of action. He ran towards Shahazz, brandishing his twin sickles.

The Desert Kind mercenary drew his scimitar and fended off Culpug’s attack, then turned to run. Culpug grabbed the ends of Shahazz’s long robe and pulled him close. Shahazz stabbed his scimitar behind him, but Culpug leaned away from the sword and then hacked off Shahazz’s hand.

“No!” Shahazz screamed at his crossbowmen. “Hold your fire!”

But the bolts were already in flight. They sunk into Shahazz’s chest, and soon desert mercenary bristled with arrows. Culpug kicked Shahazz’s body aside and faced the crossbowmen as they struggled to load and fire another fusillade.

He hurled one of the sickles into an archer’s chest, then the other and then charged the crossbowmen with his bare hands outstretched. The crossbow turned to run, but Culpug was already upon them. He snapped a neck, tore out a throat with his teeth, and retrieved his sickle blades and spear to wreak even more damage.

Finally, the last of men sent to kill Culpug lay dead. Culpug breathed heavily as the battle-madness left him. He spotted a three-horned lizard a ways from the swamp’s edge, the beast that had carried Shahazz and his men.

Culpug ran to the lizard and hopped onto its scaly back, kicking it in the side until it went the direction he wanted. He pointed the three-horned head back towards the farms and Ju’ak’s palace.

“Lor,” Culpug whispered. “Every kill I make is a prayer. Keep Urven alive and safe. Please. Do this, and I shall consecrate Ju’ak decadent fortress as a temple to your glory.”

When Culpug reached Rinks’s farm and village, he found only death awaiting him. The huts had been torched, the bodies of the farmer littered the ground. Culpug hopped off of the three-horned reptile and ran into the ruins, calling for Urven or Rinks.

“Does anyone here still draw breath!?” Culpug shouted.

“Greetings, Stone-Child.” Culpug spun around and saw Rinks, the old man limping towards him. Rinks pointed to the destruction around him. “I see neither of us has faired well.”

“No,” Culpug agreed. “The swamp sorcerer is dead. But he was in Ju’ak’s employ, a servant of that overweight monster. I was not meant to survive, in order to truly crush the hopes of your people. I see Ju’ak’s men have already been here.”

“They came soon after you left. We tried to fight them, but we were weak. I’m sorry.” Rinks walked with a limp and his face was badly scorched

“I’m sorry for your family, generous farmer,” Culpug said. “If you hadn’t given shelter to my boy and me and if I was not so greedy, then-“

“This is not your fault,” Rinks said. “I should have been stronger. They took your boy.”

At the mention of Urven’s name, Culpug perked up. “To the palace?”

“Yes. The Grainlord had him now.” Rinks stared at Culpug’s bloodstained clothes and the wild look in his eye. “You will get him back, I think.”

“I shall. Did they kill Reliable, our hairy companion?”

“No.” Rinks pointed to the edge of the village. “He smelled them coming with that big trunk of his and began to trumpet. Your boy said he sensed something wrong, and we decided to let him run off into the fields for a while, to calm him down. Your boy said you can call him back.”

“He spoke truth.” Culpug put his fingers to his mouth and whistled, three sharp, clear blasts of sound. They were answered by a trumpet. Soon, Reliable returned, walking slowly into the village. Culpug patted the mammoth’s ivory tusks as Reliable wrapped his trunk around Culpug’s body.

“Come, old friend,” Culpug told the mammoth. “We have much to do.”

“Let me come with you, Stone-Child!” Rinks cried. “I want to kill that fat fallow wretch!”

Culpug looked the old man over. “No, though I thank you for your offer. You need to rest, and to bury your children. I will make Ju’ak pay myself.”

“You are but one man!” Rinks pointed out. “And Ju’ak has an entire army at his beck and call.”

Culpug grinned and patted Reilable’s hairy haunch. “Don’t worry. Reliable and I have plenty of surprises between us.”

Ju’ak the Grainlord decided to sample the sun on the walls surrounded his palace, along with his latest catch. Servants carried his litter up the steep steps to the wall’s top, and a large train of nobles, servants and hangers-on followed him. Ju’ak was not alone in his litter. The mountain boy, captured at afternoon from the farming village where he had been staying, was there as well.

Urven was chaining to one of the wooden poles making up the litter, and his coarse, homespun clothes had been replaced with fine new garments made of loose silk. Urven hands and feet were bound, as was his mouth, as he had been yelling dreadful insults at the Grainlord.

“Set us down, here.” Ju’ak commanded. The servants did. Ju’ak crawled forward on his belly, wiggling his fat feet in the air as he surveyed at his kingdom.

“Boy,” Ju’ak addressed Urven haughtily. “We will remove the binding on your mouth. If you curse at me, I will cut your tongue at. I our service, you have no need of one.”

Ju’ak pulled off the tightly bound cloth, allowing Urven to talk. “Where is my father?” Urven demanded. “Where is Culpug, called Cavelord?”

“Oh, no. That won’t do.” Ju’ak struck Urven, knocking the boy off of the litter and onto the stone surface of the wall. “You will forget your father, boy. If the sorcerer has not killed him, then our own men have. You will now only us, and forget all else in our service.”

“Your fat idiot!” Urven cried. “I’ll never forget my father!”

“Hmmm. You persist in insulting us. We know just what to do.” Ju’ak grabbed the scruff of Urven’s neck and pulled the boy close. He pushed open Urven’s mouth with his fat fingers and held out his other hand. “A knife,” Ju’ak commanded. “We would do it ourselves.”

A curved blade was placed in Ju’ak’s hand, but before he could drive the knife into Urven’s mouth, a messenger bounded up the steps, and bowed low before the Grainlord. “My lord! It is the Mountain Man! He has returned!”

Ju’ak dropped the blade. “Did Shahazz not kill him at the swamp’s edge?”

“No, my lord. He is coming here!”

“Fallow fields,” Ju’ak whispered. “Well, at least this will be entertaining. We always enjoying killing fathers before their sons. Or maybe killing sons before fathers.” He clapped his hands, tinkling all the jewelry on his arms. “Archers to the walls. Clubmen to the grounds. Wipe him out.”

The orders were sent out, and soon a platoon of crossbowmen stood in front of Ju’ak and a score of armored warriors stood before the gates. A plume of dust appeared on the horizon, and Urven peered off the edge of the walls, shielding his eyes from the son.

“Come on, father,” he whispered. “These weak-boned and fat-belled Valley Tribesmen are no match for you.”

The dust cloud grew closer, and out of it came Culpug mounted on Reliable’s back, both ready for war. Reliable’s sides had been covered in tight leather plates and a spiked helmet had been placed on his furry head. Culpug stood on his back, a torch in one hand, standing tall as they charged. In front of Culpug, mounted on Reliable’s back, was a great bow, a large set sideways and loaded with an arrow longer than a man’s outstretched arm.

Mammoth-mounted ballistas were an old weapon of the Mountain Clans, used mostly for shooting the giant sloths and wooly rhinos that lived in the low country. Culpug pulled the lever of the weapon, and it fired its great arrow into the clump of clubmen. The massive dart tore through one man, then another, and another still, before finally coming to rest in the belly of its fourth victim. Culpug loaded another arrow and fired it at the wall.

Ju’ak watched the arrow with wide eyes as it soared skyward and then plummeted down into the ranks of his archers. One man was impaled, but his flailing knocked off several more, and they all fell to their deaths below. The Grainlord blew his nose and then motioned for a servant to clean the snot off of his facial jewelry.

“Take us and the boy into the palace,” Ju’ak commanded. “We’ll meet him there. And shut the doors to the palace.”

“What should we do, my lord?” the messenger asked.

Ju’ak shrugged. “Fight him. Die. We care not.”

The litter was picked up and carried down the steps to the main palace complex. The sound of Ju’ak enforcers being slaughtered carried over the walls and into the ears of all in the palace. Urven clasped his hands and smiled to himself. His father was coming.

Culpug charged straight through the ranks of clubmen, trampling them under Reliable’s feet. The mammoth seemed to want Urven back as badly as Culpug did, and it hurled Ju’ak’s enforcers aside with its trunk, crushed skulls with its tusks, and stamped many of them into bloody pieces. Culpug loaded another arrow into the ballista as he urged Reliable onward. They were headed straight for the wooden gate to Ju’ak’s fortress.

Reliable let out a loud trumpet at the closed gate. “Fear not, old friend,” Culpug reassured the mammoth. “We’ll get in.” He placed the crackling torch under the arrow until the massive projectile was blazing away and then he fired it at the gate. The dart stuck, and soon flames were licking all through the wooden door.

After a few more flaming arrows, Culpug decided the gate was weak enough. “All right, old friend,” he whispered into Reliable’s massive ear. “Just a little more to go.” Then he drew his twin sickle blades and urged Reliable towards the burning gate.

The great mammoth smashed through the weakened wood, pushing aside the burning structure with its tusks and then charging straight into a horde of Ju’ak’s waiting soldiers. Culpug leapt off of the mammoth’s back, landed on his feet, and hacked away at the armored enforcers. After the palace courtyard was filled with their bodies, Culpug looked the palace’s entrance.

“Ju’ak,” he whispered. “Reliable! Keep this weak-boned big-bellied fools busy. I’ll find Urven.”

The mammoth trumpeted its agreement, and Culpug ran into the palace complex. A swarm of guards tried to stop him, but Culpug hacked through them with ease and left them bleeding on the rich carpeted floors of the palace. Lor acted through him as he pushed his way passed fleeing servants and richly adorned nobles, heading for the throne room where Ju’ak had given him his fateful orders.

All corridors of the palace ended in the throne room, and it didn’t take Culpug long to find his way. But when he entered the throne room, a terrible sight greeted him and froze the valiant cavelord in his track.

Ju’ak lay on his litter like a bloated predator, crossbow-wielding guards at either side. Young Urven was by his side, and Ju’ak held a serrated blade to the boy’s throat. Culpug twisted his sickle blades into throwing position and held one aloft.

“Let him go,” he called. “Let him go and I’ll spare his life.”

“We don’t think so,” Ju’ak said. “In fact, we have entirely different plans.”

“Let him go,” Culpug repeated.

“No. We will kill him before your eyes. Then, we will torture you. Then, you will hold every little respite from constant pain as a gift, and you will learn to worship us as a god. You will serve us. Drop your blades and the same will happen, but your boy will live.”

“Father, don’t-!” Urven’s words were cut off as Ju’ak pulled his knife closer to the boy’s neck.

Culpug stared into his son’s frightened eyes. He could never do it, and so he let his sickle knives drop to the ground. Ju’ak grinned, the wide smile cracking his bloated face in too.

“You see? That is what we do. We break spirits. Just like the surrounding farmers. They would never dream of opposing us. Not after all of their hopes have been dashed to pieces. Not after their champion fails and-“

One of Ju’ak’s enforcers ran into the room. The enforcer was wounded, but it was not a blow that had been dealt by Culpug, nor by Reliable the mammoth. The enforcer stared at Ju’ak with horror in his eyes.

“Grainlord! Please, we must-“

“Can’t you see, we are too busy for your talk!” Ju’ak shouted.

“No! It’s the farmers. They-look out the window, my lord.”

Ju’ak the Grainlord came to his feet and stared out of the wide windows which filled the carved and painted walls of his fortress. He looked into the courtyards surrounding his palace and then sat down in terror.

Outside of the palace, pouring in through the ruined gate, and crawling up the walls, was a great army made up of the farmers. They wore no armor, except for their loincloths and wide-brimmed straw hats. They carried no weapons, except for cudgels, pitchforks, and other farm implements. But still, Ju’ak was more afraid of them than an army of giant carnivorous reptiles. Sweat dripped over the folds of his fat, and he blew his nose loudly.

“Get me out of here!” he shouted to the servants pulling his litter, but they had already turned to run. “Guards! Carry me!” Ju’ak called to the crossbowmen, but they too were fleeing through the palace halls. Ju’ak turned to Urven and swung at him with his knife, but the nimble mountain child dodged the blow.

Culpug hurled one of his sickle blades at the rope that fixed to Urven’s leg to the pole of Ju’ak’s litter. Urven was freed and he ran into his grateful father’s arms. The two embraced, and then Culpug set Urven down at his side and stared at Ju’ak.

“Well, Grainlord?” Culpug asked.

Ju’ak tore at his face, ripping out his nose ring. The Grainlord ignored the blood pouring down his face and held up the bauble to Culpug. “Take this!” Ju’ak cried. “It’s solid gold! You can have it and thousands like it if you escort me to safety! I promise you great riches!”

Ju’ak hurled his nose ring at Culpug’s feet, but the Cavelord did not stoop down to retrieve it. Some of the farmers stormed into the throne room, old Rinks at their head. The old farmer carried a large pitchfork, and he raised it to Culpug in a salute.

“I knew I still had some of the Green in me!” Rinks cried. “We all do! After you had ridden off on your mammoth, I could not stay at my ruined village and do nothing! I went to some of the neighboring farms and told them the truth about the swamp sorcerer and Ju’ak! We all agreed that his fear has no power anymore!”

Ju’ak fell to his knees, tears spilling from his eyes. “Mercy!” he cried. “I beg of you! Do not kill me!”

Two farmers grabbed Ju’ak’s arms and hauled him to his feet. Rinks jabbed his pitchfork into Ju’ak’s belly. “We will not kill you.”

“Oh! Thank you! Thank you!”

“No. There is a deep well near my farm, where your soldiers murdered my family. You’ll go in there, I think, and then we’ll see how well you swim with all of that heavy jewelery weighting you down.” Rinks nodded to the farmers. “Do away with him.”

“No!” They dragged Ju’ak the Grainlord off, oblivious to all of his cries.

Rinks watched him go with a smile before turned to Culpug. “If you excuse me, Stone-Child. I would like to watch that fallow fiend drown. I’m sure it won’t take long.”

The farmers celebrated their newfound freedom after Ju’ak’s fat corpse had been hauled from the bottom of the well and tossed into the jungle for the reptiles to eat. Ju’ak’s storehouses were opened and the farmers took back their grain.

Culpug and Urven ate quickly and then said their goodbyes to Rink outside of the palace. Urven had changed back into his normal clothes, and Reliable was packed and ready, the ballista disassembled and safely stored away. Culpug met with Rinks in front of Ju’ak’s empty palace.

“I am sorry if our troubles delayed you, Stone-Child,” Rinks said. “But know that will always be a hero for the Valley Tribes.”

“I am honored,” Culpug said. He pointed to the palace. “I made a promise to Lor, the God of War and Courage. That building will now be his temple. The blood shed there has already consecrated it. Keep it holy, farmer, and that will be all the thanks I need.”

“Of course,” Rinks said. “I merely wish you could stay longer.”

“My mother is large with a baby,” Urven said as he clambered onto Reliable’s back. “We have to help here.”

“Yes, son. We’d better be going now.” Culpug tapped Reliable’s side, and the mammoth and man walked off together. Rinks took off his hat and watched them go, heading down the new paved road that led from the palace to the mountainsides.

It was a long journey for a Valley Tribesmen, but Rinks had no doubt that Culpug and Urven would reach their destination.

-The End-

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