Zotikos: Warrior Philosopher

Zotikos:  Warrior-Philosopher

Episode 1

“The Golden Skull”


Chapter 1


         Zotikos tread through the Rain Lands, stopping at a patch of thick vegetation.  Sunlight broke through the treetops, shining onto his bronze spear.  He held it close, alerted by a rustling behind the brush.  The sound of footsteps grew louder, as something hurdled toward him.  The man poised to lunge at the oncoming creature.  His eyes widened as it burst into the open.  He pulled his spear up in a flash.  He sighed in relief, having almost skewered a frantic child.

         The girl's long black hair whipped behind her, as she hurried toward Zotikos.  Tears streamed down her tan cheeks.  She was bare except for a loincloth.  Her chest was covered in dark paint.  Thin lines of ink were drawn across her face.  Zotikos set the spear aside and caught the girl before she could slam into him. 

         Another child, this time a boy, followed after her.  He skidded to a halt and stared at the strange man.  They studied the outsider, temporarily forgetting their troubles.  The girl felt the blue cloth chiton covering Zotikos, and the rope around his waist.  He smiled reassuringly at her.  The boy gazed at the man's spear and sword in awe, as if he never saw metal before.

         After catching her breath, the girl spoke to Zotikos, but was unintelligible to him.  She tried again, frustrated he couldn't understand her.  He hung on the strange words, suddenly remembering fragments of her language.

         “I am Zotikos, of the Phanarites,” he managed.

         The girl smiled.  “I am Nanti, that's my brother Yoro.”  The boy approached him wearily.

         Nanti reached up to touch Zotikos's hair.

         “Why is your hair so curly?” she asked. “And dirt colored.  Are you human?”

         Zotikos laughed at her innocence.  “To most people I am.  Why were you two running?”

         “The village chieftain is mad.  He sacrifices children, to cure the grownups,” she replied.

         “The adults of your village...they are sick?”

         “Many,” Yoro explained. “The chieftain places a shiny skull on an altar and burns a child.  After a child is sacrificed, a sick adult is cured.”

         “The shaman thinks sacrificing to the skull heals the grownups,” Nanti continued.
         
         “I don't wanna die,” Yoro muttered, tears welling in his eyes.

         Zotikos clasped the boys shoulder.  “No one else is going to die, if I can help it,” he said.

         The children looked around, peering into the dense undergrowth.  Shouting echoed through the trees and vines.  Zotikos drew his sword.

         “Someone's chasing after you?” Zotikos asked them.

         “The hunters,” Yoro explained.  “They look for runaways like us, to take back for sacrifice.”

         “Not on my watch,” Zotikos replied.  “You two, stay behind me.”

         A muscled, tribal warrior hacked his way through some tall grass.  He wielded a wooden club, its edge lined with lizard teeth.  A painted mask, adorned with colorful feathers, concealed his face.  The warrior raised the weapon and stalked toward Zotikos.

         “These children did nothing wrong, let them go,” Zotikos said.

         The warrior charged the philosopher.  Zotikos jumped back, evading the club's swing by inches.  He countered, thrusting his spear at the hunter's chest.  The club deflected it just in time.  The combatants locked themselves in a flurry of attacks.  The warrior's unrestrained assault versed Zotikos's practiced style, in a clash of techniques. 

         The warrior blocked an overhead sword attack from Zotikos.  The blade bit into the hardwood, where it stuck.  The warrior pushed the club toward Zotikos's chest, attempting to drive the sword's edge into him.  Zotikos faltered against the enemy's bull-like strength.  The children watched helplessly.  Yoro backpedaled, starting to run away.  His heel felt a small stone sunk into the dirt.  He picked it up and weighed it in his hand, then turned back to the fight.  Zotikos's teeth gritted as the blade hovered over his skin.

         “Argh!” the warrior shouted, staggering from Zotikos.

         A rock bounced off the warrior's head, disorienting him.  Zotikos pried the sword from the club.  He aimed at the warrior's heart, but stopped short of the coup de grâce.

         “Finish me,” the warrior slurred, attempting to staunch the flow of blood with his hand.

         “I won't kill in front of the children,” Zotikos replied.

         Despite the pain, the warrior managed a weak laugh.

         “Foolish outsider,” he said. “These children saw more death in their time than you have.”

         Zotikos smirked.  “I doubt that.”

         The warrior-philosopher turned his blade so the pommel faced the hunter.  A hard blow to the stomach knocked the man out cold.  He crumpled to the ground, to the delight of the children.

         “You did it!” Nanti exclaimed.

         “With a little help from your brother,” Zotikos admitted.

         Zotikos reached into the pack that was slung across his shoulders, and retrieved a poultice.  He applied it to the man's head wound.  Within moments, the bleeding stopped.  Zotikos scratched his chin, staring at the unconscious warrior.

         “If we leave him, he'll be eaten by a  beast for sure,” he thought aloud.

         “Masawa!” a voice from the woods shouted.  “Where are you?”

         “Another hunter coming this way,” Yoro whispered.

         “Looks like he'll be carrying Masawa home,” Zotikos replied.  “Let's go.”

         Retrieving his spear, the philosopher led the siblings deeper into the Rain Lands.


* * *

         “I know a hidden path to the village,” Nanti said, leading on Yoro and Zotikos.

         They pushed through the steamy jungle to their destination.  The caw of a winged reptile rang from above the canopy.  They passed endless varieties of leafy plants, in brilliant shades of green.  Zotikos wiped sweat from his forehead.  His cloth shirt clung to the perspiration on his chest.  He admired his guides.  Acclimated to the hot clime, they were undaunted by the humidity.

         “Why come to our village?” Yoro asked. “Aren't you worried you'll get sick too?”

         “I'll risk it,” Zotikos replied. “I don't believe those sacrifices are what's curing your people.”

         The party climbed a steep slope.  Yoro pointed to a thick vine, hanging from a tree.

         “There's water in those, you can cut them with your sword.”

         “Don't mind if I do,” Zotikos replied, grinning.

         He hacked at the vine, splitting it in two.  Yoro wasted no time holding one to his mouth, sipping the warm sweet water.  Zotikos cut two more vines for himself and Nanti.  From the distance, a screech shook the woods, making Zotikos jump.

         “A dawn runner!” Yoro gasped.

         The boy found a rotting log to hide behind.  Nanti climbed a fruit tree, settling on one of its branches.  Zot's eyes scanned the area, before stopping at a large boulder.  He hurried around it, pressing his back to its cool surface.  He glanced at Nanti, seeing she was safe.  She looked back at him, pressing a finger to her mouth.  The dawn runner stumbled into the clearing.  Zotikos dared peer around the rock to steal a glimpse of it.

         The large reptile scratched in the dirt with its two meaty legs.  Orange scales covered its body, ending with a white striped tail.  In contrast, its beady eyed head was sea green.  Its nostrils opened and closed at it sniffed the air.  Zotikos concealed himself before the lizard turned in his direction.  The philosopher heard its tongue flicking in and out of its lip-less mouth.  Sand crunched under its clawed feet, as it neared the boulder.  Zotikos took a breath and unsheathed his sword.

         From behind his cover, Zotikos heard something tumbling into the dirt.  The sound of gnashing teeth followed after.  Zotikos forced himself to look.  The lizard gnashed a small melon it found.  It held the food in its stubby arms.  A flock of birds soared through the treetops, drawing the dawn runner's attention.  It scurried off, eager to catch another meal.  Zotikos slipped his sword back into place.  He observed Nanti tossing another melon into the air from her branch.
         “Nice work,” Zotikos said, saluting with his spear.

         “Thanks.”

         She tossed the fruit into Zotikos's hands.  Nanti slid down the trunk and rejoined him.  Yoro crept out from behind the log.

         “Better keep moving,” Zotikos suggested. “The hilltop will be a good place to camp for the night.”

         The group continued marching upward, as the sun descended.


*  *  *

         Zotikos put the finishing touches on a lean-to.  He crawled under its roof and surveyed the lands below the hill.  The moonlight shone on a flowing tributary in the distance.  Behind it stood a line of trees, swaying softly in the wind.  Trails of smoke wafted from within the woods.  Yoro spoke from inside his own lean-to.

         “Our people are putting out the last of the day's fires,” he explained.

         “So your village is just beyond that treeline?” Zotikos asked.

         “Yes, many villages cling to the waterways.  We hide in the forest, keeps us safe.”

         Zotikos's eyes grew heavy as sleep overtook him.

         “Zot?” Nanti asked.

         The philosopher's eyes snapped back open.  “Yes?”

         “What are you gonna do when you take us back?”

         “Talk some sense into your chieftain, and save your lives.”

         A large winged serpent flapped lazily across the full moon.

         “I hope we make it in time to...”

         “In time to what?” Zotikos asked, turning his head in the direction of the girl's voice.

         “To save my best friend from burning.”

         Zotikos swallowed hard and stared at the roof of his lean-to. 
         
      Chapter 2

         Zotikos wiped the sleep from his eyes, and rose to his feet.  Yoro and Nanti chatted, while enjoying some berries from a bush nearby.  Zotikos retrieved two bronze bracers from his pack.  He clicked each one around his forearms.  He threw on a fresh chiton and pair of sandals, then polished his weapons.  The warrior-philosopher thrust his spear into the air, practicing his moves.

         “The sacrifices begin at noon, may we go now?” Yoro asked.

         Zotikos nodded.  “You two follow me.”

         The trio descended the hill and strode to the water.  They found a shallow part of the tributary and forged to the other side.  Zotikos looked behind him, ensuring the children were alright.  He saw Nanti look distressed and teary eyed.

         “Don't worry about your friend,” Zotikos said. “It's not too late.  Why don't you tell me about him or her, so I know who to look for?”

         “Her name's Toza, she volunteered herself to be sacrificed.”

         “That was very selfless of her,” Zotikos replied.

         As they entered the forest, the village slowly came into view.  Thatched huts marked the outskirts of the settlement.

         “Toza wasn't enough,” Yoro said.  “They wanted more.  The chieftain pointed at us, and then we ran.  We lost the hunters for awhile, but they were on our trail.  Then you saved us.”

           “And I'll save the rest of your friends as well.”

         The woods opened up, revealing the village in full.  Small stick huts dotted the grassy field.  Livestock milled about in their pens.  Wisps of smoke wafted from clay cooking pots.  Zotikos looked for a person, but found none.

         “No one's here!” Nanti exclaimed. “They've gone to the village square, I'm sure of it.  The sacrifices are starting early!”

         With that revelation, the girl took off toward the heart of the village.

         “Nanti, wait!” Zotikos shouted.

         Zotikos hurried after her.  Nanti's small body vanished into a crowd of onlookers.  The spectators resembled the girl; black shapes painted across bare chests, lined patterns etched into their faces.  An elderly tribesman saw Zotikos rushing toward the crowd.  He pointed a bony finger at him.  All eyes followed it to the strange man. 

         The group gasped all at once, then murmured to each other.  Zotikos stood ready, spear and sword shining under the morning sun.  Yoro hid behind him, casting a weary eye on the villagers.  The chieftain emerged from a longhouse, alarmed by the commotion.  He was tall, with a broad nose and long gray hair tied over his shoulder.  A conical wood carved helmet rested on his head.  A mantle of bright feathers covered his arms.  Scars rose from his bared, darkened chest.
         
         “I am Zotikos, warrior and philosopher of the Phanarites.  I bid you stop these sacrifices, and listen to reason!”

         The chieftain regarded the stranger in silence.  After a moment, he approached Zotikos.

         “I am Chief Yaluk.  You are a lone walker, worthy of our respect.  But we cannot bow to your demand.  The spirit of the Golden Skull must be appeased, so that my tribe may live.”

         Zotikos turned to Yoro.  “Lone walker?”'

         “A title,” the boy explained. “Refers to those that travel the Rain Lands alone.”

         “Only the strong or mad dare brave the wilds by themselves.  We honor your courage and offer you shelter, so long as you not interfere with our ways,” Yaluk said.

         Nanti pushed her way out of the crowd, leading Toza by the hand.  Toza was slightly shorter and wispier, with sunken eyes and paler skin.  She glanced up at Zotikos timidly.

         “Save her please,” Nanti pleaded.

         “Are you alright?” Zotikos asked Toza.

         “Yes,” she replied weakly.  “I want to give my life for the village.”

         Nanti blanched at her friends words.  “Toza, why?”

         Yaluk patted Toza's back, and spoke to Zotikos.

         “Toza was sickly from birth.  Her family succumbed to the plague, as did Nanti and Yoro's.  If she were to live, she would be too weak contribute to the tribe.  She agreed to lay down her life, to preserve another, and we stand by her decision,” the chief explained.

         Toza embraced Nanti.  “Don't feel sorry for me my friend.  I am promised eternal bliss in the hereafter, and I will wait for you there someday.”

         Nanti shuddered, holding back sobs.  Warm tears formed at the corner of her eyes.  Zotikos clenched his spear.

         “Sacrifices don't cure people!” Zotikos yelled.  “Only medicine can do that.  You are destroying your tribe's very future!”

         Overcome with emotion, Nanti broke down, crying into Zotikos's chiton.

         “You judge what you do not understand,” the chief replied.

         “I understand that this savagery will not continue, even if I must fight the lot of you.”

         As soon as he lowered his spear, several warriors were upon him.  They waved their weapons in his direction; an assortment of bones, clubs and stone axes.  Among the warriors was Masawa, glaring at Zotikos.  A bandage was wrapped around his head.

         “You cannot fight us all lone walker,” Yaluk said.  “You cannot stop what's begun.”
         Zotikos looked at the warriors surrounding him.  Trembling, he forced himself to pull back the spear in resignation.  Yaluk waved the guards away and beckoned to Zotikos.

         “Come, there is something you should see.”

         The philosopher knelt down and touched Nanti's shoulder.

         “You stay with your brother.  As long as I'm here, I won't let anything happen to you two, understand?”

         Nanti nodded, and rejoined Yoro.  Zotikos followed the chieftain, making no attempt to hide his indignation.  Yaluk led him through the heart of the village.  The warriors were never far behind, keeping a watchful eye on Zotikos.  The newcomer observed the folk as they stared back at him.  Their faces ran the gamut between awe, envy and scorn.

         The chief pointed to several hastily constructed tents.

         “Those are the sick rooms, where the dying wait to rejoin their ancestors.”

         Zotikos heard faint groans of pain escaping the straw huts.

         “Some of us were immune.  These ones were not so lucky,” Yaluk continued.

         Two tribesmen emerged from a tent, their faces wrapped in cloth.  They carried a corpse on a stretcher and set it on the ground.  They pulled a blanket over the dead man's face.  He was the latest in a line of other covered bodies.

         “What happens to them?” Zotikos asked.

         “They grow weak at first, and thirsty.  They lose their appetite, feel light headed.  Then a heavy cough develops.  When their eyelids close and they can't open them again, they die soon after.”

         A third tribesman emerged from the room, guiding an elderly woman by the arm.  She was set down on a stool.  She coughed violently, straining to keep her eyes open.  Yaluk pointed her out to Zotikos.

         “Toza is sacrificing herself to save that medicine woman,” the chief explained.  “Tomorrow, Ichika will be strong and vital again.”

         “The skull cures specific people?”

         “It is a jealous spirit to want our young, but lets us save whom we wish in return.”

         Zotikos frowned.  “Your guards will stop me if I try to save Toza.  I will dignify her by attending the ceremony.  But I will put an end to any more of these deaths.”

         Yaluk smiled to himself.  “The plague weakens with every offering.  If you want to help, let us finish what we started.”

         Zotikos shook his head.  “There is more than one way to solve this.  If I can rescue a single child, I will.”
         
         “It is time,” Yaluk replied. “The ceremony begins now.”


*  *  *

         The village gathered in front of the temple.  It was the most sophisticated building in the primitive community.  It comprised of sandstone blocks, arranged in a pyramid shape.  At the top of the temple, an archway opened to a long balcony.  Chief Yaluk walked through the archway, holding something in a silk cloth.  He came to the edge of the platform, and set the cloth on a table.  Following Yaluk, was a young woman resembling the chieftain's appearance.  Her grace and beauty caught Zotikos's eye.

         The woman returned Zotikos's glance.  For a few seconds, they held each others gaze, their faces sorrowful.  The woman quickly turned her attention back to the proceedings.  The chief removed the cloth, revealing a gold plated skull.  The crowd cheered.  At the base of the temple, Toza rested on a funeral pyre, in a drug induced deep sleep.  The chieftain addressed the witnesses.

         “Today, young Toza selflessly gives her life for Ichika's.”

         The crowd cheered and applauded.

         “Soon, the Great Spirit will be sated.  Our children will be fewer, but our future will be secured.”

         “The Great Spirit is merciful, let us appease it and be free of this plague!” yelled a villager.

         “Yes, it is,” the chief replied.  “Let us guide Toza into everlasting peace and happiness.”

         The chieftain put his hands together and began to chant in an old form of the language, lost to Zotikos.  His attention turned to the young woman.  A bright red shawl covered her chest.  Small dots were painted across her cheeks instead of the typical lines.  Her hair was braided, reaching to the small of her back.  Her jeweled bangles clinked together as she strode to the edge of the balcony.  She took a torch and lit it from a fireplace.  She handed the torch to the chieftain.

         Yaluk held the torch aloft, and the crowd's cheers reached a new height.  When satisfied, Yaluk tossed the torch onto the funeral pyre.  Tazo was swallowed up in a blaze.  Yoro and Nanti were beside Zotikos, choking back tears at the sight of the flames.  A column of black smoke snaked from the pyre.

         The warrior-philosopher bit his lip, his fingers curled into fists.  His nails dug into his palms, almost enough to cut them.  Nanti wiped her eyes and looked up at Zotikos, whose face was bitterly determined.

Chapter 3

         Zotikos awakened to a crowing rooster outside his hut.  The philosopher forced himself out of bed and put on his clothes.  He sprinted to the tents.  A group of villagers circled around Ichika.  The color of her skin returned.  She laughed and smiled, and moved energetically.  Her friends and family touched her arms, as if to prove that she was real.

         Zotikos approached her.  The others made way for the stranger.

         “Ah, lone walker.  I heard you arrived, while I was recovering,” Ichika said, in a reedy voice.

         “Would you please tell me what happened?”  Zotikos asked.  “How you were cured?”

         Ichika held up her hands.  “Who can presume to know the way of the skull?  I went to sleep on the night of the sacrifice.  When I awoke this morning, I was perfectly healthy again.  Oh praise be to the spirit!”

         “And how do you feel about Toza's sacrifice?”

         Ichika's smile turned to a small frown.

         “I am sorry she had to die.  But she volunteered.  She recognized the value in a medicine woman surviving for the good of the tribe.”

         “I understand not all the sacrifices were voluntary...”

         Ichika's eyes went downcast.  “That is regretfully true.  Things became desperate when the plague was at its worst.  But more of us are cured everyday, and no one else has gotten sick.  The tribe will recover its numbers in time.”

         Ichika forgot Zotikos was there, resuming the conversation with her friends and family.  Zotikos left the area, walking down the village's main pathway.  He stopped at the longhouse.  A patchwork of bark shingles covered it, reinforced with flexible wood beams.  He noticed two armed guards flanking the entrance.  Zotikos started for the opening, when Yoro ran up to him.  Zotikos knelt down to the boy's level.

         “Yoro, how are you?”

         “I'm alright Zot.  My sister's a little sad about yesterday, but she's getting better.”

         “Good.”

         “Have you found a way to save us yet?”

         Zotikos shook his head.  “No, but I'm going to work on it right now.  You just wait out here alright?”

         Yoro nodded.

         The strode to the entrance.  One of the guards blocked him, pointing a staff at his face.
         
         “Let me through,” Zotikos said.

         “No one enters the chief's quarters without permission.”
         
         Zotikos unsheathed his sword in a flash.  He sliced off the staff's tip, the fragment flew several feet away.  The other guard swiped at Zotikos with an ax.  The warrior-philosopher acted fast, grasping the guard's wrist before the weapon connected.  With his other hand, he pointed the blade at the other guard's neck.  Yaluk's voice came through an open window on the second floor of the longhouse.

         “Stand down, let the lone walker through,” he ordered.

         Zotikos let go of the wrist and pulled back his sword.  The guards begrudgingly stepped aside.  Zotikos entered the dwelling, watched by the chief's servants.  He climbed the stairs to the top floor.  It was as sparsely furnished as the first.  There were some furs for sitting, a table, and some barrels of water and dried fruit. 

         Chief Yaluk gazed out the window, drinking from a cup.  A sweet aroma wafted from a bubbling earthenware pot.  Its steam escaped through a small hole in the ceiling.

         “May I offer you some tea, lone walker?”

         “No, thank you.”

         Yaluk drained his cup and set it on a nearby shelf.

         “What can I do for you friend?” Yaluk asked.

         “I still don't believe what happened.  I've witnessed magic before, but what happened yesterday was not it.  This must be some kind of trickery.”

         Yaluk turned from the window and gazed into Zotikos.

         “Then perhaps you can tell me what cured Ichika.”

         “Chieftain, what if the plague is running its course?  Or if the villagers' bodies found a way to fight it?  Stop the sacrifices, watch what happens.  If someone overcomes the sickness naturally, than the sacrifices are unnecessary.”

         Yaluk stifled a laugh.  “I, chieftain of this village, saved my people's lives.  I found their salvation in appeasing the skull, and you expect me to stop?  By doing so, I would condemn the sick to die.”

         “All you're doing is condemning the sons and daughters of those you claim to save!  What is the point of the villagers going on, if they have no heirs?”

         “There can be no heirs if there are no villagers.”

         Zotikos sighed in exasperation.  “Why children dammit?  Why not criminals, prisoners of war, the eldest or sickest?”

         “We tried!” the chief shot back.  “The spirit rejected them.  It requires fresh blood for sustenance.  There is no other way.  My heart aches to give up the lives of our children, it was our last resort.”

         “Correlation does not imply causation.  Just because you sacrifice someone to your skull, does not mean that's why the villagers got better.”

         The chief blurted a phrase Zotikos didn't recognize.  It sounded like cursing.

         “You come to this village, stay in our shelter, partake of our food, and presume to know our customs.  Presume to tell its leadership what to do or think.  We are a generous people Zotikos of the Phanarites, but do not test our patience.”

         “When your people chipped arrowheads from stone, mine forged knives from our smithies.  When your language turned from grunts to words, we studied ancient languages.  I will civilize your tribe in some small way, even if it costs my life.”

         Yaluk's face quivered with anger.  Sweat began to form on his forehead.  Just before it looked like he would explode, something calmed him.

         “You know...I should actually thank you.  You brought back two of our children from the wilds, where they would have died violent deaths.  It would have been a tragic waste,” he said.

         “What are you saying?” Zotikos asked.

         “Nanti and Yoro will be sacrificed tomorrow.  You will watch, and then, you will be banished.”

         Before Zotikos could reply, the chief barked out an order.  The words were unrecognizable, but Yaluk's tone was enough.  Zotikos's hand sneaked to the handle of his sword.  The two guards from outside ascended the stairs and waited for instruction.  With his back turned the guards, Zotikos's hand strayed from his weapon.

         “Remove the lone walker from my longhouse,” Yaluk said.  “He may roam the village, but keep an eye on him.  If you catch him leaving, kill him.”

         The guards nodded, and shoved Zotikos away from the chief.  Zotikos was left at the longhouse's entrance, as the warriors walked to a group of their brethren.  Among them was Masawa.  After the group dispersed, Maswa approached Zotikos.

         “I'll be watching you lone walker.  I owe you for the other day.  Just try to escape,” he said, grinning.

         “How's your head Masawa?” Zotikos asked.

         Masawa frowned and winced at his rival.  Having nothing further to say, he stomped off.

         Nanti and Yoro ran up to Zotikos.  The man smiled sadly at them.

         “How did it go?” Nanti asked.

         “I lost the battle, but not the war.  Stay patient children, just stay patient.”

*  *  *

         The day wore on, Zotikos lay in his bed, lost in thought.  Warriors paced outside, constantly aware of his whereabouts.  The evening stars studded the purple sky, time was running out.  Zotikos got up and paced the floor.  He stopped in his tracks at a sudden realization.  He glanced out the hut's window, waiting for the cover of nightfall.
         
         It was nearly pitch black outside Zotikos's quarters.  Only a few torches were left burning throughout the village.  Zotikos heard a loud yawn outside his door.

         “Tano,” Masawa said. “I'm heading to the chamber pots.  Cover for me.”

         “Very well.”

         Zotikos quietly tip-toed to his spear leaning against the wall.  He picked it up and slid open the hut's curtain door.  Tano passed by the entrance just in time for Zotikos.  He brought the spear's shaft around Tano's neck, pulling him into the hut.  A swift strike with the butt of the spear knocked him out.  Zotikos knelt by the entrance and waited.  A few moments later, he heard footsteps from outside the walls.

         “Tano?” Masawa called out.

         The hunter walked up to the curtain, and started to slide it open, when Zotikos's hands jutted out and pulled Masawa into the hut.

         “Sorry you have to get knocked out again,” Zotikos said.

         Before Masawa could respond, the philosopher kneed him in the gut, taking the wind out of him.     

         Zotikos's head peeked through the curtain and looked around the area.  There were no other sentries in sight.  He strapped his rope belt around his waist and tucked his sword through it.  He held his spear close to his side and sprinted into the darkness.

Chapter 4

         Zotikos followed the torches through the dark.  He weaved through the dwellings, avoiding the village watchmen.  The familiar landmarks led his way:  The longhouse, the temple, the storerooms, the well, until finally stopping at the tents.  The philosopher noticed a lit candle outside the nearest one.  A black clad figure held it over a patient lying on the ground. The stranger fed the unconscious patient liquid from a small vial.

         The mysterious person turned to leave, freezing at the sight of Zotikos staring back.  The philosopher reached out and covered the stranger's mouth before it could scream.  He pulled down the figure's cowl, revealing the priestess from the day before.  He instantly recognized her dotted cheeks.

         “You!” Zotikos gasped.

         “Lone walker...” the woman whispered.

         “Who are you, why are you doing here?”

         “I am Priestess Quetza, daughter of Chieftain Yaluk,” she replied.  “I was not hurting the patient, I was healing him.”

         “There was a cure all along?”

         “Please, I will explain everything.  Come.”

         Quetza tried to hurry off, but Zotikos grasped her arm.  She looked back at him, her deep brown eyes glowing in the candlelight.

         “This better not be a trick,” Zotikos said.

         “It isn't, I promise.”

         After a second, Zotikos let go and followed her to the temple.

         “What's here that you want me to see?” Zotikos asked.

         “The one who found the cure – my father.”

         *  *  *

         Zotikos entered the darkened pyramid.  It was empty except for some altars and wall torches.  The strong smell of incense filled the air.  A stone, spiral staircase led to the top of the building.  Zotikos and Quetza climbed it to the upper floor.  They came to the room preceding the balcony where the sacrifices took place.  Yaluk was there, his back turned.  He sat a desk, studying an inscribed tablet.  When he heard the footsteps, he turned in his seat, shocked to see Zotikos standing there.

         Yaluk's eyes darted to Quetza.  “Why did you bring the lone walker here?”

         The priestess looked downward.  “I'm sorry father, he saw me administering the medicine.  I took him here to explain.”

         Yaluk rose from the desk and stared at Zotikos in defiance.
         
         Zotikos drew his sword and pointed it at Yaluk.  The chief threw his hands up in surrender.

         “You had a cure for the plague all along, and still sacrificed innocent people.  Why shouldn't I gut you where you stand?”

         “Before you kill me, at least hear what I have to say,” the chief replied.

         Zotikos considered the suggestion for a few seconds, then nodded his assent.

         “When the plague struck, I searched the wilds for the herbs to restore the victims.  I am not as primitive as you think.  I know hundreds of curative substances, and treated many ailments.  But the plague...it was terrible.  We lost so many in the first few weeks, including my wife.  I worked tirelessly, experimenting in this temple for something that would help...”

         Yaluk sighed and let himself fall back into his chair.

         “At the height of the sickness, about half of us remained,” he continued.  “There was talk of disbanding the tribe.  I could not let that happen.  We abandoned ritualistic sacrifice generations ago, but I revived the practice in desperation.  I needed to buy time, and give them hope.”

         Zotikos looked at Quetza, his face skeptical.

         “It's all true,” she assured him.

         “We started with the terminally ill, and the eldest.  By day, they burned on the pyres.  By night, I worked on a potion till my fingers bled.  The villagers supported the sacrifices, believing the spirits would favor us again.”

         Intrigued by Yaluk's story, Zotikos slipped the sword back through his belt.

         “Yet you found a cure, and the continued the sacrifices anyway,” the philosopher said.

         “We went through every kind of offering, before our young.  I hated the thought of destroying a child.  After the first one died, I finally found a cure.  You have to understand.  My nation, eons old, was about to collapse.  When the initial patient was saved, the tribesmen believed the skull answered their prayers.”

         “It was concluded the golden skull quenched itself on young blood.  Once they were convinced this was the key to the tribe's survival, there was no going back,” Quetza added.

         Zotikos stomped the ground angrily, kicking up some dust.  “Why didn't you call off the sacrifices and tell the truth!?”

         “If they learned the sacrifices were false, their faith in the skull would be dashed.  Trusting our idol restored our confidence, kept us from falling apart.  I couldn't bear to tell them it was a lie, that the skull was not helping us after all.”

         Zotikos glared at the chief.  “You are a coward and a murderer.  You continued the sham to save your own life.”

         Yaluk trudged to an indentation in the wall, where the golden skull hid in its cloth.  He unwrapped it and set it on the desk.  He stared at the gilded bone and reflected.
         
         “Our tribe's legendary founder was a blacksmith.  According to myth, he feared metal weapons and tools would create a violent, selfish society.  His entire life, he refused to teach his skills.  At the end of his days, his only possession was a gold necklace. 

         “He showed his assistant how to melt gold, nothing more.  When the founder died, his last wish was for his skull to be dipped in the liquified gold.  His remains were placed in this temple, where his spirit watches over us eternally.  His golden skull is not a sign of vanity.  It says that he alone could be trusted with the secrets of metal working,” Yaluk explained.

         Zotikos shook his head.  “I don't see what this has to do with your deception.”

         “Our beliefs are very important to us,” Yaluk replied.  “It gives us the strength to endure our daily hardships.  In the end, our spirits will join the skull and know its wisdom.  Are you religious Zotikos?”

         “I believe in a divine energy source, from which everything sprang, and to which everything returns.  It is called the Oversoul.  That's all the religion I need.”

         “The plague is almost over.  A handful more sacrifices, a handful more potions, and we will be a people reborn.  A people whose faith is restored,” Yaluk replied.

         “Innocent children, reduced to ashes.  All for an illusion.  If I were you, I'd give the cure to everyone in the village, admit what I did and fall on my sword.”

         Yaluk let out a humorless laugh.  “I never realized outsiders were so sentimental.  Dozens of our infants don't survive childbirth, die from myriad diseases, sometimes even starvation.  More of our young perished in the last decade than in the plague's entirety!  Those were meaningless, tragic deaths.  The sacrificed children are heroes, forever honored as long as our tribe shall last.”

         Zotikos grunted in frustration and hit the side of the wall with his bracer, leaving a crack in the brick.

         “I still don't know why I shouldn't kill you,” he said.

         “Kill me, savior of my tribe, and everything is instantly undone.  The people will be thrown into chaos, and more blood will be on your hands, than may be on mine.”

         Zotikos held his spear in a white knuckled grip.  His skin shivered in barely controlled rage.

         “I would happily die to make one lasting difference in this world.  I could shout the truth to the tribe, and kill you, even if your warriors would rip me apart.  But I am willing to make a deal, as distasteful as I find negotiating with you.”

         Yaluk shrugged.  “Then let us hear it.”

         “You will address the tribe tomorrow morning, on this balcony.  You will say you received a vision tonight.  The skull is sated, and in return for the offerings, it will heal the rest of your sick.  No further sacrifices necessary.  Every night, Quetza will continue to give the cure, until everyone is healed.”

         Yaluk thought on this, and glanced at Quetza.

         “The people will be thrilled that nobody else has to die.  The skull has already shown itself to be real to us.  No one else need burn to prove that.  And having a vision from the golden skull itself, will lend to your credibility as chief,” Quetza said.

         Yaluk rubbed his chin.  “And if I don't do this thing, lone walker?”

         Zotikos smiled.  “Then tomorrow, the villagers will find your head hanging outside the temple walls.”

         Quetza walked up to Yaluk and held onto his arm.  She looked up at her father in a silent plead.

         “Alright, you win.  I will do as you wish.”

         “There's one more order of business.  Yoro and Nanti are traumatized by what's happened here.  Their parents have passed on, and they want to leave.  I don't trust you with them, and I can't take them into my custody.  They won't last in the wilderness.”

         Yaluk blinked several times in thought.  Finally, he answered back.

         “There is a high point, just outside the village.  It's a station for sending smoke signals.  We use it to contact our sister tribe.  It is not used lightly.  Traveling between the villages is a deadly prospect.”

         “You didn't signal this other tribe to help with the plague?”

         “That would risk contaminating them.  I needn't start a tribal war in addition to fighting an outbreak.”

         Yaluk wrapped the golden skull back up and returned it to its rightful place.

         “So if I contact this neighboring tribe, they may agree to take Yoro and Nanti in?”

         “Yes, most likely.”

         Yaluk motioned for Quetza to follow him down the stairs.

         “Where are you going?” Zotikos asked.

         “Back to the longhouse, you can come as well.  If I don't return to my quarters soon, the guards will think something is wrong.”

         The three left the temple.  The shape of a small boy appeared under the moonlight.

         “Yoro, is that you?” Zotikos asked.

         “Zotikos, I couldn't sleep so I went to see you, but you were gone.  I followed you to the temple, I know I shouldn't have...”

         The philosopher opened his mouth to admonish the boy, when he was snatched up by a large figure from behind.  It was Masawa, clutching Yoro in a bear-like grip, and holding a stone knife to his neck.

         “The time has come to end the plague once and for all.  With this boy's sacrifice, I will lift the curse on our people forever!”

         Zotikos's muscles tensed with fear, the slightest move could spell the end of Yoro.

         Chapter 5

         “Masawa, come to your senses,” Yaluk pleaded.

         “No!  Months we try to please the skull, and still we die.  I'll offer the rest of the children, starting with this one.”

         Masawa moved to slice the boy's neck, when he screamed out in pain.  His knife hand jolted away from Yoro.  With a precision strike, Zotikos's spear knocked the weapon out of Masawa's hand.  The philosopher looked down to see Nanti's teeth sinking into Masawa's calf.  Unable to take anymore, the warrior kicked Nanti aside.  The girl recovered herself easily, spitting Masawa's blood from her mouth.

         “Nanti, where did you come from?” Yoro asked, rubbing his throat.

         “I followed behind you, when I noticed you left our house.”

         Zotikos tossed the spear and tackled Masawa into the ground.  The warrior's partner Tano and another guard came running up to the scene.

         “Guards, take Masawa to the prison cells immediately!” Yaluk ordered.

         “As you wish chieftain,” Tano replied.

         The guards led Masawa away at knife point, and disappeared into the night.


*  *  *

         Zotikos sat in the corner of the longhouse's bottom floor.  He made himself comfortable on a fur mat, but did not permit himself to sleep.  He watched over Yoro and Nanti, until the sun rose again.  Soon, the crowd was gathered for the chief's speech.  Through tired eyes, Zotikos listened to the chief's words.  As agreed, Yaluk declared the skull was pleased, and the plague was to be lifted with no more sacrifices.  A raucous cheer erupted through the villagers.  Quetza hardly took her eyes off of the philosopher during the announcement.

         Zotikos was about to leave with the children, when the priestess ran up to him.

         “May I go with you?  I know the way to the smoke signaler.  I'll help contact the neighbor tribe.”

         Zotikos looked for the chieftain, to seek his approval.  Yaluk was preoccupied, swept up in the revelry of the crowd

         “Yes, but only to see off the young ones.  I walk...well you know,” he said, smiling.

         “Alone,” Quetza replied, completing the thought.  “But why?  Why risk your life so?”

         “I'm on a personal quest for meaning.  It's maybe something only I can completely understand.  But I wouldn't mind if you'd be a part of it, if only for a short time.”

         Quetza smiled warmly, putting her arm in his and leading him to the signal station.  Yoro and Nanti followed closely behind.
*  *  *

         The four travelers reached the height, about halfway between each village.  Clouds of smoke lazily floated upward, as Quetza hailed the other tribe.  After about an hour, a group of responders emerged from the trees.  They were strong folk, dressed in buckskins and armed with spears taller than Zotikos's.  As with Yoro and Nanti's people, these had geometric lines etched on their faces.  The apparent leader walked up to the children.  He touched the lines on his face, and compared it to the patterns on the young ones.  Yoro and Nanti exchanged glances, surprised that the leader's facial pattern mirrored their own.

         “Greetings little ones,” the leader said.  “Are your parents names Iara and Eshu?”

         Yoro and Nanti looked at each other in a mix of surprise and sadness.

         “Their names were...” Yoro said.

         The leader frowned briefly, and nodded.  “Eshu was my brother.  We're from the same family, as you can tell by our markings.  I am your uncle, and welcome you into my tribe, if you wish to live with us.”

         The children nodded eagerly.  “Yes, please!” they said.

         The leader let out a hearty laugh.  Nanti and Yoro turned to Zotikos.

         “Goodbye lone walker, thanks for everything!” Nanti said.

         “Take care of yourself in the wilds Zotikos,” Yoro added.

         “I will, farewell my friends,” he replied.

         His work done, Zotikos escorted Quetza to the edge of her village.

         “I never supported what my father did,” Quetza said.  “When I saw you on the morning of Toza's sacrifice, I knew I wasn't the only one.”

         “Do you think he will truly stop the sacrifices?”

         “Yes, I do.  I believe the the worst is over, thanks to you.”

         “I was happy to do it.  The surviving children have a fighting chance now.  Well, the wilds call, so I should be going.”

         Zotikos waved goodbye and started off.

         “Will we ever see you again?”

         Zotikos look over his shoulder and grinned.  “Anything's possible.”


*  *  *

         Several days later...

         Zotikos sprinted across a rare stretch of grassland, in the heart of the Rain Lands.  The shriek of a teratorn filled the sky.  The massive bird's wings cast a shadow over the warrior-philosopher.  When it stopped flapping, Zotikos knew it prepared to dive.  He waited for the right moment, then turned around and held up his spear.  The bird of prey swooped onto its tip, skewering itself.  Its weight pinned Zotikos into the grass.  With effort, he managed to pull himself out from under the carcass.  He leaned on his spear, to catch his breath. 

         He looked around his surroundings, assuring himself there were no more predators.  Satisfied, Zotikos pulled the bird to the edge of the river nearby.  He proceeded to pluck and wash it, when he heard the sound of a raft sailing through the water.  The boatman looked astonished at the solitary warrior, having just taken down the large raptor.

         “Watch out!” the boatman yelled.

         Zotikos spun around to the sight of two paklosaurs bearing down on the bird carcass.  Outmatched, Zotikos sprang for the raft.  The warrior jumped onto it, just in time to watch the lizards tear into his former meal.

         “Close call eh?” the boatman said.

         “I've had closer.”

         The grassy fields gave way to another swath of towering trees.  Birds chipped from their branches.  From somewhere in the distance, the roars of carnivorous creatures echoed.

         “Where you headed to mister?” the boatman asked.

         “To the same thing as always, the next adventure.”

         The raft soon faded into the depths of the forest.