The Reckoning

Chapter 1

Izahr knew he had screwed up badly. The laughing and murmuring around reinforced the humiliation that was arising inside of him. As the Chief's son, there had always been plenty of expectations from everyone around. His father demanded him to be the best. That man despised weakness, it was no secret to anyone. Failure equaled a capital sin and it deserved to be punished. No one was exempt from that rule, not even his family.

His tribe carried a sacred tradition in the early days of summer. They honored their goddess with a series of duels between their tribesmen. As Nyrmes, they had a special magical affinity for death. They can use their energy to will corpses to their mercy or even the living dead, but that had been ruled unethical moons ago.

In this 'celebration' -Izahr had never understood exactly how dueling would honor their creator- they rallied dead animals, usually wild boars who had been hunted solely for that purpose, and tribesmen willed the corpses against each other until one was the winner. Each victory prided the winner with great honor and respect.

Izahr was aware he wasn't the weakest man in the tribe, he could give quite a fight if needed. But dad didn't shake off the feeling rumbling inside. Every time his father was close, he felt small and useless. It disrupted his concentration. His icy stare felt like it could drill holes through him and pierced his heart out.

He stood there, head gazing down, hands clasping each other. His instinct would be to shake in fear and cry. Fortunately, that emotional part had been disappearing and Izahr now controlled his emotions with greater ease.

"A warrior only needs anger and intellect to survive. Happiness is a distraction; sadness is weakness and fear will kill you"

His father's words resounded in his head in situations where he felt as if he'd crack.

Speaking of whom, izahr gazed to the man rising from his seat. If looks could kill, izahr would be hound aliment in that instant or buried below hell. The Chef started moving around the improvised arena, pushing through the gawking bystanders, who probably were reading themselves to watch another spectacle. The young boy always wondered why people thrived on the misery of others.

As the man who raised him approached. He felt his feet move on their own, maybe it was his survival instinct kicking in or plain stupidity trying to delay the inevitable. His father would always get him.

Green strands of energy crashed close by. He ran in zig-zag, trying his best not to get trapped by the energy his father evoked. He jumped the makeshift barriers that separated the audience from the arena. He thanked the goddess for his small frame, it allowed him to pass between or below the people obstructing his way with ease.

He ran with a speed unbeknownst prior to that day. Running across the dozens of tents erected in their camp. Distant shouts from his fellow tribesmen, probably chasing him by his father, alerted his instincts. They were too far away and he had a considerable distance of advantage.

Rapidly, he made his way into the forest that surrounded their camp. Running in such an environment was difficult, tree's roots, rocks, and patches of leaves posed as obstacles that could make him stumble at any moment, which could cause an unwanted lesion.

Voices were nearing, yet Izahr couldn't see anyone around. He had to think quickly. The trees around him were tall, some were leafier than others. Each second was precious. He ran onto a sturdy-looking tree, whose lower branches could be reachable and resistant.

Izahr jumped as high as he could, laying one foot against the trunk to boost himself. Steadily, he climbed upwards, until he reached a thick branch, heavy enough to sustain his weight and leafy enough to cover himself.