“Fear, it holds us to this mountain. It binds us to our stagnant god. It suffocates us in ignorance. But we mustn’t be afraid. We must rise and challenge these fears. Don’t be afraid of change, my friend. Don’t be afraid to live.” ~Prince Orvit

            In the wastelands of Mur lie the mountain of god, Dathagruin and twenty others raised by mortal men. Not men like us but arkybes, gray-skinned men with inky black eyes. The youngest of these mountains is Vaskmarr raised by Soltimork first son of Orkastal in the year 1984 as of the Kye Marah Calendar. It is a popular mountain, most known for being the tallest mortal mountain. Only God’s mountain Dathagruin stands taller. This is a title of great respect among the arkybes. For before Mount Vaskmarr, only the first mountain, Mount Fyreing, had held the title. However, being the tallest is not all Vaskmarr is known for. There are many curiosity atop the mountain, which draw arkybes both to and away.

            “It is a strange place, Vaskmarr,” is an opinion often heard among the inns and taverns of Mur. Rumors like King Soltimork collects strange beast and he has them battle one another in an arena, are popular topics of discussion. Others would talk of the king’s company, “He befriended the gora tribes, I heard. He’s building an army, they say. He even made a grimmora chieftain his general,”

            These rumors refer to intelligent war-loving race, who live in the wastelands of Mur. Fierce creatures are the gora, most noted for their long arms, which reach down to their ankles and their faces, which resemble those of hairless hyenas. Fiercer still, the grimmora are the strongest and largest of the gora tribes. To the peace loving mountain dwelling arkybes, they are a race not to be trifled with. So to surprise, the response to such rumors are always, “Only a fool would trust a grimmora.”

            Others would talk of a large lizard man he houses. They would say, “There’s a banished Drikyn living in Vaskmarr Palace, one with iron horns and the feathers of a dragon priest. They say it’s the one who killed the last dragon, Diadric. Stab her through the heart, I heard.”

            Such gossip would always be challenged by the greatest rumor of Vaskmarr. More often than not, from the mouth of a younger arkybian would come, “He didn’t kill the dragon. Diadric lives in Vaskmarr. She has taken mortal form.”

            “Ridicules,” is often the response.

            “No it’s true, I’ve seen her.” Some of the young would say, but most said, “many have seen her.”

            They would go on to describe a pale young woman similar to an arkybe, but different. “She has horns, smooth straight one. And her eyes resemble beautiful emeralds, just like in the stories of Diadric.”

             Some even said, “if you’re lucky and get close enough, you’d see scales on her cheeks and forehead; not rough scales like those of a Drikyn, but soft like a snake’s.”

            More gossipers would speak of how a dragon can be seen flying around Vaskmarr, covered in feathers made of white fire. Often the old folk would scoff at this.

            “Dragons don’t have feathers or scales,” they’d say, “dragons are made of stone.”

            Other would chime in saying, “The woman is just a conjurer fooling people into believing Soltimork has a dragon.”

            “Why do that,” someone would inevitably ask. To which, the response is always fast and always the same, “To make the people think it’s safe.”

            This would lead to an old argument, one far older than Vaskmarr; an argument as old as the first mountain Fyreing. It would start, “fool raised his mountain on the path, and we all know what that means. They’ll have to deal with the Kye Marah at the end of peace.”

            “When the millennium ends, the challenge will be met.”

            “When that day comes, they will pay for their arrogance.”

            “But Orvit built his mountain on the Path.” Some would declare.

            “Orvit was mad, right down to his name,” they would say, “And King Soltimork is much the same.”

            “No surprise there,” others would agree,”just look at his father, king Orkistal. Man names his mountain Slasker. It’s such a mean and angry name, not proper for a mountain. It’s not proper at all.”

            “No wonder Mount Slasker is so unpopular,” more would finish. As of late, these rumors had grown in popularity, all due to a flyer. It read: Come one, Come all to the Vaskmarr New Year’s Festival. The Great King Soltimork has prepared a banquet of which the races of Mur have never seen. Eat, drink and be merry atop Mount Vaskmarr. Watch as the gora tribes do battle from morning light to the releasing hour.

            It would not have been so great a topic, if not for one fact. This year was the last year of the millennium. Ever Arkybe of ever mountain, except Vaskmarr, was planning to spend the last hours of the last year in silent prayer. They would pray to the mountain god, Iuee, for his protection from the Kye Marah’s wrath. The thought of celebrating the end of peace was taken in bad taste by arkybes all across Mur.  

            “He mocks Iuee, just as Orvit did,” they’d say, “And no good will come of it. Mark my words, his arrogance will have a price.”

            Despite it all, every inn in Mount Vaskmarr is filled to the brim the night before the eve of the new millennium. Curious young arkybes, from across the mountains, come to see the heretic’s festival. And just as the flyer said, it begins at first light and would continue until the releasing of the dilok. The inhabitance wake to trumpets and bells. The markets are cleared and tables after tables are piled with delicious sweet pastries, juicy salted meats, and fruits from every mountain of Mur.

            Children watch gremgars wrestle in the streets. No larger than house cats, the gremgars are the smallest of the gora tribes. They are seen as amusing ugly little creatures by the arkybes. Besides the gremgars, the morning festivities are slow and uneventful. This is how the arkybes like it.

            The days of Mur are short, only about eleven hours long. Six hours belong to the sun and five hours to the night. On a normal day, the arkybes are quick to action, not wasting a moment. To them, a festival means a lazy day where they are to be entertained by others. They enjoy lounging in the early hours of daylight. It is not until midday; they are truly ready for anything active. At noon, the arena is opened. Arkybes quickly fill the stands. Gremgars wait on the audience. Some pass out cups, while others fill drinks. Most carry heaped plates of either: bread, meats, fruits, or cheeses. While the arkybes eat only two large meals a day, they snack almost religiously.

                        On the west side of the arena, a large three-story building is erected in place of stands. This building is used for storing and preparing food and drink. Gremgars are seen entering and exiting it frequently. The king and guests relax on the second floor. A patio is carved into the structure. Stone columns support the floor above them. King Soltimork sits a large comfortable chair. His wife, Queen Aslog, lies in hers at his right side. Their three children sit in smaller wooden chairs beside their mother. To the king’s left sits a one-eyed grimmora, a pale woman with horns, and a large elderly drikyn.

            King Soltimork stands from his seat and addresses the crowd, “welcome to my arena. Today, we celebrate the beginning of a new millennium. Many accuse this festival of being in bad taste. They say I should spend that last of my days in fear and prayer. I say, if I am destined to die tomorrow, then I better celebrate today.”

            Applause rings out from the stands. The king laughs, “It brings me great joy to see so many arkybes as enthusiastic towards life as myself. The gora share a similar enthusiasm as well. They believe one can only truly live if in the face of death. They are hunters and warriors alike. Nine great tribes and you will see them all today. For the first event, I give to you, the hobgargen.”

            Five thin lanky gora enter the arena from the north. Their skin is a dark brown, nearing black. They stand taller than the average arkybe and walk on all fours. A quiver filled with javelins is tied to each of their backs.

            “As a show of speed, they face the dreaded loreteoc serpent,” King Soltimork announces. From the south entrance of the arena, a giant snake slithers in. Its body is coved in colored feather, which forms a repeating pattern of black, yellow, red, and blue rings. The drikyn seated to the king’s left scoffs at the snake.

            “You couldn’t find one with all its feathers.” The drikyn asks. He points to his own headdress, which is made of similar feathers. Its repeating pattern has black, yellow, red, blue, purple, green, orange, and white. He then laughs, “Really, where’s the honor in killing a pup.”

            “It’s hardly a pup,” the king replies, with a note of humor, “besides; I need a much deeper arena than this if I ever caught an elder loreteoc, Kynthelig.”

            “True enough, your majesty,” the drikyn agrees.

            The fight is short lived. Two of the hobgargen are swallowed whole, before the serpent's life is brought to a close. One of the swallowed hobgargen carves its way out. It dies from the creature’s internal toxins moments later.  The arkybes sent to clean the arena are hesitant to touch either the dead hobgargen or the loreteoc. Fearing the loss of their skin, the arkybe workers decide to drive spikes into both bodies and pulling them off with ropes.

            The second festivity is fought between three reptilian sand hounds called cuibmurs and twelve gremgars. A sense of pity waves over the crowd, though it is mistakenly for the gremgars. The cuibmurs are quick to attack the small goras. The slowest of the gremgars are snatched up, but before the cuibmur kills it, the other gremgars just atop the hounds and begin digging deep into the creature flesh. The cuibmur drop their prey and try to pull off the little attackers. The gremgars burrow into the bodies of their prey, and soon each of the hounds falls dead. Blood soaked gremgars emerge from the bodies. Screeching howls emite from the little terrors. The arkybe are stunned by the brutality of the gremgars. The arena workers try to remove the dead ciubmurs, but the gremgars hiss at them. The small goras leave the arena drag the corpses with them.

            The third event is between three grimmora and a morcaisel, a stone-backed boar. The grimmora are broad-shouldered gora. Their legs are thick with muscles. Their skin is dark dirty blue with sandy white patches. Each carries six long spears on their backs and wields one in their hands. The grimmora begin with one attacking the boar face on; while, the other two race to either of beast’s sides. The one, attacking the face, keeps slightly to boar’s right. This is to avoid the inevitable charge. The other two throw spears into the morcaisel’s back.

            The spears cannot pierce the large stone like calluses growing on the beast, but some find soft places between the growths. When the first two spears find a home deep in the morcaisel, it writhes in pain and charges forward. The boar's tusk catches the grimmora distracting it. He thrust into the air. His gutted body falls limply to the ground. The morcaisel turns to the other two, its right tusk dripping with the blood of the slain grimmora.   

            Again and again, the morcaisel charges the two grimmora. While one avoids being gutted, the other throws spears. Soon seven pierce the flesh of the beast. Its blue fur turns crimson as blood flows from open wounds. It breaths heavily, drained by the bleeding and constant charges.

            Keeping to the beast’s right, one of the remaining grimmora stabs at the morcaisel’s face. He growls loudly, showing his fangs and wrinkling his snout.  Too weak to charge again, the morcaisel desperately swings its tusks at the attacker. The other grimmora silently sneaks to the boar’s left. He creeps in close. Holding his spear low to the ground, he thrust up into the belly of the morcaisel. Blood pores over his hands and face as he pushes the spear deep into the beast.

            The morcaisel cries out in pain. As it stumbles forward, the other grimmora runs his spear through the creature’s throat. A roaring applause echoes from the audience. The two grimmora hold their blood soaked weapons far above their heads and give a cackling howl of victory.

            With that, the midday events come to a close. Arkybes leave the arena to find a rare supper waiting in the courtyard. Roasted stone-backed boar, fried sand hound legs, and a verity of Loreteoc serpent soups are served before the people. The king and his guest eat their supper in the privacy of the king patio.

            “The midday festivities were splendid, father,” Prince Riedulf complement.

            “Yes, I had my concerns,” King Soltimork admits cutting a bite from a slab of cuibmur leg, “I didn’t know how the people would react to the games. I’m grateful to see such enthusiasm from them.”

            “So you’ve said,” the drikyn Kynthelig indicates. He goes on to say, “I don’t see the pleasure in such killing.”

            “Pleasure enough, when it was the loreteoc being gutted,” the one-eyed grimmora states stuffing chunks of morcaisel and red wine down his throat, “and you carry such pride in a hat made from death.”

            “My feathers are a symbol of protection, Drahg” Kynthelig argues, “we drikyn kill only to protect ourselves. The loreteoc like to nest in our barrows and eat our young. My slaying of a loreteoc was far different than these games.”

            “Aw, but there I must disagree,” King soltimork says, “these games are to show the people the strength of our new allies. I want them to feel protected, now more than ever.”

            “Oh If that’s true, perhaps I should put on a show,” the pale woman speaks. A face of delight swims over Prince Reidulf, who says, “that would be splendid, Diadric. You could fly and…”

            “No,” the king interrupts, “the people must learn to stop relying on the gods for aid. Today is a show of the strength of mortals, not gods.”

            “So will I not be helping with the Kye Marah,” Diadric asks.

            “That’s… that’s different. It’s…not about whether the gods actually aid us, but the expectation that they will. Do you understand?” King Soltimork explains before taking a drink.

            “I suppose,” Diadric answers, “though it feels you’re trying to rob me of credit.”

            The king chokes on his wine as he stumbles over his words, “of course not, the world will know what you’ve done for us. The world must know, for the sake of Orvit. They just can’t know yet. Mortals must be willing to fight this war without a goddess.”

            The youngest of Soltimork’s children, Princess Abi, only two years old, walks over to Kenthelig with a plate of boar meat, “would you like some? It’s really good.”

            “No thank you, little princess,” Kynthelig answers with hushed, gentle tone, “my people don’t eat meat.”

            She looks at his plate, which is filled with fruits. A sad looked of disappointment crosses the princess' face. Her older brother of five, Prince Rosarr says, “why not, meat is so tasty.”

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            “It’s not about it tasting good, my prince. My people get quite ill if we eat meat,” Kynthelig explains, “similar to how the gora cannot eat fruit.”

            “Yes, drikyn are like horses and gora are like the hounds,” Drahg adds. Though certain the grimmora meant it as an insult, Kynthelig simple smiles and says, “indeed there are similarities.”

            The meal goes on until night falls, the crowd returns to the arena. Torches are set and light up the arena. The flickering firelight against the night gives the arena a mesmerizing atmosphere. Before the games begin, Queen Aslog sends her two youngest back to the palace. The two are reluctant to leave, and Princess Abi asks if Kynthelig would come with them. Happily, the drikyn agrees, and the three take their leave.

            They head down the king’s path. It is an underground tunnel linking the arena and the palace. Kynthelig lights the company’s way with a beautifully crafted copper torch. He smokes from his pipe while humming an ever-changing tune. Princess Abi rides comfortably on Kynthelig’s shoulders hugging his neck. His feathered headdress protects the princess’s fair skin from the drikyn’s rough scales. Prince Rasarr walks beside the drikyn. Constantly, the boy peaks back at the arena, envious of the cheering crowd.

            “No point in looking back, young prince.” Kynthelig murmurs between puffs. Prince Rasarr sneers at the drikyn, “I should be down there; I am nearly a man. There are others younger than I who stayed.”

            “You speak of Diadric,” Kynthelig asks, “do you?”

            “I do, I do speak of Diadric,” the prince declares “she’s younger than me and Abi.”

            To this Kynthelig gives a deep bellowing chuckle, “Diadric is thousands of years older than you. She may have only had that form for one year, but it is not the body of a child. If I were to guess, I say her body is as mature as your older brothers’.”

            “Still, I should be down there.”

            “Kyn,” Princess Abi interrupts, “what’s the Kye Marah?”

            “It’s a giant slug monster filled with dead things,” Prince Rasarr answers before Kynthelig can; but the drikyn is quick to correct, “Not quite so, young prince. The Kye Marah is made of a black slime, much like tar but even thicker. It is filled with nothing but wields Dentae’s power of creation. From it is born many short-lived horrors.”

            “Short-lived,” Prince Rasarr entreats, to which Kynthelig illuminates, “Yeas, very short lived. The creatures born from the Kye Marah seem to provide only an immediate service. It’s as if the creature cannot plan for the future; its creations are made from fear and desperation. Often the beasts are born missing essential parts to live long lives.”

            “What parts,” Prince Rasarr continues to push.

            “I don’t know, faces, stomachs, lungs, any number of things,” Kynthelig answers.

            “Where does it come from,” Asks princess Abi.

            “The east,” answers Prince Rasarr once again. To which, Kynthelig elaborates, “True, but there is more to that question than just a direction. Tell me, Abi do you know the three children of Iuee.”

            “I do,” answers Abi quite eagerly, “there once were three dragons born of stone, the daughters of Iuee. The oldest was Bethicha, who cared the great forest upon her back. The second was Dentae, who crafted all the beasts, tribes, and races of Mur. The youngest and smallest was Diadric, who wielded the powers of destruction and lived eternal bound to Mount Dathagruin.”

            “Very good, Abi,” applauds Kynthelig, “Well this is the story of how Dentae died. As you said, Bethicha was the firstborn of the three sisters. She was also the first to pass. When she did, Dentae began to feel her age. She did not want to die and leave her creation. She also felt her work unfinished as so many more creations still stirred in her mind. She pleaded to Iuee to grant her eternal life, much the same as Diadric. Iuee would not grant her request.”

            “Why,” both the children asked.

            “Well, I can’t say for sure; however, it is widely believed that Iuee would not allow Dentae both eternal life and the power of creation. Only God made wield both. It is said she left Mount Dathagruin that very day and headed far to the east.”

            “Why did she leave,” asked Princess Abi.

            “I don’t know. Maybe she was upset or felt what she was about to do, may anger Iuee.”

            “Because she was creating the Kye Marah,” Prince Rasarr insinuates.

            “No,” Kynthelig sighs, “ No, no one believes she left intending to create what she did. The Kye Marah at its core is an unfinished creation. Most believe Dentae was trying to forge a successor. Something capable of creating a verity of life, as the Kye Marah can. Others think she was trying to create a new younger body and obtain her own form of immortality. But, what is agreed on by all is she died before it was finished. What happened next, only Iuee could say.”

            “Most choose to believe that when Dentae died a part of her soul, those of fear and regret, bond themselves to the unfinished creature. Diadric herself believes this is what happened. You see, of Diadric’s many powers, one is called the god tongue. It is the power to speak without words, but with thoughts and feelings. It is the language of absolute truth. And Diadric swears when she faced the Kye Marah all those years ago she could feel fragments of Dentae within it.”

            “That doesn’t mean she didn’t want to create the Kye Marah. Nor does it mean it wasn’t created out of revenge. All it means is that whatever Dentae was trying to do she failed.”

            “Enough, as far as Diadric is concerned, the Kye Marah is just the unfortunate outcome of a tragic situation. She does not feel malice in that creature just fear and regret. Besides, Dentae loved us, all of us. Even if she hated Iuee in the last of her days, she would not threaten the lives of her creations.”

            “But every thousand years, it returns and attacks the temple of Iuee. Father says it’s drawn back to Mount Dathagruin. If not for revenge, then why?”

            “Why, you ask. It is carried thereby Dentae’s pleas for eternal life; a simple memory trapped within the Kye Marah. You, arkybes, have made an enemy out of a poor misfortunate animal. Diadric kills it out of pity.”

            “That not true,” Prince Rasarr states, “she told me she hates the Kye Marah more than anything. She enjoys seeing it die.”

            “Oh, you foolish boy, she only hates it, because it reminds her how Dentae suffered alone in the wastelands. Its existence is a dreaded reminder of how her sister will never be at peace.” Kynthelig corrects. A long silence fills the air. The cheering from the arena has vanished. Not another word is spoken until the group reaches the palace. In the bedroom of the prince and princess, the two lie in their beds. As Kynthelig is leaving, Princess Abi asks, “why a thousand years.”

            Kynthelig turns back, “Ah, now that is an interesting story.”

            The princess sits up in her bed, “tell us.”

            Kynthelig thinks for a moment. He has no desire to return to the game so suddenly. And the children don’t seem all that tired. And it is one of Kynthelig’s favorite tales. With a smile, he says, “Well, just as the arkybe have their Orvit, we drikyn have ower Maglia Lasiad.”

            “Who,” the children ask. Kynthelig takes a seat against the wall of the room between the children’s beds. Then with a deep puff of his pipe he begins, “She was the first mortal to make a deal with Iuee. You see, when the Kye Marah first came it appeared endless and covered much of Dathagruin. Even Diadric could not destroy it all. Whatever gave it such regenerative power remains a mystery.  In the midst of this peril was a young drikyn named Maglia Lasiad. While the other drikyn ran and hid, she traveled to Iuee shrine. She should have died to try to reach the temple, but through some miracle, she didn’t.”

            “Maybe Iuee protected her.” Prince Abi suggests. Kynthelig gives another hearty laugh. Stuffing some new weeds into his pipe, he chuckles, “Maybe he did, indeed.”

            “So what happened then,” asks Prince Rasarr quite impatiently.

            “I’m getting to that.” Kynthelig answers as he lights his newly-filled pipe. After a few good puffs, he continues, “When she got there, she offered him a jewel. Not a sparkly or well-cut jewel, like the drikyn jewels of today, but a raw uncut emerald with pieces of dirt and stone still clinging to it. She asked Iuee ‘Oh, my fair god, will you not save us from this peril? Please, take this stone. It is so beautiful and rare. It is the greatest of my treasures and all I have to offer.’ Iuee looked at the emerald and said, ‘for such a treasure, I will give you one year, but only one year. I will seal the Kye Marah far away, back from which it came. For one year, and only one year, I will do this. And, if you should come across a treasure even more beautiful and rare, I would take it and give to you another year.’ And just like that, the Kye Marah stop regeneration. Three days and three nights late, Diadric had destroyed all that remained of the Kye Marah.”

            “Maglia Lasiad told the drikyn what Iuee had promised and every drikyn, except the den mothers and hunters, began to search Mount Dathagruin for beautiful stones. They found, not one, but many in that first year. But they did not give Iuee the most beautiful of the new stone, only one more beautiful than the last. You see, the drikyn were as crafty then as they are today. They save the more precious stones for the years to come.”

            “Iuee took the jewel and gave another year of peace. Over the next year, the drikyn continued to gather even more precious stones. But as time moved forward, the drikyn found less and less on the surface of Dathagruin. They had many years worth of stones; though, they knew more would always be needed. Some thought they should leave Dathagruin and others thought more stone would appear if they waited.”

            “Is that when the Drikyn started mining,” asks the prince.

            “Yes, yes, I’m getting to that. Maglia decided to ask Iuee for guidance. She offered him all the stone less precious than the one he had, but he refused her. Defeated but not lost, Maglia then went to Diadric. Back then the drikyn did not worship Diadric as we do today. She was seen as the powerful guardian of Iuee. Most drikyn lived in fear of her and Maglia was no exception. She approached Diadric slowly, crawling before the great eternal dragon. Maglia offered the same stone and asked, ‘Oh, great guardian of Iuee, wielder of destruction, I plea for your wisdom. We seek colored stones like these, but know not where to find them.’ Diadric did not care for the stone but did not reject the gift. She said to Maglia, ‘If you’re looking for colorful rocks, there are countless prettier ones than these buried within the mountain.’ This filled Maglia with such glee; though, she could not imagine how to reach such buried stones. She asked Diadric what they should do; to which, Diadric bit off the tip of one of her claws and offered it to Maglia. She said, ‘This is harder than any stone. It should help you get started.’ And it did. Using the tip of Diadric’s claw, which came to be known as Barbenaid, the drikyn began to mine the mount Dathagruin.”

            “Over the next several years, the drikyn mined into the mountain. We began to worship Diadric and in turn learned much of fire. Soon, with Diadric’s aid, we began to forge our own tools to better dig into the hard black stone of Dathagruin. It changed much of drikyn life. A family’s status became based on the size of the cave they dug and the wealth of its stones. Because of this, the drikyn had large families with generation all living in the same cave. The children dug their tunnels branching off their parents’ tunnels which branched off their parents’ tunnels. We began to wear these metal-plated robes. You see, it’s a map of the metals we found in our tunnels.”  Kynthelig says running a finger over the different colored plates on his chainmail robes. He then continues, “But the most prominent change was the birth of the Dragon Priests. Besides being the voice and ears of the tribes, the dragon priests were entrusted with valuing the gems found in Dathagruin. It was a ruthless profession, as the misvaluing of even a single stone could cost the drikyn years or decades of peace. It took nearly a lifetime just to become a Dragon Priest. I, myself, only earned my horns at the ripe age of one hundred and six. Of course, I had spent my youth as a hunter, and I might say a great hunter I was.” Kynthelig states.

            “Kynthelig, what about the Kye Marah,” the prince asks.

            “Yes, well I was getting to that,” Kynthelig replies, “Now, where was I, oh yes, for a time, the drikyn felt very safe. With all they had learned and all the jewels they had gathered, the drikyn believed they would never again see the Kye Marah. But as the years turned to decades, and decades turned to centuries, it grew ever more difficult to find stones, rarer than the last. Giving all the stones deemed unworthy to Diadric, became a tradition for better or worse. The drikyn themselves kept only one jewel for themselves. Each was allowed an emerald, which traditionally was given to one true love.”

            “The Kye Marah,” Prince Rasarr pleads.

            “Yes, yes, well, nearly a thousand years of mining for precious stone past before the drikyn could not find one rarer. On that day, the Dragon Priest Arnem Dith offered one last stone. It was an enormous opal, bigger than a newborn arkybe, and perfectly round. Arnem begged this be enough to free the drikyn of the Kye Marah. ‘No,’ was Iuee’s answer. The Kye Marah would rise come the next year; however, Iuee was merciful for the Kye Marah coming would not last forever. ‘Hear me now,’ he said onto Arnem, ‘the first year of every millennium will belong to the Kye Marah. The other nine hundred and ninety-nine, it will slumber.’ The next year, the dilocs flew without lights, and the Kye Marah did indeed come. The drikyn hid in their holes and the arkybes in their trees, while Diadric burned the creature to ash. For three days and three nights, she rained a great inferno upon the monster. And as Iuee promised, it did not appear again until the end of the first year of the new millennium, in which Diadric dispensed of the creature in much the same fashion. There now you know.”

            “Are you afraid of the Kye Marah, Kyn?”

            “No. The Kye Marah is a slow creature. It moves like a slug over the wastelands. Even if Diadric and your father should fail, there is plenty of time to escape. And with only four of the twenty mountains in the Kye Marah’s path there are plenty of places to flee to.”

            “Father says true Arkybians never run from a battle. They face enemies head-on.”

            “Pride, young prince, is a vile thing to die for.” Kynthelig states before leaving the room.

            Kynthelig takes his time returning to the arena. He enjoys the peace of the night and smokes heavily, humming his rhythmless tune. It nears midnight when Kynthelig takes to his seat next to Diadric. Unfortunately, he arrives in the middle of the last event. It is a battle between ten of the gora night tribe nersaw and a large armored beast called briserr. The nersaw are the only gora to have hair. Thick dirty gray mangles droop from their heads down to their feet. Only slightly larger than the gremgars, the nersaw resemble small dead bushes. The briserr resembles a giant tortoise, with a long clubbed tail and a sharp black beak for a mouth. Three of nersaw looked dead to Kynthelig. The other seven kept their distance from the beast. They stayed far in front of it. Briserr are not fast moving creatures, but their tails protect both their sides and their back. A single swing from it kills most anything.

            “I think they’re outmatched,” says Kynthelig. King Soltimork replies, “Patients, I’ve seen them win this fight before.”

            Three nersaw rush the briserr. The beast slowly turns to its side. As it does, the other four sprint around the arena. When the beast finally swings at the first three, the other four a safe to move in. They dash toward the tail. Too slow, two of three nersaw are struck by the tail. As the tail twists back, it takes only one of the party of four. The other three are close enough to the briserr’s body not to be struck. The pull out hidden toothed blades and begin sawing off the beast’s tail. The briserr has a deep hollow cry. Once the tail is detached, the nersaw begin cut off the legs. They leave the beast to bleed to death. The arkybes do not cheer this victory. Instead, they talk amongst themselves.

            “Perhaps, to brutal a kill,” Kynthelig states. To which, King Soltimork say, “The world is brutal drikyn. I think it’s time they remember that.”

            When the arena is cleared, he stands from his seat. With a gesture of his hand, there is silence. He holds up before the crowd a lantern. Within it, black beetles hatch from white round eggs. King Soltimork opens the lantern, and the air is filled with faint buzzing. Lightless, the releasing of the beetles resemble an ominous black shadow flowing out from the lantern. An uneasiness falls over the crowd. As the buzzing fades, whispers grow. Reality strikes the audience. Soon, some begin to cry. Others simply stand to leave. King Soltimork pulls from his side a silver hammer. He strikes the handrail before him. A thunderous roar devoirs all other sounds. Blue light flows down from the king’s balcony into the arena floor. The sand rises into a mountain peak before collapsing back into itself. The crowd is silent once more. Their eyes fixated on the king.

            “My fellow arkybes,” he begins, “do not be afraid. The Kye Marah comes, but we knew it would. We have known all our lives. When I was young, the thought frightened me. I thought why me, why in my life must this happen. I felt I didn’t deserve this.  I told this to my father, and he said to me, ‘it doesn’t do you any good thinking about what you deserve. All that matters is what you do about what is.’ It took me time to realize what the old conger meant. The Kye Marah comes whether we deserve it or not. People will die, whether they deserve it or not. But we have the advantage, we have known for a thousand years the Kye Marah is coming. So tell me, what have you done with that knowledge. I’ll tell you what I’ve done.”

            “sixteen years ago, I brought forth this mountain. It is the furthest mountain east of Dathagruin. It lies directly on the Kye Marah’s path. I did this knowing, in my life, the Kye Marah would rise once again. Why do such a thing? Was it arrogance, madness? No, when I raised this mountain I had one thought. I refuse to be afraid. I refuse to run or hide from a challenge. With that thought, I struck the ground and raised a mountain greater than any mortal had. This mountain, which surpasses even Orvit’s, is the embodiment of my unwavering spirit.”

            “My wife and I waited five years to have our first child. We did this, so the responsibility of killing the Kye Marah would not fall onto our son. Killing the Kye Marah would fall on me. I knew I would need Cladimait to do this. In one year, I will pass down Cladimait to my son, Prince Reidulf, and he will raise his own great mountain. But before that, I will do what no arkybe,” King Soltimork pauses, “No, no mortal has ever done. I will kill the Kye Marah.”

            “Many say I can’t. Many say I’m mad. Mad like Orvit they say. I take this as a great compliment. And perhaps I am mad, but no fool. After the birth of my son, I left Vaskmarr. It left to build an army. One I knew I’d need. The gora, strong and proud, are they. I knew if I united the five tribes, I would have an army likes of which none ever saw. In only six years, I accomplished that goal. For those six years, I battled chiefs and beast and things the likes none of you will ever see. It was a harsh time and more than once it nearly killed me; but, it was worth it. I had my army. And I told that army to gather all that kills: tars, oils, weapons, toxins, and poisons. They spent the next five years gathering supplies for the greatest battle the history of Mur would ever know.”

            “While my army prepared, I finally returned home; I found my mountain flourishing under the guidance of my beloved wife, Queen Aslog. That very night, we conceived young Prince Rosarr. Now my children are grown, and the enemy is awakening. I know you are all afraid, but hear me. I stand before you with an army of ten thousand to my back and the god hammer Cladimait in my hand.  And I say to you again, do not be afraid!”