Rakshaaz

My rage boiled hotter than the magma around me as I stalked through the passageways of my lifelong home, hands itching to draw my blades and take out my anger on some of the listless fools who overpopulated these halls. I made my way along the edge of a great flaming river, passing the small openings in the wall to my left that housed the refuse of my clan. Scrawny spawn peeked plaintively at me as I strode by from the mouths of these dwelling places, but I had little patience for them on a good day. And today was not a good day.

I made my way deeper into the tunnels and towards my father’s palace. The fools that found themselves in my way flattened themselves against the wall, eyes cast downward in subservience, though I was in no mood to acknowledge them. Soon, I neared my destination.

Deep within the confines of our underground home was a small underground lake of magma. Floating on top of it was an island of hardened red rock, upon which was a massive mansion of dark obsidian. Our ancestors had labored for centuries to construct this enormous den, and it has housed the leader of our clan ever since it was completed. I negotiated the slopes on the bank of the magma lake with impatience and stormed my way across the bridge to the manor. The bridge was flanked on either side by stone statues of brave Neidyr warriors in various combat poses, yellow gemstones set in eye sockets and rubies dotting carvings of flaming breath. I glared at the most imposing one as I waited for the gate of the manor to open.

The moment I set claw on the marbled floors of my home; I was accosted by one of my fellows. He was slightly shorter than I was, around the size of a normal warrior, but he bore the same distinctive marks that I did. Three horizontal red slashes behind his eyes marked him as among the strongest of the Chief’s brood. I recognized him as my half-brother Ho’sheth.

I ignored him and kept walking, but he kept following me, hissing:

“A good hunt, I hope.”

We sons of Se’sheth had no need for many words and complex communication. We were happy to communicate simple ideas with mannerisms and hissing, only enunciating complex sounds when we gave each other names. Babbling was for fools and hairy ones. But I understand his general meaning and snapped back with hissing of my own:

“Better than yours, no doubt”

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

I saw the indignation in the slight widening of his eyes as he responded:

“What rots the scales!? No food?”

“Soft ones” I replied, striding up to stairs towards the second floor. His indignation changed to surprise.

“Foolish cousins spoke truth? Never seen one before.”

We had been told about the soft and hairy ones by our cousins in the south, but they had been more rumor than anything until recently. When those rumors violated the sanctity of our home. Twice.

“They killed Horshaaz.” I said, stopping at the door to father’s throne room and knocking.

I entered and immediately knelt at the sight of my father on his obsidian throne inlaid with gold. Chief Senshaaz of the Blazing Dragon clan was totally red, in stark contrast to his pale clansmen. His crimson scales reflected the orange light of his surroundings as he held court. Whatever ceremony the village elders performed in order to make him like that, since he certainly hadn’t been red from birth, it had granted him a longer lifespan, greater physical strength, and flaming breath far beyond that of a normal clansman. Apparently, the process was both extremely expensive and very dangerous, so most chief candidates didn’t survive. But I had watched him defeat several warrior rivals in just as many breaths – at the same time and by himself. And some of those benefits were passed down to his children as well.

He was obviously in a good mood, hissing and snapping jovially at me,

“What itches the neck, son? I heard you gathered much, recently. Bothered by too many young females?”

He exhaled in amusement, his tongue flicking rapidly from in between his fangs. I did not share his amusement, staring stonily ahead.

“Horshaaz is dead.” I responded simply, gnashing my teeth in anger, “Hairy ones have trespassed upon our territory. Twice. They killed him.”

My father hissed angrily in response, my own frustration infectious. Horshaaz had been an adopted son of his. Taken in by my father on a whim and trained in our house, he had been a passable fighter. He had been killed in the most recent soft one sighting, though we hadn’t found his body. They had now been responsible for the deaths of ten of our brood, but it wasn’t their loss that truly angered us, even the loss of Horshaaz. Their trespass on our lands and slaughter of our clansman was a direct affront to the authority of our ruling family, one that hadn’t been taken seriously until one of our own had been killed. Now, it was like a direct slap to my father’s face. Such an attack on our dignity was sufficient to incur a debt of blood.

I could see in his eyes that he agreed with my line of thought. Since Horshaaz had been under my command, this was a serious slap to my face as well. So, I was quick to volunteer my planned solution.

“I will take a raiding party. Track them in the lands above. Slaughter them all.”

Our vision in the lands above was not as good at that of our southern cousins, so most of us didn’t venture out unless we were feeling bold, or we felt we needed to. I, on the other scale, often took hunting parties up to the surface. There was much food to be found for those with sharp senses and courageous hearts if you were willing to travel a little. I was the best choice for such a mission.

He bobbed his head at my words, hissing aggressively:

“Do it! Bring their hearts to me, my son! Show them death.”

I bowed further.

“Yes, father.”