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Chosen-One’s wit let him slip out of the demons’ claws, but his legs could not carry him fast enough and far enough to escape their wrath. Chosen-One had to hide deep in a gully, in a cave under a rock. He spent many days there while the swarm of demons scoured through the plains. Sitting in the dark cold of the cave, he peered outside, looking for his pursuers.

“Those damn fogies didn’t lie after all,” he deplored solemnly. His stomach rumbled, he was dying of thirst. Sometimes—mostly early in the morning, before the first sunray touched the tip of the Small Mountain—the demons disappeared from sight, and he was able to sneak out and quickly get some food and water. But those moments were rare; most of the time, he remained in cover. For seven days he lived like this, with the demons squawking above and the sound of dripping water coming from the hole behind him.

On the eighth day, however, he realized something: the sound from the hole was not water! The paced rhythm of hits sounded like bursts—two hits, three hits, four hits, two hits. It sounded deliberate, almost as if somebody was chipping away at a stone. Interested, Chosen-One went into the cave and descended the dark path. The further he went, the colder the air became, but the louder the noise was. He groped his way through the narrow passages of the cave, all the way down, until he reached a vast hall dimly lit by a myriad of crystals. On the far side of that hall, there sat a giant. With his left hand, he held a large angular sharp rock on his lap, and in his right hand, there was a smaller roundish one. He hit the big rock with a smaller one, intermittently stopping to brush off the debris.

This was Ramaral, one of the four brothers, the one hammered into the underground by Klazhano.

Chosen-One went closer, careful to avoid the chips flying off the rocks. The giant paused to study his workpiece, turning it around in his hands. His face twisted, his mouth opened, showing his huge yellow teeth. With a growl, Ramaral threw the rock away and shot his glance at Chosen-One.

“You there!” Ramaral called out. “Throw me that one by your side.”

Chosen-One looked beside him and saw a boulder the size of a young gazelle. He grabbed the thing but couldn’t lift it. He fumbled around the boulder, looking for a way to move it.

“Argh, useless life!” Ramaral got up and took the boulder himself, making Chosen-One curl up in fear. The giant returned to his place and began working on the new piece.

“What are you doing?” Chosen-One asked, still curled.

“I’m making a spear.”

“What for?”

“For revenge. I want to kill my brother.”

Ramaral worked intensely, bits and pieces of the material flew off in all directions—Chosen-One hid behind a stalagmite to avoid them.

“Isn’t that bad—to wish ill for your own blood?”

“Ain’t no worse enemy for a man than his own blood.” Ramaral swiped the clanging flakes off his hip and glanced at the small intruder. He continued, “ We had a fight. There were four of us, and there was this crystal of the sky that Dat found. We fought over the crystal and I almost got it, but Klazhano beat me and took the crystal away. Then we fought over the Small Mountain. I almost reached its top, but Klazhano drove me down and wallowed in mud. Then we fought over a Big Mountain. I almost had it for myself, but Klazhano struck me down with his hammer—which was my hammer!” Ramaral barked suddenly. “I made it! I had the Big Mountain. I almost had the Small mountain. I should’ve had the crystal. I could’ve had it all if not for that son of a cat. He pounded me into this underground with his—my!—hammer, and ever since, he sits at the tops, and I dwell beneath the bottoms. So much for us sharing one blood.” Ramaral glanced at Chosen-One again. “You gotta know what I’m talking about,” he said.

“Well, I kinda do. I was exiled from my tribe by my relatives.”

“You sure know then,” Ramaral said and resumed his work. One chip, the size of a human fist, flew past Chosen-One’s head with a whoosh and stuck in the ground. Chosen-One studied the rock and then watched the actions of the giant. He grabbed a smaller rock, took the piece from the ground, and began mimicking what the giant was doing.

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“Say, big one,” Chosen-One said while working. “What’s that crystal of the sky thing? What’s it good for?”

“I don’t know,” Ramaral said.

“Then what about that Small Mountain? What’s good up there?”

“I don’t know.”

“What about the Big Mountain then? What do you get from climbing it?”

“It doesn’t matter!” Ramaral snapped and hit so hard that the rock on his lap split in half; Chosen-One ducked down as flakes flew in all directions. “What matters is Klazhano trampled on a brother’s honor. He must pay for this.”

Ramaral threw away the fragments of the rock and took another one. So did Chosen-One. Ramaral’s rock was grayish, with smooth sides and sharp edges. He hit it on one side with his hammer rock and a nice and thin flake flew off. So did Chosen-One, but his rock split into two pieces. Chosen-One threw it away and picked up a new rock, the size of his palm, and began working on it the way Ramaral did.

Ramaral kept hitting his rock, chipping off sharp flakes. Chosen-One repeated after him. Ramaral formed his rock into a thin long feather, and Chosen-One did the same with his. Ramaral then took another rock, long, with an acute end, and began flaking the edges of the rock-feather, forming it into a blade—Chosen-One emulated him. In the end, Ramaral made two notches at the wide base of the blade.

“Ah, this is good!” Ramaral exclaimed, studying the finished thing.

“Yes, this looks good!” Chosen-One agreed, finishing his own notches.

“Say, little one,” Ramaral called out. “Why don’t you fetch me a log for the spear shaft? I can’t go up there until I have a weapon—Klazhano will pound me back underground again. Bring a thick and sturdy one.”

“I can’t do that, giant,” Chosen-One answered. “I’m chased after by the angry demons. I cannot go above ground either.”

“Why are you chased?”

“The Boar People cursed the ancestor of our tribe. The curses turned into demons, and those demons guard the edges of the Low Valley where my tribe resides. They chase anybody who leaves it.”

“Oh, well.” Ramaral reached into a small sack that lay by his side—small for him, but huge for Chosen-One. From that sack, Ramaral drew out a blue, perfectly round orb, the color of the sky. He threw it to Chosen-One. “This’ll hide you from the demons. Bring me that log, and I will thank you!”

Chosen-One took the blue rock and went back to where he came from. On the surface, it was early morning. The sun already hung above the horizon—the demons were out in the savanna. Chosen-One quietly crawled out from the gully and looked around. The swarm of demons loomed in the distance, circling above the brush. Chosen-One lay flat on the ground, but he no doubt could be seen because he’d always been seen by them previously. He held his breath and clenched the blue orb. Having mustered his courage, he stood up at full height, ready for everything. The demons didn’t rush to him immediately, though. For some time, they kept doing their ritual above the brush, and only then they rushed in his direction. Chosen-One prepared to feel their sharp claws and fangs, but the swarm flew above him, squawking and screaming. Their noise drew away, subsiding, until it stopped, and the world became quiet. Chosen-One opened his eyes and looked around. “Ha!” he shouted. The demons did not see him—he was safe.

Chosen-One started up and jogged ahead, jumping with delight, singing some foolish melody. The swarm of the demons passed him again, still not seeing or even hearing him. Chosen-One was happy beyond description. He jumped even higher and sang even louder.

He made his way into a grove behind a nearby river and found there a mature, sturdy teak.

“Ayah, how do I fell this tree?” he asked himself aloud. He punched it, pushed it, bent its branches, and checked its roots—the tree stood firmly.

While walking around, Chosen-One stumbled upon a straight stick. He studied one of its split ends and tried to set the blade that he had made onto it, but the blade fell off. He pondered on the problem, wondering what could be the secret behind this craft until he remembered about the notches he made on the blade repeating after Ramaral. He took several twigs from shrubs and separated their thin barks. He divided those barks into fibers, and from those fibers, he weaved a rope. With that rope, he then fixed the spear blade to the stick, binding it through the notches.

Thus, he got himself a spear.

Proud of his work, Chosen-One stood in the grove, looking around. He had a spear, he had a magical blue rock that hid him from the demons. He did not know how to fell the tree and carry it over to Ramaral though. For some time, he stood there, pondering on this new problem. At last, he exclaimed,

“Ah, to hell with that stone man. He can get the log himself.” Carefree, Chosen-One left the grove. Off he went into the plains, right under the rising sun, singing a foolish melody and swaying around his new weapon.

Thus, a human made the very first spear and acquired the very first amulet—all as the result of the very first act of treachery.