Legends of the Smoke Jaguars Chapter 52
Copan XII
Blood stained the sand of the arena as the Doans broke apart, twenty of them, their young bodies cut in many places. Chests heaved from exertion and twin hearts beat loudly, proclaiming vigour yet remained in their frames. Lips drew back over blood-stained teeth and eyes were chips of anger in pale faces. They were far from spent, the urge to seek redress burned hot, but the great bell had tolled, and the contest was ended. Not one of them dared draw a drop more blood, not with the eyes of the Headsmen upon them.
Aapo's fist clenched his flint knife tight, squeezing the vine bindings over the grip. He had claimed his share of cuts in the challenge, a noble tally, but he wanted more. Xenthus had broken his cheekbone and bestowed many bruises, and blood demanded blood, but the bell tolled again, proclaiming that the laws of Sedaxus were in effect. Disappointed Aapo wiped his flint blade on the back of his leather vambrace, then sheathed it in a knapsack tied to his waist. The other Doans did likewise, eyeing each other warily, marking a tally of insults offered, never to be forgotten.
Aapo made a show of turning his back, knowing violence would not be permitted anymore. Edging out of the flower of youth Aapo had many a scar already, tributes earned in hunts of the Greenskin Orruk menace, oldest and most hated enemy of his order. Aapo was shorter than most of the other Doans, his face blunt and heavy. His eyes were tinted, but white was still visible at the edge and his Black Carapace was flushed with the sheen of fresh-implantation. His pale shoulder bore a brand, a feline skull in profile, the mark of the Smoke Jaguars.
"The strength of Corax was with thee Aapo," a soft voice at his elbow murmured in the poetic metre of Copan.
"Swift was your eye, and swifter your blade Gabo," Aapo sighed.
"Xenthus will feel your cut for many a day," a gravelly voice on the other side chortled.
"Not so long as Itzel remembers your punch," Aapo replied, "A knife is needless, Chaac, when your fists are as stone."
Aapo turned to face his comrades, Gabo was thin and lanky in his leather attire, skin so pale one could mistake him for a veteran. His flint knife was still in hand and wet with blood, but he was not without cuts himself. His Shadow-path grew stronger every day, the gift of Corax that Aapo had struggled to master. Chaac by comparison was broad of shoulder and heavy of tread, his Shadow-path so blunt he nearly shouted his presence to the sky. His lack of subtly was made up for by the strength of his arm and the force of his will. He was an Ambull in a man's form, belligerent and proud, but his eyes watered even in dappled shade, the curse of the Dark One upon their bloodline.
Chaac flexed his knuckles, bone poking through where the skin had been peeled off, "Itzel thought to take my fingers, now he laments his lack of teeth."
"Treasure these moments," Aapo smiled, "Rare are such days."
"The Headsmen allow few occasions for bloodshed," Gabo agreed, "Eager were our hearts to embrace the ritual."
"But will it prove enough?" Chaac asked nervously.
"The sun grows high and the shadows short," Aapo noted, "The hour of choosing is upon us."
The hot summer sun of Copan XII was indeed reaching its zenith, searing the sand with burning rays. Heat shimmer rose off the stained sands, making it seem like snakes danced in the air. The arena was long and overhung with Osier trees, planted high above. They gave the arena a sweet and sticky aroma, counterbalancing the smell of blood and sweat, and their leaves danced in the rising heat plumes. Between the shadows of their drooping branches the sandy arena dwelt, but further back tiered galleries rested in the shade. Sheer walls rose high, carved out of the mountains as a single piece, not a join of stone on stone to be seen anywhere. Leering faces had been carved into the rockface, making the arena seem filled with jeering, laughing or taunting crowds, but Aapo eyed the darkened alcoves above those mockers. Hidden figures lurked in the twilight gloom, their armour veiled and judgement yet to be known.
"The Firsts approve?" Aapo mused.
"Truth shall be made known," Chaac whispered, "They will choose as they will... or not."
"Has it come to pass that any have not been chosen?" Gabo worried.
"Speak not of ill fate lest it find thee," Aapo chided.
Gabo glanced at the alcoves then whispered, "Word on the wind has it Shade-Lord Palanque suffers great losses against the Orruk."
Chaac's lip twitched, "Then the Prowls must seek fresh blood, our hopes are restored. We shall ascend together and be one to the end of our days."
Aapo grunted, "Hope is for fools and dreamers, so teaches the Testimony of Arkqas. The wise listen first and talk last."
"Listening is well advised," Gabo affirmed, "Our time to idle is as the setting sun."
At the far end of the arena a team of three Serviles laboured to heave a thick hawser tied to the great bell, ringing it for the third time. The mortals were sweating profusely but completed their task dutifully as the young Transhumans fell into a line. Heads high, shoulders back, cuts clotting quickly as their wounds closed. Aapo found himself standing next to Xenthus, an odious turn of events, but he forbore. He would not sour his chances with callow displays of spite, not in front of the Shade-Seer.
Down a stone staircase he came, armour dark as midnight and etched with lightning bolts. He bore the Chapter icon on one pauldron and the other was hung with the fingerbones of the wicked, rattling like windchimes as he moved. Many ominous scrolls were bound to his waist, and in his hand was a Transonic staff, topped with a ram skull. But none of this compared to his head, wrapped in a coat of tanned human flesh, stitched together as a mask to cover his skinless features. Mighty spells hung about his shoulders as a mantle and an aura of mystic power was his cloak. Xavaar the Skinned Man, he who walked at the Dawning with the other founders: Sedaxus, Engar, Damolos and Arkqas. Xavaar: Shade-Seer of the Smoke Jaguars.
The Doans stiffened as Xavaar marched past, motionless face betraying nothing of his thoughts, then he spun on his heel to proclaim, "Squad-leaders! Sergeants! You have seen the strength and skill of these Neophytes first hand, measured their quality and courage. To honour your leal service Shade-Lord Palanque offers you their comradery and service. From the days of Sedaxus, first Shade-Lord, this has been the reward of the brave: to replenish your squads and be made whole!"
Xavaar's words were triumphant and yet the archaic language of outsiders ground on Aapo's ear. There was a lack of poetic cadence to the language, short, blunt and choppy. To one born and raised in the flowing speech of Copan XII it was harsh as sandpaper, almost like the grunting of an Orruk. May the Sun-Emperor forgive this offence, Aapo berated himself, to even think of scorning one who had walked at the Dawning was blasphemy.
No further musings were possible as the Firsts began their descent. From the heights they came, bulky figures in dappled Ceramite. Some affected grey vambraces, others skeletal helms and clawed fingertips. Some had animal hides draped over their armour, others Orruk skulls set upon spikes atop their backpacks. Some wore animal fetishes and fangs on sinew-ropes, some wore ornately crafted helms, others went barefaced, but all were fearsome in their own right, blood-soaked killers who were the bane of the wicked and Xenos alike, their names legend. To join a Prowl was to leave the status of Doan behind and become a true Brother, but to earn a name as worthy as theirs was the dream of every Smoke Jaguar.
Gabo whispered out of the side of his mouth, "Kulkulan, First of Deathmaker Prowl, he slew the Orruk Iceslasha and ended his rampage."
Chaac added, "Calakmul, First of Hanged Men Prowl, he stalked the Heretek Anwun of Alar-Median and won the acclaim of the metal men."
Aapo could not help but utter, "Xaipacna, First of They Who Thunder Prowl, a name whose age cannot be surpassed."
More came down, vaunted leaders of their Prowls. Some had inherited names as old as the history of the Smoke Jaguars. Others had forged new names, legends in their own lifetimes, but all of them commanded awe. To become a First meant one must have performed mighty deeds, won the respect of those whose approval was worth having. Every last one of them had claimed a mantle of glory, their status as Firsts not given but earned, their Prowl mates giving fealty out of personal esteem, not imposed rank.
Kulkulan paused before the Doans, black crow feathers hanging from braids in his hair, "Weakness I see, sallow and timid hearts."
"Fire they lack, the murder lust is not in them," Calakmul sneered as the Ayder fangs driven flat across his forehead glistened.
"Soft as a mother's love," Xaipacna mused as he rubbed his bare chin with a red-painted gauntlet, "Their eyes will still be white when death finds them."
Xavaar didn't bother speaking the language of Copan, "They are as strong as you were, Kulkulan, when you stood on these very sands. Stop wasting time and get on with it."
The Firsts fell silent before the Shade-Seer's ire and turned their eyes upon the youths. Like traders selecting a pack mule they circled the line, checking the strength of bicep and squareness of jaw. Kulkulan determined to take three for his Prowl, the Deathmakers brought back to fullness as he led them away. Calakmul chose four, including Xenthus. Aapo ground his teeth that his hated rival was chosen before him, and the smug look cast backwards let him know the petty victory would be treasured forever.
In ones and twos the rest were chosen. Firsts filling their Prowls with the blood of the young. With every selection Aapo's hearts knew greater trepidation, the ranks of his fellows shrinking rapidly. Then Aapo's eyes widened as he saw Gabo was selected, his old friend and comrade in arms joining Ashen Tear Prowl. Aapo had decried hope earlier, but it was easy to say and far harder to do. He watched Gabo being led away, knowing their adventures together had ended. Sorrow was in his hearts and the sun grew dark in his eyes, as they were separated forever.
At the last there were but two remaining, Chaac and Aapo, standing before Xaipacna. The First of They Who Thunder looked upon them and mused, "Two I see unchosen, and yet only one is required."
"Take them both," Xavaar sniffed, "Eleven serves as well as ten."
"The Testimony decrees ten to a Prowl, no more, no less," Xaipacna argued.
"Don't quote Arkqas' scribblings to me, I was there when he wrote it," Xavaar retorted.
Xaipacna turned to Aapo and switched tongues, "With goats your mother lays nightly." Aapo stiffened, every sinew straining at the insult. He yearned to raise his fists, but to strike a First was blasphemy. Xaipacna's cold face peered at his reaction then he turned to Chaac and said, "Your father licks Orruk ass." It was too much, Chaac's temper broke and he lashed out, only to find his fist engulfed in a Ceramite gauntlet. He froze as he tried to pull back, but Xaipacna tightened his grip slowly, cracking knucklebones one by one, as he chuckled, "This one has fire, he shall be a fine fit among They Who Thunder."
Xavaar bowed his head, "The choice is made. Go and make ready for the Shade-Lord's call."
"Come and join me in the darkness of my den," Xaipacna commanded as he dropped Chaac's broken fist.
Aapo could only watch in silence as his comrade was led away. Chaac cradled his broken hand but followed, casting one last sorrowful glance back before he left the arena. His grief was nothing compared to Aapo's, he was unchosen, rejected by the Firsts, his quality tested and found wanting. How had he erred, what mistake had he made, no answer was to be found. Shame burned his spirit to ash, humiliation so total it suffocated his breath. Aapo the forsaken, Aapo the outcast, Aapo the failure. Thus would he be remembered, his name a disgrace forevermore.
Xavaar turned to the lonely youth and sighed, "What am I supposed to do with you?"