Storymania - Dor Omhan by Kai Zi Led

Dor Omhan
Kai Zi Led

The Royen people were not famous in history. As individual trees are oft to be lumped together and named as a forest, so were the Royen people lumped with other tribes and named unfamously. In a time before so called 'civilization', mankind struggled to find their identity amidst animals and Gods, and had decided to cling to the only thing they could call their own: land. It seemed every people, every clan, owned everyone elses home in those times. It was common for earth to be claimed right over the precarious heads of men whose families had tamed the area for centuries unrecorded. This was also the matter of the Royen people.
A warrior tribe, they were, and known for their fine hunting and horseman skills. They also were not precarious. When a messanger from a foreign Mekun tribe arrived, claiming that the area between the forest and the Liz river had been their own since the end of the last 'formal' tribal war, the Royens did not apologize for trespassing. Instead, Lor Kheillador, the leader of their camps, came forward on a great steed. He looked steadily upon the horseless messanger, and spoke so no confusion would be made in the returning message. Onlookers watched with eagerness. The next words to be exchanged would decide how they would live out the rest of their lives, and perhaps their childrens. Their minds were filled with all the possiblilities as the two distincly contrasted men came together.
"My father's father was born directly where you stand now," Kheillador said, his eyes searching the strange face for a reaction, "You tell your Clan that they may have this earth only should we ever decide to leave it, and they may claim it so only when their father's father was known to be born here. Let them know I have spoken."
The dark messanger glared up at him, and the taint of restrained anger scented the air. "You bring ruin upon your people, you old fool!" the man sneered, "For from this moment on, no words you or your people have spoken will be forgotton or forgiven! I call that the Royens and the Mekun are at war! When next we meet, my master shall be the one towering above you, Lor Kheillador. Differently, he shall ride no fowl beast, and you shall be headless."
Kheillador let him go without a response. The Royen tribe was silent and not angry with their leader for his words, for they spoke true for them also. They were happy with their land; well enough, anyway, and would keep it if they could. So without further word, they each left to go toil at some task that needed to be finished before the resolute beat of war drums began.
Kheillador finally sighed as he saw his people depart. Shakily, he dismounted his horse and gave it over to his attendant. Age was catching up with him, and he knew it, and soon he would die. In this place, there was no such thing as heirs or democracy, and Kheillador understood that if he should perish before battle, the Royen people would go at war with themselves instead of the Mekun, and all would be lost. Time was running down an untrodded way, and he was just too weary to both keep pace and watch for unwanted stones in his path. So, on thin legs under a heavier body, Kheillador stalked away towards his stone hut, where he would consider what he and the rest of his clan should do next.
Only one other in the tribe shared his worry, and he observed his leader's departure with solemn eyes.
Omhan was seventeen, just in his first year of being allowed to ride into battle and hunt food for his clan tribe. He had much promise, yet it was known that he would never be the bravest of the clan, for he was not of the clan. He had been abandoned among the forest as a boy, saved only by his pitiful wailing that still stung in the ears of those who had found him. Among those had been Kheillador, who had conspicuously not spoken a word to Omhan since that day, perhaps because he was embarressed of what he said. But Omhan would never forget his kind words, all those years ago. 'It's alright to cry,' Kheillador had whispered, taking the boy in his arms to warm him against the chill, 'The heavens cry all the time, and that's what we pray for, the rain. Go ahead and cry, but remember that too much rain and tears can flood a land... or a person's heart." No other words ever spoken to Omhan had ever hurt more, for he hated to be known as weak. Yet at the same time, gratefulness had filled him, but that only seemed to add to the shame.
Kheillador was the only man to ever show Omhan true compassion. Kindness only once felt could never be forgotten. His own father had been a liar and thief, dead at the hands of justice for many years; and Omhan's caretaker, Efalo, while fair at most, was certainly not good-natured. The men of Royen were a tough breed, and male support was never a common practice in the clan. The weight of Lor Kheillador was as much a burden to Omhan as it was for him, and he longed to ease his torment. Yet trapped in their society, he could not shame his beloved leader by asking what he could possibly do to help.
Resigned for the moment, Omhan looked up at the growing evening and considered what part he would play in the upcoming war... and wondered if he even had a choice in the matter. Touching his sharpened dagger that hung sheathed at his waist, he pondered if keeping the accursed land was worth the cost of so many lives. Yet, as he walked home later that night, he could not deny the suddenly violent heart-strings inside of him that began to play every time he thought of all the glory to be had.

It was a month before the they received word of the Mekun, for there were no reliable works of communication in those times. From word of travellers, the Royen learned they were finally on the march, coming up from the hills to enter through the south by foot and carrying a few weeks worth of store. Their scouts verified it, and the folk knew their drums would soon begin to bleed.
During that months time, the camps of the Royen clan had been busy building weapons and training their warriors. To the dismay of the tribe, Lor Kheillador had fallen into deep seclusion. He was hardly ever seen, but since his orders for preparation continued, the people said naught. Omhan also said nothing, but his eyes strayed often towards Lor Kheillador's house, where he knew the old man was sitting deep in thought.
Omhan was shocked when he assigned to ride first into the fray, for it was both honorable and unexpected for one of his low rank. After many congratulations from his companions, he ran through the brush around his home to let the moment sink in. His eyes were bright with emotion, green and glistening like morning grass; yet still brighter when he spied the shrunken figure of Kheillador wandering among the trees. His back was bent as if he was burdened by his own thoughts, and he had lost a lot of weight. Omhan, caught up in his happiness, thought the old man would be proud of him when he heard of this great esteem given to him. Hesitating only for a moment, he called out to him in his contentment.
"Hark, Lor Kheillador! It is Omhan, do you remember me? You shall never guess, but I have been assigned to ride first into battle! Tell me, what have you to say, now?"
The old man had halted his steps at the first words, but now he turned to look at the boy. His bearded face was filled with undistinguishable emotion, but if Omhan should guess, he would have called it frustration.
"You are so eager to die, young Omhan?" he called back, his voice cracking with age, "Realize you not that riding first is not only brave, but also a death sentence? The Mekun have arrows, in numbers for what they lack in horses, and they will shoot down most of the first rush of our people within the beginning moments of battle. Oh, yes, I know you, Omhan. You are hard-headed and inexperienced, and for that will surely perish. You obviously have not yet realized you go into war. You ask what I would say? I say this; I believe you are as good a choice for the start as any, since you are so willing to be a sacrafice. There are others who would have woe to be in your position, for they cherish life. "
And with that, he began to turn away. Omhan stood in anger, and also sorrow, for those thoughts of the old man must have been from the heart for him to say them so. In one last desperate thought, Omhan called forth once more.
"Those are the first words you've spoken to me for five years, Kheillador. And, no, I have not forgotton what you said to me, that loathsome day I was found, whimpering like some whipped animal. Am I so eager to die? No, but I am very willing to never be weak like that again. I will ride to my doom first!"
Perhaps the old man faltered once in his steps, but of that Omhan was never too sure, and he continued on down the path until the leaves and shadows consumed him.
Hurting, Omhan turned in the other direction to go and prepare himself for the fighting. Still in his opinion, the Mekun's had no idea who they were facing.

The next morning beyond the enshrouding mists, before the sky had turned fully to light, came the mournful sound of a hunter's horn. Sad though it sounded, and eerie in the ghostlike dawn, it sparked fear and excitement in the hearts of the Royen, who were up and arranging themselves at once for confrontation.
Omhan was among them, freshly awakened and eager for the battle to begin. No other warrior could possibly have been as proud as he, mounted upon his horse Greffor and galloping in allignment with his friends and companions to the valley. It was in that valley, he knew, that great deeds could occur, and honor could be won, for those even as lowly as Dor Omhan.
Something in Omhan changed, as he and his companions rounded a bend of trees. He didn't know what it was, but it tickled inside of him, and made him uncomfortable. He glanced at the man riding next to him, Jrudam, to see what his attitude might show.
Jrudam looked cautious. His eyes were skittering among the boughs, as though they were searching for something. A Mekun bowman, perhaps? Was an ambush possible? No, thought Omhan, they would not be after the valley, for they had no horseman that could make it to the forest so early. Be brave, Omham chided himself, Be brave.
A streak of sun broke through the mist and wood, making something in the hands of Jrudam shine. Omham looked at the thing curiously. Silver, it looked, with an emblem of a sort. A bird? Jrudam was fingering it as if to remind himself it was there, a thing of great importance to him, maybe. Before he could comtemplate the thing anymore, Jrudam noticed he was being stared at, and matched Omhan's gaze. Omhan quickly pretended he hadn't been looking, but Jrudam had already decided to explain the trinket anyway.
"It was... my wife's" Jrudam said, much to Omhan embarressment,"An earring. I had it made for her on our wedding, but she would not except it. She told me, when I presented it to her, 'Women of the Royen clan are not given their earrings. They rip them out of the cold ears of their enemies, or they do not walk fashionably adorned at all.'" Jrudam smiled fondly in rememberance, but touching the earring once again, he sighed. "She died last year, and I have not had the strength to rid myself of it's enchantment. For on the earring is the emblem of a peacock, a proud and beautiful creature, as was she. She enchanted me."
Jrudam held it up to the sunlight. Now on a chain, and sparkling with all the laughter of the heavens, the earring was placed around his neck and tucked into his leather tunic. He turned to look piercingly at Omhan, and it seemed all the boy could do was listen while trapped in that gaze.
"I will die this day," Jrudam said softly,"and I could have brought with me all things with which I would be buried. I brought only her earring. I would have no other treasure prettify my earthly departure."
Omhan wanted to ride forward, away from this man who seemed so unafraid to show his heart. Yet Omhan did not want to be the one to run from this confrontation. A strange one, it was, but it was a confrontation of its own sort nonetheless.
"I did not ask about the silvery thing," Omhan returned proudly, and sat straighter on his horse. "I myself have brought nothing to buried with me, for I shall not be killed this day. I fight to win battle honor, not to win sorrowful burial prayers." And to show Kheillador I'm not an incompetent, he thought.
Jrudam looked startled for a moment, then laughed. His merriment filled the air, and nearby men looked annoyed at the out of place sound. Omhan, poor Omhan, was once again placed in angry embarressment.
"Laugh naught at my intentions, Tender Heart," Omhan demanded, and Jrudam ceased his laughter in respect for the boy's hurt pride, yet he allowed himself a small smile.
"A tender heart I might have," Jrudam grinned, "But a heart that's seasoned is better than a head still raw with inexperience. I will give you a lesson, boy, so shut your mouth and please attend to it."
Omhan's face clouded, but he still waited for him to speak.
"You may indeed live through this day, and win honor. So many other men wish to. But I see in your eyes that you believe this honor to the best thing in the world, you believe it to be your betterment, perhaps. I know otherwise. No, it is not. the best thing. I know the best honor you will ever find is the love of another. I may best a thousand men in combat, and win the respect of many. But skills of back and arm are only bone and flesh. Let me say this; I will never,ever know more happiness than when I was with my wife. Her love and devotion alone was more honor than my pride could handle. Live this day, Dor Omhan. I want you to learn this for yourself, as well. "
With that, Jrudam kicked his horse and galloped forward, his face grim but strong. Omhan was left speechless. Love? Love was more honorable than battle? He had never heard such a thing! Surely Jrudam was some fool tenderheart, clearly unfit for a Royen warrior! Yet that feeling inside Omhan grew, that feeling he now recognised as fear. He did not want to fight at all, did he? He clasped his sword that hung loosely now on his waist, ready to be unsheathed. In his grasp it seemed so foreign... no, he didn't, not in the least.
Once more he raised his eyes to gaze at nothing in particular and sighed shakily. He was riding into battle. He could die. If he died, would Kheillador feel a pain in his heart, or turn his face in shame? Omhan felt something wet start in his eyes, and he shook his hid to be rid of them.
Suddenly, a call from up ahead was heard, and Omhan immediantly recognised it as Lor Kheillador's, and it made his heart lift.
"Forward! Forward all! Honorable men, go onward!"
Omhan was surprised to find that the first group of men had cleared the trees and now were galloping into the valley.
"Honorable men," whispered Omhan, "Go onward..."
Brandishing his weapon, Omhan rode into the fray, knowing only that he rode for his love of Kheillador.
Kheillador watched him pass with a despondent gleam in his eye, and nodded once in recognition of the boy's bravery. But then the affair was upon him, and everything was dark.