The Children of Zzthethpezemos

For many days...no weeks, Turlogh Dubh O'Brien had sailed upon an empty sea. He was as lost as any sailing man had ever been. His dark features were somber and displayed signs of maddening frustration. Turlogh had asked Crom for help numerous times, but thus far none had been forthcoming. The Gael's meager provisions had run out days ago but he persisted, living on the occasional fish and rainwater. The famous axeman manned the sail and rudder alone, three companions he'd had, but one was ill and the other two had been hurled overboard by the storm. Turlogh wasn't certain whether to curse or be thankful for that awful maelstrom they'd struggled through. True enough it had saved his life from the cursed Viking ship that had chased the warrior with grim determination, but now he was hopelessly blown off course and utterly cast to the watery fates.

And fate was strange as Turlogh well knew. A simple trip down the coast of Errin had turned into a deadly game of pursuit when Norse raiders appeared from nowhere and tried to run down the dark warrior's small craft. They would have surely succeeded but for the winds. Turlogh wondered to himself bitterly that perhaps it would have been far better to die with battleaxe in hand, rather than go mad a bit at a time upon an unforgiving sea. "Ah, but for one tiny glimpse of land." And he cared not if a million Norse warriors awaited. "Just place my feet on dry land and I'll ask nothing more," the dreaded fighter promised to himself and his Gods.

Turlogh glanced down at Brenne Mac Art, his companion. The young man was sleeping more or less peacefully for the time being. Brenne's head had been struck hard when he'd fallen during the storm. Sometimes he would be semi-alert, but more often than not the youth would lapse into his present, coma-like state. The boy was young and strong, and if only they could find dry land and shelter, he might survive. There were many druids well skilled at healing but Turlogh knew enough of the sea to sense they had been cast very far away from fabled Errin and its ancient wise men. Occasionally the Gael would pour water into the youth's mouth, and he kept the young man shielded from the sun as best he could. If only they could sight land. Evening was fast coming and the exhausted axeman turned sailor closed his eyes for a few moment's rest.

A pronounced thump gave cause for Turlogh Dubh O'Brien to spring to his feet. To his amazement the warrior quickly realized the ship had hit a reef. His volcanic blue eyes were startled by the sight of large trees and cliffs....land! Turlogh feverishly worked a stout oar in an effort to shove the boat off the reef. The Gael's powerful, corded muscles found new strength as he strained with curses and sweat to force the vessel ashore. Eventually Turlogh willed the craft to a position he deemed close enough. Then he jumped into the cold water and employed a rope to haul his floating prison onto a wide, white beach. The sand glistened under a full moon and Turlogh fell onto his knees to grasp a double handful of the grainy substance. This action served to assure himself the land was real and not an apparition, truly his body and mind were fading fast. Weak from exposure and exertion, he stumbled about on rubbery legs. Through all of this Brenne remained blissfully unconscious. The Gael blinked as he wiped salt water away from his steel blue eyes. His vision was blurred and it had become a struggle to focus. Satisfied there was nothing more he could do at the moment, the feared fighting man of Errin sat with his back against the hull of the boat and fell once again into deep sleep.

Turlogh felt a sensation akin to something sharp against his chest. He awakened to find a very deadly looking spear thrust against his soaked tunic. Another half-dozen equally nasty weapons were pressed close in a similar fashion. Turlogh had never seen warriors quite like those wielding the spears. Their skin had a decidedly yellowish tone. The dark Dalcassian was not altogether convinced that it was a natural hue, perhaps their flesh had been painted or dyed. Their heads appeared clean shaven except for a triangular shaped patch of hair just to the rear of their foreheads. This patch was not large, but the hair projecting forth was very long and completely white in color. This odd styling hung down past the cheekbone, plaited with a colorful cloth bands of blue, red, or green. The warriors were naked except for black loincloths that reached nearly to their knees. About their necks were ornaments that, to Turlogh's utter surprise, were apparently made from gold and silver. Their feet were protected by simple sandals, and about their muscular thighs were bands of a colorful material that might have also been made from cloth but Turlogh wasn't certain. They carried no shields, but some had knives dangling from their waists in simple scabbards made from what leather like substance Turlogh could only wonder.

Turlogh was hauled to his feet by strong hands. He cursed himself for leaving his ax inside the boat, truly his mind had been addled by weeks lost at sea. Still, the yellow warriors did not seem especially threatening. They most likely were as amazed by the appearance of Turlogh as he was of them. However, they were very cautious and kept their spears at the ready. The dark warrior of Errin felt a bit stronger than he had the night before. He was thankful for the ability to stand with a minimum of effort. That at least left him some small measure of self respect. The language of the yellow ones was completely alien to Turlogh Dubh O'Brien. They jabbered on, appearing very excited. The strange weaponsmen pulled Brenne from the boat and seemed to note that he was not well. One especially formidable looking warrior spoke loudly and within seconds a man appeared leading what looked to Turlogh's eyes to be a very large sheep...in fact the beast was nearly as large as a small horse. Brenne was tied across the animal's back. All the Gaels' possessions were gathered from the boat and examined by the yellow men. They jabbered excitedly at the discovery of Brenne's sword and Turlogh's battleaxe. For a long time they mumbled amongst themselves over these objects. Several shot Turlogh a knowing glance. Weaponsmen, even such as these, could quickly recognize objects that existed for no other purpose than dealing cold death to an enemy. Only slightly less interesting to the yellow savages was Turlogh's long black chain mail. The axeman of Errin felt satisfied that these odd warriors had no knowledge of armor despite the bright metal that formed the points of their spears.

Turlogh's hands were bound by a strong cord. Finally assured that they had accommondated themselves of everything belonging to the strangers, the yellow warriors proceeded to march inland with their prisoners. To a degree, these savages reminded Turlogh of the people that had destroyed the ancient city of Bal-Sagoth. The axeman's thoughts drifted backwards to another time when he'd been cast ashore on an unknown land. The people of ageless Bal-Sagoth were destroyed by a race of savage red men. The features of Turlogh's captors were similar to those of the fierce same red men. Other than the difference in skin tone, the two races might have been related. Turlogh wondered again if the yellow coloring was natural. It seemed to the dark Gael a physical feature to odd to be genetic. He had never heard even a hint or legend of a race with bright yellow skin the color of sunlight. It might be this race was worshiped the sun and had colored themselves accordingly.

The journey turned out not to be a long one. The procession had turned back towards the beach at a certain point and suddenly a small village made up some twenty, or perhaps a few more, small wooden huts came into view. These were a simple people Turlogh decided. They probably lived on what they could gather from the sea. The dark Gael noted a variety of unusual fruit bearing plants growing in the vicinity of the village. Women and children scattered about here and there. Soon they all gathered about Turlogh and his captors. Several reached out for a feel of his long black hair. Without exception, the people of the village all had that same white hair as the warriors that had found Turlogh. However, unlike the warriors, the women had full heads of flowing platinum locks. The young girls wore their hair like their mothers whereas the boys sported the same fashion of styling as the men. Turlogh noticed with surprise that the women and children were completely naked except for a small black thong worn by some of the females. The women and girls were not unattractive either. In fact, some were as fetching as the fairest lasses of fabled Errin. The Gael was not so weakened that he didn't take note of several pair of firm, shapely breasts. Turlogh guessed that the entire village made up no more than fifty-five or sixty inhabitants.

Turlogh was escorted in the direction of one certain house that was a good deal larger and better made than the others. The Gael assumed this to be the abode of some very important person, probably the chief. They passed a pen where seven or eight of the sheep-like beasts of burden were stabled. Two warriors guarded these beasts with watchful eyes. Clearly the yellow people treasured their animals.

There were wooden steps leading up to the entrance of the large house. Turlogh and his captors waited while the warrior that apparently was in charge, climbed the steps and spoke some words at the doorway. The door immediately opened and the yellow warrior was let inside. After a short time he returned to the doorway and motioned that Turlogh be brought forth. The Gael was hustled up the steps and into the house. It was quite dark inside and it took the axeman awhile to adjust his vision. The smell of an appealing incense greeted his nostrils and he found himself facing one whom obviously was the chief or perhaps head shaman of these strange folk. Turlogh was immediately captivated by the appearance of this important man of the yellow people. His skin color was the same bright yellow, but in some other aspects he was unique. Obviously, here was a man of great age, although he stood completely erect and his eyes were sharp as razors. He was not nearly naked as were his fellows, rather the old one wore a long white robe that reached to the floor. His arms were folded across his stomach, every single finger was adorned with a ring brandishing gold or jewels. Unlike the others, he wore no patch of long hair, his head was completely bald. Deep lines creased the face of this impressive figure. Turlogh Dubh O'Brien instantly felt a measure awe and respect for this ancient man that the warrior had never felt at meeting some other important person.

Turlogh wore an armlet on his left arm. Strangely, it had not been taken by the yellow warriors. That was well because despite being unarmed, Black Turlogh of the Clan na O'Brien would have died rather than allow it to be removed. It was a gift from King Brian Boru just before the bloody battle of Clontarf. Nothing meant quite so much to the dark warrior. The chief of the yellow ones looked Turlogh up and down, when his blazing green eyes settled on the armlet he smiled ever so faintly.

"They call me Zzthethpezemos, and you'd be a weaponsman of Errin....and a rather accomplished one judging by that armlet. That would be one not easily earned as I recall."

Turlogh was shocked to hear a familiar tongue. The yellow chief had spoken Gaelic although it indeed was a very old form of the tongue and one not oft spoken nowadays. Black Turlogh understood this ancient version of his native tongue for some sects of the druids used a language much the same, yea, even unto this day.

"You speak Gaelic? How is this possible, have folk from Errin passed this way in recent time. Am I closer to those much loved shores than I imagined? Surely I must be for our tongue to be known here?" A mystified Turlogh much desired an explanation of his strange host.

Zzthethpezemos's features flashed the faint smile once again before speaking. "No, Dalcassian warrior, there is much you don't know about me. I am very old, hundreds of years old...yes it's true! I have traveled over much of this world...and seen and heard even more. Once I dwelt in this land you call Errin for more than fifty years. I was fond of it until I grew tired of the never ending wars and intrigues. In truth it was a beautiful but troubled land....might I assume it still to be thus dark one?"

Turlogh replied more puzzled than ever, "yes, it is still a fair land, and true it is a land yet cursed with much war and many liars."

Zzthethpezemos scratched his chin and nodded knowingly as the items gathered from Turlogh's boat were laid at his feet. He carefully examined each object as it was handed to him by one of his subjects. His hands appeared surprisingly strong as they pulled taunt the bowstring of Brenne Mac Art's great bow. The ancient one admired Turlogh's dark chain mail and for a long while he inspected the much used battleaxe. "These are fine weapons, you and your young friend are obviously accomplished warriors."

At that moment Brenne Mac Art was carried in and presented to Zzthethpezemos. "What misfortune befell him?" The King of the yellow people asked.

"We were caught in a great storm and blown far away from the coast of Errin. During the storm, two of our party were swept overboard and drowned. This man fell,struck his head and was knocked senseless. We sailed on lost for some three weeks or more. I tried to keep him sheltered from the sun as best I could. I poured rainwater, and the little wine we had into his mouth to quiet and nourish him. Still, unless there is a great healer hereabouts I fear he will soon pass. Only his youth and the will of the Gods have allowed him to live this long." Black Turlogh answered the questions put to him as truthfully as he could for he did not feel overly menaced by these strangely colored folk, this despite the fierce outward demeanor of their well armed weaponsmen.

The ancient chief knelt beside the stricken youth and prodded him here and there. Then he carefully lifted the young man's head. Gently Zzthethpezemos opened one of Brenne's eyelids and studied the pupils deeply. "You did well, he has a strong chance to live yet. I know something of healing. His brain has sustained a bruise. Still, he is strong and full of life, his recovery might take some time but I shall help him." Then Zzthethpezemos turned toward Turlogh. "I will aid him with his recovery because I myself might require your help.....someday. We shall treat your young friend and then I believe you both might need assistance in making your way back to your beloved Errin. Perchance, we may request the services of yourself great warrior. Lately I have had strange dreams that perhaps foretold of your coming. It is my desire that we be of service to each other myhaps. We shall talk more of this but first you need rest and food. I will see to your friend, still your fears on his behalf. I regret that I must keep you under guard until we know each other better...but of course you understand that. That armlet you wear indicates you are a man of great honor, but there is a chance you simply stole it. I will set a guard of three of my best warriors on you for now. Go, be refreshed, and we shall talk more of many things my friend."

Zzthethpezemos waved his hand and Turlogh was led away. "Fear not for your friend, his fate could scarcly be in better hands at the moment. However, I would know your name as you have learned mine."

"I am called Turlogh Dubh of the Clan na O'Brien...some called me Black Turlogh and still others called me Mad Turlogh because I fight as one insane when the time for the quenching by blood is called for and the berserker rage is upon me." With those words, Turlogh passed a worried glance at the figure of Brenne Mac Art before turning and marching out of the wooden building....three warrior escort in tow.

Turlogh was taken to another house, this one much smaller and simpler in construction. His escort indicated that he was to enter. Inside, the Gael found only the most simple of living necessities. Wooden poles were lashed together to form a bed frame. Across this crude device was stretched some sort of animal hide, and thus a type of hammock had been built. A fireplace was made from ordinary rocks, a metal cooking pot hung over the stones on a spinly tripod made from something akin to iron. The floor was hard sand, packed down from much traffic. However, the entire structure was nothing if not clean. Turlogh sat down heavily in one of two wicker chairs. It was of a hardy construction and held his weight easily. The Gael slumped with his head back, wondering what might happen next. He wished he wasn't so exhausted, thinking was difficult.

Suddenly, the crude door opened and a woman entered. She carried a pot in each hand and was exceedingly beautiful. Her yellow skin, white hair, and sparkling green eyes made for quite a notable appearance. Despite his weakened physical state, Turlogh's eyes moved over her body, settling briefly on the heavy but perfectly shaped breasts. They swayed gently with every movement, but the woman averted her eyes when she caught Turlogh's steely gaze upon her bosom. Just as well thought the Gael who in truth was no ladies man, with difficulty he turned his interests to the contents of the two pots. He had been famished and thirsty for so long that the memory of any other state was becoming just that...a memory. The dark warrior took the pots, one contained fish and vegetables. The heady aroma brought a hint of saliva to the starved man's parched lips. The other pot was filled with some bluish liquid. Turlogh sniffed it briefly and found no offensive odors. He turned it up and drank deeply, surprised at the pleasant taste. It was some kind of strange wine he supposed. Like a thirsty animal, the Gael drained the entire pot within seconds. The drink was strong and his head suddenly felt heavy. The woman took the empty vessel and left, only to return in moments with another. "Ah, now that be a fine lass there, many thanks to you girl," Turlogh said. The lovely woman made no indication she'd heard his words, not that she could have understood anyhow. Besides, Turlogh was no fancy man at court, his life had been about survival, war, and seeking vengeance for wrongs done. Being charming was hardly a skill he'd learned. Even now he was an outcast from his own clan thanks in part to a woman. Still, the generous swell of the yellow girl's overly endowed young breasts was a hard thing to ignore....yea, even for a man half dead.

The woman gave Turlogh Dubh O'brien a simple wooden spoon and he fell to eating as one would expect from a near starved man. Within minutes the food was gone and he drained another pot of the blue wine. "Damn, you're a fine looking lass there," he said to the woman, knowing well she couldn't comprehend a word. Nonetheless, she seemed to catch the tone of his voice and turned her eyes away yet again. Turlogh felt a bit foolish and he realized he was suddenly drunk. The wine was strong and his body was tired. He watched the girl take the pots and spoon and leave. The Gael figured she was only to glad to be gone. No matter, the Dalcassian thought, his need for rest was greater than his desire for a woman.....irregardless of how stunning she might be. With an effort Turlogh dragged himself out of the chair and stumbled over to the primitive bed. He fell across it and was snoring loudly within seconds. His last mental action was a set of quick prayers to Crom and the Christ, in hopes that the woman or her kind wouldn't come back and cut his throat as he slept. But, by the all the Gods she was beautiful. He had scarce seen her equal even in Errin. Then the exhausted stalwart's thoughts were consumed by merciful darkness and changed to dreams.