[This is not the last Kiljar story, but it is the end of his chronology on this earth. Even now, snippets that fill in the gaps come to me. But this is what all good things must do.]
Kiljar is now forty. He has just helped Volt conquer Lower Egypt unifing the middle and lower parts into a single nation. Yet, he is soul-weary.
Kiljar awoke. It had been a hard sleep. Many days of battle and the revelry that followed his victory had caused him much deeper sleep than he was accustomed to.
Volt snored nearby. It was well into morning. The sun was shining on the plains and two hundred and eighty-six of Kiljar’s company laid sprawled out on the ground by smoldering campfires. They had fought hard against the southern tribes and had earned their rest. In the middle of the camp, the sun lit upon the gleaming treasures and weapons of their vanquished foes.
Kiljar stretched and fingered the necklace that had been the gift of his mother the day he was to be initiated into his tribe. It was too hot to wear the bear-skin cloak his sister had made, but he always kept something on him to remind him of his family, long gone.
The necklace bore the image of Nehel, the Atlatean goddess his mother had been a priestess of, and he wore it even when he felt that no god or goddess listened to him. Kiljar wondered briefly if his mother ever lost her faith.
Pulling himself out of his thoughts, he nudged Volt with his foot.
“Why don’t you just walk home,” Volt murmured in his sleep.
“Get up, friend. We have slept late enough.”
Volt stirred and opened one eye. He looked briefly at Kiljar before opening the other.
“This will be the last night I sleep on the ground. I’m getting too old for this.”
“The palace is yours now. You can sleep there.”
“There’s a room there for you as well, old friend.”
Kiljar was silent and Volt knew now that he truly did not intend to stay. There was a sadness in both men’s eyes.
“Stay at least until the coronation. I’m sure many of these men would be proud to have you there as they are given titles of nobility.”
Kiljar thought a moment then agreed. He would stay until the crown was placed on Volt’s head and his company received their rewards. After that, he would go back one last time to the place of his birth.
The ceremony was glorious. Volt received his coronation on the border of the middle and southern kingdoms, now to be united as one greater Egypt. On the banks of the Nile he was crowned. There he gave titles of nobility to the more distinguished Egyptians of Kiljar’s free company. Those who were not Egyptian -Picts, Gauls, Celts, a Northman or two -were all given lesser positions of power. Some became captains of the guard for Volt or one of his new Dukes. Others became mayors or lawkeepers, mostly in the southern regions to quell any rebellions. Still others were given military commands.
Kiljar was honored with a knighthood, an honor of land (which he left to trusted stewards), and the only standing invitation to a ducal region to a non-native if he ever wished to accept. He graciously received his rewards and forced a smile, knowing he would never use these gifts.
Kiljar stayed one more night, playing stones in the Northmen’s fashion with Volt, drinking mead from afar and ales from local makers. They talked and recounted glorious adventures of days gone by. Twenty-one years they had ventured together. They had slain soldiers, kings, demons, and gods. Pirates, mercenaries, rogues, thieves, warriors, even whole armies had fallen by their weapons. It was early morning before either slept.
Kiljar woke in the late afternoon. He said a final goodbye and left with two trusted men, Ager and Duncan, Northmen who were returning home, and Samir, an Egyptian guide that would take them to the port town of Sachihiro.
Six weeks of travel, mostly from twilight to early morning saw them safely back. Four more days on a ship landed them in Crete. Another ship took them to Saescile in ten days. They took a small boat from there to the mainland and travelled up through the Etruscan lands.
A fortnight of journeying and they stopped to resupply. Kiljar made stops in hidden areas where he had secreted away caches of the years of treasure, weapons, books, parchments, maps, and so on, as well as his family heirlooms. He sold the weapons, books, and maps for a high profit along the way in trade markets. The parchments were all sold to libraries, sages, or wizards.
There was one map he kept, however, for one last adventure. Ager and Duncan agreed to join him for a third of any loot and the goods of anyone they killed. They crossed into the lands of the Celts. Following the map they came to a barren field. According to the map, it had once been an ancient temple to Freia. And here it was said that her famed necklace was stored.
Two hours Kiljar spent searching. A small hole that none of the men could fit into was the only indication that anything was under the ground. The hole itself was of stone, hewn into the ground. They dug around its exterior for an hour but got nowhere.
Ager and Duncan rested, Duncan lighting a pipe. Kiljar kept looking around and coming back to the hole. He would walk around the field and pace back to the hole. He stared at it, prodded it, tried to peer down it, tossed a rock down, inspected it again, but he saw nothing that gave him a clue to its purpose or another way in.
“Maybe Loki could turn you into a rat or snake or something,” posited Ager.
“Few gods have ever been helpful to me. Maybe you should invoke him.”
Kiljar kept poking at the ground around the hole. A small length of chain protruded from the groove he had inadvertently dug. Kiljar tugged on it and felt a slight give. He stood and pulled it from the ground. It ran for twenty feet before stopping.
Ager and Duncan had followed behind him and were now staring at the spot of ground it led them to, waiting for Kiljar to do something else.
He grabbed the chain tight and pulled up. The ground ripped up in a square revealing a narrow staircase, dark and steep. Kiljar nodded to his men. Torches were pulled out and lit and the three descended into the darkness.
The stair went on and on into the darkness. All three men had to turn their feet sideways to descend the narrow steps. Kiljar had to stop and stretch. The monotony of hours of going down stairs was getting to Kiljar. He was moments from hurling himself down the steps when he heard a noise. It was slow and rhythmic. Tap, tap, THUMP. Tap, tap, THUMP. Unless Kiljar missed his guess, it was the rhythmic pounding of a smith’s hammer.
Kiljar picked up the pace and his two companions followed. Minutes later, the stairway opened to a wide hall. Hewn archways held the ground up, marvelous works of art with spirals curving upwards from ground to ceiling. Torches hung from each, lighting the great hall in all directions.
The three men stood with mouths agape. They wandered about until the hammering intruded in their thoughts. They began to follow the sound. Beyond the hall, the came to a room lit by forge fire. The heat swept over them and it took a moment to reclaim their breath. A dwarf stood at the fire. Another pumped the bellows. Neither so much as glanced at the men. Their heavy brows furrowed, their dark eyes focused on the work.
The blade was pulled from the fire and the rhythmic hammering began again. The three humans watched, spellbound, as the dwarves worked and sweated. It was several minutes before Kiljar finally spoke up.
“Good sirs, where are we?”
The dwarves gave a start.
“Quiet! You’ll disturb our quality!”
Kiljar maintained silence. He did not know how long this process would last. An hour later, the dwarves had finished, basking in the marvel of the blade which they had forged.
They turned towards the humans. A look of shock came upon them, as if noticing the men for the first time.
“No! No, this is not right!” The bellows worker yelled and made shooing motions at them. “Humans do not belong! Not good. Not good!”
The other motioned his partner to silence. He approached the humans cautiously.
“My apologies, sirs. But he is right. Humans are forbidden from the dwarven cities. You are not to know that we still exist. I’m afraid we cannot allow you to leave. You must be taken to the king at once. Please comply.”
The three men stared at the dwarves. At last, when the gravity of the situation sank in, Kiljar laughed.
“I’m sorry. I did not mean any rudeness. We will see your king.”
“We will,” muttered Ager. When he saw Kiljar’s look he immediately changed his voice. “I mean, we will! Yes. Of course.”
The dwarves led the men through many twists and turns, from vast rooms to narrow halls. In many places, the humans had to crawl through tunnels meant for dwarves. Kiljar nearly got stuck more than once, but somehow made his way through.
At last they reached an immaculate room, hewn from the stone itself. A throne of silver sat against its far wall. Upon it was a dwarf of proud bearing. A gold ringlet encircled his head. Gold rings bound the tendrils of his gray beard. Rings with large, expertly cut jewels adorned his fingers. He rose with a bit of a start at seeing three humans in his kingdom.
“Greetings!” The King’s voice boomed through the hall. “It has been long since men have visited. I am Róin Ironarms, King of Doráin, the city we are in. What is your business here?”
“We find ourselves here looking for treasure.” Kiljar decided there was no point in lies. “There was a map, a chain and a staircase. We followed all three until we found these skilled crafters, whom we have followed to your glorious throne. We did not know such a place was here or we would not have intruded on your fair city.”
Róin came closer. He looked into Kiljar’s eyes. Weighing the man, he saw deeply within him to a power that was like that of a lesser god of the legends of old. He had not seen a human of this caliber. Tales of men who were beyond mere mortals had stopped in the days of his great-grandfather. Few dwarfs believed such men had truly existed and none would have believed men of that nature still walked the surface world. Yet, here in his presence, stood this mighty man. The eyes told it all.
“You have Atlantean in you. That explains much. We were friends of the Atlanteans generations ago before we were forced into hiding. Perhaps we can still be.”
“I hope so as well,” Kiljar replied.
“I propose a quest. If you succeed, you shall be rewarded with all the treasures you could want.”
“And, if we fail…,” Duncan asked tentatively.
“If you survive your quest, but fail to achieve your goal, you will be well treated here, but you will never leave this place.”
Kiljar, seeing no other options than trying to kill his way out of a city of well-armed dwarves, agreed to the terms put forth by Róin. He stuck out his hand and the man and dwarf shook at the forearm.
“What is our quest?”
For three days, the men marched further into the bowels of the earth. The time meant nothing to them though as no sun or moon was there to tick off the hours. Kiljar did not know how much deeper into earth one could go, but it looked as if he and his men were going to find out.
Róin had sent them deep into the cave system of his city to find a lost item, a bejeweled gauntlet of incredible power said to make its wearer invincible. It had been lost for seven hundred years and all sent to search for it never returned.
Kiljar had no idea what he would find. He found himself reflecting on his deeds and conquests, particularly those of a sexual nature. The last time he had known a woman’s touch was a year ago. She was a woman of his own people, though of a different tribe. A shield-maiden and warrior herself, she had many battles under her belt when she joined Kiljar. Together they had fought off a raiding party of Eastern Picts, drank their weight in mead, and knew each other in celebration. He wondered how she was.
The men continued on. The gradual degrade led them ever lower. The temperature seemed to be rising. Kiljar paused. Convinced now that the dwarves were no longer following the group, he put down his pack. From within he took two treasures out that were beyond measure to him. They were given to him by his “son”, the god Lugh, a thin but amazingly durable armor and a shield with a sun emblazoned on it that had certain regenerative powers.
His men marvelled at these items. Kiljar wished he had Volt’s spear, but for now, these would do far better than anything else they had at their disposal. He gave the shield to Duncan, and told him by invoking Lugh’s name he would be healed of minor injury and the armor he gave to Ager, though it was a bit loose on him, having been made for Kiljar. He told them both items were invulnerable to regular fire, and highly resistant to supernatural flame.
“It is an amazing life you lead, sir,” said Duncan.
“It has been a good run. Hopefully, there is some more of it yet.”
Kiljar did not say it aloud, but part of him was wishing for the run to be over. He was soul weary. But he did have some fight left in him. And that barbarian part of him was itching for blood and adventure, lusting to battle and to slay.
For himself, he pulled both his Atlantean sword and the Dwarf-metal blade of his grandfather and sheathed them on his back in an X pattern. Whatever awaited them in the belly of the earth, he was ready to face it.
While rested, they ate briefly some dried meats and drank a bit of their water. A bit of bread given to them by the dwarves and a hit from a stash of Kiljar’s mead and they felt ready for anything. Onward they pressed.
Another day of travel brought them to a wide bridge, big enough for them to cross abreast with room between and some to spare on either side. On the other side was a much narrower tunnel. It was tall enough for Kiljar to stand, but only by inches. They moved through quickly, Kiljar not liking that there was no room for him to draw a sword if need arose.
Exiting the other side brought them into a hall of great wonder. Here, buried well below the surface was a treasure hoard that surpassed the wealth of the three largest nations on the planet combined. Gold and silver, jewels and gems stretched in every direction. Weapons of every type and mineral lined the walls. Complete suits of armor were displayed at regular intervals in long aisles. Here was a suit of a Scythian warrior. Further down, the slatted armor of the Far Eastern warriors. On the opposite side of that, a leather made armor of the Rus. Beyond that was displayed a tribal armor of reeds from one of the African tribes. Whoever had collected these treasures had gathered them from the world over. Even an Atlantean battle suit was shown off, probably for the first time in generations. Everything here was well kept. Polished and pristine beyond fault, though the armor did show signs of battle use.
A rumbling was felt, like distant thunder. The men pulled their weapons and steeled themselves for a fight. From the far end of the hall, a great shadow rose and took shape. As it neared, it became immensely tall. Fifteen foot high it climbed. It began to bulk out its shape and a flame rose that seemed both to consume the shadow and be consumed by it. A single dark wing arose from the entity’s right shoulder.
“Who visits my hall uninvited? Thieves? You will have not one flake or shaving of my treasure!”
Before the men could react, the spectre took a corporeal form wreathed in fire and darkness. A demon beyond horror with many eyes appeared to them. So frightening was its visage that Ager’s knees buckled putting him at momentary disadvantage. Duncan stepped in and raised his shield in time to deflect a blast of the demon’s flame. Ager regrouped himself and readied. Kiljar was already attacking, swinging both swords and hacking away at all the limbs and eyes he could.
The demon seemed to take damage but was unfazed by it. It kept pouring out fire from one of its hands. The other reached back as a sword seemed to be produced from its back. It unsheathed the blade and rung a true blow down on the shield Duncan held. Though the shield held, Duncan’s strength did not and he went down on one knee.
Ager was already leaping over him, attacking wildly with his sword, mimicking Kiljar in reckless abandon. When Duncan found his strength again, he too joined in, and the three men rained blow after fierce blow on the demon. Nimbly, and often narrowly, they dodged sword and flame.
The battle drug on for several minutes. Ager was beginning to feel the fatigue. He narrowly ducked a spout of fire and swung weak and wild in return, missing the demon and dropping his blade.
Duncan was faring better, though a bit winded. He gouged eye after eye, but noticed after a time they had begun to heal again. He called upon Lugh and found that the scratches from grazes and a bit of his fatigue were now gone. He redoubled his efforts hitting faster and harder.
Kiljar was hacking away for all he was worth at the creature. Though far from exhausted, he felt the muscles begin to strain and burn in his arms. He dodged a sword swing, turning his body in a circle around Duncan’s back and stabbed from the other side of his companion. A true shot punctured another of the beast’s eyes and Kiljar jammed the other sword in after it before moving on to swing at ribs and arms.
An hour passed, then two. The humans were all tired and muscles screamed out in agony, crying for rest. Even the demon seemed to be getting winded, his blows becoming more half-hearted, his fire shooting in wild arcs nowhere near his targets.
Ager was the first to make a mistake. A wild swing caused him to strike the floor, his sword skidding away from him. The demon swung his own blade which Ager tried to roll aside from but still got his leg struck deep. Duncan tossed him the god-made shield, but before Ager could call Lugh’s name, the demon’s blade ripped into the back of Ager’s skull and he crumpled to the ground in a dead heap. Duncan rolled and reclaimed the shield just in time to block another blow.
Kiljar seized the opportunity and lobbed himself at the demon while its back was turned. He brought both swords down on the solitary wing, severing it from the demon.
The demon cried aloud, a painful shriek that echoed and carried upwards even to the dwarven city above. Its height diminished by eight whole feet. It turned on Kiljar and struck out with its sword. Kiljar jumped to the side but was still cut on the shoulder as he moved. He dodged better the second time and Duncan, now behind the demon, jammed his sword into its back, plunging it into what on a man would have been the kidney. The damned creature cried out again, though not nearly as loud or shrill as he had the first time.
This time it did not let the blow distract it. Its target was still Kiljar. Revenge for shoring off its wing. Blow after blow it swung at Kiljar. Most of these he deflected, but his wounded shoulder betrayed him. At a crucial moment, the demon stabbed and the pain in his shoulder caused Kiljar to drop his blade as he swung it to deflect the stab. The blade pierced Kiljar’s flesh and sank into his left lung.
Duncan screamed with mixed rage and shock and buried his blade between the demon’s shoulders until it broke though the other side. Becoming lodged there, it left Duncan without the means to attack. He crouched behind his shield as the demon let out a blast of fire at him. It used both flame and sword, burning and pounding away at the mystic shield. It had assumed Kiljar dead, a fatal mistake.
Kiljar, with his good arm and a last battle cry of unutterable rage, swung out and planted his Atlantean blade inbetween the demon’s ribs, sinking deep into the body. As it turned around, Kiljar leapt forward at it with the grace of a leopard, and gripped the beast by its head. Unaware of the cry of rage he was screaming, Kiljar planted his thumbs into the two facial eyes. Holding this vice grip, even as the flames of the demon burned his hands, he began headbutting it repeatedly. It tumbled backwards with Kiljar still clinging on.
Duncan grabbed a broadsword from a wall of armaments, and wildly plunged it into the spawn of the underworld repeatedly, his own angered yell never ceasing as he repeated the thrusts.
Kiljar released his vice grip and plunged his fist into an open wound left by Duncan’s rampage on the creature’s chest. He felt around, the fire all the while burning at his muscled arm, until he found what he sought. He grabbed the demon’s heart and pulled the deformed and blackened organ out. Crushing it in his mighty fist, he half screamed and half laughed. The demon dropped to the floor with one last piercing shriek and diminished until it disappeared.
Exhausted, Kiljar too collapsed to the floor. Duncan tried to hand him the magical shield, but Kiljar batted it away.
“The wounds are too grave for that to work now, lad. But you hang on to it. Search for the gauntlet and show it to me. I would not have this all be in vain.”
Duncan did as bid. After minutes of searching, he found the gauntlet on a mismatched piece of armor that he assumed was all magical in some way, as it was the only likely common bond the bits of armor displayed would have had with each other. He took it back to Kiljar, surprised the man lived still.
“Beautiful,” proclaimed Kiljar. “We have done well.”
A smile crossed his lips. A twinkle lit his eyes. Then with a last wet gasp, the cold fire that burned in his eyes was extinguished. Kiljar, descendant of Atlantis, was with the gods of his mother, reunited at last with his family.
Duncan hiked alone for days back to the dwarven city. He returned and displayed the gauntlet to King Ríol. The dwarf took it with great reverence. He knew by Duncan’s lone return, and the weary, battered look on the man’s face what sacrifice had been made to retrieve it. He patted the man on the shoulder.
“You may stay and recover as long as you like. When you are ready, you will be given full escort to the surface.”
Duncan bowed wordlessly. He followed a dwarven retainer to a private chamber and collapsed on the simple and too small bed into a deep slumber. He awoke thirty-eight hours later and, as promised, was given escort when he informed the king of his decision to leave. The king gave the boy a small ransom, not even a fraction of what was in the great treasure hoard below that the dwarves would later take, but more than enough for a man to retire on. The Dwarf King also gave him the famed necklace they had sought.
Duncan gave a sorrowed, but honest thanks and bowed before he left.
When the dwarves would later raid the treasure hoard below their city, they would not find Kiljar’s body. Unbeknownst to them, only hours after Kiljar breathed his last breath, a handsome man that appeared to be in his thirties shimmered into being within the chamber. He looked upon Kiljar with pride and sorrow.
He placed his hand on Kiljar’s body. All the wounds sealed up. The burns on his hands, arms, and face healed and vanished without a scar.
“Come, dad. I have a place for you. We will make a stop first.”
The god Lugh took his “father” to see Volt in Egypt.
“I felt it best you heard from me,” Lugh told Volt before showing him the body. “I didn’t want you thinking it was just a rumor and never truly know what happened to your friend.”
“Is there nothing you can do for him, son?”
Lugh looked into Volt’s eyes but could not bear the sorrow he saw there. Speechless, Lugh simply shook his head.
“May I at least have some time with him before you bury him?”
“Of course.”
Lugh stepped out of the room and closed the doors behind him. Through them, he heard snatches of conversation as Volt regaled his dead friend with a few exploits Kiljar had not been around for. At times, Lugh heard sobs. Others were filled with laughter at some great misadventure. Some time later, Volt opened the door, a bittersweet smile on his swarthy face.
“I have made my peace.” He gave Lugh a hug. “Thank you. And please come by some time. I would enjoy seeing you under happier circumstances.”
“Of course,” said Lugh. Jokingly he added, “mom”.
Volt smiled and watched as Lugh vanished with a shimmering glow, taking Kiljar’s body with him.
They appeared on the island of Marune. In the northern part known as Fomoria, a large marble monolith had been erected years before by Lugh. It depicted in various tongues and symbols the defeat of Balor. Images showed Lugh’s spear in his grandfather’s single, massive eye, and Volt as he decapitated a goat-headed Fomorian. But the largest of these was of Kiljar as he tossed Lugh towards his grandfather, enabling him to make his victorious killing blow.
On a blank spot, in every language of man and beast, a new message appeared, inscribed by Lugh’s power:
Here lies Kiljar, descendant of Atlantis, friend and “father” of Lugh. He taught all the gods what a mortal man can do. Now they cower, for Kiljar is in their realm.
Lugh found it entertaining. As if the gods were answering him, to the West thunder boomed and lightning streaked the skies.
He must have arrived, Lugh mused. Give them hell, dad.
Thus ends the days of Kiljar.
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