Mavaat's Story

Mavaat (image by Lloyd Smith)

I am Mavaat. The decision has beenmade.

The mantra rolled around the warriors’mind slowly, deliberately.

The clan lord has made a decision, and I, Mavaat will obey.

It continued to drift through his mind, though it gave him no comfort and no new insights.

Mavaat‘s massive furred hand dropped to the hilt of his Sereban and his claw traced the intricately carved symbols engraved on the hilt of the killing knife. These symbols bore his identity, his honor and the honor of his offspring. This blade had drunk the blood of a hundred foes and was a reminder of the duty which he willingly embraced. It was synonymous with his name, with his soul.

I am the blade. I am to be wielded and have no choice for I am not the arm that carries the blade, but the blade itself.

“The decision has been made.” He repeated once again, this time out loud.

His speeding mobile passed a lighted intersection, the frozen road was illuminated for a brief moment. He sees several dozen Oathless huddled together around a tiny fire to keep warm.

Mavaat imagined that the patrols would find a few of them dead in the morning as the weather was becoming harsh.

For a moment, Mavaat felt a pang of pity for those unfortunates. Homeless, having no oaths of honor and limited skills, they were becoming the blight of society.

And dangerous, do not forget dangerous. Desperate Maratasen will forsake honor if they have not sworn the oath. There is then nothing to bind their behaviour, nothing to guide their claws, nothing to fight for but themselves.

Mavaat shifted his weight in the mobile, letting his strong tail flex and curl around himself more comfortably.

Better to die an honorable death at the hands of an enemy than suffer the humility of that existence. And that sort of death... He let it trail, the thought sending a chill down his spine.

How to tell the pride? This was the critical question to be considering.

It was not his decision or his preference, but like the blade strapped to his side, he had been given a direction and he must obey. His oath dictates that he must and so he must, and so must his pride. He was sworn, as they were sworn to him. It is simply how things work.

The mobile zipped around the heavily forested park and entered an enclave with dozens of snow covered structures. All around him, the low roofs rose out from the ground, making the snow appear rippled, small gusts of wind sending a light dust over the dune-like scene. The structures were built long and low. This was partially to conserve warmth, partially for defence, this was the territory of his people, his pride. Here his word was supreme.

The mobile stopped in front of the largest building, which towered over the rest of the enclave by several stories, its light grey granite walls warm against the winter scene. This was the home of the pride lord. It was his home these past 32 winters. He paused to survey his lands as he stepped out of his vehicle. It was old, ancient perhaps, steeped in rich tradition and bearing the memories of the several thousand that lived here.

He knew that this home was bursting at the seams. There were many people, not enough space. There should be no more than a thousand living here, and yet room had been made almost thrice that number. There was no more land to claim, and he knew that even war to claim more land would only be a temporary solution. No. The decision has been made. It was the right decision, yet it was difficult. This was his home, the home of his offspring, the home of his pride.

Pulling himself away from his gaze, he turned walked up the frozen steps to enter the central building where he lived and where all pride meetings were held. In ancient times they called it the Houl. Many that still cling to the old ways still call it that. So many traditions have given way since we joined the Concordium he thought.

As Mavaat entered the Houl, he sensed that they were all here. Every family head watched him as he walked through the great door, and strode across the hall to the waiting great throne where he was expected to address the pride. He shook his mighty head, shrugging off the thin layer of snow from his mane, knowing that his mane would gleam majestically. He would look powerful, capable, and unquestionable.

He made eye contact and subtly acknowledged those whom were strong supporters and he bore the mantle of leadership with both power and grace. He was the Pride Lord as had his father and his father before him and again and again for over 400 years. It was an unbroken legacy of honor and an ancient tradition and ancient birthright, proven through the blood of his enemies and the enemies of his forefathers.

How many would he have to kill tonight?

Mavaat sat on the throne and regarded the throng before him. His hand absently traced the engravings on his Saraban at his side as if to draw strength for what would come next.

“The decision has been made” he started slowly, his tail gently thumping the side of his seat with strained tension.

“We will leave for the Quantum Gate in four moons.”

by James Landes