"The Storyteller´s Apprentice" by Michael J. Walker Esq.

            Deep in the Desert of Fire, hidden beneath the red-gold sand, life flourishes.

            A reclusive tribe of mysterious people lives there, underground, underneath the ever-changing sea of dunes. Few have ever seen them. They are, in fact, thought to be purely mythical in some far-off corners of the world.

            But these people truly do exist. How they survive in their subterranean life, none can say, but one thing is known for certain about these people: they thrive on stories.

            Every night, after the scorching desert sun has set, every last man, woman, and child gather in the largest cavern in the realm to hear a story told by one of old masters.

            You see, storytelling here is not simply a child’s way to pass time. No, in this life, storytelling is a sacred art, taught to only a select few, chosen by the Council of Storytellers. Teaching the new disciple takes years, for before they are allowed to take up their mentor’s position, the student must learn every single story by rote. Each and every tale told in this sacred cavern has remained the same for hundreds of years. When a story is retold for the thousandth, the ten thousandth, the five hundred thousandth time, it is still exactly the same as it was when it first left the mouth of its original teller.

            The pupil’s last task, before he can become a real storyteller, is to tell a tale in front of the assembled tribe. If he weaves a flawless web around the tribe, then the Council awards him the title of Storyteller. If even one word is altered, it means death.

            Tonight was the night of one boy’s reckoning. He sat fidgeting in a chair hewn from the living rock as the tribe assembled in the cavern. His heart pounded as the Council filed in, taking their seat behind the stone bench. The Council was made up of five members, each of them ancient beyond recall. All were renowned as masters of their craft. Formidable figures they were, each with a gaze that could shatter stone. In unison, they all turned their heads towards the boy and his teacher, seated beside him. The teacher stood up, and the boy followed him, and together they walked to the center of the round platform that the stories were told on.

            “Tonight,” said the master. “Tonight is the night where my place is taken by this boy. I know that you will find him more than acceptable.” And with that, the master left.

            The boy was terrified. He knew very well that his life was on the line, and of course he was nervous for simply speaking to the people. For a moment he lost all his strength; the boys knees buckled and he thought that he might pass out, which would mean his demise. But he simply took a deep breath, and kept a clear head, and soon the jitters and nervousness were washed away by calm.

            “Tonight,” he said, “I will tell the story of the lost kingdom of Angurál.”

            He was met with thunderous applause from the masses.

“Millennia ago, right above this very cavern, in this very desert, the kingdom of Angurál stood. Angurál was a prosperous land, and a name synonymous with peace, and love, and harmony. Everyone lived together in a perfect world.

            “The whole of the kingdom was surrounded by an impenetrable wall, thirty feet thick and built of sturdy stones wrenched from the earth. In these days, the wall was used to keep out the unwanted, and armies from rival nations would simply bounce off the wall like water on rocks.

            “Just inside the wall lay the farms, and just after that lay the marketplace and city, and in the exact center of everything, the fine palace of the King stood.

            “The palace was made out of pure white stone, with enormous towers surrounding a central citadel. In this great place, the King lived and ruled, and the entire Royal Family lived in the castle, along with all of the King’s closest advisors and his servants.  The King ruled justly and fairly, and Angurál was famous for not having any rebellions or civil uprisings. Indeed, all seemed well in the world, at least as far as Angurál’s boundaries went.

            “But Jhonán, the King’s closest advisor, was not happy. As is the wont of closest advisors, Jhonán desired power over all else. He did not want to simply be the advisor to the king of the most prosperous kingdom in the land, oh no. Jhonán had to be the King himself.

            “And one night, when he could no longer stand it, Jhonán took an evil dagger and weaved its crooked and cruel blade with dark magick. The advisor then went from room to room, slitting the throats of the Royal Family along the way, and slaughtering the rest of the King’s advisors the same way. After the evil deed was done, Jhonán went back to his own room and feigned slumber, waiting for the dawn.

            “In the morning, all were found to be dead, save Jhonán, and, according to the law of the land, he was now King.

            “As good and just as the old King had been, Jhonán was equally cruel and malicious. He stopped all trade in the city, and tore down all buildings save his own palace, which he forced all of the new serfs to make all the more splendid. Jhonán killed all who opposed him with the same dagger that spilled blood of the Royal Family, and each time he killed he gained more strength. Soon, the streets were rivers of blood, and the stone of the great Citadel that had once been such a pure white were now blood red.

            “But not all were subject to this sick torture. Some of the lesser nobles who had been overlooked by Jhonán took their families and friends underground, into a secret network of caverns that he knew nothing about, and started our fair city.

            “But above ground, Jhonán continued his tyrannical rule for centuries. The secret to his long life lay in the dagger. If he was ever separated from it, Jhonán would crumble into the dust that he truly was, but as long as he kept feeding it with fresh blood, the dagger kept him alive and young.

             “Throughout all of these hundreds of years, Jhonán kept his slaves hard at work with pointless endeavors. He had them simply moving huge boulders from one end of Angurál to the other, or perhaps digging a moat around his huge blood-red palace. Whenever a serf would stop, they would simply be flogged until they got up and began again. And if they didn’t, then the poor soul would die.

            “That, together with the constant sacrifices, thinned down the population considerably. Soon the slaves of Angurál were few in number, but the ones who remained were strong. But the few who were left looked nothing like the fair people who had lived before. They had been transformed by the relentless work and permeation of dark magick in the land.

            “The Angurls had become short, tough things, made out of hard bone and tough sinew to deal with the backbreaking work. Their skin had turned dark and leathery, so the sun did not harm the Angurls. To cope with the lack of clothing and shelter, thick hair had begun to grow all over their bodies from head to toe. Teeth that had once been white and rounded were now sharp, savage things, which were perfect for rending flesh from bone. Because the food was scarce, all too often they were used for just that purpose on one of the more sickly Angurls.

            “Another hundred years passed, and the Angurls numbered only a few dozen. But Jhonán still ruled with his iron fist and twisted knife. Though the Angurls were nowhere near smart, they did of course realize that in the end, either they would die or Jhonán would. And because the primary instinct of the Angurls is for survival, they chose Jhonán.

            “And so the castle was stormed one day, and four dozen Angurls destroyed the entire guard of Jhonán, and were soon inside the tyrannical king’s most sacred chamber: that which he performed sacrifices in.

            “Every visible surface was covered in blood, and there was a dried layer of the stuff at least four inches thick on the floor. Carcasses lay strewn haphazardly on the floor, and some were nailed to the wall. Jhonán stood in front of the great stone altar, sword in hand, ready to destroy the rebelling Angurls.

            “For a short while, time stood still. The Angurls simply looked across the room at Jhonán, and he at them. And then finally, with a bloodthirsty snarl, the chief Angurl charged forward, wielding a stolen blade.

            “The duel that followed between himself and Jhonán was nothing short of epic. It was filled with near misses, and both were always on the brink of destroying the other. Finally, the Angurl chief gained the upper hand, and pinned Jhonán to his own altar.

            “The advisor simply laughed over the crossed blades. His hand darted down to the sheath at his waist, and the evil dagger shone for the brief moment that it was in the air. But before anyone saw, it had been plunged into Jhonán’s heart up to the hilt.

            “The Angurl howled with rage at being deprived of his kill. He pulled the blade from Jhonán’s chest and saw the body crumble into dust, which left nothing but a dark mark in the puddles of blood, which hissed as it slowly began to eat its way into the stone. With another scream, the savage beast plunged the dagger into the stone of the altar, utterly destroying it in a shower of sparks.

            “Then the Chieftain turned away from the broken shards of metal and said simply, ‘Destroy everything,’ in the deep, throaty language that was now spoken by the Angurls.

            “Before a fortnight had passed, the palace of Jhonán and all that remained of the kingdom of Angurál was destroyed, and the Angurls set off through the desert, leaving a wake of destruction in their path. For in those long years of slavery, the Angurls had forgotten how to love and the ways of peace. Now their only way of life was in war, and strife, and violence.

            “And that is why the Angurls still pillage and plunder the worlds above us today.”

            The boy finished. He stood tall and looked to the Council, who would now pass their judgment.

             The five men stood up together, in one motion. They all walked to the front of the platform, eerily in sync with one another. And in unison, they got down on one knee and bowed their heads in front of the boy.

            The tribe’s reaction was indescribable. Noises echoed through the cavern, the clapping of hands and the pounding of feet being only a few of the plethora of sounds. The boy grinned hugely, and he bowed before the Council in a gesture of thanks. Before the applause stopped, the boy felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up to see his master.

            “You have done well, my child,” the old man said. “It is time for me to go, and for you to take up my mantle.” He unclasped the ceremonial cloak that he wore, and put it over the boy’s shoulders. “Treasure the gift that you have been given, and look in every new generation for the one that you will pass it on to.” The master smiled. “Fare thee well,” he said, and walked off into a small cave below the platform, never to return.

            The boy watched with a touch of sadness as he remembered the long years they had spent together as teacher and student. It had been a difficult task to learn all of the stories, but the master had been both a patient and compassionate teacher. Still, he smiled, for he knew that that was the way it must be. For when storytellers pass on their gift, they too must pass on. Where they went, none knew the answer. But the boy was not so eager to find out.

            He was, after all, still just a boy.