Shaman Mardoc Poem

Prologue

The Barren Hope of a Shaman Mardoc “You will not save them all,” Its mentor had once said. “If you save one, rejoice in them as I have in you.” The Shaman looked down at its fallen charge. The dead mardoc lay still. The tall grass shrouded its bulbous head, as streams of black blood rushed from holes in its neck and throat. To human eyes, the fallen mardoc might have looked asleep, but the Shaman could tell the difference. The luster of its green-brown scales had dulled and its bug-like, pupil-less eyes no longer glowed. Its eyes were still red, however, even in death it bore the mark of its slavery. It had begged for death. The voices of the false gods had pounded its mind. In less than a day, it would have turned on the Shaman

Dry grass crunched under the length of its long torso. It pulled its dead friend close, laying the dead mardoc’s back to its chest as it would have in life. A deep purr rolled from the Shaman’s throat, a chortall, used to calm a disturbed mardoc. The Shaman chortalled one last time for the fallen. This was not the first mardoc the Shaman had to kill since its ascension and, it knew, it would not be the last.

The Shaman wiped an oak leaf off of the dead’s black teeth and whispered into its ear-blub, “May you find peace in whatever comes after.” “Shaman.” A red-eyed mardoc stepped from the cover of the surrounding birch

With its long, black claws the Shaman cut a few branches off the living birch and oaks. The pile of rocks and wood laid over the body was not an adequate grave, but it would have to do. After one more examination of its work, the Shaman ran out of the clearing. It would grieve later. It knew the scent of each of its mardocs. If it did not delay too long, Guardian and Runners trail would stay fresh. It loped to a tight collection of birch. In the deep shadow of the trees, its charges were safe. The Shaman roared low for a few seconds and then changed to a higher rolling cry. He repeated this pattern three times. Red spots materialized under the dim of the trees. As they rushed closer, the shadows of eight-foot-tall creatures filled the view. The sight would have made a human scream, but it gave the Shaman hope. Eight mardocs still fought the false gods to free their minds.

Its guide had said it would not save them all, or even most of them, but there was still hope.

The one the Shaman thought of as “Glutton” slunk forward. “Is that one dead?” Glutton spoke of the mardoc the Shaman had to put down.

The Shaman