1. The Bokora Chronicles; The Rise Of Tubula’s Bane


The goblet smacked down onto the table, its contents sloshing about in the act.

‘Damn him!’ the drinker said as the news reel reported of another attack from the rebels. ‘Damn him to Kikirask’s Island!’

‘It doesn’t look good,’ the tavern master agreed, his dark eyes fixed on the televiewer.

The film footage being shown was about the rebel attack on the warriors’ barracks, the names of the victims were being scrolled from the bottom up on the left side in ogham. This was the fifth major attack against the Ne’khan dominion of Tar Nilum and it would have been understandable if the attackers had been remnants of the people who originally dominated Tar Nilum, but the rebels were fellow bokora from the clan, and everyone knew the name of the leader and what position he had held.

‘Tubula’s head will roll when the Lord Ne’Khan gets a hold of him,’ the drinker (an inventor called Balak) commented, getting a few nods from some of the other tavern tenders, ‘Since his declaration against the chieftain, it was only right that he lost his position of War Lord.’

‘He is no bokoran,’ said another person next to Balak. This comment got a few cheers but got the speaker a blow round the back of the head from Balak.

‘Watch your mouth, Yanoff, you don’t know if any of the traitor’s lackeys are listening in.’

‘But your workman speaks truth, Inventor Balak,’ the tavern master replied, turning his attention away from the screen to look at him. ‘Tubula has lost all rights to be called a brother bokora. He has certainly lost his right to be part of the Ne’Khan clan.’

The tavern master saw that Balak’s goblet was nearly empty and refilled it.

‘Didn’t Yanoff come from one of the orphanages that Tubula’s rebels attacked?’ he asked as he finished filling the goblet.

The inventor snorted.

‘Aye, three days past and poof, in flames. No one left standing from what I heard. Glad I got this one a day before the devil turned his attention and lasers onto the place.’ He gave a harsh laugh and struck Yanoff around the back of the head again, his dark red hair falling forward as his head pitched from the blow. ‘He’s ugly as a Ter’Kiha, stupid as a Perik Mule and an attitude to go with it, but with a good beating he’s as good as you could hope to have.’

Yanoff’s hand tightened around his goblet, threatening to embed his fingerprints into the metal.

Ugly as a Ter’Kiha? Stupid as a Perik Mule? And an attitude to go with it?

He had no knowledge at how a parent should act, but this was certainly not how he imagined to be treated as a foster apprentice to a well-respected inventor on Tar Nilum. At first he had been excited at the prospect of being adopted into the care of a weapon’s inventor as he would learn both how to make a living and also learn the skills and techniques of weapon’s play. He got both of his wishes but at the cost of being beaten, insulted and given low pay.

At times he had wished he had stayed at the orphanage and someone else had taken his place, but within a week of being bought by Balak, Tubula attacked and destroyed the orphanage in a strike against the Lord Ne’Khan’s War Lords recruting more warriors to be trained. Many of his friends had still been there when the attack came and all of them were killed as they fled from the rebels.

Yanoff longed to be the one to strike down the treacherous War Lord and avenge his fellow orphans, but he knew that day would never come and all he could do was to help his father master to supply the Ne’Khan warriors with weapons designed to do their jobs.

But he wasn’t going to put up with any more insults and beatings tonight.

He rose from his stall, fished around in his pocket, slammed his meagre collection of coins on the bar and, ignoring Balak’s orders to stay put, left the tavern and wandered the streets under the starlit sky. He wandered about aimlessly through the town, wishing and praying to Father Bokora to change his life.

What Yanoff didn’t know was that events were beginning to fall into place that would ultimately change his life. It was sometime close to midnight that the start truly began.


            the bocora chronicles


Balak was awoken from his dream as someone not only pressed the doorbell several times, but was also threatening to break the door down.

‘By the beard of Father Bokora, I am coming!’ he yelled as he climbed down the stairs, clutching the side of his head in one hand as the after-effects of the alcohol began to leave its mark on him.

Coming to the door, Balak reached for his hand held laser, just in case it was a thief or one of the rebels, before opening it slightly.

‘What do you want at this unholy hour, don’t you know that I was sleeping?’ he said in a loud voice, the pounding in his head getting worse from concentrating on the figures outside.

‘And what did you do in the evening then?’ an angry voice snapped back at him, ‘Drinking the place dry by the smell of things. I would have expected better from you.’

‘Expected better from me?’ Balak roared, his temper rising, ‘Do you know who you are talking to?’

‘How dare you speak to the Lord Ne’Khan’s advisor like that!’ one of the other figures said along with the distinct sound of laser activating and the lights of the blue tracking sensors locking onto him.

Balak fell silent when he learnt to whom he was speaking and kept very still in the light of the warrior guard’s lasers.

‘My…my apologies my Lord,’ he stammered, opening the door fully and turning on the lights before bowing to the Lord Advisor. ‘I did not see you clearly. Blessings of Father Bokora and Father Ne’Khan…’

‘Don’t give me that!’ the Lord Advisor said, entering the premises with his escort. ‘I’ve been standing outside for the last quarter of an hour waiting for you to let me in. And I don’t expect to be kept waiting for you to do your job.’ He looked down at Balak with his pale blue eyes.

The Lord Advisor’s name was Kisnel and he was one of the oldest bokora still alive. The difference in age between him and Balak was quite obvious. His once shoulder length black hair had gone grey and the youthful body which he had possessed was now a memory of the past. He was dressed in fine clothes which were covered by a travelling cloak and the reason for his visit wasn’t a social one.

‘I trust that you have finished the chieftain’s order?’

‘Yes, yes I have,’ Balak answered, still trying to get on Kisnel’s good side. The advisor’s noble status tattoo on the skin around his left eye was visible now that he was in the light.

Balak led them to his workshop where he told them to wait while he went to get the special item.

‘Yanoff!’ he called, not realising that his workman was still out, ‘Get some refreshments for our guests!’

He came back a few moments later carrying an elongated object wrapped in purple cloth.

‘This,’ he said, laying it down on the table before Kisnel, ‘is the order the Lord Ne’Khan wanted. Exact to the detail he wanted.’

The cloth was pulled aside, revealing a sword of elegant design. It looked similar to the usual gladius that the warriors used, but the metal was polished and elaborate patterns decorated the blade. On the hilt were embedded the elongated oval of the Ne’Khan clan with gold and on both sides of the blade’s centre, written in ogham, were the words in the religious language, Retul: ‘Tulak mu kaen esos als arimi, mi stro’hal Ord mu ikbournik ken, turnish sholunza.’

‘Fear me all those who are my enemy, for as long as my Master wields me, he shall never fall’.

Kisnel picked it up and examined it. The workmanship was excellent, it was light and handled well, but would it stand in battle? With a nod to the warrior guards he handed the sword to one of them while the other drew his own. They sparred for a full minute until the one with the newly forged sword won the fight.

The sword had passed the test.

‘This is perfect,’ Kisnel said, covering the sword back in the purple cloth, ‘You have fulfilled what was asked of you. Here is the rest of your pay.’

Balak caught the pouch that was thrown at him, his hangover suddenly disappearing as he opened the pouch to count the money in it.

‘You didn’t draw blood with it, did you?’ Kisnel asked just before he picked up the bundle.

‘No, it’s still clean,’ Balak replied, pocketing the pouch and showing them to the door. ‘I hope that that satisfies you fully.’

‘It does,’ Kisnel said as he and his warrior guards stepped outside.

‘Well, may Father Bokora and Father Ne’Khan give both strength and glory to the chieftain.’

The door closed behind his guests and Balak relaxed before heading towards his money chest.

He had just finished placing the payment into it when the door bell rang again.

‘Who is it this time?’ Balak grumbled as he went to open the door again. That would be the last mistake he would ever make.


Kisnel, with his escort, made their way through the streets. It was beginning to rain and they were in a hurry to get back to their lodgings. They turned around a corner and one of the warrior guards was jumped on.

‘Attack! Attack!’ the second warrior guard shouted as he moved in to protect the Lord Advisor.

The first warrior guard tried to defend himself, but his assailant drew out his knife and stabbed the warrior in the wind pipe. Though protection suits protect the body from swiping attacks, they cannot protect the wearer from strong stabbing attacks.

With his victim dead, the attacker turned to attack the other warrior guard but was cut down by the guard’s laser. The warrior guard then fended off another attacker appeared from out of the shadows, but was brought down as a spear was thrown into his back by a third attacker. On his own, Kisnel drew his dagger and tried to protect the package that he carried, but it wasn’t enough.

The two rebel warriors beat him and took the bundle from him.

‘This is it,’ one of them said to the other after checking the contents, ‘Lord Tubula will be pleased.’

‘Go to him and I’ll finish this one off,’ the other replied.

When the rebel carrying the stolen sword was gone, the rebel standing over Kisnel retrieved his spear and faced the Lord Advisor.

‘Long live Tubula.’ he said, raising the spear above his head.

Before the spear struck, however, the rebel was bowled over as Yanoff barged his elbow into him.

Yanoff had been by the river and was on his way back to his father master’s place when he heard the cry of ‘Attack’. He ran as fast as he could but was unable to stop the rebel running off with the purple bundle, so he went to the defence of the Lord Advisor.

The rebel glared at the youth.

‘You’ll pay for that!’ he snarled and threw the spear.

Yanoff ducked and as he did so, he grabbed Kisnel’s fallen dagger and leapt at the rebel. Once he was in range, Yanoff thrust the dagger into the rebel’s gut, penetrating the protection tight and striking a major organ. He struck three times in quick succession and as the rebel doubled over, he brought the blood-soaked weapon up and stabbed it under the rebel’s mask and into his chin.

‘Die, traitor,’ he spat, allowing the corpse to fall to the ground. He then turned to Kisnel.

‘Are you alright, my lord?’ he asked.

Kisnel said nothing at first as he stood up and dusted himself off. He looked at Yanoff, studying his features, taking account of the red hair, the civilian status tattoo and how calm he seemed to be after the kill.

‘That was the move of Merbell.’ he finally said to Yanoff, ‘It is only known to members of each clan’s royal family. How did you come across it?’

Yanoff didn’t know how to answer.

‘It was something I’ve known from birth,’ he eventually replied.

Kisnel continued to look at him and a verse from old studies came to him.

The chosen one will arise to glory,

He will be shown to you by these signs.

Hair as red as the blood of his enemies,

Spilt by the powerful attack of royals.

But just to be sure, Kisnel asked, ‘You’ve killed before. When?’

‘When I was a child before being placed in the orphanage. Some slave traders tried to take me and made the mistake of allowing me to get a hold of one of their side knives.’

Kisnel only continued to stare at Yanoff, many of his quires unanswered.

‘Could he be the one?’ he thought to himself.

The sound of running feet and the growls of wolf hounds brought his attention back to the world.

Remembering the curfew, Yanoff was about to run off when Kisnel held him back with a promise to vouch for him. When the night-watch, comprising of a small group of warriors, two hunters who were skilled silent trackers and four large wolfhounds, came to them Kisnel answered all questions with no challenge to his authority over Yanoff.

With all questions answered, Kisnel escorted Yanoff back to Balak’s home, but they found the door shattered and the place wrecked.

‘Who could have done this?’ Yanoff asked as he bent over Balak’s blood stained corpse.

Kisnel looked at the variety of unfinished weapons scattered all over the place.

‘I believe,’ he said, slowly lifting a few pieces of metal from the floor, ‘that Tubula came looking for the sword that the Lord Ne’Khan requested, but when he couldn’t  find it here, he sent his warriors to take it off of me.’

‘Sword?’ Yanoff asked, turning from his dead father master to look at the older bokora. It might have been against his better judgement, but Yanoff started to trust the Lord advisor to like him even as a friend.

Kisnel stood up, allowing the metal pieces he’d been holding to fall to the floor.

‘There was a sword that the Lord Ne’Khan ordered to be forged for him when he comes to Tar Nilum as a show of his respect to the men and women of the clan and they him,’ he sighed. ‘The worst of it though,’ he continued, looking downcast, ‘is that the sword has yet to be named and it was going to be the Lord Ne’Khan’s honour to let it taste blood.’

Yanoff stood silent, shock on his face.

An unnamed sword!

It was customary for some of the warring clans like the Ne’Khan, the Sh’Khan, the Za’Khan and the Or’Khan to only name a specialised weapon like a sword after it has killed an enemy or felled a deadly beast as a sign that it would be revered by those who followed it and be feared by its enemies. It was a sacred thing, especially to the royal families and honoured heroes of the clan. The greater the kill, the greater the name would be honoured.

Sometimes the name would be inscribed on the weapon itself so that it would never be forgotten, but more often the name would rely on memory alone to keep it alive.

A sword that hadn’t been named yet was a dangerous thing, especially when it was in the hands of your enemy.

‘What if that traitor Tubula uses the sword to challenge the Chieftain for the title and name the sword in his blood?’ Yanoff voiced the horrible thought.

‘My thoughts exactly,’ Kisnel replied, giving at the young bokora a serious look.

‘We have to warn the Chieftain,’ Yanoff stated, beginning to head towards the door when Kisnel called back to him, ‘There’s no point trying to tell him now, he’s not on the planet and even if there was a communication viewer on at this time of night, the Lord Ne’Khan will not want to be disturbed from his bed.’

Yanoff stood for a while, feeling strongly that it was his duty to the Ne’Khan clan to warn the chieftain of the supposed plot, but at the same time he knew that his status as a civilian wouldn’t be taken seriously even if the Cheiftain and the rest of his nobles did listen. As much as he hated it, Yanoff had to do as the Lord Advisor said, and wait until day before warning him.

‘Shall I prepare a room for you?’ he asked Kisnel, vaguely gesturing at the door.

Kisnel shook his head, thanking Yanoff for the offer but saying that it wouldn’t be wise to stay any longer as Tubula might come back again to make sure that nothing was left. He told Yanoff that he would head back to his rented lodgings where it would be secure from attacks and was a lot more homely than Balak’s broken place.

‘If you lead, I will follow,’ was all that Yanoff said, standing by the open door.


                        the bocora chronicles


Kisnel led the way to his lodgings (a villa-like apartment with a few slaves tending to the guests who were there). Inside were statues of the Ne’Khan heroes of history and a small temple with the statue of Father Bokora standing over a small fountain. His son, Father Ne’Khan, stood in a smaller temple with no fountain. These statues were placed in an internal garden where rare plants grew, their flowers blooming in colours that suited the hero they grew near. Holographic images of each world and space station owned by the clan lined the hallways of the villa, their names and status were shown to the side.

After walking down one of the hallways, Kisnel, reassuring Yanoff that it was alright, opened the door to his room and prepared to go to bed.

During the rest of that night, Yanoff felt strange. Here he was, a civilian, in a villa made especially for nobles as a guest by the courtesy of one of the highest standing bokora in the clan. It didn’t seemed real and if it wasn’t for the fact that he was lying in one of the beds Kisnel had offered him, he wouldn’t have believed it himself.

What had Father Ne’Khan, or for that matter Father Bokora planned for him? What would become of him in the morning?

The sun of Tar Nilum rose just as the streets began to fill with jubilation as the news of the Chieftain’s visit reached the ears of the people. Civilians gathered at the port in the hope that they would see him, while many nobles prepared their houses, lest the Lord Ne’Khan requested to dine with them.

It wasn’t until midday that the royal carrier ship descended down into the port, landing with a ‘phwsss’ as it came into contact with the ground. Since the port was open to the atmosphere, the crowd that had gathered watched the carrier doors open and a long line of a guard of honour for the guest.

The Lord Ne’Khan stepped out into the fresh air and was greeted by cheers and a rain of sweet smelling flower petals. A slight breeze blew at his purple robe as he walked down the ramp and onto the lit pathway, the warriors on either side saluting as he passed them by.

Both the city prefect and the Lord Prefect of Tar’Nilum moved forward to officially greet the Chieftain, their red garments billowing in the breeze.

‘Welcome, your Highness,’ they said together, bowing before their lord and master.

The Lord Ne’Khan thought it was strange that Kisnel, his trusted advisor, wasn’t there with the prefects, but since he knew that the Lord Advisor’s health had gradually deteriorated in his old age so that getting to places on time proved a little difficult, he didn’t worry too much.

A podium was set for him with a small group of hooded priests next to it, the high priest holding a purple bundle.

Ah good, the Lord Ne’Khan thought, Kisnel hasn’t failed me.

Standing on the podium, the chieftain of the Ne’Khan clan spoke to his people, his voice reverberating around.

‘My people, good Ne’Khan bokorans, it is by good grace that I have come to you.’

Cheers and cries of ‘Long live the Chieftain! Long live your Majesty!’ resounded around the port’s exterior, travelling down every street.

‘I have heard the pains you have suffered under the ever present threat posed by the devil of a traitor Tubula and his lackeys.’

At the mention of Tubula’s name, everybody expressed disgust and hatred.

‘But no more shall I see my people suffer! I have come to put the traitor’s reign of terror to an end and his name shall be dragged through the mud and filth of every planet within my domain!’

The cheering was even louder than before.

The Lord Ne’Khan smiled and turned as the priests moved to surround both him and the High Priest, who unwound the cloth to reveal the sword inside. It was magnificent, exact to the details that he had described.

‘Lord Ne’Khan, great Chieftain of the Ne’Khan clan,’ the High Priest began, as he commenced the blessing of the sword and the task ahead.

The Lord Ne’Khan held his hand out to take the unnamed sword but stopped when he saw the High Priest’s own hand twitch before grabbing the hilt and yelling, ‘I, Tubula Iska Champion, challenge you to a duel for the title of Chieftain of the Ne’Khan.’

The Lord Ne’Khan dodged the sword lashing out at him and he stood out of reach of his former War Lord, the other priests surrounding them and revealing themselves as rebel warriors, preventing the royal warriors from coming to aid their chieftain. The two bokora stared each other down, similar in build but different in features. Tubula’s hair was blond and whilst the Lord Ne’Khan had grown a beard, Tubula remained clean shaven and his mark tattoos were visible on his right cheek.

The Lord Ne’Khan drew his dagger and glowered at Tubula who smiled a cold and wicked smile.

‘Tubula.’ the Lord Ne’Khan growled, cursing himself for allowing the traitor to get so close and condemning him for gaining possession of the sword.

‘Greetings your majesty,’ Tubula said, not taking his eyes off him, ‘It’s been too long since we last met, the day when you gave me this,’ he indicated the scar on his face, running from the clan symbol above the right eyebrow all the way through the bottom half of his warriors tattoo overlapping his left eye. It was gained during his first dispute with the chieftain who, in his rage, slashed Tubula with a knife, cutting though the marks of his identity and dishonouring him.

But now was the time to get his revenge. By forcing the Lord Ne’Khan into a duel he might have the chance to kill him with the unnamed royal sword, and because bokora honour is unbreakable the Lord Ne’Khan had no option but to fight.

‘What’s the matter, my Lord?’ he taunted, deliberately trying to get a rise out of the Chieftain, ‘Are you afraid that you will give the sword a taste of royal blood?’

The Lord Ne’Khan growled. This fight was one he had looked forward to, but not like this. There was a real danger that the sword would be named by the one person he had wanted to frighten.

But he would not back down. For the sake of his clan and honour, he would fight!

‘That sword will taste blood,’ he said, ‘but it won’t be mine that will feed it!’ Since he had a visible weapon he could not call upon one of his warriors to throw him a sword, so he undid his robe and took up a fighting stance. Tubula did the same and the surrounding rebels began to pound the ground in the war rhythm.

Both chieftain and traitor circled each other before lashing out. The dagger clashed against the sword, the Lord Ne’Khan wishing that he had a better weapon on him as he was trying to fend off and parry Tubula. His effort was beginning to fail and he was trying to avoid getting cut as Tubula used the undefeated newborn weapon to get closer and closer to the chieftain in each attack. Blows were exchanged with fists and hilt butts.

The Lord Ne’Khan managed to hold his own against Tubula until a blow to the side of the head knocked the Chieftain back to the ground. Dazed, the Lord Ne’Khan looked up and only just managed to roll out of the way before the sword crashed down.

‘Is this all that you can do, sire?’ Tubula goaded, standing over him with the sword tip under the chin. ‘Is this what you have become?’

A commotion in the crowd drew both their attention before one of the rebel warriors was brought down and a young red headed bokora forced his way onto the podium, an elderly noble following suit.

Yanoff regained his breath quickly. It hadn’t been easy getting through the crowds, especially as he was escorting Kisnel. By the time they had reached the port, the traitor had already challenged the Lord Ne’Khan to the duel. His blood boiled at the sight of Tubula and would have killed him where he stood if Kisnel hadn’t held him back with a warning about the rules of duelling. But when they witnessed the Lord Ne’Khan fall, Yanoff’s patience finally broke and he barged into the ring of rebels and stood facing Tubula, Kisnel following closely behind.

He was only just aware of the surrounding rebels activating their shoulder lasers and targeting him, but he didn’t care.

‘Tubula!’ he yelled, pointing at the War Lord, ‘I challenge you to a duel!’

At first there was silence then Tubula started laughing.

‘You want to challenge me?’ he chuckled. ‘Boy, go home and leave us to our duel.’

Yanoff was not deterred.

‘I have waited years for this day, this day I get to revenge on all those you killed when you attacked the orphanage.’

Tubula was no longer laughing, but he still looked in disbelief at the fact that a civilian was challenging a lord.

‘I have two hundred sixty nine years of experience. Do you really think you would stand any sort of a chance against me?’

This was getting nowhere, so Yanoff drew the knife that Kisnel had given him and made a blood oath.

‘By the blood that Father Ne’Khan put in my body, I swear that you Tubula, traitor and murderer, will die today by my hand.’

He tossed the blood coated knife at Tubula who caught it in his free hand and stared at it.

A blood oath made was one that had to be kept, and when the blood stained knife was given to you, you had to accept the challenge, no matter what duel you were in.

Tubula glowered. His revenge would have to wait for now.

Tracing the other side of the knife in his palm, he completed the blood oath. With the knife now covered with both their blood, the blood oath duel commenced.

‘What weapon do you choose, boy?’ Tubula asked, throwing the knife into the ground and clenching his bleeding fist whilst making sure the sword never touched it.

The Lord Ne’Khan had got up by now and he went over to Kisnel and waiting for the duel to start again. The Lord Advisor explained everything to him as they watched.

‘The only weapon I need is my own will,’ Yanoff replied, getting ready for battle.

‘Then I shall fulfil your wish for your soul’s damnation.’ Tubula rushed at Yanoff, slashing the sword down upon the boy.

Yanoff dodged the attack and caught hold of Tubula’s sword arm and held it there. But he was surprised when Tubula head-butted him, the force and shock of the attack caused him to fall. Sneering, Tubula swung the sword and prepared to bring it down.

‘Do you see the error of challenging me now, boy?’

The sword slashed down.

Impossibly, Yanoff caught hold of the arms before the sword could impale him. It was as though Father Bokora had endowed Yanoff with all his strength, giving the young bokoran the ability he needed to hold off the attack before twisting the sword out of Tubula’s hands. Tubula was taken by surprise at the sheer strength of the boy and that was his final downfall as Yanoff stabbed Tubula through the body with the stolen weapon.

Tubula collapsed to his knees, hands wrapping themselves around the blade embedded in his body before keeling over and staring sightlessly into the sky, his soul damned for all eternity.

Yanoff stood there as the crowd fell silent and the rebels were taken prisoner. The Lord Ne’Khan walked up to him and looked down.

‘Who are you boy?’ the chieftain asked.

At first Yanoff didn’t say anything for his mind was still frozen by the fulfilment of his vow and it was only when Kisnel whispered ‘Yanoff’ to him that he came back to the present.

‘Sire,’ he said, bowing. He introduced himself, starting from his name all the way to his origins at the orphanage. The Lord Ne’Khan listened, and as he did so, he thought about what Kisnel had told him during the fight. He too was aware of the prophesy and looking at Yanoff he could recall a verse from it.

His blood oaths shall be fulfilled.

When Yanoff finished, the Lord Ne’Khan looked at Tubula.

‘You’ve killed my mark,’ he said.

‘I don’t regret it,’ Yanoff replied flatly. He really didn’t care what happened to him now.

‘And so you shouldn’t,’ the Lord Ne’Khan said, walking to Tubula. ‘From what my advisor has told me, you were entitled to his death as much as myself, perhaps even more so.’

He bent down and pulled the sword out of the corpse. The blood dripped from the blade and filled the engravings. Turning back to Yanoff, he saw that the young civilian was still kneeling.

‘I believe that you have the right to name your weapon.’

Yanoff looked up to see the hilt being offered to him. He didn’t understand what was going on, but something within told him that this was right. Tentatively Yanoff reached out with his hand and slowly grasped the hilt.

The Lord Ne’Khan released his grip so now Yanoff supported the blade by himself. Yanoff looked at it and in its own magnificence, it looked back at him. They seemed made for each other, sword and master, making themselves a whole being together.

Yanoff got up and raised the blood stained weapon to the air for both Father Ne’Khan and Father Bokora to bless as the name became clear to him. The crowd cheered as he spoke its name.

‘Sword, I name you, for tasting the blood of my enemy, Xentaraka.’

And that is the end of this tale, but for Yanoff, it was only the beginning of his saga as he became known as Yanoff Ne’Khan ‘Tubula’s Bane’, prince of the house of the Ne’Khan clan.