Yipion - part 1

“Hamut. I knew that name would be famous, but not for these reasons,” the voice went.

And relentlessly it went, year after year, conquering the mind of the young Yipion, the court boy, who wouldn’t even speak.

As sort of divine compensation for the seemingly stupid nature of the boy, he had a bursting intelligence, sharpness and always knew what to do, even at only three years of age.

And so he grew up: mute. And his parents raised him, like any king raises a son, but never without fear for what his future held.

When Yipion was seventeen, he joined the army, but fearful for the little, seemingly defenceless youngling, his father forbade him. After trying to keep him at home, Yipion fled from the palace, never to be seen.

Years went by, and the war with the enemy raged. Yipion had never been seen, until one day, in the midst of a violent battle between the Mountain Kingdoms and the enemy, a horseman astride a black horse rode into the battlefield at full speed. He wore a long black tunic with fine red details. The shaved head and the marks and scars on his skin deemed him a member of an old spirit-worshipping cult.

General Maratè, the commander of the Kingdom’s troops recognised him in the vast green plains, and rallied his officers. But, alien to the battle, the dark figure rode ahead, straight into enemy lines.

A mirage on the battlefield, perhaps, thought Maraté. But upon seeing the enemy’s reaction to the horseman, his eyes widened. What’s more, the enemy was now charging towards him, filled with battle fury and adrenaline in their hearts.

“Tomuy! Is that…”

“Yipion!” answered Tomuy, the general’s second-in-command.

“What the hell is he doing? Going to get himself killed if we don’t make for him,” groaned the general.

Ordering his battalion to follow him, Maratè sought to attempt a risky flank. The allied troops would detour to pass by the enemy’s front line and reach the prince arriving from the West. Soon, a long protective wall of soldiers was in place to shield the flanking movement. The natural reaction from the enemy was to stop the flank, and as such the two armies were again face to face. After a lot of fighting, Maratè managed to get to the prince, which was just then riding into enemy formation. How he evaded the enemy attacks, Maratè knew not.

“Filthy pigs…scum…destroy them, destroy them all…” whispered the voice. A whisper so low and soft Yipion barely heard it amidst the battle, “Poor bastards, they want us back, puppets, play dolls, worthless animals…”

Yipion rode through the dark, dark creatures, darker than black, darkness itself. And through the enemy army he rode, and on the other side he kept going, toward the Black Mountain, no looking back. Stunned, the general and his officers used this distraction to fully flank the enemy and give place to another victory for the Kingdoms.

Night. A bonfire faced Yipion. The thoughtful boy sat, the marks on his skin noted the struggle he’d faced, and his face his fatigue. Tired at life, at this mission. At the foot of the Black Mountain, from within his tent he gazed upwards, pondering, remembering. No one could guess what he thought. And only the voice, seldom revealed, brought meaning to his life. It had taught him everything he knew. The way of the worshipper monks, of the Flux, the sword and the YoPunJi. But the voice was daft, borderline insane. And Yipion knew better than to be infected by that madness, for he dreaded it.