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The dust rose on a wisp of breeze, hot, gritty, and as dry as the dirt it carried, lazily curling onto a whirlwind that twisted around and into the nostrils of the infantryman. He snorted and turned from the annoyance, then scanned the horizon once again; barren desert making a hard line with the navy blue of the afternoon sky. Only small stunted trees marked the flat of the expanse, not even a patch of brown grass covered the never ending wasteland; not like it did in the east or certainly not like it did in the forbidden lands. Not a single trace of life could be distinguished among the reddish rocks.
This job for idiot Pacca. It been four hours, looking for something that never come. Blast! Where Pacca?!?
He pawed at the dirt below him, impatient now to be off his duty shift. Far too long had he been scouting for impossible Tithorian spy parties. The pointlessness of the task ate at him, feeding his anger over this slight delay in guard rotation, but he dared not to leave. Fear kept him at his post. Fear of the council and their paranoid members, members who would surely make his disobedience an example to the rest of the Ssorian troops.
He turned in disgust from the burning sun, wanting anything but the dust, and the heat; the grating, ever present fear of failure. Resolve failing him, he leaned over, resting his back on the rough surface behind him, only lifting his head so that he could continue to scan the barren plain.
A slight scrape of a hoof on brush carried over the air, followed by a sliding, tumble of pebbles down a small slope. The guard’s senses snapped to full alertness, and ears pricked up as he flattened down into the hated dirt, searing his exposed belly, but clamping his mouth shut against the intense pain.
Anyone here should give call long ago, back five hundred strides! No less! Tithorians? How could they . . .?
He kneeled low to the shadowed side of his embankment, silently bringing up his reaper, pointed-end angled just below the edge and ready to penetrate the first flesh shown. The hoof drops continued, hesitantly, up to the edge of the guard’s dugout, then stopped. The guard steeled himself and took a slow, deep breath, calling on spirits of his dead fore-fathers to somehow aid him. He leapt out, thrusting the reapers point into the thin air, and then he spun around, swinging the other bladed end of his weapon in an arch to decapitate the elusive foe behind him.
There was none. The plain stretched out into nothingness all around him, devoid of life; he was alone. The guard turned twice more, bewilderment and fear contorting his face, than with a last quick glance behind him, galloped across the plain back to the Ssorian camp.
A fragrance of fresh new growth came to him, gently wafting through the nose, enveloping him in its simple goodness; it revived him, and he slowly came out of his slumber, eyes seeing the rough mud walls and thatched vine roof that made up the hut.
But this isn’t my hut.
A violent jolt of fear and confusion caused him to bolt, which he quickly regretted as the hut’s walls spun around him, his body aching at the sudden effort to get up. He fell back on his cot, closing his eyes against the unstable world.
A breeze rubbed alongside the hut, rustling the dry stocks intertwined with the mud. The long grass outside rubbed and murmured in the wind as well, the soft, quiet rustling mingling into the silence of the room.
The hut. The grass. Who brought me here? The one that pulled me from the swamp. Yes, the swamp.
This time, slowly, he turned his head, looking around the small enclosure. Light fell through an angled opening in the roof, illuminating a row of plants, perhaps herbs, on the far side of the wall. A small wooden stool leaned slightly into the ground beside a low slab of grey stone, immovably the centre piece of the enclosure. The fragrance emanated from the small plants, finally rousing him to full awareness.
“So, decided to come around did you now?”
The grass blanket whipped onto the floor as the Tithorian spy bucked and rolled to his feet on the other side of the hut. Stumbling again from a crashing in his head, he groped beneath his cloak for the wraithier, eyes focussing on the brown form previously behind his head.
“I took it, I did not wish to know how well learned you were.” The brown form motioned to the stone slab where the near translucent short blade and tail hair sheath now lay.
The Tithorian looked to his weapon, and to the man again. His formless covering showed only his head, diminutive features covered by silvery, gray hair, and coals for eyes. He had been sitting directly behind the Tithorian, but now stood up, his head reaching to the spy’s shoulders.
“You were in sleep for but three turning of the leaves, my friend. ”
The Tithorian tensed, silently watching the stooped figure.
“Well, you understand my speech, are you then bound?”
“I am a Ssorian under the king Kalough . . . ”
“Yes, yes, bound by oath I see. No true speech for fear that I am actually one under Kalough. Do not bother, I am afraid your wraithier betrays you. The Guard under Kalough carries no such weapons.”
The spy cocked his head, “If I was some other, than why am I not dead? Harbouring me would be treason, and you will be executed for treason against your lord.”
The man snorted, “Lord? I have never served him. I am only under him. You, I cannot kill, for fear of my own spirits torment, but more so, because I want something from you, something only you can give. Finding you among those marshes was a gift.”
The Tithorian hesitated, then slowly took a step toward the man, “What gift then would you want? You’re already a man dead for your crimes, unless I leave within another turn of the leaf. He leaned down and stepped again toward the man, his voice but a whisper. “What if you knew that there were three of the silence under Kalough near? Only three or four days run behind myself when I fell to the marshes?”
The man glared up at him, coals burning. “I would say that we must hurry then, for my wish is for you to take me into the forbidden lands, to your home. I need you as my shield.”
The leaned head of the Tithorian bent down even lower, than whirled as his body twisted over and landed on the stone slab, blade and sheath scooped up in hand.
“You will be staying here, I have matters that cannot wait, and I cannot trust you I fear. Blessings for your kindness.” He back-stepped out the small opening, then whirled again out and away, hoof beats echoing through the mud walls.
The man did not move, not until the pounding had faded into the rustling of the wind once again. He then picked up a small vine spun satchel by the cot, and giving a final glance at his abode, trotted out, beyond the meadow, silently melding into the forest.
A circle of bluish grass was laid out in the middle of the forest, perimetre making a sharp edge with the dense growth it cut. No tree or shrubs had taken root in the plain, but outside of it, in the twisted vines and trees of the forest, were the ruins of rock that had once been houses, temples, and walls. All of them were now faded, lost in the past. The only mark left of the city was the circle.
A lone road came from the horizon, heading arrow-like toward its origin at the centre of the lone circle, stopping at the foot of the ancient Monument. It was known as Mextar, the tower of light. The sun caressed the great stone walls surrounding it, casting them in a thin film of a translucent orange glow. One wall atop the other went up in an ascending spiral that curled until it ended in the solitary tower standing high above the grassy plain. The tower shimmered, sending off rays of pale light that pierced outwards, scattering over forest and plain.
Inside the walls that surrounded the tower the council members of the kingdom sat in a hall, wide stone table running its length. Slats of stone ramped up to the height of the table, providing pads for the members of the council to stand while they discussed the happenings and future of the kingdom they served.
The council was of an order almost as old as the tower they held claim to. Their beginning was unknown to even themselves, but knowledge of the tower and its workings passed from one generation to the other, down a long line of keepers which went back to the days when their kind had been hardly more civilized than the creatures of the forest. As of the origin of Mextar itself, none could ever know. Its shining translucence, from which the shafts of light came, was of unknown material. Only in the surrounding forest of Mextar could any other shards of the material be found. The shafts of light that came from the material were harmless, they hardly even gave off heat enough to give warmth, however, the light shafts could be made to converge, sending a singular beam of light which could burn and destroy all which it touched. The convergence was initiated by the knowledge of the council alone. They held this might and power in secrecy, so that none could learn it without their leave. They served the kingdom.
Today they discussed the survival of it.
“The King should be warned immediately.” A young black stallion skittered slightly as he spoke. His luxuriant purple robe rippled along his back, held in place by a fine gold chain grabbing each of the corners and running under his belly, pulling the robe snugly in place. His high voice rang again as he called out, “We have more than enough truth for this matter. They are coming!”
Another grey steed rumbled from beneath drooping lips, “The King would want, no, will need more than truths unfounded. There has been no direct word. Myself and the council need to understand the Kings burden. Moving the entirety of the steadfasts is no easy calling, and for what? The loss of scouts is not unheard of.”
The rest of the council bobbed their heads in agreement, purple robes shimmering in the torchlight of the room. It would be foolish to send out such a warning, calling the King and all his people to the safety of Mextar, when no scout had yet brought back any truth of whether the Ssorian hordes had crossed the ancient boundary lines. As far as was known, the Iron Gates holding the long crossing had not yet been attacked.
The young steeds blazing eyes matched his fervour. “But we have lost all scouts sent out in the banished lands. None, not one has returned. Not even those of Mextar have reported. Does this not seem strange to the council?”
Again, the heads across the hall bobbed. No scout under the teachings of the Mextar order had ever been lost. No single scout under Malrew had ever disappeared either. It did not sit well with the already stirred unease of the council.
There was little hope that the Ssor were idle. The new king Kalough was not one to rest while the green lands of the Tithorians flourished. If previous scouts had truth in them than the lands of Ssor were no longer sustaining. The lush western half of Tithor was no more, not as it had been for centuries. Ssorian ideals left unchecked had lead to their destruction; useless ravishing of the earth had made their gift a desert. Now their heads turned to the east. Their forbidden lands were what they desired, for more plunder and ravishment.
The grey one again raised his own voice and boomed, “So, shall we then tell the King we have scouts to replace, or that because of it, we fear attack from those under Kalough?”
All heads stared at the head of the hall. The council leader had reared up, front feet on the table, white coat palely shining in the smoky room. “The council has spoken their views. The decision, however, is not ours, nor even of myself. We tell him truth council. What we know is what he would have us tell him. The King will want no less, my friends, and he will move the steadfasts. If Ssor does not come now, they will come later. We will send for the King and hope that Kalough is not so near as we might dread.”
The hall roared in approval as the members stamped their slabs of stone, hoof beats echoing off the walls and escaping out into the setting day. The last rays of the sun pierced the western sky in a sea of red.
A rumble came from beyond the crest of a reddish hill, dry baked rock and clay starting to vibrate from the deep bellowing of the sound. Another blast joined the first, than another. The valley past the hill shook as the horns gave out their call to advance. Then, there was silence.
Slowly, a new sound came: the clop of metal cast hooves, the clinking of metal on metal, the creaking and swaying of wooden carts. The sound grew and clarified, until it came over the hill with the Ssorian horde.
The Tithorian spy stumbled again in the soft mud of the forest. Cursing, he rose and continued on his path toward the east. The road must be no more than a leaf turns walk from this place. He swished his ragged tail in agitation, the road should have been reached over two turnings past, and he did not know where he had erred. The forest was unfamiliar to him, the land around Mextar and the road did not have marshes.
The spy whirled, whipping out his wraithier, translucent crystal sending out rays of light. The noise had come again, the soft brush of a vine or tree on living flesh. He stood up, nose smelling the faint currents of air in the underbrush of the forest. There was nothing, as there had been nothing every other time he paused. Knowing a search would be useless, he sheathed his wraithier and returned to his advance eastward.
It had been nearly twenty turnings from the time at the hut, and the spy knew he must find the road soon, for he had to warn the council. He had been to the banished lands and seen the vast horde; their countless warriors covered in white skeleton armour, black painted carts and wagons carrying weapons and food and supplies, the bone clad priests of their people bringing curses upon the King and those under Malrew. It resembled an army of the living dead, and it was more than enough to take the whole of Tithor. Yet what most aided them was their secrecy; no Tithorian citizen ever thought of their brothers to the west. The spy knew he had to awaken them to reality.
The Tithorian slogged up a hill, hooves sucking into the mud, than sliding as he tried for another step. He dug into the mud and pushed with his back while his front feet pulled him upwards. A sharp rock under the mud bit into his hind leg and he stumbled, blood trickling from the wound. He stopped for only a moment, then gaining ground, he finally pushed himself past the slope and onto the top of the hill.
The ground sloped steeply away from him, running down and out into a vast plain stretching out to the horizons. At the edge of sight there was a tower, a point of light at its peak brightly gleaming. A thin line of grey came from it, becoming wider and more pronounced as it made its way south toward the steadfasts.
The spy looked down on the road again as a movement caught his eye. A line of horses spread out over the road, filling it from the point closest to him, to far away where the forest again swallowed the road. Flying upright in the wind were banners of the green, signifying those under Malrew. They are here? Already coming? The God of Tithor has saved us! The council must have felt it wise to call him from the steadfasts. But look at their pace, I must warn them Kalough is not far!”
He jumped down onto the slope, sliding downwards as quickly as his bloody leg would allow.
On the road, the clamour of thousands of hooves and voices covered all other sound. The King looked out upon his guard, green vine and leaf coverings creating a thin body armour. They carried wooden shields and short steel swords slung to their backs. A dozen of them surrounded him at the front of the host. He himself walked on the road, his people stretching in a long line, almost three thousand run-strides, behind him. Every hundred run-strides a guard was held. He knew it would do little against an attack, but such was the force he had. Their hope lied in getting to Mextar before the possible Ssor attack, however, the council agreed Kalough would most likely not strike for a while. He could not be strong enough yet, not after less than a year in power. One revolution was hardly enough time to gather together the nomadic peoples of the Ssor, though there were the rumours their people were starving. Hunger is always a motivation.
A sudden shifting in the guards caught Malrew in his thoughts. He nearly ran into the back of Norrac, his lead protector. The possible kick drew back the King. No matter who it was, the guards were trained to ward off attackers on their backs. “Is there cause for alarm?” The King stood up, head reared above his guard.
A lone figure stood on the road, tattered cloak draped over his shoulders, mane and coat dull with dirt, his tail a muddy club. He looked up at the advancing host.
“I am Tithorian, of the order of Mextar, under the King Malrew. I bring news to the King.”
It took little time to convince the King of his sincerity, it took less time to convince him to run hard for Mextar.
“You say the horde was making itself ready to leave when you saw it?”
“Yes.”
“And you have travelled for twenty turnings?”
“Yes, and I would say by their armament they mean to ride quickly. No heavy devices that I could see. Just masses of warriors.”
The King leaned his head slightly, his silvery mane gliding silently on his neck. The spy thought he looked troubled, but he held his head up suddenly and looked at him again.
“We must go then. I will send the message to my people to hurry. You will go and call the might of Mextar, have your defences prepared. If what you say is truth, we have nearly been caught.”
“But, King, will you not come with me?”
“I will not leave my people in peril. No go! I command you as one under myself. Flee!”
The spy nodded his head low and headed out past the ring of guards, breaking into a dead run, leaving the host behind him.
Off the road, a quiet stir in the brush brought no notice. No one saw the coal eyes staring out along the line of the King and his people. Another stir, and the eyes were gone.
On the high walls of the Monument, a dozen eyes searched the horizon, waiting for the first sight of the King. Each knew of the danger, the deadly race the people under Malrew now made. It had been two turnings of the leaves since the scout had returned, bringing his report to the council. They now waited for the long line of horses to come. Mares, foals, and young colts rebelliously running about would all slow down the host, no matter how fast they attempted to flee. The council members could only wait, and prepare.
Each of the twelve members had their crystalline bars, translucent blocks sitting at even spaces around the base of the tower of light. Twelve slots in the stone work around the base provided the anchoring for the crystal stones when they were used to activate the tower. Such was the method the tower of light’s power could be initiated, and thereby controlled by the will of the council. The shield would be put up as the last steed walked through the circles perimetre, than they would be safe.
“They come!”
Twelve heads turned as one, looking to the south. A smudge could be seen upon the road, getting larger and screeching out along it. A smaller dot could be seen as well, heading toward Mextar at a run.
“Ready the tower” boomed the old grey steed. All the council busied themselves with the crystals, starting to set them in place. Ten per crystal was needed to move them. When the first one landed in place it boomed with a sound that rang of the wall and into the halls below. A single shaft of light from the tower drew itself to the stone and rested upon its head. As they moved onto the next one the block of crystal began to glow.
Those under Malrew slowed now with the sight of Mextar to the North. The mares were almost gone from fatigue and many of the foals had to be carried by the few stout young steeds left. The rest had been sent to the rear with weapons from the royal armoury, where they would hold off the horde if they came now, although that seemed less and less likely as they headed farther toward their haven. Still, he had sent a few trusted stallions to send word of their arrival, and his wish the defences be prepared. To do less would be foolish.
Up ahead a shrouded form scurried onto the road. A brown cloak covered his body, which appeared to be quite small, but he moved with surprising quickness up the front ranks of the King’s guard. They stopped, bringing a halt to the host.
“May I speak to the King? It is a matter of great urgency!”
A guard levelled his sword at the form. “And who may you be?”
“I am Tithorian, under the King Malrew, I bring news to the King!”
Malrew looked at the small form, muddy brown cloak covering all but his silver grey head, and black eyes. “What do you wish to tell me of then?”
The figure looked up at the King. “There are many things I wish to tell you. But I will inform you of only one thing.” His lips pulled back in a snarl. “Your own demise.”
His hoof curled into his cloak and he pulled out a rock as he threw it. Malrew was immediately surrounded by his guards, and the hurled rock hit only a vine armoured stallion. The figure bolted away toward the brush with two of his guard after him.
“Are you hurt King?” His lead protector looked at him.
“No, no. It did not hit me, and it was only a rock. Why would he do such -“
A deafening blast came from the surrounding forest, followed by another, and then a third. The host behind him swirled and crashed in confusion. My God, what?. A stallion from his own guard brayed in fear, “They’re upon us! Look to the hills!” He then turned, eyes wild, and ran down the road northwards. Out of the brush a dozen skeletons, white painted metal gleaming the outlines of bones leapt around the stallion, reapers slashing him down. It took only a second for him to die.
Out of the hills poured more of the spectres, running toward his people, hacking, stabbing, screaming with eerie cries of hate and delight. A guard faced one of the warriors, his blade deflecting a blow as he dealt one to the skeleton who danced out of the way. Another warrior from behind stabbed him through the neck. Dozens of his people were already dead on the road. Nothing to protect them, they were pressed together by blades, dying as fast as the Ssorians could swing their reapers.
His own guard had formed a circle around him. One now turned to him and said, “We must run for the Monument!” The King said, “Let me up on your shoulders!”
As he stepped up, he called out, voice rising above even the battle noise. “Run north! Follow your King!” With that he stepped down and called to his protectors. “We go now then!”
They, along with the host of Tithor, made their last run for the refuge. The small contingent of skeletons on the road in front of them fell back as they raced by, swift as the wind and empowered by their fear. The King ran hard and with his head set stiff. How could it have happened?
The council members strained on the crystal. It fell into place, rocking the wall again as a ray of light fell upon it. Two more were left.
The people under Malrew threw themselves down the road, their followers hacking them from the side but unable to stop their flight. An aging mare stumbled and fell to the side of the road. Three blades were in her before she could scream. One foal fell in the middle of the host, and ten more fell from him, all were trampled by the panicked swarm, but still the body moved forward.
The council members looked upon the plain where the King had entered; the road behind him was slaughter ground, but there were more coming. They had to wait until they had crossed into the circle. As the King entered the monument the host ran, thinning out more and more as they came. They ran, and ran, and then were in. They poured from the road into the plain, some skeletons with them but most behind, killing all that fell. The last Tithorian crossed the boundary.
The council members stood by their stones, the last one put in place. A throbbing hum could be heard from the top of the tower as the crystal blocks glowed to a brightness such that none could look at them. The beams of light leading up to Mextar intensified, making the tower itself shed light so that it became a beacon, suddenly blinding all within the perimetre. Than the light shot upwards in a singular beam, reaching high up and to the clouds.
The council members sat silently.
The beam than spread out, spinning into a cone that reached up and then its edges started to fold. They fell down, bending backwards and still spinning out so the now upside down bowl came down over the valley, the edges making contact with the ground. The shield had been raised.
Mextar now hummed more violently as twelve beams shot from it. One hit an area beyond the shield where a group of the skeletons had huddled in fear. It engulfed them, burning off their manes and coats, melting their white metal into their flesh. They were dead within second.
The other beams did likewise to the remaining Ssorian warriors in the circle plain. The beams darted in and around those of Malrew, only stopping long enough to destroy a warrior or two, before heading to another. Before they could even retreat, all were dead, burned into the ground where they had stood but moments before.
The council members now raised their heads, as the shield lifted off the ground, swirling into its cone and finally coming into Mextar once again.
The King looked out over the plain, blackened holes where the beams had struck, painting the blue green grass, as did the bodies. They had won. The Ssorian troops were dead, and his people safe. But, he looked out over the road and in the plain as well, seeing the hundreds of fallen Tithor.
We have not won. We have been slaughtered, as have they. Never again, never again. The King did not move, his mane lifting in the breeze as his heart wept for his people.
A Story by The Creator of Tithor
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