by Jeff Shanley
PART THREE
They rode out into the night; two thousand men on horseback, charging across the foothills of the Red Mountains, trembling the earth beneath them with their hooves. The horses neighed with the joy of their masters, for they got to be part of the glorious reign of Hâr-Etharon.
Štolohir had elected to stay behind. Etharon laughed in his unquenched thirst, but Štolohir was wise and as a man he could make his own fate. But Hlókoros rode alongside his father, faithful to the end. They would not fail, he was sure of it.
For many long weeks they rode, and before long they came to the Guardian Towers. Great monolithic structures of stone that barred the borders of the South-realm, made stronger by Etharon’s will and might. They rested for a week before riding off again, but in that time the King held council with Gaihroth, Warden of the Eastern Tower.
“I don’t think you should continue,” he said to the king, “the Black City of Azgharáth has never been breached or even seen, and I shudder to think of what defenses it may have.”
“I care not,” Etharon replied, “The hordes of Azgharáth know nothing of strategy or tactics. I will crush them with these men, these valiant and loyal men, no matter how many come charging out of those gates.”
“You will sustain many losses,” said Gaihroth.
“None more than at Padakis.”
“Padakis was many years ago, they might have learned something of you since then.”
“Learned what?” Etharon laughed. “They’re mindless beasts no matter what form they take. They have been cowering for centuries, many of them under rocks and in caves. And I am going to take them by surprise.”
“They say that the Betrayer is never surprised,” said the Warden. “He dabbles in nefarious disciplines, and I for one would not challenge the dark powers he has acquired in his long life. You may be going to your death, my King, and far before your time.”
“Bah,” Etharon replied, “I cannot be defeated. I never have been, and I never will be.” Gaihroth raised his eyes and shook his head.
“With that arrogance,” he said, “you will be.”
It is said that it took a month to cross the Deadlands, and many of the horses died in that time. And the men had begun to grow weary and restless, seeing no end in sight. Many said that the Black City did not exist, and was but a myth conjured up by the werewolves themselves to strike fear in the hearts of their enemies, and that furthermore Azgharáth himself was a phantom or illusion, some tactic to divert their aim so that the werewolves could destroy Ánovén without them looking.
Even Hlókoros had begun to lose some faith. His father kept pressing them, and they slogged on, and around them was nothing but dust and stone and heat and death. But then there came a day when the Várhade rose up before them, and they beheld a citadel that none before had seen, and many men were struck with fear from the dark energy that seeped out from that place and infected the land. And they turned their horses and fled, but their ultimate fates were never known, for they did not return to Ánovén.
They saw it from afar, and Etharon was gladdened, and he raised his sword and called to Azgharáth as he had done to Yehâgaf at Padakis centuries before, and he and his men laughed and jeered at the enemy before them. But then the ground began to rumble, and as they looked they saw a black mass pouring from the gates, as a river crashing through a dam. There was the rustling of leaves unseen, and then the howling of wolves rang up around them.
“Charge!” Etharon cried, and the battlecries of his men leapt from their mouths and they barreled forward. For such a long time they pushed their horses, kicking them and whipping them and snapping their reins, and many called for Azgharáth’s head. But then finally, the two sides clashed.
It was a tumultuous clash of steel and silver and skin and bone and teeth and claws. Screams began to rise up as men were devoured, but they rallied around their king who pressed ever harder towards the city, eager to breach the gates and take the citadel and Azgharáth’s head. But this was to no avail, for his horse was leapt upon and the king was thrown down, and he would have died. He lay bleeding on the plains before the Black City, and he saw Hlókoros riding toward him, bending down and reaching with his arm. Etharon reached with his hand but at that moment a werewolf burst out from the fray and threw Hlókoros to the ground and bit into his flesh through his armor. Hlókoros screamed as he was disemboweled and dismembered, and Etharon began to weep, for his son was lost.
And then it was over. The werewolves pulled back, and in his peripheral Etharon saw a tall man in a black robe, appearing to glide toward him over the bodies of the fallen and bloodied and charred. He stood over Etharon, and his shadow that cascaded over him caused the king to shiver with the bitterest cold.
“You have a strong will, Etharon son of Etharos,” he said, and his voice was the low growl of a rabid wolf. “But you are arrogant, and in this your folly is greater than any in all of history. Did you really think you could challenge the might of my city? I, who have walked this earth for half a hundred millennia, have never seen such brazen idiocy. I would kill you where you lay and end your misery, but I would rather you live, and see that your lust for my power was your downfall. Go now, back to your high walls, you simpering king. I have no quarrel with you and never have, but you have quarreled with me for the last time. You are not worthy enough to challenge me.”
And with that, he was gone in a flash of fire and black smoke. Etharon sobbed where he lay, next to Hlókoros’s severed head, face still contorted in the pain of being eaten. And Etharon’s sobs echoed throughout the land, and those that survived came around him and bore him up on their shoulders, and they cried as well. All was not lost, but they wished it had been, for they were fools to have thought that they were so mighty in the great annals of time.
EPILOGUE
Let this be a reminder to us all, as we learn from our past: Arrogance does not win battles. After the Folly of Etharon the King not only lost the respect of his people and his surviving eldest son, but also his people. The Council of Elders decreed that no king shall make war of his own accord, and to this day many regard the line of Athion with distrust.