The Battle for Jordborg

by Logan Petty

  He shoved this thought to the back of his mind with some difficulty. He rose to his feet and stretched, tapping his wooden foot against the ground. He still missed the ability to flex his toes. Eldingbál stirred and raised his serpentine head. The tip of his tail flicked back and forth. Sawain noticed the tail flick as a sign of happiness from the drake. He bent over to pick up his sword and Eldingbál’s head was quickly by his hand, cooing softly. Sawain humored his drake companion and ran his fingers across his smooth scales.

  “Good morning, Eldingbál. Ready for another day at war? Hope you’re hungry. There’s lots of zombie heads waiting to be bitten off.”

  Eldingbál cooed louder and bobbed his head up and down excitedly. Sawain decided to take that as a yes. He smiled and quickly got his belongings together and strapped to Eldingbál’s back. The drake slinked along behind him as he walked into the center of the now barren temple grounds. Small fires burned beneath roasting spits and kettles in different spots across the courtyard. Cliques of freed thralls huddled around them. The orcs gathered around their own fire, passing around hunks of some unfortunate fells beast that was barely cooked. All of the thralls chewed so ravenously at their food, Sawain wondered if they had forgotten the taste of meat. He understood what it was like to be hungry, but some of these thralls looked like walking skeletons. All eating and socializing stopped when, one by one, the individual pods of fireside dwellers noticed Sawain. The Ghosts, who also sat apart from the others, rose from their seats on a grassy knoll in a nearby corner of the wall. Sawain watched as the other groups followed suit and quietly, almost reluctantly, gathered around him. He cleared his throat once all eyes focused on him.

  “It’s time for us to ride westward. Anyone who does not wish to fight may stay here or take your chances in the wilds, but know that this is most likely the safest place around here now. That still isn’t saying much. Nowhere is safe as long as the Grey King is allowed to spread his forces. If you will ride with me to confront his threat, then meet me outside the temple gates in five minutes.”

  The crowd murmured nervously as Sawain and Eldingbál made their way to the gate, which still stood wide open, due to a lack of doors.

  It was a cool day. The mists that rolled in from the south brought with them frigid breezes, like the ones that accompanied the onset of winter, though it was still too early for such weather. Dark clouds gathered in the distance, blocking out the morning sun. Sawain wondered if they could stay ahead of the clouds, since they were marching west. The Ghosts quickly joined Sawain on the quiet, misty field that was a noisy battlefield the day before.

  Within minutes, the company grew to a few dozen orcs led by Vrendr, six centaur led by Binze, and a handful of freed thralls armed with looted gear from the day before. Sawain’s army narrowly breached forty soldiers. It was by no means a glorious army, but he would accept any help he could get. He studied them carefully as they lined up in ranks. The smattering of humans, dwarves, and halflings that mingled together carried themselves like trained soldiers already. He could tell these were men and women who already understood war. He was relieved that he would not need to train them, since he had no time for that. He nodded his approval to them as he spoke in a loud voice.

  “You have my thanks for your bravery, and soon you will have the thanks of all of Hammerhold. From the look of you, I don’t need to tell you that you may not live to hear that praise, but know that as long as I breathe, your sacrifices will not be in vain. Your stories will be told and you will live forever in the tales of the free folk of Hammerhold! Now, the time is at hand! Today, we march into battle! Today, we march into legend!”

  A unified roar of excitement and bloodlust from his followers answered his speech. He turned and walked by Eldingbál’s side, westward. The ghosts filed in behind him and he looked over his shoulder.

  “Binze, come to the front. I need you to direct us to a good vantage point.”

  A moment later, Binze strode by Sawain’s side, pointing out a path among the hills and rocks. “It’s best to skirt between hills whenever possible to save energy. There should be a creek two hours march west from here. If we follow it north, we should come across a bridge. A road winds west from there. If we follow that road until it turns south, we can then leave the road, head southwest through the upper dunes, and then we will be just above the flatlands the city sits on. It is possible we will have to deal with more of those temples at some point along the way.”

  They marched in relative silence, only broken occasionally by Binze as he pointed out the path. Jatharr walked on Sawain’s left while Binze stayed on his right. He could almost feel the tension running from Jatharr like electricity that leaped out in arcs, making his own muscles tighten. He knew the halfling’s deep rooted hatred for centaur. He remembered the story Jatharr told him about his wife, who was murdered by a centaur. He had to know Binze’s story. He had to know if his tribe was tied to the murder or not. Either way, if he let it go, he sensed it would boil over one day and end in blood. He decided to act now while Jatharr was in earshot.

  “Binze, what is the name of your tribe again?”

  Binze gave him a curious sideways glance, not breaking his stride. “Harthaz.”

  Sawain saw Jatharr stiffen, as if the electric tension in his body manifested into lightning. He did not speak, but glared dead ahead. Sawain quickly kept the interrogation going before Jatharr could lose his composure. Just in case, he placed his hand on the dagger on his hip while he kept an eye on Jatharr.

  “You said your clan has been fighting the undead for years. Why were you not caught off guard like the rest of Hammerhold?”

  Binze looked skyward and took in a deep breath. He slowly exhaled in a sigh, then spoke in the distant, mystical tone found in a story-teller’s voice.

  “I said we had been fighting them for years, but in reality, we had been fighting them for decades. Not the undead themselves, mind you, but the future that held them.”

  Sawain interrupted, “What do you mean?”

  Binze nodded, more to himself than to Sawain. “That’s right. You likely haven’t heard of the gift of my people. It’s not a gift that all centaur have, but only certain ones of us who have earned the right to be chieftain. It is called Wind Talking. Our ancestors had the ability to talk to the spirits of the world. Not ghosts, like in the forest, but the spirits of the air, fire, water. Those kinds of spirits. Now, different spirits tell you different things. Centaur believe that when you die, you become a spirit of wind, fire, water, and so on, depending on what kind of person you were in your life. Wind spirits are born from good people, while water spirits are born from people who never knew how to stand up for themselves. Fire spirits are born from angry people. You get the point. Anyway, our chief, he naturally had the gift of Wind Talking. One day, when I was a young colt, a spirit spoke to the chief. Told him one who spoke with a spirit of fire would one day raze the world under the guise of unity. Said this fire-speaker would bring a restless death on all of Hammerhold, set himself up as a god in this new world. Well, spirits are like that, they only like to tell one future, but time is like a great tree. The past is a solid trunk, straightforward, unchangeable. The future is made up of the many branches in the tree. No one future is certain, but many are possible. Well, this future was not yet set in the trunk, so the chief decided to do something about it. There’s an old superstition that says if you kill a prophet, their prophecy will fail. The chief believed that. Our tribe hunted down and killed anyone who could talk with spirits.”

  Sawain broke in again, “Anyone? I thought you were just hunting one who spoke to fire spirits?”

  Binze nodded, “That’s the tricky thing about spirits. The speaker can only know if the spirit reveals itself. Most prophecies don’t come from unveiled spirits. Whenever a new prophecy arose among the clans of the fells, we would seek out the one who spoke it and kill them by our chief’s orders. Never stopped to ask whether it was a prophecy of fire. Didn’t have time to,
you know?”

  Jatharr’s voice burst from his mouth in a ferocious shout as he turned on the centaur, sword drawn. “Why didn’t you kill your maniac chief, eh?! Why’d you let him murder innocents?! Why’d ye let him murder my wife?! Yer cowardly monsters! All of ye!”

  Sawain’s dagger was drawn and pointed at Jatharr as he stepped between the halfling and his quarry. “Stand down, Jatharr! Adding new blood to old blood won’t fix anything! You need to let Binze finish his tale.”

  The company had halted at the instant of this outburst and slowly started encircling the three at the origin point of the commotion. Binze returned Jatharr’s hateful glare with a look of grief. When he spoke again, his voice was saturated with true sorrow that was hard to fake.

  “Your wife got caught in Gothur’s crusade? I am truly sorry. Many of us did not agree with his methods. A few did try to kill the chief, but none were successful. He had the spirits on his side. It is also taboo to kill a tribemate, especially a chieftain, so only the desperate tried it. We could have outcast him, but his tongue was crafty as a dragon’s. He convinced the tribe that the words he received were a warning against a prophecy of doom and not the actual prophecy. He said killing him would not stop the fire-speaker, or he would give up his own life to save the world. It was enough for us. So, for two decades, we warred with the other clans in the fells and sought out this fire-speaker that would burn the world. I regret ever taking part in those bloody wars, but we thought we were doing good. He had us convinced. Then the unthinkable happened: the prophecy came true. Somehow, a herald of the fire-speaker slipped past our blades and into the heart of Jordborg. They say his name is Xanthrin. A high priest of the one called the Grey King. His cult worships the Grey King as a god, saying he will unite the world and do away with death once and for all. Of course, that means that everyone must bow to him and die first, in order to receive his so-called gift of undeath. He raised his undead armies and our nightmares became real. For two years, we fought them, but the more we cut down, the more that would rise up in their place. Recently, when the Segrammir’s army joined forces with the dead, we were beat into submission and sold into slavery.”

  Jatharr rushed Binze, but Sawain caught him, swept his legs and slammed him on his back while pinning his arms. Sawain saw blood fill the edges of the whites in Jatharr’s eyes as he thrashed and snarled. He now knew what his own berserker rage looked like to those on the receiving end. It scared him as the halfling grew stronger with each thrash.

  “Slavery is too good for you! Too good for you! YOU SHOULD DIE! YOU SHOULD BE DEAD! YOU SHOULD BE DEAAAAD!”

  Jatharr thrashed and foamed and snapped. All Sawain could do was hold him down with all his might. He knew words were worthless to an enraged berserker and he knew that if he let go, someone was going to die. Mari was soon by Sawain’s side. She quickly began a lilting lullaby as she kneeled down to Jatharr.

  “Hush little mad one, so angry and red.

  Calm little laddie, get ready for bed.

  Look, little lamb, at the Evenbud bloom

  Petals drift silently into your room!

  Smell, little loved one, the flower’s sweet delight

  Welcoming gently the oncoming night.

  Rest my dear wild one, now close your tired eyes.

  Let go, my sweet one, of your waking ties.”

  Sawain felt Jatharr’s thrashing lessen almost immediately. His breathing slowed, his curses fell silent. The blood drained from his eyes, and their lids drooped sullenly over them. He was nearly asleep when Mari finished her lullaby. Sawain spoke loud and clear to Jatharr.

  “Can you hear me, Jatharr?”

  The halfling’s eyes snapped completely open, as if he’d awakened from a daydream. He answered Sawain in a groggy, hoarse voice.

  “Aye.”

  Sawain continued in the same tone as before. “If I get off you, are you going to cause more trouble?”

  Jatharr took a moment longer than Sawain was comfortable with, but answered when he saw the fierce glare his leader gave him. “No.”

  Sawain slowly got up and helped Jatharr to his feet. He looked his friend square in the eyes as he kneeled before the small berserker. His gaze was so stern, it cowed the war-hardened halfling visibly.

  “Jatharr, what the Harthaz clan did to you was atrocious. No one blames you for your hatred, but these centaur are a new generation of Harthaz. They are not the ones responsible for your wife’s death. They would have only been infants at that time. Binze is not your wife’s murderer. None of these Harthaz are. Gothur is the one you want, and rightly so. From the sound of things, the Harthaz are looking for new leadership anyway. Accept their aid and they will likely welcome your challenge to Gothur. You can have your revenge, they can have a new chieftain, and we can start over with a newly reformed Harthaz tribe. End this blood feud today. Don’t hold hatred for an entire race over one fanatical centaur. Don’t you see how ridiculous that is?”

  Jatharr did not answer him. Instead, he jerked away and continued walking westward. Sawain stood up straight and yelled at him.

  “Jatharr! Where do you think you’re going?”

  Jatharr did not look back when he answered, “To kill something. You can come along if you want.”

  Sawain glanced at Binze, who shrugged sadly. He then sighed and turned to the entourage surrounding him.

  “Fall back in, we’re moving.”

  He glanced at Mari and gave her a smile. “Thanks for your help, I owe you.”

  Mari winked and punched him playfully on the arm. “Don’t worry, I’ll be glad to sing you to sleep! Can’t promise what you’ll wake up to though.”

  Sawain was too scared to ask what she meant, so he did not, though his heart fluttered for a reason unknown to him. He simply motioned to his army and they rumbled back into movement. He was certain he could hear Banthan’s groaning somewhere in the commotion.

  They wasted no time in catching up with Jatharr. When they did, he fell back in ranks, but this time marched at the far left with the other Ghosts, instead of by Sawain’s side. Sawain’s heart sank. Binze must have been able to sense Sawain’s discouragement, because he placed a large hand on Sawain’s shoulder.

  “Do not lose heart, Swerdbrekker. Old hatreds cannot be wiped away in one wash. Give him time. I thank you for standing up for my people. The younger Harthaz do want to change things, but there is little we can do now but hold onto our ideals. I am grateful to you though.”

  Sawain shrugged, keeping his eyes ahead. “I know what generations of hatred and misunderstanding are capable of. I am a descendant of the same blood feud. My father was the chieftain of the tribe to which Jatharr and his wife belonged. My mother was one of his thralls. So, I am of the direct lineage of war. I understand it and hate it. I want the next generation to be one of peace and community. No more of these bitter feuds, no more hatred.”

  Binze smiled. “I share your dream, brother. I too am born of that generation. Unfortunately, there are many who wish to see the family line extended. What can idealists like us do about that?”

  Sawain could not answer. He did not have one. He simply walked on in silence. He hoped that some day the answer would come to him. All he could do now was act. All he could do was continue to feed the fires of war in hopes that it would choke on itself. It was not a good plan, but it was the only one he had.

  The company marched until they reached the river and crossed the bridge Binze mentioned earlier. He continued to lead them along the trail he described until the sun sank below the fells. Darkness crept over the company, and cold along with it. Binze lowered himself to a stealthy stalking gait and Sawain exercised similar caution. At his signal, the rest of the army grew wary.

  Binze whispered in a low tone, “Can you smell it? The stench of rotten corpses fills the air. We are very close.”

  Binze was right. Sawain unconsciously sniffed the air and filled his nostrils with a decaying smell that made him retch. It was so strong that it bur
ned his half-human nose. He dropped prone and crawled to the top of the hill they were climbing. His stomach dropped at the sight that awaited him.

  The hill he looked from dropped into a wide, flat valley of packed sand, approximately twenty miles from his hill to the walls of Jordborg in the distance. What stood between Sawain and Jordborg was the Conversion temple of the Grey Priests. This one was clearly operational already. The valley below him stirred and swirled like an angry sea. Thousands of undead corpses meandered about the valley, some aimlessly, some in set patterns. There were so many of them that Sawain wondered how they managed not to trip over each other. He knew there was no way his forces could take on an army of that size. He crawled back down the hill and motioned for the Ghosts. When they circled around him, he whispered so that Binze could hear as well.

  “There are thousands of undead surrounding the temple. There’s no way to get to it with what we have. We need to fall back and devise another plan.”

  Sawain could see the dread and hopelessness filling his comrades’ eyes. He could not help sharing those feelings as well. They all nodded reluctantly. Naralei whispered back to Sawain.

  “It must be bad if you, of all people, are calling a retreat. So, where do we go?”

  Binze took a few steps back and motioned for the others to follow. “There is an old Druid’s glade not far from here in a hidden ravine. That would be the safest place to hide a gathering of our size. We can rest there and decide what to do next.”

  Sawain nodded, “Alright, Binze, show us the way.”

  The tiny army crept away from the scene of horror beyond the last hill. Sawain could not help feeling as if he had left a part of himself behind on that grassy mound that overlooked certain death. Once they were a safe enough distance away, they resumed a quick march, following Binze. He led them to a ravine that cleaved the earth between two hills. The valley the ravine created was dotted by fir trees, which partially hid the deep gash in the earth until Sawain passed through them. Binze held up a hand to halt the company.