by Jake Yaniak
'You speak boldly,' the voice returned, 'How do you know that I will not run straight to her and tell her of your feelings?'
'I think she, nay the Merkata Clan in its entirety already understand my feelings. But they love power more than they love even loyalty. Is that not why they sent my master into a trap in the first place? Knowing the treachery of man's heart, they ignored reason and clamored for the power of Meldomnon and its double minded Lord Holthnen. So desperate was the Queen for power that she sent the only thing she had that was of any worth, the only kind man in all of Vestron to the Mountain of Fire in chains.'
'You speak much too plainly,' the voice said again, this time with a hint of a laugh behind its false sincerity.
'I speak plainly because both you and I know that you are no man of Oblindin, nor a man at all. You are the boy that stood by Malia's side at the well, and who fled upon hearing my words.'
'Indeed,' the boy said as he seemed to step from the shadows into the moonlit room. 'I am called Duri; and yours are the first eyes to have discovered me for at least a thousand years.'
'But what are you?' Natham asked.
'What am I?' he laughed in a childlike voice, 'Why, have you never heard of ghosts before?'
'Indeed,' Natham said very seriously, 'I have seen more ghosts than men in my days. Yet no ghosts have I hitherto seen.'
'You speak in riddles,' the boy laughed.
'It is not a riddle to you, I am sure,' Natham said coldly, 'Those who fancy themselves to be ghosts are usually of quite a different nature. What are you? Why do you hang about the witch?'
'If I am no ghost,' the boy giggled, 'then what am I?'
'You are a Lost Child; one of those sorry spirits that cling to this world out of sorrow and misery.'
'You are right that I am one of the Lost Children of whom so many fairy tales speak. But your fairy-lore is wrong on one point. We cling to this world in sorrow and misery, but not because of it. But what about you? What are you?'
Natham paused for a moment and did not answer.
'You call me a ghost,' the boy said, looking at the lump on Natham's left shoulder. But you have more than just a foot in the grave yourself.'
Natham's face grew stern and vacant. 'But do not worry,' the boy said, 'I will guess no further. I get the impression you would have no more answers than I to that question. But I think I will follow you, if that is alright.'
'Could I prevent it?' Natham snickered.
'No, I don't suppose you could,' Duri laughed. 'At any rate, you may find me to be of some use.'
'And what about you?' Natham asked. 'What would you hope to gain from following me?'
'Ever since I can recall, I have doted around this silly old goddess of the Merkata. Why I have followed her all these years I do not understand. But since the Lord Whately appeared, she seems suddenly weak and foolish, wherein she had previously appeared to be strong and wise. There are only two men that have not cowered before her and groveled for favor: Your master and yourself. The reason for this, as well as for the change that has come over her I wish to discover.'
'Suit yourself,' Natham said. 'I trust you have seen battle in your long years?'
'Indeed,' Duri answered.
'And I trust that I need not prepare you for all the horrors and terrors that accompany war?'
'Indeed not,' Duri snickered, 'I have undoubtedly seen more war than you have on your master's farm!'
'Despite all of this I must, however, warn you: You have not seen nor heard of what I am capable of doing. Be prepared. What you will see may upset even a ghostly stomach.'
Duri became serious at once. The only thing that he truly believed and understood about this creature is that Natham was not the sort of creature to make an empty boast.
Chapter III:
The Wrath of the Monster
The Fields of Sinn
It was on a rainy morning, the first day of Messest to be precise, when the men of Harz first beheld the Monster of Vestron in open war. A great force had come from the Fiery Mountain to challenge the armies of Oblindin, who had lately established an outpost in the fortified village of Sinn. The village was a full march to the north of Oblindin, and they hoped to sack it swiftly and thereby establish a more secure border between the Merkata and the Vestri.
The army was commanded by Lord Ritin, an able commander and master swordsman. He had extensive experience fighting against the Ohhari in the Olger wood, and his reputation was well-known among the Vestri and Merkata alike. He came with soldiers from Meldomnon and Fhuhar under the banner of the Mountain of Fire, a simple red sphere on a background of black (ever practical, the Harz banners were meant to signify one thing: Power. And for this purpose was such an austere design settled upon). Altogether he led three thousand men, each armed with spears and swords, as well as a hundred mounted knights.
It was believed that there were only five-hundred Merkata altogether within the village. This was very nearly accurate. But it failed to take into account the valor of the Merkata heroes and, as this was their first encounter with him, the strength of the Vestron Monstrosity.
Skatlor remained in Oblindin, on orders from Queen Malia. But ready to fight alongside the monster were Agnoril, Pelon, Naran, Oanor and Janik. Had Ritin known that all these 'half-gods' were gathered in Sinn, he would never have attempted to take the village without a much greater force. The Harz did not quite give the strength of elven-blood the credit it deserved. They felt assured that in the vacuum created by Whately and Gedda's absence, they had little to fear from the Merkata.
Natham absolutely refused to so much as touch any weapon of the Merkata. Nor would he accept sword or shield from their armories, or hauberk from their smithies. 'I will not build upon another man's foundation,' he told Agnoril, who insisted he accept such gifts as the Merkata were willing to grant him. 'For if the house is built upon that which belongs to another, does not the house likewise belong to another?'
In the end, even threats of punishment were not effective. Natham, much to the horror of the Merkata, had no fear of man. He went into battle with nothing but his bare fists and the clothing he brought along with him from Whately's estate. Even his provisions he supplied himself out of his own expenses.
The Harz soldiers were strong and brave, and they were prepared to do whatever it would take to drive the Merkata back into the south. Janik and Pelon insisted they withdraw, and avoid bloodshed. But Agnoril refused. 'Tell me prince,' he said, addressing himself to Pelon, 'Do you really wish to have it said among the Merkata that the princelings of her people fled with their backs uncovered to their mother's arms at the first scent of battle?'
'This is a force too great for us, and too great for this village to withstand,' Pelon objected. 'It would be wise to save our strength for another day. If the Harz become convinced of our weakness, so be it. Let them grow arrogant and careless. Then we will sting them in their ignorance. But not today.'
'It must be today,' Natham said coldly from behind him. The other lords of the Merkata all turned to face him. 'Harz will only keep their captives alive so long as they have hope of forming a treaty. If they come to realize that you mean not to bargain, they will kill them without hesitation. You must turn the tables on them. Right now they fancy they have something that the Merkata wants: Your brilliant strategist and your most valiant prince. But we must show them that the lives of these two captives are worth more to themselves than to us. We must act with such fury and wrath that they will be afraid to touch the only things that might possibly turn aside our anger.'
The others looked at him in fear, none daring to say 'yea' or 'nay'. Agnoril at length broke out into a laugh.
'Truly you can be no companion of Old Whately's' he laughed. 'Whately spoke of mercy and strategy, but you speak as if you were a god? Am I right in assuming that you mean not only to withstand this assault, but to utterly vanquish it? And further, to march against the Mountain of Fire without delay?'
Natham said not
hing, the fire and passion in his eyes gave sufficient answer.
To the north of Sinn there were rich farmlands and level grassy plains stretching as far as the eye could see. The harvest had just passed, and these lands now seemed barren and empty. The army of Ritin marched in tight lines from the north, with torches in their hands. 'They mean to burn the whole village to the ground,' Naran said in a quaking voice.
'They will not come within a league of this village,' Natham said calmly. Somehow, his own certainty seemed to pass over all those around him.
Agnoril sounded a great ram's horn and the gates of the village were opened. Four-hundred men departed; Agnoril, the sons of Malia, and Natham taking the lead. As they marched north, they quickened their pace, preparing themselves for the battle that lay ahead. Pelon and Janik seemed fearful. 'There will be five or more against each one of us,' Pelon said to his brother.
Agnoril overheard and laughed, 'That almost makes it an even match!'
'They have horsemen,' Janik said coldly.
'Leave the horsemen to me,' Natham said. A chill went up even Agnoril's spine when he heard this. They were all still unsure whether he meant these sorts of boasts in jest, self-delusion, or in earnest.
Natham broke away from the host and charged into the line of Harz soldiers with such speed that he might have been mistaken for a horseman himself. Agnoril made a great effort to keep up, but in the end he was not able to stay even within a stone's-throw of the Monster. Natham trampled six or seven men without even looking at them and then hurled himself into the midst of the enemy. In seconds he had fully armed himself, first with the torn limb of some sorry warrior, then with a short sword, then with a spear in one hand and a sword in the other. He tore through them like a cow through grass, mowing them down with iron teeth. Soon he had a broad sword in his left hand, which he swung about like it was made of wood, and a long horseman's spear in his right hand. By the time Agnoril and the princes arrived he had already slain thirty men. When the full might of the Merkata reached the Harz soldiers, he had killed fifty. Much to the horror of the Harz soldiers, he seemed invulnerable to their weapons. Otherwise lethal blows seemed to be unable to attach themselves to him. When he was attacked by groups of warriors it always seemed like he had just one more arm hidden somewhere beneath his cloak to fend off the blows. This gave rise to some of the more ridiculous accounts of his figure. Some of the wisest Harz historians give him more than six limbs. But as I indicated earlier, there is no need to postulate the existence of any more than four limbs.
Ritin, seeing what was happening, ordered his horsemen into the fray without delay. They came around to the rear of the Merkata and began making easy work of the slower and more cowardly among them. Natham turned with a roar and shouted to Agnoril. 'Sword of the Merkata!' he called, 'Destroy their captain! I will deal with the beasts.'
Agnoril, almost forgetting that it was he that was meant to command the Merkata, slew the soldiers against whom he fought and made his way toward the commander of the Harz soldiers. At his side was Naran and Oanor.
Natham, meanwhile, turned back toward the horses and charged toward them with the speed and fury of a war horse himself. The first horse he saw he shoved off its feet as though it were a dead reed. The horse and rider tumbled to the ground with a clang of metal and a whinny of terror. The next horse that came near him he grabbed by the throat and dragged to the ground as though he was wrestling a fox or a goat. Two came against him with lances pointed at his neck. He turned one aside with his broad sword and caught the other in his hand. He dropped the sword and gave one of the horses such a blow that it fell to the earth instantly slain. Another rider came at him in full charge, but the Monster caught his spear and pulled the rider from the saddle, flinging him, clattering and spiraling, into the host of Merkata warriors, who quickly dispatched him.
Very soon after the battle began, archers were sent to slay the Monster and make safe the battlefield. But almost as soon they gave up their endeavors. The Monster seemed to see the arrows coming even before they were fired. He dodged those that he could, the others either glanced off his thick skin or stuck into him like a thorn in a dragon's tail.
A horn was blown signaling a retreat. The Merkata had won. The horsemen turned to flee. Natham grabbed two of them by the back legs and brought them crashing down to the ground. He charged after the rest like a lion chasing down a baby deer. One by one the horsemen fell as he overtook them.
By this time Agnoril had made his way to Ritin. The commander of Harz drew his sword and threatened his opponent, 'I trust you are wise enough to know who I am?'
'I don't have the slightest idea,' Agnoril said insincerely, 'But I imagine you must know who I am.'
'I am Lord Ritin!' the Harz Noble said in a shaking voice, never in all his days had he seen such carnage. 'I will not be slain by the likes of you!'
Their duel was over almost as soon as it began. Ritin swung his sword skillfully and aggressively at Agnoril, but Agnoril proved to be too clever a swordsman for even this famous lord among swordsmen. Ritin's headless body fell to the ground with a thud, sending his soldiers fleeing in terror before the Merkata. Agnoril looked around at the battlefield. Nearly three hundred and fifty of the Merkata remained unharmed. 'It really is quite even now,' he laughed. He blew his horn and commanded his men to charge. 'Hunt them down! Hunt every last devil!' he shouted to his men. 'Let none escape alive!'
'Nay!' shouted Naran, 'Let one, let one escape alive.'
Agnoril turned and looked at the young man. 'You may make a brilliant strategist yet!' he laughed. 'Indeed, let one escape to bring the legend of the Lords of Merkata and the Monster of Vestron before the ears of the courts of Thasbond. For such a tale he will likely enough lose his own head.'
'Nay, let him bring more than a legend,' Naran said. 'Let us capture a man alive and send him to Thasbond with our demands.'
They searched among the wounded men of Harz for a man that they deemed able to survive the return journey to the Mountain of Fire. They outfitted him with a horse and provisions and then sent him off with a sealed letter in his pocket, the head of Ritin in a bag tied to his saddle, and the fear of Natham in his eyes. The letter read as follows:
'To the Lords of Harz, to the Lord Vullcarin who reigns and the Lords Holthnon of Meldomnon and Lord Narig of Nanhur:
'Heed the words of Natham, hero of the Rugna wastes, and hear the words of the Merkata Lords with whom he fights. Your attempt upon the village of Sinn has come to naught. Ritin has fallen, his swordsmanship and wisdom has come to ruin. Send your scouts and your huntsmen to the southeast and behold what has become of your force. See what we have done to them.
'Word will no doubt reach you of the strength of the one who is called Natham, though none will have heard that name until this day. Heed our words, Harz Nobles, for if our captives are not released in one month's time, then the full might of the Merkata and the Monster of Vestron will be set against your cities, your farmlands and the walls of Thasbond itself.
'You knew the abilities of your Lord Ritin better than we, yet he was brought to the Gate of Death by the swift sword of Lord Agnoril, commander of the armies of the Lady Malia. His sword will slay many lords ere this year is ended. Unless you release to us Gedda, the noble son of the Lady, and Whately, who is beloved by all the Merkata.
'Do not take these words to be empty bellowing and haughty threats. The power that has long slept in the wastes has awoken, and with it marches a terror that will not be appeased until it is satisfied either by your obedience or by your blood.'
'Choose this day which of these will be your price!'
A month passed, and Harz, to their eternal regret, made no reply. History teaches us that the Monster himself secretly sent many more letters to Thasbond as well as to Meldomnon and Nanhur, pleading with them to condescend to the demands of the Merkata. A record of his correspondence with the lords of Vestron would be of great moral value to all those who study the philosophy of war. B
ut such things neither fit the scope, nor the scale of my present work. It should be borne in mind, however, that the result of these letters is that in almost every case, the enemies of the Merkata were forewarned of their danger. This was a circumstance that, in the end, saved many thousands of Vestri men and women who would have otherwise been trampled by the Merkata warriors in their blind raging conquest of the central part of Vestron.
The Flames of Hersa
Agnoril, on Natham's suggestion, sent messengers to Oblindin immediately with news of their victory, as well as with requests for a much larger army. In the letter he sent to the Queen he reportedly wrote, 'I had not known war until I saw the Monster on the fields of Sinn.'
There were two goals now before the Merkata: To take control of the port of Hersa, the city in which Whately and Gedda had been betrayed, and to take control of the lake country of Hele. The Poison River, (so called for its sulfurous smell) flowed southwest from Fhuhar and emptied into a large lake, known to the Vestri as Hele. All the surrounding land was called by this name as well. These two points, Lake Hele and Hersa, were critically important to Harz. The fresh, though odorous, waters of Hele fed their most fertile farmlands and was for that reason of no little importance. Likewise, Hersa was one of the more important centers of commerce aside from Nunhar.
Agnoril insisted that they had not the manpower to occupy both Hersa and Hele. But Natham shook his head. 'We will not occupy both,' he said sternly. 'Hersa will be burnt to the ground, in vengeance for the treachery of Harz. We will then only need men enough for the Lake country. If the Merkata can manage that, we will be but a march away from Thasbond itself.