He had danced this dance his whole life. He had felt the music of battle resonate in his heart and soul since he was a small boy. But now, so far from the woods and streams and mountains of the empire, it was a different kind of tune. Not one of honor and respect. Nor of passion and love. Here, on the far side of the world, this was the music of anger and frustration. Of death and anger. Of murderous intent made real.
He ducked an axe swing from one of his enemies and cut his legs out from underneath him. He sidestepped a great sword's killing blow and stabbed the attacker square in his chest, piercing his red armor. Thick hot blood rained from his dead body onto the sand.
A lancer charged him. He took careful aim and threw his sword, slicing his attacker's face open. Even with all the chaos around him, he heard the small weak bones crunch and break in his enemy's face. He rushed forward, rolled to avoid the swipe of another sword, retrieved his own from the dirt, and brought it up hard, relieving his adversary of his arm. The man screamed in agony at Tiberius' strike. He studied the man for a moment before relieving him of his head too.
He grasped the enemy's lance in his hands, swung it in great, violent circles, cutting a swath into their ranks. At his back were his rangers like a sea of black death slowly creeping their way through the melee. They shielded themselves on all sides, and with their free hands, cut and stabbed countless of the heathen enemies.
He heard a deep horn bellow and the sound of drums. The symphony of war. The march of death.
Hulking, massive, Imperial Berserkers ran through the throng, their wild screams of blood lust echoing throughout the canyon. Their maces crushed their enemies flat. Their axes splintered the enemy shields. One Berserker dragged a Narzeth to the ground and was pulling him apart with his bare hands.
He heard a lone voice, loudly singing a beautiful song that penetrated the furious battle's noise. Many of the assembled men on both sides of the struggle stopped their attacks, searching for the source of the beautiful melody. The voice was joined by a mighty chorus that drowned out all the noise in the pass. Tiberius looked atop a nearby ridge as a thin cloud covered the blood-red sun. He pushed his Sight towards the cloud, and a smile burst onto his blood-soaked face.
The dragoons were entering the fight at last.
Shayla was in front, her dragon armor shining brightly against the sun. They landed with such force that hundreds of the enemy were knocked flat on their backs. The dragoons huddled together and began to sing again. Then, like a flurry of arrows, they leapt from their formation. Jumping and hurdling around the battle, stabbing and sweeping the enemy in all directions.
Shayla let out a high-pitched scream that pierced his ears. She was answered with a chorus of singing. He saw her kick off the chest of one of the advancing Narzeth with such force his chest bone was pushed out of his back, sending his spine falling to the sand and dirt ground. All who witnessed such power fled from her wrath, but more dragoons fell from the sky on to them, crushing them under their legs.
He heard thunder crack the featureless sky as dark clouds gathered out of nowhere. Lightning shot from the heavens onto the battlefield. Blocks of ice the size of carriages dropped like ripe apples onto them.
The Battle-Mages had been loosed into the fray.
Many were out amongst the men shielding the Imperials from the attacks from the sky. Wizards were out in force now, healing the wounded as they went. They hurled massive bolts of lightning and balls of blazing fire from their wands as they went. The smell of searing flesh from magical fire stung his nose. A smell he would never forget as long as he lived.
Sudden cries of cheer went up over the Imperials in the field. The sentinels were in the field, clearing a path through the Narzeth. His father had come to battle.
He saw his father in his black and grey armor moving like a great lion amid the battle. Age had slowed him from his former might, but he was The Spirit of the Warrior. Leading his men from the front like their ancestors had for hundreds of years. They met in the middle of the fight, locked arms, and bowed their foreheads together. If they were to die today, they would die together, the last of the Axtons. They would die where all warriors and servants of the empire should die. In battle and in service to their country.
They were back to back, striking down all the Narzeth that dared approach as sheep into the mouths of ravenous beasts. Word of the emperor's presence in the battle quickly filled the air. All of the assembled enemies rushed them, eager to claim the glory of killing their real enemy. All who came within striking distance were dispatched with vengeful haste by the two Axtons.
The lightning ceased. Thunder the sound of a million explosions cracked overhead. The temperature in that desert wasteland dropped to just above freezing. A deep, evil roar boomed over Vermillion Pass as all the fighters went silent.
Fire emerged from the sky, flying in all directions to form a wide circle over the valley. Fire from the ring began joining together, creating an enormous flaming disc that hovered above the battlefield. Another deafening crack of thunder rang out. The fire slowly turned a bright green, the flames in the middle a deep black. The black of night. In the black, he saw stars.
Stars that now began to move towards the earth below.
Beasts of legend were now pouring out of a flaming green ring in droves. Dragon fire rained down in all directions. Balrogs, with their massive bodies of shadow and enormous flaming wings, ran their hands over the embattled Narzeth. Frozen leviathans larger than the Unity Tower slithered around the chasms, freezing the enemy archers on their posts. The smell of burning flesh and the sound of crunching bone filled his senses. He was frozen on the spot as he stared bewildered at the monstrosities that surrounded the field. Overhead, a great and terrible black dragon reared its head back and shot forth a steady flow of fire that obliterated the enemy encampment beyond the valley.
Then all at once, the terrible beasts turned into a translucent light and were gone. He fell on the ground from the shock, unable to move or think.
Those of the enemy that had not perished regrouped to begin their attack anew when, without warning, they froze on the spot as if time itself had stopped. They each began to scream a deep blood-curdling cry as each one of the remaining enemies in the field slowly turned to ash where they stood. He stared dumbstruck until a soft breeze penetrated the valley and blew all the ashen Narzeth away into oblivion.
A cacophony of cheering and screaming erupted over the pass. He laughed uncontrollably until his laughter changed into great tears of fear that began to roll down his bloodied face. He fell to the ground, and all around him went quiet. He shut his eyes, hoping to erase all he had seen. But the sights still lingered in his mind's eye, seared into his memory from now until forever.
Chapter 13
The Way Forward
He forced his eyes open to the daylight streaming upon his worn and tired face. The faint sounds of birds out for their morning breakfast chirped through the straw roof. He tried to blink, but each attempt felt like the weight of the world was forcing his eyes closed. Yet every time his eyes closed memories of the war’s final battle flashed in his mind. The smells of dead flesh hung fresh in his nose. The sounds of the dying and the screams of horror from those spared kept ringing in his ears.
He tried to move his body, but every muscle in his body screamed at him in protest.
“Best lie still, King’s Son,” a stone-hard voice said.
He tilted his head to see a robed man sitting beside him. The man’s eyes were dark blue and deeper than an ocean’s gulf. His arms were the size of small oak trees, even under his dark green and brown robes. His long flowing red beard almost brushed the ground, and his head was shaved closer than a ranger’s. The most curious sight though was this his perfectly shaved head was adorned with tattoos of some ancient forgotten language.
“Where am I?” Tiberius whispered.
“You’re in my home, boy,” the stranger replied. “Our scouts found you on the edge of our borders tw
o days ago now. Against my better judgment, they brought you to us for aid.”
Tiberius tried to speak about all he had encountered, but the words were lost on him. To him, he had just been on the plains of Vermilion Pass. He had just fought and killed countless Narzeth in the sweltering dust bowl on the other side of the world. The memory of the sulfur and the feel of coarse dust was still fresh in his mind. The sounds of the beasts from the sky still echoed in his ears. For him, he had just remembered the worst days of his life.
No, not remembered, he thought. I was there again. Living it again, just as I had before.
“Where are my friends?” Tiberius asked.
“Resting. They spent the better part of two days listening to you wail and scream.”
How could I have been out for two whole days? But at least my companions are alive.
“Who are you, sir?” Tiberius asked, his throat hoarse and scratchy.
The man let out a chuckle that shook the stone room. “I am the shaman of this village. And it is only by my great knowledge and power that ye are healed,” he replied before standing to leave.
A great shock rattled through Tiberius now that he saw the man standing. Though he was powerfully built and looked as though a man of the forest would look, he was at least a foot and a half shorter than young Michael. His long flowing red beard almost brushed the ground and a pronounced nose extended beyond his mustache. His cheekbones and forehead were stern and looked as though they were carved out of thick granite centuries ago. A sudden realization dawned on the weary ranger’s mind.
“You’re a dwarf!” he exclaimed.
The man stopped in his tracks and turned to face Tiberius. To the Ranger, he looked familiar and yet so strange at the same time. Now that he knew what to look for, it was unmistakable. His mind flashed to the stories he had read often as a youth, tales of the Magi and Dwarves who built the Imperial City. The dwarves who could summon magic without a wand or staff. Dwarves who had left the empire for the Land Beyond for peace and rest after years of imprisonment and turmoil
The shaman’s stone cut face melted away and was replaced by a look of deep sadness and regret. Tiberius could see at once that he had struck a nerve with the dwarf and felt ashamed for whatever offense he might have caused.
“Aye. Once upon a time, we were called dwarves,” the shaman whispered.
He turned to see the pained Ranger, and his face reset to its sternness. “Sleep, boy. You will leave today, gods be damned!”
He slammed the heavy stone door as he left, leaving Tiberius alone in the hut.
A dwarf, he thought, before falling fast asleep again. How about that?
The Ranger awoke just after midday. His head and muscles were not as sore as they had been that morning, but it was still a great effort to stand. His movements were strained, and every step threatened to make him collapse. Once or twice he had to stop mid-stride to steady himself on wobbly legs. But he pressed on, determined to reunite with his friends.
After a few minutes of painful dressing, he exited the shaman’s hut and found himself in a vast open space in the forest. Sprinkled around the wooded area were more small stone buildings and houses with their thatched roofs. He studied the sides of the hut he had emerged from and saw it bored the same runic language tattooed on the shaman’s head. However, the closer he looked at the foreign runes carved into the building’s sides, he could almost start to hear the words of some ancient language taking form in his mind.
Though his eyes could not understand the harsh shapes and figures, his mind seemed to interpret them just the same. Words such as “Brusgrik” and “Blessing” sprung to him immediately. He stared at the shapes, confused as to how he could understand their writing, let alone what they meant. There was no recording of the dwarven language in the Citadel. Nor in any library on either side of the world. Yet now, he could understand their meanings as though he had known language his whole life.
He looked away from the strange words to inspect the buildings. To his eyes, he could see no seams nor any brick and mortar to hold them up. Instead, all were just a smooth stone face as if some great and powerful person had shaved them down into their shapes. The dwarven power in building and molding things to their use was indeed real, even in such barren and remote environments. It was no wonder they had created such magnificent structures as the Unity Spire and the Imperial City.
The sudden smell of cooking meat drew his attention away from the foreign language and architecture he had studied. He snapped his head around, eager to find the source of the wonderful smelling food, until he saw smoke rising from the center of the small village. As he began shuffling through the snow-covered stone village towards the rising smoke, many dwarven children stopped to stare at him.
He, too, stopped after a few moments to stare and inspect them. He knew they were children right away, despite them all being the same height as the Shaman. Their faces were somehow younger and not as weather-worn. Their eyes were brighter and shined out happier than even some humans. Especially telling was that the children lacked the telltale beard associated with the dwarves of history and legend. A group of dwarven women came to shoo the children away, and Tiberius was further shocked to see the women, like the shaman, were also bearded. Not as full and flowing, but still longer than his own black and greying beard. Many of them stopped to stare at him, too, before heeding their own advice to disperse.
He started to hobble on through the snow for a few minutes until he arrived at the village center, where a small bonfire was burning bright. There, he found another small crowd of young dwarves laughing loudly into the frigid afternoon air. The dwarves were huddled around someone speaking in the middle, enraptured with whatever they were saying.
“And when they looked down at his ugly face, they saw a fire in his eyes. Fire. In. His. Eyes! Clearly, the man had been enchanted. Even being enchanted, there was no way he could have raised so many of the undead soldiers,” Michael was saying, reveling in the attention of his audience of dwarves.
A pained smile crept onto Tiberius’s disheveled face at the sight of his companions. Like the children, Michael was an odd spectacle indeed, seeing as he seemed to almost tower over them. Behind the crowd of onlookers, he could see Shayla, staff still in hand, but relaxed and smiling back at Michael. She looked past the crowd and met Tiberius’s eyes, her small smile growing large. She nodded at her companion and began to walk around the group to meet him.
“What happened next, wizard?” one dwarf child asked Michael, eager to hear more about his misadventures the days prior.
“I told you, Guronin, I am a Mage! But what happened next, you ask? My friend reached down to touch him… and he turned to dust in his hands!” he said with a flourish and a gasp of shock from the children.
“What next!? What next!?” another child asked.
“Then my handsome and brave companion saved my butt from certain death using only his wits and good looks,” Tiberius cut in above the exuberant children.
Michael jumped with a start and turned to see his friend and companion hobbled over but smiling at the sight before him. Without hesitation, he cut through the crowd of dwarves and hugged his friend with such vigor it almost knocked Tiberius off his already shaky feet. The days of fear and despair washed away, replaced by a flood of pure joy and relief.
“How’re you feeling, sir?” Michael asked after breaking their long embrace.
“Like I’ve been stepped on by a herd of wild horses, my friend,” Tiberius replied.
“I am sorry for your pain, but I am glad to see you about so soon, sir,” Shayla said, joining her companions. She placed her hand on the Ranger’s shoulder and said, “Blessings of Kazduhl above, you are still with us.”
“Blessing to your dragon king that you were here to lead in my stead,” Tiberius said, touching her hand on his shoulder.
Michael rummaged in his bag. “I was waiting for you to wake, sir. But here,” and in his hands materialized the potions
Damian had given them the day they departed.
“Potions? Where did these come from?”
“The High Sorceror gave them to me the day we left the city. I had thought to use them sooner, but that Shaman had said it would have been no use till you overcame what afflicted you.”
Tiberius winced. “The Shaman was surely right in saying that. But as for Damian, I could kiss that drunken fool!”
He took the small purple potion from Michael and, in one large gulp, downed it all. The taste of peppermint and elderberry filled his mouth as a warm sensation filled his body. His legs began to feel warm and alive. His chest and arms began to tingle, and his mind seemed to emerge from a foggy haze. His swollen eyes relaxed, and he felt himself begin to stand erect and firm.
“Gods above!” he exclaimed.
A broad smile formed on the young Mage’s face. “Better?”
“Indeed! I dare say I feel like I am in my prime!”
“Good!” a booming, throaty voice exclaimed. “Now, take your comrades and get!”
The crowd turned to see the Shaman, armed crossed, from across the bonfire. His red beard looked like twinkling fire against the snowy village and his stern face showing.
“But, sir,” Michael began.
“But nothing, boy!” the Shaman cut in. “I told the King’s Son that you all would be off as soon as he was better! Well, here he is as energetic as a rabbit in heat! Now be off our lands before I…”
“Thrakeluhm!” a louder voice cut above him, shaking the trees loose of snow.
Stillness covered the village at once. The sound, which had been like thunder, continued to reverberate around them. Slowly, another dwarf emerged from where the sound had come from. All the people close by bowed their heads low in respect at the presence of this new dwarf. All except the three companions. The three were shocked to see that the thunderous voice of command had come from such a small creature.
The Spirit of The Warrior: The Axton Empire book 1 Page 14