Idath counted the flags. "Only four?" asked the villager in the back with obvious disappointment. Idath didn’t reply.
"Then we made the right decision. We leave for Alkurk. The Front, along with Odra and the Valley of Dust, is lost." He gave the hut and the flags one last look before turning to leave, but then he halted when he saw Idath proceeding to the hut’s wooden stairs alone.
Idath heard faint whispering coming from inside, which he recognized as a prayer, a solemn prayer to Ardul, the Righteous Fury, The Dawn. He lingered for a second, listening to the ancient words, and breathed in the radiance of courage and honor flowing with them from the hut.
When he finally looked around again, the villagers had already left and the prayers had stopped. He gave the flags one last look and headed back to his cottage. The peculiar sensation he got when around that knight took him over; unmistakable and unscathed honor. To him, it was honorable enough to have lived beside a Dargos. They represented everything he wished to be and wished every man to become.
Hail to Niver Darg, the first Dargos, and hail to Eredia, he thought.
When he returned to his cottage, Cel had already gathered the majority of their scant possessions and was waiting on the wooden terrace. Idath went through his belongings, making sure everything was there.
Cel held his hands and looked him in the eyes. "There is nothing to be ashamed of, my love. Nearly the entire region, not just Odra, was waiting for his return; they were simply too afraid to admit it, too afraid to openly embrace your dream."
"A dream?" replied Idath, choking on his words, "Is it a dream now to hope for the pride of man to roar at its gravediggers? Is it a dream to hope for one’s soul to escape his skin, and soar with wrathful wings of freedom? Is it a dream now to long for valor… or wait for justice?"
Cel held his hands. Struggling with her own words, she added, "I am living this dream with you, my love, and it dwells in my veins and haunts my nights as it does yours. We will not give up our search. If we can’t find it in this land, we will look for it in another.”
Both of them turned to Ulisa, standing not too far from them. Something in her unblinking gaze comforted them.
When the first ray of orange light lit up their roof, the Odrans were ready and set to go. One family after another gathered in the village hall, and Galhid supervised the journey’s arrangement. A few hours went by, and the silent gathering was nearly set to go. Concerns started to rise as news of other villages, towns, and settlements came short.
It fell on Galhid to decide if they should begin their fifty-mile journey at a slow pace or if he should stay behind with the Sidnian army and wait for people to catch up. Various opinions on this matter were put forward by the elders along with others objecting to the evacuation idea altogether.
An hour went by until Galhid and the other village leaders noticed that the voices of the gathering outside the hall were fading. As the conversation fell into silence, they went outside.
The villagers were watching a rider slowly walking among their lines: the Dargos. His armor shone like a jewel. He held the Eredian flag, Niver Darg’s personal sky-blue flag; the one only given to members of the royal family. The rider wore the Dargos emblem on his chest piece and cloak. Beneath his helmet, his eyes were fixed on the entrance of the village and the road beyond it. His horse, the Herald, was majestic in his proud walk as its hoofbeats echoed on the sand.
Eyes followed him in grave silence until he reached the spot where they used to rally before battles at the entrance of the village. He vigorously thrust the spear, holding the four flags he’d managed to muster into the ground and then turned to the watching mob and soldiers. He held his country's flag high and shook it once. Then slowly he turned southeast, toward the Henyan Front, towards war.
Without uttering a single word, the Dargos had announced that he would die before abandoning the Henyan Front. A few moments passed before one of the assembled villagers acted. The Odrans turned to the source of the movement and saw Idath’s white-haired daughter, Ulisa, standing up in the cart she had been sitting on. She looked at her father. Idath glanced at his wife then gazed back at his daughter.
Encouraged, Idath pulled the reins of his brown horse and started moving toward the Dargos at the village gate. Cel went to Ulisa and whispered something in her ear. Cel reached inside the wagon, grabbing her bow. With misty, proud eyes, Cel told her younger daughter to watch over her brothers. The older one, Ulisa, mounted her mother’s horse and sat behind her. Idath, Cel, and Ulisa rode through the speechless crowd toward the Dargos and silently lingered beside him.
"So be it," said Galhid. "Whoever set his mind on going to Alkurk may leave now. We are staying behind to secure the evacuations and..." pausing for a second, "… and to aid with whatever the Dargos of Eredia is planning. The Henyan Front will continue to be under our guardianship until the Crowns’ Hall says otherwise."
Groups of evacuees, warriors, and small armies joined the Odrans as they made their way southeast towards the Henyan Front. They followed the Sidnian army, which was following the Eredian Dargos.
Dexan watched the trail of the tiny army fading in the horizon from a distance. He heard a sound from the village hall. Holding his staff defensively, he cautiously went inside. He lingered for a brief moment, trying to detect the source of the sound. As he walked further inside, he realized it was coming from the three mystical Stones of Yeathor. He watched as another one of the three stones reformed, the one that read Valor . He saw it contorting back into its original intact form. Amazed, but not terrified by the bizarre phenomena, he turned to the trail of the departing army.
“Blow high, wind of valor,” he said to the leaving Sidnians. “For the desert is listening.”
We Have Returned
The Date was 29 th of Tovil, 2122 SC...
The battlefield of the Valley of Dust once bore witness to the clash of a unique pair of good and evil: the Silver Bearers of Enigmus-the Unbroken, and the Black Army (4) of the Chain of Cas. The Valley of Dust, which spread for miles, was so-called for a reason. Countless soldiers of all races died there, unburied, and their remains turned to dust and were blown for miles across it. Rough were these lands, as rough as the ages they marked.
Nothing was dreamt or wished for of by all races of Talor more than destroying that Glaw Bridge, but no real attempt was ever made. From the strait below it, the thunderous sounds of the Sea of Mountain Waves were funneled to the Durian Ocean in the north. The source of those enormous waves was not known, nor the source of the faint rhythmic sound that sailors heard when they were deep inside. The blare of those waves was blown through the narrow opening and heard for miles deep into that ocean as if the gorge was a colossal trumpet. People named those roars The Calls of Durian, the Horizon Walker, and because of them, the Druids of Igna protected the bridge.
At the mouth of the bridge past the east edge of the valley, the tiny army of Sidnia and a few even smaller armies from across the region had stood since the early hours of the morning. With their own eyes, they confirmed the news carried to them by the scouts. They stood facing the broken Wall of Enigmus, and a huge fracture stared back at them. Nothing stood between them and the Realm of Gosh.
The Sidnian soldiers were standing halfway between the mouth of the Glaw Bridge and the ruins of the border city of Henya. Ranks of untrained warriors armed with forks and pikes lined up with them.
Ahead, up on the infamous bridge stood the legendary Dargos astride his Herald. Years of training had forged the Heralds into the ultimate war mount. Nothing could easily strike fear into their hearts. Not after parading in the Marsh of the Dead in Enizma or listening to the Wailing of the Devilmen of Setlock.
But even a Herald would waver when facing the Dark Mile.
The outskirts of Sidnian towns were a few miles back. Terrified villagers and farmers peeked towards the battlefront, praying that the tiny army might stop the crushing doom approaching. The Sidnians were fine soldiers, but
they were too few. Their army did not exceed a thousand in number.
Terrified by the unnerving sounds they been hearing all day, they had their eyes fixed on the darkness beyond the bridge. Occasional movements on the mountain and deep in the passage’s darkness beyond the broken wall only helped to increase their fear. It was from that tunnel that death slyly grinned at the terrified army for the entire day.
Among the handful of pavilions at the back of the trembling army, which housed the few officers spared by Sidnia, Galhid stood at the opening of a tent. It was to him that the command of these soldiers, militia, peasants and veteran adventurers fell. Idath was a retired soldier and he gave Galhid all the support he needed.
"I don’t like this, Galhid. No one else is coming. It is only us and those four even smaller armies,” said Diniam, his fellow officer.
Galhid didn’t reply instantly. He put his cup on the small table by the tent’s opening and for a brief moment, he gazed at the tunnel, extending its horrifying images to his mind. A quick chill ran through his body.
"This is not what we were trained or even paid to do; we are not Henyans," Diniam went on. “And we cannot perform the miracles the Serador did ages ago.”
"Indeed, but the Henyans are gone now, annihilated to the last man thanks to our Crowns’ Hall with its weak and slow decisions. And the Serador has forsaken us….” He sighed and continued as he looked to the northeast. “We drove them away when we grew weak.”
"It is not getting easier, Galhid. Zuld’s Progeny haven't descended upon us for more than half a century now.” He lifted the tent's opening and added, "this time something seems to have agitated them so much that they finally dared to reach gnaw the wall down.”
Galhid watched the Dargos, whose eyes were focused on the Tel’Abad.
"That Dargos led us to our end, but we won’t stay here to witness it,” Galhid said. “We won’t face the fate of the Henyans. We will retreat with whatever we can spare and fall back to the Sidnian borders if the Vile Born charges us.”
Diniam raised his glass. "I will drink to that.”
“We will not waste this army on a foolish heroic act. This is one battle that cannot be won.” Galhid raised his glass to his friend’s.
But before the glass touched his lips, an ear-piercing whir blared from the mountain, and the beat of a drum hammered their ears. Galhid spilled his drink, startled by the deafening sound. A wave of panic ran through the troops.
At the fringes of the ruined city, Cel lurked behind a broken wall, watching the confusion. The archers had scattered, and she peeked nervously over the wall at the dark tunnel and infamous bridge, bow in hand. Ulisa stood beside her, looking at her mother.
"Easy Cel, easy Ulisa,” yelled Idath from the last line of the army formation, a hundred feet from her. "Easy loves," he added.
The small army was facing the bridge some hundred feet away from the devastated walls of Henya. The soldiers were standing in a phalanx formation at the mouth of the bridge in order to funnel their attackers into the small exit.
Galhid’s voice came from behind. "Steady men, no one will die today."
Cel asked her husband, “That was them, right, that drum?”
“Yes,” he answered, “but I don’t know what caused that whir.”
He looked toward the unshaken Dargos at the mouth of the bridge and to his Herald, which tossed and pawed restlessly. The Dargos was focusing on something high in the dark tunnel. Above the knight, Idath noticed something piercing through the air at a distance. A boulder was cutting between the darkness of the passage and their own vantage point with incredible speed.
Galhid yelled for the frontline to fall back. Miraculously , t he terrified soldiers managed to avoid the crushing death. The boulder flew over the unmovable Dargos. The impact was earth-shattering. With utter horror, the soldiers approached the newly made massive hole imagining the grim fate they’d just avoided. A few seconds later, a similar sound came from the same distance. Another boulder traveled through the air, pushing the small army further away from their strategic spot.
The soldiers avoided the boulders with relative ease since combat was not yet engaged. They flew across such an open distance and were easy to spot. However, any chance of holding a position was gone.
Concerned, Galhid watched the situation. Diniam yelled, “If the Vile Born descended upon us now, they would be overrun like grass.” Galhid froze in indecision.
One boulder after another flew at the soldiers. Galhid and Idath helplessly turned to the Dargos for guidance. They saw that he was not falling back out of range of the hellish device. He knew that the Vile Born would not waste a shot on one man. Besides, if they did, they would damage the bridge which they intended to cross.
The Dargos looked to the Sidnians and shook his flag once more. At this urging, Idath turned to his kinsman, yelling "Press forward — to the bridge!”
"Hold your ground," countered someone behind their lines, and Idath saw Galhid standing back in front of his tent and aiming a firm gaze at him.
"Galhid, what are you doing?" Idath screamed. He strode towards Galhid. "We need to press forward. Can’t you see they are ignoring the Dargos? They will not damage the bridge they intend to cross. If we get close enough, they will not aim at us or it would destroy the bridge."
"I will not risk the lives of our men! Look at them, they are terrified. I cannot expect them to obey that order.” Idath’s gaze roamed through their army and saw the truth of what Galhid had just told him. The situation was more than any man could handle.
The drums.
The shadow that gazed at them from the darkness of the tunnel - even in the brightness of the day.
The roars and grunts of their unseen enemies.
The hellish catapult.
At that point, if someone would have only sneezed, the whole army would drop their weapons and flee. The Sidnians were filled with terror beyond their control. Idath turned to the Dargos, and a helpless expression fell on his face.
The knight gazed at his allies for a second then raised his flag. Idath looked to Cel and she nodded. Full of pride and resolve, he stepped forward to take the flag from the knight. It was a great honor to hold the rare flag of House Niver Darg.
With a tremendous effort to control his fear and his terrified horse, Idath drew near the Dargos on the dreadful bridge. The Dargos turned to Idath and planted his country's flag in the last spot of Henyan soil for Idath to come and take it, and then looked right into his eyes. Idath never forgot that look; the moment his soul linked with that of the Dargos… and soared.
Before turning back toward Tel’Abad, the noble Dargos faced the dying sun. He raised his hands, grabbing its rays, squeezing them in his palm and drawing them to his heart. He pounded his clenched fist on his chest, and a single pulse of light radiated around him.
Then, slowly he turned to walk toward the Dark Mile.
Alone he rode, carrying his axe, which was called The Lesson, and the Shield of Ardul. Calmly, he uttered the holiest of prayers, the Stanzas of Enigmus the Unbroken:
Fathers in heaven, our children to come,
Write down our story on the face of the sun;
Our pains, our gains, our deeds across the lands;
We will meet you where… the last man stands.
Alone, Atmos Niver Darg, the legendary Dargos of Eredia rode toward the darkest spot on Talor. His Herald recalled everything it had learned and fixed its angry eyes on the Dark Mile. Ignoring the terrifying thunderous roars, both rider and horse steadily approached.
Gradually the Herald’s trot turned to a canter, then to a gallop. Then, with a valorous cry, Atmos jumped across the broken wall fading into the darkness of Tel’Abad. The thunderous neigh of his Herald was the last thing that echoed behind.
The Sidnian army stood motionless, eyes fixated on the dark passage. They tried in vain to guess what was going on inside, but after several minutes, all that was clear was that the boulders had stopped flying
from beyond the wall. The tiny army scanned the tunnel and the mountain nervously.
One of the archers yelled: “What is this?” and pointed to a small cave several hundred feet high on the right side of the mountain.
When the soldiers turned, they saw water pouring out from this cave in a long waterfall. A shadow veiled the entrance of the cave like a gray cloud. Guesses as to the cloud’s nature flew rampantly as the soldier’s stood in the growing dry desert breeze.
It wasn’t until just before sunset that they heard a terrifying roar from the tunnel. Several of the archers uttered terrified wails. Each and every soldier scanned the mountain, confused and looking for the source of the sound.
Seconds later, they heard another roar then came another.
Then, like a blurring hellish nightmare, the Sons of Zuld revealed their might.
A huge figure appeared in the darkness of the passage and mounted the broken wall.
He was a black tower of muscles and might, resembling a dark stone statue of a four-armed giant. His arms kept changing places, and his form kept twisting as though they were made of clay. And his face… his face was like an amorphous painting, and in it, hundreds of faces –his former victims– swam endlessly, crying in agony and rage. Ridvak, he was called, a direct descendant of Gosh.
Ridvak held an enormous tree-sized mace that appeared to be reinforced by some kind of red-hot metal. The air surrounding the weapon blurred from the radiating heat. On account of the heat radiating from it, some airborne particles disintegrated with a spark when it got too close to the searing mace. He let out a bellowing battle cry which sounded like the rumbling of a monstrous machine.
The Dark Season Saga- the Final Harvest Page 3