The Dark Season Saga- the Final Harvest

by Yehya H Safwat

  “Now that is how Eredia should act,” yelled Agat excitedly, making Supremus and the young Dargos knights, as troubled as they were, smile.

  “Agat is a big believer in you, Dargos,” said Akavi as he looked at his son proudly. “He has fought like a Trodon the past few days.”

  The Dargos knight removed his helmet, and his dark hair caressed his sharp, firm features. Iden introduced him, “A’tor, the Dark Judge, the second in command of the Dargos.”

  “A’tor!” Agat blurted out. “Eredia sent Trador’s adopted son to our aid? Was it Trador that sent you, my dear knight?”

  “The king can’t send anyone anymore, master dwarf; it was Lord Valadas who saw to our presence,” A’tor answered. “But if he could, you would have found him leading the eight of us.”

  “We are forever thankful, Dargos; your presence is most welcomed,” Agat added.

  “This was the last refuge for us, the Trodons of Bayland… you have saved us from extinction, my old friend,” Akavi told Supremus.

  The gates of the town were opened, letting out dozens of dwarf families in carriages and caravans.

  They made plans after leaving the battlefield, trying to prepare for the days to come. A’tor was to stay and aid in the evacuation. Iden Supremus and the rest of the Eredian army would escort them to the Eredian lands in a mile-long parade and then on to Erados.

  As the army left, they were joined by Agat, who seemed to be accepted by the knights for his blunt honesty. He made them smile, and they needed that.

  The evacuation took several hours of the night, longer than planned. Akavi and A’tor supervised the process from atop the eastern hill. Iden led the caravans across Eredia to the east, disappearing behind the hills, heading for safety.

  ***

  A few minutes before sunrise, both Akavi and A’tor heard a piercing trumpet. Akavi turned slowly north. He knew whose trumpet it was. The Lorken banners appeared, surrounding the hills from the north, northeast, and northwest.

  The disturbing fact, in my opinion, was not just that the Lorks had decided to return and finish the task themselves. What concerned me was those new banners interspersed with those of Lorken. As if materializing out of thin air, sunset orange flags with purple borders appeared one after another. A sigil resembling a black lightning decorated the banners.

  The Chain of Cas wouldn’t let such an insulting defeat go unanswered, and had summoned their greatest weapon… the Tirra Mortus.

  The Tirra Mortus, the Million Deaths, was not like any other army. They were untraceable. No one ever saw their camp, as no scout had ever managed to spot them from a distance long enough to do anything about it. The handful of times they had engaged an enemy, they seemed to me to come from nowhere. The Itians, cruelest of the human sub-races, led this army.

  So there they were, the Lorks and the Million Deaths, approaching from behind the hills. A force such as that was enough to take over the entire south. Akavi called A’tor. The latter hurried up the hill and froze with dismay when he reached the top and saw the enemy banners.

  “My friend, I am eternally in your debt, you remind me of how real men used to be. I have a journey to take now; take care of those you put under your wings,” Akavi said solemnly.

  A’tor turned to the dwarven hero. “You are talking as if I am going to abandon you.”

  “Yes, you are,” Akavi replied.

  “No, my friend, I am not,” A’tor replied decisively. “I will stand with you and hold the Lorks back. I will stay until everyone is safe.”

  Akavi took a deep sigh and responded with resolve, “We have no chance to evacuate the town and still get enough distance between us and our enemies. These are not just the Lorks, my friend. These are the flags of the Tirra Mortus. No one has ever escaped the punishment of the Million Deaths.”

  A’tor began to speak, but Akavi continued resolutely. “There are villages and settlements that stretch all the way to your lands. Some of them don’t have a chance, but we must warn them all nevertheless. We will slow our enemies down so that you can warn the Eredian army and the villages. You have saved the majority of us; now make sure all who can reach Erados safely.”

  A’tor just stood, listening.

  Akavi’s morose attitude lightened a bit as he added in a lower tone, “There is something I want to tell you. I intended to pass it to Agat when the right time knocks, but now I must entrust it to you, knowing that you deserve to guard this legacy. I will tell you about the Shards of Mergal.” He drew forth and spoke in low tones, nearly whispering.

  I wasn’t close enough to hear his words, but I instantly felt connected to the knight, knowing that we both shared that legacy. At last, Akavi stepped back from A’tor. “Safeguard this legacy, A’tor. Now go. Warn Supremus of those on his tail.”

  The dwarf lord began to ride away, but he soon stopped and turned back to A’tor. “Tell my son that I was always proud of him. Tell him that he will find me with him, always.”

  With one last nod, he charged back to the town, commanding the remaining soldiers to get everyone back inside. Many panicked when they were told to re-enter the town.

  A black arrow pierced through the breathing dawn. It landed in the dust, and A’tor rode to retrieve it, one of his shields raised. He examined the black arrow and the filthy oil covering its tip and then looked to the hill where it came from. There stood a seven-foot-tall, bald man. Although A’tor could not have seen from such a distance, I took a closer view. From a distance, he looked like a normal human just a bit taller with a muscular serpentine physique. His skin seemed to be permanently stained with blood. The red pupils in the center of his large eyes manically scanned around and his mouth was covered by a bone resembling a cruel mouth gag. It seemed to protrude from his skull and cover his mouth. He held a crossbow and gazed back at A’tor.

  It was an Itian in his humanoid form; an officer of the Tirra Mortus.

  For a moment, A’tor lingered, gazing at the darkness routing back around the hills behind the dark warrior. If it wasn’t for his faithful Herald horse, Stigmus, urging him to safety, I believe he would soon have been buried under a black rain of arrows. He tore away from the storm of arrows shooting in his direction. Then, alone, with one last look at the gates of Kavlot, he rode Stigmus like a flaming bolt of anger, heading back east.

  As he rode through Bayland, he passed by small villages and settlements. The first few didn’t have a chance of catching up to the Eredian army, so he just bolted by, yelling at them to go to Akavi. The innocent villagers looked at him gratefully. They must have thought that he came to their rescue. They thought that their turn was near and soon they would join the Eredian army, then to safety they would go.

  Young men, old men, women, children… All waved and greeted the knight as he dashed beside them, shouting for them to go for Kavlot. The elders would warn those who had a chance to run—those who owned mounts, but the rest would have to stay. He felt unworthy of the thanks they shouted.

  Beside a village, he stopped. He saw a few children who giggled and waved to him. One of the girls reminded him of the sister he lost when he left his home. It was her smile, her innocence, he thought. But again, all children radiated that. He could barely look at them. Glowering at the ground in front of his restless Herald, he snuck a glance at the girl, and I could tell how badly he wanted to help her. I saw his shame, his helplessness. Yet all he could do was to find an elder and show him the death that approached pointing toward the Tirra Mortus.

  A’tor looked toward the oblivious Eredian army ahead, already slowed by the Bayland refugees. He knew that without his warning, the Tirra Mortus would certainly slaughter everyone. He needed to press onward.

  He started to trot slowly as his eyes glittered with angry tears, trying to ignore the cheering of the villagers he warned. His trot quickened to a gallop as he imagined the fate of those villagers if the Tirra Mortus laid their hands on them. He could see it in the eyes of the elders he warned. The elders turned a
way with dismay as he shouted his warning.

  The hills of Bayland bore witness to A’tor’s wrathful ride back home. Several times, he narrowly escaped the black arrows as he warned the villages.

  Whatever hope was born the night before; it never saw dawn. Turning his back to Bayland, A’tor knew that it was the end of that proud land. As he gained speed, he stretched his arms, fists clenched.

  As if wanting to escape his flesh and fly from his weak, helpless form, he bellowed with unbearable agony, “TALOOOOOOOR…. LET FALL YOUR CROOOOOOWNS!”

  It was not the first time he said those words.

  It was not the first time he cursed the crowns.

  And he never guessed who heard.

  Lorken’s Smile

  When I left Veil for Eredia a few years before, I was filled with hope. But when I saw the Fall of Bayland, I lost that hope.

  In the Ibdomad, a couple weeks after the fall of Bayland, in the night of Erados, I watched the arrival of Kavlot’s exodus. The cobbled streets of Erados witnessed the march of an Eredian army unit. It was escorting several riders carrying both banners of Bayland and the Hellanders Clan.

  In his glamorous Dargos armor, A’tor modestly rode Stigmus beside Agat, heading toward the royal palace. He glanced at his new friend and could see the sadness that lurked under his stern features. Proudly and firmly, Agat held the sigil of his fallen house, bearing within him the grief of his recent family loss. As the silent parade wound through Erados, a woman’s voice echoed, shouting for the dwarfs to get their filthy hides outside their city. A man cried that there was no room for more broken races in his city, asking why Eredia should pay for their failure. Agat turned to A’tor with a look of gratitude. The Dargos captain smiled back.

  They reached Dargos Keep, and A’tor rode ahead to make the necessary preparations. This was wise; an unpleasant reaction from the steward was the last thing they needed at that moment. Agat watched the two silver shields tied to A’tor’s back shrink in the distance as he went away.

  At the gates of the keep, Neligan guards stopped the approaching caravan. The Neligans were well-paid and costly-geared. They hailed from the wide Shore of Karonis and were usually in green-banded armor. They wore claw-shaped shoulder plates, fanged helmets, and armed with wicked black iron gladius. They were infamous soldiers of fortune who served only one master, the Evinshanost.

  The Eredian soldiers stepped forward and told the Neligans to open the gates by the order of Iden Supremus.

  The Neligans sneered. One of their soldiers spoke, saying, “Your general does not command us, Eredian. We follow your prince, and we take orders from no one else. Isn’t it enough that you bring fugitives to your pathetic city? You want to take them into your royal palace?”

  “Step aside, mercenary; this is our keep and our city,” the soldier in charge replied. “You will open the gates.”

  “Or else what?” asked the Neligan as he approached menacingly. Another Neligan waved for a group of his comrades, a half a dozen or so, and together they surrounded the Eredian unit. “What will you do about it?” asked the Neligan with a haughty smile.

  “NELIGAN,” sounded a firm voice from atop the stairs just beyond the gates of the keep.

  Everyone turned. The Eredian soldiers sighed in relief when they laid eyes on the two Dargos in their silver armor that shone in the night. The Neligan who had spoken turned to the Dargos, words escaping him. “My lords, we were just—”

  A’tor reappeared, and the two Dargos bowed their heads to him. He ordered the Neligans to take the visitors’ horses to the stables and see to their needs. They didn’t object any further, biting their lips as they took the horses away.

  “What happened to Eredia, A’tor?” asked Agat.

  “Garold happened,” answered A’tor bitterly as he watched the Neligans leave.

  A’tor led the visitors through the enormous courtyard to the keep’s main stairs. Buildings of various purposes surrounded the courtyard. Atop the palace stairs, at the far end of the courtyard, stood Iden Supremus.

  “Agat. Welcome to Erados, your new home.”

  Agat bowed to the general and followed him inside. “A welcome feast is being served in your honor, Agat,” one of the Dargos knights said.

  “Who arranged it?” asked Agat hesitantly.

  Supremus sighed, understanding his question, and replied, “The Prince and the Eredian Council.”

  “In my honor, you say?” asked the dwarf with a smirk. “I am not prepared for such meetings, my lord. If I may, I would like to be excused from it; I need to rest.” He paused briefly before asking “Any news about my father’s…?”

  Iden shook his head.

  A’tor said, “We will find him, Agat.” He paused. “And if necessary, we will bring your father’s body to you and give him the proper burial he deserves.”

  ***

  “I never doubted,” Garold spoke to the crowd in a theatrical manner as he leaned with his fists on the royal table. His celebration of the Eredian army’s victory in Bayland puzzled Supremus. Nonetheless, even middle-class citizens had been invited to the grand feast in the royal court of the Ibdomad. The people had been promised food, surprises, and other festivities to celebrate Iden Supremus and the historic battle.

  “Overwhelming were the odds, but not for a second did I doubt that our wise commander would lay down that threat that has eradicated so many kingdoms of Talor.”

  The officers reluctantly stood up to accept the applause which gradually spread among the audience. Fenith Half Breed, one of the few half-Iktrit in the city, led the cheers. Others applauded as well, celebrating the standing commanders.

  All except Iden Supremus. He just sat there watching Garold with a piercing gaze that failed to hide its contempt.

  Garold must have seen this look, but he continued. “We owe this feeling of security to none but our fearless commander, General Iden Supremus.” He waited until the applause died down again before he continued.

  “But, I ask, why General Supremus, why did you meddle in such affairs? You could have spared the lives of valuable and hardly replaceable cavalry. Why did you interfere with our neighbors’ fate?”

  “Lorken, the Searing Summit, and the Tirra Mortus are not just after Bayland, Garold,” answered Supremus calmly. He sat at the other end of the table, opposite to the prince. His voice echoing across the still room. “I do not deny that it is not our lives that were threatened yet. Breaking ties with our friends is not a wise move, Prince. When our allies fall, our turn will follow. It is clear as sunlight.”

  “This alliance is obsolete, gone, forgotten, and faded with my father. This is a new age, with new rules, and the Chain is our friend now” replied Garold. Gone was the air of celebration. “And whether you like it or not, they are always willing to give aid to countries in need. They would have driven off the Iktrits themselves from our borders if the Iktrits did as you wildly guessed.”

  The guests nervously watched the conversation as Supremus replied, “You are right, they would have done that if they wanted, because the Iktrits are their puppets. But we can handle the Iktrits ourselves.” He threw a glance at Fenith the half Iktrit, who appeared vexed. “As soon as the Iktrits had finished with the last town in Bayland, they would have scathed our border cities and villages. Now, our western borders are exposed. But at least I sent the message I wanted, one that your father would have wanted to announce: Eredia will not break its word.”

  No one spoke. Idath squeezed the hilt of his sword, standing from his chair. “I will leave an honorable memory when I leave this world. I will not forfeit our principles. This is not up for debate.” With a courtesy nod to his comrades, he left the banquet, his footsteps falling loudly in the hall.

  Tyrim, who had long stood silent, looked at Gerald. The prince sat with clenched teeth, watching the general leave. Tyrim stood as well, gave a quick bow, and departed after his friend.

  A brief pause followed as Gerald collected himself. Finally,
he addressed the hall with a smirk. “It will never cease to amaze me how deluded and arrogant man can be. We are burdened by many hardships, let alone those scores of refugees plaguing the outskirts of our great city, thanks to my sister’s childish whims. We are lucky that the Chain of Cas is patient. We will not be held accountable for what few scornful individuals among us do.

  “The Searing Summit has spoken to me, and soon all mankind will share the joys that those who live under its wings celebrate.” Smatterings of applause broke out at the long tables and standing crowds, even those in the courtyard.

  “And as a sign of their good intentions…” he opened his palm towards the entrance of the room, a move clearly staged.

  The huge door at the end of the enormous hall was pulled open by two guards, and all turned to it. Fenith Half Breed hurried toward the doorway to welcome an important guest; a woman of incredible grace. Her slim body was clad in a royal black dress that accentuated her sharp features. The huge room hummed with whispers as everyone tried to guess, the identity of the guest.

  “Ladies and gentlemen: Lady Baneca Darknar, the Princess of Lorken,” Fenith announced.

  The Black Princess…

  Garold stood erect and scanned the gathered people for reactions. Everyone stood up to greet the royal visitor, even the few reluctant Eredian officers. She gazed at them with eyes that reminded me of a cat’s. She didn’t utter a word, yet all could feel that in those eyes dwelled the garden of evil.

  Uneasy silence dominated for a moment which Garold used to the full, allowing the shock to take its full effect. Then he spoke. “My princess.” He pushed aside his chair and waited for her beside the twenty-foot-long table.

  Lorken had never set foot in Erados let alone the Ibdomad. A few resentful remarks and many skeptical queries sounded. But then people cowered in fear when the Black Princess walked by them, heading with a daunting grace towards Garold.