by W.E. Linde
"All of life is played out on these parchments. Everything that is, lives or exists, it all begins, grows, fades, and concludes here. The prophets, unlike any else on this world, have been given the gift to see glimpses of the future. We may not always comprehend all until it happens, but if there is one immutable law in all of Creation, it is that the bonds of Prophecy are unbreakable. Even when presented with the knowledge of the future, anything we do, should we decide to resist, will always end in the fulfillment of Prophecy.
"The seers of old committed these prophecies to parchment during the age of the Great Kingdom of Maladine, which stretched west all the way to the far shores that have been unseen for centuries by any from Valeot. Instruments of the gods, most prophets did not know, nor did they care, who spoke through them. It never mattered. What a prophet scrawled into the Scrolls was always truth." Canerion glanced up suddenly, his eyes resting for a moment on Dayhoral. When he spoke again he turned back to the book, although he had ceased turning the large pages.
"Since the sundering of Maladine over a millennium ago, the age of the prophets came to an end along with the Old Kingdom. Century after century saw fewer prophets, and soon enough we were less prophets and more keepers of the ancient wisdom of the great seers of old. Only a handful of copies of this, the Vhendis, exist. As the prophets died out, the magi stepped in to try and decipher the prophecies. Though in many ways wise, the magi often erred grievously in their understanding of the texts. Blinded by ego and a love of self, the prophecies were twisted and rendered incomprehensible by the practitioners of magic."
Dayhoral remained impassive as he continued to support Frey. Finally Canerion motioned the two to join him at the dais. Frey urged Dayhoral to go ahead as he walked with him, some strength returning to him from his short rest. When the two stood next to the prophet, he pointed down to a largely blank sheet of yellowed parchment. Centered on the page were eight short lines.
Frey was filled with wrath as soon as he saw the text.
"The beast that slaughtered my brother, my soldiers," said Frey, venom on his lips, "could it be the Prince of Graves?"
Canerion grunted. "It seems every time the Necromancer Kings have waged war against the Remnant Kingdoms, someone has been crowned the Prince of Graves. The verses are dark, and there are no others within the Tome which illuminate them. But," and at this the prophet looked directly at Frey, "Valeot is the last of the true nations of the Remnant Kingdoms. The minor duchies are mere outposts of the August Kingdom. The people of your mother, the Northmen, are not descendants of Maladine and do not rule a true kingdom of any considerable might. With the north routed, and the west faltering, it seems there may be nothing to prevent a siege of Ceremane. And a siege with no allies to come to our aid can only have one end."
Dayhoral placed a hand on Frey's shoulder. "My prince, remember, Layarax the Great still lives, as do Revhalom and many of the magi. Deihaim can still provide warriors, as can the outlying duchies to the east and the south. There is still hope."
"You sound like the King!" spat the prophet, and Frey was stirred again to anger. "My prince, I have ever been the scoffer of those who see the foretold Prince of Graves in every shadow and enemy of the Kingdom. But I must profess, the verses in this short prophecy speak of doom, and there is no question doom rides now to the very walls of this city."
"Yet, the Xethicor which commands the northern advance is only one of the damned creatures," said Dayhoral. "Another leads the Dagir Xethu in the west. How are we to know that it is not the Prince of Graves?"
Canerion cast disdainful eyes on the wizard. "The magi are ever ignorant of the workings of prophecy. The words the seers committed to ink are not always literal. The words of the prophet here are figurative. The powers of the Death Knights are the spawn of the powers that subjugate the Necromancer Kings and seek to enslave all the living. They are the royalty of hell, and they surely are the Prince."
A bell sounded suddenly. Dull and distant at first, the tolling soon issued from an unseen opening in the darkened ceiling. Four times it rang, and before the last echoes faded the single note of a trumpet issued.
"My father calls for me," said Frey. Canerion continued as though he had not heard the bell and trumpet, or the prince.
"These last verses, called the End Time prophecy, are only in two copies of the Vhendis. In the days immediately following the Fall, the only complete Tome was seized by agents of the Necromancer Kings. To this day it rests in the halls of Mahakir.
"Then, over five hundred years ago a prophet, called Gheserit, appeared to Dehrigo II, King of Valeot, with what he claimed was a complete copy. It was compared to the Tome already in the possession of the King and the magi, and it was found to be significantly longer. How he came to possess the copy is still not understood. These verses of the End Time vision are fragments, believed to come from a longer prophecy."
"Layarax taught me the same history," said Dayhoral. He leaned forward, and pointed at a smeared line beneath the last verse. "Master Layarax believes before Gheserit died he was called into a trance and tried to add to this prophecy, the only vision given to a prophet since the fall of Maladine and the rise of the Necromancer Kingdoms. He died before he finished the verse, and his blood smeared the words."
"So we'll never know what the rest of the prophecy is?" asked Frey. "What is written there now leaves no hope!"
Canerion nodded, and was slow to answer.
"The gods who spoke through the prophets had reason for every word committed to paper. Even the incomplete marking on this prophecy. It may be we are to receive revelation which will open the doors to hope."
"Do you believe this?" asked Frey.
The prophet sighed. His muscular frame sagged, and the ageless glimmer in his eyes was eclipsed with sorrow.
"Nay. It would seem twilight is spreading on the kingdom."
"Then why give us the prophecy at all if from the beginning of time we were destined to fall under the yoke of evil?" Frey demanded hotly. For the first time in the prince's memory the old prophet looked afraid to speak.
"Although I am a prophet," he said at last, "ultimately the machinations of the gods are unfathomable even to me. I can testify that Prophecy is unbreakable. As mortal men we always look to salvation from the powers of those who reign in the heavens, and sometimes the powers which reign in hell. And perhaps there is salvation still waiting, but I fear we will not live to see it."
"If we are doomed, then how can there be salvation?"
Canerion closed the Vhendis. He then walked to the windows overlooking the river. Frey looked to Dayhoral, who shrugged.
"My prince, the Fall of Maladine was intended to cleanse the Kingdom of the unholy infection that the necromancers bore into the world. Through fiery trial the Remnant Kingdoms should have turned away from corruption. If that had happened, then without question Valeot would stand for countless generations." The prophet turned back to Frey and Dayhoral, sadness upon his face and shoulders.
"Repentance never happened. Valeot has been a poor reflection of the righteousness of Maladine the Great. And now the time has come to start over again." The glimmer that so often hinted at madness suddenly returned to Canerion's eyes. "The mere existence of uncertainty may be the only hope we have. The Remnant Kingdoms may be coming to an end, but the blood of the Northmen is not of the lines of old Maladine. They're the only people who are neither enslaved by the Necromancer Kingdoms nor even mentioned in the Vhendis. It is beyond me to know why this is. It may be irrelevant, and the Northmen may fall under the same doom as we all now face. Or it may be they will be the seeds of rebirth to redeem man some time in the future."
"Or could it be," said Dayhoral, "that with a battalion of Northmen preparing to defend against the coming Dagir Xethu, we may find deliverance now?"
Reluctantly Canerion nodded his head.
"Aye, a slight possibility, Dayhoral. I do not believe this to be the case." Canerion walked back to the dais and s
tood before Frey.
"My prince, this is my counsel to you, the words you should speak to the King. The days of Valeot are over. Prophecy is unbreakable, and it tells us the Prince of Graves has come to rule. The only spark of hope left for man lies with the Northmen, and possibly with you."
Frey stepped back. "Prophet, I have been vanquished once by the Xethicor. What hope..."
"The hope does not lie in force of arms," said Canerion. "At least, it does not at this time. I do not even know if there is any hope at all. Yet there is no denying your blood is mixed with a race not spoken of in the books of prophecy. It may be somehow you and the Northmen have a role to play in redeeming your people."
Frey felt darkness welling within his breast, clawing at his mind. It reminded him of the River and the Falls that led to death and oblivion. There was no hope there, only despair.
"What are you suggesting, prophet?"
"Beseech the King to withdraw the Northmen. Perhaps not all of them — only enough to protect you. You must then lead them south, to the wild mountains beyond the southern duchies where Valeot's reach is unknown."
"Flee?" Frey bellowed. "Never! You speak recklessly, revered one. Those words from anyone else would be a death sentence."
Canerion calmly continued, ignoring Frey's wrath.
"Lord, you and the King are of like minds. I will tell you what I told him before your return. The greatest army in the history of Valeot has been routed in the north, and is being consumed in the west. All that remains are fragments of men, some soldiers, some not, and stone walls. These will not withstand the Xethicor. To fight is to die."
"Treason! Canerion, if the gods have willed the world of men is to end now, then I'll leave this life with honor!" Frey stepped forward, his face a hands breath from Canerion's face. "Now you hear my words, old man. I will report to the King that his son will ride north to meet the enemy and do all in his power to protect this city, although all seems without hope. If by chance or providence we are victorious, I swear by all that is and was once holy, I will see you die by the executioner or banished forever!"
Canerion stood back, bewildered. His muscled arms tensed, and hot anger burned his cheeks. He opened his mouth to speak, but Frey raised his hand sharply.
"Speak again, prophet, and I'll remove your tongue." Frey turned to Dayhoral. "Wizard, my father is waiting. Come with me." The prince and the prophet locked eyes, the mad glimmer vying with the pale blue fire. At length, the prophet nodded, and turned away.
"Pray I do not return, revered one," said Frey. He then turned and strode out of the room.
Chapter 7: The Dirge of Laveris
For hours the enemy made no obvious move to approach the Vendehar. Although the bulk of Laveris' soldiers were entrenched near Glorion, his engineers had spent a great deal of effort destroying the ground between the river and his fortifications by hacking at it and then flooding it with the diverted streams. Throughout the ruined ground they had erected felled trees, many of which were sharpened like thick spears and jutted out to the west. Only two paths were now traversable to the wizard's tower, and around these the defense of Glorion would be centered.
Laveris dispatched Dehrbane to the southern line, which he felt would prove the most vulnerable. There the land lay upon rock that was difficult to raze, and most of the streams would take more time than they had to divert there. While still filled with obstacles to channel them, the enemy would likely discover quickly the fastest route lay through there.
The late autumn air had grown increasingly frigid throughout the long night, so when the pale sun crawled up over the eastern horizon, much of the mire lay under a layer of frozen mud. Laveris took to his horse and rode along the lines, challenging his captains and adjusting their positions.
Most of the soldiers, twenty thousand men, were arrayed north to south in three formations. The greatest was the center, and was composed almost entirely of mail-wearing footmen under the command of the royal knights. Four squads, each with eighty heavy cavalry, stood ready to charge the first wave of attackers. These forces lined the primary road that led from the river to Glorion.
To the north of the center formation were several battalions of footmen, as well as nearly a battalion of archers. The bowmen were grouped into formations of one hundred each and interspersed between the great war machines, catapults and heavy crossbows. Laveris and his captains had debated for hours over the placement of the war machines before the prince decided to split them evenly between the northern and southern formations. Since the most likely avenue of attack was defended by the center, the machines could rain punishment on the enemy's middle and rear echelons without risk of being in range of the longbows of the attackers. However, since much of the ground was now flooded to slow the advance of the Dagir Xethu, if the machines needed to be moved it would not be done quickly.
The southern formation was also composed of footmen and several squads of archers. Laveris decided to place the bulk of his cavalry in the south as well. Since the terrain was not nearly so treacherous as the center and northern approaches, the cavalry might be able to push through and attack the enemy's southern flank. That would depend on the number of attackers, and how reckless the enemy would be in the assault.
Four hours had passed since the sunrise. Laveris ended his inspection of Valeot's army, leaving Derhbane last of all. As he turned his steed back to where his war council was established, on a rocky rise in the center of the middle formation, he glanced again to the west. From his position the river lay less than a mile away, and he peered beyond the other side. Nothing but blighted grass and lifeless hills could be seen for miles.
In an instant the world grew unnaturally silent. Laveris frowned, and his gaze searched the only visible road that led to the western shore from the hills beyond. There was no movement on the ground, but the sky turned suddenly ashen as thick gray clouds poured in like molten steel across the heavens. In moments the sun was shunted off into another world and shadows fell upon the men of Valeot.
A deafening sound, as of a typhoon hurtling against the land, swept down out of the sky. Four great black beasts the size of forts fell from the clouds, spreading massive wings and roaring above the land as they soared over the defensive fortifications.
Laveris cursed and drove his spurs into his horse. It can't be! Leviathan! He watched as the colossal shapes turned in the sky in obscene defiance of the natural order. The ebony scales layered over their hulking frames looked to be made from shadows, and long scarlet tongues flicked out of their long, ferocious jaws.
No dragons at all had been seen in Valeot for decades, and the leviathan had lurked in the shadows of legend for centuries. The ancient reptiles were said to have spawned the first dragons millennia ago, at the command of the God of Death. But the leviathan vanished after the first war between the Necromancer Kings and the Remnant Kingdoms, so that none save possibly the magi believed they still lived.
The leviathans landed to the north of the formations, two on either shore. Gargantuan mouths opened with a great rush of air inhalation, and then a hellstorm of fire burst forth against the river. The air was at once suffocating and hot, and the river vanished into boiling mud.
While the dragons blew, Laveris watched in horror as shapes bubbled on the surface of the now exposed riverbed. Arms and torsos struggled as an army long perished writhed with unholy life. The desiccated bodies did not form ranks, however, nor did they attempt the rise far out of the mire. The things grasped at one another, pulling, pushing, and climbing.
"The demons in the river, what evil are they doing?" asked Harkom. Laveris said nothing, but as he watched, transfixed by the ghastly sight, he heard the sound he had awaited since arriving on the plains. A steady rumble could be heard, and felt, coming from the haze-obscured western bank. Rapidly it closed in, sounding as though thunder had been trapped within the earth.
"The main host of the Dagir Xethu has come," said the prince. He looked to the north wh
ere the belching flames of the black leviathans were still consuming the river. All that could be seen was the fire, as the bodies of the creatures were lost in the steam.
"The dead in the river," said Laveris, "They mean to become a bridge over the mire. The Dagir Xethu will cross over them."
In disgust Harkom observed the rotten bodies as they clawed up both banks, none alone but all joined to other dead men. A soul chilling moan bled forth from the riverbed as they watched a wide road of bones emerge and join the banks. The Dagir Xethu prepared to cross.
"Gods!" cursed Harkom. He turned to the signalman who always followed him. "Call the archers from the north! Assemble them within range of the southern banks!" Harkom leapt upon his horse, and loosed his ram's horn.
"My lord, the enemy's vanguard will be here within the hour."
"No, the vanguard is already here!" Laveris pointed to the sky. Racing from the swollen clouds great balls of fire began to fall. "They look to have awoken every damned dragon from the bowels of Maladine!" yelled the prince.
Thick shafts of roiling scarlet fire stabbed the earth, igniting the heavy beams in the defensive lines and war machines closest to the crossing point of the Army of Death. The soldiers and engineers who had labored desperately for days to establish the fighting positions cried out and perished in a moment, or fled before the newly arrived horrors.
The dragons, seven in all, landed one after the other, impacting the ground with a deafening crash that Laveris felt nearly a mile away from the high ground where he had set up his war council. Though smaller than the black leviathan, the creatures still dwarfed the war machines around them. The dragons spread out, clearing a wide wedge to prevent any attack on the impending enemy crossing.
With a shout, Harkom turned his steed and galloped down the grassy road that led to the advance forces arrayed along the northern shores. He raised his horn to his lips and blew two shrill signals. The dragons turned their heads at this, and their wings raised and folded back as cats ready to strike.
