by Jake Yaniak
'Where will we go if Peiraso is no haven?' an older man asked. His name was Redwin, and he was of the Coranlirne. 'You have ever been the last hope of Noras.'
'There is no hope in Noras now,' Biron said grimly, 'Fly to Dadron, for they are faithful to my house. Take this, and lead these people on swiftly.' Biron handed Redwin a wooden staff, carved with many runes and set on the top with a brilliant green gem. 'This is the staff of Hiron, my father, show this to the Captain of Dadron and he will give you what help you need.'
'I will lead these people then, if you cannot join us,' Redwin said as he took the staff.
'I cannot abandon the lady Marima,' he said, 'for she is still in the house and I had not the time to fetch her or the servants. But take these blessed people and hurry to Dadron's gates, I send my guard with you and my prayers.'
'Pelas bless you Cheftan,' Redwin said as the two parted. From the western side of Peiraso rode twenty young men in full armor on warhorses. Their chief was named Olver Galvahirne, he was the last kinsman of Cheft Biron, and the heir of Peiraso should the sons of Biron be lost. He was the only son of Biron's sister, and one of the last few Galvahirne who could trace his ancestry back to Galvahir himself. He was tall, like Biron, but not as broad-shouldered. He wore a dark green cloak beneath which gleamed a longsword. Across his back was slung a short javelin.
'Faithful Olver,' Biron said with tears in his eyes as he bid his kinsman farewell. 'I pray that I may see your face again ere my eyes rest in death. You are brave and strong, guard these people and bring them to the gates of Dadron and see to their safety on the road. For the enemies of Galvahir are wandering these woods like jackals and they will not take ransom from these poor souls.'
'I will not fail you uncle,' Olver said. There was a great commotion among the peasants and the people slipped out and rushed into the southern forest under the leadership of Redwin and under the protection of Olver.
Biron rushed back into the house and made his way through the halls toward his chamber. He found his door still shut fast. He turned to go to his wife's chamber and as he ran he met Ponteris fleeing in the opposite direction.
Ponteris stopped in his tracks and his face went pale.
'Your mortal fear betrays you, Cheftan!' Biron said with murder in his voice. 'Where is the lady Marima!' his voice rang through the hall.
'See for yourself,' Ponteris said as he slowly stepped backward.
Biron followed him to the door of her chamber and the two men entered. There he saw the servant girl and his beloved wife laying still and pale on the floor. 'Poisoner!' he thundered and he lifted Ponteris from the ground by his throat. Ponteris gasped and kicked at the mighty lord of the Galvahirne, but he could not so much as bend his fingers.
Just then there came a moan from Marima. Biron dropped Ponteris to the ground where he lay sputtering and gasping, holding his throat. Biron rushed to his wife's side. 'She lives still.' He lifted her from the ground and carried her to her bed.
Cheft Horan and Cheft Gornas made their way swiftly up the stairs when they heard Ponteris fall to the ground. They peered in through the doorway for a moment and then entered.
'What a mess you have caused, Cheft Ponteris,' they complained when they saw the servant girl laying there dead. 'Your appetite has got the best of you once more,' Horan said.
'What is the meaning of this?' Biron insisted.
'It is as you said,' Ponteris said in a hoarse voice. 'You said that one "cannot know whom the gods will make noble; or whom the gods will choose to sit upon a throne and rule over their peers". The Galvahirne have lorded it over the other clans of Noras for too long. And the gods have spoken against you and decreed an end to your blood-born nobility. The arm of Galvahir is broken. In the first battle with the goblins, our scouts tell us, the army of Faros has lost over a thousand men. Our last reports tell us that Cheft Rahm has fallen, along with his two nephews. Tell me, Cheft Biron, is your son more valiant than these? The army is lost and with it the power of the Galvahirne. It is now time for the other clans to rise to their god-ordained seats and to punish the house of Galvahir.'
'Madness!' Biron shouted. He drew his blade from its sheath.
Cheft Horan interrupted him, 'Cheft Biron, we do not doubt your strength. But do not waste it here. For if we are slain, there will be nothing to stop our comrades from taking your wife from Peiraso and doing with her whatever they wish. Making her a thrall or a servant, or perhaps worse. But if you lay down your blade here we will swear by the gods that she will not be touched, so long as we have life in our blood.'
The Cheftan hesitantly lowered his blade and laid it on the floor at their feet. 'Your word is worth little,' he said, 'and your oaths even less. But the word of frightened liars is perhaps better than the appetites of emboldened devils. You know well that I could end all three of your scheming lives right here and now.' There was such a fire in his eyes as he spoke that they could not bear to look at him long, nor did they doubt the truth of his threat.
Soon Peiraso was overrun by the slobbering hirelings of Cheft Ponteris. They were mostly golden haired Knarsemen from Titalo, though a few of them were of Noras blood. Cheft Biron was locked away in a cellar and placed under the watchful eyes of ten armed men. 'I will consider this mighty guard the highest compliment the foul Cheft Ponteris has ever paid to a mortal man,' Biron said as they shut the door to his cell. There he sat for many long days, hoping and fearing in the darkness.
Cheft Gornas and Cheft Horan were furious with their co-conspirator. 'You are a fool Ponteris! Haven't you enough mistresses in your own decrepit house, that you would risk everything we have worked so long for?'
'Shut your mouths,' Ponteris hollered at them, 'If it weren't for all of my efforts, you would still be cowering in your cold halls and bowing low to the Galvahirne's master. Were it not for happenstance, however, Biron would be dead and there would be nothing for you two to criticize.'
'Nay, fool,' Gornas said. 'We told you plainly and warned you both in our letters and again in person: Touch not the lord of the Galvahir until his sons lie dead. We have heard good reports from the mountains, but we do not yet know the fate of young Daryas, whether he is living or dead. And what of Olver, his nephew? He was here until this very night, and you have let him slip through your fingers.'
'You speak hastily,' Ponteris said calmly. 'You do not know the kind of guarantee I have been given for our victory. The army of Galva will fall in Coronan. This I swear by the gods of heaven. Pelas slay me, and Agon bind my soul in flame if the sons of Biron do not lay dead ere the end of this trial. Is that not sufficient assurance for your troubled minds? And when the sons' blood runs cold, so shall the father's.'
'And then I suppose you will slay the mother also?' Horan said with a look of disgust in his eyes.
'I have other plans for her,' Ponteris smiled. 'I have a great many plans for the house of Peiraso, my friends.'
'This is not what we have discussed for all these long years,' the men complained.
'You knew very well what it would take to dethrone the lord of the Galvahirne, but if you want to reap the harvest you have to put your plough through the dirt. Can you do that without getting a little filth here and there?'
Chapter VI:
The Folly of Cheft Faros
My Own Reluctance
I must confess that I would prefer to pass over the writing of this chapter altogether. There is no hope, as far as I can tell, of restoring the reputation of Cheftan Faros. In the years that followed his doomed campaign his name became a byword throughout Weldera, and even historians have said little more about him than that he fell in battle as a result of his own folly. There have been several well-known men who have suffered great loss to their own reputations because they were willing to speak the shameful truth about his sad end. The Noras are a proud race, and they do not own up to their bad fruit gladly. Were it my intention to save my own name from suffering dishonor on Cheft Faros' account, my natural instinct would ha
ve me gloss over his final battle with only a brief mention of his death and then follow that with a eulogy of the heroes that died on that very same day. Or I can do what others have done and revile him unfairly as a traitor or an accomplice.
As it stands, there have already been several histories written of the Welderan Wars, so that the 'Folly of Cheft Faros' has been made into a household term. But while many revile him there are very few who can say what his infamous 'Folly' was. But his error was born of reasoning, which is the occupation of all men, whether they carry a sword or a stack of dusty scrolls. And as such it may be worth noting wherein he made his dreadful mistake.
Were there some great danger that threatened the life and honor of a carpenter or a hunter, I imagine a good carpenter and the good hunter would deem it necessary to discover that danger and take whatever precautions are appropriate to avoid a like disaster. And if the embarrassing tale of Cheft Faros can teach us of some peril that lies in careless reasoning, then we had better learn that lesson so that we can avoid it ourselves.
Knowledge may often lead us to an awareness of danger, but there is no danger in the knowledge itself. It often happens, however, that ignorance turns out to be more deadly than the danger of which we are unaware. A man who is ill-informed may act in ways that can worsen his peril, but a doomed man is no more doomed for the knowing.
Whether it is wanted or not, and whether I lose all the respect of my peers, I will attempt to lay out plainly for my readers the foundation of Faros' Folly. If by giving this warning I can spare someone even a little confusion or inconvenience I will have done well. But it is not only about unimportant matters that we can be confused or misled by simple misjudgments. As I will show, it is also in grave matters that Lord Folly, brother of Death, has his hand.
A 'Tithem' and a 'Tithem'
In the dark days prior to the coming of Galvahir, there was an annual sacrifice required of the Noras. The devil-god Agon demanded a sacrifice of thirty strong men. The word the Noras used to describe this terrible duty was 'Tithem', and in time the word became a common word for a curse or a burdensome fate.
A man afflicted with illness might say that it was his 'Tithem' to suffer. Or that the gods decreed this 'Tithem' against such and such a race of wicked people. According to the histories of the Noras, the devil-god Agon was condemned to an 'Eternal Tithem' when he was finally driven from Noras by his brother Pelas. But properly speaking the word kept with it through all the years the idea of being slain or wounded as a sacrifice for the sake of the pleasure of the gods.
Many years later the word came to Daevaron. Here it was adapted by the people to literally represent physical burden. They took it not to mean a burdensome fate, but rather a bundle or pack which a man carries over his shoulders or lays across the back of a mule or an ox. This change in meaning was the ground in which the seeds of Cheft Faros' folly were germinated.
Cheft Faros was the only son of a Noras Cheftan and Dadron Lady of high standing. He was educated in the Dadron academies, where he excelled in every art and in every science. This quickly gained him the attention of the Cheftans of Noras. Cheft Ponteris and Cheft Biron in particular were very eager to see him in command of the Galva army.
He was, as I just said, educated in Dadron. And among the Daevaron scholars he was introduced to the journals of Lord Alande si-Titalo, the great warrior who defeated the Eastern Noras so many years ago and drove them out of Daevaron.
Cheft Faros was quite fond of these journals, for Lord Alande was an unparalleled strategist. He studied Lord Alande's words more than any other book, and even had portions of his works transcribed and bound together into a single volume. This book he kept with him at all times, locked away in a small chest with several other precious things.
In Lord Alande's journal, in a portion written just prior to his final campaign, after which he became Lord of all Falsis - save for Almighty Dadron of course - he wrote:
'When darkest seems the hour, brightest shines forth the stars. How they shine down from the firmament above us! Illuminating our councils and giving wisdom to the minds of men and gods. Blessed astral lords, guide your servants to victory!
'Hard-pressed were we to take the fields of Daevaron, many fortresses of the Noras were scattered about the hills and fields. They passed news also, from one to the other by pigeons and hawks, so it was impossible for us to come against a city unawares.
'To Pelas, god of Noras we must offer a sacrifice! We will be put to the test hereto. So let a hundred men bear the tithem of a thousand. We will feast on the fruit of their land this very harvest!'
Cheft Faros read the word Tithem in the Noras way, as he had been raised to do. But it was clearly meant, in the text of Lord Alande's journal, in the way of the Dadron scholars who translated his work.
More literally, his meaning would have been something like this. 'Let us petition Pelas, the god of the Noras, with a sacrifice. We will be put to the test from here on, so let every warrior bear the 'burden' of ten men. Then we shall certainly see victory and consume the bounty of the Noras.'
In Faros' madness he read this passage to mean that every tenth man must be made a sacrifice to the god of the Noras. This one little word and its two-fold meaning was the foundation on which all the madness of his final battle rested. This seemingly little ambiguity was the Folly of Cheft Faros. Others have seen this as too foolish an explanation and conclude that Cheftan Faros must have been a servant of darkness or a devil of some kind. But I do not think there is any merit to those opinions. As we will see in another place, there were other things that may have helped the mad Cheftan along on his journey to doom and insanity.
But if there are any who deem this explanation to be too fabulous to be credited, I must appeal to common experience as an arbiter.
Is not every petty quibble of the married couple founded upon such ambiguities? The husband deems his wife to be angry because of the tone of her voice. They quarrel, he insisting upon her rudeness, she insisting upon his madness. In the end, when their tempers have cooled and they look upon their tiff with sober reason, they laugh to think how silly it was to make so much over such a trivial thing.
Trivial it may be, but the ambiguity of our words, and even of our very facial expressions, can create endless potential for confusion. Why should we doubt but that these ambiguities can cause greater strife and mischief? It would be quite outside the scope of this work to recount the role of ambiguity in history and war, but a single example should, in this matter, be sufficient to enlighten us of the dangers of carelessness in words.
Many hundreds of years ago, there were three princes in the western regions of Weldera, beyond the Coronis Mountains. Their father perished in battle and the crown naturally passed to one of his sons. The youngest of these princes, Tynos, declared upon hearing the news of his father's death that 'my beloved brother' must then be crowned without delay.
His attendants, knowing his fondness for the second son of his father, assumed he meant not the eldest and true heir. Word came to the eldest prince, who in his great wrath sent troops to slay his own siblings upon the accusation of treachery. A war erupted. In the end, Tynos, unwillingly, came to the throne, his two brothers lying dead upon the battlefield. The attendants were executed and from that day forth the term 'beloved' was only used in that realm to denote the legitimate heir to the throne. Have a care with your words!
The Folly of Cheftan Faros
The flight from Corhen left the Galva army saddened and discouraged. Cheft Rahm's bravery had saved many, but it made their losses no easier to bear.
There was an uncanny silence in the camp, even the wounded were silent, despite their many injuries. A dark cloud overshadowed the mountain, as though the gods themselves were against them. Within a few hours tiny pebbles of ice began to fall and the wind became strong. The month of Leonius was all but spent, yet Winter refused to relent.
Sion and Daryas had managed to escape their rocky platform just before the
valley of Corhen was overrun. They did not come through the pass, however. Daryas found, at the bottom of the steep rock wall they had climbed, a small and treacherous path leading down toward the bottom of the cliff. They found there a rushing mountain stream, just small enough to be traversed with a good leap. From there they made their way back toward the camp by a different path.
At this point one might have supposed that the warriors of the Galva army could not be discouraged any further. But it was when they thought their hearts could sink no lower that Ander, the nephew of Cheft Rahm returned to the camp.
It took some time for the watchmen to realize that it was him. He wandered out of the darkness of the night and fell on his face in the snow. The watchmen carried him to a tent and layed him on a mat. His eyes had been gouged out and there were streaks of dried blood across his face. He opened his mouth as if to speak, yet he could do no more than mumble, for his tongue had been severed. This cruelty was not the end of his injuries, however. His fingers had been burnt with fire until there was nothing left but charred stumps on each hand. His hair had been carelessly shaved, scarring his head terribly.
On Cheft Faros' orders, the watchmen kept his return a secret, insofar as they were capable. But word slipped out and soon every tent was filled with the stories of his sorry mutilation. A spirit of rumor overcame the army and soon they were given over into the hands of panic. Slowly but surely, the sound of wailing and mourning began to rise from the tents and watchfires of the Galva army. It was clear now to wise and foolish alike that these goblins were under the control of a mighty Conjurer. For goblins will gouge the eyes and torture their foes with delight, but they do not willingly release them. They are cruel and cunning, but their fell imaginations would not conceive of any purpose in releasing a captive. Such a blow to the morale and hopes of the Galva army was the work of a rational mind; it was the work of a strategist.
