by Jake Yaniak
Zomara was surrounded on all sides by farmlands and orchards. The soil was rich and dark; seeds grew quickly there, and produced much fruit. As the travelers passed through Zomara, however, they saw nothing but empty fields, awaiting the rains and the full warmth of Spring. The gourds that grew there in the autumn were legendary, and for that reason the whole land was called at times Gordstlun, which is to say, 'Land of the Gourds'. The rich soil brought great wealth to the people of that land and to the people of Zomara in particular. It also brought the dwarves, however, and for the past several decades or so the conflicts were such that it became necessary to fortify the town and hire guardians to secure its food stores. These guardians were mostly untrained men from the woodlands to the northeast and the farmlands of the north. They were unprepared for the sagacity of the dwarves, who cannot be defeated without a sound strategy. For this cause, as was said already, the Marin soldiers were summoned to their aid. Against the Golem even strategies failed.
When at last the party arrived at Zomara, they found the gates shut against them. 'Rumor has reached the Lady,' the guards reported, 'of the strange beast with whom ye travel. Come in, daughter of Marin, and come in traveler, but leave the darkened one aside while counsel is taken.'
Natham stepped away from the party and took the horses' bridles from Whately's hand. Lyris' eyes were downcast as she entered the gates with the strategist. The sight of so few survivors sent a clamor of mourning throughout the village. Wherever Whately looked he saw despair.
Within the fort they were met by a kindly looking old woman, who introduced herself as Lady Hivilu, governess of Zomara and Gordstlun. 'Welcome traveler,' she said to Whately, 'it is an honor to greet you, Golem-slayer.'
The mention of this appellation took Lord Whately entirely off guard. 'I beg your forgiveness, my Lady,' Whately said with a clumsy bow, 'But it was not I that slew the Golem, but Natham, whom you have left without the city.'
This she seemed not to hear at all, continuing with her praises, 'Many lives and futures by his fell iron hand have been lost, but you bring us hope.'
There was little that the Governess of Zomara said in that hour that is worth recounting. In the end, when she was fully convinced of the veracity of Whately's tale, she granted him permission to walk within the dominion of Marin freely. 'Only, you shall keep the beast outside the gates of this wall; for my people have enough to fear from the dwarves. I will not terrify them further with the visage of that cursed one.'
Whately tried, politely, to protest, but it was of no avail. 'Then I must take to the outer fields as well,' he said. 'I will not rest on soft pillows, safe behind guarded doors while Natham the Purehearted, as he ought to be called, must remain in the bleak outer-fields of Zomara.'
Natham, in the meanwhile, was led to a small disused farmhouse about half a league to the west of the gates. The proper owners had taken refuge in the town, and were more than happy to lend their home to Natham, if only he should stay out of sight. There was a good amount of firewood piled on the floor near the front door, and a basket full of apples on a table near the fireplace. The soldiers who had led him to the house left him with a loaf of bread and a waterskin ere they happily took their leave, looking nervously over their shoulders as they vanished from sight.
'Even the Merkata bore more love toward you,' Duri said when the day had passed. Natham was sitting on a stool in front of a roaring fire. 'They at least could bear the sight of you without shuddering.'
'They were as scared as these,' Natham sighed, 'though they hid it better because their pride was greater. The fears of these she-warriors,' Natham said sternly, 'are of a different nature.'
'What do you mean?' Duri asked,
'That is difficult to answer,' Natham said, squinting in the firelight. 'There is something that has long troubled my mind. But a veil of darkness through which no light can penetrate obstructs my view. It is a memory, I think. As vivid as the present, but as hidden as the future. It is ever present in my mind, but no image or idea manifests itself. There is a feeling of disgust in that darkness; hatred and violence... Malice undiluted hides in the shadow of my memory. I see, though to a lesser degree, that same malice in the eyes of these she-warriors.'
'But surely they are simply afraid. They think you are some kind of brute.'
'I am a brute!' Natham thundered, 'What am I but a brute!'
'You are that which spares when he can, yet fights for those he loves without hesitation or remorse. You fight not for yourself. You never have and, I'd wager, you never will.'
Natham looked at the spirit with kind eyes and then turned his attention once more to the fire. 'There is a thought in the this darkness of mine that says, and says daily, that it would have been better if your mother had cast you into the sea, or if your father cut your head off even as it emerged from my mother's womb. This, perhaps, is why I fight not on my own account - For what do I deserve but a swift death. I feel, in these moments, the desire to burn; to see my whole rotted flesh melt away and vanish into smoke. In the eyes of these maidens, and chiefly in the voice of their Governess, I have felt this dark malice, though to a lesser degree. When they look upon me they wish my mother had so cast me into the ocean. They look upon me with eyes that speak, saying thus: "I wish death to you, for your own sorry sake."
'Do they all look upon you thus?' Duri asked thoughtfully.
'No,' he answered with a laugh, 'There is Lyris, that Blind-Maiden, as she ought to be called! Her eyes have in them no trace of malice. In the darkness of my thoughts as I see it reflected in the eyes of these she-warriors lies a pity to murder; such great pity have they for this beast that my end is wished as a solution. But in Lyris there is a pity of another sort; one that grieves for my ugliness yet does not wish me away. But in the voice of the guard of Zomara and in the order of the Governess I feel the same hate. This is why it grieves me not to be left without, for at least I am spared the pity of so many gawkers.'
It was quite late when Whately finally came to the house. Natham was resting in a corner on some straw, though Whately was pretty sure that he was not asleep. 'They have granted us leave to come and go as we please in Olgrost,' Whately said. 'We can leave here whenever you would like and seek our fortunes in this wide land. We can go to Dalta City, perhaps, and see what remains of that ancient Fortress.'
Natham stirred and sat up, saying, 'But what of the dwarves?'
'The dwarves?' Whately said irritably. 'What do you care of the dwarves?'
'There may be more of those Golems,' Natham said soberly, 'Such weapons of death ought not be allowed to exist.'
Whately sat down near the fire and threw a fresh log upon it. 'When spring is fully here,' he said softly, three hundred soldiers of Marin will be sent from the west. These will wage war against the dwarves, with Lyris, Marshall of the Eastern Wilderness, as their commander.' Whately sighed and shook his head. 'If there are more of those monstrosities,' he said, 'Then not a soul of them shall survive.'
'Why would they send so few soldiers?'
'To my mind,' Whately said, 'It can only mean that they have need of the greater part of their strength elsewhere. It also means that what soldiers they send will not be their greatest heroes. There will be many hirelings, also,' Whately scoffed. 'But these, being mere men, they care neither to train nor equip. At least the Merkata gave to their warriors what armaments they required. I feel that the Lady of Marin almost thinks that in treating men with as much injustice as they formerly treated their women she is making them even. "Injustice, more injustice, and then finally, Justice" they think. But we are wiser than that. If I have my will, we will be far from here ere these warriors arrive.'
Natham was silent. It seemed in that moment that their two wills were contending, one against the other. They spoke no words for nearly an hour, both knowing the other's thoughts and reasons entirely. At last, Whately's will surrendered and he said, 'Very well, we will bind our fates with theirs. I had hoped to leave war behind and find a mo
re peaceful life in this land. We might have a farm again, Natham, and make the land lush and beautiful, even as we did in that patch of sand they gave us in Ragnon.'
'You needn't come with me,' Natham said, 'I know that you do not love battle.'
'Nor do you,' Whately said as he tampered with the fire. 'But I swore many years ago that I would not forsake you, unless... I swore that I would never abandon you, nor leave your side. Nor do I want to, though you lead us to death's door in the land of the delvers. Feel no remorse for bringing me into more battles and wars, Natham, for that is what I have been trained to do. And if that is where you must go, then it is what I have sworn to do.'
Against the Dwarves
The beauty of the Eastern Wilderness was breathtaking. Green buds opened up into bright pink and white flowers, crowning every tree and hill in sight. It seemed that as the small army of Lyris marched, the ground came to life beneath them. The last frost was well past and the land was freed at last from winter's tyranny. 'It truly is a pity,' Lyris said as she marched beside Natham, 'that such beauty must precede our fell labors. I would rather have marched in the depths of darkness and ice and saved this beauty for our return. But to change the times and seasons is beyond the power of even the ancient elves.'
The past month had been spent entirely in training. Under Whately's instruction the soldiers of Marin had improved their skill considerably. Lyris marveled, saying, 'Such rapid improvements are, to our own instructors and strategists, unthinkable.' She pressed him to discover where he had studied the arts of war, but he refused to say anything further than that he learned in the 'best place to learn such things'. By the end of the month of Paschest even the hirelings had shown improvement, though no amount of training could acquire for them harder swords, longer spears or stronger armor. As was customary in Marin, there were at least three hirelings for every soldier, bringing the total force to nearly a thousand souls.
With this force Lyris waged her war against the dwarves of the Eastern Marches of Marin. With Natham ever at her side, she drove the dwarves from the forest and from the foothills to the south of Zomara. Wherever she marched and against whoever she fought, she could rely upon the might of Natham to uphold her. Many times he came to her rescue and to the rescue of the whole army. He gained in that time the names Golem-bane and Iron-slayer and many others besides. All the while Whately continued to train the hirelings in the arts of warfare until at last they surpassed the skill even of the Marin soldiers. The result of this was that they soon became a force of unparalleled ability.
For that whole year the Monster of Vestron served the Quendom of Marin, though his assistance was never formally acknowledged by the Queen or even in any significant way by the Governess of Zomara. Whatever accomplishments he made were ascribed to Whately and Lyris. But with all of this he seemed content. When the sky was clear, and the night not too cold, Lyris would come to him and the two of them would gaze at the stars above. Natham would tell her the names of each of them (as Whately had long ago instructed him). He would tell of their comings and goings, their histories, prophecies and their romances.
'How are stars born?' she asked him one night.
'That is a mystery,' he answered. 'But among the Knarse it is said that the stars are the souls of the righteous, set above the earth to guide and guard those who yet remain.'
'Then the stars are born only when men die?'
'Only when righteous men die,' he answered, 'or so the legend says.'
'But why, then, do we not see more stars appearing?' Lyris asked thoughtfully.
'Perhaps,' Natham answered solemnly, 'it is because there are none righteous.'
'What about you, Natham?' she asked, turning her eyes away from the starry veil for a moment. He looked at her also, but seeing her great beauty and the light of the stars shining in her eyes, he looked away.
'There are no righteous ones,' he answered. 'Who does not live but for their own sakes? And even he who does not live so lives only for those for whom he cares. The dwarves live for the dwarves, the Merkata for the Merkata - indeed, the Marin live for the Marin. But why oughtn't we live for the oxen and the lambs as well as for the men of our own country? Who knows that the soul of man is worth more than a goat's spirit? We know not, therefore we are not virtuous. The highest a man can be is pleasing to his own eyes.'
'What does that mean then?' Lyris asked with sadness in her voice. 'Do you live for naught?'
'I hope not,' he answered. 'But I cannot pretend to be greater than I am. I must leave my cause and my fate in the hands of the powers above. Like others, I have that for which I fight, but I cannot pretend that I am privy to some special knowledge that tells me that I am right for doing so. I will maintain for myself no illusion.'
Lyris was silent for while, 'What do you suppose it is like to be a star? If such a thing can be thought.'
'The legends say that when a righteous man dies he is given heavenly milk to drink, such as you can see on the horizon where the deep blue of the night is brightened by so many stars. This fills his body and purifies it, until no vestige of his former self remains. A pure spirit, he ascends to the heights to speak the truth to mankind. He becomes the guardian of those souls that long for virtue. In the day that such a man dies, a new star appears where before there shone nothing at all. He teaches mankind virtue, if mankind is capable of hearing. He tells us of truth and constant obedience. As anyone can tell you, the stars err not from their movements.'
'I think that you will become a star some day,' she said with a kind voice.
'To be righteous you must have knowledge,' he answered calmly, 'and I have only the lack thereof.'
'But all of this doesn't stop you from fighting for Marin.'
'I fight not for Marin,' Natham said with sadness.
'Then for what do you fight?'
But Natham answered nothing. The night wore on and they at last bid one another farewell, each departing for their own tents.
The war continued, this time the dwarves were driven from the foothills of Mount Arzi. Three golems fell there. The dwarves began to fear the monster, even inventing a new word for him, an act which they only rarely performed. From their word 'Gher', which the learned believe to mean 'war' or 'warrior' they added 'zi' which signifies 'master' or 'giant'. 'Gherzi,' they began to shout at the sight of him, and the warriors would scatter, disappearing into the hills and caves of the Zoar mountains.
The cunning dwarves lay many snares for the soldiers of Marin, and the army of Lyris fell into many traps and ambushes. But always the monster would trump the sagacity of the dwarves and steal for Marin the victory. They fought on month after month, drawing ever nearer to the dwarf stronghold of Thlux, which was called 'The Invulnerable Realm' by the men of southern Olgrost.
It soon became clear to the leaders in Marin that if they were ever to be victorious against these subtle creatures, they must subdue this stronghold, which was carved into the very rocks of Mount Zhagib, which lay to the south east of Zomara. A messenger was sent from Marin with new instructions for Lyris, and several hundred soldiers, including fifty mounted warriors. They also hired almost five hundred warriors from the southern lands of Marin, where the men were strong and as yet somewhat independent. 'But all of this is nothing with which to sack a Fortress,' Whately lamented. Prepared or not, however, the army of Lyris began its southerly march - to Mount Zhagib and the dwarf stronghold of Thlux.
They found battle on the first day of Florhus in the twenty-eighth year of the fourth millenium of Tel Arie. The sun was warm upon their shoulders, the breeze was cool. All the smells of summer and the songs of birds floated through the air. But amidst this splendor a great force of dwarf archers lay hidden. As the army marched between two stony ridges, they fell into an ambush. The sure arrows of the dwarves slew thirty hirelings and twelve soldiers in their first volley. Whately shouted, 'Shields! Shields! To the ridges!'
The army was better prepared for the second volley of arrows, but still t
he perfect aim of the dwarves slipped many arrows past their imperfect defenses. Natham, upon hearing the first arrow fly, charged up the eastern ridge, an ascent that he alone had the strength to manage. When he reached the top of the hill, those dwarf archers quickly came to know the might of the Vestron Monster. Six of their hairy little bodies he flung from the ridge in one great heave. In vain they let their arrows fly at him. His skin was too thick, even for their powerful crossbows, and his skill with Admunth rivaled their skill with the bows. He charged the archers and made an end of any that dared to stand their ground. It takes a great deal to startle a dwarf; it is said that nothing can make them retreat. But in that day such prejudices were set aside and the dwarves really and truly fled in fright. They came at him from all sides with their spears and their swords, but Admunth erred not, and his mighty spear pierced through their armor two at a time.
Things were much harder on the western ridge. Seeing Natham charge to the east, Whately ordered the warriors up the other side, deeming the strength of the monster sufficient to deal with them. The archers, however, were so quick with their arrows and so perfect with their aim that for a while no one could come close to the top without falling to the ground with an arrow through their throat. Finally, Lyris and some of the soldiers of Marin, locking their shields one with the other, marched up the hill toward the dwarves. Arrows clinked against their armor and the shields. An arrow pierced the slender shield of Lyris, halting but an inch from her cheek. The dwarves knew then that their security was waning. They called for their spearmen and axe-wielders in their simple and harsh tongue.
