Rondhale watched a group of dwarves pass and then cracked and massaged his knuckles. He reminisced and finished his story, “my brother was so angry with me that he chased me into the barn. I don’t even remember why he was mad, but I ran as fast as I could. I got into the haymow where we kept the feed and bales for my father’s cattle. Jhonnic was so upset that he threw a pitchfork at me and speared me straight through.”
Both Rondhale and Raz-aphf laughed hard. Rondhale pulled up his tunic to show off the faint scars that still marred his abdomen. Rondhale chuckled and wiped away the moisture at the corner of his eye. “Brotherly love,” he chuckled.
“The tines missed anything that might be vital and didn’t chip any bones. They just pinned me to the bundles of hay I was standing against.
“My brother just stopped, dead in his tracks, staring at me in disbelief. Of course, neither of us could believe what he had just done. He froze and I thought I was gonna die. I tell ya, he said to stay put, and that he was going to get our mother, but when he ran off, I thought he went to hide for fear of what she would do to him.” Rondhale laughed again, telling stories brought release and relieved his troubled emotions.
“And my mother, when they finally got back, you should have seen her tear into Jhonnic,” he smiled. Family had obviously been important to him. “She didn’t even pay attention to me…there I am, run through and bleeding, and my mother is beating my brother with a switch.” He laughed until he sighed; a glisten came to his eyes. “Anyway… good memories.”
Raz-aphf smiled too. It was not so much the story that he found amusing, but the way his friend told it that made the whole incident funny. “I truly wish I had been able to meet your brother sooner. I had only spoken with him in passing while we were all at Grinden.”
“Yes. I wish that too. He would have liked you.”
The werewolf started to speak but then held up his hands for silence. Raz-aphf sniffed at the air.
“What is it?”
“Smoke,” he replied soberly. Raz-aphf quickened his pace and pulled ahead of the rest of their company to scout ahead. Rondhale halted the caravan of their people and then caught up, matching him stride for stride until they came to the top of a gentle rise. A grassy expanse spread out before them.
Below the crest of the ridge where they stood lay the village of Vigna. Its buildings and structures blazed angrily, belching black smoke skyward. Its citizens fled like ants in the distance, running from some unknown threat. Many of them headed directly towards the Christians’ position upon the road beyond the hillocks.
It took only moments for the situation to become clear—why the citizens fled rather than quelled the fires. The fleeing refugees were pursued, chased by forces that began emerging from the burning city, readily giving pursuit even as they set the rest of the town ablaze.
“It’s like Sprazik all over again,” whispered Rondhale.
Raz-aphf nodded his assent.
Rondhale and Raz-aphf whirled their horses around and rushed back towards their caravan while shouting orders. The Christians, already witness to one recent massacre, quickly pushed together any carts, wagons, or bulky gear that they had brought to form a barrier on the apex of the slope. There was no way that they could all find enough protection behind the makeshift blockade, let alone offer sufficient aid to those who fled.
Rondhale grabbed a young man he knew he could trust. “Robear, do as I ask you, and quickly. Take half of our people and stand below us—be visible. Form a line about twenty meters from our barricade, here.” He pointed.
“But what about…”
Rondhale cut him off. “There is no time to discuss it. Just trust me, and pray that those below make it to you in time. As the villagers start to get close, protect them. Send some of our own with them to continue their retreat and leave some to defend the stragglers. Remember, we don’t need any heroes! This is a tactical retreat.”
“Yes, sir,” Robear said, and then ran to make sure his men were informed and prepared.
Moments later, Rondhale and Robear each had the large group of Christians briefed and ready: one group on the east and one on the west. As the harried villagers approached, the Christians beckoned them onward and hurried them into their fold for protection.
A hail of arrows, fired by elven pursuit, crippled many of the humans. The casualties were easily overrun by the swiftly moving ekthro. The oppressors showed no mercy, savagely murdering any they caught up to. Dwarven arsonists finally finished igniting the remnants of Vigna, mounted their pony drawn wagons and barreled away from the burning town. They shouted battle cries, not wanting to be left out of the hunt.
The fastest of the fleeing humans came to the top of the hill and collapsed in relief, thinking that a contingent of human soldiers had been sent to protect them. There wasn’t time to break the news to them. Another wave of men and women followed close behind them; the ekthroic butchers came in fast.
Shouting and beckoning, the Christians urged the people to hurry faster but did not break their line for the sake of their defensive formation. The Christians from Robear’s wall of men broke into clusters and retreated with the passing Vignans, running alongside to protect the weary and weak.
The pursuing ekthro watched the fleeing group disappear over the ridge of the rising slope, unable to see Robear and the defenders escorting the refugees into their protection. Bloodthirsty elves hollered and hastened their pace to close the gap, not wanting to let any get away. If they scattered over the ridge they would be harder to round up. No matter how much glee the ekthro took in the slayings, this was a massacre and not sport.
Jostling, pony-drawn carts caught up and nearly passed its elven counterparts who charged on foot. The groups unified and caught sight of their quarry. They split to either side of the wagon walls that were stacked with supplies and rushed around the short, makeshift wall enveloping it.
The combined forces of wicked ekthro bore down on the line. Raz-aphf, and his eleven Say-awr’ pack-mates who had accompanied Rondhale, tensed for the right moment. They lay prone behind the makeshift barricade, lying in wait.
Robear’s defenders dispersed and scattered as the dwarven war-carts drew ahead of the elven runners. The fleet-footed warriors guarded the backs of the Vignans and took a wider route that looped back towards the barricade, drawing out and splitting up the quickest of the aggressors. They diverted the dwarves’ attention while splitting the raiders into smaller parties and buying the Vignans a little more time.
Frothing with exertion, the ponies that pulled the carts glistened with sweat and threw flecks of spittle as they galloped madly with their stout, frenzied drivers in tow. Battle-lust had taken over the bearded soldiers; their beady eyes and murderously blithe faces twisted into awkward impressions of the human blueprint that they hounded with such fervor.
Dwarven assailants picked their marks and targeted the bands of humans that they deemed the slowest or weakest. Doughty warriors tensed in anticipation of their next kills as they rode in the beds of the battle-ready rickshaws with readied weapons. Most carried axes and others brandished a shortened variety of halberd. Many had already been splattered with blood and effluence from prey harvested down the slope.
The ponies’ nearly trampled their targets but the Christian protectors turned just in time to face the dangers that fell upon them. Azure flames flashed and shining, double-edged swords materialized the instant before the ekthro entered the fray. The flashes of holy light panicked the sweaty ponies and they reared up, jarring the dwarven fighters and skidding the battle-carts into wild fishtails.
Dwarves tumbled from the wagons, heads knocked into complete disarray. Many drivers flew from their seats and well over their chargers. The battle-ready ekthro in their attack positions fell stunned to the ground, unprepared for such a reversal of events.
As the individual Christians and Vignans saw what happened, they altered course and attacked the battle-wagons, striking wi
th whatever weapons they carried and could find. Carriages tipped over, becoming traps as the defenders flanked the dwarves from all sides, lunging at the disoriented attackers and cutting loose the yoked beasts.
Wild ponies ran in every direction, cutting off the elves who skidded to a halt in the rear-guard as their over-zealous compatriots were plunged into chaos. Some elves held back and sheathed their blades. The others continued the mad charge forward as their ranged fighters planted their feet and readied their bows.
They could make strategic shots and pick off much of their prey from a safe distance. A ranged threat should have given the dwarves a chance to regroup and assert their melee superiority over such wearied humans.
As the elven archers reached for their quivers, their pointed ears twitched with the sounds of shrill howling. They turned just in time to spot the hulking werewolves of tribe Say-awr’ sneaking past a flaming, dwarven cart with uncanny speed and falling upon them.
With the raw strength and ferocity of their lupine forms, Raz-aphf and his clansmen ripped through the flank of the ekthroic forces, gutting them completely. Any of the marauders who had earlier intended to burn Vigna off of the map shrieked with terror as they recognized their doom. Even the quickest elven sprinter couldn’t outrun the lycan warriors.
Brilliant flaming arcs of blue separated dwarven joint from limb and the hulking white behemoths of muscle and fang easily disposed of the elven contingent. None of the ekthro could escape from the Christians and none of them had anticipated such powerful weapons that so easily broke their own.
Despite the fatigue, Vignans mopped up the stragglers and the Christians tended to the wounded.
Raz-aphf joined Rondhale at the crest of the ridge as the former blacksmith looked out over the scene. The village was in flames and the grassy hillside painted with splotches of crimson. Below them, just beyond the reach of any attack, stood the elven commander of the destroyed ekthroic contingent.
The elf and the Christian leader locked eyes. She stood there, also surveying the scene and making her own deductions. With reigns in hand, she mounted her horse and galloped away into the distance.
***
Bwar sat in the circle of firelight. His shadow stretched and danced, playing with the deeper darkness and flickering against the shadows at the light’s edge. He felt comfortable enough deep underground but the current state of political affairs had him on edge, more so than the chittering noises coming from the semi-larval skolaxis around his position.
The goblin to which he had pledged his allegiance, grr’Shaalg the shadow king, sat nearby. From what he had learned of him, the goblin’s brother was tyr-aPt, one of the ten ruling kings of the deep race.
Their meeting had just wrapped up. Bwar was flustered over the failure to assassinate his victims. Discord brewed in Gleend, just as engineered, but all did not go precisely as planned. Without removing the human element the Dwarves could never gain the authority that they truly wanted.
“The royal line was supposed to be destroyed,” the dwarf lamented.
“I fail to see how that is my fault, or my problem,” grr’Shaalg stated flatly.
“But it was you who said that we must keep the peace with the elves.”
“I said nothing of the sort. I said that you must cooperate with them to destroy the humans. Evict mankind not just from Gleend, but from all of known reality. Once they are all dead, by all means, kill the elves. I don’t care.”
“The dwarves could have done it better. You should have left surface dwellers out of it; you could have just lent me some of your troops as support. There was no need to get Elo’misce involved, too.”
“You say that, but your results have proven otherwise. Your ruffians failed to assassinate the king’s brother. Since that time, Elo’misce has proved very eager to extinguish the light of humanity. Had you succeeded in your task, you would have had the perfect political opportunity to elevate yourself to the throne, with any amount of diligence and political maneuvering. This is your fault and yours alone.
“As for my lending military support, that will come in the future. My forces under Gleend are currently on a large-scale assignment. You will become aware of their movements very soon.
“Be aware, Bwar, that there are many other players in this grand game. Far more than just us. Some of them will be just as eager to destroy you as you are them.”
The dwarf spat a curse, “Elo’misce.”
“If you become less than completely useful to me, I will send you to greet Mar’zal on my behalf. Perhaps he could enlighten you as to my disposition.”
Bwar swallowed the lump in this throat. “Understood,” he said muttered gruffly. It was clear to him that political wrangling would never accomplish the required tasks. The only option was to join Elo’misce and completely fracture the political makeup of the country they shared. They would either eliminate the humans who lived in it or join Mar’zal whose corpse likely incubated a brood of skolaxis larva.
It chaffed the dwarf’s pride to unify with an elf, but he had a clear precedent to do so. He could always kill her later. In fact, he planned to.
Bwar left the ring of flame light, returning to his place in Xorst. His directives had been made clear to him.
As soon as Bwar departed, the goblin sent his guards away. He opened the amulet at his neck and contacted his brother.
***
Werthen moved his company of people well off of the road and into the dying shade supplied by the shanties near the road. The air was no cooler there, but at least the hot sun overhead and the glare from the gravel underfoot couldn’t as easily scorch those under his care. Soon after midday, the sun would finally begin to dim in intensity but they needed to respite until then.
The ferreter crouched down in the heat, looking for a resting place near the wrought iron cages of what the prisoners within had referred to as “Low-Town.” Vil-yay rummaged through the detainees’ equipment and supplies looking for any clues as to their identities.
Wiping away the beading sweat, the two captives watched as Werthen sifted through their belongings. The harsh sun had long since scorched their skin and darkened their skin.
Werthen was respectful and cautious with their items, but couldn’t just open their cage. If these men were criminals, the public would not look kindly on the Christians for releasing them.
“I see that you have some Say-awr’ among your numbers,” noted the younger man. Vil-yay set down the knapsack he rifled through. His face revealed his surprise. The captive pointed at Vil-yay’s tattoos which designated his status within the tribe; not many people outside of the Kil-yaw’ could read what they meant.
Werthen sized up the man. He sat hunched and looked uncomfortable, but a spark smoldering deep within his eyes showed that his spirit was not defeated—perhaps no imprisonment could. His almost-bald head was full of stubble. It had been shaved fairly recently. His shirt was off in a vain attempt to offset the intense heat. Tanned dark and covered in tattoos, a nasty looking scar on his belly ripped through his torso with a shot of milky-white, scarred flesh more prominent than any of his tattoos, revealing where he had once been ripped open.
“We will gladly tell you all about ourselves,” Werthen said, “but first, satisfy our curiosity, who are you?” He was unsure if he could believe their claims, and so Vil-yay continued investigating as he tilted his ear.
The old man groaned and trembled. Werthen poured a cup of water from his canteen. Accepting the cup, the younger prisoner cradled his comrades’ head and poured a dribble onto the defeated man’s cracked lips.
“I have been given many titles in my life. I am the Untamed Mankran, the Raider of Ziphan Slave Dens, Hunter of Wendigo, and the Desired of Ly’Neesa.”
At the mention his Mankran birthright, Werthen deduced his name from stories he had heard. “You are Shimza the Greater?”
“No… yes. But it is just Shimza, now.” He fingered the scar that webbe
d its way across his abdominal muscles. “I have not been back to Jand since I acquired this mark. I lost my previous partner, my brother, a few years ago. Since then, nothing has paid as well as the Monastery of Light’s bounty on the wendigo or their masters.”
The older man sipped on the water cup, barely regaining consciousness. Shimza helped regulate his drinking when the water slopped down his chin.
“This is Fixxer, my partner.”
Fixxer coughed, “Pleased t’meet ya. Don’t listen to a word he says,” he wheezed. “You should never trust a man from Mankra.” The old man chided.
“Tell me why you are confined to this cell?”
Shimza pointed at the city in the distance. It towered over them upon a nearby plateau. “High-Town,” he said, “it’s been overrun by the wendigo.”
Werthen’s blank look revealed that he wasn’t familiar with the term. His werewolf friend explained. “The wendigo are vampires, the brood of Lilth. Long have they been the enemies of the Kil-yaw’,” said Vil-yay. “There are two kinds of vampire. The more powerful of the two are the elder vampires, the original creation of Lucifer; they were the first of all ekthro to be created. When Lucifer first began crafting living beings, he tried to recreate what Yahweh had made, only modified and perfected—but they were lifeless. Their strengths were greatly amplified beyond all men; this made the vampires very powerful, and the Gathering still fears them and they spend much effort guarding against Lilth’s threat.
“The wendigo are the second sort of vampire, those that were once human and traded their soul for immortality and power. Elders can sire as many wendigo as would give up their mortality, but the elder vampires are rare and limited in number. Their elders, created by Lucifer himself, are the most powerful. They even have limited abilities to access the natural, magic leylines. All vampires must feed on the nephesh of man, the life-blood, to compensate for their soullessness: that initial, motivating breath of Yahweh-God that sustains us. The elders were created without it and the created wendigo choose to relinquish their claim on it.”
The Kakos Realm Collection Page 71
