From Across the Clouded Range

by H. Nathan Wilcox

  #

  Ipid followed Turgot through the rows of tents surrounding what had once been the village of Greenspot. It was a sizable town situated just to the east of the forest and seemed well named given the lush fields of wheat, corn, and beans it was tucked between. The army had emerged from the forest the day before, after an extra day spent in Holstead while outriders secured the villages ahead and dispatched the garrison in Elmvale to the south.

  At their current pace, it would be another week before they reached Wildern on Orm, the capitol of the Kingdoms, but to this point the army had faced no resistance and none seemed likely until they reached the Kingdoms’ largest city. The advanced units that secured the roads ahead of the main force had reported only abandoned farms and villages for the past few days. Even Elmvale had been empty when the riders came, the garrison there having pulled out days before – as fast as those riders moved, word of the invasion moved faster.

  Of greater concern to Ipid was the northern arm of the Darthur. According to the daily briefings Arin somehow received from the army that was several days hard ride away, they were supposed to arrive outside Thoren today.

  Ipid could only imagine that those updates were carried by the flying creatures. The thought sent a shiver down his spine. Over the course of the past week, he had seen dozens of the things in the skies over the army. He had also seen hordes of similar non-flying creatures, but those stayed well away from the main army, mostly slinking through the forest parallel to the roads, and no one ever approached them. He could understand why the soldiers were wary. The creatures he had seen looked like cruel aberrations that were singularly designed for destruction. The te-am’ eiruh were the only ones who would go near the things, and the common soldiers seemed to fear the strange sect of men even more than the creatures.

  One of those creatures must have arrived with news from the north, Ipid thought. That explained the summons. Ever since they had split the army, Ipid’s every spare thought – of which there were few – had been on Thoren. It would be the site of the first true battle in the war. And though, the city would never hold against the Darthur, it was not defenseless. Most important, it would take time to capture. And that time was critical. It could allow the Kingdoms to move people and supplies out of the invaders’ path, for the Morgs and Liandrians to muster, for word to spread and the world to prepare. To that end, Ipid had tried to build up Thoren’s reputation in Arin’s mind, lauded its defences, and exaggerated the size of its pathetic garrison in a hope that the young leader would opt for caution, a protracted siege, maybe even negotiations. Yet Arin had asked him almost nothing about the city to this point, and when Ipid offered, he seemed entirely disinterested. Maybe that would change now that the army had arrived, so Ipid ordered his thoughts, prepared the subtle deceptions that would buy his world the time it needed.

  Walking up the slight hill that housed Greenspot, his eyes drifted over the sea of flickering fires stretching as far as he could see into the nearby fields like the night sky reflected in a dark pool. Despite the fact that it had already split once, the army filled every field and farm within sight. A few hours before, it had looked like a great patchwork quilt spread across the countryside. Each of the dozen vassal armies that accompanied the Darthur appeared to have their own customs that dictated not only their tents but also their uniforms, weapons, leadership, and marching formations. It gave the army a makeshift appearance, but Ipid knew that it was only that. The leaders of those units reported daily to Arin and the Ashüt – four of them were te-ashüte – and from what Ipid had seen, Arin knew everything about those forces. He was also always respectful of their leaders, and they appeared to return the respect with loyalty. Still, Ipid was waiting to see what would happen to the patchwork army over the course of a long campaign. The vassals made up the great majority of the invading army, and if he could turn them against the Darthur or sow dissention between them, it might be enough to tear the entire army apart.

  A moment later, they arrived at a huge stone inn standing in the center of the town. Turgot signaled Ipid to stop then stepped into the common room and announced him with an unnecessary bellow. Ipid followed as soon as he heard Arin’s approval and spared a downcast look around the room. It had been cleared except for a single long table. Around it were enough chairs for every te-ashüte but only four were occupied. He was shocked to see the black robe and cowl that defined Belab in one of them. The te-am eiruh leader was influential, but Arin did not like him and never invited him to his late night strategy sessions – Ipid sometimes wondered if Arin ever slept.

  Ipid was still trying to understand the implications when Arin looked up from the map before him. His eyes were cold, and he looked tired. "Te-adeate Ipid, I have an important task for you.” Arin spoke in Darthur with a hint of frustration. It was unusual from the stern man, who prided himself of being in absolute control of every situation. “Your success may decide the fate of all the people in this country you call your home."

  At Arin’s side, Thorold’s braided hair swung almost imperceptibly, betraying his disapproval. Arin caught the movement out of the corner of his eye and glowered at his uncle. Thorold’s head snapped to an immediate stop. The exchange put Ipid on guard. He had never seen Thorold disagree with Arin. Something important was happening, and Ipid’s mind stretched to capture every scrap of information that floated around the room.

  He was so intent on deciphering those messages that it took a small grunt from Arin before he realized that he was expected to respond. Quickly recovering, he bowed nearly to the floor. "It is my duty to serve and learn so that one day my children's children will know the honor of being Darthur." It was a well-practiced phrase. The Darthur was perfect.

  “Humph” was Arin’s only response, but a small smile formed on the lips of the fourth man, a giant even by Darthur standards named Kurion. Ipid did a double take. Kurion had been made the commander of the northern army, so he should have been at Thoren. Ipid could only imagine the creature that had carried the seven-foot-tall, three hundred and fifty pound warrior on its back over a hundred miles.

  “You remember talk of Eroth Amache, Battle of Testing?" Ipid was taken back by the question not because of its content, but rather its mode. Arin had spoken in the Imperial tongue, something he never did while other Darthur were present.

  “I . . . I remember,” Ipid stammered in his native language. As he said it, he racked his brain for the forgotten term.

  "North army has arrived Thoren,” Arin continued in Ipid’s language. “The Ashüt voted for Eroth Amache at Thoren.” Ipid’s mind was now moving. He remembered the discussion and resulting unanimous vote, but it had been one of many unanimous votes during the long Ashüt meeting. At the time, he had been lucky to make any sense of the complex proposals and failed to make the connection when Arin told him about the custom several days later. Now the pieces were starting to fit together. He felt his blood turn cold. His stomach sank.

  “Kurion sends messages to Thoren, but leaders drive away. If they no hear messages, how will they know to be on honor field for test? If they are not there to fight, there will be no test. Your people, all people of Unified Kingdoms, will be te-nuator, those with no honor. By Darthur law, they will be killed, all of them, man, woman, child, you, your boys, all. Your cities will burn. The stories will forget you.”

  Arin’s eyes bored into Ipid, but he was frozen. He could not believe what he was hearing. He now remembered the conversation about the Battle of Testing. It was held whenever the Darthur encountered a new nation or people to judge the honor of those people and determine their position in the Darthur social hierarchy. It was held on an open field – the Darthur considered it dishonorable to fight from behind walls – and lasted exactly two hands of sun. After that time, the two sides would withdraw and determine the status of their opponents. That status, Ipid had thought, ranged from te-adeate all the way t
o full membership in the clans – that is why some of the non-Darthur peoples were represented in the Ashüt. Once that status had been determined, either side could surrender and assume its position in the other’s ranks or continue fighting, but no matter the outcome of future battles, the people – all the people, no matter how many had participated in the original battle – would have the same status. Arin had never mentioned what happened if a nation refused to participate in the battle, and Ipid had not even considered that genocide would be the answer.

  The implication struck Ipid like a board between the eyes. He could only stare dumbfounded at Arin in a manner that was certainly not appropriate to his standing. There was no chance that the leaders of Thoren would leave the walls of their city to meet a vastly superior force on an open field. Nothing Arin could say would convince them. They would bring down the wrath of the Darthur. The bodies would form piles that rivaled the mountains these monsters had crossed.

  “But . . . but I thought that our status was already . . .,” Ipid managed to stutter.

  Arin’s hand slammed down on the table. “Do not ever question me!” he whispered with the force of a scream in Darthur. “The current judgment only holds until there is a real testing. There was no battle in your pathetic village. It is an insult to suggest that was a test of my people or yours.” Arin’s harsh words and tone drove his frustration home. Ever since Gurney Bluff, he had been far less stern. He and Ipid often spoke candidly, and Ipid seldom had to follow the oppressive te-adeate customs of submissiveness and unquestioning obedience, but this was a situation altogether different.

  “I apologize for. . . .” Ipid started in Darthur, but Arin cut him off with his hand pounding on the table.

  “Silence!” He did yell this time and rose from his chair. “You will convince the people of Thoren to be on the field of honor at the third sunrise or none of you will see the fourth.”

  Arin sighed and fell back into his chair looking deflated. “Belab will arrange for you to be in Thoren before the dawn. Kurion will ensure that you have an escort to the city. That is all.”

  Ipid shook as he bowed. He had never seen Arin rattled. He was nearly mechanical in his lack of emotion, unbending confidence, and single-minded determination. It was startling to see such a change. He knew he should be happy to see the young leader show some weakness, but it had the opposite effect. Over the past weeks, he had come to depend on Arin’s stability like a rock he leaned against. Even if he detested that rock, finding it coming loose was a shock.

  A quick glance at Kurion and Thorold further destabilized that support. They sat frozen as statues, but their deep frowns showed that they did not approve of what had just happened. It was the first time Ipid had seen either of them express even the slightest displeasure with Arin’s decisions. Ipid had been around the Darthur long enough to know what that meant. The Darthur were entirely dictated by the strictures of custom. Arin must be acting outside those strictures and paying a political toll to do so.

  He doesn’t want this either, Ipid realized. Not because of the lives that will be lost. No, this conversation, my presence here, is because this slaughter would end any chance he has of conquering the East. It would turn every man, woman, and child into a soldier against him and focus every nation on the singular goal of destroying his demonic tribe. If the cost were not so high, Ipid would almost appreciate such an outcome.

  "We should go.” Belab clasped Ipid’s arm and brought him up from his trembling bow. Ipid stood and allowed himself to be led from the inn. He was reeling, mind overcome by the implications of what he had just witnessed, but cool mist hitting his face brought him back. “Do you mind if I hold your arm?” Belab’s voice was a soft rasp but warm and friendly like a grandfather speaking to a favorite child. Still, the words were spoken in the strange language that Belab and the te-am’ eiruh used, and it unnerved Ipid. “While we are like this no one will hear our words.”

  Ipid nodded and glanced at the hand holding his arm. It was wrinkled, white, and generously spotted with the blemishes of age. Yet, it felt warm, and the grip was soft, almost reassuring.

  “How. . .” Ipid started then caught himself. “Most honorable teacher, may I, your most unworthy student, ask a question?” He spoke the familiar phrase in Darthur out of habit.

  “There is no need for such protocol with me.” Belab chuckled. “I am part of this company, but I am not Darthur. What is your question?”

  Ipid searched the cowl for Belab’s eyes or some indication of his features, but in the dark, misty night there was no hope of that. He realized that he didn’t have anything more than a shadow marred sketch of his face. He had always assumed that he was old but not ancient given the seeming ease of his movements, but his hand suggested otherwise. He had also guessed he would be harsh and derisive given how the other te-ashüte treated him, but he seemed genial and unassuming. He had not spoken with Belab prior to this, but for some reason, he had never trusted him or his followers. Perhaps it was because of their seclusion, perhaps because of their strange dress, perhaps because of the creatures they tended, but most likely it was because everyone else in the army seemed so wary of them. Now that he was speaking with Belab, however, those things seemed inconsequential, and he found himself strangely drawn to the man.

  “I know it is a lot to take,” Belab began when Ipid did not manage to form a question. “This custom has caused more suffering than you could imagine. My own people refused to fight the Darthur when they came upon our city. We were peaceful religious leaders similar to your counselors.”

  Ipid stopped at the reference to counselors. It seemed strange coming from Belab.

  “Do not worry.” Belab chuckled again and patted Ipid on the arm with his free hand. “I know a great deal about your side of the Devil’s Teeth, or Clouded Range as you call them. Our people have long studied the ancient world and kept histories dating back to the times before your great Valatarian. Our studies allow us to use certain powers, but we swore an ancient oath to never again use those powers in war. We also keep the stoche as the Darthur call the lost creatures, the tal’ ladorim in our language. They were cast out of your world, but we took it upon ourselves to watch over and protected them, swearing to never again expose them to war.

  “Then the Darthur came, and everything changed. They emerged from the wild lands of the far west and swept across our world. The nations on our side of the mountains never banded together, so Arin was able to take them one at a time. Most pledged their allegiance to him as soon as they had been tested, making the Darthur continuously stronger. We did not claim to be a nation, but rather a part of all nations, and we had sworn a pledge of peace in ancient times. But Arin would not bend, and neither could we.”

  Belab stopped abruptly and turned to face Ipid. They were almost to the side of the village that the te-am’ eiruh had claimed, but Ipid was so enthralled by the story that he did not notice that the tents had cleared, leaving a large open space between the army and the te-am’ eiruh. When he had Ipid’s attention, Belab brought his thin hands to his hood, pulled it back over his head, and stepped so that the light of the village was on his face. He was, in fact, a very old man with heavy wrinkles that stacked upon each other in an impossible multitude and wispy grey hair that stood out from his head and face in a wild array, but even through the wrinkles, Ipid could see the scars that cut across his face from either side in a great X. He could not restrain a gasp at the gruesome sight.

  “Many of our order suffered such fates at the hands of the Darthur.” Belab pulled the hood back over his head and started back toward the buildings that housed his people. “Most of us were already dead when I succumbed to my anger and fought. Those that remained joined me, and fight we did. We were few and not mighty with weapons, but we have powers dating to the time of creation, and the stoche are truly fearsome when unleashed. We inflicted great casualties on the Da
rthur, but there were too few of us by then, and we were eventually subdued.

  “Those that fought were spared the Darthur wrath in exchange for our oath to serve them. The rest of our order was slaughtered. Our holy city was burned. Our libraries were destroyed. We were forbidden to speak the names of those who had fallen. We were made a people without a home, without a history. It is the same fate that will befall your people if you do not succeed.”

  Belab stopped at the door of a large house and turned to Ipid before stepping in. “We wear black as a reminder of the betrayal to our oath and cover our faces to hide them from those who had the courage to die.” He paused in what seemed a somber moment. “I know that you are suspicious of us, and that is why I have told you this. Know, however, that we are all slaves of the Darthur in one way or another. Arin relishes nothing but conquest. He does not care for gold or women or knowledge. Only power drives him. Your people mean nothing more to him than a means to an end. He passes down the judgments based upon what is most convenient for his campaigns. Here and now, he needs food and slaves. A judgment of te-adeate allows him to take those. Moving forward, he needs vassals that will provide him with men and supplies. That is why he wants this battle. You will have to give it to him, but know that it plays directly into his hand.”

  Ipid was absorbing everything he could of what the old man said. He would work through it later to see what of it he trusted, but for now, he just listened.

  Finally, Belab placed a hand on his shoulder. “Do not worry. Arin will not always succeed. He is young and brash, and there is much maneuvering behind the scenes of those well-orchestrated meetings. Arin does not know how tenuous his hold on power is, and without him, the Darthur army will quickly collapse. One day soon, he will trip and we will all win our freedom.”

  Ipid could not help but to smile. It was as if Belab was speaking to his heart. He could not be sure, but it felt like the old man was smiling as well behind his cowl.

  “I will leave you now. Another of our order will see to your transport. Just remember, remain patient and wait for your opportunity. I will be in touch when I can, but Arin suspects me always, so he will be suspicious if I am seen near you.”

  Belab turned, opened the door of the house, and started inside. As he went through, he stopped. “For the sake of your people, do not fail in your mission, Lord Ronigan.”

  Ipid stood on the stoop not even noticing the misty rain that was soaking through his woolen shirt. There was so much to think about that it took several seconds before he realized that Belab had used his title calling him ‘Lord Ronigan.’ How could the old man know his position? For a second, that worried him. Did Arin know? No, he would have made use of such information by now, so why did Belab know, and why did he mention it now?

  Puzzles on top of puzzles, he thought as he pondered Belab’s words. Ipid knew enough to never trust the motives of powerful men. They were almost always hiding larger agendas, trying to exert their influence. It was their nature. To this point, Ipid had been so focused on military strategy that he had nearly forgotten politics. Belab’s whole purpose was to remind him that there was more than one way to bring down the Darthur, to focus him on the political as well as the martial. He chastised himself for not seeing that sooner.

  The opening of the door broke Ipid’s thoughts. He jumped slightly, half-expecting something horrible to emerge from the house, but a small figure was there instead. The figure was clothed just as Belab had been but was smaller and straighter than the old man with disheveled robes hanging off of a lanky frame. Ipid bowed to the new arrival – a habit that had been literally beaten into him by the Darthur.

  The small figure released a laugh that could only be described as a giggle. “No lord has ever bowed to me,” said a decidedly feminine voice. “I will see to your transport, Lord Ronigan.”

  Ipid was shocked. He looked deep into the cowl – the voice was that of a young woman – but could not see anything through the hood. The figure reached out a small hand and took hold of his. The hand was soft, supple, and delicate but ice-cold – it seemed to draw the very life from him.

  “Does it surprise you that there are women among us, Lord Ronigan?” The hood turned toward him, looking up into his eyes, but he could not see anything through the shadows. “We do not discriminate in our order. Though there are few women with the gift, we have our place.”

  The cowl remained locked on him, and he felt as if he were being carefully analyzed. “Come. We must depart. The sun will be rising sooner than you think, and you have much to do.” The small figure turned and led him through the last houses of the village toward a small stand to trees.

  “How will we get to Thoren?” Ipid recovered enough of his senses to ask his most pressing question, though a thousand others were waiting on his lips. Ever since Arin had suggested that he would be at Thoren before the dawn, Ipid had known the answer to that question. The only way it was possible was for him to ride one of the creatures. The thought terrified him. Despite what Belab had said, the stoche were gruesome beasts, and he could not imagine the horror of flying through the night on the back of one of the terrible things.

  “I will see to your transport,” the woman repeated. “Do not worry. The Belab has asked that you be treated with special care. Come now and remain quiet. We do not want to disturb the tal’ ladorim, stoche as you know them. They can be temperamental at night.”

  Ipid opened his mouth to ask another question, but the woman cut him off. “Please,” she said with a small motion and squeezed his hand, which was still trapped in her icy grasp. Her voice was so sweet and soft that Ipid could not help but visualize her as young and beautiful, and after two weeks of the company of men, he found her presence strangely alluring. At the very least, he had no desire to upset her or draw the attention of the creatures, so he bit his tongue.

  The woman led him into the dark grove. As she walked, she whispered strange words under her breath, which were coming decidedly faster. Ipid shared her fear. His heart was pounding so that she could probably feel it through his hand, and he could barely breathe. Their pace was painfully slow. Ipid wanted to run, to be done with this nightmare, but his guide led him at a methodic march. His legs trembled, but the path they followed was smooth, and he did not stumble, though he wanted to collapse.

  All around them, dark shapes stirred in the murky shadows. There was a rustle in the trees and the crackle of feet over dried leaves. Hisses, grunts, and growls intermingled with the crunch of foliage, the patter of the rain, and the thump of feet. Just enough light from the nearby buildings made it through the trees to glint off of teeth and talons. The grove was alive. Everywhere, the creatures moved and shifted around them. They were inches away on every side.

  There was a scamper of feet on the trail in front of them, a gasp from beside him. The grip on his hand tightened. Ipid’s eyes spun around at the same time a black shape reared up before them. The te-am’ eiruh woman held her hand out to block the creature, which had four arms extending from a serpentine body. The thing stood twice as high as Ipid. An array of claws sparkled at the end of each of its arms. A cavernous mouth opened toward them revealing more angular, glistening shapes. Ipid’s breath caught. His head spun and knees shook.

  “Do not move,” the voice at his shoulder warned. “It will not hurt you as long as you are with me.” His guide traced symbols with her free hand and whispered strange words. Her hand clenched his tightly, but he barely noticed. His heart felt like it would pound through his chest.

  “Go now!” the woman commanded in the strange language that Ipid could understand but not use.

  The creature hesitated and made a mocking lunge toward Ipid. The feint almost sent him to his knees, but the grip on his hand gave him courage, and he stood his ground, straightened his posture, and raised his chin. The creature hissed an indecipherable string of what m
ight have been words, seemed to bow slightly, and scurried into the trees out of sight.

  Ipid released the breath that he had not realized he was holding and gasped to restore his supply of air. That was as close as he had ever been to one of the stoche and as close as he ever wanted to be. He could not imagine what it would be like to ride one.

  “I am sorry for that.” His guide gave his hand another squeeze. “They are playful more than anything but can be dangerous if you do not know how to handle them. They should not cause us any further trouble. Come now. We are almost there.” Despite the assurance, Ipid could still see the things moving through the trees all around them, some of them just inches away. One swipe of a claw could end his part on this world, and his watery legs barely carried him to the small clearing where they finally stopped.

  In the clearing, the woman let go of his hand, but Ipid did not. “I need my hands now, Lord Ronigan.”

  “Of course.” Ipid released her but did not stray far from her side as she walked to the center of the clearing and began a slow chant.

  Ipid assumed that she was summoning the creature that would carry them to Thoren. He searched the sky, anxiously watching for the thing, but the sky held only black clouds and misty rain. A glance around the clearing showed that the trees were filled to bursting with unnatural shadows. Eyes, claws, and teeth sparkled everywhere but nothing broke the sanctuary of the clearing. Ipid concentrated on remaining calm. He desperately hoped that the pleasant young woman would travel with him and was not sure that he would be able to make the journey without her no matter how many lives were at stake.

  He looked back toward his guide and realized that her chanting had stopped. He scanned his surroundings for the creature she had summoned. None appeared. The woman took his hand in her ice-cold grip and pulled him forward. He complied mechanically before looking at their destination.

  There, standing before them, was something more terrifying than any creature. Ipid blinked his eyes to be certain it was not an illusion of the dark, misty night, but he could see signs of the forest jutting out around the disk of black to offset it from its surroundings. Staring with disbelief, he realized that the disk did not actually have a set shape. It churned and throbbed, in constant flux but without any pattern or rhythm. Within the thing were a mélange of swirling images jumbled together like a tornado. Black upon black the images were utter chaos, defined only by their disregard for order or logic.

  They were almost on top of the vortex when Ipid finally overcame his shock and planted his feet to stop his progress toward what could only be his doom. He wanted to scream but could not draw the breath it required.

  The woman’s hand moved to his wrist, becoming a manacle. He shook his arm but could not break the iron grip. His mind raced with fear. The only explanation was that she meant to kill him. No living thing could pass through that manifestation of chaos incarnate and survive. He tried again to break the grip, but it did not waver, and despite her slight build, the small woman pulled him nearer and nearer to the chaos before them.

  His guide stepped into the black shape. Ipid tried to resist. He dug his heels into the wet forest floor, but his legs had lost their power. Crying with fear, he saw himself inching toward the thing; the woman was simply too strong. His knees buckled, his strength failed, and he lost his footing. The hand on his wrist responded with a yank, and he fell headlong into the swirling darkness.

  Bone-numbing cold greeted him, followed just as quickly by skin-charring heat. He was torn apart bit by bit only to feel the bits come crashing back together in a raging explosion. The disk closed around him to form a vortex of horrifying images. That vortex tore him apart, stretched him, smashed him, made him a part of its frenzied dance until the images collapsed to a common source and fell upon him. There was a terrible clap of power, and it all disappeared.

  Ipid opened his eyes slowly and found himself lying on the ground in a spot that looked much like the one he had just left. He wondered what that trial had been as he lifted himself to trembling knees. It took several seconds for his eyes to focus, but when they did, everything was wrong. Not a cloud obscured his view of the moonless sky, not a drop of rain fell. In the distance was a sizeable town. Tents surrounded the buildings by the thousands in innumerable sizes and configurations, but there were no trees. Beside him was the same hooded figure that had pulled him through the vortex.

  He cringed back from that shadowed cowl and struggled to find his feet, but it was all too much for him to take. He fell back to the ground and did not rise again.

  Chapter 34