BlackThorn's Doom

by Dewayne M Kunkel

  “Ahmed?” Burcott asked Jehnom.

  “It is the name the sand walkers call themselves.” Jehnom answered. “They are the Ahmed and the wastes are the Ahmed Kai.”

  “Do we leave our weapons?” Burcott asked pulling off his gauntlets.

  “Only the youngest children go unarmed among them. If you wish to be seen as a man, wear your sword.” Jehnom answered lifting his spear from his bedroll. Jehnom led the way through the tents up a low rise towards the ring of flagpoles and the scarlet tent beyond.

  Through the Ahmed camp they walked. Past campfires surrounded by robed men sharpening wickedly curved swords. The men would cease talking in their native tongue and bow their heads in greeting as they passed. Jehnom and Burcott would respond to the gesture with a curt nod of their own heads.

  They found Ahalm outside the Sahri’s tent. He nodded in greeting and passed through the tent flap, motioning for them to follow.

  The tent was large and brightly lit by oil lamps upon iron stands spaced throughout. The floor was covered with thick carpets of dyed wool. The bright colors forming floral patterns highlighted with threads of gold.

  Although spacious it was sparingly furnished. Only a small bedroll and two wooden trunks sat pushed into one corner. In the center of the tent a large map lay upon the floor the corners held flat with large stones.

  The fattest man Burcott had ever seen sat looking at the map with a young boy at his side. Behind them stood four armed men, scarlet sashes tied about their waists marking them as the Sahri’s personal guards.

  Ahalm bowed low and touched his forehead with his fingertips. “Sahri, blessed of the gods.” He said reverently. “I bring Jehnom of the forest people and the outlander Lord Burcott, servant of Gaelan, King of Trondhiem.”

  The young boy looked up and acknowledged Ahalm’s introduction with a wave of his hand.

  “Welcome to my tent,” He said coming to his feet. “I am the Sahri of the Ahmed, what I have to offer is yours for the asking.”

  Jehnom bowed low his hand over his heart. “You honor me.” He said.

  Burcott bowed stiffly as well. “On behalf of my King I extend the hand of friendship to the Ahmed.” He said holding out his arm.

  “Sletach!” The fat man barked in shock and anger.

  The Sahri smiled and looked to the still seated older man. “My uncle and advisor.” He said in introduction. “Speak the tongue of our guests uncle.”

  The man glowered past fleshy cheeks and bushy eyebrows. His head was cleanly shaven and even though the air was quite cool he was perspiring heavily. “One does not touch the Sahri, Burcott.”

  Lord Burcott lowered his hand quickly. “My apologies Sahri.” He offered. “I do not know your ways.”

  The youth smiled and stepped forward taking Burcott’s hand into his own. “Nor I yours.” He responded shaking the warriors hand firmly.

  The fat man huffed and pulled himself to his feet. “Arrest the barbarian!” He commanded the guards.

  The Sahri raised his hand and the guards remained in place. “Uncle you would do well to remember your place.”

  “Enough of this charade,” The man complained. “You have played general for several weeks now, it is time we return home.”

  The Sahri’s eyes narrowed. “You are most welcomed to return to the palace uncle.”

  “Good!” The man snapped. “I will give word for the men to prepare.”

  “You will go alone and now.” The Sahri commanded. “And once I return home it would go well for you that our paths never cross again.”

  The fat mans face grew scarlet in rage. “I am your uncle, you cannot do this!” He protested.

  “I am the Sahri, not you. Now be gone while I still have patience.”

  The large man’s face paled and he spun on his heel lumbering from the tent.

  The Sahri turned to the nearest guard. “Follow him and see that he leaves the campsite, alone. With only that which he can carry.”

  The guard bowed and jogged out of the tent.

  “Please be seated.” The Sahri said sitting cross-legged before the map. “Excuse the unfortunate business you have witnessed, sometimes power can be a hard thing to relinquish.”

  “If it is no insult,” Burcott said. “I am curious as to how old you are.”

  The Sahri smiled. “No insult Lord Burcott, I am two months past my fifteenth birthday.”

  “A bit young for such responsibility.” Burcott said without thinking.

  “The Ahmed consider fifteen to be the age of manhood.” Jehnom informed him.

  “My apologies.” Burcott offered.

  “None needed,” The Sahri said once more. “I am more open minded than my erstwhile advisor would like. But I live only to serve my people and I find formalities of court a hindrance at best.”

  Burcott laughed and slapped his knee. “I couldn’t agree more.”

  “Lord Burcott how came you to be among the Taur Di?” The Sahri asked after a short laugh.

  Burcott told him his tale in full, starting with the treacherous slaying of Gaelan’s father and ending with the attack at Fro’Hadume.

  The Sahri listened intently his respect for the old warrior growing as the man spoke of the battles he had fought.

  “The Morne have laid siege to Timosh,” Burcott continued. “It alone stands between Sur’kar and the eastern kingdoms. Should Timosh fall then this war is all but lost.”

  “Ah,” The Sahri interrupted him. “Then you intend to pin the Morne against the keep.”

  Jehnom shook his head. “We wish it could be so, but they number in the tens of thousands and Trolls walk among them. We have not the numbers for such a stratagem.

  “We intend too destroy their supplies and attack their rear guard in the hopes that Timosh could rally and together we could bring this army down.”

  The Sahri poured them each a cup of tea. “Two years ago an oracle warned my uncle of the impending struggle to come. He ignored the man and as a result my people were ill prepared when the horde marched into our lands and laid waste to the oasis of Sahrencor. Thousands of my people died in the attack.

  “I rallied what troops we could gather and met them in the wastes. The desert claimed a full third of their number, while we slew thousands. I would say only half of them made it out of the wastes to attack the forest.” The Sahri frowned. “I wish we could have slain them all and spared your homeland the fate that befell us.”

  “My people our grateful for the price the Ahmed paid to spare our forest.” Jehnom said in sincere gratitude. “Although the damage is grave, the forest yet lives and new growth will replace that which was lost.”

  “I would not have thought it possible for so many men to live in the open desert.” Burcott mused looking at the map open the floor.

  The Sahri arched an eyebrow. “You have not heard of the seven tears of the creator?”

  “Our knowledge of what lies within the wastes is limited.” Jehnom replied. “The lands of the Ahmed are as secretive as that of the Taur Di.”

  The nomad king laughed. “The heart of the great desert is a land of burning sands and heat blackened mountains. Yet there lay seven deep valleys, where cool water flows upward from the ground. These are fertile and teeming with wildlife. The Ahmed tribes call them home and it is there that we retire when we grow weary of the scorching sands.

  “Few outsiders know of their existence and fewer still have ever seen the beauty of the whispering hills, or the great lakes of Kalazahn.” The Sahri smiled at the memory of these places. “The great desert acts as a buffer, an almost impenetrable wall against the outside world.”

  “There is much beauty in this world, Sahri.” Jehnom said. “That is why we must destroy the tree killers before they violate all.”

  “Then let us do so together.” The Sahri held out his hand palm downward.

  “Brothers in freedom.” Jehnom declared placing his hand upon the nomad’s.

  “May the Morne rue this day.” Burco
tt said placing his large hand atop Jehnom’s.

  “It is decided then.” The Sahri said rolling up the map. “Shall we leave with the sunrise?”

  Both Jehnom and Burcott nodded in agreement.

  “Jehnom I have no training in warfare beyond the sands of my home.” The Sahri continued. “Will you accept the command of my men?”

  Jehnom held up his hand in protest. “Nay Sahri, beyond the boughs of my forest I am at such a disadvantage as you. It is to Lord Burcott that I will pledge my people to follow.”

  Burcott looked at both men his eyes wide in surprise. “I am only an old warrior,” He stammered. “Not a king, I will advise however.”

  “Burcott,” Jehnom said with a laugh. “It is because you are an old warrior that I trust you.”

  “Besides in combat there will be no time for consultation.” The Sahri added. “Only quick and sometimes difficult decisions are required. Either you lead or we fail.”

  “Very well,” Burcott said relenting to them.

  “It is said in the western lands that a foolish warrior often dies young.” The Sahri said.

  Burcott smiled at the young man. “You harbor much wisdom for one so young.”

  “If I had been truly wise, I would have gotten rid of my uncle long ago.”

  Burcott sat astride his horse watching in awe as the nomads broke camp. The rising sun had scarcely touched the dark sky and the nomads were ready to march.

  They had formed ranks; six divisions of one thousand men each stood in columns of four. The Warriors bore heavy packs and each man carried a long shafted spear tipped with black iron.

  With a nod of his head Burcott sent twenty-five of his men riding forward. They would serve as advance scouts for the march, ensuring nothing would catch them unawares.

  Raising his hand he signaled the buglers to stand ready. Brass horns glimmered in the bright light as they were raised to their lips. Burcott dropped his hand and the hills echoed with the sharp call of the horns.

  The Ahmed snapped to attention as six thousand voices shouted as one. “Kahal!” They marched forward the Sahri at their head with his herald at his side.

  The Nomads moved with surprising speed, their booted feet crunching loudly upon the hard packed earth.

  “They set a fair pace.” Burcott commented to Jehnom who rode at his side.

  “But can they do it for eight days and yet have the strength to fight when we arrive.” Jehnom countered.

  For two full days they traveled westward skirting the spur of the Rahlcrag that formed the southern border of Moinar-Thur.

  The barren peaks glowed with reflected sunlight, while the dark shadows concealed bluffs and valleys alike. The weather was turning once more and a cold wind blew down from the heights as a wall of black storm clouds slowly approached from the west.

  By nightfall the temperature had dropped to near freezing and the wind shifted until it raged from the west. A mixture of snow and rain lashed at the encampment putting out the campfires and forcing the men to huddle within their blankets.

  Burcott’s men pitched their tents amid those of the Ahmed. Pickets were set and their number doubled as the storm grew in ferocity. Burcott was concerned that an attacking force could use the storm for cover.

  The storm ended before dawn and as the sky brightened the men fought to fold ice clad canvas and break camp. Breaking their fast on dried meat and hard bread the warriors ate in silence saving their strength for the long march ahead.

  Late in the afternoon the mountains had become less imposing and trails could be seen leading into the heights. Burcott sent scouts into the high hills seeking a way across that would shave days from their trek.

  It was not until the next morning that such a path had been found.

  “Would it not be safer for us to continue our course and circle around?” Jehnom asked. “Rather than risk losing a supply wagon in the heights.”

  “We can shorten our march by more than eighty miles.” Burcott answered. “If we continue around the western spur our path will take us dangerously close to Tarok nor. I would rather battle the forces at Timosh than engage the Morne on open prairie near their stronghold.

  “Once Timosh is freed we may be able to gather enough men to assault the black gates of Vi’Eruk, but we have not enough men to do so now.”

  “What of Moinar-Thur?” Sahri asked during the brief rest. “How lays the land?”

  “It is rough country, treacherous to the unwary.” Burcott answered. “The ground is rarely level, mostly broken hills crisscrossed with deep ravines. To the north it is wooded with stunted trees and thorn-laden brush. To the south lies a foul marsh. The Ravenslaugh, a seething mass of stagnant water and hidden patches of sucking mud.

  “It is poison, effluent from Tarok-nor. Foul beasts and loathsome spirits are said to roam its depths. We will go around this obstacle, circling around to the east.”

  “It was most fortunate that you had the foresight to ask Lord Burcott along, Jehnom.” The Sahri complimented the Taur Di warrior.

  “It was fortunate for both our people that he agreed.” Jehnom answered.

  Burcott patted the muzzle of his horse. “If we push hard we can enter the Gorcrahlg after midnight. I can think of no better time to do so.”

  “Gorcrahlg?” Jehnom asked not liking the sound of the word.

  “It is the narrow pass that leads into Moinar-Thur.” Burcott pointed across the low mountains. “There are three ways into Moinar-Thur, the Gorcrahlg which we intend to use. The Un’eldur, a narrow fissure that leads into Tarok nor, and the tunnel warded by Timosh.”

  “Can we not use this Un’eldur and invade the heart of Tarok nor, bypassing the siege of Vi’Eruk?” Jehnom asked.

  “Nay,” Burcott answered with a shake of his head. “It is both narrow and treacherous. Barely more than a goat track among the cliffs, a few well armed men could hold an army at bay in those heights.”

  “Then Sur’kar uses it not.” Jehnom said in understanding.

  “He moves the bulk of his forces through the pass that we will trod.” Burcott answered. “If we move quietly and quickly we may go undetected. If we’re lucky Sur’kar will believe his enemies are trapped in the east and will not look for an army moving along his path.”

  Burcott grabbed his reins and swung into his saddle. “Mounted warriors will take the fore and secure the path. Have the Ahmed escort the wagons. Should one become damaged and unable to continue it must be pushed from the pass. We have not the time to tarry while a wheel is replaced.”

  The Sahri ducked his head and turned calling for his captains. He explained Burcott’s instructions as they readied to march.

  “Can we do this?” Jehnom asked Burcott as they rode towards the path. “Can we liberate Timosh?”

  Burcott shrugged it was a question that he had asked himself many times in the last few days. “We will know better once we lay eyes upon the enemy.”

  The track through the low mountains was five miles long. A winding treacherous path that clung to the sides of steep slopes and passed through deep cuts in the stone.

  The mounts covered the ground quickly while the wagons crawled slowly upward. Eight long hours the trek took, only one wagon was lost when it broke a wheel upon the jagged stone.

  It was two hours past midnight when the last of the wagons rumbled down into the rugged foothills within the Gorcrahlg. Burcott ordered a rest and the men collapsed onto the frigid ground, bone weary and sore.

  The land of the pass was dark; a heavy cloud cover blocked most of the moon’s light. In the gloom the land before them was a rough rolling plain dotted with stony outcroppings that resembled fortresses assembled by some mad mason. Scouts were sent out and a picket was set about the army.

  “In this darkness an army could pass within a mile of us and we would never see it.” Burcott grumbled to Jehnom.

  “Nor they us.” The Taur Di countered.

  “Aye, it does that.” Burcott was about to sit down u
pon his bedroll when the sound of horse’s hooves pounded out of the darkness.

  The men of the encampment leapt to their feet drawing their swords as they did so. A single rider entered the camp sliding from his saddle before his horse came to a complete stop. He stumbled on the uneven ground his right leg bleeding from a deep gash in his thigh.

  Burcott pointed to one of the men grasping the blowing steeds reigns. “Walk the horse!” He shouted rushing to the injured mans side.

  A crowd gathered as one of the Sahri’s healers set to work on the ugly wound trying to stem the flow of blood.

  “My Lord!” The man hissed through teeth gritted against the pain. “T’was wolves, the likes of which I’ve never seen.”

  “Wolves do not attack men.” Burcott mumbled. “What of the others?”

  “Dead,” The wounded man replied. “Tam and Guall were killed when the pack attacked. They were as large as a pony with terrible fangs longer than a mans arm.”

  “Fell hounds!” Burcott spat. “Sur’kar’s curs.” Burcott kneeled next to the man. “Rest now, you have fulfilled your duty and have given us ample warning.”

  Burcott paced the camps perimeter, staring in the dark waiting for his scouts to return. It was a full two hours later when the last patrol returned.

  “Mi lord,” One of the men greeted him as they entered camp. “We found tracks in the snow, at least two thousand mounted. Heading northeast, perhaps a day or two old at most.”

  “Can be naught else but Morne.” Burcott said for Jehnom and the Sahri’s benefit.