The faces staring back at him across the map were worn, hungry, and far thinner than a grown man’s face should be. It was a blessing he had not seen his own face in a time. He was certain his reflection would be terribly disappointing. He could not worry about that. Thankfully, his tent boasted no mirrors. Besides, there was work to be done, and the men who owned those far too thin faces needed him to lead them. He could scarcely believe anyone would follow him after the utter failure he authored at Fort Maomnosett, but there they were awaiting his direction.
All three of the men had once been riders of Druindahl back before the awakening when Maelich and Cialia scattered Kallum to the wind over the Forgotten Forest. They had followed him to Havenstahl when he came and vowed to protect their new city as their own. None of them could have imagined how their loyalty would be tested or just how great a sacrifice they would have to make. The nightmares they faced during the battle at Biggon’s Bay to the attack on the city they swore to protect were like nothing any of them had ever seen. That is the thing about vows though, they must be kept.
“Jalicon,” Daritus addressed the man to his right, “you ride for Ycantle, correct? Where do his numbers lie?”
“A handful better than one-hundred men answer Ycantle’s call, my lord,” Jalicon replied as he brushed his hair back from his face. Even carrying a good bit of dirt, it was dark, wavy, and luxurious, the same as his beard. The man did not look like he belonged anywhere near a battlefield. He was far too pretty. However, there were few men with which Daritus would rather ride into battle. He was damned handy with a blade.
Daritus nodded and then asked, “How many horses?”
“Only twenty-two,” Jalicon frowned. Then he added, “We may be a small group, general, but we will march to battle in bare feet should the need arise.”
“I am certain you would, old friend. I recall your force marched into the battle at Fort Maomnosett and fought with honor and fury,” Daritus smiled. “Still, let us hope that need does not arise. Pass this message along to Ycantle for me. Send five men with horses ahead to Biggon’s Bay. Have them take the main trail, not the northern pass. They are not to engage our enemy. I want a report of the giant’s camp. The rest of your force will make camp at the edge of the wood. Take enough supplies for a full week. Send word if they appear ready to make war. I will send further instructions if I have not received a message from you within one week’s time.”
“Your will, my lord,” Jalicon bowed and left the tent.
Daritus turned to the man directly across from him, “Marivel, where do Ygraml’s numbers lie?”
“Fifty, my lord,” Marivel replied. His voice carrying a gruffness that almost hurt the ears. He was not near so pretty as Jalicon—his dark hair scraggly and streaked with the same gray that adorned his weak excuse for a beard—but he was a titan on the battlefield.
“Fifty?” Daritus failed at hiding his shock.
“Fifty,” Marivel replied, “me and forty-nine of the fiercest mounted men I have ever had the honor of riding alongside.”
Daritus flashed a shallow smile. “I do not doubt that fierceness,” he paused allowing his smile to wane, “Our forces have been scattered. We need a proper accounting of our strength. Split your numbers. Find our men. Search the valley and forests around the city.”
“My general will be disappointed with that charge, my lord. Those fierce men would be best used for battle, not wandering aimlessly about searching for men who may or may not actually be lost,” the young soldier frowned.
Many men charged with leading a force as massive and mighty as that which defended the greatest city of men might bristle at a challenge posed by a messenger, but Daritus was not most men. He welcomed, even encouraged, all in his ranks to voice their opinions. He was also not so far removed from the fury of battle to have forgotten that intense desire, that duty or how troubling his command was to Marivel. No warrior, especially one as fierce as the brute standing before him, wished to be reduced to a messenger, effectively a raven speaking his message rather than delivering it on a small bit of parchment tied to his leg, but that was Daritus’ command. Instead of scolding the messenger, the accomplished general invited him to elaborate. “How many men currently ride or march under the banner of Havenstahl?” he asked plainly.
“Well,” Marivel shrugged, “add my report to Jalicon’s, and I know of a bit more than one-hundred-fifty men. However, I expect you know of thousands more.”
“Do you recall the Battle at Biggon’s Bay?”
“I was not among the men fighting that day, but I have heard stories,” Marivel nodded.
Daritus nodded and asked, “Did any of those stories include an accounting of the number of men that battle claimed?”
“More than half…”
“Estimates place the number at about twenty thousand,” the old general’s tone grew grim. “I do not doubt the honor nor the ferocity of you or the men with whom you ride, but I must ask if you believe it would be wise for Ygraml to lead you and those men—as fierce as they are—in an assault on the ships anchored in the bay?”
“I do not,” Marivel acknowledged as his gaze dropped to the floor with his right knee. “Thank you for the wise counsel as well as the command, my lord.”
“Rise,” Daritus scolded. “My men should stand tall beside me not kneel before me. Should our king or queen ever return, bow before them.”
Marivel’s cheeks reddened as he rose back to his feet, “Forgive me, my lord.”
“Now go, find our men and bring them home,” Daritus allowed his tone to mellow. Marivel had made it to the doorway before Daritus added, “New recruits are welcome. If any men remain in the villages with minds to find revenge, we will arm them and train them. The smiths are working day and night. We need men to wield those swords.”
“Yes, we do,” Marivel nodded as he left the tent.
Daritus’ eyes followed Marivel as he left the tent. Once the man had gone, he turned his attention to the last warrior occupying the tent with him. Everything about Tarturan was big. He was near a giant, his massive head towering at least a foot over most men. That giant head sat atop a mountain of muscles clad in gaudy armor that made him appear even larger. He looked every bit the brute, and it was no façade. He could back it up. Daritus had watched him lift a wagon full of supplies out of the mud when they were young. It would have taken five strong men to do the same, but Tarturan did it with ease. If there were a force of men anchored in Biggon’s Bay, Daritus would simply send the man to scare them away.
“Best not ask about the number remaining in my rank, my lord. We were camped in the fort. Most of them died when the first boulder struck. Only five of us remain,” the musical tone of Tarturan’s voice bore a stark contrast to his imposing stature.
“I know,” Daritus nodded. “We all felt the loss. I am certain none as great as you.”
The big man’s head dipped. He stood like that for a moment in silence. His eyes were glistening by the time he raised them back up to Daritus. “That was the first time in my life I was afraid, the sounds of wood crashing and men screaming…” he trailed off.
Daritus remained silent, allowing the man a moment to reflect.
Tarturan pulled himself together and allowed a broad smile to slip onto his face. Raising his massive cheeks appeared a great effort. “That fear is gone. Now I am angry. Allow me to take my men to the shores of Biggon’s Bay. We will wade out into the water and pull those ships down with our bare hands.”
Daritus returned the smile, “Your vigor strengthens me, old friend, and I doubt not your desire. However, you are needed elsewhere. You are a great asset on any battlefield, but you are far more than a giant, scary sack of meat. You have a gift with words and a calming voice to propel them from your mouth. I need you to travel to Alhouim and gauge the status of the dwarf army. Fifty dwarves remain to aid in the rebuilding effort, but I need to know if we can still count on their axes when the inevitable next wave comes.”
Tarturan’s smile dipped, “I am as happy about that command as Marivel was about the one you gave him. My sword thirsts for blood. However, I cannot debate the wisdom of your request. As much as I would like nothing more than to shout at those ships and cut monsters down with the waves of the bay crashing against my legs, the effort would have little impact on the greater campaign. I will visit our friends in Alhouim and ensure they are with us when the fighting returns.”
“Thank you, old friend. Safe travels,” Daritus replied as Tarturan bowed and left the tent, ducking to make it through the exit.
Then Daritus was alone, a place he preferred not to be. Fear and doubt were poor companions. Sadly, they were the only ones left with him in the tent. Immediately after the battle at Fort Maomnosett—the crushing failure it was—he nearly lost hope. How could anyone follow him when he proved unable to protect the city with the greatest army on Ouloos? His plan had failed miserably. Was he even fit to lead? As the reality of the situation slowly set in, his perspective shifted. He was fit to lead. It was a good plan, a solid plan, and it still failed. There were gods on the battlefield that day. No plan would have succeeded. Was he merely shepherding a flock destined to be destroyed by a vengeful monster? How do you fight a god?
Absorbed in questions for which he had no answers—or he did have answers and just did not like them much—Daritus failed to notice the answer to one of them enter the tent. How do you fight a god? With the greatest power on Ouloos.
“Father?” Cialia’s voice was the sweetest sound Daritus had heard in months.
Daritus’ first genuine smile in more days than he could remember quickly spread across his face. “My precious daughter, my Dragon, your voice is like a feast laid before a starving man,” he said as he raised his head up from the map at which he had been looking but not really seeing.
His happiness quickly faded when he saw his daughter. Her blonde hair was wild and free as always, and her soft, blue eyes peered peacefully at him from the smooth, angelic curves of her face. She was beautiful as ever, but something was wrong. She wore a simple, white robe in place of the rugged gear she donned when taking to the trail, and her swords were damnably absent. Of course, she did not need swords, but her twin blades had always been a part of her, each an extension of one of her arms. Cialia was a warrior. The woman standing before Daritus looked like something else.
“I missed you on the battlefield,” he finally continued. “Word of the Dragon decimating monsters from across the Great Sea spread quickly. There is no telling how many more may have fallen had you not intervened. Why did you leave so quickly? I would have liked to speak with you then.”
“That battle took its toll on me,” Cialia replied with a joyless smile. “I felt such rage when I saw those monsters destroying so many innocent lives, but…”
“But what?” Daritus’ voice was a bit louder than he intended.
Cialia shrugged, “I have had time to reflect. I fear my rage was misplaced.”
Daritus squinted at his daughter. “Misplaced?” he asked. “Monsters, heartless, soulless beasts set upon the city you vowed to defend and killed innocents without mercy. Your rage was not misplaced, my dear. Your rage, your fury, was precisely where it needed to be. I only wish it had remained with us that day.”
Her smile faded, “I understand your perspective, father. I do. I felt that way too, not long ago. But you are wrong. Your enemies are not heartless or soulless. Perhaps they do appear beasts to you, but that is only because they look different than you. They have fears and wants and desires just like you. How many giants and trogmortem and grongs did the valiant warriors of Havenstahl grind into the dirt? The blood of many dead men may soak your battlefields, but it mingles with the blood of other equally dead creatures.”
The words stung. Failing to suppress a scowl, he replied, “Havenstahl did not seek this war. Those monsters brought it to our shores. The men of this city need a champion, someone strong enough to defend them against the nightmares they face.” He shook his head in disgust before adding, “You were their champion, you and your missing brother. They have faith in you. Would you leave them alone and vulnerable to be slaughtered?”
“I am their champion,” she raised her head high, “I am the champion of all the inhabitants of Ouloos. The journey has been long and meandering, but I have determined it is not my lot to judge or destroy any life. It is my role to defend it, all of it. You look to your gods and they to theirs. That swell in your breast as you march off to cut living things down in the name of a city you would have burned to the ground yourself less than ten summers ago, what do you suppose that is?”
“Duty,” Daritus spat.
“Duty,” Cialia shook her head. “Duty does not drive you to kill. It is your gods filling you up with false hatred for things you do not understand. They use you to play their games against each other. You faced them once. You told me about it when I was young, your fear and awe. You failed to mention anything of love when you spoke of them. Did you feel any from them?”
Daritus scratched his head and dropped his gaze back to his map, “What is your point, Cialia?”
“You have spent your life in service of creatures who care nothing for you. You destroy at their command. They use you. My father is a far wiser man than the simple soldier standing before me. What have your gods ever done to earn your service, love, or worship?” she asked.
He raised his head back up and replied, “They guide us and protect us.”
Cialia raised her arms to her sides and glanced about the tent, “This is how they protect you, with war and death? They do not protect you. They inspire you to maim and kill. They reduce you to something no better than that which you hope to destroy. I will not join you on the battlefield. I will not take the life of any living thing, but I will defend Ouloos and all her children. I will eradicate the authors of all this violence and destruction. I will kill them all.”
Cialia’s words sunk into Daritus’ mind and cut into his soul. The sweet face staring back at him was a contradiction of the beast hiding behind it. Words danced around his mind, answers to his daughter’s nonsense. None of them made it to his lips. There was nothing left to say. The beast before him was not the girl he raised to defend Dragons and men from the terrible things that would destroy them.
“I hoped I could persuade you to seek peace with those you hope to destroy,” Cialia finally broke the silence, “but you are far too deep in the fantasy they have created for you. I am going the kill the gods, all of them. Please think about what I have said. Search your heart. You battle and fight, kill and destroy, yet nothing ever changes. Do you think life should be an endless exercise in sadness and pain? Where is your joy, father?”
Daritus remained silent, nothing to offer his daughter but a blank, shocked gaze.
There was sadness in her smile when she continued, “I should go. There is much to do. I love you, father. I hope you can find better answers within yourself.”
Cialia had made it to the edge of the tent before Daritus finally found words. “Wait,” he began, continuing after she turned to face him, “Kallum and Brerto are evil. They have earned your wrath. However, Kaldumahn and Moshat protect us. If you refuse to defend the men of this world, you cannot take them from us.”
“They are all evil, father, one no different from another,” she frowned as she stepped out of the tent.
Then she was gone, and Daritus was left alone with his thoughts once again. Though he scarcely recognized the woman who had just left his tent, he knew his daughter well enough to know she would not cease until her task was complete. If a god could be killed, she would kill them all.
Chapter 3
The Blue People
Heat rose from the dry ground as the sun mercilessly scorched the cracked land. The air felt thick and heavy, like it had mass and could be carried about. Maelich sat with Maulom and Ding just within the mouth of the cave the Shaiwah occupied. It was a comfortable spot, the cool air from dee
p within the cave mingling with the heat from outside. Maelich brushed his damp hair back from his face. He and Ymitoth had spent the morning training those Shaiwah who would become warriors, the protectors of their people. Ymitoth had traveled deeper into the cave to find some food while Maelich remained to nourish his mind with the help of Maulom. The man knew everything about the history of the Shaiwah and seemed wise on a great many other topics.
Both Maelich and Ding were quite dirty from a morning full of rigorous training. Maulom’s appearance was a stark contradiction. His close-cropped white hair and beard seemed to glow, as did his impossibly clean white shirt and trousers. Maelich had only been with the Shaiwah a short time, but he could not recall the man ever looking any less than impeccable. How did one remain so clean in a land covered in dirt upon dirt?
As Maelich pondered the man’s impossible cleanliness, Maulom spoke, “The Tahnka are a violent, destructive people. They take what they want and kill any who oppose them. They were not always such. It has taken centuries for them to become the monsters they are. Hundreds of summers past, the Shaiwah and the Tahnka were one people, the Ohna. They were peaceful, living off the land in a bountiful paradise far south of the cracked land. In those days, the Ohna had two great leaders, a brother and sister. Shaiwahka loved peace. He marveled at nature, the things growing up out of the soil and the creatures crawling across it. He loved all life. His sister, Tiakwah, loved life too. However, she wanted to control it, to learn its secrets and bend them to her will. She valued knowledge above all else, pouring herself into studies of how things came to be.
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