by Rex Hazelton
Grogan's economy was based on selling lumber cut from the forests covering the Verdant Mountains, fur trading and raising cattle. Unfortunately, his largest customer was the Isle of Regret, who purchased his wares with Ar Warl gold. This financial arrangement was the hook that Ab'Don had set in the king's jaw. If Grogan, who was now financially intertwined with Ar Warl, were to act in a way displeasing to Koyer or Ab'Don, he would run the risk of losing the largest market for his goods. Such a situation could spell financial ruin for him and his people. Painfully aware of this fact, after reading the correspondence that Clyntor carried with him- the one that included his son, Dominon's letter- the king chose his words carefully.
“You say King Barden plans to attack my kingdom and that the Archan have already engaged his advanced forces in the Blood Canyons?” Grogan asked, incredulously. “And you want me to invite Koyer's army into my kingdom so that they can protect my people from this festering threat?”
“Yes, it would be a most excellent idea, Sire.” Clyntor filled his words with a remnant of Koyer's power. “Besides, Barden has sent assassins to kill you, your son and, if possible, every nobleman in your realm. It would be in your best interest to reinforce your warriors with our men to make certain that none of this succeeds.”
“They've been sent to kill Dominon?” King Grogan inquired as the magic in Clyntor's words inflamed his fear for his son's life. “What do the other kings have to say about all of this?”
“Since Cassiakynd is the closest of Nyeg Warl's kingdoms to our beloved isle, that is, after your own glorious realm, we were able to reach King Nestor first using one of our fastest ships.” Clyntor's mouth betrayed a slight smirk as he spoke. “The good king has wholeheartedly embraced our advice. Having done this, he has asked us to deliver his correspondence to you that encourages you to follow his example.” Clyntor bowed low to the ground as he handed the king a scroll that he himself had written and on which he had forged King Nestor's name and seal.
Koyer's Commander of Political Affairs had just delivered what amounted to an ultimatum. Three days from now, his lieutenant, Clamyr, would be delivering an almost identical message to Nestor, King of the Cassians.
Nestor's kingdom lay east of the Verdant Mountains and south of Verdant Deep. Built on the shores of the Breach Sea, the city of Cassiakynd was run by a family of merchants, a family that King Nestor was related to. Using a fleet of ships, built for commercial purposes, his family had amassed great wealth transporting the considerable produce and live stock the Cassians raised on the expansive Breach Plains. These goods were shipped all over Nyeg Warl. Some said they were transported to Ar Warl too.
Neither king, who had gained unprecedented prosperity due to their dealings with the Isle of Regret, was in a position to turn the advancing army away. But King Grogan had to make sure.
“What if I don't accept Koyer's generous offer?” The king used the question to ascertain the gravity of his situation.
In the back of his mind, he began to chasten himself for the greed that lured him into business with Koyer just so he could line his pockets with gold. Painfully aware that Nyeg Warl's other kings knew of this relationship and would most likely believe any report that said he and Nestor had asked the Lord of Regret for help against Barden, the king recognized he was now on his own.
“Sire, the Archan are already on their way!” Clyntor replied as he bowed his head in mock homage. “I suggest you inform your commanders as soon as possible, to avoid any troubles that could arise if they were not told. Also, I would like you to know that the Society of Truth, who is aware of our good intentions, is already preparing the people for our arrival.”
****
Larm's mottled gray mount pranced back and forth in front of two-hundred and fifty riders and five thousand footmen as the Warriors of Regret entered Verdant Deep. Hahrm had taken the other half of the force and headed for Cassiakynd. The crowds, lining the streets, stood in horrified silence when the Archan entered the city carrying hundreds of Shomeronian heads on the ends of their spears. Since both Kings Grogan and Nestor had a financial arrangement with G'Lude, they didn't take the time, or spend the money, to maintain an army they figured wasn't need. As a result, each had only retained a military roughly half the size of the Archan armies that now entered their cities. Half of those were numbered among the kings' personal guard.
The From soldiers stood by, helpless and confused. With the leadership their king would have provided them all but gone, they permitted this dark army to enter their land without an arrow being shot. Yet, if they could have foreseen the horrors that would soon be perpetrated on them, they would have fought back until the last man was dead.
On the third night of the occupation, hundreds of the realm's leaders were mysteriously murdered. Rumors of strange winged-creatures, those seen flying through the night skies, ran rampant throughout the city. Numbered among the slain were teachers, candle makers, lords, ladies, and military officers. Unbeknownst to the Froms, the Archan, in one evil surgical maneuver, had effectively cut the head off their community. Though the king was permitted to live, all the counselors and magistrates he depended on to carry out his wishes were now dead. The next morning, after the horrid third night had passed, when the king entered his throne room, Archan and members of the White Guard stood where the lords of his realm once did. Realizing he was dangling on the ends of strings that Koyer controlled, Grogan slumped onto his throne. Still, his mind worked furiously on a solution to deal with those who, as the previous night proved, were now his captors. But even as he was doing this, the Archan were busy dismantling his army, leaving him empty handed. The only solace he was able to find in all of this, was the thought that his son Dominon was still alive.
Rounding up the From soldier's families and carting them away to G'Lude, the Archan promised to return their loved ones after the soldiers helped the Warriors of Regret's assault King Barden's offending realm.
Many of the From warriors who didn't have families tried to escape into the Verdant Mountains. Those who were caught, were summarily executed and their heads mounted on top of spikes that, along with the lances holding the rotting Shomeronians' remains, lined the streets winding through Verdant Deep.
Along with the soldiers, a flood of families attempted to slip out of town, heading for the mountain trails that would take them to freedom. Anticipating this flight, the Archan slaughtered many of these before they could escape. As expected, the men's heads were added to the gruesome exhibit now lining the streets of Verdant Deep, an exhibit that gave testimony to the reign of terror that had taken root in the city.
The women and children, who had been caught fleeing, were loaded into the dreaded black carts. Lumbering about the city on blood-red wheels, they displayed their weeping freight as a deterrent to those who may later want to try and escape. Once this had been done, the carts headed northward, carrying their cargo to the cursed fate that awaited them within G'Lude's dark environs. With all that had happened, the cities of Verdant Deep and Cassiakynd became painfully aware that the Breach Sea no longer separated them from Ab'Don's terrible reach since they saw him in every Archan face that rudely told them what they could or could not do. After four centuries' absence, slavery had returned to Nyeg Warl, and they were its chattel.
“Sir,” Clyntor no longer displayed his proclivity for manners, as he addressed the pathetic monarch, “you can now rest assured that your kingdom is safe from Barden's cruelty.”
Grogan bent over, dropped his head into his hands, and rocked back and forth in torment over his predicament.
Clyntor, smiling at the pitiful scene playing out before him, snapped his fingers, both to get Grogan's attention and to call one of his fellow White Guards forward.
“Sir,” Clyntor tried to shake the king out of his funk, so he could introduce him to the approaching White Guard, “this is Shakyl. He'll serve as your attendant.”
The two members of the White Guard smiled in amusement over Clyntor h
aving introduced Shakyl as the king's attendant.
Once the White Guard was standing before the king with his head slightly bowed, Clyntor added, “Your royal presence will not be needed any further today. If you would follow Shakyl, he'll take you back to your room where your wife is waiting for you.” Clyntor tried to sound consoling as he concluded, “Do not be discouraged by all the changes that are taking place, you're still a valuable asset. So, be at peace, your throne will remain.”
While Shakyl was leading a tottering Grogan out of the room, Clyntor casually swept up onto the dais and sat on the vacated throne. Then, speaking to no one in particular, he added, “You can rest assured, your throne will remain. But who will sit on it is in doubt.”
Clyntor's milky-white face suddenly changed expressions when an ancient memory tried to come to mind. This throne... there's something about it that I can't explain. Pictures of lords and ladies, coming to present themselves before him, flitted about in his brain. For he, like the rest of the White Guard, had not always been Koyer's servant.
When night finally engulfed Nyeg Warl, and the fourth day of occupation had ended, windows all over the city were draped with thick blankets, so the families inside could safely light candles and call upon the Warl's Magic to come and save them. Angry speech and cursing, addressed at the king for allowing this tragedy to happen without lifting a finger to resist it, were interspersed with supplications spoken before the flickering flames. Looking westward, the Froms continued lighting their candles, all the while hoping Nyeg Warl's kings would rise up and put an end to their burgeoning nightmare.
****
Back in the Blood Canyons, another barbarous Archan army was already marching out of G'Lude, between the red cliffs and out onto the High Plains where they would construct a fortress made with King Grogan's timber. This hastily built fortification would act as the base of operations for Koyer's campaigns against Kings Barden, Nestor, and Grogan, was only a week's westward march from the capital city of Shomeron. Verdant Deep was also a week's march away, in the opposite direction. Cassiakynd was another three days march farther south.
Koyer came to visit the emerging fortress ten days after Verdant Deep and Cassiakynd had been occupied. He, and several other cretchym with him, flew out of G'Lude under the cover of darkness to attend a midnight meeting with his commanders.
“Everything is moving along, just as we've planned.” Koyer's lips lifted, revealing his sharp teeth. “Now, My Good Commanders, we must fill the hearts of our foes with terror that will assail even the bravest of our enemies.”
“And how will this be done, My Lord?” the always inquisitive Crom inquired while the ensemble of cutthroats looked on with intense interest.
“We are going to cause two villages to disappear into the night and the fog. Tymberkynd and Nestlnor will soon cease to exist!”
“My Lord, what do you mean?” Once again, it was Crom who was speaking, his mandibles clicking as he did.
“We will put Tymberkynd and Nestlnor to the torch and leave nothing alive.” Chuckling between clenched teeth, Koyer explained, “The villages are simply going to disappear. Even the ashes of their ruin will be dispersed to the winds.”
“Don't kill them all!” Djit's red wings shuddered like he was trying to shake water from off his back.
“You don't like that, do you?” Koyer gave his fellow cretchym greater freedom to speak than he did the other commanders. “Maybe your right… we should keep a few of them alive to take back to G'Lude. But once they reach the Bridge of Despair, we'll throw the adults to the crocodon. Only the children will be spared for better things.”
Clearing his throat, the Lord of Regret, returned to his original train of thought. “When all of this is accomplished, remnants of the destruction will be sent to Nyeg Warl's kings as proof of Bardens's evil designs against Grogan's realm. Shomeronian weapons will be included with the evidence to promote this conclusion. By doing this, we'll sufficiently confuse the sovereigns to keep them from intervening in our dealings with Barden.”
Turning to the fortress commander, Koyer gave him orders, “Scarbor, it will be your job to dispatch two of your officers to accomplish my wishes in this matter. Send bodyguards with the, but not too many. Do it as quickly as you can! Go now and tell them to annihilate Tymberkynd and Nestlnor!”
Turning to address Clyntor who had recently arrived from Verdant Deep, the Lord of Regret gave him new orders. “It will be your job to put together the evidence needed to place the blame on Barden. Then have courriers carry this proof to Nyeg Warl's rulers.”
“As you wish, Master.”
Later that night, Koyer, and the other cretchym flew back to the Isle of Regret. He wouldn't return until full battle was being pitched against King Barden and Shomeron, and when he returned, he'd be accompanied by an irresistible force of Archan and Malamor warriors.
With the advent of the Malamor, all pretense would be removed. The Ar Warlers' presence would prove Ab'Don's signature was written across all the evil that had befallen Nyeg Warl. But even then, the cretchym would be held back. As Ab'Don's trump card, their arrival, when it came, would ensure Ar Warl's victory. Though Barden was now in Koyer's sights, the Lord of Regret did all things with Wombar the Bull King in mind. He was the strongman who prevented Nyeg Warl from being easily plundered. His resolute rejection of the Society of Truth, and his commitment to preparing for a war he was sure would pour out from the Mountains of Sorrow, made his kingdom the single most threatening roadblock facing Ab'Don's aspirations for Nyeg Warl.
****
Tymberkynd, which was the hub of King Grogan's timber industry, lay high above Verdant Deep, nestled in the Verdant Mountains' pine forest. The stories that the From, who had fled the capital city for the safety of the remote mountain heights, told Tymberkynd's citizens had put them on their guard. But this did not prepare them for what was about to happen.
As night fell and the village slept, winged-cretchym, streaking down from above, snatched up those who stood guard. Whisked off into the inky black sky, the guards' cries were muffled by the increasing distance separating them from their homes. Little did they know they were being carried to the Straits of Regret and to the hungry crocodon that were waiting for their midnight snack.
Before long, the doors leading into Tymberkynd's homes were breaking under an Archan assault. The startled villagers, stout lumberjacks who knew how to fight, were not easily overrun. More than a few Archan met their deaths that night. But in the end, the advantage of surprise and superior numbers prevailed.
Just as it happened in Verdant Deep, black wagons rolled into town and entire families were loaded up like cattle to be carted off in a caravan of despair.
When the first rays of daylight filtered through the sylvan woods, they fell upon flames that were having the village of Tymberkynd for breakfast. Later people would say the moaning the doomed villagers' uttered as they were wheeled away into oblivion could still be heard whenever the winds blew through the tree tops, awakening the spirits that had entered a troubled sleep once they found their way back home from either the cold waters of the Straits of Regret or G'Lude's dark holes.
****
“Fire-blasted lies!” Prince Phelp shouted into Clyntor and Grog's milky-white faces.
“Father! What kind of bull-splatter is this?” The prince threw his hands up into the air. His exaggerated movements fit perfectly with the look of incredulity showing on his face. “Burn it to ashes, there's no way Barden would attack Grogan, not unless he were attacked first, let alone slaughter entire villages of people without cause.”
Throwing the Shomeronian weapon he held in his hands, along with a charred sign from Tymberkynd's livery stable, down upon the throne room's marble-covered floor, he added, “Father, can't you see they're lying out of their pukey white mouths? It's just a ruse to keep you from helping Shomeron. They want to cloud your judgment until it's too late for Barden and his people.”
Shoving Grog violentl
y in the chest, Prince Phelp shouted louder than before, “Wake up, Father! Can't you see this is the beginning of the war? Send messages to the other kings and come to Barden's aid. Wombar will gladly join you, if you only ask him to.”
Moving onto the royal dais, with the boldness only a prince would dare display, Phelp implored, “Don't fail Nyeg Warl in the moment of her greatest peril!”
“I will not fail Nyeg Warl, My Headstrong Son,” the Eagle King replied in tones that revealed his own stubbornness.
Cane signaled for one of his aides to help pick Grog up off the floor before he continued. “Still, discretion is, oftentimes, the better part of valor. And these men come with proofs for their allegations.”
“Proofs?” Prince Phelp laughed in disgust. “What if I brought you a giant's shoe and a feather, would that prove a giant flew like a bird?
“Father, if you won't listen to me, then send out emissaries to talk with Barden and hear his side of the story. If you'll do this, you'll learn that giants still can't fly.”
Disturbed by the prince's counsel, Clyntor interrupted him by saying, “Your Majesty! It wouldn't be wise for you to send emissaries to Shomeron when there are reports saying King Barden is imprisoning all outsiders. Clearly, he will not tolerate any opposition to his ambitions to rule over Nyeg Warl's eastern regions.” The ambassador lifted his voice, not only to enhance his oration but also to stir up the magic that seasoned his words. “I tell you, his imperialistic lusts have driven him to a madness that has lead to the utter destruction of both Tymberkynd and Nestlnor!”
“I'll go!” Prince Phelp offered. “I know King Barden. Though he is hot tempered and impetuous… he isn't a murderer. Father, let me go! Unless you think there are others we should be afraid of, those not living in Shomeron.”
As before, Koyer's ambassador broke in. “I adjure you, your Majesty, do not send your own son, or you'll live to regret it!”
