The Way only refers to the Foe general as “The Beast”, and it came with more of its own kind.” Néit sat upright, his pipe forgotten. “This army of the Beast marched upon the Dol Vale and Dinasdúr; the progeny of the Fómora in altered forms: great lizards of the ancient night or a dark form that mocked the noble Doriànni themselves.
And, gathered tight around their master, came the Avetazh; the White Guard of the Fómora, bearing Foe forged weapons in their fists, their red eyes mad with blood lust, berserkers and shape shifters all. Before them marched the Blood Guard, the overseers of our old enslavement, their bodies covered in the red war clay, red hair wild, blue eyes ablaze with hate, axes scything all before them. Then came legions of mercenaries; loyal Sabrosi from Dinmore, all clad in glittering bronze, their allegiance bound by the promise of gold, their clever siege engines pulled by huge Mammoths, shackled to their yokes by heavy metal chains. Behind them, thousands of fell beings, aberrant from before the Great Reckoning: Wite, Oga, Gob, and Wer from the deepest holes, the frozen earth shuddering beneath their shod feet and sharp hooves. The Army of the Eighth Clade, its foremost ranks red, white, and black, as though the very walls of Adelanti itself had fallen from the mountains to crush the upstart Dinasdúr, fell upon the city. The people of the Dol Vale cried out in their fear as the Army of the Beast tore at her soft belly like a hungry wolf at its prey.”
Bakar Dair sat back for a moment and took a drink of water to soothe his dry throat. Biisay let out a long held breath and pulled his cloak tight around his shoulders as Ximo shuffled round slightly, drawing closer to the fire and closer to the others. The Naguali witch leant forwards once again and, looking straight at Ximo, continued the Way.
“Dinasdúr, so it is told, sits on a great plateau, a steep sided outcrop of rock, surrounded on three sides by water, where the confluence of the Dol and Jymm rivers are forced around her mighty base. The Makers had fashioned Dinasdúr after great Adelanti herself, building atop that plateau a great walled fortress; the All-Ker,” he explained with a smile.
“From there, Dinasdúr had grown far beyond the confines of the rivers banks, spreading out across the valley until it truly did resemble the mother of all cities, perhaps not in shape, but almost in size. However, unlike Adelanti, this great sprawl had neither the walls nor the great canal-moats Adelanti still boasts, and even though Dinasdúr was the Duskward Spear, slowly, quarter-by-quarter, street-by-street, the Vale began to fall beneath the onslaught. After many weeks of warfare, the Army of the Eighth Clade had hacked and burnt passage all the way to the banks of the Dol Jymm itself and the fortress town that stood above.”
He coughed once more and took another swig from his water skin.
“The Vale was mortally wounded; the dead littered the ruined streets of the city as leaves litter the ground at summers end, and the fearsome magic’s wrought on both sides had turned nature herself mad. The bloodlines of entire Clanns had been extinguished in the conflagrations — ” He glanced at Ximo’s furrowed brow. “Ah, lost in fires,” he explained, quickly. “Their names and knowledge lost forever in a tide of destruction, a mortal melee. Thousands of folk: men, woman, and children alike were slaughtered or enslaved by the forces of the Beast and yet…they did not retreat. Creatures that neither the ancient Doriànni nor the bold Huwan should ever suffer to see, walked at liberty upon the earth, free to indulge whatever desire took them and to slake a thirst that can only be quenched with blood. Doriànni and Huwan alike lost their minds, exposed to such blatant magics and the darker nature of creation in ways few should bear witness to, and fewer still are meant to comprehend. Driven to despair, some folk fell upon their own kind, or turned on their selves, whilst others simply withered and died where they stood…and yet, still her people fought on.”
Bakar looked to the smoke hazed figure of the Ker-Doriànni sat to his left, his dark armour highlighted red in the flames. He gulped down another draft of cold water and continued, his voice now a low, breathless rasp, full of dread.
“The struggle for the bones of the city stretched on through the summer’s end, Old Man Daebh turning gold and red all around them. The last surviving Ker-Doriànni, those that had called the dying Vale home, were finally forced to retreat behind the walls and there, in the fortress, the Lords and Ladies of Dinasdúr sealed the gates and prepared to defend the heart of the city to its very last beat. As the leaves finally turned brown on the bough and fell crisp to the blood-sodden earth, the siege of Dinasdúr began in earnest. The slaughter on both sides continued through the rapidly shortening days until the snows began to fall once more and true winter descended upon the land. After another month of siege, with little to show but piles of dead against the redoubtable walls, the bitter winds on their backs, and the spears of the heroes in their faces, the Army of the Eighth Clade fell back. The Beast summoned the last of its kind, and together they cast their will around the walls of Dinasdúr, forming a shimmering wall, an impenetrable barricade, that none could pass. And so, assured that the last remaining defenders of Dinasdúr could not escape, The Beast re-crossed the Dol, retreating along the Twin Peak Path, seeking refuge from the winter Darkwards, in the mines beneath Mount Hún, leaving only a token reserve as witness to the slow, cold, ignominious death of Dinasdúr and its people.”
A cold gust swept through the camp, buffeting against the Kota sides, slapping their skins hard against the poles, and sending a chill crawling over Ximo’s flesh. He shuddered violently, shuffling even closer to the fire, pulling his blanket ever tighter.
“And yet…” said Bakar, his voice gaining strength, “the Beast had not reckoned on the last two great names of the Vale: Lady Bardolán Caylin and her brother, Lord Bardolán Báhn. It was Lady Bardolán Caylin, a Doriànni Dreamer of incredible power, that tore down the Foe wall that surrounded them, and it was Lord Bardolán Báhn, who, having rallied a small company of nobles, led them over the land bridge, and slaughtered the reserve left there. Then, mustering in full upon the bluff, Lady Caylin brought the last of the defenders to join with her brother, and by forced march through the remainder of the night, they came upon the rear guard of the Beast’s horde, just as dark night gave way to bright day.”
Bakar Dair raised his arms wide above his head and looked up, as though the light of the sun was falling upon his own face.
“As the sun rose in the east Lord Bardolán Báhn led the charge, and they fell upon the rear guard of the Army of the Eighth Clade with a mighty crash!” he exclaimed, clapping his hands suddenly together, making Ximo and Biisay jump.
The old Naguali witch smiled a wicked grin and resumed the Telling, clearly enjoying himself.
“The joy of vengeance rode high upon the last remaining defenders of Dinasdúr and they slew all that stood before them,” claimed Bakar, his voice rising, “offering no quarter, such was the hatred for their foe that filled them. Once again, just as they did during the Great Reckoning,” he cried, standing suddenly, “the noble Doriànni fought to save the Huwan folk from the tyranny of Fómoran enslavement!”
Ancient dread and ancestral anger ignited around the campfire. Huwan men of all Castes leapt to their feet, sparking some to swear old oaths anew, hurling bitter curses at the fire, as others looked to the night sky, arms held high, imploring protection against the old and accursed foe from the Bright Star. Some Sabrosi drew swords, calling on the names of the long dead, swearing eternal vengeance for their deaths, and amidst the beating of chests, the curses and the calls for death, Bakar Dair resumed his seat, old eyes staring hard into the flames, as the Sabrosi named their foe.
Zigor stood, hands raised above his head, “Enough!” he bellowed. “The Teller has not finished the Way,” he admonished, as the cries dimmed, “where is your respect?”
“Please,” said Bakar Dair, “it is to be expected, I think. The Old Ways can be hard to bear for some…they hold such difficult memories, no?”
Zigor nodded and sat back down.
The witch looked across the fire at the assembly, his voice strong and clear as he spoke. “It is welcome, this passion that runs so deep, to see it surface again and perhaps, just when needed most. We too face a foe, not so terrible perhaps as the Beast, but certainly worth the same strength from us, if they do come.”
His words were greeted with a low respectful murmur of agreement, many tapping their weapon lightly against shield or clapping in applause.
“So, shall I continue?”
The tapping grew louder and faster in response and then faded away to silence.
Bakar Dair nodded, took a sip of water, and in a hushed tone continued the Telling.
“The joy of vengeance rode high upon them,” he said with a satisfaction mirrored by the clapping of Asqueri hands and tapping of Sabrosi swords. “Taken by surprise by so sudden and ferocious assault, the rear guard buckled beneath the fury of Báhn and so began, finally, The Battle of Twin Peak Path.”