“The Army of the Eighth Clade, stretched out along the path for an entire league, was caught unprepared by the audacious act and, realising it was impossible to save the rear guard, the Beast commanded his generals to divide the column. Drawing the two thirds closest to him into formation and leaving those to the rear to their fate he waited, like an old toad in his black pool, weaving a fog of dark Koed around himself.”
Bakar Dair looked up from the flames. He had them now, it was plain to see on the flushed faces of the younger men, the tense posture of the warriors amongst them, Sabrosi, or not, and in the rapt expression on those that had a more poetic side to their nature, whether known or not. Even the lord Kerdhu was gazing deep into the fire, his usual scowl lost to the flames and the Way. He looked away; saw one of the younger crew glance at him, an eager hope in his young eyes and cleared his throat.
“Perhaps,” he said, “the Beast hoped the Dinasdúr force had weakened after assaulting the rear-guard, making them easy prey as they came against the fully arrayed army.” Bakar shook his head. “More likely his arrogance could not countenance defeat at the hands of so small of force, less than one quarter the size of his own. However, the nature of warfare is one of attrition and after a full year of defending the walls of Dinasdúr, those few that had survived were tempered on the anvil of battle like few before them. Many heroes had arisen from the ashes of the ruined shell of the city, and they all now stood shoulder to shoulder as they looked up from the slaughter of the rear guard and spied the deep lines drawn against them. With calm deliberation, the last defenders of Dinasdúr drew their own lines across the valley floor, sounded the horns of battle, and advanced on the Army of the Eighth Clade.”
Bakar was now fully lost to the tale and he continued without pause, his audience spellbound. “The Blood Guard chafed at their orders to stand, so eager were they to charge into the fray. They howled like animals and tore at their own flesh, bringing on the bloodlust that marks them above other men in their appetite for death. The White Guard urged them on; whipping them to frenzy with their Feybane blades until their Fómora masters could no longer contain them. Their eyes bulged from their skulls, their limbs twisted and thickened like old trees and they grew half their height again on legs that shook the ground as they stamped and crashed.
They broke past the mercenary front line, charging at the champions of the city, hurtling down the narrow valley like a winter avalanche. They crashed against the serried ranks of armoured Sabrosi, battle-axes and heavy two-handed blades cutting deep into the ranks as they tried to break the line. Nevertheless, the legions of Dinasdúr held their ground. Indeed, having weathered the onslaught from behind their burnished shields, they pushed forwards as one, stepping over their fallen brethren and with the characteristic discipline for which the Sabrosi have long been honoured, they waded through the Blood Guard like…” he paused, searching for the right metaphor, “well…like Muskies wading through the winter drifts.”
Tulio smiled and nodded with satisfaction at the image the witch had conjured. Bakar noted the response to his tale and he aimed his voice at the Ker-Baecodán commander.
“The warrior elite cut down their foe wherever they found them, offering no quarter, and accepting none either!”
The commander shook a clenched fist in brotherly salute, his eyes bright with the memory of past battles, teethed bared in the firelight.
“From within his black cloud, The Beast screamed with rage at the sight of his tall, red-painted Zaindari cut down like so many butchered goats and ordered his mercenary legions into the melee. Seeing foe of their own kind and caste advancing upon them, the legions of Dinasdúr dispatched the last of the Blood Guard, locked their shields together, and set them against the ground, knowing that the mercenaries of The Beast would not throw themselves needless against their formation. From behind the advancing line, the mercenary command gave the order and the air filled with bronze tipped shafts, as the legions on both sides hurled their long spears high into the sky. The missiles of each arched across the divide in silent symmetry and fell upon the shields below with a deafening tympani crash. Huwans on both sides fell beneath the deluge of hard rain, transfixed upon the very ground like insects on cork or pinned to their comrades by the quivering spears that plummeted earthwards. When the sky above cleared, the survivors threw aside their ruined shields, made useless by the twisted shafts protruding from their metal skins, drew forth their swords, and made ready for the fierce melee.”
Bakar was smiling now, caught up in his own Telling, eyes bright and wide before the fire.
“The ranks of Sabrosi advanced on each other, no longer burdened by shield or by spear. Eager to engage they covered the distance between them quickly, and yet, just as it seemed they had reached the point of each other’s swords, a long note sounded out across the valley and the ranks loyal to Dinasdúr suddenly divided, right down the centre line. Through the gap thundered the Wyrdúin; the only force ever to take to the field mounted on horses trained for the din of war by the magic’s of their masters. The last of the nobility of Dinasdúr, all clad in bright armour and wreathed in the Wyrds of their kind, thundered past their own and thrust through the mercenary lines as a spear thrusts through a shield. Aiming their mounts straight at the heart of their enemy, at the pale ring of Avetazh and the darkness at their centre, they charged headlong down Twin Peak Path, Lord Bardolán Báhn at their point, his head thrown back and his eyes wild with terrible joy as he bore down upon his foe.”
The old Naguali’s eyes shone with excitement as he drew a ragged breath and plunged on with his tale.
“In the wake left by the Wyrdúin, the legions closed ranks once more and, taking full advantage of the chaos left by the charge, surged forwards and engaged the shattered line before them. Sabrosi butchered Sabrosi all across the field, neither side showing mercy for the other as they fought in closed quarter, all thoughts of order and discipline dispelled by the rank taste of death and the blind hate of battle!”
“Yes!” cried Tulio, suddenly overcome by the excitement of the tale.
Bakar was nodding as he continued, spurred on by the reaction as he reached the climax of his tale, his voice hoarse by the Telling.
“On seeing the headlong charge toward his position, The Beast ordered its Fómoran brothers and sisters to intercept the charging Wyrdúin. Some assumed the lizard form, others those of the dark Doriànni, leaping up on the backs of their serpentine brothers and sisters and riding them into the fray, ever to mock the noble lords.”
“The two mounted divisions swept towards each other at terrifying speed, clashing with such force and fury that the ancient trees on either side of the valley were uprooted, torn from the very ground itself and cast aside as the heroes of Dinasdúr and the demon Fómora tore at each other with tooth, sword and claw. The very air around them turned black with horror as they ripped the fabric of life apart with their fell weapons, their strange Wyrding ways, and Koed arts. For what seemed an age of man, the unutterable curses were screamed in hatred across the valley floor, echoed by the cries of the dying and death was wrought savage by both sides. Finally, only the mute call of the dead reigned silent upon the tortured path, the shreds of sundered flesh littered across the blood soaked snow.”
Bakar Dair looked up from the fire at the faces of those around him. All eyes were upon him; expectant like young children, all except those of Kerdhu, whose gaze was still cast to the flames of the fire, though his eyes were full of sorrow.
“Of the final encounter, between the Wyrdúin and the White Guard, of Báhn and The Beast, little was told. The Song Weavers sing that they died at each other’s hands, that almost all the Ker-Doriànni clanns of the Vale and all the Fómora perished in that terrible battle, leaving only a mere handful of alive to claim victory.” He threw another brick of dung into the fire and stirred up the glowing embers. Néit blinked and looked up, following their bright trail as they rose into the night sky.
“Although Lord Bardolán Báhn had defeated the army of Eighth Clade, Dinasdúr herself never recovered from the mortal wounds the Fómora had wrought upon her, and though the heart lived, the body soon withered and died. The Beast had, after all the slaughter he had wrought, finally broken the Duskward Spear. Those few Lords and Ladies that did survive chose to withdraw once more into the heart of the city, behind the fractured walls of Dinasdúr, grieve their loss, and rebuild as best they could. Slowly, growing upon the bones of the old, a new home arose from behind those high walls and though it was nothing in comparison, this new home grew and for a time prospered.” He looked into the faces of those around him and smiled sadly. “So ends the Way.”
He sat back from the fire and ran a wrinkled hand down his copper coloured beard, face suddenly slack and discoloured; the fire that was so present during the telling now faded behind mottled skin and aged eyes. He coughed once and fell silent.
“A Way well told and given new life in the Telling,” said Néit with a melancholy smile. “Well done and also, well timed. It has brought back long forgotten memories, so I thank you for that,” he added with a nod.
Bakar returned the acknowledgement with a gracious dip of his head, “It is a pleasure, lord Kerdhu,” he replied.
“Indeed, thank you,” said Zigor, his voice earnest and full of emotion. He reached into his money pouch, fished out a coin and keeping its value hidden in his palm he offered it to the witch, as was the custom amongst Huwans, whenever one of the old stories is told. “You craft a tale as well as any Song Weavers of the Doriànni,” he said.
“No, no…” replied the witch with a smile as he took the coin, “the Way tells itself, I am just the mouthpiece, one of many that have passed on such tales through the ages.”
Biisay followed Zigor’s example and offered a coin, as did Tulio. “I’ve not heard such a tale in all my days,” remarked the Sabrosi as he handed over the coin. “It will make a grand tale to tell my children when I see them next…though I doubt I’ll make such a good job as you.”
Bakar nodded politely. Ximo yawned aloud and pulled his blanket around him.
“A magnificent tale…” he said slowly, his face full of wonder, “I feel as like I have faced The Beast itself.” He glanced around self-consciously, surprised by his own words, “You know, like I fought alongside the Brave themselves.”
“That is the best reward one could ask as payment. I am honoured to hear you enjoyed it so.” He held up his hands as Ximo looked for a coin, “Please” he said with a shake of his head, “I am content.”
Ximo seemed about to argue but the moment passed quickly. He yawned again. “After so much excitement I need sleep, so if I may my lord, I will say goodnight.”
Néit nodded and the young Huwan pulled his pack round as a pillow and lay down, facing inwards, close to the fire.
“He has the right idea,” said Zigor, “So I’ll say goodnight as well,” he said, nodding in turn to the faces around the fire.
He lay down facing the flames, threw several blankets over himself, and closed his eyes. Others followed suit, saying their goodnights, or simply settling down to wait out the long night around the fire. Biisay stood.
“Let’s get that wagon finished,” he said to the small team that had yet to finish the alterations to Zigor’s wagon.
The men shook themselves into wakefulness amidst a couple of unsympathetic and taunting jokes from two of the others. Biisay looked down on them with a terrible grin.
“Should have kept your mouths shut,” he said, his finger beckoning them both up.
“Ah, c’mon Biisay, we didn’t mean much by it!” offered one by way of apology.
“Tough, I was looking for a couple of hands and you two fit the bill nicely, so up!”
“Bloody hells,” moaned the other as he climbed to his feet.
Soon, all except the guards on watch and the team working on through the night were eyes closed. All that was expect Néit. He sat brooding by the fire, his bright eyes staring deep and long into the flames, the fingers of his right hand laid gently over the slowly healing brand on his left arm.
A low chanting rose from the Zaindari, hidden within their Kota beyond the circle of wagons, and as the staccato clok, clok of hammers began again, Néit settled back against his pack, eyes on the flames, felt the warmth of them on his face and set his mind to recalling everything he knew of the Fómora.