Chapter I:
The Return of the Merkata Clan
The Myths
About twenty years after the turn of the century there appeared on the eastern continent a monster of incredible power and might. For many years his origin remained a mystery even to the wise. Some men claimed he was an outcast of the Water-born kingdoms, condemned to dwell on dry land until his sins were atoned. Those with less imagination said that he was a cross between the daughter of a Harz Noble and a goblin king. And those with more imagination than is appropriate had him come falling from the sky, dropped by some sort of demon or drake. The only thing on which these varying accounts seemed to agree was the sheer ugliness and horribleness of the beast.
He was taller than most men, and his shoulders were nearly double the breadth of a normal man's chest. His head was not fixed in the center, however; according to most accounts it was moved over toward the right side of his body. What hair he had upon his head was as black and unreflective as a lump of coal. On his left shoulder there was a great hump that rose up next to his head, which was always concealed beneath a heavy black cloak. His arms were powerful and strong, more like the trunks of two mighty oak trees than pads of flesh clinging to mortal bones. His right arm looked to be the arm of a normal, although mighty, human being, but his left arm was blackened and gnarled like a rotted vine (though it was by no accounts any weaker in strength). According to most accounts he had at least three arms altogether, though some counted as high as five (the more extravagant tales place the number much higher). But I see no reason to postulate the existence of any more than four arms altogether.
The nature of our subject requires some care, for unexpected events have a way of driving the imaginations of careless men and women beyond anything that they had experienced in reality. To some this beast could fly about like a bat, to others he could vanish into the thin air like a wisp or a ghost. But seeing how his sorry tale played such an important role in the whole of my narrative, I thought it would be necessary to explain his story in greater depth. And knowing that so many wild tales and mythological fantasies have been built up around him, I could hardly do justice to the history of the great war without at least making an attempt at dispelling some of the chimerical ideas that have enshrouded this figure.
Many have heard of his towering shield, Admunth, with which he caught every javelin and repelled every arrow that ever approached him. Still more have heard of his fatal blade, Skatos Ereg, with its jagged edge and poisoned tip. But few have heard his tale in full and without the useless fables with which old women so often adorn their stories. Seeing as his memory has not wholly faded from the world, it seems hopeful that some semblance of a history could be restored to his name, where, thus far, only myth has prevailed.
The creature was called Natham, which in the eastern world signifies 'a Curse'.
Whately
Very little is known about his childhood, aside from the fact that for the first eighteen years of his life he was under the care of a man named Whately. For all this time it was completely unknown that this man had any children at all under his care, which has led some to claim that the creature merely appeared at that time, or was summoned in that hour. But those who were acquainted with Whately, while at the time ignorant of his secret, did not express much surprise when it was finally discovered that he in fact had been caring for Natham all the while.
There were certain peculiarities about the man that had long before aroused the curiosity of his neighbors. Whately came to live among the mysterious Merkata who make their homes along the rocky eastern coast of Vestron and among the desert sands in the south. How he came to live there was well known to all, but why he had come remained until the very end a complete and utter mystery. By all accounts, Whately had washed ashore amidst the wreckage of a small merchant ship. In those treacherous waters even the most skillful mariners are not safe from the wiles of the ocean and the betrayal of the jagged shores. All that could be pried from him, from the moment he was first discovered until he at last parted ways with the Merkata, was that he had come from a very far away land.
He was tall, almost a head taller than most of the Merkata, and his hair was golden, though speckled with gray here and there. Because of his hair and height, and because he had obviously come to the coast of Vestron by a ship, it was believed that he was a Knarseman from Titalo in Western Weldera. But he would speak nothing of his ancestry himself.
It was not noticed then, but Whately carried away from the shores a small bundle of cloth in a large grass basket. One must assume that therein lay the infant monster. He made out as though it were his belongings, and revealed its true contents to no one. There are some who doubt that Natham was indeed within the basket at the time, saying that the infant made not a sound, neither a whimper or a whine, but those same people forget the creature's legendary constitution. It was later said that he could receive what to lesser men would be a fatal blow without wincing or flinching. Why should he not then suffer a bit of infantile discomfort stalwartly?
Outcasts such as Whately were readily welcomed in that region. For the Merkata were heavily oppressed by the Harz Nobles who dwelt upon the Mountain of Fire. Whatever help or support they could find in strangers they accepted, especially if those strangers were somewhat acquainted with the arts of war.
Whately was not the monster's father. This much at least is certain, for aside from Natham's horrid appearance the differences between their tone of skin, the shade of their hair, and the angles of their faces left no room for doubt and speculation. Yet he bore an affection for the creature that was more than fatherly.
Whately soon rose in respect among the Merkata. He was not very strong, but he was skilled with both blade and bow and many other arts of war. He became an instructor and helped train the Merkata youths in all of these proficiencies, until their once ragged and careless force became an organized and skilled army. Soon even the Harz Nobles became aware of his abilities, since it was against their soldiers that his tactics were put into practice.
But more than his skills, his stories made him beloved among these outcasts. He spoke of the stars and their consorts, their wars and their conflicts, the damnation of erring orbs of light in the upper realms, and many other celestial happenings. His knowledge and love of the twinkling night above all other things made it clear that he was one of the Knarse. For there is no race of men in Tel Arie that are as enamored of the heavens as the golden-haired men of Titalo.
The Rulers of Vestron
All of Vestron, save for it's northernmost coast and the expansive southern desert, is ruled over by the Harz Nobles. They are of Nanthor lineage, as is evidenced by their great stature, their broad shoulders, and their lust for conquest and the blood of their fellow creatures. They are almost goblin-like in their cruelty, but human-like in their cunning. They are often accused of being goblins on account of the former, yet it must be admitted that they are fully and undeniably human on account of the latter.
When they made their conquest of Vestron, they leveled the chief city of the Ohhar kings and burned it to ashes so that no sign of their citadel remained, save for a ten league stretch of wasted ashes and shattered stones.
On the foothills of the fiery mountain of Fhuhar they built their own citadel, Thasbond. Almighty Fhuhar was bordered by two smaller peaks on the east and the north, called Esfu and Nolfu respectively, but otherwise stood alone in the center of the continent. From there it spewed forth smoke and death, into the air of that land. The effect of this was that if any descendants of mankind were to live in that dry and perilous land, they must be of the heartiest stock, not prone to sickness or any deficiency of might.
As was indicated, Vestron was once ruled by the Ohhar kings, men of wisdom and great vitality. But in ancient times they were driven from their cities by Nanthor invaders, the most powerful of which were called Harz Nobles. But their people were not altogether destroyed. A great number of them submitted to the new rule
rs and became known as Vestri, that is, men of Vestron. But many others rebelled and were either exterminated or exiled. To the west, the Ohhari fled, hiding away in the deeply forested valleys of the Veste Mountains. There they lay hidden for many ages, only appearing in legends and myths now and again. It was ever in their minds to return to Vestron and drive their conquerors from the land, but it was never in their hands to carry out this desire.
The other group of rebels were the Merkata. These strange people had existed for as long as any record of man can recall. It was believed that they were ruled over by a mighty witch named Malia, who by fell craft had attained an immortal body. But in truth she was simply one of the immortal elves that in those ancient days made their habitations among mankind. As much as it detracts from the glory and splendor of the elven histories, it must be admitted that there were in those days many elven kings that ruled over the more simple humans as gods and goddesses. If by witchcraft they mean, elf-craft, then I will wholeheartedly agree. But if they mean that a mere mortal somehow transgressed the universal law of death that is passed upon all sons of mankind, then there we must part ways. Human beings cannot possess such powers. The task of the historian is to record the past so as to explain the present. But the task of the elven historian has always been to create a past that would justify the present. But in so doing they must pretend that no elf ever crossed the sea or meddled with human affairs until the sons of men brought war and tribulation to them. But if my readers will forgive my departure from the traditional histories on this point, and examine the evidence with an unprejudiced mind, they will soon see that the history of mankind is filled with the meddling of wicked elves. Men called them gods, and served them as such. But elves are not truly immortal, for an immortal cannot die, neither by the hand of age or of war. The elves are, therefore only half immortal, inasmuch as they are not prone to the weaknesses that long life brings upon human beings. But insofar as they are pervious to the sword they cannot be called immortal. And if not immortal, then not gods. If not gods, then the ancient elves of the east must be condemned as usurpers and manipulators, who rose over the frail minds of mankind to make themselves into tyrants and cruel lords and ladies.
As one tribe of men warred against the other, the elves fell alongside the battle-slain. The gods diminished; until all that remained of them were the failing descendants of their servants. Their own children lived long lives, but as a candle is nothing to the sun, so is the long life of a half-elf to the unending souls of their fathers. But in a few corners of the world, the old gods survived. It is said that in the Jungle of Snakhil there is a fierce immortal god surviving to this day. Also there is said to be such a being living in some hidden city in Kharku. But in the northern world, the only such survivor was the so-called witch, Malia.
The Land of Vestron
Before I explain anything more about the inhabitants of this land, perhaps it would be best if I gave a brief description of the territory for which all of these peoples so long struggled against one another.
Vestron is a turbulent land. In the north, bordering the Frozen Sea, are the impassible Novest Mountains, jagged and icy. They do not permit any living creature to pass over them. Just beyond the Novest mountains lies a frigid and treacherous coast where only goblins and a few daring bands of pirates dwell. The eastern shores, while less deadly than their northern counterparts, are nonetheless dreaded by mariners. A navigator that is unfamiliar with the secret paths to the shore will almost certainly run their ship into a submerged boulder or a hidden pillar of stone. Were it not for the kindness of dolphins it is doubtful that any mariner would ever have survived long enough to commit these unseen paths to memory.
All this difficulty made the entire land of Vestron almost inaccessible from the outside. To the west are the Veste Mountains and the dark forest of Olger, which are too thick for any significant traffic to pass through. Beyond this is the land of Olgrost of which I will give greater detail in its proper place. To the south was a land of endless mountains, stretching as far as the eye could see. There were many villages and tribes of people living in the southern mountains, but they do not figure into any tale or history. South of these mountains lies the land of Dominas, where mankind is believed to have originated.
The whole land of Vestron is just under three hundred leagues from north to south and a little more than two hundred leagues from the western mountains to the shore. Just north of the center of the region is the great mountain Fhuhar, which is called the Mountain of Fire by those who lived within sight of it. Every day since the dawn of time this mountain has spewed forth smoke from its great cavities and leaked molten rock out onto the lands below. As if spitting in the face of calamity and chance, the Harz Nobles chose this place for their mighty citadel. Thasbond they called it, and from there they ruled over all the land of Vestron. Those who lived near the volcano thought of the whole mountain as a god; and those who were unfortunate enough to fall out of the favor of the Harz Nobles prayed to this god for a burst of flame and ash sufficient to end their tyranny. But despite their prayers, and the seeming foolhardy bravado of the Harz builders, the citadel remained, even after many violent and powerful eruptions. It seemed that for the time being the gods favored Harz. And as long as their citadel was guarded by the flaming mountain and as long as the terrible mountain god saw fit to sustain them, they were invincible.
To the north, the whole land was fed and nourished by the volcano, so that the grass grew thick and strong. Many herdsmen lived there and the sheep and bulls that were raised in those plains were claimed to surpass all the other herds in Tel Arie. Along the northern shores there were a few large fishing ports. The uncommonly warm waters of that volcanic land were teeming with all kinds of fish, a circumstance that attracted many sharks, whales, dolphins and, some say, aguians and sea serpents.
To the south the land quickly grew more wild and inhospitable to both hoof and boot. The Wilds was the name given to the brush filled uncultivated territory to the south of the mountain. Here there lived many outlaws and nomads, vying for their survival in the desolate places.
Beyond this is the Rugna Desert. This was the territory of the Merkata Clan. Before the coming of the Harz Nobles, the Merkata claim to have lived upon the great Mountain of Fire. There, according to their lore, they maintained a great temple where the witch Malia was worshipped by the Merkata and all the other tribes who dwelt within her reach. They say that she ruled over all the lands within twenty leagues of the Mountain of fire as well as everything that lay between Fhuhar and the southern mountains. But when the Harz Nobles overthrew her dominion she was driven into exile with her kin in Rugna. There they were doomed to hide from the hot sun beneath the dark shadows of boulders and to huddle close together during the night to escape the freezing wind. For water they relied on the Ollnar well, which was located in the southern part of the desert between two great monoliths. Water was drawn from there and carried by horseback in great bladders of whale skin to the various settlements of the Merkata.
The Table of Malia
It was always in the heart of Malia to regain her ancient homeland and build her palace anew in the place where it had anciently stood. But thus far all her efforts had come to naught, and the Merkata had been beaten down to a small race of brigands and wild men.
This circumstance began to turn around when Whately appeared. For the first time in an age it seemed that the Merkata clan had some hope of victory. Malia, fearful of being wiped out altogether, had kept the number of her warriors hidden for nearly two hundred years, until her old enemies perished and the new rulers of Harz forgot that the Merkata ever fought against them. Indeed, many of the young nobles among the Harz began to openly doubt whether there ever was such a group of outcasts.
But despite their ignorance the Harz Nobles were not lazy or careless. Their soldiers were both well armed and well trained. In addition they had among them many heroes, the most powerful of these being their great ruler Noble Vullca
rin and his two brothers Rikin and Samor. These men had proved to be so valiant in their struggles against the Exiles of Ohhar as well as against the many goblins on the northern coast that Malia was reluctant to see the blood of her people likewise spilt. It had been in her mind to wait these brave nobles out, and when their sons came to the throne to come against them with a mighty army and with renewed vigor. But when she beheld the deeds of Whately and how well he instructed the youths of the Merkata in the arts of war, she began to reconsider her strategy. Might her day of vengeance come sooner than she had imagined?
The warriors of the Merkata Clan were not idle either. They concealed their identities and went abroad as common brigands, plundering from the Vestri and any other people who lived in the lands near the Wilds. The Harz responded with soldiers, and the Merkata were put to the test.
Under Whately's guidance the small bands of Merkata warriors proved themselves the better against even large groups of Harz soldiers. They still concealed their numbers, and more importantly they concealed their heritage, but they made bold advances against Harz territory until they had secured for themselves territories and passages within fifty leagues of the Mountain of Fire.
After some time had passed, the Witch called Whately before her and honored him with a banquet in gratitude for his efforts on behalf of the Merkata Clan. For all the years he had lived among the Merkata he had not once so much as set eyes upon the great Matron, as she was called. Though reluctant to meet with her, he nonetheless condescended, knowing enough about their customs to understand that one does not turn down such an honor lightly.
The Matron called every ruler and chieftain among the Merkata to a feast in the Merkata city of Salit, which was hidden among the rocks of the sea. Every dainty that was available was brought before them to dine on: crabs and lobsters were boiled in huge cauldrons, set on tripods over leaping flames. Fish of many varieties were flayed and roasted on grills or over open fires. There was also an abundance of fruit and legumes carried from the southern lands where the wasted desert ends. Such a feast had not been held among the Merkata for many hundreds of years; not since she sent her people to war against Harz under the command of the mighty Oannes, who made it as far as the high walls of Harz ere the enemy slew him and drove his army back to the wastes. Since then no hero had arisen among the Merkata and their long silence had made their old valor a forgotten piece of legend.
A place was set for Whately at her side, next to all the lords of the Merkata and among her own sons. She had birthed many sons throughout the long ages of her reign, though they were all sired by mortal men and therefore doomed to perish with their fathers. But her lifeblood had now passed in among the Merkata so that they were some of the most long-lived men in Tel Arie. These sons of hers had sons of their own and in time it came to be that almost every family among them boasted descent from the great Matron through this or that father or grandsire.
It was presumably from this circumstance that arose the peculiar rumors that the Witch of the Merkata was in quite a literal sense the 'Mother' of them all, marrying her own sons and bearing her own grandchildren. But contrary to the legends, she very rarely married anyone from within the Clan. Her husband had recently died, at the age of one hundred and sixty, and she was desirous of another man to draw forth sons and daughters from her immortal womb.
Had Whately known what would come of all this he would have passed beyond the borders of their land and come to Harz or some other place long ago, and not become so deeply involved in the lives of the Merkata. But as it was, he found his feet planted deep in the Wilds and in the sands of Rugna, and he felt that he ought not seek a welcome in Harz since he had done so much to aid their enemies, secretly or not.
Seated all around him were the princes of the Merkata, some more than eighty years old, others barely more than twenty years of age. There was aged Rulbin, the ancient son of a previous marriage, he was over one-hundred and eighty years old and now looked quite frail and almost mindless. By sight, he might have been her great-grandfather's father, but he had been a babe in her lap in days now known to no mortal man.
The most important of them were the seven youngest, as they had within them the most vigor and strength. The eldest of these seven was Oannor, who was the wisest of his brethren, even among the older sons and daughters of the Matron. Next was born Janik and then Pelon who were renown swordsmen. Faruk the archer, Skatlor the spearman, and Gedda the axe-man followed in turn. Finally, there was young Naran who was scarcely more than nineteen years old. But despite his youth he was strong and brave, and his skill grew with each passing day.
When they had dined, and when some songs had been sung, the Matron commanded that fresh bottles of wine be brought to them. She poured a deep red liquor into Whately's goblet and then sat down on a cushion at his side.
'I have watched you from afar for some time,' she said in a pleasant tone. 'For many years the Merkata have been without a guardian. I am left with many mighty sons, but there is none to be their lord and protector. Lest my beloved tribe come to an ill end I must find them another to guide them in battle. I am ashamed,' she said somberly, her eyes turning toward the floor, 'for I myself have not the mind for war or battle, nor does my arm have the strength to wield a weapon against such powerful foes as we have in the men of Harz.
'Yet for all this I am not altogether useless. You should have seen it, bold Whately, the beautiful Temple of Fire in which I once dwelt. The red light of the mountain admixed with the flame of the sun turned every corner of the edifice into gold. Upon every window there hung curtains of crimson or purple. There was such woodcraft as will never be seen in Tel Arie again. Every detail of this I arranged according to my wisdom. We had vineyards in the southern hills too, and flocks of sheep and goats to provide milk and cheese and meat. Such dainties we ate in those days!
'But those are all old tales now. None of my sons, nor any of my countrymen can recall them, for they passed away ages ere any of them left the matrix and arose blinking in the sunlit world. But for me, not a day has passed. I can still smell the fragrance of the wine we made in those days, wine which makes that which we drink tonight reek like a swamp. Lovely it is, you say? More lovely it was!'
'My lady,' Whately said, looking into her eyes, 'you know that your servants will do anything for you. I have watched over your flock for many years now, and I have seen what they can do. The blood of an immortal goddess flows through their veins. There are deeds of daring lying in every breast, ready for the winds of fate to bear them out. My lady, I cannot promise great strength or power, but what gifts of cunning and skill that I possess have ever been at your disposal. I pray that you would accept my service, and call me one of your own. The Merkata have been kind to me, as no other race of men would have been. To take me in as a brother, who was a stranger wrecked upon the rocks is a gift not to be forgotten. Let me repay the favor that your people have shown me.'
The Matron sat up straight in her chair and said, 'Your service you have already given; and you have given it in abundance. Yet we have never rewarded you properly.' She paused for a moment, almost seeming suddenly timid, if that is possible for such a creature as she. 'It is my desire that you would be made the father of our clan, and not merely its mighty but unregarded benefactor.'
The lady pressed in close to him as she spoke. Her hair was black as coal, untouched by gray despite her many years. She was quite beautiful to look at, and terrible, for her authority and wisdom shone from her eyes like the sparkle of ancient stars that send their light upon the faces of aged men and infants alike yet remaining themselves unchanged.
He found her beckoning difficult to resist. He was of half a mind to lean in toward her and embrace the fate she lay before him. But the other half of his mind bid him flee at once from the table and disappear from the land forever.
'My lady,' he told the Matron. 'I did not come to live among the Merkata to become a master among men, nor yet even an instructor of war as I have l
ately been. I have come first to escape a dark fate; secondly, I came to fulfill a vow, hastily but earnestly made. But of these two motives I can speak no further. I cannot be what you desire, so long as my oath remains bound upon my breast. For that I beg your mercy and your grace; further I beg that you turn me not away for refusing you. It is in my heart to do as you desire, but it is my duty to do otherwise. Nonetheless, inasmuch as it lies within my power, I will bring victory to the Merkata Clan.'
The City of Oblindin
Oblindin was once a great city of the Merkata, though in this age every trace of their ancient habitations has vanished. Deep under the sand of the desert their old stone houses were buried, never to see the light of the sun again. There was a great temple in the center and a statue of the Matron that stood thrice the height of a man. But even this was buried now.
The City was under the rule of the Harz Nobles, but its inhabitants were almost entirely of the Vestri. It was an important city in those days because in it there was to be found one of the last sources of water ere the desert's endless sands begin. If the Harz Nobles were to have any hold in the Wilds and in the dry southern region, then they must keep this city, and its wells, firmly under their thumbs.
Hence it was that it entered into Whately's mind to lay siege to this city, and finally reveal the strength of the Merkata as well as their identity. He had grown quite confident that they would be capable of both taking the city from the frail Vestri and holding it against the armies of the Nobles.
So it was that on the morning of the twenty-second of Fuehas five thousand brave men of the Merkata approached the city from the south while another two thousand came upon it from the east. They did not come against the city as brigands or nomads. They bore on their armor the ancient symbol of the Merkata, a black orb, with a red flame within. A great standard flew over their heads as they marched. Tall spears and strong square shields they bore with them. The edges of their swords were jagged, more like a carpenter's saw than a warrior's blade. The soldiers of Oblindin poured out and met them in the arid plains. But as Whately had expected, they could not withstand the cunning and strength of the Merkata. A thousand men of the city lay slain upon the plain ere the trumpet called them to retreat. Like a whipped dog they turned back, crying and weeping for the fallen. Soon they were shut up fast within their gates with archers on every tower. Riders they sent out to the north, but none of these escaped the hunters of the Merkata who roamed the northern lands to slay any who might try to escape.
Night came and the Merkata lit bright fires and kept watch, lest the Vestri come upon them under the cover of darkness. In the early hours of the morning, before the sun had appeared in the air above, Whately gathered his captains and spoke to them of the city.
'We have taught them the might of the hidden tribe; the Merkata strike fear in the hearts of these men once more. Thus far things have gone well. But we cannot leave matters as they are for long. Despite our hunters, it is inevitable that the Nobles of Harz will come to know the plight of their southern city. If we have not breached the walls ere then, we must flee, proving again that the Merkata have not the strength to stand against their ancient conquerors.'
All their eyes were fixed upon their commander, awaiting his council. Finally, after surveying the men in the room, he spoke again. 'We must act, by nightfall we must be within the city; by this time tomorrow morning we must put every living thing within the city under our yoke.'
But how shall we accomplish this?' a bold young captain asked him. His name was Agnoril. He stood taller than any of the others. He was as well known among the Merkata for his bravery as he was for his lineage. He was descended from Oannes himself, and he carried within him the blood of the Matron. 'We have not the strength to batter down their walls. And as you have said, we have not the time to wait for them to starve.'
'You speak wisely, master Agnoril,' Whately affirmed, 'Yet we must take their city tonight despite all this. There is a well in Oblindin, as is well known. And as it may be imagined, such a well must have its origin without the city. To the north among the hills there is a cave, unknown to the Vestri, whose little imaginations have never compelled them to seek the source of their waters. In that cave there is a passage from the northern hills into the well itself. A brave man might lead a small band into the very heart of Oblindin.'
'I will do it,' Agnoril said boldly and without hesitation. 'Who will accompany me?'
'We will all come with you,' said another voice. It was Skatlor, son of the Matron with his six brothers beside him. 'We will open the gates from within and make an end of these usurpers.'
'Then so let it be,' Whately said approving. If the sons of the Matron cannot open the gates, then there are none who can.'
Whately directed the men to the place where they would find the cave. It was small, scarcely large enough for a man to fit through. Indeed, Gedda had to break away some of the rocks before he could fit his broad shoulders through. Once inside, all light was gone. The sun rose up over the plains outside, but not a single ray could pierce the dark cavern into which they had plunged themselves. They followed the sound of the running stream into the dark, Agnoril taking the lead. Torches were of no use here, for the air was too wet and with every turn it seemed a gust of cold air would puff out their lights. Little by little they made their way to the edge of the water and followed it into the heart of the earth. How many hours they walked along its side or waded through shallow places under low rock ceilings they could not tell. But after they had finally come to fear that this way would lead them to death rather than victory, the cavern opened up and they saw the gleam of starlight on a swirling pool of cold water. The dim light of the stars seemed brighter than ever after their trek through the cold dark cavern. They had spent the whole of the daylight hours in that dark cavern. They had come to the very bottom of the well of Oblindin, where all the fortunes of the Harz frontier were bound up.
There they waited until it was clear that there was no one above. Then, silently and with great care they began their ascent. Skatlor took the lead, seeming almost eager to begin the battle, though Agnoril had warned him not to so much as swat a fly before they had opened the gates. 'There would be no honor in our deaths if we did not our utmost to open the gate and win the city for the Merkata. We must be silent, lest the whole city fall upon us before we even reach the street.'
There was usually a guard posted at the side of the well during the night, to guard the water by which the whole city was sustained. But on this night, when they were surrounded by foes, it seemed to them to be less important to keep watch over the waters. The guards that normally watched the well were far away, watching the dancing flames of the Merkata Clan in their camps with a great fear in their hearts.
Silently under the starlight a single shadow slipped over the rim of the well and slid away into the darkness, leaving a trail of droplets in his train. This shadow was followed one by one until the whole group had passed out of the dark tunnel and into the city of Oblindin.
An hour later, the lights of the Merkata clan puffed out like a candle in a gale, leaving all the plain in darkness. There was a murmur among the Vestri, and there was a great deal of confusion and shouting. Not a thing could be seen or heard from their foes. It seemed almost as though they had vanished into the night like the smoke of their extinguished fires. Some within the city even said as much, and cheered at the flight of their enemies.
After another hour the eastern gatehouse was overrun by the sons of the Matron, lead by the sharp sword of Agnoril and the cruel spear of Skatlor. The broad axe of Gedda struck against the heavy chains that suspended the gate and sent it free falling onto the road beneath. Horns blew and the Vestri shouted in warning, but it was all too late. In the darkness, Whately and his men had moved to the eastern gate with a stealth that only the Merkata could have managed. They were ready to charge forth from the shadows the moment the sons of Malia opened the gate.
As Whately entered the city he
saluted Agnoril. 'Well met, brave Merkata!' he shouted.
'Well met, master Whately,' Agnoril responded proudly.
'Let us make this swift,' Whately said as he looked around. 'Spare whom you may, take the lord of the city alive if you can.'
'My lord?' Agnoril quested. 'The Matron's command was to put the whole city to the edge of the sword. I have not journeyed through the darkness all these hours to bind prisoners and manage refugees.'
'The Matron's words,' Whately corrected him, 'were that she cared not what came of the people, whether they lived or whether they were put to the edge of the sword. I know your eagerness to please her, and to win honor among your fellows. But do not take her indifference as a recommendation. If the Matron should choose not to care if these people be slain, it means not that they ought to be so slaughtered. Indeed, there is a reason that it is I whom the Matron has entrusted with all these men. Spare them, young Agnoril, and we shall see whether there is anything to be gained by mercy.'
By the time the bright red sun rose above the waves and passed over the land to light up the streets of Oblindin, the army of the Merkata was in full possession of the city. As Whately had commanded, the people were spared and the lord of the city was bound and imprisoned. Anyone that deigned to wield a sword against the Merkata, however, was mercilessly slain. Agnoril and Skatlor were more than eager to oblige such bravery with the cold iron of their weapons.
Thus the Merkata, by the cunning of Whately, were brought out of the dust of ancient legends to make war against the powers of Fhuhar. Their challenge did not go unanswered for long. Ere three weeks had passed they were surrounded by an army nearly double their own in number. But they had not been lazy during that time. They fortified the city and brought in more warriors and weapons from the south. They also dug a larger tunnel from the well to the northern hills, from which they planned to flank the invaders and crush them against the walls of Oblindin.
When night fell on the fourth day of the siege, Skatlor, Gedda and the swordsmen Janik and Pelon were led through the new tunnels by Agnoril to the rocky hills on the north side of Oblindin. There in the shadows of the rocks they waited until some eight hundred of the Merkata's bravest warriors had emerged from the cavern wet, grumpy, and ready to shed blood.
When they had dried all their belongings, and when the sun sank away to the west, they began their assault. They came against their besiegers from the very hole by which they overthrew the city in the first place. They ran like madmen through the narrow pathways of the northern hills and came at last to the rearguard of the Harz soldiers. Cries and trumpets rang out in the darkness, but there was nothing to be done. The mad sons of the Matron ran through the camp setting the tents ablaze and cutting down any that dared to resist them.
Agnoril and Skatlor raced through the enemy lines, slaying as they ran. They would kill, then glance at the other. If it seemed to Agnoril that Skatlor killed a greater warrior than he, a greater warrior he would seek out himself. And if it seemed to Skatlor that Agnoril killed faster than he, he would spur himself on to greater havoc with curses and violent thrusts with his spear.
Finally they came to be surrounded by Harz soldiers, each bearing a long spear or a sharp, straight blade. 'Perhaps we have been overzealous,' Agnoril panted as the two came to stand back to back.
'There is no such thing as too much zeal in war,' Skatlor replied, shaking his head while he wiped the sweat from his brow. 'The truth is there is rarely enough zeal. But at least we cannot be charged with such an error tonight.'
'Still, it might be better for all if we ceased this vainglorious competition and worked together for the glory of the Merkata.'
'You work for the Merkata,' Skatlor laughed, 'I will work for Skatlor!'
With those words they charged into the endless hordes of confused and terrified Harz warriors. Skatlor skewered three men in one thrust of his mighty spear. As he pulled his weapon free they fell one atop another in the darkness. Agnoril cut his way through the enemies, one after another, until he gave up on counting them. Trumpets blared from within the city and the gates flew open, revealing line after line of Merkata horsemen and foot soldiers. The trap was sprung, and all that remained was for the Merktata to crush their enemies under their hooves and boots.
Those who could manage it fled into the hills and made their way back to Harz, sulking and exhausted. Whately remained atop the city's walls, peering out into the darkness. Though it was still very dark, he could discern enough to see that things had gone well.
He turned and spoke to young Naran, who stood beside him upon the wall, 'Oblindin is ours; after all these ages it belongs to the Merkata once again. And all the armies of Harz cannot take it away.'
Work was begun at once upon erecting a greater wall around the city. To Whately's great satisfaction, the Vestri captives proved to be hardy and could make greater progress on the construction than even the desert-hardened Merkata. He told Agnoril, 'You see now, my son, how we would have had to carry bricks in one hand and swords in the other, if we had slain all of these people in the battle. But now we can stand guard as they labor, without fear of assault.'
'I still feel that it is a simple matter of justice, my lord,' Agnoril said as he looked upon the laborers with disdain. 'So many of our people were slain in the ancient days by the Harz whom these devils obey. They marched in war against us and spared none. Why should we do otherwise?'
'If you cannot find it in your heart to forgive men who did nothing to your ancestors, for sins done by their ancestors but not to yourself, then at least find it in your heart to spare them for your own purposes. Justice? You wish for justice?' Whately shook his head, 'Justice is truly the greatest goal, for which every human being should always strive. Yet,' he paused and looked at the ground, 'be careful what you ask for. Justice, like many great things, may prove to be more than we bargained for when we first sought it out.'
Oblindin was transformed into a citadel such as to rival the northern cities of Nanhur and Meldomnon. There were now two strong walls that guarded the city against invaders, and the waters of the stream were brought up to the ground to fill a large moat around the northern and eastern sides of the city.
On the last day of Leonius, for the first time in many ages of the world, the Matron of the Merkata Clan entered Oblindin. The streets of the original city, along with all its buildings and houses, were buried deep under the sand. But atop this, a new city was now in her possession; 'A new city for a new age,' she wept as she entered it. Whately was there to greet her, along with Agnoril and her many sons. 'Praise the Matron of the Merkata!' they cried out. 'A queen again!' the voice of Agnoril cried out, 'Malia reigns in Oblindin! Queen of the Merkata!'
She smiled and took the hand of Agnoril. He bowed low and kissed her slender fingers gently. 'I have heard many wonderful things concerning your deeds my dear Agnoril,' she smiled. 'The power of your arms is rivaled only by my own sons. Happy your father would be to see the man you have become.'
'My queen is too gracious,' he said, fawningly.
'The power,' she whispered as she passed under the gate and made her way toward the well. 'The power of this place is astounding.'
Then she walked away from them and drifted back to an ancient day in her mind. The streets were filled with the ancient sires of these children who now fought for her. And the well was housed in a great temple and the buckets that drew the precious liquid from the earth were guilt with gold.
Suddenly she returned to the present and stood for a long while staring at the bleak old stone well that now stood in the center of the city. The old temple was now in ruins, deep beneath the stones of the street. She sighed, a look of disappointment came upon her face. 'This is what they took from me, and happy I am to see it again. But I will not stop here. I will not stop until I have taken it all back. Every stone and every city is mine. Nanhur, Meldomnon, Harz and your fiery mountain: I curse you!'
Captured Alive
Under Whately's
command, the armies of the Merkata seemed invulnerable. They took the cities of Ghohn and Miliki and made leagues (against the will of Agnoril) with all the remaining southern lands, until they controlled almost the entire southern portion of Vestron. But it would be quite distant from our purposes here to recount all of these battles in detail.
Despite his discontent with Whately's leadership, Agnoril's fame grew in equal proportion to his commander's. It was said that Whately was the Mind of the Merkata and Agnoril was the Sword.
Despite his own natural frailty, Whately's brilliant mind had won him great honors among the Merkata and great renown among the Harz Nobles. So it was that the rulers of the north took council against him.
A plot was devised: A letter, sent with the seal of the lord of Meldomnon, was delivered to Oblindin. It read thus:
'To Lord Whately,
'Since ancient times my forefathers have ruled over mighty Meldomnon with great wisdom. They fortified its walls, as you know well, with stones of unusual girth and weight, so that no weapon of war can pierce them. Our moat is as deep as the ocean, and our gates are such as will shatter every battering ram ere they buckle. But I say these things not in challenge, nor in threat. For as I am the heir of my father's wisdom as well as his might, I have not watched your progress against other lands without at the same time considering the defense of my own. You cannot destroy us, Master Whately, but we are sure that ere the end there will be more of our dear young maidens in tears than we are willing to see.
'We have ever been allied with the powers in Harz, but their rule is shaking under the weight of the desert Merkata. If you choose to war against them, the full might of Meldomnon will fall upon you. And our armies, as I am certain you are aware, do not show mercy to their enemies.
'But let us spare ourselves this dreadful bloodshed. I will send you a messenger in seven days. He will tell you what must be done. We mighty men of Meldomnon have long sought to cast off the fetters of the Mountain of Fire, yet there has never been any to challenge their strength.
I trust that this letter, and my servant Arthus will find you in good health,
Written by my own hand,
Lord Holthnen'
Seven days later, as it was foretold, Arthus, the servant of the lord of Meldomnon, arrived in Oblindin riding under a banner of peace. He was permitted to come before Whately and the Matron.
The messenger informed them that the lord of Meldomnon indeed desired to meet with the famous lord Whately. Yet due to his fear of Harz, he would only meet with him in the city of Hersa, which stood along the coast of Vestron.
Whately was reluctant, but the Matron commanded him to attend. 'We have here such an opportunity as we could not have imagined. An ally in Meldomnon! And think, my lord Whately,' she laughed, 'when we have demolished Harz we will have greater ease dealing with Meldomnon.'
Whately only said, 'My Queen, do not forget that a treacherous heart, such as is to be found in the lord Holthnen, will betray us as well, sooner or later. And I fear that it has already betrayed us, even ere our league is made.'
'Your cunning has made you too distrustful,' she laughed. For some time it had seemed to Whately that the force of his words were declining in her opinions.
'And my dear queen,' he responded, risking a little humor, 'your incomparable power has made you careless.'
She laughed, but it was not the laugh of the same woman that had once begged for his hand in marriage. The wars had turned many of her people into heroes, and she was the sort of woman who could only find it in her heart to be wooed by power.
On the appointed day, Whately entered the city of Hersa from the southern road. At his left walked the hulking prince Gedda, with his broad axe hung upon his shoulders. They came to the Seaward Inn, where they were informed the Lord Holthnen was awaiting them. Skatlor and several other brave men of the Clan were following close behind, though a good sprint lay between them and their companions.
But upon entering the inn they were met by a dozen armed men. They grabbed Whately with ease, as he was swift to realize the futility of resisting such a group. Gedda, however, had more pride than cunning, and made his captors pay dearly for their prize. Teeth clattered to the inn's wooden floor like drops of rain as Gedda the Mighty broke the faces of the Harz deceivers. He slew three men, broke the arms of two others, and put up such a fight that not a single man left without some scrape or scar by which to remember the skirmish. But in the end all his struggling was not enough. They bound Whately with ropes and Gedda with chains.
More men appeared from the streets surrounding the inn and the captives were swept away beyond the reach of the Merkata warriors. The captives were thrown onto the backs of swift horses and borne away toward the Citadel of Harz; to the Mountain of Fire.
In fierce anger, Skatlor made a swift end to the Harz conspirators, including the liar Arthus. But they were too late, the captives had been carried out of their reach. 'The strongest arm, the sharpest axe, taken away! My brother!' he mourned. 'Thou Fire-dwellers of Harz,' he cursed the captors, 'You will learn to hate fire yet. The flame of the Merkata is about to break forth, and it will burn the bones of every man and woman until they are purified. A grievous blow this is to the Merkata; but more grievous will be our retribution.'