The Sword of War
I
High atop Mount Kalashid, deep in the northern parts of the Charpactian Mountians, laid a simple shrine. This shrine housed the Sword of Saledesh, a weapon presumed to be used by the man known only as the Grand Cohl, who led the various horse-nomad tribes on numerous campaigns of blood and conquest. According to legend, the Grand Cohl, at the time only a leader of the Hungol nation, discovered quite by accident the very weapon of the God of War. Whether it was the sword that gave him his unmatchable skill in war, or that the sword simply proved to him that his destiny lay in conquest, the legends didn’t say. All that was known was that the Grand Cohl used the sword as his personal weapon as he sought to create the largest empire Ubernorden had ever seen, an empire that did not survive the Grand Cohls death. When the Grand Cohl did meet his end, the Sword of the Saledesh was taken away by monks of the god Hishnu to the very edge of the world, lest evil use it for their nefarious ends. It was said ever since that whoever wielded the mighty sword would be able to conquer the world.
It was that promise that drove Quimur of the Rhumar horse-nomad tribe to scale Mt. Kalashid. He and five of his bravest and most devoted followers, Dorusan, Bathmayr, Rhumët, Nömkh, Gamzarig, and Ankhjorgal, had spent months hiking the game trails and ridges of the Charpactians on the promise of ultimate military might. For months the company dodged patrols of orc bands and hunting yetis, crossed ice covered slopes and deadly, invisible crevasses, and dealt admirably with horrifying, evil spirits, all the while searching for a place that might not even exist. If not for the skill of their mountain guides, the company would have surly died in these man-hating mountains. Now, however, they stood at the foot of mighty Kalashid, its slopes and sheer cliffs already tiring Quimur and his men, before even setting foot on them. But their ultimate goal lay atop that ancient mountain, so up they went.
For thirteen years Quimur had investigated the location of the Sword of Saledesh. He parsed through every bit of folklore he ever heard for monks and tribal elders, and scoured over every document that he ever encountered, learning many languages doing so, some of them dead. And using this knowledge in conjunction with every map of the Charpactian Mountains he could get his hands on, he had finally deduced the location of Mt. Kalashid. With that bit of information, Quimur was able cast, or have cast, many mighty spells of Farsight in order to gleam the location of the shrine itself. Now he was aware that the shrine lay at the southwest side of Kalashid, about five thousand feet below the peak.
Kalashid was a word in a forgotten language that meant ‘death wind,’ for the winds were strong and could freeze a man to death; especially in the Time of Frost. In addition, many of the rocks were loose, providing few handholds for scaling the many sheer cliffs of the mountain. Together with a myriad of unknown deadly creatures and grim, evil spirits, Kalashid was the perfect god-created fortress of Western Maghdan. So terrifying were the legends of Kalashid’s dangers, though its location remained unknown, that the mountain guides turned back. Yet no such dangers could keep Quimur away. And so he and his men climbed. The foot of the mountain was mostly green and pleasant and after ascending from the valley where they began, the company could clearly see the Blood Sun high in the sky, the Water Sun peaking to the left of her daughter. But after three days of climbing along the foot of Kalashid, the company came to the rocky wind-swept parts of the mountain. From here on out their fate was in the hands of their ancestors.
The climb was long and hard, the cold bit their face and hands. Their feet became blistered and bloodied from the rocky, unblazed pathways. Then they arrived at the icy and snowy slopes, so slick that all four limbs were needed to continue the climb up. Hidden crevasses almost claim each one of the six-member company, twice. And always, the wind blew into them, slowing their progress, and forcing their every step to be all the more of an effort. But after six days of trudging the leg-breaking, life-threatening steps, they came the more daunting challenge of their quest; a sheer cliff up.
Perhaps there was an easier way up the mountain. Perhaps the Monks of Hishnu had blazed a trail that led directly to the shrine. Sadly Quimur had no knowledge of that, so the cliffs were the only way. They began the next morning, the eleventh day of their climb. Dorusan, Quimur’s most trusted man, and lieutenant of his forces, noticed a small plateau jutting out from the cliff some eight thousand feet up. That was their destination for the day ahead.
Upward they climbed; the snow-covered rock was cold as ice and stabbed their fingers with deadly pain, even through their gloves. The two suns’ cold light was partially obscured to the climbers by jutting rocks. As they climbed, their hands grew numb and stiff. But they were only halfway up when tragedy struck. Quimur slipped on one of his footholds just as he was stepping onto another. The loss of footing shook Quimur from his handholds and he began to plummet to his death. One of Quimur’s men, Rhumët, was below his determined leader, and extended his arm to him catching him in mid fall. By fortune’s blessed curse, Rhumët managed to remain clinging to the cliff-face, his fingers dug into the hard rock, keeping both men safe from tragic death. Once Quimur had regained his grip on the mountain the company began the climb again.
Hours later, they had reached the bluff. There was still almost five thousand feet left to climb and none of them could breathe very well. Since it was dusk, it was decided to make camp on the bluff and then continue on. Sadly, this bluff was not conducive for a proper mountain camp. Freezing winds threated to blow them off of the mountain, freeze them to death, or rain large ice chunks upon their heads. It was nothing short of miraculous that all members of the company stayed alive.
The next day the climb began again. This time, however, it was a little easier due to their experience from the day before. But experience means little in the face of the overwhelming danger of the elements. It was an hour after the climb began when Rhumët slipped and fell from the cliff. This time, Quimur was below his man. He extended his hand to help out, but felt himself slipping off of the cliff. Uncertain of his grip on the mountain, Quimur was forced to take back his hand before Rhumët could make him fall as well. Rhumët fell to his death while the rest of the company looked on, helpless and dejected.
By midday, the survivors managed to reach the top of the cliff. On top was another twenty foot tall cliff, but with a strange pathway that was carved into the tip of the mountain. Even though the noon-time sun was able to illuminate the pathway, it was still shadowy and difficult to see through. This path led to a cave entrance two hundred yards from the cliff that was just climbed. The path was narrow, but wide enough for five broad men to be able to walk abreast from the beginning to end. The walls of the path were sheer and smooth. Quimur knew this path was the road that led to the shrine. So as foreboding as it seemed, the company screwed up its courage and marched towards their destiny.
As the company walked to the cave entrance, a loud, low growl echoed along the path walls. For weeks now the company had heard those noises throughout the mountain trail. Their guides had told them that it was the sound of Yetis, those creatures of terror and death that no man could stand against. Their rending claws could cleave man flesh with horrific ease, and the strength of their limbs could crush a man’s bones with contemptuous ease. The sounds of the horrible creatures came nearer to the company, and all of them knew that the spells surrounding the shrine were summoning the fell beasts to defend it from them. But there was still time until their arrival, so Dorusan extolled Quimur to go to the shrine alone. He and the remaining men would sacrifice themselves for his glory. After some initial reluctance, Quimur ran to the cave and entered. Pausing long enough to light a torch he had wisely made prior to climbing the mountain, Quimur continued through the cave, the screams of his now dead compatriots urging him on.
Quimur hurried along the black cave, but he needn’t bother. The yetis knew better then to breach the sanctity of the shrine. The cave winded about with sharp twists and turns. Quimur had to take it slow in the cave because of the slick ice on the floor. The claustrophobic nature of his surroundings, added to the anxiety Quimur felt. He was ever mindful of supernatural dangers and mundane booby-traps. But soon enough, Quimur found the other end of the cave. And when he did, he discovered a large open chamber.
It was remarkably spacious, about one hundred twenty yards in diameter, and well lit due to the roof consisting of nothing but clear ice. The walls were of stone but covered in ice with water trickling down them. This water entered into a pond at about the center, which emptied out of a stream that may or may not be the source of some great river. In the middle of this pond stood a crude stony structure, the shrine of the Sword of Saledesh.
Immediately upon entering this cavern, the hairs on the back of Quimur’s stood up on end. He then saw coming from the side of the cavern, along the shores of the pond, the guardian of the shrine: a demon from the Black Pit. It was the color black, so much so that it would have been seen in the pitch dark of the cave Quimur left. It moved on four limbs as a big cat does, with cruel looking talons on the ends. Its head was lean and pointed, billed like that of a duck’s, but with weird teeth on its ‘lips.’ No eyes or any sensory organs were apparent on it. Many long tentacles grew from its back, waving in the air with horrid malice.
There was no person in the world that could stand against a demon with the weapons of man. Quimur, however, had anticipated that such a foe would stand before him in and his destiny. So he went to a might wizard, and had a weapon made that could kill a demon. It was a dagger that he drew from its sheath, forged of steel and silver, engraved with ancient runes of warding against evil spirits, and coated with great potions and sacred oils. Though Quimur had faith that the weapon would prove effective against his supernatural foe with only a single penetration, he knew that he had just one chance to use it; the demon would kill him slowly otherwise with its otherworldly strength. Then with noiseless fury, it sprinted toward him. At only ten yards away from each other, the manifest nightmare lunged at Quimur, and with a strength born of desperation, he jabbed the dagger at the beast.
Both man and demon fell to the ground. The demon no longer moved. Struck senseless by his imminent demise, Quimur did not immediately understand what had happened. But as he looked around and saw the motionless demon, he realized that he had won the contest. As the demon’s “flesh” dissolved into nothingness, Quimur laughed hysterically at his victory.
Moments later, Quimur turned his attention to the entering the shrine itself. He was not fool enough to wade through and ice cold pond, but fortunately there were stepping stones leading to the shrine that were still remarkably dry. Quimur entered the shrine expecting some sort of supernatural defense, but none came. The shrine was small, consisting of nothing more than a hall fifty feet in length and at the other end laid the Sword of Saledesh upon an altar. Tentatively, aware for any booby traps, Quimur crawled along the floor to the altar. Quimur was unaware how the traps would be triggered, but he was sure that they would be set in the belief that the victim was walking the hall and not crawling on it. However, he ended up tripping no traps, so once he reached the altar he stood up and looked at the Sword. If Quimur had expected the Sword to be ornate and impressive, he was let down. It looked only like a normal sword once used by the Hungols from long ago, short curved, and very cruel looking. Tentatively, Quimur reached for the Sword of Saledesh. And when his hand was inches from the handle, he grasped it quickly and held it aloft.
For a few moments, Quimur stood there waiting for the inevitable surprise, but none came. Then he slowly made his way out of the shrine, his prize in hand. Once he had exited the shrine, Quimur decided that there was nothing to stop him from leaving with the mighty sword in hand. And so Quimur strutted out of the cavern, and into the world he would conquer.
It was that promise that drove Quimur of the Rhumar horse-nomad tribe to scale Mt. Kalashid. He and five of his bravest and most devoted followers, Dorusan, Bathmayr, Rhumët, Nömkh, Gamzarig, and Ankhjorgal, had spent months hiking the game trails and ridges of the Charpactians on the promise of ultimate military might. For months the company dodged patrols of orc bands and hunting yetis, crossed ice covered slopes and deadly, invisible crevasses, and dealt admirably with horrifying, evil spirits, all the while searching for a place that might not even exist. If not for the skill of their mountain guides, the company would have surly died in these man-hating mountains. Now, however, they stood at the foot of mighty Kalashid, its slopes and sheer cliffs already tiring Quimur and his men, before even setting foot on them. But their ultimate goal lay atop that ancient mountain, so up they went.
For thirteen years Quimur had investigated the location of the Sword of Saledesh. He parsed through every bit of folklore he ever heard for monks and tribal elders, and scoured over every document that he ever encountered, learning many languages doing so, some of them dead. And using this knowledge in conjunction with every map of the Charpactian Mountains he could get his hands on, he had finally deduced the location of Mt. Kalashid. With that bit of information, Quimur was able cast, or have cast, many mighty spells of Farsight in order to gleam the location of the shrine itself. Now he was aware that the shrine lay at the southwest side of Kalashid, about five thousand feet below the peak.
Kalashid was a word in a forgotten language that meant ‘death wind,’ for the winds were strong and could freeze a man to death; especially in the Time of Frost. In addition, many of the rocks were loose, providing few handholds for scaling the many sheer cliffs of the mountain. Together with a myriad of unknown deadly creatures and grim, evil spirits, Kalashid was the perfect god-created fortress of Western Maghdan. So terrifying were the legends of Kalashid’s dangers, though its location remained unknown, that the mountain guides turned back. Yet no such dangers could keep Quimur away. And so he and his men climbed. The foot of the mountain was mostly green and pleasant and after ascending from the valley where they began, the company could clearly see the Blood Sun high in the sky, the Water Sun peaking to the left of her daughter. But after three days of climbing along the foot of Kalashid, the company came to the rocky wind-swept parts of the mountain. From here on out their fate was in the hands of their ancestors.
The climb was long and hard, the cold bit their face and hands. Their feet became blistered and bloodied from the rocky, unblazed pathways. Then they arrived at the icy and snowy slopes, so slick that all four limbs were needed to continue the climb up. Hidden crevasses almost claim each one of the six-member company, twice. And always, the wind blew into them, slowing their progress, and forcing their every step to be all the more of an effort. But after six days of trudging the leg-breaking, life-threatening steps, they came the more daunting challenge of their quest; a sheer cliff up.
Perhaps there was an easier way up the mountain. Perhaps the Monks of Hishnu had blazed a trail that led directly to the shrine. Sadly Quimur had no knowledge of that, so the cliffs were the only way. They began the next morning, the eleventh day of their climb. Dorusan, Quimur’s most trusted man, and lieutenant of his forces, noticed a small plateau jutting out from the cliff some eight thousand feet up. That was their destination for the day ahead.
Upward they climbed; the snow-covered rock was cold as ice and stabbed their fingers with deadly pain, even through their gloves. The two suns’ cold light was partially obscured to the climbers by jutting rocks. As they climbed, their hands grew numb and stiff. But they were only halfway up when tragedy struck. Quimur slipped on one of his footholds just as he was stepping onto another. The loss of footing shook Quimur from his handholds and he began to plummet to his death. One of Quimur’s men, Rhumët, was below his determined leader, and extended his arm to him catching him in mid fall. By fortune’s blessed curse, Rhumët managed to remain clinging to the cliff-face, his fingers dug into the hard rock, keeping both men safe from tragic death. Once Quimur had regained his grip on the mountain the company began the climb again.
Hours later, they had reached the bluff. There was still almost five thousand feet left to climb and none of them could breathe very well. Since it was dusk, it was decided to make camp on the bluff and then continue on. Sadly, this bluff was not conducive for a proper mountain camp. Freezing winds threated to blow them off of the mountain, freeze them to death, or rain large ice chunks upon their heads. It was nothing short of miraculous that all members of the company stayed alive.
The next day the climb began again. This time, however, it was a little easier due to their experience from the day before. But experience means little in the face of the overwhelming danger of the elements. It was an hour after the climb began when Rhumët slipped and fell from the cliff. This time, Quimur was below his man. He extended his hand to help out, but felt himself slipping off of the cliff. Uncertain of his grip on the mountain, Quimur was forced to take back his hand before Rhumët could make him fall as well. Rhumët fell to his death while the rest of the company looked on, helpless and dejected.
By midday, the survivors managed to reach the top of the cliff. On top was another twenty foot tall cliff, but with a strange pathway that was carved into the tip of the mountain. Even though the noon-time sun was able to illuminate the pathway, it was still shadowy and difficult to see through. This path led to a cave entrance two hundred yards from the cliff that was just climbed. The path was narrow, but wide enough for five broad men to be able to walk abreast from the beginning to end. The walls of the path were sheer and smooth. Quimur knew this path was the road that led to the shrine. So as foreboding as it seemed, the company screwed up its courage and marched towards their destiny.
As the company walked to the cave entrance, a loud, low growl echoed along the path walls. For weeks now the company had heard those noises throughout the mountain trail. Their guides had told them that it was the sound of Yetis, those creatures of terror and death that no man could stand against. Their rending claws could cleave man flesh with horrific ease, and the strength of their limbs could crush a man’s bones with contemptuous ease. The sounds of the horrible creatures came nearer to the company, and all of them knew that the spells surrounding the shrine were summoning the fell beasts to defend it from them. But there was still time until their arrival, so Dorusan extolled Quimur to go to the shrine alone. He and the remaining men would sacrifice themselves for his glory. After some initial reluctance, Quimur ran to the cave and entered. Pausing long enough to light a torch he had wisely made prior to climbing the mountain, Quimur continued through the cave, the screams of his now dead compatriots urging him on.
Quimur hurried along the black cave, but he needn’t bother. The yetis knew better then to breach the sanctity of the shrine. The cave winded about with sharp twists and turns. Quimur had to take it slow in the cave because of the slick ice on the floor. The claustrophobic nature of his surroundings, added to the anxiety Quimur felt. He was ever mindful of supernatural dangers and mundane booby-traps. But soon enough, Quimur found the other end of the cave. And when he did, he discovered a large open chamber.
It was remarkably spacious, about one hundred twenty yards in diameter, and well lit due to the roof consisting of nothing but clear ice. The walls were of stone but covered in ice with water trickling down them. This water entered into a pond at about the center, which emptied out of a stream that may or may not be the source of some great river. In the middle of this pond stood a crude stony structure, the shrine of the Sword of Saledesh.
Immediately upon entering this cavern, the hairs on the back of Quimur’s stood up on end. He then saw coming from the side of the cavern, along the shores of the pond, the guardian of the shrine: a demon from the Black Pit. It was the color black, so much so that it would have been seen in the pitch dark of the cave Quimur left. It moved on four limbs as a big cat does, with cruel looking talons on the ends. Its head was lean and pointed, billed like that of a duck’s, but with weird teeth on its ‘lips.’ No eyes or any sensory organs were apparent on it. Many long tentacles grew from its back, waving in the air with horrid malice.
There was no person in the world that could stand against a demon with the weapons of man. Quimur, however, had anticipated that such a foe would stand before him in and his destiny. So he went to a might wizard, and had a weapon made that could kill a demon. It was a dagger that he drew from its sheath, forged of steel and silver, engraved with ancient runes of warding against evil spirits, and coated with great potions and sacred oils. Though Quimur had faith that the weapon would prove effective against his supernatural foe with only a single penetration, he knew that he had just one chance to use it; the demon would kill him slowly otherwise with its otherworldly strength. Then with noiseless fury, it sprinted toward him. At only ten yards away from each other, the manifest nightmare lunged at Quimur, and with a strength born of desperation, he jabbed the dagger at the beast.
Both man and demon fell to the ground. The demon no longer moved. Struck senseless by his imminent demise, Quimur did not immediately understand what had happened. But as he looked around and saw the motionless demon, he realized that he had won the contest. As the demon’s “flesh” dissolved into nothingness, Quimur laughed hysterically at his victory.
Moments later, Quimur turned his attention to the entering the shrine itself. He was not fool enough to wade through and ice cold pond, but fortunately there were stepping stones leading to the shrine that were still remarkably dry. Quimur entered the shrine expecting some sort of supernatural defense, but none came. The shrine was small, consisting of nothing more than a hall fifty feet in length and at the other end laid the Sword of Saledesh upon an altar. Tentatively, aware for any booby traps, Quimur crawled along the floor to the altar. Quimur was unaware how the traps would be triggered, but he was sure that they would be set in the belief that the victim was walking the hall and not crawling on it. However, he ended up tripping no traps, so once he reached the altar he stood up and looked at the Sword. If Quimur had expected the Sword to be ornate and impressive, he was let down. It looked only like a normal sword once used by the Hungols from long ago, short curved, and very cruel looking. Tentatively, Quimur reached for the Sword of Saledesh. And when his hand was inches from the handle, he grasped it quickly and held it aloft.
For a few moments, Quimur stood there waiting for the inevitable surprise, but none came. Then he slowly made his way out of the shrine, his prize in hand. Once he had exited the shrine, Quimur decided that there was nothing to stop him from leaving with the mighty sword in hand. And so Quimur strutted out of the cavern, and into the world he would conquer.
II
Keirata stood in a sun-lit field of tall, waist high grass. The wind was blowing it so that the grass swayed with mesmerizing rhythm. Though she was naked, she felt neither the warmth of the suns or the chill of the wind. Suddenly a black stallion galloped across from her. She turned to follow it, though it felt as if she wasn’t moving but instead her whole body turned in tandem with the horse. As she moved, the horse started to canter around her at the same speed she was moving so that it was always in front of her. After a while of this, Keirata felt something strange around her, and then she realized that seven more black stallions were circling her. She was surrounded. As the world around her turned suddenly to night, the horses seemed to be getting closer to her, as if they were trying to suffocate her with their now massive bodies. But she saw a man standing outside of the circle of horses. This man was armed for war wearing a cuirass of scale armor, and holding an iron tipped spear in his right hand and a sword in his left with a small shield strapped to that arm. Strangely he wore a mask that was circular with eyeholes that were inverted triangles, and its mouth slits were curved into something resembling a smile. Keirata wanted desperately to ask for his help, but no words came out of her mouth.
Then Keirata woke up. Her eyes were still closed, but the memory of her dream was still fresh in her mind; so fresh, she thought the dream was in fact the real world. But as her mind cleared and the dream faded ever so slightly, Keirata began to stir and analyze her dream. Lying face up in her bed of soft cushions, with a sudden twinge of pain in her back, she played back her vision in her head numerous times. It was a little bit later that she figured out exactly what those stallions represented, and what it meant for her Cohlate. Fighting back against the emotions her epiphany caused, she fidgeted in her bed. The message of her dream, combined with the irritation in her lower back, was more than she could stand against. So she wailed, wailed in despair as a Cohla never should.
Almost instantly, Denata, Keirata’s enslaved maidservant, was at her mistress’s side. Denata was sleeping soundly at the foot of her mistress, when she heard Keirata’s distress, but so too did the guards standing outside of their chambers. Coming to Keirata’s head, Denata waved off the guards as there seemed to be nothing attacking the Cohla.
“Highness, what is the matter?” she asked.
Keirata looked up at Denata as the later held the former’s head in a comforting hug. Tears began to form in her eyes, and she brought her hands to her face.
“It is over,” she said, her voice cracking at the strain. “It is all over. All that is left is the executions.”
“What is over, your highness?” asked Denata in a soothing, sympathetic voice. “Do you mean the dream? You will have another some other night.”
“No,” Kierata said, despair thick in her cracking voice. “The war is over, the war against Quimur. He has beaten us. The gods have just shown me that it is hopeless.” Kierata began to cry.
“Come now,” Denata said, getting worried for her Cohla now. “Surly the gods have not abandoned us at this time of our greatest peril. What was this nightmare that has caused you such concern?” Denata now hugged her Cohla even tighter.
Kierata tried to sit up in her bed, but a sharp pain in her back forced her to continue lying on her back, still in discomfort. “I saw a ring of black horses, stallions I believe. I was standing in the middle of the ring, while the horses closed in on me. Then I saw a man in a death mask standing on the outside. The message is clear. Those horses represent Quimur while I represent Pallislan. He will continue on the path of conquest and bloodshed, and death shall take us all.” She finished her tale, but the pain in her back continued unabated.
Denata made a strange face unnoticed by the Cohla. “This man” she asked, “what kind of mask did he wear?” Denata, had no idea if that was significant, she only wished to keep her mistress talking while she figured out what to say or do.
“It was circular with the mouth slits weirdly in the form of a smile, and the eye holes that were upside down triangles.” As she told her maidservant this, the Cohla began to squirm. The pain in her back was becoming worse.
“That is no death mask that I have ever heard of,” Denata replied honestly. “Perhaps…perhaps this is a man meant to help us. Perhaps the gods have shown us the path to victory.” Even as she said that, she knew that it was a false hope, that her Cohla’s interpretation of her own dream was the truest.
“What in the…?” Kierata was now ignoring Denata and focused instead on her physical pain. She had put her hand behind her back to see what the problem was and touched something cold and hard, prompting her exclamation. She grabbed ahold of it and pulled it out from under her. And when she looked at what was beneath her, she gave a blood-curdling scream that was echoed by Denata, and threw the object from her. Her body guards once again rushed into the room, but there was nothing they could do. The object landed at the foot of Keirata’s bed and managed by the will of fate to look up right at her. It was the mask that she had just seen in her dream.
It was mid-morning of that same day, and Cohla Kierata was slouching on her throne. There was much to do in preparations for the continuing war with Quimur, specifically the defense of Dakuna, the Cohlate’s capital city. There were soldiers to that she needed to levy, defensive engineering plans she had to approve, offensive operations to plan with her military advisors, and everything else possible to delay Quimur’s inevitable victory. And it was inevitable, because with the Sword of Saledesh at his side, Quimur and his makeshift army were unstoppable. That, everyone agreed.
But for now, Lady Kierata would forego all that. Now she sought the advice of the one man who had proved time and again to have her best interests at heart; Khanata, the Karcki Sey of Peshut.
Khanata then entered into the throne room from the front entrance, as he always did, despite permission to enter from the sides. He was a thirty-odd old dashing man of broad shoulders and thick, well-muscled build. His long dreads swayed across his shoulders as he sauntered over to Kierata, smiling affectionately as usual. Sadly, Kierata couldn’t match his happy gait, and instead continued to sulk in her throne.
“Ah, love of my life and bride-to-be,” Khanata began, with his usual loudness. “How fair you today, your most beautiful Highness.”
Kierata took a sharp breathe. Kierata was in love with Khanata, and was very happy to become his third wife. But that hardly meant she wanted to ask of him what she was about to. “Khanta, I wish you to be frank and honest with me, now especially. What is the state of the Cohlate?”
Khanata did not immediately reply. Instead, he stood there perfectly still for just a few moments. And then his smile disappeared from his face, his thick mustache drooping while he frowned. He tilted his hand and sighed deeply.
“Kierata,” he began, ignoring custom by referring to her by name alone, “the state of the Cohlate is on the brink of collapse. Quimur is amassing a great host that is sure to overrun us, even if we were stronger. Even now, many of Pallislan’s most powerful seys are secretly talking to Quimur and seeking his favor.”
Kierata came alive at that bit of counter-intelligence. She straightened up as she asked him for his source. His eyes then lowered to the ground, and he said with sadness, “Because I am one such sey. But not in order to betray you, but to protect you. If Quimur were to take Dakuna by force, or capture you on the field of battle, he will not hesitate to make you into a bed-slave. And he is the type of man to share his belongings with his friends and advisors. But if I were to go over to him, and even help him, then maybe he would respect our betrothal. Please, do not resent me. I thought only of you.”
Kierata could do nothing but stare in disbelief. Khanata, however, started to feel great shame for his betrayal. So much so that he starting talking, mainly in an attempt to make his betrothed understand. “Oh, Your Highness. If only your brother, the Cohl, was here now, then things would have been different. If he were here than none of the seys would dare to contemplate treason. He would be able to raise an army that Quimur would not be able to overcome, even with the Grand Cohl’s sword at his side. Duraka would even be able to inspire our many wizards to effectively counter Quimur’s own magic. But alas, the Notheren proved to be stronger than we anticipated.
“Oh, when the weak and mongrel Notheren told us that they would no longer be giving us our due tribute, your brother did the only thing he should do. That the Ctar of Notheria would raise an army to counter your brother’s was to be expected. That it would be an effective army was not. Now our Cohl languishes in a Notheren prison, released only on condition of a great ransom of thirty thousand kunës that we can ill afford, even without an escalating war. Unfortunately, those vile Ahktuli have offered to buy our Cohl from them. Since selling him to the Ahktuli would put them on friendly terms with a powerful sovereignty, the Notheren are seriously considering the offer. So now we must increase our proffered ransom, and offer a treaty of non-aggression with them, in order to get Duraka back. Of course, with Quimur now threatening Pallislan with destruction, the Notheren now have a third option with them. We may never see your brother again.”
Kierata stared rather intently at her betrothed. If she was to try her idea that she believed would save her Cohlate, she would need his unwavering support, if only as an emotional rock. And to that end, she decided to test him. “Khanata, what do you think I should do?” she asked in her most helpless sounding voice.
Khanata looked as if he would answer immediately. But he stopped himself, and after a while, he sighed as he resigned himself to an answer. “I think you should make a fight of it, Kiera…Your Highness. I have never known you to submit to anyone, and you certainly shouldn’t start with some barbarian refuse who stumbled upon a magic totem. Ride out to meet him in battle as only a Cohla of Pallislan can.”
For the first time in days, Kierata smiled. She was now satisfied that Khanata would support her, admittedly, insane idea. So she brought out the mask that the gods had sent her from its hiding place by her, and showed it to Khanata. “My love, do you know what this is?” she asked leadingly.
“Yes,” he replied with a little confusion. “It is the mask of the Smiling Demon, a terrible bandit leader who terrorized the hinterland for months until his defeat at the Battle of Holmarc. Why do you have it now?”
Kierata was too stunned to answer. Her plan was to have Khanata wear the mask as an inspiration to her warriors, in what she believed was in accordance to the will of the gods. To learn that the mask belonged to an actual person left her with nothing to counteract the Sword of Saledesh. “And what became of this Smiling Demon?” Kierata asked, not deliberately ignoring Khanata’s question.
Khanata would have rather his question be answered than ignored, but he answered his Cohla dutifully. “By the time of the battle, the Smiling Demon had become a great concern. His attacks on caravans, bison herds, and villages were increasing with frequency. And not just against Pallislan either, but also against Kharakslan, the Quertick Empire, and the Ahktulian Empire. And all the while, more brigands and tribal warriors flocked to his banner. It was feared that he would eventually have enough power to sack an important city, or carve out a sovereignty of his own.
“To end his threat, an alliance between Pallislan, Kharakslan and the Quertick Empire was formed with the purpose of preventing his escape. A vast army was sent to his approximate location, a Pallios host from the north led by your brother and a Kharaki-Quertick host from the south led by their two Cohls. Trapped between his vengeful enemies, the Smiling Demon did the only thing he could do, he attacked. First, he struck south and put the combined host to flight. But he did not pursue and instead immediately went north to meet our force head on. He setup a defense on a hill near the village of Holmarc. It was there that we engaged in battle with him. It was a fierce clash, one of the fiercest I have ever seen. The Smiling Demon managed to counter our superior leadership, professionalism, and numbers with expert tactics and troop dispositions, making his force of thieves and barbarians all the more potent. It was possible that we might have even lost the battle, had not the combined army of our allies arrived promptly. Because the Smiling Demon failed to utterly destroy the southern host, they were able to rally and set off to join our battle. Caught from the rear, the Smiling Demon’s undisciplined horde broke, leaving him and his most loyal followers alone.
“To his credit, the Smiling Demon did not surrender. He knew there would be no quarter for one of his kind. But at that point, he was merely fighting against the inevitable. And despite his best efforts, we managed to capture him alive. I believe that was your brother’s order to do so. He wanted the Smiling Demon executed as a warning to others about challenging the authority of Pallislan.”
“I remember that,” Keirata claimed, slowly remembering. “That was nearly three years ago, and it was Dieraka’s first mission independent of father. I do remember hearing about a ‘demonic’ bandit in the south, but I never knew he had become such a threat. I think I believed that you and Dieraka were simply going on a punitive raid.”
“No my love. The Smiling Demon was much bigger than that.”
“So, is he dead then? I cannot remember if there was a public execution of such a man. Surely my brother would have made an event of it. He was always the type to show off power and authority.”
“Yes, he is, and would have. But then your father took ill and eventually died. With the Cohlate to run, I suppose your brother forgot all about the Smiling Demon. I certainly did.”
“So, he could still be alive now?” Khanata answered his Cohla positively but hesitantly. He had known Her Highness intimately for some time now, and he did not like where she was planning on going. “Where was he last placed?” she asked.
Kwartez Prison was a dark, musky old place. Built of stone and mortar, it had a foreboding quality to it that even the day-light couldn’t vanquish. It had a solid circular superstructure that was unadorned, making it appear as a blight upon the golden-green landscape and beautiful blue skyline, just as its residents were a blight upon goodly civilization.
But as oppressive as the outside was, the inside was just as horrifying. The entire building was constructed so as to allow no sunlight to enter its halls. Kierata, her honor guard, and the warden, Dumadar, and his jailors could only walk by torchlight. Its dim illumination was casting shadows every which way, causing Kierata great apprehension. It was only by remembering that she was the ruling Cohla, temporarily though it might be, could she stand to walk these damned halls.
Situated to the south-east from Dakuna, about a half-day away between the city and Rhumburta, a major town smaller than the capital, Kwartez Prison was used to incarcerate enemies of the state. And in Pallislan, that included a great deal of offenses. But Keirata had come to visit only one particular man. And he resided down about the foundations of the prison where rebel-rousers and witches were kept.
The warden himself was leading Kierata down to meet with the Smiling Demon. While Kierata was somber as she proceeded on this errand, the warden was far from it. Kierata found the warden to be an amiable man and quite boisterous. He was quite aware of all the formalities, though he practiced them with an air of informality, as if they were coming from his mind. It also seemed to him to be a delight to host the Cohla, even if it was for only a few hours. Kierata was aware, however, that the warden was not surprised by the visit. She dared hope that was because the gods too had sent him a prophecy and that this was the gods’ plan. But then Dumadar mentioned the visits of her father and brother and she understood his acceptance of her intrusion.
The reputation of Kwartez Prison was such that Kierat feared that the Smiling Demon might already be dead. And if he was, then this was a wasted trip and her efforts better spent on the war. Then they reached the door to the cell the Demon was kept in.
“And you are sure that he is there, and that he is alive?” asked Dumadar.
“He is,” answered the jailer, whose section this was. The jailor then lifted a small opening at the bottom of door with his foot and said, “Every time we place food down there, it is gone. It’s not rats. We would know if it were rats.”
“Open the door,” commanded Kierata softly.
With visible concern, the jailors opened the door. It squawked loudly at the ensemble, angry that its old, rusty hinges were forced to move. Kierata ordered her honor guard to remain outside, as she took a torch and entered the cell.
Something rustled in the far right corner as she entered. It was humanoid in shape, but was clearly emaciated. The wretched creature nestled there shielded its eyes from the sudden, unaccustomed light. And in doing so, it revealed that it was bound with iron chains that Kierata followed all the way to the walls. Covered in a filthy, raggedy woolen shirt and breeches, Kierata’s heart fell as she realized this was not the Smiling Demon at all. And if it was, it wasn’t now.
Then the thing lowered its arms. Kierata sucked in her breath. The man before her had skin that was paler than any she had seen, almost white in color, and his hair the yellowish color of straw. After years of inattention his beard had grown well to his waist and the hair on his head almost to his knees. His fingernails were poorly trimmed, evidently filed upon the stone, and his flesh was dropping or vanished, looking more like loose leather coverings of his bones. But Kierata could not take her attention away from his eyes. His strangely grey eyes still had fight in them, showing a drive and passion that terrified her, though he was chained and emaciated. This surely was the Smiling Demon after all.
“I am Kierata, the Cohla of Pallislan,” she announced in Linguaca, the universal language of diplomacy in Ubernorden. “I have come to you to make an offer to you.” She stopped short of actually making the offer. To do so would show him her desperation, and she wanted to do this on her terms.
The Smiling Demon didn’t answer, he simply stared at her. Then he turned his head away from her to look at the wall. Evidently he was no longer interest in her.
Kierata was furious. She wanted to yell at him and tell him that he was in no position to turn down any deal. But she remained diplomatic, and decided to reveal some of her intentions. “I am willing to set you free. But in exchange I must ask a service of you.” The Demon glanced over to her, but then continued to look away. It seemed to Kierata that the Smiling Demon was ignoring her in the hopes that she would go away. This confused Kierata as she assumed that he would at least react to the possibility of freedom. It was then that Kierata realized that the Smiling Demon didn’t understand Linguaca. She though quickly and remembered that the Demon operated mostly in Kharakslan so he probably could speak Jurdagu, which she spoke adequately.
“I am Kierata, the Cohla of Pallislan,” she repeated in Jurdagu. This time he reacted.
“The Cohla?” he said in a soft voice, raspy with years of disuse. “Well, isn’t that something? To what could I possibly owe this honor?” he sneered.
“Are you the one known as the Smiling Demon?”
“I am.”
The laconic response convinced her that he was who he said he was; since a dishonest man would be trying to convince her with stories anyone could have heard. But she had to be sure in order for her plan to work. So from underneath her traveling cloak she brought out a mask. It had a demonic face that was colored red. It featured two large tusk teeth that were all painted white. The eyeholes were obviously placed where the demon face’s nostrils were located. “Then I suppose this belongs to you?” Kierata asked.
The Smiling Demon just laughed, inducing a cringe worthy cough. “Do you know me at all?” he asked, still coughing. “Go away charlatan, back to your palace where you can make more money from the men there.”
Kierata let in insult slide and walked right out of the cell. She turned to her entourage and said, “Bring him.”
Back at the palace, Kierata had the Smiling Demon stored in one of the guest rooms, guarded and still shackled. The room was prepared with all the trappings of luxury in an effort to entice the Demon into cooperating with her, along with a plentiful meal for him. She gave him an hour to rest and get comfortable, and for her to collect her thoughts for their meeting. As Kierata walked down the hallway to the Demon’s chambers, her advisors met her along the way. They were Bathmayr, the Vezir of the State of Foreign Relations, Otgonabar, the Grand Vezir of Pallislan, Ganzog, the High Priest of the Temple of Hishnu, Jaleir, Kierata’s most trusted political advisor, and a visibly displeased Khanata. They appeared to want to talk, so she motioned to them to follow after her.
Khanata spoke first. “Kierata, you do not know what you are doing. He is evil and cannot be trusted. You are…”
“Your Highness, we are all concerned with this plan of action that you have concocted,” interrupted Bathmayr. Khanata was still fuming, but remained silent, ashamed at his outburst towards his Cohla. “This bandit surely cannot be trusted,” he continued.
“I am aware of that fact,” Kierata snapped back. “He will scheme against us, that is for sure. But if we keep him close to us we should be able to check whatever he may be thinking.”
“That sounds more like wishful thinking,” replied Otgonabar.
“How so? He cannot possibly do any damage to us or Pallislan if we do not allow him to,” answered Kierata.
“It sounds as if you are underestimating his cunning,” Khanta said, far more restrained than previously.
“The General is correct,” said Otgonabar. “The bandit person could convince a guard to join his cause, or a serving girl. Anyone he could get under his influence could prove to be invaluable to him.”
“We all agree that dealing with the bandit is dangerous for us,” said Jaleir.
“But what else am I to do?” Kierata asked in an exasperated manner. “Using the Smiling Demon is clearly what the Gods have intended.”
“Your dream could be interpreted a number of ways,” said Ganzog.
“Really? How so?”
Ganzog opened his mouth, but no words came out. For a few moments no one talked as they continued down the hall. But soon they arrived at the door to the Smiling Demon’s chambers. As Kierata motioned to the guards at the doorway that she wished to enter, Khanata spoke at last, losing his composure.
“Kierata, this is madness. Stop this while there is still time.”
Kierata spun to look right at Khanata. She could not allow herself to be talked to in such a manner in te company of others, even by the man she loved. “Khanata, do not talk to me that way! I am the Cohla and not your wife yet!” She stepped closer to him, putting her hands on his cheeks. “I know what I am doing. Please, just trust me and help me through this.” He held on to her for a little while longer before Kierata broke off. She then led her advisors into the room with the Smiling Demon.
The room was quite long and open. An open balcony stood to the left of Kierata blocked by ornately designed columns. The wall opposite the balcony was covered with an elaborate tapestry depicting the Battle of Almerista, the decisive battle in The Brothers’ War that founded Pallislan. Next to it, on either side attached to the wall were two round shields with two kimitars each crossed in the back. A series of cushions were set in a broken circle in the center of the room, with the rest of the room empty space.
The Smiling Demon was sitting on a large cushion leaning over a table full of food. He was devouring his dinner with a great rapacity, completely engrossed with it. Two guards armed with short spears stood behind him. They stared at him with a mixture of awe at his impressive vitality and disgust at his barbarous manners. Sitting across from him, supposedly there to keep him company, was Alantseseg, the first, and thus far only, wife of Dieraka. She sat there with her arms crossed over her breasts, looking at the Smiling Demon with great annoyance on her face. Kierata knew what she was upset about, as the Demon remained annoyingly silent the entire journey from Kwartez Prison.
Kierata went over and sat down on another cushion in front of him while her advisors stood behind as was proper. He paused to look at her, and then went back to eating. Before being feed, Kierata sent one of the palace beauticians to clean him up. With his hair and beard cut to a more manageable length the Smiling Demon looked much better. And since getting some better quality food inside of him, he actually started to look like the fortyish man he was. Since he seemed intent on eating and nothing more, Kierata decided it would be best not to let him finish before talking with him.
“What is your name?” she asked.
“Thorathor Diorivick,” came the response, barley between bites.
“Thorathor, my Cohlate is in grave danger. A man named Quimur has found the Sword of Saledesh and is using it to conquer Pallislan.”
“What is the Sword of Saledesh?” Thorathor asked before Kierata could continue.
“It was the sword the Grand Cohl used centuries ago,” said Otgonabar.
“And who is the Grand Cohl?” Thorathor asked in all honesty.
Kierata was at first too stunned to answer. After all, all of Ubernorden knew who the Grand Cohl was. But then she said, “He is unimportant. What is important is that his former sword possesses supernatural powers. And Quimur is using these powers for evil purposes.”
“Unlike the Grand Cohl,” Thorathor said sarcastically under his breath. “So why have I been released?” he asked, just as he finished eating. He leaned back on his cushion, food particles visible in his now well groomed beard. And now that they had come to the crux of the matter, Kierata took a deep breath. There was no reason to reveal to Thorathor that she had a dream of him in regards to Quimur. But she needn’t completely lie to him. Indeed, it seemed that Thorathor had already guessed Kierata’s request, just not why.
“I have come to the conclusion that it must be you who leads my armies against Quimur,” she said.
“You and he are similar in origin and skill,” Khanata elaborated. “You should be able to think of what he would do in a given situation and thus counter it, just as a proper field commander would.”
“Except that I don’t need magic to win wars,” Thorathor replied. “But what do I get in return?”
“Your freedom for one thing,” answered Bathmayr. And a great amount of riches as well.”
“Of course you will be exiled from Pallislan,” Jaleir quickly added.
Thorathor didn’t answer right away. He seemed to be enjoying making the head of the Pallislan Cohlate wait on him. But eventually he agreed to it. What other choice did he have?
Then Keirata woke up. Her eyes were still closed, but the memory of her dream was still fresh in her mind; so fresh, she thought the dream was in fact the real world. But as her mind cleared and the dream faded ever so slightly, Keirata began to stir and analyze her dream. Lying face up in her bed of soft cushions, with a sudden twinge of pain in her back, she played back her vision in her head numerous times. It was a little bit later that she figured out exactly what those stallions represented, and what it meant for her Cohlate. Fighting back against the emotions her epiphany caused, she fidgeted in her bed. The message of her dream, combined with the irritation in her lower back, was more than she could stand against. So she wailed, wailed in despair as a Cohla never should.
Almost instantly, Denata, Keirata’s enslaved maidservant, was at her mistress’s side. Denata was sleeping soundly at the foot of her mistress, when she heard Keirata’s distress, but so too did the guards standing outside of their chambers. Coming to Keirata’s head, Denata waved off the guards as there seemed to be nothing attacking the Cohla.
“Highness, what is the matter?” she asked.
Keirata looked up at Denata as the later held the former’s head in a comforting hug. Tears began to form in her eyes, and she brought her hands to her face.
“It is over,” she said, her voice cracking at the strain. “It is all over. All that is left is the executions.”
“What is over, your highness?” asked Denata in a soothing, sympathetic voice. “Do you mean the dream? You will have another some other night.”
“No,” Kierata said, despair thick in her cracking voice. “The war is over, the war against Quimur. He has beaten us. The gods have just shown me that it is hopeless.” Kierata began to cry.
“Come now,” Denata said, getting worried for her Cohla now. “Surly the gods have not abandoned us at this time of our greatest peril. What was this nightmare that has caused you such concern?” Denata now hugged her Cohla even tighter.
Kierata tried to sit up in her bed, but a sharp pain in her back forced her to continue lying on her back, still in discomfort. “I saw a ring of black horses, stallions I believe. I was standing in the middle of the ring, while the horses closed in on me. Then I saw a man in a death mask standing on the outside. The message is clear. Those horses represent Quimur while I represent Pallislan. He will continue on the path of conquest and bloodshed, and death shall take us all.” She finished her tale, but the pain in her back continued unabated.
Denata made a strange face unnoticed by the Cohla. “This man” she asked, “what kind of mask did he wear?” Denata, had no idea if that was significant, she only wished to keep her mistress talking while she figured out what to say or do.
“It was circular with the mouth slits weirdly in the form of a smile, and the eye holes that were upside down triangles.” As she told her maidservant this, the Cohla began to squirm. The pain in her back was becoming worse.
“That is no death mask that I have ever heard of,” Denata replied honestly. “Perhaps…perhaps this is a man meant to help us. Perhaps the gods have shown us the path to victory.” Even as she said that, she knew that it was a false hope, that her Cohla’s interpretation of her own dream was the truest.
“What in the…?” Kierata was now ignoring Denata and focused instead on her physical pain. She had put her hand behind her back to see what the problem was and touched something cold and hard, prompting her exclamation. She grabbed ahold of it and pulled it out from under her. And when she looked at what was beneath her, she gave a blood-curdling scream that was echoed by Denata, and threw the object from her. Her body guards once again rushed into the room, but there was nothing they could do. The object landed at the foot of Keirata’s bed and managed by the will of fate to look up right at her. It was the mask that she had just seen in her dream.
It was mid-morning of that same day, and Cohla Kierata was slouching on her throne. There was much to do in preparations for the continuing war with Quimur, specifically the defense of Dakuna, the Cohlate’s capital city. There were soldiers to that she needed to levy, defensive engineering plans she had to approve, offensive operations to plan with her military advisors, and everything else possible to delay Quimur’s inevitable victory. And it was inevitable, because with the Sword of Saledesh at his side, Quimur and his makeshift army were unstoppable. That, everyone agreed.
But for now, Lady Kierata would forego all that. Now she sought the advice of the one man who had proved time and again to have her best interests at heart; Khanata, the Karcki Sey of Peshut.
Khanata then entered into the throne room from the front entrance, as he always did, despite permission to enter from the sides. He was a thirty-odd old dashing man of broad shoulders and thick, well-muscled build. His long dreads swayed across his shoulders as he sauntered over to Kierata, smiling affectionately as usual. Sadly, Kierata couldn’t match his happy gait, and instead continued to sulk in her throne.
“Ah, love of my life and bride-to-be,” Khanata began, with his usual loudness. “How fair you today, your most beautiful Highness.”
Kierata took a sharp breathe. Kierata was in love with Khanata, and was very happy to become his third wife. But that hardly meant she wanted to ask of him what she was about to. “Khanta, I wish you to be frank and honest with me, now especially. What is the state of the Cohlate?”
Khanata did not immediately reply. Instead, he stood there perfectly still for just a few moments. And then his smile disappeared from his face, his thick mustache drooping while he frowned. He tilted his hand and sighed deeply.
“Kierata,” he began, ignoring custom by referring to her by name alone, “the state of the Cohlate is on the brink of collapse. Quimur is amassing a great host that is sure to overrun us, even if we were stronger. Even now, many of Pallislan’s most powerful seys are secretly talking to Quimur and seeking his favor.”
Kierata came alive at that bit of counter-intelligence. She straightened up as she asked him for his source. His eyes then lowered to the ground, and he said with sadness, “Because I am one such sey. But not in order to betray you, but to protect you. If Quimur were to take Dakuna by force, or capture you on the field of battle, he will not hesitate to make you into a bed-slave. And he is the type of man to share his belongings with his friends and advisors. But if I were to go over to him, and even help him, then maybe he would respect our betrothal. Please, do not resent me. I thought only of you.”
Kierata could do nothing but stare in disbelief. Khanata, however, started to feel great shame for his betrayal. So much so that he starting talking, mainly in an attempt to make his betrothed understand. “Oh, Your Highness. If only your brother, the Cohl, was here now, then things would have been different. If he were here than none of the seys would dare to contemplate treason. He would be able to raise an army that Quimur would not be able to overcome, even with the Grand Cohl’s sword at his side. Duraka would even be able to inspire our many wizards to effectively counter Quimur’s own magic. But alas, the Notheren proved to be stronger than we anticipated.
“Oh, when the weak and mongrel Notheren told us that they would no longer be giving us our due tribute, your brother did the only thing he should do. That the Ctar of Notheria would raise an army to counter your brother’s was to be expected. That it would be an effective army was not. Now our Cohl languishes in a Notheren prison, released only on condition of a great ransom of thirty thousand kunës that we can ill afford, even without an escalating war. Unfortunately, those vile Ahktuli have offered to buy our Cohl from them. Since selling him to the Ahktuli would put them on friendly terms with a powerful sovereignty, the Notheren are seriously considering the offer. So now we must increase our proffered ransom, and offer a treaty of non-aggression with them, in order to get Duraka back. Of course, with Quimur now threatening Pallislan with destruction, the Notheren now have a third option with them. We may never see your brother again.”
Kierata stared rather intently at her betrothed. If she was to try her idea that she believed would save her Cohlate, she would need his unwavering support, if only as an emotional rock. And to that end, she decided to test him. “Khanata, what do you think I should do?” she asked in her most helpless sounding voice.
Khanata looked as if he would answer immediately. But he stopped himself, and after a while, he sighed as he resigned himself to an answer. “I think you should make a fight of it, Kiera…Your Highness. I have never known you to submit to anyone, and you certainly shouldn’t start with some barbarian refuse who stumbled upon a magic totem. Ride out to meet him in battle as only a Cohla of Pallislan can.”
For the first time in days, Kierata smiled. She was now satisfied that Khanata would support her, admittedly, insane idea. So she brought out the mask that the gods had sent her from its hiding place by her, and showed it to Khanata. “My love, do you know what this is?” she asked leadingly.
“Yes,” he replied with a little confusion. “It is the mask of the Smiling Demon, a terrible bandit leader who terrorized the hinterland for months until his defeat at the Battle of Holmarc. Why do you have it now?”
Kierata was too stunned to answer. Her plan was to have Khanata wear the mask as an inspiration to her warriors, in what she believed was in accordance to the will of the gods. To learn that the mask belonged to an actual person left her with nothing to counteract the Sword of Saledesh. “And what became of this Smiling Demon?” Kierata asked, not deliberately ignoring Khanata’s question.
Khanata would have rather his question be answered than ignored, but he answered his Cohla dutifully. “By the time of the battle, the Smiling Demon had become a great concern. His attacks on caravans, bison herds, and villages were increasing with frequency. And not just against Pallislan either, but also against Kharakslan, the Quertick Empire, and the Ahktulian Empire. And all the while, more brigands and tribal warriors flocked to his banner. It was feared that he would eventually have enough power to sack an important city, or carve out a sovereignty of his own.
“To end his threat, an alliance between Pallislan, Kharakslan and the Quertick Empire was formed with the purpose of preventing his escape. A vast army was sent to his approximate location, a Pallios host from the north led by your brother and a Kharaki-Quertick host from the south led by their two Cohls. Trapped between his vengeful enemies, the Smiling Demon did the only thing he could do, he attacked. First, he struck south and put the combined host to flight. But he did not pursue and instead immediately went north to meet our force head on. He setup a defense on a hill near the village of Holmarc. It was there that we engaged in battle with him. It was a fierce clash, one of the fiercest I have ever seen. The Smiling Demon managed to counter our superior leadership, professionalism, and numbers with expert tactics and troop dispositions, making his force of thieves and barbarians all the more potent. It was possible that we might have even lost the battle, had not the combined army of our allies arrived promptly. Because the Smiling Demon failed to utterly destroy the southern host, they were able to rally and set off to join our battle. Caught from the rear, the Smiling Demon’s undisciplined horde broke, leaving him and his most loyal followers alone.
“To his credit, the Smiling Demon did not surrender. He knew there would be no quarter for one of his kind. But at that point, he was merely fighting against the inevitable. And despite his best efforts, we managed to capture him alive. I believe that was your brother’s order to do so. He wanted the Smiling Demon executed as a warning to others about challenging the authority of Pallislan.”
“I remember that,” Keirata claimed, slowly remembering. “That was nearly three years ago, and it was Dieraka’s first mission independent of father. I do remember hearing about a ‘demonic’ bandit in the south, but I never knew he had become such a threat. I think I believed that you and Dieraka were simply going on a punitive raid.”
“No my love. The Smiling Demon was much bigger than that.”
“So, is he dead then? I cannot remember if there was a public execution of such a man. Surely my brother would have made an event of it. He was always the type to show off power and authority.”
“Yes, he is, and would have. But then your father took ill and eventually died. With the Cohlate to run, I suppose your brother forgot all about the Smiling Demon. I certainly did.”
“So, he could still be alive now?” Khanata answered his Cohla positively but hesitantly. He had known Her Highness intimately for some time now, and he did not like where she was planning on going. “Where was he last placed?” she asked.
Kwartez Prison was a dark, musky old place. Built of stone and mortar, it had a foreboding quality to it that even the day-light couldn’t vanquish. It had a solid circular superstructure that was unadorned, making it appear as a blight upon the golden-green landscape and beautiful blue skyline, just as its residents were a blight upon goodly civilization.
But as oppressive as the outside was, the inside was just as horrifying. The entire building was constructed so as to allow no sunlight to enter its halls. Kierata, her honor guard, and the warden, Dumadar, and his jailors could only walk by torchlight. Its dim illumination was casting shadows every which way, causing Kierata great apprehension. It was only by remembering that she was the ruling Cohla, temporarily though it might be, could she stand to walk these damned halls.
Situated to the south-east from Dakuna, about a half-day away between the city and Rhumburta, a major town smaller than the capital, Kwartez Prison was used to incarcerate enemies of the state. And in Pallislan, that included a great deal of offenses. But Keirata had come to visit only one particular man. And he resided down about the foundations of the prison where rebel-rousers and witches were kept.
The warden himself was leading Kierata down to meet with the Smiling Demon. While Kierata was somber as she proceeded on this errand, the warden was far from it. Kierata found the warden to be an amiable man and quite boisterous. He was quite aware of all the formalities, though he practiced them with an air of informality, as if they were coming from his mind. It also seemed to him to be a delight to host the Cohla, even if it was for only a few hours. Kierata was aware, however, that the warden was not surprised by the visit. She dared hope that was because the gods too had sent him a prophecy and that this was the gods’ plan. But then Dumadar mentioned the visits of her father and brother and she understood his acceptance of her intrusion.
The reputation of Kwartez Prison was such that Kierat feared that the Smiling Demon might already be dead. And if he was, then this was a wasted trip and her efforts better spent on the war. Then they reached the door to the cell the Demon was kept in.
“And you are sure that he is there, and that he is alive?” asked Dumadar.
“He is,” answered the jailer, whose section this was. The jailor then lifted a small opening at the bottom of door with his foot and said, “Every time we place food down there, it is gone. It’s not rats. We would know if it were rats.”
“Open the door,” commanded Kierata softly.
With visible concern, the jailors opened the door. It squawked loudly at the ensemble, angry that its old, rusty hinges were forced to move. Kierata ordered her honor guard to remain outside, as she took a torch and entered the cell.
Something rustled in the far right corner as she entered. It was humanoid in shape, but was clearly emaciated. The wretched creature nestled there shielded its eyes from the sudden, unaccustomed light. And in doing so, it revealed that it was bound with iron chains that Kierata followed all the way to the walls. Covered in a filthy, raggedy woolen shirt and breeches, Kierata’s heart fell as she realized this was not the Smiling Demon at all. And if it was, it wasn’t now.
Then the thing lowered its arms. Kierata sucked in her breath. The man before her had skin that was paler than any she had seen, almost white in color, and his hair the yellowish color of straw. After years of inattention his beard had grown well to his waist and the hair on his head almost to his knees. His fingernails were poorly trimmed, evidently filed upon the stone, and his flesh was dropping or vanished, looking more like loose leather coverings of his bones. But Kierata could not take her attention away from his eyes. His strangely grey eyes still had fight in them, showing a drive and passion that terrified her, though he was chained and emaciated. This surely was the Smiling Demon after all.
“I am Kierata, the Cohla of Pallislan,” she announced in Linguaca, the universal language of diplomacy in Ubernorden. “I have come to you to make an offer to you.” She stopped short of actually making the offer. To do so would show him her desperation, and she wanted to do this on her terms.
The Smiling Demon didn’t answer, he simply stared at her. Then he turned his head away from her to look at the wall. Evidently he was no longer interest in her.
Kierata was furious. She wanted to yell at him and tell him that he was in no position to turn down any deal. But she remained diplomatic, and decided to reveal some of her intentions. “I am willing to set you free. But in exchange I must ask a service of you.” The Demon glanced over to her, but then continued to look away. It seemed to Kierata that the Smiling Demon was ignoring her in the hopes that she would go away. This confused Kierata as she assumed that he would at least react to the possibility of freedom. It was then that Kierata realized that the Smiling Demon didn’t understand Linguaca. She though quickly and remembered that the Demon operated mostly in Kharakslan so he probably could speak Jurdagu, which she spoke adequately.
“I am Kierata, the Cohla of Pallislan,” she repeated in Jurdagu. This time he reacted.
“The Cohla?” he said in a soft voice, raspy with years of disuse. “Well, isn’t that something? To what could I possibly owe this honor?” he sneered.
“Are you the one known as the Smiling Demon?”
“I am.”
The laconic response convinced her that he was who he said he was; since a dishonest man would be trying to convince her with stories anyone could have heard. But she had to be sure in order for her plan to work. So from underneath her traveling cloak she brought out a mask. It had a demonic face that was colored red. It featured two large tusk teeth that were all painted white. The eyeholes were obviously placed where the demon face’s nostrils were located. “Then I suppose this belongs to you?” Kierata asked.
The Smiling Demon just laughed, inducing a cringe worthy cough. “Do you know me at all?” he asked, still coughing. “Go away charlatan, back to your palace where you can make more money from the men there.”
Kierata let in insult slide and walked right out of the cell. She turned to her entourage and said, “Bring him.”
Back at the palace, Kierata had the Smiling Demon stored in one of the guest rooms, guarded and still shackled. The room was prepared with all the trappings of luxury in an effort to entice the Demon into cooperating with her, along with a plentiful meal for him. She gave him an hour to rest and get comfortable, and for her to collect her thoughts for their meeting. As Kierata walked down the hallway to the Demon’s chambers, her advisors met her along the way. They were Bathmayr, the Vezir of the State of Foreign Relations, Otgonabar, the Grand Vezir of Pallislan, Ganzog, the High Priest of the Temple of Hishnu, Jaleir, Kierata’s most trusted political advisor, and a visibly displeased Khanata. They appeared to want to talk, so she motioned to them to follow after her.
Khanata spoke first. “Kierata, you do not know what you are doing. He is evil and cannot be trusted. You are…”
“Your Highness, we are all concerned with this plan of action that you have concocted,” interrupted Bathmayr. Khanata was still fuming, but remained silent, ashamed at his outburst towards his Cohla. “This bandit surely cannot be trusted,” he continued.
“I am aware of that fact,” Kierata snapped back. “He will scheme against us, that is for sure. But if we keep him close to us we should be able to check whatever he may be thinking.”
“That sounds more like wishful thinking,” replied Otgonabar.
“How so? He cannot possibly do any damage to us or Pallislan if we do not allow him to,” answered Kierata.
“It sounds as if you are underestimating his cunning,” Khanta said, far more restrained than previously.
“The General is correct,” said Otgonabar. “The bandit person could convince a guard to join his cause, or a serving girl. Anyone he could get under his influence could prove to be invaluable to him.”
“We all agree that dealing with the bandit is dangerous for us,” said Jaleir.
“But what else am I to do?” Kierata asked in an exasperated manner. “Using the Smiling Demon is clearly what the Gods have intended.”
“Your dream could be interpreted a number of ways,” said Ganzog.
“Really? How so?”
Ganzog opened his mouth, but no words came out. For a few moments no one talked as they continued down the hall. But soon they arrived at the door to the Smiling Demon’s chambers. As Kierata motioned to the guards at the doorway that she wished to enter, Khanata spoke at last, losing his composure.
“Kierata, this is madness. Stop this while there is still time.”
Kierata spun to look right at Khanata. She could not allow herself to be talked to in such a manner in te company of others, even by the man she loved. “Khanata, do not talk to me that way! I am the Cohla and not your wife yet!” She stepped closer to him, putting her hands on his cheeks. “I know what I am doing. Please, just trust me and help me through this.” He held on to her for a little while longer before Kierata broke off. She then led her advisors into the room with the Smiling Demon.
The room was quite long and open. An open balcony stood to the left of Kierata blocked by ornately designed columns. The wall opposite the balcony was covered with an elaborate tapestry depicting the Battle of Almerista, the decisive battle in The Brothers’ War that founded Pallislan. Next to it, on either side attached to the wall were two round shields with two kimitars each crossed in the back. A series of cushions were set in a broken circle in the center of the room, with the rest of the room empty space.
The Smiling Demon was sitting on a large cushion leaning over a table full of food. He was devouring his dinner with a great rapacity, completely engrossed with it. Two guards armed with short spears stood behind him. They stared at him with a mixture of awe at his impressive vitality and disgust at his barbarous manners. Sitting across from him, supposedly there to keep him company, was Alantseseg, the first, and thus far only, wife of Dieraka. She sat there with her arms crossed over her breasts, looking at the Smiling Demon with great annoyance on her face. Kierata knew what she was upset about, as the Demon remained annoyingly silent the entire journey from Kwartez Prison.
Kierata went over and sat down on another cushion in front of him while her advisors stood behind as was proper. He paused to look at her, and then went back to eating. Before being feed, Kierata sent one of the palace beauticians to clean him up. With his hair and beard cut to a more manageable length the Smiling Demon looked much better. And since getting some better quality food inside of him, he actually started to look like the fortyish man he was. Since he seemed intent on eating and nothing more, Kierata decided it would be best not to let him finish before talking with him.
“What is your name?” she asked.
“Thorathor Diorivick,” came the response, barley between bites.
“Thorathor, my Cohlate is in grave danger. A man named Quimur has found the Sword of Saledesh and is using it to conquer Pallislan.”
“What is the Sword of Saledesh?” Thorathor asked before Kierata could continue.
“It was the sword the Grand Cohl used centuries ago,” said Otgonabar.
“And who is the Grand Cohl?” Thorathor asked in all honesty.
Kierata was at first too stunned to answer. After all, all of Ubernorden knew who the Grand Cohl was. But then she said, “He is unimportant. What is important is that his former sword possesses supernatural powers. And Quimur is using these powers for evil purposes.”
“Unlike the Grand Cohl,” Thorathor said sarcastically under his breath. “So why have I been released?” he asked, just as he finished eating. He leaned back on his cushion, food particles visible in his now well groomed beard. And now that they had come to the crux of the matter, Kierata took a deep breath. There was no reason to reveal to Thorathor that she had a dream of him in regards to Quimur. But she needn’t completely lie to him. Indeed, it seemed that Thorathor had already guessed Kierata’s request, just not why.
“I have come to the conclusion that it must be you who leads my armies against Quimur,” she said.
“You and he are similar in origin and skill,” Khanata elaborated. “You should be able to think of what he would do in a given situation and thus counter it, just as a proper field commander would.”
“Except that I don’t need magic to win wars,” Thorathor replied. “But what do I get in return?”
“Your freedom for one thing,” answered Bathmayr. And a great amount of riches as well.”
“Of course you will be exiled from Pallislan,” Jaleir quickly added.
Thorathor didn’t answer right away. He seemed to be enjoying making the head of the Pallislan Cohlate wait on him. But eventually he agreed to it. What other choice did he have?
III
Three days later, the war against Quimur proceeded disastrously. In order to precipitate the total conquest of Pallislan, Quimur attacked and sacked the small city of Khamatur near the Pallislan frontier. In order to make it his own, Quimur declared the town to be now called Dorusan City, apparently a person of great importance to Quimur. Now the path lay open for Quimur to overrun the rest of Eastern Pallislan. And from there, he could attack Dakuna. And if it fell, so too would Pallislan. And to that end, it was decided the best defense would be to take the fight to Quimur. And the army now leaving Dakuna was quite the impressive display of strength, all things considered.
First out, twenty-five hundred strong were the Ulubatli, the household cavalry of the Cohla that acted as her personal bodyguards and warriors while at war. Riding upon horses of ancient and prominent pedigree, both man and horse cantered out to battle with grim determination and a terrible, predatory look. Each man was clad in lamellar armor and a conical iron helmet, all of which was polished so that shown brilliantly as mirrors. Armed with long iron tipped spears, fine recurved composite bows of masterful work, and sharp, cruel kimitars, they were the most renown of all of Pallislan’s warriors. At their head was Thorathor, declared the Cohla’s head general, Khanata, the Cohla’s betrothed and her champion, and Salithos, a Sey of Pallislan and her most able native commander. Within the body of the Ulubatli road the Cohla herself, gone to watch her great army gloriously destroy the inhuman barbarians threatening her Cohlate.
Just behind the Ulubatli, riding finely groomed horses, were fifty wizards of Pallislan and their most able apprentices. Many of these men had experience, horrendously bought, at performing magic whilst in the maelstrom of battle. Among them were wagons full of magical artifacts, ingredients for mighty potions, incense, and many other things needed to properly cast spells. Draped in heavy, red or yellow silk cloaks above intricate, rune covered robes, these men would be essential to the coming battle by providing supernatural support.
Immediately behind them rode the twenty-four thousand strong Mighan cavalry. These were the Seys, their sons, and for some of them, their daughters, with the tribal warriors that were loyal to their line, and other armed and mounted retinues. These were the social, economic, and military elite of Pallislan, having a lust for battle and a hunger for glory. Each man was armed with deadly, curved kimitars and sturdy recurved composite bows. The richest of them wore finely polished lamellar armor, while the rest wore strong scale armor. Riding pedigreed warhorses of proven quality, these brave warriors were the backbone of Palllislan’s triumphant army.
Next in this order of battle marched the Kheshichan, who were the guards of the palace. They were eight thousand strong and acting now as the Cohla’s elite infantry force. They marched in perfect unison, each company a perfect long rectangle, and not a single man moving to a different step as they marched out of the city. They too wore polished lamellar armor and conical helmets top the five-pointed Star of Puervsren, and were armed with long, recurved composite bows and long iron tipped spears. These brave, professional men would provide a strong anchor for the Cohla’s army on the field.
After them, in a rather unruly mob, came one hundred fifty so-called New Men. These half-mad persons believed that a New World was fast approaching, and that those who embraced the future now would be well positioned to rule the New World. What this New World consisted of was a strange weapon: a small metal tube carried by man that was filled with a fast burning powder and a small, round stone or lead ball, a weapon most sovereigns of Ubernorden thought of as little more than noisemakers, useless for killing men. But in these desperate times, no one could say no to a hundred fifty noisemakers.
At the end of the column cantered out the Alkinki, mercenaries and contingents of warriors of tribal entities not a part of Pallislan. Armed with bows of comparatively poorer quality and kimitars, wearing little in the way of armor, theirs was the job to range ahead of the main force, scouting for the enemy and attacking opposing settlements for plunder, which they kept. Though they were considered ill-mannered and insubordinate, they were still a need force, essential to Pallislan’s war against Quimur.
This was a mighty force of thirty-five thousand strong, hearty men wanting nothing more than honor and glory. Though it was paltry compared to the eighty-three thousand Pallislan could potentially have fielded, it was still more than enough to drive out the barbarians invading glorious Pallislan. At the head of the column, Thorathor rustled uneasily in his saddle. After three years of inactivity, he already felt sore riding on the strong warhorse lent to him by the Cohla. Sore and uneasy, nevertheless, Thorathor was not afraid. Like any good Icelander, he would go to battle and possibly meet his end with the pride and dignity of his ancestors, though they resided thousands of miles away. He felt ridiculous wearing a silken purple cloak and the best lamellar armor of the palace armory, polished to a mirror-like sheen, but there was something grand to it that Thorathor liked.
Several trumpets blared behind them now indicating that the army had left the city. He then turned to Khanata, resplendent in gilded lamellar armor and a violet silk cloak. “You should’ve supported me in trying to convince the Cohla to stay in the city.” For the past three days, Thorathor had been given intense training and education into Pallislan culture and politics. Ideally, he would have had a whole week to learn, but Quimur was not going to allow that. However, Thorathor’s years of wandering the whole of Ubernorden has given him the skills to absorb a lot of knowledge, especially the local vernacular.
“You still do not understand, do you?” came the reply. “As the ruling steward of Pallislan, she must come to the battle and watch as her army crushes her enemies.”
“Fine!” Thorathor retorted. “But we are going into a battle against a foe where we are expected to lose.”
“Afraid are we, xeno?”
Thorathor’s hand went to his sword at the insulting accusation of cowardice, but fortunately he was aware of the consequences of his actions. “There is no magic that can’t be conquered by men with sufficient will to win and a carefully thought out plan. But that hardly means we can overcome Quimur. She should stay in the city and prepare its defenses. Certainly she’d be safer. You want that, don’t you? She is your woman, after all.”
“She is, in a way,” replied Khanata. “But she is quite stubborn and not easily coerced.” Thorathor turned to look ahead in a huff. Khanata, on the other hand, looked at him with renewed suspicion.
The army was traveling to the village of Bakanu. According to the strategic maps found in the palace, there were a series of three large and steep hills near there. Situated right on the road that led right to Dakuna, going through this place was the only way for Quimur to march to the capital before the campaign season ended. The road near Bakanu went in an easterly direction until it reached the hills where it turned south for about a mile. Bakanu itself was to the near the end of that southerly stretch where the road bent back, going relatively straight, east for a few miles.
The largest of the three hills, and to the immediate east of the road, was known as Watchtower Hill. It was so high that a person standing on it could see for almost thirty miles in every direction. Command of that hill gave a distinct advantage to anyone who had it. The hill to the east of Watchtower Hill, the furthest from the road and the smallest of the three, was called Guardian Hill. It was named thusly, because of the nature of its location made it a natural defensive structure for the flank of its much larger brother. And that was its only real value in this situation. The third and final hill, located to the southwest of Watchtower Hill, was called Gatehouse Hill. With the road going between it and Watchtower Hill, Gatehouse Hill was critical for controlling the local portion of the road, only slightly more so then its brothers.
Because it was in Pallislan’s best interest to preserve its military force, any engagement with Quimur would have to be defensive in nature. Those three hills near Bakamu would prove to be an invaluable defensive asset. Another asset to the Pallios army was the nature of Quimur’s. Assembled from scratch by tribal warriors and mercenaries paid by plunder, Quimur had to attack or risk his army disappearing, Sword of Saledesh or no. This necessity allowed Pallislan’s leaders to predict Quimur’s next movements, and even control it to a degree, because Quimur would not be able to ignore an opportunity to attack and destroy his enemy’s army, in spite of any defensive fortifications. Despite all this, there would be no guarantee of success.
After a two and a half day march, the Pallios army had reached Bakamu. Sadly, Quimur’s forces would be on them tomorrow morning, allowing little time to prepare. As the army marched, news from the front was given to them from refugees and retreating forces. As is often the case, the reports they gave were conflicting. But enough truth was gleamed from them that a more complete picture of the war’s progress could be drawn.
After the Sack of Khamatur, Quimur divided his army into twelve large units, and sent them on a reign of terror. With no opposing army to meet him, the risk of his army being destroyed piecemeal was non-existent. This provided the Palllias with a great opportunity, as they would have a number of days to prepare their chosen battlefield before Quimur could recombine his forces and attack. But somehow Quimur was made aware of their march, and had amassed his army quickly in response.
The effect on the morale of the Pallios army was palpable. The wizards were beside themselves with dismay. At the start of, and during, the march they had cast a spell to counter any spell Quimur’s magicians would cast to gather intelligence. They were certain that the counter-spells had succeeded. So either their skills were diminished and thus would be useless in battle, or Quimur had greater magic than they could overcome. The rest of the army was more concerned with the approaching enemy, an enemy of equal or greater numbers with a powerful magical artifact at their head. A hard battle had just become close to hopeless. However, the army’s morale was not helped by the constant arguing of their leaders.
Not quite a novice at battlefield command, Thorathor none-the-less needed to know the basics of his units’ capabilities. However, these necessary questions seemed to greatly concern the leadership, who now worried if their commander could actually command in the battle. All of this was made worse by Khanata’s intense arguments with Thorathor. It was made clear from the beginning that Khanata disliked having Thorathor in command. And ever since the march began, those feelings became worse. The Cohla was often needed to separate the two before argument turned to duel.
But now they had to prepare for battle. So after the army had set-up their camp on the north side of the hills, putting the hill between them and the enemy, Thorathor summoned the more prominent seys to his tent to discuss strategy. Thorathor’s usual command style was to issue orders and dispositions without counsel, and let the company commanders decide if it was doable or not; Thorathor would then issue new orders based on their reports. That style of leadership was fine when the army was assembled on Thorathor’s personality alone, but an army raised by a civilized system required more consensuses among the leaders. And so at Kierata’s insistence, Thorathor reluctantly hosted a war council.
“Perhaps it would be better to use counter-march tactics,” suggested Sumos, the leader of the company of wizards.
“What is the counter-march tactic?” asked Thorathor. He did not hide his exasperation at these proceedings, wishing instead to get the men ready for tomorrow’s battle.
“A counter-march is when your army positions itself as close to the enemy as possible without engaging them in battle,” answered Tumatos, one of Pallislan’s most important seys. “Then, whenever the enemy tries to attack you, your army retreats. You never retreat so far as to be too far from the enemy, you instead continue to be a short march away from them the entire time. The tactic is designed to force the enemy to extend their lines of communication and supply to the breaking point. It only works if the enemy has poor supply lines to begin with, which I believe the case here.” Many of the assembly agreed with Tumatos’s assertion. “It will certainly protract the war, but it will be safer for our sovereignty.” Again, there was widespread agreement.
“Safer for the sovereignty, or for you?” Thorathor asked with unsurprising tactlessness.
Khanata interposed himself between the two before an unproductive argument followed. “What our General means is that the situation does not favor counter-march tactics. It is true that Quimur has poor supply lines. But that is because he has no base from which to be resupplied from. The only way in which Quimur supplies his army is from foraging for supplies from our lands. He would only benefit form a protracted war.” As would you, by giving you time to betray us, Khanata said with his mind.
“As you can see, Great Tumatos,” Salithos said, “we must engage Quimur in a single decisive battle.”
“Since battle is the only option for us, perhaps we should prepare for one,” said Thorathor sternly.
“And quickly,” added Beous, the Sey of the Nalovd Clan. Though his land was currently overrun with Quimur’s bandits, he remained one of the Cohla’s biggest supporters. “We are losing too much daylight to work in.”
“What we need to do is dig a series of trenches up the hills,” said Thorathor.
“Why,” asked Otgonabar, the Sey of the Balovi Clan and another sey whose loyalty was suspect. “We could just attack him now, and hard.”
“Against a force of equal strength, with superior morale and the Sword of Grand Cohl? You must be jesting,” spoke Khanata.
“He is correct,” answered Thorathor. “In order to defeat this foe we must let him attack us in prepared positions. Is there any other suggestions to the contrary?” he asked with barely contained menace.
The impudence of Thorathor’s attitude made all the councilors erupt in umbrage. Which became a shouting match among them as old rivalries, as they often do, took precedence among them. Thorathor bowed his head in frustration, and Khanata threw up his hands in despair.
Thorathor then looked straight at Kierata, who sat at the head of the assembly, in quiet dignity. “Are you the Cohla or no?” he asked.
Kierata had been sitting with her head bowed, scared and feeling quite alone. Though she could pass as leader at a time of relative peace, she knew in her heart that she had no place in war. But when Thorathor asked his question, she gave him a dirty look for his continued impudence. Then she closed her eyes and took a deep breathe knowing he was right. She stood up and shouted, “Enough. Right now Pallislan faces the greatest threat to his power and existence as an independent sovereignty since the Pallios-Quertick Wars of nearly 20 years ago. With my brother held by treacherous vassals against his will, it falls to me, the daughter of Budaci, to protect Pallislan. But because I am a woman, I have not the strength to do my impromptu duty. So in order to facilitate that duty, I have bestowed on Thorathor, the Smiling Demon the rank of General and made him my commander of my army. He speaks with my voice! If there is anyone here whose pride and honor cannot abide following the orders of this man, a former brigand, then leave this council. You will wait in your tents until ordered into position for battle. That is my command as Cohla of Pallislan.
“Though I am quite unskilled at war, I do understand the wisdom of Thorathor’s advice. So as far as I am concerned, the debate over where we shall face the enemy is over. The debate on how we shall face them is still proceeding. But, I implore you to object only if you are truly concerned with the plan, not if because it insults your manhood in some way. Time is on the side of the enemy, and not with us.
“Great Thorathor, you may proceed.” And Kierata sat back down on her cushion trying to remain impassionedly determined. In truth, she felt frightened and concerned, as if she had just reached further than she was able or allowed to do. But as she looked around, no one moved or made a sound. They all just looked at her mesmerized and even a little impressed.
Thorathor clapped his hands together to bring the councilors out of their daze. “As of now,” he said, “we don’t have the time to fortify our position adequately. But if we work until nightfall, and a little by torchlight, we can dig enough trench system on top of Watchtower and Guardian Hills. Each trench should cover the south sides, be about eight feet apart and at least four feet deep and six feet wide. If we had time they would be deeper and wider.”
“Just those two hills?” asked Sumor. “Why not Gatehouse Hill as well?”
“Because I have something special planned that requires Gatehouse Hill to be left untouched.” Everyone waited for Thorathor to say what that special plan was, but he said nothing else.
“If there are no other questions, we should break in order to prepare our defenses,” said Khanata. “Once the Alkinkis come back from their scouting, we will reconvene to discuss the order for battle.”
With that, the leadership of the army left to relay orders. Salithos was given the task of making sure the defensive works were prepared with haste. With luck and hard work they would be able to fortify their hills in time. However, Khanata, Thorathor, and Kierata remained behind.
“Your Highness, if it pleases you, could we be alone for a moment?” asked Khanata. And as he asked that, Khanata looked at Thorathor with a murderous stare. Thorathor saw it, but seemed unconcerned. Slowly Kierata stood up and slowly walked out of the tent, not really wanting to leave these two alone.
Once Keirata had left, Khanta tore into Thorathor with barely restrained fury. “What specialty do you plan for with Gatehouse Hill?”
“Nothing to concern yourself over,” answered Thorathor in a voice intended to calm down Khanata. “Worry instead on the fight against Quimur.”
“Oh!”
“Yes,” said Thorathor. “I will need you focused on battling Quimur if we are to win.”
“Do you intend to win?” asked Khanata. The question shocked Thorathor and his face screwed up in confusion. “There is no reason to leave Gatehouse Hill untouched. The road goes between Gatehouse Hill and Watchtower Hill forming a small valley between them. Quimur’s army will naturally move through that valley. If we do not place men on Gatehouse Hill, and fortify it, there will be nothing to prevent the enemy from outflanking and surrounding us upon Watchtower and Guardian Hills!”
“Will it now?” Thorathor asked knowingly.
“You know damn well that it will!” Khanata replied, too furious to understand Thorathor’s hint. “I can see what you are planning. You plan to make an end in this battle! You plan on making one last glorious fight for the Smiling Demon, one that will be talked about long after Quimur has taken all of Ubernorden! That is why you wished the Cohla to remain in Dakuna. You knew she would be taken in this battle!”
Thorathor took a deep breathe. “I wanted the Cohla to remain in Dakuna because she has no place in a battle. I will never understand how you Easterners can allow women to fight in wars. They’re too important to die! As to your accusations, yes. And you may take your theory to the Cohla if you wish; I certainly won’t try to stop you.” Khanta’s wrath was increasing now, but Thorathor paid it no mind. “But since she believes that I’m a divinely chosen savior for Pallislan, she’ll probably not heed your advice.”
Khanta had heard enough. He stood up quickly and half-ran to the tent entrance. “Wait!” Thorathor commanded to him, and he stopped. Then Thorathor invited him to sit down across from him again. He was hesitant at first, but sat down anyway wanting to hear what Thorathor had to say.
Thorathor took a deep breathe, and said, “I’m sorry. I should not be keeping you in the dark about my plans. The more you know, the greater its chances of success. Above all else, you and I must trust each other. What I have planned is…”
Kierata laid down on her cushioned bedding, wide awake. Moments before dusk, several of the scouting parties had returned. Their reports indicated that Quimur’s army had made their camp a scant 10 miles away. Even if Quimur took his time preparing his men, they would be upon them before noontime tomorrow, and with a force greater than their own by a half.
But that was not what was keeping her awake. Green as she was, Kierata knew that being tactically defensive was better than attacking. And though Quimur’s new numbers were surprising, they were not particularly troublesome. How many battles were there where numerically inferior forces won decisively. What was troubling her, however, was the relationship between Khanata and Thorathor. Not unreasonably, Kierata felt that Khanta’s attitude toward Thorathor was based partly on jealously. He loved her, and she him. So the thought that she would seek the help of another man in an area Khanata was renowned for must have been devastating. But what choice did she have, the gods had told her who her champion in this war must be.
Then in the afternoon of this same day, Khanata came out of a conversation with Thorathor in total disbelief. He exited her tent shaking his head, mouthing “he is mad.” He still had great ill will toward Thorathor, but carried out his battle plan to the letter, nonetheless. However, Khanta now possessed an out of character quietness to him.
“Your highness. Your highness.” Kierata could barely tell who was saying that, or what was going on. Evidently she had fallen asleep and was woken up. “Your Highness,” the speaker said again, and Kierata turned to see her maid, Cormu, over her. Here in camp, Kierata’s slave-servants slept in a kind of foyer of her tent so as to intercept those who would see their superior naked.
“What is it, Cormu?”
“Your Highness,” the young woman said with characteristic timidity, “Great Thorathor wishes to see you.”
Kierata paused, thinking the request over. Then she said, “Alright, hand me a dressing robe and see him in.”
“Apologies, Your Highness, but Great Thorathor has requested that you come to see him.”
Me, go to him? thought Kierata. Of all the impudence. Her first desire was to ignore the summoning. But she decided to hear what he had to say, he was her general after all. Besides which, there was no possibility of Cormu being able to give Thorathor the message Kierata wanted to convey.
With Cormu’s help, Kierata dressed warmly and quickly, and set out. Thorathor’s tent wasn’t far from her own. And when she entered, she was surprised to see Khanata there as well. He looked at her with a somber face, like someone special to her had just died. Thorathor also looked at her as did another person in the tent. This person had a slim face that appeared to be incredibly smooth and soft. He had dark friendly eyes and strange ears that came a point like a blade of grass. With a start, she suddenly recognized him as an elf.
“Your Highness, this is Bak’enad,” said Thorathor. “He is a Ranger from Dabinan, the home of the Island Elves. And briefly a traveling companion with some time ago.”
“It is a fascinating tale, Your Highness,” the elf began. “It began on the third or fourth day…”
“I don’t think that’s appropriate now, Bak’enad,” said Thorathor with a sharp hand gesture. “Tell her what you just told me.”
Bak’enad sighed heavily. Evidently he had told this story several times before. “Your Highness, I am a captain of a company of Ronglangs, or rangers if you will, sent here to end the threat Quimur represents to us.”
Kierata immediately lit up. “Then the elves are lending us aid against Quimur?”
“No, Your Highness,” replied Khanata. “This company is too small to give us any aid. And they will not participate in the coming battle.”
“Our mission here,” continued Bak’enad, “is to acquire the Sword of Saledesh by any means and return it to the Hishnu Shrine of Kalashid. As of now, Quimur is too well guarded, surrounded as he is by his army. As such, there is little hope of us taking the Sword from him and ending his threat.”
“I understand,” said a very disappointed Kierata. “But why have you come to us? Surely you could have come after the battle.”
Bak’enad appeared uneasy, and looked over at both Khanata and Thorathor. Khanata indicated to Bak’enad to continue. “My company was spying on Quimur’s army on the off chance that we could slip through its lines. Whilst doing so, we discovered that some in Quimur’s army were fielding colors, and were organizing their camp in an ordered and regimented fashion. I am sorry, Your Highness, but I am sure that they are warriors form Pallislan.”
In truth, Kierata wasn’t surprised at the news. Nor was she’d disappointed. With Dieraka taken prisoner and a woman now on the throne, many of the Pallislan nobility had lost faith in the Doruku Dynasty’s ability to protect them. To them, Quimur seemed to be the safer force to follow than a Cohla who had just come of age. But still, such treason could not be tolerated.
“Do you know who exactly has gone over to Quimur, Great Bak’enad?”
“My apologies, Your Highness, but no. I am very much unaware of Pallislan politics. I did not even know your name until now.”
“Could you perhaps recognize their colors if we showed them to you?” suggested Khanata.
“Yes, I suppose I could.”
“This is all well and good,” said Thorathor, “but there is a more immediate problem. Quimur now has almost 20,000 disciplined warriors with him, equipped with proper arms and armor. This battle just became all the more difficult.”
“Losing faith in your plan?” Khanata goaded.
“Any plan that relies on magic as a cornerstone is not a very good plan.”
Thorathor, Khanata, and Bak’enad continued talking. Kierata thought it was about tactics, but her mind was on other matters. “Cormu, go fetch a scribe. I will know these traitors as soon as possible.” If she was victorious, and or any of them survived, in the coming battle, then she had to know who to punish. There would be no forgiveness for this.
First out, twenty-five hundred strong were the Ulubatli, the household cavalry of the Cohla that acted as her personal bodyguards and warriors while at war. Riding upon horses of ancient and prominent pedigree, both man and horse cantered out to battle with grim determination and a terrible, predatory look. Each man was clad in lamellar armor and a conical iron helmet, all of which was polished so that shown brilliantly as mirrors. Armed with long iron tipped spears, fine recurved composite bows of masterful work, and sharp, cruel kimitars, they were the most renown of all of Pallislan’s warriors. At their head was Thorathor, declared the Cohla’s head general, Khanata, the Cohla’s betrothed and her champion, and Salithos, a Sey of Pallislan and her most able native commander. Within the body of the Ulubatli road the Cohla herself, gone to watch her great army gloriously destroy the inhuman barbarians threatening her Cohlate.
Just behind the Ulubatli, riding finely groomed horses, were fifty wizards of Pallislan and their most able apprentices. Many of these men had experience, horrendously bought, at performing magic whilst in the maelstrom of battle. Among them were wagons full of magical artifacts, ingredients for mighty potions, incense, and many other things needed to properly cast spells. Draped in heavy, red or yellow silk cloaks above intricate, rune covered robes, these men would be essential to the coming battle by providing supernatural support.
Immediately behind them rode the twenty-four thousand strong Mighan cavalry. These were the Seys, their sons, and for some of them, their daughters, with the tribal warriors that were loyal to their line, and other armed and mounted retinues. These were the social, economic, and military elite of Pallislan, having a lust for battle and a hunger for glory. Each man was armed with deadly, curved kimitars and sturdy recurved composite bows. The richest of them wore finely polished lamellar armor, while the rest wore strong scale armor. Riding pedigreed warhorses of proven quality, these brave warriors were the backbone of Palllislan’s triumphant army.
Next in this order of battle marched the Kheshichan, who were the guards of the palace. They were eight thousand strong and acting now as the Cohla’s elite infantry force. They marched in perfect unison, each company a perfect long rectangle, and not a single man moving to a different step as they marched out of the city. They too wore polished lamellar armor and conical helmets top the five-pointed Star of Puervsren, and were armed with long, recurved composite bows and long iron tipped spears. These brave, professional men would provide a strong anchor for the Cohla’s army on the field.
After them, in a rather unruly mob, came one hundred fifty so-called New Men. These half-mad persons believed that a New World was fast approaching, and that those who embraced the future now would be well positioned to rule the New World. What this New World consisted of was a strange weapon: a small metal tube carried by man that was filled with a fast burning powder and a small, round stone or lead ball, a weapon most sovereigns of Ubernorden thought of as little more than noisemakers, useless for killing men. But in these desperate times, no one could say no to a hundred fifty noisemakers.
At the end of the column cantered out the Alkinki, mercenaries and contingents of warriors of tribal entities not a part of Pallislan. Armed with bows of comparatively poorer quality and kimitars, wearing little in the way of armor, theirs was the job to range ahead of the main force, scouting for the enemy and attacking opposing settlements for plunder, which they kept. Though they were considered ill-mannered and insubordinate, they were still a need force, essential to Pallislan’s war against Quimur.
This was a mighty force of thirty-five thousand strong, hearty men wanting nothing more than honor and glory. Though it was paltry compared to the eighty-three thousand Pallislan could potentially have fielded, it was still more than enough to drive out the barbarians invading glorious Pallislan. At the head of the column, Thorathor rustled uneasily in his saddle. After three years of inactivity, he already felt sore riding on the strong warhorse lent to him by the Cohla. Sore and uneasy, nevertheless, Thorathor was not afraid. Like any good Icelander, he would go to battle and possibly meet his end with the pride and dignity of his ancestors, though they resided thousands of miles away. He felt ridiculous wearing a silken purple cloak and the best lamellar armor of the palace armory, polished to a mirror-like sheen, but there was something grand to it that Thorathor liked.
Several trumpets blared behind them now indicating that the army had left the city. He then turned to Khanata, resplendent in gilded lamellar armor and a violet silk cloak. “You should’ve supported me in trying to convince the Cohla to stay in the city.” For the past three days, Thorathor had been given intense training and education into Pallislan culture and politics. Ideally, he would have had a whole week to learn, but Quimur was not going to allow that. However, Thorathor’s years of wandering the whole of Ubernorden has given him the skills to absorb a lot of knowledge, especially the local vernacular.
“You still do not understand, do you?” came the reply. “As the ruling steward of Pallislan, she must come to the battle and watch as her army crushes her enemies.”
“Fine!” Thorathor retorted. “But we are going into a battle against a foe where we are expected to lose.”
“Afraid are we, xeno?”
Thorathor’s hand went to his sword at the insulting accusation of cowardice, but fortunately he was aware of the consequences of his actions. “There is no magic that can’t be conquered by men with sufficient will to win and a carefully thought out plan. But that hardly means we can overcome Quimur. She should stay in the city and prepare its defenses. Certainly she’d be safer. You want that, don’t you? She is your woman, after all.”
“She is, in a way,” replied Khanata. “But she is quite stubborn and not easily coerced.” Thorathor turned to look ahead in a huff. Khanata, on the other hand, looked at him with renewed suspicion.
The army was traveling to the village of Bakanu. According to the strategic maps found in the palace, there were a series of three large and steep hills near there. Situated right on the road that led right to Dakuna, going through this place was the only way for Quimur to march to the capital before the campaign season ended. The road near Bakanu went in an easterly direction until it reached the hills where it turned south for about a mile. Bakanu itself was to the near the end of that southerly stretch where the road bent back, going relatively straight, east for a few miles.
The largest of the three hills, and to the immediate east of the road, was known as Watchtower Hill. It was so high that a person standing on it could see for almost thirty miles in every direction. Command of that hill gave a distinct advantage to anyone who had it. The hill to the east of Watchtower Hill, the furthest from the road and the smallest of the three, was called Guardian Hill. It was named thusly, because of the nature of its location made it a natural defensive structure for the flank of its much larger brother. And that was its only real value in this situation. The third and final hill, located to the southwest of Watchtower Hill, was called Gatehouse Hill. With the road going between it and Watchtower Hill, Gatehouse Hill was critical for controlling the local portion of the road, only slightly more so then its brothers.
Because it was in Pallislan’s best interest to preserve its military force, any engagement with Quimur would have to be defensive in nature. Those three hills near Bakamu would prove to be an invaluable defensive asset. Another asset to the Pallios army was the nature of Quimur’s. Assembled from scratch by tribal warriors and mercenaries paid by plunder, Quimur had to attack or risk his army disappearing, Sword of Saledesh or no. This necessity allowed Pallislan’s leaders to predict Quimur’s next movements, and even control it to a degree, because Quimur would not be able to ignore an opportunity to attack and destroy his enemy’s army, in spite of any defensive fortifications. Despite all this, there would be no guarantee of success.
After a two and a half day march, the Pallios army had reached Bakamu. Sadly, Quimur’s forces would be on them tomorrow morning, allowing little time to prepare. As the army marched, news from the front was given to them from refugees and retreating forces. As is often the case, the reports they gave were conflicting. But enough truth was gleamed from them that a more complete picture of the war’s progress could be drawn.
After the Sack of Khamatur, Quimur divided his army into twelve large units, and sent them on a reign of terror. With no opposing army to meet him, the risk of his army being destroyed piecemeal was non-existent. This provided the Palllias with a great opportunity, as they would have a number of days to prepare their chosen battlefield before Quimur could recombine his forces and attack. But somehow Quimur was made aware of their march, and had amassed his army quickly in response.
The effect on the morale of the Pallios army was palpable. The wizards were beside themselves with dismay. At the start of, and during, the march they had cast a spell to counter any spell Quimur’s magicians would cast to gather intelligence. They were certain that the counter-spells had succeeded. So either their skills were diminished and thus would be useless in battle, or Quimur had greater magic than they could overcome. The rest of the army was more concerned with the approaching enemy, an enemy of equal or greater numbers with a powerful magical artifact at their head. A hard battle had just become close to hopeless. However, the army’s morale was not helped by the constant arguing of their leaders.
Not quite a novice at battlefield command, Thorathor none-the-less needed to know the basics of his units’ capabilities. However, these necessary questions seemed to greatly concern the leadership, who now worried if their commander could actually command in the battle. All of this was made worse by Khanata’s intense arguments with Thorathor. It was made clear from the beginning that Khanata disliked having Thorathor in command. And ever since the march began, those feelings became worse. The Cohla was often needed to separate the two before argument turned to duel.
But now they had to prepare for battle. So after the army had set-up their camp on the north side of the hills, putting the hill between them and the enemy, Thorathor summoned the more prominent seys to his tent to discuss strategy. Thorathor’s usual command style was to issue orders and dispositions without counsel, and let the company commanders decide if it was doable or not; Thorathor would then issue new orders based on their reports. That style of leadership was fine when the army was assembled on Thorathor’s personality alone, but an army raised by a civilized system required more consensuses among the leaders. And so at Kierata’s insistence, Thorathor reluctantly hosted a war council.
“Perhaps it would be better to use counter-march tactics,” suggested Sumos, the leader of the company of wizards.
“What is the counter-march tactic?” asked Thorathor. He did not hide his exasperation at these proceedings, wishing instead to get the men ready for tomorrow’s battle.
“A counter-march is when your army positions itself as close to the enemy as possible without engaging them in battle,” answered Tumatos, one of Pallislan’s most important seys. “Then, whenever the enemy tries to attack you, your army retreats. You never retreat so far as to be too far from the enemy, you instead continue to be a short march away from them the entire time. The tactic is designed to force the enemy to extend their lines of communication and supply to the breaking point. It only works if the enemy has poor supply lines to begin with, which I believe the case here.” Many of the assembly agreed with Tumatos’s assertion. “It will certainly protract the war, but it will be safer for our sovereignty.” Again, there was widespread agreement.
“Safer for the sovereignty, or for you?” Thorathor asked with unsurprising tactlessness.
Khanata interposed himself between the two before an unproductive argument followed. “What our General means is that the situation does not favor counter-march tactics. It is true that Quimur has poor supply lines. But that is because he has no base from which to be resupplied from. The only way in which Quimur supplies his army is from foraging for supplies from our lands. He would only benefit form a protracted war.” As would you, by giving you time to betray us, Khanata said with his mind.
“As you can see, Great Tumatos,” Salithos said, “we must engage Quimur in a single decisive battle.”
“Since battle is the only option for us, perhaps we should prepare for one,” said Thorathor sternly.
“And quickly,” added Beous, the Sey of the Nalovd Clan. Though his land was currently overrun with Quimur’s bandits, he remained one of the Cohla’s biggest supporters. “We are losing too much daylight to work in.”
“What we need to do is dig a series of trenches up the hills,” said Thorathor.
“Why,” asked Otgonabar, the Sey of the Balovi Clan and another sey whose loyalty was suspect. “We could just attack him now, and hard.”
“Against a force of equal strength, with superior morale and the Sword of Grand Cohl? You must be jesting,” spoke Khanata.
“He is correct,” answered Thorathor. “In order to defeat this foe we must let him attack us in prepared positions. Is there any other suggestions to the contrary?” he asked with barely contained menace.
The impudence of Thorathor’s attitude made all the councilors erupt in umbrage. Which became a shouting match among them as old rivalries, as they often do, took precedence among them. Thorathor bowed his head in frustration, and Khanata threw up his hands in despair.
Thorathor then looked straight at Kierata, who sat at the head of the assembly, in quiet dignity. “Are you the Cohla or no?” he asked.
Kierata had been sitting with her head bowed, scared and feeling quite alone. Though she could pass as leader at a time of relative peace, she knew in her heart that she had no place in war. But when Thorathor asked his question, she gave him a dirty look for his continued impudence. Then she closed her eyes and took a deep breathe knowing he was right. She stood up and shouted, “Enough. Right now Pallislan faces the greatest threat to his power and existence as an independent sovereignty since the Pallios-Quertick Wars of nearly 20 years ago. With my brother held by treacherous vassals against his will, it falls to me, the daughter of Budaci, to protect Pallislan. But because I am a woman, I have not the strength to do my impromptu duty. So in order to facilitate that duty, I have bestowed on Thorathor, the Smiling Demon the rank of General and made him my commander of my army. He speaks with my voice! If there is anyone here whose pride and honor cannot abide following the orders of this man, a former brigand, then leave this council. You will wait in your tents until ordered into position for battle. That is my command as Cohla of Pallislan.
“Though I am quite unskilled at war, I do understand the wisdom of Thorathor’s advice. So as far as I am concerned, the debate over where we shall face the enemy is over. The debate on how we shall face them is still proceeding. But, I implore you to object only if you are truly concerned with the plan, not if because it insults your manhood in some way. Time is on the side of the enemy, and not with us.
“Great Thorathor, you may proceed.” And Kierata sat back down on her cushion trying to remain impassionedly determined. In truth, she felt frightened and concerned, as if she had just reached further than she was able or allowed to do. But as she looked around, no one moved or made a sound. They all just looked at her mesmerized and even a little impressed.
Thorathor clapped his hands together to bring the councilors out of their daze. “As of now,” he said, “we don’t have the time to fortify our position adequately. But if we work until nightfall, and a little by torchlight, we can dig enough trench system on top of Watchtower and Guardian Hills. Each trench should cover the south sides, be about eight feet apart and at least four feet deep and six feet wide. If we had time they would be deeper and wider.”
“Just those two hills?” asked Sumor. “Why not Gatehouse Hill as well?”
“Because I have something special planned that requires Gatehouse Hill to be left untouched.” Everyone waited for Thorathor to say what that special plan was, but he said nothing else.
“If there are no other questions, we should break in order to prepare our defenses,” said Khanata. “Once the Alkinkis come back from their scouting, we will reconvene to discuss the order for battle.”
With that, the leadership of the army left to relay orders. Salithos was given the task of making sure the defensive works were prepared with haste. With luck and hard work they would be able to fortify their hills in time. However, Khanata, Thorathor, and Kierata remained behind.
“Your Highness, if it pleases you, could we be alone for a moment?” asked Khanata. And as he asked that, Khanata looked at Thorathor with a murderous stare. Thorathor saw it, but seemed unconcerned. Slowly Kierata stood up and slowly walked out of the tent, not really wanting to leave these two alone.
Once Keirata had left, Khanta tore into Thorathor with barely restrained fury. “What specialty do you plan for with Gatehouse Hill?”
“Nothing to concern yourself over,” answered Thorathor in a voice intended to calm down Khanata. “Worry instead on the fight against Quimur.”
“Oh!”
“Yes,” said Thorathor. “I will need you focused on battling Quimur if we are to win.”
“Do you intend to win?” asked Khanata. The question shocked Thorathor and his face screwed up in confusion. “There is no reason to leave Gatehouse Hill untouched. The road goes between Gatehouse Hill and Watchtower Hill forming a small valley between them. Quimur’s army will naturally move through that valley. If we do not place men on Gatehouse Hill, and fortify it, there will be nothing to prevent the enemy from outflanking and surrounding us upon Watchtower and Guardian Hills!”
“Will it now?” Thorathor asked knowingly.
“You know damn well that it will!” Khanata replied, too furious to understand Thorathor’s hint. “I can see what you are planning. You plan to make an end in this battle! You plan on making one last glorious fight for the Smiling Demon, one that will be talked about long after Quimur has taken all of Ubernorden! That is why you wished the Cohla to remain in Dakuna. You knew she would be taken in this battle!”
Thorathor took a deep breathe. “I wanted the Cohla to remain in Dakuna because she has no place in a battle. I will never understand how you Easterners can allow women to fight in wars. They’re too important to die! As to your accusations, yes. And you may take your theory to the Cohla if you wish; I certainly won’t try to stop you.” Khanta’s wrath was increasing now, but Thorathor paid it no mind. “But since she believes that I’m a divinely chosen savior for Pallislan, she’ll probably not heed your advice.”
Khanta had heard enough. He stood up quickly and half-ran to the tent entrance. “Wait!” Thorathor commanded to him, and he stopped. Then Thorathor invited him to sit down across from him again. He was hesitant at first, but sat down anyway wanting to hear what Thorathor had to say.
Thorathor took a deep breathe, and said, “I’m sorry. I should not be keeping you in the dark about my plans. The more you know, the greater its chances of success. Above all else, you and I must trust each other. What I have planned is…”
Kierata laid down on her cushioned bedding, wide awake. Moments before dusk, several of the scouting parties had returned. Their reports indicated that Quimur’s army had made their camp a scant 10 miles away. Even if Quimur took his time preparing his men, they would be upon them before noontime tomorrow, and with a force greater than their own by a half.
But that was not what was keeping her awake. Green as she was, Kierata knew that being tactically defensive was better than attacking. And though Quimur’s new numbers were surprising, they were not particularly troublesome. How many battles were there where numerically inferior forces won decisively. What was troubling her, however, was the relationship between Khanata and Thorathor. Not unreasonably, Kierata felt that Khanta’s attitude toward Thorathor was based partly on jealously. He loved her, and she him. So the thought that she would seek the help of another man in an area Khanata was renowned for must have been devastating. But what choice did she have, the gods had told her who her champion in this war must be.
Then in the afternoon of this same day, Khanata came out of a conversation with Thorathor in total disbelief. He exited her tent shaking his head, mouthing “he is mad.” He still had great ill will toward Thorathor, but carried out his battle plan to the letter, nonetheless. However, Khanta now possessed an out of character quietness to him.
“Your highness. Your highness.” Kierata could barely tell who was saying that, or what was going on. Evidently she had fallen asleep and was woken up. “Your Highness,” the speaker said again, and Kierata turned to see her maid, Cormu, over her. Here in camp, Kierata’s slave-servants slept in a kind of foyer of her tent so as to intercept those who would see their superior naked.
“What is it, Cormu?”
“Your Highness,” the young woman said with characteristic timidity, “Great Thorathor wishes to see you.”
Kierata paused, thinking the request over. Then she said, “Alright, hand me a dressing robe and see him in.”
“Apologies, Your Highness, but Great Thorathor has requested that you come to see him.”
Me, go to him? thought Kierata. Of all the impudence. Her first desire was to ignore the summoning. But she decided to hear what he had to say, he was her general after all. Besides which, there was no possibility of Cormu being able to give Thorathor the message Kierata wanted to convey.
With Cormu’s help, Kierata dressed warmly and quickly, and set out. Thorathor’s tent wasn’t far from her own. And when she entered, she was surprised to see Khanata there as well. He looked at her with a somber face, like someone special to her had just died. Thorathor also looked at her as did another person in the tent. This person had a slim face that appeared to be incredibly smooth and soft. He had dark friendly eyes and strange ears that came a point like a blade of grass. With a start, she suddenly recognized him as an elf.
“Your Highness, this is Bak’enad,” said Thorathor. “He is a Ranger from Dabinan, the home of the Island Elves. And briefly a traveling companion with some time ago.”
“It is a fascinating tale, Your Highness,” the elf began. “It began on the third or fourth day…”
“I don’t think that’s appropriate now, Bak’enad,” said Thorathor with a sharp hand gesture. “Tell her what you just told me.”
Bak’enad sighed heavily. Evidently he had told this story several times before. “Your Highness, I am a captain of a company of Ronglangs, or rangers if you will, sent here to end the threat Quimur represents to us.”
Kierata immediately lit up. “Then the elves are lending us aid against Quimur?”
“No, Your Highness,” replied Khanata. “This company is too small to give us any aid. And they will not participate in the coming battle.”
“Our mission here,” continued Bak’enad, “is to acquire the Sword of Saledesh by any means and return it to the Hishnu Shrine of Kalashid. As of now, Quimur is too well guarded, surrounded as he is by his army. As such, there is little hope of us taking the Sword from him and ending his threat.”
“I understand,” said a very disappointed Kierata. “But why have you come to us? Surely you could have come after the battle.”
Bak’enad appeared uneasy, and looked over at both Khanata and Thorathor. Khanata indicated to Bak’enad to continue. “My company was spying on Quimur’s army on the off chance that we could slip through its lines. Whilst doing so, we discovered that some in Quimur’s army were fielding colors, and were organizing their camp in an ordered and regimented fashion. I am sorry, Your Highness, but I am sure that they are warriors form Pallislan.”
In truth, Kierata wasn’t surprised at the news. Nor was she’d disappointed. With Dieraka taken prisoner and a woman now on the throne, many of the Pallislan nobility had lost faith in the Doruku Dynasty’s ability to protect them. To them, Quimur seemed to be the safer force to follow than a Cohla who had just come of age. But still, such treason could not be tolerated.
“Do you know who exactly has gone over to Quimur, Great Bak’enad?”
“My apologies, Your Highness, but no. I am very much unaware of Pallislan politics. I did not even know your name until now.”
“Could you perhaps recognize their colors if we showed them to you?” suggested Khanata.
“Yes, I suppose I could.”
“This is all well and good,” said Thorathor, “but there is a more immediate problem. Quimur now has almost 20,000 disciplined warriors with him, equipped with proper arms and armor. This battle just became all the more difficult.”
“Losing faith in your plan?” Khanata goaded.
“Any plan that relies on magic as a cornerstone is not a very good plan.”
Thorathor, Khanata, and Bak’enad continued talking. Kierata thought it was about tactics, but her mind was on other matters. “Cormu, go fetch a scribe. I will know these traitors as soon as possible.” If she was victorious, and or any of them survived, in the coming battle, then she had to know who to punish. There would be no forgiveness for this.
IV
At two hours until noon, Khanata could see the enemy that stretched across the horizon. They were perhaps a half mile away and charging head long toward the Pallios lines. Almost unconsciously, Khanata looked from side to side. Just as it was only a few minutes ago, the warriors of Pallislan remained still in formation. General Thorathor had given him command of the bulk of the army to conduct a fighting retreat a mile from the base-camp. The fighting would consist mostly of missile volleys with the occasional close-in fighting. Against a force three times the size of his own, Khanata was not very confident of the plan.
The enemy was a quarter mile away now, the horizon was being obscured by the dust cloud they were kicking up. Again Khanata looked to his sides. And again his forces remained in formation, skillfully keeping their snorting warhorses under control. Khanata shouldn’t have been surprised. These were after all warriors of Pallislan, descendants of brave and deadly horse-nomads who cleaved out a strong horse-lord Cohlate two hundred years prior. They would not retreat from just any foe. They would fight to the last to preserve their honor and that of their ancestors. And to that end, not a single Pallios Mighan broke out of their rectangular block formation, a formation perfect for missile volleys and close-in charges.
When the enemy approached an approximate distance of three hundred yards, Khanata ordered the first missile volley of the battle. Over twenty thousand arrows flew into the air, a veritable cloud of death. Many hundreds of the enemy fell, downed by arrows striking rider or horse. However, they continued on heedless of their danger. Another volley of arrows was loosed, but no longer in tandem, and still more of the enemy fell.
However, this time their volley was answered in kind. Now hundreds of Pallios fell to missile fire, their armor seemingly less effective than a ream of paper. Since the enemy was now closer, Khanata ordered the expected withdraw. Each man knew the plan, thus order was kept as the fighting retreat began parallel to the road. Since the vanguard of the enemy consisted mostly of light cavalry tribal auxiliaries, the enemy often came too close to safely retreat. When that came, the Pallios would get in close where their better armor and swordsmanship would drive the barbaric tribal warriors away.
For more than an hour, the Pallios Mighan would fire parting shots at their pursuers and counterattacked when necessary, all the way to Watchtower Hill. Many brave and virtuous warriors of Pallislan died during the running battle, but more of the enemy fell to Pallios arms. Yet still the enemy came on, given false moral fortitude by the Pallios’s flight.
Once at the three hills, Khanata split up his forces to go on either side of the two Eastern Hills; he would command the divisions on the roads on the right, Salithos would command the division on the leftmost flank, and Tumatos would command the division between the two hills. Those warriors who had spent all their arrows, or had lost their horse and managed to be picked up, climbed up either hill to bolster its defense, red-painted kimitars clutched in their hands. Already in position, the Kheshichan stood ready with bows in hand and swords loose in their scabbards. All during the morning, those residents of Bakamu who had been drafted as workers cut down trees to make large stakes that would obfuscate those who attacked the two hills. And high atop Watchtower Hill sat Kierata in a make-shift throne observing the ongoing battle.
Here at the base of Watchtower and Guardian hills the enemy paused in its advance. Many turned south to pillage Bakamu. Fortunately, the women, children, and elderly had evacuated the day before, taking with them much of their valuables. But while the ransacking continued unabated, the rest of Quimur’s army came up to assault the Pallios lines. Thousands of the enemy dismounted, ready to assault the inadequately prepared pair of hills. But most of the force remained mounted in order to attack around the hills. The traitor Mighan were given the honor of attacking hills, so that they could personally tell their ‘former’ Cohla of their intent to renounce her authority. Though there was a practical reason for this, with their better armor and arms, they would be more successful in the attack than the poorer tribal riders.
Once in full position the assault began. A full charge was committed directly against the hills and around them. There was no sign of skirmishing probes, tactical formations, or even preliminary missile attacks. It was a simple frontal assault up the hills, a reckless charge born of a fanatical rage. Once the enemy was four hundred yards away from both hills the Kheshichan and other soldiers unleashed a fusillade of arrows at the attackers. Sadly, only a few of them fell to the cloud of death as the armor of Pallislan make was created specifically to deflect arrows. Even with the rain of death the enemy continued on unabated and unafraid of further attacks. Just before reaching the base of the hills, however, the New Men fired their guns into the oncoming enemy. The attack killed only a handful of the enemy, but the sudden crack of false thunder spooked a few of the enemy horses throwing their riders to the ground. The men paid the noise no heed, and the charge continued. Those men, though courageous and disciplined, could never stand up to an attack by armored men, so the New Men soldiers pulled back allowing some of the Kheshichan to move in, armed with a spear and a shield.
Soon enough the melee began. At the flanks of the hills, horsemen clashed in animalistic fury. Horses bucked, kicked, and bit at everything that was near them, friend or foe. On both sides the warriors atop the wild warhorses struggled to stay upon the animals while fighting against their foe. It was a testament to the skill of the Pallios horsemen that they were able to better control their horses. Many enemy men and horses fell to Pallios kimitars. Sadly there were more of Quimur’s horsemen than there was of Pallislan’s. Upon the hills, men clashed in desperate mortal combat. Here, the terrifying fury of the enemy’s devotion to Quimur worked to their advantage. But for the obstacles in front of them, the enemy might have run right over the Cohla’s elite. After half-an-hour of desperate close-in fighting the enemy was repulsed, though not in disarray. When the center gave way, the enemy flanks also withdrew. However, the enemy retreated in good order, and prepared to renew its assault.
Many more times did Quimur’s army assault the Pallios battle lines. And each time Quimur’s forces advanced a little further. Men on both sides were dying in droves, the trenches filled with corpses, but still the enemy came, while the Pallios fell back. At a certain point, Quimur’s army was again repulsed, but only to the base of the hill. While the battle for the hills wore on, the flanks of the Pallios were being taken. Though the Pallislan Mighan had better training and equipment, the enemy had numbers and fanaticism born from the Sword of Saledesh. Salithos tried to hold the left in a firm, tight grip. But then he fell to a fated arrow to his right lung, piercing a weakened point in his cuirass. Without his leadership, the whole left disintegrated before Quimur’s forces. On the right Khanata managed a small miracle and kept his division together, despite the overwhelming numbers that assembled there to take the road. But still, the enemy proved to be too much. In an effort keep the Pallios camp from being ransacked, Khanta rallied his forces up the western side of Watchtower Hill. He ran onto the hill at about the halfway point, and as he looked at the field of death and rage he silently cursed Thorathor. His plan was failing and they were the ones who would suffer for it. He looked up at Kierata. She hadn’t moved in all this time and still remained motionless in her throne, a naked kimitar on her lap. Khanata prayed for her safety and turned back to the battle in order to kill more of the enemy, but really, he was killing Thorathor.
Thorathor sat on the eastern side of Gatehouse Hill, chewing on a blade of sweetgrass. He was completely armed and armored for war with the Cohlate’s best equipment polished to a mirror-like sheen. But additionally, upon his face and somewhat under his helmet he wore his Smiling Demon mask that he had made during the march to Bakamu. For hours he had been watching the battle, from the time that the Mighan retreated to the hills to the collapse of the Pallios flanks. He knew the flanks would be turned by Quimur’s forces. They were too well motivated and too numerous for anything else to happen. But still, it was going pretty much according to plan. Then Quimur’s army charged the Pallios lines again, while upon an even tempered horse near the base of Watchtower Hill sat Quimur himself, the Sword of Saledesh high above his head. All throughout the course of this battle he remained unscathed, protected by the power of the God of War. Thorathor just couldn’t wait to come to blows with that man.
This new attack by Quimur’s men seemed to be different this time. Now the Pallios were retreating further up the hill, their fighting spirit finally taken to its limit. Just as Thorathor had predicted, Quimur’s army was going to win a set-piece fight, despite good position and adequate preparation. This was why Thorathor had placed the wizards of Pallislan at the top of Gatehouse Hill, because they would be safer from attack than at the other two hills. Just prior to this final assault by the enemy, Thorathor sent word to them to combine their strength in casting a special spell. Even now they were busy casting their spell that would begin the end of this battle. But magic does not come easy, particularly for a new kind of spell, and now Quimur’s forces were almost halfway up Watchtower Hill and had completely driven the Pallios off of Guardian Hill. Thorathor became a little worried now. If the spell didn’t go off soon, he would have to take action that would be little more than a suicide attack.
And then suddenly, it happened. From the very ground of both Watchtower and Guardian Hills came thousands of stalagmites made from topsoil, spearing everything around the base of the two hills. Thousands of horses and men were instantly impaled without mercy or warning. Though these stalagmites quickly fell apart back into regular dirt, the reaction of the enemy lingered. Confusion and fear fell like rain upon them, destroying their cohesion and momentum. It was exactly what Thorathor had wanted.
Then Thorathor snapped his fingers on his right. It was the signal to Jornazog, the captain of the Ulubatli, to prepare his men. At the same moment, Thorathor pulled on the reins sitting upon his lap to bring his horse up from the ground. In seconds, the mighty warhorse that Thorathor was sitting on stood up stamped at the ground. She was hungry for blood and Thorathor knew exactly what she meant. In another moment he was surrounded by thousands of elite cavalry forces of the Ulubatli, once hidden by the tall grass of Gatehouse Hill. Thorathor unsheathed his sword and nodded to a man on his left. The man blew a horn, and with a great sound, the Ulubatli charged the disoriented enemy army in the flank.
Cut off from retreat, with the gods apparently against them, the enemy panicked and ran. And once an army decides to live rather than kill, not even the Sword of Saledesh could keep it together. Now Kierata screamed at her warriors to attack and destroy her foes, and order gleefully obeyed by all who followed her. Thorathor with the Ulubatli cut a bloody swath through the enemy’s rear. Swords were swung in every direction, felling both man and beast, riders and infantry alike. Those Pallios that were still on Watchtower Hill counter-attacked with terrifying ferocity, killing the enemy left and right. Men and horses alike screamed in pain.
In the middle of this bloody melee, Thorathor saw Quimur still on horseback. Holding the Sword high above him, he was shouting at his men, trying to reestablish control. If given the time it probably could be done, such was the power of the Sword. The Pallios host was still outnumbered and the enemy still had the better morale, broken though it was, but not yet destroyed. However, Thorathor would not let that happen. He spurred his horse straight at Quimur, murder in his demeanor. Sensing his danger, Quimur took notice of Thorathor and endeavored to meet his charge. Few got in their way as the two generals sought each other. When they were 100 yards apart, Thorathor flipped his kimitar around so that the blade was downward in his hand. Quimur continued on unchanged, the Sword of Saledesh back behind him, ready for the death blow. Though Thorathor was the greater warrior, with the aid of the mighty sword, Thorathor would be quickly defeated. When they were only a few feet from each other, the sweat of their horses splashing upon the other, Thorathor leapt atop his saddle, crouching there like panther ready to pounce. And pounce he did. With great strength, Thorathor jumped high into the air raising his sword high above his head. Quimur tried to bring his sword into Thorathor, but he was just too slow. Thorathor collided with Quimur plunging his sword deep into Quimur’s inadequately protected chest. The momentum sent the both them to the ground.
Once he had stopped tumbling, Thorathor curled up into a ball covering his head. He was on the ground in the middle of hundreds of fighting horses and was in great danger of being trampled. He knew that his best hope for survival was lay still and trust in the horses desire not to step on a living creature. Quimur lay dead next to him.
The death of Quimur immediately robbed any fighting spirit that was left with the enemy forces. They broke, never to assemble again. Those that could escape did so, others fell on their knees, discarding their weapons, and begged for quarter. Not one enemy warrior continued the fight.
Hours later, Kierata strolled along the base of Watchtower Hill copiously stepping over the many bodies littering the ground. Victory smelled sweet to her, even if the method filled her with horror. Men on both sides laid dead or dying, blood soaked the ground, turning it into squishy mud. Along the road towards Bakamu, those enemy warriors that had surrendered were being corralled unarmed into groups. They would be immediately sold into slavery by the state and the proceeds would go into helping rebuild what they had destroyed. Khanata walked to her side. He was telling her the full cost of the battle, but she wasn’t listening. Only moments ago she believed that she would lose and her Cohlate would be destroyed. This victory shook her into blankness, but in a pleasant fashion.
She was brought out of it by Thorathor’s approach. Her victorious general was covered in blood, helmetless, and with his Smiling Demon mask in his hand. He looked right into Kierata’s eyes, saying with them, I bring you victory. He then looked at Khanata.
“So,” he said to Khanata, “how was this for an end?”
The enemy was a quarter mile away now, the horizon was being obscured by the dust cloud they were kicking up. Again Khanata looked to his sides. And again his forces remained in formation, skillfully keeping their snorting warhorses under control. Khanata shouldn’t have been surprised. These were after all warriors of Pallislan, descendants of brave and deadly horse-nomads who cleaved out a strong horse-lord Cohlate two hundred years prior. They would not retreat from just any foe. They would fight to the last to preserve their honor and that of their ancestors. And to that end, not a single Pallios Mighan broke out of their rectangular block formation, a formation perfect for missile volleys and close-in charges.
When the enemy approached an approximate distance of three hundred yards, Khanata ordered the first missile volley of the battle. Over twenty thousand arrows flew into the air, a veritable cloud of death. Many hundreds of the enemy fell, downed by arrows striking rider or horse. However, they continued on heedless of their danger. Another volley of arrows was loosed, but no longer in tandem, and still more of the enemy fell.
However, this time their volley was answered in kind. Now hundreds of Pallios fell to missile fire, their armor seemingly less effective than a ream of paper. Since the enemy was now closer, Khanata ordered the expected withdraw. Each man knew the plan, thus order was kept as the fighting retreat began parallel to the road. Since the vanguard of the enemy consisted mostly of light cavalry tribal auxiliaries, the enemy often came too close to safely retreat. When that came, the Pallios would get in close where their better armor and swordsmanship would drive the barbaric tribal warriors away.
For more than an hour, the Pallios Mighan would fire parting shots at their pursuers and counterattacked when necessary, all the way to Watchtower Hill. Many brave and virtuous warriors of Pallislan died during the running battle, but more of the enemy fell to Pallios arms. Yet still the enemy came on, given false moral fortitude by the Pallios’s flight.
Once at the three hills, Khanata split up his forces to go on either side of the two Eastern Hills; he would command the divisions on the roads on the right, Salithos would command the division on the leftmost flank, and Tumatos would command the division between the two hills. Those warriors who had spent all their arrows, or had lost their horse and managed to be picked up, climbed up either hill to bolster its defense, red-painted kimitars clutched in their hands. Already in position, the Kheshichan stood ready with bows in hand and swords loose in their scabbards. All during the morning, those residents of Bakamu who had been drafted as workers cut down trees to make large stakes that would obfuscate those who attacked the two hills. And high atop Watchtower Hill sat Kierata in a make-shift throne observing the ongoing battle.
Here at the base of Watchtower and Guardian hills the enemy paused in its advance. Many turned south to pillage Bakamu. Fortunately, the women, children, and elderly had evacuated the day before, taking with them much of their valuables. But while the ransacking continued unabated, the rest of Quimur’s army came up to assault the Pallios lines. Thousands of the enemy dismounted, ready to assault the inadequately prepared pair of hills. But most of the force remained mounted in order to attack around the hills. The traitor Mighan were given the honor of attacking hills, so that they could personally tell their ‘former’ Cohla of their intent to renounce her authority. Though there was a practical reason for this, with their better armor and arms, they would be more successful in the attack than the poorer tribal riders.
Once in full position the assault began. A full charge was committed directly against the hills and around them. There was no sign of skirmishing probes, tactical formations, or even preliminary missile attacks. It was a simple frontal assault up the hills, a reckless charge born of a fanatical rage. Once the enemy was four hundred yards away from both hills the Kheshichan and other soldiers unleashed a fusillade of arrows at the attackers. Sadly, only a few of them fell to the cloud of death as the armor of Pallislan make was created specifically to deflect arrows. Even with the rain of death the enemy continued on unabated and unafraid of further attacks. Just before reaching the base of the hills, however, the New Men fired their guns into the oncoming enemy. The attack killed only a handful of the enemy, but the sudden crack of false thunder spooked a few of the enemy horses throwing their riders to the ground. The men paid the noise no heed, and the charge continued. Those men, though courageous and disciplined, could never stand up to an attack by armored men, so the New Men soldiers pulled back allowing some of the Kheshichan to move in, armed with a spear and a shield.
Soon enough the melee began. At the flanks of the hills, horsemen clashed in animalistic fury. Horses bucked, kicked, and bit at everything that was near them, friend or foe. On both sides the warriors atop the wild warhorses struggled to stay upon the animals while fighting against their foe. It was a testament to the skill of the Pallios horsemen that they were able to better control their horses. Many enemy men and horses fell to Pallios kimitars. Sadly there were more of Quimur’s horsemen than there was of Pallislan’s. Upon the hills, men clashed in desperate mortal combat. Here, the terrifying fury of the enemy’s devotion to Quimur worked to their advantage. But for the obstacles in front of them, the enemy might have run right over the Cohla’s elite. After half-an-hour of desperate close-in fighting the enemy was repulsed, though not in disarray. When the center gave way, the enemy flanks also withdrew. However, the enemy retreated in good order, and prepared to renew its assault.
Many more times did Quimur’s army assault the Pallios battle lines. And each time Quimur’s forces advanced a little further. Men on both sides were dying in droves, the trenches filled with corpses, but still the enemy came, while the Pallios fell back. At a certain point, Quimur’s army was again repulsed, but only to the base of the hill. While the battle for the hills wore on, the flanks of the Pallios were being taken. Though the Pallislan Mighan had better training and equipment, the enemy had numbers and fanaticism born from the Sword of Saledesh. Salithos tried to hold the left in a firm, tight grip. But then he fell to a fated arrow to his right lung, piercing a weakened point in his cuirass. Without his leadership, the whole left disintegrated before Quimur’s forces. On the right Khanata managed a small miracle and kept his division together, despite the overwhelming numbers that assembled there to take the road. But still, the enemy proved to be too much. In an effort keep the Pallios camp from being ransacked, Khanta rallied his forces up the western side of Watchtower Hill. He ran onto the hill at about the halfway point, and as he looked at the field of death and rage he silently cursed Thorathor. His plan was failing and they were the ones who would suffer for it. He looked up at Kierata. She hadn’t moved in all this time and still remained motionless in her throne, a naked kimitar on her lap. Khanata prayed for her safety and turned back to the battle in order to kill more of the enemy, but really, he was killing Thorathor.
Thorathor sat on the eastern side of Gatehouse Hill, chewing on a blade of sweetgrass. He was completely armed and armored for war with the Cohlate’s best equipment polished to a mirror-like sheen. But additionally, upon his face and somewhat under his helmet he wore his Smiling Demon mask that he had made during the march to Bakamu. For hours he had been watching the battle, from the time that the Mighan retreated to the hills to the collapse of the Pallios flanks. He knew the flanks would be turned by Quimur’s forces. They were too well motivated and too numerous for anything else to happen. But still, it was going pretty much according to plan. Then Quimur’s army charged the Pallios lines again, while upon an even tempered horse near the base of Watchtower Hill sat Quimur himself, the Sword of Saledesh high above his head. All throughout the course of this battle he remained unscathed, protected by the power of the God of War. Thorathor just couldn’t wait to come to blows with that man.
This new attack by Quimur’s men seemed to be different this time. Now the Pallios were retreating further up the hill, their fighting spirit finally taken to its limit. Just as Thorathor had predicted, Quimur’s army was going to win a set-piece fight, despite good position and adequate preparation. This was why Thorathor had placed the wizards of Pallislan at the top of Gatehouse Hill, because they would be safer from attack than at the other two hills. Just prior to this final assault by the enemy, Thorathor sent word to them to combine their strength in casting a special spell. Even now they were busy casting their spell that would begin the end of this battle. But magic does not come easy, particularly for a new kind of spell, and now Quimur’s forces were almost halfway up Watchtower Hill and had completely driven the Pallios off of Guardian Hill. Thorathor became a little worried now. If the spell didn’t go off soon, he would have to take action that would be little more than a suicide attack.
And then suddenly, it happened. From the very ground of both Watchtower and Guardian Hills came thousands of stalagmites made from topsoil, spearing everything around the base of the two hills. Thousands of horses and men were instantly impaled without mercy or warning. Though these stalagmites quickly fell apart back into regular dirt, the reaction of the enemy lingered. Confusion and fear fell like rain upon them, destroying their cohesion and momentum. It was exactly what Thorathor had wanted.
Then Thorathor snapped his fingers on his right. It was the signal to Jornazog, the captain of the Ulubatli, to prepare his men. At the same moment, Thorathor pulled on the reins sitting upon his lap to bring his horse up from the ground. In seconds, the mighty warhorse that Thorathor was sitting on stood up stamped at the ground. She was hungry for blood and Thorathor knew exactly what she meant. In another moment he was surrounded by thousands of elite cavalry forces of the Ulubatli, once hidden by the tall grass of Gatehouse Hill. Thorathor unsheathed his sword and nodded to a man on his left. The man blew a horn, and with a great sound, the Ulubatli charged the disoriented enemy army in the flank.
Cut off from retreat, with the gods apparently against them, the enemy panicked and ran. And once an army decides to live rather than kill, not even the Sword of Saledesh could keep it together. Now Kierata screamed at her warriors to attack and destroy her foes, and order gleefully obeyed by all who followed her. Thorathor with the Ulubatli cut a bloody swath through the enemy’s rear. Swords were swung in every direction, felling both man and beast, riders and infantry alike. Those Pallios that were still on Watchtower Hill counter-attacked with terrifying ferocity, killing the enemy left and right. Men and horses alike screamed in pain.
In the middle of this bloody melee, Thorathor saw Quimur still on horseback. Holding the Sword high above him, he was shouting at his men, trying to reestablish control. If given the time it probably could be done, such was the power of the Sword. The Pallios host was still outnumbered and the enemy still had the better morale, broken though it was, but not yet destroyed. However, Thorathor would not let that happen. He spurred his horse straight at Quimur, murder in his demeanor. Sensing his danger, Quimur took notice of Thorathor and endeavored to meet his charge. Few got in their way as the two generals sought each other. When they were 100 yards apart, Thorathor flipped his kimitar around so that the blade was downward in his hand. Quimur continued on unchanged, the Sword of Saledesh back behind him, ready for the death blow. Though Thorathor was the greater warrior, with the aid of the mighty sword, Thorathor would be quickly defeated. When they were only a few feet from each other, the sweat of their horses splashing upon the other, Thorathor leapt atop his saddle, crouching there like panther ready to pounce. And pounce he did. With great strength, Thorathor jumped high into the air raising his sword high above his head. Quimur tried to bring his sword into Thorathor, but he was just too slow. Thorathor collided with Quimur plunging his sword deep into Quimur’s inadequately protected chest. The momentum sent the both them to the ground.
Once he had stopped tumbling, Thorathor curled up into a ball covering his head. He was on the ground in the middle of hundreds of fighting horses and was in great danger of being trampled. He knew that his best hope for survival was lay still and trust in the horses desire not to step on a living creature. Quimur lay dead next to him.
The death of Quimur immediately robbed any fighting spirit that was left with the enemy forces. They broke, never to assemble again. Those that could escape did so, others fell on their knees, discarding their weapons, and begged for quarter. Not one enemy warrior continued the fight.
Hours later, Kierata strolled along the base of Watchtower Hill copiously stepping over the many bodies littering the ground. Victory smelled sweet to her, even if the method filled her with horror. Men on both sides laid dead or dying, blood soaked the ground, turning it into squishy mud. Along the road towards Bakamu, those enemy warriors that had surrendered were being corralled unarmed into groups. They would be immediately sold into slavery by the state and the proceeds would go into helping rebuild what they had destroyed. Khanata walked to her side. He was telling her the full cost of the battle, but she wasn’t listening. Only moments ago she believed that she would lose and her Cohlate would be destroyed. This victory shook her into blankness, but in a pleasant fashion.
She was brought out of it by Thorathor’s approach. Her victorious general was covered in blood, helmetless, and with his Smiling Demon mask in his hand. He looked right into Kierata’s eyes, saying with them, I bring you victory. He then looked at Khanata.
“So,” he said to Khanata, “how was this for an end?”