History of the Werre II - Dark Memories

The carrion bird jerked up its head from the intestines of the small

mammal. Its naked head glistened in the hot sun as it quickly hopped to the

edge of the canyon. Below in the deep shadow of the far canyon wall, a long

line of men and horses picked its way among the loose rocks and silt. The bird

gave a piercing screech of protest, but the file took no notice. The bird

hopped over to its meal, picked at it once, and rose into the air.

Lord Th'Sollar rode high upon his mount behind a vanguard of forty men,

all mounted. Behind him snaked away the remnant of his men on horse and foot.

A short train of wagons, protected in the middle of the file, carried the

tents and supplies. A great dust cloud enveloped them, kicked up by wheels,

hooves, and feet. The canyon was deep, however, and the dust never broke over

the top. It is impossible to move over the wasteland unmarked. This was why

Lord Th'Sollar had taken the canyon. The army had been shadowed by a party of

orcs. Now that they were unseen, the men were making all haste to exit the

canyon before the orc spies could negotiate the crumpled land above.

Thispan sat silently in his saddle. Rautha rode quietly behind and to the

left. The canyon shadow hid his lord's features. Rautha could not read his

lord's shoulders either, hidden under the light leather armour he wore, but the

mage knew them to be tense.

Thispan had said little after that night a week ago when he decided to

take council with his generals. Birds had been dispatched immediately. The

generals were to have sent the birds back, indicating their acknowledgement.

One had not returned. It was safe to assume the worst, and after waiting a

suitable period of time, Lord Th'Sollar ordered the camp broken.

The men had used a hidden path against the cliff very near the rubble of

Tantagil. Half way down, one of the men had seen a hand; fingers poking

through shattered stone. The fingers had moved. With shouts and amazement, the

man was excavated from the fallen keep. Lord Th'Sollar made a point to get to

know the man. His name was Toras Sarimbar. His tale was one of horror and

confusion. A little farther down, howls erupted deep under the jumble of

rocks. The Denigroths! They hadn't died. They were merely buried. Anyone who

still thought there was a possibility of winning the war lapsed into silence.

Thispan was deep in thought. He let his chestnut horse pick its own way

through the uneven canyon floor. The sound of horses and men was mesmerising.

How had he gotten here? He commanded the largest army opposing the Horned

Council, but he did not feel any pride in that. The Denigroths crushed any

pride he had in his men...or in himself. He had been slowly losing the war

from the beginning. It was become a war of attrition. Although his men lost

most battles, they would bide their time and wear the enemy down. People had

flocked to his banner, giving him more reserves. They might have won--might

have--but for the Denigroths.

They came by storm of night. He would always remember.

Thispan wiped the blood from his sword. It had been a hard day. All about

lay the bodies of the enemy, orcish and human. Intermixed were his own men,

and those still able were walking through the battlefield, searching out those

who were not dead. The dead would be counted in the morning. Although the

death toll would be high, there was cause for joy, for this was only the

second victory he had tasted since the end of summer. Now, the late autumn

sun was setting fire to the low hills in the west. The lord's sword gleamed

briefly in the ruddy light before it was sheathed. He turned at the sound of

approaching footsteps.

"M'lord! Tonight is a night for celebration!"

K'torrin, the captain of Thispan's guard, clapped him on the shoulder.

"M'lord, let us celebrate tonight our hard-earned victory. We must honour

the likes of Tis and R'katchel by living tonight. Tomorrow is reserved for the

dead."

"Tis? He is dead?"

The news hit Thispan harder than he might have imagined. He didn't know

much more than his name, but Tis had been a boy full of life and quick

laughter. He had been quick with his sword, as well.

"Yes. I stepped over him." The captain pointed into the gloaming. "Not

far from here. He would have liked a party."

"As would you, it seems," Thispan felt a smile tugging at the corners of

his mouth. "Let us celebrate living, but only after you take care of that

nasty gash on your head. Can't have any of my men passing out, especially if

not from drink!"

K'torrin looked as if to protest, then burst into laughter. He clapped

his lord on the shoulder, and the two headed for the hospital tent.

A strong gust of wind picked at Thispan's blood-stained cloak. Another

gust. The wind quickly grew, the gusts nearly knocking over men as they headed

for the shelter of the tents. The hospital tent collapsed under the wind. A

dust storm rose out of the hills in the west, dimming the last rays of the

setting sun. Dust and sand stung the eyes of the lord and captain as they

turned to face the storm. Watch fires blew out one by one as the storm raced

from the hills.

"What sorcery is this?"

Thispan ignored his captain.

"Everyone under cover!" he commanded. "Hold down the tents!"

Thispan started for the nearest tent, but his guard captain did not

follow.

"M'lord!"

Lord Th'Sollar turned. K'torrin had drawn his sword and was pointing with

it at the storm. Then he heard it. A high screech and howling above the storm.

"M'lord!"

Thispan jogged back to K'torrin.

"There are shapes there!" shouted K'torrin in his lord's ear.

Thispan squinted through the blast, but could see nothing. His face and

hands stung. He tasted sand. He spat, but only succeeded in swallowing more

sand. Though he was blind, he trusted his friend.

"To arms!" he shouted. "To arms!"

Heads popped out of tents all around at the sound of their lord, then men

poured forth from the tents, swords, axes, and halberds ready. The storm was

upon them now. Above their heads howled winged forms, invisible in the sand-

scoured air. The front of the storm flattened all standing tents. Men were

picked into the air--screaming--quickly swallowed into the blind night.

The winged shapes descended.

Great beings of obsidian night, their skin was as hard as any armour. As

tall as a man and half again, their two great pairs of wings spanned four

times their height, translucent. Their feet were talons. Scythes were their

hands. They had no face in any real sense.

The beasts descended upon the main body of the army. No one withstood

them. Men's screams mixed with those of the beasts, creating a cacophony of

terror. Thispan's guard formed around him, and he advanced on the nearest

monster. Quickly, one of the foreguard drove his sword deep into the beast's

back. It jerked upright, dropping its prey. It swiftly turned.

In one motion, it had cleaved open both foreguards and thrust at a third.

The guard captain parried the blow with his sword. Thispan's heart turned cold

in his chest. The two fallen guards glowed briefly. An ephemeral mist rose up

from their heads and chests. They looked like...spirits. Spectral men leaving

their bodies. K'torrin parried again, but a claw touched him. He screamed once

then stood frozen for a moment as a white mist rose from him. His empty body

slumped to the ground. The monster looked at each spirit. Each in turn entered

its head. It faced Thispan.

The lord was frozen in terror. What had he seen? Hands tugged at him. He

gained his senses and fled with the remnants of his guard, blindly running

through the storm. All around him, soft flashes of light accompanied his men

dying all around him.

Screams. Wind. Sand. Blindness.

His throat had become sore. His shouts for retreat were scattered in the

storm. He became lost.

A horse screamed. Lord Th'Sollar jerked back to the present. The canyon

had turned, and the near wall no longer provided shade. Someone was calling

him. He pulled his horse to a halt and turned it. He shaded his eyes. The

first of the wagons had caught on a large rock, and now was tilting toward the

dry creek bed in the canyon floor some twenty feet below. His dark reverie had

not improved his spirits, and his anger flared.

"Get that wagon righted! That orc party gets closer every minute."

Men were already trying to coax the frightened horses to walk backwards

to allow the wagon to be righted. Now more people rushed over to push the

wagon back themselves. The horses resisted, straining at their harnesses.

Orders were given to unharness the horses to allow for the wagon to be pushed

back.

Lord Thispan started for the wagon, a curse on his tongue. He was brought

up short by his advisor cutting him off with his own mount.

"What troubles you, m'lord?" Rautha asked. "We have time yet."

Thispan pierced the old man with his eyes for an endless heartbeat. He

gave a calming sigh.

"I am haunted, my friend."

A small shower of stone rang through the canyon a few yards away.

Thispan spun his steed, expecting attack. Looking up, he only found a desert

hawk climbing into the crystal sky.

"We all are," Rautha murmured. "We all are."

The wagon was set on its wheels and the stone cleared in under half an

hour. The column continued on, subdued. It was many hours yet before day

turned to night, and it had much ground to cover. Lord Th'Sollar continued to

ride alone.

"Let us celebrate living," he whispered.

As the canyon turned back into shadow, a tear crested his cheek and was

lost in his short beard.