History of the Werre I - A Sea of Enemies

The room was barren. The cold stone of the floor and walls was naked,

lifeless. The ceiling was low, but there were dark rafters, cut from the

hearts of great oaks a hundred years previously from a forest no longer

standing. A single lamp hung there, dim yet steady. Its feeble light touched

the black hair of the man standing by the narrow window. His grey eyes looked

out upon the land below, a crumpled wasteland of cliffs and ravines. In the

distance the land flattened into a great mesa without feature.

A wall of dust was gathering on the horizon. A gust of dry wind pushed

through the deep window, tousling the man's long hair. A dust storm was being

born. Above, iron clouds hung heavy, stained by the blood of the sun.

Denigroths were coming.

A door opened; a high squeak on dry hinges. An elderly man shuffled

through, unbent but feeble. His loose robes hid his emaciated form, but his

eyes were alive, bright and quick. The lamp picked out his cratered head, a

testament to the harsh land.

"M'lord. It is time." His whispery voice cut through the still air.

The grey-eyed man remained motionless by the window. He kept his eyes

fixed on the approaching storm. He seemed a statue, the work of a consummate

sculptor.

"M'lord, we haven't much time. We must leave now."

The old man crossed to his master and touched his arm. At this, the

grey-eyed man finally turned. He stared at the old man with hard eyes,

unreadable.

"It is come too soon, Rautha."

The old man nodded quickly. "Yes, M'lord. Your escort is waiting." He

made furtive gestures with his hands. "The Denigroths..."

The younger man turned back to the window. Sand and dust were now blowing

in with the wind. A dull roar made its way across the ravines. The man turned

back to Rautha, nodded, and made for the door. Rautha glanced out the window.

There were shapes now, riding on the wind. He could not make out more than

their silhouettes, for the dust and sand obscured them. Great winged shapes.

He shuddered (was that anticipation or apprehension?) and followed his master.

The door swung shut at their passing. The lamp dimmed.

Outside the room, five men clad in full plate waited. Their swords were

drawn, gleaming dully in torchlight. The door swung open. Out came their lord

followed closely by Rautha.

"Come."

At their lord's bidding, the men arrayed themselves about him, two before

him, two after him, and one beside. Rautha struggled on his lord's other hand.

The party moved quickly up the hall, in and out of torchlight. The storm

without could be heard raging at the fortress, blasting the outer walls with

sand and dust, wearing away the ancient stone. A shudder rippled through the

floor.

One of the escort gasped. "Oblivion! Oh--"

The lord's anger flared. "Quiet!"

Another shudder moved through the fortress.

"Quiet, I said!"

The second escort cut short his oath.

A door was flung open before them. The party hurriedly climbed the

staircase beyond. Another door opened, and they burst into a second hall,

wider than the first, but unlit. A torch flickered at the far end, outlining

a deep-set door.

The floor gave another shudder. Flakes fell from the ceiling. Somewhere

below, the storm gave a triumphant roar, blowing through the interior,

scattering furniture and men alike. Then the ringing sound of clashing metal.

Shouts.

"The Denigroths have gained entry." The mutter did not go unnoticed, but

was not rebuked. It came from Rautha.

The party reached the door. With unsteady hands, one of the fore-guards

took a set of iron keys from his side, and slid one into the lock. With a

grind, the lock turned and the door was heaved open. In haste, the key was

left in the door.

The party pushed through the portal into a natural tunnel. In contrast

to the exterior, here the rock was damp and slippery. Unheedful, the lord

pressed on, his escort now in tow. The last guard snatched the torch to light

the way. The lord did not need it. He knew the way. He was only careful of the

oil-soaked rope strung along the floor which snaked back into the fortress.

A final staircase appeared in the darkness. The lord, with Rautha on his

heels, ascended. The stair terminated at a blank roof of stone. With practised

fingers, the lord found the secret latch, and the ceiling was opened.

Wind.

The party climbed through the opening onto a mesa behind the fortress.

The storm raged below them. Somewhere in its bowels stood the fortress

Tantagil and the pitched battle being waged in its heart.

"M'lord?"

The grey-eyed man nodded acknowledgement. He was turned away from the

others. A great sadness came into those hard eyes. Rautha knelt by the hole

they had climbed from. He had already begun an incantation, silent in the

wind. He held his right hand over the hole; a fist. A moment later, he opened

it, and a ball of fire fell from his fingers. Quickly, the guards shut the

hole. The lord shut his eyes.

A new shudder rocked the mesa, accompanied by a muffled roar, though this

one was deeper than that of the storm. Rautha and the escort stared through

the stinging dust. Deep in the storm, the fortress was buckling, folding in

on itself. Its rumour rose above the storm; the growl of rock upon rock, a

mountain slide. Gouts of flame competed against the wind.

The lord opened his eyes, his face tear-stained. He turned from the

mesa's edge and slowly walked past the guards toward the makeshift encampment

beyond.

Charal looked up at the approaching figure. The figure was clothed only

in tunic and pants. Heavy boots protected his feet. At his side hung a long

dagger, scabbardless, blade naked. Charal leapt to his feet.

"M'lord!"

The figure came into the protection of the tent. Behind him, the old man

Rautha came, but the escort continued past to another tent, shaking their

heads, whispering among themselves.

"At ease, squire. I do not deserve to be called 'Lord' this day."

The squire's brow knitted, but he remained silent.

"I am less than base."

"M'lord--" the boy began, but halted at the terrible sight of his lord's

eyes.

He seemed much older. There was something crazed also in those eyes.

Charal knew something of what had happened. Such losses! But what could have

been done? The Denigroths were untouchable. Faster than the wind, they

snatched the very souls from men. Rautha approached the boy, set a dry hand on

his shoulder.

"Leave us, Charal. We would speak in private."

Charal hesitated a moment, then slowly walked outside. He looked about,

then spotting the lord's escort, jogged off to bend their ears for a tale of

what had happened.

Rautha opened his mouth, closed it. His lord seemed distant. He drew in a

deep breath, held it, released.

"M'lord--" He paused, then softened his voice. "Thispan. Seat yourself."

Rautha led his lord to one of the cots and seated himself on the other.

"There is a sadness about you."

Lord Th'Sollar grunted. "A sadness about me. How perceptive you are!"

"Thispan..."

"What's to be sad about?" Thispan looked up, eyes hot. "We had a victory

today!"

Rautha leaned forward, concern on his face. "M'lord!"

Thispan shot to his feet. His eyes were wide and his face twisted in a

wild grimace. All his pent up rage flowed forth in hot waves, not just from

that day, but from months past. Every defeat showed in his face. He stepped

forward and grasped Rautha's robes.

"I lost one hundred men! One hundred, while I fled like an old woman

before rowdy boys!"

"I would hardly call Denigroths rowdy--"

"I ran while men who didn't even know me died! Died!" Thispan slowly

sank to his knees, taking Rautha with him. "For me. I killed them." His voice

faltered. "I--"

"They fought for you. They all volunteered. No one pressed them. The

Denigroths killed them. Not one died by your hand." Rautha was afraid to touch

his lord. He had never seen Thispan in such...pain. His very soul was in pain.

"Does one have to draw his sword to kill? Cannot one kill by deed?"

Thispan looked into Rautha's eyes. The old man nearly recoiled, but for

the death grip with which his lord held him fast. What had happened to the

steadfast leader? The rock had melted away from his visage leaving a naked boy

in its wake. Then suddenly the rock hardened and the boy vanished. Lord

Th'Sollar slowly rose to his feet, pulling up the mage.

"How is it that the Horned Council found Tantagil so quickly? How is it

that Denigroths were come from the dust? There was no warning!"

He shook Rautha, rattling his teeth. He was overcome with rage again.

"They knew of our plans! They knew!"

"M'lord, how can--"

"They knew! We were attacked before our strength was full. Tantagil was

not to be taken. If we could not defend it, we would destroy it. They knew

that."

Thispan finally released Rautha. The mage fell to his cot, trying to calm

his shaking. His lord turned. He paced to the far side of the tent.

"We have a spy." His voice was flat.

Rautha made a choking sound. He wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry.

"M'lord. Thispan, you jest."

Thispan continued without hearing the mage. "What better way to draw out

the enemy than with smoke?"

Rautha frowned. "M'lord?"

Thispan spun and leapt upon the old man. The tent flap flung aside. The

face of a guard poked through. He was surprised at this scene, but hesitated

only moment.

"M'lord! The enemy has scaled the cliff. Orcs! You are not secure here."

The guard stood there a moment more. His head jerked up at something

outside the tent. All around, the encampment came to life. Men shouting, a

horn sounding.

"Guard the tent!" the guard shouted off to his left. The lord's escort

returned, encircling the tent. The flap closed with a snap

Thispan pressed the mage into his cot. Rautha gasped for breath.

"You are the spy."

Rautha feebly shook his head. Outside, the sound of battle rose. Screams,

clashing iron, the stutter of arrows loosed punctuated the old man's rasping

breath.

"You designed the fortress trap. They knew of it! Only you and I knew of

its full extent."

"The labourers," gasped Rautha. "The labourers knew. The barrel layers!

"They all died. The trap was still being set."

Now Rautha was angry. His anger was hot and fast, born of fear. A body

fell against the tent.

"Listen to yourself! I am you advisor. Your friend! You approved the

trap. The enemy did come too soon. True. Those people should never had died."

"One of my generals then. T'soran procured the oil. Or maybe--"

Another scream erupted not a stone's throw away. Tears stung Rautha's

eyes. Desperation clutched at him. Thispan had begun to back away. Without

thinking, Rautha backhanded his lord. Thispan jerked back. The blow was not

strong, and Thispan stumbled more from shock than from the force of the blow.

Rautha moaned. He couldn't believe what he had done. He envisioned a

dagger in his chest at any moment. His lord turned his hard grey eyes back to

Rautha. He rubbed his stinging jaw, but did not reach for his dagger. Instead,

he nodded.

"Advisor Rautha. You have brought me to my senses, though I do not thank

you for your rashness."

He turned to the tent flap, threw it aside. Rautha unsteadily pushed to

his feet, and followed his lord out of the tent. One of the escort shouted to

those around him. He had been watching the tent for his lord. The guards

arrayed themselves about Thispan and Rautha, and the company slowly retreated

through the fighting.

The orcs had been many. Their bodies were strewn in all directions,

though most heavily around the lord's tent. However, Thispan's men had not

been caught unawares as the orcs had hoped. The watchers who were set wide of

the fortress had not been able to get back to Tantagil to warn of the

Denigroths, but saw the advancing orcs who lay hid behind the storm. It was

they who had desperately scaled the cliffs of the mesa to warn of this hidden

enemy, and a bloody battle was joined.

Thispan's men slowly gave ground to the orcs, for though they were ready,

their force was much smaller. However, as night fell, it was the orcs who were

forced back, and were driven to the last off the cliff even as the moon rose

above the scattering clouds.

Lord Th'Sollar sat under the deep shadow of a knuckle of rock. Charal was

with him, tending a wound his master had received from a wild orcish arrow.

Thispan held the arrow, inspecting the barbed head that had tasted him. Rautha

stood a distance away, looking at the warriors dismantling the remnants of the

camp. It would be moved well away from the stinking battlefield.

"Rautha."

The mage turned. "M'lord?"

"I need to hold council with my generals."

Rautha moved back to his lord's side. "But, both T'soran and Thegil are

away to the west on campaign."

Thispan nodded to himself. "I need to hold council with my generals."