Friday, 2 December 2011
The Barakytes; warriors beyond compare, welcomed on the field and shunned off it. Heroes known by every adult, every child in their house, and beyond, but their history known by none. Or rather a specific part of their history is not known, the part that made them into what they are. Into the Barakytes."
Klaus stooped to pick up his tankard and surveyed the room over the brim as he drank. This was his third, and final, act of the evening and he had the attention of the entire room now. The Inn of the Crooked Spires in Twinforkes was always a busy place, the main room full of travellers and traders going between the city states and sometimes, like tonight, more exotic guests going between the Great Wood and Aquila. When it was full the room could be a loud mix of a dozen tongues babbling at once around two dozen tables, the ceaseless clatter of meals and drinks being delivered and consumed and the scrapes and thuds of benches and chairs on the old wooden floor. On a cold night like tonight the many torches around the wall and the roaring fire pits added their own crackling din. Against this an inexperienced bard might find himself singing to just the nearest table and the rest of the room oblivious to his efforts.
But Klaus was not inexperienced and had played the Crooked Spire many times before. His first song had been loud, dirty, and well known, easily getting the majority of the room to join in. His second more sombre but rooted in the region and popular, all but the one table in the far corner listening to him. His final act was, as is traditional, a spoken piece about history and legend. By the time he'd reached for his tankard even this last, stubborn table had quietened to listen.
Of course they're listening, Klaus thought as he put his tankard back down, they love a story about themselves.
"Of course I cannot tell you about all of them. I would run out of breath, our host out of drink and all of us out of years before I recount the deeds of five such elven heroes. So I shall tell you of just one of them. The only one to have left the Great Wood so it's said, and travel with his House and to fight against the Church and besiege the City of Spires. This night I shall tell you a tale told to me by an Elven bard many years ago about Cathwaer the Barakyte, of the Royal Elven House of Aditu."
He'd guessed right. Eight sets of eyes fixed on him from the corner of the room, utterly focussed, unwavering, disconcerting even. Though the light in that corner was poor, Klaus had thought the material of their hoods a dark blue and though they pulled the hoods far up, he had seen red tattoos on their temples. Aditu warriors. Depending on which war captain led them he might even earn silver tonight or, if they didn't appreciate the tale, loose his life.
"Like all Aditu elves, Cathwaer was a warrior born. Fast, deadly and ruthless. A marksman with his great yew bow from an early age and in the shield wall an unrelenting killer. Marked for greatness from a young age, Cathwaer trained under the steady gaze of the greatest elven warlords. However, and no doubt a frustration for the young fighter, beyond the occasional skirmish, the elves of the Great Wood were at peace with little chance for a warrior to earn glory.
Do not forget this was many hundreds of years ago though. Before some of the cities even stood, much of the land still rolling plains populated by tribes of Mongols and other savages. Whilst these days the Great Wood is bordered by civilisation, then there was little beyond seas of grass and occasional ruins. Into this empty world rode the Mongol horsemen, terrible and merciless, none more so than Hettan Shur, Khan of the Burnt Faces clan. This murderous fiend had killed his own father to command the clan, before slaughtering his brothers and sisters and anyone else who threatened his rule. Those he spared but who had not supported him as fully as he would have liked, he branded on the face, costing them at least one of their eyes. His more ardent supporters, seeing this please their Khan, then branded their own faces, though more careful about sparing their eyes no doubt. A different brand was devised for each role with in the clan; warriors, wives, craftsmen, healers. When the clan began swallowing up it's neighbours, each new member was marked accordingly, only the very young spared until their role was divined. Soon the only face not so scarred was Hettan Shur himself. Shockingly handsome so it's said, his flawless beauty made all the more so when surrounded by his burnt and maimed tribe.
Now you think you know handsome, after all you have sat and beheld me, Klaus of Franconia, for long enough, but Hettan Shur was much more. Women would swoon at the sight of him, emissaries become tongue tied at his smile. Why even his horrifically scarred warriors would look up from ploughing their yaks when he passed. However upon seeing that he walked on two legs not four and had no shaggy coat or tail, they would as quickly return to their bestial rutting. But no one can deny they looked!"
As expected this got a laugh from the crowd. Mongol jokes always played well in the Forkes since the attack a few years ago. Just hidden beneath the laughter was a bitter edge, resentful of the horse-lords' arrogance and power. That same base anger kept the Mongols away from the taverns though and made Klaus' jokes safe to tell. No laughter from the elves however, not really their high-brow humour Klaus thought, but a few had smiles so they weren't too offended by the mocking of their allies.
Best tone it down a bit though Klaus, he considered, not really in the mood for an axe being thrown at the stage.
"Eventually the Burnt Faces came to edge of the Great Wood. They numbered in their thousands, covering the land with ponies, wagons and others walking, surrounded by vast herds of yak and raising a tattered banner of dust visible from scores of miles away. At the edge of the wood the Khan drew his warriors up along the tree line. There they paused, the front rank but a step from entering the realm of the elves. Hettan Shur was no fool though and he knew the consequences to entering elven lands. He was not blind either and though he could see none of the warriors, in the gloom of the forest he could make out the many banners of the elven warlords, planted in the forest floor in plain view of the human warriors. He could see the red and blue of Aditu, the white and black of Acoma, the gold and red of Athuati. And amongst these colours could be made out the sigils and heraldry of the war captains. Such is the way of elves in forests that the Khan could not be sure whether the banners were there alone or whether hundreds of warriors were concealed in the woods about them. His tribe had conquered every foe he had set them against, they would no doubt outnumber the elves by a vast number, but even so he did not order them forward. To take on elves is one thing but in woods? In the Great Wood in particular? Against their priests and shamans and against nature itself? Hettan Shur may have been cruel but he needed his army alive if they were to conquer the world for him."
This was getting a few nods from around the room. Find a collection of caravan guards and mercenaries anywhere in the Steppe and you'll come across at least a couple of Church army veterans. Towards the middle of the room in particular were a pack of a half-dozen Grey Sword mercenaries and judging from the odd tattoo and remnant of kit, at least half their number were ex-inquisition. They were sitting quietly now, some gazing into the past, no doubt thinking about their own experiences of fighting the elves. Klaus had prepared lines extolling the virtue of elven warriors but decided to skip over them whilst the veterans were still reminiscing and before any further flattery might rile them. The rest of the room was silent now, listening to the tale and probably considering the eight elves sat with them in the room.
"Eventually, when no movement was seen under the trees, he pulled his warriors back and encamped a half mile from the edge of the wood. The camp was vast, filled with all the people of his tribe, all scarred to their tasks in life. Though they rapidly stripped the surrounding land of any food and resources, being Mongols all they really needed to survive were their herds of yak. They settled in to wait as though besieging a fortress. Obviously Hettan knew he could not really besiege the Great Wood however he hoped to draw the elves out to do battle and there destroy them with his numerous horse warriors.
Altalas Tay'lon of the house of Athuati commanded the elven forces and had no intention of allowing the foul Khan his victory. He could not fight the Mongols in the woods for they were too afraid to enter them and he did not want to fight them on the plains as the Mongol cavalry would have too much advantage. But Altalas was an elven warlord and had spent centuries waging wars. His plan was deceptively simple, a slaughter, not of men though, but of the yak. That first night, whilst Hettan's forces slept and watched over their vast camp, prepared for an attack that wouldn't come, the entire elven host, some 800 warriors, crept out, killed the guards of the herds and began a bloody nights work.
How do you kill herds though my friends? Though you don't look, or smell, like men who spend too much time with cattle but I'm quite sure you know what happens when you kill an animal on the edge of the herd. Dumb they may be, that's the yak not the Mongols, but the rest of the animals are not going to stand around and let themselves be slaughtered. But that night they did just that. The elven warriors swiftly and methodically cut their way into the herd killing every beast. How did they manage it? No animal will quietly let itself be cut open but these did. It takes a lot of work to kill a grown yak, to hack through the fur and fat to the heart or throat, but the elven warriors seemed to barely cut the creatures before they fell dead to the ground. How? You see Altalas had made compacts with the elven gods. How they made the herds so calm and quite the elven bard would not tell me. Perhaps this is a secret they still retain? Perhaps it is a skill they have lost? Who can tell. But how did they kill the yak so quickly? That the bard did tell me, in fact he told me in whispers as though scared of the power he revealed.
We mortals do not know much of the elven gods. We have heard of Ashan and Arapey. We have heard of Grun. Those unfortunate enough to have faced the elves in battle will recognise the names of Baradan and Jkohl. But one god who we do not know of, who we do not want to know of, who, in truth, the elves themselves do not want to know of, is Glandu Gen, the Mistress of Disease."
It seemed as though a couple of the veterans actually had heard of the elven goddess of plague and pestilence to judge from their reflexive spitting at her name. Normally such displays were all the spark needed to start a fight; no one likes seeing their gods insulted. However the elves in the corner table had reacted in much the same way, as Klaus knew they would, and didn't take offence.
"At the slightest cut or graze from the elves blades the yak would fall dead as the poisons coating the weapons raced through the great beasts. The animals were dead before they realised they had been cut and rotting before they slumped to the ground. As the warrior would move onto the next yak, the now poisoned meat would already be sloughing off the bones of the dead. This was Glandu Gen's gift to the elves though, as with all her gifts, there would be a price to pay. What Altalas had promised the priestesses was not known at the time and would only become apparent later.
But that night there was no talk of debt, no talk at all in fact, as the warriors slid amongst the herds and slaughtered the Mongols' way of life. The left some alive, but only those which were so close to the fires of the tribe's camp that their sudden collapse and stillness would be noticed by the humans. This thin screen of yak hid the thousands, tens of thousands, of dead animals behind them. Glandu Gen's poison was as subtle as it was effective; no stench of rot reached the camp though the carcasses almost completely surrounded it. As the sky began to lighten the elves crept back out from the fields of the dead animals and returned the woods, their presence never noticed, and the Mongols woke to the ruin of their clan. With the warming sun and the collapsing of the Glandu Gen's spell, the horrific stench of death filled the air bringing with it all the flies and carrion feeders from the surrounding lands. From the woods the elves could hear the cries of despair and lamentation rising from the human camp. The few yak left alive were barely enough to feed the Mongols for a day or two and then people would begin to starve. Fights broke out between the warriors for possession of the remaining herd with the newer, weaker, members of the Burnt Faces being attacked for whatever stocks of food they had. The clan was coming apart and the Khan could do nothing to alleviate the problem. Only the fear which the clan held for his original followers, the Vlas-tevny or Self-scarred warriors, held them together and stopped the whole lot from dispersing into the steppe. There were no cities to rob in those days, no farmers to put to the sword and crops steal. No innocents to intimidate and threaten, no children of the Forkes to starve so that Mongol warriors didn't. The dirty bastards were beaten but too stupid to realise it."
The room had an a heavy undercurrent of satisfied anger to it now. Though many here were visitors to Twin Forkes, many were residents of the city and many others from Whistling Forkes where the Mongols had also forced the people to surrender their food or be killed. There was a risk telling tales of the elves to men so recently fighting them however by picking a common enemy, however historic for the elves, Klaus could give the whole room something to enjoy, Regaling the elves with their own heroics would always go down well and telling the tales of the Mongols being given a taste of their own medicine would provide a small sense of vengeance to people in no place to take their own.
"But where was the hero of tonight's tale in all this? Where was Cathwaer? He had been amongst those slaughtering yak and was now, along with the other warriors of Aditu, waiting for the Mongol Khan to order his troops into the woods such action being his only option other than a defeated retreat. Traps had been prepared, spells woven around trees and across glades. Pits had been dug and earthen mounds raised to impede the Mongol cavalry and channel them into killing grounds. Lines of battle, fall back positions, rally points, targets for advances; all had been discussed and agreed. But none of them were used. Altalas's scheme had been even more effective than planned and the Khan could not convince his people to attack as he must expend all his effort just to keep them from running away.
The elves waited. The Mongols argued and fought amongst themselves. Those who tried to leave were killed by the Vlas-tevny, those who stayed began to starve. The elves waited. And waited. They waited for days. They waited and watched as the young and old of the Mongols staggered to the edges of their camp and were cut down by the Vlas-tevny for trying to leave and, as more time passed, cut down but any member of the foul tribe as being a waste of precious food.
You might think this was the perfect way for the elves to fight the battle. Their enemies killing each other and dying off in droves without a single elven life lost. To this idle bard it sounds like the best way to win. But what force should rear it's ugly head? What power has ever been the bane of generals of every race in every age? Politics. House Acoma was not happy with how things had turned out. Some of you will no doubt of heard of House Acoma. An entire tribe of politicians and diplomats; can you imagine anything worse? If they cannot get an advantage from a situation then the next best thing is to make sure no one else does either. It turns out politics is the same no matter the species"
A few laughs around the room. No one liked politicians and those of House Acoma were known to be the most slippery of the breed. Some of the merchants in the inn would have even met them during their travels but everyone knew of them from their frequent visits to the cities near the Great Wood where they tried to spread the influence of their House. Even though Klaus was mocking other elves he knew he was relatively safe from the warriors sat in the corner. Aditu did not have the best of relationships with Acoma, no doubt harking back to some instance in antiquity, and Aditu warriors especially would have little regards for the effete and cowardly ways of their cousins.
"You see Acoma did not enjoy the sight of Altalas, and House Athuati, gaining the prestige of defeating the Mongols whilst House Acoma contributed nothing beyond slaughtering some yak and therefore gained no credit. The praise of the warriors of House Aditu for the Athuati warlord only angered the Acoma further. They could not seize any credit for the victory but maybe they could find a chance in the Mongols' suffering to cast themselves in a better light. Preaching peace and mercy they claimed that leaving the Mongols to starve to death and slaughter themselves was barbaric and a tactic worth of their enemies, not the noble actions of elves. The warriors of House Aditu laughed at this sentiment and derided the Acoma warriors present for being led by cowards and fools. Athuati are not Aditu though, and Altalas was swayed by the words of the Acoma. He agreed with the Acoma that the quicker the Mongols moved on the better and the quickest way was to now offer the survivor's enough food to leave rather than to leave them any longer until desperation forced them to attack and elven lives might be lost. Altalas decided he would visit the Mongol camp himself, under a flag of truce, and offer the Khan terms. Though his warriors objected and called on their lord to ignore the Acoma suggestion or at the very least advance in strength, Altalas was firm and his troops obeyed his command to remain in the woods. Athuati are not like the elves we know. Savage Aditu warriors, deadly Velent'm archers, effete Acoma diplomats. Athuati are not warriors as such but soldiers and they follow the commands given. The Aditu warriors, Cathwaer amongst them, demanded the right to advance and to provide protection to Altalas but these too were refused. Though not soldiers the Aditu respected the Athuati warlord too much to refuse him. At the least they requested that a bodyguard of the best Aditu warriors would go with Altalas and protect him from the Mongols, known to be a traitorous people then as now. This honour however went to another House. Though their diplomats and leaders turned down or made excuses to avoid the parlay, the warriors of Acoma are a different breed and a dozen of their number would form an escort for Altalas.
The elven war host formed up just within the tree line. On the left flank was the legion of Athuati, resolute and standing firm, a red and gold wall. In the centre the Aditu warbands, savage, eager, like hounds held on a leash. On the right the Acoma warriors, less disciplined than the Athuati, less aggressive than the Aditu, a silent host in the black and white colours of their house. Behind and to the flanks the armoured archers of the lesser houses. They all watched as Altalas, surrounded by his twelve bodyguards, made his was out from the trees and across the bare ground to the Mongol camp. Absolute silence. A few dazed, starving Mongols watched the elves approach, hundreds of elven warriors watched them walk away. Silence. The elves in the woods watched the small column reach the outskirts of the camp, enter it and be lost from view. Silence."
Klaus paused. Silence reigned in the tavern room too. All his listeners knew a battle would ensue, indeed they would be disappointed now if it didn't.
"And then keening, wailing, screaming. The Mongol camp seemed to convulse and collapse in on itself as Mongols streamed to the centre of the camp, kicking over tents as they went. But the savages weren't collapsing on themselves, only converging on the elves in their centre. On Altalas and his twelve warriors. Immediately the elven line surged forward from the trees desperate to close the distance to the camp and rescue the warlord. These warriors had fought together for years, scores of years, centuries; though they ran their line did not break. But even their endless years of training could not stop their line beginning to fragment and spread out. Then from the left of the Mongol camp cavalry suddenly burst out and began forming up to charge at the elves. It seemed the Khan had preferred the weaker members of his people to die before his warriors horses were touched. Though the surviving beasts were somewhat skinny and underfed, the elves had no cavalry of their own and were now moving across open ground. Once formed up the horses charged, quickly eating the ground up between the armies. Ranks of lancers readied their weapons to crash home whilst the terrible Mongol horse archers prepared their bows to rain down arrows upon their enemies while circling out of reach.
Hundreds and hundreds of Mongol horsemen were bearing down on the still-running elven army. Then two parts of that running mass suddenly stopped. On the left flank the Athuati, seemingly running in a straggling column, stopped, each warrior pivoted left and they formed up. Quicker than can be imagined by human warriors the solid line of red and gold reappeared and now faced the oncoming Mongol horse warriors, protecting the entire left flank. Spears, longer than those usually carried by the elves, thrust out from between the shields and the Mongols, so confident of their crushing charge just a minute before, rode onto their deaths. At the last minute the rear ranks of elves flung short throwing javelins taking down hundreds of horses and men, bringing others down in the confusion and barricade of dying horses. Those that rode through or jumped over their downed comrades were spitted on the spear points, their stinking hides and furs not able to stop the points from punching clean through warriors and taking others behind them. It is said that some of the long spears had two or even three Mongol bodies skewered on them by the end. Those few that reached the lines crashed against braced shields, held in place with spikes on the bottom driven into the ground. Short stabbing blades flashed out cutting down first the horses, then the riders. The Mongol lancers were stopped dead and the Athuati line began it's advance, shields pulled up from the ground and short swords stabbing out. Whenever a still-mounted Mongol rode at the line the shields were slammed back down and the long spears run out. The red and gold line butchered the Mongol warriors and the gold was soon turned a matching red.
The second elven forces to draw up had been the armoured archers. Far beyond the range of even the Mongols' powerful re-curve bows, the elves drew back their great longbows and began to send flight after flight of arrows amongst the Mongol riders. Not yet able to retaliate the Mongols had to ride through the rain of shafts to try and bring their attackers into range. A futile effort. Half the Mongol archers were dead before they brought the elves in range and of the survivors, many were riding away from the battle, desperate to save themselves. The elven archers now swarmed round the flanks of the Athuati line and, abandoning ordered volleys, began picking off Mongol lancers and archers alike. Such was the number, accuracy and speed of the elves, many Mongols fell from their horses pierced by four or five arrows.
Whilst the mounted Mongols had formed, charged and died on the left flack, the Aditu and Acoma warriors had not halted their own advance. As they reached the edges of the camp, a horde of stinking Mongols surged forward and threw themselves at the elves. No ordered attack this, just the starving mass trying to overcome the attackers by weight of numbers. Into this ravening horde the Aditu warbands plunged. Like a spear thrust into the side of one of the Mongols' yak. They were quickly surrounded but continued forwards cutting ever deeper into the Mongol camp. Near the tip of the spearhead Cathwaer fought with his brothers, forcing their way towards the centre of the camp to avenge the attack on Altalas. Against such numbers no advance can continue however. Eventually the Aditu attack slowed and stopped, the weight of the Mongol numbers to great to press into further and now threatening to overwhelm the shield circle the Aditu had formed. At that moment, when it seemed the Aditu line might break and Mongols swarm amongst the elven warriors, the Acoma, who had swung wide on the right flank before attacking the camp, struck the Mongols in the rear. Between two such forces there could be no doubt of the Mongols' fate. Battle became slaughter, fighting became a harvest and arms became heavy with endless killing.
At the moment of the Acoma attack, when the Mongols reeled back, Cathwaer had charged forwards for he had seen the bright red clock of Altalas lying in the dirt not twenty paces from him. Mongol warriors tried to stop him and died. He cut down two, five, a dozen. Nothing could stop him. Mongol warriors still looking well fed and better armoured than their fellows flung themselves in his path. Four of the Vlas-tevny, the warrior elite attacked him. They died just as easily under Cathwaer's blade. Two particular Mongols, who fought together in a deadly concert of blades, managed to make him slow but no more than that. They died with the rest of the foul warriors. Though he did not know it, Cathwaer had just killed Hettan Shur's two sons and extinguished his line. And what of the Khan himself? Cathwaer fully expect to reach him next having cut his way through the bodyguards but it was not to be. As Hettan's younger son fell to the earth, and the last of the Mongols fled, Cathwaer saw the Khan of the Burnt Faces tribe already dead on the ground. Thrust through the Mongols chest was a short Athuati blade, the hilt decorated with the heraldry of Altalas. The elven warlord himself lay nearby, the bodies of the twelve Acoma warriors surrounding him. Around them lay dozens of Mongol corpses. Cathwaer had cut down only four Vlas-tevny; the only four left. The rest, over a hundred, had died at the hands of the Altalas' bodyguard. It is a strange thing my friends. The Aditu are a war-like house and they are all savage warriors. The Athuati a martial house and the most disciplined of soldiers. The Acoma are a house of diplomats and priests but their warriors are all heroes. Few of that house choose to become warriors but those that do are beyond compare. Though outnumbered, surrounded and doomed, the Acoma warriors had fought an entire clan and slaughtered the elite Vlas-tevny warriors. As Cathwaer stood in stunned silence he saw Altalas' hand move slightly and his eyes flutter open. Though brutally cut down, the Athuati warlord still lived.
Cathwaer rushed to his side calling for healers though he suspected Altalas was beyond their aid. The Athuati warlord must have agreed for he muttered only one thing when Cathwaer was close enough to hear. The name of a god: Glandu Gen. Only the healing of a god could save the elf now and Cathwaer prepared to pick Altalas up and bring him to one of the Bone Witches, the priestesses of Glandu Gen, of whom several had accompanied the army. Though not of Altalas' house, if Cathwaer could not find an Athuati warrior before finding a Bone Witch then he would gladly serve in the Dead Guard in payment for the healing. Altalas had proved his value beyond the ties of houses. The warlord was not done though and gasped out a few words more before Cathwaer could pick him up. "Her price must be paid," the warlord struggled out. "Her gifts are not free". Altalas would not say more and, as Cathwaer watched, the life slipped from the Athuati warlord and his spirit passed on. As Cathwaer rose from kneeling he became aware of another elf stood on the other side of Altalas' body. One of the Bone Witches, a young, innocent looking girl, dark straight hair hiding most of her face, white shift muddied a the hem but otherwise impossibly clean for a battlefield, hands covered in blood, some black and old, some red and fresh. "The Mistress demanded payment from this one for her gift" the priestess said, looking down at the dead warlord. "The Mistress still demands payment Cathwaer of Aditu" she continued. "And I will pay it in his stead then" Cathwaer replied. The priestess reached out a dripping hand for Cathwaer to take and led him from the body of Altalas. Without seeming to cast any spell the priestess and Cathwaer stepped from plains to dream-road to the holy place of Glandy Gen. To those who had watched the exchange, the two seemed to fade away to nothing in the space of just a few heartbeats.
The battle had cost the elves dozens of warriors but the Mongols hundreds. Their bodies were left to rot next to the bones of their precious yak, the vast field of dead a warning to the other savages of the steppes. The bodies Altalas, his twelve guards and all the other fallen elves were carried back to the Great Wood leaving nothing but dead Mongols outside the tree line. Cathwaer's bothers did not wait from him to return for service to Glandu Gen is never short. He would return when he had paid off Altalas' debt to the goddess. Cathwaer himself became a guard of Glandu Gen's holy place, then bodyguard to the priestess from the battlefield and, it is rumoured, her lover too. Hundreds of years passed before he was seen again by the warriors of Aditu when he returned to them, his service done. What acts he committed during those years, what training he received, what battles he fought; all of that is unknown. He was no longer just another warrior though. He had been touched by a goddess, by the sister of death, seen rituals and prayers forbidden to all but Glandu Gen's followers. He was a Barakyte now, one who has completed his service to the Mistress of Disease, still Aditu but also apart. More deadly than ever before in battle, more separate than ever before from his brothers. Less a single elven warrior than a force of nature, still carrying the blessing of a god.
And he is out there my friends, maybe in Aquila, maybe the Great Wood, maybe travelling between the two…A peerless warrior, a terrible enemy, a Mongol killing hero!"
The room was filled with the racket of dozens of mugs and fists being rattle on the tables. The crowd approved of the tale, they approved of a hero who slaughter Mongols. Klaus began his round of the room and the coppers seemed to pour into the tankard he passed around. The evening was a success and Klaus was feeling very pleased with himself as he approached the final table in the room. The Aditu warriors watched him as he approached and placed the tankard at the end of the table and thanked them for listening. Custom was for patrons to drop a reward into the cup before passing it on and around the table. Just as Klaus began to wonder if he needed to explain this to the Sithi, one in the centre of the group put an upturned hand out over the middle of the table. Lying in his palm was an Aquila minted silver coin. Purer and larger than the human minted versions, they were worth a lot more.
Maybe they don't carry coppers thought Klaus, this must be the reward from the whole group.
Before he could move however all but one of the other warriors dropped another silver coin into the first's hand. Seven bits of silver gleamed in the torchlight as the elves who had contributed turned to regard the eighth who had not. Leaning forward the final elf dropped his coin on top of the others and now a full gold piece rested on top of the seven silver. The first elf tipped all the coins into a small pouch he tossed to a stunned Klaus. Eight tankards raised to him, eight elven heads nodded in respect. Klaus staggered away…
Silence at the table.
"That was a good tale" said one.
"Well told" said another.
"Well learnt" said a third.
"I wonder who told it to him" wondered the first.
Silence again. The seven look at the one, the gold giver.
"So…" said the first.
"So what?" the eighth asked.
"You know what. Is it true?"
Considered silence from the one. The other seven waited.
"Mostly I guess. But I never fucked the Bone Hag."
Thursday, 3 November 2011
From a distance Amerasu and her Comitati look upon the scene that is unfolding in the Gardens of the Dead. Hiska pulls back the hood of her cloak and looks to Amerasu.
“My daughter and Tirandel know what they are doing so why do I fear so much.” A statement, as much as a question. “Trust in the CrowSingers Etriel, for they have always served your House well and I cannot believe they would do such a thing lightly if there were no other way.”
“Trust?” Amerasu turns fiercely upon her bodyguard and household companion “It was trust which brought us to this moment all those years ago when men failed us on the field of battle in spite of their long given words and blood bonded treaties. Our sons paid the price of trust that day and evermore I have carried its lament. Trust is a whoring bed fellow. That is all trust is.”
Avarin and Tirandel shelter him from the beaks of the other crows that are calmly seeking to join in the macabre feast. Blood streams from their faces and limbs as the frenzied attack starts to abate. Once black dresses are now dyed a dark crimson. They do not fall or falter from protecting the child. Never once do they step back or fail to shelter him from all except the two birds that have demanded royal blood. This night both elven women have learnt what it truly is to be a Singer to the Crows.
From within the darkness that surrounds them Rauxlor and Seeker stand back and face the Elves and their own kind alike. A voice is heard by all within this company:
"This night we have supped upon the direct bloodline of Third Son Navarre. With his passing and that of his fellow Aditu warriors we have been protecting the Aditu from the wandering spirits lost upon the Crow Road. Four years passing is time enough. Our shadow can now be lifted. Without their bodies they cannot be laid to rest in our Garden of the Dead, for they fell far from here in lands unknown and hidden from us. Jhokl demands his payment. This we have taken from the son this night. With his blood upon our beaks and wings we have an offering for Jhokl to put our beloved lords safely upon the road that will lead them to his Halls. My kin, fly with me this last time for I will not return.
My place is at the side of he who has served me so well and whom I must now give my last honour and breath to. My master calls me home. Blood for blood.”
Rauxlor then ascends into the night followed by a streaming murder of crows. Only Seeker remains behind staring at her CrowSinger, Avarin, who returns her gaze coldly.
“You have done well my children. Rauxlor will pass from the mortal veil and ascend, as is his fate so to do. Long has he carried the dead. Now the time of mourning is past for you. Bury items of all those we do honour to in the barrow beyond these steps. They deserve your remembrances, as they will have ours. Mighty lords of the House Aditu fallen in battle. They can now be at peace.”
With that Seeker follows her kin and is lost to sight in the paling light of the night sky.
Tirandel and Avarin comfort the child who is bleeding from his hands. They wrap cloth about the wounds and notice that despite his cries of pain he appears calm and not at all fearful. Tirandel looks to Avarin: “The kei-vishaa helped.” Avarin merely looks back at her companion with eyes that narrow and blood streaked cheeks. Her dress is soaked in her own blood from many wounds, as is Tirandel’s.
She looks to the tomb that Seeker spoke of. “We will do as commanded and rejoice in the peace that has been granted them so long since their passing from us.”
As the comitati step away from Amerasu she turns her head and speaks softly from the depths of her hooded cloak of crimson and royal blue.
“Soon my daughter will be your Queen.”
Friday, 5 August 2011
“Exile?” the captain questions.
“Or banishment. Or... I don’t know. I don’t have the words for it. I am not Finwe or Lassel. If I were then I would not be here would I? Instead I am. Dismissed. Forgotten.”
“Is this truly how you feel? That you have been sent away? Forbidden from ev...”
“I am not saying that saying that Sereg. Grandmother would never forbid us from the city. From her. Grandmother is not so cruel.”
“Who then? Who has banished us? Exiled us?”
“You know who I...”
“Who is so cruel? Few can give orders to me; a War Captain of House Aditu. Few can force me to summon my Gaesatae, my shield wall, to march North, to bring fire and iron, death and war where they dictate. Is it one of those few you accuse?”
“No! I would not ever...”
“Is it Amren Jelass? The War Marshal? Baradan’s chosen? Or is it First Daughter? The last child? Another? Who do you accuse nan Retan?”
“Let me speak Sereg! You would dig a hole for me to fall into and then...”
“You dig your own grave Retan. Your words are...”
“So let me finish! My words are sense! They are concern! They are the very soul of the Gaesatae!”
“ The Gaesatae? They thi...”
“That we are...”
“Wait. The Gaesatae they...”
“...abandoned! Left to rot!”
"Hold Retan! Remember you place!”
“I... I am sorry nan Sereg. Forgive me. My life to serve.” He kneels, his head bowed.
“And you are forgiven nan Retan.” Briefly, but long enough, his hand rests on the Retan’s head. “Tell me bizema, what do the Gaesatae feel?”
“That we are not wanted.”
“In the city. The court. In the... thing! That Perohnin Aditu becomes.”
“That Aditu becomes? What do you mean my friend? Your words would cut the heart out of me.”
“No Sereg! A thousand deaths before I would harm you.” He seizes the Sereg’s hand, trailing from when it rested upon his head, and presses his forehead to it. “Your heart is the Gaesatae’s heart. Your soul; it’s soul.”
“But it seems my Gaesatae worry? That my brave hunters feel... Well, what do they feel nan Retan?” His hand moves from his Retan’s forehead to the shoulder, his upper arm. He brings the Retan to his feet.
“How long have we been in the North Sereg?”
“We came with Amren. Four warbands; an army to wipe these lands clean. With Lenae, Cabal...”
“And where are those war captains now Sereg? On soft beds.”
“We marched for war! Else I would never have mustered my Gaesatae. Never have roused them but for war.”
“How long Sereg? In the cold North? By ourselves!”
“Years” he mutters, maybe just to himself. “Years.”
“We are dispatched from the city Sereg. Ordered to a frontier far from our borders. A warband deserted, forgotten.”
“We are needed here Retan. A duty is ours to perform.”
“Yes nan Sereg. There is a duty here. A task that only a warband could achieve. But must it be us? For six years we have been here. Six years!”
“A warband must stand here Retan. Aditu must remain.”
“I know nan Sereg. But are we here because we are the right warband to stand here? Or because we are right warband to be absent from the city?”
“True. True nan Retan. We would not easily... fit into the new court.”
“It is the court I worry about nan Sereg! Who is the court? Why is it that the warbands who do not, as you say, fit in the court are those sent away from it? Ithir, Cabal, Y’dar. Those who would distain robes and finery. Those who would instead bear metals and glory.”
He remains silent, lost in thought. The Retan waits patiently, the need to speak now sated and past.
“We are the fortunate ones Retan.”
“Consider that we may return to Aquila in weeks should we so choose. What of Y’dar?”
“Aye, the Sereg is far from home.”
“And those that travel with him. Months before they could reach home. Tal, Llofan, Shao. Even Renkin.”
“Ha! I think the city will be barred to him for...”
“None the less. Even the Great Wood is months travel away for poor Renkin.”
“It is as you say Sereg.”
“Even those left with us, Cadfan and his hunters; they may return to Aquila but not as Gaesatae. No triumphant return for Y’dar or his warband yet. No boar standard flying above blood drenched warriors as they return to the city.”
“Aye nan Sereg. When I escorted Y’dar to fair Aquila we were not received as a War Captain returning. Just another Aditu returning to the city.”
“You judge harshly Elohath. Were the Bronze Guard given more notice they would have welcomed Y’dar in a fitting manner. Anlus would have insisted on that.”
“But I worry Sereg. How will the court welcome us when we return? When you return. Ithir Achal, Sereg Amal a Perohnin Aditu. How will the court functionaries receive a son of Baradan, after years spent in the War God’s realm?”
“Ah, now I understand your concern. And I am not worried as you are.”
“No? Are my worries so childish?”
“Not at all nan Retan, but they are no longer relevant. First Daughter has roused herself from the mourning. The functionaries have been blown aside, as leaves in the face of a hurricane. The Miller’s Daughter directs the House again.”
“Why have you not told the Gaesatae this nan Sereg?”
“It is not their concern, my orders are to be followed no matter where they originate.”
“And they would be Sereg, even if you ordered us to walk unarmed and unarmoured into the halls of death. But the needless worry could have been averted.”
“Then spread this news Retan. Let the hunters know that one who knows them, one who understands them, once again directs the might of Aditu.”
“It will be as you say Sereg!”
“We did not discuss this. I did not entertain your doubts. I did not soothe your fears.”
“Of course nan Sereg. Else you would not be called The Cold.”
Monday, 1 August 2011
One of the robed figures standing behind Amerasu who is seated in her ornate chair moves forward: nothingis said as the First Grandmother, without looking up, reaches out her left hand. The robed figure named Hiska, takes her mistress’ hand gently in her own as they watch the three figures make their way from the garden. As the distance from them increases Hiska notes Amerasu’s grip is also increased. She looks down at her charge but knows not what to say for comfort. Instead of words she gently brings her left hand to clasp that already held by her right. Nothing more is required.
Without a word of command from Hiska the other comitati that surround Amerasu move forward instinctively. The ‘hounds’ know all is not well but they can do nothing other than remain at their mistress’ side. All that is heard is the soft mumbling of prayers from the depths of hoods as Ashan takes her place in the clear night sky surrounded by the light of stars.
* * *
Avarin is holding her child’s hand firmly and looks across to Tirandel. “All will be well”, she says quietly. Tirandel reaches down and takes the free hand of Avarin’s son as the three walk from the rose gardens.
ne of Farewell, are found a ring of trees that are the home of the crows. Almost four score crows nests adorn the treeline and look down upon the burial mounds of the dead that have been laid to rest here within the walls of Aquila. These barrows have a weight of history that go back to the naming of Aquila te Lunashaed and as such make a natural homing for the winged harbingers of the dead.
As the three stand at the burial mounds they look up to the tree line, which is coloured a pale silver in the rising moonlight. A large shadow rises from within the branches of the trees and takes to the night sky. As one, the crow shadow rises up from the tree line and descends upon the city and the three that stand before it in the shadowed garden of the dead.
She then steps forward approaching the stone steps that lead up to the entrance of the barrows. As she does so she lets her cloak fall from her shoulders. Beneath she is wearing a black ruffled mourning dress with a patterned laced bodice that falls gracefully around her and marks her as a widow yet also consort to the Crows.
Tirandel also lets fall her Aditu cloak revealing a more simplistic black dress of similar design without the bodice patterning, for that is reserved for the daughters of First Family as a mark of their position and placing within the House: roses entwined with stars symbolising the House and it’s goddess’ children that look down upon all Aditu.
As Avarin gracefully walks up the steps into the shadows of the barrows and trees that surround the burial grounds of the elves two crows alight upon the stone bannisters. The First Daughter of the House Aditu is also a CrowSinger and tonight is taking her place and exercising her position among these creatures of the light of the living and the shadows of those that have passed beyond the realm of life. She turns to the crow upon her right for she is named Seeker and Avarin answers to her before all others.
From Tirandel’s vantage point she observes that the crow that has claimed Avarin as her own Singer is speaking with her and Avarin is listening intently. The folds of Avarin’s dress fall to the stone steps as she gives her full attention to the words of the crow. She then turns to the second crow, sat upon the stone railings to her left, as Seeker also looks that way.
There is no mistaking the aura of this creature for he is Rauxlor – the eldest of the Crows and the one who took Navarre as his own and vice versa. Both were masters and also servants to one another for never before had such a pairing of Crow and Elf been given freely and without inhibition. Now though, only one of that partnership remains and the loss of the other is clearly showing on the one that has survived.
In comparison to Seeker, Rauxlor, despite his magnificence and clear elder status, is weary and on close inspection carries a weight of overwhelming sadness that defies anything felt by mere mortals. Jingizu, or sadness of spirit, is well known to the immortals and long lived races of the world. The Elves are masters of this melancholy which only they can also turn into a stubborn fight for survival against insurmountable emotional odds.
After a few brief moments upon the steps Avarin returns to her child and her fellow CrowSinger. Taking her son’s hand she leads him up the steps into the shadows of the Garden of the Dead of Aquila and it’s ages of legend. Tirandel follows.
The crows that reside within Aquila are all gathered within. They are sat upon the burial mounds and around the steps that lead to this shadowy place located within the city of beauty crafted by the three elder tribes of the Elves. Avarin leads her child to the place where both Seeker and Rauxlor await them.
Tirandel stands to the child’s right with her mother in front and to the left. A somber look is passed from mother to fellow crowsinger, which instigates Tirandel reaching into her belt pouch and closing her fingers around that which she has taken out. The child looks to his mother for reassurance. In return she takes a knee and gently runs her hand over her son’s face in a loving caress before then looking for Tirandel.
Avarin remains kneeling embracing her son saying “This will make it easier my love – trust us both for this will be over quickly and I and Tirandel are with you, I promise you that”.
Her fellow crowsinger then opens her hand and blows the kei-vishaaa taken from her pouch into the child’s face.
It is then that the crows descend upon the child engulfing him and his two guardians in their brooding shadow of night black wings.
Saturday, 30 July 2011
First things first:
1) who's going?
2) when are they going?
3) What has been happening IC since last event?
d) use her as a human shield and fight your way out
5) Where, IC, are those who are not going going to be?
6) Why do whales have to be so damn big?
7) Shall we meet up for a beer beforehand (particularly for those not going)?
8) All of the above.
Sunday, 12 June 2011
Of Children & Crows (Part 1)
In the failing light a lone figure sits upon a chair. To one side is another chair and to the other side two more, all three of which are empty.
The figure looks at each chair in turn but gives no voice to thoughts. With a wave of arm attendants, robed and hooded, come to stand beside her.
At the head of the company of approaching elves is a cloaked and cowled figure walking hand in hand with a young child. She walks with purpose and a gracefulness not often seen. It marks her apart from those around her for she is Avarin, First Daughter of the House Aditu and Queen-in-Waiting to her people.
“Mother” says Avarin, “I know it seems wrong but…” Avarin turns to a figure at her side, who then steps forward and from the deep blue of her cloak hood speaks:
“It is the only way Etriel, for the Crows are lost and with them the spirits of those we love are also lost upon the Crow Road unable to reach Jhokl – long have we desired they find the peace denied their bodies. Ydar’s warband have done their part; now we know we must do ours. Give us your blessing for what we must do this night under the gaze of Ashan and the Crows. If we do not then Rauxlor may well perish under his burden and Aquila will be cast into everlasting shadow. Our grieving is killing the dream.”
Upon hearing this Amerasu kneels in front of the child and places her hands upon each cheek. She smiles and kisses each cheek in turn and then the forehead.
Speaking softly she says: “I feel the night is on your side. You have nothing to fear. You are blessed by Ashan and your bloodline my dear child. Look to your mother now.”
The figure to Avarin’s side moves forward and gestures to the left. “All will be well First Grandmother.”
“You have my blessing Tirandel – deliver us from shadows.”
With that Avarin, the child and Tirandel leave the rose garden and the company of the elves gathered there.
Wednesday, 27 April 2011
Our story starts sometime before Y'dar's warband ever got close to Limmer Hill. I was in the Northlands, searching for the herb known as Bugle, when I came across a fort. It was nearing nightfall, and my pack animals, two sudhod'ya I called 'left' and 'right', were growing tired. Whipping them the final distance I demanded entry and accommodation within. Cowed by my elven magnificence the guards gave me entrance, and I was shown to some meagre rooms: unfortunately the best they had.
I met the lord of Limmer Hill fort at the meal that night, a sudhod'ya named Rutal, and his wife and daughter, who were both rather lovely. As I had been my usual charming self, I was of course expecting a nocturnal visit to my bedchamber from one (or both) of the two ladies. When the knock came, soon after the rise of Ashan's moon, imagine my surprise when the supplicant at my door turned out to be Rutal! This put me in somewhat of a delicate situation. He was my host, and as a guest I was obliged to be obliging. However, I found him to be crude and uncultured, and knew from my travels that he was cruel and capricious. In order to be polite, I gently prevaricated. Growing desperate and pitiful, he offered me his most valuable possessions. Wishing to be rid of him I said that I would think on his offer, and he left. Shortly after, his wife came secretly unto me.
The next day Rutal laid siege to me again, again promising me all his riches. To dissuade him I told him that such a love was forbidden in my culture. Despondent he left. That afternoon as I bathed, his maiden daughter came unto me. When she left she was maiden no longer. At dinner that evening word came that an elven warband approached and would probably attack on the morrow. After viewing their encampment from the ramparts I privately resolved to provide my kinsfolk with what help I could. I went to Rutal, and to distract him from any pre-emptive attack he might make on the warband, I said that I had relented, and invited him to my bedchamber that night.
That night he did indeed come, and I betrayed his trust and lust with a bitter kiss. Leaving him, I went to the courtyard well with certain of my herbs, so that when Y'dar and his Gaesatae attacked they faced a foe without a leader, and with barely any men well enough to fight.
The bard who composed the Ballad of Limmer Hill ignored my part, but I forgive him. His head was turned by the blud and thunder of the warband, and he knew not what he did. I only tell this story now to set the record straight, and so that you might bask in the turbulence of my magnificence.
How do you know my tale is true? Well, there are two young sobaks in the Northlands who have my eyes, but slightly more accessible is this trophy I took from Rutal's body: