Feb. 4, 2009 - Chapter 6-8
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Chapter Six: Towers of Iron and Engines of War
". . . and so the great King Siason passed, lying on his funeral-pyre piled high on the swan white boat that bore him down the Great River towards the West."
Sarlaim finished these last few verses of his song with a few singing notes on his silver harp. King Ailira of Dorea and his lords who sat around him sat breathless for a moment as Sarlaim wrapped his harp in white cloth and set it behind the great carved oaken chair he sat in. Then the room was filled with shouts of applause and cheering. Sarlaim smiled and lifted his cup to his mouth and took a long drink.
During their rest in Stillwood, Sorrin and his newfound cousin, Sarlaim, had become very good friends. Sarlaim, who was about nineteen years old, was not only a prince, but also a bard, and he knew a lot about the history of Middengarnë, especially that of the Southern Kingdoms. Now that they had arrived in Narcourt, the capital city of Dorea, King Ailira heard of Sarlaim’s ability and had asked him to sing.
Sorrin’s attention was drawn to the wall behind the throne of Ailira. The great hickory panels were engraved with images of the Scourge of the Frontier, where the archers from Stillwood and the horsemen of Dorea played an important role in driving the outlaws and Dokkalim from the Frontier back into their stronghold in the Cragged Mountains. The light from the fire in the center of the room cast shadows across these images, making it look as if they were moving.
"Fascinating, isn’t it?" Sorrin looked up and saw Sarlaim sitting in the chair next to him. He smiled and nodded. Sarlaim made a wide gesture with his hand toward the carvings. "They tell me that it took three years to carve those," he said, "Some of the detail is so small you can’t see it."
"Who made them?" Sorrin asked.
"One of the greatest craftsmen in Dorea, a man named Ninair," answered Sarlaim, "But that was over a hundred years ago."
The women of the Midas’ household, who had accompanied them, came in just then and went among the tables pouring mead into the men’s empty cups. One of them, who looked to be about Sarlaim’s age, came to their table.
"Good evening, Roärya," said Sarlaim as she refilled his cup. She smiled and moved on to the next table, and Sorrin noticed that Sarlaim’s eyes followed her around the room.
"She will be a fit queen someday," said Sorrin.
Sarlaim smiled. "I think so too, cousin," he said.
Just then King Ailira motioned for Naramir, who was sitting next to him, to stand. "Now," he said, "Tell us what news you have."
Naramir took a deep breath and began. "It was seven days before Minarasin Eve, and I was praying in the inner room of the Temple of Lor, for it was my turn to oversee the sacrifices.
"As I was lighting the lamps, I passed into salimin, or a vision, for those of you who know not that term. And in the vision, I saw all of Middengarnë, as if from the sky. And in the North a flame burned. The flame grew larger and larger and from the midst of it came engines of war; great catapults and siege towers, as numerous as the stars.
"I turned my face toward the South, and I beheld the Three Towers, the Towers of Iron, shining like flames in the sun. And against these came the engines of war from the North. But in the North I saw a Man. And a Voice spoke to me saying: ‘This is your Deliverer. This is My Son." And I knew that Lor had spoke to me."
Here Sorrin and Sarlaim looked at one another amazed. It was rare that Lor Himself would speak in a vision. They listened as Naramir continued.
"I came out of salimin, and immediately I went and prepared to leave for Linan Nor. I feared for my brother Mornan, who was at Noran Mir for the feasting. But when I arrived, Noran Mir was under attack, and I was almost captured by the Dokkalim troops.
"But I escaped and made my way north to the castle of King Dain of Saorden. There we discussed what must be done, and we decided to send Prince Sorrin and these two Sartalim brothers from Shaddock here to Narcourt. And from here we go north to Rasnonia, to find our Deliverer."
There was a moment of silence. Sorrin’s mind was racing. He was to go into Rasnonia? He looked at Sarlaim. Sarlaim’s face was grimly set, and his eyes were flashing. Sorrin knew that Sarlaim would follow Naramir to the world’s end, if it was the will of Lor.
King Ailira stood, and whispered something to a servant who was standing close by. The servant left the room. "Naramir," he said, "All that was in your vision was true. Linan Nor and Noran Risas are fallen, that is already known to us. Noran Mir is presently under siege, but your brother Mornan is here, safe in our care." At this Naramir brightened.
"Where is he?" he asked.
"Right here, brother."
Sorrin looked to where the voice had come from. The servant that Ailira had sent out had returned with a tall, fair haired Annwyn. His left hand was bandaged and he limped on his right foot, but that detracted nothing from his royal, and slightly mischievous, manner.
Naramir rushed over to him and grasped both of his hands. Mornan winced. "I’m glad to see you too," he cautioned, "But be careful of the hand, brother."
"I’m sorry," said Naramir.
"I’m sorry to stop this reunion," said Ailira smiling, "But we have a very important matter on our hands. Did your vision tell you what we should do about this?"
"No," replied Naramir, "And I don’t think there is anything we can do, other than trust this Deliverer that Lor has sent us. But my only question is, how are we to find this Deliverer?"
"Naramir," said Mornan, "The Sarilan."
Sorrin almost bolted out of his chair. "The Sarilan?"
Naramir smiled, then he turned back to Ailira. "Your highness," he said, "There is a fact about us Annwyn that not many other people know about. Not only do we have visions, but we also can share them. On my way to King Dain’s castle, I shared a vision with Mornan. I will not tell the whole thing, for visions from Lor are not to be told like common bard-songs, but I will say this. Prince Sorrin, who you see here before you, has a great task before him. It is he who will go into the North, even to Rasnonia, and he will find the Deliverer."
There was a short silence. Sorrin’s eyes met with Naramir’s and were held there.
"But he will not go without help," finished Naramir.
He stepped right in front of Sorrin and drew out from under his cloak the long leather-bound bundle that Sorrin had noticed that night in Bear Tor. Naramir solemnly handed it over to Sorrin. Sorrin stood with it in his shaking hands. He carefully unwound it.
The light from the fire glinted on the polished metal and danced along the golden lettering that ran up the flat of the blade. Sorrin held it as if it would dissolve into dust at his slightest breath.
It was the Sarilan, the sword of Saor, the first king of Saorden. As if responding to the touch of a descendent of it’s forger, the sword took on a distinct golden glow. Sarilan. In the Old Speech that meant Singer.
"Sorrin."
Sorrin looked up and saw that it was Mornan who had said his name.
"Are you ready?"
Sorrin smiled. With Sarilan in his hand, Naramir and the others at his back, and Lor above him, he felt he could take on all the Dokkalim in Middengarnë.
"I am ready."
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Chapter Seven: The Journey Begins
"The time has come. The hour has struck. The South is groaning. West, east, and north, they all hold their breath. The reign of Rastoran is coming here. Read it in the stars. Feel it in the air. Hear it in the crashing of the waves on the western shore. The Human and Annwyn will unite, and the Huwyn will stand victorious. The Gwyllion and the Sartalim and the Children of Losran will answer their call. Out of the north a storm arises, a destroyer is born, a wolf grows hungry, a monster rages. Prepare. Rastoran comes."
The words from Sorrin’s dream echoed in his ears. He had told Mornan and Naramir about it, and they looked troubled. After they had taken council with each other, it was decided that Sorrin, Naramir, Sarlaim, and Ganail would continue the journey north and Mornan and Halthinil would accompany Ailira and his men to Noran Mir.
The sun rose in unclouded splendor on the day of departure. Sorrin was restless as he waited for the preparations of the journey to be made. They would be traveling in simple brown clothes and grey cloaks, with unmarked shields from Ailira’s armory so as to avoid drawing attention from the Rasnonians.
Sorrin strode up and down one of the many corridors in the palace fingering the hilt of his new sword.
He and Sarlaim had deciphered the words written in the Old Speech that ran along the blade the day before. He memorized what it said:
"I am Sarilan, that same blade of old wielded in the aged days by Saor, son of Siason."
"That is a goodly blade you have, my prince."
Sorrin turned around and immediately recognized the powerful frame of his manservant and friend, Sordoin. "Sordoin!" he exclaimed, "What are you doing here?"
"Word came from Stillwood about your journey in the Sundering Plains," replied Sordoin, "and King Dain was somewhat worried when he heard about your encounter with the U’tolga. "So the King sent me to make sure you are alright,"
"Well, as you can see, I’m fine," said Sorrin. "Maybe even better off than before," He added as he gazed down at Sarilan.
Sordoin looked at his young master curiously. The boy part of him had gone, and was replaced by a man. He noticed Sorrin held himself prouder than before, and that his steel grey eyes flashed with a flame of determination. It seemed to Sordoin that he was beholding one of the kings of the Old Days.
Sorrin looked up from his sword. "What?" he asked when he saw the strange look on his friend’s face.
"Nothing," said Sordoin smiling a little, "I was just wondering who you looked more like; your father, King Dain, or that statue of King Rian in the throne room."
"Rian the Traveler?" laughed Sorrin, "If I look like him, then I’ll need a surname like his!"
"Sorrin Longwalker?"
The corridor echoed with their laughter. And from that day on, Longwalker was Sorrin’s nickname.
"What’s this?"
The large hickory door at the far end of the hall opened and Naramir came in. "I’m sorry to stop the fun," he said, "but all is ready for the journey."
"The journey?" Sordoin looked at Sorrin questioningly.
"To Rasnonia," said Naramir, "Sorrin hasn’t told you?"
"Rasnonia?" exclaimed Sordoin, "what’s this all about?"
Sorrin told Sordoin all that had happened the night before, including his dream. Sordoin was silent for a moment.
"If you go," he said slowly, "then I must go too. It is my duty."
Sorrin looked at Naramir hopefully, but the Annwyn shook his head.
"I’m afraid not," Naramir said, "there would be too many of us." Sordoin was about to protest, but Naramir added, "If you want to help your master, go with King Ailira to Noran Mir. They will need all the help they can get against the Dokkalim at the Tower."
"I don’t know. . ." Sordoin began.
"Go with King Ailira, Sordoin," said Sorrin, "you will be of more help there. I’ll be fine."
"Alright, my Prince," said Sordoin smiling, "I guess I can’t watch over you forever."
The time of departure had come. Down the street that ran through the city of Narcourt to the Gate rode the Red Company, five hundred great mounted soldiers of Dorea, each wearing a scarlet cape and a red waistband. At their head rode Ailira, Naramir, Sorrin and the others. No one spoke, and Sorrin was almost dreading the moment when they would be outside the Gate and on their way to Rasnonia, and to whatever fate awaited them there.
Suddenly, Sorrin realized just what was going on. What was he thinking? He wasn’t King Siason the Sailor, or King Saor, or King Rian the Traveler! He wasn’t even a king! Sure he had the Sarilan, but what did he know about wars?
"I can’t do this." he thought. Naramir looked sharply at him and he realized he was thinking out loud
"You can," Naramir whispered to him. Then he pointed to Sorrin’s heart. "Lor is there."
Assured by this simple statement, Sorrin swallowed his fear as best he could, and set his mind to the task before him.
The Gate was now opening. King Ailira and Naramir were the first to go through, with Sorrin following close behind. He breathed deeply when he got outside. There he was, with all things familiar and safe behind, and the dark unknown before him.
The Red Company halted once outside the Gate. Naramir and Mornan rode to the front and did the priestly duty of committing the Company to Lor’s care. Then they rode away, the Red Company on the road to Noran Mir, and Sorrin and his companions to the North.
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No one spoke for a while. Over his shoulder Sorrin saw the city of Narcourt disappearing in the distance, with the red and gold flags of Dorea flying above the city walls. It would be the last time he would see anything Southern for a long time.
It was about sunset when they reached the edges of Stillwood. Sarlaim took the lead, as he knew every path in the forest by heart.
They had not gone half a mile when they were met by a group of about thirty-five archers. A lady, who seemed to be the leader, stepped forward and bowed before Sarlaim.
“Cousin Aryia!” exclaimed Sarlaim, “Isn’t it too late to be out hunting?”
“Not hunting, cousin Prince,” the archeress answered, rising, “The U’tolga have been prowling outside the forest all day, and we are afraid they have entered.”
“Why did you not attack them?” asked Sarlaim.
“There were too many of them and too few of us. The best archers went with King Midas.”
Sarlaim turned to Naramir. “What now? We can’t very well leave, not with Stillwood in danger.”
“And we can’t very well stay,” answered Naramir, “Not with the entire South depending on us.”
"You go on with your business," Aryia put in quickly, "I can handle the Cliff Rats."
Sarlaim looked at her questioningly. "Are you sure?"
"Yes. Your mission is more important, I am thinking."
"Alright," said Sarlaim after a moment's thought, "But if the U'tolga should prove too strong, go to Noran Rimana."
A shout ripped through the quietness of the night. A long arrow brushed past Sorrin's head and stuck into an old oak behind him. There was chaos. The woods were full of the battle-cries of the Cliff-dwellers and the neighing of their mountain bred steeds.
Moving as one and with amazing discipline, the archers of Stillwood formed ranks among the trees and fitted arrows in the strings of their bows.
"Sinid!" commanded Sarlaim in Stilltongue, swinging down from his horse and stringing his own bow. The archers and Aryia drew their bows back.
Sorrin, Ganail, and Naramir got down from their horses and drew their swords, just in time to avoid being struck down by another volley of arrows from the U'tolga.
"Ieah!" The archers took aim. The U'tolga were now in sight. Sorrin tightened his grip on Sarilan.
"Naikaiimai!"
At that signal, thirty-seven black shafted, white feathered messengers of death sped from the strings of thirty-seven bows of yew, and every one of them stabbed home into the heart of a Cliff-dweller. The death-cries rung in Sorrin's ears. He was sure they would turn back.
But still they came on.
"Devils all!" exclaimed Sarlaim, "Why do they not turn back?"
"Shhh," said Ganail, "Listen to what they say."
Sorrin listened. The U'tolga had halted in their advance, and a loud voice called out to them.
"The Saorling Prince! He is what we want!" the voice said. All eyes turned to Sorrin.
"What do you want with me?" Sorrin asked through clenched teeth. His question was echoed by the archers. "What do you want with him?"
"No harm, no harm," answered the voice, "And it ain't any business of the Wood Rats what we want of you."
"Don't trust them," Naramir warned in a whisper. Then he raised his sword and spoke in the Old Tongue. "Lor! Mast os da dar or nimasa aras oras!"
There was a noise like thunder and a blinding flash of white light. The U'tolga's screams shook the trees, and the archers cheered as the Cliff Rats retreated out of the shadows of Stillwood.
Sorrin cheered along with the rest, but was grabbed roughly from behind. A large calloused palm slapped over his mouth before he had time to realize what was going on, and something hard hit him on the back of his head. He sank unconscious into the hands of his captors.
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Chapter Eight: Noran Mir
Sordoin didn't know why King Ailira had pulled up to ride beside him that first day on their way to the Tower of Hands. They hadn't even spoken to each other, other than a greeting and a comment now and then on the unusually dry weather.
But the second day of riding, the king of Dorea was very talkative.
"Your name is Sordoin, right?" he asked.
"Yes sir," Sordoin answered.
"That means Son of the Bear in the Old Tongue," said Ailira matter-of-factly, "do you know the Old Tongue?"
"A little," said Sordoin, "In Saorden, that knowledge is not useful unless you are a priest or a noble."
"Ah, I see," said Ailira, "But you are too short and stocky to be a Saorling."
"I am Dorean by birth," replied Sordoin, "My mother came to Saorden during the famine and worked as a handmaiden for the queen." He held up his right hand and showed Ailira a ring. It was in the shape of a three headed serpent, each head clutching a round emerald in it's jaws.
Ailira looked at the ring closely with a strange expression on his face. Then he sighed. "My wife disappeared during the famine about twenty years ago." There was silence for a moment.
"How old are you?" Ailira asked suddenly, and urgently Sordoin thought.
"Nineteen."
"Nineteen," echoed Ailira under his breath, "Yes, that's about right."
Sordoin looked at the Dorean monarch curiously. It was then that he realized the close resemblance between them. The same square jaw, the same green eyes, the stern nose, the reddish brown hair. . .
"Noran Mir!" The cry from the front brought Sordoin's thoughts back. He and Ailira sped to the head of the Red Company and halted alongside Mornan and Halthinil, who were riding in the same horse. It was the first time he saw the great Tower of Hands.
Noran Mir was more than a tower. There was a single tall wall encircling it, and behind those walls was what might be called a city. The whole thing seemed to Sordoin like a great stormy giant, frowning upon the surrounding land. But what most impressed him was the Tower itself.
It shone in the midday sun, it's four sides each bearing a golden image of a hand. The tall wall surrounding it was scarred with marks of countless sieges, giving it a forlorn yet proud appearance. The wall was lined with scores of armed defenders in shining armor, each one with a flashing sword and a long black bow.
The flags and banners of the noble families and clans who resided in the Tower cast their defiant colors into the air, looking to Sordoin like the fabled Firebirds of the farthest South, all waiting to swoop down upon the enemy as soon as it dared show itself. Sordoin took this all in with an overwhelming sense of awe. Noran Mir, the ancient guardian of Dorea, Second of the Towers of Iron, built by King Dore in ages long gone.
And then he saw the Dokkalim.
Hordes upon hordes of black-clad, scimitar wielding, Rastoran worshipping, bloodthirsty brutes covered the plains around the Tower like a black blanket, screaming hatred at the Tower, and stamping the ground in their impatience for war. They had not noticed the Red Company that had halted right behind them.
Ailira looked at Sordoin. "Ready?" was all he asked.
Sordoin swallowed whatever fear he felt and nodded. He drew his sword and Ailira raised his silver horn to his mouth.
The Dokkalim turned at the sound of the Red Company's thunderous charge. The red banners of Dorea snapped in the wind as if answering the flags of the Tower, and a cheer went up from the defenders of Noran Mir.
Cries of fear mixed with surprised anger sprang from the Dokkalim ranks as they flew into wild confusion. Sordoin saw for a split second a man riding among the Dokkalim shouting orders. Soon the ranks in the back turned and faced the Red Company with pikes outstretched, and the front lines began wreaking havoc among the defenders with their deadly arrows.
The horses were going faster than Sordoin thought possible, and the distance between the Company and the outstretched pikes of the Dokkalim was becoming shorter and shorter, until he could see the angry and frightened looks in the eyes of the enemy. He held his breath and braced himself.
The Red Company flung themselves into the dark mass of Dokkalim. Sordoin hacked savagely anywhere flesh could be seen under the black iron armor of the Dokkalim. His sword hand was covered with blood; he new not and cared not whether it was an enemy's or his own.
He heard the war-song of Dorea ringing above the noise of battle, and with a grim glee he joined in. He felt like a wave in a seething black sea; no, the Company was a red wave storming through and smothering the putrid black sea of Dokkalim, as if it were a purifying fire consuming dross off the sacred land of Dorea.
And just as fast as it had began, they were clear of the Dokkalim horde, and making straightway for the gates of Noran Mir, that were opened in welcome. A few angry arrows followed them in, but they were hastily shot and clattered harmlessly against the stone battlements.
Stablehands came forward and took the horses to the stables, while the Company refreshed themselves at a large well in the center of the courtyard in the shadow of the Tower. It was even more impressive up close, but it was no longer menacing and angry. Now it was like a large mother hen, and the walls were like the wings surrounding her chicks.
Men and women knowledgeable in leechcraft were on hand to see to the wounded. Mornan immediately went to the top of the walls, and Halthinil went his own way, with the curious glances of the Doreans following him. They had never seen one of the Sartalim before.
A tall, middle-aged man in armor with his left arm in a sling, and his long red beard dirty and matted, came forward and saluted Ailira.
"General Nimoran," greeted the King, "You have held them off well so far."
"Thank you, sire," answered the general, "They attacked on the night of Minarasin Eve, and took us all by surprise. I'm afraid they have harvested our fields, without asking our leave." He spat out the last part.
"As soon as the Dokkalim are rid of, your harvest will be repaid double," said Ailira.
Nimoran looked at Sordoin. "Your son?" he asked Ailira.
"No," answered Ailira after hesitating a moment, as if caught off guard. Then, looking around at the soldiers on the wall, he said hastily, "How do things stand here?"
"Well enough," replied Nimoran slowly, looking quizzically at Sordoin and then at Ailira, "The women and children are being kept safe inside the Tower. There is medicine and weapons aplenty, and for food there are rations of dried meat and bread, but as for water," here he gave a short gesture of helplessness, "I'm afraid only one well is left full. The enemy has possession of all the springs outside the wall."
"That is a problem we cannot solve, unless we can dig another well," said Ailira, "Tell me, who is the leader of the enemy?"
"His name is Imira," answered the general, "They say he is the offspring of a Dokkalim chieftain and a Huwyn witch. Such an unholy union is sure to bring forth a monster like Imira the Axe."
"Yes, a monster," said Mornan, who had just walked up, "But it is not because of his monstrousness that we should be wary of him." Mornan looked straight at Ailira. "Imira the Axe now wields Rimastan, the Whisperer."
There was a silence in the courtyard, for every soldier there heard Mornan's words.
"It can't be," said Ailira breathlessly, "Not the sword of Dore! Not the sword that fought at Mass Rin and at the Scourge of the Frontier! It couldn't have turned to the evil side!"
"Never fear, Ailira," said Mornan, laying a hand on his shoulder reassuringly, "The day approaches when light shall be shown to the blind, evil will change to good, and things bound will be loosed. The day comes when all things are to be redeemed."
It was the first time Sordoin heard a prophecy.
"Sir!" A sentry from the wall called down to Nimoran, "The enemy is calling for an audience with you!"
Ailira and Nimoran looked at each other. "We'll be right out," called the general to the sentry.
The dusty plains were dotted over with the dead bodies of fallen Dokkalim, and these were shoveled aside to make way for Imira and his general Hisarasin. Ailira and Nimoran met them before the gate, dressed in the finest armor available. Sordoin stood a few steps behind the Dorean King.
"Ailira," said Imira in a mocking salute. He was dressed in a dirty black coat that trailed on the ground behind him. Rimastan was at his side.
"Imira," said Ailira nodding slightly.
"I had no idea you had a son," said the Axe gesturing to Sordoin. Sordoin wondered why everyone was mistaking him as Ailira's son.
"Why did you call this parley, Imira?" asked Ailira ignoring that remark.
"To show you how pathetic you really are," replied Imira stepping forward, "Hisarasin. The shield, if you please."
The Dokkalim general grunted and held out a plain shield, bearing no markings. Ailira and Sordoin looked at it shocked. It was the shield Sorrin had taken from Ailira's armory.
"You see, Ailira," said Imira, "Sending a mere boy to Rasnonia is not a smart move."
"What have you done with him?" Sordoin demanded, his hand going to his sword.
"He is now on his way North," sneered the Axe, "Probably will wind up in a salt mine or the galleys. . ." He was cut short. Sordoin had knocked him to the ground and was holding him in a strangling grip about his throat. Hisarasin grabbed Sordoin by the back of his neck and hurled him away with a gurgling roar.
Imira stood and shook his fist at Sordoin, who was lying on the ground groaning. "Fool!" he shouted hoarsely, "Try that again, you son of a. . ."
"Is that all you had to say, Imira?" Ailira snapped as he and Nimoran helped Sordoin to his feet.
Imira spat at them and turned away cursing. Hisarasin took one last hateful look at Sordoin, and then followed his master. The three Doreans ran back into the gate.
The siege began again.
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