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"The Darthim Must Fall!"
Apr. 9th, 2023 05:29 pm"The Darthim Must Fall!"
3/13-3/14/1220 DR
I.
Up from the Cold Sea onto the rocky shore came a dozen men. No boat was in sight. These were tall, thin men with long arms and legs, clad in tight pants and tunics of rough grey sharkhide. All had long knives with sharp blades of bone strapped to their backs and most of them carried five foot long tridents. On the tines of these weapons were impaled large fish, still gasping and struggling.
These were Gelydrim, true amphibians from the sunken island of Ulgor. For the most part they looked Human like their ancestors. The wide flat faces with sullen blue eyes under stiff bristly blond hair were distinctive but not beyond the norm. It was their feet, inches longer than Human feet and with webbing between the toes that marked them decisively.
"Good hunting stirs an appetite," said Timbor Tu. His status as their chief was shown by a carved figure in jade of a shark worn around his neck. "We shall be feasting shortly, eh my friend?"
One figure among them stood out dramatically. Taller than the others and more massively built, he wore black trousers and a dark blue tunic of heavy cotton. As the party stood on the shore, seawater dripping from them, this one unfastened the belt from across his shoulders and rebuckled it at his waist so that his straight sword hung at his left hip. He drew the weapon and wiped its blade dry in the warm sunlight, then turned to half-smile.
Romal the Mongrel had thick shaggy black hair and blue eyes with strange amber flecks in them. Still young under thirty years of age, his features were weatherbeaten showing lines from hardship. With his wet hair tucked back, the pointed ears could be clearly seen. "Before I eat, I must see what new grievance the Melgarin are presenting. Everything is difficult with them."
They stood on an eminence, looking out over long swelling undulations of gently waving tall grass. Near at hand a few fires flickered, their low numbers giving scant evidence of the hordes of tribesmen who lay close by. Beyond these were more fires and beyond these still more, which last marked the camp of Timbor Tu's own men, hard-fighting Gelydrim, who were of that band which had come far from sunken Ulgor. To the left of these, other fires gleamed. Hundreds of warriors from throf the Seven Races had assembled that night.
And far away to the south were more fires, mere pinpoints of light. But even at that distance the Mongrel and his Gelydra ally could see that these fires were laid out in much greater numbers.
"There! The fires of the Trolls," muttered Romal. "The fires that have left ruin around the world. The monsters who light those fires have trampled the other Races under their brutal heels. And now, we have our backs to the wall. What will befall on the morrow?"
"Victory for us, say the omens," answered Timbor Tu.
The Mongrel made an impatient gesture. "Omens! Portents! I place little faith in what can not be seen. Better a strong arm and a brave heart than the most comforting omen."
"Romal, the cause of your doubt lies there." The lean arm pointed to the distant ring of enemy fires.
"Aye," the Mongrel nodded gloomily. "Timbor Tu, you know as well as I that tomorrow's battle means more than just our lives. Rebellion is in the wind all over the known world. Humans, Gelydrim, Melgarin, even the Nekrosim can stand Darthan tyranny no longer. Outbreaks of violence have been sparked and even if the Darthim put the resistance down cruelly, even more rebels spring up. I mean to fan the flames! I mean to slaughter these Trolls who carry out the will of the Darthim and show the world that freedom can be won."
"First, let us look to the camps." AS they walked Timbor Tu wondered about Romal. He knew the legends. Men told of an unborn baby torn living from his mother and infused with Darthan blackest sorcery. The babe had traits of all Seven Races, yet was not one of any Race and belonged nowhere. 'Stronger than a Troll, swifter than a Snake man, wise as an Eldanar, cruel of a Dartha...' so the ballad ran.
Timbor Tu and his ally walked through the Gelydran camp where the lanky undersea warriors lay sprawled about their small fires, sleeping or gnawing undercooked fish and raw oysters. Timbor Tu was pleased by their silence. A thousand men camped here, yet the only sounds were occasional low whispered intonations. The silence of the deep rested in the souls of these men.
These men are truly savages, thought Romal as he passed, more even than the Melgarin. Can the old legends be true, that they reigned in a city far beneath the surface of the ocean? That Ulgor had been the site of the Corruption where the dreaded Sulla Chun had imparted forbidden knowledge to mystics and thus begun both the Midnight War and the reign of the Darthim? It was told that Ulgor itself had been broken loose and cast down to the sea floor by Jordyn and the Higher Ones.
If true, all that had taken place twelve hundred years earlier. Romal turned his thoughts to the present.
Close to the encampment of the tribesmen were the fires of a group of Melgarin. members of a fierce people who defied the power of Maroch. Strongly built men they were, with somber blue eyes and shocks of tousled brown hair, such men as had thronged the beaches when Tollinor brought the Trolls into the light. Unlike the Gelydrim these men wore armor, steel chestplates over tough leather shirts. They bore small round bucklers emblazoned with the sacred White Horse, worn on the left arm, and long straight swords with blunt points. A few had bows, though the Melgarin were indifferent archers. Their bows were shorter than the Signarms' and effective only at close range.
But ranged close by their fires were the great steeds that had made the name Melgar a word of terror to every enemy. Within the circle of firelight stood fifty Androval chargers. These were huge, rangy steeds, swift and powerful. For more than a thousand years, Androval had been breeding them. The horses were fearless and would charge any enemy. They had been known to gallop full tilt all day and still crush an army of spearmen under their hooves without hesitation.
"Would that we had more of them!" mused Timbor Tu. "With a thousand Melgar horsemen and my bowmen we could drive the Trolls into the sea. The free Human tribes must eventually fall before Maroch," said Timbor Tu. "One would think they would rush to join you in your war."
Romal made a helpless gesture. "The fickleness of Humans. They can not forget old feuds. Our ancient men have told us how they would not even unite against Darthim when the Trolls first came. They will not make war against a common foe together. These men came to me because of some dispute with their chief, but I can not depend on them when they are not actually fighting."
Timbor Tu nodded. "I know Tollinor keeps the upper hand by playing one tribe against another. My own people shift and change with the waxing and waning of the tides. But of all the Races, the Melgarin are the most changeable and the least predictable.
"But these Melgarin dare defy Maroch," said Romal. "They will aid us on the morrow. Further than that I can not say. But how shall I expect unity from Races who hate each other? Thousands more of each folk wait to be convinced a rebellion might succeed. They will be swayed by results only. Let us win tomorrow and they will flock to the standard. But we lose, the Myrrwhans and Danarakans and Chujirans will allow themselves to be downtrodden for another thousand years."
( the rest of the story )
3/13-3/14/1220 DR
I.
Up from the Cold Sea onto the rocky shore came a dozen men. No boat was in sight. These were tall, thin men with long arms and legs, clad in tight pants and tunics of rough grey sharkhide. All had long knives with sharp blades of bone strapped to their backs and most of them carried five foot long tridents. On the tines of these weapons were impaled large fish, still gasping and struggling.
These were Gelydrim, true amphibians from the sunken island of Ulgor. For the most part they looked Human like their ancestors. The wide flat faces with sullen blue eyes under stiff bristly blond hair were distinctive but not beyond the norm. It was their feet, inches longer than Human feet and with webbing between the toes that marked them decisively.
"Good hunting stirs an appetite," said Timbor Tu. His status as their chief was shown by a carved figure in jade of a shark worn around his neck. "We shall be feasting shortly, eh my friend?"
One figure among them stood out dramatically. Taller than the others and more massively built, he wore black trousers and a dark blue tunic of heavy cotton. As the party stood on the shore, seawater dripping from them, this one unfastened the belt from across his shoulders and rebuckled it at his waist so that his straight sword hung at his left hip. He drew the weapon and wiped its blade dry in the warm sunlight, then turned to half-smile.
Romal the Mongrel had thick shaggy black hair and blue eyes with strange amber flecks in them. Still young under thirty years of age, his features were weatherbeaten showing lines from hardship. With his wet hair tucked back, the pointed ears could be clearly seen. "Before I eat, I must see what new grievance the Melgarin are presenting. Everything is difficult with them."
They stood on an eminence, looking out over long swelling undulations of gently waving tall grass. Near at hand a few fires flickered, their low numbers giving scant evidence of the hordes of tribesmen who lay close by. Beyond these were more fires and beyond these still more, which last marked the camp of Timbor Tu's own men, hard-fighting Gelydrim, who were of that band which had come far from sunken Ulgor. To the left of these, other fires gleamed. Hundreds of warriors from throf the Seven Races had assembled that night.
And far away to the south were more fires, mere pinpoints of light. But even at that distance the Mongrel and his Gelydra ally could see that these fires were laid out in much greater numbers.
"There! The fires of the Trolls," muttered Romal. "The fires that have left ruin around the world. The monsters who light those fires have trampled the other Races under their brutal heels. And now, we have our backs to the wall. What will befall on the morrow?"
"Victory for us, say the omens," answered Timbor Tu.
The Mongrel made an impatient gesture. "Omens! Portents! I place little faith in what can not be seen. Better a strong arm and a brave heart than the most comforting omen."
"Romal, the cause of your doubt lies there." The lean arm pointed to the distant ring of enemy fires.
"Aye," the Mongrel nodded gloomily. "Timbor Tu, you know as well as I that tomorrow's battle means more than just our lives. Rebellion is in the wind all over the known world. Humans, Gelydrim, Melgarin, even the Nekrosim can stand Darthan tyranny no longer. Outbreaks of violence have been sparked and even if the Darthim put the resistance down cruelly, even more rebels spring up. I mean to fan the flames! I mean to slaughter these Trolls who carry out the will of the Darthim and show the world that freedom can be won."
"First, let us look to the camps." AS they walked Timbor Tu wondered about Romal. He knew the legends. Men told of an unborn baby torn living from his mother and infused with Darthan blackest sorcery. The babe had traits of all Seven Races, yet was not one of any Race and belonged nowhere. 'Stronger than a Troll, swifter than a Snake man, wise as an Eldanar, cruel of a Dartha...' so the ballad ran.
Timbor Tu and his ally walked through the Gelydran camp where the lanky undersea warriors lay sprawled about their small fires, sleeping or gnawing undercooked fish and raw oysters. Timbor Tu was pleased by their silence. A thousand men camped here, yet the only sounds were occasional low whispered intonations. The silence of the deep rested in the souls of these men.
These men are truly savages, thought Romal as he passed, more even than the Melgarin. Can the old legends be true, that they reigned in a city far beneath the surface of the ocean? That Ulgor had been the site of the Corruption where the dreaded Sulla Chun had imparted forbidden knowledge to mystics and thus begun both the Midnight War and the reign of the Darthim? It was told that Ulgor itself had been broken loose and cast down to the sea floor by Jordyn and the Higher Ones.
If true, all that had taken place twelve hundred years earlier. Romal turned his thoughts to the present.
Close to the encampment of the tribesmen were the fires of a group of Melgarin. members of a fierce people who defied the power of Maroch. Strongly built men they were, with somber blue eyes and shocks of tousled brown hair, such men as had thronged the beaches when Tollinor brought the Trolls into the light. Unlike the Gelydrim these men wore armor, steel chestplates over tough leather shirts. They bore small round bucklers emblazoned with the sacred White Horse, worn on the left arm, and long straight swords with blunt points. A few had bows, though the Melgarin were indifferent archers. Their bows were shorter than the Signarms' and effective only at close range.
But ranged close by their fires were the great steeds that had made the name Melgar a word of terror to every enemy. Within the circle of firelight stood fifty Androval chargers. These were huge, rangy steeds, swift and powerful. For more than a thousand years, Androval had been breeding them. The horses were fearless and would charge any enemy. They had been known to gallop full tilt all day and still crush an army of spearmen under their hooves without hesitation.
"Would that we had more of them!" mused Timbor Tu. "With a thousand Melgar horsemen and my bowmen we could drive the Trolls into the sea. The free Human tribes must eventually fall before Maroch," said Timbor Tu. "One would think they would rush to join you in your war."
Romal made a helpless gesture. "The fickleness of Humans. They can not forget old feuds. Our ancient men have told us how they would not even unite against Darthim when the Trolls first came. They will not make war against a common foe together. These men came to me because of some dispute with their chief, but I can not depend on them when they are not actually fighting."
Timbor Tu nodded. "I know Tollinor keeps the upper hand by playing one tribe against another. My own people shift and change with the waxing and waning of the tides. But of all the Races, the Melgarin are the most changeable and the least predictable.
"But these Melgarin dare defy Maroch," said Romal. "They will aid us on the morrow. Further than that I can not say. But how shall I expect unity from Races who hate each other? Thousands more of each folk wait to be convinced a rebellion might succeed. They will be swayed by results only. Let us win tomorrow and they will flock to the standard. But we lose, the Myrrwhans and Danarakans and Chujirans will allow themselves to be downtrodden for another thousand years."
( the rest of the story )
