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"A City Risen From Dust"
May. 15th, 2022 08:29 pm"A City Risen From Dust"
9/21/1217 DR
I.
His wounds still smarted as Romal guided the canoe through the reeds. At least blood had stopped seeping through the crude bandages wrapped around his left leg and his right arm. The Mongrel felt the jolt as his stolen craft come to a halt where the shallow mucky water lapped at the edge of the island. Still nimble despite a great weariness, he stood up and stepped ashore. For the next few minutes, he dragged the canoe up into some bushes and covered it with leafy branches he hacked free with what was left of his sword.
Except for his sharply pointed ears, Romal seemed to be a normal Human, an athletic young man in his prime. The Mongrel had a mane of coarse black hair which reached his neck, bound at the temples by a metal diadem. In a sullen, heavy-featured face, his dark blue eyes remained watchful even as he dropped down beneath a tree to check his injuries. Aside from bruises and stiffness, his main concern was a gash in one thigh and a slice across the upper bicep of one arm. Little was left of his travel cloak, so he cut fresh strips of its material and changed the dressing. He scowled as he got a better look at his wounds but reflected he had survived much worse.
Leaning back against the tree, Romal scanned the lake surface for any sign of the pursuing Reavers. On the horizon, a glowering red sun was setting under salmon-colored clouds. That damned Kuthor. The bandit chief had the unreasonable tenacity of a watchdog. Two days of pursuit. When he had been approached by the small raiding party with their one-handed battle axes and distinctive leather helmets bearing ear flaps, Romal had boldly sat up straighter in the saddle, rested one hand on his sword hilt and loudly dared Kuthor to do his worst. He owned little that was worth stealing in any case. In the flurry of brutal violence which had exploded, the Reavers had fallen back one after another with their heads split nearly in half, arms flying away severed from its socket, innards spilling out like ropes.
The Mongrel was no common mortal. Given unnatural birth by the Darthan Kjes, he combined the full strength of a fighting Troll and the speed of a Snake man within his frame. His sword had whirled in a gleaming arc that drove blocking weapons aside and split helmets like dried wood. Within minutes, a circle of dead or dying bandits surrounded him as he sprang to face their chieftain.
But in Kuthor the Dark, Romal had met his match. The notorious black-haired marauder was a huge mountain of hard muscle, deeply tanned with many old scars running whitely across his body and limbs. Kuthor was nearly naked, clad in only a heavy kilt and high-strapped boots but he swung a two-handed broadsword with one hand the way a normal man handled a dagger. The bandit chief was not highly skilled in feints and strategy, he simply attacked with a direct primitive savagery that was overwhelming in its relentlessness. Despite his training on Maroch by fencing masters, Romal found he had his hands full with this opponent. Both of them received hits as they fought, shallow slashes and gouges which were more annoying than life-threatening. In a moment's ill-judgement, the Mongrel stopped an overhead blow too directly and his own blade snapped off seven inches up from the hilt.
Expecting to be slain in the next few seconds, Romal had taken advantage of a brief opening and crashed a closed fist to the side of Kuthor's head with a sound like a hammer hitting rock. The bandit leader had reeled back drunkenly, lowering his guard and Romal thrust his sword shard's jagged point for the man's broad chest but more of the Reavers came riding up the trail. Romal had shoved the dazed Kuthor directly into their path, forcing them to rein their horses in while he himself had leaped astride his own chestnut stallion to escape.
Then had come the long desperate chase. Night had fallen. Romal had lost the Reavers long enough to stealthily steal a canoe from some sleeping fishermen but he left his horse in exchange with its blanket and bridle. He had shoved off into the night, with only a vague memory guiding him that there was a forbidden island somewhere in this vast lake. Now he rested as his strength quickly returned.
The Mongrel was pleased by the vegetation he saw, recognizing plants which bore nuts and berries and even bark which was slightly nutritious. The presence of birds and squirrels in the area suggested that traps might nab him a meal or two, and their presence also hinted that drinkable water was available. This situation did not seem unsurvivable. Why was this island forbidden? he started to wonder before he remembered the ruins of Atravan. Feeling back to normal and wanting to get away from the shore, Romal started hiking inland. The soil was damp but not quite marshy, and the foliage was lush. He spotted a likely-looking branch five feet long and he snapped it loose with his considerable strength. As he continued walking, the Mongrel trimmed off a few branches, whittled away at one end with what remained of his sword and eventually had a serviceable walking stick that would also serve as a club. Looking a few thinner straight sticks that could be made into javelins occupied him as he headed up rising ground toward the center of the island.
From what he remembered of old tales, Atravan had been one of the first cities of Humans to flourish but that had been over a thousand years ago. When the Darthim came to power and crushed the other Races beneath their cruel sorcery, Atravan had fallen and was said to be under a vile curse. For the past twelve hundred years, the Darthan Kjes had exploited and abused and tormented all the other Races. The Trolls in their tunnels, the Gelydrim under the sea, the hidden Snake men hiding in their clandestine lives, even the immortal Eldarin who seldom left their island Elvedal. Darthan tyranny was a heavy burden on all living beings and yet... Recently Romal had been hearing whispers of a coming revolt. The prolific Humans had grown more numerous than all the other Races combined. Emboldened by sheer numbers and the strength of their armies and fortresses, Humans were beginning to stir with the thought of rebellion. A few had even dared breach the thought to Romal.
The hill was getting steep now as night fell, and the walking stick was a big help. From what he had been told, the last time anyone had ventured onto this island was a year ago. Soldiers had been sent from Signarm to scout the land, and they had returned saying there was nothing but ruins. Romal crested the rise. In the last glimmer of twilight, he gazed down on a valley of immense stone blocks lying in piles, of fallen columns and headless stone colossi. Temples and palaces stood with their roofs caved in.
Ruins indeed. The moon was rising and Romal felt he would soon fall asleep whether he wanted to or not. His body ached and his eyes burned with weariness. Finding a likely thicket, taking pains to leave no footprints in the soft earth, he crawled deeply up under cover and arranged loose branches to conceal himself. As soon as he curled up, he tumbled into slumber.
It seemed only moments later that the sunlight directly on his face awakened him. Romal mumbled, stirred and disentangled himself. His wounds had stopped stinging, at least, and the rest had restored his vitality. The Mongrel thought of finding water, gathering eggs from a bird nest or catching some small animal in a snare. Making a workable bow was within his skill set. He stretched, yawned and turned around, only to feel his mouth drop open. In the valley below him was an imposing wall of blue-white stone gleaming in the sunlight around a city as clean and fresh as if it had been erected that morning. Atravan.
( the rest of the story )
9/21/1217 DR
I.
His wounds still smarted as Romal guided the canoe through the reeds. At least blood had stopped seeping through the crude bandages wrapped around his left leg and his right arm. The Mongrel felt the jolt as his stolen craft come to a halt where the shallow mucky water lapped at the edge of the island. Still nimble despite a great weariness, he stood up and stepped ashore. For the next few minutes, he dragged the canoe up into some bushes and covered it with leafy branches he hacked free with what was left of his sword.
Except for his sharply pointed ears, Romal seemed to be a normal Human, an athletic young man in his prime. The Mongrel had a mane of coarse black hair which reached his neck, bound at the temples by a metal diadem. In a sullen, heavy-featured face, his dark blue eyes remained watchful even as he dropped down beneath a tree to check his injuries. Aside from bruises and stiffness, his main concern was a gash in one thigh and a slice across the upper bicep of one arm. Little was left of his travel cloak, so he cut fresh strips of its material and changed the dressing. He scowled as he got a better look at his wounds but reflected he had survived much worse.
Leaning back against the tree, Romal scanned the lake surface for any sign of the pursuing Reavers. On the horizon, a glowering red sun was setting under salmon-colored clouds. That damned Kuthor. The bandit chief had the unreasonable tenacity of a watchdog. Two days of pursuit. When he had been approached by the small raiding party with their one-handed battle axes and distinctive leather helmets bearing ear flaps, Romal had boldly sat up straighter in the saddle, rested one hand on his sword hilt and loudly dared Kuthor to do his worst. He owned little that was worth stealing in any case. In the flurry of brutal violence which had exploded, the Reavers had fallen back one after another with their heads split nearly in half, arms flying away severed from its socket, innards spilling out like ropes.
The Mongrel was no common mortal. Given unnatural birth by the Darthan Kjes, he combined the full strength of a fighting Troll and the speed of a Snake man within his frame. His sword had whirled in a gleaming arc that drove blocking weapons aside and split helmets like dried wood. Within minutes, a circle of dead or dying bandits surrounded him as he sprang to face their chieftain.
But in Kuthor the Dark, Romal had met his match. The notorious black-haired marauder was a huge mountain of hard muscle, deeply tanned with many old scars running whitely across his body and limbs. Kuthor was nearly naked, clad in only a heavy kilt and high-strapped boots but he swung a two-handed broadsword with one hand the way a normal man handled a dagger. The bandit chief was not highly skilled in feints and strategy, he simply attacked with a direct primitive savagery that was overwhelming in its relentlessness. Despite his training on Maroch by fencing masters, Romal found he had his hands full with this opponent. Both of them received hits as they fought, shallow slashes and gouges which were more annoying than life-threatening. In a moment's ill-judgement, the Mongrel stopped an overhead blow too directly and his own blade snapped off seven inches up from the hilt.
Expecting to be slain in the next few seconds, Romal had taken advantage of a brief opening and crashed a closed fist to the side of Kuthor's head with a sound like a hammer hitting rock. The bandit leader had reeled back drunkenly, lowering his guard and Romal thrust his sword shard's jagged point for the man's broad chest but more of the Reavers came riding up the trail. Romal had shoved the dazed Kuthor directly into their path, forcing them to rein their horses in while he himself had leaped astride his own chestnut stallion to escape.
Then had come the long desperate chase. Night had fallen. Romal had lost the Reavers long enough to stealthily steal a canoe from some sleeping fishermen but he left his horse in exchange with its blanket and bridle. He had shoved off into the night, with only a vague memory guiding him that there was a forbidden island somewhere in this vast lake. Now he rested as his strength quickly returned.
The Mongrel was pleased by the vegetation he saw, recognizing plants which bore nuts and berries and even bark which was slightly nutritious. The presence of birds and squirrels in the area suggested that traps might nab him a meal or two, and their presence also hinted that drinkable water was available. This situation did not seem unsurvivable. Why was this island forbidden? he started to wonder before he remembered the ruins of Atravan. Feeling back to normal and wanting to get away from the shore, Romal started hiking inland. The soil was damp but not quite marshy, and the foliage was lush. He spotted a likely-looking branch five feet long and he snapped it loose with his considerable strength. As he continued walking, the Mongrel trimmed off a few branches, whittled away at one end with what remained of his sword and eventually had a serviceable walking stick that would also serve as a club. Looking a few thinner straight sticks that could be made into javelins occupied him as he headed up rising ground toward the center of the island.
From what he remembered of old tales, Atravan had been one of the first cities of Humans to flourish but that had been over a thousand years ago. When the Darthim came to power and crushed the other Races beneath their cruel sorcery, Atravan had fallen and was said to be under a vile curse. For the past twelve hundred years, the Darthan Kjes had exploited and abused and tormented all the other Races. The Trolls in their tunnels, the Gelydrim under the sea, the hidden Snake men hiding in their clandestine lives, even the immortal Eldarin who seldom left their island Elvedal. Darthan tyranny was a heavy burden on all living beings and yet... Recently Romal had been hearing whispers of a coming revolt. The prolific Humans had grown more numerous than all the other Races combined. Emboldened by sheer numbers and the strength of their armies and fortresses, Humans were beginning to stir with the thought of rebellion. A few had even dared breach the thought to Romal.
The hill was getting steep now as night fell, and the walking stick was a big help. From what he had been told, the last time anyone had ventured onto this island was a year ago. Soldiers had been sent from Signarm to scout the land, and they had returned saying there was nothing but ruins. Romal crested the rise. In the last glimmer of twilight, he gazed down on a valley of immense stone blocks lying in piles, of fallen columns and headless stone colossi. Temples and palaces stood with their roofs caved in.
Ruins indeed. The moon was rising and Romal felt he would soon fall asleep whether he wanted to or not. His body ached and his eyes burned with weariness. Finding a likely thicket, taking pains to leave no footprints in the soft earth, he crawled deeply up under cover and arranged loose branches to conceal himself. As soon as he curled up, he tumbled into slumber.
It seemed only moments later that the sunlight directly on his face awakened him. Romal mumbled, stirred and disentangled himself. His wounds had stopped stinging, at least, and the rest had restored his vitality. The Mongrel thought of finding water, gathering eggs from a bird nest or catching some small animal in a snare. Making a workable bow was within his skill set. He stretched, yawned and turned around, only to feel his mouth drop open. In the valley below him was an imposing wall of blue-white stone gleaming in the sunlight around a city as clean and fresh as if it had been erected that morning. Atravan.
( the rest of the story )
