Chapter 2

Moving swiftly across the plains of Silac, a rider, clad in the burnished colors of Ashton’s banner, bore intensity’s rough gaze on his steadfast features. A wave of expectancy washed before him, crashing upon those travelers on the road the moment he entered their sight. A swirl of dust rose behind him, announcing his arrival to the City of the Mountains, sweet, strong Harken. The horsman’s errand, defined by the steed’s urgent gallop, clung to the realm of questions.

When the rider passed beneath the wall and through the gates, two men and a stablehand greeted him. The messenger dropped from his saddle and bowed as the stable boy led his horse to food, water, and rest. “My lord Harken,” the rider began, “the colonists were attacked. Not three days ago in the foothills of the Qara Mountians. I fear very few survive.” One of the men, wearing a crimson cape and a ruby brooch, nodded slightly and pressed his lips together. “Who attacked them?” Lord Harken asked.

“The Captain who sent me assumed they were Mollocks, my lord, as do I.” the messenger replied. Harken pondered this statement deeply. At last, he answered.

“No. It could not have been a Mollock. They have been extinct for at least fifteen hundred years,” Lord Harken mused while rubbing his thin beard and moustache and shaking his head. “And you are sure of the attack?” he questioned again.

“Had you heard the screams of innocents and the dull ringing of armor hewn as you rode away; had you remembered the blood-lusting bellows riding the wind and battle cries of the horsemen, you would have little doubt of an attack—the attack of a Mollock.” An obvious change crept over lord Harken at this—a fire lit in his eyes and his lips sealed themselves tightly together as if a suggestion had just passed into law.

“And what would you do,” he began, turning dark eyes to his advisor, “if you had been there and now had the power to summon a force to destroy that which assaulted your friends?” The man jumped, as he became unexpectedly involved in the discussion. He then wrinkled his eyebrows in thought and passively scratched his head.

“I would report the situation to the emperor. Bid for a formal investigation of the area and wait for the decision of his highness,” the man stated, his fidgeting hand now rubbing the back of his neck. Lord Harken nodded.

“That is what any man in authority bestowed by the emperor would do. In fact, it is what he should do, by the standards and laws of the empire. But, any man true to himself knows that that is not what a man ought to do.”

“My lord?” his advisor inquired, “Are you well?”

“I am fine,” Harken replied.

“Then surely you know it is what will be done,” he hissed through his teeth, squirming uneasily and shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“No. I do not,” Harken answered. “Now, let me tell you why.” He straightened his back and stretched out his shoulders, glaring at his advisor. The messenger looked on, his eyes glancing downward uncomfortably. Harken’s gaze, his twin penetrating hawk-like eyes boring deep into the soul, paralyzed his advisor. “Because I am a man like any of them. Because only by destiny am I here, living, breathing, and enjoying life; whereas they lie dead at the foot of a southwestern mountain range. Because those two reasons will not justify an apathetic two weeks of political bickering and argument while two thousand of my people rot in the soil of the Qara Mountains. That is why we shall not make an appeal to the emperor. That is why we will rally our forces and march to Kerean Post. Do you understand why?” His advisor, trembling from the sheer force of his will, bowed and rushed to assemble the army. Lord Harken nodded to the messenger, who took his leave to rest. Left alone with his thoughts, Harken stared at the afternoon sky, emptied of all its contents—clouds, moon, stars, and birds. Only the golden orb, sinking slowly in the west, remained in the atmosphere.

His mind wandered to Mollocks, the fearsome inhabitants of the ancient world. Questions, like snake bites in his mind, plagued him. He wondered if they could still be alive and if they were attempting to fight again. After only a few moments, he decided the Citadel Library in Ashton might reveal the truth about this situation, but that would take time—which was in short supply. No. He had to assume the worst and prepare for it. His thoughts drifted to his childhood and study under the scholar Aquios and the history lesson on Mollocks. He remembered dreaming of being the warrior-poet Tarkin or the hero Melos, fighting the Mollocks and leading those early pioneers, Ashton’s own ancestors, to victory. Now that it came down to it, it seemed he would relive those elder days. His heart nagged him, driving the same thought into his mind over and over: I will fight the Mollocks. The thought brought a shudder to his spine. Although no one lived who might have sketched a Mollock, the descriptions in history books painted an altogether worthy picture in his mind, and he rather wished not to meet one now. A spirited gust of wind leapt at him, awakening him from his introspection. Another wave of cool fresh air washed over him, licking at his straight brown hair and flowing red cape. Banishing the haunting questions to his sub-conscious, he turned from his spot just inside the gate and watched the city come alive as the battle horns began to sound.

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The five tedious days of marching southward irritated lord Harken. They had passed through Lenna and then journeyed between the Dalaan River and the Dunes of Alat. After crossing the river near the twin, port cities of Paneroth and Mizeroth on the coast, they now marched east, toward the Qara Mountains. Alone with his thoughts on horseback at the head of the column of his battalion, he poured over the battle formations and attack strategies that might come into use against such a fearsome foe. According to legend and the history books, the beasts harbored immense physical power—creatures resembling that of a giant toad, except bearing short, powerful legs and long muscular arms. It was said that their breath alone could knock over a phalanx division and their dark, flaming eyes would petrify with fear any who gazed into them.

Some accounts told of the massive iron swords they carried and the broad, impenetrable armor they possessed. He wondered if the long glaives his soldiers bore had any hope of piercing the armor—much less the leathery skin, weathered and thickened like their own walls of Harken. The ancient foes could not have grown less potent or battle-hardened over the centuries past; he wondered if his cavalry unit stood a chance against meeting them in the open field. In the end, he dismissed his cavalry as an effective counter and instead planned on the reliance of his archers and their longbows to take down any enemies from a distance, and figured he would have to trust his infantry could overpower any of the wounded Mollocks. His cavalry must wait to come at the last instant, in an attempt to edge the balance to their side.

He looked up from his last private thoughts to find a giant thunderhead settled over the faraway eastern horizon, like a sentry protecting the Qara Mountains. It seemed like nature warned them not to travel into that dangerous territory. Harken sat up defiantly in his saddle and stretched his weary legs against the stirrups. Whatever the next few days held, he would be up for it—he knew that if he could retain his composure in the battle, his soldiers would follow him to whatever end.

“My lord, we have reached Kerean Post,” a soldier reported, trotting on his steed towards his column. Harken nodded curtly and gazed at the outpost lying idly before the bleak range. These mountains were not those he loved. Instead of glorious peaks, snow-covered ridges, and jagged cliff faces, the Qara Mountains rolled slowly upwards, treeless mounds of rock that had been pushed together unbroken. Their dreary swells dominated the horizon and Harken felt his resolve begin to unravel. His mountains, the Kailan Range and Atep Mountians, inspired his soul and lit a fire deep within him—and somewhere much deeper, these flames helped him recollect the dim memories of his homeland far beyond the northern peaks of the Welmen Wilderness. But these bloated tumors darkened by the approaching storm bore the eminence of death. Harken shivered as a frozen breeze sank from the mountains. Patches of snow still dotted the barren hillsides like leprous sores on its skin. Looking back and away from the chill of the wind, he found the eyes of his soldiers sunken in despair and felt incapable to lift them.

The envoy at last arrived at the outpost and hurriedly made camp. The afternoon sun had long since disappeared beneath the growing thunderheads and the morale of Harken’s men had dropped into shadows before that. Campfires and small conversation sprung up quickly at Kerean Post that evening in the freezing spring winds. Harken, led to the local official’s headquarters—not much more than a canvas roof over low stone walls—faced a short, stocky fellow in a giant fur coat that flowed down to his big leather boots. The man saluted Harken clumsily, but a friendly spirit emanated from his dark eyes as he smiled.

“Welcome, my lord Harken, to Kerean Post,” he declared warmly. “My name is Pellen Oth. Come, supper is nearly prepared.” Harken acknowledged his greeting with a tip of his head and followed the man to a table. A steaming bowl of stew simmered at his place, and the rising aroma caught the lord offguard. The wild tang of the deer meat, combined with various spices and vegetables, woke Harken from the daze into which he had drifted. He began slowly at first, but the flavor of the stew excited his taste buds—soon the bowl was empty and another serving promptly delivered. Over the ripple of the wind on the canvas, the official who sat opposite Harken began to speak, the remnants of his meal trickling down his black beard. “I am glad you have come. When the scout reported the massacre, we mustered a rescue group to search for survivors immediately, but all were dead. But now, we may exact vengeance upon these demons!” Harken held up a hand and gazed into his dark eyes.

“I want to bury the dead first, if they are not patrolling the area,” the lord said softly. The official’s eyes dropped to the floor.

“Of course,” Pellen confessed. “Our scouts have reported no patrols that would hinder us—in fact, no sign of them whatsoever…” his voice trailed off into another bite of stew. Then his eyes brightened. “But after those victims’ rites have been administered, payment shall be demanded!” he remarked, holding his spoon up in determination. Harken kept himself from rolling his eyes and shaking his head. This little man knew nothing of the terrors he would face in the next few days. Instead, Harken nodded politely and finished his second helping of stew.

As the two men exited the tent, Pellen rambled about the terrible spring weather and other unimportant facts while Harken, who kept a friendly smile on his face, mused silently on his battle tactics. It was a cold night and the sweeping breeze from the mountains penetrated the cloaks the two men had wrapped themselves in. The spreading storm clouds had covered the brilliant stars in a blanket of darkness and the moon had not yet risen in the east. The shadow that enveloped the outpost was broken only by the few campfires still burning. Harken found his tent; the two guards sat by a flickering fire that promised to die soon. Pellen babbled a farewell and goodnight, leaving the lord for the night and returning to his own tent. After checking on the guards, who cheerfully accepted their duty on the night watch and wished their lord a good sleep, Harken entered his tent and collapsed into his bed. The idle chatter of the guards outside and the caress of the wind lulled him to a deep sleep easily.

When Harken awoke, the sky was tainted with a swirl of yellow and orange, but the first full rays of the sun had not fallen on the outpost. He rose and shared a scanty breakfast of oatmeal with his guards who had prepared it over the smoldering coals of the fire. Though the guards had been awake half the night, their merry faces welcomed him as he relaxed next to them. A soft chill filtered through the camp and his layers of clothing. He nodded in agreement as the guards cursed the coldest part of the day—that moment just before the sun greeted them. Harken watched the horizon brighten as the sun finally rose above the Qara Mountains while the guards reverted to their small talk. Gone were the storm clouds of the day before, and a dim blue twilight devoid of stars filled their place.

By the time the sun fully gleamed over the dark mountains, the army had broken camp and assembled in formation to the east of the outpost. Harken mounted his steed and trotted to the front lines. Pellen Oth, who had begged and pleaded to follow him into battle, rode ecstatically behind him. The lord’s face, however, was grim, and his eyes burned with passion. He slid his sword free of its scabbard and held it aloft. The blade shone in the pure sunlight and the men fell immediately silent. He stopped his horse with a tug on the reigns and faced his men. “Out there,” he began in a commanding voice and pointing his weapon eastward, “is an enemy of the empire. They slaughtered our brothers and sisters, daughters and sons, fathers and mothers. Let us go bury the dead. But, this deed shall not go unpunished, rest assured! If we are attacked, you surely know some of you will not return to your homes—if this is your end, meet it with honor and glory. Rise now and fight for your brothers! To battle!”

The army began marching forward, the infantry divisions first, followed by the archers and finally the cavalry. The river of metal-clad soldiers poured over the first of the foothills steadily, shaking the earth with the rhythm of stomping boots and hooves. Some within the ranks sung gleefully; others held their fury by a thread, waiting to unleash it on the enemy. As the cavalry passed the summit of the first hill, a shadow passed over them. Clouds built upon the mountains, blotting out the sun’s hope. The storm was coming.

The towering black thunderheads brought with them a rolling mist that blanketed the army. The fog was neither thick nor heavy, but the damp chill it brought clung to the soldiers. Harken signaled the herald to stop the advance. Through the swirling mists, the clear sound of the trumpet halted the army’s movement. Harken invited Pellen to accompany him into the next valley. His horse snorted a bit, but trotted further into the mist. The air became crisp and still, driving a new fear into the lord. When he reached the bottom of the valley, a raindrop splattered on his face. He looked at Pellen, who shrugged and shook his head. As Harken looked back forward, a steady rainfall began. He spurred his horse forward a bit, until a sharp crunch disrupted the silence. Looking down, he saw a rotting body lying face first in the mud. Then other dead human forms became apparent in the mist. He had found the massacre sight.

Harken whirled his steed around and rode past a nauseas Pellen when a bone-chilling bellow shook the valley. A chorus of nightmarish calls echoed the first and Harken sat up straight in his saddle. Pellen stared dumbly in the direction of the battle cries. The lord called his name twice before he woke from his trance and rejoined Harken. The two galloped back up the hill to the army. The various division commanders had heard the bellows and had assembled to meet Harken. The moment the lord saw them, he began issuing orders. The commanders listened intently and saluted when they had received their orders. At last Harken spun to lead his men into battle, waiting for the fabled Mollocks to show themselves.

For a moment, nothing moved, save the rain. But after that moment, a black form appeared in the valley and moved swiftly up the hill. Four other giant silhouettes dove out of the mist and followed the first. Harken heard his men lock their shields together and drop to one knee. Pikes bristled behind him, ready for the attack. The archers behind drew their bows and aimed high for a long volley. An instant of silence lingered, until the heavy footsteps of the enemy shut it out.

Then the Mollocks crested the hill. The lumbering beasts’ fiery eyes imprinted themselves on the soldiers’ minds first, forcing the infantry to look away and shudder in fear. Running on short, powerful legs, the Mollocks barreled down on the front line and lifted huge iron swords and axes in the air. After a last war cry, the Mollocks swung their weapons into the phalanx formations. “Volley!!!” Harken cried and hundreds of arrows peppered the great creatures who were hacking and smashing their way through the lines. One of the Mollocks stumbled under the volley, and the infantry leapt on it hacking and slashing wildly with their short swords. But the other beasts plowed easily through the formations, only angered by the onslaught of arrows. Men were flung hundreds of feet in a single swipe of the blades; others crushed beneath giant hammers. Harken sounded the charge for the cavalry and rode to attack the closest Mollock which had nearly broke through the formation.

Pellen Oth sat stupidly on his steed watching the wrath of the Mollocks. His eyes blinked gradually and he shivered. When he saw the Mollock that had fallen stand and shake its attackers off him and resume his destruction, Pellen turned his horse around and galloped quickly into the fog. It was unlikely that anyone had seen him leave—the soldiers were much too busy fighting. Soon, the screams, war cries, and angry bellows of the Mollocks faded into the distance, but Pellen rode wide-eyed over the hills. He cared not where he went, provided it was away from them. Their eyes—those burning, flaming eyes that had clenched his heart and frozen it instantly—were all that Pellen could remember. After riding in pure fear for what seemed eternity, his horse collapsed and refused to carry its master any further. Pellen Oth stumbled to his feet. He glanced hurriedly about, wandering in no particular. Their bellows still echoed in his head and their gaze still plagued his mind. He shook his head and held his ears fast. He didn’t see the cliff in front of him until he felt the air sweeping his soul upwards into nothing.