Chapter 3

“Nobody survived the battle, did they?” Talibor asked, passively recollecting the outcome from his history lessons. Valimor leveled his eyes at him.

“No,” he confessed. Talibor nodded his head and licked his lower lip. “And that is the controversy you have plunged into head-first,” Valimor added, “a political war over the past.”

“So how do you see it?” Talibor asked, raising both eyebrows. “Was he the hero or the villain?”

Valimor glanced to the floor, dismissing the question. “It does not matter what I think. The truth of his actions is the most important thing. Sadly, I doubt this might be recovered, for the emperor has forsaken many of the precepts treasured by our past society: honor, justice, and personal sacrifice. If these values indeed live in society, Harken remains a hero of epic proportions—otherwise he was an old fool who needlessly tossed away his life and those of his followers. You must understand which values you hold, those of times past or those of your uncle. Until then, I cannot help you.”

“He fought for justice!” Talibor asserted. Valimor eyed him carefully.

“Are you sure he didn’t fight for vengeance?” he prodded.

“No! He knew his men might die as well; he wouldn’t endanger them without reason,” Talibor exclaimed. The room had become silent, with all eyes turned upon the two lords in discussion.

“Did he? He might have seen them as a tool for his own personal whims!” Valimor stated emphatically.

“I cannot believe that! Harken was a lord of his people, not some insidious politician that haunts our courts today,” Talibor declared, dropping his eyes to his plate. Valimor reached over the table and placed a hand on the young lord’s shoulder.

“You see, it a system of values you battle. If such things as honor exist, it is worth expending life to uphold it. But, if honor is interpreted as a personal lust for power, there is absolutely no justification for death in honor’s name,” Valimor explained. “But you are right, Harken was an honorable man. I know this because I met him and I tell you now it is no small privilege to be compared with Harken. The emperor will try to use this against you, but only because he fears you. Harken was a dangerous man—and a good man. You, Talibor, are a good dangerous man as well. Remember that.”

“I will try,” the young lord sighed. “I just feel like I can’t even chip the wall in front of me.” Valimor smiled.

“Keep at it my young friend. You will find a way,” he answered.

~¤~

The heat of the mid-afternoon sun warmed the two companions as they walked the cobbled streets of Harken to the eastern gates. Little conversation passed between the lords as they strolled, each enjoying the pure rays of sunlight filtering down through the clear, azure sky. A stable-hand met them with Talibor’s horse. Talibor thanked the boy and checked the straps of his saddle. Valimor stood watching the young lord mount his steed.

“You ought to find yourself a girl,” Valimor declared, feigning insignificance. Talibor’s gaze shifted quickly from his reigns to the elder lord, and he opened his mouth to speak. But no words came. At last, he shook his head and rolled his eyes. Valimor laughed out loud. “Have a safe trip, my friend.”

“Thank you, I will,” Talibor grunted, situating himself in the saddle. “Good bye.”

“Farewell,” Valimor replied and he watched the horseman turn and trot towards the massive gates. And good luck, he wished him silently and prayed that his confrontation with the emperor would not be a tragic one. His mind drifted back to Harken, the celebrated hero of his city. If only Talibor could grasp the importance of a sacrifice like that, then the future rested in good hands. The young lord knew it—but that knowledge was fragile, and had to be solidified by his own experience somehow. Valimor feared that would not come in time to hold against the emperors attacks. He sighed heavily and closed his eyes. He sensed some sort of trouble rising, like the deathly silence welling before a torrential, spring thunderstorm. But he had other duties to attend to, and he had spent nearly half his day catering to Talibor. Lord Valimor spun and marched back to the fortress.

~¤~

The dawn came with a swift sunrise. Wispy clouds beamed red, purple, and yellow. Cool and crisp, the fresh mountain air accepted the warming rays of sunlight as day overcame the grasp of night. The sky grew bright and blue, leaving all other shades of grey and color behind. The clouds faded into the horizon and the sun rose steadily into the sky. Beneath the azure canopy, the mountains gleamed, coated with a fresh layer of pure snow. Expanding into the horizon in every direction, the mountain range boasted snow-capped peaks and passes, but lacked any verdant valleys. For miles the rugged mountains extended. The glistening white landscape dazzled the eyes of the Masok Captain. His steel-gray irises squinted in the bright daylight as he beheld the awesomeness of the wilderness. He was clad in leather wrappings and light, steel armor that formed to his slender, reptilian body. Inhaling the chilled air and exhaling a jet of mist, which dissipated quickly into the air, the Captain turned to face the pass he and his soldiers had just marched over.

Before him marched thousands of foot soldiers, stamping through the snow. From his vista, he could see other passes they had crossed on their journey, but ahead lay the promised land—the land prophesied by the ancient ones. The Captain spun around, taking in the awe of the frozen wonderland. These mountains, stretching into the horizon, separated him from his home. For an instant, the grey eyes softened as he thought of his wife and children who would join him in that land. But, it had to be conquered first. This was his task, and he would see it done. His clan remembered special pride in the history of conquest. It could only be fitting that its finest soldiers would march first to battle. The unending stamp of feet against the forgiving snow played behind him. This lookout earned special remembrance in his mind. A grand view, he thought to himself. Yet, there would be more. Many more.

For two weeks they had journeyed through the mountains, marching ever southward. Many of his soldiers entertained doubts of the southern plains, yet they trekked onward. They had marched over passes, beneath cliffs, across ridges, and down into high plateaus. Nature’s wintry fury surrounded them and they remained at her mercy, for a sudden early snowfall could cripple their army to pathetic proportions. He breathed another jet of mist into the clear air. Before them lay more peaks, more passes, more snow. Perhaps they had been disfavored with an ill-advised wish, nothing more than a flicker of hope.

But, the Magisters themselves traveled with him…could that be sign enough of truth? He blinked in the reflected sun and strode back to his steed—a Masckarl. Leaping upon the beast, a long slender creature resembling a weasel, and leaning forward into the saddle, the Captain ordered it forward. It smoothly bounded through the snow and took its place at the front of the line with the other Captain, breaking the snow for the troops behind. He looked forward and found the sky cloudless. A sign of hope, it was. Perhaps they would reach the southern land soon. The scouts that had returned assured them that an army could pass the mountains in the autumn months, avoiding the summer thunderstorms and the winter blizzards, but he remained apprehensive about traversing the actual distance. He remembered the arguments of the council meeting distinctly.

“…and if our armies could pass through the wilderness and come to this land you have found, what then could they do if the armies of the people there are not broken? They would be cut off, without aid of reinforcements or weapons or supplies. Does this not concern you?” The second General argued, pressing in close to the reporting scout.

“My lord, I am no strategist, but…”

“It is not his to answer but mine alone!” bellowed a voice behind the second General. The second General, highly decorated, turned and bowed to the Magister.

“Of course my liege. My apologies.”

“Then let us continue our report, shall we?” demanded the Magister. The second General stepped back and took up his seat. The wide-eyed scout continued.

“I believe that the people of this land are ill-prepared for war, and an invasion would move most swiftly if we took a northwestern entrance into the land. Most of their cities lay to the East and a northeastern approach might give too much advance warning to the land. There is a wide valley to the northwest of their capital we could take advantage of to prepare for war. Only a single city in the central mountains would stand between us and victory.” The scout finished his speech and sat down. The chamber lay dark and quiet for a moment. The candles burning overhead on the chandelier and the torches burning on the wall cast a strange light among the hall. Many leaders of the military were present, except those who had active roles. Each sat in descending order to the side of the walkway to the throne, where the two Magisters sat. Each Magister, much older than any of the others present, wore long robes trimmed with precious furs and bore long white beards. They were not of the race of the other military leaders. They were fair-skinned with soft hands and long white beards. Their eyes shone with kindness and wisdom, but most different of all, they openly expressed their emotions.

“Well done scout—what is your name?” probed the Magister on the left. A hushed gasp echoed throughout the chamber. The scout eyes grew dull and distant…the closest sign of fear a Masok could have. After a weighted silence, he mumbled his name. “Ahh, well then Mahn-sii, I can plainly see your hard work and devotedness. Your findings will surely aid us in our plans. Thank you.” The scout nodded and quickly sat back down. “As for the rest of us,” the other Magister began, “we have work to do. We must decide if we shall invade this country and conquer it as the prophets have foretold. Let us begin now—each knows what he may contribute. Make the preparations and inform us when a suitable plan has been developed. Now go!”

The Captain remembered the ensuing confusion and chaos of preparation, the endless debates, and the logistics being worked out. That happened nearly two years ago. The Magisters had approved the plan to invade the Northwestern Plain the autumn after next and attack the following spring. Military camps had been notified and training began. Thousands upon thousands of soldiers were recruited. New bases sprung up close to the mountains to serve as a launching point.

The Captain thought back on this insanity with mixed feelings. He had had his reservations. He secretly thought the plan a diversion to usurp the Magisters somehow. He held the utmost respect for the Magisters and, yet, he could see how it irritated some of the Generals to see them commanding the armies, yet not spawning from the Masok race. Indeed they were wise. Wiser upon many more levels than any of the Generals. But, something deep inside him burned when he thought of the Magisters and their rule. He had learned much, and they were old. Perhaps one day, he could lead his people. Time after time these thoughts seized him, but they were eventually quenched at the sight of the Magisters.

As the time grew nearer, the goals became clearer and the Magisters became much more confident. Their eyes were bright and almost youthful as they inspected the troops and supplies. A month before the army had set out, the empire was in an uproar. Feasts and banquets populated the nights among the clan cities. Songs of victory echoed into the stars. Then one autumn night, the orders came and the army moved out, climbing into the mountains south of their capital, Csii.

“Captain?” He woke out of his daze to hear his compatriot riding next to him call his name again. “Balii?” He shook off his thoughts and turned to his fellow Captain. He found himself riding again ever-upwards to another pass. Where had the time gone? “Balii, are you going to scout ahead or should I?” He thought for a moment and looked at the pass ahead. It rose between two great peaks, and it seemed as though they might venture further down after it.

“Yes, I will go; rest your steed, Jumai.” At that, he spurred his mount to leap forward. He flew over the snow, speeding further along the ridgeline. He arrived at the summit and glanced behind him. Like a great black river, the army marched along the white ridge and stretched past the pass he had just scouted. Still, the soldiers marched, and still the mountains yielded nothing but snow and rock. Looking in front of him, he found another high plateau guarded on the far side by more jagged peaks. Before him lay an easy path down to what appeared to be a high mountain lake. From there it appeared to be a simple march to the next pass. Perhaps they could march over the next pass by nightfall. The second division could camp in this plateau if the first lingered in passing the next ridgeline.

Just before he turned back to join the group his hawk-like eyes caught a faint irregularity in the distance. He pulled his steed back around to face the valley and he squinted. The faint swirls rising upwards over the frozen lake stood out clearly to him now—smoke! He hesitated no longer. Turning around, he bade his steed to make all haste back to the group. Like a bobbing cork in a river, the Masckarl leapt over the snowy ridge, racing back to the approaching army. “Jumai! Smoke in the next valley!” he exclaimed as he approached the head of the column. Jumai cocked his head.

“But who would make a fire out here?” Jumai questioned.

“None affiliated with our banner!” Balii replied. “All scouts have been summoned back. We are close my friend! It is one of them.” His eyes narrowed and Jumai read him. He turned to the two other sub-Captains riding with them. “Lead the troops onward. Make for the pass, but do not tire yourselves. There is no hurry now.” He looked again to Jumai. “Come my friend. Let us investigate.” They gave a shout and their steeds bounced away to the pass.

~¤~

At the top, they rested their steeds and dismounted, heading to a better viewpoint of the lake. Just as Balii had seen, Jumai stared at the small rising plume of smoke. It rose from the western shore of the lake. But as sharp as their vision was, they could not pick out the source. Jumai nodded and said, “Let us go down.” A cold fire lit in Balii’s eyes as they mounted their steeds once again. As they flew down the slope, Balii took notice of small lumps in the snow. Unsheathing his sword, Balii hacked into a mound as he sped past it. A white explosion erupted, littered with black specks. A shout of joy erupted from Jumai. “Trees! Small trees!” Balii could not believe it. He had not seen anything green for the past two weeks.

“Come, Jumai, we ride closer to forest, plain, and war. This news will hearten the soldiers,” he declared. “But, let us bring them more! Onward.” The two rode on towards the lake and, upon reaching it, stopped. Across the snow-covered ice, a small hut stood. The curling smoke wafted from its chimney and into the noonday sun. Obviously their Masckarls had caught a strange scent for they grew restless, ready to pounce and kill. The two riders crept over the ice towards the snow-coated cabin. Soft paws hit the snow without a sound, and the white fur of the steeds blended in with the frozen lake perfectly. At last, they halted their steeds and dove off them into the snow. After convincing the animals to await their masters where they lay, the two faced the cabin. Crawling towards the hut on their bellies, they kept both eyes fixed on the doorway in front of them. A gentle breeze swept over the lake, swirling the smoke and snatching snow from the rooftop. They had snuck within fifty strides of the cabin, when a metallic ring broke the silence. Balii motioned for Jumai to circle around to the southern side of the cabin, while he took to the northern side. They crept ever closer, until Balii rested at the side of the cabin. He nodded to Jumai and stood. Jumai brushed some snow over himself and lay motionless. Balii inched towards the doorway. Taking a deep breath, and closing his eyes, he relished the adrenaline rushing through him. Opening dark glazed eyes, he leapt through the doorway and released a fearsome war cry.