Upon the fields sodden by the blood of soldiers
Four Dassmen met the Armies of Sisneunamah.
The Four Dark Keeps shall be silent evermore
Nevermore shall blades fall over the Namolah Blood Altar,
And by Sword and by Spell shall Sisneunamah be conquered.
i
DAWN DREW OLD Sanggruth the Glum out of his motley little tent. It was a smelly, ragged canopy cut from the hide of a wild zurk long ago. Alongside dozens of similar tents, Sanggruth’s was neatly pitched upon a grassy rise just outside the walls of Harchil. Sanggruth the Glum delicately drew the flap down and stepped out onto the dew-damp grass. He regarded the morning sky for a moment, eyeing it with a trace of reverence. He ran a knotted finger over his dry lips, pulled the hood of his cloak over his head and set out toward the wall.
With a measured gait—checked by a wound to the leg scored many years ago—he trod the velvety sod and approached the White Gate of the city. Before the massive doors he stood silently and stoically as he granted the guardians of the watchtowers ample time to be dazzled by the utter resplendence of his ceremonial garb.
Down upon him they gazed from their stations, studying him wordlessly. His purple robe with its golden emblems billowed in the gentle breeze and the fringed ends of the red sash which bound it curled and fluttered. Following this brief inspection, the portcullis and gate groaned open to admit him.
As he passed between the twin watchtowers into the short tunnel vault something assaulted his well-honed senses and made him stagger. At once he recognised a presence he had not anticipated. He sensed something deep-rooted and overwhelming, a kind of force he had rarely before experienced. Swiftly he steadied himself and set onward about his business, though the heat and the stench and the tension of malevolence was thick in the air.
It could not be wholly ignored.
Beyond the White Gate, within the perimeter of insurmountable bulwarks, Sanggruth beheld once more the sprawling tract of land which was the Sacred Valley. The outer curtain enclosed a terrific expanse of verdant land garnished by a sizable forest and an immense lake. To the west he saw flourishing crops grown in terraces—enough food was grown within the outer perimeter wall to nourish the populace of the city. In the centre of it all was the glorious borough, its gleaming golden spires already sparkling in the rays of ancient Thulmuchi. And there on the red-clay road which lazily meandered over the rolling knolls toward Harchil, Sanggruth gazed upon representatives from all the far-flung provinces. He, an accomplished Dassman and Elder to the Arts, was by no means the first to arrive on the occasion of this Day of Repentance.
Small wooden stalls of crude construct lined the Merry Path. These booths were brimming with flowery garments aglow in exotic colours and with strange bowls and painted urns from the distant and troubled Middle Realms. Like wolves the shop-keeps howled for passersby to inspect their goods. The road crept with sluggish progress as celebrants milled about dreamily. Some of the more brilliant standards caught the eye of Sanggruth the Glum as he dazedly moved along. He found particularly striking the black and red symbols of the House Til’Adia poised atop the bannerwands of a company of pilgrims.
As he proceeded, the peasants shouted and bickered, and merchants preached the yarns which were themselves half the worth of their wares. Sanggruth, increasingly aware of that lurking presence behind the scenes, gradually came to conclude its probable origins; and he knew that he would be derelict in his duties if he did not make an effort to confirm his fears. Yet, the old Dassman knew also that what he sought would not be found amid the hordes of peddlers which ran the length of the Merry Path, but within the outer fringes of the city-proper.
At mid-day, he came upon the Avenue of Magicians. The heat dampened his skin with sweat, and he found himself short of breath when finally he arrived. Sanggruth was, after all, a young man no more. His staff of gnarled oak was indispensable, for without its support he could not have made the trek across the valley to this unusual marketplace. Rather irked by his deteriorating health, he cursed his age.
Into a muddle of trinkets, charms, amulets and yellowed scrolls of scarcely legible cryptic verses Sanggruth immersed himself. Precious stones were the treasure sold by one; another offered unborn mortal babies extracted from the womb at the first physical sign of pregnancy and then sheathed in sticky sap (it was widely claimed these were of the same mysterious talismanic properties as those worn by the Hidden Priests of Umon-Thummat). Here, too, were Temple Sorcerers and High Wizards of the Order Banuki alongside a handful of necromancers and common diviners. Sanggruth glimpsed a smiling, toothless shaman bartering sacks of herbs for a flask of Goolsberry wine, and a red-haired Fire-in-Hand charring segments of dried log to the pleasure of a crowd.
All the magicians in the whole of Mistorel, and from neighbouring territories much-influenced by Mistorel’s ways, came together here under the ancient Covenant of Oulahzu. Under the Covenant, the Alliance of Adepts embraced workers of all the diverse forms of practice, both archaic and advanced. All the members of this pact convened during the period surrounding the Day of Repentance, a holiday of the realm celebrated but once each fifty years. On the Day of Repentance it was expected that each citizen would offer up a humble and sincere apology to his gods, not for the sins committed—for sins were dealt with in the afterlife—but for the remorse felt for those things left undone.
This Convergence of Oulahzu happened to be the third and final one to occur during Sanggruth’s artificially extended lifespan. Other Dassmen, a fortunate few, lived to see four. Sanggruth the Glum could remember nothing of the first such event in which he participated.
Sighting a stall shaded by giant Mithlum leaves and packed mostly with aged tomes, Sanggruth ventured in for closer inspection. His twisted digits trembled as they fumbled over stacks of texts and mounds of individual and unrelated pieces of parchment. The leathery skin of his hand was no less cracked than some of these arcane works.
One old book caught his eyes, and he watched his gnarled hands paw at its binder. Its cover was pitch black, dark as the heart of a starless winter night.
Still, Sanggruth thought, if he looked deep enough he might discover a face looking back at him from that shadow-wrapped tome.
To the touch, the pages were warm and supple. He found he had no need to squint his sore and clouded eyes to read the text, for the words leapt from the paper and spoke themselves inside his head. The voice which delivered these words was smooth and sharp and full of power.
He felt the presence once more, touching his soul, burning him. As he lifted his eyes from the tome, the sun seemed to wink at him. He wondered at that which he held in his grasp, and he knew. He knew.
ii
Sanggruth shivered.
The warmth of the day seemed to abandon him as he stood there clutching his find. He drew it close against his chest, suddenly fearful that his discovery might attract the attention of others. He could not allow that to happen, not before a time of thoughtful consideration.
But time was something he no longer possessed.
Sanggruth the Glum staggered into the shadows, allowing the mountains of books to obscure him from the crowds. Perhaps, he thought, his age and his fears and his failing powers had rallied together to make him see something that was not even there. This thing he held...it could not exist, could it?
It was most certainly a masterpiece of some forgotten age, he thought to himself. It was something scribed in blood—he could feel the pulse of conquered souls beating within its pages. Its author was remote, his aura was contained within its aging covers but it was well-concealed behind delicate deceptions. The book was not readily willing to reveal its source, that was clear to Sanggruth.
But could what he held truly be what he believed it to be? Could the text in his grasp be The Namolah Blood Treatise of Sisneunamah?
Sanggruth toyed with the thought as images of Sisneunamah’s army of corpses flooded his mind. If that occult work was ever recovered from the pits where it had been concealed, its bearer could locate the Four Dark Keeps and the Namolah Blood Altar would once more drink the blood of the innocent.
No.
No, Sanggruth thought—it could not be so. He dared flip further than the first few pages, only to make certain, but even as the words leapt into his mind there came another voice...
‘Fair afternoon, good Dassman.’ An exceptionally tall mystic with a hawkish face approached Sanggruth. He wore a grim countenance and possessed a gaunt figure. His milky eyes studied the Dassman mindfully. There seemed a hint of recognition in his gaze. ‘Sanggruth the Glum, are you not? This makes four elder Dassmen.’
‘How many were expected?’ inquired Sanggruth, with a hint of irritation in his voice. His hand hesitantly departed the dark book, and its cover slammed shut and sent up a swirl of dust—or was it smoke?—into the air. As he recalled the task at hand, Sanggruth’s expression dimmed slightly. His eyes, he could not hold to the man, and his head drooped to stare at the floor. ‘Is Thoriitch of Nutt to be one?’
‘He has already come and gone. They all have, I am sorry to say.’ His broad hand grasped the Dassman’s shoulder, and together they walked out of the stall. ‘As you know, you are late... the opening day has passed. We should be on our way.’
‘There is something...’ Sanggruth muttered, but cut himself short. The mists which had clouded his mind since he had walked through the White Gate suddenly dissipated. There was no great evil here; he was simply deluding himself. He was an old fool, looking for a reason to live.
‘What were you saying?’
‘Nothing. Let us be on our way.’
They departed the book dealer’s stall, and Sanggruth the Glum all but forgot his discovery. Walking further down the Avenue of Magicians, Sanggruth examined the strange grey garb of the Mesenna’Ala. This was a relatively new faction of the Alliance of Adepts whose followers practiced Spiritual Consciousness and, unlike most of their fellow magicians, shunned material possessions. With their heads shaven and adorned by a single red line running around the scalp above the brow, three of them marched by, chanting some meditative refrain. Sanggruth loosed a whimsical grunt of mirth, doubting they and their pitiful pantheon of one god would accomplish much.
‘Do not mock them,’ cautioned he who escorted the elder Dassman. ‘I expect that they will do well in the coming epochs.’
‘Such a preposterous faith they have,’ exclaimed Sanggruth bitterly. ‘You mean to say that it shall outlast the others?’
‘No one concept will ever ultimately prevail above all others; but theirs shall be the model for many ages henceforth. This I have been told by keen geomancers and starspellers alike.’
Just then, the wails of Newbloods became audible. From a massive canopy of bright yellow tarp, they arose, wafting through the clamour of merchants’ testimonies and patrons’ quarrelling. A sound not wholly familiar to most members of the Alliance since common Magickal Pacts disallow mating, Sanggruth listened conscientiously. There were large banners boldly displayed around this tent, written in every known language but addressed to only one sect of the Alliance: The signs banned the child-eating Ruthian Conjurers from entering the grounds adjacent to the Newblood tent.
‘Do you care to see the Newbloods?’ he asked Sanggruth.
‘No... not this time. I beheld those at the Feast fifty years ago.’
‘Yes, I was there. Of course, I do not truly remember you. We must part now... I must serve the Line. You shall find what you seek in the adjacent tarpaulin.’ He motioned toward a small black tent, the entry to which was not draped but offered no glimpse of its contents. From without, it looked like a bleak, black chunk of eternal night.
The Dassman called Regali departed from Sanggruth the Glum’s company and entered the Newblood tent. Without moving, the elder Dassman watched through the breach in the fabric which composed the door as Regali approached a bundle of cushions. Upon these were three infants, unclothed and screaming. Regali knelt down, his robe cascading to the floor, and scooped one of the children into his arms. He looked across the tent to one whom could not be seen from outside, he who Sanggruth knew to be titled Nameskeeper. And these words heard Sanggruth as spoken by Regali:
‘This child shall be Cullimmanari’Ra-Turen, Most Knowledgeable Dassman and Oathson of Regali. From the essence of one, another.’
Sanggruth the Glum moved on, toward the black tent. As he feebly walked, he remembered fondly the previous Feast of Masters. Then, he had entered the Newblood tent and selected his own Oathson. There had been instances when he regretted that as an Oathfather he was not permitted to raise his Newblood choice. But, as tradition dictated, he had found a capable set of parents for the child, who accepted the boy as their own. The rudimentary wisdom of a Dassman was present at birth, so the Oathfather had no real duty other than the locating of suitable guardians. The two might never again meet until the Oathson performed his Duty of Thanks by accompanying his elder on the Last Walk.
Inside the black tent, there was but one book. Sanggruth the Glum admired it curiously. The tome rested upon the crown of a bone-white marble pillar. Many thousands of dry, brownish pages were held by its exquisite binding; its face was a marvellous splendour of finely carved wood. Gleaming golden letters spelled out an unpronounceable title, unknown to even this wise Dassman. His fingers, less affected now by their age, pulsed over the covering. With fervent hands, he opened the book, his eyes astonished by the brilliant contents. Pictures, vivid with mood and hue, seemed to live and breathe with animation; words and incantations seemed to speak themselves, as though the reader need not even have open eyes to comprehend the text.
Within he perceived tales often spoken during his days, and figures he knew from life and story. He witnessed his own Oathfather and his lifelong colleague Thoriitch amongst the throngs of images unveiled, and gradually his apprehension waned. After all, Sanggruth the Glum had lived a long life and now was growing weary.
For only an instant did his gaze stray from these pages, to look momentarily over his shoulder in the direction of the door. He was not at all frightened to find it no longer behind him... nor was he startled that the din of outside activities pierced no more this most glorious shrine. All apprehension had been drawn out of his soul as the faces and voices and perfumes and scents waned.
And that suffocating dread which had gripped him earlier was almost completely dulled.
Fleetingly he thought of his Oathson, Regali, hoping someday he would join him. How long would it take for fifty more years to pass? As the Book of Being drew him within, Sanggruth wondered if time there was even discernible.
A short time later, after Sanggruth the Glum had passed on, the Nameskeeper entered the black tent. Only a handful saw him go in, and fewer still paid attention as he departed instants later with a troubled look upon his face.
With the eventful dawn of the following day, none were available to question why on this particular Convergence of Oulahzu there were fewer Newbloods than ever before.
iii
Regali awoke. Beneath heavy fur blankets he lay, his head resting upon a plush cushion. The night had grown colder than he had expected, and he was glad that he had bartered for a pack of heatstones the previous day. From within his small conical tent he could hear a shrieking and spiteful wind, and the stirrings of other pilgrims outside.
The night had given birth to an unexpected storm, it seemed.
Regali glanced at the Newblood, still slumbering, and then he tossed aside his coverings and set about dressing. Though it was still dark outside, morning could not be far off. He intended to leave just after dawn. He would make his way back along the old merchant road, searching the farming villages in the Edareauq province for prospective parents.
One of the regrets that weighed heavily on this Dassman’s soul was that he had not sought to become more familiar with his Oathfather. Sanggruth the Glum would be remembered as one of the most learned and charitable of all Dassmen, yet Regali knew little more about him than that which he had learned from the tales of travellers. Regali believed that Sanggruth, too, would have liked to have been better acquainted with his Oathson... he believed he could read that sentiment in Sanggruth’s eyes in the short time they spent together.
Regali would not allow tradition to keep him from knowing his own Oathson. He had resigned himself to placing the child in a settlement close enough to his own lands that he could remain a part of his life.
The night lagged. Regali, eager to pack his gear and take to the road, found himself hard-pressed to bottle his impatience. He frittered time by concocting an herbal remedy for colic—just in case; next he practiced his levitation skills, his concentration squarely focused on the flickering tongue of a candle’s flame. When the Newblood stirred and began to cry gently, Regali floated gracefully to the floor. He was surprised that the dawn had not yet come.
The Newblood eased back in to sleep while Regali collected most of his possessions and neatly placed them in a sack that seemed far too small to contain all the items. Even when this task was done, he found that darkness still besieged his tent.
Finding himself with nothing more to do, Regali clutched the satchel at his side and opened it. He spread a cloth flat on the floor and took the contents into his grasp. With his hands cupped together, he shook a collection of bones and murmured a short incantation. Then he let the bones spill back onto the cloth.
The bones tumbled and bounced before coming to rest.
Regali studied them for a moment. His face soured. His hand reached down and swept the bones up in one angry motion, as if he had intended to wipe away the fate they proclaimed.
Regali had just tied off the bonebag when a voice startled him. He listened intently, but all he could perceive were muted echoes which fell upon his ears like whispers.
Soon he heard men shouting in the fields outside. Their voices seemed anxious, though he could not tell what words they spoke. As he tried to understand their calls, he heard a most curious statement. It sent him directly to the mouth of his tent, and as he hastily appeared, he heard the statement uttered again:
‘A black sun rises!’
iv
There in the East, hovering over the horizon, was a most hateful and ugly thing. A great black orb was radiating a fiery shower of pitch and stirring those whose eyes beheld it into angst and panic. Like an evil brother to great Thulmuchi’s brightly shining disc, it crawled and crept slowly toward the heavens and spilled a pulsing demonic darkness more ebon than the most murky midnight.
Frightened, peasants ran screaming across the fields, crying out desperate prayers to their gods. Fires burned brightly in almost every quarter as if those who raised the flames thought they might melt away the sooty darkness with their small sparks. Regali spat out a curse. He did not know what power had changed the nature of the skies, nor what source of magick might change it back. Eyes would fall upon him and his brethren begging for answers; pleas would be made to right the benighted world. Before he could give the matter further, though, he sought first to protect the Newblood; and, secondly to find those Dassmen yet present so that they might unite and consider their options of action.
Already, Regali soon learned, many Dassmen had gathered in the great marquee of Denibaas. Under the canvas of this renown Dassman, and around a great table covered with trinkets and tomes, there sat more than a dozen potent practitioners of the Art. Some were able-bodied and athletic individuals, muscular and brawny and brimming with youth. Others seemed frail and fragile, old and withered—but they too were powerful, able to out-spell any of their younger companions.
The one named Arcalius dipped his finger into a goblet of wine and stared down at the cup as though answers might wash up in the swirling spirits. His face was long and narrow, and his head was crowned by long, white flowing hair.
Unakepa of Odwolf’ld—ever the boisterous member of the crowd—was arguing angrily with the red-bearded Yamasualtk, slapping his copy of Authok’s Verses of Knowledge and spitting out various stanzas with unerring compassion.
Denibaas himself was engaged in a heated discussion with the only woman present, Eralala the Warbreaker, when Regali made a silent entrance. Eralala, one of five female Dassmen in all history, contended that only Tenvala’Aran was capable of performing an act of such evil and that only with the aid of one of the Ancient K’Nwnmeir Masters could he have achieved this most heinous feat. She found her opinion met with little acceptance as four nearby Dassmen chuckled shamelessly.
‘Tenvala’Aran, that miserable little worm spawned by the witches of the Ampehr Mires, would not ever dare set foot within the walls of Harchil; not in any season, not on any day, and certainly not during the Convergence of Oulahzu. I dare say that half the celebrants would risk torture and death and break the Covenant of Oulahzu to bleed his worthless soul from his wretched body!’ Denibaas grinned as he spoke, showing off his reddened teeth—a condition which is caused by frequently over-indulging in Veresbrak Nectar, a sweet-tasting vision-inducer. This tall, tan and wiry man paced across the floor, wordlessly commanding the others to cease all discourse. It was clear that with the passing of Sanggruth the Glum and Thoriitch of Nutt, Denibaas would assume the role as patriarch of all Dassmen. ‘What other theories have you, brothers?’
‘’Twas the doings of the Hidden Priests of Umon-Thummat, says I.’ Unakepa, a young Dassman who had a penchant for politics, spoke bluntly. ‘I set blame upon them for this action, and I needn’t look any further than recent history for evidence to support my claim. After all, who was it stole the Blackgem of Harchil nary a season agone? And what of the testimony given by Sir Nealuc of nightly offerings to that gibbous monstrosity that lurks in the Halls of the Moon?’
‘Nay!’ cried out Cyhthus, a narrow-faced balding fellow. He wore a wreath of flowers about the rim of his sweaty head. ‘I believe that we look upon the act of some angered god; not any one mortal, be they member of the Covenant or otherwise, has sufficient power to do this thing!’
‘Hold your words,’ Regali called out, tired of the bickering. He drew aside the flap of the great tent, and in spewed the black rays. ‘Outside, the lands already wither beneath this menace. Outside, the people tremble and weep. Outside, the sky is blighted by a black sun. And here, in this tent of Denibaas, we squabble and spar and quarrel and disunite. Have we lost sight of our responsibility? Does it not rest with the men and women adept in sorcery and wizardry and magicks of many origins to set the lands and the people and the sky right once more?’
‘But Regali,’ Denibaas replied in a condescending tone, ‘We cannot end this nightmare until we are certain from whose mind it stems. Now, be seated and offer some of your own insights.’
Regali sat down amongst his peers, but found he had nothing to offer. He was at a loss for explanations, and simply could not conceive of the madness behind such an act. Peculiar, he thought it, though, that only so solemn an occasion as this could draw together all the Dassmen outside of the Convergence of Oulahzu. For herein this fabulous shelter of Denibaas was gathered almost all of their kind—including the Newbloods. Many had lived considerably extended lifespans; two might have equalled in age old Sanggruth. Still, no matter their years, no matter their experience, Regali doubted any of them could match the four Great Essences which had recently passed over. Sadly, none even approached the wisdom of Sanggruth the Glum.
Regali took time to consider the aging tradition of Dassmen. It was his belief that the lineage was drawing to a close. Their source of magicks was known to be fading; their knowledge was waning with each succeeding generation. The Dassmen were in decline, and another branch of the Alliance of Adepts would advance in energy as they faltered. The Dassmen could continue the line indefinitely, but with each batch of Newbloods their strength would lessen and their wisdom would wane. Eventually, Regali foresaw their fold widdled down to one lone Dassman, carrying on their customs, endeavouring to complete the great circle that is their whole being.
‘With one it began; with one, so shall it be done.’ Thus wrote the great philosopher-Dassman Tualksio more than ten thousand years past.
‘I still hold confidence in my past statements, for which I received from you all only scorn,’ shouted out Eralala, jostling Regali from his musings. ‘Why shrink you all from the likelihood that Tenvala’Aran was the architect of this Dark Spell? Do you all fear him so? Is it his bastard Dassman blood that causes you such agony?’
‘Speak not with such insolence, Eralala!’ bellowed Denibaas. ‘I’ll hear that foul name spoken no more at this table.’
‘Denibaas,’ retorted the strong-willed female Dassman, ‘Your apprehension is so readily revealed in your fury, it makes me laugh.’ A few men present smirked and giggled. Others simply stared in astonishment. ‘You shall listen to me or I shall ensure that you are not still breathing when comes the time for the next Convergence of Oulahzu.’ Denibaas took the words seriously; though his power was probably greater than hers, never should a threat issued by any Dassman be taken lightly. She, too, was silent for a few moments, realising afterward the seriousness of this confrontation. Before continuing, she sighed and scanned all her fellow-Dassmen’s eyes looking for allies, and hoping she discovered no enemies. ‘Now that I have your attention, I will continue.
‘We have spent half of this black morning brewing up ludicrous suppositions; some speak of gods, others of Hidden Priests, still others offer up the names of pitiful spellspeaks and charmers and seers. Burning in the heavens is a black sun, and by the gods such a thing cannot be done by the waving of a wand, the rubbing of a ring or the ordinary shedding of sacrificial blood. Something is strongly amiss in this country, and we all know but one man capable of such acts. I say it is he born from the womb of a High Witch impregnated by a renegade Dassman, he whom we all detest and abhor and—yes, we must admit it—fear. I say it is Tenvala’Aran, whom we know to have access to all the wisdom of Dassmen living or dead, and whom we know consorts regularly with imps and demons and loath necromancers and murderous soulhoarders.
‘And to be successful at this venture, he undoubtedly came across some tool, some dusty old grimoire penned in blood, some old formulae for the conjuration of a sleeping archangel or granddemon. It is said that such a man would be sensitive to the darkest icons of the forgotten ages when hideous things like Noisuls and Sisneunamah reigned over the barren wastes. And could he not have been drawn to the Avenue of Magicians during these past days, and discovered such an icon?’
‘Certainly,’ agreed Regali, offering Eralala support, ‘But what could it be that lent him the wisdom to do this?’
‘I know not, but I ask you all one question: Did not each and every one of you, upon entering the White Gate, feel something, a power indescribable, unrecognisable, terrifying, painful and noxious yet irresistible? I felt a presence, though I knew not what caused it.’ She looked into the face of Denibaas, and saw that he knew precisely the sensation of which she spoke. ‘I know now what caused it. Do we not all know what caused it?’
Then was heard a great clap of thunder, so violent it shook the table and made the ground beneath their feet tremble. Screams, more horrid than those sounded before, rang out across the benighted fields. Screams not of terror, but of pain. Screams which were deep and full of sorrow and agony, rent from the very souls of men and women.
Regali, closest to the mouth of the marquee, reached for the flap. Before his hand could grasp the canvas, an intense wind whipped the tent from its poles. Upon this fierce gale rode the stench of burning flesh, and across the fields outside the walls of Harchil it swirled. As the black sun burned above, the grass and trees shrivelled and bent in the breeze. From the east, a white light pulsed over the horizon. Beneath this eerie light, the Dassmen saw an army approach.
v
‘What in the name of all the gods...’ Regali had snatched up his Newblood, the infant Cullimmanari’Ra-Turen. All of the Dassmen gazed in wonder and horror at the silhouettes of a hundred thousand warriors mounted on horseback as this uncanny army descended from the sky riding upon a great rock bridge. Its source was unseen, deep in the heart of the clouds. From this quarter came the ear-shattering, heart-wrenching wails of the damned; from this quarter came the putrid breath of some foul realm of the cursed.
Mortal men ran by the Dassmen shrieking. Their skin was blistered, and their hair fell out in clumps as though the wind accompanying this hellish army was itself poison. Some men who had beheld the flash preceding the thunder now were blind, and helplessly they stumbled over the landscape in advance of the warriors. As the first wave of horsemen rode off the bridge and onto the land, the grass blackened and turned to ash and trees nearby burst into flame.
‘Do you see who rides at the head of their forces?’ asked Eralala.
‘Aye,’ answered Regali. ‘It is he, Tenvala’Aran. He wears the garb of his mother’s clan; he carries the Skullstaff of Yoiuow. But who rides by his side?’
‘That is the real power,’ replied Denibaas. ‘I recognise him now.’ Then Denibaas stroked his brow, rubbed his eyes and shook his head. He looked behind him once, not at his companions, but to the countryside not yet touched by the foul and killing wind. It was as if he silently bid it all farewell. ‘He who rides with Tenvala’Aran is known as Sisneunamah. It is the same being whom the earliest Dassmen, our eldest fathers, slew in battle ages ago. In that unholy war of so long ago, our predecessors fought alongside mortals for they possessed little power in the face of Sisneunamah’s army of corpses. More than a million mortals died on the fields. I have been told that in some places of Mistorel, the lands have yet not fully healed.’
‘We are more powerful now than they were then. Can we not stop him? Can we not put an end to this war before the first drop of blood is spilled?’ Regali remembered the stories of Sisneunamah quite vividly; these were tales to chill blood and drive men mad. ‘There were but four Dassmen in those olden days; I now count fourteen standing firm on this heath; and though the Newbloods are not able to act, certainly the power of their very existence augments our own.’
‘It will have to be enough,’ said Cyhthus. He clutched the hilt of his ancient charmed sword and drew it from its sheath, ready to lead the battle himself. ‘Make ready your weapons, brothers and sister. We haven’t time to waste.’
The reeking gale rushed over the lands like a plague, causing livestock to stampede and crops to rot and men to weep. Bonfires lit by frightened peasants now were whipped into uncontrollable fury and spread over the countryside unchecked. Grinning skulls could be seen as they gazed down from their mounts. These demon soldiers snickered and roared at the scene of devastation. Every hoof-fall made the ground quake, and the very walls of Harchil soon began to tremble and crack. Yet fourteen Dassmen bravely stood their ground as the uncanny army marched on.
‘Behold!’ called out Eralala, directing everyone’s attention to the White Gate. Through the tunnel vault charged another army, a mortal army, led by King Awtheav IV. ‘An army comes to defend the city of Harchil. We shall not stand alone against this aggression!’
‘And a mighty army I suspect it shall be,’ charged Regali. That the mortals could so swiftly organise their forces impressed him, and it comforted them all. ‘With all the visiting peoples of Mistorel, I would guess that this mortal army shall number in the tens of thousands.’
‘Aye, Regali... and look there, from the north; if mine eyes deceive me not, I see the forty clans of Umbragu.’ Denibaas howled with laughter in the face of the carnage that would surely erupt in short time. ‘Who’d have thought Dassmen and neo-shamen would ever fight side by side on the pasture-lands of Harchil?’
All the Dassmen joined in Denibaas’s brief laughter, though there was little humour in the situation at hand. All fourteen made ready for battle, save one: Unakepa had been chosen to remove the Newbloods to a safe distance behind the walls of Harchil and out of harm’s way.
Regali checked his pack. Within he found several hishimas, a set of tylak-beads, a vile containing yammot blood and a small green sphere. The hishimas were small black cubes, their value never greater than on the battlefield. Tylak-beads were useless unless he retreated across a stream during the day; then he could utilise them in the flowing water to ensure the enemy would not follow. He smeared the yammot blood over his face and eyes for it served to heighten the power of his spells. Finally, he placed the small green sphere beneath his tongue, hoping that in the event of his premature death his essence would be transmitted to another Dassman.
Sisneunamah’s army pushed ahead with no great sense of urgency. At their passing, the land mouldered, vegetation ignited and animals fell dead. Their ranks still spilled across the bridge and no end was in sight. The black sun, now on high, seemed to swell in celebration. Around it blossomed a great fiery grey aura, a smoky ring of dingy soot. Clouds loosed a deluge of boiling rain, the consistency of which was closer to tree sap than ordinary rainfall. It burned men’s flesh, and more than one who was fool enough to taste it dropped lifeless to the soil.
Enchanters worked feverishly weaving spells to protect the mortal combatants and their steeds. Lines formed before the walls of Harchil, proud defenders standing their ground. Standards and banners were raised as the great warriors awaited the first clash of metal, the first charge of the foe, the first blow, the first blood spilled. Archers readied their bows and shafts while men of the cavalry anxiously mouthed prayers. Knights clung to swords and maces and eyed the army of holocaust which approached. Dassmen, High Wizards of the many Secret Orders, Temple Sorcerers, neo-shamen and even the Mesenna’Ala stood alongside one another and fanned out between the mortal forces and the legions of Sisneunamah.
The king brought his stallion to a rest amidst the small band of Dassmen. Regardless of Regali’s sentiment that the strength of the Dassmen was in decline, they were still widely regarded as the most advanced and skilled workers of the Art. And this the king acknowledged.
When at last the chiefs of the two massive armies were within earshot of each other, Sisneunamah brought up a pale bony limb to bring the throngs behind him to a swift halt. He and Tenvala’Aran paraded out in front of their forces. Tenvala’Aran had never before looked so confident, so charged with energy. There was about him a kind of drunkenness, as though he had become inebriated on the virility supplied by the conjured ancient at his side.
Sisneunamah was a vision of death. His flesh was parched and clung frantically to the bones beneath. His limbs were scrawny and feeble, his chest was sunken. His warhelm seemed to cause him great discomfort as it bore down on his shrivelled body. There seemed to be no life in him, except for something in his eyes. Those eyes shone with a pulsing green glow, and to stare into them for any great length was to invite insanity to invade one’s own mind. Those brightly gleaming sockets attested to the powers hidden within that twisted skeletal figure.
‘You know my name,’ the impotent-looking, rickety thing said. It dropped a cloak it wore and revealed its hideous, worm-chewed, disease-ridden, mould-covered hide. Ribs shone through tattered blue skin. At places, it seemed that something with more than a worm’s hunger had gnawed upon flesh and muscle and the organs beneath. Its yellowed teeth appeared as it ventured to twist its detestable face with a smile. ‘I am Sisneunamah, and I live again.’
‘You are the shadow of that man you claim to be; you are his pitiful ghost and by no means his equal.’ Denibaas spoke with care, trying to gauge his enemy’s intentions. ‘But even the tattered bones and rotting flesh and reanimated form of Sisneunamah is an evil too great to let walk the land. As our forefathers saw to your annihilation before us, so shall we see to the destruction of your army and the dissolution of your very being.’
‘Brave words, coming from a lowly Dassman,’ hailed the purple-hooded Tenvala’Aran. Raising the skull-topped staff in his right hand, he continued with a howl, ‘Do you not recognise the Second Coming of Namolah? Can you not hear the shrill tittering of the army at hand? Can you not sense the swelling din that is even now erupting in the distant Holy Houses as demons cackle and grunt and drool and mock your hopeless attempt to stop Sisneunamah?’
‘Sisneunamah was before beaten, his madness vanquished and thought banished from these lands. His quest to awaken Namolah was not then, nor shall it be now, a successful one.’ Denibaas signalled to the other Dassmen, a sign was given of which none other would even take note. And all the Dassmen drew together their thoughts, focused their energies and prepared to unleash their combined might upon Sisneunamah. ‘As you can see, Sisneunamah,’ Denibaas added, speaking directly to the ancient evil, ‘In the days last our kind met with you, we were weaker and we were fewer in number. Look at us now—look at these thirteen Dassmen here to face you down.’
With that, a great blue fire was swept up in a whirlwind which circled about the band of Dassmen. From the swirling blue fires shot steaming boulders glowing red hot, aimed directly at Sisneunamah. By this he was clearly startled, as was Tenvala’Aran whose steed bucked and reared. But the boulders failed to reach their target, as with the sweep of Sisneunamah’s gnarled forearm, they fragmented and scattered.
The work of the Dassmen was far from over.
The ground beneath the enemies’ feet began to tremble and pitch, and thunder was heard rolling beneath the soil. Without any other warning, and with a force that made even the armies of Harchil and Mistorel shake, terrifying ivory daggers burst forth from the dirt, driving through man and beast, piercing armour as if it were parchment. From the opened bellies of horses spewed forth organs and blood; amongst the legions of Sisneunamah great shrieks rang out. A forest of towering white spikes bloomed beneath the black sun, and upon each one was impaled either a soldier or a horse or both.
The battle had taken root. Soon its black flowers would be in full blossom on the fields of Harchil.
vi
With blood spilled, the armies surged ahead.
King Awtheav rallied his men with a battle-call; Sisneunamah sounded a trumpet calling his legions to action.
All voices fell silent, all prayers were abruptly brought to a close. The thundering hooves of heavy horses pouring over the lands eclipsed all else.
Clouds of dust billowed up in the wake of the advancing horde led by Sisneunamah and Tenvala’Aran. Regali could not begin to guess the number of foes bearing down on Harchil. As sure as light had been stolen from the day, so had all sense of hope been drained from his soul. History and legend assailed the Dassman, and the tales of that earlier battle welled up to taunt him. It was true: There were more Dassmen now than there had been in that ancient battle; but it was clear that those early Dassmen possessed a much purer form of magick.
The dilemma could be likened to the aging of a common sword: A virgin blade in the hands of a master swordsman was a deadly thing. With time, it might even become a more powerful weapon as sword and swordsman became more comfortable with each other. Eventually, inevitably, the sword would wear and its keen edge would grow dull beyond the point of resurrection. It would lose its effectiveness. The swordsman would have to replace it with a new blade.
Or fall victim to his reliance upon a weaker blade with which he had grown intimate.
Regali distanced himself from his apprehension. Magick was magick, power was power. Wielded properly, it would not fail those who put their faith in it.
The five generals of King Awtheav IV positioned their men deftly. They set up several lines of defence as they skilfully played out their strategies. Soldiers stood their ground and awaited further instructions. Not one among them fled. Not one among them flinched as the enemy raced onward. Not one considered abandoning his countrymen, or his country.
Bowmen loosed their sharp, flaming arrows and the first volley rained down upon the oncoming army like a shower of death. As the screams rose up amongst the enemy, cheers rolled through the lines of the defenders. The mortals had pierced the heart of the ultimate evil...it was a small victory, but one which would lend hope to their ranks for certain.
Then the swords finally met. Spiked balls of a thousand maces kissed their foes’ shields. Rage possessed the warriors, and the steel struck at steel, at flesh and at bone.
The pikemen rushed headlong into the ranks of Sisneunamah. The very sight of the enemy they found loathsome. They made war against mindless shells. These things, these long-dead corpses animated by some damnable magick, had been reborn through the blackest of sorceries and assigned but one task: Theirs was the task to kill and kill and kill again. But these things did not fight at all like dead men. It was quickly learned among the brave defenders that the army of Sisneunamah fought with the fury of frothing caged wolves. They fought with such skill it was as though they were possessed by fallen wargods.
It at first seemed that these dreadful things could not be put down. Yet fall they did, when blades bit at them and arrows burrowed into their hide. Fall they did when they were touched by the black-fire vomited angrily by Dassmen, and when they were struck by smoke-spears flung triumphantly by the Temple Priests.
The Dassmen were concentrating on the vanguard of the enemy’s ranks. Their combined energies had generated fiery orbs of white light that acted their own volition—they swept across the fields engulfing the foe, spitting out splinters of bone and armour.
Tenvala’Aran, too, utilised those strange forces which were his to command. From a book clasped in his left hand sparked mysterious green bolts of lightning which felled a dozen men with each discharge. The fields were transformed into swampy mires in several places, swallowing charging soldiers whole. And more frightening, many mortal combatants found their flesh peeling from the bone though no wound had been sustained; it was surmised that the venomous rains had begun disintegrating the living things it soaked.
Through the long, dark day the fighting continued, until it seemed there would be no end.
Upon a field of terrific carnage and torture two figures came late in the day. The black sun was low on the horizon, and it seemed an eternal night was at hand. Onto the once-green, lush fields that enveloped the sprawling lands of Harchil, stepped two men wearing heavy cloaks which flapped wildly in the wind. Around them they saw pools of nappy crimson red. They beheld heavily armoured soldiers lying face down in the mud, their weapons still fast in their hands. They heard the moans of wounded and dying warriors, heard from behind the walls of Harchil the wails of widows. Fallen horses struggled to stand erect on twisted, broken legs.
A string of defenders, their faces grim, limped back toward the White Gate through which these two had passed. These men, no longer able to fight, would glance briefly at the two who were just arriving on the battlefield. From their eyes streamed tears of pain and sorrow and defeat. Their faces clearly avowed to the excesses of madness they had seen played out before them that day. Most of these men were caked in blood from the tips of their helms down to their spurs, and their skin was torn and purplish. Some men in this sombre procession fell along the road to never again rise.
To walk among the dead and dying, to choke on soot smothering the air, to hear the scattering of flies hovering over corpses: These things they had to bear as they sought the place where the battle raged on.
When finally they reached it they found both armies staggering. The king’s second son, now in command of Harchil’s forces after the death of his father and brother, had called for his men to move back and regroup. Only three Dassmen fought on, Regali among them, but their powers were fading quickly. Denibaas had succumbed to a great black mist that flowed from that strange book held by Tenvala’Aran. Eralala, blinded by a burst of witchfire cast upon her by Sisneunamah, fought on in spite of her sightlessness.
Regali saw the two figures approaching and, believing them to be without weapons, hurried to their aid. When he drew nearer, he saw that one carried a large book which seemed somewhat familiar. And as he reined in his mare—one borrowed from a fallen soldier—the two folded back their hoods and revealed their faces.
Regali was speechless.
He stared, his eyes imploring some explanation, his expression clearly one of eternal thanks.
Finally he spoke.
‘Sanggruth?’
‘Aye, my son. And Thoriitch. We had seen signs of this thing coming to be, though it was not made fully clear to us until after our passing.’
‘How did you... you passed on, into...?’
‘That is correct, Regali. We have returned from the Book of Being.’ Sanggruth the Glum was not the same man Regali had accompanied a day earlier on the Last Walk. His face was smooth and red with life; his fingers no longer were gnarled and knotted; he walked without the aid of his gnarled old staff. And his eyes shone brightly with a power beyond that of any one Dassman. ‘There is but one way to defeat Sisneunamah, and we must do it ourselves. Take your fellow Dassmen and have these mortals clear the fields. Their work here is done.’
‘But surely you two alone cannot take on the whole of Sisneunamah’s legions.’
‘We are not but two, my son. Now quickly, clear the field.’
Sisneunamah and Tenvala’Aran undoubtedly thought victory was at hand as they watched their opponents march haphazardly off toward the walls of Harchil. Sisneunamah was no longer a crumpled old derelict; during the battle, he had been rejuvenated and now appeared as a man in his youth with long flowing golden hair. He laughed as he turned to his saviour Tenvala’Aran.
‘It is with no small gratitude that I thank thee, Tenvala’Aran, for freeing me from my entombment and leading me on this noble crusade. Indeed, the day is won, the field is littered with corpses, and I am fast-becoming my old self. I thank you for finding my decaying form, for finding the book that would allow you to rouse me from my slumber, and for helping me call to arms my long dormant legions.’
‘In the name of Namolah, I would do anything.’
‘Then you shall offer up The Namolah Blood Treatise that I may animate the corpses of these soldiers which our forces have dispatched this day?’
‘Certainly,’ responded Tenvala’Aran. As he passed the book to Sisneunamah, the blond-haired, strapping leader of corpses whipped his blade around and cut Tenvala’Aran’s throat. Rasping, he coughed and wheezed, and mouthed a single word: ‘Why?’
‘Do you not understand, Tenvala’Aran? I’ve done you a great service to show my thanks. No more do I need your paltry magicks to aid in my conquest of these lands, but now you may serve me as a loyal soldier in my legions!’ Tenvala’Aran slumped forward on his horse and finally spilled lifeless to the ground. Sisneunamah, a despicable smile blooming across his face, turned to his powerful legions and cheered: ‘And now, on to Harchil.’
‘Hold, Sisneunamah!’ declared Sanggruth the Glum. ‘You shall march no further into this land. You shall draw not one more drop of blood. The First of the Four Dark Keeps which you seek shall remain in ruins, buried beneath the city of Harchil, and it shall not be risen.’
‘Who are you, Dassman? Have you not seen the ire with which I have claimed your brothers and sister? Do you not realise that you are no more a match for me?’
‘We are stronger than you realise, Sisneunamah,’ responded Thoriitch. ‘We have travelled great distances in little time and have gathered many allies.’
‘Where are they, these allies? You stand alone before me... weaponless and pitiful.’ Sisneunamah, irked by their insolence, lifted his brawny arms to lash out at them with a spell. But before he could complete the spell, before even he had gathered the energy to unleash it, he found his arms stripped of flesh, the muscles beneath shredded and torn asunder and his bones crumbling and reduced to dust. Sanggruth and Thoriitch, the authors of this most potent spell, had not even moved. ‘What magick is this?’ cried out Sisneunamah, gazing angrily at the stumps that were his arms.
‘It is time you returned from whence you came; and it is time that the book you hold is once again merged with the book in our possession.’ Sanggruth opened the Book of Being, and at once all of Sisneunamah’s forces melted into the soil, venting only one throaty wail as they ceased to exist. ‘Though it was banished once, ages ago, for it was feared it would destroy the Book of Being, it now must be returned; and along with it you too shall be drawn in, Sisneunamah. After all, you are linked with the Namolah Blood Treatise as much as we Dassmen are a part of this Book of Being.’
There was a tremendous bright flash, followed by a scream so deafening that all mortals outside the walls of Harchil fell unconscious upon hearing it. And then Regali saw nothing on the field where those three had been.
After some time, Regali realised that Eralala and even Unakepa had vanished, perhaps caught in the vortex of the Book of Being due to injuries they suffered during the battle. He mourned the loss of his brethren and prepared adequate ceremonies to mark the passing of each.
Furthermore, Regali soon discovered that the Book of Being itself was lost in the closing moments of the battle—perhaps sacrificed to ensure that dawn never again would come with the rising of a black sun. The book could never again spawn Newbloods, and would never again welcome the noble spirits of passing Dassmen. When Regali’s time came, therefore, he would die like a mortal.
Regali was unquestionably saddened by the passing of an era, but he found he had little time to mourn. From Harchil he had retrieved each of the Newbloods, and with them he took to the merchant road and traversed the countryside. Tradition commanded that he find suitable parents to rear the four young infants accompanying him, but Regali was compelled to do otherwise.
Regali set out to raise the last of the Dassmen.
