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From: [e-mail] (Signs of Chaos)
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Subject: STORY: The Lords of Midnight (Chapter the Second)
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Date: 17 Apr 1995 10:01:50 -0400
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As a note - the editing I have done recently is only on paper from this point
on; thus, about half of this chapter could probably use some more revision.



                         {Chapter the Second}
                                  -=-
                                {Torin}


                                  -=-


When the War of the Uprising began nearly ten decades ago, humans in Torin
hadn't really noticed. Which isn't to say that they didn't care, or even that
they wouldn't have been scared if they *had* known - they simply hadn't
noticed.

There were no orcs in Torin. The War had begun in the East, with a
lightning-swift campaign along the Garpastan Mountains. The orcs had poured
across the dwarven outposts that marked the boundary of the Kingdom of
Kharsos - which was to say, Kharsos itself, since the mountain fortress had
been the only permanent settlement in the whole kingdom. Built into the sides
of two adjacent mountains, it guarded the precious valley between like a lone
warrior guarding a narrow bridge - a lone warrior that had held off entire
armies, that had stood guard and protected a mountain range measuring a
thousand miles long. Tens of thousands of troops were stationed there - some
thirty or forty regiments, all told. They stood watch over the only accessible
pass connecting the Eastern Reaches with the Continent Proper. They were the
bravest of the brave, the strongest of the strong: the best of the best. Its
invincibility a thing straight out of legend, Kharsos had stood fast against
invading armies, barbarian hordes - even the Gorungar themselves.

They never had a chance.

                       {X          X          X}



The figure at the head of the small caravan paused in front of a rather
nondescript building. The woven sackcloth robe he wore was hooded, the cowl
drawn well over his head, its shadow in the high noon sun obscuring the man's
face like the dark of night. He held the reins of his camel beside him
loosely, allowing the animal a respite not usually given by most experienced
horse riders, who exhibited a rather annoying tendency (to the dromedary,
anyway) to draw too tightly on the reins when walking their steeds, fearing
them to be as flighty as the average horse. This man was different (if no less
an experienced horseman), and his mount rewarded his faith by waiting
patiently as the cowled man slowly made his way to the door of the small
building, expertly playing out the slack in the reins as he did so.

The two men behind the leading figure paused beside their mounts as well. The
taller of the two stood stone still to the left of the first man, his face
staring forward, unturning, as if whatever being had created him had forgotten
to equip him with a neck. The one to his right, roughly as tall as the lead
man, was looking around in wonderment: first to his right, then to his left,
like a newborn fresh into the world, or a child making his first journey into
the forest by his father's side, marvelling at the very *greenness* of it all.

Of course, Torin wasn't very green at all. Standing alone in the Great
Southern Desert, it had grown from a small town to a sprawling city, the
greatest trading center in the South. Commerce was brisk, even at this time of
year - which was impossibly *hotter* than the other nine months - and a few
merchants-in-passing paused now and then to spare a glance at the three
hermits.

Gerdinians were not a sight uncommon in Torin. The hermits had long been a
part of Torin's history, stretching back to the fabled days of old, when Torin
had been (so the elders and aldermen would have you believe) a lush city,
green with the scent of fresh pines and cedars.

But those days had withered, and the reputation of the Hermits of Gerdinia had
shriveled with them. Now they were outcasts even within the confines of Torin
itself.

The whisperings came loud and clear to the ears of the robed ones.

_How can they *wear* such things_?...

_Damn hermits - here for handouts again_...

_Wish the Imperials were here to clean up this trash_...

Mostly, the natives and naivetes kept to themselves, more concerned with
procuring some form of refreshment and respite from the heat than staring at
whatever else happened to roll into town with the desert winds.

The first robe paid similar heed to all of them as well - which is to say,
none at all. He approached the front of the earthy brown hovel, singular in
purpose and determination. He stood before the door patiently, arms folded
into his sleeves before him, and waited. He did not need to knock. He never
had before.

The second pilgrim still had not moved. His companion had finally had his gaze
drawn to the figure standing before the entranceway. He cocked his head to one
side questioningly, as if trying to fathom the reasons behind his traveling
companion's refusal to knock at the door before which he was standing.

The wait assumed a timeless quality, stretching interminably, forestalling the
future in preference of the present. The figure standing before the door
looked as if he had stood there for a thousand years, and would stand there a
thousand more if necessary. The seemingly limitless patience of the man within
the robes anointed the future with equal virtue, and it stood deferentially
before the door to the present, unwavering; unknocking.

All things must end, however, and the present scene, already long overstaying
its moment in time, snapped forward like a tree in a hurricane as the sound of
sandal on stone revealed itself from behind the door with a definitive {\it
click}. The third man's head tilted further to one side as he leaned forward
slightly to catch the sound which had broken the sacred silence. The shuffling
became more audible, and it was obvious that someone was approaching the door,
albeit not without some difficulty. There was a light fumbling noise, as of a
lock being slipped, and the door opened inward, its hinges raising their
voices in creaking protest.

The sun, which had been beating mercilessly upon the rest of the desert city,
rushed in to illuminate the area beyond the doorway, paused, and seemed to
think better of the idea. The interior of the building remained in shadows,
sunlight hovering mysteriously on the periphery, not daring to intrude. A
lighter shadow separated itself from the darkness, and an old woman in
tattered brown rags stepped haltingly into the sunlight, squinting fiercely at
the cowled figure before her. A brief flash of recognition passed over the
squat woman's face, but it dissipated into a cloud of confusion as her eyes
caught sight of the two hermits walking behind the first man. Puzzlement
spread slowly across her face, playing itself out in her eyes, still squinting
as if locked in mortal combat with the sun.

The mouth beneath the mangy gray hair and bushy eyebrows moved, and words were
quick to follow.

"Yes?" she said sternly. "What do you want?"

The first man stepped forward, bowing slightly as he did so. His hands
materialized from beneath the folds of his robes, arms splayed to his sides,
palms face upward in a gesture of supplication. "Gentle woman," he began, "we
are weary travelers. We hail from the Hermitage of Gerdinia to the south and
west of this place." If the man's hands and posture bespoke the language of
humility, his voice certainly did not. There was a hint of - amusement? -
about it, and the man certainly seemed to be smiling, although it was, of
course, impossible to determine within the darkened shroud which lay across
his face. "We have been sent here by our Order to procure supplies and aid. We
hope you will be generous, and give to us in our time of need." The rite of
rote over, the figure gave an exaggerated bow of mock respect. This time the
amusement was obvious; the chuckle, audible.

The old woman snapped her head quickly from the withdrawn pair to the forward
man. "Travelers?" she began, slightly irritated. "Hermits?" she asked again.
"You don't look like hermits to me." She began to shuffle back into the area
beyond the doorway, gazing at the large man in the back, hoping the retreat
seemed due more to aggravation than fear.

The first man caught the direction of the woman's gaze. "Oh, don't mind the
big one there," the first one interjected mischievously, piety all but gone
from his voice, turning and waving his arm to indicate his leftward companion.
By this time, the rearward duo had begun chortling openly as well. In fact,
between their ridiculous outfits and the strange mixture of terror and anger
that was on the old woman's face, the trio seemed on the verge of raucous
laughter. The first man, mirth lighting his voice, brought himself under
enough control to deliver the icecracker to the confused old woman. "He's not
as dumb as he looks." At this, the two men behind the speaker broke out into
open laughter, and the angered old woman - clearly on the outside of some
inside joke - raised her head to stare into the face of the man who had turned
back toward her. Once again she felt that hint of a smile behind the curtain
of darkness. This time it was unmistakable.

She stared hard, and the veil broke. Her sight penetrated where sunlight could
not, and she discerned the circle of white hair framing the man's shadowed
face like the sun draping the moon during an eclipse.

The old woman, who had seemed on the verge of a fit, shocked to a standstill.
Then she started laughing - slowly at first - a friendly smile beaming up at
the first man as she shook her head slowly back and forth. The waterfall of
laughter cascaded, subsided into a light rippling of amusement, and the turned
corners of her mouth relaxed with her smile.

"Amel Talic," she said, still shaking her head, "why don't you just knock like
everyone else?"

                        {X          X          X}



Vartekh's army was reported halted one mile down the pass Kharsos stood watch
over. Its size, were the first reports of two months ago to be believed, was
somewhere between two hundred and two hundred fifty thousand. A month later,
after the inital hysteria had died down and cooler heads could be called upon
to count, the invaders had numbered half of that. A month later, and they were
now a force of about eighty thousand. The second report had obviously also
been in error as well, for it was fairly well documented that the orcs had
lost no more than five thousand warriors during the campaign.

Then again, thought Haladan, it had been "fairly well documented" that two
hundred fifty thousand orcs had started on this damned journey in the first
place.

That an army could have trekked nearly three hundred miles in fifty days,
engaged in no less than forty skirmishes -- at least six of which had been
major confrontations -- and emerged with no more than five thousand casualties
was incredible. But to Haladan -- who harbored doubts as to the actual veracity
of these reports as well -- the feats of the Son of Tarkan's militia were
irrelevant, even if they had, in fact, been accurately reported. This, after
all, was Kharsos.  All roads led here -- and most ended here as well. Would
the newest invaders be any different?

Haladan thought not.

This, after all, was Kharsos -- she that had stood since the dawn of time,
that had denied the last furied attempts of the accursed Gorungar to
reestablish their dominance upon the world, that had turned back countless
barbarian hordes which had been far better trained -- and far more numerous --
than these orcs.

_Orcs! Hmph!_ snorted the dwarven general. He snorted a lot these days, Haladan
did. Whatever was this Vartekh thinking? He had apparently recruited most of
this army of his from the Eastern Reaches, where the orcs as a race had long
been numerous enough to rule the land outright. There they had established
their petty kingdoms and small duchies, content in the knowledge that if the
rest of Kragg owed them no favors, at least in the Eastern Reaches they could
establish whatever control they craved. This orcish general *had* to have known
there would be only one way out. Only a fool would have thought to march an
army of that size through the Garpastanos without advancing down the most --
indeed, the only -- accessible route through the mountain range. And that
route -- completely blocked by Kharsos -- was a dead end.

A dead end.

Which had never, of course, kept other would-be world conquerors from trying
to forge their way through the unforgiving Garpastan Mountains. Most
discovered too late the sad truth behind the majestic facade of the mountain
range: although impressive from a distance, it was actually very much
weakened as a result of the extensive mining done in the area by the dwarves
who made their living there. With no safe trails through the rock -- the
Garpastanos supported no flora whatsoever -- there existed only one true path
in an entire thousand-mile stretch of mountain -- and that stretch was sealed
like a dam by the mountain fortress, Kharsos. Of course, the Gorungar had
used their powerful magicks to try a more direct route, blasting away a
section of the Garpastanos to the south of the dwarven citadel. The resulting
landslide had then proceeded to bury them, inflicting heavy casualties. No,
all roads led to Kharsos -- which was, Haladan reflected, as it should be.

He sighed, lifting up his head from the battleplans he had been daydreaming
over and taking a look around his personal quarters. _Ah, well. Maybe this
general isn't everything the scouts made him out to be_. Haladan shrugged --
more to himself than to anyone else, especially as he was alone in his room --
and directed his gaze to the northern wall of his quarters, which, as per his
own wishes, doubled as his office as well. Various awards and commendations
were hung on the wall above his small bed: honors for bravery and courage in
battle in his earlier years as a grunt; recognitions of tactical genius from
his later years, often spent in a leader's capacity behind a desk, removed
from "the action". Haladan had appreciated the switch from dirty work to desk
work at the time -- he had seen enough of war in his day to know that the only
people who found it resplendent were the bards who profitted from singing
tales of glory and honor -- but found himself missing the thrill of battle
more often of late. The feelings of comraderie, adrenaline, hunger, spirit,
blending into something beyond them all, beyond the combatants, beyond the
blood, beyond the bodies -- blending into something truly *epic* -- that was
something Kharsos' commander had found himself missing from time to time.

This was one of those times. There was something hovering in the air --
something *epic*. This one promised to be a colossal struggle. He found himself
marveling with those very bards he had damned not two thoughts ago at the truly
*gripping* tale war made. A great battle was coming. Haladan trained his
distracted attention on the northern wall again, searching for something. The
last battle here had been -- what, ten years ago? His eyes shot past their
target, returned, and focused again. No -- it had only been *eight* years ago,
according to his commendation. That year had witnessed a small barbarian horde
from the Northern Wastes try to force their way east after a season of famine
and spoilage -- victory had been a foregone conclusion. Haladan had received a
medal only because he had lost so few warriors during the course of the battle
-- and he *was* senior officer, after all. Haladan chuckled, idly snatching the
embossed medallion from its resting place on his wall and examining it. Being
senior officer had to count for *something*, he mused -- and thus there had
been another favor done for his wall of fame.

Still, things had been pretty stale in Kharsos -- in all of Kragg, actually --
since then, and eight years' sleep had left him waking up awaiting battle like
a fine wine after dinner. Dinner had been nice, and warm, and filling, but
there was a time to eat, and a time to drink -- and this one promised to have
everyone positively drunk on the spirits of battle before it was all over. It
would certainly be more intoxicating than that puff of smoke eight years ago,
even if the outcome was no less inevitable.

Haladan returned the medal to its resting place, turned, and left the room.

                      {X          X          X}



Hot. If the tea was anything, it was hot. In fact, it was so hot Darius
was unable to tell if it was anything else at all. He shrugged again at the
absurdity of drinking tea -- hot tea -- in the middle of the desert, and took
another sip. Somehow, in this strange building, it seemed to make sense.

The interior had seemed too large, judged on what he remembered of the
view outside. Grimblade had noticed this as soon as he had crossed the
threshold. He was still trying to ascertain whether this impression was
correct or merely a trick of the lighting -- and he *still* couldn't determine
where the light was coming from -- but no one had made any attempt to step back
outside, so Darius was forced to settle for what he remembered of the hovel's
exterior dimensions. He wasn't about to interrupt the conversation so rudely
for a reason so banal as examining crumbling stonework for extra-dimensional
flaws, even if he wasn't really a party to the discussion at hand.

Amel Talic sat in one corner of the oddly lit room, occasionally sipping from
the tea he held before him. He was to the left of the fireplace, chatting
amiably with the old woman seated across the hearth from him. Darius mentally
shook his head once at the thought of a fireplace in the desert, and again at
the idea that it was actually *lit*. Compounding the confusion was the fact
that it was actually necessary. The oppressive heat menacing the outside world
had been kept at bay much like the sunlight had earlier, and the room was no
warmer than one of the many tents in which Darius had spent nightmare-plagued
nights after battle-scarred days on the Western Edge. Grimblade turned his
attention to Argoth, who was to Talic's right (and Grimblade's left), seated in
a highbacked wicker chair which seemed barely capable of supporting his weight.

Argoth sat motionless, unblinking. With the exception of that brief interlude
of laughter at Dorn's expense, the Northerner's expression hadn't changed from
the morning the trio had departed for Torin. Darius was more than a bit
thankful for this. In this alien homestead in the middle of the desert, with
its hot tea, cool air, blazing fireplace, and sourceless light that seemed to
come from everywhere at once, the barbarian had remained constant. _Constantly
mortified, by the look of it_, Darius thought, although Argoth was obviously
trying to conceal his glumness from the old woman.

He hadn't taken such pains to conceal his displeasure on the ride to Torin -
but then again, he hadn't gone through the trouble of revealing much of
anything, either. Darius had heard Argoth speak no more than a dozen words
during the entire three-day trip. If you subtracted the one-word responses to
Amel Talic's occasional pleasantries, and removed the two mumbled oaths to
Vala, the spoken words were probably no more than four in number. Darius
believed, if memory served him correctly, that the quartet in question had
been, "_Here we go again_."

Argoth sat silently in the wicker chair -- the chair that seemed to be
tailor-made for his precise measurements -- apparently caring not at all about
the odd pointedness of Grimblade's thought-tempered gaze. _Maybe not uncaring,
though_, Darius thought, noting Argoth's unblinking stare at the nothingness
situated over Grimblade's right shoulder. _Maybe oblivious_.

Maybe both. Then again, Amel Talic was thinking much the same thing of Darius
Grimblade at the moment. He repeated his last question -- a little louder this
time, just to make sure his head-in-the-clouds companion heard him -- leaning
forward with great exaggeration as he did so, providing a visual cue in case
his friend's ears failed him.

"I said, don't you think it odd, Darius?"

Grimblade snapped out of his reverie, mumbled something guttural and vaguely
"huh"-like in sound, and turned to find the young priest and the venerable
lady staring at him with no small degree of anticipation on their faces
(although Darius was dimly aware of the corners of Amel's mouth beginning
to curl upward with no small degree of amusement either, wrinkling like
smoldering paper which burns black and swirls slowly upon itself when the
flames are upon it, crackling mischievously all the while). His mind, a few
paces behind the sensory input, put on a burst of speed and stumbled over the
last few spoken words in its rush, the impact launching them through his mind,
out his mouth, and into the yawning silence before him.

"Odd?" he asked in a daze (he stopped himself before his mind the would-be
pacesetter could kick the word "Darius" into the air after it).

"The orcs," Amel replied, all traces of amusement vanishing quickly from his
face. "You said after the battle that they had been on you all at once in
that glade."

Darius' mind, which had raced so hard and so fast to break into the present,
now had to take a break itself and remember...remember...

"Yes...yes, you're right." The warrior struggled with the memory. "It all
happened so fast..." Just how fast came back to him in a rush of adrenaline,
momentarily losing him to the here-and-now, and for a few frantic
heartbeats the raiding party was upon him again, swords flashing, steel
ringing, hooves trampling...

"It was almost as if..." His voice trailed off into the memory.

The old woman finished his thought for him. "...as if, Darius Grimblade, they
were waiting for you all along?"

"Yes," he started slowly, his face bunching itself up into a startled, puzzled
mask. "I was so caught up at the time in the battle and its aftermath that I
haven't had the chance to really think about it until now. They came out of
nowhere, it seemed, but it was just a bit too..." He struggled for the right
word, caught hold of it, and continued on. "...*coordinated* to have been
a chance encounter." The muscles in his face refused to relinquish their
tight-fisted grip. He turned to Talic questioningly, haltingly. "But that's
not possible, is it? No one else knew I was coming but our contact. And he's
reliable, isn't he?"

Amel considered Darius from across the room. "Garant..." He nodded slowly,
perceptibly, hands folded in front of his face. "Garant I trust. I've known
him long enough and well enough to understand his hatred of the Empire."
Talic's eyes narrowed, his mind lost in contemplation. "Still, it would seem
that either someone warned them of your approach, or we're clutching at
straws." He refocused his attention on his barbarian companion. "Argoth? What
are your impressions?"

The big man stroked his beard thoughtfully. "I would say," he began solemnly,
"that they knew Darius was coming."

Talic met the Northerner's gaze and nodded his head slowly in agreement.
Darius, who couldn't quite understand how the duo could remain so calm under
the circumstances, raised his voice in protest. "Didn't we just agree that
this wasn't possible?" he asked, looking from the priest to the barbarian and
back again. "You just said we don't have a leak."

"We don't," Argoth replied. "Nobody on our side told them where you were." He
paused, his eyes never leaving Talic's.

"Somebody on their side did."

--
-=-Chet Zeshonski
[e-mail]