During the years of the reign of Argrath tales of the Hero Wars were so profuse that it was hard to tell the truth from the legends. The Lhankor Mhy scholars who travelled from village to village gathering such tales gave argument to the idea that there was little difference between the two – what mattered were the acts, not those who did them. Most of us could not grasp such thinking, and I even heard one elder, who had been a follower of Urox in his youth, talking of illumination and Gbaji and glaring malevolently at the Grey Sages until finally they grew uncomfortable and said their farewells.
Those of us who had not seen the wars ourselves spent our childhood in imitation of battles we had only heard about. In our desire to create we gave form to many fantasies so that to us they became as real as the tales spun by the skalds on dark nights when the fires roared orange sparks into the starry night sky. I was considered a ready font of such heroic fare because of my grandfather. He had been there. Whenever he spoke the youths would instantly fall silent, an unspoken prayer that a story of the Hero Wars would follow, for it was well told that my grandfather had been at Whitewall with High King Broyan, and had fought against the Evil Empire and even the Crimson Bat.
His stead was miles away, but I spent as much of my youth there as I could, for it was a veritable armoury, and nothing sets a youngster’s mind to flights of fancy than a wall covered in armour and weapons. I remember the first time my grandfather took down a sword and handed it to me for my inspection. It was a curved blade with one edge and was bedecked in runes of Moon and Mastery. My grandfather explained that the curve was designed so that whichever part of the blade hit you the whole force of the blow would be concentrated in just a few inches, and once it had found its mark, it was easy to turn a strike into a ragged and lengthy cut. This, he said, was the chosen weapon of the Lunar Empire, and matched the shape of the Shepelkirt on nights when she was not in full view.
My grandfather was my father in many ways. I look upon this with some guilt now, for I have learned to respect the hard labour performed by my father on the farm. But in times of plenty, we take food for granted, and war can seem a noble endeavour. I said so once to grandfather and he just smiled and laughed, but the sadness in his eyes stopped me from doing the same.
I looked upon my grandfather as he lay dying and when I had grown to manhood. He had always been there and had been invincible to my eyes. I had defined strength through him and had never noticed the failing power of his limbs or the wasting of his time ravaged body. There was a moment, as he lay dying, when he seemed to change before my eyes, but I have never known whether this was the start of his spirit’s departing or my own final realisation of his frailty; that man, always so strong and so enduring suddenly preparing to depart the mortal world.
When news had reached us of his imminent death, the members of the clan had gathered to say their goodbyes and to participate in the rituals. It was a difficult time, for my grandfather cast a long shadow over his sons, and although they had fought a respectable share of battles in their own way, they had no chance of matching his legend which had spread beyond the clan and was talked of with shared pride at the tribal moots. I remember seeing my own father leave his father’s side for what may have been the last time and feeling the unspoken despair. I knew then that my father had felt that he had never lived up to the expectations of his father. In a moment of terrible clarity I knew that I, in turn, would never live up to his. Perhaps that is the way of things.
There was a night when everyone was too tired to continue the deathwatch and I had silently taken the responsibility. I sat by grandfather’s deathbed and wet his lips with some ale. He murmured something and then his eyes opened and he turned his head to regard me.
“I love you, my son.” He said, his voice still strong.
“It’s me grandfather.” I replied.
“Ah. I am a bad father and a bad man.”
“No grandfather, rest”
“I am a bad father and a bad man.” He repeated, his voice cracking.
“You are the greatest man I have ever known!” I cried.
He sank back into his bed then and I could see the wetness of his eyes reflecting the firelight.
“I have lived my life in the past, basking in the few deeds of my youth and revelling in the envy of others. My arrogance is colossal and it shames me. I lie here on a bed, surrounded by family who have talked of my heroism for most of the years of my life. I have been feted by kings and chieftains who have sacrificed cattle on my behalf and I have sat upright and proud whilst crowds have chanted my name and raised their flagons and drinking horns to me to salute my deeds. I have kept the truth inside myself for so long, and I have told myself that I have stayed silent out of respect. But now I doubt my motives. Have I withheld the story of the dead so that I can reap the rewards in life?”
“What is the story?” I asked, a terrible fear rising in my throat.
My grandfather sighed, took a moment’s pause and then began to speak…
We had withstood everything they had thrown at us. I myself had not taken part in the attack upon the very back of the Crimson Bat, which had been led by the High King himself. Those that had returned from that were never able to express it to either their own or to anyone else’s satisfaction, but then that’s the first truth of war and heroes, boy; words can’t capture it. The fear that courses through your veins clouds your recollection and when you try to express it, the words sound hollow and pompous and so you remain silent.
But I had stood upon the walls, and I had stood atop Tarkalor’s Gate and I even watched the shards of the Red Moon herself as they rained down upon the city on that final day. I stood atop the walls of the White City alongside the greatest of heroes to my mind, for we carried in our hearts the sure knowledge that eventually the city would fall, and yet we fought anyway. We fought for each other, our Orlanthi brothers and sisters, and we fought with passion and a terrible recklessness that defined death as an escape from the fatigue of battle.
Such a battle is always about the numbers. How much would I sell my life for? I have seen the great warriors, those whose names you can hear in the lays, who have, over the course of the siege, sent literally hundreds of souls screaming into the pit. I have seen young men no older than you are now rush wild eyed into battle only to fall immediately under half a dozen spears and vanish nameless under a pile of corpses – who would they have become had they only chosen a different path?
I remember a night battle at Tarkalor’s Gate. I remember it because we had been placed under the command of a Lunar! I had been in one of the mead halls when word came. The huscarls could not believe it, but word had come from Broyan himself. Cleombrotus, they spat. That whoreson and his troll friends will betray us all. What is Broyan thinking? This strange Lunar had come from the tunnels beneath the city and was announced by the Kitori elders as an ally. This had been fine, until an idle conversation had revealed that not only was he Dara Happan by birth, but also had served in the Lunar army, and in no less than the Beryl Phalanx. There were those among us who had lost fathers at Grizzley Peak and who had been told stories of how their heads had adorned the battle standards of the stone phalanx in the aftermath of the battle. Among us there were those who had been fighting the Lunars since Starbrow’s rebellion and had taken the greatest pride in the massacre at Hofstaring’s Flood at the way in which the soldiers of the Beryl Phalanx had been annihilated. And here we were, about to follow one into battle.
Certainly his friends were true Orlanthi, and the Kitori never once questioned his integrity, but I knew that there were those on the walls who would stand behind the strange warrior and be looking for any excuse to plant their axe between his shoulders.
He was an enigmatic figure, but his isolation from the other men, mostly true Orlanthi, born and bred, created this. I was most surprised one night when I saw him at ease with his companions; his normally impassive features broke into an easy laugh and his onyx eyes shone with amusement. He seemed human, in that moment, but when in combat he seemed soulless. Those black eyes that pierced the dark itself made him seem as one undead, glaring from the narrow gaps in his crested bronze helm; an automaton of death.
He was inhumanly swift. I have seen many stronger, and many more skilful, and certainly seen many with greater magical power, but Cleombrotus was the swiftest fighter I have ever seen. When wielding that long spear of his there were none who could beat him to land the first blow, and that first blow is often enough. He often fought alongside a dark troll, and as a team they were awesome. Cleombrotus would wade into the battle using his spear to kill or cripple the strongest foes, whilst the troll would follow him, dispatching the wounded with his maul. They were a team of killers, these two.
Cleombrotus had companions that were his true confidantes. They would choose to fight at different parts of the wall, but after the fights they would meet up and compare stories. I could not gather the details, for their common language was that of the Tarshites, another feature that set them apart from the rank and file. Darkos was a noble, clearly used to command, and yet unbelievably he was Uroxi, and fought with a cold fury in the face of the chaos tainted Lunar magic. His preferred weapon was the bow, and he would infuse his arrows with the soul of the Storm Bull. The withering storm of his bow would rain down arrows into the seething mass of troops below the walls to deadly effect.
Grant McKielson I did meet, for he was perhaps the most enigmatic of all. He was called by the Esvulari, “Hospitalier” for although a mighty warrior in his own right he was in possession of a healing crystal of such power that the Chalana Arroys and Bevarans would bow their heads as he passed, for they knew that it must have been the remnants of a tear shed by Arroin himself. He healed me of a grievous wound that would have ended my days as a warrior – think upon this, for my status in the tribe has brought wealth to our clan, health to our kin and ensured the continuation of our line. We remain pre-eminent because I am a revered hero, and we owe it to this warrior, who healed me without knowing or asking my name, and without seeking a reward or even my thanks. Where would we be without him?
They had other companions, of course. I remember watching Cleombrotus as he regarded one of the Humakti who went to hold Tarkalor’s Gate at the end. When the Household of Death went to their last stand so that we might live, the others embraced their friend. Cleombrotus merely nodded and in turn received no acknowledgement from the Humakti. It spoke of hidden stories that lay behind their presence at Whitewall, but I can only speculate upon this for I was never close in their counsel.
Cleombrotus stated his case once, before the weaponthanes. He said he was Orlanthi, initiated into the secrets at the Old Wind Temple itself by a venerated Storm Voice. However it was clear to all that he was primarily a worshipper of Darkness. His eyesight was a gift from Argan Argar, as was the shade that stood guard while he slept. The Kitori showed respect for him, for he had apparently undertaken spiritual pilgrimage onto the Shadow Plateau and overcome many enemies of Darkness. There were few who had come from the dark tribe who had embodied the warrior aspect of the Son of Night as overtly as Cleombrotus, and he took their respect as his due, with no false modesty, which only raised his stock amongst the Kitori.
I myself looked on with awe in that first night assault. Heedless of the scorn of those huscarls and weaponthanes who stood around him he had made a speech and raised the spirits of the most cynical around him and given us all a sense of oneness. He stood upon the wall as the Lunars commenced their magical assault, and I looked at his profile against the red glow cast by the howling Lunar spirits that swirled and eddied and screamed around the defenders.
When the ladders hit the walls he merely walked toward one and waited, and when the spirits attacked to cover the climbers’ advance he ignored them, protected by powerful magics, so that when the first corporeal warriors arrived at the top ready to deal death they came face to face with this black-cloaked avatar of Darkness, wielding spear and huge shield who, behind inhuman jet black eyes, dealt death at the end of his mighty spear. In these moments he cast a spell of fear that infected even his allies, for we felt as if in the presence of the Dehori who stalked the surface world before the Compromise. In the few moments of clarity that punctuated the battle I can remember thinking that if this cloaked demon would but turn those eyes upon me then I would look upon my own death.
I had tried to learn from the tall warrior, seeking to emulate the flowing style by which he wielded that spear. He had a speed of thought that could be read with practice. The head of his spear already thrust into the chest of one foe was immaterial. Some of the Orlanthi warriors would seek to make eye-to-eye contact with their foe, turning each fight into a personal duel, and seeking to ensure that the dying warrior would look into the screaming face of his killer and know whom it was who had slain them. Cleombrotus would concentrate on his next foe before the first had fallen, trusting in his experience to know when one fight was over and the next had begun. Even before he had withdrawn his spear you could see his feet planting themselves ready for the next strike, his body twisting to interpose his enchanted shield between himself and his next mark, blocking their desperate blow before wrenching his spear free, and with an expert twist of the wrist, bringing its blade to bear on the warrior who would suffer a terrible moment of epiphany as he saw the inevitability of his own death. I could never bring myself to the state of fearlessness it seemed to take to reach such a state of mind. Always thoughts of family and survival would seek to breach the armour of my mind, but I knew instinctively that to let such thoughts in was to see one’s own death. In battle you must become a fiend, devoid of love and thought and cause. You must become death itself, and must count your own death as immaterial, seeking solace in the dark pit of your animal soul.
I have seen men who could never leave it on the battlefield. You have heard of the Urain? It is the battlefield that He stalks, seeking those who cannot resist the lure of our baser nature. There are those who revel in battle and conflict, but the true heroes never did. They sought the companionship of their friends in the aftermath of slaughter and sought to regain that part of themselves that they had left behind before the commencement of battle. They are not heroes who revel in battle, but those who seek to return from the abyss and remain capable of love and laughter can show us that there is something truly great in Men. The lovers of slaughter and the warmongers are just casualties…