OCTT: A TALE OF TWO QUEENS : SUMME - CHAPTER FOUR (COPYRIGHTED CONTENT)

Chapter Four

Morad

The Auta sun began to fall behind the Ash Mountains, its streaks of red beams settling upon the ceiling of the forest of Ash which lay directly beneath the great northern mountains beyond. A day’s ride north and Morad and his small company of soldiers would soon be upon the city of Ashlouis. He had been secretly invited to meet with Muta, the son of Lord Valtar and the recently deceased Lady Hildis. They were the most powerful clan, north of the Lake Saios and had been claiming land and power from the weak and poverty stricken clans. Morad knew that in time, if clan Ashlouis was to prove themselves in battle, that Lord Valtar would soon point the tip of his sword south to the great city of Nor, known as the city of secrets, for the vaults which ran below the city, contained many precious articles, mainly ancient objects which, in the hands of someone powerful, would give them great power and authority. Morad was no fool, he could see through the elderly Lord and his greedy son, yet hidden away within his own heart, he knew that to draw close to them, he could when the time was right, reach out his hand and take the power for himself. He had proved himself mighty and honourable and he knew that if given the chance, his men and those who blindly followed him, would gladly stand by his side, even if against the all-powerful Anvin, High Priest of Summe and Meer. Yet the seed of destruction was but small and without the power in which to beholden Morad to its wishes. He knew in his heart that to do such a terribly thing, was to dishonour the loyalty and love shown by the High Priest and his family. It was not the doing of Anvin that his parents had been cruelly murdered, it was the doing King Ravan and his collection of treacherous puppets, all of them willing to kill for a price. What Morad did not know, and what kept Morad from watering the seed of hatred was that his life and that of his sister had been traded in under the cover of night, a pact struck between his protector and enemy. To protect the last living descendant of the extinct Nayan tribe, the High Priest agreed to give up her mother in a pact which would see her two hearts ripped from her chest and sewn into Ravan’s, giving unto him pro-longed life. For that very reason, Anvin had kept Evalean’s gift from her and all but wiped out any trace of her ancestry. Morad had but one heart like his father and was without the gifts passed down from the Nayan tribe. Were he to understand the truth of his past, Morad’s own heart would turn to black and his first port of call would be to murder his protector.

“Morad, should we make camp by the river?” Fied asked as he swung himself down from his exhausted stallion and halted before his commander, whose gaze was directed towards the snow-covered mountains which lay beyond the swollen river. Fied followed his commanders gaze and furrowed his brows. “I have never known the mountains to be covered by wintur rains so early, perhaps the wintur is to be bad?”

“Aye perhaps,” Morad muttered as his eyes ran over the snow-covered mountains. “We will make camp here for the night Fied. Make sure the horses are fed and watered.”

“As you wish my Lord,” Fied returned with a yawn and a quick bow. Turning from Morad, the young soldier walked away with great stallion and re-joined the rest of the group by the fringes of the river. Behind them the forest lay thick and dark, a blanket which kept the small opening warm and hidden from any spying eyes. Stroking the cool head of his own horse, Morad drew in a confused sigh. Though the sun was now setting and the night becoming dark, the snow upon the mountains where he believed firmly, unsettling to behold. The tops of the mountains were not as white as he remembered them to be and stranger still, as he drew his nose up into the cold air, he caught waft of an ungodly smell which lingered beneath the cool air. Out of the corner of his eyes, he spotted his fellow men; Fied, Haerir, Ivan, Gildar and Lera, his most loyal of men and devoted soldiers to Summe. Together they had travelled throughout the land of Summe, as part of a traditional challenge, that being the Splelin Games. Morad and his men represented the southern clan of Kios and had been hard on the foot of clan Ash, led by the arrogant and self-righteous Lord Muta, son of Lord Valtar of Ashlouis. There journey had sprung before them unwarranted challenges, never before set by the High Priest. Finding and locating the flags had been easy, but the retrieving of the flags had proved dangerous and in some cases, fatal. Rumours had spread throughout the Kingdom of multiple deaths and broken groups. But a day past, Morad and his men had received word from Summe that clan Ash and clan Kios were the last remaining groups and thus his need to make it to the city of Ashlouis had become his only priority, that and the safety of his friends who had taken an unrecommended turn and headed south, their motives unclear to him. His group had claimed the flag of Saios and with hopeful hearts, rode north past the Mayr Hills and the dark lake of Louagh, making sure to keep out of sight of the magical waters, which were said to blind the naked eye. Now but a hundred leagues from Ashlouis, Morad knew that there were but a hairs breath from winning the Splelin Games. To claim the cup of Glentaire would not only bolster his men’s spirits in time of fraught poverty and impending war, but it would cement Morad’s authority over the army of Summe and his position as Lord Commander. To lose the cup to Lord Muta, would create a division within the army and would naturally see his position under threat, by an equally power-hungry commander, who un-like Morad, claimed the loyalty of the northern clans.

“My lord, can you smell that stench?” a deep and resounding voice called out from afar. Turning to the camp, Morad began to lead his horse over the dry sands.

“Aye I can Lera,” Morad returned with a dark look. With care, he tied the reins of his horse to the others and carried down his heavy leather bag. Sitting around a blazing fire, his men looked up to their leader with worrisome eyes.

“I smell danger my Lord,” Gildar exclaimed as he got to work on gutting and dicing the several small rats which they had caught earlier in the morning. Morad drew off his heavy cloak of grey fur and swung his bag down upon the sand. With a groan, he drew off his leather belt and sword and placed them upon the sand with care, before falling to the remaining spot within the circle.

“The smell is foul and bitter,” Ivan exclaimed heavily, his rough hands concentrated on the cleaning and sharpening of his arrows. Morad looked over at the young soldier, his unkempt hair falling about his sharp face. He was out of all the men surrounding Morad, a man with very little to say, yet when words poured from his mouth, then to Morad’s knowledge, they usually rang true. He was a compass of sorts and the men relied upon his rare comments, knowing them to be of worth. His quiet moods and isolated nature was at first hard to bare, but he was the greatest of bow-men and wisest of soldiers and for that he had garnered a great sense of respect among the men of the Summerian army, men which bestowed upon him the name – Silent Arrow. Morad, now taking off his black leather gloves and sweeping back locks of his raven hair, his dark chestnut eyes upon Ivan.

“It smells like death,” Haerir interrupted with a cough. He was the youngest of the group, having been sworn into the army but a year ago, during the moon festival. He was small, sharp and clever and had the inadept ability to squeeze into tight spaces, unlike his companions who were tall and broad. Haerir would, Morad knew without a shadow of a doubt, become a great warrior and would one day rise above the others and lead the Summerian army, a predication which did not threaten Morad at all, for he knew the young soldier to be a good man. They were close in age and although Morad was the youngest soldier to ever rise so high above the other commanders, he was glad to be in the company of Haerir, especially when considering the close relationship between the young soldier and Aabe’s deceased sister, Lady Adadine.

“If death stains the cold winds of Auta, then we should on our guard,” Fied commanded as he fixed the dead corpses of the rats upon sticks and placed them above the fire, his brown gaze upon the quiet and reflective Morad.

“Is it possible that war has arrived early my Lord?” Haerir asked Morad. Morad looked across at the soldier, who was cleaning his mud-stained boots. “You said that you had heard rumours that King Beon was to send a fleet to Summe, could those rumours prove true?”

“I have received no word of war from Anvin,” Morad declared as he slowly brought himself to his feet and turned his eyes up to the fiery skies above. “Until such word is provided, we must believe that the island is still within safe hands.”

“Then the blood of Meer must run deep and far, if the stench of their dead travels over our lands,” Gildar proclaimed as he popped off the lid of his water satchel and drank greedily from its contents, the cool water spilling over his thick beard and down his throat. Morad walked about the circle of exhausted men, his hands tucked deep into his pockets for warmth.

“So, it would seem,” he murmured darkly, his clad feet leading him over the cool sands, towards the swollen waters of the river. The birds were silent upon their branches and the wildlife hidden within the dark forest which bordered both sides of the river, its pensive eyes upon the company of men. As he reached the icy waters, Morad knelt to his knees and swept the tips of his fingers through the icy liquid, the coolness sweeping up his hand and arm and touching his heart like a blade. Quickly retrieving his hand, Morad’s gaze travelled up the river and spotted several large objects bobbing up and down upon the river. Above the markedly large objects, he observed a great cloud passing over the distant mountains, its shadow capturing the rays of the setting sun. Morad felt his brows furrow with suspicion as the cloud slowly it made its way down the slopes of the mountains and over the roof of the forest, a heavy wintur shower dispersing from its darkness. Morad stood up straight and felt a wearisome bud of trouble suddenly flourish into life. The crisp air became stringent and rigid under the power of the cloud, its shape covering at least fifty leagues in breadth. Morad watched as the cloud made it way down towards the camp. Turning his eyes to the river, Morad felt his feet turn to ice as the shaps of the objects came into view, his beating heart stilling with haste. Without a word, and feeling the eyes of his fellow men upon him, Morad drew out his long knife and prepared himself. Behind him the rustling of feet could be heard and soon, his men stood by his side quietly, each of them ready for what now was soon to reveal itself.

“Corpses,” Ivan growled, his feet suddenly taking to flight. Morad watched the tall soldier run up the bay, his bow and arrow at the ready. Ivan waded his way through the rough currents of the water and grabbed a hold of his prey. His eyes large and his heart racing, Morad caught the man’s gaze. He observed his friends sudden change in countenance and felt fear take him. Never had he witnessed the great and formidable Ivan let out a bellowing scream. “Dead children!” the soldier cried out in shock, his arms filled with the corpse of a small child. Morad felt his other companions freeze behind him as Ivan lifted the corpse of a small child from the river.

“My god he’s right!” Fied cried out in horror as he turned to the river and spotted another floating corpse of a child, there face hidden beneath the currents. Morad, his tongue numb and his body freezing with disbelief, ran out into the river, the icy temperature hitting him like an electric shock. With determination, he waded his way through the frozen corpses of children, men and women, many unrecognisable due to severe burning and many naked and dismembered. As he turned the bodies about, looking for any survivors, the dark clouds found him and a heavy wintur shower began to fall.

“Morad, Morad! The wintur rains!” Lera cried out from close by, all the companions now standing amid the rushing waters, searching in vain for any survivors. Morad looked up from the river and held out his hands, the heavy flakes falling upon his moist face and sticking like death. The pungent smell of death now grew so heavy that he felt himself become nauseous.

“It isn’t snow,” Haerir cried out in horror, his eyes emblazoned with fear. “It is ash!”

Morad looked down into the palms of his hands and observed the flakes, all of them without the unique patterns of the wintur rains. It was indeed ash which fell from the dark and oppressive clouds above. The flakes were both the ashes of fire and skin. Turning to Ivan, Morad heralded the emotionally broken soldier, who rarely smiled or showed any type of emotion. The soldier, having gently placed the corpse of the child back into the rushing river, waded his way through the torrents with anger.

“My Lord, the war has come!” Ivan declared with deliberate rage, the heavy ash covering his broad shoulders and thick hair. Looking about, Morad observed the ash stricken surroundings, all trace of its former self now hidden beneath a thick layer of death and fire. As his body moved within the heavy currents, a great flock of birds liberated themselves from the branches of the trees, all of them soaring into the ash-ridden skies above, their cries pitiful and filled with terror. Flakes of death flurrying about him, Morad watched the great flock of birds, all of them synchronised in their flying, as they fled from the forest and flew southwards in search of safety. Closing his ash-stained eyes briefly, Morad could hear the faintest groan from the forest itself, the floor beneath them shaking with anger. His leather pants sticking to his aching legs, Morad opened his eyes and caught sight of his men, each of them carrying as many victims onto the shore as was possible. As he lifted the body of a small girl from the waters, Morad heard a high-pitched scream heralding from the lips of Lera. Looking across at his friend, Morad watched as the body within his arms suddenly fell back into the water with a crash.

“Lera what is it?” Morad asked aloud as he gently laid the girl upon the shore and ran through the ash, Lera in obvious demented horror. Stopping in surprise, Morad watched as his friend lifted his hands from the water, his gloves covered in blood which dripped from the tips of his fingers.

“The water! It has turned to blood!” Lera returned with a petrified shake of his cold body. Morad caught Ivan’s green gaze.

“War has come my Lord, it has come and we have been blind to its call!”

“But I have received no word of an attack!” Morad returned quickly as slowly strode over the Fied, who sat upon the shore with his head in the cups of his hands. His feet heavy, Ivan coursed through the ash and came to stand before his master, his eyes blood-shot and disorientated.

“Unless my Lord Anvin has not yet received word himself?” Ivan said with raised brows. Morad quickly wiped away the ash from his face and nodded in agreement. The men turned their eyes to the blood-soaking river, never before witnessing such a catastrophic scene. Sensing his friends distress, Ivan knelt down before Fied and took him by the shoulders. “My friend, concentrate your eyes upon me.”

“Who could do such a thing?” Fied asked with trembling lips, his innocent eyes lifting to Ivan.

“No mere mortal could wage such destruction upon our people Fied,” Ivan said with calm decisiveness. “Only dark magic could bring about such evil.”

“We must send word immediately!” Morad counselled his companions. “The people of Summe must be warned!”

“I shall send word now my Lord!” Ivan declared as he brought himself back up onto his booted feet and turned from Fied and Morad, his feet dashing across the shore and towards the camp. Finding the large cage hanging from his distressed horse, Ivan quickly opened the cage door and brought forth his raven. With haste, he whispered to the raven and with haste, flung his arm into the air, the raven quickly taking to the dark skies above. Helping his companions back to the fire, Morad watched as the great bird swept over his head and flew up into the skies above, his squawk so loud that it echoed throughout the forest. Morad fell upon the sand in a heap, his body shivering violently from the icy temperatures of the river. Beside him Fied rolled about in demented terror, the falling ash transfixing his soul with fear. Seeing the dramatic change in his companions, Morad quickly grabbed Fied and brought him to his feet.

“Make for the forest my friend!” he declared with command. “All of you, make for the edge of the forest, there you shall have shelter from the ash.”

“The bodies have flowed down south from Ashlouis my Lord,” Gildar said and he collected his belongings whilst also aiding the demented Fied. “King Beon must have sent his forces!”

“But what devilry has brought such a flame upon the people of Ashlouis as would warrant them so brutally burned?” Haerir asked as the men ran from their camp fire, there feet bolstering them towards the edge of the forest. Following his friends, Morad fell to the forested floor with a thud, his knees banging against the fallen branches, now covered in a thick moss. A hand fell upon Morad’s shoulder and with a heavy sigh, Morad found Ivan’s gaze.

“No man could bring about such death my lord, witchcraft is at work here.”

“What kind of witch could bring about such wrath Ivan?” Lera asked as he shook out the particles of ash from his hair with rough hands. Before Ivan could reply, a high-pitched cry rang out from across the mountains, its cry so high and barbaric that the men fell into a demented state, their ears ringing so deeply that blood began to pour forth. Morad closed his eyes and rolled out from the roof of the forest onto the cold sand beneath, his body curled up into the foetal position. As he held his head with the cups of his frozen hands, the cry became deeper and more resounding, and with it a great shadow fell upon the land, and shadow far darker than the clouds above. Forcing his eyes to open, Morad looked up. The dark clouds were hidden behind a great winged beast of shadow which swept down low over the mountains and forest, its cry shaking the very foundations of the forest floor, its depth and the flap of its wings, felling many an ancient tree from its roots. Morad watched the great dragon sweep over the forest and fly south, his companions close to him, their eyes also glued to the great black dragon. It was long and broad, its eyes of a sickly yellow and its scales of the darkest black. As it flew over them, the great beast opened its mouth and poured forth a terrible white fire, which rained down over the floating corpses upon the river. Morad felt the heat upon his sickly skin and groaned aloud, it was unlike any heat he had ever encountered, darker and more painful that the flames of a red fire. About him, his companions rolled about in pain, all of them mere ghosts of their former self’s.

“What was that!” Gildar cried out in horror, his body now calming as the cries of the dragon moved ever southward.

“That, my friend was a dragon!” came the rough voice of a female from close by. Morad turned his gaze from the fleeing dragon and found a tall and armed woman standing upon the shore, horse in hand. She was surrounded by a dozen or so soldiers, all of them women and all of them baring the colours of the city of Nor, which resided in the East. Morad drew himself to his feet, his hands falling away from his face.

“That was no ordinary dragon my lady!” he exclaimed quickly, his wet boots trudging through the sands and coming to halt before the armed woman who stood a head taller than himself. He knew her face, not from any previous meetings, but from the books of great tales which had been woven about her. She was as highly regarded as himself and had a loyal legion of male followers. She was Lady Sile, the greatest female warrior on the island, herself and her group of female warriors, revered and praised highly among the city of Nor. Morad caught the cool gazes of her warriors. She was as feisty as he had imagined her to be, her blonde hair cut short like a man and her armour without femine appeal. Rumours had run thick throughout Nor, that Sile looked not upon men with pleasure, but upon women instead. She was tall, broad and without fear, her presence suddenly making Morad feel small.

“My Lord Morad, how curious to find you here,” Sile said with a swift bow of her head.

“How did you come upon us my Lady?” Morad quizzed the warrior, her fierce blue eyes sending shockwaves through Morad.

“We were riding south to our city, and heard the cry of a raven,” Sile explained as she handed the reins of her horse to one of her companions. “Upon intrigue, we took a detour and came through the forest, the cries of you men echoing throughout. Now we understand why.”

Sile turned from Morad and made her way across the shore to the river. Her gloved hands upon her hips, she turned her gaze over her shoulder and caught Morad’s.

“I see you have heard the call of war my Lord?”

“What has happened in the north my Lady?” Morad asked with great desperation, his men standing solemn and somewhat dumbfounded by their female counterparts. Sile taking one last lingering look upon the dead corpses which lay in a sea of blood, turned and walked over to Morad, her eyes darkening and her brows furrowed deep.

“A great evil has been sent by King Beon! Have you heard of the black witch, Ethla my Lord?”

“Only through rumours,” Morad returned as he swept away locks of unruly hair from his distressed face. “Was that the woman upon that great dragon?”

“Indeed, and the dragon with which she rides my lord, is the great beast of long-ago tales, Belnun the dark and cunning,” Sile whispered quietly, sensing the very words to much for the traumatised men.

“He is long dead,” Morad argued as he brought his thick fur cloak about him for shelter against the cool winds.

“Yes, so he was, until the Ethla raised him from the dead,” Sile whispered darkly. Morad considered her weathered face and felt his brows calm with wariness.

“That cannot be…”

“And yet it is my Lord, for my warriors and I were but a league outside of the city of Ashlouis when Ethla attacked the city with white fire.”

“She came alone?”

“No, my Lord, she came commanding a great fleet of ships which have sailed from the western city of Gaul, where the high-seat of the King is,” Sile answered in earnest. “The fleet is of such a size my Lord, that I fear our island will soon be overwrought with our enemy. The enemy had landed upon the shores, bringing with them fire, death and the destruction of our people.”

“Where is this witch headed Sile?” Morad asked with dread, his own question having already been answered. Sile leaned forward, her long nose perilously close to his own.

“Where do you think my Lord?”

“The city of Summe…”

Sile stood back and merely nodded her head.

“She is searching for the chosen one who, the prophecy of lips claims had passed through time to be restored to her rightful throne,” Sile said with a small smile of hope.

“Who are you talking about?” Morad asked in confusion.

“Why Celestine my lord, the rightful heir to the Kingdom of Calnuthe and daughter to the deceased High King and Queen.”

“Ethla wishes to kill this Celestine?”

“Indeed, my Lord, for she has the power to fell the hand of darkness and to reclaim the light,” Sile said with pride.

“How do you know she is here?” Morad quizzed the warrior, his hands curling into balls of irritation.

“My Lord Hathom of Nor, received word of her appearance in the city of Summe some nights ago, when the great stars of the sky aligned and cast their light across our lands,” Sile answered plainly.

“This witch, she is flying to south to Summe to kill this Celestine?”

“Yes.”

Morad fell back from Sile, his gaze falling upon the ash-stained sands. Now he understood the mission in which his friends had been a part of, a mission he had been purposefully exempt from. As the information seeped through him, his mind cast itself back to that night with Maethilda. Had she been tricking him all along? Had she been purposefully keeping him away, threatened by his power?

“We must ride to Summe!” Morad declared angrily.

“No, my Lord, it is too late for Summe, we must make for Nor,” Sile said with determination. “We must rally an army strong enough to take on the enemy before they venture any further south.”

“But my friends, they are in danger,” Morad exclaimed with impatience. Sile caught Morad’s right arm and brought him close, her eyes large and exact.

“The fate of your friends does not lie at your feet my friend, the fate of the island however does. You must join me and help me to lead an army north, before the island is taken and overturned before the next full moon!”

Morad bite down upon his tongue, her words rang true, the fate of the city of Summe now lay out of his power, he had but one option, he and Sile must join forces and gather an army large enough to quell the army now marching south. Turning to his men, he saw their own opinions on the matter seeping from their exhausted eyes.

“I have travelled across the north in search of you Lord Commander,” Sile said with regal grace as she strode over to her horse, taking the reins from one of her companions and swinging herself up upon the saddle. “It is your duty to command an army north, you are the Lord Commander of Summe.”

“She is right my lord” Ivan interceded, a firm hand upon his friend shoulder. “We must protect the innocent people who now lie within arm’s length of certain death.”

Morad considered Ivan’s eyes and found the truth patent and clear. With a strained cough, he placed a firm hand upon Ivan’s arm and smiled slightly.

“Then we must ride to Nor and arouse our fellow men to take up the sword!”

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