פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ
Chapter Sixteen: In The Shadow of Shayol GhulEvery red-cloaked soldier knew they were at the final league; their destination loomed ever higher. But they were driven, the victory the day before easing their weight, and the wings of Caldazar drove them forth. As the sun began to dip in the sky, the Band stopped at the edge of a canyon whose interior was immersed in fog, through which a giant spire rose forth, its peak disappearing far above.
"Thakan'dar." Stef Reimos whispered, tales of his youth returning to his mind. The eternally shrouded valley where the Black Miasma rests, cold as death itself, and half as forgiving. The Band began to circle around the high cliff, seeking an incline down and a place to rest. Stef was caught off guard when he walked under the limbs of a massive tree, for this one looked quite...deader...than the other foliage of the Blasted Lands. His sweeping gaze saw that they had entered a forest, sprawling forth, disappearing into the fog, and beyond in the other direction. These trees did not reach or grab at the passing soldiers, and though their barks were marked by bores and blisters, lacked the sickly growths that the Band had often encountered. In fact, these trees would not be amiss growing in the Westwoods.
"Even the Horde needs healthy wood for their furnaces and war machines." Tayren said, reading Stef's mind, "Though they probably burn souls for fuel, or what not. But still, I am sure that it would be quite a pain for the Spawns to hafta fight every tree they needed to use."
"More's the luck for us then. They're ours for the takin'." Cordin Brogan joined in.
The Band came to a clearing in this forest, presenting all the soldiers with an unadulterated view of Shayol Ghul. The Valley of Thakandar sloped upwards at an almost gentile incline, which Stef realized was the main path. The forest grew to the left, and Thakandar steeped to the right.
"So we have arrived." Stef breathed heavily, his eyes traveling up the black bulk. What the bloody hell were they thinking? There was no way they could take this massive, sinister bastion. But he locked away those doubts, and followed the orders to set up camp.
A messenger rode past, to gather companies for wood duty. Stef was finally glad that he was not "volunteered" this time, giving an audible sigh at the messenger's back. Though the majority of the timber went towards the huge tower-thing growing high up near the back of the camp, companies were allotted small portions.
Stef took his company's share eagerly, starting a bon-fire as the sun disappeared over the horizon. Although the fire was not needed in the muggy weather, it, well, felt good. In the darkness is where men are most vulnerable, their strongest tools useless. Near the pinnacle of evil, it gave the men confidence to have a fire that crackled and popped and took their attention from the morrow's target. Stef thought he knew what the primitive men must have felt when they created fire, for it gave a sense of power to the wielder. The camps had been immersed so long in darkness because of lack of fuel, the return of the fire was like the homecoming of a dear friend.
And as tradition dictated, the men around the fires began to break into story and songs as they shared the hearth. They were no gleemen, but together, they were able to patch together epics of old, bawdy tavern songs, and even children's tales.
Tayren surprised the group with his near perfect rendition of the Ballad of Caar One-Hand, the late father of King Aemon. Someone was even able to find a working flute for accompaniment. Tayren was no bard, but he did a surprisingly passable rendition as he sang of Prince Caar's journey from Manetheren to Aridhol to redeem the fallen land, his days of dark torture by Mordeth, and his eventual flight to Aramaelle. He gave an attempt at the high notes of Rhea's sonata where Caar fell in love with fire-haired Rhea, to much guffaw and laughter. But, he finished strong with the famous Prince's Lament, where in order to redeem a Shadow-claimed Rhea, he allowed himself to be killed at her hands and save her soul. As he gave his last bellowing note, all the listeners clapped as if it was a wondrous gleeman's show.
It was the highlight of the night, but soon the soldiers ran out of actual stories, and they turned instead to tales of the places they've been and their own lives. Stef felt better than he has been for a long time, sitting next to the dancing flame, and listening to the personal history of his companions.
And then it was the sergeant's turn, and as he gazed at the fire for a moment, started to speak.
"Well, my life began middling. Born in the city of Corartheren, son of a linen draper gone soldier. Life was hard, but then I don't need to tell you that. The war had been draining, many houses were abandoned, and food was expensive. Then my father went to the Band while I was seven. I grew up by myself generally, teaching and raising myself on the street. Had no father figures, since any able men were gone fighting.
"So, I joined the Post Sentries (lied about my age of course), and found myself stationed up near Jaramide. Well, the part that was still Jaramide that is, the Shadowspawn having run over the majority of it. I got stationed with a real silver tongued bastard, named Tayren Suturb. Well, I learned to fight, and luck brought me out of situations where I should've perished. We passed messages on for the partisans, and learned how to ghost stalk. Well, sort of. It was a hell of a time. We were set alone in a war torn zone with few experience and equipment. I can't even count how many times we barely escaped a Trolloc pot.
"The worst was probably the time that our entire sector was over-run by a Dreadlord and his cronies. When our base was discovered, we ended up on a dead run, dodging through dense foliage with them two steps behind us. At a gut wrenching time, Tayren must have hit a root of something—and I thought I had lost him, because a Trolloc patrol immediately jumped on us. But, I scrambled free, dove through a deep cluster of thorn brushes, which gave me enough head start to reach the closest green sector at dawn. Tayren showed up half a day later, nonchalantly, and we went back to work as if nothing had happened.
"Then, I got posted to Aelgar for basic training. I spent a couple months in the Monastery of the Moon by Ancohima. Didn't really like the Order of Black Moon, but I did learn a few moves. But give me a sword any day. I'd like to see even one of their Master of the Order throw a five hundred pound Trolloc.
"Well, my time was up, and I returned to Manetheren for leave. Then my ma died during a bad winter, and Light, I had nothing to stay for. I enlisted in the Band, and got made sergeant since all the other experienced soldiers were getting their head chopped off. And, here I am. Sitting outside the gates of the bloody Pit of Doom." Stef finished. He felt...strange...that his entire life story has gone out, all his life's aspirations and hopes summed up in some sentences. As he sat in the light of the flickering fire listening to someone's life, mortality intruded in his thoughts.
Stef twisted his lips at the irony, for after such years in battle with creatures bred to kill, he had begun to feel the touch of transience in his thoughts. Yeah, he had bouts of nerves when faced with rampaging beasts, but truly now did he realize the briefness of his own life. He felt the guilt and regrets of his life. If he could just go back through time, to be with his mother when she needed him instead of proving his manhood in the Jaramide posts. If he could just done all he should've done, instead of being the bloody idiot he had been. If only, if only. To face a future in a shallow pit, or to be a lifeless man like his father…
Speaking of whom, he had not seen Jorj much since the Shayol Ghul campaign, only fleeting sights of someone who could have been. His father had severed all his connections, and the son seemed to be following in the same footsteps.
Stef clenched his fists until they throbbed. No, he had a new family now. He wore that family's crest on his back, and he sat now with his brothers, fathers, and sons of the sword. That was his only family that matters now, and the other thing that will keep him going. Yet, why did he feel so alone still. Stef sighed, clearing those thoughts from his mind. The battle for Shayol Ghul begins the next day. If it could be brought down, the war would be over, and a child, like he had once been, could have a father and the mother Stef had lost.
פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ