פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ
Chapter Twenty-One: Judgment Siege"FORWARD!" Cathon called, his sword flashing red against the throat of a surprised Trolloc. The beast pitched backward, trampled under Cathon's black steed. The soldiers had hit a line of solid resistance, but with enough hammering the Band would soon smash through. Nothing mattered, for the news was on every soldier's mind: the Gates of Night had fallen.
The Black Miasma shrouded the battle, muffling the howls of rage and the screams of pain. It was ethereal, the lives of men and beasts dying in near silence, strangled by a silent fog. It was a cold battle, where the heat of blood and sweat were robbed of their heat immediately upon touching the air. It occurred to Cathon that it was not an entirely healthy experience for anyone to be in this mist.
But yet, the fog shied away from the general, occasional tendrils probing but withdrawing as if stunned. An aura of clear air surrounded him, and contrasting with the translucent mist, made him glow in brightness. Naturally, that drew both friendly soldiers rallying to his blade and shadow fiends drawn inexorably to the lodestone.
A ghastly face lunged out of the shadows, but Cathon smoothly shifted his blade back and scored a mortal blow between the Trolloc's plate armor. He withdrew his sword with the soft hissing of acidic blood boiling on the metal. He was glad he finally consented to Airena's healing after she aggressively cornered him before the battle, as he otherwise would be struggling painfully to breathe by now.
Then the shadows ahead coalesced into another shadow, a shadow that stalked with the suppleness of a hooded viper. A creature Cathon had fought and killed many times, but one who he will never underestimate. One with the gaze of Fear.
The Myrddraal flowed forward, black sword already stained with the life of mortals. Another shadow detached from the mist besides the dark rider, a second one.
Trollocs and soldiers clashed beside, but in this struggle there were only three: the Marshall General and the two Myrddraal.
In silence they met, and in silence, swords flashed in a macabre dance. Cathon engaged with the training of a First Lord of Manetheren, considered by some to be as good as a blademaster, but with others sneered off as aristocratic caprice. Regardless, against two fades, he soon found himself barely surviving as his opponents struck with perfect synchronization.
Back and back, Cathon was pressed, warding off blows that were too quick to be seen by mundane eyes, but which could rend immediately through a soul's mortal coil. Hard hits rained down upon the forge-hardened Manetheren steel, spinning dully through the murk. No existing man could match a fade in strength since the death of the giant-race, nor match the cursed luck of their dark Master. At least not by himself. For Cathon remembered that he did not fight alone, for Caldazar flew with him.
Renewed strength flooded his veins, and his sword arched out, meeting hard resistance for a bare moment. Then his sword touched air once more, and the head of the Fade toppled to the ground.
Then the general's warhorse keened and crumbled. The other Fade had struck even as his kin died in silence, his poisoned sword slicing through sinew and jugular, bringing the horse to its end.
Cathon hit the ground hard, his sword skidding across the hard ground, kicking up winks of blue sparks and disappearing into the fog. Pain shot up his legs as the heavy weight of his horse landed hard upon him, pinning him fast.
The shadowspawn dismounted slowly and approached the trapped general. Cathon tried to call out, but his voice was stolen by the fall. He glanced up at the eyeless face peering down, and he felt the tremors of fear encroaching upon his mind.
"I will enjoy this." The fade twisted its mouth into a semblance of a sneer, his voice like rotting leather. But there was an echo of a duplicate voice, as if another presence was riding in its head. "You have been quite a nuisance, General Lawe Cathon, First Lord of Annoyance."
A black gauntlet dropped to the ground besides Cathon, and a pale hand wrapped tight around the man's throat, tightening in an impossible steel vice. Cathon grasped the fade's arm, but the muscles were taut as iron and as unyielding. Black dots began to infuse his vision as the grip slowly closed.
Caldazar! Cathon attempted to cry, I call upon your aid. Caldazar!
Cathon felt his strength leaving him and his visions fading into nothing. The crusade was lost. Lost to him.
A familiar shriek sounded somewhere in the mists of his mind. The call of an eagle that carried the heart of Manetheren in its breast.
For the last defense of Manetheren. Cathon grasped the dangling Shell of Caldazar and slammed it into the flesh of the Fade.
The result was immediate. The hand jerked from his throat and the Fade drew back, falling to the ground, his scream swallowed by Thakan'dar. A spiritual force smoked out from the back of Fade's head, resolving briefly into an ethereal face with flickering flames for eyes and mouth, before it faded into fog. That would be Cathon's first and only glimpse of the Adversary he had been pursuing. The injured Myrrdraal crawled away towards his horse, but he would never make it, for the wound was fatal.
Cathon coughed, drawing in deep breaths, but his visions were still darkened with spots. Fire burnt his lungs and raced up his throat. His head was still dazed from near-death, and he could not grasp conscious thought until brief moments later. He could only lie there in the cold mist, breathing heavily into the fog. The smell of burning oil emanated from his medallion, and the entire front was scored char-black. But ever slowly, the black steamed away in a noxious cloud, leaving the Timari with its original brilliance.
He braced his arms against the hard rock and tried to pull himself out, but the horse was too heavy and his strength was still weak. He could still feel his legs, which he took as a good sign, and gave thanks to Caldazar once more, but that was the end of his luck. He was trapped somewhere in the battlefield and he could not count upon the arrogance of a next passing shadowspawn.
"General! General Cathon is that you!" A muffled but distinctively human voice called through the fog.
"Over here!" Cathon shouted.
A man took shape in the fog, almost stumbling over the general. Seeing the general's predicament, he quickly braced his shoulder against the horse's corpse, strained, and heaved it up just enough for Cathon to pull himself from underneath.
"Are you alright, sir?" The soldier asked.
"Yes, thank you," Cathon dusted off his cloak and stumbled to his feet. There was a stabbing pain in his legs, but slowly dulled to a gentle ache. Not broken. "How goes the battle, man?"
"We've...we've broken through the last lines. But, sir..."
"All the vans?"
"Yes, sir. But I bear a message from General Arcanum. It is imperative that you return to camp. To headquarters." The man relayed.
"What is-"
"Cathon!" Murky figures appeared, coalescing into the figures of Diest Arcanum and the rest of the generals, with a detachment of dirt and blood-stained guards.
"Arcanum, what is this? Should you not be manning the Idylls?" Cathon questioned, his brows raised in alarm.
"I think it is best if I told you in person." Arcanum spoke softly. The entire command staff stood beside him, grim.
"What has happened?" Cathon grew alarmed.
Arcanum tossed a piece of paper, yellowed and stained, to Cathon. The Marshall-General's hand touched the broken seal of the royal signet, and then unfurled the paper with an unsteady hand.
To the Marshall-General of the Grand Legion of Manetheren,
Manetheren is in the path of a massive Trolloc Horde, numbering in the hundreds of thousands, and led by many Dark Generals. We are in a dire circumstance and extreme peril. By order of the Hierarchy of Manetheren, the Grand Legion of Manetheren is called back to serve the Mountain Home in its defense.
Aemon al Caar al Thorin, High King of Manetheren, Warden of the Mountain Hall, Keeper of the Shells of Caldazar
Cathon looked up then began to slowly read the message again, a message that had just destroyed the hopes of the Covenant, a message that held his heart in a grip stronger than the Fade's.
"We must return." Arcanum growled softly.
"We have come too far to go back." Cathon kept his voice steady, "We have broken through their remaining lines. We can end it here now. Listen to me, Diest." The Adversary's ethereal face still burned in his memory. They were so close.
"It is Manetheren, Cathon! Not Mafal Dadaranell, MANETHEREN!" Arcanum's eyes hardened.
"Give me one day and one night. One day and one night. To end the war here, and march back home with something to show."
"One day more? One day more that the Horde camps upon our land. Killing our people. Burning our fields. Poisoning our homes. Do you think we would still have a home? We head back now, Lawe."
"Is this mutiny then?" Cathon said wearily.
"We have followed you faithfully into the mouth of Hell itself. But this is the end. By right of The Code, we can overrule your decisions or remove you from your position. You know this." Arcanum lowered his voice. The Code had never been called into action in the history of the Band of Red Hand.
"Is it so? Even you, Bastion?"
"We have a duty to hold for our country, a duty above all else." Vader replied.
"Is it unanimous then?" Cathon sighed, and found he had difficulty breathing. He realized how tired he truly was. His entire body ached and his soul was weary.
Slowly each general nodded: Diest Arcanum, Stren Vader, Drogan Trystan and finally Seth Notar. Only Jot Diadrem was missing. But it mattered not, for the affair was decided.
"Yield, Lawe Cathon. The men are recalled. We return to Manetheren." Arcanum pronounced softly.
"And I thus submit to the Circle of Judgment." Cathon met the hard gazes of the generals, but his words were not tinged with bitterness, though he certainly felt it. All this...all this for nothing. To take the easy road was to turn the bloody job to someone else, but Cathon could not back away from his responsibilities. It was not in his blood, for the only thing that could tear him away would be Death himself. He continued, "But I ask that I remain Marshall General, and I will lead the Band home."
There was a pause.
"So be it." Arcanum turned and melted away into the fog. Each general nodded their consent.
They departed into the Black Miasma, but Lawe Cathon placed a hand on the shoulders of Vader.
"I did what I thought was right, Lawe." The leader of the First Legion turned around, his eyes troubled, "It is our obligation."
"I understand, but why was Diadrem not here to add the finishing nail?"
Vader looked at Cathon for a moment, then said "Diadrem was killed in the first wave. Accidentally shot in the back by an archer through the fog. One of ours. Luck did not favor him this day. The course of the war, is it not? But come, general, we must withdraw, lest a similar fate befall us."
Cathon was not shaken by the demise of Diadrem. The long years of war had left him desensitized to death, the old acquaintance that rides the horse of Luck. Jot Diadrem was a good man, the youngest of them all, and perhaps the most proud. He refused the Shell of Caldazar, but he died by his principle and honor. Death with honor, and thus discharged with all obligations. What other fate could a faithful son ask for? Indeed, duty is heavier than a mountain, and death lighter than a feather. I look forward to that day when my burden can be lifted. But until then, I must bear its weight.
Marshall-General Lawe Cathon walked away from Shayol Ghul and the Adversary and never looked back.
פּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּפּצּ