From: John Patrick Hughes (nysalor@yahoo.com)
Date: Mon 07 Dec 1998 - 09:31:18 EET
FIRES OF MIST AND WIND-BLOWN SNOW
RUNO XIV
INFINITY
"Praise not the day till evening has come; a woman till buried, a man
till burned. Praise not a horse till broken; a sword till bloodied; a
youth till married. Praise not gors till it has been crossed; gallt
till it has been hunted; beer till it has been drunk.
Praise not a life till death has judged it. Thereafter, nothing can
change the story to be sung of our valiant dead."
The prisoner Balin Godgift's speech
before the Golden Octad,
Alda Chur, 1630.
"Sartar's freedom is the prize of our blade. This day we fight to
loose the Wind, to right a burning wrong against our kin."
We stood in perfect symmetry, row upon row of bronze and blue-dark
iron. The Highblade Cohort on parade, sentry-proud, displaying our
arms before the sacred standard. We had eaten and offered sacrifice.
Now came the glory-trial.
Kiomar She-Viper addressed us, fearful in her rune-wrought armour. It
seemed that she too had fallen beneath the Consort's spell, for I had
not heard her speak such words before.
"We are ravens perched on the battlements of the house of life. And if
we die this day, our dust and deeds will become a stone on those
battlements, so that others may live in hope of peace upon their
ancient lands."
"So sharpen your spears, adjust your shields, listen to the voice of
the battle flutes and drums. There may be no respite till night parts
us in our fury. Your shield straps will be soaked with the sweat of
your breasts; your hand will weary on your sword. Even so, we will
prevail!"
Humakti do not cheer on parade, nor pound their spear on shield.
Nevertheless, I could feel my comrades respond to her exhortation with
growing battle-eagerness. In silence we waited, impatient for the fray.
"Remember what you are: do nothing to disgrace the name of your Cohort
or your cult. Be true to the runes of death and truth and sacrifice.
Fear nothing but dishonour in each other's eyes. When warriors fear
disgrace, then more are saved than killed. We are humakti, we do not
yield. And if your roster is called, the God Himself will take you
from the fight. If so, we will remember your name and your deeds with
honour and with love. Captains, to arms!"
We marched to our appointed position at the crest of the long ridge,
beyond the sturdy defences of the camp. As tradition dictated, we held
the extreme right. There was no palisade behind us, but a series of
gigantic posts dug vertically into the ground, adorned with carved
boxwood runes of death. The posts contained a warding, but our battle
plan included a more practical use as well.
Behind us, the sun rose slow, fighting through thick clouds 'neath
Clayday's bitter sky. Silent silver shields hovered on the sky-track,
while above the Lunar lines, piercing the pale mist, a lesser
red-tinted sun turned baleful eye upon us. Reality rippled around the
stout defence of our standard. Hell Sisters danced above the nearby
hills. Red vultures stared down from the high trees of the gods. A
battle-day indeed.
The Cohort formed itself into a phalanx, twelve warriors deep,
bristling with great spears of ash and oak. This was not our chosen
way of battle, for neither skill at arms nor courage can help you in
the wild crush when shield walls crash. It was, however, the Lunar
way, and the only way to break their spear wall was with similar
formations of our own. And when the spears were shattered and the line
broken, then warrior fought warrior with naked blade and spear. For
this we hungered.
My appointed position was behind the phalanx, with the standards,
their protectors, the battle flautists, the Commander and
Shieldbearer. I would fight by Kiomar's side until such time as the
shield wall was broken and the Gatherings might pursue their separate
objectives. Behind us the Weaponthanes commanded their swift-heeled
flankers, and behind them healers and sword godar waited with moss
bandage and magic standards.
The plain below us still swirled with thick banks of fog. The ground
seemed mud-slick and treacherous, soaked with expanses of icy water.
The foe would fight hard even to reach us.
With our sacrifices complete, there was nothing to do but pass the
unmixed wine. We lay our heavy shields to ground and waited for death.
Most of our host waited behind the palisade and ditches of the camp. I
could see little, and knew that those within the phalanx could see
nothing but the rank ahead; row on row of shining bronze and spear.
Kiomar knew this as well: calling for silence, she explained the
disposition of our forces.
Praxian beast riders waited on the ridge to our right, beyond the
formal defences. The mounted bison and sable would charge and fight as
opportunity and courage permitted. They were brave though
unpredictable, and would probably make for the plunder of the Lunar
camp at the earliest opportunity.
To our immediate left stood the palisade, behind which waited most of
the Orlanthi tribesmen, many stripped for battle, woad-marked, wearing
laurel leaves to protect themselves from thunderbolts. Behind the
palisades also waited the archers of the Blue Ridge Mountain Queen,
ready to sally forth and harass the advancing foe.
On either side of the muddy stream that was the Tarsh Road stood twin
formations of Sun Dome Templars. Like us, they had ventured beyond the
palisade in phalanx formation. Honarious Fly-From-Fornication and Vega
Goldbreath led them, resplendent in gold and yellow. They had often
trained our Cohort in the way of spear and shield, and were as steady
and dependable as the Star Captains to which they prayed. Finally,
behind them, ready to give support, a single squad of Elmali cavalry,
with swift footrunners to follow through.
I was concerned for our far left, for it seemed that we were extremely
vulnerable to a flanking attack. A row of earth altars stretched upon
that ridge, still attended by small groups of priestesses. Whatever
the purpose of their week-long ritual, I hoped that it could contain
charging Lunar cavalry.
Long minutes dragged on. Then, the sound of horns echoing from the
enemy camp. The rising mists revealed the Lunar palisade, seeming
flecked with branches of spring green. The Blessing had obviously had
an effect, but had it accomplished its full purpose? Time would tell.
The first sign of advance came when a silver-braced moonboat rose
through the mists above the Lunar camp. I'd seen such craft before,
but this one seemed sluggish and wayward, already listing badly to one
side. Its carved wooden decks were adorned with foliage: a brilliant
green. The war craft came forward in silence, braving the
godi-gathered storm above. All about it spirits of storm hard-hurled
their blazing bolts. Flashes fused silver: spikes of flame rose
spluttering from the spring-touched craft. The moonboat's path curved,
its advance no longer true.
The lightning ceased. The strange craft now seemed surrounded by a
swarm of darting insects. I caught a rare sun-gleam of metal, the
flash of powerful magics, realised that Windleapers were boarding the
craft. In a silent slow motion dance the gory blood-feast had begun.
"Cut short my days, destroy me."
Within the Orlanthi palisade a battle thane raised his horn, a
hollow-spiralled whorl. Once a wilderness warrior's weapon, it now
drew breath anew from a brave man's lungs. The Great Summons sounded,
a call to arms. Long-necked Carnyxes and horns of ivory took it up,
and soon surrounding ridges and peaks resounded with the echoing
blast. The brave to battle called. The enemy advances.
The mist thinned as great weather magics wove themselves in twisting
fury across the plain. I could see lines and squares forming beyond
the Lunar palisades, watched the slow advance of spears across the
mud. Rank upon rank they came, like the darkened surface of the sea
when the storm wind begins.
"Betray my hope, destroy me."
Above us, invisible, spirits and powers clashed in the storm-thick
air. I heard howling horror, the din of destruction. Raw bursts of
elemental power scorched the sky as ancient warriors seared each other
into nothingness. The Tribe of the Storm contended with the Tribe of
the Moon for majesty of Middle Air.
Copyright John Hughes 1994.
CONTINUED IN PART III
==
john.hughes2@dva.gov.au nysalor@yahoo.com
"Bound I to Humakt
Serve in awe
yet practise double labour.
With skaldic verse, and tales of war
I also serve Donandar."
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