Kill 'Em All at Nelrid-Thôl

"When the wildcat-colored shine crosses the pass of typhoons, an oracle will come that will know to find the site of a great secret. Neither in the Howls nor in the frozen silence, but further beyond, in a forest of pinnacles that all look the same. Once again Light and Darkness will blend in a whirlwind whose insensitive eye will lead those who come from afar to wandering. Their fortified guard having fallen, the secret will stray and the source will leave the known world. Such shall be their fate, sealed without witness."

Misan had read this paragraph over and over again for hours on end. Some parts were simple: the oracle was he, the Clairvoyant; the pass of typhoons could only be Kaïber Pass where the Red Lioness was fighting at this very moment. But then? The word "Howls" bothered him. Why was it capitalized? He rubbed his temples and let his gaze wander around the maps that he had ordered the day before: Kaïber, Daneran, the Behemoth Mountains. Capital letters everywhere, names of places. But of course, places. Howler Pass! Everything else fit together: the pinnacles of mountains, the enemy nearby. What then? The wandering, the defeated guardians of secrets finally releasing their treasure. If this sentence evoked victory, as he believed it did, then there was no time to lose. Dragan d'Orianthe would provide him with a squad of his defenders, maybe even two, siege machines and the company of several scouts. Misan broke into a smile, sure of his forces. For a moment he thought about the orcs scattered in the snowy mountains and then swept away his scruples with a short prayer. You can't make an omelet without breaking eggs.

The snowflakes stirred up by the wind were dancing around the peaks and strong gusts of wind were bending the trees, forcing them to bow to invisible spirits. The shaman raised his head and sniffed the icy air. He started searching for a sign in the snow around him. The huge tree trunks were creaking and cracking while resisting the force of the wind pushing at them. The shaman gazed at a tree that was standing in the middle of this turbulence, a tree that was immobile and serene, its branches unmoving in spite of the storm. The mountains were rumbling. The mountains were suffering. The shaman listened to the wind of Nerea: the wind of Nerea told him that Light had gone mad. The shaman turned around and listened to the south wind: the wind of Sylhea told him that Darkness was on the prowl. The shaman then listened to the wind of Elion and the wind of Elion spoke to him of war. The wind of Olhim didn't say anything, yet it blew stronger and stronger. And the tree flew off like a wisp of straw and was hurled against the mountainside and shattered.

The shaman moaned; he now knew.

This time Vijkhal hadn't needed a shaman. He had seen the sign.

"How long still?"

"Two, maybe three days, mighty Vijkhal. They will follow the paths under the mountains, they and the undead."

"Together?"

"Separately."

Vijkhal turned to his trackers. They hadn't missed a word of their exchange and were getting ready to leave. Kolghor, the best among them, was already checking the sleighs.

"To the fort at Nelrid-Thôl, quickly. I'll come to support you with warriors and guardians in two days and two nights! Go!"

Kolghor hesitated. He couldn't read the winds like the shaman could and didn't have Vijkhal's experience.

"Tumahk... Who? Why?"

"The Alahaars, Kolghor. They're coming for the Tree."

Vijkhal didn't have to repeat his order.

The trackers were on their way, running along the mountain crests. Their jaws clenched, they jumped from rock to rock following a path that they had followed so many times before. Speed was their only asset. They had to keep up their speed to get there first, before the enemy got through.

Higher up the defenses are meager and Tumahk isn't with the Tree, thought Kolghor. If the Tree falls, then the exodus would begin. They would then have to leave and again know hunger, disease and wandering.

These mountains are inhospitable yet they are our mountains, the home of our tribe. And the wind whispers in their ears. Elokani is with us. Elokani is always with us.

Kolghor smiled and briskly led the group to the left to avoid the road over the pass. The trackers looked at him, puzzled, then simply shrugged and followed him.

A bit later Kolghor stopped and raised his hand, his fingers folded. That was the sign to lay low and wait. He pointed to a dark mass less than a kilometer away. The figures of heavily laden Barhans moving slowly along the road over the pass could be made out. They were just in time.

"The claws of the lynx," whispered Kolghor.

The warriors of the wind silently nodded. They knew this tactic well: the scouts at the flanks show themselves at the last moment while the others, higher overhead, save their energy for the final assault. A second later the trackers left their perch and rushed off toward the fort.

Dragan had been given Akkylannie's assistance: a spooky squad of thallions led by a magistrate. At the rearguard the Barhan servants were dragging their dismantled ballista as well as they could through a dark tunnel that went around the pass, the light of their lanterns reflecting on the smooth walls. Misan felt uneasy. The absurd idea that some aspect of the prophecy had eluded him was prowling at the back of his mind. It was a similar feeling like when leaving home with the impression that one forgot something and wanting to go back to make sure that one hasn't.

The Akkylannian had insisted that the Barhans take their ballista along. He had seen a fort on the road that separated them from the Peak of Secrets and didn't want to take the risk of meeting any resistance there. But what resistance? All there was in these mountains was a grimy tribe of orcs.

"Your prophecies and your omens are leading us into an awkward position, Sir Misan."

Misan didn't answer. He didn't like his "ally" very much. The young magistrate was shivering despite the thick fur he had taken care to bring along.

Once they got out of the tunnel, the Peak of Secrets could be seen rising above its neighbors less than three leagues away. The guardians of the pass sent off by the baron and the swordsmen were advancing in close formation around the devout. The servants were following at a close distance with the dismantled parts of their ballistae.

"O Arïn, let us not meet any obstacles. Help your humble servant," mumbled Misan, his voice chopped by the cold, when they came into view of the fort.

The walls were made of hastily cut blocks of ice and granite to form a shield of bluish stone around the gate made of logs. Misan looked around for the thallions, yet they had already vanished into the shadows. A vague premonition was gnawing at the Clairvoyant. He concentrated while clenching his hands to his heart.

He could see a vision of the servants slain while running, the thallions taken by surprise in their entrenchments, pieces of the mountain raining onto the men and their escort. He stretched out his arm and shouted to stop the troop's advance, yet the servants were already too far ahead. They turned around when they heard his shout, looked at each other, puzzled, and laughed.

A gigantic troll was standing at the top of the fort, a heap of ice-covered stones lying next to him. Several steps from this monster a huge orc was directing his throws with a cavernous voice. The enormous stones were landing on the escort, crushing the frostbitten flesh and staining the snow with bright red blotches around the scattered parts of ballistae. The men were screaming, their bodies broken in their fragile armor.

"By Merin! And this, did you predict this too?" the magistrate ventured, his face turning purple with anger.

Misan shook his head in disbelief and answered with a low voice.

"Yes."

On the frozen mountainsides around the fort the shadows became thicker and started to move. They turned into specters made of shreds of pure darkness. They glided along the tracks left by the troop that had come from Daneran, their eternal enemy. There were hearts to rob and lives to reap that were burning with fervor. They could feel other presences; stronger, less numerous ones.

Chagall held back a grin of joy on seeing the specters climb the mountain flanks. They have to arrive first, thought Chagall, to spread fear and then allow us to come and do our dance. He remembered the words of Feyd Mantis's envoy, which had been so simple and clear: "Kill 'em all at Nelrid-Thôl."

The zombies and ghouls could feel the carnage coming and were limping around Chagall. They could smell blood and hear the cries of the Barhans being crushed by the stones, and they wanted a piece of the action. They had been following them ever since they entered the tunnel under the mountain and had waited to attack. They had been good. Now they wanted their reward. They wanted it now.

The specters advanced like long wisps of night thrown into the faces of the living. Closely followed by the ghouls, they approached the swordsmen who had remained in the back, still stunned by the slaughter of the servants. The specters then struck, their bony fingers bursting from the darkness to search the Barhans' chests. They ripped out their hearts and ate them up right away. Then the ghouls rushed forward to lap up the blood that was spreading in pools in the snow. Their dance had begun...

The fort would have reassured a guard of Alahan, yet it didn't reassure Kolghor who envied the trackers who had remained hidden outside of the walls. He had recognized Chagall and Misan. He felt the presence of Tumahk and could make out his face above the massacre that was beginning. Tumahk tried to speak to him, the relay of the voice of a much older and wiser spirit, the voice of Kamahru.

They are hiding and are getting ready to attack. The trackers must turn around... break their momentum when he comes. The Obscure... don't attack them yet. All that counts is the Tree.

Kamahru lives in the wind. He sees everything. He knows better than I do, thought Kolghor. The Alahaars don't understand a thing. This isn't Kaïber, that speck of dust in the games of men. It isn't a question of survival. It's a question of the Tree of Creation. Of Kamahru the Elder. It's a question of something that is more precious than my own life and honor, he told himself. He felt sad for these stupid men. They didn't know and they were going to die. He would have liked to join them, to leave his post and push back the heart-eating specters. But he couldn't. The Tree was at stake.

Kolghor sighed deeply and took the hardest decision of his life. He inhaled the chilly air and filled his chest before letting out the cry of massacre.

The trackers obeyed. They scanned their surroundings to spot enemy scouts while waiting to charge. The thallions got up. Sure of their advantage, they rushed to attack the specters that were ravaging the ranks of their allies. They ran ten, fifteen meters and were then hit squarely by the trackers' bolts. The orcs got nearer. The thallions were never able to join the fight against the forces of Acheron.

Dumbstruck, Misan saw his premonitions contradicted. In all the other skirmishes his clairvoyance had let him glimpse the future so that he could plan a different one that was more to his liking. Yet this time a kind of vision that he hadn't known before superimposed itself on his miracles and modified anew the future he had already glimpsed. He just barely managed to return to the normal battle conditions after making a huge effort to find the faults in the course of what was possible and what was probable. And there was no shortage of these faults. There were pitfalls wherever the wind blew, allowing it to warn the orcs at the very last moment.

The servants were struggling with the parts of their ballista and the guards around them were showing signs of weakening. Misan went to the magistrate to place himself under his protection and found him in hand-to-hand combat with a wild and bloody orc who had attacked the thallions. The winds were turning.

The magistrate spun around when he saw the specters of Acheron arriving. He smiled sternly and made a sign of peace to the warrior of the wind.

"Merin bless you, my brother, we have just become allies."

Yet the orc's face closed up. He hurled his blade at the Akkylannian and chopped off his head, which rolled through the snow to a small mound nearby. The magistrate's lifeless body remained standing for a few seconds stolen from time, his hand held open in a friendly way, and then collapsed like a piece of cloth. Misan moved back, horrified, while trying to remember the words of an ancient miracle to ward off this dreadful fate. A protective halo of the eternal light covered him like every time, like an old friend who comes to tell him that he has nothing to worry about and that everything will be alright. The orc is pushed back by strands of light, struck by Arïn's wrath.

Around him the battle was turning into a hecatomb. Stones were indistinctly crashing down on ghouls and Barhans, the thallions were busy fighting the orcish scouts, the swordsmen were being beaten by the specters, and the servants were in rout... It was every man for himself and Light was soon going to be defeated. Misan looked at the scene, his miracle still protecting him. He remembered the end of the prophecy's text: "Thus shall be their fate, sealed without witness."

"O Arïn... We are all going to die."

Chagall let out a cry of joy when he finished off the last guard of Kaïber. The ghouls were belching behind him. Not a single loss. The Dog of Darkness rushed toward the thallions and orcs, followed by his ghouls, to take on both troops at the same time. That would occupy them while the zombies began the assault on the fort and then eat the corpses.

The orcs finished off one of the Akkylannians. The thallions, ignoring their opponents, turned around and attacked the ghouls. In the confusion of the fray, Chagall ended up without any opponent. He ran toward the fort to help the zombies break down the gate.

The logs soon gave in. The Dog of Darkness and the zombies rushed into the opening. When he reached the top of the ramparts, Chagall jumped onto the troll's back and hit him with his claws. As for the zombies, they prevented the orcs from coming to their creature's aid.

Further below, two specters were surrounding their last opponent who was valiantly standing up to their assaults. Exhausted, the Barhan tottered. The specters circled him, grabbed his arms, and tore him apart alive. The mutilated guard let out horrendous cries, staggered around, and threw an imploring glance at Misan who was praying nearby. He managed to take two or three steps and then collapsed in the bloodstained snow.

The specters paused for a moment, their empty hoods turned toward the platform that ran along the fort's walls. They were no longer alone. They could sense that something was approaching. They moaned to warn the Dog of Darkness and returned to the shadows.

Yet Chagall didn't hear their warning. He was laughing loudly while he slashed deep cuts in the huge troll's hide with his sharp claws. He was dominating it. The creature bellowed as it flailed about wildly, throwing itself against the fort's walls.

A bit further away an orc was fighting with the zombies and was losing the advantage with every passing second. Chagall couldn't understand why the orc seemed to be so calm, for he was also done for, just like the Barhans and their allies.

The troll collapsed with a satisfied glow deep in its eyes. Chagall turned around and then understood...

Vijkhal successively aimed his weapon decorated with branches and pieces of fur at Misan, the specters at the rear, the thallions, the ghouls and Chagall's troop in the fort. Behind him the warriors of stone growled and advanced. Galvanized by the shaman's chants, they charged with great anger.

Vijkhal followed them and joined the fray, bringing down his scythe onto Misan. The heavy blade shone brightly for a second when it hit the faithful of Arïn's glowing aura. The devout Barhan fell and the orcs simply stepped over him, taking him for dead, to continue their movement and engage the specters who were retreating and losing their substance, strands of darkness flowing from their tattered cloaks.

There was no longer a doubt as to the battle's outcome. The specters were returning to limbo while moaning and were soon followed by the ghouls fighting the last thallions. Merin's avengers lunged forward and continued fighting in a fit of fanaticism that the orcish chief couldn't understand. They weren't protecting anything in these mountains; their tribe was far away from here, yet they fought as if the Tree were theirs, as if their women were in the fort. They didn't leave him much of a choice. So he killed them one by one. He bashed the first one in his masked face so hard that it was shattered into pieces by the impact, and then he let a series of blows strike the second one, who was already riddled with crossbow bolts.

The third one didn't flee. Vijkhal admired the courage of these men as much as he pitied them for their madness. He couldn't grasp what kind of ideas could have pushed them to wield the sword in such a way and have made their struggle seem so similar to treason. He tore off the last thallion’s mask and saw a fire smoldering in the gray eyes of the bald man who was hiding behind this fake face, a fire that couldn’t be explained. The man gaze at him as if he, Vijkhal, were a being of Darkness. The thallion lunged forward and gashed the orc’s face. Blood ran down the tribal chief’s cheek. The man wounded him again. Vijkhal’s ears start whistling. If only such warriors fought in the service of the Tree, then Creation would be saved. Yet Tumahk was on the lookout; he listens to the wind, helps Vijkhal and guides him with his words in the night of combat. The brave’s weapon came down again and again, beating the Akkylannian’s flesh to a pulp. He had been a good and proud warrior who deserved better than this death.

Yet Vijkhal didn’t have time to worry about the thallions’ fate. In the fort, Kolghor was still fighting against the champion of the ghouls and the putrefied warriors.

The warrior of the wind suddenly appeared behind the zombies. Vijkhal crashed through the door with the noise of shattering wood. He saw the Dog of Darkness bent over Kolghor’s body and about to finish him off. The orcish chief screamed while charging and knocked down two undead warriors standing in his way. Ignoring pain, he continued running, his bearskin coat flowing on his muscular shoulders, his weapon held high above his head like a humongous club. No one could have parried his blow, not even the Dog of Darkness, who was thrown back three meters, his arm dislocated. With a flip he was back on his feet, his reddened claw held in his able hand. The orc’s nostrils were smoking. Chagall tried to run around his target and confuse him, yet the orc knew and surprised the Acheronian in the middle of his maneuvers. Bitten by Vijkhal’s steel in a circular movement, the Dog of Darkness spun around and disengaged from the fight. The orc tried to pursue him, yet the thallion’s blows had weakened him and he watched the ghoul slowly escape him to return to the shadows.

Tumahk gazed at the carnage, following Chagalls’ figure as he disappeared into the trees. He sighed, grabbed a handful of snow and let it melt in the palm of his hand. Victory was theirs, yet Nelrid-Thôl was lost, exposed. Other enemies would come, more numerous and stronger. One day they would reach the Tree.

A miracle was needed, thought Tumahk. The course of this dream had to be changed. The shaman looked at Kolghor deep into his eyes. Would he be able to carry the Tree’s only seed to new lands? He would have to.

Notes

Kill 'Em All at Nelrid-Thôl is a lore story from Cry Havoc volume 08.