A Paladin's War Ch. 08

At least, that had been the way of it before the Titans had raged across the land, so long ago. How had Vasuda altered the land up there? How had Vayani changed the trees, the forests? Had Agni burned them all, never to grow back?

He dismissed that line of thought; there was no point imagining what may have happened. Time would tell him soon enough. A gentle tug in his belly started, wanting him to continue north. It had first appeared yesterday, just before leaving Sen'dara. Soon, he told it.

"So, the Heralds must be removed," Reikar was saying in response to what Aran had said a moment ago.

"Yes," Aran replied, a hard edge creeping into his voice at the thought of the rabid zealots. "I fear there is no other way. Maharad crept into their religion long ago, seeding himself like a strangler vine into cracks in a wall. They are now rotten to the core, infected by his malice and hatred. Not all of them, perhaps, but enough that I see no other alternative than to remove them by force. Destroy them."

Reikar looked thoughtful as he scanned the sparsely grassed landscape. Spindly bushes sprouted from the ground here and there, and the odd tree, tall and pale-trunked, the sprawling branches all at the top. "That will be difficult, Anarion," he said slowly as they began a descent into a shallow hollow. There was no water at the base, but Reikar said when the rains came, many of the hundreds of crevasses and ravines in this region would flood, bringing fresh life to the dry, hot land. "If their cities in the north are as fortified as you say."

Aran had never seen the Dawnguard himself, nor did he have any vala-memories of it - it had been built after the car'mori - but Smythe and Amina had told him plenty. "Yes, most likely," he agreed. "But our numbers will be great. I think perhaps great enough to challenge them even behind their walls. But first, we must take back Ironshire and Maralon."

"As you say, Anarion," Reikar said. "It will be done." There was a grim undertone in his voice.

"You are worried for your people," Aran observed as he rounded a tall bush. Thorny, it also bore small red flowers, vivid against the browns and dull greens elsewhere.

"I would be remiss to feel otherwise," the Orc replied, casting a look at Aran. His face was hard as always, but there was conflict in his eyes. "It may be that you march us to our deaths, Chief. The prophecies do not say we will survive your coming."

Aran didn't know what to say. Reikar was right, of course. There was a chance none would survive, least of all the Ash'goth. "Then you are the right man for Karneshi, Reikar. Masha chose wisely." Karneshi meant 'battle leader' in Orcish. The Ash'goth didn't believe in hierarchies or monarchies, but they did choose the best among them to lead certain aspects, like war or healing or building. In turn, those leaders all worked together to make decisions for the good of the clan, though none had the power to enforce those decisions. That was up to the people. The peculiar system had many more depths and undercurrents that Aran did not yet understand, but that was the short of it.

"But there is hope," Aran went on. "There is always hope. The Dwarves have sent a mighty host, and the Elves of the Emerin have, also."

Reikar grunted sourly. "We Ash'goth favour peace over war, but you are trying to send a wolf, a bear and a lion to kill the same deer. There is as much chance of them killing each other as the prey."

It had become clear early on since being raised chief that the Ash'goth's philosophy towards leadership extended to him, too, Anarion or no. Anyone could question the Karneshi or the Masha at any time, and the chief was no different. "Yes," Aran said. "But that is where the arohim come in. We can inspire unity. It is our purpose."

Reikar grunted again. He did that a lot. Aran could sense his disbelief, but his determination to see his duty done overrode it. "That will be something to see," he said after a moment. Elves, Dwarves and Orcs fighting side by side." He fell silent after that for a time, and Aran left him to his thoughts.

A short distance behind him, Evoni was walking beside Masha, and the statuesque Orc was instructing the younger woman in the uses of herbs and poultices that could be made from the plants and roots that grew in these lands. Most of it was lost on Aran, but Evoni listened carefully, nodding along and occasionally asking a question. She smiled at him briefly when she saw him watching before returning her attention to Masha.

During the day's march, several Orcs approached Aran and asked him about this and that, some almost reverently, some as familiar as if they'd known him for years, others a combination of the two. The questions ranged from "When will the fighting begin?" and "What is your plan for us?" to "Do you sleep?" and "Are you really a thousand years old?"

Aran answered the more ridiculous queries with as much patience as he could; apparently some rather wild rumours had gotten about in the past few days. Still, when he told one pretty Orc with short dark hair and deep green skin he was only twenty-one years old, she shook her head in disbelief and walked away!

The most common question, however, was asked by older Orc women, and it always sounded something like, "My daughter is young and fertile, Chief. Will you grace her with your seed as you did Hegra?"

To those women, he had no idea what to say. He did not feel inclined to sire so many children, no matter how pretty the women. Hegra had happened from necessity; he'd needed the Orcs behind him, and if that was what they wanted, he was willing. The fact he'd grown to like Hegra afterwards had been a pleasant consequence.

Eventually, Masha began to chase away the women, much to Aran's relief. He had been beginning to feel hunted. "You must give them time, Chief," she said to him quietly as she came up beside him. "Legends of your coming have been long told. They will adjust eventually."

"I will have to be careful, my love," Evoni said from his other side with a giggle. "Else you may be carried off by a horde of amorous Ash'goth women."

Aran chuckled and slipped an arm around her bare waist. She wore a short vest and flowing pants, both in white cotton, leaving her midriff exposed. It was rather an attractive look, especially the way her sandstone skin sparkled softly in the sunlight. "If that happens, be sure to come after me, mei'avana, for I may not survive such a thing."

They laughed together for a time, until Evoni returned to her learnings under Masha. An hour before sunset, Reikar called a halt on a vast, flat plateau. High up and bordered on two sides by steep buttes, it was a defensible spot to camp. The Orcs erected camp efficiently, and soon Aran was settled in a small tent he would share with Evoni, though she was off somewhere with Masha again as soon as dark fell.

Alone, he lay down on his cot and closed his eyes, intending to visit amathani. When he opened them, however, he knew at once he was not where he intended. He stood beneath a stormy sky - which was not unusual for amathani, lately - his toes buried in sand as he stared at the border of a jungle, looming in the low light.

This is amathani, but different, somehow. Glancing up at the sky, he frowned. The clouds do not part for me, here. With an effort, he pushed his will at them, and they finally relented, opening up into a wide ring that let pleasant sunshine through, warm and welcome. As soon as he relaxed, however, the ring began to shrink.

Perhaps this is a reflection of the real world, he mused as he turned in a slow circle. Behind him was desert for as far as he could see, vast and unbroken. Somewhere between the two worlds, maybe. He wished he knew, but for now he could at least explore a little.

"Where am I?" Aran murmured as he walked slowly toward the line of tall trees and thick undergrowth. The border between desert and jungle was short, bare sand becoming dense foliage in a matter of a hundred paces or so. His vala pulsed strongly, here. This was where he needed to come to, in the real world. If the desert was the Sands of Nazar, as he suspected, then where had this jungle come from? It had not existed before, according to his memories.

As he walked forward, past the first real trees and lush, green ferns, a sense of darkness grew in him. There was evil in this place, he was sure. Maharad is here, he thought grimly as he moved further forward. He bent this reality to his will, moving branches and shrubs and vines out of his way, but they seemed to resist him. With an effort, he forced them to shift, clearing his path. Wherever this place is, he is here, too.

Unfortunately, time in the jungle showed him nothing but more trees. Frustrated, he prepared to return to the real amathani, where he might wait for one of the others, until a thought made him smile. Looking skyward, he launched from the ground and flew up, bursting through the thick canopy a hundred paces above and still higher, until he was looking down on the land below.

There it was, all laid out before him as if he were looking at a map. The sea to the north and east, the shore curling around the curve of the coast. The jungle, following the coast for untold miles, covering the northeastern-most point of Ekistair until it gave way to the Sands to the south. Turning away from the sea, he gazed down at the desert, but could not see its end, even from this height.

Wondering why he had not thought of flying before, he laughed and shot south, faster and faster until the ground below whipped by faster than thought. He found the plateau where the Orcs were camped, where he slept. Except for the supply carts and the hundreds of conical tents, there was no sign of them. Then he raced on to Atlos, where he'd first met Evoni, the mountain home of the Amun'noroth quiet and as deserted as the Orc camp. It is a reflection of the world! Just without the people.

On he flew, flashing across the sky like an impossibly fast bird, over the Amarion Peaks to the Emerin Forest, vast and green. The circle of sunlight followed him, passing across the land below as if a giant hand held a colossal looking glass to the sun and was moving it across the world. He dipped lower as he approached the Chapel, wanting to have a closer look. An ache of homesickness washed over him as the sprawling white stone building appeared, nestled between the oaks and elms and pines. He was surprised to see tall, log watchtowers had been erected at several places around the grounds, and the forest had been cleared in a huge circle two hundred paces or so from the wall, all the way around.

Smythe had said there was an attack from darkspawn. The towers and the clearing had to have happened since. He alighted on the peak of the Chapel's tiled roof and turned slowly, remembering his year here, with Elaina. Thinking of her strengthened the ache in his heart. May you be safe and well, my love.

With a heavy sigh, he lifted off again, this time north, to the border of the Emerin and the Sorral Plain. He almost missed it, at first, but a second pass showed him a vast camp beneath the forest canopy, thousands of tents hidden amongst the trees. Not one camp, he realised after circling the entirety of it all. Three camps! Elves, Men and Dwarves, the latter the larger by far. Keep them from each other's throats, Smythe. They must remain trained on the enemy.

Diplomacy was not Smythe's strong point, but he was clever and resourceful. It had to be enough. Flying higher again, Aran sped north, faster and faster, over plains and cities, mountains and hills and valleys, until finally, he passed the Dawnwall and out over the Wild Sea. The ever-threatening storm that hung over this world and amathani broke over the sea, whipping the waves to impossible heights as fierce lightning stabbed down repeatedly, bringing deafening claps of thunder.

The circle of sky above him grew smaller the further north he went, as if the storm was trying to force him out, to push him down from the air and into its clutches. Gritting his teeth, he flew on, surrounding himself with a bubble the storm could not penetrate. Finally, he found more land, a peninsular huddled between two mountain ranges. There was a city down there, built around the rock of the mountains. Flying lower, he saw docks stretching out into the waters like long fingers.

The storm was worst, here, and the dark presence he felt far outweighed what he'd sensed in the jungle earlier. Aran would bet his last mark Maloth was here, in this city, or very nearby. So, this is where you are. A funnel suddenly formed from the clouds in front of him, connecting sky and sea in a swirling maelstrom. Aran's bubble wavered, and he felt the pull as the twister dragged at him, trying to suck him into its vortex. With an effort of will, he resisted, shooting down lower, toward the city.

As soon as he cleared the docks, the storm receded to a light rain and merely blustery winds. Yes, he is here. He would not destroy his own people with this power. Staying low, just above the pale stone buildings, he flew over the city, committing as much of it to memory as he could. Once he passed beyond the north wall, the storm resumed its former fury, confirming Aran's suspicions. Heading back into the city, he landed just inside the northern wall, alighting on cobblestones slick with rain.

Large, stone buildings loomed before him, all in the same pale colour that shone wetly in the light from the ring in the sky above. Aran studied them as he began to walk the streets, noticing how they were built wide and solid. The builders had used the natural rock where possible, sometimes making it hard to tell where building ended and rock began. It reminded him a little of Atlos, though the designs were vastly different. The Giants' homes had been designed to weather over thousands of years, until they looked like natural formations, where here, the theme was much more abrupt; square corners and balconies, bridges straight rather than arched. The angles clashed a little with the curving streets, but it was not without its beauty.

The streets and avenues wound up and down, following the natural curves of the land as often as possible, only going around the sharpest inclines. The entire city sloped southward, however, with the docks being the lowest point.

It was when he found the widest avenue yet - two lanes twenty paces wide split by a long line of sprawling trees he didn't recognise - that he first saw the palace in all its magnificence. A monstrous structure almost half a mile across occupying the whole western side of the city. From what Aran could see, it was more a fortress than a palace, built to withstand attack. In fact, many of the structures he'd seen here were similar, though the palace overshadowed them all.

The sense of darkness grew stronger yet. He hesitated fifty paces before the huge, wrought iron gates, each one heavy enough to need ten men to push open, or three horses. They were closed, now.

A burning desire to kick down the gates and charge into the palace came over him, but he shoved it aside. It would do no good, even if Maloth was in this world right now.

"Not yet," he whispered as he stared through the gates. "Soon." Taking a deep breath, he vanished from the avenue, the clouds above him closing over and leaving the city in darkness once more.

This time, he appeared in the real amathani, not the strange reflection-world. Except for the clouds, he was able to change things as he saw fit, and so he created a lush forest just like the one around Sen'dara - he'd rather taken to the rainforests in the east - complete with a pool of water like the one he'd shared with Evoni before the Ash'goth found them. This time, however, he made it like a hot spring, perhaps because he hadn't had a proper bath for weeks.

"If I have to wait for someone to come," he told himself as he eased into the steaming water, "I may as well be comfortable."

He didn't have to wait long. Shortly after settling in, closing his eyes and resting his head back against a soft tuft of grass, he sensed a presence nearby.

"Well I hope you're bloody comfortable!" Smythe said sourly. Aran opened his eyes to see the big man standing on the other side of the pool, thick arms folded over his hairy chest, eyes flashing above his bold nose and heavy, curved moustache. "Some of us are actually working, you know."

There was no real heat in his voice, but still, Aran got the sense that perhaps Smythe was not having the best time of things, lately. He smiled at his friend sympathetically. "Here," he said, manifesting just what Smythe needed. A barrel appeared beside the pool, complete with a foaming mug of ale. Aran made one for himself, too. "The water is hot, and the ale is cold. Join me, my friend."

Smythe's eyes cut to the barrel and the mug atop it longingly. He licked his lips, and Aran almost chuckled. "Alright," he said after a moment. Grabbing the mug, he took a long draw, then joined Aran in the water, settling in on the opposite side. "It's good to see you, lad," he said after another long pull on his ale.

Aran made sure keep it full for him; Smythe could well do it himself, but Aran wanted him to relax. If those three camps in the forest were anything to do with it, Smythe would no doubt have his hands full.

"You've been decorating since I last saw you," the older man said, gesturing with his mug to Aran's chest and shoulder, where scars were visible. "Or perhaps you've been decorated."

Aran looked down at them and shrugged. "I was too pretty. Decided to do something about it."

Smythe barked a laugh and smiled openly for the first time. "You're alive. All that matters." A pipe appeared between his teeth, a streamer of blue smoke curling up from the bowl. "They haven't healed." He noted casually, as if it were of no consequence. It was his way of saying he was curious, but would respect Aran's decision to stay silent on the subject.

"They have not," Aran confirmed. "Not as they should. My time with the Ash'goth has been... illuminating."

Smythe's bushy eyebrows rose. "Orcs?" When Aran nodded, Smythe asked, "They've reformed their clan?"

"Never had to," Aran replied. "They have a city in the eastern lands. Sen'dara. It's quite something."

"Truly," Smythe said wonderingly. "I heard rumours, long years ago, but never went looking. There are Ash'goth scattered from Cartuga to Maralon, what everyone thinks are the remnants of a once-great clan."

"The clan is still there," said Aran, "Though I suspect their numbers are not what they were before the car'mori. Still, they are on the move. They will fight with us."

"And just how did you manage that?" Smythe asked. "Did you walk into their city and blast them all with your vala?"

"I wish it had been that easy!" Aran replied with a laugh. He spent the next few minutes telling the story, and Smythe's eyebrows climbed higher by the minute, until they were almost in his hair.

"Chief of the Ash'goth," he muttered, his long hair swaying wetly as his head swung in disbelief. "Stories will be written about you, lad, for true." He chuckled. "Telling an Ash'goth warrior to step off when you could hardly stand. Ha! Wait till Elaina finds out! She won't know whether to slap your back or add a few more scars to that hide of yours!"

Aran smiled, happy that Smythe was in good spirits. "I hope its the former. I've had quite enough of the latter, thank you very much."