Chapter I
war is meaningless; nothing Good comes out of war
he ground imploded, quaking apart under a storm of bare feet. The stampede of soldiers continued up the final hill. King Ntephe’s royal army was in motion, and it was glorious to behold. Ten thousand mbachu warriors pursued the horizon, marching in expert formation, mentally preparing themselves for the now inevitable combat. Their black skin, tinged with blue, contrasted its colour against the orange disk known as dawn. The brilliance of the standards and traditional weaponry was matched only by the continual roaring sound of an army in action. Behind the army, huge tautara sent shock waves of energy into the skin of nearby mbachu as their large legs slammed down onto the earth. Each tautara was naturally well armoured with a turtle-like shell and strong reptilian underbelly. Their large jaws snapped into the thin air ahead, eager for combat. They were intelligent enough beasts and could smell the tension. Much like human horses, they knew that the only way to survive was through obedience to their riders.
Standing on the neck of the leading tautara, a nymph sang out war cries. Her pure voice carried itself over the thunderous march, like truth’s controlled countenance in the eye of a storm of lies. She called out to tribes, inciting loyalty and perseverance,
‘Tribe of Ubwekæ, whom do you fear?’
‘None who dare to block the path of the King!’ smashed the reply, as hundreds of mbachu warriors from the tribe of Ubwekæ gave the traditional answer to the King’s call to arms.
King Ntephe paced his Komodo dragon through the ranks of his loyal soldiers. Concern etched itself across his dark face – a blend of horror and hope. He smelt the air and was hit by the stench of fear. Like a trembling hand within a gauntlet of power, the warriors were each terrified that this would be their last dawn. How had it come to this? King Ntephe was a general, but first and foremost a negotiator. Had he failed his people? Before him were ten thousand mbachu. All had family; all would prefer to live a prosperous life well away from this madness called war. Here they were, answering his call to arms, confirming once again their irreplaceable worth. Did this worth not give them the right to life? Letting tears gently swell the rims of his eyes, he decided. War is meaningless; nothing good comes out of war – but that was why he had to fight, to defend from the horrible beast of war that which was meaningful and good.
The mbachu force spread over the top of the hill, breaking into a wide formation. At the intense flat sound of a dragon horn it halted as one. Gathering with the other generals at the army’s head, King Ntephe arrived at the brow of the hill. He stopped breathing, unable to register what lay before him.
Half a league down the gradual hill the Eternally Burning Standard of Lord Cnuk-Thor flapped in the wind, its huge banner rent with a curling claw of flame. Blurred out behind it, to left and right, were tens of thousands of dæmons, turning the bottom of the hill into a swamp of dark green and red. Even to King Ntephe’s eagle eyesight, no details could be picked out, save the eternal fire.
Behind them lay bracken forest, its once tranquil vegetation now scarred by the dæmons. In an opening in the woods a bright reflection of the sun caught the eye of King Ntephe. It was like a shining silver spear, which dug through the dark swamp of dæmons. The human king was leading, made clear by his illustrious banner of green and white. The pool of dæmons parted to make way for the gleaming penetration of knights; confirming King Ntephe’s deep fear that the two were indeed in full alliance. The knights galloped across the front of the dæmon mass and formed to its left. What looked like about half a thousand knights stood ready as an even longer stream of human foot soldiers followed their path. The gauntlet had now been thrown down on any hope of stagnating this war, and King Ntephe’s face looked graver for it. He studied the earthquake of troop movement below the hill for one moment more; witnessing the tectonic plate of dæmons shift and vibrate in anticipation of the bloodshed. He then snapped himself from the vision, putting on the fearless mask of a leader.
He commanded his Komodo dragon forward to the end of the hill’s peak. It obeyed, stalking with reptilian agility. A formidable beast it was, but nothing compared to the mystical winged dragons of old.
Reassurance helped make firm the king’s stance as he noted the bountiful presence of elves and dwarves; the former to his left and the latter to his right. The chess pieces were all prepared. The first move: diplomacy.
Going it alone, King Ntephe launched his Komodo dragon down the hill. He breathed in the springtime air with deep reserve, forcing the perfumous smell to register sourly. The elven general hastened to his side. She was tall, strong and beautiful, revealing brown locks of hair beneath a finely crafted silver helm. Her mount was a pure white elven steed with impressive barding, crafted with runic designs along its edges. The steed almost equalled the general in brilliance.
Next came the Lords of the dwarven clans. Four of them approached, pacing themselves proudly on foot as King Ntephe and the elven general waited. Their chests bore heavy layers of chain mail and what skin could be seen was decorated with strips of blue tattoos. Ginger hair fell about their faces, braided and platted in places. Their belts held a number of deadly axes per clan leader.
Together the seven allies descended. King Ntephe could sense no fear from the other leaders but he knew they were worried. As they marched forward, the armies of dæmons and humans grew steadily into focus. Presently the seven halted, exactly halfway between the two armies. Here they would wait for the human king and whatever abomination would represent the dæmons.
‘Here they come’ marked clan-leader Krunder-A-Karak of the Northern dwarves of Gate Fulhorn. King Ntephe was shocked to find that the Eternally Burning Standard was being carried towards them. It was being held by a huge dæmon, kitted out in heavy armour but with no weapon to show. Next to the standard bearer was such a mighty dæmon that he even dwarfed the other. Steel-tipped fangs barred its muddy reddened face and Minotaur horns thrust themselves horizontally from its heavy iron helm. His scarlet cloak rippled as it met with the heavy breeze. Marking his mismatch armour and broad shield was the symbol of Angatch: tears of blood.
Krunder-A-Karak spat with full strength onto the floor.
‘We cannot utter words in the presence of this dæmon!’ cried he. The elven general remained motionless but King Ntephe span round with a questioning look. ‘He calls himself by the name Cnuk-Thor, but he is an impostor.’ The other clan leaders quickly supported him with curses, and he continued, raising his voice as he did so ‘It was he who defeated the dwarves of the Sky’s Peak, killing their clan leader and taking his name!’ Blood rage filled the dwarf’s eyes as he focused on the approaching dæmon ‘Upon his belt he carries still our brother’s head.’
King Ntephe was alarmed as he turned his head to look. The two dæmons were but ten meters away; so close that he could feel the burning heat from the flaming standard.
Suddenly Kruder-A-Karak leapt from his position and charged towards his sworn enemy. The dwarf caught the dæmon unawares as he speedily arced his axe, separating the disgusting head from body in one fell swoop. An eternal moment of silence took control as all on-lookers froze in disbelief. Then all hell broke loose.
Dæmons rushed up the hill, as the dam of diplomacy that had so far kept them at bay was broken, causing the dark green and red swamp to spill out onto the field. Ranks of dwarven clansmen descended but a second later in response. In the centre of the confusion stood the commanders. The dæmon standard bearer tried to back away from Kruder-A-Karak’s display of thunderous rage, but was soon hemmed in on all sides by the dwarf’s brothers. A figure of calculating rationality, the elven general turned and willed her saddle-less horse back to her people. With the long pull of a horn they marched down to meet her, drawing blades and longbows in unison.
King Ntephe’s understanding of tension snapped as he came face to face with his worst fear. This was the beginning of the biggest conflict The World was ever to see. And he knew, just as well as his warriors, that all wars are civil wars, no matter how just. Nothing good came out of war. At best it was a necessary tool to halt the tide of evil. Thousands of past small sacrifices of leadership backed up his age-long experience, and he overcame his fear; he could not be the prey on this battlefield, but must lead his force as predator.
As arrows ripped out towards him from the approaching mass of enraged dæmons, he turned his Komodo dragon and headed back to the mbachu army. Roughly fletched arrows whistled past his ears but the king only grew in focus as the Komodo sprinted up the hill. His army stood motionless, having not moved an inch despite the chaos. King Ntephe knew they waited for his command with the utmost obedience.
‘Power!’ called out the King.
‘The Power is ours!’ Resounded the response as thousands of mbachu shouted out in courage and unity. Pacing up and down, King Ntephe addressed his mbachu,
‘Upon this grave day we stand, like roses amongst thorns we are a witness to hope. There will be a time, when the wars of The World will be broken by the firm pursuit of peace. But it is not this day. This day we pledge our lives, in service of that which we treasure most. War has come upon us, like a thief in the night, but we will not lie low and let it tie down our witness to hope!’
King Ntephe stood on his dragon and raised his assegai, the traditional mbachu spear. The thousands of warriors raised it with him. From the back of his shoulders, angel-like wings spanned themselves out, shining a beautiful gold, contrasting fiercely with his black skin. Mirroring him, each soldier spread his wings, transforming the hill of black into an explosion of colour.
‘Mbachu, whom do you fear?!’ screamed an mbachu general.
‘None who dare to block the path of the King!’ smashed out the reply.
King Ntephe turned his dragon and kicked off, leading his force down the hill into their foe. Dwarves had flung themselves into combat with the dæmons without reserve. They held the left flank strongly but were beginning to be punished by the dæmon’s central mass, which had cut across the field in order to out-flank them.
Into this combat the mbachu charged, beating the dry earth smooth with thousands of pounding feet. They were like a rolling storm extending itself down the hill, consuming the space between them and their foe with a darkened wave of terror and the sound of frightening thunder.
As the front ranks of mbachu approached the dæmons, they sprung into the air, using their wings to rise above the enemy soldiers.
In the moment before combat ensued, all time seemed to slow down. King Ntephe watched as the sun beat solemnly down upon his warriors, reflecting in silence upon their metallic spearheads. As they ran, the mbachu warriors prepared to throw the assegai towards their hated foe, some from the air, some from foot. Disgusting dæmon blades and shields stuck out in all directions in response. Each front line mbachu took aim, hurling in unison as the gap between them and the enemy closed. The assegai splintered into the dæmons, taking them down in scores. Before they could respond, the mbachu were upon them, smashing through their already broken shield wall on foot and swooping down on unprotected targets from the air. King Ntephe crashed into the shield wall on his Komodo dragon, swiping left and right with royal sword.
After this moment of terror, the dæmons counter-charged with ferocious bloodlust. Suddenly the King was confronted with the unstoppable assault. A dæmon ran at him without fear, boldly swinging his axe in a vertical arc towards the King’s skull. Quickly, he jumped his dragon forward, swiping his heavy sword through the wood of the dæmon’s axe and into its face. He quickly pressed his advantage, commanding his dragon to tear the others apart whilst he protected it from blows with sword and shield.
On the left flank the dwarves contained the dæmon threat but could not stem the flow of casualties. Of paramount success were the elves, who were managing to face off the humans with disciplined archery. Only the human foot soldiers had mobilised an attack against them. Quickly the elven general sent soldiers to the aid of the mbachu. About a hundred marched into the melee, adding a further injection of fury. They fought with amazing precision – moving, protecting and striking as if they had only one mind.
From behind the mbachu, the sounds of heavy elephant-hide drums announced the arrival of the tautara. With strong legs they ploughed into the combat, flattening dæmons in their footfalls and snapping them up in enormous beaks. About four mbachu rode each one, the first holding two cow-skin shields for protection, and the others firing arrows and throwing assegai from behind. Aerial mbachu warriors took the opportunity to land and replenish arrows and spears, using the shelled backs of the tautara as their base.
After the initial shock, the dæmons increased their firepower, spilling arrows onto the tautara riders. With a signal from the Eternally Burning Standard dæmon war machines awakened to the new threat, launching rocks high into the air. Both sides immediately fell prey to the inaccurate yet devastating war machines. Those tautara to be hit carried on, despite severe wounds to their natural armament. In an instant one was felled outright with a blow to the head.
King Ntephe reared his Komodo away from further combat and stared into the abyss of dæmons. A figure twice the size of even the tallest dæmon paced its way towards the front line. Suddenly King Ntephe felt his heart tug at his throat as the truth dawned. Before him stepped Angatch, the Evil One.
The ranks of dæmons fled from his presence, wailing like injured babies. Whether of resemblance to elf or human, King Ntephe could not tell. Shards of black armour jaggered up and down in plates across his chest but left his forearms bear. Behind him, a blood red cloak rippled in the wind.
Soon the line of hand-to-hand fighting broke apart. Humans, dwarves, elves and mbachu all stared at Angatch, whilst the dæmons backed away, fear etched on their faces like torturous pain.
Mesmerising was his beautiful face. Snow-white skin enchanted, forming a handsome mask capable of lasting an eternity. Across his eyes was tied a dark green bandana, completely blacking out his sight. From underneath flowed tears of blood, giving horrible emotion to an otherwise still and beautiful face. He was as though fully immersed in a kiss of death.
In his wake was left a sorrowful silence. King Ntephe tore his eyes away only to find he had been crying. Looking at the elves to his right, he noticed they too were sharing his incomprehensible pain.
Suddenly the trance was broken as Angatch reached the line of mbachu. Some started and backed away, whilst others remained mesmerised. Suddenly he rushed at them, spinning his sword – two blades back-to-back with a single handle. Before King Ntephe could react, heads of mbachu warriors were sent flying; wrenching apart the dream of sorrow with a more terrible reality.
King Ntephe drew the Blade of Truth and charged towards the greatest of all foe. Obediently his dragon leapt up at Angatch, catching the Evil One in the stomach. King Ntephe sent his sword down simultaneously but Angatch was quick to parry. Speedily the King darted his eyes down at his dragon, only to find that Angatch’s left hand had caught it in midair. Crushing its neck with an iron fist, the Evil One ebbed out the last breaths of its life in moments.
With deadly ease, Angatch span with his blade, decapitating the dragon and cutting King Ntephe in half in a single punishing blow.
As the King fell to the ground in parts, the invisible barrier controlling the dæmons broke free and they poured forth, foaming at the mouth, yielding to an unholy hunger for death and destruction. Leaderless, the mbachu line was broken. Like a tired buffalo being circled by a pack of lions it backed away from the fight in fear, hoping only for an end to the spell of unprecedented confusion.
The dwarves and elves overcame their fear in aid of the mbachu. Shining steel was painted red as the fighting intensified beyond comprehension. Tactics were thrown overboard, leading only to a conflict of will power. For every one dæmon that fell, two stepped into its place; whilst elves, dwarves and mbachu fell by the tens as dæmon hatred solidified into a most terrible blood rage.
Without warning, a tremendous charge of human cavalry swept through the centre of the dæmon lines, which parted only just in time to allow their passage. To the mbachu, the sound of hundreds of hooves in full gallop was the deafening roar of a tsunami, that rose and rose, spreading panic and confusion in its wave of doom. Barded steeds and heavy lances hit the mbachu, scattering them like matchwood. In suffering they fled, caving in the middle defences. Desperately the elves and dwarves redoubled their efforts, but were separated and overwhelmed by the dæmons. With practiced ease, Angatch waded forward into the combat, carving to left and right with his blade, leading his dæmons, blood flowing more and more from his crying, blindfolded eyes.
Broke, the strength of the dwarves was. In grim and bitter despair their army folded backwards, hurrying as they could in a fighting retreat. With the pitched blow of a fewetso tusk, the elves made haste in flight. Protecting their backs was the general on steed, who, with her handpicked royal guard, held the tide of dæmons back with a ferocious last fight. As the dæmons overwhelmed them, the noble general tasted the last dregs of her witness to true leadership, giving out her final breath beneath a flurry of descending axes.
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