As a note - the editing I have done recently is only on paper from this point on; thus, about half of this chapter could probably use some more revision. {Chapter the Second} -=- {Torin} -=- When the War of the Uprising began nearly ten decades ago, humans in Torin hadn't really noticed. Which isn't to say that they didn't care, or even that they wouldn't have been scared if they *had* known - they simply hadn't noticed. There were no orcs in Torin. The War had begun in the East, with a lightning-swift campaign along the Garpastan Mountains. The orcs had poured across the dwarven outposts that marked the boundary of the Kingdom of Kharsos - which was to say, Kharsos itself, since the mountain fortress had been the only permanent settlement in the whole kingdom. Built into the sides of two adjacent mountains, it guarded the precious valley between like a lone warrior guarding a narrow bridge - a lone warrior that had held off entire armies, that had stood guard and protected a mountain range measuring a thousand miles long. Tens of thousands of troops were stationed there - some thirty or forty regiments, all told. They stood watch over the only accessible pass connecting the Eastern Reaches with the Continent Proper. They were the bravest of the brave, the strongest of the strong: the best of the best. Its invincibility a thing straight out of legend, Kharsos had stood fast against invading armies, barbarian hordes - even the Gorungar themselves. They never had a chance. {X X X} The figure at the head of the small caravan paused in front of a rather nondescript building. The woven sackcloth robe he wore was hooded, the cowl drawn well over his head, its shadow in the high noon sun obscuring the man's face like the dark of night. He held the reins of his camel beside him loosely, allowing the animal a respite not usually given by most experienced horse riders, who exhibited a rather annoying tendency (to the dromedary, anyway) to draw too tightly on the reins when walking their steeds, fearing them to be as flighty as the average horse. This man was different (if no less an experienced horseman), and his mount rewarded his faith by waiting patiently as the cowled man slowly made his way to the door of the small building, expertly playing out the slack in the reins as he did so. The two men behind the leading figure paused beside their mounts as well. The taller of the two stood stone still to the left of the first man, his face staring forward, unturning, as if whatever being had created him had forgotten to equip him with a neck. The one to his right, roughly as tall as the lead man, was looking around in wonderment: first to his right, then to his left, like a newborn fresh into the world, or a child making his first journey into the forest by his father's side, marvelling at the very *greenness* of it all. Of course, Torin wasn't very green at all. Standing alone in the Great Southern Desert, it had grown from a small town to a sprawling city, the greatest trading center in the South. Commerce was brisk, even at this time of year - which was impossibly *hotter* than the other nine months - and a few merchants-in-passing paused now and then to spare a glance at the three hermits. Gerdinians were not a sight uncommon in Torin. The hermits had long been a part of Torin's history, stretching back to the fabled days of old, when Torin had been (so the elders and aldermen would have you believe) a lush city, green with the scent of fresh pines and cedars. But those days had withered, and the reputation of the Hermits of Gerdinia had shriveled with them. Now they were outcasts even within the confines of Torin itself. The whisperings came loud and clear to the ears of the robed ones. _How can they *wear* such things_?... _Damn hermits - here for handouts again_... _Wish the Imperials were here to clean up this trash_... Mostly, the natives and naivetes kept to themselves, more concerned with procuring some form of refreshment and respite from the heat than staring at whatever else happened to roll into town with the desert winds. The first robe paid similar heed to all of them as well - which is to say, none at all. He approached the front of the earthy brown hovel, singular in purpose and determination. He stood before the door patiently, arms folded into his sleeves before him, and waited. He did not need to knock. He never had before. The second pilgrim still had not moved. His companion had finally had his gaze drawn to the figure standing before the entranceway. He cocked his head to one side questioningly, as if trying to fathom the reasons behind his traveling companion's refusal to knock at the door before which he was standing. The wait assumed a timeless quality, stretching interminably, forestalling the future in preference of the present. The figure standing before the door looked as if he had stood there for a thousand years, and would stand there a thousand more if necessary. The seemingly limitless patience of the man within the robes anointed the future with equal virtue, and it stood deferentially before the door to the present, unwavering; unknocking. All things must end, however, and the present scene, already long overstaying its moment in time, snapped forward like a tree in a hurricane as the sound of sandal on stone revealed itself from behind the door with a definitive {\it click}. The third man's head tilted further to one side as he leaned forward slightly to catch the sound which had broken the sacred silence. The shuffling became more audible, and it was obvious that someone was approaching the door, albeit not without some difficulty. There was a light fumbling noise, as of a lock being slipped, and the door opened inward, its hinges raising their voices in creaking protest. The sun, which had been beating mercilessly upon the rest of the desert city, rushed in to illuminate the area beyond the doorway, paused, and seemed to think better of the idea. The interior of the building remained in shadows, sunlight hovering mysteriously on the periphery, not daring to intrude. A lighter shadow separated itself from the darkness, and an old woman in tattered brown rags stepped haltingly into the sunlight, squinting fiercely at the cowled figure before her. A brief flash of recognition passed over the squat woman's face, but it dissipated into a cloud of confusion as her eyes caught sight of the two hermits walking behind the first man. Puzzlement spread slowly across her face, playing itself out in her eyes, still squinting as if locked in mortal combat with the sun. The mouth beneath the mangy gray hair and bushy eyebrows moved, and words were quick to follow. "Yes?" she said sternly. "What do you want?" The first man stepped forward, bowing slightly as he did so. His hands materialized from beneath the folds of his robes, arms splayed to his sides, palms face upward in a gesture of supplication. "Gentle woman," he began, "we are weary travelers. We hail from the Hermitage of Gerdinia to the south and west of this place." If the man's hands and posture bespoke the language of humility, his voice certainly did not. There was a hint of - amusement? - about it, and the man certainly seemed to be smiling, although it was, of course, impossible to determine within the darkened shroud which lay across his face. "We have been sent here by our Order to procure supplies and aid. We hope you will be generous, and give to us in our time of need." The rite of rote over, the figure gave an exaggerated bow of mock respect. This time the amusement was obvious; the chuckle, audible. The old woman snapped her head quickly from the withdrawn pair to the forward man. "Travelers?" she began, slightly irritated. "Hermits?" she asked again. "You don't look like hermits to me." She began to shuffle back into the area beyond the doorway, gazing at the large man in the back, hoping the retreat seemed due more to aggravation than fear. The first man caught the direction of the woman's gaze. "Oh, don't mind the big one there," the first one interjected mischievously, piety all but gone from his voice, turning and waving his arm to indicate his leftward companion. By this time, the rearward duo had begun chortling openly as well. In fact, between their ridiculous outfits and the strange mixture of terror and anger that was on the old woman's face, the trio seemed on the verge of raucous laughter. The first man, mirth lighting his voice, brought himself under enough control to deliver the icecracker to the confused old woman. "He's not as dumb as he looks." At this, the two men behind the speaker broke out into open laughter, and the angered old woman - clearly on the outside of some inside joke - raised her head to stare into the face of the man who had turned back toward her. Once again she felt that hint of a smile behind the curtain of darkness. This time it was unmistakable. She stared hard, and the veil broke. Her sight penetrated where sunlight could not, and she discerned the circle of white hair framing the man's shadowed face like the sun draping the moon during an eclipse. The old woman, who had seemed on the verge of a fit, shocked to a standstill. Then she started laughing - slowly at first - a friendly smile beaming up at the first man as she shook her head slowly back and forth. The waterfall of laughter cascaded, subsided into a light rippling of amusement, and the turned corners of her mouth relaxed with her smile. "Amel Talic," she said, still shaking her head, "why don't you just knock like everyone else?" {X X X} Vartekh's army was reported halted one mile down the pass Kharsos stood watch over. Its size, were the first reports of two months ago to be believed, was somewhere between two hundred and two hundred fifty thousand. A month later, after the inital hysteria had died down and cooler heads could be called upon to count, the invaders had numbered half of that. A month later, and they were now a force of about eighty thousand. The second report had obviously also been in error as well, for it was fairly well documented that the orcs had lost no more than five thousand warriors during the campaign. Then again, thought Haladan, it had been "fairly well documented" that two hundred fifty thousand orcs had started on this damned journey in the first place. That an army could have trekked nearly three hundred miles in fifty days, engaged in no less than forty skirmishes -- at least six of which had been major confrontations -- and emerged with no more than five thousand casualties was incredible. But to Haladan -- who harbored doubts as to the actual veracity of these reports as well -- the feats of the Son of Tarkan's militia were irrelevant, even if they had, in fact, been accurately reported. This, after all, was Kharsos. All roads led here -- and most ended here as well. Would the newest invaders be any different? Haladan thought not. This, after all, was Kharsos -- she that had stood since the dawn of time, that had denied the last furied attempts of the accursed Gorungar to reestablish their dominance upon the world, that had turned back countless barbarian hordes which had been far better trained -- and far more numerous -- than these orcs. _Orcs! Hmph!_ snorted the dwarven general. He snorted a lot these days, Haladan did. Whatever was this Vartekh thinking? He had apparently recruited most of this army of his from the Eastern Reaches, where the orcs as a race had long been numerous enough to rule the land outright. There they had established their petty kingdoms and small duchies, content in the knowledge that if the rest of Kragg owed them no favors, at least in the Eastern Reaches they could establish whatever control they craved. This orcish general *had* to have known there would be only one way out. Only a fool would have thought to march an army of that size through the Garpastanos without advancing down the most -- indeed, the only -- accessible route through the mountain range. And that route -- completely blocked by Kharsos -- was a dead end. A dead end. Which had never, of course, kept other would-be world conquerors from trying to forge their way through the unforgiving Garpastan Mountains. Most discovered too late the sad truth behind the majestic facade of the mountain range: although impressive from a distance, it was actually very much weakened as a result of the extensive mining done in the area by the dwarves who made their living there. With no safe trails through the rock -- the Garpastanos supported no flora whatsoever -- there existed only one true path in an entire thousand-mile stretch of mountain -- and that stretch was sealed like a dam by the mountain fortress, Kharsos. Of course, the Gorungar had used their powerful magicks to try a more direct route, blasting away a section of the Garpastanos to the south of the dwarven citadel. The resulting landslide had then proceeded to bury them, inflicting heavy casualties. No, all roads led to Kharsos -- which was, Haladan reflected, as it should be. He sighed, lifting up his head from the battleplans he had been daydreaming over and taking a look around his personal quarters. _Ah, well. Maybe this general isn't everything the scouts made him out to be_. Haladan shrugged -- more to himself than to anyone else, especially as he was alone in his room -- and directed his gaze to the northern wall of his quarters, which, as per his own wishes, doubled as his office as well. Various awards and commendations were hung on the wall above his small bed: honors for bravery and courage in battle in his earlier years as a grunt; recognitions of tactical genius from his later years, often spent in a leader's capacity behind a desk, removed from "the action". Haladan had appreciated the switch from dirty work to desk work at the time -- he had seen enough of war in his day to know that the only people who found it resplendent were the bards who profitted from singing tales of glory and honor -- but found himself missing the thrill of battle more often of late. The feelings of comraderie, adrenaline, hunger, spirit, blending into something beyond them all, beyond the combatants, beyond the blood, beyond the bodies -- blending into something truly *epic* -- that was something Kharsos' commander had found himself missing from time to time. This was one of those times. There was something hovering in the air -- something *epic*. This one promised to be a colossal struggle. He found himself marveling with those very bards he had damned not two thoughts ago at the truly *gripping* tale war made. A great battle was coming. Haladan trained his distracted attention on the northern wall again, searching for something. The last battle here had been -- what, ten years ago? His eyes shot past their target, returned, and focused again. No -- it had only been *eight* years ago, according to his commendation. That year had witnessed a small barbarian horde from the Northern Wastes try to force their way east after a season of famine and spoilage -- victory had been a foregone conclusion. Haladan had received a medal only because he had lost so few warriors during the course of the battle -- and he *was* senior officer, after all. Haladan chuckled, idly snatching the embossed medallion from its resting place on his wall and examining it. Being senior officer had to count for *something*, he mused -- and thus there had been another favor done for his wall of fame. Still, things had been pretty stale in Kharsos -- in all of Kragg, actually -- since then, and eight years' sleep had left him waking up awaiting battle like a fine wine after dinner. Dinner had been nice, and warm, and filling, but there was a time to eat, and a time to drink -- and this one promised to have everyone positively drunk on the spirits of battle before it was all over. It would certainly be more intoxicating than that puff of smoke eight years ago, even if the outcome was no less inevitable. Haladan returned the medal to its resting place, turned, and left the room. {X X X} Hot. If the tea was anything, it was hot. In fact, it was so hot Darius was unable to tell if it was anything else at all. He shrugged again at the absurdity of drinking tea -- hot tea -- in the middle of the desert, and took another sip. Somehow, in this strange building, it seemed to make sense. The interior had seemed too large, judged on what he remembered of the view outside. Grimblade had noticed this as soon as he had crossed the threshold. He was still trying to ascertain whether this impression was correct or merely a trick of the lighting -- and he *still* couldn't determine where the light was coming from -- but no one had made any attempt to step back outside, so Darius was forced to settle for what he remembered of the hovel's exterior dimensions. He wasn't about to interrupt the conversation so rudely for a reason so banal as examining crumbling stonework for extra-dimensional flaws, even if he wasn't really a party to the discussion at hand. Amel Talic sat in one corner of the oddly lit room, occasionally sipping from the tea he held before him. He was to the left of the fireplace, chatting amiably with the old woman seated across the hearth from him. Darius mentally shook his head once at the thought of a fireplace in the desert, and again at the idea that it was actually *lit*. Compounding the confusion was the fact that it was actually necessary. The oppressive heat menacing the outside world had been kept at bay much like the sunlight had earlier, and the room was no warmer than one of the many tents in which Darius had spent nightmare-plagued nights after battle-scarred days on the Western Edge. Grimblade turned his attention to Argoth, who was to Talic's right (and Grimblade's left), seated in a highbacked wicker chair which seemed barely capable of supporting his weight. Argoth sat motionless, unblinking. With the exception of that brief interlude of laughter at Dorn's expense, the Northerner's expression hadn't changed from the morning the trio had departed for Torin. Darius was more than a bit thankful for this. In this alien homestead in the middle of the desert, with its hot tea, cool air, blazing fireplace, and sourceless light that seemed to come from everywhere at once, the barbarian had remained constant. _Constantly mortified, by the look of it_, Darius thought, although Argoth was obviously trying to conceal his glumness from the old woman. He hadn't taken such pains to conceal his displeasure on the ride to Torin - but then again, he hadn't gone through the trouble of revealing much of anything, either. Darius had heard Argoth speak no more than a dozen words during the entire three-day trip. If you subtracted the one-word responses to Amel Talic's occasional pleasantries, and removed the two mumbled oaths to Vala, the spoken words were probably no more than four in number. Darius believed, if memory served him correctly, that the quartet in question had been, "_Here we go again_." Argoth sat silently in the wicker chair -- the chair that seemed to be tailor-made for his precise measurements -- apparently caring not at all about the odd pointedness of Grimblade's thought-tempered gaze. _Maybe not uncaring, though_, Darius thought, noting Argoth's unblinking stare at the nothingness situated over Grimblade's right shoulder. _Maybe oblivious_. Maybe both. Then again, Amel Talic was thinking much the same thing of Darius Grimblade at the moment. He repeated his last question -- a little louder this time, just to make sure his head-in-the-clouds companion heard him -- leaning forward with great exaggeration as he did so, providing a visual cue in case his friend's ears failed him. "I said, don't you think it odd, Darius?" Grimblade snapped out of his reverie, mumbled something guttural and vaguely "huh"-like in sound, and turned to find the young priest and the venerable lady staring at him with no small degree of anticipation on their faces (although Darius was dimly aware of the corners of Amel's mouth beginning to curl upward with no small degree of amusement either, wrinkling like smoldering paper which burns black and swirls slowly upon itself when the flames are upon it, crackling mischievously all the while). His mind, a few paces behind the sensory input, put on a burst of speed and stumbled over the last few spoken words in its rush, the impact launching them through his mind, out his mouth, and into the yawning silence before him. "Odd?" he asked in a daze (he stopped himself before his mind the would-be pacesetter could kick the word "Darius" into the air after it). "The orcs," Amel replied, all traces of amusement vanishing quickly from his face. "You said after the battle that they had been on you all at once in that glade." Darius' mind, which had raced so hard and so fast to break into the present, now had to take a break itself and remember...remember... "Yes...yes, you're right." The warrior struggled with the memory. "It all happened so fast..." Just how fast came back to him in a rush of adrenaline, momentarily losing him to the here-and-now, and for a few frantic heartbeats the raiding party was upon him again, swords flashing, steel ringing, hooves trampling... "It was almost as if..." His voice trailed off into the memory. The old woman finished his thought for him. "...as if, Darius Grimblade, they were waiting for you all along?" "Yes," he started slowly, his face bunching itself up into a startled, puzzled mask. "I was so caught up at the time in the battle and its aftermath that I haven't had the chance to really think about it until now. They came out of nowhere, it seemed, but it was just a bit too..." He struggled for the right word, caught hold of it, and continued on. "...*coordinated* to have been a chance encounter." The muscles in his face refused to relinquish their tight-fisted grip. He turned to Talic questioningly, haltingly. "But that's not possible, is it? No one else knew I was coming but our contact. And he's reliable, isn't he?" Amel considered Darius from across the room. "Garant..." He nodded slowly, perceptibly, hands folded in front of his face. "Garant I trust. I've known him long enough and well enough to understand his hatred of the Empire." Talic's eyes narrowed, his mind lost in contemplation. "Still, it would seem that either someone warned them of your approach, or we're clutching at straws." He refocused his attention on his barbarian companion. "Argoth? What are your impressions?" The big man stroked his beard thoughtfully. "I would say," he began solemnly, "that they knew Darius was coming." Talic met the Northerner's gaze and nodded his head slowly in agreement. Darius, who couldn't quite understand how the duo could remain so calm under the circumstances, raised his voice in protest. "Didn't we just agree that this wasn't possible?" he asked, looking from the priest to the barbarian and back again. "You just said we don't have a leak." "We don't," Argoth replied. "Nobody on our side told them where you were." He paused, his eyes never leaving Talic's. "Somebody on their side did." -- -=-Chet Zeshonski v073pzuy@ubvms.cc.buffalo.edu