Valley of the Old Gods: Part 2
Being one of the Chronicles of Cyron
The vale opened up before the small army like the vast maw of a terrible creature. Jagged mountains rose up on either side, as though they were the fearsome beast’s serrated teeth, with rocky slopes covered in scrub and sparse trees. The road leading into the valley ahead was shrouded in ominous fog.
It had taken a week’s worth of strenuous marching to reach their destination. In that time Ardysseos befriended the captain of the forty man phalanx from the Tribe of Arkador: an amiable warrior named Telamon. He was several years older than Ardysseos, yet he had the same olive hued skin underneath a jet black beard and mildly disheveled hair that settled on his broad shoulders: He was also slightly taller and more heavily muscled. Like all warriors of the Nine Tribes, Telamon was clad in a mail tunic comprised of interlocking metal scales. A sickle sword was sheathed on his left hip, with a hand axe dangling from a leather sling on his right, and a round shield of medium size slung over his shoulder.
Though they were all similarly armed and armored, each of the Nine Tribes wore cloaks of various colors to denote which tribe they hailed from. With Telamon and his warriors representing the Tribe of Arkador, theirs was a rich teal. Other tribes sported cloaks in such differing shades as olive, indigo, white, and burgundy.
They were stout fighters as well, demonstrated not just by their decisive victory over the Lamonites, but by the numerous and friendly - albeit intense and competitive - sparring matches that took place to help the soldiers unwind after a day’s worth of arduous travel. Ardysseos himself had taken part in several of the duels. While he always emerged victorious, most outcomes were anything but a foregone conclusion. His new friend Telamon was an especially skilled warrior: It was little wonder he commanded the delegation from Arkador.
Now, as they stood at the gateway to the Valley of the Old Gods, Ardysseos felt his resolve wavering. This was a cursed and evil place. None who entered ever returned, yet here he was, leading a minor military campaign into the one place all Sparans feared to go.
Telamon approached him and flashed a jocular, confident grin. “Well, are you ready for this, my friend?”
“Truthfully? I would rather an eternity of war with the Lamonites than to take another step forward,” Ardysseos grunted.
The tribesman laughed. “There is nothing to fear. After all, Jor is with us!”
“It matters not. We’re here, and Sparans do not break their vows.”
“That's the spirit, man! Come now, let us make our wives and our children proud.”
The mist hung thick and heavy all around, yet parted before them as they trudged onward. There were no sounds to be heard. The trills and melodies of unnumbered birdsongs ceased as soon as the oppressive fog had enveloped their motley company. The only noises to reach Ardysseos’ ears in the oppressive silence were the steady and rhythmic beats of his heart, the steady intake of air into his lungs, and the clinking of his fellows’ arms and armor as they marched in tentative formation along the shrouded valley floor.
The Sun was blocked out overhead, and there was no telling the passage of time. Each moment dragged on at a sluggish, interminable pace. After what seemed like hours, but could have only been mere moments, Telamon appeared from the fog. He brought with him a man known as Eliad: one of Hashmael’s sons. He was what the Nine Tribes referred to as a Medjai - a warrior priest.
Just as dark haired, swarthy, and high-spirited as his fellow tribesmen, Eliad wore a leather cuirass over top of a tunic with a deep purple hue. A matching cloak hung from his shoulders, and an ornate bow and quiver were slung across his back. Unlike other Shor-Dahn warriors, Eliad wielded a short sword, dagger, and a buckler that was hooked to his belt. The Medjai were the elite infantry of the Nine Tribes: Eliad was there because his father had decreed he should lead forty of their number in the expedition to serve as scouts, skirmishers, and intercessors in prayer to Jor.
It was that last role which Ardysseos now expected him to fulfill. “Can you not beseech Jor to do away with this infernal fog?”
Eliad smiled accommodatingly. “You need only to ask.”
He looked up towards the heavens and spoke with an authoritative voice in a foreign tongue that the Sparan could not comprehend. Within moments the mist began to swirl and dissipate, parting like an incorporeal wave and revealing a sky bathed in twilight overhead. Ahead of them was a swiftly moving stream. A fertile field stretched out in all directions next to the inviting body of water.
“I suppose this is where we ought to settle for the night,” Ardysseos observed with a droll edge to his voice.
He awoke the next morning relieved to discover the evening had passed without incident.
Ardysseos exited his tent and meandered through the precisely regimented camp as he approached the stream to relieve himself. Remnants of the sinister fog continued to cling to the edges of their bivouac, and torches on stout wooden poles had been erected around the perimeter to keep the oppressive darkness at bay. Ardysseos was pleased to see they continued to gutter fitfully in the early dawn light.
He stood on the creekbank while going about his business, waited for several moments as the current washed away his dross, then knelt down to splash his face with cool water. A shadow fell across him as the first refreshing drops hit his skin. Ardysseos looked up just in time to see a razor-sharp blade plunging down towards his neck.
He instinctively blocked the strike with his left arm, surging to his feet and lashing his assailant across the face with his free hand. Momentarily stunned, the savage staggered backwards, but he quickly recovered and charged Ardysseos once more. An arrow pierced the man’s throat and he jolted sideways in shock. Eliad loped into view, finishing his victim off with a ruthless thrust of his dagger.
He gestured towards the stream. “More are coming. Get back to camp, I’ll slow them down.”
“I’ll not leave you here to face the enemy alone!” Ardysseos objected.
Eliad grinned. “I’m ready for a fight. You, however, are skulking around in a loincloth, and that just won’t do!”
The Sparan cracked a sardonic smile. “No, I suppose it won’t. Very well, but don’t tarry too long. I expect to see you safe and sound when this is all over.”
“I’m a Medjai: Jor fights with me!” The tribesman nocked another arrow to his bow as Ardysseos sprinted for his tent.
The camp had been thrown into chaos. Feral warriors were already inside the perimeter, and bloody corpses were strewn all about. They appeared as men, but their hair was matted and wild. Their bodies were smeared with black and red warpaint, and their teeth were filed into serrated points for rending flesh.
Ardysseos quickly donned his crimson tunic and grabbed the nearest weapon at hand, which turned out to be his falcata. Barefoot, he charged outside to join the fray, and was almost immediately skewered by the broad point of a spearhead. He parried the wild thrust, then neatly separated the spear wielder’s head from body with the impeccably honed blade of his backwards curved sword.
He spied Telamon across the camp - sickle sword and axe in hand - battling several enemies at once. Elsewhere, his fellow hoplites had rallied, forming an offensive wedge and proceeding methodically through the frenzied melee as they indiscriminately cut down the enemy. Warriors from the various tribes of Shor-Dahn had gathered in disparate groups and were holding their ground against the onslaught. Eliad and the Medjai were nowhere in his sight.
Telamon was on the verge of being overrun by his many assailants. Ardysseos plowed through the chaotic battlefield in a desperate attempt to reach the tribesman before he succumbed. His falcata slashed in all directions, leaving a bloody swathe of sundered flesh and severed limbs in his wake. This enemy was savage and bloodthirsty, but their assault was wild and uncoordinated: They were ill-prepared for the skilled and unyielding determination of the defenders.
Ardysseos blocked and parried, attacking and counterattacking with each forward motion. Without the protection of his shield, blood streamed from several cuts across his arms and midsection, yet he ignored these minor wounds as he leapt to Telamon’s defense. The two fought back to back against the slowly waning press of savages.
A precise volley of arrows scythed into the enemy ranks: Eliad and his warrior priests had finally entered the fray. Their arrival sent those few who remained among the homicidal attackers scattering in all directions. It appeared that even these seemingly deranged butchers possessed some sense of self-preservation.
“What kept you?” Ardysseos inquired wearily of Eliad as he approached. Both the hoplite captain and Telamon were bathed in sweat, blood, and grit. A grim expression was fixed firmly upon the Medjai leader’s normally wry visage.
“Come with me. I’ll show you.”
The corpses were massive. Each one was heavily armored, at least ten feet from head to toe, and bristling with arrow shafts that protruded outward like quills on a porcupine. And there were three of them: one each for Ardysseos, Telamon, and Eliad to ponder.
“What in the name of Jor are they?” Telamon wondered, his mellow voice thick with awe and dread.
“They are the old gods,” Ardysseos answered somberly. “They are awake. And they know we’ve come.”
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