Valley of the Old Gods: Part 3
Being one of the Chronicles of Cyron
The disparate coalition of warriors spent the remaining hours of the morning taking stock of their losses, and honoring the victorious dead.
Billowing smoke clouds from nearly two dozen funeral pyres meandered languidly through the air; melding with the remnants of the ominous fog, and drifting upwards into a clear, blue sky where the heavens were visible. The Sparan hoplites led the column along a wide, dusty track away from the campsite turned burial ground. They were dressed in full battle kit, and their senses were even more frayed and alert than the previous day. Eliad and the remaining Medjai had disappeared ahead of the army, loping into the mist to follow the trail left by the retreating savages.
The warrior priests had suffered the greatest losses out of all the gathered factions: It cost eight Medjai lives to take down the three behemoths that were the old gods. Ardysseos counted himself lucky that he lost only a trio of men, though he grieved their deaths nonetheless. There were no wounded among their casualties. They were dealing with ruthless adversaries.
Word of giants among their attackers spread quickly through the ranks as they marched. A few of the tribesmen and hoplites had seen the massive corpses. Ardysseos was certain strength and courage would not fail his warriors, but the Valley of the Old Gods was a well-known haunting ground of evil. There was good reason it was forbidden to enter.
Several fraught - yet uneventful - hours passed during the balmy afternoon march before Eliad slid out of the fog with a handful of Medjai. Ardysseos signaled a halt at the sight of the warrior priests, and the column slowly rumbled to a standstill.
“Any sign of the fiends?” the Sparan captain inquired, wiping sweat from his brow.
“Plenty. They weren’t subtle in their comings and goings. We found their trail easily enough.”
“And? Where did it lead? I assume you know, since you’ve returned.”
The Medjai all exchanged uneasy glances with one another before Eliad responded. “Yes, we know. Best gather the tribe leaders and follow us.”
Eliad guided Ardysseos, Telamon, and the rest of the Shor-Dahn tribal captains along a narrow, rugged trail hemmed in on all sides by a dense forest of pine, beech, chestnut, and oak trees. The mist seemed to dissipate before them with each step forward, and Ardysseos found himself wondering if Eliad was keeping up with his prayers to Jor. There was not a sound to be heard - save for the rustling of foliage and heavy footfalls that marked their passage. The resounding silence was even more uncanny now that the company was surrounded by a wilderness that should otherwise have been teeming with wildlife.
The trees began to thin and gradually spread out, eventually opening up completely and ushering the troupe onto a wide avenue paved with limestones.
“What in the name of Jor…” Telamon whispered in awe at Ardysseos’ right shoulder. The hoplite captain was just as mystified.
They found themselves standing in a vast, city plaza: Colossal ziggurats and outbuildings comprised of stone were arrayed symmetrically around the square.
“Is this where those savages set out from?” Ardysseos wondered aloud.
Eliad nodded. “Their trail ends here. Whether they still remain hidden nearby, we do not know for certain. We dare not venture too far into the city.”
“Is this area safe at least?”
“As safe as we can manage for the time being.”
“Well, let us take a look around and see what we find.”
“What is that awful stench?” Telamon waved a swarthy hand through the air in front of his face.
“Whatever it is rankles my nose as well,” Ardysseos dourly concurred.
“You won’t like the answer.” Eliad beckoned them to follow him. They proceeded down a narrow alley that ran between the nearest towering structures. The trio made several turns along the backstreet before emerging into a vast courtyard, with the ziggurats looming behind them. Despite the fact he was a battle hardened warrior, Ardysseos struggled to keep his composure at the macabre spectacle before him.
“There is your stench,” Eliad stated in a grim tone. Thousands of mutilated corpses were strewn around the open space - men, women, and children stacked high in great, bloody piles.
“Jor save us!” Telamon swore. “What could possess a man to do such things?”
“Those in the Cult of Golathos are not men. They are heathenistic and blaspheming servants of the old gods: not unlike the Lamonites,” Ardysseos solemnly observed.
“But where do they find so many victims to sacrifice?”
“They have been known to venture out to raid nearby villages. And the northern fringe of the Valley borders the Caladen Lowlands. It’s likely the clansmen there do not exercise the same caution as we do here in Sparos. I daresay we would find a significant number of them among the dead. It’s well known that the northern barbarians are boastful glory hounds.”
“You mean they don’t shun this place entirely like you Sparans?” Telamon was incredulous.
“I’ve heard it said they send mercenary expeditions into the Valley, however much it beggars belief. I cannot imagine those that venture here would return to tell the tale.”
“There are so many dead, though. Too many to be from the occasional raid, or ill-advised odyssey.”
Ardysseos reluctantly approached one of the gory mounds. Many of the corpses that were more or less intact shared the same physical traits as those that attacked their camp earlier in the day.
“They must have a lower caste,” he speculated. “Those that are set aside for sacrifice.”
“It is little wonder the existence of this place is an abomination in the eyes of Jor,” Eliad noted. There was a flat, angry edge to his voice.
“Peace, my brother,” Telamon enjoined the Medjai. “That is why we are here.”
Ardysseos gradually stepped away from the two tribesmen to wander amongst the countless piles. A detached, morbid interest with the gruesome tableau slowly overtook him the longer he rambled. He had meandered several hundred yards away before he realized he was no longer in sight of his companions. He unexpectedly glimpsed movement out of the corner of his eye.
Ardysseos pivoted so that he was facing directly at the nearest stack of bodies. Once more - incredulously - he was certain he saw the slightest hint of motion. He brandished the falcata sheathed over his shoulder just as a gore covered arm streaked out from amongst the eviscerated corpses. The hand clutched for his boots, and the warrior let out a string of curses; dancing away from the grisly, questing appendage.
A blood-drenched head emerged, with features that were feminine and delicate. Ardysseos dropped his sword in astonishment: He bent down to haul the struggling, mysterious creature free of its confinement.
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