It was an unusual night. In the pitch black of the midnight sky, nothing could be found. The vast, dark clouds hid both stars and moon, blotting out any and all light from the night sky. This however was not the reason for which one could term the night unusual, yet it was but one thing that served to contribute to the eeriness of the evening. No, what made it so unusual was the stillness. Normally, the hilly country just to the south of the Great Maximian Wall that cut through the landscape of Ifriquya just to the south of the once great Empire of Orissia was a noisy place. Yet as of late it had become strangely quiet.
There was neither the traffic of merchants, nor the gossiping talk of pilgrims eager to make their way towards or from the great fifty-two meter high walls or one of their fifty-meter high gates. There was only silence. That which made the deathly cold night, seem all the deadlier.
The hills that arose in the distance from those ramparts were some of the highest in all of Ifriquya and were more than hundred kilometers from them. They were each of them tens, dozens and even in some cases hundreds of meters high.
This mountainous range was often called the ‘Southern Highlands’ or ‘Barbarian Highlands’ of Ifriquya by the people of Orissia. To those south of the great walls, they were dubbed the ‘Northern Highlands’ of the continent, and were treated with more than a little disdain and uncertainty by all.
It was said that once upon a time, the greatest of the ancient kings were buried in those very rocks. It was for this reason that many were those who had sought to burrow beneath the surface, beneath the upper stones in the hopes that they might find treasures.
Quite what had happened to them is a mystery that most only dared whisper about.
At present, as the whispering wind dashed across the winding canyons, and through the vast plains that stretched out past them to the distant south, for the first time in many years, someone dared. Dared what? Dared to venture among those great and mighty mountains and great rocks that rose high above the earth, as though in defiance of the gods themselves.
The figure, who dared to venture there, was one of many. Surrounded initially by some twenty men, he was to send a number of them away, saying as he did so, “Away with thee, back to the camp with the lot of you.”
Many objected yet their chieftain would not listen. He knew better than they that their hopes and future lay within those hills. The first of their number to speak up was his Captain Aarin, who complained, “Must you go the rest of the way alone?”
Wurade did not let them know just how uncomfortable he was. To have done so would have only evoked even greater concern on the part of his guards. Eyeing the path above, which was slanted, rock-covered and not at all properly beaten down like those of the road that led to the walls he felt a flash of irritation.
This was not the first time he had met with Roch-Taka, the courtier there and it would likely not be the last he mused, if bitterly. So why did they have to meet in this place? In a cold, frozen wasteland’s cave rather than in his war-tent where there was a fire, there was beer and the comfort of meat and stew?
Grumbling under his breath, he dismissed his men, even as he fantasized about beating and pummeling the likes of Roch-Taka down. The young King could not help but think that unless he was presented with the keys to the gates for his troubles, he would kill the nobleman.
As he climbed up the makeshift path forged and hammered into shape by a thousand generations which gave way to pebbles, making the pathway rougher and rougher for the individual walking towards it. He tried to light a torch, yet the howling winds blew it out, making the walk a treacherous one. Why, oh why, did he have to choose this night of all nights for the meeting with this hellish being to establish a potential pact?
Sorcerers’ and noblemen of the sedentary societies always made for poor allies. They always preferred tricks and schemes to open warfare like true warriors. It was because of this that Wurade prized his fellow tribesmen above all others; honesty among fellow warriors and brothers was important. But trickery and deception were better weapons in his view than any sword.
The important thing, he told himself was to use any and all means he might have to ensure his people triumphed over those of Orissia.
The cave he noticed as he entered was exactly as he had left it the last time he had visited it. That last visit seemed so long ago, though it was but two years ago. The cave was a large hole in the middle of the tallest of the three mountains the farthest away from the Wall. So dark was it that Wurade could see nothing within, so that he almost believed the darkness might be devouring stones great and small.
It was almost as though it were trying to swallow the whole of the mountain, though it was in reality little more than five meters high and wide. Shaking his head at the darkness within, the barbarian could not help but wonder if there were indeed monsters and ancient kings of an Unliving sort still within its depths.
Shivering, he made his way inside, tread forward with great care, resolved not to let the cavern spook him as it had all those months ago. This along with the notion that this alliance was some sort of mistake, he entered it all while glance up above, grateful that he did not have to climb up much further than a third of the way up the mountain.
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Once inside he set about waiting, for the other two men hopeful that it would only be Roch-Taka who was meeting him. Pulling flint from a satchel attached to his belt, he stumbled about and with a curse began to blindly search about on his knees for the bits of wood that he could have sworn they had used for their campfire two years prior.
He had deliberately made a point to leave some behind. He had just as deliberately, sent on two men ahead of himself three days ago, to make certain that they were still there.
Aha! He told himself, there it was! His fingers’ wrapped around the piece of bark with the young ruler letting slip a great cheer of triumph.
This is when he saw a small ball of fire appear, and the being stepped out of the dark cavern. His ally looked like a corpse, a grey-green completion. His sharp features were accentuated by his sheer bulk, that one would not expect such an appearance from a mage. He wore a cape of hellish red with charcoal accents, he was wearing lightly armoured top and pants, with a gem on the front that emanated fell magic, and even thought the man could not use or feel magic, he just shuddered just in the presence of it. Looking at the fire, it was not so much a ball of fire, as it was his hand that was the source of fire.
“Roch-Taka?” The man composed himself, as he turned to face the other man.
The man wore a cloak to keep himself warm, as if the fire emanated cold instead of heat. His clothing was light, yet warm, as to avoid detection. His brown hair and stout figure hid the sweat of his olive skin, and his brown eyes recollected his sense of confidence. He started hiding his doubt, just as he looked in the gold, soul-sucking eyes of his co-conspirator.
“Oh it is you Varkolak,” he said relieved, “Where is Roch-Taka?”
“Roch-Taka is otherwise indisposed.” Varkolak retorted shortly, with the slightest hint of a sneer on his thin-lips. “He has run into some measure of difficulty with former friends of his.”
“I see.”
“But never you mind that, Wurade,” the warlock replied with a gleam in his eyes that the other man did not much like. “What may I ask is the purpose behind this meeting of ours? And would it not be more comfortable, in your camp to the south of this place?”
Unnerved despite himself, by this sardonic remark on the part of the warlock, eyes glittering brighter than before, Wurade attempted to hide his surprise from his dark face. He should have guessed Varkolak was aware before he had even arrived, where his camp was located.
It was the cold satisfaction that floated its way onto the other man’s thin face that indicated to Wurade, some measure of surprise had flashed across his face. Cursing his foolish mistake, he was to chewing on his lower lip resume his seat on the stone opposite that of the fallen sorcerer.
“I would ask the same of you,” Wurade retorted evenly, “I must make it within the walls.”
“Really now? Why is that?”
“You know all too well!” Wurade bellowed furiously halfway to his feet, before he remembered himself, “We had an arrangement last we spoke; I would clear away those enemies you wished killed beyond the gates of Orissia and in return you and Roch-Taka will open the gates.”
“And what dare I ask, would you do once past those gates?” Varkolak asked of the warrior a hint of amusement in his eyes.
“I intend to burn those villages nearest the gates, topple the Rochset clan of Dwarves that rules over Neferajar and have overseen the defence of the Great Wall for two centuries, and burn Deshbekhen to the ground.” Wurade replied only to hasten to add, “Though I would leave all the temples intact I assure you.”
He hoped that his own silky tone might win him some measure of trust on the part of the warlock; his hopes though were dashed even as he was shocked by the words that tumbled from the older man’s next words. “You will burn them. I am aware, so burn them and all that you find to the ground, it matters little to me.”
“What?” He asked incredulously, unable to believe his ears.
“Do we have a pact, Wurade?” Varkolak asked of the barbarian-ruler who studied him carefully.
It had not been the first time that kings to the south of the Great Wall had found themselves drawn into some sort of arrangement with men to the north. Each and every time in the past, it had ended poorly, ordinarily for the southern men.
Though, he was not one to spurn a potential ally out of hand, and had a preference to err on the side of caution Wurade had good reason he thought to be tempted by this offer. The trouble was that he did not trust Varkolak for a single moment. He was the sort of man to smile at you and then slit your throat ear to ear in the next.
It made Wurade think of his late wife Otieno, who was much the same way. Save, where she was appealing and seductive in ways no other woman could ever be, this monster of a man was anything but. To the contrary, there was something about Varkolak that simply made him shiver from disgust whenever he was near.
“Come now, do not tell me that you are still suspicious of me?” Varkolak demanded in his silky voice.
“I would be a fool, if I were not,” Wurade snapped with no less venom than before.
The man’s instinctive response was one that might well have offended another, yet not the likes of the warlock. To the contrary, he simply smiled as though the notion of someone mistrusting him amused him a great deal.
“Indeed,” replied the warlock slyly.
It was just the sort of reaction that made the warrior-king nauseous. He really ought, he told himself to have selected his northern allies better. Certainly it was thanks to them, he had conquered all his allies without Orissian opposition, and thanks to them he had had a great deal of Dwarfsteel blades and hauberks, along with Masaesylian horses. All of these things had allowed him to grow his kingdom, and devour those of three other nations, all of them originally allies of Orissia.
Yet, much as this alliance had profited him greatly he still did not have enough in his view. He did not like Orissia, and did not trust the courtier Roch-Taka, nor did he trust Varkolak. “But I would have more, much more aid from you than before. This invasion will be different from all the others.”
“But of course,” Varkolak replied amused, “I will guarantee more steel, more men, and-”
“I wish for the gates opened and for one of your Order, namely your heir whoever he is to accompany me on this expedition.” Wurade retorted sharply.
Narrowing his eyes at the rudeness of the younger man’s interruption, Varkolak looked as though he might strike. So fierce did he look then that the barbarian wondered if he had made a mistake.
In the next instant though, the serpentine looking warlock nodded his head. From deep within the shadows of his robes he extended a long-fingered olive skinned hand.
Eyeing it for one long moment, the dark-skinned Ortegian hesitated. He could not begin to count all the ways this decision, could go wrong and could prove itself, a mistake. Yet against his own better judgment, he soon reached out one trembling hand and very slowly clasped it, sealing their alliance.