Calypso came for Kheresh. Bringing her sisters and the nation’s doom.

Kheresh was a land straddling the boundaries between the fertile crescent and the scorched deserts, at its crown stood the city of Khershatal. Though the humans of Khershatal often called it by the land’s name, for it was the duchy’s name and the only great city remaining in the land. A stronghold of the proud –and dying– Kharmites, whose flocks once kept the green Kheresh’s jungles in check. But the jungles were gone, as were their flocks. Leaving them to wander the desert grazing from oasis to oasis, a nomadic existence that dwindled their numbers to a few thousand or drove them into the city lifestyle.

Where they nestled between the jagged peaks of the Akhatar Mountains and the shifting sands of the glass wastelands, what had once been the green jungles of Rub’al Durr. For centuries, it had dwindled, scorched by hubris until only Khereshetal remained as a bastion of the past. High Zahranqir, the mountain fortress was gone, from a million strong before the cataclysm to a ruin where not even scavenging hyenas trod. Coastal Qaliraq sank beneath the waves, a casualty of the cataclysm’s aftershocks, while Jannakhdar of the riverlands was incinerated by the island’s ascension. As had many other forgotten cities.

Of all the great cities, only Khereshetal endured. A beacon of fortitude in the dying lands. Her domed mosques and watchtowers soared into the sky like the spears of an unconquerable army, and the walls of its homes were thick, built up over centuries of ruddy sweat. Forever guided by the Dukes of House Kheresh.

Duke Aliyar Kheresh descended the streets and strode toward his men, moving with the confidence of a man who had faced death a thousand times and emerged victorious. As he passed through the ranks, the soldiers straightened, drawing strength from his presence. Duke Aliyar Kheresh stopped before them, his voice booming across the courtyard.

“Men of Khersh! My brothers and sons!” He called out. “Today, we stand on the edge of history. Our city, our families, our very lives hang in the balance. The enemy we face is fearsome, but we did not falter against Pandora’s demons, and what are these scaley women when compared to those bloodless abominations? I say to you, they are nothing!” Shouted Kheresh.

Cheers burst from his men, Captain Farad shouting the loudest and setting the example. It brought a sincere smile to Kheresh’s face, and he let the men howl, hoping it would improve their morale before continuing.

“We are the sons of the desert, the children of green Kheresh! We will water the sands with the blood of our enemies, and grow our crops above their graves, just as we have for centuries!”

The soldiers roared in response, their voices echoing off the adobe walls. Kheresh raised his sword, the blade catching the first light of dawn.

“Prepare yourselves, for today we go to war!”

The men began to chant, a low, rhythmic sound that resonated deep within their chests. It was the war song of their ancestors, a call to arms that had been sung by countless generations. It spoke of valor, of sacrifice, of the unbreakable bond between a soldier and his homeland.

As the sun crested over the Akhatar mountains, painting the sky in hues of gold and crimson, the gates of Khershatal’s fortress mansions opened, and the army of Duke Kheresh marched out to meet their fate, arranging themselves along the outskirts of Khereshetal in two grand skirmish lines, their ranks interrupted by the rows of thick walled houses and the artillery crews distributed into the tallest homes, where the cannons and ballistae would have the greatest field of view.

They did not have to wait long.

Across the shifting sands, something stirred.

A tremor spread through the thousand man militia. Conscripts who’d been drafted during the week and now acted as a shield to protect the thousand Kharmite warriors. It was known that they would run, the only question was how long could they hold out.

Kheresh, as the city's Lord Protector, had long been an icon of reassurance, yet he had no answer to the approaching apocalypse. A thousand warriors of his Kharmite kin stood arrayed along the rim of Khereshetal, ready for their commander, tall and broad-shouldered, to lead them to victory.

A feat that only he knew was beyond his ken. For he alone understood what was about to occur, felt the impending guilt of leading thousands to slaughter. Five years ago he would have balked at losing ten men, but after Greenwood, after the hell of that forest, another two thousand hardly registered on his conscience. In the age of his father there had been nearly a hundred thousand citizens of Khereshetal, sacrificing two to save a hundred was an easy equation, the sort of math that had been drilled into him during his childhood. Though the guilt would haunt his nightmares to come. If he lived. Calypso was a name he recognized from his houses’ private copy of the first Teutonic Codex, it had called her ‘Humanities’ Quarrier’ as if she supplied stone for humans to build with. An erroneous mistranslation meant to move the race of ‘snakemen’ into a subservient role to humanity. To demean Calypso’s value to that of a working man, and deny her as a demigod-in-waiting, a force of elemental fury that petrified cities from afar, or ground them into dust. Petrifier of Humanity.

Stern lines of authority were carved into his face, concealing the lie of hope. His eyes, perpetually nestled under thick brows. For years, he had led his Kharmites in their perpetual strife, battling against the desert, portal monsters, bandits, the lost souls who had fled from Pandora’s presence in terror, losing their minds in the process; and even the capricious demonspawn of Pandora’s manifestations. But nothing in his long life had prepared him for the terror that now swept up from the south.

Forty years of rule had not prepared him for the gorgons. Nor would four hundred years have prepared him. He knew of Phaedra’s martial prowess, her accuracy with bows, and her daughter’s petrifying eyes. But she was a scout, not an archmage.

If only I’d known they were here! Yusuf, why did you play the fool? Why did you abuse the magistrate’s office? If only you’d told me of the gorgons! We could have negotiated with Phaedra, she would have sent an emissary that would have prevented this war! But no, Yusuf, you fool, you killed them and thought you were protecting our home. You short sighted bastard. Kheresh shook his head, if only the gorgon’s were imprisoned, if only he had taken any other route than torturing them to death, then peace could have been within their reach! But no, Yusuf had even slain a Lightning Lord’s mother, and been judged accordingly. So the Duke couldn’t even offer the guilty party as a peace offering.

“Ready the ballistae, have archers fire in companies. May Therun Perun Taloc guide our aim. For our eyes cannot.” Said Duke Kheresh.

His orders were carried by the sound of an auroch’s horn, blown in tune to an old archer’s warsong. Ballistae were loaded, their spears set against fully taught cords and archers nocked arrows.

Waiting for the gorgons to appear.

And waiting.

The time gave Kheresh time to wallow in his mistakes. By the time reports had reached Duke Kheresh of strange creatures stalking the glass sea, beasts with the torsos of women and the lower bodies of serpents –it was too late– and a dozen had been slain on both sides. Now these gorgons, forsaken priestesses and daughters of Hades, long-banished from the realms of men, had returned in force, sailing one of the floating islands over the glass wastes.

The sands shifted, moving so loudly that it was visible through the mirage of sand. Before he could think any further a dozen figures appeared from the desert sand, well out of ballistae range, mere specks to his beady eyes. They coiled strangely, almost as if they were striking serpents. A distant whistling noise followed. Impossibly far, yet growing louder every second.

“Hold steady, they’re ranging us.” He said.

“Trying to get us to waste our bolts. Ha, we won’t fall for that trick!” Said Farad, sneering at the deception.

Until a half dozen black arrows pierced the engineers. Men screamed, skewered and wounded by bows they couldn’t hope to equal.

“Impossible!” Shouted Watch Captain Farad, his head jerking from one slain engineer to the next.

The gorgons had chosen deliberately, and shot the engineers nearest the Duke. They were mocking him, taunting his ballistae with their inhuman range.

“They’re not human!” Growled Farad.

“Return fire!” Shouted the Duke.

The lead company of archers, a score of men loosed their arrows. Nearby ballistae cranked their strings back the final inch, just enough to release the trigger, then let them thunder forward launching heavy spears at the distant specks of gorgon. Eight foot long projectiles sailed through the air, their fletchings whistling, guiding them true. They sailed unerringly, falling far short of the desired women.

Another wave of angry black arrows found another ballistae nest, this one was nestled inside a tower, with a roof and crenelations to protect the men, most arrows shattered against the stone fortifications or buried themselves in the roof’s timbers, but it only took three to cripple the three engineers, and five landed.

“They’ll pick us apart if we do nothing! Get under cover! Shields to the front!” Shouted Duke Kheresh.

Farad signaled to the drummers, who began beating their davuls, hammering away to signal a fighting retreat. Men scattered, falling back into the nearby homes, hiding behind walls, abandoning their siege engines, and falling back into the city. The thousand strong militia nearly broke then, with furtive glances towards the fortress of crystal and the legion of paladins who seemed dispassionate to their plight. Worse still, a white flag now flew above the fortress, and above the hubbub of a thousand men scrambling, the sound of crystal gates grinding open could be heard.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

Damn your games Lightning Lord! Why build a fortress only to surrender at the first volley!? What kind of madman– ah, but you’re not a man. Tufan is nothing more than a scared child, who’s lost his mind over a single woman. Bah. As if his plan could’ve worked. Thought Duke Kheresh, falling back to the cannonry. The three cannons he possessed were old things, inaccurate, dangerous to fire, but capable of incredible range with an unparalleled level of penetration.

Should the gorgon’s attempt to enter the city his men would ambush them from every corner, trading a dozen human lives for each of the damnable witches. A tactic aimed at the petrifying eyes of the snake women. Most dismissed these stories as the wild exaggerations of frightened peasants. But Duke Kheresh had seen them in action, as had his veterans. Against hellhounds, wyverns, and orcs the gorgons petrified their enemies, only rarely resorting to archery, he now understood they were humoring the humans, not wanting to infantilize the very men they had come to romance. For a bow capable of outshooting a ballistae required tremendous strength, far more than any woman should ever possess.

We were fools. Thought the Duke, realizing he had never seen a gorgon fall in battle. He’d thought the men of Sintra protected them out of some desire to shield their feminine fragility, but now he understood the truth.

The damned Sintrans were taking the easy road, they protected the gorgons so they didn’t need to fight. In Kheresh, that would be cowardice, but in the attrition of Greenwood it was pragmatism. Throughout the dusty streets of Khereshetal his army –clad in brass armor– waited for the enemy. They were a hardy people, these Kharmites, with faces hardened by years of struggle, their hands calloused from wielding sword and shield since they were old enough to walk. But there was a tension in the air, a sense of impending doom that hung over them like a shroud.

Kheresh’s second-in-command, a grizzled veteran named Farad, scrambled over the rear wall, boosted over by his squadmates on the other side.

“The ambushes are ready, my lord,” Farad said, his voice rough as gravel. “But the veterans have asked to surrender, and the militia–”

“Don’t tell me they heard the veterans.” Hissed the Duke, such a request would break the men entirely. They might even turn their blades against their kin, rather than live through a defeat to snake-ladies.

“No sire, those with experience speak of the victory celebrations to the militia, how they’ll be swarmed with virgins and wine before nightfall. But-” He glanced around the musicians, giving them a glare that dared them to spread his words, “the veterans who fought in Sintra know we cannot win.” Said Farad, somehow growing new wrinkles across his face.

“Do you think I want this? Every envoy save the Lightning Toddler has been rejected, returning with their head missing! They don’t want gold, they won’t take slaves, Bah! Nothing save revenge will satiate these women!” Snapped Kheresh.

Farad nodded, though there was doubt in his eyes. “What do we know of the Archmage? My lord, I am with you, but what if the legend of her potency isn’t exaggerated?”

“Then we will return to the glass of Kheresh from whence we came.” Kheresh said grimly. “Our lands cannot endure the plague of portals, not after Aldric spent our strength fighting specters. Better to die a death of legend, than to die of thirst after every man, woman, and child has perished or fled. Oh what I would give for these gorgons to hunt the king instead of us!”

Not a single soldier in the courtyard blinked at the open treason, for all of them were of the same mind.

They were Kharmite veterans. They had all seen the missives, the letters requesting men and receiving month old bread instead. Never enough to sate them, or any of the distant barons who’d been summoned on a wild goose chase to defend the northlands, even as portals attacked their supply caravans. Aldric had sent them to die. Their current weakness stemmed from his interference.

Words hissed in an ancient tongue reached the Duke’s ears, sounding like scales rubbing against claws. Men screamed as an adobe home crumbled to dust around them, only to be silenced by the black fletched arrows of Medusa’s avenging sisters.

“Farad, Spread the word! If the house ahead of yours crumbles, retreat!”

“Yessir!” Called Farad, already running towards the front lines.

It was no use, over the next hour the gorgons crumbled a hundred buildings to dust, forcing the militia back. These half trained and untested men acted without purpose, some charging, some fleeing, and all being cut down by black arrows. They fled in a disordered mess, scattering to their homes and families instead of holding the line. Kheresh couldn’t find the strength to curse them, for his own heart trembled as earth magic liquified stone. These gorgons knew human limitations and had outmaneuvered them. Had he not been forced to eat the horses in Greenwood, he might have risked a cavalry charge.

“Omar,” Began Kheresh, “Keep a tally of the fallen, when it reaches a thousand we will sue for peace.”

Omar nodded, jotting a few numbers down as messengers came and went, reporting the creeping death.

Tariq, an old veteran and personal guardsman of Kheresh slammed a hand against the adobe wall.

“We should charge them! Force them to deal with our greater numbers while we have the opportunity to overwhelm them!” He growled, turning red in the face.

Kheresh didn’t bother looking at him. “You are a fool if you think that would aid us. Even now I can hear their magic singing. It flows through the earth, gathering beyond our city in a great trench. I know the trick well, it’s a sand pit. Like an antlion’s den, any who charge them will drown beneath the glass wastes. Twenty thousand warriors would not be enough to charge those twelve women, and we have far fewer still. They are taunting us with arrows, when their magic is the greater threat. It’s like a child with a slingshot, one who’s trapped a hare in a cave and is striking closer with every shot. Yet his father stands behind him, holding back two hounds.

Those twelve are bait, meant to draw us out of the city so Calypso can reap the army in a single spell. If we had the paladins to shield us we might have stood a chance.”

Six hours passed with the gorgons creeping closer.

Every hour the number of houses dwindled. The only delay that gave the Kharmites hope was the decreasing pace of the gorgons. In the first hour more houses crumbled to dust than could be counted, while in the sixth a mere dozen homes died. As if the gorgons were running low on prepared spells, and were now too exhausted to press deeper.

Come eventide, there was silence, with scouts moving too and fro, delivering news or the lack thereof. For they all communicated one message, the gorgons had withdrawn, retreating after they had reached the crystal fortress of Tufan Biliam Alhusam and been shown in by the Lord himself.

“Farad, let us see the ruin they’ve made of our city.” Said Duke Aliyar Kheresh, striding out of cover and into the open.

Just in time to see Lightning Lord Alhusam exit the crystal fortress with a dozen healers. Together the parties advanced through Kheresh, like polar opposites advancing on a mirror. Ducal guards scattered on Kheresh’s orders while healing paladins attended the wounded, triaging them at Tufan’s instruction. Though he paused several times to heal or assist the injured. A mercy Kheresh couldn’t endure in silence.

“So you’ve come to heal us after a defeat. Why not slay the gorgons with your Lightning, Lord Alhusam.” Snapped Aliyar Kheresh.

Tufan didn’t twitch, he simply ignored the call, finishing his instructions on how to set the humerus bone of a warrior who’d been trapped under his ballista, and half the tower he was hiding in crumbled. The resulting fracture had been compound, both edges of the bone protruding from the man’s thigh. He screeched as four paladins held him down, and another pulled the limb straight so it could be healed. Most guards looked away, unable to stomach the carnage after being so soundly defeated.

“I have come to ease what suffering I can. Blame me if you wilt, curse me for my inaction, but you slew my mother. While Calypso offers me protection and kinship. This is your fault, and I will not stand in defense of murderers. In less than six hours your man killed my mother. He did not seek recompense from her family, nor did he attempt to make amends for her sins. Nor did your knights intervene when he clearly surpassed the bounds of his station!” Tufan shook his head, a scowl on his face. “You dare call me a sinner, when this war is born of your actions! How can my paladins stand as your shield when you provoked the gorgons?” Answered Tufan, moving onto the next patient, and finding none.

Kheresh couldn’t believe his ears, he was being chastised by a toddler! And worse still, the little cunt was right!

“You little shit! Apologize to your lord and master or taste my steel!” Shouted Tariq, drawing a bored look from the Lightning Lord.

A flick of his wrist and the sand beneath Tariq’s feet vanished. The man sank to his waist as wet sand swallowed him, holding him with an iron grip.

“Taste steel? Child, I have already drank the blood of my murdered family. Are you so eager to die that you cannot wait for the gorgons to return?”

Duke Kheresh caught Tariq by armor, warning him not to move.

“Not now, not here.” Whispered Kheresh, turning to Tufan. “You met with the gorgons, what did you say?”

“Calypso was only returning my courtesy. It’s simple really, I asked how much of Kheresh they wanted, but she refused my offer for half the city. ‘Why settle for half when we already have the whole?’ is what she said. Maybe tomorrow’s negotiations will be more productive.” Said Tufan, acting as if the desert people belonged to him and not the duke.

“If she were within your grasp you could have slain her!” Snapped Kheresh.

Tufan rolled his eyes, “Let me make this extra-ordinarily clear. If all of Kheresh is slain by the gorgons, I will still call them Taloc’s allies, and you a motherfucker.”

Paladins opened their mouths in horror at the insult and a dozen Kharmites lept in front of the Duke. Their motion mirrored by the healing paladins, who drew straight longswords.

Tufan waved his hand, and hit the ducal guards with what looked like a dozen black couches, sending the men flying backwards.

“Idiots. I’m a fourfold mage. Thank the Lady Nyota for your lives, for I see the sigil of Greenwood on your captain’s armor. A token of gratitude. She is why I haven’t already slain you all. Now put your cocks away.” Snapped Liam, instantly gaining compliance from the paladins who sheathed their swords.

“Duke Kheresh, on the morrow Calypso will return and repeat this tactic. All that is left to you, is flee, die, or offer her recompense. A thousand warriors ought to be enough to save your people.”

“–A thousand! Madness!” Cried Farad, breaking into laughter at the absurdity of the demand. “Ahahaha!” Echoed through the city, drawing no mirth.

Kheresh and Liam shot him concerned looks, hearing his sanity fraying with every chuckle.

“What if we sally against her in the night or ambush her come the morning?” Asked Kheresh, already knowing the answer but testing Tufan.

“Calypso is being merciful to you, do not test her patience. Duke Kheresh, please, I implore you. Make peace. Whatever the price, find a way to sell it.” Said Tufan.

He paused a few moments letting the words sink in. Then silently turned and left Kheresh. All paladins following his lead.

Farad thrust his scimitar in Tufan’s direction, as if attempting to stab him despite the growing distance.

“Unworthy son of a–”

Kheresh clapped a hand over his Farad’s mouth.

“--Don’t finish that thought. Disturbing his mother’s memory is likely to raise her from the dead. Twil only beget more evil, and we have plenty of that.” Ordered Duke Kheresh. “I hate his conduct, but he’s right. We provoked the gorgons. Farad, I have an order I do not wish to give.”

“Then do not give such evil life by speaking it aloud. Merely say the name and I shall remove your moral quandary my lord.” Answered Farad, eyeing Liam’s back.

If only it were so simple… Woe has come to roost in our hearts and hearths.

“Farad, gather all the men who were involved in the gorgon murders, form them into a company. They will be our vanguard, and deliver a letter to the gorgons tomorrow.” Said Aliyar Kheresh.

Farad’s jaw hit the floor, sac tapping his testicles on the way down. He grunted as if struck, but found the wherewithal to nod his head and depart.

“A dark order indeed.” He muttered.

Omar ran a hand through his thinning hair, “Taloc save our souls. Innocent men–”

“They aren’t innocent! Bah, damned fools obeyed the magistrate under my orders, but we were gone too long! Damn Aldric.” Kheresh turned, facing the sky, “Therun Taloc, I swear to you, allow my people to live, take my life, flense the white from my eyes and drag me to hell, but let Kheresh endure!”