The Black Tongue of the City – Chapter 22

*Scene 01* – 09:35 (A Covenant Foundation)

Ezra led us up the stair to the terrace overlook where Nem, a man of brawn and strength, worked with attendants on a large miniature model of the city of Azragoth.  Ezra broke from our group ascended a higher terrace stair and spoke privately to Nem, who cast glances back at us and then finally nodded.  Ezra walked down from the overlook with Nem to meet us as we assembled along the outward balustrade of the lower terrace.

As Nem stepped down onto the lower deck our eyes met, and I saw recognition in his face.  We knew each other, but Ezra did not know this.

“O’Brian, I would like to present the governor of this region and the chief restorer of Azragoth.  This city stands as a testament to this man’s faithfulness and love for this city and his commitment to carry out the will of the One.  He will instruct you in the foundational ways and then bring you to me for the handling of your armaments.  He will answer the questions you have been seeking to understand.”

With that, Ezra stepped back and returned to the stairway leading down to the Warrior’s Court and Nem, arms clasped behind him, stepped forward taking in our measure with a keen eye.

“It has been a while,” Nem said, stating the obvious, giving no other indication to the others of our mutual past dealings.

“I am told you would know more of the Breathing Sword, but to understand it, you will need to know something of foundations.  That is where I come in.  For as you may see of our work here,” he said gesturing back to the scale modeled map of the city, “We are the rebuilders of Azragoth.”

“I am also told that you were brought in from the back wall of the city, so you have seen but a little of the work being done here.  As part of the cleansing, this last evening, you will be somewhat familiar with the streets of the interior by now, but there is something more you must see.  We do not often allow visitors to Azragoth, so, as travelers, you should know that you have been given a certain dispensational privilege by the city council.  Further, you are Surface Worlders, which is even more irregular.  We have Surface Worlders among our citizenry, but they are few and not permitted to hold leadership positions here or intermarry with any of our clerics.  To live among us, they are required to adopt our ways and customs, even to the point necessary for leaving their own.

As we are quarantined people, we, too, are a set apart, people.  These are the terms upon which you are permitted to reside within our city and learn of our methods and ways here.  As you may have surmised, we are a city rebuilding in secret.  Every lineage of every citizen is known here.  This city is mutually bound to one another and under covenant with each other.  Together, in the very heart of the city, we all pledged to this covenant, hand upon shoulder until the human chain reached the inner court with the central leaders placing their hands upon the honor sword of the city.  Without the mercy of The One, we knew that the moment would not have occurred.

The covenant is with The One, whose writings appear on The Marker Stone.  The One Whose Word stands forever.  That Honor Sword is a symbol of our covenant with The Word Maker, and it is the very one we collectively chose to return to The Sacred Grove of The Fountain.”

Here he faced me, fixing me with a solemn stare.  “It is the very one you have brought back to our city. You have been appointed for this, for no man could draw it forth from the grip of the Terebinth in The Sacred Grove,…unless The One allowed it to be used for His own purposes.  Purposes that may involve…say…one of The Marker’s Stone Quests.  If you carry our Sword, you too are bound to our city’s covenant to serve The One Who made The Sacred Stone.  If you carry this city’s sword, know that you carry a portion of our hopes with it as you journey to seek The Dominion Crown.”

I cleared my throat and spoke quietly, low enough so that only Nem could hear me.  “I’m not sure I understand.  Ezra told us you would explain to us about foundations.  That understanding foundations was essential to understanding the meaning of a breathing sword.  Is the city’s sword I found in the stream, a breathing sword?”

Nem sighed and reached out and gripped my shoulders, forcing me to look directly into his eyes.  “You have eyes, but you do not see.  Ears, but you do not hear.  You are locked into the carnal, but need to look with your inner spirit and hear deeper echoes from the place and realm you were sent here to seek.  What do the words of the Apostle Paul say to the Corinthians about the spiritual weapons of warfare?”

My mind shifted and pulled forth a verse from the Ancient Text.  Something within me awakened, suddenly seeing what both Nem and Ezra were alluding to.

Nem saw the realization coming into my mind as my eyes widened.

“Excavatia’s door is within The Called,” Nem said.  “We know this Mid-World is a place between two places.  It is characterized by aspects of both the beginning finite surface and the eternal dwelling.  No weapon has any power beyond that of the weilder, except a spiritual weapon empowered by The One.  Your foundation is key.  We are all born in death, unless the newness comes and indwells us.  His Presence is predicated upon the foundation of our personal covenant.  It is an individual agreement, sealed and certified by blood.  The Blood that kepts us from the emptiness.  You are the house that this Covenant secures.  If you are in Covenant, that is The Foundation, of all that follows.   A physical foundation can be compromised by physical forces.  I am a builder and I can assure you of that.  What is needed is a Foundation not subject to physical wear.  Once that is established the rest of what you are made to be and do can be built upon that security.  Evil cannot reach, what it cannot access.  Threats cannot compromise The One who Indwells the heart of a new-made warrior.  But you must allow The Resident to deal with the forces that arise against you, and yield to His authority.  This is not a passive relationship.  It is a readiness, and an active daily pursuit.  You must surrender to The Covenant Resident, and He will equip you to act as a Breathing Sword.”

I was stunned.  I had expected to hear him talk to us about strength, training and discipline as a foundation to warrior training, but not this.  We had undergone sparring drills, and weapons handling, when I had first come to The Mid-World, but this was taking an aspect of warefare in a new direction.  A mindset.  A posture of warfare.

Nem continued, “Man was created and became alive by The Breath of The One.  If you let Him breathe through you, you will be functioning as a Breathing Sword.  This is why Ezra’s teaching will be of no use without that understanding.  If you cannot perceive beyond what you can physically touch, taste, see or smell, you might as well abandon the stone quest.  What you will come against on these quests are not merely flesh and blood.”

“So the physical skill is not needed?”  I asked, incredulous.

“It is, but it is not the most important,” Nem pointed to and tapped my chest.  “Eternity is within you.  You must go through yourself to that inner part of your heartland to be equipped for the warefare ahead.  The Word is Living and sharp.  Connect to The Truth.  Any blade you carry will only cut and carve a physical form, but is ineffective against supernatural enemies that pursue you.  The Flame to imbue the Sword you weild with cutting fire capable of penetrating those enemies here that are more than mere flesh and blood, comes through your surrender to the Conqueror within you.”

*Scene 02* – 04:04 (Catching On)

Shelberd, Brem and Bray had not been waiting long before Grum-Blud returned to them, blood splattered and trembling with rage.  They stared wide-eyed as Grum came knuckle trotting along the tree line, muttering angrily to himself in a dangerous mood.  Spotting them huddling in the bushes, he spat, “Blasted longshanks killed Corg!”  Longshanks was a pejorative appellate trolls reserved for humankind that had not transitioned to their status.

“What’er we gonna do?” Shelberd ventured.

Grum knuckled up to them, sneering. “Saddle up these beasties and beat the bushes for The Pan.”

“Oh, Grum..!” Shelberd groaned.

“Shut it!” Grum-Blud threatened, snaking his blade out of his waistband.  The dark blade was still wet with blood and gore, but wickedly sharp, as the glinting daggers shining from Grum-Blud’s glaring eyes.

Brem and Bray whimpered, shrinking back.

“Saddle’em up,” Shelberd nodded, shuddering despite himself, as he turned to Brem, slinging the small saddle over its back, pawing blindly, frantically, for the cinch strap, while looking warily back at Grum’s threatening blade.

Satisfied, Grum, slowly hunched down gathering a sheaf of wild grass and ran his blade through it scraping away the gore and grime.  Shelberd scuttled quickly to the other side of Bray and slung the saddle over its haunches, catching the cinch belt and threading it through the rings tugging it snug.  “Watch it there, bub!” Bray snorted.  “My ribs abrade easily. If I’m gonna walk and carry, I gotta breathe.”

Grum growled something unintelligible, and Bray trembled saying no more.

Once mounted and loaded, Brem and Bray headed off in a trot, the trolls riding them through the brush, widely skirting the bordered property of the stone farmhouse and surrounding pasture.

“Grum, where are we going?” Shelberd groaned.

Grum-Blud scowled and gestured with a pudgy fist, towards a small shadowy path through the brush headed into the woods.  “Someone’s gone through here recently.  I saw this broken path while watching from the wall near the stone house.  Grass has been trampled.  Low limbs broken.  There are hoof prints of at least three horses and their dung droppings.  If there is a back path down into the valley and to the woods of Kilrane, why should we go by way of the open road, when we can find out where these lead and who made them.”

Shelberd’s eyes widened, his head bobbing up and down. “Perhaps we can follow those who killed Corg. It wouldn’t hurt having more information to give The Pan either.”

Grum-Blud grinned, “Now you’re catching on.”

Both Brem and Bray snorted their grudging approval.  Perhaps The Pan might have use for these ‘man-frogs’ afterall.  If these creatures did please him on this humiliating mission, that might grant them a little more favorability as well.

They plunged into the thick brush following as the shadowy path unfolded darkly under the leaf-filtered light.   The foliage pressed in tightly around them, but since prior travellers had made the initial passage the brush gave way more easily.  Eventually they came to a downsloping depression in the forest with tall uprooted trees crossing over the gulley standing on broken limbs with their exposed root ball descending into a darkened brow.

Brem and Bray sniffed the stale, fecund air and attempted to balk at going forward, but Grum-Blud would hear none of it.  Reluctantly they press on down into the gulley of softened earth.  Their animal senses heightened to the unmistakable scent of danger.

*Scene 03* – 07:00 (Interruption)

In the courtyard, where we had been speaking with Nem a short, bald headed, pudgy little man with wiry, white hair, ascended the steps below and was met by two imposing guards blocking his way.  The man’s shrill voice carried as he sputtered in a verbal altercation with the two guards, gesticulating wildly as he tried frantically to get past the two stawart soldiers.  Nem moved to the stone railing and peered downward, and the pudgy man, face reddened in exasperation pointed upward, calling out to be granted audience.

“There he is! There he is!  I must speak with you, Lord Nem!  It is a most urgent matter!  Called off your infernal sentries!  I must speak with you!”

The two guards on the lower platform, looked up, and Nem signalled to them with a wave of his hand to let the man approach.  The two stepped aside, allowing the insistent man to pass between them, but they followed close behind as he puffed and panted up the stone staircase to the courtyard above.

Nem turned to us and excused himself, and moved to meet the man at the top of the steps.  The chubby man leaned against the stone baluster, catching his breath, waving futilely at us to give them some privacy.

They conferred in low tones and the man urgently beckoned Nem to follow him.  None of us could make out what was said but we did catch an off-handed word, as the urgent man raised his voice in a pitch that carried.
Treasury.

Nem stepped back over to us, and one of his guards followed him, while the ansy little man huffed and paced impatiently, glancing back down the stair case to the lower walkway, and nervously wiped sweat from his reddened face, neck and forehead.

“You’ll have to excuse me,” Nem said.  “It seems an urgent matter has come up that I will need to attend to.  My man Jorda will convey you back down to Ezra in the Warrior’s Court, and I will join you all later in the day for the midday meal.  I beg your leave,” he said with a slight bow, receiving our full consent, disarmingly surprised by his graciousness.

Once Nem returned to the waiting man, the man seemed to bounce impatiently, turning to descend the steps, urging Nem to make haste.

As our new escort turned to us, I heard Will snort with folded arms, “I wonder what that was all about.

Jorda stood with his pike staff held regimentally as he swept his arm ahead, once Nem and the urgent man had a good lead start back down the stairway.

“This way, if you please.”

“They are so polite here,” Cheryl observed.  “I wonder what’s got that little man so upset.”

Someone muttered, “What did he say?  Something about the treasury?”

“He looked like a chubby little clerk.  I’m sure its nothing more than some clerical concern,” one said dimissively.

“Yeah, but why would he urgently need the city architect for something like that?”

“It was kind of funny watching the chubby man bounce up the steps.  Looks like he was unused to doing much more that sitting behind a desk in a counting house.”

We decended the steps, dutifully following the guard Jorda, winding our way back down to the Warriors’ Court where we had first joined Ezra that morning.  The overhead sun was midway up in the sky, not directly overhead and feathery clouds drifted slowly, rising with the light winds skirting the edge of the towering cliffside that loomed over the backend of the city of Azragoth.  A low mist hung like a canopy along the edge, fed by the skirted streams that banked along an outer wall surrounding the city.

I knew it would not be long before we broke for a noon meal, but I could not help but wonder what might be going on the required Nem’s attention.  Whatever it might be, I was certain that it did not bode well for the city and its peoples, and I somehow wondered if our presence here might have something to do with it.

Beyond us, about three streets ahead, Nem strolled easily behind his corpulent escort.

“It’s been happening all morning,” Kallem, the chubby man continued, mopping his mouth and forehead, panting from the exertion he had expended frantically searching out the whereabouts of Lord Nem, finding few onlookers less than helpful as he had scurried about seeking direction.

“What has been happening?” Nem asked calmly striding forward, following the smaller man who was barely keeping ahead, turning frequently to ensure Nem and his other guard were still following.

“You’ve got to stop it.  There are cracks everywhere.  The printed coinage keeps falling through.  We will be ruined.  You’ve got to hurry.  Every few moments everything in the treasury vault rattles and topple to the floor and the fissures are widening.  My clerks and I have been raking the coinage back, but when the pulsing starts they seemed to be fixed to the floor.  More of it pours down below.  We can’t afford this kind of loss.  No one would believe it.  You must see it for yourself.”

“How long has this been happening?”

“Two days.  At first we did not know what to make of the noises.  We thought a rat or something had gotten in and knocked over some of the bagged coins, but it has been going on repeatedly and we have seen no evidence of rodents.  We noticed the levels beginning to sink and that is when we discovered the cracks in the flooring.  If there is any way to dig those fallen coins out, we must do it.  Something is affecting the precious metals.  Something that is pulling them down into the crevices.  We should never have quarried stone beneath the city. Never!”

Nem sighed, “There has been no quarry digs beneath the treasury.  There should only be solid rock.  We have avoided digs under any significant weight bearing structures.  We made contientious effort to keep the digs under the dead sectors of the old city, besides the grain holds under the old keep tower.”

“What about the old springs?  How far do the water courses go under the city?” Kallem huffed.

“The old springs were diverted.  That is why the upper fountains have dried up.”

“But in the council meeting this morning we were told there is something that has breached the underground.”

“We are looking into it.”

At that point, the two men reached a fortified door with a formidable stone edifice and iron barred portico.  Kallem pulled a ring of keys from his pocket and opened the iron barred gate.

“Well, you need to look into this,” he said opening the iron braced wooden door, and leading Nem into a torchlit hallway.

*Scene 04* – 03:44 (Fault in the Vault)

Kallem stood with his attendants and Lord Nem as a tremor rattled the floor.  Coins clinked, golden goblets wobbled, chains swished and tinkled, and a low clattering eminated from deep below.  A dark, jagged crack scarred the fitted stone floor, pitting and peaking as the grout sifted down into a deep abyssal hollow.  Mounds of coins, molded bars and ingots slinked towards the cavities created with a vibrating rattle.  Attendants scrambled trying to rake back the mounds from spilling into the widening crack, but they were dragged bodily by the inexorable metal wave slouching towards the ominous gash.

“What could be causing this?!” Kallem huffed, still mopping his forehead nervously with his sweaty hankerchief, a sheen of sweat glistening in the firelight over his bunched cheeks and bald widowspeak pate.  The floor gash was widening and somehow being wedged open from deep below.

Lord Nem knelt and raised a torch over the shadowy crack, attempt to peer downward as far as the light would allow.  “I don’t understand it.  This area has always been undergirded by thick layers of solid rock.  There is something down there that is cutting through the mantle.”

“Well, understand it or not, we are losing the city’s gold and silver.  Only the Ezra’s temple storage has the remainder of the gold and silver, but those are consecrated vessels.  We cannot melt or barter with those without causing a citywide scandal!  We need this money for daily operations with those still willing to trade with us for supplies.  These coins were imprinted and re-forged with Xarmnian crests to avoid suspicion.  Years of recasting work.  Outsiders are forbidden from accepting or hoarding any coinage that does not bear the Xarmnian mark.  Anyone found carrying non-authorized monies are to be brought before the Xarmnian tribunals, tortured for information and excuted publicly by The Protectorate, with all coinage confiscated and sent to the Xarmnian city.  You must send a search team down into the deep caverns to find out what is causing this.”

Nem rose to his feet as coins continued to spill over the edge of the widening crack and plink and ping off the stone edges of the gash down into the darkness below.  “I will attend to this personally.  Say nothing to no one for the time being.”

Kallem gaped in astonishment, a look of horror crossing his reddened face.  He stammered, “Oh, no, no, no, no, no!  No one can know.  We dare not mention a word of this to anyone!  No one would believe what we’ve seen, and they would string us up for sure.”

Deep below, water dripped from the fragmented ceiling, and from a deep gash, coins plinked downward in a darkling dance, landing on a broad surface like a formation of scales across the broad hide of a shadowy monster temporary cloaked in darkness.  An electric flash of luminescents scintillated across the webbing of coinage, as the beast sent another magnetic pulse upward through the crack it had bashed into the ceiling of its newly cored tunnel.  It could smell the metallic scents of gold and silver just as easily as it could smell the presence of living blood and perceive a gathering collection of heartbeats far above.

*Scene 05* – 13:01 (Stragglers)
[continuation of Chptr 17-Scene 5]

Back on the ridge of the valley leading down to the Xarmnian stables, Tizkon, the Xarmnian Protectorate guard assigned the duty of holding the outworld captive prisoner had waited for hours before taking the old man down from the ridge of the horse valley escarpment.  He had watched the lower road where Bayek and their Bruel Hadeon had pursued the fugitives and the dual wagon weapons convoy, purportedly coming from the Iron Hills foundry.  When none of his team re-emerged from the split routes they had taken in their pursuit, Tizkon sensed something must have gone terribly wrong.

Hadeon’s orders were: “Wait here with him for now, and watch.  Once we take his companions below, he may be of no further use to us.  Slit his throat and toss him out for the carrion birds.  Then you should be free to swiftly join us in the valley below.”  The problem was, there was no way to tell whether they had taken the man’s companions, so there was no way to be sure killing the man was still the best course of action.

Hadeon had assumed a successful capture as a given.  The Bruel was rarely wrong, and Tizkon longed to be rid of the spindly carcass and ride hard after his crew.  Nothing could be gained by delay.  He had no choice but to bring the old sack of flesh along giving it yet another day of sucking air.

The sun climbed high into the midday sky, its heat blistering and bleaching the sands on the broad descent road.

They rode along a shrub-lined gully near the main road’s juncture point, just over the brow of the descending hill.  From the cover they could see both of the side routes the fugitive wagons had taken: one in a darkening rim path that headed east into the Rimwood forests, and the other headed northwest into a skirting trail that seemed to wind back into the long valley where the Xarmnian stables were kept and their field stock were pastured.  A deepening spring fed river ran through that valley and cut downward as it passed into the westward woods, broadening out into a series of cataract falls coming down from the highland shelf.

Tizkon was on high alert, scanning for any movement from the encroaching woods that stood a few hundred yards shy of the road and circular clearing that wound down from the shelf of the highlands.

Suddenly he heard noises coming along the eastern trail.  He held his sword at the ready as Bayek came alone out of the shadows, leading a team of riderless horses.

He hailed him and Bayek paused, squinting and blinking uncertainly in the light of the midday sun, still allowing his eyes to adjust from the shadowy forest to the bright and open sky.

“What have you done with the others?!”

Bayek shaded his eyes as Tizkon rode up, his spindly prisoner riding behind, barely hanging on.

“I see you haven’t killed him yet,” Bayek commented dryly.  “Perhaps that is just as well.”

“Where are the others?” Tizkon huffed.

Bayek coughed, wiping his face.  “Ran into trouble with wood folk.  Bloody sirens.  Two of our Cerberi are missing.  The others must’ve circled back through the woods.  What of the other teams?  Have you seen any come back from the ridge run?”

“I’ve been watching for hours,” Tizkon replied shrugging.  “I don’t know what to expect.  Looked like Hadeon took the main road down.  No sign of them either.  What do you think we should do with this one.”  Tizkon inclined his head with a backward nod, indicating his prisoner.

Bayek scowled at the old man in disdain, clearly annoyed that his continued presence caused them an inconvenience.  “He is no good carrying around like that.  If we have to ride fast, he will flop around like a sack of potatoes.  Toss him down and let’s tie him over one of these saddle horses.  Have you had to feed it yet?”

“I fed it a bite or two while we were waiting on the ridge.  I think the begger wanted to spit it out, but was too famished to do so.  It doesn’t talk much.”

Tizkon unhooked the man’s bound wrists from around his waist and the saddle horn, slipping the hitch knot loose with a sharp tug.  The old man groaned as his wrists were further abraded by the rough rope that had bound him to his captive and the horse they both rode.  Tizkon’s mare snorted and rolled its neck, bobbing its head up and down.

The old, emaciated man slouched, weakened by lack of sleep, the dry and windy conditions, its sustained bruises and cuts from its interrogation, and its dread of what might follow.  He fell off the back of the horse onto a patch of scrub grass as Tizkon swung out of the saddle and Bayek dismounted as well.  They grabbed the man by his arms and legs and uncerimonoiusly pitched him across one of the saddles of the riderless mounts.

Tizkon continued talking, as he lashed the man to the horse with additional rope.  “Wood sirens, eh?  I’m told their quite the lookers, despite being deadly.  Did you talk with any of them?”

“It was mostly being talked at rather than with,” Bayek grunted.  “They gave me a message to give to the king.  That is the only reason I was left alive.”

Tizkon looked surprised.  “The king?!  What dealings would wood sirens have with the Son of Xarm?!”

“Dealing in gold…” Bayek muttered.  “Or something like it.”

“What was that?” Tizkon asked, turning.

“Rumors only.” Bayek grumbled.

“Rumors?” Tizkon arched an eyebrow, “What rumors?”

Bayek stared hard at the continuation of the main road and across the gap to the shadowy forest trail beyond.

“What rumors?” Tizkon persisted, when no answer came.

Finally Bayek turned to Tizkon giving him a stern look.  “You are still very young, Tizkon.  What was done was done before our present king took the throne.  It is rumored to be part of the reason he never leaves the Stone City.  If I tell you, never speak of it anywhere you might be heard.  If it were to come back to the ear of the king, you will not wake to see the morning, after retiring for the night.  The Son of Xarm will send a Silencer after you to forever still your loose tongue.”

Tizkon’s expression took on gravity, as Bayek’s ominous warning sank into his thoughts.  Silencers were the Son of Xarm’s elite group of assassins.  They worked in secrecy and always in darkness.  They were rarely identified, and wore coverings of all black living in the shadows.  Parents warned their misbehaving children, that if they did not obey, the king might send a Silencer after them to forever hush them in their sleep.  Rumor had it that Silencers had a key to every locked door in the city.  That they could somehow find their way into a room through the tiniest crack or crevice.  The very thought of Silencers gave even grown adults the tremors.  The spectre of their reputation even quelled most gossip through the town folk.  People were suspicious of each other and often did not trust others with information for fear that a neighbor might somehow get the Son of Xarm to send a Silencer after them.

Tizkon flinched at the thought and shuddered.  “Forget I asked.  I don’t want to know.  Tell me instead about the wagon you followed into the wood trail back there.  Where did it go?”

Bayek returned to his horse and swung back up into the saddle, checking to secure the rope line that he had led the remaining horses belonging to his fallen comrades.

“The wagon was rammed into the trees when the path became too narrow to forge ahead.  They smashed the spokes of the wheels and wedged it against us, barring further pusuit on horseback.  We had to follow on foot until we reached a dead end.”

“And that is where you encountered the wood sirens?”

Turning his horse torward Tizkon, who was also mounting up, he nodded.  “Siren.  There was only one that showed herself.  The others surprised us from overhead.  They are fast.  Unnaturally so.  We did not expect them in Rimwood.  It was agreed that The Pan and his kind would keep to their lands, if we would keep to ours.”

Astride his horse now, Tizkon huffed.  “Any agreement made with that dark creature is suspect.  I would not trust him or those we send to broker deals with him.  Trolls are entirely duplicitous.  Only good to be used as berzerkers when they are in their Grawplin phase.”

“Be that as it may, the Siren claimed that there was… ‘ a digger’ under the wood, on a destructive path heading down towards Kilrane forest.”

“A digger?” Tizkon smirked, “What kind of digger worries wood sirens?”

“A digger capable of tearing up the root system of the mature trees and tunneling close enough to the surface to weaken and collapse the forest floor.”

“What evidence do we have of that?”

“None yet.  But somehow I believe her to be telling the truth.  Seems to think that these outworlders are the cause of it.  Some creatures are more than just brute beasts.  Rumor had it that some were once used in the quarry caves for mining ores.  Diggers we built for hollowing out the ground and could draw precious metals from it, which they would shed and shake off later.  The metals were then collected and melted down in the forges.  Then hammered and poured into forms.  Rumor has it that The Pan himself was once a master metal worker, before it rebelled and took with it the Half-Men into the Moonlit Moors in the dark northlands.”

Tizkon pondered this a moment trying to remember some of the legends of the monsters of the dark lands.  “So what upsets these wood sirens?  That a few trees are falling down?  What connection is there with The Pan and these wood nymphs, and a digger?”

“I once heard that the matriarch of the sirens was both wife and sister of The Pan.  Her name was Naamah before she became what she is now.”

“His sister?!  He mated with his sister?!  Shouldn’t their offspring have deformities as a result?”

Bayek stared at Tizkon until he realized the absurdity of the question and blushed in embarrassment.

“Wouldn’t you say being born half vegetable and half human was kind of a persistent deformity?”

Tizkon nodded, pondering the implications.  “And The Pan, being half man and half ram would make him have desires to consume both meat and plant as well.”

“It’s an age-old story.  The Pan worshipped the power and strength of the ram’s horn.  His wife worshipped the power of the field, its beauty and its produce of food.  Seed worship.  Both seemed to have gotten what they wished.  They became the objects of their worship and declared themselves to be gods, while fighting the internal desires to consume each other.”

“Do they…?” Tizkon wondered.

“Do they what?” Bayek said directing his horse towards the switchback down road leading to the lowlands.

“Eat each other?” Tizkon spoke in nearly a whisper.

“I would not be surprised.” Bayek commented, kicking his horse into a trot.

As they ambled their horses down the shelf, Tizkon looked back to the other trail their other detachment had followed.  “I wonder what happened to the others along that rode heading to the falls?  How could Aridam and his group fail to capture that other wagon?  Should we wait for them?”

Bayek answered over his shoulder, “Hadeon said to meet him and the others down at the clearing near Kilrane.  We follow orders until we are given leave to do otherwise.  Wherever those riding the wagon we chased went, I expect we will somehow find them in the lower valley in Kilrane.  When we meet up with the others we may find Aridam and his team there too.  But even if not, I’ll need to get leave from Hadeon before I ride to deliver the siren’s message to the king.”

*Scene 06* – 15:41 (Corimanth’s Secret)

We spent the remainder of the morning doing grip drills with Ezra back in the Warriors’ Court.  He had us working at striking the pells-thick wooden columns with hack marks on them.  Getting us used to toughening our hold on the blades selected for us.  We worked until our hands were numb, and our fingers sore. It was grueling for a first day’s lesson and we had worked up a considerable sweat, striking the columns high, low and mid-level while he observed how we reacted to the shock of the blade’s stop at the end of a swing.  Eventually, as we tired and our minds buzzed with Ezra’s repetitive drill commands, we were all very glad to hear the tinny mid-day bell signalling a respite.  Weary but having worked up an appetite we filed into the corridor leading back to the commissary where we had breakfasted that morning.

True to his word, Nem rejoined us as we assembled once again in the large dining hall for the afternoon meal.  He took a seat across from Begglar and Nell and their friends from back in the village of Crowe, Shimri and Aida.  I was just down the table far enough to hear some of their conversation, though for some reason, Nem seemed to be avoiding eye contact with me.  We had all wondered what the man had wanted that called him away from us, but Nem gave no indication that he was disposed to tell us.  Since he made no further comment about it, we felt it might be a subject he was not at liberty to talk about.

Nem looked thoughtfully at Nell as he took his first few bites and finally spoke to her in a low voice.

“You are known to me, yet I do not remember from where.”

Nell wiped her mouth with a cloth napkin and raised her eyes to him, staring directly for a long moment, yet with no seeming pleasure in doing so.  Quietly she layed the napkin down, lowered her eyes and speared a morsel of meat on her plate, avoiding further eye contact as she spoke.  “We met in Sorrow’s Gate, many years ago when you and your company were traveling through.  I served you at the Inn where I worked with my brother Corimanth.”

“Ah, I remember,” said Nem, recognition widening his eyes and forming a half smile. “You were the Seer.  The one who could sense connections between tales told and the people whose stories were being told.  A prophetess among the women.  You exposed the lies of Noadiah when she tried to deceive us.”

“Yes,” Nell acknowledge, still focusing on her plate, adding with a bitter inflection, “And for that, you and The Eagle took my brother from me.”

Nem sat up straighter and took a deep breath.  “You have not heard of why we intervened on his behalf?”

“Intervened?!” Nell raised her eyes staring forward defiantly, openly glaring at Nem.  She set her jaw and tried to lower her voice to keep from drawing attention to their low conversation, but hissed through clenched teeth.  “My parents died in this place!  Corimanth was all I had left!  I gave you the truth, helped you… and you repaid me by enlisting my brother into your scheme. Not only that, you kept me in the darkness, grieving the loss of all I had that I could call my own.  What do you mean you intervened?!”

Begglar interrupted, “Nellus.  Let’s hear him out.  All might not be what it seems.”  So speaking, he attempted to put his arm around Nell, but she shrugged him off.

“Well?!” she hissed at Nem, “What do you have to say for yourself?!”

“Your brother and the others with him were caught stealing from our packs.  Ceremonial items we had hidden and were bringing back to Azragoth for use in the Temple.  He and the others had raked up quite a haul from some of the other merchants in Surrogate, and they made the mistake of raiding our travelling party as well.  We caught them with the items, and others they had stashed.  We could have made an example of them.  Turned them over to the city magistrate…  But, I didn’t… for your sake.”

“For my sake?!” Nell looked stricken.

“Yes,” Nem bowed looking down as he cut a portion of meat with his knife and fork, continuing, “They were soon to be discovered and would have been marked for death by the Overwatch.  The local merchants were tired of being robbed, and though they avoided enlisting the Overwatch in their internal affairs, they had finally made an appeal to them as payers of tribute to the Xarmnian crown.  They could not pay the Son of Xarm’s taxes, if they could not sell their wares.  The Xarmnians agreed.  They did not have a name, but they suspects and would have soon discovered him because of the people.”

“We were strangers in Surrogate.  Trying to keep a low profile while seeking craftsmen and stonemasons, and all who had some connection with Azragoth or desire to see it restored to its former glory.  Xarmnian involvement was the last thing we needed, and so we had a decision to make regarding the boys we had taken prisoner.  We needed information.  We needed those who might be able to blend into their surroundings and not raise alarm.  To be able to steal something more valuable to us than mere merchant treasures and food stocks.  We needed information, and we considered that those we had presently in our custody, might just be willing to trade their life of petty larceny to something more worthwhile using the same skills that had made them effective theives.”

“You made them spies?!”

“We offered them a deal.  Work as spies for us, or take their chances with the town magistrate and the Xarmnian Overwatch.”

Nell fiddled with her fork and the remaining food on her plate, her ire was deflating, and so was her appetite.  She had heard Corimanth’s apology and side of the story and had given him forgiveness for it, but somehow she was reluctant to offer the same to Nem.  She felt betrayed by him.  He had been a guest in their Inn.  Or perhaps, she should consider it Noadiah’s Inn, but it had become a home to her and her younger brother, so she could not help but to think of the place as partially their own.  Noadiah had offered her and Corimanth part of the ownership of that Inn, in exchange for their help in keeping it running.  She could not afford to hire extra help, but both Nell and Corimanth had needed a place to stay and something to keep them occupied and productive now that their parents had been lost in the fall of Azragoth.  When Noadiah disappeared, Nell had been left to run it until Noadiah’s return.  Only Noadiah did not return.  She left soon after Nem and his men arrived.  She suspected Noadiah had gone with them to find Azragoth, but she could not be too sure.  Noadiah had been secretive.  Strangely so, ever since she learned what Nem and his attendant crew were there for.

Nem continued, attempting to further convince Nell of his part in the enlistment of her brother.

“We needed some inside information from within the city of Xarm.  Our trip from Capitalia had come at a time when there was still breaks in the valley wall.  Emissaries had been sent to Capitalia, but by then the wall had made the only path to get there an attempted trek up over the mountains.  Few made it through, most were intercepted by Xarmnian patrols.  Of the ones who made it, few had knowledge of Azragoth, after the Xarmnian siege.  Capitalia was still then feared and grudgingly respected by the Xarmnians.  An edict born by the kings of Capitalia once commanded respect and caution not to interfere with Capitalian messengers, but the Xarmnians, we soon learned, were becoming more emboldened.  Your brother recognized that the Xarmnian’s maintained a wary distance from us when they learned we were from Capitalia.  When he came to us, he wanted to know why and if we were coming in response to the long-ignored pleas for assistance.  He and the others tried to distract us and made a clumsy attempt to steal the golden bound scrolls we carried with us.  This effort was easily put down, and we could have turned him and the others over to the Xarmnian Overwatch, but we thought to have mercy.  Your brother’s anger was one of desperation.  He hated the Xarmnians for the death of your parents.  He was helpless in dealing with that rage, so we offered them a bargain.  We enlisted their service and swore them to abide by our code, and we would spare them their lives, and in return, we would solicit aid from the Capitalians with whom we had grown in favor.”

“Then why does my brother wear a binding about his chest?  Where did he receive such injuries that he struggles to speak, and why is it that he has not communicated with me even once in these many years?”

Corimanth emerged from the end of the dining hall and walked forward to the gathering having overheard the question.

“I can answer that for you, Nellus.”

All eyes turned toward him.

“I trained here in Azragoth yet kept some semblance of my weight in check.  I assisted with the rebuilding and was given a place here, should my mission succeed, and I return from it.  My skill with a halberd developed and it became a weapon best suited for my size and stature.  I was taught how to control my aggression and channel it for constructive use.  The Azragothians reminded me of what honor is and what it meant to live with a noble purpose, the same as what our father taught us.”

“Once the timber had been brought in from the back forest an opportunity opened for me to blend in with a gathering of young men being conscripted and marched back to Xarmni to serve in their armed court.  Swordsmen and spear throwers and archers were the most needed in their marching armies, but for palace guard duty, they wanted stout fighters skilled with halberds to stand watch by their doorways and council halls.  My proficiency proved useful to them, so I was given a sentry post near the donjon.”

“I later learned that was where in they kept their sacred Builder Stone.  I had seen it through the doorway, a few times standing post.  We were given quarters in the wall units so that we could be close to hand at any alert sounded during the evening watch.  I served under a company of men, under the command of Captain Jahazah the Crusher.  He was a brutal and bloodthirsty man, known for mangling and crushing people through various means.  It was from him I received the wounds that require this present binding.  I had to fight him the night the Lehi came for my report.  Thankfully, they were not far when he confronted me from the shadows, brandishing my own halberd.  I was slashed in the ribs before I was able to get it free from him.  We grappled and fell down stone steps, but the prideful Captain would not call out for the other guards.  He was incensed by my treachery and wanted to kill me himself.  He broke four of my ribs in a crushing squeeze.  I heard them snap and the pain was intense, but I was able to get free by striking him in the throat.  The Lehi returned and bore me up and into the darkness.  The last sight I remember of the Captain, he was on his knees spitting up blood and coughing.  We were barely far enough away before he gained his voice enough to alert the other guards to pursue.  If it wasn’t for the Lehi, I would have been a dead man.  Travel was excruciating, but the Lehi were well-trained in field medicine, and when we were far enough away, they dressed my wounds, staunched my blood, set and bound my ribs with this truss and tied me to my mount.  I am told I passed out several times during the journey, that I suffered feverish rants, and a sort of delirium until they found some medicinal plants to ease my suffering.”

“So, it was Corimanth who delivered the intelligence of what is happening with the Builder Stones,” Begglar remarked.

Maeven stepped forward from the group and joined, “Yes.  I did not know he was Nell’s brother though, or I might have told you before.”

Nell shook her head in bewilderment, “Some seer I am.  All of this going on under my very nose, and I had no inkling of it.”

Begglar patted her affectionately, “Now don’t be too hard on yourself, Nellie dear.”

Nell carefully embraced her brother, tearful eyed, mindful of his wounding, “You’ve done me proud, Cori.  And no one can say less of it.  It was a brave thing you’ve done.  Foolish but brave, and just as courageous as father hoped you would ever be.  ‘Tis a shame they were not here to see it.”  More tears poured from her eyes as she held her brother, sniffling into his shoulder.  But then she pulled away and lightly cuffed him on the cheek, “But you could have told your sister something, stead of making me think as I was!”

Nem observed the exchange and then spoke to them, “Your brother now lives with honor.  He brought the secrets forth from the Xarmnian fortress.  He told us of the mysterious movements of the Builder Stones and what may come of it.  It is the reason we have sent The Eagle to the summit of Mount Zefat.  To study the terrain, to see the positioning and progress of the tribes as they are drawn out following their stones. To take a high vantage point to align their paths to see if what we all suspect is happening is true.  We hope to predict the convergent points at which the conflicts may erupt between them.  But we all have the same suspicion.  The Builder Stones are being drawn back to the one stone of most consequence–The Ancient Marker Stone where they first were found.”

*Scene 07* – 00:00 (The Black Tongue)

After the meal, I and the others of my group followed Nem to the outer courtyard, where I had previously spoken with Corimanth when we had first arrived.  Nem had his foreman show members of my group the areas of the city they were working on using the large city model map and the areas that could be overseen from the high terrace.  Quietly, he stepped away from the group and came over to speak privately to me as his lead man gave a comprehensive tour referencing the map and the reference points in the city below.

He leaned on the stone baluster and indicated the Warrior’s court below with a vague hand gesture.  “When Ezra began his training in the courtyard, he called you out as the leader.  You may not have known, but from this terrace, I could see you this morning in the Warrior’s courtyard,” he paused.

“Then you must’ve seen him knock me down on my butt,” I huffed.

Nem nodded, looking outward, but still not looking directly at me.

“And when he called you to stand and be armored for the demonstration, did you notice what was at your feet before he struck your leg, and you fell?”

I turned to him unsure of what he was telling me.

“I thought not,” he continued.  Quietly, he observed, “Ezra will often give you a clue as to what is about to happen if you are listening closely to what he tells you before. Ezra usually begins his lessons with proper footing and foundation.  The goal is to give a fighter an awareness of the ground upon which he will face an assault.  Often times a fight can be won of lost within the first few moments of combat, if one of the fighters loses their sense of their foundation and their footing.  The same is true as in all things.”

Here he glanced at me, “To begin anything… you need to fully understand and rely on where you are positioned.  You must have certainty about it–a degree of confidence–before you lift your eyes to build anything or face an enemy.  Right now, at this very moment, our city foundations are under assault.”

I wasn’t sure where he was going with this, but I had a sense he, somehow, was holding me personally responsible for whatever foundational threat he was alluding to.  I could not imagine what I may have done to give him that impression, but he seemed hesitant to bring that charge directly against me.

“I am not sure you are ready for what soon must happen.  But foundations are something I am particularly concerned with, and you should be concerned with them as well when preparing for the warfare ahead.”

“Just as you must be aware of your own foundation, by the same token, you must also have a sense of where your enemy stands and assess the relative strength or weakness of their positioning.  The same is true with buildings and fortifications.  And it is true of relationships as well.  Even those we think we know, can fool us.  It often comes with too much familiarity to the point when, rather than listening and perceiving, we run ahead into interactions based on assumptions derived from what we anticipate.  How much of Ezra’s lesson do you recall?”

I thought back, remembering the words spoken over me as I lay prostrate in the dirt after he swept my footing out from under me.  “Yes.  Obviously, he said, we needed to be aware of the nature of the ground upon which we were standing before he abruptly sat me down on my pride.”

“And,” I added, “he said the blade is not the only weapon I bear.”

“He was correct,” Nem said, “He positioned you among anchor points, which you may not have noticed.  Pieces of wood staked into the ground which had you looked down you would have seen.  They are used for fighter’s foot placement.  A warrior stands with the lead foot against one anchor point, and his back foot against the other.  He noticed your focus was on him, so he used it as an illustration instead.”

“You’re saying he tricked me?”

“In a word, yes.  Had you positioned your steps accordingly, you would not have so easily fallen.  Had you kept a sense of the ground, even if you did not know the purpose of such staked blocks, you may have circled beyond them and retained your footing.”

“Also,” he said, “the blade is not your only weapon.  Your sense of purpose should also be part of your drive, your cognizance of the nature of the assault and the countenancing of your opposition should also be part of your arsenal.  You must know that you fight with your entire body, and not just your blade. And your mind should be as keen on what is going on, as well.  As you are the leader of this band, it is critical that you learn the first lessons so that you may lead in them by example.  The Xarmnians are flesh and blood the same as you and me, but the monsters here have abilities that you must be aware of and fight with both with your mind and your soul under the empowerment of The Word–The first sword made into flesh that lives and breathes and is breathing still through you.  As I said, it is you, who are a breathing sword.”

He let that sink in for a moment.

“Lord Nem, I know you are trying to help me, but I am struggling with the fact of my return here, and what The One wants me to do.  I am not sure I am the best choice for this mission.  I am not a natural leader.  In fact, if you were to speak to Jeremiah again, you’ll find that I was also not a very good follower.  I betrayed his leadership, and my only guess is that I was brought back here to correct what I got wrong.  To somehow recover The Cortis stone I let fall into the possession of The Pan.”

Nem was thoughtful and did not respond right away.

“I am told you are familiar with the Ancient Text, and that you can call it to mind as circumstances present themselves.  This ability is essential when fighting the creatures that stalk our lands.”

“Yes, but that was by accident.  I fell against The Marker Stone, and that ability was a byproduct of touching that sacred stone.  A result of my clumsiness more than anything.”

“Recite for me from the prophet Isaiah chapter 55 verse 8.”

My mind shifted and I quickly recited the passage: “For my thoughts [are] not your thoughts, neither [are] your ways my ways, saith the LORD.”

“Think carefully about those words.  What does that say about your reasoning as opposed to the perspective of The One?  You might be surprised how often what some believe to be a mistake is actually a benefit and a gift.  The One wastes nothing, even those things that seem to have come about by your own failings.  Because you have that ability, which you may believe was accidental, it serves in the providential plans The One has for you.  To face the particular form of creatures that will attempt to thwart you in your journey ahead.  You alone, and perhaps Begglar, have been preordained to fight those creatures that have come here from the void.  Be careful to not let novices, who have no understanding or familiarity with the Ancient Text, attempt to fight the monsters of this land, or you will guarantee their defeat.  Only the Ancient Text will cause them to succeed, but they must know it enough to handle it against the mind assaults of their adversary.  Flesh and blood may be defeated with practiced skill, but the weapons needed to defeat the creatures are not made of metal and steel alone.  Their arrows of the mind cannot be turned by armor plating, finely linked chain mail or the parry of a masterfully wielded blade.  Do you understand this?”

“I do.”

He sighed, clearly something was troubling him.  Some further uncertainty that I could not perceive in a man who otherwise seemed so confident and assured in his other decisions.   “There is something you are not telling me.  Something that troubles you more than my failing to understand the import of what we are here to do.  What is it?”

He was quiet for a long minute.  Finally, he spoke.  “As you know we are a city that survived and recovered from a terrible plague.  And now something has come to my attention that threatens to unleash that plague once more, despite our memorial efforts to ritualistically cleanse our city.   It could awaken the black tongue again.”

“Black tongue?”

Nem was quiet again for a moment and looked off into the distance.

“I will tell you of what ‘Black tongue’ means, but for now you need to know more of what the ritual we performed signifies, and how it fits in the future defense plans of this city.”

“I assumed it was to keep it clean against another plague. Was it not?” I asked.

“To defend it,” he reiterated pointedly.  “What you may not know about me is that I was born in this city, but was taken as a captive in my youth when the first caravans came through this area.  The caravan leaders then were the patriarchs of the two major warring human nations that now divide this country.  The nations that are now called Xarmni and Capitalia.  The patriarchs were relatives.  Cousins actually.  The regent Xarm and the regent who became king of Capitalia named Xerxes.  It was their custom for their successors to take their father’s first name, as a second name: a patronimic name, so called.  When the families eventually split and formed feuding factions, I was retained in service to Artemis Xerxes, the son and heir of Xerxes.  I came to be a trusted servant, such that I was given the responsibility of being the heir’s cup bearer, and was always present at the king’s table.  Artemis was in dread of spies from his uncle’s kingdom.  Both his father and his uncle were killed in the ensuing conflicts that arose from their feuding.  Most of Xarm’s sons were slain in the skirmishes and battles prior to his death, and Xarm was obsessed with retaining an heir to succeed him on Xarmni’s throne.  Before he died, he grudgingly conferred his legacy and rule on his bastard son, reportedly the child of one of his daughters.  The one who now calls himself by the title “Son of Xarm,” asserting his legitimacy.  From his death bed, Xarm charged him to exact eternal revenge on Capitalia, and his cousin, by conquering them and bringing them under subjection.  He was to subjugate and occupy any of the cities that remained friendly to Captialia or hoped for its aid, against the rising dominance of Xarmni beyond the mountain ranges and their wall.  Azragoth was one of those cities.”

“In the years that followed, Xarmni sent a sporatic succession of spies into Capitalia, on many failed assassination attempts to infiltrate the court, and take out the Capitalian monarch.  They succeeded once, taking out the father of the king I eventually was trained to serve.  He was poisoned, and I discovered the former cupbearer was paid handsomely to allow it to happen.  That man was then hung from the ramparts, and a vacancy opened up in the king’s service.  I volunteered and was given the position to serve the regent’s successor, with whom I had become friends while serving the royal family.

“As the king’s cupbearer, I was trained to detect the subtle presence of poisons that may be slipped into the king’s wine.  I became very skilled at detecting the trace differences in smell, color and taste.  Thus, I kept the new Capitalian king alive despite many further attempts to fell him.

“He came to trust me and value my judgment–My skill of detection, both in detecting poisons, but also in detecting artifice in those who served him.  The king confided in me, and I grew to respect and honor him, even though I was his conscripted servant.

“What I did not know through all of my captivity back then is that all my experiences were being used to prepare me for this work.  I learned from being a servant, what was most important for becoming a leader.  I learned from being in the king’s court what a hierarchial structure should look like and how the servants at court worked in concert to provide a support system for those in leadership.  I learned how the system relied on mutual trust, and how servant leadership changed the dynamic of a network of fear, to a organized system of mutual benefit, and shared vision.  Even in my role as cup bearer, I was given a vision of how to rebuild the city of Azragoth and establish a defense against overwhelming odds.  I gained not only insight, but the goodwill of allies and a king, willing to finance this rebuilding effort.  These experiences shaped the foundation of what we are doing in this city.  Even to the idea of cups.  Concentric cups, placed one within another, are indeed reflective of the design of this city.  The back of this city is under a cupola of the upper mesa.  Each ring extends in a semi-circle from the back of the overhanging cliff face.  The outer ring is in fact a poisoned cup, with series of underground vats holding the poisons and filth ritually and routinely purged from our city gutters, down the gullets into these holding tanks that are pitched and weighted against the downslope of the old front gates of the city.  We have effectively built a massive underground poisoned cup to be unleashed and spilled out into the old valley and fields below that once served as the attack grounds the Xarmnians used to lay siege to our city.

“The grounds of the old, weathered outer rings of this are set to collapse, thus pushing the lower vats to break the outer tubes forcing this poison to flood down into the valley below.  No standing army will survive a frontal assault of this city, upon the poisoned fields.  The black tongue will sweep them away, the same as it did the plague victims of this city, who in their sickness, suffered a swelling black tongue and constricted airways as they died in horrific spasms as the contagion spread through their bodies turning their veins black, webbing the appearance of their skin in a ghastly tangle of dark vines.

“My study of poisons providentially perpared me for effectively purging the plagued city of its former toxins.  I only learned this in hindsight.  The One truly moves in mysterious ways and wastes nothing of the experiences we go through to shape us for our roles in the future He had planned for our lives.  I know that now.  To become a leader, I first had to learn to see myself through the eyes of a servant.  All I had thought and reasoned to myself, was not according to the  mysterious ways of The One.  Only now, do I truly see.”

I pondered all that he had told me.  “The One wastes nothing,” I told myself.  Somehow those words comforted me, beckoning me out of the fog of my own self-doubts.  This insight from a man who was himself once a slave and was now the representative of the Capitalian monarch as governor of this region.  A profundity that had not escaped my notice.

Nem went on to tell me how the plague that had once destroyed Azragoth from within, would finally serve to destroy its enemies, and force any new attackers to contend with attempting to channel their forces through dense forests lines that flanked the wings of the city.  The trails through massive ancient boles of trees would hamper any dense attack and foil any attempt to build siege works or large trebuchet launchers to assault and breech the fortified sidewalls of the new city.  Only small hostile bands might enter the old city, but they would soon discover that the grounds of the outer dead rings had become an inner moat of seeping black death and filth, effectively killing any foolish combatant intent on reaching the heavily defended inner ring, that had been defensively coated with pitch and tar, only to be quelled by a cleansing offering of fire.

The prevailing winds that sweep downward from the uplands, just beyond the massive back walls of Azragoth, would drive the stench of the diseased spewing black sludge across the plain and would chase the armies off the open fields and drive out the ranks from approaching the old front of the ruined city gates.  Self-preservation and fear would consume the ranks and cause them to flee for their lives.  Any of the small bands foolhardy enough to touch or approach the pitched walls, would come away with tar smears that the army leaders would assume was plague contamination and the returning soldiers would be killed at a distance, rather than allowing them to rejoin their ranks for fear of carrying contagions.  The armies would unavoidably be divided and decimated, delivering Xarmni, once more, a humiliating defeat and granting Azragoth a few more years of unmolested quarantine.

It was a brilliant plan.  Filth and fire.  Sins of the city, purged and expunged by a following flush of fire, cauterizing old wounds.  The valley gate and the dung gate, had been enjoined together to form a cleansing gate that would outflow down into the Hinnon valley, where so much death had been buried in the old siege ditches dug by the former Xarmnian army that had invaded the city under plague long ago.