The Imminent Siege of Azragoth – Chapter 30

*Scene 01* – 00:00 (Taking the Mountain)

Taking the Mountain turned out to be more of a challenge than I realized.

It was not so much a literal direction as it was a state of mind.  A commitment to face the obstacles before you and surmount them.  Like Caleb, of old, there were giant Anakim living in the mountains that were given to him as his possession.  He was then an 85 year-old-man, fourscore and five, as he says.  The term “score” is equivalent to twenty years.  So, fourscore would be 4 times 20, which would be 80, plus five additional years would bring the total to 85.

Now considering also that while he was the approximate age of some of your grandfathers, he still had it going on.  Caleb had some guns on him.  The strength of a man in his youth.  But more impressive than that was his moxy.  Not mojo, Moxy.  Okay, Spunk, for your younger ones out there.  Caleb had a level of confidence in the promise of His Lord, that made him defiant in the face of threat, determined in the teeth of defeat, and wholly and completely trusting in the value of a promise given, because of the pristine character and goodness of the One who promised it.  The Ancient Text says:

“114 You are my refuge and my shield; your word is my source of hope.” [Psalm 119:114 NLT]

In the Surface World, promises made are too often akin to bounced checks.  They have no backing.  They are used as currency for people to get what they want in the most immediate fashion possible, but tragically the one giving in trust to the promisor can easily lose everything if what is given in trade is purchased with a questionable currency that has no backing.  Commerce and fair trade depend upon mutuality of trust.  Caleb had no doubt of the backing of his promissory note, and he was ready to put his life on the line to cash it in.  An eighty-five-year-old man, dauntless before a mountain of giant half-men.  Not only that, but he took ownership claim, not only to conquer those in the mountain, but to rule it afterward, and populate it with his family and their generations to come.  To take the mountain, he was also putting not only himself on the line, but his family as well.  All his poker chips were on the table, so to speak and he was betting the farm.  He knew he had been dealt the winning hand.  To some, that would seem risky, but he was confident of his backer.  In his mind, it was no gamble to place complete faith and trust in the “promises”, the currency, of his Lord and God.  But that kind of confidence was not just an abandonment of reason to blind faith.  Caleb was a confident spirited lad when he and Joshua were first sent into the land of giants to spy it out for Moses and the rest of the Hebrews, encamped on the outer desert perimeter of The Promised Land.

They were literally within sight of the land flowing with milk and honey, that God had promised them on their miraculous flight from Egypt, through towering walls of water of the Red Sea, and following a pillar of cloud by day and a column of fire by night.  They were watered by a dry rock, they were fed by manna from heaven, and every promise made to them was being fulfilled before their very eyes.  They fought battles being displaced nomads with the armies of established cities and conquered along the way, but when they go to the edge of the whole purpose for their journey, they hesitated, stopped short of claiming it, and decided not to trust in the One who had called them and delivered them miraculously this far.  Caleb, like his people, had a faith born of firsthand experience.  Yet, some of his fellow kinsmen, having shared in the same experiences, still lived imprisoned by their own fear and distrust.  Though the promised land was before them, and they survived a miraculous journey overshadowed by the power and guidance of the One who promised them good, they distrusted Him because they saw and feared the giants in the land of the promise.  They forgot their history, they abandoned their trust and faith, and instead chose fear, trusting in their own strength without considering the promise of their backing.  This is why John the Revelator reminds us of yet another title of the One.

“11 And I saw heaven opened, and behold a white horse; and he that sat upon him [was] called Faithful and True, and in righteousness he doth judge and make war.” [Revelation 19:11 KJV]

One point that few people acknowledge in that very affirmation statement, is that righteousness does require judgment, but it also requires the might to back it up, and yes even to the point of making war if required.

Isn’t it amazing that the very Prince of Peace must sometimes resort to war to effect righteousness?  I’ll bet that will come as quite a shock to those who advocate for pacifism and appeasement with evil regimes of this world when they piously and sanctimoniously are forced to wrap their heads around the fact that Christ Himself counts righteousness as a cause worth fighting for.  But that should not come as a surprise to any soldier, or military personnel, or police officer or judge who witnesses the human stain of sin and corruption and fight against its surfeiting current every day.  Evil must be resisted for a sane and safe society to flourish.

There is a battle going on for the minds of mankind, and it takes many shapes and forms to distract and confuse them, to cause them to place their hopes and trust in human panaceas that have no backing.  Histories are forgotten, and in some cases re-written by pernicious minds so deceived by their own faith in modern falsehoods they cannot abide by any other perspective that does not join their conclusions.  These are an unteachable people, unwitting acolytes of an ancient and invisible enemy that seeks their enslavement and ultimate destruction.  That enemy’s agents have been at work since the beginning of time in all of the created worlds seeking to unmake all that the Master has made but unable to touch the eternal.  Save for one thing.  He must cause mankind to forget who they were created to be, to forget the historical record of their miraculous deliverance through time and how they were spared destruction by the One.  For he knows that if a generation can be made to forget their past, then they will have no hope for their future and no will to resist his ultimate rule.  They will be snuffed out, like a candle in the wind.  Already, they were smoldering embers, with a faint white-gray ribbon of smoke unraveling into the sky, signifying their dying surrender.  A white flag harbinger of retreat.  The essential point of my calling and my mission was to cause these few that I led into the Mid-World to come back to themselves and remember.  To see again that promises made by the One are promises kept.  That every launched ship of dreams that carry their hopes into the storms of life on the high seas, always have a safe and protected home harbor to return to.  There are no sea-faring men, no matter how full of bravado and wanderlust they may claim to be, that do not find comfort in the memory of their home port when maelstroms threaten to swamp their vessel and swallow them into the cold, dark depths of the beckoning, and unforgiving sea.

It was with these thoughts in mind that we gathered together around the supplies wagon, and climbed up on our geared traveling mounts, and followed Maeven as she led us onward through the winding forested trails down the slopes and away from the hidden city of Azragoth, where we knew we had friends and allies who might possibly be in danger due to the approach of the Protectorate squads still hunting and pursuing us.

What we did not know at the time, was that the real threat to Azragoth was presently from an entirely different enemy than that posed by the Xarmnians.  This enemy had a particular grudge to settle with the denizens of the resurrected city of Azragoth and it had formed a tenuous and temporary truce with the Xarmnians brokered by the unreliable creatures with whom they both shared some commonality.  This enemy had lain in wait for more than twenty years, pondering the right time to strike and overrun the secret remnant within the city with one final sweeping attack to snuff out the remaining ember of hope that it represented to the oppressed peoples of the Mid-World.  The Xarmnian high counsel knew that something remained in the lost city of Azragoth, but they had no definitive proof of it, until now.  This surprising secret was delivered to them through their dealings with a former enemy that they had only recently normalized relations with.  The brokerage of the truce was handled by the Xarmnian Trolls.  Being part human, part something else, gave them an advantage in dealing with the Xarmnian’s former foes who contended with them for ultimate rulership over all of the Mid-World lands and people.  These enemies were the ancient races of Half-Men.  Creatures that had an amalgam of human and animal and plant origins stemming from their ancient paganism and ritualistic transit through the now-closed former portals of the Surface World to the Mid-World lands.  These were the embodiment of the ancient legends of the Surface World.  The source of those legends, though the Surface Worlders’ added much to make up the mythological canon.  These creatures were observed through dreams and odd reflections in pools of water or in mystic glasses until the strength of the connections between the Surface World and the Mid-Worlds weakened to the point that observers only saw these beings in blurry flickers out of the corner of their eyes.  In the Surface World, these unfortunate cursed beings were venerated and proclaimed to be gods worthy of worship and appeasement.  Distractions from the belief in the One true Creator God.  Priests and priestesses saw the veneration of these gods to be a means of control and power, and a way to enrich themselves through the awe and dread of these creatures whom they claimed to represent as their personal oracles between the divine and the common.  Great temples were built to honor these cursed and trapped creatures of the Pantheon.  When the cursed creatures in the Mid-World learned of this they were at first stunned and then saw it as an opportunity to also revenge themselves against The One who had caused them to be cursed and trapped in the Mid-World.  With no subjects but themselves, they waited for thousands of years before mankind finally re-entered their world.  When these human sojourners began to occupy the land they presented themselves to their descendants as being the gods they were believed to be in the Surface World and demanded worship.  They were at first resisted, but over time, the humans began to pay them homage.  The Half-men, it was said and later revealed to be of a certain truth, that these beings were denied the liberation of natural death.  They could be killed, but only through violence done to them.  They aged, and their bodies suffered the rages of passing time, but with no natural release.  Their animal minds continually warred against their human minds.  They could not contain their passions, so they indulged them but found no relief in them and only temporary satiation.  They blamed humans, the favored ones of the Creator.  These who reminded them of what they once were and had irrevocably left to become something else.  They could not abide the sight of humans without waking their violent passions fed by their animal desires.  No relations could be had between these Half-men and the humans of the Mid-World until the emergence of the creatures known as Trolls.  Something about them pleased the Half-Men and tamed their wildness when dealing with them as emissaries of the Xarmnian humans.  That brokered relationship had brought the truce.  The Half-Men saw a sinister kinship between the Xarmnians and themselves that they could, at last, identify with.  The Trolls represented the Xarmnian effort to become more like the Half-Men.  With each one, either voluntarily or by compulsion surrendering part of their humanity to be enjoined with the bestial, was a form of emulation and worship that they found pleasing and appealing.  The elixir was a masterful stroke, as far as the Half-men were concerned, and the Xarmnians who came up with changing some of their children to become more amenable to the Half-men was seen as a brilliant compromise that had provided a peaceful solution and resolution to a centuries-old conflict.  Xarmians were now free to pass through Half-men territories unmolested, and certain secrets were shared between these two groups that proved mutually beneficial to both groups.

Having had some limited experience with Trolls, as they were only newly becoming a people, I did not realize that there was an underlying reason for the Xarmnian alchemists creating such ugly and unstable beings with their transformative elixirs.  Having that knowledge now sickens me to even think about it, though it is reticent of something happening in my own world which also distresses me more than I can elaborate on just now.

*Scene 02* – 00:00 (Scene Title)

*Scene 03* – 00:00 (Switchback)

We rode further downward on a switchback trail cut and camouflaged beneath the lower forested canopy.  I watched as Maeven rode up to the end of a trailway, pushed against certain branches on the trees there and areas once hedged about by bushes swung inward revealing a continuation of the trail not previously seen in the shaded light.  Time and time again, certain trailheads that seemed to terminate were uncloaked by this method of hidden cantilevers and pivoting shrubs, and I wondered at how Maeven was able to remember them all.

Above and behind us, at some degree of distance, we begin to hear furtive movements in the brush.  Rustling noises that were caused by unknown creatures moving with some degree of speed through the forest underbrush.  Grunts and guttural growls were interspersed within these noises, and we were gripped with a fear that the Xarmnian dogs were once again on the scent of our trail with the Protectorate Guards close behind.

Maeven and I both paused to listen, attempting to quiet the others growing more noticeable uncertain and afraid.  A few circled their horses as if wanting to flee back to the safety of the caves beneath Azragoth, but I bid them hold their peace and keep still.

“They’re coming.  They’re going to find us and kill us.  We should have never left Azragoth.”

Maeven interjected, “Be still.  Let us hear for a moment.”

After a bit, I turned to Maeven, “Are you hearing what I’m hearing?”

“Yep.  They’re moving away from us.  Not toward us.”

I turned to the two riders whose actions showed that they were wanting to go back.

“If you ride back that way, number one, you’ll never find the hidden route we took to get down here, so you’re sure to get lost.  And number two, you will be riding right into the ones making those noises above us.”

I cleared my throat and eyed them each for a moment, letting the implications of my two-point arguments sink in before I put the question to them.

“So, what’s it going to be?”

They each took hold of their reins and turn their horses back into the line, not saying a word, yet not having to.  Their actions spoke for them.

Maeven looked at them and then at me.  I saw the conflict in her eyes, and I knew what she was thinking.  She wanted to turn back, but for very different reasons.

I gave her a half-smile, nodding and acknowledging her struggle.

“They’ll be alright.  Whatever is coming against them should be perhaps pitied, if I know Mattox, as well as my memory serves.”

She gave me a grateful smile, but I could still see that worry lingered within her.  She turned and pressed on, leading us further downward until we crossed a shallow creek bed, and turned to follow its winding course towards the lower plains and the lake country.  It would be a fair ride yet, and we were making rather slow progress since we were not free to travel upon the open roads and more direct route.  Whatever threatening forces were rushing upward toward the old city of Azragoth had a nasty surprise awaiting them.  The black tongue of the city was waiting to spring forth and deluge those threats with rotting disease and death.  Considering that we were still on a slope below the city, though several thousands of feet away, such horrible filth would run beyond the ranks of the enemies, and pour through the forests and dry streams below.  If we were caught in its path, Azragoth’s destructive defenses would deal out death to us as well.  That is why we had to make haste to get off of this mountain as soon as safety might permit us too.  Any further delay would cause the Azragothians delays in being able to use their city’s secret weapon, and those delays could risk their lives as well.  They would wait for us to reach the plain and send up a signal fire so that they would know we were in the clear.  Having known Nem and Ezra and Corimanth but a little time while sheltering in their city, I was fully confident that they were honorable men who sincerely wished us no harm.  They had entrusted Maeven to my charge.  Corimanth sincerely loved his sister, nephew, and brother-in-law, so I feared no threat from him as well.  And, even though there had been some tension and bad blood between Mattox and me, I had no doubt that he had become a changed man, and I could not believe that he would willingly send us to our death.  He most certainly would have before, but not now.  The difference in him was profound enough to cause one to wonder at the transformative power of the One who had called us here.  But time was precious and we did not have much of it left.

I spurred my mount forward until I was alongside Maeven.

“We need to get out of here soon and light the signal fire.”

“I know,” she looked straightforward, not turning to me, “It is not that far now.  I wish we didn’t have to take the riverbed, but the supply wagon couldn’t have been brought down any other way.”

“If we have to, we may need to abandon it and find some other way to forage for what we need along the way.”

“Mr. O’Brian, I know these parts, and I know what we are going into.  Remember, that my last years here were spent in marauding raids, and supply runs for the resistance.  I am not the same little wilting flower of a girl you remember when you and Begglar first knew me.  I’ve seen the gathering of the armies, and the Xarmnian reach even in these rural lands far from its capitol.  People are frightened, harassed, slaughter or even worse.”

“Worse?”

“Forced to witness atrocities, degrading mockery, and the abuse of their innocents.  The human heart, for all of the bestial wildness that The Pan and his Half-men creatures are reported to be, is far darker, and wilder still.  With the Half-men, it is mere animal violence, but with the Xarmnians it is an evil expression that goes beyond savagery.  We will not be at liberty to range far enough into the wilds for a hunting or foraging party to be of much use.  We will need to stay together, knowing the whereabouts of each other at all times, if we are to survive.  We will need to be ready for surprise attacks at a moment’s notice, and coordinate our fighting styles and patterns so that we serve a common objective to route the enemy and not let them divide us, even if some of us fall or succumb to their tactics.  We will need these supplies to convince others to barter with us, even if they are reluctant too.  We will have to rely on the foodstuffs to get us through lean times when the game is scarce and the wild-growing edible vegetation is spartan or out of season.  Right now, what this wagon carries is crucial to our survival as well.  I only wish the rainy season might have made this riverbed softer with more silt than rock.”

“Your points are well made, Maeven,” I paused and then added, “Storm Hawk.”

I dipped my head in deference to her reputational title, and I saw the edges of a smile play about her lips.  Gratitude for my show of respect for her valued input slightly moistening her eyes, in that unguarded moment.  I knew this was hard for her.  And I knew what courage she was demonstrating to be willing to leave her surrogate family in Azragoth on the cusp of an imminent attack to follow and help me lead our company into an uncertain future.

It took us another 45 minutes to an hour roughly to finally emerge from the river bed and to reach the edge of a clearing below the foothills of Azragoth.  Once there, we quickly used flint to tinder a firebrand made from a sheaf of straw and soot polished wood, that kept it from quickly burning down the shaft.  Maeven spurred her steed, brandishing the torch held high above and behind her so that the ash and loosening pieces of straw would not fall and ignite in her hair as she rode back and forth across the green field.

From the angle of the lower field, we would not be able to see the walls of Azragoth, covered as it was by the forests, but we should see an acknowledgment firelight, gleaming through the forest canopy.

Unbeknownst to us, the siege of Azaragoth had already commenced long before we emerged from the forests below it, and shortly after Mattox had left us to return back into the caverns below the city.  And the counterforce, the Azragothians had to employ to repel the threat had nothing to do with what was stored within the other walls of the city, but what had been coursing through a V-shaped groove cut along the top of the inner walls separating the old dead city from its living and still-strongly-beating defiant heart.