Chapter 2: The Great Wall

It was called the Great Wall, but it had been greater. It was 240 miles long, forty feet high and nearly twenty feet in width. The engineers of King Caliphanus the Magnificent had estimated that it contained 362,201,600,000 tons of rock. Every ten miles along its entire length, the wall had garrison towers. In better days, each of these towers had a complement of forty men. At intervals of forty miles the towers sheltered whole garrison towns, meant to house 1,200 men. From the Great Mountains of the north to the Shad Mountains in the south, the wall was a single uninterrupted fortress: an immense accomplishment and perhaps even worthy of its proud name.

The greatest of the garrison towns was Cair Galinal, situated at the mid-way point of the Great Wall, beneath the grand Tower of Grenwilde. In the first eighty years after the wall's completion, it had grown in importance, until in the reign of Stephan III it had been made the capital of Grenwilde, this against the advice of both the king's Chief of Staff and his Grand Vizier, military strategists of no little learning. The Great Wall, from Rampage in the north to Knar Shad in the south, had become the nerve centre and pride of Grenwilde.

For years generals and advisors had bickered about whether it was needful to keep a standing army of nearly 20,000 men for its defence. For although the Army of the Great Wall actually consisted of only some 8,000 soldiers, the King's Garrison at the Tower of Grenwilde, traditionally had over 12,000 men-at-arms. Economic advisors argued that the threat of the desigarg was negligible, and that the Great Wall itself - even moderately defended - could never be breached by the primitive Hordes of Night. The generals vehemently disagreed. No one knew the extent of the Hordes, they argued. Furthermore, it had been so long since an attack had been launched on Grenwilde, that no one knew what engines of destruction or siege the desigarg might possess.

But three generations of peace had made many believe that no attack would ever again be launched. Long-standing peace, accompanied by economic hardship, brought about a period of slow decay in the battle-readiness of Grenwilde. Over the years, soldiers had been pensioned off and not replaced. Many of the garrison towers, and even some of the garrison towns, were maintained by a skeleton crew. More alarmingly, in the northern reaches of the wall minute shiftings of the earth had opened fissures in the rock. It is true that these were usually repaired, but the repairs cost money, and - ironically - the money was raised by cutting back on the military.

At the same time the towns along the wall flourished and grew, and if people actually stole rock from the walls to make homes you could hardly blame them; after all, the desigarg would never again dare to attack.

But on the eighty-second year following the death of Caliphanus they did.

At first the attacks were mere raids, most of them unsuccessful. Surprisingly, for beasts that humans deemed mindless, the enemy appeared to pick and choose his spots carefully, exploiting the structural weaknesses of the wall. For a leader of intelligence had risen among the desigarg, an enormous toad-like creature, named General Targa Gamarad. He had proven a ruthless and able commander. The enemy carried off livestock and grain -- and humans as well. None that they captured were ever seen again.

After five years of near constant raiding and skirmishes, King Akinwrath decided to try to negotiate a treaty with the great toad. To his surprise, Gamarad's ambassador had agreed. The desigarg were starving, and General Gamarad was more than willing to trade image crystals for food. The trade carried on for several years, and then, without any warning, disaster struck.

Yes, the Great Wall had certainly declined. Looking back in years to come, people will undoubtedly say that mankind should have known better. That he should have been prepared and alert. But those who fought in the Battle of the Great Wall knew that had the defences been at their best, and had every post been manned, it would not have made the slightest difference...

~ ~ ~

This was the coldest Lanten Eve that anyone in Western Grenwilde could remember. Some said there had been a colder first day of spring 30 years earlier, but no one could prove that, and as far as Sergeant Bran Sarta was concerned there couldn't be a colder Lanten Eve than this one. He huddled down beneath the battlements listening to the Creation Carol floating up to him on the wind. All of its seven verses were familiar to him, so that without thinking of it, he could hum along. But though all Cair Galinal might be celebrating, Sarta was in a foul humour; he believed that being senior non-commissioned officer in the Tower Garrison, he should get the night off on a religious holiday. Not only was he missing a fine meal at his in-laws, but also the weather was just biting cold! Too cold for his ancient bones, the sergeant thought.

It was just drawing on to 11 O'clock, when he braved the weather and stole a glance at the fields beyond the wall. But instead of instantly taking to cover again, he stood gaping out into the night. Were his old eyes playing tricks on him? It looked like there was an enormous swarm of fireflies approaching from the east! Suddenly, the meaning of what he was seeing gripped him: a half-mile away, the Desigarg Hordes were approaching. Without another moment's hesitation, he stepped back, seized the alarm rope and tugged both hard and repeatedly, tolling the call-to-arms.

The troops fell out to their battle stations -- an accurate phrase but misleading. Stumbled out, would provide a truer picture. Many were under the influence of Lanten Cheer and many others were just slovenly and disbelieving. "Bloody stupid night for a drill!" one soldier complained as he stepped out onto the lower wall. Others muttered their agreement.

But the muttering subsided into stunned silence as the disbelieving soldiers saw a vast sea of torches advancing toward the Tower, out of the Lands of Desolation.

On that fateful night the men were more excited then afraid. Of course there was fear, but they were also confident, and with reason. The great toad was clearly mad! He could never pierce the defences of the tower. Not here, with nearly 10,000 men to defend it!

"Alright!" yelled the sergeant, "don't stand there swallowin' air, step sharp and lively!" With muttered oaths and encouragements, men sprang to action. They ran all along the wall taking up their appointed places. "Corporal," bellowed the sergeant.

"Sir!"

"Where's Colonel Carradine and Captain Stillington?"

"Believe they're on the upper wall, Sergeant."

The sergeant shot a glance upwards and could make out several gauntleted hands pointing into the darkness.

"Hrmmph! No time to wait. Let the signal birds go, now, north and south. If they're mad enough to attack here then they must be attacking elsewhere too."

"Yes, Sir!"

"Look lively, lads. Look lively!" the sergeant barked orders as men continued to scramble to their posts. Cauldrons of lead were put to the boil; gigantic boulders were rolled into precarious positions along the Wall.

"Come now, men!" bellowed Sarta, "You don't want to be cheap hosts, eh? Let's make a grand Lanten Eve reception party for the Horde!"

A few men laughed at the grim joke, but most were too intent readying themselves: cinching armour, notching bows, preparing to fight and - if need be - die.

As the sergeant peered apprehensively over the wall at the surging tide of the enemies' ranks, now less than 400 yards away, he could not know that he was wrong. Only here, where the wall was strongest and the men best prepared, had Targa Gamarad decided to strike. The Sergeant leaned out over the battlements and roared:

"You want a taste of it? Come ahead, then. Death is on the house!"

They needed no invitation, for come they did, like a flood. But as quickly as ladders could be run up they were struck down, and arrows rained down mercilessly from the walls upon the Hordes of Night.

The battle raged through the night, until the defenders lost all track of time, until the waves of attack came with that mix of unreality and peculiar familiarity known in fits of delirium. Times beyond number the enemy tried to gain the wall; always they were repulsed.

The enemy's numbers were staggering, but their task appeared more formidable still. To the sergeant's expert eye, it seemed the battle would last as long as the desigarg had troops to throw at them. But as to the ultimate issue, he felt certain that following their current tactics they could not succeed. Where were their siege engines he wondered?

Even as he thought this, to his left a young corporal screamed out, impaled where he stood by a desigarg spear. Bran reached for him, but it was too late. The youthful officer plunged forward over the wall and into the darkness below. Poor blighter, the sergeant thought.

And then, with almost no warning it happened. In the skies above the defenders there rang out a chaotic eerie wail, a sound that chilled the blood in the mere hearing; it brought the neck hairs of every human soldier to attention. High above them, some unknown and invisible evil was circling. Its menacing sound drew every eye, both of man and desigarg, upward, as with craning necks they scanned the heavens.

From below the wall a loud cry began to swell in the throats of the desigarg, "Vulgrath! Vulgrath!" The enemy Horde were chanting the word, a word unfamiliar to the humans but the last word most would hear. Suddenly, as if in terrible answer to the chant, fire rained down out of the sky. It came again and again. Men either died where they stood or jumped from the wall to escape the flames. In their panic some jumped down the wrong side, plunging forty feet into the midst of the Hordes. Twenty-five minutes later, not a soldier remained standing on the Wall. Cair Galinal was in flames, the armies routed and Sergeant Bran Sarta lay among his charred companions, staring up at the sky through lifeless eyes.

~ ~ ~

The farmer reined in the horse and plough then, while looking slowly about him, mopped the sweat from his brow. His powerful hands were grimed and calloused from years of working the earth. He sighed, and his weariness was both physical and spiritual. Truly clearing and ploughing were backbreaking jobs. Under the circumstances, they were heart breaking, too. Both had been his steady business for the last three weeks, ever since he and his two youngest sons had fled Cair Galinal to settle in the Western Wilds. It couldn't be helped, he knew; after all, you couldn't farm in the middle of a war.

Evening was coming but there was time for a bit more work. With a second sigh, this one of determination, he bent his back again to the task. Five acres cleared and ploughed. He reckoned they would need twice that much merely to survive. Survival was all they could hope for at present. Even this was a slim hope, he knew.

Ahead of him, in what would eventually be their second field, his son, Marichael, was manfully cutting into a tree nearly a foot and a half in diameter. Jessef Bindaved was proud of his son's strength and determination. Marichael stood nearly 6'3", making him several inches taller than his powerfully built father. He was handsome, with sandy brown hair and clear green eyes. At seventeen years of age, Marichael had not yet 'filled out', but was already stronger than many grown men.

Truly, Jessef thought, without my sons I would stand no chance at all. Once I might have, yes, but not now at my age.

Jessef scanned the horizon as he worked. The valley he had chosen was wide and flat. The hills surrounding it were high enough to conceal the farm's existence from anyone who did not actually cross within them. On the other hand, they were distant enough that any hostile approach could be seen in time to do something about it. Not that there was much Jessef - even if he'd had all seven sons - could do against marauding desigarg. Should they come the farm would certainly be lost. The only course would be flight. If he were fortunate the foul creatures would content themselves with the handful of animals available. Human rogues or vandals he would fight, if that became necessary. The rich soil of the valley was worth a fight.

Continuing to scan the hills he saw no trace of Jaomin, his youngest son. The boy had charge of the few sheep - 12 in all - that they had managed to salvage from their demolished farm. The small flock, along with three cows and Nina - his plough horse, were all that remained of his once thriving farm. Jessef noted that the sun was perhaps forty-five minutes from touching the hills to the west. It was a thirty-minute walk to their rounded summits.

"Marichael, you better stop that now," Jessef called. "Go and find Jao. Night is coming fast."

"I don't think this tree is going to come down in a hurry," Marichael called back.

"Leave it now, son. And find yer' brother."

"Can't we just let him find his own way back, Abba? Even Jao can't miss the fact that night's coming."

"No, find him," Jessef returned. Until recently he wasn't one to worry. But the events of the last two and a half months had left him frightened and cautious. The desigarg shouldn't be able to get this far west for years, hopefully forever. But then he - and all the people of Cair Galinal and indeed all of the land of Grenwilde - would never have believed that the hordes could gain entrance to their homeland. Yet Jessef, along with hundreds of others, had lost all his possessions in a single night. The Tower of Grenwilde had fallen to the toad-like monster, Targa Gamarad; the Great Wall had later been breached in a dozen places and now the terrible war was raging through all the villages and countryside of Grenwilde.

He watched Marichael, who had every right to be tired, resign himself to his errand. He slung the axe easily over his shoulder, and started towards the western hills.

"He won't be far," his father called.

Marichael's reply was lost but Jessef could see him nodding as he strode onward.

Never again would Jessef believe that a thing was impossible. Never again would he believe his family truly safe. 'Creator,' he quietly said, 'create for me a safe place, I pray. And for my sons, give them safety as they battle the Hordes of Night.' He thought of his five sons in the service of King Akinwrath. It was impious to think evil of the King, the Anointed One, but somehow Jessef wondered if it was not his fault. Grenwilde had become complacent, her troops were sloppy, her king...arrogant. Grenwilde had trusted in its walls and not the Creator. Jessef shook his head. Turning from unpleasant memories, he thought of his youngest son.

Jaomin was a dreamer. He could lose himself in a minute, in a cloud; he could be equally lost in thought when by himself or when in a crowded city street. He was, Jessef thought, the wisest of his sons, but by no means the most aware. Ganarth was the wiliest. Telliam, who held the rank of captain, was the best soldier. In fact, any of the other six had more awareness than did Jaomin. But Jaomin had a heart for his Creator and a mind that loved to ponder. Jessef had no favourite son, but he knew that he would be broken with grief if anything bad should happen to his youngest. Always, Jaomin brought to the farmer's mind his lost wife, Nalitha. She had been beautiful and wise; emptiness gnawed him. No longer was it a stab so much as it seemed a settled cancer. He would not think of her. It hurt too much.

He watched Marichael sauntering up the western hill. Deciding it best to begin supper, he led Nina to the lean-to shelter, and then went by himself into the house.

~ ~ ~

The sheep grazed contentedly along the hillside. The gentle sounds of their teeth cropping the grass could be distinctly heard. Jaomin was leaning back against the side of the hill. Sunset and sunrise, the ends of the day, were his favourite times. He loved to watch the Creator's genius, his sudden works of art. The day was making its peace with night, and it was lovely.

"Creator, you thrill me," the boy whispered earnestly, "Can I see you soon, face-to-face? I know it's foolish. I would melt. But the longing, the knife in the heart, it's there for a reason, isn't it? Your reason. I know that for sure. I think it would be worth it, Creator, to see you and melt, like the sun melts out of the sky."

It's funny, thought Jao, how there are things more certain than the ground you walk on. The ground is solid, but it moves; it can be shaken. But there are things that the heart knows that can't be shaken. Things that don't wander about.

The boy sat up, cradling his legs in his arms, and gazing intently at the flaming sky. His limbs were sturdy and his face beautiful but very grave. The contrast between his dark complexion and his eyes was startling. Those eyes were a world in themselves: blue, bright and wild as the sea on occasion, but, at other times, they seemed like pools of peace.

And now, as the day quietly burned itself into cinders, a cloud crossed Jaomin's eyes. There was no cloud in the clear sky that explained this shadow, for he was troubled by a memory. He remembered that again last night he had dreamed the same dream that had haunted him for weeks.

He could see his surroundings with a peculiar kind of clarity. He was standing on an embankment above the curve of a dark lonely road. The road, on its further side, formed the edge of a precipice, dropping away into a valley with hills beyond. From behind him a tree reached over his head, hanging above the road. The wind gusted, so that the tree's naked branches scratched the sky with their skeletal fingers.

In the dream the only sound had been wind and then, like a rising storm, the steady beat of an approaching horse's hooves. He pressed himself back behind the tree and watched. Below him there came a single rider, thundering along the road. He knew he could not hide. Yet knowing it to be futile, Jaomin pressed himself still further behind the tree, but no effort of will could prevent him from peeking around the edge to see. Already, even in his dream he knew what he would see.

The man slowed suddenly, reining in his powerful warhorse. Now he sat silently and alertly directly below Jaomin's hiding place. The man was obviously of noble birth, stately in his bearing, hard as the ground over which he galloped. He seemed almost to be carved of marble.

Always it was the same: the silent rider in silver armour searching the horizon, slowly scanning the whole valley. Oh, that he were in that valley, then he might run! The hair along Jaomin's neck tingled, both during the dream and now remembering it.

The eyes of the rider moved irresistibly and inevitably to his hiding place. He would be seen; somehow it was like a moment of destiny that he would be seen. There was no hiding from those eyes. And when the gaze fell on him, Jaomin felt like a fire had been lit in his chest; Jaomin seemed to himself to be naked. His cheeks burned with shame and he looked at the ground. He was afraid, for the stranger was somehow terrible in his nobility.

With unhurried motions, but as smoothly as thought, the stranger pulled a splendid sword from its shoulder sheath, and pointed it directly at Jaomin. Although it was like lifting a heavy weight, Jaomin forced himself to raise his eyes and look directly at the stranger. What happened next was very difficult for his mind to put into words. There was an explosion of light, and Jaomin was instantly gasping and awake. His spirit was rising right out of the roots of his hair. His eyes snapped open, and slowly disappearing from his terrified view, there were magnificent rolling glories, like huge millstones of light turning in the sky.

"Jao!"

The dream evaporated on the instant. In one agile motion the boy leapt to his feet, whirling as he did so. At the same instant his hand seized his shepherding stick bringing it up across his chest where he held it in both hands, ready to strike or defend. He had moved like a cat.

"Hey, whoa. Easy, little brother. You wouldn't want to hurt me, would you?" Marichael stood there with his hand out and his face looking like it might split, his smile was so wide.

"You rock-head! Wha'd you wanna scare me for?" Jao lowered his stick.

"You sure jumped. I seen frogs that didn't hop that good."

Jao had to admit he'd been gotten pretty good. Marichael sure could move quietly, but then Jao's thoughts had been a million miles away.

"Time to get the sheep home. Sun's gone. Let's go." Marichael turned to leave.

"Well, wait a minute. I might as well go with you." Jao whistled a shrill high note, and - without pausing to see that his flock was following - he trotted after his brother. The sheep gambolled towards their master, following him instantly in a small knot. "Come out here and knock my skin off and then leave. Some brother!"

Marichael continued to smile. Jao admired his older brother, but kept that secret to himself. Marichael was two years older than he and already as strong as a bull, but when you're the youngest of seven you have to be careful with your praise if you want to get noticed yourself. Jao glanced at his brother out of the corner of his eyes.

"You think Abba'll let us go back and join the fighting, Maric?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"'Cause he doesn't have any one else to help him set up the farm, that's why not. What d'ya think, Jao? When the others get back there won't be any food if we don't get these fields ploughed and sowed. Gotta get it all done b'fore summer. Think he's gonna do that by himself?"

Jao knew this but didn't like it. He sighed.

"Look, Jao, don't go worryin' about the war. The war might end up comin' to us."

"Do you think so?" said Jao, hopefully.

"Might." Marichael didn't look as pleased with the prospect as Jao thought proper. If he weren't certain of his brother's courage, Jao would have thought he was frightened.

"You don't look like you want it to."

"'Course I don't want it to. You got rocks for brains? What d'ya think we'd do if it did come, huh? You gonna sic your sheep on 'em? We'd be dead, Jao, just that simple."

Jao bristled, "I didn't think you'd be afraid."

Marichael swivelled his gaze towards Jaomin and looked at him witheringly, "Look, little brother, who's talkin' about bein' afraid? If the desigarg come - I'll fight. So will you, I guess, but listen - 'cause you might as well know this - if they do come you, me and Father are all dead." Marichael looked ahead again and continued walking. "You weren't at the wall. You didn't see. I was. I saw. Believe me, I saw."

"I wanted to come." Jao said quietly. "Desigarg aren't so much."

"Yeah, well you're lucky you didn't and I wish I hadn't." A forbidding and angry expression fell across his brother's face. Jao recognised it all too well. Both Jao's father and his brother were reluctant to talk about that night. They, along with every man of war in the valley, had ridden off at midnight, in obedience to the king's urgent summons. Jao had been left to tend the family's farm.

During the night a sound such as Jao had never heard roared above the valley. It was a roaring that shook the very earth. Instinctively, Jao had thrown himself to the floor of the house. Suddenly, there was a blinding flash of light. It lasted for perhaps three seconds. Jao, despite his fear, dragged himself to his feet and made his way to the door, flinging it open. What met his sight amazed, frightened and staggered him. It seemed as if the world was on fire. Everywhere around him there was flame, in grass, trees and outbuildings. Miraculously, the farmhouse had been spared, but the barn was blazing. From within Jao could hear the rising screams of Nina and Jak, their two workhorses.

There was no time to think - only to act. He ran to the well and doused himself with water. Without pausing he sprinted into the barn. Acrid smoke tore at his lungs. Smoke blinded him. Flame met him like a wall, smiting his soaked hair and skin. Muffling his face in his shirt he bravely stumbled on into the barn towards the horses' stalls. Seizing Nina's tethering rein he pulled himself alongside the horse's head. He gasped what were meant to be comforting words into her ear, while frantically working at the knots in the rope. She was free. The heat was scorching and the air un-breathable.

Blinded, coughing and feeling himself to be aflame, the boy had led the horse out into the free air of the night. He had immediately fallen to the ground and rolled. There was no need, although Jao did not realise it until later. Somehow no flame had touched his body. Knowing only that he was alive and seemingly unhurt, he staggered back to his feet and turned again towards the barn. Before he could take a step towards the building, its roof and two walls collapsed down and inward. There would be no rescuing the other horse. In the fiery disaster more than three quarters of the livestock had been burned or scattered. Jao, badly shaken but determined, had waited up all night in vain for his father's return.

Two days later, in the half-light of dawn, his father accompanied only by Marichael had returned. They were exhausted and pale, but they rode as though Gamarad himself was at their heels. Brushing his questions aside, they had quickly thrown as many of their belongings into the wagon as it would hold and had gotten out of the valley two hours after dawn. They had travelled so quickly that most of the younger sheep and cattle had been unable to keep up. No one suggested that they wait or go back.

Four days after the battle, Marichael had woken screaming. They were camping beside the open road, fleeing from Cair Galinal. Jao had woken and in the faded light of the moon, he had seen Abba go to his brother. Although he couldn't hear the hushed discussion that had followed, Jao could hear the word 'vulgrath' mentioned repeatedly, vulgrath and fire.

The next night, with great reluctance, Jao's father had yielded to his youngest son's questions and told him of the battle, and of the vulgraths. No one had reckoned on such creatures. They were utterly ruthless, almost random in their destruction, killing man and desigarg almost equally. The desigarg could better afford the losses. Brave men had run, bolder men had been incinerated where they stood. Only a fragment of the army had survived and they had scattered to the west, taking refuge in the Western Hills. The walls, left undefended, had been battered through.

As the boys neared the farm, Marichael put his hand on Jao's shoulder and compelled him to stop. He faced his brother. To his surprise, Maric's face was pale and his voice as well as his hand shook. "Don't make me talk about that night again, brother. Do you understand? I don't wish for war, Jao; I only wish that that night had never been."

Something about the tone of his brother's voice, with its unfamiliar note of pleading, made Jao's nod the natural response.