The Punishment of the Gods Read online

  Chapter VI:

  The Folly of Cheft Faros

  My Own Reluctance

  I must confess that I would prefer to pass over the writing of this chapter altogether. There is no hope, as far as I can tell, of restoring the reputation of Cheftan Faros. In the years that followed his doomed campaign his name became a byword throughout Weldera, and even historians have said little more about him than that he fell in battle as a result of his own folly. There have been several well-known men who have suffered great loss to their own reputations because they were willing to speak the shameful truth about his sad end. The Noras are a proud race, and they do not own up to their bad fruit gladly. Were it my intention to save my own name from suffering dishonor on Cheft Faros' account, my natural instinct would have me gloss over his final battle with only a brief mention of his death and then follow that with a eulogy of the heroes that died on that very same day. Or I can do what others have done and revile him unfairly as a traitor or an accomplice.

  As it stands, there have already been several histories written of the Welderan Wars, so that the 'Folly of Cheft Faros' has been made into a household term. But while many revile him there are very few who can say what his infamous 'Folly' was. But his error was born of reasoning, which is the occupation of all men, whether they carry a sword or a stack of dusty scrolls. And as such it may be worth noting wherein he made his dreadful mistake.

  Were there some great danger that threatened the life and honor of a carpenter or a hunter, I imagine a good carpenter and the good hunter would deem it necessary to discover that danger and take whatever precautions are appropriate to avoid a like disaster. And if the embarrassing tale of Cheft Faros can teach us of some peril that lies in careless reasoning, then we had better learn that lesson so that we can avoid it ourselves.

  Knowledge may often lead us to an awareness of danger, but there is no danger in the knowledge itself. It often happens, however, that ignorance turns out to be more deadly than the danger of which we are unaware. A man who is ill-informed may act in ways that can worsen his peril, but a doomed man is no more doomed for the knowing.

  Whether it is wanted or not, and whether I lose all the respect of my peers, I will attempt to lay out plainly for my readers the foundation of Faros' Folly. If by giving this warning I can spare someone even a little confusion or inconvenience I will have done well. But it is not only about unimportant matters that we can be confused or misled by simple misjudgments. As I will show, it is also in grave matters that Lord Folly, brother of Death, has his hand.

  A 'Tithem' and a 'Tithem'

  In the dark days prior to the coming of Galvahir, there was an annual sacrifice required of the Noras. The devil-god Agon demanded a sacrifice of thirty strong men. The word the Noras used to describe this terrible duty was 'Tithem', and in time the word became a common word for a curse or a burdensome fate.

  A man afflicted with illness might say that it was his 'Tithem' to suffer. Or that the gods decreed this 'Tithem' against such and such a race of wicked people. According to the histories of the Noras, the devil-god Agon was condemned to an 'Eternal Tithem' when he was finally driven from Noras by his brother Pelas. But properly speaking the word kept with it through all the years the idea of being slain or wounded as a sacrifice for the sake of the pleasure of the gods.

  Many years later the word came to Daevaron. Here it was adapted by the people to literally represent physical burden. They took it not to mean a burdensome fate, but rather a bundle or pack which a man carries over his shoulders or lays across the back of a mule or an ox. This change in meaning was the ground in which the seeds of Cheft Faros' folly were germinated.

  Cheft Faros was the only son of a Noras Cheftan and Dadron Lady of high standing. He was educated in the Dadron academies, where he excelled in every art and in every science. This quickly gained him the attention of the Cheftans of Noras. Cheft Ponteris and Cheft Biron in particular were very eager to see him in command of the Galva army.

  He was, as I just said, educated in Dadron. And among the Daevaron scholars he was introduced to the journals of Lord Alande si-Titalo, the great warrior who defeated the Eastern Noras so many years ago and drove them out of Daevaron.

  Cheft Faros was quite fond of these journals, for Lord Alande was an unparalleled strategist. He studied Lord Alande's words more than any other book, and even had portions of his works transcribed and bound together into a single volume. This book he kept with him at all times, locked away in a small chest with several other precious things.

  In Lord Alande's journal, in a portion written just prior to his final campaign, after which he became Lord of all Falsis - save for Almighty Dadron of course - he wrote:

  'When darkest seems the hour, brightest shines forth the stars. How they shine down from the firmament above us! Illuminating our councils and giving wisdom to the minds of men and gods. Blessed astral lords, guide your servants to victory!

  'Hard-pressed were we to take the fields of Daevaron, many fortresses of the Noras were scattered about the hills and fields. They passed news also, from one to the other by pigeons and hawks, so it was impossible for us to come against a city unawares.

  'To Pelas, god of Noras we must offer a sacrifice! We will be put to the test hereto. So let a hundred men bear the tithem of a thousand. We will feast on the fruit of their land this very harvest!'

  Cheft Faros read the word Tithem in the Noras way, as he had been raised to do. But it was clearly meant, in the text of Lord Alande's journal, in the way of the Dadron scholars who translated his work.

  More literally, his meaning would have been something like this. 'Let us petition Pelas, the god of the Noras, with a sacrifice. We will be put to the test from here on, so let every warrior bear the 'burden' of ten men. Then we shall certainly see victory and consume the bounty of the Noras.'

  In Faros' madness he read this passage to mean that every tenth man must be made a sacrifice to the god of the Noras. This one little word and its two-fold meaning was the foundation on which all the madness of his final battle rested. This seemingly little ambiguity was the Folly of Cheft Faros. Others have seen this as too foolish an explanation and conclude that Cheftan Faros must have been a servant of darkness or a devil of some kind. But I do not think there is any merit to those opinions. As we will see in another place, there were other things that may have helped the mad Cheftan along on his journey to doom and insanity.

  But if there are any who deem this explanation to be too fabulous to be credited, I must appeal to common experience as an arbiter.

  Is not every petty quibble of the married couple founded upon such ambiguities? The husband deems his wife to be angry because of the tone of her voice. They quarrel, he insisting upon her rudeness, she insisting upon his madness. In the end, when their tempers have cooled and they look upon their tiff with sober reason, they laugh to think how silly it was to make so much over such a trivial thing.

  Trivial it may be, but the ambiguity of our words, and even of our very facial expressions, can create endless potential for confusion. Why should we doubt but that these ambiguities can cause greater strife and mischief? It would be quite outside the scope of this work to recount the role of ambiguity in history and war, but a single example should, in this matter, be sufficient to enlighten us of the dangers of carelessness in words.

  Many hundreds of years ago, there were three princes in the western regions of Weldera, beyond the Coronis Mountains. Their father perished in battle and the crown naturally passed to one of his sons. The youngest of these princes, Tynos, declared upon hearing the news of his father's death that 'my beloved brother' must then be crowned without delay.

  His attendants, knowing his fondness for the second son of his father, assumed he meant not the eldest and true heir. Word came to the eldest prince, who in his great wrath sent troops to slay his own siblings upon the accusation of treachery. A war erupted. In the end, Tynos, unwillingly, came to the throne, his two brothers l
ying dead upon the battlefield. The attendants were executed and from that day forth the term 'beloved' was only used in that realm to denote the legitimate heir to the throne. Have a care with your words!

  The Folly of Cheftan Faros

  The flight from Corhen left the Galva army saddened and discouraged. Cheft Rahm's bravery had saved many, but it made their losses no easier to bear.

  There was an uncanny silence in the camp, even the wounded were silent, despite their many injuries. A dark cloud overshadowed the mountain, as though the gods themselves were against them. Within a few hours tiny pebbles of ice began to fall and the wind became strong. The month of Leonius was all but spent, yet Winter refused to relent.

  Sion and Daryas had managed to escape their rocky platform just before the valley of Corhen was overrun. They did not come through the pass, however. Daryas found, at the bottom of the steep rock wall they had climbed, a small and treacherous path leading down toward the bottom of the cliff. They found there a rushing mountain stream, just small enough to be traversed with a good leap. From there they made their way back toward the camp by a different path.

  At this point one might have supposed that the warriors of the Galva army could not be discouraged any further. But it was when they thought their hearts could sink no lower that Ander, the nephew of Cheft Rahm returned to the camp.

  It took some time for the watchmen to realize that it was him. He wandered out of the darkness of the night and fell on his face in the snow. The watchmen carried him to a tent and layed him on a mat. His eyes had been gouged out and there were streaks of dried blood across his face. He opened his mouth as if to speak, yet he could do no more than mumble, for his tongue had been severed. This cruelty was not the end of his injuries, however. His fingers had been burnt with fire until there was nothing left but charred stumps on each hand. His hair had been carelessly shaved, scarring his head terribly.

  On Cheft Faros' orders, the watchmen kept his return a secret, insofar as they were capable. But word slipped out and soon every tent was filled with the stories of his sorry mutilation. A spirit of rumor overcame the army and soon they were given over into the hands of panic. Slowly but surely, the sound of wailing and mourning began to rise from the tents and watchfires of the Galva army. It was clear now to wise and foolish alike that these goblins were under the control of a mighty Conjurer. For goblins will gouge the eyes and torture their foes with delight, but they do not willingly release them. They are cruel and cunning, but their fell imaginations would not conceive of any purpose in releasing a captive. Such a blow to the morale and hopes of the Galva army was the work of a rational mind; it was the work of a strategist.

  Cheftan Vilav advised Faros to flee the mountain altogether. 'We can muster all of Noras to the vanguard,' he explained. 'If we gather the whole army of the Nine Clans we can make such a wall that will turn back every goblin. Let them have the accursed mountain, for whether we fight or not, it will fall into their hands.'

  But Cheft Lonos accused him of cowardice, 'Suppose Cheftan Rahm were still here, do you suppose he would flee for his life, when honor and the praise of the gods was within his grasp? The gods forbid such a thing! Had he been of the same mind as Cheft Vilav he would have abandoned us in the valley of Corhen. But he chose honor over life and there lies upon sacred ground; his blood the ransom for the lives of many young Noras warriors.

  'We owe our kinsmen in the forest the same. For if we turn from the fight, and give them the mountain today, what will stop us from giving them the lands of Coran-la and Megd-la tomorrow? Then where will we hold their hordes back? We will be driven beyond the Libron to become thralls and refugees among the golden-heads of Daevaron. And what will become of our blessed forest, the last haven of the Noras? It will become a goblin kingdom, like the foul jungle of Zyprion, which lies beyond the wasted plains of Amlaman. It will fester and reek with the foul stench of hob-goblins and orcs.'

  With many like words he persuaded Cheft Faros to maintain their position and continue the hopeless battle. 'It may be that the gods will smile on us yet,' Lonos encouraged him. 'And then we shall be like gods among the men of Noras. We must petition Pelas, for the ancients say that he has saved Noras before.'

  I can say no more of the thoughts of Cheft Faros at this point, for they became increasingly darkened and incomprehensible. Whether it was by devilish wickedness or by mad foolishness, the outcome of his plan was the same.

  Ten days after the battle at Corhen, on the morning of the last day of Leonius, Cheft Faros ordered his men to march. He had three hundred and sixty chosen warriors march in front of the rest of the army. These were the ill-fated men who were chosen to 'bear the Tithem' of ten other men. They were told to strip off their heavy armor and to carry only light weapons and to march about half a league in front of the rest of the army. That he intended to offer then as a sacrifice never would have occurred to them in their darkest imaginations.

  For this battle Faros left very few warriors in the camp, save for those who were too badly wounded to march. Every spare sword, every shield and every spear was brought along. 'This is our last march,' he assured his men. 'And with the help of mighty Pelas we will drive these creatures to the pits of hell.'

  Cheft Vilav was sent with the vanguard to lead the unlucky warriors. 'It is to my death that I march,' he thought as he walked. 'Faros has gone raving; but I will not forsake my fellows. From this day forth let him be known as the Cheftan of Folly, and not a man of Noras.'

  The Galva vanguard marched forth, the goblins were roused and a great battle began. It fell out like this:

  By the tenth hour of the day Faros' Tithem had drawn the goblins from their camp onto a flatter field several leagues to the south. Here the great battle began.

  This helpless troop was swiftly overcome. The sorry warriors looked back toward their companions in vain, for it was not Cheft Faros' intention to come to their aid. Their hearts dropped and they were slain every one of them; they had been abandoned. Cheft Vilav was the last man remaining, and he fought valiantly. He slew both orc and goblin with ease and ran about swinging his sword with a passion born of hopeless courage. But in the end, as is the way with all mortals, he grew weary. Seeing his end he thrust his sword into the ground and stood tall and proud before the oncoming goblins. Thus he met an end worthy of songs.

  'Now that we have petitioned Pelas, we have no more to fear,' Faros said madly. The hearts of his soldiers melted. But he blew a ram's horn and signaled them to charge. 'On my comrades!' he shouted. 'We shall rest on the corpses of our foes by the day's end. This I swear by the sword of Pelas!'

  Cheft Lonos silently slipped back as the army marched forward. He slowed nearly to a stop and let the waves of warriors pass him by.

  'Noras does not belong to Galvahir alone,' he said quietly as he made his way out of the battle. 'And never again will it be lorded over by the master of Peiraso. Here on this mountain your arm is broken at last.'

  The sky grew darker even as the Galva army charged. The ice turned to freezing rain and fell down upon the mountainside in sheets.

  Faros rode his horse forward to the front of his men and charged like a madman toward the enemy. An orc felled his horse with an arrow and the Cheftan fell to the ground, his armor clanging against the rocks. He rose to his feet swiftly, but the orc was already upon him. He did not have time to draw his sword and with a single stroke the orc shattered his skull with a mace. Thus ended his madness, but not its sad train of effects.

  Swagar Prostirne fell with his seven sons after all their poison arrows were spent. His beautiful ivory bow was shattered among the rocks or perhaps carried off by some petty goblin, its like never to be seen again among the Noras. Pater Borirne and his men were slain also. Pater charged about from one end of the field to another, slaying may hundreds of goblins in his wake. But one by one his young men fell and then last of all he stood surrounded by a horde of vengeful petty goblins and thus met his end.

  Tiltos, t
he son of the High Priest was slain also, along with his men. Their axes hewed many orcs ere fatigue betrayed them. In the end their wooden shields lay splintered and broken on the frozen earth. Gergius Gergirne and his son fell there too, slain together by a mighty orc.

  Many others fell in that day, too many to be named. Many of the sons of Clinlor and Mallor, along with some of the companions of Daryas and Sion perished. The sorrow of the Noras became a river of grief and their cries and groans echoed down the mountainside.

  The army continued to fight throughout the afternoon and into twilight. The wind began to howl so loudly and wildly that it nearly drowned out the noise of the goblins and the muffled screams of fallen warriors altogether. Night rushed on and the Noras lost all hope.

  Sion proved his reputation true that day. He led Daryas and a group of fifty other men of Noras to a high ridge on the southern edge of the battlefield. To their backs lay a huge gap and the sides of the ridge were too steep to climb. The only way to reach their position was a small and narrow path that led up from the south-eastern edge of the battlefield. From upon the ridge, Sion, Daryas and their comrades unleashed volley after volley of arrows until every shot was spent.

  But the goblin ranks were unbreakable. They still marched on, undaunted by the valor of Noras' finest warriors. Many Noras turned and fled away down the hill toward their camp. But the goblins had already surrounded them and they were slain quicker than those that remained behind to fight.

  Sion called the men with a loud voice to gather around the ridge from which he fought. From here they had an advantage in combat, though still there was no hope of victory. 'Come Noras!' Sion cried aloud. 'Whether we live or die, let us make sure we do not pass on unremembered. For even if our names and our deeds be forgotten among our own kin, we will put up such a fight here that our names will be remembered among our foes for as long as the world endures.' With many like words he gave courage to the men and they held their ground fast. For a while the goblins could go no further and their bodies piled up in mounds around the ridge. Thus the battle halted for the dark hours of the night, the orcs and goblins not daring to pass the mound of corpses, and the Noras having no means of retreat.

  The two brothers of Old Man Sleep stood on the outskirts of the battlefield. There was Folly, who wore a white robe, stitched together with golden thread, and beside him was Death, with his black hood covering his eyes and his fatal blade drawn.

  'I have done my part,' Folly said in a chuckle. 'The mad Cheftan is dead. And now it is time for you to do your grim work.'

  Death answered nothing. He lifted his blade in front of his face and walked toward the battlefield with a half smile on his pale lips and cold wisps of air passing from his nostrils.