He heard it; they all did, as he climbed the stairs to rafters of the city walls. He saw his fellow countrymen forlornly looking out as the low hypnotic hymn of the enemy solders' dirge washed over them as it harmonized to the melodies of the highest timbre of the ethereal Emulators. With the rising sun he saw them, hundreds of thousands of soldiers emerging from the east. Their song coalesced into a symphony of dread and awe. He found it terrifying, yet beautiful; such was the power of their music, of their presence.
It was them, the Arda Tuluvans and their Armies of the Consolidation that marched ever onward by the Will of their Holy Sovereign, the Axantarimë Emperor. The rumors of the new Empress were true; she had declared the Second Grand Consolidation; to unite all the lands Under Heaven. He remembered his father and others talking that they need not fear the Consolidation; they weren’t Noldori, nor even Arda Tuluvan. He was Nadoan. Like his father and the people of Ebou Dar. But it seemed that the Noldori dominated Great Cúldarë Empire – as they called it. Had their sights further afield. He knew them as the Arda Tuluvan Empire; but that seemed so trivial now. Why had his thoughts gone to such nuances? They wanted Ebou Dar, the city of his birth, which was nestled between the Oron Eluin Mountains to the north and the Oron Aracarin Mountain range to the south. Ebou Dar was the threshold to the rich farm lands of the Nandorin basin.
He wanted to ask a soldier why they had not seen this coming. But, he knew the answer: the forward scouts must have encountered the Arda Tuluvans and were slaughtered before they had yet to return to the city. He remembered the panic from his father when hearing the scouts had not returned at dawn, precautions were made and many of the farmers and villagers had taken what they could retreating behind the protection of the Ebou Dar’s giant, sturdy walls.
From the rafters atop the city’s high walls he saw the Golden Banners of the Great Cúldarë, the formation of the Empire’s elite Mahtari soldiers. He had heard the stories from refugees and travelers about the Mahtari. An entire caste in Arda Tuluva dedicated solely to war, to their masters’ dreams of unifying all Under Heaven. It was said that from birth they were taught nothing but duty, obedience, and war.
He was in terrible awe at the sight of the thousands of soldiers, their siege weapons; which were a design he’d never seen, nor read about before. The Emulators’ song washed over him as his knees began to buckle. Then silence. The Ever-Victorious Army – as they called it, never having lost a war - stood unflinching below just beyond the rage of even the most trained Ebou Dari archer.
The Army did not approach. Instead they remained giving needed time to get the rest of the villagers into the city. The soldier to his right muttered something about honor and respect. But he couldn’t quite tell if the man was genuine or not. It was then he saw a tent being erected between the city gate and the Army, as the rear soldiers moved fanning out to surround the city.
An hour went by, maybe two or more. The Sun hung high in the sky now. He gulped as a hand pressed against his shoulder, “It is time.” He turned to see his father, the King. He nodded to him, his father showed no fear, only determination it renewed his own spirits. His hope.
Descending the stairs they were met in the courtyard by the Archbishop, and by the General, leader of their armies. How could they stand against that? He wondered.
“My King.” The withered soldier said.
“Majesty.” The old priest bowed his head.
The King mounted his horse, followed by the General, the Archbishop, a plump man in fine purple robes, had to be hoisted atop his horse. “No, son.” The King said before the boy could mount his own horse, “Remain here.” He nodded, not wanting to protest in front of his father’s subject.
They rode out soon as the gates were opened. He watched as they approached the tent cautiously. He couldn’t see much from this distance, but the Arda Tuluvans had given the King a seat and drink. They talked for some time before the Nadoans returned. The King’s face was ashen and he didn’t need to ask how the negotiations went.
The King of Ebou Dar jumped from his horse handing his ministers a yellow scroll. They gasped reading it, then handing it to the next. Finally the King’s son was able to see what was inscribed:
“Unto the King and the People of Ebou Dar.
By Will of Heaven these lands rightfully belong to the Great Cúldarë; sovereigns of All Under Heaven. The City of Ebou Dar shall submit to the Phoenix Throne. The King shall present himself in Armenelos to bow before the Throne.
The People of Ebou Dar shall renounce the vile blasphemy as followers of the false god and heretic known as the Christ. To this end, the people shall show dedication and penance to the Axantarimë Empress, the King is commanded to hang the Christian priests from the walls of the City.
Failure to obey shall result in the razing of Ebou Dar, it shall be struck from history. The Nadoan people shall cleansed from this land.
So let it be written.”
The gates were shut and barricaded, soldiers prepared for the siege and the battle. It was high past noon now. No song came from the Arda Tuluvans. No-one spoke in Ebou Dar. Only the soft shrill of a hawk could be heard. The boy stood atop the wall, again, looking out at the Ever-Victorious Army.
Those massive siege weapons were moved before the Mahtari soldiers, three dozen massive wooden weapons: they had a large arm that was pulled down which was attached to a massive counterweight on the opposite side. It was released; a flaming ball was thrown out lobbed high into the air as it arched towards the city. It hit the ground with a fiery explosion a hundred or so paces from the walls. The Ebou Dari soldiers began to laugh at their enemies’ failure. A jest they’d soon regret.
The Arda Tuluvans began shouting at each other as more weights were added to the buckets. The arm was slowly pulled down. Another fiery ball was thrown into the air, this time much higher as it arched. He knew it would go beyond the wall as he watched it sore, almost majestically, above him before crashing, exploding into a building, crumbling ablaze. Then the others. All of them. The arms were pulled down. One. Two. Eight. Twenty. He lost count as the fiery balls hurled into the city, onto and against walls. He ran from the rafters back to the safety – oh he prayed to God the castle would be safe.
He was with his mother and sisters now; praying to God, the Virgin, and all the Saints for salvation, for deliverance. It had gone on for hours, a continuing barrage of fire. Even from within the castle he heard the screams of people dying, burning. The sounds of explosions, of a raging fire. He knew then that the Arda Tuluvans had no intention of conquering the city, but of obliterating it.
Then it stopped. He left the safety of the sanctuary, much to the protest of his mother, and found his father on a balcony. Fear, sadness, filled his eyes now. His face was no longer full of determination, but of regret as he watched his beloved city burn mumbling futile prayers with his rosary. He made no intention to speak with his father, the King. He, too, stood there watching the horrors before him.
The fires raged all night, the people tried to contain it, snuff it out. But to no avail, it was everywhere. By dawn most of the city was cinder and ashes. It was then a new song could be heard from the Arda Tuluvans. He trembled at the sound. This wasn’t a song of war, nor of inspiration. It was a Song of Death. And it began anew. He saw the hurling fire reigning down on them. Falling to his knees, tears in his eyes he begged God to slaughter the enemies of Christ! To bring a plague on them!
For three days this continued. The entire city was in ashes and rubble. Parts of the walls had collapsed, the gate had fallen. Yet, the Armies of the Consolidation did not advance. They did not storm the city. It was on the fourth day everything changed. The day the Arda Tuluvans did not barrage the city at dawn. “My King! My King!” A soldier came running into the sanctuary of the Castle.
“What is it, solider?”
He saluted quickly, “A message from High General Fanyáremótar. She wishes to discuss terms! Praise be to God!”
He nodded, “Good. Good.” He looked at his son. “Our people are saved.” Turning to his wife, son, and daughters, “We must be strong in Christ, this will be our greatest test from God.”
The Archbishop raised his hands in the sign of the cross as those assembled genuflected, reciting the Lord’s prayer.
“My King.” The solider said again, “There are stipulations….”
Most of the citizens of the city had taken refuge in the catacombs, or were offered sanctuary in the castle’s underground. Of the 300,000 or so people who inhabited Ebou Dar only about 10,000 survived the onslaught. The entirety of the city was ash and ruble. Only the castle and cathedral still stood, almost defiantly so.
The priests, monks, and nuns were taken away as the men, women, and children under twelve were separated into three groups. The Arda Tuluvan soldiers surrounded each section.
“The Mercy of the Axantarimë Emperor is infinite.” An Arda Tuluvan official who had, not five days ago, read the terms of their surrender. “Yet, the King of Ebou Dar defied Her infallible will. Thus these blasphemers, spreaders of lies, orators of deceit and guile shall be put to death. For their crimes of spreading and teaching the heresy of Christianity, they shall be executed in the same manner as your false Messiah. Crucifixion.”
It has taken most of the afternoon to crucify the priests, monks, and nuns. Men and women wept as they saw their friends and family dying on crosses powerless to do anything. Fatigue, hunger, and most of all fear gripped the people of Ebou Dar.
It was then that High General Vánamírë Fanyáremótar a top her white horse in her ornate red armor approached the Ebou Dari women, “For I am a merciful woman and I shall give you much needed respite.” She paused smiling down at them as food and water was placed in front of them. Gesturing the women approached to quench their much needed thrust and satiate their hunger, a tinge of hope washed over their faces.
“Yet a greater boon I have for you all, oh Christian women. The greatest of them all: I shall make martyrs of you all.” She gestured to the soldiers who began stabbing the women with their spears, some tried to flee. There was panic. But the Mahtari soldiers were more than efficient at quelling them.
She galloped towards the group of men, who eyed her with furry and anger. She smiled at them, unfazed by their hatred. She looked to her soldiers, speaking clearly, “I am merciful and as gift to your heretic pope you shall be sent to your vile holy land to die for your heathen god against the other infidels.”
Before she galloped away, she turned back to them with a wicked smile. Speaking her soldiers, “The men shall all be castrated so that they can no longer produce and spread the abomination that is Christianity.”
The last group, the children. She said, “The children shall be sent to Vinyamar through the Orcerumë Desert and over the Oronruan Mountains. Those that survive shall be indoctrinated into the Mahtari caste. For this is the Will of the Great and Holy Axantarimë Emperor – might she live forever. So let it done.”
“You’ve had a fever.” An old man said. His face still hurt from the Chi-Roh scar the Arda Tuluvans had branded on his face. It seemed castration wasn’t enough for those bastards. “You’ve been in and out for weeks. I was afraid the Prince would not survive.”
“Prince. Puh.” He felt nauseous, was he on a ship? “A prince of what? Of ruin and ash?”
The man laughed, “I was told by many of your people to keep you alive. They told me: ‘the Prince must not die.’ Hah.” He laughed again, “Must not die, or what? They tried to threaten me! Ridiculous.” He handed him a bowl, “Drink this Young Princling. It will calm your fever.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Then by what title?”
“Title!? I lost that when I lost…” He gestured downwards.
The old man burst out laughing, “I have met many eunuchs, but none so humorous. Then what shall you be called?”
“Naimandë.” The boy said after a long pause.
“Ill-fated.” The man gave him a quizzical look, “Hah, humorous indeed. By the way, they call me Ehtelë.”
Naimandë took the bowl and drank the disgusting tonic. “How many of us are there?”
“When we were…. requested… to ferry you across the seas of Alucard and Kyne we had about 4,000 of you lot. Well 4,102 to be precise. We lost two ships in a storm within two days. You took a beam to the head. Almost killed you. Your wound opened again when you fell out of your bed in a fever dream. Ill-fated, indeed.”
“The question. Answer it.”
“I tend to babble.” The old man chuckled to himself, “Some died of fever, which spread. Others refused to eat, so they were thrown overboard. A mutiny caused us to scuttle a ship with some 800 aboard.” He tapped his chin thinking, “Maybe 1500 left. The Throne better compensate us for this. Three ships, of five! This excursion. Ill-fated, indeed. You are a determined bunch, I will I give you that. But, do you not wish to see the land your god is from?”
Another boy, around his own age of sixteen, groaned from another bed. “Give him no mind.” Ehtelë said, who seemed to be attending not only Naimandë, but several others as well, “He is just complaining. He is not even wounded. His brand healed well enough.”
“Who is he?” Naimandë inquired, he was sitting up now finally gauging his surroundings as the ship rocked back and forth.
“Another Christian the Throne has kindly gifted to this grand enterprise of yours.” The old man eyed the other boy, “It seems he once was of the High Blood.” He scoffed, “Such high ranking and now he is even lower than me. An Únótimari now, as you all are, when the Empire gave you that brand.”
He looked at Ehtelë inquisitively, “There was a great purge in the Empire.” The old man responded to unasked question. “It appeared that the Empress – might she live forever – does not have a liking to the people of your faith and has rid the Empire of your kind.”
Naimandë said a silent prayer to the martyrs who died for their faith across the whole of Arda Tuluva. He cursed the Empress – might she die! – he thought.
“Get some rest, my boy.” Ehtelë said patting him on the shoulder, “You will need it for the days to come.” For a Noldori this man was kind, Naimandë thought, but then he noticed the faded tattoos on the old man’s hands, a Hildari – the priestly caste, he would be obliged to see to their health and needs, even though he was now an ‘undesirable.’ He knew he shouldn’t judge an entire people just for the actions of a few. But he couldn’t help but hate them all. He closed his eyes with the thought that God is just, and their retribution will come.
In the next few days Naimandë walked around the large rectangular ship with its trademarked red ribbed sails. He recognized some of the men as soldiers and merchants from Ebou Dar. He had been approached by one who said that he had been talking to the men, and they had selected Naimandë as their leader. He did not want it, but he remembered one of the last things his father had said to him: “We must be strong in Christ, this will be our greatest test from God.”
The pompous former High Blood, who apparently was forced to take the name Helcilo Únessendil “the Forsaken Unfilial Son,” had assumed command – without protest - of the remaining Noldori. Naimandë and Helcilo eyed each other with suspicion, rarely talking. The now downtrodden Noble thought himself too high to speak with someone so low, it seems the Noldori had a hard time accepting his new position.
It was the following day that the three Arda Tuluvan ships arrived at the port of St. John. The captain and leader of the Noldori ships descended with a squirrely looking clerk who explained – in Latin – to the Harbor Master that the Phoenix Throne has a gift for the Christians in their crusade against the infidels. The 1,484 men from ages of about fourteen to sixty each with the Chi-Roh branded on their right cheeks were lined up. As crates were unloaded containing weapons and armor looted from Ebou Dar before the city was razed to the ground.
The Noldori ships sold other supplies and bought some more and would leave in the coming days. Naimandë, along with many of the Nadoans, spoke Latin proficiently enough. While very few of the Noldori did. Helcilo’s Latin was awful; besides the prayers he memorized, he couldn’t say much.
Naimandë and Helcilo took the lead in their march towards the Citadel, where they were told to go, just behind the squirrelly Noldori clerk – who was being carried in a sedan chair – and accompanied by a few guards. Once they all reached the Citadel he turned to the former High Blood and Pricne, “My duty is complete. I have brought the heretics to the Citadel of Saint John on this the twenty-sixth day of Hrívë in the Eight Year of the Most Holy Axantarimë.”
He handed three large scrolls to Naimandë before he departed. Looking at the scrolls it was a list of every man’s name and an inventory of their equipment. The two leaders told their men to remain here and go through their supplies as they entered the Citadel to inscribe their names into the Order of Mountjoy.