I have been on many campaigns with my chieftain
Anadil over the millennia. He selected me personally from among the warriors of
my clan. The hidden lords of Dericost had their hands deep into our people then.
In the subjugation of us, they came to respect and admire our warriors. It once
was said that, man for man, none could best the nomads of the high desert.
The service of our chieftains the Dericost especially coveted, for, unlike most
of their living generals, they held no scruple in battle. It was always a
strange thought to us that anyone could do any less than whatever is necessary
to achieve victory. I have also heard it said that, because we had always lived
on the move, we were far better at raiding and fast-moving warfare.
I know not if this was actually true, but it sounds likely. As more of our
chieftains proved their loyalty to the Ice Throne, more were blest with
conversion to Mu-Miyah, the only form of thinking-death in which the body does
not decay at all, but is well and truly eternal. In time, we commanded all the
finest companies of Dericost.
I participated in many raids against the Yalain and Haebrous during the Last
War, and proved myself in combat time and again. At Harebach Crose, I captured
the standard of Relmontaine, and was highly praised by Ilkanne herself. At
Berkesh I fought the Yalain captain Machus Sencara in single combat, and brought
back his head to hang from our company's standard. The skull still hung there on
the morning we fought at the foot of Gelid.
We knew the Yalain and Haebrous were coming. We had shadowed their army for
hundreds of miles as they bludgeoned their way through the living armies the
Dericost lords set before them. We had long since known their exact numbers, and
what famed warriors were present, and who commanded the left, right, and center.
We knew how the army would deploy and where it would attack. We would hold them
off easily.
So we held them off, easily. They attacked in thick fog on one of the coldest
mornings I can remember. The skin of the lesser thinking-dead cracked and broke
away as they marched. For hours, all I could grasp of the battle was the sound.
Men and women screamed in pain and fury, the metal clashed and clanked, support
arms whirred and whistled, and mage-fire crackled.
As the mist burned away that fateful morning I was witness to a stirring vision.
There among the snow and battle stood a woman clad in white, with long golden
hair spilling over her shoulders. With the tip of a flaming silver sword she
drew a circle around herself, and coolly smote any Firstborn who dared cross it.
I stood among the great captains, beneath our proud banners, and watched her.
She fought for hours, and slew many of the mighty among our company. By the time
the sun had reach its apex, her white raiment was horrifically soiled with blood
and gore. She did not seem to notice. She was splendid to watch, so graceful and
untiring she seemed inhuman. I have rarely seen one outside our own tribes so
completely devoted to the warrior's arts, and none of us could withstand her.
She was, I later learned, Leikotha, an esteemed chevaird of Haebrous. At the
time, however, all I heard of her was Nerash’s murmur, "She is beautiful,
is she not?" Of course, we all know how that story ended.
Not that it mattered on the field that day. While the Kings tenaciously held the
gates to Gelid, Alaidain and Jailne, alone, wound their way through the Vasmora,
entered the palace, and slew Sarvien the Foolish. For that infamous defeat, the
Sand Kings of the high desert were shunned by their own people. Honor demanded
atonement for failing to protect their charge.
The surviving Kings recouped their honor at Ayn Tayan, but by then the world had
changed. Our conquerors had been too scarred by the war to consider any possible
fate for us but the torch. We were not men who had surmounted death, and paid a
heavy price for the honor; we were abominations and monsters. The Kings had gone
with the Lords to Killiakta, joining the Winds in their hidden redoubts. By the
time atonement had come, our descendants had been taught by Yalaini missionaries
to think of us as they did.
I carry two things with me now. One is my honor, which I redeemed at the Hill of
Pines. The other is my sword, with which I hope to serve the generations that
may be. I understand too well the tragedy of the Frorites, trapped forever now
in their drafty citadel. They can never go home. Even if they should, what
remains for them there? The few dozen of them that remain, and the empty cities
of old Dericost?
My people, like theirs, are gone. There are no more herds and tribes wandering
across the high desert. There is only silence and the wind, where once my people
sang under the stars.
I doubt the Winds and Lords will ever truly understand what they have lost. But
lately, while lurking in the dark beyond the campfires of the Isparians, I have
heard them sing of their world's stars.