#486 - UNTITLED
(HARD ROAD)by Mark Correia
The battlefield stretched out along the valley. The only sign of life among the corpses was a lone tasloi. The cat sat naked on the ground, his battered armour strewn about him. He held the shaft of a broken spear upright; as if a phantom standard still fluttered in the dead calm. His gaze was fixed beyond the valley, towards the setting sun.
"See? There he is! Just like I said," a gruff voice sounded.
A small group of armoured garani walked up to the tasloi. The cat's expression didn't change; it was as if he never saw the hogs approach.
The larger garani stepped forward and spoke. "You are under arrest for war crimes against the garani people. Surrender or perish."
The cat sighed, nearly imperceptibly. His expression remained unchanged.
"Wassa matta," one of them grinned, "cat got your tongue?"
"Maybe he's catatonic," another snickered.
"That would be a catastrophe," a third joked. All the garani laughed, except one.
Although Brock was a relatively new recruit to the garani army, he'd seen his share of battle. Several tasloi had died by his hand in what seemed like a pointless war.
He couldn't help but see the intense pain that lay within the tasloi's eyes.
"Commander Tirin, permission to question the tasloi."
"Sure, Brock. But I don't see how you can get anything out of him. Once a kitty shuts up, you can't make him talk."
He walked forward and knelt by the cat's left side.
"The battle's over..."
"For me, perhaps," the tasloi spoke in Brock's head and before the garani realized what was happening, a flood of images rushed into his mind...-|+|+|-
There had been rumours that the garani army had taken several cities east of Tura Valley. Scouting reports said they were also planning to take the tasloi fortress of Kaikers within the fortnight. All regional militia were sent to defend the valley pass and halt the progress of the garani advancement.
Alain had been a member of the Kaikers city guard and of the Royal Tasloi Brigandine Force. Although he was still rather young, he had been preparing most of his life for battle. The stories the veterans told him were enthralling... romantic... heroic. Comrades-in-arms standing shoulder to shoulder. The feral, spirited wolven of Torles viewed warfare as a grand hunt. The bear-warriors of Urok who had a kind and gentle nature off the battlefield, would turn into enraged berserkers when faced with the enemy. The mysterious tiger-men of Beni had stealth and cunning that are universally known. Alain occasionally imagined himself as a brave warrior, golden armour gleaming in the sunlight, driving back the enemy.The orderly skirmishes and retreats that were played out innumerable times in the course of his training all meant nothing when the first wave of garani attacks hit. He was quite unprepared for the utter chaos and confusion of 'real' warfare. The war cries cut short by an axe in the throat... the stinging, deadly rain of black-fletched arrows falling from the skies... the mournful screams of riding beasts impaled on spears... worst of all, the stench of ozone from the discharge of arcane magics mixed with the smell of charred fur and flesh from the victims. Before his very eyes, the friend who was consoling him and giving him the courage to fight, erupted into a hideous ball of green fire; the fur and flesh blackening around his body like a bizarre shell. His tortured death cry rang loudly in his ears as he slumped to the ground. In seconds, the smoking pile of flesh was almost unrecognizable.
A nearby explosion threw Alain into another blast crater and knocked the cat unconscious and left for dead.By sunset, the fight was over. The garani forces simply overpowered the tasloi by sheer number.
Alain finally awoke and crawled weakly from his makeshift grave. The night sky was blackened by the smoke bellowing from the charred remains of the fort. All around were the burnt and bloodied bodies of his bretheren and enemy alike. The carnage was horrific. He dropped to his knees and wept for the fallen. He wept for his people. He wept in anger and frustration having to fight a battle he was so ill-prepared for and had no chance to win.
Out of the smoke and fog, humming a whistful tune, came a lady dressed all in black. The dark cloak hung and fluttered about her like ebony mist. Her gauze-like veil showed only a glimpse of the pearl-white fur about her face. She laid a red-gloved hand upon Alain's shoulder and he started out of his mourning. He looked up into her shimmering golden eyes, his own tear-stained ones imploring for answers. Her hands cupped his chin and brought him to her breast, comforting his pain. He breathed in her scent of sweet earth and mountain wildflowers mixed with the dust and carnage of the battlefield.
"Dead, all dead," he sobbed. "What could I have done to stop this?"
She spoke in the voice of the wind in the trees. "Weep, child. For no powers can halt the machine of War when it starts. Only when it is tired can the heart of Darkness be enlightened."
"Then let me weaken the cogs! Let me bring light into the dark!"
Again, her eyes looked into his, their light piercing his soul.
"The machine is still strong. Do not throw yourself beneath it. Yours is not the first to succumb to the dread powers, and as sure as night follows day, yours will not be the last."
She bade him rise to his feet. "Although War gains its strength in numbers, the power of one can shake the foundations by chipping the keystone."
"But, how?"
Her eyes creased as she smiled beneath her veil. "The spark of love and reason can help bring the Light into the Darkness."
She turned from him and began to walk away from the rising sun. "Look in your heart... When you need me, I'll not be far away."
Alain stood. He let the counsel of her words echo within his ears as he watched her black cloak fade into the misty fog of the morning...-|+|+|-
"...Forget it, Brock!" Commander Tirin snapped his senses back to the present. "You've been at it for ten minutes, already. Look at him! He's been stock still since we got here!"
Alain then turned his head slowly and looked into the concerned porcine face of Brock.
"...She was right." Although his voice was nought more than a croak, it had been the first time he spoke in their presence. "It was two nights ago. She left toward the west. I knew my fate was already decided long before you arrived.
"But now, I can give my message for all of you," his voice became clear and strong. "Power, warfare, money, glory; they all mean nothing. You can conquer the world by force; crush villages under your heels; citystates tremble at the mere mention of your name. But at night, sleep will not come as you fear the assassin's blade across your neck. You say your followers are loyal, but you are never truly certain. Even your most trusted guards and servants suddenly seem as threats. The lands you took so violently to be your own will grant you no peace. Your shoulders sag with the weight of the mantle of power you wear so proudly. Your iron Emperor's crown will rest uneasily upon your brow as if made of thorns..."
A few snickers flowed among the garani.
"VIOLENCE BEGETS VIOLENCE!!" The cat never moved, but the three garani dropped their weapons at hand; startled at the sudden shout. "Make no mistake," his voice was soft again. "If you remember nothing else from me, remember that." He heaved a great sigh and shuddered. A tear ran down his cheek. "The only things that truly matter... are the affairs of the soul."
Alain closed his eyes and turned very still.
Tirin and the other two shrugged and shifted about somewhat uneasily. He nudged the tasloi. No response. He held his callused hand near Alain's nose. He couldn't feel any respiration coming from the cat.
"He's dead, just like the rest of 'em." Tirin shuffled his feet. "We might as well leave. Hanging around on a dead battleground ain't one of my favourite things to do." They started to walk away.
Brock looked back at Alain's body, still stoically holding the broken spear. "Rest well, friend. The spark has caught."
The sun set silently, covering the battleground in a blanket of peace.-= END =-
"#486 - Untitled (Hard Road)" is ©1997 Mark Correia. The HTML version is ©2001 Southpaw Artwerx. This story may be freely distributed by electronic media provided NOTHING is changed or omitted (including this notice). Hardcopies in any form are limited to a single printing for personal use only. All other rights reserved.
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