Every great story has its beginning…
This blog is dedicated entirely to the story of the Wars of the Mists of Time. Please, post your comments and suggestions to the author. Each new installment of the epic will come at certain total hits count.
Family trees, names, peoples, tribes, weapons, and others will be posted on the site as the story unfolds. The maps of the Earth will come with a later installment.
And remember any story belongs to its readers and not to the writer. This one more so than others…
Next installment will come when the blog count hits 2,500.
“I know not with what weapons World War III will be fought, but World War IV will be fought with sticks and stones.”
Már pulled quickly the string with his sixth finger of the left hand and released. The arrow hissed loudly and disappeared, continuing on its perfect arc trajectory, sure to hit the target. Though from such distance, it was bound to hit nothing more than an enemy shield. He heard his friend, Thorfin the unit horn bearer, breathing heavily. Their shoulders were touching. Már tried to relax, waiting for the commander of the unit, his brother Ablador, to order them to shoot again. The sun was high above, shining over the green trees and the mountains. He looked at the two peaks that surrounded the meadow, where they had waited for the last six hours. Snow covered the higher peak – the one on the South. A little lower, there were the green-brown shrubs, and under them the pine trees, and still further below, at the beginning of the slope, stood the centuries-old oaks and beeches, covered with moss that remembered many battles – and much more fierce than this one. Már tried to hear the song of the birds. The two-beaked vindals were abundant in these forests, but now all nature was silent, as if in accord with the soldiers, waiting intensely for the outcome of the combat.
The other army charged. Már’s heart began to beat faster.
“Fire,” he heard the command. He released trying to aim in the front rows of the attacking horde. The Modruouls were running berserk, already reaching the first line. Fifty more yards and they will fall in the trap, Már thought. He could feel the fire-hot blood filling his muscles. His people, the Asharah, used the one limb short bow with great expertise because of the sixth finger that grew perpendicularly on the palm of the hand. For the same reason, they were extremely poor sword-wielders. Thirty yards. Már was an anomaly – born with just five fingers on his right hand. He kept a short sword, which was more of a dagger by regular standards. Even the sixth finger on his left hand was underdeveloped. Twenty yards. He released another arrow. It whispered gently, parting with the string. Már followed it with his deep, sad grey eyes. The arrow pierced the unprotected neck of one of the attacking Modruouls. By the time he fell on his back, he was already dead. Ten yards. Már shivered. That was the first person he had ever killed. The approaching Modruouls made two quick steps and jumped right over the trap, as if they knew precisely where it was. Már’s heart stopped. The massacre began.
At first the Asharah were holding the line, moving backwards in synchrony, shooting constantly at the impending enemy. The vanguard, however, couldn’t do anything against the long swords of the Modruouls. Nor were they ready to sacrifice just to give chance to their comrades to kill more enemies. They turned around and tried to flee. The Modruouls took advantage, killing the Asharah with no resistance. Since the Modruouls were running with no concern for strategy or order, many of them actually fell in the trap, dying in horrible pain on the spears bellow, but those who managed to jump over were enough to prevail over the fragmented, though greatly outnumbering them, Asharah.
“Retreat,” Ablador was shouting, “To the village!” Már looked in his direction just in time to see an enemy taking a swing for his brother’s head. Már turned around, making a perfect circle with his right leg in the air, while his left stayed firmly on the ground, then using the inertia, jumped forward, produced his short sword from the sheath in midair, and stuck it with both hands in the ribcage of the Modruoul. He fell on top of the screaming with pain and hatred enemy, removed the weapon, using his right knee for leverage, and stabbed the man trough the left eye. The Modruoul lay silent. Ablador had not moved an inch. He just stood there in stupor, not realizing he didn’t have his bow anymore.
“We need to get out of here,” Már shouted. “Come on, Ablador. Let’s go.”
“Don’t tell me what to do, you freak.” Ablador didn’t move. “Don’t ever think you can order me what to do.”
“I am not or….” He didn’t finish. Two Modruouls were running towards them. Már took up the long sword of the fallen enemy from the ground with his right hand, throwing his bow with the left towards his brother. Ablador captured the weapon with one hand, drawing an arrow from the smaller quiver on his belt, and in one smooth motion pulled the string and released. One of the enemies froze, grabbing with both hands the arrow that was now jutting out from his stomach. Már met the other Modruoul with the sword. The Modruoul didn’t expect much of a resistance and went directly for a lunge in the heart. Már moved his weight to his left leg, slightly bending his knee and parried the blow, knocking out the weapon off the enemy’s hands. The Moduruoul lost balance and turned 180 degrees. He hesitated a second and started running. Már was about to let him escape, but Ablador slowly took out a longer arrow from his main quiver, which the Asharah marksmen wore on the back, aimed as if nothing else existed, and released. The arrow went through the neck of the fleeing enemy, coming out through his trachea, severing the voice strings. Blood started coming up in every direction as if from a geyser. The Moduruoul tried to raise his hands, but midway life abandoned him, and he felt silently on the grass.
“We need to get out of here,” Ablador said with such bravado, as if no one had ever uttered those words before in the history of the world. “All of us.”
Már looked around. The battle was in its most fierce stage. The Asharah were not as cluttered as he had anticipated. They were standing in circles of six to ten people, shooting rotationally, one after the other.
“Where is Thorfin?”
“I don’t know. Dead, maybe.”
“We have to find him.” Már grey eyes were shining, and yet they were so deep and infinite, they looked black.
“We have to do nothing like that. We have to retreat towards the village. They won’t dare attack immediately. I will organize the defense.”
“We have to find Thorfin,” Már repeated.
Ablador was about to snap at him again but then looked at the convulsed face of his younger brother and, misreading him completely, changed his mind. “I know he is your friend, but you cannot help him now. Even if he is alive, nothing good can come from looking for him in the middle of a battle.”
“Dead or alive, I need to find him.”
The older brother took a deep breath. “I am sure you will see him back in the village. Don’t worry. He is fine.”
“I am not worried. I just have to find him. And I am not going back to the village. At least not yet.”
Ablador couldn’t restrain himself anymore. “You are going to do exactly what I say. What the hell do you think you are talking about? Why the hell do you need him? What are you trying to say, you are not going back to the village?” He was shaking with anger.
Már looked at him calmly and said without raising his voice, and yet somehow accentuating every syllable, “I think this battle can still be won.”
Next installment will come when the blog count hits 2,500.