to hang him. Someone brushed past him, opened the door, and sounds spilled out-the clank of glassware, the raucous noise of voices. The scent of roasting meat hit him like a slingstone to the gut. Before he entered the tavern, he glanced up at the sign posted over the door: The Hang-man’s Noose.
He shivered as he stepped into the tavern’s interior.
The first burst of noise almost made him retreat, but he straightened his shoulders and made his way to a far corner table, half-hidden in shadows. The reek of spilled ale and old sweat and the scent of cooked meat dominated the room full of tables and chairs. A bar stood against the back wall, most of the patrons around it, although a few were gathered near the hearth, where a man sat on a stool telling tales.
Colin hadn’t been seated for more than a few heartbeats when a young boy, no more than twelve, appeared at its edge dressed in a serving apron.
“What can I git fur ya, oldster?”
He stared at Colin with lively brown eyes, his light hair tousled and wild, his shirt stained with grease.
Colin frowned and leaned his staff against the wall. He fished a coin from his pack, aware that the boy watched him closely, then set it on the table, making certain he kept his hand on it. “Whatever food this will pay for.”
The boy nodded and slipped away. Colin folded the coin back into his hand and turned his attention to the storyteller.
“… They met at the Escarpment, all three armies come together at last-King Maarten’s Legion, the Alvritshai White Phalanx, and the dwarren Riders.” A low grumble rolled through those listening, a rumble of hatred and anticipated anger. The storyteller nodded, his face grim. “Yes. You know the story, you know the betrayal.” He paused, let their anger simmer, then continued with a frown.
“The three forces met, the Alvritshai coming from the north, the dwarren from the east, and the Legion from the south. It was to be a decisive battle, a final battle! For unknown to the dwarren, Maarten had met with the Tamaell of the Alvritshai in secret and forged an alliance, one that would bind the Alvritshai to the colonies, and would allow us to finally seize control of the edge of the plains and drive the dwarren back. Back into their burrows and tent cities in the deep plains.” Those around the storyteller grumbled some more.
“It was with this alliance in place that the Legion took the field. King Maarten led them to the edge of the hill overlooking the flat, his heir, Stephan, his trusted advisers, and his councilmen beside him, banners snapping in the winds blowing from the plains. He came with three thousand men, with two hundred horses, and the hope of the Provinces in his heart.
“Across the flat, the Alvritshai’s White Phalanx already waited, pennons flying, all of the Houses represented, nearly two thousand strong. When Maarten crested the hill, Tamaell Fedorem flashed the signal indicating that all was ready, that all was well, a sign that the alliance still stood. Everyone on the ridge saw it, and as the sun finally pulled away from the horizon, they heard the thundering approach of the Riders. A thousand gaezel-more!- dwarren astride their backs, emerged from the eastern plains, a storm of dust rising behind them to cloud the sky, golden in the sun’s light. They charged the flat, as if they intended to fling themselves off of the cliffs of the Escarpment to the west, but at the last moment they swerved, the gaezels turning in a sharp, smooth curve back on themselves, the dwarren erupting in a cacophonous battle roar. Swinging around, their cry echoing across the breadth of the plains, they came to a halt, their line curved to face both the Legion and the Alvritshai’s Phalanx, their ranks falling silent.
“The men in the Legion shifted at this display, disturbed, but the King did not quail. With a nod of his head, a message was passed down the line, colored flags flashing in the brightening morning. The men stirred again, readying their weapons, tightening the clasps of armor, of shield, testing the strings of bows. Horns blew across the field from the Alvritshai, but Maarten kept his eyes on the dwarren, on their shifting ranks of gaezels. He caught the eye of his nearest adviser, and at his nod of readiness, he drew his sword. Steel flashed in the light, and the Legion fell silent behind him, hushed, waiting for the signal.”
As if mimicking the storyteller’s words, his small audience fell silent. Most were leaning forward in their seats, alcohol-hazed eyes wide, shoulders tensed. The storyteller looked over them all, his arms outstretched, as if holding the entire battlefield, armies and all, before him, a satisfied smile on his face.
“And then,” he whispered, a chair creaking as he paused and someone leaned farther forward, “as the Alvritshai horns blew, as they’d agreed upon at their secret meeting, Maarten dropped his sword.”
The men surrounding the storyteller sighed, settling back. But Colin noted that not all of those in the tavern were enthralled. Some sat far back and snorted at the reaction of the others, lifting tankards to their lips. Others merely shook their heads.
“The King’s army charged down the hill onto the flat, heading directly for the dwarren, letting out a battle cry of their own to rival the Riders. And simultaneously, the Alvritshai Phalanx, their long white pennons flaring out behind them, charged from the north. The dwarren didn’t wait for either army. The gaezels, heads bent forward, wicked horns down, met them on the flat. It’s said the clash of their weapons when they struck could be heard a day’s walk distant. It’s said the ground itself trembled. It’s said the sun vanished from the sky, lost behind the black cloud of dust that rose from the tread of thousands of feet. And I believe it, for it was a meeting of the three races, with the best of their men, their bravest warriors.
“And it was a trap.” At this, everyone in the tavern growled, and the storyteller smiled grimly. “Not the trap you think. No. Not yet. A different trap, set up by King Maarten and Tamaell Fedorem to lure the dwarren Riders to the edge of the Escarpment.” The storyteller’s smile faded, his eyes darkening with anger. “But it was indeed a trap for King Maarten as well, although none knew it except the traitorous Alvritshai.”
The storyteller spat this last remark, and everyone in the room burst out with their own curses, some literally spitting to the side.
“Maarten rode down onto the flat and fought like a madman, his blade bloodied in instants, his surcoat stained,” the storyteller continued, rising from his seat as his voice rose, his arms miming sword thrusts and parries, not letting the riled patrons settle back down. “He roared as he drove into the dwarren ranks, slicing at the dwarren warriors, at their horned mounts, cutting flesh and sinew, severing arms and heads with mighty strokes, threshing a path through them as if they were grain and he a scythe. His men called out challenges behind him, some falling to blade and spear, those that followed pressing forward to take their place. Archers filled the skies with arrows until they blotted out the sun as effectively as the dust, and the dwarren… the dwarren fell, crushed between the two forces-Maarten and the Legion on one side, the Alvritshai White Phalanx on the other. Bodies littered the field, were trampled as the armies pressed together. For a moment it appeared that the dwarren might hold, but then their wardrums shuddered through the air, signaling a retreat.
“Maarten heard the order, but he’d be damned if the dwarren escaped him. He intended this battle to be the last. He intended the ages-long war among the three races to end, here, now, at the Escarpment, and so he spun his horse. But he was trapped at the forefront of the fray, his men so eager to fight that they’d blocked his retreat. So he bellowed to his son, Stephan, the heir to the throne of the eastern ports, his command heard over the clash of the battle, ‘They cannot be allowed to retreat! Stop them! This ends here!’
“And young Stephan heard him. Not yet eighteen, still he brandished his sword, already slick with blood, and called, ‘Fellow Legion, follow me!’ He charged his steed to the eastern flank, even as the dwarren began to break away, as their gaezels began their unnaturally swift turns to head back to the vastness and safety of the plains. Hundreds followed the heir, but he fell on the first of the retreating dwarren himself, and he held them. He held them back so that the rest of his force could arrive to support him. He held them, and then he held the line. No! He advanced the line! He pushed the dwarren back into the Legion’s main force, back into the Alvritshai Phalanx. Desperation caused the dwarren to hold for long moments, their retreat severed, but then their lines began to waver. Taking advantage, Stephan shoved them farther back. Harried on the east by Stephan, on the north by the Alvritshai, and the south by the King, the only available escape for the dwarren was the west… where the cliffs of the Escarpment waited.
“And that was where the combined armies forced the dwarren. They herded them like cattle, and as they were driven to the edge, the lower plains shadowed far below, the dwarren became frenzied. Step by slow step, they gave ground, their gaezels going mad, lethal horns skewering man and dwarren and Alvritshai indiscriminately, and still they were pressed back, Stephan and Maarten and Fedorem closing ranks. Step by slow step, the cursed dwarren-who’d hounded our every step onto the plains, who’d slaughtered entire trading parties, who’d returned the severed heads of the delegations sent to negotiate trade pacts between the races- those cursed dwarren were driven back, and back, and back…
