| Story One: Tale of Qutuz | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Sep 13 2009, 06:02 PM (308 Views) | |
| Darkom | Sep 13 2009, 06:02 PM Post #1 |
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I am Qutuz, and this is my tale. My father, Buyid, was the High King of Sentinel when the war began. The last king of Daggerfall had passed away; there were no heirs to the throne of that city which once brought Sentinel so much shame in the War of Betony. My father, the descendant of Lhotun, could not sit idly by as Wayrest pressed their claims. The Kings of Daggerfall were descendants of Aubk’i, he repeated day and night; would it not be right if the people of Aubk’i now ruled over Daggerfall when her children are dead? There were none who dared disagree with this, yet some of his advisors were scared of the might of Wayrest, their pockets full of gold of the mongrel race. Do not pursue war with Wayrest, they said. Sentinel cannot withstand them, they said. One by one they came before his throne, bowing and pleading for the High King to be ‘reasonable’. But my father’s determination did not falter – one night, a ship set sail from our noble city, delivering to the king of Wayrest my father’s will. He warned them through that letter not to seek rule over Daggerfall; if a single soldier of Wayrest would cross the border, all the warriors of the High King would assemble and move as one to fight for their right to rule Daggerfall. He did not expect that the king of Wayrest would relent, but the fifty-eight tenants of honor dictated an honest Ra Gada could not strike an unarmed opponent. The next year, when the calm breeze of winter came and the sun of the desert became a bit more forgiving, ships of the mongrel race dropped anchor by Satakalaam. Their king was personally leading the attack on our glorious city; he hoped to break the Roaring Walls and claim the honour of being the conquerors of Sentinel. It was Sun’s Dawn of the 398th year of the Fourth Era, the twenty-first year of my father’s rule. Over twenty years did he rule Sentinel with great wisdom, so his people did not abandon him – crowds of warriors came to Sentinel from Satakalaam, many children and women with them. My father sent the warriors away, promising them that he would come with his army soon; so the warriors of Satakalaam, Lainlyn and Kozanset returned to Kozanset as instructed, leaving their loved ones behind. As per my father’s wish, they would return through the Gate of Vulnim; that accursed place could not bring about the doom of many warriors at once and my father knew that by the time the warriors of the shore-cities of the east would return to Kozanset, the army of Wayrest would’ve already passed it and the mountains of Dragon’s Tail that separated Kozanset from Tigonus. The days grew longer; more and more warriors assembled from the south to march to war with my father. All cities from as far south as Hegathe sent aid to Sentinel, knowing that if the mongrel race gained a foothold in Hammerfell it would be very hard to stop them. So many men amassed, both with swords and with spears; with slings and with bows; mounted and on foot. The host of the High King was mighty. And then one day, when the sun rose, my father came out of his palace in armour whose splendour was unmatched by any warrior present and proclaimed that the time had come – the army of the mongrel race had passed Tigonus, their banners were turned towards Sentinel. With a mighty cheer, the army of Sentinel marched out; on that day my father swore that the mongrel race would know fear when their eyes fell on the banners of Sentinel, bright and mighty as the city from which they came. We marched for long, carrying the High King’s banner further and further east; along the way we met travellers with news. The king of Wayrest was worried; not long ago his ships were vanquished by the shores of Cybiades and the only way back was over the Bjoulsae River. The river was far away and his army was vast, his men needed much food and water and grew weary fast, for the mongrel race was not accustomed to the heat of our shores. More news came. The king of Wayrest was stopped at the pass near Kozanset – it was blocked by the warriors of the shore-cities of the east, whom my father had sent through the Gate of Vulnim. And although the banners of Wayrest dropped shade on many times the number of the men blocking their path, a battle would’ve been costly. If he had known what storm was coming from Sentinel, he would’ve attacked and perhaps escaped before we could’ve caught him. Finally, one day the sun rose over Tigonus. My horse was the swiftest of all in Sentinel’s army, a pitch-black stallion born in the desert of Alik’r, and so I was the first one to witness the banners of Wayrest; their king had not yet made up his mind and for that he would pay dearly. My father, however, was worried; the host of the mongrel race was numerous and nearly matched Sentinel’s in number. Although the men of Wayrest were weary and hungry, a battle could’ve been too costly, especially since everyone under the banners of the enemy knew that there was no escape for them if they lost. Desperation could turn anyone into a great warrior, and so my father was worried. I could see that he was worried, for I was his son and knew my father better than anyone. So I rode up to him to assure him that our victory was nigh and that HoonDing would not allow us to fail, when I remembered a tale heard from one of the travellers carrying news to our army. It was said that the king of Wayrest had taken his son and heir along with himself to this campaign. Francis was the name of the prince of Wayrest and he was widely known as a strong warrior. Rumours of his strength had reached even the court of the High King; many a warrior of my father wished to cross blades with this prince of Wayrest and earn the glory of defeating one of the best of the mongrel race in personal combat. And so I said to my father: “You are worried, father, and I see why clearly; you fear losing too many lives today, for the mongrel race is fierce in their war making, even more so now that their warriors have nowhere to retreat. Let a duel decide the fate of the armies; let me challenge Francis, the prince of Wayrest, and the winner’s side will be declared the rightful rulers of Daggerfall.” “Qutuz, what you speak of is brave; you are a fine warrior and your father is proud of you.” His eyes seemed distant, as many times before; I knew during those moments that he was thinking about the fate of Sentinel. “If the king of Wayrest agrees so be it – you are to duel with Francis and on the edges of your blades shall the fate of a kingdom lie. We shall give our enemy a chance to avoid death.” I nodded, for to give a chance for the enemy to escape death and destruction would be only right; and though many would have called my father foolish for deciding to let the enemy escape, he lived all his life according to the thirty-eight tenants of honour as much as was possible and I knew later he would be remembered as a great High King. So the two kings met in the field between the two armies, foreshadowing what I now know would later happen. The king of Wayrest, an old man, was as worried for the fate of his army as my father was for his; an agreement was swiftly reached that the duel between their sons would determine the end of this campaign, sparing both sides from arduous counter-campaigns that would follow this one. When the sun rose again, I and Francis would engage in a duel and he who still stood when the sun set would be the one to claim Daggerfall. The night passed swiftly, as if it was but a blink, and I knew – the gods of war had blessed our duel. They chose not to drag out the wait between then and the moment our weapons clashed. And we rode out before the two armies, their banners still and unmoving with not a whisper of wind – the calm before the storm. Standing there, I could see why Francis was considered one of the greatest warriors in the land of the mongrel race – ten years older than I, his body well toned; I had to admire him as a worthy adversary. My people value skill at arms above most everything else, so I thanked HoonDing for this opponent, knowing that our battle would not be easy. The stakes were high – a whole kingdom in need of a new king, something both my father and the king of Wayrest knew well, reflected on our equipment that would not have shamed the Emperor of the Cyrodiils back when their Empire was still powerful. Thirty paces ahead of our banners, we froze, two statues of warriors brought from Sentinel and Wayrest. Even our horses, fierce by nature, stood nearly perfectly still. Again, I had to admire my opponent – his warhorse, one of the famed destriers of the mongrel race, was a fine example of its breed. Finally, the noise of two horns rolled down the field between the two armies, one blown by my father’s men and the other by the mongrel race. Sun finally climbed over the horizon, and that was our signal. Without a warning, without a word we spurred our horses onwards and plunged ourselves at the enemy, him with a lance and I with several shorter spears. Like two sandstorms colliding; a very rare yet awe-inspiring sight. Seeing as Francis’ lance appeared to be longer than my spear, I did what I planned for such a situation – I threw my spear, aiming for his shoulder and ducked behind my shield, hoping the elaborate steel would protect me against the lance of my opponent. Alas, I had underestimated the power with which the prince of Wayrest came at me and paid with my shield, barely avoiding the spear tip that pierced through my shield and would’ve impaled my shoulder had I not moved to the side to avoid it. My shield was lost, though, so I threw it away, a piece of the lance still stuck in it. On this first pass we both had sacrificed a part of our armament – Francis had broken his lance and I lost my shield to rid my enemy of the most dangerous sting. I was left with less protection and the prince of Wayrest – with less punch to his charge. Seeing the flash of my enemy’s sword on the other side of the field, I drew another spear and once again we spurred our horses onwards. As we drew closer and closer, I could see a hole in Francis’ armour where my spear had punched through; it did not appear to be a serious wound, but I was intending to remedy that on this pass. My hopes were as easy to predict as the sun’s rising, however, and the prince’s shield went up in defence; seeing little use in wasting a javelin I decided to wait. For this decision I would pay. Still worried about a possible blow, the prince of Wayrest could not see well where he was swinging; that he had to swing seemed completely certain to him, as he was spurred on by my lack of a shield. His blow, however, fell on my horse, bringing no harm to me. The poor creature wailed and I was forced to turn away from Francis to dismount; having no wish to engage him on foot while the prince was mounted, I repaid his mistake by flinging my javelin towards the neck of his horse. The blow missed its intended destination, but instead bit into one of the animal’s legs, forcing it down and Francis along with it. Both of us forcedly dismounted I thought myself at an advantage now – while Na’Totambu of Wayrest were famous for making great horsemen, personal combat on foot was where my people excelled, and even though I chose to fight with my spear for now, I did not believe Francis would be as formidable on foot as he was on a fine mount. I had once more underestimated him, as I soon found; his armour was still thick and his swordarm still swift, no matter if he was mounted or not. I wore little else in the way of armour asides from a steel lamellar vest, a traditional spiked helmet and thick leather boots and gloves, so I found myself getting the shorter sword; however, the sun was quickly climbing the sky and my lighter armament and brightly coloured clothes aided me against the heat, while Francis had to drag around a steel plate cuirass, gauntlets, shield and boots; his clothing was also, as per the traditions of the mongrel race, darker than my peoples’ clothes usually were. Gripping my spear with both hands, I began circling the prince; whenever he would lash out and strike, I would jump back, waiting for the best opportunity to strike. If he chose to wait for me to make the move, I simply withdrew and threatened to throw my javelin. For a while our deadly dance continued; although I was the one constantly on the move, I could see Francis was getting tired as well, and I prayed to HoonDing for a mistake. My prayers were swiftly answered, for our gods were with me – rushing towards me with hopes of ending all this, the half-blood made a wide blow, missing and stumbling forward slightly. This was my chance, and with the swiftness of a desert horse I lunged forward, striking right into the gap by his shoulder and swiftly withdrawing, leaving my spent sting to poison him further. This time, I could see I was more successful than with the very first spear I threw; blood was beginning to flow out of the wound and the spear’s weight was hampering his movements. As I drew my scimitar and rushed forth hoping to finish Francis off, however, I was swiftly taught a lesson about rash attacks – being more than used to receiving wounds, the prince of Wayrest landed a mighty blow, aiming at my head. Fortunately, my helmet stopped the sword, being split in half by the sheer force of the attack; predictably scared, I quickly slipped out from my helmet before my foe could press his advantage. Cursing to see me rush away like a snake after stinging, he could do little more than cut off the shaft of the spear. For a moment, we stood there, I dazed, he wounded; then, as if acting according to the script of a play, we jumped at each other again, intending to claim the other’s life or at least bring the enemy to his knees. Mindful of the power of the blow that claimed my helmet I reminded myself once more to keep a safe distance away from his sword’s deadly swings. Our dance resumed, with time on my side again, more than before because of the sacrifice of my spear – Francis had a serious wound, while I had only lost a helmet and gained a small scratch on my head. Slowly I was gaining the upper hand; all I needed was patience, the virtue every good warrior must possess. We traded blows for a few more times; although his were frightening, the prince was being drained of his blood and got more and more weary. Once, Francis’ sword slid across the surface of my vest, however I could see that my victory was closing in; so could he. Being a fine warrior, Francis could tell when he was losing, and decided to draw his hidden knife. If my people had but one weakness, it would be fear of Tamrielic magick – we hate it greatly and there are little magi in our lands, for our hatred of their ways is known widely. Although the Ansei, in a way, are magi, our elders understand their ways; not many of us understand the ways of Tamrielic magick, however, and what you do not understand you fear. The prince of Wayrest knew this well, and he hoped to exploit it to grasp victory before it was completely out of reach. Before I knew what was happening, the prince shivered; an odd sight, considering the dawning day was looking to be dry and hot, even this close to the sea. Then, his whole body flashed purple; his skin crackled and I could swear – my foe had grown the scales of a dragon. I had heard that the mongrel race could thicken their skin when in need, but I had never seen it myself. The first thought that came to mind was that this was Tamrielic magick, which made me hiss in disgust and fear. For a moment it seemed as if I would lose so close to victory – I froze in fear and the prince exploited that, jumping at me with renewed vigour. Barely managing to dodge three of his blows, the fourth one I tried to block, nearly losing my scimitar foolishly. The fifth blow would’ve disarmed me and my victory would’ve been forfeit. However, HoonDing was watching over my shoulder. His gasps for air getting more and more difficult, the prince could no longer sustain his scales that deemed him nigh impervious to damage and which frightened me so. The moment he lost the ability to keep the magick together was the moment he lost his advantage and victory fell into my hands like a lover would fall into the hands of her beloved returning from war. Leaping forth, I mustered what strength I had left from the extensive dodging of Francis’ blow and struck straight towards his shoulder, where the armour was already punched through and where there was already a wound. By far too exhausted by his show of magick, the prince of Wayrest didn’t manage to lift his sword in defence, so my scimitar cut deep into his shoulder. I could feel it cleaving his bones asunder. Pulling my scimitar out in a way so as to cause my opponent even more pain I jumped back, weapon at the ready in case not even this would stop Francis from continuing the duel. However, the prince wasn’t a fool – he was the only heir to the throne, and he would have to survive. Thus, his teeth grit tightly, he dropped to his knee, murmuring something in the tongue of the mongrel race. I had won. For several moments I stood still, uncertain if he had actually surrendered, before the wave of yells overtook me – the two armies, having stood still and silent throughout the whole duel, broke out in cheers or wails of despair, seeing their victory or their defeat clearly at last. I had brought victory to Sentinel; but though I was a winner, the sands of time change swiftly. Fate is a cruel mistress, and through treachery of the mongrel race I became what you see before you now, traveller – a ghost, a shade of the past, bound to his motherland by blood spilled, who can do naught but tell his tale again and again... An old man once told me this – ‘remember me and forget my fate’. So I tell you this, traveller – remember me, remember Crown Prince Qutuz, the defeater of Francis of Wayrest, and forget my fate. Forget my ignoble death, I ask of you; forget that I died far from battle, far from the land of my forebears, amongst weeping women, felled not by a sword but by poison. I ask of you, traveller – remember me and forget my fate; tell everyone of the victory of Qutuz at this field, his who is now but a wretched ghost, another spirit wandering the desert... And perhaps then, when my people remember my victory for them, perhaps then I may find my peace. |
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7:07 PM Jul 11