Melunai Dawn

“Hurry!” he called, urging the Melunai forwards. He stopped to the side of the road, counting each priest as they hurried past. It wasn’t fast enough! Surely, they would be overrun soon enough… he tried not to think about what would become of them if that happened. His dispatch was beginning to tire from the long trek, but they couldn’t afford to stop. “They’ll catch up soon, we cannot afford to tarry.” He added, gesturing each man and woman along as they passed. He took the opportunity to scan the horizon, studying his surroundings carefully. The towering mountains to the west they had traversed earlier that week were beginning to fade from sight. The bright green forests and river valleys were behind them. He could tell they were entering the city. The rugged and peaceful green hills, lush forests and bubbling streams began to fade, giving way to ruined rock, rubble and debris. They had tried to avoid the city, there was no hope should they enter the ruins, but there was no other road to take. Using a cunning strategy their opponent had managed to box them in, driving them deep into the river valley and subsequently past the ruined towers and broken defences of the city of Dasar. He had used every tool he had at his disposal to avoid this most unfortunate outcome, but it had all been in vain. There was nothing he could do now but find the best place to make their last stand.

His name was Napsütés, and he was the High Priest of Marduk, the revered god of light and cities. Dasaria, his beloved country, was at war. He and his group of priests were en route to the outpost of Talon’s Peak, where Dasarian armies were awaiting assistance in the form of weapons and medicine. He had watched in faith for the past six months as he sent dispatch after dispatch of priests into the east with failure, and finally

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he decided to accompany them himself. Perhaps the High Priest could carry them safely across the mountains.

They were being pursued by one of the most feared battalions of the Talon Army, the Eighth Contingent. They had gathered quite the reputation in the past twenty years of the war, having won every skirmish with resounding success. No army they could scrounge together could match the discipline and cunning the Eight could muster. They seemed invincible; strong… united… disciplined. They were the epitome of military perfection.

The City of Dasar—named after the Kingdom in which it resided—lied in ruin. The northern Empire of Varana had razed it to the ground nearly twenty years past. Napsütés had only been a child then, and couldn’t understand it when his father would come home bloodied and tattered every few months. The war had been tough on everyone in Dasaria, but for the Varanites it was just another kingdom to crush, conquer and dominate. For their imperialistic attitude, cruelty and outright distaste for Dasarian culture, the people of Dasaria had grown to hate the Varanites. It was far more than a simple war; it was more personal now. It was and would continue to be a bitter war. They were not without allies, however.

The Church of Marduk had existed for centuries, with the High Priests serving a full term until death finally took them. Napsütés had been appointed only a year before, but he was confident in his ability to lead. The Melunai, a special command of the

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church, had always been fierce in their faith to their god, and in times of need they had been known to take up the blade in service to King and country. Of course, the Church hadn’t enacted such measures in decades, centuries perhaps. That all changed when the Varanites attacked. With both prayer and blade the Melunai have fought the Varanites, and they would fight until Marduk finally took them from service.

Napsütés spun around quickly on his heels, his eyes searching the area for any sign of the Eighth. They were close, the Melunai had managed to evade them for now, but they would find them sooner or later. His hands darted to his hip, fingers curling around the cool metal hilt of his long blade. It was a master craft weapon, centuries old yet still as functional as ever. The rasp of metal on metal broke the eerie silence in the ruins, the High Priest’s weapon coming into full view. He looked down at the blade thoughtfully… it felt odd, almost awkward. He had trained with the weapon zealously for the past eight months, and it had never felt so strange! He looked around him then; they were deep into the city. Ruined buildings, broken cobblestone and debris lay scattered around them. They were in Marduk’s city, the capital city of Dasaria. It had been built in his honour, and here it lay in ruins. He clenched his teeth in anger, balancing the magnificent blade in his hand carefully. They had burned Marduk’s city to the ground, and now they were going to slaughter his children.

His thoughts were scattered as a clamour rose from the northern area of the city. The Eighth had found them, and it wouldn’t be long before they closed in on the Melunai’s position. Shouts of warning were issued from the Priests around him, and the

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High Priest knew he had to do something, or they would all surely perish in this dead city.

“My High Priest, what are we to do? The Varanites approach!” exclaimed Relv, his closest association of the church. Napsütés didn’t answer, as he himself did not know. Admission of his indecision would solve nothing, so in silence he remained. He regripped his weapon, gloved digits sliding along the cool metal hilt of the finely crafted blade. It would be spilling blood soon, only to be lost to the Varanites once his unit was wiped out. They wouldn’t pass at the chance of looting the High Priest of Marduk’s own blade for glory’s sake. He couldn’t imagine the reaction at home when they heard of his death. The men and women of Marduk were well respected in Dasaria acting as the main supporters of the war. They sent vast amounts of trained clerics and priests to the front lines, donated vast amounts of coin to the royal coffers and offered holy services to the military. The loss of another High Priest would be demoralizing for the country; it would be the fifth one in twenty years.

“My lord Napsütés, they approach!” Relv shouted, his face creasing into a state of panic. Napsütés could see them coming. Between the two greatest towers of the capital stormed the infamous Eighth. They were a small unit, but incredibly skilled. The Melunai dispatch was only twenty-five men strong, it was no match for the fully equipped Talon contingent. Regardless, they prepared for the coming onslaught. The priests moved to the back, slinging smooth ivory staves over their back into a combat position; it was their responsibility to keep the clerics, also known as the War Priests, healed during the

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skirmish. The clerics were the front line fighters, armed in golden hued plate and mail, a large tower shield reinforced with dwarven mithril and a Dasarian military issue great flail. The Melunai dispatch consisted of fourteen clerics, five priests and five bowmen. From what Napsütés understood of Dasarian intelligence, the Talon Eighth Contingent hosted thirty-five spears, thirty-five swords, twenty curates and ten Talon officers. There would be no hope for survival. The battle wouldn’t last longer then a few minutes at best, perhaps ten if they were lucky. Napsütés knew that the only chance for victory would be faith, faith in Marduk’s benevolence and strength.

Napsütés looked around him. He looked at the ruined and broken cobble, the piles of rock and debris. They use to hold towers, houses and buildings together for the men and women of Dasaria. This was truly a magnificent city, a testament to the good will of the people of Dasaria. Now it had been reduced to the ruins that he found himself in. It was a graveyard, a graveyard for thousands of men, women and children dead decades past.

[I]Marduk, help me. What am I to do?[/I]

He closed his eyes; the ground began to churn as the Eighth closed the distance. The priests of Marduk shifted into combat readiness, intent on the battle that was at hand.

[I]Marduk, I need you! For Dasaria, Marduk, please, assist your sons and daughters![/I]

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The war cry went up, the Eighth began the final charge. The rubble danced upon the city cobble, dust filled the air, tunnelling upwards and around the feet of the charging line of Varanites. The clerics of Marduk braced themselves, locking shields and leaning forwards in anticipation for the brutal charge. The prayers began; the low Gregorian chant of the Melunai priests gave solace to the clerics and Napsütés himself. His eyes remained shut; he stood at the centre of the dispatch, at the front of the line with his blade still rigid in his hand. The first spearman of the Talon had closed the gap, the exotic pike thrusting forward as if to gut the High Priest. It would make it five to fall to the infamous Talon contingent.

[I]I answer, for Dasaria and for my children of the light![/I]

The ground shook and everyone froze. Napsütés opened his eyes to see everything and everyone in complete stasis. The charging line of Talon jarred him into reality, yet they stood still and unmoving; faces marred with anger and hatred. Even his men stood as if in ice, shields poised and flails halted in mid-swing. The most shocking of all, however, was the silence. The scene had gone from an ear-numbing charge, to absolute serenity. It was almost painful to behold.

[I]My beloved Napsütés, you shall learn of my greatest gift to offer.[/I]

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“My lord?” answered the High Priest, stunned by the warm yet powerful voice that resonated through his mind.

[I]You will witness what I witnessed decades ago. You will witness the fall of my city. You will witness the slaughter. You will witness the bloodshed. You will witness the tragedy that befell Dasaria and her capital![/I]

And then, in a brilliant flash of golden sunshine, he dreamt.

***

“Damn!” came the curse, low pitched and brimming with frustration. He was late again, and he would surely here from the Commander if he didn’t hurry! He clumsily grabbed for his scabbard, strapping it on as fast as he could, squinting as he studied the sky from the window. It was almost eight in the morning, he could make it if he ran, if he ran and didn’t stop. He darted down the stairs, taking them two at a time. Steadying his weapons belt at his side, he entered the common room of the inn, nodding to the innkeeper in greetings. His father owned a farm a few leagues south of the city, so he had to spend a few nights in an inn while he was training.

Tarren was training to become a Knight of the Fist, the elite guard of the City of Dasar exclusive to the great capital. His father was a knight, as was his grandfather and

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his father before him. It was in his blood to the join the ranks of the Fist, he felt the calling as strongly as he felt the floor beneath him.

Thought of as young by most, Tarren had a boyish appearance. Like his father, he had dark brown hair that hung down to his shoulders. He usually kept it tied back and out of the way; he hated long hair, but in Dasarian culture it was a respectable feature. He wore simple clothing most of the time, linen trousers and an old leather jerkin. For training purposes he wore black leather slacks and a white cloth tunic, tucked in and tied with a black leather belt. Tarren had hastily put it together that morning though, giving it a wrinkled and messy appearance. He’d have to smooth it out on his way to the barracks.

“Late again, eh Tarren?” came the usual reply. Corporal Keats and Lear were posted at the entrance to the Trade District every morning, and every morning they ribbed him about his punctuality. He wasn’t late every day, but the days he was late it was obvious. Tangled hair, creased tunic, scabbard crooked or tucked under his arm. Despite his tardiness, he began to really loathe the two of them. He ignored them, and hurried onto the barracks. He could hear them chuckling behind him.

It was noisy when he arrived, the cadets were assembled in the central training room, talking amongst each other. Thinking he was on time after all he hurried to join them, smoothing his tunic out hurriedly.

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“Cadet Tarren!” shouted Commander Krevlos. The entire room went quiet, the other cadets moving into line formation as the Commander entered the room. Tarren went still, turning on heel and standing at attention.

“Sir!” he replied, raising his fist to his heart in a standard salute. The Commander didn’t return it.

“Cadet…” Krevlos began, folding his arms across his chest, staring down at the boy with a disgruntled expression. “Tarren… you’re late again, boy.” “Yes, sir.” “How many times is that, Cadet?” “Four times, sir.” “Five.” “Five times, sir.” “Do you remember what I told you, Cadet? After five times?” “Yes… sir.” Tarren replied, faltering momentarily. “Your weapon, Cadet.” Tarren reached down, and gingerly unhooked the scabbard from his belt. He handed it over to the Commander and offered a salute. This time, the Commander returned it.

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“I’m sorry, Tarren. You do not have the discipline and responsibility to remain here with the Knights of the Fist. You don’t belong here.” With that, Krevlos walked to the combat room, trainees in tow. Soon enough Tarren was alone, and it finally hit him.

[I]You don’t belong here.[/I]

His father was a knight, as was his grandfather and his father before him, but what of himself? He had been kicked out of the training program, there was no way back in. It was over. His entire life was over. He turned, and walked out of the barracks. It was about eight-thirty, he couldn’t tell though. Clouds obscured the sky, covering the city in a grey shadow. He made his way down the road, and towards the inn. In the morning, he would head home.

***

With a hoarse gasp, followed by guttural cough, Napsütés opened his eyes but squinted and quickly covered them. It was bright; there was a golden light that filled the area. He could see anything but light. The ground was light, the walls were light, and the sky was light. It was like sunshine. Where was he?

[I]Marduk? What is this? What do you want me to see?[/I]

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He looked around for the Eighth, but couldn’t see them. He couldn’t see [I]anything.[/I]

[I]Ahh…Napsütés, my beloved Napsütés. Listen, and more importantly, see.[/I]

And with that, his vision blurred and the light took him.

***

Screams shattered his dreams. Violent screams, panicked screams, bloody screams. He rose from his bed, bits and pieces of sleep still clinging to his waking mind. Reality shook him, and he noticed the thick layer of smoke hovering near the ceiling of his room. The corridor outside seems to give off a soft orange glow. The Inn was on fire! He grabbed his black slacks and pulled them on, reaching for his scabbard. He was surprised to find it missing, but the memories of that morning reminded him of its whereabouts. He tore down the stairs, leaping from the third step into the common room. Tables were alight, the windows had been broken and the ceiling was catching fire. He ran to the door and threw it open, hoping to find safety in the night. He was greeted with bloody chaos.

Bodies lay strewn everywhere. Blood ran like a river through the cobbled streets, staining stone and wood alike. Men were fighting, women too. The Knights of the Fist, with sword and shield, fought strange and foreign men with pikes, scimitars and

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crossbows. He had no idea who they were, but whoever they were they were winning. The Knights could not stand against their superior number.

“Tarren!” Krevlos called, running up to the shaken youth. “Tarren, the city is under attack. It’s Varana, Tarren. Marduk help us… we should have known! They’ve taken the Old Town and are moving into the Trade District. Here…” Krevlos reached into his pack and handed Tarren a sword. It was his old sword. This was all too much to take in. Dasar under attack? Varana moving into the capital? How did this happen so fast? “Commander...” “Take it and follow! The Knights are amassing at the Southern Gates. We need as many able-minded swordsmen as possible. Let’s go, Cadet!” Tarren was in no position to argue. Krevlos was already on his way towards the north gate, his blade felling an enemy solider as he ran. Tarren bared his own blade, running after his former Commander. The chaos of war was in fast pursuit.

***

Napsütés began to understand what he was seeing. The tragic fall of the capital. He looked around, comforted by the sunshine that bathed him. He felt humbled by the radiance that surrounded him. For what purpose though, why did Marduk wish to share this with him? Time would tell. Marduk would take care of him.

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He closed his eyes slowly, letting the warmth of the light surround him. He felt a smile on his lips as the dream resurfaced.

***

He didn’t know what time it was. He had been fighting for so long. His arms were heavy; his face was matted with sweat and blood. It was one swing after another. Strike, parry, thrust and counter. Strike, parry, thrust and counter. They were somewhere near the far outer gates, far from the Trade District where it all started. Many had fallen; nearly all of the trainees he used to spar with were dead. The Varanites had killed them. It was down to a select few defenders now, a few Knights of the Fist, a handful of merchants and commoners as well as two cadets. Commander Krevlos was dead, he saw him die like it was moments ago. It must have been hours in reality. There was blood everywhere, his hands, the wall, the ground…he felt so tired. The Varanites kept coming, one after another. Smoke was billowing up from the city into an enormous black cloud. Cobble and debris lay scattered all around him. It was chaotic. They had sent out messengers, surely the cities of Corda and Lendose will answer the call of arms. [I]Dasar would be recaptured, rebuilt.[/I] He thought, straining to defend the attacks of a Varanite swordsman. [I]Surely, reinforcements will come. They have to.[/I] He parried another swing, and countered with a fatal thrust. [I]The flag of Dasaria would fly again in her capital![/I]

He would never see such a day.

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***

The light engulfed him. He was warm and comfortable, suspended in this divine place like a child in the womb.

[I]My dear Napsütés, you understand.[/I]

The High Priest knew exactly what had happened. Tarren… Tarren had defended the city of Dasar, the city of the god of cities. It was lost, though, the defenders fell, and through the eyes of a youth striving for knighthood he fell with them. He steadied his hands; they were shaking from his experience. He could feel his heart beating, his arms heavy as if he had just finished fighting a day’s battle. In a way, he had.

[I]My city fell, Napsütés, as did your people. I charge you to reclaim it, for your people.[/I]

The light began to fade, the warmth started to recede. It was colder now, and a breeze swept the hair from his face. The ground shuddered, his eyes flew open and he had returned to the ruins of Dasar. Everyone was still in stasis, but if the churning earth indicated anything, it was about to return to full out war.

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“For the glory of Dasaria, and for the fallen city!” he cried, thrusting his brilliant weapon into the air. The battle had resumed, the Varanite spearman who was intent on Napsütés’ death faltered before the kill, looking up in wonderment. The High Priest’s blade was pointed directly at the overcast sky. The clouds themselves were moving, tunnelling inwards on themselves until they finally broke at the centre, casting a bright ray of light into the ruined city. The entire battlefield was bathed in golden sunshine. Perhaps it was the darkened city or the shadows the buildings cast upon the men and women at war, but the light seemed brighter, more radiant and blinding. The Varanites faltered, losing the momentum of their charge as the brilliant sunshine engulfed the area. “Marduk! He has come to save us!” cried a priest from behind him. They sang, their Gregorian chant reaching a beautiful crescendo. Napsütés brought down his weapon in one lethal swing, taking the arms of the Varanite spearman clean off. “Now my brothers! Now!” he cried, gesturing forwards with his blade. They attacked, then, swarming the Eighth contingent with both blade and prayer. The Varanites were overwhelmed, the Melunai wading forth in righteous fury. The beam of light still shone just as bright as before, raising morale and bolstering the strength of the priests below. Soon, the battle was theirs.

One hundred skilled and cunning Talon soldiers fell to twenty-five priests of Marduk. The Melunai suffered no casualties; only a scratch or flesh wound existed to mar their victory. The priests began to tend the wounded and the clerics cleared and searched the officers for sensitive documents. Napsütés just stood, his blade idle in his hand. The brilliant light above him faded, the clouds broke and the light of the day returned to the

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city of Dasar. There would be no more vain attempts to recapture the outpost cities. There would be no struggling to gather armies to throw against the Talon. They had to rebuild. Dasar would stand again; the parapets of the golden towers would fly the blue and gold standard of the Crown.

He sheathed his blade, and ordered the men to get ready to run. It would be a long march to Lendose, but that is where it would begin. The walls of Dasar would stand tall soon enough; ready to break apart any army that marched towards them.

Marduk smiled.

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