The ancient
strong point of Monurbis sits in a gap in the mountains that separate the lush sub-tropical
regions of North Tlaxaca from the dry old eastern Empire. It once looked out
over the easternmost provinces of the Visneoria, but that all changed with the
advent of the Tlaxacan horde. For a long while the city defended the new
borders of East Visneoria, but then, after the second great Tlaxacan invasion,
nine hundred odd years ago, it fell. It was now a city that bristled with
armaments, and with the sound of smithies producing weapons of all kinds. It was
usually a clangourous and argumentative place, a city that can be heard almost
before it is seen. But not on this day. On this hot summer’s morning the city
was halted and silent as all the forges and anvils, and all the parades and
drilling, were stilled. The God was riding through.
He came, surrounded by his hardiest warriors, astride his great white
charger, a horse three times the size of a normal steed, and surrounded by a
sea of white believers. These were all
humans, of course. Behind Him straggled his army, more than three million
‘willing half-believers, half-slaves’, the endless kinaam, clawing at the earth and ready to destroy. And above the
vast army were His creatures of the air, part of The God’s new plan to
eliminate the fell elves completely.
He stopped graciously at the city entrance, high up in the mountain
pass. From every corner of the city the people poured out to sing his praises.
There were many sacrifices, and there was great joy at the beauty of the blood
that was spilt. There were also demonstrations of the power of the air
creatures, with groups of ten thousand kinaam brought forward for their sport.
It was extraordinary how easily the tough little fighters were overcome by a
single ray, again and again. The God roared with pleasure and power, at all his
plans come finally to their climax. His new alliances with those western
witches had proven fruitful and now his worship could come to all and
illuminate everyone, in life and in death.
The army stayed only for a short time, as the Glorious Time of Doom was
very close. The drums beat as He traversed from his lands on to the realms that
He would soon conquer. The city chanted their bellicose chants to him as He
left, their voices raised in harsh celebration of war and blood. And He was
pleased by all of them and everything. His Time was now surely come; he could
ride on into his inheritance.
As He processed on through the pass the little creatures of the crags
and scree turned and ran away from Him – from the noise and clamour: all the
furred and winged natural creatures of the mountains fled before Him. Among
them were a few hundred spindly creatures that would not have looked out of
place at all in the body of The God’s army, except that they were dressed in
ragged greens and browns and that they were healers and scouts. They fled in
little groups in front of the army, always keeping an hour or two ahead, and
never being seen. And they planned as they moved. They planned as best they
could to resist and counter, even though they knew that these might well be the
futile plans of a foolish and powerless people. They sat around their camp
fires high in the peaks, talking and singing, hidden away from all scouts or
spies. And their clear green eyes burned with anger and with sadness and they
spoke of many things. But most of all, they talked of the reckoning, which one
day must undoubtedly come.
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