Vanian Year 1089

 

Taghlib was burning.

 

Long plumes of fire sailed up from the city like scarlet banners, choking the streets in impenetrable black smoke that poured from the flames. The city burned for leagues along the Wadi al-Tawayim, clogging the once-clear waters of the river with bodies and debris as buildings crumbled and collapsed under the onslaught of the all-consuming inferno. 

 

The Palace of al-Hamra - the magnificent seat of the Emir of Taghlib - stood stark against the flames, scorched black and plastered with a thick layer of soot. Sandstone walls shrugged off the worst of the heat, but the lead of the domed roof was melting in rivulets and the timber beams were blazing all along their length. Golden artefacts once adorned on the palace ceiling rained down like hail.

 

Looting troops ran rampant within the palace. The demons had ripped down ancient tapestries, hacked apart relics for the precious stones that adorned them, and defiled ancestral heirlooms while they waited their turn with the palace maidservants. Whatever vile gods they worshipped truly looked upon them favourably today.

 

Further southwards, the streets were clogged with fleeing people. Children were abandoned, the old and weak kicked aside, and the ill and injured left for dead as hundreds were trampled underfoot in the hysteria. Houses collapsed on either side of the streets, burying dozens of them under a torrent of blazing stone, but the rest would barely offer a glance - they couldn’t afford to.

 

Southwards, they forged on. To the southern gate that was still held by Uthman al-Sarih - the Third Prince of Taghlib - and his troops, the last organised remnant of Quraysh defiance in all of Vania. They were a desperate rabble now, all their strength and valour bled away by six months of siege and a dozen assaults which came unendingly after the other. 

 

The Emir of Taghlib was dead - having fallen near a year prior at Wadi al-Muaqat - and so were the two elder princes. His head had been paraded upon pikes before the city’s northern gate for the first moon of the siege until it had rotten into bone. The eldest prince was dead too, having fallen at the northern wall in the third assault - as was the second prince, shot dead by an arrow in the tenth.

 

The eldest princess was torn apart commanding the final defence on the approaches of the Palace of al-Hamzar, having been ripped limb from limb by striped cat-like monsters under the chain of the demons. The youngest princess - only a scant few years over a ten - had been last seen being dragged out onto the streets by ashen-faced demons kicking and screaming - before the sight of her was swallowed by the demons pouring into the palace.

 

The plague-bearers swarmed through the city like a tide of rats, blood-painted faces set aglow by the flames and sword arms slick with crimson up to the elbows. They had fought a long and hard siege, and after half a year the last Quraysh city still standing had finally fallen - and it was all theirs for the taking. 

 

Maslama al-Muthaqaf watched the vast curtain of flames lick against the hellish sky, the northern gales sweeping the inferno across the city. The smoke was so thick and heavy that it blotted out the sun and swept the city into a premature twilight. Every breath he took was painful, and he could almost feel the motes of ash crawling down his throat.

 

He numbly watched the screaming tide of humans funnelling through the wide open southern gate below him, their fear so tangible he could taste it. Fear, despair, and desperation - they clogged the very air he breathed, and it was as if all of Taghlib was screaming in a single body, the dying wails of a city in its death throes.

 

No, not the city. All of Sarawat. For Taghlib was the last remaining bastion of the desertfolk, and now it had fallen.

 

Maslama could weep, but the grim stares of the soldiers at his back and the acrid smoke stinging at his eyes like bees prevented him from doing so. Even as the ashes fell upon him he remained strong and dignified - for Maslama was a prince of Taghlib, and soon to be last, if Uthman would remain stubborn.

 

“Brother,” he rasped, “You cannot ask me to do this. Our father is dead, so are our brothers and our sisters. And soon, so will you. If only I remain, I would be branded craven and void of honour.”

 

Uthman towered over him - a dreadful sight - scorched, ragged and bloodied all over. His princely armour all marred with open scores and blackened with ash. Unlike him, Uthman was a tall man, with a warrior’s body and sunken eyes that burned like embers. All his siblings were - warriors all to the last. Even his littlest sister, frightful menace that she was, fought back against demons five times her size.

 

Unlike him, the weak little boy with his nose buried in dusty old pages, the boy who couldn’t even hold a spear right. The craven who fled the palace grounds at the first sign of trouble, abandoning his sisters to command what haras who remained in his place. And now they were dead, he hoped. It would be a better fate than what the demons would have them.

 

“You are already craven, Maslama,” Uthman was blunt, as he always was, but his words scored deep into Maslama’s heart nonetheless, “Ghatafan was brave. Emir al-Eanif held it for a year against all odds - and now his city is ash, and his lands lay wasted. Hawazan was brave. Father and Emir al-Hakim fought a masterful campaign in Wadi al-Muaqat, and stalled the demons for an entire moon. Now they are dead, their armies rabble, and the greatest city in all Sarawat is nothing more than ruin.” 

 

“We were brave,” his brother continued bitterly, his eyes fixated on the approaching demon hordes, “Our brothers were brave. Our sisters were brave. My men, all here, were brave. And look at us now - half dead, no more human than the demons are themselves. And our city is burning.”

 

“Brother…”

 

“Brother,” Uthman’s eyes burned with a fire Maslama had never seen before, “You are Taghlib’s- no, all of Sarawat’s last hope. Your craven heart has carried you this far, and it will carry you further - all the way back here. Promise me, promise me that you will not stop running until you stand over a Taghlib free from the yoke of the demon army!”

 

“B-But you are far better suited than I!” he cried, “The men follow you - listen to you! I… I’ve never cared, I’m not worthy-!”

 

His brother grabbed the crown of his head and forced him to watch Taghlib burn, and Maslama was too weak to resist. Maslama was forced to watch the demon army play with the tail end of the refugee wave like a cat with a toy, even as said toy begged and sobbed for their lives. He cursed his timid heart.

 

“Burn this sight into your soul, brother,” Uthman said softly, “Promise me.”

 

“I… I promise.”

 

“Good… good!” Uthman released his head, and Maslama recoiled away from the battlements as if they were red hot, “You will go south, to the Reicher lands, and seek asylum there. They will accept you gladly, for father had made preparations beforehand.”

 

“W-What…?”

 

Uthman grinned in a blackened, bloody visage, “We Quraysh have done our duty, Maslama. We bought the time needed for all Vania to prepare for the demons. Already I hear the largest host in the history of the continent is mustering in the south - three-hundred thousand men they say! I would’ve loved to see it for myself.”

 

So they weren’t just fighting for the sake of fighting? They had all been sacrificing themselves for the greater good of the continent? Father knew this? Did all the emirs know - did his brothers - did his sisters? Was Maslama the only ignorant fool in all Sarawat who had not known? 

 

Maslama silently weeped, his tears dripping against the stone ground and sizzling at the touch. He was a fool of the greatest kind. 

 

Uthman placed a rough hand on his shoulders, “We have done our duty. Now it’s your turn to take up yours.”

 

“Y-You are a selfish bastard!” Maslama rubbed his eyes furiously, “You were supposed to go south, but now I’m here you are going to send me! All because of your asinine honour!”

 

“Yes,” Uthman agreed, “We are Quraysh, Maslama, and death is preferable over dishonour. Come, look here.”

 

His brother led him to the other side of the wall, where he could see the stampede of fleeing civilians stretching leagues into the distance - towards the distant horizon where the smoke of burning Taghlib had not yet reached, and golden shafts of sunlight could still be seen falling from the sky. To salvation.

 

“This is your people,” Uthman said, “They are cowards, just like you, abandoning their humanity just to save their sorry beings. But inside every single of them burns a flame of vengeance, stirring within their souls. This is the army you will lead back here, in time. But you need to train this army, you need loyal men who can bring out their full potential. Veteran men.”

 

Uthman al-Sarih turned around and raised his voice, “Who here volunteers to escort my brother south, and raise an army to retake our homeland!?”

 

Against the crackling of the burning city and distant din of fleeing refugees, there was silence. There wasn’t a single man who volunteered. There wasn’t a single craven on the wall - except for him. But then-

 

“I will go, al-Sarih,” a gruff voice spoke up, “I am Abbas. I hail from Hawazan, and I have vengeance to seek. I will not die until I have avenged my princess.”

 

“May the Red Lady watch over your steps,” Uthman replied, “I will give you a hundred men and two banners - one of Taghlib, and one of Hawazan. I wish to give you more, but I need men for the rearguard - however, I am certain you will find many more deserters among the crowds.”

 

“And may the Red Lady bless your blade,” the man returned.

 

“Go, Maslama,” Uthman grabbed his arm and shoved him towards the tower, “This is farewell for now, but we shall meet again under the Sacred Mountain. The divines will it! Bism’alihat!”

 

“BISM’ALIHAT!” the soldiers on the wall roared, and took their positions as the encroaching demon army drew closer.

 

Abbas shoved him into the tower and forced him down the stairs, shouting from above, “Go! I will join you later, prince!”

 

Maslama did not argue, and petulantly wiped his eyes as he traipsed down the staircase. He could feel the stares of all the men in the tower watching him, but he could not meet their eyes. They were all braver men than him, staying for their own deaths, they were all worthier men than him.

 

It was suffocatingly hot as he came out onto the street, the acrid air clawing at his throat. Choking on his own breath, Maslama stumbled out of the threshold - and the crowd slammed into him like a moving wall. Soon he was caught in the stampede and carried along like a drowning man in a raging river. 

 

Maslama desperately struggled to not get sucked under the tide, horrifically feeling hands grasp at his shins from under the crowd. With all the strength he had, Maslama kicked his feet and blindly clawed at sweat soaked bodies as he fought for air. Every now and then, his heel would slide over a buried body, and every now and then, he’d see an unconscious - or dead - man held up simply by the sheer closeness of the throng.

 

Then they were overwhelmed by darkness as he was carried through the gatehouse, the confining walls painted red with blood as people at the edges were crushed and smeared across the rough brick. 

 

When they were out under the infernal sky once more, Maslama tilted his head upwards and gasped for breath, eyes fixed on red-lined clouds high above. A dull splotch of garnet could be seen through the hazy smog, furling and curling like a blooming flower. 

 

Maslama al-Muthaqaf did not believe in hell, not like the southerners did. Like all Quraysh, he believed that when one died they would feast forever in the halls of the Lord Under the Mountain - or be feasted upon by the Lady of the Red Land. 

 

But if he did believe in hell, then he imagined this was what it would look like.

 

Maslama twisted himself around, hands scrunching upon against the slobber and snot of the faces around him. He could see the last gold-domed towers of Taghlib toppling over as their foundations were consumed by the blaze, and he could make out the portcullis of the southern gate slamming downwards to hold off the demons hounding their steps. Maslama witnessed trapped men and women clawing at the wrought iron bars, tears cutting channels through their soot-covered faces as they reached through the bars for hopeless salvation.

 

He could hear the continuing clamour of battle as his brother’s rearguard fought to the last man in order to cover their escape - and he continued to listen, until the sounds of shouts and clashing steel was swallowed up by the bellowing inferno.

 

There was nothing left behind them, so they trudged south. Endlessly, tirelessly, until the sky was cleared of smoke and until they could see the starry heavens impressed upon the sky’s black canvas. To their east the Crown Mountains loomed over them, and to their west the sea, funnelling the horde down a corridor straight to Reicher lands. Safer lands. 

 

Three leagues behind them, the solemn glow of Taghlib marked a second sunset upon Vania, their city still ablaze and its reddish light hounding their steps. Glancing back, Maslama could make out a constellation of twinkling stars upon the night sky - the Northern Crown, though there wasn’t much left to crown in the north. Other than demons.

 

The refugees did not stop for rest, mindlessly slogging along the road like a herd of sheep, blank-eyed stares anchored upon the horizon. There was no more panic now, simply a despondent silence as each man and woman forged through shoulder-to-shoulder. Word had travelled down the column that Tihamah was still controlled by humans, and was where the next line of defence was being raised.

 

And more importantly, the garrison of Tihamah was loading refugees on ships by the hundreds and sailing them down to the Kingdom of Schwerin. And if not that, they were providing much needed food and supplies for the journey on foot.

 

Shouts tore through the air, and Maslama figured another man was being robbed of all his possessions. Many had only the clothes on their backs, and those even an inkling richer were swiftly torn through by the crowd and made poorer. And those with entire wagons - well he couldn’t imagine what happened to them. Maslama had to steal a burlap cloak to conceal his own princely robes, though in truth there was not much princely about them left. Still, he would rather make it to Tihamah in silken rags than in nothing at all.

 

His boots sank calf-deep into the squelching mud, and sweat poured down his face in rivulets as if it were raining. It was hot, and he was tired, and so divine-awfully thirsty. The fleeing horde stretched for leagues south, carving a deep scar in the barren earth as they went. Pounded under the weight of over numberless hordes, the original cobblestone highway had been crushed to dust and what remained churned into a muddy slog that stretched half a league wide.

 

And every few feet he would see a body or two lying by the side of the path, spat out like driftwood from a storm. The injured succumbed to their wounds first, the heat festering in their scars - and the swarm collectively shoved them out, half from fear of the demonic plague, half from the pungent smell. Then the very old followed, perishing from the heat and the thirst. And then the very young, dead babes still swaddled to their mothers’ chests as if they were in denial, or simply never noticed.

 

Then they would be kicked out of the rolling tide, along with all too weak to keep up the pace.

 

Maslama looked around, and didn’t see a single human left. All of them were husks, devoid of mercy or passion.

 

And every so often he would ponder where Abbas and his hundred men were, for even now they had not found him. Had the man simply abandoned him for the dead weight he was? Or were they still far behind, searching through the numberless hordes to find him? Maslama did not know - but he did know that even if he was left alone, he would not give up. Not for the world.

 

For he had made a promise to his brother, to stand at the gates of Taghlib once more as the city was liberated from the enemy. No matter if it would take a year, or ten, or twenty.

 

Maslama recalled the final sight he caught of his brother before he was forced to escape - it one of hardened determination, lips pressed thin and eyes burning with defiance as he stared down his oncoming death. He knew that Uthman al-Sarih had accepted his fate then, whether it be in the halls of the Sacred Mountain or the belly of the Red Lady. Just as all who went before him did.

 

Maslama al-Muthaqaf adopted his brother’s face, finding it giving him a courage and strength he did not have. As he plodded along the beaten path, he stared at the stars - the heavenly gates above - and under the light of the divine he made a promise to himself. 

 

Maslama al-Menfir lowered his head, and stared towards the distant horizon with a face set in grim determination.