Alan Foster - Kingdoms of Light

On the fertile, grassy plains of Nasid Huedril, where the fortified city of Kyll-Bar-Bennid sticks like a rough gray thumb into the broad sweep of the glassy green river Drimaud, the armies of the Gowdlands assembled to await the arrival of the Totumakk Horde. Yet for all the Horde's fierce fighting skills, for all its rumored ruthlessness and raging brutality, it was not the Horde that the defenders of the Gowdlands feared. Among their own steadily swelling number they could count numerous brave fighters and famed warriors, skilled mercenaries and professional soldiers of considerable experience and ability. These were men and women who cowered before no wielder of spear or swinger of sword. Only a name struck fear into them. A name of the Unknown, a fearful shadow given substance only by reputation.

Khaxan Mundurucu.

Reputed monster, master, and soulless slayer of men and despoiler of women, it was said. The dark arts were his province, the despair of others his pleasure. Human flesh sated his appetite and blood slaked his thirst. Where his Horde passed, the land was laid waste and the earth oozed pus. It was believed that he would not be content until all the civilized world cowered at his feet and licked the night soil from between his toes. The foulness of his countenance was alleged to send strong men into shock, his touch to cause convulsions in the most courageous of women. The gathering defenders of the Gowdlands drew encouragement from the realization that no one individual, no matter how evil and depraved, could possibly be the equal of such a reputation.

Little did they know the truth of the matter.

The promontory of Kyll-Bar-Bennid formed the gateway to the Gowdlands, with the city commanding by far the best and most accessible of the approaches to the fertile territories farther east. Twelve bridges spanned the river Drimaud, encouraging exchanges and facilitating commerce. In the months since the first rumors of the approaching Horde had changed from a whisper to a roar, trade across the great river had slowed to a crawl, and finally to barely a trickle. Now, with the advance body of the Horde so near, the swollen flood of refugees had shrunk to a few last, terrified wagonloads.

A hard man to please, the stocky, silver-haired General Goughfree was quietly gratified by the decline. The flight of civilians from the other side of the Drimaud made his work that much easier. Of the dozen thoroughfares across the river, eight were narrow or fragile enough to be held by small squadrons of determined defenders. Equipped with cannon, they could sweep any attacker, no matter how determined or accomplished, into the swift current below.

The remaining four bridges required more attention. Broad of aspect and fashioned from solid stone, they commanded the main approaches to the city and the plains that lay beyond. All four had to be held. Should even one be captured, an attacking enemy would acquire a direct route into the city. Beyond the bridges lay the town itself, circuitous of street and convoluted of thoroughfare, and beyond it the castle, whose strong high walls were well defended. Goughfree and his colleagues felt confident it could be held against any assailant. But withdrawing into the castle would mean sacrificing the city and its treasures to the ravages of the enemy. The champions of the Gowdlands had no intention of allowing the prosperous metropolis to crumble beneath the boots of the Totumakk.

As for the supposed malignant powers of this Khaxan Mundurucu, the defenders of the Gowdlands could count among their number several powerful virtuosos of the mystic arts. Having consulted with the hastily constituted council of war, Goughfree had come away convinced of the ability of these several mages and wizards to deal with this Mundurucu individual, whose arrogant reputation must perforce exceed whatever arcane abilities he might actually possess. Armies would repulse any military assault by the Totumakk, while the necromancers of the Gowdlands would repel any sorcerous affront to the city's defenses.

Thus reassured, Goughfree spent the days supervising the strengthening of the city's fortifications, concentrating on the vital bridges while not neglecting the castle or the inner wards, until he was of the opinion that, seeing the strength of Kyll-Bar-Bennid, the Totumakk might well decide it was not in their interest to hurl themselves uselessly against it.

Languorous clouds filled the sky, and the air was suffused with the dank, clinging humidity of Final Summer when scouts at last brought word of the Horde's approach. Their confirming words were not needed, since from the topmost castle heights the defenders of the city had been able to observe the expanding glow of burning fields and homes for many days now. When finally the killing teams of the Horde began to emerge from the woods on the far side of the river, the soldiers and citizens of Kyll-Bar-Bennid had their first glimpse of those who threatened their destruction.

Even on a small scale, the sight was dauntingly horrific. Bent and twisted, gap-toothed and cloven-skulled, cleanshaven or eruptive of beard, there was not a man or woman among the amassing Horde who did not reek of corruption and decay. They were a vileness upon the land—and that was only the humans among them. At least half the Horde was made up of—other things.

There were creatures with curving, slanted eyes and narrow, heronlike beaks as long as a man's arm. Black-furred bipeds reptilian of aspect boasted oval mouths fringed with long hairs that might have been borrowed from fleshy catfish, while stockier companions carried pikes and lances on shoulders hunched unnaturally forward. There were massive red-furred hulks with warty, leprous countenances and eyes devoid of lids, who gazed upon the world with unblinking ferocity. Smaller fighters in this army of the damned hopped or lurched or shambled their way into camps that sprang up around central fires, above which roasted and dripped huge chunks of meat whose origins the saner among the city's defenders made a conscious effort not to identify.

Officers in gleaming black armor moved among their diabolic troops like sharks through schools of shad. Using whips and prods, they doled out grisly imprecations and sharp blows in equal measure. None of the Horde rebelled against this harsh treatment. None dared, and there were those truly sick ones who reveled in it.

On the bridges, within the city proper and the castle on the heights above, the defenders saw, and heard, and were appalled. The hellish vision of the enemy camps was enough to induce some to desert on the spot, fleeing under cover of night, carried away by fear. Most, however, remained, their number continuously reinforced by a steady stream of resolute new arrivals. Anyone with any sense knew that here was the place to stop the invaders, before they could reach the prosperous, broad plains of the Gowdlands. Keep them on the far side of the Drimaud, and everything and everyone to the east would be safe. Let them cross, and chaos would surely triumph. To give way now was to embark upon a life of eternal, hopeless flight from an unspeakable nightmare that would never end.

All they had to do, Goughfree and his fellow officers knew, was hold the bridges. While the aspect of the Horde was certainly terrible, the invaders had so far exhibited nothing capable of instilling despair in the heart of a well-trained soldier. The enemy did not even appear to have artillery, giving a distinct advantage to the well-prepared defenders. Let them come!

On the morning of Twelfth Day, beneath a glowering sky and in defiance of a sultry, obscuring rain, that is what they did.