Tynasian Dreams

presents

The Earthworks at Rimin

The Tynasian Chronicles Volume 2.

SYNOPSIS

Four days have passed since the Crystal of Mamanoth was snatched from under the arch-mage Bathmar’s nose. Four days of peace and tranquillity. Almost a return to normal.

For Synak the days have proved revolutionary as for the first time in his life he has found love. Elinia, the dark, slender and plain servant girl he rescued from the Temple of Gark has stolen his heart. The future, it would seem, looks rosy.

Then upon returning home after a night of relaxation at the Golden Vial Synak discovers the house ransacked and Elinia gone. As he and Tass Harmon try to unravel the mystery a magical presence manifests itself. It is Sorrothar, Bathmar’s demon familiar. The deal is simple; return the crystal or Elinia dies.

Knowing that the crystal is beyond reach on its way to Tarr, Synak stalls for time. His mind is racing, trying to find a way to rescue Elinia unharmed while at the same time defeating Bathmar once and for all. It is obvious that the taking of the Crystal of Mamanoth only stalled the evil creature’s plans and now Bathmar’s vengeful eyes are turned upon him.

For Sylenia life is also far from easy. The relaxed lifestyle of a rich merchant’s daughter, once so appealing, now seems drab and uninteresting. Her fiancé, Magar Mornmar, is still missing but any love she felt for him is now in doubt. Her heart and mind are turned in another direction and she cannot get the image of the dark stranger, Cahrn Alvesuene, from her mind.

Lying in her bed feeling of guilt and uncertainty plague her.

Tass, meanwhile, has his own problems. It had happened a few years previously:

The heat never left Hazaria and it was keeping Tass awake as he lay under a now sopping wet set of thin silk sheets. Beside him lay the slumbering form of A-Nubra, the King of Hazaria's favourite concubine. She was breathing deeply now after an evening of passion, her soft, round breasts rising and falling under the sheets, asleep. Tass felt good inside himself; he had recently completed a commission in the King's army, fighting bandits on the southern borders of the empire, and was in Hazaria to be thanked personally for saving the King's son, Prince Be-Na-Baye, in an ambush just north of the small village of To-Pena.

'What is mine is yours,' the king had said when they had met in a shaded courtyard within the palace. 'You are as a son to me now.'

As with most things Tass had taken the meaning literally and now four days later, he lay, hot but satisfied, beside A-Nubra.

Discovered Tass flees for his life but just as he scrambles into the saddle of a horse an arrow pierces his side. He escapes into the harsh, unwelcoming heat of the Hazarian desert where he tries to head north, hoping to reach Tynash before the wound turns septic.

But it is a long, hard rise and the heat saps his strength. Soon death leers at him, its faceless grin a constant companion in Tass’ fevered mind. As he stumbles on he comes upon a group of pilgrims who save him from immediate death only to plunge him into a potentially longer, more lingering demise. The pilgrims belong to the peculiar order known as the Pilgrims of Hope and their chosen mission is to journey to the isolationist, religious city of Lanca.

Lanca, centre of a bloody, warlike religion devoted to the will of the goddess Orra. Ruled over by a deity like High Priestess who never leaves the great central ziggurat except to offer sacrifices to her goddess.

Outside Lanca a filthy shantytown of hopeful eke out a terrible existence ever hopeful that they will be chosen to serve in the fanatical Lancasian priesthood. Some are taken in and trained, most die of hunger, thirst and disease.

Tass recovers his strength in the tent of an old beggar named Jex before executing an audacious escape plan. Most would slide away into the desert, hoping to find water to sustain them on the long road to Tynash, Hazaria, Thanys or Alcor. None would ever see civilisation again. For Tass death is not something to be greeted easily and so instead of leaving the city he breaks into it, hoping to steal sufficient wealth to buy a place on a caravan. Once inside he stumbles upon the private rooms of Kara, the High Priestess and realises that love comes only once, and it is usually at first sight.

Tass is happy, content for the first time in many years; blissfully unaware of the fate Kara has in store for him. He has only one use, to make her pregnant, then he will be killed for violating the High Priestess.

It is inevitable that Kara falls with child and Tass is suddenly and rudely awakes to his fate. Once again in danger he escapes and flees north to Tynash where he lives in constant fear of discovery. Then it happens, Tass’ drunken stupor is rudely interrupted by a group of warrior priests. The fight is short and bloody but Tass knows that his time in Tynash is limited.

The city of Tynash, meantime, blissfully unaware of the danger it is in, is alive with speculation. War in Munx could mean that their army, untested for a hundred years, must once more steep itself in glory. For the common citizen it is a time of excitement and speculation, for the ruling families it is a time of argument and debate.

The grand council, Ezath Carmutar, is divided. Some would let Munx alone to suffer what fate it will, other like Rhol Tunar, the lord Vansk, are adamant that help should be sent. Eventually it is agreed but the mobilisation of the Tynasian forces will take time, and time is something that Munx does not have.

Dawn: the world was bathed in the strange pink radiance of that unique hour which makes even the most morbidly depressed of souls consider life as something worth living. Light seeped out of the night, starting life as a mere tint upon the horizon and gradually swept over the whole land. It rolled around the hilltops and tripped its way down into the hollows of the valley floor until every tree, bush and blade of grass was coated by it. The sky mellowed from indigo and star-studded black, to shocking pink, through to orange and finally to the bloodiest of reds as the thin sliver of the sun popped up over the rolling downs.

Kren Druidor stood in the opening of his tent and watched the sun rise. He gazed out over the sweeping valley before him, following the tiny stream from its source just below him, into the still darkened and misty vale some leagues distant. Gladoria Vale was a beautiful and peaceful place now, but would soon be torn apart by the cut and thrust of battle. Around him, clustered in the mosaic of organised chaos, which only a military mind could plan, and implement, were the tents and fires of the Munx army. Druidor pulled his cloak about him as the morning chill cut into him, and let his sad eyes wander from tent to tent, fire to smouldering fire. He saw the first stirrings of men, and heard the calls, and yawns of those already awake. Soon there was a file of bodies heading for the springs to wash away the grime of the last day's march and the clamminess of a night under canvas.

Without the Tynasian army to bolster its ranks Kren Druidor, lord commander of the forces of Munx, has taken a desperate gamble. Marching his small, ill prepared, army north he has established a defensive line at the head of a narrow valley. There he hopes that the terrain will help him secure victory. He knows that his fate is in the hands of his gods but the love of his city and the devotion he feels for his king, outweigh all thoughts of death.

Battle is soon met with Munx initially gaining the upper hand. But Graythe has amassed a huge army and the small Munx force soon begins to tire. As afternoon drags into evening Druidor realises that he cannot hold out for another day. His gamble has failed. He has no choice but to withdraw under the cover of darkness and allow the Graythe army free passage to Munx. In his mind he knows that a morale victory has been won, but in his heart he knows it is not enough.

Magar Mornmar is still missing. His father, Morven, has been unable to find him and so Sylenia Roganoth, wracked with guilt decides she must. For the past few days she has wrestled with her emotions and has now reached a decision. Knowing that she will never now marry Magar, she nevertheless feels responsible for his current plight. It is a decision that will forever change her life, but she makes it with the same determination that has always shown.

Packing her bags she sneaks from her home when her father is out. He will, she knows, be unhappy, but he will also understand. Synak and Tass are at first shocked when Sylenia knocks on their door, but they soon see that there is nothing they can say or do that will sway her resolve. They therefore agree o help her find Magar Mornmar, wherever he might be hiding. First, however, she must get rid of her fancy clothes and become an adventuress. The transformation is staggering. Tass, ever the ladies man, admires the change and soon he and Sylenia are growing closer in a purely platonic way.

Later that night, as the lake fog swirls around the city enshrouding it in a satin grey veil, the three of them plot. Sylenia has already spoken to Magar’s father and therefore knows all the places that have already been searched.

'We know he isn't in the Thieves' Quarter otherwise one of us would have heard,' Tass said, 'so I believe that only leaves three possibilities.'

The others looked at him. Tass took up his wine and drank slowly, replacing the goblet with great care. 'Either he has left the city, he is being hidden for some reason by someone, or he is in the sewers.'

Synak looked up sharply. 'Of course, the sewers! How else could he disappear from the city?'

'Bathmar could have him,' objected Sylenia, not liking the thought of Magar in the sewers.

'It is unlikely he has a use for him now,' said Synak, 'I expect he just cast him adrift in a daze and Magar wandered aimlessly down into the sewers to avoid capture. I expect he still thinks he killed Ypar Koriath.'

'There is no way he could know otherwise,' agreed Tass.

'He may be dead then,' said Sylenia, placing her hand fearfully over her mouth. She lifted her goblet and took another small sip of wine, then brushed the hair back from her face.

'Good as,' agreed Tass, 'if he has been down there that long, why....'

'Tass!,' hissed Synak, and nodded towards Sylenia who was trying hard to stop her bottom lip from trembling.

Wishing to waste no more time they draw up a hasty plan. Synak already knows the best way in, but it is far from pleasant and calls for old clothes none of them would want to wear again. Hours later, covered in the filth that drips down from the palace above, the three of them discover Magar hunkered down on a pile of rotting vegetables beneath the palace kitchens. He is alive but riddled with disease. There is only one hope, that Vol’s magic might save him. It is a long shot but it is the only one they have.

Magar begins to recover under Vol’s ministrations but for Tass, Synak and Sylenia time is beginning to run out. Bathmar’s ultimatum is nearing and there is still no plan to recover Elinia. Synak decides that their only hope is to fake the crystal and hope that they can delay Bathmar long enough to make good their escape. The arch-mage has told them where they must meet and so, armed with a replacement crystal that Vol finds amid his overflowing shelves, they set out.

The long march back to Munx has taken its toll on the survivors of the battle. Shattered men drag their weary bones towards the city they have given so much to save. Cartloads of those too badly wounded to walk creak and groan along the uneven tracks. At the head of the dejected column rides Kren Druidor, hope rapidly deserting him. As the city comes into view, however, a sight so unexpected that it stops the column dead meets their eyes. There, encamped on the near shore of the Trolla River is the Tynasian Army. Druidor rides up to greet his old friend Rhol Tunar. It is a bittersweet meeting for Druidor resents the delay that has cost so many Munx lives.

That night, as the wind begins to whip around the keep, the generals meet with the king to establish a plan of battle. Tomorrow, they know, will see the green plains of Munx stained red with blood. As he rides back to the encampment doubts begin to creep into Tunar’s mind. He is the first lord to command a Tynasian army in over one hundred years and the reputation of the city rests heavily on his inexperienced shoulders.

Tensions begin to build as the inevitable clash draws inexorably closer. The Tynasians have made all the preparations they can and now wait for the first wave of Graythe cavalry to rush down upon them. All to soon the trumpets blow and the assault begins.

Unbeknown to the allies, however, during the night the Graythe warlords had received a visit from Bathmar. The arch-mage, keen to capitalise upon the situation, offers his support. Now he watches over the fight, waiting for the moment when his magic might sway the battle in Graythe’s favour.

At Rimin Tass, Sylenia and Synak sneak towards Bathmar’s encampment where mentally enslaved priests excavate the ruins of an ancient temple. Their tools have long worn away and now the flesh is shredding from their fingers, but still the will of the arch-mage drives them on.

Knowing that surprise is now their only hope, and unaware that Bathmar’s gaze is elsewhere, they make their move.

Meanwhile the battle hangs in the balance. The initial Graythe attack has been thrown back from the Tynasian lines but the Tynasian counterattack has also faltered. Now the commanders glare at each other over a quivering sea of dead waiting for the next move. Suddenly Bathmar’s shade appears to the Graythe warlord and calls for a platoon of the cities best warriors to come forward. Summoning arcane magic not seen for over a century, Bathmar transforms these men into mindless berserkers. These crazed creatures sweep forward, suffering awful wounds, to decimate the Tynasian ranks.

Rhol Tunar has no option but to call for a retreat. Slowly the army withdraws to the safety of the city while Graythe prepares for a siege.

Meanwhile on the top of a hill some distance away Synak makes his move. Bathmar’s mortal form confronts him, preparing magic that will almost certainly destroy him. In a desperate move he uses his Tarrian skills with the knife to make a seemingly impossible throw. The blade severs Bathmar’s finger, taking his ring of power with it as it falls away. Pent up energy erupts from the human-like form igniting all that it touches.

Hoping against hope that Tass has rescued Elinia Synak races for cover, throwing himself into the old rampart ditch just as the hilltop is enveloped by a magical fireball. Blackened by soot and bruised by his close scrape with death, Synak grins at the others as Tass says, “I don’t know about the rest of you but I need a drink!”

This second book of the Trilogy concludes on the ancient earthen banks leaving the Tynasian Army besieged in Munx and Tass still sought by the High Priestess of Lanca. All these threads and more are drawn together in the third volume - The High Priestess of Lanca.