The Tomb of Den Divzar

Chapter Six: Red Bodies on a Red Mountain

The tale had gone long into the night and a biting wind had swept through the camp. Somewhere between the razing of Giant's Foot and the battle of Angmir, Hogart and Kirnen had devolved into shouting. Tol sat amazed at the story he had never heard. The bitter history of the two men now laid out before him, he understood the monumental task that was them trusting each other again. Their argument was not coherent, a howling frenzy of accusation and passion. Each defended their people's honor as if defending their homes and the assertion of who truly 'won' the war was of vital importance in their hearts. Hogart frequently reminded the younger Kirnen that he had not lived it and his recollection came only from his grandfather's memory. Kirnen retorted that it was Hogart that slew many of his clan and that he personally had blood to be repaid on his hands. Both were correct in some way.

"If you could have seen the destruction of White Tower, lad! The things you barbarians did and then ransacked our lands. For what! Your mountain lords barely gave a reason at the peace accord and you're lucky you even got that!" Hogart shouted.

"My clan took one city! You took more than half the cities in the north. Our reasons you say? Your precious 'Myrian' was a thief and all your fancy tricks belonged to us! Stealing from the giants you got off easy with one measly tower!" Kirnen thrust a finger at the mage.

Hogart batted it away, "Don't you ever speak of Myrian that way, boy." His tone was deathly quiet under the freezing wind, "Myrian... He was the best of us. We were just animals before and he made us something. We would've taught you, you know, if you hadn't lashed out like that, jealous of our magic!" Hogart's voice rose again, the wind screaming to meet it,

"I was there! I saw what we did to his gifts! He would've hated the way we used it, but we had to."

Hogart didn't sound like he was talking to Kirnen anymore, nor Tol. His voice cracked as the man sank to his knees.

"The bodies! Oh, Myrian how you would've scolded us! A whole generation of mages who knew the gift as nothing but a weapon. Such shame can never be matched!"

Hogart was weeping now, a light dusting of snow covering his sky blue robes.

"I remember the bodies on Red Mountain, they're still there. The bodies never rot on the mountain's peak. The men I killed are still laying there, just sleeping. Then their brothers and sons marching up the mountain, crimson red they were, and I would lay them to sleep too. I hate what we did! I hate what I had to become! I hate it!" He fell silent save for the sound of his sorrow.

Kirnen was silent now, as was Tol. Tol raised from his seat and crouched beside the pitiful figure that was convulsing on the ground.

"Myne brother... I was his squire, in myne youth. I went with him during the war against the boiedaros, carrying his swords and tending his mount. I always told him that I wanted to watcheth the battle, such as in the honoric stories I had read. During the battle on Pelama Hill though... I ranneth and hid. Myne brother sought after me, but was laid into a trap. He died there, and I fled to our camp. I must admit, I never grew more brave than that. Myne bravado, myne honor, even myne language is from the honoric stories. I am no knight." Tol finished and dropped from a squat to a placid seat, uncaring for the cold of the snow. Kirnen didn't know what to say, he too had never seen battle, but all his life he had heard of its glories. His grandfather never lied, but looking upon the faces of his companions... He didn't know what to think. Hristovian was who he was, his blood was made for war. In the outworld to the southlands his people had scoured victory from the hands of enemies and fought like gods. So he had thought, but Hogart had made a point; if they were so great why had they lost? It was undeniable that the northmen had suffered greatly at the hands of the Azorans, but how could that be true? His mind reeled over it, his grandfather's words ringing in his ears, loud as a warhorn. Never trust a wizard, boy. He heard it again and again. Kirnen screamed and clamped his hands to his head, then turned and sprinted through the snow of the night. His companions didn't move to follow.

Kirnen ran on through the dark of the woods aimless and frenzied. Father, brother, grandfather, and mother all called out to him, the white snow carrying him home.

"You fell for his old tricks, boy. You always were the slowest of your brothers!" His grandfather croaked.

"Kill the wizard then find the tomb. Our spirits must rest, my son, my brother!" His father and brother cried in anguish as one.

"Come home, my dear boy, the family hungers and the work is too much without your father. Please, my son." His mother said tearfully.

Still Kirnen ran on. Then, like a bolt of lightning, there was the tomb. The northman froze. It was like all the sound in the world had disappeared and the voices in his head had gone silent in an instant. The imposing structure loomed in front of him, far larger than he had imagined. It was monstrous, a gray and black stone behemoth that hung with inexorable presence before the night sky. As if in a trance he forgot all of what he was and instead could do nothing but stare, mouth agape, at the terrifying structure before him; The tomb of Den Divzar.