INHERITANCE: Memorandum Of Scales

LIGHT OF THE VARDEN

MURTAGH woke to the sound of earsplitting horn calls and strange howls in the tongue of the beyonders. He rose from his bed, ebony hair falling over his eyes as he did so.

He leaned over the side of his feather-filled mattress, groping around in complete darkness, until his hand curled around the familiar coolness of metal. He pulled a sword from underneath his bed and jumped to the stone floor, naked feet sending shivers of ice throughout his body.

He wore little clothing. His upper body was bare, revealing a twisting work of scars that snaked from the front of his chest to the backside of his lower back. He held the blade by the scabbard, a fine sheath fashioned from dark oak covered in ebony leather skin.

As he searched blindly in the darkness for more coverings, his room was suddenly invaded by a burst of light, while the sounds of horns and screams amplified, no door to muffle the bedlam.

Murtagh's eyes adjusted quickly. he squinted at his friend, who held the torch before Murtagh's pale face.

"Zidda, what's going on?" Murtagh asked as Zidda approached him. The fire colored his visage, illuminating eyes and accenting red hair. He followed Murtagh to his dresser, guiding him with light as he spoke.

"We're under attack. They came in the dark of night, after we retired... easily cut through our patrols and militias." Zidda said, dipping the makeshift beacon lower so Murtagh could see his clothing. He picked a thick wool raiment, and slid the clothing over a scarred body, then covering himself in a simple hooded cloak, which was deep brown in color.

He belted his sword to his waist as he left his room, Zidda in tow. They walked into a hallway of chaos as men in various states of dress rushed pass, each of them armed in an array of weapons. Spears, curved blades, and knives. He saw soldiers with bows across their backs, following the general direction of the massing defensive forces.

The spire halls sloped downward- and they were narrow. Murtagh frowned at the disarray while he moved. Zidda was close behind, his torch warming the back of Murtagh's head.

They rushed with the rest of Karem's infantry down the spire, Murtagh's bare feet scraping against the stone. He had forgotten to grab his boots. As they traveled downward, more horns flared, and voices were raised up in a defiant howl, but when Murtagh looked at the Beyonders he did not see any mouths opening. Only bright eyes, green with fear.

At the foot of the spire large twin doors separated them from the outside desert-they were open wide, and Murtagh saw that Karem was ahorse, directly ahead of them, riding back and forth before the spire, yelling threats to the ominous line of torches that were arranged in battle formation between faraway dunes. Murtagh knew what held the torches, despite the darkness that obscured the wielders.

It was an attacking army. Freed men, slavers, other kingdoms that finally mustered the strength to challenge Karem... it could be any of those, or a combination of all. The infantry poured from the tower and took up formation behind Karem, who, after one final insult, spat at the ground before him and stirred his horse backwards.

Zidda was breathing deeply by Murtagh as he took up his place on the line. He looked at his fellow men and felt a twinge of annoyance- none of them were well armored, as none had time to sufficiently equip themselves. Murtagh grinned at the thought as he wriggled his feet on the coarse sand.

The chill of night attacked before the invaders. Murtagh saw many men shivering and heard the chatter of teeth. Murtagh was glad he at least remembered to dress warmly as he watched a man enviously eying Karem as he re-formed with his cavalry, dressed in wool and steel. The torches beyond them, on the hilly dunes, moved then, slowly advancing.