When the Djinn of the Desert set the Sand Elves into motion, they came like a swarm of locusts over the land, growing in number. A tribe seemed to join Gerra’s host for every league he traveled, creeping out from under mesas and dunes, leaving the wilderness to swell the ranks of the army. With such numbers and relying solely on forage and the fruits of the land, they stripped the areas they traveled through bare, like a herd of goats eating the grass bare.
They crossed the Baal-Asha and traveled north, sweeping through the land between the two rivers, before following the Baal-Duru to its fertile delta, where sat the blue-walled city of Annuakat beside the gulf, with her thousand farms and her hanging gardens.
The farmers fled before them and sought refuge within the city. Surely the Marya, those nobles who ruled the city, with their golden chariots and their golden steeds would protect them.
Gerra encamped around the city and stared long at the walls.
He knew that such a city, perhaps the most powerful in all of Amol Kalit, would prove murderous to besiege, even with all his knowledge of the craft. The Sand Elves, if they did not grow bored from the wait and disperse home, would be averse to the many thousands who would die trying to take this city of Annuk, chief god of the Kaliti.
Yet, the raw force of military strength was not the only way to take a city.
The Order of the Bronze Claw, a league of mercenaries, were under the employ of Annuakat’s nobles. But mercenaries are such fickle creatures. So easily swayed by coin. And in his trek from Maraan to Annuakat, Gerra had plundered many a caravan. A proper bribe in the right hands to remove those who opposed him. It would be such a simple thing, would it not?
This, Gerra resolved to do. On the third day of his encampment about the city, his host furled their tents and the Sand Elves seemed to melt away. The nobles of Annuakat rejoiced, boasting that their walls were so thick that the desert savages were cowed at the mere sight of them. They held a feast in celebration inside the palace.
A palace which the Order of the Bronze Claw was paid to guard.
The histories record what happened next.
* * *
Laughter and music filtered through the warm evening air. Cambes smiled and smoothed the front of his purple robes as he walked toward the palace atrium. His sandals made a soft patter upon the alabaster floor.
“A day to remember, yes Ozman?”
His companion chuckled. “Yes, the day the desert denizens finally rose up against us to throw off Kaliti yoke.” He snorted. “Truly, if I had a gem for every elf uprising, I would be a rich man indeed.”
“Do your Kherkhanite mines not produce enough for you now?”
“Ah, but ogres. So stupid. So big. I hate dealing with those creatures.”
“I hear the women of court think differently. Those blue muscles, so defined. So big. Why, they thought to ask that Grozkalla of the Bronze Claw. Pay him to strip for entertainment.”
Ozman rolled his eyes. “Foolish talk. The ogres are brutes, meant only for physical tasks.”
“But Ozman… that is the point.”
“Foolish,” he repeated, “They’ll forget all about ogres tonight. After all, was it not us, the proud Marya charioteers of Annuakat who drove off the Sand Elf incursion?”
“Yes, yes it was.” Cambes quite liked the sound of that. He had been looking for a fifth wife, after all.
They came into the gardens and the scent of rich perfumes nearly overpowered Cambes. A throng had gathered beneath the torchlight. Some reclined on benches, or rugs, or simply lay on the grass, while they listened to the pipes, watched the graceful movements of dancers in sheer silk, and drank deeply from their cups. The gardens brimmed with the nobility of Annuakat tonight. Everyone who was anyone was here. Moans of pleasure came from behind a hedge.
“Ah, the orgies have already started,” said Ozman, disappointed.
“Well, we can always-”
Sudden screams erupted from the crowd. Figures in armor came in from the shadows, wielding blades that glinted in the torchlight. They fell upon the crowd, slashing and hacking. Cambes watched a massive brute, maybe seven feet tall, use an enormous, curved sword to hack off the arm of Iris, a woman who owned two thousand slaves. Her mouth was open as blood spurted from her severed stump, but there was so much noise Cambes could not tell whether or not she was screaming, or him.
Ozman clutched at Cambes’ robes. “We have to go, we have to go!”
There came a low, angry hum and javelin suddenly sprouted from Ozman’s chest in a burst of hot scarlet that spattered across Cambes’ face. He let out a whimper, gurgling, as he fell.
Cambes felt something hot running down his leg. Had he been struck? What was that smell? He looked down to find his pants soaked with piss.
“Oh,” he said dumbly, then looked up just in time to see the massive brute with the curved sword lumbering toward him. He now noticed the tiny eyes and the blue skin. “Ogres, meant only for physical tasks…”
Grozkalla, Third Talon of the Bronze Claw, decapitated Cambes in a single swing. He watched the head bounce, then roll to a stop, the same stupid expression on the man’s face.
“Humans. So arrogant. So weak. I hate dealing with them,” he muttered, then stomped off to massacre more of Annuakat’s nobility.
By morning, the palace was a blood-soaked nightmare of severed limbs and rent bodies.
By afternoon, the host of the Abtati were making their way into the city, through gates held open by Bronze Claw mercenaries.
From within their Annunaki temples, the lector-priests watched, not even deigning to lift a finger in defense of the city. After all, is not Annuk the god of conquerors?
They crossed the Baal-Asha and traveled north, sweeping through the land between the two rivers, before following the Baal-Duru to its fertile delta, where sat the blue-walled city of Annuakat beside the gulf, with her thousand farms and her hanging gardens.
The farmers fled before them and sought refuge within the city. Surely the Marya, those nobles who ruled the city, with their golden chariots and their golden steeds would protect them.
Gerra encamped around the city and stared long at the walls.
He knew that such a city, perhaps the most powerful in all of Amol Kalit, would prove murderous to besiege, even with all his knowledge of the craft. The Sand Elves, if they did not grow bored from the wait and disperse home, would be averse to the many thousands who would die trying to take this city of Annuk, chief god of the Kaliti.
Yet, the raw force of military strength was not the only way to take a city.
The Order of the Bronze Claw, a league of mercenaries, were under the employ of Annuakat’s nobles. But mercenaries are such fickle creatures. So easily swayed by coin. And in his trek from Maraan to Annuakat, Gerra had plundered many a caravan. A proper bribe in the right hands to remove those who opposed him. It would be such a simple thing, would it not?
This, Gerra resolved to do. On the third day of his encampment about the city, his host furled their tents and the Sand Elves seemed to melt away. The nobles of Annuakat rejoiced, boasting that their walls were so thick that the desert savages were cowed at the mere sight of them. They held a feast in celebration inside the palace.
A palace which the Order of the Bronze Claw was paid to guard.
The histories record what happened next.
* * *
Laughter and music filtered through the warm evening air. Cambes smiled and smoothed the front of his purple robes as he walked toward the palace atrium. His sandals made a soft patter upon the alabaster floor.
“A day to remember, yes Ozman?”
His companion chuckled. “Yes, the day the desert denizens finally rose up against us to throw off Kaliti yoke.” He snorted. “Truly, if I had a gem for every elf uprising, I would be a rich man indeed.”
“Do your Kherkhanite mines not produce enough for you now?”
“Ah, but ogres. So stupid. So big. I hate dealing with those creatures.”
“I hear the women of court think differently. Those blue muscles, so defined. So big. Why, they thought to ask that Grozkalla of the Bronze Claw. Pay him to strip for entertainment.”
Ozman rolled his eyes. “Foolish talk. The ogres are brutes, meant only for physical tasks.”
“But Ozman… that is the point.”
“Foolish,” he repeated, “They’ll forget all about ogres tonight. After all, was it not us, the proud Marya charioteers of Annuakat who drove off the Sand Elf incursion?”
“Yes, yes it was.” Cambes quite liked the sound of that. He had been looking for a fifth wife, after all.
They came into the gardens and the scent of rich perfumes nearly overpowered Cambes. A throng had gathered beneath the torchlight. Some reclined on benches, or rugs, or simply lay on the grass, while they listened to the pipes, watched the graceful movements of dancers in sheer silk, and drank deeply from their cups. The gardens brimmed with the nobility of Annuakat tonight. Everyone who was anyone was here. Moans of pleasure came from behind a hedge.
“Ah, the orgies have already started,” said Ozman, disappointed.
“Well, we can always-”
Sudden screams erupted from the crowd. Figures in armor came in from the shadows, wielding blades that glinted in the torchlight. They fell upon the crowd, slashing and hacking. Cambes watched a massive brute, maybe seven feet tall, use an enormous, curved sword to hack off the arm of Iris, a woman who owned two thousand slaves. Her mouth was open as blood spurted from her severed stump, but there was so much noise Cambes could not tell whether or not she was screaming, or him.
Ozman clutched at Cambes’ robes. “We have to go, we have to go!”
There came a low, angry hum and javelin suddenly sprouted from Ozman’s chest in a burst of hot scarlet that spattered across Cambes’ face. He let out a whimper, gurgling, as he fell.
Cambes felt something hot running down his leg. Had he been struck? What was that smell? He looked down to find his pants soaked with piss.
“Oh,” he said dumbly, then looked up just in time to see the massive brute with the curved sword lumbering toward him. He now noticed the tiny eyes and the blue skin. “Ogres, meant only for physical tasks…”
Grozkalla, Third Talon of the Bronze Claw, decapitated Cambes in a single swing. He watched the head bounce, then roll to a stop, the same stupid expression on the man’s face.
“Humans. So arrogant. So weak. I hate dealing with them,” he muttered, then stomped off to massacre more of Annuakat’s nobility.
By morning, the palace was a blood-soaked nightmare of severed limbs and rent bodies.
By afternoon, the host of the Abtati were making their way into the city, through gates held open by Bronze Claw mercenaries.
From within their Annunaki temples, the lector-priests watched, not even deigning to lift a finger in defense of the city. After all, is not Annuk the god of conquerors?
