The Battle of Aragath

The Battle of Aragath
A Tale From Willow Valley



    The hot, desert Plains of Aragath witnessed a bloody battle entangling all the creatures of the peaceful Midlands in an unavoidable conflict, not of their own choosing. The battle took place four years before the Time of Changing, the time when the great wizard Thurin made everything new. War and killing spread across the world he named ThurOn and touched all of creation, mankind, and animals.
    Death does not discriminate.
    Under the influence of the evil necromancer, mighty kings and petty tyrants alike sent out their armies to conquer others for gold, slaves or spoil. The killing for greed and avarice did not stop with armies. Neighbors killed neighbors for nothing more than a cow, a sheep, or another’s mate.
    “Give me what I desire, or I will take it by force.” Uncontrolled lust for more, tempted the stronger to take from the weaker at will. Those unable to defend themselves from such an onslaught of evil either died or fled to remote places, hoping they would be safe. They found no place to hide.

    The peasant farmer called out to passing travelers. “Ho, Neighbor! Where are you headed?”
    The man and his wife stood in the doorway of their mud hut as their neighbor and his family hurried by. The travelers carried all of their few possessions either on their backs or in an overloaded ox cart, which the man pulled. A scrawny milk cow followed after, led by a scruffy lad of nine or ten years. Four smaller children rode atop the cart, threatening to tumble off each time a cart wheel bounced over a rock.
    The passing refugee stopped pulling the cart, took out a kerchief and mopped his brow. “Neighbor,” he called out. “Why are you standing there? Many armies are coming. The time has come to flee this place.”
    “Flee? What of your home? Where will you go?”
    “Some place safe, a refuge from this insanity.”
    “No safe place exists. War is everywhere.”
    “We are going to the mountains. I will not allow my children to be enslaved. If the mountains fall on us, at least we will die as Thurin’s free men. Come with us. Hurry, the carrion birds are gathering.”
    “Go, my friend. My wife and I live alone. We will take our chances here. Good speed to you. Perhaps we can again be neighbors after this is over, if Thurin wills.”
    “May his incantation protect you, my friend,” the peasant said. Lifting the cart’s hitch rails, they continued on their way.


    King Istimahm, King of Kardesh, a short, fat, vile little tyrant, cared about nothing but the glitter of gold. His palace contained rooms filled with treasure, but his greed would not be sated. As the ruler of the most powerful kingdom in the Great North, he hired mercenaries and equipped them with the best weapons and armor to be purchased, then amassed his forces and sent them like locusts across the southern border of the North Lands, to return with slaves to sell for more gold.
    Sending them south, they crossed the prairies of the Eastern Plateau, or marched down through peaceful Willow Valley, and gathered again on the plains of the desert of Aragath, east of the seaport of Quiet Harbor. In the burning sands, they faced the defending forces of the Kingdom of Erebore from the South Lands, who had arrayed themselves in formation and waited for battle.
    Slavery and the buying and selling of slaves became unacceptable south of the Copper River long ago. But north of the river, King Istamahm and Kardesh still retained a well-earned reputation as brutal slave traders.

    The slave trader’s shout resounded above the sound of the milling crowd. “The first slave to be sold today is this prime lad. Come, inspect him. The legs and back are young and strong. Fair of skin but well tanned, he is a premium specimen, and a bargain at twenty gold pieces.”
    “How is his health?”
    “Come, inspect his teeth. Be cautious, though. This is a fiery youth, and likely to bite.”
    “Can he be trained for the plow? This one appears too strong of will to be domesticated.”
    “With this strong back, before the plow or behind. He may require breaking with the whip, but once broken, will give you many years of hard work.”

    This war, like many others, would be about the taking of slaves and gathering gold. Slavers care not a whit what they sell, man or animal, horse, cow, or man-child. Their only concern is easy profit. Istimahm, in exchange for protecting the slave trade in Kardesh, collected one gold piece for each ten received on every slave sold in his domain.
    The defenders from Erebore to the south, intended to defeat the Kardesh armies and with the help of the local Midlands militia, end the tyrant’s aggression and stop his evil desire for conquest.
    The peaceful people of the Midlands found themselves chosen by fate to be unwilling hosts of an epic battle between these two armies. In secluded Willow Valley, east of the Stormy Mountains and the Endless Sea, two of Thurin’s creatures would be caught up in the fighting, one, a man, and one, a bear. When the call went out to defend their homes and families, they answered the call, realizing this duty was unavoidable. The warriors kissed their mates and little ones, picked up their weapons and marched off to war. The local people, with much to lose and little ability to defend themselves, would end up losing the most.


    On the field of battle, Pieter Bochmeier, the man, stood with Mathuin, the bear, his friend and fellow warrior, surrounded by the smoke, fire, and carnage of war. Fighting back to back on a small patch of raised ground, the axe-wielding bear cut through attackers like a scythe through standing wheat, while Pieter the swordsman protected his back.
    The two warriors continued to defend each other as enemy challengers came at them, wave after wave, and the bodies of the fallen piled up. Few warriors, man or beast, matched the terror unleashed by Mathuin the legendary bear warrior, with Pieter at his back.
    In the end, trumpets called the armies of the north to retreat, and those who survived accepted their defeat, fled the scene of carnage and returned home the way they came. Soldiers from the southern forces pursued the defeated foe, picking off the slow and the stragglers as they fell, and plundering the dead. The man and his bear friend acknowledged the victory, and being tired of killing, chose not to pursue.
    With the enemy routed, booty waited to be collected. But spoils of war do not always go to the victors.
    Pieter gazed out over the battlefield at the backs of the retreating army. Plunging the point of his sword deep into the blood-soaked sand in front of him, he moved his hands to the cross guard and stood leaning against the sword. At last, a useful purpose for this tool of war.
    He wore light weight bronze armor, the smoke-reddened sun making the red-gold of the bronze burn as red as the blood which stained the metal. His bare head displayed a short beard and shaggy, shoulder-length brown hair. Sometime during the last skirmish, he lost his helmet.
    Thank Thurin, my head isn’t in it.
    Pieter’s friend, Mathuin, a huge black bear wearing heavy chain mail, turned to stand beside him. The bear used his bloody battle ax as a prop and leaned with his belly against the handle, heaved a sigh of exhaustion, removed his heavy iron helmet and let the weight drop to the ground.
    Together, the bear and the man inspected the bodies piled around them. Here lay the dead of men, wolves, badgers, big cats, and hyena mercenaries from the far east. This, the terrible trail of ruination wrought by the ax and the sword.
    Mathuin, the fierce warrior, wailed in anguish. “Why, Thurin? Why? All of this killing and death– for what? A few pounds of man’s worthless yellow metal.”
    The bear lifted the bloody ax above his head, gave a mighty roar, and in disgust, threw the weapon away. Sinking to his knees, he buried his face in his paws and cried bitter tears, convulsing with the violence of his sorrow. The man knelt beside him, put his arm around the thick neck, and wept with him until the tears would no longer come.
    The mighty bear warrior could not compose himself. Pieter thought of his friend as the bravest and fiercest fighter who ever lived, but also as an enigma. Mathuin became legendary for his courage and ability to terrorize a battle field, yet renown among his companions for his love, his huge heart, and lavish compassion.
    “Hmmmph. I am tired of war, my friend,” Mathuin said as he labored to recover from his grief. “I am sick of death and killing. Though I am a bear, this stench of blood and death are abhorrent to me. Even now, surrounded by all of this carnage, my beautiful, cool green mountains are calling me. I’m going home to my den and my mate. Your home and mate are waiting as well.”
    “–If my home remains,” Pieter said.
    Mathuin paused and tried to encourage his friend. “Your farm is in Willow Valley, isolated and of no real value.”
    “True, but many of these, now dead, arrived here by marching down the Stair Steps and across my farm. My family isn’t able to defend the farm on their own. Our neighbors are simple, peaceful animals trying only to live their lives. They are not warriors. Most can’t defend themselves.”
    “Let us go together, hmmmph,” the bear snorted. “You and I. We will discover the truth. If necessary my brother, I will help you pick up the pieces, as you would do for me.”

    Not at all surprised, when Pieter returned to his farm he found his home burned to the ground. Fleeing warriors on their way back north stopped long enough to ransack and burn his house and barn, assault his wife, and make off with his young sons as spoils of war, headed for the Kardeshian slave markets. Most slaves sold in Kardesh were loaded on sailing ships in the harbor of Copper Cove and sent anywhere in ThurOn. To find his sons once at sea would be all but impossible with the head start the slavers enjoyed. No questions are asked or records kept by the traders. He asked Thurin to keep them. Mayflower, his wife, must now be his concern.
    Neighbors directed the returning warrior to the beaver lodge near where his farm once stood. His wife lay in the lodge recovering from an arrow wound to her back, received as she escaped from the slavers. The beavers and a family of foxes cared for her.
    Rufus Beaver opened the front door to his lodge to a meeting he didn’t expect. “Pieter! Thank Thurin– You’re alive.”
    Beaver wrapped the man in a huge hug around the waist. Pieter dropped to his knees to return the hug. “Wonderful to see you, my old friend.”
    Seeing Beaver at eye level, the kneeling man returned the smile. “My wife, Mayflower. Our friends told me she would be here.”
    “Yes. Yes, of course. Please, come in. Mind your head. The door is low. My apologies, I didn’t design my home for man visitors.’
    Pieter bent at the waist to keep from hitting his head on the door frame, which beaver designed purposely small to better defend his home.
    Beaver took Pieter by the hand to guide him through the maze of log furniture, a wood-fired cooking stove, and strings of drying fish strung from the rafters. The sweet aroma of baking bread mixed with the pungent odor of pond and wet wood.
    “She’s sleeping now,” beaver said. “The Missus gave her something to help her sleep. Right down this hallway. The way is quite narrow. Momma says at the rate I’m putting on weight, this hall will soon be too narrow for me.”
    Rufus turned to face Pieter, showed a broad, toothy smile, and patted his waistline with both paws. “My Brigitte is such a marvelous cook. I tell her, this waistline is her fault and a compliment to her skills in the kitchen.”
    “Your home is wonderful, Beaver.” The man laughed as he poked Beaver’s chubby belly with a finger. “I appreciate you and the Missus caring for her.”
    “Please, dear friend, no trouble at all. This is our gift to Thurin, and to you. Caring for her is the least we can do. Your neighbors cannot imagine what you went through for them, but we are all appreciative beyond words.”
    Beaver led them to a small room at the end of the hall. Passing through the doorway on his hands and knees, Pieter found his wife asleep on a thick bed of grass and moss, her right shoulder bound with bandages. Brigitte Beaver, wearing a white linen apron decorated with blue embroidered flowers, stood next to the bed. She held a pottery cup matching her apron, stirring the contents with a silver spoon, tink, tink, tink.
    Virginia VanRood the fox sat, on the far side of the bed. The vixen healer wore a white apron and bonnet. The back of the healer’s paw rested on her sleeping patient’s forehead.
    “My darlin’,” Beaver said. “Look who’s come home.”
    “Shush, Beaver.” Momma Beaver placed her finger over her mouth. “Not so loud. She’s sleeping.”
    With a quiet voice, Papa Beaver told Pieter the story. “When the brigands burned your house and barn, the fire attracted your animal neighbors. They found your mate bleeding and passed out under a Huckleberry Bush. The rescuers couldn’t leave her on the ground, so they brought her here. We keep this spare storage room for such emergencies. I removed the arrow head with my fishing knife. Still, we almost lost her.”
    Beaver reached over to the bedside table, picked up the arrowhead and handed the souvenir to Pieter.
    “Kardeshian. Many like this passed by my head, Rufus.” Visions of the sound and fury of battle began to flood back into Pieter’s memory, despite his attempt to keep them buried. Memories of the chaos of war are vanquished only by time.
    “I’m sure,” Beaver said as he considered the man. No one in the valley could imagine the memories and visions going through Pieter’s head as he examined the artifact. Beaver realized the immense struggle going on within his friend.
    Change the subject, Beaver.
    “Momma tells me she’s healing well. Since Mayflower is injured, Virginia is taking her place as the healer. The fox is wonderful with herbs, and her mate Vincent is out fetching White Willow bark.”
    The voices woke Mayflower from her sleep. As her vision cleared, she recognized her visitor.
    “Pieter! Thank Thurin. You’re alive.” She reached out to hug and kiss him.
    “Easy, Missus,” Virginia said. With a gentle touch, she pushed Mayflower back onto the bed. “We don’t want you to start bleeding again.”
    The man discovered his own losses upon his return, and also found many of his animal friends missing as well. But his friend the warrior bear fared far worse than he. Upon Mathuin’s return home, he made the devastating discovery of his mate’s pelt lying in a pile outside the den door. The rest of her went north in the bellies of the vanquished.
    Time for the returning warriors to again join together to pick up the pieces.