Part One: The Beginning.
War was like the wind to her.
Ever present, the most constant thing in her life.
Fighting was like taking a breath. Her strength moved around her the way oxygen moved around one’s lung.
Nia was a warrior, born from the womb of a skilled commander and her kingly husband. From the moment her feet found purchase and her arms steadied, they thrust a sword and armour upon her.
She spent her childhood in barracks with scraped knees and swollen eyes. She spent more time with her mentors than she did with her parents.
War was like the wind. Ever constant, pushing and driving her forward to climb the ranks. To surpass even her mother, to be the greatest among men.
Nia inhaled the metallic smell of blood and death, her mind at ease in this space. Her arms flexed to swing the sword, the sharp blade slicing her opponent’s neck. The gurgling sound he made as she fell away swept over her to blend with all the others she had heard over the years.
She pushed forward, her blade swinging and slicing the enemy’s thought. She moved like water, dodging and ducking and rolling. It was almost as though her body bent itself from the swords’ slashes or the spears’ pokes. A slice here and poke there from a stray spear was all her opponents could muster.
The battle lasted for three hours; her father nor the idaji general relented. They sent their best until the sun began to dive from the skin and the moon rose with fervor. It wasn’t until the soldier slowed to a haggard pace and no one could catch their breath did the two commanders relented
Two herald soldiers rode across the bloodied field, wooden poles with white flags swishing in the wind. A truce. For the night.
Her father rode to the helm to meet the idaji commander. “We shall collect our dead in the 9th hour.” He said, his voice weary.
The orc commander nodded, “and we shall collect ours in the 12th hour”
It was a matter of formality and chivalry. It was a matter of respect. Every night we would cleanse our flesh and bury our dead. Every night we would look solemnly as the idaji people silently canvassed the fields to collect theirs.
We would listen to their song of death and they would listen to ours. This was how it has been for the last three years since this dreadful war started.
Nia walked back to her tent, where her servant and steward greeted her on bended knees. Her maids entered to remove her armour and to have it cleaned. They then removed her tunic and hose.
Naked, she splashed her face with water and wiped herself clean. Nia wore a fresh beige tunic fastened by a belt and grey hose. She pulled her boots up and attached her dagger to her waist.
Her body ached and she wanted nothing more than to sleep until the morrow but the dead must not be kept waiting.
This was the longest war that her kind had fought with the idaji people in over six hundred years.
The scrolls spoke of a time when her people and the orcs were the only species occupying the low coastal plain. In the Roraima mountains and in the valleys between, the elves dwelled. They were the rulers of the land and lorded over everything from the Black Towers to the Essequibo Seas. Then the idaji appeared, mad with greed, they burned and killed everything in their path. They raped and pillaged the villages.
The elves, all-powerful beings tried to stop them but a mysterious plague spread amongst them, dwindling their numbers until only a handful of them remained; four houses. The houses married their sons and daughters to the four human kings of the lowland, creating an everlasting alliance and together they pushed the orc people into swamps and outer-lands.
For years the idaji people have been pushing back, raiding and pillaging and for years the demi-elves have been keeping them at bay. Eventually, the idaji began to evolve and desired to create a civilization of their own.
However, years of fighting made it so no species would trust them.
Nia joined her father at the pyres. The darkened fields now lit by the moon’s radiance and the amber glow of torches. They knelt and bowed, foreheads kissing the dirt as their hearts swam with grief for their soldiers. They prayed to the Hero, The Widow and the Knight to guide the souls of their dead to the Orun where they may bask in eternal light.
Nia lit the pyre of her three colonels, her face sagged with grief as the flame blazed. She closed her eyes as her company sang the songs of the dead; hallow, grieving voices corrupting the skies
