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The Quartz Key Chapter Seventy
by Lianne Burwell
January 2004
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Nemir decided to be generous. There was little harm in waiting for the 
southern clans to make the first attack. It gave the soldiers of his 
own army time to finish collecting and time to rest before they threw 
themselves into a fight. They did not carry enough food for a long 
wait, but Nemir knew when the attack would come; the rising of the full 
moon only a few days hence. His generals seemed less than pleased, but 
Nemir had decided. As for the whispers of his god coming through the 
sunlight, they had nothing to say other than assurances of domination.

The attack came exactly when he expected. The sun was still riding high 
in the western sky when the full moon rose over the distant mountains, 
and drums and horns both began to sound. Dressed only in a kilt of 
heavy linen and carrying the gold ornamented sword of his rank, Nemir 
moved to the front ranks of his army. Across the plain, he could see 
the clansmen shaking their weapons in the air in a futile show of 
bravado.

"Fools," Nemir said to himself, his lips twisting in amusement. "They 
would do better to cast their weapons down and flee in search of caves 
to hide in, for they have no hope of winning." Soldiers within hearing 
distance of him cheered and raised their own weapons, even though he 
had not spoken for them. Nemir ignored them, for the battle was 
beginning.

The sun was warm on his skin, but the blood of his enemies was hotter. 
With every swing of his sword, another faceless warrior fell before 
him. In very little time, he was sticky with the drying blood of his 
enemies. Nemir merely brushed it from his eyes and licked it from his 
lips, a metal tang, before pressing on.

In the distance, surrounded by the largest concentration of clansmen, a 
faint white glow caught his eye. Even as the setting sun colored the 
sky with the red of fresh blood, like the field beneath it, the white 
glow remained unstained, growing brighter as Nemir watched. A soft 
humming filled his hearing, drowning out the screams of the wounded and 
dying.

Without thinking, Nemir had turned towards the glow and way making his 
way towards it. Warrior after warrior threw himself in Nemir's path and 
was cut down for their troubles. All they managed to do was to confirm 
in Nemir's mind that whatever the source of the glow was, it was 
important to them

Nemir pressed forward, almost wading through bodies, but the sun was 
almost down to the horizon, and the voice of his god was calling to 
him, warning him that he was in great danger. He wanted to ignore that 
voice, so clear was the music becoming, so bright the glow was, but as 
the last rays of the sun disappeared from the sky, doubt assailed him.

On instinct, he turned and left the field of battle without a backward 
glance.

>>>~~~<<<

Limon came to him in his tent where he sat and brooded, still covered 
in the blood of those he had killed. A priest had brought him a basin 
of water and linens to clean himself with, but they still sat on the 
low table, untouched. "Well?" Nemir asked after the man had waited a 
while, kneeling patiently just inside the tent flap. The moon had set, 
and what he saw of the sky through the flap was velvety darkness broken 
only by the sparks of light that were the stars.

"Both armies have retreated from the field and the healers are 
searching for survivors. Those who were able to walk away from the 
field themselves have already had their wounds bound."

"And the death toll?"

The man hesitated, and Nemir's stomach clenched briefly. Many had died 
in his name, he knew. Only a few days ago, the thought of that had been 
of no consequence. Now, with the faint remnants of the music still 
ringing in his ears, the reality of it grieved him.

"High," Limon finally admitted. "A several hundred, perhaps more. But 
the enemy's losses were as high, if not higher, and they have fewer men 
to begin with. Time alone would be enough to wear them down."

But how many of his own people would die in that time, a silent voice 
asked him. How many would lose their lives at his orders? "Pass the 
word," Nemir said, hardening his heart against that soft voice. None 
would have died if the southern clans had not been so stubborn. None 
would have died if they had not taken Judas from him. "We attack 
tomorrow at noon."

>>>~~~<<<

Nemir woke with the rising of the sun the next morning, and he emerged 
from his tent to find only quiet activity in the camp. A few sleepy 
soldiers were in sight, cooking their breakfasts, cleaning their 
weapons, but most were probably still asleep. A few looked in his 
direction, but they quickly looked away.

Nemir stretched and turned his face towards the rising sun, let its 
calming warmth seep into him. His doubts of the night had faded in the 
light of day, and the strange music he had not been able to escape had 
finally been silenced. All he felt was anticipation for the battle to 
come. Despite what Limon had said the night before, he was not willing 
to wait for the enemy to be worn down. He wanted to crush them utterly, 
and soon.

Once his morning devotions to the god of the sun were finished, he 
returned to his tent. Spying the water basin, he realized that he was 
still smeared with the brown stains of dried blood. Immediately his 
skin started to itch, and he set to washing away the remains of the 
battle.

Clean and dressed in a fresh kilt, Nemir sat down on a cushion set in 
the spill of light coming from the tent's vent hole and started eating 
from the tray waiting for him there. Semi-divine he might be, but he 
still needed nourishment if he was to be ready for the battle. He ate 
until he was satisfied, then went to check his weapons. His sword had 
been carefully cleaned so that the blood that had caked its length the 
evening before it could tarnish the bright metal. He ran his thumb 
lightly down the edge, judging the sharpness, and found it to his 
liking. He hung the sheath from his belt and slipped the sword into it, 
ready.

By this time the camp nearly hummed with anticipation. Nemir stood and 
stretched, luxuriating in the knowledge that it was anticipation of 
following him into battle. While it still grieved slightly him to know 
that many would die in his name, it was a good death.

The sun was rising higher in the sky. It was nearly time. Nemir lifted 
his face to the glow and closed his eyes, feeling the warmth seeping 
into his very bones. He could feel the pressure of many eyes watching 
him, but he ignored them. Only one eye was important, and it watched 
him from on high with approval.

Striding purposefully, he made his way to the edge of the camp where 
the battle lines were already starting to form. He waved a hand and the 
drums began to beat, drawing the army into place. Across the field he 
could see the enemy rushing to ready themselves as though they had not 
expected an attack to come. Had they truly believed that having let 
them chose the time of the first battle he would let them do so again? 
Fools!

That foolishness would be their downfall. The moon was hiding deep 
inside the earth while the sun rode high. This was his time. Did she 
believe that he would be willing to go back to the way things had been? 
Did she believe that he would be willing to share? This was his time, 
his empire, his *world*!

Nemir hesitated for a moment, frowning. Who was 'she'? Where did these 
thoughts come from? Then the horns blew and there was no time to think 
of anything but the battle.

The clansmen may have been caught off-guard, but that did not mean they 
would not fight. Armed quickly and wearing little armor, they rushed to 
meet his army at the center of the battlefield. The two sides met in a 
clash that shook the earth and made the air tremble. And Nemir was at 
the heart of it.

He fought with the fire of the sun in his heart, but also guided by 
cool reason. He kept his eyes open, searching for the source of the 
glow that he had seen in the previous battle.

The sun was so bright that if there was any glow, he could not see it, 
but whatever it had been, he knew that it was important to the enemy, 
so wherever they fought the fiercest, that was where he pressed the 
hardest. Step by bloody step he forced his way forward. The ground, 
which had still been damp with blood from the night before was now 
churned to red mud beneath their feet. Bodies were strewn, staring 
blindly up at the sky; the sun the last thing that they would see 
before they descended into darkness for eternity.

Stinging sweat dripped in his eyes, but it did not deter him. Ahead he 
could see a shimmer, bright enough to see even in the sunlight, and he 
knew that his target was close. He swung his sword without pause, 
striking down those who got in his way until one last man fell and the 
path before him was suddenly clear.

The scene in front of him was not one he had expected to see. Judas 
stood, holding a sword of southern design and swinging it with some 
skill, skill that he had not had before. He was facing a fighter with 
the features of the men of the southern clans, and while Judas was 
doing his best, he was outclassed by his opponent. The air rang with 
the clash of their swords and the sun glinted off the silver metal on 
Judas's armor. They were a wild and fierce sight, but no one seemed to 
see them but Nemir and the veiled woman behind the two men. Then the 
woman stepped forward and plunged a black iron dagger into Judas's 
side.

"No!" Nemir shouted, rushing forward. The man Judas had been fighting 
made the mistake of getting in his way and Nemir removed his head from 
his shoulders with a single swing of his sword. The body fell to the 
ground, blood gushing from the neck. He did not see where the head 
landed, having already forgotten the man's presence.

Judas lay on the ground, barely moving, his white and silver armor 
slowly turning red. The woman backed away from Nemir, her blood-stained 
hands raised to ward him off, and he bellowed his rage for all to hear.  
The veil slipped, then fell away from her face, and he recognized her. 
Nahanna. Traitor. Thief. "Bitch!"

Her eyes flashed. She stopped, her hands held out from her sides, and 
started to sing.

Nemir had heard her sing before. Had seen her hold an entire room of 
jaded nobles mesmerized with her voice in Ajantha. Had seen her use it 
to summon up a storm and the portal that had taken Judas away from him. 
Her voice had been pure magic.

But no more. The magic was gone. Her voice was simply that, high and 
thin and not terribly interesting. Nemir snorted and lifted his sword. 
He reveled in the fear that made her eyes go wide when she realized 
that her magic had deserted her.

Then her fear faded and she straightened. She dropped her hands to her 
sides and lifted her chin proudly. Nemir stared into her eyes for a 
long moment, wanting to demand answers for what she had done, but he 
knew that she would give him none.

He killed her quickly.

Then he turned to where Judas lay on the ground and stopped. Judas was 
gone.

In his place was the woman he had seen several nights earlier when he 
had dreamed of Judas. She lay in a puddle of blood-stained robes, 
staring up at him with a gentle expression. The expression of a lover. 
Or perhaps a mother. He lifted his sword, and she smiled. "Where is 
he?" Nemir demanded. "What have you done with him?"

'She stole him,' a voice said in his ear. 'She will never give him 
back. You must take him back. Kill her. Kill her!'

The woman was silent, and that silence infuriated him. "Give him back, 
bitch," Nemir raged. He lifted his sword over his head, ignoring the 
warm blood that ran down over his hands to drip on his head. "Give him 
back or I will kill you!"

END CHAPTER SEVENTY