The fall of imbuthara

1. The fall of imbuthara (prelude) part I

When the bond was broken, the world was set aflame.
The children rose, to take the fathers crown.
Two races broken, and they alone to blame.
The war of kin, in whose blood the world shall drown.

A soft night breeze touched upon the thick wall and houses of Imbuthara, the grand city which many referred to as The Pearl of the East. The breeze sent forth a soft, satisfied whistle as it descended from the heights of the protruding towers, as if relishing its youthful purity. It tenderly caressed the rooftops, much the same way the winds of the past have been doing for a thousand years, beyond which the details get a bit fuzzy. The breeze fanned out over wide cobblestone streets, through narrow alleys all the way to the center of the city. To the white palace of the Maghara family, which claim to have ruled the city for as long as it stands, and whose members vehemently oppress the awful rumor that they had once dethroned the Burgum family in a less than graceful manner. It was a calm night. Quiet. As good a night as the end of spring could offer. As good a night as one could hope for, standing watch.

Inra was watching the silent landscape in front of the city walls at his leisure, using his spear to prop up his large frame. His shoulder length, golden hair lightly stirred in acknowledgement of the wind, as he deeply inhaled the fresh smell of cold air, carried to him from the faraway mountain tops. A wondrous, fresh smell that let old bones remember they are still alive, and that chased away the irky feeling of trepidation that had been haunting him all evening. He shivered despite of himself, suppressing his dark thoughts with no small amount of will-power, and tried to focus on the empty space outside the city walls.

Before him lay an open area of several hundred feet, kept clear year-round by hundreds of laborers. Like any soldier, he had labored out there for many a spring and autumn, with nothing but a hoe and his store of curses to work with. The one time they had simply tried burning the field clean, the smoke had clung inside the city walls for days. With a wry chuckle he recalled how people had suffered from black spit for days, and for weeks more so from aggrieved women lamenting their ruined clothes. The Magharas were fat, corrupt fools, but they could be decisive at times, and now wouldn ́t accept anything but manual labor for the job. Not even magic. It was just as well for Inra, for whom the field was littered with fond memories of jesting with his fellow soldiers and letting rookies dig for stone-roots that didn't exist in the first place. The only issue was, that the city perimeter was not quite as barren as it should be, with occasional shrubs and boulders offering too much cover for comfort.

Too many years of looking at glittering blankets of snow had taken a toll on his eyes, but he could still clearly discern the shapes of the distant mountains against the night sky. Unmoving shadows, darker than the night itself. A solid mass of stone, sunk deep into the earth's crust, topped with ice-laden jagged peaks for over fifty miles to the east, fanning out to the north and south, and any direction in between. Cleaved only by the valley of the Dark River, the cold and cruel lifeblood of the city.

He thought for a moment about the bridge of torment, where the Magharas and their coterie made sure the river lost none of its sinister reputation. Murderers, other scum, and in the past sometimes political opponents which-were-not-to-be-spoken-of would be lowered into the streaming waters of the river until a certain depth. It would then be up to the unpredictable tides of the river, the glacial melt and the rains, in short up to the gods, if these people drowned or froze. A gruesome fate. The very thought made him feel as if a cold fist clutched his chest.
In nights like these, eyes were inevitably pulled up towards the memories of the ancient. The glittering, serene mass spread along the dome of the night. How he loved the stars. A very long time, yet not so very long ago, a small boy often sneaked out at night. And in his eyes, he matched every glitter the stars could send down. Lying down on the roof, kingdoms were conquered, ladies in despair were saved, and monsters were slain. Sailing the river upstream into the sky to touch the white snows of the moon, was then not a dream, but a tangible reality.
As he scanned the night-sky, he noticed The Three Queens were still shining left of the Boar Tusk, the unclimbable mountain. There were a good four hours left till dawn. Too long by half. Unnoticed, Inra's eyes slid back towards the Boar Tusk. Unclimbable indeed, he thought. He had tried three times, and all it had gotten him was frozen ears -they still itched every winter-, and a broken leg. But it had drawn Ila's attention to him, La bless her, so it had been worth it anyway.