CHAPTER 24
A large army made its way slowly across the plains of Aantor, traveling in a generally northerly direction, away from the borders of Kalnor, towards distant Neros.
They rode in formation, but casually, and somewhat arrogantly, for these were Nerosian Warriors. They had passed the borders of Senta, but none had sought to stop or question them. Weeks before this army had crossed these lands, in haste, with a grim purpose.
Now they traveled home, and to peace.
At the heard of the army rode a solitary figure.
He spearheaded his column, and seemed to personify all the qualities which were reflected in the warriors who followed him. Tall he rode, his features hard and proud, his bearing kingly. Simply attired in a green tunic, with a battered sword hanging in his scabbard, he led his army homeward.
Those who followed laughed and talked constantly, their spirits soaring in expectation, their minds free of doubt and worry. Some there were who felt grieved at the loss of comrades, but death was a part of a warrior's life, and they were quick to recover.
Their gaiety was infectious, but their leader, Foss, Tarkan of Neros, seemed immune as he led his army across the plains and through the forests of Senta.
His face was set in its normally stoic countenance, but in his eyes a sadness lingered, as if a bittersweet memory flickered there. He rode as if lost in thought, and occasionally the trace of a smile would tinge his lips, as if at the memory of a past occasion.
Less frequently, his proud eyes would cloud over momentarily, and he would blink, and swallow, as if to clear his throat and vision.
These intimate mannerisms went unnoticed, however, by the blond man who watched the stately procession from his perch high in the tops of the great trees which lined the plain upon which the army was moving.
Standing precariously upon a swaying, leafy limb, some three hundred feet in the air, he watched the army draw away across the plain, away from the forest, away from the protective giants from which he had watched for the better part of a day.
Tarak stood swaying upon the branch, his hair caressed by the wind, and watched the army of Neros pass from his life.
Foss, he saw, leading the column, and close behind the tiny figures of Karn and his sister, Leanna. Others were there, he knew, with whom he had shared much, life and death and fate.
His expression reflected, as did that of the Tarkan, a bittersweet essence, as the light which emanated from his eyes seemed somehow misty.
He watched, unmoving, until the army was lost from sight. He raised his broad right arm then, high for a long moment, and closed his eyes in a silent salute, a final goodbye.
He turned, surveying the lands which stretched out before him in all directions.
To the north, the forest, the lands of Senta, Neros, and beyond.
To the southeast, Kalnor and the sea.
To the west the forest disappeared in the distance into the mountains from which he had come, it seemed so long ago.
To the south, the forest parallelled the mountains as far as the eye could see.
In that direction lay Car, and beyond, fabled Elur.
So many lands known but as yet unvisited, and so many more as yet unmapped by man.
Tarak looked skyward, and now the sun was reflected in his green eyes with flashing brilliance.
Abruptly he leaped from his perch, his magnificent body stretched out as if in flight, and an instant later alighted upon another leafy bough.
Again he surveyed the world, as a monarch inspects his domain. For an instant he smiled, an enigmatic smile which seemed of pure joy, yet was tempered by some hidden fire smoldering within the sparkling eyes.
Once more he turned to look back upon the empty plain, from which his friends had disappeared.
He turned again, towards Kalnor, and then back towards far Elur.
He raised his eyes once to the sun, then disappeared from sight into the immeasurable depths of the forest below.