An epoch ago, Darkness swept across the land like the tide which washes away the shore. Its unstoppable march tirelessly advanced against the few forces of Light—feeble and frail after clashes too numerous to count. Indeed, in all the land, but a single, sizable army of Light remained intact—the only one not crushed to pieces nor smashed to smithereens by the hammer of Night. Thus it appeared to all that the time had arrived for this final, flickering flame to be snuffed out, to be extinguished by this sea of Darkness. The War of Endless Attrition, which had commenced so many generations ago, was about to conclude— and conclude, it seemed, for the worse.

Who would dare defy such insurmountable odds? Who would be so inconceivably foolish as to oppose such overwhelming hordes? Who but this last contingent: this lone solace of Right, this sole haven of Light, this single defender, protector, and guardian of Truth. Why did this lone army remain? What could possibly inspire these pitiful few to shake their puny fists at the Lord of Night, and do so in the face of unquestionable defeat, certain tragedy, unavoidable failure? What? The answer lies herein:

…………………

An epoch ago, Evil rampaged unchallenged. It ravaged the land and devoured its inhabitants. One by one the preservers of the pure Light were vanquished—one by one they vanished into oblivion. And now it happened that the War of Endless Attrition drew nigh its conclusion—its end was in sight.

Discerning this, the hordes of evil grew restless, pushing against all restraints in order to feast upon their last opponent. So, at last, after it had annihilated all the others, the menacing Night set its malevolent gaze, its undivided attention, upon this final prize. 

In a month, all the vast resources of the Blackness converged on this last flame of resistance: They crossed the dividing plane and approached its encampment.

Previously ignorant of what they were against, the flame of hope dangerously flickered at the sight of the countless legions of evil, innumerable as the sands on the seashore. Counsel was taken and, that very night, the whole army of Light silently departed. 

Through the night, they marched towards the mountains, racing for the only pass in a hundred leagues to shield them from their foes in order that they might continue their indefatigable defense.

The morning dawned and the chase began, for it took but a little time before the enemy perceived their intent. All day long both sides pushed their men to the limit, urging them to maintain an almost impossible pace. At last, the pass appeared in the distance, a league away—their aim had almost been achieved. 

But as the first weary, sleep-deprived soldiers approached the pass's mouth, the general of that bedraggled remnant glanced back and was instantly smitten with despair. All his hopes immediately evaporated, all his fears instantaneously confirmed—not two leagues away were their enemies…in hot pursuit.

He contemplated his predicament but for a moment—he could spare no longer. What he needed was a delay: He needed a select few to remain behind and prevent the seething hordes from advancing for as long as possible… But who would accept such a suicidal commission? Who would stand unfazed against such a display of dominance? Who would remain against the insatiable, ravenous Darkness? against the leering maw of inevitable Death?

As this dire question flitted through his mind, the general lifted his tired eyes, for they had dropped with despair. What he witnessed made the decision for him: There, standing to the side of the path, allowing all to pass before him, was a young man.

An undefined strength, an unquantifiable grace, emanated from his posture. Confidence, mixed with kindness, shone from his calm visage. He exuded hope. Yes, he gazed into the approaching ranks of the enemy—but that fearful sight washed over him unperturbed. 

Now and again, he would stoop from his resolute contemplations and encourage a hopeless soldier or catch a staggering comrade. Sometimes a small smile was all he needed to give in order to revive the fast-fading hopes of the fearful. 

The general nodded to himself. He noticed the eyes which drew vigor from that young man's standing, the countenances which his immovability rejuvenated. Yes, yes, he would do—he could bear this weighty responsibility.

…………………

Dukon watched as rank after rank of men passed before him. Although he maintained an outward demeanor of confidence, he feared it was but a facade. Only the dregs of an army remained—only the husk of previous strength and former glory…nothing more. The men were almost broken, nearly cowed by loss after loss, failure after failure, defeat after defeat. They were weak. They were weary. They were doomed. See how many stumble as they march with only some vague semblance of strength enabling them to take one more step.

One more step. Isn't that all we can ever do—take one more step. What else could be done against the unstoppable tide of Darkness? What else? but to take one more step…

Shaking himself from venturing down the pathway of despair, Dukon turned and gave a quick smile to an old veteran—far too old to still be in the military. But alas for those whom the deluge of War has swept up! Alas!

Suddenly a stern voice shattered his grim contemplations.

As Dukon turned, he saw the general approaching, a grave solemnity pervading his demeanor. "Are you the new regiment commander?" the general asked when he drew near enough.

The question surprised Dukon. "Indeed, I am, though I know not how such a one as I could attract your esteemed attention."

The commander listened silently, then slowly turned his gaze across the fragment of an army which he called his own. After a moment of silence, he resumed before abruptly halting again: "I have been observing you…" Dukon did not respond. The general would speak his mind in due time.

A strange, far-away look came over the general. In a low tone, he began to speak again, half to himself: "This last mere shard of lovers of the Truth is on the verge of…of obliteration. We have fought our hardest—we have struggled our utmost—and now we come to this…the brink of annihilation. And what can we do? That is the question. How can we endure?" Another spell of silence settled over them as Dukon considered the general's words.

Suddenly a distant cry of hatred, emanating from the black ranks, jerked the general from his grim ruminations. A newfound resolution swept across his face, and he turned to Dukon.

"You are young, if the world had functioned as it ought, you would never have been asked this question. But alas! it has not. Nevertheless, my original plan of escaping unnoticed into the mountains, has failed. But there is one last thing I can think of which can be done—I retain one final hope…

"This pass is narrow—only forty paces wide here and even narrower further in. I plan to station a single regiment to remain behind to buy as much time as possible so that the majority of this army may escape unscathed. However, those who remain…well, they shall die—this would be an assignment of certain death." The general paused for a moment, allowing the sobriety of this statement to sink in.

"Dukon, I have observed you. With a word you rouse cowards—with a smile you revive the hopeless. You are strong; you are bold; you are loyal. But you are young… Will you accept this mission? Will you remain with your five score men and defy even Heltig Himself, should He come? Would you be willing to sacrifice life itself so that the Light of Truth might flicker on, if only for a moment longer? Would you?"

The general scrutinized Dukon's face as he mulled over the enormity of the question. A thousand thoughts, a million fears, exploded in his mind. But before he had even begun to process any of them, he met the general's piercing gaze resolutely.

"Indeed, I would…and I will." The words seemed to echo in the ensuing silence, reverberating for a moment as the faceless cliffs acknowledged the oath.

"So be it," the general nodded. "So be it. May the gods guide your footsteps. May Enortūm light your path in this final endeavor." And with those last words, the general departed, leaving Dukon in his wake far more sober now than he had ever been before.

…………………

Dukon's men had now arrived, having finally caught up with him at the mouth of the gorge. They took the news relatively well, though most sank into grim musings as they contemplated sable Death.

In the minutes which transpired as the army trudged by, Dukon took to observing those who passed. At last, he found the man he had been looking for—a childhood friend, rudely ripped from youth to adulthood before his time.

When he saw Dukon, his brow furrowed in concern. Apprehension etched itself on every facet of his face. "What happened? Why are you stopping?" he fearfully questioned as soon as they were near enough. "Why are you staying behind?"

"I have chosen to remain behind to buy time so that the army may escape," Dukon responded in a calm voice, low with restrained emotion. He paused, then quietly added, "I won't be coming back…"

A look of horror washed over his friend's face; but, before he could respond, Dukon continued. "If you live through this madness, tell my wife…" for a moment his voice faltered as he recalled that young woman whom he called his own, whom War would soon bereave of her young husband, "…tell her that I died well—that I died for the Truth. And that we shall meet again one day, one day…" Dukon's voice faded away with these last words as he gazed into the distance, envisioning her in his mind's eye.

Seeing Dukon's stoic defenses fall, his friend sorrowfully responded, "I will. Rest assured that all shall be taken care of. Do not fear. This is not the end."

"Thank you, my friend, thank you. Tell her that she should be proud of me, for few deaths are as worthwhile as mine shall be. Tell her, please, please… I thank you with all my heart."

At these words, a tear trickled down his friend's dust-stained face, paving a path of white through the grime. Then, with a slow movement, he removed a strange chain from around his neck—a thread strung through with colorful beads. "I guess I should give this to you now as a parting gift… Before you were married, your wife gave me this to prove that she  really did love you when I doubted that she did…"

He gave a weak chuckle, thick with emotion as another tear rolled down his dirty, war-smeared face. "If you are to die, it would only be fitting to fall with this upon your breast."

Dukon felt his stolid composure finally evaporate as he took the glittering necklace. He hastily mumbled something indiscernible before turning away to hide the hot tears which freely flowed, bathing his face. It is said that, after he had finished weeping, a strange light radiated from his visage—white, pure, holy.

…………………

At long last, the end of the army, the rear guard, began to pass. Dukon looked on soberly, the imminence of Death beginning to weigh upon him. But despondency was averted, for, at that moment, a messenger emerged from the ravine into which all others surged, and approached Dukon, who silently observed him until he drew near.

"What is it that the general desires of me?" he asked while the envoy paused to catch his breath.

After a couple seconds, the messenger responded: "Sir, along with his immeasurable gratitude at your uncalled-for sacrifice, the general sends you this—a horn, so that he may be alerted when you are about to fall. The chasm should reverberate and amplify the blast adequately enough for him to hear. 

"Young sir, you have my utmost respect. Fight to the last and, when the end draws nigh, blow the horn." And with these weighty words, the messenger turned his steed around and galloped back into the gorge.

Grimmer than before, Dukon turned again to watching the last of the army pass—now just the stragglers. As he watched the final dregs of the army stumble past, a stray thought flitted into his melancholy mind, Is it for these that I shall die? Will this sacrifice simply be for those who hardly deserve it? For what, for whom—oh, why!—shall I die?

Is it for these pitiful wretches? No, it cannot be, yet…yes, it is… These, though they be the most destitute of all, deserve life nonetheless. It is even for the scum of the land that I sacrifice myself. But is there no higher purpose than this?

Ah! duty. Is it for duty that I die? Yes, I have been commissioned to stand, to fight, and, if need be, to die. And I shall carry this out—duty compels me. But, then again, no, there is something even greater… There must be!

Wait!—yes, love. This must be it—it is for love that I do this, for duty devoid of desire is a dreadful draught to drink. 

But love for what? Love for love's sake is empty and vain. No, the love which presses me on is love for humanity—love for my kinsmen. I love them, so I shall die for them.

Ah! but there is another love, though—love for my family, for my wife. I die so that she might live, so that the child whom she bears shall not know the horrors of thralldom. I die for her and for generations hence!

And with this noble resolution, Dukon recalled his wife's necklace which his friend had so recently given him. Slowly, he untied it from about his neck and held it up to the noonday sun. As the shining rays glanced off the shimmering beads, Dukon saw something so obvious that he could hardly comprehend how he had missed it before.

Between the beads was a small plaque upon which was written three blessèd words: Enortūm-nūdukon Setig—Enortūm rewards the steadfast. The depths of those few words immediately overwhelmed Dukon where he stood. They struck him with the force of lightning. And before he could regain his composure, a single tear escaped his eye.

Enortūm rewards the steadfast. This is why he fought; this is why he would die—for faithfulness to and for love of…Enortūm. Yes, this was the most important incentive: his love for the Lord of Light. Enortūm's was a cause worth life itself.

The once trembling hands now firmly tied the chain around his neck. Now, Dukon was prepared—now he was ready to die.

…………………

An hour remained before their foes would surge against them. In the time they had, Dukon and his men prepared for that moment as best they could. They had chosen their stand a little ways into the chasm at a particularly narrow point, which would funnel their enemies to them in fewer numbers. Additionally, to optimize their advantage, they piled rocks on the sides of the gorge to narrow the path even more. Little did they know that, soon enough, their very own corpses would unwillingly clog the pass.

At long last, the final preparations were complete. Everything was ready—now all they had to do was wait.

And they did not need to wait very long, only a dozen minutes or so—but oh! how slowly that little time passed—ever so slowly. At last, the first echoes of marching reached Dukon's trepidatious ears. Soon the stomping swelled till it reverberated tenfold off the walls of the ravine, morphing into the crashing of an avalanche. A minute later, the enemy rounded the bend…

As soon as the commander of Night's forces saw the few rebels who dared to prohibit his advance, he swung his sword into the air and cried, in some uncouth tongue of Heltig's, for his men to attack. Without hesitating, the first of the forces of Darkness surged against the few fighters of Light.

And so the battle began.

…………………

For the first hour of the assault, Dukon's men held their own, tired and outnumbered though they were. For a time, a semblance of hope began to blossom within those fated few, but as rank upon rank continued to break upon their splintering shields, that hope slowly eroded till it had been completely replaced with despair. 

Now it was clear that the end was near. Men who had fought for hearth and home, for kith and kin, now fought for their very lives.

The death toll continued to mount. Before long, Dukon ordered the men who were not immediately engaged to narrow the pass with the corpses of the fallen. Incrementally, the width of the chasm shrank from fifty to forty, and then, to thirty feet. But, by the time it was only thirty feet wide, only fifty of Dukon's men remained alive—and they were fading fast.

Through it all Dukon stood firm. He planted himself at the center of the line and allowed himself no respite from the fray. Even when the battle abated for a time, he knew nothing of rest but devoted all his energies to encouraging and aiding his weary, hopeless men.

Inevitably, the assault would then resume too soon—always too soon, it seemed. And as for the battle, what a battle it was!

The sea surged against the rock—and the rock stood firm. The ocean pounded, it pummeled that stalwart stone. Wave upon colossal wave crashed relentlessly upon that lone boulder. 

The whole of the unfathomable deep's resources may break upon a rock for generations with only the most minimal erosion. But decay must come with time. Particle by miniscule particle the stone shall crumble—but crumble it shall. With time, the storm's wrath shall have its way with the rock…till only sand remains.

So it was with the innumerable  foes of Light who swarmed against the indefatigable defenders. Dukon stood fast; his men braced themselves as the hurricane raged on. But slowly, one by one, man by man, they fell—they were slain—till only ten remained. The rock had been weathered down—it had been reduced to a pebble.

Now the pass was only twenty feet wide, as if that meant anything against the hosts who relentlessly charged again and again—a human swarm which seethed against those weary few.

As another wave mounted, as the final assaults commenced, Dukon turned to his remaining companions and offered his last encouragement: "Brothers—for brothers we shall be in death—let us die. Let us die worthy of the Name which we bear. Under the banner of Light we have marched, so let us die a death worthy of that Name—the Name above all others—Enortūm. 

"We have lived for Him. We have fought for Him. Now, let us die for Him." And with those last, few words, the candle which, though it flickered, still blazed on even as the black clouds enveloped the sapphire sky—it seemed not so feeble anymore, not so insignificant as it had once appeared. 

The wave faltered. Ten men, bloodied and weakened by hours of combat, stood defiant before their enemies—ten men! What were ten men before such hoards? What hope could they have for life? None!…right?

But lo! as their foes drew nigh, no fear clouded their eyes—no doubt entered their minds. They were resolute, determined, confident, assured. But how could this be? What could give them such unassailable strength, such unquenchable fervor? What?

Some supernatural vigor imbued their souls, their hearts, their minds, their bodies. Their foes saw this and feared—yes, feared. And those ten saw that terror, and grinned.

An aura of confidence emanated from those mighty ten, and this bade the thousands to falter—for fear of the ten! 

Infuriated beyond compare, the leader of those dark throngs fumed at his men till they reluctantly resumed their attack. But all momentum had vanished—all resolution had evaporated as they half-heartedly approached the final ten.

I do not doubt it is possible that these ten could have been divinely empowered, for they fought with unprecedented ferocity. Their enemies' swords were but knives, their shields but paper, and their armor but clothing. All who approached were slain, speedily dispatched to the grave. And of them all, Dukon stood the greatest and mightiest in feats of selfless valor.

But this glory could not endure forever. At last, even their supernatural stamina depleted, and the first man fell. The battle raged on. Four more fell. Five remained. Four now. Three. Then two. Soon Dukon alone stood in the pass, which had been so narrowed that only ten feet divided side from side—ten feet and, in the middle…a single man.

…………………

Dukon gazes around him: countless broken bodies lie strewn about, his brothers lying upon his foes—innumerable shattered corpses haphazardly scattered across the rocky terrain. He looks at himself, covered in sweat, grime, and blood—his enemies' gore mingling with his own scarlet ichor. 

The sun sits low on the horizon, bathing the sanguine scene with its crimson rays. And as he contemplates this gruesome scene of carnage, his eye alights upon a singular sight.

Above all the war-torn bodies flaps a single standard—his standard, the emblem of the Light. Miraculously, it had escaped all staining, all tainting, all blemishing as the chaos of war roiled around it. Somehow it had survived—survived and stood.

In a moment, he stands beside the standard, pure and white, boring it deeper and deeper into the gravelly ground. As long as life courses through his veins, as long as strength nerves his arms, as long as sight lights his eyes, it will stand. He will make sure of it.

After a few brief seconds of respite, the enemy launches its final assault, all its energies focusing on this single, lone man—Dukon the Steadfast. 

He sees their blazing eyes as they rapidly approach, blinded by a crimson mist. Rage consumes their souls as one mere man stands resolute against them—one man! 

What does he think he can do? Ha! Nothing! Oh what a poor, misguided fool, laying down his life for naught. Does he not know that a thousand fresh men lie before him, invigorated by fury? Ha! Let us make quick work of him and move on to the real army. See, his strength fails him. Blood gushes from his veins. Pain hampers his arms. He shall not last long. Let us be rid of his pointless resistance forever!

And with this dour resolution, the hordes surge against the sole pebble.

…………………

Dukon watches as the masses seethe forward. Uncalled for, the doubts he had defeated resurrect within his heart with renewed vigor: What was the point of standing? How much time could he actually buy? A few seconds? a minute? Maybe a couple minutes at most but no more than that. What could he do to stem this black flow—this tide of evil? What could he even accomplish? Who would ever remember such an insignificant death?

As these last treacherous thoughts flitted into his head, Dukon recalls his wife's necklace. With blood-stained fingers, he lifts it from where it had rested upon his breast. And as the ravenous Darkness—the insatiable Void—rears its neck to strike him dead, he reads the words of truth, the characters of life, etched onto the small stone plate: Enortūm rewards the steadfast. Enortūm-nūdukon Setig. Enortūm rewards dukon.

Is this not the key to it all? Perhaps none would remember his death. Perhaps his death would only buy a few worthless seconds of precious time. Perhaps this dark tide would engulf the land and consume the Light. Perhaps. But such things do not matter now.

It does not matter now if his life and death are forgotten. It does not matter if his death accomplishes nothing. It does not matter if the future holds nothing but despair. It does not matter at all. What matters now is duty. What matters now is love. Not any kind of these, no, but duty to and love for Enortūm. This is why he remains. This is why he stands in the face of certain annihilation. For these reasons and one more—hope.

Hope for the reward—a reward which will stem from his faithful duty and undying love. This is why he will stand and die even if no effect will ever be seen—for duty, love, and hope. Duty to, love for, and hope in…Enortūm, Lord of Light.

A new fire blazes in Dukon's eyes as he lifts them from the necklace—a blaze of pure flame, a burning tongue different from the raw rage which consumes the souls of his foes.

Then, as Dukon watches the enemy race nearer and nearer, a sudden thought springs into his head. With a single swift motion, he thrusts his sword into the ground and reaches for the horn.

So as the sun sets, he stands—in his left hand is the banner of Light, in his right the horn, and from his neck hang the fiery words of Truth which now seem to glow, each letter burning itself deeper into the plaque upon his heart.

…………………

They charge at Dukon, almost wholly blinded with bloodlust. But lo! before them stands their enemy—unarmed! Before them stands his notched, blood-spattered blade and, behind it—behind it stands, not the figure of a man defeated, not one bowed by weariness, cowed by fear, or bent with despair… There he stands—composed, confident, strong!

No longer does blood flow freely down his arms. No longer does sweat glisten upon his forehead nor does pain knot his brow and bow his shoulders. He stands without a blade, but a greater power emanates from his peaceful face, for some weapons are far more potent than any mortal blade.

For a moment the line falters, the tide wavers. Time itself appears to be suspended as they behold this man standing before them, for he seems to be a man no more. Then, in some distant rank, the cry swells, "Slay the Light! Live the Night! Slay the Light!" And, once again, the wave surges forward—but it is not the same.

Now fear has replaced their rage. Uncertainty has usurped their boldness. Confidence has given way to doubt. But they approach nonetheless—they near Dukon's grinning face. At last, the time is right. He lifts the horn to his lips, takes a deep breath, and blows…blows…

He pours every ounce of remaining energy into that single peal, that lone blast. Even as he lowers the horn, the boom echoes into the distance—down the gorge. But it does not grow fainter nor does it fade but, with every passing moment, strengthens, resounds, and reverberates louder and louder than before. The solemn cliff-faces rebound the echo— amplifying it all the more. 

Now the booming surrounds them all, pounding against their ears, pulsating in their minds. The peal pummels them. See! they drop their arms and clutch their heads. They collapse to the ground—they fall to their knees as the blast thunders in their heads.

Only Dukon remains unfazed, for he still stands steadfast. And behold, his foes now flee! They turn and run. They flee from this man who fears neither man nor Death but stands stalwart upon its black threshold. Indeed, ten thousand flee before that single man.

But this is not the end.

At last, the horn's blast dissipates into the distance—it releases its clutch on the minds of the enemy. But now, as courage starts to return, the boom's resounding is replaced with a rumbling.

Faintly it begins, no more than a tremor, a trembling of the ground. Now the shaking swells—it strengthens. In terror they raise their eyes and behold their doom. Racing toward them, gathering more and more momentum even as it crashes on—is an avalanche.

A wave more powerful than they sweeps toward them. Now they truly know fear, for in death they have not the confidence of Dukon. He stands with a smile as the rocky tide tumbles ever nearer while his enemies lose all hope—they are instantly plunged into the depths of despair while Dukon rests in the solace of Truth.

The avalanche surges ever nearer and nearer. The rocky flood draws closer and closer— its rumbling now a roaring, a crashing, a smashing.

In the final moment before it strikes. The commander of these wretched hordes catches sight of Dukon remaining upright among the bodies of the prostate. He roars a final curse at that man who defies the Darkness with impunity, and lunges at Dukon to end his stalwart life.

The naked blade flies toward his heart—but the avalanche flies even faster. In an instant the stony wave is upon them. It roars for a moment, burying Dukon even as the sword flashed forward. Indomitable in life, he is untouchable in death.

He lifts his head to the sky. A mirthful laugh escapes his lips. Now his joy for the life to come cannot be contained—he has peace even in the throes of death.

The avalanche strikes.

Duty… Love… Hope… Peace…

A flash of pain. All goes dark.

At last, the rocks settle. 

Silence…

Dukon awakes in Light.

…………………

As the general of this last force of Light wearily trudges onward, he hears the blast faintly echoing in the distance—reverently he listens as he hears the roaring of the avalanche. To him, this could only be the work of a god. 

Indeed, some still say that, upon the cliffs above Dukon, they descried the figure of an ancient, wizened man, leaning upon his staff. But who really knows what Dukon saw in those last moments of life? I shall leave it to my reader to determine the veracity of that claim—I shall not give my own judgment here.

However, I must say one final thing about Dukon and his death: Though his life may have been extinguished, though that fire may have been snuffed out—another flame remains. He still lives on. For the spark of those who burn for Enortūm will never truly go out.

Shī Tezū Oten Shī Hemō.

Ukol-Tīnre