Niola's Last Stand

by Vera Nazarian

"Niola, promise me you will stand here and not move from this spot until I come back," said the old woman to the very young one as people on the streets ran all around them. "I will only be gone a short while, and then we will leave the city with the others. Promise me, girl. I must run to the shrine and pay my last respects to Rohatat, for after we are gone there will be no one left who remembers her, and the invader will have no respect for her holy ancient bones."

Niola watched her grandmother with a frown but said nothing. This was insanity. Every moment they tarried in the city could be used instead to put distance between them and the merciless Varoh army that would soon stand at the gates of Menathis -- an army against which there was no defense.

But Grandmother was not to be denied; she was ill enough as it was, and apparently the pain in her ancient gnarled foot that had been damaged in the days of the last war had flared up worse than usual, to coincide with the first notice of the enemy invasion. People said that limbs had memories, and if so, this one was a tough old thing, remembering with a vengeance... even though the old woman never spoke of it.

To be blunt, there was not much time left to Grandmother in this mortal world. It would break her failing heart not to say her goodbyes to the equally hoary and almost forgotten goddess and her dilapidated shrine covered with dusty rat-infested ivy -- wherever it was, hidden away in the rambles of the oldest portion of Menathis. These days it was the city of the impotent; a frightened place of defenseless crumbling walls, ebbing life-will, and no fighting spirit left to muster in order to make a stand.

"You heard me, child?" Grandmother said once again, looking at her with intense living eyes that belied her chronic pain. "No matter what happens, do not go looking for me, do not leave this spot in front of our house except to go inside briefly, if you must, and do not listen to anyone who might try to dissuade you otherwise."

"Yes, Gran, I heard you the first time. It's insane, but I'll do it," said Niola. "I'll be sitting here till you come back, but in the name of all divinities, especially your Rohatat, who would not want you to perish on her behalf, please hurry!"

Grandmother nodded, and then began to move in a shaky hobble-gait down the street. First she ran a brave few steps, then slowed to a limping walk, then again gathered breath for a sprint of several paces, leaning on her cane. Her faded kerchief was flapping behind her, and her old shawl barely protected her from the cold autumn wind.

Niola sighed, thinking how her grandmother fancied herself a priestess of that useless old goddess.

And so Niola stood in front of their poor emptied house while grandmother disappeared into the crowd of strangers moving down the street. All their essential belongings were wrapped in two fat sacks, ready to be carried on their backs. In inanimate boredom the sacks sat in the road dust at Niola's unshod feet. Citizens of Menathis continued to rush about every which way like ants in a disturbed nest, most of them headed for the main gates.

Wind swept Niola's thin frame, and brought moisture to her pale eyes. It ripped at the cotton shawl which covered her head over the kerchief and was tied closely about her stooping shoulders. She blinked frequently and found herself nodding off from idleness as she stood swaying on her feet, then jolting with sudden clarity. Strands of her limp mousy hair rose up from underneath the edges of her kerchief with every powerful gust, tangling and drying within minutes into the brittle consistency of hay.

Niola rubbed her nose and tugged at her sleeves in nervous irritation, paced in front of their door, then finally sat down on one of the sacks and continued waiting as long moments swept by. Moments turned to hours. Neighbors hurried by, scolded her for tarrying or being in the way, pushed past her with their goods. The city emptied all around her while the sky turned angry carnelian and topaz at the edges of the western horizon, and the day faded.

Niola was numb and tired and her bladder was full while her stomach was rumbling with hunger. She rubbed her forehead and eyes in exhaustion. She had become a vessel filled to the brim with rising fear, like water threatening to boil out.

This was ridiculous. Where was Grandmother?

There was almost no one left in the streets now. The last stragglers hurried past Niola's front door, while an occasional donkey or horse-driven cart rolled by with a clatter. They would glance at her briefly and sometimes a stranger would exclaim, "Run, girl! Why do you sit now? Hurry!"

At this Niola nodded and then rolled her eyes the moment the stranger turned away -- really, as if she couldn't think of such an option herself. She continued as she was, feeling herself more and more a dunce for remaining fixed in place.

The last to leave were the city militia forces and the Menathisian army units. As the sunset gave way to night, darkness-cloaked foot soldiers marched past Niola, followed by sudden noise and the rumble of cavalry troops, creaking supply carts and the machinery of war.

In the bluish dusk they looked imposing, their metal armor gleaming dully, and the occasional torches throwing their faces into demonic distortion and chaos. It was said that gods of war congregated around armies on the march, and at times the flicker of fire would reveal them, emaciated and thinner than smoke, waiting for blood to come so that at last they could feed and grow into bloated monsters the size of heaven. Gods marched in step with the soldiers, with the armies, always the vanguard of elemental hunger, the driving force....

One of the unit captains paused before Niola, and drew a torch to illuminate her shawl-covered face. "Why are you still here?" he said, raising the visor of his pointed helmet in order to speak freely, and she saw an earnest face of a brave man resigned to die this very night if necessary.

"I will go soon, sir," she replied. "As soon as my grandmother comes back, I promise, we'll run from here! Faster than rabid mongooses!"

The officer frowned, and his dark eyes were remote hollows in the faint light of the torch. He leaned to stare at her once more, with pity. And then he straightened in the saddle and said, "I hope it's not too late. Don't wait too long, girl. Fare thee well, and may the gods watch over you, for we are the last division, and as we leave this city you will be all alone."