Chapter Four: Whispers on the Wind

“You are…?”

“Eldarion,” the elf replied. He was a newcomer to their ranks, Ingwe realised, with the olive skin and dark hair that characterised High Elves of a less city-dwelling nature. He did not speak with the distinctively mellow Elythisian accent, which indicated that he was one of the handful that had come out of hiding since they – the Legion of Light – had liberated Nenaebreth from the forces of Xem’zund. “I am pleased to meet you, Ingwe Helyanwe.”

It was a funny feeling. The young man was just that… a simple warrior-mage of no particular renown, who had somehow managed to make some small name for himself as one of the leaders of a volunteer resistance movement… and who had no idea how that happened. On the other hand, although Eldarion seemed to be on the young side for an Elf, he would still be over a century of age… a relative eternity to the human.

“It feels strange that everybody seems to know my name,” Ingwe admitted with a wan smile, brushing his own black hair from where it hung over his spectacles. Long months had passed since he had last trimmed it, and he was starting to get annoyed with how it interfered with his vision… although he supposed he should count himself lucky to be able to even think of such petty irritations.

“But of course!” the Elf protested, spreading his thin arms in remonstration. His youthful frame had the look of one who had been starved once too often, emaciated and gaunt and only just beginning to fill out again courtesy of the granaries and warehouses abandoned by the former occupants of Nenaebreth.

“Next to Godhand Stryker and the Lady General herself, your name is possibly the most renowned in the context of this war,” Eldarion explained, puzzled at how taken aback Ingwe looked. “At least,” the elf corrected after a slight pause and after careful consideration, “in this part of Raiaera…”

“I haven’t done anything compared to them,” Ingwe replied gently, neatly deflecting the praise he knew to be undeserved. “Lord Arminas, Lord Turgon, Glorfindel even… but not me.”

Eldarion wanted to continue protesting, to convince the young human otherwise, but something about the bleak ruefulness of Ingwe’s smiling expression stemmed the words in his throat. Instead, the elf took two steps forward to join his companion at the edge of the ramparts, gazing out upon the bleak wastelands that had once been Timbrethinil Forest, and the low-hanging blood-red sun that bathed the horizon in murderous crimson. The crisp first-of-spring breeze carried with it still the unmistakable taint of necromantic corruption, lingering in the back of his head like an unpleasant aftertaste.

“What will happen next?” he asked Ingwe, almost as much to reassure himself of the sound of his own voice as to hear what the young man had to say. The outlander paused to think, carefully measuring his reply.

“… I don’t know,” Ingwe answered at long last, the honesty of his words conflicting with the instinctive desire to provide reassurance. “North to Timbrethinil and Galonan… back east to relieve the siege of Anebrilith… westwards to join up with Lady Celiniel at Eluriand… or even southwards to strike at the Lindequalme… It could be any of these, or something else entirely. We’re waiting for better information before we act…”

Sandwiched as they were by enemies in all directions, their next move would be crucial; the desperate need to act before it was too late had to be weighted against the dangers of making the wrong decision.

“… there’s so much to do…” Eldarion murmured, daunted by the sheer scale of the task that lay before them. “And we’re the only…”

“We’re not alone,” Ingwe interrupted firmly, banishing the line of thought before it could take hold. The unsaid ‘hopefully’, however, hung heavily over their heads.

“We weren’t alone when this began, either…” Eldarion returned darkly. Ingwe noted the pained trauma in his unnaturally mature gaze, the sheet-like whiteness of his features and the beads of sweat trickling down his forehead. “But one by one we fell or fled… one by one the screams grew silent…”

The elf’s grip tightened upon the wooden handholds, and he frantically warred against the dreadful subconscious tremors that the painful memories triggered in his body. Ingwe reached out to clasp a slender shoulder beneath his palm, broadcasting his presence reassuringly to the distressed Eldarion. Little by little the shakes subsided, as the shadows of the two young people sprung to life beneath the growing influence of the daybreak sun.

“No matter,” the elf breathed at last, having conquered his fears for the moment being. Eldarion turned to the western horizon and the first light of the day, his face pale and weary but fierce and determined.

“A new sun rises, bathed in crimson,” he whispered to Ingwe, his voice still weak but underlined with thinly strung resolve. “The time for defeat and for mourning has passed… that sun represents our retribution dawning.”

Eldarion paused, his features set in grim countenance.

“We shall teach the enemies of Raiaera the folly of their ways,” he finished, unsheathing his sword. To Ingwe’s eyes, it seemed as if the naked blade was now bathed in blood.

Murgraw the Whisperer stood at the very edge of the precipice overlooking the eastern entrance to Niadath pass, gazing out upon the open grasslands of what had once been the Plains of Valinatal. Once upon a time – not so long ago, in fact – the mouth of the valley would have literally been crawling with the patrols of his fairer kin, scouring with a razor-toothed comb for those who sought to infiltrate their realm. Now, the complete absence of living soldiers within the boundaries of his keen vision told an epic tale all its own.

“Have we received word from the last of the scouts?” he questioned his second-in-command, a look of impatience flitting across his cruelly refined features. A pointed finger tapped out a metallic military beat upon his purple-tinted damascus gauntlets, his banded armour resembling – and yet somehow, the complete opposite of – that worn by the Bladesingers of Raiaera. Warriors from his division, Murgraw’s Marauders, had been chosen as the vanguard of the Alerian advance, to spearhead the Dark Elven armies in their thrust against the first and foremost of their objectives: the wastelands of Narenhad, formerly the High Elven fortress of Valinatal. It was an honourable, illustrious privilege to even be considered for such a role, and Murgraw knew full well that his actions of the next few hours could either transcend his name to immortality… or sully it forevermore.

“Not yet, commander,” the nearest lieutenant replied with a professional calm. Rumours spoke of a dark tower raised in the midst of the wastelands, an obsidian fastness to replace the one lost by the Forgotten One in the depths of the Lindequalme. Murgraw wanted exact intelligence on what he was up against before he made his move, although he was also aware that he could only wait so long.

Behind the lieutenant who had just spoken were arrayed the various regiments and war machines that made up the vanguard of Murgraw’s armies… half a dozen might zeppelins bristling with rune-cannons, three platoons of sharpshooters wielding the latest in gunpowder technology, the usual sprinkling of Dwarven engineers risking life and limb to test their latest creation, and beastmasters trying to control the fiercest of their noble Graf’s bestiary. And last but not least, rank upon rank of heavily armoured, highly disciplined soldiers, one of the elite units within the most ruthless and advanced fighting force that Althanas had ever known. Murgraw was proud to call himself commander of such troops.

He turned back to his objectives in the distance, letting his keen senses taste the wind and gauge the weather. Spring was undoubtedly in the air now, and with it the onset of the long campaigning season, although an inexperienced eye would focus on the snowbound peaks that reared to either side of the stone-grey valley. In a few weeks, the weather would be ripe for the planting of new seedlings, without which the denizens of Raiaera – whether conquerors or vanquished – would surely starve. Murgraw, however, did not concern himself with such thoughts… by that time, they would surely have taken firm control of the fertile heartlands of the realm, the granary of the northern continent. The battle plans called for ten weeks at most to drive to the coast, taking full advantage of the situational confusion as their fair kin utilised winter’s wane to take the fight to their undead foes.

“Commander,” a second lieutenant hailed, handing over with military precision a thin sheaf of parchments. Upon them were inscribed runic symbols and obscure code that detailed enemy deployments and natural obstacles, courtesy of the last platoon of scouts to report back from the east. There was nothing on it to concern him, Murgraw smiled as he allowed thoughts of triumphant victory to suffuse his mind. Nothing could stand before him now.

“Sons and daughters of Alerar!” he announced, his stern voice echoing about the rocky ridges to reach ever last Elf in the valley below. His epithet was “the Whisperer”, but that was for his political machinations and his hidden prowess at magic, not due to some supposed speech impediment. When Murgraw wished to be heard, he could be heard just fine.

“The time has come for us to strike back against our weakling kin! For long millennia we have bided our time and held our breaths, enduring the ignominy of their arrogant, foolish existence. No more! No longer! Never again!”

The valley echoed with a thousand cheers, and the roar of mechanical approval as even the war engines gave voice to their battlelust. Murgraw quite literally had to shout for his last words to be heard.

“Forth! This will be the morn of our retribution dawning!”

As one, the Alerian vanguard advanced.

The banner stood tall and proud amongst the rubble, golden device upon field of green. The insignia was one of a weeping leaf, shaped vaguely in the form of a blade dripping blood. It was Nalith’s personal banner, adopted from that of the High Bard Council before the war, and for the first time since the fall of Eluriand it flew again over the ancient High Elven capital.

Or what remained of it.

The weeping leaf symbolised much of how she and many of those who fought under her felt… sorrow at the fall of their homeland and the innocent lives lost, helplessness at the scattering of the remnants of their people before tide and wind, and nostalgia for a time of peace and harmony that now seemed so long ago. The bloody blade was representative of the rest of their hearts… the burning desire for vengeance, for the right to fight against those who had taken so much… the all-consuming hatred towards the undead overlords who had ruined their lives and the lives of their loved ones.

Mela en’ coiamin…

She reached up with a silver-gauntleted hand to grab the banner pole, feeling the hard solidity of the tempered oak beneath her mythril grip. Hawkish eyes swept across the assembled forces as her flag fluttered in the breeze. A stray, brave sunbeam pierced through the thick cloud cover to illuminate the mound of broken building upon which she stood, and the vast emptiness behind her. Not a few gasps of subdued awe echoed about the ruined courtyard.

“This was once the central spire of Velice Arta,” she began to speak, her sorrowful words a stark contrast to her usual stentorian tone. Her hushed tones did not have to be loud to be powerful; her mythril armour shimmered mystically in the solitary ray of light, such that it was almost as if she wore the mantle of the Star Mother, Lady Aurient herself, gracing the war-torn battlefield in her most inspiring aspect as the fearless warrior maiden. “This was once the centre of our fair Raiaera… where our leaders met to hold wise council, where the most promising of our youths gathered to study the myriad arts, and where the skill of our soldiers and the might of our bards fused as one for the glory of the Cala’Quessir. The spire that once stood here was once the symbol of our united strength and glory… but now it is fallen and disappeared, naught but shadow of mind and scattered dust on the wind. Let that be a reminder to us all… no matter righteous or evil, no matter innocent or corrupted, in the end all must fall.”

The Lady General exhaled, a wispy sigh of breath that carried with it the heavy burden now borne by her people. The sound lingered in the quiet stillness; it was as if the wind itself did not wish to disturb the moment of solemn silence.

“I, as the sole survivor of the previous High Council, must apologise to you all. It was our complacency, our weakness, that led to this all. It is because of us that our capital lies in ruin, devoid of life and hope… it is because of us that our people are scattered far and wide beyond our borders, suffering in hardship as their homeland burns. I have no words of apology… it is all I can do to hang my head in shame.”

Murmurs of dissent stirred throughout the crowd, rapidly swelling to flush away her apology in a tidal wave of support. One and all the assembled warriors owed their lives to the fiercely charismatic Nalith, who had salvaged them six months ago from the disaster upon the very plains just south of where they now stood, who had guided them and bided their strength through the harsh winter whilst harrying her foes, and who now struck back in such vengeant force. They would not abandon her now.

“This I promise you!” she cried in response, nearly overwhelmed by their unabashed backing. She seemed to positively glow in the divine light of the Star Pantheon that flowed through her veins, granting her voice an ethereal cast of heavenly fury and righteous wrath. “I will not rest until our homeland is rid of the invaders that dare to mar her beauteous face. I will not sleep until Raiaera is fit once again for her children to return to her in peace and harmony. And I will not grieve until one day the spire stands tall again, once more a symbol of our great pride and strength. This I swear, upon the bones of the High Bard Council who fought here to the very end, and to the ashes of the fallen who died in defence of this dream!”

With every sentence she drew a rousing cheer, until the courtyard quite literally erupted in a roar of approval. A dozen of the most prominent of her Bladesinger cadre immediately fell to their knees and promised their lives to follow her until the deed was done. A thousand others made the same oath in their hearts.

“Let your eyes look well upon this scene,” Nalith’s voice rose clarion and triumphant over the resounding thunder, soaring high above the ruins of Eluriand. “Let this mark the beginning of our retribution dawning!”

Cold rain pelted down upon the world, heralded by the occasional rumble of thunder and accompanied by fleeting flickers of lightning that cleaved the skies in two. But the dirt clearing that had been brutally carved from the petrified remains of Timbrethinil Forest chose to simply ignore the savage beating sent upon it by the heavens. Even as the ashen floor about it was churned to mud by the incessant lashing, it was seemingly unaffected, ancient runes the colour of blood humming painfully as they glowed with raw power. It was almost as if the sigils etched into the ground were protecting the clearing… or, conversely, that even the mercilessly indiscriminating downpour did not want to enter the ceremony grounds.

Of all the necromancers who wielded their powers under the banner of the Death Lord Maeril Thyrrian, only one had truly been considered for the coveted responsibility of presiding over the forthcoming ritual. His reedy, wheezing laugh resonated through the becalmed night as he savoured the experience that lay ahead, imagining everything from the first tingle of magic as it trickled into the ritual to the last climactic release that would crown the explosive finale. It would be the experience of a lifetime, even for the unnatural longevity of the former human who had long since surrendered his normal lifespan to the gifts of his necromantic prowess. Rarely did he ever get the opportunity to wield such epic power, and never before had he manifested it in the form of the apocalyptic ruin that he would wreak on the Raiaeran heartlands.

Aurient… Galonan… the Laure Linae… he recited again the list of his targets, still cackling and gasping with every other breath. He had pallid skin and a mottled complexion, the wrinkled age of his withered body immediately apparent to any who dared to peek beneath the heavy hood that topped his black woollen robes. Even when eating, the filthy cowl remained firmly in place, as if it were a symbol of the corrupted authority that he was not willing to relinquish. Oh, would that you knew what was going to happen!

His underlings were even now rushing about to make sure that the preparations were complete. Three had dedicated themselves to ensuring that there was not a millimetre’s error in the intricately layered circles of power inscribed upon the ritual site, for even the most miniscule of deviances could cause great havoc when amplified a thousand times. Another four were almost falling over themselves in gathering the reagents and ingredients for the spell were ready and on-hand; none of them wished to have to explain to their leader… or even worse, Death Lord Maeril Thyrrian himself… why their endeavours had failed to simple negligence. The remainder were looking after the miscellaneous tasks that took up the day-to-day routines of any junior necromancer – tending to the needs of their superiors, looking after their precious needs and artefacts, and bolstering the perimeter guard to ensure that the all-important ceremony was not disturbed.

And in the midst of them all, centre and pinnacle of all this frenzied activity, sat the High Necromancer Ar’zhanekkar, gloating over his upcoming role while feasting as a bowl of shapeless gruel and some unidentifiable meat on bone. Grimy juices dribbled from his chin to join similar, ancient stains on the front of his robe, but he paid them no heed, so uncaring of he was his overall appearance.

Nearly there… so nearly there… He revelled in the frigid rains as they washed streaks of dirt from his face, creeping like ice-cold lice into the depths of his clothes along his scrawny limbs. As soon as he stepped into the circles of power, all such worldly concerns would cease to bother him, and he would be able to devote himself to the creation so epic, so destructive, it would be divine.

Yes… divine… the necromancer grinned in a lopsided leer. My Lord Maeril is the favoured of the great Xem’zund, god of all necromancy. Does that not make me an instrument of the gods themselves… does that not mean that I am doing his great will? Ah, he would be so pleased with everything that we shall now do…

Abruptly the wind shifted, bucking and veering like a stubborn steed before settling into a steady northerly torrent warm and heavy with the stench of death and decay. Ar’zhanekkar took a deep breath, satisfied that the doom of Trenyce and the devastation of Timbrethinil still had seeds to scatter, even this late in the war.

“The time is night!” he announced to the coven, casting aside his meal and igniting the braziers that ringed the clearing in one grandiose gesture. They blazed away with ominous menace at the shadows; never before in the war had fires burned so darkly and so evilly, the runes that they cast their glare upon throbbing with every heartbeat.

“No more running… no more fleeing… time at last for me to show my dominance. Dawn... time for my retribution dawning!”

Althanas was home to many who dared to call themselves gods. They ranged from polytheistic pantheons to monotheistic deities, from the individual spirits that resided in everything from a mountain to a candle flame, to mighty beings omniscient and omnipotent who ruled over their domains through a mixture of fear and awe. Theories on their existence ranged from those that declared the gods to be mere physical manifestations of the beliefs of their devotees – the so-called ‘faith given form’ hypothesis – to those that argued that the gods had existed first, as mortals promoted to divinity through great deeds, and that their legends were what inspired the multitudes to flock to their name. None of these theories held for all of the gods… but all of them, in some way or another, were truth.

At the undisputed centre of the spectrum were the Thaynes. In their case, petty theories regarding their existence served no real purpose; the Thaynes just were. They were perhaps no more or no less powerful than the other deities, but unlike them, they just were.

One way in which they were all alike, on the other hand, was in how they loved to meddle in the affairs of mortals. Whether direct or indirect, shocking or subtle, the Thaynes were quite adept at the manipulative pulling of strings, often on little more than whims, rarely on matters of dire importance.

Khal’jaren the Sage, of all his brothers and sisters, was perhaps the most thus inclined. At the same time, he was also perhaps the most devious: favouring intricate schemes over direct intervention, deliberate planning over capricious whim, and benevolent patronage over playful cruelty. It was Khal’jaren that had levelled the Raiaeran fortress of Valinatal, although he had neatly deflected the blame upon his nemesis in the veiled war for Raiaera, the lesser Thayne N’jal. But it was also Khal’jaren who had given aid to the Wizard Blueraven when it was truly needed, and who guided others like unwitting pawns into the face of their heroic destinies. His true agenda, if he had one, had remained obscurely hidden away until now behind plot and scheme and counter-conspiracy.

It has begun.

His two brothers, and three of his sisters, looked upon the underground chamber in varying degrees of interest as the six challenged the one. Far away, in her lonely home far beyond the stars, he knew that the last of his sisters did the same, for the outcome of the events unfolding there was far more crucial to her plans than it was to his. Whatever webs of intrigue she wove, they all had a focal centre without which they could not survive; even the puppet mistress with her strings of silvery silk could little afford to lose her kingpin.

He, on the other hand…

I am Khal’jaren. Mortal enemy of Raiaera.

He was an unremarkable man, of unremarkable height, and of unremarkable bearing. He wore scholarly robes of desert white, under a cloak blacker than the darkest of nights. His beard was a neatly trimmed grey, the craggy weathered lines of his face speaking of the many burdens he shouldered, but it was the brilliance of his compound eyes, the sparkle of infinite diamonds that remained constant no matter what form he chose to take, that truly revealed the force of intellect and will that he embodied.

The building through which he now stepped had long since fallen into disrepair, the multitudes of leather-bound tomes stacked to overflowing upon the endless roof-high bookshelves containing all the knowledge in the universe, but liable to crumble to dust at the lightest of touches. It had once been an observatory as well as a library, and from here he had engaged in many a quarrel with the Star Pantheon of the High Elves. It was an argument that had lasted for many a millennium, and the black sands of time did little to dull the fresh pain that had started it all.

Young Acolyte Xem, so long in the service of the night, so blind to the motion of the great wheels. I wonder if you still pray… ah, but no matter.

The Sage arrived at last at a massive door, sealed against the outside world with spells worked with the greatest of arcane powers. Forged of ebony and gilded with gold, it had long prevented the desert beyond from gaining a foothold within the sacred structure. Only the ageless wails of the bereaved ghosts outside, long-lost spirits who had kept close watch on the building for nearly all of eternity, gave any indication of the devastation that lay beyond.

Because of you, my revenge is complete.

The Durklan Templars heard his words in time with the opening of long-closed doors, and their wails grew louder and more intense.

Truly, indeed, this was the Spring of Retribution Dawning.