Legion of Light III: The Ancient City

[Flames of Hyperion]

((Semi-open, please contact me first if you wish to participate))

“It feels so long since I last saw trees,” Selinde sighed from her perch high in the crow’s nest. Her elvish was melodic and light, tinged with wistful happiness as she scanned the horizon once again just to make sure that she wasn’t dreaming. The monotonous flatness of deep azure in three of the cardinal directions, the same old sea that had greeted her eyes every day for the past fortnight… and the welcome sight of solid land on the fourth. No, the ranger told herself exultantly, she wasn’t imagining things.

“I know what you mean,” Glorfindel echoed from the wooden platform half a mast’s length below her, his voice remarkably gentle and pensive. He too was engrossed with staring at the land ahead, although unlike her he wasn’t quite as interested in the verdant green trees that encroached upon the thin line of rocky cliffs and sandy beach. His gaze was instead fixed upon the low-hanging haze of mountains in the distance… and at the ancient city, a mere speck even to his keen eyes, nestled against them. Anebrilith, the bladesinger whispered to himself, suddenly relieved and apprehensive in equal measures. There was no smoke rising from the city, which was a good sign… but how could he know that it hadn’t already fallen against the nightmarish undead hordes of Xem’zund, as the human enclave of Trenyce, the fortress of Valinatal, and even the outer rings of Eluriand had already done?

Glorfindel shook his head briefly before returning his gaze to his homeland. He had to believe, for his own sake as well as for the sake of all who travelled with him.

The Warspite fairly skimmed the tops of the waves as she dashed pell-mell for the inviting harbour, the wind full in her sails and the ocean crashing harmlessly upon her hull. The sky was a beautiful light blue above, another fine day to mark their progress from Scara Brae, and fluffy white clouds threatened to outrun the ship as they scuttled towards the opposite horizon. Around the two elves was the constant activity of trained seamen at work, tightening the halyards and setting the topgallants as they primed their intrepid little carrack to milk the fair breeze for all she was worth.

“Ingwe!” Selinde called down to the bow, where a young human warrior-mage was also staring intently at their destination in the distance. “Why don’t you join us up here? The view… it’s grand!”

There was no mistaking the mirthful tease in her voice, and neither did the elves miss the pale blanch that gave their companion away as he looked up to reply.

“No thanks,” Ingwe shouted, trying – and failing – to keep the tremulous note out of his voice. The very thought of climbing the unsteady rope ladders to join them in their precarious perch was enough to sap the strength from his limbs. “I’m fine where I am, thank you!”

A reproving snicker from the gyrfalcon on his forearm, clearly audible to the keen ears of both elves, was reciprocated by a distinctly cold glare from Ingwe. The scholarly Nipponese had been subject to much light-hearted mockery from both his fellow adventurers and the crew of the Warspite regarding his fear of heights, and though he took it in his stride as he always did, having his familiar join in was just a small step too far. Hayate averted his eyes nonchalantly from the withering look; note also that both Selinde and Glorfindel were by now stifling their own laughter at the sight.

Not that it really mattered to Ingwe. He knew that the constant ribbing was only one way of masking their uncertainty over the turbulent trials that had yet to come, and that what didn’t hurt him could hardly cause him any harm. So he played along like a good little boy, willing to take the hits for the sake of a few morale-boosting laughs.

Certain that he’d glared enough figurative daggers at the unrepentant Hayate, he transferred his gaze to the sea once more, briefly allowing a small subconscious smile of his own to touch his lips. The salty breeze ruffled his untidy hair and tugged at his heavy cloak; a mist of spray from the daintily bobbing prow cast itself upon his spectacles, creating a blob of blurry vision that he chose to ignore by peering over the top of the rims like some shortsighted owl.

Aft of the Warspite, the other two ships in their flotilla maintained loose formation, the galleon Spirit of Scara Brae and the slightly larger carrack Thunderchild. With an expertise gained from two weeks of sea travel and exhaustive battles against the elements Ingwe checked their trim lines and the fullness of their immaculately spotless sails, making to himself a small sound of satisfaction. On the forecastle of the larger ship he noticed Lord Arminas doing the same to the Warspite; their eyes met, and when Ingwe bowed slightly in a gesture of respect, the commander of the expedition returned the greeting with a thoughtful nod.

The time is nigh.

For not the first time that day, Ingwe turned to contemplate the dangerously inviting land to their fore, the faint chatter of the two elves in the rigging above floating through the air in the background. It was amazing, really, the sense of speed he experienced as the wind took them closer, ever closer to their landbound destination. Out on the open seas, with no steady reference point to guide them, it was difficult to feel the same wonder.

Now they had closed sufficiently for him to make out the scattered rocks in the harbour mouth, navigational hazards that meant they would soon be forced to reef in sail and travel more cautiously in their approach. To his right was a rocky promontory that jutted protectively out into the sea; a cliff-lined arm of headland with only a thin strip of beach to the seaward, crowned with the heavy forests that had so attracted Selinde’s attention. To his left was a sweeping expanse of low-lying farmland, punctuated now and again by thick copses of trees, and the faintest hint of crimson red on the horizon. That was the Red Forest, he knew, the infamous Lindequalme… ancestral home to Xem’zund and all his evil minions. The odd stir of movement amongst the blighted crops reminded him that the necromancer’s influence reached far beyond their borders now.

It was directly to his fore, though, that the most magnificent vista reigned. The distance was dominated by the steely visage of the Emyn Naug, the low mountains masking the desolation of the Black Desert Tel Moranfauglir beyond. And against their feet was the sprawling port city of Anebrilith, numerous villages and hamlets extending it far beyond the limits of its gleaming white walls. A section of said walls stretched down from the city proper to the harbour; these seemed to shine less brightly than the rest, and in one or two places were in bad need of urgent attention.

Attention, Ingwe realised, that the undead hordes that surrounded the city would be unlikely to allow. For Anebrilith was a city under desperate siege, and the lack of fishing boats in the harbour, the untended farmlands to the south, and the limp tattered war banners flying from the walls were visible signs of that fact even from a relatively safe distance.

Hayate caught the sudden chill that ran through Ingwe’s body, one not of fear but of trepidation. The snowy white gyrfalcon crooned gently, an unnaturally warm sound from the fiercely proud bird of prey. Its purpose was served, however, when Ingwe once again caught his familiar’s eye; this time, the warrior-mage smiled and nodded his determination.

“Go,” he whispered, holding his arm aloft as Hayate spread his wings to catch the breeze. “You must miss firm ground more than anybody else aboard this ship.” Even more than the dwarves, Ingwe chuckled to himself, knowing that the bird hated to be restricted to a mere circle or two above the mainmast each day and was chafing to be free.

“Let me know what you see,” he finished gently, and as he did so, Hayate launched himself upwards. Powerful rhythmic strokes of the gyrfalcon’s mighty chest muscles soon saw him safely clear into the crisp, clean skies; every effortless beat carried him higher and higher towards the encouragement of the warm sun overhead.

Ingwe watched fondly as Hayate did his customary circle above the Warspite, bidding the ships farewell before turning to ride the tailwind towards the mainland. Hand held over his eyes to shield them against the midday sun, the warrior-mage tracked the gyrfalcon’s steady progress across the skies, for a fleeting instant wishing that he too had the ability to fly through air open and free. How magnificent it must be!

It was then that he first noticed the dark, low-lying cloud above the southern outskirts of the city. It hadn’t been there a moment ago, he realised, his heart beginning to pound in his chest as his sharp mind suddenly smelled a rat. It took him but a moment to consciously work out what had seemed so out of place to his instincts.

The only mass of grey in an otherwise peerlessly fair sky, the cloud was moving swiftly towards them… against the wind.

Hayate’s cry of warning barely reached his ears, but by then Ingwe was already dashing for the ship’s bell.

[Flames of Hyperion]

He had not been the only one to spot the danger. High up in the Warspite’s main mast, both Glorfindel and Selinde had also sighted the unnatural cloud and instinctively their suspicions had been aroused. Only Selinde, however, had made the crucial observation of what exactly the cloud entailed.

The agility with which she managed to tumble out of the crow’s nest and sure-footedly land upon the mid-mast platform was quite astonishing. The way she took the second-half of the journey down to the deck – in one nimble leap worthy of an Olympian – was even more breath taking. And the skill she displayed in transferring her momentum into a light-footed landing followed by an easy forward roll to her feet nearly caused Ingwe to forget about the danger and gape at her in shock, as he himself rushed towards the stern of the ship.

“Fellbats,” she gasped to him, her long blonde-brown hair wafting in the wind before finally deigning to settle about her shoulders. “They’re headed straight towards us.”

Fellbats. He had heard of them before. Benighted lands harboured all manner of deadly creatures that roamed the skies preying upon villagers and travellers; some of the worst of these were the oversized beasts also known as bloodwings, which bore as much resemblance to ordinary bats as a maddened lion did to a domestic kitten. Horrific predators as large as a man, with broad leathery wings strong enough to drag their victims into the air and distended mouths filled with sharp fangs dripping with noxious phlegm, they were amongst the worst nightmares unleashed by the necromancer Xem’zund in his assault upon the elven homeland.

“Warn the crew, please, and rally any archers and mages from below decks,” Ingwe told her, trying not to let the pallid chill show too much upon his face. “I’ll try to talk the captain into drawing them away from the other two ships.”

Behind them both Glorfindel hit the deck with a heavy thud and a noisy clink of metal, but by that time they were already running again.

***

Captain Theodore Maximillian was a career merchant mariner, an opulently dressed character with a brilliant handlebar moustache and a bit more girth around his waist than he would have cared to admit to. An eccentric man, but also well-respected amongst his crew for his unfailing seamanship, he had signed up for the expedition as much for the chance to do something worthwhile as for the copious amount of coin on offer. He too had noticed the strange cloud that had suddenly appeared above the city ahead, and though he was slower at connecting the dots than any of the three adventurers, he was certainly beginning to wonder if he’d made the right choice a fortnight ago in Scara Brae.

“Turn into it!”

The voice was that of the young oriental scholar, who seemed to be an officer of some sort in the ragtag army the Warspite was helping to transport. The man's eyes were agitated with adrenaline and he seemed to be hurriedly preparing himself for battle, loosening the twin swords strapped to his back and readying the magics tethered at his waist. Captain Maximillian glared haughtily at his passenger, one hand pompously claiming stewardship of the ship’s wheel, and replied in his best deeply officious tone,

“Why should I? Seeing it as it is makes me feel like…” The seaman was going to suggest running for harbour, as was always the best course of action with the wind under their sails against an unknown foe, but the Nipponese warrior-mage was quick to cut him off.

“The Spirit and the Thunderchild are carrying the majority of the supplies for the city. If they doesn’t make it through, our journey becomes meaningless.” Ingwe glared the man down, the unyielding resolution in his voice surprising the ship’s captain. “Please… we have to do this.”

Captain Maximillian prided himself on being a free man. It was not often that he was faced with authority, and it had been a long time indeed since a bespectacled young whelp had practically ordered him to do anything. The older man was clearly of a mind not to obey, to continue upon the course that would take them to the safety of Anebrilith post-haste… but there was something in the warrior's eyes that warned him that he would be making a mistake. What was it… was it… decency?

Another nervous glance at the rapidly approaching flock of wings, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed compulsively. He knew the damage those powerful claws could do to his light vessel, much less the men and women who crewed it. But, on the other hand, what the young man said was true… and there was no guarantee that he would be able to outrun the onrushing cloud…

In a flash, his decision was made.

“Fine, then,” he assented reluctantly. He turned to his first mate, somehow maintaining that lavish flourish that so characterised his command, and began to issue terse orders. “Signal the flagship. We’re taking on that cloud… tell the Spirit and the Thunderchild to continue on to Anebrilith. All hands to battle stations.”

The last was almost unnecessary, as Selinde finally managed to convince a nearby sailor to start ringing the ship’s bell to raise the alarm. There was brief pause in the conversation, wrecked only by the incessant clamour of heavy footsteps accentuated by piercing peals, before Ingwe managed to gather his wits enough to manage a stuttered, “Thank you.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” was the captain’s only reply, as he kept his attention on readying his ship for the battle. But by then Ingwe had already directed his attention to more urgent matters.

“Reeks of foul sorcery in th’ air,” Telchar announced as he stomped up to the poop deck, followed closely by the stern-faced Glorfindel. The old dwarf had been the closest to the ladder when Selinde had sounded the alarm, and it hadn’t taken him long to divine the cause for the noisily clanging ship’s bell, either. He took another deep, noisy sniff and declared with conviction, “Necromancy.”

Now that the runelord mentioned it, Ingwe noticed it as well. The magic hung over the ship like a thick black cloud, tainted and oppressive if almost elegantly subtle. It pushed down upon them like a grotesquely obese stomach, stifling and choking them within its dark poisonous mists. Every breath became gradually more laboured and uneasy, fear pulsing through their veins and tantalising thoughts dancing in their minds of running around like a headless chicken… or, even better, throwing themselves overboard…

Ingwe shook his head angrily, clearing it of the evil influence, and narrowed his eyes at the dimming overhead sun.

“Can you deal with it?” he asked the dwarf, and Telchar showed several yellowed teeth in a grin. The young warrior-mage took that as a yes, and was quick to continue, “If you could also find a way to attract those abominations to us…”

In an instant, both runelord and bladesinger understood his plan and the reasoning behind it.

“Leave it ta me, laddie,” Telchar nodded, rubbing his gnarled hands in anticipation as the wooden planking continued to reverberate with the sound of hurried footfalls. One by one, bow-armed sailors and adventurers began to emerge from below decks, accompanied by the odd hedge wizard pledged to their cause. Ingwe spotted Selinde leading Taggar the half-ogre out into the fray, directing him towards the stockpiles of spare timbre neatly tied up on deck.

Good idea, he thought to himself. There was nothing quite like a powerful ally to aid one’s cause and to give one heart.

He turned back to the cloud, noting the white speck that was Hayate keeping wary position above it. His movements came none too soon either, for the fellbats were gaining on them rapidly, even as the Warspite swung about to meet them head-on. The wind fluttered lifelessly out of the sails before regaining a semblance of its former vigour; strong hands heaved mightily upon the halyards, even as worried eyes kept careful track of the foes that would soon be upon them.

Glorfindel tapped Ingwe’s shoulder reassuringly, noting the carefully shepherded fear that flowed through the young man’s veins.

“Do not fear, my friend. We are with you.”

As if on cue, Selinde looked up and met their gaze. The young elfmaid gave them a quick reassuring smile, before joining her sister Nerdanel in climbing the mast to the fighting platform halfway up. To the rear of the two swordsmen, low rhythmic chanting began to rumble along the mirror-like sheen of the suddenly calm waters, thick guttural dwarven that worked its way into the hearts of the fighters assembled on deck and granted them strength both physical and spiritual. Ingwe could feel it seeping into his muscles, the power of ageless and ancient stone, firming his resolve and steadying his sword arm. He thanked the gods that Telchar was not incapacitated by the sea like so many of his fellows below, once again glad to have the venerable dwarf by his side. The heavy hammering of a runesmith’s instrument of war soon also began to echo about the ship, and the sudden panicked screeches from the rapidly approaching cloud told Ingwe that the second part of Telchar’s magic was having the desired effect.

About him, all over the deck of the intrepid little carrack, prayers were whispered and last minute benedictions made. Steel whisked free of scabbard and sheathe; drawstrings were tightened, arrows were nocked, and arcane chants readied for use. Warspite’s entire topside seemed to glow with a heightened battle aura, straining against and pushing back the heavy oppressive mist that had settled amongst them. A silent pause was their common unifier, a moment of reflection as every man, elf, dwarf, and half-ogre present contemplated the many-winged cloud that approached at speed and the battle that was about to ensue. It would not be easy…

… but there was hope. There was always hope.

“Gurth gothrym lye,” Glorfindel murmured before beginning to sing, softly and liltingly under his breath. Death to our foes.

Ingwe echoed the sentiment, twin fireballs blossoming into life upon his outstretched palms. At this range, and with his foes as packed as they were, there was little need to aim to hit anything. He too whispered one last phrase, as the leathery beat of wings assaulted his ears, the bestial stench almost overwhelming now and the individual specks of drool on each fellbat’s face thoroughly disgusting.

“May fortune favour the worthy.”

Then the undead were upon them.

[Flames of Hyperion]

“Kaendan!”

The first wave of fellbats was met by a veritable hail of steel and fire, arrows and magic reaching out like a vengeful hand to knock the attackers out of the sky. At least three went down in flames, screaming horribly and leaving behind a trail of smoking fur; Ingwe saw another tumble out of the sky with an arrow lodged firmly in one eye. But it was obvious that even the best efforts of the Warspite’s crew and passengers were too little to prevent the fellbats from swarming the ship; the onrushing dark cloud seemed to engorge and close ranks, ending up no smaller than it had been a moment ago.

“Incoming!” Perhaps the most pointless warning ever, from the lookout in the crow’s nest. A moment later the seaman yelped and ducked as a fellbat darted overhead, bestial claws raking the air where he had just stood.

Their initial attack was aimed at the sails and the rigging, Ingwe saw, blanching as the mast-tops were lost in a swarming brown mass of leathery wings and slashing limbs. His magic was useless at such close quarters, unless he wanted to cause as much damage to the carrack and to those in the masts as to his foes. Great rending tears appeared in the pristine white canvas, thick hempen halyards cut through like they were mere threads. Within moments the Warspite had lost the majority of her forward momentum and was barely drifting through the water. The warrior-mage could only watch helplessly as a young sailor, one of the first to heed the captain’s call to prime the sails for battle, was caught up in a fellbat’s merciless grasp; two arrows and a dagger quickly found their way into the beast’s chest, but the seaman was dead before his captor hit the water with a cascading splash.

Then the cloud of wings was free of the ship, wheeling around sharply for another go. If their first pass had been to disable the Warspite, Ingwe thought, this time they would be coming for the crew and cargo…

He splayed his fingers out wide, five wispy flames forming at the tips of each hand as the wind whispered gently underneath his breath.

“Housenka!”

Another volley rose up to greet the necromancer’s minions, and more of the fellbats plummeted into the ocean, massive plumes of water sent geysering into the darkened sky. Yet again, however, it was as if their numbers had not been diminished at all.

“Watch out!” the lookout called again, before the same fellbat that had attacked him before came about for another try. This time, however, the sailor was ready; a slightly rusty cutlass lashed out in an angry arc, and the bloodwing tumbled away injured, somehow regaining its wings just before hitting the water.

Less coordinated, this time…? Ingwe spared the thought before aiming a fireball at a lone fellbat hovering above the prow. He had the satisfaction of seeing it disappear in an puff of explosive smoke and an agonised screech, but that didn’t deter two of its comrades from taking its position, tearing angrily at whatever they could reach. Then again, it’s not as if they need to be… the Nipponese allowed, before forcing himself to concentrate on the more important business of fighting for his life.

The skirmish quickly disintegrated into a swirling melee of individual combats, each as desperate and as frantic as the next. On one side there were the fellbats, large brutish creatures with the advantage of both manoeuvrability and power. On the other were the crew of the Warspite and their passengers from the Legion of Light, fighting for their lives with both skill and belief.

Nerdanel Celebrindal took careful aim from beneath her camouflage hood, a snarling grimace hidden under the anonymous features of the silk mask she wore. Calmly she sighted along the length of the shaft, feeling the power imbued into her bladed composite recurve bow literally trembling in her arm. Picking out a target in the churning confusion on the deck below would have been a difficult task for any human, but for the keen skills of the elven ranger, it was no more tricky than bulls-eying a target at twenty feet. Swiftly she loosed the arrow; by the time she sensed it thunder into her chosen target’s head like lightning from above, she already had the next arrow nocked and the next bloodwing picked out for destruction.

A number of fellbats still swarmed above the ship, looking for targets of opportunity, and one of them noticed the ranger in the mainmast fighting platform. With a squeal that sounded almost suspiciously gleeful, it swooped for the kill…

… only to find its face full of elven steel as Selinde stepped up to defend her older sister. Her expression was disdainful, and the fellbat’s as close to surprise as it could manage in the cold embrace of death, as it fell backwards onto the deck below. Timbers splintered as it crashed, but nobody down there could spare the extra breath of attention required to decipher what had caused the sound, so busy were they with their own battles.

“Taggar!” the younger elf cried a moment later, dismayed to see the half-ogre almost buried under the wings and slavering fangs of four foes. Roaring madly and with all the brutish ferocity associated with his kind, he was thrashing about wildly enough so that they could not get a good grip on his leather jerkin, but it would only be a matter of time…

… until a small band of Legionnaires, led by the dark huntsman who had first spoken up in the inn at Scara Brae, led the counter-charge that drove off the leathery fellbats. No words were exchanged between the two adventurers, only a small nod of thanks and some mutual respect, but it was almost heart-warming to see old prejudices and bigotry overcome by the camaraderie of battle.

Once again her eyes scanned the skies and the deck, keeping track of the battle and calling out warnings to those below. Her sister’s arrows were a steady hiss of death upon the bats; the sailors and Legionnaires on deck were just about holding their own against the tide of claws and fangs.

Then the ship shuddered violently, keeling heavily to one side as if horrendously wounded, and she was almost thrown from her perch.

Ingwe was one of the first to recover in the aftermath, his blades dripping with bloody ichor as he somehow managed to maintain his balance, and he was also one of the first to work out what had happened. A surprised dwarven oath from below, followed by a dull wet thud as an axe found its mark in a body, and his suspicions were confirmed. He leapt towards the railing on the poop deck, using the temporary respite in the fighting to abandon his protective position about Telchar and Captain Maximillian.

“They’re holing the hull!” he shouted, raising the alarm as the battle began to flow once again.

“Dumn right they ur!” Derthark bellowed in response, the dwarven prince poking his head out from the gaping cavernous gap in the wooden planking. His face was deathly pale beneath its ruddy complexion and his feet staggered with the effort of remaining upright on the sickly shuddering ship, but his axe was dripping with fellbat blood and it wasn’t too hard to see who had dispatched the opportunistic bloodwing. “We’ll deal with dis ‘un, ye…”

“Ingwe!” Selinde interrupted from far above, and the warrior-mage whirled about just in time to parry the razor-sharp claws directed at his exposed back. The fellbat pressed the attack with surprising strength, shoving its ugly pug nose into his face and snarling ferociously. The rancid stench of the beast’s breath was almost unbearable, and the young man’s spectacles were speckled disgustingly with steaming saliva.

Ingwe glared in return, suddenly angry, and brought his other sword up with all the force he could muster. His foe’s leathery skin was nigh impervious to ordinary steel, evidenced by the two arrows that stuck harmlessly out of its shoulder, but the air about the Nipponese’s blade seemed to shimmer gently and coalesce with magic…

“Gogyoto… Fu!”

The fellbat stumbled as one wing was shorn free of its torso, then staggered as the second blade slipped free of the parry and sliced into its distended belly. It had just enough time and energy for a defiant snarl, exposing massive fangs dripping with purple phlegm, before both backstrokes took off its head in a scissors-like motion. Ingwe slipped free of the stinking corpse, nearly vomiting at the vile experience.

Two more ominous thuds in front of him, casting dark shadows across his vision. The young man looked up to find a pair of the beasts glowering at him menacingly, wings spread wide and claws extended above his head. He brought up his swords one more time, knowing that his energy was nearly spent and that he was in no position to fend them both off…

… when one of them was decapitated in a single sweep of shining steel. The other managed an angry squawk before Glorfindel’s return stroke buried through its chest, cleanly piercing its dark heart.

“You alright, mellonamin?” the bladesinger asked, offering a hand and a hint of a mocking gaze to help steady the young man. Ingwe batted both away with a grateful wave, somehow finding the strength to smile.

“Pikes to the sides of the ship!” he shouted, trying to rally the men on board. “Don’t let them sink her!”

As one they rushed to obey, a half-dozen sailors reaching for their long spears and dashing to the railing to deal with their enemy’s new tactic, whilst their comrades sought to defend them against the renewed assault. The swarming fellbats on the deck had been just a diversion, Ingwe realised. Their original intent had been to stop the flotilla dead in the water by crippling the sails and rigging, and then distract the defenders by swarming the decks whilst concentrating on sinking the wooden ships and picking off the survivors in the water, where they would be less likely to fight back. And though Telchar’s magics had allowed both the Spirit of Scara Brae and the Thunderchild to escape – both other ships were now just about entering the safety of the harbour mouth, half a nautical mile away – it also meant that the poor Warspite had borne the brunt of the attack. Her canvas a ragged mess, a gaping hole in her hull, and her decks and the air above her swarming with the bestial fellbats, there was no telling how much longer she would last.

Captain Maximillian was valiantly straining to keep his ship afloat, straining mightily against the wheel to keep the hole in the hull above the waterline whilst directing her in the general direction of safety. Telchar was skilfully striking two runes at once upon his makeshift wooden anvil – one to inspire his allies, another to cast down his foes – but the venerable dwarf’s brow shone with sweat and half a dozen minor wounds. Glorfindel and Ingwe himself did their desperate best to keep the fellbats off their two friends, aided by Maximillian’s first mate and a few of the other crew, but the bloodwings swarmed around them like vultures seeking the kill.

In what remained of the rigging above, Nerdanel, Selinde, and a handful of other archers were taking careful potshots at the melee below whilst simultaneously fending off the attentions of opportunistic circlers. The deck, on the other hand, was a confused mass of bodies, ranging from the gristly fur of the fellbats to the tattered leather jerkin worn by Taggar the half-ogre, moaning wounded littering the deck as more and more of the bloodwings looked for a chance to pile in. Despite the havoc wrought by the large Legionnaire and a score of swords rallied about the dark-haired huntsman, they were slowly being forced to give ground towards the sides of the ship.

They were faltering, Ingwe realised, the cold harsh fist of reality hammering hard into his stomach. There were just too many of the foe… too few of their allies. At this rate…

His blades sang, fire flew, and two more of his opponents hit the deck as lifeless bodies.

Deep in the back of his mind, he could not help but wonder how long it would be before he joined them.

[Edmund Talbott]

The fight was going badly to say the least. Edmund was fighting with the dwarves in the hold, laying into the attacking Fellbats with as much, if not greater relish than his companions. His mace laid about, shredding wings, shattering bones and pulping flesh. At times it was almost hilarious to watch the combat below, a fellbat would be fighting just fine, and mysteriously fall dead to the floor, its power sapped by the continuous working of his powerful aura of sanctuary, hedging out the evil influences of the necromancer, and cleansing the unnatural taint of undeath from the ship. His power only extended far enough to cover the feet of the upper deck overhead, but they were actually winning the fight below, the dwarves heavy armor and sheer brutality making them more than a match for the continuing assault and its ever shrinking numbers.

"Derthark! I'm going above, keep things safe and follow when you've cleared the hold. Try and patch the hole with something. Dead bodies if you have to!" The paladin practically leapt up the ladder, somehow maintaining his balance on his way through the hatch, despite having his hands filled with shield and mace. He nearly went right back down the hatch as a stooping beast slammed into his shield, impaling itself on the spike that made up the center boss. It wasn't deterred by the injury, but the impact threw the man off balance, and he threw his weight forward. The rapid changes in balance, combined with the shift in his center of gravity, forced him to overcorrect, and the fellbat ended up underneath 200 pounds of man and armor, pinned to the deck. It struggled for a moment, before a pulse of divine power flowed through his shield, and shredded the corrupted flesh, freeing him from the beast's unnatural grip. He scrambled to his feet, and batted another bat out of the air, dashing across the pitching deck to meet up with the core commanders.

"Ingwe. Things are fairly well secured below decks. Derthark and his dwarves have it well in hand. I'm not sure how much longer we can hold out against this many." His voice was surprisingly calm, despite the almost certain death from above that was awaiting all of them. His power reached out to blanket the deck of the ship, and soon enough fellbats would drop dead for no reason, but the few he could kill or weaken with his power wouldn't be enough to affect the outcome. They were, unless something changed, doomed.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Dammit, you slow-wit! Think!

His body was trapped in the motions of battle – duck, riposte, parry, strike – against his bestial foe. His mind, on the other hand, tried to detach itself from immediate reality, racing frantically to find a solution to their current predicament. At this rate, he knew it was only a matter of time before either they were completely overwhelmed by the swarming fellbats, or the Warspite gave out from beneath them and they would be left to the mercy of both sea and foe.

At least the Spirit and the Thunderchild made it through, was his next rueful thought, as his peripheral vision caught sight of the last of the latter’s pennants disappearing into the relative safety of Anebrilith harbour. The running skirmish had taken the Warspite northwards according to the vagaries of tide, current, and other nautical notions that his mind understood but did not quite comprehend. Now the outstretched arm of the promontory sought to cut them off from their destination, and the jagged rocks ahead threatened to gut the little carrack even before the fellbats were finished with her.

Land… Ingwe’s mind whispered to him as his blades found their mark in a fellbat’s chest. If they stayed at sea they could not outlast their undead foes, and ran the risk of the Warspite sinking beneath them, but…

The warrior-mage freed his swords from the corpse of his enemy and turned towards Captain Maximillian, who was still valiantly struggling at the ship’s wheel. For a moment, he felt a pang of guilt; it had been he, after all, who had practically forced the mariner into fighting rather than fleeing. Now the gallant captain was paying the ultimate price, watching the ship that was his pride and joy, his entire livelihood, gradually fall to the attentions of the undead.

But, perhaps. Perhaps there was still a flicker of hope.

“Captain!” Ingwe called out, his voice only barely reaching over the clamour and din of the fighting. Tired it was, exhausted by constant use of his power, but he forced it to continue speaking as an outstretched arm indicated the cliff-straddled beach ahead. “Would it be possible to beach her on the promontory?”

He thought that the scandalised looks that he instantly received in reply, from both Maximillian and half-a-dozen other crewmen within earshot, would quite literally burn holes through his body. What he had suggested was nothing short of an outrage to their minds; the sheer sacrilege of abandoning their ship to the whims of sea and sand almost unthinkable to their way of life.

But then it dawned upon them that perhaps it was the only way they would survive the fight.

“Very well!” came the shouted reply, reluctant and resigned to whatever the fates might decree. “I shall need my first mate at the bows to give me bearings!”

Ingwe nodded his assent at the implied request, although his gaze as it spared a look out upon the swirling melee amidships was less than confident. A handful of individual combats still raged where single adventurers took on undead foes, but the main fighting was concentrated to the starboard quarter, where Taggar and the dark-haired huntsman had rallied a phalanx of sorts against a swarm of the fellbats. A smaller knot of seamen still held out at the prow, the circle of their enemy about them less tight as claws and fangs came at them from their seaward quarters as well. Getting through the massed fellbats on deck, not to mention the multitudes that still swooped about the ship looking for an opportunity to join in the carnage, would be a tall task indeed. But it had to be done, Ingwe knew, as he quickly stooped to cleanse and sheathe his weapons.

“Glorfindel, please protect Telchar!” A nod from the elf, matched by an angry grunt from the old dwarf, who clearly was less than happy about the idea. Ingwe next turned to the paladin who had just joined the battle on the poop deck. “Master Talbott, please keep the captain free from harm.”

Finally, he met the eyes of the first mate, a grizzled ebony-skinned sailor wielding a rusty cutlass, his makeshift bandanna keeping the blood from a head wound out of his eyes. A look of mutual understanding passed between the two men. Ingwe had to get him to the bow of the ship at all costs, if any of them were to survive at all.

Here goes…

He chose to vault the railing onto the main deck rather than taking the steps to either side; it would allow him to bypass the worst of the congregated fellbats. As he went over, he brought both arms downwards in a chopping motion, hands straight and firm as he channelled arcane power…

“Kuhazan!”

… towards the nearest of the fellbats in his path. The air at his fingertips shimmered and coalesced into a barely visible arc; when his arms finished their motion, the blade of wind was already halfway towards his foe. The fellbat staggered in surprise as two bright splashes of colour suddenly appeared on its furry distended belly, and it didn’t have time to react before Ingwe’s hastily drawn swords finished the job. By the time its dead body fell to the floor the warrior-mage had already hit the deck running, his navy blue cloak trailing out in the wind behind him as he sought a path through his foes.

A roar of determination from his right as Taggar and the huntsman pushed back bodily against the circle of foes that surrounded them, aiding him in his cause. Ingwe could hear the hasty footfalls of the first mate behind him, following him closely as he took advantage of the short-lived confusion amongst the fellbats to chart the safest course through… there. Right up the middle. If they could make it through in time… it was their only chance.

There were five fellbats in his way. The closest fell almost immediately, a black-feathered arrow buried shaft-deep in its head; Nerdanel had obviously made sense of Ingwe’s ploy and was not beyond assisting in whatever way she could. The second was slow to turn to meet him, its stubby little legs not quite used to fighting upon solid ground, and twin strokes from Ingwe’s short swords sent it reeling in agony before the hilt of the first mate’s cutlass came hammering down onto its head to finish the job. There was the sickening crunch of splintering bone, and the fellbat dropped as if pole-axed.

The third was also still turning by the time he was upon it, but this time there was an arm’s length of leathery wing in Ingwe’s way that prevented him from getting a clean kill. Instead, the warrior-mage barrelled into it in a messy tackle, feeling its claws raking shallowly into his back as he somehow buried both blades into whatever flesh he could reach. The fellbat gasped, almost pitiful in its finality, beady black eyes growing blank and dull as it abruptly departed from the mortal coil.

“Ingwe!” came Selinde’s warning from above, but there was no way that he could pick himself up in time to meet the fourth fellbat. It fell upon him vengefully, and it was all the young man could do to keep hold of his blades as he attempted to roll clear. Dirty talons missed him by mere millimetres as he shoved the corpse of its erstwhile comrade in its way instead. The three of them – one already dead, two fighting for their very lives – rolled about the wooden planking in an undignified tangle of steel, skin and leathery wing, narrowly missing being stomped upon by the rampaging Taggar before coming up against the unmoving solidity of the foremast. Somehow Ingwe’s mind stayed alert enough to recognise that the first mate was now set upon by the fifth of the fellbats, and to realise that if he didn’t get the man to the relative safety of the prow seamen soon, more of the foe would join the fray…

He kicked instinctively, lashing out with all his might, and somehow managed to connect with his opponent’s sinewy chest. The fellbat staggered backwards, winded, giving Ingwe just enough time to get to one knee and take aim.

Afterwards, he would wonder why he had done it. At the time, it was more of an instinctive action, as his mind told him in not so many words that he didn’t have the time to focus his magic, and that to attempt to do so would risk harming the first mate as well. Right arm snapped back, the short aikuchi short sword held loosely but surely in his hand. In a single fluid motion, he launched it towards the fellbat that was in between the first mate and safety.

He had the satisfaction of seeing his throw strike home, the fellbat’s brutishly coarse face registering sudden surprise and pain before a second black-feathered thunderbolt from above put it out of its misery. The first mate barely had time to nod his thanks to both man and elf before he escaped into the welcoming safety of the circle of seamen formed at the prow.

Ingwe, on the other hand, didn’t even have the time to notice that. His bloodwing opponent squealed with rage at the unorthodox kick that had driven it away, and proceeded to viciously leap upon him once more, wings spread wide and claws raking at his face from on high. The Nipponese brought his remaining blade up to parry, unable to do anything else from his kneeling position; fire-forged steel met enamel-sharp talon with an audible crack, and the greater strength of the fellbat began to force the young man back… down…

With a victorious snarl the fellbat shoved his face into Ingwe’s, all pugnacious nose and rancid breath, punctuated by fangs the size of his hands. And the warrior-mage was distinctly aware that there was nothing left he could…

A screech from above, white lightning crashing down from the heavens, and suddenly Hayate was in between the two combatants, the gyrfalcon’s own talons raking madly at the fellbat’s face. The beast roared in pain and snapped with its powerful jaws, feathers flying in every direction as Hayate just about managed to scamper free, granting Ingwe enough time to topple backwards and away in the process. But two other fellbats had now spotted the vulnerable young warrior-mage and were sweeping in for the kill… his other blade was still too far away to reach… and there was no time to call upon his magics…

Is this… it…?

Ingwe’s remaining sword lashing out at his closest foe, the best defence he could muster from his prone position. A second screech as Hayate once more sought to defend his master, one brave falcon against no less than three of the brutish fellbats. As the talons and fangs grew ever larger within his vision, the young man’s eyes closed involuntarily, braced against the inevitable gut-wrenching pain

But there was something about his familiar’s last screech that caught Ingwe’s attention.

It had not been pained.

It had not been fearful.

It had been elated.

What…

Carefully he forced his eyes open once more, only to find the world seeming to move in framed slow motion. Every last fellbat had abruptly looked to the skies, daintily sniffing the wind as if worried or alarmed. What was it their faces now showed… was it… fear? Why did those on the deck spread their wings wide as one, ready to take flight…?

And what was that new winged shadow that flashed across the Warspite’s deck?

A response to Hayate’s screech from above, a shriek not sharp and shrill but so deep and throaty as to be almost a roar. It emanated from the throat of a powerful and majestic creature, forequarters that of a great eagle whilst its body and hind paws were unambiguously leonine. Sleek aquiline head and razor-sharp beak, with wings to match, tapered into clawed rear legs and a long tail; its eyes gleamed with fierce loyalty and a savagery unmatched in the air save by the wildest of dragons.

Gryphon, Ingwe gasped, awed by the splendid sight.

The glint of a long slender lance, almost invisible in the high noon sun, and the unmistakable bright shimmer of full mithril scale armour, affordable only by the greatest of elven princes. The pennant of Tor Elythis, outstretched wings of a delicate deep blue set about a fiery red gem upon a white background, fluttered in the light breeze. Only a brief moment passed in which Ingwe could clearly make out the figure seated high on the shoulders of the mount above, and then Lord Chronos decided to reset the flow of time.

Half a hundred fellbat throats squawked at once, and in a cascade of leathery wings and furry bodies, every last one of them still on deck took flight. The warning came too late however for a handful of their comrades in the sky.

No less than two were skewered upon the elflord’s lance before the gryphon pulled clear from the initial skirmish. The regal beast itself accounted for three more, one each in the mighty talons on each foreleg, and a third rent in half by a merciless snap of its great beak. The fellbats were unable to even get close in reply, chased about the sky confused and disoriented by the sudden assault.

Within mere breaths it was all over. Whatever their orders may have been, the sight of such a terrifying enemy in the skies, combined with the determined resistance from the small ship below, finally broke the back of the fellbats’ morale. Instinct and primeval dread took over, the heavy tinge of their musky fear suddenly tainting the air. The decks of the Warspite abruptly cleared of undead foes, and their winged saviour was now driving the dark leathery cloud back across the open skies towards the city. Only Nerdanel kept her head enough to send a few parting shots at the fellbats as they fled; the rest of the crew and passengers were either busy with relief and awe at the sudden reprieve, or were too exhausted to do much anyways.

“We’re saved…” Ingwe whispered, more to himself than to anybody else. He took one last look at the fellbats as they escaped to the south, pursued closely by the indistinct white shape that was the elflord and his gryphon mount. The fresh air had never seemed so clean, the wind about his face never so crisp and the sound of the sea never so welcoming as he slowly pulled himself upright, Hayate’s worried croons barely reaching his ears.

He was alive.

They were still alive.

They had survived.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Edmund, I know it's your turn to post, but it's been two weeks now, and I really need to get this thread moving since there's a lot of ground to cover. I hope you understand if I shift the story forward... feel free to rejoin at any point.

Slowly he staggered to his feet.

The departure of the fellbats had left a deafening hush in their wake, their raucous warcries replaced by the shocked silence of men and women who had just seen victory wrested from the jaws of defeat. Around him were scattered the gruesome remains of the battle, foul-smelling putrid bodies of dead foe and the low-keyed moans of the injured, wooden planking slick with ichor and splattered blood. Though it was not the first time that Ingwe had found himself standing amongst the aftermath of gory combat, it was not as if he was used to the sensation either; he had to fight to suppress the waves of nausea that washed over him like relentless tsunami. Somehow, he doubted that he would ever get used to the feeling.

Gingerly he took one step forward, then another, urged onwards by Hayate’s encouraging croons. His back felt as if it had been set on fire by the fellbat’s raking claws; his body ached and stung with half-a-dozen other minor wounds. Exhaustion clouded his mind from repetitive use of his budding magic, his vision blurry not only from the speckles of liquid on his glasses, and the world swimming as if he was treading through a dream. For all it was worth, though, he realised that he had managed to emerge from the skirmish relatively unscathed. At least, he was not one of those unfortunates who had been carried away into the dingy skies.

One hand reached down towards the malodorous foetid mass that was a fellbat corpse, grasping tightly around a silk-wrapped short-sword hilt before yanking it free with a callous grunt. His other hand grasped its partner, the blades both coated slickly in undead blood. Speedily but with no shortage of reverence he cleaned the tanto, allowing them to gleam tiredly in the wanly shining sun before replacing them in the sheathes upon his shoulders.

The shock around him was very quickly changing to elation, as it hit the crew of the Warspite and the adventurers that they were transporting that they had survived the fellbat assault. Somebody laughed, tentatively at first but rapidly growing in intensity and range it spread infectiously amongst the bloodied men on deck. Then someone else broke out in a ragged cheer, the sudden noise causing Hayate to escape swiftly into the skies, and for a brief moment it seemed as if the entire world was giving voice to their relief.

“QUIET!” an authoritative shout echoed over the scarred wooden timbers, through the shredded sails and past the gaping hole in the carrack’s hull. Merciless and blunt, it certainly had the desired effect, cutting off the celebratory congratulations almost as soon as they had begun.

“Taggar, gather a few men and get the corpses of those disgusting abominations off my deck!” Captain Maximillian’s expression remained grim and bleak, and to those who retained the presence of mind to notice the forbidding cliffs looming afore and the jagged rocks ready to welcome them there, it wasn’t too difficult to see why. “Some of you see to the wounded, by Neptune’s beard I won’t have any more deaths today! Trim the sails, cut away the rigging! And one of you get down below to see if the dwarves are alright, and tell them to start dumping excess ballast!”

His orders were absolute, and they could only be helped by the tone in which he gave them. As one the seamen raced to obey his commands, the sudden efficiency that they injected into their jobs inspiring the Legionnaires on board to assist. The topside of the Warspite swarmed with tired men at work, their frantic dedication swirling around Ingwe like an otherworldly eddy as he carefully made his way back towards the stern.

Glorfindel’s face was even paler than normal, and venerable Telchar at his side wore a visage so stony that it very nearly disguised the grey exhaustion in his features.

“Huvnae dun that for a long while,” the old dwarf explained when he caught Ingwe’s anxious look, indicating with a grumpy nod the remains of his rune-striking behind him. “I’ll be alright.”

“And you?” Glorfindel hurriedly interjected, catching his breath when he saw the great gashes that the fellbat’s claws had torn in Ingwe’s cloak and tunic. “You should see to that…”

“Later,” the Nipponese replied with a weakly dismissive wave of his hand, not noticing the trails of blood trickling down between his fingers. “There are more important things to attend to…”

And certainly there were, as the rocks ahead began to loom closer, ever closer, to the battered little carrack. Inclining his head wearily to the bladesinger and the runelord, Ingwe turned to face Captain Maximillian, who was still struggling at the Warspite’s wheel and bellowing orders to his crew in an increasingly forced voice. The stentorian tones of his first mate punched through the air at regular intervals, calling the fathoms as well as an occasional bearing, but it was clear that behind the exterior of calm and cool that both men were maintaining, the situation was becoming ever more desperate.

“I’m sorry,” Ingwe whispered softly, seizing the moment when the captain paused for breath. “I’m sorry that I did this…”

“Don’t be, lad,” Theodore Maximillian replied gruffly, not gentle in his admonishment but not overly harsh either. “You did what you had to do to salvage the mission, nobody can fault you for that. Thanks to that Anebrilith is getting her supplies and her reinforcements, and perhaps we all might still make it out of this alive…” – he grunted as his first mate signalled an abrupt course change, spinning the wheel with all his might and causing his ship to list lethargically out of the way of a dangerously close rock. “Even this ship, if I have anything to say with it.”

“But…”

“Listen, lad,” the captain overrode him, this time sparing a glance towards the young man. “When the fellbats ripped our sails to shreds, our chances of making it safely into Anebrilith largely went to nought anyways. That harbour is treacherous enough for a fully fit ship… with the level of control that I have over her now, we would have been lucky to make it through the mouth without sinking.”

The mariner’s words stopped Ingwe in his tracks, and for the first time since reappearing on the poop deck, the warrior-mage looked up to meet the captain’s gaze. The eyes that greeted Ingwe’s were as clear and as firm as any he had ever seen; resigned to the destiny that had brought them there but determined not to let any other hand shape their fate. They saluted him, one man to another, and silently begged him not to apologise any more for his actions.

Ingwe swallowed hard, and then nodded gratefully in return.

There was a juddering impact, violently scraping along the side of the ship as the carrack barely managed to squeeze between two obstructing rocks.

“I’ll expect some help getting her out of here when you’re done fighting the war!” the captain roared unexpectedly, breaking out a massive grin. Opulent robes trailed out magnificently behind him as he hauled upon the ship’s wheel, picking his spot amongst the white crescent of sandy beach ahead. Slowly, groaning at the abuse, the Warspite made one last effort to listen to his commands; Ingwe could only hold onto the railing with whatever strength remained to him as their sea journey drew to a final, frantic close.

“ALL HANDS BRACE FOR IMP..!”

Only Selinde, high in the masts above, saw the hidden underwater rocks that cut short Captain Maximillian’s cry. But she didn’t have any time to voice a warning, for a moment later she was hanging on for dear life.

[Flames of Hyperion]

The sensation was one of floating. Drifting, as if upon a waterless wave, a skyless wind. His surroundings were blank, an infinite wall of whiteness like a canvas waiting to be filled in. There was no sound, no clamour of battle or howl of war, only a blissful peaceful nothingness. He felt safe there, secure; he had just to relax, and he could stay there forever, cocooned within the comforting calm of his subconscious mind.

All I have to do is let go…

Gradually, though, something started to reassert itself deep within. Fuzzy outlines began to form amongst the pearly void, multi-hued shapes and swirls shimmering in and out of focus repeatedly. Forms slipped tantalisingly from his grasp whenever they threatened to coalesce, unwilling to reveal themselves fully to his mind’s eye. Still, slowly, he managed to forge his way through the quagmire, towards a goal that he realised must exist.

”J’han!” the voice suddenly cried out, so familiar from his younger days, so agonisingly within reach. And suddenly his eyes were open and wan sunlight was casting itself upon his face.

“Woah, woah laddie,” a decidedly gruffer cave accent, tinged with rugged concern, grunted from behind his ears. It was only then that Ingwe Helyanwe realised that the dream, the void, the voice… they had all been nought but a trick of his mind. In that brief moment of brutal honesty, it struck him greatly just how crestfallen he felt. Subsequently, and somewhat reluctantly, his brain set about the more vital task of reasserting reality.

Sharp pains in his back told him that his makeshift mattress was one made of rocks, unfortunately not one more comfortable, for example of down feathers. An even sharper pain in his head, along with various other aches and sores scattered about his body, informed him that his journey there had most certainly not been a comfortable one. And that was saying nothing of the ten raking claw wounds below his shoulders, throbbing agonisingly where seawater had added insult to injury.

“Mrrgh…” the young man mumbled, trying – and miserably failing – to sit up. His head spun and pounded as if the thunder god himself was on the loose within; his body, on the other hand, obstinately refused to obey frantically urgent orders. The white blankness beckoned once more, the waves upon the rocky coastline roaring constantly in his ears… or was the sound something else entirely…?

“Nmmgrhh!” Ingwe tried again, and this time managed to rouse himself from his prone position despite the valiant resistance of sinew and tendon. There was a shape in front of him now, casting a dark shadow across his fuzzy vision… it was the bladesinger Glorfindel, and the elf was trying to say something. Ingwe narrowed his concentration upon the pale moving lips, forcing himself to focus and understand for the words were slow in reaching his ears.

“… lie down. The mizzenmast broke in two and fell upon the poop deck… swept overboard and hit your head nastily…”

Well, at least that explained something. Most things, in fact the young man realised, as he put the pieces together.

“… we have to get out of here,” Ingwe managed from between grit teeth, jaw clenched against the overwhelming waves of nausea as he struggled to force himself to his feet. A couple of painfully weak attempts later he just about succeeded in standing upright, earning a grudgingly admiring look from Telchar and disapproving concern from Glorfindel.

“You should not…” the elf began, but the youthful Nipponese shook his head as firmly as he could manage. It was an action he immediately regretted, as barely-contained dizziness once again swamped him, but though he staggered half a step, he managed to keep his footing.

“It’ll pass,” he gasped, trying to inject some strength into his words. He gave himself a cursory once over, wary of upsetting his throbbing head once again. “I’m not bleeding, I think… the salt water would have cleansed my wounds.” The dwarf grunted in noncommittal agreement, obviously not quite convinced.

Ingwe’s newfound height granted him an excellent vantage point from which to observe his surroundings; after assuring himself that relatively speaking he was still in one piece, he promptly began to do. He found himself and his companions stranded upon a rocky beach, gentle cliffs to his rear and the vast expanse of open ocean, punctuated by jagged rocks like so many shark’s teeth, in the foreground. In the far distance beyond the bluffs, he could just about make out the tallest spires of the elven haven of Anebrilith. Closer to home, though, was the heartbreaking sight of the intrepid little Warspite stranded upon the rocks, her keel torn out like a gutted fish, her masts lying limp and free from her hull. A pair of longboats beached nearby was the unspoken answer as to how the majority of those aboard had abandoned ship and reached shore…

Well, most of them but myself… For some rueful reason, possibly related to the painful pounding between his ears, Ingwe was regretting taking the more direct route.

“By the beard of Grimnir,” Telchar was murmuring under his breath in something almost akin to respect. “The lad’s almost as tough as a dwarf…” The greybeard raised one hand to clap Ingwe on the back, then thought better of it as the young man cringed gingerly.

“What’s the situation like…?” the warrior-mage asked tentatively, bracing himself against the bone-jarring impact as he took a cautious step towards drier ground. To his mildly relieved surprise, he found that it was easier than he’d feared. For a moment, he could almost feel a familiar soothing touch calming his tortured mind, but as soon as he sensed it, it was gone.

None of the three noticed the faint glow of the pendant upon his chest.

“The captain’s badly ‘urt,” Telchar grunted after a momentary pause, indicating with a thrust of his blunt jaw the small gaggle of sailors halfway up the beach. “The same mast that knocked ye overboard caught’m on th’ side. Broke his leg an’ half his ribs.”

Ingwe hesitated mid-stride, grimacing.

“Everybody else is divided between awaiting rescue…” – Glorfindel paused, instinctively reaching out in support as Ingwe stumbled but caught himself just in time – “… and making our way towards Anebrilith proper.”

“We can’t wait here,” Ingwe replied, brow creased painfully as he forced the words from his lungs. “Look what happened to the Warspite… there won’t be any seaborne rescue. And we’re too far from Anebrilith for them to help us. By nightfall, this area will be swarming with Xem’zund’s legions…”

Glorfindel nodded his assent. “That’s what we surmised… unfortunately, many disagree.” There was a hint of disgruntled resentment in his otherwise silky-smooth voice. “However…”

“The walk there isn’t likely to be any more pleasant,” a fourth voice butted in angrily as another figure joined the debate. It was the dark-haired huntsman from Scara Brae, the one who had been the first to air his reservations towards Arminas’ command. His face was contorted in barely suppressed rage, his tunic wet from the seafoam and his bow warily strung against the danger all around. It was about this time that Ingwe finally realised that he himself was soaked to the bone, with the minor exception of the small waterproof pouch at his waist. No wonder it’s so cold… he groaned to himself, realising that his spare clothes were still onboard the Warspite. The huntsman, however, disregarded any such private thoughts that Ingwe might have had as he continued his rant, “You told us that Anebrilith is under siege. What do you want us to do, then? Break the necromancer’s siege lines…?”

Ingwe’s blurry vision focused upon the finger pointed at him accusingly. Somehow he managed to find the strength to stare it down.

“How many of us…?” he queried, his voice barely above a whisper and faltering weakly upon the last syllable. He could swear that the pounding in his head was more audible than the words he spoke.

“Fourteen naugrim including Master Telchar,” Glorfindel began respectfully, obediently answering the question. “Four of the elder race… myself, Selinde, Nerdanel, and a traveller from Valinatal whom with I am not acquainted yet. Twenty-one edan adventurers who signed up in Scara Brae, including yourself, and sixteen crew able to bear arms. Oh, and Taggar, the half-ogre.” The last sentence was added almost as an afterthought.

“Nae enough tae break their lines,” Telchar grumbled almost routinely, stating the obvious with a pointed look in the huntsman’s direction.

“But… if we move quickly enough, we might be able to sneak past. Make it to Anebrilith before the sun sets.” The quiet determination in Ingwe’s fragile voice was also what they had come to accept as characteristic from the young warrior-mage. Despite the obvious effort that it was taking to hold himself upright, there was an unyielding fire now burning in the depths of his eyes; the grim resolve of a man who knew what had to be done to save their lives and was going to do it by any means necessary.

“I…” the huntsman began to argue, then he too saw the expression that Ingwe wore. It wasn’t so much conscious decision that cut off his riposte as an instinctive belief, a desire – a need, if you will – to believe that they stood a fighting chance. Stranded in the midst of enemy territory, surrounded and with little hope of rescue, the mere whiff of an escape route was enough to make him want to trust.

He closed his mouth and nodded, and although the set of his jaw was that of a man fighting his own inner turmoil to obey, it was an important first step.

Ingwe, on the other hand, had no idea of from where his newfound conviction was flowing. All he knew was that he had to get them out of there and to the safety of the city, much preferably in one piece. If it was in his power to help them, then help them he would, to the best of what mediocre abilities he possessed.

“We should salvage what food and supplies we can,” he whispered, completely unaware that what came out as a suggestion would most likely be interpreted as an order. “We have to leave as soon as possible… before it’s too late.”

“Very well,” the huntsman replied, setting out to round up a few of his companions and obey.

In that moment, something intangibly important was born.

[Flames of Hyperion]

The rocky bluffs were to provide less of an obstacle than Ingwe had initially feared; Taggar and Glorfindel reported back from their self-appointed scouting mission with the good news that there was a relatively easy path upwards not too far from their current location. It was a definite blessing, a surprisingly auspicious start to what promised to be a harrowing journey, for it greatly mitigated the problem of how to transport the stricken Captain Maximillian up the cliffs. After all, there would be little meaning in their pledged unity if they didn’t at least make a serious attempt at bringing everybody to safety. Even if the captain was not technically a member of the Legion, for Ingwe was not one to leave an injured companion behind.

Jury-rigging a stretcher from some random poles and sturdy strips of sail took about twenty minutes. By this time the huntsman’s party had managed to salvage most of what was salvageable from the Warspite, including – much to Ingwe’s surprised relief – his waterlogged haversack. The Nipponese warrior-mage wasn’t really one to relish the thought of losing personal possessions either, no matter how insubstantial they were in the bigger picture.

At length, the ragged band of survivors set off along the path that Glorfindel had indicated, taking a second to marvel at how the bladesinger’s keen eyes had picked it out from the matted monotony of the rocky surface. It took six strong men and some careful coordination to safely transfer the stretcher from beach to cliff top, and despite their best efforts there were one or two harrowing jolts that could not have gone down well for the injured man they bore. The captain took it like a true sailor, though, with only one or two muted grunts giving evidence to the pain he must have been experiencing.

We really need to find ourselves a healer… Ingwe mused ruefully to himself as he too climbed the cliff, feeling his knees wobble weakly but just about saving himself from the ignominy of stumbling at every step. The lack of a dedicated medical specialist amongst the Legion had worried him from the moment they had departed Scara Brae; even Tauron Voronwe, who usually undertook such duties for the Rangers of the Eclipse, was more of an amateur herbalist than a true healer. When he had mentioned his fears to Arminas, the elflord had replied that Anebrilithian bladesingers were renowned for their skill at healing songs and that they would have to make do with whatever support the city’s council would send them. And though Ingwe had been appeased at the time… I guess that doesn’t really help us now, does it…

After what seemed like an eternity of putting one aching foot in front of and a few centimetres higher than the other, the warrior-mage finally reached the top of the bluffs. The sound of the waves crashing against the rocky shores seemed almost distant now below him, replaced instead by a steady fresh breeze blowing inland, and the gathering greying clouds overhead. As he paused to catch his breath, steadying himself on his knees and unwilling to unnecessarily disturb the delicate balance of blood in his head, Ingwe took the opportunity to peer through the milling sailors for a glimpse of the path ahead.

He just about managed to stop himself from groaning.

The immediate route was obscured by a veritable jungle of long grass, each verdant green blade reaching to heights far above his head and looking sharp enough as to slice off an unwary finger. Scattered trees amongst the meadows soon thickened out into a full-fledged forest, their evergreen leaves shrivelled and lifeless, branches dry and defiled as the necromancer’s influence began to exert control over even the most stubborn of Mother Nature’s resistances. In the far distance, the mountains that sheltered the elven haven loomed dark and menacing, as if daring them to approach.

Ingwe felt his vision quaver behind his spectacles. It seemed as if fate – whatever that entity purported to be – had no intention of making things easy for them.

As if sensing his momentary hesitation, though, there was an encouraging cry from above. A falcon’s screech, piercing through the clouds within his mind and reminding him sternly of what had to be done. It took all of Ingwe’s willpower to smile softly to himself, but then he bravely shook his head to clear it of the cobwebs. He had to pull himself together. It would not do to show weakness now.

“This way,” he spoke, as the last of the dwarves pulled themselves over the top of the bluffs. He noted wryly to himself that they barely seemed to be breathing; a stark contrast to the heavily exerted huddle of sailors that had taken it upon themselves to be their captain’s stretcher-bearers. His left arm extended straight towards the base of the mountains in the distance, indicating the second hill on the right; a marker that Ingwe had memorised from when he could still see Anebrilith proper.

A figure swathed in the olive green cloak of the Rangers nodded her agreement, an intricately asymmetrical laminated bow held loosely in her right hand and a quiver full of black-fletched arrows slung over her slender shoulders.

“With all due respect, edan,” Nerdanel Celebrindal addressed him for the first time, her Common flawless and precise, the seriousness of her deep and throaty voice so completely unlike her younger sister’s. Keen blue eyes like those of a hawk seemed to stab through his forehead from beneath the depths of her hood, completely ignoring the exasperated glare she got from Selinde at her use of the blunt honorific. “My sister and I should lead the way. We are more skilled than any of you at pathfinding.”

“If you would do the honours,” Ingwe replied, expertly quashing the twinge of irritation that always came with being on the receiving end of elven arrogance and responding instead with an exquisitely polite bow. To be fair, he’d intended to ask them for their guidance in any case, so her offer came as little surprise. Though he considered his sense of direction to be usually fairly accurate, he had little confidence about maintaining it amongst the journey that lay ahead. “Glorfindel, Taggar, may I ask you to bring up the rear and make sure nobody falls behind?”

The half-ogre responded with a mute nod; Glorfindel’s mouth wreathed in a ghostly smile as the elf also indicated his assent.

“Everybody else please stay close… it won’t do to get lost, for we must make it to the city before sunset or we shall be overwhelmed by Xem’zund’s hordes. We’ll be looking to avoid confrontation, but if we do get into a fight, please form up around the stretcher and don’t stray too far…”

The reaction of the assembled Legionnaires was muted nodding, man and ally alike preferring to save their breath for the difficult march ahead. It was then that the thought struck Ingwe, another sudden realisation that almost made him lose the carefully marshalled concentration that was keeping him going.

They’re looking to me for orders…? And they’re not even questioning them…?

Somehow, as the leading elements of the small band of adventurers set off through the long-grass, that was the most troubling notion that he’d had to deal with all day.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Asking Nerdanel and Selinde to lead the way had definitely been the sensible decision, Ingwe thought to himself as he trudged carefully through the tall grass. The two Rangers guided them unerringly through the treacherous meadows, sticking to firm terrain and avoiding patches of boggy ground with consummate ease. Once or twice either of them would lightly scamper up the nearest tree, just to make sure that the party was continuing upon the correct course. It was as if they had been born to the task at hand; Nerdanel’s earlier show of arrogant superiority had not been entirely unwarranted.

With the two Rangers to the fore, the ground literally sped beneath their feat. Within the hour, the splinter group of Legionnaires and sailors had left the grasslands behind. The trail now led into the dying remnants of what had once been a lush and flourishing forest.

The word that immediately sprung to Ingwe’s mind was “desolate”. The soil had used to be a rich, earthy loam granting life and sustenance to the great trees soaring above it. Now it was dry and deathly black, cracked and parched as if the land itself was starved of nourishment. Every step he took seemed to scream tortured agony into his mind, the inflexibility of the ground beneath the soles of his feet narrating a tragic tale of pain and suffering.

The trees had, if anything, suffered an even worse fate. Once evergreen and blooming with verdant leaves, they were now colourless, dark and ominously looming. Their silvery trunks were blistered and scarred by the evil that tainted the land, great gnarled roots desperately scouring the earth for a sanctuary free of contamination. The branches overhead bore no leaves anymore, instead obscuring the sky like a thick wooden canopy, pressing down claustrophobically upon those trapped below. It was oppressive and suffocating just to walk beneath them; the sorrow they emanated was almost physical in its brutality, as was the alarming sensation that the grieving forest had ensnared them within its dying throes.

The air was rank with death and decay, barely a whisper of wind permeating the thick wall of trunks that blocked them off from the coastline. When the trees did rustle, they did so with an unnaturally sad sigh that seemed to emphasise their slow and solitary descent into darkness. At all other times, however, the silence and the stillness reigned. It was, for lack of a better description, very much like a deserted graveyard on a moonless night, with all the musky fear and hidden danger that was thus implied.

Into this otherworldly world of gloom the intrepid band of warriors travelled, desperate to make good time towards the city that lay beyond.

***

“It’s just too quiet…” Nerdanel murmured to herself, her eyes constantly flickering about the vicinity. The Ranger stooped down upon one knee, an outstretched palm placed upon the forest floor in an attempt to read some sign of the path ahead. It was no surprise when the fractured earth gave her nothing except an electric shock of pain that caused her to wince as it travelled up her arm.

“No animals, no insects… no nothing…” Selinde added as she caught up with her elder sister, her youthful voice, usually so full of life and vitality, strangely subdued. “Not even a flicker…”

“I know,” Nerdanel cut her off abruptly, curt as only older siblings could be. The younger Ranger opened her mouth to protest, then immediately closed it again when she caught the brusque glare that Nerdanel gave her. Even at the best of times the markswoman could be grim. At this moment, she was positively forbidding.

Her brow furrowed in a look of intense concentration, while her gaze once more attentively scanned her surroundings. The trees around her seemed to loom like intimidating sentinels, a quick glance upwards warning her that the sun had now disappeared behind the thickly congregating branches and the greyness of the cloud beyond.

But the worst part of it all was the deafening silence, the completely unnatural lack of anything whatsoever reverberating amongst the dying tree trunks. Sure, there was a muted metal clink from the three-score adventurers who were following her lead through the dying forest… but not even they had the audacity to speak out loud. And in the meantime, the macabre quiet cocooned by the comatose canopy threatened to throttle the life out of all who walked within.

“Come on,” Nerdanel whispered to her sister, slightly repentant for her earlier asperity. The two Rangers started forth once again, their senses peeled for any sign… anything, whatsoever. The elder elfmaiden in particular remained on full alert. For there was a nagging feeling in the back of her mind, pure instinct if you will, that their every move was being watched and carefully catalogued.

***

Ingwe trudged along amongst the rear ranks of the main body of warriors, experiencing the same claustrophobic oppression that so frustrated the elf sisters in the vanguard. But it was neither the enclosed confines of the forest that preyed upon him so, nor was it the panic that was slowly spreading its way throughout his system as his mind grew distressed by his surroundings. Similarly to Nerdanel, it was the absolute silence that distressed him the most, as it was a sure sign that everyone present – man, elf, dwarf, and even half-ogre – was experiencing the exact same sense of dread. The horrible calm was more than enough to bring to life any stray demons lurking within their minds.

“I dinnae like this,” Telchar finally spat from alongside him, but even the greybeard’s characteristic grumble did not reach far beyond Ingwe’s ears. It was as if the forest itself was throttling all sounds from within, emphasising the terror that was the sensation of being slowly strangled and cut off from life. Ingwe could only nod mutely in response, his throat abjectly refusing to voice agreement.

Stray thoughts niggled at the back of his mind, random musings about his family back in Nippon – I wonder what they’re doing now – and more concerned thoughts about the friends that he had chased over to the west – I hope they’re all okay… It was no surprise though, that the majority of his doubts were concentrated upon the now and the present. The horribly trancelike tranquillity worked wonders in multiplying his worries a thousand-fold, until they filled his head like loud persistent music, contrasting greatly with the utter silence that flooded his ears.

He couldn’t let these people down. For some reason they were looking to him for leadership – How did that happen, anyways…? – and thus it had become his responsibility to see them safely back to Anebrilith and reunited with Lord Arminas and the main body of the Legion. The burden bore down heavily upon his inexperienced shoulders, until every step forward seemed far more wearying than even his wounded body should have made it.

Ingwe sighed softly and reached up to push his glasses back up his nose; it was a sure sign of his anxiety to those who knew him well. It was obvious to his mind that their situation was nowhere near ideal. They had been forced into taking a route that none of them would ever have taken under normal circumstances, due to the constraints imposed by the necessity to reach safety before dusk, and the forest was a prime location for an ambush even with the two Rangers leading the way. What was more, it was highly unlikely that they would be allowed to progress much further unmolested. If the attack of the fellbats had been any indication, the necromancer did possess some forces capable of daytime activity, and it would not be too difficult even for some underling commander eager for glory to divine the exact location and numbers of the shipwrecked few.

A darting peek skywards confirmed the worst of his fears. The sun had all but disappeared now beyond the thick branches, and it was impossible to determine the exact time of day, or perhaps more importantly how long they had until sundown. He couldn’t even see his familiar, although a faint touch on his consciousness told him that the gyrfalcon remained close by. The situation, if anything, was steadily deteriorating further into extremely dangerous grounds.

No, it won’t be much longer now… Ingwe thought to himself, fingering his travel pouch nervously. At least he felt that he had recovered to the extent that he could wield a blade once again, although he would be wary of calling upon his magic just yet. The dangers of miscasting far outweighed the potential risk of having his head explode like an over-ripe watermelon.

Little did he know that Nerdanel’s instincts had not been lying. The band of adventurers was indeed being watched.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Elsewhere, at the same time…

“There is movement within the eastern forests, m’lord…”

High-pitched and sibilant was the voice that resonated from deep within the folds of the hood, albeit raspy rather than serpentine. The dirty black raiment stretched into a single swathing robe whose one purpose seemed to be to conceal the physical characteristics of its wearer from any prying eyes. Up close, however, a perceptive person would be able to tell that the owner of the voice was short of stature, hunched of back, and probably not in the best of physical shape. The long gnarled staff that the man leant upon for support only added to the last impression.

He suffered from a constant throaty wheeze that almost always occupied his lungs when he was not speaking, and gave off a musty earthy smell that some people politely referred to as “elderly stench”. His robes were tattered at the hems and quite literally had not been washed for ages, whilst what glimpses one caught of his ankles and sandal-clad feet revealed bony and lifeless grey flesh. But this was no ordinary old man.

One could just about make out a hint of his sheet-white complexion, but there was no mistaking the blazing intensity of the chilly green eyes glaring out from the recesses of his shadow-wreathed face. Those with magical tendencies would immediately mark him out as one of rare power; those without would feel the emanating cold seeping through to their very bones, and often would not experience much more for much longer. His long ebony staff was decorated with arcane paraphernalia and blood-carved runes, an artefact of great and ancient power.

He had once been Archibald Winsom the Third, the prodigal eldest son of a long-respected aristocratic line. Now he was a powerful necromancer, one of many in the direct or indirect employ of the great netherlich Xem’zund. His old name had long since been abandoned, and presently he went by the simple moniker Ar’zhanekkar, which in some obscure archaic demonic language meant “the vengeful one”. He was an arrogant man, and proud; used to getting his own way and not used to defeat in any style or form.

On the other hand, the deference with which he had just spoken showed no signs of falsehood. There were only two entities in the entire mortal coil that Ar’zhanekkar addressed with such humble platitude; the first of these was Xem’zund himself. The second was the being that towered before him now.

Maeril Thyrrian had not been a large person in life. As a half-elf, his physique had always been on the slender and willowy side, and he had lacked in the pure physical brawn that had characterised some of the members of his small, obscure knightly order, the name of which was by now lost to the ages. Death, on the other hand, had treated him well, and musculature once constrained by genetic limitations now laughed at the puny rules imposed by nature. The heavy black plate armour he wore only served to further increase the sense of bulk and power that seemed to flow from his being.

Yet largest of all was not his mass or his armour but his sheer presence. The crystal cavern that he had commandeered as his base of operations was most certainly not a small one, but every square inch of it seemed to swelter in his icy dark aura. The gilded golden trim upon his armour shimmered with power; the intricately runed scabbard at his waist, of such size and splendour so as to defy all plausible logic as a side weapon, was barely able to contain a dull red arcanic glare. It was the helmet, though, that was the most fearsome of all he wore; enclosing his face completely except for sinister luminescent orbs where his eyes would once have been, it was moulded in the form of a permanent and eternal leer so terrible that weak-willed men had been known to die just by looking upon it.

Brave indeed was the man who gazed upon Maeril Thyrrian with no fear, brave or exceptionally foolhardy. For Maeril was a death knight, one of the deadliest of the ranks of the undead, and though he owed Xem’zund no allegiance or fealty, he saw the fall of Raiaera as something very much in line with his personal ambitions. His forces were not numerous but most definitely a cut above the usual undead rabble, and had already played a vital if understated role in the victories at Valinatal and Eluriand Gate.

The death knight took his time before replying to his underling, and when he did, it was a metallic hollow monotone deep enough to send the air in the cavern rippling.

“Oh?”

The power that he managed to inject into the single syllable was astounding. Even Ar’zhanekkar quailed briefly in the deepest of his dark hearts, and hastened to continue.

“A mixed group of adventurers, m’lord,” the necromancer spoke in an almost singsong manner, a stark contrast to the one he called master. “Mostly human, but with a couple of elves and even a dozen dwarves in their midst. They are perhaps sixty strong, a number of them already wounded. Warriors, sire, but not trained soldiers.”

The air in the middle of the cavern pulsated with puissant power and coalesced in form. Within moments, it had stabilised into a scarabs-eye view of the ragged band of adventurers as they made their way through the deserted forest. Maeril’s supernatural gaze flickered to take in various details – the elf rangers leading the way, the stretcher in the main body, the half-ogre who brought up the rear.

He shifted ever so slightly, causing an audible chink of armour to echo throughout the cave. Yet still the death knight did not respond beyond monosyllable.

“And?”

“M’lord, I ask permission to exterminate these intruders!” The other man was quick to rasp in answer, brandishing his staff aggressively. “They are a blight upon the beauty of the Dark Lord Xem’zund’s plague, an eyesore upon the majesty of your honour! With your benevolent blessing I shall quash them like the insignificantly puny insects that they…”

“They remind me of myself as I once was…” Maeril mused to himself in a voice that passed as quiet for him, clearly paying no heed to his agitated necromancer. His murmured words had the effect of cutting Ar’zhanekkar off in mid-sentence, strangling whatever else the man had been about to say into a hoarse, incomprehensible gargle. For a moment the scene was almost comical, as Ar’zhanekkar’s bloodlessly pale mouth hung open in something akin to shock.

If Maeril took notice of it, however, he most certainly did not let on otherwise.

“Kratos!” he called, the name reverberating decisively amongst the crystalline stalactites and causing them to shudder in agony. From the shadows at the far end of the cavern there was an answering flash of movement, and a lone form stepped forth from the gloom.

“You called, my lord?” the creature spoke, answering the summons with all the dull alacrity with which he might have answered the door in a previous life. A heavy mail hauberk obscured from view the tattered remnants of his clothes, the putrid rotting flesh hanging from his ribs and the gruesome bloodless wounds that had banished him beyond the realm of the living in the first place. One pallid eye stared out from a skeletal visage only partially framed by a rusty warhelm, completely devoid of spark with the exception of a faint flicker of intelligence retained within.

Kratos was a wight, an undead construct quite unlike the zombies and skeletal warriors that made up the majority of a necromancer’s horde. Their creation required the use of dark magics far beyond the capabilities of your average hedge mage, and thus they were the elite of Xem’zund’s army, easily able to best a trained bladesinger in single combat. Swearing loyalty only to powerful warrior figures, wights were extremely skilled fighters in their own right, and the one known as Kratos was the leader of Maeril’s personal retinue.

“Ah, Kratos,” Maeril was saying, a cold smile touching his lips as Kratos bowed stiffly and deferently. “I need you to do something for me.”

The wight lord ignored Ar’zhanekkar’s angrily slighted glare and concentrated instead upon Maeril’s instructions, taking in every last word as if it was law.

By the time the half-elven death knight had finished, the look upon Kratos’ face perfectly matched that of his liege.