Legion of Light III: The Ancient City

[Flames of Hyperion]

“Join… us…”

Closer, ever closer the writhing shadows edged, until they seemed to be clawing at the very edge of the circle of Legionnaires. Their repeated cries were piercing icicles that struck deep into the courage of the living, tearing away at heart and soul like some hungry beast. The cloying terror threatened to overwhelm them all, fearful silence the best that could be mustered in reply. Even the dozen or so normally vociferous dwarves could only manage a few scattered grunts amongst themselves.

Ingwe could literally feel the last of their hope slipping from their grasp, blood from an open wound seeping away under the aura of evil that assaulted them from all sides. Replacing it was a dreadful emptiness, something grim and desolate, resigned heavy leadenness that burdened their minds. In some it manifested itself as suicidal determination, the resolve to go down fighting and to take as many of the foe with them as possible. In the eyes of others, there was only terror.

Telchar began to chant behind him, using the ruins of the fountain as a makeshift anvil upon which to focus his runic powers. In response, the weapons of the Legionnaires began to glow a gentle pale blue, but even this display of magic was not enough to rekindle the lost sparks of hope. As one the guina paused just beyond weapon reach of the outermost Legionnaires. As one, they tensed.

Ingwe reached for the tanto upon his back, attempting to at least put up some token resistance. But even this was too much to handle… his back flared angrily in pain, and his injured hand would not grasp the cold metal hilt. The young man gave the latter a sad smile as it slumped back down alongside him, watching detachedly as fresh bright crimson stained the cloth wrapped around it. We really should have thought of healers at Scara Brae, he rebuked himself lightly as the darkness began to settle in, clouding his mind like a gloomy veil.

… so this is how it’s going to end…? In an abandoned city, amongst scared soldiers, with no hope… whatsoever…?

Somehow, that just felt so wrong. They hadn’t even begun to play their part in the war against Xem’zund. Unable to bear arms in a glorious final stand against the foe, not even a flicker of hope that they were falling in the name of something meaningful?

No.

Some military commanders held to the principle that to rob a man of hope would turn him into a rabid fighting animal, determined to go down fighting with every last ounce of energy available to him. And it was not as if Ingwe couldn’t see the rationale behind this view, even times when it might be useful… but he could not bring himself to subscribe to it. His own belief was that men fought better when they had both something to fight for and the hope that their actions would not be meaningless in the large picture.

I have to give them that hope… he realised.

In that moment, something changed.

His eyes fluttered open, and whilst just moments ago they had been hollow and listless, they now literally burned with determination, naked flame dancing deep in his luminous pupils. Molten power flowed like liquid fire through his veins, galvanising exhausted limbs into action and muting the agony of his wounds; the cuts on his palm even seemed to heal before his very eyes. The pendant upon his chest pulsed brightly… once, twice, and again… before settling into a sustained beacon-like glow.

The very air seemed to shimmer around him as he stood up, first leaning on the fountain stones for assistance but soon recognising that he had no need. By the time he stood tall, the fiery aura that had invigorated him had subsided somewhat, but its effects remained true. Like the phoenix from the ashes, Ingwe Helyanwe had risen again, one last bright flare from a dying fire.

“Hold the line.”

Again, compared to Telchar or Turgon, his voice was gentle and soft. But this time there was something there… belief, perhaps, or determination… that gave his words strength beyond the norm. The quiet scholar stood tall amongst the wavering warriors, radiating hope and inspiration where before there had been none.

“Form up tightly, and pay no heed to the words of the undead. Hearken instead to the chants of the runelord as he grants your weapons strength, to the song of the bladesinger as he blesses your swordarm. Tonight is a dark night… a fell night… but tonight is also the dawn of a new era. An era in which man, elf, and dwarf are willing to cast aside their differences and fight as one against a common foe.”

Somewhere deep inside, a part of Ingwe’s mind laughed at the utter randomness of what he was saying. At another time, perhaps, the laugh would have made it to his lips, so ridiculously embarrassing was it all. It was perhaps testament to their predicament, then, that an expectant hush had fallen upon the assembled Legionnaires, all eyes fixated upon the Nipponese warrior-mage. I’m really not the type for speeches… his mind wandered briefly, before his voice was compelled to continue.

“Look to the man to your right, and trust him with your life, for he holds it now in his hands. Look to the man upon your left, and let him know that you are worthy of such honour, and that you would rather go down fighting than to see him wounded. Together, thus, we will hold back this tide of evil that threatens us. Together, as one, we will let the Necromancer know that there is hope yet for the goodly folk of these lands.”

At first, there was little reaction from the faces that stared back at him. Ingwe’s heart threatened to sink to new depths… perhaps it was beyond his own meagre skill to actually inspire men, after all.

But I have to try…

“Lord Arminas will not abandon us to this fate. We must hold on until help arrives from the city, or all our efforts so far will have been in vain. And I for one do not wish to have travelled from Scara Brae and beyond only to die a meaningless death.”

There. Flickering in the expressions of those who looked back at him, like a distant lantern in the dead of night.

“I will not lie to you… I am not a great leader like Lord Turgon or Lord Arminas. I cannot promise you victory, or glory, or even an honourable death. But I believe that I speak as a Legionnaire when I say that I will fight with all I possess so that as many of us as possible will lay eyes again upon the light of day. All I ask of you is that you do the same.”

He bowed his head in pleading, holding it there for what seemed like an eternity of silence. When he looked up again, there was, for a brief moment, a trace of the innocent young man about his eyes.

“… please…?”

Visages of determination broke out into relieved laughter; not the nervous giggle of men facing death, but the hearty guffaw of steadfast warriors. Ingwe’s speech had served its purpose. The Legionnaires believed once again. There was no sign of weakness now in the wall of steel that faced the guina.

Ingwe was tempted to sink to his knees, still feeling the fiery power of a presence not quite his own coursing through his body. Instead he raised one arm high, beckoning Hayate to his side. The other rustled hastily in his waist pouch for ink and paper; something that he probably should have done a long time ago but had been too preoccupied to remember.

“That was some speech, my friend,” Glorfindel spoke from behind him, obviously bemused.

“… I would appreciate it if we never spoke of it again,” was Ingwe’s wry response as he applied the finishing touches to a hastily scribbled message. It was not long before he was tying the folded paper around his familiar’s foot. Hayate’s keen eyes bore into the young man’s brow, with both respect and almost a paternal pride, although at what only the gyrfalcon knew. No instructions were needed; as soon as Ingwe stepped back, the majestic bird-of-prey took to the dark skies, rapidly gaining altitude before arrowing off in the direction of Anebrilith’s main citadel.

May the winds bless you with a swift and safe journey… Ingwe prayed briefly after the rapidly disappearing speck of white. Then, features set once again and silvery metal warm against his chest, he turned back to where his friend the bladesinger stood.

“To the lines, master Glorfindel,” he intoned with a smile and a swirl of royal blue. “We have lives to save.”

[Flames of Hyperion]

Forth they came, wailing horribly when their invitations had no effect. Like a boundless mantle of shadow, the guina threw themselves at the beleaguered Legionnaires, clawing and biting and loosing oily tendrils into their living foes.

They were met with battlecries in a multitude of tongues and a wall of flashing steel that tore their veiled forms asunder in pale ghostfire. The dwarves were the veritable rock upon which the circle of soldiers rested, repelling wave after wave of the soulless wraithes with Prince Derthark in the very thick of it all. The men around them fought with a potent mixture of passionate ferocity and grim determination, the runelord Telchar’s magicks enhancing their weapons so that they glowed an eerie, deadly blue as they carved through spectral forms. Many were the times that a man went down fighting beneath the sheer weight of his foes, only for his comrades to dig him out from beneath the flailing shadows and drag him to safety.

Pairs of the Legion’s best warriors roamed behind the tight circle of sailors and soldiers, ready to greet the guina wherever they pressed hardest. Hawkeyed Nerdanel and vengeful Selinde, hulking Taggar and the dark-haired Scarabrian huntsman, lordly Glorfindel and the young warrior-mage from Nippon who’d somehow found the energy to fight once again. Like angels of death and salvation they would appear where they were needed the most, clearing the foes just enough for their comrades to find some respite before moving on to the next skirmish.

And yet still the guina kept up their relentless assault, undaunted in the least. The spectres cold not be destroyed by mere cantrip or enchanted metal; it would take far more than that to assuage their undying fury. Desire for living blood unquenched, they hurled themselves heedlessly at the lines of the living, wearing down the Legionnaires through sheer attrition.

Bleak, sorrowful moonlight cast itself down upon the battletorn quadrangle whenever the thick obscuring clouds gave it a glimpse. But for the most part the battle was fought in barely discernible darkness, briefly interrupted only by the flare of a fireball or the flash of faerie magic cast into the midst of the writhing shadows. The night was cold but the atmosphere searing and humid, the air dead and clammy as it seemed to press in upon the battle, fighting for a better view. Even the din seemed oddly muted, no ringing clash of metal on metal, only grunts of exertion and muffled expletives dampened stiflingly by the witching hour.

The battle may have lasted for an eternity… or perhaps it had only lasted for a few minutes, for there was no way of measuring time in this isolated, coffin-like vacuum. At length, though, one of the Legionnaires – a young squire barely eighteen years of age – was forced to retreat from the perimeter, his body simply unresponsive to orders from his mind. He was soon joined by another young man, and then by a handful more, all similarly unable to continue fighting any longer, so crippling was the exhaustion.

But for each man that left the line, his remaining comrades were forced to fight even harder to make up for it. Tighter, ever tighter they were forced, until they were all literally fighting back to back with no room to manoeuvre. The pairs of warriors that had been so instrumental to holding back the guina had little need to move around any more, for wherever they were, in whatever direction they faced, they were hard pressed.

It was to the Legion’s credit that they had continued to fight on for so long, for they were without a doubt some of the finest warriors of their lands. But it was as clear as crystal that they could not last forever. For all their individual skill and strength, they each suffered from that most basic of biological needs… the need for rest. They had fought hard, they had fought well, they had done what they could.

But the deciding factor in the battle would be their mortal weakness.

Sensing victory, the guina howled wildly and piled in with renewed vigour.

***

“Yunagi no mai!”

Strictly speaking, the invocation was not part of the sword dance. But the spoken word helped to focus his mind, helped to concentrate the power as it flowed through his limbs. Twin swords swept forth in a series of swift defensive strokes, the steel like a shimmering omnidirectional shield as it kept his foes at bay. His cloak flowed behind him with the momentum, smoothly channelling his motions from start to finish.

But with every step he took, every twist of his torso, Ingwe felt his newfound power seep away like water between his fingers. Every repetition of the very actions that were keeping him alive drained him like nothing before, leaving behind only a hard earned almost refreshing in its purity. He knew that this would be the last… there would be no more miracles, no more inspiration, no more last-ditch acts of desperation to save them now. The rays of hope from his one last gamble were dying in front of his eyes, and it was all he could do to cling to them, begging them not to leave him behind.

To his left, Nerdanel – fighting with daggers now that her arrows were spent – went down clutching her shoulder where a guina’s raking claws had torn bloody gashes through her leather jerkin. Selinde desperately held her ground in front of her sister, her crescent blade dancing wickedly as the younger Ranger managed to buy enough time for the shining mail-clad form of Glorfindel to come to their aid. Together they managed to drag Nerdanel to safety behind the diminished line of Legionnaires. But both were bleeding from a multitude of minor wounds, and the youthful glow upon Selinde’s face in particular had been replaced by ashen exhaustion.

To his right the dwarven shieldwall was buckling, not from exhaustion – for the naugrim were exceptionally hardy folk – but from the sheer weight of numbers the guina placed upon them. Resolute, relentless, and notoriously stubborn, the dwarves of Gunnbad had not given ground as easily as their human allies, but this had left them dangerously close to being cut off as the Legionnaires retreated for a final stand around the runelord Telchar. Prince Derthark was a mighty figure of doom as he marshalled his companions on to ever greater exhortations, having cut down scores of the foe with his great axe. Ingwe had little doubt that with Telchar’s aid they could have held their little patch of stone almost indefinitely against the guina, yet…

His swords wove an incandescent trail of streaked silver as they clove through the shadows in the night. He was conscious now that he was alone, alone and unsupported, and that the guina were beginning to work their way around and behind him. Within moments his fate would be sealed, for he could not hope to defend himself against attacks from every direction at once.

It was now, however, that Ingwe finally recognised the ki flowing through his body, not only the fiery power that was so like a wilder, less-restrained version of his own, but also the gentle, calm touch that had unlocked it in the first place… the same gentle touch that had helped him focus on the task at hand ever since they had left the Warspite. He felt a surge of gratitude towards the whimsical vagaries of magic, towards that obscure ancient piece of arcane law that had allowed for this magical miracle to occur.

The locket on his chest pulsed once in response, and once again he felt her presence grace his mind, urging him to hold on, begging him never to give up. He was surrounded now, and it took all of what acrobatic skill, weapons technique, and sheer luck he possessed to keep his foes at bay.

Behind him, Ingwe sensed Glorfindel wading back into the fray, carving swathes through the shadows that sought to obstruct him from his isolated friend. But the bladesinger was tiring, and his foes too many, and his desperate shout only barely reached Ingwe’s ears.

Then the Nipponese lost his footing amongst the dewy cobblestones. The piercing cry of a solitary falcon rent the night air as Ingwe went down hard.

In an instant, he was buried in his foes.

[Flames of Hyperion]

The clear, crisp, clarion call of a horn sundered the darkness like a bolt from the blue. Noble and triumphant the note soared through the battletorn square, causing Legionnaire and guina alike to pause in wonder.

Ingwe somehow managed to pull himself free of the unresisting spectres, only to find Glorfindel now standing by his side. The elf was looking towards the west with a relieved, almost awed expression upon his delicately handsome features.

“That is no wight-horn, Ingwe,” he spoke, his voice carrying to the rest of the men as well. “We are saved.”

Within moments, the meaning of his words became clear. The rolling thunder of five hundred horse swept into the courtyard from behind the guina ranks, carving a sharp silvery swathe through the shadows. An unstoppable tide of glowing, shimmering steel, they scattered all before the like leaves upon the proverbial wind, driving with speed and purpose towards the beleaguered Legionnaires. Prince Turgon of Tor Elythis rode at their head, an implacable figure of wrath and ruin, his sword scything through multiple foes with every stroke. The banner of the Silverwind was borne proudly aloft by his standard bearer at his side, a shining beacon of light reminding the undead hordes that the ancient might of the elves was not yet spent.

In no time at all, the elnaith had covered half the width of the quadrangle and cleared a path to the Legionnaires. As if by prearranged signal the wedge split in two, Prince Turgon leading half of his men to sweep the right flank of the Legionnaire formation whilst his standard bearer rode with the remaining half against the left. The flow of bright mail passed so close to Ingwe that it seemed as if by reaching out to touch it, he would be spirited away within the rapid river of movement. Already the guina were fleeing from the new foe; when in a matter of seconds the elven cavalry had passed him by, there was nothing in their wake but a relieved, almost deafening silence.

The entire sequence of events had been so sudden, Ingwe could not even bring himself to rise to his feet.

Deus ex machina…? he wondered tiredly to himself, and could have sworn he heard a faint giggle as the glow on his chest gently died away. It was replaced by a sudden weight upon his shoulder as Hayate returned from his brief sojourn, the gyrfalcon chuckling contentedly and preening himself with pride.

“Aye, you did well…” Ingwe murmured weakly, stroking his familiar’s neckline in gratitude. “Thank you, my friend…”

And thank you, Lord Arminas, he added in his mind. Thank you for acting so quickly and decisively.

A flash of shadow in the clouds above, and Ingwe looked behind him to see the gryphon from earlier that day join the fray. The noble mount had its wings spread wide, teeth and claws bared in a fearsome display of fury, but it was the rider upon its back who caught Ingwe’s attention, the elf’s delicate swordwork reaping foes by the dozen. In strength understated, in skill unparalleled, in presence unmatched, he was no doubt an elflord every bit the equal of Turgon.

The battle was fast turning into a rout, the ranks of the guina thinning dramatically as the elves of the Silverwind took their toll upon their foe. Even though those of the wraiths who had fallen this evening would undoubtedly rise again on the morrow, their thirst for vengeance unsated, none of the Legionnaires had any wish to be around when they did so.

Ingwe watched the fighting die down, his body rooted to the spot as his friends and comrades gathered to him, unable to quite believe the sudden turn of events. Exhaustion sapped every last inkling of energy from his muscles, his limbs leaden and unresponsive and his body heavy except where injuries flared up again in intense agony. He was acutely conscious of a gaping void within his soul from whence strength had earlier flowed, and its disappearance left him heartbroken and overwhelmed by sense of loss. Why had he not realised her presence earlier? Why had he been unable to even thank her for her support?

How had she even been able to aid him in the first place? Not to mention, why? And how had she been able to unlock the power within him?

Most importantly, perhaps, would it ever happen again…?

Questions without any plausible answers – or any way whatsoever of finding them – continued to assault his mind and rob his lungs of breath. Ingwe wanted nothing more than to collapse in a heap upon the invitingly solid cobblestones, but something prevented him from doing so just yet. Probably the stern look in Hayate’s luminous golden eyes that warned him, no matter how relieved he felt, that his task was not quite over.

The horn sounded again, this time from further off in the distance. With a start, Ingwe noticed that the quadrangle was now completely clear of guina, such a marked contrast from just a few moments ago.

From the eastern edges of the square the elnaith re-emerged, this time at a gentle trot as they reformed their ranks. The second signal, Ingwe belatedly realised, had been to call off the pursuit; even the mighty Silverwind dared not venture rashly into the clutches of the night. The realisation served as a fitting reminder of just how precarious the Anebrilithian position was… and, he would later reminisce, was suitable foreshadowing of the difficult times that lay ahead for Ingwe and the other Legionnaires.

For the moment, though, they were alive. And that was all that mattered.

[Flames of Hyperion]

They say that the bearer of bad tidings oft befalls ill fortune himself, and after all, life as an undead minion was cheap enough. Thus, although Maeril did not rank amongst the more tyrannical of Xem’zund’s lieutenants, it still fell to his chief necromancer to give him the news.

Ar’zhanekkar shuffled forth across the worn stone, his trailing robes making an odd rasping sound that echoed angrily about the vast cavern. He halted a few paces from the unresponsive Maeril, gave a perfunctory bow that was over almost before it began, and then began to speak in his irritatingly nasal voice from beneath the folds of his black hood.

“M’lord,” he addressed the death knight, who was slumped in his obsidian throne, head propped up on the armrest via a thickly gauntleted forearm. “M’lord, the guina have failed. The band of shipwrecked soldiers has made it into Anebrilith.”

Maeril remained ominously silent, showing no sign whatsoever of having absorbed Ar’zhanekkar’s words. A few of the junior members of his retinue, hidden safely away in the shadows, began to twitter expectantly amongst themselves. After all, even though it was but a trivial matter in the overall scheme of things, failure in the service of Xem’zund was still…

Then their lord’s eyes flashed red, deep within the metallic confines of his great horned helm.

“It is of little consequence, Ar’zhanekkar,” he spoke, his powerful voice echoing about the chamber and once again setting not a few hearts to quailing. Others, however, relaxed. Their liege did not seem to be angry.

“M’lord…” the pallid necromancer wheezed, acutely aware of his precarious position. After all, it was he who had advocated inciting the guina against the soldiers, certain that where the wight lord Kratos had failed, he would succeed.

“It is of little consequence,” Maeril repeated after a short pause. If anybody could suspect him of having a sense of humour, they would probably have guessed that he was watching Ar’zhanekkar squirm. Another brief interval in which neither ornate armour nor ebony staff stirred a breath, both sides weighing up the other in both caution and respect. Then the death knight spoke once more.

“You know what to do.”

Ar’zhanekkar bowed his acquiescence, mindful of the cold sweat glistening upon his pale flabby brow. Then, with a swirl of movement mostly dirty black robe, the necromancer was gone.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Once again, Ingwe found himself facing the precisely-formed ranks of the elnaith, standing – for reasons he still did not quite comprehend – at the head of the Legionnaires with Telchar and Glorfindel at his side. The hour was closer now to dawn than to dusk, but even in the pitch-blackness of total night, the armour of both horse and rider seemed to shimmer with a life of its own. The most noticeable difference between the current meeting and the previous, however, was also perhaps the least tangible; for while Turgon had been willing to abandon them to their fates before, he was now prepared – if grudgingly – to offer a helping hand.

“I bring word from the Anebrilithian High Council,” he began, still with little courtesy beyond a cursory dip of his lance, still remaining mounted so that he could literally talk down to the Legionnaires. What was more, Ingwe realised, the elflord even now spoke as if his words were meant for Glorfindel alone, completely ignoring Telchar, Derthark, and even Selinde and Nerdanel as if they were beneath him. Some things did not change.

“Lord Arminas Ereinon has requested for your safe passage into Anebrilith. After much insistence upon the part of his sympathisers…” – the expression on Turgon’s face curled into distaste, giving Ingwe the distinct impression that such lobbying was considered downright rude in elven politics – “… his request has been approved. We are under the direct orders of the High Steward himself to escort you within the city walls.”

Weary sighs of relief echoed from the soldiers and sailors assembled around. By some miraculous stroke of fate, fifty-six strong they still remained, although none were untouched by their sequence of skirmishes, and the stretcher-borne Captain Maximillian in particular lay in a deep, unresponsive swoon. Finally, though, their run of bad luck seemed to have ended.

Finally, their destination was in sight.

Turgon glanced across the ragged band of survivors with disgust barely kept in check, porcelain features twitching beneath his tall helm with the effort of remaining calm. When he spoke again, however, his voice was under firm control.

“We should leave this area immediately,” he urged, once again addressing Glorfindel only. His words were polite, but it was obvious that they were tantamount to an order.

The bladesinger replied with a deep bow, deferential and gracious. “Very well,” he agreed, but when Glorfindel looked up, his eyes were cool and just a little hard around the edges. His next action, furthermore, was calculated to infuriate.

With even more deference than he had accorded Turgon, Glorfindel went down on one knee so that his eyes were level with the still-stooping Ingwe’s.

“Ingwe?” he queried, his eyes dancing with understated glee at the subtle insult.

For his part, Ingwe was shocked by the act, and even more surprised when Telchar placed a strong hand upon his shoulder and grinned tiredly in agreement. The effort of maintaining even a minor spell for such a length of time and over such wide vicinity had obviously taken its toll on the runelord, but though his complexion was sallow, his eyes were proud.

Ingwe blinked once, owlishly.

And, after a brief pause, he blinked again.

Then, slowly and with Hayate’s admonishing chirrup echoing in his ears, he wearily rose to his feet.

“Thank you, Lord Turgon,” Ingwe spoke, his tone formal and courteous as he forced his body into a pained bow. With equal deliberation, he next turned to face the remaining Legionnaires.

He paused once more, hesitating for only a moment to catch his breath.

Then, with a wan smile, he declared,

“Form up, men. We’re nearly there.”

***

Whatever doubts remained in his mind were slowly but surely erased by the tired grins he received as the Legionnaires marched past, under the strict escort of the elnaith. The long line of men was flanked on both sides by the elven cavalry, stretching from where he stood in the courtyard to the darkness in the distance. The scene seemed somewhat incongruous, almost like the passage of a prisoner train rather than the triumphant entry into the city that he had almost dared to envisage. But the important thing was that they were alive, and that their immediate goal was close at hand.

As of yet, however, he could not bring himself to leave the darkened quadrangle where he had just spent long hours fighting for his life. Perhaps it was the lingering trace of her magic in the air, or perhaps it was just that he didn’t want to let go of the realisation that, in some obscure arcanic way, he and she still remained connected. Eyes closed, breathing minimal, he concentrated on the aftertaste of her presence, the barest hints of sense and surrounding that proved that he had not been dreaming.

“Yuka…” he sighed at last into the cool night air, feeling his emotions ripple in tune with the slow, final ebb of power.

A gentle nibble on his shoulder, and Ingwe realised that Hayate was discreetly reminding him that they were not alone. What was more, he felt eyes on him, studying him from a distance.

Ingwe let go of his trance, glancing around him for the source of the sensation. It was to his surprise, however, when he found the gryphon rider peering at him curiously, pupils of luminous intelligent green backed by the wild savage amber of his mount. Slowly, the elf approached; as he came closer, Ingwe could see that his armour was lighter and less elaborate than Turgon's, more utilitarian in fact. A tall silver helm of the distinctive Tor Elythisian style was matched by pleated mithril scale, light as a feather but sturdier than steel. His long bannered lance remained affixed to his mount’s saddle, but an ornate longsword at his waist attested to his position as an elf of some standing.

“Elrohir,” he introduced himself in a disarmingly frank manner. Ingwe almost did a double-take when the elf followed it up with, “Prince of Tor Elythis, and captain of the Skyknights. That there is Surion, my faithful partner.” The dangerous gleam in the gryphon’s eyes made Ingwe glad that such was the case.

The warrior-mage had heard of the Skyknights during his travels, although they were not as famed as the elnaith in various tavern rumours. A remnant of ages past during which the elves had taken to the skies in great numbers atop the backs of dragons, gryphons, great eagles, and pegasii, the Skyknights were but a mere shadow of their former glory, a ragtag band of misfits who had long since lost their primary mission of decisive strikes to the more disciplined, more numerous elnaith. Some spoke of them as little better than mercenaries, utilising their mobility to travel the lands offering their services to the highest bidder within reason. But they still evoked romantic memories of the freedom of the skies and the justice of a sharp blade, and even the worst of the rumours were spoken with a hint of respect.

And Ingwe could not help but like the ruffianish elf that stood before him now, his disdain for ceremony and his blunt nature such a breath of fresh air after Prince Turgon.

“Ingwe Helyanwe,” the Nipponese replied with a short bow and a smile, though he could not quite keep his voice from quavering and his smile from bleakness.

“Ingwe,” Elrohir repeated, allowing his dark cloak to flow about him in a return bow of genuine respect. “I shall remember that name.”

Ingwe was certain by now that he was flushing in embarrassment.

“Don’t mind Turgon,” Elrohir continued, his expression turning sincere as he reached out a slender arm to touch Ingwe’s shoulder. “He has always been distrustful of other peoples. His experience has taught him that fellow elfkind are all he can rely upon, and though through my own I have learnt otherwise, he is also too stubborn and proud to admit that he may be wrong. His suspicion extends even to those of his kin who would willingly ally with man and dwarf.” Here Ingwe flinched slightly, and Elrohir gave him a knowing nod. “Myself and Arminas included.”

The rider sighed, then abruptly turned on his heels with a jaunty wave.

“Fear not, Ingwe of the east,” he stated in farewell, speaking almost irresponsibly over his shoulder. “You did well. Enter Anebrilith, rest and attend to your wounds, and we will worry about tomorrow… tomorrow.”

Watching him leave, Ingwe blinked once more in surprise. Then he relaxed… and smiled again.

[Flames of Hyperion]

The sun rose over the eastern seas. A halo… a pinprick… a brilliant wedge against the horizon. Dawn’s first rays seared the dark night clouds from the heavens, granting the defenders of Anebrilith the sense of renewed hope that came with the new day. A fresh breeze sprang up off the glistening waters, authoritatively driving away the morning mists from where they clung to forest and farmhouse.

High upon the pristine white battlements of Anebrilith’s innermost sanctum, Arminas Ereinon breathed deeply of the dewy air and smiled in equal parts contentment and relief. He was dressed in his finest, flowing robes of deep soothing green brocaded in rich gold. As beautiful and as exquisite as they were, though, they were the clothes of a mere pauper next to the robes of office that the High Steward had worn during their audience. In truth, Arminas disliked the finery, preferring simpler attire that did not reflect the opulence and arrogance that had driven him to exile.

Far below, amidst the ruins of the outer city, his keen eyes caught movement under cover of shadow. Once again, Xem’zund’s hordes massed for assault. But the proud elven banners upon the bloodstained lower walls wavered not. It would not be today that Anebrilith would fall.

He paused, breathing again of the cool wind, and then finally spoke.

“Mae govannen, mellonamin.” Well met, my friend.

“Amin naa tualle,” the young man waiting behind him replied. I am at your service.

Polite, well-spoken, and patient… rare qualities indeed for one of the edain. Arminas could picture him without turning, dark hair ruffled by the breeze and blue cloak neatly flowing behind him. He would be swathed in bandages from head to toe – elven healing magic was potent but did not work miracles – and would require at least two full days of rest before daring to draw upon his arcane powers again. But the very fact that Ingwe stood there was testament to the young man’s sheer determination and willpower.

Now, if he only had the confidence to match…

At length, Arminas turned to face Ingwe, quietly scrutinising the Nipponese warrior-mage. Ingwe responded with a courteous, cautious bow, holding it for just a moment longer than was necessary. The human’s features were expressionlessly neutral, carefully composed and betraying little sign of the exertions of the previous night besides a speckle of dark shadow beneath his eyes.

Arminas spared a glance to the small cadre of Rangers who stood discreetly by the entrance to the nearest tower. Nerdanel, her shoulder similarly wrapped tight in bandages, and Selinde had reported extensively on the events of their flight from the Warspite. Though his second-in-command Aegnor had advised him to take their words with a pinch of salt, Arminas himself was inclined to believe them. Strange it was how fate could meander, that a scholar picked up in Scara Brae to translate and mediate had such hidden courage secreted within.

Stepping forward slowly, the elflord laid a hand on the young man’s shoulder and bent down slightly so that their eyes were level.

“Diola lle,” Arminas said, his voice suffused with genuine warmth.

Thank you.

***

“Useless piles of bone,” Ar’zhanekkar wheezed heavily before breaking out into a coughing fit that threatened to tear his very lungs from his frailly obese frame. A thick mist seeped about the tendril-like tree-roots and parched bark, once more threatened by seaborne wind and weakly determined sun. It will dissipate soon, the necromancer thought to himself, sampling of the air with a long serpentine tongue. But it will last long enough for my purpose.

Such were the constraints he was forced to labour under when he depended upon mother nature rather than his own powers. Magic however was a fickle slave, prone to detection and easily traced, and the long arm of Anebrilithian justice had not yet been completely cut off. And Ar’zhanekkar had not survived as long as he had through rash action.

At last, his crude limping gait brought him to the centre of the clearing where, not eighteen hours before, living and undead had clashed in mortal combat. The “piles of bone” he had mentioned earlier were the remains of those wights unfortunate enough to have been caught in the path of the dwarven charge and crushed by the might of their iron hammers. Needless to say, Ar’zhanekkar held little sympathy for such incompetent minions.

But orders were orders. Especially when they came from the mouth of Maeril Thyrrian, favoured lieutenant of the almighty Xem’zund himself.

His dark robes trailed grimy filth in the cracked soil, his very presence seeming to throttle colour from his surroundings in a blur of evil power. But it was when he plunged the haft of his staff into the ground and incanted a single word of power that the entire landscape warped in upon itself, wracked by agony. Trees twisted and splintered as they fought to flee, while the earth sundered and cracked under the force of a thousand concentrated quakes. The wind through the forest became a howling scream of pain, echoing the intense torment Ar’zhanekkar was inflicting upon the land.

When at last it ceased, there were figures other than the black-robed necromancer amongst the lightening mist.

“We await Lord Maeril’s command, m’lord,” one spoke for them all, his voice the raspy grating of death.

Ar’zhanekkar snarled, baring crooked, blood-flecked teeth of dirty yellow.

“Come,” he ordered, just about suppressing his disgust and contempt. “We have work to do.”

[Flames of Hyperion]

Today I go to meet the High Council.

Imagine that. An insignificant nothing from nowhere, signed up to the Legion for deskwork, and suddenly Lord Arminas is treating me like some hero. I’m not sure that I can handle the responsibilities… the fact of the matter remains that I was in way over my head, the night before last. But Lord Arminas, Telchar, and Glorfindel all insist, and the expressions upon the faces of the other Legionnaires when they see me do much to lift my heart.

I promise myself that this will not go to my head. At the same time, though, I feel that I must do what I must.

Castor – the huntsman from Scara Brae – keeps me well informed of the rumours filtering through the camp. The latest has it that we are to be sent back out into the outer city as a guerrilla force to harass enemy lines, or that we are to be used as a militia reserve in the citadel proper. Apparently, Lord Turgon of Tor Elythis wields much influence at the Council on account of his considerable contribution to the Anebrilithian cause, and he still does not see us as reliable warriors. In truth, Lord Arminas does not disagree with the assessment, and in all honesty I cannot, either. Perhaps fighting outside the walls will suit us better, however dangerous it may be.

I believe that Lord Arminas will accept any chance for us to prove our worth. And though forging warriors from the heat of battle is a prospect that frightens me somewhat, it is also true that we have little time for the training that we would need. Again, we must do what we must.

The Spirit of Scara Brae and the Thunderchild sail on the evening tide, escorted personally by Lord Elrohir to the open sea. What provisions we brought with us are but a drop in a vast ocean, but the relief upon the faces of those who have boarded makes our efforts worth every sacrifice. The Warspite, I fear, will have to remain where she is until we are able to salvage her. I can only hope, for Captain Maximillian’s sake, that it will be soon.

The good captain lies resting in the infirmary along with a handful more of our seriously wounded. The healers say that they have done their best and that he is on the path to recovery, but still his eyes do not open. Perhaps it would have helped if we had managed to get him to attention earlier, or if we had capable healers in our midst, but…

Despite it all, Yuka, how I wish you were here. Your powers of healing, your magic, your skill with the bow, your athleticism and intelligence… how much I wish I could count on them now. I dreamt of you again last night… it was dark and stifling and my mind’s eye was blinded, but I knew you were there. I could only hold on for the briefest of moments, but you gasped slightly and began to speak… perhaps you sensed me too…?

I start to wonder if this pendant of mine is linked to you somehow. Logic dictates that it should not be so, even if for some reason you have kept yours, for I did not imbue it with any such power when it was created. But magic has always proved itself to transcend mere reason… and the evidence of the previous night is compelling.

And above all, I wish to believe.

In the end, though, it is heart-warming to know that there is always one thing that holds true.

Yuka…

~ Entry in Ingwe’s Book of Travels

[Spooks]

Hi, Spooks here. I am the mystery judge, and I apologize for taking so long to get to your thread. I'm afraid that criticism is what I do best, so most of what follows will be just that, so I'm going to say up front that you are a writer with a talent for making real characters out of your NPCs and really working with the setting. You're a good writer, and I see you going far.

Other note...this had a real movie feel. In some ways this was a good thing...in others, not so much. But I'll get to that.

Anyway, on for the hide beating and number crunching. Don't worry it'll be fun.

Continuity - 8. There were strong hints at where everyone came from and where everyone was going, with the exception of the dwarves. I liked them a lot, but what they were doing and why they were there...I just couldn't tell. Since you didn't so much as acknowledge Edmund, I treated him like an intruder, instead of as a player, and didn't take off for his one brief post.

Setting - 8.5. Never once have I seen a thread where I had such a firm grasp of the terrain through which the characters were forced to hustle. The "cinematography," as I thought of it, was nothing short of astounding. The one thing that was lacking was in the characters themselves. I know the eye color of the gryphon rider, and that's it. I know Glorfindel's and Ingwe's hair colors, but that's it. You spent a lot of time on the costuming, but not on the casting, so there were a lot of pretty generic, bland faces and builds to what was otherwise a stellar portrayal of the world around your characters. I particularly liked how the salt spray of the ocean was splashing on Ingwe's glasses at the start of the thread. As someone who wears glasses and is subject to the gunk that gets on them...I liked the touch of realism.

Pacing - 6. I know you liked the whole epic movie feel for your thread, but it made the thread drag a bit, and each long, ornately written post seemed to drag, as well. My advice for you here: write your posts as you see fit. Then post them. Then a couple of days later, go back through them and discard each and every word that you don't absolutely need. It'll speed things up a lot...and it'll help you fix a couple of other problems that I noticed.

Persona - 8.5. While Ingwe is your character, so you're telling it through his eyes, you put a lot of effort into each and every one of the major NPCs, and it really shows. I think the story could have stood for more of that one guy from Scara Brae...I think you called him Castor (like the fish oil? Seriously?) in the last post.

Action - 7. You write action well, but it's not always a good thing when the thread starts to get bogged down in it. I also think you put a level 1 through quite a bit more abuse than he really should have been able to take quite yet, so there was a little bit of questionability there towards the end, but you played it well, so I'm letting you get away with it.

Dialogue - 8. I love seeing accents. Your grip on the Dwarven Scottish-esque accent kind of fluctuated here and there, but it made me happy to see it. Accents are a rare thing on Althy. Anyway, the dialogue for Selinde and Nerendel got a little bit confusing, but for the most part, I didn't have much problem distinguishing who was who when they spoke.

Mechanics - 9. You have a great grasp over the English language...but you have fragments. And a lot of that is you get so lost in the ornate and flowery construction of clauses that you simply skip the verb that would tie it all together, or use the wrong form of the verb, and thus several sentences that could have been just weren't.

Technique - 7. I liked a lot of what you did. Really. Truly. Honestly. However...don't use multiple descriptors when one would do the task adequately, because that just bogs things down. Save the multiple descriptors for the really important things, because that's one of the clues for people to sit up and say "oh, this is important, I had better remember this." Something like "and amidst the clutter, there was a brilliant, scarlet rose that clung tenaciously to life despite the squalor of its surroundings, its velvet petals hanging onto the bud like a lingering hope" is not typically important. But if there's a yeti beating down your flimsy door to try and eat you, it's not good to say "oh, by the way, there was a monster at the door, too." You didn't do the latter, or the extreme of the former, but you did put in so much concrete detail in flowery writing that sometimes it was hard to plow through. Prioritize detail. And speaking of "by the way," you break the fourth wall on numerous occasions. The word "you" should not be used outside of dialogue. EVER.

And finally, you make references to Earth things. Once you compared Selinde's athleticism to that of an Olympian. As far as I know...there is no Olympus on Althanas. Be mindful of your colloquialisms, okay?

Clarity - 8. It was mostly clear, but there were times I had to dig through the language to get through to the meaning.

Wild Card - 7. It was a long thread with a lot of effort in it, and for that I commend you. However, and I don't mean to be rude with this, so please don't take it as such...it was kind of boring. Yes, it was high action and rather non stop...but it kind of clunked along.

Total: 77. Congratulations!

All right, this was an FQ thread completed in time, so EXP and GP will be doubled.

Flames of Hyperion gains 4150 EXP and 800 GP.

Questions/comments/general abuse may be sent to my PM box, and I'll make a habit of checking in every now and again just in case you need me to give you specifics. Good luck and happy writing!

[Taskmienster]

EXP AND GP ADDED! Welcome to level 2!