Legion of Light III: The Ancient City

[Flames of Hyperion]

Their situation began to deteriorate almost as soon as Ingwe had finished his dire thoughts.

The first signs of trouble started when wisps of mist began to roll in from in front of them. Like hungry fingers searching for something edible, the foggy tendrils rapidly crept around and about, until within the space of a minute or so the little party was completely surrounded by a thick blanket of unfathomable grey. Even the nearest tree trunks were indiscernible from the wall of blankness that draped itself over them, the Legionnaires instinctively bunching together for protection and so as not to lose sight of one another.

Immediately Nerdanel ordered a halt, her right hand held upright with fingers splayed wide. She sniffed warily, her eyes continuing to dart about from beneath her olive-green hood, catching the barest hint of rot and decay in the air. Cagily she stood her ground, a feline predator on the highest level of alert, her muscles tense and her body ready for any movement whatsoever. Her sister beside her mirrored the stance; although Selinde did not have Nerdanel’s experience or tracking sense, even the younger elf could tell when things were about to go horribly, horribly wrong.

Amidst the huddled circle of men, their uncertain murmurs smothered by the oppressive fog, Ingwe also stood his ground and probed his surroundings. There was the unmistakable, almost metallic tang of magic in the air; the mist was most certainly not a natural one. It took all of his concentration and willpower to maintain his focus, filtering conscious into surroundings in an attempt to discern the enemy’s next move. But his efforts were dampened and rejected by the roiling miasma, as effortlessly as a trained soldier would have warded a child’s blow.

“Do you sense anything?” Glorfindel asked from behind him as the rearguard caught up. The bladesinger, too, was cautious and on his guard, one hand resting lightly upon the hilt of his sword. Keen blue eyes peered into the distance, attempting to pierce the swollen mantle that surrounded them, but even they failed miserably.

“Nothing…” Ingwe replied at length, finally admitting that his puny and fatigued skills could not penetrate the work of what was obviously a skilled magic user.

“There is great evil at work,” was the elf’s curt response, emphasised by a wry grunt from the half-ogre Taggar and a bark of derisive laughter from Derthark who was nearby. “We must stand ready.”

“Lit them come!” the dwarven prince snarled, almost challenging the elf to defy him as he brandished his rune-encrusted weapon. “I’ll hae their heads upon mah axe!”

His kinsmen echoed the sentiment, howling deep-throated warcries into the mist as they dared whatever was waiting for them to show itself. The notable exception was Telchar, who remained carefully observant of his surroundings, murmuring something in his own tongue lightly under his breath.

Ingwe gave a rueful mental sigh. Part of him had been resigned to the fact that this would have happened sooner or later, although it would have been nice to make it to Anebrilith unscathed. He supposed, however, that he would have to give thanks to the dwarves and the unbridled ferocity with which they shouted insults at the encompassing fog, for at the moment it was literally the only thing that was keeping the men’s hearts from succumbing to fear.

“Form up about the stretcher!” he called, his youthful voice echoing hollowly about the unnaturally soundless trees, just about making himself heard above the dwarves. “Keep a wary eye out, for we have no idea what is to come.”

His orders were quite unnecessary, in fact, for the three score Legionnaires and seamen were already indeed doing just that. Still, he guessed, it never hurt to have a figure of “authority” confirm what you were silently keeping to yourself inside.

Gradually the dwarven warcries wound down into muted growls of defiance, swallowed whole by the unresponsive curtain of mist about them. Left in their wake was yet again that horrible, timeless silence, and the dreaded feeling of expectation and terror that consumed them as they awaited the unknown danger. How long they waited in that manner, motionless and unwilling to break formation for fear of attack, Ingwe did not know. Slowly, surely, he felt the duress begin to build amongst the trapped men, swelling and cresting as violently as any tidal wave.

Just as their minds were about to snap, however, Nerdanel let fly with a swiftly nocked arrow. There was a dull thud as it struck home amongst leathery flesh; in an elegant and graceful motion, the elvish markswoman drew another shaft from her quiver and loosed once again, the second arrow hitting home barely an inch from the first.

But the body did not hit the ground.

Low, lifeless laughter rumbled from about them, mirthless and merciless, the sound effectively multiplied by the all-encompassing fog. Not a few men looked wildly about them in search of the source; others tried to shut out the evil with dagger-like glares into the unknown. Ingwe’s gaze, however, was fixated upon the location at which Nerdanel had fired.

Vague outlines, wispy forms amongst the obscuring vapours… and then something stepped forth into view. An ancient spiked warhelm was the first object to materialise, followed by tattered remnants of a leather jerkin from which a pair of black-fletched arrows protruded, just above where the thing’s heart would have been. But it was obvious from the skeletal visage that leered at them grinningly, and from the bony fingers that wrapped themselves about the hilt of a chipped, serrated longsword, that the undead creation did not have such a mortal weakness any more.

There were gasps of horror from the assembled ranks of men, angry spitting growls from the bristling bearded dwarves to their fore. At that moment, it was brought home to those assembled, just exactly what they were going to face in their campaign against the necromancer Xem’zund. The fiend that stood before them now had so obviously been human, once… and a mighty, noble lord of men at that. Now, he was nought more than a puppet dancing upon another’s strings, a mere tool enslaved to the will of a being far beyond evil.

Ingwe did not consider himself to be an exceptionally brave person, but he was certainly no unblooded raw recruit, either. He had some poor skill with the blade – enough to go toe to toe with an experienced bladesinger for the best part of a night, at least – as well as decent knowledge of the arcane and an ability to make use of said knowledge. But even he felt his blood run chillingly cold and his brain freeze at the sight of his foe, his mouth suddenly dry as desert sands and his face as pale and lifeless as the one that he now faced.

As we are now, you will soon become… the visage seemed to whisper to him, menacing and almost inviting. For a moment, Ingwe found that he could not move, could not breathe, could not even lift a finger or force a whisper from his numb throat.

A sudden scream broke him out of his petrified reverie.

“H… Help…!”

It was the dark-haired huntsman from Scara Brae. Whilst their attention had been focused upon the undead foe that had appeared to the party’s fore, one of the wights had suddenly appeared in their midst from behind. Now it loomed like a vengeful dark god over the stricken man, its ethereal blade held high over its head ready to strike.

There was no time for thought, only for action. Without hesitation, shrugging off his paralysis with all the strength that he could muster, Ingwe threw himself forth.

“Sei…ya!”

The wight saw him coming and danced out of the way, Ingwe’s twin blades just about missing the undead creation’s head in his overextended lunge. His foe’s sidestep was so perfect, so precise, that it might have been the end for the Nipponese there and then if Glorfindel had not followed up on his movement. There was a sharp screech of metal on metal, the wight’s chill blade meeting the bladesinger’s cold steel as the former poised itself to take off Ingwe’s head.

The wight wailed in disappointment and slowly backed away from the elf, disappearing but moments later as it was swallowed whole by the swirling mists. For Ingwe, and for the huntsman on the ground, it was a welcome reprieve.

However temporary it was.

“Thank you…” Ingwe finally managed, pulling himself together. “I…”

“Don’t mention it,” Glorfindel cut him off, slicing the air with a clean swipe of his blade. “The worst is still to come.”

The wraithlike presences all around them only served to confirm that fact.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Muted chimes sounded in his ears, the ringing song of sword on sword as tempered steel danced against chipped iron. By all rights the wight blades should have shattered upon contact with the newer and better-forged weapons, but the ancient metal had been imbued with magic closely linked to the undead creations themselves. The ethereal longswords and axeheads glowed with a pale luminescent hue, barely discernible amongst the roiling mists. But as their wielders faded in and out of the veil-like curtain of fog, the wan flame was often the only warning that the Legionnaires had of impending attack.

A horrible shriek resounded from the opposite side of the tightly packed formation. A young man, one of the peasants who had signed up in Scara Brae, had seen a mistimed parry take him a step too far out of the protective circle. It proved a costly mistake as a ghostly spectre suddenly loomed over him, strips of rotting flesh visible from beneath the corroded nasal helm eliciting the wail of terror that had echoed painfully into the mist. The youthful adventurer’s comrades were still gathering their wits, still attempting to form the thoughts that would send them to his aid, when the leering wight struck.

The blade slid between sinew and bone with absurd ease, padded leather tunic offering no resistance whatsoever to the stroke. In one swift movement, the young man’s shoulder was cleanly pierced; even from his position on the far end of the circle, Ingwe could make out the tip of the sword emerging from the back of the vest. There was no spurting geyser of blood, no great howl of anguish, only a low agonised moan as pallid as the complexion that the Legionnaire now wore as the chill magic took effect.

His nearest comrade – a gnarled seaman as large as some of the great tree-trunks they fought amongst – finally found the strength to lash out with the massive battleaxe he wielded. The blow was frantic and clumsy, the wight dodging both it and the equally lumbering reverse swing with skilful ease. The undead warrior ducked low, tearing his blade free of his first victim and readying himself for another strike…

… but the seaman’s desperation had bought just enough time for Glorfindel to arrive upon the scene. Long, intricately braided hair flowed golden amongst the colourless veil as the bladesinger brought his sword to bear. Swift and elegant was the single stroke; merciless and sudden the result. The wight only noticed the elf behind him by the whistle of steel through air, and by then it was far too late.

In one faultless motion, what remained of the wight’s head was separated from its shoulders. A second, angry wail echoed amongst the obfuscated branches, and then the undead warrior disappeared in a slow explosion of dry dust and ancient tattered cloth. All that was left behind in its wake was the lone bladesinger, his eyes burning with fire as fell as any elflord of old. The shimmering watered-steel longsword at his side echoed the glow as it hung perfectly in the air, his pure white cloak fluttering gently behind him with the momentum of the strike. It was a scene that could have been drawn from any fine-woven Raiaeran tapestry, and it probably saved the lives of both the young peasant and the seaman.

“Take care of him,” Glorfindel calmly ordered the wide-eyed sailor, who could only nod stutteringly in speechless admiration. “And do not let your guard down, for Isha’s sake. I cannot hope to save all of you.”

No sooner had he finished speaking than did the sailor hasten to obey. In a smooth movement, the elf replaced his longsword in its scabbard; clear blue eyes scanned the tendrils of mist lapping at his feet as if daring them to attack him, and when they didn’t he turned away almost disappointed. It was then that Glorfindel noticed Ingwe’s thoughtful gaze upon the scene and began to shoulder his way through the mass of Legionnaires towards the warrior-mage.

Ingwe, for his part, had noticed something… strange, for lack of a better word, about the wight’s constant assaults. Despite their obvious advantage in strength and skill over the small band of shipwrecked survivors, they seemed to be content with teasing hit-and-run attacks that, whilst gradually wearing down the morale and stamina of the Legionnaires, had very little noticeable effect as of yet.

If they’re as confident as they should be in their ability… why do they hesitate…?

To the fore of the circle, or rather in the direction in which the party had once been headed, clustered the dwarves around their leader Derthark and the runelord Telchar. The venerable greybeard was now leading them in a slow, angry chant in guttural dwarven, a warsong that almost taunted their foes in its intensity.

But they haven’t attacked the dwarves yet… nor Glorfindel, Selinde, or Nerdanel, either…

A small frown formed upon Ingwe’s brow, his gaze still fixated upon where the wight had disappeared in an almost anticlimactic puff of smoke. Even when Glorfindel had managed to slip his way to where Ingwe stood, the Nipponese remained impassive and pensive, contemplating the spot with scholarly vigour.

“He will not last long without elvish medicine,” Glorfindel warned without so much as a by-your-leave, referring obviously to the young man who had just been stabbed. “Wight blades are imbued with magicks far beyond the capability of you or I to heal. We must get him to Anebrilith as soon as possible.”

“Captain Maximillian won’t survive unless we get there, either…” Ingwe murmured almost absently in reply, the pucker on his forehead growing in intensity as his mind concentrated upon churning through the simple facts.

Wights were amongst the most powerful of all undead, ancient warriors of great renown revived by evil magic to fight for their new masters. And yet…

That particular wight fell… rather easily...

Ingwe did not mean to belittle Glorfindel’s skill with the blade; quite the contrary, for he guessed that the wights had yet to directly attack the bladesinger because of their knowledge that the elf was perhaps the greatest warrior amongst the Legionnaires. But the warrior-mage had read much of the deeds of the heroes of old in their battles against the undead, and he knew of the immense effort and skill that had to go into the creation of such a powerful being as a wight. It had just been too…

“They’re playing with us.”

The realisation struck him like a thunderbolt from the heavens above, cleaving the mists that roiled about them like some angry sentient organism. As if on cue, a wan beam of sunlight shone through the branches, only briefly and barely sufficient to register upon his face, but enough for a second stroke of inspiration to hit.

“The mist…” Ingwe continued, ignoring Glorfindel’s look of bemusement in favour of replacing his tanto in their saya and casting a glance of revelation about him. “They’re using it not only to disorient us and to cover their movements, but also to protect themselves from what sunlight filters through to the ground. Wights are not renowned for their ability to fight during the day… they use this unnatural fog not only as cloak, but as protection as well.”

With every word, Ingwe’s confidence grew, and he was more and more sure of his deductions. But it was only when he looked back to the bladesinger, and saw the startled comprehension in Glorfindel’s eyes, that his hypothesis became a full-fledged theory.

“It would explain why the mists came in so fast. Truly, the enemy is despicably cunning…” the elf mused, just about hitting himself for not seeing it earlier. “Ingwe… can you…”

“I can try,” the warrior-mage replied quickly, although in truth he wasn’t exactly enthusiastic about the task. Such an undertaking would require an enormous amount of mana, channelled into a form that did not resemble a spell that he knew by heart. He would be wielding forces quite considerable, especially for an apprentice mage barely out of academy… and the risks were not to be underestimated, either. There was no easier way of popping one’s head like an overripe cherry than attempting to draw upon arcane power beyond one’s control. Especially in his current physical state, when his head still throbbed with every heartbeat and his back remained painfully sore from the raking wounds that the fellbats had inflicted.

And yet, for all his thinking, he could not see another solution to their current predicament. A clash of steel behind him warned him that another wight had tried its luck. It would not be long before fate or circumstance dealt them a bad hand and the undead gained the foothold amongst them that they seemed to be searching for.

“I will try,” Ingwe nodded, receiving a reciprocating gesture in reply.

“Hurry,” the bladesinger urged, quite unnecessarily, before dashing off to deal with the latest threat to their formation.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Alone once again, Ingwe breathed deeply of the rank air, feeling the sandy filth of necromancy tingeing the fog. The taint made him want to throw up, but it also gave him a much-needed medium to focus upon. His particular brand of magic relied upon siphoning power from either of two sources – the winds of magic that blew high in the skies above, or strands of mana that filtered through leylines in the earth below. The first was unfortunately out of the question at the moment, since he did not yet have the skill to draw upon winds obscured by a heavy dampening arcane fog. Which left the second method, but although Raiaera was a land rich in mana conduits, Ingwe did not have the time to prepare the rune circles that would be necessary to safely draw out the required power.

He would have to do it blind.

Another deep breath, his legs folded in a complex manner beneath him as he settled into his meditative trance. Ingwe forced his eyes closed against the clash of blades and the ferocious warcries that filled the outside world, ruefully aware of the fact that he was as defenceless as a naked toddler at the moment. But it was a necessary risk, and one that he undertook willingly.

Focus… control… he repeated to himself, compelling his mind to ignore the clamour of battle and the pains of his body, concentrating instead upon the mental balance vital for spellcasting to such an advanced degree. Focused mind… controlled soul…

A third deep breath and he began, channelling his aura through his surroundings in search of the particular leyline he would need. To his mind’s eye, the forest floor transformed itself into an intricate labyrinth of multi-coloured rivulets, each giving rise to a different form of arcane power. The mana ran slow here, no doubt adversely affected by the dark forces that plagued the vicinity, but to his great relief there was life in the land yet. There… he murmured to himself, homing in upon a thin strand of translucent white perhaps fifty metres to his right. This will have to do.

Tentatively he touched the stream with his mind, feeling its soothing coolness begin to slowly seep into his body. For a moment it was as if he was experiencing a hallucinatory illusion; he had a vision in his mind of flying, high in a free and border-less sky, with the sun on his face and the wind whispering about his ears. Instantly he reasserted control, almost cursing himself for the slip. But the sensation of a gentle breeze upon his face did not quite go away.

A fourth inhalation, sharp and pained. Something fought against him, something malevolent and sinister that obstructed his attempt to gather power. Another mage, perhaps, maybe even the same one that had cast the necromantic fog… or one even darker and stronger still. The mana was flowing too slowly into his control; the leylines had been corrupted beyond his recognition, and even as he drew upon that thin translucent rivulet, it was drying up before his eyes. He had not enough power to cast his spell, but more than enough to cause a backlash to annihilate the entire vicinity. And while that would be one way of ridding themselves of the wights…

I’d rather not rid ourselves of us, as well.

Desperately he sought for another source of power… another leyline of the same arcanic structure, a whiff of breeze from the skies above, anything that would help him complete the spell or safely release the accumulated magic. But there was nothing to be found, no sign of salvation for his despairing mind. He could almost hear the darkly evil laughter as it choked him of power, slowly cutting off the supply of mana that he drew upon. Thinner, thinner still it trickled into the helpless vessel that was his mind, until his fate literally hung by a single slender thread.

Is this…?

He floated amongst the throes of desolation, all his training and education rendered useless in the face of impending doom. His head felt like it had ballooned to ten times its normal size with the accumulated power, a destructive flood built up behind the dam that was his mind, with no safe outlet with which to release itself. The back of his eyelids pulsated red with every beat of his straining heart, every muted sensation upon his body magnified ten degrees by his increased awareness. His back felt like it was burning with the hammering pain, his sides aching with every laboured breath. He just about managed to keep sound and scent from interfering with his gradually degrading concentration, but he could not prevent scenes from his life passing before his eyes like a slideshow of framed landscapes, most frequently amongst them one face… her face…

No.

He couldn’t give up… he wouldn’t give up. There had to be a way…

There was always a way.

His mind hit inspiration.

Hayate!

Quick as flashfire he shifted focus, from the ground at his feet to the skies in which his familiar flew. Soaring high and free above the murky gloom of the fogbound forest, the white gyrfalcon gave a shrill, defiant call that pierced the gloomy mists like an arrow straight and true. Borne securely upon the white raptor’s wings, Ingwe hunted and found a source for the rest of the power he needed.

Wind of Ulgu, I thank you for your strength.

Moments later, and Ingwe’s eyes flashed open. They shone with power far beyond anything he had ever willingly wielded before, and they did so in the knowledge that perhaps by doing so, they would all be saved.

“Amakakeru kaze yo! Waga mae wo habamu kiri wo sake!”

[Flames of Hyperion]

At first, there was nothing, not even the faintest of murmurs amongst the interwoven branches overhead. Momentary silence hung as heavy as the fog around them, an unchanged impenetrable curtain draped about the trees.

Then there was a whisper of wind, the lightest feather of air stroking his cheek. More refreshing than any cool drink in the oppressive heat, more liberating than any set of keys in a packed prison.

For a moment he feared that his talent had been insufficient, that he had not managed to channel enough power into the spell, and that the single minute breathy breeze would be all he would be able to muster.

But finally, it blew. An ominous rumble in the trees behind them heralded its coming, the pre-emptive warning of the storm. Faces both living and not turned towards the sea, split seconds before the change actually happened.

And when it did, it did so with a powerful vengeance that surprised even Ingwe.

The arcane mist resisted… or at least, it tried to. It clung to the ground with insipid temerity, striving to the limits of its specifications to retain its protective shroud in the face of relentless assault. In the end, however, its ability to stand its ground was limited. There was only so much it could do in the face of such powerful fury.

Slowly, surely, the mist began to roll back.

Then, with a suddenness that shocked all present, the shroud lifted. Hints of bleak sunlight filtered through in its wake. And for the first time that terrible afternoon, the eyes of combatants who had been opposing each other for the last hour or so met without obstruction. As the howl of the wind died down, driving away the last vestiges of the fog with irresistible force, silence descended once more upon a grove occupied by horrified human mercenary and motionless undead warrior.

But not for long.

A blood-curdling battle cry echoed about the dying trees, let loose by a maddened dwarven prince and quickly taken up by his fellows. For a split second, all eyes focused on the mail-clad warrior at the very fore of the Legionnaire formation, an imposing, wrathful figure brandishing a massive rune-encrusted axe gilt in bright silver and burnished bronze. And all those present knew, in that one moment of absolute clarity amongst the hectic swirling din of battle, that there was to be no rest until their respective foe was routed.

With all the fury of the ancestor gods themselves, the dwarves led the charge against the suddenly exposed wights.

In the end, the undead warriors stood no chance. Their numerical disadvantage was not as great as Ingwe had dared to hope, but their tactics had left them scattered and exposed. The sudden removal of their protective shroud and the weakly penetrating rays of light from above caused them to falter for a split second, the magic that bound them to the location wavering and starting to fail. The dwarves, on the other hand, had no such compulsions.

With mighty shout and angry cry, axes rose and fell amongst withered skin and brittle bone. Ancient shields splintered and ornate armour sundered beneath the merciless rampage as the mountain-folk carved an ash-strewn swathe through the heart of the foes to their fore. They were too lost in their lust to coordinate their attacks or take note of the wights fading into oblivion to their rear, but for once neither Ingwe nor Telchar – who attempted to keep a loose reign on his comrades via a few bellowed commands – minded much.

As more and more of the Legionnaires piled in behind the naugrim, the brittle wight line began to break. Massive sweeps of Taggar’s polehammer shattered metal and bone in obliterating arcs, the half-ogre forging a steady path forwards. Glorfindel’s longsword sang a delicate song of death, accompanied by the whisper of Selinde’s shorter curved blade and the hum of Nerdanel’s bowstring. Steel flashed and armour glinted as men followed their leaders into the fray.

Inevitably, the dwarves won out. Derthark was the first to roar in triumph when he broke free of the encircling wights. The euphoria spread like an infectious contagion as the remaining wights either were brought low in angry fervour or disappeared as wispy sand into the last remnants of the mystical mist. Resounding mightily about the malnourished trees, the cries were a defiant reminder that there was still hope for the forces of light even in this most desolate and grief-struck of places.

Only a handful remained silent, and of these, all were injured in some form or another. Ingwe was amongst this number, slowly pulling himself to his feet in the abandoned wake of the Legionnaire charge, spectacles askew upon the very tip of his nose as his royal blue cloak fluttered forlornly in the last vestiges of the magic he had wrought.

Thank the gods it worked… was the only thought he could muster, the single phrase repeating itself again and again in his mind. He shuddered to think of what would have happened if…

“Ingwe?” a concerned voice seemed to reach out to echo within the confines of his head. The warrior-mage in question belatedly realised that the rest of the world seemed to be moving at a far faster pace than he. A wry smile wreathed the corners of his mouth as he sought to clear the cobwebs from his mind. Eyes focused in agonising slow motion, upon the cascade of golden hair and the pretty elf maiden hovering over him.

“We… have to press on…” the young man finally managed, his weary voice barely more than a hoarse croak. By this time he had taken two stumbling steps forward, somehow mustering the strength not only to remain upright but also to stand just a little bit taller. Both Glorfindel and Telchar joined Selinde in cautiously hovering at Ingwe’s side, though all three knew better than to offer any aid.

The Nipponese closed his eyes once, drawing deep upon the last remaining untapped source of energy within his soul. When he opened them again and spoke, everything had cleared up somewhat, from the blurry fuzz in his peripheral vision to the poignant weakness in his throat.

“We have to get to Anebrilith,” he said, glancing at those of his brethren who slumped upon the shoulders of their comrades or were borne upon makeshift stretchers. Dry lips pursed tightly as he realised that what weak sunlight filtered through the thick branches overhead did so at a distinct angle. Time was running out.

“We must press on…” Ingwe repeated, and none, not even the gravely wounded and exhausted, dared to contradict him.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Their run became a headlong flight, a race against the lengthening shadows that grasped at their feet like soulless wraiths. Man, elf, dwarf, half-ogre… each and every one of the Legionnaires and their attached sailors put their heads down, grimly gritting their teeth against their fears and against the overwhelming sense of being swallowed whole by the darkness at their backs. The injured were helped along either upon makeshift stretchers or the supportive shoulders of their comrades, desperately making for the only hope of survival that was the setting sun and the besieged elven city that lay beneath it.

Amongst their midst was one Ingwe Helyanwe, his face even paler than usual as he literally forced his body onwards against the pain. His back felt like it was on fire, his sides throbbing with the protracted strain, but it was the chilling numbness in his limbs and the floating sensation clouding his mind that scared him the most. From time to time he would bite his lips, drawing a trickle of fresh blood down his chin as he fought the weakness that corrupted him, although he didn’t quite realise that it was the hand that clasped the warm pendant on his chest that drew the strength to keep him going. His blue cloak flowed behind him as he sped amongst his men, patches of stark crimson staining his white apprentice tunic, his spectacles perched precariously upon the very tip of his nose. Neither Glorfindel nor Telchar were ever very far from his side, but to Ingwe’s credit, not once did he need their assistance.

At length, when the sun hung low like a fiery orb amongst the canvas of rose-tinted cloud and bright purple sky that was twilight in this part of Raiaera, the ragged company drew themselves up for a mutual rest. The forest had finally thinned out once more, allowing the exhausted soldiers and sailors room to breathe again. They had entered amongst the thick trunks as barely-blooded amateurs; now, the numerous bandages they wore and the haunted looks in their eyes bore evidence to the fact that they had been forged into fully seasoned warriors.

Before them stretched a stone-strewn expanse of abandoned farmland, leading seamlessly into the outer city that lay at the feet of the mountains. Anebrilith proper crowned the highest of the foothills, mighty whitewashed walls protecting graceful towers and spires soaring tall into the evening sky. Closer to hand, the famed Harbour Walls ran down from the hill towards the sea upon their left, the beating, bleeding lifeline of Raiaera’s oldest city.

It did not take long to hit home that this was a city under siege. The outer villages and suburbs had obviously been abandoned in a hurry, and were now a lifeless shadow of their former bustling selves. The walls and towers defending the inner city bore the unmistakable scars of the attention of siege engines, piles of rubble at their base and makeshift repairs upon previously immaculate white evidence to where they had shrugged off the assault. The Harbour Walls in particular were grimy and bloodstained, site of what was obviously a fierce struggle for dominance.

It was good that we did not emerge any closer to the sea… Ingwe realised with a start, breathing a muted sigh of relief at the unexpected reprieve. Plumes of dark smoke rose from the evening campfires of Xem’zund’s human auxiliaries, noticeably thicker about the Harbour Walls than surrounding the city proper. It didn’t require a strategic mastermind to figure out where the main assault was taking place.

“The sun sets early for this time of year,” Glorfindel murmured from behind him, and Ingwe spared a glance in time to catch a wisp of nostalgia and worry flickering on the elf’s normally impassive face. This darkness threatens to overwhelm all… were the words he left unsaid.

“Do… you think… we’ll make it…?” Ingwe replied through heavy gasps for breath, leaning for much-needed support against a tree. He noted enviously that the bladesinger barely seemed to be sweating. And probably wouldn’t have been even if he’d been injured, such were his uncanny levels of stamina and fitness. Behind his words, on the other hand, was a more serious concern; after all, there would be very little to reap from all their efforts so far if they were to stumble at this last hurdle. Ingwe’s quiet fears underlay both his lack of experience in “command” and his lack of confidence in himself.

“We should,” the elf replied absently, still half lost in memories of his home city. “There’s no telling how many foes lie in wait between here and the city gates… judging by the fires, though, we may be able to get through unnoticed if we’re careful. I doubt the city commanders would be sitting still behind the walls, either… if we’re lucky, we may even come across friendly forces.” Only then did Glorfindel notice the look of abject apprehension upon Ingwe’s face. “We’ll make it,” he hastily added. “We’ll…”

The sudden faint thunder of hooves upon the hard barren ground caught their attention, as well as that of all else present. Instinctively the Legionnaires drew close, readying their weapons and setting weary faces in grim determination. None had any idea of what was approaching, but events recently imprinted into tautly strung minds caused them to choose to err on the side of caution.

A moment’s pause as the noise grew ever closer. Then…

“Elnaith!” came Nerdanel’s shout from the branches overhead.

Elnaith! The legendary cavalry of Tor Elythis, renowned as the Silverwind for the glittering ithilmar scale worn by both horse and rider, for the speed with which they rode upon their foes and for the devastation they sowed in their wake. Proud and noble, the flower of the island colony’s professional armies, the elnaith were the most feared unit of elven cavalry upon the entire continent.

“Let’s hope they’re here tae help,” Telchar rumbled darkly from alongside Glorfindel as he rested his venerable head upon the haft of his runehammer. From the looks that his fellows gave the approaching contingent of horse, he was not alone in his doubts; even as the humans relaxed and some even mustered a ragged cheer at the stirring sight, the dwarves continued to finger their axes. “Let’s hope they’re nae here for our heads.”

Ingwe barely had time to send the runelord a questioning glance before the elnaith halted and drew themselves up as one, a fifty-strong column of precise perfection. The twilight sun gave their glinting mail a reddish sheen, the light dancing off the tips of their long slender spears and reflected in their tall winged helms. Their standard fluttered proudly in the slightest of breezes drifting in from the sea, a delicately woven motif of silver white, deep blue, and brightest gold depicting the winged sword of justice as it descended upon their foes.

From the head of the column alongside the banner-bearer, a single horseman guided his mount forth. He was clad in mail even more intricate than that of the men he led, his shield an ancient artefact bearing the same device as the standard, and the sword at his side radiating power even through its jewelled scabbard. Both items were obviously imbued with great magic. The elf’s face from within the protection of his helm was a shining beacon of purity and nobility, the very personification of the powerful elflords of old.

“Hail and well met!” he called, dipping his lance slightly in greeting but not duplicating the gesture with his head. “I would speak to those who lead you.”

Almost immediately the Legionnaires parted, and Ingwe was conscious of the fact that the elven commander’s eyes were briefly upon him. The young man flushed an unhealthy colour, somehow drawing himself upright and bowing back in polite acknowledgement. To his right he could sense Glorfindel doing the same, although Telchar beyond settled for a curt grunt and nod, almost uncharacteristic of the diplomatic dwarf. Ingwe shuddered to think what Derthark would have done in the runelord’s stead given the obvious animosity; fleeting visions of rude gestures and flying spittle did little to improve things.

“I am Turgon Elanesse, High Prince of Tor Elythis and commander of the elnaith,” the mounted elf introduced himself, with a bare hint of the condescending arrogance that his folk were known for. It was his next words, however, that caused the entire of contingent of Legionnaires to flinch as if they had been slapped in their collective face, for though they were spoken elegantly enough, their import was nothing short of demoralizing. “I bid you leave these lands immediately, for there is naught to be found here but death.”

Ingwe exchanged a startled glance with Glorfindel; beyond, he could see Telchar’s expression begin to storm over even further. Hadn’t Arminas arrived at Anebrilith already and explained everything? Were they not to be welcomed into the city, if not with open arms then with at least some civility?

Furthermore, the more Prince Turgon spoke, the more it was clear that he was addressing Glorfindel in particular, and almost completely ignoring both Ingwe and Telchar. Ingwe could fully understand, almost envy, the dark glower that Telchar wore, although he kept his own features carefully neutral if very confused.

As to the High Prince’s words… but one look about the assembled Legionnaires reinforced the fact that there was no possible way that they would even contemplate the idea of going back. The dangers of the route from whence they had just come and the currently unsalvageable wreck that was the Warspite notwithstanding, there was the minor fact that each and every man present had volunteered in support of a cause that, whilst not their own, held great importance to each and every one of them in their own individual ways. Squire, peasant, merchant’s son and village farmer… they had all been persuaded by Lord Arminas to fight against Xem’zund, for Raiaera, for Scara Brae, and for all the free folk of the world. They had come this far. There was no way that they could turn away now.

All this and more passed from the faces of those present into Ingwe’s mind, via the fiercely determined gazes that met his eyes. A second glance exchanged between the Nipponese warrior-mage and the Anebrilithian bladesinger who stood beside him, and Glorfindel nodded slowly, thoughtfully, even appreciatively, in acquiescence. The elf stepped forward to answer; his stance as he returned Turgon’s haughty stare was no less noble, no less regal. Wisps of golden hair ranging free of their braids danced freely in time with the evening breeze. To those of the Legionnaires that had been saved by Glorfindel’s exploits in the forest, they were a battle banner all their own.

“I am Glorfindel, of the house of Tinehtele,” he spoke, his voice gentle and deferential, and yet somehow equally as imposing as that of the elflord he addressed. “Before the war started, I was sent from Anebrilith on a mission of little consequence… as a result, I was trapped away from the city when the necromancer’s hordes surrounded it. I have since made it my duty to return with what force I could muster to the aid of my home. With the assistance of Lord Arminas Ereinon, I have been able to do so… rest assured that I will reach the city at any cost, with your aid or without.”

As Glorfindel began his tale, Turgon’s thin lips had pursed in a pensive line; upon hearing Arminas’ name, a faint flicker of distaste ran across his delicate, hawkishly handsome features.

“Arminas?” the elnaith commander murmured almost questioningly to himself. “ I haven’t had the pleasure of addressing him since he abandoned…” The rest of his words were lost, but Ingwe sighed with appreciation and almost allowed his injury-fatigued body to relax as the missing piece of the puzzle fell into place. Turgon’s patrol had most likely not returned to the city since dawn; the white hides of the elven steeds were paler than usual with exhaustion, while there was a drawn pallor in the faces of the elnaith that even their honed skills and experience could not quite disguise. The Prince had not yet heard of Arminas’ coming. Consequently, there was little way he could have known of Glorfindel, Ingwe, and the other stragglers.

“I appreciate your efforts, bladesinger, but my advice…” – emphasis on the last word, stressing that it was as close to an order as Turgon was going to give to an almost complete stranger – “… still stands. These lands are not safe, especially at night. Not even the outer city remains free of the necromancer’s taint. His human minions and zombie hordes are the least of your worries. The ghosts of the fallen return once more to this place, to mourn their loss and to entice other, more fortunate souls to…”

“You couldn’t even provide the proper funeral rites!?” an aghast voice exclaimed from above, and for the first time Turgon became aware of the two Rangers in the branches above his head. In particular, as he tilted his head back to glare at the ill-mannered interruption, he took note of Selinde’s angry blue eyes staring down at him, undaunted.

“There was no time,” he replied, matching cold fire with cold fire in the subtle nuances of his voice. The look that he gave the young elfmaiden could only be described as withering, so dense was the scorn and distaste poured into it at her obvious incomprehension of the situation. But still Selinde was unafraid… and Ingwe thought he caught a hint of… was it shame? … in Turgon’s reaction.

Only the slightest whiff of evening breeze knew the truth for certain, as it raced off the sea and skimmed the edge of the tree line past the motley parley, rustling branch, breeze, banner, and braid alike. And then it, too, was gone… off to chase the crimson-tinted clouds and their blood-red master beyond the twilight horizon.

[Flames of Hyperion]

The brief silence that followed was disquieting in the utmost. Turgon’s cold gaze dismissed Selinde and her wordless sister in the branches above, passing over the glowering dwarf and the injured human just as fleetly before settling once again upon Glorfindel. The prince regarded the bladesinger as if weighing the latter’s soul, doubtless debating the merits of the decision he was about to make. Glorfindel returned the stare with a sincere determination that only mirrored that of all the others around him.

At length, Turgon nodded curtly. “I would be honoured if you would accompany us to the citadel, Glorfindel, along with your two Ranger companions.” With a slight toss of his head, he indicated the leafy treetop. “My advice to the rest of you remains the same. Leave this area immediately… it is not safe for you here.”

Telchar’s angry bark and Ingwe’s pained gasp of disbelief were drowned out by the hue and cry that the words caused amongst the Legionnaires. The dwarves in particular were brandishing their weapons and howling for blood, held in check only by Derthark’s demands that the “pointy-eared poncy maggot elfling” meet him in honourable single combat… demands that, needless to say, Turgon utterly ignored. The look on the half-ogre Taggar’s face, in the meantime, would have quailed the dead hearts of a thousand warrior wights.

“We cannot afford to feed the mouths of more of humankind, much less the bottomless pits of the dwarves,” Turgon continued, oblivious to the hullabaloo and completely disregarding the renewed demands for his head – amongst other, less savoury insults – in guttural dwarvish. Part of Ingwe had to admire the elflord’s composure as he half-turned his mount away from the three leaders; he could even understand somewhat the duress that had forced the decision, although by no means did he agree with it.

The other part, the vast majority of his mind in fact, was overwhelmed by disappointment. They had travelled so far, come so near, only to be greeted by the oh-so-familiar barriers of racial and professional prejudice. High Prince Turgon was a veteran warrior and an elf; the vast majority of the Legionnaires were amateurish humans or, even worse in Turgon’s eyes, dwarves.

But they could not give up now. To do so would be to admit defeat, not only to those traditional prejudices, but also in the greater context of the war against Xem’zund as well.

Ignoring the thundering pulse of blood pounding in his ears, Ingwe drew himself up to full height, his eyes blazing with renewed intensity. The agony the movement caused, disguised expertly behind the first true signs of anger that the scholarly Nipponese allowed to show upon his features, almost caused him to miss Glorfindel’s reply to Turgon’s invitation.

“I must respectfully decline, m’lord,” the bladesinger spoke, although the tone of his voice gave lie to the politeness of his words. A surge of gratitude and pride welled up through Ingwe’s veins. Glorfindel had not abandoned the Legion. There was hope yet.

Turgon didn’t have to look skywards to know that both Rangers felt the same. He paused for a moment, tugging on the reins and causing his mount to shimmy nervously. The look he gave Glorfindel was long and hard, re-evaluating and – once again – coldly disapproving.

“Very well,” he acknowledged at length, sending chills running down Ingwe’s spine at the finality of his words. “It is your decision.”

With that injunction, he turned his mount on its heels and began to slowly, almost arrogantly, trot away.

“Wait!”

The word forced itself from Ingwe’s lips before he could censor it, blurting out into the early spring evening like spilt ale. There was a hint of a tremolo about them that revealed his anger and emotion; it was no wonder that the elven prince ignored him completely. On the other hand, the eyes of the Legionnaires all turned to Ingwe’s slight battered form. He could feel the weight of their expectations ramming into him like a hundred sledgehammers. Even if he had wanted to, it was too late to turn back now.

Somehow he forced his frozen feet to move; one step, another, and then a barely-controlled lunge that brought him out in front of the slowly retreating Turgon. The contrast between the two warriors could not have been more complete. Turgon was a shining paragon of elven chivalry, a knight without peer and a renowned war leader. His mail glittered like a thousand mirrors, each reflecting the rays of the dying sun in all its brilliance, whilst the swept wings on his helm and the elegant gilding upon his weapons showcased the very finest of elven craftsmanship. Ingwe, on the other hand, was dark and drab, unremarkable in the slightest, even counting the spectacles that slipped unhappily down his sweaty nose. His cloak was bloodstained and torn, his formerly white tunic muddy and travel-worn, and the twin swords strapped to his back plain and utilitarian. But there was just a little something, something intangible and barely defined, about the young man who now barred the elflord’s path.

“Please, wait…” Ingwe repeated, and this time Turgon deigned to look down upon the outlander who dared to defy him so.

The High Prince was known amongst his folk as a master of sword and spear; what was less known but equally useful to the elflord was the fact that, like many of his brethren, he had a natural aptitude for the arcane arts. Hence it was that Turgon could sense the faint trickle of power coursing through Ingwe’s body, keeping him standing when by all rights he should have been lying upon a stretcher like one or two of the other humans. Perhaps it was respect for this fact, or perhaps it was just simple curiosity; in any case, Turgon’s reaction surprised many who were present and watching.

“What is it, human?” he asked, staring down from his vantage point at the dark-haired warrior-mage instead of simply pushing past regardless.

To Ingwe, those eyes seemed frigid and disdainful. But he had dealt with such attitudes many times before, not only from the elves, and he was not fazed.

“I would ask you to reconsider,” was his swift rejoinder, bowing his head low in polite entreaty. He heeded not the rush of blood to his face as his ears pounded with every heartbeat, even his own words barely audible now. When a suitable moment of pause had passed without a reply, he continued.

“We have travelled a long and perilous way in order to stand by your side against the hordes of Xem’zund. The ship that brought us here lies a mangled wreck upon the headland beyond this forest. We were only just able to fight our way this far… to send us away now would be to condemn us all to death.”

Ingwe indicated the numerous wounded and exhausted members of the company, but Turgon’s hard glare did not deviate for an instant. As the warrior mage had feared, there was not even a hint of sympathy within their icy blue.

“I beg of you to allow us to enter the city. Lord Arminas…” – again, the distinct flutter of distaste across Turgon’s flawless features – “… will have arrived at Anebrilith by now, with the rest of our relief force as well as what supplies we could carry. We may not be the best of warriors, but it is our honour to fight against Xem’zund with what courage and skill we can muster.”

“The answer remains no,” Turgon replied brusquely when Ingwe paused for breath. “Who you are and why you are here is none of my concern. I cannot let you into the city.”

This time, the elven prince did guide his horse past the stricken warrior-mage. Ingwe’s gaze was riveted to the ground in front of him, eyes brimming with anger and frustration and the bitter taste of failure. Even as the brilliant silver mail slowly passed through his peripheral vision, he was unable to find any words to speak further.

With a roar of reckless fury, unable to contain his boiling blood any longer, Derthark leapt forth with axe held high. With surprising speed the ironclad dwarf covered the distance to the elnaith commander, a bullish leap and a bound bringing him into striking range…

… but then Telchar was at his side, one gnarled hand firmly clasping the haft of his prince’s weapon and preventing the stroke from falling. The elnaith banner bearer had been almost as quick to react, kicking his steed into a swift trot. A flash of steel after Telchar had grasped hold of Derthark’s axe, the rider’s sword was at the latter dwarf’s throat.

A brief, tense moment of silence as both sides steadied themselves for battle, hands dangerously close to weapons. It was obvious that the elnaith would slaughter the Legion if it came to combat… but many of the soldiers were by now beyond caring.

Yet to fight amongst themselves would only serve to further Xem’zund’s cause. And despite his animosity towards Turgon, Telchar would not allow that to happen.

“Sae much fur elven hospitality,” the runelord growled, his voice dripping wry sarcasm as he grimly glared down the elnaith standard bearer. An impassive pair of brown eyes matched him equally; a few edgy seconds later, the sword was removed from its threatening location and returned to its sheath. “Den again, ah would’nae hae expected any mair from th’ Butcher of Tor Elythis.”

Turgon waited until he had rejoined his men before replying, indicating to his second-in-command to return to ranks with a swift hand gesture. The rider spun his mount gracefully on its heels, leaving only angry shock upon Derthark’s face in his wake.

“It seems that the naugrim have yet to learn manners as well,” the High Prince countered, the frigid ice in his words every bit as severe as the expression upon Telchar’s face. “You do nothing that makes me regret my decision in the slightest.”

The thunderous charge of hooves soon echoed from behind Ingwe’s tattered back as the elnaith moved out. But the Nipponese warrior-mage was aware of only the feeling of utter failure as their greatest hope of survival abandoned them in the twilight wasteland.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Nobody could bring themselves to say anything in the immediate aftermath of the elnaith’s departure. Telchar kept a firm hand upon the haft of Derthark’s axe, glowering after the retreating elves; the dwarven prince, on the other hand, still wore the expression of angry shock that had appeared when the banner bearer’s blade tickled his neck. Nerdanel’s features remained as unfathomable as ever behind the hooded mask she wore, but her sister had been obviously greatly unsettled at Turgon’s news about the outer city, and even now peered out towards the abandoned buildings, upset and distressed. Glorfindel watched the elnaith leave with a curious look that mixed regret and disgust in equal measure, before transferring his gaze towards the solitary figure in the middle of the clearing.

Ingwe had not moved an inch since Turgon had pushed past him, so heavy was the disappointment that wracked his injured and fatigued body. Lines furrowed in his brow and a vein pulsed in his temple as he fought to contain the frustration, his wide-eyed bloodshot gaze downcast upon the parched, defiled ground. His belongings in their haversack at his feet seemed to mock his inability to secure their safety. It was nothing short of a miracle that he did not succumb to the darkness that clouded his mind, that he did not fall to his knees, so weak did his legs feel. As the faint breeze died down around him, rustling his sweat-damp hair one last time, his stomach was sickened by the thick aura of evil that pervaded his surroundings and swamped his senses.

“It was not like you, Master Telchar, to use such angry words…” Glorfindel spoke, his dulcet tones echoing melodiously if hollowly about the silent gathering. He glanced towards the runelord, who blinked once as if startled, then finally released the haft of Derthark’s axe from its vice-like grip. The heavy weapon struck the ground with a dull thud, half-burying the keen head in the hard dirt through sheer weight alone.

“Mah apologies, bladesinger,” the dwarf replied heavily, letting loose a sigh that threatened to tear off his beard. “Turgon of Tor Elythis has a bad name amongst our folk. Ah allowed mah emotions tae get th’ better of me.”

Another dark pall settled amongst the despondent Legionnaires, none of the soldiers willing to disturb those who led them, who in turn were lost in collective thought. With every passing moment, the sun dropped lower and lower in the sky until it hung over the mountains in the west as if suspended there by a single thread. In the end, it was the dark-haired hunter from Scara Brae who brought them back to their senses.

“So…” he began, clearing his throat nervously when he realised just how loud his voice sounded. But the shadows were lengthening dangerously now, and he knew that they now had precious little time to waste. “What are we to do…?”

Glorfindel looked up briefly, his long golden hair dancing. Telchar mirrored the motion, grunting a gentle grunt as he turned to face the city walls in the distance. In the tree above, Selinde broke out of her moody reverie to take a sudden interest in the conversation. But it was obvious by their silence that neither of the three could bring themselves to reply.

To stay where they were meant certain death as soon as Xem’zund’s dark minions stalked the night. As it was, it was almost a miracle that they had not been assaulted again by any other of the roving bands of human auxiliaries or necromantic retinues in the lich’s service. Not to mention that if the faceless necromancer who had supported the wights in the forest wanted to finish them off… he would be waiting for dusk to fall. He would not make the same mistake twice… there would be no mercy this time.

To attempt a retreat towards the stranded ship would be an equally futile action… if anything, it would make an inevitable death even more likely. The city walls were dangerous enough, besieged as they were by the undead horde, but to leave their shadow would be courting disaster… annihilation, even.

In the end there was, really, only one real choice open to them. No matter how dangerous it would be.

“We have to approach the city.”

Perhaps it was a surprise, perhaps it was predestined, but in the end it was Ingwe who finally gave voice to the foregone conclusion. The Nipponese still stood in the middle of the assembled half-circle of Legionnaires, still teetering as if the faintest of winds would carry him off his feet. But he had shifted slightly from a moment ago – one hand had reached up to clasp the pendant at his chest – and his voice sounded as if it had, once again, found a source of strength to draw upon. His words were neither as commanding as Turgon’s nor as imposing as Glorfindel’s, and they certainly did not carry half as much power as Telchar’s. But there was a quiet intelligence, a sincere determination about the gentle tones that, in their own unique way, inspired all that were listening.

“We’ll have to risk the outer city… until we reach the gates. Once we’re there… Lord Arminas should be able to smooth things out with the city guard. With any luck…” His words came in ragged clusters, each punctuated by a short pause for breath. If any of the Legionnaires had looked closely, they would have noticed the dry streaks upon his cheeks where the hot silent tears had coursed. His eyes were clear now, though, and there was no trace of doubt within them any more.

Glorfindel watched the human speak, silhouetted as he was by the rays of the dying sun behind him. The bladesinger’s keen elf-sight saw through the pooled shadow to Ingwe’s fore and caught the gleam of hope’s last proverbial throw of the dice in the young man’s face. The elf smiled, a soft, almost wistful smile to himself. Ingwe Helyanwe never ceased to amaze him.

“The gate guards may be more susceptible to persuasion. If they recognise my face, they may let us in, even if Lord Arminas has been unable to get word out yet.” If Ingwe’s words had given the men a spark of hope, Glorfindel’s fanned the flames until it was grasping at straws. All present respected the elf greatly, with more than a handful owing their lives to the bladesinger, and his defiance of the elnaith commander had only further increased their admiration. Downcast faces began to look up, daring to believe. “In any case, I concur with Ingwe… approaching the city is our only chance.”

“Well, what ur we waitin’ fur, ‘en?” Telchar rumbled, hefting his runehammer to his shoulder with a muted grunt. “Ah ne’er did like trees, anyways.”

A roar of approval resounded from the dwarven camp, and suddenly the entire band of Legionnaires was in complete agreement.

“I must warn you beforehand… this will not be an easy task…” Ingwe cautioned in a hurry, but by now, fears had been quashed and loins girded. The dark-haired huntsman summed things up best when he replied,

“Pshaw. We’ve followed you this far, Ingwe Helyanwe of the east. And it hasn’t exactly been a cakewalk so far, either.” He laughed, weary but hearty, and it was taken up by those around him. “Our goal’s in sight, we’re not going to give up now. Bring it on, I say. We’ll get through.”

There was nothing Ingwe could do but to bow silently in gratitude, trying to contain the fresh flood of tears that threatened to breach his eyes. He still had no idea how he had come to be considered the leader of this motley assembly of volunteers, and he still had even less confidence in his abilities to actually do so. But the time for such reservations was past now… there was naught left for it but to do his utmost and to hope for the best. He sensed a fleeting smile of encouragement upon the back of the neck; Ingwe looked up in time to briefly match gazes with Selinde before she indicated forwards and disappeared with her sister to scout the immediate road ahead.

A deep breath of the musty twilight air.

Then, once again, he thrust the throbs and pains of his battered body to the rear of his mind, focusing only upon what was necessary for the danger ahead. His tanto rested easy in their saya upon his shoulders; the pouch at his waist contained the scrolls that he would have to call upon now that his mind really did not feel capable of any more spellcasting. The brief rest had done much to reinvigorate his limbs, at least to the point where they seemed able to obey his mental commands now. He was as in as good shape as he could expect to be, he supposed. So long as he could maintain his focus… so long as he could hold on.

Five minutes later, Selinde reported back that the way ahead seemed to be clear for now. With that news, the ragged, fatigued band of survivors set off on the last leg of their journey to safety.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Only a faint glowing halo remained to the west, vaguely outlining the ruined buildings and giving to the small band of stragglers the frail hope that the sun had not yet set. Shadows like silent stealthy stalkers nipped at their heels as they travelled as quickly as they dared through the abandoned outer city. Closer, ever closer the buildings behind them were swallowed into darkness, and with that darkness came the overpowering primeval fear that someone… nay, something… was watching them.

The Legionnaires moved in an efficient military manner that had not been trained, but rather the need forced upon them by recent events. They advanced in paired groups of two, one group sprinting pell-mell for the nearest available cover, then guarding the leap-frogging progress of their buddies whilst catching their breath for the next run. Selinde and Nerdanel led the way, guiding the inexperienced troops away from treacherous ground and keeping them on track towards the city gates. Glorfindel supervised the main body of soldiers and sailors, while Ingwe and the dwarves formed a defiant rearguard attempting to beat back the night with shield and blade alone.

From time to time the rubbled houses would let slip a few rays of the dying sun, or their route would take them through the remains of an small courtyard. At times like these, the whitewashed stone would bathe in stark crimson, as if the heavens themselves had decided to reveal where the blood of the innocent had been spilt in all its gruesome glory. Elsewhere, though, the abandoned city remained a murky, menacing grey, secreting within it the darkest secrets of necromantic lore.

Sturdy wooden doors had been kicked in and sundered, great chunks of masonry torn from the walls of elegant villas, imposing statues defiled and ancient trees uprooted. Not a single pane of glass remained intact, not a fountain had been spared destruction. The marketplaces and boulevards had been brutally and thoroughly ransacked, house and shop alike helpless to resist the greed and gluttony of Xem’zund’s more material allies.

And yet, as Ingwe could not fail to notice as his feet pounded away upon the painfully hard cobblestones, there was no sign whatsoever of the fate of the inhabitants. For all the devastation that had been wrought, no sign of any dead stained the forlorn vista.

Part of him wanted to believe that they had all made it out in time. Part of him wanted to hope that, even now, they sheltered behind Anebrilith’s mighty walls, awaiting their turn upon the ships that would bear them to safety.

But he knew the foe he faced, the tales that could only be told in hushed whispers around dampened campfires for fear of attracting unwanted attention. And the instinctive hard lump in the pit of his stomach was all the indication he needed to realise that the disappearance of the townsfolk was at the heart of an altogether more sinister scheme.

A chill ran down his spine, cold sweat erupting on his back as he gave an involuntary shudder. Even Hayate’s reassuring presence overhead did little to alleviate the sense of impending doom that deadened his mind.

“Ah dinnae like ‘is,” a gruff dwarven voice resounded from by his side. With a start, Ingwe realised that it belonged to Derthark, prince of Gunnbad. Even the single, simple phrase echoed hollowly about the lifeless stone, their desolate surroundings somehow more akin to underworld cave than elven haven. “Ah dinnae like ‘is at all.”

Wholeheartedly, Ingwe agreed. But, pained and wearied, he couldn’t force his voice past the thick clogging lump in his throat. He settled instead for a wordless nod.

Vital seconds stretched into eternities as the Legionnaires sped towards Anebrilith, but for all their efforts, the spires and minarets in the distance ventured no closer. The sun dropped down beyond the Emyn Naug… a semicircle, a sliver, a mere spot… until all that could be seen upon the western horizon was a faint corona of purple desperately standing guard against the night.

Then, at long last, the final vestiges of day were driven from the skies, and the Legionnaires below were plunged into pitch-black void. No moon appeared in the heavens above to take the place of the sun, no stars shone to guide the party by their twinkling light. The darkness was complete and overbearing. They were out of breath, out of luck, and out of time.

Only a fragile combination of elven pathfinding and sheer desperation kept the men on their correct course. Ruined buildings melded together into looming jagged-edged shadows, obscuring in their liquid depths wisps of whispers and the faintest of forms. All around them the night pressed in, until it threatened to choke the very life out of them in its vindictive oppressiveness. The air turned stifled and lung-chilling, mutating even the most innocent of sounds into heart-stopping cacophonies. The barest hint of death and decay hung heavy in the depths of their noses, a decrepit stench that had not been so obvious during the daylight.

Taking brief refuge upon a pile of masonry, Ingwe tried to ignore the frantic, oft-incomprehensible warnings that his ears and nose were giving him; the dearth of visual references was causing his other senses to overwork themselves in an attempt to compensate. The uncertainty and fear of the other Legionnaires swelled and crested like a massive tsunami; in truth, he himself was having trouble containing the rapid beat of his own heart. The young man took a deep breath and attempted to probe his surroundings using his arcane powers, but the permeating evil was so intense that he recoiled physically, his spirit drained. It was as if the mere aura of undeath was sucking his magic dry.

And then, as if to further confirm his fears, hollow laughter sounded upon a sudden wind.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Ingwe stumbled heavily upon the rubble-strewn ground, feeling his foot slip awkwardly beneath him. Sharp stones dug painfully into the raw wounds upon his back as a combination of luck and sheer desperation enabled him to convert his motion into an ungainly forward roll; a small gasp broke through the grimly set lines of his jaw, gentle but agonised. Still, when he righted himself facing his foe, he held in the outstretched palm of his hand one of the scrolls from the pouch at his waist.

“Housenka!” he called, invoking the magic imbued within. The thick paper card spontaneously disintegrated, erupting into five fist-sized fireballs that hurtled into the writhing morass of spectres on his tail. Two went down in fiercely burning flames, shrieking horribly, but within moments their place had been taken by two more.

“It is no use, Ingwe!” Glorfindel shouted from the other side of the dwarven battle line, straining to be heard over the wailing moans of the guina and the grunted warcries of the besieged dwarves. “We cannot defeat them unless we can sever their bond to the land, and none of us have that power. They cannot be destroyed…”

“But we can delay them!” Ingwe gasped back, beads of sweat glistening ominously upon his contorted brow. “We have to do what we can!”

It hadn’t taken long for the Legionnaires to realise that mere steel had little effect upon the apparitions. Only the enchanted blades of the elves and the rune-encrusted weapons of the dwarves could touch the guina, along with what little hedge magic the motley band possessed. And, judging by the extreme exhaustion written into Ingwe’s features, the young man was nearly out of his share of the latter.

Hastily picking himself up from the ground and rejoining the flight, he spared a quick glance towards the head of the column. The elven Ranger sisters still guided the desperate Legionnaires onwards, although their orders were now punctuated by the whistle of Nerdanel’s black-fletched arrows and the gently glinting strokes of Selinde’s keen blades. Ingwe couldn’t help but notice, though, that the resistance was significantly lighter there, as if the heaving mass of spectres were…

“Ingwe!” a gruff dwarven voice bellowed in warning, and the young man barely ducked out of the way as oily black tendrils lashed out from the crowd of spectres behind him. He felt the tainted wind of their passing against the tousles of his rumpled black hair, his hand torn open by the sharp grit as he hit the ground for the second time in as many moments. And yet the pain was almost therapeutic in its agony. For all the dangers of his immediate situation… he was still alive.

The faint hum of a longsword in swift motion heralded Glorfindel’s rush to Ingwe’s aid. An acrobatic aerial somersault, a delicately precise backhand stroke, and the tendrils were torn from their host in a splatter of inky shadow, buying precious seconds for Ingwe to find his feet once more.

“Reppudan!” he cried, launching the wind-elemental projectile behind Glorfindel’s back from his uninjured palm. The stormily swirling sphere disappeared without a trace into the heaving throes of his foes; it was impossible to tell if the spell had any effect whatsoever.

“Give ground slowly, boys!” Derthark’s orders echoed boomingly about the dark streets. The dwarves rumbled as one in acknowledgement, their shield wall impenetrable as they fought to keep their foes at arms length.

“Hurry, lad.” Ingwe was suddenly aware of Telchar’s solid presence at his side, the runelord effortlessly hauling him to safety behind his fellows with Glorfindel following closely behind. Belatedly he realised that his right hand was a grimy mess, and that his back had been set alight once again by a thousand nerve endings screaming in agony. Ingwe tried to focus, tried to force his mind to obey the renewed call to arms… but, at long last, it seemed as if he had run out of strength. Even the glow of the pendant upon his chest was lost dimly amongst the overwhelming darkness.

“Ya did well,” Telchar offered, recognising that his young charge was completely spent. But the gruffly spoken praise was of little comfort.

“I…” Ingwe began. This time, Glorfindel was quick to cut him off.

“You are of little use to us now,” the elf spoke, his voice gentle despite the harshness of his words, indicating Ingwe’s injured palm and general exhaustion with a small nod. To the warrior-mage’s continued envy, the bladesinger himself still barely seemed to be sweating, although his fair complexion was just a little paler than it had been under the sunlight. “You would just get in our way.”

Crestfallen, Ingwe knew that Glorfindel spoke truth. And yet…

He glanced once more towards the head of their formation, watching as the disorganised mass of Legionnaires sought to escape the guina. How could he succumb to weakness now? Was he not responsible for the safety of these men? Despite his injuries, was it not his duty to…?

It was then that his mind finally made the connection between misgiving and observation. The proverbial light bulb sparked weakly before flickering to life.

“They’re herding us…”

With visible effort he pulled himself upright once again, reaching into his pouch for a strip of cloth – normally used to clean his pens – to wrap around his injured hand. But his eyes were firmly on the edge of the visible horizon, towards where Nerdanel and Selinde were guiding them… trying to avoid the heaviest concentrations of spectres.

“They’re… herding us…” he repeated, taking first one step, then another under his own power, fighting to keep his legs from rebelling against his mind. Telchar and Glorfindel exchanged glances, first of surprise, then of growing concern as the import of Ingwe’s words dawned upon them. “We have… to tell... before it’s… too…”

Above the clamour of battle rang a screech both terrifying and triumphant. The air was still and expectant, heavy with the smell of death both long-since decayed and impending. Ingwe could only be swept along helplessly as the momentum of the disorganised flight took the Legionnaires into the middle of a massive rectangular court, the abandoned central square of this part of Anebrilith.

As the darkness closed in from all directions, he was aware that there would be no escape now.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Massive marble buildings stared down at them from all sides, gargantuan behemoths shrouded in darkness absolute. The largest one to their fore had obviously once been a court of law, graceful cylindrical pillars supporting an elaborately frescoed roof, shattered crystal doors guarded by a statue of the blind goddess of justice holding in her outstretched hand the symbolical scales with which she delivered judgement. Someone had ironically taken the time to load the left-hand scale so that it hung much lower than the right, not to mention that the statue’s head lay a full ten paces from the rest of its body, struck clear by a clean, powerful blow.

Ingwe spared a sorrowful glance at the sight before turning his attention back to his fellow Legionnaires. They were drawn up in a tight circle around the fountain in the middle of the open courtyard, its waters long since parched dry. The cracked pavement grasped treacherously at his feet as he inched unsteadily towards where Glorfindel, Telchar, Selinde, and Nerdanel were holding their makeshift war council, heated words exchanged in hushed and hurried whispers. The air was ominous and wavering, the courage of the men hanging by a single thin thread.

For around them all, the spectral guina swarmed in a writhing, undulating mass that stretched as far as the senses could make out in every direction. “Join us…” they moaned again and again in dissonant harmony, until the very wind reverberated with their pain and the ground itself took up their cry.

“… ah’ve a few tricks up mah sleeve,” Telchar was saying when Ingwe finally edged close enough to make out the runelord’s gruff whisper. “But against ghosts? Ah dornt think they’ll hae much effect, whatsoever…”

If Telchar’s expression was the definition of grimly set, then Glorfindel’s was a mirror of peaceful calm. Of all the warriors assembled in the middle of the square, it seemed that the bladesinger was least affected by the pall of undeath that surrounded them.

A few words that Ingwe was too far away to make out, and then,

“… we must give the humans a fighting chance. We cannot hope to protect them all, and we need their strength in numbers to survive.”

Telchar nodded agreement, looking from impassive Nerdanel to agitated Selinde for signs of dissent. The former had yet to venture an opinion upon their predicament, seemingly content that Glorfindel and Telchar had the matter under as much control as was possible; the latter was clearly still unsettled by the presence of the guina and the fact that the High Council of Anebrilith had been unable to prevent their existence.

“So wrong… so… wrong…” she mumbled to herself helplessly, nerveless fingers clamped tight around the hilt of her sword.

Gently ignoring her, Telchar summed things up in his usual matter-of-fact tone. “Ah can cast a spell tae turn all th’ manling’s blades magical. But ah willnae be able tae fight while daein’ sae… power on such scale must be carefully controlled. Ye’ll hae tae defend me.” Once again his eyes went about the assembled threesome and the soldiers milling about beyond, marvelling silently at the whims of fate. Not so long ago, he would have scoffed at the notion of placing his life in the hands of elves and men. Now, he knew he had little choice. “Dinnae hash yerself, lassie,” he continued, speaking directly to Selinde. “We’ll put these souls tae rest, e’en if we hae tae…”

It was then that his gaze slipped past the elf-maiden, in time to catch Ingwe as the Nipponese slumped to the ground at the base of the fountain. The warrior-mage’s face was deathly pale, with the exception of a crimson streak that stood out like neon to the dwarf’s night vision, trickling from the edge of bloodless lips. Ingwe’s eyes were listlessly shut, his breathing light and irregular as his body fought the pain.

“Ingwe!” Telchar bellowed, abandoning the elves and unwittingly drawing the attention of every Legionnaire within earshot. “Laddie!”

With surprising speed for such a stocky frame, the runelord was at the young human’s side, Glorfindel mere breaths behind him and the Ranger sisters arriving not long after. Moments flew by like eternities as the dwarf extended a calloused hand towards Ingwe’s shoulder.

The young man’s eyes fluttered open, and he mustered a weak, wan smile at the sudden attention.

“So.. rry…” he managed, barely able to force the syllables from his throat. Despite the obvious pain that garbled his voice, it was clear that Ingwe’s apology was not only meant for his inability to participate in the imminent battle, but also for his lack of composure at such a critical point in their journey. For the panic was now spreading tangibly, like wildfire devouring dry brush, through the ranks of the men.

“Don’t you guys have some sort of impressive magic to deal with them all…?”

The voice was but a single sound in the overwhelming night, solitary and anonymous. Yet judging by the way it chimed like a peal of chaos amongst the hearts and faces of the Legionnaires, it may as well have been Glorfindel voiced who had spoken. And it was blindingly obvious that the answer to the question was a “no”, the expression of equal parts pain, distress, and helplessness upon Ingwe’s face too honest for his own sake.

But if those words hurt, the next that rose from amongst the closely packed sea of faces stung far sharper than any blade, far deeper than any wound.

“You brought us here, outlander! You brought us here to die!”

For some of the men, this was going too far. The dark-haired huntsman was one of those who looked about in shock, denying the words vehemently. But it was those faces that showed their agreement, those accusatory glares burdened with venom and disgust as they tore into his soul, that shredded Ingwe to pieces. The guilt, the shame of the moment was too much to bear; a single hot tear broke past the tightly clenched dam and trickled gently down a pale listless cheek. The worst part of it all was that he knew the accusation to be true. He could not refute it, much the same way as he could not turn back time to alter their fate.

“Shut yer gob, ye mingin mongrel!” Telchar snapped, thunder rumbling menacingly in his voice. “Draw steel an’ face yer foes, manlings, ur ye will definitely nae survive the night!”

But his words were not enough; neither could they quell the pall of fear that had settled over the soldiers, nor could they help to restore Ingwe’s self-belief.

As the gloom settled over them once again like a heavy blanket, any light of hope seemed a thousand miles distant.