Legion of Light V: In the Shadow of Ancient Champions

[Kryos]

Dawn came, and not a moment too soon. Just as the first rays of light filtered through the snow-topped trees and the red stained boughs, the gut-wrenching shriek pierced the frosted wood once more.

Kryos’ eyelids flew open, revealing dull, gray eyes. Cursing the impeccable timing–when his vision was weakest–he pulled himself to his feet while brushing off a thin layer of snow from his hood and shoulders. Beside him, the others were getting ready to set out, so accustomed were they to packing up and moving at a moments notice. With a quick movement of his arm, he slung his weapon to its place on his back. He too, was ready.

“Let’s go,” commanded Shalua. Her forest green cloak billowed as she ducked under the branches and into a foot of powder. Trailing in the snow at her side was her rapier, in hand and ready. “I’ll take point.”

Blake nodded his assent and ushered Anne, dutifully followed by Alk, out from the protective branches. The golden retriever lunged through the snow after the Bladesinger before circling back to his master. Anne herself was still sleepy. She stumbled through the drifts after the elf, black cloak wrapped around her small form.

“Don’t slack off, now,” Blake quipped at Kryos before following the trial of footprints. In his hands, twin short swords gleaming in the waxing light.

The dwiilar rolled his eyes before following suit.

They moved quickly through the snow. At least, as fast as they could. The forest was difficult to navigate, but every once in a while, another howl would sound from behind, urging them onward.

It can’t be much farther to the Elleduin River, Kryos thought bleakly. [/i]We crossed the Escaldor five days ago! It has to be close.[/I]

As his eyes finally became the sinister shade of the forest, he reached into his pack with cold fingers and snatched a handful of dried apples. It wouldn’t be well for them if he was not at full strength. With grim determination, he popped a couple into his mouth.

***

“What is it now? What have you found?”

The slobbering and snarling of rotted wolves answered the inquiry. The animals had fallen a long way from their once proud state. Their flesh hung off their bodies and in some places it was nonexistent. But their eyes were crazed. So long had they been under the dark powers of their master that they no longer had the will to fight for the freedom they had previously enjoyed. Red streaks ran across their sparse, black fur, and they quivered as their controller stood.

“Hmmm. Interesting. Teehee!” The voice gave way to subdued chuckling. “Yes, this will be fun. I haven’t had a chance to test out my new toys.”

The form in front of the hell-hounds stood. Yet even then his stature wasn’t impressive, as the necromancer had the body of a young teenager. Swathed in a black and mauve cloak and cast in the disorienting crimson light of the forest, he extended his arms towards his underlings, fingers erect. They twisted into complex patterns, and the undead animals yelped in pain before running off.

“Tehehehe!” From beneath the hood, a smile flashed from a perfect, youthful mouth. “Go. Chase them down, and when the time is right . . .” The boy clenched his fist and erupted in hysterical laughter. His hands, fingers and arms pulled at the air, wrenching invisible lines.

“Come, my friends. Let’s get ready to play.”

[Kryos]

The glowing, ivory blade whistled through the bitter air before sinking into the chest of a snarling wolf, throwing the undead beast to the ground and snapping one of the front legs. The creature snarled, blood and black fluid leaking from the flaming gash in its front and red eyes narrowing as it collapsed, pure white fire licking at the rancid carcass. Kryos turned from the slain.

“Run!” he yelled to the others, some paces ahead of him and staring at the mutilated animal. “There’s more coming!”

Anne’s eyes widened, and Alk barked a warning. “Kryos, look out!” she screamed, pointing behind him. He turned back to barely see what hit him. A slick, wet mass of bone and flesh, armed with fangs, tackled him to the ground. The dirty claws ripped into his right shoulder and he cried out as the pain blossomed. Across his own chest, he felt something splash down from the beast, along with heat. His left hand shot upward, grabbing the foul throat and throwing the beast off of him. Struggling to his feet, he was shocked to see the same undead animal he had just slain, its chest still smoldering. Unease pricked his mind as he rushed forward and cleaved the head from the body, pale flames licking both parts of the neck.

The decapitated monstrosity lunged again, blood still flowing from the opening, only to be burnt by the flames. Kryos backtracked wildly, shocked, before attacking again. This time, he slashed and cut and hacked at the body until all legs were burning on the ground, away from the torso. His breathed heavily, eyes wide from what he had just seen. Something moved at the edge of his vision.

The wolves mouth snapped open and close, silently searching for sweet flesh to feed upon. Kryos turned and sprinted after his companions, not daring to look again upon the flaming, demonic head. As he ran, he dragged his blade through the snow and sheathed the weapon, before attempting to rid his chest of the Dur’Taigen’s gore.

What’s going on? he thought as he plunged through the drifts. What was that thing, and why didn’t it stop? Something isn’t right.

A scream mixed in with hideous snarling raked against his ears, and he finally came into sight of his companions. Two ghastly wolves were attacking, being held off by Blake and Shalua. The Bladesinger showed no mercy, violet weapon flashing through air and flesh with ease, quickly lobbing off the head as Kryos had done and continuing to break the body until no amount of necromancy could reanimate it. Her grace as she fought was unparalleled by any of them, a result from years of training. Next to her, Blake appeared as a kid, whose powerful attacks were slow and easily read by the undead being. Sharp cracks sounded with the breaking of bone, although the twin-swordsman couldn’t make a critical hit. As Kryos rushed forward to aid the human, the mutilated wolf leapt off of its recently broken legs at Blake’s throat, who backtracked too slowly. Kryos couldn’t reach him in time, and Shalua was just turning around. She couldn’t see him, the wolf, the impending future. No . . .

The creature burst into orange flames and fell, howling, to the ground. Anne, who stood behind her protectors, held her hand outstretched, fingers smoldering from the spell she had cast. Kryos thought he glimpsed a smug smile brush across the girl’s scarred features, but he wasn’t positive. He wouldn’t blame her though.

Blake stood trembling, still in shock at his brush with death. Kryos ignored him and jumped into action, bringing his muandrian to bear, glowing white steel arcing through the air to end the beast’s existence.

“Why won’t they die like normal?” Shalua said, coming up next to him. “It’s like nothing I’ve seen before. Even your sword has no effect.”

Kryos shook his head. “No, it is having the same effect. It’s just that, there is something else, something we haven’t seen before.” The dwiilar chuckled darkly as he cleaned the blade. “After I cut the first one across the chest, a strike that would have been sufficient for the past fiends we’ve faced, the creature died.” He closed his eyes as he remembered the horrific scene, of vile teeth and putrid breath mere centimeters from his face. And the empty, emotionless look it had. “It was as if,” he continued, “after that, it wasn’t attacking with its own will. The eyes, were empty.”

“Hmm. What could this mean, though?” Shalua murmured.

“Damn it!” Blake had found his voice again, and sent off a string of profanity. “Who the hell cares? Let’s just get out of here!” He carried on with more curses.

“Shut up, Blake,” Kryos growled. “Get it together.” In all honesty, he didn’t care. But with Anne there, well, he was disappointed in the mortal.

The girl in question came forward, canine companion at her side. “I think we should go to. There’ll be more following. We’ll have to lose them, or kill them all.” She looked pleadingly at Shalua.

“Of course,” the Bladesinger assured. “Let’s head out, same formation.”

Once back on the move, Blake seemed to get his emotions under control. He still eyed the woods like a suspicious old hag, but at least he was an asset again.

Ten minutes into the silent march, a chorus of deathly cries resonated from behind them. The dwiilar tightened his grip on his weapon and lengthened his stride. Those were scouts? He could barely believe such a thing.. If this is true, then we’re dealing with an organized structure of foes. And that means there is someone pulling the strings who has the intelligence to do something like this. Definitely not a common minion. His stomach churned at the thought, at the possibility, that they had caught the eye of another necromancer. The cold, young features of Rashilan Penna’ak, who had died by the hands of his friend and great warrior Lexxum Vordic just a few days ago, sent shivers down his spine. Facing the awesome powers wielded by Xem’Zund and those who followed him was nigh close to folly. If they were against a new, unseen enemy, they would be hard pressed to survive, especially in a place such as the Lindequalmë.

Ahead, the light in the trees grew brighter. Kryos surged forward through the freezing drifts, past the scarlet trees and right behind Blake. They had stopped.

Before them, the trees gave away to a snow-covered bank before opening up to a wide, flat expanse of undisturbed whiteness. Now out of the protective cover, a crisp, frigid wind spun wisps of powder into the air, biting their exposed skin. Overhead, large, purified clouds raced each other to the horizon, and the blazing sun did nothing the dispel the chill of winter.

“We’ve finally made it.” Anne whispered. “The Elleduin.”

Shalua and Kryos stepped forward in unison, eyes probing the trees at the edges of the bank. “Don’t let down your guard,” the elf said. “We’re still a long ways from safety.” Kryos couldn’t agree more. This was nothing more than a measure of how far they had come, roughly a little over half of the journey. They still had a long way to go, and if his fears were correct, they might be more dangerous than the first sixteen.

Ever cautious, he sent his magic down the length of his blade, the pure flames summoning the hidden enchantment within the weapon. Fate would always favor the prepared, and he slowly made his way through the snow with the others following at his back. His crimson eyes scanned over the tree line, looking for anything. This was a perfect place to ambush a group; he himself would choose this spot for its cover-free expanse. His right foot crunched through the snow and hit a cold, hard surface. The river itself. Slowly, they made their way across the bleak plain. Nothing but the wind and their footfalls sounded. Unease flitted through him as they crossed the halfway mark.

Where did the wolves go? Maybe I was wrong about them being organized.

It was with this thought that the river exploded into ashen clouds and childish laughter ripped through the freezing wind.

[Kryos]

They were surrounded.

In a large and ragged circle stood dozens of the undead. Beyond the immediate ring, however, more clustered around, staring at them with hideous expressions of rage and torment, eyes strained with corruption. Vicious breaths blew from their torn lungs, throats and mouths, such that Kryos couldn’t help but want to die just from the terror the sound incurred. Their forms swayed, and did not attack, and the wind that carried their moans and growls pulled at the shreds that clothed the zombies. They had burst from below the snow, hidden from sight until call upon by their master, for it was only his will that kept them from attacking. Now in the open, their rotted flesh, fluid oozing from the lacerations and dried blood and gore that covered their bodies, became pungent in the wintry air.

Kryos stepped back and into the others who had clustered behind him. He could feel their uneven breaths at the prospect of facing such overwhelming odds, and the thrumming of Alk’s chest as he growled in defiance, fangs bared. The closest undead took an slow step forward.

“Shit,” Blake spat as his hands shook. “What do we do?”

“Psh,” the Bladesinger purred. “Always the human.” She began to sing softly to herself, and a glow began to appear at the edge of her lethal rapier. As she did, the sky darkened, a legion of dark gray clouds moving over the sun. The glimmering powder dimmed, and Anne glanced up at Kryos, radiant eyes wide. He looked at her once, nodding, then faced his opponents. The previous months had forged the simple schoolgirl into a survivor, one capable of making it though the hardest trials. This would just be another. She closed her eyes and began to chant, reaching behind her with her right hand to grab the large dagger strapped to her lower back.

Mouths gaping and bloody saliva dripping from their mangled jaws, eight undead took a leading step ahead of the others, equal spread around the ring. Their bodies shook horribly, bones crunching, before they charged through the snow. Kryos bended his knees, eyes narrowing and hand lifting his glowing sword to eye level. Exhaling, he lunged forward.

His sword sliced effortlessly through the decayed muscle and brittle bone of his foes. In a single swing, he beheaded the first, a man, with once brown hair and a strong facial structure. The white flames that always marred his blade’s victims burned the neck. Two others came rushing in on both sides of his first target, clawed hands swinging. Kryos dropped to his haunches to avoid the attacks, and swept his sword in a wide arc in front of him, catching all three beings at the waist, shedding their clothes and breaking their skin and bones. More flames burned at the exposed creatures and he kicked the first one away. A hand hit him on his neck, hard, and he followed the path of the one he had launched away. Using that momentum, he cut, hacked, and broke the burning body and danced around.

The two that had flanked him were now rushing towards the others and, as they were currently preoccupied fending off their own attackers, were unable to see the coming ambush.

“Look out!” Kryos yelled, jumping after them. Only Anne turned and saw the two threats. She whistled and Alk, the golden retriever’s coat already splotched in grim and gore, jumped, teeth sinking into the neck of one and shook his head, snapping the neck. Anne herself drew back her hand, murmured a quick phrase, and hurled a bright fireball directly into the other. The creature burst into flames and screamed. For a moment, Kryos thought that it was a woman who burned, not an imitation. He came upon them, and made quick work, severing hands from arms, arms from body, and the legs as well. Even in a second death, the parts still moved.

He looked to Shalua and Blake. They both were fending off two zombies apiece, and more corpses littered the ground on their feet. Blake was a frenzied whirlwind of yells and steel, his twin blades flashing through the air and damaging his foes before they had a chance to find and get through an opening. With grim determination, he fought for his life.

On contrast, if Blake was a whirlwind, then Shalua was as lightning, striking so fast and elegantly that it looked as if she danced to the beat of her sword sliding through flesh. Her violet rapier mixed with the putrid blood that painted the sky and snow, and as she spun, her sage cloak billowed like a hero of yore. As she impaled one of the undead, a devilish grin appeared on her face and her eyes were filled with satisfaction.

This startled him. He knew Blake’s motives; revenge for his murdered family at the hands of the undead, but the elf’s had always remained a mystery. They elation she showed during combat only added more to the mystery that veiled her motives.

Kryos turned and watched four more break ranks from the surrounding mob and rush Anne and himself. He readied his sword and glanced at Anne. Her fingers glowed with her power. Like the Bladesinger before him, he allowed a smile to appear on his lips. Fire burned through the air alongside a golden form of muscle, claws and teeth, and Kryos charged through the drifts, feet slipping slightly on the ice, and barreling toward the pitiful undead.

***

In the hidden folds of snow-topped branches, Baug’almare, the Puppet Master, watched as his minions were slaughtered, one right after the other. Frankly, he was impressed. He hadn’t guessed that this rag-tail bunch of mortals would have survived his assault so long. Well, mostly mortal, he corrected himself, remembering the elf.

The snow below him lit with a hellish glow as a fireball sailed and struck an underling. The corpse dropped and a flash of steel ended the creatures life. He felt a tug on his finger as it died.

“Hmmm. How about . . . Yes.” The boy chuckled and waved his fingers, gesturing toward the river. “Go on, boys. Try and get them!”

Below, the savage wolves shuddered, before loping off towards the clearing. He watched them go, leaning forward, placing a hand on the snowy bough. The wind was severe in the top of the red tree, but his body no longer cared. It hadn’t bothered with such petty complaints for a long time. A large grin split his face.

“Te heh. Heh hehe! Heheheh!” With a whirl of fabric, he threw back his hood, letting his fair, blond hair bask in the light of the sun. His skin, a color indicating elvish decent, was smooth over his face and his teeth were perfect. But his eyes, a bright, vivid violet, were filled with spite and malice. The intensity clouded his youthful face, transforming it from an innocent boy to a monster. Being born hundreds of years ago, he knew the reality that shaped Althanas. Everything was controllable, including the god-like elves. His Lord’s conquest over them was proof of that.

A yelping pierced his stray line of thought, and he saw the dark-haired swordsman cut down one of his pets. The sword he wielded was strange, imbued with some magic that resisted his necromantic power. An interesting variable, he thought. They are quite good, even the little girl. Desire filled his breast as he gazed upon the child in question, not even as old as he was when he died. He wanted her, the child. The others could become as the others, the poor souls from that forsaken city. But her, she would become his companion.

Another five zombies lay dead at the group’s feet and three more were being slaughtered. “This is getting so boring,” Baug’almare complained. “I know! Let’s see how they handle this.”

He closed his eyes and began to whisper in a forbidden tongue. Like acid, the incantation added to his power, and his eyes burned with excitement. He flexed his fingers, and began to move them in short, abrupt movements. Below, several of the undead jolted, as if shocked. They rushed forward and began to circle the fierce group on the frozen, windswept, blood-drenched river. He twisted his hands outward, and laughed as his dead heart filled with the rich sensation of joy.

***

The body covered ground was soaked in blood, and in many places, the snow had been kicked up enough that the bare ice had been revealed. Kryos slid to a stop as he impaled an undead with his muandrian, length sliding into the chest and back out. He backtracked toward the group, surveying their progress.

It seemed that the organization decisions of the person in control was working to their advantage. If the zombies had all attacked at once, they would have been easily overwhelmed. As it stood now, their ability to fight one-on-one had given them the advantage. The numbers had decreased by a fourth. And while the hell-hounds had given them a surprise, they had been easy to put down.

Three more of the undead broke from the group, and began to circle them, crying madly. He bumped against the others. They waited. The zombies charged, claws outstretched. They barely felt the effects of the ice! he noted as his blade raced to meet the soon-to-be corpse.

He missed!

The creature has swerved at the last second and was past his guard. There was nothing he could do! The creature bit into his shoulder, rancid breath and saliva burning the new wound, and he cried out in pain, echoing one that came from Blake. He switched his hold on his sword to a reverse grip, and stabbed the being, heaving it away and following it down, blade singing vengeful wrath upon the creature.

Fear flooded through him.

As he looked up, two more zombies stepped forward and began to circle. Their legs hadn’t even moved! They just raced motionlessly around them, as if they were mere dolls for some innocent child. As he turned to follow them, he caught the sight of Blake beating off his attacker, arm streaked with blood, and Shalua eyeing the newcomers. Anne held mage-fire above her left hand and blood coated her dagger, but for the most part seemed fine. Then, without any forewarning hint, the bodies shot toward them, and Anne screamed.

[Kryos]

A zombie had flown, literally flown from the edge of the trees, over its dead comrades, past the living’s guard faster than they could react, and landed right behind the girl. Grotesque hands clutched her shoulders and bolted outwards, and the rest, human, elf, dwiilar and canine, reacted a second too late, lurching forward before being stopped by the previously circling undead. However, their attempts were in vain; Anne twisted around to face her captor and, hand still smoldering in hellfire, rammed the magical flames into the broken and slashed face of the dead human female. Not finished there, she took her dagger and slashed the throat, over and over again. It was then, that Alk broke free and charged, mad fury in his eyes. He leapt, toppling over the woman and, once finished, raced back to Anne who had retreated to the others. Their breathing grew labored.

“What the hell was that?” Blake gasped, hunched over slightly. “Those were totally different than before!”

Shalua nudged the human, nodding toward more enemies stepping from the ring. “They weren’t the only ones who were different. Stand, and face them!”

Blake grunted and stood erected, muttering under his breath about his luck and having no break. With death staring at the group, they braced as the undead converged like buzzards onto a kill.

Kryos became a whirl of movement, striking and evading with the same lunge, retreating and attacking in the same second. His blade ringed through the air, sprouting shimmering flames across whatever flesh they cut into. He ducked a clawed hand, pausing for a second to shift his weight, dark clothes fluttering, before kicking into a half-eaten gut and breaking the spin. His scarlet eyes darkened in concentration, using all of his knowledge of combat as he spun through the air, lashed out with his left arm and legs, and cutting burning vengeance with his blade, all while trying to keep his footing secure on the slick ice.

Anne was holding her own, deadly fireballs growing smaller and smaller as the fight wore on but still as potent. Her mental reserves were dropping at an alarming rate, so more often than not she would have to resort to close combat. Her slim fame was the one advantage she had on the ice and against the unpredictable, bizarre movements of the undead. She dropped to the cold ground as a zombie lunged at her, and her right hand flicked out, dagger cutting into the knee. She rose, then jumped and shoved her weapon into the vertebrae of the monster. Alk came in next, ripping one arm off and going for the other even as his chest heaved for breath. As Anne pulled her weapon from the neck and dropped to the ground abreast to the dog, her leg gave out and she dropped to her knees.

Blake wasn’t faring much better; the effort of keeping up with the endless fighting seeped deep into his muscles and bones, and on occasion, was slammed brutally by a clubbed hand before he could get his guard up fast enough. Still, he fought with all he had, twin blades crunching bones and severing the muscles of all who came to close. Until four undead rushed him at once.

Shalua, noticing the rush, quickly dispatched her own opponent and slid across the ice to the human’s aid. Her saber flashed quicker than the normal eye could follow, and a limbless torso dropped to the ground. Backtracking from the three still moving corpses, she brushed against Blake, who nodded his thanks, and charged again, the human at her side.

We won’t make it, Kryos thought as he landed in the snow after being hit across the face. We won’t be able to kill them all before one of us dies. He grimaced as he pushed himself up from the frosted river surface. This need to end now. He pushed himself backwards, toward the group, powder brushing upwards before being snatched by the wind. But their movements, it is so, unnatural. It’s as if . . . His breath caught. If the deceased souls still remained in this world, then they could act as a channel through which necromantic power could be conducted. He shook his head. The chances of that are so slim, it is almost impossible. An undead flew at him, mouth agape and roaring. It’s worth a shot. He moved his sword, aiming it the chest of the attacker which impale itself upon his blade. Even then, it swung its arms, trying to pull closer and kill. Kryos reached back his left hand, fingers outstretched and rippling with the white-flamed Charity spell, before darting past the arms and grabbing the skull.

The creature shuddered once, then collapsed.

No way! He wrenched his muandrian from the body and glanced around. There were still too many to safely touch them all. But, if he could find the source, the origin of the control, the necromancer who watched from afar, he could sever those bonds. Physically going there was out of the question; he had no idea where to start looking, and he wouldn’t get past so many enemies. There was only one thing for it.

“Everyone, cover me!” His companions, locked in combat, glanced at him with incredulous eyes. “Just do it!” They didn’t move for one moment, contemplating and dispatching more of the zombies, before retreating to his side.

“What are you gonna do?” Blake heaved, grasping his side.

The dwiilar didn’t waste time explaining. Instead, he lowered his blade and closed his eyes as he called upon his power. The bloody-red in his gaze expanded, glowing fiercely, and he dove into the insubstantial abyss that separated Althanas from the Fluenta, the realm of souls. His spiritual vision took in the surreal snowscape.

Beside him glowed the souls of his comrades, two locked in combat and one, Anne, staying close by his barely responsive side. Around him, dull shadows ranged and fought; the physical bodies of the undead. He couldn’t see their souls, however. They must be in a deeper level.

With a flash and a shockwave that thudded against his chest, he dropped in the next deepest level, as if he had dropped from one plane of existence through the next as any physical person might drop through a whole in a floor connecting separating two identical rooms. Still nothing; the corpses moved free of influence. He went down another, and another. Still no change, save for the movements of those fighting. He gritted his teeth. Going any deeper would start to strain him, but he had no other alternative. Taking a breath, he descended.

The shift was more noticeable, and the colors that made up the Fluenta changed slightly. Now, they simmered as if each one was made from two, the snowy white all around from silver and blue, and the red trees from blood and gold. He breathed deeply from the shift, and stepped forward eagerly. He could see them, the bubbling, black shapes that were the undead souls, twisted through necromancy. They were all separate, though, independent of control. As he watched, and as his comrades killed (taking on injuries of their own), he would see a thin string of abyssal energy shoot from the trees on the east side of the river, penetrating the spirit’s neck and urging it forward with the uncanny movements. So, their master hid in the trees.

He wasted no more time standing. Rushing forward (his soul a mix of ivory and onyx,) he lifted his weaponless hands, burning with the Charity spell in its true form, toward the hidden enemy. As he reached the ring of tormented spirits, he brushed them with his fingers, and the power keeping them tied in Althanas was removed. Many arched their backs and disappeared with sighs of relief, their bodies dropping to the ground. In this way, he cleared a path to the tree line, keeping a close watch on the strands of power. Ten yards in, he glanced upwards.

In the top of a large tree crouched a small figure, his soul a black deeper than pitch. So, this is where you’ve been hiding, Kryos thought. It ends now. No longer will you toy with us as you do these poor souls you control. Hands bursting with renewed, alabaster flames, he jumped, soaring though the spiritual realm of the Fluenta at his prey.

***

Baug’almare laughed as he sent out more of his underlings toward the struggling group. With quick twists and tugs of his fingers, they changed direction instantaneously, and although two of the warriors were fairly quick at adapting to the random changes, the human wasn’t as fortunate. Just as he had three undead lung for the man’s throat, he laughed in triumph.

The laughter turned to confused chuckling, then a horrified yell.

His power had been severed and his attack foiled.

Desperately, he attempted to reconnect his control, his precious links to his beautiful toys. But only a feeling of cold, and death, and nothingness danced along his fingers. More then, on his toes, back, face, and sides, appearing only for an instant. In each feeling, it was as if something was dying. Or rather, being stolen from him, his grasp. He looked around him, at the scene below, but nothing seemed to be attacking him. He was hidden in the trees, cast in shadow by his cloak save his hands and head. How could this be? His lilac eyes widened in horror as the feeling stuck in the places it appeared, growing, and becoming more intense.

“What the HELL?!” he screamed, hands clutching at his forehead and pulling his blond hair. “Get away! Now! Aghhh!” He thrashed against the invisible torture and screamed in agony at the boundless, clouded sky.

[Kryos]

On the river, the undead attacking, stopped moving. Silence reigned except for their labored breathing. Then, carried on the wind, a howl of pain and terror and agony, mixed with terrible power. Anne dropped to her knees, clutching at her ears.

“Make it stop!” she wailed to Blake and Shalua, who were watching the ring of living dead with pained expressions. They glanced at each other, confusion written on their faces, and they stood ready for whatever was coming. As they did so, the cry began to diminish, ever so slowly like the journey of the moon over the night sky. As it became quiet once more, Anne lifted her head.

“What was that?” she asked, looking around. The two adult didn’t have a chance to answer, though. Like a wave of release, the undead dropped to the ground with a mutual sigh, starting at the east side of the river and heading north along the loose ring. As each body hit the snow and ice, the companions became all the more confused. Only when the last body fell lifeless to the ground was the silence broken.

Blake swallowed, “What . . . just happened?” Only silence answered, as Shalua was deep in contemplation and Anne was tending to Alk’s wounds. Even the wind had died. “Shit, guys. Seriously!”

On the ground where he had fallen, Kryos gasped, jolting, eyes filling with life and memory. He shook his head, then stood tall and straight, sheathing his blade. For a moment, he looked noble in the pure light, his dark countenance defying their fate. All eyes turned to him as he glanced over his shoulder.

“Are you alright?” he asked, eyes filling with concern. His ruby gaze touched each of them.

Blake grunted, putting away his own weapons because of the dwiilar’s calm demeanor. “Besides being so confused as to what just happened? Yeah, I’m just peachy.” Kryos rose an eyebrow at the level of sarcasm the human used. With as sigh, he explained.

“I simply found the necromancers origin of power and severed it, and in doing so, released the undead from his command.” He hadn’t told them of the true nature of his power, namely, dealing with souls, so he gave them the simplified version. It was in his nature to be cautious about his people and who he was.

“Wait,” Shalua interrupted. “A necromancer? Are you serious?”

He nodded. “He has fled for the time being, and we should make the most of it before he comes after us again.” Turning to the girl, he asked, “Are you ready to go?”

She stared up at him, her friend and her protector for the past few months, and nodded, a smile breaking on her face. “Yes, of course I am.” If she was with Kryos, she would continue to survive. His power was mysterious, but powerful.

“Wait a minute, Kryos,” complained the human, reaching forth his hand. “How do you know he’ll come after us again?”

“Because he’s a child at heart, and full of power. Combine those two, and you get a dangerous being. Only the next time, he won’t be messing around, as he was today.”

“So you stopped him but didn’t kill him? I don’t know how you did that, but even . . .” Kryos’ suddenly cold eyes stopped him in his tracks. He had never seen the dark swordsman get like this before, so he shut his mouth. He could dig later, when they were safely in Anebrilith drinking some well-needed ale.

Kryos met Shalua’s question-filled gazed, and he shifted uncomfortably. He could probably guess what she wished to ask him, but was grateful when she turned away.

“We should start heading to the edge of the forest then,” she said. “We don’t want to be caught in the forest in a confrontation like this. Besides, we’ll be getting close to Anebrilith soon.”

Kryos nodded his agreement, turning his back on the group. “I’ll take point.” He didn’t know why he wanted to, usually he was most comfortable in the rear. Maybe it was just that he wanted to feel alone right now, free to let his mind think. Being in the lead and forging the trail helped.

“Kryos,” a small, young voice piped. He glanced back to see Anne sliding up next to him. “We’ll be ok, right?”

He smiled and ruffled her moist hair. Her eyes were so innocent, and if it weren’t for the rippling scars that ravaged the right half of her face, he would have never guessed at the horrors she’d been through.

“Yes, we’ll make it though. No matter what happens, we’ll make it.”

Turning away from the young child, he passed over the dead, now in eternal slumber, and into chill air that spoke of dangers and safety yet to come.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Act II, Scene I

Three day’s march southwest of Anebrilith, Raiaera
Early in the Month of Tribulations, the Winter of Untold Agony

***

Don’t twist your body.

Don’t hold in your strength.

Don’t kick the ground.

Don’t try to stay in place.

At first, they had seemed a completely random and contradictory set of principles. Watching the three elves applying them in practice, however, had quickly imprinted upon him the usefulness of focusing on not abusing his strength, on not placing unnecessary stress on his admittedly scrawny frame. He had admired the efficiency of their every action, the effectiveness with which they purged unnecessary movements from all they did, their ability to make every muscle respond to their will like pieces on a chess board. And thus he had attempted to make the techniques his own, adapting them to his inferior human body with all the scholastic diligence that was his trademark.

Perhaps it was his endurance that had benefited the most. Ingwe had learnt from his friends to step softly and swiftly, matching his hands and feet as if his upper and lower halves were connected as one, and turning his body without twisting his torso. Now he could run alongside them for hours at end, and although his awkward gait lacked the innate grace and fluidity of their elven stride, he basked in the realisation that at least he was not holding them back any more. A distance that had taken them five whole days to cover whilst tracking down the necromancer was eaten up in only two on the return journey.

Nearly there now… the young man breathed to himself, juggling the words in his mind as his bespectacled eyes intently studied his surroundings for signs of disturbance. His breathing was laboured but steady, puffs of hot steamy breath escaping from his lungs into the frosty air. His legs were knotted with exhaustion after nearly two hours of non-stop running, but they carried him effortlessly up the snow-covered embankment in the footsteps of his companions, lightly maintaining his footing amongst the treacherous drifts.

The chill air nipped angrily at his exposed cheeks and sought to infiltrate the multiple layers he wore beneath his ubiquitous cloak and tunic as he drew up alongside his friends at the top of the hill. Nerdanel had her hand to her brow as she shielded her keen gaze from the glare of the sun on the snow, sweeping the vista from the forests on the southern horizon to the mountains on the northern. Beyond her, Glorfindel was eying the dark storm clouds above the red-tinted trees with a mixture of apprehension and loathing; closer to hand, Selinde gave him a quick grin and a cheeky wink, fully recovered now from her injuries of a week earlier.

Ant-like figures stirred in the valley below, indecipherable voices spreading the news that the four warriors had returned. In the shadow of the rocks to their left, Ingwe spotted the dark-haired form of Castor, the huntsman from Scara Brae, who had been first to spot them and raise the alarm; he acknowledged his elder with a friendly wave, which was duly returned in style.

“Well, we’re back,” Glorfindel remarked, and of a sudden, Ingwe felt a massive load lift from his shoulders.

[Flames of Hyperion]

“… and thus we have returned once again,” Glorfindel finished, drawing out the silence after his words with all the patience of a practiced orator. The description of the events of their quest, with occasional clarifications from Nerdanel and Selinde, had taken him just over an hour, and the break from speaking was a welcome one.

Arminas Ereinon had listened carefully to every word from his seat at the head of the table, occasionally pausing the tale to confirm a detail or ask a quick question. The elflord’s shoulder-length amber hair flowed in intricate braids from his stately brow, his piercingly powerful eyes intense and intelligent. There was weariness in his expression, and resignation in the set of his silky green robes settled about the floor, but there was also honesty and wisdom, strength and honour. Arminas was a man who would lead the way into the depths of hell if necessary, and his companions would follow him willingly all of the way.

He was flanked in his position by the archmage Nogeres and the dwarven runelord Telchar, two of the most prominent members of the Legion of Light. The former was swathed as always in his heavy grey robes, an indecipherable shroud that disguised his every thought and intent. The latter hunched over his ornate rune-hammer, scowling and growling like an angry guard dog at the young man who was studiously avoiding the smouldering steel glare.

Ingwe had remained silent during the entire proceedings, not once even looking up to acknowledge his presence in the room. The neatly arrayed vermilion piles on the threadbare rug – the only concession to comfort in what was after all a camp of war – filled his vision as he concentrated, deep in thought. Glorfindel had glossed over much of what had occurred between himself and the half-elven sisters, and although Ingwe did not think any of the three commanders stupid enough not to notice, he was grateful for their willingness not to pursue the matter further.

The stillness hung heavy with the musty scent of damp earth and dwarven pipeweed, the latter courtesy of the small pouch at Telchar’s waist. The muted hustle of the Legionnaires outside seemed to overwhelm the quiet that had settled over the canvas-covered confines of the tent, but Ingwe’s ears were full of the pounding of his heart and the words of his old friend.

… have you heard anything about…

About Yuka? he completed Kendal’s unfinished question in his mind, resisting the urge to sigh and shake his head by fiddling nervously with his glasses instead. No, I haven’t… and yet…

Could he trust the strange dreams that he had been having recently? The very thought sounded absurd, almost unthinkable that a scholar such as himself should put any stock in baseless whims of a tired mind. And yet… the nagging voice at the back of his mind refused to remain silent. After all, didn’t he know better than anybody else about the capricious whims of magic, and how it was impossible to tell exactly what anything meant when the arcane was concerned?

If what shards of sense he could decipher from his fevered mind could be trusted, then she was here, in Raiaera. And she was, for some reason that he could not yet fathom, on the side of the enemy.

No matter how many times he thought things over, he could not come up with a valid explanation why. He had known her for years, and he trusted her with all his heart not to be there of her own free will. But then again, she was certainly resourceful and talented enough to effect an escape if she truly wished to… and thus…

His head began to throb painfully again, wracked by the agony of a thousand trials and tribulations. There was little he could do by simply worrying, with naught in the way of hard information to go by. He had to hope, to believe…

… so difficult sometimes to do so.

“… much has occurred elsewhere as well,” Arminas was speaking sonorously as Ingwe snapped back to reality, brought back by Nogeres’s stabbing accusatory cough. “Your exploits have reached the ears of those other than ourselves, and their effects have been manifold… for better or for worse.”

“Anebrilith?” Ingwe asked, giving voice for the first time in the meeting. His words seemed cracked and parched even to his own ears, and he licked his lips reflexively as eyes turned his way for the briefest of moments.

“Amongst others,” Arminas acknowledged, but Ingwe caught a strangely hesitant note in the elf-lord’s tone. The sinking feeling in his heart was reinforced when first Telchar, then Nogeres, failed to meet his suddenly alarmed gaze. A brief pause, as dreadful as the monstrosities they faced with sword and sorcery, once again hung over the confined tent.

Then finally Ingwe spoke once again.

“What is it…?”

[Flames of Hyperion]

Two hours later, Ingwe found himself seated in the shadows at the edge of the camp, alone again save for the whispers of the wind in his ears and the gentle starlight sprinkled in the celestial blanket above. The depths of darkness about him were deceptively calm, but the young man took heart in the fact that the sentries knew to be even more alert on nights like these. The silence settled all around like a panoptic veil, amplifying his lonely thoughts as he soliloquized to the impassive half-moon.

Anebrilith has fallen.

Arminas’s words from earlier echoed through his mind, sounding the death knells of the purpose he had once held in their expedition. The Legion had set out from Scara Brae in order to save the ancient port, to hold it against the tides of darkness that threatened to overwhelm it for as long as it took to evacuate the refugees of war from its besieged streets, and to push back the hordes of undeath that threatened to strangle Raiaera’s sole remaining tether to the outside world. What hope he had held that their ragtag band of volunteers and mercenaries could succeed had shattered with that single phrase.

Not to any of Xem’zund’s armies, but to her own greed and decadence.

Arminas had explained at length the situation in the city, now besieged by the Death Lord Roszen Kaverre after the dissolution of the Coven of Six. The Death Lord had a fearsome reputation as one of the most formidable spellcasters amongst Xem’zund’s retinue, but even he had seemingly been content to sit back and watch the elven haven crumble behind the seeming safety of its high white walls. Pirates and slavers had set up shop amongst the masses of refugees yet seeking passage to safer lands beyond the waters, their corrupt trades thriving in the lawless instability and unpredictability of the beleaguered town. What elves of virtue and honour had once called the city home had either long since left its streets at the head of those they could save, or lay as rotting corpses amongst ruined plazas and devastated manors. Despite the best efforts of the handful of brave warriors that remained, the situation was rapidly descending into anarchy… exactly as the Death Lord desired.

And now, even Lord Turgon has sent word that he plans to break through the siege lines, while there still yet is hope for the rest of the war.

Ingwe knew that the powerful prince of Tor Elythis had been the single most influential figure in what remained of the city council, the figurative adhesive that bound the remnants of the city militia and regular forces into a cohesive unit capable of resisting its undead foes. Without Turgon’s leadership, and without the skilled arms of the Elythisian contingent that the prince commanded, Anebrilith stood no chance at all.

Dammit!

The young man swore uncharacteristically, hammering his hand into the hard ground at his feet. His fist was bruised with the impact of a dozen other such blows, his chapped palm discoloured purple against cold pale white. Hot tears built up behind his eyes but refused to spill, frozen by the frosty air and the multitude of other woes racing through his mind. He was used to the sensation of paralytic helplessness as fates were forged and history was written without him, but his feelings were not assuaged by the knowledge that he himself had been able to do next to nothing to alter the course of the war. The destruction of his hopes had left a gaping void in the middle of his chest where his heart had once been, and only the gripping pain of solitude and failure remained to fill its place.

Dammit…

Ingwe swore again, but this time his hand fell limply to his side, his anger and frustration spent. Images of the fair city and its inhabitants swamped his mind, scenes of relative peace and order in the weeks that they had spent defending its walls and the innocents that took shelter behind it. In the background of it all, her face loomed…

… and then the loneliness hit him like a tidal wave of heavy bricks, crushing his pathetic soul beneath the weight of his solitude and melancholy.

At long last, Ingwe allowed the tears to fall.

[Flames of Hyperion]

How long it took him to regain control over his emotions, he did not know. Unfathomable depths of time and memory passed before he once again came to, reality reasserting itself with an unpleasant jolt about him. Low-lying clouds obscured the heavens above from view, which thankfully prevented Ingwe from taking a look at his own dishevelled state. But the young man needed neither the chill that swept through the thin layers of his clothing, nor the twin sticky streaks that coated the lines of his cheeks, to realise that the layer of concealment about his person was a welcome one.

Quickly, instinctively he attempted to wipe the tears from his face, sniffling like a young child as he drew his left arm across his features. It met resistance in the form of his glasses, perched precariously as always upon the very tip of his nose. He removed them gently and rubbed his eyes clear of the blurriness that clouded his vision.

I haven’t changed much, have I…

The thought was rueful and self-deprecating, as the realisation struck home that despite all he had fought for over the past few months, he was still the same old weakling within. His homeland of Nippon seemed so far away now, concealed behind the impenetrable veil of distance and time. The faces of friends and family he had not seen in ages now seemed to waver before his eyes, a painful reminder of how far he had come in search for redemption.

I haven’t changed at all.

When he had first landed in Scara Brae, he had been opportunistic, full of hope. When he had signed up to the Legion in the Auld Hoose, he had not been ignorant of the dangers he faced, nor had he been overconfident in his abilities to face them. When he’d fought the enemy for the first time, neither had he fled in the face of death nor had he exulted in his hard-earned victory.

And so on, so forth, each battle accumulating in his mind like grains of sand forming a beach, until he was numbed to the sensations of swinging his sword and casting his spells.

There are some things in this world that people will fight to protect.

He’d realised that, on the first night in Scara Brae, when race and class, skill and standing had proved to be of little consequence to those united in a common cause. It had warmed his heart.

There are some things in this world that are worth dying for.

This was something that he’d known from further back, from his Academy days in Nippon. It hadn’t prevented him from developing an inability to actually convey such feelings… but they existed nonetheless, burning strongly deep within his heart and granting him the strength and courage to face each new day.

There are some things in this world that you don’t realise what they mean to you until you lose them.

And this was the figment of knowledge most deeply engrained into his soul, driven there like a sharp nail, hammered home by that heavy instrument known as reality.

Slowly he reached into his thin tunic and removed from it the pendant he wore around his neck. The outspread wings represented hope, freedom, courage. The red jewel that glinted in the centre symbolised the fire that smouldered within his heart, pure and strong. Ingwe resisted the urge to unclasp the pendant, to allow himself to dwell on the portrait ensconced within. Instead he contented himself with gazing absorbedly at the accessory dangling before his face, his gentle warm brown eyes lost in the time and memory of its moonlit gleam.

[Flames of Hyperion]

“So, who is she?”

The sudden voice shocked Ingwe from his mind-numbed reverie, and the young man nearly jumped out of his skin. The newcomer laughed heartily at the Nipponese’s reaction, and even harder when ingwe fixated him with a reproachful glare from above the rims of his oversized glasses.

“Who is she?” Castor prompted again when it soon became apparent that Ingwe was desperately thinking of a way to avoid the question. Thinking, and failing. “C’mon, you can tell me.”

The dark-haired huntsman still wore the leather vest and leggings from when he had signed up in Scara Brae, although his boots were now of elven make and he’d somehow acquired a battered breastplate and vambraces to go along with his outfit. His craggily handsome features were creased in a wide grin, his breath heavy with the spices of the earlier meal and the coarse scraggly beard on his chin nearly tickling the younger man as he leaned close. Castor was not only a skilled bowman and a courageous warrior, but also a good listener and leader of men. Of the close-knit Scarabrian contingent that formed the core of the Legion, Castor was undisputed big brother and captain.

“… I’d rather not, if I may…” Ingwe replied, uncharacteristically sullen. The young man’s mood swings were nothing new, but it was rare for him to let it show as such. Castor raised a slightly bemused eyebrow as Ingwe continued, “What makes you think it’s…”

“Ha!” the marksman laughed, pounding his knee in delight. “It’s fairly obvious, Ingwe,” he pointed out, at which his companion flushed rather nastily, “… and the defensive stance you took when I asked you about it didn’t help.”

The older man paused, regarding Ingwe with a mixture of solemn interest and paternal responsibility. The Nipponese had returned to staring morosely at the pendant he held. Then he abruptly replaced it in his shirt.

“Are you sure that you don’t want to talk about it?” Castor continued to press, hoping to elicit some reaction – any reaction – from the young man. But Ingwe simply smiled wanly and silently shook his head, gently refusing the friendly offer.

Castor looked disappointed, but he nodded. “I understand,” he spoke, letting his voice roll calmly through the still night. “But one day, my friend, I hope you will learn to open your heart. Otherwise you will always be alone.”

Ingwe made a small movement of acknowledgement, one that barely concealed the effort required in maintaining his composure. For a few moments, silence reigned, until Castor felt comfortable enough to jest once more.

“Knowing you, though, even if you did speak, you’d spin such a sad tale of romantic tragedy and unrequited love that I’ll probably have to tear my own heart out afterwards.” Castor didn’t really mean it, but the increased flush in Ingwe’s cheeks and the embarrassed cough that followed spoke more than a thousand words. The silence this time was one of brief shock, punctuated by a slow grin tugging at the huntsman’s mouth until he could stand it no longer and broke out into a hasty guffaw.

“You don’t mean…” he asked, trying to reign in his gasping amusement. Ingwe made the only reply he could, under the circumstances.

“… do be quiet.”