Legion of Light V: In the Shadow of Ancient Champions

[Flames of Hyperion]

“Ingwe.”

Meaningful silences punctuated by light banter. Castor was by now fairly used to the vagaries of a conversation with Ingwe, vagaries that to the inexperienced could be interpreted as awkwardness. The night was growing short now, a fine mist rolling off the nearby mountains and infiltrating the small Legionnaire camp. The sentry change of an hour prior had seen Lord Arminas’s Rangers of the Eclipse take over, so neither human was overly concerned about being caught by surprise, but the predawn stillness did precipitate an eerie sort of alertness.

“Hm?”

“About Arminas’s decision…”

Castor knew also just how much Ingwe had hoped to save the city of Anebrilith from Xem’zund. Of al the Legionnaires, the young man was the most idealistic, the most honour-bound, and the most prone to taking failure personally. Equal parts respect and concern coloured the huntsman’s thoughts as he tried to work out how to broach the matter. They could not afford to lose the talismanic Nipponese, not now.

To his surprise, Ingwe’s reply was gentle and calm.

“It’s alright, Castor,” the warrior-mage spoke, smiling softly and sadly into the surrounding stillness. The older man did not miss the hint of sorrow that tinged the words, but neither did he fail to recognise the determination that underlined them.

“In the end, I do trust their… Lord Arminas, Lord Turgon, Telchar, Nogeres… I do trust their decision in the matter,” Ingwe continued, his voice a modest whisper that nonetheless carried amongst the canvas tents and neatly-piled stacks of weapons and supplies. “If anybody can make a rational decision to carry the fight elsewhere, it’s them, not me. They wouldn’t have chosen to do so lightly.”

Ingwe sighed, exhaling long and wispily into the crisp winter air. His eyes were fixated upon a point in nowhere from above his large-rimmed glasses, his youthful features set in the very expression of composure. Despite this, though, Castor realised that the young man was rationalising the matter to himself. One last time.

“If they believe that more lives can be saved this way, then it is my duty to fight for them to the utmost of my abilities. I have to do what I can to make this gamble succeed… to even the odds in our favour. Only then will the spirits of those who have sacrificed themselves to our cause so far be appeased. Only then can the souls of those who have fallen in this terrible war rest in peace… when the future of those lives remaining is secure.”

Ingwe smiled again as he finished. This time there was no trace of sorrow… only determination and resolve.

Castor broke out into a relieved chuckle.

“Thank the Thanes for that,” he grinned in return, slapping a firm hand onto the startled young man’s slim shoulder. His brown eyes gleamed in genuine pleasure as he spoke. “We wouldn’t have known what to do if you were still set against it.”

At the shock on the Nipponese’s face, he felt compelled to continue.

“Don’t know if you’ve realised this, Ingwe, but you’ve come to symbolise the frail hope that we of the Legion carry with us… the hope that the actions of a brave few can change the world for the better.” The hand that clasped Ingwe’s shoulder squeezed once in emphasis and appreciation. “More than Arminas, or Telchar, or Glorfindel, or anyone… you’re the spiritual heart of this band of brothers. More than anyone, you let us dream that one day, we might be remembered as heroes.”

By then Ingwe’s expression had changed to one of slack-jawed wonder and disbelief. Of all the reactions he could have made, the one of innocent boyish astonishment was possibly the least fitting of a hero… but Castor knew that this, at the heart of it all, was what truly inspired him to follow the young man.

“I’m not joking, you know,” the huntsman laughed as he rose to his feet, gratefully stretching aching limbs. Despite the banter his eyes were sincere, and though they only served to increase the confusion apparent on Ingwe’s face, Castor knew that his job was done.

“Think about it,” he urged, walking away with a nonchalant wave, before adding in a louder voice, “but don’t forget to get some sleep, either!”

Ingwe did just that.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Dawn rose above the tidily-arranged camp, a bleary sunrise that filtered through cloud and mist to give faint light to the lands below. It illuminated the solitary figure of a young man who had thought and hadn’t slept, and who hadn’t even actually moved from his position behind the tents either.

Minutes passed, followed by hours. The steadily growing bustle of activity erupted into a frenzied cacophony of preparation as tents were torn down, the pack train assembled, and arms and armour readied. From the cloaked elves that set off half an hour early to scout the land ahead, to the ironclad glint of the dwarves as they shouldered the last of their ale kegs, it was obvious that the Legion was well-rested and eager.

It was not halfway through the morning by the time that preparations were complete and the Legionnaires were ready to move out. Ingwe took his position in the vanguard of the column, his hair glistening and his face red from a hurried scrubbing. A faint zephyr ruffled his hair gently as it passed him by on its way inland, and for an instant he looked to the skies, spotting the speck of white that was his gyrfalcon Hayate far above.

In the end, he hadn’t worked out what to think of Castor’s words, so he’d decided that it was in his best interest to largely ignore them. If true, it would not do for him to deny or alter anything, for fear of disrupting what was already a delicate situation. If false, then it did not matter what reaction he took. In any case, he vowed to himself, he would not let the words, no matter how well-intentioned, get to his head. Over-confidence was his greatest enemy.

And until I find you…

Once again the zephyr passed by, and this time Ingwe’s eyes were drawn to the multiple banners in the breeze. The intricate simplicity of the Ranger standard, the coat of arms of the Scarabrian royalty, the grim lines of the dwarven battle-totems. All united under the single emblem, gold eagle soaring against sable sky, which represented the Legion. Ingwe liked it; it reminded him of a phoenix. Now he realised that perhaps that had been the intention when it was designed.

Courage, strength, and honour. For freedom, for justice, he repeated in his mind, the motto of the Legion. Simple words perhaps, but each imbued with the hopes and fears of the two hundred that lived and fought by them. And as the column began to march under Arminas’s command, Ingwe added four more words to the blessing, his personal battle cry.

May fortune favour the worthy.

[Kryos]

Act II, Scene II

15 miles south of the Emyn Naug, Raiaera
Middle of the Month of Tribulations, the Winter of Untold Agony

***

As he ran, Kryos felt an oppressive weight lift from his back and into the clouded sky. He would have laughed if the sound didn’t threaten them with the legions of undead that stalked the land. That didn’t stop the grin from spreading across his face though. Glancing to his sides, he saw the others smiling as well.

They had finally broken out of the cursed confines of the Red Forest. Their long and arduous ordeal within the haunted woods had affected them mentally; an unnatural aura of paranoia had grown sharper and more defined during the past days since their encounter with the necromancer. With danger lurking behind every tree and whispered screams floating through the branches, it was understandable as to why the late High Bard Council forbade travel to its depths. Rumors had it that of those who entered, many were never seen again, while those who did make it back were driven beyond the limits of their sanity. Having known the risk and surviving the forest for the second time, Kryos knew how lucky they were with their current number. By all means, and with odds any gambler would have taken, they should be dead.

Thus was the cause of the jubilation that linked the companions together. Four miles behind them lay the harmless-looking line o crimson trees and shadow, the forest rolling on and on behind that border. Far in the distance ahead and slight on their left rose the black slopes and peaks of the Emyn Naug, while before them lay pure, untouched blankets of snow and, eventually, the golden city of Anebrilith. In a few day’s time, they’d be in the safest city in the land, the last haven.

A golden shape barreled past him in the snow, nearly tripping him. Alk, tongue lolling from his mouth, bounded ahead, and Anne giggled from her place on Shalua’s back. Despite the girl’s weight, the Bladesinger had no trouble keeping the pace at which they ran. The elf, though, retained the best semblance of attentiveness to their surroundings. Perhaps the fact that she fought for her home, unlike Kryos and Blake, that made her the most responsible among them. While they were out of the constant danger of the Lindelqualmë, the plains had their own dangers. As Alk stopped at the rise ahead, Kryos glanced over his shoulder as he ran effortlessly up the hill.

The afore mentioned human trudged after them, following in Kryos’ own prints to conserve his energy. While it was clear that he didn’t have the speed nor endurance that Kryos and Shalua shared, the man was doing considerably well keeping up with the set pace. Their half-hour run had left him warm and breathing hard, but his eyes were filled with the joy they all felt and the hope of living through the day. It would be enough to keep him going.

At the crest of the hill, Kryos and Shalua paused to let Blake catch up and to get a new bearing. The evening sun cast the clouded sky in fiery light and he felt a pressing urge to find a suitable place to sleep. Before them rolled the plains of southern Raiaera, with the occasional tree breaking the skin of the land. Perhaps, after another hour or so of travel, they would find a small grove to make refuge, if they were lucky.

Blake stumbled next to them and bent over, hand on his knees, gasping for breath. Kryos smiled slightly at the physical weakness of the human race. They had potential, but it required effort and training.

“How much . . . longer . . . are we gonna go . . . t’night?” he slurred between breaths.

Shalua cast her brown hair from her face with a swift turn of her head, and she looked to Kryos for an answer. It was strange, to be looked at for leadership. While he had been responsible for their situation, he’d much rather have the Bladesinger, as familiar with the land as she was, to lead.

With a sigh and a shake of his head, he said, “As long as we can. The more we move, the less likely we’ll be discovered, and the sooner we’ll get to Anebrilith. That is all that matters now.” Resigned, the human nodded his head.

Shalua tilted her head backwards to Anne. “Ready?” she asked.

“Yep,” the girl chirped, and Alk gave a low bark at hearing his master’s voice. Anne giggled at him.

“Then let us fly.”

They flowed down the hill as lightly as the wind, leaving a trail of fear and hope in the snow behind them. The darkness of the night descended, and soon, even that was taken, lost in the shadows of the past.

[Kryos]

“This isn’t good,” mumbled Blake, who was lying in the drift next to Kryos. “Not good at all.”

Night had come and now reigned over the land, and just as they had settled down for the night, an orange glow several hills away caught their attention. Now, they gazed upon a sight that made their hearts clench.

Sprawled in the basin of several larger hills, lay an undead regiment. At least two hundred standard zombies sat on the ground, and scattered among them were seven large fires where wights stood and watched what was taking place. And in the center, a massive fire roared into the night, and next to them were humans and elves. Chains bound them and cloth covered their eyes. One by one, a wight wrenched one to their feet and tossed them into the flames. The zombies nearby served to stop any escape attempts and, in the short time that they had watched, several had been dragged into the flames. The sight sickened Kryos to his core, and cold sweat broke out on his body.

“Blake, take Anne down the hill. Now.”

The human retreated before standing, and he shook himself from the snow clinging to his clothes. He walked over to Ann, who was on Kryos’ right, and pulled at her shoulder.

“Come on, Anne. Let’s go.” He tugged again. “Anne.”

Kryos glanced at the girl.

Tears were rolling down the mask of horror that she wore. Her whole body quivered, muscles tightened and clinging to their frame as they tried to keep a firm grip on reality. He breathing was erratic. The light from the fires below cast hellish shadows on the girl’s scars that raced across her face. Next to her, Alk whimpered and nudged her with his muzzle.

“Blake, just take her!” Shalua whispered, exasperated.

With a grunt, the man picked Anne up from her spot and, carrying her in his arms, turned and made his way back down the hillside, the golden retrieve following his every step.

Turning his attention back to the encampment, he estimated their numbers. His eyes flashed from fire to fire, dead body to armored skeleton, and arms to bows to the red tent that stood near the central fire. As he did so, the tent flap was thrown back, and a large man emerged. His embroidered robes and cloak clearly spoke of his leadership position. Just the sight of the man made his skin crawl. The necromancer was no doubt one of high importance. Cloak billowing, lifted his arms and waved them, mouth opening as he spoke words that fell silent to the hidden observers. As one, his minions retreated and, with a wave of his hand, the remaining ten prisoners were lifted from their place next to the fire and into the inferno. The greedy tongues of the blaze consumed them. Soon after, the necromancer disappeared back into his tent.

“Well, Kryos. What should we do?” Shalua murmured as she crawled next to him.

He shook his head as he took in the size of the army. “What can we do? I count at least two-hundred fifty standard zombies, twenty-five wights, and a necromancer to boot. Not to mention that group at the far end of the camp, although I don’t know what they are.” He squinted at the group he indicated. “They’re big, but nothing that I’ve seen before.” He lowered his head into the snow, frustrated at the new development. “If you ask me, we should avoid all contact with them.”

Shalua nodded at his assessment. “I agree. However, we need to think for the good of my people. If we can find out what their goal is and what they intend to do, perhaps we could warn Anebrilith.”

The dwiilar gritted his teeth. The risk of discovery was huge, but the elf was right. As much as he loathed the idea of getting closer, it needed to be done.

Why can’t she be like me and look after herself more? It’s a damned annoyance.

He turned and signaled to Blake from his position farther down with the other two, and motioned for him to stay where he was. Blake nodded his understanding and continued tending to Anne, who had somewhat come to grips with herself.

The Bladesinger pointed to the group Kryos had observed earlier, and said, “It may be best to go there. Wights and zombies will not be giving us answers, and trying to penetrate the camp to the tent is suicide.” She tossed her hair over her shoulder and rose to a crouch. “Careful now.” Under his breath, Kryos growled to low for her to hear.

“I know.”

[Kryos]

The dwiilar and elf sat hunched behind two large crates at the extreme northwest side of the camp, frozen in shock as they stared at each other. A burst of flame shot into the air twenty feet behind them and, in the momentary light, they could see the bloodless expression on the other’s face.

“Do you . . .” Kryos whispered. Shalua nodded in affirmative. Dread welled up in his heart. “How is that . . . “

She shook her head, motioning for silence. Another jet of flame shot into the air, sending another shot of fear into them.

Behind the crates lay a small band of dragons. From the flowing and scarlet hides that protected the beasts, they were probably a small group of reds. What they were doing in Xem’Zund’s employ, though, was anyone’s guess. However, besides the fact that such a powerful creature had been added to their enemies, Kryos could never had been prepared for what had happened when they had approached.

Voices. Inside of their minds.

The phenomenon of having words and sentences not of his own choosing made his head hurt. He was still struggling to get accustomed to it. Not doubt it was the thoughts of the dragons. If it hadn’t been the nessessity of their mission, he would have been out of there in a heartbeat.

Another growl, and he heard the intentions of the creature.

I’m getting tired of this. These humans are so weak. Let’s just kill them and get it over with. All their rules. We should be ashamed!

Get a hold of yourself, another dragon said. You know we can’t. This is the best we can do.

But isn’t it pointless? another beast interjected. After all, our might isn’t needed to take out any more cities. Why do they insist that we stay with them. We’ve upheld our end of the bargain.

Kryos drew puzzled at this, his face forming into a frown. He had no idea what they were speaking of, but the reference to the cities had him concerned. He glanced at the elf next to him. The confusion written on her face mirrored his own.

Another dragon jumped in.

I agree. After their recent victory over, where was it? The city-refuge-on-the-shore? After that, their might is secured. Besides, it is of no concern to us. It never was, and never will be. The bickering of men are constant and insignificant, like an arrow against our ageless skin.

Kryos couldn’t breath. His body wouldn’t respond to his thoughts, and his body disappeared into a numb void. His vacant eyes stared into space with the revelation that dashed all of their hopes, plans, and goals.

Anebrilith had fallen.

[Kryos]

Frozen in the shocked stance behind their cover, the wrestled with the new information. That the port city had finally fallen spawned the feeling that everything that they had done had been in vain. There was no city to return to, no safe harbor, no escape. Because of this, they had effectively been trapped within the elvish lands, doomed to die.

How can we go on now? Where will we go? The immobilizing and weakening thoughts tore through him, and as his mind began to think, to act and decide and plan, he heard the voices that had never ceased to speak.

. . . had enough! There is no point in arguing any further. We are here only as long as we are forced to be. Once that time is upon us, we’ll return. Until it has been returned to us, we will obey to protect them. Sarrelierum!

As one, the minds became quiet. Whomever had spoken appeared to be the leader of the group. He heard movement in the snow behind him, but as far as he could tell, they were settling down. Now, would be their perfect opportunity to escape. He looked at Shalua, whose eyes were filled with sadness and regret at Anebrilith’s fate, and motioned up towards the hill. With a grim nod, the elf shifted her position, and paused as a voice rang through the absolute silence of the night and into their minds.

What is the new plan, then? Where are we being forced now?

We’ll be cleaning up that city, then turning toward the rises-at-the-north-horizon. There are all sorts of rumors about those hills.

The only answer that the statement received was a mental sigh, almost a mix between a growl and a yawn.

Not wanting to reveal their presence, bladesinger and swordsman took what they had learned–the horrible truth of recent events–and crept away. They needed to leave quickly; the was no telling when a necromancer would decide to move. As he came to the top of the nearest hill, he took one forlorn glance at the legion. In the darkness of the night, one glowing, fiery eye opened and, to the dwiilar’s horror, stared right at him.

[Kryos]

Faster.

Can’t stop.

We must . . . keep going.

. . .

They’re coming.

The starlit fields of snow gleamed as the group raced away from where they had encountered the necromancer’s hoard. Shalua was in the lead with Alk at her side. On her back clung Anne, head buried in the crook of the elf’s neck. She was ahead of Kryos by five minuted, who was bringing up the rear. Blake, as much as determination could keep a man going, had just about reached his limit. Thank goodness they hadn’t revealed the truth of Anebrilith to them. Cutting into the midnight sky, a howl and a snarl broke the whispering of the wind. Kryos spared a moment to check their progress.

A wight and a small group of zombies, flesh falling from their limbs, were tailing them by about a mile. The dwiilar’s silver eyes narrowed as he judged the distance.

They’re catching us.

He was surprised at the undead’s speed, but then, necromancy could work vile miracles. He put on a burst of speed to come alongside his human companion. Across the man’s brow, moisture glistened.

“Blake, they’re catching us. You need to move faster.” As his words faded away, he watched dispair enter the man’s eyes.

“I don’t know . . . if I can,” he gasped. “I’m not like you. Or Shalua.” He stumbled, and Kryos steadied him. “Maybe, you should just . . . leave me.”

Kryos glared at him, sharp gaze as cold as the landscape around them. “Not likely. Now, focus. And run. You can make it!”

The cries promising death and bloody steel echoed behind them again. Falling behind Blake once more, his face grim, he focused his mind by calculating the time they had until he and the human were overtaken. His thoughts leaped and bounded with the rhythm of his steps, and the passage of time became the wind on his face, biting at his eyes and ears and nose, and the almost predicable shouts of bloodlust.

No matter what happened, he knew that they had to keep fighting until the end. To give up and die would be admitting that the evil in the world, whether it be the Shadow Riders of his people or powerful Darklords like Xem’Zund, could cast down the faith and strength of those within Althanas. But not only that, but the darkness could, and would, steal away the choice and will of the people. Just as had been done to him, all those years ago in that dark and bloodstained cave. He had no choice as they tortured him and his friend for the pleasure of it, nor when they killed Lorin. Because of evil, he’d been powerless.

His hands closed into fists. All those years ago, he’d been weak and innocent. Now, he had power. The power to fight, to change the world as he saw fit. And he would not let go of what he’d gained again. The first time had almost killed him, and that had been enough. No. He would do everything in his power to live as he wished, and to do as he pleased. And right now, what he wished for was to live.

“Kryos! Blake! Up here!”

With a jolt, he surfaced from his musings and, shock growing on his face, saw Shalua calling them from a ledge. He glanced around, surprised.

They had made it to the Emyn Naug. The rocky ledges that made up the hills and great slopes surrounded him. They had entered one of the valleys and now, Shalua was leading them upwards toward higher ground.

Blake slumped against a large boulder, chest heaving. Kryos approached, patting him on the back. “Well done. But we’re not through yet.” He nodded with his head for the human to start climbing the frosted ledge after their companions.

As Blake put his foot against the wall, searching for a foothold in the darkness, the smell of rotted flesh and the unearthly, mutilated roar of an undead shot adrenaline and panic through Kryos’ body as if he’d been shot. As he whirled around, hand reaching up to wield his blade, he saw them close in from the open plains.

[Kryos]

He caught the first one moments before it reached Blake, the weapon in his hands glowing a pure white as he unleashed the powers it held. As the blade cut across the deceased chest of the zombie, ethereal flames licked the wounds and the creature dropped, a soundless scream caught in it’s throat. Twisted around and coiling his arms around himself like a viper’s body, his muandrian lashed out again, impaling the next through the throat, blood gushing from the wound and boiling to nothing as it touched his enchanted blade. With a kick, he dislodged the corpse and dropped into a deep defensive stance.

“Kryos! Blake!” The sweet melody of Anne’s voice cried out from above. “Are you alright?”

His human comrade stepped next to him over the dead body, twin swords drawn from his waists. “Thanks,” he grunted. More forms lurched into the light of the dwiilar’s blade. “How many?”

“I didn’t get a good count,” Kryos supplied. “But at least twenty-five.”

“Dammit.”

Then the flurry of combat began anew. With each new opponent, Blake and Kryos danced around them, striking at the openings. With every bite from the twin swords, the victim would falter as pain lashed against them, and the glowing muandrian would close in and seal the monster’s fate. They held their own well, managing to avoid tripping on the bodies and keep the line. That is, until another wave of unprecedented size surged forward, these armed with weapons of their own. Dodging under a mace, Kryos jumped backwards, grabbing Blake’s collar as his did so and saving him from a spear that sailed from the shadows. Kryos’ eyes were wide as they absorbed every move the creatures made and anticipated every attack. Slowly, ever so slowly, they were forced to give ground to the malicious laughing and screams of the undead.

Then, their backs pressed against a wall of unyielding rock, and the enemy lunged forward.

Like a gift from a god, a blazing wall of fire descended and erupted upon their enemies. The roar of the inferno deafened him, and the wash of heat seared across his face and exposed arms. He turned against the stone wall to shield himself and he could hear and see nothing but the effects of the fire. Gradually then, the flames dimmed and died and Kryos heard the distinct sound of giggling.

Anne was perched above, shaking with excitement. Her eyes were bright and her hair was blown back into a disheveled mess. She was staring at her hands, which were smoking.

“Anne, was that you who did that?” Kryos called up to her.

She nodded, still preoccupied with her hands. “Uh-huh.” Shalua poked her head over the cliff face.

“Sorry, I tried to stop her, but she wouldn’t listen.” Across her face, a faint smile gleamed.

Kryos nodded his understanding. He knew better than anyone how Anne could get. He looked upward, just as the moon rose on the eastern horizon.

“Careful. Don’t let down your . . .”

Anne screamed as a black arrow blasted into her shoulder, spinning her backwards and from the dwiilar’s gaze. Blood fell from the air and splattered against the rock and snow. He whirled, looking for the new assault, and Blake dropped to the ground, clutching at his belly. An identical bolt had pierced his side, just below the stomach from the looks of it. He held his bloodstained hands to his face, eyes wide and full of shock.

“Your guard?”

From the shadows, a figure appeared, heavily clad in armor and holding a crossbow. But, unlike the minions that they’d just defeated, this creature held intelligence. However, beneath the plated and worked armor, no flesh supported the shielding. Only bone, and the warped energies of evil.

“You really are stupid. Too bad this couldn’t continue longer. I haven’t had a good hunt for a while.”

The wight brought up his arm, and more than two dozen shadows converged into being.

“Goodbye.” The diabolical grin that played across the skeleton’s face caused a fury to grow in Kryos to strike down the undead abomination. Then, with a flash of black feathers, he couldn’t feel, or see, or smell. Nothing existed, save for the bloodthirsty roars of the Scourge’s legion, and the grating of stone, a low barking of deep, old voices, and the clash of metal. And far away, someone shouting his name.

[Kryos]

Nothing. Nothing. Empty space, all around.

A swirl of space and time. Or was it time and space?

Whispers of eternity. Calling and calling and murmuring and running up and down his spine as a wet tongue. Out of focus. A ripple.

Will he be alright? Just like a stone cast across a black pond. Going going going and gone.

An aged stone that spins as it cracks.

It barely grazed his lung, sae thaur is a guid chance . . .

The abyss had filled the endless void, pressing him and it and the thing which existed. What was where? Where was when? How could why be?

Because it simply is.

. . . close ca’, t’at. You arh lucky we saw ye comin’. But whit under th’ . . .

With the stone and fire and ice all around, a burning in the stinging cold. What was this?

Who was crying. They shouldn’t be sad.

Kryos. Kryos, wake up. Please.

That was familiar. He knew that voice. It was a girl. And then . . .

Looks lek he’s comin’ aroond.

Then there was light.

Kryos opened his eyes to smooth stone several feet above him. Chest hurt, right below his right collarbone, and it was as if a snake constricted around his body. He was lying on something soft, though, and as he moved his gaze, he heard a sigh of relief.

“Well, well. Look who’s back from the dead.”

Tilting his head, he saw his three companions, four including Alk who stood next to the half-elf child, standing at the foot of his bed with grins splashed on their faces. Anne had a bandage on her shoulder, and Blake held a similar dressing across his stomach. Shalua was uninjured; on the contrary, the way she held herself spoke that she was better than when they had been on the plains.

“What happened?”

“Abit near died, ye did,” a gruff voice spoke from the far right. “An’ we’ve bin waitin’ fur a lang while fur ye tae wake, too.”

He understood then. Compared to his comrades, the dwarf who spoke was insignificant. He stood just above the bed in which he lay; eyes dark and surrounded with wrinkles. A full beard hid his features, and in some places it was stained with white. The low ceiling confirmed his growing suspicion.

“Where is this place?” he asked, voice quiet.

Blake grinned. “Come on, Shalua. Let’s show him.”

The two others walked around the bed and helped him up and when they touched his right shoulder, pain crossed his face. Bandages crossed his chest and over his shoulder.

An arrow, he thought. So that’s what it was.

Supported by the human and elf, they guided him to an ancient, stone door. The dwarf was waiting at the side with Anne and Alk. A knowing gleam shone in the dwarf’s eyes, and the girl bounced excitedly. As he approached, the dwarf placed his hand on the stone slab and pushed. Light poured into the room, blinding him. As they stepped forward into the light, Kryos gasped, pain lancing into his lungs as he beheld a miracle–a miracle of hope–and the aged dwarf’s deep voice rang out.

“Welcome, Kryos, tae th’ hidden city ay Karazund.”

I’m giving Flames of Hyperion complete control over Kryos until I return (June 2011). Ingwe, I apologize for the inconvienence, but I know you’ll do great.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Act III, Scene I

The Emyn Naug, Raiaera
Middle of the Month of Tribulations, the Winter of Untold Agony

***

“Ah, that’s mair loch it. Nae mair ay those elf-cursed forests ur ale-pissin’ lowlands. Solid rock ‘neath mah boots an’ enaw stone abit ye tae make ye smile. Dinnae ye agree, laddie?”

Derthark Gunnson, Prince of Gunnbad, had a massive bearded grin upon his face as he looked about in rapture. Ingwe wondered where he had seen that particular expression before, before realising that it had been in Anebrilith when the dwarves had stumbled upon a hidden ale cellar stocked with the best and finest of mountain brews. Derthark hadn’t paused to wonder why a tavern in an elven city harboured such a bountiful find, and hadn’t been interested in Ingwe’s belated realisation that a bustling port such as Anebrilith had both guests to entertain and a reputation to uphold, either.

Nominally Derthark was the ranking dwarf on the small mining expedition to Scara Brae. But the prince had yielded much of his decision-making authority to the elder and more experienced Telchar, as any dwarf worth the whiskers on his beard would have done. On the other hand, that hadn’t stopped him from taking the lead in milking the opportunity for all it was worth when “’at poncy elf” Arminas had asked for their expertise in guiding them through the mountains. For the honour and pride of the dwarven race, of course.

“Well, dae ye ur dinnae ye?”

Derthark’s impatient voice was met with a sickly smile, as Ingwe stoically attempted to keep his eyes from straying. The ledge they walked on was barely a metre wide, winding dangerously and dizzyingly above a sheer cliff that dropped nearly a thousand body-lengths from view. Cottony fog pooled in gently flowing rivers between the slate grey peaks below them, mirrored overhead by the roiling clouds that blanketed out any semblance of sunlight. It paid to be careful in the depths of the Emyn Naug, especially if you were acrophobic... as one particular young man was.

“Umm...”

He was saved from the need to reply when the other dwarf nearby, Telchar, grunted a warning in their guttural mother tongue. Derthark immediately transferred his attention to the fore; it would not do for the small force of Legionnaires to be ambushed, especially since they were stretched out in a thin ribbon of tired bodies nearly a kilometre long, winding their way up the mountain path. Though not all dwarves were known for their quiet movement, some were indeed the best mountaineers that the world could offer. Combined with the renowned skills of the Rangers accompanying them, the chances of being surprised were slim... but still...

Three days had passed since they had departed their base camp, three days of sustained march by what was visible of the light and heavy sleep where they stood when it got too dark to continue. During that time the snowy grasslands had been rapidly left behind, replaced by sudden steepness and the spirit-sapping tedium of placing one foot before the other on an unrelenting slope. Evergreen and snow-white had been substituted for a monotonous dull grey; the air had grown thin and light, the chill crisper and more biting, and the ever-present howl of the wind through the ravines was accompanied by occasional snowstorms so vicious that they seemed to have an evil intent of their own to bury them whole. Thankfully for the Legionnaires, though, the dwarves seemed to have some sixth sense for the weather, and had so far kept them out of serious trouble.

So far, at least.

In theory, and on the maps, the plan had sounded so simplistically elegant. Xem’zund’s lieutenants kept a watchful eye on the lowlands between Anebrilith and their eastern base of operations, the captured town of Nenaebreth, in order that no force threatened them there. In which case, Ingwe had surmised, they would strike at their foes via the least expected route. Passing through the impenetrable bulwark of the Emyn Naug would take them to the very doorstep of Nenaebreth, and if somehow the Legion could wrest the town from the hands of the undead, Xem’zund’s entire eastern and northern offensives would collapse. It was a fool’s gambit, perhaps, but the only real one they had left to play.

Of course, the battle is likely to be far harsher than any other before... and it’s already begun. There’s good reason why the enemy doesn’t pay much attention to the mountains, and that’s because it’s nigh impossible to get across them alive.

But to make up for their desperate lack of numerical strength, the Legionnaires needed to milk every ounce of surprise that they could. And for that, they first had to battle the elements.

After all, it’s not an ambush if you do the expected, is it?

Deep inside, Ingwe knew that it was a foolish gamble, a death warrant even. Deep inside, he knew that many of the others who marched with him felt the same; that their lives were already forfeit and had been forfeited manifold in the desperate fighting that had already occurred. From their first forced landing upon the beaches of Anebrilith, through the skirmishes of the city outskirts and the street fighting of the siege, from the annihilation of the enemy leaders to the battles that had kept their underlings at bay, the warriors of the Legion of Light had already been through and lost so much.

And yet, despite this, they were willing to put their lives on the line again, to believe in his words and the words of Lord Arminas and Prince Derthark when they were told that they had a fighting chance of doing something that would make a difference to the dreadful hopelessness of the war. He knew that part of their resolve was born from the simple fact that they had little choice but to stay; home for some was over an perilous expanse of treacherous ocean, for others it lay beyond the battlefields yet to come, and for the remainder it was the very dirt and soil that they fought over. But it warmed his soul, and made him proud to be amongst their number, whenever he touched upon the fact that the vast majority of their courage stemmed from the genuine hope and conviction that they could succeed. So long as at least one of their number still breathed Raiaeran air, the elven homeland would not fall to the armies of Xem’zund.

Ingwe forced himself to settle his queasy stomach and turn away from the morbidly inviting precipice, focusing instead on the nearest summit not so far ahead. As he did so, a single beam of sunlight managed to break through the clouds overhead, fleetingly illuminating the snow-covered peak in a crowning halo of golden radiance.

The young man smiled, and began to walk once more.