MQ: Spring's First Crimson Blossoms

[Flames of Hyperion]

Closed to those with prior permission

The first of the spring zephyrs spawned in the mountains of the Twilight Peaks that separated Raiaera from Alerar. She was a playful and sprightly sylph with inner warmth about her that had not been felt before that year. Eagerly she swept eastwards from the impassable snowbound slopes, completely ignoring in her childish excitement at being set free upon the world the multitudes of dark masses gathering in the valleys before her.

Faster, ever faster she built up her momentum as she raced down towards sea level, breaking free of the slate grey peaks out onto the open plains. The last of the winter snows withered at her passing; she dipped down to caress the blighted earth, urging and coaxing what scant life remained within to be brave and show itself to the outside world. Against the necromantic tendrils that sought to bind and corrupt her, she adopted the guise of an invincible valkyrie, sweeping them mercilessly before her path until they retreated to the fastness of a half-finished tower of black obsidian and she could pursue them no longer. She tarried at its base, concerned as to its purpose, but then destiny called to her and soon she left it behind.

The joyous bubble of a river than had broken free of its icy restraints reached her ears, and she changed direction slightly to chart its course eastwards across the heartlands of Raiaera, at the base of a great green forest that reached for as far as her eyes could see on the northern horizon. For long stretches upon the flat lands she could make out the scurrying figures of small bands of warriors, all converging towards a single rapidly growing mass. As she approached at speed, she was soon able to make out that the single mass was in fact a disciplined congregation of smaller formations, each awaiting in readiness to cross the river at what obviously was a fording point. An unseasonable chill tickled her spine at the sheer numbers of the army below her, and once again she sought to tarry, instinctive fear warring with childish curiosity.

One figure amongst all those on the ground beneath her dominated the rest, if not in size then in the sheer presence of its spirit. Clad in black rags darker than any night, its true form disguised behind layer upon layer of concealing spells and runes of warding, every last minion moved to its will like slaves to an emperor. Abruptly it seemed to notice her presence, glancing upwards with shapeless dark orbs to pierce her with its glance…

No…!

Primeval fears of shadow and flame, far more ancient than even the eldest of the memories she harboured, ravaged her fledgling mind with greater violence than any rampaging tempest. She screamed, a wordless, soundless scream, and fled towards the distant coast. Whatever warmth she had managed to retain in her arms was lost in that one moment of pure terror; by the time she arrived at Anebrilith, she was but a suggestion of her former self, a frosty whisper barely felt amongst the forlorn banners of the besieged battlements.

***

The Forgotten One was not the only presence to take note of the harbinger of spring. Barely five minutes march into the tree line on the northern bank of the River Escaldor, an Elf had her face upturned to the murky sky, her eyes closed as she sniffed daintily at the chill. She wore a sky blue cloak over a full suit of silver-plated mythril, an intricately wrought scabbard at her waist holding her weapon of choice – a single-edged curved blade with a flute-like hollow worked into its core. It was said that she could draw her sword, incinerate a necromancer by weaving its innate magics, and then replace it into its scabbard, all within the blink of an Elven eye. And that was saying nothing of what she could do with bow, spear, or even her bare hands.

Her name was Nalith Celiniel, and by High Elven standards she was a young warrior. Her rank was High Bladesinger and Lady General of Raiaera, and she was both the only known survivor of the pre-war High Bard Council, and the ranking officer amongst what remained of their armies.

“Arwenamin.” My lady, a voice addressed her from behind. She recognised it as belonging to one of the select cadre of veteran Bladesingers who had survived the opening battles of the war and now acted as her trusted lieutenants and dedicated bodyguards. “Our scouts report that the foe has crossed the river and begin to probe the forest.”

“Good,” she spat, her regal refined features writhed in an expression of extreme disgust. Her distaste for everything non-Elven was well known, but her hatred for the undead that had ravaged her homeland and murdered her comrades was nothing short of legendary. “Let them come… today, we are ready.”

Arrayed behind her, deployed in concealment amongst the dark boughs of the evergreen conifers and oaks, was a redoubtable force of Raiaera’s finest. Rangers checked the strings on their bows, whilst Bladesingers tuned their weapons and prepared their voices for the battle ahead. Wanderers stood aloof and wary, Bards gave their blessings, and Tel Aglarim regulars girded their loins and steadied their hearts.

To her fore, the thick foliage disguised one of nature’s cunning traps… a funnel of rock and sheer cliff that guided all potential attackers from the river into the narrow mouth of a treacherous defile. It went without saying that the steel-tipped bolts of the ballistae she had brought at great trouble from her winter camp at Eluceliniel were aimed squarely down its length, ready to skewer any who marched forth through it. She had other tricks up her vlince sleeves as well, of which one in particular…

“Where is the human?” she asked harshly, and there was no need to qualify the person in question with a name. Only a handful of the younger race had survived the plagues that had heralded Xem’zund’s advance, and she could count on three fingers those who had actually made a contribution to the war effort. Godhand Stryker was the first name on both of those lists, but that didn’t necessarily mean that she had to honour him by actually making use of it.

“Chafing, my lady,” her subordinate replied with a wry wrinkle of his nose. It was not easy dealing with the powerful warrior.

“Tell him that as soon as the fighting begins, he may do as he wishes.” At the very least, he might take out one or two of the undead commanders… with any luck, who knew? Whether he survived or not was of no concern to her, but she did count her blessings that, with a great deal of patience, she had managed to convince him to accompany them on this march. A pity he is not an Elf, she thought to herself. Else he would make a good hero.

It never quite struck her that he was already a legend.

The taint of necromancy hung heavy over the forest now, eating away at the sanctifying wards like some corrosive acid. Between the acrid stench of decay and the proximity of the unholy power, the back of Nalith’s head throbbed as if it were already under attack from the sheer force of Xem’zund’s will. She knew that the spellcasters in her ranks would be fighting hard to keep the effects of the nearing miasma from paralysing her troops.

In the distance a shadow moved, then two. Undead, for no Elf would be so careless.

Nalith bared her teeth in a feral snarl, lithely ducking down to join her bodyguard. Rank upon rank of battle-hardened faces tensed as she bade them wait, whispering again,

“Let them come. This time, we are ready.”

[Abomination]

Sitting on a rock overlooking the city of Eluriand, a fully armored woman swung her legs around in boredom, letting the heels of her shoes dig into the stone with the force of a hammer. With her purple hair up in a ponytail and the myriad array of weapons along her sheath jingling as she swayed back and forth, she glared at the magical shield surrounding the inner city in the distance. Ever since the siege, the Death Lord Elmirah had been assigned guard duty over the outer city, while fellow Death Lord Haraldur Rekajaven took guard over the inner portions. There were other necromancers involved in the siege, but some of them- the Human General Dhenu Saba, the Barbarian Thendor Wolfsbane, and... her old friend Shin'dril- sacrificed their lives for the greater will of Xem’zund. The only necromancers not assigned to defending this strategic position were the Haidian Lomixsazon and his newly-assigned seconds; the Dark Elves Finwë Telperiën and Alassë Sîrfalas, who were known for their infiltration of the High Bard Council. The beautiful Alassë and the handsome Finwë were known as Xem'zund's top scouts and spies, procuring the finest information from across the lands.

Lomix had joined Xem'zund directly, having been promoted to one of the highest positions in his army after wiping out half a dozen Bladesingers by himself. Haraldur was now Elmirah's superior, taking over the position of General from the fallen Dhenu. Looking over the plains, Elmirah could not count a single elven skeleton. All of the fallen from this great battle were used to refuel Xem'zund's army, giving him such a massive force that he was able to take out half of Raiaera. It was the last battle where the Elves tried to fight head-on. Since then, the forces of Raiaera had determined in a different strategy: ambush and sanctification. Giving Xem'zund as few new bodies as possible, they determined that the only way to bring him down was to take out as many necromancers under his command as possible. While this was a good plan, there were only so many elves left alive in this country. It was almost time for the Elves to choose a battlefield.

Running on all fours, a thick-haired wolf-man raced across the plains and stopped just short of Elmirah's high rock.

"My Lady!" he sputtered, his voice hoarse and his breath short. "There's been reports of--"

"Silence!" Elmirah interrupted with a scornful expression. "I told you to call me Co-Commander!"

The wolf-man took a few steps back, his heart racing and his pupils dilating in fear. This was a woman who would not hesitate to kill him on a whim.

"Y-yes, Co-Commander! I won't let it happen again! My deepest apologies! I--"

"Enough already! What do you want?!"

"Ah, ah, well, ah, there's a strange creature that's been dismembering our patrols!"

"Finally...!" she raised up her arms, stretching and yawning. "I'll deal with it personally."

After hearing the details of the incident and dismissing the servant, Elmirah quickly hopped off the tall rock and broke into a sprint that made the wolf-man's trek look like a turtle's. She was called the fastest Death Lord in Xem'zund's army; no expanse of land was too wide for her to traverse. Running into a lightly forested area where most of the trees were felled and many buildings were destroyed or in decay, she spotted evidence of the offender. With several of her patrol zombies lying in pieces on the ground, she lightly wrapped her fingers around the hilt of a dagger strapped to the back of her belt. Putting her back against the corner of a long building with its roof caved in, she saw a long-haired blonde man had just ripped off the head of a zombie while smiling incessantly, tossing it over his shoulder. Moss had spread over the stone structures and any signs of road were covered in twisted growth.

"You know," he began, shrugging. "A simple 'Sure, we'll take you to Xem'zund' would suffice. There's really no need to be dramatic."

Suddenly, he noticed Elmirah's presence, only because the radiant glow that was unique to targets of Homunculi shined brightly through walls. He chuckled, if only because of the memory of the grand deception he played on her. She too became aware that her cover was blown, and turned the corner and faced Homun, her hand still on the dagger, but her grip was weakening.

"Familiar..." she muttered under her breath.

Homun sighed, "Sure I am. I'm Sergeant Homun Culus, am I not? Why won't these corpses listen to me?"

"You were with.. that Dark Elf... Driz-something." She was having a hard time remembering him, because of how brief their interaction had been.

"Drizaghar? Yes, I was with him and Shin'dril."

To hear Shin'dril's name from this creature gave Elmirah a twinge of disgust. Nonetheless, she straightened herself out, but kept her guard up. She didn't trust him, but for the moment he seemed like a fellow servant of The Dark Lord. Still, there was no reason to not simply kill him right now simply for annoying her. However, one of the zombies he dismembered had gotten back up and collected its severed head, with Homun grinning and twirling his fingers about. If he was a necromancer, then he was a fellow Death Lord. Luckily for him, the cardinal rule of Death Lords was no infighting. Anyone caught breaking this rule was immediately cursed to an eternity of pain and terror. It kept the various personalities of his armies in line, but many still cursed each other in private.

Homun tilted his head and floated his dark eyes back to Elmirah's beautiful visage, "Now then, maybe you could help me. Do you know where I could find Xem'zund?"

[Godhand]

Godhand sat in a tent some distance behind the Tel Aglarim foot soldiers, the only man on their side of the battlefield not bothering to hide his presence. He poured himself a drink from a bottle of fine elven brandy and then capped it by sucking out the smoke from a cigar, allowing it to volcano out of his mouth and letting the fumes massage his soul. He'd been acting like a fucking diva for some time now. The truth was that despite whatever noble intentions the elves had told each other he had, despite whatever divine mission had supposedly been entrusted to him by an elder Raiaeran god, he didn't give a damn about the 'fair folk'. As far as he was concerned, the elves had made their bed and now it was time for them to lie in it. Forever, if need be. Of course, nobody knew how he really felt. The grand elven high bard council, now reduced to one abrasive young lady general, had gone through considerable trouble and expense to make sure he was present and active in this, their first fully planned out face-to-face encounter with the necromancer Xem'Zund.

Godhand had sworn that he'd never go back to this accursed land. That it could burn forever for all he cared. The reasons for this were many: to start with, some ancient divine will that disrupted all but the most basic technology meant that his mainstay revolvers were all but useless within the continent, his newfound fame meant he was totally incapable of moving across the country covertly, the nearly four to one ratio of zombies to people that seemed to balloon to one hundred to one while traveling between sparse villages that dotted the landscape being so far away from each other to prevent themselves from becoming a stronghold and thus attracting the wrath of The Forgotten One, the outrageous prices that beleaguered shop keepers placed on all but the most basic of supplies that made every single excursion into zombie territory a net loss, and the stench. Dear lord, the stench. Everywhere he went he smelled nothing but the rotting corpses of zombies; there were so many of them huddled together in so many places that even where there were none the wind still carried the scent of diseased flesh all over Raiaera.

It had all coalesced together into the perfect storm until just the thought of returning to that place made him dry heave. He was sure he'd never be able to scrub the stench from his body or the memories from his mind. But, as always, what he wanted mattered very little. Like some amorphous sentient jelly, the elves' homeland had cried out for Godhand the minute he'd broken away from it's foul tendrils. The people wanted, nay, DEMANDED a hero and the enigmatic mercenary being the closest thing they had, they'd reached out to drag him back to their blighted little pocket of Hell. They'd asked his return to be overseen by Nalith and she'd grudgingly sent out envoy after envoy to plead with him to return. What did he want? Money? No, there wasn't enough gold in the world to make him make that trip again. Enchanted Bladesinger weaponry? No, because when he was on a battlefield the last thing on his mind was blowing into a flute on his sword to summon a faerie. He was sure the next one had hurt Nalith to even consider. The hand of a high elven princess in marriage. He laughed before the envoy could even finish the sentence. Finally, she'd personally sent him a letter asking what it was he wanted. The lines on the paper were vicious and deep; he could see writing it alone must have been excruciating for the proud general. What was it he wanted? Power? Did he want to be the first human on the newly resurrected high bard council once Xem'Zund was banished?

He told his don about this in passing. No one had been more amused by the mercenary's sudden fame than his handler, and he expected news of the letter and it's contents would at least get a chuckle out of him. Instead, Giacomazzi's jovial face became deathly serious almost instantly. He explained to Godhand that in all the history of haughty Raiaera, a human on the highest elven authority in the land would be so completely unprecedented that even thinking about it would have been considered in itself treasonous in certain eras. Not only that, but having someone backing them in such a high position would mean that the mob could carry out all sorts of dubious activities on that continent with no fear of their assorted contraband being seized and destroyed by the elven rangers that policed the land.

No. Absolutely not, Godhand had said. Under no circumstances now and forever would he ever return to Raiaera.

He poured himself the last of the bottle of brandy, drank it all in one swig and finished off his cigar. He checked his equipment; the elves had provided him with some ridiculous getup, a stark white duplicate of his usual clothes. They claimed the cloth for his shirt and pants was fashioned from naturally occurring but extremely rare pale vlince, and the leather for his coat, boots and vest were made from the hide of a white dragon so ancient that it'd seen the continents break apart. It could not be torn and it would not stain. This would set him apart in the battlefield, they said. The rest of the soldiers could take heart in recognizing him always at the front lines. He thought he looked like a butterfly, but it was fantastic armor and it didn't restrict his mobility so he couldn't complain. He ran a hand down the side of the massive blade at his side, a fourteen foot damascus leaf sword that he'd brought all the way from Radasanth. He was ready. Whatever was out there, he could handle it.

He hoisted the sword unto his shoulder and stepped out of the tent.

[Flames of Hyperion]

“Leithio I philinn!”

The sudden shout shattered the serene silence with enough intensity to stun the zombies that had begun to filter unwittingly into the narrow defile. Those of them that were not lucky enough to be behind some form of cover found themselves almost instantaneously on the receiving end of a vicious hail of fletched wood, ranging from the slender shafts of High Elven marksmen to the six-foot bolts of the ballistae that accompanied the Raiaeran army. Branches shattered from the sheer force of the assault, impacts gouging great gashes in the loamy earth even after tearing through the resistance provided by multiple bodies of rotting flesh. The first wave of the undead advance was annihilated in mere moments.

The battle had been well and truly joined.

Corpses began to clog the crevasse, mindless waves of mutated bodies sent forth to determine the extent of the resistance repulsed time and again by Turlin-touched steel arrowheads. The Elves had enough ammunition to keep up their bombardment for days if necessary; Nalith was almost as shrewd a logistician as she was a commander, and Raiaera’s famed craftsmen had not been idle throughout the long winter. But in terms of tactical nous and sheer cunning, she knew better than to underestimate her foe. Too many had already died at his hands.

The ruthless efficiency of the one-sided slaughter was almost as horrifying as the grim hush that dominated the winter-bound forest. The sibilant whistle of the repeated synchronised volleys was the loudest sound upon the battlefield, neither Elven warcry nor undead moan resonating above the strangled tension. However, Nalith’s keen senses were focused on something beyond the acrid stench of undeath, something greater than the expanse of roiling cloud that observed the carnage from overhead.

It was the dark will of the Forgotten One himself that she concentrated upon, and it took all of her trained stern courage not to flinch when it finally pulsed like a dark heartbeat through the leylines beneath her feet. She felt, rather than saw, the mages about her shudder in reflexive pain, redoubling their efforts to protect her and the rest of her army from the arcane onslaught that threatened to run rampant amongst their ranks. Briefly she was reminded of a flimsy earthwork dam under siege by a raging flood; manfully, she wrestled the thought from her mind and refocused on the task at hand.

Outwardly, she remained calm and collected, a shining paragon of High Elven generalship amongst the closed ranks of her Bladesinger bodyguard.

“Ela sen!” she ordered at last, judging the moment to be right, and a hundred of her best warriors heard her cry and slipped into the shadows towards the flanks of the opposing horde. The lay of the land favoured their cause, and they had the advantage of both surprise and reach. Now all Nalith had to do was to dictate the confrontation to ensure that the initiative remained fully hers, and victory would be within sight.

For that, she required a figure to carve a bloody swathe through the heart of the foe. And though she would not have hesitated to take up the role herself were the circumstances any different, she currently had a better instrument at her disposal for the purpose.

The human, she smirked as she imagined the carnage he would cause amongst the necromantic lines.

The mercenary.

[Abomination]

Homun stood overlooking the ruins of the once glorious Eluriand. Nary a day had gone by that he didn't remember what transpired here. The last of the winter winds served as a harsh reminder to the stasis of the once proud Elven capitol. Elmirah informed Homun that Tirinost was the new impromptu headquarters, but it too would fall soon enough. She hadn't actually received any sort of outside information for quite some time, so she had no idea where Xem'zund was or what he was planning.

"That's a shame," lamented Homun, once again lost as to his next step. He looked at Elmirah with a somewhat lustful gaze, his temptation to reap her abilities from assimilation still strong in his mind.

Elmirah was keen on wandering eyes, "What are you looking at, worm?" Rather than kill Homun as she very much wanted to, she walked off in frustration.

The Homunculus was definitely on the right track up until this point, however. As he approached Eluriand, the stale air of undeath was slowly being replaced by an unusual eastern breeze. He didn't know if it was simply something from the mountains that traveled all the way across the country, but something told him that the land itself was preparing for some sort of great sacrifice. His focus was uninterrupted by a shriek in Emlirah's direction. Homun made his way over to the source and discovered her dancing in joy in front of a figure completely obscured by a black hood and cloak.

The hooded figure spoke in a haggish monotone voice, "He requires half of the forces currently stationed here. Haraldur would be preferable--"

"No way!" Elmirah objected, "There is no way in hell he gets to go off to fight while I stay here! That is not happening!"

The messenger continued as if Elmirah's outburst never happened, "However, The Dark Lord made no specific order as to which one of you should come."

Elmirah jumped for joy, "That settles it! I'm out of here!"

The hooded figure acknowledged this reply and disappeared into a dark mist, prompting Elmirah to take off into Eluriand to inform Haraldur of her departure. Homun had never seen this kind of magic before. Xem'zund could summon creatures of darkness able to traverse wide expanses of land in mere hours, or even maybe minutes, to deliver messages? The Homunculus couldn't help but feel more excited over the possibilities.

In the city, there was a wrecked elven tavern where Haraldur sat drinking spirits. He was a Salvaran, so the winter months were like home. Now that it was coming to an end, he couldn't help but feel lethargic. He was a competent tactician and one of the coolest heads among The Death Lords. He had short white hair and green eyes. Wearing a black cloak above a leather vest, he sat in a chair and enjoyed his ale. The ceiling and two of the walls of the tavern were completely missing, so he had a nice view of the sky and the ruined city. It smelled of rotten wood. As soon as he spotted Elmirah he knew that it was something important. She liked to avoid him as much as possible, after all.

Stopping in front of him, she made herself very clear, "The Dark Lord wants half of the stationed forces. I'm taking the ogres."

Haraldur sipped his drink and placed the bottle on the table, "Very well." He did not question his master's orders, or her allocation of the departing army. He would be left with a much smaller army to defend this siege. He closed his eyes. "I now give you control of the mighty ogres. Treat them well."

Elmirah too closed her eyes for this, and when she opened them there was a new feeling in the back of her mind. A great rage seemed to surround her, and she felt the might of the ogres known to topple the greatest walls in the world. Without so much as a goodbye, she left to organize her forces, leaving Haraldur alone to ponder. The Death Lord looked over and spotted blossoms growing from in-between the cracks of the tavern, where the ground had not been desecrated.

"This is it," he declared. "Today will determine whether these blossoms live or die."

[Godhand]

Godhand held up a hand to shade his eyes but it really wasn't necessary. It was his favorite kind of day; the sky was cloudy but not gray and the sunlight filtering through cast everything in a neutral light. It was the sort of day where he would have liked to stay at home or maybe visit his local coffee shop and talk politics with the hippie longhairs that didn't know enough about him to be scared. The type of day where even old guys like him got a break and some pretty young barista with dyed golden hair held up in a tight bun and laughing blue eyes might have given him a wink with his espresso. The type of day he just wanted to sit back and wait for the magic to happen.

Too bad he'd been hired to kill a whole bunch of people.

He watched impassively as each wave of zombies was quickly cut down by the arrows the elves rained upon them. The mercenary even recoiled and then smiled when the first detachment of ballistae were fired. The giant projectiles propelled the undead into the air like javelins hurled by...Well, by him. He would have been happy to just sit back and watch the whole damn day but he knew Nalith would run out of arrows long before The Forgotten One ran out of troops.

He could feel a thousand elven eyes burning a hole in the back of his head. They were waiting for him to make a move but he wasn't in charge there, and even if he was he had no idea where to begin. The enemy troops were tireless; the elven troops were not. The enemy troops were endless; the elven troops were not. The enemy troops had no fear; meanwhile each and every one of the elven troops was silently dreading the possibility that they might have to attack a zombie that had once been a loved one. The truth was that it actually was in the lady general's favor to keep firing arrows for as long as she could, to do anything to draw out the impersonal ranged combat. The second one of those fresh faced, newly-deputized rookie bladesingers had to cut down their own reanimated mother there was a heads or tails chance that he'd have a breakdown right there and be unable to continue.

He wasn't sure if the necromancer was clever enough or even knew enough about the defending forces to withhold the corpses of their loved ones until the archers were out of ammo; on the one hand it seemed almost inconceivable that one man could possess enough knowledge of his enemies to effectively coordinate a tactic like that. On the other hand, Xem'Zund was one of the few, perhaps the ONLY legitimate user of the Eternal Tap that remained human enough to desire conquest. He commanded enough magic that it was hard to tell where his abilities ended and where myth began.

It was as the mercenary ruminated on this that one of the aforementioned fresh faced recruits approached him.

"Sir, Lady Nalith has instructed me to tell you that you are now free to attack as you wish."

Godhand licked his teeth and gave a brief snort to clear his sinuses before turning to the bladesinger.

"Understood."

And with that, he rocketed towards the thickest point in the zombie bottle neck before leaping into the air several dozen feet and punctuating his landing by bringing the massive blade down on a column of undead. They burst apart almost on contact and he wasted no time by quickly pulling the blade from the ground and using his hips to pivot it around him and spinning on his heel, easily cutting himself a nice three hundred and sixty degree breathing room about ten or twelve feet in all directions.

The bladesingers still weren't done flanking their aggressors and given that the ballistae and archers were done firing for now, all of the undead troop's attention was turned inward unto the mercenary. But he limited himself to spinning his blade with both hands on the handle, causing a tornado of gore to whirl around him. Against normal enemies he'd never think of using such a boneheaded and easily evaded attack, but these were zombies. These things weren't smart enough to walk and swing a sword at the same time, let alone have the wherewithal to duck when they saw a huge damascus blade screaming towards them. Between that and the bottle neck caused by the terrain and the steady flow of new cannon fodder, he estimated that he'd cut down about a hundred zombies in the first thirty seconds alone.

But he knew this was just a warm-up. The real heavy hitters were just around the bend, and it was Xem'Zund's move.

[Flames of Hyperion]

The black-cloaked figure made no attempt whatsoever to hide from the raging free-for-all. It sat upon a palanquin at the very edge of the forest, right where arboreal shelter met alluvial floodplain. Behind it the River Escaldor froze in the icy grip of winter's chill; to its fore, it sensed, rather than saw or heard, the one-sided melee as Godhand Stryker hacked his merry way through the legions of undead carrion fodder that opposed him. It was no matter, the Forgotten One mused, not impressed. The lowest tier of his hordes were easy enough to piece back together again.

His very presence seemed to rob the vicinity of vigour, trees wilting low and bowed, and the earth growing ever more parched and weary. The skies overhead were colourless and dull, and not a single living thing - man, beast, or plant - moved within his line of sight for fear of attracting his attention. Even his attendant necromancers, as well as what few remained of his Death Lords that were both battle-capable and trustworthy enough to accompany him, remained discreetly far away. None wanted to face Xem'zund in this particular mood... for the first time since the previous autumn at the Battle of Eluriand, the Dread Liege himself was preparing to take the field.

Rank upon rank of grim necromantic construct awaited his command, a dour and fearless fighting force that did not complain at two straight days of hard march, at the lack of rations or the incessant chill. They ranged from the brainless masses of walking corpses that acted as a buffer against any approaching foe, to the elite skeletal warriors that formed the core of the army, to his personal bodyguards resurrected from the bodies of fallen heroes. And that was saying nothing of the more esoteric units at his disposal, from dire bloodthirsty wolves to stone-faced gargoyles, massive cadaverous giants to vicious flesh-rending scarabs. Factoring into the equation the vast array of arcane powers that Xem'zund and his lieutenants boasted in their arsenal, it was not difficult to see how the undead forces had swept across more than half of the High Elven nation in little more than a season.

The winter had bought the Raiaerans time to regroup, but the Forgotten One could sense upon the delicate whisper of wind the fragility of his foe's strength. Should they be shattered here, it would not be long before the rest of the nation fell. The Thaynes would be pleased.

"My Lord."

The tentative approach was made by the Death Lord in command of the vanguard, daring to interrupt his master's thoughts. No doubt the black-armoured figure was concerned about the mounting losses he was incurring in the face of the savage Elven onslaught, spearheaded by the hulking brute of a human who had decimated so many of his fellow commanders.

Your orders remain unchanged, Xem'zund returned, his powerful voice resonating from somewhere in the depths of his robes. Pitiless hollow orbs turned to stare at the hapless necromancer from where living eyes had once been, and the Forgotten One allowed just a hint of sorcery to crackle through the air between them to remind his underling of his place. The Death Lord nodded once in helpless acquiescence, before allowing himself to be dismissed to the front - quite literally, in fact, teleported away in a burst of dark power.

Soon Godhand will find the going not so easy, the Dread Liege mused, allowing the battle to play itself out like a game of chess in his mind. The white knight was carving its way through the black pawns with little mercy, but the dark mastermind's focus was squarely on the white queen. The Elves who move to support him will fight with skill and endeavour, but they will not be able to keep up. Godhand will butcher his way through pawn and knight, rook and bishop, until he reaches me... and by then he will be alone and his allies upon the brink of decimation. Then I will teach, first him, then Nalith, the meaning of despair... and the Elves will flee once again, whatever will for resistance they have mustered utterly crushed.

The chessmaster allowed himself a smile, embracing the forthcoming confrontation with eager anticipation from deep within the recesses of his robes.

And there is no reason why I should play by the rules... the Forgotten One laughed silently, remembering the assortment of pieces and ploys he held in reserve. Let the petty Elves concentrate upon the board before them. He would remind Nalith that there were more ways to win a battle than by pure tactical finesse.

Languidly luxuriating in the carnage unfolding to his fore, Xem'zund watched... and waited.

[Abomination]

Homun Culus now found himself on the back of an undead horse. Beneath the saddle part of its ribcage could be seen, and various portions of flesh were missing. Several meters to his right he could see Elmirah on a similar creature, which was trotting along at a brisk pace. The speed at which they were moving at concerned him. In the distance, the very clouds seemed to resonate to the thundering battle that was taking place. They were still very far from the action, but at this rate it would take far too long to reach the fight. He took care not to be too obvious about his mental stalking of his fellow Death Lord, but the idea of such a fast woman traveling at such a slow pace was irritating him. It wasn't that she was too slow or would get too tired or anything, but that she had to maintain the pace of the entire army. If she went too far ahead, she would lose control of her minions, which seemed to have a large portion of former Eluriand elven defenders. If they ever got close to the elven armies, even the most hardened bladesingers would recoil in horror over having to fight their former brethren.

Homun had no such limitations, and yet here he was going as slow as they did. Not only that, but he heard that all of the elven forces were between them and Xem'zund, which added yet another obstacle to his plan. He wasn't at all interested in wasting his strength on lesser prey. What could he do, though? Going too far ahead on his own would put him at the mercy of the elven army, who would never be fooled by him as long as those bladesingers were there.

There was one option, but it carried a high risk. Assimilating the speed of the fastest Death Lord, he could reach Xem'zund in no time on his own. However, Elmirah refused to be anywhere near him, much less touch him. Maybe he could provoke her into hitting him? She seemed to have quite a temper, after all. It wouldn't take much prodding before... oh right, the cardinal rule of infighting. Well, he wasn't really a Death Lord. In this case, honesty was his best course of action.

"You know..." Homun smiled insidiously. "Shin'dril didn't put up a fight at all." Elmirah's face was immediately centered on the creature. What did he just say? He continued, "When I killed him and took over his body, that is. For a Death Lord, he was really weak. I guess his only use was that of a necromancer."

Elmirah's horse stopped, and so did the entire army. She couldn't believe what she was hearing.

"Do you have a death wish, worm?!" she yelled. "I don't have time for your games."

As a resolute follower of Xem'zund, who ordered her to come to the battle immediately, it would be hard to budge her into doing anything else.

"You think I'm lying?" Homun wondered, rubbing his chin. "Then I suppose some proof is in order."

Pressing his hand to his face, his body contorted and his clothes changed to that of a cloak and hood over his head. Pulling the hood back, Shin'dril's aged face was visible.

Elmirah was not impressed, yet it still made her more angry, "You think I've never seen an illusion before?! This is your last warning: Leave here before I rip off your limbs one by one!"

"I'm not done yet," said Homun in Shin'dril's old, stoic voice. "Laying siege to Eluriand was fun, wasn't it? I never knew how exhilarating it was to command legions of dolls to fight for you. And don't worry..."

And for the coup de grace, Homun looked into Elmirah's eyes and said, "I can't die yet. Not when I'm so close to immortality."

The army's movement stopped completely, down to every last zombie. It was as if Elmirah's control over them was gone. Before Homun could say anything else, he felt a powerful blow to his head and was sent flying off the horse and into the ground. Returning to his original form, he rolled over to his back and lifted up his hands in excitement, expecting his transformation to take place any moment now, but nothing happened. She just kicked him, did she not? Why was he not assimilating her. Wait... Homun did recall that last hit. He was sitting there, and he saw Elmirah almost flying towards him, and the kick came... and missed by nearly a foot. Then he felt an enormous forceful blow to his face that nearly cracked his jaw. Her kicks are so fast that she doesn't even need to hit her targets directly?

This was bad.

He felt another blow to his hips, his barely able to take the force of the attack, and within moments he was barraged by Elmirah's fury, his body doubling back in pain and broken bones. Before him was no longer a creature of this world. It was a force of pure fury, unbridled rage that managed to defy the control that even Xem'zund held over it. It was starting to look like Homun would be ripped apart without ever being touched until she took her hand, pressed into through Homun's chest and into his body, grabbed his heart, and ripped it out. Homun stumbled backwards, his eyes shaking and blood pouring out of his chest and mouth, his legs trembling and barely able to keep him up.

"YOU ARE FINISHED!" she yelled, her eyes turning red and demonic as she squeezed the bloody heart between her fingers. Yet, it would not stop beating.

Homun's exasperated expression turned to one of dark joy. Blood stopped flowing out of his chest and a thin layer of skin covered the wound. He looked at Elmirah with a crazed expression, his newfound power flowing through his body. In her carelessness and lust for blood, she had attempted to kill him, but a Homunculus' life was not hers to take. Elmirah was surprised, but still furious. She dropped the heart and began anew to tear Homun apart, but this time he could fight back. He dodged the attacks and returned with a few of his own, but they did not connect. He was still slower than her.

"How?" he wondered. "I assimilated you! Your abilities should be my own!"

"Fool!" she grit her teeth. "I should've known you were one of those creatures! All true Death Lords are blessed by The Dark Lord himself! His blessing makes us greater, powerful, and I have one of the most powerful blessings of all! Even if you did steal my powers, you will never have his blessing!"

Homun's new memory had finally been assimilated and so he knew this to be true, but he still had a great deal of speed. Holding his right arm out, he ran forward and stretched it out towards her. Pulling out one of the knives from her waist straps, she ducked into the arm and cut it in half. The arm however, still had a moment of life and leaped at her from behind. She noticed this however, and turned around to blow it into cinders with a fireball. Behind her, Homun was still running, and she was preparing to do the same to him, but his plan here was not to fight. It was to run.

While he was running, the flesh around his legs coiled into a spring-like shape, and he could see that he was running towards Xem'zund's location. He could already coil his legs and release them, condensing his weight and reshaping his body so that he would fly into the air and cross great distances, but with Elmirah's memory he knew exactly where The Dark Lord was, and with her speed he could get a running start and a powerful launch. As she was about to blow him away with a powerful fireball, he erupted from the ground, flying into the air at speeds that nearly made his skin peel off. Elmirah screamed and ordered the entire army to throw everything they had at Homun, but he was out of sight in seconds. She swore vengeance upon the creature even if it was the last thing she did.

Flying through the air, Homun had angled himself perfectly and used Xem'zund's dark influence upon the lands to guide him. This was his chance to gain the greatest power of all. He would not squander it.

[Godhand]

He'd done a pretty good job of stifling the advance of the undead. The canyon was only about a hundred feet across from wall to wall so when he really hustled he could manage to block off almost half of it by himself. He couldn't imagine what was going through The Dark One's mind when he'd decided to clash with the elves here, in this place. The canyon hemming the zombies in resulted in their numbers meaning nothing to the elves who had dug in and were prepared for a long and drawn out battle. He supposed exhaustion and lack of supplies were their only real enemy; the bladesingers could damn near handle the small trickle of undead on their own, but neither they nor Godhand's energy was limitless. That's when it dawned on the mercenary: the necromancer wasn't looking for outright military victory. He was just going to keep pushing footsoldiers down the elven defender's throats until they were too tired and hungry to defend themselves. It wasn't like he didn't have the numbers to achieve such a goal.

It was as he came to grips with this that it all got deathly quiet. Suddenly, the hordes of the undead parted like a sea of rotten flesh and the stark white of pristine, reanimated skeletons came into view. They were much, much faster than their flesh-bound cousins. But they still couldn't handle a direct blow from Godhand's ridiculous weapon; it was so large that it could function as a cudgel as well as a sword. He smiled and dug in, waiting for the skeletons to get within range before attempting to knock them all down like ivory bowling pins with one massive blow from his blade.

But he couldn't.

Some force was keeping his leaf sword firmly rooted to the ground, and no amount of tugging was loosing it. The mercenary turned around to see no less than a dozen zombies clinging to the blade of his weapon, their weight keeping the weapon down even as they pulled at it with all the strength their rotting muscles could muster. Godhand turned away from the advancing skeletons to give it a few more desperate tugs, but when he suddenly felt one of the bone constructs ready to drive a sword into his unprotected back, he spun on his heel blindly and fired a chin-high kick into the air. He got lucky; his instinct had done him good and he managed to catch one of the creatures right in the head, it's skull instantly disintegrating after the mercenary's blind strike.

He saw the rest of the constructs quickly approaching him, and so digging his heels into the ground and wrapping both hands around the handle of his weapon, he grunted and reared back, lifting the sword zombies and all. Turning on his heel, he gave a final swing and the skeletons collapsed into dust as the blade collided with them each and shattered any bone they came into contact with.

On the back end of the swing however, he was tired. He tried popping his hips to keep the blade aloft but it was no good; he let the top half of the blade sink into the ground as he tried to regain his breath.

But suddenly from both sides of the canyon cliffs some sort of screaming hell-creatures descended, all noise and fury. They looked humanoid but were covered in fur and had fangs; they weren't large enough to be lycanthropes but Godhand couldn't imagine what else they could possibly be. They looked like some sort of hybrid between hyena and man. More than that, they were even faster and more agile than the skeletons. Before he could pull the massive leaf sword out of the ground they were already upon him, snarling and snapping at his jugular. Godhand held both arms up in the air to protect his face and could feel the force of their jaws as they snapped at his forearms and shoulders. Their teeth weren't sharp enough to pierce the dragon hide of his suit but the mercenary knew it was only a matter of time before they found someplace uncovered.

"JESUS CHRIST, WHAT ARE THESE GODDAMN ANIMALS!?"

[Flames of Hyperion]

“The skies! The skies darken!”

The first sign that the Elves had of Xem’zund’s next ploy was when what little light they fought by turned to darkness. The low-lying clouds swarmed with a thousand beating shadows: gargoyles, harpies, fellbats, and other assorted wing horrors that obscured the heavens from view. A few intrepid Death Lords rode through the night upon personal steeds, and it was their presence that was felt next as they began to rain spells down through the canopy of naked branches upon the formations of Elves below. The Raiaeran Bards were quick to shift their focus to protecting their comrades from above, but still a few stray spells slipped through their wards and wrought havoc amongst their targets.

“Archers!” Nalith ordered, her stentorian voice cutting through the panic and quelling it quicker than water dowsed fire. Half-a-thousand disciplined bows heeded the call, and a moment later an equal number of arrows whistled as a wave of steel-tipped cyper into the heavens. Some fell short or over-shot their targets, or ricocheted harmlessly from rock-sturdy hide. Others lodged deeply into vulnerable eyes and wing joints, or pierced soft skin with brutal finality, sending their victims tumbling into the tree-tops.

“Eagles!” was the Bladesinger General’s next cry, and two dozen noble birds responded with powerful beats of their great wings, taking to the skies in counterattack. Though their numbers were few, they were fierce warriors all, and they each knew well the role they had to play… to ward off the aerial assault for long enough that their Elven allies could decide victory on the ground. Their onslaught shook the skies as the two tides met in violent tumult, and not a few of the airborne necromancers were the first to join their arrow-struck minions in plummeting to the ground.

“M’lady!” a young runner hailed, his tunic torn and covered in mud and sweat. He had to wait for his gasped breaths to ease before he could speak the rest of his message, and all the while Nalith’s cold blue eyes bore into his youthful face like frosty mythril daggers.

“Apolo…”

“Save your breath,” she cut him off tersely, her curt tone brought on by the knowledge that the battle hung in the balance before her eyes. The soldiers who had moved up in support of the human berserker were now encountering stiff resistance from more powerful foes than the puppet fodder that clogged the defile. Though she had succeeded in engaging the backbone of Xem’zund’s army without wearing her warriors down in numbers, she knew that much still had to be done if Elven skill and valour were to carry the day. The air shuddered under the cries of war and the twang of heavy arrows; each shot from her ballistae carved great swathes in the tightly packed undead ranks, but there was no respite in the relentless pressure upon the Elven lines. Soon she knew that she would have to redirect her fire upon the more dangerous of foes in Xem’zund’s horde – the skeletal giants that could crush entire regiments beneath their fists, and the brutal beasts that were the Dread Liege’s shock troops – in order to divert them from her troops. That would then leave them open to the crush of dead bodies that would push them back step by bloody step. The High Elven general grit her teeth in grim concern, the burden of her command – and the wavering hopes of the entire realm – a heavy weight upon her shoulders.

Something… something is missing. Xem’zund was no mere adversary, but the most cunning foe ever to plague Raiaera. He would not be content with merely grinding away from the fore… not when he had the opportunity to crush the entirety of his foes in a single blow.

She could only hope that her contingency plans could withstand the pressure.

“M’lady, the human Godhand Stryker is cut off and besiege on all sides. We cannot reach him any longer, not without sacrificing the advantage of our lines. The Rangers on our flanks report that they cannot hold for much longer and will fall back before they are overrun…” The runner was aware that Nalith was only paying him partial attention while the rest of her mind concentrated on the greater strategic picture, and that his babbled message was only barely registering within her head. Still he pressed on, wanting to be relieved from her presence as soon as possible. “Commander Sarimel requests that…”

“Tell him that he must hold the line as long as he can, and only retreat to his initial positions after he has beaten back two enemy waves.” Nalith’s voice was firm and brooked no argument, decimating the younger Elf’s response even before it had formed in his eyes. The sanctity of the forest would prevent Xem’zund from immediately reinforcing his lines with the newly dead, and she still had a number of traps in store should the Necromancer choose to press home his advantage. “We will make a battle of this yet. The human, however, must survive on his own if he wishes to breathe free Raiaeran air once again.”

“M’lady!” the runner began in belated protest, but Nalith simply waved him away with a dismissive flick of her hand. Long years of training and obedience gave him the strength to swallow his stifled objections, before he turned smartly on his heels and set off at another brisk run towards the frontlines.

Nalith had already forgotten all about him by the time he’d disappeared into the distance, staring fixedly into the melee with her lips pursed in concern. The silvery bark of the streamside tree trunks were stained with splatters of Elven blood, each brave life taking down a dozen of the horrors it faced before succumbing in defence of the homeland. Despite the overwhelming difference in numbers and momentum, they still stood a fighting chance… and it was this very hope, after long months of bleak desolation, that frightened her so. The dead branches overhead were silent witnesses to the merciless battles in the skies and on the ground, and to the turmoil in Nalith’s mind as she desperately wondered…

What am I missing?

“What devious plan does Xem’zund have in store for us now?”