Legion of Light VI (Tales of the Seraphim): Symphonia Destructio

[Wings of Endymion]

~ First Movement – Overture ~

***

Snowdrops floated like vagrant wanderers from the heavens overhead, aimlessly meandering upon the ash-strewn wasteland. Momentarily their combined efforts obscured the worst of the devastated Raiaeran city from sight, dampening the heavy stench of death and decay under the purity of their itinerant paths. The hour was nearly midnight, though the low-lying clouds secreted away the moon and stars as if they were precious jewels destined to languish forever at the back of a safe; the silence was almost absolute, only emphasised by the thick blanket of white that had cast itself over the ruins of what had once been Trenyce.

The last few days had been fresh and warm, heralding the arrival of the reborn spring. The snowfall seemed to symbolise that Lady Winter herself realised this, and had gathered her powers unto her for one last show of might before she finally relinquished her grip.

The majority of the occupants of the rubbled buildings paid the weather no heed, crystals of cold clarity that built up on rotten flesh and motionless shoulders. Those who commanded this undead army either blessed the snows for the twin advantages of concealment and time it bought them over their bitter High Elven foes, or cursed the wintry wet for the chilly stiffness it inflicted upon their brittle bones. Only one soul in the entirety of the city luxuriated in the beauty of the frozen petals, watching on in innocent delight as they concealed the morbid desolation of the undead stronghold.

It was not long before she stepped out into the stillness, her long flowing robes distinctly outlandish in their folded weave as they blended seamlessly into the snow-strewn cityscape. Her shoulder-length hair was a stark black against the whites and greys that surrounded her, the colour of the shadows that undulated at the very edge of her vision. Her light tread left crisp footprints as she slowly ventured towards the centre of the tree-lined clearing, revelling in the sensation of fresh snow beneath her feet and the faint signs of life that flowered in the hearts of the drab foliage.

Spring has called to them, and they respond, despite all that has happened… she murmured in her mind, upturning her delicate features so that she could taste the snowdrops on her alabaster skin. One landed neatly on her pale lips, melting away into a gentle smile. Winter serenades them with one last lullaby before they wake…

Her mind was focused in a pleasantly blank equilibrium, devoid of all the fear and worry and trouble that had plagued her over the past few days. She felt for all the world as if she too were one of the petals floating on the breath of wind, gliding through the darkness as if guided by the wings of destiny themselves.

In the centre of the clearing the young woman paused, inhaling deeply of the frigid air before slowly releasing her breath. A sustained blast of foggy steam escaped skywards; she watched it leave her behind, mingling amongst the falling snowflakes before disappearing from sight. For a long time she did not move, allowing herself to be overcome by the pervasive peace that cocooned her in this brief moment of eternity. It was all so… quiet.

So… tranquil…

Suddenly she stabbed the staff she held into the snow-lined earth. Bleached brown and exquisitely slender, it quivered there in the mud before finally settling into position like a makeshift flagpole, a lonely marker of human presence amongst the monochrome splendour of the winter-touched night.

Taking two steps away from the staff in the direction she had come, she once again stopped still, closing her luminous black eyes to her surroundings. Her thoughts whispered to her like predatory sirens seeking to banish her concentration, but with effort she managed to silence them and maintain the mirror-like calm of her soul. Once again her mind was poised as blank as any slate, savouring the now in breathless anticipation of the next moment.

Eyes still closed, she folded her knees beneath her and settled into the snow, ignoring the bite of the cold through the cotton fabric of her trousers. One slim hand reached out to rest on the hilt of the short kodachi she wore at her waist, trembling imperceptibly at the palpably murderous intensity emitted by the ornately decorated weapon. It was as if the finely forged steel was seeking to influence her with the very aura of its presence; an elegant, beautiful sword it may have been, but it was first and foremost a killing tool.

Long moments passed by as she seemed to hesitate, composing her thoughts in a succinct poem of the type favoured by the courtiers of her homeland. Around her the snow continued to pile, the shadows continued to loom, and the wind whispered in her ears as it blew soft flurries against her face.

Snow falls from spring skies,
Winter’s breath upon my face,
Night flees before me.

When she moved again, it was with the swiftness of a swallow in flight. Her blade seemed to literally leap from its saya, and her eyes flashed open with resolution and intent. Her initial stroke sliced open everything in its path… air, night, wind, snow, and even the very silence itself.

Rising to her feet in one fluid motion, Yuka Kanamai began to dance.

[Wings of Endymion]

Her movements were lithe and graceful, brimming with purpose as the guided her slender form in a choreographed dance through the silent snow. Every stroke of the blade was measured to perfection, every shift of her body effortless and smooth. It was as if she were enacting a lonely ballet of silvery sword and swirling robe amongst the desolate ruins, her only audience the faintly whispering snowflakes and the ominously looming shadows that surrounded her on all sides.

The cold seeped in below her skirts, whisking about her leggings before darting away with whatever warmth it could carry. Yuka paid it no heed, however, preferring to concentrate on the intricacies of every precise motion, every weighted stance that punctuated her artistic movements. She was not so presumptuous as to believe that she was anything close to a master practitioner of the ancient tradition, and neither did she hold faith in the notion that the strokes would sharpen her skills with the sword in any real combat. But it did her mind and body no harm to put themselves through the elegant kata; her wounds – still recovering from the ruthless assault of the necromancer Ar’zhanekkar a week prior – welcomed the moderate exercise, her troubles and worries basked in the luxuriant zen of lightly-aching muscle and calm blank mind, and if it was anything that her latest experiences had taught her, it was that it was not a bad thing to become accustomed to the feel of her blade in her hand.

How she had managed to survive since the assault, she did not know, but it was as if the incident with Ar’zhanekkar had never happened. The necromancer’s overlord, Death Lord Maeril Thyrrian, had never once demanded an explanation; her own patron, the daemon Natosatael, had only looked on with a snide smirk playing about his raw lips. She had been allowed to recuperate in silence in her private quarters, occasionally patching up the worst of her wounds with her magic and allowing sleep and solitude to take care of the rest. Tonight was the first night in seven that she had felt well enough to venture outside, and the heavens had sought fit to greet her with a winter wonderland.

There’s definitely something afoot… she thought to herself, in that peculiarly formal manner that was a product of both her cultural heritage and her scholarly upbringing. Something that takes precedence over internal foibles such as that night… something that results in something as serious as this getting swept under the carpet as if it never happened.

Her mind harkened back to Thomas’s words earlier on that fateful evening, and the warning that he – or rather, his illusory visage in the poolside mirrors – had given her. They had been close friends from long before their time together at the renowned Toho Academy in the eastern isles of Nippon, and he had come to her aid on many occasions, not least when she had wished to escape from her fate as the daughter of an underworld syndicate. On that occasion, he had opened a portal to the daemon realm of Haidia and spirited her away. Only on very rare instances throughout their relationship had his warnings proved false… and the sober solemnity with which he had warned her of Maeril’s forthcoming plot – details of which even he had been unable to sniff out – once again sent chills down her spine.

What have I… she began, then caught herself just in time from giving voice to her weakness. As she did so, however, her legs gave way upon the slippery snow, and she slipped and fell awkwardly to the hard frigid ground. The jarring impact thundered up her backbone, eliciting a mental curse for her uncharacteristic clumsiness. Yuka Kanamai was not somebody who was used to tripping up.

Exhausted by her brief moments of exertion, she allowed herself to fall back into the snow. Her slight chest heaved with every breath as she fought to supply her oxygen-starved lungs with fresh air; the cold nipped at her once again through her thin layers of clothing, nibbling like some live animal at her exposed neckline until she shifted position ticklishly. Not so far to her left her peripheral vision caught sight of her staff, still pointed in purposeful poise towards the skies; her right hand, meanwhile, remained wrapped tightly about the hilt of her short sword.

She tried to cast thoughts of the war aside as she breathed deeply of the vigorous chill, concentrating on the white snowflakes drifting lightly down upon her face from the heavens overhead. But no matter how Yuka tried, her mind kept ignoring the faint specks of white in favour of the menacing mass of cloud behind them, and the shadows spawned by the night that surrounded her on all sides. It was so difficult to concentrate on the good things in life when all around her was darkness.

At least, I’m better now, the young woman allowed, knowing that she had been at her most helpless and most vulnerable over the past few days. There was little relief in the tone of her thoughts, however, for her recovery only hastened her need to find a definitive answer to another problem… that of what she would do next.

Her breathing settled to calm at last, but her heart still sounded like a drumbeat in her ears.

[Wings of Endymion]

The low-lying breeze played havoc with wisps of her fine black hair as it passed her by. Her eyes were wide open and gleaming gently in the darkness, onyx pupils dilated to better take in the night. There was a tension to her neck and shoulders that caused her head to throb horribly; her muscles ached tenderly to the touch, spasming every now and again in pulsating agony. She knew that she would pay the next morning for her fleeting moments of exertion, for already she was having to beat back the heaving waves of nausea that threatened to swamp her chest.

Yuka did not question whether it had been worth it, only briefly acknowledging that it had been necessary. She had needed to know that her body could still obey her commands, that the wounds that she had received at the hands of Ar’zhanekkar had nearly healed. She could no longer bear to be cooped up in the cage of her room any longer; like a grounded bird, it was her instinct to test her figurative wings and take to the skies once again. For soon she would embark on an even more epic journey: a flight before the foul necromancy and intrigue that coruscated about her like some poisonous miasma.

No longer could she stand to associate with such unrepentantly evil and selfish company. No longer could she afford to languish like a solitary flower under the so-called protection of her daemonic patron. For all she cared now, Maeril’s schemes for domination of the Raiaeran heartlands and Natosatael’s ploy for gaining a lasting presence on the physical plane could both be cursed back to the depths of whatever abysmally dark realm had spawned them. No matter what they offered her – power, protection, or purpose – she would not have anything to do with them any longer.

She was sick and tired of being a pawn, caged and flaunted like some precious trophy.

Taking another deep breath of the chill air in an attempt to settle her anxiety, Yuka allowed her mind to focus on the near future, and the plan she had for her escape. It was deceptively simple, as most good plans were, and thus flexible in case of failure… and, if worst came to worst, she would be able to fight her way clear before they could bring any force to bear, and then trust to her legs and endurance to escape any pursuit.

No… that’s not the problem.

She was not concerned with the past, for she dared not consider the potential horrors that she knew remained yet in the depths of her mind. She did not preoccupy herself with the present, for she knew what had to be done, or the near future, for she knew what she would do. It was the distant future that roiled like a stormy sea in the back of her mind. She was troubled by the fact that she had no idea of where she would end up when the dust had settled. She couldn’t even picture herself in a month’s time.

In short, what concerned her most was not her escape, but what she would do after it. Raiaera was still, after all, a realm under siege. It would not be easy to travel through the war-torn countryside, infested as it was with rife disease and the shambling legions of undeath; even if she could somehow convince the High Elves that she was untainted by her months-long association with a Death Lord and his core retinue, there was no guarantee that she would be able to solicit their aid in slipping out of the country, or even in carving her own tiny niche in the world.

For not the first time, she revisited her options, dismissing them one by one in a practiced litany of weighty reasoning.

She dared not return to Nippon even if there was somehow a way; her family would swiftly learn of her presence and chain her once again to what they saw as her destiny… a pawn in the never-ending wars against other shadowy faceless organisations from Nippon, and even Cathay and beyond.

She could not retrace her steps to Thomas and his operation in Haidia from which he accumulated a veritable fortune in power and secrets… there were no skies or stars in the underdark, no freedom from the constantly oppressive gazes of her daemonic ‘sponsors’, and to return would be to throw away any progress in self-reliance she had made in the half-year since she had left. Yuka shuddered at the thought of caging herself once more, dependent upon Thomas or Natosatael for everything she wanted to do.

To ask for help from Ingwe would be bordering on the blasphemous; her scholarly friend from her schooldays in Nippon had more than enough to deal with in beating back the undead from Raiaera and salvaging what he could from the livelihoods of its peoples. Even if the whispers were true that he had travelled to the northern continent all the way from Nippon for her sake and for her sake alone, there was no way that she could impose on him like that.

Which left…

Nothing.

Belatedly she realised that the snow had stopped, and that the clouds above were shifting and spoiling in petulant reluctance under the influence of a fresh will. Her slender frame heaved once more as she took one last deep breath of the winter chill, filling her lungs with air that was almost as cold as the snow that had built up around her on all sides. By dawn, she knew that little would remain of the pure white, and that the wind would have veered to a warmer and more seasonal zephyr. If only her worries would melt away as easily, Yuka thought as she remained motionless and still upon her back. If only…

There’s no point in dwelling, she decided abruptly and at last. A final mighty exhalation escaped her lungs, chasing away a portion of the clouds that blocked her line of sight.

It was with wonder as she watched the heavens part before her, revealing a bright full moon in all its ghostly glory. And for the first time that night Yuka allowed herself to completely relax, basking in the luminescence upon the mattress of white snow.

[Wings of Endymion]

~ Second Movement – Sonata ~

***

Whumpf!

The black-barbed bolt slammed into the stone by her head, far closer than she would have preferred. Shards of splintered shrapnel lacerated her pale cheeks like angry swipes of a monstrous claw; were it not for the fact that she had just thrown herself behind the moss-encrusted boulder, the viciously shaped shaft would likely have impaled her gruesomely. Yuka had little doubt about what one of the ballista-like contraptions could do to a human body, having witnessed them in action in the Battle of Nenaebreth a month or so previously.

Skeletons with crossbows are cheating, she muttered to herself, clenching her body like a tightly-held fist as another pair of bolts ricocheted from the rock. She could not vent her frustration aloud, because her breath was coming in mighty heaving gasps that threatened to split her slender chest asunder; the chase had been ongoing for over half a day, and even her legendary endurance and fleetness of foot was being tested to the limit. Another time, perhaps, the dark-haired, alabaster-skinned young woman might have admired the skilful magic that had crafted her foes; for now, she was simply content with sending it a silent curse. And how do they always seem to know where I am?

She had already applied what limited skill she had at concealment to try to evade her foes, but to no use. Every time she had tried a false trail, or a double back, or any other trick in her repertoire, they had homed in on her position with no hesitation, and she had barely made it away alive. Most of her belongings lay abandoned in Trenyce, and most of what she had brought with her lay scattered about the dead forest of Timbrethinil, in the thought that something had somehow been cursed. Now she was left with only the clothes on her back, the staff in her hands, the sword at her side, and a few small trinkets in her pockets… everything else she owned, even her wits, seemed lost to her.

With the exception, of course, of the portion of her mind that was concerned with her immediate survival.

Abruptly there was silence, the lack of stone-splitting impacts a telltale sign that the undead were advancing on her position. Yuka breathed in lightly as she braced herself for the next leg of her marathon escapade, chanting a practiced litany of power under her breath. Wisps of arcane power formed a faint halo about her head, manifestation of her mind’s will.

Slowly she counted to three.

“Renkuha!”

The wisps erupted blindly into action behind her at her shouted cry, the words channelling power into the physical plane with enough intensity to explode earth and splinter dead wood. Yuka did not stand around to observe their effect, instead taking advantage of the general havoc caused to put some distance again between her and her foes. A few stray bolts whistled through the air in her general vicinity, but none were well enough aimed to be a threat; for now, with the corrupted earth once again flying beneath her feet and the chill wind breathing frost upon her sweat-stained brow, she was safe by the breadth of a hair and the length of her stride.

Rank wind whispered in her face as she navigated the treacherously twisting roots that sought to entangle her feet, over the hidden pits of quicksand that waited to catch her unawares, and through the parasitic blood-sucking vines that had evolved through necromantic corruption to take full advantage of whatever scant prey fell into their clutches. Over her head, nightfall was building up in the form of westerly storm clouds, a change in weather that would hamper her progress but would favour the restless dead. She had to reach safety before the cold spring rains sapped the last of the strength from her limbs and the vitality from her mind. Her only advantage was that she could outrun for a while anything that was chasing her, thanks to her foresight in putting Maeril’s elite tracker corps out of action.

She kept as low as possible amongst the boulders that cluttered the landscape, weaving a nimble dancing path away from her pursuers. Every now and again an opportunistic arrow whistled past her ears or clattered from the scenery about her, or she sensed the imminent impact of a long-range spell just in time to deflect the worst of its effects. Settling into the marathon stride that would sustain her for the best part of the next half-hour, she began to confidently throw herself around blind corners and across dangerous gullies, trusting fully in her survival instincts as she sought to melt away into her surroundings. Desolate and barren as Timbrethinil Forest now was, it still retained a fraction of the life and diversity that had characterised it in times before the undead, and that allowed her to blend in to the scenery as she had been instructed by her tutors at the Academy in Nippon.

Her breathing steadied, a series of long shallow breaths that fought a war of their own to keep her straining muscles supplied with fresh oxygen. Her eyes fastened onto her path on the immediate horizon, feeding her instincts with the information needed to plot her future course. Her mind, on the other hand, was allowed to drift away from the monotony of her run, seeking solace in memories of a not so distant past.

Memories of not so long ago…

[Wings of Endymion]

Two years ago, Nippon…

“There’s no way that’s going to work,” the young woman exclaimed sceptically, short dark hair framing her wide forehead as she raised one eyebrow in objection. The two men behind her – quietly handsome Yoshi and enigmatic charismatic Thomas – made sure that their agreement was clear in not so many words. “In fact, that’s suicide.”

“No, it isn’t!” the bespectacled boy opposite struggled to make his voice heard, wondering for not the first time why he had been chosen as group leader to try to impose authority over three of the brightest in his academic year. Even at the best of times he would have had trouble speaking out; with his ideas completely dismissed and his companions on the verge of open revolt, he was currently wishing that he could simply melt away into the forested shadows that surrounded them in the moonlit night. The slender forearm that once again traced his proposed route upon the vellum map held between them seemed scholarly and weak; his sensitive eyes sought sheltered sanctuary behind his oversized glasses as he took a deep breath and once again tried to argue the point.

“Our mission objective is to get one of us to the target point to deliver the message, no matter what. If we approach across the open ground here or through the forest here…” – his fingers indicated the appropriate areas on the chart, and Yuka nearly winced at the neatly chewed nails – “… the sensei will almost certainly catch us, and we’ll fail. If it was cloudy or a new moon, we might be able to scrape together an airborne raid of sorts, but to do that tonight would indeed be suicide. We have to swim the river here, scale the cliffs under cover of darkness, and then wait for dawn to catch the sentries at their most tired, if we want to succeed. Yoshi, Thomas, and I can create a diversion while you sneak by…”

“Except you’re forgetting that you can barely swim, barely climb, and you don’t have the stamina to keep up with the rest of us.” Yuka’s eyes flashed angrily as they reflected stray moonbeams from the starlit heavens, and Ingwe quailed beneath her wrath. “Not to mention that if we’re caught out of position, then we’ll all fail faster than…”

“As I said,” Ingwe interjected in turn, rallying his strength at the surprise in her face. It was not often that he was so firm with his words, and only then did Yuka recognise the resolve he wore, the determination that they should succeed at a task hitherto renowned as impossible and upon which all first year students were expected to break themselves. Ingwe was more than willing to sacrifice himself should he compromise their success… and it was that very thought which scared her the most. “If we move in predictably… I mean, if we don’t do the unexpected, then it’ll be expected, right?”

“Ingwe, have you perhaps thought that we’re not actually meant to succeed? Don’t you think that perhaps you’re trying too hard?”

“I don’t believe in no-win situations, I dislike giving up, and I don’t understand the meaning of trying too hard.” The sheepish, shy smile that Ingwe wore made him seem even more out of place, but his gently spoken words elicited the desired reaction. His companions were… stunned, for lack of a better word, presumably once again at his uncharacteristic forcefulness. “Besides, if we’re really meant to lose this, I’d much rather go down trying to win than just give up. Who knows… this could actually be a test of character rather than one of skill.”

For a brief moment, the silence hung heavy. Yuka was well aware of the fact that her mouth was gaping open in search of a reply, but she didn’t seem able to do anything about it.

“He… has you there,” Thomas finally pointed out, before Yoshi broke out into hearty guffaws, unable to hold in his mirth any longer. Ingwe blinked once as if surprised, then again wide-eyed in Yuka’s direction as if apologising for his indiscretion. She could barely muster a whimper in reply.

“We won’t stop for you if you fall behind,” the psy-mage warned his younger classmate, and Ingwe nodded once, firmly, in return.

“I don’t expect you to,” he whispered.

***

Somewhat surprisingly, the bold plan succeeded, and the four young people managed to succeed where no student had ever done before. They made it to the base of the cliffs with an hour of darkness to spare, in spite of Ingwe’s inexperienced gait and clumsy strokes. Somehow the scholarly young man was not left behind in the wilderness or swept away by the current. He even managed to overcome his acrophobia whilst scaling the cliffs, clinging for desperate life to the vertical rock face in the wake of his more intrepid companions.

Reaching the top of the cliff was only half the battle; once there, they had to evade capture by the sensei who were guarding the checkpoint, and safely navigate one of their party to the designated location. But even here, Ingwe’s plan worked. Although Thomas gave himself up quickly when threatened with injury and Yoshi managed to stumble into a trap of binding, Ingwe held off no less than three superior opponents for just about long enough for Yuka to reach her goal. For the first time since the inception of the Academy some two hundred years prior, the infamous survival examination had been overcome.

The lesson that Yuka had taken away from that experience had not been to trust Ingwe, for he was too prone to risk for her liking, but to always strive for the best even when prepared for the worst. Fate wasn’t something for her to abide to… it was something for her to reach out and grab with both hands. Only then could the course of destinies be altered.

It was a lesson that she would repeat over and over again during the course of her flight.

[Wings of Endymion]

“Have you not caught her yet?” the necromancer Ar’zhanekkar wheezed angrily, eliciting a low growl from his lupine companion.

“Patience, necromancer,” his companion, a scarred wolf dangerously close to snapping, replied. Easily the size of a great Raiaeran stallion, his grey-lined muzzle drooped towards the ground, the remainder of his fur gleaming in shimmering velvet amongst the night.

Grim Jaw was the alpha of the pack of corrupted dire wolves that ran with the Death Lord Maeril Thyrrian, commander of Xem’zund’s northern legions. A proud and taciturn warrior who took no interest in the political bickering that corrupted Maeril’s retinue, the wolf held himself and his kind aloof from the rest of the undead armies, answering to none but the death knight himself. More pragmatic and perhaps more honourable than the majority of his bloodthirsty kin, he nonetheless saw his position under Xem’zund as an unavoidable one due to the callous dismissal with which the High Elves denigrated the dire wolves, and the ruthlessness with which the sylvan folk hunted them down. Caught between the mindless murderous tendencies of his charges and the iron gauntlet of discipline that Maeril imposed on all but the daemon Natosatael, he held his niche in the army through a mixture of paternal wisdom and ruthless professionalism.

The great wolf shouldered no shortage of dislike for the less martial elements of the armies, and bore especial hatred for Ar’zhanekkar, who he viewed as a slobbering, grovelling sycophant who was all too willing to step on toes and sacrifice those around him in favour of his own advancement. Ar’zhanekkar, in turn, thought of Grim Jaw as simply a relic of an ancient bygone age, an antique more useful as a decorative ornament than as an instrument of war. It was safe to say that there was no love lost between Maeril’s two lieutenants, although the Death Lord liked to foster such animosity amongst his higher echelons to keep them on their toes. In any case, despite their differences they had been ordered to cooperate in hunting down the deserter, and even Grim Jaw could not deny that Ar’zhanekkar’s magics – and the tracing rune the necromancer had implanted upon Yuka’s staff during their clash not a fortnight prior – were invaluable in helping them trace her.

“Lord Maeril will be greatly displeased by your inefficiency in this matter,” the necromancer sniffed, before coughing thick phlegm from the deep recesses of his filthy black hood. The front of his bulgingly obese robes was stained by years of lack of hygiene, and the gnarled staff he leant upon was coated in a thick layer of blood and grime. It was no coincidence that Grim Jaw’s eyes were firmly fastened on the horizon.

“It was your guards that were on duty that night,” the lupine commander pointed out through grit fangs, trying his best to keep his temper and not bare them. “And your pickets to the west that allowed her to slip through. My packs to the south were successful in driving her away from Galonan.”

“… and likely we would not be having this conversation if she hadn’t managed to poison half of your trackers!” Ar’zhanekkar’s retort was petty and petulant, but it stung Grim Jaw into another growl nonetheless. The silver hairs at the base of the alpha’s mane bristled in fury, and the necromancer’s jaw abruptly clamped shut.

The wolf was considering which of a dozen scathing replies to employ in order to bring the impudent spellcaster to his knees, when the sound of padded paws behind him caught his attention instead.

“Your orders?” a younger, brasher voice growled at him, one that belonged to the brazen youngster Ash Claw. Grim Jaw knew the type well: an impetuous youth desperate for the chance to prove himself and chomping at the bit to challenge his leadership. He’d seen off many such challengers in his years as an alpha, whether making them into productive members of the pack or breaking them and leaving their blooded corpses in the dust. He wondered how much longer it would be before Ash Claw too met the same fate… and which of the paths the pup would choose.

“With me,” the elder wolf commanded, heaving his aching body from the cool rock upon which he had been resting with one last glare in Ar’zhanekkar’s direction. “We search for the girl ourselves. With any luck, the necromancer here will not destroy everything in our absence.”

“… careful what you eat, mangy cur…” was the muttered reply, doubtless not intended to carry, but caught by Grim Jaw’s keen hearing nonetheless. The great wolf let the insult slide, but his mind dwelt on the words.

It was not so much guilt, as disgust at giving the necromancer the opportunity to snipe at him, and at allowing himself to be deceived by a young human woman of all things. Perhaps he was growing old, he mused, as he expertly led the troop of five wolves through the charred and desecrated remains of what had once been Timbrethinil Forest. Grim Jaw allowed his mind to wander back to the events of that night, the last time they had met…

[Wings of Endymion]

Two days ago, Timbrethinil…

“What are you doing here?”

The young woman nearly jumped two metres in the air with a guilty start, swiftly hiding something behind her back… but not swiftly enough that Grim Jaw didn’t notice the movement. His eyes, scarred by battles he had fought long before the pup in front of him had even been born, narrowed in suspicion. What was she doing, prowling around the army’s meagre food stores?

“Turn around, girl, and keep your hands where I can see them.”

She did as she was told, slowly shuffling her feet to face him and raising her hands high in the air. The great wolf could now see that the object she held in her hand was a parcel of dried foodstuffs… exactly the type of item that would not be noticed should it go missing from the stores. A tentative sniff of the air revealed nothing untoward… no hints of rot or poison in the room. In retrospect, Grim Jaw would regret not doing a more thorough inspection, but he certainly hadn’t suspected Yuka of being able to import such a quality odourless sedative, and the risk of food poisoning had not been foremost on his mind, given that the vast majority of Maeril’s army required no sustenance.

“Now answer. What are you doing here?”

There was enough menace laced in his growl to make even the bravest of men quaver. The young woman, Natosatael’s pet, the one they called Yuka, barely thought for a moment before finding her tongue… or half of it, at least.

“I… I…”

“The daemon not feeding you well?” Grim Jaw interrupted her hesitant stammering, pausing his intimidating pacing to indicate the parcel in her hand with a toss of his head. Her stammering minded him of a cub caught red-handed in an act of truancy; he couldn’t begin to count the number of times he’d been required, as pack alpha, to mete out punishment to the younglings. On the other hand, he didn’t pretend to know the young woman well. He respected the power of her patron Natosatael, but was wary of the daemon’s underhanded scheming and mistrustful of the human who seemed to embody said intrigue. Her meek reply, and the submissive nod in response to his words, did little to enhance his regard for her. “That’s no excuse for stealing from the stores. Replace that parcel and get lost.”

Slowly, almost reluctantly, she did as she was told. Two steps out of the warehouse, however, she paused as if unable to give up her prize completely. Her floaty words wafted back towards Grim Jaw, interrupting him from his cautious prowl about the barrels and crates within the stores.

“Please… won’t you…”

“Enough!”

The wolf leapt from the timber structure in a blaze of furious fur and fang, planting his paws amidst the mud and baring his teeth in a practiced pose of controlled aggression. One powerful hind leg lashed out to kick the door shut behind him, and the entire building shuddered with enough violent finality as to force Yuka to take a step back. Grim Jaw didn’t necessarily take pleasure in the terrified expression upon her face, but he could not deny the small pleasure he felt at the knowledge that he still had the ability to induce fear in others.

The wind whispered through the naked branches in the wake of the firestorm, and the low-hanging grey of the clouds overhead scuttled past as if they wanted absolutely nothing to do with the confrontation. The silence, on the other hand, was absolute, almost deafening in its intensity. For a moment longer, Yuka’s feet remained rooted to the spot, sucked down by the wet earth and the fear. Then, as if they had finally rediscovered their ability to move, they erupted in a flurry of action that carried her as quickly as possible from the scene.

Grim Jaw followed suit a moment later, languidly pacing away into the moonless evening.

[Wings of Endymion]

I could sure do with some of that dry fruit now…

The hunger pangs had gradually eaten away at the insides of her stomach, until the pain was almost an integral part of her body. She regretted the fact that the chieftain of the dire wolves had discovered her in the midst of her scrounging, although thankfully she’d managed to distract him from the sleeping poison she’d slipped amongst the cured hams that were his wolves’ winter rations. There was no way she could have made it as far as she had if his fleet-footed lupine trackers had been on her trail, and she had Thomas to thank for supplying her with the drug without question.

I wonder if he realised what I was going to do…

Her mind latched on to the thought as if it were a safety net, anything to distract her from the throbbing pain in her stomach and the heaving ache of her chest. She had been on the run for nearly two days now, unable to sleep for more than a few seconds at a time due to the relentless pursuit and the threat of capture. Her thirst had been quenched on the cold rain that had hindered her progress the day before, and on what passing sips she could manage from the streams she crossed in her flight… in reality, little more than rivulets of rank residue residing in the remains of dry riverbeds. The muscles in her legs fought through tension and cramp for every step they took, and yet her mind forced them onwards, ever onwards, towards whatever hopes of safety lay in the far distance.

And, for the first time in long hours, those hopes were being rekindled in her heart. The shadows of night were retreating before the deep purple halo upon the horizon behind her that heralded daybreak, and it was dawning upon the vast starless void overhead that a little illumination might likely go a long way. But better yet, she could now spy the jagged silhouette of a city upon the gentle curve of the Laure Linae… the haven of New Aurient that was her current destination. There the Elven garrison still held against Xem’zund and against the bitter encroachment of the dying winter… there, at last, she would be able to find some solace behind the safety of the stalwart stone walls.

Just one last spurt, she told herself, urging unwilling and fatigued limbs into another brisk trot. At first her breathing was ragged and her mind ready to faint at the cloud of pain that coursed through her body, but after a while she found her stride once more and slipped back into the semi-dormant state of consciousness that accompanied her runner’s high. Her slender legs seemed to almost devour the miles underfoot, as the young woman navigated expertly across the muddy marshy grassland that she had emerged into after leaving Timbrethinil Forest. Somewhere behind her she could still sense her pursuers, hard on her trail, but no longer immediately threatening. On the other hand, Yuka was never one for complacency… she was not safe until she reached the city, and even that was debatable.

Her pace slowed as she worked her way up a low hill, one of many that undulated about the rolling landscape. As she finally crested the rise, her presence was greeted by a bright trace of solar corona upon the horizon behind her. Within moments the trace had grown to a shimmer, and the shimmer to a sliver of brightness, and then before her entranced eyes the dawn of a new day flooded the ruined forest and blooded wastelands with new hope. The waters of the Laure Linae glistened in twinkling delight, and a warm moist breeze caught her fine dark hair and sent it rippling outwards in the direction of the Elven city. For a moment, Yuka found that she could not move from the spot, the caressing touch of the belated spring immobilising her as effectively as any icy chill.

“… Ingwe?” she asked of the zephyr, her words slipping confusedly from her lips as her mind swam in the cocoon of warmth and wind. There was something about the presence in the air that was almost familiar, an intangible something that reminded her of his gentle sensitivity and burning intelligence. The memories she had dredged up not so long ago once again suffused her mind, and she trembled in wonder as the sensation threatened to simply spirit her wearied soul away. Determination and resolve flooded the empty vessel of her body, until she acknowledged the nigh irrational whisper that was echoing in the confines of her mind… she could outrun her pursuit, she did have the strength of heart and limb necessary to guide her through her ordeal, she would eventually make it to safety, no matter what torments they threw at her.

What is this? Am I… hallucinating…? the sane part of her mind wondered, not noticing the forgotten pendant that was burning a hole in the back pocket of her leggings.

Before she could coalesce her thoughts into one, however, something happened. Movement in the not-so-distance jolted her from her exhausted reverie, back to the war-torn reality and the pulsating terror of her flight. Something was on her trail, far closer than she had expected and moving at an extremely swift pace. Her keen gaze fixated on a flash of matted silver fur, on a grizzled jaw line and a slate-grey eye marred by a vicious scar…

That wolf!

The warmth coursing through her body turned instantaneously to the chill of fear. The grasslands began to reverberate with lupine howls as her pursuers realised that they had been discovered… but Yuka did not given them the luxury of reaching her ears.

A fresh surge of adrenaline pumping through her veins, she spun on her heels and took off for the city in the distance.

[Wings of Endymion]

Yuka was a good runner for a human, one of the fleetest of foot that Grim Jaw had ever seen. But she had only two legs to their four, and she had spent the best part of three days fearful and on the run, in stark contrast to he and his wolves, who were almost fresh as well as being used to duties such as this.

“Flank her on both sides. Don’t let her get away,” he growled, his orders terse and gravelly. His underlings acknowledged, their tongues lolling out as they panted for breath. It pleased the elder wolf no end that he could outlast younger, cockier pups while on the hunt.

Now and again, he caught glimpses of their quarry amongst the stark shadows ahead, the white of her robes offset by the flowing black of her hair. Her musk, however, marked her flight as clear as any path through the wilderness; it was light and exotic, but suffused with the pungent fragrance of fear. Had he the luxury of sympathy, he might have pitied her position, for Maeril’s orders did not discriminate whether she was dead or alive upon her capture…

Whumpf!

The anguished howls of one of the wolves he’d sent to flank the young woman echoed about the vicinity, followed closely by those of the other. Grim Jaw focused his attention on the landscape ahead, trying to discern details through the rapidly rising morning mists…

A flash of light, and the veteran alpha only just swerved away in time. The wolf that had been running along behind him crumpled as a mighty gust of wind ripped through their formation. Grim Jaw did not stay to watch as the lesser wolf rolled a full three-and-a-half times before settling in an immobile heap in the mud, whimpering pitifully with his forelegs lying at a decidedly awkward angle.

“Magic!” Ash Claw, the only unscathed member of the pack, panted from alongside him. Grim Jaw wanted to roll his eyes at the obvious, but dared not take his gaze from where he had seen her last, lest the mists about him disorient him completely. Heavy with moisture and magic, they obscured his vision and dampened his sense of smell, hampering him from his designated task. Still, the fact that she had turned to fight meant that something had happened to make her give up on the thought of flight; either she’d come up against difficult terrain, she’d injured herself, or she’d run out of stamina at long last. Grim Jaw did not know this part of Raiaera very well, but the fact that she had taken down three of his pack in a matter of seconds pointed to the first option. Which, in turn, meant…

“This way.” The elder wolf ordered, veering off to the right. Ash Claw nodded breathless acquiescence and followed his superior as they plunged headlong into the thickening mists, weaving skilfully through the sustained barrage of spells that were flung in their direction.

Grim Jaw’s intent was simple, tactical nous honed by long years of experience telling him that it was best to keep things uncomplicated. The magic that bombarded his advance told him that the human mage could track him through the mist, which was in turn probably of her conjuring. But he too could extrapolate her location from the trajectory of the spells, and the two wolves were equal to the assault, weaving expertly in and out of the explosive geysers of mud and dead branch. Unlike their fellows, they knew now to expect her magic, and were able to work together almost instinctively to avoid the worst of it. What was more, with the patience and cunning only a predatory wolf could possess, they were steadily working their way towards her position.

As I thought… the silver-furred wolf’s mind churned, dispassionately analysing the field of battle even as it was torn apart by the arsenal of magics at his opponent’s disposal. Your back’s against the wall, and you were forced to go on the offensive. Not bad for a human pup, but…

Even the dampening mist could not prevent his ears from picking up the joyful gurgle of water recently released from icy entrapment and as yet untainted by Xem’zund’s influence. And from this distance, this close to the river that had barred her path, even the dampening mist could not protect her from his finely tuned senses.

Grim Jaw changed direction with such abrupt swiftness that, for a brief moment, even his younger compatriot was left in the dust. Now the great wolf barrelled like a streak of grey-blue lightning straight towards his foe, a darker and slimmer bolt following in his wake. The mists ahead coalesced into five brightly luminescent balls of arcane energy that pulsed for an instant before lashing out towards them at blinding speeds…

… but the older wolf deftly ducked beneath them with a wise roll of his shoulders, and Ash Claw agilely leapt into the air as they passed harmlessly beneath him…

… and as both wolves dextrously regained their feet, the mists suddenly lifted, leaving them face to face with their quarry.

[Wings of Endymion]

Fast! Yuka managed to gasp, drawing back her free hand in readiness for her next spell. The staff she held with her other was literally glowing with lingering arcane power, so fast and so furious had been her barrage upon the wolves. But the combined strain of her long days of flight and the sustained use of her powers was quickly causing her consciousness to ebb from her grasp. At the rate she was being forced to fight at, she would not last much longer.

Mud churned beneath hardened paws as both her foes scrabbled for footing. As they faltered she struck out with all her remaining might, beckoning the waters of the river behind her to lash at the wolves in liquidly twisting spears. However, the larger one – the one who had interrupted her in the storehouse back in Trenyce, she recognised – neatly ducked away, and the smaller one bounded over a metre straight up in the air. Before she could regroup for another spell, they’d launched themselves at her.

She was prepared. Faint sigils sparked into life upon her palm, and an arcane barrier sizzled into existence to repel her foes. But the wolves were one again more than her equal; almost instantaneously, they changed their plan of attack to match. The heavier, older one struck first, throwing his entire weight upon her shield and scrabbling away rabidly when it barely held. She had just about enough time to take a step back before it came crashing down, and through the void between them came the younger, fitter wolf, careening straight towards her and bowling her over with the sheer intensity of his assault.

Instinctively she kicked out strongly with both legs, and somehow managed to catch the dark-furred beast fully in the side of the torso. Air left its lungs in a deafening gush, and it flew through the early morning sunlight to land in an unhappy heap ten metres away. Both wolf and woman scrambled frantically back to their feet, Yuka losing hold of her staff in the process but somehow managing to draw her sword in time to ward off her larger foe.

“Back down, girl,” he growled at her in the angry monotone she remembered so well, pacing purposefully as his underling once again took up position to his side. “Nobody else has to get hurt.”

“Back off, wolf,” she whispered back, her eyes glaring fiercely through their fatigue. Why was he speaking to her now? Why would he bandy words with…

Behind me!

One of the wolves she thought she’d dealt with earlier, limping and bloodied but still able to move as stealthily as any shadow. She caught sight of it in time to focus her powers, and an arcane projectile knocked it back into the icy waters of the rushing rapids before it could pounce. But the movement had left her open, and the dire wolves were ever ready to take advantage.

The smaller beast snarled and bristled, but it was once again the larger one that acted. Quicker than thought it threw its massive bulk at her legs, and only barely could she get out of the way in time, losing her footing once again in the process as she teetered precariously on the very brink of the riverbank. Waters colder than the embrace of death itself gurgled ominously in her ear as she floundered for something solid.

Time slowed as her left hand closed around something smooth and slender and still vaguely lukewarm from the power it had recently channelled… her staff! Her sword arm flailed desperately in the air as she struggled to bring her magics to bear once more, knowing that with her martial skills she could not hope to defeat her opponents without them. But the stench of sweaty fur was far too close, the shadow of claw and fang dangerously near. Before she could muster her magic, the old wolf was upon her, viciously sharp teeth snapping in her face as his weight pinned her helplessly to the ground.

The spurt of bright red blood, rich and rank in the crisp cold air.

The dying glimmer of eyes once bright with hope and fervour.

Pale slender hands limp and lifeless, grizzled muzzle crippled and cold.

The satisfied slurp of the icy torrent as momentum carried forth the two figures locked in embrace, and within moments they were claimed by the distant horizon.

Ash Claw watched as they disappeared from sight. Only after he was sure they were gone did he turn away from the scene.