“Join… us…”

Closer, ever closer the writhing shadows edged, until they seemed to be clawing at the very edge of the circle of Legionnaires. Their repeated cries were piercing icicles that struck deep into the courage of the living, tearing away at heart and soul like some hungry beast. The cloying terror threatened to overwhelm them all, fearful silence the best that could be mustered in reply. Even the dozen or so normally vociferous dwarves could only manage a few scattered grunts amongst themselves.

Ingwe could literally feel the last of their hope slipping from their grasp, blood from an open wound seeping away under the aura of evil that assaulted them from all sides. Replacing it was a dreadful emptiness, something grim and desolate, resigned heavy leadenness that burdened their minds. In some it manifested itself as suicidal determination, the resolve to go down fighting and to take as many of the foe with them as possible. In the eyes of others, there was only terror.

Telchar began to chant behind him, using the ruins of the fountain as a makeshift anvil upon which to focus his runic powers. In response, the weapons of the Legionnaires began to glow a gentle pale blue, but even this display of magic was not enough to rekindle the lost sparks of hope. As one the guina paused just beyond weapon reach of the outermost Legionnaires. As one, they tensed.

Ingwe reached for the tanto upon his back, attempting to at least put up some token resistance. But even this was too much to handle… his back flared angrily in pain, and his injured hand would not grasp the cold metal hilt. The young man gave the latter a sad smile as it slumped back down alongside him, watching detachedly as fresh bright crimson stained the cloth wrapped around it. We really should have thought of healers at Scara Brae, he rebuked himself lightly as the darkness began to settle in, clouding his mind like a gloomy veil.

… so this is how it’s going to end…? In an abandoned city, amongst scared soldiers, with no hope… whatsoever…?

Somehow, that just felt so wrong. They hadn’t even begun to play their part in the war against Xem’zund. Unable to bear arms in a glorious final stand against the foe, not even a flicker of hope that they were falling in the name of something meaningful?

No.

Some military commanders held to the principle that to rob a man of hope would turn him into a rabid fighting animal, determined to go down fighting with every last ounce of energy available to him. And it was not as if Ingwe couldn’t see the rationale behind this view, even times when it might be useful… but he could not bring himself to subscribe to it. His own belief was that men fought better when they had both something to fight for and the hope that their actions would not be meaningless in the large picture.

I have to give them that hope… he realised.

In that moment, something changed.

His eyes fluttered open, and whilst just moments ago they had been hollow and listless, they now literally burned with determination, naked flame dancing deep in his luminous pupils. Molten power flowed like liquid fire through his veins, galvanising exhausted limbs into action and muting the agony of his wounds; the cuts on his palm even seemed to heal before his very eyes. The pendant upon his chest pulsed brightly… once, twice, and again… before settling into a sustained beacon-like glow.

The very air seemed to shimmer around him as he stood up, first leaning on the fountain stones for assistance but soon recognising that he had no need. By the time he stood tall, the fiery aura that had invigorated him had subsided somewhat, but its effects remained true. Like the phoenix from the ashes, Ingwe Helyanwe had risen again, one last bright flare from a dying fire.

“Hold the line.”

Again, compared to Telchar or Turgon, his voice was gentle and soft. But this time there was something there… belief, perhaps, or determination… that gave his words strength beyond the norm. The quiet scholar stood tall amongst the wavering warriors, radiating hope and inspiration where before there had been none.

“Form up tightly, and pay no heed to the words of the undead. Hearken instead to the chants of the runelord as he grants your weapons strength, to the song of the bladesinger as he blesses your swordarm. Tonight is a dark night… a fell night… but tonight is also the dawn of a new era. An era in which man, elf, and dwarf are willing to cast aside their differences and fight as one against a common foe.”

Somewhere deep inside, a part of Ingwe’s mind laughed at the utter randomness of what he was saying. At another time, perhaps, the laugh would have made it to his lips, so ridiculously embarrassing was it all. It was perhaps testament to their predicament, then, that an expectant hush had fallen upon the assembled Legionnaires, all eyes fixated upon the Nipponese warrior-mage. I’m really not the type for speeches… his mind wandered briefly, before his voice was compelled to continue.

“Look to the man to your right, and trust him with your life, for he holds it now in his hands. Look to the man upon your left, and let him know that you are worthy of such honour, and that you would rather go down fighting than to see him wounded. Together, thus, we will hold back this tide of evil that threatens us. Together, as one, we will let the Necromancer know that there is hope yet for the goodly folk of these lands.”

At first, there was little reaction from the faces that stared back at him. Ingwe’s heart threatened to sink to new depths… perhaps it was beyond his own meagre skill to actually inspire men, after all.

But I have to try…

“Lord Arminas will not abandon us to this fate. We must hold on until help arrives from the city, or all our efforts so far will have been in vain. And I for one do not wish to have travelled from Scara Brae and beyond only to die a meaningless death.”

There. Flickering in the expressions of those who looked back at him, like a distant lantern in the dead of night.

“I will not lie to you… I am not a great leader like Lord Turgon or Lord Arminas. I cannot promise you victory, or glory, or even an honourable death. But I believe that I speak as a Legionnaire when I say that I will fight with all I possess so that as many of us as possible will lay eyes again upon the light of day. All I ask of you is that you do the same.”

He bowed his head in pleading, holding it there for what seemed like an eternity of silence. When he looked up again, there was, for a brief moment, a trace of the innocent young man about his eyes.

“… please…?”

Visages of determination broke out into relieved laughter; not the nervous giggle of men facing death, but the hearty guffaw of steadfast warriors. Ingwe’s speech had served its purpose. The Legionnaires believed once again. There was no sign of weakness now in the wall of steel that faced the guina.

Ingwe was tempted to sink to his knees, still feeling the fiery power of a presence not quite his own coursing through his body. Instead he raised one arm high, beckoning Hayate to his side. The other rustled hastily in his waist pouch for ink and paper; something that he probably should have done a long time ago but had been too preoccupied to remember.

“That was some speech, my friend,” Glorfindel spoke from behind him, obviously bemused.

“… I would appreciate it if we never spoke of it again,” was Ingwe’s wry response as he applied the finishing touches to a hastily scribbled message. It was not long before he was tying the folded paper around his familiar’s foot. Hayate’s keen eyes bore into the young man’s brow, with both respect and almost a paternal pride, although at what only the gyrfalcon knew. No instructions were needed; as soon as Ingwe stepped back, the majestic bird-of-prey took to the dark skies, rapidly gaining altitude before arrowing off in the direction of Anebrilith’s main citadel.

May the winds bless you with a swift and safe journey… Ingwe prayed briefly after the rapidly disappearing speck of white. Then, features set once again and silvery metal warm against his chest, he turned back to where his friend the bladesinger stood.

“To the lines, master Glorfindel,” he intoned with a smile and a swirl of royal blue. “We have lives to save.”