Legion of Light IV: The Annals of War

[Flames of Hyperion]

The following excerpts are taken from Ingwe Helyanwe's Book of Travels, his personal memoirs of the events that occurred during the Siege of Anebrilith in the Times of Darkness. It is my hope that they provide you, the reader, with an intimate view of one young man's perspective of those troubled times...

War is taking its toll on our little band of Legionnaires. Xem'zund's hordes completely surround the city of Anebrilith, an overwhelming tide of evil threatening the last bastion of freedom in the east of Raiaera. Not only do they outnumber us immeasurable-to-one, they are also the undead. They can recoup whatever losses they suffer far more readily than we, they can reinforce their ranks far more often, and they do not suffer from such mortal needs as food and rest. Even the Necromancer's human auxiliaries seem immune to fatigue as they fight for the Lord of the Night.

Day after day they hurl themselves at the Harbour Walls, their intent to cut us off from the sea and choke us slowly into submission. Day after day the combined banners of Anebrilith and Tor Elythis cast them back with unparalleled skill and determination, unyielding and unwavering before their foes. But every elf fallen is a loss dearly felt, while the mounds of undead burned away from the walls every night are of no loss to their evil masters.

Our place, however, is not on the bloodstained battlements, nor within the safety of the pristine citadel. For we are the Legionnaires, the outcast and the few, and ours is the thankless task of patrolling the ruined outer city and repelling the enemy from the castle walls proper.

We are but a handful, pebbles in the path of the tidal wave. I have no illusion that should the undead leaders wish it, they could sweep us from the rubble in which we shelter in a matter of moments. We survive by striking where they are weak, hitting hard and fast before melting away like the very shadows we face.

I fear. In front of the men I cannot show this terror, but in the depths of the night I stare at the shadows and wonder if, even now, the foe prepares for our destruction. My nerves are stretched taut, the stress and tension unceasing and nigh unbearable. I have not slept well in at least a fortnight, tossing and turning and awake at even the slightest of unnatural sounds. And I know for a certainty that I am not the only one to feel this way, for many of the men wear the same haunted look that stares back at me from the puddles every morn.

War has indeed taken its toll.

But there is yet optimism in our predicament. Every hour of every day we hold out is a boon to those refugees still trapped within the city; although I suspect that Xem'zund only allows them to flee across the seas to spread their tales of horror and despair, it is the saving of innocent lives that most concerns me. Every white sail that makes the open ocean is a victory for our cause, for I hope for the fact that the stories they have to tell may yet rally distant nations to our aid. Lord Arminas is also acutely aware of the situation, and although our mandate from the Council only extends to defending this rubbled wasteland, I suspect that he is planning something special for the war meeting tonight. Our swordarm remains strong, our morale steady. We will not yet fall.

Lastly... as for myself, there is little else to tell. By night I battle the forces of darkness; by day, I practice swordplay with Glorfindel and Selinde and learn the arts of magic from Telchar and the aged elven archmage who joined our cause in Anebrilith - he calls himself Nogeres, though I have reason to suspect that he does not speak the truth, for he is secretive and mysterious and extremely powerful. I peruse my books to glean whatever knowledge I can for the dangerous path ahead, and catch whatever fitful sleep possible. For some reason, the men still look up to me as a leader; I cannot fathom why, but if it is within my power to inspire them, then I must do what I can.

At times, though, I find myself staring into the distant gloom, my senses relaxed and my fingers resting upon the pendant around my neck. I have not felt your presence for a long time now, but it does not stop me from hoping for the day when I shall see you again. I can only wish that you are well, and in a slightly kinder environ than here.

For now, I must sleep. My body aches where the flat of Glorfindel's blade struck home, my mind hurts from advanced runic theory, and dusk is but a few hours away. The night, I fear, will be long and testing.

~ Entry in Ingwe's Book of Travels