Legion of Light V: In the Shadow of Ancient Champions

[Flames of Hyperion]

What follows hereforth is a chronicle of the adventures and deeds of Ingwe Helyanwe and Kryos Ralshyn, taking place during the winter known as the Winter of Untold Agony. As the forces of the dark lord Xem'zund swept the once-fair land of Raiaera, there were a few - a scattered, weary few - that sought to defy them. By sword and by sorcery, for justice and for freedom, those brave men and women united into one...

... into the Legion of Light.

A hero is a man who is afraid to run away.
- English proverb

[Flames of Hyperion]

Act I, Scene I

Somewhere to the south of Anebrilith, Raiaera
Late in the Month of Sorrows, the Winter of Untold Agony

***

The arrow keened across the snowbound path, three feet of perfectly balanced redwood fletched with the black feathers of a great eagle and tipped by the deadly silver of enchanted steel. It took the leading cadaver in the neck, horribly decomposed head erupting from the rest of the mutated torso in a violent explosion of bone and gore. A streaking barrage of magic, darting fire both arcane and fey, followed the shaft through the wintry skies. The remaining pair of undead were cut down even before they had the time to realise that their comrade had fallen.

The flames from the combined spells were still dancing across the fallen corpses when, moments later, the perpetrators of the assault flashed past. Three of the four fast moving shapes were elves, while the last was human. Two of the former were garbed in the drab leather jerkin of a Ranger; one clasped tightly a bladed warbow as she reached down to retrieve the spent arrow, while the other had her hand on the hilt of a slender sabre. The third elf wore the banded cuirass, tassets, and vambraces associated with a mid-ranking bladesinger, delicately golden and offset by the snow white of his robes underneath. He too bore a long, gently curved sword, although his was naked in his hand.

“Ghouls,” Nerdanel stated from the lead, quite unnecessarily. She nocked the arrow to her bow once again, her light footfalls unerringly finding the safest path through the deep snowdrifts. “Sentries for the main force.”

“… you could have left one for me,” Selinde pouted from her right as she followed her more experienced sister. “I didn’t even get to draw my sword!”

“You’ll get your chance soon enough, I fear…” Glorfindel spoke from alongside her. Despite the fact that he was more heavily armoured than the rest of his companions, he still kept up with consummate ease. This was largely due to the fact that the elves had yet to reach top speed, constrained by the limitations of the fourth member of their party. “Am I correct, Ingwe?”

The Nipponese warrior-mage nodded a response from his place in the rear, not trusting himself to speak. Casting a spell at full sprint had been more sapping than he had hoped, although his frustration was somewhat mitigated by the satisfaction of seeing his magic actually successfully strike down a foe for once. For now, however, he concentrated on keeping his feet moving over the hard-packed snow, careful to only run where Nerdanel had already ran for fear of losing himself in the treacherous drifts. Once had been more than enough.

The biting wind caught the cloaks the four warriors wore and trailed them out in the cold air behind, two of them a rich royal blue and two a more practical olive green. Like diminutive specks of dust lost amongst the never-ending white, the companions ploughed through the field, leaping a hedge and then slowing slightly to climb the next embankment. The small grove of trees to their left afforded them scant protection from the elements as they came across the first real sign of inhabitation they had seen for miles… a rickety, barely functional fence lining the top of the ridge.

Once upon a time, this might have signified the boundaries of a farmer’s plot, Ingwe allowed himself, before Nerdanel interrupted him with an abrupt hand gesture. He dropped to the cold wet snow without a second thought, the fleetest of instants after the rest of his companions had already done the same.

“There,” the Ranger indicated, extending a graceful finger to the village in the next valley. Her sight was much better than his, but even Ingwe could make out the multitude of shapes crawling like mindless ants through the muddy streets. The macabre stench left no mistake as to the identity of their foe, wafting upwards even as far as they lay under the low-lying grey of the early afternoon clouds.

“He’s in the village square, working on what looks like a major circle of power. If he’s trying to cast something even slightly proportionate to those runes…” Glorfindel remarked, more for Ingwe’s benefit than for anybody else’s. The young human may not have been able to actually discern the necromancer in question, but as soon as he concentrated his senses on the general direction of the elegantly constructed manors and farmhouses – this was Raiaera, after all – he was able to pinpoint their target. Glorfindel was certainly not exaggerating the scale of the magics involved.

“We have to stop him before he finishes that spell.”

“Those are wights, though…” Glorfindel pointed out, directing Ingwe’s gaze to the armoured figures standing guard around the necromancer.

“Seven of them, on top of the zombies,” Selinde added. “As opposed to four of us. Not going to be easy.”

“I thought you wanted to use your sword?” Glorfindel chided in reply, drawing a wan smile from Ingwe’s face. Nearly a week they had spent hunting down this particular necromancer, a survivor from their assault on the lair of the Coven of Six which in turn had temporarily broken the back of Xem’zund’s siege of Anebrilith. Lord Arminas had deemed the mage too dangerous to let loose, but unwilling to commit the entirety of his exhausted Legion to the task, had assigned the task to four of his best warriors… or three and me, Ingwe corrected. But as dangerous as it would be to jump into battle unprepared, it would be simply unacceptable to let their target slip away again.

“Ingwe?” Glorfindel prompted, bringing the Nipponese back to the task at hand. The young man took another glance at the village below, noting the layout of the roads, the general disposition of the foe, and above all, their target in the centre. So typically Raiaeran, he thought of the soon-to-be battlefield, its neatly laid out paths and obstacle-free lanes, so inconducive to the guerrilla warfare that they were best at. In which case…

“Nerdanel, where would be…”

“There,” the elf replied, indicating with a gracefully outstretched hand the tapering pinnacle of a thin spire located within the nearest manor. “I shall need somebody to cover me, though.”

“Selinde?” Ingwe asked, and the younger Ranger nodded reluctant assent. Satisfied, the young man rummaged through the pouch at his waist for a moment before emerging with a handful of neatly inscribed cards. “Nerdanel, please use these. They’ll help to cause confusion.”

The markswoman glanced at them for only a moment before accepting them from his proffered hand. “Isha’s blessing,” she whispered, before scurrying away, her sister in tow.

Glorfindel, meanwhile, was looking at Ingwe with a faintly bemused expression upon his fine features.

“So, what would be the plan?”

“The carrot, the stick, and a whole lot of havoc,” the Nipponese replied with a faint grin, replacing the pouch within the folds of his cloak. “He doesn’t know that we’re after him, or how many we are. I’d like to keep it that way for as long as possible.”

Understanding dawned in Glorfindel’s light blue eyes. “At least until it is too late for him to do anything about it.”

The faint rasp of metal against wood sang in their ears as Ingwe unsheathed his twin daggers.

“Shall we?”

[Flames of Hyperion]

He’d just about managed to convince himself that his plan was the best possible given the circumstances. The problem, as he and every other tactician since the dawn of time had learnt the hard way, was that no plan ever survived contact with the enemy.

Ever.

Ingwe was crouched in a muddy snow-lined ditch at the edge of the village, close enough to hear the low moans and the shuffling feet of his soon-to-be foes. Taking a deep breath of the tainted air, almost gagging on the stench, Ingwe forced himself to relax. On the other side of the hamlet, he knew Glorfindel would be doing the same, focusing and concentrating the powers that would be needed for the looming battle ahead. Things would not go smoothly; they never did when Xem’zund’s minions were involved, and the necromancer they would face had already previously bested Glorfindel in single combat. Flickering uncertainty once again darted through Ingwe’s mind.

Stop this, he ordered, taking another deep breath to settle the foreboding flutter in his stomach. If we can’t do this…

The screech of a gyrfalcon, high overhead on the hunt, and Ingwe was instantly on the alert. Ready. His next words were a barely audible benediction of battle, as his hands tightened around the hilts of his swords.

“May fortune favour the worthy…”

***

Nerdanel took careful aim from her vantage point in the top of the spire, ignoring the faint tingling of her finely honed senses that came with close proximity to such boundless evil. One of the pieces of card that Ingwe had handed to her was wrapped around the shaft now nocked to her composite bladed bow, and four more such arrows lay upon the smooth stone floor to her right, ready for immediate use. She, too, had heard Hayate’s screech from above.

“Isha guide my arrows…” she whispered reverently to herself, her voice emerging frosty and cold from under her hood and behind the folds of her face mask. Once again she sighted the necromancer in the centre of the common green, his back turned as he stood at the nexus of the pentagrammic village paths, finalising the finishing touches on his circle of power under the careful watch of his seven bodyguards. She judged the wind by the forlorn movement of his tightly fitting black robes, noting the telltale straps of the breastplate upon his torso. The helm that he wore, thinly shaped of black iron and crowned by an uneven and menacing set of spikes, was symbol of his unquestioned strength and power. Nerdanel suppressed an involuntary shudder as she remembered from their last encounter the visage inscribed upon the accompanying facemask, a horrifying combination of aggressive leer and petrified scream.

She adjusted her aim the faintest of fractions, targeting the barest of gaps upon his neck where pale skin showed. With any luck, she thought, this will all be over before he can reach for that double-tipped spear of his. Said weapon was barely visible from her angle, stabbed into the hard ground in front of the necromancer to act as a conduit for his dark powers.

Nerdanel slowly blanked her mind of all extraneous intrusions, concentrating until she was keenly aware of every slight shift of the wind against her forehead, every trivial tremble of every muscle under her control.

Breathe…

Release…

Breathe…

As she exhaled for the second time, she loosed.

***

The necromancer’s name was Uysarji, but he was more widely known as just the Executioner. Unlike the majority of his brethren, he was every much a warrior as he was a spellcaster, and he took much pride in his martial ability with the spear. But he also was not so foolish as to rely on skill at arms when instead subtlety was called for, and the destruction of the Coven of Six and his subsequent separation from the bulk of Xem’zund’s forces had forced him to rely ever more on the full extent of his powers.

He had always been disdainful of his erstwhile colleagues. Their leader Angelus had been vain and enigmatic; Uysarji had never understood what the man – or was it woman? – had been ultimately planning. No doubt he had survived the raid on their lair, for Angelus had always been the only member of the Coven who could rival Uysarji in sheer ability. Ar’zhanekkar on the other hand had been the schemer of the group, never without a dirty trick up his sleeve to compensate for his lack of true talent. Perhaps he too had made it free. The other three…

… well, they did not matter to him now. If they had been too weak to survive, then that was their problem.

Uysarji finished tracing the last of the leylines with his mind, backing off slightly from the intricately scribed circle of power to admire his handiwork. Flaring red runes pulsated amongst the mud and snow in tune with the beat of the dying land; they were not quite as elaborate as some that he had seen Angelus or even Xem’zund himself create, but they would serve their purpose well. With them, he would be able to…

The whistle of the arrow reached his ears a split second before it pierced his neck. Such was the force behind the shaft that the tip penetrated his body and emerged from the other side, allowing him a clear view of the light sheen of enchanted steel. It took his mind a moment to register that he had been shot, so sudden and unexpected was the attack, so caught up had he been in the creation of the circle of power.

Then, almost lazily, he reached up and removed the shaft from his neck. Flesh and bone knitted unnaturally around the gaping wound, until mere moments later there was no sign at all that he had been hit save the faintest trace of crimson trickling within his wrought armour. Uysarji glanced briefly at the black-fletched arrow, before discarding it into the cold wet ground, turning to glare almost eagerly at the minaret from where it had been launched.

The Executioner bared his teeth, and snarled in anticipation.

[Flames of Hyperion]

The young man leapt out of the ditch, stabbing both swords into the snow as he rolled nimbly to his feet. He paid no heed to the mass of undead around him, banking that his sudden appearance in their midst would buy him a few seconds before their base instincts kicked in. Ingwe extended his right hand in front of his body, bracing it with his left as he began to chant in a gentle, melodic voice, dark eyes closed to help focus his power.

“Kaze unaru tsubute yo, waga te ni yadore!” Winds that howl free and fair, heed my call and gather to my hands!

Translucent energy swirled and assembled before his palm, whirling gales contained within a powerful elemental sphere. Swiftly it grew, from the size of his fist until it was nearly a metre in diameter, gaining strength as he gathered and channelled his powers. Ingwe’s eyes opened, fierce and determined, taking in the scene before him and the target in the distance.

“Reppudan!”

***

She watched disbelievingly as the necromancer pulled the perfectly aimed shaft from his neck. Nerdanel cursed herself for hesitating, knowing that she should not have waited to see what effect it had. Hastily she reached for the second of the carefully prepared arrows, her fingers scrabbling for a moment upon the cold slate floor before grasping the solidity of the redwood.

Swiftly she nocked and aimed. Swifter still she loosed.

***

Another whistle, and this time Uysarji grinned as one of his wight bodyguards collapsed in a lifeless heap, a second black-fletched shaft embedded through its empty right eye socket like a thunderbolt from the gods. The necromancer reached out to grasp the haft of his spear with one hand, invoking a quick spell with a wave of his other. The wights tasked to his protection bunched around him warily, sword and voulge held at the ready as they scanned for further threats.

As the magics swirled around him and gathered at his feet in preparation for release, another three arrows sped in quick succession out of the small window at the top of the spire. The archer had chosen less well-armoured targets this time, and three of his recently raised zombies went down before they even knew what had hit them. The necromancer dismissed them without a second thought. They were expendable, after all.

More importantly, he had some sport to hunt.

Another wave of his hand as the world around him seemed to disintegrate into fiery frenzy, and he and his guards were sent hurtling towards the minaret.

***

“Ingwe!”

Glorfindel’s call echoed from the other end of the village, and Ingwe knew that the time was ripe. A pulse of thought from his mind located all five of his scrolls, scattered about the village; two in the central square, three in those of the paths leading into it that he and Glorfindel were not covering themselves. Another quick pulse of thought activated the magics imbued within the small pieces of card.

Five simultaneous explosions resulted, blossoming flowers of fire marring the snow-swept landscape and causing the ground beneath his feet to quake in terror. The zombies wavered, uncertain, disoriented by the sudden show of force. Ingwe paid them no heed as he resumed his full-speed run, his daggers clenched tightly within his hands as he darted through the midst of the undead horde.

The smoke and steam from his magic was slow to dissipate, but amongst the rubble-strewn haze Ingwe saw the necromancer still standing in the middle of the clearing, his bodyguards – now numbering six – clustered around him tightly. With a powerful warcry building on the tip of his tongue, the young man closed the distance, determined to jump his foe before the black mage could utilise the malevolent runes of power. Judging by the clamour of battle opposite, Glorfindel was also drawing near.

But neither of them were quick enough.

Ingwe sensed the sudden build-up of power under the necromancer’s foot, but his mind barely had time to register the fact before his opponent disappeared in a powerful gust of wind.

***

In stark contrast to her comrades, Selinde was simply bored. She stood guard at the entrance to the minaret, dealing with the occasional zombie who stumbled upon her there. For a swordswoman of her ability, it was no strenuous task.

The courtyard that stretched before her had once been well kept and lovingly tendered. Now, it lay buried under a thick blanket of pure white snow, only the faintest of traces of footsteps marring the smooth pristine beauty. The drifts had built up high against the towering stone walls, and here and there shapeless heaps indicated the presence of a bush or a wagon, long since abandoned to the forces of Xem’zund. Only in the very centre of the courtyard did a thin line of grey cobblestones indicate a path from the gateway to the manor behind her. What trees there were huddled bare and lifeless beneath their burdens of white; her eyes drifted to the skies above, where a thick carpet of shapeless grey enveloped them from horizon to horizon.

So what if I can’t use magic? she groused to herself, vaguely malcontent. I’m at least as good with the blade as Glorfindel, certainly better than Ingwe. Why couldn’t he…

Her musings were interrupted suddenly by a vicious explosion of rock, snow, and stone, as the wall to her right disintegrated into a thousand shards of shrapnel.

***

Uysarji settled to a knee amongst the dust, giving time for his six minions to spread out and ready for battle before rising again grandiosely.

“Up there?” he rasped, dark and malevolent. With his spear he indicated the minaret above the elf swordswoman’s head, his robes flowing spitefully as they recoiled from the movement. He gave her no chance to answer, for he knew already that such was the case.

A whispered word of power, and a small ball of lightning formed at the tip of his weapon. Before his opponent could react beyond a gasp of comprehension, he sent it flying towards where the archer lay.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Nerdanel saw it coming, and was ready. As the stonework buckled and splintered beneath her, she bided her time, leaning dangerously out of the very window she had used for her marksmanship. The arcane energies coruscated around her, splitting masonry and shattering wood with all the ferocity of the unbridled wild, but she timed her leap clear to perfection.

Her landing, unfortunately, was less well judged. With an involuntary cry of pain she lost her balance amongst the cascading icy tiles; her foot slipped, her slender frame tumbled against the hard brick slates, and her momentum carried her in an awkward fall to the courtyard below.

“Nerdanel!”

Her sister’s desperate cry echoed in her ears as she struggled to her feet amongst the snowdrifts, grimly discarding her bow and drawing one of her daggers as one of the heavily armoured wights closed in.

***

Horrified, Selinde watched the tower fall, blasted backwards outside the compound and into the street below. Her baby-blue eyes barely caught her sister as Nerdanel scrambled clear amongst the shower of loose rubble and stone, but then they turned dark in terror as she tumbled into the waiting trap.

Screaming in fear and fury, desperate to buy time for her sister, the young elf launched herself at the Executioner. Nimble footwork brought her within his guard in a flash, and a flurry of swift strokes sent the mage reeling backwards. But the daemonic grin upon the necromancer’s mask never once faltered as he effortlessly broke free. Selinde braced herself against the cobblestones and flung her body forwards once again, the plants and vines that had once been so carefully cultivated within the gardens now witness to her unadulterated anger.

But no matter how she tried, no matter how often she brought the cold hard steel of her sabre to bear, she could not penetrate the necromancer’s guard.

***

“Is that all, she-elf?” the dark voice grated, falling upon Selinde’s ears like a rusty saw upon dense wood. She had some skill; even Uysarji was willing to admit that. But she was not his match.

His words sent her into an even greater rage, and she swung wildly at his exposed neckline. The necromancer parried her stroke cleanly, allowing it to slide down the haft of his own weapon as for the first time in their duel he moved to counter. He twirled the polearm expertly, using both blades of the double-ended spear to bury his opponent under an endless assault of steel. Now it was Selinde who was forced to give ground, backing away slowly as her sword shimmered like a quicksilver screen to deflect the storm.

Black robe danced against green cloak as the two combatants trod the steps of death, their footsteps lightly sure and almost musical amongst the crisp snow. Her sabre was swift and skilful, but so was his spear. Uysarji could feel the force of the she-elf’s anger as it battered him almost physically, but he had the grasp of her ability now. Compared to his fellow necromancers, he was not a sadistic or cruel person, but he did have the advantage of the infinite patience that came with undeath. He had no objections to drawing this out as long as was necessary.

Until he became bored.

***

One other set of elven eyes watched in despair as the tower crumbled and Nerdanel was sent flying from its ruins. The golden-haired bladesinger carved a gory path through the walking dead that sought to hamper him from his target, his shining longsword an unstoppable force as it hewed effortlessly through flesh and steel, shield and armour alike. The occasional spell accompanied his advance, blasting great holes in the undead horde that faced him and clouding his wake with gusts of hot steam.

Ingwe’s plan had been sound, Glorfindel realised ruefully, but the young warrior-mage hadn’t – couldn’t have – taken into account the fact that the necromancer would so readily abandon his circle of power for the bait. The delicately constructed runecircle lay in complete ruins now, completely torn apart by the explosive blasts of the human’s scrolls, and a large part of the necromancer’s forces milled about in confusion, far from the action.

But that still left the necromancer and his bodyguards… and Glorfindel knew that Selinde was not their match. No false modesty prevented him from admitting that, of the four who took part in the assault, he himself was the only one who stood a chance of defeating the necromancer single-handedly. And even he had failed to do so in their previous encounter, in the caves of the Coven’s lair.

He saw his chance, and took it. A massive leap that defied all logic, taking him clear of his immediate foes and onto the wall of the manor. Ignoring the quagmire crowd of zombies in the snowy path below, his long golden hair flowing like a second cape behind him in the wind of his passing, he broke into a swift run across the treacherously narrow ledge towards the tower ahead… towards the courtyard in which Nerdanel and Selinde fought for their lives.

***

“It really is, isn’t it…” the sinister voice continued to mock, as the necromancer held off her sabre with consummate ease. For all his movements, Uysarji hardly seemed to have broken a sweat; Selinde, on the other hand, was breathing heavily from a number of cuts and grazes, and could feel the sweaty blood beginning to seep through her brown leather jerkin.

But despite her own predicament, Selinde could tell that her sister was faring worse. Nerdanel had obviously been injured in her fall from the roof, a great gash of misplaced tiles and dislodged snow tracking her violent plunge downwards; her left arm hung limp at her side, twisted at an awkward angle, and she was clearly favouring one leg. It was all the elder Ranger could do to ward off the measured attacks of the wight bodyguard she faced, and she was tiring fast.

With a final angry cry to summon the last reserves of skill and strength from the depths of her soul, Selinde launched herself forwards for a third time, ducking under a scything sweep of the spear before commencing a frenzied flurry of strokes. The necromancer did not give ground, matching her steel for steel in a ringing cacophony of parries, but the final sweep of her blade pierced his guard…

… and rebounded harmlessly off his breastplate, eliciting a screech of tortured metal that echoed about the courtyard as helplessly as she felt.

“In which case…” the necromancer spoke again, and Selinde’s eyes widened in shock.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Glorfindel leapt into the courtyard just in time to witness Selinde’s limp form crash into the opposite wall, propelled there forcefully by an invisible spell. The young elf-maiden’s body broke against the unyielding stone; splashes of bright crimson marred the whiteness as she coughed blood from the impact. The young elf maiden slumped to the ground, barely conscious as her sabre slipped from nerveless fingers.

Closer to hand, Nerdanel was only just about holding her ground against her undead opponent, barely managing to parry its heavy voulge with her slender dagger. But Glorfindel knew that he had to trust to her luck and skill, or else the younger of the sisters would never gain lay eyes upon the trees she so loved.

The bladesinger had no time to wonder why the remaining five wights stood motionless in the open. His cold blue eyes sought out those of the necromancer, meeting their beady blackness with frosty ice. Recognition flitted between their gazes, the mutual recollection of a past duel. Then the antagonism flared, no respect, no courtesy, only anger and distaste.

Glorfindel raised his sword in challenge.

Uysarji the Executioner ignored it.

With a muted hand gesture, the necromancer stalked towards the fallen maiden whom he had just bested. Furious, Glorfindel made to intercept, but found his way abruptly blocked by all five of the wights who had until now taken no part in the combat. Tactical reserve, the bladesinger managed to gasp in his mind, but there was no time for words or magic, only for the frantic swordplay and footwork that kept his head from being hewn from his body. His blade was a dazzling spectacle of starfire as it kept his five opponents at bay, but he could not make any headway towards his ultimate objective.

Helplessly he was forced to watch from the corners of his eyes as Uysarji placed one of the points of his spear to Selinde’s throat, the bitter wind carrying to his ears the whispering of a detached word of farewell.

Then the gate to his left blew apart in an explosion of broken timber.

***

Nerdanel screamed in helpless fury as her sister was sent flying against the merciless masonry. But her body would not listen to her demands, one arm unresponsive at her side, one leg barely supporting her weight. The momentary distraction was enough for her to misjudge her next parry, and the force of the blow sent her sprawling to the ground, icy rocks digging into the small of her back. There was no way that she could get up in time to defend herself against the wight’s next attack. All that her mind could see was the emotionless look in its eyes and the unforgiving glint of the voulge as it rose above the undead warrior’s head.

Then, as if through a deep dampening fog, her ears caught the words of power from the streets outside.

“Kuhazan!”

***

“Farewell.”

Uysarji whispered the single word into the young elf-maid’s ear, doubting that she was conscious to hear it but enjoying the irony nonetheless. The point of his spear tickled her throat, ready for him to apply the faintest of pressure to end it all. She had been brave, she had been passionate, she had even been moderately skilled. But the world he existed in was simply not lenient enough to reward her failure to defeat him with mercy.

He shrugged, and drew back his arm for the finishing blow. There were two more elves to deal with, and although one of them was nearly spent, he remembered the other as being a foe worthy of his skill. The bladesinger hadn’t been quite good enough the last time… but, Uysarji thought, he could always hope, could he not?

Then he was interrupted, by the sudden blast of wood and stone from the closed gateway to the manor.

The necromancer threw himself out of the way as the sudden magic scythed through the air where he had just been standing. A new figure appeared in the shredded ruins of the elliptical archway, wisps of angry steam curling about his form before dissipating into the cold winter’s air. Young and dark-haired, and undeniably human. Uysarji recognised the figure from his escape from the Coven’s lair and his eyes narrowed.

In glee.

[Flames of Hyperion]

He assessed the situation in the briefest of moments, and was acting upon it even more swiftly. Deliberately, almost purposefully, Ingwe let go of one of the daggers he held. Before it hit the exposed cobbles on the ground with a listless metallic clatter, he had finished focusing his powers upon his free hand

“Hosenka!”

Five petals of flame bloomed at the tips of his outstretched fingers, arcing out purposefully towards each of their targets. Two struck the wight threatening Nerdanel; the first knocked its weapon away, the second finished the job by finding the gap in its armour at its throat and nearly blowing its head off. Three more blazed towards the wights arrayed against Glorfindel. Though these did little more than annoy the undead warriors, they provided enough of a distraction for the bladesinger to find a brief opening. A daring footstep forwards, the stroke of a sword and a muttered spell, and suddenly there were only three left standing.

The charred remains of decapitated wight barely had time to sink to the snow, the clamour of lifeless heavy armour still ringing in the overcast ozone-tinged air, before Ingwe brought up his second blade and rushed the necromancer, determined to drive him away from the unconscious Selinde. Uysarji duly obliged, taking one menacing pace forward and brandishing his spear with a deadly flourish that barely missed taking off half of Ingwe’s face with the first stroke. Heedless of his own safety, the Nipponese warrior-mage ducked inside and slashed upwards with his short sword; the sheer daring of the attack forced the necromancer to give two steps of snowy ground. The deathlord shifted his grip slightly, holding the spear short so as to compensate for Ingwe’s greater dexterity at close range. He parried the first blow, the second…

… and then felt the flash of pain across his upper thigh as Ingwe’s offhand blade drew blood.

For an instant, those of the instincts within Uysarji’s mind that were still living balked in panic. Hadn’t he dropped that… they screamed at him, only to realise belatedly that the two swords were joined together at the hilt by a thin strand of strong silk. The human had not abandoned his weapon to cast his spell… merely pretended to do so, in order to create an opening. Anger and fury swarmed like twin locusts through the necromancer’s mind; he planted his spear in the ground and used it as a fulcrum to launch an acrobatic two-footed kick at the impudent young man. Ingwe barely saw it coming and twisted out of the way, sacrificing his positional advantage inside the necromancer’s guard.

They circled each other again, more warily this time. Uysarji faked an opening on his injured flank, but Ingwe did not make a move. Whether the young human saw through the trick or was merely being cautious, the necromancer could not tell. Behind him he heard another loud clatter as the third of his wights fell to the bladesinger, and Uysarji realised with sudden shock that the warrior in front of him was merely biding his time. For the first time in long, cold eons, the Executioner felt a niggling doubt tingle his spine. Last time he had faced both elf and human at once, he had held them off with ease. The nagging doubt at the back of his mind suspected that would not be the case again.

With a grunt Uysarji sprung to the attack, completely ignoring the wound on his upper thigh as only the undead could do. A rapid, blinding series of thrusts put the young human on the defensive, and when the necromancer’s final, deliberately overextended strike was parried and countered by his opponent sliding his blades along the haft of his weapon, Uysarji was ready.

“Burn!” he whispered, cinders sparking to life within his mouth, brimstone igniting in dark fury.

“I think not,” was Ingwe’s reply, and only then did Uysarji notice the fiery spell held in readiness in the young man’s open palm, the young man’s offhand blade once again falling to the ground with the heavy crunch of well-forged metal against thick cold snow.

The two arcane powers collided with tremendous force, eclipsed only moments later by a powerful explosion as they nullified each other almost perfectly. Uysarji was blasted into the masonry much like the elf-maiden before him; Ingwe tumbled head over heels towards the centre of the courtyard, mimicking the manner in which he had been sent reeling by the necromancer’s magic in their previous encounter. This time, however…

He is absolutely fearless… the necromancer gasped to himself as flesh and bone knitted to reform the gaping whole that had been the lower half of his face. Uysarji picked himself out of the shattered rubble and attempted to pierce the new layer of snow-melted steam with his arcane senses, probing for signs of his foe. A horrible shriek reached his ears as another wight fell to the golden-haired elf, and the last of his guards was forced to back-pedal desperately under a flurry of swift strokes. The markswoman had slumped to the floor, spent, but that was scant relief to the Executioner’s mind. He fights with two swords because he does not dread pain or death. He is able to read my movements because he does not let the terror of what may happen if he is wrong cloud his mind. Who is…

Uysarji clutched his thigh, surveying his battered body for further injuries. His spear felt somewhat awkwardly balanced in his hand, his mind exhausted by the effort of restoring his wounds, but other than that he seemed to be uninjured. The explosion had singed him somewhat, but his breastplate had protected him from the worst of the damage. The human, however…

How!

The figure on the ground stirred, then picked itself up slowly. Ingwe’s face was covered in soot and a trickle of blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth to stain the cold snow beneath him, but the hand that gripped the hilt of his dagger was still clenched strongly. With a jerky movement of his other arm the young man retrieved his other blade, catching it neatly by its guard-less hilt as it hummed through the crisp air.

Calm down, Uysarji, the necromancer ordered himself, closing his eyes briefly. When they opened again, the pounding in his mind had stopped and he could think clearly once more. I can best him at both the martial and the arcane. Of this there is no doubt. But I must not drag the battle on, for the danger lies in he and the bladesinger combining forces. In which case…

A murmur of deathly pale lips from behind the daemonic mask, and a multitude of black tendrils snaked forth towards his foe. Ingwe did not flinch, swords glinting and flames dancing as he beat them off without giving an inch of ground. But by the time the young man realised that the minor spell was but camouflage for a far larger one, Uysarji had almost finished the second incantation.

Instinctively Ingwe sensed the massive build-up of power behind the necromancer’s mind, and he knew that this was one spell that he could not let his opponent cast. In desperation, the young man flung his entire conscious towards the spellcaster in black robes, determined to interrupt Uysarji’s concentration.

For a moment, the two minds did battle amongst the snow-strewn courtyard, immense psychic forces meeting with such power as to create ripples in the very air around them and driving the snow at their feet into a new blizzard of its own. There could only be one winner, but Ingwe was determined to go down fighting with as much strength as he could muster…

… and the sheer force of his will was enough to throw Uysarji for just that vital instant. The bolt of dark energy sheered upwards into the heavens, leaving in its wake a second massive explosion that again threw both combatants from their feet. This time, when the dust cleared and the snow settled, neither stood back up.

***

“Ingwe!” Glorfindel called from the far end of the courtyard, his blade slicing through the remaining wight’s neck before his magic incinerated it to nothing more than cinder and ash. Concern for his companion overwhelmed his slight frame as he began to run towards the fallen heap of blue cloak and dark hair, his footsteps quick and sure over the deeply marred snow.

But as the black robes began to shift amongst the dirty whiteness, not so far from the unmoving warrior-mage, Glorfindel knew that he would never make it in time.

Uysarji climbed slowly to his feet, reaching out to grasp his spear with one trembling hand. He began to laugh as he tottered towards the unresponsive Ingwe, a dark and menacing sound. It was the laugh of triumph, the confident assurance of victory.

Then the spear snapped under his weight, and he fell to a knee in shock. The thud as he unexpectedly dropped to the snow sounded heavier than any death knell.

“You didn’t notice, did you?” Ingwe murmured slowly as he too wearily rose from the ground. His pale youthful face was flushed with the exertion and the cold, dark eyes exhausted and spent, and his clothes were singed by magic and tainted with blood. His words were sluggish and slurred, his movements even worse, but most importantly he was still standing. “All this time, my blades have been infused with energy.” The warrior-mage indicated his swords, and as Uysarji watched, a faint glow shimmered out of existence around them. “Every time we made contact, I was chipping away at the integrity of your weapon. Your staff is broken, necromancer.”

Uysarji could not reply, only stare from his knees at the tired young human before him. This can’t be happening! a voice screamed in his mind, trying to urge his body back to arms, failing miserably. This can’t be…

A roar of rage escaped his lips, strangely high-pitched and shrieking. With one last great effort, summoning up the last of his reserves of willpower from deep within his soul, the necromancer conjured a ball of dark energy at his fingertips and hurled it at his foe.

Ingwe parried it away with no more than a bare fist, watching impassively as it exploded upon the masonry behind Glorfindel. All present and conscious could tell that the impact lacked strength, lacked might. The raw power that had so characterised Uysarji’s previous spells was now a mere shadow of its former self.

Shadow… and dust…

The Executioner looked up at the baby-faced Nipponese who loomed over him and began to laugh once again. But it was no longer the battle-lusted and eager laugh that it had been mere moments ago. To Ingwe’s ears, it now sounded maniacal and insane.

“Kill me then!” the necromancer shrieked. “Rejoice in your victory, for it will not last! It will not be long before Lord Xem’zund has complete dominion over these lands, and then you will know the true meaning of fear! And I will enjoy waiting for you in hell and watching you suffer while I do…”

He paused, for the final blow was not forthcoming. The look in the young warrior-mage’s eyes… was it… mercy?

“DO NOT TRY YOUR TRICKS ON ME!” Uysarji hollered, screaming his defiance to the cold winter air. Only the miserably empty silence of the wan grey clouds greeted him in return. “ALL HAIL XEM’ZUND! ALL HAIL…”

A sudden arrow streaked out of the shadows and buried itself in his chest, piercing armour, flesh, and bone alike. As his soul was inexorably torn from its physical vessel, he had just enough presence of mind to notice that the fletching was not black like that of the elvish markswoman’s. Instead, they were of the hue of a bright sky, a brilliantly bold blue.

The last thing his glazed black eyes saw was the singed skin upon Ingwe’s fist where the human had effortlessly batted away Uysarji’s final spell. The wound was raw and bleeding slightly, a beautiful crimson red that dripped from the young man’s fist to the whiteness below. Then the necromancer’s spirit was flushed screaming into the depths of the abyss where it had been promised so long ago, and his armoured body collapsed into the cold embrace of the snow one last time.

Uysarji, called The Executioner, was no more.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Two slender figures emerged from the abandoned building behind Ingwe. They were extremely similar to one another in both size and stature, tendrils of fair golden hair escaping from the heavy hoods that obscured their faces and glimpses of light pale skin visible beneath the subtle shifting of their white over-robes. Neither Glorfindel nor Ingwe made to stop them as they moved swiftly towards the remains of the once-mighty necromancer; the former from shock at their sudden appearance, the latter because he had not the strength to do so.

It was snowing again, Ingwe noticed belatedly, the cold flakes nipping at his face and settling lightly upon the ground. Those brave enough to land upon the clothing of the newcomers seemed to simply disappear, absorbed into the sheer purity of the garments. In time, it will cover even this mess… he thought tiredly to himself, sparing a glance about him to the battletorn aftermath of what had once been a simple elven manor. The gate had been ripped violently from its hinges, brutal craters marking where the combatants had been thrown into the heavy stone walls. One side of the courtyard was now open to the streets beyond, the remnants of collapsed and lifeless zombies visible above the pile of grey rubble. Where a graceful spire had crowned the low-slung farmhouse was now a miserable stump of what once had been. The courtyard itself was singed by magic and stained by blood, the previously pristine coating of snow marred by the blemishes of battle, hard-earned victory and glorious defeat.

The snow would cover it all, until spring came and the horrors of the war were exposed anew to all those who passed by.

Enough, he told himself, trying to get his wandering mind to focus. He had more important things to concentrate upon.

“Arrogance and pride,” one of the two figures was saying, her voice melodic and beautiful. “The downfall of many.”

“Although,” her companion replied as she knelt down beside the body of Uysarji the Executioner, “he still shouldn’t have lost.”

Briefly they both glanced at Ingwe, and Ingwe looked back at them, unmoving. Glorfindel’s light footsteps as he came up alongside the young warrior-mage were almost lost to all their ears.

“Friends?” Glorfindel asked, his hands reluctant to put away the naked steel they bore. Only at Ingwe’s slow nod did he warily lower his guard.

“Kendal, Hitomi,” Ingwe acknowledged, his voice remarkably distant and cool in the crisp winter air. Heavy gasps of breath escaped his lungs like puffs of cloud into the skies above, but despite the moment, a strange sense of calm seemed to overwhelm him. He hadn’t expected to reunite with his old friends from Nippon like this… although the knowledge that it wasn’t exactly the first time they had met in the northern continent also assailed his mind.

“Ingwe,” Hitomi, the older of the half-elven twins, replied. Her voice was cool and measured, as if deliberately attempting to restrain emotion. One slender hand reached out to remove the mask from Uysarji’s face, eliciting a short gasp of shock from Glorfindel as the action revealed the necromancer’s delicately youthful elven features, brittle and fragile as the magic sustaining them began to seep away.

“He was… elven…?” the bladesinger gasped, unable to comprehend that his kin would so readily betray their society. Hitomi’s nonchalant nod of agreement, even as she slipped her hand inside the necromancer’s robes as if searching for something, was enough to cause him to lapse into uneasy silence.

Within moments, the young woman was finished. “He doesn’t have it,” she told her sister, her shoulders visibly crestfallen. “It’s not him.”

Kendal reached down to retrieve her arrow from the necromancer’s chest, jerking it free almost violently. Ingwe could tell that it was only his presence there that was restraining his old friend from bursting out into profanity; Kendal had always been sensitive to the sensibilities of others. She replaced the arrow into her quiver, the movement revealing for the first time the short bow she carried in its case at her waist.

Almost sorrowfully, Hitomi replaced the mask upon Uysarji’s face. A light dusting of snow swept across her face as she straightened once again, turning towards Ingwe and Glorfindel. She paused, silent and watchful, as if waiting for her old friend to initiate the pleasantries.

Duly, he obliged.

[Flames of Hyperion]

“It was you two, that night in Scara Brae, wasn’t it?” the young man asked softly, the faintest of winds nipping at his cheeks and ruffling at his hair. He peered at them owlishly from above the rims of his square spectacles, the specks of snowflakes mounting upon them having obscured his sight through the lenses.

Neither Hitomi nor Kendal made any attempt to deny the fact, and Ingwe filed the information away, satisfied for now. He knew them well enough to guess that they had some ulterior motive for attempting to drive him back to Nippon that night, even to the point of trying to convince him that it was not worth continuing his search for Yuka. But the words of reply he had spoken then still held true, now more than ever…

There’s something that I need to do… something that must be done here. And until I accomplish that…

“Tomi?” he asked, this time indicating the slumped forms of Selinde and Nerdanel against the walls of the manor. “Please?” he added, almost begging, but the woman in question had not hesitated. She removed her hood purposefully, revealing beautiful valkyrian features and the distinctively pointed ears that were proof of her ambiguous heritage. Her eyes were a bright emerald green that seemed to pierce all they settled upon with their clear intensity; her cheekbones high and her nose strong and attractive.

“She…” – a faint toss of her head to indicate Nerdanel – “… has a broken arm and a twisted ankle… Kendal?” Hitomi had always been the foremost healer amongst her peers, and there was no hint of doubt in her diagnosis. The younger of the half-elven twins nodded once and set off towards where the elder Ranger was grimly gritting her teeth against the tidal waves of pain, still barely conscious but unable to move. “On the other hand…”

A quick arcane gesture, and an ornate staff of bleached rowan shimmered into existence in her left hand. With movements only slightly less nimble than that of her sister, she made her way towards the badly wounded Selinde, Glorfindel and Ingwe trailing in her wake.

***

A faintly glimmering aura cocooned the unconscious swordsmaiden, a pale blue sphere of light shielding her from the elements while working magic on her wounds. Hitomi’s face was furrowed in concentration, her staff held horizontally before her as she knelt amongst the bloodstained snow. Neither she nor the two others who stood with her sought to ward off the light flurries of soft cotton-like wetness that fell upon them; absolute silence reigned, with the exception of a low hum of magic and the whisper of the wind in their ears.

At length, Hitomi relaxed, lowering her staff to the snow as the healing field dissipated from existence.

“She’ll be alright,” she spoke, in response to Glorfindel’s unasked question. “She was lucky. I’ve done what I can… she may be walking again in a day or so, but until then, don’t move her.”

Glorfindel nodded, then knelt at the young elf maiden’s side. Hitomi took the opportunity to stand again, easing her cramped joints with a sigh of genuine relief. For the first time Ingwe noted the sheen of damp sweat that coated the nape of her neck. He thanked the kami for her assistance; if she hadn’t shown up, then…

“Ingwe,” Hitomi murmured, flashing him a brief hand gesture. We need to talk.

He nodded in reply, cutting off his morbid train of thought, and followed her lead back out into the open where Kendal was waiting. Beyond the younger twin, Nerdanel was comfortably calm now, her arm bound up in a makeshift sling and her ankle wrapped tightly as she quietly regarded the three humans from a safe distance. Ingwe realised that they would have to stay in this village for at least a day – probably two – while the two Rangers recuperated. Somehow, the thought didn’t appeal to him much.

“You alright?” Kendal asked when they reached her side, her voice younger and more playful than her sister’s. They were still unmistakably twins, though; the same blonde hair, although Kendal’s was cut short, the same piercing green eyes, the same strong nose and attractive features.

Only when she began to stare critically at his face did Ingwe realise the true extent of the toll that the battle had taken upon him. His legs felt like liquid, his knees in particular unhealthily weak and shaky. He bled from a dozen shallow cuts and slices where Uysarji’s magic and spear had taken their toll, and his entire torso felt like a single massive bruise from the explosive reaction of their combined incantations. His right hand in particular was one pulsating welt of pain, and he dared not look at it for fear of feeling faint. Sheer willpower alone was keeping him standing now, and even that was slowly slipping from his grasp, sapped by the effort that it had taken him to disrupt Uysarji’s magics on top of maintaining multiple spells for the entire duration of the duel.

But he gave them a weak smile, one that extended into a wan laugh when Hitomi reached towards him concernedly. Ingwe almost playfully batted away the hand, instead choosing to divert their attention with gentle words.

“Thank you,” he spoke, his voice emerging as a throaty puff of breath into the late afternoon air. The chill was deepening now, worming its way through the newly shredded layers he wore, and he knew that he would soon have to borrow needle and thread from Nerdanel to patch up his clothes. It was amazing what mundane skills he could pick up in the presence of his three elven companions, from how to track a hare through a forest to how to survive off roots and rainwater for weeks at a time. Why, before he had set out from Nippon, he had barely been able to…

“Don’t mention it,” Hitomi was saying curtly, bringing him back to the present with a jolt. Ingwe covered his disorientation by pushing his glasses to the bridge of his nose, before deciding that they needed a clean in any case and removing them altogether. The thick lenses were coated with a slick mixture of sweat and snow, attracting a look almost despondent from the young man. “We were tracking that necromancer anyways… after you’d taken him out, the least we could do was patch you back together again.”


Kendal giggled suddenly, and the sound hit his ears like a refreshing draft of warm nectar. Ingwe sighed gently, releasing the last of his pent-up tension into the skies with the long, slow exhalation.

“… what were you looking for?” he asked, and knew by their reactions that it had been the correct question to pose; perceptive enough that they wouldn’t have to beat around the bush, but not so direct so as to be awkward. He wasn’t, however, prepared for the answer they gave him.

“Yoshi’s ill,” Kendal replied bluntly, stepping in for her sister, who had clammed up involuntarily. Ingwe spared a quick glance towards the older twin’s face; it was turned towards the ground, paler and more despondent than he had ever seen Hitomi before. “That thing within him… it’s eating him up… we can’t stop it.”

Yoshi Sanada was yet another of his friends from Nippon, a noble and courageous samurai whose kin were said to have descended from the mystic celestial dragons that had created the world, far in the depths of time. Born as the eldest son to the head of the family, he had been imbued with the essence of the clan’s legacy; within the young man was sealed the essence of a fire dragon, and he was expected to both learn to coexist with the feral presence and to draw from its strength in times of need. Yoshi was simultaneously both the symbol of the clan’s might and a reminder of the grim duty that they had dictated upon themselves – guardians of the legacy of the ancients, from one generation to the next, until the end of times.

“The rituals of wa…” Ingwe began, then trailed off helplessly. It was against the natural order of things for two beings to share the host of one, and although Yoshi had succeeded more than most at maintaining a delicate harmony between himself and the dragon within, it had been at the cost of constant meditation and dedication to self-control, combined with the secret rituals of his family. Without the latter…

Hitomi nodded silently, and Ingwe pretended not to notice the hot tear that spilled from her down-turned cheek to melt the snow at her feet. The elder twin had always harboured a soft spot for Yoshi, he knew, and his heart went out to her.

“We heard rumours that one of Xem’zund’s lieutenants bore a crystal that allowed him to control dragons, and so…”

Ingwe bowed his head in acquiescence and thought; he had heard of that rumour himself. The notion had disturbed him greatly, for he knew there was little he could do in the face of such overwhelming might. Then he had dismissed his fears, knowing that he could accomplish little by worrying about such things anyways. Whether he faced a zombie, a necromancer, a dragon, or Xem’zund himself, he would do so with dignity and honour and every last shred of effort he could manage.

“And so you track and kill every necromancer on sight… even after warning me away from this continent saying that you didn’t want me caught up in this war?” Ingwe’s smile now bordered on the wry, but his voice was gentle and understanding. A strangled nod was all Kendal could manage in reply, and Hitomi remained disconcertingly mute.

Silence reigned once more about the devastated courtyard, punctuated only by the growing howl of the wind as it flung bitter snowflakes in their hair and faces. Ingwe observed detachedly that whilst he was conversing, Glorfindel had carried Selinde inside to the shelter of the farmhouse and was now attempting to repeat the task with Nerdanel. The elder twin, ever proud, was attempting to insist that she didn’t need the assistance, but at the same time was failing to make any headway whatsoever towards the manor. Eventually Glorfindel simply swept the Ranger into his arms and bundled her mercilessly through the ornately carved wooden doors. Ingwe made a mental note never to mention the event to Nerdanel again, certain that she would not hesitate to put an arrow through his head if he ever did.

Eventually, he summoned the strength to speak once more through the dark mist of despair clouding his thoughts.

“How is he doing?”

“Unconscious… in a fevered coma,” was Hitomi’s reply. Her words lacked their usual vigour, but she had recovered her composure somewhat; her tears strangle them in her throat no longer. Hitomi had always been strong, Ingwe reflected wistfully, far stronger than he. “He placed himself in suspended meditation… to buy us enough time…”

“We’ll find it,” Ingwe promised her, wanting to reach out and clasp her shoulder reassuringly. Instead, he willed her to look up and meet his eyes. When she did, he attempted to reassure her with the strength and sincerity of his gaze. She responded with a smile, a wan smile, but a start.

“… have you heard anything about…” Kendal asked before her voice trailed off into nothingness, and Ingwe knew that her eyes were focused upon the faint line of gold visible around his neck, and the pendant that he wore upon his chest. He shook his head slowly, sorrowfully, not quite trusting himself to respond. She touched his hand compassionately, realising the depth of his pain but unable to express her sympathy in any other form.

“I’ll find her,” he managed at length, determinedly wringing the phrase from his clenched throat. He smiled again, willing the warmth into their hungry eyes, trying to give them the hope and reassurance that they so desperately needed. “I’ll find her, and we’ll find a way to save Yoshi, and…”

His voice dissipated as a fresh wave of cold swamped their presence, a tsunami overwhelming their small island of warmth amongst the darkest of seas.. The night was beginning to deepen as the sun disappeared beyond the rim of the horizon, shrouded by a thick blanket of grey clouds that only seemed to be growing stronger. The weather seemed to be reflecting the cold pain within his soul; despair at the fact that he could not do any more to help them now, the fraught necessity to put a brave face upon grim duty and desolation. But at length Kendal smiled back, and Hitomi too, and one last burst of twilight drove back the night for a moment more.

“We’d best be going then,” Hitomi spoke, dusting the snow from her hair and drawing up her hood once again. She forestalled the surprise on Ingwe’s face, quickly continuing, “Two groups can comb the land far better than one, and you know that we can take care of ourselves.”

“Yeah, you should be worrying more about yourself,” Kendal added in force gaiety, then laughed for real as Ingwe almost lost his footing when he turned towards her. “Although, you did pretty much take that guy down by yourself…”

“If you need to find us, I daresay Hayate will be able to.” Hitomi rummaged within her robes before tossing something small and sparkling at her friend. Ingwe caught it expertly with his uninjured hand, immediately recognising the object as one of her healing potions, bottled within a delicate glass vial. The pale blue liquid seemed to glow with luminosity all its own as he admired the lights dancing within its depths. “We’ll find you if we need you, so don’t you worry!”

With one last smile she turned away, and her younger sister followed suit. Ingwe was again slow to react, and seconds passed before he could tear his concentration away from the hypnotising calm of the potion.

“Take care!” he called as loudly as he dared to their already retreating backs, sudden sorrow coursing through his body at their sudden departure. They hadn’t seen one another for over fifteen months, and now they were already…?

As if sensing his despondent thoughts, Kendal turned to face him one last time before she followed her sister through the destroyed gateway.

”We’ll see each other again soon!” she cried back, waving valiantly in farewell. Her voice, as his before, echoed through the growing darkness, brimming with equal measures of dared hope and muffled sorrow. “I promise!”

Ingwe nodded his response, sudden tears choking his throat and dimming his vision. He blinked once to clear his eyes, but when he focused again they were gone, disappeared into the snowstorm and the gathering night.

The young man stood there for a moment more, shivering alone in the middle of the battle-torn and blizzard-swept courtyard.

Then he turned towards the shelter of the farmhouse, leaving behind him the seven lifeless undead warriors in the snow.

[Kryos]

Act I, Scene II

Somewhere east of the Obsidian Spire, Lindequalmë, Raiaera
Shortly after Uysarji, The Executioner, met his end.

***

Silence reigned under the starlit canopy of the naked branches, weighed down with the burden of the previous day’s snowfall. The purity of the snow was infected by the dark, baneful claws which supported it, and even along the ground the white was tainted with ink.

Kryos wrapped his cloak closer around his body, trying to find a rare pocket of warmth. While the chill of the night was hampered slightly by the branches above him, this did little to help fight against the freezing sensation that threatened to overwhelm his mind. He brooded over their predicament for the hundredth time, watching his breath vanish into the chill.

They had been traveling for more than two weeks since they had left the Corrupted Tower, yet their progress had been unbearably slow. Winter had come quickly, with blizzard after blizzard forcing them to stop. The normal seven day journey had taken them sixteen. Not to mention the horrors that haunted them with every step. It was to be expected, though. They were in the Crimson Forest, Xem’Zund’s original home. They had dealt with their share of creatures; from undead shapeshifters, the Dur’Taigen, to the occasional wight. Luckily, they hadn’t crossed blades with a more organized party of the Necromancer’s underlings. Nevertheless, they needed to get to Anebrilith soon, before the forces of darkness overtook them.

Rubbing his feet together, he looked at Anne. The half-elf girl was sleeping soundly to his right, curled up next to her dog. The blond and golden hair of the two companions tangled seamlessly together in the shadows. He was glad that she had no trouble sleeping; they needed all the strength they could get to forge through the forest. Which, again, brought him back to their crisis. Their food supply was half gone, and at this rate, wouldn’t be able to make it to the coast city. Finding food in the forest was also out of the question. In all sense of the word, they were alone, dependent only on each other. They had to make it to civilization. If not, then they would . . .

An unearthly howl pierced the subdued night, breaking off into a gurgle. Kryos’ eyes flashed as he grabbed his sword while nudging the elf on his left.

“Shalua,” he whispered.

“I know. They are still a ways off, and might not even be tailing us.” Despite her reassuring tone and words, she too, brought her saber closer. The enchanted steel gleamed lavender and Kryos again marveled at the Bladesinger. She had taught him much during their time together.

“Is Blake awake?” he murmured.

“Of course,” came the harsh reply. “How can I sleep through something like this? It’s freezing cold, and that wasn’t exactly a lullaby.”

Kryos smiled, slightly amused by the human’s attempt at humor.

Blake continued, “Agh! I can’t make out a thing!” He shuffled in frustration. “Kryos, how about you? You’ve got the best eyesight.”

“Nothing,” the swordsman breathed, narrowed eyes probing past the darkness and the obscuring branches and trees. From his position, nothing moved in the forest, let alone the source of the sound. The woods kept their quite vigil. He focused, drawing up his power and as he had done hundreds of times before. The color in his eyes glowed and broke their normal bounds. He inhaled deeply. As the breath escaped his lungs and appeared in the icy air, he extended his awareness to the limit. Anything which stumbled within his field would become known to him. But as it was now, there was . . .

“Nothing.” His whisper sent strands of ease down his spine, though he did not let up his watch over their surroundings. That cry had been close enough for him to worry, and while they had picked this tree for it’s low-hanging and masking branches, he had learned that the forces of the Scourge could appear at the least likely times. That, and the relentless feeling of unease that filled the Red Forest made full relaxation impossible.

Time stretched slowly onward, measured only by their breaths. After what Kryos guess was a half hour, and his limit at Fargazing, he released the power and let his eyes return to their normal appearance. He was getting better; his endurance at using his powers had improved greatly over the past months.

His feet had grown cold again; his concentration had blocked out the pleas of his toes. Resigned, he started to warm them.

“Kryos,” Shalua said, voice soft and warm, so different from her normally reserved demeanor. “You’ve been up all night. Get some sleep.”

Eyelids completely agreeing with the elf, he nodded mutely before wrapping himself deeper into his shadowy cloak. His thoughts slid about as unconsciousness pricked at his mind and the worries of the past few months jumped forward.

Raiaera might be doomed. After all, look around. Nothing exists. There is nothing for this land but darkness. We have to make it out. His eyes moved behind their lids as he became disturbed by the thought, but sleep had him now, and his mind could not fight his body. Then, Shalua nudged the silence again, with words meant more for herself, rather than for him.

“Quel kaima, Kryos. Quel kaima.” The gentle words reverberated in his now empty mind, and faint recognition sparked, before the inevitable wave of nothingness overwhelmed him completely.

Sleep well.