Legion of Light Gaiden: Salvation's Banner

[Flames of Hyperion]

Nenaebreth had once been a fairly non-descript town by Raiaeran standards, with its elegantly designed wooden buildings, its wide paved thoroughfares, and an abundance of arboreal and artistic accentuation. The citadel in the centre of the settlement had managed to hold out for a few dreadful hours against the swift advance of undead that had engulfed the rest of the city, but its defenders had been forced to watch in helpless despair as the citizens who had been caught in the streets – and of these there were many – had been murdered one by one. Here and there Ingwe could still see signs of bloody butcher and futile last stands, even after six months of occupation by Xem’zund’s mercenaries and two days of subsequent liberation by the Legion of Light and their allies from Tor Elythis and Karazund.

As he rushed through the benighted streets in the wake of Castor’s guidance, flanked on either side by the burly half-ogre and the grim Elythisian knight, Ingwe’s thoughts turned to the latest of the problems he was being asked to face. Like Castor, he had travelled in company with the Legion of Light ever since it had been formed in Scara Brae, from their initial skirmishes around Anebrilith to their epic battle against the horde of undead at the base of the Emyn Naug. It had been a journey not without its fair share of troubles. He liked to think that he had done his part in helping the diverse and motley levy – comprised of volunteers from Scara Brae, Dwarves from the northern stronghold of Gunnbad, and Raiaeran Rangers under the command of Lord Arminas, amongst others – to unify and coalesce into a cohesive fighting force working as one towards the defeat of Xem’zund and the liberation of Raiaera. And despite the divisive differences in motive and outlook between the three main factions within the Legion, against all his hopes their efforts had been rewarded. The Legion was now akin to an extended band of brothers, so long had they travelled together through desperate situations and hopeless battlefields, all doing their part in fighting off the undead advance.

Now, however, Ingwe faced the same problems only on a far grander scale. The Legion had made many allies in their travels, the foremost amongst which were the professional High Elven armies of the Silverwind from the island colony of Tor Elythis, and the grim mountain warriors of the hidden stronghold of Karazund, or Keldagrim in the common tongue. The Legion had stood back to back with the former when the Harbour Wall of Anebrilith had been breached, and had been aided by the latter when braving the treacherous midwinter mountains of the Emyn Naug. Together the three armies had defeated an undead force attempting to reinforce the Anebrilithian siege, and then had proceeded to sweep the garrison of Nenaebreth from the occupied town, striking the first blows for Raiaeran justice and freedom in the dawn of a new spring. But that had been two days ago, and almost overnight the old prejudices had boiled to the surface once more, ignited by the dilapidated doorways and abandoned arches of the makeshift encampment as a product of sheer boredom and close proximity to unfamiliar company.

The raucous sound of trouble grew louder in Ingwe’s ears, and he lengthened his stride across the untended pavements in response, forcing his companions to do the same. It was not difficult to pinpoint the source of the commotion from amongst the handful of buildings that had been taken over as drinking and feasting halls; it was the noisiest, rowdiest, and resounded with the angry bellows of several inebriated, infuriated Dwarves.

“Of course, it would have to be Derthark, wouldn’t it…” Ingwe murmured to himself, adopting an uncharacteristically grim expression upon his youthful features. The only one of his companions who showed any signs of having heard him was Castor, who made a sympathetic sound and cast aside his rugged gaze in embarrassment. The young prince of Gunnbad, nominal leader of the Dwarves that marched under the Legion’s banner, was known as much for his insatiable appetite for ale and his extraordinary repertoire of insults as for his prowess on the battlefield. Ingwe quickly glanced about the milling crowd that was gathering at the ruckus, hoping to spot the distinctive grey beard of the runelord Telchar. Derthark’s senior advisor was the one figure whose authority the Dwarven prince absolutely respected, and who could potentially put an end to the commotion without causing a fuss.

It was not to be. Ingwe grit his teeth in resignation, sighing to Castor, “Stay close. I’m probably going to need your help before this is done with…”

The huntsman looked less than pleased at Ingwe’s request, but nodded in reluctant acquiescence. Taking a step back, he tapped Taggar’s shoulder and indicated the doorway to the building in question; the half-ogre was only too happy to oblige, using the powerful bulk of his large body to force a path through the mass of excited bystanders, through which Ingwe, Castor, and the silent elnaith followed.

By the time he could reach out to touch the door, Ingwe’s heart had sunk quite considerably further into his stomach. Bracing himself for the worst, he pushed the sleek oaken panel open on its squeakily protesting hinges.