Legion of Light III: The Ancient City

[Flames of Hyperion]

((Semi-open, please contact me first if you wish to participate))

“It feels so long since I last saw trees,” Selinde sighed from her perch high in the crow’s nest. Her elvish was melodic and light, tinged with wistful happiness as she scanned the horizon once again just to make sure that she wasn’t dreaming. The monotonous flatness of deep azure in three of the cardinal directions, the same old sea that had greeted her eyes every day for the past fortnight… and the welcome sight of solid land on the fourth. No, the ranger told herself exultantly, she wasn’t imagining things.

“I know what you mean,” Glorfindel echoed from the wooden platform half a mast’s length below her, his voice remarkably gentle and pensive. He too was engrossed with staring at the land ahead, although unlike her he wasn’t quite as interested in the verdant green trees that encroached upon the thin line of rocky cliffs and sandy beach. His gaze was instead fixed upon the low-hanging haze of mountains in the distance… and at the ancient city, a mere speck even to his keen eyes, nestled against them. Anebrilith, the bladesinger whispered to himself, suddenly relieved and apprehensive in equal measures. There was no smoke rising from the city, which was a good sign… but how could he know that it hadn’t already fallen against the nightmarish undead hordes of Xem’zund, as the human enclave of Trenyce, the fortress of Valinatal, and even the outer rings of Eluriand had already done?

Glorfindel shook his head briefly before returning his gaze to his homeland. He had to believe, for his own sake as well as for the sake of all who travelled with him.

The Warspite fairly skimmed the tops of the waves as she dashed pell-mell for the inviting harbour, the wind full in her sails and the ocean crashing harmlessly upon her hull. The sky was a beautiful light blue above, another fine day to mark their progress from Scara Brae, and fluffy white clouds threatened to outrun the ship as they scuttled towards the opposite horizon. Around the two elves was the constant activity of trained seamen at work, tightening the halyards and setting the topgallants as they primed their intrepid little carrack to milk the fair breeze for all she was worth.

“Ingwe!” Selinde called down to the bow, where a young human warrior-mage was also staring intently at their destination in the distance. “Why don’t you join us up here? The view… it’s grand!”

There was no mistaking the mirthful tease in her voice, and neither did the elves miss the pale blanch that gave their companion away as he looked up to reply.

“No thanks,” Ingwe shouted, trying – and failing – to keep the tremulous note out of his voice. The very thought of climbing the unsteady rope ladders to join them in their precarious perch was enough to sap the strength from his limbs. “I’m fine where I am, thank you!”

A reproving snicker from the gyrfalcon on his forearm, clearly audible to the keen ears of both elves, was reciprocated by a distinctly cold glare from Ingwe. The scholarly Nipponese had been subject to much light-hearted mockery from both his fellow adventurers and the crew of the Warspite regarding his fear of heights, and though he took it in his stride as he always did, having his familiar join in was just a small step too far. Hayate averted his eyes nonchalantly from the withering look; note also that both Selinde and Glorfindel were by now stifling their own laughter at the sight.

Not that it really mattered to Ingwe. He knew that the constant ribbing was only one way of masking their uncertainty over the turbulent trials that had yet to come, and that what didn’t hurt him could hardly cause him any harm. So he played along like a good little boy, willing to take the hits for the sake of a few morale-boosting laughs.

Certain that he’d glared enough figurative daggers at the unrepentant Hayate, he transferred his gaze to the sea once more, briefly allowing a small subconscious smile of his own to touch his lips. The salty breeze ruffled his untidy hair and tugged at his heavy cloak; a mist of spray from the daintily bobbing prow cast itself upon his spectacles, creating a blob of blurry vision that he chose to ignore by peering over the top of the rims like some shortsighted owl.

Aft of the Warspite, the other two ships in their flotilla maintained loose formation, the galleon Spirit of Scara Brae and the slightly larger carrack Thunderchild. With an expertise gained from two weeks of sea travel and exhaustive battles against the elements Ingwe checked their trim lines and the fullness of their immaculately spotless sails, making to himself a small sound of satisfaction. On the forecastle of the larger ship he noticed Lord Arminas doing the same to the Warspite; their eyes met, and when Ingwe bowed slightly in a gesture of respect, the commander of the expedition returned the greeting with a thoughtful nod.

The time is nigh.

For not the first time that day, Ingwe turned to contemplate the dangerously inviting land to their fore, the faint chatter of the two elves in the rigging above floating through the air in the background. It was amazing, really, the sense of speed he experienced as the wind took them closer, ever closer to their landbound destination. Out on the open seas, with no steady reference point to guide them, it was difficult to feel the same wonder.

Now they had closed sufficiently for him to make out the scattered rocks in the harbour mouth, navigational hazards that meant they would soon be forced to reef in sail and travel more cautiously in their approach. To his right was a rocky promontory that jutted protectively out into the sea; a cliff-lined arm of headland with only a thin strip of beach to the seaward, crowned with the heavy forests that had so attracted Selinde’s attention. To his left was a sweeping expanse of low-lying farmland, punctuated now and again by thick copses of trees, and the faintest hint of crimson red on the horizon. That was the Red Forest, he knew, the infamous Lindequalme… ancestral home to Xem’zund and all his evil minions. The odd stir of movement amongst the blighted crops reminded him that the necromancer’s influence reached far beyond their borders now.

It was directly to his fore, though, that the most magnificent vista reigned. The distance was dominated by the steely visage of the Emyn Naug, the low mountains masking the desolation of the Black Desert Tel Moranfauglir beyond. And against their feet was the sprawling port city of Anebrilith, numerous villages and hamlets extending it far beyond the limits of its gleaming white walls. A section of said walls stretched down from the city proper to the harbour; these seemed to shine less brightly than the rest, and in one or two places were in bad need of urgent attention.

Attention, Ingwe realised, that the undead hordes that surrounded the city would be unlikely to allow. For Anebrilith was a city under desperate siege, and the lack of fishing boats in the harbour, the untended farmlands to the south, and the limp tattered war banners flying from the walls were visible signs of that fact even from a relatively safe distance.

Hayate caught the sudden chill that ran through Ingwe’s body, one not of fear but of trepidation. The snowy white gyrfalcon crooned gently, an unnaturally warm sound from the fiercely proud bird of prey. Its purpose was served, however, when Ingwe once again caught his familiar’s eye; this time, the warrior-mage smiled and nodded his determination.

“Go,” he whispered, holding his arm aloft as Hayate spread his wings to catch the breeze. “You must miss firm ground more than anybody else aboard this ship.” Even more than the dwarves, Ingwe chuckled to himself, knowing that the bird hated to be restricted to a mere circle or two above the mainmast each day and was chafing to be free.

“Let me know what you see,” he finished gently, and as he did so, Hayate launched himself upwards. Powerful rhythmic strokes of the gyrfalcon’s mighty chest muscles soon saw him safely clear into the crisp, clean skies; every effortless beat carried him higher and higher towards the encouragement of the warm sun overhead.

Ingwe watched fondly as Hayate did his customary circle above the Warspite, bidding the ships farewell before turning to ride the tailwind towards the mainland. Hand held over his eyes to shield them against the midday sun, the warrior-mage tracked the gyrfalcon’s steady progress across the skies, for a fleeting instant wishing that he too had the ability to fly through air open and free. How magnificent it must be!

It was then that he first noticed the dark, low-lying cloud above the southern outskirts of the city. It hadn’t been there a moment ago, he realised, his heart beginning to pound in his chest as his sharp mind suddenly smelled a rat. It took him but a moment to consciously work out what had seemed so out of place to his instincts.

The only mass of grey in an otherwise peerlessly fair sky, the cloud was moving swiftly towards them… against the wind.

Hayate’s cry of warning barely reached his ears, but by then Ingwe was already dashing for the ship’s bell.

[Flames of Hyperion]

He had not been the only one to spot the danger. High up in the Warspite’s main mast, both Glorfindel and Selinde had also sighted the unnatural cloud and instinctively their suspicions had been aroused. Only Selinde, however, had made the crucial observation of what exactly the cloud entailed.

The agility with which she managed to tumble out of the crow’s nest and sure-footedly land upon the mid-mast platform was quite astonishing. The way she took the second-half of the journey down to the deck – in one nimble leap worthy of an Olympian – was even more breath taking. And the skill she displayed in transferring her momentum into a light-footed landing followed by an easy forward roll to her feet nearly caused Ingwe to forget about the danger and gape at her in shock, as he himself rushed towards the stern of the ship.

“Fellbats,” she gasped to him, her long blonde-brown hair wafting in the wind before finally deigning to settle about her shoulders. “They’re headed straight towards us.”

Fellbats. He had heard of them before. Benighted lands harboured all manner of deadly creatures that roamed the skies preying upon villagers and travellers; some of the worst of these were the oversized beasts also known as bloodwings, which bore as much resemblance to ordinary bats as a maddened lion did to a domestic kitten. Horrific predators as large as a man, with broad leathery wings strong enough to drag their victims into the air and distended mouths filled with sharp fangs dripping with noxious phlegm, they were amongst the worst nightmares unleashed by the necromancer Xem’zund in his assault upon the elven homeland.

“Warn the crew, please, and rally any archers and mages from below decks,” Ingwe told her, trying not to let the pallid chill show too much upon his face. “I’ll try to talk the captain into drawing them away from the other two ships.”

Behind them both Glorfindel hit the deck with a heavy thud and a noisy clink of metal, but by that time they were already running again.

***

Captain Theodore Maximillian was a career merchant mariner, an opulently dressed character with a brilliant handlebar moustache and a bit more girth around his waist than he would have cared to admit to. An eccentric man, but also well-respected amongst his crew for his unfailing seamanship, he had signed up for the expedition as much for the chance to do something worthwhile as for the copious amount of coin on offer. He too had noticed the strange cloud that had suddenly appeared above the city ahead, and though he was slower at connecting the dots than any of the three adventurers, he was certainly beginning to wonder if he’d made the right choice a fortnight ago in Scara Brae.

“Turn into it!”

The voice was that of the young oriental scholar, who seemed to be an officer of some sort in the ragtag army the Warspite was helping to transport. The man's eyes were agitated with adrenaline and he seemed to be hurriedly preparing himself for battle, loosening the twin swords strapped to his back and readying the magics tethered at his waist. Captain Maximillian glared haughtily at his passenger, one hand pompously claiming stewardship of the ship’s wheel, and replied in his best deeply officious tone,

“Why should I? Seeing it as it is makes me feel like…” The seaman was going to suggest running for harbour, as was always the best course of action with the wind under their sails against an unknown foe, but the Nipponese warrior-mage was quick to cut him off.

“The Spirit and the Thunderchild are carrying the majority of the supplies for the city. If they doesn’t make it through, our journey becomes meaningless.” Ingwe glared the man down, the unyielding resolution in his voice surprising the ship’s captain. “Please… we have to do this.”

Captain Maximillian prided himself on being a free man. It was not often that he was faced with authority, and it had been a long time indeed since a bespectacled young whelp had practically ordered him to do anything. The older man was clearly of a mind not to obey, to continue upon the course that would take them to the safety of Anebrilith post-haste… but there was something in the warrior's eyes that warned him that he would be making a mistake. What was it… was it… decency?

Another nervous glance at the rapidly approaching flock of wings, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed compulsively. He knew the damage those powerful claws could do to his light vessel, much less the men and women who crewed it. But, on the other hand, what the young man said was true… and there was no guarantee that he would be able to outrun the onrushing cloud…

In a flash, his decision was made.

“Fine, then,” he assented reluctantly. He turned to his first mate, somehow maintaining that lavish flourish that so characterised his command, and began to issue terse orders. “Signal the flagship. We’re taking on that cloud… tell the Spirit and the Thunderchild to continue on to Anebrilith. All hands to battle stations.”

The last was almost unnecessary, as Selinde finally managed to convince a nearby sailor to start ringing the ship’s bell to raise the alarm. There was brief pause in the conversation, wrecked only by the incessant clamour of heavy footsteps accentuated by piercing peals, before Ingwe managed to gather his wits enough to manage a stuttered, “Thank you.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” was the captain’s only reply, as he kept his attention on readying his ship for the battle. But by then Ingwe had already directed his attention to more urgent matters.

“Reeks of foul sorcery in th’ air,” Telchar announced as he stomped up to the poop deck, followed closely by the stern-faced Glorfindel. The old dwarf had been the closest to the ladder when Selinde had sounded the alarm, and it hadn’t taken him long to divine the cause for the noisily clanging ship’s bell, either. He took another deep, noisy sniff and declared with conviction, “Necromancy.”

Now that the runelord mentioned it, Ingwe noticed it as well. The magic hung over the ship like a thick black cloud, tainted and oppressive if almost elegantly subtle. It pushed down upon them like a grotesquely obese stomach, stifling and choking them within its dark poisonous mists. Every breath became gradually more laboured and uneasy, fear pulsing through their veins and tantalising thoughts dancing in their minds of running around like a headless chicken… or, even better, throwing themselves overboard…

Ingwe shook his head angrily, clearing it of the evil influence, and narrowed his eyes at the dimming overhead sun.

“Can you deal with it?” he asked the dwarf, and Telchar showed several yellowed teeth in a grin. The young warrior-mage took that as a yes, and was quick to continue, “If you could also find a way to attract those abominations to us…”

In an instant, both runelord and bladesinger understood his plan and the reasoning behind it.

“Leave it ta me, laddie,” Telchar nodded, rubbing his gnarled hands in anticipation as the wooden planking continued to reverberate with the sound of hurried footfalls. One by one, bow-armed sailors and adventurers began to emerge from below decks, accompanied by the odd hedge wizard pledged to their cause. Ingwe spotted Selinde leading Taggar the half-ogre out into the fray, directing him towards the stockpiles of spare timbre neatly tied up on deck.

Good idea, he thought to himself. There was nothing quite like a powerful ally to aid one’s cause and to give one heart.

He turned back to the cloud, noting the white speck that was Hayate keeping wary position above it. His movements came none too soon either, for the fellbats were gaining on them rapidly, even as the Warspite swung about to meet them head-on. The wind fluttered lifelessly out of the sails before regaining a semblance of its former vigour; strong hands heaved mightily upon the halyards, even as worried eyes kept careful track of the foes that would soon be upon them.

Glorfindel tapped Ingwe’s shoulder reassuringly, noting the carefully shepherded fear that flowed through the young man’s veins.

“Do not fear, my friend. We are with you.”

As if on cue, Selinde looked up and met their gaze. The young elfmaid gave them a quick reassuring smile, before joining her sister Nerdanel in climbing the mast to the fighting platform halfway up. To the rear of the two swordsmen, low rhythmic chanting began to rumble along the mirror-like sheen of the suddenly calm waters, thick guttural dwarven that worked its way into the hearts of the fighters assembled on deck and granted them strength both physical and spiritual. Ingwe could feel it seeping into his muscles, the power of ageless and ancient stone, firming his resolve and steadying his sword arm. He thanked the gods that Telchar was not incapacitated by the sea like so many of his fellows below, once again glad to have the venerable dwarf by his side. The heavy hammering of a runesmith’s instrument of war soon also began to echo about the ship, and the sudden panicked screeches from the rapidly approaching cloud told Ingwe that the second part of Telchar’s magic was having the desired effect.

About him, all over the deck of the intrepid little carrack, prayers were whispered and last minute benedictions made. Steel whisked free of scabbard and sheathe; drawstrings were tightened, arrows were nocked, and arcane chants readied for use. Warspite’s entire topside seemed to glow with a heightened battle aura, straining against and pushing back the heavy oppressive mist that had settled amongst them. A silent pause was their common unifier, a moment of reflection as every man, elf, dwarf, and half-ogre present contemplated the many-winged cloud that approached at speed and the battle that was about to ensue. It would not be easy…

… but there was hope. There was always hope.

“Gurth gothrym lye,” Glorfindel murmured before beginning to sing, softly and liltingly under his breath. Death to our foes.

Ingwe echoed the sentiment, twin fireballs blossoming into life upon his outstretched palms. At this range, and with his foes as packed as they were, there was little need to aim to hit anything. He too whispered one last phrase, as the leathery beat of wings assaulted his ears, the bestial stench almost overwhelming now and the individual specks of drool on each fellbat’s face thoroughly disgusting.

“May fortune favour the worthy.”

Then the undead were upon them.

[Flames of Hyperion]

“Kaendan!”

The first wave of fellbats was met by a veritable hail of steel and fire, arrows and magic reaching out like a vengeful hand to knock the attackers out of the sky. At least three went down in flames, screaming horribly and leaving behind a trail of smoking fur; Ingwe saw another tumble out of the sky with an arrow lodged firmly in one eye. But it was obvious that even the best efforts of the Warspite’s crew and passengers were too little to prevent the fellbats from swarming the ship; the onrushing dark cloud seemed to engorge and close ranks, ending up no smaller than it had been a moment ago.

“Incoming!” Perhaps the most pointless warning ever, from the lookout in the crow’s nest. A moment later the seaman yelped and ducked as a fellbat darted overhead, bestial claws raking the air where he had just stood.

Their initial attack was aimed at the sails and the rigging, Ingwe saw, blanching as the mast-tops were lost in a swarming brown mass of leathery wings and slashing limbs. His magic was useless at such close quarters, unless he wanted to cause as much damage to the carrack and to those in the masts as to his foes. Great rending tears appeared in the pristine white canvas, thick hempen halyards cut through like they were mere threads. Within moments the Warspite had lost the majority of her forward momentum and was barely drifting through the water. The warrior-mage could only watch helplessly as a young sailor, one of the first to heed the captain’s call to prime the sails for battle, was caught up in a fellbat’s merciless grasp; two arrows and a dagger quickly found their way into the beast’s chest, but the seaman was dead before his captor hit the water with a cascading splash.

Then the cloud of wings was free of the ship, wheeling around sharply for another go. If their first pass had been to disable the Warspite, Ingwe thought, this time they would be coming for the crew and cargo…

He splayed his fingers out wide, five wispy flames forming at the tips of each hand as the wind whispered gently underneath his breath.

“Housenka!”

Another volley rose up to greet the necromancer’s minions, and more of the fellbats plummeted into the ocean, massive plumes of water sent geysering into the darkened sky. Yet again, however, it was as if their numbers had not been diminished at all.

“Watch out!” the lookout called again, before the same fellbat that had attacked him before came about for another try. This time, however, the sailor was ready; a slightly rusty cutlass lashed out in an angry arc, and the bloodwing tumbled away injured, somehow regaining its wings just before hitting the water.

Less coordinated, this time…? Ingwe spared the thought before aiming a fireball at a lone fellbat hovering above the prow. He had the satisfaction of seeing it disappear in an puff of explosive smoke and an agonised screech, but that didn’t deter two of its comrades from taking its position, tearing angrily at whatever they could reach. Then again, it’s not as if they need to be… the Nipponese allowed, before forcing himself to concentrate on the more important business of fighting for his life.

The skirmish quickly disintegrated into a swirling melee of individual combats, each as desperate and as frantic as the next. On one side there were the fellbats, large brutish creatures with the advantage of both manoeuvrability and power. On the other were the crew of the Warspite and their passengers from the Legion of Light, fighting for their lives with both skill and belief.

Nerdanel Celebrindal took careful aim from beneath her camouflage hood, a snarling grimace hidden under the anonymous features of the silk mask she wore. Calmly she sighted along the length of the shaft, feeling the power imbued into her bladed composite recurve bow literally trembling in her arm. Picking out a target in the churning confusion on the deck below would have been a difficult task for any human, but for the keen skills of the elven ranger, it was no more tricky than bulls-eying a target at twenty feet. Swiftly she loosed the arrow; by the time she sensed it thunder into her chosen target’s head like lightning from above, she already had the next arrow nocked and the next bloodwing picked out for destruction.

A number of fellbats still swarmed above the ship, looking for targets of opportunity, and one of them noticed the ranger in the mainmast fighting platform. With a squeal that sounded almost suspiciously gleeful, it swooped for the kill…

… only to find its face full of elven steel as Selinde stepped up to defend her older sister. Her expression was disdainful, and the fellbat’s as close to surprise as it could manage in the cold embrace of death, as it fell backwards onto the deck below. Timbers splintered as it crashed, but nobody down there could spare the extra breath of attention required to decipher what had caused the sound, so busy were they with their own battles.

“Taggar!” the younger elf cried a moment later, dismayed to see the half-ogre almost buried under the wings and slavering fangs of four foes. Roaring madly and with all the brutish ferocity associated with his kind, he was thrashing about wildly enough so that they could not get a good grip on his leather jerkin, but it would only be a matter of time…

… until a small band of Legionnaires, led by the dark huntsman who had first spoken up in the inn at Scara Brae, led the counter-charge that drove off the leathery fellbats. No words were exchanged between the two adventurers, only a small nod of thanks and some mutual respect, but it was almost heart-warming to see old prejudices and bigotry overcome by the camaraderie of battle.

Once again her eyes scanned the skies and the deck, keeping track of the battle and calling out warnings to those below. Her sister’s arrows were a steady hiss of death upon the bats; the sailors and Legionnaires on deck were just about holding their own against the tide of claws and fangs.

Then the ship shuddered violently, keeling heavily to one side as if horrendously wounded, and she was almost thrown from her perch.

Ingwe was one of the first to recover in the aftermath, his blades dripping with bloody ichor as he somehow managed to maintain his balance, and he was also one of the first to work out what had happened. A surprised dwarven oath from below, followed by a dull wet thud as an axe found its mark in a body, and his suspicions were confirmed. He leapt towards the railing on the poop deck, using the temporary respite in the fighting to abandon his protective position about Telchar and Captain Maximillian.

“They’re holing the hull!” he shouted, raising the alarm as the battle began to flow once again.

“Dumn right they ur!” Derthark bellowed in response, the dwarven prince poking his head out from the gaping cavernous gap in the wooden planking. His face was deathly pale beneath its ruddy complexion and his feet staggered with the effort of remaining upright on the sickly shuddering ship, but his axe was dripping with fellbat blood and it wasn’t too hard to see who had dispatched the opportunistic bloodwing. “We’ll deal with dis ‘un, ye…”

“Ingwe!” Selinde interrupted from far above, and the warrior-mage whirled about just in time to parry the razor-sharp claws directed at his exposed back. The fellbat pressed the attack with surprising strength, shoving its ugly pug nose into his face and snarling ferociously. The rancid stench of the beast’s breath was almost unbearable, and the young man’s spectacles were speckled disgustingly with steaming saliva.

Ingwe glared in return, suddenly angry, and brought his other sword up with all the force he could muster. His foe’s leathery skin was nigh impervious to ordinary steel, evidenced by the two arrows that stuck harmlessly out of its shoulder, but the air about the Nipponese’s blade seemed to shimmer gently and coalesce with magic…

“Gogyoto… Fu!”

The fellbat stumbled as one wing was shorn free of its torso, then staggered as the second blade slipped free of the parry and sliced into its distended belly. It had just enough time and energy for a defiant snarl, exposing massive fangs dripping with purple phlegm, before both backstrokes took off its head in a scissors-like motion. Ingwe slipped free of the stinking corpse, nearly vomiting at the vile experience.

Two more ominous thuds in front of him, casting dark shadows across his vision. The young man looked up to find a pair of the beasts glowering at him menacingly, wings spread wide and claws extended above his head. He brought up his swords one more time, knowing that his energy was nearly spent and that he was in no position to fend them both off…

… when one of them was decapitated in a single sweep of shining steel. The other managed an angry squawk before Glorfindel’s return stroke buried through its chest, cleanly piercing its dark heart.

“You alright, mellonamin?” the bladesinger asked, offering a hand and a hint of a mocking gaze to help steady the young man. Ingwe batted both away with a grateful wave, somehow finding the strength to smile.

“Pikes to the sides of the ship!” he shouted, trying to rally the men on board. “Don’t let them sink her!”

As one they rushed to obey, a half-dozen sailors reaching for their long spears and dashing to the railing to deal with their enemy’s new tactic, whilst their comrades sought to defend them against the renewed assault. The swarming fellbats on the deck had been just a diversion, Ingwe realised. Their original intent had been to stop the flotilla dead in the water by crippling the sails and rigging, and then distract the defenders by swarming the decks whilst concentrating on sinking the wooden ships and picking off the survivors in the water, where they would be less likely to fight back. And though Telchar’s magics had allowed both the Spirit of Scara Brae and the Thunderchild to escape – both other ships were now just about entering the safety of the harbour mouth, half a nautical mile away – it also meant that the poor Warspite had borne the brunt of the attack. Her canvas a ragged mess, a gaping hole in her hull, and her decks and the air above her swarming with the bestial fellbats, there was no telling how much longer she would last.

Captain Maximillian was valiantly straining to keep his ship afloat, straining mightily against the wheel to keep the hole in the hull above the waterline whilst directing her in the general direction of safety. Telchar was skilfully striking two runes at once upon his makeshift wooden anvil – one to inspire his allies, another to cast down his foes – but the venerable dwarf’s brow shone with sweat and half a dozen minor wounds. Glorfindel and Ingwe himself did their desperate best to keep the fellbats off their two friends, aided by Maximillian’s first mate and a few of the other crew, but the bloodwings swarmed around them like vultures seeking the kill.

In what remained of the rigging above, Nerdanel, Selinde, and a handful of other archers were taking careful potshots at the melee below whilst simultaneously fending off the attentions of opportunistic circlers. The deck, on the other hand, was a confused mass of bodies, ranging from the gristly fur of the fellbats to the tattered leather jerkin worn by Taggar the half-ogre, moaning wounded littering the deck as more and more of the bloodwings looked for a chance to pile in. Despite the havoc wrought by the large Legionnaire and a score of swords rallied about the dark-haired huntsman, they were slowly being forced to give ground towards the sides of the ship.

They were faltering, Ingwe realised, the cold harsh fist of reality hammering hard into his stomach. There were just too many of the foe… too few of their allies. At this rate…

His blades sang, fire flew, and two more of his opponents hit the deck as lifeless bodies.

Deep in the back of his mind, he could not help but wonder how long it would be before he joined them.

[Edmund Talbott]

The fight was going badly to say the least. Edmund was fighting with the dwarves in the hold, laying into the attacking Fellbats with as much, if not greater relish than his companions. His mace laid about, shredding wings, shattering bones and pulping flesh. At times it was almost hilarious to watch the combat below, a fellbat would be fighting just fine, and mysteriously fall dead to the floor, its power sapped by the continuous working of his powerful aura of sanctuary, hedging out the evil influences of the necromancer, and cleansing the unnatural taint of undeath from the ship. His power only extended far enough to cover the feet of the upper deck overhead, but they were actually winning the fight below, the dwarves heavy armor and sheer brutality making them more than a match for the continuing assault and its ever shrinking numbers.

"Derthark! I'm going above, keep things safe and follow when you've cleared the hold. Try and patch the hole with something. Dead bodies if you have to!" The paladin practically leapt up the ladder, somehow maintaining his balance on his way through the hatch, despite having his hands filled with shield and mace. He nearly went right back down the hatch as a stooping beast slammed into his shield, impaling itself on the spike that made up the center boss. It wasn't deterred by the injury, but the impact threw the man off balance, and he threw his weight forward. The rapid changes in balance, combined with the shift in his center of gravity, forced him to overcorrect, and the fellbat ended up underneath 200 pounds of man and armor, pinned to the deck. It struggled for a moment, before a pulse of divine power flowed through his shield, and shredded the corrupted flesh, freeing him from the beast's unnatural grip. He scrambled to his feet, and batted another bat out of the air, dashing across the pitching deck to meet up with the core commanders.

"Ingwe. Things are fairly well secured below decks. Derthark and his dwarves have it well in hand. I'm not sure how much longer we can hold out against this many." His voice was surprisingly calm, despite the almost certain death from above that was awaiting all of them. His power reached out to blanket the deck of the ship, and soon enough fellbats would drop dead for no reason, but the few he could kill or weaken with his power wouldn't be enough to affect the outcome. They were, unless something changed, doomed.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Dammit, you slow-wit! Think!

His body was trapped in the motions of battle – duck, riposte, parry, strike – against his bestial foe. His mind, on the other hand, tried to detach itself from immediate reality, racing frantically to find a solution to their current predicament. At this rate, he knew it was only a matter of time before either they were completely overwhelmed by the swarming fellbats, or the Warspite gave out from beneath them and they would be left to the mercy of both sea and foe.

At least the Spirit and the Thunderchild made it through, was his next rueful thought, as his peripheral vision caught sight of the last of the latter’s pennants disappearing into the relative safety of Anebrilith harbour. The running skirmish had taken the Warspite northwards according to the vagaries of tide, current, and other nautical notions that his mind understood but did not quite comprehend. Now the outstretched arm of the promontory sought to cut them off from their destination, and the jagged rocks ahead threatened to gut the little carrack even before the fellbats were finished with her.

Land… Ingwe’s mind whispered to him as his blades found their mark in a fellbat’s chest. If they stayed at sea they could not outlast their undead foes, and ran the risk of the Warspite sinking beneath them, but…

The warrior-mage freed his swords from the corpse of his enemy and turned towards Captain Maximillian, who was still valiantly struggling at the ship’s wheel. For a moment, he felt a pang of guilt; it had been he, after all, who had practically forced the mariner into fighting rather than fleeing. Now the gallant captain was paying the ultimate price, watching the ship that was his pride and joy, his entire livelihood, gradually fall to the attentions of the undead.

But, perhaps. Perhaps there was still a flicker of hope.

“Captain!” Ingwe called out, his voice only barely reaching over the clamour and din of the fighting. Tired it was, exhausted by constant use of his power, but he forced it to continue speaking as an outstretched arm indicated the cliff-straddled beach ahead. “Would it be possible to beach her on the promontory?”

He thought that the scandalised looks that he instantly received in reply, from both Maximillian and half-a-dozen other crewmen within earshot, would quite literally burn holes through his body. What he had suggested was nothing short of an outrage to their minds; the sheer sacrilege of abandoning their ship to the whims of sea and sand almost unthinkable to their way of life.

But then it dawned upon them that perhaps it was the only way they would survive the fight.

“Very well!” came the shouted reply, reluctant and resigned to whatever the fates might decree. “I shall need my first mate at the bows to give me bearings!”

Ingwe nodded his assent at the implied request, although his gaze as it spared a look out upon the swirling melee amidships was less than confident. A handful of individual combats still raged where single adventurers took on undead foes, but the main fighting was concentrated to the starboard quarter, where Taggar and the dark-haired huntsman had rallied a phalanx of sorts against a swarm of the fellbats. A smaller knot of seamen still held out at the prow, the circle of their enemy about them less tight as claws and fangs came at them from their seaward quarters as well. Getting through the massed fellbats on deck, not to mention the multitudes that still swooped about the ship looking for an opportunity to join in the carnage, would be a tall task indeed. But it had to be done, Ingwe knew, as he quickly stooped to cleanse and sheathe his weapons.

“Glorfindel, please protect Telchar!” A nod from the elf, matched by an angry grunt from the old dwarf, who clearly was less than happy about the idea. Ingwe next turned to the paladin who had just joined the battle on the poop deck. “Master Talbott, please keep the captain free from harm.”

Finally, he met the eyes of the first mate, a grizzled ebony-skinned sailor wielding a rusty cutlass, his makeshift bandanna keeping the blood from a head wound out of his eyes. A look of mutual understanding passed between the two men. Ingwe had to get him to the bow of the ship at all costs, if any of them were to survive at all.

Here goes…

He chose to vault the railing onto the main deck rather than taking the steps to either side; it would allow him to bypass the worst of the congregated fellbats. As he went over, he brought both arms downwards in a chopping motion, hands straight and firm as he channelled arcane power…

“Kuhazan!”

… towards the nearest of the fellbats in his path. The air at his fingertips shimmered and coalesced into a barely visible arc; when his arms finished their motion, the blade of wind was already halfway towards his foe. The fellbat staggered in surprise as two bright splashes of colour suddenly appeared on its furry distended belly, and it didn’t have time to react before Ingwe’s hastily drawn swords finished the job. By the time its dead body fell to the floor the warrior-mage had already hit the deck running, his navy blue cloak trailing out in the wind behind him as he sought a path through his foes.

A roar of determination from his right as Taggar and the huntsman pushed back bodily against the circle of foes that surrounded them, aiding him in his cause. Ingwe could hear the hasty footfalls of the first mate behind him, following him closely as he took advantage of the short-lived confusion amongst the fellbats to chart the safest course through… there. Right up the middle. If they could make it through in time… it was their only chance.

There were five fellbats in his way. The closest fell almost immediately, a black-feathered arrow buried shaft-deep in its head; Nerdanel had obviously made sense of Ingwe’s ploy and was not beyond assisting in whatever way she could. The second was slow to turn to meet him, its stubby little legs not quite used to fighting upon solid ground, and twin strokes from Ingwe’s short swords sent it reeling in agony before the hilt of the first mate’s cutlass came hammering down onto its head to finish the job. There was the sickening crunch of splintering bone, and the fellbat dropped as if pole-axed.

The third was also still turning by the time he was upon it, but this time there was an arm’s length of leathery wing in Ingwe’s way that prevented him from getting a clean kill. Instead, the warrior-mage barrelled into it in a messy tackle, feeling its claws raking shallowly into his back as he somehow buried both blades into whatever flesh he could reach. The fellbat gasped, almost pitiful in its finality, beady black eyes growing blank and dull as it abruptly departed from the mortal coil.

“Ingwe!” came Selinde’s warning from above, but there was no way that he could pick himself up in time to meet the fourth fellbat. It fell upon him vengefully, and it was all the young man could do to keep hold of his blades as he attempted to roll clear. Dirty talons missed him by mere millimetres as he shoved the corpse of its erstwhile comrade in its way instead. The three of them – one already dead, two fighting for their very lives – rolled about the wooden planking in an undignified tangle of steel, skin and leathery wing, narrowly missing being stomped upon by the rampaging Taggar before coming up against the unmoving solidity of the foremast. Somehow Ingwe’s mind stayed alert enough to recognise that the first mate was now set upon by the fifth of the fellbats, and to realise that if he didn’t get the man to the relative safety of the prow seamen soon, more of the foe would join the fray…

He kicked instinctively, lashing out with all his might, and somehow managed to connect with his opponent’s sinewy chest. The fellbat staggered backwards, winded, giving Ingwe just enough time to get to one knee and take aim.

Afterwards, he would wonder why he had done it. At the time, it was more of an instinctive action, as his mind told him in not so many words that he didn’t have the time to focus his magic, and that to attempt to do so would risk harming the first mate as well. Right arm snapped back, the short aikuchi short sword held loosely but surely in his hand. In a single fluid motion, he launched it towards the fellbat that was in between the first mate and safety.

He had the satisfaction of seeing his throw strike home, the fellbat’s brutishly coarse face registering sudden surprise and pain before a second black-feathered thunderbolt from above put it out of its misery. The first mate barely had time to nod his thanks to both man and elf before he escaped into the welcoming safety of the circle of seamen formed at the prow.

Ingwe, on the other hand, didn’t even have the time to notice that. His bloodwing opponent squealed with rage at the unorthodox kick that had driven it away, and proceeded to viciously leap upon him once more, wings spread wide and claws raking at his face from on high. The Nipponese brought his remaining blade up to parry, unable to do anything else from his kneeling position; fire-forged steel met enamel-sharp talon with an audible crack, and the greater strength of the fellbat began to force the young man back… down…

With a victorious snarl the fellbat shoved his face into Ingwe’s, all pugnacious nose and rancid breath, punctuated by fangs the size of his hands. And the warrior-mage was distinctly aware that there was nothing left he could…

A screech from above, white lightning crashing down from the heavens, and suddenly Hayate was in between the two combatants, the gyrfalcon’s own talons raking madly at the fellbat’s face. The beast roared in pain and snapped with its powerful jaws, feathers flying in every direction as Hayate just about managed to scamper free, granting Ingwe enough time to topple backwards and away in the process. But two other fellbats had now spotted the vulnerable young warrior-mage and were sweeping in for the kill… his other blade was still too far away to reach… and there was no time to call upon his magics…

Is this… it…?

Ingwe’s remaining sword lashing out at his closest foe, the best defence he could muster from his prone position. A second screech as Hayate once more sought to defend his master, one brave falcon against no less than three of the brutish fellbats. As the talons and fangs grew ever larger within his vision, the young man’s eyes closed involuntarily, braced against the inevitable gut-wrenching pain

But there was something about his familiar’s last screech that caught Ingwe’s attention.

It had not been pained.

It had not been fearful.

It had been elated.

What…

Carefully he forced his eyes open once more, only to find the world seeming to move in framed slow motion. Every last fellbat had abruptly looked to the skies, daintily sniffing the wind as if worried or alarmed. What was it their faces now showed… was it… fear? Why did those on the deck spread their wings wide as one, ready to take flight…?

And what was that new winged shadow that flashed across the Warspite’s deck?

A response to Hayate’s screech from above, a shriek not sharp and shrill but so deep and throaty as to be almost a roar. It emanated from the throat of a powerful and majestic creature, forequarters that of a great eagle whilst its body and hind paws were unambiguously leonine. Sleek aquiline head and razor-sharp beak, with wings to match, tapered into clawed rear legs and a long tail; its eyes gleamed with fierce loyalty and a savagery unmatched in the air save by the wildest of dragons.

Gryphon, Ingwe gasped, awed by the splendid sight.

The glint of a long slender lance, almost invisible in the high noon sun, and the unmistakable bright shimmer of full mithril scale armour, affordable only by the greatest of elven princes. The pennant of Tor Elythis, outstretched wings of a delicate deep blue set about a fiery red gem upon a white background, fluttered in the light breeze. Only a brief moment passed in which Ingwe could clearly make out the figure seated high on the shoulders of the mount above, and then Lord Chronos decided to reset the flow of time.

Half a hundred fellbat throats squawked at once, and in a cascade of leathery wings and furry bodies, every last one of them still on deck took flight. The warning came too late however for a handful of their comrades in the sky.

No less than two were skewered upon the elflord’s lance before the gryphon pulled clear from the initial skirmish. The regal beast itself accounted for three more, one each in the mighty talons on each foreleg, and a third rent in half by a merciless snap of its great beak. The fellbats were unable to even get close in reply, chased about the sky confused and disoriented by the sudden assault.

Within mere breaths it was all over. Whatever their orders may have been, the sight of such a terrifying enemy in the skies, combined with the determined resistance from the small ship below, finally broke the back of the fellbats’ morale. Instinct and primeval dread took over, the heavy tinge of their musky fear suddenly tainting the air. The decks of the Warspite abruptly cleared of undead foes, and their winged saviour was now driving the dark leathery cloud back across the open skies towards the city. Only Nerdanel kept her head enough to send a few parting shots at the fellbats as they fled; the rest of the crew and passengers were either busy with relief and awe at the sudden reprieve, or were too exhausted to do much anyways.

“We’re saved…” Ingwe whispered, more to himself than to anybody else. He took one last look at the fellbats as they escaped to the south, pursued closely by the indistinct white shape that was the elflord and his gryphon mount. The fresh air had never seemed so clean, the wind about his face never so crisp and the sound of the sea never so welcoming as he slowly pulled himself upright, Hayate’s worried croons barely reaching his ears.

He was alive.

They were still alive.

They had survived.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Edmund, I know it's your turn to post, but it's been two weeks now, and I really need to get this thread moving since there's a lot of ground to cover. I hope you understand if I shift the story forward... feel free to rejoin at any point.

Slowly he staggered to his feet.

The departure of the fellbats had left a deafening hush in their wake, their raucous warcries replaced by the shocked silence of men and women who had just seen victory wrested from the jaws of defeat. Around him were scattered the gruesome remains of the battle, foul-smelling putrid bodies of dead foe and the low-keyed moans of the injured, wooden planking slick with ichor and splattered blood. Though it was not the first time that Ingwe had found himself standing amongst the aftermath of gory combat, it was not as if he was used to the sensation either; he had to fight to suppress the waves of nausea that washed over him like relentless tsunami. Somehow, he doubted that he would ever get used to the feeling.

Gingerly he took one step forward, then another, urged onwards by Hayate’s encouraging croons. His back felt as if it had been set on fire by the fellbat’s raking claws; his body ached and stung with half-a-dozen other minor wounds. Exhaustion clouded his mind from repetitive use of his budding magic, his vision blurry not only from the speckles of liquid on his glasses, and the world swimming as if he was treading through a dream. For all it was worth, though, he realised that he had managed to emerge from the skirmish relatively unscathed. At least, he was not one of those unfortunates who had been carried away into the dingy skies.

One hand reached down towards the malodorous foetid mass that was a fellbat corpse, grasping tightly around a silk-wrapped short-sword hilt before yanking it free with a callous grunt. His other hand grasped its partner, the blades both coated slickly in undead blood. Speedily but with no shortage of reverence he cleaned the tanto, allowing them to gleam tiredly in the wanly shining sun before replacing them in the sheathes upon his shoulders.

The shock around him was very quickly changing to elation, as it hit the crew of the Warspite and the adventurers that they were transporting that they had survived the fellbat assault. Somebody laughed, tentatively at first but rapidly growing in intensity and range it spread infectiously amongst the bloodied men on deck. Then someone else broke out in a ragged cheer, the sudden noise causing Hayate to escape swiftly into the skies, and for a brief moment it seemed as if the entire world was giving voice to their relief.

“QUIET!” an authoritative shout echoed over the scarred wooden timbers, through the shredded sails and past the gaping hole in the carrack’s hull. Merciless and blunt, it certainly had the desired effect, cutting off the celebratory congratulations almost as soon as they had begun.

“Taggar, gather a few men and get the corpses of those disgusting abominations off my deck!” Captain Maximillian’s expression remained grim and bleak, and to those who retained the presence of mind to notice the forbidding cliffs looming afore and the jagged rocks ready to welcome them there, it wasn’t too difficult to see why. “Some of you see to the wounded, by Neptune’s beard I won’t have any more deaths today! Trim the sails, cut away the rigging! And one of you get down below to see if the dwarves are alright, and tell them to start dumping excess ballast!”

His orders were absolute, and they could only be helped by the tone in which he gave them. As one the seamen raced to obey his commands, the sudden efficiency that they injected into their jobs inspiring the Legionnaires on board to assist. The topside of the Warspite swarmed with tired men at work, their frantic dedication swirling around Ingwe like an otherworldly eddy as he carefully made his way back towards the stern.

Glorfindel’s face was even paler than normal, and venerable Telchar at his side wore a visage so stony that it very nearly disguised the grey exhaustion in his features.

“Huvnae dun that for a long while,” the old dwarf explained when he caught Ingwe’s anxious look, indicating with a grumpy nod the remains of his rune-striking behind him. “I’ll be alright.”

“And you?” Glorfindel hurriedly interjected, catching his breath when he saw the great gashes that the fellbat’s claws had torn in Ingwe’s cloak and tunic. “You should see to that…”

“Later,” the Nipponese replied with a weakly dismissive wave of his hand, not noticing the trails of blood trickling down between his fingers. “There are more important things to attend to…”

And certainly there were, as the rocks ahead began to loom closer, ever closer, to the battered little carrack. Inclining his head wearily to the bladesinger and the runelord, Ingwe turned to face Captain Maximillian, who was still struggling at the Warspite’s wheel and bellowing orders to his crew in an increasingly forced voice. The stentorian tones of his first mate punched through the air at regular intervals, calling the fathoms as well as an occasional bearing, but it was clear that behind the exterior of calm and cool that both men were maintaining, the situation was becoming ever more desperate.

“I’m sorry,” Ingwe whispered softly, seizing the moment when the captain paused for breath. “I’m sorry that I did this…”

“Don’t be, lad,” Theodore Maximillian replied gruffly, not gentle in his admonishment but not overly harsh either. “You did what you had to do to salvage the mission, nobody can fault you for that. Thanks to that Anebrilith is getting her supplies and her reinforcements, and perhaps we all might still make it out of this alive…” – he grunted as his first mate signalled an abrupt course change, spinning the wheel with all his might and causing his ship to list lethargically out of the way of a dangerously close rock. “Even this ship, if I have anything to say with it.”

“But…”

“Listen, lad,” the captain overrode him, this time sparing a glance towards the young man. “When the fellbats ripped our sails to shreds, our chances of making it safely into Anebrilith largely went to nought anyways. That harbour is treacherous enough for a fully fit ship… with the level of control that I have over her now, we would have been lucky to make it through the mouth without sinking.”

The mariner’s words stopped Ingwe in his tracks, and for the first time since reappearing on the poop deck, the warrior-mage looked up to meet the captain’s gaze. The eyes that greeted Ingwe’s were as clear and as firm as any he had ever seen; resigned to the destiny that had brought them there but determined not to let any other hand shape their fate. They saluted him, one man to another, and silently begged him not to apologise any more for his actions.

Ingwe swallowed hard, and then nodded gratefully in return.

There was a juddering impact, violently scraping along the side of the ship as the carrack barely managed to squeeze between two obstructing rocks.

“I’ll expect some help getting her out of here when you’re done fighting the war!” the captain roared unexpectedly, breaking out a massive grin. Opulent robes trailed out magnificently behind him as he hauled upon the ship’s wheel, picking his spot amongst the white crescent of sandy beach ahead. Slowly, groaning at the abuse, the Warspite made one last effort to listen to his commands; Ingwe could only hold onto the railing with whatever strength remained to him as their sea journey drew to a final, frantic close.

“ALL HANDS BRACE FOR IMP..!”

Only Selinde, high in the masts above, saw the hidden underwater rocks that cut short Captain Maximillian’s cry. But she didn’t have any time to voice a warning, for a moment later she was hanging on for dear life.

[Flames of Hyperion]

The sensation was one of floating. Drifting, as if upon a waterless wave, a skyless wind. His surroundings were blank, an infinite wall of whiteness like a canvas waiting to be filled in. There was no sound, no clamour of battle or howl of war, only a blissful peaceful nothingness. He felt safe there, secure; he had just to relax, and he could stay there forever, cocooned within the comforting calm of his subconscious mind.

All I have to do is let go…

Gradually, though, something started to reassert itself deep within. Fuzzy outlines began to form amongst the pearly void, multi-hued shapes and swirls shimmering in and out of focus repeatedly. Forms slipped tantalisingly from his grasp whenever they threatened to coalesce, unwilling to reveal themselves fully to his mind’s eye. Still, slowly, he managed to forge his way through the quagmire, towards a goal that he realised must exist.

”J’han!” the voice suddenly cried out, so familiar from his younger days, so agonisingly within reach. And suddenly his eyes were open and wan sunlight was casting itself upon his face.

“Woah, woah laddie,” a decidedly gruffer cave accent, tinged with rugged concern, grunted from behind his ears. It was only then that Ingwe Helyanwe realised that the dream, the void, the voice… they had all been nought but a trick of his mind. In that brief moment of brutal honesty, it struck him greatly just how crestfallen he felt. Subsequently, and somewhat reluctantly, his brain set about the more vital task of reasserting reality.

Sharp pains in his back told him that his makeshift mattress was one made of rocks, unfortunately not one more comfortable, for example of down feathers. An even sharper pain in his head, along with various other aches and sores scattered about his body, informed him that his journey there had most certainly not been a comfortable one. And that was saying nothing of the ten raking claw wounds below his shoulders, throbbing agonisingly where seawater had added insult to injury.

“Mrrgh…” the young man mumbled, trying – and miserably failing – to sit up. His head spun and pounded as if the thunder god himself was on the loose within; his body, on the other hand, obstinately refused to obey frantically urgent orders. The white blankness beckoned once more, the waves upon the rocky coastline roaring constantly in his ears… or was the sound something else entirely…?

“Nmmgrhh!” Ingwe tried again, and this time managed to rouse himself from his prone position despite the valiant resistance of sinew and tendon. There was a shape in front of him now, casting a dark shadow across his fuzzy vision… it was the bladesinger Glorfindel, and the elf was trying to say something. Ingwe narrowed his concentration upon the pale moving lips, forcing himself to focus and understand for the words were slow in reaching his ears.

“… lie down. The mizzenmast broke in two and fell upon the poop deck… swept overboard and hit your head nastily…”

Well, at least that explained something. Most things, in fact the young man realised, as he put the pieces together.

“… we have to get out of here,” Ingwe managed from between grit teeth, jaw clenched against the overwhelming waves of nausea as he struggled to force himself to his feet. A couple of painfully weak attempts later he just about succeeded in standing upright, earning a grudgingly admiring look from Telchar and disapproving concern from Glorfindel.

“You should not…” the elf began, but the youthful Nipponese shook his head as firmly as he could manage. It was an action he immediately regretted, as barely-contained dizziness once again swamped him, but though he staggered half a step, he managed to keep his footing.

“It’ll pass,” he gasped, trying to inject some strength into his words. He gave himself a cursory once over, wary of upsetting his throbbing head once again. “I’m not bleeding, I think… the salt water would have cleansed my wounds.” The dwarf grunted in noncommittal agreement, obviously not quite convinced.

Ingwe’s newfound height granted him an excellent vantage point from which to observe his surroundings; after assuring himself that relatively speaking he was still in one piece, he promptly began to do. He found himself and his companions stranded upon a rocky beach, gentle cliffs to his rear and the vast expanse of open ocean, punctuated by jagged rocks like so many shark’s teeth, in the foreground. In the far distance beyond the bluffs, he could just about make out the tallest spires of the elven haven of Anebrilith. Closer to home, though, was the heartbreaking sight of the intrepid little Warspite stranded upon the rocks, her keel torn out like a gutted fish, her masts lying limp and free from her hull. A pair of longboats beached nearby was the unspoken answer as to how the majority of those aboard had abandoned ship and reached shore…

Well, most of them but myself… For some rueful reason, possibly related to the painful pounding between his ears, Ingwe was regretting taking the more direct route.

“By the beard of Grimnir,” Telchar was murmuring under his breath in something almost akin to respect. “The lad’s almost as tough as a dwarf…” The greybeard raised one hand to clap Ingwe on the back, then thought better of it as the young man cringed gingerly.

“What’s the situation like…?” the warrior-mage asked tentatively, bracing himself against the bone-jarring impact as he took a cautious step towards drier ground. To his mildly relieved surprise, he found that it was easier than he’d feared. For a moment, he could almost feel a familiar soothing touch calming his tortured mind, but as soon as he sensed it, it was gone.

None of the three noticed the faint glow of the pendant upon his chest.

“The captain’s badly ‘urt,” Telchar grunted after a momentary pause, indicating with a thrust of his blunt jaw the small gaggle of sailors halfway up the beach. “The same mast that knocked ye overboard caught’m on th’ side. Broke his leg an’ half his ribs.”

Ingwe hesitated mid-stride, grimacing.

“Everybody else is divided between awaiting rescue…” – Glorfindel paused, instinctively reaching out in support as Ingwe stumbled but caught himself just in time – “… and making our way towards Anebrilith proper.”

“We can’t wait here,” Ingwe replied, brow creased painfully as he forced the words from his lungs. “Look what happened to the Warspite… there won’t be any seaborne rescue. And we’re too far from Anebrilith for them to help us. By nightfall, this area will be swarming with Xem’zund’s legions…”

Glorfindel nodded his assent. “That’s what we surmised… unfortunately, many disagree.” There was a hint of disgruntled resentment in his otherwise silky-smooth voice. “However…”

“The walk there isn’t likely to be any more pleasant,” a fourth voice butted in angrily as another figure joined the debate. It was the dark-haired huntsman from Scara Brae, the one who had been the first to air his reservations towards Arminas’ command. His face was contorted in barely suppressed rage, his tunic wet from the seafoam and his bow warily strung against the danger all around. It was about this time that Ingwe finally realised that he himself was soaked to the bone, with the minor exception of the small waterproof pouch at his waist. No wonder it’s so cold… he groaned to himself, realising that his spare clothes were still onboard the Warspite. The huntsman, however, disregarded any such private thoughts that Ingwe might have had as he continued his rant, “You told us that Anebrilith is under siege. What do you want us to do, then? Break the necromancer’s siege lines…?”

Ingwe’s blurry vision focused upon the finger pointed at him accusingly. Somehow he managed to find the strength to stare it down.

“How many of us…?” he queried, his voice barely above a whisper and faltering weakly upon the last syllable. He could swear that the pounding in his head was more audible than the words he spoke.

“Fourteen naugrim including Master Telchar,” Glorfindel began respectfully, obediently answering the question. “Four of the elder race… myself, Selinde, Nerdanel, and a traveller from Valinatal whom with I am not acquainted yet. Twenty-one edan adventurers who signed up in Scara Brae, including yourself, and sixteen crew able to bear arms. Oh, and Taggar, the half-ogre.” The last sentence was added almost as an afterthought.

“Nae enough tae break their lines,” Telchar grumbled almost routinely, stating the obvious with a pointed look in the huntsman’s direction.

“But… if we move quickly enough, we might be able to sneak past. Make it to Anebrilith before the sun sets.” The quiet determination in Ingwe’s fragile voice was also what they had come to accept as characteristic from the young warrior-mage. Despite the obvious effort that it was taking to hold himself upright, there was an unyielding fire now burning in the depths of his eyes; the grim resolve of a man who knew what had to be done to save their lives and was going to do it by any means necessary.

“I…” the huntsman began to argue, then he too saw the expression that Ingwe wore. It wasn’t so much conscious decision that cut off his riposte as an instinctive belief, a desire – a need, if you will – to believe that they stood a fighting chance. Stranded in the midst of enemy territory, surrounded and with little hope of rescue, the mere whiff of an escape route was enough to make him want to trust.

He closed his mouth and nodded, and although the set of his jaw was that of a man fighting his own inner turmoil to obey, it was an important first step.

Ingwe, on the other hand, had no idea of from where his newfound conviction was flowing. All he knew was that he had to get them out of there and to the safety of the city, much preferably in one piece. If it was in his power to help them, then help them he would, to the best of what mediocre abilities he possessed.

“We should salvage what food and supplies we can,” he whispered, completely unaware that what came out as a suggestion would most likely be interpreted as an order. “We have to leave as soon as possible… before it’s too late.”

“Very well,” the huntsman replied, setting out to round up a few of his companions and obey.

In that moment, something intangibly important was born.

[Flames of Hyperion]

The rocky bluffs were to provide less of an obstacle than Ingwe had initially feared; Taggar and Glorfindel reported back from their self-appointed scouting mission with the good news that there was a relatively easy path upwards not too far from their current location. It was a definite blessing, a surprisingly auspicious start to what promised to be a harrowing journey, for it greatly mitigated the problem of how to transport the stricken Captain Maximillian up the cliffs. After all, there would be little meaning in their pledged unity if they didn’t at least make a serious attempt at bringing everybody to safety. Even if the captain was not technically a member of the Legion, for Ingwe was not one to leave an injured companion behind.

Jury-rigging a stretcher from some random poles and sturdy strips of sail took about twenty minutes. By this time the huntsman’s party had managed to salvage most of what was salvageable from the Warspite, including – much to Ingwe’s surprised relief – his waterlogged haversack. The Nipponese warrior-mage wasn’t really one to relish the thought of losing personal possessions either, no matter how insubstantial they were in the bigger picture.

At length, the ragged band of survivors set off along the path that Glorfindel had indicated, taking a second to marvel at how the bladesinger’s keen eyes had picked it out from the matted monotony of the rocky surface. It took six strong men and some careful coordination to safely transfer the stretcher from beach to cliff top, and despite their best efforts there were one or two harrowing jolts that could not have gone down well for the injured man they bore. The captain took it like a true sailor, though, with only one or two muted grunts giving evidence to the pain he must have been experiencing.

We really need to find ourselves a healer… Ingwe mused ruefully to himself as he too climbed the cliff, feeling his knees wobble weakly but just about saving himself from the ignominy of stumbling at every step. The lack of a dedicated medical specialist amongst the Legion had worried him from the moment they had departed Scara Brae; even Tauron Voronwe, who usually undertook such duties for the Rangers of the Eclipse, was more of an amateur herbalist than a true healer. When he had mentioned his fears to Arminas, the elflord had replied that Anebrilithian bladesingers were renowned for their skill at healing songs and that they would have to make do with whatever support the city’s council would send them. And though Ingwe had been appeased at the time… I guess that doesn’t really help us now, does it…

After what seemed like an eternity of putting one aching foot in front of and a few centimetres higher than the other, the warrior-mage finally reached the top of the bluffs. The sound of the waves crashing against the rocky shores seemed almost distant now below him, replaced instead by a steady fresh breeze blowing inland, and the gathering greying clouds overhead. As he paused to catch his breath, steadying himself on his knees and unwilling to unnecessarily disturb the delicate balance of blood in his head, Ingwe took the opportunity to peer through the milling sailors for a glimpse of the path ahead.

He just about managed to stop himself from groaning.

The immediate route was obscured by a veritable jungle of long grass, each verdant green blade reaching to heights far above his head and looking sharp enough as to slice off an unwary finger. Scattered trees amongst the meadows soon thickened out into a full-fledged forest, their evergreen leaves shrivelled and lifeless, branches dry and defiled as the necromancer’s influence began to exert control over even the most stubborn of Mother Nature’s resistances. In the far distance, the mountains that sheltered the elven haven loomed dark and menacing, as if daring them to approach.

Ingwe felt his vision quaver behind his spectacles. It seemed as if fate – whatever that entity purported to be – had no intention of making things easy for them.

As if sensing his momentary hesitation, though, there was an encouraging cry from above. A falcon’s screech, piercing through the clouds within his mind and reminding him sternly of what had to be done. It took all of Ingwe’s willpower to smile softly to himself, but then he bravely shook his head to clear it of the cobwebs. He had to pull himself together. It would not do to show weakness now.

“This way,” he spoke, as the last of the dwarves pulled themselves over the top of the bluffs. He noted wryly to himself that they barely seemed to be breathing; a stark contrast to the heavily exerted huddle of sailors that had taken it upon themselves to be their captain’s stretcher-bearers. His left arm extended straight towards the base of the mountains in the distance, indicating the second hill on the right; a marker that Ingwe had memorised from when he could still see Anebrilith proper.

A figure swathed in the olive green cloak of the Rangers nodded her agreement, an intricately asymmetrical laminated bow held loosely in her right hand and a quiver full of black-fletched arrows slung over her slender shoulders.

“With all due respect, edan,” Nerdanel Celebrindal addressed him for the first time, her Common flawless and precise, the seriousness of her deep and throaty voice so completely unlike her younger sister’s. Keen blue eyes like those of a hawk seemed to stab through his forehead from beneath the depths of her hood, completely ignoring the exasperated glare she got from Selinde at her use of the blunt honorific. “My sister and I should lead the way. We are more skilled than any of you at pathfinding.”

“If you would do the honours,” Ingwe replied, expertly quashing the twinge of irritation that always came with being on the receiving end of elven arrogance and responding instead with an exquisitely polite bow. To be fair, he’d intended to ask them for their guidance in any case, so her offer came as little surprise. Though he considered his sense of direction to be usually fairly accurate, he had little confidence about maintaining it amongst the journey that lay ahead. “Glorfindel, Taggar, may I ask you to bring up the rear and make sure nobody falls behind?”

The half-ogre responded with a mute nod; Glorfindel’s mouth wreathed in a ghostly smile as the elf also indicated his assent.

“Everybody else please stay close… it won’t do to get lost, for we must make it to the city before sunset or we shall be overwhelmed by Xem’zund’s hordes. We’ll be looking to avoid confrontation, but if we do get into a fight, please form up around the stretcher and don’t stray too far…”

The reaction of the assembled Legionnaires was muted nodding, man and ally alike preferring to save their breath for the difficult march ahead. It was then that the thought struck Ingwe, another sudden realisation that almost made him lose the carefully marshalled concentration that was keeping him going.

They’re looking to me for orders…? And they’re not even questioning them…?

Somehow, as the leading elements of the small band of adventurers set off through the long-grass, that was the most troubling notion that he’d had to deal with all day.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Asking Nerdanel and Selinde to lead the way had definitely been the sensible decision, Ingwe thought to himself as he trudged carefully through the tall grass. The two Rangers guided them unerringly through the treacherous meadows, sticking to firm terrain and avoiding patches of boggy ground with consummate ease. Once or twice either of them would lightly scamper up the nearest tree, just to make sure that the party was continuing upon the correct course. It was as if they had been born to the task at hand; Nerdanel’s earlier show of arrogant superiority had not been entirely unwarranted.

With the two Rangers to the fore, the ground literally sped beneath their feat. Within the hour, the splinter group of Legionnaires and sailors had left the grasslands behind. The trail now led into the dying remnants of what had once been a lush and flourishing forest.

The word that immediately sprung to Ingwe’s mind was “desolate”. The soil had used to be a rich, earthy loam granting life and sustenance to the great trees soaring above it. Now it was dry and deathly black, cracked and parched as if the land itself was starved of nourishment. Every step he took seemed to scream tortured agony into his mind, the inflexibility of the ground beneath the soles of his feet narrating a tragic tale of pain and suffering.

The trees had, if anything, suffered an even worse fate. Once evergreen and blooming with verdant leaves, they were now colourless, dark and ominously looming. Their silvery trunks were blistered and scarred by the evil that tainted the land, great gnarled roots desperately scouring the earth for a sanctuary free of contamination. The branches overhead bore no leaves anymore, instead obscuring the sky like a thick wooden canopy, pressing down claustrophobically upon those trapped below. It was oppressive and suffocating just to walk beneath them; the sorrow they emanated was almost physical in its brutality, as was the alarming sensation that the grieving forest had ensnared them within its dying throes.

The air was rank with death and decay, barely a whisper of wind permeating the thick wall of trunks that blocked them off from the coastline. When the trees did rustle, they did so with an unnaturally sad sigh that seemed to emphasise their slow and solitary descent into darkness. At all other times, however, the silence and the stillness reigned. It was, for lack of a better description, very much like a deserted graveyard on a moonless night, with all the musky fear and hidden danger that was thus implied.

Into this otherworldly world of gloom the intrepid band of warriors travelled, desperate to make good time towards the city that lay beyond.

***

“It’s just too quiet…” Nerdanel murmured to herself, her eyes constantly flickering about the vicinity. The Ranger stooped down upon one knee, an outstretched palm placed upon the forest floor in an attempt to read some sign of the path ahead. It was no surprise when the fractured earth gave her nothing except an electric shock of pain that caused her to wince as it travelled up her arm.

“No animals, no insects… no nothing…” Selinde added as she caught up with her elder sister, her youthful voice, usually so full of life and vitality, strangely subdued. “Not even a flicker…”

“I know,” Nerdanel cut her off abruptly, curt as only older siblings could be. The younger Ranger opened her mouth to protest, then immediately closed it again when she caught the brusque glare that Nerdanel gave her. Even at the best of times the markswoman could be grim. At this moment, she was positively forbidding.

Her brow furrowed in a look of intense concentration, while her gaze once more attentively scanned her surroundings. The trees around her seemed to loom like intimidating sentinels, a quick glance upwards warning her that the sun had now disappeared behind the thickly congregating branches and the greyness of the cloud beyond.

But the worst part of it all was the deafening silence, the completely unnatural lack of anything whatsoever reverberating amongst the dying tree trunks. Sure, there was a muted metal clink from the three-score adventurers who were following her lead through the dying forest… but not even they had the audacity to speak out loud. And in the meantime, the macabre quiet cocooned by the comatose canopy threatened to throttle the life out of all who walked within.

“Come on,” Nerdanel whispered to her sister, slightly repentant for her earlier asperity. The two Rangers started forth once again, their senses peeled for any sign… anything, whatsoever. The elder elfmaiden in particular remained on full alert. For there was a nagging feeling in the back of her mind, pure instinct if you will, that their every move was being watched and carefully catalogued.

***

Ingwe trudged along amongst the rear ranks of the main body of warriors, experiencing the same claustrophobic oppression that so frustrated the elf sisters in the vanguard. But it was neither the enclosed confines of the forest that preyed upon him so, nor was it the panic that was slowly spreading its way throughout his system as his mind grew distressed by his surroundings. Similarly to Nerdanel, it was the absolute silence that distressed him the most, as it was a sure sign that everyone present – man, elf, dwarf, and even half-ogre – was experiencing the exact same sense of dread. The horrible calm was more than enough to bring to life any stray demons lurking within their minds.

“I dinnae like this,” Telchar finally spat from alongside him, but even the greybeard’s characteristic grumble did not reach far beyond Ingwe’s ears. It was as if the forest itself was throttling all sounds from within, emphasising the terror that was the sensation of being slowly strangled and cut off from life. Ingwe could only nod mutely in response, his throat abjectly refusing to voice agreement.

Stray thoughts niggled at the back of his mind, random musings about his family back in Nippon – I wonder what they’re doing now – and more concerned thoughts about the friends that he had chased over to the west – I hope they’re all okay… It was no surprise though, that the majority of his doubts were concentrated upon the now and the present. The horribly trancelike tranquillity worked wonders in multiplying his worries a thousand-fold, until they filled his head like loud persistent music, contrasting greatly with the utter silence that flooded his ears.

He couldn’t let these people down. For some reason they were looking to him for leadership – How did that happen, anyways…? – and thus it had become his responsibility to see them safely back to Anebrilith and reunited with Lord Arminas and the main body of the Legion. The burden bore down heavily upon his inexperienced shoulders, until every step forward seemed far more wearying than even his wounded body should have made it.

Ingwe sighed softly and reached up to push his glasses back up his nose; it was a sure sign of his anxiety to those who knew him well. It was obvious to his mind that their situation was nowhere near ideal. They had been forced into taking a route that none of them would ever have taken under normal circumstances, due to the constraints imposed by the necessity to reach safety before dusk, and the forest was a prime location for an ambush even with the two Rangers leading the way. What was more, it was highly unlikely that they would be allowed to progress much further unmolested. If the attack of the fellbats had been any indication, the necromancer did possess some forces capable of daytime activity, and it would not be too difficult even for some underling commander eager for glory to divine the exact location and numbers of the shipwrecked few.

A darting peek skywards confirmed the worst of his fears. The sun had all but disappeared now beyond the thick branches, and it was impossible to determine the exact time of day, or perhaps more importantly how long they had until sundown. He couldn’t even see his familiar, although a faint touch on his consciousness told him that the gyrfalcon remained close by. The situation, if anything, was steadily deteriorating further into extremely dangerous grounds.

No, it won’t be much longer now… Ingwe thought to himself, fingering his travel pouch nervously. At least he felt that he had recovered to the extent that he could wield a blade once again, although he would be wary of calling upon his magic just yet. The dangers of miscasting far outweighed the potential risk of having his head explode like an over-ripe watermelon.

Little did he know that Nerdanel’s instincts had not been lying. The band of adventurers was indeed being watched.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Elsewhere, at the same time…

“There is movement within the eastern forests, m’lord…”

High-pitched and sibilant was the voice that resonated from deep within the folds of the hood, albeit raspy rather than serpentine. The dirty black raiment stretched into a single swathing robe whose one purpose seemed to be to conceal the physical characteristics of its wearer from any prying eyes. Up close, however, a perceptive person would be able to tell that the owner of the voice was short of stature, hunched of back, and probably not in the best of physical shape. The long gnarled staff that the man leant upon for support only added to the last impression.

He suffered from a constant throaty wheeze that almost always occupied his lungs when he was not speaking, and gave off a musty earthy smell that some people politely referred to as “elderly stench”. His robes were tattered at the hems and quite literally had not been washed for ages, whilst what glimpses one caught of his ankles and sandal-clad feet revealed bony and lifeless grey flesh. But this was no ordinary old man.

One could just about make out a hint of his sheet-white complexion, but there was no mistaking the blazing intensity of the chilly green eyes glaring out from the recesses of his shadow-wreathed face. Those with magical tendencies would immediately mark him out as one of rare power; those without would feel the emanating cold seeping through to their very bones, and often would not experience much more for much longer. His long ebony staff was decorated with arcane paraphernalia and blood-carved runes, an artefact of great and ancient power.

He had once been Archibald Winsom the Third, the prodigal eldest son of a long-respected aristocratic line. Now he was a powerful necromancer, one of many in the direct or indirect employ of the great netherlich Xem’zund. His old name had long since been abandoned, and presently he went by the simple moniker Ar’zhanekkar, which in some obscure archaic demonic language meant “the vengeful one”. He was an arrogant man, and proud; used to getting his own way and not used to defeat in any style or form.

On the other hand, the deference with which he had just spoken showed no signs of falsehood. There were only two entities in the entire mortal coil that Ar’zhanekkar addressed with such humble platitude; the first of these was Xem’zund himself. The second was the being that towered before him now.

Maeril Thyrrian had not been a large person in life. As a half-elf, his physique had always been on the slender and willowy side, and he had lacked in the pure physical brawn that had characterised some of the members of his small, obscure knightly order, the name of which was by now lost to the ages. Death, on the other hand, had treated him well, and musculature once constrained by genetic limitations now laughed at the puny rules imposed by nature. The heavy black plate armour he wore only served to further increase the sense of bulk and power that seemed to flow from his being.

Yet largest of all was not his mass or his armour but his sheer presence. The crystal cavern that he had commandeered as his base of operations was most certainly not a small one, but every square inch of it seemed to swelter in his icy dark aura. The gilded golden trim upon his armour shimmered with power; the intricately runed scabbard at his waist, of such size and splendour so as to defy all plausible logic as a side weapon, was barely able to contain a dull red arcanic glare. It was the helmet, though, that was the most fearsome of all he wore; enclosing his face completely except for sinister luminescent orbs where his eyes would once have been, it was moulded in the form of a permanent and eternal leer so terrible that weak-willed men had been known to die just by looking upon it.

Brave indeed was the man who gazed upon Maeril Thyrrian with no fear, brave or exceptionally foolhardy. For Maeril was a death knight, one of the deadliest of the ranks of the undead, and though he owed Xem’zund no allegiance or fealty, he saw the fall of Raiaera as something very much in line with his personal ambitions. His forces were not numerous but most definitely a cut above the usual undead rabble, and had already played a vital if understated role in the victories at Valinatal and Eluriand Gate.

The death knight took his time before replying to his underling, and when he did, it was a metallic hollow monotone deep enough to send the air in the cavern rippling.

“Oh?”

The power that he managed to inject into the single syllable was astounding. Even Ar’zhanekkar quailed briefly in the deepest of his dark hearts, and hastened to continue.

“A mixed group of adventurers, m’lord,” the necromancer spoke in an almost singsong manner, a stark contrast to the one he called master. “Mostly human, but with a couple of elves and even a dozen dwarves in their midst. They are perhaps sixty strong, a number of them already wounded. Warriors, sire, but not trained soldiers.”

The air in the middle of the cavern pulsated with puissant power and coalesced in form. Within moments, it had stabilised into a scarabs-eye view of the ragged band of adventurers as they made their way through the deserted forest. Maeril’s supernatural gaze flickered to take in various details – the elf rangers leading the way, the stretcher in the main body, the half-ogre who brought up the rear.

He shifted ever so slightly, causing an audible chink of armour to echo throughout the cave. Yet still the death knight did not respond beyond monosyllable.

“And?”

“M’lord, I ask permission to exterminate these intruders!” The other man was quick to rasp in answer, brandishing his staff aggressively. “They are a blight upon the beauty of the Dark Lord Xem’zund’s plague, an eyesore upon the majesty of your honour! With your benevolent blessing I shall quash them like the insignificantly puny insects that they…”

“They remind me of myself as I once was…” Maeril mused to himself in a voice that passed as quiet for him, clearly paying no heed to his agitated necromancer. His murmured words had the effect of cutting Ar’zhanekkar off in mid-sentence, strangling whatever else the man had been about to say into a hoarse, incomprehensible gargle. For a moment the scene was almost comical, as Ar’zhanekkar’s bloodlessly pale mouth hung open in something akin to shock.

If Maeril took notice of it, however, he most certainly did not let on otherwise.

“Kratos!” he called, the name reverberating decisively amongst the crystalline stalactites and causing them to shudder in agony. From the shadows at the far end of the cavern there was an answering flash of movement, and a lone form stepped forth from the gloom.

“You called, my lord?” the creature spoke, answering the summons with all the dull alacrity with which he might have answered the door in a previous life. A heavy mail hauberk obscured from view the tattered remnants of his clothes, the putrid rotting flesh hanging from his ribs and the gruesome bloodless wounds that had banished him beyond the realm of the living in the first place. One pallid eye stared out from a skeletal visage only partially framed by a rusty warhelm, completely devoid of spark with the exception of a faint flicker of intelligence retained within.

Kratos was a wight, an undead construct quite unlike the zombies and skeletal warriors that made up the majority of a necromancer’s horde. Their creation required the use of dark magics far beyond the capabilities of your average hedge mage, and thus they were the elite of Xem’zund’s army, easily able to best a trained bladesinger in single combat. Swearing loyalty only to powerful warrior figures, wights were extremely skilled fighters in their own right, and the one known as Kratos was the leader of Maeril’s personal retinue.

“Ah, Kratos,” Maeril was saying, a cold smile touching his lips as Kratos bowed stiffly and deferently. “I need you to do something for me.”

The wight lord ignored Ar’zhanekkar’s angrily slighted glare and concentrated instead upon Maeril’s instructions, taking in every last word as if it was law.

By the time the half-elven death knight had finished, the look upon Kratos’ face perfectly matched that of his liege.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Their situation began to deteriorate almost as soon as Ingwe had finished his dire thoughts.

The first signs of trouble started when wisps of mist began to roll in from in front of them. Like hungry fingers searching for something edible, the foggy tendrils rapidly crept around and about, until within the space of a minute or so the little party was completely surrounded by a thick blanket of unfathomable grey. Even the nearest tree trunks were indiscernible from the wall of blankness that draped itself over them, the Legionnaires instinctively bunching together for protection and so as not to lose sight of one another.

Immediately Nerdanel ordered a halt, her right hand held upright with fingers splayed wide. She sniffed warily, her eyes continuing to dart about from beneath her olive-green hood, catching the barest hint of rot and decay in the air. Cagily she stood her ground, a feline predator on the highest level of alert, her muscles tense and her body ready for any movement whatsoever. Her sister beside her mirrored the stance; although Selinde did not have Nerdanel’s experience or tracking sense, even the younger elf could tell when things were about to go horribly, horribly wrong.

Amidst the huddled circle of men, their uncertain murmurs smothered by the oppressive fog, Ingwe also stood his ground and probed his surroundings. There was the unmistakable, almost metallic tang of magic in the air; the mist was most certainly not a natural one. It took all of his concentration and willpower to maintain his focus, filtering conscious into surroundings in an attempt to discern the enemy’s next move. But his efforts were dampened and rejected by the roiling miasma, as effortlessly as a trained soldier would have warded a child’s blow.

“Do you sense anything?” Glorfindel asked from behind him as the rearguard caught up. The bladesinger, too, was cautious and on his guard, one hand resting lightly upon the hilt of his sword. Keen blue eyes peered into the distance, attempting to pierce the swollen mantle that surrounded them, but even they failed miserably.

“Nothing…” Ingwe replied at length, finally admitting that his puny and fatigued skills could not penetrate the work of what was obviously a skilled magic user.

“There is great evil at work,” was the elf’s curt response, emphasised by a wry grunt from the half-ogre Taggar and a bark of derisive laughter from Derthark who was nearby. “We must stand ready.”

“Lit them come!” the dwarven prince snarled, almost challenging the elf to defy him as he brandished his rune-encrusted weapon. “I’ll hae their heads upon mah axe!”

His kinsmen echoed the sentiment, howling deep-throated warcries into the mist as they dared whatever was waiting for them to show itself. The notable exception was Telchar, who remained carefully observant of his surroundings, murmuring something in his own tongue lightly under his breath.

Ingwe gave a rueful mental sigh. Part of him had been resigned to the fact that this would have happened sooner or later, although it would have been nice to make it to Anebrilith unscathed. He supposed, however, that he would have to give thanks to the dwarves and the unbridled ferocity with which they shouted insults at the encompassing fog, for at the moment it was literally the only thing that was keeping the men’s hearts from succumbing to fear.

“Form up about the stretcher!” he called, his youthful voice echoing hollowly about the unnaturally soundless trees, just about making himself heard above the dwarves. “Keep a wary eye out, for we have no idea what is to come.”

His orders were quite unnecessary, in fact, for the three score Legionnaires and seamen were already indeed doing just that. Still, he guessed, it never hurt to have a figure of “authority” confirm what you were silently keeping to yourself inside.

Gradually the dwarven warcries wound down into muted growls of defiance, swallowed whole by the unresponsive curtain of mist about them. Left in their wake was yet again that horrible, timeless silence, and the dreaded feeling of expectation and terror that consumed them as they awaited the unknown danger. How long they waited in that manner, motionless and unwilling to break formation for fear of attack, Ingwe did not know. Slowly, surely, he felt the duress begin to build amongst the trapped men, swelling and cresting as violently as any tidal wave.

Just as their minds were about to snap, however, Nerdanel let fly with a swiftly nocked arrow. There was a dull thud as it struck home amongst leathery flesh; in an elegant and graceful motion, the elvish markswoman drew another shaft from her quiver and loosed once again, the second arrow hitting home barely an inch from the first.

But the body did not hit the ground.

Low, lifeless laughter rumbled from about them, mirthless and merciless, the sound effectively multiplied by the all-encompassing fog. Not a few men looked wildly about them in search of the source; others tried to shut out the evil with dagger-like glares into the unknown. Ingwe’s gaze, however, was fixated upon the location at which Nerdanel had fired.

Vague outlines, wispy forms amongst the obscuring vapours… and then something stepped forth into view. An ancient spiked warhelm was the first object to materialise, followed by tattered remnants of a leather jerkin from which a pair of black-fletched arrows protruded, just above where the thing’s heart would have been. But it was obvious from the skeletal visage that leered at them grinningly, and from the bony fingers that wrapped themselves about the hilt of a chipped, serrated longsword, that the undead creation did not have such a mortal weakness any more.

There were gasps of horror from the assembled ranks of men, angry spitting growls from the bristling bearded dwarves to their fore. At that moment, it was brought home to those assembled, just exactly what they were going to face in their campaign against the necromancer Xem’zund. The fiend that stood before them now had so obviously been human, once… and a mighty, noble lord of men at that. Now, he was nought more than a puppet dancing upon another’s strings, a mere tool enslaved to the will of a being far beyond evil.

Ingwe did not consider himself to be an exceptionally brave person, but he was certainly no unblooded raw recruit, either. He had some poor skill with the blade – enough to go toe to toe with an experienced bladesinger for the best part of a night, at least – as well as decent knowledge of the arcane and an ability to make use of said knowledge. But even he felt his blood run chillingly cold and his brain freeze at the sight of his foe, his mouth suddenly dry as desert sands and his face as pale and lifeless as the one that he now faced.

As we are now, you will soon become… the visage seemed to whisper to him, menacing and almost inviting. For a moment, Ingwe found that he could not move, could not breathe, could not even lift a finger or force a whisper from his numb throat.

A sudden scream broke him out of his petrified reverie.

“H… Help…!”

It was the dark-haired huntsman from Scara Brae. Whilst their attention had been focused upon the undead foe that had appeared to the party’s fore, one of the wights had suddenly appeared in their midst from behind. Now it loomed like a vengeful dark god over the stricken man, its ethereal blade held high over its head ready to strike.

There was no time for thought, only for action. Without hesitation, shrugging off his paralysis with all the strength that he could muster, Ingwe threw himself forth.

“Sei…ya!”

The wight saw him coming and danced out of the way, Ingwe’s twin blades just about missing the undead creation’s head in his overextended lunge. His foe’s sidestep was so perfect, so precise, that it might have been the end for the Nipponese there and then if Glorfindel had not followed up on his movement. There was a sharp screech of metal on metal, the wight’s chill blade meeting the bladesinger’s cold steel as the former poised itself to take off Ingwe’s head.

The wight wailed in disappointment and slowly backed away from the elf, disappearing but moments later as it was swallowed whole by the swirling mists. For Ingwe, and for the huntsman on the ground, it was a welcome reprieve.

However temporary it was.

“Thank you…” Ingwe finally managed, pulling himself together. “I…”

“Don’t mention it,” Glorfindel cut him off, slicing the air with a clean swipe of his blade. “The worst is still to come.”

The wraithlike presences all around them only served to confirm that fact.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Muted chimes sounded in his ears, the ringing song of sword on sword as tempered steel danced against chipped iron. By all rights the wight blades should have shattered upon contact with the newer and better-forged weapons, but the ancient metal had been imbued with magic closely linked to the undead creations themselves. The ethereal longswords and axeheads glowed with a pale luminescent hue, barely discernible amongst the roiling mists. But as their wielders faded in and out of the veil-like curtain of fog, the wan flame was often the only warning that the Legionnaires had of impending attack.

A horrible shriek resounded from the opposite side of the tightly packed formation. A young man, one of the peasants who had signed up in Scara Brae, had seen a mistimed parry take him a step too far out of the protective circle. It proved a costly mistake as a ghostly spectre suddenly loomed over him, strips of rotting flesh visible from beneath the corroded nasal helm eliciting the wail of terror that had echoed painfully into the mist. The youthful adventurer’s comrades were still gathering their wits, still attempting to form the thoughts that would send them to his aid, when the leering wight struck.

The blade slid between sinew and bone with absurd ease, padded leather tunic offering no resistance whatsoever to the stroke. In one swift movement, the young man’s shoulder was cleanly pierced; even from his position on the far end of the circle, Ingwe could make out the tip of the sword emerging from the back of the vest. There was no spurting geyser of blood, no great howl of anguish, only a low agonised moan as pallid as the complexion that the Legionnaire now wore as the chill magic took effect.

His nearest comrade – a gnarled seaman as large as some of the great tree-trunks they fought amongst – finally found the strength to lash out with the massive battleaxe he wielded. The blow was frantic and clumsy, the wight dodging both it and the equally lumbering reverse swing with skilful ease. The undead warrior ducked low, tearing his blade free of his first victim and readying himself for another strike…

… but the seaman’s desperation had bought just enough time for Glorfindel to arrive upon the scene. Long, intricately braided hair flowed golden amongst the colourless veil as the bladesinger brought his sword to bear. Swift and elegant was the single stroke; merciless and sudden the result. The wight only noticed the elf behind him by the whistle of steel through air, and by then it was far too late.

In one faultless motion, what remained of the wight’s head was separated from its shoulders. A second, angry wail echoed amongst the obfuscated branches, and then the undead warrior disappeared in a slow explosion of dry dust and ancient tattered cloth. All that was left behind in its wake was the lone bladesinger, his eyes burning with fire as fell as any elflord of old. The shimmering watered-steel longsword at his side echoed the glow as it hung perfectly in the air, his pure white cloak fluttering gently behind him with the momentum of the strike. It was a scene that could have been drawn from any fine-woven Raiaeran tapestry, and it probably saved the lives of both the young peasant and the seaman.

“Take care of him,” Glorfindel calmly ordered the wide-eyed sailor, who could only nod stutteringly in speechless admiration. “And do not let your guard down, for Isha’s sake. I cannot hope to save all of you.”

No sooner had he finished speaking than did the sailor hasten to obey. In a smooth movement, the elf replaced his longsword in its scabbard; clear blue eyes scanned the tendrils of mist lapping at his feet as if daring them to attack him, and when they didn’t he turned away almost disappointed. It was then that Glorfindel noticed Ingwe’s thoughtful gaze upon the scene and began to shoulder his way through the mass of Legionnaires towards the warrior-mage.

Ingwe, for his part, had noticed something… strange, for lack of a better word, about the wight’s constant assaults. Despite their obvious advantage in strength and skill over the small band of shipwrecked survivors, they seemed to be content with teasing hit-and-run attacks that, whilst gradually wearing down the morale and stamina of the Legionnaires, had very little noticeable effect as of yet.

If they’re as confident as they should be in their ability… why do they hesitate…?

To the fore of the circle, or rather in the direction in which the party had once been headed, clustered the dwarves around their leader Derthark and the runelord Telchar. The venerable greybeard was now leading them in a slow, angry chant in guttural dwarven, a warsong that almost taunted their foes in its intensity.

But they haven’t attacked the dwarves yet… nor Glorfindel, Selinde, or Nerdanel, either…

A small frown formed upon Ingwe’s brow, his gaze still fixated upon where the wight had disappeared in an almost anticlimactic puff of smoke. Even when Glorfindel had managed to slip his way to where Ingwe stood, the Nipponese remained impassive and pensive, contemplating the spot with scholarly vigour.

“He will not last long without elvish medicine,” Glorfindel warned without so much as a by-your-leave, referring obviously to the young man who had just been stabbed. “Wight blades are imbued with magicks far beyond the capability of you or I to heal. We must get him to Anebrilith as soon as possible.”

“Captain Maximillian won’t survive unless we get there, either…” Ingwe murmured almost absently in reply, the pucker on his forehead growing in intensity as his mind concentrated upon churning through the simple facts.

Wights were amongst the most powerful of all undead, ancient warriors of great renown revived by evil magic to fight for their new masters. And yet…

That particular wight fell… rather easily...

Ingwe did not mean to belittle Glorfindel’s skill with the blade; quite the contrary, for he guessed that the wights had yet to directly attack the bladesinger because of their knowledge that the elf was perhaps the greatest warrior amongst the Legionnaires. But the warrior-mage had read much of the deeds of the heroes of old in their battles against the undead, and he knew of the immense effort and skill that had to go into the creation of such a powerful being as a wight. It had just been too…

“They’re playing with us.”

The realisation struck him like a thunderbolt from the heavens above, cleaving the mists that roiled about them like some angry sentient organism. As if on cue, a wan beam of sunlight shone through the branches, only briefly and barely sufficient to register upon his face, but enough for a second stroke of inspiration to hit.

“The mist…” Ingwe continued, ignoring Glorfindel’s look of bemusement in favour of replacing his tanto in their saya and casting a glance of revelation about him. “They’re using it not only to disorient us and to cover their movements, but also to protect themselves from what sunlight filters through to the ground. Wights are not renowned for their ability to fight during the day… they use this unnatural fog not only as cloak, but as protection as well.”

With every word, Ingwe’s confidence grew, and he was more and more sure of his deductions. But it was only when he looked back to the bladesinger, and saw the startled comprehension in Glorfindel’s eyes, that his hypothesis became a full-fledged theory.

“It would explain why the mists came in so fast. Truly, the enemy is despicably cunning…” the elf mused, just about hitting himself for not seeing it earlier. “Ingwe… can you…”

“I can try,” the warrior-mage replied quickly, although in truth he wasn’t exactly enthusiastic about the task. Such an undertaking would require an enormous amount of mana, channelled into a form that did not resemble a spell that he knew by heart. He would be wielding forces quite considerable, especially for an apprentice mage barely out of academy… and the risks were not to be underestimated, either. There was no easier way of popping one’s head like an overripe cherry than attempting to draw upon arcane power beyond one’s control. Especially in his current physical state, when his head still throbbed with every heartbeat and his back remained painfully sore from the raking wounds that the fellbats had inflicted.

And yet, for all his thinking, he could not see another solution to their current predicament. A clash of steel behind him warned him that another wight had tried its luck. It would not be long before fate or circumstance dealt them a bad hand and the undead gained the foothold amongst them that they seemed to be searching for.

“I will try,” Ingwe nodded, receiving a reciprocating gesture in reply.

“Hurry,” the bladesinger urged, quite unnecessarily, before dashing off to deal with the latest threat to their formation.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Alone once again, Ingwe breathed deeply of the rank air, feeling the sandy filth of necromancy tingeing the fog. The taint made him want to throw up, but it also gave him a much-needed medium to focus upon. His particular brand of magic relied upon siphoning power from either of two sources – the winds of magic that blew high in the skies above, or strands of mana that filtered through leylines in the earth below. The first was unfortunately out of the question at the moment, since he did not yet have the skill to draw upon winds obscured by a heavy dampening arcane fog. Which left the second method, but although Raiaera was a land rich in mana conduits, Ingwe did not have the time to prepare the rune circles that would be necessary to safely draw out the required power.

He would have to do it blind.

Another deep breath, his legs folded in a complex manner beneath him as he settled into his meditative trance. Ingwe forced his eyes closed against the clash of blades and the ferocious warcries that filled the outside world, ruefully aware of the fact that he was as defenceless as a naked toddler at the moment. But it was a necessary risk, and one that he undertook willingly.

Focus… control… he repeated to himself, compelling his mind to ignore the clamour of battle and the pains of his body, concentrating instead upon the mental balance vital for spellcasting to such an advanced degree. Focused mind… controlled soul…

A third deep breath and he began, channelling his aura through his surroundings in search of the particular leyline he would need. To his mind’s eye, the forest floor transformed itself into an intricate labyrinth of multi-coloured rivulets, each giving rise to a different form of arcane power. The mana ran slow here, no doubt adversely affected by the dark forces that plagued the vicinity, but to his great relief there was life in the land yet. There… he murmured to himself, homing in upon a thin strand of translucent white perhaps fifty metres to his right. This will have to do.

Tentatively he touched the stream with his mind, feeling its soothing coolness begin to slowly seep into his body. For a moment it was as if he was experiencing a hallucinatory illusion; he had a vision in his mind of flying, high in a free and border-less sky, with the sun on his face and the wind whispering about his ears. Instantly he reasserted control, almost cursing himself for the slip. But the sensation of a gentle breeze upon his face did not quite go away.

A fourth inhalation, sharp and pained. Something fought against him, something malevolent and sinister that obstructed his attempt to gather power. Another mage, perhaps, maybe even the same one that had cast the necromantic fog… or one even darker and stronger still. The mana was flowing too slowly into his control; the leylines had been corrupted beyond his recognition, and even as he drew upon that thin translucent rivulet, it was drying up before his eyes. He had not enough power to cast his spell, but more than enough to cause a backlash to annihilate the entire vicinity. And while that would be one way of ridding themselves of the wights…

I’d rather not rid ourselves of us, as well.

Desperately he sought for another source of power… another leyline of the same arcanic structure, a whiff of breeze from the skies above, anything that would help him complete the spell or safely release the accumulated magic. But there was nothing to be found, no sign of salvation for his despairing mind. He could almost hear the darkly evil laughter as it choked him of power, slowly cutting off the supply of mana that he drew upon. Thinner, thinner still it trickled into the helpless vessel that was his mind, until his fate literally hung by a single slender thread.

Is this…?

He floated amongst the throes of desolation, all his training and education rendered useless in the face of impending doom. His head felt like it had ballooned to ten times its normal size with the accumulated power, a destructive flood built up behind the dam that was his mind, with no safe outlet with which to release itself. The back of his eyelids pulsated red with every beat of his straining heart, every muted sensation upon his body magnified ten degrees by his increased awareness. His back felt like it was burning with the hammering pain, his sides aching with every laboured breath. He just about managed to keep sound and scent from interfering with his gradually degrading concentration, but he could not prevent scenes from his life passing before his eyes like a slideshow of framed landscapes, most frequently amongst them one face… her face…

No.

He couldn’t give up… he wouldn’t give up. There had to be a way…

There was always a way.

His mind hit inspiration.

Hayate!

Quick as flashfire he shifted focus, from the ground at his feet to the skies in which his familiar flew. Soaring high and free above the murky gloom of the fogbound forest, the white gyrfalcon gave a shrill, defiant call that pierced the gloomy mists like an arrow straight and true. Borne securely upon the white raptor’s wings, Ingwe hunted and found a source for the rest of the power he needed.

Wind of Ulgu, I thank you for your strength.

Moments later, and Ingwe’s eyes flashed open. They shone with power far beyond anything he had ever willingly wielded before, and they did so in the knowledge that perhaps by doing so, they would all be saved.

“Amakakeru kaze yo! Waga mae wo habamu kiri wo sake!”

[Flames of Hyperion]

At first, there was nothing, not even the faintest of murmurs amongst the interwoven branches overhead. Momentary silence hung as heavy as the fog around them, an unchanged impenetrable curtain draped about the trees.

Then there was a whisper of wind, the lightest feather of air stroking his cheek. More refreshing than any cool drink in the oppressive heat, more liberating than any set of keys in a packed prison.

For a moment he feared that his talent had been insufficient, that he had not managed to channel enough power into the spell, and that the single minute breathy breeze would be all he would be able to muster.

But finally, it blew. An ominous rumble in the trees behind them heralded its coming, the pre-emptive warning of the storm. Faces both living and not turned towards the sea, split seconds before the change actually happened.

And when it did, it did so with a powerful vengeance that surprised even Ingwe.

The arcane mist resisted… or at least, it tried to. It clung to the ground with insipid temerity, striving to the limits of its specifications to retain its protective shroud in the face of relentless assault. In the end, however, its ability to stand its ground was limited. There was only so much it could do in the face of such powerful fury.

Slowly, surely, the mist began to roll back.

Then, with a suddenness that shocked all present, the shroud lifted. Hints of bleak sunlight filtered through in its wake. And for the first time that terrible afternoon, the eyes of combatants who had been opposing each other for the last hour or so met without obstruction. As the howl of the wind died down, driving away the last vestiges of the fog with irresistible force, silence descended once more upon a grove occupied by horrified human mercenary and motionless undead warrior.

But not for long.

A blood-curdling battle cry echoed about the dying trees, let loose by a maddened dwarven prince and quickly taken up by his fellows. For a split second, all eyes focused on the mail-clad warrior at the very fore of the Legionnaire formation, an imposing, wrathful figure brandishing a massive rune-encrusted axe gilt in bright silver and burnished bronze. And all those present knew, in that one moment of absolute clarity amongst the hectic swirling din of battle, that there was to be no rest until their respective foe was routed.

With all the fury of the ancestor gods themselves, the dwarves led the charge against the suddenly exposed wights.

In the end, the undead warriors stood no chance. Their numerical disadvantage was not as great as Ingwe had dared to hope, but their tactics had left them scattered and exposed. The sudden removal of their protective shroud and the weakly penetrating rays of light from above caused them to falter for a split second, the magic that bound them to the location wavering and starting to fail. The dwarves, on the other hand, had no such compulsions.

With mighty shout and angry cry, axes rose and fell amongst withered skin and brittle bone. Ancient shields splintered and ornate armour sundered beneath the merciless rampage as the mountain-folk carved an ash-strewn swathe through the heart of the foes to their fore. They were too lost in their lust to coordinate their attacks or take note of the wights fading into oblivion to their rear, but for once neither Ingwe nor Telchar – who attempted to keep a loose reign on his comrades via a few bellowed commands – minded much.

As more and more of the Legionnaires piled in behind the naugrim, the brittle wight line began to break. Massive sweeps of Taggar’s polehammer shattered metal and bone in obliterating arcs, the half-ogre forging a steady path forwards. Glorfindel’s longsword sang a delicate song of death, accompanied by the whisper of Selinde’s shorter curved blade and the hum of Nerdanel’s bowstring. Steel flashed and armour glinted as men followed their leaders into the fray.

Inevitably, the dwarves won out. Derthark was the first to roar in triumph when he broke free of the encircling wights. The euphoria spread like an infectious contagion as the remaining wights either were brought low in angry fervour or disappeared as wispy sand into the last remnants of the mystical mist. Resounding mightily about the malnourished trees, the cries were a defiant reminder that there was still hope for the forces of light even in this most desolate and grief-struck of places.

Only a handful remained silent, and of these, all were injured in some form or another. Ingwe was amongst this number, slowly pulling himself to his feet in the abandoned wake of the Legionnaire charge, spectacles askew upon the very tip of his nose as his royal blue cloak fluttered forlornly in the last vestiges of the magic he had wrought.

Thank the gods it worked… was the only thought he could muster, the single phrase repeating itself again and again in his mind. He shuddered to think of what would have happened if…

“Ingwe?” a concerned voice seemed to reach out to echo within the confines of his head. The warrior-mage in question belatedly realised that the rest of the world seemed to be moving at a far faster pace than he. A wry smile wreathed the corners of his mouth as he sought to clear the cobwebs from his mind. Eyes focused in agonising slow motion, upon the cascade of golden hair and the pretty elf maiden hovering over him.

“We… have to press on…” the young man finally managed, his weary voice barely more than a hoarse croak. By this time he had taken two stumbling steps forward, somehow mustering the strength not only to remain upright but also to stand just a little bit taller. Both Glorfindel and Telchar joined Selinde in cautiously hovering at Ingwe’s side, though all three knew better than to offer any aid.

The Nipponese closed his eyes once, drawing deep upon the last remaining untapped source of energy within his soul. When he opened them again and spoke, everything had cleared up somewhat, from the blurry fuzz in his peripheral vision to the poignant weakness in his throat.

“We have to get to Anebrilith,” he said, glancing at those of his brethren who slumped upon the shoulders of their comrades or were borne upon makeshift stretchers. Dry lips pursed tightly as he realised that what weak sunlight filtered through the thick branches overhead did so at a distinct angle. Time was running out.

“We must press on…” Ingwe repeated, and none, not even the gravely wounded and exhausted, dared to contradict him.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Their run became a headlong flight, a race against the lengthening shadows that grasped at their feet like soulless wraiths. Man, elf, dwarf, half-ogre… each and every one of the Legionnaires and their attached sailors put their heads down, grimly gritting their teeth against their fears and against the overwhelming sense of being swallowed whole by the darkness at their backs. The injured were helped along either upon makeshift stretchers or the supportive shoulders of their comrades, desperately making for the only hope of survival that was the setting sun and the besieged elven city that lay beneath it.

Amongst their midst was one Ingwe Helyanwe, his face even paler than usual as he literally forced his body onwards against the pain. His back felt like it was on fire, his sides throbbing with the protracted strain, but it was the chilling numbness in his limbs and the floating sensation clouding his mind that scared him the most. From time to time he would bite his lips, drawing a trickle of fresh blood down his chin as he fought the weakness that corrupted him, although he didn’t quite realise that it was the hand that clasped the warm pendant on his chest that drew the strength to keep him going. His blue cloak flowed behind him as he sped amongst his men, patches of stark crimson staining his white apprentice tunic, his spectacles perched precariously upon the very tip of his nose. Neither Glorfindel nor Telchar were ever very far from his side, but to Ingwe’s credit, not once did he need their assistance.

At length, when the sun hung low like a fiery orb amongst the canvas of rose-tinted cloud and bright purple sky that was twilight in this part of Raiaera, the ragged company drew themselves up for a mutual rest. The forest had finally thinned out once more, allowing the exhausted soldiers and sailors room to breathe again. They had entered amongst the thick trunks as barely-blooded amateurs; now, the numerous bandages they wore and the haunted looks in their eyes bore evidence to the fact that they had been forged into fully seasoned warriors.

Before them stretched a stone-strewn expanse of abandoned farmland, leading seamlessly into the outer city that lay at the feet of the mountains. Anebrilith proper crowned the highest of the foothills, mighty whitewashed walls protecting graceful towers and spires soaring tall into the evening sky. Closer to hand, the famed Harbour Walls ran down from the hill towards the sea upon their left, the beating, bleeding lifeline of Raiaera’s oldest city.

It did not take long to hit home that this was a city under siege. The outer villages and suburbs had obviously been abandoned in a hurry, and were now a lifeless shadow of their former bustling selves. The walls and towers defending the inner city bore the unmistakable scars of the attention of siege engines, piles of rubble at their base and makeshift repairs upon previously immaculate white evidence to where they had shrugged off the assault. The Harbour Walls in particular were grimy and bloodstained, site of what was obviously a fierce struggle for dominance.

It was good that we did not emerge any closer to the sea… Ingwe realised with a start, breathing a muted sigh of relief at the unexpected reprieve. Plumes of dark smoke rose from the evening campfires of Xem’zund’s human auxiliaries, noticeably thicker about the Harbour Walls than surrounding the city proper. It didn’t require a strategic mastermind to figure out where the main assault was taking place.

“The sun sets early for this time of year,” Glorfindel murmured from behind him, and Ingwe spared a glance in time to catch a wisp of nostalgia and worry flickering on the elf’s normally impassive face. This darkness threatens to overwhelm all… were the words he left unsaid.

“Do… you think… we’ll make it…?” Ingwe replied through heavy gasps for breath, leaning for much-needed support against a tree. He noted enviously that the bladesinger barely seemed to be sweating. And probably wouldn’t have been even if he’d been injured, such were his uncanny levels of stamina and fitness. Behind his words, on the other hand, was a more serious concern; after all, there would be very little to reap from all their efforts so far if they were to stumble at this last hurdle. Ingwe’s quiet fears underlay both his lack of experience in “command” and his lack of confidence in himself.

“We should,” the elf replied absently, still half lost in memories of his home city. “There’s no telling how many foes lie in wait between here and the city gates… judging by the fires, though, we may be able to get through unnoticed if we’re careful. I doubt the city commanders would be sitting still behind the walls, either… if we’re lucky, we may even come across friendly forces.” Only then did Glorfindel notice the look of abject apprehension upon Ingwe’s face. “We’ll make it,” he hastily added. “We’ll…”

The sudden faint thunder of hooves upon the hard barren ground caught their attention, as well as that of all else present. Instinctively the Legionnaires drew close, readying their weapons and setting weary faces in grim determination. None had any idea of what was approaching, but events recently imprinted into tautly strung minds caused them to choose to err on the side of caution.

A moment’s pause as the noise grew ever closer. Then…

“Elnaith!” came Nerdanel’s shout from the branches overhead.

Elnaith! The legendary cavalry of Tor Elythis, renowned as the Silverwind for the glittering ithilmar scale worn by both horse and rider, for the speed with which they rode upon their foes and for the devastation they sowed in their wake. Proud and noble, the flower of the island colony’s professional armies, the elnaith were the most feared unit of elven cavalry upon the entire continent.

“Let’s hope they’re here tae help,” Telchar rumbled darkly from alongside Glorfindel as he rested his venerable head upon the haft of his runehammer. From the looks that his fellows gave the approaching contingent of horse, he was not alone in his doubts; even as the humans relaxed and some even mustered a ragged cheer at the stirring sight, the dwarves continued to finger their axes. “Let’s hope they’re nae here for our heads.”

Ingwe barely had time to send the runelord a questioning glance before the elnaith halted and drew themselves up as one, a fifty-strong column of precise perfection. The twilight sun gave their glinting mail a reddish sheen, the light dancing off the tips of their long slender spears and reflected in their tall winged helms. Their standard fluttered proudly in the slightest of breezes drifting in from the sea, a delicately woven motif of silver white, deep blue, and brightest gold depicting the winged sword of justice as it descended upon their foes.

From the head of the column alongside the banner-bearer, a single horseman guided his mount forth. He was clad in mail even more intricate than that of the men he led, his shield an ancient artefact bearing the same device as the standard, and the sword at his side radiating power even through its jewelled scabbard. Both items were obviously imbued with great magic. The elf’s face from within the protection of his helm was a shining beacon of purity and nobility, the very personification of the powerful elflords of old.

“Hail and well met!” he called, dipping his lance slightly in greeting but not duplicating the gesture with his head. “I would speak to those who lead you.”

Almost immediately the Legionnaires parted, and Ingwe was conscious of the fact that the elven commander’s eyes were briefly upon him. The young man flushed an unhealthy colour, somehow drawing himself upright and bowing back in polite acknowledgement. To his right he could sense Glorfindel doing the same, although Telchar beyond settled for a curt grunt and nod, almost uncharacteristic of the diplomatic dwarf. Ingwe shuddered to think what Derthark would have done in the runelord’s stead given the obvious animosity; fleeting visions of rude gestures and flying spittle did little to improve things.

“I am Turgon Elanesse, High Prince of Tor Elythis and commander of the elnaith,” the mounted elf introduced himself, with a bare hint of the condescending arrogance that his folk were known for. It was his next words, however, that caused the entire of contingent of Legionnaires to flinch as if they had been slapped in their collective face, for though they were spoken elegantly enough, their import was nothing short of demoralizing. “I bid you leave these lands immediately, for there is naught to be found here but death.”

Ingwe exchanged a startled glance with Glorfindel; beyond, he could see Telchar’s expression begin to storm over even further. Hadn’t Arminas arrived at Anebrilith already and explained everything? Were they not to be welcomed into the city, if not with open arms then with at least some civility?

Furthermore, the more Prince Turgon spoke, the more it was clear that he was addressing Glorfindel in particular, and almost completely ignoring both Ingwe and Telchar. Ingwe could fully understand, almost envy, the dark glower that Telchar wore, although he kept his own features carefully neutral if very confused.

As to the High Prince’s words… but one look about the assembled Legionnaires reinforced the fact that there was no possible way that they would even contemplate the idea of going back. The dangers of the route from whence they had just come and the currently unsalvageable wreck that was the Warspite notwithstanding, there was the minor fact that each and every man present had volunteered in support of a cause that, whilst not their own, held great importance to each and every one of them in their own individual ways. Squire, peasant, merchant’s son and village farmer… they had all been persuaded by Lord Arminas to fight against Xem’zund, for Raiaera, for Scara Brae, and for all the free folk of the world. They had come this far. There was no way that they could turn away now.

All this and more passed from the faces of those present into Ingwe’s mind, via the fiercely determined gazes that met his eyes. A second glance exchanged between the Nipponese warrior-mage and the Anebrilithian bladesinger who stood beside him, and Glorfindel nodded slowly, thoughtfully, even appreciatively, in acquiescence. The elf stepped forward to answer; his stance as he returned Turgon’s haughty stare was no less noble, no less regal. Wisps of golden hair ranging free of their braids danced freely in time with the evening breeze. To those of the Legionnaires that had been saved by Glorfindel’s exploits in the forest, they were a battle banner all their own.

“I am Glorfindel, of the house of Tinehtele,” he spoke, his voice gentle and deferential, and yet somehow equally as imposing as that of the elflord he addressed. “Before the war started, I was sent from Anebrilith on a mission of little consequence… as a result, I was trapped away from the city when the necromancer’s hordes surrounded it. I have since made it my duty to return with what force I could muster to the aid of my home. With the assistance of Lord Arminas Ereinon, I have been able to do so… rest assured that I will reach the city at any cost, with your aid or without.”

As Glorfindel began his tale, Turgon’s thin lips had pursed in a pensive line; upon hearing Arminas’ name, a faint flicker of distaste ran across his delicate, hawkishly handsome features.

“Arminas?” the elnaith commander murmured almost questioningly to himself. “ I haven’t had the pleasure of addressing him since he abandoned…” The rest of his words were lost, but Ingwe sighed with appreciation and almost allowed his injury-fatigued body to relax as the missing piece of the puzzle fell into place. Turgon’s patrol had most likely not returned to the city since dawn; the white hides of the elven steeds were paler than usual with exhaustion, while there was a drawn pallor in the faces of the elnaith that even their honed skills and experience could not quite disguise. The Prince had not yet heard of Arminas’ coming. Consequently, there was little way he could have known of Glorfindel, Ingwe, and the other stragglers.

“I appreciate your efforts, bladesinger, but my advice…” – emphasis on the last word, stressing that it was as close to an order as Turgon was going to give to an almost complete stranger – “… still stands. These lands are not safe, especially at night. Not even the outer city remains free of the necromancer’s taint. His human minions and zombie hordes are the least of your worries. The ghosts of the fallen return once more to this place, to mourn their loss and to entice other, more fortunate souls to…”

“You couldn’t even provide the proper funeral rites!?” an aghast voice exclaimed from above, and for the first time Turgon became aware of the two Rangers in the branches above his head. In particular, as he tilted his head back to glare at the ill-mannered interruption, he took note of Selinde’s angry blue eyes staring down at him, undaunted.

“There was no time,” he replied, matching cold fire with cold fire in the subtle nuances of his voice. The look that he gave the young elfmaiden could only be described as withering, so dense was the scorn and distaste poured into it at her obvious incomprehension of the situation. But still Selinde was unafraid… and Ingwe thought he caught a hint of… was it shame? … in Turgon’s reaction.

Only the slightest whiff of evening breeze knew the truth for certain, as it raced off the sea and skimmed the edge of the tree line past the motley parley, rustling branch, breeze, banner, and braid alike. And then it, too, was gone… off to chase the crimson-tinted clouds and their blood-red master beyond the twilight horizon.

[Flames of Hyperion]

The brief silence that followed was disquieting in the utmost. Turgon’s cold gaze dismissed Selinde and her wordless sister in the branches above, passing over the glowering dwarf and the injured human just as fleetly before settling once again upon Glorfindel. The prince regarded the bladesinger as if weighing the latter’s soul, doubtless debating the merits of the decision he was about to make. Glorfindel returned the stare with a sincere determination that only mirrored that of all the others around him.

At length, Turgon nodded curtly. “I would be honoured if you would accompany us to the citadel, Glorfindel, along with your two Ranger companions.” With a slight toss of his head, he indicated the leafy treetop. “My advice to the rest of you remains the same. Leave this area immediately… it is not safe for you here.”

Telchar’s angry bark and Ingwe’s pained gasp of disbelief were drowned out by the hue and cry that the words caused amongst the Legionnaires. The dwarves in particular were brandishing their weapons and howling for blood, held in check only by Derthark’s demands that the “pointy-eared poncy maggot elfling” meet him in honourable single combat… demands that, needless to say, Turgon utterly ignored. The look on the half-ogre Taggar’s face, in the meantime, would have quailed the dead hearts of a thousand warrior wights.

“We cannot afford to feed the mouths of more of humankind, much less the bottomless pits of the dwarves,” Turgon continued, oblivious to the hullabaloo and completely disregarding the renewed demands for his head – amongst other, less savoury insults – in guttural dwarvish. Part of Ingwe had to admire the elflord’s composure as he half-turned his mount away from the three leaders; he could even understand somewhat the duress that had forced the decision, although by no means did he agree with it.

The other part, the vast majority of his mind in fact, was overwhelmed by disappointment. They had travelled so far, come so near, only to be greeted by the oh-so-familiar barriers of racial and professional prejudice. High Prince Turgon was a veteran warrior and an elf; the vast majority of the Legionnaires were amateurish humans or, even worse in Turgon’s eyes, dwarves.

But they could not give up now. To do so would be to admit defeat, not only to those traditional prejudices, but also in the greater context of the war against Xem’zund as well.

Ignoring the thundering pulse of blood pounding in his ears, Ingwe drew himself up to full height, his eyes blazing with renewed intensity. The agony the movement caused, disguised expertly behind the first true signs of anger that the scholarly Nipponese allowed to show upon his features, almost caused him to miss Glorfindel’s reply to Turgon’s invitation.

“I must respectfully decline, m’lord,” the bladesinger spoke, although the tone of his voice gave lie to the politeness of his words. A surge of gratitude and pride welled up through Ingwe’s veins. Glorfindel had not abandoned the Legion. There was hope yet.

Turgon didn’t have to look skywards to know that both Rangers felt the same. He paused for a moment, tugging on the reins and causing his mount to shimmy nervously. The look he gave Glorfindel was long and hard, re-evaluating and – once again – coldly disapproving.

“Very well,” he acknowledged at length, sending chills running down Ingwe’s spine at the finality of his words. “It is your decision.”

With that injunction, he turned his mount on its heels and began to slowly, almost arrogantly, trot away.

“Wait!”

The word forced itself from Ingwe’s lips before he could censor it, blurting out into the early spring evening like spilt ale. There was a hint of a tremolo about them that revealed his anger and emotion; it was no wonder that the elven prince ignored him completely. On the other hand, the eyes of the Legionnaires all turned to Ingwe’s slight battered form. He could feel the weight of their expectations ramming into him like a hundred sledgehammers. Even if he had wanted to, it was too late to turn back now.

Somehow he forced his frozen feet to move; one step, another, and then a barely-controlled lunge that brought him out in front of the slowly retreating Turgon. The contrast between the two warriors could not have been more complete. Turgon was a shining paragon of elven chivalry, a knight without peer and a renowned war leader. His mail glittered like a thousand mirrors, each reflecting the rays of the dying sun in all its brilliance, whilst the swept wings on his helm and the elegant gilding upon his weapons showcased the very finest of elven craftsmanship. Ingwe, on the other hand, was dark and drab, unremarkable in the slightest, even counting the spectacles that slipped unhappily down his sweaty nose. His cloak was bloodstained and torn, his formerly white tunic muddy and travel-worn, and the twin swords strapped to his back plain and utilitarian. But there was just a little something, something intangible and barely defined, about the young man who now barred the elflord’s path.

“Please, wait…” Ingwe repeated, and this time Turgon deigned to look down upon the outlander who dared to defy him so.

The High Prince was known amongst his folk as a master of sword and spear; what was less known but equally useful to the elflord was the fact that, like many of his brethren, he had a natural aptitude for the arcane arts. Hence it was that Turgon could sense the faint trickle of power coursing through Ingwe’s body, keeping him standing when by all rights he should have been lying upon a stretcher like one or two of the other humans. Perhaps it was respect for this fact, or perhaps it was just simple curiosity; in any case, Turgon’s reaction surprised many who were present and watching.

“What is it, human?” he asked, staring down from his vantage point at the dark-haired warrior-mage instead of simply pushing past regardless.

To Ingwe, those eyes seemed frigid and disdainful. But he had dealt with such attitudes many times before, not only from the elves, and he was not fazed.

“I would ask you to reconsider,” was his swift rejoinder, bowing his head low in polite entreaty. He heeded not the rush of blood to his face as his ears pounded with every heartbeat, even his own words barely audible now. When a suitable moment of pause had passed without a reply, he continued.

“We have travelled a long and perilous way in order to stand by your side against the hordes of Xem’zund. The ship that brought us here lies a mangled wreck upon the headland beyond this forest. We were only just able to fight our way this far… to send us away now would be to condemn us all to death.”

Ingwe indicated the numerous wounded and exhausted members of the company, but Turgon’s hard glare did not deviate for an instant. As the warrior mage had feared, there was not even a hint of sympathy within their icy blue.

“I beg of you to allow us to enter the city. Lord Arminas…” – again, the distinct flutter of distaste across Turgon’s flawless features – “… will have arrived at Anebrilith by now, with the rest of our relief force as well as what supplies we could carry. We may not be the best of warriors, but it is our honour to fight against Xem’zund with what courage and skill we can muster.”

“The answer remains no,” Turgon replied brusquely when Ingwe paused for breath. “Who you are and why you are here is none of my concern. I cannot let you into the city.”

This time, the elven prince did guide his horse past the stricken warrior-mage. Ingwe’s gaze was riveted to the ground in front of him, eyes brimming with anger and frustration and the bitter taste of failure. Even as the brilliant silver mail slowly passed through his peripheral vision, he was unable to find any words to speak further.

With a roar of reckless fury, unable to contain his boiling blood any longer, Derthark leapt forth with axe held high. With surprising speed the ironclad dwarf covered the distance to the elnaith commander, a bullish leap and a bound bringing him into striking range…

… but then Telchar was at his side, one gnarled hand firmly clasping the haft of his prince’s weapon and preventing the stroke from falling. The elnaith banner bearer had been almost as quick to react, kicking his steed into a swift trot. A flash of steel after Telchar had grasped hold of Derthark’s axe, the rider’s sword was at the latter dwarf’s throat.

A brief, tense moment of silence as both sides steadied themselves for battle, hands dangerously close to weapons. It was obvious that the elnaith would slaughter the Legion if it came to combat… but many of the soldiers were by now beyond caring.

Yet to fight amongst themselves would only serve to further Xem’zund’s cause. And despite his animosity towards Turgon, Telchar would not allow that to happen.

“Sae much fur elven hospitality,” the runelord growled, his voice dripping wry sarcasm as he grimly glared down the elnaith standard bearer. An impassive pair of brown eyes matched him equally; a few edgy seconds later, the sword was removed from its threatening location and returned to its sheath. “Den again, ah would’nae hae expected any mair from th’ Butcher of Tor Elythis.”

Turgon waited until he had rejoined his men before replying, indicating to his second-in-command to return to ranks with a swift hand gesture. The rider spun his mount gracefully on its heels, leaving only angry shock upon Derthark’s face in his wake.

“It seems that the naugrim have yet to learn manners as well,” the High Prince countered, the frigid ice in his words every bit as severe as the expression upon Telchar’s face. “You do nothing that makes me regret my decision in the slightest.”

The thunderous charge of hooves soon echoed from behind Ingwe’s tattered back as the elnaith moved out. But the Nipponese warrior-mage was aware of only the feeling of utter failure as their greatest hope of survival abandoned them in the twilight wasteland.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Nobody could bring themselves to say anything in the immediate aftermath of the elnaith’s departure. Telchar kept a firm hand upon the haft of Derthark’s axe, glowering after the retreating elves; the dwarven prince, on the other hand, still wore the expression of angry shock that had appeared when the banner bearer’s blade tickled his neck. Nerdanel’s features remained as unfathomable as ever behind the hooded mask she wore, but her sister had been obviously greatly unsettled at Turgon’s news about the outer city, and even now peered out towards the abandoned buildings, upset and distressed. Glorfindel watched the elnaith leave with a curious look that mixed regret and disgust in equal measure, before transferring his gaze towards the solitary figure in the middle of the clearing.

Ingwe had not moved an inch since Turgon had pushed past him, so heavy was the disappointment that wracked his injured and fatigued body. Lines furrowed in his brow and a vein pulsed in his temple as he fought to contain the frustration, his wide-eyed bloodshot gaze downcast upon the parched, defiled ground. His belongings in their haversack at his feet seemed to mock his inability to secure their safety. It was nothing short of a miracle that he did not succumb to the darkness that clouded his mind, that he did not fall to his knees, so weak did his legs feel. As the faint breeze died down around him, rustling his sweat-damp hair one last time, his stomach was sickened by the thick aura of evil that pervaded his surroundings and swamped his senses.

“It was not like you, Master Telchar, to use such angry words…” Glorfindel spoke, his dulcet tones echoing melodiously if hollowly about the silent gathering. He glanced towards the runelord, who blinked once as if startled, then finally released the haft of Derthark’s axe from its vice-like grip. The heavy weapon struck the ground with a dull thud, half-burying the keen head in the hard dirt through sheer weight alone.

“Mah apologies, bladesinger,” the dwarf replied heavily, letting loose a sigh that threatened to tear off his beard. “Turgon of Tor Elythis has a bad name amongst our folk. Ah allowed mah emotions tae get th’ better of me.”

Another dark pall settled amongst the despondent Legionnaires, none of the soldiers willing to disturb those who led them, who in turn were lost in collective thought. With every passing moment, the sun dropped lower and lower in the sky until it hung over the mountains in the west as if suspended there by a single thread. In the end, it was the dark-haired hunter from Scara Brae who brought them back to their senses.

“So…” he began, clearing his throat nervously when he realised just how loud his voice sounded. But the shadows were lengthening dangerously now, and he knew that they now had precious little time to waste. “What are we to do…?”

Glorfindel looked up briefly, his long golden hair dancing. Telchar mirrored the motion, grunting a gentle grunt as he turned to face the city walls in the distance. In the tree above, Selinde broke out of her moody reverie to take a sudden interest in the conversation. But it was obvious by their silence that neither of the three could bring themselves to reply.

To stay where they were meant certain death as soon as Xem’zund’s dark minions stalked the night. As it was, it was almost a miracle that they had not been assaulted again by any other of the roving bands of human auxiliaries or necromantic retinues in the lich’s service. Not to mention that if the faceless necromancer who had supported the wights in the forest wanted to finish them off… he would be waiting for dusk to fall. He would not make the same mistake twice… there would be no mercy this time.

To attempt a retreat towards the stranded ship would be an equally futile action… if anything, it would make an inevitable death even more likely. The city walls were dangerous enough, besieged as they were by the undead horde, but to leave their shadow would be courting disaster… annihilation, even.

In the end there was, really, only one real choice open to them. No matter how dangerous it would be.

“We have to approach the city.”

Perhaps it was a surprise, perhaps it was predestined, but in the end it was Ingwe who finally gave voice to the foregone conclusion. The Nipponese still stood in the middle of the assembled half-circle of Legionnaires, still teetering as if the faintest of winds would carry him off his feet. But he had shifted slightly from a moment ago – one hand had reached up to clasp the pendant at his chest – and his voice sounded as if it had, once again, found a source of strength to draw upon. His words were neither as commanding as Turgon’s nor as imposing as Glorfindel’s, and they certainly did not carry half as much power as Telchar’s. But there was a quiet intelligence, a sincere determination about the gentle tones that, in their own unique way, inspired all that were listening.

“We’ll have to risk the outer city… until we reach the gates. Once we’re there… Lord Arminas should be able to smooth things out with the city guard. With any luck…” His words came in ragged clusters, each punctuated by a short pause for breath. If any of the Legionnaires had looked closely, they would have noticed the dry streaks upon his cheeks where the hot silent tears had coursed. His eyes were clear now, though, and there was no trace of doubt within them any more.

Glorfindel watched the human speak, silhouetted as he was by the rays of the dying sun behind him. The bladesinger’s keen elf-sight saw through the pooled shadow to Ingwe’s fore and caught the gleam of hope’s last proverbial throw of the dice in the young man’s face. The elf smiled, a soft, almost wistful smile to himself. Ingwe Helyanwe never ceased to amaze him.

“The gate guards may be more susceptible to persuasion. If they recognise my face, they may let us in, even if Lord Arminas has been unable to get word out yet.” If Ingwe’s words had given the men a spark of hope, Glorfindel’s fanned the flames until it was grasping at straws. All present respected the elf greatly, with more than a handful owing their lives to the bladesinger, and his defiance of the elnaith commander had only further increased their admiration. Downcast faces began to look up, daring to believe. “In any case, I concur with Ingwe… approaching the city is our only chance.”

“Well, what ur we waitin’ fur, ‘en?” Telchar rumbled, hefting his runehammer to his shoulder with a muted grunt. “Ah ne’er did like trees, anyways.”

A roar of approval resounded from the dwarven camp, and suddenly the entire band of Legionnaires was in complete agreement.

“I must warn you beforehand… this will not be an easy task…” Ingwe cautioned in a hurry, but by now, fears had been quashed and loins girded. The dark-haired huntsman summed things up best when he replied,

“Pshaw. We’ve followed you this far, Ingwe Helyanwe of the east. And it hasn’t exactly been a cakewalk so far, either.” He laughed, weary but hearty, and it was taken up by those around him. “Our goal’s in sight, we’re not going to give up now. Bring it on, I say. We’ll get through.”

There was nothing Ingwe could do but to bow silently in gratitude, trying to contain the fresh flood of tears that threatened to breach his eyes. He still had no idea how he had come to be considered the leader of this motley assembly of volunteers, and he still had even less confidence in his abilities to actually do so. But the time for such reservations was past now… there was naught left for it but to do his utmost and to hope for the best. He sensed a fleeting smile of encouragement upon the back of the neck; Ingwe looked up in time to briefly match gazes with Selinde before she indicated forwards and disappeared with her sister to scout the immediate road ahead.

A deep breath of the musty twilight air.

Then, once again, he thrust the throbs and pains of his battered body to the rear of his mind, focusing only upon what was necessary for the danger ahead. His tanto rested easy in their saya upon his shoulders; the pouch at his waist contained the scrolls that he would have to call upon now that his mind really did not feel capable of any more spellcasting. The brief rest had done much to reinvigorate his limbs, at least to the point where they seemed able to obey his mental commands now. He was as in as good shape as he could expect to be, he supposed. So long as he could maintain his focus… so long as he could hold on.

Five minutes later, Selinde reported back that the way ahead seemed to be clear for now. With that news, the ragged, fatigued band of survivors set off on the last leg of their journey to safety.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Only a faint glowing halo remained to the west, vaguely outlining the ruined buildings and giving to the small band of stragglers the frail hope that the sun had not yet set. Shadows like silent stealthy stalkers nipped at their heels as they travelled as quickly as they dared through the abandoned outer city. Closer, ever closer the buildings behind them were swallowed into darkness, and with that darkness came the overpowering primeval fear that someone… nay, something… was watching them.

The Legionnaires moved in an efficient military manner that had not been trained, but rather the need forced upon them by recent events. They advanced in paired groups of two, one group sprinting pell-mell for the nearest available cover, then guarding the leap-frogging progress of their buddies whilst catching their breath for the next run. Selinde and Nerdanel led the way, guiding the inexperienced troops away from treacherous ground and keeping them on track towards the city gates. Glorfindel supervised the main body of soldiers and sailors, while Ingwe and the dwarves formed a defiant rearguard attempting to beat back the night with shield and blade alone.

From time to time the rubbled houses would let slip a few rays of the dying sun, or their route would take them through the remains of an small courtyard. At times like these, the whitewashed stone would bathe in stark crimson, as if the heavens themselves had decided to reveal where the blood of the innocent had been spilt in all its gruesome glory. Elsewhere, though, the abandoned city remained a murky, menacing grey, secreting within it the darkest secrets of necromantic lore.

Sturdy wooden doors had been kicked in and sundered, great chunks of masonry torn from the walls of elegant villas, imposing statues defiled and ancient trees uprooted. Not a single pane of glass remained intact, not a fountain had been spared destruction. The marketplaces and boulevards had been brutally and thoroughly ransacked, house and shop alike helpless to resist the greed and gluttony of Xem’zund’s more material allies.

And yet, as Ingwe could not fail to notice as his feet pounded away upon the painfully hard cobblestones, there was no sign whatsoever of the fate of the inhabitants. For all the devastation that had been wrought, no sign of any dead stained the forlorn vista.

Part of him wanted to believe that they had all made it out in time. Part of him wanted to hope that, even now, they sheltered behind Anebrilith’s mighty walls, awaiting their turn upon the ships that would bear them to safety.

But he knew the foe he faced, the tales that could only be told in hushed whispers around dampened campfires for fear of attracting unwanted attention. And the instinctive hard lump in the pit of his stomach was all the indication he needed to realise that the disappearance of the townsfolk was at the heart of an altogether more sinister scheme.

A chill ran down his spine, cold sweat erupting on his back as he gave an involuntary shudder. Even Hayate’s reassuring presence overhead did little to alleviate the sense of impending doom that deadened his mind.

“Ah dinnae like ‘is,” a gruff dwarven voice resounded from by his side. With a start, Ingwe realised that it belonged to Derthark, prince of Gunnbad. Even the single, simple phrase echoed hollowly about the lifeless stone, their desolate surroundings somehow more akin to underworld cave than elven haven. “Ah dinnae like ‘is at all.”

Wholeheartedly, Ingwe agreed. But, pained and wearied, he couldn’t force his voice past the thick clogging lump in his throat. He settled instead for a wordless nod.

Vital seconds stretched into eternities as the Legionnaires sped towards Anebrilith, but for all their efforts, the spires and minarets in the distance ventured no closer. The sun dropped down beyond the Emyn Naug… a semicircle, a sliver, a mere spot… until all that could be seen upon the western horizon was a faint corona of purple desperately standing guard against the night.

Then, at long last, the final vestiges of day were driven from the skies, and the Legionnaires below were plunged into pitch-black void. No moon appeared in the heavens above to take the place of the sun, no stars shone to guide the party by their twinkling light. The darkness was complete and overbearing. They were out of breath, out of luck, and out of time.

Only a fragile combination of elven pathfinding and sheer desperation kept the men on their correct course. Ruined buildings melded together into looming jagged-edged shadows, obscuring in their liquid depths wisps of whispers and the faintest of forms. All around them the night pressed in, until it threatened to choke the very life out of them in its vindictive oppressiveness. The air turned stifled and lung-chilling, mutating even the most innocent of sounds into heart-stopping cacophonies. The barest hint of death and decay hung heavy in the depths of their noses, a decrepit stench that had not been so obvious during the daylight.

Taking brief refuge upon a pile of masonry, Ingwe tried to ignore the frantic, oft-incomprehensible warnings that his ears and nose were giving him; the dearth of visual references was causing his other senses to overwork themselves in an attempt to compensate. The uncertainty and fear of the other Legionnaires swelled and crested like a massive tsunami; in truth, he himself was having trouble containing the rapid beat of his own heart. The young man took a deep breath and attempted to probe his surroundings using his arcane powers, but the permeating evil was so intense that he recoiled physically, his spirit drained. It was as if the mere aura of undeath was sucking his magic dry.

And then, as if to further confirm his fears, hollow laughter sounded upon a sudden wind.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Ingwe stumbled heavily upon the rubble-strewn ground, feeling his foot slip awkwardly beneath him. Sharp stones dug painfully into the raw wounds upon his back as a combination of luck and sheer desperation enabled him to convert his motion into an ungainly forward roll; a small gasp broke through the grimly set lines of his jaw, gentle but agonised. Still, when he righted himself facing his foe, he held in the outstretched palm of his hand one of the scrolls from the pouch at his waist.

“Housenka!” he called, invoking the magic imbued within. The thick paper card spontaneously disintegrated, erupting into five fist-sized fireballs that hurtled into the writhing morass of spectres on his tail. Two went down in fiercely burning flames, shrieking horribly, but within moments their place had been taken by two more.

“It is no use, Ingwe!” Glorfindel shouted from the other side of the dwarven battle line, straining to be heard over the wailing moans of the guina and the grunted warcries of the besieged dwarves. “We cannot defeat them unless we can sever their bond to the land, and none of us have that power. They cannot be destroyed…”

“But we can delay them!” Ingwe gasped back, beads of sweat glistening ominously upon his contorted brow. “We have to do what we can!”

It hadn’t taken long for the Legionnaires to realise that mere steel had little effect upon the apparitions. Only the enchanted blades of the elves and the rune-encrusted weapons of the dwarves could touch the guina, along with what little hedge magic the motley band possessed. And, judging by the extreme exhaustion written into Ingwe’s features, the young man was nearly out of his share of the latter.

Hastily picking himself up from the ground and rejoining the flight, he spared a quick glance towards the head of the column. The elven Ranger sisters still guided the desperate Legionnaires onwards, although their orders were now punctuated by the whistle of Nerdanel’s black-fletched arrows and the gently glinting strokes of Selinde’s keen blades. Ingwe couldn’t help but notice, though, that the resistance was significantly lighter there, as if the heaving mass of spectres were…

“Ingwe!” a gruff dwarven voice bellowed in warning, and the young man barely ducked out of the way as oily black tendrils lashed out from the crowd of spectres behind him. He felt the tainted wind of their passing against the tousles of his rumpled black hair, his hand torn open by the sharp grit as he hit the ground for the second time in as many moments. And yet the pain was almost therapeutic in its agony. For all the dangers of his immediate situation… he was still alive.

The faint hum of a longsword in swift motion heralded Glorfindel’s rush to Ingwe’s aid. An acrobatic aerial somersault, a delicately precise backhand stroke, and the tendrils were torn from their host in a splatter of inky shadow, buying precious seconds for Ingwe to find his feet once more.

“Reppudan!” he cried, launching the wind-elemental projectile behind Glorfindel’s back from his uninjured palm. The stormily swirling sphere disappeared without a trace into the heaving throes of his foes; it was impossible to tell if the spell had any effect whatsoever.

“Give ground slowly, boys!” Derthark’s orders echoed boomingly about the dark streets. The dwarves rumbled as one in acknowledgement, their shield wall impenetrable as they fought to keep their foes at arms length.

“Hurry, lad.” Ingwe was suddenly aware of Telchar’s solid presence at his side, the runelord effortlessly hauling him to safety behind his fellows with Glorfindel following closely behind. Belatedly he realised that his right hand was a grimy mess, and that his back had been set alight once again by a thousand nerve endings screaming in agony. Ingwe tried to focus, tried to force his mind to obey the renewed call to arms… but, at long last, it seemed as if he had run out of strength. Even the glow of the pendant upon his chest was lost dimly amongst the overwhelming darkness.

“Ya did well,” Telchar offered, recognising that his young charge was completely spent. But the gruffly spoken praise was of little comfort.

“I…” Ingwe began. This time, Glorfindel was quick to cut him off.

“You are of little use to us now,” the elf spoke, his voice gentle despite the harshness of his words, indicating Ingwe’s injured palm and general exhaustion with a small nod. To the warrior-mage’s continued envy, the bladesinger himself still barely seemed to be sweating, although his fair complexion was just a little paler than it had been under the sunlight. “You would just get in our way.”

Crestfallen, Ingwe knew that Glorfindel spoke truth. And yet…

He glanced once more towards the head of their formation, watching as the disorganised mass of Legionnaires sought to escape the guina. How could he succumb to weakness now? Was he not responsible for the safety of these men? Despite his injuries, was it not his duty to…?

It was then that his mind finally made the connection between misgiving and observation. The proverbial light bulb sparked weakly before flickering to life.

“They’re herding us…”

With visible effort he pulled himself upright once again, reaching into his pouch for a strip of cloth – normally used to clean his pens – to wrap around his injured hand. But his eyes were firmly on the edge of the visible horizon, towards where Nerdanel and Selinde were guiding them… trying to avoid the heaviest concentrations of spectres.

“They’re… herding us…” he repeated, taking first one step, then another under his own power, fighting to keep his legs from rebelling against his mind. Telchar and Glorfindel exchanged glances, first of surprise, then of growing concern as the import of Ingwe’s words dawned upon them. “We have… to tell... before it’s… too…”

Above the clamour of battle rang a screech both terrifying and triumphant. The air was still and expectant, heavy with the smell of death both long-since decayed and impending. Ingwe could only be swept along helplessly as the momentum of the disorganised flight took the Legionnaires into the middle of a massive rectangular court, the abandoned central square of this part of Anebrilith.

As the darkness closed in from all directions, he was aware that there would be no escape now.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Massive marble buildings stared down at them from all sides, gargantuan behemoths shrouded in darkness absolute. The largest one to their fore had obviously once been a court of law, graceful cylindrical pillars supporting an elaborately frescoed roof, shattered crystal doors guarded by a statue of the blind goddess of justice holding in her outstretched hand the symbolical scales with which she delivered judgement. Someone had ironically taken the time to load the left-hand scale so that it hung much lower than the right, not to mention that the statue’s head lay a full ten paces from the rest of its body, struck clear by a clean, powerful blow.

Ingwe spared a sorrowful glance at the sight before turning his attention back to his fellow Legionnaires. They were drawn up in a tight circle around the fountain in the middle of the open courtyard, its waters long since parched dry. The cracked pavement grasped treacherously at his feet as he inched unsteadily towards where Glorfindel, Telchar, Selinde, and Nerdanel were holding their makeshift war council, heated words exchanged in hushed and hurried whispers. The air was ominous and wavering, the courage of the men hanging by a single thin thread.

For around them all, the spectral guina swarmed in a writhing, undulating mass that stretched as far as the senses could make out in every direction. “Join us…” they moaned again and again in dissonant harmony, until the very wind reverberated with their pain and the ground itself took up their cry.

“… ah’ve a few tricks up mah sleeve,” Telchar was saying when Ingwe finally edged close enough to make out the runelord’s gruff whisper. “But against ghosts? Ah dornt think they’ll hae much effect, whatsoever…”

If Telchar’s expression was the definition of grimly set, then Glorfindel’s was a mirror of peaceful calm. Of all the warriors assembled in the middle of the square, it seemed that the bladesinger was least affected by the pall of undeath that surrounded them.

A few words that Ingwe was too far away to make out, and then,

“… we must give the humans a fighting chance. We cannot hope to protect them all, and we need their strength in numbers to survive.”

Telchar nodded agreement, looking from impassive Nerdanel to agitated Selinde for signs of dissent. The former had yet to venture an opinion upon their predicament, seemingly content that Glorfindel and Telchar had the matter under as much control as was possible; the latter was clearly still unsettled by the presence of the guina and the fact that the High Council of Anebrilith had been unable to prevent their existence.

“So wrong… so… wrong…” she mumbled to herself helplessly, nerveless fingers clamped tight around the hilt of her sword.

Gently ignoring her, Telchar summed things up in his usual matter-of-fact tone. “Ah can cast a spell tae turn all th’ manling’s blades magical. But ah willnae be able tae fight while daein’ sae… power on such scale must be carefully controlled. Ye’ll hae tae defend me.” Once again his eyes went about the assembled threesome and the soldiers milling about beyond, marvelling silently at the whims of fate. Not so long ago, he would have scoffed at the notion of placing his life in the hands of elves and men. Now, he knew he had little choice. “Dinnae hash yerself, lassie,” he continued, speaking directly to Selinde. “We’ll put these souls tae rest, e’en if we hae tae…”

It was then that his gaze slipped past the elf-maiden, in time to catch Ingwe as the Nipponese slumped to the ground at the base of the fountain. The warrior-mage’s face was deathly pale, with the exception of a crimson streak that stood out like neon to the dwarf’s night vision, trickling from the edge of bloodless lips. Ingwe’s eyes were listlessly shut, his breathing light and irregular as his body fought the pain.

“Ingwe!” Telchar bellowed, abandoning the elves and unwittingly drawing the attention of every Legionnaire within earshot. “Laddie!”

With surprising speed for such a stocky frame, the runelord was at the young human’s side, Glorfindel mere breaths behind him and the Ranger sisters arriving not long after. Moments flew by like eternities as the dwarf extended a calloused hand towards Ingwe’s shoulder.

The young man’s eyes fluttered open, and he mustered a weak, wan smile at the sudden attention.

“So.. rry…” he managed, barely able to force the syllables from his throat. Despite the obvious pain that garbled his voice, it was clear that Ingwe’s apology was not only meant for his inability to participate in the imminent battle, but also for his lack of composure at such a critical point in their journey. For the panic was now spreading tangibly, like wildfire devouring dry brush, through the ranks of the men.

“Don’t you guys have some sort of impressive magic to deal with them all…?”

The voice was but a single sound in the overwhelming night, solitary and anonymous. Yet judging by the way it chimed like a peal of chaos amongst the hearts and faces of the Legionnaires, it may as well have been Glorfindel voiced who had spoken. And it was blindingly obvious that the answer to the question was a “no”, the expression of equal parts pain, distress, and helplessness upon Ingwe’s face too honest for his own sake.

But if those words hurt, the next that rose from amongst the closely packed sea of faces stung far sharper than any blade, far deeper than any wound.

“You brought us here, outlander! You brought us here to die!”

For some of the men, this was going too far. The dark-haired huntsman was one of those who looked about in shock, denying the words vehemently. But it was those faces that showed their agreement, those accusatory glares burdened with venom and disgust as they tore into his soul, that shredded Ingwe to pieces. The guilt, the shame of the moment was too much to bear; a single hot tear broke past the tightly clenched dam and trickled gently down a pale listless cheek. The worst part of it all was that he knew the accusation to be true. He could not refute it, much the same way as he could not turn back time to alter their fate.

“Shut yer gob, ye mingin mongrel!” Telchar snapped, thunder rumbling menacingly in his voice. “Draw steel an’ face yer foes, manlings, ur ye will definitely nae survive the night!”

But his words were not enough; neither could they quell the pall of fear that had settled over the soldiers, nor could they help to restore Ingwe’s self-belief.

As the gloom settled over them once again like a heavy blanket, any light of hope seemed a thousand miles distant.

[Flames of Hyperion]

“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.”

[Flames of Hyperion]

Forth they came, wailing horribly when their invitations had no effect. Like a boundless mantle of shadow, the guina threw themselves at the beleaguered Legionnaires, clawing and biting and loosing oily tendrils into their living foes.

They were met with battlecries in a multitude of tongues and a wall of flashing steel that tore their veiled forms asunder in pale ghostfire. The dwarves were the veritable rock upon which the circle of soldiers rested, repelling wave after wave of the soulless wraithes with Prince Derthark in the very thick of it all. The men around them fought with a potent mixture of passionate ferocity and grim determination, the runelord Telchar’s magicks enhancing their weapons so that they glowed an eerie, deadly blue as they carved through spectral forms. Many were the times that a man went down fighting beneath the sheer weight of his foes, only for his comrades to dig him out from beneath the flailing shadows and drag him to safety.

Pairs of the Legion’s best warriors roamed behind the tight circle of sailors and soldiers, ready to greet the guina wherever they pressed hardest. Hawkeyed Nerdanel and vengeful Selinde, hulking Taggar and the dark-haired Scarabrian huntsman, lordly Glorfindel and the young warrior-mage from Nippon who’d somehow found the energy to fight once again. Like angels of death and salvation they would appear where they were needed the most, clearing the foes just enough for their comrades to find some respite before moving on to the next skirmish.

And yet still the guina kept up their relentless assault, undaunted in the least. The spectres cold not be destroyed by mere cantrip or enchanted metal; it would take far more than that to assuage their undying fury. Desire for living blood unquenched, they hurled themselves heedlessly at the lines of the living, wearing down the Legionnaires through sheer attrition.

Bleak, sorrowful moonlight cast itself down upon the battletorn quadrangle whenever the thick obscuring clouds gave it a glimpse. But for the most part the battle was fought in barely discernible darkness, briefly interrupted only by the flare of a fireball or the flash of faerie magic cast into the midst of the writhing shadows. The night was cold but the atmosphere searing and humid, the air dead and clammy as it seemed to press in upon the battle, fighting for a better view. Even the din seemed oddly muted, no ringing clash of metal on metal, only grunts of exertion and muffled expletives dampened stiflingly by the witching hour.

The battle may have lasted for an eternity… or perhaps it had only lasted for a few minutes, for there was no way of measuring time in this isolated, coffin-like vacuum. At length, though, one of the Legionnaires – a young squire barely eighteen years of age – was forced to retreat from the perimeter, his body simply unresponsive to orders from his mind. He was soon joined by another young man, and then by a handful more, all similarly unable to continue fighting any longer, so crippling was the exhaustion.

But for each man that left the line, his remaining comrades were forced to fight even harder to make up for it. Tighter, ever tighter they were forced, until they were all literally fighting back to back with no room to manoeuvre. The pairs of warriors that had been so instrumental to holding back the guina had little need to move around any more, for wherever they were, in whatever direction they faced, they were hard pressed.

It was to the Legion’s credit that they had continued to fight on for so long, for they were without a doubt some of the finest warriors of their lands. But it was as clear as crystal that they could not last forever. For all their individual skill and strength, they each suffered from that most basic of biological needs… the need for rest. They had fought hard, they had fought well, they had done what they could.

But the deciding factor in the battle would be their mortal weakness.

Sensing victory, the guina howled wildly and piled in with renewed vigour.

***

“Yunagi no mai!”

Strictly speaking, the invocation was not part of the sword dance. But the spoken word helped to focus his mind, helped to concentrate the power as it flowed through his limbs. Twin swords swept forth in a series of swift defensive strokes, the steel like a shimmering omnidirectional shield as it kept his foes at bay. His cloak flowed behind him with the momentum, smoothly channelling his motions from start to finish.

But with every step he took, every twist of his torso, Ingwe felt his newfound power seep away like water between his fingers. Every repetition of the very actions that were keeping him alive drained him like nothing before, leaving behind only a hard earned almost refreshing in its purity. He knew that this would be the last… there would be no more miracles, no more inspiration, no more last-ditch acts of desperation to save them now. The rays of hope from his one last gamble were dying in front of his eyes, and it was all he could do to cling to them, begging them not to leave him behind.

To his left, Nerdanel – fighting with daggers now that her arrows were spent – went down clutching her shoulder where a guina’s raking claws had torn bloody gashes through her leather jerkin. Selinde desperately held her ground in front of her sister, her crescent blade dancing wickedly as the younger Ranger managed to buy enough time for the shining mail-clad form of Glorfindel to come to their aid. Together they managed to drag Nerdanel to safety behind the diminished line of Legionnaires. But both were bleeding from a multitude of minor wounds, and the youthful glow upon Selinde’s face in particular had been replaced by ashen exhaustion.

To his right the dwarven shieldwall was buckling, not from exhaustion – for the naugrim were exceptionally hardy folk – but from the sheer weight of numbers the guina placed upon them. Resolute, relentless, and notoriously stubborn, the dwarves of Gunnbad had not given ground as easily as their human allies, but this had left them dangerously close to being cut off as the Legionnaires retreated for a final stand around the runelord Telchar. Prince Derthark was a mighty figure of doom as he marshalled his companions on to ever greater exhortations, having cut down scores of the foe with his great axe. Ingwe had little doubt that with Telchar’s aid they could have held their little patch of stone almost indefinitely against the guina, yet…

His swords wove an incandescent trail of streaked silver as they clove through the shadows in the night. He was conscious now that he was alone, alone and unsupported, and that the guina were beginning to work their way around and behind him. Within moments his fate would be sealed, for he could not hope to defend himself against attacks from every direction at once.

It was now, however, that Ingwe finally recognised the ki flowing through his body, not only the fiery power that was so like a wilder, less-restrained version of his own, but also the gentle, calm touch that had unlocked it in the first place… the same gentle touch that had helped him focus on the task at hand ever since they had left the Warspite. He felt a surge of gratitude towards the whimsical vagaries of magic, towards that obscure ancient piece of arcane law that had allowed for this magical miracle to occur.

The locket on his chest pulsed once in response, and once again he felt her presence grace his mind, urging him to hold on, begging him never to give up. He was surrounded now, and it took all of what acrobatic skill, weapons technique, and sheer luck he possessed to keep his foes at bay.

Behind him, Ingwe sensed Glorfindel wading back into the fray, carving swathes through the shadows that sought to obstruct him from his isolated friend. But the bladesinger was tiring, and his foes too many, and his desperate shout only barely reached Ingwe’s ears.

Then the Nipponese lost his footing amongst the dewy cobblestones. The piercing cry of a solitary falcon rent the night air as Ingwe went down hard.

In an instant, he was buried in his foes.

[Flames of Hyperion]

The clear, crisp, clarion call of a horn sundered the darkness like a bolt from the blue. Noble and triumphant the note soared through the battletorn square, causing Legionnaire and guina alike to pause in wonder.

Ingwe somehow managed to pull himself free of the unresisting spectres, only to find Glorfindel now standing by his side. The elf was looking towards the west with a relieved, almost awed expression upon his delicately handsome features.

“That is no wight-horn, Ingwe,” he spoke, his voice carrying to the rest of the men as well. “We are saved.”

Within moments, the meaning of his words became clear. The rolling thunder of five hundred horse swept into the courtyard from behind the guina ranks, carving a sharp silvery swathe through the shadows. An unstoppable tide of glowing, shimmering steel, they scattered all before the like leaves upon the proverbial wind, driving with speed and purpose towards the beleaguered Legionnaires. Prince Turgon of Tor Elythis rode at their head, an implacable figure of wrath and ruin, his sword scything through multiple foes with every stroke. The banner of the Silverwind was borne proudly aloft by his standard bearer at his side, a shining beacon of light reminding the undead hordes that the ancient might of the elves was not yet spent.

In no time at all, the elnaith had covered half the width of the quadrangle and cleared a path to the Legionnaires. As if by prearranged signal the wedge split in two, Prince Turgon leading half of his men to sweep the right flank of the Legionnaire formation whilst his standard bearer rode with the remaining half against the left. The flow of bright mail passed so close to Ingwe that it seemed as if by reaching out to touch it, he would be spirited away within the rapid river of movement. Already the guina were fleeing from the new foe; when in a matter of seconds the elven cavalry had passed him by, there was nothing in their wake but a relieved, almost deafening silence.

The entire sequence of events had been so sudden, Ingwe could not even bring himself to rise to his feet.

Deus ex machina…? he wondered tiredly to himself, and could have sworn he heard a faint giggle as the glow on his chest gently died away. It was replaced by a sudden weight upon his shoulder as Hayate returned from his brief sojourn, the gyrfalcon chuckling contentedly and preening himself with pride.

“Aye, you did well…” Ingwe murmured weakly, stroking his familiar’s neckline in gratitude. “Thank you, my friend…”

And thank you, Lord Arminas, he added in his mind. Thank you for acting so quickly and decisively.

A flash of shadow in the clouds above, and Ingwe looked behind him to see the gryphon from earlier that day join the fray. The noble mount had its wings spread wide, teeth and claws bared in a fearsome display of fury, but it was the rider upon its back who caught Ingwe’s attention, the elf’s delicate swordwork reaping foes by the dozen. In strength understated, in skill unparalleled, in presence unmatched, he was no doubt an elflord every bit the equal of Turgon.

The battle was fast turning into a rout, the ranks of the guina thinning dramatically as the elves of the Silverwind took their toll upon their foe. Even though those of the wraiths who had fallen this evening would undoubtedly rise again on the morrow, their thirst for vengeance unsated, none of the Legionnaires had any wish to be around when they did so.

Ingwe watched the fighting die down, his body rooted to the spot as his friends and comrades gathered to him, unable to quite believe the sudden turn of events. Exhaustion sapped every last inkling of energy from his muscles, his limbs leaden and unresponsive and his body heavy except where injuries flared up again in intense agony. He was acutely conscious of a gaping void within his soul from whence strength had earlier flowed, and its disappearance left him heartbroken and overwhelmed by sense of loss. Why had he not realised her presence earlier? Why had he been unable to even thank her for her support?

How had she even been able to aid him in the first place? Not to mention, why? And how had she been able to unlock the power within him?

Most importantly, perhaps, would it ever happen again…?

Questions without any plausible answers – or any way whatsoever of finding them – continued to assault his mind and rob his lungs of breath. Ingwe wanted nothing more than to collapse in a heap upon the invitingly solid cobblestones, but something prevented him from doing so just yet. Probably the stern look in Hayate’s luminous golden eyes that warned him, no matter how relieved he felt, that his task was not quite over.

The horn sounded again, this time from further off in the distance. With a start, Ingwe noticed that the quadrangle was now completely clear of guina, such a marked contrast from just a few moments ago.

From the eastern edges of the square the elnaith re-emerged, this time at a gentle trot as they reformed their ranks. The second signal, Ingwe belatedly realised, had been to call off the pursuit; even the mighty Silverwind dared not venture rashly into the clutches of the night. The realisation served as a fitting reminder of just how precarious the Anebrilithian position was… and, he would later reminisce, was suitable foreshadowing of the difficult times that lay ahead for Ingwe and the other Legionnaires.

For the moment, though, they were alive. And that was all that mattered.

[Flames of Hyperion]

They say that the bearer of bad tidings oft befalls ill fortune himself, and after all, life as an undead minion was cheap enough. Thus, although Maeril did not rank amongst the more tyrannical of Xem’zund’s lieutenants, it still fell to his chief necromancer to give him the news.

Ar’zhanekkar shuffled forth across the worn stone, his trailing robes making an odd rasping sound that echoed angrily about the vast cavern. He halted a few paces from the unresponsive Maeril, gave a perfunctory bow that was over almost before it began, and then began to speak in his irritatingly nasal voice from beneath the folds of his black hood.

“M’lord,” he addressed the death knight, who was slumped in his obsidian throne, head propped up on the armrest via a thickly gauntleted forearm. “M’lord, the guina have failed. The band of shipwrecked soldiers has made it into Anebrilith.”

Maeril remained ominously silent, showing no sign whatsoever of having absorbed Ar’zhanekkar’s words. A few of the junior members of his retinue, hidden safely away in the shadows, began to twitter expectantly amongst themselves. After all, even though it was but a trivial matter in the overall scheme of things, failure in the service of Xem’zund was still…

Then their lord’s eyes flashed red, deep within the metallic confines of his great horned helm.

“It is of little consequence, Ar’zhanekkar,” he spoke, his powerful voice echoing about the chamber and once again setting not a few hearts to quailing. Others, however, relaxed. Their liege did not seem to be angry.

“M’lord…” the pallid necromancer wheezed, acutely aware of his precarious position. After all, it was he who had advocated inciting the guina against the soldiers, certain that where the wight lord Kratos had failed, he would succeed.

“It is of little consequence,” Maeril repeated after a short pause. If anybody could suspect him of having a sense of humour, they would probably have guessed that he was watching Ar’zhanekkar squirm. Another brief interval in which neither ornate armour nor ebony staff stirred a breath, both sides weighing up the other in both caution and respect. Then the death knight spoke once more.

“You know what to do.”

Ar’zhanekkar bowed his acquiescence, mindful of the cold sweat glistening upon his pale flabby brow. Then, with a swirl of movement mostly dirty black robe, the necromancer was gone.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Once again, Ingwe found himself facing the precisely-formed ranks of the elnaith, standing – for reasons he still did not quite comprehend – at the head of the Legionnaires with Telchar and Glorfindel at his side. The hour was closer now to dawn than to dusk, but even in the pitch-blackness of total night, the armour of both horse and rider seemed to shimmer with a life of its own. The most noticeable difference between the current meeting and the previous, however, was also perhaps the least tangible; for while Turgon had been willing to abandon them to their fates before, he was now prepared – if grudgingly – to offer a helping hand.

“I bring word from the Anebrilithian High Council,” he began, still with little courtesy beyond a cursory dip of his lance, still remaining mounted so that he could literally talk down to the Legionnaires. What was more, Ingwe realised, the elflord even now spoke as if his words were meant for Glorfindel alone, completely ignoring Telchar, Derthark, and even Selinde and Nerdanel as if they were beneath him. Some things did not change.

“Lord Arminas Ereinon has requested for your safe passage into Anebrilith. After much insistence upon the part of his sympathisers…” – the expression on Turgon’s face curled into distaste, giving Ingwe the distinct impression that such lobbying was considered downright rude in elven politics – “… his request has been approved. We are under the direct orders of the High Steward himself to escort you within the city walls.”

Weary sighs of relief echoed from the soldiers and sailors assembled around. By some miraculous stroke of fate, fifty-six strong they still remained, although none were untouched by their sequence of skirmishes, and the stretcher-borne Captain Maximillian in particular lay in a deep, unresponsive swoon. Finally, though, their run of bad luck seemed to have ended.

Finally, their destination was in sight.

Turgon glanced across the ragged band of survivors with disgust barely kept in check, porcelain features twitching beneath his tall helm with the effort of remaining calm. When he spoke again, however, his voice was under firm control.

“We should leave this area immediately,” he urged, once again addressing Glorfindel only. His words were polite, but it was obvious that they were tantamount to an order.

The bladesinger replied with a deep bow, deferential and gracious. “Very well,” he agreed, but when Glorfindel looked up, his eyes were cool and just a little hard around the edges. His next action, furthermore, was calculated to infuriate.

With even more deference than he had accorded Turgon, Glorfindel went down on one knee so that his eyes were level with the still-stooping Ingwe’s.

“Ingwe?” he queried, his eyes dancing with understated glee at the subtle insult.

For his part, Ingwe was shocked by the act, and even more surprised when Telchar placed a strong hand upon his shoulder and grinned tiredly in agreement. The effort of maintaining even a minor spell for such a length of time and over such wide vicinity had obviously taken its toll on the runelord, but though his complexion was sallow, his eyes were proud.

Ingwe blinked once, owlishly.

And, after a brief pause, he blinked again.

Then, slowly and with Hayate’s admonishing chirrup echoing in his ears, he wearily rose to his feet.

“Thank you, Lord Turgon,” Ingwe spoke, his tone formal and courteous as he forced his body into a pained bow. With equal deliberation, he next turned to face the remaining Legionnaires.

He paused once more, hesitating for only a moment to catch his breath.

Then, with a wan smile, he declared,

“Form up, men. We’re nearly there.”

***

Whatever doubts remained in his mind were slowly but surely erased by the tired grins he received as the Legionnaires marched past, under the strict escort of the elnaith. The long line of men was flanked on both sides by the elven cavalry, stretching from where he stood in the courtyard to the darkness in the distance. The scene seemed somewhat incongruous, almost like the passage of a prisoner train rather than the triumphant entry into the city that he had almost dared to envisage. But the important thing was that they were alive, and that their immediate goal was close at hand.

As of yet, however, he could not bring himself to leave the darkened quadrangle where he had just spent long hours fighting for his life. Perhaps it was the lingering trace of her magic in the air, or perhaps it was just that he didn’t want to let go of the realisation that, in some obscure arcanic way, he and she still remained connected. Eyes closed, breathing minimal, he concentrated on the aftertaste of her presence, the barest hints of sense and surrounding that proved that he had not been dreaming.

“Yuka…” he sighed at last into the cool night air, feeling his emotions ripple in tune with the slow, final ebb of power.

A gentle nibble on his shoulder, and Ingwe realised that Hayate was discreetly reminding him that they were not alone. What was more, he felt eyes on him, studying him from a distance.

Ingwe let go of his trance, glancing around him for the source of the sensation. It was to his surprise, however, when he found the gryphon rider peering at him curiously, pupils of luminous intelligent green backed by the wild savage amber of his mount. Slowly, the elf approached; as he came closer, Ingwe could see that his armour was lighter and less elaborate than Turgon's, more utilitarian in fact. A tall silver helm of the distinctive Tor Elythisian style was matched by pleated mithril scale, light as a feather but sturdier than steel. His long bannered lance remained affixed to his mount’s saddle, but an ornate longsword at his waist attested to his position as an elf of some standing.

“Elrohir,” he introduced himself in a disarmingly frank manner. Ingwe almost did a double-take when the elf followed it up with, “Prince of Tor Elythis, and captain of the Skyknights. That there is Surion, my faithful partner.” The dangerous gleam in the gryphon’s eyes made Ingwe glad that such was the case.

The warrior-mage had heard of the Skyknights during his travels, although they were not as famed as the elnaith in various tavern rumours. A remnant of ages past during which the elves had taken to the skies in great numbers atop the backs of dragons, gryphons, great eagles, and pegasii, the Skyknights were but a mere shadow of their former glory, a ragtag band of misfits who had long since lost their primary mission of decisive strikes to the more disciplined, more numerous elnaith. Some spoke of them as little better than mercenaries, utilising their mobility to travel the lands offering their services to the highest bidder within reason. But they still evoked romantic memories of the freedom of the skies and the justice of a sharp blade, and even the worst of the rumours were spoken with a hint of respect.

And Ingwe could not help but like the ruffianish elf that stood before him now, his disdain for ceremony and his blunt nature such a breath of fresh air after Prince Turgon.

“Ingwe Helyanwe,” the Nipponese replied with a short bow and a smile, though he could not quite keep his voice from quavering and his smile from bleakness.

“Ingwe,” Elrohir repeated, allowing his dark cloak to flow about him in a return bow of genuine respect. “I shall remember that name.”

Ingwe was certain by now that he was flushing in embarrassment.

“Don’t mind Turgon,” Elrohir continued, his expression turning sincere as he reached out a slender arm to touch Ingwe’s shoulder. “He has always been distrustful of other peoples. His experience has taught him that fellow elfkind are all he can rely upon, and though through my own I have learnt otherwise, he is also too stubborn and proud to admit that he may be wrong. His suspicion extends even to those of his kin who would willingly ally with man and dwarf.” Here Ingwe flinched slightly, and Elrohir gave him a knowing nod. “Myself and Arminas included.”

The rider sighed, then abruptly turned on his heels with a jaunty wave.

“Fear not, Ingwe of the east,” he stated in farewell, speaking almost irresponsibly over his shoulder. “You did well. Enter Anebrilith, rest and attend to your wounds, and we will worry about tomorrow… tomorrow.”

Watching him leave, Ingwe blinked once more in surprise. Then he relaxed… and smiled again.

[Flames of Hyperion]

The sun rose over the eastern seas. A halo… a pinprick… a brilliant wedge against the horizon. Dawn’s first rays seared the dark night clouds from the heavens, granting the defenders of Anebrilith the sense of renewed hope that came with the new day. A fresh breeze sprang up off the glistening waters, authoritatively driving away the morning mists from where they clung to forest and farmhouse.

High upon the pristine white battlements of Anebrilith’s innermost sanctum, Arminas Ereinon breathed deeply of the dewy air and smiled in equal parts contentment and relief. He was dressed in his finest, flowing robes of deep soothing green brocaded in rich gold. As beautiful and as exquisite as they were, though, they were the clothes of a mere pauper next to the robes of office that the High Steward had worn during their audience. In truth, Arminas disliked the finery, preferring simpler attire that did not reflect the opulence and arrogance that had driven him to exile.

Far below, amidst the ruins of the outer city, his keen eyes caught movement under cover of shadow. Once again, Xem’zund’s hordes massed for assault. But the proud elven banners upon the bloodstained lower walls wavered not. It would not be today that Anebrilith would fall.

He paused, breathing again of the cool wind, and then finally spoke.

“Mae govannen, mellonamin.” Well met, my friend.

“Amin naa tualle,” the young man waiting behind him replied. I am at your service.

Polite, well-spoken, and patient… rare qualities indeed for one of the edain. Arminas could picture him without turning, dark hair ruffled by the breeze and blue cloak neatly flowing behind him. He would be swathed in bandages from head to toe – elven healing magic was potent but did not work miracles – and would require at least two full days of rest before daring to draw upon his arcane powers again. But the very fact that Ingwe stood there was testament to the young man’s sheer determination and willpower.

Now, if he only had the confidence to match…

At length, Arminas turned to face Ingwe, quietly scrutinising the Nipponese warrior-mage. Ingwe responded with a courteous, cautious bow, holding it for just a moment longer than was necessary. The human’s features were expressionlessly neutral, carefully composed and betraying little sign of the exertions of the previous night besides a speckle of dark shadow beneath his eyes.

Arminas spared a glance to the small cadre of Rangers who stood discreetly by the entrance to the nearest tower. Nerdanel, her shoulder similarly wrapped tight in bandages, and Selinde had reported extensively on the events of their flight from the Warspite. Though his second-in-command Aegnor had advised him to take their words with a pinch of salt, Arminas himself was inclined to believe them. Strange it was how fate could meander, that a scholar picked up in Scara Brae to translate and mediate had such hidden courage secreted within.

Stepping forward slowly, the elflord laid a hand on the young man’s shoulder and bent down slightly so that their eyes were level.

“Diola lle,” Arminas said, his voice suffused with genuine warmth.

Thank you.

***

“Useless piles of bone,” Ar’zhanekkar wheezed heavily before breaking out into a coughing fit that threatened to tear his very lungs from his frailly obese frame. A thick mist seeped about the tendril-like tree-roots and parched bark, once more threatened by seaborne wind and weakly determined sun. It will dissipate soon, the necromancer thought to himself, sampling of the air with a long serpentine tongue. But it will last long enough for my purpose.

Such were the constraints he was forced to labour under when he depended upon mother nature rather than his own powers. Magic however was a fickle slave, prone to detection and easily traced, and the long arm of Anebrilithian justice had not yet been completely cut off. And Ar’zhanekkar had not survived as long as he had through rash action.

At last, his crude limping gait brought him to the centre of the clearing where, not eighteen hours before, living and undead had clashed in mortal combat. The “piles of bone” he had mentioned earlier were the remains of those wights unfortunate enough to have been caught in the path of the dwarven charge and crushed by the might of their iron hammers. Needless to say, Ar’zhanekkar held little sympathy for such incompetent minions.

But orders were orders. Especially when they came from the mouth of Maeril Thyrrian, favoured lieutenant of the almighty Xem’zund himself.

His dark robes trailed grimy filth in the cracked soil, his very presence seeming to throttle colour from his surroundings in a blur of evil power. But it was when he plunged the haft of his staff into the ground and incanted a single word of power that the entire landscape warped in upon itself, wracked by agony. Trees twisted and splintered as they fought to flee, while the earth sundered and cracked under the force of a thousand concentrated quakes. The wind through the forest became a howling scream of pain, echoing the intense torment Ar’zhanekkar was inflicting upon the land.

When at last it ceased, there were figures other than the black-robed necromancer amongst the lightening mist.

“We await Lord Maeril’s command, m’lord,” one spoke for them all, his voice the raspy grating of death.

Ar’zhanekkar snarled, baring crooked, blood-flecked teeth of dirty yellow.

“Come,” he ordered, just about suppressing his disgust and contempt. “We have work to do.”

[Flames of Hyperion]

Today I go to meet the High Council.

Imagine that. An insignificant nothing from nowhere, signed up to the Legion for deskwork, and suddenly Lord Arminas is treating me like some hero. I’m not sure that I can handle the responsibilities… the fact of the matter remains that I was in way over my head, the night before last. But Lord Arminas, Telchar, and Glorfindel all insist, and the expressions upon the faces of the other Legionnaires when they see me do much to lift my heart.

I promise myself that this will not go to my head. At the same time, though, I feel that I must do what I must.

Castor – the huntsman from Scara Brae – keeps me well informed of the rumours filtering through the camp. The latest has it that we are to be sent back out into the outer city as a guerrilla force to harass enemy lines, or that we are to be used as a militia reserve in the citadel proper. Apparently, Lord Turgon of Tor Elythis wields much influence at the Council on account of his considerable contribution to the Anebrilithian cause, and he still does not see us as reliable warriors. In truth, Lord Arminas does not disagree with the assessment, and in all honesty I cannot, either. Perhaps fighting outside the walls will suit us better, however dangerous it may be.

I believe that Lord Arminas will accept any chance for us to prove our worth. And though forging warriors from the heat of battle is a prospect that frightens me somewhat, it is also true that we have little time for the training that we would need. Again, we must do what we must.

The Spirit of Scara Brae and the Thunderchild sail on the evening tide, escorted personally by Lord Elrohir to the open sea. What provisions we brought with us are but a drop in a vast ocean, but the relief upon the faces of those who have boarded makes our efforts worth every sacrifice. The Warspite, I fear, will have to remain where she is until we are able to salvage her. I can only hope, for Captain Maximillian’s sake, that it will be soon.

The good captain lies resting in the infirmary along with a handful more of our seriously wounded. The healers say that they have done their best and that he is on the path to recovery, but still his eyes do not open. Perhaps it would have helped if we had managed to get him to attention earlier, or if we had capable healers in our midst, but…

Despite it all, Yuka, how I wish you were here. Your powers of healing, your magic, your skill with the bow, your athleticism and intelligence… how much I wish I could count on them now. I dreamt of you again last night… it was dark and stifling and my mind’s eye was blinded, but I knew you were there. I could only hold on for the briefest of moments, but you gasped slightly and began to speak… perhaps you sensed me too…?

I start to wonder if this pendant of mine is linked to you somehow. Logic dictates that it should not be so, even if for some reason you have kept yours, for I did not imbue it with any such power when it was created. But magic has always proved itself to transcend mere reason… and the evidence of the previous night is compelling.

And above all, I wish to believe.

In the end, though, it is heart-warming to know that there is always one thing that holds true.

Yuka…


~ Entry in Ingwe’s Book of Travels

[Spooks]

Hi, Spooks here. I am the mystery judge, and I apologize for taking so long to get to your thread. I'm afraid that criticism is what I do best, so most of what follows will be just that, so I'm going to say up front that you are a writer with a talent for making real characters out of your NPCs and really working with the setting. You're a good writer, and I see you going far.

Other note...this had a real movie feel. In some ways this was a good thing...in others, not so much. But I'll get to that.

Anyway, on for the hide beating and number crunching. Don't worry it'll be fun.

Continuity - 8. There were strong hints at where everyone came from and where everyone was going, with the exception of the dwarves. I liked them a lot, but what they were doing and why they were there...I just couldn't tell. Since you didn't so much as acknowledge Edmund, I treated him like an intruder, instead of as a player, and didn't take off for his one brief post.

Setting - 8.5. Never once have I seen a thread where I had such a firm grasp of the terrain through which the characters were forced to hustle. The "cinematography," as I thought of it, was nothing short of astounding. The one thing that was lacking was in the characters themselves. I know the eye color of the gryphon rider, and that's it. I know Glorfindel's and Ingwe's hair colors, but that's it. You spent a lot of time on the costuming, but not on the casting, so there were a lot of pretty generic, bland faces and builds to what was otherwise a stellar portrayal of the world around your characters. I particularly liked how the salt spray of the ocean was splashing on Ingwe's glasses at the start of the thread. As someone who wears glasses and is subject to the gunk that gets on them...I liked the touch of realism.

Pacing - 6. I know you liked the whole epic movie feel for your thread, but it made the thread drag a bit, and each long, ornately written post seemed to drag, as well. My advice for you here: write your posts as you see fit. Then post them. Then a couple of days later, go back through them and discard each and every word that you don't absolutely need. It'll speed things up a lot...and it'll help you fix a couple of other problems that I noticed.

Persona - 8.5. While Ingwe is your character, so you're telling it through his eyes, you put a lot of effort into each and every one of the major NPCs, and it really shows. I think the story could have stood for more of that one guy from Scara Brae...I think you called him Castor (like the fish oil? Seriously?) in the last post.

Action - 7. You write action well, but it's not always a good thing when the thread starts to get bogged down in it. I also think you put a level 1 through quite a bit more abuse than he really should have been able to take quite yet, so there was a little bit of questionability there towards the end, but you played it well, so I'm letting you get away with it.

Dialogue - 8. I love seeing accents. Your grip on the Dwarven Scottish-esque accent kind of fluctuated here and there, but it made me happy to see it. Accents are a rare thing on Althy. Anyway, the dialogue for Selinde and Nerendel got a little bit confusing, but for the most part, I didn't have much problem distinguishing who was who when they spoke.

Mechanics - 9. You have a great grasp over the English language...but you have fragments. And a lot of that is you get so lost in the ornate and flowery construction of clauses that you simply skip the verb that would tie it all together, or use the wrong form of the verb, and thus several sentences that could have been just weren't.

Technique - 7. I liked a lot of what you did. Really. Truly. Honestly. However...don't use multiple descriptors when one would do the task adequately, because that just bogs things down. Save the multiple descriptors for the really important things, because that's one of the clues for people to sit up and say "oh, this is important, I had better remember this." Something like "and amidst the clutter, there was a brilliant, scarlet rose that clung tenaciously to life despite the squalor of its surroundings, its velvet petals hanging onto the bud like a lingering hope" is not typically important. But if there's a yeti beating down your flimsy door to try and eat you, it's not good to say "oh, by the way, there was a monster at the door, too." You didn't do the latter, or the extreme of the former, but you did put in so much concrete detail in flowery writing that sometimes it was hard to plow through. Prioritize detail. And speaking of "by the way," you break the fourth wall on numerous occasions. The word "you" should not be used outside of dialogue. EVER.

And finally, you make references to Earth things. Once you compared Selinde's athleticism to that of an Olympian. As far as I know...there is no Olympus on Althanas. Be mindful of your colloquialisms, okay?

Clarity - 8. It was mostly clear, but there were times I had to dig through the language to get through to the meaning.

Wild Card - 7. It was a long thread with a lot of effort in it, and for that I commend you. However, and I don't mean to be rude with this, so please don't take it as such...it was kind of boring. Yes, it was high action and rather non stop...but it kind of clunked along.

Total: 77. Congratulations!

All right, this was an FQ thread completed in time, so EXP and GP will be doubled.

Flames of Hyperion gains 4150 EXP and 800 GP.

Questions/comments/general abuse may be sent to my PM box, and I'll make a habit of checking in every now and again just in case you need me to give you specifics. Good luck and happy writing!

[Taskmienster]

EXP AND GP ADDED! Welcome to level 2!