View Full Version : Legion of Light V: In the Shadow of Ancient Champions
Flames of Hyperion
02-08-09, 04:03 PM
What follows hereforth is a chronicle of the adventures and deeds of Ingwe Helyanwe and Kryos Ralshyn, taking place during the winter known as the Winter of Untold Agony. As the forces of the dark lord Xem'zund swept the once-fair land of Raiaera, there were a few - a scattered, weary few - that sought to defy them. By sword and by sorcery, for justice and for freedom, those brave men and women united into one...
... into the Legion of Light.
A hero is a man who is afraid to run away.
- English proverb
Flames of Hyperion
02-08-09, 04:21 PM
Act I, Scene I
Somewhere to the south of Anebrilith, Raiaera
Late in the Month of Sorrows, the Winter of Untold Agony
***
The arrow keened across the snowbound path, three feet of perfectly balanced redwood fletched with the black feathers of a great eagle and tipped by the deadly silver of enchanted steel. It took the leading cadaver in the neck, horribly decomposed head erupting from the rest of the mutated torso in a violent explosion of bone and gore. A streaking barrage of magic, darting fire both arcane and fey, followed the shaft through the wintry skies. The remaining pair of undead were cut down even before they had the time to realise that their comrade had fallen.
The flames from the combined spells were still dancing across the fallen corpses when, moments later, the perpetrators of the assault flashed past. Three of the four fast moving shapes were elves, while the last was human. Two of the former were garbed in the drab leather jerkin of a Ranger; one clasped tightly a bladed warbow as she reached down to retrieve the spent arrow, while the other had her hand on the hilt of a slender sabre. The third elf wore the banded cuirass, tassets, and vambraces associated with a mid-ranking bladesinger, delicately golden and offset by the snow white of his robes underneath. He too bore a long, gently curved sword, although his was naked in his hand.
“Ghouls,” Nerdanel stated from the lead, quite unnecessarily. She nocked the arrow to her bow once again, her light footfalls unerringly finding the safest path through the deep snowdrifts. “Sentries for the main force.”
“… you could have left one for me,” Selinde pouted from her right as she followed her more experienced sister. “I didn’t even get to draw my sword!”
“You’ll get your chance soon enough, I fear…” Glorfindel spoke from alongside her. Despite the fact that he was more heavily armoured than the rest of his companions, he still kept up with consummate ease. This was largely due to the fact that the elves had yet to reach top speed, constrained by the limitations of the fourth member of their party. “Am I correct, Ingwe?”
The Nipponese warrior-mage nodded a response from his place in the rear, not trusting himself to speak. Casting a spell at full sprint had been more sapping than he had hoped, although his frustration was somewhat mitigated by the satisfaction of seeing his magic actually successfully strike down a foe for once. For now, however, he concentrated on keeping his feet moving over the hard-packed snow, careful to only run where Nerdanel had already ran for fear of losing himself in the treacherous drifts. Once had been more than enough.
The biting wind caught the cloaks the four warriors wore and trailed them out in the cold air behind, two of them a rich royal blue and two a more practical olive green. Like diminutive specks of dust lost amongst the never-ending white, the companions ploughed through the field, leaping a hedge and then slowing slightly to climb the next embankment. The small grove of trees to their left afforded them scant protection from the elements as they came across the first real sign of inhabitation they had seen for miles… a rickety, barely functional fence lining the top of the ridge.
Once upon a time, this might have signified the boundaries of a farmer’s plot, Ingwe allowed himself, before Nerdanel interrupted him with an abrupt hand gesture. He dropped to the cold wet snow without a second thought, the fleetest of instants after the rest of his companions had already done the same.
“There,” the Ranger indicated, extending a graceful finger to the village in the next valley. Her sight was much better than his, but even Ingwe could make out the multitude of shapes crawling like mindless ants through the muddy streets. The macabre stench left no mistake as to the identity of their foe, wafting upwards even as far as they lay under the low-lying grey of the early afternoon clouds.
“He’s in the village square, working on what looks like a major circle of power. If he’s trying to cast something even slightly proportionate to those runes…” Glorfindel remarked, more for Ingwe’s benefit than for anybody else’s. The young human may not have been able to actually discern the necromancer in question, but as soon as he concentrated his senses on the general direction of the elegantly constructed manors and farmhouses – this was Raiaera, after all – he was able to pinpoint their target. Glorfindel was certainly not exaggerating the scale of the magics involved.
“We have to stop him before he finishes that spell.”
“Those are wights, though…” Glorfindel pointed out, directing Ingwe’s gaze to the armoured figures standing guard around the necromancer.
“Seven of them, on top of the zombies,” Selinde added. “As opposed to four of us. Not going to be easy.”
“I thought you wanted to use your sword?” Glorfindel chided in reply, drawing a wan smile from Ingwe’s face. Nearly a week they had spent hunting down this particular necromancer, a survivor from their assault on the lair of the Coven of Six which in turn had temporarily broken the back of Xem’zund’s siege of Anebrilith. Lord Arminas had deemed the mage too dangerous to let loose, but unwilling to commit the entirety of his exhausted Legion to the task, had assigned the task to four of his best warriors… or three and me, Ingwe corrected. But as dangerous as it would be to jump into battle unprepared, it would be simply unacceptable to let their target slip away again.
“Ingwe?” Glorfindel prompted, bringing the Nipponese back to the task at hand. The young man took another glance at the village below, noting the layout of the roads, the general disposition of the foe, and above all, their target in the centre. So typically Raiaeran, he thought of the soon-to-be battlefield, its neatly laid out paths and obstacle-free lanes, so inconducive to the guerrilla warfare that they were best at. In which case…
“Nerdanel, where would be…”
“There,” the elf replied, indicating with a gracefully outstretched hand the tapering pinnacle of a thin spire located within the nearest manor. “I shall need somebody to cover me, though.”
“Selinde?” Ingwe asked, and the younger Ranger nodded reluctant assent. Satisfied, the young man rummaged through the pouch at his waist for a moment before emerging with a handful of neatly inscribed cards. “Nerdanel, please use these. They’ll help to cause confusion.”
The markswoman glanced at them for only a moment before accepting them from his proffered hand. “Isha’s blessing,” she whispered, before scurrying away, her sister in tow.
Glorfindel, meanwhile, was looking at Ingwe with a faintly bemused expression upon his fine features.
“So, what would be the plan?”
“The carrot, the stick, and a whole lot of havoc,” the Nipponese replied with a faint grin, replacing the pouch within the folds of his cloak. “He doesn’t know that we’re after him, or how many we are. I’d like to keep it that way for as long as possible.”
Understanding dawned in Glorfindel’s light blue eyes. “At least until it is too late for him to do anything about it.”
The faint rasp of metal against wood sang in their ears as Ingwe unsheathed his twin daggers.
“Shall we?”
Flames of Hyperion
02-08-09, 04:30 PM
He’d just about managed to convince himself that his plan was the best possible given the circumstances. The problem, as he and every other tactician since the dawn of time had learnt the hard way, was that no plan ever survived contact with the enemy.
Ever.
Ingwe was crouched in a muddy snow-lined ditch at the edge of the village, close enough to hear the low moans and the shuffling feet of his soon-to-be foes. Taking a deep breath of the tainted air, almost gagging on the stench, Ingwe forced himself to relax. On the other side of the hamlet, he knew Glorfindel would be doing the same, focusing and concentrating the powers that would be needed for the looming battle ahead. Things would not go smoothly; they never did when Xem’zund’s minions were involved, and the necromancer they would face had already previously bested Glorfindel in single combat. Flickering uncertainty once again darted through Ingwe’s mind.
Stop this, he ordered, taking another deep breath to settle the foreboding flutter in his stomach. If we can’t do this…
The screech of a gyrfalcon, high overhead on the hunt, and Ingwe was instantly on the alert. Ready. His next words were a barely audible benediction of battle, as his hands tightened around the hilts of his swords.
“May fortune favour the worthy…”
***
Nerdanel took careful aim from her vantage point in the top of the spire, ignoring the faint tingling of her finely honed senses that came with close proximity to such boundless evil. One of the pieces of card that Ingwe had handed to her was wrapped around the shaft now nocked to her composite bladed bow, and four more such arrows lay upon the smooth stone floor to her right, ready for immediate use. She, too, had heard Hayate’s screech from above.
“Isha guide my arrows…” she whispered reverently to herself, her voice emerging frosty and cold from under her hood and behind the folds of her face mask. Once again she sighted the necromancer in the centre of the common green, his back turned as he stood at the nexus of the pentagrammic village paths, finalising the finishing touches on his circle of power under the careful watch of his seven bodyguards. She judged the wind by the forlorn movement of his tightly fitting black robes, noting the telltale straps of the breastplate upon his torso. The helm that he wore, thinly shaped of black iron and crowned by an uneven and menacing set of spikes, was symbol of his unquestioned strength and power. Nerdanel suppressed an involuntary shudder as she remembered from their last encounter the visage inscribed upon the accompanying facemask, a horrifying combination of aggressive leer and petrified scream.
She adjusted her aim the faintest of fractions, targeting the barest of gaps upon his neck where pale skin showed. With any luck, she thought, this will all be over before he can reach for that double-tipped spear of his. Said weapon was barely visible from her angle, stabbed into the hard ground in front of the necromancer to act as a conduit for his dark powers.
Nerdanel slowly blanked her mind of all extraneous intrusions, concentrating until she was keenly aware of every slight shift of the wind against her forehead, every trivial tremble of every muscle under her control.
Breathe…
Release…
Breathe…
As she exhaled for the second time, she loosed.
***
The necromancer’s name was Uysarji, but he was more widely known as just the Executioner. Unlike the majority of his brethren, he was every much a warrior as he was a spellcaster, and he took much pride in his martial ability with the spear. But he also was not so foolish as to rely on skill at arms when instead subtlety was called for, and the destruction of the Coven of Six and his subsequent separation from the bulk of Xem’zund’s forces had forced him to rely ever more on the full extent of his powers.
He had always been disdainful of his erstwhile colleagues. Their leader Angelus had been vain and enigmatic; Uysarji had never understood what the man – or was it woman? – had been ultimately planning. No doubt he had survived the raid on their lair, for Angelus had always been the only member of the Coven who could rival Uysarji in sheer ability. Ar’zhanekkar on the other hand had been the schemer of the group, never without a dirty trick up his sleeve to compensate for his lack of true talent. Perhaps he too had made it free. The other three…
… well, they did not matter to him now. If they had been too weak to survive, then that was their problem.
Uysarji finished tracing the last of the leylines with his mind, backing off slightly from the intricately scribed circle of power to admire his handiwork. Flaring red runes pulsated amongst the mud and snow in tune with the beat of the dying land; they were not quite as elaborate as some that he had seen Angelus or even Xem’zund himself create, but they would serve their purpose well. With them, he would be able to…
The whistle of the arrow reached his ears a split second before it pierced his neck. Such was the force behind the shaft that the tip penetrated his body and emerged from the other side, allowing him a clear view of the light sheen of enchanted steel. It took his mind a moment to register that he had been shot, so sudden and unexpected was the attack, so caught up had he been in the creation of the circle of power.
Then, almost lazily, he reached up and removed the shaft from his neck. Flesh and bone knitted unnaturally around the gaping wound, until mere moments later there was no sign at all that he had been hit save the faintest trace of crimson trickling within his wrought armour. Uysarji glanced briefly at the black-fletched arrow, before discarding it into the cold wet ground, turning to glare almost eagerly at the minaret from where it had been launched.
The Executioner bared his teeth, and snarled in anticipation.
Flames of Hyperion
02-08-09, 05:33 PM
The young man leapt out of the ditch, stabbing both swords into the snow as he rolled nimbly to his feet. He paid no heed to the mass of undead around him, banking that his sudden appearance in their midst would buy him a few seconds before their base instincts kicked in. Ingwe extended his right hand in front of his body, bracing it with his left as he began to chant in a gentle, melodic voice, dark eyes closed to help focus his power.
“Kaze unaru tsubute yo, waga te ni yadore!” Winds that howl free and fair, heed my call and gather to my hands!
Translucent energy swirled and assembled before his palm, whirling gales contained within a powerful elemental sphere. Swiftly it grew, from the size of his fist until it was nearly a metre in diameter, gaining strength as he gathered and channelled his powers. Ingwe’s eyes opened, fierce and determined, taking in the scene before him and the target in the distance.
“Reppudan!”
***
She watched disbelievingly as the necromancer pulled the perfectly aimed shaft from his neck. Nerdanel cursed herself for hesitating, knowing that she should not have waited to see what effect it had. Hastily she reached for the second of the carefully prepared arrows, her fingers scrabbling for a moment upon the cold slate floor before grasping the solidity of the redwood.
Swiftly she nocked and aimed. Swifter still she loosed.
***
Another whistle, and this time Uysarji grinned as one of his wight bodyguards collapsed in a lifeless heap, a second black-fletched shaft embedded through its empty right eye socket like a thunderbolt from the gods. The necromancer reached out to grasp the haft of his spear with one hand, invoking a quick spell with a wave of his other. The wights tasked to his protection bunched around him warily, sword and voulge held at the ready as they scanned for further threats.
As the magics swirled around him and gathered at his feet in preparation for release, another three arrows sped in quick succession out of the small window at the top of the spire. The archer had chosen less well-armoured targets this time, and three of his recently raised zombies went down before they even knew what had hit them. The necromancer dismissed them without a second thought. They were expendable, after all.
More importantly, he had some sport to hunt.
Another wave of his hand as the world around him seemed to disintegrate into fiery frenzy, and he and his guards were sent hurtling towards the minaret.
***
“Ingwe!”
Glorfindel’s call echoed from the other end of the village, and Ingwe knew that the time was ripe. A pulse of thought from his mind located all five of his scrolls, scattered about the village; two in the central square, three in those of the paths leading into it that he and Glorfindel were not covering themselves. Another quick pulse of thought activated the magics imbued within the small pieces of card.
Five simultaneous explosions resulted, blossoming flowers of fire marring the snow-swept landscape and causing the ground beneath his feet to quake in terror. The zombies wavered, uncertain, disoriented by the sudden show of force. Ingwe paid them no heed as he resumed his full-speed run, his daggers clenched tightly within his hands as he darted through the midst of the undead horde.
The smoke and steam from his magic was slow to dissipate, but amongst the rubble-strewn haze Ingwe saw the necromancer still standing in the middle of the clearing, his bodyguards – now numbering six – clustered around him tightly. With a powerful warcry building on the tip of his tongue, the young man closed the distance, determined to jump his foe before the black mage could utilise the malevolent runes of power. Judging by the clamour of battle opposite, Glorfindel was also drawing near.
But neither of them were quick enough.
Ingwe sensed the sudden build-up of power under the necromancer’s foot, but his mind barely had time to register the fact before his opponent disappeared in a powerful gust of wind.
***
In stark contrast to her comrades, Selinde was simply bored. She stood guard at the entrance to the minaret, dealing with the occasional zombie who stumbled upon her there. For a swordswoman of her ability, it was no strenuous task.
The courtyard that stretched before her had once been well kept and lovingly tendered. Now, it lay buried under a thick blanket of pure white snow, only the faintest of traces of footsteps marring the smooth pristine beauty. The drifts had built up high against the towering stone walls, and here and there shapeless heaps indicated the presence of a bush or a wagon, long since abandoned to the forces of Xem’zund. Only in the very centre of the courtyard did a thin line of grey cobblestones indicate a path from the gateway to the manor behind her. What trees there were huddled bare and lifeless beneath their burdens of white; her eyes drifted to the skies above, where a thick carpet of shapeless grey enveloped them from horizon to horizon.
So what if I can’t use magic? she groused to herself, vaguely malcontent. I’m at least as good with the blade as Glorfindel, certainly better than Ingwe. Why couldn’t he…
Her musings were interrupted suddenly by a vicious explosion of rock, snow, and stone, as the wall to her right disintegrated into a thousand shards of shrapnel.
***
Uysarji settled to a knee amongst the dust, giving time for his six minions to spread out and ready for battle before rising again grandiosely.
“Up there?” he rasped, dark and malevolent. With his spear he indicated the minaret above the elf swordswoman’s head, his robes flowing spitefully as they recoiled from the movement. He gave her no chance to answer, for he knew already that such was the case.
A whispered word of power, and a small ball of lightning formed at the tip of his weapon. Before his opponent could react beyond a gasp of comprehension, he sent it flying towards where the archer lay.
Flames of Hyperion
02-08-09, 05:38 PM
Nerdanel saw it coming, and was ready. As the stonework buckled and splintered beneath her, she bided her time, leaning dangerously out of the very window she had used for her marksmanship. The arcane energies coruscated around her, splitting masonry and shattering wood with all the ferocity of the unbridled wild, but she timed her leap clear to perfection.
Her landing, unfortunately, was less well judged. With an involuntary cry of pain she lost her balance amongst the cascading icy tiles; her foot slipped, her slender frame tumbled against the hard brick slates, and her momentum carried her in an awkward fall to the courtyard below.
“Nerdanel!”
Her sister’s desperate cry echoed in her ears as she struggled to her feet amongst the snowdrifts, grimly discarding her bow and drawing one of her daggers as one of the heavily armoured wights closed in.
***
Horrified, Selinde watched the tower fall, blasted backwards outside the compound and into the street below. Her baby-blue eyes barely caught her sister as Nerdanel scrambled clear amongst the shower of loose rubble and stone, but then they turned dark in terror as she tumbled into the waiting trap.
Screaming in fear and fury, desperate to buy time for her sister, the young elf launched herself at the Executioner. Nimble footwork brought her within his guard in a flash, and a flurry of swift strokes sent the mage reeling backwards. But the daemonic grin upon the necromancer’s mask never once faltered as he effortlessly broke free. Selinde braced herself against the cobblestones and flung her body forwards once again, the plants and vines that had once been so carefully cultivated within the gardens now witness to her unadulterated anger.
But no matter how she tried, no matter how often she brought the cold hard steel of her sabre to bear, she could not penetrate the necromancer’s guard.
***
“Is that all, she-elf?” the dark voice grated, falling upon Selinde’s ears like a rusty saw upon dense wood. She had some skill; even Uysarji was willing to admit that. But she was not his match.
His words sent her into an even greater rage, and she swung wildly at his exposed neckline. The necromancer parried her stroke cleanly, allowing it to slide down the haft of his own weapon as for the first time in their duel he moved to counter. He twirled the polearm expertly, using both blades of the double-ended spear to bury his opponent under an endless assault of steel. Now it was Selinde who was forced to give ground, backing away slowly as her sword shimmered like a quicksilver screen to deflect the storm.
Black robe danced against green cloak as the two combatants trod the steps of death, their footsteps lightly sure and almost musical amongst the crisp snow. Her sabre was swift and skilful, but so was his spear. Uysarji could feel the force of the she-elf’s anger as it battered him almost physically, but he had the grasp of her ability now. Compared to his fellow necromancers, he was not a sadistic or cruel person, but he did have the advantage of the infinite patience that came with undeath. He had no objections to drawing this out as long as was necessary.
Until he became bored.
***
One other set of elven eyes watched in despair as the tower crumbled and Nerdanel was sent flying from its ruins. The golden-haired bladesinger carved a gory path through the walking dead that sought to hamper him from his target, his shining longsword an unstoppable force as it hewed effortlessly through flesh and steel, shield and armour alike. The occasional spell accompanied his advance, blasting great holes in the undead horde that faced him and clouding his wake with gusts of hot steam.
Ingwe’s plan had been sound, Glorfindel realised ruefully, but the young warrior-mage hadn’t – couldn’t have – taken into account the fact that the necromancer would so readily abandon his circle of power for the bait. The delicately constructed runecircle lay in complete ruins now, completely torn apart by the explosive blasts of the human’s scrolls, and a large part of the necromancer’s forces milled about in confusion, far from the action.
But that still left the necromancer and his bodyguards… and Glorfindel knew that Selinde was not their match. No false modesty prevented him from admitting that, of the four who took part in the assault, he himself was the only one who stood a chance of defeating the necromancer single-handedly. And even he had failed to do so in their previous encounter, in the caves of the Coven’s lair.
He saw his chance, and took it. A massive leap that defied all logic, taking him clear of his immediate foes and onto the wall of the manor. Ignoring the quagmire crowd of zombies in the snowy path below, his long golden hair flowing like a second cape behind him in the wind of his passing, he broke into a swift run across the treacherously narrow ledge towards the tower ahead… towards the courtyard in which Nerdanel and Selinde fought for their lives.
***
“It really is, isn’t it…” the sinister voice continued to mock, as the necromancer held off her sabre with consummate ease. For all his movements, Uysarji hardly seemed to have broken a sweat; Selinde, on the other hand, was breathing heavily from a number of cuts and grazes, and could feel the sweaty blood beginning to seep through her brown leather jerkin.
But despite her own predicament, Selinde could tell that her sister was faring worse. Nerdanel had obviously been injured in her fall from the roof, a great gash of misplaced tiles and dislodged snow tracking her violent plunge downwards; her left arm hung limp at her side, twisted at an awkward angle, and she was clearly favouring one leg. It was all the elder Ranger could do to ward off the measured attacks of the wight bodyguard she faced, and she was tiring fast.
With a final angry cry to summon the last reserves of skill and strength from the depths of her soul, Selinde launched herself forwards for a third time, ducking under a scything sweep of the spear before commencing a frenzied flurry of strokes. The necromancer did not give ground, matching her steel for steel in a ringing cacophony of parries, but the final sweep of her blade pierced his guard…
… and rebounded harmlessly off his breastplate, eliciting a screech of tortured metal that echoed about the courtyard as helplessly as she felt.
“In which case…” the necromancer spoke again, and Selinde’s eyes widened in shock.
Flames of Hyperion
02-08-09, 05:42 PM
Glorfindel leapt into the courtyard just in time to witness Selinde’s limp form crash into the opposite wall, propelled there forcefully by an invisible spell. The young elf-maiden’s body broke against the unyielding stone; splashes of bright crimson marred the whiteness as she coughed blood from the impact. The young elf maiden slumped to the ground, barely conscious as her sabre slipped from nerveless fingers.
Closer to hand, Nerdanel was only just about holding her ground against her undead opponent, barely managing to parry its heavy voulge with her slender dagger. But Glorfindel knew that he had to trust to her luck and skill, or else the younger of the sisters would never gain lay eyes upon the trees she so loved.
The bladesinger had no time to wonder why the remaining five wights stood motionless in the open. His cold blue eyes sought out those of the necromancer, meeting their beady blackness with frosty ice. Recognition flitted between their gazes, the mutual recollection of a past duel. Then the antagonism flared, no respect, no courtesy, only anger and distaste.
Glorfindel raised his sword in challenge.
Uysarji the Executioner ignored it.
With a muted hand gesture, the necromancer stalked towards the fallen maiden whom he had just bested. Furious, Glorfindel made to intercept, but found his way abruptly blocked by all five of the wights who had until now taken no part in the combat. Tactical reserve, the bladesinger managed to gasp in his mind, but there was no time for words or magic, only for the frantic swordplay and footwork that kept his head from being hewn from his body. His blade was a dazzling spectacle of starfire as it kept his five opponents at bay, but he could not make any headway towards his ultimate objective.
Helplessly he was forced to watch from the corners of his eyes as Uysarji placed one of the points of his spear to Selinde’s throat, the bitter wind carrying to his ears the whispering of a detached word of farewell.
Then the gate to his left blew apart in an explosion of broken timber.
***
Nerdanel screamed in helpless fury as her sister was sent flying against the merciless masonry. But her body would not listen to her demands, one arm unresponsive at her side, one leg barely supporting her weight. The momentary distraction was enough for her to misjudge her next parry, and the force of the blow sent her sprawling to the ground, icy rocks digging into the small of her back. There was no way that she could get up in time to defend herself against the wight’s next attack. All that her mind could see was the emotionless look in its eyes and the unforgiving glint of the voulge as it rose above the undead warrior’s head.
Then, as if through a deep dampening fog, her ears caught the words of power from the streets outside.
“Kuhazan!”
***
“Farewell.”
Uysarji whispered the single word into the young elf-maid’s ear, doubting that she was conscious to hear it but enjoying the irony nonetheless. The point of his spear tickled her throat, ready for him to apply the faintest of pressure to end it all. She had been brave, she had been passionate, she had even been moderately skilled. But the world he existed in was simply not lenient enough to reward her failure to defeat him with mercy.
He shrugged, and drew back his arm for the finishing blow. There were two more elves to deal with, and although one of them was nearly spent, he remembered the other as being a foe worthy of his skill. The bladesinger hadn’t been quite good enough the last time… but, Uysarji thought, he could always hope, could he not?
Then he was interrupted, by the sudden blast of wood and stone from the closed gateway to the manor.
The necromancer threw himself out of the way as the sudden magic scythed through the air where he had just been standing. A new figure appeared in the shredded ruins of the elliptical archway, wisps of angry steam curling about his form before dissipating into the cold winter’s air. Young and dark-haired, and undeniably human. Uysarji recognised the figure from his escape from the Coven’s lair and his eyes narrowed.
In glee.
Flames of Hyperion
02-08-09, 05:45 PM
He assessed the situation in the briefest of moments, and was acting upon it even more swiftly. Deliberately, almost purposefully, Ingwe let go of one of the daggers he held. Before it hit the exposed cobbles on the ground with a listless metallic clatter, he had finished focusing his powers upon his free hand
“Hosenka!”
Five petals of flame bloomed at the tips of his outstretched fingers, arcing out purposefully towards each of their targets. Two struck the wight threatening Nerdanel; the first knocked its weapon away, the second finished the job by finding the gap in its armour at its throat and nearly blowing its head off. Three more blazed towards the wights arrayed against Glorfindel. Though these did little more than annoy the undead warriors, they provided enough of a distraction for the bladesinger to find a brief opening. A daring footstep forwards, the stroke of a sword and a muttered spell, and suddenly there were only three left standing.
The charred remains of decapitated wight barely had time to sink to the snow, the clamour of lifeless heavy armour still ringing in the overcast ozone-tinged air, before Ingwe brought up his second blade and rushed the necromancer, determined to drive him away from the unconscious Selinde. Uysarji duly obliged, taking one menacing pace forward and brandishing his spear with a deadly flourish that barely missed taking off half of Ingwe’s face with the first stroke. Heedless of his own safety, the Nipponese warrior-mage ducked inside and slashed upwards with his short sword; the sheer daring of the attack forced the necromancer to give two steps of snowy ground. The deathlord shifted his grip slightly, holding the spear short so as to compensate for Ingwe’s greater dexterity at close range. He parried the first blow, the second…
… and then felt the flash of pain across his upper thigh as Ingwe’s offhand blade drew blood.
For an instant, those of the instincts within Uysarji’s mind that were still living balked in panic. Hadn’t he dropped that… they screamed at him, only to realise belatedly that the two swords were joined together at the hilt by a thin strand of strong silk. The human had not abandoned his weapon to cast his spell… merely pretended to do so, in order to create an opening. Anger and fury swarmed like twin locusts through the necromancer’s mind; he planted his spear in the ground and used it as a fulcrum to launch an acrobatic two-footed kick at the impudent young man. Ingwe barely saw it coming and twisted out of the way, sacrificing his positional advantage inside the necromancer’s guard.
They circled each other again, more warily this time. Uysarji faked an opening on his injured flank, but Ingwe did not make a move. Whether the young human saw through the trick or was merely being cautious, the necromancer could not tell. Behind him he heard another loud clatter as the third of his wights fell to the bladesinger, and Uysarji realised with sudden shock that the warrior in front of him was merely biding his time. For the first time in long, cold eons, the Executioner felt a niggling doubt tingle his spine. Last time he had faced both elf and human at once, he had held them off with ease. The nagging doubt at the back of his mind suspected that would not be the case again.
With a grunt Uysarji sprung to the attack, completely ignoring the wound on his upper thigh as only the undead could do. A rapid, blinding series of thrusts put the young human on the defensive, and when the necromancer’s final, deliberately overextended strike was parried and countered by his opponent sliding his blades along the haft of his weapon, Uysarji was ready.
“Burn!” he whispered, cinders sparking to life within his mouth, brimstone igniting in dark fury.
“I think not,” was Ingwe’s reply, and only then did Uysarji notice the fiery spell held in readiness in the young man’s open palm, the young man’s offhand blade once again falling to the ground with the heavy crunch of well-forged metal against thick cold snow.
The two arcane powers collided with tremendous force, eclipsed only moments later by a powerful explosion as they nullified each other almost perfectly. Uysarji was blasted into the masonry much like the elf-maiden before him; Ingwe tumbled head over heels towards the centre of the courtyard, mimicking the manner in which he had been sent reeling by the necromancer’s magic in their previous encounter. This time, however…
He is absolutely fearless… the necromancer gasped to himself as flesh and bone knitted to reform the gaping whole that had been the lower half of his face. Uysarji picked himself out of the shattered rubble and attempted to pierce the new layer of snow-melted steam with his arcane senses, probing for signs of his foe. A horrible shriek reached his ears as another wight fell to the golden-haired elf, and the last of his guards was forced to back-pedal desperately under a flurry of swift strokes. The markswoman had slumped to the floor, spent, but that was scant relief to the Executioner’s mind. He fights with two swords because he does not dread pain or death. He is able to read my movements because he does not let the terror of what may happen if he is wrong cloud his mind. Who is…
Uysarji clutched his thigh, surveying his battered body for further injuries. His spear felt somewhat awkwardly balanced in his hand, his mind exhausted by the effort of restoring his wounds, but other than that he seemed to be uninjured. The explosion had singed him somewhat, but his breastplate had protected him from the worst of the damage. The human, however…
How!
The figure on the ground stirred, then picked itself up slowly. Ingwe’s face was covered in soot and a trickle of blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth to stain the cold snow beneath him, but the hand that gripped the hilt of his dagger was still clenched strongly. With a jerky movement of his other arm the young man retrieved his other blade, catching it neatly by its guard-less hilt as it hummed through the crisp air.
Calm down, Uysarji, the necromancer ordered himself, closing his eyes briefly. When they opened again, the pounding in his mind had stopped and he could think clearly once more. I can best him at both the martial and the arcane. Of this there is no doubt. But I must not drag the battle on, for the danger lies in he and the bladesinger combining forces. In which case…
A murmur of deathly pale lips from behind the daemonic mask, and a multitude of black tendrils snaked forth towards his foe. Ingwe did not flinch, swords glinting and flames dancing as he beat them off without giving an inch of ground. But by the time the young man realised that the minor spell was but camouflage for a far larger one, Uysarji had almost finished the second incantation.
Instinctively Ingwe sensed the massive build-up of power behind the necromancer’s mind, and he knew that this was one spell that he could not let his opponent cast. In desperation, the young man flung his entire conscious towards the spellcaster in black robes, determined to interrupt Uysarji’s concentration.
For a moment, the two minds did battle amongst the snow-strewn courtyard, immense psychic forces meeting with such power as to create ripples in the very air around them and driving the snow at their feet into a new blizzard of its own. There could only be one winner, but Ingwe was determined to go down fighting with as much strength as he could muster…
… and the sheer force of his will was enough to throw Uysarji for just that vital instant. The bolt of dark energy sheered upwards into the heavens, leaving in its wake a second massive explosion that again threw both combatants from their feet. This time, when the dust cleared and the snow settled, neither stood back up.
***
“Ingwe!” Glorfindel called from the far end of the courtyard, his blade slicing through the remaining wight’s neck before his magic incinerated it to nothing more than cinder and ash. Concern for his companion overwhelmed his slight frame as he began to run towards the fallen heap of blue cloak and dark hair, his footsteps quick and sure over the deeply marred snow.
But as the black robes began to shift amongst the dirty whiteness, not so far from the unmoving warrior-mage, Glorfindel knew that he would never make it in time.
Uysarji climbed slowly to his feet, reaching out to grasp his spear with one trembling hand. He began to laugh as he tottered towards the unresponsive Ingwe, a dark and menacing sound. It was the laugh of triumph, the confident assurance of victory.
Then the spear snapped under his weight, and he fell to a knee in shock. The thud as he unexpectedly dropped to the snow sounded heavier than any death knell.
“You didn’t notice, did you?” Ingwe murmured slowly as he too wearily rose from the ground. His pale youthful face was flushed with the exertion and the cold, dark eyes exhausted and spent, and his clothes were singed by magic and tainted with blood. His words were sluggish and slurred, his movements even worse, but most importantly he was still standing. “All this time, my blades have been infused with energy.” The warrior-mage indicated his swords, and as Uysarji watched, a faint glow shimmered out of existence around them. “Every time we made contact, I was chipping away at the integrity of your weapon. Your staff is broken, necromancer.”
Uysarji could not reply, only stare from his knees at the tired young human before him. This can’t be happening! a voice screamed in his mind, trying to urge his body back to arms, failing miserably. This can’t be…
A roar of rage escaped his lips, strangely high-pitched and shrieking. With one last great effort, summoning up the last of his reserves of willpower from deep within his soul, the necromancer conjured a ball of dark energy at his fingertips and hurled it at his foe.
Ingwe parried it away with no more than a bare fist, watching impassively as it exploded upon the masonry behind Glorfindel. All present and conscious could tell that the impact lacked strength, lacked might. The raw power that had so characterised Uysarji’s previous spells was now a mere shadow of its former self.
Shadow… and dust…
The Executioner looked up at the baby-faced Nipponese who loomed over him and began to laugh once again. But it was no longer the battle-lusted and eager laugh that it had been mere moments ago. To Ingwe’s ears, it now sounded maniacal and insane.
“Kill me then!” the necromancer shrieked. “Rejoice in your victory, for it will not last! It will not be long before Lord Xem’zund has complete dominion over these lands, and then you will know the true meaning of fear! And I will enjoy waiting for you in hell and watching you suffer while I do…”
He paused, for the final blow was not forthcoming. The look in the young warrior-mage’s eyes… was it… mercy?
“DO NOT TRY YOUR TRICKS ON ME!” Uysarji hollered, screaming his defiance to the cold winter air. Only the miserably empty silence of the wan grey clouds greeted him in return. “ALL HAIL XEM’ZUND! ALL HAIL…”
A sudden arrow streaked out of the shadows and buried itself in his chest, piercing armour, flesh, and bone alike. As his soul was inexorably torn from its physical vessel, he had just enough presence of mind to notice that the fletching was not black like that of the elvish markswoman’s. Instead, they were of the hue of a bright sky, a brilliantly bold blue.
The last thing his glazed black eyes saw was the singed skin upon Ingwe’s fist where the human had effortlessly batted away Uysarji’s final spell. The wound was raw and bleeding slightly, a beautiful crimson red that dripped from the young man’s fist to the whiteness below. Then the necromancer’s spirit was flushed screaming into the depths of the abyss where it had been promised so long ago, and his armoured body collapsed into the cold embrace of the snow one last time.
Uysarji, called The Executioner, was no more.
Flames of Hyperion
02-08-09, 05:46 PM
Two slender figures emerged from the abandoned building behind Ingwe. They were extremely similar to one another in both size and stature, tendrils of fair golden hair escaping from the heavy hoods that obscured their faces and glimpses of light pale skin visible beneath the subtle shifting of their white over-robes. Neither Glorfindel nor Ingwe made to stop them as they moved swiftly towards the remains of the once-mighty necromancer; the former from shock at their sudden appearance, the latter because he had not the strength to do so.
It was snowing again, Ingwe noticed belatedly, the cold flakes nipping at his face and settling lightly upon the ground. Those brave enough to land upon the clothing of the newcomers seemed to simply disappear, absorbed into the sheer purity of the garments. In time, it will cover even this mess… he thought tiredly to himself, sparing a glance about him to the battletorn aftermath of what had once been a simple elven manor. The gate had been ripped violently from its hinges, brutal craters marking where the combatants had been thrown into the heavy stone walls. One side of the courtyard was now open to the streets beyond, the remnants of collapsed and lifeless zombies visible above the pile of grey rubble. Where a graceful spire had crowned the low-slung farmhouse was now a miserable stump of what once had been. The courtyard itself was singed by magic and stained by blood, the previously pristine coating of snow marred by the blemishes of battle, hard-earned victory and glorious defeat.
The snow would cover it all, until spring came and the horrors of the war were exposed anew to all those who passed by.
Enough, he told himself, trying to get his wandering mind to focus. He had more important things to concentrate upon.
“Arrogance and pride,” one of the two figures was saying, her voice melodic and beautiful. “The downfall of many.”
“Although,” her companion replied as she knelt down beside the body of Uysarji the Executioner, “he still shouldn’t have lost.”
Briefly they both glanced at Ingwe, and Ingwe looked back at them, unmoving. Glorfindel’s light footsteps as he came up alongside the young warrior-mage were almost lost to all their ears.
“Friends?” Glorfindel asked, his hands reluctant to put away the naked steel they bore. Only at Ingwe’s slow nod did he warily lower his guard.
“Kendal, Hitomi,” Ingwe acknowledged, his voice remarkably distant and cool in the crisp winter air. Heavy gasps of breath escaped his lungs like puffs of cloud into the skies above, but despite the moment, a strange sense of calm seemed to overwhelm him. He hadn’t expected to reunite with his old friends from Nippon like this… although the knowledge that it wasn’t exactly the first time they had met in the northern continent also assailed his mind.
“Ingwe,” Hitomi, the older of the half-elven twins, replied. Her voice was cool and measured, as if deliberately attempting to restrain emotion. One slender hand reached out to remove the mask from Uysarji’s face, eliciting a short gasp of shock from Glorfindel as the action revealed the necromancer’s delicately youthful elven features, brittle and fragile as the magic sustaining them began to seep away.
“He was… elven…?” the bladesinger gasped, unable to comprehend that his kin would so readily betray their society. Hitomi’s nonchalant nod of agreement, even as she slipped her hand inside the necromancer’s robes as if searching for something, was enough to cause him to lapse into uneasy silence.
Within moments, the young woman was finished. “He doesn’t have it,” she told her sister, her shoulders visibly crestfallen. “It’s not him.”
Kendal reached down to retrieve her arrow from the necromancer’s chest, jerking it free almost violently. Ingwe could tell that it was only his presence there that was restraining his old friend from bursting out into profanity; Kendal had always been sensitive to the sensibilities of others. She replaced the arrow into her quiver, the movement revealing for the first time the short bow she carried in its case at her waist.
Almost sorrowfully, Hitomi replaced the mask upon Uysarji’s face. A light dusting of snow swept across her face as she straightened once again, turning towards Ingwe and Glorfindel. She paused, silent and watchful, as if waiting for her old friend to initiate the pleasantries.
Duly, he obliged.
Flames of Hyperion
02-08-09, 05:59 PM
“It was you two, that night in Scara Brae, wasn’t it?” the young man asked softly, the faintest of winds nipping at his cheeks and ruffling at his hair. He peered at them owlishly from above the rims of his square spectacles, the specks of snowflakes mounting upon them having obscured his sight through the lenses.
Neither Hitomi nor Kendal made any attempt to deny the fact, and Ingwe filed the information away, satisfied for now. He knew them well enough to guess that they had some ulterior motive for attempting to drive him back to Nippon that night, even to the point of trying to convince him that it was not worth continuing his search for Yuka. But the words of reply he had spoken then still held true, now more than ever…
There’s something that I need to do… something that must be done here. And until I accomplish that…
“Tomi?” he asked, this time indicating the slumped forms of Selinde and Nerdanel against the walls of the manor. “Please?” he added, almost begging, but the woman in question had not hesitated. She removed her hood purposefully, revealing beautiful valkyrian features and the distinctively pointed ears that were proof of her ambiguous heritage. Her eyes were a bright emerald green that seemed to pierce all they settled upon with their clear intensity; her cheekbones high and her nose strong and attractive.
“She…” – a faint toss of her head to indicate Nerdanel – “… has a broken arm and a twisted ankle… Kendal?” Hitomi had always been the foremost healer amongst her peers, and there was no hint of doubt in her diagnosis. The younger of the half-elven twins nodded once and set off towards where the elder Ranger was grimly gritting her teeth against the tidal waves of pain, still barely conscious but unable to move. “On the other hand…”
A quick arcane gesture, and an ornate staff of bleached rowan shimmered into existence in her left hand. With movements only slightly less nimble than that of her sister, she made her way towards the badly wounded Selinde, Glorfindel and Ingwe trailing in her wake.
***
A faintly glimmering aura cocooned the unconscious swordsmaiden, a pale blue sphere of light shielding her from the elements while working magic on her wounds. Hitomi’s face was furrowed in concentration, her staff held horizontally before her as she knelt amongst the bloodstained snow. Neither she nor the two others who stood with her sought to ward off the light flurries of soft cotton-like wetness that fell upon them; absolute silence reigned, with the exception of a low hum of magic and the whisper of the wind in their ears.
At length, Hitomi relaxed, lowering her staff to the snow as the healing field dissipated from existence.
“She’ll be alright,” she spoke, in response to Glorfindel’s unasked question. “She was lucky. I’ve done what I can… she may be walking again in a day or so, but until then, don’t move her.”
Glorfindel nodded, then knelt at the young elf maiden’s side. Hitomi took the opportunity to stand again, easing her cramped joints with a sigh of genuine relief. For the first time Ingwe noted the sheen of damp sweat that coated the nape of her neck. He thanked the kami for her assistance; if she hadn’t shown up, then…
“Ingwe,” Hitomi murmured, flashing him a brief hand gesture. We need to talk.
He nodded in reply, cutting off his morbid train of thought, and followed her lead back out into the open where Kendal was waiting. Beyond the younger twin, Nerdanel was comfortably calm now, her arm bound up in a makeshift sling and her ankle wrapped tightly as she quietly regarded the three humans from a safe distance. Ingwe realised that they would have to stay in this village for at least a day – probably two – while the two Rangers recuperated. Somehow, the thought didn’t appeal to him much.
“You alright?” Kendal asked when they reached her side, her voice younger and more playful than her sister’s. They were still unmistakably twins, though; the same blonde hair, although Kendal’s was cut short, the same piercing green eyes, the same strong nose and attractive features.
Only when she began to stare critically at his face did Ingwe realise the true extent of the toll that the battle had taken upon him. His legs felt like liquid, his knees in particular unhealthily weak and shaky. He bled from a dozen shallow cuts and slices where Uysarji’s magic and spear had taken their toll, and his entire torso felt like a single massive bruise from the explosive reaction of their combined incantations. His right hand in particular was one pulsating welt of pain, and he dared not look at it for fear of feeling faint. Sheer willpower alone was keeping him standing now, and even that was slowly slipping from his grasp, sapped by the effort that it had taken him to disrupt Uysarji’s magics on top of maintaining multiple spells for the entire duration of the duel.
But he gave them a weak smile, one that extended into a wan laugh when Hitomi reached towards him concernedly. Ingwe almost playfully batted away the hand, instead choosing to divert their attention with gentle words.
“Thank you,” he spoke, his voice emerging as a throaty puff of breath into the late afternoon air. The chill was deepening now, worming its way through the newly shredded layers he wore, and he knew that he would soon have to borrow needle and thread from Nerdanel to patch up his clothes. It was amazing what mundane skills he could pick up in the presence of his three elven companions, from how to track a hare through a forest to how to survive off roots and rainwater for weeks at a time. Why, before he had set out from Nippon, he had barely been able to…
“Don’t mention it,” Hitomi was saying curtly, bringing him back to the present with a jolt. Ingwe covered his disorientation by pushing his glasses to the bridge of his nose, before deciding that they needed a clean in any case and removing them altogether. The thick lenses were coated with a slick mixture of sweat and snow, attracting a look almost despondent from the young man. “We were tracking that necromancer anyways… after you’d taken him out, the least we could do was patch you back together again.”
Kendal giggled suddenly, and the sound hit his ears like a refreshing draft of warm nectar. Ingwe sighed gently, releasing the last of his pent-up tension into the skies with the long, slow exhalation.
“… what were you looking for?” he asked, and knew by their reactions that it had been the correct question to pose; perceptive enough that they wouldn’t have to beat around the bush, but not so direct so as to be awkward. He wasn’t, however, prepared for the answer they gave him.
“Yoshi’s ill,” Kendal replied bluntly, stepping in for her sister, who had clammed up involuntarily. Ingwe spared a quick glance towards the older twin’s face; it was turned towards the ground, paler and more despondent than he had ever seen Hitomi before. “That thing within him… it’s eating him up… we can’t stop it.”
Yoshi Sanada was yet another of his friends from Nippon, a noble and courageous samurai whose kin were said to have descended from the mystic celestial dragons that had created the world, far in the depths of time. Born as the eldest son to the head of the family, he had been imbued with the essence of the clan’s legacy; within the young man was sealed the essence of a fire dragon, and he was expected to both learn to coexist with the feral presence and to draw from its strength in times of need. Yoshi was simultaneously both the symbol of the clan’s might and a reminder of the grim duty that they had dictated upon themselves – guardians of the legacy of the ancients, from one generation to the next, until the end of times.
“The rituals of wa…” Ingwe began, then trailed off helplessly. It was against the natural order of things for two beings to share the host of one, and although Yoshi had succeeded more than most at maintaining a delicate harmony between himself and the dragon within, it had been at the cost of constant meditation and dedication to self-control, combined with the secret rituals of his family. Without the latter…
Hitomi nodded silently, and Ingwe pretended not to notice the hot tear that spilled from her down-turned cheek to melt the snow at her feet. The elder twin had always harboured a soft spot for Yoshi, he knew, and his heart went out to her.
“We heard rumours that one of Xem’zund’s lieutenants bore a crystal that allowed him to control dragons, and so…”
Ingwe bowed his head in acquiescence and thought; he had heard of that rumour himself. The notion had disturbed him greatly, for he knew there was little he could do in the face of such overwhelming might. Then he had dismissed his fears, knowing that he could accomplish little by worrying about such things anyways. Whether he faced a zombie, a necromancer, a dragon, or Xem’zund himself, he would do so with dignity and honour and every last shred of effort he could manage.
“And so you track and kill every necromancer on sight… even after warning me away from this continent saying that you didn’t want me caught up in this war?” Ingwe’s smile now bordered on the wry, but his voice was gentle and understanding. A strangled nod was all Kendal could manage in reply, and Hitomi remained disconcertingly mute.
Silence reigned once more about the devastated courtyard, punctuated only by the growing howl of the wind as it flung bitter snowflakes in their hair and faces. Ingwe observed detachedly that whilst he was conversing, Glorfindel had carried Selinde inside to the shelter of the farmhouse and was now attempting to repeat the task with Nerdanel. The elder twin, ever proud, was attempting to insist that she didn’t need the assistance, but at the same time was failing to make any headway whatsoever towards the manor. Eventually Glorfindel simply swept the Ranger into his arms and bundled her mercilessly through the ornately carved wooden doors. Ingwe made a mental note never to mention the event to Nerdanel again, certain that she would not hesitate to put an arrow through his head if he ever did.
Eventually, he summoned the strength to speak once more through the dark mist of despair clouding his thoughts.
“How is he doing?”
“Unconscious… in a fevered coma,” was Hitomi’s reply. Her words lacked their usual vigour, but she had recovered her composure somewhat; her tears strangle them in her throat no longer. Hitomi had always been strong, Ingwe reflected wistfully, far stronger than he. “He placed himself in suspended meditation… to buy us enough time…”
“We’ll find it,” Ingwe promised her, wanting to reach out and clasp her shoulder reassuringly. Instead, he willed her to look up and meet his eyes. When she did, he attempted to reassure her with the strength and sincerity of his gaze. She responded with a smile, a wan smile, but a start.
“… have you heard anything about…” Kendal asked before her voice trailed off into nothingness, and Ingwe knew that her eyes were focused upon the faint line of gold visible around his neck, and the pendant that he wore upon his chest. He shook his head slowly, sorrowfully, not quite trusting himself to respond. She touched his hand compassionately, realising the depth of his pain but unable to express her sympathy in any other form.
“I’ll find her,” he managed at length, determinedly wringing the phrase from his clenched throat. He smiled again, willing the warmth into their hungry eyes, trying to give them the hope and reassurance that they so desperately needed. “I’ll find her, and we’ll find a way to save Yoshi, and…”
His voice dissipated as a fresh wave of cold swamped their presence, a tsunami overwhelming their small island of warmth amongst the darkest of seas.. The night was beginning to deepen as the sun disappeared beyond the rim of the horizon, shrouded by a thick blanket of grey clouds that only seemed to be growing stronger. The weather seemed to be reflecting the cold pain within his soul; despair at the fact that he could not do any more to help them now, the fraught necessity to put a brave face upon grim duty and desolation. But at length Kendal smiled back, and Hitomi too, and one last burst of twilight drove back the night for a moment more.
“We’d best be going then,” Hitomi spoke, dusting the snow from her hair and drawing up her hood once again. She forestalled the surprise on Ingwe’s face, quickly continuing, “Two groups can comb the land far better than one, and you know that we can take care of ourselves.”
“Yeah, you should be worrying more about yourself,” Kendal added in force gaiety, then laughed for real as Ingwe almost lost his footing when he turned towards her. “Although, you did pretty much take that guy down by yourself…”
“If you need to find us, I daresay Hayate will be able to.” Hitomi rummaged within her robes before tossing something small and sparkling at her friend. Ingwe caught it expertly with his uninjured hand, immediately recognising the object as one of her healing potions, bottled within a delicate glass vial. The pale blue liquid seemed to glow with luminosity all its own as he admired the lights dancing within its depths. “We’ll find you if we need you, so don’t you worry!”
With one last smile she turned away, and her younger sister followed suit. Ingwe was again slow to react, and seconds passed before he could tear his concentration away from the hypnotising calm of the potion.
“Take care!” he called as loudly as he dared to their already retreating backs, sudden sorrow coursing through his body at their sudden departure. They hadn’t seen one another for over fifteen months, and now they were already…?
As if sensing his despondent thoughts, Kendal turned to face him one last time before she followed her sister through the destroyed gateway.
”We’ll see each other again soon!” she cried back, waving valiantly in farewell. Her voice, as his before, echoed through the growing darkness, brimming with equal measures of dared hope and muffled sorrow. “I promise!”
Ingwe nodded his response, sudden tears choking his throat and dimming his vision. He blinked once to clear his eyes, but when he focused again they were gone, disappeared into the snowstorm and the gathering night.
The young man stood there for a moment more, shivering alone in the middle of the battle-torn and blizzard-swept courtyard.
Then he turned towards the shelter of the farmhouse, leaving behind him the seven lifeless undead warriors in the snow.
Act I, Scene II
Somewhere east of the Obsidian Spire, Lindequalmë, Raiaera
Shortly after Uysarji, The Executioner, met his end.
***
Silence reigned under the starlit canopy of the naked branches, weighed down with the burden of the previous day’s snowfall. The purity of the snow was infected by the dark, baneful claws which supported it, and even along the ground the white was tainted with ink.
Kryos wrapped his cloak closer around his body, trying to find a rare pocket of warmth. While the chill of the night was hampered slightly by the branches above him, this did little to help fight against the freezing sensation that threatened to overwhelm his mind. He brooded over their predicament for the hundredth time, watching his breath vanish into the chill.
They had been traveling for more than two weeks since they had left the Corrupted Tower, yet their progress had been unbearably slow. Winter had come quickly, with blizzard after blizzard forcing them to stop. The normal seven day journey had taken them sixteen. Not to mention the horrors that haunted them with every step. It was to be expected, though. They were in the Crimson Forest, Xem’Zund’s original home. They had dealt with their share of creatures; from undead shapeshifters, the Dur’Taigen, to the occasional wight. Luckily, they hadn’t crossed blades with a more organized party of the Necromancer’s underlings. Nevertheless, they needed to get to Anebrilith soon, before the forces of darkness overtook them.
Rubbing his feet together, he looked at Anne. The half-elf girl was sleeping soundly to his right, curled up next to her dog. The blond and golden hair of the two companions tangled seamlessly together in the shadows. He was glad that she had no trouble sleeping; they needed all the strength they could get to forge through the forest. Which, again, brought him back to their crisis. Their food supply was half gone, and at this rate, wouldn’t be able to make it to the coast city. Finding food in the forest was also out of the question. In all sense of the word, they were alone, dependent only on each other. They had to make it to civilization. If not, then they would . . .
An unearthly howl pierced the subdued night, breaking off into a gurgle. Kryos’ eyes flashed as he grabbed his sword while nudging the elf on his left.
“Shalua,” he whispered.
“I know. They are still a ways off, and might not even be tailing us.” Despite her reassuring tone and words, she too, brought her saber closer. The enchanted steel gleamed lavender and Kryos again marveled at the Bladesinger. She had taught him much during their time together.
“Is Blake awake?” he murmured.
“Of course,” came the harsh reply. “How can I sleep through something like this? It’s freezing cold, and that wasn’t exactly a lullaby.”
Kryos smiled, slightly amused by the human’s attempt at humor.
Blake continued, “Agh! I can’t make out a thing!” He shuffled in frustration. “Kryos, how about you? You’ve got the best eyesight.”
“Nothing,” the swordsman breathed, narrowed eyes probing past the darkness and the obscuring branches and trees. From his position, nothing moved in the forest, let alone the source of the sound. The woods kept their quite vigil. He focused, drawing up his power and as he had done hundreds of times before. The color in his eyes glowed and broke their normal bounds. He inhaled deeply. As the breath escaped his lungs and appeared in the icy air, he extended his awareness to the limit. Anything which stumbled within his field would become known to him. But as it was now, there was . . .
“Nothing.” His whisper sent strands of ease down his spine, though he did not let up his watch over their surroundings. That cry had been close enough for him to worry, and while they had picked this tree for it’s low-hanging and masking branches, he had learned that the forces of the Scourge could appear at the least likely times. That, and the relentless feeling of unease that filled the Red Forest made full relaxation impossible.
Time stretched slowly onward, measured only by their breaths. After what Kryos guess was a half hour, and his limit at Fargazing, he released the power and let his eyes return to their normal appearance. He was getting better; his endurance at using his powers had improved greatly over the past months.
His feet had grown cold again; his concentration had blocked out the pleas of his toes. Resigned, he started to warm them.
“Kryos,” Shalua said, voice soft and warm, so different from her normally reserved demeanor. “You’ve been up all night. Get some sleep.”
Eyelids completely agreeing with the elf, he nodded mutely before wrapping himself deeper into his shadowy cloak. His thoughts slid about as unconsciousness pricked at his mind and the worries of the past few months jumped forward.
Raiaera might be doomed. After all, look around. Nothing exists. There is nothing for this land but darkness. We have to make it out. His eyes moved behind their lids as he became disturbed by the thought, but sleep had him now, and his mind could not fight his body. Then, Shalua nudged the silence again, with words meant more for herself, rather than for him.
“Quel kaima, Kryos. Quel kaima.” The gentle words reverberated in his now empty mind, and faint recognition sparked, before the inevitable wave of nothingness overwhelmed him completely.
Sleep well.
Dawn came, and not a moment too soon. Just as the first rays of light filtered through the snow-topped trees and the red stained boughs, the gut-wrenching shriek pierced the frosted wood once more.
Kryos’ eyelids flew open, revealing dull, gray eyes. Cursing the impeccable timing–when his vision was weakest–he pulled himself to his feet while brushing off a thin layer of snow from his hood and shoulders. Beside him, the others were getting ready to set out, so accustomed were they to packing up and moving at a moments notice. With a quick movement of his arm, he slung his weapon to its place on his back. He too, was ready.
“Let’s go,” commanded Shalua. Her forest green cloak billowed as she ducked under the branches and into a foot of powder. Trailing in the snow at her side was her rapier, in hand and ready. “I’ll take point.”
Blake nodded his assent and ushered Anne, dutifully followed by Alk, out from the protective branches. The golden retriever lunged through the snow after the Bladesinger before circling back to his master. Anne herself was still sleepy. She stumbled through the drifts after the elf, black cloak wrapped around her small form.
“Don’t slack off, now,” Blake quipped at Kryos before following the trial of footprints. In his hands, twin short swords gleaming in the waxing light.
The dwiilar rolled his eyes before following suit.
They moved quickly through the snow. At least, as fast as they could. The forest was difficult to navigate, but every once in a while, another howl would sound from behind, urging them onward.
It can’t be much farther to the Elleduin River, Kryos thought bleakly. [/i]We crossed the Escaldor five days ago! It has to be close.[/I]
As his eyes finally became the sinister shade of the forest, he reached into his pack with cold fingers and snatched a handful of dried apples. It wouldn’t be well for them if he was not at full strength. With grim determination, he popped a couple into his mouth.
***
“What is it now? What have you found?”
The slobbering and snarling of rotted wolves answered the inquiry. The animals had fallen a long way from their once proud state. Their flesh hung off their bodies and in some places it was nonexistent. But their eyes were crazed. So long had they been under the dark powers of their master that they no longer had the will to fight for the freedom they had previously enjoyed. Red streaks ran across their sparse, black fur, and they quivered as their controller stood.
“Hmmm. Interesting. Teehee!” The voice gave way to subdued chuckling. “Yes, this will be fun. I haven’t had a chance to test out my new toys.”
The form in front of the hell-hounds stood. Yet even then his stature wasn’t impressive, as the necromancer had the body of a young teenager. Swathed in a black and mauve cloak and cast in the disorienting crimson light of the forest, he extended his arms towards his underlings, fingers erect. They twisted into complex patterns, and the undead animals yelped in pain before running off.
“Tehehehe!” From beneath the hood, a smile flashed from a perfect, youthful mouth. “Go. Chase them down, and when the time is right . . .” The boy clenched his fist and erupted in hysterical laughter. His hands, fingers and arms pulled at the air, wrenching invisible lines.
“Come, my friends. Let’s get ready to play.”
The glowing, ivory blade whistled through the bitter air before sinking into the chest of a snarling wolf, throwing the undead beast to the ground and snapping one of the front legs. The creature snarled, blood and black fluid leaking from the flaming gash in its front and red eyes narrowing as it collapsed, pure white fire licking at the rancid carcass. Kryos turned from the slain.
“Run!” he yelled to the others, some paces ahead of him and staring at the mutilated animal. “There’s more coming!”
Anne’s eyes widened, and Alk barked a warning. “Kryos, look out!” she screamed, pointing behind him. He turned back to barely see what hit him. A slick, wet mass of bone and flesh, armed with fangs, tackled him to the ground. The dirty claws ripped into his right shoulder and he cried out as the pain blossomed. Across his own chest, he felt something splash down from the beast, along with heat. His left hand shot upward, grabbing the foul throat and throwing the beast off of him. Struggling to his feet, he was shocked to see the same undead animal he had just slain, its chest still smoldering. Unease pricked his mind as he rushed forward and cleaved the head from the body, pale flames licking both parts of the neck.
The decapitated monstrosity lunged again, blood still flowing from the opening, only to be burnt by the flames. Kryos backtracked wildly, shocked, before attacking again. This time, he slashed and cut and hacked at the body until all legs were burning on the ground, away from the torso. His breathed heavily, eyes wide from what he had just seen. Something moved at the edge of his vision.
The wolves mouth snapped open and close, silently searching for sweet flesh to feed upon. Kryos turned and sprinted after his companions, not daring to look again upon the flaming, demonic head. As he ran, he dragged his blade through the snow and sheathed the weapon, before attempting to rid his chest of the Dur’Taigen’s gore.
What’s going on? he thought as he plunged through the drifts. What was that thing, and why didn’t it stop? Something isn’t right.
A scream mixed in with hideous snarling raked against his ears, and he finally came into sight of his companions. Two ghastly wolves were attacking, being held off by Blake and Shalua. The Bladesinger showed no mercy, violet weapon flashing through air and flesh with ease, quickly lobbing off the head as Kryos had done and continuing to break the body until no amount of necromancy could reanimate it. Her grace as she fought was unparalleled by any of them, a result from years of training. Next to her, Blake appeared as a kid, whose powerful attacks were slow and easily read by the undead being. Sharp cracks sounded with the breaking of bone, although the twin-swordsman couldn’t make a critical hit. As Kryos rushed forward to aid the human, the mutilated wolf leapt off of its recently broken legs at Blake’s throat, who backtracked too slowly. Kryos couldn’t reach him in time, and Shalua was just turning around. She couldn’t see him, the wolf, the impending future. No . . .
The creature burst into orange flames and fell, howling, to the ground. Anne, who stood behind her protectors, held her hand outstretched, fingers smoldering from the spell she had cast. Kryos thought he glimpsed a smug smile brush across the girl’s scarred features, but he wasn’t positive. He wouldn’t blame her though.
Blake stood trembling, still in shock at his brush with death. Kryos ignored him and jumped into action, bringing his muandrian to bear, glowing white steel arcing through the air to end the beast’s existence.
“Why won’t they die like normal?” Shalua said, coming up next to him. “It’s like nothing I’ve seen before. Even your sword has no effect.”
Kryos shook his head. “No, it is having the same effect. It’s just that, there is something else, something we haven’t seen before.” The dwiilar chuckled darkly as he cleaned the blade. “After I cut the first one across the chest, a strike that would have been sufficient for the past fiends we’ve faced, the creature died.” He closed his eyes as he remembered the horrific scene, of vile teeth and putrid breath mere centimeters from his face. And the empty, emotionless look it had. “It was as if,” he continued, “after that, it wasn’t attacking with its own will. The eyes, were empty.”
“Hmm. What could this mean, though?” Shalua murmured.
“Damn it!” Blake had found his voice again, and sent off a string of profanity. “Who the hell cares? Let’s just get out of here!” He carried on with more curses.
“Shut up, Blake,” Kryos growled. “Get it together.” In all honesty, he didn’t care. But with Anne there, well, he was disappointed in the mortal.
The girl in question came forward, canine companion at her side. “I think we should go to. There’ll be more following. We’ll have to lose them, or kill them all.” She looked pleadingly at Shalua.
“Of course,” the Bladesinger assured. “Let’s head out, same formation.”
Once back on the move, Blake seemed to get his emotions under control. He still eyed the woods like a suspicious old hag, but at least he was an asset again.
Ten minutes into the silent march, a chorus of deathly cries resonated from behind them. The dwiilar tightened his grip on his weapon and lengthened his stride. Those were scouts? He could barely believe such a thing.. If this is true, then we’re dealing with an organized structure of foes. And that means there is someone pulling the strings who has the intelligence to do something like this. Definitely not a common minion. His stomach churned at the thought, at the possibility, that they had caught the eye of another necromancer. The cold, young features of Rashilan Penna’ak, who had died by the hands of his friend and great warrior Lexxum Vordic just a few days ago, sent shivers down his spine. Facing the awesome powers wielded by Xem’Zund and those who followed him was nigh close to folly. If they were against a new, unseen enemy, they would be hard pressed to survive, especially in a place such as the Lindequalmë.
Ahead, the light in the trees grew brighter. Kryos surged forward through the freezing drifts, past the scarlet trees and right behind Blake. They had stopped.
Before them, the trees gave away to a snow-covered bank before opening up to a wide, flat expanse of undisturbed whiteness. Now out of the protective cover, a crisp, frigid wind spun wisps of powder into the air, biting their exposed skin. Overhead, large, purified clouds raced each other to the horizon, and the blazing sun did nothing the dispel the chill of winter.
“We’ve finally made it.” Anne whispered. “The Elleduin.”
Shalua and Kryos stepped forward in unison, eyes probing the trees at the edges of the bank. “Don’t let down your guard,” the elf said. “We’re still a long ways from safety.” Kryos couldn’t agree more. This was nothing more than a measure of how far they had come, roughly a little over half of the journey. They still had a long way to go, and if his fears were correct, they might be more dangerous than the first sixteen.
Ever cautious, he sent his magic down the length of his blade, the pure flames summoning the hidden enchantment within the weapon. Fate would always favor the prepared, and he slowly made his way through the snow with the others following at his back. His crimson eyes scanned over the tree line, looking for anything. This was a perfect place to ambush a group; he himself would choose this spot for its cover-free expanse. His right foot crunched through the snow and hit a cold, hard surface. The river itself. Slowly, they made their way across the bleak plain. Nothing but the wind and their footfalls sounded. Unease flitted through him as they crossed the halfway mark.
Where did the wolves go? Maybe I was wrong about them being organized.
It was with this thought that the river exploded into ashen clouds and childish laughter ripped through the freezing wind.
They were surrounded.
In a large and ragged circle stood dozens of the undead. Beyond the immediate ring, however, more clustered around, staring at them with hideous expressions of rage and torment, eyes strained with corruption. Vicious breaths blew from their torn lungs, throats and mouths, such that Kryos couldn’t help but want to die just from the terror the sound incurred. Their forms swayed, and did not attack, and the wind that carried their moans and growls pulled at the shreds that clothed the zombies. They had burst from below the snow, hidden from sight until call upon by their master, for it was only his will that kept them from attacking. Now in the open, their rotted flesh, fluid oozing from the lacerations and dried blood and gore that covered their bodies, became pungent in the wintry air.
Kryos stepped back and into the others who had clustered behind him. He could feel their uneven breaths at the prospect of facing such overwhelming odds, and the thrumming of Alk’s chest as he growled in defiance, fangs bared. The closest undead took an slow step forward.
“Shit,” Blake spat as his hands shook. “What do we do?”
“Psh,” the Bladesinger purred. “Always the human.” She began to sing softly to herself, and a glow began to appear at the edge of her lethal rapier. As she did, the sky darkened, a legion of dark gray clouds moving over the sun. The glimmering powder dimmed, and Anne glanced up at Kryos, radiant eyes wide. He looked at her once, nodding, then faced his opponents. The previous months had forged the simple schoolgirl into a survivor, one capable of making it though the hardest trials. This would just be another. She closed her eyes and began to chant, reaching behind her with her right hand to grab the large dagger strapped to her lower back.
Mouths gaping and bloody saliva dripping from their mangled jaws, eight undead took a leading step ahead of the others, equal spread around the ring. Their bodies shook horribly, bones crunching, before they charged through the snow. Kryos bended his knees, eyes narrowing and hand lifting his glowing sword to eye level. Exhaling, he lunged forward.
His sword sliced effortlessly through the decayed muscle and brittle bone of his foes. In a single swing, he beheaded the first, a man, with once brown hair and a strong facial structure. The white flames that always marred his blade’s victims burned the neck. Two others came rushing in on both sides of his first target, clawed hands swinging. Kryos dropped to his haunches to avoid the attacks, and swept his sword in a wide arc in front of him, catching all three beings at the waist, shedding their clothes and breaking their skin and bones. More flames burned at the exposed creatures and he kicked the first one away. A hand hit him on his neck, hard, and he followed the path of the one he had launched away. Using that momentum, he cut, hacked, and broke the burning body and danced around.
The two that had flanked him were now rushing towards the others and, as they were currently preoccupied fending off their own attackers, were unable to see the coming ambush.
“Look out!” Kryos yelled, jumping after them. Only Anne turned and saw the two threats. She whistled and Alk, the golden retriever’s coat already splotched in grim and gore, jumped, teeth sinking into the neck of one and shook his head, snapping the neck. Anne herself drew back her hand, murmured a quick phrase, and hurled a bright fireball directly into the other. The creature burst into flames and screamed. For a moment, Kryos thought that it was a woman who burned, not an imitation. He came upon them, and made quick work, severing hands from arms, arms from body, and the legs as well. Even in a second death, the parts still moved.
He looked to Shalua and Blake. They both were fending off two zombies apiece, and more corpses littered the ground on their feet. Blake was a frenzied whirlwind of yells and steel, his twin blades flashing through the air and damaging his foes before they had a chance to find and get through an opening. With grim determination, he fought for his life.
On contrast, if Blake was a whirlwind, then Shalua was as lightning, striking so fast and elegantly that it looked as if she danced to the beat of her sword sliding through flesh. Her violet rapier mixed with the putrid blood that painted the sky and snow, and as she spun, her sage cloak billowed like a hero of yore. As she impaled one of the undead, a devilish grin appeared on her face and her eyes were filled with satisfaction.
This startled him. He knew Blake’s motives; revenge for his murdered family at the hands of the undead, but the elf’s had always remained a mystery. They elation she showed during combat only added more to the mystery that veiled her motives.
Kryos turned and watched four more break ranks from the surrounding mob and rush Anne and himself. He readied his sword and glanced at Anne. Her fingers glowed with her power. Like the Bladesinger before him, he allowed a smile to appear on his lips. Fire burned through the air alongside a golden form of muscle, claws and teeth, and Kryos charged through the drifts, feet slipping slightly on the ice, and barreling toward the pitiful undead.
***
In the hidden folds of snow-topped branches, Baug’almare, the Puppet Master, watched as his minions were slaughtered, one right after the other. Frankly, he was impressed. He hadn’t guessed that this rag-tail bunch of mortals would have survived his assault so long. Well, mostly mortal, he corrected himself, remembering the elf.
The snow below him lit with a hellish glow as a fireball sailed and struck an underling. The corpse dropped and a flash of steel ended the creatures life. He felt a tug on his finger as it died.
“Hmmm. How about . . . Yes.” The boy chuckled and waved his fingers, gesturing toward the river. “Go on, boys. Try and get them!”
Below, the savage wolves shuddered, before loping off towards the clearing. He watched them go, leaning forward, placing a hand on the snowy bough. The wind was severe in the top of the red tree, but his body no longer cared. It hadn’t bothered with such petty complaints for a long time. A large grin split his face.
“Te heh. Heh hehe! Heheheh!” With a whirl of fabric, he threw back his hood, letting his fair, blond hair bask in the light of the sun. His skin, a color indicating elvish decent, was smooth over his face and his teeth were perfect. But his eyes, a bright, vivid violet, were filled with spite and malice. The intensity clouded his youthful face, transforming it from an innocent boy to a monster. Being born hundreds of years ago, he knew the reality that shaped Althanas. Everything was controllable, including the god-like elves. His Lord’s conquest over them was proof of that.
A yelping pierced his stray line of thought, and he saw the dark-haired swordsman cut down one of his pets. The sword he wielded was strange, imbued with some magic that resisted his necromantic power. An interesting variable, he thought. They are quite good, even the little girl. Desire filled his breast as he gazed upon the child in question, not even as old as he was when he died. He wanted her, the child. The others could become as the others, the poor souls from that forsaken city. But her, she would become his companion.
Another five zombies lay dead at the group’s feet and three more were being slaughtered. “This is getting so boring,” Baug’almare complained. “I know! Let’s see how they handle this.”
He closed his eyes and began to whisper in a forbidden tongue. Like acid, the incantation added to his power, and his eyes burned with excitement. He flexed his fingers, and began to move them in short, abrupt movements. Below, several of the undead jolted, as if shocked. They rushed forward and began to circle the fierce group on the frozen, windswept, blood-drenched river. He twisted his hands outward, and laughed as his dead heart filled with the rich sensation of joy.
***
The body covered ground was soaked in blood, and in many places, the snow had been kicked up enough that the bare ice had been revealed. Kryos slid to a stop as he impaled an undead with his muandrian, length sliding into the chest and back out. He backtracked toward the group, surveying their progress.
It seemed that the organization decisions of the person in control was working to their advantage. If the zombies had all attacked at once, they would have been easily overwhelmed. As it stood now, their ability to fight one-on-one had given them the advantage. The numbers had decreased by a fourth. And while the hell-hounds had given them a surprise, they had been easy to put down.
Three more of the undead broke from the group, and began to circle them, crying madly. He bumped against the others. They waited. The zombies charged, claws outstretched. They barely felt the effects of the ice! he noted as his blade raced to meet the soon-to-be corpse.
He missed!
The creature has swerved at the last second and was past his guard. There was nothing he could do! The creature bit into his shoulder, rancid breath and saliva burning the new wound, and he cried out in pain, echoing one that came from Blake. He switched his hold on his sword to a reverse grip, and stabbed the being, heaving it away and following it down, blade singing vengeful wrath upon the creature.
Fear flooded through him.
As he looked up, two more zombies stepped forward and began to circle. Their legs hadn’t even moved! They just raced motionlessly around them, as if they were mere dolls for some innocent child. As he turned to follow them, he caught the sight of Blake beating off his attacker, arm streaked with blood, and Shalua eyeing the newcomers. Anne held mage-fire above her left hand and blood coated her dagger, but for the most part seemed fine. Then, without any forewarning hint, the bodies shot toward them, and Anne screamed.
A zombie had flown, literally flown from the edge of the trees, over its dead comrades, past the living’s guard faster than they could react, and landed right behind the girl. Grotesque hands clutched her shoulders and bolted outwards, and the rest, human, elf, dwiilar and canine, reacted a second too late, lurching forward before being stopped by the previously circling undead. However, their attempts were in vain; Anne twisted around to face her captor and, hand still smoldering in hellfire, rammed the magical flames into the broken and slashed face of the dead human female. Not finished there, she took her dagger and slashed the throat, over and over again. It was then, that Alk broke free and charged, mad fury in his eyes. He leapt, toppling over the woman and, once finished, raced back to Anne who had retreated to the others. Their breathing grew labored.
“What the hell was that?” Blake gasped, hunched over slightly. “Those were totally different than before!”
Shalua nudged the human, nodding toward more enemies stepping from the ring. “They weren’t the only ones who were different. Stand, and face them!”
Blake grunted and stood erected, muttering under his breath about his luck and having no break. With death staring at the group, they braced as the undead converged like buzzards onto a kill.
Kryos became a whirl of movement, striking and evading with the same lunge, retreating and attacking in the same second. His blade ringed through the air, sprouting shimmering flames across whatever flesh they cut into. He ducked a clawed hand, pausing for a second to shift his weight, dark clothes fluttering, before kicking into a half-eaten gut and breaking the spin. His scarlet eyes darkened in concentration, using all of his knowledge of combat as he spun through the air, lashed out with his left arm and legs, and cutting burning vengeance with his blade, all while trying to keep his footing secure on the slick ice.
Anne was holding her own, deadly fireballs growing smaller and smaller as the fight wore on but still as potent. Her mental reserves were dropping at an alarming rate, so more often than not she would have to resort to close combat. Her slim fame was the one advantage she had on the ice and against the unpredictable, bizarre movements of the undead. She dropped to the cold ground as a zombie lunged at her, and her right hand flicked out, dagger cutting into the knee. She rose, then jumped and shoved her weapon into the vertebrae of the monster. Alk came in next, ripping one arm off and going for the other even as his chest heaved for breath. As Anne pulled her weapon from the neck and dropped to the ground abreast to the dog, her leg gave out and she dropped to her knees.
Blake wasn’t faring much better; the effort of keeping up with the endless fighting seeped deep into his muscles and bones, and on occasion, was slammed brutally by a clubbed hand before he could get his guard up fast enough. Still, he fought with all he had, twin blades crunching bones and severing the muscles of all who came to close. Until four undead rushed him at once.
Shalua, noticing the rush, quickly dispatched her own opponent and slid across the ice to the human’s aid. Her saber flashed quicker than the normal eye could follow, and a limbless torso dropped to the ground. Backtracking from the three still moving corpses, she brushed against Blake, who nodded his thanks, and charged again, the human at her side.
We won’t make it, Kryos thought as he landed in the snow after being hit across the face. We won’t be able to kill them all before one of us dies. He grimaced as he pushed himself up from the frosted river surface. This need to end now. He pushed himself backwards, toward the group, powder brushing upwards before being snatched by the wind. But their movements, it is so, unnatural. It’s as if . . . His breath caught. If the deceased souls still remained in this world, then they could act as a channel through which necromantic power could be conducted. He shook his head. The chances of that are so slim, it is almost impossible. An undead flew at him, mouth agape and roaring. It’s worth a shot. He moved his sword, aiming it the chest of the attacker which impale itself upon his blade. Even then, it swung its arms, trying to pull closer and kill. Kryos reached back his left hand, fingers outstretched and rippling with the white-flamed Charity spell, before darting past the arms and grabbing the skull.
The creature shuddered once, then collapsed.
No way! He wrenched his muandrian from the body and glanced around. There were still too many to safely touch them all. But, if he could find the source, the origin of the control, the necromancer who watched from afar, he could sever those bonds. Physically going there was out of the question; he had no idea where to start looking, and he wouldn’t get past so many enemies. There was only one thing for it.
“Everyone, cover me!” His companions, locked in combat, glanced at him with incredulous eyes. “Just do it!” They didn’t move for one moment, contemplating and dispatching more of the zombies, before retreating to his side.
“What are you gonna do?” Blake heaved, grasping his side.
The dwiilar didn’t waste time explaining. Instead, he lowered his blade and closed his eyes as he called upon his power. The bloody-red in his gaze expanded, glowing fiercely, and he dove into the insubstantial abyss that separated Althanas from the Fluenta, the realm of souls. His spiritual vision took in the surreal snowscape.
Beside him glowed the souls of his comrades, two locked in combat and one, Anne, staying close by his barely responsive side. Around him, dull shadows ranged and fought; the physical bodies of the undead. He couldn’t see their souls, however. They must be in a deeper level.
With a flash and a shockwave that thudded against his chest, he dropped in the next deepest level, as if he had dropped from one plane of existence through the next as any physical person might drop through a whole in a floor connecting separating two identical rooms. Still nothing; the corpses moved free of influence. He went down another, and another. Still no change, save for the movements of those fighting. He gritted his teeth. Going any deeper would start to strain him, but he had no other alternative. Taking a breath, he descended.
The shift was more noticeable, and the colors that made up the Fluenta changed slightly. Now, they simmered as if each one was made from two, the snowy white all around from silver and blue, and the red trees from blood and gold. He breathed deeply from the shift, and stepped forward eagerly. He could see them, the bubbling, black shapes that were the undead souls, twisted through necromancy. They were all separate, though, independent of control. As he watched, and as his comrades killed (taking on injuries of their own), he would see a thin string of abyssal energy shoot from the trees on the east side of the river, penetrating the spirit’s neck and urging it forward with the uncanny movements. So, their master hid in the trees.
He wasted no more time standing. Rushing forward (his soul a mix of ivory and onyx,) he lifted his weaponless hands, burning with the Charity spell in its true form, toward the hidden enemy. As he reached the ring of tormented spirits, he brushed them with his fingers, and the power keeping them tied in Althanas was removed. Many arched their backs and disappeared with sighs of relief, their bodies dropping to the ground. In this way, he cleared a path to the tree line, keeping a close watch on the strands of power. Ten yards in, he glanced upwards.
In the top of a large tree crouched a small figure, his soul a black deeper than pitch. So, this is where you’ve been hiding, Kryos thought. It ends now. No longer will you toy with us as you do these poor souls you control. Hands bursting with renewed, alabaster flames, he jumped, soaring though the spiritual realm of the Fluenta at his prey.
***
Baug’almare laughed as he sent out more of his underlings toward the struggling group. With quick twists and tugs of his fingers, they changed direction instantaneously, and although two of the warriors were fairly quick at adapting to the random changes, the human wasn’t as fortunate. Just as he had three undead lung for the man’s throat, he laughed in triumph.
The laughter turned to confused chuckling, then a horrified yell.
His power had been severed and his attack foiled.
Desperately, he attempted to reconnect his control, his precious links to his beautiful toys. But only a feeling of cold, and death, and nothingness danced along his fingers. More then, on his toes, back, face, and sides, appearing only for an instant. In each feeling, it was as if something was dying. Or rather, being stolen from him, his grasp. He looked around him, at the scene below, but nothing seemed to be attacking him. He was hidden in the trees, cast in shadow by his cloak save his hands and head. How could this be? His lilac eyes widened in horror as the feeling stuck in the places it appeared, growing, and becoming more intense.
“What the HELL?!” he screamed, hands clutching at his forehead and pulling his blond hair. “Get away! Now! Aghhh!” He thrashed against the invisible torture and screamed in agony at the boundless, clouded sky.
On the river, the undead attacking, stopped moving. Silence reigned except for their labored breathing. Then, carried on the wind, a howl of pain and terror and agony, mixed with terrible power. Anne dropped to her knees, clutching at her ears.
“Make it stop!” she wailed to Blake and Shalua, who were watching the ring of living dead with pained expressions. They glanced at each other, confusion written on their faces, and they stood ready for whatever was coming. As they did so, the cry began to diminish, ever so slowly like the journey of the moon over the night sky. As it became quiet once more, Anne lifted her head.
“What was that?” she asked, looking around. The two adult didn’t have a chance to answer, though. Like a wave of release, the undead dropped to the ground with a mutual sigh, starting at the east side of the river and heading north along the loose ring. As each body hit the snow and ice, the companions became all the more confused. Only when the last body fell lifeless to the ground was the silence broken.
Blake swallowed, “What . . . just happened?” Only silence answered, as Shalua was deep in contemplation and Anne was tending to Alk’s wounds. Even the wind had died. “Shit, guys. Seriously!”
On the ground where he had fallen, Kryos gasped, jolting, eyes filling with life and memory. He shook his head, then stood tall and straight, sheathing his blade. For a moment, he looked noble in the pure light, his dark countenance defying their fate. All eyes turned to him as he glanced over his shoulder.
“Are you alright?” he asked, eyes filling with concern. His ruby gaze touched each of them.
Blake grunted, putting away his own weapons because of the dwiilar’s calm demeanor. “Besides being so confused as to what just happened? Yeah, I’m just peachy.” Kryos rose an eyebrow at the level of sarcasm the human used. With as sigh, he explained.
“I simply found the necromancers origin of power and severed it, and in doing so, released the undead from his command.” He hadn’t told them of the true nature of his power, namely, dealing with souls, so he gave them the simplified version. It was in his nature to be cautious about his people and who he was.
“Wait,” Shalua interrupted. “A necromancer? Are you serious?”
He nodded. “He has fled for the time being, and we should make the most of it before he comes after us again.” Turning to the girl, he asked, “Are you ready to go?”
She stared up at him, her friend and her protector for the past few months, and nodded, a smile breaking on her face. “Yes, of course I am.” If she was with Kryos, she would continue to survive. His power was mysterious, but powerful.
“Wait a minute, Kryos,” complained the human, reaching forth his hand. “How do you know he’ll come after us again?”
“Because he’s a child at heart, and full of power. Combine those two, and you get a dangerous being. Only the next time, he won’t be messing around, as he was today.”
“So you stopped him but didn’t kill him? I don’t know how you did that, but even . . .” Kryos’ suddenly cold eyes stopped him in his tracks. He had never seen the dark swordsman get like this before, so he shut his mouth. He could dig later, when they were safely in Anebrilith drinking some well-needed ale.
Kryos met Shalua’s question-filled gazed, and he shifted uncomfortably. He could probably guess what she wished to ask him, but was grateful when she turned away.
“We should start heading to the edge of the forest then,” she said. “We don’t want to be caught in the forest in a confrontation like this. Besides, we’ll be getting close to Anebrilith soon.”
Kryos nodded his agreement, turning his back on the group. “I’ll take point.” He didn’t know why he wanted to, usually he was most comfortable in the rear. Maybe it was just that he wanted to feel alone right now, free to let his mind think. Being in the lead and forging the trail helped.
“Kryos,” a small, young voice piped. He glanced back to see Anne sliding up next to him. “We’ll be ok, right?”
He smiled and ruffled her moist hair. Her eyes were so innocent, and if it weren’t for the rippling scars that ravaged the right half of her face, he would have never guessed at the horrors she’d been through.
“Yes, we’ll make it though. No matter what happens, we’ll make it.”
Turning away from the young child, he passed over the dead, now in eternal slumber, and into chill air that spoke of dangers and safety yet to come.
Flames of Hyperion
06-05-09, 10:34 PM
Act II, Scene I
Three day’s march southwest of Anebrilith, Raiaera
Early in the Month of Tribulations, the Winter of Untold Agony
***
Don’t twist your body.
Don’t hold in your strength.
Don’t kick the ground.
Don’t try to stay in place.
At first, they had seemed a completely random and contradictory set of principles. Watching the three elves applying them in practice, however, had quickly imprinted upon him the usefulness of focusing on not abusing his strength, on not placing unnecessary stress on his admittedly scrawny frame. He had admired the efficiency of their every action, the effectiveness with which they purged unnecessary movements from all they did, their ability to make every muscle respond to their will like pieces on a chess board. And thus he had attempted to make the techniques his own, adapting them to his inferior human body with all the scholastic diligence that was his trademark.
Perhaps it was his endurance that had benefited the most. Ingwe had learnt from his friends to step softly and swiftly, matching his hands and feet as if his upper and lower halves were connected as one, and turning his body without twisting his torso. Now he could run alongside them for hours at end, and although his awkward gait lacked the innate grace and fluidity of their elven stride, he basked in the realisation that at least he was not holding them back any more. A distance that had taken them five whole days to cover whilst tracking down the necromancer was eaten up in only two on the return journey.
Nearly there now… the young man breathed to himself, juggling the words in his mind as his bespectacled eyes intently studied his surroundings for signs of disturbance. His breathing was laboured but steady, puffs of hot steamy breath escaping from his lungs into the frosty air. His legs were knotted with exhaustion after nearly two hours of non-stop running, but they carried him effortlessly up the snow-covered embankment in the footsteps of his companions, lightly maintaining his footing amongst the treacherous drifts.
The chill air nipped angrily at his exposed cheeks and sought to infiltrate the multiple layers he wore beneath his ubiquitous cloak and tunic as he drew up alongside his friends at the top of the hill. Nerdanel had her hand to her brow as she shielded her keen gaze from the glare of the sun on the snow, sweeping the vista from the forests on the southern horizon to the mountains on the northern. Beyond her, Glorfindel was eying the dark storm clouds above the red-tinted trees with a mixture of apprehension and loathing; closer to hand, Selinde gave him a quick grin and a cheeky wink, fully recovered now from her injuries of a week earlier.
Ant-like figures stirred in the valley below, indecipherable voices spreading the news that the four warriors had returned. In the shadow of the rocks to their left, Ingwe spotted the dark-haired form of Castor, the huntsman from Scara Brae, who had been first to spot them and raise the alarm; he acknowledged his elder with a friendly wave, which was duly returned in style.
“Well, we’re back,” Glorfindel remarked, and of a sudden, Ingwe felt a massive load lift from his shoulders.
Flames of Hyperion
06-05-09, 10:50 PM
“… and thus we have returned once again,” Glorfindel finished, drawing out the silence after his words with all the patience of a practiced orator. The description of the events of their quest, with occasional clarifications from Nerdanel and Selinde, had taken him just over an hour, and the break from speaking was a welcome one.
Arminas Ereinon had listened carefully to every word from his seat at the head of the table, occasionally pausing the tale to confirm a detail or ask a quick question. The elflord’s shoulder-length amber hair flowed in intricate braids from his stately brow, his piercingly powerful eyes intense and intelligent. There was weariness in his expression, and resignation in the set of his silky green robes settled about the floor, but there was also honesty and wisdom, strength and honour. Arminas was a man who would lead the way into the depths of hell if necessary, and his companions would follow him willingly all of the way.
He was flanked in his position by the archmage Nogeres and the dwarven runelord Telchar, two of the most prominent members of the Legion of Light. The former was swathed as always in his heavy grey robes, an indecipherable shroud that disguised his every thought and intent. The latter hunched over his ornate rune-hammer, scowling and growling like an angry guard dog at the young man who was studiously avoiding the smouldering steel glare.
Ingwe had remained silent during the entire proceedings, not once even looking up to acknowledge his presence in the room. The neatly arrayed vermilion piles on the threadbare rug – the only concession to comfort in what was after all a camp of war – filled his vision as he concentrated, deep in thought. Glorfindel had glossed over much of what had occurred between himself and the half-elven sisters, and although Ingwe did not think any of the three commanders stupid enough not to notice, he was grateful for their willingness not to pursue the matter further.
The stillness hung heavy with the musty scent of damp earth and dwarven pipeweed, the latter courtesy of the small pouch at Telchar’s waist. The muted hustle of the Legionnaires outside seemed to overwhelm the quiet that had settled over the canvas-covered confines of the tent, but Ingwe’s ears were full of the pounding of his heart and the words of his old friend.
… have you heard anything about…
About Yuka? he completed Kendal’s unfinished question in his mind, resisting the urge to sigh and shake his head by fiddling nervously with his glasses instead. No, I haven’t… and yet…
Could he trust the strange dreams that he had been having recently? The very thought sounded absurd, almost unthinkable that a scholar such as himself should put any stock in baseless whims of a tired mind. And yet… the nagging voice at the back of his mind refused to remain silent. After all, didn’t he know better than anybody else about the capricious whims of magic, and how it was impossible to tell exactly what anything meant when the arcane was concerned?
If what shards of sense he could decipher from his fevered mind could be trusted, then she was here, in Raiaera. And she was, for some reason that he could not yet fathom, on the side of the enemy.
No matter how many times he thought things over, he could not come up with a valid explanation why. He had known her for years, and he trusted her with all his heart not to be there of her own free will. But then again, she was certainly resourceful and talented enough to effect an escape if she truly wished to… and thus…
His head began to throb painfully again, wracked by the agony of a thousand trials and tribulations. There was little he could do by simply worrying, with naught in the way of hard information to go by. He had to hope, to believe…
… so difficult sometimes to do so.
“… much has occurred elsewhere as well,” Arminas was speaking sonorously as Ingwe snapped back to reality, brought back by Nogeres’s stabbing accusatory cough. “Your exploits have reached the ears of those other than ourselves, and their effects have been manifold… for better or for worse.”
“Anebrilith?” Ingwe asked, giving voice for the first time in the meeting. His words seemed cracked and parched even to his own ears, and he licked his lips reflexively as eyes turned his way for the briefest of moments.
“Amongst others,” Arminas acknowledged, but Ingwe caught a strangely hesitant note in the elf-lord’s tone. The sinking feeling in his heart was reinforced when first Telchar, then Nogeres, failed to meet his suddenly alarmed gaze. A brief pause, as dreadful as the monstrosities they faced with sword and sorcery, once again hung over the confined tent.
Then finally Ingwe spoke once again.
“What is it…?”
Flames of Hyperion
06-05-09, 11:03 PM
Two hours later, Ingwe found himself seated in the shadows at the edge of the camp, alone again save for the whispers of the wind in his ears and the gentle starlight sprinkled in the celestial blanket above. The depths of darkness about him were deceptively calm, but the young man took heart in the fact that the sentries knew to be even more alert on nights like these. The silence settled all around like a panoptic veil, amplifying his lonely thoughts as he soliloquized to the impassive half-moon.
Anebrilith has fallen.
Arminas’s words from earlier echoed through his mind, sounding the death knells of the purpose he had once held in their expedition. The Legion had set out from Scara Brae in order to save the ancient port, to hold it against the tides of darkness that threatened to overwhelm it for as long as it took to evacuate the refugees of war from its besieged streets, and to push back the hordes of undeath that threatened to strangle Raiaera’s sole remaining tether to the outside world. What hope he had held that their ragtag band of volunteers and mercenaries could succeed had shattered with that single phrase.
Not to any of Xem’zund’s armies, but to her own greed and decadence.
Arminas had explained at length the situation in the city, now besieged by the Death Lord Roszen Kaverre after the dissolution of the Coven of Six. The Death Lord had a fearsome reputation as one of the most formidable spellcasters amongst Xem’zund’s retinue, but even he had seemingly been content to sit back and watch the elven haven crumble behind the seeming safety of its high white walls. Pirates and slavers had set up shop amongst the masses of refugees yet seeking passage to safer lands beyond the waters, their corrupt trades thriving in the lawless instability and unpredictability of the beleaguered town. What elves of virtue and honour had once called the city home had either long since left its streets at the head of those they could save, or lay as rotting corpses amongst ruined plazas and devastated manors. Despite the best efforts of the handful of brave warriors that remained, the situation was rapidly descending into anarchy… exactly as the Death Lord desired.
And now, even Lord Turgon has sent word that he plans to break through the siege lines, while there still yet is hope for the rest of the war.
Ingwe knew that the powerful prince of Tor Elythis had been the single most influential figure in what remained of the city council, the figurative adhesive that bound the remnants of the city militia and regular forces into a cohesive unit capable of resisting its undead foes. Without Turgon’s leadership, and without the skilled arms of the Elythisian contingent that the prince commanded, Anebrilith stood no chance at all.
Dammit!
The young man swore uncharacteristically, hammering his hand into the hard ground at his feet. His fist was bruised with the impact of a dozen other such blows, his chapped palm discoloured purple against cold pale white. Hot tears built up behind his eyes but refused to spill, frozen by the frosty air and the multitude of other woes racing through his mind. He was used to the sensation of paralytic helplessness as fates were forged and history was written without him, but his feelings were not assuaged by the knowledge that he himself had been able to do next to nothing to alter the course of the war. The destruction of his hopes had left a gaping void in the middle of his chest where his heart had once been, and only the gripping pain of solitude and failure remained to fill its place.
Dammit…
Ingwe swore again, but this time his hand fell limply to his side, his anger and frustration spent. Images of the fair city and its inhabitants swamped his mind, scenes of relative peace and order in the weeks that they had spent defending its walls and the innocents that took shelter behind it. In the background of it all, her face loomed…
… and then the loneliness hit him like a tidal wave of heavy bricks, crushing his pathetic soul beneath the weight of his solitude and melancholy.
At long last, Ingwe allowed the tears to fall.
Flames of Hyperion
06-05-09, 11:07 PM
How long it took him to regain control over his emotions, he did not know. Unfathomable depths of time and memory passed before he once again came to, reality reasserting itself with an unpleasant jolt about him. Low-lying clouds obscured the heavens above from view, which thankfully prevented Ingwe from taking a look at his own dishevelled state. But the young man needed neither the chill that swept through the thin layers of his clothing, nor the twin sticky streaks that coated the lines of his cheeks, to realise that the layer of concealment about his person was a welcome one.
Quickly, instinctively he attempted to wipe the tears from his face, sniffling like a young child as he drew his left arm across his features. It met resistance in the form of his glasses, perched precariously as always upon the very tip of his nose. He removed them gently and rubbed his eyes clear of the blurriness that clouded his vision.
I haven’t changed much, have I…
The thought was rueful and self-deprecating, as the realisation struck home that despite all he had fought for over the past few months, he was still the same old weakling within. His homeland of Nippon seemed so far away now, concealed behind the impenetrable veil of distance and time. The faces of friends and family he had not seen in ages now seemed to waver before his eyes, a painful reminder of how far he had come in search for redemption.
I haven’t changed at all.
When he had first landed in Scara Brae, he had been opportunistic, full of hope. When he had signed up to the Legion in the Auld Hoose, he had not been ignorant of the dangers he faced, nor had he been overconfident in his abilities to face them. When he’d fought the enemy for the first time, neither had he fled in the face of death nor had he exulted in his hard-earned victory.
And so on, so forth, each battle accumulating in his mind like grains of sand forming a beach, until he was numbed to the sensations of swinging his sword and casting his spells.
There are some things in this world that people will fight to protect.
He’d realised that, on the first night in Scara Brae, when race and class, skill and standing had proved to be of little consequence to those united in a common cause. It had warmed his heart.
There are some things in this world that are worth dying for.
This was something that he’d known from further back, from his Academy days in Nippon. It hadn’t prevented him from developing an inability to actually convey such feelings… but they existed nonetheless, burning strongly deep within his heart and granting him the strength and courage to face each new day.
There are some things in this world that you don’t realise what they mean to you until you lose them.
And this was the figment of knowledge most deeply engrained into his soul, driven there like a sharp nail, hammered home by that heavy instrument known as reality.
Slowly he reached into his thin tunic and removed from it the pendant he wore around his neck. The outspread wings represented hope, freedom, courage. The red jewel that glinted in the centre symbolised the fire that smouldered within his heart, pure and strong. Ingwe resisted the urge to unclasp the pendant, to allow himself to dwell on the portrait ensconced within. Instead he contented himself with gazing absorbedly at the accessory dangling before his face, his gentle warm brown eyes lost in the time and memory of its moonlit gleam.
Flames of Hyperion
06-05-09, 11:09 PM
“So, who is she?”
The sudden voice shocked Ingwe from his mind-numbed reverie, and the young man nearly jumped out of his skin. The newcomer laughed heartily at the Nipponese’s reaction, and even harder when ingwe fixated him with a reproachful glare from above the rims of his oversized glasses.
“Who is she?” Castor prompted again when it soon became apparent that Ingwe was desperately thinking of a way to avoid the question. Thinking, and failing. “C’mon, you can tell me.”
The dark-haired huntsman still wore the leather vest and leggings from when he had signed up in Scara Brae, although his boots were now of elven make and he’d somehow acquired a battered breastplate and vambraces to go along with his outfit. His craggily handsome features were creased in a wide grin, his breath heavy with the spices of the earlier meal and the coarse scraggly beard on his chin nearly tickling the younger man as he leaned close. Castor was not only a skilled bowman and a courageous warrior, but also a good listener and leader of men. Of the close-knit Scarabrian contingent that formed the core of the Legion, Castor was undisputed big brother and captain.
“… I’d rather not, if I may…” Ingwe replied, uncharacteristically sullen. The young man’s mood swings were nothing new, but it was rare for him to let it show as such. Castor raised a slightly bemused eyebrow as Ingwe continued, “What makes you think it’s…”
“Ha!” the marksman laughed, pounding his knee in delight. “It’s fairly obvious, Ingwe,” he pointed out, at which his companion flushed rather nastily, “… and the defensive stance you took when I asked you about it didn’t help.”
The older man paused, regarding Ingwe with a mixture of solemn interest and paternal responsibility. The Nipponese had returned to staring morosely at the pendant he held. Then he abruptly replaced it in his shirt.
“Are you sure that you don’t want to talk about it?” Castor continued to press, hoping to elicit some reaction – any reaction – from the young man. But Ingwe simply smiled wanly and silently shook his head, gently refusing the friendly offer.
Castor looked disappointed, but he nodded. “I understand,” he spoke, letting his voice roll calmly through the still night. “But one day, my friend, I hope you will learn to open your heart. Otherwise you will always be alone.”
Ingwe made a small movement of acknowledgement, one that barely concealed the effort required in maintaining his composure. For a few moments, silence reigned, until Castor felt comfortable enough to jest once more.
“Knowing you, though, even if you did speak, you’d spin such a sad tale of romantic tragedy and unrequited love that I’ll probably have to tear my own heart out afterwards.” Castor didn’t really mean it, but the increased flush in Ingwe’s cheeks and the embarrassed cough that followed spoke more than a thousand words. The silence this time was one of brief shock, punctuated by a slow grin tugging at the huntsman’s mouth until he could stand it no longer and broke out into a hasty guffaw.
“You don’t mean…” he asked, trying to reign in his gasping amusement. Ingwe made the only reply he could, under the circumstances.
“… do be quiet.”
Flames of Hyperion
06-05-09, 11:11 PM
“Ingwe.”
Meaningful silences punctuated by light banter. Castor was by now fairly used to the vagaries of a conversation with Ingwe, vagaries that to the inexperienced could be interpreted as awkwardness. The night was growing short now, a fine mist rolling off the nearby mountains and infiltrating the small Legionnaire camp. The sentry change of an hour prior had seen Lord Arminas’s Rangers of the Eclipse take over, so neither human was overly concerned about being caught by surprise, but the predawn stillness did precipitate an eerie sort of alertness.
“Hm?”
“About Arminas’s decision…”
Castor knew also just how much Ingwe had hoped to save the city of Anebrilith from Xem’zund. Of al the Legionnaires, the young man was the most idealistic, the most honour-bound, and the most prone to taking failure personally. Equal parts respect and concern coloured the huntsman’s thoughts as he tried to work out how to broach the matter. They could not afford to lose the talismanic Nipponese, not now.
To his surprise, Ingwe’s reply was gentle and calm.
“It’s alright, Castor,” the warrior-mage spoke, smiling softly and sadly into the surrounding stillness. The older man did not miss the hint of sorrow that tinged the words, but neither did he fail to recognise the determination that underlined them.
“In the end, I do trust their… Lord Arminas, Lord Turgon, Telchar, Nogeres… I do trust their decision in the matter,” Ingwe continued, his voice a modest whisper that nonetheless carried amongst the canvas tents and neatly-piled stacks of weapons and supplies. “If anybody can make a rational decision to carry the fight elsewhere, it’s them, not me. They wouldn’t have chosen to do so lightly.”
Ingwe sighed, exhaling long and wispily into the crisp winter air. His eyes were fixated upon a point in nowhere from above his large-rimmed glasses, his youthful features set in the very expression of composure. Despite this, though, Castor realised that the young man was rationalising the matter to himself. One last time.
“If they believe that more lives can be saved this way, then it is my duty to fight for them to the utmost of my abilities. I have to do what I can to make this gamble succeed… to even the odds in our favour. Only then will the spirits of those who have sacrificed themselves to our cause so far be appeased. Only then can the souls of those who have fallen in this terrible war rest in peace… when the future of those lives remaining is secure.”
Ingwe smiled again as he finished. This time there was no trace of sorrow… only determination and resolve.
Castor broke out into a relieved chuckle.
“Thank the Thanes for that,” he grinned in return, slapping a firm hand onto the startled young man’s slim shoulder. His brown eyes gleamed in genuine pleasure as he spoke. “We wouldn’t have known what to do if you were still set against it.”
At the shock on the Nipponese’s face, he felt compelled to continue.
“Don’t know if you’ve realised this, Ingwe, but you’ve come to symbolise the frail hope that we of the Legion carry with us… the hope that the actions of a brave few can change the world for the better.” The hand that clasped Ingwe’s shoulder squeezed once in emphasis and appreciation. “More than Arminas, or Telchar, or Glorfindel, or anyone… you’re the spiritual heart of this band of brothers. More than anyone, you let us dream that one day, we might be remembered as heroes.”
By then Ingwe’s expression had changed to one of slack-jawed wonder and disbelief. Of all the reactions he could have made, the one of innocent boyish astonishment was possibly the least fitting of a hero… but Castor knew that this, at the heart of it all, was what truly inspired him to follow the young man.
“I’m not joking, you know,” the huntsman laughed as he rose to his feet, gratefully stretching aching limbs. Despite the banter his eyes were sincere, and though they only served to increase the confusion apparent on Ingwe’s face, Castor knew that his job was done.
“Think about it,” he urged, walking away with a nonchalant wave, before adding in a louder voice, “but don’t forget to get some sleep, either!”
Ingwe did just that.
Flames of Hyperion
06-05-09, 11:12 PM
Dawn rose above the tidily-arranged camp, a bleary sunrise that filtered through cloud and mist to give faint light to the lands below. It illuminated the solitary figure of a young man who had thought and hadn’t slept, and who hadn’t even actually moved from his position behind the tents either.
Minutes passed, followed by hours. The steadily growing bustle of activity erupted into a frenzied cacophony of preparation as tents were torn down, the pack train assembled, and arms and armour readied. From the cloaked elves that set off half an hour early to scout the land ahead, to the ironclad glint of the dwarves as they shouldered the last of their ale kegs, it was obvious that the Legion was well-rested and eager.
It was not halfway through the morning by the time that preparations were complete and the Legionnaires were ready to move out. Ingwe took his position in the vanguard of the column, his hair glistening and his face red from a hurried scrubbing. A faint zephyr ruffled his hair gently as it passed him by on its way inland, and for an instant he looked to the skies, spotting the speck of white that was his gyrfalcon Hayate far above.
In the end, he hadn’t worked out what to think of Castor’s words, so he’d decided that it was in his best interest to largely ignore them. If true, it would not do for him to deny or alter anything, for fear of disrupting what was already a delicate situation. If false, then it did not matter what reaction he took. In any case, he vowed to himself, he would not let the words, no matter how well-intentioned, get to his head. Over-confidence was his greatest enemy.
And until I find you…
Once again the zephyr passed by, and this time Ingwe’s eyes were drawn to the multiple banners in the breeze. The intricate simplicity of the Ranger standard, the coat of arms of the Scarabrian royalty, the grim lines of the dwarven battle-totems. All united under the single emblem, gold eagle soaring against sable sky, which represented the Legion. Ingwe liked it; it reminded him of a phoenix. Now he realised that perhaps that had been the intention when it was designed.
Courage, strength, and honour. For freedom, for justice, he repeated in his mind, the motto of the Legion. Simple words perhaps, but each imbued with the hopes and fears of the two hundred that lived and fought by them. And as the column began to march under Arminas’s command, Ingwe added four more words to the blessing, his personal battle cry.
May fortune favour the worthy.
Act II, Scene II
15 miles south of the Emyn Naug, Raiaera
Middle of the Month of Tribulations, the Winter of Untold Agony
***
As he ran, Kryos felt an oppressive weight lift from his back and into the clouded sky. He would have laughed if the sound didn’t threaten them with the legions of undead that stalked the land. That didn’t stop the grin from spreading across his face though. Glancing to his sides, he saw the others smiling as well.
They had finally broken out of the cursed confines of the Red Forest. Their long and arduous ordeal within the haunted woods had affected them mentally; an unnatural aura of paranoia had grown sharper and more defined during the past days since their encounter with the necromancer. With danger lurking behind every tree and whispered screams floating through the branches, it was understandable as to why the late High Bard Council forbade travel to its depths. Rumors had it that of those who entered, many were never seen again, while those who did make it back were driven beyond the limits of their sanity. Having known the risk and surviving the forest for the second time, Kryos knew how lucky they were with their current number. By all means, and with odds any gambler would have taken, they should be dead.
Thus was the cause of the jubilation that linked the companions together. Four miles behind them lay the harmless-looking line o crimson trees and shadow, the forest rolling on and on behind that border. Far in the distance ahead and slight on their left rose the black slopes and peaks of the Emyn Naug, while before them lay pure, untouched blankets of snow and, eventually, the golden city of Anebrilith. In a few day’s time, they’d be in the safest city in the land, the last haven.
A golden shape barreled past him in the snow, nearly tripping him. Alk, tongue lolling from his mouth, bounded ahead, and Anne giggled from her place on Shalua’s back. Despite the girl’s weight, the Bladesinger had no trouble keeping the pace at which they ran. The elf, though, retained the best semblance of attentiveness to their surroundings. Perhaps the fact that she fought for her home, unlike Kryos and Blake, that made her the most responsible among them. While they were out of the constant danger of the Lindelqualmë, the plains had their own dangers. As Alk stopped at the rise ahead, Kryos glanced over his shoulder as he ran effortlessly up the hill.
The afore mentioned human trudged after them, following in Kryos’ own prints to conserve his energy. While it was clear that he didn’t have the speed nor endurance that Kryos and Shalua shared, the man was doing considerably well keeping up with the set pace. Their half-hour run had left him warm and breathing hard, but his eyes were filled with the joy they all felt and the hope of living through the day. It would be enough to keep him going.
At the crest of the hill, Kryos and Shalua paused to let Blake catch up and to get a new bearing. The evening sun cast the clouded sky in fiery light and he felt a pressing urge to find a suitable place to sleep. Before them rolled the plains of southern Raiaera, with the occasional tree breaking the skin of the land. Perhaps, after another hour or so of travel, they would find a small grove to make refuge, if they were lucky.
Blake stumbled next to them and bent over, hand on his knees, gasping for breath. Kryos smiled slightly at the physical weakness of the human race. They had potential, but it required effort and training.
“How much . . . longer . . . are we gonna go . . . t’night?” he slurred between breaths.
Shalua cast her brown hair from her face with a swift turn of her head, and she looked to Kryos for an answer. It was strange, to be looked at for leadership. While he had been responsible for their situation, he’d much rather have the Bladesinger, as familiar with the land as she was, to lead.
With a sigh and a shake of his head, he said, “As long as we can. The more we move, the less likely we’ll be discovered, and the sooner we’ll get to Anebrilith. That is all that matters now.” Resigned, the human nodded his head.
Shalua tilted her head backwards to Anne. “Ready?” she asked.
“Yep,” the girl chirped, and Alk gave a low bark at hearing his master’s voice. Anne giggled at him.
“Then let us fly.”
They flowed down the hill as lightly as the wind, leaving a trail of fear and hope in the snow behind them. The darkness of the night descended, and soon, even that was taken, lost in the shadows of the past.
“This isn’t good,” mumbled Blake, who was lying in the drift next to Kryos. “Not good at all.”
Night had come and now reigned over the land, and just as they had settled down for the night, an orange glow several hills away caught their attention. Now, they gazed upon a sight that made their hearts clench.
Sprawled in the basin of several larger hills, lay an undead regiment. At least two hundred standard zombies sat on the ground, and scattered among them were seven large fires where wights stood and watched what was taking place. And in the center, a massive fire roared into the night, and next to them were humans and elves. Chains bound them and cloth covered their eyes. One by one, a wight wrenched one to their feet and tossed them into the flames. The zombies nearby served to stop any escape attempts and, in the short time that they had watched, several had been dragged into the flames. The sight sickened Kryos to his core, and cold sweat broke out on his body.
“Blake, take Anne down the hill. Now.”
The human retreated before standing, and he shook himself from the snow clinging to his clothes. He walked over to Ann, who was on Kryos’ right, and pulled at her shoulder.
“Come on, Anne. Let’s go.” He tugged again. “Anne.”
Kryos glanced at the girl.
Tears were rolling down the mask of horror that she wore. Her whole body quivered, muscles tightened and clinging to their frame as they tried to keep a firm grip on reality. He breathing was erratic. The light from the fires below cast hellish shadows on the girl’s scars that raced across her face. Next to her, Alk whimpered and nudged her with his muzzle.
“Blake, just take her!” Shalua whispered, exasperated.
With a grunt, the man picked Anne up from her spot and, carrying her in his arms, turned and made his way back down the hillside, the golden retrieve following his every step.
Turning his attention back to the encampment, he estimated their numbers. His eyes flashed from fire to fire, dead body to armored skeleton, and arms to bows to the red tent that stood near the central fire. As he did so, the tent flap was thrown back, and a large man emerged. His embroidered robes and cloak clearly spoke of his leadership position. Just the sight of the man made his skin crawl. The necromancer was no doubt one of high importance. Cloak billowing, lifted his arms and waved them, mouth opening as he spoke words that fell silent to the hidden observers. As one, his minions retreated and, with a wave of his hand, the remaining ten prisoners were lifted from their place next to the fire and into the inferno. The greedy tongues of the blaze consumed them. Soon after, the necromancer disappeared back into his tent.
“Well, Kryos. What should we do?” Shalua murmured as she crawled next to him.
He shook his head as he took in the size of the army. “What can we do? I count at least two-hundred fifty standard zombies, twenty-five wights, and a necromancer to boot. Not to mention that group at the far end of the camp, although I don’t know what they are.” He squinted at the group he indicated. “They’re big, but nothing that I’ve seen before.” He lowered his head into the snow, frustrated at the new development. “If you ask me, we should avoid all contact with them.”
Shalua nodded at his assessment. “I agree. However, we need to think for the good of my people. If we can find out what their goal is and what they intend to do, perhaps we could warn Anebrilith.”
The dwiilar gritted his teeth. The risk of discovery was huge, but the elf was right. As much as he loathed the idea of getting closer, it needed to be done.
Why can’t she be like me and look after herself more? It’s a damned annoyance.
He turned and signaled to Blake from his position farther down with the other two, and motioned for him to stay where he was. Blake nodded his understanding and continued tending to Anne, who had somewhat come to grips with herself.
The Bladesinger pointed to the group Kryos had observed earlier, and said, “It may be best to go there. Wights and zombies will not be giving us answers, and trying to penetrate the camp to the tent is suicide.” She tossed her hair over her shoulder and rose to a crouch. “Careful now.” Under his breath, Kryos growled to low for her to hear.
“I know.”
The dwiilar and elf sat hunched behind two large crates at the extreme northwest side of the camp, frozen in shock as they stared at each other. A burst of flame shot into the air twenty feet behind them and, in the momentary light, they could see the bloodless expression on the other’s face.
“Do you . . .” Kryos whispered. Shalua nodded in affirmative. Dread welled up in his heart. “How is that . . . “
She shook her head, motioning for silence. Another jet of flame shot into the air, sending another shot of fear into them.
Behind the crates lay a small band of dragons. From the flowing and scarlet hides that protected the beasts, they were probably a small group of reds. What they were doing in Xem’Zund’s employ, though, was anyone’s guess. However, besides the fact that such a powerful creature had been added to their enemies, Kryos could never had been prepared for what had happened when they had approached.
Voices. Inside of their minds.
The phenomenon of having words and sentences not of his own choosing made his head hurt. He was still struggling to get accustomed to it. Not doubt it was the thoughts of the dragons. If it hadn’t been the nessessity of their mission, he would have been out of there in a heartbeat.
Another growl, and he heard the intentions of the creature.
I’m getting tired of this. These humans are so weak. Let’s just kill them and get it over with. All their rules. We should be ashamed!
Get a hold of yourself, another dragon said. You know we can’t. This is the best we can do.
But isn’t it pointless? another beast interjected. After all, our might isn’t needed to take out any more cities. Why do they insist that we stay with them. We’ve upheld our end of the bargain.
Kryos drew puzzled at this, his face forming into a frown. He had no idea what they were speaking of, but the reference to the cities had him concerned. He glanced at the elf next to him. The confusion written on her face mirrored his own.
Another dragon jumped in.
I agree. After their recent victory over, where was it? The city-refuge-on-the-shore? After that, their might is secured. Besides, it is of no concern to us. It never was, and never will be. The bickering of men are constant and insignificant, like an arrow against our ageless skin.
Kryos couldn’t breath. His body wouldn’t respond to his thoughts, and his body disappeared into a numb void. His vacant eyes stared into space with the revelation that dashed all of their hopes, plans, and goals.
Anebrilith had fallen.
Frozen in the shocked stance behind their cover, the wrestled with the new information. That the port city had finally fallen spawned the feeling that everything that they had done had been in vain. There was no city to return to, no safe harbor, no escape. Because of this, they had effectively been trapped within the elvish lands, doomed to die.
How can we go on now? Where will we go? The immobilizing and weakening thoughts tore through him, and as his mind began to think, to act and decide and plan, he heard the voices that had never ceased to speak.
. . . had enough! There is no point in arguing any further. We are here only as long as we are forced to be. Once that time is upon us, we’ll return. Until it has been returned to us, we will obey to protect them. Sarrelierum!
As one, the minds became quiet. Whomever had spoken appeared to be the leader of the group. He heard movement in the snow behind him, but as far as he could tell, they were settling down. Now, would be their perfect opportunity to escape. He looked at Shalua, whose eyes were filled with sadness and regret at Anebrilith’s fate, and motioned up towards the hill. With a grim nod, the elf shifted her position, and paused as a voice rang through the absolute silence of the night and into their minds.
What is the new plan, then? Where are we being forced now?
We’ll be cleaning up that city, then turning toward the rises-at-the-north-horizon. There are all sorts of rumors about those hills.
The only answer that the statement received was a mental sigh, almost a mix between a growl and a yawn.
Not wanting to reveal their presence, bladesinger and swordsman took what they had learned–the horrible truth of recent events–and crept away. They needed to leave quickly; the was no telling when a necromancer would decide to move. As he came to the top of the nearest hill, he took one forlorn glance at the legion. In the darkness of the night, one glowing, fiery eye opened and, to the dwiilar’s horror, stared right at him.
Faster.
Can’t stop.
We must . . . keep going.
. . .
They’re coming.
The starlit fields of snow gleamed as the group raced away from where they had encountered the necromancer’s hoard. Shalua was in the lead with Alk at her side. On her back clung Anne, head buried in the crook of the elf’s neck. She was ahead of Kryos by five minuted, who was bringing up the rear. Blake, as much as determination could keep a man going, had just about reached his limit. Thank goodness they hadn’t revealed the truth of Anebrilith to them. Cutting into the midnight sky, a howl and a snarl broke the whispering of the wind. Kryos spared a moment to check their progress.
A wight and a small group of zombies, flesh falling from their limbs, were tailing them by about a mile. The dwiilar’s silver eyes narrowed as he judged the distance.
They’re catching us.
He was surprised at the undead’s speed, but then, necromancy could work vile miracles. He put on a burst of speed to come alongside his human companion. Across the man’s brow, moisture glistened.
“Blake, they’re catching us. You need to move faster.” As his words faded away, he watched dispair enter the man’s eyes.
“I don’t know . . . if I can,” he gasped. “I’m not like you. Or Shalua.” He stumbled, and Kryos steadied him. “Maybe, you should just . . . leave me.”
Kryos glared at him, sharp gaze as cold as the landscape around them. “Not likely. Now, focus. And run. You can make it!”
The cries promising death and bloody steel echoed behind them again. Falling behind Blake once more, his face grim, he focused his mind by calculating the time they had until he and the human were overtaken. His thoughts leaped and bounded with the rhythm of his steps, and the passage of time became the wind on his face, biting at his eyes and ears and nose, and the almost predicable shouts of bloodlust.
No matter what happened, he knew that they had to keep fighting until the end. To give up and die would be admitting that the evil in the world, whether it be the Shadow Riders of his people or powerful Darklords like Xem’Zund, could cast down the faith and strength of those within Althanas. But not only that, but the darkness could, and would, steal away the choice and will of the people. Just as had been done to him, all those years ago in that dark and bloodstained cave. He had no choice as they tortured him and his friend for the pleasure of it, nor when they killed Lorin. Because of evil, he’d been powerless.
His hands closed into fists. All those years ago, he’d been weak and innocent. Now, he had power. The power to fight, to change the world as he saw fit. And he would not let go of what he’d gained again. The first time had almost killed him, and that had been enough. No. He would do everything in his power to live as he wished, and to do as he pleased. And right now, what he wished for was to live.
“Kryos! Blake! Up here!”
With a jolt, he surfaced from his musings and, shock growing on his face, saw Shalua calling them from a ledge. He glanced around, surprised.
They had made it to the Emyn Naug. The rocky ledges that made up the hills and great slopes surrounded him. They had entered one of the valleys and now, Shalua was leading them upwards toward higher ground.
Blake slumped against a large boulder, chest heaving. Kryos approached, patting him on the back. “Well done. But we’re not through yet.” He nodded with his head for the human to start climbing the frosted ledge after their companions.
As Blake put his foot against the wall, searching for a foothold in the darkness, the smell of rotted flesh and the unearthly, mutilated roar of an undead shot adrenaline and panic through Kryos’ body as if he’d been shot. As he whirled around, hand reaching up to wield his blade, he saw them close in from the open plains.
He caught the first one moments before it reached Blake, the weapon in his hands glowing a pure white as he unleashed the powers it held. As the blade cut across the deceased chest of the zombie, ethereal flames licked the wounds and the creature dropped, a soundless scream caught in it’s throat. Twisted around and coiling his arms around himself like a viper’s body, his muandrian lashed out again, impaling the next through the throat, blood gushing from the wound and boiling to nothing as it touched his enchanted blade. With a kick, he dislodged the corpse and dropped into a deep defensive stance.
“Kryos! Blake!” The sweet melody of Anne’s voice cried out from above. “Are you alright?”
His human comrade stepped next to him over the dead body, twin swords drawn from his waists. “Thanks,” he grunted. More forms lurched into the light of the dwiilar’s blade. “How many?”
“I didn’t get a good count,” Kryos supplied. “But at least twenty-five.”
“Dammit.”
Then the flurry of combat began anew. With each new opponent, Blake and Kryos danced around them, striking at the openings. With every bite from the twin swords, the victim would falter as pain lashed against them, and the glowing muandrian would close in and seal the monster’s fate. They held their own well, managing to avoid tripping on the bodies and keep the line. That is, until another wave of unprecedented size surged forward, these armed with weapons of their own. Dodging under a mace, Kryos jumped backwards, grabbing Blake’s collar as his did so and saving him from a spear that sailed from the shadows. Kryos’ eyes were wide as they absorbed every move the creatures made and anticipated every attack. Slowly, ever so slowly, they were forced to give ground to the malicious laughing and screams of the undead.
Then, their backs pressed against a wall of unyielding rock, and the enemy lunged forward.
Like a gift from a god, a blazing wall of fire descended and erupted upon their enemies. The roar of the inferno deafened him, and the wash of heat seared across his face and exposed arms. He turned against the stone wall to shield himself and he could hear and see nothing but the effects of the fire. Gradually then, the flames dimmed and died and Kryos heard the distinct sound of giggling.
Anne was perched above, shaking with excitement. Her eyes were bright and her hair was blown back into a disheveled mess. She was staring at her hands, which were smoking.
“Anne, was that you who did that?” Kryos called up to her.
She nodded, still preoccupied with her hands. “Uh-huh.” Shalua poked her head over the cliff face.
“Sorry, I tried to stop her, but she wouldn’t listen.” Across her face, a faint smile gleamed.
Kryos nodded his understanding. He knew better than anyone how Anne could get. He looked upward, just as the moon rose on the eastern horizon.
“Careful. Don’t let down your . . .”
Anne screamed as a black arrow blasted into her shoulder, spinning her backwards and from the dwiilar’s gaze. Blood fell from the air and splattered against the rock and snow. He whirled, looking for the new assault, and Blake dropped to the ground, clutching at his belly. An identical bolt had pierced his side, just below the stomach from the looks of it. He held his bloodstained hands to his face, eyes wide and full of shock.
“Your guard?”
From the shadows, a figure appeared, heavily clad in armor and holding a crossbow. But, unlike the minions that they’d just defeated, this creature held intelligence. However, beneath the plated and worked armor, no flesh supported the shielding. Only bone, and the warped energies of evil.
“You really are stupid. Too bad this couldn’t continue longer. I haven’t had a good hunt for a while.”
The wight brought up his arm, and more than two dozen shadows converged into being.
“Goodbye.” The diabolical grin that played across the skeleton’s face caused a fury to grow in Kryos to strike down the undead abomination. Then, with a flash of black feathers, he couldn’t feel, or see, or smell. Nothing existed, save for the bloodthirsty roars of the Scourge’s legion, and the grating of stone, a low barking of deep, old voices, and the clash of metal. And far away, someone shouting his name.
Nothing. Nothing. Empty space, all around.
A swirl of space and time. Or was it time and space?
Whispers of eternity. Calling and calling and murmuring and running up and down his spine as a wet tongue. Out of focus. A ripple.
Will he be alright? Just like a stone cast across a black pond. Going going going and gone.
An aged stone that spins as it cracks.
It barely grazed his lung, sae thaur is a guid chance . . .
The abyss had filled the endless void, pressing him and it and the thing which existed. What was where? Where was when? How could why be?
Because it simply is.
. . . close ca’, t’at. You arh lucky we saw ye comin’. But whit under th’ . . .
With the stone and fire and ice all around, a burning in the stinging cold. What was this?
Who was crying. They shouldn’t be sad.
Kryos. Kryos, wake up. Please.
That was familiar. He knew that voice. It was a girl. And then . . .
Looks lek he’s comin’ aroond.
Then there was light.
Kryos opened his eyes to smooth stone several feet above him. Chest hurt, right below his right collarbone, and it was as if a snake constricted around his body. He was lying on something soft, though, and as he moved his gaze, he heard a sigh of relief.
“Well, well. Look who’s back from the dead.”
Tilting his head, he saw his three companions, four including Alk who stood next to the half-elf child, standing at the foot of his bed with grins splashed on their faces. Anne had a bandage on her shoulder, and Blake held a similar dressing across his stomach. Shalua was uninjured; on the contrary, the way she held herself spoke that she was better than when they had been on the plains.
“What happened?”
“Abit near died, ye did,” a gruff voice spoke from the far right. “An’ we’ve bin waitin’ fur a lang while fur ye tae wake, too.”
He understood then. Compared to his comrades, the dwarf who spoke was insignificant. He stood just above the bed in which he lay; eyes dark and surrounded with wrinkles. A full beard hid his features, and in some places it was stained with white. The low ceiling confirmed his growing suspicion.
“Where is this place?” he asked, voice quiet.
Blake grinned. “Come on, Shalua. Let’s show him.”
The two others walked around the bed and helped him up and when they touched his right shoulder, pain crossed his face. Bandages crossed his chest and over his shoulder.
An arrow, he thought. So that’s what it was.
Supported by the human and elf, they guided him to an ancient, stone door. The dwarf was waiting at the side with Anne and Alk. A knowing gleam shone in the dwarf’s eyes, and the girl bounced excitedly. As he approached, the dwarf placed his hand on the stone slab and pushed. Light poured into the room, blinding him. As they stepped forward into the light, Kryos gasped, pain lancing into his lungs as he beheld a miracle–a miracle of hope–and the aged dwarf’s deep voice rang out.
“Welcome, Kryos, tae th’ hidden city ay Karazund.”
I’m giving Flames of Hyperion complete control over Kryos until I return (June 2011). Ingwe, I apologize for the inconvienence, but I know you’ll do great.
Flames of Hyperion
06-25-09, 01:16 PM
Act III, Scene I
The Emyn Naug, Raiaera
Middle of the Month of Tribulations, the Winter of Untold Agony
***
“Ah, that’s mair loch it. Nae mair ay those elf-cursed forests ur ale-pissin’ lowlands. Solid rock ‘neath mah boots an’ enaw stone abit ye tae make ye smile. Dinnae ye agree, laddie?”
Derthark Gunnson, Prince of Gunnbad, had a massive bearded grin upon his face as he looked about in rapture. Ingwe wondered where he had seen that particular expression before, before realising that it had been in Anebrilith when the dwarves had stumbled upon a hidden ale cellar stocked with the best and finest of mountain brews. Derthark hadn’t paused to wonder why a tavern in an elven city harboured such a bountiful find, and hadn’t been interested in Ingwe’s belated realisation that a bustling port such as Anebrilith had both guests to entertain and a reputation to uphold, either.
Nominally Derthark was the ranking dwarf on the small mining expedition to Scara Brae. But the prince had yielded much of his decision-making authority to the elder and more experienced Telchar, as any dwarf worth the whiskers on his beard would have done. On the other hand, that hadn’t stopped him from taking the lead in milking the opportunity for all it was worth when “’at poncy elf” Arminas had asked for their expertise in guiding them through the mountains. For the honour and pride of the dwarven race, of course.
“Well, dae ye ur dinnae ye?”
Derthark’s impatient voice was met with a sickly smile, as Ingwe stoically attempted to keep his eyes from straying. The ledge they walked on was barely a metre wide, winding dangerously and dizzyingly above a sheer cliff that dropped nearly a thousand body-lengths from view. Cottony fog pooled in gently flowing rivers between the slate grey peaks below them, mirrored overhead by the roiling clouds that blanketed out any semblance of sunlight. It paid to be careful in the depths of the Emyn Naug, especially if you were acrophobic... as one particular young man was.
“Umm...”
He was saved from the need to reply when the other dwarf nearby, Telchar, grunted a warning in their guttural mother tongue. Derthark immediately transferred his attention to the fore; it would not do for the small force of Legionnaires to be ambushed, especially since they were stretched out in a thin ribbon of tired bodies nearly a kilometre long, winding their way up the mountain path. Though not all dwarves were known for their quiet movement, some were indeed the best mountaineers that the world could offer. Combined with the renowned skills of the Rangers accompanying them, the chances of being surprised were slim... but still...
Three days had passed since they had departed their base camp, three days of sustained march by what was visible of the light and heavy sleep where they stood when it got too dark to continue. During that time the snowy grasslands had been rapidly left behind, replaced by sudden steepness and the spirit-sapping tedium of placing one foot before the other on an unrelenting slope. Evergreen and snow-white had been substituted for a monotonous dull grey; the air had grown thin and light, the chill crisper and more biting, and the ever-present howl of the wind through the ravines was accompanied by occasional snowstorms so vicious that they seemed to have an evil intent of their own to bury them whole. Thankfully for the Legionnaires, though, the dwarves seemed to have some sixth sense for the weather, and had so far kept them out of serious trouble.
So far, at least.
In theory, and on the maps, the plan had sounded so simplistically elegant. Xem’zund’s lieutenants kept a watchful eye on the lowlands between Anebrilith and their eastern base of operations, the captured town of Nenaebreth, in order that no force threatened them there. In which case, Ingwe had surmised, they would strike at their foes via the least expected route. Passing through the impenetrable bulwark of the Emyn Naug would take them to the very doorstep of Nenaebreth, and if somehow the Legion could wrest the town from the hands of the undead, Xem’zund’s entire eastern and northern offensives would collapse. It was a fool’s gambit, perhaps, but the only real one they had left to play.
Of course, the battle is likely to be far harsher than any other before... and it’s already begun. There’s good reason why the enemy doesn’t pay much attention to the mountains, and that’s because it’s nigh impossible to get across them alive.
But to make up for their desperate lack of numerical strength, the Legionnaires needed to milk every ounce of surprise that they could. And for that, they first had to battle the elements.
After all, it’s not an ambush if you do the expected, is it?
Deep inside, Ingwe knew that it was a foolish gamble, a death warrant even. Deep inside, he knew that many of the others who marched with him felt the same; that their lives were already forfeit and had been forfeited manifold in the desperate fighting that had already occurred. From their first forced landing upon the beaches of Anebrilith, through the skirmishes of the city outskirts and the street fighting of the siege, from the annihilation of the enemy leaders to the battles that had kept their underlings at bay, the warriors of the Legion of Light had already been through and lost so much.
And yet, despite this, they were willing to put their lives on the line again, to believe in his words and the words of Lord Arminas and Prince Derthark when they were told that they had a fighting chance of doing something that would make a difference to the dreadful hopelessness of the war. He knew that part of their resolve was born from the simple fact that they had little choice but to stay; home for some was over an perilous expanse of treacherous ocean, for others it lay beyond the battlefields yet to come, and for the remainder it was the very dirt and soil that they fought over. But it warmed his soul, and made him proud to be amongst their number, whenever he touched upon the fact that the vast majority of their courage stemmed from the genuine hope and conviction that they could succeed. So long as at least one of their number still breathed Raiaeran air, the elven homeland would not fall to the armies of Xem’zund.
Ingwe forced himself to settle his queasy stomach and turn away from the morbidly inviting precipice, focusing instead on the nearest summit not so far ahead. As he did so, a single beam of sunlight managed to break through the clouds overhead, fleetingly illuminating the snow-covered peak in a crowning halo of golden radiance.
The young man smiled, and began to walk once more.
Flames of Hyperion
06-25-09, 01:32 PM
His war-tuned senses found it difficult to adjust to the relative peace and serenity of the high mountains. He found his mind having to convince his body not to jump at every little snow flurry, that every unexpected movement from behind a rock was not a possible enemy agent lying in wait, and that the overall stillness around him was not the figurative calm before the storm. Ingwe supposed that it did him little harm to be vigilant given his current circumstances, but he somewhat envied the nonchalant dwarves and the easily casual manner in which they regarded their surroundings. It was the young man’s determination to draw upon their calm and knowledge that drove him to walk with them in the vanguard of the Legion.
Somewhere to his fore – probably amongst the rocky outcroppings just off to their right – he knew that eagle-eyed Nerdanel kept watch alongside a dwarven companion. Alongside him to his right, but not visible beyond the high ridgeline, Selinde walked with another dwarf, one of a long line of such elf-dwarf pairs guarding the vulnerable flank of the Legionnaire column. They had taken no such precautions on their left, but somehow Ingwe doubted that anything could actually climb such a sheer precipice; on the other hand, he knew that he wasn’t the only one who occasionally snuck a peek despite himself, just in case.
He himself walked amongst the front of the column, along with Telchar and Prince Derthark and a handful of other dwarves. A small distance of uneven mountain path separated them and the rest of the Legionnaires, led by Lord Arminas himself in deep conversation with the bladesinger Glorfindel and the mage Nogeres. Ingwe’s brow furrowed in concentration as he focused upon the latter; was it just him, or did the old man just seem to flicker and blur in his vision?
Shaking his head to clear his mind, the warrior-mage allowed his gaze to wander the length of the column, recognising each and every face that met his gentle eyes. Youthful Aeneon, fair-haired Hank, sullen Al-Aziz; each of them had their own reasons why they had signed up to the Legion, and why they fought still. They were all survivors, the best of the initial rag-tag band of volunteers, forged by the harshness of war and the fickleness of fate.
At last, his eyes reached the end of the column, where he could make out two figures – one large, one small – comprising the rear guard. Taggar and Castor, he thought, sparing a smile for the unlikely friendship that had spawned between the brutish half-ogre and the dark-haired huntsman from Scara Brae. The smaller of the two figures waved and Ingwe acknowledged, once again marvelling at the keenness of Castor’s gaze.
“Dinnae worrie yerself, laddie,” Telchar spoke in his deep booming baritone, jolting Ingwe back to his immediate vicinity. “We willnae let anybody get left behin’.”
“Wuldnae want yer deaths on our conscience,” Derthark added from beyond, where he was peering into the mouth of a small cave. His words echoed unnaturally about the mountain, distorted and amplified by nature’s own loudspeaker. “Humans an’ elves wuldnae last a day out here without uir guidance. Too fragile, ye poncy folk ur. Besides, we swore an oath on uir forefathers.”
The young man smiled benignly and relaxed, letting the prince’s façade of sourness pass over him untouched. He had learned a lot about dealing with the mountainfolk over the years of his life, such as the value they placed in their great oaths, the great pride they had in their endurance and toughness, and their reluctance to display any sort of emotion that might be construed as weak. Ingwe watched as Derthark strode forward grumpily to join the rest of his company, leaving him alone with Telchar for the time being.
“As he said,” Telchar spoke again, peering into Ingwe’s eyes as if trying to read something there. “Dinnae worrie.”
The runelord really was a dwarf apart, Ingwe decided for the umpteenth time. He had all the stubbornness and wisdom of his race, but tempered it with great wisdom and an uncanny ability to read into the minds of others. He would have made a great teacher in the Academy back in Nippon... then again, I might be biased, as I am already learning from him, so...
“Telchar...?”
“Hm?”
“What... I mean, why are you... here?” The words came out haltingly, as questions were one thing that Ingwe didn’t do particularly well. He was quite capable of inference and research, but asking people for answers had never been the young man’s forte. His next sentence came out all at once, as if to make up for his prior hesitation. “I mean, why would an obviously experienced and senior runelord such as yourself travel on a courtesy mission to Scara Brae?”
“If ah hadnae gone, then ah wuldnae have tae be here fighting? Is ‘at what ye want tae say?” A mischievous glimmer sparkled in Telchar’s eye, gone almost as soon as it appeared. “Well, somebody needed tae take care ay ‘at hot-headed young’un prince, an’ as it conspired, ah was th’ most available.”
Ingwe frowned slightly, barely restraining himself from opening his mouth in protest. Seeing as the young man was not satisfied with his answer, Telchar continued.
“Ahm a traveller, laddie. Ah’ve learnt all ‘at can be learnt frae th’ great lorebooks in th’ archives of Gunnbad. Which means it’s now mah turn tae travel th’ world in search ay new knowledge, an’ tae return tae th’ hold in order tae add tae th’ library. Call it wanderlust, laddie, ur call it scholarly interest, but ah’ve travelled the length an’ breadth ay this continent, frae th’ far mountains ay Salvar tae th’ deepest mines ay Alerar, in search ay new lore.”
The runelord could see that Ingwe was genuinely interested now, the young man’s intense dark gaze fixated upon his. Whether spurred on by the human’s scholastic instinct, or whether simply because he was in an expansive mood, the dwarf decided to elaborate even further.
“In th’ deepest an’ most sacred ay runelore, there’s mention ay a set ay runes known as th’ Master Runes. Powerful things they were said tae be, capable ay levellin’ mountains an’ destroyin’ cities in a single strike. Sadly th’ passage ay time has gart them aw but a memory e’en in th’ long-lived minds ay uir kin’, but ‘at doesnae mean ‘at somewhere out thaur they still dinnae exist, waitin’ fur an intrepid traveller loch myself tae stumble upon ‘em.”
“And you want to find them...” Ingwe concluded, clearly awed. A swift shadow passed over them as the young man’s familiar flew overhead, struggling for altitude in the thin air but determined to play a part in looking out for the column. The dwarf watched as Ingwe’s eyes turned to track the gyrfalcon, young and innocent and yet somehow wearied beyond belief.
“Aye,” Telchar whispered reverently. “Indeed, laddie, ah want tae fin’ them.”
Flames of Hyperion
06-25-09, 01:36 PM
The mountains were silent for a few minutes as both dwarf and human lost themselves in thought. The wind began to pick up once more, hurling itself as a reckless river about the snow-capped peaks, driving the clouds both below and above them before it like scuttling herd-beasts. Hayate struggled to maintain position in the blustery turbulence, occasionally emitting a piercing screech in an attempt to contact his mountain brethren for news. An answering cry sounded from the opposite slope, and the gyrfalcon stooped into a steep dive, homing in on the location instinctively.
“Nogeres...” Ingwe began, then paused hesitantly. He wasn’t sure if...
“What was ‘at?” Telchar rumbled, menacingly aiming the haft of his great runehammer at the young man. Of all Ingwe’s habits, the one that irritated the dwarf the most was the human’s reluctance to fully express his thoughts and feelings. Be circumspect at times, ken, but if ye want tae say somethin’, say it!
“I... I was wondering if you’d talked to Nogeres about this,” Ingwe was saying, his words once again coming out in a single blurt. “I mean, he seems the kind of person who would know a lot...”
Telchar harrumphed.
“Awreddy did,” he replied, the clink of his mail resounding in the relentlessness of his step. “Durned mage tauld me he kent next tae naethin’ ay rune magic, sae culdnae be ay any help. Ne’er trust a mage, mah faither used tae say. Ne’er trust anybody who’d rely oan th’ fickle winds tae cast their spells.”
At the pained expression on Ingwe’s face, Telchar hastened to add,
“Ah was kiddin’ ye, laddie. Ah dinnae deny ‘at both ye and Nogeres ur a large reason why dere’s sae many ay us still alive. It’s jist a sayin’ in th’ dwarven tongue, laddie, ‘at praises th’ stability ay rune magic.”
The dwarf paused, unable to prevent his expression from clouding over. Ingwe noticed this as well, and nearly back-pedalled in anxiety.
“Truth be tauld, though, ah git th’ feelin’ th’ mage is hidin’ somethin’. Fur th’ love ay th’ ancestor gods ah cannae pit mah finger oan exactly what... but there’s certainly somethin’ ‘at he isnae tellin’ us.”
Ingwe paused, weighing the words. Then he too nodded in assent.
“I agree,” the young man spoke, his voice soft and gentle and yet very concerned. “He’s not our enemy, for there’s no way that he would have been able to hide that from both you and Lord Arminas for so long. Besides, there’s so many ways in which he could have destroyed us by now, if he’d so wanted. And yet... there’s something about him...”
Telchar was nodding grimly in agreement, although Ingwe’s mind was now wandering to a few moments back to when Nogeres’s features had seemed to waver and flicker in his mind’s eye. Come to think of it, wasn’t the archmage always covering his face in that grey cowl of his? True, he leaned heavily upon the wooden staff he bore for support, but swathed in heavy grey robes and never volunteering a word unless he had to... had anybody ever even seen his face?
The young man’s brow furrowed again, deep in thought.
“There’s nae denyin’ ‘at he’s as powerful as they come, though...” Telchar admitted reluctantly, almost emitting a very un-dwarfish sigh. “Ye, me, an’ ‘at poncy blonde Glorfindel could attack him aw at once, an’ ah dinnae think he’ll e’en break a sweat.”
“True...” Ingwe agreed, thanking his blessings that Nogeres had seen fit to instruct him in some of the finer arts of the arcane. His progress in that area over the last few months had indeed been largely due to the efforts of the mage... and, of course, to the runelord alongside him.
“Still, I guess there’s nothing we can do short of asking him outright... and somehow I doubt he’s going to tell us, not after going to such lengths to hide it.” Ingwe now wore a rueful grin on his face. “Certainly there’s nothing that can be accomplished by worrying. We’ll have to just bear in mind the worst while hoping for the best...”
They rounded a blind bend, and the path before them opened up in a straight line, reaching towards the skies in a single long snow-shrouded arrow. Nerdanel and her dwarven companion were clearly visible now, dark specks against a drab white and grey background, as they peered with disquieting intent at a faint cloud surrounding the summit in the distance.
“Spoken loch a true human,” Telchar replied gruffly, considering such blithe thinking to be a hallmark of the younger and shorter-lived race. For all his misgivings, though, Telchar had to agree. He could not risk antagonising the mage and thereby jeopardising the fate of the entire Legion, and he certainly didn’t dare...
The cry of warning from ahead jolted him from his thoughts, and sent his mind racing in another direction entirely.
Flames of Hyperion
06-25-09, 01:40 PM
“KRUNK!”
The bellow was typically dwarven; guttural, fierce, resounding. It served its purpose well, however, for even before the last echoes of the initial cry had finished petering out into the thin mountain air, the warning had been taken up along the column and Lord Arminas was issuing orders.
Avalanche!
“Back!” the elf-lord shouted, his voice stern and calm as it sought to quell the instinctive panic. “Beyond the bend, in an orderly manner!”
“Won’t work!” Ingwe gasped, out of breath as he reached Arminas’s position at the head of the column. Behind him the dwarves laboured to catch up on their shorter legs, and further in the distance Nerdanel was literally pulling her companion along as they flew through the snow towards safety. The young man pointed to the left, where Selinde was desperately trying to attract their attention. “It’s coming at us along the length of the path... if we’re caught out, we’ll die for sure.”
“Th’ cave!” Derthark finished for him as the prince finally caught up. “Nae five minutes back. It should be big enaw tae hold us aw. Gae!”
Arminas took one look at their combined faces and nodded. He knew better than to argue. Within moments, the new orders were being passed along the line, and the column of Legionnaires burst into a hasty but controlled run.
Closer, ever closer, the cloud on the summit raged, bringing with it the quaking of the ground below their feet and a growing rumble in their ears. As the first of the rearguard reached the cavern, Ingwe had fallen back along with Telchar and Nogeres to the most dangerous part of the column, watching with increasing concern as the tide of snow fell upon them like some vengeful god.
“Nae natural, ‘at,” Telchar spat, eying the avalanche warily. “Nae magical either, else ah would hae felt it. If ah werenae in th’ wey o be buried alive, ah’d be wonderin’ whit caused ‘is.” The greybeard hefted his rune-scribed battlehammer in both hands, almost relishing the danger.
“We’re not going to make it, are we...” Ingwe frowned, ignoring Nerdanel as she flashed by with the beard of her dwarven companion clutched tightly in her hand. The armoured warrior was putting up a terrible racket at the abuse but it was falling on deaf ears, the Ranger fully concentrated on reaching safety.
The young man glanced to his right, watching as the last of the Rangers that had been guarding their flank scrambled towards the safety of the cave. Glorfindel’s distinctive golden hair flashed in his direction as he helped Selinde clear, then it disappeared into the darkness of the mountain entrance. But there were still so many that needed to get in, crowded around the entrance like some viscous liquid trying to pour down a narrow drain hole. And the avalanche was almost upon them now, rearing above them as an angry god...
It was surprising how calm he felt as he gathered his powers to him, drawing upon the strength of the magic in the wind and land. He could not do much against the full brunt of nature’s anger, but if he could manage to get himself in the right place at the right time, with the right spell... The young man glanced across at Telchar, and knew that the runelord was thinking the same thing.
“Do you trust me?”
Nogeres’s words were whispered, gentle and soft, but they reached their ears over the heated roar of the avalanche. Ingwe blinked in surprise, as did Telchar. There was a hidden strength and power there that, although they had suspected its existence, they had never quite seen before.
Until now, Nogeres had acted the part of the wise old man, always in the background but never quite in the spotlight. Not quite perfectly, for those who had spent enough time with the mage had sensed otherwise, but had never stumbled upon anything concrete; Lord Arminas had seemed to know better, but had not spoken of the matter. Now, as Ingwe and Telchar watched intently, the façade melted away until they stood alongside a mage of unmistakably nigh-unsurpassed power.
It was all the young man could do to nod mutely, and even the venerable runelord found it hard-pressed to do the same.
As the wall of white swept down upon them, enveloping their position in a blanket of snow, Nogeres’s firm hands reached out to touch their shoulders. In a flash of light, they were gone.
Flames of Hyperion
06-25-09, 01:46 PM
A moment ago, the wall of snow had threatened to sweep them from the ledge and into the mighty maw of the crevasse behind them. Now, the three Legionnaires reappeared just above the entrance to the cave, and the rumbling tide was perhaps half a minute away. Close enough still to set the adrenaline running, but they were not dead... yet.
Teleportation, Ingwe’s mind gasped, dizzy with the effects of the spell. Instinctively he tried to reach out to steady himself on something, but his legs gave way first and he sank to his knees in the cold wet snow, his spectacles hanging crookedly from one ear. From the sound of the muffled groan beside him, Telchar wasn’t having much luck either.
“Ingwe, I appreciate your courage but you won’t be able to help here. Go below and assist Lord Arminas with the path-finding.” There was great strength now in Nogeres’s voice, a commanding tone that brooked no argument. Ingwe marvelled at the transformation as the mage began to muster his magics, calling skilfully from the power of the Eternal Tap. “Master Telchar, when you’re ready, a Rune of Rifting, please.”
The old man’s movements cast aside his grey cloak, and for the first time ever Ingwe briefly gazed upon Nogeres’s true appearance. The lines on the mage’s face were indeed real, but the long grey beard was not... in fact, the mage had steel-grey eyes, handsome slender features and... pointed ears. He’s an elf.
He’s a powerful elf.
Long grey hair flowed in the wake of the mage’s dancing movements, thin spidery hands weaving tremendous magic with incredible, almost supernatural pace and precision. The elderly elf seemed to glow with barely suppressed radiance, until it hurt Ingwe’s eyes just to gaze upon the snow at his feet and the young man had to look away to find a patch of slate grey rock.
“With respect,” the young man replied, groggily finding his feet as his hair threatened to tear away with the force of the incredible energies that the mage was wielding. “I’d rather see this one out...”
Whatever else Ingwe was about to say was lost amongst the cascading snow, as nature’s fury met eldritch storm. For a moment, the young man feared that even Nogeres could not counter the avalanche, so closely did the walls of white press in upon him from all sides. Then, with a suddenness that was almost deafening, they parted again, and Ingwe saw that like a rock in a stream Nogeres’s magic was protecting the entrance to the cave. The elven mage seemed to be barely breaking a sweat.
“Suit yourself,” Nogeres shrugged, and Ingwe saw that the blue eyes were twinkling with suppressed amusement despite themselves. “Master Telchar, are you about to be out-endured by a human child?”
“... that’s nae just any human bairn, ye ken...” the runelord grumbled in reply, dwarven pride stirring him from inaction. The venerable dwarf picked first his body, then his jaw from the treacherously shifting snows, all the while glaring darkly at Nogeres. “Methinks ye owe me an explanation ur two after ‘is.”
For a moment, Telchar’s runehammer glowed ominously; then, with all his stocky might, the dwarf brought his weapon crashing down at Nogeres’s feet. For a moment, nothing occurred.
Then, as if struck by a meteor, the entire mountain shuddered terrifyingly. A giant cleft suddenly opened up under the blunted flood of snow, and the newly formed fissure swallowed the remainder of the avalanche’s momentum whole.
The mountain shuddered again; once, twice, a third time.
Then, at last, all was silent.
Flames of Hyperion
06-25-09, 01:52 PM
What...
For a moment, Ingwe feared the worst; that perhaps the rift had exposed those Legionnnaires that had made it safely to the caves to the danger, and that all of Nogeres’s effort would have been for nothing. Then he realised that, with all of his dwarven instinct and cunning, Telchar had placed his rune such that those underground were not affected beyond a stern shaking. Once again, the young man relaxed.
Phewf.
Shakily he rose from where he had fallen once again to his knees, abstractly noting the firm imprints his warm body had burned in the soft snow. The path that they had been travelling upon not five minutes ago was buried under a thick coating of white, and the young man realised with sinking heart that it was now closed to them. Even the gorge that had scared him so on his journey upwards did not seem so frightening any more, for now he could clearly make out the layer of white at the bottom where the snow had pooled.
“We’ll hae tae go through th’ mountain, laddie,” Telchar spoke, coming up alongside the young man and placing a gruff hand on his shoulder. At the incredulous look on Ingwe’s face, the runelord felt compelled to continue. “What? Mark mah words, laddie, ‘at was a dwarven cave just dere, an’ where dere’s dwarven caves, dere’s dwarven tunnels. An’ where dere’s dwarven tunnels, dere’s always a way. If ye dinnae believe me, go fin’ Derthark. Ah bet he’s just as excited as ah am, now.”
The thought of the dwarven prince all excited about the possibility of a hidden colony of his kin in the Emyn Naug did serve to steady Ingwe somewhat. In fact, as the young man concentrated on the sounds and smells of his newly rewritten surroundings, he did fancy that he could hear bellows of joy emanating from somewhere below him.
The sound of crunching snow behind them, and as one Ingwe and Telchar turned to face their saviour. Nogeres had half-replaced the cowl on his head, hiding his face once more in shadow, but his hauntingly blue eyes peered out at them powerfully, sincerely.
“Friends...” the mage began, inclining his head to them in respect. “I know that you wish to hear an explanation, but I must insist on remaining silent about this matter for a short while longer, and of asking the same favour of you. All will be revealed when it is the correct time for it to be revealed... but that is not now. I hope that you will acquiesce to this favour.”
Baby blue eyes swept across their dark brown and slate grey counterparts, pleading for their understanding. Telchar met them stoically, almost accusatorily; Ingwe’s gaze was silent and solemn.
“I...” understand, Ingwe was about to say, but Telchar cut him off abruptly.
“What assurances dae we hae ‘at you’re nae gonnae betray us?” the runelord asked, his voice rougher than usual. “What promises ur ye makin’ ‘at yoo’re oan uir side?”
“I swear by the graves of all my ancestors that I harbour no such deceitful thoughts,” the mage replied immediately, startling Telchar with his sombre oath. The card, Ingwe saw, was well played; no dwarf would ever doubt such a powerful vow. “And to you, Ingwe, as well... I would not be doing this unless it was of the utmost importance that my identity remains quiet for now. I hope that I can convince you of my sincerity... and of the significance of your cooperation to the war.”
“I understand,” Ingwe repeated, this time speaking for the both of them. Telchar grunted sullenly, not happy at having his curiosity unsated but quieting down nonetheless. His surly nod of acquiescence indicated that he would abide by the request.
“Thank you,” Nogeres answered, once again inclining his head respectfully. Ingwe watched in wonder as the long beard seemed to grow back abruptly, the mage’s voice dropping two octaves and gaining a harsh rasp as Nogeres slipped back into disguise. “I won’t forget this.”
Ingwe shook his head and smiled gently to ward off the gratitude, before setting off after the runelord. Telchar seemed to be trying to tear the very mountain apart with his furious footsteps, obviously still irritated at the fact that he wasn’t given an explanation. As they approached the entrance to the cave in single file, Nogeres brought up the rear, an enigmatic tug pulling irresistibly at his lips.
Flames of Hyperion
06-25-09, 01:54 PM
Darkness surrounded them on all sides, the only exceptions being the flickeringly fragile pools of light cast by the various sources of illumination – torches, spells, and the tip of Nogeres’s staff – carried by the Legionnaires. Solid walls of jagged rock pressed down upon them from all directions, stifling all sense of space and direction; the air was rank and still, as if it had not been disturbed from the tunnels in which they walked for long millennia.
A single misstep was likely to result in a twisted ankle or worse, so Ingwe placed his leather-clad feet with exceeding care as he followed Derthark and Telchar through the passageways. The dwarves led the Legion on unerringly with their impeccable instincts even when buried under half a mountain of rock, but Ingwe was increasingly conscious of the stabbing pain in his soles and the weary ache in his legs and back. The passage of time held no meaning for him in the dark depths of these tunnels, and it was difficult to tell how long they had been walking for... an hour? Two? Ten?
It was times like these, Ingwe reflected that he truly admired the stubborn endurance of the dwarves. But he knew that none of the others that travelled with the Legion – neither the elves, no matter how pale their faces seemed in the capricious light, nor the humans, no matter how their pace faltered under the relentless march – would admit defeat before their doughty guides did. The dwarves certainly made enough noise to attract every monster in the mountain upon them, but somehow in the cramped confines of the crudely hewn tunnels, the racket was almost comforting.
“If these are dwarven tunnels, then they must have been dug in haste,” Glorfindel spoke, his voice a whisper that carried the length of the column nonetheless. Ingwe nodded agreement, noting the unevenly sharp edges of rock that marked their underground passage.
“Haste, mayhap, but wi’ skill an’ precision an aw,” Derthark replied, slightly annoyed that the elf would suggest otherwise. The eagerness with which he settled the matter elicited faint smiles from Nogeres and Arminas, and even drew a grunt of approval from Telchar. “See th’ straightness ay th’ tunnels, th’ unerrin’ direction in which they travel frae one junction tae another. See hoo sturdy they ur, hoo nae e’en a single rockfall threatens tae bar uir path forward. See...”
Suddenly they emerged into a grand cavern, far greater and more ornately decorated than any of the other junctions they had passed through yet. The ceiling was buttressed by high arches of solid stone, decorated by intricate frescoes of the dwarven pantheon. Soaring tens of metres above their heads, the construction of the cavern must have truly been an awe-inspiring sight; Ingwe was glad that he had not been given the job of carving one of the portraits so far overhead.
Shadows pooled ominously about the base of the pillars that were placed with machine-like symmetry throughout the room. The dwarves slowed their relentless advance, sensing the trouble that awaited them even before it manifested. Instinctively the Legionnaires drew closer, brandishing sword and bow at the unknown danger that lay in wait.
“Down!” Ingwe cried, but Glorfindel was quicker, snagging the bolt from the air barehanded just before Arminas’s blade could cut it in twain. All present only needed one look at it to recognise the make... the fletching and the head indicated that it had been launched from, with no semblance of doubt, a dwarven crossbow.
“Back wi’ ye, outsiders!” a voice rippled from the shadows, hollow and threatening. “We dinnae need yer kin’ haur!”
“We come in peace,” Telchar replied, matching his adversary in strength and volume. “Th’ path above has bin denied us, an’ we wish tae travel through th’ mountains tae Nenaebreth.”
There was an ominous pause as the information was digested, and then a single dwarf stepped forth from the shadows, his crossbow held loosely at his side and a small war-axe tucked into his belt. He was clad in dirty brown leather from head to toe, and his beard was a fiercely bristling black. His eyes, however, betrayed only astonishment and, Ingwe thought, wonder.
“Ye,” he spoke, indicating Telchar with an outstretched finger. “Yer... a runelord...?”
It was not until the next day that Ingwe finally learnt the significance of a runelord to the inhabitants of Karazund.
Wings of Endymion
06-25-09, 02:01 PM
Act III, Scene II
Nenaebreth, Raiaera
Middle of the Month of Tribulations, the Winter of Untold Agony
***
The young woman poised herself at the very pinnacle of the spire, her staff held across her body as she overlooked the conquered town of Nenaebreth. Her long golden hair and pure white robes were hidden beneath a drab olive-green cloak, the better to remain hidden from the forces of undeath that now occupied the once-fair elven settlement. Paved streets and wooden buildings were laid out beneath her like etchings on a map, the faint movements of people in the thoroughfares as pieces upon her own personal chessboard. Shadows clouded her vision as she silently came to terms with what the town had become... a breeding ground for the necromantic plague, a base of operations for Xem’zund’s forces to spawn attacks across the length and breadth of northeast Raiaera.
She breathed deeply of the rank still air, blessing Isha for the haze that obscured the moon that night. The task before them was complicated enough as it was, and the cover of darkness was just one of the many factors they would need on their side to succeed. Once again the priestess invoked the name of her patron deity, the Goddess of Light and Harmony, in a short benediction to the heavens above.
“May our foes fall before us like wheat before the scythe. May our feet be swift and our eyes keen, our arrows true and our strokes clean. May Isha bless us this night.”
“And tomorrow night, and the night after that, and...”
The priestess shot her twin sister a baleful glare, cutting off the sarcastic retort mid-sentence. The younger woman choked upon the rest of her words, having the good grace to look ashamed for all of two seconds before continuing almost resentfully,
“... don’t tell me that you’ve never tried doing that before.”
“It doesn’t work that way,” the priestess replied evenly, continuing to hammer the point home with her piercing emerald eyes. A matching set of green glowered back, framed by wisps of fair hair under an olive hood. The ranger was perched in perfect balance upon the treacherous slate tiles that formed the roof of the church, her short bow securely wrapped against the elements and a quiver of brilliantly blue-fletched arrows slung across her back.
“Why not?” she asked jauntily, but her elder sister ignored the question, trying to keep a reluctant smile from touching her face. The ranger saw the reaction and giggled, a sound as beautiful in its brevity as in its tinkling melody.
Then she returned her attention to her surroundings, and the senior twin followed suit. Together their eyes wove a steady path across the rooftop labyrinth of chimneys and spires until they arrived at their target for the night, the small castle at the centre of town. Said castle was the abode of the high-ranking necromancers and Death Lords whose will drove the evil denizens of Nenaebreth onwards for the glory of Xem’zund.
As one the twin sisters tensed, ready now for what they had to do. For the castle keep contained something of great importance to them, and it was their mission tonight to retrieve it.
As one, the young women leapt out into the night.
Wings of Endymion
06-25-09, 02:11 PM
Two days earlier…
It was always easy to tell which of the rooms of Nenaebreth’s castle keep that Yuka Kanamai was currently present in – it was the only one with open windows. The one thing that the young Nipponese woman insisted upon, after over a year spent in the claustrophobic underground daemon-realm of Haidia, was fresh air and sight of the skies no matter how dank and dismal they were. And though the vast majority of the other denizens of the fortress despised her for it, they did well to remember that she abode with them under the protection of the daemon lord Natosatael, and as such was beyond retribution… for the time being.
A rare exception to the rule, and the only living soul amongst Xem’zund’s legions stationed at Nenaebreth not to greet her with a denigrating sneer or a crude leer, was the shadow-mage Angelus, former head of the ill-fated Coven of Six. The dark-haired, pale-faced elf made no secret of the fact that he saw Natosatael as little more than a nuisance and Yuka as no better than a pawn. But although he was cold, cruel, and unapologetically malevolent, at least he was not openly hostile and antagonistic. Given her present circumstances, he was the closest to a friend that she could hope to find. And since her powers had yet to fully return to her after her summoning to the wartorn realm of Raiaera, she knew that she had to tread carefully lest she lose everything altogether.
It had been Angelus’s erstwhile comrade, the necromancer Ar’zhanekkar, who had summoned Natosatael to the mortal realm… a fact that might have explained some of the antagonism that the elf displayed towards the daemon-lord. And it was in the aforementioned Ar’zhanekkar’s personal quarters that the two magi, one of light and the other of darkness, now found themselves: she under orders to tidy his personal belongings like some common drudge, he requested to locate and bear a mighty artefact to Lord Maeril, death knight in direct service to the Forgotten One Xem’zund, in preparation for the final push on the besieged port city of Anebrilith.
Not surprisingly, Yuka was highly displeased.
“Just who does he think he is!” she grumbled to herself, heaving another heavy stack of mouldy grimoires from shelf to floor. The stone room around her was a cluttered mess of belongings, the shelves along the walls stacked with trinkets and baubles of all shapes and description, and the bed buried under a heap of decayed robes and festering rags. Even the piles of the rug beneath her feet seemed to have wilted in sorrow at their abuse. Her delicate features were set in a hard grimace, and her fine black hair danced angrily with every word she spoke. “Slob.”
In the two weeks that had elapsed since she had first set foot in Raiaera, Yuka had discovered an intriguing fact about Lord Maeril’s attendant necromancer. Although only a select few dared defy him to his face, for he was a most puissant and powerful practitioner of magic, Ar’zhanekkar was oft the subject of snide jokes and subtle putdowns behind his back. If the lavatories clogged up? It was Ar’zhanekkar. If the ghouls burst their bonds and rampaged through the mercenary quarters during the night? It was Ar’zhanekkar. And although Yuka was not usually one to test her limits by joining in, this time he had gone too far.
“Slob,” she repeated, looking away in disgust as accumulated years of dust wafted into her face… even though the books themselves could not have been there for more than a couple of months. Even dressed in her most expendable clothing – a tattered pair of jeans and a faded white shirt – she felt irrevocably filthy. The worst thing was that the castle baths had long since been given over to the sightless eels that were Ar’zhanekkar’s favorite delicacy, which meant that she had to go to the wells for clean water… and even that was of dubious quality, given the tendencies of the human mercenaries in Xem’zund’s employ.
“Think of it as an opportunity,” Angelus’s mild dulcet tones echoed from the far end of the chamber, where he was similarly engaged in coughing up layers of dust. Bland and bored, they mirrored the expressionless look on his face as he rummaged through the contents of an ornately decorated trunk. “Ar’zhanekkar has his faults…”
“… bad organisation being one…” Yuka quickly pointed out.
“… but he is the greatest collector of trivial artefacts on the continent,” Angelus finished, not batting an eyelid at the interruption. “Those grimoires could contain the combined history of the ancient ones… although, given his recent blunders, more likely a concise tutorial on how to abandon a fellow necromancer to his fate.”
Yuka’s interest was piqued, but she knew better than to open one of the books and attempt to read from it. She had seen the remains of those in the underworld libraries of Haidia who had dared to peruse the forbidden lore unprepared. It had not been pretty. She could imagine Ar’zhanekkar now, gloating to himself as he fawned over his master and his daemon, probably even hoping that she was foolish enough to open one of the grimoires. The thought even occurred that the knowledge that she could not do anything to harm him in return was probably the only reason that he had given her the demeaning task in the first place.
At the mention of the defeat of Uysarji the Executioner, though, her heart subconsciously skipped two beats. The news had caught her attention not because of any concern for the departed, but because the description of one of those to have defeated the necromancer matched a figure from her past. Wielding dual long daggers, a proficient practitioner of fire magics… Ingwe. Her mind raced as it went over the facts once again; if he was in any way connected to those responsible for the temporary relief of the siege of Anebrilith, the destruction of the Coven of Six, and the wavering of Xem’zund’s eastern flank, then it would only be a matter of time before…
“… this is an interesting bauble,” Angelus was saying, and Yuka’s attention snapped back to reality in a flash. The dark mage seemed to be in a remarkably talkative mood, and she could not risk her only fragile rapport amongst the undead forces on a single moment’s lapse.
“What is it?” she asked cautiously in turn, straining her slender neck at an awkward angle to catch sight of the artefact that Angelus held.
“Nothing much, actually,” Angelus shrugged, slipping the clear-faceted crystal back into its plush case before replacing it into the chest. “A draconian blood-crystal, rumoured to be able to lend its user vast measures of control over dragon-kind. Don’t usually see them in these parts, but that’s because there’s no need… too few dragons.”
The shadow-mage shrugged again, then abruptly and dismissively turned away from Yuka. The young woman’s mouth was open in preparation for a reply, but she thought better and closed it once again, pretty frown-lines creasing her brow at Angelus’s capricious nature. Before she could return to rearranging Ar’zhanekkar’s bookshelves, however, she was distracted by a further noise… the raucous racket of some wild animal outside the open window.
Intrigued, not least because this was the first sign of natural wildlife she had sensed since arriving from Haidia, Yuka stepped to the open sill and peered outside. She was met by the rather ludicrous sight of a scabby, famished grey blur of fur – later identified as a squirrel – doing an exultant dance of joy and chittering triumphantly to the bleak noon sky. There was something about it, however… something about the faint emerald spark in its beady brown eyes…
Yuka turned back towards where Angelus had hidden the blood-crystal, lips pursed and forehead furrowed in sudden thought.
Wings of Endymion
06-25-09, 02:12 PM
The alarm was raised as soon as they breached the castle perimeter, multiple arcane wards reacting to their foreign presence like the immune system of a healthy body. But they had been prepared for such an eventuality; in fact, the priestess thought to herself as she skipped between a pair of wights and knocked them both from the battlements with a single swipe of her staff, it would have been impossible for them to choose a less direct method of assault. At least one of the necromancers residing in the keep was so paranoid that peeling away the layers of protective magic would have been like skinning an onion one layer at a time.
Time consuming, frustrating, and painful.
Around them stone buckled and shuddered as it spawned reinforcements for the undead forces barring their way. The dead souls of those who had fallen in defence of the fair fortress mingled with more conventional wights and ghouls, all united in a single purpose: the evil will of whatever necromancer’s magic compelled them to fight off the invaders. But neither Hitomi Alatariel nor her younger sister Kendal had the time to reflect upon or regret their actions. They had to keep moving, and they had to do so quickly.
Like twin rays of searing light they blazed a path towards their first objective, the outer gatehouse. They could not afford to fight both the necromancers that resided within the castle compound and the multitudes of hired swords, magi, and other assorted mercenaries that occupied the city proper. Before the forces of evil had a chance to regroup, they had to cut off the fortress from any reinforcements... of the living kind, at least.
“Kendal, now!” the priestess ordered, twirling her staff in a blindingly mesmerizing defensive pattern to keep the foes that surrounded her at bay, simultaneously unleashing the first of the spells that she had prepared for this very moment.
“Gotcha,” the ranger replied, tearing the silvery crescent of her scimitar free of her opponent. In a flash she had scampered free of her cordon, mounting the crenellations nearest to her such that for a brief moment she was completely exposed to view from all directions, expertly balanced against the long drop to the dusty ground below.
Then, with strength almost unimaginable from her slender frame, she catapulted herself towards the grimy once-white wall of the gatehouse tower, a full ten metres distant. The impassive faces of the undead forces arrayed on the parapet below her followed her flight, the solid smooth stone of her destination poised to rebuff her landing and cast her broken body into the courtyard below.
Just as Kendal reached the zenith of her leap, her hood floating free to reveal strong features and flashing green eyes, Hitomi finished her short incantation. A blinding flash of light obscured both ranger and fortification from view, wreaking havoc upon the stationary stone. By the time the dust cleared and darkness returned, the ranger had already disappeared into the newly formed hole in the wall, and her sister was halfway there to joining her. The opening was like a puncture wound upon the castle’s exterior, a gaping maw that swallowed the priestess whole as she concluded her jump.
“Hurry,” Hitomi urged, quite unnecessarily, rushing over to the lever that operated the portcullis. A deafening metallic clang a moment later told her that the months of decay it had spent under undead control had not rendered it beyond usability, and the young woman then proceeded to batter at the mechanism barehanded until she was certain that no mere wight would be able to repair it within the time they needed to execute the remainder of their mission.
“I know, I know,” Kendal replied, tossing her short bangs from her eyes, slightly annoyed at her sister’s impatience. The younger twin had unwound from her torso a long coil of thin, sturdy rope, one end of which was now tied to a crenellation on the balcony that overlooked the inner courtyard. The other end was attached to the arrow that the ranger had nocked to her bow, pointed in the general direction of the keep opposite. “Give me a moment... this isn’t easy work.” The need for careful aim was somewhat offset by the knowledge that, although the inside of the tower was not enchanted like the outer battlements were, that did not stop the wights from making use of stairs and doors like more decent beings. The undead forces would be upon them within moments... or sooner, even, if the heavy clank of armour on the stairwell was any indication.
She squinted, sighting carefully, then loosed with all her might. The arrow whistled across the open air, trailing a silvery streak of glinting twine in its wake as it clove the night. With a solid thunk it embedded itself deeply into its target – the wooden door above their next objective. They would have to infiltrate the castle from there... and hope for the best.
“Tomi!” the ranger called, testing the rope with a quick tug. Satisfied that it would bear their weight and that they would not have to resort to their backup plan, she turned to her sister and nodded once.
“I hope you know what you’re doing...” her sister mumbled in reply, before whispering a few faint words of power. The magic manifested itself in a faint glow about their bodies as first Kendal, then Hitomi stepped out upon the rope, a combination of the arcane power and the innate sense of balance that came from the elven half of their ancestry all that kept them from plummeting to the floor of the courtyard some ten metres below.
Swiftly and silently the two sisters traversed the twine, the lightless mantle of night covering their progress through the dangerously thin air. They were halfway across before the junior necromancer in charge of the outer defences discovered their new location, and the giant hand he summoned to bat them from their precarious perch was easily warded away by Hitomi’s magics. A blue-fletched bolt from Kendal’s bow put the evil mage out of his misery mere moments later. By the time the wights in the tower hit upon the idea of cutting the rope to bring the two half-elves tumbling down from their path, both Hitomi and Kendal had safely reached the other side.
Two figures were waiting for them there. One was a heavily armoured wight, wielding an ancient voulge that positively writhed in angrily coruscating magic. The other was a hunchbacked, black-robed necromancer, his beady red eyes lost amongst the folds of his over-large hood.
The combined force of their evil auras was enough to send the young women staggering backwards in pain.
Wings of Endymion
06-25-09, 02:20 PM
Yuka awoke to the sound of her heart in her ears, a silent scream trembling on the very tip of her tongue. The night pressed in around her like an oppressive beast, stifling the air from her lungs and burying her eyes beneath layers of dark covers. Her slender frame was flushed with sweat despite the chill of the air filtering from the open window, as her psyche thrashed and writhed in desperate need for something solid to affirm itself upon.
Gradually she re-established orientation, the soothing balm of equilibrium returning to her beleaguered mind. Her breathing steadied such that she could focus again without her vision blurring, and then she opened her eyes to stare blankly at the shadows upon the ceiling above.
It had been that dream again, she realised, the same one that had been plaguing her ever since she had returned from the underworld. She could never remember it well, but it always seemed to start with the events of that fateful night in Nippon, when she had first accepted Thomas’s offer of escape and refuge from the ever-present fear that her old life had entailed, always on the run from the whims of a manipulative and powerful family. The choking billowing smoke of the fires that had enveloped the Academy, the frenzied cries of war and desperate screams of pain that had echoed about the graceful simplicity of the wood and paper buildings… sights and sounds that she knew would haunt her for the rest of her life.
In her dream, she would be following Thomas along the dark raftered walkways, the coolness of the air and the serene silkiness of the moonlight contrasting painfully with the fanning flames and the desperate fighting. This is the only path I have left… she would repeat to herself again and again, the words reinforced occasionally by her companion’s calm voice. This is the only way I can escape the reach of my family and their henchmen, and the fate they would have me fulfil. She could not burden her other friends with her predicament, and for that reason the motives behind her actions had to remain secret… and though she could sense them desperately trying to reach her, she had to force herself to close off her heart to their pleas.
Around the corner, across the courtyard, strangely unmolested by the multitudes of akki goblins that swarmed the open area. The Great Hall loomed tall and imposing above them, a two-story wooden structure of post-and-beam construction, painted blemishless white and gleaming red and topped by a gabled roof of lacquered ceramic tile. A straight path, unerring and true, to the doors of the grand building, as the chittering and shrieking tide of war ebbed and flowed around her.
Yuka!
The voice would catch her off guard every time, since it had never reached her ears in real life. Shocked she would turn to see Ingwe in the distance, buried under a horde of angry goblins. As she watched, he was struck down, again and again as he tried to rise, again and again as he desperately screamed her name. When at last he did not move, there was not a single inch of his body not covered in wounds, and his lifeblood drained lethargically onto the sand for metres about him.
Horrified, she could only watch in terror as he rose again, slowly, unsteadily. This time however, his face was ashen grey, his expressive eyes blank and dormant. His step towards her was the laboured shuffling of a zombie… for indeed, that was what he had become.
Yuka… he would moan, pitiful and sad, extending a mouldy putrid arm in her direction. It would strike him then what he had become, and he would moan sorrowfully as he burst into immolating flame. Before long only a pile of fine ash would remain… but ranged behind it would be the rest of her old friends, similarly undead, stumbling towards her and crying her name.
That would be when the screaming started… until such time as consciousness came to save her.
Lying on her back in her over-large bed, hand resting lightly on her forehead to feel the beat of her heart through her mind, Yuka again dwelled upon what was causing her nightmares. Was it guilt at what she had done? Was it shame? Or was it fear… fear of what might soon come to pass if events continued to unfold as they were doing now?
The thin cotton shift she wore was drenched in sweat, and her bare legs felt grubby and unclean against the rich silken bedcovers, left behind by the previous occupants of the castle. Shivering uncontrollably as she sat up, she drew the duvets about her against the seeping cold, clearing straggly strands of limp black hair from her clouded eyes.
There was some sort of disturbance in the night outside, she realised, but she was too tired to explore it further. No doubt the ghouls had been loosed again, or…
Suddenly Yuka stiffened, drawing the sheets around her tighter still and reaching for the short sword she always kept beneath her pillow. There was somebody else in the room, somebody who hadn’t been there a moment ago.
“One false move and I’ll send you through the wall,” she warned, only to be greeted by low, almost mocking laughter. She recognised the dark sibilant tones; it was Angelus.
“Don’t worry, human,” the shadow-mage smirked, dismissing her slender form in uninterested disdain. He let his eyes linger on her face, just to watch her squirm uncomfortably, before continuing.
“Lord Maeril requests your presence. You are to follow me to the council chambers at once.”
Wings of Endymion
06-25-09, 02:24 PM
“Kendal,” Hitomi murmured, and her younger sister nodded once in acknowledgement. Before they could move, however, their foes were upon them.
The wight-lord Kratos came first, millennia of suppressed anger and pain funnelled like a battering ram behind his iron board shield. Only the innate reflexes of their kind kept the two young women from being pummelled from the parapet and onto the stony pavement below. Only years of long training kept Kendal’s head attached to her body, her scimitar sweeping out of its scabbard to parry the curved axe that followed in the undead minion’s wake.
The younger twin’s sword swung in counterattack, joined immediately by the heavy wooden staff of her elder sister. But both weapons rebounded harmlessly off the wight’s iron hide... and then the air around the undead warrior seemed to shimmer in anger.
“Back!” the priestess screamed, throwing herself away without hesitation. The younger half-elf did the same, and only just in time. The necromancer Ar’zhanekkar’s snicker echoed about the cold courtyard as the air exploded in dark magic, shadowy flames eating up the space that the two women had just left behind.
Back-pedalling furiously, Kendal reached for the bow across her back. If there was an opening between her and her foes, then she would fill it with...
The smoke billowed abruptly outwards, and along with it came a hundred kilograms of fully armoured wight, charging towards her at a speed almost unimaginable for a warrior over a thousand years of age. Gritting her teeth Kendal brought her own blade back to guard again, dodging Kratos’s initial momentum-boosted onslaught before retreating under a rapid succession of brute blows.
“Kenny!” Hitomi cried again, focusing her mind and her powers on a particular point in space and time. If she could come to her sister’s aid with magic, then they could rebuild their position, regain the initiative...
She only noticed the build-up of energy across from her when it reached boiling point, and by then it was too late to do anything but mutter a silent curse and hope for the best. Streaking arrows of coruscating dark magic came screaming towards her in multiple homing arcs, a relentless barrage of force that showcased the sheer intensity behind the necromancer’s hate. Hitomi matched her foe, spell for spell as she sought to deflect the missiles from her body, will for will as she resorted to her most powerful warding rune to protect her from their effects. When at last the barrage died down, the white stone about her was scarred, scorched and shattered. The half-elf breathed heavily as she sank to her knees, exhausted by the effort of protecting herself from the single attack.
“Welcome to Nenaebreth, she-elf...” the necromancer lisped, laughing at her visible weakness. For a brief moment, a fleeting trick of the light revealed his features to her from beneath his black hood: lifeless grey wrinkles, heavy rotten jowls, and evil scarlet eyes that brimmed with madness and vile malevolence. The very night itself seemed to grow darker as once again he gathered power to his palm, the clouds in the skies above drawing in upon her in oppressive claustrophobia.
The shadows clustered to him, creating beneath their veil a shapeless dark mass. Then they dissipated, revealing a monstrosity that caused the young elf-maiden to gasp involuntarily in sheer horror. Vaguely humanoid with the exception of its unnaturally flexing backbone, eight wickedly curving blades sitting in place of where its fingers would usually be and a grotesquely grinning facemask the only adornment on its otherwise naked form, it was truly an abomination in every sense of the word.
“Meet Jack,” Ar’zhanekkar sneered, enjoying the moment immensely. The glimmer of red lunacy in his eyes reflected riotously in each and every one of the monstrosity’s blades as he continued, “He’ll be your responsible for your... entertainment... tonight!”
With no further ado the monster leapt towards her, claws spread wide in vicious greeting. Despite its bizarre appearance, it was agile and dextrous almost beyond her comprehension. Ar’zhanekkar’s intent was clear; sensing that she was a spellcaster and not a warrior, he had summoned a minion to engage her in melee. He would control it from afar, and watch in satisfaction as it took her apart limb by limb...
Dodge the first swipe, parry behind my back against the second. Duck beneath its arms and roll away... Isha’s bane, it’s fast... urk!
Flung against the stone castle wall, leaving a miniature crater where she’d made impact, coughing blood as the air left her lungs with an abrupt wumph...
Hitomi Alatariel grinned.
Wings of Endymion
06-25-09, 02:27 PM
The council chambers had once been an elegant, majestic room. Graceful marble arches, intricately carved frescoes, high vaulted ceilings, and floors that shone of polished obsidian had showcased the very finest of elven craftsmanship. Since Maeril Thyrrian had usurped stewardship of the castle, however, it had somehow morphed into something vastly more sinister. The marble arches seemed to loom at her menacingly, the frescoes whispering with scenes of vile debauchery, the vaulted ceilings lost in dark shadows, and the floors grasping at her feet and dragging her into their inky morasses.
At the far end of the room was a raised dais originally crafted for the steward of the city to hear petitions from his people. Now, it bore little resemblance to the plain wooden pedestal it had once been, as if Maeril’s very presence had caused it to twist and warp out of all recognition. Black as ebony, gnarled like an ancient corrupt tree, and decorated with the likenesses of skulls and anguished faces, it was a fitting throne for the dark knight that sat himself upon it.
Yuka forced herself to hold her gaze when he acknowledged her entrance, knowing that the slightest sign of deviation could be instantly fatal. The crimson spectre of his eyes upon her was enough to send chills racing down her spine, her body breaking out in another cold sweat. At length he turned his attention back to the lowly minion that was reporting to him, and she allowed herself to relax… but only slightly. For at Maeril’s side was the daemon Natosatael, the eerie pale-blue glow of his leathery human form disconcerting to one who was used to seeing him in all his unrestrained macabre glory. He leered at her arrogantly, fishing for a response, and when she showed no sign of rising to the bait the sneering grin upon his bestial visage grew only wider.
“… the intruders are two half-elves,” the minion was saying, freezing in fear once again as both Maeril and Natosatael reverted their attention to him. “One is a priestess of the elven mother goddess, and the other, judging by her attire and equipment, is a ranger.”
The blood ran cold in Yuka’s veins as she matched description to memory. Could it be…? Her expression remained carefully, passively neutral, more than aware of the forces around her that would tear her soul to shreds – or worse – at a single mistimed gesture. But her heart fluttered like a caged butterfly in her chest as the minion’s description of the daring assault, and of the two foolhardy interlopers, only served to further confirm her suspicions… and her fears.
She held her breath like a frightened mouse when the minion finished, barely daring to look up. In the depths of her mind’s eye, she could see Natosatael leering at her once again, mocking her. Yuka was not so foolhardy as to delude herself… she was afraid of the daemon, and of what he could do.
“Lord Maeril…?” the being in question hissed, sibilant tones deferent but carrying the barest hint of malicious malevolence. Serpentine eyes flashed cunningly as netherworld denizen regarded death knight. “I would be more than happy to rid you of these insolent pests, should you so desire…”
The daemon bowed low, wisps of smoky shadow disturbed by his presence wafting from the ground. Maeril responded by idly, nigh indolently turning to face Natosatael, crimson eyes regarding the Haidian noncommittally from behind his heavy helm.
“No,” the death knight decided after a suitably thoughtful pause. Natosatael’s leathery wings drooped slightly in disappointment, and Yuka almost dared to allow herself to breathe a small sigh of relief. Perhaps, just maybe…
“No,” Maeril repeated. “I shall have Angelus and Miss Kanamai deal with them.”
Yuka’s blood turned to ice, and she was unable to prevent a silent gasp of terror from slipping through her lips.
Wings of Endymion
06-25-09, 02:29 PM
The abomination gave her no time for respite, leaping upon her prone form with all the violent ferocity of a hungry predator. Eight crescents of glimmering silver led the way, visions of their wickedly jagged edges tearing open her vulnerable torso flashing through its beady eyes.
Then it was hurled through the air in the opposite direction, spouting dark ichor from a wound in its head where Hitomi’s staff had caught it in mid-flight. Glowing power formed a curved blade at the tip of the shaft, the young elf-maiden now holding her weapon as a polearm rather than as a stave.
“Don’t underestimate me, necromancer,” she whispered, the grin on her face growing ever more feral. When she looked up, the murderous expression in her ardent emerald eyes was enough to make Ar’zhanekkar take a step backwards in fear, even as “Jack” spasmed uncontrollably on the dark stones before him.
Time seemed to slow as the necromancer swallowed convulsively. Then, a hysterical scream escaped his lips, shattering the glass silence that had gripped the depth of night.
“Raargh!”
With a wave of his gnarled hands he buried her form beneath an avalanche of dark missiles, fully expecting her to collapse beneath the sheer weight of his power. But a single sweep of her war scythe caused his magic to shatter and cease in mid-flight. She glared at him angrily, and his resolve nearly buckled beneath the sheer intensity of the emotion in her glare.
“Jaackkk!” Ar’zhanekkar screeched, even more agitated and frenzied now. The mannequin pulled itself upright from the floor, still bleeding black blood from its forehead, before launching itself once more at the priestess. Left, right, above, below, the monstrosity’s attacks fell upon her in rapid succession, but each was batted aside nonchalantly by a flourishing twirl of her weapon. Hitomi didn’t even have to move, didn’t even have to break the rhythm of the pattern of her strokes, as she held off her foe with consummate ease.
“Tomi! Two floors directly below!”
At last, the elder sister thought, flashing a look of acknowledgement to her younger twin. Kendal seemed to be struggling against her foe, trapped against the corner of the battlements as the wight-lord Kratos rained blow after blow down upon her upraised scimitar. But Hitomi knew from recent personal experience that looks could be deceiving... and that Kendal had been concentrating on divining the location of their target via telepathic communication with the squirrel who had given them the information in the first place. As if to prove her point, the ranger lashed out suddenly with both feet in a dextrous drop kick, knocking the heavily armoured undead warrior backwards a vital couple of inches. Not much, but just enough for the swift young elf-maid to dart free... and to join her sister in running towards the rope that had borne them to the keep in the first place, now dangling free over the edge of the battlement.
Before either Ar’zhanekkar or Kratos could react, the two young women leapt over the side of the wall.
Wings of Endymion
06-25-09, 02:32 PM
Stained glass shattered into a thousand shards beneath their combined leather boots as they slung into the darkened room, nimbly rolling to their feet in unison. The sound of their entry had yet to recede from their ears when they identified the artificial shadows at the far end of the chamber, the forms there that should not have existed. Hitomi’s emerald eyes narrowed to a point, and Kendal had an arrow nocked to her short bow in less than the time it took her to blink.
“Mice,” Angelus spoke, stepping lightly from the pillar that had half-concealed him in the darkness. His perfectly handsome features were wreathed in a benevolent smile, but there was no mistaking the malevolent aura that illuminated his pale skin and offset his flowing black hair. “Scurrying mice.”
Behind him, Yuka too stepped from the shadows, shaking her head once firmly. Immediately she regretted the action, not for the bewildered expression that flitted over her friends’ faces, but for the advantage that Angelus took of the sudden confusion. Before either of the twins could react, the necromancer had thrust both palms towards them, and whispered,
“Discedo!”
The shadows rose from the floor, rebelling against their natural order to hurl themselves through the tidy dark room at the two half-elves. Silent stone bore witness as Hitomi’s protective auras were breached in a matter of breaths. First the priestess, then the ranger were flung back out of the room through the shattered window, and their muffled cries of pain as they crashed to the cobbled courtyard below were barely audible to the pair who were left behind. Her heart aflutter with tension that she hoped her demeanour did not display, Yuka followed them to the stony sill, conscious of Angelus’s eyes boring intently into the small of her back.
Slowly the half-elven sisters picked themselves from the ground, the heavy tread of armoured boots drawing menacingly closer in their ears. Crimson eyes flickered from behind a full suit of onyx-lined plate, ornate two-handed greatsword dully reflecting the light of the braziers from the castle window-slits as it rasped purposefully from its scabbard. A faint gesture from the death knight kept his court at bay at the periphery of the shadows; Maeril clearly intended to deal with the intruders alone.
For a moment, silence reigned. Hitomi and Kendal had settled mutely into practiced stances; the former held her stave before her lightly with both hands, while the latter had an arrow to her bowstring and her scimitars within easy reach. Maeril, however, seemed as if he was completely unprepared, his massive blade embedded loosely in the dirt before him and his entire body at ease. From her vantage point two floors up, her pale face quavering like a full moon reflected in a silky pool of darkness, Yuka felt deathly chills run down her spine. It was the first time she had seen Maeril in action, and frankly his battle aura alone was enough to freeze her in fear.
“Ya!”
Short and curt, the half-elven twins shouted their battle cry as one. Robin-blue fletching keened through the dead of night, a sharp sword splitting the fabric of darkness. Milliseconds behind it came Hitomi, her staff couched in lancing position, its tip glowing with what could only be holy magic. Right behind her came the younger of the wins, dual scimitars now in play.
The death knight did not flinch; he did not even seem to move. But as if on preordained cue, the arrow ricocheted from his heavy shoulder guards rather than pierce the depths of its helmet as it had been aimed. Hitomi’s initial lunge went wide by a factor of millimetres, and Kendal’s blades scythed through empty air where moments ago a hint of rotten neck, barely exposed by the elder sister’s attack, had been.
Quick as thought the twins recovered, Hitomi releasing a series of thrusts that would have blinded a weapons master and Kendal dancing a deadly dance of blades that would have wooed any martial artist. But Maeril was even quicker, even more precise; despite his armoured bulk, he moved with such decisive speed that Yuka had trouble following the strokes. Once, twice, the fallen warrior struck them with the flat of his massive blade, wielding it single-handedly with skill and finesse that by all accounts should not have been possible. The half-elves were sent flying, shattering stone walls at the opposite end of the dimly lit courtyard with their impact. First one, then the other slumped to the dead ground, faint trickles of blood flowing from pale lips.
Maeril’s metallic footsteps echoed resoundingly as he paced towards the pair of intruders, not hurrying his steps even when it became clear that neither girl had given up yet. Yuka’s slender hands tightened about the staff she grasped, words of power waiting to come to the aid of her friends below as unobtrusively as possible… when suddenly she felt Angelus’s presence looming behind her and her body refused to respond any further. Helpless, she wanted to scream a warning, but even her breath was paralysed in her throat.
One heavy footstep later and the girls took their gamble. In a flash, Kendal was off the ground and behind the death knight, her scimitars carving a screeching path towards Maeril’s neckline as her features contorted in an expression of fearsome ferocity. In the briefest of milliseconds as the undead lord instinctively reacted to the threat, Hitomi launched herself forwards, the tip of her staff glowing even brighter this time. At this range, with her speed, the blow would be impossible to parry or evade.
Or would it?
In a blink of the eye it was over. The hilt of the dark blade slammed into Kendal’s stomach beneath her guard, sending her skimming over dirt and pebble before coming to a halt fully ten metres away. In an extension of the same movement Maeril swept his sword two-handed in an underhand swing, catching the lunging Hitomi perfectly with the flat of the blade. The crumpled body of the young priestess arced cleanly over the death knight’s head, coming to a rest not so far from her sister as her tattered white robes were stained with flowing dark.
Maeril grunted once in satisfaction, obviously not displeased. And in the windows above, the expression on Yuka’s face betrayed all, especially the sinking fear of what would happen next.
Wings of Endymion
06-25-09, 02:34 PM
His dark bulky form loomed over the unresponsive bodies of his prey. The great two-handed blade held before him had yet to drink of their blood – for it was a fell blade, and such matters were not to be undertaken lightly even by a powerful death knight. Such self-imposed handicap, however, did little to detract from the fact that the “battle” had been of little contest.
The courtyard was awash in reverent awe as undead minions lapped up the dominating strength of their master and basked in his might. There were only three exceptions to the rule… horrified Yuka, impassive Angelus, and manipulative Natosatael.
“Excellent…” the last of the three spoke, applauding lightly and bowing in deference. The drawn-out final syllable was the least of the sarcastic undertones to his actions, but the daemon injected just enough sincerity into his leathery form such that Maeril could not berate him for it. Serpentine eyes pierced the night when the Haidian looked up, a deep powerful purple that transfixed the weak of mind with ease. “I would suggest that you finish them,” Natosatael urged, still speaking in honey-coated venom. “If allowed to live, they will only be the cause of further trouble.”
No! Yuka screamed in her mind, her slim frame bathed in a cold sweat as she fought against her paralysis with all her might. Despite her efforts, though, she was unable to break free… a helpless, unwilling witness to the demise of her friends.
Maeril’s response was to fixate the daemon with a glare of his own, crimson pinpricks duelling with purple pupils in an unfathomable battle of wills. Slowly the death knight raised his sword in languid readiness; slowly he took a step towards the two half-elves, never once relinquishing his glower.
Then the duel was interrupted. The death knight turned abruptly towards the skies, moments before a heavy shadow, heavier than anything mere darkness could serve, flashed across the castle. Not a single inhabitant dared to draw another breath, scanning the night sky for further sign of their fears.
CRASH!
The beast landed in their midst without warning. From the tip of its blunt snout to the end of its long muscular tail, it was covered in thick crimson scales that burned fiercely in the brazier-light. It settled to the ground on all fours, powerful rear haunches dwarfing the more prehensile forearms by a considerable amount, arching its slender neck to face Natosatael before giving voice to a great roaring bellow of defiance. Its gracefully outspread wings blotted out the majority of the night sky from view; the teeth that lined its gaping maw could tear through any bone, the wicked talons that crowned its every digit could shred through adamantium, and the glowing multi-faceted pupils were possessed of vision and sensory perception far beyond that of common man.
Said pupils now burned scarlet with a variety of emotions – fury, hate, violent action. For they were the eyes of a young sun dragon, the most impetuous, temperamental, and ragingly destructive of its kin.
Barely had the majesty of the dragon registered upon the assembled undead before an entire corner of the courtyard was bathed in hot flame, a focused raging inferno that erupted deep from within the beast’s mouth. At the centre of the pyre, surrounded by the dying screams of those minions who had neither the presence of mind to escape nor the fortitude to withstand the flames, stood the daemon Natosatael. It was almost as if the Haidian was bathing in pleasurable purgatory, the being’s malevolent smile never once leaving his face.
At last the stream of flame dissipated, and what remained of the courtyard wall and the corner tower crumbled into ashen dust. Still the daemon stood, and the death knight too as the dragon’s gaze roamed the courtyard, but neither dared to risk a move.
Slowly, cautiously, deliberately, the dragon grasped the unconscious forms of the half-elven twins in his foreclaws. The tender care in which it did so was in stark contrast to its brutality of a moment earlier, and further served to confirm what Yuka had already realised. The beast took one last glance around the courtyard, settling briefly on the window in which she stood, before gathering its strength and taking to the night skies once more.
Only when it had completely disappeared into the distance did she allow herself to breathe a sigh of relief.
Wings of Endymion
06-25-09, 02:42 PM
It was not to be the end of her worries – she had been nearly certain that Angelus had seen right through her act, and that it was only a matter of time before he reported it to Maeril. But the shadow-mage had for some reason held his peace, and after a few days Yuka had been able to relax once more, albeit with a bevy of niggling doubts regarding whom she could trust, and a newfound resolution to be extra careful with her emotions.
… lest all I have worked towards in the past few months is turned to dust.
The premise behind her actions had been simple. That fateful day when she had been doing Ar’zhanekkar’s chores for him, she had recognised the grey squirrel outside the window as one under Kendal’s thrall. Although by no means a certainty, her nimble mind knew enough about beast-taming, ancient artefacts, and her friends in general that she had been able to surmise that her friends for some reason required the crystal, most likely to aid Yoshi… another of her old friends, a human warrior who was host to the red dragon that had appeared that night. From then, it had been little trouble to drop the original out of the window, to be collected by whatever means Kendal could arrange, and to magically craft a fake to replace it in its ornate casing. After all, it was not as if Ar’zhanekkar actually used the item on a regular basis.
What she had not expected was for her friends to attempt to mount a rescue operation, daring to strike at the very heart of undead power in eastern Raiaera in order to “save” her. She had been forced to refuse, and both Hitomi and Kendal had paid a heavy price for their courage. If Yoshi himself had not recovered and showed up in time… on one hand, her heart had soared to see him back at his majestic best, but on the other…
No.
The young woman shook her head to clear it of the extraneous thoughts, feeling her fine hair dance about her ears as she did so. Dawn was breaking to a new day in Nenaebreth, no matter how overcast and despondent the horizon. Yuka stood from her bed, feeling the chill of the winter air on her bare legs and through her thin shirt. But she paid it no heed, instead rejoicing in the sensations that proved she was very much yet still alive.
The latest reports from Maeril’s ravens spoke of the corruption that seethed within Anebrilith, and of the tenuous hold on order that could so easily be shattered. Yuka did not know whether to be fearful for the innocents still stuck there, or relieved that she could not identify in person any of those that the birds spoke of.
But the ravens also spoke of rumours… rumours that the small but powerful Elythisian contingent had left the city, rumours that those responsible for Uysarji the Executioner’s demise had disappeared from the known lands, rumours that a small band of adventurers had managed to escape from the Obsidian Spire through the Red Forest.
Rumours that an alliance was gathering that could shatter the undead stranglehold on the east of Raiaera.
Perhaps that was why Maeril felt the need to reinforce the Death Lord Roszen Kaverre in the siege of Anebrilith, in order to quickly put an end to any possible resistance. Kaverre seemed intent on taking the city by expending as little force as possible, but the siege had dragged on for too long now… far too long.
She did not fear for herself or for any of Maeril’s minions; despite her outward allegiance, she wished nothing but the direst of disasters upon the undead forces.
No, what she feared for was the person who would doubtless be at the centre of such an alliance… the person who would undoubtedly attract the unhealthy interest of all who wished to prevent such a resurgence in Raiaeran power…
Ingwe…
Flames of Hyperion
07-07-09, 03:22 PM
Act IV
Karazund (Keldagrim), Emyn Naug, Raiaera
End of the Month of Tribulations, the Winter of Untold Agony
***
Keldagrim, or Karazund as it is known in the dwarven tongue, is a city wreathed in obscurity. Hidden deep within the clutches of the Emyn Naug, built upon the remnant ruins of a dwarven outpost from millennia ago, it is not mentioned in the annals of Raiaeran history with the exception of a few scattered lines regarding a vague dwarven presence in the hills. Even their kin from Gunnbad knew nothing of them; I still remember the look on Prince Derthark’s face when he first saw the extent to which the ancient customs had been preserved here.
It is said that fifteen thousand years ago, when the elves first landed upon the shores of Raiaera, the Emyn Naug formed the easternmost settlement of dwarven civilisation. Elven expansion to the fertile plains in the east of the subcontinent meant that contact between the outpost and the main dwarven cities in the Twilight Mountains became less and less frequent, until many dwarves simply moved away from the encircled hills. Typical however of their stubborn nature, some dwarves refused to leave their ancestral homes, and it is their descendants that cling still to their heritage, long eons later. One of the myriad of consequences of their enforced isolation has been a steady decline in the number of runesmiths as important knowledge was gradually lost, until in current generations, none have been great enough to master the art of rune lore. This is why Telchar was recognised on sight as a runelord, and why we were led to the city by those who found us. Even now he is buried deep in the hold’s archives, simultaneously reaming through ancient tomes like a giddy child in search of treasure, whilst attempting to teach those of this hold of what he knows at the same time.
The hold itself can be largely described in two parts. There are the underground chambers and passageways partially inhabited by the dwarves, solidly constructed buttresses of rock and stone that lie largely vacant and empty. The uppermost levels are used as living and communal quarters, but the lower levels are abandoned and infested by creatures of darkness, barely kept at bay by constant patrols and vigilant watch. The dwarves have also added to the previous construction by digging a number of new tunnels to hidden caves and entrances all over the mountains; these were the rougher passageways that we entered through, as opposed to the lovingly grandiose construction that characterises the ruins proper.
The second part of the hold was gradually established above ground by human settlers, one terraced field and plain mud dwelling at a time. Although the valley in which they are sheltered is protected from the worst of the winter storms and snows, the soil is still thin and infertile, the weather erratic, cold, and uncooperative. It obviously takes great determination and fortitude to carve a living from this hostile terrain, a battle as great as any we have fought in these lands.
Karazund’s people are an almost even split of human and dwarf, the former a hodgepodge of various nationalities and origins who have arrived at the hold over the years through luck and desperation, the latter the dark-eyed dark-bearded kinsmen of our companions from Gunnbad. They are all gaunt and dour, diligent workers of earth and stone who are as obdurate handling weapons as tools. The population is united in two major values – their need to carve a living from a hostile and enemy-infested land, and their mutual distrust of outsider influence. Long years of hiding from the “repressive customs and order” of the High Elves have made them particularly wary of Raiaerans.
Good will is scarce in these lands, and the leaders of Karazund are as grim as the mountains they live in. Although it will be difficult to convince them to aid our cause, Lord Arminas and Telchar have decided that it is at least worth a try. At the very least, we must be able to persuade them to guide us towards Nenaebreth, given that the mountain routes will be closed until the melts in three months time.
In any case, their presence has turned out to be an unforeseen godsend for the Legion. Perhaps, just possibly, we might be able to pull this off after all…
~ Entry in Ingwe’s Book of Travels
Flames of Hyperion
07-07-09, 03:41 PM
“I refuse,” the muscle-bound giant dictated firmly, his bare barrel-chest heaving mightily with every syllable. Clad only in simple furs despite the severity of the snowstorm just beyond the cavern walls, his blonde hair flowed like a ragged waterfall beyond the bulwarks of his shoulders, and his piercing green eyes glinted angrily at the need to repeat himself. His name was Argurios Tiberius, and he was Consul of Keldagrim, ultimately responsible for the entire fate of the hidden city.
The Consul sat on a plain wooden chair at an equally plain wooden table, in a large cavern that obviously doubled as a feasting hall during times of celebration. To either side of him were arrayed the elders of the community – venerable dwarven greybeards clad in leather and steel, and gaunt human warriors of equally grim countenance. At the far end of the table sat a dark traveller clad in midnight-blue shadow, silently and carefully observing the proceedings.
The leaders of the Legion were arrayed opposite, Lord Arminas of the Rangers of the Eclipse in the centre, flanked by Derthark and Telchar to one side, and Glorfindel, Nogeres, and Ingwe to the other. Despite the fact that there was neither trick nor hoax to the room, the travellers were made to look tiny by the dominating aura of the huge man they faced in negotiation.
“My Lord…” Arminas attempted to reply, but was cut off by a vicious sweep of Argurios’s right palm.
“Silence, elf,” the Consul spat, his booming voice resounding authoritatively about the chamber. His fearsome gaze expanded to take in both Nogeres and Glorfindel as well. “From now on, I shall only permit the dwarves…” – a blunt finger was stabbed in the direction of Telchar and Derthark – “… to talk to me. On the pain of banishment from this colony, you shall remain silent henceforth.”
For a single moment, quickly conquered, Ingwe saw anger flare in the elf-lord’s eyes. Then, with great control and dignity, Lord Arminas sat down once again, allowing Telchar to stand in his stead.
“Mighty laird,” the runelord began, spreading his stocky arms wide in an expansive gesture. “We mus once again insist upon bein’ allowed tae pass through yer lands tae Nenaebreth, an’ beg ye once again…”
“I refuse!” the big man roared back, repeating the stance that he had been upholding all afternoon. “I can not and will not allow you to do this!”
“My laird,” Telchar attempted to continue in his most persuasive voice, but was immediately cut off again by a powerful bellow that resounded mightily throughout the stone chamber.
“How many times must I repeat myself! You may not pass through our lands, and we will not accompany you on your petty wars! Even though you are mighty a runelord indeed, I will not allow you to dictate to me in this way.” Argurios’s chiselled features were flushed with the anger that tore into those seated opposite; even Derthark and Glorfindel blanched slightly at the turn of events. With an effort the Consul steadied himself, his knuckles stiff and white as they gripped the arm of his simple wooden chair. “We have heard all about the troubles of the outside world from Kryos here. They say the necromancer Xem’zund is a mighty commander, and that his legions control the entirety of Raiaera from Valinatal to Anebrilith! In which case, what would he do if you appear at the doorstep of Nenaebreth through the Emyn Naug? He would learn of our existence here, and he would send mighty hosts against us!” His arguments, Ingwe noted, made sense; certainly he had rehearsed them beforehand with the elders of the city, who were nodding in solemn agreement to either side. The dark-haired stranger at the end of the table, however, remained silent and unresponsive. “We cannot hold them off, and thus we will not risk being discovered. You will stay here, whether you like it or not, for the rest of your…”
“My lord.” This time it was Ingwe who spoke the words, interrupting the Consul’s speech like a faint zephyr intercepting the blustering gale. His gentle tone was intentional, but the nervous tremor in his voice as he faced the attracted stares was not. Belatedly, the young man bowed, clearing his throat tensely before continuing.
“I understand, and indeed admire, your resolve to protect your people during these troubled times. But I ask you to think… is this truly the path that you must take to ensure the security of your people? Is this truly the path that will guarantee Keldagrim’s future? With all due respect, sir, may I humbly suggest that this is not the case?”
“And what would you have me do, boy?” Argurios replied in a low growl that sent hackles racing up and down the back of Ingwe’s neck. Somehow, the younger man sensed that this was when the Consul was at his most dangerous, a hunting bear poised to strike.
But he knew that he had no time to be terrified. Ignoring the warning lump in his throat and the shivers on his spine, he persisted in speaking fearlessly.
“March, my lord. Against the darkness that threatens your very existence. Sooner or later you will be discovered by Xem’zund, much as we have just discovered you. And then it will be too late, for as mighty as this city is, it will stand no chance against the Necromancer’s undead hordes.”
“Fifteen thousand years we have resided unseen…” Argurios began, but again was cut off before he could gain momentum.
“Fifteen thousand years of the past, my lord,” Ingwe pointed out, riposting with every last shred of courage that he could muster. This was where he gambled, where he risked everything on his inner intuition that Argurios was no mere barbarian warlord. Beneath the brawny exterior was a cautious man who was not averse to playing the brute when it suited his purpose, a shrewd and cunning leader of a city that had remained hidden for long millennia. “This is the now, times have changed and the world is no longer as forgiving. Keldagrim, my lord, must change with it.”
“Silence!”
The word was roared with great intensity, enough that the bespectacled young man was forced back into his seat, his glasses drooping unhappily below eye level and an expression of great amazement on his Nipponese features. The ferocity of the glare in Argurios’s eyes and the rippling in his muscles would have sent even a dragon scrambling for cover. Without another sound, the Consul and his advisors stood from the table and strode from the room, the shell-shocked Legionnaires left awkwardly in their wake.
Ingwe was left to wonder whether he had judged the man correctly.
Flames of Hyperion
07-07-09, 03:45 PM
Normal glass windows would not have lasted minutes in the high altitude snowstorms that plagued Keldagrim, but the dwarves of the town had crafted a heavy crystalline quartz substitute that resisted the fierce wind and chill. While still imperfect, it also allowed at least a semblance of the view of the outside world. Set in a circular mount in one of the many secluded dead-end passageways within the underground portion of the town, the particular pane at which Ingwe now sat overlooked the tidily carved meagre plots of land in which the food for the enclave was grown.
At this time of year, though, there’s nothing to look at but snow…
The young man would have normally preferred to contemplate outside, under the calming influence of gentle wind and balmy sun. However, the climate of the Emyn Naug was not so forgiving, and a single glance at the windy flurries that even now danced across the bleak landscape had been enough to convince him that inside – where it was safe and dry and warm – was a more-than-acceptable substitute. It was a shame, Ingwe thought. Not months ago he would have leapt at the opportunity to walk in the snow.
Am I…
Somehow the notion disturbed him greatly. It was as if his experiences in the war were gradually leeching something from him, something important that he did not want to lose. Legs folded beneath him in the intricate fashion of his homeland, his personal grimoire unopened upon his lap, the young man rested his chin on his hand as he gazed through the distorted lens upon the world outside, lost in meditation.
“It’s not every day I see somebody with the courage to interrupt Argurios.”
The voice came from the corridor to his left, slinking stealthily through the shadows to reach his ears. Ingwe had never heard the silky tones before, but he was able to match face to tone before he turned to face the newcomer. It was, as he suspected, the silent stranger from the Council meeting.
“Much less twice,” the indistinct humanoid finished, stepping forward towards Ingwe to reveal eyes of soulful red. His narrow face was neither elfin nor human, but it bore characteristics of both – the elegant beauty of the former and the mortal ruggedness of the latter, framed by uniform-length raven hair that flowed wildly to the nape of his neck. He wore shirt and trousers of deep midnight blue, tattered and torn by the rigours of trail and war, and a straight sheath across the small of his back. “My name is Kryos Ralshyn.”
“Ingwe,” the Nipponese warrior-mage replied, smiling softly and shaking the proffered hand once to convey sincerity. “Ingwe Helyanwe.” The impression he received from the other man’s slender fingers matched what he had inferred from the meeting with the councillors of Karazund – quiet and observant, but with a hidden something that drove him ever forwards.
For his part, he guessed he must have seemed scholarly and lacking in confidence, an oddity amongst the battle-hardened elves and dwarves in the Legion. He felt Kryos’s eyes roam his face and torso, taking in his lightweight musculature and the tome upon his knees. The shy grin on his face spread even further as he peered back over the rims of his spectacles.
Kryos was not a half-elf as he’d first assumed, Ingwe realised upon closer inspection. He sported neither the pointed ears nor the sheet-white skin of their kind; this alone was not sufficient to come to a conclusion, of course, but there was something about the young warrior, something intangible that nonetheless stood out to Ingwe’s observations. And the eyes, always the eyes, deep red and vivid as freshly spilt blood…
“Dwiilar,” Kryos spoke in response to Ingwe’s unasked question.
“… guardians of souls…” the Nipponese finished, remembering an obscure passage from the copy of Arkakroth’s Cross Continent Travel Journal & People I’d Like to Bludgeon that he’d picked up in Scara Brae. The original had long since been sold off, but the poetic description of the obscure race had stuck in his mind, and he was sure that he’d transcribed the passage somewhere in his own personal grimoire. Kryos nodded in astonished delight, and Ingwe flushed in contentment that his knowledge had served him well.
“You’re not Akashiman, are you,” the dwiilar pointed out in return, and this time it was Ingwe’s turn to be pleasantly surprised.
“Nipponese,” he clarified, then felt the need to explain further. “Islands far to the east of this continent… it’s said that Akashima was established by a merchant vessel from Nippon that was blown far off course during a storm, floating for days until it made landfall in Corone.”
A fellow scholar…? Ingwe thought to himself, feeling the excitement build. The dwiilar was certainly very intelligent, but also very calm and collected. The best type of intellectual… but also the most dangerous…
The young man grinned again, rapidly warming to the shadowy stranger. Inside, though, he couldn’t help but take note of the niggling voice that warned him, in no uncertain terms, to be cautious.
Flames of Hyperion
07-07-09, 03:51 PM
“Ingwe, I must ask you a question.”
The confines of the underground passageway were cramped and claustrophobic, the dim light by which they talked coming from the translucent crystalline filter behind him. The shadows seemed to creep up at him from behind Kryos, creating the illusion that he’d been somewhat backed into a corner. Though the dwiilar warrior gave him no cause to be alarmed, Ingwe felt a single bead of sweat trickle down his cheek.
“Please,” he replied, spreading his arms wide in invitation. “As long as I do not risk the lives of my comrades, I will answer you as best as I can.”
Kryos pondered the words, then nodded slowly. Ingwe once again felt those deep red eyes studying him in attentive detail, not missing a single nuance of stance or expression.
“I wish to ask, Ingwe…” the dwiilar spoke with great deliberation, pausing with intent before continuing. “What is it that you fight for?”
“Me?” The Nipponese warrior-mage blinked in surprise and confusion, obviously not expecting such an intimate question so soon. His spectacles drooped even lower across his face, his expressive dark brown eyes quizzically questioning Kryos and his intentions. “Or the Legion?”
“Is there any difference?” Kryos queried, to which Ingwe was quick to reply,
“Of course there is.”
The young man’s voice echoed firmly throughout the tunnels, resonating barely short of anger; the Legion of Light was most definitely not his own personal army, and Ingwe wished to dispel any such delusions before they had the chance to take hold. He took a deep breath, inhaling pensively of the cold still air.
“Honour, justice, freedom, righteousness… the Legion fights for all this, but also more. We fight for those who lost their innocence to the hordes of Xem’zund, to those whose lives of peace and contentment were overthrown in a single night of blood and murder. We fight for those who stand to lose should Xem’zund be allowed to establish a foothold in the continent, for those who would be next to fall before his undead legions. We fight for everyone, and we fight for ourselves… we fight for the people, we fight for the land, we fight for everything that’s worth fighting for.”
“That’s a lot to fight for,” Kryos remarked, wry humour tugging at his upper lip. “And you?”
“I fight for all that. I fight for friends I don’t want to see suffer and for people I don’t want to lose. And for one or two reasons more.” Ingwe paused, then grinned ruefully. “Those, I’m afraid, I’d like to keep confidential for now. They’re… rather personal.”
He could almost sense the thoughts going through the dwiilar’s head – thoughts that bordered on the condescending, accusations of ignorance and naivete. He could sense them because they had occurred to him before, that perhaps he was fighting for reasons too idealistic to be mentioned in the context of such a terrible war. He had convinced himself at the time that his motives were perfectly valid even given the circumstances, but once again the doubts assailed his mind like grasping hands dragging him downwards into a quagmire abyss.
“A crusader,” Kryos laughed, and for an instant Ingwe froze. But there was no malice, no sarcasm in the dwiilar’s voice… and when they locked eyes again, Ingwe was surprised to see that Kryos was genuinely smiling. “It has been a long time indeed since I have seen one of your kind.”
Tentatively, Ingwe smiled back. “What… how about you?”
The dwiilar paused a moment to think, then once again allowed the wry humour to tug at his upper lip. “The same as you, I suppose…” Kryos answered, turning away and melting into the shadows. “Only I can’t clothe it in such beautiful words.”
“Kry…” Ingwe started, but was cut off almost immediately.
“Thank you for your reply, Ingwe. You have told me all that I need to know.”
As the darkness ensconced him in the wake of the dwiilar’s passing, Ingwe felt a dreadful sense of loneliness and solitude hammer at his soul.
Flames of Hyperion
07-07-09, 04:04 PM
Arkakroth writes of the dwiilar as a complete enigma, a hidden society in the north of Alerar whose appearances in recorded history are as elusive as their settlements deep within the forests and hills of that region. Their motives are equally obscure, with seemingly nothing to explain the handful of sightings made by other races. Neither elf nor human but similar to both, their distinguishing feature is the powers of their mystical eye, which Arkakroth barely touches upon before moving on.
How Kryos came to be here, at this point in time, I do not know. However, I cannot help but feel a touch of… destiny… about these circumstances. From the unexplained avalanche that drove us deep into the Emyn Naug, to the infallible instincts of Telchar and Derthark that guided us straight to Karazund; as much as I hesitate to believe in the notion, there is certainly a sense of supernatural disbelief in the Legionnaire camp at how the pieces in the puzzle have simply fallen together. Castor in particular is eagerly attempting to rally the people of the town to our cause, although he has so far met with a mostly negative reaction. Telchar, on the other hand, is buried again in his archives, searching fervently for something that will aid us in our situation. Last I heard, he was “optimistic”, which is not a word that I have heard him use often. Perhaps he may be onto something here.
As for myself, I do not know what to think. This was a simple, peaceful mountain town until we chanced upon it. Now, rumours of war sweep through the huts and caverns like hot gale winds, their mere presence stoking and fuelling the fires of conflict and dissension. I certainly do not doubt the truth of my words at the council earlier this afternoon, but I feel sullied by having uttered them.
I feel as if I personally have doomed this town, and every last dwarf and human, man and woman and child, living within its mountainous borders.
Consul Argurios has yet to respond to us with his verdict, and I can only hope that I judged the man correctly. He certainly does not seem the type to rush into rash decisions, but neither does he seem likely to be swayed by the arguments of others. The weight of fifteen millennia of custom and tradition lie on his shoulders, an isolationist legacy of xenophobia and non-interference that has so far protected Karazund through some of the worst turmoil that the world has ever seen. To shrug off this cumbersome cloak will not be an easy task, and I am uncertain whether he will choose to help us.
I believe his choices are five-fold. He can aid us whole-heartedly by mobilising the entire town to our aid, but I doubt that he will choose this path; tradition, common sense, the well being of his people and the words of his councillors will all act against us. Probably the best we can hope for is for him to guide us through the Emyn Naug towards Nenaebreth, in which case we would have accomplished our original objective in traversing the mountains unharmed and surprising the enemy forces, and Argurios would have protected his people and kept his honour intact at the same time.
On the other hand, he can refuse us, and in this case he has three possible actions. He can simply cast us out into the cold, which would have all of the benefit for him and none for us, and we would be back to the exact situation that we were in just after the avalanche – no route forward, little food or water, and only the option to turn back to Anebrilith and hope we survive the journey. He can accept us into his community, at the risk that we will not obey his will and escape, but this I cannot see him doing. The last, most drastic measure, and I pray that I am thinking too hard upon the matter when I write this, is for him to…
~ Entry in Ingwe’s Book of Travels
***
“Ingwe!”
The sudden voice jolted him from his reverie and sent an unsightly blot of dark ink spilling across the white paper. The young man’s brow twitched in irritation at his clumsiness; it was a dreadful waste of the last of his precious ink, and a timely reminder to beg the scribes of Karazund for more before he left. He did an ungainly juggle of inkwell, pen, tome, and cloth as he sought to repair the damage before it became permanent, all the while trying to pay attention to the voice that was echoing through the tunnels.
“Here!” he shouted in reply, finally resolving the situation by bringing his feet into play to hold down the pages of his grimoire. The scenery outside the window was dark now, although he could sense that the snow had stopped. Here and there the flicker of torches illuminated the treacherous paths between houses, but there was no movement to indicate that anybody was actually walking in the absolute chill. No movement… except…
Something moved, a shadow flashing past overhead.
Something had found them.
“You’d better get out here, quickly!” Glorfindel bellowed at the top of his lungs, his voice distorted by the tunnels until it almost sounded like a dwarf’s. The urgency in his words gave Ingwe no chance to argue.
Tucking his writing implements into his waist pouch, the young man took off at full pelt through the darkened corridors, his cloak literally flying out behind him.
Flames of Hyperion
07-07-09, 04:21 PM
He burst out into the darkened courtyard with all the reckless haste of a wildfire, his frosty breath steaming his spectacles as he darted from heated tunnel to subzero sky. From above their rims he could make out the motionless figures of many of the Legionnaires, including the Anebrilithian bladesinger Glorfindel, staring silently at something in the middle of the sheltered square… but before he could turn to see what it was himself, he came under attack by a barrage of feathery wings.
“Ha… Hayate!” he spluttered, blinded by the sudden assault. His familiar was either extremely glad to see him, or was scolding him ferociously; it was difficult to tell which. “Back away for an instant so that I can see what’s happening!”
The great white gyrfalcon obliged with a defiant screech, settling to Ingwe’s shoulder with snowy pinions still spread wide and peering at the young man with eyes that were somehow both meaningful and reproachful. Ingwe reached out in an attempt to calm the raptor, and in doing so caught sight of the reason for the shocked silence in the courtyard.
She was a powerful and majestic creature, her forequarters that of a great eagle whilst her body and hind paws were unambiguously leonine. Sleek aquiline head and razor-sharp beak, with well-groomed wings to match, tapered into clawed rear legs and a long lustrous tail; her 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. A distinct sense of déj* vu struck him as he gazed upon the magnificent figure of Surion, mount of the elf-lord Elrohir Felagund, captain of the Skyknights.
The glint of a long slender lance, almost invisible in the dark moonless night; the unmistakable shimmer of full mithril scale armour under the torchlight, 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, hanging limpidly in the windless gloom. The flash of the gems upon the ornate scabbard worn upon the prince’s waist, and the glint of his eyes through the shadows, as bright as any emerald. The Skyknight Prince certainly knew how to make an entrance, and judging by the shock and awe upon the faces of the citizens of Karazund beginning to congregate at the entrance to the courtyard, the effect was not lost.
The elf removed his tall Elythisian helm and lightly leapt to the ground from the saddle, pausing to give the amber eyes of his mount a reassuring glance. No winged beast liked to be caged amongst so much towering stone, and Surion was wilder than most; only the firm grip of her rider kept her in check. One quick gaze around the square allowed Elrohir to take in all that he needed to, and without another pause, the prince headed towards Ingwe… and Arminas Ereinon, who had emerged from the tunnels behind the Nipponese.
“Hail, and well met!” the Skyknight called, his voice more jovial and buoyant than many of his kind. Completely ignoring the hostile looks from the inhabitants of Karazund, he stepped up to his counterpart and the accompanying young man, extending his hand cheerfully as opposed to the more sedate bows that accompanied a standard elven greeting. Arminas shook the proffered palm, slightly perturbed.
“Well met,” he replied, as the hand progressed on to Ingwe, who shook it with equal anxiety. “How…”
In response, the Skyknight pointed to Hayate, who by now had settled on Ingwe’s shoulder and was preening himself contentedly.
“Never underestimate the birds, especially eagle-kin. They have an information net unrivalled by any, and even falcons like to gossip once in a while. It was no difficult task for Surion here…” – Elrohir indicated his gryphon, who lifted her head proudly when she realised she was being talked about – “… to contact Hayate, and for your familiar…” – the prince turned to Ingwe and bowed somewhat exaggeratedly – “… to guide her here.”
“For what reason?” Arminas interrupted, and Ingwe identified the firm line underlying his words that warned Elrohir not to joke around any more. The Ranger’s brow was crossed with lines of worry and fury, and the simple reason why was clear even to the young human – if the Skyknight had managed to track them down so easily, how long would it take for Xem’zund do the same? How long would it be before the Necromancer found Karazund as well?
The time available for the Consul to arrive at a decision has just shortened dramatically… Ingwe realised, with a corresponding sickening drop in his stomach.
Prince Elrohir’s reply only served to make the situation worse.
“The Death Lords march from Nenaebreth,” he sighed, wiping the sweaty back of his hand over his forehead, his dark brown hair slick and lifeless as it fell from his typically handsome elven features.
“Anebrilith… is in danger.”
His words resulted in complete silence.
Flames of Hyperion
07-07-09, 04:30 PM
“How?”
It felt wrong, somehow, to break the ice-ensconced quiet with his words. But as an officer of the Legion, and as one of those responsible not only for its future but also for inflicting its woes upon Karazund, and even abandoning Anebrilith in the first place, Ingwe felt that he had to know. His chest seemed ready to tear itself open with the pain of guilt and blame.
“The city still stands, and yet, it is fallen,” Elrohir explained, his voice low and gentle in consideration for the clearly tormented young man. “The present Death Lord in charge of the siege seems to enjoy toying with his victims, and is content to tighten his lines and occasionally nibble at the walls while watching its inhabitants slowly degenerate into anarchy. Lord Turgon was unable to rally enough support within the Council of Anebrilith to break the siege, and thus took advantage of the confusion caused by the destruction of the Coven of Six to leave. He felt that his presence there would not be sufficient to save the city, much as Lord Arminas felt the same.”
The Skyknight paused, feeling the awkward silence from the young man increase in intensity. It was obvious that Ingwe still harboured regrets over the decision, that perhaps they should have done more to save the refugees fallen prey to the pirates and slave traders that now infested the ancient port. Humans were easy to read, prone to emotion and undisciplined outbursts. The Nipponese warrior-mage was more controlled than most, Elrohir noted, but not perfect.
“His original purpose there was satisfied,” Elrohir continued, letting the cryptic statement hang slightly. “The vast majority of refugees have already fled the city by any means possible; those remaining are the scum of the old realm, those too caught up in their own evil-doings that they did not heed the advice of the High Bard to flee whilst they could.”
“But they still believe that Anebrilith can hold out,” Ingwe pointed out, inner fire flaring in his eyes. Sometimes, the sheer arrogance of the elves could infuriate him so, especially from such even-tempered people as Elrohir. “When did Xem’zund’s armies leave Anebrilith? What route did they take? We may still be able to…”
“Ingwe!” Arminas interrupted, in as gently firm a voice as the young man had ever heard him use. The elf-lord laid a restraining hand on Ingwe’s free shoulder, and the effect was instantaneous; the Nipponese warrior-mage sobered instantly, taking a long deep breath to steady his emotions. “Do not forget that we are now at the mercy of Consul Argurios of Karazund, and that even if we were to find a way free, we would be powerless against the might of the hordes unleashed from Nenaebreth.”
“But, that doesn’t mean…” Ingwe started, only for Elrohir’s calming gesture to quieten him again.
“Actually, Arminas,” the Skyknight spoke languidly, adopting an easy posture with one hand on his hip. “That’s why I’m here. Lord Turgon wants to coordinate a strike against those armies with you. The Silverwind of Tor Elythis is the last true High Elven army in the east of Raiaera, and should Xem’zund’s legions be allowed to roam unchecked, the City of the Ivory Spire will fall not long after Anebrilith. The Legion, on the other hand, may just hold the key to defeating Xem’zund’s influence in the area.” A low rumble from Surion reinforced his words, the gryphon’s voice instantly adding authority and weight to Elrohir’s suggestion. Arminas paused, retracting his hand from Ingwe’s shoulder to ponder.
To Ingwe’s mind, things were clear. They could do nothing, unless…
“And what would you say to us, harbinger of doom?” Argurios’s booming voice echoed about the cold stony courtyard, startling those of the Legion and of the city who had been focused on the confrontation between the two elf-lords and the human foreigner who stood with them. “Would you bring these armies you speak of down on our doorstep first, to buy time for your puny elven cities to cower in fear?”
Standing mighty and tall upon the stone veranda above their heads, clad only in the ceremonial furs of his office and his dirty blonde mane flowing wildly from throbbing temples, the Consul of Keldagrim made a distinctly imposing sight. Eyes as harsh and icy as the mountain weather itself stared down at the trio of outsiders who dared to deliberate upon the future of his town – however indirectly – without him.
“I would never think of giving you counsel, my lord,” Elrohir countered, with an elaborate bow. Of the five princes of Tor Elythis, he’d always been the ruffian and the rogue, the least bound in ceremony and the most likely to rankle upon the traditionalists that dominated Raiaera. It went with the territory, he supposed, of being the commander of the ragtag mercenary company that was the Skyknights. And yet, for all his rascality, he’d picked up a knack or two of how to deal with difficult people in sticky situations. He’d also learnt to listen to his instincts when necessary, and they were positively screaming at him now that every last shred of his diplomatic talent would be needed to resolve the matter to his advantage.
“The fate of this town is most assuredly most secure in your hands, my liege,” he continued with a flourish. “On the other hand, the warriors that have stumbled upon your city are determined to fight for the good of the country and of all people… elf, dwarf, or human… that live within its boundaries. Perhaps you’ve already heard this young man…” – and here Elrohir gave Ingwe a light tap in the small of his back, propelling him forward slightly into the light – “… declare his determination to save as many as he possibly can.”
The young man flushed uncontrollably, and a few light-hearted chuckles echoed about the square at his expense.
“He may be young and naïve, my lord,” Elrohir spoke again, joining in the merriment with a smile of his own before turning serious of a sudden, “but he has been a central figure to this small band of warriors ever since they landed in Anebrilith and broke the first siege there. Not only his courage and his determination, but also his intelligence and his skill. I would heed his words well, for they have saved the lives of many in this forsaken land, and I have no doubt that they will save many more.”
A few cries of “hear, hear!” echoed through the darkness, Glorfindel and Castor amongst those lending their support to the prince’s words. Ingwe, for his part, was left wishing fervently for the mountains to swallow him whole to hide his embarrassment.
“And so I ask of you, Ingwe Helyanwe,” Elrohir concluded, turning to the young man and bowing again. “What would your decision be under these circumstances?”
Ingwe hesitated, dark brown eyes searching the darkness for those he relied upon. One by one they nodded in agreement, yielding their lives to his will; Lord Arminas of the Rangers of the Eclipse, Prince Derthark of Gunnbad and his runelord advisor Telchar Quakefist, the Anebrilithian bladesinger Glorfindel Tinehtele, the Scarabrian huntsman Castor Polluks, and the mysterious archmage Nogeres. One by one they agreed to follow him into the depths of the daemon-realm of Haidia if necessary, with no hesitation or reservation to their support; one by one they burdened him with the responsibility of the decision, in the full knowledge that their lives now lay in his hands.
Ingwe exhaled slowly, his breath frosty and cold in the crisp mountain air. Glasses askew and fogged up, the gyrfalcon upon his shoulder nibbling upon his ear as he turned to face Argurios on the terrace above, the young man bowed in the Nipponese way as he reluctantly accepted the duty.
“With your permission, Consul Argurios, we will march to intercept this undead army, and with the aid of the Silverwind of Tor Elythis, we will destroy it before it reaches Anebrilith… before it can move against Karazund.”
Flames of Hyperion
07-07-09, 04:51 PM
“My permission?” Argurios asked, almost incredulously. His thickset eyebrows were raised high in mock surprise. “Why must you ask my permission, when you have so obviously decided upon your path?”
“Because we require your assistance,” Ingwe replied evenly, preparing to gamble everything on a single stroke. A thin sheen of sweat shone upon his brow, despite the subzero chill of the mountain air. “Without your aid in guiding us through the mountains, my lord, we will not be able to act decisively even if we do know the extent of the enemy and their plans.”
“… give me one good reason why I should assist you, boy, before I wring your throat out with my bare hands.” The Consul’s mood gravitated instantly, his growl reminding Ingwe of a bear on the prowl. The young man blanched involuntarily. But he did not back down, willing up the reserves of his courage to stare down the domineering giant who was glaring down at him.
It was, surprisingly enough, Telchar who stepped up to speak in his stead.
“Coz loch it ur nae, Consul Argurios, Karazund is part ay thes warld. Ye cannae afford tae simply ignair th' events 'at occur oan yer doorstep…”
“I can do what I wish!” the Consul roared back at the runelord, face reddening in anger and his hair flying wildly with every furious gesture. “For fifteen millennia…”
“Fifteen millennia of history, my lord!” Lord Arminas cried, joining the argument against the overpowering warlord. “Ingwe was right when he spoke earlier today… you cannot rely any more on tradition to protect you. The High Elves clung to tradition, and Eluriand fell, Valinatal was burned. Times have changed, Consul, and you must change along with it, no matter how difficult the task.”
“Then give me one good reason that I should not have you all killed as you stand!” The Consul raised his mighty palm, and suddenly the Legionnaires on the ground were surrounded by the warriors of his court, leather-clad mountain-men and dwarves hefting spear, shield, and axe. The terraces above their head were lined with crossbows, each barbed dart poised to embed itself in the body of a victim.
For a moment nobody dared move, and Surion’s angry squall reverberated throughout the deathly tense courtyard. The gryphon spread her wings wide in vicious fury, and only Elrohir’s restraining hand upon her tether kept her from launching herself in futile suicide against the ballistae on the balconies.
“Because…” Ingwe began, his voice soft and soothing as he desperately sought to calm the raging passion.
“… killing your only allies will not stop the armies of Xem’zund,” a voice finished on the balcony above. Ingwe had to squint through his spectacles to make out the shape in the shadows, but had no trouble placing the voice; it was Kryos, along with three other figures – an elf, a human, and a young girl of indeterminate race – that he did not recognise. Thank you, the young man whispered in his mind, grateful for the timeliness of the dwiilar’s interruption. Perhaps Argurios would be more amenable to the words of somebody who had been with him longer.
“Karazund has no allies, Kryos Ralshyn!”
… or perhaps not. Ingwe opened his mouth to refute the argument, but once again Kryos beat him to it.
“That is not true, Consul Argurios,” the dwiilar spoke, his tone silky and smooth in the cloudy moonlight. For a moment the fires in the braziers caught his eyes just so, a mercurial quicksilver glint that showed nothing of the emotions flowing through the other participants in the conversation. He took one small step forward, arms raised appeasingly. Argurios bristled in return, hand still poised to rain death upon the Legionnaires in the courtyard below.
“We are your allies,” Lord Arminas gently reminded the Consul, his words gentle but firm. The elf-lord bowed low to signify his sincerity, his drab Ranger garb flowing about his legs in intricate folds.
“As are we of Tor Elythis,” Elrohir affirmed, mimicking Arminas’s movements. Pleated mythril mail tinkled lightly like a million small bells through the thin air, delicate counterpoint to the weight of the exchange.
Argurios stared down at the two elves, then let his glare roam over the young man who had started the argument and the dwiilar who had helped end it. His expression was somewhere between a scowl and a gape, not quite able to keep the incredulous disbelief from his face as everything that he had been taught and believed in came crumbling down about his ears. To his credit, though, he maintained the dignity and majesty of his position despite the great difficulty; with one last long stare in the direction of the elf-lords, he waved his men away.
“I shall think upon this for a while longer,” he declared, before turning on his heel and striding into his council halls, his advisors in tow. Kryos was the last to follow them in. Before he went, the dwiilar’s eyes sought out those of Ingwe in the courtyard below…
… and smiled.
Ingwe smiled back.
Flames of Hyperion
07-07-09, 05:03 PM
“I thought I might find you here.”
Argurios had deliberated his position throughout the night, convincing both himself and his councillors that they had fully refuted every possible argument against their chosen course of action. As the leader of the small community, he had also taken it upon himself to discharge his responsibility to its citizens, addressing them all in the grand feasting hall and informing them of his decision at high noon. There had been dissent and protest, but he had assured them of the measures he had taken to protect their security. It was a sign of the trust and worth that the citizens of Karazund, both dwarf and human, placed in their leader that by evening, the town was united as one.
“… Kryos?”
At length, Argurios had called for Prince Elrohir of Tor Elythis and the leaders of the Legion of Light – Lord Arminas, Prince Derthark, Telchar Quakefist, Glorfindel of Anebrilith, Nogeres, and himself, Ingwe Helyanwe. His words to them had been simple, even the seemingly inexhaustible giant of a man tired and worn by the decision that he had been forced to make. The remainder of the room, packed to the brim by the assembled citizens of Karazund, had been absolutely silent as they had laid their lives alongside their Consul’s.
“… what are you writing…?”
Ingwe sighed gently, blowing the fresh ink dry before folding his tome shut. For the second time since he had arrived in Karazund he glanced up at the dwiilar from his seated position against the quartz crystal window, feeling the shadows swirl about him mysteriously. Kryos’s eyes were a deep red once more, the metallic silver from the previous night gone without a trace.
“A journal,” the young Nipponese replied, grinning shyly. “Everything I’ve done, everywhere I’ve been, every bit of knowledge I’ve picked up is recorded within these pages.” He paused, then admitted, “At least, the vast majority of it.”
Carefully Ingwe packed away his kit – tome, inkwell, brush – before returning his attention to the dwiilar. His pouch bulged with its contents, not least the two full pots of ink he had managed to cajole from the scribe-master at Argurios’s court. At least he would not have to worry about refilling them for a while.
“Your companions from last night…” he began to speak, but Kryos had anticipated the question in advance and was quick to respond.
“Friends who journeyed with me to the Obsidian Spire and back,” the dwiilar explained, his voice low and cutting. It was clear that he would rather not speak more of the matter, and Ingwe was not so insensitive as to not know when to leave things alone.
“They must be truly brave and loyal,” he murmured politely, thinking of his own friends and companions. A small smile wreathed his lips, a trivial reaction that did not go unnoticed by Kryos.
The weather outside had once again turned for the worse, and even the underground passageways were beginning to feel the inclement effects; chill seeped through the mountain and accumulated in the very air they breathed, and from time to time it felt as if the entire hold would collapse about their ears, so intense were the winds that buffeted the dwarven foundations.
But it would take more than poor weather to remove the warmth from Ingwe’s soul this day. Consul Argurios had not only agreed to lead the Legion through the dwarf tunnels to an optimal battleground, but had also pledged Karazund to their cause, along with a thousand doughty mountain warriors. The impossible had happened, the improbable transformed to reality with all the extraordinary circumstance of a miracle. He was certain that his jaw had hit the cold stone floor when Argurios’s booming voice had announced his decision, and still occasionally pinched himself on his cheek to make sure that he was still ensconced in reality.
“Kryos?” the young man asked somewhat dreamily, drawing a questioning look from the dwiilar. “Do you believe in…?”
“Fate?” Kryos returned when Ingwe hesitated for an instant, eyes twinkling when he realised that the two of them had been harbouring the exact same thoughts. Their humour rapidly expanded into full-blown laughter, and for a brief, precious moment, the two young people completely forgot about the terrible war that swirled around them like some poisonous morass of hate.
“I don’t know,” the dwiilar warrior finally responded, slumping to a seated position against the wall opposite to Ingwe. As he spoke his eyes seemed to lose their colour to a misty grey, and instinctively he seemed to cling to the solidity of the stone behind him. Despite his obvious unease, he smiled to himself. “It does seem almost too convenient, doesn’t it… I was driven here by chance, fleeing the attentions of a necromancer who seemed intent on toying with my friends and me… I still don’t know exactly how we managed to stumble upon these tunnels.”
“… and we were driven here by an unaccounted avalanche, after somehow convincing ourselves that crossing the Emyn Naug in the middle of winter would be the best course of action.” Ingwe’s expression was wry, wondering how they’d managed to do that in the first place.
“You can only do what you think is best at the time,” Kryos pointed out, as his eyes melted from crimson to grey to silver, and then back again. Ingwe was trying very hard not to stare at the transformation, attributing it to one of the secrets of the dwiilar eye that Arkakroth had alluded to but not expanded upon. Thankfully, Kryos hadn’t seemed to notice his interest. “As Argurios is doing now.”
“I only hope that I’m not dooming this town to destruction…” Ingwe murmured, once again feeling the guilt and responsibility threaten to bury him beneath their combined weight. “After all that talk of defying destiny… somehow I feel that nothing I do has made a difference to the fabric of fate…”
Kryos stared hard at the young man, his eyes starting to settle into the same mercurial shade of silver that they had been the previous night.
“How would you know that?” the dwiilar warrior asked, his words stabbing wry blades of reason into the human’s ears. “As I said, you can only do what you think is best at the time. Anything else, and you’re either a god or a demon… and you’re neither of those, Ingwe Helyanwe. I’ll vouch for that personally, if necessary.”
The young man blinked once behind his oversized spectacles, then broke out into a relieved smile.
“Thanks,” he apologised, genuinely grateful for the encouragement.
Flames of Hyperion
07-07-09, 05:40 PM
Dusk settled slowly into night, but there was little to distinguish the minutes as they passed by with every last flurry of snow. The scenery from the heavy crystal window was as dim and distorted as ever, and the slowly dying embers of the torch in the nearest junction were the only light by which they could see one another. The immutable rock walls of the mountain about them seemed to spawn shadow and gloom, which in turn crept upon them as unpredictably as dancing flames.
Ingwe hugged his knees to his chest, flickering light alternating with darkness across his square-rimmed glasses. Kryos had adopted an easier sitting position, one leg stretched out into the corridor whilst the other was folded beneath him. Neither had moved more than a muscle in the previous half-hour, the time whiled away by simple conversation and a shared contemplation of the morrow.
“How… do you feel… about it all?”
The war meeting, held immediately after Argurios had informed them of his momentous decision, had concluded swiftly. All concerned had agreed that little could be planned without further, more detailed information about the whereabouts and intentions of the enemy; the news that Elrohir bore was already a day old, and though his fellow Skyknights were hard at work gathering information for the armies of Tor Elythis, those present at the meeting had no access to it. The initial plan, therefore, was to join forces with the Silverwind and Prince Turgon, and to work together with the Elythisian force to prepare a nasty surprise for the marching undead.
“Not sure… how about you?”
Kryos had been asked to accompany the levies from Karazund as Argurios’s second-in-command, leading fully half of the town’s warriors to battle. At first, it hadn’t seemed a rational decision to make, but Argurios had explained that none of his warriors had been to battle against anything more dangerous than a roaming band of orcs for long millennia. The Consul valued highly the dwiilar’s experience in battling the forces of the undead, and was determined to make use of it as best possible.
“Frightened… worried… fearful… concerned…” Ingwe sighed as he briefly buried his forehead in his forearm. “I know I should act brave and confident and all, but I don’t know… I’m not sure if I’m cut out to be that kind of person.”
The dwiilar warrior gave the young man a bewildered look, one eyebrow raised high in mild surprise.
“Sorry,” Ingwe excused himself again, once again ruefully grinning his apology. “Osore wa kokoro no yurusu kagiri fukai. Gi wo mite sezaru wa yu naki nari. Fear is only as deep as the mind allows. He who sees righteousness and does not do it is not brave. It’s a proverb from my homeland… I should probably have paid more attention to my elders when I was younger.”
“Wise words,” Kryos replied, amused at the mere notion that the scholarly Ingwe had not paid attention to his elders. It was like being told that the world was a flat potato pancake, a complete implausibility that did not even bear mentioning.
“I guess it all goes back to what you said earlier… about doing what we can when we can do it.” Ingwe was fully aware that the conversation was turning into a soliloquy, but he was equally aware of his need to get his emotions off his chest before he marched with the rest of the Legion the next day. “In the end… maybe, if I’m lucky… people might think I’m brave after it all. Or maybe they won’t… I guess, really… it doesn’t matter too much, does it.”
Kryos grunted noncommittal agreement, carefully watching Ingwe’s face and gauging the young man’s reaction. The Nipponese had strength of heart, but as far as the dwiilar could see it took much cajoling or events of great magnitude for it to show. This was an example of the former, he supposed, Ingwe attempting to convince himself of the right of his action before it had to be proved in front of his comrades. As an officer who had to lead others into battle, he could not be seen to be weak of heart before his men, and thus was only allowed to vent his emotion when he was alone.
It was no wonder he was so prone to accumulated stress.
This time, however, the young man seemed to have overcome his troubles on his own.
“Thank you again, Kryos,” he whispered, smiling gently one last time before his eyes hardened. “I know what I have to do, now.”
The dwiilar warrior smiled back in return. His job for the night was done.
Flames of Hyperion
07-18-09, 02:01 PM
Act V
One Day’s March Southwest of Nenaebreth, Raiaera
Final Day of the Month of Tribulations, the Winter of Untold Agony
***
The sun was a dusty halo in the cloudy skies overhead, flitting in and out of existence at the fickle whim of the wind-borne ash. The air was frigid and biting, the ground beneath their feet hard and parched with thirst. All around him he could hear the voices of the land, long-dead ghosts of Raiaera past, calling out to him and crying for blood. Whether for his in defence of their memories, or for his foes’ to exact their vengeance, the dark-haired young man did not know and did not care.
Breathily he exhaled, a long drawn-out sigh that banished the ghosts from his mind, and all his hopes and fears along with them. All extraneous emotion flowed from his body like blood from a wound, until all that filled his mind was the battle ahead and the part he would be asked to play. As a hawk on the hunt he opened his eyes, and little swirls of dust fled from his feet as he took in his surroundings, both consciously and subconsciously, both on the physical plane and in the arcane.
His back was protected by the low hills of the Emyn Naug, tall spires in the distance marking the route they had taken from Anebrilith. Like extensions of his own arms they reached out to either side of him as well, gently cocooning the valley plain that was his chosen battleground. Beyond the ridgeline to his left was the black desert of Tel Moranfauglir; similarly invisible on his right were the lifeless remnants of Timbrethinil forest, moaning sorrowfully from a great distance.
At his feet waited the five hundred warriors of the Silverwind, skilled elves resplendent in their ithilmar scale. Grimly and silently they stood beneath their brightly fluttering pennants, the spears and shields of the Spire Guard positioned to the fore of the eagle-eyed Sentinels. The Legion itself was held in reserve behind the elven troops, and Prince Turgon’s elnaith knights even further back, the better to build up momentum for a countercharge. Ingwe allowed himself a small brave smile, knowing that he had many tricks up his sleeve still hidden and yet to play.
He only hoped that they would be enough.
There.
A speck of dust in the distance, rapidly engorging upon the horizon until it threatened to engulf the entire sky like some ravenous devourer. A faint steady beat in the ground, gradually growing louder and louder until it seemed as if the very earth itself quaked in fear. A glint of metal caught in the light, a speck of movement in the distance, which multiplied and burgeoned and expanded until an entire horde of such soldiers approached them in united menace.
The beat of wings above, and Ingwe was cast into sudden shadow as a mighty gryphon settled to the ground in their midst. Surion defied the ominous gloom with a piercing screech, her majestic wings spread wide and her terrifying visage eying the young man wildly. For not the first time, Ingwe thanked the heavens that not only was she on his side, but also bridled and under Prince Elrohir’s firm control.
“We hit them hard,” the Skyknight commander spoke, smiling in bleak satisfaction. “They won’t be taking any siege machines to Anebrilith, at the very least.” A faint pall of smoke wafted at the very edge of his vision, invisible to Ingwe’s human eyes, the smouldering remnants of the fires that his men had started.
“Did they take the bait?” Lord Arminas asked, slightly impatiently, to which the Prince only had to reply by extending a mythril gauntlet in the direction of the oncoming horde.
“Nicely,” was the answer to Ingwe’s unasked question. “You chose a good spot, edan. Wide enough for whoever is in command of the enemy not to suspect, but narrow enough to suit our purpose. Doubtless your familiar will confirm it to you soon enough… they’re not trying to sneak round behind us.”
“Sae fur, sae guid,” Telchar murmured, uncharacteristically subdued. The dwarf stood at the head of a makeshift stone anvil, surrounded by intricately balanced runes etched into the ground and glowing with light golden power. Ingwe nodded in agreement, still not having spoken a word.
As one their eyes travelled once more to the enemy in the distance, the dark banners – necromantic sigils and dark runes that pained the eye just to gaze upon – crawling closer, ever closer in the dim mid-afternoon murkiness. Their thoughts were myriad, varied and unique, but their essence was one.
And so it begins… the battle of our times…
Wings of Endymion
07-18-09, 02:06 PM
“The elves caught us unawares, my lord. The siege engines have been thoroughly destroyed, and our supporting forces are in disarray,” the necromancer formerly commanding the rearguard reported, thoroughly disgraced.
To his credit, Yuka thought, he performed the thankless task with admirable courage. Bowing low before the fearsome figure of the death knight Maeril Thyrrian and admitting failure was never easy, not with those emotionless crimson orbs relentlessly staring down at your mistake. Even the fearless white courser she rode shied instinctively, nostrils spread wide in contagious fear.
“The main army?” the Death Lord asked after a suitable pause, to which another underling replied,
“As you command, my lord, we have pursued the enemy and are now in sight of their banners. However, if I might be so…”
“Good,” Maeril overrode his minion methodically. The necromancer’s lips slammed shut in an instant, not daring to carry the argument any further. “The armies of Tor Elythis will fall today before my might, and the eastern seaboard will belong to the Forgotten One.”
At the mention of the allied forces that opposed them, Yuka stifled a nervous gulp. She had deduced who rode with the elves, defiant and brave but foolishly outnumbered. The odds against them were twenty-to-one at least, and that did not include the fearsome arcane arsenal that the undead army could call upon. She knew that Ingwe was smart enough to recognise the danger and resourceful enough to have planned for it, but he could also be recklessly brave, to the point of being suicidal.
If worst came to worst, he would stand his ground to the very end in an attempt to give his comrades time to escape. Could she partake in his end? Would she be asked to deliver the final blow…?
The thought chilled her to the very depths of her soul.
She drew her cloak about her to ward off her fears, the dark blue a rare splash of colour amidst the monochrome undead horde. Around her were the commanding cadre of Maeril’s army – the wight-lord Kratos, the necromancer Ar’zhanekkar and his cronies, the shadow-mage Angelus, and others besides. Some were unscrupulous mercenaries, more than willing to sully their name in return for battle, pay, and plunder. Others sought less material goals; knowledge, power, or prestige being their greatest motivation. They were all united, however, in their short-term priority: The utter destruction of the elven force that faced them.
She herself rode in the shadow of mighty Natosatael, daemon of the fifth circle of the underworld, and the only reason that the assembled undead and necromancers accepted her into their midst. The daemon’s serpentine eyes crawled over her briefly, raising the hackles in the back of her slender neck, before they moved on to their next target. Yuka thanked the heavens that he was too preoccupied with the upcoming battle to notice that her attention was elsewhere.
She still had to be careful, though. Others amongst them would notice if she did anything suspicious, Angelus the most likely. The shadow-mage had been observing her every last movement since that fateful night in Nenaebreth, and only great caution on her part had ensured her continued survival. She knew what would happen if Angelus reported his suspicions and could back them up with even a shred of hard evidence; the favour of all the daemons in all the known world would not protect her from Maeril’s wrath.
“Good,” the death knight repeated, transferring his gaze to the hills to their fore… and the banners that billowed in the breeze there. His next words were directed at the necromancer at his feet, calmly delivered but a death sentence nonetheless. “In which case, you will have the honour of leading the first wave.”
The minion paled and began to shiver uncontrollably, but dared not even glance up from where he kneeled, much less protest. Just like that, in a single twist of fate, his doom was sealed.
“Now go,” the death knight ordered. “Teach them the meaning of despair.”
Multiple pairs of eyes watched heartlessly as the minion picked himself from the floor with a whimper, tottering back the way he had come with desperate madness growing in his mind. Behind each pair of eyes was a thought, hoping fervently Maeril’s next victim would be somebody… anybody… else.
Yuka’s was one of them.
Flames of Hyperion
07-19-09, 02:28 PM
Derthark Gunnson, Prince of the dwarven citadel of Gunnbad, was in a mighty foul temper. Glowering at the horde of undead from beneath his winged helm, his beard bristling with barely bridled rage as it rested on the haft of his powerful ornate axe, he was muttering obscenity after obscenity in guttural dwarven that was as grim and dark as the stormclouds overhead.
“… and to think that I’d be setting my axe alongside the Butcher of Tor Elythis!” he finished, pointedly switching to Common so that his counterpart, Prince Turgon of the aforementioned island colony, could understand. The young dwarf – barely past maturity by the standards of his people – remembered well the stories that his elder Telchar had told of the infamous High Elven general, of the way Turgon would strike at poorly-defended mining outposts and farmsteads without warning, retreating like the very wind itself and leaving only the broken bodies of brave dwarven warriors and innocent civilians in his wake. That the Raiaeran only waged war against his Alerarian kin made little difference to Derthark, for his people placed far greater value on ancestral racial ties than on arbitrary national boundaries that were prone to shifting over the centuries.
“Neither did I ever believe that I would fight alongside a stunted naug,” the elf replied, causing Derthark’s beard to bristle again in anger. But Turgon calmly ignored the hefted axe and the challenging glare, turning his attention instead to the young man who was carefully studying the enemy formations below. Ingwe had been the natural choice for overall commander of their combined armies, simply because he could so easily transcend the racial and cultural prejudices that shackled the rest of them. It didn’t hurt that the boy had a head for tactics and the flexibility to listen to others when necessary, either. “It is strange sometimes, where the winds of war carry us.”
Derthark followed Turgon’s gaze and grunted in reluctant agreement.
***
Their numbers are many, but they are poorly armed and badly led, Ingwe thought to himself, studying the front ranks of the foe in the precious moments of calm before they sounded the charge. Do they plan to send that human wave in unsupported? What benefit…
He realised the enemy’s plan but a moment later, and the words slipped from his mouth almost before the thought had formed.
“We cannot allow them to get close to us. Not yet.”
Arminas, standing alongside him in leather wargarb, took a moment longer to reach the same conclusion. The drab brown of his armour and the olive green of the robes he wore beneath both matched his dirty blonde hair well, although they clashed horribly with the bright blues and silvers of the Elythisian contingent.
“Arrows?” he asked, and Ingwe nodded once in reply.
“Arrows,” Turgon confirmed, and a lieutenant took up the cry further along the line.
”Arrows! Tangado a chadad!” Prepare to fire!
In response, three hundred elven archers nocked bolt to bow and drew string taut. Their movements, disciplined and in perfect unison, were in complete contrast to the ragged horde that began to rush across the open plains that separated the two armies. A few stray arrows rebounded harmlessly upon the leaf-shaped golden shields held by the proud infantry arrayed in front of the Elythisian sentinels, the Spire Guards not so much as batting an eyelid in flinching.
Make every arrow count in return, Ingwe prayed, for he knew that neither this wave nor the next would be the true test of their strength. First their foe would seek to weaken them, to probe for a fault in their lines and attempt to create an opening. Only then would the hammer blow fall.
“Leithio i philinn!” Release the arrows!
The enemy volley was like a flock mosquitoes attempting to pierce thick dragonscale. So thick were the Elythisian arrows, on the other hand, that the Guardians were cast into night for the briefest of instants. As if in slow motion they whistled into the air, almost lazily reaching the apex of their arc before tipping over to head towards the ground.
The Sentinels did the allied armies proud; fully half of the hawk-eyed marksmen found a target.
The scary thing was, however, that not a cry of pain was uttered in response.
Wings of Endymion
07-19-09, 02:35 PM
Horrified, she watched as a new cloud rose from the elven ranks to join the overcast blanket in the sky, seeming to hover there for a moment before casting itself eagerly into the advancing horde of human mercenaries. Fodder, she realised belatedly, watching with morbid fascination as the minion that Maeril had singled out for punishment earlier fell to the ground with two white-fletched arrows through his throat. Now she knew why the first wave had consisted of the latest influx of paid thugs eager for plunder and glory.
By the time she finally mustered the willpower to tear her attention away from the scene, fully half of the first wave had been sent to their deaths. Barely a minute had passed since the initial volley, new clouds rising and falling from the elven lines with alarming frequency. It was as if the next was in the air before the previous one had even landed.
“As expected,” Angelus whispered into her ear, his voice low and feathery and tickling her irritatingly, despite the fact that he stood a full five metres away. The majority of the rest of the cabal stood impassive, with the notable exception of Ar’zhanekkar, who was licking his lips as if in repulsive anticipation.
Yuka felt sick to the bone. Evil or not, those men had been living, breathing people; they had been children once, with mothers and fathers and siblings and hopes and dreams and maybe even loves. But the Death Lord had callously sent them to their deaths, as casually as he would have swatted a fly from a window ledge. The young woman wondered how many of them had truly wanted to be there, fighting for a foreign cause so far from home.
Why? she screamed to the voices inside her mind, hearing them echo the question back at her mockingly. Swiftly she managed to re-establish control over her emotions, but her next thoughts were just as bitter.
I hate wars.
She realised that Angelus was looking at her appraisingly, and that he had probably witnessed the entirety of her inner conflict. But this time she did not back down; she returned the glare with twice the intensity, determined not to fall prey to the shadow-mage’s little game. To the abyss with staying meek and unnoticed, she raged inside. I’ve had enough of being a caged bird.
Her long dark hair wafted subtly behind her as she subconsciously called upon the winds of power. Angelus’s response was a small enigmatic smile.
The arrowstorm had all but decimated Maeril’s first wave by the time the uneasy death of silence was broken once again.
“Prepare yourself, Ar’zhanekkar,” the death knight spoke emotionlessly, motioning lightly to the darkly garbed necromancer. Ar’zhanekkar’s leer mutated into a full-blown cackle, contemplating the death and devastation that would soon be sown. Even Natosatael’s expression changed minutely, daemonic eyes glittering in eager expectancy.
A bony hand extended from beneath Ar’zhanekkar’s robes and made an impatient signal. On cue, the scraggly cadre of necromantic disciples arrayed around their master began to chant, drawing power to them like a whirlpool drew water.
Yuka shivered convulsively. She knew what was going to happen next, and it wasn’t going to be pretty.
Flames of Hyperion
07-20-09, 04:45 PM
Ingwe had turned away as soon as the first arrows had found the range, barely able to stomach the abject slaughter. Honourable combat was one thing, but this… Only when he felt the coolness of Lord Arminas’s palm on his shoulder and the gentle whisper of the elf-lord’s words in his ears could he bring himself to look up again.
“It is done.”
It was testament to the rigid discipline of the elves, to the ominous anger held in the depths of the sky and to the sheer bleakness of the sight upon the plains below that not a single cry of victory arose from the Elythisian lines.
“Thank Lord Turgon and his warriors,” Ingwe whispered in reply, steeling his nerves before glancing out on the plains. Nonetheless, the sight made his stomach want to reject what little content it had managed to retain from the morning. Already the carrion fowl were gathering overhead in anticipation of a feast.
The young man knew, however, that they would not get one.
“Please ask for nobody to fire again until I give the word, and signal Argurios and Kryos to be ready,” were his next words, his complexion deathly pale. “The next wave must be beaten back with sword and shield, not with arrows.”
Arminas nodded understanding, having deciphered with the first arrows the enemy’s plan. The two Elythisian elf-lords present, however, had yet to be completely convinced of Ingwe’s leadership, and required one more word of confirmation before they would obey.
“Gul?” Elrohir asked for the pair of them, his hands tightly wrapped around the haft of his spear. The winged sword of the Silverwind fluttered limply about his tall plumed helm. Sorcery?
As if in response, a black mist of power began to form from the rear of the undead ranks. Inexorably it began to spread, a tide of darkness creeping irresistibly across the lands, flowing quickly in some places and slower in others but always expanding in size. Like a bloated glutton it sought to consume the arrow-riddled corpses of those who had just fallen, its hunger only spurred to greater heights by every new body it devoured. Only when there were no more fallen to feed upon did it halt its advance.
Ingwe nodded, his youthful face set in grim countenance.
“Tangado haid!” Turgon quickly ordered, his stentorian voice echoing through the heavy ash-strewn air. Hold the line! Whatever semblance of panic that had been threatening to undermine the elven ranks was quashed in an instant, and the spears of the Spire Guard bristled in preparation to meet the foe.
Abruptly the mist coalesced into dark flashes of light that exploded towards the cloudy heavens, one for every body that lay upon the plains. Soon the plains were alight in evil magic, rapidly siphoning the cloud of power into corporeal form. And as the spell dissipated into nothingness, the Elythisians found themselves facing a veritable horde of the newly risen, two thousand mindless slaves bound to the will of whatever necromancer had resurrected them. Strips of lifeless grey flesh clung to exposed bone, fatal wounds and the bloody remains of the arrows that had caused them still brutally visible upon their necrotic skin. But it was their eyes that scared Ingwe the most, the slightly wet dull orbs that stared meaninglessly into the distance, unfocused and disoriented.
“Be ready!” he cried, tears spilling down his cheeks at the sorrowful inevitablity of it all. His right arm was raised high towards the heavens, poised straight and true. The Legionnaires about him responded to his words with a resounding battlecry, quickly taken up by the Elythisian Sentinels and Guardians to the fore. But powerful as the shouts were, they were lost in the overwhelming sense of silence and dread as slowly, surely, the undead horde shambled closer.
When he was sure that he could wait no longer, his arm came down in signal.
Deep dwarven horns sounded from the hills to either side of him.
Wings of Endymion
07-20-09, 04:51 PM
There was an almost satisfying joy to it, Yuka had to admit. The timing had been absolutely perfect, the undead horde drawn into the trap like a wild beast to the bait. There had been just enough distance for the ambushers to gather momentum in their charge, not enough space for the dulled reactions of the undead to take in what was happening. The mountain warriors, led on the left by a towering fur-clad giant with blonde hair and on the right by a shadowy figure in midnight-blue hooded cloak, carved great swathes in the ranks of their foe, the newly risen zombies falling to their blades like wheat to the scythe.
The newly revealed forces were a combination of the jaws of a vise and twin hammers falling upon the sturdy anvil of the Elythisian lines. Driven before the fury of the onslaught, many were the undead that dashed themselves fruitlessly upon the slender spears and golden shields of the elven infantry. Others stood their ground and were mercilessly brought low by axe and halberd.
Before long, however, the impetus behind the ambush had been lost, and the great weight of numbers caught within the trap began to tell. Though ten zombies fell for every elf, dwarf, or human, all the swords in Raiaera would have struggled to deal with the packed undead. They were simply not falling quickly enough.
Yuka turned her attention back to her immediate surroundings, cautiously maintaining her vigilant guard. Ar’zhanekkar was breathing heavily from the exertions of his great spell, and fully half his cabal were similarly exhausted. The other half had collapsed, and were being carried away from the vicinity by their lackeys even as she watched. Maeril and Natosatael were seemingly engrossed in the action taking place before them, the former with impassive nonchalance, the latter with increasingly strained bloodlust and hunger. Angelus, on the other hand, was keeping a careful tab on her every movement; she could feel his dark magic probing the thin shielding sphere of power she kept veiled about her.
Yuka dared not look at her adversary, for fear that the skirmish would erupt into a full-blown confrontation. She dared not risk such an altercation now… maybe later, but not now.
“Perhaps now is the time, my lord?”
Natosatael’s serpentine whisper rattled through her bones, resonating in the back of her jaw like a dreadfully bitter aftertaste. The daemon obsequiously gestured to the thousands of warriors that Maeril held in reserve, by far the main strength of the undead army. His purple eyes glittered evilly, clearly eager for even more death and destruction upon the battlefield.
“No,” was the curt reply, wiping the smirk from the daemon’s face. The death knight was clearly in no mood for “suggestions”, and bore even less courtesy for Natosatael’s over-the-top flattery. “Whoever is in command of their armies is indeed resourceful. To underestimate would be folly, and I am not in the habit of such foolishness.”
“Perhaps my lord is being too cautious?” the daemon ventured, only to receive a long and hard glare from the heartless crimson orbs embedded within Maeril’s great wrought iron helm. Natosatael hesitated slightly, then seemed to think better of pursuing the argument further. For the moment, at least.
“Send in the Brethren,” Maeril ordered, his voice a harsh grating sound. “Wreak havoc amongst their ranks before they can regroup.”
He had hoped to accomplish three goals with his first two waves – wear down the enemy, destroy their morale, and exhaust their arrow supplies. Of those three, the death knight reflected, he had so far only accomplished the first… if that. Whoever it was that gave the orders to the allied armies was not one to be trifled with.
But then, neither was he.
Only as a fresh wave of horrors surged forth did Yuka realise; the battle proper had only just begun.
Flames of Hyperion
07-21-09, 01:18 PM
“Fall back to your secondary positions!”
Ingwe’s solemn cry was taken up first by Turgon and Arminas, then by the elven lieutenants in direct command of the forces of the Silverwind. Soon, the young man could hear Argurios and Kryos repeating the same orders to their respective commands, their voices like faint whispers upon the breathy wind. The armies of the alliance were quick to respond, disengaging like the retreating tide in a prearranged manoeuvre. Ingwe thanked the stars that he had thought to prepare for this particular eventuality.
Once again he squinted into the distance, espying the monstrous rabble that made up the enemy’s third wave. Corrupted animals and giant insects prowled amongst shambling undead trees, incorporeal spirits drifting alongside a disorganised assortment of chimeras, hydras, and trolls. These were the enemy’s shock troops, powerful fiends and constructs that usually made up the bulk of the armies of Xem’zund’s Death Lords. For some reason, he realised, this particular Death Lord was different. That was what made him so difficult to defeat.
… we can’t let them get past us, Ingwe grit his teeth in determination, reaffirming his resolve. We have to win today… no matter what.
The ground trembled beneath the massed march of the wave of grotesque terrors as they absorbed the zombies from the previous wave into their number. The skies darkened as a veritable flock of harpies and fellbats took to the clouds to support their land-bound compatriots, their leathery wings obscuring the opposite horizon from view. Faced with a veritable wall of pincer and claw, fang and spine, the morale of the brave men, dwarves, and elves wavered. The rising fear was a palpable mist that distorted Ingwe’s view of the allied lines below him, held barely in check by grim resolution and the shouted orders of the officers who commanded. The advance of the undead horde was relentless and unforgiving, no doubt basking in the swell of dread from those they faced.
For war is won not by sword or sorcery, but by the hearts of those who fight.
Ingwe came to a quick decision, knowing instinctively what had to be done.
“Lord Elrohir, please be ready to drive back the enemy in the sky. Lord Turgon, please ask your men to be ready to fire again on my command, concentrating their arrows on sure kills, and to make every shot count.”
“Is ‘at wise, laddie?” Derthark asked, a deep scowl of disagreement furrowing his brow. “’ey’ve still a massive horde ‘n reserve, ye ken?”
“No, Ingwe’s decision is correct,” Arminas replied in support of the young man, echoing the concurrence between the two other elf-lords. “If those monsters reach our lines intact, we will shatter and splinter like a thousand crystal shards… we have neither might of arm nor force of will to overcome the entirety of that wave in melee. We must conserve our strength and draw out the enemy’s… the longer we survive, the better our chance of victory.”
Derthark subsided, grumbling something about poncy elves and weak manlings. Ingwe gave the dwarf a sympathetic little half-smile, knowing that the prince was simply disgruntled at having to hold his position in reserve whilst his kinsmen bled and died on the front.
As they spoke the warriors from Karazund turned at bay, forming disciplined ranks with halberds and spears to the fore to face the undead horde once again. Now they stood as one alongside the warriors of Tor Elythis, strung out in a loosely concave line. In Nippon, their configuration would have been known as the Wings of the Crane, the kakuyoku-no-jin. Backed by the natural barrier of the Emyn Naug, it was a formidable defensive formation.
Closer the enemy horde came, and suddenly a massive maw opened in the ground just to the fore of the position formerly held by the elves. Dwarven excavators from Karazund had craftily undermined the earth, casting the lead rank of beasts onto hidden stakes of sharpened wood and jagged stone. But still the undead advanced, a relentless wave clambering across the bleeding corpses of their comrades to get to grips with their foes.
Closer the enemy horde came, and suddenly half a dozen fireballs were cast from the allied lines, darting like fireflies into the newly exposed trenches. In an instant the ditches had erupted in oil-fuelled flame, hungry tongues that eagerly devoured a number of the corrupted trees and others besides. Thick smoke belched across the early afternoon skies, a slick black fog that blocked off the remainder of the massive army from Ingwe’s view. But still the undead advanced, a literal tide of darkness sweeping down at them from both sky and ground.
Closer the enemy horde came, and suddenly coruscating dark magic erupted from the spellcasters hidden amongst the monsters, black blades of pure evil that danced across the allied lines and tore great bloody gaps in the ranks of the men, dwarves, and elves. And still the undead advanced, a singular entity of pure evil that sought one thing and one thing only… the utter destruction of all that stood before it.
Ingwe watched in increasing horror as they loomed closer, ever closer, against the backdrop of billowing smoke and flame-licked corpse. He could feel the feelings of the warriors below him teetering upon a needlepoint, very close to simply running and fleeing. But their foes were still just a bit too far… just a bit…
“Now!”
Wings of Endymion
07-21-09, 01:21 PM
It was hard to keep the rampant beat of her heart from permeating her thoughts, the coppery stench of burning blood from assaulting her sense of smell alongside the acridic pervasion of flaming flesh. Yuka could just about see through the smoke with the aid of her magic, but she almost wished that she couldn’t. The young woman swallowed convulsively as the killing commenced, the first flight of elven arrows loosed almost horizontally through the ranks of the spearmen before hammering angrily into the undead spiders and dire wolves that had loped ahead of the main force.
Of those that were struck by the arrows, not a single one stood back up again.
The ominous silence was broken by bestial howls and shrieks of pain, and the angry warcries of those that dared their foes to approach. She was too far away, however, to hear the steady whistle of the silvery salvoes as the elven archers kept up a relentless barrage upon the encroaching undead, the constant hail of projectiles taking a terrible toll upon their targets.
But the arrows were of little use against the tougher monstrosities, such as the dragon-scaled hydras and those of the undead trees that had made it through the fiery barrier. And it was amongst these that the accompanying mages sheltered, urging their charges on with even greater fervour whilst slinging spells of mass destruction towards the allied ranks. Arcane duels were breaking out here and there along the battleline as individual battlemages engaged their foes, but the advantage that Maeril’s armies held in this department was overwhelming.
Or so she thought.
A great power swelled amongst the allied armies, its command and control over the winds of magic almost beyond her ability to comprehend. One by one it sought out those that defied it and obliterated them with absolute force, a stacatto crescendo of fireballs and lightning bolts that wrought great havoc amongst the advancing undead. It was a veritable masterclass in arcane precision, neither a wasted breath nor a misaimed spell to mar the perfection of the chained magics. Within moments the fireworks had abated, as those more adept spellcasters within the undead ranks who had survived the initial barrage turned to focus their efforts on their new foe. The war of magic degenerated into a war of attrition, spell and counterspell weaving back and forth in an invisible exchange of deadly salutations.
Into the silence sounded the call of clarion elf-horns, and suddenly the heavens were alive with battling wings as the Skyknights of Tor Elythis took to the skies. The clouds were bathed in insipid crimson as elf and pegasus duelled harpy and fellbat, the life-blood of the fallen dowsing those on the hills below like a fine rain.
Tears of the heavens… or of the hells.
She could sense the allied lines taking heart from the winged charge that drove back the forces of evil from the battleground overhead. But magic and Skyknight alone would not halt the tide of monstrous beasts from casting themselves upon the spears and halberds of their foes. True, great gaps were being torn in the ranks of the abominations, but not enough… not enough…
Yuka counted the heartbeats until the two armies collided, shivering as the well-suppressed fear on the faces in the front ranks of the elves crossed the battlefield to infect her soul. Five… four…
“My lord,” Angelus spoke as Yuka reflexively closed her eyes and shuddered in pain. The shadow-mage somehow kept his voice free of emotion, although he was having a hard time not allowing the smile to show upon his face. “They have fought so far to keep us at arm’s length, to prevent us from bringing our strength to bear, but the Brethren have now succeeded in closing the distance. If we now strike them with our full might…”
“Indeed,” the death knight responded. The single word carried with it the weight of worlds, matching his underling’s impassive tone and casual attitude. Maeril did not even have to signal his troops; the entirety of the legions of undead warriors under his command were wired to his every thought and command. As one they stepped forth, and those human mercenaries that were left amongst their number followed suit.
Flames of Hyperion
07-22-09, 04:04 PM
For all their fearsome terror, the monstrosities were surprisingly fragile when confronted with disciplined ranks of spear and shield. The combination of arrows, magic, and traps had done their job as well as Ingwe had hoped they could; instead of a single tsunami swamping the lines of Elythisian and Karazund warriors, the series of smaller waves failed to breach the ranks of soldiers standing firm. The men and dwarves of the mountain stronghold had long centuries of experience in dealing with such threats, and elven courage was made of sterner stuff than could be broken by a handful of hydras and a chimera or two. The carnage was terrible, but by the valour and determination of the allied armies, the casualties were greater on the side of the foe.
At first in their ones and twos, then in greater numbers, the undead charge stalled and broke. Those beasts that were not lying on the ground and whimpering in pain either carried out lone suicidal runs against the waiting spears and halberds, or milled around nearby the dying flames of the corpse-choked trenches, unsure of what to do now that the commanders that had accompanied them – the spellcasters of the Brethren – had been largely eliminated. Aside from a handful of desperate skirmishes in both sky and ground, the allied forces had bought themselves another few precious seconds of breathing space.
Ingwe turned to Nogeres, wanting to offer a hand to the elderly mage. Exhausted puffs of steamy breath emanated in quick succession from below the grey hood, the enigmatic wizard clearly drained by the impressive arcane feats he had just pulled off. But the young man knew that he had to concentrate on the battle below, knew that he would simply be reminded of his duty even if he attempted any misguided kindness. Their fates now hung in the balance, a weakly flickering candle in the face of a full-blown gale.
“Thank you, master,” he whispered in a low and gentle voice, the only concession that he could make to his humanity. His next words had regained the firm resolve that had so bolstered their stand against the dark terrors.
“Please reform the lines,” Ingwe ordered, concentrating upon the heavy uniform tread of the bulk of the undead army as they skirted the obstacles in their path. The rifts in the earth would slow them, but not by much. Elrohir’s mount, the gryphon Surion, cried a piercing warning from the skies above… a warning sign to the commanders in the field that the next wave of their foe was almost upon them.
Their main force, the young man realised. We’re out of arrows, out of magic… out of traps…
Subconsciously his hands reached for the hilts of the short-swords strapped to his back, but Lord Arminas was quick to intercept them before he could grip the cold steel.
“Not yet, mellonamin,” the elf-lord warned, quietly so that his words did not carry to the remainder of the retinue. “We must trust in our allies, and conserve our strength until the time is right. After all…”
“… we will only have one chance,” Ingwe finished, his teeth grit against the overwhelming desire to reinforce the front lines with what little sword and sorcery he could supply. It bothered him greatly that they were now forced on the defensive, reacting to the enemy’s initiative without the chance to strike back with their own devices. Such a strategy is doomed to sure defeat…
… except in the rare and exceptional circumstance when the vagaries of heaven and earth, along with a dozen other factors of luck and skill, combine to create a single opportunity… a single stroke that, if successful, would win them the battle.
Be patient, Ingwe breathed to himself, quashing the butterflies in his stomach as more and more of the enemy army poured through the gaps in the trenches. Like a filthy wave of evil they gathered themselves, reforming their ranks in a solid wall of blade and shield before advancing once again upon the allied forces.
That fact alone told him more than he needed to know about the cunning of the enemy commander. A mere Death Lord drunk in power, this was not.
The remnants of the second and third waves of zombies and monsters were driven before the mass of undead warriors as slowly the tide crested, building mass and momentum behind the final spurt. The smoky pyres were working against the allies now, driving ash and soot into their faces and preventing them from accurately grasping exactly what they were up against. Even the Skyknights were unable to provide much aid to their land bound comrades in the matter, as they concentrated on driving the fellbats and harpies with lance and sword towards the far horizon. A few, centred on Prince Elrohir himself, circled lazily high above the banners of the allied host, in case the undead commander tried another devious stratagem.
Grimly Ingwe waited, and the soldiers of the alliance waited along with him. No longer did they quake in fear of their foes, for their spears had been tested by the most terrifying of Xem’zund’s creations and had not been found wanting. Instead, the dread had been replaced by a grittily forbidding fortitude… a steadfast determination not to give ground before the sheer tide of undead that marched towards them.
At long last, the enemy sounded their horns for the charge.
“Brace yourselves!” Ingwe called, and the words were echoed in a myriad of other voices, in a myriad of other languages, along the line. Beside him the venerable runelord Telchar grinned, his steely dwarven gaze espying in the distance his first chance for a contribution that day.
“Yer nae th’ only one who’s bin itchin’ tae gie in oan things, Ingwe,” he murmured in his gravely tones, tossing his long grey beard over his shoulders as he prepared his runehammer for the anvil. “Neither ye, Derthark. But if ye dinnae min’, ah’ll be gonnae first…”
A dark cloud rose from the rear ranks of the army, just as metal hammerhead struck unyielding stone.
Wings of Endymion
07-22-09, 04:07 PM
Of the mighty horde that had swarmed from horizon to horizon across the open plains, it seemed as if only a mere handful remained in her vicinity. Still, she knew, the thousand wights under the leadership of the wight-lord Kratos were Maeril’s personal bodyguard, well-armed and –armoured fighters of no little discipline and skill. Not to mention that they alone nearly matched the allied army opposite them in numbers, even with the initially hidden ambushers factored in.
Judging by the press of the fourth wave of undead warriors seeking to get to grips with their foes, however, it was looking ever more doubtful that they would be called into action. And Yuka knew as well, that this suited Maeril just fine. If his finest soldiers remained intact as a unit, they could be thrown against the walls of Anebrilith with impunity… and the ancient port would soon fall. The rest of Maeril’s army were, after all, expendable to this purpose.
“What do you think, Kratos?” the death knight idly asked of his chief lieutenant, not averting his gaze from the growing melee ahead of him. The two armies had clashed in an orgy of battle cry and steel, the overwhelming force of a tidal wave matched against the desperate steadfastness of a breakwater. And even from this distance, the former half-elf could tell that his armies were slowly but surely making headway.
“They have held out well, my liege,” the wight rasped in reply, skeletal voice gargling from the depths of his emaciated throat. “But they have been too profligate with their stratagems in their desire to avoid bloodshed, and have neglected to take the initiative against us. Soon their lines shall shatter, and they will flee for the hills, to be butchered at your mercy.”
Yuka suppressed another shiver at the thought of the slaughter that would ensue. Mindful of Angelus’s roving eye, she kept her gaze steady as the ranks of archers that brought up the rear of the attacking force loosed a dark volley of arrows towards the allied ranks. Something shimmered in the dim air, some powerful defensive spell of warding that had obviously been prepared for this particular circumstance, and the bolts were deflected from their targets.
“Indeed,” Maeril replied, his discordant voice giving no sign whatsoever of his true thoughts. “Or do you truly believe that they do not have any more tricks up their sleeve?”
“Perhaps they do, my liege,” Kratos replied after a contemplatory pause. In life, the wight had been a warrior and a leader of great renown, and his talents had only been honed in his long years of undeath. Though he lacked the arcane intellect of Ar’zhanekkar, he was not Maeril’s chief vassal for naught. “But even so, they will not be able to overcome the might of your host with such petty schemes. They will be crushed upon the field of battle this day, and the remainder of the east will fall to your sword, in the name of the Forgotten One.”
A second wave of arrows took to the skies, and this time the protective spell could not ward them all away. Yuka steeled her mind to the agonised cries of a great eagle as it plummeted to the ground, wings skewered by the wickedly barbed projectiles. It took out fully five of its foe upon the impact of its death, and the silver-clad elven rider accounted for two more with daring swordplay and vengeant war cry. But the axes of the undead warriors were swift and merciless, and within moments, the corpse of the Skyknight and his mount were lost to view.
It was all too much for her to bear. The young woman turned her horse away from the battle, unable to look upon such death and destruction any longer.
This time, it was not only Angelus who noticed her reaction. She found herself face to face with the daemon Natosatael’s leering fangs, and a pair of serpentine eyes that glittered with barely-tethered bloodlust and hate.
Yuka braced herself for the worst.
But the daemon merely smiled and continued to concentrate on the carnage.
Flames of Hyperion
07-23-09, 04:49 PM
It was almost inevitable, he knew. It was like trying to stem a spring flood with a dam made of pebbles, or seeking to prevent an avalanche with little more than a plank of wood. Though in skill and prowess he could trust the warriors of the alliance to be of at least an equal match to their undead counterparts, the sheer weight of numbers that the enemy could bring to bear was forcing them back, step by agonising step.
“The Consul is hurt! Lord Argurios is hurt!”
As befit a leader of his stature, the fur-clad blonde-haired giant fought at the fore of his men, inspiring them onwards to ever-greater feats of resistance. But such heroics only marked him out as a target in the eyes of the undead, and before long he had tripped over a loose limb and ended up with a sword in his side. Gritting his teeth against the pain and wielding his massive broadsword with more brute force than he would have wielded a club, the Consul fought his way clear with the aid of a dozen of his warriors, but it was obvious from the dismay of those around him that he was badly injured.
I can’t wait any longer.
“Lord Turgon, please prepare your elnaith. Argurios’s men will draw in upon themselves to protect their lord, and a gap will open between them and the Spire Guard. The enemy will seek to exploit this.”
“And I shall not allow them to,” the elf-lord replied, bowing low in acceptance of Ingwe’s orders. In another life, perhaps, both he and the young man would have paused to wonder how exactly such a situation had come about; how an elven prince of over a thousand years of age readily accepted commands from a human of barely twenty. For the moment, however, the state of the battle was far too dire to reflect upon such inconsequential matters.
“The enemy will no doubt send some of their finest to create the breakthrough…” Ingwe warned without turning his gaze from the heaving tumult of the chaos below, brow furrowing in growing concern. They had to act, and quickly.
“In which case,” the Elythisian prince replied, turning away with a grandiose sweep of his heavy white cloak, “I shall defeat them, and cause havoc in their ranks as I do so. Perhaps that will buy you the time you need.”
Ingwe allowed the ghost of a half-smile to touch his lips. Hopefully it would be enough… hopefully… maybe…
No, he decided. Further measures were in order.
“Lord Arminas, soldiers of the Legion, I ask for your lives. We must follow in the wake of the elnaith and drive the undead back. The only way we can win this battle is if we can draw out the last of their army, and until then…”
“Ye shudnae hae tae ask, laddie,” Telchar interrupted, sweat dripping from his brow with the effort of warding off the enemy arrows. Ingwe hoped that they had not pushed the runelord too hard, for his greatest part in the battle was hopefully yet to come… but the greybeard grinned at the young man eagerly, clearly relishing the role. “We awreddy tauld ye, we’re wi’ ye tae th’ end.”
Ingwe didn’t have to look around at the grim nods of agreement to know that the support was unequivocal.
“In which case,” the young man smiled, a bleak flower of pleasure amongst the plains of death. “In which case, let us begin.”
Moments later, the Legion of Light moved out towards the battle, leaving behind only Telchar and a handful of dwarven warriors to act as their rearguard.
Wings of Endymion
07-23-09, 04:56 PM
The sensation of a crumbling foe was quite unlike any other, Maeril mused. It was as if he could taste the fear in the air, the gradually growing despair as it became clear to all those who stood desperately against the overwhelming tide of undeath that their fate was doomed. But there was something… something that he couldn’t quite place in the air… something that was not quite right.
No matter, the death knight mentally assured himself. Sheer miracles notwithstanding, he knew for a certainty that he had more ploys to play than his foe. They were becoming desperate now, committing the last of their reserves to the fray. In the meantime, however, he still had a thousand of his elite awaiting his command… and that was saying nothing of the army already deployed upon the field.
The elves that anchored the centre of the enemy battleline were holding their ground brilliantly, exacting a demanding toll on his warriors who were attempting to force them from their position. One flank, led by a shadowy figure wielding a glimmering moon-sword, was resisting with equal tenacity despite the impossible odds. But the other had been demoralised by the wounding of their leader, and was already showing signs of collapse. In which case, all he had to do was to assure their destruction.
A pulse of thought, and those of his infantry who stood in the way took two precise steps apart. A rushing tide of cavalry, long-dead elves mounted upon nightmarish steeds, filled the gap between, striking swift and true towards the weakness in the enemy lines. It would not take them long to pierce the thinly stretched allied ranks, and once they had outflanked the defensive position, it would only be a matter of time before…
“The Silverwind…”
The Death Lord felt a twinge of annoyance at the awe in the young woman’s voice, as it became clear that the enemy had yet another trick up their sleeve. But even he could barely suppress a reflexive sense of nostalgia at the sight of the elven knights, clothed in mail of shimmering ithilmar and bearing proudly aloft the banners of their city. And he could easily recognise the figure at their lead, the sword and shield that seemed to outshine the rest of the battlefield combined.
“Turgon of Tor Elythis,” Maeril murmured to himself, for the first time in years allowing traces of emotion to touch his voice. “I shall see you cast into the dirt before this bloody sun has set.”
Clarion calls echoed over the clash of steel as the elves sounded their charge, the whinny of steeds growing into the sound of thundering hooves and the pointed silence of lowered spears. Maeril’s own cavalry echoed the challenge, adjusting their course slightly upon a second pulse of thought from their dark commander. It was as if time stood still upon the battlefield, both armies ceasing their bloodshed for a precious moment to stand witness to the magnificence of the combined charges.
The impact of their collision extinguished half the fires on the battlefield and caused the low-hanging pall of smoke to dissipate in fear, so great were the energies unleashed. For a brief instant, it seemed as if the two forces were equally matched, silver-clad elven knights and their undead counterparts unable to gain any advantage over each other.
But then it became clear that the battle was in fact greatly one-sided.
Like a blazing blade-stroke parting the current of a dark waterfall, the elnaith carved a ruthless path into the heart of their foes. And not a single terror under Maeril’s command – not warrior, not necromancer, not zombie, not monster – could stand against their righteous fury.
Flames of Hyperion
07-24-09, 10:29 AM
It was one thing, he knew, to observe and direct a battle from afar. It was another entirely to participate in it oneself. And though he had prepared himself mentally for the change he knew he would experience as soon as he stepped out on to the frontline, it didn’t prevent him from being nauseated by the difference in his surroundings.
Ingwe felt as if he had somehow warped into an entirely different world, one that was substantially more brutal and painful and in his face than where he had been before. The stench of death and decay from the flaming corpses would have been enough for him to spill his stomach, if the coppery reek of spilt blood hadn’t already provoked a similar retching sensation from his innards. His mind felt thick and heavy, swimming with the roar of warcries and the shrieks of pain, the lightning clash of steel and the weighted thunder of hooves. All about him the sights of battle dominated his vision: the press of bodies as disciplined elven ranks strove against the undead wave, the flash of axes as brave Karazund warriors threw themselves against their foes.
The charge of the elnaith had been more successful than he had dared hope, completely overpowering the enemy cavalry and driving deep like a holy blade into the heart of the undead horde. Now Prince Turgon kept his men moving in a tight circle, conserving his momentum so as not to get bogged down by the sheer numbers of the foe. And in their support charged the Legion of Light, tearing into the wounded enemy formation like a desperate beast, supported by what remained of the wearied allied battleline.
Undead warriors do not rout, Ingwe recited as he lashed out with a blade, neatly catching the nearest corpse-construct in the neck. Its companion showed no signs of emotion whatsoever as it charged in with shield raised high; the young man reacted instinctively to duck below the blow, taking out the skeletal soldier with precise cuts to its ankles. But confuse them enough, and they might just panic. Doubly so when, as seemed to be the case here, the undead commander extended his conscious will to each and every one of the warriors to direct them in battle.
To some, it would have seemed a suicidal strategy. Others would have more optimistically termed it bold. All Ingwe could care about was whether or not it succeeded… whether or not the gambit could achieve its goals in setting up the final stroke of the agreed plan.
To his left, Glorfindel led a handful of Rangers – amongst them Nerdanel and Selinde – and a mismatched company of Elythisian elves in a glorious charge. To his right, Ingwe could make out the dwiilar adventurer Kryos, marshalling his command against the enemy’s suddenly exposed flank. Deeper, ever deeper the twin prongs drove, swiftly to the aid of the gradually slowing circle of elnaith in the centre of the battlefield. In a pitched battle they could not have hoped to survive in the midst of such a vaunted army, but with speed, surprise, and momentum on their side…
Maybe. Just maybe, the young Nipponese thought as he danced through another zombie foe, keeping abreast of Glorfindel’s company with half-a-dozen Legionnaires in tow. But he knew better than to relax with the battle in the balance, and never once let his guard down.
Wings of Endymion
07-24-09, 10:35 AM
“They fight with the valour of the ancients,” Natosatael remarked, licking his bloated lips hungrily. It was hard to tell what hidden meaning his words carried; to Yuka’s ears, they sounded like both mocking jibe and grudging respect. Then the daemon continued, and the young woman came to the swift conclusion that they were the former. “Where are your vaunted magicks now, necromancer? What of your predictions, wight? Dare you say that they have no further tricks to play?”
Both Ar’zhanekkar and Kratos bristled angrily at the manner in which Natosatael spat his insults at them, but they both also knew better than to dare protest. Angelus stifled a sickly smile behind his emotionless mask, barely disguising his pleasure at their discomfort. Yuka remained wary, having a decent idea of where the conversation was going to head next.
“Think you can do better, daemon?” Maeril countered, barely raising an eyebrow beneath his impregnable iron helm. “I see nothing out there that makes me fear defeat, but I sense that you wish to join the battle yourself?”
“Indeed, my liege,” Natosatael bowed low, drawing out the final syllable in an angrily elongated hiss. Almost as an afterthought, he added, “All the better to sow terror in their ranks, and to impress upon them the futility of defying the cause of Death Lord Maeril Thyrrian… and the great necromancer, Xem’zund the Forgotten.”
For a moment, Yuka though that even the daemon had overstepped his boundaries by deliberately neglecting the name of Xem’zund until it was a mere addendum. Certainly, Ar’zhanekkar looked as if he was ready to attack Natosatael there and then for the affront. Strangely enough, however, neither Angelus nor even Kratos rose to the bait. And if the death knight himself had noted the matter, he certainly was not reacting to it.
Hm…
“Very well,” Maeril spoke, indicating the tumultuous melee beyond the smouldering trenches. “Go forth, daemon, and make your name known to the entirety of the civilised world… as the bringer of death.”
… not good! Yuka realised belatedly, drawing upon the reins of her horse as she made to accompany her daemonic patron. She had been counting on Maeril to counteract and suppress Natosatael’s influence on the battlefield, for if unleashed…
NO, the daemon spoke to her, both mentally and physically. The single word was infused with such power that both rider and steed froze immediately, unable even to stir a muscle to the frantic commands of their minds. Yuka found herself staring once again at Natosatael’s otherworldly leer right next to her face, wanting to cringe in fear from the maddeningly multifaceted pupils, the sharp fangs that glistened in slick saliva and the humid exhalations that smelt of rotten flesh and vile acid.
“No,” the daemon lisped again, this time in a gentler tone as she struggled in vain against the invisible manacles that gagged and bound her, a spread-eagled sacrifice before the predatory god. Somehow the lack of bloodthirsty violence in Natosatael’s voice scared her even more than the brutal cruelty of before.
“You stay here, little bird,” Natosatael laughed, a cruel and heartless sound. “Whilst I feed, you stay here… and watch.”
To her horror and disgust, he proceeded to vomit slick green bile at her feet. The liquid twisted and warped chaotically, until it had coalesced into a circle of miniature fiends with ugly lopsided faces and stick-like arms that were far too thin and long for their distended torsos. As they grew in size, their hideously mewling laughter and the putrid boils on their diseased skin filled her mind, until they were roughly the height of her shoulders and she was ready to collapse from their mere presence.
“Come my children,” the daemon enjoined, sensuously directing a finger towards his foes. “Let us dance.”
Flames of Hyperion
07-25-09, 02:29 PM
Three of them came for him at once, dancing to some higher authority like marionettes upon strings. The first swung at him horizontally with its wickedly notched longsword; the young man just about managed to throw himself barely below the vicious arc, before a solidly satisfying whump! from Taggar the half-ogre’s heavy club sent the undead warrior flying thirty metres in the opposite direction. The second tried to hack downwards at the young man’s exposed back, but Ingwe was quick to parry with his offhand blade, letting steel rasp against iron as he regained his feet with the nimbleness of a hunting cat. Aeneon’s short spear slammed into the skeletal soldier before Ingwe could apply the finishing blow, so the Nipponese warrior-mage turned his attention to the third, bringing the pommel of his other blade crashing into its head with all his might. Bone splintered, the warrior wavered, and Castor finished it off with a heavy backhand stroke.
Ingwe couldn’t help but wonder who they had been in life. What their names were, where they had come from, and whether they had really been evil at heart. He wondered what cause had set them on their lonely trek from home, whether or not they would have preferred to stay there with their loved ones. He wondered what had been the catalyst for their fall to undeath, and whether or not they still had nightmares about it.
But he dared not dwell on such matters, lest he end up like them. The young man breathed deeply, settling his nerves before taking another step into the swirling melee.
Horns sounded in the clouds above, winged shadows flashing by like spectres in the clouds overhead. The Skyknights returned to the fray with all their customary aplomb, crashing magnificently into the undead horde in between Prince Turgon’s elnaith and Kryos’s Karazund warriors. The resulting confusion was utter and complete, up to and including when a stray necromantic doombolt pierced Prince Elrohir’s shoulder. The elf-lord’s mount, the gryphon Surion, keened in mighty anger and recklessly braved a forest of spears to avenge her rider, emerging victorious in a crimson spray of blood and gore as she tore the undead spellcaster limb from limb. Ingwe paused to watch as she took to the skies once more in retreat, a trio of spears hanging limply from her golden flanks, still keening in anxious worry for the wounded Elrohir.
We’ve just gained another couple of minutes, the young man realised, dread bile clutching at his heart. If that.
About him, the battle had degenerated into a chaotic melee, pitting the prowess and desperation of the allies against the merciless skill and numerical superiority of the undead. Had they dealt enough damage to their foe to survive in such a fashion? Could the forlorn fortitude of the elves, dwarves, and men overcome the sheer odds they faced?
There were only two things he could do now, the young man realised. The first was to trust in his fellow warriors and commanders and hope for the best. The second was to devote every last shred of breath in his body, every last fibre of strength in his frame, to defeating the foe. The rest, as they said, was out of his hands now.
As if to confirm his dire thoughts, the elnaith at long last broke and scattered, unable to maintain their position against the seething tide of minions that marched against them. Ingwe saw Prince Turgon leading half of his surviving knights to the aid of the beleaguered Skyknights; his lieutenant Elessar, with the remaining half, rode against the splinter horde that threatened the remnants of Argurios’s braves on the left. Into the gap their withdrawal created marched a fresh black wave of undead, at their head a diabolical daemonic figure surrounded by a dozen of its cavorting cronies. A mixed assortment of Legionnaires and Elythisians, with Ingwe at their head, stood in their direct path.
The young man froze, not in fear, but in recognition. The daemon that led the waxing tide of undeath was the same as the one that had barred his way on that fateful night in Nippon when Yuka had left and his friends had been scattered. All the dreams and precognitions of the months past came flooding back to him in an instant, overwhelming him with their intense emotion. If that daemon was here, then…
He had to resist the urge to look around and probe his surroundings, suppressing the desire to call her name and be flooded by his memories. One hand tightly clasped the pendant at his chest, desperately trying to maintain a firm grasp on reality. Ingwe closed his eyes and breathed deeply of the sooty rancid air… once… twice.
When he opened them again, they registered only righteous fury at his foes. Expertly he marshalled his powers to his command, shaping and channelling them in destructive symphony.
“Gurengoku!”
Wings of Endymion
07-25-09, 02:40 PM
The sudden release of arcane power flooded her mind with instinctive nostalgia, a dusty tome from her past soaring through her memories to clout her squarely in the face. It didn’t take long for her to realise who had cast the wall of white-hot flame that seared across the bloody battlefield, neatly cauterising the poisonous infestation that was the undead advance.
Corpse constructs writhed and shrivelled in the holy inferno. A chimera bellowed its pain to the sky from all three monstrous heads, gradually quietening as it was consumed. Natosatael’s cavorting minions died as one, banished back to whatever hell from which they had been spawned. The tightly packed horde suffered greatly as the conflagration fed on their necrotic flesh, cleansing their taint from the lands.
But the daemon itself was far beyond such petty magicks. Serpentine eyes squinted and concentrated, focusing their own power in return. In a whoosh! of purple-tinted frost, the wall of fire – and every other naked flame within a kilometre radius – was extinguished.
Even as Ingwe rallied those around him in a fresh charge towards the weakened foe, Natosatael grinned maliciously in eager challenge.
Maeril observed this all unfold from afar, his passive demeanour seemingly unperturbed. Only the faint tap of his finger upon the hilt of his greatsword gave lie to the lust for blood that pervaded his ornate wrought-iron plate armour. The enemy had provided him with one surprise too many, and though his instincts still told him that the battle could be won with Natosatael leading the remnants of his forces on the field, it was becoming more and more difficult to resist the urge to lead his elite wights forward to finish the job off once and for all.
“Could you not have prevented that spell, Ar’zhanekkar?” he demanded, and all present shivered at the note of cruel fury in the mouthless voice. The necromancer knew better than to delay his reply, although in hindsight he wished he’d been quicker to think up of a useful excuse.
“I… I was too far away, m-my liege,” the filthily obese mage stammered from beneath the cowl of his black hood. His voice barely more than a whimper, Ar’zhanekkar tried hard to conquer his sudden fear at his master’s anger, belatedly realising that it would have been much more to his advantage if he had pointed out that Natosatael and Angelus had failed as well.
Unknowingly, however, he had provided Maeril with the perfect excuse.
“In which case, we should close with the enemy,” the death knight stated, and this time Yuka blanched as well. If both Natosatael and Maeril advanced upon the allied armies, then…
“Angelus, you will remain here with Miss Yuka.” The shadow-mage made no complaint as he bowed low in acquiescence, but the surprise on Yuka’s face – rapidly shifting towards fear as she remembered that Angelus’s specialty was stealthy assassination – must have showed. For a moment she found herself in the nigh-unique position of being thoroughly studied by the death lord, and briefly she fancied that she could almost detect ambient emotion in his impassive iron mask. Was it… regret? Or was it pity?
“Your time will come,” she heard him speak, caught up in the mesmerising crimson orbs as if dream-touched. “But your worth will not be proved here, not now. Your usefulness to me lies elsewhere… and hence I will not test your loyalty on this battlefield.”
Had he guessed? Did he know about the reason why she could not bring herself to venture forth against the elves and their allies? Were his words simply camouflage, and his intent for Angelus to dispose of her whilst Natosatael was otherwise preoccupied? Had he even managed to divine her need for strength, why she had made the decision to follow the daemon without question?
But no matter how she feared, she dared not disobey him to his face. It was as if there was a switch deep inside her that absolutely refused to go against him, so completely domineering was his sheer presence.
Silently, unresponsively, she watched as Maeril strode forth at the head of his bodyguard, Kratos and Ar’zhanekkar in close tow.
Flames of Hyperion
07-26-09, 12:55 PM
He didn’t have to be a genius to sense that events were rapidly spiralling out of control. To his fore the daemon was rampaging casually through the Elythisian lines, an unstoppable force of evil taking lives with every touch of its fingers, every wave of its hands. All around him the press of undead warriors was taking its toll with each chill breath that passed through his lungs, crimson flowers of freshly spilt blood mingling with the dark ichor of necromantic fluids upon the cold grey soil.
For a moment, the flow of battle turned against him, and he was unable to make any headway towards the bestial fiend that was single-handedly wading through a company of skilled elven spears. And in that moment, as he gazed anew upon the horrors that the battle had wrought upon faces that had been full of life not three hours ago, he felt the deathly grip of fear once again tighten upon his heart.
Breathe… Ingwe whispered in his mind, struggling desperately against the choking mist that had hold of his chest. He forced himself to inhale, but all he could smell was the coppery stench of death and the sweaty reek of fear. He closed his eyes to try to concentrate, but all he could sense was the clamour and din of the fighting around him, raging like some inconsolable wild beast driven mad by pain. Breathe… he frantically told himself again, but the word was lost against the palpitating beat of his heart. I’ve conquered this fear before! Breathe!
It was no use. The darkness was too strong, the figurative quicksand in which he stood too thick and cloying. Resist as he might, the young man found it impossible not to sink into the terror in the depths of his soul. The panic and the pain throttled his mind, and all he could think about was the hope that it would end… that soon it would…
No.
He remembered now. There had been a time before when he had been frozen by fear so powerful that his heart had stopped within his chest. But he had overcome it then… and he could do so again now. Back then, he had believed that the reason for his living had been in dire danger, and he had reacted to that thought instinctively. Now, he was simply on a journey to find her again… but if he concentrated hard enough on her memory, then perhaps he could find the strength…
Yuka…
When he opened his eyes once more, it was as if not a single second had passed. But his heart was free of burden, his eyes were lucid and unafraid, and the way before him was clear once more.
He took a deep breath and bellowed a warcry, launching himself in a straight sprint towards the daemon. It saw him coming and grinned in greeting, spreading its muscular arms wide as if embracing his challenge. A thousand patterns of attack and defence spiralled through Ingwe’s mind, none of them with any chance of successfully banishing his foe, regardless of his own survival. But a handful gave him the hope that he could injure the daemon, perhaps force it back or contribute to its eventual defeat…
But then a sudden shadow darted in front of him, cutting him off from his suicidal assault. Ingwe threw himself to the ground and out of the way just as a second figure landed in his place, the elegantly curved longsword it held pointed towards the daemon in defiance.
“I shall deal with this monster, Ingwe,” the voice of Prince Turgon echoed through the young man’s ears. “You have other tasks to attend to.”
The elf-lord was the very paragon of righteous justice as he confronted his underworldly foe, his pure white cloak billowing in the frigid breeze and his mythril hauberk dancing with every graceful movement. His long blonde hair flowed from beneath a tall silver helm that was topped by a crest of the winged sword of his city, a wondrous waterfall composed of strands of gold. One hand loosely clasped a leaf-shaped shield bearing the same Elythisian emblem; his other held the ancient blade that was aimed so valiantly at his foe.
“Turgon of Tor Elythis,” the daemon smirked in reply, its voice sycophantic and scornful. “Very well, elf. Let me, Natosatael of the fifth circle, play with you.”
As it spoke, it seemed to grow in size, engorging upon its own power until it towered over the elf and indeed over every other being on the battlefield. Great leathery wings sprouted from its back, stirring up multiple whirl-devils of sand and dust as they reached for the heavens. Matted fur sprouted along its shoulder line and down its back, and its face cracked and split in a myriad lines, growing horns and eyes and tusks until those who gazed upon it were forced to look away in sheer disgust. And then Natosatael laughed, muscle-bound chest heaving in mirthless contempt, dirty brown skin dusting the skies with its chaotic taint.
The warriors of the alliance backed away, some terrified, others uncertain. Ingwe swallowed convulsively, tightening his grip upon his tanto and reaching desperately through his mind for his magicks. Turgon merely watched, his sword hand not once wavering from its challenge.
“Perhaps, it is time I showed you why I am called the Dragon Prince,” the elf-lord murmured, and Ingwe somehow felt that the words were intended for him. The young man aimed an awkwardly questioning glance at Turgon, wondering as to the meaning. The Elythisian prince seemed to be concentrating on a spot on the far horizon, an ancient phrase of power escaping his closed eyes and pursed lips. Ingwe could not understand the words, but he could feel the subtle shift in the currents of magic in the sky above and ground below as Turgon spoke them. Whatever spell was being wrought, it was both as powerful and as ancient as primeval time itself.
He didn’t have to wait much longer before he found out their effect.
“Behold, Mithandrir, lord of the stars.”
Wings of Endymion
07-26-09, 01:19 PM
She, along with the vast majority of the other beings on the field, stood transfixed at the scene. A blinding flash of light seemed to emanate from the elf’s chest and expand across the battlefield before coalescing into a distinct form; a deafening and piercing screech reminded her distinctly of a bellow that she had heard in Nenaebreth not so long ago. It did not take much effort for her nimble mind to recognise it as the battle-roar of a male dragon, although the new arrival was much larger and more resplendent than Yoshi had ever been.
Natosatael took to the skies, and the new arrival only paused long enough for its noble rider to mount before following. With a mighty crash of wings the two powerful beings clashed in mid-air, their titanic duel taking them dangerously close to the ground before they separated once again. Raking claws punctured adamantine dragon-scale, razor-sharp teeth snapped and tore great gashes in leathery hide, and the elf-lord’s blade stabbed deep into the daemon’s cheek. Another great roar from both combatants, and suddenly the battle escaped to above the clouds, leaving behind in its wake a silence almost empty and hollow in its deafening barrenness.
Yuka forced herself to breathe again, so engrossed by the events that she had momentarily forgotten her body’s need for oxygen. All over the battlefield, the armies reengaged, the temporary truce that had unintentionally cast its spell over the combatants now shattered and destroyed. Her mind spun back into action just in time to catch Ingwe as he threw himself recklessly at a cluster of undead warriors, half-a-dozen of his companions in tow.
She remembered the time, over a year ago now, when she had seen him last. Back then too, in the grounds of the Academy at Nippon, he had led his friends and comrades into desperate battle. He had grown somewhat since then, she could tell; there was maturity to his bearing and strength to his stride that had not been there before. But her keen eyes could see also that there was much that he had lost, much that he had sacrificed in order to come this far.
Or had he? Her heart grieved at what he had become, gentle scholar turned hopeless warrior. She knew, deep inside, that the cause of that transformation was most likely to be her… or, more precisely, his need to chase after her after she had left him behind in the ruins of the Academy the previous year. But still she clung to the hope, the brief flicker of humanity that she still saw within his battling frame… the fact that he still seemed to be holding back.
Yuka had seen much of swordsmanship in her time. Born to a Nipponese merchant family, indoctrinated in the teachings of her people from an early age, and exposed to the various martial arts that the nation boasted, she knew as much of the theory behind wielding a sword as any. Her quick mind, coupled with the fact that she herself of necessity wore a short-sword at her side, had allowed her to pick up much of the basics of the path. Although her skill was poor in comparison to more dedicated warriors such as Thomas, Yoshi, or even Ingwe, she still knew enough to be able to instinctively read into much of a swordsman’s heart.
In Ingwe, she sensed only his deep-seated reluctance to kill, the gentleness and kindness that had marked him out as a boy manifesting itself in the very strokes of his blades. It was as if they were designed for defeating the plague of undeath, the arcs measured and deliberate and too precise. Against a foe able to read and counter them, they would be rendered nearly ineffective. She didn’t know if the rumours surrounding the death of Uysarji the Executioner, former compatriot of Angelus and member of the Coven of Six, were true. But even if they were, the more she watched Ingwe, the more she was convinced that he was not the one…
“You shouldn’t let your guard down, so…”
The whisper in her ears came too late for her to act. Angelus’s head was resting on her shoulders, his arms lightly wrapped around her neck as he floated in midair to match her saddle-height. The shadow-mage held his magic poised, ready to strike at once… and Yuka was reminded of how he was known within the ranks of Maeril’s command cadre as the assassin… he who struck without warning.
“Not quite,” she replied through grit teeth, cursing herself for allowing her magical defences to be broken so easily. But although the staff she clasped in her left hand was useless at this range, she’d just about had enough time to unsheathe her kodachi with her right. The blade hovered mere inches from Angelus’s face, its keen silvery edge teasing his cheek.
The shadow-mage laughed.
“Ah, the innocence of youth,” he mused, caressing her face with tendrils of darkness. She shivered beneath his touch, her fair skin frozen in fear and loathing. Her sword whispered closer, until he could feel the chill emanating from the naked metal. “To think that I know everything about you, Yuka Kanamai… and you know so little about me…”
In an instant he had disappeared from her side, reappearing five paces in front of her and with his arms folded serenely at his side. She glared at him frostily, ready to impale him upon bolts of wind at a single word; he returned the look benignly.
“My orders from Maeril were to watch over you and protect you,” Angelus pointed out, as if stating the obvious to a disobedient child. “Unfortunately, perhaps, I also serve another… whose commands in this case take precedence. He has been waiting for a long time for an opportunity like this, and I daresay that he will not look favourably upon me if I were to let it slip. And thus, I must bid you farewell for now.”
He bowed, and only then did she notice the shackles of shadow that bound both her and her horse to the spot. The beast was shivering in fright, but could not do more than snort and froth at the reins, so tightly were its movements restricted.
“I shall see you soon…” Angelus whispered, although his words were but breaths on the wind. He was gone before the last syllable had reached her ear.
It was not difficult to figure out where he was headed.
Flames of Hyperion
07-27-09, 02:56 PM
Everywhere he turned, a fresh flood of undead warriors loomed. A wall of dark expressionless faces that wielded shield and blade with merciless savagery, advancing with steady unwavering step upon the beleaguered allies, threatening to overwhelm what little courage and grit they could muster.
The enemy’s final wave has joined the battle… Ingwe realised, desperately dancing away from a rising forest of spears. The battlefield was becoming cramped, a fierce struggle for space and breathing room in which he could feel victory gradually slipping from his grasp. He stood back to back with his comrades in a war of attrition that only one side could hope to win.
Or did he?
The young man smiled as he wove a spirited sphere of flashing silver, fending off the enemy polearms. It was an exhausted smile, but it was a triumphant one.
Unexpectedly there was space again, the horde of undead backing off from his immediate surroundings. Ingwe fell to his knees in the sudden serenity, gasping breaths coming hard and heavy from his lungs. Piled all around him were the bodies of the fallen, the vast majority lifeless long before they had been defeated yet again, but a few whose faces he recognised and grieved for. Their blood spilled out onto the battlefield in splotches of dark red, accusing him of heartlessly leading them to their doom.
The young man bled from a dozen superficial cuts, and his right shoulder throbbed where the haft of a spear had caught him awkwardly. He almost blessed the excruciating pain, however, for it proved to him that he was still alive. His mind, swimming amongst the agony, groped desperately for his next set of orders.
“Go…” he tried, waving a feeble arm at his comrades. But his voice was hoarse and unrecognisable through his parched throat, and Aeneon’s weary eyes stared back at him without comprehension. Castor and Taggar were similarly exhausted, and of the elves and other Legionnaires that had followed him this far, only a mere handful others still stood with him.
“Go,” Ingwe attempted again, this time managing to deliver his message beyond the constricting boundaries of his own mouth. He almost didn’t recognise the sound of his voice, so small and weak did it seem amongst the undulating warcries and the thunderous sounds of battle. “Go… try to stay alive until… keep everyone alive until Telchar…”
Until Telchar…
The figure that stood in place of the undead warriors was waiting for him patiently, a slender form cloaked in dark robes. Ingwe could easily sense the eldritch energies that flowed around his long black hair and elegant elfin features, and although he could not fathom why the mage was waiting for him, the young man could discern that he was the only allied magic-user about.
He had to stop the new threat himself, here and now.
His comrades backed away wordlessly, retreating to lend their weight to another skirmish not too distant. The undead warriors did the same, shuffling off in mute silence to another part of the battlefield. In the end, only Ingwe and his nemesis remained, the former on his knees and weakly clutching at a pair of short swords, the latter standing tall with his arms folded graciously in front of him. The breeze whipped at the motionless pair as arcane boundaries were defined, invisible to the naked eye but essential to the forthcoming combat.
“I am Angelus, former comrade of Uysarji the Executioner,” the robed figure finally spoke, his voice light and lilting as it whispered at him from the shadows in all directions. Ingwe felt like he was trying to defend a small sphere of space around him against an encircling horde, such was the weight and power behind the words.
“Who…?” Ingwe asked dully, glancing upwards to meet the eyes of his foe for the first time. They were heartless orbs of sheer ebony black, capturing the light from all around him and never letting it loose again. The young man was minded of the spear-wielding necromancer that he and his comrades had defeated in the snows south of Anebrilith, and realised that the name Uysarji referred to said mage.
“You have… my condolences… for your loss,” he spoke again, willing the strength into his legs. Slowly, wearily he stood once more, pointing one sword straight and true towards the necromancer’s heart. “What… do you want… from me?”
His foe chuckled.
“Not revenge, human,” was the reply, a small and enigmatic smile playing about his pale lips. “Indeed, I almost thank you for ridding me of that nuisance. Although the more I gaze upon you, the more that I realise that you did not kill him… that one of your comrades must have.”
Ingwe stiffened, warily conserving what reserves of power remained to him. After all, it was time that was of the importance, not necessarily victory. If the necromancer wanted to talk, then the young man would let him talk… and maybe he could buy enough time for…
“Are you so afraid to kill, Ingwe Helyanwe of Nippon?” Angelus asked, noting that the human didn’t seem to be that surprised that he knew the name. Either that, or the young man was extremely good at hiding his emotions. “Those swords you carry… are they decoration? Surely you are not so foolish to run around with a pair of blades that can so easily end a life, all the while thinking to yourself that you won’t kill? Are you truly that selfish, that stupid?”
Ingwe blinked in surprise.
Then his expression turned wanly tranquil and serene.
“Neither,” he replied, having asked himself that same question, over and over again, in the uncountable number of long dark lonely nights he had spent since leaving Nippon. His breaths were coming more regularly now, his heart beating a bit less rapidly in his chest. “My reasons for fighting are my own… as are my reasons for preserving life wherever I can. I do not underestimate the power of my blades… but neither do I feel the need to defend why I wield them.”
“Confident, aren’t we?” the shadow-mage mused.
“Not at all,” Ingwe replied with his trademark small half-smile. The gentleness of the gesture was such a stark contrast to the horror of the battlefield about him that for a moment, even the inscrutable Angelus was taken aback.
“Very well…” the latter returned after a pause of considerable length. His orders had been to instil enough fear into the young human that Ingwe would be forced to retreat from Raiaera and from the northern continent in general… but somehow, Angelus instinctively realised, that would not be possible any more. Something keeps that man going… something deep inside, held closely but dearly, that is the source of all his strength. If I cannot teach him fear… then I must beat it into him.
To Ingwe, it felt as if the entire world was pressing down upon him. Even the air was as heavy as a mountain, as cold and as silent as death itself. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, could barely even think. Frantically his instincts fought against the oppressive power of his opponent’s magic, but it was like trying to keep alive a flame amidst the pitch-black of a rainstorm. The harder he fought, the more inevitable the outcome, as Angelus’s prowess slowly ate away at his own.
But Ingwe wasn’t fighting for victory.
He was fighting for time.
Somewhere in the foothills behind him, runehammer struck anvil and golden sigils gleamed bright.
Wings of Endymion
07-27-09, 03:04 PM
The first sign Yuka had that something was stirring in the Emyn Naug was a faint glowing flash, beyond the battling armies and the smouldering remains of the great pyres.
Then the glow grew, a sickly pale green colour that flooded across the hillside like a flood from a sluice gate. It did not take long for her keen eyes to deduce just how apt her first impression was.
Ghosts…
More specifically, the ghosts of dwarven ancestors long past. Like a veritable tide of axe and shield, hammer and crossbow, they swept from the hills towards the plains, their insubstantial voices united in a haunting ethereal battle-hymn. Unbound by the laws of physics, they crossed gully and climbed hill with the same ease with which they walked the open ground.
The Master Rune of Ages…
A reference from an obscure ancient dwarven text sprung unbidden into her mind, speaking of the burial customs of the mountain folk, and of how their spirits could be tapped, just once, by a runelord with sufficient age and experience. The Emyn Naug, she realised, as another piece of the puzzle fell into place, and then, … the runelord with the Legion.
The settlements in the Dwarf Hills had been isolated for millennia, untouched by any enemy beyond a stray gryphon or two. The Master Rune would be able to – had been able to – summon up a veritable host of incorporeal allies to the aid of the armies of the elves. Under the control of a skilled runelord…
Ingwe, you planned this all along?
She dared not even breathe as the eerie wave swept across the battlefield, banishing every last taint of undeath in its wake. Wherever the spiritual feet of the ancestors trod, undead warriors fell lifeless to the ground, the necromantic magic that bound them to their master’s will dissipating like so much smoke in a windy sky. Kratos and his wights were banished to whatever realm of undeath they dwelled in between summonings; Ar’zhanekkar fled from the field upon a hastily summoned steed, leaving his disciples behind to flounder beneath the boots of the droning dwarven host.
At length, the effects of the Master Rune wore off, and with a breathy sigh of relief, the ethereal host dispersed into the cloudy skies above their homeland. They left behind them naught but a battlefield almost completely shorn of their undead foe.
Within seconds, the defeat turned into a rout. What human mercenaries under Maeril’s employ that were still left on the field took flight, thoroughly disheartened by the sudden loss of the vast majority of their undead allies. The fright and panic was contagious, and soon those of the Brethren and their monsters that had survived thus far followed suit. Only a handful were left to stand their ground, amongst them Angelus, Yuka, and Maeril himself.
The allies, exhausted by their endeavours in enduring the undead assault, were in no position to pursue. Banners hanging limply in the chill skies, they sank to the ground in relief and joy, unable to believe the simple fact that they were still alive. But there were no cries of victory, no celebrations or cheers. The grief and pain of their losses were all too close at hand, the blank lifeless gazes of their comrades lost in the cloudy heavens overhead. For them they had to live, but for them they had to mourn in silence.
Some, however, were not even allowed such a luxury.
Like a titan of old, Maeril rose from the ruined ashes of his erstwhile army, crimson orbs glowering furiously from the depths of his helm. A dozen of the most skilled of the Legionnaires gathered their strength for one last duel, determined to take down the one undead warrior upon the battlefield whom Telchar’s great magic had been unable to touch. Not so far away, Angelus gazed upon his barren surroundings with growing dread, his emotionless expression completely broken for the first time in long ages; opposite the shadow-mage, his young human opponent drew himself together and straightened his stance, far too weary to be elated.
The battle was nearly over… but not yet. Not quite yet.
Yuka realised that Angelus’s shadowy bonds lay broken and scattered about her, most likely another after-effect of the Master Rune. Knowing what she had to do, she kicked her steed into a gallop.
Flames of Hyperion
07-28-09, 07:20 PM
All around him he could see his comrades falling to the dirt, lost in exhaustion or elation or grief. After long hours spent struggling for his life under the cacophonous din of battle, the silence came as a great shock to his ears. But the rancid stench of death and decay, fresh blood and burnt flesh, was no different from what it had been a moment ago. It felt as if his senses had been born anew, freed again by the sudden disappearance of his undead foes, only to find that some things had never changed.
“Did… did you…?”
“Plan this?” Ingwe finished for his opponent, smiling ruefully as he pulled himself together. The intense pain in his right shoulder caused his arm to hang limply in front of him, but his left still pointed its sword in Angelus’s direction. “Not really. We all did. Together. Elf, dwarf, human… we all worked together to achieve this.”
“… you… you…”
“No…”
“You did this!” Angelus screamed, and with his scream he unleashed his powers. A thousand vectored arrows of darkness angled towards Ingwe through the cloudy skies, a multi-faceted symphony of doom orchestrated by the shadow-mage’s mind.
The young man closed his eyes and conjured flame, but still the arrows flew his way. He braved the pain and took a stance, his twin daggers gleaming as they wove a dance of protective steel about him, but still the arrows pierced his flesh.
“YOU DID THIS!” his opponent screamed again, and even more of the bolts erupted from the ground about him, arcing through the air to strike at the beleaguered young man. There was no precision, no intricacy about the bombardment; it was pure, sheer power manifest, burying Ingwe in a relentless barrage of shadow.
“YOU…!?”
The onslaught of magic that cocooned the young man seemed to explode outwards in wind and flame. A wave of Angelus’s hand protected him from the assault, but this time it was the human’s turn to assail his opponent with spell after spell. The shadow-mage took one step back… then another…
Angelus was almost too late to realise that it was no mindless barrage that he was defending himself against, but a carefully calculated ploy. Ingwe’s swords came singing through the misty smoke that was all that remained of his magic, all too close for Angelus’s liking. The shadow-mage felt the stroke of cold steel on his upper arm, saw the blade that swept towards his exposed neckline from the left… then faltered, an arm’s length too short.
“Discedo!”
Angelus recovered, thrusting his palms before him with all his might. The repulsing spell caught Ingwe full in the stomach, and the young man was sent flying, landing a full ten metres away against a pile of decomposing corpses. He lay there, dazed and unable to move, the pumping adrenaline from his final exertions draining from his body. The last of his reserves, both mental and physical were gone. There was nothing more that the young man could do.
Before Angelus could apply the finishing blow, however, another figure intruded upon the fight. Clothed in the deepest shade of twilight, wielding a straight silver blade that momentarily minded the shadow-mage of a sliver of a bright moon, Kryos Ralshyn struck out expertly at his unbalanced foe. By sheer luck alone, Angelus’s head remained attached to his shoulders; he stumbled away awkwardly, instinctively lashing at Kryos with the sum of his powers whilst conjuring a shadowy blade into his right hand.
The dwiilar’s eyes glowed bright red, and dark flames tore angrily through the bolts of shadow. Sword of silver met sword of darkness midstroke, sighing with the hum of arcane energy. Angelus was proving to be surprisingly competent in armed combat, but Kryos compensated for the shadow-mage’s greater agility and skill with the precognitive abilities of his crimson eyes. The latter pressed his advantage with every shred of strength and speed that he could call upon, having already fought long and hard against multitudes of foes on the right flank of the allied line. It was not much, his exhaustion even greater than what Ingwe’s had been, but for the moment he had Angelus on the defensive.
Or so he thought.
Angelus’s eyes narrowed, and the shadow-mage whispered a brief word of power. Tendrils whispered about Kryos’s feet, clutching at the balance of the dancing swordsman. When the dwiilar tried to compensate, Angelus was ready with an arcane trap that sought to bind the very breath in his opponent’s lungs. Kryos saw it coming, just in time to lash out with a foot and catch the shadow-mage in the side of the head. Then the magic took hold, and the dwiilar warrior lost consciousness.
When Angelus pulled himself up from the ground, his mind throbbed with the impact of the dwiilar’s boot. His right arm burned in pain, bright red blood trickling down his pale skin beneath his dark robes. Somehow the shadow-mage forced himself to focus on the sensation, using it not to build his rage but to contain it. There was something else he knew he had to do… something more important than his mission with Ingwe…
From ahead Angelus heard the sounds of desperate mortal combat, and he remembered.
Wings of Endymion
07-28-09, 07:21 PM
The hills in the distance were quiet now… almost too quiet. She could feel upon the very edge of her arcanely attuned senses the exhaustion of the wounded and wearied that gathered there: the runelord that had cast such a mighty spell, the commander of the Skyknights who had so bravely led his men into battle, the leader of the mountain men on the left flank and his valiant defiance.
The plains in the not so distance were also quiet. Men, elves, and dwarves, who up until a few minutes ago had been fighting for their lives, were now confronted by the hard truth that they were amongst those that had survived… whilst their comrades, who lay motionless upon the cold hard ground, were not. Perhaps that reality had not quite sunk in yet, or perhaps it had and they were lost in mourning… but there was an eerie lack of sound from the ranks of warriors assembled beneath the limp banners of the alliance.
It was the battleground to the fore, however, that she was concentrating upon. Two separate skirmishes of epic proportions, the first an arcane duel between spellcasters that she recognised, the second…
The second…
She knew she had to hurry. She could still do something in this battle, no matter how minor… but if she was too late…
Yuka urged the horse beneath her on to greater speed, hoping that the precious seconds she gained thus would be put to good use.
***
The armoured beast rose from the ground, shedding the corpses of its comrades like an insect shed a second skin. Clad in ornate plate armour from head to toe, it wielded a massive greatsword as if it were a simple twig, callously and irreverently sauntering over the bodies strewn about. Bone snapped beneath its booted stride, and its foes tensed in fear.
“Thayne-cursed monster!” the dwarven prince bellowed, and half-a-dozen of his comrades raised their axes and followed him into combat. The death knight batted them aside as if they didn’t exist, the greatsword whistling through the air in arcs that were almost invisible to the naked eye. Flecks of blood spattered upon the ground, only the heavy mountain-forged armour having saved the dwarves from being brutally cleaved in two.
A black-fletched bolt hammered into the beast’s neckline, where the armour was supposedly the weakest. But it didn’t even stumble. A handful more of the well-crafted arrows came arcing its way, accompanied by eldritch crackle woven from the very figment of magic itself. The death knight stretched out its palm and muttered a single word of power, deflecting the salvo with the same ease as it might have repulsed a falling leaf. Its spell carried on into the poised Rangers, scattering them forcefully into the landscape.
Three Legionnaires rushed it at once, two humans and a hulking half-ogre. The death knight brushed through them effortlessly, and they collapsed in agony in the wake of its heavy tread.
The next to stand his ground was an Anebrilithian bladesinger, garbed in the magnificent stylised armour of his profession. Silver mythril danced against black iron as the two warriors engaged in a deadly dance of sword and spell, and for a moment it looked as if they might be evenly matched. Then, it became apparent that the death knight was merely toying with its foe, and that the bladesinger could do little to actually harm the metal beast. A quicksilver sweep of the greatsword, and the elf fell to his knees upon the cold dusty ground, the breath completely knocked from where the heavy weapon had cracked his breastplate.
The morale of the allied armies teetered upon the very brink. For all their efforts, for all their perseverance and fortitude, it briefly seemed as if everything would be undone by the sheer power of a single undead foe that had waded through the strongest of their warriors without breaking a single sweat.
Then another figure stepped up to join the fray, an elf-lord garbed in brown armour and green robe, his dirty brown hair flowing beyond his shoulders. Slender fingers loosely gripped a long-hilted lhang, the curved blade glimmering gently in what wan sunlight filtered through the cloud cover overhead. The death knight actually paused in his stride to consider his new opponent, and the elf-lord calmly gazed back, miniature dustdevils rising from the ground at his feet. The air between them was so thick with tension that it could have easily been cut with a knife.
Seconds stretched into eternity, neither combatant nor spectator daring to breathe. The elf-lord and the death knight seemed to be locked in a battle of wills, shared visualisations of the outcome of the duel that spanned the full range of possibilities. Every now and again either one would shift slightly or change stance, and the invisible war would begin anew.
Suddenly there was movement, both warriors leaping forth at once. Metal met metal with a deafening clang, sparks flying from both weapons at the impact. Muscles strained and minds tensed as the equally matched pair exchanged strokes with ardent fervour. Curved blade grazed against a shoulder-guard and left an acidic etch in its wake; heavy hilt slammed into leather breastplate and cracked a rib. But neither elf-lord nor death knight showed any sign of their exertions, breaking apart in a flurry of spell-slinging only to match weapons again a moment later.
The duel could have gone on forever, and only a hair’s breadth would have separated victor from vanquished. It most likely would have, if a third party had not decided to intervene.
The elf-lord threw himself violently to one side as his own shadow seemed to revolt against him, seeking to bind him to the ground and render him helpless to the death knight’s next stroke. The shadow-mage that had cast the spell was too tired from his previous duel to catch the nimble elf, but the pressure thus exerted was more than enough to keep his foe on the defensive, barely dodging sword-stroke and spell-binding as the momentum of the duel turned in favour of the undead.
Or had it?
“Enough,” a world-weary voice dictated, and all eyes turned to greet the newcomer to the scene.
Flames of Hyperion
07-29-09, 03:13 PM
Nogeres!
Ingwe managed to recognise the figure of his mentor through hazy vision and blurry mind, although it was more through the distinctive aura of the elderly mage’s presence rather than due to any of his muddled senses. Groggily he tried to gather his wits and order his body into a crouch. But the world spun dizzily about him, and the putrid stench of long-dead flesh made him want to heave what little remained in his stomach onto the cold hard ground.
Angelus didn’t bother with any pleasantries, directing his energy instead to a full-fledged assault upon the newcomer. Vectored shadows arrowed in towards Nogeres’s cowled head, merciless harbingers of the shadow-mage’s deadly intent. But a single wave of Nogeres’s hand, and the magic was dispelled.
“Be still, amateur,” the elderly spellcaster ordered, and Angelus’s magic was restrained, just like that. Ingwe had rarely seen a more profound demonstration of such arcane authority.
Nogeres turned to face Maeril and Arminas, the former of whom was eying him with both wary interest and hungry intent, and the latter whose expression indicated that he knew what was coming next.
“Perhaps I have been remiss in my introductions,” Nogeres smiled wryly, removing his hood as he spoke, revealing aged human features and a long white beard. His eyes, however, were youthful and steely grey and did not miss a single thing. “I was responsible for decimating your necromancers earlier in this battle, the opportunity for which I have only one person to thank.”
Ingwe tried to snort in derision, although the sound only emerged as a weak cough of breath from his lungs. He knew how much the effort had taken from the mage, and could only thank the heavens that he had been able to buy enough time for Nogeres to…
The young man squinted towards the confrontation, not believing what he was seeing. Was he so badly hurt that he was hallucinating, or had his vision really deteriorated that far? Ingwe touched his face, making sure that he was still wearing his spectacles…
In which case, why did the death knight take one cautious step back? Surely a being of such power… even if Nogeres had been able to take out a large number of his lesser minions…
“Allow me to rectify my discourtesy,” the mage bowed low, the wrinkles retreating visibly from his features and his beard dissipating into the afternoon breeze. His features grew slender and refined, his ears gaining a pointed tip that had not been there before. Ingwe had seen his mentor’s true form once before, but he had never had the opportunity to witness the effect that it had on the undead warlord. Not that it was capable of registering any expression through the heavy wrought helm, but the aura of cautious wariness that he could sense was undeniable.
“My name is Ecthelion Seregon, High Archmage of the Ivory Spire at Tor Elythis. For four thousand years I have been the bane of your kind, and today will be no exception. Begone, Death Lord, or I shall cast you screaming into a hell that even you can only dream of.”
Ingwe realised what was so out of place in the death knight’s reaction. For the first time that battle, the undead warlord believed that it was possible to lose. And that knowledge had shocked it to the very core of its being.
The young man smiled wanly, completely exhausted.
Wings of Endymion
07-29-09, 03:18 PM
Unnoticed, Yuka approached the scene, trying to hold in her awe at the sheer audacity and power behind the elven archmage’s actions. Her horse kept trying to tear away from her control, clearly frisky and wanting to run free. It was not frightened, though, which was a bonus… if all came to worst, it would not let her down.
In the meantime, however, she had more important – and more interesting – things to consider. Such as how Maeril would react to the ultimatum.
She was not surprised when the death knight began to laugh, a hollow and heartless sound. Rolling eerily across the desolate plains, it paralysed the vast majority of those who heard it; only a handful seemed immune to its demoralising effects.
“Indeed, I have been beaten today,” the death knight acknowledged magnanimously. “Congratulations to whoever would like to take credit, you have saved your pathetic excuse for a city for now. Although I daresay Kaverre will not be displeased to hear of my defeat, for it gives him more time to enjoy the sadistic pleasure of watching the city degenerate into the darkness he has sown.”
“Quiet, abomination,” the elven archmage, Ecthelion, warned. Maeril, however, didn’t pay the admonition any heed.
“Our war, however, is far from lost. And you would be greatly mistaken in believing that Lord Xem’zund is the only danger to your pathetic nation. If I were you, elf, I would not bask in your victory for long.”
The death knight bowed, stiffly and formally in his heavy armour. Then, from the depths of his cloak he pulled out a dark crystal, casting it swiftly upon the ground. Pale grey smoke wreathed his bulky form, absorbing and engorging upon it as a second beast grew out of its shadow. Within moments the fog had dissipated, and the allied armies gazed upon the single most terrifying sight of the entire battle.
Its scales were matte black and stank of death and decay, a putrid stench that thoroughly overwhelmed anything that already existed upon the battlefield. Dark, evilly intelligent eyes gleamed at them all from the confines of a narrow reptilian face; it was crouched powerfully on all four limbs, its tail threateningly poised mid-air and its wings spread wide in preparation for flight. Larger by far than anything else on the battlefield, the chaos dragon bared its razor-sharp teeth in the semblance of a grin and greeted its prey with a snort of barely restrained mockery. The air from its lungs seemed to corrupt the very land upon which it stood, such was the raw power that seeped from its being.
This is it... Yuka thought, completely frozen by fear. A year in Haidia, dwelling amongst some of the most powerful and evil daemons ever to have existed, had not prepared her to face such an almighty beast. Even after all that Ingwe and his fellow allies had done… Maeril had reserved one last trump card in the depths of his cunning. There was little doubt, judging by the sheer terror on the faces of the allied soldiers, that the death knight and his mount could single-handedly rampage through half their foes without any resistance… and those that sought to fought back would be crushed under the myriad of methods at the undead warlord’s disposal.
But then Maeril simply climbed onto the dragon’s back, and with a final long emotionless stare at Arminas and Ecthelion, urged it into the growing night. The two elf-lords followed its rapidly retreating back as it departed into the clouds to the north, their gazes half cautious, half disbelieving. For some reason or another the death knight had chosen not to devastate their helpless armies… and for that, no matter why, they were both thankful.
“Could you really have banished him, Ecthelion?” Arminas asked at length, ruefully clutching his side where the pain of his cracked rib was starting to tell. The elf-lord’s gaunt features were grime-struck and guileless, his relief at the death knight’s retreat in plain view.
The wearied mage merely smiled in return, unable – or unwilling – to voice a reply.
During the commotion, nobody but Yuka noticed as the shadow-mage Angelus whispered a silent spell and disappeared into the shadows.
The massive crash as two entwined forms fell from the sky not so far from where they stood, however, was more difficult to miss. Yuka steeled herself for the courage that would be necessary to face the final confrontation, the last requiem of the dreadful battle that she had just witnessed.
Flames of Hyperion
07-29-09, 03:26 PM
The star dragon Mithandrir had its teeth buried in Natosatael’s neck, long raking claws scrabbling for purchase against the daemon’s thick leathery hide, wings held wide in a desperate attempt at balance. The daemon, for its part, was attempting to wrestle the dragon to the ground via sheer strength alone, thickly muscled legs straining for purchase on the frosty ground and bulky forearms buried deep amongst glistening dragonscale.
Lost amongst the two battling monstrosities, the elf-lord Turgon seemed an insignificant and puny figure. Still, the ancient longsword wielded by the Elythisian prince was a gleaming beacon of power that the daemon made much effort to avoid, constantly attempting to keep the rider off-balance by muscling Mithandrir to the earth.
The ground trembled in fury and fear as the two titans struggled for the upper hand. The chill air crackled with the occasional spell as one or the other asserted momentary arcane dominance, only to lose it a second later as its opponent wrested it from him. The melee was brutal and merciless, a swirling whirlwind of flailing limbs and sharpened talons that blinded with its intensity all those who looked on helplessly.
The end came surprisingly quickly. Mithandrir’s left foot stumbled amongst some loose bones on the battlefield, and the mighty dragon slipped, just for an instant. Before it could adjust, Natosatael had pounced. Trapping the dragon’s head beneath one clawed foot, using the other to restrain the remainder of its thrashing bulk against the ground, the daemon howled in triumph as it dragged the Dragon Prince of Tor Elythis from the saddle. Grasping the struggling elf in one viciously clenched hand, ignoring the green ichor that seeped from his palm from where Turgon had managed to embed his blade, Natosatael roared victory to the sullied heavens.
“IT’S OVER, ELF!” the horned horror bellowed, relishing in the moment of conquest. “FOR YOU, AND…”
The filthily matted fur that crowned the daemon’s shoulders exploded into searing white flame, causing it to fling its prize away in shock and pain. Turgon landed heavily in the midst of his elnaith, bowling over horse and rider alike with his impact. The elf-lord groaned once with the weight of his injuries, then blissfully lost consciousness.
Natosatael raged in fury, frenziedly casting his serpentine gaze about him. His eyes – all nine of them – flailed uncertainly as they searched for the perpetrator… it was not Ecthelion, the daemon knew, for he had set up arcane wards against the High Archmage of the Ivory Spire as soon as he had felt the elf reveal himself…
“YOU!”
His glare settled upon a lone figure amongst the barren ground, struggling even to stand in the epicentre of the daemon’s wrath. Dark blue cloak tattered and tore against the terror’s heated breath; one arm hung limply in front of his slender frame, battered spectacles hanging loosely from grimly set features. Tear-struck black eyes burned with unconcealed intensity, betraying a fierce determination… a hidden will of fire.
Ingwe Helyanwe glared back through rapidly slipping consciousness, barely aware even of what he was doing. All he knew was that his friends were in danger, and that he had to do something to help them. His breaths coming in light, loose gasps, the young man tried again to dredge power from the utmost depths of his soul, but it was as scraping the bottom of an empty pot… there was simply nothing left there to find.
But he could not run away. His fear of doing so and abandoning his allies completely overwhelmed his terror at the daemon to his for that would be his doom. Ingwe supposed that in a way, this was a good thing.
“I REMEMBER YOU!” Natosatael roared, bunching his legs beneath him and driving the haplessly snapping Mithandrir into the ground. In one massive bound, the daemon now stood in front of the young man, looming over the human as a mountain loomed over an insignificant insect. Arcane wards sprung into belated action behind him as Ecthelion and others of the manling’s allies tried to distract him from his prey, but Natosatael ignored them like he would have ignored the buzz of a fly during his nightly rest.
The air between man and daemon shimmered in a series of flashbacks. Wood and paper buildings of distinctly eastern construction, framed in hungry fire; a gibbering horde of goblins intent of murder and mayhem; a treacherous psy-mage leading a select cadre of compatriots towards an arcane portal bound to Haidia, the daemon-realm. Over a year ago now, in Nippon, they had encountered one another, and…
“YOU’LL PAY FOR WHAT YOU DID!” Natosatael roared, the pain of his ignominious banishment – at the hands of an untrained amateur, no less – resurfacing through long months of hatred and resentment. The daemon reared back, reaching high towards the heavens with both hands and spreading its wings wide as if welcoming the long-awaited opportunity. Its bestial face mutated in a vengeful grin, savouring the bittersweet triumph.
Ingwe collapsed to the ground even before the daemon had struck, barely feeling the frigid resistance of the ground through the terrifying numbness that had conquered his body. Weakly he fought to keep his eyes open, trying to remind himself that to sleep was to die… but strangely enough, even that dire warning failed to rouse him from the blissful temptation of slumber.
Only then did he realise that blood was seeping through his white tunic into the thirsty earth beneath him, and that the cold air was masking the pain of a deep wound across the side of his abdomen where one of Angelus’s bolts had pierced his desperate defence.
No wonder… he laughed ruefully despite himself. It explains why I… can see… regrets…
The slowing beat of his heart in his head drowned out anything his ears could hear, but his mind’s eye focused vaguely on a memory from his past… a young woman with dark shoulder-length hair and delicate features, clad in a white tunic similar to his and walking towards him with a gentle smile on her face.
Yuka…
A lone gyrfalcon cried out sorrowfully as it circled in the skies overhead.
Wings of Endymion
07-29-09, 03:32 PM
“Back down, Natosatael.”
Fearlessly she guided her steed into the midst of the confrontation, dismounting when she was exactly halfway between the raging daemon and his fallen prey. The brave white charger bolted as soon as her hands slipped off the reins, and she supposed that she could not blame it. The delicate flutter of her heart within her chest was more than enough to remind her of the sheer folly of her current actions.
The barrage of missiles aimed at Natosatael’s back, both magic and otherwise, gradually ceased in sheer amazement. The allied warriors that had been rushing to Ingwe’s aid halted their headlong rush, slowing to a walk before stopping altogether. Together they formed a loose gallery of spectators, arrayed in a rough circle around the three central players to the day’s last drama.
“DON’T YOU DARE…”
“… oh, I dare, Natosatael,” she replied without raising her voice, cutting across the daemon’s strident bellow and silencing it mid-sentence. Her swift, graceful stride took her quickly to the side of her fallen friend, a brief moment of concern flittering across her brow as she placed a slender hand on his back.
He’s as thin as a bag of bones, she realised, feeling the languid pulse of his life through her trained fingers. A rush of guilt flooded through her veins, the knowledge that he was pushing herself for her sake wreaking agony upon her emotions.
Yuka took a deep breath, forcing herself to focus and willing the magic through her fingers into his weakened frame. Bleeding slowed and wounds mended beneath her touch, her power helping to draw out the regenerative abilities of the young man’s body. In moments she was done; no doubt Ingwe would sleep for a long while now, but when he woke again, he would be whole. Exhausted, incapacitated perhaps, but whole.
“HOW…”
“I said quiet, Natosatael.”
She turned to face the daemon, the wind whipping at her hair and robes. Her face was set in stone, only the angry glimmer of her dark brown eyes giving away her spirited resistance to a foe many times her calibre.
“Right now you need me more than I need you,” she pointed out, indicating her surroundings. Her words hit the daemon like a pail of cold water, drenching its bloodthirsty ardour in a single momentous instant. The woman was correct, Natosatael realised in shock. Not a single one of Maeril’s army remained on the battlefield. All she had to do was to turn herself over to the elves, and all his dreams of complete power on the corporeal plane…
Stifling his destructive frustration behind a mask of reluctant obedience, he allowed the power to seem from his form. Within moments he had returned to what he had been before the battle – a vaguely human-sized denizen of the underworld with only a pair of small horns and tough leathery hide the colour of parchment to distinguish him from just another human.
“Very well, milady,” he bowed low, letting the mocking flattery ooze from his voice like viscous slime. Yuka ignored the implied insult, knowing it to be Natosatael’s standard recourse when confronted with a situation not to his liking. “I shall do as you command.”
She nodded in acceptance; he spread his arms wide and cocooned her with his magic. Yuka did not miss the look of hatred that the daemon gave the helpless young man as he cast his dusty spell, but she knew that Natosatael did not dare to jeopardise her cooperation to his grand scheme. Her only regret, as the growing envelop of sand cut off her view of the desolate battlefield, was that Ingwe was in no position to hear her reasons for why she had left the Academy on that fateful night.
Ingwe…
A light breath of wind, and they were gone.
Flames of Hyperion
07-29-09, 03:37 PM
The Battle for Nenaebreth, as it would come to be known in the annals of Karazund, took place on the final day of the Month of Tribulations, in the Winter of Untold Agony. Two days later, the armies of the alliance recaptured the town of Nenaebreth from the forces of Xem’zund. The human mercenaries entrusted with the defence of the town fled in terror upon hearing of the defeat of the Death Lord Maeril Thyrrian, and the necromantic retinues that remained were little match for the righteous anger of the Legion of Light and the dark-haired warrior-mage who led the assault. The granaries and storehouses of the town were captured almost entirely intact, and in a single stroke, Xem’zund’s campaigns to the north and east of Raiaera were cut off from the Forgotten One’s will.
It was the second day of the Month of Reckoning, in the Spring of Retribution Dawning.
As for Ingwe, when he regained consciousness, he showed no sign of recognition of the young woman who had healed him upon the battlefield. Something about his demeanour had changed, though; it was as if a personal goal that he had nearly lost sight of had been rekindled within his soul, and he was attempting to make up for lost time by striving even harder towards it. He remained as quiet and as scholarly as ever, but the fires of his determination had flared up anew.
Like a phoenix reborn from the ashes.
~ Fin ~
.
Taskmienster
08-25-09, 05:47 PM
Continuity 6.5
Setting 7
Pacing 6
All the fighting too me from the edge of my seat, off of it, onto the floor, where I looked up and saw more fighting and decided to just stay on the ground and take a break. There is a lot to say about pacing when the thread is so full of fighting, especially in the first two pages. It was good, but then it seemed to continue on and on, never ending fighting doesn’t really make me as a reader get drawn in anymore… just makes me want to take long breaks.
Dialogue 6.5
Some of the dialogue, as long as it was with the characters that you were all familiar with, was really well done. But some of the NPC’s that were created were, just uninspiring through dialogue and persona. Dialogue took the hit just a little more than persona, because you can show persona through actions, reactions, and general narrative. Dialogue, it’s hard to do that with. Things like writing “Teehee” constantly instead of describing the laugh or just saying that the person laughed made me bored with reading the laughter again and again.
Action 7
There was almost too much of it. It was well done, but there was sooooo much fighting that sometimes it was off, other times it was really good.
Persona 7
Technique 7
Mechanics 8
Clarity 6
Wild Card 7
Score:
68!
Rewards:
Flames [47 posts]: 4760 base exp * 2 for FQ = 9520 exp | 1278 base gp * 2 = 2556 gold
Kyros [13 posts]: 1213 base exp * 2 for FQ = 2426 exp | 353 base gp * 2 = 707 gold
Wings [23 posts]: 1095 base * 2 for FQ = 2190 exp | 625 base gp * 2 = 1251 gold
((Didn’t see anything asked for in regards to rewards, so just PM me if you wanted something but it wasn’t specified or I missed it…))
Taskmienster
08-25-09, 06:45 PM
Exp and GP added!
Flames is now level 4, one point from 5 due to the rules... sorry mate.
Kyros is now level 3!
Wings is now level 1!
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