The Siege of Conner Ridge [Archive]

Cydnar

04-13-13, 06:58 AM

The sleepy town of Conner Ridge stood at the heart of nowhere. In Salvar’s bleak tundra, it was testament to the hardwearing ideals of its people. Originally, it was a pilgrimage site; the town had sprung up around the ancient church that still stood at its centre. The steeple rose high above the shanty rooftops, and its oak doors were as imposing over the square at the town’s epicentre as ever. It dominated the rolling hills with an ironclad declaration of indomitable will.

Despite the fall of the Church of the Sway, and the dissolving political climate, Conner Ridge had thrived in the wilds. Here, people found no solace in gods, old or new. Here, they found meaning only in their crafts. Fishing, hunting, and carpentry were the townsfolk’s day-to-day lives. They had a century of practice behind them, and their artistic, and masterwork wares were the envy of lords and women as far north as Knife’s Edge.

In the twilight, smoke spiralled up from still smouldering hearths. It filtered eerily through rock chimneys that had witnessed a thousand melodramas. Cydnar watched the patterns form, linger, and then fade. The soft wind that flowed through the town from north to south took his cloth with it, and his purple figure fluttered and swayed. It was a perfectly serene moment, and that fact made the Hummel sad.

“They are going to have quite the rude awakening,” he said softly. His brother, sword in hand, turned on a sure-footed heel. “What can you hear?”

Dalasi shook his head. “I hear nothing at all.”

“If the circumstances were different, that would be a blessing.” He replied.

They remained silent for several minutes. Cydnar traced the patterns on the beams of the houses on the edge of the square, gauging what the elaborate architecture could symbolise. Each groove glittered with peeling paint. Red, gold, and white lines of colour danced in a bland environment. Over doorways and arches, charms and trinkets rattled on frayed string and rope. Cydnar assumed they were protection charms, remnants of the old faith before the church did away with ‘petulant superstition’ long ago. Some things never died.

“Are you sure the migratory route will bring them here?” Dalasi enquired. Cydnar picked up the doubt in his voice, and found himself on the defensive.

“Magister Xerox was certain they would.” Cydnar thought to himself for a moment. The council had convened shortly after he and his brother had spent much of the night in talk. Facts separated from fiction, and the path of the Umber Hulks had been marked on a map as accurate as could be. “He stated his reputation on it, in fact.” The old elf seldom did so unless there was no mistake in his calculations.

Dalasi shrugged. “I will relish the moment he realises he was…” he trailed off. He turned slowly, looking down each of the four roads leading away from the steps of the church.

The church bell dinged.

“Wrong…” he said flatly. He went silent.

He narrowed his gaze north and upwards, to the church’s steeple. Ordinarily, the sounding of the cracked bronze dome would have been part of a religious attention to time.

“What is wrong, Dalasi?” Cydnar asked, a puzzled expression breaking through his stoic stare.

“Cydnar…” he repealed his silence with worry. “It is only half past the hour…”

Cydnar looked up at the tower. The moon, full and bright, cast a silver hue over the structure. The bell dinged again, though only lightly. Something was making it rattle, rumble, and rock on its rusted hinges. Together, both the elves felt a low, deep, and undeniably ominous rumble.

“I believe the Magister is, as ever, entirely correct…” Cydnar curled his lips into a wrinkled, troubled frown. His brow furrowed, and his arms went limp by his sides. Dalasi lowered his sword, so that its silver tip sliced into the brilliant white snow. “That building is centuries old,” he said. “The lead lining in the roof and the bell itself is like a beacon for our friends…”

For hours, the Hummel elders had tried to divine why the Umber Hulks had begun to carve a path through Salvar. They travelled near no major settlements, save for this one, and only veered off course for dense deposits in the earth, or momentary distractions to fuel their breeding and revelry. Cydnar looked up at the bell and then realised what brought them to Conner Ridge.

“We must protect the church at all costs,” he said flatly. He shook his head. “I only hope there are able bodied fighters in this sleepy little hollow.” He did not sound hopeful, but the plea gave him hope where none was present.

On the far side of the square, the ground began to swell…