Legion of Light VI: From the Ashes of War and Defeat

[Flames of Hyperion]

Closed to myself and Where in the World?. This thread has no bunnies... we're really just writing (and editing!) each other.

We take you back in time to when the Corpse War still raged, to when the Forgotten One Xem'zund wrought havoc upon the lands of the High Elves. The Battle of Nenaebreth has just ended in hard-fought victory for the Legion of Light, sending the Death Lord Maeril Thyrrian in retreat across the Timbrethinil. Now the eyes of the liberators turn west, towards the Raiaeran capital of Eluriand, towards the embattled ruins of scholarly Istien, to where the Dread Necromancer's power still reigns strong...


I find it difficult to believe that it has now been five months since we first arrived on the war-torn shores of Raiaera. Sometimes still I wonder if our arrival here has even been of any help to the inhabitants of this land. Whether the sacrifice of so many of our ragtag band of Scarabrians has been worth our meagre contribution to the war. But whenever doubts such as these assault my mind, I find that all I can do is to attempt to reassure myself that we have indeed made a difference. That such worries are best banished in favour of preparing for the morrow.

Our numbers have swelled with volunteer levies from the hidden stronghold of Keldagrim. How I respect the decision of those humans and Dwarves who have abandoned their isolationist stance to join us! Prince Turgon of Tor Elythis has also pledged his armies to a loose alliance with our cause. Half-a-thousand trained soldiers of the Silverwind bolster our Legion further. Morale in the camp is high, as we rest in the liberated town of Nenaebreth, in sight of the smoky pall of our first victory. The remains of the horde sent to finish Anebrilith once and for all lie just beyond the horizon, littered bones and ashes purified by flame. Its commanders are either defeated or fled.

It is good to look around me and behold so many determined faces and skilled arms. The hope that perhaps we may yet accomplish something in this war blossoms in my heart. But a military force of this size poses problems of its own. While dwarves may live for many years on naught but stone and ale, and a single mouthful of their fabled waybread may satisfy an elf, the sheer scale of our new army has wreaked havoc in our logistics chain. It is not necessarily a great task to provide food and drink for fifty, for such a band of warriors can easily live off the land given enough time and with sufficient skill. A thousand such soldiers, on the other hand… the supplies we have captured from the human mercenaries who controlled this town will last us a while. But they will not feed us forever, and Lord Arminas is eager to move on lest his force starts to disintegrate around him.

Every hour the reports filter in from the surrounding countryside, from the Rangers sent to scout the lay of the land to the great eagles who soar to us bearing messages from afar. Lord Arminas holds heated council with Princes Turgon and Elrohir of Tor Elythis, Telchar of Gunnbad, Ecthelion of the Ivory Spire, and Argurios of Keldagrim. I, too, am invited to express my opinion at such gatherings, although more often than not I feel too greatly out of place to voice myself at such a noble assembly. Instead I restrict my efforts to a hopeless attempt at keeping the peace.

In the meantime, the Legion prepares for further battle. Skilled craftsmen both Dwarven and Elven have taken over the workshops in the southern quarter. The ringing of their hammers upon steel forms a constant cacophony that permeates the rank air above the town. Warriors rest in the inns for the trials to come, and every courtyard boasts Bladesingers pitting their skills against the Spire Guards of Tor Elythis. Naught but the ghosts of a vibrant past will inhabit this town once we leave. But for now it is a hustle of frenzied activity, a bright spark of hope labouring under the overwhelming darkness of the menacing clouds above. The smell hanging heavy about me is not of fear, but of anticipation; not of uncertainty, but of determination.

I can only hope that this will not prove to be the doom of us all.

There is still no news from our scouts of the Death Lord we seek, and not a whisper on the wind of the whereabouts of the young woman who fought on his side against us. By now, they have most likely retreated to Istien and beyond, where they can regroup and restructure their armies. In any case, I can only hope that Kayu is safe, and that wherever she is, my worst fears are not realised...


~ Entry in Ingwe’s Book of Travels


~*~*~

The young Nipponese sighed as he eased the cover of the tome closed, replacing the quill in its pouch and screwing the top onto the last of his inkwells. One hand reached up in reflex to adjust his glasses as his dark-eyed gaze darted about his surroundings. The singed remnants of a dead leaf lay in the middle of the sandy courtyard, silent testament to just how much had changed. A year ago, such a sacrilege would have been unthinkable in any self-respecting Raiaeran city. Now, with Timbrethinil Forest a charred ruin just to their north, it was a scene that repeated itself a thousand times over across the land.

With a gentle groan as his tired muscles voiced their aches, Ingwe rose to his feet. He emerged into the dying twilight from the cramped hidey-hole in which he had ensconced himself an hour earlier. The ever-present blanket of cloud over the heavens above darkened even further with the onset of night. The sudden growth in the Legion of Light made it so difficult to find privacy any more, the peace and quiet that he needed to write in his journal. Ingwe had taken to seeking the most outlandish locations – such as behind a stack of empty barrels piled at the edge of the largest inn in the city – to meditate and record.

His head felt light and cool in the still air, courtesy of a rough battlefield haircut the previous day. The long days of travel and battle had begun to show on his clothes once again; mud and dirt streaked the blue of his cloak, and his white tunic was ashen grey with dust. It felt so long ago now that he had last been clean, back in the hospitable underground halls of Keldagrim.

You should feel lucky you can still wash, he reminded himself ruefully. As soon as they left behind the stable water supply provided by the town’s wells, he would not even have the luxury of a scrub every evening. Wooden buildings loomed in a mantle of shadows as Ingwe gathered his belongings, creaking to the rhythmic tread of somebody climbing the stairs in the inn behind him. Dwarf, he decided after only a moment’s thought. What’s more, judging by the bounce in his step, one who’s been at the last of the fine ale we brought from Anebrilith.

The thought warmed his soul for a moment, before it sent his mind into another spiralling tangent. His fingers faltered as they checked the leather straps that held the twin Nipponese daggers to his back. For not the first time he wondered if they had made the right decision in abandoning Anebrilith to whatever fate it chose. They had gifted the city with the hope of a lifted siege and a reprieve from the war, only to leave it behind as it collapsed into the clutches of anarchy and despair. The latest reports from the city spoke of dark forces at work, of betrayal and slavery and piracy. It was only a matter of time before the ancient port fell and the last safe route out of Raiaera closed to those who sought to flee.

For not the first time, Ingwe repeated to himself the excuses that he had learned to depend upon. They could not allow themselves to dwell on the fate of one city, when that of an entire country, an entire people, was at stake. To stay would have implied eventual annihilation in an endless war of attrition. Their current course at least gave them a glimmer of hope, the faintest of chances that they would be able to strike at the Necromancer himself and end this war once and for all.

And yet, no matter how hard he tried to convince himself, the thought of the innocents he had been unable to save still…

“Ingwe!”

The voice shocked him out of his stupor. His mindless tread had taken him unwittingly into the main thoroughfare towards the town’s main citadel, his actions clouded by the grimness of his thoughts. Indefensible suburbs sprawled around a walled bastion in which Lord Arminas and his councillors even now held court. The barren openness of the surrounding terrain meant that it was nigh impossible for an opposing army to sneak up undetected. But the lack of walls around Nenaebreth had been a major factor in its initial swift defeat by Xem’zund’s armies. The one thing that both Lord Arminas and Prince Turgon agreed upon was that the Legion had to leave as soon as possible.

“Ingwe!” the voice called again, and this time the warrior-mage in question spotted a familiar face amongst the milling crowds. Clutching a short spear to his chest, a lanky Scarabrian with sallow features fought a gallant battle for his attention with broad waves and ungainly jumps.

“Aeneon?” Ingwe shouted back in question.

“Ingwe, you’d better come quickly!” the Scarabrian replied, his voice barely carrying over the general hubbub as he indicated the direction with an outstretched hand.

Wondering what the problem was this time, Ingwe broke out into a quick sprint.

[Alydia Ettermire]

Walking Raiaera revealed how brutal Xem'zund's rape of the once-verdant nation of fair-skinned Elves had been. Everywhere, it reeked of death and corruption, and had Alydia Ettermire not had a mission, the one-time detective would have shied away from the daunting task of travelling through the war-battered country. It had been damned by the wakening and wrath of Xem'zund; tens of thousands of people had already been slaughtered and their corpses pressed into service of the Necromancer's gluttonous power.

And thousands upon thousands could still fall... It was an excruciatingly bitter thought.

Alydia had been in Raiaera a week already, and the sheer scale of the destruction and danger that had wreaked havoc upon the land and its people was still sinking in. Making her way through the dense forest that covered the Northern third of the country had been difficult. At the very best of times, it had taken all her skills of evasion to safely cross the treacherous terrain after darkness fell. At the very worst of them, she'd sealed herself in a cave and waited for the darkness to pass and the undead horde's power to wane.

The already dead were not the only ones the Necromancer had enlisted to his war, however; more than one mercenary outfit had chosen to be evil's right hand (or right little finger, anyway), and these living minions still had to eat. Their supply trains stretched for miles along the otherwise barren landscape...and they were easy targets for an experienced thief of her calibre. By taking a couple of wagons here and there, ripping the gears out of the mercenaries' delicate logistics machine, she not only stressed their volatile tempers, but also provided a little relief to starving populations of probably doomed holdouts.

Aly's destination, Nenaebreth, was the most recent known stronghold of the self-proclaimed "Legion of Light." With certain things cleared up in Alerar, Alydia had turned her eyes east. It had been six months since she'd heard from any of her people in Raiaera: Sintta Ilya had been silent, and without him there was no hearing from young Bladesinger Hyanda Lindir or the kind, strong Kelvar Maliaya. Despite three and a bit years since her last visit, despite the stark contrast of their skins with her own, there was no distance between their hearts and hers. This long, perilous silence gnawed holes in her psyche; at the very least, she needed to know what fate befell them. She was almost as worried about Dex T. Rous, another of her boys from Scara Brae, who had dropped off the map not long after Sintta went silent. Not even Lore, who should have known, or Bron, who could find anything out about anyone at any time, had any idea where Dex was.

She would look for Dex after she knew the fate of Sintta, Hyanda, and Kelvar. Meanwhile, she'd been instructed, despite Bron's misgivings, that her missing Elves would probably be near Istien. He had also told her to find the Legion of Light, nominally under command of the less xenophobic than usual Aredhel Arminas, but under control of a young human named Ingwe Helyanwe. He was the one whose trust she would have to earn. Fortunately, it should be easy enough with a version of the truth. She hoped.

Here she was, finally, at the ruins of what was once a bustling city: Nenaebreth, hidden jewel of Raiaera. Only rarely would an outsider come to the old town; it hadn't catered to tourists or been a bustling centre of commerce, but Alydia had been there before, once, and if she hadn't been Alerian, she probably would have chosen to retire there after a long and illustrious career. Now the only thing saving the once beautiful town from being a mere blighted husk was the fact Arminas's army, the Legion of Light, was still camped in the battered wreckage. She'd been lucky to catch up to them here, where they were settled and felt secure; it would have been much more dangerous had she found them on the road. Here it was nesting like an injured dragon, licking its wounds and preparing itself to get up, move on, and fight again.

The dark-skinned Alerian padded ever deeper into the city, looking for the human who might be her key to finding her people. As often happened, however, trouble found her first, and she rounded a corner to find herself hat-brim to nose-tip with a golden-haired Raiaeran male. His blade slashed reflexively for her neck, but Aly's immediate backpedal kept her head on her shoulders. The sword - a Bladesinger's, she noticed - gleamed sinister orange in the fading evening light.

"Leave now, Tel'gothra, or your next step will be your last," he growled. Due to steeply entrenched racial boundaries, the occasions Alydia had to listen to Raiaeran Elves speak their native language were rare. The rage filling this one's voice had stolen the music out of his throat, and that disappointed the Alerian.

"Glorfindel!" Up until this point, Aly hadn't noticed a scruffy human beside the Elf, but his call made the tip of the blade lower a fraction of a handspan. His accent, the way he stretched out the F and came down especially hard on the D told her he was from Scara Brae. And if there was one Scarabrian...there were probably more.

Maybe... She didn't get long to think.

"Leave me be, Castor. I'm being generous to give it a chance to run."

"It?" Alydia let the word slide out in a purr, reaching up to tug the brim of her scarlet fedora more firmly over her left eye. In the edges of her peripheral vision, she saw someone else start running, doubtless for backup. "My name is Alydia. Contrary to what you might believe, my business in Raiaera is not to run straight to Xem'zund. I will explain myself better when the man I came to see arrives."

Shadows littered the ground as the evening sun threw the remaining buildings into sharp silhouette; Aly knew she could escape with ease if the situation truly turned violent. She didn't want to fight, however, so she lifted her hands slowly, keeping her level gaze on the man more likely to disembowel her if he had so much as the slightest reason to think she was up to anything devious. With him watching every tiny movement, she slid her voluminous coat from her shoulders and folded it, enduring the cold that bit through the thin material of her clothing. Her whip now hung plainly on one hip and her knife on the other. With her coat in her hands, there was no way she could get to either without him swiftly impaling her, so she was as good as unarmed. The motion elicited a suspicious grunt from the Raiaeran Glorfindel, but she knew his Bladesinger honour would prevent him from attacking an unarmed woman unless she proved a true threat. And it was really hard to be a true threat to an armed man while dressed only in a black catsuit and a big red fedora.

"Explain yourself now."

Alydia forced a smirk, despite the tension weighed heavily on the trio standing at the crossroads. "My main reason, Quessir, is not one you will believe, so let me explain it to you like this. Far to the west of here there is a mountain range. There is not a child among either of our peoples who does not know the significance of those peaks. So long as you stay on your side and we on ours, like squabbling children arguing over a small box of sand, there is peace."

Here Alydia paused, considering her next move. She knew what she wanted to say next, but how she wanted to say it...she could either continue in Tradespeak and let him believe that his language was beyond her comprehension, or she could switch to his language and let him know that there would not be a single word out of his mouth she could not understand. She chose the latter course. She needed to show her cards now so that when she played her hand later, she could be sure that everyone was playing the same game.

"Nan'i' 'kshtrialla ndorlle sinta ili andaith. Manka Raiaera lantaya, Alerar nauva ento." She let the Raiaeran tongue flow over her lips, perhaps a little more harshly than a native speaker's, telling plainly the consequences for her nation should the Necromancer overrun Glorfindel's own entirely. "And that, in plain language, is a reason I might be willing to help you. I love Alerar, and I haven't any hatred for Raiaera. I think the whole dispute rather asinine. I am dark and you are fair, but are we not both Elves?"

Two men came running up the crumbling street, both huffing and out of breath due to the long sprint from the edge of town. Alydia turned her attention to them, particularly the human whose hair and complexion marked him as something from a different part of the world. A touch of her trademark smirk graced the boy - no, he was a young man, despite being only a fraction of her age. "Well, you are not Arminas, so you must be Ingwe. I have come to speak with you about a few matters...but first, I come bearing gifts." Alydia held out a hand to the empty street behind her and a pair of heavy wooden wagons landed with a brief tattoo of heavy bumps. Each was brimming with supplies, everything from salted meats and jerky to meal, rice, beans, coffee, tea and ale. With as many men as the Legion had, perhaps it was enough to feed them all for a day. But it was one more day they wouldn't have to worry whether or not they would eat.

"There are a few bottles of good wine in there. Perhaps we should talk while sharing some. I would suggest coffee...but that one does not need to be any more jittery than he already is." She tilted her hat at Glorfindel, marking him out as that one, though her visible eye never left Ingwe. "Will you hear me?"

[Flames of Hyperion]

The expression on the Bladesinger’s fine features was one that Ingwe had never seen before. Even during the countless life-and-death situations they had fought through together, Glorfindel had never worn such pure and total shock in his light blue eyes. It came not only at the sudden appearance of two wagons brimming with fresh food, but at Alydia’s admission that she found the enmity between High and Dark Elves foolish. Ingwe fought to stifle a smile despite the circumstances, committing his friend’s slack-jawed reaction to memory. He doubted that he’d ever see it again.

In the meantime, he knew that he had more pressing issues to deal with.

“Yes, I’m Ingwe,” he spoke in polite reply, inclining his head in cautious courtesy but never taking his eyes off her. “Whom do I have the pleasure of…”

“Her name is Alydia,” Glorfindel growled in brusque interruption, attempting to mask his earlier bewilderment. Ingwe noted the effort required to enunciate the first syllable. “She is Tel’gothra, and should leave us immediately.”

Ingwe attempted to calm his friend with a hand gesture. Only now did he realise the reason behind Glorfindel’s uncharacteristic tension, and the blade inching away from Alydia’s throat. The cat-like, knowing smile on the Alerian’s face sent a bead of sweat down the young man’s spine, even as his mind raced in search of a peaceful resolution. Daring dustdevils swirled about as Ingwe studied her in return, the confident set of the hips and the cocky smirk on her face - attractive in a Dark Elven way. Realising what he was doing, he looked away under the pretence of scrutinizing the two wagons behind her, feeling the flush of embarrassment tinge his pale cheeks.

If it was an enemy ploy, Ingwe decided, it was an exceedingly elaborate one. Neither the forces of Xem’zund nor those of Alerar had any need to employ such devious tactics towards the Legion; a mere raised fist would have sufficed. There was something in her entrancing blue eyes that told him not to dismiss her without at least hearing her out. And by now, the situation had piqued his interest. What was a Dark Elf such as she doing on her lonesome, this deep in Raiaera?

Given the circumstances, though, I suppose there’s no harm in being cautious.

“Very well,” Ingwe finally responded, bowing again. A light breeze raced down the street and ruffled his thick black hair, escaping towards the horizon when he made eye contact once more with Alydia. “Perhaps…”

“Ingwe!” Glorfindel cut him off as he attempted to show Alydia to a less conspicuous location, eyes blazing in cold fire. “Mani ume lle…” What did you…

“Lov’megil, Glorfindel,” Ingwe replied in fluent Raiaeran. Lower your sword. The young man soothed the Bladesinger with another appeasing gesture, willing the naked steel back into its sheath. “I understand your fears, mellonamin. But I truly believe she means us no harm. We can discuss this further in private.”

At Ingwe’s use of the Raiaeran phrase for ‘friend’, Glorfindel finally lowered his blade. The look he gave Alydia made it clear that he had not lowered his suspicions, just set them aside for the moment. Castor also relaxed on cue, the relief on his face palpable in the way blood rushed back into pale white. Ingwe didn’t blame him; he felt much the same way himself.

“Castor, would you please take the wagons to the stores?” he asked, quashing the tremulous note in his request, and the dark-haired Scarabrian nodded once in acknowledgement. “Miss Alydia, Glorfindel, if you could follow me…?”

Ingwe turned to lead them towards the inner citadel of Nenaebreth, and a private room he knew of there that would allow them to sit and talk in peace. The fracas had attracted not a few interested eyes, although they backed off harmlessly as the situation calmed.

Aeneon waited for them at the corner of the main street, balancing discreet patience with overwhelming curiosity. Ingwe gave the younger man a reassuring look, patting his shoulder in gentle thanks. The combined stares of Elythisian, Keldagrim, and Scarabrian Legionnaires made him feel more than a little conspicuous as he led the way. Only when another familiar voice rang out in the twilight did he pause his quick, purposeful tread.

“Aly? I’d recognise that hat anywhere. Aly, what are you doing here?”

Yes, he’d heard that particular voice before, Ingwe thought again as he spun on his heels. Could somebody among the men, one of the Scarabrian veterans no less, vouch for her? The young man’s churning mind finally matched face to speech, bespectacled gaze sweeping the crowd for his target.

What was his name again…? D… Dex…

[Alydia Ettermire]

Alydia slipped her coat back on while they walked the twilit streets of Nenaebreth; she'd taken it off for Glorfindel's benefit, but now that she had a foot in the door she felt too close to naked in just the cat suit. She didn't expect that it would be easy to win either the trust or the support of the Legion of Light. There was a deeply entrenched suspicion against her kind not only among the Raiaerans, but also among other nations of Althanas. She felt every eye upon her and the pressure of making her case weighed heavily upon her shoulders. She didn't know if she could even get to the shattered remains of Istien on her own, if her people were still there or had left any clues to their whereabouts, and should they still be there, if she could get them out safely.

Whether or not she succeeded in garnering support from the Legionnaires, she was going to Istien. The lives at stake were too important for her to turn back now. She just didn't know if any case she could make would be good enough to pierce through millennia of deeply ingrained hatred. As the golden-haired Glorfindel had already proven, she was Tel'gothra, Ilythiiri, the nameless evil that haunted the slumbers of Raiaeran children and soldiers alike. Maybe if she'd been one of the olive-skinned members of her race she could have passed for a darker Raiaeran, but the deep black hue of her flesh assured that unless she could gain their trust, she would be the bogeyman.

Her pensive mood vanished like smoke in the breeze when a familiar voice called out to her. Before he'd even mentioned her hat, Aly had turned and spotted her missing man from Scara Brae. "Dex!"

She vanished from Ingwe's side in a wisp of darkness, reappearing in the shadow of her old friend. "It's you!" It was, indeed, the human she'd been missing, and the grin on the broad shouldered, sandy haired man showed he was as happy to see her as she was relieved to see him.

"Well, it's most of you, anyway. My Dex has lost his love handles." Aly's red lips curved up into a genuine smile and she poked his side, eliciting a startled laugh and a small retreat. The Scarabrian soldier covered his ticklish spot with his arm to safeguard against further attacks to his ribs, but his expression said clearly that he couldn't have been happier to see the Alerian woman who had wandered into camp.

"Yeah, army food and marching'll do wonders for a body. But really, Aly...this is Raiaera! Why are you out here all alone? What would Lore say? Or...what's his name? Bron? Or the others." Dex ran his thick fingers through his light brown hair and looked down at Aly with his grey-green eyes, genuine concern etched on his face. It was dangerous for any lone traveller in Raiaera nowadays, but for an Alerian it was tantamount to suicide.

Alydia frowned. "You have a lot of right to talk, Dexter Tobin Rous." She started punching him in the arm in time with her words, emphasizing every syllable. "When-you-run-off-to-Thayne-knows-where, you-have-to-tell-someone." She ended her barrage with a more forceful blow, and he rubbed the sore spot on his bicep. "You had us worried, Dex."

"I'm sorry, Aly." Dex reached out and pulled the slight woman to his chest, hugging her close and waiting for her to return the embrace before speaking again. "I thought I'd told Lore. Musta just been a dream. Everything happened so fast."

Alydia sighed wearily, then stepped away. "It's good to see you safe. And since you're here...have you heard from Sintta, Hyanda, or Kelvar?" Aly looked up into Dex's eyes once more. The brawny human shook his head.

"No...why? Haven't you heard from them?" He knew the names, even though he'd never met the people. They were the Raiaeran branch of Alydia's organization, the part that defied all logic. Raiaerans teaming up with an Alerian? It was unheard of.

Aly shook her head, looking almost helpless. "Not for six months. That's why I'm here."

Dex nodded sombrely. For Aly to be completely out of contact with anyone on any of her teams was both rare and worrisome; she valued her people above all else, and to go more than a month without knowing where even one of them was made it impossible for her to have any peace of mind. Missing four for so long must have caused her many restless nights. "Well, that makes sense. Surprised you didn't come months ago, then." He looked up and saw Ingwe and Glorfindel staring at them. "Oh. Umm...Ingwe, Glorfindel, this is Alydia Ettermire. She's... well, she's... hard to define. But a good friend."

Aly stepped away from Dex, turning back toward the smaller human that she'd met not ten minutes before. "I have to go plead my case, Dex. I'll find you when we're done and catch up. It seems you've had an interesting few months off the map."

"Let me know when you head out to find them, Aly." He glanced at Ingwe, feeling a little guilty. He'd been through a lot with the Legion, survived impossible situations, and felt a strong attachment to the group and its veterans. If he had to go AWOL to support an older friend, it would try him. But Aly was one of the four closest people to him in the world; he couldn't leave her alone in the zombie-overrun Raiaeran wilderness. The tall Scarabrian held up a very loose fist not far in front of Aly's face. "You know I'm with you."

The red-coated thief gave Dex a grin, pressing the back of her fist to the back of his, and walked back to the young human and his Elven friend. "Well, I guess I'll have to thank you for taking care of my Dex," she told Ingwe, smoothing the rumpled brim of her fedora and pulling it securely back into place out of reflex. "Now, I suppose we should go where you're leading, so that you can hear what I have to say...and what he has to say about it." She glanced at Glorfindel. Doubtless the Raiaeran would be her greatest threat to getting any real support in her search for her people.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Ingwe had plenty of time to reflect upon the situation as he led Alydia and Glorfindel towards the centre of town. Dexter… Dex… was one of the long-serving veterans from Scara Brae, somebody with whom Ingwe had shared many trials and tribulations. Having him vouch for the Alerian newcomer made the young Nipponese much more comfortable with his earlier decision.

But Glorfindel’s smouldering presence behind him was all he needed as a reminder of the stark fact that this was the war-torn homeland of the High Elves. And that she was, after all, a Dark Elf. Even Ingwe, who took modest pride in his acceptance of all races and all origins, felt faint shackles of hesitation as his mind touched once again upon her possible motives. What did she want from them, that she was willing to trek half the length of a hostile nation besieged by an even more hostile army to get to them? What secrets did she conceal beneath the wide brim of her crimson fedora? Unlikely as it seemed, especially after Dex’s words, could it be that this was all just an elaborate trap?

Be careful, Ingwe… the young man reminded himself, churning possibilities through his thoughts so that he was aware of as many as he could brainstorm. Be careful.

Long shadows reached out into the streets from the austere remains of Elven villas. Tendrils of darkness grasped at their every movement, pining for times that had once been. A lonely wind whistled down the desolate thoroughfare, bringing with it the hubbub of an early evening gathering and the hearty aroma of stew on the cooking fires. Ingwe’s mouth watered as he guided his companions deeper into the heart of the settlement, for he had not eaten since breakfast. Somehow he managed to keep his focus.

In reality, it took them no more than a couple of minutes, although his pondering mind made it seem much longer. Rounding the last corner, they almost stumbled over the drab form of grey-cloaked Nogeres. Bathed in twilight against the castle wall, the archmage studiously scrutinized every last human, Elf, and Dwarf wandering through the arch. Ingwe’s destination was the charred, derelict gatehouse just beyond Nogeres. Any inquisitive eyes or prying ears would have to work hard to spy on their meeting, and it was such privacy that he sought.

As was customary now whenever he met Nogeres - or rather, Ecthelion Seregon of the Ivory Spire, High Archmage of Tor Elythis - Ingwe sneaked a small measure of magic towards overthrowing the wizard’s disguise. Dustdevils danced in the pulse of mental power as it darted under the dusk-draped archway. The master batted away his pupil’s challenge without a second thought, and his exterior appearance of a wise, elderly human did not waver in the slightest. But as Ingwe led Glorfindel and Alydia past his mentor and into the castle courtyard, he could have sworn that the old Elf’s kindly blue eyes twinkled in mischief.

“In here,” the young man gestured, indicating the dilapidated wooden doorway. Once, this structure had housed the finest of Nenaebreth’s militia, proud defenders of all that was just and free about the town. Now, only a stained long table greeted the Elves as they entered the dusty common room. The chirp of a snowy gyrfalcon perched at the windowsill questioned their intent.

“I apologise for the state of the room,” Ingwe continued. Faint touches of embarrassment coloured his voice as he offered his guests use of the chairs… or at least, those that the previous occupants had not destroyed or damaged. “I can assure you that here you may speak freely, without fear of being overheard by anybody who may take rash action against you.”

Finished, he walked over to the window at which Hayate waited. Dying rays of the sunset cast against his face, bathing his tunic in fiery light. He turned to face Alydia, peripheral vision tracking Glorfindel as the Bladesinger took up a similar position on the inside wall. Reflected radiance upon his spectacles caused his eyes to disappear behind frames of light as he studied the Alerian, his senses all on full alert.

“Please…”

His voice trailed into nothingness, but none present had any doubt what he asked of her.

[Alydia Ettermire]

Alydia stepped into the room. While the state of the city itself had been pitiable, the life and vitality brought into its streets by the Legionnaires had masked some of the calamity that had befallen it. Walking into the room, seeing its battered walls and fragmented furniture, seeing the scars of war on the face of a once-proud history, was very much like seeing the tortured, desecrated corpse of a dear one. The one-time detective felt a deep sense of mourning for what had been and what might never again be, and she didn't bother to keep the emotion off her face.

She stepped to the table and stood beside a chair, reaching into her coat. She took her whip and delyn dagger, setting them gently on the cracked and beaten wood, and then sat down slowly. Disarming would help communicate that she meant no harm, and taking a seat put her physically beneath them. Finally, she put her hands palm-down on the table, clearly visible to both Elf and Man. As a detective, she had done this many times from the other side of the table. She knew what she'd wanted when questioning a criminal, and the hands had been one of the major points. Suspects couldn't pull tricks if interrogators could see their every move. She let the silence hang for a couple of moments, watching Glorfindel place himself and then looking at the inscrutable Ingwe.

"My name, as has been said, is Alydia Ettermire. As recently as half a decade ago, I was a detective on the Ettermire Police Force - nothing so famous as the Mazzara; we were just the people who solved everything from simple burglaries to rape, kidnappings, and murder. I left that to pursue a life of grand theft." That had to be out on the table now, and she gave them both a moment to react to that revelation. If she lied about it and was discovered later, it would destroy any rapport she managed to build. Right now, she didn't have any trust to tarnish.

"In such a profession, a network spanning vast and even improbable areas is a necessity. After finding the people in Alerar and Salvar that I could rely on, I turned to Raiaera. I did not expect to find any here that would so much as look at me without instant, intense hatred. In those days, I still bore suspicion of the Darthiiri characteristic of my nation. Much as the Raiaerans are raised with hatred and fear of us, so too do Alerian children learn a distaste for them as we grow. They haunt the nightmares of young dalharen, they are the monsters in some of our most fearsome stories and in some way responsible for everything that has ever happened to Alerar's detriment. At least, so the legends go. Propaganda works like that; I'm sure your compatriot could tell you similar tales about my race." Alydia smirked; Glorfindel's greeting had told her enough about his views on her kind.

"I found one man, a farmer by name of Kelvar Maliaya, who didn't care so much that I am Alerian as that I am an individual, unique, and capable of deciding for myself whether or not the inbred suspicion - no, the carefully cultivated hatred - was right. It was from him I learned that Raiaerans are not all the weak, arrogant, hostile creatures we are taught they are. With Kelvar's support, I managed to gain the trust of two others over the course of a few months, as they managed to gain mine. The first was a young woman named Hyanda Lindir, and the last was a librarian at Istien University, Sintta Ilya. They became my people, my friends. Never a month went by that I did not have news of their well-being, even when I had no plans to visit this nation. Not until the situation here became desperate."

Aly's gaze so far had never wavered from Ingwe's; it was to him she needed to prove herself. But now she broke that contact to look at Glorfindel. The Bladesingers were law enforcers; it would be more difficult for him to justify going after criminals. She had something for that, however, and if they still refused...at the very least, she had Dex on her side. She turned back to Ingwe, regarding the young human from beneath the brim of her fedora.

"They did not leave Raiaera. I do not know if they are still alive or if they have succumbed to the hordes devouring the land. I know that Kelvar sent his wife and children to Corone; another of my people met them at the docks and provided them with lodgings. But he himself, as well as Sintta and Hyanda, remained behind. If they still live, they will be in Istien."

Alydia reached slowly into her coat once more, pulling out a file and riffling through the neat pieces of parchment. She made sure that the edgy Elf could see each of her movements at all times. "Whatever your decision is at the end of the day, I will continue to Eluriand in search of them."

Having found the latest report she had on Istien, Aly turned the file and slid it toward the young human so that he could get a look at it. "What little information does escape Raiaera does so at the cost of many lives, and my sources have been ever vigilant for news of Istien and any of my missing people, including Dex. What little I have managed to gather states that as of two weeks ago, there were at least fifty Raiaerans still finding refuge in the city, although the number was dropping by the day. There may be no living soul left there, but there may yet be some survivors."

Alydia interlaced her fingers, folding her gloved hands in front of her, watching Ingwe. "My people are good people. Each one is honourable, loyal, and brave. They are kind, gentle, and compassionate, and do not stand for the easiest path over the best one. We steal sometimes, yes. But we never steal anything that would hurt an innocent person, and most often when we do commit crimes, they are baffling from the perspective of the law, designed more to stop complacency and make people experience wonder than anything else."

Alydia closed her mouth for a moment, pressing her lips together and briefly clenching a fist in a physical manifestation of months worth of worry. "Up until today, I was missing four of my boys. I am still missing three. I do not know whether or not they have been spared, but I have hope that they are still alive. I came to Nenaebreth after you, rather than rush directly to Istien, because I also have hope that I might not go alone. It was dangerous ground to cover from Salvar to here...but the stretch between here and there is more treacherous still."

Aly finally stopped speaking and let the boy read the data she'd collected. She believed that the thought of innocent survivors would probably create a need in him to seek them out; he was a hero. Her skills could come to good use in a group of any size, and a group of any size there to support her would give her better chances of success than having to rush alone through that deadly tract of ground.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Both minds went on full alert at the mention of grand theft. Ingwe’s eyes narrowed behind his spectacles. Glorfindel’s slender frame stiffened in anger. The Bladesinger’s hand twitched towards the sword at his waist, before he thought better of it and stopped his movement. Ingwe remained absolutely motionless, not even glancing at the parchments until Alydia had finished speaking.

The young man let the silence hang for a few moments, digesting the information and feeding it to internal logic. His gut instinct told him that she wasn’t a bad person. His senses told him that she wasn’t using any magic… that I can detect, at least… to camouflage her words. His heart said that she told the truth, and that he would not be worthy of his powers if he failed to assist her in her quest.

But he was a ranking member of the Legion now, and with that rank came responsibility. He could not make this decision alone. And there was something else gnawing at his wits.

At the back of Ingwe’s mind, buried and forgotten underneath the events of the past months, a small voice recited the words of the oracular prophecy he had heard in Scara Brae only hours after arriving from the East. Thus far, the words had played out with discomfiting accuracy. They seemed to propel him inexorably forward, despite his best efforts otherwise, toward a preordained destiny. And now they spoke again.

Ware the ruins of Istien…

No. Now was not the time to dwell on the phrases of a cryptic poem. With a firm shake of his head, he wiped the troubled expression from his face and suppressed the sudden trepidation in his soul, focusing instead on the task at hand.

“Thank you for your honesty,” he replied. His smile was gentle and warm; his dark eyes peered at her with a reassuring sincerity from above the rims of his glasses. One hand reached out to pull the sheaf towards him. It didn’t take long to skim its content and confirm it against what he remembered of the latest intelligence from the area, courtesy of the great eagle Nariel. Satisfied that they matched, Ingwe’s offered the parchments to Glorfindel. But the elf refused with a firm shake of his head.

“I do not trust you,” the Raiaeran spoke, uncharacteristically blunt and impolite. Storm-blue eyes bored daggers of mythril disapproval into Alydia's soul. “You spoke of seeing who you are as an individual rather than your origins, and of taking months to gain the trust of two of my kin. Then you will understand my qualms. I do not quite share the innocence of my companion here.”

Glorfindel’s intent was clear. The Bladesinger knew that Ingwe had the tendency to trust too easily, naivete that even the harshness of the war had not blunted. He, then, had to give full vent to his innate suspicion of his darker kin, to attempt to dissuade Ingwe from his decision. Only if his friend could overcome his arguments and convince him of the Alerian’s trustworthiness would he deem the expedition worthwhile.

Ingwe waited again, this time for Alydia to digest Glorfindel’s words. Long ages of prejudice between the two Elven kindreds loomed like an insurmountable barrier, despite the Alerian’s best intentions. Hayate crooned from behind him, sensing the tension in the dark room.

“Thank you, Glorfindel,” Ingwe murmured, just loud enough for both Bladesinger and former detective to hear. The strained atmosphere in the room softened in response. From his point of view, it was good to have everything out in the open for all to see. The young man turned his attention back towards Alydia.

“You spoke also of honour and loyalty, courage and kindness. I saw the look on your face when you entered this room, and when you spoke of your people as your comrades.” The Nipponese warrior-mage paused then, eyes lost as he cast a pensive glance into the corner of the room. The shadows there comforted him with their darkness, buying him the time he needed to organise the last of his thoughts.

“I can’t promise anything,” he said at last. “But I will talk to Lord Arminas and Lord Turgon, and see what I can do.”

Reaching into the pouch that he carried at his waist, Ingwe retrieved from it a thick tome, bound in red leather but bearing no title or author upon its cover. A quick skim brought him to the correct page. He laid his prized possession on the beaten table, open to a map of central Raiaera, an accurate tracing courtesy of a certain bookshop in Scara Brae. Glorfindel, fine features frozen in deadpan, joined the young man as he leaned over the diagram. One finger outlined the route from Nenaebreth to Eluriand… and the University of Istien.

“I have just one question before I go,” Ingwe smiled, inviting Alydia to take a close look as well. “How do you propose to proceed?”

[Alydia Ettermire]

Alydia had expected him to ask for a plan before she left; any other action would have shown a startling ineptitude for any commander with so vast a following - especially one so young. She reached into the folds of her coat once more, this time ignoring the Bladesinger and whatever tension he displayed to track Ingwe's finger on the page of his atlas. Her hands brought forth a long leather tube and a battered old travel guide she had purchased second hand.

From the tube she pulled a large roll of parchment, and that unrolled into a map of the world of Althanas. Its western edge faded into the vast, empty expanse of the sea, and at its eastern side, the wild reaches of Kebiras were cut off with just a little land scribbled on to show there was land beyond the borders of Greater Althanas. Such was the hubris of the West that it very nearly ignored the existence of the East.

Weighing down the edges of her map with its case on one side and Ingwe's heavy grimoire on the other, Aly scrutinized both representations of Raiaera in front of her. His was more detailed; a number of old roads and minor rivers crossed the page that weren't visible on her map. But on the parchment she had produced was something his lacked.

On her map, lightly laid down in chalk and charcoal, were painstakingly etched routes and fragments of notes. Some reached from the southern edge of Salvar to the city of Nenaebreth, others from the Legion's temporary base to sundry small ports that should still be operational. It was from one of those ports she would make her escape from the Elven nation when she was either finished there or driven out.

Finally, there were a trio of lines crawling out from Nenaebreth to Eluriand. It was these he was questioning her about. These were the lines and notes that were of immediate importance to her cause.

The southernmost route ran through grassland, and she traced along it swiftly. "This plan, though the one I am least likely to recommend, is the fastest way to Istien. Were a force of a hundred or more to go forth in the morning, this is the path I would choose. The group could travel hard during sunlit hours and reach the university in the middle of the second day, but at night it would be very vulnerable to attack. And there would be attacks; the area is far too open to hope luck would protect us from the creatures that are out there."

The middle route hugged the boundary of the agricultural plains and the Great Forest. Now Alydia opened her book, riffling through the pages until she found the entry that made her choice logical when it ought to have caught them between the beasts of the fields and the dangers of the woods, with no reprieve from either. "While it isn't marked on my map, this guide book indicates that there was once a river here. Now all that remains of it is a long gorge. If I am forced to go on my own, this is the route I will take, and regardless of number, it is the way I will return. There is the least amount of danger here; the terrain is difficult for most of the Necromancer's minions and is quite defensible." She paused here to suck in a breath through her teeth. "However, it is also the most difficult terrain for us, and thus the slowest way. If any survivors still remain in Eluriand, the extra day this route would cost a group in travel time could cost them everything. That is why, should a small group be dispatched with me, I would take the route through Daer Taurë."

The northernmost line was drawn in chalk to contrast the deep green that represented the forest. "It is not without its risks - scattered throngs of reanimated corpses, tainted trees, hungry beasts. It is highly possible for a group of five or ten to get through it in a couple of days."

The red-coated Alerian looked up at Ingwe and a wan smirk touched her lips. "I've spent a long time thinking this over in the last few weeks."

Her explanations finished, Alydia stood up. For the first time since she'd left Corone, she let her exhaustion catch up with her, and it weighed her down like a wet cloak. For the past two months, her life had been non-stop adventure. If she hadn't been moving at full speed, she'd been poring over her map, or books, or manically planning her next ten or fifteen steps. Now there was an abrupt pause in her plans; her next move depended entirely on this unassuming human from so far to the East that she couldn't locate his country on her map. She'd told him everything she could tell him that might help; there was no more case to make. If he was not convinced - if he could not convince the other ranking officers to support this mission - then it was over.

Slowly, the weary Alerian picked up her knife and whip, returning them to their hiding places beneath voluminous her coat, and then slid her guide book into its pocket. With great care, she rolled up her map and slipped it into its case, but before she could return it to the secure fold of fabric where it belonged, she reconsidered.

Taking the map case in both hands, as was the Akashiman way to give someone an object, she held it out to Ingwe. For a moment, her hands gripped the ends of what was arguably her most valuable possession, but slowly she opened them. "If this can help you plead my case to Lords Arminas and Turgon in any way, please use it to do so. I will be with Dex, awaiting news."

With a last look at both the young Nipponese officer and the junior Bladesinger, the Dark Elf turned and left the room, reflexively tugging the brim of her fedora down over one eye. The evening light embraced, then enveloped her scarlet form, and she vanished from their view.


~*~*~

Dex choked on a chunk of potato, then coughed violently and pounded on his chest to dislodge it. Even before he'd caught his breath again, he reacted to the news that had shocked him into choking in the first place.

"WHAT happened to Stell-stell?"

"She and the other children of Valeena Lake were kidnapped by a demon. He was either going to devour them or sacrifice them to gain more power. Vim and I didn't stop to ask him which."

Estelle, or "Stell-stell" to the members of Aly's team, was the young daughter of Vim N. Brawn, one of only a small handful of children who belonged to Aly's people. Since Vim was one of the other two Scarabrians who had ties to the wily thief and was more approachable than the somewhat domineering Lore, Dex had been a fixture in the little girl's life until he'd left to fight with Ingwe. He was her favourite uncle, the one who came over every week with something fun to do and one more little sweet than her father would approve of.

To hear that something so awful had happened in his absence sent him reeling; if he hadn't been sitting on the narrow bed set up in the room, he probably would have fallen to the floor. "I can't believe I wasn't there for them...Aly...they have to know...if I'd been there...I'd have never..."

"They know, Dex," Alydia assured the vandal turned thief turned soldier. "The rescue did cut closer than anyone was comfortable with, but we got all the children out safely. Before I left, Stell-stell asked me about you. I had to tell her that I didn't know, but that I would tell her as soon as I could."

Dex nodded slowly, looking over at the window where the dynamic figure of his friend and leader stood in sharp profile against the bright light of the large white moon. Once there had been a delicate pane of glass in the sill she now occupied, but that had been shattered during the occupation. When he'd made the room his, however temporarily, he had pulled out the last lingering shards, leaving the room fully open to winter's frigid breeze.

He watched her, resting his chin on his hands and his elbows on his knees. She leaned on the windowsill, arms folded so that her hands could grip her scarlet sleeves. Her face was set sombrely; it was such a far cry was that frown from the grin he knew, the smirk that challenged the world to even try to slow her down. He'd never seen her worried before, and he felt her tension slithering onto him, serpentine, trying to suffocate him in its coils. Always before, no matter how audacious the heist or dangerous the mission, she was grinning and vivacious. It worried the seasoned soldier to see her so strained and subdued. This was a side of Alydia Ettermire that all her people were grateful for, but none ever hoped to see. None of them wanted her to worry, especially not for their sakes.

Dex set his empty bowl on the small table, next to the well-stirred but barely-eaten remains of Alydia's meal. "Hey, Aly..." he stood and put a hand on her shoulder, rubbing gently. "You should get some rest. You're more than welcome to the bed; the floor's pretty comf-"

"I will sleep in the chair," she interrupted brusquely. "And not until I have word back on who and how many will be accompanying us tomorrow. If there will be any at all."

He patted her back. "Ingwe will come through, Aly. We won't be going alone."

"You have a lot of faith in him," she observed quietly. "That's good. I would be greatly concerned if you were serving under a man you did not trust, but if you believe in him, it means that I can as well."

"I trust Glorfindel too, Aly," Dex said with a chuckle, "but I noticed some definite tension there." He grinned for a moment, and then looked down at her. All but her lips were shielded from his view by the brim of her fedora, but the tinge of a scowl was enough to tell him she was not amused.

"We'll get through it alive," he tried to reassure her. "We'll get to Istien and everyone will ask you what took you so long...right before scolding you for coming to Raiaera on your own." His voice lacked the conviction it had brimmed with when he'd promised her that Ingwe would dig up some help for them. They both knew that it would be lucky if so much as one of her Raiaeran team members still survived, and nothing short of miraculous if they all did. If all five of them made it back relatively unscathed, Aly would have used up her life's supply of good fortune and it would be time for her to hang up her hat.

The dour reminder of just how dire the straights were, and just how high the stakes, turned the mood in the tiny room even more gloomy, and Alydia turned away from it, looking out to the murmurs of the sleepy city. A song slipped softly out of her mouth, an ancient lullaby whose earliest known origins stretched back thousands of years. It would never travel far past that lonely window, but each note reverberated with the difficulty of everything they'd gone through and echoed with the hopelessness of the entire affair.


"Delmah zhah rathrea, l' tresk'ri p'los
Lu' gaer ph' mzil menvissen ulu szuk
Areion barra ulu l' velve d' isto
Hwuen l' elimiiren ph' jal ssussun
Horreur lu' barra, sariya lu' seke'olath
Jal zhal el...jal zhal el."

Dex didn't speak much Alerian; just a few words he'd been able to pick up here and there, mostly from Aly, and most of them happy. He could tell that it was something about leaving home and facing the world, the long stretches of road, seeing the light of the stars. It seemed odd that such soothing imagery should sound so melancholy, or at least it did until the very last line.

"All will die, Aly? That's pretty morbid."

"The words date from a time when my whole culture was morbid, Dex," was her softly murmured reply.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Trees wove mottled patterns of shadow and starlight on the walls of the town, swaying in the mild wind. Gently they whispered soothing sussurations into Glorfindel’s frustrated mind. He could accept that Lord Arminas had agreed with Ingwe’s assessment of Alydia’s intentions. But commanding him to trust a Tel'gothra was quite different from actually overcoming decades of training and conditioning, hatred and suspicion. The Bladesinger paused in his stride, fists clenching and unclenching as he fought to contain his agitation.

The satchel at his waist contained the map case that that Alydia had entrusted to Ingwe. He was under strict orders from Arminas to return it to her hands, along with their final decision. The outcome, he supposed, had never been in much doubt, not with Ingwe arguing so fervently for her cause. Arminas’ wanderings had made him by nature a more open-minded leader than his Elythisian counterparts Turgon and Elrohir. Years of experience and observation had tempered even his ingrained distrust of his darker kindred. Combined with Ingwe’s willingness to trust almost anybody with a cause for good, Glorfindel knew that his role in the discussion had been minimal at best. The only question had been how much support the Elf-Lord had been willing to offer the endeavour. And, Glorfindel realised, there hadn’t been much of a debate over that either.

The Bladesinger allowed the stillness of the night to suffuse him with its calm. His golden hair basked almost silver beneath the brilliant full moon. The light, mystical and ethereal, infused every wooden building and paved road around him with a haunted translucent glow. It was as if the ghosts of those who had lived and died in Nenaebreth had come back to walk the world for the night.

May they rest in peace.

Gathering his composure he set out again, mythril hauberk shimmering with every stride. When he set out on the morrow he would replace the tabard he currently wore over it with stylised golden cuirass, vambraces, and greaves. His fair hair would flow from beneath the protection of a tall winged helm. His cloak of pure white wool would stream from his shoulders in the wind. He would wear his long sword at his waist with all the fierce pride of a Bladesinger of Anebrilith. For, no matter how dire the situation in his home city, Glorfindel held true to the old ideals of Raiaera, of courage, honesty, and justice. And he held faith that the darkness would not last forever, and that his people too would stay true to the light.

Ingwe had been most apologetic. The young man saw it as his responsibility to talk to Alydia himself, but his sudden departure meant that even now he rushed around to make sure his affairs were in order. The Nipponese unwittingly involved himself in so much that allowed the Legion to operate smoothly – diplomacy, logistics, discipline, and so forth – that it was almost a surprise how many loose ends there were to tie up. Glorfindel wasn’t sure if Ingwe would get to sleep tonight.

Perhaps I should head over later to see how he’s doing.

At long last the Bladesinger found himself approaching the small domicile that, according to Ingwe, Dexter Rous occupied. There, most likely, he would find Alydia as well. Glorfindel remembered the human’s face from the formation of the Legion at the tavern in Scara Brae, but not much else. He supposed that in some ways this was a good thing, for it meant that the man was a dedicated and diligent soldier, not an anarchist or a troublemaker. Which was just as well, given that he would be joining them on the morrow. If nothing else, he doubted that the edan would get in the way. None of the Legionnaires, even of the younger race, had survived this long in Raiaera without a modicum of luck or skill or both.

As he approached the wooden hovel, scars of war visible upon wall and roof, his keen ears picked up the strains of soft song whispering on the wind. He halted his light tread upon the cobblestones, straining to catch the haunting melody as it floated upon the night breeze. To his surprise, he realised that it was the Dark Elf who was singing. To his even greater surprise, he recognised the tune, if not the words. It was an ancient and well-known lullaby that spoke of journeying from home and adventuring the world, of confronting the light within the dark. The final notes were particularly poignant, heart-rending bars that faded into the shadows.

For some reason, the music touched upon chords that lay deep in his soul. Something about the morbid hopelessness of it all made the world seem so ephemeral, so sad and beautiful. It was like a short-lived mirage of the peace they fought for, something that they could never grasp and could barely even sense. Chill winter air pressed in around him as he stood motionless in the doorway of the Elven home. His clear blue eyes closed to the night, letting the final notes of the song die away in his ears. His message could wait just a little longer… just long enough for both he and Alydia to have time to compose themselves.

Only after an eternity of quiet did he finally let himself inside the house with a curt warning knock.

Immediately his gaze adjusted to the light of the flickering fire. Moonlit shadows waltzed in the corners of the room and tangoed across the faces of those present. He noted the tidy wooden furniture, the belongings stacked in the far corner, and in particular the empty windowpane, like so many others in the town a casualty of war. The Bladesinger forestalled Dexter’s startled complaint with a haughtily apologetic nod. Then he turned his attention to Alydia.

Something about her sultry blue eyes was both intoxicating and infuriating. Glorfindel responded by hardening his stare and stiffening the line of his jaw. Rather than engage in the flowery pleasantries that would ordinarily precede the delivery of such vital information, the Bladesinger reached into his satchel and withdrew the map case. Two powerful strides brought him within range to jab it sharply towards Alydia. For a moment he stood in silence, free hand clenched at his side and body held taut, like a bowstring ready to snap.

“Lord Arminas has agreed to aid you on your quest,” he told her. His mind rationalised that she was Tel’gothra, Alerian, and thus not worthy of much courtesy. But deep inside his soul rang in discordant turmoil, though he had yet to discern why. “I will accompany you, along with Ingwe and Lord Ecthelion of Tor Elythis. We will leave, as you described, first thing tomorrow morn.”

He wished she would just take the map case and give him the chance to escape, to turn on his heel and vanish back into the darkness that wreathed the doorway.

[Alydia Ettermire]

Alydia stood up straight when Glorfindel burst into the room, and for a split second she was able to maintain the serious expression that worry and exhaustion had worn. The Raiaeran Elf's tension and barely restrained aggression toward her made Dex tense up as well; but he was frozen in place, caught between months of conditioning that trained him to react in response with another member of his army and his desire to protect the slender woman who had given him a second lease on life.

Aly's natural response was to pretend she it was not unsettling to stare into the eyes of a man who, on another day, would have little trouble killing her simply because she was an Alerian in Raiaera. Her characteristic smirk etched its way across her face, half in sympathy with Glorfindel's dilemma and half mocking him for his inability to act on his instincts. She watched impassively when he thrust her map back at her, and listened to his announcement regarding the amount of help Ingwe had managed to procure for her.

She let him stand there for a moment, allowing the only sounds in the room come from the crackling of the fire Dex had lit to beat back the chill of night and the soft rattling that her map made from within its case. She only let the silence linger for a moment, though, and then stepped forward.

The bright winter moon filled the window and threw Alydia into soft silhouette as she came to reclaim her map. Her gloved hand came up and gently gripped the end of the leather tube he held out to her, letting it connect a steady black hand for a moment with a trembling white one, but also letting it create a solid, insurmountable barrier between them.

"I am glad you will be joining us, Glorfindel," she told him in the moment before he released her map. Rather than respond, the golden-haired elf gave her a scowl tinged with bewilderment, made a sharp about-face, and disappeared into the night of Nenaebreth.

From behind her, Alydia heard Dex let out the breath he'd been holding in a loud sigh. "I've never seen him like that before, Aly. He's normally a lot more polite."

"I wouldn't doubt it," the Dark Elf murmured, cradling her map case in her hands. With Glorfindel gone, the carefully maintained ease that she'd wrapped around herself like armour had vanished, and she looked even more haggard than before now that she knew which of her plans was going into effect. Her fingers beat a thoughtful tattoo on the hardened leather, and she turned to the human.

"You've never seen him interact with an Alerian before, I would wager." A few steps took her back to the window and exposed her face to the cold breeze. "There's a long history between our races...wars, fighting...mistrust. It's how we grow up, how we're trained. On both sides of the border." This was another area of Alydia's expertise; history and languages fascinated her, so she knew all sorts of trivia. "Their word for us, 'Tel'gothrim,' literally means 'the enemies.' On the rare occasions that one of us has managed to gain some of their respect, the word becomes 'Mori'Quessir,' or 'Dark Elf.' But the lingual animosity goes both ways. The word 'Darthiiri,' which is what we call Raiaerans, is also an archaic word for 'traitor.' The modern word for traitor is 'og'elend', but you still run across it in older literature, and while the word 'darthirii' applies to both nationalities, it's still a terrible insult to call any Alerian a darthiiri. Our races - if we count as two different races. Our cultures, I should say, hate each other on a lingual basis. The attitude of our language colors how we think, so it is very hard to break the chains of fear and hate." She tucked the map back into its special pocket in the interior of her coat and leaned on the naked windowsill, looking up at the sky and the stars that peeked shyly through the loosely-woven tapestry of clouds. "But in Raiaera or Alerar, an elemmiire is still a star. I may be a strange one, but it gives me hope for all of us that we still have beautiful things in common."

Dex looked over at his long-time friend and leader. He'd seen how she moved when the Bladesinger was in the room; if he hadn't made her nervous, she probably would have let him see the full scope of how exhausted and vulnerable she was.

"If you don't trust Glorfindel, how come you said you're glad he's coming? Just to be sarcastic?"

Alydia shook her head, still gazing out upon the glimmering diamonds scattered sparingly upon the velvet expanse of night. "That's not it at all. As much as I dislike the notion that Hyanda, Sintta and Kelvar all might be dead, if they are, the survivors would almost sooner trust Xem'zund than me to lead them out to safety. But Glorfindel is a Bladesinger, a guardian of his people. They will trust him, and no matter what, we will bring out any survivors that remain. That aside, Dex," she paused, picking out her thoughts carefully. "No matter how he and I might personally feel about each other, Glorfindel is still a man, and he has a much deeper connection to Eluriand - and Istien! - than I do. Doubtless he's left people behind... friends, classmates, maybe even family or a lover. Who knows how many people that he cared about decided to remain in the city rather than leave? He wouldn't have been able to contact them, no more than you could contact me or Vim. How many prayers must he say daily, even if it's just a brief flash of thought, that he will some day see those people again, alive and well, with this horrible time just a memory, a scar? And if my fear for my three, a mere three, is so great, how can he stand to get up each morning and face the anguish that a good portion of everyone he's ever cared about might possibly be dead?"

Dex nodded slowly. He hadn't thought of it like that, and while he didn't think Glorfindel had a lover, he didn't actually know the Elf personally. He knew him as an associate of Ingwe's, and he only knew Ingwe as his commanding officer. Through bold actions and incredible luck, the Nipponese had managed to earn Dexter's trust and respect. It was the same propensity, he realised, for both boldness and luck that was a large part of Aly's charm.

Alydia stood up straight and turned her eyes to Dex, breaking the reflective mood she'd set. "Lord Ecthelion of Tor Elythis. Who is he?"

"Wizard," was Dex's immediate reply, and he squinted, trying to remember the rest. "Mentor to Ingwe ever since we met him. Goes around in grey robes...Nogeres, he was called at first."

Aly nodded. She'd remembered seeing someone matching that description earlier that evening, when Ingwe was taking her to his temporary residence to hear her out. Already she owed the young human a great debt of gratitude; he and his had kept one of hers safe, he had graciously listened to her request for aid when he could have had her thrown out of the city or worse with a single word, and he had managed to garner an impressive level of support for her from no less impressive a figure than an Elf Lord. She had no doubt that he would impress her even more in the days to come.

She just hoped that she and her meticulous planning would not disappoint.

"Get some rest, Dex. We rise before the sun."


~*~*~

The melting of darkness into day saw Alydia Ettermire perched high atop the roof of the second-highest spire the ruins of Nenaebreth boasted. All around her rose the battered and scarred land that had once been bursting with life. Now the birds were silent, the surviving animals huddled in their dens, and the people long gone. Thrown against the grey pre-dawn sky, the Raiaeran landscape was very bleak indeed.

To the northeast rose the lifeless trees of Timbrethinil Taurë; to the southeast, at the very edge of her vision, rose the Emyn Naug, where the Dwarves of Raiaera had made their home. The hills hid from view the dark expanse of Tel Moranfauglir, a desert of black sand through which any who entered unprepared never exited.

To the south stretched the vast agricultural plains that had supported the Raiaeran way of life and allowed it to flourish and become the most cultured nation of Althanas. Beyond it, far from her sight was the vermilion forest from which Xem'zund had risen to wage war on the fair Elves who had so long ago locked him away. Even before war had broken out, Alydia had never had any intentions of exploring the Lindequalmë. The beasts that called that southern third of the country home were fearsome enough that even in Raiaera, where they understood more about the denizens of the Red Forest than anywhere else, it had always been considered suicidal to venture in.

It was neither to the south nor the east that Alydia looked.

To the west, nearly half a day's walk away, flowed the Elleduin River. Once they crossed it, they would be in some of the roughest traversable land in the entire world. The daylight would offer them some protection; the Necromancer's powers waned during the day and his forces grew weak. The night, unless they could find good shelter in the Daer Taurë, could easily prove the death of all of them.

If they made good time, they should arrive in Eluriand just before dusk on the second day. Whether she wanted to rush however many survivors there might be, in whatever condition they might find themselves, across almost three miles of open plains during the time the nightmares that stalked the land were waxing in power, Alydia had not yet decided. If Istien's defences were sturdy enough to rest them for one more night within the town, daylight would give them the best chance to flee. But if Istien was weak, it might be worth the gamble.

She would consult with the Istien survivors and with Ingwe when the time came to decide. No, she realised. It must seem to be the leaders among the survivors, Glorfindel, or Ingwe himself who are seen to make the decision. Among any Elves who were unfamiliar with her, not only would her input be unwelcome, it would be actively dissented.

For now, four men were making their way from their rooms and beds to follow her on a potentially lethal mission. It wouldn't do to make them wait.

Alydia was at the western gate first, looking outward at their path, rather than inward at the approaching quartet. She was standing almost rigidly, and the only movement about her was a slight ruffle of hair or coat in a stray breeze. All of her attention was focused on the land before her, as though it might erupt into chaos at any moment. It was only when the men stopped behind her that she turned to give them any acknowledgment at all.

"Good morning," she greeted them with her characteristic husky purr and playful smirk. "Let's go."

[Flames of Hyperion]

He held his eyes blearily open against the pre-dawn shadows, walking down the street at the head of the three other Legionnaires. Deep inside, Ingwe felt somewhat manipulated, a fish dancing upon the rod of a master. He couldn’t help but think again that Alydia had been counting upon his willingness to help, his ability to convince Lord Arminas. Glorfindel had insinuated as much when they had brought the matter before the Elf-Lord, and again just before he had left to deliver their message to the Alerian.

Not that it matters, I suppose, the young man thought to himself as he rounded a bend and the castle’s west gate came into view. The Dark Elf herself waited there, her hands clenched at her sides as she stood tall beside the thick stone. She set her eyes beyond the archway, gazing upon the rest of the town, the open plains after that, and then whatever lay invisible behind the dark horizon. She reminded him of a wildcat staring out upon the domain of a lion, from within the den of wolves.

He had stayed up to deal with all the administrative and logistic matters that came with managing an army the size of the Legion. It showed in his struggle to keep his eyes open, the sleepiest hour of the night tempting his tired mind with the comfort of slumber. Chill wind bit through the young man's tunic. The treacherous frost lining the street beneath his boots threatening to send him slipping. The young man clung to the miserable conditions to keep his concentration. Despite his fatigue he could not disguise the eager flame of fear and anticipation in his eyes. His cheeks flushed in the knowledge that perhaps now he could make a difference to the most important battleground of the war… or die trying.

Anything I can do to help this beleaguered land…

High above his head, Hayate let a plaintive cry echo through the frozen skies, the white gyrfalcon a bleak speck against the clouds. Ingwe’s thoughts soared and plummeted, mimicking his familiar’s battling journey through the turbulence. Together they mulled in rapid succession upon victory and defeat, success and failure.

Then he shook his head, trying to rid his mind of lethargy and defeatism at the same time. He was with his friends, he reminded himself. With people he trusted with his life, and who trusted him with theirs. Even Alydia, whom he had only met the day before, was someone he believed would do her utmost for her companions. When he raised his eyes again they were clear and free of doubt, focused on what lay ahead.

Ingwe came to a halt next to the Alerian, squinting into the distance from behind his glasses. Light mail tinkled, wooden staff thunked against pavement, and a contagious yawn gaped. His cohorts in this desperate endeavour were all ready and waiting to leave.

“Indeed,” the young man smiled in response to Alydia’s statement. “Let us be off.”


~*~*~

The land rose and receded beneath their steady tread, a series of undulating hills that stretched as far as the eye could see in all directions. Dark clouds created a similar impression in the skies overhead, sandwiching the small band of travellers between worlds of roiling grey. Stifled and trapped between heaven and earth, the air hung heavy with black ash and the stench of decay.

Scattered conifers dotted the landscape, increasing in number as the travellers fled the haloed dawn in chase of fleeting glimpses of their shadows. Great gnarled trunks and writhing roots scoured the black lands for sustenance. It was a dire reminder of the depths of the Necromancer’s power, the stark cost of Xem’zund’s invasion upon the lands of Raiaera. Not in their lifetimes would these lands grow verdant once more.

The houses of the outer town thinned out until only the sporadic homestead to meet the eye. The dilapidated, ruined state of each indicated that their owners had long since abandoned them. Fenced fields lay in untended disarray. Hedges grew wild, free from careful trimming. Discarded farming implements rusted in sorrowful neglect amongst the remains of neat flowerbeds. The small band of warriors took care to avoid such buildings, for nobody quite wanted to find out what resided in the ruins.

For the most part, though, their path took them through the bleak nothingness of ashen wasteland, long since corrupted by Xem’zund’s power. They trekked across remnants of parched riverbeds, where just last summer clear gurgling streams had flowed to join the Elleduin. Even these were now little more than dry dirt and dust.

The wind shifted and surged as they made steady progress into the morning, dying down for long minutes only to spring up with all the strength of a hurricane. One moment it was at their backs and urging them onwards. The next it howled in their face, bringing with it grim news from all four quadrants of the realm. More than once, Ingwe felt as if some malicious hand sought to tear his cloak from his shoulders. Hayate had to fight to maintain headway against its furious intensity in the skies above.

The young man walked at a steady pace, neither taking the lead as was Alydia’s prerogative, nor lingering behind in self-absorbed reverie like Glorfindel. Ingwe felt some concern for the Bladesinger, but decided that it was not yet the time to broach the matter with his good friend. The subject was far too personal to speak of casually, even if he only intended to assure the Elf that perhaps such enmity had to be set aside for now. The young man looked forward once more, surprised to see Ecthelion lengthening his stride to catch up with their Alerian guide. He wondered why the archmage wanted to speak in privacy with the Dark Elf.

The Nipponese shrugged, remembering the old adage not to meddle in the affairs of mages. His curiosity would have to remain unsatisfied. For now, he had to concentrate on putting one foot before the other, mentally preparing himself for the difficulties that no doubt lay ahead.

[Alydia Ettermire]

“Alydia of Ettermire,” the archmage spoke, his elderly voice gruff and low such that it did not carry to the other members of the party. His pale blue eyes twinkled in greeting from the depths of his grey hood. “Pray tell… what do you intend to steal from us this time?”

Alydia’s eyes flicked over to the Elythisian Elf-Lord. She didn't know him at all, and it was obvious that despite Dex’s general familiarity with him, her man didn't know him well either. That gave her plenty of reason for caution. He didn’t approach her with hostility, though, and that was quite rare from any Raiaeran. A wry grin pulled at the corners of her red lips as she replied.

“It is to be the grandest heist of my career. But if I were going to steal from you, you would never see me coming.”

The archmage laughed in turn, a low and delicate sound like gusts of fresh air darting across verdant green fields.

“That sounds suspiciously like a challenge, great thief,” he countered. “One that I might have taken you up on, if I were but a thousand years younger. Unfortunately, I regret that I must decline, for old age has caught up with my eyes and I fear that I indeed would never see you coming.”

He paused, then bowed his head low. “Much to my chagrin, I must emphasise.”

“The fun part is getting away only to be found. Perhaps you would not see me coming, but certainly a studied man would know where I went afterward.” Despite the light banter of the conversation, the gravity of the situation ahead of her kept Alydia's tone sober. Truth be told, she wished she could be on a heist, that she was in Raiaera to play with the minds of its citizens instead of desperately seeking survivors.

“You must have first heard of me a long time ago, Lord Ecthelion.” Alydia used the sudden change of tack to keep herself from becoming mired in grim reality. “I have not been Alydia del Ettermire for more than forty years now.” How she had come to the archmage’s interest was beyond her; had she really been that noticeable, either in her current life or her previous? Or could the Elythisian archmage call upon a network of information that rivalled her own?

“Perhaps, Alydia, if I may call you that.” Ecthelion turned away from the Alerian for a moment, leaning upon his gnarled wooden staff as he pulled himself up the next slope. He lost his gaze for a moment in the distance, seeing something there that nobody else did. “I do not hoard great treasures or mighty artefacts, rich baubles or beautiful statues. Many of my peers regard me as eccentric in this, and much of the Raiaeran nobility indeed look upon me with disdain, that a man of such station as myself does not express interest in the culture and arts.”

A trick of the overcast mid-morning light illuminated his features, the concern in his gaunt cheeks and the worry in his weary brow. With great effort the mage pulled himself together, picking up his step once more to keep up with the Dark Elf.

“No, Alydia. I myself am an expert in the gathering and hoarding of knowledge, the accumulated wealth of minds past and present, for the benefit of those yet to come. Even in times like these…” Ecthelion paused once again, before continuing with a sly smile. “Tell me, Alydia, what you think of such senile frivolity, as one who delights in deflecting the attentions of such prying eyes as mine?”

“I think that there is nothing more valuable to hoard than knowledge, nothing more precious to collect. So many of the interesting baubles and artefacts that you have spurned in pursuit of scholarly endeavours are so intrinsically linked with history and culture that an otherwise worthless item becomes a prize.” Alydia slowed her pace a little to accommodate the old Elf. She was starting to doubt that he'd be able to make the trip back. The path through the gorge was sure to be quite rocky and steep in places, a route that would try younger, firmer bodies. They would have to figure out a way, when it came down to it, to move the old man quickly and gently. Or is he just toying with me…?

“That’s probably why I do what I do," she mused. "There are so many things in this world worth knowing about and understanding, so many things just taken for granted. When they disappear, there is outrage, but also there is curiosity; people I stole from want to know the exact value of the thing I took. If I steal something and do not ensure it is returned to its proper spot, then likely it was something that could be considered a national treasure that had fallen into the hands of a collector. Something that belongs to everyone. Although…” she broke off with a slight chuckle.

“When I take things from Raiaera, partially it's because I can’t be here legally or safely, and it’s a fascinating land so different from, yet so like my own. If I’m going to be sneaking around the country, I might as well make a fuss. But rest assured… I’m not in the business of stealing individual belongings. There really isn’t any sport in it.”

Ecthelion nodded once after she’d finished speaking, his eyes thoughtful as he continued his deliberate tread. “I may just have underestimated you, Alydia… and I’m not usually in the business of underestimating people. For that, I believe, I must thank you.”

The archmage laughed again, somewhat ruefully, sneaking a quick glance at the Elf and two men who were trailing in their wake.

“A word or two of advice, if I may be so bold. Do not mind Glorfindel too much… he is not so pigheaded that he will not get over his prejudices in time. As for Ingwe… well, he can be so very human at times. I’m not sure whether to warn you or to prepare you, but do keep an eye on him.”

With surprising nimbleness he leapt to the top of a nearby boulder, one shapeless grey form upon another. In the valley below the trees began to cluster together around a wide river, and on the horizon was the shapeless green-black mass of the Daer Taure, the Great Forest of Raiaera.

“Glorfindel actually did surprisingly well, the first time he saw me,” Alydia noted with some amusement, stepping lightly beside the boulder on which Ecthelion had perched. “He only threatened to kill me. Hyanda tried several times, before Kelvar could restrain her. Since then she's become one of my own. So I'm not terribly worried about Glorfindel. Not unless all of a sudden I should turn into a stereotypical Alerian nightmare-beast.”

The thief's tone warmed, and she managed a smile. “As for humans, they are such funny, curious, wonderful creatures. I should hope that Ingwe is very human.”

Ecthelion nodded as he scanned the landscape for signs of movement, extending well-practised tendrils of arcane sense as far as his eye could see. As he did so, he spoke again to the Dark Elf alongside him.

“Thank you, Alydia of Ettermire. We are in your hands… please guide us well.”

The only response she had for him was a grim nod.


~*~*~

A little before noon, the small party reached the Elleduin. During the spring and summer months in years when rains fell plentifully upon the wooded landscape of the Raiaeran countryside, its waters churned and roared for hundreds of miles until calming shortly after it merged with the even mightier Escaldor and spread with it to form the largest river delta in mainland Althanas, the Alye Duina. The river's banks stretched nearly a mile at their widest, with the sharply sloping land telling more about the river's breadth and depth than anything else. Now, in winter with most of its source water locked up in ice on the lake Laurë Linae, after a year of drought and turmoil, the water crawled over an area just a few hundred metres from one side to the other.

The stream, for at the moment it was difficult to call the Elleduin a river, looked shallow to the naked eye, only knee-deep at the worst, but Alydia wouldn't allow anyone to actually set foot in the water. It would be far too easy for someone to slip on the mossy rocks that lined the riverbed and drench himself. Glorfindel's heavy cloak might trip him up, and Ecthelion's robes if they so much as touched the water would just keep absorbing it until he was soaked to the waist.

Though the air was warming slightly from the dread cold of the dawn, a bitter chill clung persistently. To get wet was to freeze, and if that wasn't a death warrant for the man for whom they'd need to build a fire and dry out, it would likely be the death of a few of the holdouts in Istien.

It took an hour for Alydia to gather up enough boulders from around the dry stretch of the riverbed to create a path, and half again that in order to lay it so that each massive rock was within easy leaping distance of its neighbour. It was something of a comical sight to watch the agile thief drop one of the stones from the unknown darkness she had secreted it mere moments before, hop onto it, and repeat the process four or five times before scurrying back for another load, but the hour and a half the thief spent rushing around gave the men little to do but reflect upon what they were doing, why they were doing it, and, for one member in particular, with whom they were doing it.

When the path was finally laid, Aly stood at the far bank and waved over to everyone else that it was now safe to cross. With the work done, she sat down to take a well-deserved few minutes just to rest. Her right leg ached and stung, courtesy of a pair of bullets roughly ten days before, and she rubbed gently between the welts left in their wake. The pain subsided slightly, and she sighed. Narrow misses could hurt worse than actual hits.

Ingwe crossed the path first, nimbly leaping from one stepping stone to the next until he stood only a few feet from the Alerian who had drawn him away from his men. Dex followed next, taking each jump in his own time, and after him was Glorfindel, whose gleaming form seemed to fly across the river and only touch its feet to the rocks Alydia had laid out of a sense he should at least acknowledge the work that went into creating the path.

Ecthelion had watched the youngsters quietly, observing their antics with the same sort of indulgent smile a parent or grandparent adopted while letting their progeny play in the sand or avoid cracks in the cobblestone of a street. When his turn came to cross, he simply vanished from sight and reappeared in the midst of the group. When greeted by their annoyed stares, he patiently explained that it was far too draining a spell to use often or on so many living creatures.

Whether it was an hour and a half wasted because Ecthelion had withheld his knowledge from them or not, the afternoon was dragging on and the little group had a long way to go, and so they ventured into the murky depths of the haunted Daer Taurë.

[Flames of Hyperion]

When the sun set and left the world in darkness, Alydia settled the men in as sheltered a copse as she could find in their immediate area. The rustlings and groanings of the forest around them put everyone on edge, and Alydia left just after everyone else was seated, briefly ordering Dex to build no fire. Already they were mortal creatures invading a woodland dominated by the dead, and she had no desire to send out invitations to the feast they'd invariably be if they were caught. After quickly reversing her hat and coat so that the black sides were visible, she vanished into the night like a mere slip of shadow.

Stuck in camp, Dex blew into his hands, trying to warm them. Already he had his cloak and blanket both wrapped as tightly around his body as he could manage, but the lack of a fire on the winter night would certainly have him stiff by morning. His native Scara Brae lay to the distant south, where the winters were mild - far warmer than the typical Raiaeran Hrive. But this winter was harsher by far, influenced by cold winds from Salvar that cut the hardy Scarabrian to the bone.

Dex had never really liked camping; he was a city boy through and through. But Aly had come and needed his help, and if that meant freezing half to death in a night filled with peril, then...so be it. He owed her at least that much, and there wasn't a person on her team anywhere in the vast world who would ever have forgiven him if Raiaera was too much for her on her own and he had forsaken his vow to come at her request. Stell-stell would never have forgiven him. He would have never forgiven himself. The promise made by the members of Alydia Ettermire's organization was not one she'd asked them to take; in fact, he was sure that she was only dimly aware of it. But they all took it, from Scara Brae to Fallien, Raiaera to Alerar, they took it. They swore to aid her when she asked and protect her when they could, no matter what the danger was to them.

Loyalty well placed, too, he mused, regarding the patch of darkness she had vanished from.

The shivering human looked over at Glorfindel… or at least, he thought Glorfindel was over to his right a little bit. The metal of the Elf's armour glinted a little in the sparse light the heavens provided through the clouds and branches, confirming the man's identity.

”Campin’ was a little better in the summer… when we had the time to make camp, anyway.”

The Bladesinger nodded in mute, moody agreement, preferring to suffer in silence. It felt like his armour was trying to freeze to the light robes he wore beneath, and he knew better than to touch it directly for any great length of time. His eyes could see slightly better in the dark than the human's, as all Elves' could. Compared to the Alerian, though, he knew that he was like a blind cripple in a burrow.

Opposite his position in the grove he could see – or rather, sense – the slumbering form of Ecthelion, an unmoving grey heap huddled as best possible against the cold. Ingwe was somewhere beyond the archmage, probably unable to sleep and gazing at the stars as the young man was prone to doing. Alydia… well, the Dark Elf was off somewhere, most likely to check the perimeter of their makeshift camp.

Thoughts of the Alerian once again stoked the embers of his troubled mind, and Glorfindel had to fight to keep his expression neutral. He identified the emotions roiling within him as confusion and uncertainty, his entire being rebelling at the ease with which he had been able to dismiss long years of training and conditioning. It was not so easy to come to terms with what he was doing now… or, more precisely, who he was doing it with.

He paused, remembering what he had been told the previous night regarding Dexter and Alydia. Perhaps…

“Dexter,” he spoke, keeping his lyrical tones quiet. “Would you mind answering… why do you work with… with that Dark Elf?”

“Oh, that’s easy.” Dex's voice, likewise hushed, warmed at the thought. “I work with Aly because without her, I’d probably have done something stupid. Landed myself in jail by now, or worse. See… ah, this is hard, that life is a long way behind me.” He turned a little bit toward Glorfindel, trying to get his blood moving a little bit by rubbing his hands over the coarse stubble on his face.

“I met Aly first a little more than four years ago. We were actually after the same thing, a museum piece in Scara Brae city. She wanted to steal it for a chase, I wanted to break it. I can't even tell you why anymore. Guess I thought it would hurt someone and show them that they couldn't boss me around. I was the worst kind of scum back then, in it for me and only me. Well, she ran into me on my way to wreak wanton destruction, and offered me the chance to play her game with her. I thought it was weird. Didn't she know that if I decided to hit her, as fragile as she looked, I could break her in half?"

He paused for a moment, remembering. “But there was something so mockin’ in her eyes, tellin' me that if I couldn't keep up with her, I couldn’t fulfil my goals anyway. So I agreed. Long story short, over the course of the next week we talked a lot. Butted heads… and it was more like bashing my head against a rock than anything, she was always so far ahead of me. But then she got caught by the law who'd been sent after her and the thing she'd stolen. I was a coward...I hid and watched her get dragged off. She could have looked at my hidin’ place or called out for help, but she didn't. She didn't even put up a real struggle during her arrest."

Dex chuckled; the kid he once was hadn't been able to see just how talented she was, and just how little she'd needed his help back then. “After she got caught, I thought it was the end of that. She was off to prison. But later on that night, she found me again and offered me a place among her men. One of the others on her team gave me a real job, just because she asked." Dex's light green eyes smiled, even if it was invisible in the darkness. "Aly found me a way to have a life with a purpose, saw something in me that was more than a kid with a chip on my shoulder. Helped shape that into a real man, a man I can say that I'm proud to be. She’s the reason that I could join the Legion in the first place, much less buckle down and be a soldier.”

Glorfindel absorbed the story in even more silence, letting the words sink in as he weighed them against what he had been told, and what he knew first-hand, of Alerians. They didn’t match up evenly, and he struggled to bridge the cavernous hole in logic.

“You’re saying that I should trust her then… that she’s a good person? A Dark Elf?” Glorfindel shook his head as if trying to clear it of a foreign thought, sending his long golden hair flying violently from side to side. “I don’t know, Dexter. Perhaps I simply do not know what to think any more.”

He paused, his hand subconsciously inching towards his sword hilt. With great effort and a soft growl of frustration he tore it away. “All I know is that I cannot trust her. Not yet.”

“She didn’t ask you to trust her.” The shrug that accompanied Dex’s simple statement could be heard more clearly in his tone of voice than in the rustling of cloth around him. “Actually,” he reflected, “she never asked any of us to trust her. That just sort of happened along the way. But what I do know is I trust Aly with my life… and I would give my life for her, push comes to shove. But I also know she would much sooner give her life to preserve mine than have that happen. And it’s a humblin’ experience… because I know I don’t deserve it. It’s gotta take a lot of a very special kind of love for her to rush into this country, despite everything, in search of four missing people that she didn’t have a good chance of finding in the first place."

“Yes," he said decisively, “love. Because what else do you call puttin’ your life on the line for someone that might already be dead, just because you have a little hope...like a fool's dream...that they might, just might maybe still be alive after all this time? Through all...all of this?”

Dex sat up straight, eyes futilely probing the area where Alydia had vanished. “I know that there’s a lot of bad blood between Raiaerans and Alerians, Glorfindel. You'd have to be blind and deaf not to know it, anywhere in the world. And I know the stories vilifying them. There've gotta be even worse ones that you grew up with. But Aly is a good person, despite being a criminal. She… well… huh.”

He thought for a moment, frowning deeply. “I was about to say that I didn’t think she’d be capable of killin’… but I think she would be. Not for murder, and maybe not even in self defence. But in defence of one of her people, her friends, in defence of their lives, yes. In defence of a child, certainly. In defence of a wider population that would see her jailed up if they could catch her… I dunno. But not for herself, I don’t think. She hates violence. Saw too much of it in Ettermire, I guess.”

Again Glorfindel absorbed the information in silence, not even twitching a muscle from where he sat. What Dexter was telling him was difficult to understand, and certainly went against everything he’d been told as a child. As the Scarabrian had pointed out, there were many folk tales vilifying the Dark Elves; not only in Raiaera, but also across the known world where the High Elves had spread their influence. The feud was well-known and well-established, and not for petty reasons, either, as the Tel'Gothra herself had insinuated barely one day past.

Which made it all the more difficult for his mind to comprehend why Alydia was such an enigma. Could it possibly be that she was a good person rather than a villain, someone to be respected despite the evil and malice implicated by the colour of her skin and the nation from which she hailed?

Glorfindel could not wrap his thoughts around that particular logic, try as he might. Long minutes ticked by like hours as the Bladesinger sat in motionless silence, handsome brow furrowed in deep thought.

He never did get round to replying.


~*~*~

Soft whispers of the conversation between Dexter and Glorfindel breathed upon Ingwe's ears, but other than that the forest had grown quiet… too quiet. The air hung heavy and still, frightened into submission by the sheer force of the necromantic corruption. And yet somehow, the unadorned grey of the dead boughs above his head sighed in sorrow, a breathless requiem for a spring that had died so long ago.

He sat with his back against a flaking trunk, hidden amongst the gnarled roots that wove and twisted about him in futile search for sustenance. He wrapped his cloak against the all-pervading chill, his rear raw and aching from the brutal ground. The efforts of the day’s march had wearied him, but he bore his exhaustion with a grim fortitude worthy of any Gunnbad Dwarf. Heated blood pounded through the aching muscles in his legs. His eyes turned to the cloudy sky as if seeking to burn through to the glimmering stars beyond, although in reality he merely awaited Hayate’s return.

Another murmur of indecipherable dialogue reached him. He could not recognise the words, but he could identify the strained note in Glorfindel’s voice. Ingwe knew that Dexter was in a much better position to convince the High Elf of Alydia’s intentions, and silently thanked the Legionnaire for his efforts. He hoped that the prejudices Glorfindel bore were not too engrained into his training. If he could not overcome them…

No. I must have faith, Ingwe chided himself. He remembered the ease with which the Academy back in Nippon had brought together so many students of such diverse, often conflicted backgrounds. Granted, they had been little more than children then, but Glorfindel was a good person. Rewarded is the man who trusts in his... his friends.

Thoughts of his old school led his mind in another direction altogether. The Nipponese warrior-mage shifted his weight a fraction to find a fresh spot for the ground to rub raw, drawing his cloak tighter about him as he did so. Gingerly he reached into his tunic to remove the pendant that he wore about his neck, its fiery red gem nestling amongst outstretched wings of burnished gold. Ingwe marvelled at how warm it felt upon his ice-cold fingertips. Then he realised, crestfallen, that the temperature was due to lingering body heat rather than anything resembling an arcane miracle. Not long ago, he had almost convinced himself that the plain pendant was somehow acting as a conduit to its counterpart, presumably kept on the person of one Kayu Kanamai. But it had been unresponsive for weeks, and now he was not so sure he hadn't dreamt it all.

He peered at it over the rims of his oversized spectacles. The simple accessory reflected in his dark brown eyes, a dim flash of colour against the ominous heavens. Nostalgia and longing crested in his soul like a tsunami, long-repressed emotions boiling to the surface.

Damnit, he whispered, cursing the strangled sob in his throat and the hot wave threatening to breach the dam behind his eyes. He had been so successful in burying the pain beneath long hours of work and war. Caught off guard, he choked on the need to contain it.

Please… tell me it’s not… He wanted to scream as he thought back to his last memory of the battle outside Nenaebreth. The young woman had ordered the daemon to let him be. He knew that there had to be a reason, knew that she would not have joined Xem’zund’s legions of her own accord, but…

Is there nothing I can do to save you?

[Alydia Ettermire]

The darkness clung to Alydia. Its welcoming embrace cushioned each silent footfall, its soft breezes carried the soft sounds of snapping twigs to her sensitive ears. With her every movement, it reminded her that she was a shadow among shadows; she was welcome here. Ordinarily, a midnight prowl tinged with danger would have her pulse racing with excitement; behind every tree was a potential point for an ambush, each murky metre provided her a thousand different ways to evade pursuit. Truly, she was in her native element. This was where she belonged!

Not tonight. Not in these haunted woods. Not when there were other lives in peril.

For once in her life, the fall of night filled the thief with anxiety and she anticipated the dawn. But it was not mere mortal men she might encounter, men with vanities and foibles, men who could be easily fooled into thinking they had the upper hand and then eluded at the exact instant they were certain they had captured her.

No, the creatures she might encounter in this dread night were nearly as numerous as the stars and gained power once the sun had set. They were fuelled by hunger... No, it was worse than hunger. The creatures that owned this night wished to destroy every last flicker of life and thus claim Althanas for the dead. They could not be shaken save by holing up until dawn's light forced them back into slumber, and whether they were already dead or living beings corrupted by the will of the Necromancer, could not be stopped but by destruction.

Saved from the worst of the numbing chill by her sturdy vlince coat, Alydia was grateful for the constant cold nip at her face that kept her alert. Even though she could see no sign of the blue-green undead or yellow-orange of a living creature among the indigoes and violets of the frozen trees, even though the sounds her ears picked up could easily be attributed to bare twigs brushing against each other, even though it seemed luck had favoured her with a rare peaceful area in which to wait out the terrifying Raiaeran darkness, Aly knew better than to trust fickle fortune in desperate times.

Within fifteen minutes of leaving camp, she had made several layers of ditches around the site, ripping dirt from the ground to trap stupid, clumsy creatures in deep pits, and then piling the earth on either side of the trap to ensure there was no escape. It would take real intelligence or a phenomenal amount of dumb luck to evade all of them, so with that task complete, Aly was spending a little time patrolling to ensure that there was nothing around with the brains or athleticism to get to the centre of her semi-fortified circle.

She was about to turn around, satisfied that if anything was out there, it was unlikely to find them, when she caught a scent. While it was very similar to the noxious fumes she'd inhaled during annoying but necessary sewer crawls, it wasn't the same. In the open air, the stench was awful, but not too oppressive to breathe. If she was smelling it out here, it had to be very fresh and very close. More importantly, the scent had a bite to it, rather than a subtle musk. That meant it had come from a carnivore, either a scavenger or a predator.

Alydia's gaze snapped to the ground, looking for the source of the stench. Sure enough, there was a pile of scat on the ground, not even twenty feet from her, fuchsia in colour to her eyes with a darker purple only just starting to encroach over its surface - not even cold yet. Judging from the sheer amount, the creature that had made it had come had to be huge.

How did something so large get so close without me seeing it? Her darkvision allowed her to see the heat emanating from anything; she shouldn't have missed even a little mouse, much less...

There!

Very close now was a huge, hulking shape. Everything from the tip of its snout to the tip of its tail were very nearly identical in temperature to the air; only small spots of warmth, smaller and cooler than what she had been looking for, gave away the creature's position. Now that she could see it, she could see other creatures flitting almost invisibly through the trees, stalking her.

It was a pack of at least half a dozen, with the smallest's shoulders coming up to her chin and the largest as tall as she was with her hat on. They looked like overgrown wolves, but their teeth were bigger and sharper, as though a freak accident had replaced their molars with extra fangs, and bony spikes jutted up along their spines, making them look particularly lethal.

Dire wolves.

One was watching her, the others were sniffing her trail, and then she understood the danger she had exposed the men in to by patrolling the area after setting her traps. These creatures had good enough night vision to see the ditches ahead of time, a good enough sense of smell to follow her back to camp, and enough intelligence to see that she wasn't good to even feed one of them. But the men, four healthy males whose scents she bore faintly on her clothes and shoes...those would be a meal.

The pack made its decision, and on silent paws started trotting away from the thief, spurning her as an unworthy target and going back toward the clearing she had left behind nearly half an hour before.

Panic froze Alydia's blood for a moment. If the wolves got to camp they would charge out of the darkness before anyone knew what was on them, and the four men would be dead. While she was sure that Glorfindel, all wrapped in metal, would prove less than palatable after the first few frustrating gnaws, the other three were soft targets. She couldn't let the beasts make it that far.

With a decisive tug, the Alerian untied the belt keeping her coat shut against the cold, ignoring the frozen air which lanced at her body through her thin catsuit. Her hand shot into a pocket and latched onto a pen.

What?

The gloved hand dropped the writing implement, and Aly fumbled around in her coat for a moment before remembering she had turned the it to its black side before leaving camp. Once more she reached into her coat, only this time into an outer pocket, and she grabbed the whistle she wanted. By this time, the wolves were already a good distance away, but Aly wasn't going to let them leave her behind.

Bringing the whistle to her lips, she let a loud blast resound through the forest. Massive heads turned; by making the noise she'd made herself a target. That was perfect, that would buy them some time. To entice the predators to chase her instead of pursuing the boys, she turned and ran, speeding away from the camp and further drawing the predators to chase her instead of stalk them.

Please remember what this means, Dex. Get them out of there.

[Flames of Hyperion]

How long Ingwe sat there, motionless and trembling against the violent tide that surged beneath his skin, he didn’t know. It could have easily been either moments or eons. At length, he managed to conquer his emotions. Or rather, he managed to hold on to his sanity for long enough that they ran out of steam and ceased their rampage through his soul. He had closed his eyes, so he opened them once more to the silent night. White-knuckled fists drew blood from his palms, so he willed them loose again.

Nothing had changed. Hayate still flew aloft somewhere beyond the horizon, scouting the lay of the land. Ingwe trusted Alydia, but Hayate might espy things from the skies that the Dark Elf might miss prowling the earth. Dexter and Glorfindel still engaged in a faint whisper of conversation. Beyond that, stifled silence indicated Lord Ecthelion’s slumber and Alydia’s absence.

Ingwe sighed and forced himself to cast aside the last lingering remnants of sorrow. He could do nothing for Kayu at the present time, not since the Legion’s scouts had lost track of the defeated Death Lord. She could be anywhere in the breadth of Raiaera by now, from Timbrethinil to Narenhad. He had to take solace in the facts. Istien was her most likely destination, he headed in that direction himself, and without a doubt he was far closer to her now than he had been a year ago.

Silhouetted amongst the twilit battlefield shadows he had caught sight of her face, for the first time since she had disappeared from his life on that terrible night back in Nippon. That alone had to be worth something.

Ingwe sniffed, self-consciously feeling the edges of his lips tug upwards. It was a bleak smile, a wan smile, but one touched by a faint hint of hope. He was not going to give up…

He stiffened, shocked from his reveries. Was that the warning cry of a prowling gyrfalcon that sounded from the gloom to his fore? Or was it something else, something far more sinister?

Alert now, he allowed his senses to comb the vicinity. Under normal circumstances he might not have reacted so. But the forest was so quiet and still that he had to treat anything and everything that seemed out of place with extreme prejudice. Ingwe strained his ears and concentrated once again…

There!

A little further now, a shrill call echoing between the barren treetops and cold rocky ground. It did not belong to Hayate, rather sounding vaguely artificial, as if…

“That’s Aly’s warning whistle,” Dexter hissed in Ingwe’s direction as they stood to face the night. The Scarabrian wore an expression of grim focus as he worked to decipher the piercing notes. They kept an irregular, erratic rhythm, coming closer and then drawing back as the thief did her utmost to nullify the threat herself. Glorfindel’s ornate armour glinted in a trick of the non-existent light, and Ecthelion leaned upon his staff as if he had never been in deep slumber.

Dex brought his own whistle out from under his shirt, face contorted in concentration. “She says… there’s big trouble… uh, no… well, yeah. Big animals, big trouble, and she says to get away. What do I tell her back?”

“Try to find out what she’s talking about,” Ingwe urged, casting a wary glance about him as the night and the trees pressed in claustrophobically. His mind whirred into action, calling up the rough sketch of an emergency plan he’d concocted before darkness had cocooned them. His surroundings were far too close for comfort. He’d decided that it would be a bad idea to fight amidst the trees, where there were far too many shadows and blind spots for his liking. High-pitched whistles speared back and forth through the crisp air, growing ever closer and ever more frantic and insistent.

[Alydia Ettermire]

Alydia tore recklessly through the barren forest, dodging sharply past one tree and weaving swiftly through others. She had ventured into the woods trusting that their endless darkness and difficult terrain would provide her with any advantage necessary against the worst attacks, but they had betrayed her. Instead of allying with her, the night cloaked the wolves at her heels, and only faint glimpses of dusky magenta alerted her to their presence.

They were perfectly suited to long chases in this setting; their big eyes caught any light available and their long legs let them effortlessly cover the ground over which the thief scrambled. Their paws, nearly the size of a man's head, gripped loose soil and jutting roots securely, giving them extra traction that only bolstered their ability to chase anything through these terrible woods.

The fact that they worked as a cohesive team made them even more dangerous. If Aly veered right, there was a set of jaws ready to lash out at her, and the same if she dodged to the left. There were a pair behind her, and she could hear two more snarling in front of her, waiting for her to tire herself out so that they could tighten their noose. A lifetime of hunting together had taught these animals everything they needed about taking down any sort of prey.

Any sort but me.

The trees were both her enemy and her ally; the jutting roots threatened to trip her or make her twist an ankle, but the great trees also sometimes let long branches swoop low toward the ground, and Aly was looking for one of these while repeatedly whistling to Dex to run far and fast. There were plenty of branches well within her ability to reach, but the closer she was to ground level, the more likely she was to still be seen as a target. Her plan was to stick to ground level for as long as possible, then vanish up into the treetops and hope the pack would decide it wasn't worth it to go back and seek out her camp.

At least, that was her plan. A low growl from her left heralded an attack, and Alydia let the darkness claim her, popping back out twenty feet up, in the safety of a branch. The thief's breath came in ragged puffs, each exhale letting out a soft chirp from the whistle still clamped firmly between her lips. Beads of sweat clung to her flesh, chilling now that she had stopped and threatening to turn to ice where they formed. Twin strips of fiery agony burned up her right thigh as a recent wound reminded her that it hadn't finished healing. Loud snarls and a sharp, pained yipe sounded from her former position at the base of the tree; a couple of the beasts, expecting to sink their teeth into her tender flesh, had instead collided with each other.

Suddenly, a distant whistle caught her attention as the last of its piercing note reverberated through the forest. She hadn't heard it before, she'd been so focused on running, and apparently the wolves had ignored it in favour of the immediate meal presented to them. A few seconds passed with the pack circling under the tree, knowing she was up there and waiting for her to come down, when the message repeated itself.

Dex's concerned query punctured the fabric of the night, asking her what it was she wanted him to run away from. The Dark Elf sat straight up abruptly on her branch, startled that he would question a simple and urgent command like that. She glanced down at the predators who mere seconds before had been pacing around beneath her; they too had heard the distant call. Unlike the shambling corpses she was sure they'd come up against in the next couple of days, these living abominations were smart enough to recognize that the shrill sound probably came from another member of their prey's group - a member that didn't know they were coming.

Below her feet, the ghostly figures of the wolves filed up and started moving back the way they had came, honing in on the noise Dex was making and moving in to take advantage of the hapless man's error.

Alydia bolted to her feet, nearly falling from her perch in her haste to follow the pack. This is the result of having a man with split loyalties.

The Alerian thief was sure that the only reason Dex was questioning her orders was because he had either asked the young human what to do or he'd been given directions to ask what she'd meant. Under normal circumstances that would be annoying, even infuriating. In this situation it could be deadly.

She sent urgent whistles while she ran, urgently trying to order him to get the rest of the group out of range, however hopeless that might be with his insistence on trying to ask what it was.

Already winded from the run away, she knew she wouldn't be able to make it back to camp at the same pace as the animals she had inadvertently attracted. Hopping and running through the safety of the branches was causing her to lose ground on the wolves; though she had sure footing and years of running on rooftops for one reason or other, she was still at risk of losing the speedy beasts. If she couldn't get back, she couldn't do anything to try to protect her man or any of the others.

In a carefully calculated stupid move, Alydia let the darkness take her from the safety offered by altitude to the back of the largest of the wolves. She very nearly overshot and fell off, but the bone spikes that made the beast's appearance so formidable also made for good handholds, and despite the rough bumps caused by the creature's gait, she was able to tuck herself between two of the sharp bones. She was rattled around on her mount as he ran, shaken as he tried to buck her, poked by the bristles of his fur and knocked about by the very protuberances she had wedged herself between for protection, but he didn't manage to send her flying.

There were growls close beside her, but Aly's gamble that the other members of the pack would not bite their leader to get at her paid off, and the ones that did get too close for comfort were either rebuked by a snarl from her ersatz, unwilling mount, or met with a sharp sting to the face as she lashed out with her whip.

After only a few minutes, there was the brief sensation of flying as the wolves easily soared over her ditch, and mere seconds after that she could see the bright forms of four men standing in a clearing, waiting for the attack they'd been warned was coming. The growls around her softened as the pack split up to attack their prey from all sides, and she let out one last whistle to let the others know that danger was directly upon them.

As the wolves burst into camp, a harsh blast of light illuminated the world, dazzling the wolves and making her mount rear up on his back legs in alarm. For the barest of an instant, with her coat flaring, hair flowing, and whip curling in the air, Alydia looked like the embodiment of a horse breaker.

The illusion was broken when the beast she'd ridden in on came back down, propelling her shoulder-first into frozen dirt and dead leaves, red lips pulled back in a grimace. Like the wolves, she was flash-blind; her world was simply a chaotic swirl of howls, snarls and shouting.

[Flames of Hyperion]

“She keeps repeating… get away, run,” Dexter told him after one final interchange, concern gnawing upon his features like a horde of rats upon a hard biscuit. “Whatever it is… Ingwe, Aly only ever says to run if something’s really got her spooked or if there’s real big trouble.”

The malevolent silence turned ominous and menacing. Closer and closer came the piercing warnings to run, but more and more they sounded instead like cries for help. Ingwe came to his decision.

“All the more reason that she shouldn’t face it alone, then,” he said, a grim smile touching his lips. “There’s no guarantee that we’ll be able to outrun it. If they’re coming to us, our job becomes that much easier.”

He was once again pleasantly surprised and pleased that they all nodded in agreement, ready to follow his lead. The wizened archmage Ecthelion supported him in his silence. The Anebrilithian Bladesinger Glorfindel, resplendent as ever, bared cold steel to colder night. Faithful Dexter balanced loyalty to Alydia with commitment to the Legion and, for the moment at least, found them equal.

“We should pull back to the centre of the clearing,” Ingwe advised. Loosening his cloak, he adjusted his glasses to a position where they would hopefully remain perched during combat. “Fighting here would only give our foes the advantage, whatever they may be.”

They moved to obey. Without need for further orders they stood back to back, leaving just enough space between them to use their weapons. Ingwe himself hesitated only a moment longer before joining them. His last stray thoughts as he began to focus on the battle ahead were of the mounting howls reverberating through the hollow woods, shredding the deathly silence of earlier. Nervous shivers ran down his spine.

But there was nothing else for it now, Ingwe reflected as he took his place in formation amongst his comrades. Battle was upon them, whether they liked it or not.

Tumultuous racket rose skywards in noisy crescendo, and suddenly the edge of the clearing erupted into action.

Darkness closed in, claustrophobic and oppressive, black as the Necromancer’s soul. The moon overhead, waning just short of full, should have clawed its way through the tall branches. But some dark, ancient magic prevented it from doing so; the night here concealed oblivion far beyond the ken of mere mortals. To fight in it meant death.

So they wove their own light instead.

Three pairs of hands toiled as one, gesturing and chanting and singing in dissonant unison. The archmage called down the light of Aurient the Star Mother herself, a shimmering veil that danced like the aurora of the far north. The Bladesinger summoned the wrath of Galatirion, the Star Father, in arcing leaps and bounds that crackled at his fingertips. Ingwe himself settled for blossoming petals of fire in a makeshift halo behind his head and shoulders, beating back both the darkness and winter’s dread chill. The three of them together wove such a curtain of radiance as to frighten the dead themselves in their foetid barrows.

The beasts - dire wolves - caught the full intensity of the spell flush in their gaping maws. The smallest of the pack actually stopped in its tracks, disoriented and whining in pain as bright light seared into retinae optimised for night. Two more collided with one another, collapsing in a yelping heap of muscular limbs and snapping jaws. Their leader, galloping at the fore of the fray, misjudged a blind leap and tripped over a tree root. Ingwe’s lungs froze; all he could do was watch as the massive wolf hurled Alydia to the ground. She impacted with a bone-jarring whump and the spray of dead leaves. Dex’s muscles tensed, but a curt "Don't!" from the rumpled black coat kept him reluctantly in place and restored breath to Ingwe’s chest.

The very air hummed as Glorfindel started to Sing. But this was no song that the bards of Scara Brae would recognise. This was Bladesong woven from ancient knowledge and the essence of the Elves themselves, primal magic that struck fear into Elder Dragons and Daemons of the Inner Circle alike. His opening movement, the graceful feather step of a Raiaeran swanlilt, lamed the runt’s left foreleg from hip to knee in glimmers of silver and gold and a spurt of rusty red. It howled as its lifeblood spilt, snapping at thin air and darting back into the cover of its pack. The Bladesinger retreated from reprisal with a graceful bow.

First blood to the prey. Ingwe drew his own blades.

Wolves, he knew from bitter experience, were far more dangerous foes than many who’d spent their lives in civilisation gave them credit for. In the moment he identified his foe he thanked the kami he hadn’t given the order to run. Their loping strides could easily outpace those of a Man, especially over rough terrain. A snap of their jaws would break an arm or a leg, but worse still they hunted in tight-knit packs to harry and hunt their prey. And when said wolves grew to the size of an elnaith’s charger... a tackle from their shoulders would break a body, and instead of maiming an arm they would tear it free of its torso with but a single wrench of a muscular neck.

But Aly had robbed them of their greatest advantages: the stealth with which they stalked their prey, the surprise they achieved when they attacked from the shadows. She had warned her friends, and they’d had some idea of what to expect. That meant they could fight accordingly.

The wolves recovered with bestial swiftness. The pack leader shrugged its shoulders in a manner almost human, digging jagged claws into the loamy earth and growling so deep that they could feel its chest vibrating. As one its pack settled into a predatory prowl, their eyes glowing red saucers in the shadows at the edge of the light, their paws silent on dry tree roots. In turns they yapped and snarled, goading their prey in spiteful challenge.

One charged at the prone Dark Elf who lay outside of the circle of defence.

“Aly!” Dexter’s call split the night, far faster than his feet could move. Spurred into action, a black flash dashed from beneath the wolf’s sharp claws, then scurried with spidery grace up the rough bark of a nearby tree. One hand grabbed onto a thick branch; the other clung to a large knot halfway up. Yellow teeth snapped in futile chase at the trailing edge of her coat, and she looked down with imperious disdain. The branch vanished, only to crash down on the head of the animal. Growls died before yowls could begin, and Alydia slipped to the safety of higher branches before the broken lupine body hit the ground.

Tighter and tighter the rest of the pack circled, pressing in for the kill. Glorfindel’s blade Sang at those who dared to step too close, and Dex and Ingwe stayed tight to his back to prevent him from encirclement. Ecthelion brought up the rear, calmest of all as he leaned on his jewelled staff, with Alydia breathing hard in the branches overhead.

Time, Ingwe realised, was another factor in their enemies’ favour. The wolves would be quite happy to stalk them throughout the night, waiting for the opportunity when their prey tired the most. The curtain of light around them might protect them for the moment, but unless they defeated their foes in decisive action it would simply attract further predators to the killing ground.

Furthermore, the heavy, matted fur provided ample protection against flame. The fire flowers blooming at his back would be useless without an added ingredient. He had to break the stalemate... and he knew exactly how.

“Oil!”

The deafening baying almost drowned his call, but he had not fought for half a year in Raiaera without developing a decent battle voice. Dex retrieved from his backpack a handful of clay gourds and heaved them into the air. They splintered in the midst of the wolves with the crash of broken pottery. A splatter of viscous cooking oil, liberated from the stores at Nenabreth, drenched two of their number in sticky fume.

Without hesitation, Ingwe redirected the petals of flame floating above his head. Five split to each wolf, streaking like shooting stars through the night, impacting with spark and flare. Dusky pelts erupted, cocooning their victims in searing white-red heat and filling the grove with the foul stench of burning hair. They fled from the scene, giving voice in terrifying banshee howls that could only equate to a human scream. Their panic infected the rest of their pack, turning vicious growls into uncertain snarls.

Glorfindel leapt into that hesitation, crescendoing into his second movement: the opening stanza of a battle concerto.

Scything wind whistled past his winged golden helm, magic made manifest by a sharp sweep of Ingwe’s blades. It tore at vulnerable eyes and ears and noses, scratching and tearing and ripping like a fistful of knives, buying the Elf the time he needed to engage them on his own terms. Glorfindel’s glorious Bladesong whistled low across the torso of the nearest, driving it back with a steady cadence. A second darted in behind the Elf, fangs bared. Dex, brandishing a heavy oaken cudgel, slammed its bruised snout and forced it into retreat.

Ecthelion had bound the two heaped wolves beneath a tangle of roots, such that all they could do now was wriggle in helpless entrapment against unyielding oak. Now he focused his will against another pair. They fought as hunters, one luring his attention while the other leapt in from his blind spot. But no matter how they turned and how they attacked they rebounded from an unseen barrier before their jaws could close upon vulnerable Elf-flesh. Ecthelion was toying with them, Ingwe realised. The old archmage may not have taken the entire pack on without breaking a sweat, but two of the abominations were hardly even a game for him.

That didn’t spare the rest of the party from their fair share of death-defying combat.

Ingwe’s short swords made for poor weapons against the two wolves stalking him. Steel but slipped from the heavy fur with his strength, and to bring it to bear at all would expose him to the greater mass of his foes and their vicious fangs and claws. How he wished that he had Aeneon’s boar spear or Castor’s barbed hunting arrows to help him now! Instead he danced as would a bullfighter from the pits of Istraloth. Avoiding the snapping charges by the slimmest of margins, he used nimble footwork and skill to always keep one wolf behind the other. But it didn’t take them long to back him up against a rearing bloodoak, their hungry eyes wary of his flame.

Glorfindel whirled past, a rondo of silvery blade and golden armour and flowing golden hair. The first wolf, slow to disengage, received a steel kiss across its wet muzzle for its troubles and yelped in pain as it fled. The second scampered clear, and the Bladesinger pursued. Something in the back of the young man’s mind thanked his friend; something else noted that Dex hadn’t kept pace with the Elf, and worried.

And then a third shadow rose in the wake of the lesser two. Suddenly, Ingwe found himself face to face with the behemoth upon whose back Aly had arrived on the scene. The leader of the pack. The alpha wolf.

Its eyes pinned him to the spot, old and wary, warning fires of the deepest twilight before the night. Thick mane bristled upon the length of its hunched spine, slavering jaws lusting for the kill. Its fur melted into the corrupt earth upon which it stalked, matted with the grisly remains of its previous meals: a fingernail here, an Elf-ear there. He could smell the stench of dry blood and rotten meat pouring like noxious gas from its gullet. He could taste the frozen fear on his tongue, the reaction of instincts he’d long since thought dormant.

He let slip one dagger from nerveless fingers.

Then he forced them to wrap around his other blade, bracing it before his body in a firm two-handed grip. His back was against the tree now. The only way it could come at him was head-on, and if it thought of doing that, he would pierce its gnarled throat with his steel, whether it shatter in his hands in doing so or not. It recognised the danger, perchance, and gave a low, angry rumble from the depths of its muscular gut.

Ingwe could almost see the thoughts going through its head. Had it bitten off more than it could chew, this time? Would it be smarter to retreat for now and strike again at dawn, after this prey had spent the entire night wondering when it would be back? Was a face-on charge against prey prepared to sell its life so dearly worth the risk of its neck?

It bared its fangs in a feral snarl, flecks of dried meat wedged between serrated teeth and gums. Ingwe knew that he did not want such vicious weapons headed in his direction. He took his fear, the cold hard dread in the bottom of his stomach, and funnelled it through the steel of his blade. It caught flame, bright and intense, casting the alpha wolf into even greater shadow. The beast took one uncertain step backwards, still snarling, notched ears now flattened against the back of its malformed skull.

It snapped once, furious, letting the man know that it was not afraid. That it would be back.

Then it barked a curt command, and turned heel. Its comrades followed suit, a handful limping from their wounds. They left behind two blooded corpses motionless in the mud, no less than three of their number now trying to wriggle free from Ecthelion’s spell. The archmage waved his free hand in dismissal, sending the tree roots back into the parched ground with their whining captives still caught in their embrace. Their yelps curtailed in sudden silence.

The entire encounter had taken only a matter of minutes, but Ingwe’s chest heaved as though his lungs had forsaken oxygen for months. His heart would have escaped from the bounds of his ribcage, had it half the chance.

He stopped leaning on the support of the trunk behind him. Dismissing the fiery enchantment upon his swords, he sheathed them and cast a wary eye about for Dex.

Then he froze. He was not alone.

The runt.

It had crept up behind him like shadow, as silent as the night breeze. He’d only noticed it by the stink of its matted fur, by the rancid steam of its breath, and even if he turned now there would be time neither to draw his sword nor to whisper words of...

Something uncoiled from the branches overhead. A length of cured leather snapped in crisp purpose through the remnant light of Ecthelion’s veil, wrapping tight around the dire wolf’s neck. Its head wrenched upwards as a scarlet curtain dropped. Alydia planted her feet against a branch, using it as a fulcrum upon which to hang the wolf, her legs braced against the weight of the beast. Leather gloves gripped leather handle, holding on white-knuckled for the sake of two lives. The wolf, caught on an impromptu gallows, writhed and thrashed in helpless desperation before the young Nipponese.

“Nin!” she shouted, a call to action in her native tongue. “I can’t hold him long!”

The runt snorted and hacked for breath, frantically clawing as the whip tightened around its neck. Leather fought back with audible strain, and the branch overhead gave an ominous groan. Still Ingwe hesitated, for the briefest of heartbeats.

Glorfindel did the deed for him, in the end. In silent requiem he reappeared amongst them, a sheen of sweat glistening beneath his crown of golden hair. His slender silver blade stabbed once, straight through the beast’s heart. Stiff bristles scratched on steel. Flesh parted in wet release as the Bladesinger ripped his sword free. The wolf died mid-whine, eyes glassing over like a frozen lake.

Ingwe exhaled at last.

[Alydia Ettermire]

The wolf's legs gave out beneath it as it died, and the sudden increase in weight was far more than Aly could bear. She released her whip rather than let it drag her over her perch. Lithe body twisted reflexively as it fell, landing in a neat crouch, but two stumbling steps backward took her to the ground. She laid supine, arms over her face, baring belly to Bladesinger in a position less a deliberate taunt and more a simple consequence of momentum. Aly's slender body shook from the strain of hanging the runt, the long chase, and the copious amounts of adrenaline running through her blood. Her breath came in loud gasps, greedily sucking in fresh air. Her left shoulder and side throbbed, her right leg screamed, and a dozen lesser bruises murmured their discontent. Glorfindel turned away impassively, cleaning the gore from his sword.

“Aly!” After the wolves had culled Dex away from agile Glorfindel’s side, they had forced the Scarabrian further and further back. Alydia's weapons would have served her poorly in close combat; all she could do to help Dex was drop branches nearby, driving him closer to the trees and the herding the wolves momentarily away. He had ended up behind an impromptu fence of sorts, where he could strike at maws that flashed within his range.

With the wolves in retreat, he had climbed out of his shelter, and when Aly fell he rushed to her side, his own scrapes and bruises forgotten. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m all right,” she whispered, shaking her head slightly beneath her arms. He heaved a sigh of relief and helped her sit up, leaning her slight frame against his strong arm and gently brushing dirt and leaf litter from her hair and back. After a few more breaths she straightened her hat and stood, though she managed only half a step before her right leg buckled beneath her. Dex’s arms wrapped around her before she could hit the ground, holding her up, but she forestalled both question and concern before his mouth could form them.

“A pair of bullet grazes, nearly a fortnight ago. They’re healing well; it’s fine.” She pushed herself back onto her own feet with a stifled groan. “There are places in this world you don’t walk into expecting to escape unscathed.” She tapped a nasty abrasion on Dex’s cheek to prove her point, then stole the sweat that was starting to leech warmth from him, dropping it to the ground.

He gaped at her. “You crossed from Salvar, came through Northern Raiaera, and are-”

She silenced him mid-sentence by a glare that cut through the fading light of Ecthelion’s spell. “I would still be here if I had lost both legs, if there was a whisper of a prayer at finding one of you alive.”

She drew herself up, a faint outline in the last dying glimmers of light. Crunching her way deliberately through leaf litter, she stood several paces apart from any of the men, every bit as haughty in the frigid darkness as a High Bard in his spire. When she spoke, softly and slowly, it was not exhaustion that permeated her tone, but a simmering fury.

“The real question, Dexter Rous, is why you chose to call the wolves right to you. It was your charge to keep the others out of harm’s way, while I led them off. What if someone had been killed?” Aly’s Alerian accent hung heavy in her anger, hissing menacingly over the sibilants.

While she, black-skinned and black-clad in blackest night, was nearly invisible to the Men and Elves with whom she traveled, they glowed like beacons to the darkvision of her race. She saw Dex’s face flush brighter yellow, chagrined at the rebuke, but it was Ingwe who answered her.

“I asked him to, Alydia.” The young Nipponese man’s voice was calm and clear, just loud enough to reach the ears of everyone in the clearing. “We each played an important role. We would all be dead if you hadn’t surveilled the area and warned us of the impending attack. We also have Dexter to thank for translating your message. But, in the Legion, in these lands, when we face danger we should do so together. We watch each other’s backs, and we aid our companions should they falter. Together, we overcome. How could we let you face an unknown danger by yourself?”

Aly whirled, coat snapping behind her. “Do not call down the thunder if you are not prepared for lightning to strike.” She advanced on him, each stiff step falling silently on dead ground. “Jijyou ga doudeare, nasubeki koto wo nashitogeru kakugo ga nai nodeareba, koka kara sare.”

“Aly…” Dex called cautiously after her, but his voice fell on deaf ears.

Ingwe stiffened; the language was very nearly his native tongue. It isolated him and the Dark Elf from the others in the party, sharp words suggesting he was too green, too raw to handle himself. It cut him off, leaving him alone, foreign, a stranger. It took him a stunned heartbeat to gather his reply, but his words carried conviction equal to her rage.

“I have fought for six months in this ash-strewn hell with Glorfindel, and Dexter, and Lord Ecthelion.” He spoke in Tradespeak, deliberately denying her the use of his language as a weapon against him. “I trust them all with my life and my ideals. I hope I have earned their trust in return.” Sharp brown eyes narrowed behind his glasses, and he shot a look in Dex’s direction, though he could no longer see the other man. “You might consider, Alydia-dono, having the same faith in those you consider your friends.”

“Then think,” she snapped, prodding him in the forehead. He flinched involuntarily; she hadn’t sounded so close mere seconds before. Some of the bitter chill left him, the sweat of his exertion stolen from his brow and body. “Think long and hard before your next fight. You acknowledge that you are responsible for the lives of those around you, and yet you hesitate to act in crucial moments. One does not walk into a war and simply walk out with his hands clean.”

Fabric whispered softly against his shins as she turned, and a faint pattering of water on earth sounded to his right. “Could you live with yourself if your inaction cost one of these men his life? How would it impact their survival if it cost you your own?”

Ingwe might have argued his case with the Alerian all night, though he doubted either of them would budge a step from their positions. At the forefront of his mind was the knowledge that here and now were not the place and time to fight amongst each other. Ecthelion’s spell had dissipated back into the darkness, leaving them all in the Dark Elf’s care, and any attention would be better focused on the dangers without than the tempers within. “I have thought, and I will again. Perhaps you will do me the honour of the same.”

A surprised hiss from Glorfindel’s location indicated that the Alerian had purloined the chilling, killing water from his skin, too. Then silence permeated the darkness so completely that Ingwe could hear the blood rushing through his ears. Where was she?

“Aly.” Dex spoke again, pointing his feet in the direction from which he'd last heard her speak. “Ingwe didn't deserve that. He’s led us capably since we left Scara Brae, and he made the right call to stay put here. If we’d lit torches to run, we would have drawn other things to us. If we’d run blind, we could have stumbled into anything. We survived by standing our ground.” The Human’s shrug was more apparent in his voice than in the rustle of cloth around his shoulders. “Runnin’ isn’t always the answer, and it can’t always be on you to take care of everyone. If it could, you’d be halfway out of Eluriand by now.”

Still there was silence, and Dex tried again. “Aly, please. Ingwe, Glorfindel, and Ecthelion are here because they believe in what you’re doing. I’m here because I believe in you. We all accepted that it was dangerous before we left Nenaebreth. We had a responsibility to keep you safe, too. If we had run and made it, how would you have found us again? Aly?”

Finally, something sighed from about the midway point between the Nipponese and the Scarabrian, a sound of frustration thinly laid over marrow-deep exhaustion. “You are one of mine, Dex. I will always find you. I came within inches of losing you tonight, ussta abbil. What would I have done then?”

Dex's tone warmed at Aly's use of the Alerian word for friend. “You’re a good one to talk about close calls, wolf-rider.”

Ingwe relaxed at the lightness in Dexter’s voice. He gave them a breath or two more before drawing their attention as subtly as he dared. “If you would, Miss Alydia, we are in your hands now.”

A heartbeat passed, then she spoke again. "I hope you all get eaten by rabid skirls."

Dex groaned. "Aly!"

She ignored his exasperation. “Is there rope, Dex?”

“A hundred feet of the Elven stuff is in my pack. And I know you know how to pronounce 'squirrel!'" That drove him crazy. She knew it, and she mispronounced it anyway.

“Good. And any culture that invents a word like 'skwerl' deserves to be roundly mocked.” Aly walked back over to the smallest wolf, retrieving her whip from its stinking corpse before walking over to Dex’s pack and starting to rummage for what she needed. “Glorfindel, will you help me make a platform? We can't travel any further tonight. We’ll be safer up in the trees and the work will go faster with two.”

A soft jangle of mithril sounded as the Bladesinger nodded his assent. She hadn’t won herself any redemption in his eyes, but he could see the value of working together. In another minute or so, both the Legionnaire and the cat burglar were high in the sturdy boughs of an ancient tree, communicating softly about how best to set up a quick platform.

Dex made his slow, careful way across the half-dozen blood-strewn steps toward his commanding officer's voice, groping through the darkness until his fingertips touched the younger man's cloak. “...Ingwe. Look, I know this doesn't make what Aly said right, but her heart was in the right place. She’s been keepin’ people safe since before you or I even had a grandfather, and she’s real protective of her own. You came on her crazy adventure, and until it ends, you’re one of her own. She gets mad if we put ourselves in the way of what she thinks is unnecessary harm. And she’s...she’s not really herself right now. She’s hurtin’, and I think the last time she might have slept a night or eaten a solid meal was in Salvar, if not Alerar. If you knew her at her best… I don’t think you’re all that different.”

[Flames of Hyperion]

“There was no harm done, Dexter. Thank you.”

Ingwe reached out to clasp the broad shoulder, though his wary eyes combed the darkness for further threats that might seek to strike in this moment of vulnerability. Something flickered through their depths, something beyond exhaustion from the battle. Shadows camouflaged it before it could manifest. Clenched effort corrected the quaver in his voice as he spoke once more.

“Just as much as she might consider us hers, she belongs to us now as well. Keep letting her know that she’s not alone, Dex. Keep letting her know that we’ll get the rest of her people out alive.”

Even before the words left his lips, Ingwe knew that it was a promise he could never guarantee to keep. Judging by the twitch of facial muscles through the darkness, the other Legionnaire realised it as well. But he trusted Dexter to translate the intent of his words, if not their exact formality. Perhaps that would be enough.

He hoped it would be enough.

Overhead the two Elves worked as one to weave their shelter, choosing a sturdy fork close to the gnarled trunk. Alydia asked Glorfindel to hold out his arm, and he obliged after a moment’s thought and a dubious look. The next branch up was thicker than her waist, and she climbed to it with ease. When she was in position above Glorfindel, she crouched down, reaching out her right hand. The branch vanished beneath her feet and she plummeted, grasping the outstretched hand and bracing with her left leg against the branch. She remained like that, trusting to his grip, only for the barest fraction of a second before twirling to stand beside him once more.

From there they worked, the Alerian laying out rough planks of oak while the Raiaeran lashed key pieces to the supports. Platform built, the thief ascended once more to a higher branch, working together with the Bladesinger to weave a simple safety net around its sides. Neither wanted the dear, clumsy creatures who travelled with them to fall from the nest in the night. Security measures in place, they turned to gathering soft leaves to insulate them against the cold.

Somewhere to the right Ingwe heard Ecthelion’s staff tap the earth. He felt rather than saw the tree roots respond to the call, dragging the abandoned wolf corpses into the bowels of the earth where no opportunistic scavenger would find them. Stale wind rustled across the fallen leaves like a satisfied exhalation, erasing the stench of bloody entrails and singed fur from the vicinity. Ingwe shuddered, suddenly chilled. His imagination, hyperactive in the dark, had just attributed an entirely new cause for the vivid crimson foliage that gave the bloodoaks their name.

At length Glorfindel whispered an affirmative from above, guiding them with his voice to their lifeline upwards. Dex went first, his backpack’s harnesses jangling in muted time with his steady hand-over-hand climb. Ingwe followed suit, upper arms straining with the effort of hauling his weary body through the utter darkness and silence. Holding on for dear life to the thick cord between his fingers, he tried not to swallow the stale fear on his tongue. Solid ground slipped further and further away, and he cringed as unseen wooden fingers scratched at exposed skin. He made no effort to hide his relief when Glorfindel offered a mithril-clad hand to pull him up the final stretch. The young man ended up clutching at one of the rope-wrapped branches, his back to the bloodoak’s spine as he made himself as small as possible against the solidity.

He watched Dexter pick his way to the higher boughs upon which Alydia rested, though the night lost whatever words they might have exchanged. Glorfindel was a bundle of golden armour gleaming in the partial moonlight, motionless and silent. Blue-silver eyes nodded at him in support before winking out into sleep. A faint easterly breath ruffled his golden hair, but to Ingwe’s senses it carried but the stench of further rot and death.

Nobody ever saw how Ecthelion made it up. The archmage hunched over his staff beneath cloak of stormcloud grey, a stony sentinel upon the tip of the branch keeping watch over the dark morass of evil.

Only when a few more minutes passed, and the forest around them settled back into an uneasy peace, did Ingwe finally rein in his racing heart.

I don’t care about your circumstances. If you don’t have the resolve to do what needs to be done, leave this land now.

Alydia’s accusation had hurt, piercing deep into vulnerable emotion. By all rights six months in Raiaera should have inured him to acts of war, from cremating the walking dead to obliterating undead abominations. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t fought off a dire wolf before, either. But he’d always done so in the heat of battle, always with a life other than his own at stake. Never before had he killed in cold blood, then stood still to watch the light fade from the eyes of his victim.

For that one helpless moment he had seen himself in the runt. Exiled. Ostracised. Fighting for acceptance in a world that passed harsh judgement upon those who would not fit in. That corpse could so easily have been his, had the Legion not taken him in as one of their own. How long would it have taken him to fall had he chosen to walk the darkness alone? How long would it have been before the Necromancer’s victorious minions fought over his broken body, leaving him in the mud to rot... or worse still, raised him again to mindless battle against those he’d been fighting for?

But what surprised him most was how much her accusation had hurt. He had spent so long in isolation, so many years building up his walls and guarding against excessive contact with other humans. He might have forgiven himself for thinking that he had grown a skin thick enough to armour his precious feelings. For seven years after expulsion from the Academy he had studied on his own, shunning the outside world bar a brief sojourn to Choson. For five years after that he had tested his mettle in a lonely walk the length and breadth of Nippon. Then he had left to join what many called a fool’s venture: a forlorn crusade to liberate the Elven homeland from a resurgent Forgotten One. And he’d done all this in pursuit of a young woman who more likely than not had no memory of him. Even now he searched for answers to the riddle of her disappearance, answers that Raiaera - and Istien in particular - might hold.

And then a Dark Elf who barely knew him had managed to slip a verbal stiletto through his layered wards. In part, the way she had attacked him had hurt. Never in his darkest dreams had he thought she would use Akashiman - for that was surely what her archaic, dissonant form of Nipponese had to be - to isolate and besiege him. But more than that, the realisation had hit home that his supposed thick skin was merely a scab. Just as much blood seeped out once picked, red as pain and bitter as memory. The precious feelings he’d sought to quash, the weaknesses of his soul that he had tried so hard to overcome, remained as delicate as ever in the face of another’s scrutiny.

So much for your vaunted strength of mind, eh? he mocked himself, sarcastic and rueful in equal measure. One day he might find the... confidence, he supposed, or the experience perhaps, to articulate his arguments with a witty retort. It was not that he disagreed with Alydia. Raiaera had given him an acute awarenss that under different circumstances such a moment of hesitation could have had fatal consequences. Not that his own life had particular meaning in the greater scheme of things. But the possibility that she might have lost hers because of his indecisiveness...

Yet if he ever fell to killing without hesitation, to taking lives without regard of the soul he snuffed out... would he be any different from the nightmares that he fought?

Perhaps. Perhaps, since he did so to protect other lives rather than to further his own agenda. But the distinction was a slippery one at best, and once he started walking down that slope... he shivered, not just from the winter chill. Huddling his knees close to his chest upon his treetop perch, he remembered the lessons he had learned in blood in his last year at the Academy. The Night of Nefarious Flame had driven grown men to insanity, braver and wiser men of far greater stature than he. He’d only been twelve years of age when the daemons had invaded.

Was it selfish then, ego, that he didn’t want to commit to such a life?

Yes, it was. He wanted to protect his comrades, but he didn’t wish to walk the path of monstrosity... a path down which his innate talents would be only too glad to take him. Magic corrupted the mind, his tutors had been fond of saying. Master Yamato, Master Abeno, Ecthelion and Telchar; all had said the same thing, albeit couched in different words. All had been right.

One does not walk into a war and simply walk out with his hands clean.

How could he argue with that? His hands were already dirty enough.

The corrupted ghosts he’d carved through upon landing at Anebrilith had retained just enough of their original souls to scream their pain at him upon release. Uysarji the Executioner, last of the Coven of Six, had cursed him to eternal suffering for his mercy. He had watched them all die, banished from the Firmament forever more. At his instigation. At his hands.

Angelus, the shadowmancer lieutenant of the Death Lord Maeril Thyrrian, had mocked him for fighting a war with a pair of swords all the while thinking that he would not kill. Then Telchar’s runes had destroyed the undead host and forced Angelus into retreat. At his instigation. At his hands.

But did that mean he could so callously dirty them further?

And when the day came that he finally had to choose between his comrades and his ideals, would he hesitate even then? Would he still strive in greedy effort for both? How far would the stakes have to rise before he would relinquish his innocence? Raiaera? The Occident? Althanas?

Kayu?

He didn’t know. Perhaps, some other day, he would find the answer. Some day, he might even find all his answers, especially for those questions that had set him on this quest to begin with.

Some of them he had found during the Battle of Nenaebreth. Kayu had stood in the battle line alongside Death Lord and daemon alike, but only as an observer. She had not fought against the Legion herself. And she had protected him from the vengeful daemon Natosatael, though he could remember the exchange only through a dreamy veil. How much of the hazy blur between conscious agony and blissful oblivion could he trust? Even if he did place faith in his memories, they only begged further questions.

So he had scribbled them down where he could keep track of them.

He would do the same for the questions that Alydia had raised. So he would never forget.

Ingwe could barely see his fingers by what wan moonlight pierced the thick canopy of dead and dying branches overhead. But even that was preferable by far to the utter pitch black on the forest floor.

His eyes watered beneath frosted spectacles as he worked ink across the pages of his thick leatherbound tome. But even that was preferable by far to the mind-numbing frigidity below, thanks to the layer of insulation that Alydia and Glorfindel had placed upon the platform.

He would have to transcribe his calligraphy in the morning, when he could allow himself a muted laugh at its illegibility. For now the important thing was to get the thoughts out of his head before he lost them forever. To get them onto paper while he still could, before their murmuring drove him insane.

After replacing inkwell and grimoire into his waistpouches, it took only a moment for the day’s exhaustion to catch up with him. Muscles burned in his limbs. Darkness sat heavy in his mind. The utter silence of the dead forest only amplified the thunder of his heart. Weariness clasped hold like an iron vice, but for a long time he sat there too tired to sleep, too tired to rest, too tired even to close his eyes. Sometime during his fugue Hayate returned to roost, but his exhaustion was so total that he never noticed the bundle of feathers nestling in the crook between neck and shoulder. Apparitions from his past, made real by torment and guilt and pain, danced in kaleidoscopic hallucination through the interwoven pattern of swaying tree limb and cloud-muffled moonbeam.

Sleep, when it finally claimed him, was fitful and feverish.

[Alydia Ettermire]

The men clambered to the safety of the crude platform more than an hour after the party had first stopped to rest. Even from her perch in the dizzying heights above them, the Dark Elf could hear the tree rustling beneath them, protesting their lack of grace in its boughs.

Really, Aly chided herself, I should have built the nest in the first place. None of the serious beasts in these woods can climb.

But the day's walk had exhausted her, had left her in pain. Her companions would have been almost useless - almost - in helping her build the platform, and she had just wanted to get them into a sheltered nook as quickly as possible. The day coming was going to be even rougher than the day past and they needed to rest. Scouting the area was more than responsible, it was necessary, and fell to her because humans and Raiaeran Elves were utterly darkblind. In all reality, she had spent as much time ripping trenches in the minutes after they made camp to protect their terrestrial camp as she had working with Glorfindel to construct the arboreal one. Once again, haste had been the slow route.

They had all paid for her rush to settle them in, losing rest they desperately needed, wasting energy they couldn't afford to lose. However justified she might have felt in her outburst and outrage, she couldn't deny that the sheer brutality of it had fragmented the group’s tenuous integrity.

And for what? Nothing had been accomplished except trampling on the hearts of one of her dearest friends and a boy who had risked life, limb and reputation to help her on what might well be a fool’s quest. Had the boy deserved that rage?

“Still mad, Aly?”

The Alerian had wedged herself between a pair of branches and against the trunk, hat draped over her face and garments turned once more so their scarlet side faced the cold of night. The Scarabrian knew she wasn't asleep just yet, though. The slightest sound would have woken her, and he had not made a silent ascent. Deep thought and deep exhaustion had turned her full attention inward, masking his approach.

“Should I be, Dex? L’ waelin uss - the young one - looked like I might as well have stuck a knife in him, rather than the words. What is done is done. That we were vulnerable to attack in the first place is my doing; if the wolf had torn free and killed him, I would have deserved it when it turned on me.”

“It wouldn't have -”

“It would have. I put everything into keeping the beast in place. If the whip had snapped, I would have fallen, and I might not have had the time to stand back up.” She tilted her hat up to look at Dex, brushing its top softly on the bark of the branch overhead. His earnest face shone shades of orange and yellow in stark contrast to the rich violet of the leaves surrounding him. “You should be down there, getting some rest. Today was long, tomorrow will be longer, and after that, who knows when we might next find sleep?”

He held out a hand. “Come down with me. You’ll be warmer and more comfy. Part of the group.”

“Sleep with four smelly men, one of whom might forget in the first hazy light of dawn that I am not his enemy? You are a breath away from my heart, but I think not, Dex.”

Her tone was light, and she ended affectionately, but to ask or demand further would end in only refusal. He could carry her down, of course, exactly as effectively as a sieve could carry water. Despite her bluster, she didn't feel safe among the men she didn't know, and would remain in the branches far above. He sighed. “Will you be all right to travel tomorrow?”

“A little bump and a couple of scratches are not going to keep me from the most magnificent heist of my life. This will just make it easier to let you four keep up.”

Dex’s expression turned dubious. “...a heist, Aly?”

White teeth gleamed in the moonlight, glowing against the obsidian skin that surrounded them. “People, Dex. I’m stealing from death itself.”


~*~*~

Dex eased his way back down to the other Legionnaires, guided by the feel of rough bark beneath calloused hands and the weak light the pale moon cast. Aly, left behind, withdrew a key from a tiny pocket in her coat’s sleeve, holding it up to the white disk that hovered above. It fitted a lock to a house in Ettermire. Within that house was an old, beaten couch, a sturdy stone table, a cast iron stove that probably hadn’t been used in half a decade, crude, crumbling drawings that a young child had proudly pinned up, and a pair of bedrooms. One room had a bed that had never once been properly made, a rigorously organized desk, and an armoire. Laundry never really made it into the basket, because the room’s occupant always had other things on his mind.

The other room had a bed that was neatly made, an ugly blue and green rug, a book case stuffed with tomes on language, art, history, and mythology, a desk overrun by stray papers, and a barely-organized armoire. In a dingy window that faced the street was a stained glass suncatcher that threw purple, green and blue light around the room as though the sunlight danced to music only it could hear. Even now, even here, Alydia could smell that house, could taste the memory of it, the memory of home. She probably would never see the inside of it again in her lifetime. Not after what she had done. Not after so much betrayal, so much pain.

Those people aren't the only ones who almost lost their daughter today. She could still hear the baritone of the Chief’s voice in her ear, the frustration and relief after he had taken a murderer’s life to preserve hers. What did you think you were doing?! Are you utterly mad, Alydia? Have you no respect for the way and reason we do things? He had yelled, too, when his jiharditalwien had done something idiotic and risky. That wrath had been part of how he expressed love. If it stung enough when one of his underlings lived through a mistake, it was a mistake they were unlikely to ever repeat. He had broken her to tears many times over the years, but… Alydia, this is immensely dangerous, but there is no one on the Force who can get to this man like you can. He will kill again and again, until he is stopped, because he will never be satisfied. Will you do it? … Be careful, ussta dalharil.

...But he had always built them back up afterward.

If you continue to walk this path, you will become like him. “Him” meant the murderer Shynt Aubrey, a man for whom the lives of others were nothing other than toys to be broken and then discarded. Aubrey had chased her across Alerar, just as she’d lured him on. In the heart of Ettermire she had delivered him into her old mentor’s hands. She'd meant it as a peace offering, a token of contrition - and he had praised her for the capture... right before delivering that devastating sentence.

Those words had cut sharper than the knife Aubrey had used to carve a target mark behind her ear. Two weeks removed, his accusations still hurt. Doubtless Karliik still hurts, too, that I refused to be held accountable for the crimes I have committed and come home. What would he think of this foolish venture? What would he have thought to see me in Step’s stronghold? There, she had taken nearly a dozen lives - if not more. Was Karliik's warning more of a premonition? Was she turning into a monster of the sort she once had hunted?

She sighed heavily, letting a tiny cloud wind its way from her lips to grasp at the moon above. A gloved hand pulled a broad brim down over her face, and she settled in to get what sleep she could.


~*~*~

She reappeared above the men as the sun fought its way over the horizon, while they dug through their packs for the thin Elven wafers that served as travel rations. Ingwe and Dex, moving sluggishly in the pre-dawn chill, had red leaves clinging to their hair and clothing. Ecthelion looked up at her from beneath his grey hood, perched unflappably at the end of his branch. Glorfindel, of course, sat glinting golden in the pink light that streamed through the trees.

“There are reinforcements moving for Eluriand. I brought breakfast; we don’t have time to sit.” In her hands were several huge, wiggling grey grubs. “These are one of the best food items Raiaera has to offer, come on. Up, up, up, up.”

All four faces registered expressions ranging from nausea to disgust.

“They’re corrupted,” Glorfindel said at last, as though he would rather not point out the more obvious flaw in her suggested breakfast. “We have rations.”

A blue eye rolled beneath a scarlet brim. A gloved hand plucked a leaf from Dex’s hair. “Mixing a little honey into some sawdust and making a cracker of it does not food make. If you’re a picky eater, fine.” Her hand twitched, the grubs blanched, and the leaf in her hand turned a sick, rotted color and crumbled into dust. “Here. They’re not corrupted anymore.”

Three of four faces now wore disbelief and shock. But Ecthelion strode over to her, picking up a grub and spinning it between his fingers, examining it closely, probing it with arcane energies. As a final test, he stuck the thing in his mouth, chewing deliberately and with only a hint of a grimace. The expressions on his companions’ faces were more than enough to make up for the emotions he declined to divulge.

“The flavor is...not unpleasant,” he said at length. “Like nuts after they've been ground into a paste, with a woody undertaste. I cannot say I like the texture. More importantly, there was no longer any corruption in the insect.” The archmage looked upon the thief, features composed into inscrutable thought. “Alydia… you can lift the blight?”

Aly shook her head rapidly. “Not as much as you or I would like me to, and not as thoroughly as anyone would like me to be able to do it. I can clear half an acre square, at maximum, but the corruption still has to go somewhere, and if I try to take more than that, I don’t feel like myself. In my experiments, I put it in whatever large dead thing I could find. An elk corpse once, which was a terrible idea. A dead tree on its side once, and one that still stuck into the ground, when I could find nothing else. I still don’t know what the consequences will be for those areas in the long term. If I have time in Istien, I hope I can find a book that will teach me how to take more of it at once, so that it’s not the work of ten lifetimes. If it can also teach me how to purify it or destroy it, that would be good as well. As it is, I think it’s interacting badly with my native type of magic, so if I’m not careful, I could accidentally make it worse.”

She popped a grub into her mouth. “Now, let’s go. We’re wasting time.” Without giving the men a chance to slow her further, the Alerian scurried her way down to the lowest branch, fifteen feet above the blighted earth, then jumped, landing mostly on her left leg. A grunt of discomfort still escaped her throat as the force of the landing jolted its way through her body. Up in the trees, Dex winced in sympathy. He really hoped the long, gruelling pace of the day’s walk wouldn't be too much for her.


~*~*~

Alydia led the men on a sure, rapid pace through the dense woods, as much a leader as the alpha wolf who had led his pack to them the previous night. Her scarlet coat billowed behind her like ripples in the wake of a ship. They were closing in upon their destination with each step, and she was already focusing on the heist to come.

Ecthelion caught up with her again. The pensive composure from earlier had never quite left the fine creases in his paper-thin brow, but now he added to it with concern and tell-tale suspicion. “Why are you doing this, Alydia? Leading us in yourself, as yourself? Certainly you could have chosen an alternate method that would have been more effective?”

“Indeed.” Aly raised her hand to pause the group, peering hard into the gloom ahead of them. Her body slowly tensed, and every man gripped his weapons; there was no telling what might come out of the dark. She relaxed after a moment though, stepping forward once more. “It would have been so easy to disguise myself as a Raiaeran, fake or obtain some injuries, rush into Nenaebreth and tearfully beg for help.” As if to prove her point, she reached up to her face. The black skin turned alabaster, and when she sucked in her cheeks a little bit, a perfectly Raiaeran visage was staring back out at him. She returned her skin to its natural coloration after a mere handful of seconds.

“The Aredhelrim in the city would have demanded to march the army then and there. But there are two points to me coming as I am. First of all, I did not actually want to send the whole Legion to Eluriand. With all the undead around there, it likely would have been suicide, and I wouldn’t have been able to advise on the route. This way, I have a small, elite group who can survive, hopefully find a way into the city, and then figure out a way to rescue the survivors.”

She ducked beneath a branch, tracking her eyes across the ground. “Second, Xem’zund is going to fall, and sooner rather than later. Too many have been working too hard for too long for it not to happen. That may well be the beginning of Raiaera’s problems, rather than the end. With the Necromancer’s defeat, Alerar’s army will boil over the Twilit Mountains, and there is little Raiaera can do to defend against it. The Grafs will care little, at first, for such minor inconveniences as the uselessness of the land. They will simply be focused on dealing fresh hurt for ancient, while their old enemies struggle to rise from the dust.” She bit her lip, scraping off a little of the bright red paint she’d applied fresh that morning.

“I doubt that the day will come in my lifetime, if it comes ever, Ecthelion. But if there is to be peace between our nations, in some far distant day, the first gesture of goodwill must come from Alerar. We’re more powerful now, we breed faster, and our technology is quick catching up with Raiaera’s vaunted magics of old. I hope, if that day ever dawns, there are some few Raiaerans who might remember that an Alerian came to their aid in their moment of need. I want them to doubt that, down to the last infant, we are evil. Yes, Alerar has committed grave atrocities upon Raiaera in wars past. But cannot the same be said for Raiaera upon Alerar?”

Ecthelion gave her a thin smile; perhaps he had indeed underestimated her. Though he had fought for too long and lost too much to share her conviction of Xem’zund’s fall, she had confirmed what he suspected of his dark kin’s intentions. And though he had his private doubts as to how far the Alerian invasion might succeed against the corrupt morass that Xem’zund would leave behind, it might not hurt to put one or two of his own contingency plans in motion. He filed the information away for later, blinking once to clear his thoughts, then steered conversation to something a little more light-hearted. “Now, I suppose, is the most important question. Do you really enjoy the wood grubs, or do you hate Raiaeran food so much?”

“Both.” Aly glanced at him, then back at the men. “Don’t get me wrong. Raiaeran culture is fascinating, its history is rich, its art is glorious, its music....oh. And its Bladesingers are magnificent to behold in battle. But its food is terrible and bland. As for the bugs, well… when my ancestors split from yours and went on to form the nation of Alerar, they found themselves in a much less hospitable land, without quite the resources to make themselves comfortable. You eat what’s available if you want to survive. We had millipedes, scorpions, spiders - and if there could be trade between our peoples, the giant spiders deeper in these woods are fantastic - ants, and some tough, hardy forms of grain. Over a few decades, we developed a taste for them. I would be ecstatic if I could get a bowl of inlu’thi tchal when this was all over. It’s a sort of soggy mash with fried millipede larvae layered on top, with some ant eggs sprinkled on for sweetness. If more people could get over the fact that it’s a bug, they’d find out what they’re missing.”

She got a brief smirk out of the sounds of disgust coming from behind her, but it soon faded into a sombre expression. They would soon be within sight of Eluriand, and from there, the real work would begin.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Dark soot clung to their fingers as they pushed aside the last of the gnarled branches. Rank corruption reeked on the back of their tongues. But alongside the rotten stench of a million corpses wafted the faintest wisp of what might pass as hope in these blighted lands. At long last they had cleared the forest.

Grey clouds hung low and roiling overhead. Eluriand’s city walls, or what remained of them, crowned the hills on the near horizon. Once the Elves had cultured pristine thoroughfares to guide weary travellers to the jewel of Raiaera’s ancient heritage. Now a boggy morass teemed with the groans of the risen dead and the bellows of eldritch abominations. The deafening beat of a thousand drums called their charges to war.

From leagues in every direction the minions of Xem’zund converged, like a carpet of ants upon the desecrated ground, like hungry vultures flocking to the kill. Legions of bat-winged harpies roosted beneath desecrated blood-oaks, competing with shambling corpses like sheaves of parchment in the libraries of Ankhas and Anebrilith. Alydia had warned them of the reinforcements marching to Eluriand. But not even in his worst nightmares could Ingwe have imagined a muster of such devastating proportion.

“There is…”

Glorfindel swallowed his initial curse. The rest of his words ground out flat and harsh through constricted throat. Golden hair glowed in the dim daylight, the brightest object for miles in every direction. Had he not ducked behind the last of the great bloodoaks, he would have made the perfect target for some of the massive siege ballistae aimed at Eluriand’s battlements.

“There is little chance of us surviving that. Not on foot. Not by ruse alone.”

“We have to!” Dex’s protestation echoed in dangerous clarity, his eyes darting from the Bladesinger to Aly. “We can’t just…”

“We won’t.” Alydia Ettermire’s eyes flashed, daring Glorfindel to defy her. “We’re getting in there.”

“Indeed,” Ingwe nodded in quiet agreement, turning to the last member of their motley company. This had always been the most difficult part of the plan they had agreed upon before leaving Nenaebreth. For now, their fate lay in the wizened hands of their resident archmage. “Lord Ecthelion? Do you foresee this presenting a problem?”

The venerable elf-lord stared over the storm of necromantic activity in impassive serenity, his expression as brittle as a layer of desiccated marble. His young protege throttled an irrational pang of worry when they crinkled in familiar amusement.

“A problem? No.”

The daintiest of pauses caused four sets of eyes to sweep in his direction. Ecthelion allowed them to linger for a moment longer before continuing.

“But it might be wise to invest in a further layer of deception. Perhaps Miss Alydia has some idea how we might avoid notice should we be unlucky enough to attract a closer look?”

The grin she returned him made no attempt to hide the mischievous glint it imparted in the depths of her eyes… a good thing, too, for if it had tried it would have failed abjectly.


***

In the end, they dirtied Ingwe's cloak to blend in with the desolation and ruin, convincing Glorfindel to hide beneath it his golden hair and silver armour. The rest adopted a more conventional approach: Alydia turned her hat and coat to black once more, and they all set about with a will muddying their garments as camouflage against prying eyes. Slimy filth burnt acidic corruption against their bare skin. But the alternative – to walk bold and bare beneath the gaze of the Necromancer and his Dread Lords – held even less appeal.

It then took them the best part of the early afternoon to slither down from the ridge line that marked the forest’s edge. They ended up in an excrement-filled hollow abandoned even by the lowliest of the harpies, cowering against the chill and the wind in the lee of a grove of petrified birches. Elf and man alike bided their every breath against the occasional bat-winged shadow circling overhead.

This close to the enemy, the stench of corruption alone almost set their minds to rotting. The screeches of the multitudinous horde pierced the edge of their hearing, grinding upon their teeth and grating upon their synapses. Every tense trickle of sweat sank the sun deeper into the smoggy haze that lay upon the plagued lands. Every forlorn breeze tickled frozen chill from their weary limbs, lingering upon their skin with malignant touch, carrying with it the promise of greasy rain.

Ingwe chanced one last look at the roiling masses of corpses and cadavers, the armies of the Dread Necromancer advancing upon the last bastion of light in western Raiaera. Then he met Ecthelion’s gaze, pale yet unwavering. How much of their finely-balanced plan hinged on this decision? But if they waited any longer they would lose the favour of what sun remained, and Xem’zund’s minions would hunt them down in the night.

The archmage nodded acquiescence. Brow folding in a needless concession to concentration, he released a single strand of arcane thought into the roiling torrent of necromantic energy. Like a quicksilver arrow it sped through the darkening twilight. Within heartbeats it disappeared beyond the horizon, destined towards parts unknown.

Glorfindel watched it go, his gaze tracking it for a heartbeat or two longer than Ingwe’s. Then he tugged his muddy cloak closer about his shoulders and turned back to Aly and Dex, who kept dutiful watch on the nearest congregation of mindless shambling foes. The Tel’gothra caught his eye, asking a wordless question with a tilt of her hat.

The Bladesinger arched an eyebrow, the subtlest of head flicks indicating that he knew not the answer. Her attention travelled to Ingwe, his all-too-human features desperate not to allow any anxiety to show.

“We wait,” the young man shivered, the shadowy chill playing upon his bare arms. He reached to replace battered spectacles on the bridge of his nose, robes patched by travel unfurling in a cloud of stale ash. His other arm cradled his gyrfalcon familiar, drawing strength from its frail trembling warmth. “And we ho…”

Sudden tension split the clouds. Not the gradual crescendo of a war of attrition, but the adrenaline-fuelled response of honed reflexes to an unexpected development. All around them the undead horde latched upon the incoming threat like a theatre audience to a faulty chord. Undead monstrosities turned multi-faceted eyes to the sky. Entire roosts of harpies took flight in leathery cacophony.

“Your hopes are fruitful, young sapling,” Ecthelion remarked in dry relief. “Lord Elrohir has lain in wait closer than you asked him to. We may not have to worry so much about travelling beneath the threat of darkness.”

A single spear-point shone upon the eastern horizon, beneath hazy stretches of purple cloud threatened by the onrushing night. Borne aloft by the gryphon Surion, it smote and sundered a thunderous path through swarming claws. Circling once, beset by foes with every white wingbeat, it tarried only just long enough for a glimpse of the armies that surrounded Eluriand. Then it beat a hasty retreat back the way whence it had come, pursued by a veritable cloud of bloodlusted wings. The harpies dared not allow valuable strategic and tactical dispositions fall to their resurgent foes in Nenaebreth.

But taking full advantage of the distraction, the five on foot had already begun to cross the dangerous open ground.


***

“Many are the names by which the Paths such as the one I am about to open have been known. For most they only exist in legend and myth. Few are those with the knowledge to use them nowadays, and fewer still those with the power to open them. You are fortunate that I am one of the few with both of these skills, for which you will thank me for before the night is young.”

Plains of death and decay lay behind, strewn with the encampments of the enemy and the footsteps of their meandering path. An unremarkable outcropping of rock lay ahead, lost in the low-hanging haze that clung to the earth with the onset of twilight. Only Ecthelion Lord of the Ivory Tower would have risked the wrath of the greatest necromantic host since the War of the Tap to venture to a location of such obscurity.

And yet here they stood, five forlorn figures in a sea of rank corruption. Could they hope that what faint daylight remained would veil them from the sorceries of the shadows? Or would Xem’zund’s lieutenants soon realise they had slipped in amidst their Sanctums?

“I had hoped that the Dread Necromancer’s armies would not have encircled this location. Still, it is close enough to freedom that if we are careful... as we have been so far… we will be able to smuggle a small army back out again without discovery.”

Half-listening to the elf-lord’s lecture, Ingwe chanced a glance at the rubble of Eluriand so far distant. Indeed they were much closer now to the outskirts of the undead encirclement than if they had trekked all the way to its heart. Perhaps, given the concealment of the sun and the sorceries of the High Elves, they could at least hope to escape.

“Do they know of this place?” Dex’s hissed query carried both alarm and fear.

“Of course not, my dear fellow. A hundred Death Lords could spend a hundred days combing these lands without finding the entrance to this Path. We have had thousands of years to prepare for such a contingency, as unlikely as it might have once seemed. Whether Forgotten One or our vengeant Alerian kin, we have made sure that it will not be easily discovered nor used against us.”

“It requires a High Bard to open,” Ingwe surmised at length, studying the currents that ebbed and flowed about the innocuous rock. If Ecthelion had not nudged him into knowing exactly what to search for, he would never have made the deduction either. “At both ends.”

“This means, thus, that I will have to remain behind to seal the breach and to open it again when you return,” Ecthelion nodded in sagely knowledge. Bony fingers wrapped ever tighter about the pristine carving of his white-beech staff. Intricate runes glimmered in a faint golden glow between them, the air shimmering with the magic he used to distract the probing of his sorcerous foes. But was it Ingwe’s imagination that they strained with effort, as though struggling to maintain a trickle of water against a treacherous avalanche of foul earth?

If those that ventured into the city failed to return…

Or if the Death Lords themselves should chance upon Ecthelion’s presence…

“And you, Dexter Rous, will keep me company.” An upturned forefinger stalled Dex’s immediate protest, strangling it beneath the low-running cloud. “You would not leave an old man alone in the dark, would you?”

The Scarabrian turned pleading eyes first to his mistress, then to his captain. But Alydia’s attention never once wandered from Ecthelion, sharp as if gauging the archmage’s intentions. Ingwe met the plea with one of his own.

Keep him safe, Dex. Please. I can trust only you to do this.

“You have until dawn, Ingwe, Glorfindel, Alydia of Ettermire.” With a flick of his eyes that only Ingwe caught, Ecthelion indicated his trembling fingers. Not even the powers of the greatest archmage in Raiaera could hope to conceal their presence from the hungry Death Lords for any longer than that. “I hope that you will have enough incentive for success?”

Waiting not for their answer, he tapped his staff to the ground. With a crack of arcane power as silent as it was sudden the rocks tore asunder before them. Where it had once lain now stood a gaping maw of darkness: the Path that Ecthelion had spoken of. It coruscated with energy and burnt with power, though neither light nor chill escaped its murky depths to reveal its presence upon the mortal plane.

“I should go with you, Aly,” Dex whispered in a defiant undertone, protective love writ strong upon his hardened features. It was for that precise quality that Ingwe wanted him to stay behind, looking after Ecthelion. “You shouldn’t go into that pit of… into there without me.”

Alydia shook her head fiercely, turning to her Scarabrian companion. “We discussed this, Dex. I need Ingwe in there, and I need Glorfindel. Ecthelion needs someone here as an extra set of eyes for danger and an extra set of arms for defence.”

“Aly, I...”

Another sharp shake of her black head cut him off.

“Rule sixteen,” she reminded him gently. “In every heist, every person has a place at every moment. And rule one: if you trust someone, trust them. Trust us to do our job. I trust you to do yours. With all the lives in Eluriand, I trust you.”

“But if something happens to you, I…” His lips twisted in a moment of bitter fear, his eyes cast downward. A light leather tap to the tip of his nose brought his focus back.

“Don’t forget, Dex…” She held up her hand in front of his face, curled nearly into a fist. When he pressed the back of his hand to the back of hers, she broke into a wide grin. “I am Alydia Ettermire.”

Stepping to the threshold before any could stop her, she touched her fingers to the brim of her fedora and struck a sprightly pose.

Then she disappeared.

“That Tel’gothra.”

Glorfindel sighed from alongside Dex, reaching out with one golden gauntlet to lay the lightest of touches upon the human’s shoulder. Unspoken, he promised – however reluctantly – to try to keep the Alerian thief safe. Then he too stepped forward, following the swirling obsidian trenchcoat into the mirror of oblivion.

Meek with resignation Ingwe brought up the rear, meeting Lord Ecthelion’s eyes one last time. He nodded, repeating to himself the archmage’s last whispered instructions.

And darkness swallowed him whole as well.

[Alydia Ettermire]

The men exited the portal to the hollow clash of delyn on steel. A female Bladesinger stabbed her sword repeatedly at Alydia. The Alerian held the violent staccato at bay only with sure footing on the cracked rubble-strewn floor and inept parrying with her dagger. The Bladesinger’s peridot eyes focused on their target. Long golden-brown hair flowed around her slender, mithril-girded body. She drove the dark elf back and up, onto ever less sure footing and through ever more complex sweeps of her blade.

Ingwe cried out in alarm, instinctively rushing forward to defend his companion. A raised mythril gauntlet stopped him short. Glorfindel’s expert eyes tracked the combat closely. “It is not a fight,” he forestalled his human friend’s concerned protestation. “If it was, the Tel’gothra would be running. And the Bladesinger would be winning.” His hand lowered when Ingwe stilled.

“Do you think-” the younger’s anxious query died abruptly in his throat. A particularly determined swipe sent Alydia’s weapon flying from her hand and clattering to the desecrated marble. A glance exchanged between the women, startled surprise evident on the Alerian’s face and hardened determination writ upon the Raiaeran’s fine features. That was Aly’s only warning before her opponent struck again, a hard slash meant to cleave her in two. The thief dropped from the rafter, grabbing on and swinging up behind the Bladesinger.

For long seconds, they were a blurry twirl of tarnished silver and muddy black, a deft dance of attack and evade. Finally, when it seemed that a graceful sweep of the fair elf’s blade would decapitate the dark one, Alydia whirled toward her with an ominous crack of vlince. The back of a gloved fist met the back of a gauntleted one. Stillness fell upon the tower room as the women stared each other down. It was the Bladesinger who cracked first, grinning and giggling. From there they both deteriorated, embracing and letting the long months of worry and stress come out in a flood of laughter and tears.

“I think so,” Glorfindel finally answered Ingwe. His handsome face hardened into an unreadably stern mask. Doubtless he was less than impressed that a member of his own order could ally with an Alerian criminal for any but the most dire need or pressing duty. Ingwe felt for him; working with Alydia sorely tested several of the elf’s core beliefs, and he couldn’t help but wonder how his friend would come through this moral trial. There was no easy way for a person to challenge his worldview, particularly when every second shred of evidence that he might be wrong was met by another act that affirmed his convictions.

A raven-headed elf with amethyst eyes stepped cautiously into the tower’s dim chill. His gaze swept over the two men on the floor, then the two women higher up. His head shook in wry amusement and he bent to retrieve the dropped dagger. “High Bard Varalad was concerned at the arrival of an Alerian through the portal. He will certainly be confused now.” He made his way to the warriors in the crumbling tower. “My name is Sintta Ilya. My companion up there with our mutual friend is Hyanda Lindir. Are you… Usui Masakage? And you… are you newly one of us?” Had Alydia been replacing her people before she’d confirmed their deaths, or was she merely expanding her network?

“No and no, Sintta.” Alydia landed lightly a few paces from the group, hat and coat once more turned to their scarlet sides. “Ingwe and Glorfindel, both of the Legion of Light. What news here, Sintta? How many yet survive?”

Sintta’s shoulders drooped and he looked every minute of his six hundred years. “Not quite thirty. We lose someone nearly every day. Kelvar is among the living,” he was quick to add in response to Alydia’s growing concern. “We take care of each other.”

He straightened, turning the dagger in his hand and playing with the decorative rings around the hilt. “I would ask if Bron knows you have his dagger, but he sent me a message, it seems.” With a few more twists and turns, the pommel opened, sliding a sheet of paper into the elf’s waiting hand. It only bore a few pictograms - a circle within a circle, a gnarled tree, and a broken tower - but Ilya seemed to garner meaning from them. “Of course you’re crazy, and this would be why you weren’t here a month ago. What’s the plan?”

“Gather everyone.” Alydia spoke with immediacy and authority. “We’re getting out. Beyond that, I’ll let the human do the talking.”

Two pairs of elven eyes regarded the young man in front of them, two elven heads nodded, and three elves left the room - Sintta and Hyanda, followed by Glorfindel. Alydia grabbed Ingwe before he could go along with them.

“I cannot say anything that will convince these people that my plan is safer than staying here and meant for their well-being. As you’ve seen, old animosities run deep, though so few generations have passed since the split that you could discern which Raiaeran is which Alerian’s distant cousin. You are human; they will regard you neutrally and listen to your words.” She took out her map case and geography book, the latter of which had carefully marked pages for his reference.

When he took them, she spoke again. “My plans are now yours. I did not make them, I had nothing to do with them and I have only enough knowledge of them to guide you around the worst of the horde. I am on loan from King Edar’axa himself to find a way to end Xem’zund’s progress before he reaches Alerar.”

Ingwe looked at her dubiously. “You would have me tell all those lies? You would have me take credit for your work, represent you as something you are not? I… I do not have the confidence that it would hold up under scrutiny.”

“You don’t have to make it hold up under scrutiny. These people are desperate and have been living so hard for so long that they will overlook a somewhat plausible lie if it means they can hold to hope. As to the other lies… if it gets the survivors out of this corner of Haide and back to safety behind Raiaeran lines, there is no lie I would not have you tell.”

Alydia tilted her hat back to give Ingwe full view of her face for the first time since their meeting. “At this moment, you alone in all the world are capable of convincing these people to run out of this darkness and back into the light. You alone. And as I trust Dex to safeguard Ecthelion, I trust you to do this.” She turned to the door, pulling her fedora back down. “The Raiaerans will wish to cross-examine me before letting you speak. I will do what I can to prime them to listen to you.”

Hyanda stepped back into the room to see what the delay was, and Alydia walked past her, leaving Ingwe, once again, as the last through the door.


~*~*~

Alydia stood before the Eluriand holdouts. As predicted, their desperation did not overwhelm their suspicion, and they surrounded her like a family of herpest converging upon a Tularan sandswiper. More than twenty thronged behind her, with a further five five sitting before her.. If she tried to run, there was no escape for her that the elves could see. The dark elf stood, imperious and alone. Her frosty eyes regarded the elders at the semi-circular table with the same contempt as an owl looking down on a field of mice. A thousand and more years of bitterness came between the two races, creating a barrier as difficult to penetrate as the throngs just beyond the city walls. It also stood between every living being in Istien and their safe escape.

“What business has a black elf in coming to Eluriand?” High Bard Varalad’s question would have been fair even in the best of days and under the best of circumstances. In times as grim as these, it was utterly necessary. The target of the query still scoffed to hear it.

“If this is the truth of vaunted Raiaeran ‘hospitality’, then there is no mystery as to why the Necromancer comes for you. I no longer wonder that he stomps over your fields and vineyards, coming to crush you like ants beneath his greaves.” Her own boot twisted on the smooth tile to emphasize her point.

“Answer the question, Tel’gothra. Why are you here?” Demanded a bard from the far right of the scratched and battered oaken table

A flick of Alydia’s head sent a stray lock of hair over her shoulder. “I care not if every last member of your stagnant race burns and your entire land rots and crumbles into the sea. In fact, nothing in this world would please me more. But King Edar’axa and High Graf Schynius, in their infinite wisdom, desire to contain Xem’zund before he turns his gaze westward, to our great nation. I was sent to gather information on the state and location of the horde.” Alydia made a gesture when praising her nation’s two highest leaders, lifting her hand and fanning out her fingers as though lifting them physically.

“And yet you arrive with a commander of one of our armies and a Bladesinger, both of whom claim to come to our aid.”

The Alerian waved a dismissive hand toward Ingwe and Glorfindel. “They are tools for my reconnaissance as much as I am for their goals. They captured me just east of the Elleduin and we made a deal. My life and freedom in exchange for yours. I fail to see that I had any option otherwise.” She sneered at the panel.

Varalad leaned forward. “What of the High Bard who opened the portal?”

Alydia shrugged, taking a small, shiny mechanical device from her pocket and playing it idly over her fingers. “My task is done, so he’s hardly my problem. Perhaps your colleague is captured. Perhaps he is writhing in agony as we speak. Perhaps he is dead.” Her lips curled into darkly gleeful smile. “Perhaps he is undead.”

The audience hall erupted into enraged clamoring. Voices crashed and crowded each other out, so no individual’s speech was distinguishable from another’s. The crowd surged forward, intent on ripping their ancient enemy to shreds. At the forefront was an exceptionally tall and muscular male whose hand clamped down on Aly’s delicate throat and lifted her up. Her hands grabbed hold of his forearm, and she choked and kicked in his grasp.

At Ingwe’s side, Hyanda shook her head; this was according to plan. Though the situation looked bad, he reluctantly quieted. The mission was more important than any one life.

“Kelvar!” Varalad called out, his voice rising above the din. “Panya he ndu!”

The auburn-haired elf grit his teeth at the command, but dropped the Alerian, who collapsed to her knees, wheezing for breath. Slowly, the elves in the room quieted under the bards’ insistent handwaves. “You would have her live when she brings us disaster?” Rage and bitterness filled the tall elf’s tenor voice.

“I think we should listen to the human first. The Tel’gothra may well be spewing lies. Take her outside. And Alerian…” High Bard Varalad waited until she looked up to meet his eyes. “Kelvar spent half his life a slave in your country. He has every reason to want your kind dead. If you value your life, do not provoke him.”

Her only reply was a venom-filled glare. Kelvar grabbed her roughly, hauling her to her feet and dragging her out of the chamber. Aly caught Ingwe’s eye on the way out, tossing him a confident wink under the cover of her hat. It was his show now.


~*~*~

After the doors slammed shut, Alydia rubbed her neck. “A little rougher than necessary there.”

Her first Raiaeran friend chuckled, patting her on the back. “My apologies. It needed to be convincing. You were a little melodramatic, I thought.”

“I haven’t been strangled in a while,” she pouted. “That’s a lie, actually, but it’s a long story that I will tell once we’re safely back to Nenaebreth.” Slender fingers started digging through her pockets until she came up with a small bundle of paper. “I met Vakha and the kids at the dock myself. I left them safely in Paige’s house, and they had plans to travel into Concordia with a contact of hers. Your family is safe.”

Tension flooded out of the farmer’s shoulders and he clutched the letter to his chest. “Thank you.”

“You know I couldn’t leave them uncared for. Come on, I need to find something.” She turned in the dim and dusty hall, walking toward the library with Kelvar close on her heels.

“You know you painted yourself pretty bad in there, right?”

“Once we’re out, so long as I’m helping and not hurting them, they won’t have time to do anything to me. Plus, they think I’m a liar. All the kid has to do is keep his head and explain things clearly, and we’ll all be out of here by dawn.”

[Flames of Hyperion]

It took an eternity for the furore surrounding Alydia’s departure to die down. An eternity for Ingwe’s keening anxiety to drown out the rise and fall of angry voices. An eternity for him to savour the clammy sweat upon his palms and the palpitating beat of his heart in his chest, to cower before the thunder of blood in his mind and the pungent stink of his fear. The shadows by the weeping marble walls veiled him beneath their silent anguish, until not even the wisest of sages could trace the taut lines of his cheeks.

He wondered if the masked noh actors of his homeland felt this way before their performances at the imperial court. He wondered how often they had to perform with the fate of the country, the whole continent, at stake. He wondered if sometimes, they too felt the enormity of their task swallowing them whole. Alydia and Lord Ecthelion had worked so hard to prepare him for this moment; he wondered how they might react if he failed them now. Disappointment? Disgust?

He spent so long wondering, he almost missed his cue.

“We recognise Penhalhael Tinehtele, Glorfindel of Anebrilith. He is welcome before us.” High Bard Varalad inclined his head just so, the barest minimum of courtesy required from a superior to his inferior. “But we do not know the edan who walks with him into these halls. Given his association with the black elf, we feel the need to question his motives, elf-friend or not. Explain, Bladesinger.”

Now was not the place for Sasurai-no-Ijin Nanashi, the nameless foreign wanderer. Now was not the time for the young boy Yann, student of the world and its esoteric mysteries.

Now he had to put on the mask of Ingwe Helyanwe, commander of the Legion of Light. And he had to convince the most powerful arcane practitioner on Althanas that he wore it with neither shame nor conceit.

Forestalling what words Glorfindel might have prepared in reply, he stepped forth into the flickering candlelight.

“I am nobody.”

His light tenor echoed above the musty tension, his words clumsy machetes in comparison to the honed Raiaeran scalpels. He felt every wince, every cringe, as he butchered the delicate elven with the ineptness so typical of humankind. Could he cut through the tangled web of woven lies and obfuscating falsehoods that veiled their hearts? But they could understand him, and more importantly, they knew now that he could understand them as well. Perhaps that might convince them to take him more seriously.

“I am but a simple easterner, caught up in this war for my own selfish cause. I am but one man, powerless to stand alone against the Necromancer’s armies and magics. I am but an inexperienced youth, out of my depth in these war-torn lands.”

Twitters of disbelief greeted his humble introduction: what diplomat would willingly lower the pedestal upon which they stood before they presented their demands? It flew in the face of all reason, contradicted all common sense, contravened all convention.

“But I stand before you today, a guest at your council. I understand that you wish for Master Glorfindel to speak on my behalf, but he has honoured me with his trust and companionship since last summer. Now a new spring beckons, and you would do me even greater honour by granting me the opportunity to explain myself.”

His words rippled through the room like raindrops through a pond. As long as he held the right to speak, their own strict rules of etiquette forbade them from interrupting him. Pausing for breath just long enough to compose his thoughts, he continued before they could wrest away his initiative.

“I studied your tongue under your kin of the Amaranth, even before my voice had broken. I told them stories of what had happened in the lands of men, and in turn they named me Ingwe Helyanwe, he who bridges the stars. I bear their greetings and their goodwill, and the greetings and goodwill too of Ecthelion of Tor Elythis, who has generously mentored me throughout this trying campaign.”

Mentioning the Prince of the Ivory Spire drew another low murmur from his audience, this time of surprise and bewildered approval. The bard to the far right tapped a slender finger against the battered oak: once, twice, again. High Bard Varalad nodded understanding, and Ingwe duplicated the gesture.

“He is the Bard who opened the gate to let us pass, and he holds it still regardless of how Alydia might taunt you. It was he who penetrated the Necromancer’s siege lines after Alydia’s fieldcraft led us through the Lindequalme. And it was he who entrusted me with this advice, in lieu of his enforced absence. The time has come to extend the veil.”

The beat of nail on wood ended with one final blow. Varalad’s serene expression never wavered.

“And do you know, human, what this entails?”

Ingwe breathed deep of the sudden consternation. “I am told it involves removing from the Firmament the buildings of Istien, the lore they contain, and the danger they represent should they fall into the wrong hands. I am told that this is only considered in the direst of needs, that it is a process irreversible, and that it foretells the end times. The times of doom. The times of legend.”

The High Bard nodded again, digesting the edan’s understanding as he might a simple meal. Eyes of pale clear lilac sheltered beneath his fragile arching brow. Pale hair and translucent skin hinted at his gradual fading from the realm of mortality. His compatriot elf-lords, two to either side, betrayed little further emotion beyond the slightest of tics in their temples. Only the youngest of their number to the far right betrayed their unity, fixing Ingwe with a curious mixture of hatred and disgust bared to the world by months of attrition and despair.

“And what do you suggest we do in the meantime?”

The dusky elf to Varalad’s left spoke next, her silky whisper traversing his mind like a wintry wind. Her gaze like whetted ice pierced him where he stood, pinning his soul to the pedestal in the limelight. Mouth dry, fingertips trembling within clenched fist, onwards still Ingwe forged.

“Flee. Preserve the knowledge and the wisdom that would otherwise be lost to the ravages of time. Pass it on to those who will need it in the trials to come. Now and in the near future, your people will require leadership and guidance. It is up to those present on this council to provide it.”

“And your proposal as to how we might escape this trap? Or have you forgotten that the Death Lords surround us for leagues in every direction?”

Again he forced himself to pause for breath, tasting the rancid must in the back of his nose. He had to remind himself that all present, bar himself and Glorfindel, had been trapped in the ruins for what must have seemed an eternity, losing friend after friend in one hopeless stand after another. How could they now entrust their hope to the three new arrivals – one white elf, one grey, and a token human – who had appeared suddenly and at random in their midst? He inhaled again of dust tainted with desperation, desolation, and death. Then he pushed his glinting glasses back up his nose.

They will regard you neutrally and listen to your words.

“Where your agricultural heartlands meet the Great Forest, there was once a river, now but a long gorge. The terrain is difficult for the undead, and your own wards embedded in the guardian trees will shelter us even further… we can travel light and fast, and defend ourselves adequately against any of the Necromancer’s patrols.”

There is no lie I would not have you tell.

“Thus, the plan I propose is as follows. We use the rest of tonight and tomorrow until evening to rest, eat, and prepare. Then, with the veiling of Istien as a distraction, we sally forth beneath cover of darkness and slip through the siege lines before the Death Lords ever realise we have gone. We follow the gorge until the Elleduin, then strike out across open ground for the last stretch towards Nenaebreth. The Skyknights will keep the Necromancer’s aerial forces distracted and confused, so that we have a good chance of making the Elleduin before any pursuit. Once we have crossed the river, Prince Turgon and the Silverwind can shield us by discouraging any who dare to follow.”

You alone.

“I realise that this is much to ask of you, Lord Varalad, lords and ladies of the council. I realise that this plan risks the very future of Raiaera herself on extreme short notice. But I ask, for the sake of those who still fight in your name, for the sake of those who will learn of your courage and perseverance in the years to come, that you consider that this is likely to be our last chance to salvage anything from the many thousand years of history.”

When had he last spoken with such fluency, with such passion? When had he last stood in the face of accepted tradition and authority to simply speak his mind? He bowed his head, low and formal, holding the gesture for as long as he dared.

The icy elf turned to Varalad and murmured beneath her breath. Ingwe caught only a single word of the exchange.

“Esgalduin.”

The River under Veil.

Silence reigned for long, breathless moments as the High Bard considered all that had been laid before him. When he spoke again at last, the walls rolled with inflections of suppressed power and arcane warmth suffused the stone beneath his feet.

“It is long since a human has walked these halls, and longer still since they have offered us such valuable council. Perhaps, he who is called Ingwe Helyanwe, you will humour us with one last shred of information. Why should we trust you?”

Something in Ingwe’s features faltered, hope lost and dreams dashed. But he rallied one last time with the last of the words that Ecthelion had planted in his mind.

“Because the end times bring with them the legends of the last crusaders, and it is in them and in those who would tell their tale that you should place your trust.”

Varalad nodded. Black lightning flickered through his eyes, bringing the conversation to an abrupt and decisive close.

“Thank you, Ingwe Helyanwe. Go now, rest, and we shall debate your advice.”