Legion of Light III: The Ancient City

[Flames of Hyperion]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the body did not hit the ground.

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

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

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

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

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

A sudden scream broke him out of his petrified reverie.

“H… Help…!”

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

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

“Sei…ya!”

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

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

However temporary it was.

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

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

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