Dawn of a Legend

by R K Lander

  And then something changed. He wavered where he stood, holding on to the tree like a drowning man clutching to an offered hand. Deviant shrieks mixed with the same high-pitched scream they had all heard previously. The Gas Lizard was coming closer, and Fel’annár resisted the urge to cover his ears. The scream inside his head was deafening, and in his mind he saw the creature as it swayed left and right, imperious in its colourful beauty and its terror, and upon its back rode what must surely be the Nim’uán.

  He saw the elven beast step down from his mount and then gesture to the trees. Turning, the dark commander chose his vantage point upon a boulder, eyes scanning the Deviants as they were slaughtered by the trees. He drew his sword and raised it high in a gesture the Lizard seemed to understand, and it scurried to the trees to do its master’s bidding.

  Boughs descended, sweeping down violently upon this new adversary, but the beast caught them in its razor-sharp teeth and pulled and then ripped, head thrashing from side to side as it snagged entire branches as if they were nothing but petals on a daisy.

  Fel’annár closed his eyes, as if by doing so he could block out the images, but he couldn’t. The thick tail smashed into trunks with such force that some were snapped in half while others cracked and groaned. Fel’annár could feel it—crashing timber, cracking wood, and leaking sap. The voice of the forest changed from wrath and destruction to pain and desperation. They called for aid, but Fel’annár could not give it.

  Where before no Deviants had managed to escape the thick of the trees, now, they began to emerge from the slowly dying forest. Scimitars raised high, they ran towards the six warriors that stood beyond the treeline.

  “Shall we make our final charge, Brothers?” asked Fel’annár softly.

  “Aye!” they shouted. Fel’annár held his sword up, knowing it would be for the last time. It had been a short life, but he had burned brightly and there was comfort in that thought. When he ran, he would run to his mother, into the arms of Aria herself, and when he uttered his last word, it would be for love.

  “Charge!”

  His battle cry was long and furious, and no sooner had it finished than a whispering rumble of thunder took over and the sky behind them grew dark, as if a giant had passed before the sun. But it wasn’t until they heard the heavy thunk of arrows hitting rotten flesh that they realised the archers of Tar’eastór had moved into range. The first line of Deviants fell, but more came, jumping over the dead as they wailed their own battle cries, and The Company continued to run. Another volley slammed into the oncoming Deviants, and they too fell, but another wave was soon approaching. The sky darkened once more, and this time they did see it, for the swarm of arrows came from the Deviants. The Company braced themselves as they ran, but the piercing agony they had expected never came—in its place, the thud of arrowheads hitting wood. From the corner of his eyes, Fel’annár saw the gleaming armour of the Tar’eastór warriors as they sailed past them, a mighty leap, their shields held out before them, protecting them from the oncoming arrows. Pride surged through Fel’annár, so powerful he joined them as they roared, like wild bears after their prey, sprinting down the slopes and into the trees that twisted and thrashed and trumpeted as they skewered the Deviants that passed too close.

  Gor’sadén’s army had arrived. Fel’annár had not failed them.

  With a mighty clash and the clatter of pikes and armour, they came together, and for a moment, they could hardly move—a sea of elves and rotting Deviants, of rusted scimitars and gleaming silver.

  Slowly, each warrior made for themselves some space, and soon, the real fighting began. Pangs of metal, grunts of pain and effort, shrieks of horror as limbs were severed, and Fel’annár struggled for space, trying and failing to swing his long sword around, but only his short sword was practical, that and his fists and elbows, knees and feet. It was brutal and vicious hand-to-hand and with no armour to protect his body.

  As more Deviants fell around him, Fel’annár could finally use both his blades in tandem without endangering the lives of his fellow warriors. A towering Mountain Deviant was hurtling towards him, purple tongue hanging out of its slack mouth, yellow eyes wide and deranged. He ducked under the wild swipe of a scimitar and stabbed it in the back. Whirling around, he plunged into his next foe, his mind on one thing only: the whereabouts of The Company. He cut and sliced, whirled and parried, dodged and kicked, but still they came by the twos and threes. He tried to find his brothers as he fought, knowing that logically they must be close by, but it was too close quarters. All he could see were Deviants.

  Another terrible screech and Fel’annár struggled not to lose focus. The Gas Lizard was approaching the side lines, where the trees still fought bravely. He had already seen the beast in his mind, but in the flesh, it stole his breath. It was twice his height, much bigger than he had imagined, and he realised that he had seen it from the perspective of the trees. Its reptilian jowls were full of razor-sharp teeth designed for ripping and shredding. Around its neck was a beautifully coloured ruff of red, purple, and vibrant greens, and just behind, on either flank, were three gaping gills. Inside, a luminescent haze coiled, and the stench of it was eye-watering. Fel’annár wanted to gag.

  The enemy shrieks and wails were drowned out by the screams of the wood inside Fel’annár’s head. The Deviants were turning on the trees, empowered by the killing frenzy of the Lizard. They were weakening under the relentless onslaught, ripped apart, dismembered and hacked into pieces, and Fel’annár cried in frustration and angry grief as he fought the front lines, furious at his inability to help them. They were dying and his anger—turned into wrath.

  A Deviant barrelled into him from the side. He fell, immediately sweeping out with his legs and bringing his opponent crashing to the bloody ground. He plunged into it with both blades and stood with a grimace.

  Whirling his blades around, he came face-to-face with Ramien, who smiled back at him, blood covering his front teeth, but he was alive with the fight.

  “Brother.”

  He sounded weak, tired, but he turned and blocked another attack and Fel’annár watched, red hair dancing in the corner of his eyes. Idernon’s auburn head bobbed into sight, stained though it was by blood. And then he saw Galadan, Galdith, and Carodel.

  Relief flooded him. They were still alive, still on their feet, and Fel’annár was fuelled into action once more.

  The Lizard shrieked, throwing its head back and showing its enemies its three rows of jagged teeth as it scurried from the ruin of trees. He heard a rush of air, and the putrid smell was bitter in his mouth. Elves and Deviants fell senseless to the ground, and Fel’annár and The Company rolled away.

  “Fire!” came a yell from behind him, a captain and his archers, and Deviants fell not far before him, but the arrows clattered off the thick hide of the Lizard.

  A flash of gold and Gor’sadén was beside him, formidable in his sweeping fury, his purple sash sailing around him as he fought—and on his other side, Pan’assár, just as imposing as his brother in arms, his own sash around his waist, where it should always have been. The Ari commander, Hobin, was there, too, their gazes briefly crossing. This was the front line, and the mightiest warriors of Tar’eastór and Araria had come. Fel’annár stood amongst legends, and as he fought, he could feel the rhythm growing in his mind, the beat of four, and he fell into it, projected without reserve, just as Gor’sadén had taught him, and all around him, tentacles of green and blue and purple snaked here and there. Gor’sadén and Pan’assár danced with it, with him, and for a while, at least, they were unbeatable, unstoppable.

  More arrows sailed overhead, not seven paces away from their position, and an answering volley whispered over them. Pan’assár faltered but soon rid himself of the arrow in his calf and continued his forward inertia. Slowly, they were gaining ground towards where they knew they needed to be—before the Gas Lizard.

  The beast had turned its attention away from the dying trees and to the front li
nes of elves. The Deviants made way for it and then watched as it hissed a spray of orange fumes at the elven warriors. They dropped like falling timber, and their fellow warriors dragged them away as best they could. The Lizard turned, ready to spit again, but the troop ducked and rolled, the fumes setting their eyes to watering, the enemy blurring before them.

  Fel’annár blinked to clear the fog and spared a glance at the imposing figure of the Nim’uán, who stood upon his boulder, looking out over the battle, watching proudly as his Gas Lizard took down warrior after warrior. Then he tipped his head to one side. Fel’annár followed the Nim’uán’s line of sight to Pan’assár, who was striding towards the Lizard, slightly to one side of the creature’s jowls. Fel’annár didn’t think the commander had ever fought a Gas Lizard—surely none of them had, but still, other warriors came to stand tall beside him, long pikes stretched out before them. They jabbed at the Lizard, dancing backwards as it snapped and bit off the metal tips and then lashed out with its thick tail, sending three warriors sailing through the air. It turned back to the shining warrior, and Pan’assár moved with it. With a mighty yell he attacked, but his blade glanced off a spiny horn along its flank. He spun out of the way of the giant tail, feeling a rush of air as it passed inches over his head, and he lashed out again, managing to land a cut to its side. The blow had been hard, and yet the beast did not falter. Pan’assár, though, was undeterred, and once more he danced sideways and drove his sword into the beast’s leg. It screamed, and with its other leg, it swiped out and hit the commander with a thud, sending him flying backwards. Even before he landed, a hissed breath and a rush of toxic fumes streamed from the Lizard’s mouth. Pan’assár twisted as he fell and then rolled out of the way of the vaporous trail.

  “Pan’assár!!” Gor’sadén was running forwards, ready to take his brother’s place before the monster, but Pan’assár was already on his feet, shaking his head and rolling his shoulders, eyes narrowing into slits of pure steel as he strode forward and then brushed Gor’sadén’s shoulder, a brotherly gesture of thanks.

  He ran and then jumped into the air, one boot landing on the beast’s upper leg. Propelling himself upwards, he clung to the spines on its back with one hand and hoisted himself into the ornate chair which sat close to the base of its thick neck. It screamed and writhed, and Pan’assár held on, hair flying left and then right, knees squeezing hard. Letting go with one hand, Pan’assár held his sword aloft and then plunged downwards with all his strength, his second hand joining the first and pushing harder with a roar of sheer effort. Metal pierced skin and muscle and then sunk through bone and when his blade could go no further, he twisted. The beast lost control of its body and fell forwards, sending Pan’assár flying over its head.

  Landing with a dull thud, Pan’assár only had time to stand and turn, finding himself directly in front of the gaping jowls. Grabbing the pommel of his short sword with both hands, he sent a prayer to Aria and then plunged his blade into the Lizard’s bloody mouth. A rush of yellow mist hit him in the face, as he knew it would. He stood rigid, his breath seizing in his chest as his eyes rolled back in his head—and he fell backwards, face purple.

  “No!!!” screamed Gor’sadén, even as the other elven warriors roared in victory as the beast ceased its mad thrashing and stilled. Dead.

  Grabbing Pan’assár’s harness in one hand, Gor’sadén dragged him away from the Lizard, as far as he could from the fighting, where Pan’assár would at least have a chance of survival. Turning back to fight, his eyes latched onto the Deviant commander, who stood staring at the inert body of his Gas Lizard. The stony, somewhat unconcerned air about the Nim’uán had gone—and in its place was seething ire.

  Gor’sadén advanced on him, cutting down a Deviant that charged at him with ease and then another that thought to surprise him. Gor’sadén all but flung it to one side, and still, he advanced on the dark-haired commander. This was an elf, realised the commander, tall and imperious in black velvet and shining silver armour. It was not the uniform of the warriors of Tar’eastór, but he was not wrong. Fel’annár had been right: this was an elf—only he was too large, too pale.

  The Nim’uán ripped his angry eyes from his dead Lizard and turned his gaze on Gor’sadén, first on the insignia on his breast plate and then up to his face.

  “Commander,” it called, voice smooth and melodious. Gor’sadén couldn’t have heard the voice, for he was still too far away, but he could read its lips, imagine the sound of it. His confusion must have shown, and the odd elf smiled. But Gor’sadén detected a note of strangeness in it, and he repressed a shudder of horror as the elf opened his mouth and all its pale beauty leeched away in the wake of razor-sharp teeth, incisors curving downwards past his bottom lip. It reminded Gor’sadén of a snake’s jowls. He was beautiful, but he was a monster. The trees had named him well.

  The largest sword Gor’sadén had ever seen sat at his waist, only the pommel visible, but it twinkled and glittered with the promise of pain and death, jewel-encrusted hilt a mass of exquisitely-carved swirls and symbols. Here was a vicious enemy, a powerful foe that would not be easily vanquished.

  Gor’sadén steeled himself for the fight of his life.

  The creature stepped gracefully from his vantage point and walked towards the one he had chosen to fight. Only now did Gor’sadén realise just how large this creature was. It stood two heads taller than himself, limbs thick with worked muscle. Closer now and the Nim’uán spoke.

  “You have questions, yes. I can see your confusion.”

  “Why are you doing this. You are elven, in some way . . .”

  “I am elven, yes. And I am Deviant,” it hissed, leaning forward a little. Still too far away to engage but his hands flexed, not quite touching the monumental sword.

  The commander’s eyes were wide, horrified at the dark beauty and the sickening cruelty, struggling to reconcile one with the other. He shook his head in denial.

  “It is possible, Commander. And now—I have come to take your city.”

  “Why?”

  “Everyone needs a home, Gor’ssssadén,” it whispered.

  All his shock and denial fell away, and he stood tall and proud. “You can’t have it.” He lifted his sword and readied himself.

  “We shall see.” It smiled and then finally wrapped its strong hand around the jewels and the carvings. Pulling, the blade hissed, reminiscent of the beast’s snake-like voice, and then he struck his stance, liquid blue eyes glittering in anticipation. No fear, no apprehension at all.

  Gor’sadén had known he would be a formidable foe, and he braced himself as the creature roared and then swung his sword around and towards his neck. Gor’sadén met it with his own blade, shock waves reverberating up his arm and through his entire body. They pushed away and the duel began, even as the fighting continued around them.

  Fel’annár and The Company saw the commander as he faced the strange being, but a desperate call from Galdith and they turned away. Galadan staggered to one side, but he did not fall, and The Company rallied around him. Fel’annár swivelled around and slashed over the back of a Deviant that was battling with Carodel. A warning shout and he shot around . . . only to see a shocked Deviant, sword raised to kill him, frozen in the air. It slumped to the ground, and a warrior prince emerged, his swords dripping. Sontúr’s eyes shone with pride, and Fel’annár had just enough time to bow his head in thanks, heart swelling at the presence of his royal friend. He had come back for them, just as he had promised.

  Then they were assailed on all sides, and the Deviants, in spite of the loss of their Lizard, seemed driven by their commander’s fight with Gor’sadén, as if they were proud, mused Fel’annár. He was knocked to the ground, and all he could do was roll and then flip upwards. He almost slammed into a Deviant, narrowly avoiding a slashing dagger before slicing through its forearm and then kicking into its grotesque face.

  “Valour!” he yelled to The Company, but others around them heard and they
pushed on, pushed forwards, themselves empowered by the mighty spectacle of their commander general fighting as they had never seen before, a true master of the Kal’hamén’Ar.

  Black and grey cloaks fanned around and around as they fought. Gor’sadén was speed and precision but what the Nim’uán lacked in skill, it made up for with the sheer power of its strokes. The sound of their blades clashing together was shocking and grating, and Gor’sadén called upon every ounce of his strength, summoned the energy inside himself and projected it into his blades. The Nim’uán stepped backwards, and Gor’sadén bore down on him again and again, searching for the slightest opening in its defences, but his arms were burning and his heart frantically trying to keep up with the vicious strokes of power from the Nim’uán. It was a fierce fight, a long fight, and the commander endured, and with the last of his reserves he attacked with all that he had. But he was tired, movements slower than they had been. All it took was a minute gap between his blade and his leg. The Nim’uán saw it, lunged forwards and then fell to one side, thrusting its sword straight through Gor’sadén’s thigh.

  A strangled cry of pain and his leg buckled, sending him to his knees in utter agony, blood pouring down his leg. He braced himself for a killing blow, but it did not come, and through pain-clouded eyes he looked down at the heavy sword that pierced him from front to back. Raising his head, he watched as the Nim’uán rose from the ground, breathless but jubilant.