by Ben Marshall
While his men kept a close eye upon the cart, which was taking a trail that would pass within just a few metres of the camp boundary, Rothil Morambeth drew his green cloak tight about his muscular frame as he signalled for his warriors to await his signal. Bringing the hood over his head, covering his long black hair with the worn leather, he moved silently into the bushes beside him. Moving with only the faintest and barely discernible of rustles to mark his path he made his way towards a great oak that stood in the centre of the deep thicket. This tree was old even by the standards of the forest, and was believed by most to have been one of the first trees present in the wood. Indeed only it and its close neighbours bore any similar signs of the great amount of time that had passed them by. Innumerable indeed must be the stories that could be related by the group if their language was interpretable by the human race. They had probably witnessed the Dark Lord’s conquest all those long years ago. Had they heard Gorlian’s immortalised words proclaimed upon the winds? Those that surrounded this small gathering of oaks were much smoother of skin, much fairer of complexion, and their backs had not yet bent under the pressure of similar old age. The deep-set bark provided a perfect foothold for such an experienced inhabitant of this great forest, and soon Morambeth was within the low branches. The old oaks that formed the gathering also made up the outside edge of the outlaws’ camp, and their branches had become interlocked from tree to tree, forming a small set of paths above the dirt trails below.
The branches were slick with the morning due, though the sun had scarcely made its way above the horizon, and Morambeth was in great trepidation as he made his way along to the branch that ran parallel to the dirt trail. His disquiet was warranted, for the ground lay nearly fifteen metres below him, however moist the ground may be from the rainfall of a few nights ago. Drawing a large-bladed hunting knife, which was surprisingly ornate considering he had no noble heritage of which anyone in Valinia was aware, he plunged it into the bough to provide added insurance against the chances of his falling. At the same time he straddled the limb and, though progress was slower than he would have liked, he reached the trunk of the next tree without event. Ducking behind the wizened trunk, his dark cloak providing great camouflage amongst the greenery, he drew his own re-curved bow, which unlike his comrades was made of fine beech-wood. His knife was held within his teeth, for he was still unsure as to the chances of remaining upon the bough. Bringing the great mass of beech before him, he reached back to his leather quiver, and drew from it an arrow adorned with the feathers of a kestrel. Pulling the string back so that his fingers brushed his cheek, Morambeth took careful aim at the archer upon the cart. The crude cart was between target and shooter, and had now moved to only a hundred metres from the camp entrance, but thankfully Morambeth had inherited a keen eye. Standing so that his view was less impaired by the flora that surrounded him, the target less protected, he began to slowly follow their path with his shaft. Still the unidentified party moved on, oblivious to the man preparing to launch an attack upon their procession. Tensing as he made final adjustments for wind and distance, adjustments that would mean the difference between success and failure, Morambeth released the shaft. A dulled thud signalled it had struck home. At the same instant that the impact was made, the other foresters let loose a great volley upon the ambushed party.
***
The whispered orders spread through the force as it gathered at the forest edge, their furs providing great concealment within the bushes that sprang up in great numbers now that the trees had yielded and allowed some light to fall upon the ground at last. The moon hovered above the scene, a silent onlooker watching such sport within life’s arena. Its beam struck the bushes that hid the silent warriors, but no light could reveal them to the sentinels upon the wall of rough-hewn timber.
His expansive cloak of wolf fur drawn about his massive frame, Lodreb gazed unblinkingly up at the sentinels as a slow grin spread across his weather-beaten face. Eraniel had never been one to underestimate his opponent, but he had also never been one to know when actions were futile. The Lord Moragil, who had brought him back to the High Seat of his tribe, would also cause Eraniel’s followers to fall to him. Gripping his war hammer within one mighty gloved fist, Lodreb felt incredible levels of new strength course through his veins as he rose to his full height of 240 centimetres. A black iron helmet, adorned with four twisted horns, upon his head caused the savage to appear to all his men the very image of the demon that had long ago claimed his soul. His eyes glowing a fierce red in the night, Lodreb slowly began to walk across the five hundred metres from forest to village.
Whether it was by fortune, or magic of an evil inclination, a great cloud obscured the orb-like moon as he stepped beyond the tree line. Now a mere shadow to the pacing sentinels, Lodreb easily covered the distance of the no-man’s land without incident. Reaching the wall unseen he felt a sudden hunger rise up from the war hammer itself, as it longed to destroy all it saw. The tool of a demon, it longed to feel the unmistakable texture of mortal blood, and the hunger was too great even for the barbarian’s immense frame to contain. Raising the mighty bludgeon over his head, Lodreb brought it against the logs that stood before him with a crash akin only to the roars of thunder. The blow caused a deep gash to be cut across the wall’s carved hide, and it slowly began to fall. Their yells of alarm drowned out by the groaning of the timbers, five sentinels were thrown violently from the parapet, and hit the sod with dull thuds. Moments later, the colossal timbers joined them, and three of the men would never rise again. The other two, sprawled upon the turf and pinned by the oversized kindling they had helped erect just days earlier, could only look skywards in unfathomable horror as the barbarian raised his hammer twice more, and the darkness of death claimed them for eternity.
Buoyed by their leader’s actions, the other barbarians ran through the breached defences, their axes hewing all that dwelled within the doomed village. The autumnal grass underfoot was stained with the blood of over a hundred villagers, for none were prepared for the brutality. Their pleas falling on deaf ears, the women could only watch in terrified revulsion as their children were butchered where they stood. Then the bloodthirsty attackers turned their tools of destruction on them. Their shrieks filling the night, their bodies mutilated beyond recognition as anything save pounds of flesh, they fell also into oblivion. The tribe’s men, to their credit, bore arms against the murderers, but to no avail. While Lodreb’s warriors fell to the hammers and axes of Eraniel’s own, Lodreb himself could not be overcome. Endowed with powers beyond anything before encountered, indeed beyond anything of natural being, his machinations could not be undone, and nor could they be thwarted. Whirling his war hammer about his head, each strike from the insatiably hungry weapon proved fatal. Only one of all the tribe’s warriors struck a blow against the foul being. Eraniel himself, standing head and shoulders above his men, hurled his great spear at the back of the as yet untouched savage. The projectile unseen as another warrior fell from the board of life, Lodreb was forced forward by the force of it, as Eraniel had approached from just behind the barbarian’s side. Drawing a sword of incredible length, seeing as how it was twice the size of any other in existence, Eraniel strode towards the demonic warrior, carving a path through the blood-crazed mob that had followed Lodreb.
His grey eyes set as he raised his weapon, the polished steel gleaming in the light from the burning remains of his tribe’s homes, Eraniel brought it crashing down upon the back of his foe. With a sickening crunch his spine was shattered, his back heavily gouged, but the demon was far from beaten. His back aglow with an unearthly green light, Lodreb began to rise slowly to his feet, his body healing itself through foulest spellcraft. Staring in disbelief, Eraniel struck again, and again he forced his opponent to the ground, this time with his right arm severed at the shoulder. Even as the blood dripped onto the ground beneath him the barbarian rose again, a replacement arm already beginning to grow in the lost limb’s stead.
“It is futile to oppose me, Mortal,” he boasted with a sneer, and his voice had taken on the tones of a snarling beast as he raised his war hammer to strike. Seeing such a display, Eraniel’s warriors felt their wavering courage disappear entirely. Fleeing the scene, none saw their leader strike once more at Lodreb after barely parrying the lightning swipe that was aimed at his temple. Severing the right arm at the elbow Eraniel swung his blade upwards, slicing through Lodreb’s chest. The green light burst through the wound, and the flesh began to repair itself. Doubled over with the pain Lodreb couldn’t see Eraniel as he too abandoned the fight. Though Lodreb had what remained of his force search the village, not a trace of the defeated tribal leader could be found amongst the burning ruins and the piles of dead. However, the Baridian remained unhurt. Lodreb’s men soon surrounded his extensive, though rustic, home, but Eraniel was not within. Some say that he fled from the village via the gate, and perhaps that is true. Others claim he had escaped by a hidden passage to seek refuge in the mountains, which is not unreasonable considering that the nearby range is a veritable honeycomb of caverns and tunnels. Yet all were mistaken, for Eraniel had never been one to flee, whatever came before his eyes. He saw all that befell his tribe and, while he watched Lodreb set a burning brand to his ancestral home, he planned his revenge. The demon would come to regret his actions that night, but the Baridian couldn’t do it alone.
The moon still hidden by the imposing clouds, nothing showed Eraniel to his enemies as he silently yet swiftly withdrew to seek aid among the other tribes that dwelled in the feral and hazard-ridden lands of Barid. He needn’t have looked far, however, for an unseen presence had found the desire to give aid; for a price. The deceitful and foul whispers of promises began to drift across the plains upon the chill night breeze, as they had numerous times before in the history of Naturien and particularly the cluster of regions within the territory of Periand. Moragil, the Dark Lord, began to reach out his arms to Eraniel, for his own machinations required men such as the powerful barbarian. Men who desired what only he could offer, even if it would never be given. Power - sheer, unbridled power.
Generations of men had passed since he first felt power within his own black soul. Power which he had wielded for years before his own master found ruin; Power which had crafted, of all things, the Amulet of Planar Shifting, the one link between his own world and the Demon Realms, and at the same time the most powerful destructive force ever to know creation. Once it had been reclaimed his arsenal would be complete, and all would be ready for the Second Coming, and this time He wouldn’t oppose it. Only He had ever stood between the Dark Lord and his Machiavellian plans’ completion. He wouldn’t this time, for the Coming would not be announced until prevention was impossible. Not until all hope had faded from the world. Or would it?
Doubt had lingered ever since the last time such dark forces as his had been mobilised, for the renegade Elf had found a way to defeat the first Dark Lord. Though Berien had undoubtedly been an aid in the last conflict, the fact remained that he had shown himself to be a Bearer. None other had ever been an equal to the strength of Carrassiel, and the Elf had been the victor when the Amulet had been cut from the neck of Carrassiel and the gateway had been closed; the channel destroyed. Though the Amulet had not been destroyed Santelion had committed it to unknown hands, and time had covered the trails. A Bearer he was, and a Bearer he must surely be still, for such things are unchangeable. News of him had become nonexistent of late, so had he finally fallen? Had Fate judged his time to have come? Doubt plagued Moragil so. Yet still the task at hand remained to be completed. While the Amulet remained in unknown lodgings, nothing could be attempted lest Santelion lived and could attempt to once more bring an army to the gates of Hell’s Bastion. When it was found, all pieces needed to be in place, in case history attempted to repeat itself.
Thus it was that the whispers spread across the land, finally finding the heart and mind of the exiled Eraniel. No tribe found, and with winter snapping at his heels, he had withdrawn to the mountains, where only the wolves threatened his existence. There the elements fuelled his hatred, and the whispers conjured up images of Lodreb to haunt his every moment of life.
***
September 10th, 1187
The brooding night fled to the far reaches of the west once more as the sun beamed its brilliance down upon the land and began another journey, its warmth and purity replenishing the world for another 24 hours. It was a grave shame that the illuminated scene below couldn’t reflect such simple and majestic beauty as a sunrise. Rubble, all that remained of what had once been a bustling market town, was the greeting it received, a still-smoking carcass of civilisation as it was before the seemingly endless war. His proud steed trotting among the faintly glowing embers and the desolation, Olgerd the Unyielding surveyed the battlefield of the previous night with a stony-faced silence. Despite his loathsome reputation of late, he mourned for the loss of such life pointlessly. For more than an hour they had wandered amongst the carnage, and no sign of the soldiers they had heard to have been present could be discovered. Final result: 50 dead Camentari for the lives of 700 serfs and no soldiers of Berinan among the dead. His heart heavy with the knowledge that the past day and night of warfare had been in vain, Olgerd dismissed his entourage and headed to the nearby forest. Walking among nature had always helped him clear his aging mind during times of such woeful tidings.
The Greenwood spread its sweeping arms wide in welcome as Olgerd approached, his head bowed from a tiredness not born from fatigue. As he rode slowly into the forest’s gentle embrace, the Camentari ruler felt serenity creep into his heart. The sweet fragrances of the heather and wild flowers filled him with a delight that only the offspring of the Treefather could provide since that conspiratorial upstart Morambeth had bestowed that curse upon him when Anirien’s pointless yet bloody rebellion had been crushed. Closing his eyes so that he might bask in this fleeting moment of calm within his increasingly burdened life, Olgerd failed to notice the shadows that roved about him. The Greenwood had been the one region that spanned the border between Berinan and Camentar, and countless were the bloody battles that had waged within its heart. Many had died throughout its body over the years, and all had found peace within its ever-embracing arms. However, one menace had broken through into the haven that it had always been. Caluphim, the ever-black stalker of life, had fled into the foliage over a millennium ago, at the time of Carrassiel’s dominance. Corrupted by Carrassiel’s malevolence, now a ruined Elf, he had been shunned by all save the Earthmother and her husband. However he was ungracious in the extreme, no longer able to bear any form save that of the Beast, and his soul had long since been destroyed by his anger and despair, the void filled only by a hatred of those who had escaped the suffering of that Age. Watching Olgerd through his wolf-eyes, his jaws wrapped with saliva in anticipation, he crawled into the bushes beside the trail.
The scent of the foul and monstrous creation, carried to its nostrils upon the breeze, made Olgerd’s horse whinny nervously, tossing its head to try and rid itself of the disgusting odour. Brought out of his reverie by his mount’s antics, Olgerd barely managed to register the gaping jaws before Caluphim’s charging form collided painfully with his own. Forced from his saddle by the beast’s momentum, the Camentari felt searing pain as his neck and face were raked by scythe-like claws as he fell to the ground. Though his fall was cushioned by the matted grass, Olgerd felt a nauseous wave of darkness threaten to engulf him as the lycanthrope struck again. Lashing out with his gauntleted right arm, the Camentari forced the beast to draw back a few paces. Drawing his broadsword from its jewelled scabbard, he brought it into a defensive position before him as Caluphim pounced once more towards the aged warrior. The keen blade fending off the claws that reached for him, Olgerd brought the weapon round in a great arc to strike across the beast’s midriff. At the same time as his cursed blood spilled to the ground, Caluphim sank his fangs into the shoulder of his victim. Tearing away a g
reat chunk of muscle, the beast lunged once more at the King of Camentar and Valinia. With pain clouding his vision Olgerd barely parried the strike, but still one clawed limb struck him in the chest. Forced to the ground by the force of the blow the old warrior saw his own blood seeping through his torn surcoat, staining the grass a deep and vibrant red. Sensing that the kill was imminent Caluphim struck again with alarming velocity, and this time his jaws gripped the warrior’s neck in a vice-like hold. Bringing his weapon forwards, in a final attempt at survival against the horrific being that grasped him, Olgerd felt hot blood cover his hand, but it didn’t matter. Caluphim held on still, the broadsword passing only through the beast’s flesh rather than striking his vital organs. Gripping his victim’s sword arm, his claws cutting into the exposed veins, the werewolf brought his remaining arm across the Camentari’s chest once more, slicing through the now exposed belly. The claws had severed the tight rings of chain mail in Olgerd’s hauberk with no difficulty, so the warrior’s tender flesh stood no chance against their scythe-like edges. The darkness closed slowly around him once more, and the final sight his dimming mind knew was of Caluphim’s jaws pulling away from his broken body his torn throat held within them. Then all light vanished from his world, and death brought his tortured soul to the peace of eternal rest.