by Ben Marshall
Even with that threat neutralised the barriers had been breached by the sheer ferocity of the towering barbarians, each one taller and broader of shoulder than any of my own warriors. Under normal circumstances we Elves are taller than the humans that have colonised the realms of Naturien, yet every rule has an exception. The harsh environment of Barid requires incredible levels of strength and fortitude to overcome the dangers, so the barbarians are well over two metres tall when they enter manhood and each one reputedly has the strength of three men; and watching them wield their extensive axes and blades it appeared to be a reliable estimation. It was only through the training my own warriors had received, during the war to bring about the dominion of Barid, that they were able to prevent a slaughter of the ill-prepared and inexperienced soldiers the other nations had provided.
Now it seems that history is to repeat itself once more, for the Amulet has been found and already I am receiving signals of a stirring evil in the East. I believed the Kuhiar to have fallen under natural circumstances, yet now it seems as if they were originally but a small step in the efforts of Moragil. He has not launched a full army, of that I am certain, but he must surely be drawing close, and once again I am forced to draw on the weak nations of Men to find those I need if the Amulet is to finally be destroyed. I should have done so when first I had the chance, but something prevented me. I felt a kind of bond with the item, though it holds no sentient powers of its own. No will resides within it, nor was it ever used as more than a key to open the door to the Demon Planes so that the Bearer might draw on the strength of the infernal beings that are held within those layers of Hell, yet still I felt a kind of connection. Perhaps it was the part of me that remained corrupted, that remains corrupted, yearning for a tie to its kin, but I couldn’t destroy it as I now know it must be. Could it be that I must trust such power to Men, who are so easily persuaded to commit sins that equal my own? Since such seems to be the fate of the Amulet, and indeed of the Mortal Plane, then I can only hope I have been truly wise in my choice of accomplices.
From Valinia I have selected Rothil Morambeth, for this is the one time that he may end his own petty war peacefully, and I believe he may well be the son of my step sister Talilena, but I cannot say for certain whether it is so. If I am proved correct then he is both the greatest asset and the greatest liability, for she resisted the whispers the longest of all who were corrupted and her powers will have certainly been passed to her child. I sense the burning fires of ambition and strength within him, but whether it is good or ill I do not know.
From Camentar I have selected Enyatar Curith, son of the betrayer Aithan, for he is one in whom I see all that was once good in the race of Men, a chivalrous and noble nature that has been invisible within the race for what seems to have been an eternity. Should he survive the full route ahead, I know he can be relied upon to do what the others may not be able to.
From Berinan I deem General Barinya Escafaust to be the best candidate, for his martial prowess is combined with a fearless nature that is very akin to the Dwarves and I believe that his loyalty to this cause will be just as unbreakable as theirs.
From here it is hard to find a suitable member of the remaining human sects, for each has bred their people to be more of vice than virtue in this matter I fear. Because of this I can only hope that the various rulers are wise in their decision should they consent to the request by the emissaries, though from what I have heard of the nature of Orthilan’s society their advanced state of industry would set their representative against the Forest Elves and would oppose also my own duties as a Guardian of Nature; whose creations are forever being destroyed by the fires of industry. Added to this, their quest for knowledge has granted them with a level of intelligence that is beyond that of other human sects as a generality, but I fear that this has led to the fall of wisdom due to the often contradictory nature of the two.
Of the Dwarves little can be said because each is as good a candidate as the other, but I feel King Brietrin shall come himself rather than let anyone else “have all the fun” as he would see it. I hold no illusions that the journey is filled with peril, and that my own part in the journey is purely that of guide since I shall inevitably be forced to part ways when my counterpart makes his move. Our actions cannot go unseen by Moragil for any sizeable length, and each step increases the chance of failure and discovery. I almost hope he does deploy his troops when our progress puts pressure upon him to strike, that the activity might divert his attention from the efforts of my “Chosen Ones”.
I had been prepared for death ever since the efforts to liberate Valinia, for Mother Nature has told me the price of my redemption is to preserve Her order. Death is half of that order, for everything that begins must end, and every being has its own time for this stage. I learnt during my time of…rehabilitation that when your time comes you will die, if not in battle then from an accident. Were I of human lineage I might simply die in my sleep, but such is not an option for we Elves. When asked in the years since the end of the Age of Conflicts why I do all that I do, I have stated that it is because I want to pass from this life in combat, the fate all warriors of my homeland are raised for, and such was the reason why I gladly entered the conflict against Carrassiel. A demon can never be killed, nor truly destroyed, but instead merely banished to a level of the Demon Planes where its deplorable essence must remain for at least a millennium before it may begin the search for entry into the Mortal Plane once more. With this knowledge I am terrified at what my transformations could mean, and I strive daily to try and discover the cause for the loss of control I have suffered in the past. The whispers plague me still, though I don’t believe it is due to the will of Carrassiel growing strong once more or Moragil, his fell successor, trying to corrupt me and ensure that I shall not oppose any effort to accomplish what his master could not: Total domination of the lands of the Born Races. The attempted conquest of the Races failed in Carrassiel’s time because he could not conceive of my redemption, could not believe that I could break free of his power when no other being has accomplished such a feat, but Moragil knows that I shall not be swayed by the same lies I once was, though I cannot deny I am still susceptible to the whispers. I have lost control of my mind and body ten times since the end of the Age of Conflicts, though only once has the transformation resulted in tragedy. I know that Halarniel will be part of this venture, and shall gladly accept whatever ending Fate has in store, but can I endure her presence, and the memories of what I have done? I can accept death without a care, can even embrace my fall willingly, but can I accept life with similar grace?
The thoughts of Katchanga, transferred to written word September 20th, 1190
***
September 20th, 1190
Night had come once more to the Felannol Mountains, the small range that ran close to the lands that had once been roamed by the tribe of Eraniel. Three years and more had passed since he had lost everything, and he had been unable to think of anything else. The whispers had roamed through his nights and made them sleepless, had roamed through his days and made the sun seem to laugh in mockery of his loss, and the time had come for Moragil to finish the effort. This night a thick mist had rolled into the range, to join the perpetual storms, and the Baridian had drawn deeper into the cave he had dwelled in since his exile, bringing his cloak of wolf fur tighter about his muscular frame and hating the world for its malice towards him.
Eraniel. The word echoed softly in the darkness, and the barbarian turned sharply to see who had spoken. Eraniel, it is time to decide your fate upon this Plane. Red eyes glowed from the back of the cave, the owner covered in darkness, and the warrior gripped his unique sword with both hands as he turned to face this intruder on his misery. A rolling peal of laughter was heard within him, and a sound of rushing wind accompanied the weapon being thrown from his grasp by a strike from an unseen weapon. Bear not your weapon against me Mortal or your fate will be far from the glory I have selected to grant you. The words
were not a veiled threat, and though they would ordinarily have incited fury within the barbarian they now overwhelmed his natural curiosity.
“What do you offer me, Faceless Stranger?” The words were practically a snarl as the exile released the anger that had surged within him at how easily he had been disarmed by the unknown speaker. His aggression amused Moragil, and another laugh entered Eraniel’s mind before the question was answered.
I offer you the lands that were stolen and the possibility for more in future months. I offer you the wealth of Charad and the Western reaches of Barid to add to your realm. What say you Eraniel – greatness, or death within these caves and without honour?
“What do you wish in return, for such offers are never freely given?”
Your strength within my force and your allegiance to my plans are all I seek, and in doing so you shall earn the possible reward of Charad and West Barid in addition to your own lands. What say you to my offer?
“You give me back my land and I give my word that you shall be served when you so desire it.” The words were delivered without hesitation; the chance to reclaim what he had lost and the chance of taking revenge against the Empire of Charad for all the years they had seized the hunting territory of his fathers was too great an offer to pass up through his usual cautionary scepticism.
I shall hold you to your pledge, and know that what is given can be taken away should you fail to fulfil the bargain. A gauntlet forged from many sheets of mail was suddenly revealed by a flash of lightning, the fist barely extending beyond a cloak that was blacker than coal, and the barbarian gripped it with his own uncovered hand; a bargain settled that would change him forever.
***
September 21st, 1190
The sun was at its zenith by the time Eraniel reached the foot of the Northern edge of the Felannol Mountains, Moragil having directed him to the current location of the Baridian clan of nomads who followed the Chief known as Hessani, and saw the open plains of North Barid laid before him like a carpet of greenery. The crude tents of animal skins, covered with the furs from countless wolves and bears and serving as homes to this strange clan, were evident at the heart of the windswept plain, loose forests seen to the West and North. Though the Baridian had always been taught by his ancestors that the nomads’ loyalties were as shifting as their homes, it appeared that he was to trust his life to them if he was ever to regain his own lands.
He walked swiftly through the long grass, which stretched to his waist even though he was close to 240 centimetres tall, and couldn’t shake off a feeling that he was being watched by something or someone who lay concealed within the greenery, expecting any moment to find a weapon against his back. All Baridian tribes were fiercely territorial, they had to be if they were to keep their chances of surviving the harsh winters at reasonable levels, but the tribe who followed Hessani had been known on many occasions to slay those that wandered onto their hunting grounds unbidden, and to carry a weapon of war was something that would be acted upon without the hunters listening to any excuses. For this reason Eraniel tried to keep his arms as far from his sword as possible, and he made a point of revealing it so that any tribesmen who were watching would see he meant no harm but would defend himself if needs dictated he must. He had but a single kilometre to cover until he reached the perimeter of the camp when two spears whistled past him to embed themselves in the turf before him, their long shafts of what appeared to be a stout tube of hollow wood standing as high as his eyes. They were followed by two more, which passed between his torso and his upper arms before striking the ground, and four warriors ran towards him with their tall shields held before them. They were chanting in their unique tongue, the drawn-out sounds seeming to be spoken by descendants of the very earth beneath their silent feet as they continued with their cries, and Eraniel felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise slightly as he instinctively reached for his sword. His hand was stopped in mid-grasp by the point of a fifth spear coming into contact with the back of his neck as another hunter revealed himself, the weapon held ready to pierce his flesh if he did not relent.
“I have been sent at the guidance of Moragil to speak with your chief, and mean no harm to your tribe,” he told them with his arms raised above his head in a sign of defeat, and he heard several of the tribesmen surrounding him mutter to themselves in their own tongue, the sound all the more frightening now that he was truly at their mercy.
“Hessani has been waiting since dawn for your arrival, and grows impatient for you to explain why he should be an ally to one such as you,” the fifth hunter told him in slightly halting Common Tongue, the hunters all reclaiming their weapons and bringing them to point towards their captive to indicate he should walk towards the group of tents. Each tent was nearly three metres in height, but one rose from the centre of the camp to stand a full four metres high, the furs that covered it those of deadly sabre panthers as a symbol of authority; Hessani’s dwelling. The hunters jabbed at his lower back, driving Eraniel into the simple construction to face their leader before bowing to the ground in reverence the “civilised” nations further to the West would reserve only for a god. The captive Baridian remained standing for several minutes before the shaft of a spear was swung against the backs of his knees, forcing him to the floor with grunts of indignation and pain. Strong arms gripped him, forcing him into a prostrated stance similar to that of the hunters, and Hessani laughed a laugh that sounded not too dissimilar to the war cries of his warriors, each note slow and deliberate in its forming.
“I am the sixth Hessani of my tribe, and have been informed by the Lord Moragil that you are the fourth of the line of Eraniel to lead your people. I know why you have come, but I tell you now that none of us will even attempt to kill the fifth Lodreb, for such an act is a violation of the Ancient Law.”
Though undeniably strong, Hessani and his tribe were all lean of build rather than possessing the muscular bulk of the other tribes, a legacy from their lifestyle as nomadic hunters. They were built for endurance and agility rather than the more brutish tactic possessed by their brethren of simply standing firm or using their weight to try and smash through any enemy defence. The lithe forms of the hunters allowed them to tackle many foes, be they wild beasts or ranks of human warriors, because they could dodge the attempted strikes rather than having to try and withstand them, and such was why they had been considered of use to Moragil the Faceless in both the coming encounter and his plans for the future. The nomads had rarely borne arms against another race except in self defence, and so few knew of their methods and those that did could do little against such tactics, for the chosen armaments of the hunters meant that no type of warrior could overcome them. Their spears allowed swift executions of cavalry because, should the mounted soldiers change course in anticipation of a dodge, the Hessani tribe would hold their ground, allowing the long range of their weapons to bring down the knights regardless of how thick their armour was, while their deceptively strong shields and quick feet allowed them to dodge all but the swiftest of blades, though they could often use their own weapons at a greater distance than the warriors who fought with axes, swords and hammers in combat. The tribe of Hessani had never been involved in the Age of Conflicts, the very nature of their existence making Carrassiel consider them of unworthy calibre when compared to the more predictable warriors of other nations, yet their ways were of value even when the value was hidden; for who could concentrate on fighting one type of attack while defending against another? Such thinking had never been a virtue of the Old Master, for skirmishing and outflanking were not the ways of demons, but Katchanga and Moragil both understood the benefits of such efforts, and both had used them with victory the result during their time as commanders.
“I know of the Ancient Law; though my tribe is younger than yours by two generations it is not less educated in the rules of the Old World,” replied Eraniel, referring to the time when the first mortal forms of the Baridian Gods descended upon Naturien and establishe
d their lines. Each Chief held their Godly name from the moment they reached manhood, for each tribe believed that such was the only time the heir was worthy of becoming the manifestation of the founding God. The Gods had decided, upon taking Mortal form for the first time, that none shall slay another, for such was the way of the dishonourable unbelievers and not of a deity, and so Lodreb could not be slain in combat by any whose leader wished to retain his role as the vessel within which the founding God poured his power. All tribes knew this, and the very suggestion that he was ignorant of the Ancient Law made the fourth Eraniel feel great surges of anger, yet his tone brought only a resounding strike from the butt of the spear, for no hunter tolerated disrespect towards the Godly vessel that sat before them.