by V K Majzlik
Light
of
Loreandril
By
V.K.Majzlik
Chapter 1 – Battle At Andkhuin
The rising sun began to show its crimson, angry face above the snow-capped mountains, casting its bloodshot rays across the vast plains of Andkhuin. Clouds gathered in the distance, their grumbling roll of thunder echoing around the valley, threatening rain. The air was thick with the expectant squawks of the circling carrion birds.
Battle had slowed as the chilling hours of the new dawn approached; both sides exhausted from the previous day’s slaughter. Upon command, the front lines had reformed, drawn forward with renewed fervour by the growing light of the early morning. With flags unfurled, shields braced, spears, encrusted with blood, raised high, they waited for the command.
Across the plain, battle horns trumpeted, slicing through the morning air. Leather-skinned drums began their deafening pounding, heralding the army’s advance. It had begun.
This battle marked the last stand against the enemy that had hewn its way across the lands, spreading like a malignant tumour, slaughtering all whom tried to withstand its mighty black shadow. A decade earlier the Elves, even in their ageless wisdom, had not foreseen the strength with which this hellish force would strike, nor had they been prepared for the evil minions and black magic that would be released. This led to the inevitable downfall of the Elves and saw the rise of the Empire.
Now, all that stood between freedom and slavery was the small battalion of Elves, Dwarves, Gnomes and Clansmen, the last of the free kindred. Determined not to withdraw and desperate not to fall into slavery, a humiliating outcome of their defeat, they were all prepared to die fighting. Their minds and resolve were strong, but their bodies and armour carried the scars of decades spent in combat.
Large, scaly, razor-beaked khalit raked their oversized talons along the blood-stained ground, gnawing at their bits. Seated high upon these hideous beasts sat their riders; Karzon, with their black decadent armour and studded helmets that concealed unknown grotesqueness. It took all their strength to restrain their savage mounts. With their whips cracking in the air, the servile minions stared with black, soulless eyes at the defiant foes before them. About them, smaller murzac drooled, their horned heads etched in battle scars. Yet these war dogs of the battlefield showed no sign of weakness; the promise of fresh blood and flesh sustained them.
Fiendish, wild men who had succumbed to the dark side and forsaken their clans, battered their pikes on tall shields, the sound resonating fearsomely across the valley. These imperial servants stood side by side with the elite Karvathan troops, whose black armour and weaponry glinting in the growing daylight.
Upon command, the opposing lines surged, clashing in tumultuous cloud of dust, sweat and blood, creating a writhing sea of bodies. Shields splintered, spear shafts snapped and helms cracked. The air became filled with sprays of blood and sweat, as beast and man trampled over the dead and dying to claim their next victim. The screams of the hewn and fallen were barely audible above the clamour, drowned out by the blasts of horns, pound of drums and scraping of metal.
A few hundred yards back from the front line a small cluster of Elven warriors stood bravely. With stony faces and tense bodies they were prepared to defend to the death, their arrows already strung. They were dressed in their traditional, Elvish armour, once ice white like their city walls, trimmed with gold and silver like their accumulated treasures. It was now dented and rusting, smeared with blood and mud. Their tall shields were emblazoned with the emblem of the Silver Star of Loreandril, the symbol of their strength and unity. They cleaned these stars daily, a statement of their defiance. Now, plunged foot deep into the earth, the shields served as a barricade, surrounding their small.
These warrior elves had one remaining task at hand. At all costs they must protect the Aeon elf, one of the few remaining of their kin who possessed a powerful Earth Spirit.
Fine, silvery hair gracefully fell about her slender shoulders as she knelt in the blood-strewn mud, her sword and shield laid at her side. Calmly, with delicate fingers, she removed her silver, embroidered cloak, revealing her white breastplate studded with silver stars. So much hung in the balance. In the light of the red dawn her bare elegant arms glistened, the etchings on her skin shimmered with the magic that surge within her veins. Taking a deep breath, composing herself, the elf outstretched her arms, tilting her head skywards. Closing her eyes she cried the words “Lleorentho aeonis dragonora tereso!”
Shielding their eyes, the warriors were forced to turn their faces as a brilliant, blinding light was suddenly expelled from her body. The silver tattoos twisted and spasmed. Now awakened, they began to morph into a serpent-like dragon, silver scales shimmering in the red hue of the rising sun. The Earth Spirit lifted from her skin, growing, taking on form. This was Earth Magic in its purest, most powerful form.
As its wings uncurled and tail flicked, the spirit dragon let out an ear-splitting, angry roar. Smoke began to billow from its mouth like an erupting volcano. Continuing to grow, with its vast wingspan already filling the sky, the ghostly beast soared towards the enemy front line, casting a formidable shadow on the ground below. It exhaled white flames, flecked with blue, hotter than a thousand furnaces, igniting everything in its path.
The opposing clansmen fell to their knees in shuddering fear, clutching the sides of their heads as the dragon spiralled down upon them ferociously. Those it did not burn to cinders, it snatched up in its claws, carrying its victims up into the clouds before dropping them to their death.
The enemy lines scattered in the dragon’s wake, flattened to the ground by the backbreaking beats of its powerful wings. Armour was pulverised in its bone-crunching jaws, and arrows and spears were wasted, merely bouncing off, unable to penetrate its magical, scaly hide. The shields and armour gave little protection, melting in the intense heat of the dragon’s fiery breath.
The Aeon elf was held in a deep trance, suspended between planes of existence. In this state, her mind and body were separated, leaving her defenceless. Though she conjured the great Earth Spirit, she did not control it, the Aeon elf was merely a conduit for the dragon to enter the physical realm. The beast’s movements were of its own devices, as if it had a mind of its own. The loyal warriors stood their ground around the defenceless female elf, driving back any foe that threatened, either by arrow or sword.
With the spirit dragon making a visible dent in the black army's ranks, the allies found new strength to push once again. Despite exhaustion, men, elves and dwarves alike pressed forwards, summoning their last ounce of muscle and adrenaline. They strained against the dark, blood spattered shields, arrows raining down, but to no avail. Their numbers were too few against such a vast force.
By mid-morning, the sun starting to burn with wrath high in the sky, penetrating through the hazy fumes of battle. The allied lines finally broke, allowing the Imperial Army to stream through the weakened gaps, cutting off any retreat.
The khalit, ruthless, merciless creations from the dark realm, crushed helmets in their jaws, shredding armour with a single slash of their talons, tossing bodies either side, whilst their riders swung their long swords with much devastation. The dog-like murzac were close on their heels, finishing off any survivors missed. Undeterred by the dragon that ripped through the air above them, these demon beasts were driven by a force higher than fear. The Dark Magic that had conjured them from the deep blackness compelled them forward.
The karzon riders quickly reached the edges of the elf’s defensive circle and began dispensing their vengeance as if the warriors were mere toys. Seeing that their defences were about to fall, a captain turned to the kneeling elf. Placing a gentle hand on h
er shoulder, he whispered words unheard amidst the screams of battle.
In an instant, the dragon recoiled. As quickly as it had grown, the spirit was drawn back into the body of the elf. Momentarily exhausted, with much of her life-energy spent, the female elf slumped forward, her hands sinking into the mud. Unable to hold their formation any longer, the Elven warriors broke their circle. Taking a deep breath, steadying herself, she picked up her shield and drew her longsword.
The elf staggered to her feet just in time as a murzac thrashed at her with a blood-soaked talon, its butting, horned head blocked by her shield. With a spinning thrust she plunged her sword deep into the chest of the hideous beast, its inky blood burning like acid as it spilled onto her ivory white skin. The animal let out a blood-curdling shriek and fell dead, its body convulsing . Feeling her strength slowly returning, combined with a surge of adrenaline, the elf spurred herself onwards into the fray.
Despite their dwindling numbers, the furious battle endured for hours, the enemy pushing ever forward. They crowded their foes against the valley walls, cutting off their escape. Only small pockets of elves and men remained, hanging on in desperation, fighting until the last man fell.
Finally, with the skies overcast by heavy thunderclouds, the demon beasts and servants found a new strength, motivated by the growing oppression and darkness.
The battle was clearly lost. Despite their firm resolve to fight to the last man, Elven horns began to sound, calling for the retreat. Panic was beginning to fester among those remaining. The allies began to scatter as they heard the words “Flee, flee! Run for your life! Aeonorgal is no more!”
Without the Aeonorgal, the Spirit Star, the key to their power and symbol of resistance, the army fell at the hands of their evil adversary. It had been captured at the eleventh hour. The plan had always been to destroy it rather than see it fall into the hands of their foe, but the Elven Elders left it too late.
Bolts of lightning streaked across the black sky and the heavens opened. Torrential rain and hail began to fall, hastening the onslaught of the pursuing, dark army, who cut through the retreating allies like blades of grass.
The tired Aeon Elf, drenched with inky blood, her hair limp in the rain, watched helplessly as comrades fell at her side, cut down by the dreaded forces. Driven on by adrenal fear, she still found the strength to raise her sword against yet another horny murzac as it snapped viscously her heels. Skilfully, she impaled the dog-like animal with her blade.
She lunged forward at charging riderless khalit, but finally her sword succumbed, splintering on the tough, scaly hide. Falling to her knees, the elf scrambled to hold her shield up, as the foul beast pounded its massive body against her. A tall elf, a captain of the Aeonate guards, came to her rescue, driving the beast back, eventually hacking off its monstrous head. Fumbling for her short blade holstered in her right boot, the female elf began to stand. Raising her head, she turned looking for the next ambush, only to be confronted by a heavy, studded mace. It delivered a skull-cracking blow to her right temple.
The Aeon elf felt nothing as she hit the ground, only darkness. The battle was over.
Chapter 2 – Servants To The Empire
Feolin was a tranquil, friendly village, belonging to the Hundlinger clan. Nestled neatly into a small valley of the northern mountainous regions of the Empire, the inhabitants experienced warm summers, wet springs and sheltered winters. It was a close-knit community, consisting of a few farmsteads, merchant holdings and homes.
Cradon and Nechan, twins, had spent their entire lives living with their family very happily on a small farm on the outskirts of Feolin. Like most Hundlinger males, they were tall, with broad-set shoulders and lean muscles sculptured by years of working as farmhands for their father. Both boys had the bright, sea-blue eyes and well-chiselled, handsome features of their father. Although twins, they were not identical. While Cradon’s shoulder-length curls were an unexpected and striking red, making him popular with the village girls, Nechan had to be reluctantly accepting of his common, flaxen mop. When Cradon’s complexion was prone to freckles and sunburn; by the end of the summer Nechan was generally glowing with a healthy tan. However, the greatest difference lay in their expressions. Cradon’s eyes frequently danced with mischief; Nechan often wore a more serious and reflective mien.
They had known nothing except the safety of their valley, village and family. This had made the boys naive to the outside world of the Empire, taking their life for granted. However, more recently a dark cloud had slowly been brewing over the family. As sons of the Empire, both boys would be drafted into the Imperial Army for a minimum service of four years. At the age of eighteen they would receive their summons, and would, if necessary, be taken by force to join the ranks.
All sons of the Hundlinger clan had to endure this, a consequence of a treaty signed several centuries earlier after the Great Battle of Andkhuin. Each new birth was registered, with every resident of the Empire taxed and documented yearly in a census. There was little chance of escaping the clutches of the Empire and the drafting.
In three weeks the twins would turn eighteen, marking their entry into manhood and the army. It had hung over the family for months, knowing that each day drew them closer to the inevitable. Both boys had looked eighteen for the past few years, so their parents had been forced to carry their birth papers around with them at all times. This was their only defence against their two sons being dragged off prematurely to serve the Empire.
Still, life had to continue, and another year’s harvest had to be taken to market. The boys, woken by candlelight, had started loading the wagon in the early dark hours, yet the mound of sacks seemed endless.
“Are you two ready yet? If you loaded that lot any slower we’d be just about ready for market next year!” Jesfor, their father, leaned against the side of the cart, casually puffing on his weed pipe. He scratched his gristly beard, quite content to watch his sons hard at work.
The brothers gave each other a knowing look, silently comprehending each other’s thoughts. Since the two boys had been able to walk they had helped their father on the farm, starting with tending to the pigs and sheep, gradually working they way up towards the hard labour. The farm had been in the family for generations, and every son had worked on it.
Jesfor was starting to show his years now. Although he had aged relatively well, his beard was greying at the edges and his frame had become leaner as his muscles began to fatigue. Now it was his turn to watch someone else work hard.
Finally, the last bale was loaded and the sons mounted the cart next to their father. He promptly snapped his whip, and the old, grey carthorse began his laborious clip-clop down the track. Dawn was only just breaking, the sun tentatively peering above the valley hills.
It was a day’s ride to Ath’Ganoc via a well-used merchant’s route. This was a seasonal journey the Glamrind father and sons were forced to take in order to trade their surplus stocks. Under the regime of the Empire, all such commerce had to be carried out under the watchful governance of the Empire’s servants. The clans may not have liked it, but they were powerless in these times.
Ath’Garnoc was a walled city, centuries old. Its strong, wooden gates were heavy and ominous, with a pair of foreboding, guilt-inducing watchtowers built from sooty, volcanic rock cut from the mountains of Penthor, far away in the south. The slate-roofed and thatched houses were built from the same black rock, giving the streets they lined a cold, regimental feel.
The Glamrind family reached Ath’Garnoc just before nightfall, quickly making their way to their regular inn for the night. Welcomed by the warm glow of firelight streaming through the windows, Jesfor entered, leaving the two boys to mind the cart. A fellow Hundlinger, Brathos Farnd, an old comrade of Jesfor’s owned the Inn. He was a large clansman, even compared to other Hundlingers, with a thick neck, tree-trunk arms and the broadest shoulders imaginable
“Boys, boys, it’s a joy to see you!” Brathos slapped his big, hairy hands
on their backs, embracing them as if they were is own sons. “You have grown well. Strong!”
“Yes sir,” replied Nechan, somewhat muffled by the hairy arms that encased him.
“Rudok!”
A young, skinny boy, probably only twelve or thirteen years, scuttled from around the corner.
“Stable this horse and mind the cart. These folk receive only the best treatment from me!” Brathos Farnd smiled broadly and held the door open, ushering the family into the warmth.
Rudok, muttering under his breath, obediently led the horse and cart off somewhere round the back, leaving them to enter the cheery tavern. Music and laughter spilled out of the open door.
Brathos was keen to hear news from Feolin and old friends. Content to let their father pass on the village gossip, Cradon and Nechan settled into a quiet corner for the evening. It quickly passed, aided by several mugs of ale and platter of bread and cheese, brought to them by the buxom, chirpy barmaid. They soon found themselves discussing the familiar topic of turning eighteen and the drafting. Neither was happy about their prospects. Would they have to kill? Would they be separated? Such thoughts plagued their subconscious day and night.
Unsympathetically, Brathos shook the young clansmen awake the next morning. Somewhat the worse for wear, with bleary eyes, they clambered into the cart. Jesfor merely huffed a good morning, ashamed, although not surprised, at the condition of his sons. Ply any young man with free ale and this was the usual result. The sound of the horse’s hooves on the cobbled street and squeaking cartwheels painfully reverberated around the twins’ heads.
Upon every corner of each street, statues of clenched fists and the Seeing-Eye Hand towered above them, carved from the volcanic rock: stark, depressing reminders that the Empire ruled these lands. The family passed them in silence, their eyes downcast, not in reverence but with an awareness of the oppression they represented.