Battle of lindly, p.25
Battle of Lindly, page 25
Nibarn fumed in his seat and watched the priestess as she was removing her cloak, preparing for the fight. She put her hand out and one of her soldiers tossed her a spear. She left her longsword in its sheath as she knelt down, closing her eyes as she prayed to Lestar.
Victus took off his kite shield and placed it at the edge of the platform on the ground. Janus was around the horses as he pulled out Victus' gryphon shock trooper’s helmet. It was trimmed in dark azure and had a plum signifying his current rank. The feathers that stuck out from the top formed into a mo-hawk of dark blue. The face-guard was a metallic face imprint, much like a death mask– formed in plaster and iron to fit firmly onto its owner’s face. Aris had only seen this helmet once before and knew his father only wore it when he was going to war. It was magically enchanted and offered many advantages that Aris did not know. But he did know when it was worn it gave the wearer vision from all directions, above, below, side to side. This particular helmet had been given to him by his old commander, Arch Skylighter.
Janus marched up the steps of the platform and Victus took the helmet, placed it upon his head, and nodded in thanks to Janus. Victus then pulled his gladius and twisted the Bear pummel left and then pulled it down. The sword elongated into a bastard sword and glowed in House Andreas’ colors. Victus, looking at the silver blue glow of his sword, placed the tip down into the platform. Kneeling, he began collecting his thoughts and praying to the unknown god he believed in and to Kalisdel.
Aris watched his father with pride. His skin prickled with goosebumps, and a static charge seemed to fill the surrounding air but he realized the electric charge he felt was because of the magic of the crystals ascending. He looked above and saw that the crystals were nearly formed and that in the distance it looked like black rain was pouring down on the outskirts of the city. The rain was heavy, and in the midst of it all, he saw translucent humanoids making their way up towards the crystals. He nudged Serin and asked, “You see this?”
She squinted in horror, then gasped, “By the gods! Is it souls?” She could not be certain and neither could Aris, but it seemed to be hundreds of souls in the distance being wrenched up towards the crystals. Aris and Serin, horrified, huddled closer together.
Aris kept his voice low, thinking that if he was quiet, their souls would remain safe in their bodies. He looked at the young girl now clinging to his waist, “Serin, whatever happens, don’t let the black rain touch you or whatever that is.”
She nodded, her mouth still gaped in fear. “What has my father done?” Her voice was broken as she tried to hold back tears.
The young squire wrapped an arm around her. “He has never been your father. And this will not be the end. We are standing firm together against this and help is on the way.” He pulled back his arm, reaching his hand underneath her chin, pulling it over gently to look into her eyes. “I fight for family, duty...” he paused, “And you, Serin.” Leaning in, he kissed her rosy lips.
Serin kissed him back passionately, and as she pulled away with tears streaming down her face, she whispered, “Family, Duty, Aris.”
27
Thormhammer of Clan Hewer leaned his hands on the handles of his war-hammers. Next to him stood Titus, eyes fixed on the center platform, as they both watched Victus step up. Marcella was heading down the street towards the taverns, hoping to enlist more help for their cause. Titus listened carefully to every word that was spoken from the magically enchanted stage. His blood pumped faster as he listened to his revered commander speak. The anticipation of what was about to unfold built-in a righteous fervor within him. It was bubbling just underneath the surface, and Thorm could feel the man’s excitement and respect– partly because of the magical dweomers placed upon himself and his equipment. Thorm never left the sanctity of Malakas’s lands without significant magical enhancements, adjustments, and defenses. Some of these that overlapped with magic intensified his ability to understand the body language of others and even feel their emotions. But Thorm did not need magic to see the pride on the man’s face and when the young noble Brandan spoke, and Titus let out a small cry, “YES! GOOD MAN!” Thorm chuckled with a pat on Titus’ shoulder.
“Victus inspires the best in all of us.”
Titus glanced over, nodding, “Yes, he does.” The legionnaire reached into his cloak and pulled out the disk-shaped device that Thorm had given Victus. “Time to use this, I think.” He threw it down to his feet but waited. He crouched low, squinted his eyes and strained to see the height of the dark dome rising above him. He spoke more to himself than Thorm, “Oh yes, definitely. It’s nearly peaked.” He raised his leg high and slammed down hard with the heel of his boot. Nothing happened. He smashed his leg down, again and again. Still, nothing happened. He looked puzzled towards the tall dwarf, Thorm. “It’s supposed to...do something that will protect against the dark elven magic?”
Thorm, who was being sucked into the events unfolding on the platform, turned his gaze down to the device and then back up to Titus. “Aye, it’s gonna do something.” Taking his leg, he slammed it down onto the disk. With just one crash of his heel into the disk, it cracked open. “Just needin’ a bit of help, is all. Tricky things to get workin’.” As the words fell on the human’s ears, a warm blue wavelike fog pulsated out and around the River Gate and some of the nearby buildings. It did not cover nearly as much as Thorm had told Victus it would. He grunted off to himself, “Shoulda been bigger.” He looked around the ramparts and the gate, waiting to get eye contact with each dwarf next to an elf, then once all the dwarves above were looking down at him his countenance traced all the dwarves on the ground. Each, in turn, looked directly at Thorm and the dwarven arch began his prayer. “We shed blood for what is right. Not on orders from our god. We honor those fighting here today. Both sides will suffer, but we stand with Victus. We praise Malakas for her love for us. We stand with Kalisdel’s people. We stand as one with our kin and not just our blood. Let our aim be true and our hammers be pulverizing. Raise the flag! Let ‘em know we’re here.”
The dwarves guarding the dark elves disguised as high elves moved in unison after Thorm had finished. Each took their hammer and in a fluid motion struck the back of the knees of the frozen dark elves, buckling them. As they succinctly crumpled, a second hammer would find its way into the skull, caving them in before they hit the ground.
Titus watched, somewhat repulsed by the brutality, and then nodded approvingly, “They are dark elves,” he said to himself and then saw that when the elves’ lives were extinguished, so was their veil. Or at least Titus thought it was in death that the skin returned to its natural dark pigment. But to him, it did not matter. Whether it was by death or by Thorm’s magic, it did not matter, it was proof of Victus' words. Not that Titus needed convincing, but it validated it all. Titus looked over at Throm and saw his finger go up towards the River Gate’s towers. He saw dwarves pulling down the Inquisition’s flag. After a few moments, the barely visible dwarves began raising the city of Lindly banner, and as it rose to its peak, two smaller banners were underneath.
The first flag underneath was black with House Andreas’ blue lettering large enough to read, “Broktas ven Blouda” or in the common tongue, “Brothers in Arms.” Underneath this clear salute to Victus was what Titus believed was Clan Hewer’s banner.
Marcella was moving quickly but not running as she made her way to the closest and largest tavern in town, “Ye Olde Forte.” She knew this would have the most ruthless, toughest men in town. As she kept out of the center road skirting the buildings, a blue wave splashed over her. A wall quickly formed as she kept pace. Her instinct to recoil from the new obstruction was too late but to her amazement, she was outside this translucent barrier. Marcella kept moving forward but glanced back, turning her head down as she heard shouting in elven. From what she could guess, some alarm had sounded, and she knew where they would be heading– the River Gate.
As she reached the outside of Ye Olde Forte, she glanced back towards the River Gate. Approximately thirty Inquisition elves were marching briskly towards the gate, vanishing and reappearing as they passed behind buildings. She smiled, “Fight well, Titus!”
Marcella unfastened her cloak and let her hair down and used the shadows to approach the stage once she was inside the tavern. A drunk man with no teeth reached from his table and grabbed her belt. Pulling her near, he burped, “Here, lil... little lady! I got a present for ya!” As he pulled the female legionnaire closer, he didn’t notice he was also was pulling her fist to his throat faster. The impact knocked the man down from his chair where he lay, coughing. His friends at his table laughed and cheered for the young woman.
Without a word, she spun away and continued towards the stage. Once she had gotten near enough to sneak on, she pushed herself between those already on the stage and out in front. The band and the delectably dressed female singer stopped and, with that, the entire tavern quieted. Everyone began staring at the stage. The music never stopped but instead played on, passed being abandoned by their singer.
A few in the crowd booed, others began catcalling Marcella. She raised her hand to speak. “Citizens!” The crowd grew angry and shouted at her interruption. Some even rose from their chairs, making their way towards the front. Marcella put both hands up in a plea. “Wait! LISTEN!” She yelled.
The crowd was having none of it. They approached, and some began throwing bread and fruit towards her. Marcella closed her eyes and belted out a long melodious melody, stringing the highest note to shock and the lowest to calm. Everyone stopped as she trilled soothingly to them all. When she stopped, they were all sitting and watching, deciding whether they had been too quick to judge. After a moment where the last of her notes hovered in the air, Marcella tried again. “Citizens! We have been infiltrated by dark-elves!” The crowd muttered amongst themselves in confusion as Marcella continued. “Commander Victus has returned to confront them, and he needs you. Lindly is about to be consumed! We must rally and make a stand.”
A small group of about ten men sitting far right of the stage stood at the mention of Victus. Marcella nodded at them as the eldest of the group spoke, “Looks like we are reenlisted!” The man flipped over the table and the group began pulling the floorboards up. She watched as the gruff-looking man moved down steps and began passing out weapons and chain mail from beneath the floorboards.
Marcella looked back at the crowd. “If you cannot fight or are unwilling, get yourself and any loved ones to the River Gate and out of the city!”
In the opposite corner from the ex-legionnaires arming themselves were a few cloaked humanoid-looking figures. They sat at a table, surrounded by the gentle flicker of candlelight, enjoying the cool respite of the shaded area. A man from the hidden group stood up and moved into the more revealing light to speak. “We, the magi of the blades will offer any aid we can.”
The accent was so thick it was difficult for Marcella to understand. They moved from their table as a group of one mind towards Marcella– they disappeared and reappeared directly in front of her. She understood who they were now– mage-blades, trained in forbidden magic, masters of blades, and deeply rooted in dragon lore. The short cloaked man in red and black, the one who had spoken, removed his hood which showed his shaved head and short, well-trimmed goatee, black as his cloak. He looked over the crowd, speaking deeply, “If you’re going to help in the fight, get up here. If you’re not, you best get out of here now.”
At this display and encouragement, a few stout, surly looking men moved to the front. Some others still sat confused but the rest moved towards the exit. As they did, two elven guards walked in. The herd leaving the tavern pushed past them and ran in the direction of the River Gate, heeding Marcella and the mage-blade’s words.
The tallest elven guard spoke to the crowd in the tavern but he was cut short. “Everyone outside now! We–” Two of the mage-blades shadow stepped or rather, teleported from the front of the stage to standing on the opposite sides of each of the guards. In no more than a split second, their dragon-hilt daggers sliced in unison cleanly under both elven helmets. The elves grabbed their throats in panic. One stumbled, slipping on the blood now pooling underneath his feet. He pushed himself out the door, ripped off his helmet, he tried to yell. His mouth made the motions, but his vocal cords were severed. The loss of blood pulsing from his clenched hands around his throat was too much, and he collapsed in the street. The mage-blades quickly grabbed the fallen elf and dragged him back inside.
Everyone watching gasped as they watched the skin of the elves turn to dark gray, nearly black. One man yelled, “Dark elves! It’s true!” Others began to murmur and rise from their seats, moving closer to the so-called high elves lying on the ground dead and indeed they saw they were dark elves. The small group looked from one another to the dead bodies and eventually all turned to face the leader of the mage-blades and Marcella. Their eyes implored Marcella to tell them what to do.
She smiled warmly at them, reassuring them. “We need to get as many people out of the city- including yourselves when the time comes. The weapon they are unleashing enslaves your soul, leaving your body a mindless drone. I wish this fate on no man or woman. Go out and spread the word and if you are stopped by an elf, fight them! They are our enemy. Arm yourselves! Fight for your freedom! Fight for your families! Fight for your city!”
The men and women responded in agreement and began breaking chairs for makeshift clubs. Their blood was already raging from the booze and now they were getting into a fight. Marcella stepped down from the stage and made for the exit. She turned to the mage-blade leader and said, “We should bring them out and place them for all to see.”
The mage-blade rotated his wrist, his hand flipping topside, and the bodies levitated from the floor. He followed Marcella out of the tavern with the bodies. Everyone from the tavern began splitting up into small groups. Some went off towards the River Gate, others began making their way to the large crowd around the platform. Each person they passed, they warned quickly.
The mage-blade leader lifted the dark elf bodies, so they stood upright in the middle of the street. Two of his accomplices walked over, each holding a small cylinder in their hands, when they reached the dead dark elves, they seemingly pushed a button, and the cylinders burst out into spear-tipped staves. They positioned them at angles which lifted them into a propped-up position. The opposite ends they placed securely into the cobblestone. Marcella was intrigued by the staves and they seemed to be made from an ancient material that she couldn’t identify.
The mage-blade spoke in his accented common and deep voice. “We are here at your service. What would you have us do?”
Marcella took her eyes from the bodies strung up by the spears, gazing off towards the platform where Victus had begun his duel with the priestess. She turned back and looked at the mage-blade leader. “Follow the others who are headed to the River Gate. You will come in behind the dark elves I saw marching earlier. And you will run into my commander Titus and a dwarf named Thorm.” The mage-blade grinned at the name Thorm, but continued listening. “Help them hold the gate for as long as possible. We are indebted to you. Your ways are not our ways, but I understand your potency. Fare thee well. Stand firm.”
The mage-blade gave a small bow, and the others followed. Giving the command towards his people in a language that Marcella had never heard, he turned to her again. “Live on, to the health of your enemies’ enemies.” He winked, spinning, phasing in and out of Marcella’s vision. A trick, she thought as the man got farther and farther away. A question screamed in her mind, Who is this man? Prompting her to yell the question out towards the mage-blade leader, “Wait– What is your name?” She paused as she saw the men hesitate and then stop, listening to her. “I would have your name, sir. Please? I will give a full accounting of this to Victus later.”
The man did not turn, but she heard him clearly, “Odyful is my name.”
Marcella lifted her hands up in confusion and mouthed, “What?” She snorted inwardly as she thought of the name, named himself after a dragon. Then, as she turned to move into the next tavern, she began having a practice conversation with Victus. “You see, sir... I found these dragon cultists. Not like the cultists who brought this doom upon us. No... No. No. They are special cultists that worship and name themselves after dragons. Oh... and they are really good at fighting.” Shaking her head, she chuckled, thinking about Victus' response. “So... they are the good kind of cultists? Didn’t know they existed.” Smiling as her thoughts concluded, she moved into the Dragon’s Puff tavern to speak to its patrons.
Thorm and Titus stared up at the flags and then they heard the hoots and howls from dwarven sentries. Thorm growled, “The elves are coming, lad.”
Titus reached into the bag he carried, signaling to the rest of his quarry standing by the gate entrance. “Ready up! They come!”
Every legionnaire was in their packs, pulling out helmets and weapons. Individually, they started running over to Titus and forming up. Thorm looked them all over briefly, then pulled out one of his war-hammers and waved it over his head in a circle. “Rally to me, boyos!”
The last of Titus’ men had formed up, holding swords and wearing mostly chain shirts. Titus, with his horizontally plumed helmet, issued his commands. “Two-man walls. One shield, one blade,” he said, employing a common battle tactic when fully armored legionnaires were for want; they would pair off into teams– with one playing the role of defensive and the other attacking. Keeping a loose box formation, they would be able to counter all attacks from all angles. Titus continued, “We hold here! No retreat! WE HOLD!”
