Light Of Loreandril

By
 

V.K.Majzlik
 

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 Elve
s,
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 the
se
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 mo
unts
. With their whips cracking in the air, the servile minions stared with black, soulless eyes at the defiant foes before them.
About them, s
maller
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 a
n 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 pla
nes
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 allie
s
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 her 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.

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, t
he greatest difference lay in their expressions. Cradon’s eyes frequently danced with mischief; Nechan often wore a more serious and reflective mien.