Rides A Dread Legion

Alystan was also troubled by the creature’s attire. Upon its brow, it had worn a delicate circle of gold set with a large polished ruby in the middle. Elves occasionally wore jewellery, but only during festivals; the rest of the time they were content with garlands or other natural adornments. And then there was the manner of his clothing.

The elf had worn finely made robes, and the circlet upon his head was also of exceptional craftsmanship. While striking in countenance and massive in body, he did not look like a warrior or scout, and given his human disguise, the creature was intent upon stealth, not conflict. Alystan knew him some manner of magician, but his garb and illusion set him apart from the Spellweavers of Elvandar, or the Loremasters of the Eldar. Their magic was as much a thing of nature as mind and will; this conjuration had been worn around the shoulders like a cloak, and was too much like dark human arts.

The strange elf obviously hailed from a people who enjoyed material splendour as much as humans did, for his robes had been made of a shimmering weave, pearl-white satin or silk perhaps, and their hems were decorated with ruby and azure threads. His staff of oak, which had seemed to be a simple walking stave, had in that instant shown itself to be a thing of magic, adorned at its top by a large glass orb, which glowed even in the bright sunlight. Alystan was certain that no human – certainly no Ranger – had encountered this elf’s kin before.

As he picked up speed, Alystan wondered why he was here. He knew that once his business was concluded in Carse, rather than return to Bordon, he must hie to the dwarves of the Grey Towers, in the village of Caldara, and take counsel with them. They knew more of elf lore than any this side of Elvandar, and it was upon their borders that this elf trod. Perhaps the dwarves knew why such a being was scouting this region, although thirty years of experience tracking in these mountains and forests on both sides of the peaks told him that no one in the Free Cities or the Kingdom of the Isles would like the answer.

Demons howled in rage and pain as they assaulted the barricade. A shower of arrows rained down on them striking dozens as they sought to climb the barricade using the bodies of their fallen comrades to crest the defences.

Undalyn, Regent Lord of the Clans of the Seven Stars, pointed to an oncoming wave of the creatures on the right, near the top of the barricade, and shouted, ‘There! Pitch!’

Two Conjurers waited nearby, far enough behind the battlefront to be relatively safe, flanked by a dozen archers detailed to bring down any flyers who might target them. A massive cauldron of burning pitch waited on top of a blazing mound of logs, and the two magicians acted in concert. Well practised in their arts, they closed their eyes, needing no sight to manage their task.

The cauldron, so large that a dozen men and two draught animals had placed it on top of the pyre, rose into the air as if gently lifted by an invisible giant hand. It floated over the heads of the defenders and poured its contents over the demons below.

Flaming death rained down on the demons near the top of the barricade, while those below hung back for a moment as waves of heat washed over them, singeing hair and eyebrows. The usual stench of demon was made even more noxious by the burnt odour. The creatures fell back, but the Regent Lord knew they were still hard pressed in the centre and on their left.

He turned away from the pile of writhing demons and assessed his position. His warriors fought valiantly, as their fathers and grandfathers had before them. For one hundred years the Clans of the Seven Stars had struggled against the Demon Legion, and for a hundred years they had made the monsters pay dearly for every inch of ground they gained, for every village they sacked, and for every life sacrificed.

Still, he knew that his resources were dwindling and theirs seemed without limit. In the distance, on the horizon, he saw a dark cloud yet knew there was no rain in the air. Before he could speak one of the lookouts on the tower above shouted, ‘Flyers!’

Knowing his command was gratuitous, as his magic users already conjured their defence, he still felt the need to give the order. ‘Shields!’

It was part of Undalyn’s nature to be wary of ceding too much authority to others. He knew this could easily be a failing, but another part of him took pride in knowing that every one of his warriors, priests, and magic users understood their task and answered him without hesitation. The more desperate his people’s struggle became, the more proud he felt of them.

He was Undalyn, leader of his people by lineage and law, Regent Lord of the Clans of the Seven Stars. He was the most powerful elf among his kind.

His features were typical of his people, though his skin tended towards a darker tone than most, due to his passion for hunting and spending years under the sun. His blue eyes were the colour of the ocean, containing flecks of green, and his brow was unlined, despite his more than three hundred years. A white leather circlet decorated with five perfect rubies set in gold tied his snow-white hair above his head in a noble’s knot and left some free to fall in a long cascade down his back. He was handsome, but nevertheless had a dark and dangerous aspect to his features that was revealed at odd moments, though he rarely raised his voice in anger. It was his eyes that held the fury within.

The Clans of the Seven Stars, the taredhel in the old tongue, accorded him the utmost respect, for it was his burden to guide them, as it had been his forefathers’ before him. But no Regent had faced a burden such as his, and the responsibility was taking its toll. Dark circles under his eyes told of many sleepless nights, endless worry, frustration, and ultimately a sense of doom.

He felt rather than saw the energy barrier go up, as the remaining magic users employed one of their more powerful spells. The demons had encountered this barrier before, yet they hurled themselves against it, time and again.

Archers waited at the ready against the possibility that one of the creatures breach the mystic defence. Those on the walls peppered the retreating horde of demons that appeared to be marshalling for another assault on the wall should the flyers break through. The Regent Lord took a deep breath and pulled out his sword again to be ready. He glanced at his hands and saw they were free of blood. His shoulders ached and he felt as if he could sleep for a week, yet he had not struck one blow against the enemies of his people.

His soldiers had kept the demon horde at bay for another day and he had been free to oversee the defence of the barrier and not put himself at risk. Other days he had not been so fortunate and had killed his fair share of demons, returning to his palace at night covered in their evil black blood.

He watched without emotion as the flyers struck the barrier. The sky above scintillated in rainbows of colour as the winged horrors of the Demon Legion bounced off the shield. The Regent Lord knew some of the monsters were clever, but the ones who assaulted his defences every day seemed without any spark of intellect. Had the demons possessed half the guile of the elves, they would have overwhelmed the Seven Clans years ago. But even without organization, they were grinding the Clans of the Seven Stars to nothing. Entire worlds had already been abandoned and now here on the home world – he shook his head, for this wasn’t their true home world, only the capital of his nation – but here they were making a final stand. He knew that no matter how valiantly they struggled, eventually they would fall.

The flyers beat furiously against the barrier, but it held. Lately demons capable of magic had appeared from time to time, costing the elves dearly, but this day at least it seemed that victory would go to the Clans.

The demons eventually withdrew and the Regent Lord surveyed the barrier. As the flyers retreated and the sun lowered in the west, Undalyn knew the battle was over for today.

He removed his helm and almost instantly an aide appeared at his side to take it. Another came over to him and said, ‘My Lord, we have a report that the Conjurer Laromendis has returned.’

The Regent Lord didn’t ask what news he carried, for the Conjurer had been under strict instructions not to divulge his findings before reporting directly to the palace. Undalyn could not afford for rumours to be racing through the capital until the truth was known. The fate of the Clans of the Seven Stars rested on this report.

‘I will return to the palace at once.’

‘He is being transported to the palace, my lord,’ said the aide, a youth who bore a striking resemblance to one of his sons, lost years before. The Regent Lord pushed his feelings aside; too many sons had been lost to too many fathers, and fathers lost to sons. They all shared in the tragedy of this war.

With a dismissive wave of his hand, the Regent Lord shooed his aides to one side and alerted the portal guardian that he was returning to the capital. The magician whose sole responsibility was to manage the portal nodded and activated the gateway with a simple spell. His job also was to destroy the gate should the demons breach the barrier, and give his life to keep them away from the capital for a few more days.

The Regent Lord stepped through the portal and found himself in the marshalling yard of his palace. Two companies of warriors stood ready to answer the call should reinforcements be required. The Regent Lord motioned to the Officer of the Yard and said, ‘How go our other struggles?’

‘Well, my lord,’ he answered. The old elf was still robust looking, though he had sustained enough injuries that his fighting ability was severely diminished; but his mind was still as keen as ever and he was among those most trusted by the Regent Lord to act in his absence. Jaron by name, he was given full responsibility to decide where reinforcements were sent and when. Men lived or died on his order, and that trust had been hard won over many years of service. ‘They’ve fallen back on all fronts, and so for another day we hold.’ Glancing around, he repeated, ‘Another day.’

‘We live another day,’ echoed the Regent Lord.

‘Rumour has the Conjurer returning,’ said Jaron in a low voice.

‘Best not to repeat that to anyone,’ said the Regent Lord, walking away without further comment. He knew he would reach his chambers before the magic users and he wanted a few moments to compose himself in private, lest the news was ill. He also needed to be composed should the news Laromendis carried be good. Walking silently towards the large doors into the palace, Undalyn cursed hope.

The Regent Lord of the Clans of the Seven Stars sat quietly, trying to enjoy one moment of solitude and peace in a day dominated by violence and noise. The enemy battered the Barrier Wall every minute of every day, yet here, in the heart of the capital, he could indulge himself in the illusion that his city was as it had been since he was a boy. Deep within, he felt weak for longing for days by, gone beyond reclaim, but it calmed him and gave him hope that someday the People would find a haven as tranquil as this world once was.

Large open windows granted the sun, wind, and rain admittance into the room. The Regent Lord would always meet guests in the open, so that the People and the Spirits of Ancestors might witness it, such was the law. The only adornments to the room were the battle standards of the Host of the Clans hanging from the ceiling, providing a moving reminder of the People’s history as they stirred in the wind.

The tall warrior rested on a simple wooden chair that had been his nation’s seat of power since memory began.

The People, his race, were dying and there was nothing he could do to save them as long as they remained here.

Despite the heat of the day, Undalyn’s shoulders were covered in white fur, as a mark of his rank; it was the pelt of a snow bear he had killed during his manhood rite high in the mountains of Madrona. He rested his hand upon the hilt of his father’s sword, Shadowbane, absently caressing it.

Below his mantle of fur he wore a light tunic and trousers of a dark green cloth, simple but for the gold thread at the collar and cuffs; his feet were clad in fine brown leather boots, still covered in dust from his morning walk inspecting the city’s defences. The same dust covered his nearly-white hair, and he wished for time to bathe, but knew much needed to be accomplished before a relaxing bath was possible.

He looked out the window at the blue sky and felt the warmth of the sun on his arms and face, and felt the heat under his furry mantle; he welcomed the sensation, trying to drive out the cold that gripped his very soul.

Then a scout, his hair tied in a hunter’s queue, entered. ‘He’s here, m’lord.’

Waving away the courtier, Undalyn spoke in a deep, commanding voice, ‘Show yourself, Conjurer!’

The magic user strode into the throne room, his white robes bright and his staff aglow with power. He bowed and said, ‘I am here, my lord.’

‘Show me,’ ordered the Regent Lord.

Raising his staff, the magic user moved it slowly through the air, and as he did a scene appeared, as if painted on an invisible wall, but moving and alive. When the shimmering ceased, it looked as if a new window had been created by magic, but while the windows of the chamber overlooked the sun-baked tablelands of Andcardia, the magic window showed a completely different landscape.

The Regent Lord scanned the scene before him. It appeared they stood on a hill’s ridge, and it was late afternoon from the angle of the sun behind them. Across a vast valley he could see more peaks. Everywhere he looked he saw natural abundance. The trees were old, heavy with growth, and he could see two large meadows in the distance below. White clouds floated above, pregnant with rain, and the wind carried exotic scents mixed with those more familiar to him: balsam, pine, fir, and cedar. The forest sounded rich with game and in the trees birds sang without concern. ‘This seems a hospitable land,’ observed the Regent Lord. Fixing his gaze on the magic user, he asked, ‘Is it Home?’

Knowing his life, and his brother’s life, probably hung on this answer, Laromendis, Supreme Conjurer of the Circle of Light, hesitated, then said, ‘I must speak with the Loremasters m’lord.’ As the Regent Lord’s expression darkened, he hastily added, ‘I’m being cautious, but yes, I believe it is Home.’

The Regent Lord’s expression betrayed a tiny flicker of relief. If this was their ancestral homeland then there was still hope. ‘Tell me more of it, our ancient Home.’

‘It is a fair world, my lord, though not without problems.’ He moved the staff and the scene disappeared.

‘Problems,’ repeated the leader of the Clans of the Seven Stars. ‘Is there ever a day without problems, on any world?’

The Conjurer said nothing at the rhetoric.

‘Name them,’ said the Regent Lord just as another figure arrived through a portal, his hand on his sword. He was a warrior nearly equal in stature to the Regent Lord, and he seemed on the verge of speaking until he saw Undalyn raise a gauntleted hand, indicating that he wanted silence.

‘This world is rich in game, crops, and metals. But it is home to others.’

‘Others?’

‘Dwarves,’ he almost spat.

‘Dwarves,’ said Undalyn. ‘Is there a world to be found without those mud grubbers?’

‘I fear not,’ said the Conjurer. He had in fact located several worlds without dwarves in the last ten years, but none of them was habitable; this was not the time to engage in petty debate over the fine points. Since the discovery of the translocation magic and the search for the homeland, all hopes for the survival of the People had turned to locating their mythical Home; a search that the Conjurer had thought futile. Finding any world into which they could flee, be it ancient or new, that was the survival key for a race now reduced to a relative handful by thirty years battle with the Demon Legion.

His discovery of their Home was a happy accident, nothing more, or at least that’s how he saw it; his vanity almost equalled the Regent Lord’s and so it was unthinkable for him to admit that someone without any knowledge of the arts might have been right. Laromendis, Master of the Arts of the Unseen, would settle for the Regent Lord simply being lucky.

And lucky for his People and for Laromendis and his brother, he quickly amended.

‘There are also humans. They thrive there like flies on dung. Their cities are ant hives, with thousands in residence.’

‘Our People, do they abide?’

‘Yes. But they have … fallen.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked the Regent Lord.

As if needing to emphasize his point, Laromendis moved to stand before the northernmost window, which provided a vista of the city outside. Tarendamar, Starhome, capital of the Clans of the Seven Stars, and for generations a monument to the majesty of the People. The Regent Lord came to stand beside the red-haired magician. Still untouched by the brutal war to the north, the city remained much as it had been since Undalyn had been a boy.

The Hall of the Regent’s Meeting was a short walk from the Regent’s palace, and this very hall, ancient and honoured, had been among Undalyn’s earliest memories. His father had ensured the next Regent Lord would understand the responsibilities of his heritage.

He knew this precinct well, as he had played in every alleyway and garden, swum in every pool and brook, climbed the holy trees to the outrage of the priestesses, and had come to love this city as if it were a living being; it was a living being, it was the heart of the Clans of the Seven Stars.

Built by magic and sweat, Tarendamar was the crown jewel of the People. Seven great trees formed a massive ring around the heart of the city, one mystic tree for each of the sacred stars in the heavens. Even in the harsh light of Andcardia’s sun, the deep shadows within their bowers glimmered with fey light.

It was from those seven trees, the ‘Seven Stars,’ as they were called, that the power of the taredhel was drawn. Each tree had been grown from a sapling carried from Home to this world, the first refuge of the taredhel, the ‘People of the Stars,’ as they called themselves.

They had fled their birth world, ages before, and found refuge on this dry, inhospitable world, with its small oceans and lakes, scorching hot save for in the middle of their short winter. This world had grudgingly yielded to the magic of the original Spellweavers, and the seven magic trees, carried from Home had been the anchor that had allowed them to survive. The survival of those saplings had been paid for with the very blood of the taredhel. If the soul of the Clans of the Seven Stars resided anywhere other than Andcardia, it was, and could only be, Home.

When the trees began to flourish, so did the taredhel, providing them with magic they called Home Magic. They had at first used it to bludgeon Andcardia into submission, then they had refined their magic, blending it with the natural harmonies, until a tune native to both the taredhel and this planet emerged. Over the following centuries, it had changed both the world and the elves.

Lush forests now hugged the mountainsides, still halted in the lowlands by blistering hot tablelands and vast deserts. Yet even they were slowly retreating as the Water Gatherers found ways to use the translocation magic to bring water from other worlds. During his lifetime, Undalyn had seen the sea level gradually rise and lakes expand. Once where his grandfather had hunted the great scaly lizards of the Rocky Flats, now an orchard of red fruit trees sheltered the melon vines, and streams ran through the heart of the flats all the way to the sea.

Undalyn was impatient for Laromendis to continue, but remained composed. He knew the Conjurer was trying to make a point. Finally the magic user spoke. ‘They have nothing like this.’

The Regent Lord inclined his head and said, ‘No cities?’

‘Only for the darkest among our kind, the lore speaks of them as the Forgotten.’

The Regent Lord glanced around. Only one servant waited near the door and he was out of earshot; what the Conjurer spoke of was approaching heresy. Lowering his voice, he said, ‘The …’

‘They are called moredhel on the homeworld.’

‘The dark people,’ nodded the Regent Lord. ‘They have a city?’

‘It is rumoured.’ He moved away from the window as he gathered his thoughts. ‘In the north, in slavish imitation of the Masters, they built a twin of the city of lore. It was called Armengar by the humans, and was destroyed according to the tales. Our people’s name for it I did not discover, but I’ve heard the story enough times to judge it has some truth to it.

‘I spent most of my time with the humans, for it is easier to guile them. The humans thrive. In some ways they are like us, but ultimately they are inferior, like the other short-lived races. And like the others, they breed like mice. They are everywhere. What they know of our People borders on myth and legend.

‘I travelled across one of their larger nations, learning the language as I travelled; fortunately, there are many nations and languages on this world, so someone who spoke oddly barely brought notice.

‘We know so little of these creatures, these humans … I found them fascinating.’

The Regent Lord looked at the magic user, his gaze narrowing. While the ancient Spell Weavers were venerated and honoured for their work transforming this harsh world, those like Laromendis and his brother Gulamendis were viewed with caution approaching fear. Anything connected with the dark arts, or indeed anything that those Conjurers and Demon Masters found ‘fascinating’ was likely to be viewed with suspicion. ‘Why?’ He asked.

‘There are many reasons, m’lord. But foremost is their magic. It is varied beyond calculation; they seize the power of the world and bend it to their will in so many ways, it staggers the mind.

‘There are those who use arts much like our own; I wondered at first if elves had been their first teachers, but there are others … called Greater Path magicians, who have no subtlety, no … grace in their craft, yet possess vast power. It is difficult to explain to one not given to magic.’

The Regent Lord nodded. By nature elves were at one with the natural magic of their race, but circumstances had forced the People to adapt, to change their ways. Now among the taredhel there were those, like the two brothers, who hungered for power. And there were those, like the Regent Lord, who had sacrificed any understanding of the arts so that they might bend their will instead to serving the People in other ways.

‘Tell me of the humans later,’ said the Leader of the Clans of the Seven Stars. ‘Tell me more of our people now. You said the … the Forgotten exist there?’

‘So it would seem,’ said the magic user. ‘Humans know so little about our kind, but I could piece together some understanding of how our brethren fare.

‘Humans call the Forgotten “The Brotherhood of the Dark Path”.’

The Regent Lord nodded. ‘An apt name if the secret lore is true …’ He hesitated, realizing he had inadvertently uttered a blasphemy.

‘There have been many debates among the Farseeing over whether the secret lore is literal or metaphor.’ With that simple remark, he let the Regent Lord know he understood the comment and would make no issue of it. Given the current situation among the People, any hint of disorder brought swift and harsh punishment; it was why his brother currently languished in a dark cell. Then again, Laromendis’s younger brother always had a tendency to speak first and think later; a bad trait in one who immersed himself in demon lore at a time when demons threatened to obliterate the People.

‘What did you learn of the Forgotten?’

‘Little, to the humans the Brotherhood is almost a myth, though I did encounter a traveller from Yabon, a city far to the north of a realm known as ‘the Kingdom,’ and he swore that he had once seen those … unspeakable beings.