DEN OF WOLVES
by Everett L. R. Asher
Like lambs delivered to the mouths of wolves, they gathered amidst the crimson walls of clay and stone. Virion gripped his blade ready to meet his foes knelt by the cliffside; dagger and sword glinting in the blistering evening sun. He breathed, easing his troubled mind, the wind whipping his shoulder-length blond and grey locks. He closed his sea-green eyes in dreaded anticipation. He felt the thundering drumming of his heart underneath his steel breastplate, bound over his leather jerkin. Only the wind howled through the cliffside, the next mighty roars erupted and Virion burst his eyes open, channeling his adrenaline that pumped through his veins as he leaped from the cliffside.
Dagger outstretched it embedded into the blue and yellow river of arcane energy and propelled him down at a faster speed. The ancient mana thrummed with unnatural life, it always felt as if unseen hands guided whilst he glided atop the semi-solid river of filtered mana
His eyes fixed on the Spellguard Reavers that threatened to invade his home, he looked through their mighty obsidian plate armor. He saw a few battle-hardened faces, others bearing unfamiliar eyes, and others that daydreamed of nightmares. Nightmares of promised blood. But to Virion, all he saw were lambs for the slaughter.
Pulling his dagger from the arc-river, Virion slammed into one of them with a force so great that his foe fell to the ground. As his steel greaves smashed into his foe, Virion bent his knees and slid his sword through the gap in the Spellguard Reaver’s armor. It clutched at its neck, a soft crimson liquid oozing from the gaps in its armor.
He sheathed his dagger and leaped from his fallen foe, his steel greaves landing on crimson sand. All his thoughts shrunk to one singular reality: fight.
He whirled his way through the ranks of the Spellguard Reavers, as his fellow arc-runners did. Despite their ambush, the Spellguard Reavers held ranks more than Virion anticipated. Their experience shone in the clashing of their steel. They were not peasant farmers given a spear to die for a country that did not know their name. They knew the song of war.
Even though these unfamiliar eyes looked on him with dismay, their cores roused with stilted order. They fought well, Virion found himself figuring out more creative ways to break through his foe's strong defenses.
Moments slipped into minutes as one by one they fell to Virion’s sword. His muscles almost counted the laborious seconds, culminating with the ranks of his enemies splintering. The Spellguard Reaver’s morale shook, cracking with each young soldier that tumbled out of the ranks.
His mind redoubled as five Spellguard Reavers attempted to surround and overtake him.
In one fluid motion, Virion dipped his Acrusten blade into the arc-river and slashed in a horizontal arc at his foes. The mana that clung to his blade, burst out and solidified into a wave of magical energy. The energy hissed as it rushed through the air at the Spellguard Reavers.
Two of them caught the brunt of the wave and had their armor melt to their leather underneath, welding to skin. They cried in pain and crumbled to the ground with a loud thud.
The other three braced for the magical energy, consigning their shields to take the molten damage.
While they recovered from the magical attack, Virion dashed to the two on the ground and made quick work of them. Ending their suffering with two quick slashes across their exposed chests.
The half-elf arc-runner raised his armored left hand and rested his arcane infused blade upon the crest of the metal. Readied to strike.
The three remaining Spellguard Reavers raised their partially melted shields and swords towards the half-elf, a crimson promise crossing their collective thoughts.
Virion whispered sacred words taught to him almost a century ago. The Acrusten blade hummed and responded to his whispers, glowing a warm yellow and blue from his sword.
His assault began with banging his steel braced wrist against his sword, the magically enhanced calamity burst forth to their readied and already compromised shields. They braced against the force, shields up, and dug in their heels.
The force caused their shields to crack and splinter. All three wailed in pain, their now free hand cupping their ear to try and soothe their burst eardrum.
One fell to his sword, the Acrusten blade fitted well through the gaps in her armor. Squelching, as it found flesh with ease.
One raised their sword to strike Virion, his iron blade meeting his magically tempered steel. The crash ruptured the air between them, Virion braced himself. The Spellguard Reaver did not, and from the force alone crashed into the cliffside.
The last whimpered and ran off, leaving behind his sword that broke its promise.
He sheathed his magically depleted blade, it hummed as it found its rest within his sheathe.
As his blade quieted he heard the horn, echoing off the crimson cliff walls, Virion procured his curved dagger and rushed alongside the blue and yellow arc-river and with enough momentum he punctured the magical river and burst forth with great alacrity, leaving behind the battle.
The world seemed to shrink as he rushed through the river of blue and yellow mana, the sound of the river of arcane energy serenaded his tired muscles like a chorus of angels. His curved dagger embedded into the arc-river, his momentum never faltering as Virion left behind blood and steel. The memories of war stained his leather jerkin, his steel greaves, and his steel vambrace. Hoping the arc-river washed away the sinful scarlet.
The half-elf arc-runner flexed his free right hand as he glided across the arc-river, still sore from the suspected ten minutes of battle he had done.
They came faster than the Elders anticipated. The invader’s swift conquest lied within the Korodon Peaks. Though blinded by their hubris, Rath would not surrender despite their outnumbered forces. Virion and many other arc-runners met the Spellguard Reavers. For hours they weaved and wound their way through the arc-rivers, catching them by surprise with guerilla tactics. The victory of the half-elves depended on it. Both sides retreated to regroup and plan for the next engagement ahead of them.
Reaching the top of the cliff, Virion swung his leg to the side of the arc-river to halt his approach.
As he slowed to a stop he took in those that waited for him atop the Korodon Peaks.
Belovar, his brother, with his brown swept hair and somber blue eyes, greeted him as he finished assessing the twenty arc-runners and said, “Always wonderful to see the elderly come back from battle, would be a shame to let so much wisdom go to waste.”
“I’m sorry, Belo,” Virion said back, “But last I counted I brought down twenty-three of those bastards.”
“I killed so many that I lost count.”
“I’m sure you did, you’ve always had a very short memory.”
They both shared a laugh, Virion smirked, pleased that despite their opposing viewpoints on what occurred with Ezran and Esta, the twins, they could still share a laugh. Virion missed them too, but what they did to Rath should never be forgotten.
Virion ran a hand through his grey peppered blond hair, attempting to wipe the three centuries of weight from it, and said, “How many casualties?”
“Seven dead and thirteen wounded. Standing at three hundred and eighty men and women ready to fight.”
“No word from Baran?”
“They’re mustering as we speak, they will send off their soldiers in three days.”
“How many and when was that message received?”
Belovar recited, “Thirty-five hundred strong are mustering. And the message was received last night.”
“Three days… we need to hold out for three days?” Virion paced back, peering over the sandy cliff far off at the retreating force of Spellguard Reavers, and asked, “How do they expect us to survive if we barely have enough manpower to fight. At this rate, we will have half our numbers than when we started.”
He rested his leather-wrapped hand on his sword, attempting to gather comfort from the warm steel. He could feel the muted hum of magical energy that rested inside his sheath, the Acrusten blade harmonized with the arc-river that tempered its folded steel. It garnered him no sympathy. No insight into the woes of defending his kingdom.
Virion drew his eyes over to the other arc-runners. Though he did not know their names, he knew their faces and their families. Many of them his distant cousins of the Desidarius family; his family. What troubled him the most of the next three days would be: the inevitable casualties of war. If he could, he would want all of his fellow arc-runners to return home.
“What are your orders?” Belovar said, breaking Virion’s ponderous stupor.
Virion clenched his jaw, he prayed to the Pantheon that they had the resolve to keep the Spellguard Reavers at bay long enough for reinforcements to arrive. One day finished.
The old half-elf said, “Gather them up, we must meet at the refuge.”
***
Night had settled in, the once grueling heat replaced by a stiff and bitter cold. Virion clutched his cloak tighter around his neck, unable to protect his bones from the icy daggers of the air. His gaze never wavered from the outpost that stood high in the middle of the plateau.
The windswept surface of darkened red clay and stone almost welcomed his dreary mind. Its battlements appeared to be a clutching hand reaching for the sky. Virion flexed his steel braced hand. The warm glow of the lights within beckoned him forth inside Korodon Refuge.
Others joined, swinging up and over the steep edge of the plateau. Virion made sure to have two of his finest stay behind and spy on the Spellguard Reavers. Virion had no plans to be ambushed.
He crossed the threshold of the refuge, combing his hood down. His cheeks tingled at the warm hearth that roared at the center of the building. It had only one upper level despite its height, which compensated only a handful of living quarters, a few rooms for any wounded, and storage for additional weapons should the need arise that they require additional steel.
Chatter amongst his fellow arc-runners did well to mute the discordant wind that raged outside. For once he welcomed the idle chatter, it calmed him. For a brief moment, he forgot his position amongst the arc-runners, the invaders that laid camp in the ravines of his homeland, the two more days of a devastating battle. And he took heart at that moment, so many years he spent with duty and honor to uphold for himself and his family. But at that moment, nothing mattered.
Though he did well to remember the moment, he walked as he took the center of the refuge, “Attention on me.”
The building fell silent, all eyes swiveled to meet his. The quiet threatened to burst from the room.
Virion bellowed, “I have received word from our allies in Baran-”
He could see the gleam of hope that radiated in the room, it crushed him that he had to say his next words, “-they will not have their forces mustered and at our side for the next two days.”
They all gave various forms of disappointment, as they should. They planned on skirmishing with the main force of the Spellguard Reavers until the main body of the Baran militia came to engage the Spellguard Reavers directly.
“Two days?” A voice of defiance called forth from the crowd that gathered, “We’ll all be dead in two days.”
Virion watched her step between their fellow arc-runners, her boots echoed off her belligerent tone. A sneer fixed to her face, her thin eyebrows furrowed above her globes of green. Virion half expected horns poking from her brown and blond tipped hair that rested below her shoulders. Anhera Zinmaris, a far distant cousin of the Desidarius and one of Virion’s most hated relatives. She always wore an entropic mantle, draining any inkling of optimism.
Anhera continued, “I heard that they have great machines that can suppress magic. Refurbished golems that belonged to the dwarves before they too fell to their might.”
Belovar growled as he said, “How would you know of such things?”
Virion raised his hand against Belovar at his accusation, plying for information outside of Rath; among the most treasonous of crimes. But despite Virion’s deep-seated hate for Anhera, they would need all the help they could get.
The Acrusten General fixed his gaze to Anhera and said, “Be that as it may, we have no other choice. We either surrender our wills to the Spellguard Reavers or stand and holdout until reinforcements arrive. I prefer the latter.”
Virion despised the air that surrounded her. Her arrogant aura sickened him every time she approached him
She said as she slumped her shoulders, “This is suicide… I did not sign up for suicide.”
“You knew the risks before you came, mage.” Virion said, resting his hand on a cup of ale.
He pulled the cup back and listened as Belovar said, “Might as well give our time worth, what’s the plan?”
Virion let the warm ale liven his chilled bones and replied, “I sent Rovan and Vestral to keep an eye on the movements of the Spellguard Reavers. We rest for tonight but in the morning we split. Half goes to the western mouth of Korodon Peaks, the others to the eastern mouth.”
“And what of going through the passes?” Anhera asked, folding her arms.
“They would not make such a rookie mistake of going through the passes. Too narrow to maintain ranks, not to mention that would leave them very vulnerable for ambushes and skirmishes. Their invasion would cost dearly if they took the passes.”
“She has a point though,” Belovar said, “They would expect us to think they wouldn’t choose the passes.”
“We don’t exactly have the manpower to cover all three areas, we would be spread too thin. We cover the borders, that’s final. Besides, we have that report from Rovan and Vestral to tell us where they are headed.” Virion said as he let his bones rest upon a chair. His battle-worn muscles loosened.
Virion intoned, letting all who could hear him inform them of the plan, “For now we rest. We will rise with the sun to seek the Spellguard Reavers.”
They cheered and raised a pint of ale in jubilant comradery. Even Anhera raised a pint.
From over his mug, Virion stared daggers at her. He then motioned for her to join him at his table. Belovar followed suit.
As they both sat Virion leaned close and said, “Why did the Elders send a mage?”
“A warm welcome to you as well,” Anheris hissed, “That business is my own. That’s not a concern of yours or the Elders.”
Virion and Belovar shared a look, Belovar taking a seat next to Anhera. His brows raised, his hands interlocking upon the dark stained table.
The Acrusten General said with an abashed look, “On the contrary, I’m the one in charge of these warriors.”
Virion gestured around them, with Anhera following their gaze and looking over the tired soldiers. His font of ire was not born of jealousy or hatred, but her look of superiority that caused his blood to boil. She carried the air of a mind plagued by a god.
Virion finished, “Now, mage, tell me why you’re here.”
Anhera rolled her eyes and said, “I’m here to kill Spellguard Reavers, do I need more of a reason? You lot will need all the help you can get.”
Belovar shrugged, “With an attitude like that, our morale is sure to surpass our enemy’s.”
She shot a glance at him, Virion smirked at the ire his brother had caught, as she said, “And I’m sure your wit will slay many a foe.”
Virion cherished the moment, he channeled all he could to savor the precious minutes they spent.
He looked despondently to the door. For what lied outside, in the barrenness elements, the threat that bore down upon the countryside of Rath. A specter riding upon the winds of death. An enemy that wished nothing more than to squash them under their weapons of oppression.
He hoped he prayed, their courage would be enough to last two more days.
***
Propelling over the edge, Virion doubled his momentum and landed on the soft red sand, he smirked. He always loved arc-running.
They gathered atop one of the mesas, the arc-runners. They sat, fires made to keep them warm from the chilled mountain air.
Virion peered over the edge of the mesa, miles down lied the orangish-red glow of the sand he knew so well.
“General Virion.”
Virion looked back over his shoulder to see a recruit approaching. He nodded at her and said, “What is it?”
“A missive from Rovan and Vestral.”
His shoulders eased from tension. Now he would know if he made the right decision.
Virion snatched the missive from the recruit and nodded for her to leave.
Unfurling the sun-bleached parchment, it read:
“General Virion Desidarius,
They picked up their camp just before dawn and made their way through the Expanse. They now make way through the Desarin Pass. If they are not stopped, they will make their way to Sinarin.
* Rovan Ianric”
Virion crumpled the parchment and tossed it over the edge. He shouted over the wind and ordered, “Form up! We make our way to Desarin Pass, immediately!”
With great urgency, they gathered themselves and began dropping over the edge and arc-running.
He stopped the same recruit and said, “I need you to send word to Belovar and Anhera of the change in battle plans.”
“Yessir!” The recruit scampered off and started arc-running himself.
Why would they choose to go through the passes? They would never make it. At least this would make the next two days go faster.
***
Over the screeching river of arcane, Virion heard the song of war. Far-reaching across the inner mountains of the Korodon Peaks. Dark clouds blotted out the sun, casting enormous shadows upon the bards of war that sang their stanzas of blood, steel, and flesh.
The air stung a familiar bitter cold, gnashing sharp teeth of a coming storm. The Acrusten General had his blade at the ready, arc-running his way straight to the fray.
He crested over one of the peaks, the hollowed frost thrumming in the air around him, reacting to the sparks of arcane energy that erupted around his gauntlet. He could see it, the “field” of battle.
The Spellguard Reavers, as Rovan described, kept to the passages. Miles above the ground upon ridges of sheer crimson stone and clay. Though he could not see the obsidian plated scorpions, he could see the torches that dotted around the serpentine pass. Virion looked, the pass had already taken a portion of the Spellguard Reavers as a sacrifice. Those that carried the wounded trudged along in the dark, keeping pace with the unscathed.
The momentum jolted him forward, rushing ever towards the awaiting bed of the river that dried up eons ago. He heard his fellow arc-runners as they engaged the enemy. Their conviction resounding over the bombarding rain, even within the waning hours of day two astounded him. His chest tightened, strangulating the chambers of his heart. Despite this, Virion believed they could survive one more day to get the reinforcements they needed. One thing Virion noticed that differed between the Arc-runners and the Spellguard Reavers: Arc-runners were duellists, the Spellguard Reavers were trained as soldiers. Elite soldiers, but soldiers nonetheless. Duellists fought to survive, soldiers fought as pawns.
He felt the river of mana beneath him react to the fighting. It echoed the ancient sin that gave birth to its everflowing tides of ichorous magic, the akin scenes of violence livened the antediluvian mana. Legends tell of a great battle, before the age of mortals when Uthos and Korodon fought atop the same peaks. The Korodon Peaks is said to be the site of the first murder when Uthos impaled Korodon upon the spires of rock. Korodon’s foul blood stained the peaks and the sands of Rath. The arc-rivers are the remnants of Korodon’s blood.
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From the momentum of the peak, Virion blasted himself from the edge of the valley up to the ledge where his comrades fought for their lives. He drummed his fingers against the hilt of his blade with zephyrous anticipation. Two more days.
Leaping over the ledge, Virion extended his sword and with a crack of a thunderous calamity, a concussive blast burst from his blade.
He watched as all around stumbled, trying to regain their footing. In the seconds before his greaves struck the earth, the Acrusten General bellowed, “Fight on, brothers and sisters of Rath! For Baran! For Sinarin! For the clans!!!”
Revigored, his fellow Arc-runners let out a warcry. The air thrummed with a familiar song. Not a song that bore strings or drums. But a song of steel. A song of torn flesh. A song of fear. A song of misery. The very song that gave life to the adolescent material plane.
Planting himself on the ground amidst the ranks of Spellguard Reavers, he thrust his blade underneath the gap in his armor. The Acrusten blade pierced through their soft flesh under the arm.
The Spellguard Reavers rushed to keep their ranks, shields raised and swords pointed out. Virion studied each of them, searching poignantly for the commanding officer that dared to threaten the lives of Virion’s compatriots and their families.
The Acrusten General steeled his resolve and rushed to the nearby arc-river.
Two of the Spellguard Reavers saw his intent, swords raised in defiance.
Reversing his dagger, Virion flourished his arcane tempered longsword and readied to attack. A moment arose, a defining second that would have marked a different set of moves to get past their shields.
Creation itself stirred with a thunderous roar. A great deafening calamity that resounded above them in the sky. The storm had arrived.
Virion smiled as the rain began to pour unto the awaiting combatants.
He thrust his sword to the sky, embedded his dagger into the arc-river, and propelled himself forward. As he shot across the ground, he spoke a single word. A word that in an eldritch language meant ‘lightning-strike’.
The air rumbled as lightning struck his arcane blade. It dazzled with leeching electricity. Jumping over the surface of the runed blade.
Before both of the Spellguard Reavers struck their swords against him, in a wide horizontal arc, lightning leaped from his blade as he parried both of their swords. The lightning spread through the armor of both the Spellguard Reavers. Their muscles contorting and their flesh adhering to their armor, steam wisped through the cracks in their obsidian armor.
In seconds, Virion found himself atop the great wall of stone that the pass offered. Many of his comrades did the same. Arc-running, fighting and then evading back to the top. The beauty of the narrow pass allowed them the luxury of not having to evade archers.
Virion noted the one hundred and ninety strong he brought with him, and the other half that he hoped, made their way to them. They threatened their den, provoking Virion and his comrades to show their teeth and protect their home.
Then, a roar echoed through the thin mountain air.
Virion turned his head to meet the beast that let out such a cry. He saw a mighty wyvern. The callow wyvern’s dark blue scales glistened in the heavy rain. Its acute and watchful sea-green eyes gazed upon the enemies that lied on the stone ledge above the battle. Virion connected his gaze to it, wondering why a wyvern decided to intervene. They did not tread on any territory belonging to wyverns, their caves lied outside of Desarin Pass.
Then he saw the shape with a flash of lightning in the clouds, atop the blue wyvern sat a man clad in black armor. Red edges marked his obsidian carapace. A tabard of white bearing the insignia of the Spellguard Reavers. In his grip the reins of the wyvern, and the other a mighty sword-staff. His obsidian plated helmet bore the face of an angry demon, an eyeless visage of snarling teeth. His pernicious emerald eyes promised great pain in the secluded shadows of his helmet. He wore the weight of leadership.
It hovered there for many agonizing moments, bearing its predatory gaze upon them. Valstrix, the Weaver of Fate, smiled upon the defenders of Rath. To make matters worse, Virion saw something drip from the wyvern’s clutched talons. A corpse, the familiarity caused Virion to look closer to the identity. It was Rovan.
He turned his gaze back to the wyvern as it reeled its head back.
Virion shouted to his allies, “Take cover!”
He narrowly escaped, grasping the ledge and dangling patiently for the strike to hit. He felt the cliffside burst and rumble with great force.
Peering up over the ledge, he saw the wyvern fly towards the cliff to unleash the fury of the nine hells upon Virion and his arc-runners. If they were to claim victory, he would need to distract or get rid of that wyvern.
Virion looked back to the other side of the cliff and saw an arc-river flowing down and up a peak on the opposite side.
Invigorated with renewed purpose, his plan took shape in his head. Suicidal as it may be, but surviving a little more than three centuries did not come without taking risks.
Letting go of the ledge he guided his way down and over to the awaiting arc-river, embedding his dagger into one of the rivers of mana once more. The wind whipped against his hair as he reached a near impossible speed.
He looked out searching for the wyvern and waiting for the perfect opportunity. He then took out his dagger and let his greaves guide his path. He felt the turbulent energies strike against his greaves, threatening to knock him off balance.
Kneeling in he jumped from the arc-river to let the magical flow shoot him through the air. The mountain wind cracked with a loud burst. His target hovering in the air.
He sheathed his dagger and readied his sword, the adrenaline deafening him.
The wyvern tried to snatch him out of the air, it went to bite down. Virion pressed his hand against the wyvern’s snout and guided himself down its neck to the rider.
With the same force as when he propelled himself from the arc-river, he connected with the rider, tackling him off the back of the wyvern.
They sailed off the back of the wyvern and headed towards the opposite side of the valley.
The rider struggled to release himself from Virion’s strong embrace as they propelled back. Virion went to thrust his blade into the rider as they sailed through the air, the rider grabbed his arm and struggled against each other. He looked at the demonic-looking helmet, anger rising in his face. He wanted to see the eyes of his foe before he killed him. Virion looked at the approaching mountainside and decided he would get his wish.
He let loose the rider from his embrace, but before they went in different directions he snatched the helm off of the rider and threw it off into the valley below.
Virion shifted himself and absorbed the coming ground of the mountainside with his greaves. Dust rose as he twisted and slowed his momentum. His breaths heavy, he watched as his enemy did not have as gracious a landing. In the spare moments before the engagement, Virion assessed his repertoire. His magical reserves low, and no arc-rivers nearby to fill it. He took in a long breath of inefficacy and approached the rider of the wyvern. His steps were long, recovering as much of his strength as he could. The wyvern huffed in the mountain air and flew off, roaming the mountain tops with no master to guide it, relief filling his expelled breath.
The rider coughed, regaining his breath, shaking the confusion from his senses. His hair shoulder-length and pulled back into a ponytail. He was around middle-aged for a human. A mark covered his right eye. Black and appeared as though it burst out from his skin, a cross-hatched star within the burst. They connected their gazes, his light blue eyes dripping with hate. He gripped his sword-staff hard and stood up.
They stood there for a few moments, studying each other, not unlike two alpha wolves circling one another. Their weapons out and ready to find each other’s flesh. The mountainous wind howled in the peaks, the storm raging more so than it had been, a streak of lightning danced across the sky above them.
The rider said over wind and storm, “I must say, your defenders are quite the challenge.”
“You expected us to expose ourselves to tyrants?”
“No, but to have so few casualties, I must say that I am impressed.”
Virion said nothing in response, his stance went wide, and readied his sword to his cheek pointing out towards his awaiting opponent.
The obsidian plated rider smirked and said, “They will make excellent additions to the Knights-Abjurer when you surrender.”
His opponent’s stance was defensive, which Virion found off towards the usual Spellguard Reavers. All of the ones he met on the battlefield took an offensive stance. Virion had to be careful, his opponent was not one of the rank-and-file.
The rider flourished his sword-staff and stood at the ready to fight.
Virion said, “What is your name so that I might remember who led his soldiers to a bloodbath.”
The rider chuckled, deep and unamused, and said, “Lieutenant-Abjurer Emeric Avonal. And yours?”
“Acrusten General Virion Desidarius, may you fight well.”
Only the rain could be heard between them.
Bursting forth, Virion ran against the face of the mountainside towards Emeric. As he approached above, he thrust his blade out summoning a fraction of the magic within, and a thunderous crack concussed out from his blade towards the lieutenant-abjurer.
Runes along with his armor and his blade glowed red at the approaching magical energy, the air rippled and distorted to the unfamiliar energy. The burst of thunder dissipated against the warping around him. It dissipated, and Emeric still stood ready to face Virion. The runes still glowed a deep scarlet.
Leaping from the mountain wall, he swung his sword to connect with Emeric’s head. His blade met with Emeric’s sword-staff.
Virion landed with his full weight on top of Emeric, pressing his blade against the haft of his sword-staff. They exchanged battle-hardened looks. His rage ran freely from his veins, like an open wound.
The Lieutenant-Abjurer tossed Virion over his head, not allowing his weight to bear down atop him.
The arc-runner landed on his feet, charging forward while he flourished his blade.
The runes upon Emeric’s plate armor and his weapon pulsated, raising his off-hand that bore the stolen mana. It swirled around his obsidian plated hand, the dark red energy warping the air around it.
Releasing the energy, Emeric let out a concussive blast. The runes still glowed.
The concussive blast washed over Virion, but the energy felt different. It felt empty, devoid of the living power, cold and entropic. His blade crackled, the last of the stored arcane energy evaporated into the rain. The air smelled of sulfur and apathetic of any arcane energy.
Emeric used the opening to unleash a flurry of blows, Virion deflected each glancing blow. The rank-and-file of the Spellguard Reavers had enough training that kept them from falling too quickly under an enemy blade. But these Knights-Abjurer proved to be highly trained.
Virion saw an opening in Emeric’s defense and raised his sword in an overhead strike. Like a pendulum, his sword sliced through the rain.
Emeric raised his hand and caught the blade. The armor wrapped around his hand guarded his flesh against the biting steel.
The Knight-Abjurer yanked him closer and slammed his fist across Virion’s face. The bones in his cheek cracked, the flesh of his face succumbing to the cutting plate fist.
Virion slipped on the rain covered stone and smashed against it. He struggled to shake the black from his vision, he heard amongst the thunderous symphony of the rain, “Such a pity, I expected more of a fight from you.”
The Acrusten General raised his hand to shield his face from the rain and watched between his bloodstained digits as Emeric raised his sword-staff. Hoisted to thrust deep through Virion’s defenseless form.
Failure soaked through his clothes, joining the rain, washing away his defeat. Virion, at that moment, instilled into the will of the universe forgiveness for those that he wronged, he prayed for forgiveness upon the twins.
Virion lowered his hand and knelt in the gathering rain, the rage of battle and thunder rolling through the infuriated clouds. He closed his eyes, waiting for death to take him.
For moments he waited for steel to pierce his flesh. When the cold steel didn’t pierce his flesh, he opened his eyes. The tip of the sword-staff a hair’s thickness away from piercing his chest. Leeching across the surface of his plated hand, cold icy blue frost seizing his muscles.
He swiveled his head and saw Anhera and Belovar. A smile cracked across his lips.
Virion tucked in and rolled away from the Knight-Abjurer, closer to Belovar and Anhera. Getting back up to his feet.
The air thrummed around the Knight-Abjurer once more, the entropic energy dissolved the ice from his hand. With a look of rage in his eyes, and runes bursting to life once more, he raised his off-hand and focused upon Anhera.
She stiffened, succumbing to an invisible force, fear and confusion drenched her face. A dreaded realization crossed Virion’s mind; he absorbed arcane energy and twisted it. He was not using magic, he was draining it.
He reached for Anhera as she burst towards Emeric in the blink of an eye, his fingers brushing against the cloth of her robes. Virion shouted, “NO!!!”
He looked and saw Emeric’s hand, the obsidian plated digits, gripping around her throat. The color drained from her face from the sheer necrotic aura of negative magical energy. Strength drained from every pore upon her.
Emeric increased the pressure, Virion grabbed his sword and leaped towards the Knight-Abjurer. Belovar followed in tow.
The runes upon his armor pulsated twice and raising his sword-staff, dark red and black energy leaped from the tip of his sword-staff and formed a bubble around him and Anhera.
Virion unleashed a flurry of blows upon the dome but nothing could penetrate it. He slammed his fist against the dome of negative energy.
Failure washed over him once more as he watched, in cold and disgusting hatred.
Emeric said with great prejudice in his eyes, “Putrid mage filth.”
They both cringed as her windpipe and her spine crushed under the weight of his great strength, all life left the comfort of her limbs as she fell limp.
He released her and she fell to the stone ground with no resistance.
Emeric let loose a long breath, drinking in the hate. Virion could see in his eyes a deep-seated hatred for mages. The hideous goal of the invaders revealed itself, their heretical desire to scour the land of magic. He stopped his attack upon him and Belovar so he could kill a mage. Such unadulterated hatred, it sickened him.
Emeric looked to the other side of the ravine and said to Belovar and Virion, “You have won the day. I believe congratulations are in order.”
Virion looked and saw the retreating forms under the light of many torches, slinking through Desarin Pass. Virion’s arc-runners fled as well along the arc-rivers.
Virion clenched his fist in rage and said, “You got what you wanted in the end, you killed a mage and that is the purpose of your order. To kill magic and whoever wields it.”
Emeric flourished his sword-staff, flicking the gauntlet stained with Virion’s blood. He smiled and said, “I hope to see you both on the battlefield tomorrow.”
Emeric stepped away and out of the forcefield. As much as he hated the Lieutenant-Abjurer, Virion respected his honor and the rules of battle as the forcefield dissolved in the rain.
Virion closed his eyes, his old veins pumping with all manner of emotions. In his three centuries of existence, he never witnessed a more heinous act of unadulterated hatred.
He sheathed his sword and said, “Grab her.”
They lasted their second day, but it felt hollow. Only one of his comrades died, as far as he knew, but it somehow felt as though the spirit of their defense shattered. Their retribution would be soon at hand.
***
Virion took a long pull from his waterskin, the crisp touch of water danced over his tongue. The refreshing water almost allowed Virion to forget the woes of the past two days.
The half-elf general looked at his waterskin, rubbing his thumbs over the soft leather surface to garner any amount of healing for his grief-ridden mind. The horrors of the night before still looming over them like a specter. And ever near is the oppressive weight of the returning Spellguard Reavers. Failure lingered on his shoulders,
Virion tensed, still eying his waterskin as his brother sat down next to him. Belovar said, “They will make way further into Desarin Pass at midday.”
The midday sun engulfed them, gleaming off of their patchy metal and leather armor. Virion said wiping away his despondent look, “Then if we had a chance to ambush them it’s now. The reinforcements will arrive soon. Send a message to them of the Spellguard Reaver’s position.”
Belovar nodded, waved over another arc-runner and he went off to deliver the message. Virion looked over the other arc-runners, their faces sore and tired; despite the rest, they had received. Tired from all of the fighting, arc-runners are an auxiliary force they are not meant to mount a defense for this long. Yet they persisted, attempting to do just that. They stood two hundred and seventy strong now, the previous night had left many sons and daughters of Rath joining the bloody sand. It sickened him, no matter how many casualties they received; it always felt like one too many for Virion.
For three centuries Virion lived in the war-torn times of Ketos, the song of war rages on as they say. Virion did not know the nations that fell under their rule, but he shook at the thought of how many had fallen under their heavy iron fist.
Stowing away his waterskin, Virion stood up from the makeshift camp they had set up overnight. The arc-runners broke camp; lowering tents, gathering blankets, dowsing campfires, etc. Virion drew his dagger, readying himself for arc-running. He said to Belovar while he ate his breakfast, “We will follow them. You will send your men ahead of mine and lay the ambush. We will stay behind and attack them while they are being ambushed.”
Belovar nodded, “A sound plan, how long do we fight?”
“Until the reinforcements from Baran arrive.”
He stopped eating, a dour expression crossing his face as he said, “Virion, we don’t have the manpower for that. We barely have enough to give them a worthy fight.”
“That is what must be done,” Virion said, turning the dagger in his hand as he spoke, “The other choice is hand over the lands of Rath. Once they make it through that pass, there will be no fighting for them only conquering.”
“Impossible, we have a force of ten thousand ready and waiting to-”
“No one has conquered the nation of Rath since its inception. That is a badge of honor and pride, if we halt our defense too quickly they will take Zenmar and Sarnan. Then Sinarin will be ripe for the taking.”
Belovar conceded and said, “Then how are we going to survive the day?”
Virion looked to the tent holding all of their injured arc-runners, in various states of wounding. None more bloody or bruised than the last. Too much blood from the arc-runners had been spilled already, the fear of total war poked at the corners of his mind.
The Acrusten General sighed as he rested his hands on his belt, “Perhaps we won’t…”
Finishing up his breakfast, Belovar wiped his hands together as he stood up and unsheathed his dagger as he made his way to the edge, “I just hope that I get to live to see the twins again.”
Virion said nothing as he disappeared over the side of the cliff. His second-guessing now sinking into him, ever since the night previous, he considered the possibility of annulling their exile. For so long he let his hubris bury the thought or the merest hint of indecision.
He heard the horns of the arc-runners. Two hundred and seventy men and women arc-running their way to the enemy. The winds silent against the mountain-side, but bore the promise of coming tides of iron, threatening the den of wolves.
***
With the wind whipping against his face, Virion rushed along the arc-river. With sword drawn and ready to find flesh. The emptiness of the night before left behind by the Knight-Abjurer, all but a distant essence. He breathed easy knowing that his sword and his Bhalora brimming with magical energy. It had been many years since he filled his Bhalora, the magically infused markings hummed with familiar life. Eager to burst and enact from Virion’s will.
The arc-river dipped down into the bottom of the valley and then shot up against the side of a mountain. Miles upon miles passed through the chilled air. Vengeance flooded his thoughts, culling his mind into a serene rage.
He heard the far off marching, the rhythm of war that had become all too familiar to the wizened half-elf. They neared the end of the Desarin Pass, which spelled doom for the rest of Rath if they made their way through.
His hand tensed, willing his anger and pride for his people into his blade.
In moments they came into view, like pepper specks against the scarlet red sand. Their weapons were poised and ready to strike.
Virion watched as Belovar’s arc-runners made their way ahead and then dove upon them with great prejudice and with weapons swinging down.
Orders erupted in the valley, their ranks tightening and preparing for the quick attacks. So many dived in and out of combat, too quick for him to comprehend how many dipped in and out of the fray.
Letting enough time pass, Virion reversed his blade and pumped it in the air as he slid along the arc-river. A flare burst from the pommel of his sword. Cries erupted from his men and women as they joined the battle as well.
Bursting into the back of the army, they scrambled to regroup and tighten their ranks.
Virion smiled as he leaped from the arc-river and turned his sword out, waiting for his steel to find flesh.
It did not take long for his steel to connect, sliding between the nape of his neck as Virion dove through the ranks of the Spellguard Reavers. Letting the Bhalora rise within him, the markings burst with life, he felt his muscles loosen and grow numb against the mana that pumped through his veins. Alacrity bled from every pore of his body as he deflected blows and found gaps within their carefully constructed armor.
Blade after blade met Virion’s anxious steel. His mind focused on one singular need. While he fell reaver after reaver, he kept his senses alert for the baleful leader, Emeric. Channeling his hatred his strikes became heavier and his veins pumped with evermore purpose and emotion. His blade needed to find the flesh of Emeric.
He leaped all about the battlefield, as did the other arc-runners, using the momentum of the arc-rivers to propel them through the air at breakneck speeds.
As if Valstrix's favor revealed itself once more, Emeric revealed himself in the ranks of the invaders. Virion pushed the blade of his foe away and thrust it deep in the gap where their stomach and chest met. He shot his head up and connected with Emeric’s, his lips curling into a snarl.
Emeric marched amongst his fellows, but at another glance, they were not his soldiers. They wore plain robes, folded layers of cloth. They all had more wraps of cloth over their heads and their eyes, a bright marking against their covered forehead. The strange markings, Virion believed, read ‘silent’.
Belovar leaped and landed next to his brother, their swords ready and waiting. They connected gazes, Belovar, and Virion. Dour expressions, knowing full well the bleak certainty that one of them may not survive. But they knew the dangers, they knew each day was never guaranteed.
Belovar nodded, his lips curling in as he said, “I am the sword at your side and the wind at your back.~”
Virion finished the mantra, “~And may my blood bring you home.”
They nodded to each other and charged towards Emeric and the contingents of what looked to be mages under their control. Their bhalora glowed and as they charged forward their swords emanated a similar glow as their markings.
The mages charged, with Emeric following behind them, soon swallowed by the sea of cloth.
Vengeance carried on the wind, waiting to taste the flesh of tyranny.
***
Magic rippled through the air and solidified into a deep purple dart of magic, a volley of them sailing through the air. Virion activated his bhalora and magic of his own solidified in the air in front of him, the darts connecting and dissipating against the magical barrier. Belovar leaped from around the barrier and in a wide cleave drove his blade into the last remaining mages. They crumpled to the ground, Virion clasped the empty air and willed the barrier to cease.
The two half-elves reversed their blades and plunged them deep into the mage’s shoulders. Their last mortal breaths leaving their mouths as they succumbed to the stiffness of death.
Their breaths heavy; scars and wounds dotted over their faces and their armor. Their leather was torn and their cloth tattered. Singed steel and marred gloves stood before the impeccable tower of Lieutenant-Abjurer Emeric.
Unclasping his cloak, Emeric flourished his blade as the cloak fluttered through the air.
Virion raised his sword, Belovar mirrored him both with heavy breaths. Their muscles sore and tired, but vengeance fueled them. Emeric would pay for what he did.
Virion charged first, Belovar a step behind him. Raising his sword and to come down in the pendulous arc. Belovar pulled his blade back in a horizontal strike.
Their off-beat rhythm still could not break through Emeric’s well-trained defense. They unleashed successive blow after successive blow, with none finding pernicious flesh. For minutes this occurred, Virion’s attacks becoming more and more furious as Emeric did nothing but deflect. Biding his time.
Belovar connected with the butt of the sword-staff, Emeric gliding the sword down and away from him, the knight-abjurer connecting his knee into Belovar’s stomach. The sword-staff deflecting the acrusten general’s blow.
Emeric cracked the haft of his sword-staff against the side of Virion’s head, disorienting him. White flashed in Virion’s vision and in the white light he felt the hot sting of steel.
He gasped as Emeric’s sword-staff plunged into him.
Virion looked down and saw crimson soaking his leather jerkin, he dropped his sword, his fingers clutching the air. As he looked down and passed the sword-staff embedded into him, he saw Emeric’s heel planted on Belovar’s sword arm, tears streaming from his brother’s face. For a moment Virion could hear nothing, he saw Belovar scream but fell upon deafened ears. The pain in Belovar’s eyes would haunt Virion for the final moments that he clung to the mortal plane.
That looming specter named death now rested its cold unfeeling hands on his shoulders. Each digit stabbing into his shoulders like icy tendrils, his fate coming closer with each passing moment.
Virion’s strength wavered, his knees buckling. He gasped against each movement that pumped a new wave of pain in his side and through his back.
His gaze connected with Emeric who smiled impishly, “And with the death of their general, the arc-runners lost the battle. Victory being claimed for the Spellguard Reavers.”
He almost believed him, that cold death whispered despair into his ear. The chilling words of failure spread over his chilled bones, the life slowly leeching to the awaiting specter. It relished at the three centuries of experience and strength flowed out and would soon join the strength of the dead.
As despair finished filling every ounce of his cold flesh, he heard it. A sound that rumbled in his shallow chest. The Warhorn of Heleric, an ancient relic still used by the half-elven clans of Baran. Their reinforcements arrived.
The song of war ceased for a moment. As Desarin Pass instead rumbled with the sound of marching.
Virion took advantage of the moment and gripped the sword-staff, pulling Emeric from the confused rumbling. Lifting his other hand, it balled into a fist that slammed against the knight-abjurer’s face.
Emeric fell back, the sword-staff losing tension. Still gripping the sword-staff, Virion bellowed before crumbling to the ground, “Arc-runners! Fallback! Our duty is fulfilled!”
Belovar rushed and knelt in front of his brother, tears still streaming down his cheeks. His hands cupped his brother’s cheeks. Virion felt the specter wrench his soul further out from his body, Valstrix sealed his fate.
Virion whispered, straining against the burning pain, “We... did it…”
“Do not speak, you haven’t much strength left now.” Belovar choked out, looking into Virion’s clouded eyes.
The three-century-old half-elf could not help but smile as he looked into Belovar’s eyes.
Virion raised his hand and grabbed Belovar’s wrist with great care, using the last of his strength as his vision grew evermore black.
He said, “May my blood bring you home... tell the twins that I forgive them and will see them in the fields of Rulis.”
Belovar nodded, taking in his last sight. His brother as he said, “I will.”
The last he heard was the song of war. Like lambs delivered to the mouths of wolves, they gathered amidst the crimson walls of clay and stone. The final resting place for the legion of tyranny.