Steel roared in the cold night air, not unlike thunder or that of a great eruption from a volcano. It was icy, haunting and echoed with such fury that none who might have passed by, could well have mistaken it for aught other than it was. The cries of the dying was the only sound that proved itself louder than this macabre symphony concocted by the most devilish of the Emperor’s knights. The self-same knights who had forgotten their honour, in favour of laying waste those who were kin to these woods and trees since time immemorial.
In ancient times, this forest had been deemed a place of holiness, one in which none either of the new faith or the old might well have profaned with such acts. Yet since the coronation of Karl II, usurper of his cousin Arculf III’s crown all the old oaths and codes had been set aside. Such was the nature of tyrants, and Karl was certainly one determined to prove himself as such.
Insecure as his hold was over the throne, he had taken to stamping out those nobles, those clergymen who opposed him or who might disagree with his usurpation. He had also taken to slaughtering suspected enemies amongst the peasantry.
Once he had finished with his excesses against them, and the majority of his surviving enemies had fled abroad or been executed, he had turned his attention to those he deemed inferior. Or different, as some liked to mutter. And who could be more different, from men in regards to traditions and nature than the Wilder-Elves of Fürstenwald?
It was for this reason that Karl had despatched those knights he had entrusted the slaughter, of countless others to, to the forest. An enchanted place, it was whispered that it was highly unlikely that Karl might win the day or for his knights to even arrive in the village of the fey-folk. Little had anyone suspected, but the Emperor’s court-sorceress, a renegade from that Order by the name of Albina had helped guide the way through the enchanted forest.
It was thanks in no small part to her that, the Imperial-Army had sundered away the enchantments of the woods, snuck up on the Elves and begun their ghastly work.
Surprised at first, the Elves had initially put up little in the way of resistance. Asleep in their homes that were part of the very trees they loved ever so much, it was only thanks to the howling of some of those wolves they had domesticated that they were awoken.
It was these same great wolves, large as all such beasts were at the beginning of time and gifted to these Elves by the wolf-tribes of Wulfar the Axe, of fond memory thousands of years hence that some few reached for their quivers and bows. Some picked up their wood-steel, of which only the Wilder-Elves and some of their cousins from farther east knew the secrets of crafting to.
Strong as iron and unbending as the steel of men, the wild-folks were led by Salyvar the Hunter. It was he to whom they turned to, in the absence of strong leadership on the part of Thargron, their chieftain who at the sight of the burning gates of the village and the nearest of trees had lost all sense of reason.
“What hope can there be, in the wake of such fires and iron?” He had been heard to utter, staring from his high-towered home’s window.
Rallying behind the mightiest of their numbers, the Fürstenwald Elves had met steel and fire, and cavalry with their own battle-cries, wood-steel and snow-wolves.
Well might they have been had they chosen flight, in place of battle. A warrior-people, renowned perhaps not for war-glories they nonetheless boasted of far more, than the erstwhile Emperor who challenged them at present.
No less affected than others was she whom was called by her kindred, Yalaya Snow-Tresses. Niece of Salyvar, she had in all her years never seen violence, of any sort. No less affected by the vision of blood, she was amongst those ladies trained to sooth the tempers and to manage the snow-wolves which the Wilder-Elves always kept close at hand.
It was said that as the first of the knights began to fall back, this after Salyvar had struck down the wicked Baron Ernst of Glurhenbarrow, chief of the Imperial guards, he burst out with, “Have at them my brothers, these men though they adorn themselves in raiment of iron and steel are of a different sort entirely from that particular material!”
Frightened, Yalaya who had raced thither from the estate she had long maintained as was right, for her mother’s elder brother. It was to him she had called, just as many of the Elf-maidens were in the midst of doing for their own men-folk. That is to say those, not taking flight with their children or younger siblings.
Neither a mother, nor a sister Yalaya was urged by her uncle to, “Release those wolves from their confinement and find Thanatil Long-Hair!”
“Yes uncle!” She replied at once, glad to obey him and to have someone to follow, stricken by panic as she was.
Whistling between her teeth, as she ran from near her tree-home for the north-west, she was greatly relieved when Gormer heard her.
A large snow-furred wolf dire in size and typically playful in temperament, he had responded if his bloodied fangs were any judge to the sudden encroachment by the Imperial knights with immediate violence. His heroism hardly went unnoticed by the Wilder-folk who appreciative of the chief-most of the snow-wolves, might otherwise have rewarded him with a whole elk to call his own. Unfortunately, this they were never destined to dole out, ever again.
Perking his ears at her sudden call to him, Gormer reacted as thousands of his ancestors and peers had throughout the ages; he leapt from what most interested him in that moment to action. Smooth and swift, he moved with such grace as to make the most majestic of horses appear as coordinated as a clumsy ass.
Knights and steeds were ignored, even as they sought to bear down upon him or hurry out of his path, some swinging steel futilely in his direction only to bellow with rage when they missed. Bounding from one side of the battle-field to another, over the heads of mortal men and Elves alike, past startled horses that shrieked with bewilderment, Gormer soon arrived before Yalaya. The maid with nary any hesitation in her heart, or her disposition climbed atop him in one smooth act that drew a momentary glance of admiration from some of those opposed to her people. Few there were of their own people, who could move or ride any mount with such grace and dignity.
Off whither to Thanatil’s hovel she was headed, without any awareness of the thoughts of others, worried only for her kindred, just as Gormer was below her.
In the most desperate of times, it was to Thanatil that the Fürstenwald Elves always turned to. Ordinarily considered something of a brute, one who spent far too much time amongst outsiders, he was the sole of their numbers to have embraced the warrior life to the exclusion of all else. It was he who, named after one of the great heroes from the most ancient of eras, had come to live on his own, as one banished from his tribesmen.
Thanatil it was who when called upon, in spite of living apart from his kinsmen drew his mighty wood-steel sword of Erëstáldthar, bedecked in the raiment of a warrior.
“Take to the forest, lady Yalaya, lest harm shall befall thee,” Thanatil warned her, his tones deep and serious.
A brooding figure all but pulled from a time of legend and myth, just as Salyvar was tall, dark haired and famous for his swift-sword arm, he was dressed in simple leather as was the wont of all Elves descended from Quèlthran Green-Tresses.
“Not without uncle Salyvar!” Yalaya cried out with rather more boldness than she herself had expected from herself.
A mild-mannered lady, hardly half so fierce as the vast majority of her friends, or her renowned uncle she did not blame Thanatil for his startled expression. Nor might any others have been judged poorly, who might have overheard and acted startled at her sudden ferocity – one which might well have melted with the snow in the spring, yet to her credit did not.
It was Yalaya who in utter defiance of precedent and the wishes of her uncle, turned Gormer about as she gripped him by the fur, leading him into the mass of warriors arrayed against her kinsmen.
As a demon he appeared to them, tearing and rending asunder the lives of men, so that their cries echoed from glen to glen, and to the very peaks of the mountain-tops nearby.
Fangs sharp as steel-blades, with claws that brought to mind iron-pikes Gormer was to duck, leap and weave a path of destruction through the ranks of men. There were other wolves who began to, inspired by his great success follow him and his example by bustling nearer and attacking at those few he missed.
It was in this hour that Thanatil rode forth. Atop his own great wolf, thrice the size of that of Gormer, one who was known by the name of Syndrel the Fierce, the greatest of the Elves threw himself into the murderous melee.
His spear was as a bolt of thunder. Cutting a path through the ranks of the warriors arrayed against him, slashing through armour and stabbing beneath and through the great war-helms that covered their faces.
Some took to flight in the face of the Elves. Most did not.
The hour was dark and bleak for those sworn to the Empire. This along with the recent reversals and courage of the enemy, was ample enough reason to consider a full-flight. There had been two barons lost in the struggle after all, those of Aaron and Emil, both men of renowned valour and skill in arms.
It was for this reason that the heroes of Fürstenwald, might well have grown confident or complacent were they not highly aware that for every loss sustained by their foes, they themselves had lost thrice that number. And that they were aware they were in a desperate struggle for their very lives.
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
In this hour, hither rode Duke Friedhelm mightiest of the knights of the Empire. Flaxen-haired as his mother had been before him, fierce as a lion and no less proud. He was a warrior of middle-years, long-limbed and dressed in ring-mail and a hauberk forged in his grandfather’s time. It was he who in the same armour of his grandfather, a hero of countless campaigns under the great monarch Arculf II, had epitomized courage and victory in the hearts and minds of the people of the Empire.
“To me,”: He shouted in the hopes that he might well rally his men and those of his peers, “Iron they dread, and fire they despise therefore it is to both that we must turn to now!”
Charging thither with all the might of a giant, he it was who threw back the charge begun by Salyvar. Startled by the resurging might of the enemy, Salyvar attempted to engage him the clang of their arms clashing a hundred times ere there was any conclusive movement forward on either of their parts.
Fierce as wolves, they swerved and danced guided by the music of battle, such that their flashing blades could well have been those of the gods. Salyvar leapt from place to place, never remaining still in the battle betwixt them, accurate and hostile as a hornet. He also employed a torch in his second hand in a vain attempt to frighten the larger male’s horse.
It was ultimately Friedhelm who seized the day though, for though not as swift, he made excellent use of his superior reach, mounted position and youth. Able to endure more blows, as their swords clashed and armed with a buckler he parried many more blows with it and was able to fend away most blows and to riposte far more frequently thanks to said buckler.
Four blows, then three were tallied as he backed then advanced then backed once more, as a storm of sword and torch swings carried Salyvar forward.
Friedhelm realising what was happening, tightened his grip upon his reins wherefore he whipped them with all his might even as he arose in his stirrups. Throwing himself forward, his mount the mighty horse Oldengroen tamed in the lordly noble’s youth struck at the startled Salyvar with his hooves.
Thrown aback, and crushed beneath hoof and eight hundred pounds of pure muscle and hardly able to bring his blade or torch to bear, to the utter shock and horror of all behind Salyvar he was defeated then in that moment. The defeated came not from honourable blade, but from the hooves of the war-steed.
It was Thanatil who was to in spite of the great shriek of rage and grief that tore itself from Yalaya’s throat seek vengeance.
His war-wolf leapt forward with a howl that could have been torn from a time more mythical and legend than that of which I speak to you dear reader. It was in this hour that the great war-steed Oldengroen’s final destiny was decided.
Throat ripped to shreds, even as it cried out, head severed from shoulders wider and more majestic than any human ones could ever aspire to, Oldengroen was dead before his rider so much as struck the ground.
If the death of Oldengroen was swift that of Erik, the squire of Friedhelm was far less so by virtue of Thanatil sundering his arm near to the shoulder.
Blood poured from the wound as water from a flood, so that the squire shrieked for several minutes. Bleeding profusely, whilst his liege and killer fought furiously over his corpse almost ignorant of his passing, with the only hint of sentimentality on the part of Friedhelm in the wroth with which he shook and combated. Filled to the brim with such choking rage, Friedhelm proved his worth thence, as he had such rage as to reduce another man to acts of madness and folly, yet not so with Friedhelm, who was ever the warrior and fought with rather more purpose than before.
The clash took place in the courtyard to the house of Thargron, thereby the roses his daughter had planted with such care once upon a time and which his eye had always lit upon in the morn’. The ruin of those beloved flowers could have made even the most masculine of warriors to tears. Their petals scattering with the wind, across the battle-field which saw vast parts of the garden torched and desecrated by blood, corpses and the tears of the dying.
Try as she might to guide Gormer towards the great Thanatil, for fear that he might well fall as had her beloved uncle.
Yet when she sought to intervene, it was to the chieftain of their tribe that the warrior turned her attention to, saying to her as parried and evaded three consecutive strikes from Friedhelm. “To my liege’s side you must go, Yalaya, our survival can be had only through him, for he has guided us since the days of the Principate.”
Her choice made for her, the reluctant maid did as bidden turning thenceforth from his side to seek to find that of her chieftain.
Where some fought as devils, the chief of the forest-Elves had already ceded to the Empire. Giving up, he had preferred to ascend the top-most tree-tower to which his home was attached to, it was thereat the summit that he would remain.
In spite of her cries and attempts to reason with him, and those of his kindred (namely his three daughters and grandson) he would not see reason. Nor would he escape from his burning home, preferring to burn to ash such was the depths of his despair.
Losing heart at the sight of the loss of his liege, Thanatil was to at last cede ground wholly and completely to Friedhelm, who was to at last seize victory over the hero of Fürstenwald. Slashing away at his left leg, just a little over the ankle, Friedhelm let loose a great cry of victory.
This along with the shattering of the Elf-blade near to the hilt in the next moment, left none in any doubt of who had triumphed.
This was not the end of Thanatil, nor was it of Yalaya who attempted to once again come to the rescue alongside Gormer, yet the wolf was himself fended off by several of the Duke’s men. Unable to carve a path forward, to the rescue of the hero of the Fürstenwald Elves, she was to once again do naught more than bear witness as countless others had.
Though forced back, it was Thanatil nonetheless, who wounded the Duke with his sword-shard, and struck down the man’s cousin the warrior Erhard.
Of Erhard it has been said that he was a man of considerable heroism. A man who had defeated a Erde-Wyrm, to save the abbey of Güldbaum, with the wyrm in question named Agindrach. Yes that Agindrach, the largest of those within the Empire at that time, renowned as the ‘Cannibal’. It was thus Erhard, who had most fiercely resisted the murdering of the Fürstenwald Elves. It was also he who had always been his cousin’s herald and voice of reason. In this role, he had more oft than naught safely guided away the Duke from madness, and error.
Woe unto Erhard the Leal, who for his lealty was made to pay such a toll that men to this day still weep! For ‘twas he whom, Thanatil struck down with the broken banner of his house, driving the standard’s tip through his shoulder and into the genial giant, who cried as might a babe at the abandonment of his mother.
Horror and rage, cannot properly describe the depths of the sentiments that filled Friedhelm at the cries and passing of his beloved cousin. As brothers bound by blood, were they for they were true siblings at heart, with the elder of the two made to watch the younger. This was the last act of Thanatil the hero; wherefore Friedhelm flew into such a rage that none since the days of deepest darkness had seen its likeness especially amongst the Elves.
The blows he struck down upon the Wilder-Elf were as a blacksmith’s punishing hammer upon hot-iron, so that the wood-steel broke raining its shards down thereupon the ground.
In spite of the greatness and valour of Thanatil of Fürstenwald, Friedhelm was to butcher his corpse and leave it to the flames, with nary a thought for honour or respect for his cadaver. Such is the way of war, as has been said in countless eras ere this one.
No less affected, than Friedhelm had been by Erhard’s passing, Yalaya though in her case upset by Thanatil’s fall, sought thence to seize her own revenge. Her spite though was short-lived.
It was in that moment that Thargron’s son an able-bodied warrior, who could not bring himself to desert his father or his people, for the safety of the woods. “Take my son, Thargrenth away from this place to safety as you have the last of the snow-wolves we tamed in the days of my grandfather.”
“But, what of yourself and the rest of our tribes-men?” She asked, urging him to allow her to stay by his side and to perish as had countless others.
But he was resolute and begged of her, “The women have fled into the forests with the children, and though you be a powerful huntress, you have a higher calling; that of rescuing my beloved heir.”
Reluctantly, Yalaya was to do as bidden, seizing the boy in her arms. No less devastated by her, he was to share one last farewell with his father.
“Stay strong, listen to Yalaya and remain wise in all matters going forward,” Fingrar said to his son, as he took him into his arms for the last time.
The farewells were supervised tearfully by the lady, as it was by all the guards not engaged in the nearby battle, with prince Thargrenth being far more affected than any others. Driven to tears, being soft by nature and being almost kin to the prince Fingrar, she leapt what must have been fifty feet into the air when a spear narrowly missed her.
Fearful and at last convinced, she swept up the son of the prince into her arms, even as he struggled against her. Swept up onto Gormer, they were to take their leave of the village.
Tears a-streaming down their faces, they fled blindly into the protection of the forest, leaving behind them ash, blood and the screams of those Elves who had called this place home for countless centuries.
Into the darkness, and safety of the forest they fled each of them glancing back multiple times, their sorrow ruling over them.
It was in this state of mind, with their spirits broken that they were pursued by more than a dozen of Friedhelm’s men. They flitted through the night as might ravens, which have discovered a fresh corpse.
In the past their spears had missed as often, as they had struck, where at present they struck true six times.
Thrown forward thereupon the ground as the rain poured down, having broken out since some time before with Yalaya shielding Thargrenth from the mud, rain and sudden flight with her arms.
“Fly Thargrenth, fly from this place!” She ordered him throwing him from her even as the Imperial knights circled about her as might vultures.
Most were reluctant to draw too near, fearful of her dying wolf who had been run through by half a dozen spears. His death-throes and cries might well have torn asunder the hearts of even the most hard-hearted of men, so that not a single man could possibly the longer the moment went on for, properly justify what had been done.
Only the captain could bring himself to draw nearer to the wolf, it was this man who raised up a new spear, one that he had held in reserve hitherto this moment. It was he who raised up his weapon and brought it down.
Thus died Gormer, noblest of the wolves of the Fürstenwald, mightiest after Syndrel and most leal of all those brought up by the forest-Elves. His last thoughts, were but of his mistress and concern for her, whereas she seized by horror and grief sought to avenge him. Her efforts were easily ignored as she struck the iron of the hauberk of her foe.
At once, she was seized by the death-throes that always accompany her breed, whithersoever and whenever they should touch iron of any sort, for it was poisonous to them. Thus, as she lay perishing to that most deadly of allergies of the fey-folk, she was dealt the same fate, as Gormer was.
Her last pleas though were not for herself, but for Thargrenth’s son, Fingrar…
“What did you do to her, to make her go mad in such a way?” One of the men asked of the captain, who equally ignorant of the nature of fey shrugged his shoulders.
“She simply went mad, and what of you? You slew that whelp, who are you to speak to me as though I were some warlock or monster?”
Recriminations a-plenty flowed freely but for a short time, ere they revelled in their misdeeds. The necessary justifications of fanatics who could not swallow their pride, enough to realise the true horror of their crimes, for it was in the nature of such men to always boast of their virtue and fail to see what was so apparent to others.
So consumed were they with their meaningless words that they failed to take notice of the crunching of leaves, the whistling of the wind until it was too late. Coming to stand a short distance from them, the figure in question was tall. Taller than any they had ever seen before, and was rain-soaked more so than they themselves were.
En route for Fürstenwald on an errand, he was shocked to notice at last the raging inferno some distance that had begun to calm itself due to the rain, and the corpse of the child.
Staring down at the woman next he gritted his teeth.
“You there, what are you doing here? The Emperor commanded that the woods were to be quarantined until the revolt was seen to!” One of the men growled at him, sword in hand now though there was a certain keenness to his voice at the prospect of violence.
The stranger had but a few words to utter, even as his eyes blazed with righteous fury. “You shall all die for this…”
And so it was.