Index:
Episode 1 - The League of Iron assembles
Episode 3 - Legacy of the Veil Breakers
Episode 7 - Home is where the hearth is
Episode 8 - Last of the Old Ones
Episode 12 - Mistress of Flesh
Episode 15 - March of the parasites
Author’s note:
Thank you all for offering your aid while I was banned!
It would appear that this was some sort of error and it has since been rectified. Special thanks to
and everyone else who restacked my Warrior Wednesday story!To this excerpt from my Terran Morale Officer Handbook “Silence but a single voice and you lose everything.” I shall add another, much happier one:
“Success in our most virtuous venture, friends! Your efforts will not falter in the face of adversity, since those who are standing bravely against Evil aren’t meant to!”
Sorcerous light.
Crying his angry song, the chill fall wind danced around the Four and enemy alike. The camp fire, agitated by this rampage, lashed out with hands of greenish flame, seeding thousands of tiny red sparks in the air. Well fed on magicks and the cheer of the living, it transmogrified. Shades of bluish light emerged from the flame and wrapped around the four, shielding them from harm.
Olden this forest was, and even burning, the trees knew whose fatherly hand watered them.
The Knight was first to strike, even though he raised a sword, and the enemy not in reach. A dagger which he seemingly produced out of nothing swirled through the air. Without fail and with terrible force did this otherwise mundane-looking blade plow through a set of glowing-red magickal hieroglyphs floating in front of his rotten face, and lodged itself deep inside the wizard's hollow eye socket.
Aimed at the Knight, this carved out of Eldritch symbols and charged with otherworldly energy blast wailed ominously through the air... and... it promptly veered back. Inexplicably, the dagger which stuck out of the wizard's skull became the focus of his spell and not the armor clad Neldaeir. Hit by his own magick, the cadaverous mage no longer had a head or for that matter, upper torso.
“Not easy do the Knights of Iron fall.” - Stated the armored warrior and with calm abandon raised the longsword above his head, ready to strike.
Wailing, the wizards charged forth yet, their magicks hadn't conquered half the distance to their intended targets, when the noble Ranger let loose his first arrow. Immediately, as if he'd shot nothing, his projectile vanished, only to appear once more, only its elaborately plumed rear sticking out a mage's neck.
Distant on the surface, yet nigh everywhere underneath, the Elden tree shook. A golden-green root grew from the arrow and unable to move or screech a spell, the wizard became... growth. One hideous to behold tree; a skeletal face and body still clad in the trappings of his debased order.
“Life wins even in Death!” - Shouted the noble dwarf, nocking and releasing his two prepared arrows.
It was then, when all the vile magicks which these conjurers of old had summoned via curst word and hieroglyph, descended upon the Four. However, short was the deathly cheer this wizardly bunch polluted the evening air with. The sorceress, clothed in a blue aura by virtue of her ancient Arkan blood, turned all of their effort into puny sparks, and impotent flames.
“Was this the full measure of your 'power?!'” - the sorceress's tired voice mocked her foes, as she leaned on her spear shedding a single tear of blood.
Wordless, those of the Veil kept advancing, their hungry for living flesh weapons gleaming with red flame. However, before they could even swing, two more of the wizards were hit by dwarven arrows and became one with the woodland. Even though they feverishly fought against nature's inevitable march, the living roots overtook them.
Nine wizards remained, but with the bullheaded madness of those who forced themselves through the Veil, they swarmed the Four. They had the numbers, the wizards thought, and their foe could not possibly withstand a simultaneous attack from all sides.
Blades, warhammers, axes, and maces, all suddenly lost their wrathful, reddish glow, as soon as those who clasped them entered the Elven priest's dome of holy energy.
“Your destiny has been delayed for far too long, Decaying Ones!”
Two of their weakest brethren succumbed to fire, bodies assailed by hallowed light. Squirming and with vile curses upon their rotting lips, they became dust on the forest floor. One more joined the colorful carpet of leaves when the Elven axe's spike impaled his head, a glimmer of golden fire consuming him from the inside.
The dwarf's short blade cleaved through weakened by age metal. He danced away from their attacks as he severed legs, chopped off arms, parried blows, and even disarmed them. Even though the curst ones could recover from these superficial wounds and reattach the severed limbs, the Ranger's skillful display greatly hampered their attack. Moreover, whenever he found himself able, the dwarf kicked their weapons away.
Foul magicks pulled these curst items back into their arms, and reattached the latter, “healing” moldy bone and stinking flesh. Folly 'twas to stand against those of the Veil, if one was not equipped, trained, or endowed with enchantments. Their evil minds and rotting limbs did not tire, nor were they easily frightened by those of mundane means.
However, on this windy night, they'd assailed exactly those who they shouldn't...
Tired as she was, the sorceress aimed the glowing tip of her spear well, piercing one of the most reckless wizard's torso, through and through. Decaying flesh regenerated, sinews regrew, and skin became alive where the spear hit. Gargling, his blood running through his veins once more did the curst one fall, bested by Life itself.
Rays of light emanated from the sorceress's long mane and found their hollow eyes, her creation magicks temporarily blinding those of the Veil. Thus, she was able to continue canceling their spell weaving, wiping all new hieroglyphs, and silencing conjurations. On her knee, weakened from battling so many wizardly foes, nevertheless the sorceress refused to bend before their obnoxiousness.
Forgotten perhaps had the corpse-walkers the miserable fate of their spells, but not she. With even more of her power imbued into voice and blood, the sorceress turned what was left of their vile craft against them. Their strongest, the same who claimed that she and her rotting brethren were “full of surprises,” was astounded to find herself being fleetly consumed by her own magicks.
Yet, none proved more terrifying to these rotting underlings of the Thulm than the Knight.
They assumed themselves learned in magick and even skilled with the blade. That their charged with otherworldly force thews could overpower trained living flesh with ease. That a swift, multi-pronged attack would fell the Four, no matter their arms. Instead, with his very first overhead sword strike, the Knight cleaved through armor, decaying flesh, and moldy bone.
Those of the Veil knew not a blade which could slay them, yet this one did!
There was a silvery flash and only ravaged by the ages arms and armor, moth-nibbled clothing remained. In half-a-breath the longsword danced left, its tip blocking a strike aimed at the sorceress, and then another one, destined to tear open the Ranger's throat. Seamless, these two parries were followed by a swipe, which decapitated another wizard, whose mouth bellowed a torrent of red flame up and safely away from the Four.
Out of the thirteen who crossed word, blade, and spell with the living, only three remained.
Indeed, the cocksure wizards who attacked the four companions had perhaps rotted in their mausoleum for one night sky's rotation too long. There, on the dead coast of Niwath, a once lush land, ruined by conjurers on a mad quest for immortality, were the leftovers of their order entombed.
“That sick-wind of yours has no bite!” - Snarled the dwarf, and positioned himself to help the tired beyond measure sorceress.
“Moreover, thine songs of despair hath grown dull with age.” - the knight agreed with his companion, and another swift attack later, deprived one more mage of his unjustly prolonged existence.
Had they eyes in their moldy skulls, the last two wizards would gaze upon the Four with pure terror. Not spouting curses or confident threats, they attempted to do the only sensible thing any adversary, even those who breath not would commit to – retreat.
“We must not let them escape or they will warn their master!” - warned the sorceress, when the dwarf helped her up on her feet.
Grinning from knife-ear to knife-ear, Elf raised his axe and sang:
“The breath of others – thou shan't leech. Love's gentle whisper – thou shan't ever silence! In Vayila's name, I condemn thee to fire.”
The slaves of fear ran until they couldn't.
Funnels of green and red flames rose from the camp fire. Like giant hands, what was once growth reached forth and smote their ruin upon the forest floor. Smoldered they did, surrounded by leaf, grass, and shrub, the odd critter still on the look for nuts and berries ogling their remains with glee. Instinctively, the forest inhabitants knew that ash would help new life spring from the healthy soil. Growth which might provide them with berries, nuts, and shelter.
The Four had sheathed their weapons and since their weariness grew after such a battle, readied themselves for sleep. Though instead of lying down, the sorceress looked around and there was a new glint of sadness in her eyes.
“There,” - she pointed where the last two wizards smoldered - “do you see?!”
“What,” - the ranger raised a bushy eyebrow - “I see nothing Arkan kin.”
Focusing his self, the Elf imbued his gaze with Vayila's light and studied their surroundings. 'Twas just a shade he took a glimpse of, at first... and then another, and another.
“Thirteen.” - whispered the knight, his visor lifted and hand on the gemmed pommel - “I can hear their voices, but barely.”
“This... this is how they escaped my sight.” - the sorceress wept, and her voice trembled - “Bound they did the souls of innocents whom they've slain, so their decrepit cadavers were safe from Creation!”
The ranger removed one of his gloves and touched a gnarled root.
“Elden One, please, gift me with sight of the departed.” - and but a few breaths later, his jaw teetered, and eyes watered, for he could see the apparitions of thirteen women and children.
A boy no older than five summers stood before them, confused and terrified. There was a vicious wound which tore open his throat, killing him. His ghostly eyes full of immeasurable sorrow, he pleaded with the living:
“Where is mama?”
***
Dear reader, if you liked this story, you might enjoy my published work.
Everyone of these brave souls are going to prevail not mater the foe. But what a terrible foe to use a child. What a great episode to take into my dreams.
Oof. Gut punch at the end. Nicely written.