The League of Iron assembles
An age of lost songs
Index:
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
Episode 16 - Shadows in the Fog
Episode 18 - Kingdom of hunger
Episode 22 - A mirror sanguine
Wholesome growth.
It was fall, yet there were many, lively critters scurrying about their business. Birds were nesting, their oft-tired chirping accompanied by the squeak of rodents, who readied their tiny holes for winter’s inevitable frosty embrace. Small shrubs and mighty trees had recently been picked clean of fruit and nuts. The nourishment which these generous plants grew out of the goodness of their branches, for walking and flying forest denizen alike, slept in hidden hollows or cozy earthen holes.
Though sparse in places, thanks to careful forestry, these woods were indeed ancient. Not only was this patch of land left to flourish and the game to multiply, but dwarven rangers had been planting an odd sacred tree here and there for over fifteen generations. In the warm shadow of one Elden trunk, whose gnarled, gargantuan roots spread for hundreds of paces in search of water, there was an even older campsite.
Blocks of petrified wood, mayhap thousands of years old, were used by ancient elven builders to construct a tower of sorts. Once looming over the two hundred paces tall Elden tree, in this age, only a three-pace-high wall remained. Around it lay the remnants of this once marvelous tower; crumpled stone, rusting glow-steel, and weeping glass.
Remains of the long-lost Neldaeir culture, doomed to be nigh forgotten, used as mere building material for the poorly constructed halfling huts of today. The dwarven rangers of this age wept as they told tales of the ancient days to their elven friends, who, drunk on fermented reindeer milk, sang the half-preserved songs of their glorious ancestors.
Yet, the four colorful characters who sat around a roaring campfire, throwing green sparkles thought not of olden times, for those who sent them here were about to face a quagmire most worrisome.
Though it was apparent they had not known each other for long, they were having a friendly chat. Indeed, to an uneducated observer, these people of different cultures and races should’ve been, at the very least, suspicious of each other, and at worst, trading blade or spell. However, in the lands of Alkiorn there existed an ancient pact of friendship between noble Humans, elder Dwarves, the Arkan, and the industrious Elves.
Gazing at the flames, the four passed around an overly long glass bottle labeled “Morderkeih’s Spittle.” Each took at least one hearty glug, visible enjoyment plastered all over their otherwise weary faces. The leftover game and forest vegetable stew softly bubbled in one ornate copper cauldron at the fireplace’s edge. Its hearty aroma was swift to join the alcohol and together, the two aimed to lift the four’s spirits.
A noble brown-eyed Dwarven ranger, clad in a futuristic and rather comfortable (from the looks of it) suit of brigandine armor, sat on his folded cloak. The latter had to be of ancient craft, for it soon became nearly indistinguishable from the leaf-covered earth. Though visibly calm, the forester kept his all-metal bow at arms reach. A handful of thick, heavy-looking arrows, restlessly awaited their chance to fly and stab an enemy.
He would slowly comb his dark-blond beard with one rather old, hand-carved wooden comb; nod or murmur something in his tongue, agreeing with what his companions said. Indeed, that Dwarf had the looks of a seasoned ranger since the sheath of his wide-bladed shortsword was beautified with six ceremonial brands of female hair. Each of these meant one successful battle and ten enemies slain...
Next to him sat a hauntingly beautiful Arkan kin sorceress, at least seven elbows tall. The ends of her waist long, jet-black hair, oft brushed at the forester’s broad shoulder when another gust of fall wind rampaged through their camp. Shaped by rigorous training, the young woman’s body was protected by a set of rather plain-looking, yet quite magickal, blackish cloth armor.
Again, at arm’s reach, nearby lay her weapon of choice – a spear with a razor sharp, long tip, shielded from the elements by an elaborate, wooden sheath. There was sadness in her fair gray eyes, and while she did freely converse with the others, one could feel this was a well-practiced courtly manner rather than her natural self.
From time to time, the three men witnessed a magickal emanation. Manifesting in the form of diminutive blue flames, these shrouded her hair and made it look even more haunting to behold. Nervously, she would touch her antique bronze-forged bracelet and the innumerable sparks of creation magick vanished as swiftly as they appeared.
Emanating gravitas, the hulkish Elven clergyman sat beside the sorceress and oft threw her long, concerned looks. At one time he even muttered a protection prayer under his nose, two fingers reverently placed around his heart. On second look, there was a circular amulet safely tucked underneath his armor; a simple, yet sturdy metal chain around the Elf’s neck.
One full elbow taller than her, the green eyed brunette was of impressive stature, which betrayed long years of arduous training. Broad shouldered, his chest and legs were thick with muscles, though not as tremendous as the Dwarf’s, and would make him stand out in any Elven crowd.
His heavy chainmail, reinforced with masterfully crafted metal plates, protected his legs to the knees. He’d removed his conical helm, gleaming on the firelight, and was polishing its armored mask with an oiled rag. Ancient, this piece of armor was forged from glow-steel and soaked up most of the hearty, yellowish green light, which their campfire generously gifted them.
The priest had almost hugged his long-shafted, bearded axe. His impressive axe’s head, blade, and spike alike, was covered with a thick leather sheath. Encased in metal, the long shaft sported multiple dints and nicks, signs of battle most brutal. As if this two handed axe wasn’t enough to turn him into the terror of any battlefield, the towering warrior packed a bulky crossbow. Fitted with a windlass mechanism, this monstrous thing shot bolts as thick as the Dwarf’s and, probably, at the same, impressive range.
Though overly big for an Elf, the clergyman was dwarfed by the bulky Human man, clad in painted jet-black, full plate armor. A full ten elbows tall, the swordsman lifted his helmet’s visor up, and gave his surroundings a curious look from time to time. Eyes a shade of dark-blue, the knight’s rebellious silvery quiff fluttered in the night wind.
With noble, aquiline nose, and graceful, thin lips, this man of monstrous bulk would garner the immediate attention of all the court ladies in any kingdom on the face of Alkiorn. If not his ghost white skin, then the assortment of scars which he wore like medals on his face could cause a literal war of plots and duels between the aforementioned ladies...
Armored body partially covered by a hooded, dark-blue traveler’s coat, he’d removed his knightly belt. The metal sheath of his longsword, engraved with silver filigree, rested in his left hand, angled, so that if the man need draw, he’d do so with practiced ease. This sword was of masterful design, its wide crossguard and ruby encrusted pommel balanced the long glow-steel blade to utmost perfection.
The knightly warrior carried no other arms, at least none which his companions could see. His belt was of blue colored leather, thick and much used, though well-oiled and maintained just like his suit of armor. Covered in dints and scratches, it was most definitely not the suit one would wear to prance around cozy dancing halls. Indeed, the black paint did look a bit strange and, when graced by starlight, it gradually revealed a mesh of interwoven silvery lines underneath.
While the Arkan kin sorceress wore her sadness plain for all to see, the knight masterfully hid his emotion.
“I suspected that our enemy would remain asleep forever... not.” – The knightly warrior’s deep voice carried well-concealed somberness, heartfelt in his every word – “In this age of lost songs, we, the League of Iron, are to face yet another Thulm incursion.”
“Indeed,” – nodded the noble dwarf, as his hand pointed northward – “and this time, we won’t simply react, but bring the gifts of war to our foe’s doorstep. I am ready to guide you safely inside this bastion of woe, Zhul City!”
“And I will make it so that the flesh witches of Thulm can not sink their foul magicks into our minds. When we face their masters in battle, leave the hags to me!” – Confident, and her irises aglow with blueish arcane, the sorceress stated.
“Since olden times, we Elves have never left the people of Alkiorn to fend the accursed ones alone. By word and prayer, I am here to bestow you the blessings of Vayila, goddess of peace, and guardian of love eternal.” – The Elf announced with his thick baritone.
“The Thulm host needn’t face our kin and spill their lifeblood if we succeed in our quest. Four may not hold a horde of bone raiders at bay, yet we most definitely could slay their Overlord!” – Concluded the knight, shaking his armored fist at said Overlord and his minions.
The four all said their piece, and, bodies tired from swift travel, expected a restful night before their quest began in earnest on the morrow. However, this want of theirs was not to be, for someone aimed to deny, derail their life-saving mission even before it started.
Without delay the noble ranger warned his companions of imminent, deathly danger. In seconds the four stood with their backs to the fire, weapons drawn, as thirteen otherwise innocuous-looking things transmogrified themselves into wretched to behold, armored figures.
Still wearing their once elaborately embroidered robes, cloaks, and hooded capes, these scions of doom looked like recently exhumed cadavers. Their moldy remains bound for the mouths of worms or larvae and not infesting the world of the living. Swords, axes, and maces arcing with reddish lighting, these magick wielding foes surrounded the four.
“How?!” – lamented the sorceress, her voice betraying her astonishment – “Your filthy kind cannot possibly hide from the force of creation!”
“You shall find us full of surprises, She-Arkan.” – Grumbled one of the skulking figures as her companions leered, and their foul aura spread around, slowly murdering everything, be it plant or animal.
“Far from being scared by this putrid display, oh decrepit wizards of the Veil,” – stated the elf with chill in his voice, long axe raised high, a glowing gold dome of holy energy emanating from his body – “I would very much like to know... how you escaped that coastal mausoleum of yours!?”
“No longer prisoners of the Neldaeiri we are!” – roared another wizard, his sword aimed at the knight – “At the Red Hag’s behest, one who wields the most powerful magicks in the land, we bring you sick-wind and sing the song of despair!”
“Powerful magicks?! ‘Twas a most bold statement which I will soon test the validity of, vile underlings of Thulm.” – promised the sorceress shaking her spear in the air, her entire body shining with blue light.
“Hath yee dreamt of slaying one wrought by despondency Neldaeiri,” – the knight stood calm; visor lowered, and longsword unsheathed, one armored hand held its gemmed pommel and the other, gripped the handle near its guard – “or any ally of mine... clearly... thou hath become mad.”
“Our knight speaks true!” – shouted the dwarven ranger, one of his heavy arrows already nocked and he, ready to let it loose – “I should warn thee accursed ones, these arrows of mine are all tipped in the lifeblood of the Elden trees!”
Though his warning may have caused the pestilence spreading wizards some discomfort, they were rather swift to overcome it. Words of power upon their rotting lips and writing glowing runes in the air with their bony fingers, the thirteen were soon to attack.
***
Dear reader, if you liked this story, you might enjoy my published work.
"at least seven elbows tall" - world-centric units of measurement always stick out to me. Whenever I'm writing and decide to fall back on imperial/metric units in my own fantasy worlds, it feels like a cop-out; on the other hand, coming up with alternatives requires brain work which (i think) goes underappreciated. "Elbows" is a great way to describe height, especially from the perspective of a dwarf.
Extraordinary writing. Strange, but I wrote a story of a Black Knight in my Star Child series. But who would dare to ban you from posting notes, commenting on other's posts or restacking? They have feudal thoughts, do they not? ***