Three days later, within the depths of the eastern wilds...
“Clumsy cretins,” Leth’tharnian hissed, whilst astride his large, beautiful silver-white mare, Ishshá. The horse was a parting gift from his mother. With a pedigree almost as illustrious as his own, she was bred solely for his use, and he guarded her dearly.
“Tell me, Er’rindel. Why are these humans such brainless, graceless creatures?” he asked, his eyes locked to the fools floundering in the muck.
The captain of his guard: Er’rindel Vil’fráth, riding at his side, spoke up, “Apologies, My lord. Given the haste of our departure, the commanders were not afforded the time needed to instill the necessary discipline required in such a force...”
Leth’tharnian tisked. At first, it was entertaining watching them trip and scramble to find their feet. But now? Now it only added to his building annoyance, as each time they tripped, slipped, or stumbled, he was forced to resist the ever-present urge to unleash an incinerating blast down onto those too stupid to lift their feet.
Simmering in his own frustrations, Leth’tharnian shook his head.
For three days he had endured the incessant, rhythmic clanking of plate; his mood worsening with every tired grunt, every stomp of boot. His glorious army had become a sprawling, mud-caked serpent of iron, ever so slowly carving its way through the miserable, rotten expanse that was the eastern wilds.
The humans, making up the bulk of his army—conscripts and mercenaries alike—were no longer such a pleasant sight as they trudged through the thick litter; their gaunt, sweaty faces—their only protest against the march. To them, it was an arduous slog through rough terrain; to Leth’tharnian, it was but a nuisance, a nuisance that continued to test what limited patience he had left.
Sneering, and trailed by his twenty-one personal guards, Leth’tharnian rode by said cretins, catching a whiff of them as he passed. The humans stank of wet death, and his face scrunched in disgust as he reeled back from such filth.
Pinching his nose, he turned to his silent companion. “Euhh, they are positively disgusting, aren’t they?”
“Aye, my lord. The taint’s rot has sunk deep into these lands... It’s even tainted the very mud of the earth...”
“That wasn’t... Ah, whatever...” He scoffed. “I swear, Er’rindel, I’ll see these lands cleansed of such filth.”
“Of course, my lord.”
Leth’tharnian near chuckled at the ven’s curt reply. Though fiercely loyal, the Vil’fráth were such a drab, uninteresting lot. They spoke as if every word they uttered somehow cost them a full dozen flaks in its uttering.
“Erhh, Er’rindel, I’ve had enough of this,” he said, throwing his reins to the captain. “Look after Ishshá for me.”
Then, frustrated and unable to tolerate the constant assault on his senses, he magically tethered himself to Er’rindel’s destrier, and used his considerable power to levitate up—high above the mire, seeking an escape from the filth that festered below.
As Leth’tharnian climbed, he observed the slithering column as it snaked through the hills and valleys of this once great land. Oh, how his chest had once swelled at the sight.
Shaking his head, he drifted higher, returning his focus to the lands surrounding the ancient broken road on which they marched. Floating there, staring out into those once-lush forests, he could not help but feel uneasy. For, from his new vantage, he could see the full devastation the corruption wrought upon the wilds.
“Truly a pitiable place, touched by naught but Sor’et-tarr’s malice,” he muttered, his heart heavy as he mourned the loss of such beauty. Floating there—so high above, he remembered how his elders had once described their fallen home.
Sadly, those gleaming spires he imagined in his youth were now little but a fading memory. A memory long eclipsed by the suffocating reality below. Those once-glorious towers, no doubt naught but blackened ruins; their majesty lost to the same foul magics that laid waste these lands. Now, there was naught but blighted, twisted forests—long choked by the stench of wet mulch and the lingering miasma of lands lost to the tide’s taint.
Feeling particularly dismal, Leth’tharian gazed up at the overcast sky. “More drizzle?”
Three days... Three days of this, and they were still so far from Leth’thindaria. Letting out a frustrated sigh, he calmed. His men had grown ragged. Their feet—once sure—were now slipping in the muck.
They were flagging and would soon need rest.
“But where to rest?” he muttered, his nose wrinkling in disgust as he breathed in the ever-present stench of decay that permeated the wastes.
Suddenly, he realized an unnatural quiet had seized the wilds. The ambient chorus of insects, that shrill buzzing that had been a constant companion to their journey, had ceased. Deeply unsettled, his sharp elven ears pricked up, searching for a sound beyond that of their march...
But all was quiet, but thirty feet out...
Propelled by magic, he shot higher and spun in the air. To his horror, he discovered that they were being surrounded by an ominous cage of gray. As if driven by a sinister, alien will, it coiled through the trees as it crept along the earth.
At this rate, it would soon see them swallowed!
“What madness is this?” he hissed, clenching his fists as he attempted to peer into the forest... into the wall of gray...
Nothing? He could see nothing...
Alarmed and suspecting ambush, Leth’tharnian raised his hand and channeled his Will into a clenched fist, letting out two staggered flashes of bright crimson light.
One to signal caution.
And a second, a second to call a halt to their march.
Moments later, two sharp blasts of a horn answered his signal, and all at once, the giant iron serpent began the arduous task of braking its momentum. Rank by rank, the vast lines of Man and Alf compressed into a single, tight, continuous mass.
Then, much like a colony of ants anticipating a coming storm, the column exploded into movement as they rushed to form formations. It became a scene ripe with chaos. Elves atop agitated destriers barked orders as banners rose and heavy infantry moved to guard the flanks.
Eventually, five men deep they stood, either side of the wagons of provisions protected at their center.
And all the while Leth’tharnian stared out into the gloom...
Uneasy, he drifted lower, till he was but two dozen feet above his personal guard. It grew quiet. ‘Too quiet,’ he thought, noticing how Ishshá stirred, as if she too could sense the sinister will alive within the fog.
“Find out what’s happening within that fog,” he barked.
Before long, his captains had rounded up a dozen unlucky ‘volunteers’ for the task. Leth’tharnian—still held aloft by magic—watched the dozen terrified men get engulfed by the clawing tendrils of eerie vapor. Staring out into the gloom, he withheld his breath and listened; listened to the heavy, suffocating stillness that had seized everything swallowed by the mist.
And there, he waited...
And waited...
The mist seemed to thicken, pressing in like a living shroud. As if ruled by some sinister cunning, it squeezed the length of the column; its cloying grip, slowly choking them of their fight.
Suddenly there was a flicker of a shadow within the depths of the swirling mist.
Something lurked within the fog...
Something fast—fast enough to escape the eyes of an elf...
Without warning, a panicked cry rang out from the vanguard.
‘One of the dispatched scouts?!’ He tried to make sense of the man’s desperate cries, but the mist—the mist devoured the sound.
Though the man’s last words were lost, the terror present in his cries was unmistakable. It cut through the silence, spreading anguish and fear through the ranks. The formations suddenly shrank, as they shuffled closer—their discipline close to crumbling under the weight of an unseen threat.
His features hardened, as his gut became a swirling mix of angry frustration and fear... For some foul beast sought to stalk them from the mist; to hunt them in the fog. And he, the golden son of Fraxous, would see it slain...
Reaching out, he began chanting the incantation for his favorite spell: ‘Beth’da-lun’s Ray Lancing Light’. Blue light bloomed from his outstretched hand as the mana wove an arcane circle into the air.
Once complete, the circle glowed white as power built.
He smiled, momentarily drunk on the vast, ruinous potential held suspended at the tips of his fingers. And there he waited—waited for his foe to show itself, so he might release such power—reducing his foe to naught but ash and ember.
Suddenly—all at once, the building silence broke as chaos erupted—not with a roar, but with the echo of a scream—a scream cut unnervingly short.
‘That came from the rear?!’
Horrified, he spun, and through a break in the trees he saw them.
All down the line, hundreds—if not thousands—of hairless, skin-stretched monstrosities erupted from the fog-strangled foliage; their elongated limbs digging deep as they charged forward with their loping, disjointed gaits.
With wide eyes he muttered, "The Grey Tide,” his arrogance fracturing under the onset of instinctual dread. Floating there, his heart hammered in his chest—bidding him flee, but before he could act, chaos bloomed amongst his forces.
The flare of mana bindings upon raised weapons was sporadic as it illuminated the line. The brave readied for the clash, whilst cowards panicked—spreading their disorder through the ranks.
Immediately, the deluge of horrors pouring forth from the shadows proved too much for most of the human conscripts fresh from the fields. Leth’tharnian was disappointed but not surprised by their fear. He too felt such fear; to face such a foe required a desperate bravery absent in but a few.
With a cacophonous crash, the fastest of the Tide met with the wall of anchored shields, and the initial thunderous collision soon gave way to the clash of steel and the screams of the frightened and the dying. Terror near consumed him as he witnessed how easily the creatures ripped through his men’s cheap leather and mud-tarnished plate.
Their claws, their teeth, sinking deep—tearing flesh from bone.
Seeing his glorious army begin to buckle under the momentum of the tide, his fear turned to rage—and he roared, releasing his readied spell into the flank of the nearest beast, the searing white ray instantly reducing it—and two of its brethren—into a flash of dying embers.
Bolstered by his success, Leth’tharnian unleashed lance after lance of brilliant white light down onto the surging tide; each ray costing him a sizable chunk of his Will in its casting. He targeted as many as he could, but despite his prodigious reserves, he felt his fire fading.
Like a fool, he had allowed his time in the air to drain him. Aware he might soon suffer the spiritually debilitating effects of depletion, he searched for answers.
‘We need more magic!’ he realized. He spun, sweeping his gaze along the chaotic column. “There!” he shouted. Naught but a few dozen strides ahead, the thirty magi in his magic unit were struggling to put down a single beast that had somehow breached their formation.
Resembling a ragged, hairless bear, the monstrous gray creature swiped at the struggling magi. Its glowing purple claws, unable to find flesh—due to the elves’ nimble steps.
‘A natural binder?’ He was surprised, though not as rare as one might imagine; he did not expect to see one of their number amongst the tide, having guessed the corruption would strip away such talents.
Floating forward, he was relieved to see none of his kin had fallen to the beast’s claws. Trained elven battle-magi were expensive to train and devastatingly useful; he would have them raining down death onto his enemies, not caught up dancing with a half-starved ursa.
Glancing down, he locked eyes with the captain of his guard. “Er’rindel,” he shouted, pointing forward. “Get me closer to those magi—NOW!”
“Aye—sir!” the tall elf answered, before turning in his saddle to face his men. “Guardsmen—with me! You heard him. Form up! And, forward!” he barked; the mighty ven—leading with the point of his sword.
As they pushed through the throng, Leth’tharnian continued releasing a torrent of magic down onto their attackers. He chanted, charged, and fired—fired as fast as his faltering will allowed; targeting anywhere the creatures were gaining the edge.
It pleased him to see his efforts weren’t in vain, as the men seemed to rally after witnessing the radiance of his light.
His men were holding.
The beasts were dying.
They were doing it.
They could win this!
It didn’t take long for the twenty mounted elves in his personal guard to force their way through the column, pulling him closer to the struggling magi. And, once confident in his aim, he charged his spell and released it, taking great pleasure in the act of blasting the troublesome creature to cinders.
“Hunff, that wasn’t so hard,” he huffed, secretly pleased by the reverence in the gaze of those staring up at him.
After taking a moment to catch his breath, he spun. “Magi! Begin your chants!” he shouted. “Cleanse our once glorious home!” It took mere seconds for the experienced battle-magi to each conjure half a dozen balls of azure, arcane fire.
Seeing them ready, Leth’tharnian grinned a savage grin and shouted his command: “FIRE!!”
With a hiss, resembling that of a hundred sharply taken breaths, the azure volley shot forth, each conjured flame spreading out as each arc targeted a separate part of the converging tide.
With a momentous ‘BOOM,’ they slammed into the earth; their raging flames blooming into hundreds of fiery white lotuses—their light enough to momentarily blind all who witnessed it; its roaring eruption—near proving enough to knock Leth’tharnian from the sky.
"Hahahaha, roast—roast you faith-forsaken wretches!" he yelled, righting himself in the air.
They had done it.
They had won!
Others joined him in his revelry, up and down the line; soldiers roared in celebration as glowing blue blades cut down what remained of their attackers. Seeing this, Leth’tharnian smiled, thrusting a single fist towards the heavens.
“Victory!!” he cried; his men joining him in raucous celebration.
His heart swelled, and once more Leth’tharnian imagined his glorious return to those gilded Halls.
But when a deep, ferocious roar answered their jubilance, all their terror returned.
For from the eerie blue flames stepped a colossal creature—stripped straight from the most horrid of nightmares. A creature—so tremendous, so horrid of visage, that its mere emergence was enough to steal away their very breath.
The monster, once a majestic black manticore, was now naught but a twisted shadow of past glories. Gone were the regal horns that once crowned its head. Gone was its magnificent black coat—once luminous enough to challenge the beauty of the night’s sky. And gone—gone was its glorious mane, its once silken regalia; the very symbol of its majesty.
In their stead, was but bloat, rot, and the swirling cloud of miasma that drifted in its wake. Where once there was a terrifying, elegant predator, now remained only a hollow, whimpering husk.
His trembling eyes drank the horror in...
Its skin was withered, its pallor—the desiccated gray of the tide. It stretched tight over the left side of its powerful frame, while along its right was a grotesque mass of bloated, bubbled gray flesh that hung heavy from its side, hindering its once noble gait as it seemed to drag itself forward.
It loomed before them; its crazed eyes challenging them—to end it, to feed it, or to join it in its torment. Stunned by the sight, Leth’tharnian mind instantly went blank, as he was unable to fathom combating such a monstrous threat.
And as the blue flames faded into a dying flicker, lesser creatures joined it at its side; some hulking, some skittering, some stretched and withered, but all radiating the same infectious decay. Swarming, they shrieked, they wailed, and they bellowed, and, like a tide of liquid bile, they surged forward; their guttural, tormented cries and the ferocity of their charge—proving enough to shake the very earth.
With a ragged breath and a pounding heart, Leth’tharnian roared, "Why are there so many? Why? Die, die—you wretched stains—DIE!!"
In a frenzy, bolt after bolt blasted forth from his fingers.
Inspired, the recovering magi joined him in his fury, swiftly releasing a second—far less potent volley—into the approaching horde. The sky cracked as the magical bombardment hit, its heat—vaporizing flesh as they screamed...
But this time, no revelry followed, for the soldiers had noticed the lacking potency in the strike, and those still guarding the flanks of the waiting column instantly buckled as they scrambled to distance themselves from the creatures’ claws.
"Hold the line!" one of his captains shouted as they prepared for a second charge. "Form circles! Spears out, and get those shields up and anchored!" With the echo of his cry, the glow of bindings returned. But this time, scant few dared to muster the Will required to conjure the bind onto their blades.
Seeing this, Leth’tharnian began to panic.
He could not allow his men to rout, but the sheer volume of the creatures would soon see them drowned in the weight of their surging mass. With his spirit drained and faltering, he knew he could not stay in the air, but what other choice did he have?
The men had rally, or all would soon be lost.
With no other option, he prepared a greater incantation. Weakly, he commenced his chant as his hands began to glow with a radiant yet lethal light. The power built as he invested everything he had left into the spell and its casting...
Suddenly—whirr-crack!
A black blur whistled past his ear; its jagged tip missing his throat by a few scant inches. The displacement of air sent him spiraling, almost snapping the tether that held him steady.
Distracted by the near miss, Leth’tharnian was forced to abandon the weave, and with a racing heart, he spun—tracing the projectile’s arc back to a distant ridge.
There, lining up along the elevated outcropping, were dozens of hulking, hedgehog-like horrors, with hundreds of javelin-like spines protruding from their backs. The creatures set their feet and arched their bodies, fiercely shaking as they built pressure as they readied to loose a second volley.
He paled, for he—and the magi behind him—were no doubt their next target!
Fear-stricken, the impending doom had shattered all delusions of grandeur. He was no guiding light. No radiant star—floating above it all. He was but a target, a target about to be pierced by a dozen-meter-long spines that would no doubt see his end.
In a panic, he sought salvation in his magic, but currently lacked the composure to conjure adequate protection. Both drained and terrified, he trembled as he attempted one last spell.
Suddenly—the invisible tether holding him steady was violently yanked—pulling him down. "My Lord!" bellowed a voice below.
Terrified, Leth’tharnian looked down. Er’rindel, the captain of his guard, was standing beneath him, frantically pulling on the tether. "Release the weave! Get out of the sky—NOW!" he roared, his voice distorted by the din of the slaughter surrounding them.
Leth’tharnian didn't hesitate; the pride he once felt floating above his army had long evaporated, replaced by a desperate—frantic urge to survive. He ceased the flow of magic holding him aloft, and gravity claimed him—as he plummeted to the earth.
Though his retainers softened his fall with their backs, he still hit the churned earth with an audible thud as he tumbled—exhausting his momentum in the muck. Finally coming to a stop, he looked a mess; his once pristine robes—now smelling of blood, mud, and the piss of frightened men.
Disoriented and drained, his world spun as he opened his eyes, finding himself face to face with a blood-soaked corpse. Its face twisted, its eyes filled with the horror of a pitiable man’s last moments before Brak’zis’s shades lay claim to his fading spark.
"Ahh, protect me!" he said, his voice shrill and hoarse as he weakly crawled from the corpse.
“Sire—take cover!!” Ignoring his panicked shrieks, his guard dove forward, frantically dragging him behind the wall of those sworn to keep him breathing.
"Shields up!” The moment Leth’tharnian was secured at their center, a volley of spines slammed into glowing elven shields—raised high to meet the barrage.
The cries of agony, the stench of blood and taint; it was all too much. His spirit was depleted; his Will consumed by a sudden onset of lethargy as the magic demanded its toll.
His will to fight, his will to live—vanished, as he lay in the muck—awaiting the nightmare’s end...
Suddenly, a strong gloved hand gripped his collar, yanking him to his feet. “Sir, your orders?!” demanded the owner of the hand. “Do we fight—or do we flee?” he said, the words a rush of panic and fear.
But...
But he found that he simply didn’t care...
He didn’t care much for anything anymore...
Normally such an offense would see the ven lose the hand, but submerged in depletion’s apathy, his mind floated in a daze as he ignored the rather rude guardsman as he looked around. No longer looking down at his army from the safety of the heavens, but staring into the tide as it rent the once mighty host asunder.
Yes, his elders had warned him. They had spoken at length on the monstrous creature that lay waste to their home. But he hadn’t listened…
For—in his arrogance, he thought them exaggerating the threat to spare their own pride.
But no. It was no twist of truth. In fact, they described a far lesser threat than the one he now observed. Standing there, the crash of steel and the screams of the dying faded into a muted din as his mind floated in a dull haze, as if he were spectating the battle from afar and not amongst it.
A battle that was no doubt lost. His army’s fate: to be reduced to an unorganized mass of fleeing men. Their greatest weapon, his magi, were no doubt slaughtered by the barrage of spines last loosed by the creatures on the hill.
From the little he could observe, it appeared the only ones holding their ground were the trained elven guards surrounding his position.
‘Huh, we’re all going to die?’ he mused, feeling oddly comforted by the thought.
‘Oh? Er’rindel?’ Still adrift, he noticed the captain’s approach.
“What are you doing—Len’deril? He’s clearly depleted; feed him a Stim!”
“Yes—sir!”
The rude ven gripped his collar and stuffed a capsule into his mouth. Holding his nose, the armored elf forced him to swallow the foul-tasting concoction.
‘Erhha, a stim. Why even bother?’ he thought. ‘We’re all going to die anyway.’
Suddenly, a pleasant heat radiated up from his gut. ‘Ooh, like summer in the belly,’ he thought, suddenly feeling rather giddy as the ingested concoction did its work.
Then, all in a surging rush, the panic, the snarls, the screams of the frightened and the dying, the metallic tang of blood he tasted in the air... It all suddenly returned, and with it, his terror.
With a warm rush of heat, his eyes snapped wide, staring into the face of the fear-stricken guardsmen. Feeling foolish, he twisted free of the elf’s grip, futilely straightening his now rather pungent robes.
Thankfully, Er’rindel stepped forward, saving him from further embarrassment. “My lord, your orders?”
He nodded. And with all the dignity Leth’tharnian could manage, he returned his focus to the battle. With his Will temporarily bolstered by the ingested tonic, he surveyed the battlefield with a far more level head. But to his dismay, he soon realized his verdict remained much the same.
Despite slaying the bulk of the attacking horde, they had no hope of winning this fight.
All was chaos: beyond the reach of his guards. The thirty highly trained protectors surrounding him had managed to gather a sizable force while holding their current position. But he knew it would all come to naught once the beasts were done wetting their teeth on easier prey.
‘But what to do?’
His eyes shot to the monstrous manticore languidly lounging on the scorched rise; its glowing purple eyes scrutinizing its lessers as they went about their grizzly work. He feared any attempt to rally would only incite the beast’s ire.
‘Must they run?’ Must he truly abandon his ambitions and slink back to those council Halls as a failure? A failure, after all he had invested in building this army. The thought itself twisted something in his gut. This was his army, his men, his gold—his reputation on the line...
Why, the thought itself was an insult.
But what else could he do?
“Sir—we need orders...”
The words snapped Leth’tharnian from his bitter musings. “We retreat—captain. We run!”
Er’rindel frowned. “But, my lord, what of the men?”
Overwhelmed by bitterness, he snapped—rounding on his friend. “They’re lost, captain! And we must run—or we too will be lost to the hunger of the tide... or worse, it’s taint.”
Ignoring the disappointment in Er’rindel’s eyes, he turned, his eyes meeting those of the surrounding guard. “We flee! NOW!” he roared.
Seeing their hesitance, he turned back to his captain. Their eyes locked, and for a brief moment he thought that the stubborn Vil’fráth was about to ignore his orders. But no, after a long, pregnant pause, he nodded.
“To the horses!” he yelled before lifting his shield over Leth’tharnian’s head.
Following their captain’s lead, the guards closed ranks around him, shielding him from all sides, as they made for what was left of the horses protected at their center.
“Er’rindel, where is Ishahá?”
“My lord, that mare had more sense than us. She bolted the first chance she got.”
“Oh...”
The Vil’fráth really were the worst of liars; his Ishahá was many things, but she—she was no coward, she would not flee...
Whilst fearing for the fate of his horse and feeling the Stims' effects fading, Leth’tharnian was forced to join the captain on his destrier. As they rode off, he looked back over his shoulder, his keen eyes meeting with those of the lounging manticore.
Staring into those glowing purple orbs, depletion’s apathy once more seized him; its numbing clarity allowing him to catch a fleeting glimpse of the fierce, alien cunning present in its eyes. It was as if the magic itself was piloting the creature, and through it—its lessers.
Normally, such a discovery would haunt him. But right now, with his head leaning against E'rindel’s back...
He simply didn’t care...
He yawned.
‘So sleepy,’ he thought, relaxing into his captain’s back as all sensation began to dull. And, without a care in the world, he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep...
“Pride, pride is naught but a blinding veil. It tricks the arrogant into believing themselves beyond the reach of consequence or the risk of error. It is a toxic vanity that insulates the soul from wisdom and humility; doing little else but inviting challenge, often leading to an inevitable, precipitous fall...”
—A wise man’s thoughts on Pride
Sor’et-tarr is the elven name for The Sleeper, the original spirit. She (for some cultures a he) has many names in different cultures and is the creator goddess who now slumbers after using all her power in ‘The making of the world’.
Len’harna is the name of the world. In elder-tongue it means the ‘World that is’. (‘harna means world or plane of existence)
Brak’zis is the Faith of death and final release. Often called ‘The King of Shades’, it is said that his shades collect souls upon death, guiding them back into Sor’et-tarr’s embrace. (He is not an evil figure; just think of the Grim Reaper but no scythe—and he’s more of a gray, wispy spirit than bone) (Some cultures associate him with winter and cold)
Vas’sa-lon is a deeply trusted warrior servant. They swear a magical oath binding them to their chosen lord's service for the rest of their lives. It is considered a great honor, and it’s very unusual for a lord to ever have more than four of such servants at a time, as they are seen as extensions of the lord they serve. (‘lon means guard or protector.)