R. Salvatore - Echoes of the Fourth Magic

“Go then, now,” Sylvia instructed the maiden. “Find our brothers and sisters in the mountains and tell them not to forget us or the noble cause we undertook that they might live freely.”

The maiden began to weep.

“Be at ease,” Sylvia assured her. “Take comfort the knowledge that all who died here this morn accepted their fate willingly.

“Any who wish to leave may go now,” Sylvia said to all the others on the ledge. “Those of us who remain behind shall pass no judgment upon you, and of you, all we shall ask is that you do not forget us.”

But the elves truly believed in their cause, and the maiden Arien had appointed as messenger departed alone.

Backed into a corner, the elves fought with unbelievable fury and many Calvans were cut down. Fahwayn rang again and again, and soon the Calvan troops backed away whenever Arien-Deathbringer, they called him-moved toward them.

Amidst all the confusion, the white mare reared up on her hind legs over Del’s body and shrieked an unearthly howl that scraped the marrow of even the sturdiest warriors, and from that moment neither man nor elf dared approach her or the man she protected.

Still more Calvan warriors fell, but fatigue and sheer numbers played more and more against the elves as the minutes of unrelenting battle passed. Fresh Calvans pressed in on their weary foes, and elven blood mixed with the blood of the humans on the scarred grass of Mountaingate, and elven screams of pain and death soon rivaled those of the Calvans.

The archers on the ledge had little to offer their brothers on the field now, and Arien recognized that the battle neared an abrupt end. The Calvans continued to avoid him wherever they could, allowing him virtually free movement on the field, and that maneuverability offered him one desperate flicker of hope. Back toward the far end of the field sat Ungden, surrounded by two seemingly impregnable rings of guardsmen. With Thalasi gone, and Mitchell and Reinheiser out of the battle, only the fear of the Overlord’s wrath kept many of the Calvan soldiers committed to the fight.

Nearly blind with rage, Arien bolted at the Usurper and was promptly intercepted by two of Ungden’s outer defensive line. And behind them, two others from the inner ring stood at the ready should Arien, against all odds, force his way through. The remaining elite guardsmen held their posts, alert for any further attempts.

Fury drove all the weariness from Arien’s muscles and his sword work was nothing short of magnificent. Yet these were the Warders of the White Walls that he faced, the finest warriors that Calva had to offer, and though none of them could have withstood his assault alone, two proved more than his equal. Every time he launched Fahwayn into a deadly thrust at one of his opponents, a well-aimed counter by the other forced him to retreat and parry. As the Warders grew accustomed to the feints and dodges of the Eldar, they had little trouble keeping him almost exclusively on the defensive.

Before long the frustration of his ineffectiveness tempered the rage that had given Arien strength. He was tiring now, and making mistakes that he knew would eventually cost him his life.

He lunged desperately, but the flashing speed wasn’t there, and his intended target deflected Fahwayn aside while the other Warder drove his sword at the opening in Arien’s defenses. The Eldar felt the cold tip bite at his chest and he recoiled instinctively, though he knew it was too late.

Yet he still lived.

Blood trickled from a wound just below his breast, but the sword did not puncture him deeply, as if something had stayed the Warder’s hand. With Fahwayn now on guard before him, Arien studied his opponents, and saw respect in their eyes rather than blood lust. “You could have finished me,” he said to the Warder.

“Nay, you were the quicker,” came the reply.

“You had me dead,” Arien insisted. “Yet you held. You have no heart for this fight.”

In rebuttal, the Warder swung mightily, Arien easily deflecting the blow. “I’ll have the Usurper’s worthless head!” the elf-lord proclaimed.

“That we cannot allow,” the Warder said, but his voice was unconvincing and Arien took confidence in his beliefs that the Warders held Ungden in contempt.

Then a horn blew, and so clear and strong was its note that for a moment the fighting stopped and all heads turned toward Avalon. There, at the edge of the field by the magical wood, hovered Calamus, winged lord of horses, and atop him, dressed in shining mail, sat Belexus, an ivory horn pressed to his lips and a huge sword raised triumphantly. Below him, emerging from the wood, straight-backed and proud on mighty steeds, came the Rangers of Avalon, swords bared and faces grim.

Barely two score strong, yet preceded by a whispered reputation of ferocity that was the meat of valorous tales throughout the taverns of all Aielle, they struck a chord of fear in the hearts of Calvan and Illuman alike.

For neither side understood the purpose that brought the rangers to the field of battle this morn, or could guess whose cause this legendary order would champion.

“What crimes huv ye done by the Children o’ the Moon?” Belexus cried, answering that question immediately. “Ware me sword, Ungden. Throne-stealing murderer, now ye get yer due!” And on came the rangers.

Calamus, soaring on mighty wings, quickly outdistanced the other horses, and from his high vantage point, Belexus spotted Arien and understood at once the elf-lord’s desperate attempt.

They shared much, these two warriors who had never met. Akin and unrivaled in their battle prowess, adhering to a common code of morality and justice that would not tolerate one such as Ungden the Usurper, elf-lord and ranger prince realized immediately an empathetic bond.

Even as he noticed several of the Warders closest to Ungden pull long glaives off their mounts to protect against an assault from the air, Arien knew without doubt what action the mighty ranger would take.

Timing would be the key.

Bearing down on the Overlord of Pallendara, Belexus shared Arien’s fire, blood coursing hot with rage through his veins.

Arien moved sluggishly now, intentionally tempering the pace of his fight to dull the edge of his foes’ wariness. He had no margin for error; there would be no second chance.

A fleeting shadow passed as Calamus swooped, and as Arien had hoped, it caused a slight distraction in the eyes of his opponents.

The flashing speed returned to the Eldar’s sword arm. Fahwayn razored across the chest of one Warder, and with a subtle twist of his wrist, Arien continued the same motion of the blade and drove its point under the breastplate of the other. He finished neither move, having not the time nor the will to kill either of his worthy adversaries. But still his attack proved successful, with both Warders falling back to avoid Fahwayn’s fell cut, stumbling aside and leaving the path to Ungden cleared before Arien.

For Belexus now executed his role in the assault. He had started, predictably, toward Ungden, bringing up a wall of pole arms. But then he swerved Calamus aside, and as Arien cracked through the first line, drawing the attention of the two Warders of the second ring, Belexus dove upon them.

A battering ram of flesh and muscle, the ranger and his winged steed smashed into the first rider and drove him and his mount into the second and beyond. Belexus had played his part perfectly, and the demon in his blood was placated when he felt the rush of air as Arien charged through the gap behind him.

Desperately, the Warders closest to the Usurper tried to swing their cumbersome weapons about. But to their horror, Arien was already beyond them, and for that moment it seemed to the Eldar and to the Usurper that they were the only two people on the field. All other sights diminished to meaningless blurs by singular, all-consuming emotions: the anger in Arien, and the terror in Ungden.