by Robert Day
Yet it was the thought of the others who remained behind to continue the legacy of his people and to spread word of this threat, which kept his strides from faltering. For them he would fight and strive for victory. He knew in his heart, however, he would not see another sunrise over his beloved land, nor admire his people as they dwelt under the shifting hands of time. He would fight with vengeance in his mind, knowing for every Shadowspawn to fall to his sword, the spirit of his son would cry out with joy.
He had visited the glade on few occasions as a youth, most in the company of Llewellyn. He had been saddened beyond words at the death of his lifelong friend, for despite what had happened between the two, he still viewed the Wind Dancer come bard as his closest friend, and would have wanted none other to be at his side this day, fighting a battle that would be told and retold in song and verse for as long as men survived to remember it.
A subtle darkening of the surroundings visually indicated a closeness to the glade, but it was the feeling of evil Solantholas felt to his very soul that told him they were close. He had never witnessed such a feeling of terror or chilled reality, and wondered how the others behind him were coping. He guessed that while ever he stood before them, they would follow in his steps. Pride filled him at the revelation, but it turned quickly to foreboding as he led them closer to the glade, and death.
The several hundred Elves made little sound approaching the glade, despite the finely wrought mail armor they wore and the heavy arsenal of weapons they carried. Demons were not like other creatures, however, and like the Elves, they sensed their enemy before they saw them, and even before the glade came into sight, dark forms erupted from the foliage to engage them.
It was a simple plan of attack for Solantholas and the Elves. Surrounding the core of the Druids, the warriors would fight their way to the Portal where the Druids would try to disable or destroy the Portal. From there, it was a matter of survival, but the most important part would be the Portal.
The surprise the Elves felt at the sight of the Shadowspawn passed quickly as they came together with cries of battle and defiance. Three generations of Elves had passed since the War of the Storm that marked the last uprising of the Demons, but the tales were heard still and the knowledge of Demon kind was still fresh in their minds.
Solantholas weaved a dance of bloody destruction through the horde of demons. He had left his sword, translated as ‘Light Talon’ from the ancient Elvin language, with his wife so it would not be lost if they were to fail in their Endeavour, but the Sar Al’katar he carried was an ancient weapon crafted by the greatest of the Elvin smiths in the Second Age, and it was more than a simple blade. Elvin steel formed its make up, but magic of strength and power imbued it with the ability to cut through the unnatural protective hide and exoskeletons of Demons, as a normal blade would flesh and bone.
Yet he had never named it.
A tall, feline headed demon recoiled and fell with a scream as he cleaved one of its legs off at the thigh, then spun and simultaneously kicked and thrust at another slender demon, this one appearing no more than a silhouette in the dim light, but the Al’katar took it in the chest, and with a twist, Solantholas ripped half of its ribs apart to free the blade.
Biter?
He parried a flurry of dark blades with foudroyant twists of the light blade as the Demons closed on him, sensing his power. All types of demon would challenge the Elf King this day, though he wished to be fighting against the greater Demons. With two double handed cuts, both high to low, two bulky Demons reeled back and fell, torsos split with the razor fine sharpness of the blade from shoulder to hip.
Cutter?
More dark blades poked and cut at him, seeming to come from everywhere at once, but where a lesser warrior would have perished, Solantholas exalted, knowing the more the Demons concentrated on him, the better chance the others would have to reach the Portal. Already the large group of warrior protected Druids was forcing their way towards the glade, their sheer weight of numbers driving the Demons back. Occasional magical energies sprang from the Druids, but they conserved their energy for the Portal as planned.
A whirlwind attack forced the demons from him momentarily, leaving two more downed and another minus an arm, but they were quick to close back on him. He may have been driven by fury and the desire for revenge, but Solantholas was not altogether without reason. He could see the weight of numbers would eventually overcome him, and he could not afford to let himself die against these lesser minions. He could feel a greater darkness within the glade, and knew at least one greater demon was waiting, which would spell disaster for the Druids. Pools of fighting were taking place around him, and he knew he must regroup his men and take the fight to the Demons to have any level of success.
“To me, children of the Sylvaen. Rally to me!”
Even over the din of the battle, all Elvin ears heard Solantholas’ command, and the knowledge their King was still alive and fighting gave the Elves a boost of hope and vigor. Trained as they were, all began to fight their way towards the Elf King, who had taken up a song to both inspire his troops and assist them in finding him.
“The trees, our home, we serve and live,”
Solantholas hacked at two more demons, one panther like with an exoskeleton hide, and another feline headed humanoid, moving constantly to keep the demons on the back foot and to make himself harder to strike.
“The Sylvaen we are, in life we give,”
Feeding from the words of his song and the response of his warriors around him, Solantholas inadvertently found a keener sense of kenja, and the Demons around him suffered for it. Faster and faster he moved, his strikes flowing from one to the other and from cut to parry with the rapidity of raindrops buffeting the ground during a storm. Relentless he became, master of his every thought and action, and where before the demons surrounded him sensing his power, now only those of considerable might gave challenge.
“For Lloreander our home, fair and true,”
Slowly, other Elvin voices joined with his as the forest came alive with song, drowning out the groans and screams of the dying and the howls and cries of the demons. Like a lantern flickering to life in the darkest cavern, the song seemed to strike fear at the demons, who began to hesitate in their attacks, which did not come as fast or as furious as before.
“We fight and sing, our love to you.”
First one, then others joined Solantholas, and with a trail of death behind them, the Elves surrounded their King, who took the moment’s respite to rest and take stock of the battle. Still the demons surrounded them, several deep, their numbers like grains of sand on the beach, repulsing the ocean’s every strike, but he knew now they were in with a chance to make the glade. Shouting a command, he pushed to the fore of the group and took up the song again.
Before the new formed group had even gotten close to the glade, the even mightier din of combat from there overwhelmed their own. Great roars and howls from what could only be demonic beings tore through the fading afternoon air, while explosive sounds accompanied the earth shaking explosions of magical attacks, which lit up the dark glade through the thick foliage.
This prompted Solantholas to grow more daring in their advance towards the glade. There the main fighting was taking place, and there the Druids would need all the protection he and his followers could provide.
The scene inside the Glade was one of mayhem, though it took Solantholas only a moment to focus as the demons before him gave way once inside the glade. Several hundred yards in diameter, the oval shaped glade was shaded from the setting sun by a canopy of branches high overhead. In the very center of the clearing, a smooth rock formation projected from the trampled ground, pale red in color but flecked with what looked to be crystal or quartz. It rose like a spear tip, wide but not deep and thirty feet high at its peak. Set into the south facing side was a dark Portal, its non reflective sable surface seeming to ebb with malevolence.
Demons littered the glade like insects ar
ound a cesspool. Most were lesser demons, though some greater Demons filtered like generals through the vast horde, which outnumbered the Elves by at least two to one, yet as soon as Solantholas entered the glade, he really had eyes on only one thing.
Hammagor.
The great stone skinned Gigantor battled at the very base of the rocky outcrop, its twenty foot shape hulking over the Elves and lesser Demons below. A core of Druids was positioned inside a three deep circle of warriors, but the greater number of incessant demons was harassing the line. The lesser demons as a rule were not magically inclined, but the greater Demons, the Soul Seeker and Dagazah especially, were capable of the most dark and destructive magic, which they used with seemingly wanton abandon at the wedge of Elves. If not for the inherent Elvin resistance to magic and the magical items many more for augmented protection and abilities, there would have been little chance of combating even the greater demons.
But that still left Hammagor, the Lord of the Gigantor towering over the mightiest of the Greater Demons. It did not employ its modest magical attacks, preferring its uniquely evil and destructive weapons; the lightning lance and saber. Both weapons hummed with magical energy, as they cut through warrior and Druid alike. Occasionally it howled with fury and minor pain as a magical bolt of lightning or ball of fire struck it, but nothing seemed to deter it, least of all the futile attacks of the Bladesingers, which more often than not careened off the creature’s protective skin.
A rage and determination built in Solantholas at the sight, and with calculating purpose he struck out towards the Demon Lord, casting aside any demon that closed on him with the barest of diversion. Many seemed to sense his purpose, and rather than deter him, chose to leave him to face their master. He expected most were fearful of him, but also knew some of the smarter Demons knew that if they attacked him, their master might take it as a plan to grow more powerful than he, something the Demon Lord would act upon with deadly force. Subtlety was not a common Demon trait, nor was obeisance, however, which still saw several Demons attack him with the purpose of drawing in his considerable essence, and thus growing far more powerful in the eyes of Demon kind.
The Gigantor sensed the Elf King’s approach long before Solantholas had closed within striking range, and it was with a face twisted in rage that Hammagor first looked upon his most ancient of enemies. The Demon Lord casually tossed aside two torn pieces of what had been an Elvin body. In the blink of an eye, one hand hefted the great lance, which coruscated with dark energy, while in the other appeared the huge saber previously unused at his side.
“You pathetic creature. I will feast upon your soul, and then destroy all you have so carefully created. The time of the great sleep will forever be beyond your grasp!”
Solantholas growled at the Demon’s words, only slightly surprised the creature had knowledge of what Elves called death, referred to as the Eternal Sleep. It was a sacred thing, whereby only those Elves whose deaths were as a result of natural means were transferred; such was the desire of the gods. Solantholas had long since forsaken such an end for himself, however, and with a piercing battle cry, leaped to attack.
To outward appearances, any who saw the struggle between the twenty foot Demon Lord and the seven foot tall Elf would have expected the Elvin King to be crushed within moments, but Solantholas was not without skill and power of his own. Combined with the vivid memory of his recently deceased son, Kalandar, the first blood went to him as he sidestepped the initial throw of the Demon’s lance, feeling more than seeing it sizzle past his right shoulder, then he was leaping past a mighty chop of the great saber with a launching thrust at the Demon’s sternum. His ancient blade dug deep where others of lesser quality and might had failed, and when he landed after kicking away from the demon, he wore a mocking smile at the deep gash that oozed viscous dark blood down the demon’s stomach and thighs.
Yet not even then did Hammagor think this insignificant Elf could beat him, even injured as he was and fatigued after such a lengthy flight that had all but drained his magical ability. He had fed on several Elves, using their essence to sustain and revitalize himself, and he was more than confident he could defeat this Elvin Lord.
Hit and move became Solantholas’ tactic as he rounded on the demon for a second pass. He knew just one blow from the mighty denizen of the voids could be enough to kill him, so he gave all of his thoughts to staying away from the pulsing lance and saber. Many of his attacks involved leaping up to get a better probability of scoring a painful wound on the Demon, so the timing of his attacks had to be even more accurate, as they were for the first few strikes, but it was only a matter of time before he faltered or the demon scored a lucky hit.
As it did as he feinted a darting attack between its legs, but rather than throw with its lance as it had previously, the Demon Lord retained its grip and brought the weapon down, straight at Solantholas. As fast as he was, the Elf king felt the armor protecting his back buckle before a searing pain racked his body, both from the cut and the shock of the arcane weapon that sent his nerves tingling. Such a strike might have stunned or paralyzed a lesser figure, but the Elf King was resolute in his action. He rolled beneath a sweeping blow from the saber, which was no more than a precautionary attack, with the Demon expecting the first feinted attack to have impaled the Elf.
Solantholas’ sword thrust upwards as he finished his roll beneath the huge saber. Though not designed for piercing, the slightly curved sword still penetrated deep into the Demon, screeching through its rock like skin with a spray of sparks.
Hammagor howled in pain and fury at the wound. Never had he expected such hurt from an Elf, such was his arrogance, and with a sweep of his hand as it released his lance, he swiped at Solantholas, catching the Elf King fully in the chest and sweeping him through the air several paces before he landed heavily against the unmoving carcass of some other demon.
Rising with a groan and a wary glance to see if any other Demons were nearby, Solantholas turned back towards Hammagor, as the great Demon reached down to pull free the sword lodged in its stomach.
Its great roar of pain turned many heads then, despite the frantic battle, but few kept their attention on him long enough to see him hurl the weapon away into the forest with a growl and turn to face Solantholas again, who was forced to retrieve a discarded blade from nearby, where an Elvin warrior lay twisted in death, face and chest rent from some demon’s claws. The weapon was an Al’katar, but he doubted it would have the qualities that would allow him to hurt the Demon.
With another cry, Hammagor started towards Solantholas, just as Solantholas bellowed another cry and charged the Demon Lord. It was a desperate charge, for he knew he could not hope to defeat the demon unless he was able to score a critical hit, so he planned to leap as high as he could to get near its face or throat.
But that was before he saw Hammagor was making for his discarded lance as he charged, obviously meaning to use the piercing weapon rather than the great saber that had returned to the demon’s side. Hastily changing his plan at the new predicament, Solantholas redoubled his efforts as he charged the Demon. As he had hoped, his extra pace allowed him to reach the lance before the Demon, whose arm was outstretched to grasp the slender weapon as it protruded from the ground where the demon had thrust it while wounding Solantholas previously.
A great leap saw him sail through the air with no concern for his safety. Using his new found sword as a brace, he grasped the hilt and blade to strike across the lance, hoping his leap carried with it enough force to shift the great weapon. Fortunately, the lance had not dug deep into the soft ground, and Solantholas’ momentum allowed him to knock the lance forward.
Right past the groping hand of the demon.
He felt a pain in his left hand but discarded it as he rode the shocking lance as it dipped. Pointed at both ends, its tip dropped sharply to the level of the Demon’s chest as it continued its charge, not recognizing Solantholas’ attack for what it was until the last moment.
Bellowing a furious howl, which turned to one of intense agony, Hammagor impaled himself upon the tip of his own weapon, which flexed and broke after digging a great furrow in the ground. The force of both the Demon’s charge and the shattering weapon threw Solantholas like a doll backwards again. Pain erupted from his side and then his back as he landed. He watched as the great form of Hammagor faltered, staggering to reach him even as its life force receded, and with a grin turned grimace, Solantholas watched as Hammagor stumbled and fell, the tip of its weapon protruding from its back, stained with dark blood.
Trying to rise, Solantholas wondered why his legs would not respond until he looked down to find his torso severely twisted where he had landed. Shards of the dark lance had gouged large wounds out of his side and stomach, a virtual river of blood ebbing from them. The sword he had picked up and used as a brace against the lance had also penetrated his left side, so deep he could have felt it scraping against his spine had he still had feeling. The pain in his upper body was dull though still all pervading, so he knew without seeing his injuries that he was dying. It was more than a little ironic both he and the Demon Lord had been fatally wounded by their own weapons, but still he could not resist a wan smile at the end result.
With a whispered prayer to whatever gods that might be listening, Solantholas, King of the Elves and Guardian of the Sylvaen, Blademaster and teacher, gave a final piercing cry before the final vestiges of life faded from him, so sharp and clear that all of the Elves still alive heard it, and despite the grim reality the cry brought to them, each gave a smile and knew the day would be won, as the words “For Lloreander!” echoed through the trees.
