Chapter XIX - A Gaze of Stone

Senlui · Post #1 » Sun Apr 01, 2018 12:40 pm

Marching in a narrow rank and file, the Regiment followed a gulley from the inlet towards the broken spires of the ruins of Anlec. Once the proud and impenetrable capital of old Nagarythe, the crumbling walls spoke of death and ruin and the loss of all that had been before the Sundering, thousands of years ago. Beyond the remains, great chunks of land had been wrenched away, entire fortresses and the very rock beneath them torn by powerful dark sorceries to become the Black Arks, carrying their ancestors to new lands across the Great Ocean.

There was something quite profound to stand here and gaze upon the ruins of the lands of their birthright. They loomed with defiance, hate, and vengeance just like the Druchii, and their foolish cousins that eked an existence from this blasted landscape. Ever watchful were the party for these so-called Shadow Warriors, warriors holding shields high as a precautionary measure; the less-armoured among them protected within the phalanx.

On the edge of the ruins, the larger invading army had set up a camp. Caranordor led them within, announcing their arrival to the Druchii in charge of this place, whose task it was to coordinate a siege on the ruined city, still inhabited by a small population of their weak kin who simply could not accept that the day of their defeat had already come. Vithari looked upon the city, uttering quietly, “Mighty Anlec... brought so low.”

Besides foot troops, flocks of harpies swooped from the skies, their terrifying shrieks ringing through the air, mingling with the screams of their prey who were torn to pieces by their claws, or were simply lifted high into the air before being dropped to their deaths on the rocks below.

It was apparent that the Regiment was not yet at their full strength, and the Commander thought to call rank to commandeer some mounts for them to ease their little expedition. “Regiment, we need to acquire some steeds if we want to cover more ground.”

“The authority of the Dread Sovereign rests upon your shoulders, Commander,” said Amarthandir, reminding Caranordor that he bore an Iron Writ.

With a light nod to the sorcerer, Caranordor stepped toward the Captain of this camp. “You there! We require some cold ones. We are here on the Witch King’s orders. You will obey.”

The Captain regarded the newcomers with utter contempt, then laughed. “You are, are you? If I gave my steeds up to anyone claiming to be on the Witch King’s orders, I’d have nothing left.”

Sildra ran her fingers along her staff, secretly hoping that the commander of this encampment required a lesson in competence. Amarthandir caught her gesture, and narrowed his eyes with a cunning smile, casting an illusion upon the Captain, whose eyes would now believe that it was Malekith himself standing before him. There was a moment of confusion, and the Dark Elf paled, his mouth bobbing open and closed as he tried to find his words.

“Druchii blood... Thalken blood... makes no difference if you stand in our way...” threatened Caranordor, the Captain hearing the deep and looming voice of his Dread Regent. With a salute, he cried out to his stablemaster and guards to make way for the Witch King and give him anything he desired.

“That is what I thought,” Caranordor smirked. “Good thing you did not test us further, whelp.”

The Regiment mounted up on the stinking beasts, and set forth westwards along the coast road, Caranordor throwing the Captain one last glance as the kynead thundered heavily along their way.

Leaving the ruins a small way behind them, they came across a Druchii campsite. Small tents laid out in rows for solitary soldiers bordered a larger command tent; the entry flaps fluttering in the wind. The entire site was devoid of life, its soldiers were dead. Lying scattered across the ground filled with black fletched arrows, Gretka looked on with intrigue as she noticed that some of the bodies had been mutilated. Others hung from trees, the corpses swinging from creaking ropes.

Slowing their cold ones to a halt, Caranordor assessed the situation, regarding the smashed chariots, upturned crates, and still lit campfire. Whatever had happened here, had occurred not long before their arrival. About to call out a command, he was interrupted as the whistle of arrows screamed towards them, shot from the cover of a ridge to their left. Amarthandir’s form flickered as an arrow passed through both him and the nauglir, leaving them unharmed as they solidified with the spell’s passing. Sildra cried out in pain as caught unaware, an arrow pierced her upper leg. Another struck Gretka in the shoulder, the witch elf jolting in her saddle as she felt has bloodlust rising. Slaa too was struck, feeling an arrow graze her side and tearing a line between her ribs. Drikaukal cursed under his breath as an arrow found a gap in his plate, piecing his armour near his shoulder. Reaching for the arrow, he attempted to pull it out. The shaft snapped in his hand, leaving a stump and the tip wedged painfully in his flesh. Another arrow struck Vithari, her armour slowing the projectile. Whilst it pierced the steel, the tip fell short of puncturing her flesh too deeply.

Caranordor swatted a black-fletched arrow with his fist, laughing mockingly at the thalken. In reply, another volley of arrows came in, this time, aiming for their scaly mounts. Rather than an attack to harm, this was designed to chaos havoc. The arrowheads had been replaced with small balls of some kind of tree resin, laced with cold one pheromone. The beasts roared as they fell about each other in madness, snapping at each other or swiping with tails, with no regard for the Druchii upon their backs.

Slaa found her beast rearing up wildly, and rolled to the ground, her agility serving her well as she tumbled past stomping claws and a club-like sweep of a tail, screaming to herself as the sting of her arrow-wound reminded her of its presence. Vithari leaped from her beast, turning her glaive towards it. The stupid creature roared at her, before turning on its tail and running off down the coast road. As the remainder of the Regiment dismounted and ran from the beasts, the nauglir fell into a frenzy, attacking each other, before stomping as a pack behind Vithari’s steed, towards the Shattered Basin.

Laughter rung out from either side of the path as a voice called out, “We did not expect it to be so easy.” A group of ten Shadow Warriors revealed themselves, their forms silhouettes on the ridge before them. Their faces concealed by masks, they notched arrows, and slowly pulled back their bowstrings, stepping forward with casual ease as they made ready to do away with their uninvited guests. “This day just keeps getting better...” muttered Drikaukal, readying his halberd.

Enraged, Caranordor roared, “Slaughter them! Charge!”

As one the Druchii rushed forward. Slaa took a small dagger from her hip belt and threw it spinning towards a foe who stepped aside, dodging it at the last minute. Amarthandir conjured a blade of shadow, casting it to slash at one of the shadow warrior’s throats. The elf raised his sword to parry it, yet it passed through the steel, cutting his neck wide open. Grasping his neck he fell down, as the shadow sorcerer stepped over the flailing thalken, perishing from a wound that somehow wasn’t there. Relying on brute force, Vithari charged towards her victim, lowering her blade at the last moment before raising it high, impaling the ambusher on the end of her glaive. Raising it high, she laughed cruelly as the elf slid down it, before arcing her weapon downwards, throwing the mortally wounded shadow warrior to the ground.

Lifting her hand, Sildra focussed on one of the elves, whose eyes widened in terror. His screaming pierced the din of battle, before he was overcome by compulsion to run headlong into a campfire which licked his tunic hungrily. Bursting into flames, the warrior fell, thrashing in agony as the fire consumed him. Two more were cut down, one with a brutal slash by the Commander’s blade, another by that of Drikaukal.

The last five shadow warriors glanced at each other before retreating back over the ridge. It would be folly to follow them into the sundered gullies and trails that they knew so well, most likely into an ambush. Caranordor growled and looked ahead along the path where the nauglir had fled. “Regiment, forward. We press our advantage.”

What advantage could this be, the seeress wondered. Their presence was now known and they were far from the safety of the garrison. Had they not discovered enough? It seemed that the Shadowlands had one last horror to reveal to them.

A shriek cut through the brooding silence. Gazing warily towards each other, the Dark Elves treaded carefully, weapons ready, fell magic held by the Coven ready to unleash ruin upon what might await them.

The road wound along the side of a cliff before the land dropped into a dip surrounded by low hills where hiding amongst broken trees and wicked looking thorns, a monster waited. Ugly beyond description, hate filled eyes regarded a lump of rock, a panicking Greenskin doing its best to avoid the gaze of the cockatrice. Caranordor stood completely still, and raised a hand, urging the Regiment to stop. “A cockatrice,” he gasped, “Do not meet its gaze for it has the power to petrify!”

The hideous creature squawked, and lunged its beak forward towards the goblin, who batted at it with his axe blindly turning his face. The monster flapped its wings and leaped forward, claws outreached to pin its victim down ready for the kill. As it prepared to tear the goblin apart and tear at his flesh with its beak, the bird paused, as if sensing something. It slowly turned its head towards the Druchii, shrieking angrily at having its hunt disturbed. The elves turned their heads away, careful to avoid its eyes. Sildra however was transfixed, curiosity overcoming her. Too late, she gasped as he skin greyed, her form becoming a perfect statue. The Druchii rushed in to slaughter the beast, glaives stabbing down in its flesh whilst it snapped with its beak and slashed with its talons. A clumsy dance, some even took to fighting with their eyes closed, to avoid the fate of the Grand Cabalist. Their blades slashed through the air or bit into the ground as blindly they fought on.

Fuelled by rage, Caranordor threw his body at the creature, sending it reeling back with his armoured shoulder. As it tumbled, Vithari risked looking at the beast, thrusting her halberd into its breast, and taking her cue, the Commander raised his own glaive, putting all his might into a particularly vicious blow, piercing the creature’s skull. With a tortured cry, the cockatrice slashed and grabbed with flailing claws as it spasmed in its death throes.

Finally safe from the peril of the cockatrice’s petrifying gaze, the Druchii gathered themselves, recovering from the fatigue of this fight. Ithilsyn stepped forth to her trusted Sildra, curiosity upon her face. She held out a hand, placing it upon the cold form of the sorceress, and issued a word, a faint purple light appearing between her skin and the stone of Sildra’s face. The statue began to glow faintly, wisps of dark magic encircling it. The solid form then began to appear to be nothing more than a stone shell, which cracked and crumbled before finally giving way and shattering apart. Sildra’s own power merged with this spell; dhar infused rocks exploding from her angry form, raining down upon the cockatrice’s corpse. Brushing herself down with a glare, Sildra stepped forth, dusty, but flesh once more.

The goblin stepped out from behind the rock he was hiding behind for the duration of the fight. Gaping at the Druchii, he then began to wail, crying out at the lump of stone itself, “Whaaa! Bozz. Bozz!” The greenskin’s jerky movements and short legs gave him a comical appearance, yet it was clear that the goblin was terrified. “Iz dose sneakey nifey earz!!”

Sildra stepped forward calmly, her hands glowing with power. The goblin began running in circles around the rock, which the Druchii noticed as they gathered closer, had the form of a goblin too. Something had to be done, or else this wailing would attract every shadow warrior within ten leagues. Looking at the sorceress, the goblin paused, scratching his backside in thought, before asking, “Yoo’z can free ‘im?”

Sildra turned her head to the little goblin, calmly replying, “How will you show me your gratitude if I restore this meagre creature back to his former self?”

The goblin looked back at her, clearly confused, “Gratitutitude? Woot?”

Caranordor sighed heavily. “Imbeciles.”

“Me fink yoo can bargin wif da bozz, when yoo’z ‘elp ‘im,” the goblin replied, thinking it best not to upset such a large force.

Sildra glanced to Caranordor with a shrug, “It’s your call, Commander,” as she gestured to the petrified ‘bozz’. Caranordor looked to Ithilsyn, as if to seek her advice. “We revive him. He may be useful.”

“Very well,” the Commander replied, “Do was you will with these cretins.” Sildra nodded to Ithilsyn before pointing her staff at the petrified goblin. Wisps of dhar latched onto the statuesque form before it blasted open. Not nearly as much care was taken to undo the petrified state as with herself.

“Bozz! Bozz!!” Screamed the goblin, its feet slapping the ground as it ran in elated circles around its recovered companion. “Noogl me iz glad uz not ded!”

Noogl screamed, and the Regiment wondered if it would have been better after all to have left them to the cockatrice.

“Wruzz wut iz yoo doin ere?” he asked, smacking his companion over the head with his staff, “Sum guard yoo iz.”

Before much else could be said, a soft sound could be heard from the ridge behind them. A scramble of stones falling down the slope, the crack of twigs. Unsurprisingly they had been discovered, the din impossible to go unnoticed. The Druchii turned to see the familiar shape of a shadow warrior on the brown of the hill outlined by a flash of lightning from the brooding skies, standing proud out in the open, who stared down upon them with violet eyes behind his steel helmet. Clutched in his left hand, were five elven heads, grasped by their hair. With a dismissive motion, the elf threw the heads down, letting them tumble down the small ridge. Their features locked in silent screams as they rolled, their cold faces distorted by pain and fear.

Slaa howled, as the figure removed his helmet, revealing long black hair and noble features that could only belong to one elf, “Duvaindir”, someone muttered under their breath. Bitterness and hate had driven the Captain to extreme measures for survival after being left for dead in the ruins of Narthain. Would his abandonment now drive him to vengeance?

Duvaindir laughed coldly before gesturing at the heads, which the Regiment now realised belonged to the five shadow warriors that evaded them earlier along the road. “So, he lives after all. And he stole our kills,” growled Vithari.

“Ah, dear friends. Did you think you could be rid of me so easily?”

Return of Reckoning

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Chapter XIX - A Gaze of Stone

Chapter XIX - A Gaze of Stone

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