Battle's Tide
The dense, rock walls of the tunnel would have sung the echoes of their wild charge were it not already singing a cacophonous canon of the battle which already raged within the cavern's depths. In and down they rode, their cries of war driving them onward; down and down they rode into what may as well have been the depths of hell itself.
At last, they broke upon it, a righteous wave crashing against a blood-soaked shore.
~~~~~~~~~
Men in heavy armor clad with brandished blade gave battle with the twisted hoards of nether beasts called forth by ebon tongue. They fell a-man in garish gore and screams aloft on either side did fill the very heart of earth with vile reverberation.
The call went up: “The King arrives! Fight on for life and Aedon King! Raise up your spears and spirits all! Our King returns at last!” The Wayward King would lead the way, his Warlord on his left-hand side, the Noble Tinker on the right, the Prince to take the rear.
The King in warlike state appeared, the first time seen as such since days of yore on fields of Galway where his fate first gained its seal. His armor bright, emblazoned with a crest his making years ago; a verdant tree embossed upon a heater shield of gold.
Upon his head he wore a crown of simple make. Upon his back a pair of swords ensheathed and crossed lay waiting for his hand. The one a gilded hilt did have. The other more austere of make, secured with scabbard etched in runes of Aethryvald design.
They dove into the writhing throng, and Aedon drew the royal blade and, in that motion, felled his first of many foes that day. The Warlord Malac charged ahead and, like the tender fruits to Winter's early frost untimely come, they fell on either side.
The Maker drew his heavy maul and with a farrier's strength he smote a score of dæmon-slag against the anvil of the ground. The Crafter with his hammer and the Warlord with his daisho carved a channel double-shoulder wide on Aedon's either side.
The Prince his father's shadow rode, to battle now as e'er before, and three or four he felled; his sword-arm truer than his nerve. He gave the wights the through-and-through, his doublet with their ichor stained. The putrid stench uneased him greatly, yet he soldier'd on.
Emboldened by his royal presence, Aedon's men gave great retort, redoubted, resolutely stood in face of unknown foe. The enemy was driven not by fealty, but wild fervor plied them on, uncheck'ed rage their only rally-call.
As Malac rode in headlong-on in battle's charge, the clam'ring hordes his charger clung and battered-on until to earth he fell. He gained his feet too late to claim his steed. The draugr dragged it off away to feast upon its flesh. Its whinnies tore the air.
No humans these no more, but shambling corpses raised from ground by eldritch hand and given one command: to kill or else to fall. Their vacant eyes and feral maws made mockery of who they were at once; the happy denizens of Connemara fair.
They walked with wretched demon-kin who orders barked in vile ancient tongue unknown to man. Their voices dire, sharp and shrill. Their tearing claws left wounds which burned from deep within. A man would fall in pain and, cleft of dignity, would be consumed alive.
For hours unto days, it seemed, the battle raged, and some would tell that victory as easily could come to either side. A stalemate of righteousness and devilry. And only the arrival of an outsider would mark the turning tide.
Four friends rode into Hell that day, but four would not survive.
Four friends rode into Hell that day. But two would stay alive.
~~~~~~~~
“CERRI!!!” Malac reached through the hoards toward his faithful warhorse as she was dragged away into their twisting, black masses. Her bays and whinnies chilled his soul. He could not see precisely what her fate had been, but there could be no doubt as to the savagery with which she had met.
A new fire of anger fanned up within him and he began to whirl and cleave his way through the shambling army with no regard for himself. A blow on one side or another, the clawing of putrid hands at his legs, he was determined to let none of it slow him. He cut down as many as he could, but just as quickly as they fell before him they seemed to rise again behind.
“Malac!!” Aramis shouted out over the din. “Malac, fall back! You're too deep!”
The Warlord wheeled about to see that his berserk charge had taken him well thirty or more yards beyond the front and he alone now stood among the dogs of the underworld.
“MALAC!” Aedon called. “Malac, where are you?!”
Malac separated another wight from its head. “I am lost, my friend!” he answered back. “Fight on! I will hold them here!”
Aedon grimaced and turned to his men nearby. “He leads the charge and will not retreat! Let us take the battle to him!” A rallying cry went up as Aedon stepped down from Leannan and turned her out. The others followed suit and their horses followed fast where Llannan nimbly galloped up and out through the cleft of the dead the warriors had made.
Aedon armed his shield and raised his royal sword, issuing a primal cry which could only have come from the burning forge of his very soul. His men joined the shout and they dove into the writhing armies, pushing hard to join Malac deep within.
The Wayward King was a sight to behold. His blade performed its savage work, but the way in which it was wielded was a thing of beauty. He would block one way and thrust another, only to turn and slice a third opponent while redoubting a fourth. A fifth he would slam to the ground with a blow from his shield while a sixth was parried mid-swing. It was an elegant war-dance which he just as well might have choreographed himself. He felt their assaults and was there to respond before attack had been made.
Across the way, the Prince gave battle, a pale figure of his father. He was more than capable with a blade, but his form was rough. Where Aedon allowed his sword to guide him, Aramis lashed out to strike. Blow for blow, he struck harder and deeper, but the going was tough and his arm, over-tense with the strength of his attacks, grew tired.
“Aramis! Behind you!”
Aramis had little time to respond, as the momentum of his swinging carried him forward. As he cleft an arm from the beast in front of him, he stumbled around to meet the corpse which rose at his back, a broadsword held high and prepared to crack his skull in two.
The prince commanded his pain-wracked arm to lift its sword in his defense, but he was a moment too late.
A heavy thud and a deep, loud crack split the air.
The corpse fell to the ground in an instant, its blade dropping to the side. Triumphant and panting, Llyrwech stood snarling at the creature he had just felled, both hands wrapped tightly around the handle of his great maul. He had split the creature's spine with a single blow.
The Crafter King hesitated to look ahead, yet unsure of whether he had played defender or avenger. With resolve, he snapped his head forward to find Aramis standing with a look of shock on his face, his arm drawn back prepared for a thrust which never happened.
Relieved, Llyrwech stepped forward. Aramis lowered his blade and Llyrwech cupped a free hand around the back of the prince's neck, resting his forehead on the young man's. “Are y'alright, lad?”
Aramis panted hard, still in shock. “I... I think so.”
Llyrwech grinned and slapped the Prince on the back. “Good! Now, grip tha' sword an' get back to it!” And, with that, the Maker dove back into the business of unmaking an army.
* * *
Aedon and Malac met at last and stood back to back to face the wheel of netherbeasts around them.
“Just like old times, eh, friend?” Aedon said through a wild grin.
“Indeed, m'lord,” Malac replied. “We should have done this sooner.”
Aedon chuckled; “Well, it seems we are making up for lost time.”
They spun and whirled about each other, a cyclone of steel clearing an eye in the undead storm.
“What do you say,” Aedon asked, “to a friendly wager?”
“First to one-hundred?”
“Loser buys a round for the winner.”
“I don't drink, m'lord.”
Aedon grinned: “Neither do I.” He knocked a dæmon to the ground with a clash from his shield and ran it through. “One!”
* * *
It seemed as though the battle could go on forever. The spawn of the underworld were tireless and savage, but the army of men was skilled and determined. They matched, move for move, each side sacrificing and taking, advancing and retreating, with neither able to gain advantage the other would not quickly close.
However, in a moment, the behavior of the writhing undead shifted. Where before, those of the hoard behind the front were clamoring over each other in an attempt to have their chance at blows, they now backed up and seemed struck with awe. In a matter of moments, those which were not immediately involved in a struggle for their own unnatural un-lives began to shrink and cower, to pull back.
Some of the men believed this to mean that victory was at hand, but Aedon and his coterie realized that this could only herald something more dire.
As they searched the pitch-black depths of the cavern for some cause of this change, an explosion struck in the middle of the King's forces. Some soldiers fell then and there while others were thrown wide. The Four were knocked to the ground. At length, the ringing in their ears gave way to the mad laughter of their assailant.
They looked up and saw, floating over the cowering masses, what appeared to be a young man in a rich, grey cloak. His hair was long and black as the void. His skin was fair, though covered in old scars in odd and twisting shapes. In his right hand, he held a longsword, dark in color, which thrummed with energy, or the absence thereof.
Aedon was all too familiar with blades of this kind. He recognized not only the make, but the design. Llyrwech did as well, for it was he who had forged it.
“Welllll, welllll, wellll,” the young man began, “Lookie what we have here. It's a good old-fashioned family reunion!”
“Ordrune,” Aedon snarled, “Why are you doing this?!”
Ordrune looked around the cavern casually. “But, someone is missing. Where is my Aavaren? I did so want for him to see how much his student has learned.”
Aedon's fury erupted. “ANSWER ME! WHY?!”
Ordrune chuckled gently. “Oh, pish-tosh, Aedy-poo. What do you think I am, some over-wrought villain made up by a two-pence bard?”
A number of Aedon's army had regained their feet and attempted a charge toward the young mage and his hoard. Ordrune held the ebon blade behind him and gestured casually toward the advancing men. They slowed in their run and began to scream in agony as they started to rot on the spot from the feet up until their fetid remains collapsed to the floor of the cavern.
“Do keep your dogs at bay, Puppet King,” Ordrune said, smiling, “My own men smell horrid enough already.”
Aedon stared agape at the soldiers turned to week-old corpses in less than a minute by this young Mage's hand. Deep within himself, he wanted to cry for their suffering, but now was not the moment.
Ordrune began a slow descent, locking eyes with Aedon. “You and I have... unfinished business.” He began a slow walk toward the King.
Aedon stood and met Ordrune's gaze. “What do you want from me, traitor?”
“Strong words,” Ordrune said, the corners of his mouth creeping upward, “but it's not what I want from you... it's what he wants.” Ordrune brandished his blade. “It's what... this wants.”
A few more of Aedon's guard stood and charged, weapons at the ready. With an unearthly calm, Ordrune sidestepped their blows and struck clean through each man. Where his sword passed, a terrible rot sprang up and consumed the victim as he screamed in agony. With each soldier felled, the blade vibrated more and more deeply.
“Come on, Aedon!” Ordrune yelled as he downed another soldier. “Draw your sword! Fight me!” He ran another one through and grinned. “You know you want to.”
Aedon's left hand twitched at the hilt of his still-sheathed blade.
“DO IT, FOOL!” Ordrune's voice bellowed and echoed from every rock in the cavern.
Instead, Aedon retrieved his shield and braced for battle, his royal sword in his hand.
“... Pathetic.”
“Foul abomination: I am Aedon Durreah, King of Connemara, and I shall not allow your forces entry into my lands.”
“Pah!” Ordrune spat on the ground. “You are not you! You are Figol's toy, just as I was. You and your entire line. He just wanted to see how far across the board he could move you before you were taken. You are no king proper; you are little more than a promoted pawn!”
Ordrune ceased his tirade as quickly as he had started and slowly scanned the assembled. He locked eyes with Llyrwech, who had been staring helplessly at the mage's arcane blade since he first caught sight of it.
“You know this sword, Maker,” Ordrune said as he slowly moved toward the Crafter King. “You nearly gave your life to forge it. Is it as beautiful as you envisioned?” Ordrune smiled as he twisted the blade before Llyrwech's eyes. Being so close to its edge made the Smith grow tired and weak.
“Your brother forged this very sword for me, Aedon,” he continued. “He forged it for your son.” Ordrune turned to catch the eyes of Aramis, who went pale at this statement. The mage smiled a sadistic grin. “Oh, no. Not you, whelp. You are far too weak for this blade. No, I speak of your brother.” Ordrune turned to Aedon again. “Your brother, Michael.”
Aedon commanded his legs to move, his arms to swing, but he was paralyzed where he stood. All he could do was growl at the taunts.
“As you can see, however,” Ordrune threw his arms wide and looked about him, “Michael is not among us. Alas... even he was too weak to wield the reaver. In fact, it drove him to such madness that he took his own life with it. And now, the blade wields him.”
Ordrune looked back to Aramis and strode slowly forward. “But it occurred to me why the blade is so... violent. It was well-forged... but it has never been properly quenched.” Ordrune closed upon the cowering Prince and drew the sword back at length. Aramis could do little more than shield his face with his arm. “Come, child. Join your brother within the blade.”
Aedon howled as he struggled against his own immobility. He called out to his son in a desperate plea, one he feared could never be answered.
Ordrune thrust his blade toward the heart of the Prince but the strike was deflected by a deft upward slice and a hard shoulder slam which sent the mage reeling. Before Ordrune could respond, Malac sped forward to meet him again and return his own attack, now wielding his katana with both hands. His strike landed hard upon the broad edge of the darkened sword.
“Whoo! Finally!” Ordrune cheered, “One with some pep in him!”
They met blow-for-blow, block-for-block, dodge-for-dodge. Malac's every swipe was either deflected or avoided. Ordrune's each advance rebuked and each spell evaded. Around and around they went, and neither side dared interfere.
“Enough!” Ordrune yelled, and released a shock-wave which drove Malac backward. Regaining his feet, Malac charged forward again.
Ordrune's eyes glowed and a severe look overtook his face. As Malac ran forward, the dead soldiers at his feet, fallen of either side, began to reach up and grip at him, slowing his advance, tripping him up and, at last, dragging him to the ground.
Ordrune walked deliberately toward the downed Warlord. The hordes on the ground drew him backward on his knees over his heels. He struggled to pull himself upright, but rotting hands held his arms fast.
“You seem... oddly familiar.” Ordrune regarded the General with a careful eye, studying the man who still fought for freedom in front of him. Suddenly, his eyes snapped open and a laugh errupted from his chest. “Aedon!”
The mage turned to the paralyzed King. “Aedon, you old egotist! You! ...you-you-you...hypocrite!” Ordrune flew into a tantrum and chilling winds whipped through the cavern. “You're just like him! Toss aside the one you don't approve of and find a replacement! YOU'RE JUST LIKE HIM!”
Ordrune snapped his glare back to Malac. “You have been played, my fine friend. Ohhhhhh, I see it now. The dark hair, that thousand-yard stare, the fervor and zeal...” Ordrune laughed again. “Well, they say we all have a double somewhere.”
The mage drew back the blade again, and the creatures below presented the Warlord's chest. “Perhaps your soul is stronger than your spirit-brother's. Let's find out!”
As the blade plunged toward his chest, Malac wrenched his arms free of the decaying hands below and caught the sword between his palms. The very touch of the blade felt to him like the deep dark of winter, yet his hands scarred and burned. He could smell the flesh searing away, but he held his grip fast.
“You are a strong one!” Ordrune bared his teeth in a horrid grin, “But it is all over for you, boy. Accept it. We all have a part to play. This... is yours...”
Where Malac had been focusing on his hands and the fate they kept at bay, he now turned his eyes to Ordrune's manic gaze. He turned his head to look over his shoulder. Aedon stood, fighting against his own body. He must have been yelling something, but all Malac could hear was the loud thrum of the dark sword. He smiled at Aedon, and a look of peace fell over him. Aedon stopped dead in his struggling, and while his eyes still pleaded for Malac, his yelling ceased.
Malac looked back to Ordrune with a wry smile. He clasped his hands together harder than ever and bowed his head in silent concentration. Almost imperceptibly, unnoticeable in all likelihood to anyone but the King, Malac's body emanated a pale yet glistening light. Across the nether, he called up the sum of all the force of the Virtues to which he had sworn himself when he had trained as a Paladin in the Britanian Guard. He threw his arms wide and the blade struck true.
A blade of Blackrock, like Ahoun, this sword was designed to be a reaver of souls. It was Ordrune's greatest mockery of his teacher that he would prove he could create so great a token of power as Figol had done. However, the design and craftsmanship of the blade were flawed. Forged by an unwilling hand, it held within it a rebellious spirit, one which fought its wielder at every turn.
Each soul it took fractured the blade from within, as its rebellious heart turned against it the strength and anger of those souls whose bodies it had cut down. In Malac, it found an amplified soul, a spirit driven by purpose, one which gave itself over willingly but with intent to defy. In Malac, the heart of the blade found what it needed.
The sword glowed white from every crack and imperfection along its surface until, at once, it shattered. The pieces flew through the air, most of them embedding themselves within Ordrune's chest.
The shards of the blade began to pulse and beat in unison, harder and harder, faster and faster. Waves of distortion burst around him and his entire form began to twist and melt. Looking over the damage he suffered, he could do nothing but laugh.
“You fool...” he managed between laughing fits. “You... beautiful fool! It comes even still!” Ordrune stumbled and caught his footing as he spun to face Aedon. “Look, where even now, it begins! I had promised to be his vessel... but now.... but now!... it would appear that I shall be his conduit.”
Ordrune fell to his knees and threw his shoulders back. He screamed to the roof of the cavern: “Through me, your reckoning comes! May you all perish in the void!”
With a final, blood-curdling laugh, the distorting waves collapsed on the mage and a burst of wild æthyr tore a dimensional rift where he knelt. The ground around the void-portal rapidly froze and cold winds buffeted the armies on both sides.
Their master gone, the hordes fell to disarray and wild discord. They attacked with the feral will of a pack of rabid wolves. The men, now freed of Ordrune's oppressive grasp, returned the assault.
Aedon stammered and staggered. He had been powerless but to watch his old friend murdered before him, yet Malac had accepted death so easily, so willingly. Why?
The King was startled from his musings by the shrill cry of a kite, which echoed down the tunnel. At once, his face became solemn and sure once more. This is it, he thought to himself. This is the moment...
As the war raged around the rift, Aedon strode toward the frozen circle into which no man nor beast dared enter. He dropped his regal sword and shield as he went and slowly, carefully, drew from his back the blade which had remained sheathed the entire battle.
As he drew its length from the scabbard, the runes began to glow a pale, gentle blue. The heat of the hilt in his hand was all too familiar. It had been years since he dared do draw out Ahoun.
He held the blade before himself, a pious march toward the maw of the Otherworld. The dread blade hummed and pulsed with energy, and all made way where he went.
He approached the rift and stared deep within. What things he saw no man could fathom, nor could mere words do justice. The Otherworld is not to be glimpsed by mortal eyes, yet Aedon gazed now into its very heart. He turned the blade downward and grasped it sturdily by the handle. He knelt before the rift, not a yard from its terrible void, and drove the point of Ahoun into the very stone below.
Crystals of ice began to form in his hair and at his nose where he breathed, yet he did not feel the chill; the spirit of Ahoun burned within him. Aedon bowed his head, his entire will focused on remaining conscious, on completing the task at hand.
The edges of the rift took on a deep-purple glow and vibrated in the air. Aedon's body began to shake, and the surface of the sword scintillated with otherworldly energies. The mark of Corellon on Aedon's left arm began to glow and steadied him.
Dark-grey tendrils reached out from the blade and latched onto Aedon's arms, his legs, and his chest. They pulsed once, and a shock ran through Aedon's body.
He regained his footing. They pulsed again.
Aedon reeled, yet remained resolute. They pulsed again.
The shock nearly sent him to the ground. As he leaned on the blade, panting and gasping, the pendant around his neck, the Star of Connemara, sparkled and came to life, glowing green and warming the air.
The ground behind Aedon began to thaw, and the thaw spread toward where he knelt. As it approached, a figure faded into view. The spirit of John McDermott stood behind Aedon, a look of pity on his face. The Young Smith knelt behind Aedon... Not behind him, but into him. He wrapped his arms over Aedon's, his hands gripped where Aedon's gripped. Their positions matched, John faded again from view. Where he vanished, his mirrored mark of Corellon remained upon Aedon's right arm. This second mark began to glow as well and the two resonated. The strength and protection of the Elf-God flowed through him and he steaded himself again at the blade, staring once more deep into the portal.
The tendrils loosed themselves from his body and, instead, reached out to touch the maw. From where he knelt, Aedon could see a figure growing closer. Not quite a figure, but almost a face. A terrible, indescribable face with many soulless eyes and burning hell behind it. It grew closer and closer, screaming in a multitude of voices and twisting its way toward the world before it.
As it neared the gap in space, it locked eyes with Aedon and flooded his mind with visions of its goals. He rocked with the terror of it all. Not just Connemara, but all of Earth laid to waste. Not just Earth, but Sosaria black as char. All worlds of mortals left to ruin. And standing over the corpses of the fallen, Aedon, but not Aedon—Aedon, vessel of Donn the Dark—the dread blade in his hand.
Donn snarled at the portal, held by the tendrils of Ahoun's deep spirits. Not just the stench, but the very essence of death and decay washed over Aedon and he felt he might faint. As he wavered backward on his knees, he felt as if he were being propped up. He looked to his shoulder and saw an old, battered hand. Looking up, he saw the face of Sean McDermott; forger of the blade Ahoun; the heart of the reaver.
Sean smiled at Aedon, then looked into the eyes of the approaching dark lord. Aedon, too, returned his gaze. The tendrils from Ahoun shifted from a deep grey to a brilliant silver. Surprise gripped Donn the Dark, and he wailed in fury, snapping at the assembled three.
Aedon, John, and Sean stared down the void. The three together uttered a single, ancient word which no single tongue could reproduce. Ahoun itself shone silver and flared with light. Donn shrieked and writhed away from the portal, twisting back into the depths of the Otherworld, pursued by the thousand angry souls which Ahoun held within.
The rift snapped shut and an explosion of air ripped through the cavern.
It was gone.
Aedon collapsed to the ground.
“FATHER!!” Aramis shouted, and began a wild dash for the place where Aedon lay.
Llyrwech grabbed Aramis by the arms and held him back. “NO, boy!”
The two stared at their fallen kin in fear and wonder. Aramis fell to tears and screamed his father's name over and over, but the King did not stir.
Aramis wrenched his arms free of Llyrwech's grip just in time to watch as a golden glow fell over the King. In an instant, Figol swept in, threw his cloak over the fallen Aedon, and both were gone again. All that remained where he lay was a simple, gleaming sword of steel.
Aramis gaped in stunned silence.
Behind him, Llyrwech gave the call: “THE KING HAS FALLEN! DRIVE THESE BEASTS BACK WHERE THEY CAME FROM! AVENGE THE KING!”
But Aramis could not hear.
And the battle raged around him.