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The Battle of Duskshire

The banners snapped ferociously about the Archmage against the onslaught of the storm. He could see the fires burn throughout the lower city, and a small grin cracked the weathered lines of his face.

With a snort of alarm, his horse blinked against the gusting snow, taking an uneasy step to the side.

His orders had been to leave no ground for the citizens of Duskshire, to coax King Jaris from his lair.

My orders.

It appeared the Council of Akarshan heeded his orders well. Many have spoken of the ferocity of an academy mage, and the fabled Ragefire spell.

He gazed down at the reserve forces mustering near the gates of the city. Non-mages, rough and hard men who had trained for years in the art of war. Some of the most violent and dangerous soldiers in all of Ryze, employed by Akarshan as a standing army as a means to control any minor bannermen who grew weary of answering to a council of mages.

Telvrin had nothing but disdain for such men.

Not that he was a pacifist, by any means. His presence here this morning proved that.

No, such men were nothing to the mage. With a snap of his fingers, any ten of them that tried to draw blade against him would feel their flesh melt from their bones before their swords could clatter to the ground. That was the extent of their power. And his.

Superior. The thought widened the grin on the Archmages face.

Most non-mages in the human realms had grown to distrust magic. In fact, many would even say a disbelief.

It was true that most humans outside of Akarshan had grown an unfamiliarity with magic. Many non-mages would look upon the frail old man that was Telvrin, and greatly misjudge his abilities, to their demise.

“Archmage Telvrin, the lower wall has been reduced to rubble, per your orders.” Oryn stated. As one of the council, Oryn had faithfully served the Archmage over the years, always silent when necessary, always vocal when needed. He had proven to be an ambitious, though loyal servant.

I require the Keep! Duskshire is meaningless.

“What of the Keep? Has King Jaris shown himself?” Telvrin asked.

“Not yet, Archmage. The High Wall, it is warded. Our magic proves ineffective.” The response caused anger to grip Telvrin.

“You mean to tell me that a single court wizard is somehow capable of constructing wards that the entire Academy of Akarshan is powerless to break?” Telvrin asked coldly.

“Archmage, these wards are intricate. Their proving more difficult to break than anticipated. It also seems they are actively being put up as soon as we tear one down.”

Through spell or blade, I demand that keep.

“Double your efforts. Take the reserve forces, regroup in the lower city, and make an assault on the gates. If there is not a single academy mage working to unravel these—superior—wards, I shall have their flesh made into a new robe, is that clear, Oryn?”

The man nodded before moving off, quickly drawing away the band near the gates.

Surrounding Telvrin now was just his personal guard, a band of ten men, ironically providing less security than he himself was just by being present.

Fools.

Telvrin nodded in agreement.

Horrific cries reached down to their hillside from the city. Men and women. Child and hound. It was impossible to decipher one from the other.

Just then, an arrow slammed into a nearby guardsman, felling him from his horse. More arrows, seemingly aided by the gale, launched about them, felling men from horses, and leaving horses bloodied in the snow.

“Ventaes.” He roared, causing a complete reversal of the storm about them, ripping the arrows to shreds midair.

“Sul’Yavie!” a melodic voice shouted across the winds.

The snow caught in the gales suddenly began to grow from diluted whites and greys to an odd orange and yellow fire of color. The rustle of leaves sounded about Telvrin, as leaves with the edges of daggers slashed and pierced across his face.

He quickly moved his horse around, just as one of his banner-men was felled by a fresh arrow, and the other was ripped to shreds by the flying leaves.

His personal ward had proven effective at staving off the effects of the spell.

Moving about, he could see a sudden explosion of humanoids as they rushed through the snow, more nimble than any human soldier as they leapt from the tree, the sound of horns dulled amidst the roar of the night.

Under cover of a hail of arrows, the elves rushed inward, the interwoven knotwork of the council of seasons being raised aloft on banners attached to spears gripped in the hands of agile dancers and warriors.

Telvrin immediately moved his horse around to make for the city, and the rest of his forces.

The few men of his that remained were quickly cut down in the hail of arrows.

A spell had been cast on his steed making it capable of running without breaking the fragile snow with its hooves.

The beast galloped through a volley of arrows as they rained down about it, the city drawing nearer with every stride.

For the first time since the attack had begun, Telvrin was afraid. The very storm the mages had created to cause havoc and confusion over Duskshire was now concealing the quick and lethal elves as they moved in from behind.

Furthermore, it explained the reason any wards placed on the keep were so difficult to break. Rainhaven held perhaps the greatest knowledge of magic among any in Ryze. It was they who founded the very academy which ruled Akarshan.

And now he was the only one who knew of their arrival.

Not the only one.

His horse burst through the gates into the burning lower city. He could see the tail end of the reserve force as they moved onward to the rally point.

His horse outpaced them, and he came to draw their attention.

“Rally here, prepare yourselves! We fall under attack from the rear!” he called, rushing past them to gather a defense.

Soon, a sizeable force had turned to meet these newcomers.

“Rally!”

Elves flooded through the gates, all clad in fine mithril plate, some equipped with longbows and a single-edged bastard sword with a slight curve, Some with nothing more than a finely crafted spear.

Under a yet another volley which seemed impossibly accurate, the meager defense was falling about the mage, who leaped from his horse as it too succumbed to the projectiles.

More men came rushing in about him as word was spreading, but Telvrin focused on the spell in his mind.

“Ignodaem!” He bellowed calling out an explosion of flames from the sky. It was as if the storm itself opened up to cast a bolt of fire into the mass of elves that drew into the city.

“Temp’Ia!”

A great hissing sounded, and the intensity of Telvrin’s Ragefire spell was sucked from the air, leaving the elvish men below completely unharmed.

Then, the first wave hit.

Elvish spear dancers diving and dodging, driving spears through armored men as if they were wearing cloth. The royal elvish guardsmen, curved swords in hand now, slamming and slicing forward in an ordered chaos. They moved as a wall of whirling steel the reserve forces could not possibly match.

Bolts of fire started, slamming forward into the ranks of Telvrin’s men, driving bodies into the blood soaked slush of the earth.

An elvish woman appeared, clad in a brilliant gold armor with no equal in all of Ryze, gripping a spear carved with spiraling leaves. Its point appeared to be made from a red crystal or glass of some sort, razor sharp and no doubt stronger than steel.

Lady Aralyn Autumnsong led Duskshires relief force.

Before he had realized what had happened, the Archmage and his defense had been pressed all the way to the lower wall, just under the Upper city.

Like a hammer against an anvil, they were being driven into the warded walls of the keep.

Two men dove to chop at the Elven woman, who quickly drove her spear through chainmail and flesh, while simultaneously blasting the other to nothingness with a bright ray of light.

She turned to Telvrin, recognition instantly upon her face.

“Throw down your weapons, Archmage, and you shall be treated fairly.” She ordered, leveling her spear point at the man.

I grow weary of this!

“Ignodaem!” he roared again, directing the entire ferocity at the woman.

She held her weapon aloft, somehow managing to draw in all of the force from the spell, before launching it back at him.

“Praesidium!” the archmage cried, fortifying his personal wards.

The ragefire passed over him harmlessly. Before it had even finished, he launched a bolt of lightning at the woman, who countered with that staff of hers.

Telvrin could see his men being beaten back by her forces, though he was certain Akarshan had the superior numbers.

He faced the elvish vanguard, each warrior trained in the arts of both spell and blade. Telvrin had once laughed about such divided study, as he felt it was impossible to dedicate the proper focus magic deserved.

Now, he saw the foolishness of his beliefs.

Dodging another gust of razor leaves, a thought occurred to Telvrin. Perhaps not his own.

Bring darkness upon them all!

“Tenebris Nabu!” he roared the words to the spell the Harbinger had whispered to the Archmage.

A blast of shadows rushed forth from his fingertips, instantly extinguishing the many fires of the lower city and blasting the area with a bitter cold.

Even Telvrin collapsed to his knees at the unexpected blast to the chest as oxygen was torn from his lungs.

Lady Aralyn crashed backwards into the snow.

Shadows now rose to walk as men, drawing blades as substantial as steel, but as black as obsidian. Their faces, if they had any, were shrouded by expressionless masks.

The city, which had been littered with the ravaged corpses of the defenders of Duskshire, was filled with a dread so complete, even the Archmage was stifled.

All about him, both elvish and Akarshan slain began to rise once again, turning with empty eyes as black as night, to face the relief force.

All at once, they spoke in unison, the voice of the Harbinger echoing above the howl of the storm and the battle.

“You are too late, Lady of Autumn. The city is lost, and with it, the Seal of Duskshire.”

The chorus of the dead was unnerving.

“Aaravuur!” She called, slamming the nearest creature with a blast of sunfire.

Telvrin had to shield his eyes against its intensity, yet still the dead continued to speak as shadows closed in around her.

“But do not despair. You shall join them soon enough. All of Rainhaven shall join in your fate.”

Another dayfire spell blast forth.

Shadows and death closed in, exploding into action so quickly, even the graceful and quick elves were caught by surprise. With every fallen soldier, the dead vanguard grew, led forward by the group of masked shadows.

Lord Aquilis stood in the throne room, beside King Jaris and his royal guard, to include Sir Verimor.

Behind them, Lord Aquilis’ own personal guard sat in constant ritual, attempting to maintain the wards about the keep.

Lord Aquilis was unsure if Lady Aralyn had managed to muster what little remained of the forces of Rainhaven in time. No word had yet reach him or any of his guardsmen, and still the battle raged.

He was always impressed with how well the Royal guard were versed in both spell and sword. Now if only they could hold out long enough against the constant onslaught of academy mages, relief would arrive.

“Where is Princess Telris? Where is my daughter?” Jaris asked Verimor, lines of worry on the king’s face.

“She is with the women and children in the lower chambers.” He replied.

“All other passages have been collapsed, as ordered?” he asked.

“The only way in now is the secret passage beyond the throne.”

This seemed to do little to comfort the king, and he gripped the hilt of his sword tightly, though it was still sheathed at his side.

“Lord Aquilis, will your people come?” he asked for perhaps the hundredth time.

Aquilis turned his gaze from the massive throne room doors to the human at his side.

“Lady Aralyn is a powerful mage and skilled warrior. She will come.” He assured him.

“My lord!” Surva cried suddenly, breaking his ritual and falling forward, breath heavy. The other guardsmen quickly followed suit.

“What is it?” Aquilis cried, rushing to his friend.

“The wards are down! My lord, he’s here!” Surva panted.

“Who’s here?”

“The Harbinger!”

Just then, the massive oaken doors to the great hall burst open from a powerful gust of darkness. Torches and candles were instantly extinguished, and any man standing was instantly blast to their knees as cold ripped the air from their chest.

Shouts could be heard through the open door, but they seemed muffled, as if coming distantly through water. Impenetrable darkness drifted in the doorway like suspended liquid.

From the shadows emerged a massive form, easily seven feet tall, and draped in a black cloak that shrouded its head.

It was clad in a black breastplate, and wore a smoke grey tunic beneath.

As his elvish eyes adjusted to the sudden shift in light, Aquilis could make out the bestial form. Grey and black spotted fur covered any area not clad in dark iron.

Three of the kingsguard rushed the newcomer, who swiftly drew the massive darksteel bastard sword from his back, cutting through them without a thought.

The demonic cackle of a hyena emanated from the beast as another fool moved to defend his king. His corpse was added to the growing pile.

Aquilis now held his own blade, moving forward with Verimor.

A sudden gust of shadows ripped through four more defenders.

The cackling laughter grew worse, echoing through the hall and boring into Aquilis head.

Aquilis’ men rose on shaky legs, far too weary from their casting.

Umbral forms erupted from the walls and ground surrounding them, each wearing expressionless masks shrouded under black hoods. Shadowy blades burst forth, and with a combined gurgle, Aquilis watched his men fall.

“NO!” He cried, catching Surva as the life fled him.

“It can’t be.” Verimor stated, gripping his weapon with white knuckles. His eyes were locked on the massive creature that was even cleaving a man in two.

Aquilis stood, brandishing his blade as he and Verimor backed to defend Jaris.

The shadows surrounding the three men did not make a move, however.

The guttural laughter slowed as the beast stepped over his last victim, a man whose jaw the monster still clutched in his free claw.

Aquilis turned to face the beast with Verimor, but as the creature drew near, his face became visible from beneath his cowl.

A gnoll with empty black eyes glared at the men. A face Lord Aquilis recognized almost immediately.

“I-it can’t be!” Verimor whispered again.

Aquilis wanted to deny it as well. The very thought of it made him sick.

The gnoll lowered his massive blade to his side, eyes scanning the three men.

Three men that had ruled the course of his life.

Three men, all powerful influences on his destiny.

Three men at his mercy.

Sir Verimor broke the silence.

“R-Rekkdyr?”

The gnoll grinned with massive fangs capable of crushing dragons bone to dust. He tossed the bloody jaw at the man’s feet.

“W-what has the Lord of Darkness done to you?” Aquilis asked.

The gnoll ignored him, his attention falling to the King of Duskshire.

“King Jaris.” Rekkdyr spoke, his voice menacing and low. “Your city has fallen.”

“I-I pulled your worthless hide from the dusty wastes of the Hordelands. You were left for the crows, and I rescued you. THIS is how you repay me!” he roared, brandishing his blade at the monstrous beast.

“Oops.” The gnoll replied. “I suppose we cannot cast off our true natures after all.”

“You were the best student I ever taught! Honorable! Just!” Verimor whispered.

The gnoll turned to the human.

“Ah, the old man. Tell me, Verimor, just how honorable was I when I lusted after Telris? When I dreamed of dragging my claws across her flesh, of tearing into her frail neck with my teeth? Forcing my cock into her sweet, innocent cunt?”

“Bastard!” Jaris roared, blasting past the man before either Aquilis or he could stop him.

A monstrous claw clasped tightly about the man’s throat, halting his assault as he was lifted from the ground with little effort. Jaris still somehow managed to thrust his sword, though the blade caught thick flesh and was turned aside.

If the gnoll had felt any pain, he did not show.

Verimor and Aquilis rushed forward, each diving in with thrusts and chops of their own. The gnoll launched the human king back into the mass of shadows who watched on silently. They merely stepped aside to accommodate for the tumbling man.

The gnoll quickly chopped high, slamming Aquilis’ blade aside, before kicking out with a clawed foot into Verimors knee.

A loud crack sounded in the hall, followed shortly by a cry of agony.

Aquilis caught the flat-side of the monsters blade, knocking him to the ground dazed.

“Bastard! You were my son! I loved you!” Verimor shouted through pain.

He forced himself to stand, hobbling on his ruined leg.

“How many gnolls have eaten their own fathers, I wonder?” the hyena-man asked, turning to Verimor.

“You are not Rekkdyr. Rekkdyr is dead.” Verimor stated.

His sword fell from his fingers, clattering loudly to the floor.

A strange shift came to the gnolls eye, and he lowered his blade.

“You would face me unarmed?” he asked, skeptical.

“If you are indeed Rekkdyr, then I have nothing to fear. If you are not, then I am dead anyways.”

The gnoll took a hesitant step towards the man. It almost seemed like a battle was waging inside his mind.

A large hand capped with razor claws moved up to gently touch the man’s cheek.

Verimor never looked away, eyes softening as he gazed into the empty blackness of the gnolls.

Tears rolled down the veterans cheeks.

“Verimor.” The hyena whispered in sorrow.

“It is true then.” Verimor whispered back.

Suddenly, Verimor slammed forward into the gnolls throat, a dagger thrusting repeatedly.

The gnoll jerked from the repeated assault, but merely moved his heavy claw up the man’s head to grip him by the hair. Blood trickled from Verimor’s scalp.

Rekkdyr moved his blade up to the man’s throat, slowly slicing the head from his shoulders, before tossing it into the lap of King Jaris.

“H-he spoke for you, you know. I sought to put you down so long ago, and it was he that changed my mind.” King Jaris whispered.

“When your own daughter showed signs of affection for your pet, you sought to have the pet punished. This beast was never good enough for your bitch. Now, this beast saw the fall of your kingdom.”

“Not while I draw breath.” Jaris growled.

“Ah, like any good king, you stand up and fight to your last. For honor. For your people. You would have me kill you, then? To let you die in combat, a martyr for the race of men to rally behind? That shall not be your fate, King Jaris. Today is not the day you die.”

Jaris examined the gnolls face for any hint of his intention.

Aquilis burst forth suddenly, lunging for the gnoll with blade leading.

The gnoll quickly turned, driving the tip of his bastard sword into the elf with his own momentum, treating the Mithril chain as if it were merely linen.

The elf slid from the blade, blood fountaining up from the massive wound in his chest.

Rekkdyr turned back to the human king menacingly, coated head to toe in blood.

In a deep, low growl, he spoke.

“Your fate, King Jaris, is far worse than death. You will be broken. A shell. You will watch as your beloved daughter is given to beasts far less worthy of her nobility. Then, you shall join her. The King and Princess of Duskshire, reduced to cum-drenched filth.”