A Spark in the Wind

Chapter 10: Abode of the Forest Dragon

"Vil!" Mey jumped at him, cushioning his pale, cold body as it made its way for the ground; he was heavier than Mey, but still enough to bear on for a little while. "Vil, are you alright?"

"He is," said Vareth, walking out of a pile of bodies, soaked in blood and bile, his axe blunted.

"Aye, that keeps happening occasionally," Aeresil joined in. "The siphon claimed a great part of his mana, I hope it was not too long an exposure."

Vareth reached for him, slipping his hands under his shoulders and thighs, picking him up into his lap. Vil's head rested on Vareth's huge chest, hands dangling from his body like dread vines, trying to curl up into foetal position. Seeing him like that, Vareth couldn't help but crack a smile.

"What's so funny, Vareth?" asked Aeresil.

"Oh, nothing. It's just . . . at times he'd fall asleep on the sofa, and I'd pick him up like this and take him to his chambers, it's just . . . forgive me, I'm being nostalgic."

Aeresil laughed, "ah, yes. He's just taller than before, still the same child he once was."

Mey looked at him and laughed, hard to believe this was the fabled hero who had defeated the Daemon-King Krayn, singlehandedly or not. I am become Morthaur, Vil mumbled in his sleep, somewhat cutely.

"Anyway, we should leave now," said Aeresil, "we are so close to our goal, let's not tarry any further."

"Agreed," said Mey, "let us leave."

And thus it came: a fell voice draped in a cloak of gloom, reverberating through the long halls, ringing in their ears like a fell screech. "Foolish mortals!" said the voice, "You think you can escape the inevitable? Fools! You shall all die, like those who came before you, hear now the tramp of doom and know your end is nigh! Never shall you again see the light of day!"

The portals around them blinked, summoning daemons of great shapes out of them.

"Oh no," Mey gasped, "run, RUN!"

Now was not the time to stand and fight, they were barely half a thousand against gods-know how many daemons. Wood-elves retreated first, the knights following, and the elite legionnaires of Vilyánur at the end, claiming many lives with their retreat.

...

A vortex of seminal powers welled up inside the cave, forming into something sinister in appearance – a shadow of Morthaur, a wretched abomination of smoke and dust, with a black aura about it and eyes as red as the sixth circle of hell.

"There is no escape!" shouted the god, spawning daemons of the highest order to accompany him. And the elves fled, struck by fear as the servants of the god walked up to them with disdain. Nobody dared to stand before the foe's eternal might, or so they thought.

"Bring down the entrance!" shouted the twins.

"On it," said Mey, using his powers on the entrance, but to little avail. His energy was not enough to bring down the mouth, but who else could help him? Nobody dared to stand there in the mouth of death – nobody, save one.

"Garamond!" shouted Meneldir, "what are you doing?"

"Go, my lords!" he shouted, "for the glory of Alledoria!"

Thus with his hooves he struck the pillars of the cliff, and the mouth collapsed thereafter, leaving none but Garamond and a few of his faithful on the other side of the cave. Meneldir and a few other elves peeked into the caves from the gaps between the boulders, seeing the old satyr prepare to make his last stand.

The rocks rang with the shrill music of Garamond's hooves, and his voice came keen and clear down the dark pits. One by one, the champions of Morthaur essayed, but Garamond struck them down each the same, but his own champions followed therein. At length only Garamond stood alone, mighty and proud as a beacon of courage, cloaked in fire and shadow and wounded with five wounds.