A Last Journey

Tor Ylanthar stood tall and proud in the late evening sunlight, casting an air of eeriness across the city, the lone remaining tall white tower glinting in the waning sun. The air was still and peaceful - it would have been the perfect sunset in a perfect city. But beyond the white walls of the city there was darkness, waiting and watching. Inside its walls the populace of the city lay slumped against buildings and walls, exhaustion stamped all over their features. Even the doughty Dwarfs were utterly exhausted by the constant warfare. High upon one of the shattered battlements Arcanus Firestorm stood looking to the north at the Druchii army amassed there. His armour was battered and his sword notched, and beside him to his left stood the half elf Uther di Asturien. Uther was entering his one hundred and fifty sixth year and his age was finally beginning to show, hair beginning to lose colour and fade to white, his armour as battered as Arcanus’ was. To Arcanus’ right stood Furgil Hindour. The Dwarf Lord was leaning on his axe and rubbing a scar on his forehead as all three looked out to the north, where their opponents waited.

“They’ll attack at sunset, Arcanus. They always do.”

Arcanus turned and looked at Furgil as he grumbled this. The old dwarf was right, unfortunately. The scarred walls of Tor Ylanthar had held out for some six days now, a heroic accomplishment given the size of the force opposing them, but now they were showing true battle damage. Cracks could be seen wherever one looked, and in the northeast quarter a great breach had been rent in the wall. Here, Arcanaus predicted, the attack would strike hardest.

“Aye, the northeast wall will bear the brunt of the attack,” he agreed with the Dwarf’s assumption. “The remaining Senthoi and Ironbreakers will have to hold the breach for as long as possible.”

“I can hold the Knights and the Silver Helms in reserve near the northeast quarter in case the breach widens,” Uther offered.

Arcanus nodded at the half-elf, who was donning his helm as he bowed to the Elf Prince and walked away down the steps to where his horse was waiting. Furgil walked up and patted him on the side as he hefted the rune axe Grimmaz onto his shoulder and walked away. Tales had been told of that axe, and how the Dwarf Lord had fought alongside his High King in the battle that saw to the reclamation of the ancient and powerful weapon. It was undoubtedly one of the strongest blades within the city, or so the High Mages claimed – or had claimed, he corrected himself, before they had been eventually overwhelmed.

The Elf Prince stood there for a moment as he looked out across the city, over the once green fields and into the camp of the Druchii. He remembered the tales of his father, of the War of the Beard, but yet now he could not fully understand why he hated the Dark Elves. Those who were across the field fighting him now were not the ones who forced them out of Ulthuan; they were not the ones who killed his ancestors. They were merely descendants like him.

Sighing deeply, he turned and jogged down the stairs. He was the last pure-blood commander left. Only Uther’s shattered legion had survived to reach Tor Ylanthar for the final stand, in addition to his own legion, which had re-taken the city when it first fell.

Tonight would be the last night for Tor Ylanthar, he knew.

*********************

Narza Scornsong stood high upon a rocky outcrop as the first Reaper batteries opened up on the crumbling city walls. Globes of alchemic fire that had been attached to their tips were smashing and burning upon the stone walls of Tor Ylanthar, lighting up the twilight sky. He laughed as he unsheathed his sword Nepenthe and indicated that the assault would begin. Beside him stood two potent sorceresses, one representing the Drachau of the colonies and the other representing the Court of Ulthuan. Lady Gieselle, commander of the Reaper of Sorrows and Lady Naiadriel of Avelorn (what was left of Avelorn, he reminded himself - much of the forest had been destroyed on the orders of Morathi). Neither sorceres was using their considerable power in the destruction of the battered walls, but were rather using their abilities to keep the majority of the Druchii host hidden – something they had assured him was difficult, but not beyond their combined strength. Narza turned and grinned wolfishly at the two sorceresses as yet another white tower collapsed.

“Are you sure that the barbarians will attack the south wall, m’ladies? It seems very unlike them to aid us directly in battle.”

Lady Naiadriel walked forward onto the outcrop and stood up high, watching the missiles from Reaper batteries slam into their target, flames erupting around the breach in the northeast wall. She licked her lips in anticipation of the slaughter that would soon follow.

“Yes,” she replied, “For as uncouth the barbarians are, the leader of this band is at least a competent fighter. The Crown of Ulthuan uses our allies carefully when necessary. Do not worry, Scornsong - this ‘Kaas’ will lead us to victory.”

Narza grinned savagely as he leaped from the rocky outcrop and landed amongst a group of Chracian Hunters that were advancing toward the siege at full pace. Crying out his war cry, Narza joined them in their charge for the wall. Leaving the two sorceresses behind him watching the combat troops advancing for the walls, he noticed that heading directly for the breach were a pair of Hydra supported by Cold One Knights. Lady Gieselle stepped up behind Naiadriel, her ancient brow creased in a frown. She did not fully trust this advisor. Neither did one of the Drachau, and she continued to survey the battle before her.

“Do you really trust the forces of the Dark Gods?” she asked of her companion. “They are unpredictable at best, but trusting them to this level is foolish. HE did wound the king of all elves you know, and why would HE stop now?”

“You worry too much, Gieselle,” Naiadriel replied scornfully. “You are a remnant from a former age, and your time has come and gone. A new order has arisen, and the Crown of Ulthuan has seen the light to follow the true path. And look where it has gotten us. The utter destruction of the last holdout in the Caledor rebellion.” She didn’t bother to see if her words had offended or not – higher authorities had placed her on a level equal with that of Gieselle, and she was untouchable.

Naiadriel moved her hand across the destruction that was now being caused. The two Hydra had slammed deep into the traitor lines, and even those Khaine-cursed Dwarfs were being slowly beaten back, only for the Senthoi to fill their place and be cut down when the Cold One Knights charged and began to punch through. The city was falling, even as the remaining cavalry of the ‘Sarthailirim’ slammed into the breach to hold the final defense.

“Tor Ylanthar will fall soon. Even as we speak, the armies of Chaos are ready to begin their assault from within the city itself. Soon it will begin, and the final remnants that rebel against our empire shall be utterly destroyed.”

Naradriel opened her hands as another tower crumbled into nothing. The city was now fully ablaze, and the screams of the dying were coming from all over the walls. The press on the breach was beginning to break through, the walls were being over-run, yet beside her the Lady Gieselle took a step backwards. Something was wrong here, she sensed. The air was changing. The winds were blowing stronger from the north.

“If you will excuse me, Gieselle, I have some business to attend to on the southern forces. I bid you a good evening and stand ready to send in the final reserves on my order.”

Spinning on her heel, Naradriel walked back down the rocky outcrop to where her steed was waiting, a fine black charger with silver reigns and a single broach upon them. Swinging her leg over the black steed, she settled down in the saddle and dug her heels into the beast, which taking off at a gallop towards the south. Gieselle stood alone for a few minutes longer, her fists clenched and black fury coursing through her veins, though she noted at the same time that another emotion was there. Sadness. Something she had not felt in her life before now. Tears formed upon her cheeks as she finally turned and walked towards the two hooded figures that now stood waiting at a piece of gorse some twenty yards away from the outcrop. Pausing, she stopped a mere two yards from them to look the taller one directly in the eyes.

“You were right,” she said softly. “I am with you. There is nothing more that can be done besides saving as many as we can and returning home to defend our last hope. I shall hold the line here, and kill as many as is possible. I shall send word north on my authority to stand by to fall back to the ports. Go.”

The two figures nodded and the smaller slipped away into the night immediately, running in the direction of the siege. The other stayed put for a moment and looked at the tired old sorceress. He could see that her world was falling apart around her. Stepping forward he placed an armoured hand upon her shoulder and smiled. Gieselle looked at the young elf before her and smiled weakly, waving him off.

“Go young one, and make your grandfather proud. Save them all.”

The elf turned and sprinted away into the darkness towards the battle, leaving Gieselle alone and angry, summoning up all her magic while she waited for the inevitable to arrive.

******************************

Arcanus staggered from the west wall clutching his arm. A blow from one of the Dark Elf Chracians had slammed into his shield arm and left a deep cut. He had been forced to fall back from the wall back to the ruins of the command tower, leaving command to a single human. Normally he would be loath to do such a thing, but now in these times of need he had no choice. He would have to take overall command from the rear of the battle line. Dodging some falling masonry, Arcanus entered the former command building to find it deserted of all inhabitants. Swearing, he turned about only to be flung backwards by a massive explosion caused by a lump of masonry landing in the court yard behind him. Turning and coughing his heart seemed to stop and his blood chilled as he beheld what was happening outside.

“No,” he whispered to himself, hardly believing what he was seeing. “Please, gods, wherever you have gone, don’t let it be like this.”

The sky began to ripple and fluctuate as if something from beyond was trying to reach through, and reaching through it was. Slowly but surely, dozens of shapes began to form from both nothingness and the ripples in the sky. Finally, the sound of a sonic boom crashed through the air around him, and Arcanus was flung backwards once more as hundreds of Daemons formed in the courtyard. All lesser Daemons, small comfort though that was, save for the tall one in the centre. He almost still looked partially human. This…thing stood tall and waved his hands to his assembled horde, uttering words that Arcanus did not understand as far as language went, but the meaning of which was crystal clear even to his dazed mind.

“Kill them all.”

Arcanus ran from the command tower as the Daemons began to spread out amongst the city, ready to kill any foe in their paths. Arcanus now knew that the city had truly fallen and that he had to get as many of his people out as he could. He could already hear screaming and continued to run, drawing his notched blade as he felt the air change again, the human beginning to summon more Daemons to his side.

Ducking under a broken arch, he slid to a stop as four things stepped in front of him, their partially feminine faces and breasts making them look almost normal, if it were not for the large claws that ended on their left hands, unholy aura and blue-tinged skin. Bellowing a war cry, Arcanus continued his advance and ducked underneath the sweeping claw of one of the Daemonettes while running his sword deep into the second. Deep purple ichor spilled from the wound and stung his hand deeply, yet pulling the sword out, he deflected a blow from another and ducked under a swinging claw only to feel a knife slide under his armour. But all the wounds he had suffered thus far in the war did not cause him to cry out in pain, and nor would this.

Swinging his sword upwards towards the source of the pain, he was rewarded with a shrill cry and the feeling of yet more ichor splashing onto his sword arm. Spinning around, he studied the remaining two Daemonettes for a moment before they charged him once more, this time with an obvious intent to kill him rather than toy with his senses. Deflecting one blow but being forced back from the attacks, the stumbling Arcanus swung his sword upwards and forced the knife that the Deamonette was holding away from its target - his heart. But that didn’t stop the claw from punching him backwards and tightening its grip around his neck. Pain filled his entire being as the claw began to tighten and he was slammed against a wall. Coughing up blood, Arcanus looked into the thing’s eyes and spat through bloodied lips.

“Do it,” he said coldly.

Closing his eyes, Arcanus waited for his life to end, but the death blow never came. Instead, ichor splashed onto his face, and he opened his eyes to see the Daemonette headless and a black cloaked figure behind it, a long sword dripping with the ichor of the creature. Around him stood seven other figures, all clad in the same dark cloaks and carrying long swords of a similar design to a figure who stood beside the one with the rippled blade but wore no hood. Instead he wore a tall winged helm, and Arcanus looked around with a mixture of confusion and hatred on his face. Why were the Druchii helping him? Getting to his feet and grabbing his sword again, he stood en-guard as the Dark Elf looked at him, removing his helm to reveal a sharp, angular face with jet-black hair.

“Caledorian, now is not the time to fight me. Get your people out of this city now, before it is too late.”

Arcanus snarled as he circled away from the Druchii before him towards the open passageway that led towards the east wall, his blade still pointing at the Dark Elf.

“Why should I believe you?” he spat.

“Because you have no choice, Caledorian. Now run. We shall hold them off. Run!”

Not knowing what else to do, Arcanus turned and ran as he heard the sound of clashing steel from behind him. He had to get to the east gate where the last of the intact stables were, together with Furgil. The city had fallen if Druchii had made it this far already, and there was nothing left to do now but run.

*************************

Lady Naradriel stalked forward towards the commander of the Chaos forces that were now killing every last traitor in the ruined city. Druchii warriors were moving from building to building killing the inhabitants and then taking them outside to be burned, while the Daemons were still hunting through the streets, killing any survivors that could be found. Today was a good day for the people of Ulthuan, for the last of the rebellion had been crushed at last over two thousand years after it began. Smirking she came and stood beside Kaas Daemonsoul, secure in her authority and at least partly consumed by thoughts of the new vistas opened up before her, new heights of power she could aspire to.

“Excellent work, Kaas,” Naradriel said brusquely. “You can tell your master that the last remnants of Sarthailor have been crushed and that the threat to his western flank is gone. The next target to be taken out is the Dwarf hold to the southeast of here. We will move out once this city has been destroyed.”

“No.”

Naradriel froze as Kaas spoke up in his twin tongues, the Daemonic and the human. There was something very wrong here; she summoned a little power to her staff.

“Do you intend to pursue the rumoured two score horsemen that broke through your lines last night then?”

“No.” Kaas seemed to almost be amused at her orders.

Naradriel was angry now - the leader of Chaos Incursion had given Kaas to her so that they could crush all resistance in Sarthailor, but there was still work to be done to establish the old colonies of Elthin Arvan, and to restore the Druchii command over this region.

“You will obey me, Kaas,” she said softly, with as much venom as she could muster to her voice. “Your master has given me command over your forces, so you will obey me.”

“I said no,” the other hissed in reply.

Naradriel gasped as a knife suddenly flashed across her neck, a rush of blood filling her vision as she saw Kaas kneel down beside her, his face twisted in a sinister and insane smile. He licked some of the pool of blood that was now forming at the twitching sorceress’ feet. Standing again, Kaas looked down at her with scorn.

“You see, puppet of Morathi, I do not listen to elves anymore.” His entire voice was laden with contempt at the pitiful, dying wretch before him. “Now it is the time for man and Daemon to rule, not elf. Anar is false; the elves are weak compared to the might that can be assembled from the Realm of Chaos. All elves will be destroyed. Starting-” he leered at this, “-with you pathetic Dark Elves.”

Kicking Naradriel’s corpse as the light faded from her eyes, an expression of shock and horror frozen upon her face, Kaas Daemonsoul turned to the assembled legions of Daemons that had formed around him. Lifting his staff into the air, his amplified voice filled the air all around the city, a voice that caused Druchii, humans, half-elves and Dwarfs alike to cry out in fear.

“Kill all elves.”

*************************

High in the mountains, a small group of horsemen were riding hard to the east along a tiny trail, hoping desperately to find a Dwarf caravan or something that could protect them. Here was all that remained of Tor Ylanthar, around sixty survivors on only forty-two horses. Humans and half elves mostly, but amongst them were seven Dwarfs and four elves including Arcanus himself, wounded but still defiant. He was the last of the fighting elves left, he assumed, for the others were in no fit state to fight - one of them was now crippled, one a youth and the other a female, likewise unable to fight due to the fear that she now carried. As he raised his hand, the small battered caravan came to a halt.

“We stop for an hour. After that we head for Karak Norn, for hopefully some more survivors will have arrived there.”

Dismounting, he walked over to where Furgil had just struggled out of Uther’s saddle. As disgruntled as the Dwarf Thane was, he had seen the benefit of being carried to safety on a swift steed rather than a grudge pony. Hefting Grimmaz in one hand, he pulled out a map with the other and indicated where they were upon it. Uther, complete with a fresh cut across his forehead, looked over the Dwarf Thane’s shoulder at the map, a look of concern on his features.

“We are some fifty miles from Karak Norn as the raven flies,” the Dwarf pointed out. “On this particular trail, we are more than one hundred and sixty miles away. It is going to take us at least a week to get there, although with luck we should encounter some defense points along the silver road in a day or two.”

“Aye, Thane Hindour, that’s my assessment too. However…”

Arcanus was cut short as a crossbow dart embedded itself in the map that had been laid out on the ground. Yelling out a war cry, Furgil drew his pistol and the dozen odd warriors that could still fight drew their weapons. Arcanus looked up around the mountain valley to see dozens of Druchii Shades positioned upon the cliff faces, their crossbows all pointed towards his pitiful group. If they opened fire there would be no one left, he could instantly tell. Behind them by some distance was a group of horse-mounted elves, and in the distance the smoke of Tor Ylanthar could be seen spiraling into the sky. Arcanus frowned as one of the horsemen began to ride forward. For some reason, he had an urge to meet him, and so walked forward as well.

“What are ye doing, Firestorm,” the Dwarf hissed at him. “Get back here!”

“I’ll be fine, Thane Hindour. Just protect the others.”

Arcanus continued his walk towards the figure as the horse finally stopped in the middle ground between the dozen odd cavalry and his group. The elf dismounted and walked towards Arcanus - it was now that he recognised him. The eyes and the sword hilt most certainly, but the armour too looked familiar, as if he had seen it in a painting somewhere.

“Dark Elf.” It was not a pleasant greeting. “Why did you help me? And why don’t you just get on and kill us already?”

“How many elves in your group, Caledorian? Tell me, and I shall answer your questions.”

Arcanus scowled for a moment and then answered. He was in no position to make demands anyway - they were surrounded and war weary.

“Four. One female and one youth, and two adults. I am the only one able to fight.”

“That will have to do. Very well; I helped you because I can Caledorian. I have no intentions of killing you. I have bigger enemies by far to take care of. Look behind me. Tor Ylanthar burns, and not by our people’s hands, but by the hands of Chaos. They have turned upon the Druchii as was predicted long ago now by my mother. The Beast’s hand is being forced sooner than it likes, and so movements have begun to stop it. You and the other elves will come with us and the others will go free.”

Arcanus was stunned. It didn’t seem possible that their allies would begin infighting as soon as they had won a great victory. But yet, with everything else that had happened it was possible. Rumours had been spread that not all followed Malekith exclusively long ago, after all. The cult of Asuryan was one – a rumour, but perhaps one containing a degree of truth. Swallowing a lump in his throat, he spoke up.

“And if I refuse?”

“You all die.”

“Very well, then. I accept.” Not that it had been much of a choice anyway. “What should I tell the others about where we are going?”

“You know where you will be going. Look into your heart, ‘Sarthailorian’. All of your people know where we are going.”

Arcanus’ heart lifted, and all sorrow began to fade. This was something that his mother had told him of in stories, something that he never thought would happen. He looked into the eyes of the figure before him as he began to turn around and walk back to the others. He now knew the figure as well. The armour from the nightmares.

“Thank you, Vraneth,” he said softly.

He stopped as Furgil Hindour and Uther di Asturien approached him, both noticing a slight change in his attitude. Pulling out a small bag, he handed it to Uther, who was now looking utterly stunned that he was given such a treasure. The others of the party chose that moment to walk forwards as well, confusion etched upon their faces as Arcanus spoke up.

“The pure-blood elves and myself are going to go with the Druchii. The rest of you are to continue onwards to Karak Norn. I am doing this to safe guard you all. There is no argument here, I am afraid to say. It is four for the price of sixty. Lord Asturien is your leader now - look to him in these dark times for strength.”

“Where are they taking you, Arcanus?”

Arcanus Firestorm looked at his old friend. Uther di Asturien held the circlet of Sethalis in his shaking hands, a worried look on his face as the look of peace that was on Arcanus’ own slowly became evident. As Arcanaus turned to the other three elves in the party, they too began to understand what was happening.

“They are taking us home.”