Blue. Blue, light and soft, like the dress his mother had worn, the one with the birds stitched into the hem. But this blue surrounding him now had a glaring deformity that hurt the eyes, and forced his eyelids down. His mind drifted. His mother had always smelled slightly earthy, the musk of green life always on her hands. As his mind started to sink deeper into memory, the glare in the blue pricked at him, keeping his consciousness from drowning again. As his thoughts swam sluggishly toward the surface, the elf’s mind returned to his condition. The elf became unpleasantly aware of the tangy smell of blood and the stench of rot as consciousness returned. The elf inhaled deeply and abruptly, gasping for breath as his mind gasped for memories. Blood and disorder, cruel smiles, and the wink of steel in the sunlight as spears were raised. Pushing his memories back down, he opened his eyes. Blue surrounded him again; slowly he realized that he was lying on his back starring into a pale cloudless sky. The glaring deformity that had pricked at his eyes was the sun. Still disoriented, the elf simply lay, soaking in the blue of the sky, and trying to remember. After a few moments, a dark blotch flitted across the glare of the sun, and then halted, casting a shadow upon the elf’s face. The elf’s eyes focused and slowly the dark blotch became a bobbing crow that had perched upon his breast. For a moment, the elf and crow stared at each other. Then, with a squawk, the crow lunged for the elf’s eye. Instinctively, the elf turned his head and the crow’s sharp beak pierced the elf’s cheek, drawing blood. At the sign of resistance, the crow flapped off to find easier eyes to pluck.
The elf became aware of the stinging sensation on his cheek where the crow’s beak had pierced his flesh. As though that small sensation were a key to a door in his mind, the elf became aware of the pain that racked his limbs. Pain flooded into the elf’s consciousness from his extremities like waves over a crumbling wall. The elf wanted to leave it all behind and float back into the depths his conscious had been dragged from, but he could not. Gingerly, the elf probed the memories he had carefully stored away.
There had been a tremendous battle, full of death and screams and blood. Always there was blood. The elf remembered wielding his mighty sword, feeling the steel ring beneath his palm as it severed limbs and cut through bones. Yes, his sword had smoked with the hot blood of his foes that morning, gore running in rivulets down its long blade. The elf, remembered.
The morning had begun in quiet anticipation, those dreadful moments of stillness that always preceded large battles. Hearts throbbing dully within breasts, swords re-oiled, bowtstrings stretched, and the careful deliberation of souls who knew they may soon be breathing their last. And when the battle finally came, it seemed to happen all too fast. As though time had stretched herself only to lurch forward through the battle, like a bowstring slowly drawn and abruptly loosed. Ah, the glory of the army had been a sight to behold that morning. Spears in tight rows, glittering helms, and the morning light upon the intricate banners of the proudest race in the world. Yet all was lost, a bright ship sunk in dark waters. The armies of Chaos had come, sweeping the earth before them, replacing beauty and life with death and gore. Worse, the elves had not fought and died upon the sweet earth of Ulthuan in defense of home and kin. They lay down their lives upon the lands of mortals. But these lands had once been elf home too, and the elves knew only too well the danger of allowing Chaos a foothold anywhere. The Brettonian ambassador, it is said, had begged for aid upon bent knee, openly weeping over the plight of his people. Such a show was rare among the proud Brettonians, and it had stirred the king. An army had been amassed, and sent to the shores of Brettonia, there to join with an army of the mortals and drive Chaos from the land. The elves had arrived, but the Brettonian’s had not. And thus the elven army found themselves sorely outnumbered and set upon by the hordes of Chaos. The Brettonian ambassador was mortified, he had pledged his immortal honor that his kin would arrive as planned. They didn’t.
The morning before the battle, the elf had seen the ambassador stoically strapping on his armor. Tears rolled from his downcast eyes, running in little rivulets down his weathered face and into his grey beard. The elf had felt a pang of regret for him, and silently wished him fortune in whatever destiny awaited him after death. The weathered Brettonian didn’t have to wait long for death, he had been among the first to fall in the battle. The old man had waded boldly into the carnage, his mighty sword dealing out sharp justice to the minions of Chaos- a fearsome knight even in his gray years. But alas! His efforts were in vain, and he fell before the evil tide.
The elf remembered cutting down foe after foe, his footing slippery on the grass red with Chaos blood. His arms had grown weary of wielding his mighty two handed sword, but his years of training at the Tower of Hoeth did not allow his grip to falter, and he had fought on. At last the elf had stood in the path of a Champion of Chaos, foul rune encrusted axe dripping with elf blood. The elf had raised his mighty sword in the death salute to the Champion of Chaos. “I am Ellonar. Hear me, for this sword shall spell your doom” the elf had spoken to the Champion of Chaos. The Champion of Chaos merely raised his axe in acceptance of the challenge, and charged. Their battle had been short, Ellonar was weary and even his skill with the sword was no match for the rune bound axe of the Champion of Chaos. Ellonar had slipped on the bloodied grass underfoot and overextended the arc of his sword, leaving his head unprotected. He narrowly ducked under the sweep of his foe’s axe, only to catch a powerful gauntleted punch full in the head. Ellonar remembered his head being thrown to the side and his helmet ringing with the force of the blow, and then darkness had descended.
Ellonar’s mind returned to the present as he sorrowfully realized that his kin must have perished or been driven from the field, else he would have woken in a tent of healing instead of here on the battle field. Yet Ellonar was also wise enough to realize that the armies of Chaos had not conquered completely, or his head would be sitting in a pile as an offering to the dark gods of Chaos. Ellonar was grateful he was alive, yet he doubted whether he could stay that way. Ellonar’s head throbbed and his body ached, his tongue swollen and dry within his mouth, for all he knew he had lain here for days. Ellonar, pushed his doubts and fear down, and tried to rise to his elbows. As he lifted his head from the ground, a black pain swept into his mind and blurred his eyes. When he had regained his vision and the pain had subsided to a dull throbbing, he was on his back again. After several more failed attempts to raise himself, Ellonar finally succeeded in sitting upright. His eyes sorrowfully gazed across the scene of carnage spread before him. Bodies both foul and fair lay strewn haphazardly about the plain, twisted in the agonies of pain and death. There a follower of Chaos clutching the spear shaft that had pinned him to the ground and bled his life away, there a fair haired elf cut clean in two with a look of sorrow still upon his face, and many others. Black crows and other carrion scavengers hopped lazily about the field, gorging themselves on tender eyes and slimy innards laid bare. Ellonar looked at his hands, stiff and bloodied. The ground was thick with coagulated blood, turning the field into a sticky mess. Ellonar could feel the hair on the back of his head dried stiff with blood where his head had lain upon the ground. Flies buzzed in thick clouds upon the field. The smell of so much rotting flesh left little question as to why the flies had come.
Wrinkling his nose in disgust, Ellonar gingerly pulled his legs from beneath a fallen beastman, shaggy face contorted in pain, and was greeted with another sweeping black wave of pain. Ellonar spotted his sword lying near his hand and pulled it to him. Using his sword as a crutch, Ellonar shakily stood, and barely avoided passing out. When he had adjusted to standing up, Ellonar looked down at his sword. The long blade was encrusted in blood, and in sore need of a good cleaning. But first things first, he would have given every shining sword in the world for a drought of cold water. Wincing, Ellonar began to pick his way from the field of battle, heading for the nearby wood. Ellonar knew that just within the border of the trees ran a little spring, he had drunk from it the morning of the battle. As he picked his way from the field he kept a sharp eye open for water skins among the fallen. He was greeted with a much less pleasant surprise.
There upon the ground was his beloved Prince Arathyn, his head severed from his body and his eyes plucked from their sockets by carrion birds. Arathyn’s long auburn hair would never blow in the gentle winds of Ulthuan again. Ellonar wept. Arathyn had been a noble elf, and the pride of his household. He was the first to volunteer to go to the aid of the mortals, ever seeking to lift the burden of the weak. Ellonar looked about the prince’s fallen body for some sign of his killer and was startled by movement. There, a few spans from the fallen prince’s body, propped up against a pile of dead sat the Champion of Chaos which had leveled Ellonar. Driven through the foul champion’s gut was Arathyn’s sword, which the Chaos Champion still clutched with both hands. There again, the thing moved, pulling feebly on the sword and grunting in pain. Ellonar could feel the dark power from the champion’s rune armor crackling in the air, extending the champion’s life far beyond the natural limits. But the elven sword of Prince Arathyn would not budge, the magic blade stubbornly refusing to give way to the dark power of Chaos. Ellonar hobbled over to where the Chaos Champion sat, and raised his sword in a death salute, nearly toppling over in the process, but finally steadying himself. “I am Ellonar. Hear me, for as I spoke before, this blade shall be your doom” Ellonar rasped, his dry mouth and tongue making speech difficult. The Chaos Champion, looked up, a cruel voice echoing from the depths of his helm “Fool, your soul shall wither before the almighty…” The Chaos Champion’s head rolled to the ground, stopping his speech short. Ellonar stumbled and fell, the momentum of his sword carrying him to the ground. Elven oaths have a funny way of fulfilling themselves. After a few moments of gasping breath and sweeping black pain, Ellonar stood again, and began to hobble toward the woods, hot tears streaming down his face.
***********
Gareth de Leyon raised his mailed fist, signaling his weary retinue to a halt as they came upon the battle scene. In the fading golden light of the day, Gareth surveyed the carnage. Spread before them was the remains of their allies, along with a large Chaos force. Gareth had known what to expect, his scouts had told him that his force was too late, yet he couldn’t help but shed a few tears he was grateful his helm hid from view. Somewhere among the thousands of bodies lay his father. The two armies had either destroyed each other to a man, or the survivors had long fled. Gareth held little hope that his father had survived such a battle, his father was not the type of man to flee from a battle, no matter the odds. Gareth turned to the small force of knights which had come with him to survey the battle scene. “We shall return to the main camp for the night, and return here on the morrow to search for survivors.” His companions nodded ascent and turned their horses back toward the Brettonian camp a few miles away, dreaming of soft beds and the first decent sleep in a long month. They were relieved to be heading back to their tents; it was an ill omen to pick among battlefields in the dark, no matter who the dead were.
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