They shared much, these two warriors who had never met. Akin and unrivaled in their battle prowess, adhering to a common code of morality and justice that would not tolerate one such as Ungden the Usurper, elf-lord and ranger prince realized immediately an empathetic bond.
Even as he noticed several of the Warders closest to Ungden pull long glaives off their mounts to protect against an assault from the air, Arien knew without doubt what action the mighty ranger would take.
Timing would be the key.
Bearing down on the Overlord of Pallendara, Belexus shared Arien’s fire, blood coursing hot with rage through his veins.
Arien moved sluggishly now, intentionally tempering the pace of his fight to dull the edge of his foes’ wariness. He had no margin for error; there would be no second chance.
A fleeting shadow passed as Calamus swooped, and as Arien had hoped, it caused a slight distraction in the eyes of his opponents.
The flashing speed returned to the Eldar’s sword arm. Fahwayn razored across the chest of one Warder, and with a subtle twist of his wrist, Arien continued the same motion of the blade and drove its point under the breastplate of the other. He finished neither move, having not the time nor the will to kill either of his worthy adversaries. But still his attack proved successful, with both Warders falling back to avoid Fahwayn’s fell cut, stumbling aside and leaving the path to Ungden cleared before Arien.
For Belexus now executed his role in the assault. He had started, predictably, toward Ungden, bringing up a wall of pole arms. But then he swerved Calamus aside, and as Arien cracked through the first line, drawing the attention of the two Warders of the second ring, Belexus dove upon them.
A battering ram of flesh and muscle, the ranger and his winged steed smashed into the first rider and drove him and his mount into the second and beyond. Belexus had played his part perfectly, and the demon in his blood was placated when he felt the rush of air as Arien charged through the gap behind him.
Desperately, the Warders closest to the Usurper tried to swing their cumbersome weapons about. But to their horror, Arien was already beyond them, and for that moment it seemed to the Eldar and to the Usurper that they were the only two people on the field. All other sights diminished to meaningless blurs by singular, all-consuming emotions: the anger in Arien, and the terror in Ungden.
Pitifully, Ungden drew his ornate sword, hardly able to hold the heavy blade steady in his feeble arms. Fahwayn twirled above Arien’s head once, then smashed into Ungden’s sword, driving it from his grasp. No mercy stayed Arien’s rage; he didn’t even realize that his whimpering opponent was now unarmed as he brought Fahwayn above his head again in a twirl. Without the slightest hesitation, he unleashed all of his anger into one mighty swing and lopped off the Usurper’s head.
Ungden’s body held its position for a moment, as if frozen in disbelief, then slumped onto the back of its horse. Arien watched with grim satisfaction as the head rolled about in the dirt. He expected the Warders to rush in and kill him now, but the only rider approaching was Belexus, bending low over the side of Calamus to scoop up the head.
Soon the ranger was soaring over the field, displaying the gruesome trophy and blowing wildly on his horn.
To Arien’s amazement, the Warders of the White Walls saluted him for his victory and, heads down in shame, started back across the field. The Eldar looked upon them with pity now, honorable men broken by the bindings of an oath that had forced them into servitude to a tyrant. Only by defeating them in battle had Arien and Belexus freed them of their responsibilities.
With the sight of their own champions leaving, and the great ranger-with two score of his brutal allies charging down upon them-holding their Overlord’s severed head, the Calvans’ heart for this fight shattered. Some fought on, more in fear than in anger, but most rode wildly back across Mountaingate and fled into the cover of Avalon. Many merely dropped their weapons and pleaded for mercy.
The Battle of Mountaingate was ended.
Chapter 25
To the Victor
“DANCE WITH ME!” she teased, and twirled across the moonlit field, the short cape tossing about her naked form as she ran, heightening his hunger. He could not resist her, was defenseless against her innocent smile, her bewitching eyes, and her simple purity. She could break him with a word.
And yet he knew only security in her presence.
The cape rode up high as she spun with a careless laugh, her thighs catching the quiet rays of moonlight in a soft, enticing glow that held his longing gaze.
A long moment passed and still the light commanded his full attention. Subtly the light transformed, intensified, an entity unto itself now.
It should have been gone… the cape would fall back down… surely she must have moved again.
But it remained.
And she was gone, and the field. He tried to recapture the moment, the feeling, but they were no more. Only the light remained.
The light.
He became aware of something chill and wet against his cheek. Gradually he realized that he was lying facedown.
Doggedly, Del willed one of his eyes open. The brightness soon came into focus as bedewed grass, holding a crystalline sparkle that could only be the light of morning. Beyond stood the arching silver telvensils that formed the gateway to the paths up the mountains.
He was on Mountaingate, he realized, and the name triggered other recollections. Slowly he rolled over and propped himself up on his elbows to survey the field. A harsh reality awaited him.
Mountaingate, once proud and fitting entrance to the great Crystal Mountains, lay in ruin. Beneath the maddened charge of armies, its waving grasses had been trampled and churned into broken sod, now slick with the blood and gore of the fallen. Crumpled and broken forms, elven and human alike, littered the field, and riderless horses wandered mournfully about in aimless confusion. Wisps of gray smoke still rose from the areas charred and blackened by wizard’s fire, dulling Del’s vision with a dreamlike quality.
But Del understood the reality. A bitter mixture of revulsion and anger welled in his throat as he gazed upon the carnage. He thought of the beauty and magic of this land, given to man as a gift from the gods, and one word alone escaped from the bile in his mouth. “Sacrilege.”
He turned away, unable to face Billy and Sylvia as they approached, and saw yet another travesty.
Along the western side of Mountaingate by the drop to Blackemara, the Calvan prisoners sat huddled and miserable under a brutal guard of unsympathetic elves. The wretched humans were not allowed to move or speak, and punishment for any disobedience came swift and harsh, the butt end of a spear or a well-aimed kick.
“Their hate runs deep,” Billy said, noticing that Del had taken an interest in the scene.
Helplessly Del shook his head, desperately wishing that he could block out all of the grisly scenes before him. “Ardaz?” he asked suddenly, remembering Thalasi’s assault on the ledge.
“He is well,” Sylvia replied. “Angfagdul’s attack wounded him.” She mimicked Ardaz’s voice lightheartedly. “ ‘But we wizards are a sturdy lot, you know, tougher than the stones in a mountain, though a bit more cracked, I do daresay!’ ” But even Sylvia couldn’t hold her smile. “He is at council now, with Ryell and Arien and the other elders,” she explained.
“And Erinel?”
Billy and Sylvia looked to each other for support.
“Gone, Del,” Billy answered grimly. He looked forlornly over the blasted field. “Like so many others.”
Del had to force himself to breathe steady over the next few minutes.