The creature had the physical appearance and size of an elf, yet somehow it seemed much larger. Eyes of pure, bright fire glowed in its face, easily dissolving any suggestion of mortality. It stalked across the ground without pause or hesitation, reaching out and attacking on the move, striking at any elf too slow to get out of its way.
Like a demon from the Abyss, the monster bashed and howled, clearly enjoying the slaughter it was wreaking on these pathetic mortals. Abruptly it turned to the side, striding across the field, ignoring the horses, now riderless, that bolted past. With a lightning lunge, it reached out to grab a fallen elf by the foot, twirling the hapless fellow over its head and then casting him like a rag doll far across the ground.
The Dark Knight sergeant, apoplectic with rage, roared at his recruits, but even the fury of his loud voice couldn’t control the panic. Indeed, headlong flight seemed like the only proper response, and the companies of Qualinesti recruits raced from the hilltop in all directions. One or two bold elves tried to slash at the creature with their weapons, but the being of chaos merely laughed as the blades snapped against his flesh, or bounced back with no visible effect. A few archers shot, and though their aim was accurate, the arrows merely sizzled into ash as they struck the monster’s impervious skin.
“Who are you? How dare you come here!” demanded Sergeant Major Fennalt. “Now you’ll taste a knight’s steel!”
“Fennalt! Fall back—we can’t fight that thing!” Gilthas clearly saw the futility of attack, realized that their weapons were useless against this horrible apparition. He shouted at the knight, urging him to flee.
But the burly sergeant would have none of it.
Instead, the knight raised his huge, two-handed sword and stalked forward, ready to face the fire-eyed horror that now stood atop the hill, in the center of the Hall of Audience. The elven figure paused, and then twisted and grew. Gilthas gaped, horror-stricken, as he saw an image of a leering giant, the bearded face distorted by the rot of death—and still marred by those hellish eyes. Then the monster changed again, growing into the visage of a draconic face and hulking, scale-covered body.
Fennalt paused for a moment, staring upward with his sword raised. Then he drew a deep breath, shouted a battle cry, and charged. He stabbed, but his sword bounced back from the scaly flesh.
And that monstrous being reached out with hands that had suddenly sprouted cruel claws. It reached for the human, tore his arms from his torso, then gored him with a single sweep of those horrible claws.
The sergeant of the Dark Knights perished in an instant, and by then the rest of Gilthas’s elves had raced for the streets of their city. Appalled, sickened, and horrified, the Speaker could only turn away and join in the flight.
Gilthas made his way to the Tower of the Sun. Everywhere he passed through streets filled with panicked elves, some crying out in fear, others angrily demanding explanations of the inexplicable events of which, finally, they were beginning to learn. But those who had seen the onslaught were too frightened to stop, too terrified and stunned to articulate what they had seen. Instead, they merely shrieked sounds of mindless terror, and fear swept through the city like an irresistible tide.
The sun remained high, baking the hapless metropolis, and in places Gilthas came upon truly bizarre scenes. He saw an elderly elven matron, utterly naked, run screaming from her house, crying that her nightmares had come to life. A few steps later, he saw a burly warrior, a large sword clutched in his hands, frantically dashing around his garden, slashing at the trees and bushes, wood chips and branches flying as he wailed aloud about the end of the world.
Finally the Speaker reached the base of the lofty tower, where he found a large crowd surging outside the doors to the great council chamber. He forced his way through the throng and saw that the golden doors were actually standing ajar. The chamber within was even more crowded than the street, but through sheer will and the considerable use of his elbows and fists, Gilthas managed to push his way farther and farther into the great, circular room.
“The world itself is aflame!” shouted one senator, his voice shrill with panic. “The knights have abandoned us. We have to flee!”
“Silence!” roared Rashas, his own visage pale, his mouth white-lipped and tense. He whirled to confront Gilthas, who was making his way toward the rostrum. “What have you seen? What’s going on out there?” he demanded harshly.
The Speaker climbed the steps and shook his head in a mute admission of ignorance. “I wish I could tell you,” he declared. “We’re attacked by forces unlike anything ever seen in this realm or, I suspect, any other.”
“It’s the Storms of Chaos—they break upon us!” shouted the agitated senator who had previously, and hysterically, given voice to his panic.
“Please try to be calm!” Gilthas pleaded. “Such fears accomplish nothing save to fan the fires of their own making!”
He still wore the ancient sword that he had first taken off the wall in his house a week before. Now the young elf drew and raised the weapon, brandishing silver steel over his head.
“Listen to me!” he cried. “We can’t let ourselves panic. We must try to understand what’s happening!”
The crowd grew silent as Gilthas tried to make sense of the chaotic attack that had ripped through his legion, killed his sergeant, and sent the elven troops fleeing in panic through the streets of their city. And though he had, for the most part, kept his wits about him, he couldn’t decide what had happened, nor could he make any guess as to the nature or homeland of the horrible attacker.
“What happened in the Hall of Audience?” Rashas asked. “We’ve heard reports of a fire-eyed warrior, a giant of unparalleled cruelty!”
The Speaker sighed and nodded grimly. “I saw the thing with my own eyes. It seemed to come from the city streets, walked right up the hill—though how it could have passed among us for long, I don’t know. But when the bravest man of my legion turned to fight the thing, it tore him apart as though he was a child’s toy.”
“And the knights and their dragons?” demanded another elf. “Where are our conquerors now?”
“Lord Salladac is still outside the city,” Gilthas snapped. “He told me his dragons had been summoned to Lord Ariakan, in preparation to face the threat that has now so savagely come upon us.”
“We need him here!” shouted an ashen-faced senator.
“I agree,” Gilthas said, the urgency of the situation overcoming his shame at seeking the human general’s help. “I need volunteers, swift runners to race to his camp and let him know what’s happening here!”
Six elves quickly offered to make the journey, and the crowd parted enough to allow them to leave the tower.
“Now, the rest of you... you need to go to your homes, arm yourselves and your families!” Gilthas ordered, even as he wondered what good weapons might be against the horror he had observed on the hilltop. “Gather everyone who can fight—sons, daughters, servants—everyone! And make haste!”
Some elves started to disperse to follow his bidding, but many members of the Thalas-Enthia milled around in the chamber, shouting at each other, demanding information and protection. Even when Rashas shouted his agreement with the Speaker’s orders, these panicked elders could only wring their hands and cry.
Through the chamber’s golden doors burst a panicked herald. “It’s coming!” he cried, gesticulating wildly. “The demon approaches, and it brings in its wake serpents of pure fire!”
Immediate pandemonium rocked the chamber as the senators scrambled for the main door. Shrieks arose from outside, and through the open portal, Gilthas caught a glimpse of the crowd streaming away. Some of the cries rose to expressions of pure horror, and the air glowed red, as if a fire was showering from the skies themselves.