The Battle for Elannort
Dammar had made his decision and no one, not even Manfred, could dissuade him. With Captain Ventris of the Tower Guard and sixty of his best men, they would mount a pre-emptive strike into the heart of the enemy camp. There, Dammar would kill Weylyn and the battle would be over before it had hardly begun. Dammar was supremely confident, but Manfred was worried. No one knows what deal Weylyn made with Gadiel. Manfred busied himself organising the defences in case Dammar was not successful. Some words that he’d heard a great leader use before came into his head. Never have so many depended for so much on so few. Well, something like that. He stood now, with Aglaral, Dawit, and Taran as Dammar prepared to leave. “May the Balance be with you, Great Sage! Return victorious and let history honour you as the saviour of the multiverse.” Perhaps that’s laying it on a bit too thick?
Dammar seemed to like it. He sat erect on his horse, a golden youth, unprotected by armour or clothing. He carried no shield, just a large broadsword. He was the image of arrogance, the picture of supreme confidence. “Prepare a feast in my honour tonight, Manfred.” Then, turning to Captain Ventris, he issued his orders. “We ride direct to the heart of the enemy. Your job is to make sure that we get there unimpeded by the foot soldiers. Have no mercy on them, they have already died once.”
Dammar raised his sword above his head and screamed, “Charge!” Sixty-two horsemen charged out into the midst of the enemy camp. Like the Charge of the Light Brigade. Manfred couldn’t avoid the thought. The attack initially went well. They had the element of surprise and they had covered three hundred yards into the enemy encampment before the realisation that they were being attacked sank in. Once the troops realised what was happening it became more difficult. Troop commanders quickly organised the massed ranks of the undead. The undead were mostly human, although there was an occasional elf or dwarf amongst them. They were armed with short swords, best suited for hand-to-hand combat. They moved slowly and deliberately, without thought or feeling. They were no match for Melasurej’s crack horsemen. The riders cut a swathe through their ranks, hacking off limbs or heads of the foot soldiers. It was disconcerting to the riders that they did not bleed. It was frightening that the loss of a head often did not stop them advancing. A few horses were brought down by the tangled mass of undead flesh. When that occurred, a score or more of the undead fell upon the warrior. His screams of agony would have curdled milk. If he died, he was lucky.
Captain Ventris had lost almost a third of his men in this way by the time they broke through the ranks of the undead. He would have liked a few moments to regroup, but Dammar was filled with bloodlust and galloped on. The cavalry did its best to keep up. Now Weylyn, alerted to the attack, deployed his wargs. They attacked in packs, from all sides, picking off the horses first and bringing them to the ground. The riders perished at the wargs' leisure, throats torn out as they gorged on human blood. Several wargs died on the swords of the valiant riders, but there were far too many of them to be resisted.
Dammar was unaffected by all of this. It was as if he were being allowed through. By the time he reached the centre of the camp, where Weylyn’s standard flew, there was only Captain Ventris with him. Dammar reined in his horse. Above him, Weylyn’s standard fluttered in the warm breeze. It was a blood red flag with a black anarchy symbol sitting above three white corpses. The corpses were clearly an elf, a dwarf, and a human. In front of him, on a portable gold throne lavishly decorated with gemstones, sat Weylyn the Wolf. Only his green eyes, full of hatred, distinguished him from any other wizard. He didn’t deign to get up.
Dammar spat and the white gob of spittle hit Weylyn in the face. Weylyn didn’t move, but his eyes turned from green to red. Dammar turned to Captain Ventris. “Unfurl our standard.” Ventris sheathed his sword and removed a small flag he had been carrying on his saddle and unfurled it. It was much smaller than Weylyn’s banner and it seemed puny in comparison. It was a pure white flag with a black balance symbol. The Captain looked around. They were surrounded by Weylyn’s army. He appeared to say a prayer to the standard. Dammar appeared unperturbed.
“So we meet again, Weylyn the Traitor. For that is what I have named you and your pedestal in the Avenue of Heroes is so marked. You will go down in history as the one who turned against the Balance and became corrupt and evil. Tell me, what part of your soul did you sell to Gadiel? Did you laugh behind my back as you plotted together in Illium? Prepare to meet justice. Will you stand, or shall I cut you down while you sit on your petty throne?”
Weylyn stood. In one hand, he carried a whip. The handle was jewel encrusted and marked with ancient runes. Its lash seemed to flow like a liquid beam of fluorescent green. With his other hand, he wiped away the spittle from his face. “I have looked forward to this day Dammar. I didn’t expect it would come so soon; that you would be so foolhardy. Look at the poncy youth, all bronzed and cock-sure.” The milling crowd laughed on cue; at least, those among them who were still living men. “I sold my everlasting obedience to Gadiel. In return, he made me master of the dead. My army is invincible. I shall take Elannort, seize Melasurej, and rule FirstWorld on Gadiel’s behalf. What about you, Dammar? What did you trade for your fresh young body and your good looks? You thought that you were too clever for Gadiel. You thought that you could trick him. Yet, all the time you played into our hands. It was my suggestion that he played his little trick on you. Have you enjoyed that?” Weylyn laughed, and the crowd followed suit, although they had no idea what they were laughing at.
“You bastard!” Dammar was angry but calm. “In the name of the Balance, as sole remaining Great Sage, I sentence you to death for your crimes.” He lifted his broadsword to strike Weylyn down.
“Get down from your horse, Dammar.” Weylyn spoke softly. “Put down your sword.” He spoke more loudly. “Kneel before me!” He shouted. Dammar didn’t want to, but he could do nothing but obey. His body refused to follow his commands. He dropped off his horse, threw down his sword, and fell to his knees in front of Weylyn. Ventris looked around nervously and said another prayer.
“I have a new staff. Would you like to see it in action?” Weylyn asked Dammar. “What’s wrong? Wolf got your tongue?” Weylyn and the crowd laughed again.
“You were a fool to put your faith in this pretty boy.” Weylyn addressed Ventris. Weylyn flexed his hand and the whip coiled. A green flash leapt towards the rider and coiled itself around his neck. Ventris died before the scream left his lips. The banner of the Balance fell to the ground and was immediately seized upon by a couple of wargs, who pulled it to shreds. Dammar watched, unable to move. “I was merciful to your Captain. I feel less inclined to be merciful to you. Have you nothing to say before you die? Will you beg me for mercy? Will you anoint me as the ruler of Wizards’ Keep?”
Dammar was lost in a sea of emotions. Hatred was mixed with despair. Anger blended with confusion. He could only form one word. “How?”
“Didn’t you ever wonder how you could still be alive and have your statue present in the Avenue of Heroes? It was a neat little trick, another of my ideas, I’m afraid. Don’t you see Dammar? You are already dead. You are one of the undead. You are mine to command for eternity. I shall take great pleasure in torturing you. You will regret the day that you made a deal with Gadiel.”
The green lash flashed and wrapped itself around Dammar’s neck. The screams of agony went on for a good twenty minutes before Weylyn grew bored. They were heard across the camp and in the city of Elannort. Grown men cried as they heard them. Wargs cowered in fear at the sound. The undead shrugged; they had heard and felt it all before, he’d get used to it after a hundred years or so. On the outskirts of Elannort, Manfred shivered and his flesh turned to goose bumps. He knew what the sound meant, and he figured that his turn was not far away. High above the encampment, a solitary eagle observed the scene and gave a mournful call before flying to Elannort and landing on the top of the High Tower.
When Weylyn had tired of torturing Dammar, he turned his attention towards Elannort. He ordered the attack. They came at the city from all sides. The unrelenting march of the undead formed the cannon fodder. Packs of wargs roamed at will, inflicting damage by guerrilla raids, quickly in and out again. The human troops followed up, more circumspect in their actions, since they had lives to protect and didn’t wish to join the undead corps. Behind them, the elite cavalry waited to attack those who fled from their positions. Amongst them roamed a range of fell chaos creatures. These were visions from children’s nightmares: three-headed dogs with slavering maws, cockroaches the size of sheep, huge scorpions with pincers that would snap a man’s neck, six feet diameter spiders with fangs that would suck the brains from living skulls, giant cats that would torture and play with their human prey before they finally killed it. Everywhere they went, the chaos creatures generated fear and panic in the defenders.
Manfred, mounted on a white stallion, seemed to be everywhere. He shone in the sunlight, his white cloak, hair and beard glowing. His staff breathed blue fire and smote the enemy, living, dead, or chaos creature alike. Wherever he was, morale was raised and fear was quelled. However, when he moved on, terror and panic soon returned. Aglaral, Dawit, and Taran fought side by side where the fighting was at its most fierce. Dawit’s axe cleaved many skulls, both living and dead. Taran’s arrows found their marks. He concentrated on downing chaos creatures and cavalry officers. Aglaral lead his troops with valour. His swordsmanship proved too good for any of the enemy.
Wave after wave, the enemy pressed forward. The defenders fell back to their prepared positions. With each retreat, the number of defenders was decimated. As his minions advanced, Weylyn entered the city astride his horse. He followed the spiral streets that he knew so well, until he entered the Avenue of Heroes that lead to Melasurej, the Wizards’ Keep. He rode in triumph, the frozen statues of the sages staring down on him, perhaps in awe, perhaps in disbelief. There were few empty pedestals now. One for him, one for Manfred the Magician, a few others for non-wizards – he didn’t pay much attention to them. By this day’s end, there would be but one wizard left alive. He would enjoy Manfred’s slow death. He would play with him, like one of his chaos pets.
The few defenders who remained alive fell back to the gates of Melasurej. Manfred turned to his companions. Aglaral, Dawit, and Taran all still survived, but each of them had taken many wounds. Taran had run out of arrows and was now relying on his sword while Dawit’s axe had been shattered.
“Fall back into the Keep. I will make a last stand here. We need Simon now. Bring him out immediately, if he returns. If he doesn’t, you will have your chance to make a last stand too.”
Aglaral started to argue, “I would stay with you, master, and share your fate.” However, Manfred would broach no arguments, and the gates soon closed behind them, leaving Manfred alone facing the approaching mob. He leant on his staff for support and muttered a brief prayer to the Balance. May I be strong in my final test? Behind a pile of rubble, next to the gates, Kris cowered. He had been observing the battle, for his story, but had missed the opportunity to get back into the Keep. Now he was rooted to the spot in fear. Manfred stared ahead. He had not noticed Kris. A mass of perverted humanity was approaching. A solid wall of the undead surged forward, seeming unstoppable, like a tsunami poised for destruction. They halted about five yards from Manfred. They were wary of the power of his staff.
Manfred challenged them. “Which of you will step forward and feel the wrath of Manfred the Magician? Come on, I will put an end to your misery.” They stared at him, their eyes vacant and without hope. They said nothing. No one moved. Unobserved, for the moment, Kris fouled himself.
Manfred practised slow, deep, regular breathing. He knew he could handle any number of the undead. Their master, however, would be a bigger challenge. If Weylyn had defeated Dammar, what hope was there for him? Careful, I must not lose my self-confidence. He took a firm grip on his staff and stood upright. Directly before him, the masses of undead moved aside, like Moses parting the Red Sea. A rider on a horse approached. The undead cowered, abasing themselves before him. Weylyn wasn’t that different to Manfred. His physical appearance was much the same. He too appeared old and frail with long white hair and a flowing white beard. The eyes were different, though. Weylyn’s eyes were green and cold. When they saw Manfred, they burned red with hatred. He didn’t carry a staff. Instead, his right hand held a whip. The handle was laden with jewels and intricately carved with ancient runes. The lash appeared to be a band of light that glowed fluorescent green. Weylyn looked down at Manfred. “So we meet at last old friend.” The hate in his eyes belied his words.
“You shall not pass!” Manfred’s voice was powerful and confident.
Weylyn threw back his head and laughed. “You old fool. Do you really think that you can stop me? I, who defeated Dammar as easily as if he were a puppy dog? Let me pass and I shall give you a merciful end. I shall soon be the last remaining wizard on FirstWorld. I shall then claim my right to be leader of the Council of the Wise. I shall take my place in Melasurej as absolute ruler of FirstWorld and my army of undead shall ensure that all do my bidding.” He laughed again and drew back his right arm, causing the green whip to ripple in the air menacingly.
“You are a fool Weylyn. You are but the pawn of Gadiel. Do you think he will let you do as you wish? He will return to claim everything and you will be destroyed.”
Weylyn’s eyes blazed crimson in fury. He lashed out with his whip, aiming for Manfred’s neck. Manfred countered with his staff and the green lash wrapped around that instead. It seemed then that time stood still. The two wizards pitted all of their strength and powers against each other. The staff fought the whip. The two talismans buzzed with energy. Manfred’s staff blazed with blue electricity. The colour of the whip changed from green, to yellow, to purple, and finally to the crimson red of Weylyn’s eyes. Then it was over. Manfred’s staff broke into a thousand fragments and the old man was cast to the ground. It is over. I have failed. I wish it could have been otherwise but I have done my best and I am ready to die.
“Prepare to depart for the Avenue of Heroes, old fool.” Weylyn gloated and drew back his arm to coil the whip again. “You have lost. The Balance has finally tipped. Go to stone, old fool, and spend eternity in regret.” It would seem that I have bad luck with whips.
In the shadows behind the rubble, Kris closed his eyes, not wanting to watch Manfred die. Therefore, he didn’t notice the rat that was sharing his cover, which proceeded to sink its teeth into his leg.
“No!” A strange new voice rang out as Kris jumped up in pain.
Weylyn, surprised by this interruption, paused in his execution. “Who are you? Do I know you? Speak or die!”
“You should know me. I slaved in your kitchens and carried out your traitorous work, spying on my comrades for you. I am Kris, Bard of Karo. I am writing the true story of this war. Your evil and duplicity will be recorded for all to know. You will be reviled for what you are, arse-licker of the evil one. You will not harm Manfred. If you try to, you will be destroyed.” The crowd gasped in amazement, and it took something very extraordinary to stir the undead. Manfred rolled over and sat up. Kris? The coward, Kris? How could he be such a brave fool?
Weylyn was enraged by the outburst. His eyes and the whip blazed bright crimson. He whirled his whip to strike down the small pale man who had dared speak to him in such a vile way. For the second time, his execution plans were upset. The gates of Melasurej sprang open and he was confronted by a strange group of beings. Kris took advantage of the moment to jump back behind his rock. The rat, checking that he was not being observed, transformed himself into a small cat and jumped onto the top of the wall, where he could get a better view of the proceedings.
“We represent the four peoples of FirstWorld. I am Taran, Prince of Elfdom; I represent the First Born.” Taran held his drawn sword, vertically in front of him so that he appeared to peer at Weylyn through the sword.
“I am Dawit son of Dia son of Din, Prince of Dwarfdom; I represent the Second Born.” Dawit carried the remnants of his axe in both hands.
“I am Aglaral, Captain of the Guard of the City of Elannort, citizen of the City States; I represent humankind.” Aglaral carried his sword like Taran.
“I am Jhamed al Suraqi, companion of Heroes and servant of wizards; I represent the Balance.” Jhamed carried no visible weapons.
“And I am Simon Rufus, Everlasting Hero. I carry the sword Kin Slayer, which shall be your bane unless you and your army surrender immediately.” Simon was dressed only in a simple white loincloth, hastily donned. Kin Slayer remained sheathed at his side. The five companions stepped forward, so that they were between Manfred and Weylyn.
“You!” Weylyn spat. “So we meet at last, Red Boy. Are you ready to join Dammar to become my undead slave for eternity?”
Simon was outwardly calm. “I give you one final chance, Weylyn. Throw down your whip and surrender and I will spare you. Otherwise you WILL die.” I hope I appear more convincing than I feel.
Weylyn laughed crazily. “You! Look at you! You are a skinny boy. You model yourself on Dammar. He was ten times the hero you are and I swatted him like a fly. You will pay for your insolence when I have you.” He drew back his arm and coiled his whip.
“Back, all of you!” Simon yelled, jumping forward. A small voice in his head spoke to him. Your right arm. He followed its command and clumsily drew Kin Slayer with his right hand. The whip curled and darted towards him. He met it with Kin Slayer. The whip wrapped itself around the sword. It was the battle with Manfred’s staff all over again. This time the ruby on Kin Slayer’s hilt glowed red, while the whip changed colour from green to yellow to purple to crimson to white. Kin Slayer sang as the whip shattered and Weylyn was pulled off horseback to the ground.
Weylyn must have been surprised by this unplanned turn of events, but he wasn’t beaten yet; he transmogrified into his wolf form, and now appeared as a cross between a wolf and a man, a hideous werewolf. He was eight feet tall; long fangs, dripping with poison; a wolf’s body and paws; standing on his two hind legs. His red eyes darted this way and that, seeking an escape route. He turned towards his army and ran towards them, expecting them to part and let him pass. They stood unmoving. He howled in fury and turned back towards Simon. He had one chance. Even in his animal form, he knew that. If Simon were the Everlasting Hero, he could not be killed while he held the sword. He must be disarmed. Weylyn took a huge risk. He darted towards Simon and jumped, as if making for the boy’s neck. Instead, he twisted in mid air and sank his teeth into Simon’s right arm. He had evaded the sword. Victory could still be his.
Simon screamed in agony, from a combination of the fangs sinking into his flesh and the poison being pumped into his veins. He had misjudged the wolf’s jump and he had been clumsy with Kin Slayer in his wrong hand. Just as he was about to drop the sword, he grabbed Kin Slayer with his left hand and felt a flood of energy from the sword that helped him overcome the pain. Weylyn’s jaws were still clamped around Simon's arm when Kin Slayer entered his body and found his heart. Weylyn was still savouring the sweet taste of victory and the red boy’s blood when his soul was snatched from his body and consumed by Kin Slayer. The wolf’s body fell to the ground, shrivelled and turned to dust. On the city wall, a small cat purred with pleasure.
Simon, injured though he was, wasn’t finished yet. Kin Slayer needed to feed some more. He turned on the massed army of the undead and began to put them out of their misery. They seemed no longer to have purpose and fell on the sword willingly. He scythed through their ranks as the rest of Weylyn’s army turned and fled. Their commander tried to regroup them outside the city, but there was a further surprise awaiting them.
Manfred, still stunned by his narrow escape from death and the rapid turn of events, struggled to his feet. A retainer rushed through the gate. He spoke excitedly to Manfred. “My lord, come quickly, you must see this. There are four armies approaching the city.” Manfred looked blankly at the servant. More surprises! What now? “Who are they? What flags do they carry?”
The servant took a couple of deep breaths. “An elven army approaches from the east. Queen Ceridwen leads it. They carry the standard of the blue eye. It is the army of Jeohab. A dwarven army approaches from the west. It is led by King Dia son of Din son of Dane. They carry the flag of the red ‘A’. It is the army of Satania. From the south comes an army of humans. They fly the flag of the City States but superimposed on the flag are the blue eye and the red ‘A’. The army of Tamarlan comes from the north. They too have the symbols of law and chaos marked on their standard.”
Manfred led the companions back into the Keep. They climbed to the top of the High Tower where they could observe the battle. All except for Kris, who went to have a bath and a change of clothes first. It was a one-sided contest. Weylyn’s army was already broken by the loss of its leader. The undead portions of his army were released from their slavery by Weylyn’s death and found their eternal peace at last on the blades of their erstwhile enemies' swords. The living had no stomach for the battle. It was carnage and many of the enemy were allowed to flee as the four armies showed mercy. No mercy was shown to the chaos creatures, which alone put up a decent fight. Simon and Kin Slayer showed no mercy either until the sword was sated. When he returned to the keep he was again red with blood, some of it his own. Without Kin Slayer’s energy to support him, he collapsed. He was taken to Manfred, who was busy treating the many wounded from the battle. Manfred was still treating Simon when the leaders of the four armies arrived.
Manfred jumped up and embraced them all. “Well met, my friends. Your timely arrival was a great tonic. It was unlooked for. I would like to know how you all coordinated such a wonderful coincidence?”
“It was no coincidence. Surely, you know that? Your messenger came to us and requested our aid. He told us when we had to be in Elannort and the route to travel,” Gamyon said.
“We received a similar message,” Ceridwen said.
“We followed the instructions of your messenger and allowed Weylyn’s army to pass through the City States uncontested. We then marched to Elannort as per his instructions,” Velacourt said.
“Your messenger showed us the dimension portal within First Delve and told us we should leave FirstWorld. He directed us to another realm where we discovered that dwarves still live and prosper. He told us to raise an army and gave us instructions how to return. We returned to FirstWorld through a portal on the Fools’ Road and marched to the city,” Dia son of Din son of Dane said.
Even in the haze of his pain, Simon saw that Manfred was nonplussed by these developments. Who has been acting on our behalf to help us? Simon remembered how they had thought they were being followed when they travelled to Dishley. He remembered the two-headed lemur creature that had spoken to him. Even today, where had the thought come from to use his right hand? He had thought it must have been Manfred, but perhaps it wasn’t. He drifted off to sleep with too many questions running through his head and the last words he heard Manfred speak registering in his ears.
“It would seem that fate, or some other entity, has arranged for today’s actions to play out. Has the prophecy been validated or rewritten? The three armies were present today, but they chose to take the same side to defeat evil. Would that it were always so. Will the pattern be repeated? There is much to think about.”
Next day, the reduced numbers of the Council of War met around the oak table in the Great Hall at Melasurej. Dammar and Captain Ventris had fallen in the battle. The surviving members were joined though by Simon Rufus, Kin Slayer proudly scabbarded at his side; Ceridwen Queen of the Elves; Dia son of Din son of Dane, King beneath the Mountain; Gamyon Regent of Tamarlan; and Lord Velacourt representing the City States. Simon was surprised to see Velacourt again. He seemed like a new man in more ways than one. He had lost a great deal of weight and he had, according to reports, acquitted himself well in battle. Kris the Bard had been allowed to join the meeting, in his new capacity as official scribe. Simon sat with Jhamed on his left and Kris on his right. His bandaged right arm throbbed in pain, but Manfred had assured him he would recover fully. Ceridwen, Simon noted, was as beautiful as ever and she had the usual physical impact on him. She addressed the meeting.
“The representatives of the four armies and the three races have agreed that Manfred the Magician, the last of the Wise, be appointed our Commander-in-Chief and Chair of the FirstWorld Council of War. We salute you for your valiant efforts, which resulted in victory at the Battle of Elannort, year of creation 50506.” She bowed low to Manfred and the other committee members clapped and cheered. Simon, smiling, joined in. So much has happened in such a short time. I’m so glad that Jhamed, Dawit, and Taran made it through with me. Kris too, he’s a hero now instead of a coward. I wonder what changed him?
“I thank you for your confidence and for the great honour that you show me. We may have won this battle, but the war has only just begun. The Final Battle may yet be fought here, but the next stages of the war must be waged in other dimensions. We must understand what Gadiel is doing and attempt to thwart him.” Manfred paused and looked at Simon. “I’m afraid that the load is going to fall on the Hero and his companions.” I thought so. No rest for the wicked. “That is for the future. Tonight there will be a great feast. We will honour those who gave their lives in the battle to save Elannort. We will remember the Great Sage Dammar. We will salute the four armies of FirstWorld who came to our aid in our darkest hour. We will thank those amongst us for their courage in battle. Our official bard, Kris, will recite his latest work, describing the Battle of Elannort and the fall of Weylyn the Traitor.” Beside him, Simon felt Kris squirming in embarrassment. He looked forward to hearing the story.
Above them, on the ceiling, the symbol of the Balance had tipped. It was a little closer to equilibrium than it had been before, but was still heavily weighted towards Chaos. On a soft chair, hidden from view by the table, a small cat pummelled the cushion and purred quietly to itself. It was no ordinary cat; it had small wings that it folded into its back so that they were hidden by its golden fur.
Simon looked at Jhamed. The little man had cleaned his hat and put a new feather in it. His black curls were stuffed under it untidily as usual. His long arrogant nose made him look like an eagle about to strike. Simon smiled and put his good arm around his friend and gave him a hug. If they were going to go travelling through the dimensions, he couldn’t think of a better person to accompany him.