IV. Tales from the Shadowlands....

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Aicanor
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Re: Tales from the Shadowlands....

#151 Post by Aicanor »

By the way, does this 'slightly arrogant' prince have a name, or should he be known forever only as Yaule, the cat prince of Spires? :D
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Re: Tales from the Shadowlands....

#152 Post by Elessehta of Yvresse »

I don't remember if the Prince of Spires was named yet.
[url=http://www.ulthuan.net/forum/viewtopic.php?f=5&t=34506][i]Lord Elessehta Silverbough of Ar Yvrellion, Ruler of Athel Anarhain, Prince of the Yvressi.[/i][/url]
[quote="Narrin’Tim"]These may be the last days of the Asur, but if we are to leave this world let us do it as the heroes of old, sword raised against evil![/quote]
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Re: Tales from the Shadowlands....

#153 Post by Prince of Spires »

When you're as famous and powerfull as the prince of Spires the title sais it all. You don't need anything more. It's only the 'lesser' heros who need a name.

;)

(that and he probably has a realy embarassing name...)

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Re: Tales from the Shadowlands....

#154 Post by Elithmar »

@Rod, I was thinking earlier that, as you say, they are probably considered mature by 100 and then just get wiser and wiser. You don't seem to come across 'old' elves in the stories. By that I mean they are getting physically, and mentally, weaker and more dependent on others. I suppose the 'heros' in the stories are probably strong enough not to 'lose their marbles'. Perhaps all the elves die in battle before they get too old.

Ha, the Caledorians could only muster 10 knights? Hooray for the return of the Nagarathii too. Looking forward to the battles. ;)
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Re: Tales from the Shadowlands....

#155 Post by Headshot »

Part 19 – The Blighted Isle


“Rufus, do you ever have the feeling that we are all bound up in a story not of our making?” Trian asked softly. The older student hesitated a moment. He continued, “That the paths we take were laid out before us… by the stars… by the gods… by fate… Long before we were ever born.”

Rufus looked over at him. They stood alone, sequestered in a small glade, high in the Anulii hills. A grey monolith dominated the glade; a stone obelisk that may have once been an ancient waystone, except the focusing crystal was long gone. And the stone itself was covered with a clash of carvings: faces, elven and daemonic, stared out from its four sides. They were cut in no single style, and they covered the entirety of the structure from base to peak. The eyes seemed to follow Rufus as he paced about the clearing.

“Trian, you can go,” Rufus said. “Leave. Now. Tonight. I’ll help you.”

“No Rufus,” Trian spoke slowly, not looking at him. “This is what I want too.” He shook his head. “The north needs a Shadow Prince. I did not know how desperately until I saw the faces in the Hall of Conclave…. And I can do this….”

“Trian you don’t have to. Someone else can,” Rufus continued.

“Rufus… ‘someone else can’ goes until the end of the world. Always someone else can do it,” Trian said quietly. “But duty is when one stands up and says, ‘No. I will do it.’ So someone else doesn’t have to….”

Rufus looked hard at him. The older boy’s face was drawn and gaunt. He looked to have aged centuries in the few months they had traveled together. And there was something about the older student’s eyes now that were haunted….

“Trian….” He started.

Trian lifted his hand and laid it upon Rufus shoulder. A tired smile came to his face. “Rufus… you have been a good friend to me,” he said. “I am… I am only sorry that I wasn’t a better friend to you before… back in the Tower.”

Before Rufus could say anything, his father Narrin’Tim appeared, climbing up the path that led to the lake below.

“The Clan Elders await,” he said. “It is time.”

Trian nodded, and walked over to join the Shadow Warrior.

***

The wing brother circled once, and then descended onto the barren wasteland. Trian climbed from its back. The eagles carrying Rufus and Narrin’Tim settled beside him. The two warriors climbed off.

Trian turned and laid his hand upon the neck of the great eagle. “Thank you, wing brother,” he said softly. The bird stared at him with a massive golden eye, full of intelligence. Trian stroke its feathers once more, before patting it a final time, and stepped back. The eagle blinked once, and then leapt skywards. In moments it was a small dot disappearing in the distance.

“They will return when called for.” Tim stood next to him. Trian nodded and watched the eagles disappear. It was a wonder that he never thought to have been able to see in his lifetime….

But it seemed that legends rising from the grave was the order of the day. He ran his fingers across the black and gold armor he now wore. The rips and tears in the leather; the bent rings in the mail; the split bands of ithilmar. All testified to the countless battles the armor had seen. And yet…. The Clan Council had voted. And Trian had put on the armor, the mantle of his new office.

And felt no different.

He had said as much to Narrin’Tim. The old warrior had shaken his head. “You are not the Shadow Prince just yet. There is one more thing that must be done. A ritual that must be completed.”

And so they had come north, on wings of eagles, to this desolate, bleak landscape.

“The Blighted Isle,” Narrin’Tim said gravely. And somehow, without ever having stepped foot here before, Trian knew it to be true. The island was lifeless: no small reptile or rodents scurried across its shale or sand; no thorny weed or vine grew on the face of its boulders. It was a dead place, devoid of even crawling insects.

Yet more than that, it was the… feeling of the place. How the hairs at the back of Trian’s neck stood on edge, as if he was being watched. Watched by some invisible, unassailable foe. As if a great eye, somewhere about the island, was fixed upon him, in lidless hatred. And every breath he took seemed forced. The very air seemed to wreak havoc with his lungs and throat. His heart beat sluggishly, as if some spectral fist had it in its grip… and was slowly squeezing….

But worse than all that, was the throbbing. The hideous, unconscionable throbbing in limb and chest. Like the vibrations that follow a thunderstrike, they seemed to ripple through Trian periodically. Though accompanied by no sound, nor sight of movement. And with every throb he felt a compulsion, a terrible desire to stagger inwards, into the island’s desolation. To go inside, and take what was rightfully his….

“It is the Sword of Khaine,” Narrin’Tim whispered. “It calls to all Asur. It demands our worship. But we must resist it. YOU, Trian, must resist it. For to take it up is death and ruination to the bearer, and perhaps to the world as well….”

“And that is the place we must go? To complete the ritual,” Trian asked. He was wincing now; the throbbing in his body had progressed to his head. It felt as if iron picks were scrapping at the inside of his skull.

“Yes.”

“Then let us get this over with,” Trian finished.

“Careful,” Tim said. “In days of old there were watchtowers about the island. Guarded by Shadow Warrior and Shrine Guard alike. But they have long since fallen into ruin. It is certain that Malek’kith’s warriors hold the island.”

Trian nodded and started walking. He needed no guide: the compulsion in his heart, and the pull behind his eyes, led him surely towards the island center. The throbbing in his skull began to bring flashes of light to his vision.

He reached down to touch the mail; just for something real, something tangible, to feel against his fingers. There was no magic there to protect him, he knew it. The armor was ancient, but it carried no protective enchantments. Not like the ithilmar plate of Caledor, or the quicksilver mail of Saphery: armors that would not only turn the blade of the strongest of adversaries, but would also magically mend itself, or even shield the barer against the deadliest of dragon fire. The Shadow Armor had no such power. It was ancient; rough warn; and fit awkwardly about his shoulders. He had asked Narrin’Tim about its forging…

“It was crafted when Woe rebelled against the Five and Malek’kith, the Betrayer,” the Shadow Warrior had explained. “The first Shadow Coven had taken his armor and woven the most powerful grey magic into it. And that is saying something… The ancients had a command of the winds that we today can only imitate, as children might their elders.”

“But,” Trian had said. “I sense no enchantments about it. No touch of magic or rune. It feels quite ordinary. Mundane even.”

Narrin’Tim had nodded at that. “Yes, the grey magic has ever been about the unseen. But it is there. The most potent piece of phantasmancy ever cast….”

“What is it?” Trian had asked.

Narrin’Tim had taken a deep breath, and then whispered, just so that he could here. “The Shadow Armor allows the barer to trick Death Himself, the all knowing, Leveler of Worlds. Just one time. One precious time. But it does….”

And with that cryptic explanation they had mounted their eagles and come north, to here, the Blighted Isle, and… the Altar of Khaine. Whereupon the deadliest weapon know to god or mortal was enshrined. Forever shunned; but not forgotten.

They climbed the slope of the hill that formed the island interior. It was a rusty red color, laced with the occasional grey stone boulder. Veins of black obsidian could be seen in the hill’s broken faces, as pure as crystal. Occasionally they broke the surface creating a surreal tableau of black prisms jutting forth from sand or stone.

In minutes they discovered evidence that they were not alone on the island.

“Warriors. Many of them. Riding clawed beasts,” Narrin’Tim said from where he crouched in the sand. “Druchii Cataphracts. And not too distant; the wind hasn’t erased the trace yet. We must hurry!”

They redoubled their pace and continued climbing the hill. In just over a half an hour they reached its crest. Trian stopped and gasped. Before him lay a squat stone ziggurat of blood red sandstone. It spread out to the left and right as far as the eye could see. But its many tiers all led up and receded to a singular enclosed shrine at its apex: an unadorned structure of black obsidian. A single entrance lay open, yawning like the mouth of a kraken, beckoning them onwards.

The Shrine of Khaine! Here at last. The power to destroy worlds!! And then build them anew from the ashes! It lay just there… within his grasp.

Trian could feel the compulsion now, no longer a painful tug, but a soothing sweet caress on his face. It flooded through his veins more potent than the strongest of wines. The sky and earth seemed to trade places before him. He took a step closer….

And stopped. He could see Rufus a little to the side. The boy was gritting his teeth. Blood was smeared across his scarred cheek. The blood oozed from the boy’s nostrils. And dripped from the boy’s ears. Trian shook his head. Narrin’Tim was there too; his teeth were bared as fangs, and he looked something monstrous and awful, like a bat-demon made flesh. As Trian watched, bloody tears dripped from his eyes.

But then a horn sounded. A long clarion sound, but with a twisted, soulless note. Trian shook his head. The visions passed.

“Druchii!” Narrin’Tim shouted. “They’ve found us.” More horns sung out. “And it’s a patrol in force.” The Nagarathi warrior chewed on his lip and surveyed the stones at the temple’s base. He turned to Trian. “Go! We will stay here, and hold them off!!”

“But…”

“Go!! You will know what to do!”

With one last look at the father and son, Trian turned and ran up the ziggurat steps. As he ran he could hear the war cries and the sound of rattling armor and harness of the approaching Druchii war party. But then he passed into the obsidian hall, and all was silence.

It was dark inside. But not the impenetrable darkness of the space between the stars, or the pitch black under earth. Here, the darkness had… form. It was shaded. And Trian saw not just one undifferentiated black before him, but a myriad of shadows. The blackness flowed and gathered about him, tugging at his ankles and feet. He shook his head, but it made no difference. Slowly he stepped further in… staggering into the dark. He saw that the room was empty…

Except for a single stone altar. A plinth of black stone, set with gold runes. Runes that spoke of fire, hatred and war. The many, uncountable, names of Khaela-Mensha-Khaine!

And atop the alter, laying there as if left by a negligent hand, was a blade. It was simple and unadorned. The handle was an ancient, baroque design, wrapped in shark-skin. The blade itself though, seemed to exude its own light along its length. A fine reddish glow flowed from it. The tempered line, along the blade’s edge, seemed to ripple upon the black metal, like the shore of a flaming sea seen from a vast distance….

The Sword of Khaine. The destroyer of worlds. With this I could be a god….

And yet to touch it was surely death. He knew it. Only Aenarion had ever possessed the strength to wield it. And even then, it cost him his very soul.

It was death to touch it. The altar beneath the sword was stained with the blood of its many victims. He could see the dried, congealed blood caked upon the top and sides of the stone. The rivulets of long ago, dried in place, giving the stone a mottled appearance.

I am here, Trian thought. The ritual brings me here, to the Sword of Khaine. But to touch it, to claim it, is my destruction. And the destruction of all I love. The sword cannot be used. All it does is destroy….

And bring death… The thought percolated in Trian’s mind. He fell to his knees before the altar. He looked at the blade in the darkness…

And hesitated. So this is the end, he thought. Tears fell across his cheeks as the realization hit him. He was sorry. So very sorry. Sorry that he would never see his uncle or cousins again in Chrace. Sorry that he could not say goodbye to his friends in the Tower. Sorry that he had not made better use of his time among the Asur.

But most of all he was sorry to let down Narrin’Tim and Rufus. He knew he did not have the strength…

So he stretched forth his hand, passing the wrapped hilt. His fingers hovered just a hair’s breadth above the flanged guard. Then he let his hand trace the curved length of the blade… delicately, carefully. As a lover might trace the contours of his beloved’s back while she slumbered….

Then he gripped the blade in the center. Felt the blood flow from palm and thumb, and….

He fell to the stone floor. Gasping. He could fill the air rushing out of his lungs. He could feel the blood turning cold in his arms and throat. He gasped like a fish upon land, staring at the bloodstained floor before him. His cheek pressed firmly into the cold stone. Spittle dripped down his face. He could hear his breathing slow. His heart seemed to struggle in his breast. The black before him was fading…. Fading… It was no longer black, but streaks of grey….

And then Trian, the young Lord of Chrace, died.

***

He saw them. The elves. Spread out before him in glittering mail. Phalanx after phalanx of warriors armed with spear and polished shield. They were a Host, the likes of which Ulthuan had not seen in many an age.

He was standing atop a dais… among his…brothers. They were facing the legions before them. He could hear the cries of the warriors as spear was raised and shields were banged like drums. A hundred thousand voices were raised as one in a mighty cheer.

He looked to his side. A slender elf dressed in a black and gold hauberk smiled at him. “Why so grim, old friend?” the man said. And he knew him.

“I am worried, Petra’Sif,” he heard a stranger’s voice speak from his throat.

The handsome elf shook his head ruefully. “Always seeing rain in clear summer skies, old friend. We will be victorious. He has never led us astray,” the elf gestured towards the front of the podium. His gaze turned to follow the gesture. He saw the back of an elf, hair long and black, dressed in brilliant white robes and ithilmar plate. The armor was so bright the sun seemed turned back on itself. The elf was waving to the crowd of soldiers before him. He turned and looked back to the warriors on the platform behind him. His face was beautiful, the eyes playful but wise. He felt love blossom in his chest.

And the crowd of soldiers. The mighty warlike Host, began to chant, over and over again. One voice to the many….

“Malek’Kith!! Malek’Kith!! Malek’Kith!!” they cried over and over.

The hand once more on his shoulder, Petra’Sif said to him, “Don’t worry. We will conquer.”

“That is what I am worried about,” he answered glumly.

***

And then he was standing on a burning battlement. A Druchii warship in the harbor below. Death all about. His leg would not carry him any further. He knew the blood loss was too great. There was not enough time to get to a healer.

But that didn’t matter. The Druchii kept coming. They poured out across the sands like black armored crabs coming in with the tide. Skittering with blade and claw.

He turned to the side, and grabbed his friend’s arm. “Take the rest! Hurry! You must lead the villagers to safety! Now!! Go!! I will buy us time!!”

He shoved and then staggered down towards the bridge. He could not fight on foot. But he still had his bow, and a half full quiver. He pulled an arrow and set it on string…

***

Anlec lay before him. But it was an Anlec built high and proud. Banners flew from its towers and turrets. Soldiers stood upon its gates.

Though he only knew shame. He had failed the People. The armor was stripped from him. And now…his future was to go into the crypts below. To die, defending Ulthuan from the denizens of the deep.

But he would die well. He took his sword and shield, and marched towards the crypt entrance….

***

Memory after memory buffeted him, tearing at his gaze and mind. He saw Nagarythe Ascendant, the Glory of the Ever Empire, and he saw Nagarythe in ruins, a ghostland, haunted and despised. He stood upon a tall tower keep and watched helplessly as the black magic was worked. The mountains were torn from their roots. He could see the sky filled with lightning, crimson and emerald in color. The stones about his feet began to vibrate, and raise into the air!

The seas rushed in! The seas!! They came in a massive wave, ten stories high. He watched screaming and pulling at his hair as the wave crashed into the harbor below. Children playing in the streets ran screaming. But not fast enough, as the ocean slammed into them, devouring their small bodies.

He wept.

And then he saw himself. He was a small child, laying upon a stone floor. Narrin’Tim, young and fair, cradled him in his arms. He could feel the anguish in his chest, the cry of absolute suffering and loss that escaped his throat.

But then the light returned to the boy’s eyes. Slowly his childhood self, sat up and looked around.

He swept him up in a powerful embrace, as a sweet, delirious relief rushed through him. He felt a love so powerful, like nothing he had ever experienced before. He held the child and thought never to let go.

But no. Evil still had to be set right. He released the child and saw Rufus’ mother, as a young maiden standing nearby. He grabbed his long sword, Spite, from where it lay, and moved with great speed into the tunnel….

***

Trian opened his eyes. He stood in a wheat field. The wheat was tall and golden. It rustled in a faint wind, and as it moved, it sparkled. The sky overhead was a dark indigo, punctuated with stars twisted and swirled as if drawn with wet paint.

And before him he saw a long line of elves. Warriors, dressed in the same identical armor – of black and gold.

“Welcome brother,” they greeted.

One stepped out from the line. “And son,” he said with bittersweet tears filling his eyes.

It was his father. The long black hair floating in the breeze. The solid color eyes, so alien, but filled with a gentleness. He saw him, and began to weep.

His father swept him into an embrace. “Weep not my son. For the burden is now yours to bare,” the warrior whispered to him. “We have little time before the armor calls you back…”

Another warrior dressed in the black and gold came to the pair. The boy recognized him. He had seen the face reflected in Petra’Sif’s polished breastplate. The warrior said,

“And before you go, we must tell you about Malek’Kith’s deception. His treachery in the Netherrealms, and in the Shrine of Asuryan….”

***

Trian opened his eyes. He could see the black stone ceiling above him. Feel the sluggish wind upon his face. The rank air in his lungs.

Then a voice, not quite his own, declared to the darkness:

“I am the Shadow Prince.”


***
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Re: Tales from the Shadowlands....

#156 Post by Malossar »

NOw how am i supposed to sleep tonight with that kind of cliff hanger?
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Re: Tales from the Shadowlands....

#157 Post by Prince of Spires »

@thelordcal: it's a good thing I read them in the morning ;)

I love the description of the initiation process. It seems like there is a lot drawn from other sources but given a distinct nagarathi feel. That makes it very recognisable. It's great to know how someone becomes the shadow prince. It's a pitty you have to use the one escape from death to become him. I can see how it would be usefull in other situations ;)

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Re: Tales from the Shadowlands....

#158 Post by Larose »

Oh man the Druchii are not going to know what hit em haha and I think I foresee them dreading their invasion of Nagarythe... Just a hunch :wink:
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Re: Tales from the Shadowlands....

#159 Post by Elithmar »

Interesting. We certainly don't have a process like that in other kingdoms! No rituals like that. :lol: So, Trian is the shadow prince now. I thought the shadow princes were referred to by the name of their sword though - isn't he using Spite?
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Re: Tales from the Shadowlands....

#160 Post by Aicanor »

They are referred to as the Shadow Prince when they're alive.

I had exactly the same reaction as Cal. And it was so sad. I am sure he'll be a good Shadow Prince though.
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Re: Tales from the Shadowlands....

#161 Post by Headshot »

rdghuizing wrote:It's a pitty you have to use the one escape from death to become him. I can see how it would be usefull in other situations
That Rod! Always thinking only on how to maximize advantages! (While stroking the white-furred kitten in his lap.) It's enough to break an old storyteller's heart.... :cry:

More seriously (slightly) - Sadly its the price to pay to pass into the Beyond and be able to return with a small part of it. In short to become something of a Divine Avatar; not of Asuryan, like the King, but of Khaine.

Woe discovered the practice quite by accident when he tried to stop Malek'Kith from claiming the Sword. If I ever get the chance to write the Nagarathi Silmarillion before I die, you can read all about it. :lol:
Elithmar of Lothern wrote:I thought the shadow princes were referred to by the name of their sword though - isn't he using Spite?
Keep reading! :wink:
thelordcal wrote:NOw how am i supposed to sleep tonight with that kind of cliff hanger?
What are you talking about? You have a baby! You don't sleep. :?


Alright, alright enough already! Let me get back to work! Grumble. Get off my lawn, you durn kids! And you, little dutch boy! Go plug up that levee!

:wink:

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Re: Tales from the Shadowlands....

#162 Post by Malossar »

Still waiting for my nightly story update...


do i need to call your everqueen to ask very nicely for more time?
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Re: Tales from the Shadowlands....

#163 Post by Headshot »

Part 20 – The Battle of Tor Choi


Narrin’Tim lay atop the pile of boulders. His shoulders ached and his fingers bled from the constant pull and release of the Avelorn bow. Time and time again he had fit arrow to string, and sighted down the length of his extended index finger, to see the flight strike Druchii Knight and reptilian monster alike. The arrow invariably sought out the weak points in armor or scale sending the target to the dusty earth, and eternity.

And yet they continued to come.

There were corsairs amongst the patrol now, and a dozen crossbows. He had to crouch down under the lee of the stone as black flights of quarrels darkened the sky. The sound of the venom-tipped bolts striking upon the surrounding stones – like hail in the mountains – was distressingly familiar to him. He had been here so many times before. Too many times. Alone, outmatched.

Yet this time his son was with him. Gasping for air while he fired his longbow alongside his father. When the Druchii drew close to the boulder, the boy would leap to the side and force the Druchii back with thrusts from his spear. Each time, sending jolts of fear through Tim that a quick-eyed Druchi crossbow would see the boy’s silhouette against the cloud filled sky… So he would leap to his feet and rain arrows upon their ranks, daring them to target him instead….

We are the last of the Narrin clan, he thought. We two. After all these centuries, to end here…. On the Isle of Blight. A sadness like nothing he had ever known took him.

But he still kept fighting. He knew not what else to do.

He heard the sound of a whip crack; Rufus let out a cry. Tim turned and saw the boy disappear over the edge of the stone, his leg pulled out from under him by a hook tipped bullwhip. Tim shouted and leapt down after him.

“The bow Nagarathi,” the corsair’s voice came cold and harsh. He held Rufus before him, knife to the boy’s throat. He was surrounded by a half-dozen of the armored cataphracts, the crossbows were fanning out behind them. A hydra bellowed in the near distance. Tim could see its serpentine shadow writhing among the rocks nearby.

Too many; even for him. It is over, he thought. He dropped the precious bow upon the sand. Three of the corsairs came forward and disarmed him, striking him repeatedly in the face and gut as they did so. He bent over, nose and mouth bloody, and spat out a tooth.

“Shall we take these to the altar for ‘conversion’?” one of the corsairs said with a smirk.

The commander holding Rufus shook his head. “No. Can’t you see they are Shadow Warriors, fool! We’ll cut their throats and take the armor back to the general.”

The Druchii pulled at Tim’s queue, forcing his head back and exposing his throat. Another corsair stood before him and leered. “I always heard the Nagarathi are the stupidest of elves,” he said with a cruel chuckle. “Can’t you count? Did you really think you could overcome us all?!”

With blood stained teeth, Tim smiled at him.

“No. I was just hoping to buy time….” He pointed with his chin.

“… until HE got here.”

Suddenly, the captain holding Rufus gave out a shrill cry as he was picked up off his feet and flung against the boulder side! The captain thrashed and went still: six feet of Nagarathi silver-steel protruding from his back!

***

The Shadow Prince looked down and saw the Druchii arrayed before him. Memories, unbidden, shot forth through the sea of his thoughts….

He knew that the armor of the Druchii knights obstructed movement of their arms above their shoulders, making them vulnerable to overhead attacks. And the weakpoints of their plate was throat, collar, as well as a fold in the lower back, just over the kidneys….

He knew that the crossbows of the warriors tended to pull to the right at the last moment, from the pressure of the fingers upon the trigger mechanism. He knew that if he threw his cloak before him at just the right moment while moving to the left, the velocity and angle of the bolts would be such that they would deflect harmlessly from his armor….

He knew the sound of a Druchii war whip – little changed from the time of his old friend Petra’Sif – as it was being first uncoiled, and the number of seconds he had before it could then reach its full extension….

He knew that if he released his grip on the greatsword hilt just the slightest before the apex of its arc, the blade would slide forward, giving another two inches of precious reach….

In a flash, memory after memory of battle with the Druchii buffeted the Shadow Prince’s consciousness. Time after time he saw the Druchii in battle. Saw their ways. Knew their tactics.

He knew them…. And hatred flooded his breast.

***


Rufus staggered to his knees. The sounds of fighting and the cries of Druchii warriors filled his ears. He looked back and saw a figure dressed in black, a discarded Druchii sword and knife in either hand, moving with a lightning speed! The blade and knife were everywhere! Striking with the surety of a viper! And where they fell, Druchii blood burst forth in great scarlet streams. The black cloak would flutter behind the whirling figure, going this way and that, like a murder of crows in flight!

Then the figure stopped and reclaimed the great sword, pulling it forth from the stone in one smooth motion. And Rufus saw that it was Trian! But not the Trian he had known. His hair, once shaved and patchy, was long and full. The scar was gone from his cheek.

It was Trian restored. And all Rufus could do was gasp and watch, as the first three of the Druchii knights closed with the figure, only in a flurry of strikes to be laid low upon the ground, while the black clad figure marched calmly past.

The hydra burst onto the scene, two of its many heads belching green flames into earth and sky. The black clad warrior stood before it, dwarfed by the nightmare monstrosity’s girth and size, and raised a fist in the air before him. Blue witchfire appeared in his black eyes. The hydra’s many heads began to thrash about, all screaming at once. And then it collapsed upon the ground with a shudder, tongues dangling from the lifeless serpent heads.

The last of the Druchii turned and fled….

His father moved to Rufus side, helping the boy up, before falling to one knee and bowing his head. Rufus quickly did likewise.

“My prince,” Narrin’Tim said, voice choked with emotion. “It is so very good to see you again.” There were tears rolling down his face, mixing with the blood already there.

“Rise my friends,” said a voice that was like Trian’s, but not. “Battle is almost upon us. And we have yet a great distance to travel….”

***


General Seth’Kras, Warlord of New Ghrond, stood atop the earthen siege ramparts his army had constructed, and surveyed the field before him. He liked what he saw. He rubbed at the scars along his jaw in a satisfied manner.

Finally the armies of Ulthuan had arrayed themselves before him, no longer cowering behind high walls. They had drawn up the full of their force, and arrayed it in a sweep of white, silver, red and gold. The plains surrounding the glacier mesa of Tor Choi were crowded with the warriors of the south.

“The fools come at us. Even though they are outnumbered four to one!” one of his commanders gloated at his side. Seth’Kras nodded in agreement. Even if the besieged castle garrison sallied forth – as he fully expected them to – he had more than enough forces at his command to deal with both the hungry Chracians in the keep, as well as the army displayed before him.

He saw something that gave him a pause of irritation. “Glass,” he said and held out his hand. A guard put a spyglass there. The general lifted his helmet and raised it to his eye.

“They do not march under the banners of the False Phoenix. Or that cowardly Regent,” he muttered as he looked. He blinked and looked twice. Turning to the commanders and lackeys surrounding him, he said, “Who told me that the Kingdom of Tor Yvresse had been…missing?” One of the white robed ‘converts’ stepped forward, nervously raising his hand. Kras snarled, “Then can you tell me why the Yvressi banner flies in the center?!”

“I… My lord! I….”

Kras pulled out his hand crossbow and shot the fool in the throat.

He turned back to the glass, hoping that he had impressed the proper level of respect for a Druchii warlord into his other minions. One couldn’t tolerate incompetence after all.

After a few minutes of silence one of his other lackeys finally found the nerve to speak. “They array for battle. Shall I order the Iron Legions forward, my lord?”

“No. Iron Warriors take time to construct,” he said with a shake of his head. “Send the ‘converts’ first.”

A signal flag went up from their position. Regiments of the white robed traitors formed in lines to the front of the army, their spears and shields held at the ready to spill the blood of their former brothers. Kras watched with sadistic satisfaction as the white robes began to run forward, lances leveled. The lines impacted. Spears were splintered, and he could hear the clash of shield upon shield even at his vantage point.

“Something isn’t right,” Kras muttered after a moment. “That banner I recognize…. It is Elessehta of Yvresse…. He I know from battle in the deserts of the southlands long ago…. He would meet us head on with some semblance of honor,” the Druchii warlord admitted grudgingly. He pointed with his gauntlet. “But that banner to the side. That is of the so-called Prince of Spires. I know him as well. He favors misdirection and deception…. He is almost Druchii in his cunning.”

The general considered the field before him for a minute. “Are our special preparations complete?” he asked.

“Yes, Dread One.”

“And the daemons are fed?” The lackey nodded. Kras turned to consider the three siege engines; each construct stood fifty feet high, and its gnarled iron body was criss-crossed with flesh veins that carried the blood the daemons within craved so.

“Have the engineers turn the cannon,” he said with a smile. “Away from the keep. I want fire rained down upon Spire’s standard!” The other Druchii chuckled around him, fully appreciating the hideous damage the resulting explosions of iron and daemon-flame would do to elf and steed. At his signal, teams of shaved ape-men ran forward to turn their massive ‘idols’ about. The Druchii engineers sighted below and guided their aim.

Suddenly a horn called forth. It echoed across the valley’s width. It was the great brass horn of the warriors of Caledor! From the forest to the Druchii flank came knights in perfect formation. The red and gold of Caledor in the lead; behind them many more of the silver armored knights of the south. Along the flanks even more of the swift Ellyrion riders.

They formed a line upon the Druchii flank, glorious and glimmering in the morning sun. Trumpets calling. Shields raised. Pennants and lance held aloft.

The lines formed, slowly the horses began to stride forward, gaining speed with every step. Lances lowered, the riders made for the three towering siege cannon. The field began to shake at their approach.

“Predictable,” Kras grunted. He lifted the glass to his eye and watched the advance, and waited.

And continued to wait. The riders continued to advance, now at full speed, thundering down upon the siege engines and the Druchii flank.

Kras snarled. “Why haven’t they stopped?! Where are the pits I ordered dug yesterday when the scouts reported the fool Asur approach?!!”

One of his lackeys, pale faced, mumbled, “But we did dig them! Teams of slaves all yesterday afternoon. That entire field is laced with pit traps and stakes!”

“The cavalry still comes!” Kras yelled. “What are you saying?! That someone during the night crept silently through our sentries, and what?! Removed the stakes and covered the pits??! Impossible!!”

At the elf’s gargled excuses, Kras pulled out his other hand crossbow and shot him in the throat. The fool’s gargling turned inchoate after that.

But there was no time to savor it. The riders were already upon the farthest cannon. Lances and sword split aside and scattered the crew and handlers. And then silver tipped blades sought out the vitals of the daemons within. In a gush of blood, and metallic screams of agony, the contraption collapse in upon itself.

Kras cursed. “Unleash the Cold Ones!” he commanded. At his signal the black knights of the north poured out from behind the Druchii lines, each mounted on a ravenous reptilian beast, they made at full speed to engage their hated silver-clad brethren.

The Druchii had the numbers, and the speed advantage. The riders of Ulthuan had to slow to deal with the siege and its crew. It was only a matter of time now….

And then a great black dragon burst forth from the clouds above!! Its rider, in shining gold armor, held forth a long sword covered in flame, and was laughing maniacally at his plummeting descent! The dragon swept over the Druchii knights, smashing steed and rider alike with its passing, while the rider flailed about with his flaming sword.

Kras snarled. “Send the witches! Send the nightstalkers!! Bring that dragon down!! And the rider’s head to me!!”

In moments, the witches took flight, surrounded by flocks of the daemon spawn. They encircled the mighty dragon like a cloud of gnats. Great bouts of flame erupted from the dragon’s mouth, engulfing scores in crimson fire.

But among the daemons were witches on the larger drakes. They lashed out with acid whips and spells of ice and lightning. Already the dragon’s hide was marred in a dozen places, and bled freely.

Suddenly a cry came echoing down from the storm clouds above. The cry of eagles!

And they were there! The Great Eagles of the mountains of Ulthuan. A full score in flight! They swept among the daemons with beak and raptor talon, tearing the creatures asunder. And as the eagles plummeted earthward, they seized upon the witches in saddle, tearing them forth and dropping them screaming to the world below!

“What is this?!!” Kras bellowed. “There are no eagles!! None in Ulthuan for an age!! How is this possible??!”

Another horn sounded, and the gate of the castle was throne open. A hundred northern woodsmen in white cloaks and wielding axes strode forward and fell upon the Druchii’s other flank. With them was a bright-eyed warrior seated upon the back of a lion, sprouting gigantic feathered wings. A each falling of his shining axe, two Druchii would be cut asunder.

General Kras gritted his teeth. His once tactically brilliant victory was being snatched away before his very eyes. He had hoped to impress the other War Lords with the surety and efficiency of his triumph.

But it didn’t matter. The clean victory he had planned may be gone, but he still held the numbers: the bulk of the Druchii army had not yet been committed.

“Send the Iron Legions forward. Engage on all fronts,” he commanded, and at his word the serried ranks of the silver armored monsters moved as one. Thousands upon thousands of the warriors moved forward in lock step, halberd, mace or great axe in hand, they fell upon the warriors of Ulthuan like a tide of iron and death. Slowly pushing back the elves on all sides.

Yes, he may have not displayed the cunning victory he wanted, Kras mused. But victory had never been in doubt. And with the last major standing army in Ulthuan cast down before him… He was certain to be raised highest in the Witch King’s court….

“My lord?” one of his minions called to him hesitantly. “My lord, you should see this….”

“What is it?!” Seth’Kras snapped, and snatched the glass from the underling’s hand. He turned the glass to where the sniveling commander pointed: to the rear of the Druchii lines. He put it to his eye. He saw three elves standing at the edge of the tree-line. Black cloaked and wearing the dingiest of armor, they just stood there, a small vigil.

And then one, the shaven headed one on the left, raised a banner. Slowly the wind pulled at the attached pennant….

“What?” Kras spluttered. “What trickery is this?! That’s not possible! Not possible!! He is dead!! HE MUST BE DEAD!!!!” he screamed.

“My lord?” one of his underlings squeaked. Kras ignored him.

“The Shadow Prince,” he gasped.

He turned to his commanders. “The reserve Legion!!” he bellowed. “Send them there! Now!!” He pointed towards the three.

“Four thousand warriors for three elves?” one commander bulked.

“NOW!!!!”

***


Narrin’Tim stood upon the field, holding the banner of his prince high and proudly. There was a bittersweet sadness inside though. Sad that Rufus had to be here. He wished… that perhaps, if the boy had just stayed in Saphery, and never known him. He could have grown up there…. Lived a long life. And taken care of Anna’lis….

But no, the boy was standing beside him, spear in hand, eyes leveled at the approaching nightmare. Rank upon rank of full armored man-giants bore down upon them. Their eyes aglow with hellfire; they made no sound at their approach other than the clank of weapons and the heavy thud of their iron-toed boots.

He sighed. “It is a good day to die,” he said quietly. “With you here, my prince. I am just sorry… Rufus….”

His son grabbed his free arm for a brief moment and sent him a smile of faux confidence. Then he returned to holding his spear forward, watching the tide approach.

The Shadow Prince stood unmoving; perfectly still except for his cloak pulled aloft and fluttering in the morning breeze.

“Today will not be our end, Narrin’Tim,” he said. His eyes swept over the approaching warriors.

“Malek’Kith has fueled his conquest with the magics of the Four Powers. He has sacrificed our brothers upon Chaos Altars and bound their souls in slavery within Daemon-wrought Iron.”

Narrin’Tim shuddered at the horror of it. He blanched and looked again at the ranks approaching them. Then these monsters must be…. He couldn’t finish the thought.

“But he has made a mistake,” the Shadow Prince spoke once more. “Malek’Kith and his sorcerers think they know the Netherrealms…. They think they can command that power to do their bidding….”

The Shadow Prince stepped forward. “But they do not… can not… know that realm as I do.”

He began to walk towards the approaching ranks. “And the great Betrayer does not know… that the souls of the Nagarathi will not…. Nor ever be made to… bare arms against their rightful Prince!”

Blue witchfire filled the Shadow Prince’s eyes.

***


“Warlord Kras!! Warlord!! You must see this!!”

Kras irritated, took the glass from his eye. He had been watching the witches finally bring that dragon down and wanted to watch the deathblow on that arrogant Caledoran.

“What is it?!” he snapped. The commander only gaped and pointed.

Kras turned, and gasped. Behind the Druchii lines he saw… an army! His army!!! The silver and white iron warriors, formed up in ranks, facing the back of the Druchii lines. They were charging forward at a full run, all four thousand of them!

And they were screaming! Crying as they ran. Their voices tinny and distant, and yet he could hear the spectral cry…

“FOR THE EVERQUEEN!!!!!”

It rang out across the field. And everywhere the Druchii lord turned he saw the same thing: the iron warriors turning away from the Hosts of the Asur and falling upon the Druchii with deadly rage!!

“No! It’s not possible…. It’s not possible….”

***


Prince Malossar, High Lord of Eastern Caledor, batted the Druchii saber away from his face, then ran the corsair through with his burning blade. He glanced to the side. He could see his old friend, Prince Kurnous, afoot now, laying wast all about himself with his two-headed battle axe.

Malossar laughed. “You will never beat me to the ramparts, Kurnion Turtle-Foot!” he called teasingly and charged towards the Druchii walls before him. He slew a pair of the crossbows that dared get in his way, and then flew up the ramp leading to the top, and the banners of the Druchii warlords….

He skidded to a stop. And looked about. The Dark Elf officers lay spread about the top of the wall. Heads cloven from shoulder….

A tall figure garbed all in black turned towards him. “You were always slow, Son of Mentheus.”

The figure tossed something…

…the head of the Druchii warlord came to a stop at Malossar’s feet.

The Prince of Caledor swore. And didn’t stop for several minutes….


***
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Re: Tales from the Shadowlands....

#164 Post by Malossar »

That last part is either a good thing or a bad thing.

Good Scenario: Mal was beaten to the officers by the Nagarathi and the Shadow Prince claimed his prize.
Bad Scenario: The tall figure in black is actually Malekith and Malossar's about to get his ass handed to him like Betty White coming across the middle against the Raven's Secondary.
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Re: Tales from the Shadowlands....

#165 Post by Headshot »

Relax Cal! :lol:

Or perhaps I should just say, 'epilogue coming up!'

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Re: Tales from the Shadowlands....

#166 Post by Malossar »

Haha. I'm only teasing!

I love your stories!

This last passage was very Tolkein to me. The build up to the epic battles in the Two Towers and the Return of the King as fantastic. Then he briefly tells the story of the battle and focuses on the highlights rather than droning on and on about the details of whose fighting who, what just happened there etc.

Nice, fast paced, told the events and in a superb style.
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Re: Tales from the Shadowlands....

#167 Post by Elessehta of Yvresse »

An epic battle, that would start a chain reaction. Ulthuan would be cleared of these invaders in no time! Well, actually, it would still take time, but Yvresse has 100 years to catch up on.
[url=http://www.ulthuan.net/forum/viewtopic.php?f=5&t=34506][i]Lord Elessehta Silverbough of Ar Yvrellion, Ruler of Athel Anarhain, Prince of the Yvressi.[/i][/url]
[quote="Narrin’Tim"]These may be the last days of the Asur, but if we are to leave this world let us do it as the heroes of old, sword raised against evil![/quote]
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Re: Tales from the Shadowlands....

#168 Post by Prince of Spires »

I'm with thelordcal. Great telling of the battle. Nice and epic without drowning in the details.

It's nice to see the shadow prince up to his old tricks again. Putting some druchii in their place. I like the image of him walking forward by himself to face 4000 warriors. Only followed by his banner bearer and his friend. Of course, the real hero of the battle is Spires. ;) For the record thoug, Spires doesn't have a white furred kitten. It's more of a tiger realy. Cats are for humans.

I do hope Malossars dragon is allright.

Bring on the epilogue...

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Re: Tales from the Shadowlands....

#169 Post by Aicanor »

Not overly long battle but that is what happens when they mess with these Nagarathi. We heard little of some prominent commanders but I guess we'll see them in the epilogue. Too bad I'll probably have to wait all week to read it. :cry:
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Re: Tales from the Shadowlands....

#170 Post by Headshot »

@Aicanor

Sorry! Time is up for me; scenes are getting left on the cutting room floor so that I can finish the story core. Hopefully some of your questions will be answered in the epilogue.

@Rod

White tiger it is! Though now every time I think of the Prince of Spires, the theme song from old 'Flash Gordon' movie pops into my head.... :D

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Re: Tales from the Shadowlands....

#171 Post by Elithmar »

As everyone said, skillfully told. :)

Such a horrible fate, to be denied a peaceful afterlife and bound into a metal monstrocity like that...

Nice to see everyone pulling their weight in the battle. ;)
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Re: Tales from the Shadowlands....

#172 Post by Aicanor »

I liked it! I am of course sorry you have limited time for story telling, but I suspect there will be more one day. Now I at least have something to look forward to when I'll have to return to the civilized world. :)
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Re: Tales from the Shadowlands....

#173 Post by Headshot »

Epilogue


Rufus sat alone on the sea wall. It was morning on the Sea of Dreams, and the water was as placid as ever; stretching out in a smooth glass-like sheen, until it disappeared in dark smudges on the horizon. Behind him was a small palm frond garden of unworked stone walkways, grass and gnarled fruit trees. Tropical birds flitted from frond to frond, trilling sweetly as they went.

It was a picture of tranquility. Too bad Rufus’ insides didn’t reflect it.

The boy turned and looked over his shoulder. Past the garden and up a few steps he could see the back of the crowds. Elves of all ages were gathered in an unruly mob there all eyes fixed upon the great Shrine of Asuryan. There were thousands in attendance and the anticipation in the air was electric; a constant murmur could be heard among the crowd as they watched and waited. The sound of so many excited whispers rolling over the boy and his garden felt like distant thunder.

For now finally for the first time in many a year, the Shrine of Asuryan was under Asur control. The most sacred temple in Ulthuan was restored. With the Shadow Prince’s guidance, the Swordmasters of Hoeth had purged the daemon possession amongst the Hierarchy of the temple, and undone the powerful illusions placed within the Shrine. The illusions that had hidden the true Flame of Asuryan, and replaced it with a deadly doppleganger. With the deaths of the daemonic trinity in the Hierarchy, the illusions had broken, and once more the Asur could see and bask in Asuryan’s light.

Rufus looked over. He saw the row of Phoenix Guard standing along the steps in front of the temple. They too had been transformed by the purging: no longer did they seem listless in their actions. They stood still and proudly, silently seeing to their age-old duty of protecting the Shrine. And no more. The guard had withdrawn from much of Ulthuan, their numbers now concentrated here on the sacred island. Tel Golgoth was being demolished, slowly but certainly.

The Guard had only been seen outside of the temple grounds a few times since the Purging. And there only upon the battlefields in the north, where their strength and skill proved a great asset to the rejuvenated armies of Ulthuan. For in the months following the Battle of Tor Choi, the armies of the Asur had moved from victory to victory. Their numbers continued to grow following that fateful battle, as many of the reluctant princes and allies of the Regent committed to the Shadow Conclave. In the end even the Regent himself had allied his forces with the victorious northern army. And nearly two years of fighting Chrace lay liberated, its lords restored their holdings and homes. Much of Cothique too had been purged of invaders, though still a few holdouts of feral man-tribes lived among the offshore islands.

Only Nagarythe was still at war, as the Druchii continued to mount a desperate defense of rebuilt Anlec. But the tides of war had turned against them. The one-time besiegers had become besieged. And by the day the Asur army reduced the fortifications of the stronghold. It was only a matter of time.

More importantly, Malek’kith’s ‘Northern Alliance’ had crumbled. Defeat had made once erstwhile allies reluctant. The men of the north had fractured in allegiance, some fleeing the coasts of Ulthuan, some turning upon their one-time Druchii allies.

And most important of all, the Iron Warriors of Chaos which once had provided so much of the military power to the Alliance, were gone.

Rufus could still remember that day. The evening after the Battle of Tor Choi. How the Shadow Prince… he who he had once called, Trian… his friend… stood before the assembled spectral host. The Prince had gone alone to them. He had raised his hand. And Rufus could just faintly hear his words.

“Rest now, brothers. Go to the Golden Fields! Rest, until the Final Day calls us together once more….”

And with that the warriors had faded in on themselves. The suits of armor, all across the battlefield had fallen apart, lifeless and inert.

Rufus could hear someone addressing the crowds behind him. A hush had fallen. Even the cries of the sea birds and the trilling of the honey-eaters in the garden, seemed to have fallen off. Then abruptly there was a roaring from the crowd. Cheers of joy swept out from the elves assembled. The island thundered with their exultations.

The boy got to his feet. As he crossed the little garden, he spied someone he recognized. He quickly moved in that direction.

“Is it…?” he asked.

Raith turned to him with a nod, smiling. “Yes, it is done.” She clapped him on the shoulder. “Prince Elessehta has passed through the Sacred Flame unharmed. He is now Elessehta the First, Phoenix Reborn!”

So that’s it, Rufus thought. Ulthuan has a King once more. He felt relieved and exhausted at the same time. If only the knots in his stomach would go away he could share in some of the crowd’s elation.

Nodding to Raith the boy wandered further into the garden. He hadn’t gone far when the source of his turmoil came into sight: Lilean came walking down the flower avenues: her black leather and saber was strangely offset by a cascade of lavender roses. Rufus heart skipped a beat at the sight of her. She was more beautiful than ever. The scars on her face had mostly healed by now, leaving only faint white tracings now. And her eyes and lips seemed especially bright today.

Wait. Was she wearing makeup?

The two came together. “Rufus,” she greeted with a smile. “I lost you at the coronation.”

“Yes, I’m sorry,” he quickly replied. “I… I needed some air.”

She cocked her head and looked at him curiously. “Well, come. The Shadow Prince calls. We will be leaving for Nagarythe in the hour.”

The knots in his stomach tightened. This was it.

“I know, Lili,” the young elf said reluctantly. He took a deep breath. “But I won’t be going with you.”

The woman stopped. Her face blank. Rufus rushed ahead, “I was talking with Headmaster Tiralya last night. He said… well, now that the Regent’s laws are no longer in effect… And with the House of the Shadow Prince restored… He wanted to have a series of lectures on Nagarathi history and law in the White Tower. And well… he asked me to teach them.” The boy quickly added, “I’ll be the youngest lecturer in the history of the White Tower….” He finished with a shrug.

The woman looked at him blank faced for a moment. Then the lopsided grin returned to her lips. “So you will be the resident expert on all things Nagarythe?” she said. “I don’t suppose the youngest lecturer in White Tower history would mind the occasional visit from time to time… from say a reliable Nagarathi informant?” she finished with a cocked eyebrow.

Rufus shook his head. “No he… I mean, I, would like that. A lot.” The woman’s face lit up.

Well there were all those lavender colored roses about them. And the avenue was empty, Rufus thought.

Why not?

He reached out to her and gently pulled her down to a kiss. She didn’t resist.

After a blissful minute the sounds of laughter approaching spelled the end of their privacy. Lili took his hand and led him away. In a few minutes they could see a small gathering of people standing isolated at one corner of the sea wall. The siblings Rast and Raith were there, as well as the dapper captain of the Harvest Moon, and his parents. All gathered about the Shadow Prince.

Rufus felt strange looking at the Nagarathi lord. Sometimes when he looked at him, saw his profile, it was so clear that he was Trian, his old friend. The older student he had looked up to. Who had saved his life…. His dearest friend….

And yet other times… when he saw the Prince. There was nothing there of his old friend. It was as if a stranger wore his skin. The eyes. The eyes in particular were no longer Trian’s. They were solid black with great age. And when he spoke, the voice was soft, and seemed to come from a great distance.

He did not know what happened within that northern shrine. But part of him felt that the boy he had loved as a brother had entered… and not returned.

Yet perhaps he was overreacting. The Shadow Prince remembered all that had befallen them in their journey. Occasionally speaking of it with him. But still, when they spoke, Rufus was painfully aware that he was not speaking with the Trian he knew.

He never made the mistake of calling the Nagarathi High Lord by his birth name, as outlanders sometimes did. He was always ‘the Shadow Prince’ to Rufus.

The Nagarathi Lord even now had a blade of his own: a massive curved tulwar, thicker at its head than at its middle. He had told Rufus once that the blade reminded him of the Chracian axes of his ‘youth’. Now the great sword Spite, that he had carried into that first critical battle, had been returned to Nagarythe, sequestered away into a newly formed Place of Remembrance.

“The Nagarathi rebuild that which has been destroyed,” the Prince had said.

Rufus sighed. He just wished he didn’t feel so sad when he saw the Prince. Quietly he and Lilean walked up and joined the small group.

“The Moon is ready to sail, my Prince,” the captain was saying. “We can pass through the Lothern straits, get resupply, and be bound for Nagarathi coasts within two days.” The Prince nodded.

“Shall I start calling the Warriors together?” his father, still holding his mother’s hand, asked.

“Yes,” the Prince answered. “But you will not be traveling with us to Nagarythe, Narrin’Tim.”

“My Prince?” Tim said, surprised.

“The Season of Storms is soon upon us. The northern seas will become nigh impassible, and few raiders will approach our coasts,” the Shadow Prince said, looking out across the sea wall to the tranquil waters of the Sea of Dreams. “During that time, I desire for you to remain in Saphery. As the Nagarathi…envoy… to the White Tower. Never again must Nagarythe become so isolated from our brother Asur. I will see that the bonds with our kin remain strong, and are well tended….”

The Shadow Lord turned and faced the surprised Narrin’Tim. “Besides… I think it would be easy for you to find accommodation in a country cottage near the Tower. Something small perhaps, that you can share during the summer months when you tarry in the south.” Narrin’Tim and Anna’lis were sharing surprised looks, which quickly turned to smiles of joy.

The Shadow Prince’s lips as well turned to a small smile, and the Nagarathi Lord reached over and placed his hand on Narrin’Tim’s shoulder. “Have a honeymoon, old friend.”

***


… The Shadow Lord released the small white hand. The world rushed in upon him so fast that it forced the air from his lungs. He fell to his knees, gasping for breath. The stones of the tower seemed to wobble and turn beneath him. He steadied himself, closed his eyes, and took several deep breaths. Finally, he returned to his feet.

He already knew the initiate’s response, but he turned to her anyways. “Must it be so?” he asked.

The young initiate of the flame, already gifted with the silver eyes of farsight, as his beloved once was, held her hands up before him in the gesture of obeisance to Asuryan. “The future must come, my lord. Not even the powerful such as yourself can prevent its passing,” she said softly. “But the contours…. The shapes of the future events… The threads of the Asuryan’s Weave, that is unknown, and unknowable to all except the Burning Throne….”

The Nagarathi prince nodded. And turned and took his leave.

As he walked past the silent guards of the watchtower, he thought to himself. It was not such a bad fate to come to pass. No, I have seen worse futures.

And at that thought memories leapt to mind’s eye. A wash of color; of speaking with priests of the Sacred Flame; their faces blurring together. The Shadow Prince had to pause to discipline the memories. To sort his own from those who had come before….

In a moment, he continued walking. No, it was far from the worst of possibilities.

And yet still…. Perhaps the price had been too high for Nagarythe….

As he walked, he considered. To move against the Weave was always a dangerous proposition. Futility or destruction was the usual outcome. Yet, the wise, the very wise, occasionally could turn things, just ever so slightly, to alter the outcome of the flow of time. Sometimes for the better…

It was a risk. But perhaps one worth taking.

He passed outside the tower door and saw the bleak stone cliffs of the Blighted Isle. Here some eight years prior he had walked the sands of the interior alone. And found his end. And his beginning. Now however, the island was fortified at his command with multiple towers staffed with Guard and Shadow Warrior alike to ward off Druchii raiders.

He could see the narrow stone steps that led down the slick cliff face to the quay far below and the Nagarathi sailing vessels there. A small party of Shadow Warriors waited for him at the top of the stairs. They leapt to attention at his approach.

Narri’Tim was among them. Young and strong. The boy’s heart was still heavy with the loss of Palin’Tanith in the far east. A loss that the Shadow Prince shared with the young warrior. A wound of the heart that he knew would never truly heal.

For it is the curse of the Asur to remember. Remember the past and the yesteryears as surely as a waking dream….

And that curse went doubly so for the Shadow Prince of Nagarythe….

But he forced those thoughts from his mind, and felt a sense of gratitude that at least some part of old, rugged Palin’Tanith continued to live on within him. He could see the crusty warrior perfectly in his mind. Hear his gruff laugh. And it gave him comfort.

Yes, he decided, as he approached the little party. The risk was worth taking.

“Narrin’Tim.”

“Yes, my prince,” the boy stood straighter.

“When we return to camp I want word sent to the Clan Council to have the Wardens watch the trails that lead to the mountain aeries. I want a guard placed upon the homes of the wing brothers,” the Shadow Prince instructed. Then the Nagarathi lord gave another moment’s thought. “And the Warriors that we are exchanging with the City of Spires… tell them to keep close watch on the Prince of Spires. I want reports on his movements.”

He turned and removed quill and ink from his satchel. On a thick piece of vellum he wrote a short note, then rolled it carefully and inserted it into a scroll tube. He sealed the tube and wrote his mark upon its end.

“Lilean,” the Shadow Prince said. “I want you to deliver a message to Prince Malossar of Caledor. I want him to meet with me. Here, or in Caledor. Soon.”

Palin’Lilean frowned. “I think he is pretty busy with his colony in the north. I hear he is hardly ever in Ulthuan now. Will he come?”

The Shadow Prince frowned back. He took the scroll case and wrote in silver runes upon its exterior. He passed it back to the young elf maiden. “He will come.”

The girl took one glance at the scroll case and a smile split her lips. She took off down the steps. As she disappeared down the path, the Shadow Lord could still see the light from the magical script, gleaming along the scroll’s length.

It read, ‘The Son of Mentheus is a Brat’.

“Come brothers. We must return to Nagarythe.”


***








And that's it for me. Once more I must return to shores far grayer and bleaker than Nagarythe's jagged cliffs. Before I go let me say as always the only goal in these tale-turnings was the hope that perhaps somewhere, on some rainy day, that the travails of Tim and company might have provided a moment of companionship, and elicited a smile, a chuckle, or a rueful shake of the head.

However, for my brothers and sisters of the spirit, for those who see Ulthuan as more than a place, but as a possibility, let me add....

That no matter how bad things become. No matter how dark the tides turn. The Nagarathi will not break their oaths.

And they always have your back! :wink:

Happy Gaming!

Headshot
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Elithmar
Young Eataini Prince
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Re: Tales from the Shadowlands....

#174 Post by Elithmar »

Well thank you very much Dr Headshot for all the enjoyment I've had reading this story. I've certainly had a few chuckles and plenty of smiles over the course of it.

I like the conclusion to the Rufus-Lilean story. Also, all hail Elessehta I! :lol:

I must ask though, was the Regent who I think he was?
"I say the Eatainii were cheating - again." -Aicanor
"Eatainian jerks…" -Headshot
"It was a little ungentlemanly." -Aicanor (on the Eatainii)
"What is it with Eataini being blamed for everything?" -Aicanor
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Elessehta of Yvresse
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Re: Tales from the Shadowlands....

#175 Post by Elessehta of Yvresse »

Heh, Malossar's prophesy came true, or was it yours and you shared it with Mal in your meeting with him?
I really liked the bit at the end with Spite back, it was all a vision of the future, a future which would be best avoided.

Due to time constraints your stories always have a hurried finish, one day you'll retire and maybe you'll go back and finish your stories properly...
[url=http://www.ulthuan.net/forum/viewtopic.php?f=5&t=34506][i]Lord Elessehta Silverbough of Ar Yvrellion, Ruler of Athel Anarhain, Prince of the Yvressi.[/i][/url]
[quote="Narrin’Tim"]These may be the last days of the Asur, but if we are to leave this world let us do it as the heroes of old, sword raised against evil![/quote]
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Prince of Spires
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Re: Tales from the Shadowlands....

#176 Post by Prince of Spires »

Thanks for finishing the story, Headshot. The last chapter did feel a bit more rushed then the early ones. Lacking in discription depth. But still superb writing.

Drop in again sometime in the future. Remember that you can spend time here (as in Ulthuan.net) without writing complete stories...

In the meantime, I'll try to put some army fluff down before your next visit. If only I had some time left in the day somewhere.

Rod
For Nagarythe: Come to the dark side.
PS: Bring cookies!

Check out my plog
Painting progress, done/in progress/in box: 167/33/91

Check my writing blog for stories on the Prince of Spires and other pieces of fiction.
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Aicanor
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Re: Tales from the Shadowlands....

#177 Post by Aicanor »

Thanks for the story, it was great! The epilogue made me think about what would become of those young elves if this possible future doesn't come to pass?
Headshot wrote:That no matter how bad things become. No matter how dark the tides turn. The Nagarathi will not break their oaths.
And they always have your back! :wink:
We'll have the cookies ready. :wink:
Karalael Moonsinger
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Re: Tales from the Shadowlands....

#178 Post by Karalael Moonsinger »

All I can say is wow! Just wow! I have just finished reading all your stuff, assuming there is just this and the three other stories, I seriously can't wait for more!

And I also want to say that like so many of the others, you have inspired me to try out Shadow Warriors, now how to fit them into a Sapherian army :-k
[quote="rdghuizing"]
Besides, the battle of Finuval Plain was more a minor skirmish anyway. A good enough summary would have been "Teclis and Malekith ran into each other. Teclis cast The Dwellers Below on Malekith with IF, and Malekith failed his Strength test." Not much more to it then that really.[/quote]
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Aicanor
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Re: Tales from the Shadowlands....

#179 Post by Aicanor »

Karalael Moonsinger wrote:And I also want to say that like so many of the others, you have inspired me to try out Shadow Warriors, now how to fit them into a Sapherian army :-k
Not so difficult, Saphery is cosmopolitan. :lol: I should know something about it. :D
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Elithmar
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Re: Tales from the Shadowlands....

#180 Post by Elithmar »

Aicanor wrote:Not so difficult, Saphery is cosmopolitan. :lol: I should know something about it. :D
I think they have to be, as there's always that possibility (quite a strong one too) that someone will turn themselves into some strange creature by accident or grow a few extra arms. Magic does weird things. :?
"I say the Eatainii were cheating - again." -Aicanor
"Eatainian jerks…" -Headshot
"It was a little ungentlemanly." -Aicanor (on the Eatainii)
"What is it with Eataini being blamed for everything?" -Aicanor
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