C H A P T E R I
Lighting the Path
In a word, shortness was her muse. As she stood in the misty doorway throwing pebbles into the wind, her hair flourished brilliantly in the moon's eclipse; the red's reflection dancing off the hazelnut browns of her natural tresses and twinkling in the modeled waves as they lapped against the shore. The sky was a deep crimson, almost black with clouds of purples and mauves. In the shadows of her mind, Kira found time slipping through the portals of change while the fireflies danced on the horizon. Occasionally, she would find herself reaching out to touch one, but they were always far beyond her grasp. She longed to hold the magnificent beauty of pure light in her hands and ward off the darkness that surrounded her every move. The shroud of ambivalence had finally begun to whisk itself away into the twilight and the illusions of immobility began their ascent into the scarlet abyss of remembrance.
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Followers of Baelin weren't considered the type to dance merrily through the forests of happiness; well, not unless it was a burning heap of charred remains filling the air with the stench of cooked flesh on a clear star-lit night. This was apparent from the soft orange glow moving slowly through the woods in the distance.
It had been 3 years since the war had broken out; some fighting in the name of Baelin for the sake of glory and expansion and self-iniquitous pride, others for Bevan and the sake of glory, protection, honour, and the simple fact that they are not keen on dying quite as of yet. It was never supposed to come this far south, yet the reflection of the water to the east proved the inevitable— war was coming to Thylandrill through the northern wood. There was no way around it. And this, of course, would complicate the issue even more. There was one side fighting for Baelin, one for Bevan, and if the elves were forced to get involved, they would be fighting for the very ground upon which they stood.
Einar stepped into the night and gazed sullenly at the distance. The time for him to prove his leadership had come at last, but this was a decision he did not want to make.
"They're coming this way, Mordecai." He said emotionless.
"Yes. They are. The fires are burning brighter each night. Even the moon has turned red from them. The ways of men are not our ways, Einar. This won't end well."
"It will end how it will end, Mordecai. There is no way about that. And the ways of men have always been far from the shoulders of elves. Not out of distance, but merely out of sight. Remember though, Mordecai, men have fought for us in the past, although remaining at a distance. From within the ancient halls, we have survived for millennia; without concern over the coming of such a foul disease of life such as war—death. But now we must go into those halls for a different kind of protection. We must arm ourselves and ready at the very footpaths our fathers had worn. There will be no stopping it. There will be sorrow. There will be no other light but that of the glint of steel upon steel and of the glow of our very world burning around us. But nonetheless, Mord—" he cut himself off briefly to turn to Mordecai and placed a firm hand upon his shoulder, "but nonetheless, there will be light. These walls have protected our families and kept us safe for millennia. And they will continue to do so no matter the reason behind it."
There was a long silence while the lapping of the waves seemed to drown out the tension of foretold sorrow. Mordecai pulled himself up and lifted his sword to the sky in salute to Einar.
"And to such an end would I follow you," he said "into the labyrinth of dreams would I knock my final arrow, be it that dreams be all we have left." He knelt before Einar with his sword in front of him. "With this blade shall I defend the kin of Thylandrill."
Einar gently put a hand on Mordecai's head.
"Stand, Mordecai. You know you need not kneel before me." Mordecai remained kneeling, but looked up at Einar. "We will wait until the moon returns to make the decision. The fires are still two days off, providing they're not battling at a full run." For the first time, Mordecai saw a small smile perch Einar's lips. "Let us see what the moon has to show us. Then we will know upon which path we stand. Let's not panic the families. Quietly gather the men and bring them to the circle. We will meet there immediately."
"Of course. We will return shortly."
There was a brief pause while they stared into each other's eyes, one feeding pride and anxiety off the other and both trying to read into each other's true feelings toward the situation, but to no avail. After this moment of eternal silence, Mordecai walked off into the Great Hall which was made of incredibly ornate bas reliefs etched in silvery mythril. This night, however, the silver had lost its sheen to the reflection of the moon. The moon had lost its shine to the need of the mithril. And no one was sure which was going to give first.
Einar slowly walked his way up the beach contemplating the questions before him. "Should we immediately go to war and risk what surely would be hundreds of premature deaths? Or should we wait and see if the fires turn west or stop altogether? If we wait, we could be too late and lose more than if we had jumped into the fires of hell itself. If we plunge into the fiery depths of war, we could lose more than if we had waited." This was going to be a long night. Einar drank from his water-skin.
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Thorin had just picked himself up off the ground as the next blow sent him hurdling toward the inferno, his black hair blocking his vision. All he could hear were the screams of orders being barked from everywhere to anyone that would listen. At least the last blow drove him far enough away that he could stand up, dust himself off and catch his breath before charging head-long back into the battle. He was pretty beaten. He had a nice gash above his right eye which his hair was soaking up and then dripping into his already bloodshot grey eyes quite effectively. There was a cut somewhere on his chest, but he couldn't feel it, which is probably for the better since it was more of a gorge that a cut, revealing bone and shrapnel. Finally, he had a piercing pain shooting through his left shoulder which was probably caused by the arrow now protruding steadily from it. But, after a couple deep, painful breaths, Thorin charged on. He suddenly heard a scream, "Behind you!" As he turned around, there was yet another pummel to the skull. "This is not my day." was the last thing he remembered thinking as the scarlet scene dissolved into a serene black.
Færlin, a slightly medium sized man but built like a cave troll with long red hair and goatee, however, was fairing a bit better than his brother; his armour still silver, his blade crimson and fluid, his mount still beneath him. With every swing of his sword came the bellow "To the bone yard!" as he lopped off another head. He really did enjoy his work. Færlin was that person who isn't happy unless he's doing some heroic deed in the name of "king and country and above all, Bevan." The little things bored him. So, as soon as it was announced that Rythien was going to war, he was the first to sign up. And when others backed out of the war when they found out they were fighting the Bælinites, Færlin was the first to step forward as captain. And now that he had fought for months, traveled hundreds of miles, and eaten the flesh of his enemies when there was no other food, Færlin felt even more justified in his actions. He knew that Thylandrill was just a couple days south and although would appreciate their assistance, felt it necessary to try to diverge the battle elsewhere. He ordered the troops to swing around to the south side of the conflicting army and push them northwest toward the mountains of Evlar.
There were, however, so few of the troops left and the Bælinian army was overwhelming their forces. Not to mention the fact that the Bælinites didn't much care what happened to their own and therefore would march right over them to proceed onward if they had to. They had to be the only army in existence who held a sword in their right hands and torches in their left. They would kill and immediately burn. And the fires were always large.
The clash of steel on steel was deafening. Teeth bared, grunts and moans underlying the orchestra of strikes, and the reflection of the moon off the pools of fluids now lying upon the ground proved grim for Bevan warriors. But they knew that if they didn't die in battle, they would die from the Bælinites in torture. This was their only chance of survival and their only chance at protecting their families now so far away.
Færlin looked down to see his brother lying unconscious. He immediately dismounted, lifted his brother to the saddle and struck the horse, sending it south where he knew Thorin could receive some form of care. As he turned around, an opposing warrior who stood about six feet tall (a mere three inches taller than Færlin) with dark black leather armour and only his front teeth smiled viciously at Færlin, then swung at him with his torch. This was just what Færlin needed to lift his sword into the man's gut pouring forth all now unattached vital organs. The man's smile faded.
Færlin's troops eventually managed to swing around to the south side of the opposing army and began slowly pushing them northwest. Færlin knew that if they could just reach the mountains, the dwarves would be more than willing to help out. He ran into the battle lopping off as many heads and reciting his head-chopping mantra with just about every swing. The only thing left to do now was… survive.
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