At the very last, it had come to this. The lines of the army stretch beneath the glowering sunrise, veiled in a cloud of choking smog issuing from great rifts in the rocky ground. Molten rock churns and boils deep below, worming through each crevasse, throwing eerie shadows dancing amongst the brittle shale. The mountains loom above, great pinnacles of stone thrust like broken teeth from the earth, scraping the underbelly of the cloudbank roiling above them. Underlit by the fissures of magma, they bathe in a bloody light, crimson swallowed amongst the shadows clotted between great crags of splintered rock. Through this hell-scape the army marches, filing grim and silent through a steep valley, the barren rock crunching beneath their boots. Clad in gold and green, the colours of their woodland home, under the baleful light their armour flashes sharply, golden pauldrons edged in red, cuirasses and chainmail glowing malevolent and brooding. The rich green of their banners, the sword hilts and bows wrapped in dyed leather dull to black, oily and weird, sending a shiver of unease crawling up each soldier's spine, a faint coiling of nausea within each of them.
To the side of the column, atop a ledge of shale outcrop jutting from the valley wall, the king, his father stands. Blonde hair sweeps back from the Elvenking's face in a golden cascade, a magnificent swan-helm rests on his brow, interwoven lames of metal forming delicate wings, a slender neck. Tendrils of emerald filigree trail like vines across his gleaming silver armour, from the centre of his breastplate extended like the great branches of an oak tree, wrapping over his shoulders, curling around his ribs. A longsword rests at his side, the curved steel blade sharp and deadly within its leather sheath, spells of speed and strength forged along its three-foot length in fluted Tengwar, a mighty gift from the High Elves long ago. From the ledge crowned with his banner; a great golden tree emblazoned across a sea of velvet green, he surveys his army, his pale blue eyes flickering from soldier to soldier. He squints as he looks to the barren rocky ground before them; eerily empty, the wind sliding through hollow stones, blowing a thin veil of dust to swirl sullenly in the air.
Standing beside his father, clad in his own armour no less befitting a prince of the Woodland Realm, he too watches the army advance, slowly marching their way into the jaws of the Black Lands. The quiet unnerves him, only the crunching of shale beneath their boots and the occasional rumble from deep beneath the earth providing any relief to the pressing, ominous silence; where they expected the horns and screams and hot crush of battle they were met with broken rock and shadows, and such aching, weird emptiness.
A quiver and strung longbow rest across his back, their rich mahogany and leather shining black in the ruddy light, the tips of his silver hair set aflame as they tease the feather-fletched ends of his arrows. To distract himself from the growing sense of discomfort, he fiddles with the twin knives strapped to his waist. Their ivory hilts run smooth under his fingers, the hide-wrapped grips soft beneath his palm. With the soft hiss of metal against leather, he slides them midway from their sheaths, the wrought steel gleaming red, each forearm length blade keen and lethal. Even with their reassuring warmth resting under his fingertips, his skin crawls, the mounting feeling of unease pulsing urgent through him; the army marching forward into empty space, the valley walls clustered tight around them, but no sign of the enemy, no sign of anyone; scout nor vanguard. The minutes trickle agonizingly by, and soon he can bear it no longer, doubt gnawing hard at his insides. And he turns to his father, suspicion reading plain across his face, he opens his mouth to speak, and in that moment, in that shuddering inhalation of breath, the horn call sounds that chills the blood in his veins.
The horn blasts break across the valley, blaring their alarm in harsh dissonant notes. And before he could breathe, before anyone could react a howling takes up in return, fell voices shrieking and clamouring in guttural war cries. Suddenly orcs swarm over the cliffs, down the valley walls, issuing like scuttling cockroaches from unseen gullies between the rocks, armour black and chitinous, bearing the sigil of the Red Eye daubed across each hideous helmet, every patchwork shield. Below his shocked gaze, the front lines of the army collapse, instantaneously beleaguered on three sides by the enemy, surging forward in some mad frenzy to crash upon the elves caught in the impossible assault. Swords hurriedly pull free of scabbards; officers scramble to assemble their lines, but too late. The vanguard buckles under the swarm; fair soldiers crushed by gnashing, biting teeth, voices crying thick with bloodlust, metal punched through leather and steel alike. He stares down in horror, caught in some chill paralysis, his mind not wanting to process what just happened. His eyes slide languid over each dying soldier, every thrust and parry lightning fast yet trapped in some nightmare viscosity, knives dragging slow and cold through skin, axes split skulls in hideous spurts of blood left hanging infinite in the air.
Beside him, his father's growl jolts him from his reverie. Face twisted in a grimace of rage, his eyes shine with a roaring flame, hard as tempered steel in his anger, watching his soldiers ripped to pieces before him. Quicker than conscious thought his father grasps the hilt of his sword, knuckles white and bloodless beneath his skin. And for a second he knows, he knows what his father intends and he wants to cry out, to stop him, to prevent this insane reckless move before it happens, but even as he turns, his father jumps. His longsword flashes pale in his hand, as with feline grace he lands ten feet below, amidst a thicket of orcs sent reeling back in surprise. Swifter than his eyes can follow, watching grimly from above, his father wheels his sword in a devastating arc, its honed point carving through sinew and flesh alike in a spray of viscera, black and steaming in the air, and the clutch of orcs fall limp at his feet, tracheas and jugulars alike neatly severed. A savage smile twists across his father's face, all teeth and curling lips as he whirls like one fey, throwing himself into the fight, his sword cleaving a bloody path before him; such ruin wrought with each brutal lunge, each ringing counter as he hacks his way to his front lines, to join his main forces. But the lines of orcs swarm thick before him, a sea of reeking hide and hideous faces, and the Red Eye always watching, glaring from shields and helms with its malevolent crimson stare.
From his perch upon the rocky ledge, solemnly he watches his warriors founder, the flanks of their formations steadily devoured by the sheer number of savage blades; deformed, fierce bodies falling like demons upon his soldiers caught helpless in the ravening. From his position of relative safety, he draws his great bow, its silver string thrumming with each swift nock and release as he fires countless times into the orcs surrounding his father. Arrows fletched in white swan feathers punch through eye sockets, rip through throats, leaving orcs screaming and flailing to die in the dirt, but he has too few arrows to wreak any real damage; the orcs once more swarming forward to challenge his father, and the few of his Kings-guard who managed somehow to hack their path to him, flanking their ruler with sword and bow and dual bladed knives. Suddenly, like a flower shot up from a field of stinking mud, the banner of the Woodland Realm unfurls above his father, plunged like an anchor into the raging sea by some desperate bearer, the golden tree snapping wildly in the breeze as its guardians struggled to defend it. Gradually they cut a small breath of space through the legions of orcs surrounding them, but more always moved to fill the gaps of the dead, faces more hideous than before, black eyes lit in feral glee as the orcs sense their quarry struggling, slowly drowning under the tidal waves of war.
He watches his father, the dwindling knot of guards around him, cold tendrils of dread spreading in his chest. Their cries echo wildly about the valley, commands and battle cries mixed with the screaming of the wounded in one terrible rending cacophony, and swiftly he looks across to the main forces, their closest hope for aid. But beleaguered they are, their own officers frantically trying to hold their lines, the enemy swarming on three sides and vastly outnumbering them. They could offer no help to their king, stretched to breaking point already, adopting a ragged defensive manoeuvre to save themselves from complete annihilation. His heart thuds wildly in his chest, dismay clawing through him, and as his gaze flickers back to his father he sees the captain of his guard fall beside him; a fountain of gore sprayed across the stained earth from a vicious axe blow, cleaving his cuirass clean apart, and rending through the muscle of his chest, sternum and ribs shattered in a gout of steaming blood. His father turns with a shout, trying to catch his captain as he falls, but immediately a crowd of jeering orcs charges him. Hard-pressed, he slashes desperately to keep them back, his sword flashing bright and urgent against their sable armour. Watching from above, for a second of brutal clarity he can do nothing but stare, screaming instinct of what he should do, what he must do flaring within him, a moment of glorious lingering insane potential. His pulse beats hard in his head, echoing muffled and warped in his ears, and he exhales a breath he didn't know he had held, then in one mighty leap he jumps from the rock ledge. He rips his knives free from their sheaths in midair, and as he deftly lands they glitter in his hands, a foot and a half of shining steel to pierce plate armour, slice through tendon and bone as if they were butter. A thrill of adrenaline races through him, and with a growl he throws himself into the barrage of orcs, knives arcing in deadly rhythm as he strikes, cleaving a slow and dangerous path to his father's side.
The minutes wear on, and he makes little progress. Every enemy slain springs two more in his path, charging headlong with their crude iron broadswords swinging, breath hot and panting rolled from bloodstained jaws; every attempt he makes to burst forward rendered futile, hemmed by a ring of snarling faces, a reeking crush of bodies. As he turns and parries and slashes he catches fleeting glimpses of his father's banner, still defiantly fluttering in the breeze, and he fancies below it he sees the faintest spray of golden hair shimmering in the crimson light. But the glimpses become fewer, the banner falls limp as the wind falters, and desperately he pushes forward, hot shards of panic ripping through his chest, some dark foreboding driving him to stab, to duck, to lunge faster than thought, faster than sight, to do anything but he has to move; he has to find his father, he has to save him.
With painful slowness he advances, inch by bloodstained inch, vaulting the bodies of the slain, dead flesh and armour catching under his boots. Not ten metres from where he fights, his father is left alone, his last companion caught with an iron crossbow bolt through his eye socket, gore dripping down his face as he screams, his fingers clawing at the thick black shaft before he falls limp to the ground. His father stands unaided, spattered in the dark effluvia of battle, surrounded by a ragged pile of his slain captains; their eyes glazed and staring sightlessly towards the murky sky. A ring of orcs forms around him, cutting a circle of eerie space amidst the general crush, awaiting the signal to advance, to kill; their fell voices mocking, laughing; their prey cornered, the Elvenking hopelessly outnumbered. And trapped outside in the fray still he fights, he fights so hard to move forward, to be at his father's side, every thrust, every strike tinged with desperation, fear and urgency set ablaze within him, but it's not enough, he's too slow, too slow and beyond the rabble of orcs he can see, through the flurry of battle he can see his father standing, sword still held defiantly before him.
From a hidden signal the ring of orcs collapses, pouring inwards towards his father like a wave unstoppable, the flood unleashed and frothing in its madness. The first he cuts down with two mighty swings of his sword, a second falls beheaded, but there were so many, too many for him alone. Like snarling dogs they seize him, thick fingers gripping hard around his shoulders as he writhes, cruel hands clenched around his forearm, trying to force his longsword from his grip, nails digging hard through chainmail. But he holds on tightly, fingers locked around its grip, tendons screaming white across his hands with the pressure, stubbornly clutching his sword until the end.
And from beyond the crush, still bitterly fighting his way though the orcs, above the screams and grunts of battle in some supernatural clarity, he hears the snap of bone, clean and shearing under iron fingers, hears the sword clang to the ground, his father's anguished cry, the ugly jarring laughter of the orcs. They expand again in vague synchronicity, leaving a swathe of empty space around his father, bettering their view, the theatre unveiled raw and sadistic. Clutching his broken arm, his father sways, his fingers turning numb as pain and shock races through his body. Three orcs step forward once more, hulking commanders with clotted muscles, grotesque fangs jutting from misshapen jaws. One slams its mailed fist into his stomach, and he buckles, retching as the air punches out of his lungs, and as he staggers the other two grab him about the shoulders, forcing him down onto his knees, their iron grip inescapable as he twists desperately, exerting their obscene pressure until he falls, knees hitting the battle-churned dirt beneath him. His helmet is ripped off, the graceful swan-helm thrown to the ground and smashed under an iron boot, its metal lames crumpled and warped with a mournful squeal. His blonde hair ripples in the breeze like a sheen of pale gold, ethereal and light, but horribly naked; frail against the brooding dark of the orcs. A thick, scarred hand twines through his hair, viciously yanking his head back to expose his throat, his pulse visibly flickering through his veins, jumping hard under his skin. A black dagger swims into his vision, curved and tooth-like, its serrated length inscribed with spells or ruin, of death; vile poisons smelted into the very metal. Like ice it feels against his neck, the mad throbbing of his heart lost in cold iron, and in a moment that lingered agonizingly before him he waited for the final strike.
Still trapped beyond the circlet of orcs, the prince pushes so hard, with every fibre of his being he hacks and tears at the enemy, panic flooding through him, he has to reach him, he has to save him, but ever he is blocked, precious seconds wasted, until finally, finally he shoves through the ring of orcs, wild momentum bursting him through, and he looks at his father, looks straight into his eyes as the knife blade slashes across his throat.
Time congeals; slowing to a crawl as he watches the blood pour, spurting in shock silence to mottle his father's pale skin, a red necklace dripping rubies down his throat. And he stands, wavering as shock and grief floods through him, eyes locked to his father's face; expressions of surprise, of pain flickering across his father's features, but fading to such a terrible childlike confusion as he tries frantically to draw breath. And he can't bear it, can't bear to hear his father's gasps, wet and clicking as air shudders warped through his severed oesophagus, rings of muscle and cartilage trying desperately to continue their failing functions, flexing horribly beneath his skin, but drowned in red, in slick crimson so brutally defined. His father's back arcs in distorted reflex, the fiery light in his eyes dimming, and slowly he tips forward, muscles falling slack as his mighty strength fails. From the edge of the space he dives across the piles of slain Elves to catch his father as he falls, kneeling in the dirt, twisting his father around in his arms until he lies cradled against his chest, his silver breastplate awash with crimson, beading along the metal branches of the emerald tree like crushed cherries darkly shining.
With some nameless emotion; fear, anger, sorrow and pity all smashed and warped and ablaze within him, he stares down at his father, still faintly stirring in his arms, their silver eyes locked together. And from their gaze wells a grief so keen his heart wants to burst inside his chest, rip its agony out through his ribcage and shatter into a million tiny little pieces, he just wants to break, because he failed, he failed, he couldn't save his father, he couldn't do anything but watch him die. Such anguish burns in his eyes, but beneath his fury, beneath his sorrow his father softly smiles, droplets of blood flecked across his lips in serene stillness, his own eyes calm, forgiving, proud even. Proud of his son, a warrior, a king to succeed where he had failed. And at the end of the world, lying there in his arms, gazing with such love into his son's burning eyes, he sees the glimmer of tears, and he smiles; so gently smiles as his vision blurs, calmly slipping down into blackness, his great spirit fleeing to the great Halls of Mandos, forever to dwell in peace and quiet harmony.
Numb, he kneels, his father's limp body lying heavy in his arms; his hands slick with blood, prickling like tiny insects crawling across his skin. Beneath the glowering sky he stays, a graven image of grief abandoned in the midst of ruin, nothing but wastelands of churned earth and bodies and his father cradled against him, sprawled lifeless in his arms. As if through walls of stone, muffled and muted he hears the jeers of the orcs, sneering twisted faces erupting in raucous laughter, the tread of their iron boots as they advance, to grab him, to kill him. Savagely blinking back tears, he lays his father's body gently to the ground, with one wild twist rolls to pick up his knives where they dropped, scuffed and stained among the sodden dirt. Wearily he stands, breath shuddering uneasily as he struggles to swallow his sobs, shining tears trailing like stripes of white fire down his cheeks; his shame, his sorrow, his guilt twisted hard inside him for all to see. Standing over the body of his father, he will not move, he will not fail, not again, never again, staring down the ranks of orcs, fury burning in his eyes. Alone amidst a sea of howling enemies, he slides into a fighter's stance, twin blades readied before him, and grimly he waits, the clouds churning grey and sullen above the slaughter to come.
To be continued...