The Last Lord of Aeterveris
Mahtan sat in his high-backed chair in the hall of lords within the oldest of the silver trees of Aeterveris. He was tired of waiting and his fears slowly built. It is not too late. I can still retreat with what remains of my people. I can at least see my daughter one more time before the end. Most of the Aeterverans had already fled, along with all of the other lords save himself.
Mahtan's hand clutched the hilt of the long sword Vastaur as if it were his only tie to life. The Elven Lord stood from his seat and left the chamber to stand on the platform outside. I will not flee.
From here, the tallest and oldest of trees, he could survey all of Aeterveris, silver trees gleaming in the starlight. Mahtan could only hope that the destroyers would leave some of them. The woods had gone silent and Mahtan sensed that it knew what was about to befall as well, and perhaps better, than he did.
Mahtan stood on the platform for a long time. Taking in his domain for the last time. As he did so, he could slowly begin to hear the whispers of the trees and the soft music of their breath. And, for a moment, he knew peace again.
"My lord, the enemy is approaching the outer boundaries of our domain."
Mahtan turned to see Rumil, the commander of those who had chosen to remain. "How are they arrayed?"
"Their horde is mostly composed of orcish warriors. There are a number of ogres and giants among the number as well. The orcs are the usual rabble but the ogres are well armored and move in ranks."
"You've done well Rumil. Ready our warriors to strike the enemy from above as we had planned. The traps we've set will slow them but arrows and spells from targets they cannot see will make the press even more difficult for them. Go now, I will join you shortly."
The battle had gone better than Mahtan had dared hope. The Giants and their enforcers had spent the past several days goading their forces forward or cutting them down if they tried to retreat while archers harried them from above during the day and carried out daring raids during the night.
Elven war wizards never ceased raining all manners of death upon the slow-moving horde: fireballs, ice storms, death and incendiary clouds, chain lightning spells and insect plagues. Even on the nights when raids could not be performed, a few clusters of summoned monsters could stir up the enemy encampment enough to ensure that no one got a decent night's sleep.
The enemy advanced, but paid dearly for every yard gained. Every scroll and arrow within Aeterveris was being put to use and Aeterveran archers made every shot count. Now the enemy was on its final march before it would reach the great silver tree at the heart of Aeterveris. Even now war wizards pummeled the enemy with what spells remained in their memories.
Mahtan looked at the two hundred elven swordsmen arrayed with him before the great tree. Like Mahtan, they were all older (well over five centuries old) and prepared to meet their ends.
Slowly, Mahtan's keen eyes saw the horde coming into view in the distance through the widely spaced trees. I've bought you several days at a dear price, Kyner. Do not squander my final gift to you.
While Mahtan watched the horde approach, still very far off, he wondered if he could make such a long shot if he still had any arrows. Likely not with the bow I have used for the past few days. Perhaps if I had Arabor. Mahtan smiled at the thought of the bow made from the wood of the silver tree he now stood before. But I have given that weapon to Selinde She will need it more than I in times to come. Certainly, I will not be needing much anymore.
Mahtan was sorry for deceiving his daughter. He had purposefully sent her ahead with Kyner. He knew she would understand his intentions soon enough. The river boat taking them to Hreispell would not reach the city for some time, and elven heralds sent from Aeterveris would arrive before Selinde and tell her what had transpired.
Selinde will take the proper course. She always does.
Rumil, captain of the Aeterveran guard and coordinator of the defenses that had held the horde at bay for nearly a week, rapidly descended the stairs encircling the great tree.
"Lord Mahtan," he said, "the war wizards have depleted their final spells. Shall I have everyone descend?"
"No," said Mahtan, "you have done all you can. Take the archers and wizards away from Aeterveris. We will remain here and give you time to make your escape."
"Lord Mahtan-"
"Go, with haste, and leave this place to song and memory. It will not harbor the living for some time," this time Mahtan's voice bore the weight of a final command.
Rumil nodded, "To song and memory then, you will not be forgotten Lord Mahtan."
"I will be if you do not hurry. Sehanine Moonbow be with you on your journey."
"And may Corellon Larethian guide your sword to the last stroke." With those words Rumil ascended the long stair to perform his final duty to the last Lord of Aeterveris.
Mahtan had one final surprise for the enemy horde: many of the warriors in his retinue were also mages. Mahtan gave the signal for those mage warriors to begin casting protective spells on the warriors and on themselves. The elven lord began to feel the air shimmer about himself and knew that he was among the first to be protected.
The mages had nearly finished casting the protective spells when the orcs drew close. They had been advancing slowly, for fear of the traps left by the elves. Now the mages began casting mass haste spells and Mahtan felt his blood quicken.
When the orcs saw the elves standing their ground, all fear left them and they blindly charged. Mahtan was glad to see the orcs now hitting the worst and most concentrated of the traps the elves had lain. But more orcs rushed over the bodies of their fallen comrades to join battle.
Now the war mages unleashed the scrolls they had been saving for use on level ground. Mahtan shivered as a cone of cold sailed over his head and unerringly cut a swath through the orcish onslaught. Pristmatic sprays, flame arrows, magic missiles, scorchers and chaos spells followed not far behind. The spells used only became more varied once the mages ran out of scrolls and began casting from memory.
Hundreds of tightly clustered orcs fell before elven magic but they continued to charge recklessly forward. Mahtan brandished Vastaur and led his warriors in a charge that matched the orcs for fury. But while orcs quickly resorted to frenzied hacking, the elves wielded their blades with deadly grace and no swing or thrust was wasted. Orcs howled in pain as they fell to elven steel.
Slowly, the orcs realized that they were losing the fight and their rage faltered. Many tried to run but were either turned back or cut down. Then the orcs who had been trying to urge the others into battle met the elven warriors themselves and turned to flee.
Mahtan watched the beginnings of the orcish retreat with relief. Against a force much larger, he had barely lost fifty warriors. Then he saw the retreat turn to a slaughter, massive figures cut down the orcs as they fled.
Once they had finished with their smaller comrades, the figures walked slowly towards the elves. Mahtan didn't like the look of them. It was difficult to tell exactly what they were, being clad in full plate mail and closed helms, but Mahtan knew them to be the ogre warriors Rumil had warned him of.
The ogres carried all manner of weapons, and their stances said they had been trained to use them to their deadliest potentials. They walked with cold discipline, not the reckless fury of the orcs.
Keeping in tight formation, the ogres never broke ranks even when they met the elves in a bloody clash. The elves fought valiantly, but fell quickly before the skill and might of the ogre warriors. It was not long before the remaining elves, only eight of them now, found themselves back to back and surrounded by a ring of ogre warriors. The massive armored figures did not even appear to be exerting themselves.
Then the ring opened and a figure that dwarfed even the ogres stepped forward. The armored giant stood taller than a tower and twice as thick. Unlike armor worn by humans or even the ogre warriors, the giant's armored plating was considerably more reinforced about the legs than the upper torso.
The giant removed his helm and dropped it onto the ground, shaking the earth and crushing a number of orcs. His skin was a deep shade of blue, nearly as cold as his eyes. Frost bellowed from the giant's mouth with every breath and Mahtan felt the air about him stiffen.
"You harassed my minions for a long time, but fought bravely in the end," the giant said to the elves, "I am Hrungnir, Jarl of the Nastron-" Mahtan ceased listening to the giant, and began watching his eyes. The deceit was apparent. Hrungnir may have been a Jarl. But his success was a front. He was no Bhaalspawn.
"You are a pawn," spat Mahtan.
"You dare?" shouted the giant, and he walked forward with an earth-shaking step, "I will crush you like the worm-"
Hrungnir suddenly silenced himself and lowered his eyes. The ring of ogre warriors dropped their weapons and fell onto both knees with their heads bowed.
Leaves, that Mahtan had never seen the silver trees shed, blackened and fell from the younger trees. The elves could feel the wood recoil in fear, but knew they had no cover. The giant himself fell onto a knee and lowered his head. Mahtan narrowed his eyes beyond the giant.
The horde parted and not a single orc, ogre, or giant raised his eyes as the cloaked figure passed them by. The figure passed Hrungnir, and the giant bowed even lower.
Mahtan drew back when the figure approached him. It could either have been a man or elf and wore a travel-worn and tattered cloak. Pale skin and a tight mouth with bloodless lips were all that was to be seen beneath the cowl.
"So," the man said, "you must be Lord Mahtan. I must say, I was surprised you were able to withstand the western harbinger of my forces for so long. You did well, and I am very impressed. You have helped me to weed out some of the weak ones from my army. As your reward, I give you my leave to go."
Lord Mahtan stared, he had expected a fight to the death. Not his opponent letting him go. "Why," Mahtan started, but could not think of what to ask first.
"You must know," interrupted the man, "I really have very little interest in you or your people. I have another reason for coming here." The man's voice became slightly bemused at the end. And his gaze seemed to leave Mahtan to settle on the great tree that stood behind him.
"She is the mother of all Aeterveris, isn't she?" he asked. His lips curled into an expression Mahtan knew well: hunger.
Mahtan looked at the man, shocked, "You can't be serious."
"Of course I am," laughed the man as he brushed past the horrified lord of Aeterveris. "We all must feed, mustn't we?"
"You are an abomination!" said Mahtan.
"DO NOT BLAME ME FOR WHAT I AM!" shouted the man as he rounded on Mahtan. The elven lord stumbled backwards and fell at the man's approach. "What I have become is a machination of the gods! Blame THEM for what is happening to your precious wood! Consider yourself lucky you do not suffer my fate. I have not known the succor of food or drink for years. Pray you never understand what it is like, to have to feed on death for your very existence. I am too far gone for any god to bring me back now and I curse them all for what they have done to me."
Although Mahtan knew fully well he was several inches taller than the man, he felt that the cloaked figure towered over him, towered over even the giant who now lay prostrate on the ground. "Now," said the man, "my hunger calls to me." He whirled away from Mahtan and continued toward the tree.
"I cannot allow that to happen," said Mahtan, as he stood. The remaining elves followed behind Mahtan with raised swords as he charged at the man who sought to feed on the great tree.
Hadeon shook his head sadly once the last elven warrior fell, then began picking away the bits of blood, gore, and elven chain mail from his gauntlets as he turned his attention back to the Great Mother. Behind him, the horde quivered in fear.
The forest was still while Hadeon tenderly traced his fingers across the bark of the ancient tree. "Were our positions reversed, you would do the same, old one." Still the wood was silent. Perhaps, thoughtHadeon, it believes I am reconsidering. Hadeon chuckled at the thought. No, old one. There is no mercy left in me. I simply don't have that luxury anymore. In another life, I might have delved into the mysteries of your wood. But I grow weary. Rest well, Great Mother.
Stepping back from the tree, Hadeon removed his gauntlets and took hold of the spear he kept slung across his back with his gaunt, almost skeletal, hands. Dagger-sharp thorns dug into Hadeon's palms as he gripped the weapon. Blood seeped away from Hadeon and the spear eagerly soaked it up. Spasms of pain ripped through Hadeon's body. He felt each burst of agony but betrayed no sign of anguish.
As the spear was awakened by Hadeon's blood, and by Bhaal's blood, it hungered for more.
Now! At Hadeon's command the taint roared to life, an inferno that–were Hadeon to hold it inside–would surely devour him. As he had done a hundred times before, Hadeon channeled the essence of Bhaal into the spear.
Together, the blood of Bhaal and the spear cried for death. It was a demand that the most pure of heart would have been powerless to resist. Hadeon cleaved to the spear all the more tightly, and his blood continued to flow, soaking the black oak shaft with crimson.
Then Hadeon gave the two what they wanted, and thrust the spear into a root of the great mother. No mortal would have been able to notice any immediate effect, but Hadeon could feel the ancient one tremble in fear while the essence of Bhaal devoured it. No longer silent, the woods cried out in terror. If a word could be put to the reaction, it was simply 'why?'.
Like plague, the taint of Bhaal quickly spread to every branch and root of the tree. Verdant leaves withered and fell. Great branches rotted and collapsed under their own weight. Platforms broke apart and plummeted as the branches they were set upon fell. The great stair that encirled the tree crumbled and gave way, joining the rest of the rubble.
Slowly, the great silvery trunk of the Great Mother began to grey, and then blacken with rot. The ground quaked as the trunk split down the middle and the two ends slowly curled to the ground, pulling down many smaller trees beneath their unstoppable weights. It didn't take long for the two ends to splinter further and wreak more destruction.
Hadeon pulled the taint back into himself and it fed him the strength it had siphoned from the great tree. The Bhaalspawn fell to the ground as he tried to keep the taint from overwhelming him. When Hadeon finally struggled to his feet, he felt stronger, but less alive.
The horde was assembled among the ruins of the great tree. All of the ogre warriors who had fought the elves, along with the orcs closest to the tree, had been crushed by debris. The Jarl Hrungnir and the half-ogre Battle Lord Asgrim stood at the edge of the debris.
They both seek spoils, glory, and fortune. How long will it take them to realize that mine is the path of death? Even if I win all of my battles, will I live to see the end?
"Ready the horde for a five days march," rasped Hadeon as he placed his spear upon his back and drew his gauntlets back on.