Light Of Loreandril (56 page)

The jolt shook Nechan from his daydream, and once again the cries and horrific sights and smells of battle surrounded him. Upon the hill they could only watch, now they were a part of it, close enough to taste and smell the iron in the air from the spilt blood.

The two clansmen were quickly put into position, joining many others as reinforcements around one of the Aeon elves. Nechan tried to turn and look into the centre to catch a glimpse of the elf they were protecting, but the light was far too bright.

“What’s wrong with you?” His brother was still standing next to him. “Now is not the time to become overwhelmed by fear.”

Cradon seemed so different from the brother he once knew, the one he had left home with. He was hardened and no longer scared. In Loreandril there had been little time for the twins to catch up, and even less time to share stories about their journey.

“Nothing’s wrong!” lied Nechan. He could feel his legs quivering under him, and sensed the taste of bile in the back of his throat, a forewarning he could be sick.

Cradon laughed, shaking his shaggy red hair, now matted with dirt and sweat. “You could have fooled me. You look like you’re about to be sick!” Even with ash from the bombing smeared across his face it was easy to see his brother’s pallor.

“It’s nothing.” Nechan did not look his brother in the eyes, instead he tried to focus and concentrate on what lay ahead. He was sure it was just the nerves trying to get the better of him.

The sounds of battle were drawing ever closer. The clash of metal against metal was louder, accompanied by the sounds of wild animals and demonic beasts, consuming the air.

Then the strange sensation hit Nechan once again, throwing him into someone else’s mind, seeing their memories through their eyes. Nechan felt detached from his body, unable to move his limbs. His gaze turned to his left, but through the haze he saw it was an elf and not his brother standing beside him. The elf’s armour was splattered with the blood of foes he had slain, his sword and shield dripping.

Cradon looked at his brother again. There was a growing air of intensity as they continued to hold their position waiting for the enemy. Yet, his brother appeared strangely unaffected. Nechan was standing as rigid as stone, his sword hanging loosely in his hand by his side as he stared into the distance, daydreaming.

“Nechan!” he shook him, gently at first, but it had no effect. Now he was concerned for his brother. Something was definitely wrong. Cradon slid his sword back into its scabbard and with both hands shook his brother hard. Nothing. The only response was his sword falling from his hand onto the ground.

Nechan was in the fray of a different battle, one that was not his. He was unable to free himself nor govern the moment of the body he was in. His host carried him unwillingly from one slaughter to the next, scrambling over the dead bodies of comrades. He watched as blood sprayed into the air like a fine mist, as the sword sliced through yet another torso.

Then, with relief, he heard it, only a faint echo, but it was the voice of Cradon calling him. Nechan struggled to break the hold, but he was pulled in deeper, the vision becoming even more vivid, even the sounds of battle now audible. It was then he heard the name.
Gileadon!
Someone behind him continued calling it until his host body turned. Before him stood Neornil, far younger, his hair more golden than white, his face and hands less crinkled with time. He too, was dressed in white armour that was splattered with blood and dirt.

Still gripping his brother’s shoulders, Cradon turned to see the advancing line of the enemy; they were nearly upon them, the men and elves in front falling like dominoes. There was a sudden pause, as if time slowed, and then in mass of heavy bodies, blood-filled air and yells, the enemy struck. They had successfully ploughed their way through the rest of the army, leaving everyone dead in their wake.

Quickly they circled the remaining few protecting the Aeon elves. Crossbows with armour-piercing bolts were fired into the core of the defence, one hitting the elf beside Cradon. He clutched his throat, dropping his sword, as he struggled for breath, gurgling on his own blood that gushed from his wound.

Cradon picked up the elf’s shield and, kicking out his brother’s feet, dragged him down behind it.

The fall woke Nechan from his stupor. He hit the ground hard, landing heavily in his armour. Almost instantly he began scrabbling in the dirt, gasping for air, utterly disorientated.

“Stay down!” commanded Cradon, pushing his brother back as he strung his bow.

“No! No!” Nechan continued crawling, trying to stand. “I know what I must do!” He grabbed hold of his brother, a strange, terrifying look in his eyes.

“Nechan! You are going to get us both killed! Stay DOWN!”

Before he could stop him, Nechan had retrieved his sword and was forcing his way through the blockade towards the centre.

Although he did not understand what was happening to him, feeling almost unable to control his own body, he knew that he must get into the middle. There was a growing weight around his neck and something burning into his chest. Even his blood surging through his veins felt like it was on the verge of boiling.

Finally, he reached the centre, only to be faced by a final line of elves standing behind a row of tall shields planted deep into the ground.

“There is no use trying to run from this fight!” jeered one elf.

Another one beside him fired an arrow high into the air, aiming for the advancing enemy. “You’ve run the wrong way if that’s what you’re trying to do!” he laughed as he restrung his bow.

“Please, let me through!” implored Nechan, struggling to stay standing. He began clawing at his neck and armour, the burning sensation becoming unbearable. Falling against the shields, the clansman slid down to the ground convulsing. Staring up into the starless sky, his eyes wide, he was flung into the other world once more, no longer fighting his own battle. The elves behind the shields could not continue fighting, the clansman was proving to be too much of a distraction.

“Grab him!” ordered the sergeant, not knowing what else to do. At least inside the circle, his men could ignore him. The two closest soldiers pulled Nechan’s writhing body up and over the shields, flinging him onto the ground and then carried on fighting.

Across the battlefield, the defensive circle surrounding Ninithel was quickly being whittled down. Situated on the far side few reinforcements had been able to reach them. The elves fought as hard and for as long as their strength and skill would allow, but alas, it was not enough. Within moments of being surrounded they were engulfed by the dark horde. The enemy broke through the shields, beasts mauling the elves and dwarves, men hewing limbs and hacking bodies, making quick work of them all.

The defenceless Aeon elf, Ninithel, never knew, nor felt what attacked him. It was over in an instant, his head sliced cleanly from his torso. As the hot blood hit the ground, his light was extinguished forever. High above, in the blackened sky, there was an anguished roar as the scarlet griffin suddenly streaked out of existence. It left nothing except fading wisps of reddened vapour.

The rampaging horde was almost upon Nymril also. Eilendan and his remaining men joined Jaidan and Gaular. They had struggled to fight their way backwards through the enemy ranks, and most of their horses had been killed. Many of his elite Aeonate troops were already injured, having thrown themselves into the deepest parts of the battle.

It had hit the Aeonates hard when they heard and saw the scarlet griffin spirit extinguished. Although they did not see it happen, they all knew that Ninithel had been slain. Now they turned their attention and remaining strength to defending the last two Aeon elves, Nymril and Githean.

High above them, the remaining two earth spirits were still fighting hard against the uzgen. This had been the Rjukhan’s plan. They knew that the elvish spirits would be drawn to fight their opposing conjurations, monopolising their attention, while the armies below decimated the allied lines unheeded.

Nechan was no longer in control of his body, barely aware of what was happening to him or around him. His mind was awash with someone else’s memories. Kneeling beside the Aeon elf in the ring, his arms became outstretched and his body rigid. The Aeonthel around his neck worked its way out from under his armour, glowing white hot in the surrounding darkness. Still around his neck, hanging in mid-air, the Aeonthel began spinning on its chain, emitting piercing white rays of light.

The elves began to turn, confused by the sudden additional light. Once they had looked, they could not turn away. The vision before them was disturbingly mesmerising. The young clansman appeared to be wielding elf magic.

Cradon had now managed to fight his way back through and fell against the shields.

“Hey! That’s my brother!” he shouted to the startled elves. “What are you doing to him?” He had drawn his sword in utter confusion, feeling he needed to defend his brother.

Words that he did not understand swamped Nechan’s mind, burning into his skull. As if his voice was no longer his own, the words suddenly broke free.

“
Lleorentho aeonis Gileadon tereso!”
 

There was a surge of heat through his body, a wave of the purest light, then Nechan was aware of nothing more. Even when told later by those present, he did not remember anything about what followed.

A shooting ray of light streamed upwards into the darkness. At its peak it began to rain down, surrounding the remaining elves and dwarves in a dome of falling light. The enemy, even those in mid-attack, dropped their weapons and shields, and began running for their lives. Others were frozen in fear, their weapons hanging loosely at their sides, as they tilted their heads back in awe, watching the waterfall of light.

Even from the command tents, both sides stood and watched, shielding their eyes from the brightness. The entire sea of advancing enemies, beasts and men alike, were illuminated, their true numbers now clearly visible to the elves upon the hill. The Minda Dwarves had yet to come up with a tactic that could help them succeed in a fight against so many.
What was this strange, new magic?
 

Only the elder, Neornil, understood what was happening. He knew that Gileadon had returned to protect his people, using the young clansman as a conduit between realms. As soon as he met the boy, Neornil knew that he was a chosen one. The old elf silently prayed that Nechan would be unharmed by the experience. Never before had a clansman been chosen to be the wielder of an Earth Spirit. He hoped that his body and mind would be strong enough to resist being drawn back into the Spirit Realm with Gileadon.

Cradon scrambled over the shields, and falling on the ground, crawled over to his brother. He was too scared to touch him and was quickly forced to shield his eyes from the burning whiteness. The light was emanating from his brother’s rigid body, even his facial features masked in the brightness, as he was suspended several feet from the ground. Cradon feared for his brother’s life, but there was nothing he could do to help him.

The armies were now in a state of stalemate. The allies were few in numbers, yet the strange new magic had brought the onslaught to an abrupt halt, the troops too scared to break the light barrier.
It looked as if it would burn flesh on contact. Besides, only a handful of men had remained, most had fled. Even the hideous beasts had turned tail and run, terrified of the light, having been born from darkness themselves.

The allied army was consumed by a similar confusion, although they sensed the Aeonorgal and Earth Spirits powered this new phenomenon. The Spirit Realm had come to their aid when most needed. Yet, the Elders sensed this time of stalemate would be brief, and that soon the attack would commence with full wrath once again.

“There are too many of them!” cried the elf beside Jaidan.

“Stand fast! We have a greater power on our side!” Jaidan gripped the hilt of his sword tightly, his knuckles white with the strain. He could feel the rest of his body tighten under the stress, even grinding his teeth. There was nothing he could do to ease the tension.

The white light filtered down just in front of the first line of defence. They dared not touch it, although they sensed it would not harm them. On the other side they could still make out see the grimacing enemy, slowly advancing as they geared up their courage to approach the white magic.

The two small remaining congregations of allies surrounded the Aeon elves. They were preparing to make their last stand, praying they could hold the enemy off long enough for the Earth Spirits to win their battle in the skies. Only once they turned their energy on the swarming armies would the elves truly stand a chance of victory.

Canvil and Govan surveyed the allied army behind their wall of light. They had asked guidance from their Masters, but they had merely been ordered to continue the advance. It was clear they did not know what this strange Elvish weapon was. The decision fell at the two Captains’ feet.

“Enough of this!” Canvil was impatient. He wanted to end it once and for all. “I will deal with this myself.” He spurred his horse forward, his troops parting, allowing their captain through.

“Where you going, Canvil?” demanded Govan. He followed a few paces behind. He sensed the older, foolish captain was about to do something very rash.

“Someone needs to prove to the men that this is nothing but an Elvish trick! A conjuration designed to fool us!”

Govan almost broke into a laugh. “Fine! But I am staying here!”

“I am happy to take credit for this if you are determined to be a coward,” Canvil jeered as he continued riding forwards.

Govan spat in annoyance, but did not bother returning an answer. He turned his black steed and rode back to a safe distance. There was no way he was going near that wall. After all, this captain had already survived a close encounter with Elvish magic, it was obvious this was a similar, perhaps more lethal phenomenon.