Ballad of the Fallen Angel
Wail of Sorrow, watched as the golden leaves fell softly into the blood stained pond. “The Mythic chanting is sad, but warm, very different from the dark Unliving hymns,” the Banshee thought as her Mythic knights lamented the passing of their brothers. Wail of Sorrow’s party had suffered a second ambush in less than a day; the attackers were members of discontent Mythic groups. And these fallen belonged to those groups, but even then chants had to be sung.
“The Dugobannon Cult must be desperate,” the Banshee telepathically remarked to Venthlon, a renowned Mythic archer, whom Wail of Sorrow met many years ago during her time in the Soul Assassins, before both of them defected and joined the Resistance. The archer nodded, he knew not all of the Mythic shared the Queen’s view, and the summoning of one of Edalyor’s dream-form without their consent was insulting to some groups. Wail of Sorrow also knew this, and she felt the icy hand of the druid Arbakai, she who had called for the unleashing of the dark forces of nature to destroy the enemies of Gaia, but had been ignored by the Queen and the Council.
The Unliving recalled how Evander Jordan had received the Silver Horn from the Queen’s hand personally, “Use it wisely it. It carries part of the essence of my older brother. It can save or doom you,” she whispered to Jordan, who suddenly felt uneasiness at hearing those last words.
The Banshee observed the Queen from the distance, not because she wasn’t allowed to be any closer, but because she couldn’t, the aura which enveloped the Llwy was staggering, her presence silenced the whispers of the abyss, and replaced it with the sound of the forest, “Is this what the heretics call tranquillity?” the Unliving asked herself as the Queen bid farewell to Jordan.
Their mission was simple, Jordan knew that tribes loyal to Arbakai and the Dugobannon would try to stop them from summoning the Axe of Edalyor, so he organized three groups, two decoys including his team, and then a third one which would carry the horn. The third one would have to be lead by a non-Mythic, since the horn could seduce any child of Gaia, and it would be lost. Evander knew he could carry it being a half cast, but he also knew that their enemies would be aiming at him, so he left the task to Wail of Sorrow, who had proved to be a most trusted and efficient ally ever since her defection. So it was agreed that a party made up of Moon Knights (the Resistance Elite Operations body), Venthlon, and Wail of Sorrow would take the Silver Horn to the caern of Edalyor located deep in the heart of the forest so that the Axe of Edalyor Incarna could be called forth to battle against the other two Incarna which were being summoned.
Wail of Sorrow made a gesture to Venthlon, who then ordered the Moon Knights to prepare to march again. The archer knew that custom demanded that any Mythic had to chant for any fallen of their race, even for these Dugobannon who had twice tried to attack them, and steal the Silver Horn.
As the Moon Knights organized themselves, Wail of Sorrow walked towards Ungöl, a huge ogre cast in full-plate armor. Feeling the Unliving behind her the ogre turned around, “What you want?” he asked bluntly. Wail of Sorrow said nothing. Ungöl walked towards her and stopped a couple of centimetres away, “I said what d’you want you disgusting vermin?” A bright flash appeared between them, the Ogre looked around but found nothing; when he finally turned back to Wail of Sorrow she was sheathing her Master Crystal Sword. A red line started to form in the middle of Ungöl’s face, the Ogre started to shake, and its upper body folded in two as he dropped dead. Some of the Moon Knights unsheathed their weapons, but Venthlon stood between them and the Unliving. Wail of Sorrow bent over the body, and took something from it. She stood up and raised it, the Moon Knights gave one glimpsed at it, and then sheathed their weapons. It was a following probe. “So that’s how they were tracking us,” the Unliving said to herself.
The Silver Horn looked like any other of its kind. The only element that made it stand out were the inscriptions on it; nobody knew what they meant, not even the Queen. At one point the scholar Mordyn had tried to decipher them, and spent many decades working on the task but his efforts had proved fruitless.
Wail of Sorrow first saw the inscriptions when Evander handed her the horn and her assignment, “Head to the Caern of Edalyor, hidden in the Court of Seasons with the real horn.”
A lot of the Moon Knights had criticized Jordan’s selection, “You cannot entrust one out most sacred relics to an Unliving,” they had yelled. But at this moment Evander showed them why. Whenever a Mythic touched the horn it glowed with an intense green hue, “This artefact has the essence of Edalyor, the prince of the Mythic, whose strength is unmatched in our kingdom. He is the strongest will of nature, and being that any of you could succumb to its temptation, but not Wail of Sorrow nor I, who are half-breed.” Some of the Mythic had been convinced, but others were resilient. At this moment, Venthlon, the blind archer, stepped forward and challenged the Knights to a duel, but none accepted it. They knew that this elf was not to be trifled with. Since nobody accepted his challenge, Mythic law dictated that orders would be followed as they had been handed out.
The forest affected the whole party, Wail of Sorrow had noticed how the Moon Knights had become more aggressive, and the psytech emanating from the trees enhanced their hostility. The Banshee could feel it, but was untainted by it; what bothered her was the darkness. As an Unliving she had spent many centuries in the Splinter of Ramiel, and seen the darkness of the void, but here the darkness felt alive. If an Unliving could feel fear, she would have at this moment.
“The psytech here is suffocating, what do you think?” asked Venthlon, “It is watching us. The whole forest is watching us. Does it speak to you?” enquired telepathically the Banshee, the archer nodded. Wail of Sorrow did not hesitate, and signalled the party to double the pace. They could not linger, their enemies thanks to the Ogre knew their probable route, and there was a good chance that they also knew that the other two parties were decoys.
The party arrived at the heart of the forest. The Moon Knights stared in bewilderment at the Lunar Trees that formed the heart; each trunk was as wide as a Deathray Obelisk, and they were so tall that no un-winged creature could see the top. Venthlon tapped Wail of Sorrow on the shoulder and pointed at the horn, it was glowing. At that precise moment the trees started to glow with a dense silver light, the Moon Knights backed away from the trees. The Unliving unsheathed her sword, whilst the Archer cocked his customized Composite Bow.
The rest of the party quickly followed suit. An uncomfortable silence ensued. The glowing increased, until it resembled the moonlight. The Archer clicked his fingers, “There. Do you hear that?” he said, the rest of the party listened attentively, but heard nothing, “That humming, coming from the tress!” he added. Still they heard nothing. Wail of Sorrow knew that the blind archer had a legendary sense of hearing, but she felt nothing. Suddenly the ground started to shake, the roots of the trees sprouted from the ground like arrows perforating a body. A row of trees moved sideways creating an opening. The Banshee stared in marvel, “There is powerful Psytech at work,” she said to herself.
When the trees finished moving the humming stopped. Beyond the opening was a replica of Edalyor’s Cathedral made from Lunar Tree lumber. The party instantly recognized it as the Caern of Edalyor.
Wail of Sorrow did not hesitate and started to walk towards the cathedral.
Suddenly she stopped and quickly turned around; an arrow had just stopped inches from her face. Venthol stood beside her; he had managed to deflect the arrow. The Unliving looked at the archer, “Now we’re even,” Venthol smiled and threw the arrow on the ground. They both turned.
Standing before them was a group of elven maidens, “Elves, no wonder I didn’t hear them,” said Venthol out loud. A cloaked figure appeared behind the maidens, and made its way to the front.
“Give us the horn and you will be allowed to leave. Except for the Unliving.” A deep voice uttered. The cloaked figure removed its cloak, “Shit. I fucking hate Satyrs,” thought Wail of Sorrow, “Oh, so that was the smell,” said Venthol. Without notice, one of the maidens appeared in front of the Unliving, and swung her sword, which Wail of Sorrow easily parried, the maiden tried to jump back, but the Unliving’s blade quickly cut her upper torso in two, “I have no time for elven princesses,” Wail of Sorrow telepathically told the Satyr.
The Satyr said nothing. The other maidens unsheathed their weapons and attacked, Wail of Sorrow was about to engage but was stopped by the blind archer, “Go to the Caern, our mission is to get the horn there,” he told her. The Unliving wanted to fight but she knew the archer was right; she nodded, and headed towards the wooden cathedral.
The cathedral was massive, bigger than the original one. It was physically impossible for such a gargantuan place to exist in such an enclosed place, but Wail of Sorrow felt a powerful psytech at work, familiar, almost like the one she felt around the Queen, but older.
By the time the Unliving warrior was standing on the threshold of the temple; a dark form started to form behind her. Wail of Sorrow, feeling that somebody was behind her turned and saw the Satyr, “My girls will keep your boys busy,” he said in a confident tone, and took out a Bloodsteel Scythe, “Do you like it? I took it from one of your champions after I defeated him, I am called Oriax, Grand Marquis to her holiness Abarkai, and I will take the horn from you,” the Satyr chuckled. As the Unliving finished unsheathing, Oriax went into a frenzy of attacks, one blow after the other. Wail of Sorrow had no chance to counterattack for the sheer speed was that of lightning; she knew that is this continued she would be done for, she had never faced such a foe. Oriax suddenly stopped, “Is this the Great Wail of Sorrow? Hero of the Silent Assassins? I’m quite disappointed; I expected a lot more. Be that as it may, you have soiled holy ground, and I shall take your head back to Arbakai as a souvenir.” The Satyr kneeled down, stretched one leg to the side and extended the Scythe to the other; Wail of Sorrow knew this was an ancient offensive-defensive position, impenetrable when one used a long weapon, the Crimson Lotus Stance. “He has studied us,” she thought to herself. “Give me the horn now, and I will spare your comrades,” Oriax offered. The Unliving looked at the horn, and then at the Satyr, she grabbed the horn, and threw it at him, Oriax caught it with one hand, but as he did Wail of Sorrow attacked, the Satyr swung his scythe, Wail of Sorrow parried, but the curve of the scythe cut her back; with her free hand she grabbed Oriax by the throat and spoke for the very first time, “Fool! Any Unliving knows that you need both hands fo that technique,” as she pronounced these words a psytech field generated inside the Banshee’s throat. Oriax tried to move, but Wail of Sorrow’s grip was iron steady, “Now die,” and the Wail of the Banshee technique was released from her mouth, disintegrating Oriax’s body.
Where the Satyr once stood only the Scythe remained. Every time Wail of Sorrow used this technique it consumed a great amount of her psytech. As she regained her strength she called out to Venthol. She got no reply, nor could she hear if there was fighting going on. Suddenly, the Unliving felt a sharp pain; the wound caused by Oriax was deeper than she had first thought. She raised her eyes, the caern was hazy, she raised her hands, she couldn’t see them clearly either. Her knees gave way, and she tumbled to the ground. With her remaining strength the Unliving turned her head upwards; a soft breeze rustled the silver leaves, which still glowed like the moon, “What a sight,” Wail of Sorrow thought as the psytech began to leave her body. As she was fading she heard the crunching of leaves as somebody walked towards her, “Venthlon, is that you? Take the horn…” but she didn’t finish her sentence, she now felt an unfamiliar presence, not a heretic or an Unliving, but something else. The presence arrived to where she lay, Wail of Sorrow could only see a grey blur, “Sleep spirit, your task is done,” where the last words Wail of Sorrow heard in the darkest corner of the Court of Seasons.
Evander stood in front of the wooden altar inside the caern, it was simple; it had no inscriptions or runes. The Silver Horn laid on top it, waiting for somebody to summon the Axe of Edalyor.
Evander’s group had fought 4 ambushes to get to this part of the Court of Seasons. When they arrived they had found only one member of Wail of Sorrow’s party, Venthlon, who was found unconscious at the site, and who still had not regained his consciousness, and they found the horn in position. “What happened here? Where are the others?” Evander thought when he was interrupted by one of his retainers. “My lord, it is time, we have word that the other Incarna have been summoned,” the retainer said. Evander nodded, picked up the Silver Horn, put it on his lips and blew and soft sound enthralled the whole heart of the forest.
By J. Zandi