I. Duel Atop the Knoll

  Marciemar strode up the winding road, once the bowels of the earth elemental slain by himself in the last battle waged on the 19th

  of the last week of Iuonrua. The bloodiest battle they fought under the shadow of Drenai, the largest of the city-states on the north-western shoreline of Vhalleryon, housing tens of thousands in its nine, descending step districts. Even after a week, he could smell the sulfurous air carrying the malodorous scent of death and sweat. And the battle where Maximirion, his younger brother fell, slain by the Tamer of Chaos, champion of Drenai, decapitated before the black, stalactite walls, under the shades of the towering eastern tree blooming a crown of azure and cerulean.

  On the top, the neck bereft of the head, Kriem awaited him, resting in the soothing shroud of a similar, black barked tree, armored lightly and with a morose expression upon his handsome countenance ruined not, but ornated with scars earned in battle. Marciemar held no hatred towards the faun, who like the rest in the city and its state, worshipped not only the One and the Eight, but the elementals, and the first Infaerni who came to be to tarnish order and peace, holding the title of Sprawling Chaos. He held respect after years of clashing on the dreary fields before the city, and in a way seen him as a friend forged in battles similar to Mineirvia and Mhaegrus. Hence Marciemar felt brave enough to bring him the offer the night before, a fight to the death between the two to decide the fate of the city, and to spare lives of their comrades and friends.

  Marciemar returned to the road leading down and faced Kriem. Unlike his opponent who wore only plates along his limbs and shoulders, a lone black fabric across the left side of his ripe torso, and a black and red loincloth, Marciemar enjoyed a whole gilded panoply including the crested helmet with a Y-shaped opening where his jasper scales adorning his cheeks glistened through, and his long Virdrian warrior braided tail slithered out from its slightly tilted nape guard. Prominent shoulder plates stretched over his broad shoulders, down onto his arms and molding into one with his wrist guard and clawed gauntlet, whilst his breastplate mimicked the defined muscles of his own, a dragon’s head sculpted into an inlaid diamond’s silhouette in the center whilst tassels rustled as he stretched his legs in preparation.

  Silence reigned atop the knoll-corpse of the earth elemental, Kriem loomed across, grasping his spear with one hand, its pointy pommel stuck in the soft earth, whilst its peculiar Ten-Spoked Star – the symbol of the Father of Chaos – socket holding the long, leaf-blade shimmered dimly as it swallowed the golden, crimson and amber light of the early noon. Both understood that the Father of Dawn thirsted for a battle, expecting both to show their mettle and talent. They waited in silence, enjoying the floral scent carried by the breeze brushing their lush, well-groomed beards strewn across their jaws. Then their lips curved mirthfully wide, when the bellow of the horn broke signaled the beginning of their duel.

  Their gazes never fall off the other, their muscles tensed as they tightened their grips whilst waiting for the other to make the first move. Thrice, they circled about the brim, until Marciemar gasped lightly, vines breaking forth the earth, clutching around his armored calves, keeping him in place whilst Kriem hastily trampled over, the leaf-blade left scraped upon the sturdy, rectangular shield smooth red surface. The vines cinching the gilded plates inlaid with rubies, burned and flittered away, scorched to ash. Marciemar tightened his grip around the strap of his large and rectangular shield, a golden mist poured forth the overlapping plates over his arms, slowly crawled onto the bold red surface of his shield, turning it gradually into a blinding golden and swept away the leaf-blade jabbed towards his thigh.

  Marciemar lifted his long blade, from its sharp edges, flames sputtered and parted as he cleaved at Kriem’s fur and plate covered legs. The dense, brown fur with black tips rustled as if swept by a strong gust, the flesh beneath rippled and migrated upwards, and disappeared into his waist, the crescent flame parted below and set ablaze the blue and crimson grass fluttering near the precipice of the top. In the next momentum, the legs shot out as Kriem approached the ground, whilst Marciemar swung his blade towards his left shoulder. He sliced off the curling end of Kriem’s charcoal black goat horn, but as the blade reached the olive toned skin, it parted sideways devoid of gore, folded wide out arm swinging into the sides, submerged into his flesh and bone. Simultaneously, Kriem rammed the sturdy black wooden shaft into Marciemar’s shield, slicing through its thick metallic and wooden structure like as if cutting through cake.

  Marciemar leapt back, parried the leaf-blade suddenly jabbing towards his plated bosom, towards the ruby inlaid lines forming the head of a dragon at its center. As the leaf-blade grazed the dim earth, the Ten-Spoked Star socket detached from the shaft, chains slithered out from its interior and slithered about Kriem’s massive form like a serpent dancing to the tune of its master’s flute. It nibbled at him, scraping the shoulder plates, seeds sprouted forth its edges, leaping betwixt the folds of his gilded plates, shattering half of them from within, scraping his flesh and the luxurious imperial purple fabric protecting it. Exhaustion forced him down on knees, scraping the earth, deep breaths he drawn in as the land of Oneiron beckoned.

  The lids slid down over Marciemar’s sunken, wide and large eyes occupied by two draconic slits of swirling oranges and reds, whilst he lifted off his helmet with the last of his strength, then listened to the chromatic tune of the chains whirling about his neck. Their edges appeared blunt, yet they severed his neck and the lone Virdrian Warrior braid of his dense, earthly brown hair with streaks of fiery orange. His headless body tumbled onto its earthly bed before the elevated, black and gray hoofs. Kriem bent down and lifted the severed head towards the shifting meadows where still thousands of legionaries awaited. A mournful blow of a horn heralded the decade spanning peace, one death brought.

  II. Battle Above the Waves

  Down below, waves raged against the contending galleys, the preternatural flames spreading upon their ever-shifting, azure epidermis. Memmithae watched from high, as the turbulent waves swallowed the unfortunate warriors, magusos, archers and the mates along with the beast called forth by both sides. The First Legion tamed and called upon the great serpents of the seas, devolved dragons forced to soar the waves not the skies and the astral realms, hideous eels slithering onto the blockading galleys and barks, crude in design after nearly a century and a half since the exodus. The barbarous defenders themselves called forth their allies beneath the waves, writhing tentacles attacked vessels, the hideous krakens bellowed as their feelers, suckers were pierced by spear and arrow whilst on the hardened side, crustaceans climbed over onto the tilting decks of the long imperial vessels.

  Drenched by the raging storm, Memmithae watched sitting atop her steel-clad gryphon whose helmet stretched neatly across its long head, pushing onto the feathers, whiter than the pale filament above them, hidden by the dim, billowing clouds. “It seems Mhaegrus grew bored of the long battle.” Chilling, cruel wind swept through the dense, fur lining of her, thick and rich red woolen surcoat’s collars enveloping her whole neck, whilst the crested, angular contoured helmet fitted onto her head, protected her from the wild winds above, an inverted arch the single opening upon its smooth, golden exterior. Only a few, segmented golden pieces protected her limbs, the muscled breastplate reached not above her protruding bust, whilst her long sword rested in its hilt, waiting to taste the blood of the enemy as she and her feathered mount took below.

  For now, she felt content watching, waiting. A portentous premonition compelled the seizure of air bombardments against the blockading vessels, leaving it to her fellow riders of gryphons. Memmithae kept glancing towards the isle itself, where gloomy, verdant green forests spread above the slanting hills of the sandy shores. Even beyond, she could glance the primitive cities of stacked, blue and black stones, and of trees easily burnt down by novice elementalists. Yet Memmithae picked up on the faint, ethereal note of her own doom, a disquieting tune sung by the servitors of Dhaekenia. And as if to vindicate her trembling instinct, a quasi-phantasmal dragon broke forth the fabric of reality, its indigo and violet scales contrasted the gloomy skies. Its prominent, gaunt jaw split open as it bellowed, and at once Memmithae’s fellow riders and their feathered mounts tumbled into the turbulent waves below.

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  By the singular bellow of the mighty dragon of the House of Dreams, only Memmithae remained as the dragon drawn a streak of astral cloud in swirling shades of blue, purple and pinks when it approached to claim her. Wind scraped her closed helmet, Memmithae’s grip tightened about the horns of her saddle, and ducked whilst beckoning a condensed torrent of wind to jab the eerie jaw of the dragons long, tilting head. Nearly the two were devoured by a gargantuan ball of pure flames conjured forth by their own elementalists. Chilling ripples traveled across Memmithae’s honed, slender form as her faculties, the knowledge to command air, the winds all returned stolen or ceased by the second, louder and stronger roar of the dragon whose four segmented wings puffed out ethereal streaks before it vanished with its burly rider.

  Memmithae yanked as waves of indigo, azure rippled across her mounts form whilst almost departed from her seating as they plummeted towards a burning, primitive galley. She wrought back control, vanquished the spell gnawing at the faculties of her mount just as the enemy appeared through a whirling vortex, with jaws wide open and snapping harshly as it aimed to devour the gryphon’s head. Its rider’s dark and disheveled hair fluttered as Memmithae bombarded him with a strong gust of wind, though failed at lifting him off from the crude saddle atop the slanting spine. Not even the long staff with a peculiar top of at least twenty or so dragon head carven out, locking palms and fingers whilst on the top itself resembled the eyeless, mouthless bald visage of Septurrion. Around its brown surface, azure and violet streaks fluttered and vanished, as she felt prickling fingers digging into her mind. A smile curved across her lustrous, thin and wide lips.

  The Dragon of Dreams and its rider vanished once more whilst soaring towards the isle, Memmithae prepared, closing her eyes and sensing the mild disturbances above the battle. When they appeared once more, an unseen sphere of condensed, harsh air blocked not just the winged menace, but also the tendrils reaching to rob from their minds. The right clawed fore limb of the gryphon reached towards the two retreating as Memmithae tightened her grip, poured her will and intent, and from the sphere of air, hard air whirled towards them like hungry, writhing masses of tentacles, grabbing the long tail and yanking back the dragon. It vanished once again, when the spell smashed him and the rider against the wall.

  “May the Searing Beard of Iuanorh blind you.” She cursed under her helmet, twice as they appeared within her protection. The tail’s dull end morphed into a spike piercing through the long abdomen of the gryphon. Its shriek bled their ears, and the flaps of its wings weakened, slowed with each beating of the air. Weeping had to wait, Memmithae drawn her blade and charged across the segmented plates covering the head, leaping towards the dragon and its rider in a last vein effort to take both or at least one. Preferably the dragon, Memmithae wished and prayed to all Eight.

  Both resulted in naught as they vanished once again, though they showed a little mercy to Memmithae. She fell feeling a childish joy, not terror of what awaited below as she cascaded towards one of the sinking, burning vessel. No thought remained in her head to present a chance of survival, no longer she remembered how to command the air and its wild winds. Neither pain registered in the fleeting moment of her violent arrival upon the burning deck, when her body shattered through the planks, bones shattered, tearing her smooth, lustrous flesh. Only the drowsiness she felt, sinking her deeper into the abyss.

  III. Seeded Hearts and Minds

  For three days, Naemethoroth led the remnants of their force through the Druinnian Woods in the north-western regions of Cordivil Province. Their rich orange-golden panoplies still carried the dirt, sweat, tears and the blood of their fallen comrades slaughtered by the barbarous natives. With heavy steps they tracked aimless in the woods, their sole entertainment the melodies of birds fluttering above and the ever-distant murmurs of flowing waters in the twisting rivers and creeks. Neither which brought solace upon their hearts as they feared the enemies trailing behind, waiting for the moment they let down their guard.

  Eerie vegetations surrounded their treacherous path, lush bushes brimming in the unnerving red shade of dried human blood, twisted vines slithered around the stems of the trees, and strange fungoid flower bloomed on their barks, their pink inner walls emanating the bile inducing stench of carrions. As they took a stop, Naemethoroth could not take his eyes off these hideous plants, the urge the plunge his sword or spear into their heart surged through and nearly animated his limbs into action, but he remained calm and gazed up to the verdant green and whitish-yellow crowns letting the emerald tinted golden glow of the Illius to shine through on the pleasant vernal day of the 200th year of the First Age.

  “Circle Formation!” He yelled his order, when the murmuring of his troops ceased by the heavy thud. An aevhen auxiliary tumbled forward, a lone arrow jutted forth his head, the helmet unharmed whilst his golden blood flown out. A long silence followed as Naemethoroth stood in the formation facing southwards, his rectangular shield firmly planted amongst the others whilst his spear stared forward thirsting for blood. Then a second thud followed along the scraping of metal as another fell within the ranks, then the earth burst all around them, from the haze of earthly dust, boars, wolves charged at them, followed by the savages clad in light armors made from fusing iron with hardened oak, decorated with bestial bones.

  “Call the Flames of our Dawn Father!” He issued another command, and as they jabbed the first line comprising the beasts, the air sizzled around the back lines as they held their smaller hexagonal shields above, their blades and maces onto the shoulder plates of their comrades. From their tips, bolts shot out at the savages, setting them aflame which held little sway over them as they continued their charge onwards. Two more thuds followed whilst Naemethoroth jabbed at the burning enemy, contended with the bitter stench of burning flesh, then as the next sequence followed – front lifted up their long spears and ducked down as the ones behind vomited flames beyond the shield wall like dragons – nearly ten or so laid dead. Sensing the spatial contortions, Naemethoroth aimed to counter it, erecting a ward around the remaining troops.

  “Move southwards. Match my pace!” It done little against the arrows manifesting right in their victims as more and more fell, and to his subordinates’ horror, slowly arose in a horrid manner. Blood spurted from the thin space betwixt the overlapping plates, bile gathered and danced within their stomachs as they listened to something shifting beneath the flesh and skin of the dead, and those at the back watched with bulging eyes as fungoid vines crushed the lightless eyes, blood cascaded from the mouth tearing wider, as fungoid maw blossomed and shrieked at them, the arrow bringing death no longer present. The hideous creatures reached down for the weapons of their rotten vessels, and charged along with the savages who feared not the strange monsters moving the dead.

  From their maws, they vomited forth a noxious cloud, its impalpable maws slowly gnawed away at the will keeping it erect. When it shattered, a few of Naemethoroth’s troops shrieked and tumbled, their skin melted, their flesh blackened. Their formation broke, as the savages charged through the blinding cloud of black and green, along with plant animated cadavers. Naemethoroth impaled two of the savages, reaching for his blade, he decapitated another whilst glancing up at the high branches, searching for the elusive archer. Whilst cleaving through one of the plant animated cadavers, he sensed a faint disturbance, ducked and watched as the arrow found its way into a haebrian’s throat, who gurgled and writhed on the ground before stillness and silence set in.

  “Retreat!” His eyes blazed as he repeated the command, a streak of flame enveloped the ground, devouring the horrid creatures and their savage allies, giving chance for the legionaries to run opposite their shields and spears abandoned. A few fell as arrow manifested out of the air, just a breath away their chest, phasing through their plates, flesh and bone before their tips tore into their beating hearts. As Naemethoroth backed away slowly, cutting down a few burning barbarous kindred of his, at last his lime green eyes glanced the archer, whose beauty bewitched him in that fleeting moment. Long dark hair cascaded smoothly onto her shoulders, draped in azure and jade fabric soft as silken with a leafy texture, cinched a little by the savages’ oaken iron armor with a subtly pointed silhouette. She crouched upon a high and thick branch, her sunken vibrant hazelnut eyes focused onto him, whilst a little light passed through her antlers protruding from her forehead, veiled by a dense wall of her hair. And the arrow already drawn, when it parted, it vanished, and he felt it in his chest, its tip scraping his heart.

  The taste of his own deep green blood filled his mouth, and Naemethoroth smiled, satisfied the last thing he saw was the beauty of their kind. He resisted not the drowsiness, embraced its dominating the pain of torn flesh as he felt myriad maws gnawing into the tendon of his heart. A last faint whimper parted his lips, light faded from his stretching, large eyes before long the seed within him blossomed, engulfing arteries, his nervous system whilst wrapping around his angular, hardened skeletal frame before popping the dead eyes, tearing his mouth wider, letting its blooms take their place in the gored aperture. Growling, it lifted the corpse onto its feet at first with awkward movements, then when it charged along the rest, it moved with eloquent fluidity.