all the mortal races, only the elves had better woodcraft skills than the Rangers of Natal.
He was a tall, lean man, with skin burned dark by the sun, though his brown hair showed streaks of red and blond from the same exposure. His eyes were dark and hooded, his high cheekbones and narrow eyes, and his straight nose gave him an almost hawk-like countenance. Only when he smiled did he lose his grim visage, something that rarely occurred outside the comfort of his home, in the company of family.
Ranger Alystan of Natal was undertaking a service for a consortium of traders in the Free Cities, in negotiation with the Earl of Carse. He carried a bundle of documents that both parties considered vital. His sun-darkened features were set in concentration, his dark eyes narrowed as if willing himself to see every detail. His dark hair was still free of grey, but he was no youth, having spent his life serving his people with stealth, speed, and sword.
He had chanced upon the newcomer’s trail just an hour earlier, spotting his fresh tracks in the spring-damp soil. He had first thought little of the traveller, perhaps a magician from the look of him and his heavy staff, but he had followed. His usually limited curiosity over a solitary nomad wandering the wilds of the Grey Towers – even should he be prove a magician – was piqued not when he first glimpsed the traveller, but rather from the first moment he had taken his eyes from the man.
Alystan could not recall what the man looked like. Was his cloak grey or blue? Was he short or tall? Each time he took his eyes from his quarry he could not recall the details of his appearance. Alystan was certain that the man was a magic user, and that he was using some glamour to hide his true visage. To his consternation, the ranger found it easier to follow the magician’s tracks than watch him. Something about doing so made him wish to turn his attention away and go about other business, so he forced himself to stalk this mysterious figure.
Then he saw the change.
In that instant every detail of the creature’s true appearance was etched into the ranger’s memory. Upon witnessing its sudden departure, he knew he now had a more important task. The last time that strangers had appeared through a rift in this valley, their arrival had heralded the coming of a twelve-year-long, bloody war. And from the creature’s appearance, history could be repeating itself.
To Alystan, it looked as if an unremarkable man had transformed himself into the tallest elf he had ever seen. He wished he had been able to move closer and note more detail, but the traveller disappeared too quickly.
From what Alystan had seen the creature stood nearly seven feet in height, with massive shoulders, but a surprisingly narrow waist, giving his upper physique a startling ‘v’ shape. His legs were proportioned like those of an elf, though more powerfully muscled. A decorative band secured his grey-shot red hair on top of his head, the rest falling below his shoulders. But it was the creature’s startling shade of red hair that had surprised him: it was not a natural reddish-brown or even the orange-tinged red sometimes seen among humans and elves alike, its hair was a vivid scarlet colour. Its brows were the same vivid hue, and seemed to have been treated with wax as they swept out and up, mimicking a butterfly’s antennae.
Alystan moved cautiously, in case other creatures waited close by, though he doubted it, this valley had remained unoccupied during the century since the Riftwar. The dark elves who had once abided here were content to remain far to the north, and Alystan had only seen the trail sign of one man. Or elf, he amended.
He continued to think about what he had seen as he made his way back up to the higher game trails. Like other elves whom Alystan knew, the newcomer had shown effortless grace as he had stepped through the magic portal. But, unlike the elves known to the ranger, this one trod with heavy feet, as if it was ignorant of wood-lore or simply didn’t care. No elf of even modest experience would have left tracks so easily followed.
There had been something else about the creature. Alystan had only caught a briefest glimpse of the creature’s face, as it had looked around before disappearing, but it had been long enough to notice the creature’s eyes. They were deep set and so pale a blue that they were almost cloud coloured. There had been something malevolent in its face; Alystan couldn’t express how he knew, but he was certain it was no Midkemian elf, previously unknown to the Rangers, but something else. It was obviously intelligent enough to use magic to pass as human, no mean feat for even the most powerful of the magic-using creatures, the great dragons. Not only was this elf creature a magician of some fashion, it was possibly a very powerful one.
Alystan was also troubled by the creature’s attire. Upon its brow, it had worn a delicate circle of gold set with a large polished ruby in the middle. Elves occasionally wore jewellery, but only during festivals; the rest of the time they were content with garlands or other natural adornments. And then there was the manner of his clothing.
The elf had worn finely made robes, and the circlet upon his head was also of exceptional craftsmanship. While striking in countenance and massive in body, he did not look like a warrior or scout, and given his human disguise, the creature was intent upon stealth, not conflict. Alystan knew him some manner of magician, but his garb and illusion set him apart from the Spellweavers of Elvandar, or the Loremasters of the Eldar. Their magic was as much a thing of nature as mind and will; this conjuration had been worn around the shoulders like a cloak, and was too much like dark human arts.
The strange elf obviously hailed from a people who enjoyed material splendour as much as humans did, for his robes had been made of a shimmering weave, pearl-white satin or silk perhaps, and their hems were decorated with ruby and azure threads. His staff of oak, which had seemed to be a simple walking stave, had in that instant shown itself to be a thing of magic, adorned at its top by a large glass orb, which glowed even in the bright sunlight. Alystan was certain that no human – certainly no Ranger – had encountered this elf’s kin before.
As he picked up speed, Alystan wondered why he was here. He knew that once his business was concluded in Carse, rather than return to Bordon, he must hie to the dwarves of the Grey Towers, in the village of Caldara, and take counsel with them. They knew more of elf lore than any this side of Elvandar, and it was upon their borders that this elf trod. Perhaps the dwarves knew why such a being was scouting this region, although thirty years of experience tracking in these mountains and forests on both sides of the peaks told him that no one in the Free Cities or the Kingdom of the Isles would like the answer.
Demons howled in rage and pain as they assaulted the barricade. A shower of arrows rained down on them striking dozens as they sought to climb the barricade using the bodies of their fallen comrades to crest the defences.
Undalyn, Regent Lord of the Clans of the Seven Stars, pointed to an oncoming wave of the creatures on the right, near the top of the barricade, and shouted, ‘There! Pitch!’
Two Conjurers waited nearby, far enough behind the battlefront to be relatively safe, flanked by a dozen archers detailed to bring down any flyers who might target them. A massive cauldron of burning pitch waited on top of a blazing mound of logs, and the two magicians acted in concert. Well practised in their arts, they closed their eyes, needing no sight to manage their task.
The cauldron, so large that a dozen men and two draught animals had placed it on top of the pyre, rose into the air as if gently lifted by an invisible giant hand. It floated over the heads of the defenders and poured its contents over the demons below.
Flaming death rained down on the demons near the top of the barricade, while those below hung back for a moment as waves of heat washed over them, singeing hair and eyebrows. The usual stench of demon was made even more noxious by the burnt odour. The creatures fell back, but the Regent Lord knew they were still hard pressed in the centre and on their left.
He turned away from the pile of writhing demons and assessed his position. His warriors fought valiantly, as their fathers and grandfathers had before them. For one hundred years the Clans of the Seven Stars had struggled against the Demon Legion, and for a hundred years they had made the monsters pay dearly for every inch of ground they gained, for every village they sacked, and for every life sacrificed.
Still, he knew that his resources were dwindling and theirs seemed without limit. In the distance, on the horizon, he saw a dark cloud