"Last Stand" is written for Round 3 of the Pub's Fantasy Smackdown competition, beginning December 2012. It had to fit the "dying earth" sub-genre and I chose to incorporate pictures 2 (barbarians in the snow), 5 (lady in the stars), 7 (knight charging into battle), 8 (dark fortress against a red sky and cracked world) and the song "Enter Sandman" by Metallica into the story. Word Count is 2309.
The wine sparkled blood red in the cup as Daedra carefully stirred some herbs from her belt pouch into it. The swirling foreign liquid reminded her of the boiling, crimson-stained skies above. Staring at it, she felt only numbness. Where power had once flowed through the soul of her people, there was now only emptiness. It had been years since the wind had answered the calls of the shamans. Fire, earth and water had abandoned them as well and the once unshakeable faith of the mountain tribes had been lost. What was to come would be here soon enough and she knew that she was already dead. The moment of her body’s final breath was merely a formality now.
Pushing aside the tent flap, she stepped out onto the barren mountainside and into the snow. The fortress housing the gates stood out starkly against the angry sky with the vision of Trkar’s promise hanging over it. The vision was what the world would be and what nobody had once believed could ever happen. It was what the world was about to become once the last of Alva’s power was gone. The vision had been hazy and insubstantial at first, but now when the end was imminent it was as solid and real as the army that had come to make a last, futile stand.
Lesser demons now wandered the slopes, their heavy bodies holding them to the ground in spite of the vestigial wings that grew from their backs. They could be dangerous, but they were nothing compared to the hordes of hell that were now throwing themselves against the walls of their fiery prison. The ground shook and trembled under her feet from their rage and Daedra struggled not to spill the precious fluid in the cup. Instinctively, she reached deep within herself, seeking the power to calm the restless earth. As usual, there was only emptiness so she continued on her way from the camp of the plains folk to her own tent.
“Shaman?” a voice called. A pair of armoured feet stepped in front of her, halting her passage so Daedra looked up. The worried countenance of the one the plains folk called their “king” greeted her. He was already dressed for battle in the way of his people. His polished armour was gleaming and an ornate sword hung sheathed at his waist. A black and white cape styled to resemble a bird hung from his shoulders, richly edged in gold thread. Many years ago, she might have laughed at his appearance and taught him a lesson in how a real warrior should dress. The best she could do now was to give him a dull stare.
The spark of life still burned in his eyes but she had expected that. He was still hopeful the gates could be held when the seals failed. He didn’t know what she did. Swords were of no use against the Greater Demons. Only Alva’s power could keep them at bay and the goddess had long since forsaken the world and her children.
“The hour grows late and the seals will soon fail,” the king said, “is there any hope your power will return in time to aid us?”
“No,” she told him in a heavily accented version of his tongue.
He nodded; his expression bleak but determined. The ground surged below their feet once again and Daedra shifted her balance to avoid spilling the wine. Oddly, he smiled warmly at her then. “Did you get the wine you asked for?”
“I did,” she replied. “Thank you for giving me the last of it.”
“You had best get it to wherever it needs to go quickly then,” he replied kindly. “Very soon all swords will be needed. Today the mountain tribes will have a chance to show their prowess in battle. Legends will be made and songs will be sung of them! You will not want to miss that.” Resignedly, she nodded and continued on her way. That he did not yet realize that he was already dead was not her problem.
