A Spark in the Wind

Chapter 25: Twilight of the Gods

When Meneldir opened his eyes, he found himself upon the cold barren earth, his hands tied behind his back. A tangled mess of autumnal hair draped over his face, his clothes were sagged in dust and mud, his hands grappling a knife which he held over his binds.

"Ah, I see you've woken up," the daemonic voice muttered. "I'd have you sleep throughout, for your awareness will only greaten the pain, and the very little compassion left in me loathes that."

"You have no compassion," Mey replied, "do not pretend otherwise."

Nixior smiled in the most evil manner he could, "You may be wondering how I survived, right?" he turned towards Mey, showing the gaping green hole in his chest. "You damaged my body, but could not cleave my spirit, for my vigour is long, I cannot be hindered. No one, not even your precious Vil can stop me."

That remains to be seen, he whispered to himself, his eyes rolling on: one of the cultists was much taller than the others, black hair draping out of his dark cloak, and a very peculiar arcane aura about him. As they all neared the summoning pit, Mey worked on his binds as steady and silently as possible.

"Arise o Lord Morthaur!" chanted Nixior. "Praised be thy unholy name, let there be no dawn for the elven kind!"

Marching like shadows of death, the cultists walked towards the flames. Three cultists neared, but stopped all of a sudden. Something was wrong, but it was too late: little could the first do before being impaled by the second, the third stood dauntless and deedless.

The two removed their hoods to reveal their youthful, unscathed faces –Vilyánur and Aeresil. The very next moment the other cultists dropped their hoods to reveal Vilyánur's retinue guard.

Nixior looked in disbelief, his eyes shunned and mind flayed. All of a sudden a great pain surged through his neck, chaotic bile drooling out of it. "Don't even think of it," Mey whispered, beheading him and tossing his body into the fires.

...

"And so passes Nixior, Steward of Morthaur," Vil lowered his head, and the host behind him cheered aloud.

But suddenly they were all silenced: a piercing roar rent the lands and instilled fear into their hearts. "Fools!" the call of Morthaur was heard, "I will have my revenge! You think you have won, but no! My armies are coming for you, they will destroy you! You shall all burn!"

Alas, they looked a mile further to see a grand host of chaos-daemons and other fallen races amassing and charging at them. "What do we do now?" asked Mey as he walked over to Vil's side.

"Firstly, let me fix your hair," he said combing Mey's hair. "I have an army ready for war, all we need to do is construct a pylon and they'll be here."

"How long will it take for the pylon to form?" asked Mey.

"An hour, I'd say."

"An hour?" asked Mey, "look to the horizon, Vil. The armies of Morthaur are upon us, do you think we have an hour to tarry?"

"Do not fear, my lords," a wood-elf captain approached them, "we already have our hunters deployed in the vanguard. They will soon engage the daemons."

"Hunters?" questioned Mey, "do you think our light infantry will be enough to halt the daemonic warriors?"

"Halt, yes; defeat, maybe not."

"But with a good number of hippogriff riders we do have air superiority," said another captain.

"No worries," said Vil, "we only need to stop them for an hour or so."

Vil snapped his fingers and laid the foundations for the pylon, the wood-elves responded with a blast from their wild horns, summoning the wild hunt to battle. Archers and Javelinmen rushed into the fray and took shelter on and beneath the green fields, laying out their traps and bunkers with haste. Fifty thousand woodland warriors stood firm against a force twice as great, their mission: defend site zero at all costs.