Dark have been these days of late;
To live in these times is a perilous fate.
Heroes are few, and Warriors are old.
They are all out numbered a thousand fold
Yet even in our darkest hour,
Hope shall blossom in a glorious flower.
Men voices shall raise in song,
And the darkness shall at last be gone.
And the White Knights shall ride again,
And peace and joy will rule the realm.
-excerpt from the Ballad of Crystia.
King Liel ducked behind a cracked wall as an arrow whistled over his head. At his right, his best friend, and his most trusted Knight, Jargon, shot another goblin chieftain down. Jargon rolled to his left, coming up next to the king. "Milord! You must leave with the men. Go!" Liel shook his head angrily. "I am not deserting you! We must wait until Lord Arras arrives with reinforcements!" Jargon opened his mouth to argue, but a nearby cry stopped him short. As they looked, a soldier was picked up by a massive mountain troll. The soldier slashed with his sword, and it bit deeply into the troll's skin. Black blood poured out, and the soldier struck again, hitting the troll in the shoulder. Roaring with pain, the troll threw the soldier against a column. He hit it with a heart stopping thud. A fierce flame awoke in the king's heart, and he cried out; "Elethen! Branódil!" He then leaped up, and struck the great troll, driving his sword, Phalanx, into the space between its massive shoulders. The troll bellowed with agony, and fell to his knees, twisting its shoulders to dislodge the king. Liel fought hard to remain on its back, his hands slipping slightly. More blood gushed, staining the brown earth. The troll groaned one last time, and fell first onto the merciless ground.
Liel was thrown off, and landed hard on his chest. The wind knocked was knocked out of him, and Liel lay there for a second, gasping.
Jargon rushed to his king's side, and checked to make sure he was all right. Liel stood shakily, gently brushing aside Jargon. "Do not worry, my friend. I am barely bruised." This was not entirely true: his ribcage was badly bruised, but Liel ignored the throbbing. He drew Jargon from the open and went to check on the soldier. It was a young man, possibly in his twenties. His brown hair dripped with sweat, drawing lines on his dirty face. His head hung slumped, as if he were asleep. The soldier's armor was badly warped, and blood matted his hair. Liel gently examined him, trying to see if the young man could be moved. As he did so, the soldier stirred, moaning softly. The king put a restraining hand on his shoulder. "Easy. You are badly wounded, and need medical attention. Do you think you can walk?" The young man raised his head. His gray eyes were clouded, and out of focus. "Who are you?" His voice was weak, and shaky. Liel smiled kindly. "I am King Liel. This is my friend, Captain Jargon. We are going to help you, if we can." The young man tried to straighten, but flinched as his injuries gave him a sharp protest. "Milord! Athor sends word; the goblins have taken the gate. We have fallen back to the bridge to regroup." Liel grimaced. "How many casualties?" The young man winced. "Over a third sir. My own sect lost all but four men; Garan, Ellen, Silos, and myself." Jargon swore loudly. "That's at least a thousand men! How many hobgoblins and goblins are there?" The soldier started to speak, but he had to stop when a racking cough shook his body. When the coughing fit had passed, Liel saw that blood coated the inside of his mouth. Jargon knelt by the young man, and examined him. "It seems like you have a bad concussion. We need to get you to the nearest healing room." The soldier grimaced. "I am fine. I want to serve my king." Liel, despite the growing pain in his chest, managed a quick laugh. "Then if you want to serve me, you can accompany me to the healer's tent-you aren't the only one walking wounded." The soldier sat up so quickly, he whacked his shoulder on a piece of stone. Wincing, he rubbed it, saying. "We must get you to a healer!" Jargon interrupted him soothingly. "And we will. Right now we need to figure out how to carry you." The young man scowled. "I am fine. Let me walk." Liel looked at Jargon, who was hesitant. "I am not sure. At least let us help you walk." The soldier sighed. "Fair enough."
Liel helped the man up. The soldier gasped with pain, and swayed slightly. Liel, thinking it best to keep the man's mind off his pain, said: "Forgive me, but what is your name?" The soldier flushed slightly, and replied: "Ethel, sir. Captain Ethel." Liel smiled warmly. "You are the son of Arras? It is honor to meet you, prince." Ethel winced at the title. "Thank you, but please just call me Ethel." Liel bowed his head. "Of course. I would do anything for a relative of Melena." As they walked, Liel saw that Ethel kept staggering as if exhausted. In the pre-dawn darkness, the full moon kept everything lit up, but its beams were slowly growing fainter. Jargon spoke up abruptly. "I can see some of Arthor's men up ahead. Let us pick up the pace a little." Liel tried to walk quicker, but it was difficult since there injuries prevented them from walking too quickly.
They reached the outskirts of the fighting, passing many bodies. The stones, that were originally white, were stained red and black with blood. Shattered spears, notched blades, and riveted shields lay strewn about, as if they had been tossed aside like toys. Jargon waved a scout over from a nearby building. The scout quickly ran up, his bow bouncing on his back. Seeing Liel he started. "Your majesty! Wait here; I'll go get Athor," he said. And before Liel had a chance to speak, the archer ran off. Jargon chuckled darkly. "It appears you have been expected. How about we get somewhere less exposed?" They crouched behind a doorway. Ethel collapsed to the ground, his energy spent. Concerned, Liel looked at him, but the captain waved him off. "I am fine. Just a little tired." Jargon, seeing Ethel's condition, passed him his water bag. "Drink. You have a severe concussion; the last thing you want is to be dehydrated. Ethel drank, and his shoulders relaxed a little. "Thank you." Jargon nodded, then looked around anxiously. "It has gotten so still and quiet. I think we are in the eye of the storm." Liel nodded. "It is the deep breath before the final plunge. We must be on our guard; the next assault could happen at any time."
After an hour or so, Jargon saw the scout returning with only one man. He was tall, with long hair that dripped with sweat. A dark beard shadowed his lean face. His face and arms were scratched and bleeding, but he seemed charged full of fiery energy. His sword was drawn, and Jargon saw black blood slipped down the blade. A sack was slung casually over one shoulder as if this was something he did everyday. Liel sat up to look closer, but Ethel did not stir; weariness had overcome him at last. "What is it?" Jargon pushed Liel gently back into the doorway. "Get some rest. I will make sure we are safe." Liel nodded, his eyes drooping.
The men approached. Jargon walked to meet them. Athor spread his arms, his bag sinking to the ground, while his sword, held tightly in his left hand, remained high. " È bello vederti, fratello. I am glad to see you are in one piece." They hugged each other tightly, thumping the other in the back. Jargon shrugged. "We were lucky. How about you? Liel's men left with Alabaster to protect the royal family; the goblins had nearly overrun the castle." Athor nodded. "So I've heard. I sent Darek over with as much as men as we could spare.
But what has happened here? I see his highness has found another friend." Jargon grimaced. "That's Captain Ethel, King Liel's brother. He has a bad concussion, and a couple of bones aren't looking to cheery. The king has some badly bruised ribs." Athor placed his bag down, and crouched down next to Ethel. Athor gently moved Ethel's head so it was face upward. "I believe our young friend here will be all right, but we should return to the second bridge, where he can get some rest."
"How can we move him without doing more harm? It would take a miracle." Athor smiled grimly. "I don't know about miracles, but I think some dewgrass may ease the pain.” Saying this, Athor knelt besides Ethel and opened up his bag. He pulled out what appeared to be sage-colored grass and handed a piece to Ethel. “Here, you better chew on this.” Ethel accepted the grass and unceremoniously began chewing on it. Instantly, a cool glow, similar to the feel of water, ran through his body. His splitting headache vanished, as well as the dull aching in his left arm and leg. HIs mouth full, he could only nod his appreciation to Athor, who laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on, captain. We’ve got a battle to win.”
In the dank and dark He poured over books, scanning titles, tossing books carelessly over his shoulder. He was high in the Stargazer’s Tower, a stone tower erected in the heart of Crystia. Loud echoes of cries and explosions boomed distantly, and every now and again one could glimpse a boulder sailing through the air. These he ignored. His servants would take care of the insolent Knights. His goblins were merely there to create a diversion while he searched for a greater thing. They were expendable, useless compared to what he was seeking for.
He needed no light; his many years in the dark had given him a keen night vision. A black book with stains that looked horribly like blood lay buried beneath a stack of other books. A crimson jewel, placed in the cover, pulsed darkly as if it were alive. Saris gently picked it up, excitement coursing through him. His dark hair was beaded with cold sweat; and his hands shook as he held it. With a cry of triumph, he flipped frantically through the pages. At last, he, Saris, had found what he had been looking for. It had been a long search; nearly fifty years. Inside this book, a yellowed piece of parchment was written in a black ink, in a horrible language that had nearly been forgotten. The title read "Scáthel Spell". Saris grinned, his pale skin glistening like poison. His teeth were sharpened unnaturally. Onlookers would have said that his black eyes gleamed blood red. "My army shall arise at last," he rasped,"I shall rule all of Cellist!" Saris hid the book in his dark robes, just as the door burst open. A brilliant white light filled the room. The light seared his pupils, and Saris was nearly blinded. Saris shrieked and cowered on the far corner. "NO! You cannot stop me!" A great man strode in. He was wreathed in light, glowing with the power of the sun. "Saris the Black! I should have known you would be up to your tricks! Surrender what you have, ere I scald you with the Light of Salim!" His deep voice echoed commandingly. The same voice had made even the giant kings rumble with fear, but Saris only hissed furiously. "You'll never catch me, Alabaster! Not I, the Lord of Shadow! I shall rule Cellist! I have foreseen it!" Alabaster brandished his staff threateningly. "You are mad to go down the path of darkness. If you continue, your retribution shall be swift, and shortcoming." Saris merely laughed. "None shall be able to stop me when I have an army of shadows!" Alabaster pointed his staff at Saris. "Then I brand you a traitor, a rogue, a evildoer." As Alabaster spoke, red lines formed a T, a R and and a E on Saris's body. Howling, Saris dropped to one knee. He twirled his fingers, and a black staff with a small black skull formed in his spidery hand. He stood and raised his staff."I am the Bane of Light, the Dark Lord, King of Darkness, Emperor of Shadows. You have no power over me." And so saying, he made a slashing movement with his staff, and red flames lashed out. Alabaster deflected these, and sent a jet of water bursting into Saris's stomach. Saris flew back, and hit the far wall with a sickening crack. Hacking, Saris spat out some blood and glared at Alabaster. A dark serpent fell out of the sky, landing a foot from Alabaster. It was easily as big as horse, with fangs as long as daggers. It hissed angrily and lashed out. Alabaster drew a long sword, with white flames flickering down the blade. The snake lashed forward, but before it could strike, Alabaster smote the serpent in its neck, and cast it aside. The snake hit a stack of books, and it was consumed in flames. Saris laughed mockingly. "Very good, old man! You have defeated flame and earth. How fare you against shadow?" As he cried these words, a black smoke rose from the ground. It formed into a monster with great horns upon its high head. Its body was that of a feline, with smooth fur that was jet black. It roared, and the walls shook and cracked. Dust rained down, and Alabaster was forced to retreat a step. The monster lowered its head, and pawed the ground. Alabaster raised his staff and sword to shoulder height, crossing them as he did so. The monster charged forth, sparks flying where his hooves struck the ground. Just before it would have hit Alabaster, a silver shield shivered into life. The monster struck, and it was thrown against an opposite wall. It stood up again, shaking itself. It snarled and started to charge again. This time, Alabaster leapt lightly to the side so that the creature struck the wall instead of him. The impact caused it to bust through the wall, and it fell down to the earth, shrieking terribly. The tower shook, and chunks of stone rain in the room.
Through the gaping hole in the wall, the two rivals glimpsed a red dawn. A horn blew, and a host of riders came thundering into sight. They wore shining armor, and brandished flashing spears. A white flag flapped in the wind, a golden phoenix clearly visible. Alabaster stepped forward. "Behold! Your army has been defeated. Surrender now!" Saris spoke, and every syllable shook with suppressed hatred, and rage. "I will never admit defeat! I am stronger than I ever was! You won't be able to defeat me now, or in the future. I will build my realm on the ashes of Cellist." This he said, and he he threw down a fine powder that enveloped him in shadow. When it cleared, Saris was gone. Alabaster shook his head. His silver eyes were troubled. The light had faded away once the Dark Mage had left, revealing a man who looked ageless. He was wearing a cloak of white, and as he moved, silver and gold twinkled like stars. He had a long beard that would rival even Merlin's, whose beard (as the stories say) was so impressive that it had looked as if made out of the silver linings in clouds. You could almost see the thoughts whirling around in his head. "Thus you chose utter madness." He swept on his heel, and with a swish of a cloak was gone.
