Lyria can be extremely stubborn when she chooses to be. Accepting the futility of any intruding questions, I ended the dinner with a quick harmless peck on her cheeks and ignored her all-inviting lips, the promise of a warm bed and that tender begging in her eyes.
Despite her obvious protest, the morning Lyria learned the hard way, that I could be adamant in my decisions as well. She begged, pleaded and even attempted seduction to coerce me to comply with her demands. Her fingers dug into her sweaty palms while fear rolled in waves from her. Lyria did not want to lose me, again. Not when she had a choice this time.
“Rils,” her finger clasped around my arms, gentle and firm as trepidation shackled her. Eventually, she broke free and leaned into me. Her grasp tightened, “they have demons at their command. As you know, I will have an edge in this fight.”
There was truth in her words. I knew it. Undeniable truth. The veracity of which, not even I could dispute, especially me; since I bore witness, to demons begging for mercy in her presence. Equally, irrefutable is the fact that the demons are neither unified nor a singular race. They can be far more varied as a high-elf from a rock gnome. Without any precise knowledge, it is equally plausible for the summoned demons to hunt Lyria for a sport.
Freeing my hands from her iron grip, I cupped her cheeks. Tasting the salt of my own tears as I pulled her closer; our foreheads meeting, we drew deep breaths and struggled to fill our lungs with each other’s comforting presence. For an intractably delicate moment, we held the position. Our heart beats slowly synchronising, till one resonant beat remained.
“Lyria, I cannot promise that I will come back and should I not, Arlene will take command. Abandon High-Crag Hold, and lead The Aberrant Irregulars to safety,” I slowly murmured under my breath.
Lyria’s shuddered in panic as her grip dug into the flesh of my shoulders. A slow audible denial escaped her lips. There was tempered steel in her voice.
“The two of us have a better chance,” she pleaded.
“You will go back to Celerim. As his aunt, procure a place close to her. Protect her,” I begged, “She will not allow me but you have a chance. Please promise me this, Lyria.”
A terror-stricken rejection spurned from her. Pulling me closer, tighter, she held me tight to wade off the oncoming death. Rejection and despair cascaded through her as she straddled a delicate balance between holding me strongly and comforting me. Her primal need to protect me was countered by my own request. Selfless, as they both might be, Lyria could never choose between Delyn and me.
“You always win,” comforted Lyria, pushing her words with a sliver of hope. “You cannot give up now.”
“This is not a negotiation to come on top. This is my daughter and as a parent, I can only sacrifice. From the moment I conceived, I lose my time, I lose my energy and I lose my freedom. As a mother, it is only through losing I can win,”
In the end, with a flicker of sadness on her face, she accepted the eventuality of my decision. She knew the consequences, the odds, but refused to accept them. Successfully defending High-Crag Pass meant a safe haven for Delyn when she needs. If I die defending, at least Lyria could stand beside her, protect her. But if we both abandon the field, only certain horrible fate, a feral hunt of every dark-elven house awaits Delyn.
As I turned to leave, Lyria grabbed me from the back. The warmth of her breath, slowly flowed through the nape of my neck, gently caressing me like a summer breeze through my shoulders. She slowly whispered in my ears, with a trembling voice to match her hard pounding heartbeat.
“Demons are not unified in anything, for every sovereign has multiple enemies. Promise me that when offered help, however unexpected, you will set aside your prejudice and take it,” she begged.
Her pleas stuck like a forge hammer, shattering my resolve with every painful moment. Despite my strongly erected barriers protecting my firm decision never to mingle with demons, Lyria’s begging slowly eroded my fortified stubbornness.
Casting a small glance over my shoulders, her piercing eyes stared back at me petitioning for the obvious acknowledgement of her feelings. My will, sapped at the very thought of denying her, making her shed more tears, I promised her to accept help if given.
Without even looking back at her fading form, I swiftly led the thirty unfortunate goblins on the suicidal mission.
The enemy was a sturdy fifteen thousand in number. My goblins were warg-riders, skilled in mounted combat with polearms and mounted archery. Either I could sneak into their camp at night to assassinate general Zarod the bloody barber -- an option that is highly unlikely given their number -- or wait, harass them, slow their progress, giving my forces in the Hold precious time to fortify as per plan.
Paying a visit in the night and shiny blade through the arteries would earn either a swift victory or a quick defeat. The latter is what I feared. In a war, where uncertainty is the only certainty, this is the kind of risk that my meticulously crafted plan sought to avoid.
Harassing the enemy scouts, and killing their captains would be a much safer option but such tiny morsels of victory would only stall their progress; eventually, the decisive end will be decided by a simple factor -- the first reinforcement to come. With Rodo and Zaehran away, at least two months by my estimate, Arlene is the only one to count on. Should the rest of the One-Horned Warlord’s forces arrive before Arlene could come to my aid, Narris Ford and the whole of High-Crag Pass will be lost!
While I was lost in my own thoughts, paying little heed to the trail of refugees moving up the mountain path, with their measly belongings haphazardly packed; they marched with their backs hunched from long arduous climb and the weight on their shoulders. From the few who were even willing to talk, all that we could gather were sightings of lowly imps, a few horn devils, and one or two sightings of even a balrog. Irrespective of the person narrating, one fact stood out; crops failed, livestock diseased and pestilence spread with their advance -- all accompanied by an infestation of locusts, centipedes and a horrendous horde of nameless anthropods. Lyria’s insult did not bode well with Demon Monarch Vanaroth of the Scourge Warren.
Did Lyria suspect Vanaroth or Zor’amoth’s involvement? Is that why she made me agree to such an obscure promise?
An old man with a silvery white beard and deep sunken eyes devoid of light, more a bunch of bones covered in the skin than flesh, scurried pulling three children in his wake. The oldest probably not more than ten summers old with no apparent adults in sight -- obvious orphans of war -- gawked with wide-open eyes as we passed through. Heroic dreams of driving away the invaders from their homes filled the urchin with fervent idealism.
“Ask for Theko in High-Crag Hold. He will provide you with rations to reach Fort Halcyon,” I said in a passing remark as I crossed them.
The old man peered, his tongue held with confusion for a bewildering moment as he struggled to infer an appropriate proper way to address me. “Lady Dark-elf, honoured by your charity. Will Fort Halcyon welcome us?”
“That is up to Grand Paladin Champion Lord Ellandor. I am just the commander of High-Crag Hold,” I replied and moved without acknowledging any further comments.
Zelaphiel is complicated. On one side, I would like to think that the Paladin virtues urge him to stand for the weak and provide for those suffering but he is also more than just a Paladin. The Aasimar pride in him, compounded by his High-elven upbringing might just be a counterweight to the lofty ideals. In a position of power, where he is expected to defend against the encroaching influence of the Cambion Warlord, Zelaphiel’s allegiances are anything but fickle -- even to the Paladin himself.
To complicate matters, there is the mysterious fragmented yet coherent presence of Waerondil. In all practicality, for a High-elf who controls the finance ledgers of their society, approaching the Grand Paladin should have been the most logical choice and given their status would have been far more effective than sending a proxy Silvaniel to approach me.
In the cutthroat world of finance, where a wrong stroke of the quill could be deadlier than a sharp knife in an alleyway, Waerondil could not stand atop without having proclivities to ruthlessness. The only way to wield power for an indefinite period is viciousness laced with a potent dose of elaborate planning, in the same way, a matron of a drow house holds her power. Waerondil would not have simply approached Zelaphiel. Only fools rush into a negotiation table without facts to overwhelm their opponent. Waerondil is no fool.
Digging old long-buried family secrets, and paying prostitutes to exploit weakness are far below the refined dignity of Waerondil. He would have spilled voluminous rivulets of Souverain Crown under the pretext of charity to a combined cause. If not for the cause of the Grand Paladin, then the Grand Prior himself. Failing which, in a world where he controls the most financial transactions, it would have been a flick of the wrist for him to follow the trail of money. All of which leads to a single disturbing conclusion; Waerondil failed to follow the trail and whatever Zelaphiel is up to, he had made every effort to cover his tracks.
For an interminably long and disturbing moment, I wondered who posed the bigger threat? The unknown Cambion Warlord with a known motive or the known Grand Paladin Champion with an unknown motive?
The wargs were the first ones to respond. Their enhanced olfactory senses are overwhelmed with the suffocating smell of blood in the air. The thick mangy fur bristled driven by the savage bloodlust that enthralled them. The wargs were raised by Arlene, bred to march through the gore-entrenched battlefields, yet the potent smell of the crimson red ichor permeating the grounds overrode their training.
My fingers curled around the handle of Adjuration, letting the familiar comforting presence fill me.
Wiping the tiny beads of sweat from their foreheads, the goblin warg riders looked at me apologetically. Their tiny beady eye shrunk in remorse at their inability to control their mounts. With that my first plan of sending a small scouting party to Narris Ford shattered.
Alone, with only Lyria’s gift by my side, I proceeded cautiously on foot. Close to Narris Ford, the lay of the land slowly flattened, changing from the steep rocky descent to a more levelled and scorched land. Charred almost obsidian grounds greeted me, devoid of any life. The intensity of the stygian black and the still radiating warmth from the grounds were the only hints left to the otherworldly origin of the fire. For a thorough cleansing of this extremity, could only be culminated from balefires wrought in the realm of perdition.
It was all wrong. Not just the scorched lands or even the extraplanar source of the fire reduced the lush grounds to grey sullen ashes, but the direction of it. The unnatural conflagration should have expanded inwards towards High-Crag Pass, instead, it spread outwards; towards Narris Ford; away from High-Crag Pass. Something -- far more predatory -- feasted on the vermins of the Scourge Warren.
And then, hidden behind the darkened cloud of ashes, figures stirred in the distance.
