Snippet - Fantasy II

   Athedil ascended up the steps of Car Avaham - the Shining Bastion - as his army slaughtered those who opposed him. The silver steps and streets and stones of the Bastion ran black with the blood of the Bastion's defenders and his own men. Around him danced his personal guard, composed only of his own brethren, the elevenkin, glad in exotic armors of golds and whites, their spears and short blades flickering like cold fire. 
   Despite the sea of men before them, Athedil's guard and his Black Army cut forward, desecrating the silver city, tainting it with their malice, their evil, their darkness.
   At last did Athedil rise to the uppermost ramparts of the Bastion, leading to the Sanctum itself - the palace of the sovereignty - studded with spires and walls, a place that is reputed far and wide, across strange shores and distant lands as a place where one could, at times of the moon, catch glimpses of things to come. Athedil stormed the Sanctum, casting aside the men in his way like leaves in a gale. His voice alone shook the place to it's earthen roots. And by his feet entering but an inch within the Sanctum's inner workings, it set upon the place an evil that would last for centuries to come.
   The remnants of the Bastion's defenders were concentrated here, led by their fearless captain, Svam the Red. Svam stood at the head of his gathering of men, doused in elven blood and the acid of Athedil's creatures, clutching his sword and shield, shining golden despite the shadow of the Sanctum. Athedil laughed at the sight of them and set upon them a fell fire that burned with unholy intensity.
    "Va Car Avaham!" Svam bellowed over the hissing of the flame, spurring his men.
    They flowed forward, a river of blood, flesh, courage and fear. But despite their strength and valor, Athedil cast them down one by one and tossed Svam onto a pile of his own men and set his foot onto the man's neck. With a defiant roar, Svam swung his blade upward but Athedil caught it and crumpled the blade as if it were made of parchment. The weight behind his foot increased, crushing Svam's throat, choking him with his own blood.
    "Little thing," Athedil spoke, voice melodious and fluting.
    With a crunch, Svam's neck was shattered and he died on the pile of corpses, cursing Athedil, cursing the elves. Svam the Red, one of the most heroic of his age, was fallen.....   

Author's Note

Related to another snippet of mine (http://www.writerscafe.org/writing/Atom9a/895357/).

Reviews

A beautiful time-travel through your wise words X.C. greatly inspired you're!!