Chapter 2: The Grand Crusade of the Light

Koltiras sighed as he looked up at the blizzard howling above and through the camp, once again telling himself that the frozen mountains were no place for a dragonling. He was stationed in the largest Crusade Camp the humans had erected upon the mountains side. Also within the camp was the Human King and Enaithor Stormrunner, a powerful leader amongst the elves. His small black pavilion sat alone, on the border of the assembly area, where he could sit just outside and watch the humans go about camp duties.  His purple eyes watched man after man go about their duties, and then watched, intrigued as more and more people began to fill into the assembly area. Before the morning sun had risen, everyone in the camp had eyes on the assembly area, and two figures walked up to stand upon the large wooden dais that presided over the gathered inhabitants.

Only slightly interested, Koltiras watched the goings, as the two figures slowly became recognisable. Instantly, his attention was on the King and Enaithor as they addressed the Crusade camp residents. The King stood tall and proud in his golden armour, designed as light-weight plates in the typical paladin fashion so that dexterity and agility were not hindered in battle. The armour was light and durable, but also featured great ostentation. On the left pauldron was the mark of the golden hammer, the Sigil of the Brotherhood of the Light. The other pauldron featured the fleur-de-lys, the Sigil of the Guardians of the Light, the two orders of paladins within the Human Kingdoms. Over his armour was the snowy tabard of the Brotherhood, and clasped around his neck was the cloak of the Guardian’s, its thick red silk flowing in the settling, mountain winds. The King had a proud and noble face, his long, dark hair was pulled back behind his ears and tied with a simple leather binding, and his small beard was cropped and oiled to a point.

Enaithor stood beside him, taller than the King but not as stocky. The elvish armour was beautifully crafted, it shone under the light of the sun, complete with glittering jewels. A golden cloak trailed his steps, as he stood beside the King, looking out over the gathered crowd. His hair spilled down his back like a river of gold, straight and without any braids, curiously. His eyes were a dark grey, like a winter storm, and as they fell on him, he found himself almost drawn within them. But the eyes passed on, and continued to sweep across the crowd. The King cleared his throat and gained the attention of the crowd in an instant.

“Crusaders. Everyone knows their purpose here, but I will tell you, yet again, our role to play in the fight against the shadows and the darkness. I will tell you once again so that you can find faith in our cause, so that it will stay in your minds and in your hearts as we do battle with the darkness!” he raised his arms and the crowd cheered on cue, much like trained animals, Koltiras sneered.

“We are an army of the Light, a spear-head to the heart of the enemy. The darkness and dread of evil once again rises, only it has a name. The Dark Lord and Master sits in his fortress, the Heart of Darkness, atop these mountains. He believes he is safe enough to continue sending the dead to fight the living and that we will drown in the lifeless. But the Light has given us strength. We will continue up the mountains, fighting through his defences until we find him. Then, the heroes of the Crusades will join Enaithor and myself in the final assault on the Heart of Darkness. Assembly dismissed.” The King stated and jumped down from the dais to stride across the assembly toward Koltiras.

Koltiras looked around for something to do before the human King could reach him, but there was nothing, so he sighed and accepted his fate. Sitting easily on a random bundle of cloth, he looked up as the shadow of the King fell across him.

“Greetings, Koltiras. Have you news of your kin?” the King asked, rather politely.

“No, I can only say that he would be making his way here, and he will catch us soon enough” Koltiras sighed and explained.

“Your kin and yourself are highly regarded amongst the men for your indomitable battle prowess, fighting alongside them is as good as fighting beside a paladin. We will need you, coming up to the closing battles. But for now, I expect you to put in the hard yards with the men, we need to get to the Heart of Darkness before we can assault it” the King nodded once, firmly and then looked over his shoulder as Enaithor came up to stand beside him.

“Greetings, Koltiras. How do you fare this morning?” Enaithor asked his voice deep and proud.

“Fine. Apparently my brother is too slow for the King’s liking though. Who knows what’s keeping him.” Koltiras shot the King a look, and chuckled at the apoplectic look on his face.

He stood and brushed imaginary grit off his hands, looking at Enaithor, and showing the human little of his respect.

“I speak openly, because I understand the need for it. I am no friend of yours, human. This is purely out of my race’s support for the Elves of the East. My kin and I are here to help the Elves in their removal of darkness from your lands. I am not one of your louts to order about, I cannot be sent around like a mongrel pup. I will listen to what you have to say, I will consider you strategies, but I will move where my own feet take me. I will fight as my own hands see fit. Not yours. Understand this, and we can be friends” Koltiras gave him a sarcastic smile, showing his fangs and then stood, taking up his sheath and strapping it too his back as he walked away from the camp, headed North.  

He wandered outside the camp, glaring at the guards who attempted to stop him at the camps boundaries. Starting up the mountain, it once again dawned on him how much he hated snow. It was like soft, annoying sand, useful for nothing. Being a dragonling, and sharing ancestral traits with the dragons, he preferred hot climates, and volcanic mountains, not snow-capped mountains. He felt bile rise in his throat and spat, before pulling the hood of his large cloak up. Unlike his kin, he did not wear the summer raiment; instead, his house was based in the west of the dragonlings homelands, home to many grand forests. None of the dragons lived in the forests, but the dragonlings did and they would often venture into the mountains making pacts as all dragonling houses did. As such, the colours of his house were different. His cloak was a shimmering, deep green and his armour was a dark grey metal, similar to iron. His skin was a dark purple almost grey colour, while his eyes were an enthralling purple.  His horns were dark, and swept up from his brows. He did nothing to hide his appearance, but hated the cold. So instead, the gem that held his cloak over his armour was set in an ornate dragon-wing setting.

Coming to a stop, he sheltered in a small rocky overhang, protected from the wind and the snow. He sat on a rounded stone and drew out his axe. Its haft was a tall as he, essentially similar in deign to a woodsman’s axe, in times of peace, it server to fell the massive pines that grew in the forests of his homeland. The head of the axe however, was elegant, covered in scrawling draconic runes that would glow were drawing upon his magic. He sighed and took a specially made whetstone from one of the small pouches around his belt, hidden by his voluminous tabard. Running it down the blade, he delighted in the rasping sound it made. It reminded him of home, when the dragons scales would rasp on the stones as they moved. He sighed with longing and continued to work the whetstone over the singe edge of his axe. A noise came down from the rocks above him, a very slight sound almost mistakeable for a simple shift in the wind. Except his senses were keened than that, and he could taste a damp sense in the air. He leapt to his feet as something dropped down onto him, plunging a slim black dagger into his shoulder.

He roared in pain and reached up with both hands, grasping the shoulders of the creature before leaning up and tossing it from his shoulders, head first onto the stones below. Anger fuelled his strength and the creatures head burst in a red, gory mess at his feet, praying his green cloaks with red and making the body crumple as if it were boneless. A quick glance at the creature triggered his memory. It was a Shilaari, a demonic simian and bound agent of the Dark Lord and Master. They were humanoid, thinner and leaner, stoop yet retaining great agility. They had odd clumps of dark blue fur on their black skin, and had tails that could act like another hand, often used to plunge another dagger into their foe. They had horns similar to Koltiras’ own, curving upward from the brow and small, demonic eyes. They were assassins and rogues, preferring to ambush targets.

And they never worked alone. He finished for himself.

One dropped down from above again, this time crouching over its friend, its two daggers crossed in its hands. It tail lazily reared up from its back, wiggling another dagger as if proving it had the advantage. He stood unarmed, looked down at himself and pushed back the pain in his shoulder. He didn’t bother with words, simply motioned it forward. With a wicked glint in its eyes the Shilaari leapt forward, with a small shriek of glee. He flicked his foot up, catching the haft of his axe and bringing it up to his hands. Snatching it out of the air he swung it in an arc that slashed the Shilaari from the air. It slammed into the rocks to his left, a deep wound in its side all the way to the spine. Stalking over to it he swung the axe up and decapitated it with a simple, but effective killing blow. He spun just in time to catch the next nimble Shilaari as it leapt at him. Its clawed feet hooked onto the haft of his axe and held it in the air as its three daggers descended for him.

Without thinking he drove his head forward and slammed his forehead into the demonic simians, small face. The daggers grazed his cloak, but the dagger in the creatures tail flew under the axe haft and scrapped along his breastplate. It was disorientated, and with his axe pinned he called forth his magic. Motes of blue magic danced in his eyes as he drove his head forward again, this time carrying with it the telekinetic weight of a large boulder. Blood sprayed in the air and across his face as the creature’s nose receded into its skull and lanced into its brain, the body falling off his axe haft. He raised his axe and drove it down the centre of the slumped creatures head, remembering the elder dragons words about killing demons. Always best to remove the head. He waited, for he could feel another, so he moved closer into the small outcrop.

He spun, but was too late as the Shilaari emerged from the shadows behind him. Its daggers flipped up against the haft, as if it were to pull it away from him. It succeeded when it raised its clawed feet, planted them on his hips and used them as leverage, throwing the haft over it body even as it flipped away to stand wary. Disarmed, he had no option fighting hand to hand. He didn’t mind getting a little more dirty. The Shilaari struck out with one dagger, the other two following close behind. He delivered a sharp chop to the inside of the wrist, making the wrist twitch beyond control and drop the dagger. He stomped on the end of the tail, crushing it beneath his boot even as he planted is other boot on the hip and grabbed the other arm with both hands. The Shilaari realised, with genuine surprise that he was faster. With a sickening squelch, he tore the arm from the Shilaari’s torso, making dark blood spray all along the rocks of the overhang. It shrieked in agony, and he spun around, turning it end over end and driving the dagger, still locked in the hands death grip, into the demons throat, pinning it to the stone wall.

Taking up the haft of his axe he grinned as it struggled to remove the fatally placed dagger. The axe head slammed into the stone wall and severed the head just above the dagger, letting the rest of the body fall to the floor. He walked out into the snow and knelt down, cleaning the head of his bloodstained axe with a handful of virgin white snow.  Might be good for something after all. He shrugged and turned back to the bodies. He took up the two, intact, and severed heads and sheathed his axe. Turning he walked back down the mountain slope, toward the camp. He had achieved his morning excitement.

The guards paled slightly as he approached, but drew themselves up and made a point of glaring at him.

“Warn all sentries and your captains, there are Shilaari about the mountains” he hissed through a wicked smile.

“And do you have proof of this, or did the wind look funny to you, dragon-man?” one of the guards asked, leaning in and making his large nose seem larger.

He dropped the two heads in his arms and nearly laughed when the man dropped them a shrieked, none to manly.

“We didn’t stop to chat, but there were more than two” he sneered and walked back toward his tent.

Looking around the assembly area he found the King standing on the dais again, Enaithor beside him, watching over the morning sword-play routines. The King had seen the ordeal and was watching with a slight frown. Koltiras gave him a crooked smile that was none too friendly.

…

“I can’t keep that dragonling in this Crusade if he will not follow orders. There is a solid hierarchy for a reason. If he does not follow the orders passed down and work as a part of this Crusade, then there is no place for him.” The King slammed is gauntleted fist down upon the wooden rail of the dais.

He watched as the dragonling returned with a bloodied wound and the severed heads of the demonic simians, Shilaari’s, before retiring to his tent. He was frustrated with the slow progress of the Crusade and the way in which the dead assaulted the living, seemingly at random. He was waiting for the ground beneath them to open up with masses of dead. He almost wished for it, something to pit his fury at.

“Magnus, there is a place for him, you know it. You also know that the very presence of the dragonlings is a great honour. More of their warriors are promised, and when their King joins us, the Crusade will begin its fervent march to the Heart of Darkness. I council patience, Magnus. The place for him is as a scout. Simply ask for him to report what he sights each morning and ask him to report back to you, personally.” Enaithor spoke from beside him, sliding off his gauntlets and tucking them into his belt.

“No, he will not report to me. Though I understand reporting to people he finds below him won’t get us anywhere, he will instead report to you.  He seems to think you are his only ally here.” The King let out a sigh and looked out over the mountainous regions that camped within.

The wind brought the scent of spilled blood and for a minute he frowned, but as he watched as the evening’s hunters returned with mountainous apes and several wolves between them. They also carried three dead. He motioned for Enaithor to follow him and returned to the command tent, essentially a bordered part of his own pavilion. Inside were a few cartographers and messengers, as well as scout masters, compiling the reports of the scouting parties. He walked through and gave a simple nod to their bows, continuing into the inner tent were the vast, mountain map was laid out.

“Enaithor, having only just arrived, I don’t believe you have met two of my fellow Seven Kings. This is the Lord of the Wood, Cyprian Wylde and the Lord of Winter, Alexander Felix Syth.” The King waved his hand to the two men standing over the charts, both armoured very differently.

Enaithor looked over both men, starting with the very woodsman looking Cyprian. The man was tall and proud, his eyes were wary though, and settled over Enaithor with the detachment of a hunter. His hair was dark brown and was mirrored in his short cut beard. His face was all hard planes and angles, seemingly carved from stone for all of the emotion he gave. He was dressed in very sturdy leathers, though ostentatious, given his position. Thread-of-gold emblazoned images of forets animals, bears, wolves and elk into his leathers, and scrollwork leaves decorated the edges of his gloves and shoulder, as well as a woodland green cloak. The man had the air of a hunter and moved with a wolfish grace as he turned and bowed deeply. Enaithor returned with bow with equal deference.

 Turning to Alexander he found a very different man. At first glance, the Lord of Winter was aloof and cold, appropriate for his given title. But his long and handsome face was testament to a gentler spirit. His hair was a greyed white, along with a neatly tripped goatee. His eyes were blue-grey and completed his handsome face.  He wore steel armour that glittered like crushed ice, and carried a long sword on his back. He bowed deeply as well and Enaithor responded likewise.

“It is an honour to have an esteemed Elf such as yourself with us on this Crusade.” The Lord of Winter greeted him.

“The honour is mine, Lord” Enaithor simply responded with a curt nod.

“Alexander, do you know of the other Seven Lords?” the King asked, coming around the table to look at the map.

“Belhurst continued to send only rangers and soldiers, Varian shows no interest in actively participating in the Crusade. Marcus Augustus has only just seen off another Coalition attack on the outskirts of the Black Borough, Aldbarren’s resources need to be replenished, and things are tight between the Crusade and Aldbarren’s vigil. The Lord of the Morning remains with his men in Light’s Hope, he continues to maintain that his Legion of paladins will arrive in time to help push the Crusade to the Heart of Darkness. Anthony de Alaric von Drago stays at Dragonmont, and continues to reply that he will be ready shortly.” The Lord of Winter reported with a sigh.

The name pricked Enaithor’s memory, and he voiced it.

“Lord Enaithor, you may remember the name Anthony de Alaric von Drago because he was visited by the dragonlings nearly a decade ago. Something transpired in his keep and he emerged more dragonling than human. For nearly three years he stayed with the dragonlings in their homeland, and only returned the last year gone.” The Lord of Winter confided.

Enaithor nodded in confirmation and voiced his thanks. He had indeed heard of young von Drago. Whilst thinking Enaithor’s hands found themselves going to his hair, tugging some locks from out of the leather bind to braid beside his right ear. He listened along with the King for further reports, and was done with both as night had settled in and a deep chill had settled into the mountain. He made his farewells and all four stepped out of the tent to return to their own.  Alexander stopped Enaithor however, before he could move toward his own pavilion.

“Forgive me, Lord Elf. But I could not help but notice that the Elves have a number of different braids, and they seem to be for different reasons or occasions. Please correct me if I am wrong, and forgive a curious mind, but what does you current braid suggest” he asked, genuinely curious.

Enaithor could only smile.

“You are right, in part. Braids can mean many different things. They can be for occasions, status or feelings. My particular braid right now, a simple braid close to my sword arm’s ear means that I await the eve of battle, where I can tie my hair in the proper braids of conflict.” He explained, fingering the braid self-consciously.

“Thank you, Lord Elf. I pray you good night and fair rest” he bowed deeply and turned to his own tents.

As Enaithor entered his own tent, he thought about the battles ahead. The humans would need all the help they could get. They were simply outclassed by the power of the enemy. The King and the Seven Lords might be powerful warriors, and minor battle mages, but all together they could not kill the Dark Lord and Master. He needed to return home. He knew of a type of weapon that could kill the Dark Lord and Master. His own sat in its sheathe, on his back. It sang sweetly to him of blood and death, of how their enemies were weak and foolish. His own runeblade hummed and sang contently, for now. On the eve of battle it was wail for blood. There would be blood enough in this Crusade, of that, he was sure.