The sentries were posted, the moon was bright, and the woods were quiet. But Hythac was still worried. He wordlessly watched his fellow elves making preparations for the night. This night could be their last. They all knew it. They were all prepared.
They were on the run from a fearsome foe, the darkest warlock possessed by the darkest demon, a creature with more power than any evil known to the world. He lusted for elf blood; it was his food, his nourishment--the one key to his immortality. He would stop at nothing.
This was the third night on the run. True, they had made it through the first two nights; but this was different--Hythac could feel deathblood coursing through his veins. It would be tonight, and there was no stopping it.
Hythac did not bother to tell anyone about his knowledge. To everyone else, he was a raving lunatic. But he knew better. He had not spent thirty years in the Dark One’s dungeons uselessly; now he knew the Dark One better than any living creature. He knew his desires, his perverted pleasures, his weaknesses. But who would listen to a madman?
With no show of haste, the madman walked to his tent. Inside he took his time donning his old leather breastplate and his copper greaves--they would not stop death on a night like this, but every second gained was one more troll rotting at hellgates. It would be a bloody night.
Hythac emerged, fully dressed in battle-gear. At his side he wore a heavy saber, while in his hands he held a bow. He cut an imposing figure, but few even took notice. Who would listen to a madman?
Cold night slowly crept down upon the camp. Everything was quiet. Not even the sentries made the slightest sound. In the camp the only soul awake was a vigilant madman. Midnight came and went, yet still no sound could be heard.
A dark cloud passed over the moon, sending the camp into complete darkness. Hythac sprang up, setting his bow on the ground and drawing his saber. He was ready to fight evil face to face, even if he would have to do it alone. Still everything was silent, but still Hythac stood ready.
Then it happened. All hell broke loose. Strange noises burst from the woods on all sides--screeches, yells, a ceaseless stamping. Before anyone could set up the slightest defense, trolls were upon them. They were huge, gruesome creatures, a head taller than most of the elves, with claws big enough to tear anything to shreds with one blow. Screams and groans came from women and children mingled with the shouts of the men, valiantly trying to put up a fight. No one stood a chance. The trolls slaughtered everything in their path. They were nearly blind, but they could smell prey a mile a way. Now they would feast.
Amid all the chaos, one warrior stood firm. With one swift swing of his sabre, Hythac decapitated the first troll to come his way. More came, smelling the blood of their fallen comrade. The first one was quickly dispatched with a swipe across the abdomen. Two more were right behind the first. The warrior sprang to the left at the last moment sending his blade into the side of the larger troll. Unable to halt his momentum, the dead troll crashed into his companion, sending them both to the ground. Hythac turned and swung the sabre deep into the second troll’s chest.
Fighting continued around the camp. A small contingent had managed to group around the king and queen. Queen Glorial, a skilled mage, was desperately casting spells left and right trying to keep the trolls at bay. But trolls kept coming, and one by one the guards were dying off. Soon only the king, the queen, and three other elves were left. They were all about to give up all hope, when everything stopped.
They looked around. Around them stood an impenetrable wall of trolls. Fighting was still going on in other parts of the camp, but around them all was silence. After a minute of painful stillness, a gap opened in the circle. From the shadow of the woods stepped a Kaûl.
He was as tall as the trolls, and just as fierce. His whole body, resembling an elf’s, was a mass of flame and smoke. If anything got in his way, he sent balls of flame at it, reducing it to a heap of smoldering ashes. For closer targets he had a flaming sword, heavier than lead and hotter than brimstone. He was nothing less than a Fire Demon in body form.
The surviving elves cowered before the beast. They had only heard of such demons; the forest demons they were used to were only half of what this was--mere pranksters compared to this embodiment of evil. They could feel his hot breath, and his gaze of hate held the pinned before him.
“Scum,” he said, in a voice thick with fiery wrath, “you shall pay dearly for damage you have done to my army.”
“Leave us, you thing of night,” said Glorial with as much courage as she could muster. “We would rather die than serve your kind. You cannot take us--we will die fighting you.”
With these words she pulled a small crystal from the pouch at her side. She whispered a few words into the air and threw it at the demon with all her might. As the crystal sailed through the air, it began to grow. Bigger and bigger it grew and faster and faster it went, until it was the size of the Kaul’s head and traveling so fast that the crystal seemed to give off its own light. It was perfectly shaped except for one jagged end, which was going right for the demon.
Without showing the least sign of disturbance, the Kaûl raised his hand and caught the crystal. He barely flinched, as the sharp point embedded in his hand. He held it there until the fire from his body consumed it entirely. Queen Glorial fell to her knees; she had nothing left to fight with. All those around her were either dead of too frightened to fight. It was a sore defeat.
The Kaûl let out a harsh laugh as he watched the helpless elf. He was enjoying himself.
He was interrupted by a cry on his left. One of the trolls collapsed face down into the ring with an arrow protruding from his back. Behind him stood warrior clad in a leather breastplate with a bow in his right hand and a sword in his left. For a moment the trolls were too stunned to respond. Then without warning they charged the lone warrior, yelling curses and waving their claws in defiance.
Throwing down his bow for the last time, Hythac held his sword ready. The trolls hit like wave, each trying to be the first to kill. Hythac swung left and right with long sweeping strokes. Soon trolls were piled high all around him. But the battle was taking its toll on him as well. By the time he had killed ten, he already had five grievous claw wounds stretching from his face down to his knees. Still he fought on.
He was slowly gaining ground, moving closer and closer to the small band of elves. After ten minutes of intense struggle, he finally reached the Queen’s side. He whispered four words into her ear before turning back to the fight. Glorial made no sign that she had heard; she just stared straight ahead with eyes full of despair. Hythac, meanwhile, fought his way toward the Kaûl, who had been watching the whole time from a distance.
“Cease!” shouted the Kaûl.
Hythac finished off the closest troll, while the rest made a hurried retreat. Sixteen trolls lay dead on the ground with many more wounded.
“Warrior,” said the Kaûl, walking toward the elf, “you are indeed a great fighter. But I am the one you want; I can see it in your eyes. Well then, here I am. Fight me if you dare.”
Hythac stared straight into the demon’s eyes.
“I do not fear you,” he said with scorn, “any more than I fear your filthy soldiers. You must remember me, that prisoner you tortured two, three--nay four--times every day. That prisoner who had enough strength to take over your mind. That prisoner who escaped from the very hands of a Kaûl. I wonder how you explained that to your master.”
A look of shock crossed the demon’s face--shock mixed with a loathing hate.
“I know you,” continued the elf. “I know you inside and out...Kelvok.”
On hearing his name uttered by a mere mortal, Kelvok howled in rage. He felt his power draining; by using his name, the elf now wielded immense power over him. There was only one way to fight back.
“So be it, Byshtar,” he roared.
Now it was no longer a battle of swords; it was a battle of magic. Byshtar--now in a frenzied rage--sent spell after spell at Kelvok: powerful spells that only a skilled mage could perform in the heat of battle. Kelvok did his best to block most of them. Wind and flame whirled all around the two combatants engulfing their struggle. It was a fight to the end.
The end came only after much magic had been spent. In one finally burst of flame, Hythac, a noble warrior—a raving madman—hurled himself at his adversary. A thousand golden arrows sped toward the demon with the force of a thousand horses. It was enough to crush any mortal instantly.
But Kelvok was no mere mortal. Summoning up all his dark powers, he sent a wave of magic in front of him. It was enough to deflect the elf’s charge, but not enough to keep him from injury. The force of what did hit him sent him spinning across the clearing. Hythac, meanwhile, shot off to the left, straight into the midst of the Trolls. Two score perished instantly, while many more were injured.
Amid the bodies of the dead Trolls, the battered form of Hythac lay unmoving in the dust. He had given his life for his people—a madman to the end.
Kelvok slowly pulled himself to his feet. His body could not take much more, but that did not matter; he could survive without one. What did matter was his lifeblood. He could feel it draining, dripping away. He had to be healed quickly.
In almost no time the prisoners were rounded up. The Trolls then turned south and began a weary march. There would be many sleepless nights of marching ahead of them, but they hated the forest and were glad to be marching out of it. The sound of their marching faded silently, as dawn reached forth its first light over the troubled earth.
The clearing was void of all living. Aside from the dead bodies left behind to rot in the dirt, little else was different. But in a world where every mind is a universe of its own, where every heart is a unique fountain of life, much can be changed by a single death. Many brave hearts died that day, never again to fight for a noble belief. Many pure hearts wept blood that day, never again to comfort the lonely and downhearted. Many rich minds sank into the dust, never again to plant seed in the mind of a fertile world.
It was a day that perhaps few could have foreseen…but who would listen to a madman?
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