Gulamendis realized with a sigh that those histories were now academic, for every world in which the Taredhel had encountered humans or dwarves had been overrun by the Demon Legion. With a sinking sensation in his stomach, the Demon Master wondered if he was on a fools errand. Even if he could find potential allies among these humans and the other races on Midkemia, would his own people welcome their aid?
Turning his mount around, he rode past the local inn, which seemed lively enough by his standards. A steady sound of voices, some laughter, and music, if thats what it could be called. Taredhel musicians played a very soft and lyrical type of music that was supposed to mimic the lofty emotions of the magicians experience, as a means to share that bliss with those who had no magic. As Gulamendiss experiences with magic hardly contained any that could be called lyrical, he felt as the soldiers, farmers, and laborers must have felt listening to the great singers and musicians of his people on festival daysnot that there had been many of those since the coming of the Demon Legion.
The Priests also kept traditional songs of prayer and welcoming, as well as other, more primitive music and instruments, as a way to keep in touch with the original culture of the Edhel. It was seen as more devoutor academic, depending on ones view of faithand rarely heard outside the temple.
The music coming out of the inn was boisterous, loud, dissonant, and as best as the elf could tell, fun. Those singing seemed to be enjoying themselves greatly. He could not understand a word, as he spoke no human tongue, let alone one of this world. His brother had several spells that allowed him to understand and be understood, but there was neither time nor circumstance for him to teach Gulamendis. Had he not learned the spell of disguising his demons years before from his brother, Gulamendis would have had to ride through the forest the entire way north.
Leaving Crydee town behind, Gulamendis wondered how fared his brother, and then bleakly wondered if he still lived.
Laromendis pointed his wand at a demon climbing the wall and unleashed a bolt of energy that struck the creature in the face. Clawing at its eyes, the demon fell over backward, having lost its purchase on the stone wall. The wand had been given to him by a magician named Sufalendel, for which Laromendis was eternally grateful, for at the moment his more subtle illusion magic was next to useless.
He stood on the northernmost wall of Tarendamar, shoulder to shoulder with soldiers, priests, and magicians, attempting to repulse the fourth attack this day, as the demons sought to swarm the defenses, gaining access into the last bastion of the Taredhel on Andcardia.
The great barrier had been erected in a massive circle around the city of Tarendamar, over a hundred miles in radius. Other defenses had been placed around the planet, huge traps designed to obliterate demons by the hundreds, death towers that spewed evil mystic fire at any moving body within a hundred yards, a network of tunnels under the mountains to the north of the city, and all had proven useless.
The demons had scourged the planet, leaving nothing living in their wake. Within a year of finding the portal to Andcardia, they had driven the widely scattered population of the world to Tarendamar, forcing the total abandonment of over four hundred other cities around the planet, and countless towns and farming villages. Entire forests had been defoliated, and lakes and seas now churned on silent shores, devoid of life. The demons left nothing alive behind them, feasting on any creature they found, no matter how small. Scouts had reported not even insects abided after the demons departed.
The only advantage the Taredhel possessed over the demons, besides their superior arts, was the demons single-mindedness. They had elected to attack the barrier in one location, a canyon that funneled them into the defenders strongest positionmerely, it was assumed, because it was the shortest route from the portal to the city. Certainly, early in the war, they had attacked on many fronts. Now they came in a straight line from the gate to the city.
Laromendis glanced upward, out of habit. Had any fliers been overhead, warning would have been passed. He once again marveled at this powerful magic, a huge, invisible wall of energy, only hinted at when struck by a demons magic or falling body. The spellcasters had originally erected a dome, but at huge cost, until it was discovered there was a height above which the demons apparently could not fly. The spell was adjusted and the dome lowered, gaining the defenders weeks, even months, before the magic that fueled the barrier was exhausted. Laromendis caught his breath and kept his thoughts to himself. Around him, grim-faced soldiers, magicians, and priests awaited the next assault, despite, to a man, sharing the same thought: this was pointless; eventually the city would fall. But the Conjurer wouldnt be the first to speak aloud those words, lest someone turn his ire upon Laromendis. Besides, while the city might fall, each hour here on the wall gave more of the Taredhel the opportunity to flee through the portal to Midkemia. Thinking of Home, Laromendis wished fervently he was now there, with his brother.
Then a voice shouted, Here they come!
Three times since before sunrise the demons had been beaten back, leaving thousands of rotting corpses littering the planes outside the wall. So high were the dead piled that the last assault ran up the bodies of their fallen brethren as if they were an earthen ramp, gaining them an additional twenty feet on the wall from which to launch their assault.
Laromendis held a dagger in his left hand, against magic not proving effective, and watched for a moment, catching his breath, as another wave of fliers approached, coming low and fast. These were the most dangerous and unpredictable of the Demon Legion, for it was unclear where they would strike next. Something had changed in the last two days, as the flierssome of them, at leastwere now able to pierce the barrier.
The hand-to-hand fighting was now the order of the day, and again the Taredhel had the upper hand. Despite each demon being physically the match of any two elven warriors, the elves employed magic arts unparalleled. Not only were magic-users able to cast spells that would wither demons in their tracks, or stun and confuse them, many of the weapons used had been enchanted to cause far more damage than would be expected. Swords would cause flaming wounds or festering agony, arrows would stun with mystic shock, and high above, green flames of death rained down on the attackers from death towers constructed over the last month. The demons would eventually take this position, but they paid an unimaginable price in doing so.
The fliers dove. In the previous onslaughts they had hit the top of the wall, trying to create a breach in the defenses, so the crawlersas Laromendis thought of them, those demons that could scamper up a wall of stone like spiderscould gain access to the top of the defenses, make their way to the gates, and open them. One time before, they had purposefully overshot the wall to land in the open bailey between the defenses and the outer city, and mount an assault on the gates defenders. The few who had survived the transit through the barrier had been quickly dispatched by flying companies, squads of the best soldiers ready to rush to any position needed.
The death towers began to spit their evil green energy at the approaching fliers, and Laromendis watched in fascination. Necromancy was an art so dark no magic-user admitted to an interest, yet here was something so anti-life it must have been the art of necromancy that had conjured it into existence. Even if no necromancer lived, the forbidden volumes and tomes must have been taken from the vaults of the Regents library. No sane being could imagine these hideous engines of death, let alone design one. Could those who designed the towers do so and remain untouched by madness?
The huge black towers had been erected along the wall, each topped with a crystal of some material so black it seemed to drink in the light. Nothing reflected off the surface of those crystals. Each pulsed with wicked energies that unleashed a bolt of green light, which flew forward, toward the fliers. The green pulse didnt even need to strike those creatures, merely coming close to them, and their lives were sucked out of them. Silver-white lights, like tiny bolts of lightning, flew from their bodies into those passing green bolts, and the fl
iers stiffened in midair, falling in rigor to their death below. Those farthest from the death bolts kept coming, to be received with death by any elf on the walls of the city.
The fighting was the bloodiest of the war so far. Every effort was being made to hold the monsters outside the city walls as long as possible. The translocation portal in the center of the city was being employed to transport the Seven Stars, and every magician who could be spared from that task was on the walls, lending their skills and arts to the citys defense.
A scampering demon came up the wall so quickly Laromendis was almost taken unaware. He flicked his right hand and the bolt of energy from his wand missed the creature entirely. But it was enough to distract the creature and he sliced at its neck with his dagger. The creatures neck was like a tree trunk, and he barely cut into it, but it was enough pain to distract it from its task of climbing the walls and it lost its purchase, falling backward onto another climbing demon. Laromendis wondered if others noticed what he did; the fliers were now breaching the energy barrier at an alarming rate.
We cant keep this up much longer, he said to no one in particular.
A veteran soldier next to him grunted, which he took to be agreement. The warrior was too busy cutting off the head of a flier who had gotten past the death tower defenses to speak. He was ignoring a serious gash in his left shoulder, which Laromendis was certain would cause him to faint from blood loss if he didnt get the wound tended to quickly.
Get that shoulder dressed! he shouted. Ill hold them!
He conjured up an illusion, one of those he had prepared against this sort of contingency. A creature appeared in the air above him, a regal wrathbird, seventeen feet of wingspread and all anger and muscle. Talons that could cut a man in half and a beak that could snap through armor were suddenly confronting the remaining demons on the wall. The illusion was so real that they hesitated, which was all Laromendis wished for. He aimed his wand at the closest and sent a death bolt to strike it full in the face. It fell clawing its own eyes out in agony before it died.
The conjuration was so lifelike, defenders nearby fell away, uncertain of where the danger came from. The creature was one of the most feared predators on the planets ruled by the Clan of the Seven Stars, and the illusion was so vivid, they could smell the carrion stench from its breath, feel the wind off its wings, and see the vivid ruby highlights on its black feathers. The beak of the creature was dripping in blood and the eyes were alight with rage and hatred. The illusion would remain for at least another minute before it would begin to waver and start dissipating.
Laromendis cast his wand down again and another demon fell. Archers were now targeting those on the wall, while the heavy engines poured rocks and hot oil, boiling water, and flaming refuse upon those at the base of the wall. The corpses already piled high ignited and the foul smoke that spiraled upward choked defenders and attackers as well.
The attack faltered, and then the retreat began. Coughing from the rising smoke, the Conjurer moved to where a bucket of water waited, picked it up, and drank from it. He had no idea his throat could be this parched. He ignored the bitter metallic flavor of the water, thinking it wise to not contemplate what made it taste so. Catching his breath, Laromendis looked out over the battlefield and saw something new: a half-dozen larger demons stood equally spaced out along the battle line, directing other demons. He was no expert, but he had read every report he could contrive to sneak a peek at, and this was the first time he could recall anything that looked like organization from the Legion. Usually they just came unexpectedly, a flood of creatures that flew, crawled, ran, and hopped at defenders in waves. Most of them had no weapons, just teeth and claws, but a few carried swords of some alien metal or wore rudimentary armor.
But these looked like field commanders, wearing armor of a finer make, and they had other demons at their side, each holding a banner of some fashion. The battlefield was too smoky, the light failing, and the standards too distant for him to make out any devices or patterns on them.
He looked around and wondered if he was the only one to notice. Nowhere did he see any sign of any soldier, officer, or footman, Regents Guard or City Watch, moving to carry word to the Regent Lords command. Nor were there any magicians or priests making their way down the long stone steps to the bailey below. Most were catching their breath, drinking water, or tending to the wounded. A few sat, back against the wall, legs outstretched, in exhaustion. All were waiting for the next onslaught.
Laromendis looked around again, and finally decided to take matters into his own hands. The officer detailed to get him to the wall and find him his place in the defenses was nowhere to be seen. Either his duties had caused him to move or he was dead. Either way, Laromendis had no one to tell him not to go. He decided his time on the wall was over.
Making his way down the long stone steps to the outer bailey, he saw a cluster of officers gathered around a figure Laromendis knew well: Lord General Mantranos, second in command only to the Regent Lord in the army, and a critical force in the Regents Meet. He was white-haired and battle-scarred, but still as keen a military mind as the People had ever known. Years of fighting the Demon Legion had brought his skills in the field to near perfection. He had never been able to defeat them; no commander of the Taredhel had ever won a victory, but he had repulsed them, slowed them down, and cost them more blood than any elven commander before him.
Knowing better than to try to speak directly to the Lord General, the Conjurer studied the group around him. A half-dozen senior commanders were looking down at a hastily drawn map of the northern defenses, now covered with marks in chalk.
Behind them, ready to carry commands to any position along the defensive front were a half-dozen junior officers. Seeing he was being ignored, Laromendis used his arts to shift his appearance to that of a messenger, covered in blood spatter and nursing an injured arm. He made his way up to stand next to a junior officer and said, Sir!
The young commander turned and saw what the Conjurer wished him to see, and said, Report!
From the wall, sir. Im to tell you the Legion has officers!
The Lord General couldnt avoid overhearing the report. He turned his attention to Laromendis and said, What? Repeat that!
Sir, said Laromendis, trying his best to sound near fainting from his wounds. There are a half-dozen demon officers taking the field, with standard-bearers beside them. Theyre rallying the demons for another assault.
Who told you to report this? demanded the Lord General.
Feigning weakness and disorientation, Laromendis said, Whyit was an officermy lord He waved vaguely toward the outer wall. Up there.
To one of his younger officers, the general said, Go see what the truth is. To Laromendis he said, Go have your wounds seen to; youre of no use to us as you are. If youre not fit for duty, go to the portal and leave with the others.
Laromendis bowed as best he could, then moved away. As soon as he was out of sight, he dropped his illusion and hurried toward the translocation portal. As far as the Conjurer was concerned, he had the permission of the military commander of all Andcardia to leave for Home, and he wasnt going to debate the finer points of this with anyone.
He reached the translocation portal and saw something truly awe-inspiring. A massive tree, oak-like in form but bearing much larger leaves of a shimmering golden color, was being carried by magic, floating yards above the earth as it was guided by ropes tied to godos, the massive oxen-like creatures native to this world. Slowly, it was being pulled through the translocation portal while a stream of refugees moved alongside. The Conjurer got in line with those waiting to go through and watched as the last two of the Seven Stars were conjured into the air and tied to the teams of godos. Within an hour the trees would be safely back on their native soil, after millennia away, and at that moment, Andcardia would be a memory.
For at that moment, the Regent Lord would order those remaining on the wall to flee to the portal. Those who reached it before the dem
ons would find refuge, and those who arrived too late would die on this world. Two priests watched as the Conjurer and others around him stepped forward to pass through the portal. Laromendis knew they would give their lives, for it would be their responsibility to destroy the translocation device, the clever machine that housed the magic that let this portal exist. Without it, the demons would have to find their own way to Midkemia.
Until this battle, the demons had been clever enough to find and hold gates to each world they attacked, but this was different. Or at least the Regent Lord and every Taredhel hoped so, especially Laromendis. For there was only one gate to Midkemia, and despite its massive size, it was just as easy to destroy as the others. Break the machine, and the gate collapsed. Without the machine, the destination would be unknowable. Or that was the theory.
Stepping through the portal, Laromendis found himself confronted with a sight to make him falter. When last he had stood on this hill, a pastoral valley was all that lay before him. Now, a city was rising up, and from the look of things, in rapid fashion.
At least the outer walls, thought the magic-user, as he moved down the road to the newly erected walls. The walls would encircle the entirety of the city within a week or so, he judged. Few buildings were erected; mostly wood huts and canvas tents were providing shelter, but as night fell here, he saw a veritable tapestry of campfires. He had no idea how many of his people had come through this gate, but it must be in the tens of thousands. Watch fires along the upper ridges showed other encampments, and he was certain the commanders here would have already sent out groups, families even, to secure and then occupy the villages he had discovered on his last journey through this region. There was easily room for fifty thousand Taredhel in this valley and in the meadows above.
Without a twinge of guilt for having deserted his post, the Conjurer counted himself lucky to be alive. Moreover, he was without oversight, for while someone here might recognize him, he was fairly certain no one in authority would take a minute to question his presence. They were otherwise occupied and apparently very busy.