The Last Moments of Eidri | ||
The Last Moments of Eidri is the introductory
chapter of a novel length story that I hope to finish soon and possibly
publish. It is also the basis for a soon-to-be released graphic novel
which itself is hopefully to be the first of a series. |
||
He hovered like the evening
sun before plunging into a stormy sea: a mass of writhing, tumulting, rumbling bodies
turned up by the storm of war. As far as the eye could see, there was only carnage and savagery. Violence in its purest form. Bodies atop bodies were piled higher than the hills and deeper than the valleys, but the war-mongering hordes were moving slowly; as if they were tired of the constant combat and bloodshed, yet had no other choice. This was their life and long ago, they had acceded to that terrible fate. A single thought held his eyes on the scene before him: Hunger of glory hath got hold the land. There was no glory to be won here anymore. No hunger save that in the bellies of the children left to fend for themselves amongst the corpses, prying free what few morsels and scraps they could. They scrounged up bits of existence and life like the carrion birds who circled above, looking for the freshest kills. There was no purpose to be served here save for that of death and murder. None that he could conceive of needing this course of action to attain. Eidri knew this and it disturbed him, for he was in the middle of it all. He stood atop a mound of rotting flesh, for there was no longer a spot of ground clear that was not being used by the warring mobs: to stand there was to be a casualty. The stench of rotting flesh hung limply in the air, like a wet cloak hung to drip its damp fill on the floor. Such was the carnage and destruction; that to rest from it, one needed to trod upon the dead, and even then, you could not escape the foulness of it in the air. Eidri was old, even by Elven standards, being well past one score centuries, and he could not remember when he last saw a patch of earth that was not being fought over, bled upon, or covered by the bodies of foe or friend. Such was the terrible fate of the Avari, his people, and now he was resolved to change that fate. Frequently, the arrows came, and when they did, he thought he might be dying just that one time, but the darkness always came only for a while. It came only long enough to heal. It came almost long enough to forget. Then he would awaken bathed in a mixture of blood and icor, the warmth and smell of the freshly dead filling his nostrils, and the taste of sickened air on his tongue. He always had to dig himself out, just before being buried alive, thinking: If I where to simply sleep... simply sleep... Yet there was something that always made him rise. He looked around him as if there could be some goal which he had missed in all of the years he had spent fighting. Some reason to justify all of the butchery around him. There was the fighting around him, as always, but he now noticed something new. Perhaps it was the vantage point, perhaps it was his new found disgust with the whole affair, or perhaps it was sheer luck, but he noticed a figure unlike the others. All of those fighting around him wore the armor of their fathers and their fathers before them. They where tired, thin, gaunt, and lacking motivation. Morally destroyed, they moved out of habit rather that out of purpose. They had no desire in them, nor fire, nor spark of life. They moved like automatons directed by a greater power who held sway over their lives. This person, however, was different. He sat erect on the back of the only horse on the field. He was healthy, full of body, and full of energy. While all of the others here where sick, old, and broken, he was full of life and vigor. His face was laced with anger and fearsome passion. His eyes wide with zeal, and unmercifully cold belied the glee and ardor with which he surveyed the carnage. His mouth fixed in a tight-lipped, almost non-existent line on the face told of anger withheld and intentions unappeased. His nostrils flared with the exertion of restraint, and he leaned forward on his mount, as if he needed to survey the bloodbath with more efficiency and ardor. He was tense and evil, and Eidri saw this, and felt it. This man had purpose and ambition. He was the only man with purpose and ambition, however, and these things filled the angry, twisted features of his face. He had a purpose in all of this, that was certain. He had a purpose in all of this? Inconceivable! There was no purpose in the warring! None that any living creature could remember. Indeed, no one even remembered the reason for the war having started, or even how long ago. What caused it? What pitted Avari against Teleri? Who where the protagonists? What started it? Who was going to end it, and when? I am going to end it, and now! This was the one thought that occupied his mind as he stood staring at the man so distant from him. He stood consuming the image of the warrior, burning it into his memory. Every feature of face, every detail of motion, every facet of armour and weapon was to be committed to Eidri’s memory. Every mannerism and every minute detail he could observe from his distant perch. He would need these things if he where to succeed in the thing he was to do, even though it probably meant his own demise. He was that resolute to stop the warring and destruction of his people. This man seemed confident, and now it became obvious that he was directing people and groups, issuing commands, stating and plotting courses of action. There was no distinction in the manner of it. It seemed as if he where guiding forces to the largest and bloodiest conflicts. The most violent and carnal encounters where evidently his preference, as if there where no purpose in this thing apart from the sheer entertainment value it produced. Also, it seemed as if he was commanding forces from both sides. This man was the root of all of the bloodshed around Eidri; that was obvious. He just hoped that this was the only man of this sort. Where there others? If so, how many? Well, he could only worry about this one for now. If he survived, he would contemplate these questions, as well as their accompanying answers. The mound that Eidri stood atop was one of corpses; a literal pile of bodies so high as to lend a vantage point to view the struggling of his kin. This was a commonplace thing, and it thus no longer bothered him for he had been numb to such things since he was a child. That thought bothered him. No, it angered him. He had come to this spot to rest. To escape the feuding and warfare for a short while. He no longer wanted anything to do with this thing called “War”. It had to end, and it had to end now. The anger came quickly. More quickly than he thought possible any more, and as it did, his breathing became deeper and more labored, filling his lungs more than he remembered having the capacity to. The rush this produced was intoxicating. He was finding an energy within himself that he both hoped for, and doubted he possessed any longer. It came to him, though, and that was good. Slowly, but steadily, Eidri realized he was capable of much more than he previously thought. I will end this thing, you beast! “I am Vengeance,” he said to the corpses littered at his feet, “which hath risen to be visited upon mine foes! I am Retribution, which hangeth heavily upon the air. Up... up I go, to lay down the very pillars of my enemies to dust and ash! Down... down, into the pit go I, like a fiend, shall I fight a fiend!” The words seethed from his lips like snakes ushering from a smoking hole. As his anger raised in its intensity, so too, did his courage. His body became heated with the power of his rage, as he prepared himself for the onslaught of energy which was his goal. From the pit of his throat, Eidri started a low, rumbling moan. It settled in the swell of his chest, as if to tug at the very fiber of his being. Every muscle, every organ, and even the very surface of his skin responded with a tingling that he had almost forgotten existed. The sound gained in volume with the rise of his ire until it was an audible thing. He was the hunter, the predator cat, and he was about to pounce. His eyes closed to slits of pure, black fire, only allowing for a view of his singular opponent, his prey. His hearing was limited to the sound of his own rumbling hum. His body became tight and strong again with the rush of adrenaline, and his skin became hot under his armor and robes. The only scent he registered was that of the pure malevolent evil of the thing before him, of the sweat and of the pheromones of the bastard on the horse. He tasted only the blood which hung in the air, mingled with that from his own lip as he bit down to feel the pain, the life, and the energy flowing through himself. He felt the sword in his hand, and it no longer felt as if it carried the weight of Orion, but rather the intensity from those mighty stars, from which it had been forged. It was as he knew it would be. A smile, wicked and evil, inched across his face. He could not deny the fact that he enjoyed this feeling; there was no hiding it, nor the desire to. “Both armed and defended; buttressed and focused, oh yea all; I am ready! Launch thy slings! Bend thy bows, and beat thy steely swords! I come now for thy master!” The bodies around and under him started to glow and flicker with a faint and ghostly light. A gaseous foglight lifted off the dead, and poured over the surface of now quivering corpses. The living below suddenly became aware of this thing and move back away from it. Most had not remembered the last time they had broken from the fighting for anything other than pure survival, but here was a thing unknown by most that captured the attention of all onlookers. Even the carrion birds circling above took to higher flight so as to not touch the unfamiliar fog, abandoning their ample food sources. The mist rose up the slope to greet its beckoner with a ghostly crawl which bespoke of it’s horrific origins. Slowly, the smog-like light rose to meet Eidri, and he welcomed it like an old, familiar friend. Faces and forms would coalesce faintly and dissipate rapidly and as they did so, one could see the agony of either rebirth, or redeath in each. The moaning in Eidri’s throat became an oral gestation, no longer able to be confined within so mortal a thing as the body and voice which were its vessels. It lifted out of Eidri as it would from the very gods themselves, lifting upwards to the very heavens. It seemed for an instant, that even the very stars themselves quivered in their places, no longer fixed by the promise that they where immune to the goings-on of mortals. The moan turned into a low, open mouthed hum, which in turn gave way to a low, soft howl emanating from every once-living thing around him. This escalated to a howl of greater proportion, growing until it seemed that all of creation was to be born of that deafening release. He raised his weapon high over head and his body erupted in a soft fiery light which seemed to dance and sway with the beckoning of his now immortal voice. |
The throng of tortured, bent souls gathered around him and raised their voices to match his own, adding to the power and majesty of the experience. He felt that mighty power as if the sun itself had reached down and touched him ever so slightly in the heart. The warring had stopped for as far as the eye could see, and all eyes where riveted on Eidri in awe and amazement. Was this truly one of their kin? An elf capable of such a summoning of force and energy? The crowd held him in awe, for he was a terrible sight to behold. Strong and confident, encased in a soft fire light which fairly oozed off him, the damned souls of lost and forgotten pawns flocked to him; their new savior; their new hope for eternal rest. Even the fiend on horseback, pompous and sure, rose in the saddle to greet the vision before him, his cold, malevolent gaze transfixing Eidri’s own. The very figure of pestilence, war, and death was standing in the saddle below Eidri now, breathing heavily in expectation, as if calling him out. Indeed, he held out a single muscular hand ever so gently, beckoning, calling, even imploring Eidri to the fight as if inviting him to the gauntlet. He did so as if there were no better way to make fly the sparks of matched blades, and Eidri was more than inclined to accept. It only made sense that his nemesis would tempt him to personal combat. The power around Eidri was flung forward with his intent, tossing bodies, both living and dead, to and fro so as to clear a path. He had scattered a million bones before he realized there where a million more. Then, realizing the futility of his efforts, he sprang forth off the rotting mound of flesh and bone with the power and grace of the legendary great cats; all of the purpose in the universe flowing forth within him. He landed on the ground a good distance from the damned commander, and the crowd of tired warriors suddenly realized that they where in the path of two colossal titans who where intent on narrowing the gap between them in very short order. They moved slowly and cautiously, as one does when unsure of a wild animals intent or reaction, attempting to open a space between the two. Eidri, still crouched in the likeness of a panther, rose slowly and with a purpose which was all too obvious. The flames which engulfed him earlier still danced about him, but with more cunning movements, as if they too were on the prowl. The menace before Eidri was on the charge as a dog on scraps from a discarded meal. Remaining upright in the saddle, he held his axe high over the left shoulder with the right hand while holding the reins in the left. A smile of arrogance spread across his face, as of someone assured of victory. No such look hung on the visage of Eidri, for he did not enjoy what was to be done next. It was necessity which led him here, not choice, yet here he was, and here he would fight. It had to be precise and exacting, for one error, no matter how slight, would mean utter failure, and this time, there was no second chance. Even as he committed himself to the upcoming course of action, he thought it an impossible task. Forward he sprang, with all of the grace, power, and majesty of the fury now pouring out of him. The two monstrous figures closed the distance between them, paying little heed to the crowds assembled on the field. The masses were simply obstacles to be destroyed, lest they impede the individual flights of the two adversaries. As the rivals charged, the trembling crowd awakened from their awe. Climbing over one another, they scrambled to be free of the path the two powerful figures where to collide along. A causeway opened between the two as they charged with abandon, loosing fearsome howls the likes of which make men flea in terror. The crowd was visibly moved by a fear and energy most had not felt in decades at least. The distance closed to less than a dozen feet. Eidri, holding his sword in the right hand, stepped left, swinging the blade wide under the horses nose. The horse, surprised, reared up causing the axe to swing high and lightly over Eidri’s head. The blade of Eidri’s sword pivoted upwards with practiced ease and snagged the axe under the bit as it passed, causing the swing of the horseman to go wide and fast. This assured that a back slash would be impossible. The axe hand was no longer a threat, being clearly out of control and off balance. The horse, however, had to remain unbalanced so as to occupy the rider’s left hand with manipulating the reins. Immediately after his previous step, Eidri rolled his left hand under the blade and to the axe-wielding wrist, closing tightly for control and balance. Simultaneously, he swung the sword across the front of himself in a shoulder height arc. Then up, pommel first, and caught the horse on the neck with the edge of his wrist, planting the pommel and arm securely at the base of the horse’s neck. This provided the momentum and brace necessary to leap high and forward, raising his right knee high in front of him, and placing his left foot in the stirrup. As his knee made contact with his opponent’s chin, forcing his head and balance up and back, he planted the foot firmly on the upper thigh of the rider. The horse, feeling the sudden tug on the reins, reared back forcing the warriors’ momentum towards the ground. Eidri, his sword now at hip level and to the rear of him, pivoted the blade so as to point at his opponent’s chest, and gave a hard thrust. The blade found it’s succor in the rider’s chest, and when it met the resistance of bone and armour, Eidri braced the front of his hip on the rear of the cross guard next to his hand and leaned into the man, forcing the blade to slip through his torso with relative ease. The rider, letting loose the axe, and a howl of pain, grabbed Eidri’s forearm, and with reins still in the left hand, cupped and held fast the back of Eidri’s neck. The sudden jerk of reins for the second time coupled with the sudden weight shifting to the rear, caused the horse to rise up and fall soundly on its rump, front legs kicking wildly. The force of the fall and the weight and force of the fight was such that the saddle straps broke and whipped around. To sting Eidri in the face and neck. Suddenly without support, the two fighters fell hard to the ground, the rider on his back, and Eidri falling on top of him, forcing the blade of his sword deeper into the chest of the dying man, nailing him to the ground. The horse righted himself and stomped away, a decidedly fearful look in its eyes, and a limp in its hind quarters. This left only the two figures lying on the ground, one atop the other. One pierced through mortally and fixed to the earth. The other with the pommel planted firmly in his belly, and bleeding from the face and neck. Eidri stumbled to the ground next to his victim to assess his own wounds. He realized then that he had been slashed through the neck and throat by the lashing of the broken straps and was bleeding uncontrollably. He would be dead any moment. Crawling towards the onlookers, he managed to grab one by the ankle before he leaped out of Eidri’s grasp. The man looked down at Eidri and knelt to hear him say; “Whilst we sleep, there come things that do not love the sun, and remember that death shall come to thee when thou art dead. There is no need to hasten it.” He then slumped to the ground, no longer needing to clutch his audience to gain it’s attention. With the final spark of life in him, he managed to cough out his last dying words; “Wait for me; wait for the dawn...” And then sleeping, he did not wake...
- - - - -
They could not remember what it was they did before The Holy came and said to wait, but wait they did, and wait they would, for The Holy to return. Their fore-fathers told a tale of how It defeated War itself. A short but conquering story of two mythical gods battling for the will of all. It seemed as if their entire purpose in existing was to wait for The Holy to return to them, though they had no idea what It would do, or even what It was. They did know that It would come back to them. It had said so, and they had spent countless generations waiting as they did now. They believed that The Holy would bring some higher purpose with It back to those who waited faithfully. They did not even have a name for The Holy, for before It left their ancient fathers, It did not utter Its name, merely a request; “Wait for me; wait for the dawn...”. What would The Holy bring with It? What did The Holy have planned for them? They would wait patiently for eons for those answers if they needed to, for The Holy delivered them so long ago from a hell of War, and for this, they were eternally grateful. Therefore, if waiting was what The Holy wished of them, then waiting was what they would be doing... ...for ever if need be... ...and woe to the Man-Thing that disturbed their holy vigil over the spot of earth that they called Bloodflow, for it was here that The Holy gave them Its message. Amongst themselves, though, there would never be a quarrel, for it was the wish and lesson of The Holy; that death was not theirs to pass around. It came when it wanted, and it would come soon enough for all. |
|