Baldir BW XXXIII
BWXXXIII Baldir’s Vision
The battle rages on the high slopes of a mountain range. In the background is an immense tower which rivals the surrounding peaks in height and stature. The dark granite obelisk is covered with Dwarven script, cunning battlements, apertures through which oil may be poured, and arrow slits. So tall is the tower that its top is obscured by the thick swirling cloud. Smoke wisps its way out through the open stone door only to be whipped away by the swirling gale-force wind. Above the door Baldir sees the sigil: ڠ and before it, amongst the embattled friends and foes, 3 dwarves stand out from the rest fighting to gain entry to the Tower. Baldir finds it hard to distinguish one from the other although their symbology – worn on shields, helms and jewellery is clear:
Ҹ
Baldir is also aware of the number of elves at the battle; under the flag of a rising sun over a canopy of trees, Sylvan elves do battle across the inhospitable and (to them) unusual terrain.
A loud dwarven cry of alarm is swiftly followed by a huge crashing sound and trumpet blasts. At that instant, a huge Balrog breaks out of the tower and runs headlong into the dwarven forces, brushing aside their 3 Lords. He is swiftly followed by all manner of evil beings including Drow. Many take to the air and are brought down by an unrelenting torrent of arrow fire. Others run swiftly across the rocky ground, leaping and springing to save from being bogged down in combat.
It is not, however, the battle that is of most interest to Baldir. He sees a small group of Drow break off from the other routed enemy forces and flee towards the highest paths that lead away from the tower. Hot on their heels is a loan Sylvan Elf. He is tall, blonde, thick-set for an elf but still fleet of foot. Dressed in white winter furs, he quickly blends into the background and, head down, seemingly tracks his prey.
The bone chair is unoccupied; its back, the ribs of some giant ancient beast, reaches to the ceiling. The arms are the talon-bearing skeletal hands and forearms of the creature, whilst the chair’s feet are its enormous rear legs, bent as if the creature were lying down. Strangely, the tri-horned skull protrudes from the back of the chair about two-thirds of the way up the rib cage. In the middle of the room directly in front of the chair and some sixteen feet from it, is a large sarcophagus, hewn from a solid piece of darkly polished granite. The immensely detailed relief carving on the lid is of a tall elf, wearing armour and carrying a long sword across his body. The elf wears a tall crown, itself ornately carved with the image of a skeleton army crossing a bridge. The elf’s chiselled features are sharp, hawk-like and powerful. The face is unforgiving, harsh and bears a stern expression of keen and intense interest.
Stood next to the coffin is another elf not too dissimilar to the depiction of the deceased. (Baldir is familiar enough with the subject to recognize these elves as Drow.) The living one appears as waxen, drawn and pallid as a corpse. His otherwise handsome face is thin and gaunt but it is his eyes which capture Baldir’s attention. They are pale gold and, not content to merely reflect their surroundings, glow from within. He wears the crown that was once worn by the deceased. He appears to be staring straight at Baldir and says, “Well, well…you have found us cousin.”
“Yes, you knew that I would; I have come to finish Gildorian’s good work.” Words emanate from Baldir and his arm outstretches pointing his sword at the coffin.
“You know that we will consume you all,” the Drow’s words are barely loud enough to carry over the sound of the ring of his sword as it is drawn from its scabbard. Baldir reacts, feinting to one side and lunging with his right arm he draws a dagger from his belt, keeping it low.
“I will kill you and my folk will cleanse this land of the Drow!” The lunge misses as the Drow steps deftly to one side and counters with a thrust towards Baldir’s left side. Baldir blocks the strike with his dagger, pivots through 120 degrees, whipping his sword around with him, arm at full stretch and wrist locked – braced to receive the impact. The Drow ducks low allowing Baldir’s sword to pass harmlessly overhead, simultaneously stepping backwards, making room for a well practiced swift thrust at Baldir’s ribs. The blow winds Baldir but fails to breech his armour. Seizing the advantage, the Drow points his finger at Baldir and utters some incomprehensible phrase. From his outstretched fingers, burning missiles spring forth and plunge into Baldir’s chest…The fight continues until both are reduced to slugging it out on their knees. Finally, Baldir feints to his left and draws a parry from his adversary which fails to block the second and fatal blow. Baldir’s left hand creeps under the Drow’s sword. He plunges his dagger into the gap between breastplate and the padded armour below. Realising his advantage, Baldir puts his whole body behind his left hand, riding on the dagger, forcing it up and fatally splitting the Drow’s rib cage.
“So it has begun Eolorand.” Baldir hisses.
“I will be revenged Aeriem…” the Drow’s voice is a death rattle.
“Come to me my darling, you know your desire”, her beautiful face smiles sweetly, passion behind her burning caldron-like eyes. Black painted lips drawn tightly over a perfect arrangement of pearl-white teeth. A manicure hand brushes a stray jet black hair back into place - exquisite.
“No, I must not; you are the enemy…Pick up your weapon; defend yourself…”
“Oh, my love… You know that is not the way. You need me! You desire all that I am! I give it to you…” her words soothe and tease at the same time - demanding attention.
“Leave me Witch…Harlot! I will not succumb.”
“You have no choice; you know that is the truth. I will always cherish you and our love will never diminish. We burn together as an eternal flame.” Her words carry such passion and sincerity.
“How can you say such a thing after what I have done to your brother?”
“I understand your reasons; it was not I that betrayed your people. It was not I that caused you so much suffering. Scores have been settled and I now see through the pain to a new beginning for our clans. We can work together – you and I can produce a new lineage, true to the ancient ones and above the petty rankles of our siblings.” She speaks with passion and carries her audience along with every intonation of her voice.
“But how can you forgive me so readily?”
“There is nothing to forgive – I love you.” Her words are soft, deliberate and perfectly weighted.
“Do we have such a future?”
“Of course we have, my love! I know you feel it too; I know that you believe as I do that we were destined to be together! Marry me, be with me for eternity! Give me the children who will make our vision of the future a reality!”
“But how would I explain this to Passonar?”
“She is a realist; she knows in her heart of hearts you are right, my darling. She will be my sister too and I will convince her that we are right.” Her last words trail off almost inaudibly.
“Look, what do you intend to do now? You have dispatched my forces in pursuit of the dwarves and led your own in an attempt to destroy the elves of Efferendil. With Orcus gone, you must hold the balance of power in Amorsland.”
“True; your help against the dwarves is most appreciated,” the male voice conceded. “They have broken the siege and scattered the enemy back to the North. The Sylvan scum have fled to Farass and I will drive them all towards Vorsay, where they will encounter our combined strength.”
“Led by our new Champion…” the elf pressed firmly, “You will subordinate your forces to him?”
“That is our Lady’s will; he will have command.” The tone sounded begrudging, “the Gith may be less convinced but, with the loss of Grasgal, they might be persuaded.”
“Then my elves return to Everinstar or do you intend to complete what you started at Fontainver?”
“I propose that we take each bastion of power in turn, starting with Efferendil. I will need your help prising your cousins from their lair. Then we move South and engulf the entirety of Amorsland before turning our attentions back to the Sea-witch’s hovel.”
“And of the Gates?” the elf asked.
“I will use them when I can; not all can be moved without disrupting our plans in the East.”
“Yes, care is needed I agree, but there is one – in Efferendil – that we should seek to control.”
“That is why I need your army – the Sylvan elves have hidden it well – even from Orcus.”
“Yes, it was a shame that he killed the only one who knew how to manipulate the Gate; never mind, we will learn.”
“Your Champion hails from there, does he not?”
“Yes and he once had the heart of the Princess who leads the elves against you…”
“Then he should prove very useful.”