Chronicles Volume 3
Having devoured 6 of the 9 cities of Oen, the storm and its mistress, along with the hordes she commanded slowly marched on the final three citadels. Above us, the skies swirled in ever more sickening shades of green.
With what was left of our preciously dwindling time, we tended the wounded, buried the dead, and made ready for the onslaught to come. The cattle and animals in or around Thirian were set lose to their grazing pastures outside on the mountain slopes to prevent them from being turned by Beothell's mysterious powers.
Thirian consisted of many interconnected walls, gates, and moats. On it's outer most edge, the walls followed what was at one point, the edge of the volcano's caldera. Behind this, the ground fell away sharply towards the inner valley, the only means of travel being the long narrow roads built of stone running from each of the four outer gates, one set in each cardinal direction. These roads ran parallel to the walls in a sloping circle until they eventually reached the valley below. On its western edge was a lake fed from the winter snows that would cover the mountain each year, and would slowly drain through the tunnels the volcano had left in ages past.
To the North, South and East flowed a moat that encircled the rest of the valley, also being fed by the lake until mid summer when it would dry into small ravines of thick mud, rendering it just as impassable. Farmland spread out in the volcanic soil from the base of the cliffs to the outskirts of the city its self. Though being simpler and less grand in scale than the innermost of the city, the outskirts of Thirian were never the less well kept. Fishermen, bladesmiths and other various trades kept shops and homes here, and much of Thirians commerce happened in this part of the city.
Large stone and obsidian walls, fashioned in such a way as to leave no groove to hand or foot for an enemy to scale, formed the inner edge of the first circle of the city. Each alley and street of the outer tier being fashioned in such a way as they could be closed, forcing an invader to follow a single straight path to one of only 2 gates entering into the inner city. Long thick spurs of wall culminating in small towers stuck out from this into the outer city at regular intervals, providing the defenders the ability to fire into the city its self from many angles if an enemy force ever got so far. Instead of towers, small keeps were placed along the ring created by the 2nd wall, each with a machine built on top that could hurl projectiles out into the plains inside the outer walls. These were supplied with ammunition from the tunnels under the mountain that were not submerged and supplied the city with fuel as well as explosive compounds.
The 2nd ring, also known as the median, contained many of the churches, courts, artisan buildings, shops, and homes. Here, a smaller version of the library in Telthos was built, and extended into and through the 3rd ring of walls, into the innermost city. At its center, Thirian was, to put it in terms unfit for its description, beautiful beyond measure.
Beyond the gates that guarded it were parks, fountains, gardens, and even a small forest ringing the main citadel its self. Six great towers stuck out from the sides of the central building, each overlooking the battlements of the median and core walls of Thirian. Each carrying its own machines for hurling stone and fire into the plains.
At the center, in a great courtyard, stood the most ancient of the beacons of Oen, known as the Ancient Light.
This was Thirian, Anduels flame, the Star of Oen. This was the Anvil from which the spine had been forged.
As the wind whipped the outer walls as if trying to push them in on top of us, we prepared. The inside of the ancient volcano calm as the wind swept over top. So many years having passed since they had seen use or practice, we hoped desperately that the engines on our battlements would fire, and not simply erupt into balls of flame.
Six thousand readied for the witch's assault. but not as men who had once fought long ago, in the dawn of our power. Six of the great lights that had once pushed back the outer darkness were now gone. Now we fought in the fading light of the final three.
The dawn drew near but would not come, and finally, the storm almost seemed to stall on the face of the mountain, as if it would not be goaded into climbing it.
From the north, we heard faintly, the horns sound. Hopeful we watched from our own walls as the battle we knew was underway raged. Finally, a cry went out, but it was without heart. We waited to hear the sound of the light of Telthos die, as it had finally disappeared, but it never came.
Again the horns, and the wait. Glaroz was not more than a league from Thirian, and was the best defended of all of Oen. Being hewn from stone in the roots of the mountains, it could only be assailed from one direction, and its gates were thought to be impassable once closed. If Glaroz would not hold, we had little hope Thirian would stand long.
As hours dragged on, many grew weary, but could not leave their post to seek rest. A great thunderous crash startled any who had dared to doze, and the earth shook as if staggering from a grievous blow, but the beacon of Glaroz stayed lit, at least for a time. As the light of Glaroz finally died, we knew, our time had come.
It was not long before we could make out the shape and form of our enemies marching from the mist surrounding Thirian. Legions of the undead walked in rank and file, though without any real order. Bow and sword were mixed with creatures carrying axes and whatever else might have come to hand. And behind, the black and forlorn faces of the volatile beings that had brought down the gates of Telfon.
Behind even them were numerous coven of witches.
As they made their way forward, they spread out and encircling the city, impressive and terrifying considering the force needed to do so.
Archers strung arrow to bow and waited.
It could not be told if each heard her for themselves, or if somehow she spread her voice into the wind, but all heard her speak.
She sounded as ancient as she would have been, and almost sweet, but without any doubt, Beothell's voice refracted an essence of barely controlled energy, and she spoke without showing her self.
"People of Oen. Long ago you took from me my home. Beneath your cities are the bones of my sisters and of my brothers. Your king Dullin humiliated me and the covens of Heshlan. Since I have traveled beyond even the bounds of this world, and I have come with renewed ability. Even your precious beacons have failed you. I will take Oen back into darkness."
As the last echo of her voice died down, and without a word or a signal, the hoards broke into a silent run.
As the sprinting nightmares entered range, our archers took aim and let out the first volley, and the silence was broken. Screaming now from rage and wounds, the dead hit the walls of Thirian like a wave and shattered against it. Even the explosive horrors did little to damage the walls we built so long ago. Lightning flashed as the coven appeared within our walls. Their fire this time would not aid them, as Thirians stone would not catch, and the roofs and wooden structures of Thirian had been covered in water soaked cloth and hide. Our Mage's met them, and the air its self thrummed and cracked as magic was cast and parried. On the outer walls archers fell on both sides, but again, the enemy could not breach the walls.
Protected by wards and spells, the explosions of the dark creatures could not penetrate the stone, and instead sent ethereal sparks flying into the air as they detonated.
As the battle rang out from the walls above, those not engaged with the witches marched out onto the plains and formed a line in case the gates were breached.
Covered by long shields, men with swords and axes took front rank, behind which stood men hefting long pikes, and in the rear, our archers fell into file. Each legion formed a wedge connecting at its widest point with the next. Any charge would be met with spear and sword as they threw themselves into the jaws created to consume them.
Far into the mists brought by the storm and the rain, beyond the walls, something far more sinister was being summoned. Great gates, entering into and exiting from nothing were being erected, and with ever greater fear we sought to drive the undead from the walls, their bodies slowly building up around them.
The rain finally drew slower and stopped, the men of Thirian wiped blood and rain from their eyes and fought on. Sudden purple fire rose far afield, and the gateways threw forth great sparks as they were completed and lit. Even soaked by rain, the grass and foliage around them faded and burned away as heat and fire emanated from them. From these, great hideous creatures came. each having three heads, and never touching the earth beneath them. They seemed to be made from porous stone like bone and flew by the heat they carried with them. Even the beasts attacking the city blew away as ash as these new ungodly creatures approached the walls. Just out of bowshot they stopped and began to fire. Screaming in against our walls they seemed to fire demonic heads that exploded and incinerated anyone they were near. Even more terrifying, it sounded as if the souls of those claimed by their onslaught were drawn back towards these beasts, fighting and screaming in terror not to be taken, but without hope. Those defending the walls grew thin, and even more, ran than fell.
Losing hope the men of Oen began to fly the walls, though they had nowhere to run but further into the trap in which they found themselves.
It was nearly without belief we heard the horns sound from within the caves that gaped from the sides of the caldera wall. The Mages Creed of Telthos, and the hammer bearers of Glaroz marched out, bringing with them the beacons. Each was born to the center of Thirian and combined with the beacon there, and together, they pushed back the oppressive darkness creeping into the city and renewed the strength of the defenders. Lunicia, the stewardess of Telthos, and Tulthorion of Glaroz, knowing they would not hold, had pulled their people back into the tunnels and ancient paths the volcano had forged and made their way to Thirian. Lunicia and her daughter Luna brought with them the great bow. Made many generations ago, it had witnessed the first fall of Beothell. Tulthorion brought the hammer Glorgrim, handed down from father to kin since the time of Dullin, the first King of Oen. Arrows from the bows of the Lunari, as they were known, streaked into the sky. From enchanted bows, they voiced their own defiant screaming hiss as they arched in towards the enemy. Several of the three-headed demons fell, and our defenses were renewed. The damage from the enemy siege beasts had apparently been done however. Standing behind them was a new creature. These resembled men, but as if they had been stretched out and burned. They vibrated and shimmered with an unholy purple light. It is believed that these were the twisted remains of those claimed by the demonic missiles hurled against us, tearing away and enslaving the souls of the fallen. As the legions of undead continued to hurl themselves at the walls, these new beings simple removed them. They moved so quickly they could barely be seen, and the height of our walls seemed to be of no consequence. We found them among us before we knew they were even there. Not only could they clear our troops from the walls, they cleared the walls themselves.
Stone simply vanished from underneath our feet, and the outer wall fell.
These new creatures could not be hit with any projectile, they simply moved around them and slew the archer responsible. The Lunari instead focused solely on taking down the remaining fell beasts that had created them.
How many more creatures Beothell could bring against us we did not know, but we knew our plight was dire.
The hordes of Beothell fell from the heights into the plains surrounding us, heedless of the slopes. They filled the moat with their own bodies and charged forward. As they met our phalanx, they once again broke like water on rock. For a time they were held, but their numbers only seemed to grow as time went on. As each of our brethren fell, they would rise and take up sword against us. This would in time be called the war of tears. It was not enough Beothell would take our homes, she would bring our own kin to fight against us. With great rage, we wept and fought all the more desperately. Behind us, the siege engines of Thirian were being brought into readiness, and with great roars, they belched fire and brought ruin to forces Beothell marched against us. Tulthorian and his kin marching forward, relieved the exhausted front of Thirian guard, and continued the fight, the first sifting like sand through the ranks of the 2nd, allowing the enemy to fall into fresh swords.
Finally, Beothell appeared. With her she brought 12 acolytes, witches not yet initiated into a coven, each bearing a stone with an engraved image of a dragon. As she advanced she would stretch out her hand and many who still fought, simply withered away. Calling down lighting from the storm above, she struck into her own ranks. We already fought skeletal beings, but this changed them, charring them black and seeming to give them new power. They were taller now, and with their extended reach, they began to make headway, those they did not kill immediately being struck with a horrible curse, their flesh turning grey and falling from their bones. Sounding the retreat, we fell back into the outskirts of the city, closing down the streets and alleys to force the enemy into a narrow channel for our archers. Tulthorion, having slain the first of the mysterious creatures created by the siege demons, had found their weakness. They would not fly from a sword, even if they could not be touched by arrows. The hammer bearers of Glaroz took the walls with the Lunari archers, and as they poured volley after volley into the enemy, the hammers of Glaroz defended them.
Then, from behind us, a great explosion ripped through the city. One of the siege engines had detonated leaving behind it a broken ruin that had once been the keep on which it sat. The wall of the median was compromised, broken, and would not stand an assault.
Fighting street by street now, each step was contested, but slowly given up all the same.
In the plains, Beothell directed her acolytes in erecting yet another gateway, and as the last portal stones were set in place, Beothell brought from a satchel, 12 great orbs, placing each into one of the portal stones. With a great static crack the gate opened, and from it, we could hear the thunderous roar of a dragon. From the look of amazement on Beothell's face, we guessed all was not well for her however, as the sound of battle emanated from the gate, and the withered spirits fighting us flashed away and into the portal letting out enraged screams as they left. Then a great peal and sounds of death erupted from the dragon's gate. The gate suddenly closed and shattered, cracking the earth beneath it as it was destroyed killing anything near it.
Enraged and screaming Beothell rose into the air carried by the wind of the storm. For the first time, the witch actually fought us her self. If not for the Mages creed of Telthos many more may have fallen to her wrath. Almost as if bending time, men slowed, unable to run to escape, their swords and arms losing their ability to harm, and their strength draining from them. Clouds of poison erupted from the earth beneath many, and they suffocated in the fumes. Gathering their strength, the Creed and the other mages of Oen sustained much of her assault, and, just barely, we cast her from the air. As she fell, Lunicia drew her bow, nocking an arrow, she let fly. The shaft found its mark. Beothell found the earth mortally wounded, but as she lay dying, her gaze met that of Lunicia. Filled with absolute hatred and nearly glowing with dying power, she bored into Lunicia, transfixing her. The last words Lunicia would utter were spoken in Beothells voice. "Oen is beyond saving. My spells are bound and will not fall with me".
With that, Lunicia was released and sank into the arms of her daughter as breathe left her.
Calling for retreat, those left to defend the city fell within its final ring of walls. Being hard pressed, gates were closed even as men fought outside them, intending to give their lives in the dying hope that those inside would hold. Then, from beyond the cliffs surrounding Thirian, rose the long echoing baying of many hounds. Looking up, a great grey wolf stood on the southern heights. Bounding down from rock to rock, hundreds of these beasts hurtled down towards the battle below them. Panting, eyes red with bloodlust, jaws wide, they hurtled into the flank of the undead hordes, they carving a path around what was left of our forces. Materializing, almost magically, men clothed in the fur of the beasts they road, unsheathing swords of black steel. They seemed to meld with shadow and would disappear and reappear at random, driving the enemy before them. These were the men who had watched for so long in the forests and fields of Oen. We had thought them overly cautious and foolish. Now humbled, it was we who had been shown as fools, and it is to them we owe everything.
Being urged to move, we began to make a run to the south through the opening given us, all but Thurin, our King. Enraged and seeming to have gone insane from the battle around him, he would not be persuaded to leave, and slew two men who attempted to bring him by force. Instead, he ran into the depths of the library. To what ancient vault or tomb of long-dead mage, we do not know, but he returned bearing a dust-covered tome. As the last of our people retreated over the southern rim, I would stand and watch. Thurin will forever be remembered for his valor in battle, but more so now will he be known for the great curse he unleashed that destroyed what was left of a once great land.
As he uttered the final words and closed the pages he held, he drew his sword once again and fell upon it. Drawing in from the darkness surrounding the now burning city the mist grew thick and sickly and began to fan outwards. Thirian was never seen again after this, and anything in the city at the time is thought to have been devoured by whatever invocation was used. Even were Thirian found again, none would dare to enter that cursed veil.
Carrying the three last beacons of Oen, we fled down the southern face of the mountain into the forests surrounding, still followed by the last of the hordes of seemingly endless bodies that had brought down our homeland. Behind us, we could still hear the howls and the gnashing teeth of the wolves. As the hordes entered the forests, they were claimed by arrows from unseen bows. The men who had drawn us from the graves in which we should have been buried once again found refuge within the trees and shadows and not one of Beothells force would ever again emerge.
Whispered voices from places unseen kept us together and going in the right direction, and eventually, we came out into great grasslands far from Thirian and the borders of Oen.
With no home, and grieving heavily for the loss of everything we had once known, it was decided we would march East. From travelers and wandering sages we had heard of land where we might find a refuge, and of rulers who dealt fairly with travelers. We would eventually find the kingdom and the friendship of Ancelstierre and their King. In the years that would come after, we would learn it was they that had slain the dragon in the void, and unknowingly even at that moment, had given us precious moments with which to last until help arrived.
Laying down to sleep, we would find the great cost of the terrible curse wrought by our king.
When we woke, the land had changed beneath us, and ever since, the lands in and around the old kingdom have never ceased changing. We followed the stars east, never trusting landmarks, as we knew they would eventually be gone, claimed by the curse of Thurin, eaten up the mist that would turn forest to dessert, or swamp, or mountains each time it came back to visit the land.
Oen will never again have a king, and its name bares a great curse. Itheria rises from its people and is kept by the guardians of the last 3 beacons.
"Far beyond, Deltheria's hights, In places deep, our halls are cold, In times of dread, would fall our keeps, in places old, would fade the light"
A Line taken from "The fall of Thirian".
