Legend of Aman, Chapter 1: The Last Felisan War

Aman stopped to catch his breath at the base of the stairway; the weariness of battle was taking its toll on him. The fighting had gotten worse in the past few hours when the enemy broke through the forward defenses for the third time since the siege began. Clutching the amulet that swayed around his neck, he panted from the excursion of battle. Leaning against the wall, blood seeping from his wounds, he tried to collect his scattered thoughts. He must complete the task set before him with all due haste, but the besieging enemies had other plans. They were continuously slowing him down and blocking his path, forcing him to use long and winding paths overrun with foes and debris. The fighting was fierce and brutal, requiring all of his knowledge and training in combat just to keep himself alive.1

Aman was a 23 year old Felisan, and the sole heir to the throne of Arithar. His fur was a silvery white, and striped with dark grey stripes. Across his face were more delicate lines, prominent were the markings that lines his eyes and the tips of his ears. He was wearing a sleeveless white tunic covering a shirt of mail. Fingerless gloves with steel knuckles protected his hands, Leather bracers and grieves were strapped on, and a belt adorned with a silver crest of the pride lord circled his waist. A leaf-bladed longsword with an ornate hilt was strapped to his side, and two smaller short swords crossed his back. Along with the amulet hanging from his neck, he also wore Despite his somewhat extravagant apparel, it all paled in comparison with the adornment he had been born with. Dominating his brow was the unique marks of the ancient pride lords of the felisans. Few of their race now could carry such a birthmark, for only those of the purest lines from the ancients could have it. Aman was the first out of seven generations to have such marks. He was the pride of Arithar.2

Ever since the siege began almost four days ago, this was the first time he had taken to catch his breath and survey the battle around him. Glancing out over the wall, he surveyed the land beyond the city. If it had been a week before, he would of seen rolling hills of green valleys dotted by houses and farms, groves of trees blanketed in a shroud of mist and morning dew would be seen in the distance, and a long, straight road leading away from the city gates and towards the great bridge spanning the Breathol River that bordered the far northeast borders of the city's lands. Now when he looked out he saw a smoke-choked battlefield lit with the raging fires of burning homesteads. Dark figures dashed back and forth among the firelight, masked from the intensity of the flames. The legions of the enemy were swarming across the ruined ground towards the remaining defenders of the citadel. A slight breeze wafted the scent of death and charred wood along the land and through the city. There was a time when these same streets would have been filled with the scents of breads and meats, dinners cooking and smoking fireplaces. Now the citizens had been evacuated before the battle to the inner walls, leaving the streets empty of everything not related to the battle.3

Aman forced himself to take a moment longer to look upon the once beautiful field before him. There, among the burned grasslands and ruined farmlands, the fight had been going poorly from the moment the call to arms was sounded. The enemy appeared on the borders of their lands from nowhere, flooding out from the fog and across the plain before the walls like a shadow from a storm. They quickly overran the first defenses at the Outer Walls, and tore openings in the walls and gates to allow the massive rush of foes through. From there they battled the guards of the first defense all the way across the Protectoral Field to the secondary battlements and fortifications that surrounded the city itself. There the fighting turned from a rout to a gruesome stalemate. The main companies of the Imperial Defense had arrived from the other side of the Capital, where a smaller lead force of the enemy had been raiding the walls for several days. The military assumed that there the attack would be focused, and so they dug into their fortifications, preparing for the assault. It was only after the attack came from behind that they realized their mistake. Now that the enemy had broken through again, the battle was fought upon the walls and towers, and in the courtyards between the buildings. The blood of the fallen soldiers and demons alike flowed down the ancient white granite walls and streets of the city, tainting them with stains of black and red. Time was running out for the Felisans.4

This battle was just a small part of the totality of the Demon Wars, but it surpassed all of them in importance. This was the last fight for survival as a race in whole. Their enemies wanted nothing less than the complete annihilation of the Felisan race, down to every tribe and individual. If the strength of the Felisans faltered here, there wouldn't be a kingdom of Arithar anymore to be remembered. The demon's hatred for the Felisans came from the time in ages long past many thousands of years ago, when the Felisans helped to defend the Dragonin as they formed the spell that banished the demons to their endless imprisonment. When the spell was completed, all but eight of the ancient beings vanished, along with all of the attacking enemies. These dragons passed on the knowledge of the spell to each of the leading families of each race to ensure that should the demons ever discover a way to return, the races would have a method of last resort. Once this task was done, the magick took hold of them, and pulled them into the ether.5

Many thought that would be the end of the menacing threat, but they were all wrong. About ten years ago, huge rents fissured and shattered across the landscape of the wastelands, and released the flood that was the demon hoard. They had finally managed to break the bonds set on them and passed back into the world. Immediately they attacked, and their first target was the Felisans. The war raged on ever sense, leaving much of the civilization of the Felisans, which had stretched from the Dulien Mountains in the southwest to Elvayath’s Cataracts in the Sea of Cirion in the east, scattered over all of the lands of Avelith. Most of the accomplishments of Aman's people were now lost to the fires of war, and little hope remained for an end to the bloodshed that had a favorable outcome. Out of this, all that had endured the violence was a few of the fortress cities and the Capital, the location of the Temple of the White Dragon, but those too wouldn’t remain unscathed. Word had reached the Pride Lord less than two weeks ago of Galavia's fall, the last defending fortress close enough to assist the Capital, and with nothing standing in the way of the enemy, an attack at the heart of the Felisan nation was eminent. The call to arms was made, and every remaining warrior and hunter, male and female, was outfitted for the battle that would determine the fate of them all.6

One last hope remained for the continuation of their race, but it would bring forth a sacrifice that no Felisan would easily accept. That ancient magick rested that deep below within the Temple of the White Dragon, shrine to the specie of ancient guardian dragon that once protected the Felisans. The magick would again seal away the whole of the enemy, just as it had over twelve hundred years before, and lock them away beyond the curtain of reality, deep within the void between existences. The problem was that the magick required the power of many to complete the spell. So many that, should it ever be called upon, it would likely decimate the race that summoned it to extinction. The ritual required a member of one of the monarchical lines of the races to take the royal artifacts of their people and go to one of the dragon temples. There the royal member would summon the magick to banish their foes, and so end the threat against them. Great care was taken to ensure that family lines of these monarchs continued throughout the ages.7

A horn sounded in the distance, and Aman's time of remembrance was over. War still raged, and the next wave had reached the battleground where the city’s meager forces held what defenses they could. The giant siege engines of the besiegers began slinging their fiery salvos into and over the walls anew, and the sounds of dieing soldiers again echoed in the streets of Arithar. Aman was running out of time. There were numerous holes in their defenses, walls were shattered, gates broken, and soldiers slain. Many of the enemies that came near these weak areas poured into the city, attacking the few remaining citizens that had yet to retreat to the safe holds in the main keep.8

He started on, running down the broken roads towards the monolithic temple to fulfill the task given to him by the Pride Lord, his adoptive father, as he lay dying upon the battlements. His father had fallen to a mortal wound, defending one of his own guards who had served him loyally for nearly all his life. Aman had heard the cries of sorrow over the shouts of battle, and quickly made his way to where he had fallen. He found his father lying on his side, his armored chest pierced by a wickedly barbed spear. Falling to his lord’s side, he pulled him into his arms and looked at his ruined body. Lord Devanon was viewed as the greatest male Felisan lord since the first banishment. Now, bleeding profusely from his opened chest, his life was leaving him.9

"What happened? Who among our foes did this? Tell me!" Aman shouted, directing his gaze to the nearest guards. His sorrow nearly threw him into a blood rage when he was answered. The enemy that had thrown the spear had been slain quickly after the attack was made. Aman wouldn't be able to exact justice himself upon the beast that had taken his father's life. Roaring his anger at the entirety of what had happened, he looked down into the face of the one in his arms.10

With the last of his failing strength, the Pride Lord raised his head and opened his eyes. With a pained grimace, he looked at Aman.11

"My death has come to me, Aman, As I feared would happen whe-", a series of bloodied coughs escaped from his clenched jaw before he resumed, " when the enemy showed their hides here. It seems that my mantle now falls upon your shoulders... my son. Ever since my men found you in the borderwoods still held in the arms of your passed mother, I have raised you as my own cub," he said, tears forming in his eyes.12

"Father-"13

"Listen, my boy." Devanon was now speaking in a soft murmurs that Aman could barely hear. "Yes, listen carefully. You are now the Pride Lord, and in you flows the blood of our forsires. It was not chance that we found you in the woods the way we did. Yop have a destiny now, a task that you must do, not just for me, but for the world in total." With a pained whisper, he told Aman of the task that had now fallen on his shoulders, and gave to him his sword and amulet. He was to summon the ancient wards from beneath the temple, and the artifacts he held in his hands were the keys.14

"This you must do with all haste, Aman. for if you should fail, our race as a whole would be overcome and fall to ruin before the demon’s advance. You know what befalls the people that summon the ward, but we are beyond hope now. With the blessing of the Divine Dragons, our people may live on after this has come to pass. You must save our people... Save them, my son... my son..." With those words spoken, the king gave a final parting to his son, and blessed him with his last breath. There he died, upon the field of war in his son’s arms, and passed on to the eternal existence in the halls of Eveina.15

Aman kneeled before the falled lord's body, with his heart heavy and his arms wrapped around the sword of the king, and wept. He remembered back when he was only a cub, when his father told him of the legend of the Dragonin and the sacrifice they had taken upon themselves in order to save the races of the world. Through sacrificing themselves to release their combined strength, they were able to banish the demonic creatures to the realm between life and death. There they had stayed for centuries, trapped in the timeless void for all eternity. The story of the Dragonin had been passed down through stories and song, and over the ages it became merely legend to most. But the members of the royal families were always instructed in the history, and they knew the truth of it all. Aman knew the truth and believed it, and though it grieved him greatly to leave his father's body there, he knew that his task was superior in importance over everything. It was placed upon him to do what the dragons had done before, and banish away the foes laying siege to the races. With his father dead, he was the last of the bloodline of the Felisans remaining in the city that could perform this monumental task.16

Aman looked down on the face of his father, a face now calm with the peace of death. "I will fulfilled your last request, father. Your people will live on, Demons be damned!" After a final bow of his head, Aman rose, turned, and from the battle ran to the city, dodging through weary, bloodied warriors and spell casters running to the walls, and passing frightened civilians fleeing to the safe holds. The last wish of his father would be fulfilled, even if it meant that their lives would come to an end.17

These thoughts raced through his mind as he ran, but a frenzied sound behind him turned his thoughts back to the present. He glanced behind, and a twinge of dread struck at him. Six Salvayx Hellhounds and their riders had broken past the battlements and were now pursuing him, clawing and slaying any that tried to block their paths. The enemy had perceived his task shortly after he had left the walls, and they now stalked his every step, trying to slay him before he completed it. This was the third time that he had needed to defend himself in such a pivotal way since he had set out, and he was rapidly growing tired from the chase. The leading Houndrider looked up and drew up on the reins; its dark eyes focused on Aman. Releasing a rising spectral scream from its jaws, it alerted the others to their target’s presence. They turned towards him as one, and spurred their mounts on. The fight began again. The mounted scouts were fast, and covered the ground between them quickly, but a well-trained Felisan Prince was fast as well. Being one of the best bladehand warriors of Arithar, he was determined to again prove how he had earned that coveted title. His guards, lost to the demons that had pursued him from the walls, were unable to help him anymore. This was a battle he must fight alone.18

Drawing both of his blades from his back when the riders drew near, he faced his foes. The hounds were the spitting image of a hell-spawn demon. They stood on all fours at shoulder height, their bodies rippling with chorded muscles. Their fur was an indistinguishable shade of dark red clotted with blood and grime. With long black claws, serrated teeth, barbed tails, and horns, they were a formidable foe. Astride the hounds were their riders, goblin-like creatures. Though they looked thin and weak, they were deft killers. With swift reflexes and keen eyes, they too were deadly foes. His first foe bound forward. Aman slashed both his blades, killing the unprepared leader and its mount in a single attack. Using his left blade to block a thrusted spear, then turned and opened the third scout from its left hip to its right shoulder. The initial charge being over, the four Houndriders and the five hounds turned and charged again, this time prepared for such a skilled attack. Aman dropped to his knees and rolled left, under one foe’s bladed axe, then jumped high and to his right, vaulting over the next enemy. Swinging his blades, he deflected its attack and left a crippling gash in the scout's arm, making it unable to swing the large hammer it bore. Then deftly he ended the demon’s misery with a thrust of his sword. Too slow, however, as a charging hound raked its claws across his right arm. Aman dropped low again and cut the legs out from another hellhound that was attempting the same attack, leaving the rider to fly forward and break its neck on the nearby wall. He spun around dropping his blades low, then thrust them both through the throat of another hound. Aman withdrew his blades from the slain hound and faced his remaining two foes, but was surprised with what he saw. One fell over off its mount, its chest filled with arrows. The second quickly suffered the same fate. Aman slayed the remaining riderless Salvayx and looked around. Three Felisan archers on the nearby rooftop had heard the fight and turned their bows to his aid. They saluted, then turned and jumped to the next rooftop, heading towards the City Square. The prince took no time to tend to his new wound, and hurried on.19

The gates of the temple stood broken before him. He ran up the entrance stairway and across the courtyard. The statues of the Pride Lords of their past lay broken and mutilated; the enemy had reached even this hallowed place. He ran through the grand front doors opening into the entrance hall and stopped at the stairway leading to the inner courtyard. The shouts of battle sounded from the inner courtyards beyond, the Temple Guard fighting with their lives to defend their sacred grounds. His hand fell upon his father’s sword, the Bloodline’s Fury, as he remembered the words of his father. Along with the amulet and sword, he needed to reach the safety of the inner sanctum, which lay beyond the court ahead. From there, he was to go down to the Chamber of Dragons that lay below the central tower. He would be unable to reach them by going through the inner court without having to fight his way through. The passages below were his only path.20

Turning down the short hall left of the main stairs, he sheathed his two swords behind his back, drew forth the bloodline sword and descended to the lower levels of the temple. Dark magicks from the foes in the courtyard crashed down into the ground above him, breaking the ancient stones of the corridor’s roof and causing a rain of rubble to fall down on Aman’s head. He ran on, through the twists and turns, dropping down one floor and returning back to the first basement level to bypass a large fall of debris that blocked the main passage on. He passed through the large doorway leading up to the side wings of the inner sanctum. Running through another small hall, he entered the main chamber therein and stopped. He was standing in the Chamber of the Ages, where the entire history of his tribe was depicted on the walls and the ceiling, high above the ornately tiled floor. The thought raced through his mind, “Who would remember them, after they were all gone?” He hoped that those who remained in the other tribes would come to this sacred place and see the legends and histories inscribed here. He turned to the back of the grand room, and went to the middle alcove cut in the wall. The alcove contained a life-sized statue of the first King of Arithar, holding the Bloodline Fury with its blade planted behind the crest of the royal tribe. He took a few moments to find the correct engraving, and then he touched his hand upon a small glyph at the base of the statue and uttered a few short words of command. The eyes of the statue burst with a blazing fury, and the hilt of the sword raised out of the king’s hands. Aman pulled up on the handle, revealing the key to the passage. Fitting the hidden key into a small slot in the alcove wall, he twisted the key. A dull clank sounded, and the floor of the alcove, with him and the statue, turned round to reveal the small, hidden stairway down to the chamber below. He stepped into the small passage and pulled the torch from the wall, lit it, and quickly went down through the stairway.21

The stairs twisted and spiraled down for several minutes, opening to a vast chamber. The vaulted room was circular in shape, and was well over six hundred lengths across and a hundred lengths high. The walls were decorated with large columns, arches, and other engravings of strange beats of lore and past. A small raised balcony descended down to the main floor, which was dominated by eight massive carved figures, each depicting one of the eight guardian dragons of Avelith. Aman placed the burning end of the torch in both of the oil troughs on either end of the doorway, and immediately they burst alive with flame and dashed along the walls and around the room. He dropped the torch and quickly went down the stairs to the center of the chamber. He walked till he saw the statue of the White Dragon, and went to stand before it. There at the ground below it was a small, engraved pedestal. He sheathed his father’s sword down into the blade-shaped slot, and, with his hands still upon the hilt, began to speak in the ancient Dragonin language. The spell was long and intricate, and he was sure to carefully pronounce the archaic words correctly. It took him several minutes to speak all of the words, during which he felt a burning power building up in his chest. The words flowed off his tongue and echoed in the chamber around him. When the spell was complete, a silvery blue light burst down his arms from the amulet around his neck, down the length of the sword, and into the pedestal with a uncontrollable fury. Immediately the radiance shone forth from the statue of the dragon before him, lighting from the eyes, the mouth, and from the many small, intricate lines flowing over the statue. A deep rumbling came from the aged stone, and the mouth of the chiseled dragon opened. A rumbling behind him caused him to turn; a large, round pedestal was rising from the center of the room. Centered on this was a large dome of thick glass with the same light issuing from deep within it. The ritual of banishment was nearly complete.22

The hardest part came. Aman was faced with the choice he had never wanted to have to make. He carried in his heart the knowledge that, through him stepping upon the dome of light, he would be causing many of the people of his race to vanish from the world. The Felisans would be scattered and lordless, for the ritual would send all of the people of his tribe and many from each of the others into the void beyond, their spirits trapped and forever frozen in time. The enemies above would be sent to their non-existence where they had been banished before, separate from his people, but the fact remained that all of his tribe would cease to exist within Avelith. Aman could not believe the weight of the decision he had to make. He never thought that such a responsibility would be placed upon his conscience. A choice needed to be made, however, and none other but this one remained. He knew that he must do what he was about to. To honor the last request of his beloved father and lord, he turned to face the dragon before him and took a steadying breath, then stepped up onto the platform.23

Immediately the light brightened. The large platform he stood upon rose to be level with the top of the dragon's pedestal and came to a stop. Power flowed around the statue as small streams of light and gathered in the jaws of the dragon. Then the powerful magicks were released upon Aman in a continuous breath of divine flame, and the silvery fires engulfed him like an inferno. He felt the power pulse and flow around him, then through his very being. His mind raced faster and faster with memories and thoughts, endlessly screaming and careening in his head. The histories became present as the complete knowledge of what befell the Dragonin poured into him. He saw all of the events in an instant, his mind was almost overwhelmed with the surge of images. Then one thought burned through all of them: they were of his tribe, and the hope that, through their sacrifice, the other races of Avelith would not have to suffer the same fate as them. He looked up into the eyes of the White Dragon as the pulsating energy peaked around him, his last emotion being of acceptance and hope as everything turned white.24

Outside, the white light flared up from the tower of the temple into the smoke-choked midnight sky. All sounds of the fighting ceased as warriors from both sides of the battle turned to see the pillar of light. The light brightened and pushed through the clouds to the stars above like a beacon on a sea. A low hum started, and in less time than it took to think to cover their ears or eyes, rose into a deafening roar. Then with a mind numbing blast, all of the magick coalesced into a massive shockwave of energy, which exploded out from the temple, sweeping over the city and beyond, over the whole of Avelith, with a blinding brilliance. Then every creature of the demon’s forces shattered like a shadow breaking before the dawn, and thus were sent mercilessly through the voids and into the abyss beyond the world. Those of the Felisan tribes were surrounded with a silver aura, and faded from the world. The light from the temple dimmed, and an eternal silence settled over all of the land.25

The War was ended, and the cost was paid. The Royal Tribe of the Felisans was no more.