The Felisan War

Aman stopped to catch his breath at the base of the stairway; the weariness of battle was taking its toll on him. Clutching his father’s 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

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. The fight had been going poorly from the moment the call to arms was sounded. The enemy appeared out of 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 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. 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 the battle was fought upon the walls and towers, and in the courtyards between the buildings. The blood of the fallen 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. 2

This battle was just a small part of the totality of the Demon Wars, but it surpassed all of them in importance. This was a 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. Their hatred for the Felisans came from the time in ages past, 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, and then passed on to the next life. 3

Many thought that would be the end of them, but they were wrong. 10 years ago, huge rents fissured and shattered across the landscape, and released the flood that was the demon hoard. They had finally managed to break the bonds set on them in ages past. Immediately they attacked, and their first target was the Felisans. The war had 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 his people were lost and forgotten, 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 Pridelord less than two weeks ago of Galavia's fall, the last defending fortress protecting 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. 4

One last hope remained for the continuation of their race, but it would bring forth a sacrifice that no Felisan would easily accept. An ancient magick rested 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 seven 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 life force of many to complete the spell. So many that, should it ever be called upon, it would likely decimate the race that summoned it. The ritual required a member of one of the monarchial 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, but at a heavy cost. Great care was taken to ensure that family lines of these monarchs continued throughout the ages. 5

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 salvoes into and over the walls anew, and the sounds of war 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 safeholds in the main keep. 6

He started on, running down the broken roads towards the monolithic temple to fulfill the task given to him by the Pridelord, his father, as he lay dying upon the battlements. His father had been slain defending one of his own guards who had served him loyally for nearly all his life as king. Aman had heard the cries of sorrow over the shouts of battle, and quickly made his way to where the king had fallen. He found his father lying on his side, his chest pierced by a wicked barbed spear. Aman fell to his lord’s side and pulled him into his arms. With the last of his strength, the king told his son of the task he must do above all else, 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. This he must do with all haste, for if Aman should fail, their race as a whole would be overcome and fall to ruin before the demon’s advance. 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. 7

Aman stood, with his heart heavy, 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 life force, 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. 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 that could perform this monumental task laid upon him. So he turned, and from the battle ran to the city, dodging through weary, bloodied warriors and spellcasters running to the walls, and passing frightened civilians fleeing to the safeholds. The last wish of his father would be fulfilled, even if it meant that their lives would come to an end. 8

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 away from the battlements and were now pursuing him, clawing and slaying any that tried to block their paths. The enemy had somehow learned of 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 title. His guards, lost to the demons that had pursued them, were unable to help him anymore. This was a battle he must fight alone. 9

Drawing both of his blades from his back when the riders drew near, he slashed, killing the leader and its mount in a single attack. His raised 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 Houndriders turned and charged again, this time prepared for an 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. He dropped low again and cut the legs out from a hellhound, making the rider fly forward and break its neck on the nearby wall. He spun around, and faced his remaining two foes, but ended up 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 riderless wolves 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 recover, and hurried on. 10

The gates of the temple stood broken before him. He ran up the entrance stairway and across the courtyard, around the walled lower court where the monks prayed. The statues of the kings 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 court 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 of the king, he needed to reach the safety of the inner sanctum, which lay beyond the court ahead of him. 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. 11

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 family. He took a few moments to find the correct engraving, and then he touched his gloved hand upon a small glyph at the base of the statue and uttered a few short words of command. The eyes of the statue lit up, 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 passage. 12

The stairway twisted and spiralled down for several minutes, opening to a vast chamber. The vaulted room was circular in shape, and was well over a hundred lengths high. The walls were decorated with large columns, arches, and other engravings. 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 room. 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 slot, and, with his hands still upon the hilt, began to speak in the ancient language. The spell was long and intricate, and he was sure to carefully pronounce the archaic words correctly. It took him several minutes to say 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 burning fury. Immediately the radiance shone forth from the statue, 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 was nearly complete. 13

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 into the void beyond, their spirits trapped 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 in 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. He turned to face the dragon before him and took a breath, then stepped up on the platform. 14

Immediately the light brightened. The large platform he stood upon rose to be level with the base of the dragon 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 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. One thought burned through all of them: they were of his tribe, and the hope that, through their sacrifice, no other race would suffer the same fate as them. He looked up into the eyes of the White Dragon as the pulsating energy peaked around him, and everything turned white. 15

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Outside, the white light flared up from the tower of the temple into the smoke-choked night sky. All sounds of the fighting ceased as warriors from both sides of the battle turned and watched. 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 burst out, sweeping over the city and beyond, over the whole of Avelith, with a blinding brilliance. Then every creature of the demon’s forces was shattered, like a shadow breaking before the dawn, and sent mercilessly through the voids and into the abyss. Those of the White Felisan Tribe 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. 17

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The War was ended, and the cost was paid. The Royal Tribe of the Felisans was no more. 19