Becoming Legend - Chapter 380: Elf: Faeranduhl, IV

Mana stones formed a tiny hill in one of the rooms of the city hall. Standing next to the stones was Elder Calanye, chanting words even Faeranduhl could not understand. As the words left his mouth, the mana stones ignited in a blueish hue. Then one-by-one, the mana stone flared until, almost a thousand, all of them gave off strong yet satisfying air.

At the same time, howls and screams, above the misted forest, came rushing to them.

Faeranduhl and the rest of the half-elves were standing next to a wall of cracked scriptures. Aside from the bottom part, the wall was unrecognizable. Faeranduhl assumed that the painting on the wall was some kind of tree, but the upper part was unseen, except for the dust, and peeled cement. Rubbles of stones and old wooden tools scattered the hall, a table shattered in half. Across them was a room where Elder Calanye preparing the portal (Faeranduhl caught Elder Calanye kneeling and started to scribble something on the stoned floor). Next to the room was a pair of doors opened, and empty inside. To his far right was another empty room, yet Faeranduhl could sense something was off about it. He could barely see what’s inside aside from dark splatters on the cracked wall, like mud, or dried blood, forgotten a long time ago.

His thoughts were cut-off when the leader spoke to them about something they needed to do.

Faeranduhl followed them outside to what seemed to be a once lush garden. Dried leaves rustled under his boots as he walked along the ashen-filled ground, twigs snapping, and buried pebbles crunching. He stopped as soon as he registered a new voice, one that would turn heat to cold.

It was a dark elf, one of the shadows Faeranduhl had been noticing surrounding Elder Madras. She wore her silver hair in a long pony tied with a silver ring at the end. Shadow danced on her body forming an armor that Faeranduhl took a mental note of. If she can do that to her mana, perhaps, I might be able to. Someday. Faeranduhl shook his head. Focus.

Their new sortie according to the female dark-elf was to defend the courtyard. Faeranduhl noticed that the courtyard was facing the shore, to where their ships were anchored.

Due to the nature of their mana, elves were closely attuned to nature. What constitutes (and made them distinct from their kind) the half-elves were the variety of their magic. Unlike smirs, their magic mostly revolved around light and nature. Wind and water were their second-most attuned, and rarely fire. On the other hand, half-elves’ magic was hard to determine because of the blood mixed in them. The result was a variety of almost all the elements and magic spells. Sometimes, Faeranduhl wondered if the reason they were despised even among the elves was that they could almost do anything with their magic.

Half-elves raised stones closer to the wall of the city hall, further enhancing its thickness and defense. As though not enough, roots formed a crisscrossing line on the recently conjured wall of stones. Almost a dozen half-elves were doing the same magic over and over again to the rest of the wall.

Across, Faeranduhl was the end of the courtyard, almost flattened. No trees, even if there were, Faeranduhl noticed that they were burned, if not turned to ashes already.

Crackles of thunder over the dark clouds. Howling and screaming were approaching them.

“This is it,” Faeranduhl said. He chose this. He volunteered for the expedition. He should have expected this kind of scenario. Yet, sweat running down his forehead and it wasn’t cold at all. Although the mountain to the south has yet to melt its snow, it wasn’t cold. It was rather warm.

“First time?” said a voice behind him.

Faeranduhl almost jumped from the voice. Instead, he turned to see a half-elf. This one was barely noticeable with his cloak covering him from his head down to his knees. In fact, Faeranduhl did not know any of the half-elf servants aside from the leader (he could barely remember his name), and Lia. Outside his job in the Tree of Pin’Tu, Lia of the Spring slash Gadsi was the only elf he knew.

Not waiting for Faeranduhl’s response, the half-elf took off his coat, exposing his body. Skinny, very skinny, almost bones he was. Yet, something about him was wrong, like he wasn’t supposed to be born at all. Yet he was a half-elf, pointy ears, thin eyebrows, dagger eyes, and grey hair (not that from old age—simply grey). Faeranduhl assumed he was even younger than him by decades.

“Really?” he spoke as though offended by Faeranduhl’s staring at him.

“His first time,” the leader spoke to the skinny half-elf. “He’ll learn.”

Now, that was a smirk coming from the leader. Like he threw Faeranduhl to a pit of fire to die and expected to survive.

The half-elf leader brought a bow, which wasn’t crude but wasn’t impressive either. Others started to pull daggers and bows. More bows. More daggers. But no sword.

Faeranduhl cursed to himself. No sword, not even him.

Faeranduhl shook his head in disbelief. He volunteered for the expedition. He brought water, the cloth his mother sewn to him, leather boots. But no sword. Sword to which he was proficient.

After the rest of the half-elves readied their weapons, the female dark-elf turned to look at Faeranduhl. Her dagger glittered together with the crackles of thunder overhead them.

“What are you?” she said. “Relaxi—”

Spike of bone and rotten flesh cracked her head. She was pulled to the ground from the strength of the spike thrown at her. Blood sprayed to Faeranduhl’s face, some drenched his armor of cloth, and iron paddings.

Likewise, six half-elves fell to the ground. Spikes to their gut, chest, and head. A pair twitched before dying. The one that survived conjured barriers made of terra, some wind magic. Others were lucky, like Faeranduhl where a spike flew past him and ended near his boot.

As though trained, the gaps, where the fallen half-elves, were immediately closed by someone nearest to them.

To his right, the skinny half-elf was skinny no more. He stood towering Faeranduhl. His body bulged of muscles lined with runic symbols across his chest, his arms, and his forehead. All giving a thumping blue light. He held a crashed spike to his hand.

Faeranduhl stood, unmoving, nerves cracking, and petrified.

“Hey, new bud!” the leader said. “I don’t care what you do. But you must not let them past us.”

At least Faeranduhl nodded but even he wasn’t sure if he agreed or his muscles were involuntary to him.

Screams from above pulled Faeranduhl’s thought back to him. He looked overhead only to gawk at the sight of the flying monstrosity. Darkened flesh, limbs stretched, and a pair of wings made of flesh flutters. Eyes were red as they glared at the remaining half-elves. It opened its mouth with teeth sufficient enough to maw Faeranduhl in an instant. It screeched and dive into the group. Followed by another, then another, and another. Hundreds, not counting the one approaching behind them, of these monsters formed the sky as though a flock of ravens.

“Ghouls,” the leader hissed. Loosen an arrow and nocked another. Quiver clinking of arrows behind his back.

“But flying?” one of the half-elves commented. She could barely hold the bow.

“Must be the Gate,” the leader replied. “Don’t let them inside the hall!”

The brutish elf growled. Runic symbols on his forearms illuminated and ran to the nearest dead tree, almost his size, and threw it to the flying ghouls. One was hit and fell before it could murder itself.

Arrows and spells ignited the sky. One after the other, flying ghouls fell and lost their descent before they could do more harm. But those weren’t enough. Still more remained.

Everybody, from half-elves to the elves outside the city hall screamed of commands and spells.

As though prayers were granted, a bubble of shadow engulfed the entire city hall. The shadow formed a barrier that caught the diving ghouls. Too late to stop their descent, the ghouls hit the barrier, flattening to a paste.

Elder Madras stood over the broken city hall, chanting spells and heaving. Moments later, the barrier of shadow collapsed, raining whoever below it with rotten flesh, and bones.

Faeranduhl caught some of this rotten flesh but was uncaring as another wave of flying ghouls has yet to approach them.

Elder Madras waved a hand and a bow of crystalline in form appeared. Leaves sprouted at its end and vine instead of a string. The bow glowered them with an aura like that of Elder Calanye. For a moment, Faeranduhl felt his soul was being pulled to it.

Elder Madras commanded his shadows before dispersing.

One of the shadows appeared to the center of Faeranduhl’s group of half-elves, tapped their leader’s shoulder, and passed more instructions. He then vanished leaving the team on their own, once again.

“Walls!” the leader said, resting his bow behind him. “We need more walls. And higher!”

“Higher?”

“They can fly!”

Half-elves shouted in confusion.

“Not for them,” the leader responded. “But for them.” He pointed to the far end of the backyard, where a wall was half-broken.

Claws started to climb the walls and more human-like heads peered over. Then came another and more until the wall collapsed to their weights. They stumbled and rolled, yet continued to rush toward Faeranduhl’s group as though they were a tasty treat. Well, they were ghouls, and they eat flesh like a tasty treat.

Faeranduhl shook his head. Enough with being petrified as he looked for something that he could use as a weapon. Even a bow could indulge him by now.

But instead of a bow, his raven eyes laid tantalizing to a dagger on the dead dark-elf’s waist.

Faeranduhl scrambled to his feet and hurriedly tagged the dagger off its knot. The dagger was cold and shining, yet thickened of experience.

“May the Maker of Life, Isashil, guide your soul,” he said in a bowed head before standing to face the rampaging ghouls.

The sky was dark and crimson. Faeranduhl was scared yet determined. “For mother,” he mumbled and brandished the dagger. “For the Light!”