A Legacy of Blades - An Epic Tower Fantasy

Kewrok, Chieftain of the Mud-grump Clan, looked out over his forces, arrayed for glorious battle against the filthy Mountain Tribes. Their screams of adulation, a prayer to the loathed Patron of his enemies, were a symphony in his ears, even as he knew it was a song not meant for him. He could enjoy a good tune, too, after all, even if it was intended for the ultimate enemy.

The Tribes, by their very nature, were anathema to each other. He saw the way the humans and their pet looked at him, but they didn't understand the truth of this world. They were blind to so much, but they'd learn when they fell, learn how wrong they were to arbitrarily categorize his people as monsters, lumping them in with the vile Mountain spawn.

The Sea stood for freedom: freedom of choice, freedom from the past, but most of all, it stood for freedom from the limitations and rules of this place. Oh, he remembered a time before he was Kewrok, when he'd been something so much lesser and bound by the laws of this place. He'd revolted when he shed his mortal coil, finding himself blessed under the banner of the Sea Tribes, and the infinite land they roamed.

His superiors had enlightened him in the most minor of ways, helping him to exorcise some of his ignorance. He understood that not everyone was blessed with this choice, that only those beings most firm of Will would evolve, and that not every evolution was equal. In the Sea Tribes, every individual was free to choose their path, free to choose their death.

Those traitors had chosen theirs, following that tamed serpent; they just didn't know it yet. They were nothing, born nothing, mere dregs of the great ancestors that ruled over the Seas, ensuring that their people thrived beneath the waves, living to fight against the oppression of this place; filthy natives.

The humans and their allies would never understand what a gift this place was. It was truly a place to be reborn, to cast off the limitations you were born with and become something greater. All they could do was squabble and subsist on the barest hints of potential, oblivious to the great purpose of this place, unaware of the never-ending struggle between two forces that could crush them like the insects they were, if the rules would only allow them.

The Mountain Tribes shamed the gift of rebirth, choosing to worship this accursed place as some deity, but Kewrok had learned the truth. It was no god, not even the shadow of one. Still, the enemy fought, content to die and return in the name of their Patron, pawns of the system that sought to suffocate freedom. They were not free to die; they were not free at all, trapped in a loop that only ended in mindless insanity and rage, as the most essential parts of themselves were snuffed out by the perverted results of their desire to tenaciously cling to life, long after it had abandoned them.

Kewrok, though, he was alive, he was free, as were all of his men. Most would never appreciate the value of freedom, too stupid to think for themselves, but that brought with it nothing but benefit for the Chieftain. He was free to use their lives as he wished, all except the traitors, and had done so for oh so many years already.

Staring at the pallid green and grey faces of his fated enemy, he was reminded of his freedom to hate, to loathe. The Mountain Tribes fell into rage, but it was a curse. Kewrok's hatred, his wrath, was entirely his own, and it would bring retribution to all who had chosen the wrong side.

The Sea Tribes would tear down the rules, tear down the wretched Tower, and claw their way to freedom. Nothing would stand in their way; they would escape the confines of this infinite prison, and he would stand at the vanguard. Or a safe distance behind it, anyway.

The humans, well, they would make their choice at the end. They would choose freedom or servitude. He would relish the chance to end them again if they chose wrong, but it was their choice to make.

The wave of flash-heated water rushing over his frontlines, Agarend observed the destruction wrought by his enemy. The front line had been steamed alive, no doubt cooked within their rough-shod armor. It wasn't a death he wished for any under his command, but that was the cost of keeping these beasts at bay. The loss of the frontline was unfortunate, but they took the brunt of the spell, shielding the garrison from the worst of its effects, setting the stage for the battle to come.

From there, the screams began.

They weren't merely the screams of the wounded, but something more reverential and primal all at once. Most of these soldiers weren't the highly intelligent kind, running mostly on a base instinct, fueled by fervor for their savior, the god of this land. Many had devolved until they hardly bore a passing semblance of sanity at best, more beastly than even those born in the Tower, and few retained any real gifts beyond a basic talent with magic.

They were hardly the elites blessed by the glorious Tower. They would die, that they might further their god's purpose, serving as the stone that would hone the edge of countless future heroes. His hand-picked lieutenants were the best he'd found of the native Tower-born, who stood a real chance of being reborn to join the elites, if they performed their duties well.

That was his new purpose, and why he had agreed to this life beyond life. Adversity breeds greatness, and he had seen firsthand how lax the humans had become. They needed greater obstacles to overcome in order to become what this world needed. He'd earned his place here, one of the first great trials, by thinning the herd of incompetents. Those who did not push themselves to their limits, discovering what was truly possible in this world, were fit only to serve the Tower in a new purpose, just as he now did.

The enemy, a necessary evil for the plans of their god, was relentless in their greed, always wanting more. Unlike so many of his kin, Agarend felt no rage at seeing the Grokar. No bloodlust or battle-fever overcame him; he was instead overwhelmed by a deep-seated sadness.

So many of the failed heroes chose to serve the Sea Tribes, deceived by their promises of freedom. It was a selfish path, enticing for the weak-willed, but it was short-sighted in the extreme. How could anyone believe they would be the force that changed the world after having already failed? The Mountain Tribes knew them as the fallen.

More than anything, he lamented the necessity of the enemy, that there were those not given a choice and born into a life of empty freedom. For all the space the Seas promised, near infinite in this land, they were barren, empty, and devoid of true potential. Their inhabitants were destined to desire more, pushed to strive for greater freedom by the designs of the Tower's wisdom. The Mountains were the pillars their god relied upon, sturdy and constant, holding up the heavens with their resolute promise to persist.

That, he had been told, was the secret to this place, that through trial, hidden gems might be revealed that would persevere into the Ages to come, reaching greater heights than anyone here imagined. Why anyone would need such power; that wasn't for him to question. No, his purpose was to cull the chaff until only the worthy remained, and to die in the line of that duty would be an honor, one he would gladly repeat until insanity claimed him, and he might earn the freedom of a true death.

The war between the tribes was just one more necessity, and Agarend couldn't help but view the enemy through the lens of reluctant acceptance. Conflict was an essential component of growth, and it was built into their god's plans. The war was only beginning, waiting on the humans to break the stalemate between the tribes. Rumors of change had spread like wildfire through the ranks of his people, rumors that the war might escalate at last, but that didn't change Agarend's duty.

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He would defend this keep with his life, sending the unworthy to meet his god, either to serve or be transformed into the lifeblood of this land, a purpose his people served gladly, knowing only the chosen could be reborn. The sacrifice of the many allowed the agents of the Tower to serve beyond death, to be the harbingers of the war to come.

The humans hadn't seen a fraction of the might of the Tribes, but as he listened to the exultation of his people, he hoped the next phase might finally come, that this world might quake from the chords of change. He took no joy in knowing he would send the enemy tribesmen to their ends, but he would do so in the line of duty.

The steam cleared, revealing his decimated front line, the enemy soldiers, and a group with two humans watching from a distance. A smile crept over Agarend, now more eager than ever to play his part. He hadn't yet devolved into madness, but they didn't need to know that.

He growled under his breath, "Will you be the heralds of destruction, of rebirth?" Adding his voice to the cries of the Mountain, the commander of the guard roared. "Now, let's put on a show worthy of our god's gift!"

Anilith saw the cloud begin to dissipate, relishing in the way it obscured her vision, an obstacle she could easily overcome; she simply chose not to. She needed to remember how much she could see without her abilities in case she ever found herself in a situation where she couldn't rely on them. The underwater journey into the cavern had been a lesson in her limitations, and straining herself had only reinforced that touch of enlightenment.

The ranks of goblins were a discordant mess, the frontmost having fallen, dead, appearing bloated and blotchy, their pallid skin reddened and shiny, even as water ran down the walls, dripping from the fortifications as it cooled. The lines behind them howled in pain, bearing similar wounds as their fallen brethren, worked into a frenzy at the sudden inundation of pain and death. The low wall, just tall enough for some to hide behind, yet not enough to keep the unnatural wall of steam from roasting them alive, seemed to be the only thing holding back a retaliatory wave of bodies.

The Grokar lines held firm, their calm demeanor belying the momentum they had gained. Already, she could see the hands of the hydromancers preparing new magic, unwilling to let their perceived advantage escape them. From the rear, a steady stream of water was ushered into the crossroads by a line of hydromancers, bolstering what liquid the Grokar could conjure or pull from storage, however it was that their skill actually worked.

Anilith realized she'd only seen hydromancers use their abilities with water nearby and didn't have a proper understanding of their limitations. That was a weakness she'd need to remedy. Surprise was an unwelcome guest in combat. Even if they were her allies for now, understanding their abilities better could only help her better plan her own moves, and she took care to keep an eye on the mages.

She also held no doubt in her mind that the enemy had its own counter in the works, and she was disappointed to see more, albeit significantly smaller, flaming projectiles incoming.

Individual hydromancers countered the spells with orbs of water, even as the Grokar warriors began a slow march forward. Their controlled, passive demeanor met its foil in the energetic, frantic jeers and screams of the enemy. Steam began to cloud the air again, nowhere near as dangerous as before, but limiting visibility. Water began to drip from the ceiling of the crossroads as the steam diffused into the air, clinging to any stone on which it could find purchase.

Not every projectile found itself blocked; many landed on the encroaching Grokar. Few of the casualties were fatal, but the constant assault slowed the march to a crawl, and the more skilled hydromancers launched their counteroffensive. Thin, sharp projectiles of water were fired precisely into the enemy forces, targeting any exposed archers or mages, of which there were surprisingly few. Neither side seemed willing to commit to another large-scale casting, each content to whittle down the other's numbers, seeking to grind away each other's forces.

All the while, the water fell like an unnatural, underground storm, the ground becoming slick under its influence. Some of the water seemed to vanish, soaking up into the Grokar frontlines, perhaps empowering their soldiers, and their momentum seemed to increase again. All the while, Kewrok watched from his position of relative safety, his expression, even from the half of his face she could see, emanating an air of superiority and disgust.

As the Grokar line drew close to the fortifications, small groups of goblins, eyes overcome with rage, began to leap out, rushing the remaining distance and sowing chaos in the advancing lines. Where her allies fought with a semblance of form, of regulation, the goblins threw themselves at their foes with reckless abandon, seeming content to strike down an enemy even at the cost of their own life.

It was a battle juxtaposing cautious, defensive measures with a relentless, overwhelming assault. Every break in the Grokar lines was quickly patched up, and for every fallen goblin, another was there to take its place, never letting the sonata of chaos end; and this was only the prelude. Movement behind the walls suggested the fighting was about to escalate further.

"Don't look away, kid," Orion said from beside her, "I can tell you're watchin', really watchin' with your own two eyes."

Anilith looked to the man and nodded, acknowledging the truth of her friend's statement.

"You've seen combat, don't get me wrong, kid," he continued, "but you ain't really been seein' it. It's one thing to know the cost of war; it's another to witness it. And not through those fancy senses of yours." He paused, giving her a downcast look. "Don't look away, kid. Remember the cost of war. This is the path you'll walk if you want to protect what's precious to you; don't ever stop seein' it."

As she turned back to the battle at hand, a flash of light, accompanied by a resounding crack reminiscent of the traps they'd encountered some days passed, blinded her for a moment, leaving after-images of the scene imprinted in her vision. She heard movement around her and felt Razhik's scaled form coiling around her and Orion's position, and she crouched in the comfort of his embrace.

Screams, both joyous and horrified, came from the front. The smell of burning flesh, all too fresh in her memory after experiencing the rituals of the Grokar, enveloped the area. The sounds of metal on metal rang out, and she knew the battle had begun in earnest.

When her vision returned, she stood tall, peering over Razhik. Even from a distance, Anilith could see many warriors had fallen with a massive hole burned through them. Many of the wounds appeared at odd angles, almost as if some energy had jumped between the dead, taking out a vast portion of the Grokar assault force. Their lines had been rent asunder, and the Goblin forces had leapt into the breach, widening the wound by the second. It quickly became clear, as the goblins abandoned their fortified position, that the enemy didn't have the numbers to push back the Grokar and had elected to take as many down with them as possible, fighting with a fervor that her allies simply couldn't match.

One combatant in particular drew her eye, leading the enemy from the front, pushing towards Kewrok's secure location, which no longer seemed so safe. The beast, rallying its forces, drove a wedge into the heart of the Grokar army, their momentum finally stalling a stone's throw from the Chieftain's position.

As his soldiers fought to the death around him, the beast that Anilith reasoned could only be the enemy commander, the combatant threw back his head and roared in challenge. Kewrok only laughed.

True to form, the monster sent his elites to do his dirty work. The enemy dismantled the first few handily, but the creature was hemmed in on all sides, and its wounds piled up. Still, it fought on, undaunted by unavoidable death.

The sight, even for an enemy she had sworn to death, made Anilith sick to her stomach. Her "ally" fought with no honor, and when his foe was brought to his knees, pinned to the ground with spears of Kewrok's elite guard, he stepped forward to clean up his mess.

Even shutting out her senses, she heard the enemy commander's dying words, whispered in her ear by the Wind.

"Invaders! Greedy, insatiable gluttons! This world will never be enough for you. We will fight until our final end! Glory to the hordes of the Mountain Tribes! Glory to the Tow—"

His head rolled, freed from its perch by a strange, hooked glaive Kewrok suddenly held.

The chieftain responded to their deceased foe as his soldiers imposed order upon the chaos of battle, but his words were lost on Anilith.

Anilith had forgotten the visceral reality of the path she walked; even her enhanced senses were unable to paint a proper picture of the horrors of combat. She could see a battlefield in a breath, terrible in its vastness, and yet that didn't compare to seeing the devastation in the details that told the story of a single lost life. Each death compounded, forming something far greater than the sum of its parts, something her supernatural senses could never convey, but her natural-born senses couldn't ignore.

She would never again take any of her senses for granted.