The large wooden limbs stretched out fully across the expanse of the night sky.  All of the large botanical giants grouped like sheer walls, throughout the enormous forest.  There were very few that would venture to this place, these days.  The forest was older than time, and most of those on Metarun had heard of this place.  But it was whispered and it was given with the regard of safety.  The elves lived in this place.  And their druids made sure that, the forest always changed.  No human, dwarf, orc, or gnome had slid into the Forest of Sherwood, in the last three hundred years and spoke of it.  However everyone knew what existed inside the forest.  Though, nothing more than a name was ever mentioned… The Star Citadel.

    The moon hung high and full in the night sky, however most of its yellowish sheen was chipped away by the expanse of leaves that formed a composite canopy over the heads, of those inside the forest.  The scurrying mice didn’t seem to mind it however, and the owls that glided across the thin columns, between the trees still carried on business as usual.   The forest formed its normal nightly routine, under the watch of three red clad forms who stood perched on a thick branch.  Each one sat silent watching the dark atmosphere of hearth and animals.  Quick breaths were drawn, in silence, before in term each of the strangely clad men leaped again from their station.

    The three forms were fast and silent.  Their bodies looked like ghosts, the deep red tunics blurred in an after effect human eyes would not fathom.  The animals of the forests however rarely paid attention to the elves.   However the forest took no such violations.

    The trees in unison drew their limbs downwards, the oak branches shifting like a breeze, and even though their bodies moved slow, and elves were fast, the fact that the limbs they jumped on were now laying down horizontal across the trunks of the trees did prove a problem.  Ironically the quickest of the three elves was the first to realize the branches were pointing downwards, right before he leaped to another limb, missed his footing and fell like a rock onto the soft soil of the forest.

    Though not two heart beats later the other two fell likewise on either side of him.  The large whitish roots of the angered trees took no qualms about them staying stationary, and sent themselves piercing up from the very ground.  The thick roots curled liked snakes about the scouts’ fallen bodies, securing them in place across the loose soil.

    “Hmms, seems like the rumors were correct then,” a high pitched voice called out from the bushes.  All three of the scouts turned their heads as best they could as an elderly elf pulled his thin body from the brush’s leaves.  As his body slipped free into the moon light, lighting up the shimmering grey hair; sixteen bowed archers made their presence known by sliding arrows across bow strings, in unison.  “The forests do have ears you know?”

    The angular face of the elderly elf drew down to where the three red clothed elves sat pinned and bonded by the large roots of the tree.  “Wait those emblems…” The old man looked closer at the strange red tunics the men wore.  Holding the tunics together against their slender bodies stood a shimmering pendent.  Each one wore an identical symbol… the outside was black, with a blazing red arrowhead in the center.  “I haven’t seen this symbol in a very, very long time.  It seems you three are the messengers of some very bad news.”

ga The League of Kingdoms....

Green Arrow


Green Arrow
2004 Annual
  July, Year 0-A 		by Jae Lizhini


BOOK I:

 The Secrets We Keep


The Royal Crescent
Star Citadel

    In every city there is a place where everyone aspires to go to.  For Metropolis it is large castle beyond the great walls.  In Gotham it is The Manor of Lord Wayne.  In Fawcett it is the great Cavern of Marvel Clan.  For the Star Citadel it was this place.  The Royal Crescent stood as high as the largest trees, a rounded hill that sat in the center of the forested area.  Stone rubble dotted around the hill-like rupture and a long line of trees marked the passage towards the great building.

    As the group of green garbed elves walked quickly through the trail of old growth oaks, two horns sung into the once silent air, played by two young elflings whom stood steadfast on either side of the hill.  The young elves however, did not see who the soldiers had with them—who they had been forcing through the walkway towards the Royal Crescent. Only that they saw the soldiers and were to play the song.  The song whose mystical notes were well known throughout the great city, the very notes caused goose pricks to rupture across the warm flesh of the soldiers as they marched the red garbed men towards the presence of the king of the elves.

    The great hill of rock and soil began to vibrate as the song continued.  Loose earth and pebbles fell from the earthen mount.  The footfalls of the soldiers danced with the gentle shaking of the ground.  Each pair of almond eyes watched in front of their walks however, the eyes of the glad warriors narrowed as the very earth opened up in front of them—like grand doors of a castle.

    Soil fell away as the great entrance exposed itself.  The rock solid dirt scraped against the soft peat before it came to a stop exposing a warm orange light beckoning to the outsiders.  “King Oli’ver welcomes you,” the two boys spoke as they dropped their lips from the instruments.  Their bodies took two steps to the sides of their posts.

    The elderly leader of the caravan let his dim eyes take in both of the boys.  His warm eyes examined the neatly braided long blond hair that each boy wore identical, wrapped like a silken noose across their tawny shoulders.  “Father Erikson thanks you,” the druid spoke in a hushed whisper.  “But we not dandy with welcomes and purpose-- Our matter is most urgent.”

    “Your welcome is not needed Father Erikson. Go now, King Oli’ver awaits you.  Your presence is already expected.”

    “As such.”  The elderly druid smiled as he passed between the two boys and walked into the hearty orange glow.

    The breast of the great mound of dirt and grasses seemed to give away more than it appeared; the elderly druid took note of this very thing, as his feet fell across the slick walkway.  His leather boots ticked across the lush tan colored rock that fostered down a long incline.  The walls that looked around him, was another sight all together.  The magnificent views that cast on either side of him was a jigsaw webbing of tree roots set together in a quilt pattern, rocks shifted in place imbedding around the great roots, and even flowers somehow forced themselves through.  The very walkway showed other great eye candy as well.  Great statues stood backed away at parts, showcasing great warriors of the past, and even stricken doorways cut in from the webbing of rock and flora existed.  However the sojourn to the haven of the elf king paled in comparison to the goal.

    The throne room was the largest room the druid had ever seen.  Even as they stepped into the massive chamber the prisoners as well as the soldiers paused momentarily to take in the great room, each one with a blank look of awe on their faces.  The walls were cast in a singular piece of sheet rock wrapping around the interior; the very walls were bumpy and non secular.  Great shards of stalactites hung above the large uneven ceiling.  The ground about their feet was soft green moss that only paused for the deep purple walkway that trailed through the entire chamber towards the gigantic throne that sat at the far edge of cavern.

    The soldiers in front of the druid looked at him with forlorn expressions as it appeared to him he was not the only one who had become so transfixed by the room—if one could even safely call this place a room.  It was only after each one in turn closed their eyes and forcefully rid themselves of the lush sounds of the cool breezes and the sweet smells of perfume that loomed through every crevice, that they took steps forward.  Their feet slid onto the purple colored trail that laid in its wake. They had to open their eyes on their first steps however—as the prisoners would not have taken a step if it wasn’t for the powerful pushes of the capturers.

    The bewitching of the elderly druid didn’t however end as easily as it had been the others.  Even as he rid himself of the solitude of the chambers he walked into his eyes lifted up past the towering pillars of rock, past the beautiful roses that bloomed across fabled archways of granite stone, and even past the bubbling falls of translucent waters only to find his eyes become unforgiving as he found the eyes of blue staring back at him from the other side of the room.  These eyes belonged to Dinah the Lance.  She was the daughter of the original Black Canary, who fought along side Oli’ver three centuries ago in the battle against Darkseid.
   
    She who stood before with the Green Arrow of legend stood for all to see.  Her youthful reflection was something of concern and worry to the people of this land.  She always sat to her father’s side as the princess of these lands.  A living reminder of the loss of her mother, and what the human queen meant to the people of the Star Citadel.

    Even as the druid began to walk behind the soldiers and the prisoners they forced, the mighty king’s head turned up from his comfortable perch in his throne.  His body moved smoothly across the rock and dirt covered chair as his green eyes came alive.  His thick blond hair washed across his neatly chiseled face, the silk thin hair spilling over the broad shoulders that set neatly in a tunic of green and yellow.  “Tra’vis you have come,” the king’s voice boomed.  The powerful sound echoed from wall to wall.  “What is this that you bring me?”

    The soldiers fell still and silent as they approached the throne.  Each one in turn looked not at the king of elves but the lovely blond half-human that stood silent to his left.  It took them moments to move to the side to allow the gray haired elder to come to a stop in front of the determined eyes of Oli’ver… the Elf’s king.

    “I have brought dire news my lord,” Tra’vis began.  His own thin neck fell downward; his almond shaped eyes looked to be examining his shoes.  “These men, we discovered in the basin of Sherwood… they bare the mark of…”

    “THE RED ARROW!”  Oli’ver growled, his brilliant eyes opened wilder as he stood up from his throne.  His body lunged forward in a powerful arc.  His left hand swung around without abandon.  His hand caught the neck of one of the red robed scouts, as he pushed further forward, the king’s grip tightening.

    The red robed elf winced in pain as his back was pushed painfully against the cold stone wall.  His head snapped back cracking against the rock.  “WHAT SAYS YOU?”  Oli’ver growled.  “Why do you come to my kingdom donning the mark of a man I saw die three hundred years ago?  Why now?  Why this day?”

    “He… he lives,” one of the other scouts belted off from behind the great king.

    “I find this notion preposterous!” the king yelled.  His hand relaxed, freeing the scout he held pinned moments before.  Oli’ver’s whole body spun around to meet the other two.  “I saw him die, don’t think that age has ridded me of that vision.”

    “He is back, returned to life by the agents of Darkseid,” the scout spoke in determination.  “For the dark lord is to live again.  And you Green Arrow… and your kingdom is on the to-do list before the glorious resurrection.”

    “HA! HA! HA!”  Oli’ver stepped forward his mouth falling wide and full as bellows of laughter orchestrated from his throat.  “Well played jest my friends… you had me going.  My daughter did you design this enchanted farce?  I have not laughed such in ages.”

    “This was not my design, Oli’ver,” Black Canary spoke.  Her thin body stepped forward, long floods of blond hair washing over her black silk covered body as she moved.  “And I’m sorry to say but I believe this no farce.  Do you not pay attention to events outside your own four walls?”

    The king’s head turned around slowly.  His jovial expression levitated itself in moments.  He took in gasps of breath as he tried to get a hold of himself.  Thoughts of the words his daughter just spoke caused memories to surmount in his mind.  Memories of who Merlyn was before he took off with Darkseid.  “What do you mean, Dinah?  You're telling me a dead man is walking around and is ready to wage war on the most powerful kingdom on Metarun?”

    “First off, Oli’ver lets not go there in your braggart rites.  I highly doubt The Star Citadel even has a quarter of the strength and resources of Gotham, Metropolis, and Fawcett… and lets us not forget about the magic haven of Atlantis.  And secondly yes that is what I’m saying.  News from all over Metarun has been coming in.  Both Gotham and Metropolis had battles with old warlords of Darkseid coming back to life.  Our own seers have told us that Atlantis is falling, and the casualty counts in Fawcett haven’t been reported yet,” the queen growled.  “This is not a farce, a necromancer, has taken the trail to resurrect the warlords.  They are coming, and I’m sure your old friend Merlyn, has like the others been risen from the dead, to destroy this city.”

    “I see,” spoke Oli’ver as he turned from the princess.  His eyes went back to the scarlet clothed scouts who had all gathered beside one another.  Each one looked at the now solemn King of the Elves.  “So then it looks like we will take arms once again.”

    “You are foolish Green Arrow,” one of the scouts spat as he took a step forward.  “It is not just them being reearthed to murder in the name of Darkseid.  They also have gained much power since last you’ve seen them.  We of the fire ilk have allied with the moon ilk, of the great Merlyn to see to the destruction of the Star Citadel, and the woodened glen of your people.  We are many, and we have the strength of the one who will unite all the elves under one banner.  We will watch woodkind burn in flames.”

    The king frowned as he looked at the ranting fire elf.  He watched the full lips of the red haired being spit in defiance for all that; he had spent his life to protect.  A deep-seated anger welled over the king as he stepped forward his left hand crumpled into a fist as he swung hard at the elf.  The tightly packed fist collided hard into the jaw of the scout.  Spittle and blood escaped the fire elf as the elf’s head snapped painfully to the side.  The full weight of the elf did little to battle the force of the king’s mighty sucker punch.  In a crumpled sound-- not to unlike a sack of produce—the elf fell to the ground.  “We will fight, and we will succeed in this most desperate hour.”

    “Your people have gone fat and tired in the magical wards you have created, King.”  The fire elf grinned.  “You will lead your people to their slaughter.”

    “If that is what it will be then so be it.  You however will be walking point.”  Oli’ver grinned.  “Tra’vis alert General Fli’ers and have him get his men ready.   We move out at first Luna Song.”

Oakram Monastery
Star Citadel

    The wood elves have prided themselves for their knowledge of life, not just their communications with trees, and their understanding of nature; they also had come to understand themselves.  The knowledge of oneself and the control of the body was at one time the prime concern for every wood elf.  However after the construction of their hideaway deep in Sherwood Forest, things changed.  Though life magic has continued to be practiced if only to protect the citadel from those who would attempt to undermine their hidden life, meditation and the ways of the spirit had been almost done away with in the minds of many of the wood elves in this day and age.  Meditation was solely used as a tradition, for the elders and nothing more.  The attendance at the Monastery in the last two hundred years had dwindled to a handful, and the boy who sat alone in the darkened chambers of the Oakram Monastery never wanted to learn such things.  The blond prince, of his people didn’t really want to do much of anything actually; he didn’t understand why his father King Oli’ver wanted him to study at all.  He would be king after all-- and what point would learning all things be for him anyways?

    Despite his attitude towards most of everything he undertook, he tried to give it his all.  He had been locked away in the Monastery going on thirty years now, and despite his resistance, there was little else to do but study history, practice archery, and of course the meditation thing he was currently focusing on.

    The boy prince had been imprisoned in this monastery for good reason however.  He after all was a half elf, the son of the high lady who sat at the king’s side for many years, Lady Dianne, and he had inherited the anger and zeal of the humans.  As a child his temper tantrums were legendary, to the people of the Star Citadel.  It was he who was responsible for breaking the very wards that kept the citadel hidden, and this was the reason why everyone on Metarun knew of its existence, and why the high-priests of the wood elves continually shifted the forest to trick would be armies who would seek them out.  It was this… his last tantrum thirty years ago that made the kind and just king of the wood elves to force his son to this monastery. It would be good for him, the king thought to prepare him to become a great king, who was the quiescence of tradition… even despite his mixed heritage.
   
    The Monastery itself was simple.  It was constructed from the remains of great oak tree that had lost its life on the same day that Darkseid had died, the day the heroes of lore came back in all their glory, and the king of the Elves, decided that his people would never be harmed again.

    The roots and trunk of the large oak had been petrified and through the knowledge of the life-magicks, was used as the base for the room that the boy prince now sat in.  There were other rooms to the Monastery where the people would sleep, and a door that spilled out into a great lush grassland where martial practice and archery was taught every afternoon-- but it was here in the main chambers where the monks, and the would be students sat in meditation.

    The walls were deep brown, with rough thick bark scrolling across the surfaces around the room.  The floor was a simple peat, with green grasses shimmering uniformed and soft.  Mounds of rich soil was also sat to the back of the room towards the doors to the outside, used for sitting by those who wanted to bask in the energy but did not have the tenacity to properly meditate.

    There however were no candles, no lights, and only a single window that hung from the roof raining down whatever light it could find.  Tonight it was the yellowish rays of the moon, and it did little to give the dark, earthy room any brightness at all.  Druids of the Oakram didn’t need such things though.  They had given away all possessions that were not provided by the forests.  Many eons ago it was the way all elves lived.  However times had changed, and the cultures of humans and dwarves soon did reflect to those of the elves, only tradition seemed to remain outside the Monastery.

    The boy sat still as he had the past nine hours.  His thin legs were fitted together with one over top of the other.  His hands were posed against his knees pressed firmly across the deep orange robe he wore.  His mind had continued to spiral across thoughts, and the energies of the forests.  A feeling he was use to.  However never before had his meditations given him images as he saw with his mind’s eye that moment.  For split moments as the memories of the forests spiraled through his skull, he questioned enlightenment, the words and a vision mingling like the world was going on without him, in a time before he was born…

   
    The deep greens of the grasses swam across the ankle high boots the male archer wore.  His face was young and confident as he held his bow stead fast at the oncoming rider.  His long blond hair swam across his shoulders like a shimmering lake, only separated by the sharp ear tips of the elf.  His face was clean shaven except for the small ring of hair that formed a goatee around his mouth.  The young archer’s heart beat hard across his chest.  He was aware of how many had fallen.  His prayers went to the small gnome called Barreth, who only with two others sought to face Darkseid alone, while the rest of them… the Society of Kingdoms held the warlords at bay.

    The field that lay beyond was filled with a battle.  Bright colored warriors from Gotham, Metropolis, Fawcett, Keystone, Opal, and many other great countries that this Elf had no recollection to name fought gracefully against the darker, clothed warriors who had come for one deed only… the destruction of the world called Metarun. This hero however like the others who fought along side him, would never allow this to happen.  Each of this Society of Kingdoms fought gracefully.  Each man and woman used their knowledge and skill and had picked a partner to fight. 

    The Elf however, did not look to the other battles that waged in the sky and across the landscape; instead his eyes were on the scarlet form who had now come into view in front of him, sliding through the limbs of a tree as though it was a fine silk.  Like he, the red clothed elf held his own bow poised in front of him.  The crimson shaft tensed across the drawn string of his weapon.

    “I could have struck you ten paces back when you were scurrying in the trees like a mad rabbit Meryln,” the Elf spoke, in a jovial tone.  His voice was parched and dried yet; his voice still came out as though he was recovering from a humorous quip.

    “But now what sort of grand yarn would be given to the Great King Oli’ver if he took out the dreaded dark elf, Merlyn the Red Arrow… in an easy shot like that?” the red garbed elf spat.  His black skin wrinkled a bit under his thick purple lips, yellowed fangs displayed themselves as he smiled.

    “Its not so much about the stories…” the King spoke, his body leaned forward in a slant his hand that was holding the arrow slipped free in a singular motion.  The arrow going with it, as his motion blurred.  The shaft twirled in his hand as he brought the wooden bolt across Merlyn’s own arrow.  The shear force of his attack snapped both his shaft and the Dark Elf’s in a sudden clap of snapping wood.

    Merlyn growled under his breath as he brought his body backwards.  The red tunic flipping across his body like a riveting flag, his knees bent inwards in the same motion.  He landed on the grass only three steps away from the Emerald Archer.  “Enough!  This voiced bravado grates on the nerves, Oli’ver. Now it is time for you to DIE!”

    Green Arrow could only smile at the Warlord’s words as his body rushed towards him in a mad bolt.  The warrior-king brought his left hand forward in a curving arc.  The Dark Elf’s own open fist caught the blocking forearm.  The blow caused the king’s bones to rattle as his footing was forced back. 

    A smile decorated his face as he lowered his throbbing hand.  “You’ve gotten stronger old friend.  This should be… entertaining,” Oli’ver mused as he slipped his hips around.  His right leg shifted into the air, his left foot curved inward and rode the ball of his foot in the soft ground, as the right leg angled upwards to meet the blocking bow of Red Arrow.

    The powerful kick struck the crimson weapon with another strong force, the weapon forced from the dark elf’s strong grip.  There however was no time to look for the bow, Merlyn soon discovered as the left arm of the king of the wood elves swung around.  The green bow caught the dark elf’s face.  Spittle escaped from the purple lips as the attack caught his chin, depositing the elf on the soft ground.

    “Merlyn, you have gotten stronger, but not smarter,” Green Arrow told him in that same jovial tone.  The king’s right hand slipped into his quiver and pulled out an emerald arrow.  He didn’t bear to fit into his waiting bowstring instead he held it stead fast pointing it at the exposed ebony neck of the fallen dark elf.  “Give up this charade.  What does Darkseid offer your people?  The leftovers of a charred earth?”

    Red Arrow’s left arm jetted up, the cold grip lanced hold of the arrow in a singular blur.  His newly acquired strength thrust the arrow upward sending the butt of the arrow onto the waiting chin of the king.

    The motion sent the king reeling.  His body barreled through the air momentarily before his body landed on the grass.  A groan escaped from the elf’s mouth as he landed.  “Strength, Oli’ver.  Strength and the chance to remake the world… make it better.  My people have been trapped beneath the earth for far too long.  So now we rise.”

    Oli’ver gripped the cold ground in his hands.  “Your dreams don’t mean shit, Merlyn.  Your people live under the ground because that is where you are best suited.”

    “Don’t patrionise me Oli’ver!”  The Dark Elf glowered as he rose up from the ground.  The green shaft held steadfast in his black hand.  “You have no idea what it’s like!”  His hand tensed the snapping of wood broke out through his hand as the arrow shaft snapped in two.  “And I will not rest until…”

    The sound of an arrow slipped through air in a whistling burst.  Oli’ver watched in horror as a black arrow pierced skillfully through the skull of the dark elf.  A bright red sputter of blood gurgled out of his mouth, like a waterfall as he tried to continue his words… however his words did not copulate.

    “Thought you could use a hand!” came a voice from the trees.  Oli’ver looked up to view the source of the feminine speaker.  His green almond shaped eyes narrowed as the singular form leaped from the tree limb.  Long blond waves of hair slid across a plump face.  Blue gem like eyes set the stage of the gorgeous human face; her body landed skillfully and nimble.

    “Well that was totally non dynamic,” Oli’ver growled as he pulled himself off the ground.  “But I gotta say I could have had a worse show stopper.”

    “You think I’d let the love of my life die at the hands of a dark elf warrior?” the blond human spoke in a bubbly pitch.

    “Well you do have a point there Pretty-bird.  Still anti-cinematic…”

   
    The boy prince’s eyes flickered open in shock.  Sweat glistened down his sharp and delicate features.  His eyes which pierced like green jade darted across the darkened room.  He could not make out much of anything.  It was already gaining twilight and the light had evaporated from the room.  However a soft and humble voice did yet resonate through his pointed ears.  “The truth is in your eyes,” Jen’san spoke as he strode across the darkened peat ground.  The simple burgundy robe swayed over his robust form.  This druid was no ordinary elf, definitely did not look like any of the others who resided in the great walls of the Star Citadel.

    Truthfully he was not of the wood ilk.  He was a sand elf from the deserts to the east of the land he stood in.  His body retained more fat than the elves in this land, if anything the pot belly that pushed against the robes showed despite his healthy life style he was bigger boned than the other elves.  He was also shorter his limbs pudgy and short.  However these didn’t shock the wood elves of the Star Citadel as did his deep yellow skin and his dark coarse hair… it was these characteristics that really made people take notice- he was not of the beautiful ilk like they.  However neither was the boy prince who stood staring at the silhouette. 

    “What do you mean master?” the boy asked, his normal passionate voice that rung of fire and determination quailed this day.  “I have only seen what must have been in a book I have read... but the characters have changed.”

    “If only your expressions did not dwarf your true thoughts Conn’r.  You have a look of someone who has seen something they feel they shouldn’t have.  Meditation does this to all of us.  When we are shown things we wish we hadn’t--when we are shown truth of ourselves.”

    “If only it was me,” the boy said his head swooped down.

    “Then perhaps we should discuss what the meditation has brought you,” Jen’san said in something of command.

    “I would like that master.  Perhaps then you can shed some light on the travesties my mind has given me this day.”


The City Gates
Star Citadel

    The City Gates were not like most of the great elven utopia.  They were not comprised of trees, or rocks, or even the earth itself.  The city gates were instead made of steel and the black meat of slaughtered trees.  The great cast iron railings were forged by the Clan of Marvel in Fawcett city, and the wood that comprised the towering gates were taken from trees who had risked their lives to defend the elves during the great war three hundred years ago.  The city gates were more than merely a way to keep people out should they somehow find the hidden city masked by the trees of the forest and shielded in camouflage by the great druid magicks.  On the contrary, they were also a memorial of the Great War that allowed Dwarves and Elves to put aside their immortal hatred to fight a common enemy... An enemy who in all his savage wicked ways did something no other threat ever had… for a time he united the very collected and very scattered peoples of Metarun under one banner.
   
    Standing near the great tree that over looked the large gates a single form stood watching the great gates.  A single elf whose arms folded across his enormous chest watched the guards of the great city—his guards.  In all of the Star Citadel there was only one elf that was spoken in the same honor as was the king of the wood elves, and an elf whose strategic genius and combat savvy was legendary to all who resided in the hidden city. His name was Captain Edw’arr Fl’ier, but to most he was known as the Iron Horse.  And it was his duty as it had always been to lead the city guard in protecting the great gates which towered over trees which encompassed the Star Citadel—a post that the legendary axe man took with the utmost confidence and patronage.

    The guardsmen sat perched over Ironhorse balancing themselves on the large limbs of the two great oak trees that grew even larger than the tower of the gates themselves.  Each one stood armed with large bows, each one of the five guards sat still each with a single arrow drawn back and pointed into the distance, ready for that which would come.  Neither Ironhorse, nor the guardsmen expected to see a caravan of people approach behind them, but the Captain turned anyway as the first sounds of flat, footed strides beckoned across his ears.

    His rather tall and well-muscled frame turned from his supervising, and his deep blue eyes opened wide as he saw the crew as it approached him.  A sight which gave the great warrior a small pause in what would be a boisterous welcome.  The caravan of elves mostly consisting of armed sentry soldiers clothed in almond colored leather armor was led by a single uncanny elf.  The crimson haired leader of this group was one that Fl’iers recognized right away.  The strange coloring of hair, was a mark anyone would know.  Roy’ian.  The young boy was a fire elf who was found by the king some fifty years ago during one of the early raids on the fire elves village during the problematic period of the Sherwood Forests when the elves waged holy war on each other.  The boy however… this boy was raised by the king and treated like a son.  Like wise Roy’ian was trained by Ironhorse... and next to him and his adopted father was the best warrior in the citadel. 

    “Fl’iers, word has come from my father, that you should ready your men for sentry an attack,” the scarlet haired elf spoke as soon as he got close enough to his former teacher for words.

    “An attack?”  Fl’iers asked his face wrinkled much like a prune, spider webs of flesh escalated across the tough chiseled skull and across his neatly shaven head.  “What sort of folly is this my prince?  My men are guardsmen.  They are not front line sentry... I thought this is what your men and the king’s own quartered staff was for.”

    “Well normally this would be the case, but it appears that my father requested that you ready your men.  I suspect that you will be leading some of my sentry as well—and I will be staying behind as will a small score of my own, to keep the guard of the great gates.  Once your men are assembled you should report to Lord Oli’ver.  These men and I are already here to relieve you of duty.”

    “I see.”  The warrior lowered his head.  “ I suppose I knew that this day would come again when I raised my axe along side the King.  “Wa’te!  Max’nor, Elph’on, and Tres’tan!  You heard the prince.  You are relieved from duty.  Report to the barracks and rouse the others.  We are to prepare to leave for the battle field at post haste!”

    “Yes sir!” the four guards spat in unison.”

    “Your father will be well protected,” Ironhorse said as he saw the furlong expression of the adopted prince.  The young fire elf’s head rose up to meet the eyes of his teacher. 

    “It is not my father whom I worry for.”

The Crimson Round
Sherwood Forest

    It had been three centuries since Merlyn the Red Arrow had felt a smile slide over his lips.  However at this moment, it felt like the natural thing to do.  Lying in front of him, vast lines of ready soldiers covered the entire area of the seven hills that imprisoned the Valley of the Flame, the valley that the fire elves had called home.  Those villages that lay in that valley however were quite empty tonight, as were the burrows of the Ebony Light, where his own people, the Dark Elves had lived.  Never before had any army of elves ever voluntarily agreed to work with his people.  This of course was a landmark occasion—one that the lord Darkseid would be proud of.  Perhaps even his master would allow himself a smile.

    “We have been at war with the wood elves for almost a century,” a deep voice spoke behind the newly resurrected Warlord.  “And before that we were still at each other’s throats.  But never before had we come to decide to make our war anything but our own.”

    Merlyn turned his skull around, the bones snapped as the grayish skin slipped across the muscles that bulged across his neck and shoulder blades.  His bright lavender eyes turned to meet those glowing blue eyes of the fire elf that now approached him.  “But it is not your petty skirmish that we now launch upon.  As I told your lord, we are but two armies with a similar goal.  We don’t seek your victory nor do you seek ours.  But we both seek to annihilate Green Arrow and his Star Citadel.  It’s quite simple really.”

    “I suppose you could say that,” the captain spoke.  His tall thin form towered two heads above the shorter muscle bound warlord.  His red hair cradled down his porcelain white cheeks in separated braids, like snakes trying to resist the urge to constrict.  “However I don’t share my lord’s sentiments.  I am an intellectual first and a warrior second.  I do not find any strategy or stimulation in your plan.  Nor do I see the great King Oli’ver falling for such a pathetic tactic.”

    “The tactic is not as laymen as you might think captain,” the warlord announced, a tinge of humor enveloping his lips.  “Simple yes, but it would be wise not to underestimate me.  After all I have the experience you lack.  And in my experience with King Oli’ver I come at service to your rivalry.”

    “My lord Merlyn do not allow your arrogance cloud your judgment,” the fire elf spoke.  “Where I serve my king, and he has sent me to serve you and my men to champion your own army, I will not let you shed fire elven blood to satisfy your hatred with the Green Arrow.  Our armies are united in line, but they still take their orders from me.  And I will not allow my men to haphazardly rush towards another army who are prepared for them—they will just die and they will do so in vane!”

    The Warlord whipped his head towards the fire elf captain. The long white hair slipped easily over the grey skin, sliding across the sharp cheek bones and spiraling across the scarlet leather he wore about his torso.  “I will tell you this once captain… it will not be my arrogance that will be the undoing of this battle.  You seek understanding for something you have a back row seat in regards to.  King Oli’ver of the wood elves is himself a vane man.  A vane man, who is too head strong and believes too much in himself.  Many times he forgets he leads an army.”  Merlyn brought a thin hand to rest on the captain’s neck.  “He hates me as you do… but ten folds.  We were friends once… and believe me his anger of my betrayal haunts him.  He will come running with anger and with pain to silence me again.  This… captain is the crux of my plan.”  The Warlord’s hand pressed tighter onto the Captain’s throat… “However your feelings in this matter don’t amount to much.”  He pushed the captain hard onto the ground.  His lavender eyes watched as the captain grabbed his throat taking in air.

    “After this day Warlord, your head shall be mine.”

    “If you live through it you will be welcome to try.”

City Gates
Star Citadel

    King Oli’ver of the Wood Elves, looked over the massive army that stood in attendance, at the mouth of the opened gates.  He stood without mount with the rest of the soldiers, as he always had done.  His shimmering metallic armor was entrusted around a great green cloak that swallowed up his shoulders and arms like a virtual sea of satin.  To his left stood the half-elf, Lady Dinah who in her black leather armor and thin blond hair stood ready for the march.  To his right stood the hero of the guard, Fli’ers whose large form looked to be everything that elves were not.  His thick arms bulged through the leather arm cuffs of his armor, as the age creased elf stood in silence.  The rest of the army stood as regency, silent and calm waiting for the signal to move on, like a virtual ocean of greens and browns.

    “OPEN THE GATES!” the king finally shouted breaking the silence of the steadfast army. Each soldier brought their head up in a chorus of wrinkling leather and ringing chain mail. 

    A high pitched whine shouted itself out against the tranquil sentry, as the doors creaked open, sliding themselves across the grass and soil.  The frontline of elves continued to use their combined strength as the doors were pushed open, only stopping when they impacted the city gate walls.  The men and women of the army looked onward to the mouth of the gate they had just exposed-- each Elf waiting, for the King’s command to venture onwards.  Each one feeling the butterflies in their stomachs at the upcoming battle they were to take part in.  It was after all not everyday one rushed into battle with one of the greatest enemies to ever cross swords in Metarun.

    “March forth!” the king shouted; he looked out over the exposed land of the great forest, which lay fully revealed in front of them.  Oli’ver’s eyes stayed glued on his army of warm bodies as the collective footfalls dwarfed out the sound of his own beating heart.  It was few breaths that the king took in, before following suit behind the legion of warriors of the Star Citadel.  “ONWARD TO THE CRIMSON ROUND!”

   
    High above the green grasses of the forest that the elves called home, on the guard perch, the adopted son of the king, Roy’ian watched longingly as the sentry of men pushed out of the gate and towards their destination.  A feeling of dread oozed through the boy’s very pores.  He knew with every step that his father was taking this day—it only meant one step further away from his people.  Couldn’t Oli’ver see that his anger and arrogance was what his enemy was counting on?

    “Prince Roy’ian sir,” a voice croaked from behind him.  The orphaned fire elf turned his head from the perch.  His fiery mane curved across the handsome features he possessed; his attention turned to the elf that stood at the base of the tree branch.

    The owner of the voice was a short blond elf, who’s uniform of green and brown looked as similar to the boy as everyone else who defended the Star Citadel. But this particular youth Roy’ian knew well, he knew all his men no matter how well they blended in with the rest of the armed forces of the city.  “Yeah,” the prince finally spoke after a moment of silence.

    “I’m here to relieve you of duty,” the shorthaired elf announced to his superior.

    “Relieve me, San’dah?  I’ve only been on duty about two hours.  I’ve still got another six before I’ll need to be relieved.”

    “With all do respect sir, the Second General told me to relieve you now.  He said you have already signed up for the twilight patrol, and that it would be best if you had your rest for that shift, while we have the extra rested bodies.”

    “Look I can handle it San’dah,” the prince growled.  “It’s only ten hours away, and I’ll still be at my top form.  There is too much going on in my head to rest.  I must stay here.  Be ever valiant, it’s exactly what my father would do… as there is little else I can do.”

    “But sir, I must insist that you let me relieve you.  You don’t have to sleep, but I have my orders.  And those are to relieve you,” the short elf informed the prince, in the same low sounding hum he had been explaining things with.

    “San’dah, I am your superior and I’m counter acting your former order.  If I must go down and see the Second General I will.  But trust me it will not be pretty,” Roy’ian spat.

    “Do what you have to my prince, but as it clearly states in section twenty-one ten subsection B paragraph four for the cadet manual… ‘An order is to be carried out until which time the order has been withdrawn’.  And in this case I do not believe you’re in the right mind to be giving orders.  You are upset your father didn’t take you on his campaign.  You’re angry, and you’re scared that he’ll die.”

    “I did not give you permission to speak freely.”  Roy’ian turned from the elf.  “Look do whatever you want.  I’ll be paying a visit to the Second General then.”  The adopted heir to the crown took a single motion, as he hopped from the branch he had previously been perched on.  San’dah could only look in awe as his superior bounced down the oak’s tree trunk shimmering in a scarlet blur.  He knew that the prince was a gifted warrior and as fast as the monks at the Oakram.  But he had never seen motions so fast in his years as a warrior.  If he knew one thing at this moment… it was that he did not want to be the second general at that very moment.

Oakram Monastery
Star Citadel

    “Kai-hai!” the loud elf’s voice called as he physically pushed the air out of his lungs.  His left foot stepped forward bending at the knee at the same moment he pushed his arm out ways.  The heel of his hand struck through the air with both the speed of a half-ling and the percussion of a dwarf.  The strike on contact shattered the rock that hung from the ceiling, a head higher than he was.

    The biological prince took his hand across his sweat-beaded brow, clearing the sweat that had gathered on his large swooping forehead.  “Damn I did it again Sensei,” the boy spoke letting out a groan.
   
“In time you will learn, child.  It is best to know you are doing your best.  A wise human once said, that to know your greatest strength, first you must master your greatest weakness.  You’ve got a head up to many.  Your greatest weakness in the martial arts and in the path of balance is already known.  Truly you must learn to become your passion’s master.  Not the other way around.  However, perhaps it matters little your father suffers from the very same dilemma.”

    The blond prince spun his body around.  The deep green kimo he wore ruffled across his thin legs in that same moment.  “You’ve told me this before,” he spoke.  “I understand it is something that has plagued my father.  That is why I am here, at least unofficially.”

    Master Jen’san let a smile slide over his lips.  The elderly elf looked up at the boy for a moment only smiling and being silent.  “Truthfully young Conn’r, I doubt it matters why you are here.  Only that you are here.  Seeing you now it is hard to believe you the same boy who almost wrecked the citadel.  However a time soon comes when you will make up for these deeds with what you did that day.”

    The young half elf laid one fist into an open palm and slowly bowed to his teacher.  “Perhaps I will, but I am yet not ready.  You’ve told me this many times.  And I know it in my heart you are right.  I miss my father and mother quite a lot.  Even when their images in my head seem blurred and foggy, I know I still miss them.”

    “As you should, now let us try the chu’anta strike again.  This time I want you to concentrate.  Feel the chi that builds up as you move to center that building force in the center of your palm so you may control where the strike lands.  You have much power inside you.  You must work on finding a balance.  Seek the way and it will find you.”

    “Yes Master Jen’san,” the boy said quietly.


BOOK II:

The Battle in Our Hearts



The Crimson Round
Sherwood Forest

    The soft treading of the sentry in front of the caravan of the Regency, made collective hisses and footfalls as they pushed through the marshes that led into the great valley of the Crimson Round.  If King Oli’ver had his way he would have just pushed in straight forwards and decimated the armies in one fierce strike.  Stop the assault on his pride and get it over with.  But this battle was not for him.  He was fighting this day for his people.  And in this battle he heeded in his military advisors discretion of stealth.  It was after all the Wood Elves most famous weapon.  In the old days they were known as the “Ghost Elves” their friendship with the very trees and grasses allowed them to blend into their surroundings easily and their archers could take out a good percentage of a coming army before they knew what hit them.  However this was not the old days any longer.

    “HALT!” a single hoarse breath called through the sentry like a banshee cry.  The king looked over to the large bear like arm that now pressed against his chest, not to unlike a belt of protection.  “We are not alone,” Ironhorse spoke, in a hushed demeanor.  His eyes turned to meet the king. 

    “Enemy scouts?” the king questioned his old friend.

    “Too many smells to just be the scouts,” Ironhorse spoke in a grave whisper.

    “What are you telling me old friend?” 

    “Duck!” the war general spat as he pushed the king onto the ground.  Blurs of purple and blue shafts hissed through the air like rain even as the king was forced onto mucky marsh.  Above him he could hear choruses of pain and death as arrows pierced through the flesh of his men.

    “SHIELDS!” Ironhorse called out to the sentry.  The king heard the shifting of armor as he finally raised his head from the soft black ground.  His hands wiped the mud from his vision as his head turned to his left to see his daughter.   He was reminded of her mother at that instant, a human whose battle skill was legendary, as was his daughter’s.  She the Black Canary like the very sentries held her own shield up high blocking the arrows that showered from above.  A smile easily tore across Oli’ver’s face for the very spread of a moment.

    Oli’ver, the King of the Elves, watched the air above him as the arrows began to slow to a trickle.  He pulled his old body from the black muck that composed the ground.  His bright and wide eyes stayed composed as he watched the grey night sky once again uncover itself.  His head turned to the large man who stood at his right once again.  The one man, whom held his utmost respect; the one man who could lead his people to victory even in his stead.  Unlike he, this man—Fli’ers—he had problems thinking about others.  In the field of battle Oli’ver tended to rid himself of concern for the well being of his comrades.  His own anger fueled him, above all else.  And even now as he looked around to see the dead bodies ahead of him, he did not think of the other elves that would join them.  He only thought of revenge. 

    His arm went for the bow that hung across his wide shoulder.  His black gloved hand gripped the wooden weapon and pulled it free from his armored torso with an audible twang.  “They have stopped; they must be parading their front line to our location.  Climbing from their trees and pushing onward.  WE MUST MEET THIS METTLE WITH OUR OWN!” the king roared.

    “No my lord.  We need to regroup our men, and we must back to higher ground, the forests to the east where we have the advantage.  Only then will we win this day.”

    The king’s eyes met the larger eyes of his long time friend.  A sense of anger and not understanding drew in volumes through the king’s mind.  “You are my superior in ways of war I will admit, Ed’ward, and perhaps you are right, yet even now they rush towards us from that…” the king’s words were cut off as his head swayed back towards the large hill, which steeped off towards the east.  His eyes looked past when the archer elves dropped from trees, and more units began to swarm the great ledge that led down into their location.  What the king saw in the distance was his target.  A single Dark Elf standing still as two unified armies swarmed around him.  The Dark Elf was wearing an armor of red.  “MERLYN!” the king screamed and turned his body quickly towards the summit in rage.

    The escape was short lived as a single strong hand grabbed his shoulder.  “You will not make it to him, my king.  We must retreat to the forest where we have a chance.  But we must go now… they are coming.”

    King Oli’ver growled in defiance.  A feeling of anger and hatred gestured through his very bones.  Thoughts of the deaths of so many of his comrades by this man… yet he still walked the earth.  He still lived… somehow.  “You will not win today by letting your arrogance and anger, consume you my king.”

    Green Arrow looked at the decline across the hill, the tips of the very mountain was already flooding with warm bodies.  He turned around begrudged… he hated it when people were right.  “Back the men to the higher ground General,” he muttered.  “But send the front line men behind the arching lines.  Defensive garrison behind them.  I want to depend on them, to carve me a line straight to Merlyn.  I want his death with my fists.”

    “Men fall back to the west.  Archers take mount on front of mid line on the summit, sentry behind them posed to defend the front lines… Garrison set up perimeter… move, move, move!” the General yelled.

    Moments after the general’s commands were barked out, the entire assembled army turned in unison, through the chamber chorus of jingling armors, and took into strides towards the west incline.   The king watched in amazement, as the army reacted.  Everyone moved in an ordered walk, except for the trio of him, Lady Dinah, and Ironhorse—and a single group of garrison druids who continued a hum of chants.

    Oli’ver pushed his arm back, in a reflex action, his fingers grabbing a green feathered arrow.  “Why are the druids not moving?”  Lady Dinah asked as she, the king, and Ironhorse began to back peddle towards the summit.

    “They are conducting a Chronos Ward,” Ironhorse informed her as he finally turned his body away from the coming army.  “Basically it’s a chant that causes the air to thicken around a designated area.  In short causing the movement of incoming enemy to slow… that’s why they have not reached us yet.”

    “And all I got to say is when we reach them they better disengage, because we’ll need their defense in what’s to come,” the king muttered.

    “Let us quit talking and move with haste!”  Dinah spoke to the two men as the trio moved with speed towards the summit that led into the woods.  Ahead, the sounds of leaves being spread apart fell on all their ears, above them.  The soldiers were already entering the foliage.  It was however hard for the king to think of anything, more than putting Merlyn down once again—this time he had hoped-- for good.

    “DRUIDS MOVE!” Ironhorse growled as the trio of Lady Dinah, the King and himself approached the crouching band of elderly wizards.  The magicians all in turn flashed their eyes open to look at the general.  Each elderly face, moved to a look of shock and fear as the crackle of their ward’s deactivation beckoned.

    The sounds of the army behind them echoed through the Crimson Round as the field was dissipated. The large arms of Ironhorse began to grab at the emerald robes of the elderly elves pulling them to their feet.  “Come on, let’s go people!” the general growled.

    “The sentries have made it the bush,” Lady Dinah spat as she bent to sheath her sword.

    “You two secure the monks,” the king bellowed.  “We’ll need them if we are to win this day.  The armies we fight are vast.”  He spoke, his head turning to look back at the eastern summit and the large legion of soldiers whom pushed themselves down toward the valley.  Scores of bodies in purple and red growled like a lake beneath.  Oli’ver fitted the arrow he held back onto the bow string. He notched the shaft, drawing the fulcrum.  “I’ll cover you.  Now go!” the king barked.

    “My lord we can’t…” Ironhorse spat.

    “I’ll be fine.  I still have a warlord to kill.  My anger enough will allow me to cover your escape and still see him this day.”

    “You will pull through.”  Lady Dinah nodded in agreement to the bowman in green. Oli’ver aimed and let go of the arrow.  The emerald missile took off with the speed of the wind itself, whistling through the sky with deadly accuracy.  The king himself didn’t see the spectacle of the arrow head catching a forehead in a ruby tendril of blood.  Instead he had already drawn another from his quiver aimed and shot.

    Legend has it that the King of the Wood Elves, in his prime could notch and fire 45 arrows a minute.  However, as Ironhorse looked over his shoulder, pushing the druids up the summit… he would never call that hearsay again.

    Ironhorse eased his head from the sight of Dark Elves and Fire Elves dropping.  As magnificent as the emerald arrows filling the sky truly were he had his motive.  Though, even as he pushed the magicians up the summit, his ears could still detect the screams.  He wondered how it was possible for a bowman to be both so precise and so quick. 

    “MOVE!” Ironhorse shouted from the pit of his stomach.  The elderly elves grabbed at dirt pulling their tired bodies forwards. Ironhorse’s heart thundered in his chest as they began to advance, haphazardly.  “WE AREN’T GOING TO MAKE IT!” he shouted again.

    “Like hell you aren’t…” addressed the voice of the king.  His grand and boisterous demeanor was in full swing--as it always tended to be in moments of stress and excitement.  The king continued to slowly back track up the summit.  The sound of the bowstring’s ‘twang’ covered up his heavy steps.

    Each druid in turn began to sink their fingers into the soft mud as they pulled themselves up the long hanging lip of the hill’s summit.  Despite their age and frailty each one fought back the rigors of fatigue as their training so many years ago had taught them.  Their discipline allowed them to climb the great cliff and roll themselves onto the flat ground. 

    Lady Dinah and Ironhorse waited patiently as the band of old men worked themselves up the cliff, taking in turn giving help to the men who could not make it on their own.  Truthfully, despite the age of the druids whom were a hindrance at the moment, most elves would not have had the will and strength of body and mind to have created such a powerful ward and also have the strength to climb such a summit.  However the battle druids were a special class of elf.  A class that was now a dying breed. 

    “Oli’ver come on!” Ironhorse shouted as he pulled himself up the cliff.  His large hands went directly to, helping the old and weakened magicians from the ground.  They wouldn’t be able to move much further.  It was good thing he could see from this vantage point that the garrison was already in place to the left of his location.

    The king turned his back to the ascending sea of bodies that were running up the summit after his army.  If they could just get set up he knew they could still have a victory.  His left hand lashed out as he ducked his head across his chest.  His body folded inward only momentarily-- before his legs landed firmly on the soil. 

    Without much of a warning or goose of step Oli’ver pulled an arrow from his quiver and notched it in place.  “We’ve got seven minutes tops to make it to the sentry,” the king barked.  This should be interesting.”  He smiled, the blond goatee he wore spreading across his subtle lips.
 
    Ironhorse nodded in agreement to the still hunched king.  His large body turned from the smiling elf and to the Lady Dinah who was helping the druids get up from the ground.  “Do you even think doing this is at all possible?”  The general asked in a questioned tone.  Where he was perhaps the greatest military mind, in recent memory to the Elves of the Star Citadel, the king was probably the greatest mind to get one out of a bind.

    “The Garrison is still a mile out in the batch of trees to the left.  I can see the shimmer of drawn shields,” Lady Dinah spoke.

    “How far do you all think you can make it?” the king asked.  His deep emerald eyes narrowed as he turned to the old men.

    “We can make it to the garrison,” one of the druids spoke.

    “If we cannot make it and we die in the process then we died doing what we have always done.  Push us if you must,” another of the druids spoke.  “We are worn but we have the strength to do so for the Citadel.”

    The king nodded a smile of pride swelling across his lips.  “Okay, so I was gonna suggest hide out in the woods.  But if you all want to do this, then by all means let’s.”  The king’s eyes looked back towards the herding sea of soldiers.  “Okay Ironhorse, you and Dinah go the straight route east.  And get to the sentry’s station.  They will need you for when the armies arrive.  I’ll be taking the druids along another path to the west.  If my memory serves me there’s an over hanging ledge to the west that oversees the eastern station.  It will give us a surprise tactic.  And it will allow me to see my target and take him out post haste when he arrives.”

    “I don’t fancy leaving you to face hordes should they follow you,” Ironhorse said.

    “I don’t give a damn what you think, Ed’ward.  This is not a suggestion.  So quit being an ox ass… and move!” the king grumbled.

    “He’s right; we have little time to speak!” Dinah bellowed.  Her left hand swarmed outwards, her nimble fingers grabbing hold of the thick arm of the general with an unexpected strength.

    The general turned his gaze to the princess who was not a princess.  A nod bellowed from his head, and he pushed himself into a sprint.  The Lady pushed herself forward likewise and followed the larger general hand in hand.  The king simply watched as the two of them disappeared into the great forest.  His acute ears heard their loud thundering footfalls dissipate as well… his head finally turned to the waiting druids. 

    “So you guys ready?” the king asked his smile still decorated his face.

    The druids looked at him nodding their heads slowly in unison.  He could tell by the way they looked and the way they carried their bodies they were hurting—winded and fatigued.  He wished there was something more he could do to them.  However more so he wished he was by himself.  He always fought better with no distractions.


    The Warlord’s crimson armor shined stunningly, as it caught the orange hues of the setting sun.  His sharp tipped ear could catch the thunderous steps of the armies as they ran across the valley a few yards from his station.  “The witchcraft has ended,” his deep voice crackled to the sentry of men who still swarmed around him.  “An unexpected ploy strangely enough-- it seems the king has changed from when I was still alive,” he spat.

    “I knew this was too easy,” the fire elf general growled, his blue eyes turned up to the grinning Warlord.  “I tell you this Merlyn, every death that occurs, I will bring this back ten fold.”

    “Oh don’t count your eggs yet, general.  I’m not exactly new at this game.  Where the forest is their strength, in a fight—your strength is there too.  Forests burn, quite well do they not?”

    “What are you saying Warlord?” the general’s eyes got quite large.

    “I’m saying we will fight fire with an inferno.  Send the message to your druids.” The Warlord let a full mouth grin take over his skull and he stepped away from the still surprised general.  The squad of troops followed behind the traveling Warlord.  Each one of them was transfixed on his form.  Even they could not believe what he was suggesting.  Every elf no matter the ilk knew the eco treaty clause.  This plan would be breaking the time honored laws of long ago.

    Ahead of the walking Warlord streams of troops continued down the ravine and onto the valley--only to begin climbing the summit to reach the Forest Hemic.  It was great mountainous forests that led towards the human city of Opal, a city undoubtedly battling another return from the past embodied by the Warlord known as the Mist.


    “Ahoy!” a single voice shouted as Dinah and Ironhorse came to a slow walk nearing a long line of archers skillfully perched in trees.  The voice however did not come from any archer.  Instead it came from a female elf walking towards them in very scant leather armor.  The armor fully covered her torso, and back, but, the cut off at the hip to let a small tan skirt slide over to cover her legs an inch above her knees. 

    The female elf in question, wore silken blond tresses tied tightly at the base of her scalp, her fair features and almond eyes gave little away.  The Wood Elf however did not greet them with a smile; instead she continued her call even as she approached them.  “Lady Dinah, Ironhorse.  I’m glad to see you made it safely.  But what of the King and the druids you were assisting?  Do I need to expect bad news?” the woman asked, her slender neck bowed downwards in a dour expression.

    “No Sh’inti,” Ironhorse spoke.  His robust body bent into a bow as he came to a stop.  “The King took it on himself to take another route with the druids.  He informed us it would be safer.  But more so I think he chose the ridges to the west for one of his dashing entrances.”

    The elf smiled as she looked towards the husky general.  “And here I thought him not charging head first was a sign maybe he wised up in his old age.  But what good is being a wood elf if your king does not make an ass of himself every couple hundred years?”  She turned her expression to the Lady Dinah.  “Come now, we must make haste.  I expect that the Garrison will need your words Ironhorse--and Lady Dinah… just try not to get in the way.”

    Dinah looked at the thin elf woman with a sneer.   Sh’inti led Ironhorse by his arm towards the armored squad who stood at attention only a few yards away.  Her thin hand rested on the sheathed sword she kept at her side.  Her palms itched to grip the handle and charge into battle.  The waiting she felt was the worst of what she’d felt since she marched from the gates of the city.

    “LISTEN UP!” Ironhorse barked as he came to a stop in front of the tightly packed group of four hundred armored men and women.  Each one of them lifted their heavy metal coated skulls toward the large man who now stood in front of them.  Each one—including Dinah couldn’t help but be glued on the living legend that stood before them.  “I know that they out number us.  Exact count is unknown but there’s a hell of a lot of them.  However what we lack in numbers we make up with in territory.  And the Fire Elves and Dark Elves both have no clue what they are marching into.  It’s our job to keep it that way.”  The large elf turned his head towards the way he came.  “In a few minutes we’re all gonna hear the archers take aim and start shooting.  It will be our responsibility to allow the archers get away time before we move back and do the process again.  We are going to whittle them down to a skeleton.  From there, well… we all know that a forest hates fi—“ Ironhorse’s head suddenly turned around as the sound of arrows began firing from the trees, his future pep talk halted by oncoming war.

    The large warrior pulled the great axe that had been strapped to his back free from its harness.  Leather straps tore free from the light armor the man wore.  His gaze turned to Dinah who stood with her own sword drawn her eyes glued to the trees ahead.  “Don’t worry lass yer father will be just fine.”

    “Let’s do this.” Lady Dinah smiled.

    “Yeah let’s,” Ironhorse sneered.  He brought his large arm upwards, the great axe being forced up into the air—the Dwarven metal glittered as it caught the yellow moon rays shimmering across the wet forest.  “CHARGE!” he called, his voice loud enough to make Dinah’s ears ring.

    Lady Dinah plunged her body forward, her heavy footfalls sinking into the peat at every step.  Only a step behind her ran Ironhorse, his great axe held between his two mammoth hands.  Fleets of arrows whispered across the terrain as they ran—Dinah however couldn’t shake the feeling something was definitely wrong. 

    As the sentry of troops fronted by the Lady Dinah and Ironhorse came near the valley where the large mob of Fire Elves and Dark Elves charged onwards, a shiver grew down her neck.  She tried to shake it as the anticipation of battle, and instead she put her shield out in front of her. 

    The arrows stopped almost instantly as the garrison moved in.  Archers in-like began to leap from the trees moving back from their former perches.  The sounds of the light footed landings however where drowned out by the gnashing of metal on metal, as swords collided with shields.  Axes bit through armored bodies like they were made of tinsel.

    “Defend yourselves!” Ironhorse yelled to his men, as he whirled the large blade in his two hands.  The iron head of the axe was smeared in the scarlet scatterings of blood and elven matter.  His powerful blows broke through the mob with each strike, casting bodies aside not unlike gored rag dolls.

    “Ya know I wonder what these shields were for?” Dinah mused as she tensed her thin forearm forward, the golden shield catching a scimitar in mid strike.  She let her body go slack as she shifted her weight to ride the blow.  Her left hand swung inwards, the long sword jousted, piercing into the side of her former combatant.

    “More fight less talk!”  Ironhorse reeled.  He pushed his shoulder forward into the mob of countless warriors, the firm bone of his arm catching an unlucky jaw in a bone shattering movement.  His two hands came down low the weight of the axe weighing on his form.

    “Taking some of your own advice wouldn’t hurt you daft lummox!” Dinah cried as she brought her swords to the left catching the blade of another’s.  The iron clashed and vibrated the flimsy wrist of hers.  She moved her position to her haunches momentarily as she spun her body counter clockwise ridding herself of the grid lock of blades matched.  Her shield came forward impacting the dark elf’s skull in a sick splat.

    It was only as Lady Dinah’s body regained footing, as she swung her sword back into guard position that things went silent on the battle field.  Her eyes widened as the large mob that lay in front of her and the rest of the garrison began to spread to the sides of where she stood, like a great path amidst the masses of people.  Her ears registered a small humming sound that sparked to life in her, the very little arcane knowledge she possessed.
   
“By the Great Oak!” the female warrior whispered as her dry eyes caught the orangish spark at the mouth of the great column of warriors. Her very heart lurched into her throat as heat lashed towards the men, some of which were still battling the now columned unified troops.

    “EVERYONE OUT OF THE WAY!” the female yelled as loud as her small lungs could carry her.  The sharp piercing scream that extruded from her mouth caused everyone on the field to pause if only for a second.  This voice, it had been passed from her mother the human queen of these elves, they called it the Canary’s Scream.  Not as mystical as it was thought to be, but it did what it needed to.  Up close however it was sure to allow one to mark a finishing blow.  However there would be no finishing blow here.

    The sentry troops turned to the mouth of the great gauntlet of the soldiers.  Each one taking in the glimmer of orange that crackled like a great lightening made of fire.  Each elf felt the hair rise on the backs of their necks.  Every soldier quickly began to dive out of the way as the lightening grew bigger, the great light, illuminating the shadows that once danced across their toneless faces.

    The humming sound intensified as the streaks of the orange lightening collapsed into one another.  They began to wrap around one another as though it was a ball of string.  The fire elf druids only continued their chants, the great ball increasing in size and diameter. Then without much more than pause, the druids hushed themselves… for but a split second… before the chorus shouted with bleeding throats… “Vamo!” and the great ball of flame rushed through the gauntlet that stood like a spread sea in front of them.

    The great ball’s path burnt and sundered everything in its way, as its fire body sped through the landscape.  The great heat washed over the faces of those who watched, the great grasses of the forest reduced to blackened wisps to mark its coming.  The soldiers at the edge of the great path felt their bodies burn and ache before they combusted into smaller balls of flame.

    Lady Dinah however growled as she realized there was little she could do.  She had no where to go.  Immediately her shield flung to the right in a hard right cross.  The metal buckler impacted the tough armor of the soldier who stood to her right; his light body was tossed across the ground hard.  The flame ball sped towards her.  Her body stood silent as she raised the shield to meet the enormous fireball that neared her.  “DINAH!” roared, a voice behind her-- the lady-princess could not turn to register the scream.

    For as long as Ironhorse could remember he had protected people without much thought.  The only love that existed to him was one of country.  Or so he always told himself.  Even his friendship with the king, and his kindness to his men, they all existed because he was a soldier… and it was natural for him to do such things.  However as he pushed himself forward, to the destination of the great flame ball which was creating a trail of charred earth—there was another love that welled up inside.  One that he had kept inside, for going on ten years, unknown to the great soldier that love would have went unrequited. 

    The large man leapt upwards his massive girth challenging the laws of physics.    The great heat of the fireball licked at his face as he landed in front of the Lady Dinah.  The soft soil underfoot gave way loudly; he shifted his body towards the great flame.  The great axe he held firmly in his hands pointed up at the coming ball of fire.  The massive heat caused the small stubs of hair on his scalp to catch fire even as his eyes struggled to remain open.  The warrior let out a growl as he saw the flame in front of his body.  The large warrior lunged towards the ball; his skin burnt and erupted into boils within moments.  The great axe came down with all his might.  The heavy metal head cleaved the ball in two, in one mighty attack.

    The force of the attack sent an explosion over the heads of the warriors who stood there.  The great heat causing bodies to combust into flame, as the fiery force struck in six directions.  Lady Dinah was taken off her feet as the force struck her chest.  Her leather armor was charred by the intense heat, as she was pushed back by the blunt of the explosion. Her dainty body landed only moments later rolling to the charred ground like a sack of processed meat.

    As the thick arms of the fire launched from the single powerful attack-- by the legend of the wood elves--they webbed outwards in orange coils darting across the landscape.  Each arm catching the tips of trees and limbs and in some cases waiting bodies.  The fire erupted in a matter of moments on all sides of the forest.  Orange flames flickered to life spreading across the limbs of the great oaks, and maple trees.  Warriors on both sides of the battle also did their part, running through the thick trees frantically, as the great flames rose off their bodies.  In only a matter of moments the great forest was blanketed in great orange flames, tearing across the landscape, bringing the destruction it sought.

   
    King Oli’ver watched in horror as he stood perched on a great cliff overlooking the ground level of the forest.  His green eyes watched silently as he witnessed the great fireball meet its end at the head of what could have only been his closest friend, Ironhorse.  His black gloved hand gripped the wood of his bow.  The singular crackle of wood cascaded over his sensitive ears.  He also heard the mumblings from the druids who stood only inches away from him.  He couldn’t help but wonder if there was anyway to stop this atrocity. 

    As the great muscles of black smoke began to rise from the tops of the old trees he could feel the horror intensify.  The black smoke camouflaged his sight from the battle field.  He could not see inches away from his nose.  The only way to even assume where he was was the cold soil that his legs rested on.  The sky was shielded from the moon’s light as the deep black smoke continued to trail upwards.  His eyes burned, streaked with red veins.  “We have to stop this fire.  It’s already out of hand,” the king shouted, trying his best to not show emotion.  His best friend was probably dead; his greatest warriors were in the midst of a battle with foes that they could not see.  The greatest threat the elves have ever faced--Merlyn--was out there somewhere, and even still his daughter could very well be dead.

    “I’m sorry my lord.  The fire is too vast.  Even if we could summon a rain storm, it would not be enough,” one of the druids spoke.

    “You can’t just say that?  The forest is being eaten alive!” the king screamed.

    “There is one way,” another of the druids spoke.  The other elderly men went quiet as they looked at the speaking magician.  “It is called the Whispering Waves; it draws on water in the air and in nature.  Regretfully there is not enough here with the smoke and fog.”

    “How about the elven body?” the king asked.  His eyes turned wide as he looked at them.

    “I suppose this would work my king.  But we cannot allow this great sacrifice.”

    “Well you’re not the king,” Oli’ver growled. “So just tell me what I’m supposed to do.”


BOOK III:

The Plight of Sacrifice


    The smoke from the fire thickened the already darkened sky.  Every intake of breath burnt of sulfur and burning hair.  The great King of the Wood Elves stood on the edge of the hill that overlooked the basin of the forest to the east of the Crimson Round.  Despite his best efforts to avoid it, his body shook in terror, as he went over the scenario again in his head.

    He was to be the catalyst to stop the further spread of the fire.  There was only one way to stop this--to extinguish the ever spreading flames.  And that was his sacrifice; anyone would be scared, even a great hero like the famed Green Arrow.

    “Give me your arm,” one of the druids spoke.  His voice was shaky and high pitched.  It was almost heart warming to the king to realize that it was just not he who was terrified of this moment, but also those who would just be watching.  Perhaps because these were the last words that anyone would ever speak to the King of the Wood Elves.

    “Very well,” the King spoke, thrusting his arm at the small and elderly wood elf.  The druid took the arm in his left hand.  Holding it at the elbow in vice like grip, his right hand held an old dagger whose metal had long been sheathed with the brown scabs of dried blood.  The king’s guess was that it was from countless sacrifices and rituals, and most of the blood that marred that blade was the owner’s.
   
    Oli’ver winced as the ancient blade slid across his outstretched palm, the blade easily splitting apart his warm flesh.  The warm red fluid funneled from the pulsing veins, babbling like a brook across his skin.  He was used to being cut on the battle field.  His body was full of scars from all sorts of weapons over the years, but this wound-- this stinging tempered his mind with significance.  It was only the chanting that began to erupt from the druid’s collective voices that caused him pause.  The king’s eyes stared over the cliff of the hillside that stood just above him.  The mystical song only a chorus of what was to come next.  His heart beat against his chest as he looked to the burning forest.  Fear daggered through him like a cold chill.  His hand would be enough they had said.  Just his right hand…

    “JUMP! DO IT NOW” the aging druids shouted from behind him.  The coterie for voices, stiffening the king’s back, not unlike a surprising blizzard; he took a deep breath and took a step forward.  His knees bowed inward for only a slight moment before his back stiffened, his arms spread out.  Another breath and with all the strength he could well up he pushed himself forward, his body leaping to the vacant spaces above.

    Just his right hand…

    The wind lashed at his long blond hair as he fell through the air.  The cold air hissing like salt against his exposed wound.  His left hand held the bow tight as he descended.  The bow whom had been with him so long, the one thing he never had to think twice about.

    Just his right hand…

    The mystical energies crackled as they took shape in the flooding blood that streamed from the wound on his palm.  Crisp blue electricity crackled to life as it formed through his hand, burning and itching as he fell.  Oli’ver tried to watch the coming fires despite the fogging of the dark smoke.  Pain like he never felt welled up inside him as the mystical energies inside his hand expanded pushing his skin to the very limits. 

    The king tried to think of thoughts to rid himself of the numbing pain… the love of his life, Diana, their children Dinah and Conn'r… his adopted son… Roy’ian.  He was doing this for the Star Citadel… he prayed this was not in vane.

    Just his…

    The energies compressed in his right hand exploded in a torrent of energy, the chaotic cluster launching from where he was, creating a bluish web across his own sight.  It paused but for only a moment, before the queer lighting exfoliated a bright flash. 

    Oli’ver himself wasn’t sure exactly happened after that.


    “Don’t let up!” Dinah screamed, trying to clear the heavy smoke from her eyes.  Only the sound of the wind catching the metal of her opponent’s axe gave her enough warning to veer her shield about face; just enough time to catch the axe head.  Her nimble body turned, her heels easily digging into the damp peat as she slanted her body towards her opponent.  She bent her elbow as she brought her arm forward, exposing the blade to the fire elf’s stomach--however she wasn’t sure if it connected.  A bright blue wave of light instead rid her of such spoils.  Her eyes throbbed with pain as she stopped silently, using her ears and nose as her only guides.

    A stinging smell of precipitation enclosed her nose.  A musty dank smell, her mind lit with horror as she realized what was happening.  Her training in druidic magic assisted her a second time in this battle, as her mind reminded her of The Whispering Waves.  She turned to open her mouth, as the large waves of water dropped from the heavens in bone shattering volume.

    Lady Dinah had little chance to warn the men and women of the army, as the large torrents of water hit the ground, like concrete bricks.  The large water balls, busting through the peat causing dirt and mud to splatter on impact, many of the warriors-- wood elves and fire elves alike-- had little chance to take cover as the water hit ground zero.  If Dinah herself wasn’t feeling her army wean as she was forced hard to the ground, then she might have registered guttural screams, and the snapping of bones.

    The legions of armies broke apart like a rusty chain, as the water bombs continued to drop from the heavens, causing massive waves, and landslides-- multiple natural disasters in one sitting.

    Lady Dinah pushed her body upwards as she clambered to reach air again.  Her shield that still stood gripped in her hand pushed a floating body to the side as her head sprung up the murky depths.  “What the hell is going on?” she screamed.  There was no answer.  The water’s currents pulled on her as the body of water began to drift over the side of the hill.  The massive amounts of dead bodies being pulled with it--she moved her body towards the limb of a tree.  Her legs burned with the stress, as she reached her free hand out--her fingers mingling with the branch.   With all her might she pulled herself to the base of the tree.  Her thin arms rippling with the muscles she gained with so many years of training.  The tides however felt unrelenting.


    “I suppose this worked out better than I could have guessed,” Merlyn mused as his eyes glowed with red colored radiance.  “’Course it looks this battle not only decimated the Wood Elves army, but mine as well.”  The Warlord’s body levitated only inches above the falling water.  His head craned up at the general of the fire elves who held onto a branch by his hands.

    “You did what you wanted to, Merlyn.  You have defeated the Wood Elves.  By their nature magicks, and your adversary, King Oli’ver appears to be dead,” the elf spoke pulling himself up onto the branch.  His altitude allowed the escaping from ever sinking waters below.

    “I voodent counth on that,” a muzzled voice called from behind the warlord.  Merlyn snapped his head around quickly.  Hunched behind him stood King Oli’ver.  His long blond hair sat matted across his weathered face, his bow held tight with his left hand, the arrow drawn with his mouth.

    “Your missing somethi-“ Merlyn tried to get out in a quip as his head turned to face his long time enemy.  Though, Oli’ver had other plans as he let go of the arrow that was pulled back with his teeth.  The arrow slipped through the thick air with little sound or restriction.  The arrow head pierced through the neck of the Warlord, slipping through the tough muscle with only a slight hissing sound.

    The Warlord’s eyes went large as the pain hit him.  His mouth motioned to speak as blood flooded down his chin like a waterfall.  A moment of silence passed between the two rivals before the Warlord fell from his post.  His body hit the few inches of water that remained in a splash.  “I should have done that ages ago,” the king mused.  The general stared at him from across the short distance between them.

    “As much as the elf got on my nerves,” the general growled… “He did what needed to be done, just as I am!”  The general dove from the limb, his arms stretched fully towards the crouching king.  Their bodies collided on impact, the two of them falling from the tree in a knot of tangled limbs.

    King Oli’ver’s back hit the water first in a large splash.  His spine cracked as he hit the submerged forest floor.  The pain stiffened his body for a moment; it took that long for him to realize he was under a few feet of water.  He let out a roar letting the air escape from his lungs in bubbles from his mouth, as he pushed his only hand upwards.  The bow he held smashing into the ribs of the general.

    The general’s body was pushed from the water with the resistance of surface friction.  His body somersaulted as it splashed back into the water.  The king pulled his head from the water.  His hair dripped of cold water across his freezing face, and he took in large gasps of air as he sat there a moment on knees.  His bloodshot eyes staring at the General of the Fire Elves who finally began to get back to his feet, his red tunic pressed against the elf’s clammy body like a second skin.  “You are a worthy foe, Green Arrow,” he spoke as he righted himself.  “But your day has reached dusk,” he mentioned as he unsheathed the sword from his hip.

    “I know,” the king spoke, solemnly.  His limbs burned like a fire as he tried in vane to pull his body into an upright position.  “It’s just upsetting it has to be under these craven circumstances.”  Even if he wanted to move he could not.  Every ounce of energy that he had when the day started had been sapped from him.

    “No more words,” the general said as he lunged towards the King of the Wood Elves.  The old king watched as the tarnished long sword lashed towards him.  In the mere moments before the blade struck, he was reminded of his life of valor and strength.  When the blade pierced into his chest, there was but a smile on his face.  Blood flooded from the wound.  Tendrils of crimson clouded the water as the greatest King of the Wood Elves fell back into the murky depths.


    “FATHER NO!” Lady Dinah shouted.  Her high pitched voice caused the very trees to shake.  The voice bouncing from wooden trunk to the water and back again, but she didn’t listen for the shoddy natural acoustics.  Her mind was on her father whom she saw just fall back in the water twenty feet away.

    She pushed herself from the branch she had scurried to when the water’s current was taking her comrades and opponents.  She buried her mind away from her fear and the fact she let many lives be taken this day.  Lives she could have saved.

    “Your Mother wouldn’t have allowed that,” she mused to herself thinking of her father’s words.  “Hell your insane brother Conn’r would not have allowed that… then again he’s in druidic training... so I don’t think he’s allowed.”  Her two feet hit the water running.  The spirits of water brought beads of water in solid splashes, as she pushed herself towards her fallen father and the man who had murdered him in cold blood.  Deep down she knew this is how he hoped to end it.  On the battlefield, but hell if she was not going to let all this anger not be unleashed.

    “FATHER!” the young half elf screamed as she brought her left hand onto the hilt of the sword.  The metal of the blade screeched as she pulled it free from the scabbard.  Her eyes narrowed with conviction as the small blobs of black silhouette came into a rushing focus.  The grayish smog that clouded most of her perception unmasked the muted greens and browns of the large trees.  The smog’s painful scratching of her eyes appeared to be brought back as tears dripped from her eyes.

    The General turned as he pulled his blade from the cadaver of the former King of the Wood Elves.  A smile slipped across his thin lips as his head turned to see the charging form that splashed towards his position.  He was momentarily taken aback by the vivid blond hair that capped behind her--ringlets of stunning satin, which had no place on the body of a warrior with honor and virtue.  “Your father is no longer with us.”  The general grinned.  He brought his left leg forward, his nimble waist turning, delicate movements gently sending ripples across the water that he stood in.

    “You die this day!” the princess growled.  “If not by my hand, then by the hands of my brothers; whom will wait on your caravan, to siege the citadel…”

    “As long as the siege happens, my death will be merry.  But what of you?” he spoke and brought his sword in front of him.  His elbow bent just so slightly, the angle of the blade in the en guard position.

    “Don’t count on it,” Lady Dinah spoke in a hushed whisper.  Her right foot stepped forward.  Her hands poised on the hilt of the sword swung hard, in a diagonal sweep.  The fire elf smiled as he brought his own blade upwards to meet the coming long sword.  Lady Dinah brought her left foot around, crashing it into his thigh.  The general smiled as he was pushed backwards a few steps, dropping the guard of his blade for the blink of an eye.

    Dinah watched his movements, her own sword posed halfway between her neck and waist.  The general spun his body around, the sword angled with his left arm as he brought the blade towards her right.  Dinah’s left leg stepped to the right her body turned bringing the blade in a vicious right cross hammering down on the blade.

    Easily with the flick of his wrist the elf broke the guard.  His body lunged at her his head smashing into hers.  The force sent the much lighter half elf stepping backwards.  The general smiled as he lashed his sword towards her.  Taken unaware the princess tried to counter the fast slash but within moments she felt the warm sensation as the blade caught her shoulder.  Shifting her weight to the right she pushed her sword into a counter strike, trying to forget about the pain on her left shoulder.

    The general smiled as he brought his own blade upwards catching the blade once again.  “You’ve got tenacity,” the general mused as he met her blade.  He swung to his right freeing the blade at first, then came in low in a slash to her stomach.  The slash separated the charred leather armor easily.  “But you are outmatched, and outclassed.  Why your father even let you on the battle field is beyond me.”

    “Oh right,” She smiled.  Her own blade was brought upwards, her blade clipped by the general’s, but it did little to protect him against the powerful shoulder slash.  The blade cutting through the chest section of his tunic, the princess growled her free right hand was brought forward, the tightened fist catching his jaw.  “I guess your superiors ask the same questions about you!”

    The general took a few steps back.  His hand rubbed his now blackened jaw.  “Yes I was right about you.”  He smiled.  “Beautiful and deadly.  Definitely changes my opinions on the humankind.”

    “Shut up!” she spat as she stepped forward, her whole body darting towards him.  The tip of her blade slid towards his neck.  The general went low.  His free hand, pushed forward with incredible speed slamming into the slash he had just made moments before.  The strike took Dinah off guard for only a moment.  The ache of having the wind knocked out of her was all that the general required.  He pushed his body upwards; his arm went up high as he posed the butt of his sword into a deadly slant.  The back of the sword smashed into the base of her neck.  The impact caused the princess’s body to go limp instantly, as she dropped to the floor.

    She tried to stay conscious as her brain fluttered.  Her eyes stayed tightly shut as the waters splashed across her cheek.  As she fought for consciousness she could hear the fading voice of the General of the Fire Elves.

    “We must find a place to camp this night, and call reinforcements from the villages.  Tomorrow we will start our march to the Star Citadel.  Nothing will stand in our way.”


BOOK IV:

To These Fallen Heroes


    “He is dead!” The fractured cry of the would-be druid, Conn’r echoed from wall to wall of the wooden pits of the Oakram.  The wide eyed half elf turned to look at his master, the bronze colored sand elf whom he’d known more so as a father than the man he had felt leave the mortal coil only moments before, in his deep meditation.  “My father has fallen, as has his eternal adversary.  But yet the Warlord’s army marches towards us.”

    “You have forgotten one keen ingredient in your knowledge, however my prince,” Jen’san spoke in only a solo register above a whisper.  “Your sister has survived, along with a small handful of troops.  Not nearly enough to turn the tide, but enough to turn the heart of the general.”

    “We should alert the Harpers who with Roy’ian; guard the gates even as we speak.  Even if we cannot resurrect my father, someone needs to command in his place.”

    “Wise words from the black token, my prince, but now we have not the time to prance and mourn.  We must prepare the citadel for the battle of our lives.  Grab your bow, and seek out your brother.  I will call onto the citizens who remain. And begin the designs to fortify our city.”

    “As you wish master,” the prince spoke sagely.  He slowly rose from the dirt and moss floor.  His slender body moved like a weed in the wind as he stood, the same teaching that his master had taught him for so many years.  The defensive fighting styles of the sand elves, along with the cryptic hymns of the druids of his people.  Of course, there was also the archery that the king demanded he learned even while he was not to be placed as a soldier… archery the only thing that seemed to make him truly seem like the son of the king.  Of course his foster brother Roy’ian also had a knack for archery, but Roy’ian’s skills were not as stringent as Conn’rs.  No Roy’ian had a gift for anything he could throw.  He was a true marksman, in every conceptual fashion… that’s where he got his nickname from… Arsenal.

    The boy prince stood silently as he watched his master turn his back to him.  The quick movement didn’t go unnoticed by Conn’r, nor did his sprint towards the door.  He had never seen his master move so brash.  Never once had he seen the silken robe that fit snuggly about his master’s robust form move even in the slightest when the sand elf walked.  Now it did... like a virtual wave of fabric.  The half elf bowed his head as the room went still.  “You will be avenged father.  Your city will not fall,” the-would-have- been druid whispered mostly to himself.

    The boy wrapped his own silken kimo close to his thin body as he walked towards the door.  As the prince’s footsteps echoed across the dirt and moss, something caught his eye leaning against the wall right by the door.  A single bow… a wooden bow, which’s craftsmanship was enough to make the boy stop his stride and look down at the magnificent weapon.  He leaned down to view it more carefully. When he saw the green script that was carved delicately, horizontally down the base of the bow…

THE GREEN ARROW

    The young prince tried hard to curb the spike of emotion that burned his eyes as he scooped up the mysterious bow.

    “I do hope this provides with the rewards I seek,” a strange voice called as the young elf disappeared through the doorway.  “Not just me but all of Metarun hangs on such a thin string.”


    Lady Dinah woke up to wet splash of water across her face.  The cool water ran down her cheeks soothing the bruises which stained her skin.  Her eyes flicked a few times as her sight came into focus, from the recesses of sleep.  A series of faces loomed into her sight as a single voice spoke from behind her.  “It seems that the lady has awakened.  I do hope you had a good rest,” the general jeered.  The half-elf princess tried to move her hands as she turned to see the speaker--though it took little for her to realize her arms had been bound at her wrists.

    “You are a fool,” Lady Dinah vented.  “Many warriors much greater than you have tried to take over the Star Citadel.  Despite the lack of soldiers we have, many wards and traps exist, that most cannot overcome.  And even if you do make it past Sherwood Forest, you will have to fend against the walls, and the Harpers who still remain, trained by Ironhorse.  The best guards in the city.”

    “Your wards do not bother me.” The general smiled as he stepped past the princess.  As he walked his feet sunk into the mushy grass that grazed over the clearing until it came to a stop at a stoop of a great cliff.  The princess lashed her head forward, once more, her shimmering blond hair slid obediently across her purpled cheeks.  “We have already broken the Covet Law once.  And the Curse has not come.  So we shall do so again.  Everything you love dear princess, will be awakened by the great fire and the great darkness; the combined might of the Dark Elves and the Fire Elves.  The Warlord is dead, but he already served his purpose.”

    “Harmony is law, and the cycle is complete.  Each tribe of elves was created to protect harmony by tradition.  Each tribe is to check the other.  When one element flowers over another--when one devastates another… the punishment is trice fold.  Those who seek greed will feel the wrath of the Great Mother,” the princess recited from her lessons as a child.

    “Bedtime stories.  As you can see… nothing has happened.  And soon the scourge of elven kind will be but a footnote in history.”

    “Try as you might, the Great Mother does not bluff.  I would fear her wrath if I were you, General.  And if not hers, then that of my brothers.”

    “Oh right, the exile and the druid.  I think I’d be scared of the Great Mother before your brothers.”  He smiled.  “Our reinforcements should arrive by sunset tomorrow.  So I thought we’d camp here, overlooking your beloved forest, for tomorrow it will be but ash and cinder.”


Book V:

Enemy at the Gates


    The morning came as unrelenting as any morning; the wood elves had ever cared for.  Throughout the night, the entire population of the Star Citadel worked building up defenses on the walls of the great city, and forging weapons for battle.  Most of the army had gone to the battle at the Crimson Round, and by the time night came everyone in the city knew the outcome of that battle.  Thankfully to both Roy’ian and Conn’r, no one had spoken about the new King of the Wood Elves.  Instead everyone was too busy readying for the daylight to come.

    Great catapults were pushed near the corners of the walls of timber and stone that for generations hence had been a sign of stability, a series of walls that had closed off the citadel from the rest of the world.  For many of those who lived in the city they had never a reason to peer over the gate, they had no reason to realize what existed outside the great city they helped to make prosper.  Now however, every man and woman who could bare arms stood looking over the walls.  They were coming, and despite their lack of belief in the old ways of the druids, they did not discount the words from the prince and his master Jen’san--Jen’san who had not been seen since before nightfall the previous night.  The rumors were of course he and the druids of the city were gearing up for some ancient ritual of battle, one that had not been used since the times of the Great War.

    The sky streaked of orange, the great muscles of white clouds stumbled through the blue as the sun rose up from the very edge of the earth to spring to the new day.  However despite the tranquil day that earth had brought; there was no singing in the sky.  It was hard pressed not to see an error in such things.  However Roy’ian the newly appointed Commander of the Guard was waiting for the first sign of the march.  They could not be too far way.  It was too quiet in the forest for this.  For the last six hours he sat transfixed on the horizon that stretched out beyond the tops of the great oaks and maple trees that bloomed everywhere as far as one could see.  His foster sister was captured. Conn’r and Jen’san had spoke of his father’s death as well as the demise of Ironhorse.  He would be ready to avenge the deaths of his loved ones and his soldiers and friends.  His sister would return to them.  He was ready.  There was much payment due.

    “Sir! To the left!” a voice shouted from his side.  The Fire Elf turned his head to the shouting.  The small and clumsy elf was red on his cheeks as he flung his arms about wildly.  “Sir!  I see smoke… and--“ Suddenly the young elf’s face went slack as great orange flames tore like a great storm over the tops of the trees in the distance and quickly spread like a snake towards the very walls.  Roy’ian’s heart thumped in his chest in sheer terror as he saw the great flames with speed he had only heard about in stories of the Halflings of the Central Shires.  Roy’ian lunged past the clumsy elf and grabbed the small string that hung a few inches overhead.  The clappers went off with a loud noise.

    Below the tower the few soldiers that had remained in the city began to rise from their resting spots.  Shifts of leather armors and swords sounded off like a chorus of percussion.  Bows were pulled up in a clatter and strings drawn notched with arrows.  Roy’ian paid little heed to the chorus and activity below him. Instead his eyes stayed on the approaching flames which moved ever quickly.  His hand was on his sword, even if he knew there was little he could do.  How would one stop a fire as this?  In those moments that followed Roy’ian, heir to the throne felt as defenseless as he ever could recall, and perhaps ever would be.

    “OPEN THE GATE!” a voice shouted… a voice that pierced the ears of the silent prince.  A voice with such power that it moved Roy’ian’s paralyzed state with such ease he swore it was his father.  The blue eyes of the fire elf peered down below him to see the dark complexion of his brother standing calm, garbed in not battle armor, but instead an emerald robe—a druid’s robe.  However what truly made him look in shock was the bow that was held in his hand and a quiver of arrows hanging from his back.  The druids were not warriors, they were magicians.  They did not battle like warriors.  Yet there his brother stood with the handful of druids at the gate, led by the Druid Master Jen’san.

    “RAISE THE GATE!” Roy’ian shouted to his men in a booming voice, one both of terror and pride.  The doors to the gates shifted in their position. They slid across the ground in force.  The druids stayed silent as they waited for the enormous doors to open just large enough for them to get through.  However, the captain of the guard did not wait for much of anything.  No, Roy’ian had already unsheathed his sword and pushed his body towards the rope ladder.  “As soon as they are out we must give them defense.  I don’t know what they are planning but they are our last salvation!  Move everyone!  Move!  Fortify positions!”


    Conn’r tightened the grip on the bow he held.  He felt the blood quickly coursing through his body as the druids began to snake out of the small slit in the gate.  He tried to remember the cold grass that rushed across his bare toes as he followed the others.

    The seven druids spread out like an elven wall in front of the coming flame.  Each one grabbed the hands of those whom were close to them.  Conn’r’s hand was held by Jen’san who only smiled as the young prince looked to him.  The prince’s free hand was holding onto the mysterious bow he had found only hours before.  The bow that had seemingly appeared... with the cryptic words ‘Green Arrow’ carved into its wooden body.  He forced the bow down onto the soft earth, like a staff, the very energy of the earth running back through the bow and into his body.

    “A staff fashioned into a bow.  I’ve never seen the like.”  Jen’san smiled.

    “Suppose someone’s trying to tell me something.”  Conn’r nodded.

    “Perhaps... but now is not the time for complex thoughts,” the Master Druid reminded him.  The old elf looked at the boy for a moment, a smile covering his face.  Slowly, he shifted his head back towards the oncoming flame.  His chubby neck stretched upwards to the sky.  “We are ready,” he spoke, not as a question but as a statement; his voice cracking as he spoke.  “Tae lon bredth,” he began, his words doubling over as though a second voice was being intertwined with his own.  The energy the bow had sapped from the very earth ebbed across the boy’s body funneling towards the hands of the old druid.

    “Tae lon bredth...” he repeated, and this time the other druids repeated his words.  “Tae Lon bredth…” he said a third time, this time Conn’r as well repeated.  “lik von rest…” the collective of druids chanted in chorus.  “Frey du ghret.  Tyvon Mry demst!”  The words got louder as the blue colored energy crackled across the forms of the druids. 

    “FOCUS ALL YOUR MIGHT!” Jen’san shouted as he closed his eyes.  His face growing to a reddish color as he began chanting the words again.  “TAE LON BREDTH! LIK VON REST!  FREY DU GHRET!  TYVON MRY DEMST!”  The energy crackled with an intense fury as arcs of the blue energy shot forward from the druids colliding in a knot.  The webs of energy stretched outwards constructing a field of pure electric tension.  It stood there a moment the spreading fires collided with the wall.  The orange flames licked across the great walls of the energy webs, for only the span of a few moments, before the very flames began to soften its torrent, the tips turning to an azure. 

    The druids began to shout louder.  “TAE LON BREDTH! LIK VON REST!  FREY DU GHRET!  TYVON MRY DEMST!” Conn’r could feel his throat begin to ache; the hand that held the bow was tingling as he tried to hold on.  His voice shouted louder and louder, his eyes still shut.  It was not until he heard a sudden screech of wind and thunder did he finally open his eyes—and what he saw when he did finally open his eyes he would not scarcely believe.

    The flames, which had taken on the same color as the wall that stood before them had turned is heels and retreated the way it had gone, the speed of the energy arcs of the former flames left trails in its wake as it blew past trees and dug up peat.  As the flames retreated snuffing itself out, it uncovered the legion of soldiers which were being scattered and thrown off their feet by the blue torrent.

    The biological Prince of the Wood Elves let a smile craft over his face as he pulled the bow that was a staff from the ground.  His tingling hand gripped the wooden weapon with a fierce hold.  His left hand pulled from Jen’san’s sweaty grasp, plucking a green arrow from his quiver.  “You should get the druids to safety,” Conn’r said in an uncharacteristic manner. 

    Jen’san’s face craned once again to look at his student, with a slow nod.  “Give them hell son,” the druid spoke.

    Conn’r turned to face his master with a nod, as he sprinted towards the fallen soldiers whom were trying to pick themselves from the ground.  His heart beat heavily in his chest as his footfalls stampeded across charred stalks of former trees and grass--the heat from the former flames burning at the soles of his feet.  The small specks of soldiers had began to come closer as he ran, rushing towards what would be the battle field, scarcely fifty yards from the gates he so long ago swore to protect.

    When he neared the sentry of fire elves regrouping, he slowed his sprint to a jog, his foot falls shifted from his heels to the tips of his toes.  He took a few breaths as he looked at the army in front of him, which he guessed was not nearly a hundred-- he focused on what he needed to, tried to clear the thoughts of his own safety, and those elves who were still on the other side of the gate.  He knew his father spent his life caring little about himself--and played the martyr to his cause.  It was only in the right that he now played that role.

    His hips loosened as he felt the winds pushing towards the east.  His eyes watched the scattering of soldiers whom were coming to the west side where the crowds of soldiers were standing seemingly unaware of him. Who had darted amidst the wreckage of the druids’ spell.  However, that would not give him but a few moments once he started his attack.

    Quickly the boy-prince looked beyond the sentry who stood in front of him.  Searching for places archers would be.  They would be whom he’d need to be concerned about.  There was a small valley to the south east, and a pitch that rose from it.  They’d have to shoot into the wind.  He took another breath, as he turned his body towards the east, slanting diagonally… “Bend like the reed,” he remembered his master saying when he was studying the desert elves’ form of fighting.  He drew back the string of the bow and felt the wind as it pushed ever so lightly on the wooden weapon.  His forearm angled across his spectrum of view sliding his sight across the vital points of those running to join the army.  He bit his lip as he released the arrow.

    The arrow slipped into the wind like that of a soaring bird.  The emerald missile found its target’s shoulder as smooth as sword finding its scabbard.  The soldier’s body jarred on impact, knocking the warrior to the ground.  The wood elf however didn’t have time to marvel in his marksmanship.  The arrow alerted the entire legion of warriors who froze instantly.  Every one of them searching through the smog covered barren lands that once had been Sherwood Forest.

    Conn’r continued his diagonal jog picking a second and third arrow from his quiver. Then using his middle finger to create the arch in which the two arrows would fly.  His forearm angled a second time.  Using his bent up elbow as a slant guide he guided the missiles into the eastern winds and let the arrows go.

    Only the exasperated grunts let the boy prince know that he hit his mark.  A fourth arrow had already been pulled from his quiver by then.   He notched it in his bow and set himself up another shot, when the surprising lone voice called from the horde of fire elves.  “THERE HE IS!” the voice shouted.  The voice was of course followed by the disenchanted gurgle of grunts and cries.  The horde came to life like toys, which had just had their windup keys removed.  The high pitched shrieks of leather armors sounded as muscles and positions flexed and changed.

    As the company advanced towards the boy, his pores opened expelling warm sweat.  His arms stiffened and his heart felt as though it was about to push up into his throat.  His mind upon reflex reeled in the options of how to stop the advancing army.  They were small in number--relatively speaking; he would need to slow them down.  He was one of the best hand to hand fighters of the Star Citadel, now that Ironhorse was dead.  However he knew that not even he could take on nearly ninety sword wielding men.  He turned his bow towards one of the blackened poles that spotted the burnt earth… black poles that had once been beautiful trees.  The arrow sunk neatly into the trunk of tree.  The fire elf soldiers had advanced to nearly half his position.  Ironically he wondered as he leapt up to grab a hold of the arrow’s shaft--why the archers hadn’t started firing yet.  Perhaps he wasn’t as noticeable to the warriors as he thought.  Of course with the fog, and the lack of numbers of a true army, the archers had no way to shoot.

    As his left hand grabbed the shaft he stayed where he was a moment.  Dangling by only the strength of his left hand, he closed his eyes for a moment.  His mind recalled advice when he had first arrived at the Oakram.  “To overcome the greatest of obstacles it is not always what you see that delivers you, it is often what you don’t.”  The sounds of the rushing warriors smashing across the charred peat took most of the sound the boy could hear, small sounds of clanking weapons and armor also gave nothing to him.  The only smells he could detect was that of burning flesh, and wood.  The wind he could feel blowing to the east was noticeable enough to the boy as well.

    Conn’r opened his eyes, looking up at his hand throbbing with pain from the burden of holding his weight for so long.  He slipped the bow across his left shoulder.  His left hand quickly grabbed an arrow from his quiver.  The marching of the fire elf warriors was coming closer.  He could hear the sounds of the sword blades escaping from scabbards.  “I’m a wood elf,” Conn’r whispered to himself.  He shifted his weight as quickly as he could towards his back, curving his body, as he did.  The arrow cracked in his grasp as he did so.  He then pushed his weight forward the arrow snapping as he reached the end of his swing.  Kicking legs backwards against the tree he pushed himself off the tree, with as much momentum as he could muster.  His hand let go of the arrow just as it broke in two.  He pushed towards the next charred pole falling to his right side.  He pushed the arrow hard into the former tree.  The metal arrow head vibrating as it slid down the base of the former tree.

    As his feet hit the soft grass the soles of his sandals vibrated from the sheer momentum he landed at.  He bit his lips as not to make a sound.  His head darted from beyond the coverage of the former tree—the tree, which was now little more than an exaggerated spent torch.

    The sentry of fire elves had spread apart from the center of the trail to the citadel gates.  Thirty or so on each side, he’d have guessed.  His eyes watched as a small group of twenty fire elves paraded past the charred stumps searching with their eyes to find the lone archer.  He knew if there was still forest in this area, he would have been able to pick off at least half their number.  However now, he would be lucky to thin out a quarter of their number.  He hoped that his brother Roy’ian had been getting the troops ready at the gates.

    Conn’r slowly slipped the bow from his shoulder, tightly feeling the smooth wood against his three fingers.  His thumb slid across the silken bow string.  His free hand slid to his quiver once more sliding an arrow from it.  As he went to reach for an arrow however he felt the alarm, of his tree hopping only moments before.  He had only a dozen arrows remaining!

    He felt the gulp rising in his throat.  He would have to be careful in what arrows he used.  He also hoped that the men would be ready.  To attack once he brought them into quarters with the wall.  By his estimation the sentry of 90 alone would leave it three of them for every one wood elf.  And he wasn’t even sure what the other divisions had.  Though he knew his people would fight until their dying breath.  The wood elves had gotten fat and lazy, but if one thing remained of who they once were it was the courage they all still possessed... they had to still have that courage!

    Conn’r slid his bow across the coverage of the blackened trees.  His arrow slid across his index finger and thumb, as he notched back the arrow in the bow string.  His eyes slanted slightly as he aimed the arrow toward the opening runner in the party of twenty.  He knew they had no idea where he was as of yet.  He could use their unknowing to his advantage.  Firing shots guiding them out of the brush and right into the sights of the archers at the wall, however if the other divisions of the fire elves were close by it could also spell the end of the citadel, as their archers would be able to easily see the wall archers—it was just a chance he had to take.  It was a gamble his father would have taken.

    He let the arrow go, and watched as the green missile slipped into the neck of the fire elf who had taken point.  The arrow slanted; as it entered the neck.  It looked to be pointing towards the eastern trail.  Conn’r laid his back hard against the tree he had chosen to hide amongst.  He could feel his robe cling to him as he watched and waited.  To see if his arrow trick did what he wanted it to.  He let his ears remain fixed to the party of Fire Elves.

    “He must be close to the trail,” one of the lone voices spoke.  Their steps began to snap further and further away from his position, as they spoke.
   
    “In life nothing is simple.  Only complex riddles that guise as simple things.” Conn’r was reminded of as he slid from his cover.  He leaned forward taking careful steps.  His eyes and ears listened to the capricious sounds that took away from the silence that would have fallen over the forest should the fire elves had left the charred forest as it was.

    It was hard for Conn’r not to note the sadness in the air as he walked silently through the charred ground.  This wasteland that had once been his home, a place he remembered as a child.  A place his father had fought so hard to protect.  The deep greens of the leaves, now just a memory.  A memory that had to be kept as his ears heard the snapping of a twig twenty yards to his right.  He skillfully drew another arrow from his quiver, “Ten left after this one,” the archer reminded himself.  From the distance he stood in they were but specks in the distance.  Conn’r growled as he went to aim for the shot.  His hands shook with fear when he leaned towards the eastern winds once again.  Winds that had no restrictions, now that Sherwood Forest had been reduced to mere cinders…

    The arrow flew from his bow, the angle shifting to a diagonal cross; the wind pushing the arrow ever so slightly.  Conn’r sighed as he saw the wiggle in the arrow’s flight.  The missile went only mere centimeters off target, clipping a nearby blackened tree with the strength of a skilled archer. 
 
    Conn’r sighed with a heavy breath. He looked to the small specks as voices called from those twenty feet away.  “He’s this way!” the voices shouted.  The small specks began to run towards the position he now hid towards.  His ears picked up the ruffling of leaves to his east, to his south and to his west.  His fine ears pin pointed four separate groups of sounds each coming from different directions.

    His original plan was in fact to bring the sentry out of the brushes and close enough to the gate to allow the archers to pick them off.  But perhaps this would work just as well.  Of course there was a chance the archers would hit him. 

    “Well it was a good life,” the half elf that would be given the name “Green Arrow” said out loud.  He pulled another arrow from his quiver and quickly notched it in his bow.  His slanted eyes looked towards the west.  His eyes following towards the trail that tracked up to the very gate of the citadel.  Only the small waves of the smoke as it approached the invisible barrier even gave him knowledge it was there.  “Damn it Roy’ian your men better be ready.  Cause hell if I’m fighting all of them.”  His heart lunged in his chest as he wondered if the others knew what was coming if they were going to fight at all.

    His eyes looked toward the east once again as the small specks of earlier were now turning into full silhouettes.  He could make out the very swords being drawn.  His ears also could hear the cries from other groups of sentry officers.  Each ready to have his blood saturate their blades.  Conn’r leapt forward finally. His body grated his left as he turned. He made the diagonal sprint that he made only minutes before after the great flame had been extinguished. It was then that he wondered where Jen’san and the druids had got to.  He didn’t see them where he left them... at the mouth where the wall had been.  All he could do was hope they were safe.

    The Wood Elf’s thin arms panned across his viewing space. He heard voices from all sides of his position.  His eyes flicked quickly from side to side his arms moving with his sight as he looked for the first body to happen into his range.  His head turned as he heard the falling of a burnt out tree.  His arms veered finding the first body from the group.  He had no time to look at the characteristics of the body--it was war after all.  Instead he just found a vital point and let go of the arrow.  A piercing scream shouted out as the arrow hit.  Conn’r however had already plucked another arrow from his quiver.  He reminded himself that he now was down to the last nine arrows.

    He continued his diagonal sprint toward the walls of the Star Citadel.  His lungs pushed harder as he waited for another sound to alert him.  He was unsure how close the remaining sentry was-- or how long the other divisions would wait before the moved in.  He looked to his right side as he got closer to the edge of the trail.  His eyes spotted a group of sentry, who were crossing the cleared ground, a trail that was now nothing more than soot, and memories.  He pulled back the arrow with his fingers sliding it into place against the string.  He gritted his teeth as he panned his arms toward the first body he came across.  He angled his shot for the knee of the fire elf and shot.  The arrow took off clipping through the burnt limbs that no longer held any resistance.  The arrow found its mark shattering the knee cap of the unlucky fire elf.

    Conn’r jumped from the remains of the forest.  He saw the trail within a touch.  His feet touched down, crunching the once grass, with his force.  The sound of course alerted the sentry.  The remaining sentry troops began to jet from the forest.  Moving toward the prince who had just fallen onto the ruff; Conn’r could hear their footfalls even before he looked up.  His body was squatted.  His form bent down and he had little room to draw his bowstring.  His green eyes looked up at the sentry as they began to walk toward his position.  The boy prince felt dry bile rise in his throat. He looked at the sentry.  Behind them three horses also arrived from behind the charred Sherwood Forest, rising from the brush of the forest that succumbed over the crimson hills.  The three horses however were not alone.  A group of twenty archers positioned themselves in front of the horses each one drawing arrows as they walked towards where the prince now stood on his haunches.

    Conn’r felt his heart stop beating as the scene played out in front of him.  As though the world suddenly drove itself into slow motion, he knew this would be the end.  He expected the archers of the walls to have been ready for a counter attack, when he arrived, but it seemed… it seemed that either he was not close to the wall as he thought or… or they were not going to help him this day… perhaps his people had lost their courage as well.  He knew he had the strength inside himself to summon an orb of protection, one of the first spells one learned in Druidic training.  However he was not sure how long that would last.  He would die this day, there seemed little doubt.  But he would not die without honor.  He had given his all.  He’d hope his father who watched on in the branches of the Ethereal Tree, watched with pride.


    Even as Conn’r stood outside the invisible gates of the citadel, his foster brother Roy’ian gritted his teeth at the gate of the wall.  Around him stood a score of twenty warriors each one of them looked proud with their heads hung high. Above them mounted across the top of the wall stood ten archers ducked against the invisible barrier that was the wall of the citadel.  Each one-- like the men below-- were ready to fight.  Every moment they waited, the enemies drew closer to the biological son of the King, the rightful heir to the throne.  Despite the loathing that Roy’ian felt towards the boy prince, he knew that he would not let Conn’r sacrifice himself like their father had… every moment they waited felt like an eternity.

    In the tree that hung only inches higher than the wall, a single Wood Elf now stood.  Roy’ian watched the red faced elf where he stood.  He could feel his palms wet and moist as he waited for the signal.  The clappers would be pulled the moment that it was safe to go.  The plan was simple, the plan that had been formulated by the druids who now stood a few yards from the mouth of the wall. 

    The remaining druids of the town returned after they extinguished the fire with the diversion of Conn’r, all but the master Druid, Jen’san.  Jen’san remained out there somewhere.  This too bothered the Captain of the Guard.  There were a great many variables.  Why couldn’t the druids not unload the plan before hand?  To the fire elf it felt as though there was too much going on.  He felt blind in the way of this battle.  Did they not realize that the life of his sister was at stake?

    The next few moments felt like a river of forever as Roy’ian stayed at the mouth of the gate.  He was expecting that the druids had a way for everything to work out.  Allow them out of the gate without taking loss.  He had hoped so, they were so close to the gate, and the moment they left they would be picked off by the archers he knew they had.  And what of his, own archers, there was but ten of them, and when they stood would they not be easy to hit?  They had no protecting from arrows themselves.  The invisibility ward was all that the great stone provided.  And the archer pits of the wall had fallen from the ravages of time ten years hence.  Foolishly his people thought they were protected by fate.  That surely was a laugh!  When did the Great Spirit ever protect a race from war?  War was what gave the spirit strength.  This is why dwarves were the first race, so that war would always be amongst the great races.  Now, his people paid the highest price for ignorance.  Rather if they lost this day or won, it would matter not, what was true for so long now would no longer have to be.  The death of the king, and also the death of the life they lead had ended with the burning of the forest that surrounded them.


    Conn’r watched the parade of soldiers, which had come to a stop only moments away from where he sat.  He brought his left arm downward, his bow piercing the scorched earth with the bow that was a staff.  He felt the tingled sensation of the energies crackle through his hand up his arm and circling across his shoulders.  His mind focused releasing fear and dread--as he recalled the spell he would chant.  He knew it would not be enough.  His will was strong enough to summon quite a few spells.  But his attention span had never been strong enough to endure the most long standing effects.  Something he had spent much time studying, and still had not bested.

    “Prince Conn’r, it looks as though your people have left you,” a deep voice from behind the archers called out.  A great white stallion stepped from the group of bowmen.  The fire elves moved out of the way to let the beast and its rider past; Conn’r however didn’t look to the speaker on the horse but whom he held cradled in his arm.

    “DINAH!” the boy shouted, the focus of the spell he was calling from his mind sizzling at the sight of his sister.  Even as he saw her he tried to force her from his mind.  It was a side track, and this fire elf knew it.  Conn’r wasn’t sure what made him more upset the fact that Dinah a great warrior was captured by such a coward, or that she was being used to take over their city.

    “I suppose Dinah is her name at the moment, but she’ll lack one soon enough, half-breed.” The fire elf smirked.  “But for now think of her as insurance.  Insurance that those archers hidden within the structure of the infamous invisible wall don’t make any foolish moves now that you, young prince are in my crosshairs.”

    “What, Fire elf, you hide behind a woman now? Scared that despite the odds of your victory against my people that I am going to somehow defeat you and your people?  Why do you fear so?” the prince spoke in a chilling manner devoid of any emotion.  Despite how it sounded however, the young boy was focusing on his spell trying to rid himself of complex thought like emotion.  He wasn’t sure if the fire elf was correct about the archers, at that moment he was sure that there was no hope for him to escape.  He doubted the people of his city, yet he was sure to die for it.  If only to prove the rule of his father wasn’t as damaging as he wanted to believe.

    “Hide behind a woman?” the fire elf bellowed.  “Of course the son of a coward only understands the ways of a coward.  Your father you know begged for his life.”  Even as the words of the fire elf left his chapped lips, Princess Dinah wiggled against his grasp.  Her thick blond ringlets slid uneasily across her sharp cheekbones.

    “Don’t use your petty words to contempt me, Fire Elf!  Your idiocy tries my patience and my father’s virtue,” the boy spoke in the same emotionless demeanor.

    “You bore me boy.  And here I was going to give you your life in return for your exile from the world of Elves.  But as it turns out there is the other option for ending your father’s accursed reign.”

    As the boy heard the arrows of the bow stressed back amidst the bow strings, his mind fumbled on the spell he was planning to say, the fear of death causing his own words to be lost in the bellows of sacrifice.  His green eyes watched as the very arrows dashed towards him.  The last few seconds seemed to be an eternity as he watched for his would be death.  He would take it like a true elf.  The Eternal Tree would reward him with a place amongst its limbs.

    “AETH’S BOON!” Strange cryptic words echoed from wall to wall of the invisible fort that lay in front of the archers whom had only moments ago released collective bowstrings.  An enormous crackle of red energy darted from the sky in front of their eyes.  The blood colored lightning crashed onto Conn’r’s head just as the arrows were to impact him.

    The half elf watched in amazement as his sight shifted to a tint of red, the shafts that drove towards him shattered apart like glass.  He could feel the very energy that encapsulated him, pulsate for the span of two heart beats before it exploded.

    Even as the explosion of the energy occurred, sending the force of pure mystic energy towards the soldiers, a shadowy form slipped from the shadows.  The stalky desert elf dug his fingers into the soot covered ground, “RAE TON ARST!” he sung from his shaking voice.

    The charred ground quaked and rumbled as the very soil rose like a wave.  The very earth pushed upwards into a twelve foot hill in front of the still recovering soldiers.  Jen’san drew a deep breath before he fell to his knees, his hands still submerged in the soil.

    The soldiers of the Fire Elf Army began to back track from their position.  The entire army had been taken off guard both by the explosion of light, as well as the sudden mountain that exploded before their eyes.  Their shock did not go unnoticed however.  Suddenly from the tops of what looked to be where the fire had stopped… where the forest resumed its normal floral rule, ten figures raised up from the confines, drawing arrows into the strings of large bows.

    Conn’r stood silent, just as shocked as the Fire Elf Army as the rain of arrows flew over his head.  He finally moved his head when the great door of the invisible wall grated open behind him.  The darkened forest lit up with the light of a city. Roy’ian charged from the gate, paying little heed to his foster brother who stood spellbound still on his haunches.

    “MOVE IN!” Roy’ian cried as he pushed himself toward the large hill that had been placed several feet away from the wall.  The twenty elves he had gathered followed right behind him.  Conn’r could only watch as the army grabbed hand holds on the mud tower leaping over the summit.

    It was not until the last of the elves had escaped Jen’san’s mound that Conn’r finally raised from where he stood.  His knees popped as he stood, his heart still beating furiously against his chest.  “Let the people whom have lost your faith, reclaim it young prince,” a voice spoke from behind the half elf. 

    Conn’r’s head snapped behind him once again, to face the speaker.  He looked in silence a moment as though what he saw with his own eyes he was having trouble believing.  A tall man stood against the backdrop of the open door.  His form was ethereal--translucent like a specter.  The wraith like being wore full plate armor, the metal glimmering like stars even in the darkened morning.  It was the helm that shook Conn’r to his very being.  The helm looked devoid of décor or details.  At the top it was rounded like a helmet Ironhorse would have worn, but it stretched into a single point at the edge of his face.  The eye slits that the being wore glowed an eerie scarlet color, the same color that emitted from the sky only minutes before.  “You…” Conn’r said weakly.  “I know you.”

    “As many do.  But I don’t think you mean the trials of my mantle,” the ghost spoke.

    “No I saw you, in meditation.  You are a warrior.  You fought with my father, in the great battle.”

    “And again there is a great battle to be fought.  This is why you must let your people fight- this- battle.  The victory will be their own.  And from it they will learn much.  Your father ridded the plague of the Warlord and it cost him his life.  And now young Conn’r you must follow in his footsteps and battle to save not just your Star Citadel, but all of Metarun.”

    Conn’r nodded.  “Will they win this battle?  Will my sister be safe?”

    “All that is to be done is Fate. And as to the outcomes I cannot say.  Only that you must think beyond yourself.  You must exist for everyone just as your father had.”

    “I will go,” Conn’r said in a shaking voice.  His green eyes glazed with tears.  He had heard similar lines spoken by Jen’san in the past.  He felt the wisdom of this golden helmed man shaking through his very bones. 
    “I knew you would,” Fate spoke.


Book VI:

Epilogue

   
    The bodies of the dead stood at the feet of Prince Roy’ian.  He could not tell which of the steaming bodies his friends were and which were his enemies.  His sword stood jetted out from his side.  Its blade was darkened with the blood he shed during the morning light.  His march had not halted even a step as he walked into the battle field-- his muscles throbbing and pulled tight.  Arrows flew back and forth around him.  Bodies lunged towards the fire elf only to be cut down by his aggressive blade.  His eyes were not on the soot covered field where his men still screamed in agony, and sliced through flesh.  Nor had his eyes rested on the walls where he sought to protect.  Instead his eyes were on what laid now several feet in front of him.  A white horse stood surrounded by six metal plated fire elves; each armed with a sword, covering the craven elf.  It was however the woman that was held by the commander he truly sought.  His sister not by birth or blood, just his sister by words, by atmosphere--the sister he loved no matter the reason.

    “A Commander, you call yourself, hiding in the bosom of a woman who holds you no honor. Face me, so you know what your men feel, just once so you can taste the blood of your comrades, or I will strike you from here with no honor.  In death… only in death you will see the mistake of your life.”  Roy’ian’s deep eyes stared up at the commander across the shoulders of the Lady Dinah, his conviction and anger easily showed through his quivering motions.  The commander of the fire elves took a gulp.  He knew the stories of the Prince of the Star Citadel, whom was of fire elf blood.  The traitorous pup, whose skill in battle was so great that there were stories that he could use anything for a weapon.  His accuracy with a bow was as great as his surrogate father’s.  The commander knew that Roy’ian spoke the truth.

    The six men that stood surrounding the white horse collectively lunged forward.  Their scabbards screeching; thick hands pulled swords from scabbards.  “STOP!” the commander spat from his stallion. “This traitor thinks that I do not know the taste of blood and ash.  He doesn’t believe that a man as powerful as I to step to the field of battle.”  His forearm pushed Lady Dinah from the height of the horse.  The warrior princess made a groan as her chest hit the ground splattering blackened soil.  “He must not believe what I told the half breed about his ‘father’.  That I did kill him with the very blade that I now point to him.”

    “Your words mean little.”  Roy’ian said his air of confidence never faltering.  “You can stop your men now and face me, and I can kill them when they avenge you.  Or I can kill them first and come to you.”  The prince continued to look into the eyes of his opponent.  He could see the words he spoke, were that of terror.  He was tired of words.

    The commander pulled himself from the stirrups of the saddle, the leather chair squeaked as his weight was removed from its surface.  His metal boots clanked as his feet hit the soil, soles landing on the strewn mane of the princess.  “This will only take a moment dear.  And then I shall give you a ring made of your brother’s bones.”  His body turned to the crimson haired elf that stood a few feet away.  He looked at the boy’s form as he held the blood crusted blade pointed towards him.  A smile lifted across the commander’s face.  His thick flesh cinched up into folds across his sharp cheek bones. He turned his head towards the bronze hilt on his belt.  His hand slowly reached for the handle, pulling the weapon from its scabbard.  As soon as the sword was slid free from its prison the six elves moved to the side swaying liking living curtains to make a trail for their commander.

    Roy’ian felt the adrenaline begin to course through his tired muscles, as he saw the sword of his opponent drawn.  He did not wait for the elf to cross towards where he stood.  Instead the prince of the Star citadel walked towards the commander.  From behind, the duel that was to take place screams of pain, and the clanks of meeting steel echoed across the barren land that once was the Sherwood Forest.

    Roy’ian did not utter a single word as he thrust his sword towards the heart of the commander.  The commander appeared to simply shift his hips as his body moved from the blade’s thrust.  His own sword clashed into the prince’s knocking the metal weapon from its point of attack.

    Roy’ian felt the vibration singe his very bones as he took a step back his blade retracting to square with his shoulders, his hands tightly wrapped around its handle.  The commander flicked a smile as he brought his sword back up in a mighty slash.  The attack caused Roy’ian to leap back even further--the tip narrowly grazing the leather armor the prince wore.

    Three fasteners dropped from the armor.  A soft pillow of sound sounded into the prince’s ears as his armor was sliced open.  “It is too late to scream for mercy.  But I will make your death less painful than your surrogate father’s if you repent now,” the commander announced.  He did not wait for an answer however; instead he brought his sword toward his chest.  He held the sword above his shoulder, the grey blade angled across his face.

    Roy’ian who still stayed silent lunged toward the commander, his blade flicked diagonal twice in his hands, before he leaped into the air.  The sword rose over his head, and slammed into the waiting blade of the commander.

    The powerful shoulder hammering shook the powerful wrists of the commander, causing a shock through his body, even with the wrist bracers the elf wore.  Roy’ian landed hard on the ground, in front of the dazzled man.  Roy’ian brought his sword back up, leaning the blade to his right side.  “THIS…” Roy’ian shouted as he bought his sword towards the commander in a strong left slash.  The commander brought his sword up slowly, the blade barely rising in time to block the strike.  “…ends…” Roy’ian bellowed out a second word as he shifted his stance, his feet skidding across the blackened soot.  His blade crashed to the right this time.  His blade met near the handle of his opponent.  “NOW!”  Roy’ian shouted.  With the angle the blade caught only a moment before, he spread his left foot from his right.  His weight shifted as he rolled his back across the shoulder of the commander.  The blade slipped in a western slant from the blade of his opponent.  Without the leverage or time to react to the sudden roll slash, the boy slashed into the elf’s side.  The blade slipped between the metal plate armor and the rim of the belt he wore.

    The commander let out a snarl as he stepped from the enraged prince.  “First blood, and not a bad attack.  However, I cannot allow you to enjoy the kill.  Kill him!” he shouted the last words as he looked at the six elves who just moments before he asked to stand down.

    Roy’ian didn’t wait for the six elves to lunge at him again.  Instead he brought his sword squared to his shoulder and stepped forward.  His blade darted with precision and speed as he slammed the blade down across the first elf’s shoulder.  The heavy blade had no resistance as it found the curve between the armor of the shoulder and the soft flesh of the neck.

    As Roy’ian made the first strike the second and third came from behind and to the right of his position; the prince of course had anticipated close quartering from a fighting group.  Pulling the sword free from the first guard he bent to his haunches as the guard from behind him swung a blade overhead.  Roy’ian let the handle of his blade twirl in his hands before he flicked the blade behind him.  Rising with the strength of his thighs he backed into the guard in a powerful thrust--even as the swordsman was retracting his blade from his first thrust!  The blade of the prince easily pierced through the armor with incredible strength.

    Sweat dripped down the boy’s cheeks as he pulled at the sword lodged in the armor.  The third swung hard at him.  Roy’ian moved his body to the left of the second guard who now felt like a dead weight with his sword still attached.  The third’s attack skimmed across his armor with the deadly attack creating a narrow slice in his leather field armor.  As the third retracted his sword, the prince gave another hard pull finally sliding the sword free from the armor.  Even as he retrieved his sword the third was already thrusting the sword again at his position.  He knew he didn’t have the speed to bring his sword up in time.  Instead he lunged straight at the sword that was coming down upon him.  The sword bit his shoulder, slicing through the armor once again.  Roy’ian growled with pain as he felt the attack.  His sword however didn’t move from position.  His blade angled upwards as he came close to his opponent slicing the elf’s face with the blade.  A red line formed where his blade struck, at first before gushed of blood waved down his body like an oncoming torrent.

    By the time Roy’ian took a step and retracted his sword the forth, fifth and six guards were there waiting for him as well.  Anger only swelled as the prince heard the sound of galloping horseshoes.  The sounds of the war behind him, was getting weaker.  He could not even hear the coterie for arrows firing off behind him.

    The forth guard took a page out of Roy’ian’s own arsenal and lunged at him, the blade pointing at the prince.  Roy’ian smiled as he angled his sword’s point downwards and thrust the sword hard.  The sword pushed itself through the man’s neck, stopping his position, in a rough and brutally display of anger.  As the boy removed his sword a sprit of blood funneled to the ground followed by the fourth guard.

    The fifth took no time in waiting for Roy’ian to retract his sword, and slashed his sword at Roy’ian’s already injured shoulder.  The blade crashed down without warning.  It was lucky on the prince’s part that he was off balance.  As when the blade struck it knocked the prince to the ground, instead of rending his shoulder from his torso.  The boy made a groan as he fell hard to the soot covered ground.

    He could hear the foot falls of the two guards as he opened his eyes from the fall.  His body felt like it was on fire.  The crimson hair washed across the ground where the prince laid his face.  His mind consciously reminded himself how long it would be, before the commander would be too far to pursue. 

    Quickly the prince brought his two fists into the dirt, one which held the sword he had been battling with, the other empty.   Pushing his body outwards with a snap, his body somersaulted backwards.  His feet caught the ground in the brazen move.  Even as the elf raised, the two remaining guards approached him in dashes from both sides.  The long swords took no time at slanting towards his left and right side; Roy’ian had to move he minded himself.

    The prince moved to the right side in a large step, clear of the strike from the elf that approached from the left.  His own sword darted towards the right, the two handed sword, veered in a horizontal line catching the slash hard.  Roy’ian grunted as he pushed against the guard’s sword sending stepping a few feet back.  His hips then shifted to his left.  His sword swung from where he held it, near his stomach.  The heavy sword swung upwards catching the guard’s jaw in gory cleft.  The guard grabbed the side of his head as blood sprayed from where his very ear had been severed.

    The final elf guard, looked to Roy’ian as he saw the attack on the last comrade he had left standing.  The guard gulped as he caught the eyes of the former fire elf, an elf whose face was splattered with soot and blood.  Roy’ian only let on a short smile as he thrust his blade into the elf’s chest, impaling him with a vicious strike.  The prince brought his foot forward crashing into the armor plating of the dying elf and used it as leverage to pull his sword free.

    His head turned towards the horizon as the last guard fell in a clank.  His eyes looked at the commander who more than ten yards away at this point.  Roy’ian sheathed the two handed sword, the blood falling away from the blade as it slid into its prison on his belt.  His eyes however didn’t leave the escaping Commander.  The silence on the battle field bothered him, as he reached to his boot and plucked out a small knife that was pressed against his ankle.  Slowly rising up, the traitor of the fire elves grabbed the knife’s blade between his second finger and thumb.  His eyes judged the distance from the horse, and estimated the arc to hit the small target.  His ears listened to the wind to guess the velocity. “LONG LIVE THE STAR CITADEL!” the elf screamed as he brought his arm over his shoulder throwing the small knife.

    The throwing knife whirled top over bottom, as it took off at a speed that could very well match an arrow.  Though from the distance Roy’ian could not see the impact of the blade as it slid into the back of the commander’s head, he did see the commander fall from his horse.

    He watched the horizon for a few moments staying silent. His silence was however broken by the sound of steps walking behind him.  His head turned around to see four bloodied swordsmen, wearing the same leather armor as he, bow to him as they passed him.  “Maybe someone should free her,” the prince said with a smile.

    One of the wood elves bent to the squirming slender form which was face down in the soot.  The swordsman carefully unsheathed his sword and split the ropes that tied her hands.  Her hands automatically went into fist as she turned her body around.  Her left hand curved around in a hard strike knocking the swordsman back on his ass.  Her hand uncurled, and went to the gag in her mouth.  The full lips that she wore proudly once unveiled did what they did best.  “Took you long enough to untie me assholes,” she growled.  Her fair face had turned red with anger; her blond hair which now was matted ran in dreads down her face. 

    “Your temper never changes even after a kidnapping,” Roy’ian said with a smile

    “And your arrogance is gonna be worse when you get that crown,” Lady Dinah said back at him without a smile.

    “The crown?” Roy’ian said, the smile disappearing.  “Shouldn’t Conn’r be awarded that?  He is after all the rightful heir.”

    “Prince Conn’r wasn’t found,” one of the swordsman said. “We figure his body must have been disintegrated after that great blast of light.”

    “Conn’r as well?” Roy’ian felt a sadness welling up.  “How can this still be home?”  Even though he never truly liked the biological son of his father, he did not wish this to happen, no matter how much he wished to be the king.

    “It is all we have left,” Lady Dinah said.  “Long live The Star Citadel!

    "Long live the NEW KING!”

Next Issue:  This story continues in Kingdoms: Wonder Woman and JLA, followed by League of Kingdoms #3.

Story © 2005 Jae Lizhini and may not be reproduced without permission.