The Throne of the Gods

Ayrion

Ayrion was cold. He had been travelling for weeks. His travel cloak was in tatters and his clothes were threadbare. He had been avoiding towns, choosing to sleep under trees or in small caves. A healer would probably have said he was in shock. He wore the armor of a knight of Allydon, God of Justice. It was dirty and unkempt. Rust was beginning to eat away at it. Ayrion had little time to spare for the niceties of his armor, he was running. Not only was he running from the destruction of Freeport, of which he believed himself the sole survivor, he was running from himself.

The day always recalled itself in his dreams. Black clouds billowed up to the south, sweeping quickly toward the shore, though no winds blew. The guard was summoned to the docks, wizards and men-at-arms poised to fight whatever fell power was attacking the city. Ayrion and his brotherhood were called to the docks by the high priests to help defend Freeport. Even before the darkness fell upon the city he could feel the waves of evil that emanated from it. The wizards threw spells of devastation at the clouds, fire balls, lightning bolts and stranger magical energies slammed into the dark mists. The priests of all the pantheons joined in with the powers of their gods, bolts of blinding energy, flames and lightning rained down from the skies. Yet for all the mystical energy unleashed against the darkness there was no perceivable reaction from the evil vapors.

As the evil fell upon the docks wicked creatures began to race from the darkness. The men at arms raised bows and cut down the lead monsters, but more poured forth. Soon the clouds had settled on the streets and fell creatures out of nightmares strode the city, killing and destroying randomly. Ayrion saw magical energies slam into a group of the invaders only to be tossed back at the caster. The magic of the mages failed to hold the onslaught back, even the powers of the priests was having little effect on the beasts.

Ayrion and his brotherhood stood against these fiends. Their swords and armor pitted against the claws and fangs of the enemy. Drellian took a swipe from claws, a simple wound, barely even bleeding, yet he went down screaming in agony. One after another his brotherhood, men he had trained with, his friends and allies for many years, fell before the assault.

Ayrion had defeated the creatures nearest to him and was heading toward Joam, who fought on the next blood-strewn street, when a tremendous flash of light dazzled his senses. With it came a blow to the back of his head and the light quickly turned to darkness. When he came to the city was no more. The bodies of simple city folk were strewn about the city. Ayrion's heart fell. All the defenses of the most powerful city on the face of Borin were shattered like a thin crystal vase. The might of the mercenaries was nothing to the fell beasts that rampaged his city. The wizards’ most potent spells could not stop them. Even Allydon was seemingly powerless to prevent this evil that befell the city. What force could oppose the gods so openly, desecrating their most sacred and holy places? Why had Allydon not intervened?

Ayrion always woke with the cold sweat of the defeated. His faith was devastated; he had nothing left to sustain him. He wandered north, shunning civilization. When he could no longer press forward he slept, the dream returned and, when he awoke, he pushed himself farther north, putting as much distance as he could between himself and his nightmare.

This morning was no different from so many others. Ayrion woke screaming, startling birds from the trees. When his breathing calmed, he drank from his water skin and chewed without enthusiasm on a small piece of jerky that he had procured from a small farm a few days ago. The farmer had been gracious and had allowed him to chop some wood in exchange for the food, even though he and his wife were prepared to simply give it to him. He stood and began to walk north. Lost in his thoughts he did not hear the sound of horses galloping from the east. He was so consumed in his own anguish he completely missed the sound of a struggle just ahead of him. When he stepped from the trees onto the hard-packed road he saw the two brigands holding a slight woman. They were in the process of tying her arms behind her back. This caused his own troubles slid to the back of his mind.

Ayrion slid his sword from his scabbard, “What goes on here?”

The brigands looked upon him and saw a comical sight. Ayrion was once a large, well-muscled man, but weeks of walking with meager provisions had taken a toll on his body. His armor was stained and slightly rusty and it hung upon his frame as if it had been made for another man. His clothes were dirty and torn. Weeks of scraggly beard grew upon his face and his hair was wild.

“Get moving,” the one holding the woman said, “and we'll let you live.” The other just grunted and continued to attempt to tie the woman's hands.

With a cold look at the two men Ayrion advanced. If the brigands had known anything about swordsmanship they would have seen the confidence in his stride and that he held his sword in a perfect balance between defense and offense. “Then you must kill me,” he said coldly.

While one brigand continued to struggle with the woman his companion advanced on Ayrion. With a sneer, the bandit launched an overhand slice at Ayrion's shoulder. Ayrion's sword rose quickly, blocking the crude attack, then returned to his balance point. The brigand tried a low cut. Ayrion lightly jumped back; as the blade slid past him he did a quick cut at the man's wrist, drawing a line of blood. The bandit backed up a step, disbelief etched on his face.

Now Ayrion went on the offensive. In a blur of motion his sword swept forward, passing through the bandit's defenses and gashing his shoulder. Ayrion's next move took the man's sword to the ground, and then he brought his left hand up to break the man's nose while he had his sword pinned to the ground. He stepped back from the brigand and slammed his boot heel into his chest, knocking him to the ground.

The other brigand decided this was the time to join the fight. He let the woman go and drew his sword, rushing to help his comrade. Ayrion's first opponent was on the ground trying to clear his vision as the second man ran past to engage Ayrion. Mystical words flowed on the air and a beam of green liquid shot from the woman's hand to burn a hole into the back of the brigand's armor and scorch his skin. The man gasped and tripped impaling himself on Ayrion's blade.

Ayrion pulled his sword from the man's gut and turned to look at the woman. The injured man pulled a dagger from his belt and holding his bleeding wound, stabbed at Ayrion. The woman’s eyes opened wide and she opened her mouth to give warning. Ayrion spun his weapon slicing expertly across the man's exposed throat. The first bandit stood, took in the c*****e, and turned to run. The woman pointed at him and said some mystical words; three sizzling bolts of energy erupted from her finger and ripped into his back. Gasping, he fell to the ground and died.

The woman came forward. From beneath her tousled, red hair the points of her ears showed through. Even in Freeport Ayrion had not seen many Elves. As a people, they tended to keep to themselves, only the most aberrant of the Elven society chose to mingle with the other races. The calm resolve seemed anything but aberrant to Ayrion, but her high cheekbones, raised eyebrows, almond shaped eyes, and lithe form left no doubt as to her heritage. Her dark midnight blue eyes searched his face. “Thank you for the rescue, Knight of Allydon.”

Ayrion felt the edges of his own concerns begin to creep back into his mind. He forcibly shoved the memories down. “I am Ayrion,” he said. “How came you to be in the company of these men?”

The Elven woman looked him over once more taking in his disheveled appearance. Ayrion had spent the last several weeks in the wilds and it was evident in his look. His brown hair was in disarray, his skin was pale, his cheeks sunken from lack of food, but his brown eyes shone with determination and resolve. “That is a long tale, Ayrion,” she said. “Perhaps we could find somewhere to discuss it? A place where we could get cleaned up?”

Ayrion took a moment to reflect on his appearance. He nodded. “Could I at least have your name?” He asked.

“I am called Danneci,” she said with a slight smile.