Spellforce: The Order of Dawn - Story

  Taken from http://spellforce.jowood.com/?rid=855&lang=en

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The Convocation
---------------
"We knew not...

And so we fought, fought until in our ignorance we brought about
the end of the old age. Senseless wars were waged under the reign
of the Circle; so blinded were we in our constant quest for power
that we did not foresee what was to come, could not comprehend the
fate we had sealed for our world. As the shadow fell upon the Eye
of Aonir, the Masters of the Elements, answering the call of the
Thirteen, cast off their bonds and roamed free. Their power and
rage unleashed, the ancient Elements once again began to fight
amongst themselves, as they have since the beginning of time.

In their anger, the Elements heedlessly ravaged the face of the
world. The earth burst open and its glowing blood flowed freely
over the land. Columns of fire stretched toward the sky, up to the
maelstrom of black clouds that seemed to swallow the horizon.
Scorching storms of ash and poison upheaved even the highest
mountains and ground them to dust. The oceans began to boil,
greedily tearing away at the coasts.

One day and one night the rage of the Elements lasted, before the
shadow passed. Then they were banished, just as they had been once
before, and a deathly silence fell upon a scarred world.

Only a few of us managed to seek shelter by the Stones. There we
lay; some crying to, others cursing the Gods that had let this
happen. Yet we were blind, refused to accept the obvious truth. we
were to blame.

For we knew not."

                                  Ishtar Magnus "The Darkest Hour"

Winterdragon
------------
For many generations before the first humans descended from the
Windwall Mountains, dragons ruled the land. They soared freely
through the sky above Fiara, their power and wildness unmatched
and their freedom unbroken. It was during this time that a white
dragon was born; a dragon more powerful than all that had come
before him. From an eyrie high over Godmark he took to the skies,
and beneath his wings, the land froze. His scales were of the
purest white, his eyes as cold and clear as the winter skies and
his breath carried the chill of eternal frost.  No other dragon
could match his size or power, for he was the essence of winter.
His brothers and sisters fled from him, and his mere presence
covered the land near him in a thick layer of ice. Soon, he became
known throughout Fiara as Aryn, the Frostweaver.

But as powerful as his magic was, so great was the loneliness that
tore at his soul. No living creature could survive in his
presence, cold and death were his only companions. Longing for
company, he searched the lands, yet all fled from him, and the
more he searched, the more suffering he brought. Were he to
continue his quest, Fiara would be soon covered in ice, frozen in
an endless winter, but unwilling he was to end his search.

With each passing year and each beat of his white wings, more and
more of Fiara was lost. Eventually, his search brought him to the
edge of a gigantic forest in the south of Fiara, known by its
Elven name of Finon Mir. As frost, the sign of his coming, began
to cover the treetops, the Elves, then a very young race, began to
search for a way to stop the Frostweaver from destroying their
home. Unaware of Aryn's quest and certain that none amongst them
could hope to match his power, they called to their gods and
prayed for advice. The gods, however, remained silent, leaving the
Elves no choice but to prepare to flee. Soon after the first
snowflakes began to fall through the branches, the Elves began to
flee to the South. Only Cenwen, one of the five Elven leaders,
started out fearlessly across the barren, icy plains to face to
the dragon alone.

The cold chilled her to the bone, ice and death surrounded her as
far as the eye could see. The closer she came to the dragon, the
more the cold bit into her flesh, and soon, Cenwen felt her
consciousness slipping away. To keep from falling into deadly
sleep, she raised her voice and began to sing. She sang of hope,
of warmth and kindness, as many generations before her had sung at
the campfires in Finon Mir.

Aryn heard her voice from afar and glided down from the sky to
find the origin of the song. There, kneeling in the snow, he saw
the Elf queen, and though she was helpless and close to death, her
song remained strong and clear, her pure and beautiful voice her
only defense against the cold. The dragon touched the ground and
lowered his mighty head - never before had he beheld such beauty.
As soon as she saw him, the Elf queen called to the dragon. "Hear
me, O mightiest of dragons! Here me, O envoy of frost and bringer
of death! Your presence ends all life and brings perpetual winter
to the land. Soon the ancient forest that is our home will turn to
ice beneath your wings, and my people will perish. What do you
ask? What can change the Frostweaver's path and save my people?"
Aryn lifted his head, his icy stare piercing Cenwen's heart like a
dagger.

"Know, child of the forest, that I have been searching, searching
since the beginning of my time, for an equal, for a companion. I
have seen the pain and suffering my journey brings to this world,
but your courage has opened my eyes - the destruction of others
will not end my plight. I will return to my homeland and wait
there, wait in the lonely mountains, wait for the end of time.

Your people shall live, but there is one thing I ask. You are the
first, the only to have come this close to me, and your song has
touched my heart. Accompany me and sing your beautiful song for us
- and your brethren will be spared!"

Cenwen stood tall, and after a brief pause, spoke to the
Frostweaver.

"I am yours, Frostweaver! Take me with you to the North and I will
warm our hearts with hope for as long as I am. But spare my
people!"

No sooner had she spoken than the dragon swept her up and took to
the air.

"So be it then! If all your people are as a brave as you, then
they are indeed worthy of life. Should your folk ever be in
trouble, they can call on me and my power will be at their
disposal. This will be part of our pact, I give as I take. The
frost will never harm them and the power of the ice shall be
theirs as long as they live in remembrance of you."

Thus spoke the Winterdragon and turned to the North, back to the
barren mountains beyond the Grimwarg Peaks. There they settled,
and while Cenwen sang, he wove a shield of ice over them, to
protect them from the world and the world from him for all
eternity.

Only the glacier they call Frostweaver reminds us of this pact
between the Elves and the most powerful of all dragons. To this
day, Humans and Dwarves tell tales that the songs of Cenwen can
still be heard there sometimes, in the icy wilderness of the
Northeast.

Only the the children of Cenwen and Aryn know, however, that the
Winterdragon still lives and gives them his power, while listening
to the Elven song deep beneath the ice.

                         Eleyna Songweaver "The Beginning of Time"

The Second Dream: The River of Souls
------------------------------------
The sun was just beginning to set when I awoke. Wisps of smoke
from the smouldering herbs wafted through my chamber, the soft red
glow of the setting sun basking the room in an almost mystical
light. The time without time, neither day nor night, had broken.
It is said that the world of the living, the realm of the dead and
the spirit worlds are closer together at dusk than at any other
time. It is also said to be the time when Hirin, Messenger of the
Gods, collects the souls of the dead and leads them to the other
side. Once again, the thundering of hooves accompanied me as my
consciousness slipped away and I sank into the depths of my dark
dreams.

When I opened my eyes again, I looked out upon a grey land.  The
sky was dark, full of black clouds, and the light was ashen.  No
sun, no moon, no stars. Time seemed to stand still in this barren
place and the silence was almost deafening. This strange grey
desert stretched out as far as I could see, and I slowly realised
what my eyes beheld - I was in the no man's land between life and
death. My heart turned to stone and the sense of desperation was
suddenly overwhelming. no hope can exist here.

The only sound to break the silence was the snort of a horse. I
turned around, hoping to make out the source of the noise, hoping
for a sign, a way out of this horrible nightmare. With feet as
heavy as stones I made my way through the gray dust. Each step
raised a cloud of dust, dust as fine as ash, dust that left the
taste of ground bones on my tongue.

After what seemed to be an eternity, I came to a valley that
opened like a wound in the barren plain. From the bottom of the
valley I could hear murmurs and whispers, sounds like water
flowing, or thousands and thousands of voices, babbling, moaning,
calling. This was the Mor Duine, the River of Souls.  From the
beginning of time to its end, the Mor Duine flows between the
worlds, carrying our souls until the end of days. Its surface
shimmered like silver, its waters flowing through the dusky light
until it disappeared from view. Down by the river bank I saw the
source of the noise that had brought me here.

It was Hirin, Messenger of the Gods, an imposing figure atop his
black steed. He had ridden his mount to the edge of the river and
behind him, on the bank, I could barely make out the shadowy
contours of the dead. With a barely perceptable twitch of the
reigns, the gigantic horse took a step into the water, which
seemed to want to drag horse and rider into its silvery depths.
Yet the animal stood firm, and soon the first souls followed,
climbing down into the current. Deeper and deeper they waded into
the water, passing horse and rider, until they were lost in the
depths of the river. As this eerie procession continued, I
realised that there was no hall for the dead, no garden of delight
for the chosen few, only the river, whence everything that has
been taken from it returns. The Mor Duine controls our souls,
holding them captive until a new time and a new life is ready for
them.

Yet there were a few who stayed back from the water, hiding, fear
and hate visible in their shadowed faces as they turned and
crawled from their destiny. The mighty horse reared, snorted and
stamped impatiently in the water, its rider pointing the way,
demanding obediance to the natural order. But these fools kept
crawling, fleeing from the river, refusing the deity's command,
full of cowardice, until finally, Hirin gave up and rode off, up
the ashen hill, full of contempt for these pitiful souls.

No sooner had the God disappeared when I saw the others.
hundreds, thousands, emerging from the shadows along the river
banks, where they had hidden from the Messenger and his anger. Now
they came to welcome the new arrivals, and as they passed me, I
saw the hopelessness in all their distorted, ethereal faces, and
the boundless hate for the life that refused to welcome them back,
hate for the order they refused to follow.  Here, on the banks of
the river, they had become outcasts, prisoners of their own fear
and desires, captives for all eternity.  This is the realm of the
dead; here, on the banks of the Mor Duine, where they wallow in
self-pity. And then they came for me; like animals they crept
closer and closer, their loathing wafting toward me like a
poisonous breath. Frozen with fear, I looked into their scornful
faces and terror overcame me. No living creature can fathom the
depth of their hate, the hate of those destined to stay in this
place forever.

With a thundering of hooves, the messenger tore me from their
midst, tore me from this dream and back to the twilight of my
chamber. Only the rush of the Mor Duine still sounded in my head,
the murmuring, whispering of the endless river.

                                      Ishtar Magnus "Seven Dreams"

Distant Thunder
---------------
He appeared from a group of trees right in front of us and
stopped, scenting the air.

Up until this moment, the day had been bleak and uneventful.
After setting out in darkness before dawn, we had been trudging
across the seemingly endless hills and frozen marshland for hours,
the journey passing as slowly as a bad dream. Now, almost
instantly, I was wide awake and sharpened my senses, ashamed at
almost having been caught off-guard.

A layer of frost covered the brown grass of the frozen marsh,
reflecting the red rays of the dawning sun and bathing the
flatlands in an eerie light. Bushes of reeds huddled together at
the banks of icy ponds, while gnarly trees stretched their barren
branches to the sky. A sharp wind blew from the east, over the
jagged edge of the Frostweaver, chilling us with the icy touch of
the gigantic glacier and whirling clouds of powdered snow off the
steep walls and across the marshlands. The abrupt end of the
massive glacier ascended like impregnable wall of ice to the east,
blocking our view into the land of our enemies. Grey clouds passed
over the frozen cliff, driven relentlessly by the wind, forming a
celestial fortress beyond the glittering rampart.

The scout moved again and squatted, eyeing his surroundings,
breathing heavily, his breath rising like steam in the cold air.

Soon, he would disappear into the bushes again, I thought. My
clammy fingers sought the wood of my bow, which lay on the stones
in front of me. No sooner had I reached its shaft than I felt
Galad's hand on my shoulder, a silent warning to hold back.  The
Utran archer was older, wiser and more experienced than I, and his
instincts rarely failed him. A few seconds later, three more
scouts slid silently out of the bushes in front of us. One
careless move, and I would have doomed us both. Trying to remain
as still as possible, I mustered the four figures who appeared to
be communicating silently with hand signs.

The orcs were tall and burly, with dull and dark hide. Their
movements were quick and fluid, and they had little in common with
their clumsy, green-skinned cousins, the Grarg, that I knew from
my homelands. Known to the people of house Utran simply as
mountain orcs, they call themselves the Sharok.

The scouts arranged themselves in a half-circle around a group of
trees, and thankfully remained unaware of our presence.  Again,
there was movement behind the trees and more orcs appeared,
obviously less concerned with stealth. Like a pack of wolfes they
emerged from the undergrowth one by one and spread out. I counted
no fewer than twelve, their bodies colored with paint and smeared
with animal blood, spears and clubs gripped tightly in gnarly
fists. They made a smaller semi-circle around the group of trees
and squatted on their heels, their watchful red eyes glowing like
embers. With quick breaths they drew the cold air in greedily,
scenting for prey. I felt Galad stiffen next to me and shortly,
the leaders of this small band came out of the trees. The first
was a tall warrior bearing the black iron armor of a veteran. He
stopped amidst his men and muttered a few commands in the growling
speech of the servants of darkness. Like dogs they followed his
orders, creeping further apart to make room of the second new
arrival.

The shaman seemed small next the armored giant, but he was
surrounded by an aura of malice and evil as only the true minions
of Zarach possess. None of the other orcs so much as looked at
him, the wind blowing the scent of their fear in our direction. As
they cowered in the grass, even the armored orc turned away from
this fearsome creature, avoiding eye contact.  Then the shaman
dragged something out of the bushes. At first, I could only make
out a tuft of blond hair before I recognized the shape of a human.
It was Dunhil, part of the first group, bound by rope and gagged
with a thick strand of leather. His group had left an hour before
Galad and I to scout the area north of the Icegate. Luck had
obviously not been on their side.

The shaman gazed around suspiciously, then looked to the group of
trees and nodded his head, seemingly satisfied with the choice of
location. He threw his prisoner to the ground and knelt down
beside him. With a growling singsong, he began to draw iron spikes
from his belt and ram them into the earth. The other orcs mouthed
the words of his song silently, like an often-heard prayer.
Suddenly, the shaman grabbed poor Dunhil and thrust him down onto
the spikes. Weakened, but still conscious, the scout still managed
to break his fall slightly with his knees, yet the spikes
penetrated his flesh an inch deep. At that instant, I nigh on
charged the group, but again Galad's hand held me back. The Utran
began to retreat slowly, inching away from the orcs and their
captive.

As Dunhil's blood slowly began to cover the earth, the shaman
raised his voice, his eyes glowing with power and madness. My
comprehension of the dark tongue was still limited at that time,
but I understood enough to know he was calling the ancient spirits
of this place, asking for their power and protection in the
upcoming battle in exchange for this human sacrifice.

As the orc ritual progressed, the air seemed to thicken and a cold
wind began to blow, shaking the branches of the trees and sending
a shiver down my spine. The shaman reached down and grabbed the
dying scout's hair, holding his head up as the orc raised his
voice once again. Calling to the Blood God, he reached for his
belt and grabbed the Claw of Zarach, a ritual weapon with five
blades, bent and twisted like the roots of a tree. He held the
claw high above his head, praying for the blessing of the
Blood-drinker. His followers growled and hissed, in a frenzy of
anticipation for the bloody deed they knew would follow. Their
breath steamed from mouths distorted by rage and hate, their
horrible stench wafting over to our hiding place.  Galad crawled
faster, but I was spellbound by this bizarre ritual.

A thunder rose from the heavens and the earth shook as if the
Blood God Zarach himself had shaken in anticipation. The black
clouds gathered quicker and quicker, streaming over the edge of
the glacier and blocking out the light of the new day. The
slobbering shaman gripped his weapon tighter and struck out to
slit Dunhil's throat and thus complete the ritual.

Where I had been frozen by fear, something else took hold of me
now. Even today I am shamed by the foolishness of my actions that
dismal morning. Despite Galad's warning grip, I rose as if in a
dream and drew my bow. With frostbitten fingers I pulled back the
bowstring and in the blink of an eye unleashed an arrow straight
into the shaman's forehead. The orcs froze, their chant
interrupted, but it was only an instant before their surprise
turned to rage. The armored veteran was on his feet in a flash,
lept over his comrades and thundered toward me like a raging bull.
Paralysed by fear, I could only stare at the charging warrior, the
jagged edge of his sword ready to split my skull, when a arrow
from Galad's bow shot into his throat just above the cuirass. He
fell and skidded to a halt mere inches from my feet, his eyes
glaring at me with hatred and bloodthirst as he drew a final
breath.  With a blood-curdling scream, the other orcs arose and
took their weapons.

"Run, you fool!"

Galad's voice broke my paralysis and I turned and ran. Another
arrow from the Utran's bow zipped past me and I heard a thud close
behind me, followed by a gurgling scream.

"Run! Run! Hurry back the camp! Tell them they're coming!"

Again, the bow sang and another orc dropped to the ground. I ran
to the west, stumbling over the rough terrain, heading for the
safer ground on the slopes of the mountain. The orcs' screams
became louder and louder, and I saw them coming from every
direction. From north and south the fearful screams of an entire
army sounded, rising from the marshes. Like a wave they rose, a
sea of fearful creatures, throwing off all secrecy and joining
their comrades, smelling blood and prey. Growling and slobbering,
the orcs started to chase me. Now the first of their war drums
started to beat, louder and more threatening than the rolling
thunder of a coming storm. The thundering that washed over the
marshes was overwhelming, driving me forward like a leaf on the
wind. And then the heavens opened and rain began to pour down from
the grey clouds that had followed the army from the east. I
stumbled on through icy winds and hail, and as much as the sleet
and rain hindered my progress, so they also hid me from the horde
of orcs that followed me. I ran and cried, cried not just because
of the bone-chilling cold and pain in my limbs, but also for
Galad, who had sacrificed himself to spare me.

Only when I felt rocks under my boots did the rain begin to slow
and the clouds lighten, and I made out the familiar silhouette of
the mountain peaks. In the distance, at the foot of the cliffs, I
could see the banners of the Utran camp. The guards had already
seen me approach, and had signalled the main camp.  Only now,
close to the relative safety of the camp, did I dare to slow and
turn around. My message was no longer needed.  Through the clouds
and fog, the fires and torches that the approaching army had
ignited after the storm appeared as a glowing red line along the
eastern horizon. The Sharok had come through the Icegate, were
invading our lands, and tomorrow the Blood God would hold a feast.
And the powerful, pulsing beat of the orc drums rolled like
distant thunder, a thunder that bode ill from the east.

                         Angar Arandir "Thirty Days on the Border"

                              - o -