The Epic of Mokeros--Revised Edition! (for the older one, see earlier posts)

The Epic of Mokeros

The great warrior, Mokeros—the now-famous Demon-Hunter, Witch-Killer, and Lich-Slayer—stood rigid and rough, a dark, imposing figure atop the highest point of a rocky mound near the edge of the summer-gilded Plain of Aelfir, his blue-runed Elven saber, Hrunting, and his black kukri, Nothulf, held like lifelines in his white-gauntleted hands. A black-gold ring, somewhat frosted in appearance and very-slightly dull, adorned the index finger of his right gauntlet, and the rest of his armor—a mix of black plate and mail—stood in dark contrast to his hands. His black cloak, made of some strange combination of silk and iron, and interwoven with beautiful, albeit dark, designs, flapped sideways in the wind, making him both terrifying and magnificent to behold. Numerous weapons adorned this warrior—a bearded-axe, a four-headed mace, a long, black battle-lance, and a crossbow were latched all over his armor, along with numerous others—and each one seemed to have been tested a thousand times in battle. Nicks, scrapes, notches, kinks…all adorned these tools of war. This was a man who’d seen much bloodshed…

…and, more importantly, lived to tell of it.

What was more, he was young…by no means could he possibly be any older than seventeen.

His hair was black and somewhat messy, his eyes as blue as shattered church-glass, and his build somewhat lean…but there was something about him that emanated pure power. If one’s gaze ever landed on the ring on his right hand, this feeling was magnified…so it was only natural to assume that the ring had something to do with it.

By his side, two others stood; and behind him, five more, each of a different race.

To his left, a Drow nobleman—specifically, a Prince—stood brazen and strong, his uncharacteristic chalky, pale skin and long, white-blonde hair standing out against the dark of the pre-dawn hours. A number of weapons were latched to his belt—a pair of khenkite blades, and a Shelkevic prong (which was something like a cross between a telescopic spear and a dagger)—included among them, though by far not the most prominent. Though there was a bow strung across his back (as most Elves are skilled archers), this was not the weapon he’d readied for use. Instead, he held his hands a pair of long, black, rectangular Henek blades—fantastic blades, legendary for the keenness of their edges (it was rumored that some could cut stone). There were two, spherical nicks at the corners of their flat tips, which signified that this was no ordinary Elve…

…this was none other than Falthin, the Pale Prince.

At his right stood a Troll, his tough, blue-grey hide bare despite the coming battle, a veritable column of muscle. His arms were like tree-trunks; more than capable of breaking a man’s neck with little more than a glancing blow. His legs were just as strong, if not stronger (being charged with heaving his great bulk around), and his torso was etched with further muscle. Great, black, almost quill-like spines adorned his back, swept down naturally—almost as if they’d been combed—signifying his own relation to royalty. His face was flat, and apelike in its nose, with black, beady eyes that concealed his full intelligence, and possessed a massive, almost trapezoidal jaw—adorned at the corners of its chin with two stout tusks—filled with sharp teeth. The hulking creature was exemplary of his race, save for one thing…his right arm, from the hand to the elbow, was entirely mechanical.

A brilliant and unique combination of magic and Dwarven science had gone into the making of this extraordinary forearm; one that bore connection to both thought and nerve, and allowed this limb function just like a normal one…though, if such a thing could be said, it was much stronger than the original. The hand itself was attached by a (usually-taut), chain to the forearm, and if coiled back by thought, could be shot out on the chain like a cannon ball, unleashing devastating and often lethal force on whoever it struck, and would then crawl back to its owner until it was within distance of reeling in. A massive, beautifully crafted Dwarven blade was hidden in that forearm as well, and would extend to its full, devastating length whenever the Troll felt the massive, zigzag-shaped head of his oaken club proved insufficient to kill an adversary.

His name was—quite ironically—Hans, and he, along with Falthin, was Mokeros’s closest friend. They’d spent seven years searching for it, this place in which they’d arrived mere days ago…and now, they were nearly at the gates of the Black City, Lesser Ashtaroth, where their journey would come to a head…where Mokeros would finally have his vengeance against—and, perhaps, take back that dearest gift from God which had been given him from—the dread Demon King, Ashtaroth, for whom the city was named.

Ashtaroth was a monstrous, cruel being…true Demon to the core. A baleful and sadistic fiend…and of all his many victims, Mokeros was the most wounded…

…and, ironically, the most powerful.

The Demon King of Greater Offlund had taken from him something more precious to him than his very life…something he’d long ago resolved was worth dying for…

…his beloved.

Suddenly the great warrior turned to face the army he’d gathered.

Their force was massive; the whole of the plain behind the outcrop (which was vast in itself), was covered in a sea of armor, all the way to the edges of the forest in which the plain lay. Banners flapped in the wind blowing down from the mountain pass that nearly encircled the forests around the plain, each one adorned with the Jerusalem Cross that served as their emblem. They were a varied force…Humans, Elves, Dwarves, Trolls, Suchosi, and Hrauks made up their ranks, and each race brought a unique set of skills and components to their army. Humans brought their horsemen, siege-craft, and brutality in desperate situations to the field, while Elves brought their infamous Drow’s rage, archers, sorcerers, wolf-riders, and scouts to the table. Dwarves brought their endurance, stubborn attitudes, and the great craft of their armor and weapons to the fore. Trolls…they brought their sheer strength, steady-yet-unstoppable advances, near-invulnerability, and unapparent intelligence to the battlefield. Suchosi brought their animalistic brutality, their traps, and their vicious speed and strength to the force, as did the Hrauks, who were infamous for their tendency to go into a barbaric rage that often left many mangled bodies in their wake before finally being brought down. A powerful force indeed…they consisted of at least a few thousand men.

The leader of the Dwarves, Bulmanne, was a stocky specimen to say the least, and slightly taller than most of his race, being nearly four feet tall while wearing his helm. His red-beard, with its numerous, ritualistic knots, revealed just how many battles he’d fought prior to this one, and marked him as both an experienced veteran and a skilled leader in combat. He was garbed in ornately-engraved, plated armor, reinforced from beneath with chain and ring mail, and held a great hammer in his hands…Krieg.

At his side towered a Suchosi Grand Warlord, his scales black as pitch, and his great, saurian headed gifted with a maw packed full with fangs that’d torn into more foes than food. Essentially, like all others of his race, he looked like a primitive, hybrid saurian that had somehow gained the use of its arms and claws as dexterous tools, and his fearsome personality reflected this. His armor seemed rather primitive, (being made of turtle-shell and bone), but the natural armor of his scales alone could hold against any threat…even crossbow bolts at point-blank range. Two blades, called Falkirk and Sovius, were gripped in his hands, and it was well known that they were tainted black with the blood of monsters. He was, however, a merciful Warlord…the only reason he’d slain so many was because so many had sought to betray or slay him while in his good favor. His name was Maul.

At the Grand Warlord’s side stood a great Troll Lord, named Lord Grimm, his skin tattooed with black, tendril-like spirals characteristic of Troll royalty. Unlike Hans, Lord Grimm had two hands of flesh and bone, and held a weapon similar to that of Mokeros’s large friend; a massive, spiked mace called Kazak, which could break a horse’s back with one swing. At the moment, he was leaning on it like a swagger-stick, the spikes of its head digging into the soil.

At his side stood the Grand Hrauk Chieftain, Zhovix. Like all his kind, he looked like a giant cross between falcon, man, and bear, with the strength, size, and bulk of a bear, the head and talons of a falcon, and the build and form of a man. His plumage, which covered his entire body, was a dazzling, emerald green…but, given his violent nature, these green feathers were often sprayed with red, and it was unlikely that they’d remain so clean by the end of the day. In his hands was a spiked kinabo club, called Rakal.

The last of the five standing before Mokeros was Lord Raul, the leader of the human portion of their army, and his face was a testimony to his status as a war-veteran…a long, horrid scar, about two inches wide at its greatest breadth, went across his left eye down to his mustached lip, and ended at his bearded chin. His eye had gone white from the wound, but his other eye remained brown. His hair, like his skin, was dark in color, save for a streak of white running along the side of his head, right at the point where the scar over his eye. In his hands, he held a great sword, which had belonged to many kings before him, and would go on to become the blade of many more…Kaliburne.

There they were, the five leaders of these great races, not including the heir to the Elven throne that stood to his left. Each one brought their own experience and skill to the table…and each was willing to die for the cause they’d come to defend.

Freedom.

“Friends!” Mokeros cried suddenly, looking out at the masses before him as he did, “Look around you! Here we stand today, together, before even the first light of dawn, a sea of armor…of banners, blades, and spears…an impending wave of blood and iron for our enemies. But I am loathe to lie to you all, who’ve earned my respect simply by being here to listen, and say the enemy we face today is weak. No…that’d be a stain on the honor of all who heard it. Their numbers are vast! Vampires, Wargs, Humans, Goblins, Shadow-Drakes, Hethex, Taurix slaves, Luverines, and legions upon legions of the Undead make up their ranks, each man just as willing to die for their cause as you. But we’ve got power they can only dream of!” he proclaimed.

“Truly, my friends, it’s been quite a journey. A long, hard road…one made with pain, misery, despair…and even death. Yet here we stand, a force to be reckoned with, doers of the impossible! Was it not once said that the Nine Liches were invincible, immortal…that they couldn’t be killed? That was a lie! I’ve slain six of them!” he shouted, letting all who’d doubted him in the past hear his testimony. “And the three that remain quake with fear. They know their hour is at hand…just as assuredly as we know ours is!” he cried out. A slight grin crept across his face as he watched a number of his men grow slightly more confident.

“We’ve done the impossible elsewhere, too! It was once said that we could never unify…that our differences were too great, that we were too stupid and incompatible and stubborn to coexist! Yet, here we stand, and the simple act of our being here silences all doubt of our capabilities! We all have our own stories…some of us were slaves, who tasted freedom in the wind, and broke free from the shackles of oppression to find it! Some of us have been in hiding from persecution, slavery, and death because we attempted to defy the rule of our enemy! Some of us were already free, but, finding that freedom threatened, sought to take up arms and defend it. But we all stand here, now, together, united, to defend the freedom which is under attack from the powers of Hell itself! But we have an ally infinite in power, one who cast Satan and his Angels out of Heaven with little more than a twitch of an eyelid! We have God!” he howled in triumphant joy.

A vast number of the men in the army were so moved as to cheer in agreement.

“So you Dwarves, who hid in the greatest of mountains, for fear of enslavement…will you hide any longer? Will you ever cower in fear of death again?” he demanded. Bulmanne and his men raised their weapons high above their heads, and roared their answer.

“NEVER!” they howled, righteous rage in their voices.

“And what of you, you Trolls? You Hrauks? You Suchosi? Will you ever bend your backs beneath the whip again? Will you ever again hide in the darkness of caverns, forests, crags, or swamps in fear of death and tyranny?” he roared, his voice carrying much farther than any other unaided man’s voice would across the sea of men. The same response thundered up and across the plain.

“NEVER!” they howled in answer.

“And you, you Elves?” he screamed, “Will you ever flee for your lives into the deepest woods and caverns of this world, hiding from a tyranny aided by the deception of your king and people by the Goblins who now seek to crush us once and for all?”

“NEVER!” they screamed in answer.

“And you men! Will you ever see fit to bow beneath the iron rod of oppression?” he howled, true hatred of the one he spoke of in his voice. A thunder of voices rushed past him and across the plain.

“NEVER!” they roared in response.

The screaming of patriots and freedom-fighters rent the previous silence apart, charging the air with a power only veterans can describe, a camaraderie that could never be broken…

They were now truly one.

“I thought not!” he laughed loudly. “But the question is…who’ll slay this tyrant, when his men are dead and gone?” he asked suddenly, silencing the cheers of his men within an instant.

A number of men raised their hands, solemnly—and unknowingly—volunteering to be butchered.

Mokeros shook his head.

“I commend you men for your bravery…this world needs more men like you. But for any of you, even of Troll, Suchos, or Hrauk races to be sent to slay him…would be to send men off to be brutally tortured, and, only after hours of slow, horrific agony, slain. None before me could defeat Ashtaroth in single combat…even if this great army before me were to take him on, they would be obliterated in seconds. So…who shall slay him? For he must be slain! An evil being of such power is like a magnet to others of lesser evil, drawing them to him like iron shavings. Do you not think that the Nine Liches were once ordinary men, who he drew into his power, seduced with promises of incredible gifts, and finally enslaved? They fell into his grasp, and he held them in his power…and still does…or at least those who remain. But who will kill him? He is truly a being of incredible might, much too strong for a mortal to take on in single, physical combat. So who shall do it?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

For nearly a whole minute, all was silent.

Then, Mokeros raised his own right hand.

The men gathered before him suddenly cried out in protest, refusing to let him go off to be murdered. In that short speech, he’d won the hearts of all but a few, and those that remained stony towards him immediately took arms to attack his effort at volunteering.

“Just how do you expect to do this?” An angry, middle-aged man spat, contempt ripe in his voice. “You’re mortal too, despite what you may believe!”

Mokeros smiled, raised his right hand, and hissed in a language both ancient and monstrous.

Suddenly, there was a cacophony of roars from within the forests around them, and immediately, the men before him took up arms, recognizing the call as belonging to one sort of monster alone…

Shekani.

The Children of the Great Shade.

The dreaded monsters of shadow that dwelt in darkness, never seeing the light of day, preying upon all. Uncontrollable monsters, mindless in all ways except for their hunger for the living and the life they possessed, and the cunning such hunger provided them….very potent in physical strength and magical skill…deadly creatures, born only to slay other living things…

…if they could even be considered living themselves.

So how in God’s name had Mokeros managed to summon them?

The men stood petrified as a mass of Shekani twice as large as their whole army poured out from the woods around them, stopping only before the outcrop. The men never let them leave their sight, despite the bizarre fact that none of these creatures seemed eager to feed. If anything, they seemed calm…

…fulfilled…

“What magic is this? If you can control these monsters, you must be worse than Ashtaroth! You are the Great Shade Incarnate!” the same, derisive voice spat, apparently suspicious of the source of his power. Mokeros smiled slightly.

“I’m not the Great Shade…but that’s not to say we’re not close…” Mokeros hinted, fondling the ring on his right hand with a gentle, almost careful fondness. “How, my friends, did you think I slew those six Liches? Mere magic? By no means…God granted me this ring…” he said, raising his finger up for all to see, “this shard of the Great Shade, to overcome the power of our enemy with that of the great monster from whom this ring was forged. With God by our side, and this ring given me to fight with, victory is assured!” he cried, a great grin on his face.

The unified army before him roared in approval.

Suddenly, out in the distance, a great horn blasted through the air, and far-off roars, chants, and orders could be heard.

Mokeros turned his head round, and found the enemy much closer than expected.

Then, for the first time, he saw their force. Many of the men now behind him saw as well, and cried out in horror. They were no more than a mile away, and at least half their army was made up of relentless, Undead corpses…

…and was at least twice their size.

Many men cried out in fear…others roared in rage at their foe, and some even started cursing Mokeros himself. But Mokeros? He simply turned back, and grinned at his men.

Then, turning his face to the enemy, he spat a dark word under his breath to the Shekani.

Suddenly the shadow monsters raced down to the plains, much faster than any mortal runner, and within minutes, they’d clashed with the Undead infantry, carving through the legions which had seemed so fearsome minutes before with brutal ease…

Mokeros looked from the masses opposing him back to those backing him. All the men were now ready…all were willing to die for this cause.

It was time.

“Friends!” he cried, raising his blade over his head to point towards the approaching enemy army, “Our time is at hand! Remember now, this I tell you, no matter what happens; that none can stand against us, if only God is with us!” he shouted, raising his left hand as if to silence them.

Suddenly a ball of flame exploded from his gauntleted palm, and from this sphere of power, a cross of sparking flame ignited in the air above them all, their insignia for the world to see.

Mokeros turned, a look of stern, valiant pride on his face.

“Now is the time! Charge!” he screamed, leaping off from the outcrop, landing on his feet, and racing after the Shekani with inhuman agility, followed by Hans and Falthin. Seconds later, their great army charged after him, screaming with vengeance in their voices against their foes, sprinting towards the battle that would decide the fate of their world.

And so began the Battle of Aelfir Plain…