Legend Warrior Read online

  Legend Wars

  c. Liara Woo 2019

  A light breeze blew the clouds away for one moment, and starlight illuminated the tall, snow-covered castle, beautifully crafted from silvery-gray stone, guarded by over a hundred elves. Tall stone and wooden towers shot into the sky at each of the four corners of the thick wall surrounding the elegant building with its graceful carvings and spacious innards. It was here that the king and queen of the elves of Kylaras lived. Good and just, they ruled their lands with fairness and equity. Their castle was not only their home; it was a place of healing, of rest, of refuge, to all who came upon it.

  But one would have need of its shelter far more than others, it seemed. Earlier, when the sun was high, a child had stumbled out of the woods and collapsed before the magnificent palace. He was clad in filthy rags; scrapes and scratches covered his grimy skin. He was weak from hunger and thirst, and from travelling for a month in the frozen winter wilderness. His name was Halthren, which in the ancient tongue of goodness meant 'he who hopes for peace.'

  Yet in spite of his name, peace was something now rare in the child's young life. Once he had lived in perhaps the most sheltered village in the kingdom, where he and his parents, both brave and virtuous elves, lived in a quaint little cottage on the outskirts of a forest bursting with life and color and magic of all sorts. His days had been spent playing with the deer and the fairies.

  No one had expected the invasion from the south—from the land of the demons. Carrying flaming staffs in both of their black, reptilian hands; armed with sabers and knives as dark and oily as their scales, the horned monsters marched into the virtually defenseless village, burning everything to the ground, killing everyone in sight. Halthren's parents had hidden him before the demons arrived at their cottage; because of their loving actions Halthren had survived the senseless destruction, although every one of the village's other residents had been murdered. He'd been left alone in the charred, twisted remains of what was once his home. Guided by the spirits of his now-dead parents he'd travelled through the icy forests and then, at last, arrived at the palace.

  A warrior maiden called Nelaara, residing in the castle as the queen's personal attendant, found him unconscious at the foot of the castle and quickly took him inside. Her heart was warmed with compassion as she set him beside the fire in one of the guardhouses, giving him a cup of hot chocolate to drink and warmer clothes to wear. The king took pity on the poor child and decided to keep him in the castle, where hopefully he would be safe and live a long, happy life, far away from the despair and violence of his past.

  Unfortunately, Halthren had a destiny that had been chosen for him before he was born, and regretfully it included more despair and violence than he could even imagine. That night, as clouds hid the stars once more, a shadow with red eyes crept into the castle. It had no substance, just like every ordinary shadow, but It had a mind and a soul of Its own. And in that mind It yearned to do acts of Darkness, works of that purest evil that brought It a warped and mutilated form of joy. The shadow was nameless and ageless, but the elves called It Nashgor, which meant 'king of all evils'—a horribly apt name.

  The shadow kept to the dark places inside of the castle, blending into the darkness beneath a desk or behind a picture frame, where It was entirely invisible except for Its burning red eyes, full of hate and cruelty. It crept into the dreams of all of the elves inside, judging their worth and determining how much of a threat they posed. Nashgor already knew much about each of them, thanks to the tireless efforts of Its spy network, but It was interested in seeing Its enemies in person.

  The king…well, he was a challenge, as he had control over the entire land of Kylaras and specifically its armies, but he could be vanquished easily.

  The queen would soon have a child, the shadow discovered, but It knew that she would not survive the ordeal. There was no need to worry about her. And It knew, deep down in Its cold, inhuman heart that the child she would bear could play an instrumental part in vanquishing It, but only if someone else in the castle encouraged him.

  Nashgor was searching for this 'someone else' who would supposedly be the reason for Its demise. And It found him, tucked away in a small, comfortable bedroom with five windows to let in light. But on this dark evening there was no light.

  The shadow spilled under the door and seeped along the wooden floor until it was safe in the darkness beneath Halthren's bed. Slowly Nashgor reached up with Its cold, dark hands and touched the young elf's heart. Instantly It withdrew Its hand; It could feel the power of the stars and of pure goodness, or Light, in the elf's young soul. Hatred arose like bile inside of Nashgor's black heart. Because of Halthren, the king of all evils could be vanquished. The shadow saw that already the youth believed too much in the legends and the power of the stars. Death was Its only way to ensure Its safety.

  It forced itself into Halthren's pure, uncorrupted heart. Halthren woke with a start and screamed from the unyielding, burning pain suddenly filling his soul, but soon the pain was so intense that he couldn't even breathe, let alone cry out.

  A few doors down Nelaara awoke with a start at the sound of the boy's scream. When she didn't hear him cry out again she assumed it had been a nightmare. But there was a sickening feeling of dread in her heart, so she left her room and hurried through the empty halls to the small chamber he'd been given.

  Nashgor tried to kill the boy, to squeeze the life from his heart, but It couldn't. Since his birth, Halthren had been chosen for great things, and the stars protected his life, their presence displayed by the silver band around his pupils, marking their power.

  Nashgor reemerged and Halthren, drenched in perspiration, gasped in relief and went limp. When he saw the shadow he tried to shout for help, but the shadow's hand shot forward to grasp his throat in a vicelike grip.

  At that moment Nelaara burst into the room. She saw the shadow and her blood ran cold. It turned to look at her, Its fiery red eyes boring into hers, seeming to burn a hole into her very soul.

  She forced her eyes away. The boy she'd rescued was hanging from the shadow's grip, his eyes closed in pain, struggling to breathe. His head lolled on his shoulders and he had his hands at his throat, weakly trying to pry away the hand of the shadow.

  "Let him be," Nelaara whispered in a low, threatening voice, hurrying to the boy's side and grasping his shoulders. "Let him go!" She tried to push the shadow's arm away, but her hand passed right through it.

  Suddenly It moved Its face close to hers, until the horrible red eyes entirely filled her vision. A terrible hissing sound filled the air, seeming to come from everywhere at once, a cross between the hiss of a snake and the sound of a sword sliding from its sheath. Overwhelming fear gripped her mind and heart, constricting her chest so that she could hardly breathe. She clung tighter to the child with all of her strength, but the hiss grew louder and louder. A sudden weakness took her; her hands slipped from the boy's shoulders and she slumped helplessly to the ground.

  Nashgor turned back to Halthren and tightened Its grip. "I cannot kill you," the shadow hissed. "For you are protected. But someday I will be powerful enough to vanquish you, mark my words. As for now, I cannot allow you to have hope, because if you have hope I will eventually fall. So, elfling, since you like the legends, and you like magic, you ought to enjoy this spell I place upon you, for it will combine them both."

  Nashgor began to weave a dreadful curse and place it within Halthren's heart and soul, sending it pulsing through his veins. It sent pure Darkness into the enchantment to ensure its strength, and then It spoke the words that sealed it to Halthren forever.

  "Death shall hunt you but cannot take you. Agony will bring you to death's door but you will be sent back to life for more. From this day forward you
shall bear all manner of suffering. Misery, pain, illness, and the worst torture will forever be yours." It paused, contemplating what to say next. "But Nashgor is feeling merciful: There is but one way for you to escape this torment. Even as only a creature from another world can destroy me, only a creature from another world can free you by giving you its heart, and you must give it yours in return. Only thus can you be released. But the hope that this knowledge brings will flee from your mind and your only recollection of this night will be pain… and the knowledge that you are forever cursed."

  And with that the shadow vanished, returning to the Dark land over which It ruled.

  Halthren was released from its grasp and instantly went limp, weeping bitterly out of fear and pain. Nelaara rushed to embrace him, holding him tight and murmuring words of peace and comfort.

  As the shadow had commanded, Halthren forgot most of the words that had been spoken, leaving Nelaara the only one who knew how the curse could be broken. The stars commanded her not to tell anyone about it until the time was right, and she obeyed.

  Halthren grew in strength and mind. He learned more of the legends and prophecies of old and became known as Legendheart because of his fascination with them. He became the kindest, most virtuous, most loyal, and most purely good of his entire race. But the curse of Nashgor was always with him; he suffered more anguish than anyone else in the history of Kylaras. Yet he was optimistic; he never gave up hope that Darkness could be destroyed and somehow he could be freed, and in doing so he thwarted Nashgor's purpose in cursing him.

  And the powers of Darkness grew ever stronger, biding their time in the volcanic wastelands of their homeland, waiting for the time to come when they would destroy all goodness forever.

  Out of Allagandria

  Out of Allagandria

  The young elven prince lay motionless on his back, hands clasped behind his head. Sleep would be hard to come by tonight; the moon was full, casting a silvery light on his bedroom. Joran's fair face looked strangely pale in the white light coming in through his open window, and his long, pale yellow hair gleamed silver.

  Joran found it difficult to sleep even when the moon wasn't shining so bright. His father's kingdom was at war, and so far the forces of Light were losing. The elven armies were powerful and highly skilled, but they were outnumbered fifty to one.

  Joran had done experiments with paint; it took a great deal of white to overcome the black. If he added a drop of white to the black and stirred it in, the darker color remained untainted. But it only took a little bit of black to tarnish the white paint.

  He compared the paint to the current situation in the world of Allagandria: the forces of Light were miniscule compared to the vast hordes of Darkness, which would win the war and destroy all goodness if the elves didn't receive reinforcements.

  But there was little hope for that. Dragons cared nothing about the doings of smaller folk, and even if they did, they'd be equally likely to join the Darkness as they would be to join the Light. Griffins were good creatures, but they lived on the opposite side of the world. To get to them, the elves would have to cross an ocean full of devastating storms in one direction, and an ocean that had never been successfully crossed because of its vast size in the other. The unicorns…well, the elves didn't really know much about them. There was a chance that the unicorns were kind and noble, but they might also be despicable. No one knew for certain.

  Elves were pure light and goodness in a physical form, hence the reason they were called the forces of Light. Honest, virtuous, noble, brave, loyal… the list went on forever. Joran was no exception; he was elven through and through. Never had he been tempted to do evil or unwholesome things, and his desire to do good works was stronger than iron.

  He stared through the open window, gazing at the pure light of the moon. It was truly beautiful, and once it would have given him comfort… but not now. Now he feared that the Light—all Light, not just the elves—would be forever extinguished.

  As if in reply to the thought, a shadow hid the moon's glow, plunging the forest into utter blackness. After a few moments the light of the moon broke through, but Joran sat bolt upright, his heart pounding. All of a sudden he felt an overpowering sense of fear and discomfort. There were Dark creatures nearby; he could feel their evil presence, which caused his entire body to tremble, and he felt abruptly drained of energy and as feeble as a newborn rabbit. He fell back onto the pillows, dizzy and nauseated. Wearily he closed his eyes. Maybe it's just some sort of evil raven passing by, he thought hopefully. It'll be gone soon.

  And then the alarm horns of the elves rang out, calling the elves guarding the castle into battle. Joran's stomach lurched. Not a raven, he thought anxiously as he fought the Dark illness and staggered out of bed to his window. Clutching the windowsill as if his life depended on it, he gazed down at the courtyard and instantly felt sickening dread seize his heart and choke the hope from it.

  A host of demons—servants of Nashgor, King of Darkness—were swarming beneath him, and he could see faint flashes of light where the elven soldiers were fighting back. But he saw one of them fall after a broadsword cut across his midsection. Another elf died soon after, his head chopped clean off. Joran's eyes widened in horror at the gruesome sight and his knees buckled, sending him sprawling on the floor, gasping for breath.

  An elf clad in shining armor burst into the room. Joran recognized him immediately. "Halthren!" he exclaimed in a high-pitched, terrified voice.

  Halthren looked at the prince with gleaming silver-blue eyes and beckoned urgently to him. "Come, Joran! You must get out! They've killed your father already; now they're coming for you! Let's go!"

  Joran's eyes widened. His father was dead? That couldn't be true! King Treemoon was the most powerful elf in all of Kylaras! He couldn't be dead!

  King Treemoon was and always had been Joran's best friend, even more so than Halthren. He'd always managed to find time to be with his son even though he'd had a kingdom to run. Together they'd gone on long, peaceful rides through the woods on warm, sunny afternoons; they'd spent rainy evenings indoors together by a roaring fire, laughing, joking, sipping hot chocolate. The king had always been there whenever Joran needed him, whether he just wanted company or needed advice.

  A sudden memory flashed across the young prince's mind. He and his father were sitting at the top of a grassy hill at sunset, watching the sky become all shades of red, orange, and yellow over the forest.

  "Are we going to lose the war, Father?" Joran had asked nervously, wondering just how long the beauty in front of him would last.

  Treemoon pulled his son into an embrace. "No one knows for certain. But always remember that, whatever happens, you must keep a positive outlook on the future."

  "Are we losing right now?" Joran asked, not willing to be let down so easily.

  "It's been fifty years, Joran," the king said. "Despite all of that time we've been at war, this kingdom is still my own, and the demons have not yet conquered any part of our lands… I wouldn't say we're on the losing side. Remember what we fight for. Everything that makes life worth living—the beauty in nature, the love of friends and family—it is much more powerful than what those demons desire. Light will find a way—it always does."

  But now the king was dead. My father is dead! It couldn't be possible. It just couldn't.

  Halthren took the stunned prince's wrist in his hand and pulled him towards the door. "Come on! You must remain alive! Kylaras must have a king, and honestly, if you were to die I don't know what I'd do. You're my family, Joran, and now you're all I have left. I know of a way you can escape. It's dangerous, but it could save you—and potentially everyone else as well. Come!"

  Joran stumbled forward, dazed and shocked, trusting Halthren to keep him safe. He paused only to grab his cloak from a hook on the wall; nights in Kylaras were cold even in the summer.

  The two elves ran silently through the dark wood-and-elegantly-carved-stone halls. They were alone; everyone e
lse would have been engaged in battle outside. But Joran could hear the roars of demons within the palace walls, storming around in search of Treemoon's son. That meant that all of the guards had been killed in less than five minutes. Joran felt sick; he held his stomach with one hand as Halthren took him down several flights of stairs to the dungeons. Halthren unbuckled his own sword from around his waist and handed it to the prince. He bent down beside a flagstone identical to the others on the ground and lifted it up, revealing a shadowy hole. Through the hole was another set of stairs that led into darkness. Halthren straightened and gestured for Joran to descend. "Go. They won't find you here; it's been enchanted so that only one who already knows exactly where to look and where to lift can find it. Follow the passageway. It will lead you to the Forest of Mist."

  Joran inhaled sharply. "But the mist is enchanted! I'll be lost—forever!"

  Halthren shook his head. "Not exactly. It will send you elsewhere. To another world that, I believe, is called Earth. The legends of the Great Elves say that it is a…a fallen world. There's no magic, no demons, no monsters. There you will be safe… for a while, at least."

  "But I want to help!" Joran protested. "I want to fight!" He might have been young, but he was good at sword fighting. Even so he was much less enthusiastic about going to battle than he sounded. And there was no way he wanted to leave the world of Allagandria, although magic was so fantastic that he easily believed it to be possible.