War is man’s greatest enemy. The huge drain in resources, coupled with the needless loss of innocent lives, shows us the stark reality of combat. The result of every war is general; unrest in the countries involved, a decrease in trade and comerence, and suffering for the general populace. Still, we go to war. We are willing to pay the enormous price for the sake of a single, heroic charge on the field on battle, for the rush of adrenaline, and the final sweet thrill of victory. Sagas speak of the bravery of the final stand. They speak of the great legacies Heros leave behind; they inspire the next generation to go to war. What they do not speak of is the carnage, the guts, the stench of rotting flesh the wind of war brings along. The futility of the outcome has not yet been realized, even after the centuries of warfare we have faced. I wonder, truly, will we ever?

-The musings of Theneis, battle magician of Ellina-

The Forest Of Wisdom

A strange war

Hot blood splattered across the stone as yet another human died. All through the rich, loamy earth of The Forest of Wisdom, men fought desperately, and died furtively. And with each death, the earth grew more sullied. And with each death, The Forest of Wisdom died with it.

Peering across the battlefield, anyone would have assumed the bloodied form lying prone among the corpses a being dead or dying from the grievous wounds that covered it. The ravaged field of Ellina, so burned, so bloodied, stood haggard and torn, proof of men’s love for war. A bloodied hand was raised, a feeble cry was issued. But these sounds were lost among the ruckus caused by the retreating magicians.

Theneis stumbled, wearier then he had ever been in his life. The battle was lost, The Forest of Wisdom taken, and the magicians of Ellina tasted, for the first time in centuries, the putrid stench of defeat. Theneis gazed upon his beloved homeland, its green fields ravaged beyond recognition, and cursed once more, the futility of conquest.

The battle had fast turned into a rout. The barbarians of Perion, angered that the magicians had extended their conquest to their sacred homeland despite their many numerous treaties, fought like men possessed.

The magicians of Ellina held, remarkably so, until the final charge of “Dances with Balrog” broke through their defenses, shattering the defensive spells so carefully placed along the perimeter.

Their will shattered, their battle mages dead or wounded, the previously undefeatable militia of Ellina retreated. However, the hearty warriors pursed, the war hymn of Perion full on their lips, the barbarians won, bit by bit, their homeland, their heritage, so long ago taken and subdued by the rulers of Ellina.

Now, with only pockets of resistance baring their way towards complete victory, the battle was won, the warriors of Perion the victors. But, the toll was enormous.

Runglar the Mighty cried, mighty shoulders heaving with sobs that shook his huge frame. The General of Perion cried for the waste, he cried for the dead. But his tears were most of all, shed for his daughter, Sharlotta.

The plans of battle had been carefully laid, the charge beautifully executed. But his Sharlotta had insisted on joining the battle, despite his many protests. He had seen her fall, her chest torn by a stray arrow.

The memory invoked rage, which replaced sorrow. Runglar stood, welding his magical hammer, Tempus and strode purposely towards the battlefield.

“I will find her body.” He promised.

“And I will kill them all.”

Runglar strode amongst the corpses, eyes filled with inner anguish and pain. He wanted so badly, to hold his daughter’s hand again, to feel her indomitable spirit coursing through him. But the fear of seeing her body mutilated by the battle remained. He made his way, half in hope, half in fear, to the area where his Sharlotta fell.

“By Grendel!” Theneis swore as he found yet another shattered wand among his belongings.

Taking his one remaining wooden wand, he rapidly healed himself, grinning as new-found strength seeped through his injured body, refreshing him. Turning, he noticed a trio of barbarians making their way towards him, but still oblivious to the fact that an armed battle mage stood in close proximity to them.

“The battle is far from over,” Theneis whispered as he prepared himself.

Teleporting to the side, where the barbarians could not see him, he cast three magic claws in quick succession, hoping to take the warriors down quickly, for he had little magic to spare.

Two of them fell, their sides’ torn open, their lifeblood pooling about them. The third warrior however, spun, and with agility uncommon among the hefty barbarians, turned aside the dangerous spell. Seeing the apparently weary mage, he roared, and charged towards Theneis.

However, at the very last instant, Theneis’s eyes flared, and he teleported himself backwards. Off balanced, the barbarian realized the ruse and stumbled, giving the ever-ready battle mage the opening he was searching for. He rapidly cast two dwenoers, a fire arrow and an energy bolt.

To his credit, the battle-maddened barbarian dodged the energy bolt, only to impale himself on the flaming arrow. His eyes filled with disbelief, the barbarian charged towards the mage, only to fall on his knees, his mortal wound overwhelming him. Coughing, he turned hate-filled eyes on Theneis, collapsed, and with a gurgle, died.

“Such a waste,” Theneis lamented as he gazed upon the dead. “The future could have been so bright for them.”

The distance was simply still too great for him to teleport himself back to the safe lines of the conquered Ellianian army, where even there his safety was questionable. Heaving a sigh, he began his slow journey. The mage did not want any more battles.

But Runglar did. The sight of his broken brethren filled him with rage. But yet again, his common sense, so uncommon to his race, stilled his hand. He would wait, he decided, for the dangerous mage to lower his guard, so that he might make his attack.

Theneis sensed the barbarian’s scrutinizing gaze. He considered his next move. Should he let the barbarian make his charge and risked getting cut down, or should he begin the attack first? No, he mused. Better to learn this one’s intensions, for good or for ill.

Turning his back to the ever-watchful barbarian, he gave him the opening he hand been waiting for.

Unable to ignore the opening, Runglar charged, the rousing battle cry of his gods full on his lips. Raising Tempus, he swung a blow that would have decapitated a normal man. But Theneis was no normal man.

The ever-ready mage swung about, his prepared components for his spell at the ready. He cast a magic guard about him, warding off any physical blows to his person. The hammer bounced harmlessly off the shield, leaving a very confused barbarian standing in its wake. Opportunity seen, Theneis struck.

Summoning his magic, he enveloped his adversary in a cloud of poison gas. Certain the potent spell would be more then enough to finish the barbarian, he was contented to wait for the mist to do its work.

As soon as the mist appeared, Runglar knew he was in trouble. His limbs began sluggish, and he tottered on the edge of darkness. Summoning his considerable willpower, the barbarian roared, a primal roar of anger, and he used the sheer wall of rage to overcome the poison cloud’s deadly effects.

Striding forwards, Runglar directed a slash blast towards the shield, “how much can you hold?” He taunted his opponent.

Undaunted, Theneis wiggled his fingers, and a barrage of energy bolts hit Runglar. Grunting off the magical missiles, he fell into himself, into the deep wells of his heritage, and called upon the shamanic magic of his people.

The ensuring roar was not of a man, but of a great wyrm, a dragon. Feeling the power of the great beast within him, he struck again, tearing away the defenses and scoring a gash on the mage’s shoulder.

Shocked, Theneis stumbled back. A second slash tore open his jerkin, draw a fresh line of blood. He rolled, throwing a magic claw towards the fearsome barbarian.

The spell was easily turned aside.

The mage knew then death had come for him at last as he saw the fearsome visage of Runglar approaching. A calm acceptance filled him, and he turned towards his killer, determined to meet his end with honor, only to see him stop.

He saw rage turn to confusion, and then to sorrow. The statue of the barbarian seemed to diminish, and his great shoulders slumped.

Grasping at the chance for survival, Theneis gathered the last of his magical strength and struck the barbarian with a fire arrow. The arrow impaled Runglar on his side, drawing a gasp of pain from the wounded barbarian.

Theneis rushed up, and prepared the finishing blow. But something in the fierce warrior’s eyes halted him; the pain, the loss, the emptiness that were reflected in the orbs that had been, just barely moments ago, filled with battle lust.

“Why?” He found himself asking, “why did you still your hand?”

The barbarian glared at him, hatred plainly written in his face. Staring at Theneis straight in the eye, Runglar snarled out, “kill my cleanly magician.”

Forcing his wand deeper into the barbarian’s throat, he repeated his question, in a quieter tone, “why?”

The barbarian’s shoulders slumped lower, and the man looked thoroughly defeated.

Gesturing brokenly towards the nearby body of a female warrior, Runglar softly said, “my Sharlotta fell, killed by a stray arrow sent by one of your archers. Do as you will magician.”

Theneis however, lowered his wand.

“Take your child and leave, barbarian, our battle here is ended.”

Runglar turned on him, eyes simmering with anger, “I need not your pity magician, save it for your kin who have no doubt fallen in the battle.”

Theneis turned towards the barbarian, and to Runglar’s surprise, the mage held similar loss in his eyes, “it is not in pity which I choose to spare you warrior, but rather in empathy.”

Shocked, the barbarian looked at the magician in surprise. Ignoring him, Theneis turned to leave, and was stopped by the point of cold steel pressing forcefully in his neck. Strangely, Theneis did not regret his earlier act of compassion.

“I expect nothing less from one of your kind.” Unafraid, Theneis waited for the death blow.

Instead, Runglar spoke, “know this. Our war is far from over. And if we ever chance to meet again in the battlefield, I will surely kill you without hesitation. I will stand by my king, and you yours.”

The sword was retracted, and the barbarian turned to leave.

“But know this, I am not your enemy.”

“And neither are you my friend.” Theneis replied, turning around to regard the surprising warrior.

Runglar shrugged, tenderly lifted his daughter, and left.

Viewing the departing man, Theneis smiled to himself. It had indeed been a strange day.

Continued in the second chapter

The Forest of Wisdom

The Consequence