The War Of The Elves: Fantasy Novel

By Alfred Bekker

Elbiana, the new elven kingdom in the interlands, is on the brink of ruin. King Keandir faces overpowering enemies. His son Magolas has sided with the dark ruler Xaror and become his worst enemy. But once again, the hopes of the elves rest on a pair of twins. Daron and Sarwen, the grandsons of the Elven King, are gifted with magic beyond measure....

 

 

The Elves Trilogy by Alfred Bekker consists of the volumes THE REALM OF THE ELVES, THE KINGS OF THE ELVES and THE WAR OF THE ELVES.

 

Alfred Bekker is a well-known author of fantasy novels, thrillers and books for young people. In addition to his major book successes, he has written numerous novels for suspense series such as Ren Dhark, Jerry Cotton, Cotton Reloaded, Kommissar X, John Sinclair, and Jessica Bannister. He has also published under the names Neal Chadwick, Henry Rohmer, Conny Walden, and Janet Farell.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alfred Bekker
• Release date: Jan 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215543924

Alfred Bekker

Alfred Bekker wurde am 27.9.1964 in Borghorst (heute Steinfurt) geboren und wuchs in den münsterländischen Gemeinden Ladbergen und Lengerich auf. 1984 machte er Abitur, leistete danach Zivildienst auf der Pflegestation eines Altenheims und studierte an der Universität Osnabrück für das Lehramt an Grund- und Hauptschulen. Insgesamt 13 Jahre war er danach im Schuldienst tätig, bevor er sich ausschließlich der Schriftstellerei widmete. Schon als Student veröffentlichte Bekker zahlreiche Romane und Kurzgeschichten. Er war Mitautor zugkräftiger Romanserien wie Kommissar X, Jerry Cotton, Rhen Dhark, Bad Earth und Sternenfaust und schrieb eine Reihe von Kriminalromanen. Angeregt durch seine Tätigkeit als Lehrer wandte er sich schließlich auch dem Kinder- und Jugendbuch zu, wo er Buchserien wie 'Tatort Mittelalter', 'Da Vincis Fälle', 'Elbenkinder' und 'Die wilden Orks' entwickelte. Seine Fantasy-Romane um 'Das Reich der Elben', die 'DrachenErde-Saga' und die 'Gorian'-Trilogie machten ihn einem großen Publikum bekannt. Darüber hinaus schreibt er weiterhin Krimis und gemeinsam mit seiner Frau unter dem Pseudonym Conny Walden historische Romane. Einige Gruselromane für Teenager verfasste er unter dem Namen John Devlin. Für Krimis verwendete er auch das Pseudonym Neal Chadwick. Seine Romane erschienen u.a. bei Blanvalet, BVK, Goldmann, Lyx, Schneiderbuch, Arena, dtv, Ueberreuter und Bastei Lübbe und wurden in zahlreiche Sprachen übersetzt.

Book preview

The War Of The Elves: Fantasy Novel

Third volume of the Elves trilogy

by Alfred Bekker

––––––––

Elbiana, the new elven kingdom in the interlands, is on the brink of ruin. King Keandir faces overpowering enemies. His son Magolas has sided with the dark ruler Xaror and become his worst enemy. But once again, the hopes of the elves rest on a pair of twins. Daron and Sarwen, the grandsons of the Elven King, are gifted with magic beyond measure....

––––––––

The Elves Trilogy by Alfred Bekker consists of the volumes THE REALM OF THE ELVES, THE KINGS OF THE ELVES and THE WAR OF THE ELVES.

Alfred Bekker is a well-known author of fantasy novels, thrillers and books for young people. In addition to his major book successes, he has written numerous novels for suspense series such as Ren Dhark, Jerry Cotton, Cotton Reloaded, Kommissar X, John Sinclair, and Jessica Bannister. He has also published under the names Neal Chadwick, Henry Rohmer, Conny Walden, and Janet Farell.

First book: Kings in darkness

A king of the sword.

A king of shadows.

A king of the spirit.

This was the name given to the kings of the elves in those days.

One of them founded the Elven Kingdom with the sword Fatebender and the dark power inherent in his soul since he met the Eyeless Seer of Naranduin - that was Keandir.

One, filled with the dark power like his father Keandir, created his own empire and ruled over the Rhagar lands of Aratan, Norien, Southwestlands and Karanor. But his love for a human woman made him the slave of Xaror, the Lord of Shadows, the Lord of the Night Creatures - that was Magolas.

One fled to the realms of pure knowledge and to the solitude of the mountains of High Elbiana. He was a king of the spirit, a magician like the people of the elves had no other. But he was also a lonely soul, who feared nothing so much as that the power of darkness, which manifested itself so strongly in his father Keandir and even more strongly in his twin brother Magolas, awoke in him as well - that was Andir.

The Forbidden Scriptures

(formerly known as: The Book of Branagorn - Codex II, variant and probably supplemented by editor B).

––––––––

Two races of men, however, existed in the intermediate lands: the Tagoreans, who settled in Tagora, Perea, Soria, and Tebana - and the Rhagar, whose barbarous homeland was the inhospitable sands of Rhagardan before they crossed the Perean Sea and conquered many lands under the leadership of the Iron Lord Comrrm of Cosania.

The Rhagar were a savage, coarse, and very primitive people, differing from the cultured Tagoreans in every conceivable way. Their propensity for violence and their will to conquer became apparent early on, as did their inquisitiveness and their ability to learn. While they initially worshipped the Elven people as gods of light, they later went into the field against the Elven Empire under the leadership of the Iron Lord and brought it to the brink of the abyss in the Battle of the Aratan Wall.

Meanwhile, many Rhagar live on the elvish side of this rampart, especially in the southern duchies of Nurania and Elbara. And also in the northern duchies of Nordbergen and Meerland, as well as in the duchy of Noram, which King Keandir once founded as a bulwark against the Trorks of the Wilderland, they build their houses, bear their children, and die after a short, meaningless existence. As yet, they are hardly to be found in Elbiana, the heartland of the Elven Kingdom under the direct rule of King Keandir. But even this will change in time, for their women are fertile, and their numbers are constantly increasing, while those of the Elves are stagnating.

Many an Elf looks down on this Elven Rhagar haughtily. But he should keep in mind that it is also their warriors who defend the Elven Kingdom at the Aratan Wall.

From the writings of Hyrondisil the Know-it-all

––––––––

And Magolas created an empire greater than any human empire that had existed before, and he was soon compared to the legendary Iron Lord of Cosania, who had dared to challenge the Elven Empire ages before.

First Magolas, the son of King Keandir of Elbiana, took the daughter of the King of Aratan as his wife and then ruled as King of Aratan. He soon seized the province of Noria from the Emperor of the Southwest Lands and eventually even subjugated the entire empire. The land of Karanor also fell to him, and later his army defeated the army of the Rhagar Empire of Aybana, which he also incorporated into his empire.

At the city of Milorn in the land of Cossaria, Magolas defeated the armies of the powerful kingdom of Cossar, whose inhabitants henceforth preferred to pay him tribute rather than have his warriors ravage their lands. Magolas also took tribute from the halfling kingdom of Osterde, and the Rhagar rulers of Haldonia and Marana joined him as allies, while the Tagoreans in the south trembled before his power. From them he took away the land of Soria and incorporated it into his empire.

A Great King was called Magolas, or a King of Kings, and his empire was called the Magolian Empire. As fate would have it, only the Elven kingdom of his father Keandir was able to stand up to his will to conquer. But it had been prophesied to Magolas that his sword would one day be named Elf Slayer, and by now this no longer seemed at all absurd to the long-lived Elven ruler of an empire inhabited by short-lived humans.

With the Rhagar princess Larana, however, he begat the magically gifted twins Daron and Sarwen and thus continued the bloodline of the Elven kings Péandir, Eandorn and Keandir.

The Chronicle of Elbara

(original version before redaction under Duke Deranos I, the first Rhagar ruler of Elbara).

––––––––

Only a year later Larana became pregnant, and thus her most ardent wish was fulfilled. Magolas, however, felt the approaching doom as clearly as if it had already happened. The darkness that suddenly filled his eyes constantly was the outward sign that he had become a slave to the dark forces.

It was his love for the Rhagar princess Larana that had made him the servant of the shadow lord Xaror and the enemy of his father. For only Xaror's magic could extend Larana's short human life span beyond the natural measure. And it was this magic that was ultimately responsible for Larana being blessed with twins at an age when only pale bones would have remained of an ordinary Rhagar woman.

The Great King had no choice but to fulfill Xaror's will and allow the former ruler of the Dark Realm to return from Limbo, where he had been taken many ages ago by a failed magical experiment. And the two twins that his wife bore him carried the seed of darkness within them. Thus they were made to become Xaror's compliant servants.

What we do out of hatred is terrible, but even more terrible is what we sometimes do out of love, Grand King Magolas once spoke, and this thought probably moved him as he stepped to the bedsides of his children to paint on their foreheads, with the black blood of an Aybanite poison toad, those magical marks that Xaror had shown him within the walls of his six-towered temple in the forest of Karanor. To do this, he spoke those words in the idiom of the Six Finger people that Xaror, the former ruler of the Dark Empire, had burned into his mind.

In two successive generations, the bloodline of King Keandir had been blessed with the birth of twins. On Andir and Magolas, a son of light and a prince of darkness, had long rested the burden of a prophecy that they would determine the fate of Elvenkind. Daron and Sarwen, a boy and a girl, were half-elves only, and yet endowed with a magical power such as had not been present in Elvenkind for a long time.

After the ritual was completed, Magolas found no sleep that night. He climbed the main tower of the royal palace of his capital Aratania and called upon both the Nameless Gods of the Elves and the Sun God of the Rhagar: Shall the blessing of a twin birth once again turn into a curse, as it did with my brother and me? Shall light Elven souls become children of darkness?

But the gods remained silent.

And indifferent.

Both the elvish and that of the Rhagar.

Great King Magolas had publicly adopted the barbaric belief in the Sun God so that his Rhagar subjects would worship him as his son, as they had done with the Iron Lord Comrrm. But anyway, the primitive idols of the Rhagar seemed not unlike the supposedly noble Nameless Gods of the Elves, at least in terms of their indifference to the fate of mortals. Neither fervent worship nor elaborate sacrificial rituals could induce them to give at least a sign of their pity. But although Magolas knew from Aratan that he cursed something cold, indifferent and impersonal, this relieved his soul, at least for the moment.

And Magolas said, Immortal king of kings they call me, or even a god in the guise of a ruler - and yet I am nothing but a slave!

The gods were silent, only the howling wind and the roar of the interland sea answered him.

The Book of Magolas

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What King Keandir thought about his son Magolas, he never really let out. However, he did meet with him once at the Aratan Wall. They strode toward each other, but then Keandir backed away, so horrified was he when he saw his son's eyes permanently filled with blackness.

Do not shudder, said the latter. You would have to shudder at yourselves otherwise.

The Younger Book of Keandir

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The war between the Elven Empire and the Magolian Empire was inevitable. It dawned like the blood-colored glow of the morning sun as it rose behind the mountain massifs of High Elbiana.

Creatures of light, the Elves had been called - but their existence was threatened not only by the ancient creatures of darkness, but above all by the darkness in the souls of their kings. Yes, the latter was the greater threat.

The Older Book of Keandir

––––––––

An elven king of shadows who became the servant of darkness.

An elven king of the sword who wanted to fight darkness with darkness.

An elven king of the spirit, who thought his soul free of darkness and whom the fear of it had a firm grip on.

Kings in darkness they were.

All three.

From The Songs of the Damned

(in the Apocrypha of the Younger Book of Keandir).

Chapter 1: A flock of ravens

A few miles away from Elbenhaven, on a rock massif, which was also called Elven Tower because of its almost cylindrical shape, lay the manufactory of the Elvish weapons master Thamandor, who was also called Thamandor the Inventive by now.

There was a good reason why Thamandor's weapons workshop had once been banned from the walls of the capital city of Elbenhaven, for there had been repeated accidents with serious consequences, so that the Elven citizens of the city had no longer been willing to accept this risk in the future. Entire buildings had been destroyed by the burning of magical fire, and the thought of the sometimes highly poisonous essences that the weapons master kept in his workshop had made the inhabitants of Elbenhaven shudder.

Since then, the manufactory was located on the summit plateau of the Elbe Tower. Narrow, difficult paths led there. Some of them had to be cut into the rock with the help of magic, because the manufactory depended on transport teams to reach it. But the location of the manufactory also made it difficult for Rhagar spies to get there and perhaps learn details about the production of flaming spears and one-handed crossbows. However, this knowledge would probably not have been of much use to the human-barbarians, as their technical skills were still quite limited compared to those of the elves.

King Keandir was on his way to the manufactory of Thamandor with a small troop. They crossed a long gorge, through the bottom of which a wide road led inland. Rugged rocky slopes rose to the right and left. And behind the crests of the next hills, the Elbe Tower towered over the land.

The king had important things to discuss with Thamandor the weapons master. Things that had to do with the security of the elven kingdom. Apart from that, Keandir had made it a habit to visit the manufactory more or less regularly to see for himself the progress that was being made there in the production of even more effective weapons. After all, the Elven Kingdom had powerful enemies, and a coming war was already dawning like an inevitable doom. That his own son led the armies of the Rhagar gave Keandir a painful stab every time he thought of it.

He himself had also created his own empire, he then tried to remind himself again and again. So how could he have judged Magolas too harshly if he didn't also want to pass judgment on himself at the same time.

King Keandir sucked the cool mountain air into his lungs. The sun was shining, but the king and his retinue of two dozen horsemen were just moving through an area within the gorge that was in shadow. Icy it was, and although Elves cared little for cold, the King of Elbiana felt a chill. It was a cold breeze that seemed to grip even the deepest part of his soul.

His eyes narrowed. He turned his head and let his gaze wander over the rocks. There was something near. Something cold, evil.

Sensing the restlessness of his horse, he stroked the animal's neck, whereupon it calmed down a bit; the heartbeat of the steed of noble elven breeding betrayed it. For an elven ear, it was not difficult to hear the throbbing of the animal's heart among the myriad of natural sounds.

If we had a hundred flame spears, the Elven Kingdom would no longer be in danger, at least for the next millennium! It was the voice of Siranodir with the two swords that snapped Keandir out of his thoughts, and the cold something, that whiff of evil, was suddenly gone as well.

Was he already becoming too suspicious? Did he already see forces at work everywhere, working out of the shadows to wrest from him the dominion over his destiny and to let Elvenkind sink again into that lethargy of weariness of life from which Keandir had freed his people by founding the new Elven kingdom in the interlands?

A jolt went through the king. He looked at his faithful retainer Siranodir and said, Forgive me, I am not very observant.

We need to get Thamandor to curb his drive for perfection and finally start mass production.

The flaming spear developed by Thamandor was now fully developed. During the campaign against the Trorks in the Wilderland, it had been used repeatedly and had taught those hulking eyeless barbarians, who looked like a grotesque mixture of trolls and orcs, the fear. It was only thanks to the use of Thamandor's Flame Spear that the northern mountainous elven city of Turandir, located on the shores of Lake Nur Spring, could be held and the attackers repelled.

In the meantime, Thamandor had already completed another spear. It had taken the weapons master an entire half-century, for the mechanism of this weapon was extremely complicated, and Thamandor the weapons master was known as much for his meticulousness as for his inventiveness. But in order to really start a mass production of these weapons - thought of at least five weapons per century - the supply of a substance called Naranduinite Stone Spice had to be secured first, and its main ingredient was a powdered stone of Magical Fire, which was found on the island of Naranduin. Without this substance, a flame spear was not functional in any case.

Thamandor had taken one of these stones into his possession and used it for the development of the flame spear. But the supplies of this powder had been used up in the meantime, and even with the only functional specimen of this weapon so far - the stone spice had not sufficed for the second flame spear - one could not be sure how long it would function.

Thamandor had long demanded that Naranduin, that island of nameless horrors, be revisited to obtain more Stones of Magical Fire. However, he had in mind not only the mass production of flame spears, which he probably secretly considered premature; he dreamed of using these stones to produce other magical substances with related properties.

But King Keandir had always refused to return once again to Naranduin, that island surrounded by a dark, evil aura, on whose shores the Elven fleet had landed after their eternity-long odyssey through the timeless sea of mist. Everyone knew the story of those fifty Elven warriors who had followed their king into the interior of the island at that time and had been confronted with the nameless horror. Keandir had even passed a law forbidding any Elf to enter the island, for it was to be feared that the visitor to the enchanted isle would otherwise fall under the influence of the dark magic that ruled this island.

Suddenly Keandir heard the cawing of a raven. It sounded very soft; apparently the animal was still at a great distance. Keandir's left hand clasped the hilt of the sword with the name Doombender at his side, while his right wrapped around a small leather pouch he carried on a cord of braided elven yarn in front of his chest. A shimmer permeated his palm, making it appear transparent for a moment, revealing each individual hand bone.

Five of the six Elven stones were in this bag; one of these magical jewels symbolizing Elvenness was missing, irretrievably lost, but the other five Keandir had recovered after they had been stolen. And since then, the old strength and determination with which he had once founded the realm of the elves in the interlands filled him again.

To steer the horse on whose back he sat, a thought command was enough. Horses of elven breeding were sensitive enough to immediately grasp such mental commands; the rider had only to discipline his thoughts to the extent that the animal could not misunderstand them.

While Siranodir rode on the king's right with the two swords, Prince Sandrilas accompanied him on the left, who came from a side line of the royal house and had always been a kind of fatherly mentor for the king. While the prince had lost his right eye ages ago, supposedly in battle against the legendary human race that once lived in Athranor, Siranodir had suffered an injury to his ear during the Battle of Turandir and lost part of his hearing. Normally, elvish hearing was much more sensitive than that of a human, but Siranodir could hear no better than a Rhagar because of the wound, so he was almost deaf according to elvish sensibilities.

In addition, the king was accompanied by a squad of mounted one-handed crossbowmen, over twenty in number, under the command of Captain Rhiagon. The king's safety was of the highest priority, and although Keandir was not a fearful man and considered this escort only a few miles from his capital to be completely excessive, the conscientious Prince Sandrilas had insisted on it.

The Magolian Empire will do anything to destroy Elbiana, my king, Prince Sandrilas said into the silence that had fallen again after Siranodir had spoken. The one-eyed Elven prince smiled, and his ancient but in some ways timeless face took on hard contours. You should face this fact.

But whatever may separate our realms, Magolas is my son, Keandir countered. He will not order an assassination of his own father, of that I am convinced!

I think that's where you're misjudging the situation, my king.

Like this?

Magolas is under the spell of a dark magic, Sandrilas stated. Who may know to what extent he is actually still the master of his decisions or only the tool of a dark power. Xaror wants to rebuild his dark empire as it must have existed in its morbid glory long ago. But since he cannot act in this world until now, he abuses Magolas as his accomplice.

Secretly, Keandir agreed with his mentor, but the king of the elves simply refused to accept the obvious. Although the news Keandir received from Aratan actually left no doubt. The healer Nathranwen had returned some time ago from Magolas' capital Aratania, where she had been in the service of the Great King. She had had to embark via the neutral realm of the Sea King of Ashkor and Terdos, since there had been no direct ship connections between the ports of Rhagar and the Elven realm for quite some time. Nathranwen had helped Larana with the birth of her twins, but quite soon she had been denied contact with the infants. They apparently feared her influence on King Keandir's grandsons and had sent Nathranwen away.

She had told of dark rituals in which the children had to participate - and of the fact that the human woman Larana was apparently dependent on taking a magical potion that prolonged her life. Keandir felt cold fury at the thought. Apparently, Magolas was willing to sacrifice everything - even his children - to allow his beloved consort Larana to live beyond the time limit set by the Nameless Gods.

Once again, a distant croak made the Elf King sit up and take notice. Again he grasped the bag of elven stones and felt a pleasant current of power emanating from them, flooding his entire body.

Shortly thereafter, all the riders of the elven troop perceived the croaking sounds - except for Siranodir with the two swords, who looked a bit confused. He would never get used to having at most the hearing of a human, and it was no consolation to him that Gesinderis, the greatest composer in Elvish history, had indeed been completely deaf.

He turned around in the saddle and realized that all the elves in the troop except him must have heard something; they seemed tense and were listening. After the partial loss of hearing, Siranodir's other senses had sharpened slightly, but that could not compensate for his impairment. He sucked in the cool, clear mountain air through his nostrils, but there was nothing distinctive to smell. With his eyes, he searched the edges of the gorge and also discovered nothing.

That must have been the cawing of a raven circling behind one of those mountains, Prince Sandrilas said, yet he kept his hand on the hilt of his sword.

The cawing of a raven? interjected Captain Rhiagon, shaking his head. That's a whole flock, at least a hundred!

If only they were ravens, King Keandir murmured. There was something else that his sensitive senses picked up. An aura of darkness and death. King Keandir concentrated on it and perceived it clearly. An aura of magic!, it ran through him, then he saw the flock of ravens appear behind one of the nearby peaks.

The horses of the elves became restless; they seemed to feel the aura as well. Keandir muttered a short incantation that protected against the influence of black magic, and for a moment the king's eyes turned completely black, as his son's always had by now, as Keandir had been dismayed to discover during a meeting with Magolas at the Aratan Wall.

The ravens came rapidly closer, flying unnaturally fast. Soon details were visible to the sharp elven eyes: Each of these birds was the size of an eagle, and yet, judging by their shape and plumage, they were undoubtedly ravens.

The magical aura ... The icy breath ...

A neigh echoed between the rocky slopes. The king reined in his horse, which threatened to bolt, sensing the radiance of evil as clearly as its rider. With another formula, Keandir tried to shield the animal's weak mind from the magical influence, but he found it difficult to concentrate his thoughts.

Father ...

There was a voice of thought that spoke to him. The voice of someone who was familiar and foreign to him in equal measure.

Magolas - my son ...

For a brief moment, he felt a spiritual connection to him - and with an intensity that had not existed between them for a long time.

Pain! Unbearable pain ... Forgive me, Father ...

Magolas! shouted Keandir so loudly that it echoed between the craggy cliffs of the high-Elbian mountains.

The first giant ravens were approaching. They reminded Keandir involuntarily of Ráabor, a giant bird monster that had dwelt in the rocks of Naranduin since time immemorial and had finally been killed by a shot from Thamandor's one-handed crossbow.

The ravens formed a wedge-shaped formation. Their cawing cries became so piercing that they were almost unbearable for sensitive elven ears. Cries in which must lie a special form of damaging magic, because they caused hellish pain that flooded the entire body from the ears and head.

The Elven horses, whose senses had been sharpened by a long succession of breeding, even if they did not approach the sensitivity of the Elves, shied away, half mad with pain and fear, reared and bucked. The mental guidance by the rider failed completely. The only thing that still filled the animals was hopeless panic.

Keandir reached for the reins, which were usually rarely used by elvish horsemen; sometimes they even dispensed with them altogether, since guidance by a reasonably disciplined elvish mind was much safer than that degree of obedience that could be achieved by reins on a mount.

A particularly intense croak cut like a sharp knife into Keandir's soul. For a few moments, he could not think clearly. In front of his eyes, it first turned black and then bright red, as if he were turning toward the sun with closed eyelids.

The Elf King toppled out of the saddle as his horse stood on its hindquarters and hit the ground. He barely felt the pain of the impact. Fate Conqueror slipped from his hand.

Gather the power of the darkness of your soul!

He struggled to his feet. He felt dizzy and numb, and he could hear the shrieking cries of the giant ravens as if from far away. He was only able to perceive his surroundings in a blur. His hand jerked to the elven stones. He grasped them, and a current of power flooded through him, pushing back the cruel pain. He looked around quickly, saw Doomwalker lying on the ground. The horse he had been riding had bolted in panic and seemed to have completely lost its mind, as it tried to run up one of the steep slopes. The animal slipped and let out a bloodcurdling neigh, a sound so filled with pain, agony and fear of death that it went through one's spine.

Let the darkness fill you completely. Because only the darkness helps against the darkness ...

He grasped Destiny Conqueror with both hands, so tightly that it almost hurt and the knuckles of his hands stood out clearly under the pale skin, and looked around. Elves and elven horses were rolling on the ground. Some of the horses were already no longer alive, and with a second glance Keandir realized with horror that some of the elves had also fallen victim to the terrible spell cries of the giant ravens; motionless and with wide-open, staring eyes they lay there, their minds destroyed by the magic of the ravens' cries.

Still it was hardly possible for Keandir to form a clear thought. Sandrilas had apparently been thrown from his horse as well; he rose, staggering. Captain Rhiagon fired his one-handed crossbow and hit one of the giant ravens with it. But at the moment the bolt struck and the fine mechanism should have released the magic poison, the giant raven disintegrated; it disintegrated into dozens of raven-tinchlings barely larger than an elf's thumb. Their cries, however, were just as shrill that they bored into the elf's mind like glowing nails. Rhiagon immediately groaned in pain.

Other members of the king's single-handed guard also used their weapons. Some were barely able to aim to some extent due to pain. Others managed to hit one of these magical creatures despite being affected by the raven's cries. But the effect always came to nothing: before the poison of the bolt could take effect, the bird in question disintegrated into tiny ravens, which a few moments later merged again into a giant raven. Some of them were even larger than the original birds. Here and there, giant ravens also merged into even larger creatures.

But they did not attack - apart from pelting the elf troop with their magical screams. Instead, they circled above the elves and waited to see what happened.

None of the elves was still sitting on the back of his horse. A third lay motionless on the ground, another third was still stirring, but was badly battered. Only a few were still on their feet.

Only Siranodir with the two swords seemed completely unimpressed.

What is the matter with you? he cried, for he was not affected by the effects of the spell cries; he apparently could not even perceive them. The weakness of his hearing, about which he had so often grumbled, was in this case an advantage.

Siranodir did not reach for the two blades girded on his back, to which he had given the names slashing and stabbing, but leapt from his bucking and lunging horse, grabbed the one-handed crossbow of an Elven warrior lying on the ground, and took aim at one of the largest raven creatures circling in the sky; it had grown to about the dimensions of an Elven horse and a half, and still raven dwarves were magically merging with it.

Although he was not a skilled one-handed shooter, he hit the monstrous creature, and the magical poison inside the bolt was released by the highly sensitive mechanism. A hissing, acidic fire spread, flames burst forth, but once again the monstrosity split into hundreds of tiny creatures. Some of them fell to the ground as amorphous lumps, completely deformed by the magical poison. This time the process of division had taken place with a slight delay, but most of the tiny creatures could not be harmed by the poisonous fire, because they detached themselves in time from the creature they had just formed.

The raven monsters circled faster and faster, dividing into smaller and smaller tiny creatures, so that from a distance they looked like a swarm of flies. A whirlpool formed in this black cloud, and then another attack took place.

The tiny creatures pounced on the Elven warriors who were still alive. The majority of the elves were barely able to fight back, and the raven tiny ones amplified their magical screams; Keandir thought his skull would have to burst.

The attackers pounced on him and stabbed him in dozens of places with their beaks. But they especially targeted the eyes. Keandir lashed out with Doombreaker. Some of the attackers were cut to pieces by the sharp blade in flight, but there were too many, and they were too small to fight them all off. In addition, the Elf King's ability to react was greatly impaired by the screams of the attackers.

Staggering, he blindly flailed around to protect himself as best he could from the raven tiny creatures that buzzed around him. He hardly noticed what was happening to Siranodir, Sandrilas and the other still living members of the elf troop accompanying him.

Father ...

Again there was the thought-voice of his son Magolas. Keandir recognized it immediately this time, and the pain expressed in it frightened the elf ruler to the depths of his soul.

What happened to you, my son?

As rulers of different realms, they had faced each other for more than a human age - but it was circumstances that had separated them, not the feelings father and son had for each other. Even though Magolas was now revered by humans as the Great King and had fallen in love with the human princess Larana to dark forces that made him a compliant servant, Keandir's concern for his son was not extinguished, quite the opposite.

My son, what are they doing to you right now?

Keandir managed to mutter a magic formula. Gather yourself, darkness of my soul... He tried to ignore the infernal pain in his head, and he even succeeded a little, while at the same time he struck with his sword at the raven-tinchlings that kept coming at him, but their cawing became all the more shrill and painful as a result.

The piercing scream of an elf almost made his blood run cold in the next moment. It was Captain Rhiagon.

My eyes! he cried hoarsely. My eyes!

Keandir felt the dark power that had been in him since his encounter with the Eyeless Seer of Naranduin fill him completely again. It enormously weakened the pain caused by the cawing of the raven creatures, pushed the screams into the background, and his eyes filled with darkness; nothing white remained there anymore.

But then something happened that had not happened before: The darkness, this black something, penetrated his eyes, mouth and nose in the form of tiny insect-like particles. A swarm of restlessly buzzing particles, reminiscent of black smoke, spread out and enveloped a part of the raven-tinchlings. Their cawing turned into a screeching sound, the shrillness of which was still a torment to any elf's hearing, but which completely lacked damaging magic. Hundreds of raven tiny creatures fell to the ground like stones. They were frozen hard, as if they had fallen victim to the elements in one of North Bergen's very cold winters.

Those raven creatures that still existed immediately flew away and united - apparently following an inner instinct - to larger raven monsters.

Siranodir had been able to defend himself best against the attacks of the tiny creatures by swirling bats and stings through the air with such great speed that he had literally scythed hundreds of them to pieces. Black plumage of various sizes as well as cut and hacked bird bodies lay around him on the ground and bore witness to this.

But unlike his companions, Siranodir with the two swords was also in full possession of his strength and therefore his speed was not affected. Since the injury, as a result of which his hearing had been permanently lowered to the pitiful level of a human, his eyes had become noticeably sharper, so that he could use his two blades even more precisely. Cutting an object the size of a fingertip in free fall with his sword was no difficulty for him. Accordingly, his record against the Rabenwinzlings was deadly.

However, Siranodir had also suffered some nasty beak injuries, because due to the large number of attackers it had not been possible for him to ward off all attacks. There was a bleeding wound on his neck, which closed only gradually, although Siranodir supported the healing process with a few appropriate incantations.

He stood in front of Captain Rhiagon, who was crouching on the ground, completely helpless, and whose eyes were completely destroyed by the ravens' beaks. Blood ran down Rhiagon's face, and he was half mad with pain. The one-handed crossbow lay on the ground, and with the sword he tried to defend himself against the attacking raven-tiny ones more badly than well.

Prince Sandrilas was also badly injured. The one-eyed elf prince slashed with his sword, trying to scare away the attackers. Only rarely did he hit one of them, because he was nowhere near as good as Siranodir at estimating moving objects due to his one-eyedness. Besides, the screams had affected him more than many other elves at the beginning. Only the experience of a very long life, even by elvish standards, had saved Sandrilas from the destruction of his mind. In the millennia that had passed since his birth in the ancient homeland of Athranor, he had learned to shield his senses in case of emergency to protect himself against too intense sensations - a skill that every elf possessed, but as they grew older, elves tended to perfect themselves at it. It was ultimately a matter of experience.

The consequences of dozens of beak attacks were unmistakable on Sandrila's body. Especially on his right side, which he had turned toward the attackers to defend himself, he had sustained numerous injuries, some of them severe. Blood ran from his neck and down his shoulder. The sleeve of his doublet was soaked with blood, and some of these little monsters had even managed to attack his head and face. A wound gaped just above his only eye. The blood ran down his face, and the healing spells helped only insufficiently.

However, the cloud of whirring dark particles that escaped King Keandir announced the turn of events. It spread and enveloped more and more groups of ravens, which then froze and fell to the ground as hard as stone.

A feeling of power flowed through Keandir again. He raised his sword Doombender, stretched it aloft, and again a gush of pure darkness came from his mouth, nose, ears, and eyes. This swarm of tiny particles first formed a shapeless cloud that strove toward the tip of Doombender. There, the cloud began to spin and form a whirlpool. This vortex slid down the blade - exactly to the place where Doombreaker had once burst during Keandir's fight against the Fearbringer.

The speed at which the smallest particles whirred around the blade became increasingly frantic. A dull, buzzing sound arose. The fine particles condensed, once again becoming a blackness that sunlight was unable to penetrate. Then this sinister vortex shot along the blade, beyond the tip of the sword, and drove toward the flock of ravens, already