Rolling Shadows - Chapter 1

Prologue

Have you ever tried to write a biographical account of a famous person? The question is always where to start your story. You might consider the event that first made them famous as an excellent starting place. Then on doing further research you discover an important flashpoint in their early childhood, so you start there. This goes on and on until you start with the birth of their parents and then their parents. In truth there is only one place to start any story; at the formation of the universe. That is very far fetched, you have to leave something out.
As it happens this story can be pinned down to a specific starting point, more or less. This story has a beginning, a middle and the end is the future. My name is Duncan Wells and I am the Hydra First. I feel it is important for everyone to know the history since we became public knowledge.
This story starts on I'ithoya, in the country of Eleslthinor in the island temple.

Chapter 1

It began in the year 358 BCE on the Gregorian calendar, 7062 on the elf calender. It was a time of change where the proverbial butterfly flapped its wings and caused chaos. It was on one fateful day that shaped every day that followed. A young acolyte rushed through the corridors of the island temple – his name was Eleneth.

The temple was situated on an island in a river that flowed through Eleselthinor. It was a quiet place where people could explore their spirituality. The temple had long been of tremendous inspiration to all who dwelt in and visited it. All around were large stained glass images of mythology and history. On a bright sunny day the sun would shine through causing coloured light to reflect on the corridor surfaces.
Perhaps the most popular of these magnificent images was that of Thoy'elfin – though many would have given others as their favorite. Nevertheless it was often the case that the temple acolytes would sit meditating, bathed in the coloured light. Thoy'elfin had been a warrior in his time, honorable and just. He was depicted next to a grand tree, which had been his staff. It was now able to rest and grow to a great height. The elf had deep blue eyes and long blond hair in a plait down his back. Yet it was not even this image that could stop Tayan'fon Eleneth from his running.
Eleneth turned a corner and went headlong into the Shan'fon's room.
The Shan'fon was the head of the temple. Her brunette hair loosely shrouded her. Each side of her stood an apprentice. They stepped forward as if to remove the young intruder. All she had to do was raise her hand and they retreated backwards. Though they complied, their faces maintained a show of irritation. The Shan'fon turned to look at Eleneth. Her gaze was one of simple curiosity, the personification of attention. Eleneth felt the bore of her gaze. He had the feeling that whatever he was about to say would be listened to intently, even if the very walls around them withered and died.
He was hesitant.
She was enthroned.
The throne was a wooden seat. It had grown just for her – shaped for her comfort. When she died the tree would shrink back and grow once more for the new leader of the temple.
Eleneth panted, “my apologies for the interruption. Twenty-one Dark Elf long boats approach.” He crossed to the wall whispering to it. The wall obeyed his whispered command and the huge branches moved aside. They revealed an enchanted window. The view would have been picturesque, with the sun glistening on the river's water, and waves breaking lightly on the banks – but for the long boats that appeared like specters marring the view. The sky began to blacken with their presence, a manifestation of the fear the Dark Elves hoped to instil in their enemies. The rowers were fauns, slouched over their oars. The flesh was hanging from their ribs and their horns were ground to stumps – preventing easy resistance when they were alive. The Shan'fon did not like to think long on the torture they must have endured. Now in death the fauns were controlled by necromancers – giving them only a fleeting magical tie to the world. It was the troops that the Dark Elves brought with them that instilled fear in their enemies. On the long boats their were over one and a half thousand of them – manticors

The manticores had many different names across If'thloya. The elves called them: The Beasts, the fauns called them Faunbane, the centaurs name for them was Nemesis, and the dwarfs called them Dwarfbode. This story is for humans and I'll use their terms, for of course when any of those races speak they speak in their own language.
But I digress...

The manticore was a vicious creatures, each the size of an adult lion. They had bat-like wings of storm black and poisoned spines on the end of their tails. They were controlled by two Dark Elves who stood on the raised platform at the aft of the ship. The first was a necromancer controlling the fauns on their respective boats. They wore skins, though not those of any farmed animal. The Shan'fon recognized them as unicorn skins. The helms too were from a unicorn – the skull. These masters of death carried whips which they used to control the dead.
The necromancers's companions were the ones who controlled the manticores. They wore robes of dark colours: blacks, browns and greys. They held tall staffs of dark dead wood. These were Dark elves, twisted by addiction to magic and seduced by its power.
The Shan'fon, otherwise maintaining her stoicism, allowed a tear to break her visage. With a wave of her hand she dismissed the others. Her thoughts turned to the fauns, but she even had sadness for the manticores. It was a time for action. She closed her eyes and brought to the forefront of her mind the images around the temple. She remembered the stories that they depicted, the myths and the legends. If the temple was to fall, she would fall with it.

The remainder of the temple community had made it to the central courtyard. The elders touched the tree there – the one that had been a staff all those years ago. Suddenly it began to move. It shape shifted, its huge branches wrapping around its trunk. Then it shot up in the sky and headed in the direction of the water. The elves followed it. They arrived at the water's edge to see that the tree had become a majestic ship. Sails flapped out from a tall mast and oars grew from the rowlocks. On command the elves boarded. The younger elves, including Eleneth, took up the oars and began to row. The elders stood at the stern, standing in a ring. The began the murmurs of an incantation.

The Shan'fon stretched out her hand to a tree that grew in the corner of the grand hall. It had thin branches like a fruit tree, which sluggishlly slinked back around itself. It twisted through the air to her awaiting hand. The tree was her staff, which now required once more awakened from its arboreal slumber. It was a little shorter than a quarterstaff and topped with a white gemstone. It looked like a plait with a curve of wood going down it. It ended in a point. She began the spell that would — so the saying went — gain the waters to speed her people away. The language she spoke was beautiful, most would say poetic.

I was once asked to describe the elf language. I remember saying; 'Every sentence, even if it expresses the most mundane of ideas, sounds like poetry.'

The incantation of the elders brought a massive wind and the ship moved away from the island towards the mainland. The elders looked back to the island with the manticores approaching it.

The temple helped the Shan'fon. Having known her for eight hundred years, there was great kinship between them. Vines descended from the ceiling twisting round each other creating a double helix. Yellow fruit spiralled down towards her – as she ate power grew inside her.
The ships drew closer.
She chanted.
She held her staff in one hand and a jewel in the other as she concentrated. She allowed a small morsel of her mind to think on the consequences for what she was about to do.
The ships drew ever closer.
Suddenly with a burst of power, she raised her staff high and shouted out the words. They were potent but lost none of their beauty. The power of the spell broke the chains around the legs of the manticores. More than that, the beasts began to grunt, quickly realising that they could move independently, the way they wanted – they were no longer slaves. The coxes quickly realised what had happened, and raised their staffs to attempt to reaffirm their control – but to no avail.

With their sudden freedom the beasts leapt into the air and swung their tails. The poison darts were flung with little accuracy, and hit Dark Elves and fauns alike. Then on every boat, the Dark Elves – at least those who were not paralysed by poison – screamed as they were set upon by these vicious beasts. Flesh ripped and bones crunched. As the necromancers were killed the fauns they had been controlling turned to dust and crumbled into the water. There would be nothing out there but manticores.

The Shan'fon cried.
She had saved her people.
Even the deaths of enemies did not please her.
The manticores continued to advance and would soon enter the temple. It would no doubt fight, but with their onslaught it would no doubt fail.
The Shan'fon fell to a sitting position on the floor.
A single branch came down and stroked her hair. She nuzzled against it like a favourite pet, then
clutching the jewel between both hands, she whispered a sad prayer.
Then she simply...stopped and collapsed to the floor.
Her spirit was gone. She had performed the ancient ritual to allow her spirit, her Shal'lol - the
intangible part of her existence, to leave her body. It was a peaceful death which was a good thing, as one in pain and torment was said to cause damage into the next life.
The hoards of manticores broke into the throne room. The temple tried to defend its mistress. It grew large spiky chestnuts and rained them down. Vines entangled their legs. Some were killed by the barrage, but all too soon the Shan'fon's body was savagely ripped apart.