The Fate of Ysiwena.
While a hundred bestial throats roared supernaturally, the massive battering ram smashed against the golden gates of the City of the Roses. The proud defenders rained arrows down on the attackers from the battlements and unleashed the most powerful magic they knew, but nothing stopped the demoniacal advance of the war machine. A single blow by the head of the battering ram, carved in the grotesque form of a demon’s head, smashed the wood into splinters and melted the magic gold strengthening the defenses. A wave of pitiless warriors flooded into the beautiful streets. The tide of black cloaks and red armor swept through the avenues and trampled the gardens, setting fire to the first houses and defiling the temples. Hundreds of merciless warriors yelled for blood and slaughter.
The last defenders stood before them. Soldiers in bright golden armor and spotless white cloaks formed the desperate defense of the White Tower, the last bastion of the Powers of the Law that was left in the whole continent. War spread through the streets and avenues, across parks and squares and into houses and mansions. Dozens of skirmishes took place across the city, and the defenders fought gallantly and bravely in a desperate hymn to valor and heroism. Thousands of souls arose to the Holy Halls that tragic day, thousands of the Birthkind died before the most absolute evil and diabolical of powers. Swords rose over and over again, blood stained the graceful statues along the Avenue of the Kings, and the screams of the dying filled the schools and colleges.
So unstoppable was the advance of the hordes of Death that in a few minutes the defenders were taking cover behind the bodies of their comrades at the foot of the Tower of the Rose. While clouds thundered in the sky and darkness spread over the world, a thin wall of bright white cloaks formed around the tower, bastion and pillar of life. Amongst the faithful here were warriors who had come from every corner of the continent, soldiers who had never failed a mission. They now watched with terrified eyes as the crazed beasts attacked them again and again. The flashing blades of the protectors repelled the attacks of the Vloen and Selaen time after time, massacring entire lines of Nuimbrans and destroying armor and shields. The sounds of battle crazed the soulless beasts, which threw themselves against the line of defenders, howling promises of eternal torture.
But not even the strongest of defenses could withstand such powerful attack for so long without weakening. The Selaen invoked their powerful Daertacks, and the sinister figures of demons with massive jaws threw themselves against the guards. Magic reverberated between the allied lines, and the Daertacks writhed under a hail of fire and ice, lightening bolts and unleashed power. The magic caused the ground to split open, buildings were cracked by the pressure of brute force, and the proud towers of the palaces of the nobles fell while the battle continued. The lines of the defenders were dispersed into isolated groups, and they all fought fiercely, knowing that nobody would leave the streets alive. Lightening exploded over the combatants while the storm approached, imposing and impassive before the massacre.
Through the attackers, illuminated by the occasional flashes of lightening, strode the tall figure of a man, valiant in appearance and firm in gaze. He was dressed in simple black garments, and his cloak was darker than the very night around him. His black hair moved in the wind, while his face, which was beautiful and sadistic, showed his delight at the massacre. Galbert, the Lord of Death, walked toward his goal with his sword Loarnar in his hand, gloating over the innumerable souls being laid to waste by swords and knives. The Tower of the Rose stood before him, a spiral of pristine whiteness surrounded by flames and smoke. It was far higher than any of the other tallest towers on the continent, and its beauty moved the souls of the faithful who looked upon it. Minarets emerged from its surface, and at the top an open ivory rose formed balconies of hanging gardens. At the bottom of the tower a single crystal door gave access to the inside. This door was flanked by a small lake, and it was protected by three captains of the defenders.
They were wise and powerful warriors, and alone they were capable of defeating entire armies. The combined force of their magic did not even touch the flesh of Galbert, and their weapons did not even scratch him. The Lord of Death was the greatest warrior who had ever existed, powerful amongst mortals in a way that had never been possible before. His dance was simple and elegant, his sword killed the three captains, the last of whom fell infuriated to the ground, clutching his cut throat. The gaze of the lord moved upwards, and then came down to rest on the lake. Around him, his troops were finishing off the last of the Birthkind who had opposed his plans. Raising his evil sword, Galbert invoked the power it held and thrust the black blade strongly into the life-bringing water.
The water boiled and bubbled, while foul steam arose from it and the bottom of the lake turned into corrupting black slime. The stain of evil spread through the water, darkening the crystalline liquid. The stain spread to the base of the tower, growing while the lightening of the storm and the sounds of battle thundered, splintering the crystal door. Galbert walked inside, and climbed the stairs while the tower was consumed from the bottom up, its surface becoming scaly and oily. With each step he took and each step he climbed he came closer to his goal. Galbert had killed with his own hands the few powers of light that had opposed his designs. He was death and was approaching life to smother it and destroy it. His breast heaved with longing, and his eyes watched the doors that gave access to the rooms occupied by the Lady of Life. He was enjoying her suffering in advance, and took delight in desperation.
He knocked the door from its hinges with a blow of his hand, and strode firmly into the unsullied room. His gaze sought the Lady of Life. A figure was silhouetted against one of the windows. Slim and beautiful, dressed in white cloth and gold armbands, she was waiting for him. Galbert strode over to the woman. When he reached her, the corruption spread swiftly across the walls, while it withered the gardens and destroyed the charm of the most sacred of places. The woman was holding a white rose and was looking at the floor. Her hair flowed over her face and shoulders, and her hands were trembling slightly.
The Lord of Death approached his nemesis. For long moments he delighted in her defeat, in the stain of black corruption that surrounded her, moving closer and closer to her delicate feet. While death encircled her destiny and the threads of life left her, Eeilina, Princess of the Roses and Lady of Life, raised her face and looked with her iridescent eyes at Galbert.
And the Lord of Death saw neither fear nor anger in her eyes, and noticed that a single tear was running down her cheek. While Eeilina turned into a black rock, an onyx statue in the midst of a burning and corrupted city, Galbert saw that she was crying out of pity for him. In silence he put out his hand and while the pale pink cheeks turned to sinister black he plucked off the tear she had shed. For the first time since he had felt the power of death in his blood, Galbert looked at someone with fear in his eyes.
The first drops of rain fell among the flames of a thousand fires while the savages yelled. The pitiless Selaen spread out along the walls, and the butchery lasted for three days and three nights, while heaven cried for the death of the Lady of Life. During these three days, Galbert, Power of Death and the Lord of all the Armies of Nuimbra, did not move from where he stood, his hand firmly closed around the tear.
This is the Prologue to Chronicles of the Princess of Magic...
Illustration by the excelente Enrique Vegas...
