Elegy for a Fallen Forest Part 3

Hours bled from minutes in a brutal, unceasing dance with death. The Orc Chieften, a mountain of rage and barbaric fury, loomed before me. Each swing of his massive axe sent tremors through the ground, and the stench of his fetid breath hung heavy in the air. My muscles screamed in protest, my armor slick with sweat and grime. Despite every desperate parry and dodge, his relentless assault chipped away at my defenses, leaving me battered and weary. I knew it wouldn't be long before his axe found its mark, and the only question that remained was whether I would take him with me. 

Finally, with a stomp that shook the very foundations of the earth, the Orc chieftain broke through my guard. His axe, a cruel crescent of sharpened steel, arced through the air. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as I watched the glint of metal descend towards me. 

The Orc chieftain bellowed a victory cry, its axe poised to deliver the final blow. In that moment, the weight of defeat settled upon me, crushing and absolute. I closed my eyes, accepting the inevitable. Death, a cold and unwelcome visitor, loomed large. 

But the killing blow never came. A deafening roar, unlike anything I had ever heard before, shook the very ground beneath my feet. When I opened my eyes, the battlefield was bathed in an eerie, ethereal glow. The Orc chieftain stood frozen; its face contorted in a mask of terror. 

Above it, a figure of immense power hovered, its form obscured by the blinding light. The figure held aloft a staff, its tip crackling with arcane energy, the source of the otherworldly glow. The Beast horde, as if struck by an invisible hand, faltered. Ogres stumbled back; their faces twisted in fear. 

Hope, a fragile butterfly struggling to take flight, fluttered in my chest. Could this be it? Could this be our salvation? The figure descended, its form solidifying into a Horned One, its horns curving back from its brow like wicked scimitars. He wore the crimson robes of a high sorcerer of the Majless, an emblem of power and arcane mastery. 

His face, etched with concern, scanned the battlefield, lingering for a moment on the fallen forms of my comrades. Then, his gaze met mine. 

A wave of relief washed over me, momentarily eclipsing the throbbing pain in my wounded arm. "Help has arrived," I rasped, my voice barely a whisper. 

The sorcerer nodded curtly, a flicker of sadness passing through his fiery eyes. He raised his staff, and a soothing wave of energy washed over me, momentarily pushing back the tide of exhaustion and pain. "You are safe now," he said, his voice a low rumble that resonated with an underlying power. 

But even as he spoke, a chilling voice shattered the fragile hope. "So, you finally show your hand, Majless scum." The voice, deep and resonating, echoed through the battlefield like a death knell. My gaze followed the sound to a towering figure emerging from the smoke. It was a Sphinx, its lion's body rippled with primal muscle, its human head crowned with a mane of emerald flames. Its eyes, pools of molten gold, fixed on the sorcerer with a cold, calculating gaze. 

"Sphinx," he growled, his voice laced with a dangerous edge. "This is not your domain. Turn back now, and I may show you some measure of mercy." 

The Sphinx let out a humorless laugh, the sound echoing through the silent battlefield. "Mercy? You Majless and your pathetic attempts at benevolence. This world belongs to chaos, and chaos shall consume it!" With a roar that shook the very ground, the Sphinx charged. 

The Horned One met the charge head-on. He slammed his staff into the ground, and a shimmering wall of pure energy erupted between them, halting the Sphinx's momentum. A fierce duel erupted, a clash of arcane might against raw, primal power. The air crackled with energy as spells and attacks were exchanged with blinding speed. For a moment, it seemed as if the fate of the world hung in the balance. 

But the Sphinx, fueled by an insatiable hunger for destruction, proved too powerful. With a final, earth-shattering roar, it shattered the energy wall. The Savior, caught off guard by the sudden surge of power, was thrown backward, his crimson robes billowing behind him. He landed hard on the blood-soaked ground, coughing up a spray of blood. 

A scream, laced with despair and defiance, ripped from his throat. He raised his staff, its once potent glow flickering erratically, and unleashed a torrent of arcane energy at the Sphinx. 

The energy slammed into the creature's chest, briefly pushing it back. But the blow seemed to only enrage the beast. It roared a challenge, a sound that shook the very bones in my body. Then, with a burst of incredible speed, it lunged at the sorcerer. 

In that split second, something shifted in the mage's eyes. The flicker of determination, the embers of defiance, died. They were replaced with a stark, cold terror. A guttural sound, a word choked by fear, escaped his lips. He didn't stand his ground, didn't fight with the last vestiges of his power. He turned and ran. 

Betrayal, icy and sharp, pierced through the haze of pain and exhaustion. My own death seemed insignificant compared to this ultimate act of cowardice. The Majless Sorcerer, our supposed savior, had abandoned us, condemning us to a fate worse than death. 

The Sphinx, its roar echoing through the battlefield, gave chase. It was a cruel, unequal race. He reached him in a heartbeat. His massive paw slammed down, crushing the sorcerer beneath its immense weight. A single, sickening crunch echoed through the silent battlefield. Then, all sound ceased. 

The finality of it slammed into me with the force of a battering ram. The Horned One was gone, brutally erased from existence. And with him, went the last shred of hope. My vision blurred, the edges darkening with an encroaching blackness. The pain in my side, a dull ache moments ago, now roared with an insistent demand for surrender. 

A single tear, hot and salty, traced a path down my cheek. I closed my eyes, the image of the Elvenwood, once a vibrant sanctuary, now a desolate wasteland, burned into my mind. A whisper, soft and mournful, rustled through the shattered branches of the once-proud trees. It was the wind, the companion of countless Elven generations, lamenting the loss of its children. 

And overhead, a chilling pronouncement echoed from the Sphinx, its voice like a death knell: "With this, all of Arkedia is OURS!" 

As the darkness closed in, a final thought flickered through my dimming consciousness: not of the battle, not of the betrayal, but of the Elvenwood in its prime. The dappled sunlight filtering through a canopy of emerald leaves, the sweet scent of blooming wildflowers, the symphony of birdsong. This was the Elvenwood I would carry with me into the abyss, a reminder of the beauty that was, and the tragedy that unfolded. 

Then, there was nothing. Just the wind, whispering a mournful dirge through the remnants of a fallen world.