Part 3:

The orcling’s name is Glush which, in orcish, is a combination of “omen” and “to dream”, which seems oddly fitting. He has a very poor grasp of his own language, it is obvious that his tribe avoided him since birth. However, he is the best Mecha-pilot imaginable.

We are easily making twice the progress I was by myself, and I suddenly feel very useless, for he can run everything entirely by himself. It is so amazing to watch him work, and with nothing else to do the last few days I have done just that. He gets such an intense look in his little, coal-black eyes as though he was painting a masterpiece or casting a powerful incantation.

While I have only lost majic for years, every day he seems to have a little more. I must wonder, “Where is it coming from?” The answer may very well keep me alive long enough to finish my business.

We have reached the Desert of Glass. My mind does not see the shimmering surfaces and black mountains piercing up into the heavens. I see the Futaga Jungle, which connected Gy’senth to Myr before the Great War. It was a beautiful place, though then it was mostly populated by goblins. Now it is not populated at all. Nothing grows, nothing lives. The air is entirely unbreathable, toxic to all known races and species. The glass storms have started once again and we are moving slower then ever.

It has been almost two weeks, and we are running out of supplies. However, we’ve finally almost cleared the Desert. Now the Shadow Pass is the only thing left between us and my homeland. The Shadow Pass is the only was through the black mountains, which are tall, sharp, and brittle. I’m guessing the pass will be blocked, I am hoping we can handle whatever decided to set up a barricade.

I was correct, although I could not have predicted what was now in my path, for I was sure they were extinct. Yet there they stood, nearly forty fully armed and equipped. They were the last battalion of Crusaders, human Crusaders.

Their sensors have definitely already picked up our Mecha so I do the only thing I can, don an air-tank and an intercom. I pop off the cap, and nod to Glush, signaling for him to follow.

I land poorly from the ten-foot drop; my coordination poor after weeks of sitting. I really hope this doesn’t come to a fight.

Stepping out from behind one of many giant, sharp boulders strewn about I am almost immediately noticed. The humans go straight to their weapons, an unfortunate if expected gesture. I sign that I do not mean any harm, a gesture I hope is not misunderstood.

Of course I probably would look less menacing with the black and red, metal, porcupine-figure hulking behind me. There are roughly 20 of them, all male, armed with pistols and air-tanks, and 4 Mecha plus pilots. Behind them is a thick, makeshift, stone wall which they are cluttered about. I can spot a few camouflaged tents and fire pits on the other side of the wall. They have obviously been here for quite some time.

“Ho! Who goes there?” A gravely voice asks through a low-quality loudspeaker.

Oh lovely, he speaks fake Old-Human. I smile falsely and respond in kind, “It is I, Ryth’ike Drae’an, first Prince of Myr and heir to the throne. I only wish to pass through peacefully.”

“And what of the Mecha behind you?” the voice asked, the men casually readying their guns.

“That is my trusted Mecha, Black-Forge, and my single companion and pilot Glush of the Wastes.” I now spot the speaker. He is a balding, middle-aged man, garbed in chain-mail and a blue tunic with the traditional white cross down the chest. His intercom is connected to one of the Mecha, the largest of the four, which matches his uniform.

“An orc and a Mecha? I did not believe Elves, even darkies like you, kept such odd tools.”

“Well, they serve my purposes,” I shrug, “so will you allow us passage?”

The man thinks for a minute, than calls for someone. A shriveled, old priest drags himself slowly up the wall, finally he whispers in the man’s ear. There was a long pause.

“We have decided no,” the man finally speaks.

“Why ever not?”

“It is our duty to block this pass from all demons and evil-doers. Please do not take this personally; we are just unable to trust your motives. As long as the God above watches over us, you shall not pass.”

“On what basis do accuse me of such?” I ask, offended. I know for sure there will be a fight the men have begun to tense and the Mecha begins to hum. “He is not even watching anymore, remember? The gods all died in the Great War, even your ‘One True God’. There is nobody left in heaven, if you are a true man of faith, you should already know that!”

“How dare you speak such blasphemy? I knew you were a demon from the start, Crusaders, ready your weapons!” The men begin to cock their weapons ready to aim and fire on command.

I do not wait. I spring forward, drawing my sword in the air. I dash between the nearest Mecha, hoping to avoid gunshots. I slash hard at its leg, the Blade seems to extend several inches, it whizzes right through like nothing. The Mecha beeps a few times, and then lurches forward, falling to the ground with a crash. I hear the sounds of electrical malfunction and can smell melted flesh but I’m already gone, engaging the first three footmen.

All three are dead before they throw a strike, the Blade of Myr slices through their swords and shields just as easily as their flesh. I give a quick look towards Glush, who is easily holding his own against the second Mecha. The riflemen are reloading; there is no way that I can make it to them quickly enough.

My handgun comes in handy in cases like this. I draw it, switching the Blade to my other hand. I blind-fire as I duck out of the way of the third Mecha’s foot as it stomps towards me. As I leap upwards I catch a glimpse of the leader out of the corner of my eye. I spin around, just as he nails me with the broad-side of his sword, connecting hard against the side of my face. Instinctively my wrist lurches forward, snatching his head from his neck.

I fall in slow-motion, as though majic was cushioning my fall, the darkness rushing in through my peripheral. Just before I black-out the man’s head falls beside me and stares blankly. The hate and rage is gone from his eyes, for just a second he seems tranquil. Then there is nothing.

I awake with a groan. The side of my face is wet. The Crusader’s face still lies lifeless next to my own. I push it away with disgust, and try to wipe the dried blood off my face. I sit up quickly, then fall back, my blood pounding in my head.

“Sir, are you okay?” Grush manages, trying hard to remain formal, although he is obviously worried.

I smile meekly, “Haven’t felt better in a Millennia. Help me up.”

He does so. I survey our surroundings, or what’s left of them. The tents lay wasted, partially covered in wall-wreckage. The people lay interspersed among the wreckage, they are all dead. All of them. Grush is a very thorough little orcling.

“Sir, will we press on?”

“Yes, ‘Sir’ will,” I smile down at him.

The mountains have fallen back behind us. In minutes my Empire will be visible on the horizon. We drive with the hatch open, to enjoy the non-toxic air. Something is wrong. We are only a few miles away, yet no sounds reach my ears. There are no vehicles going to or from.

After several excruciating moments, Gy’senth appears on the horizon. It is but a tiny black blotch on the horizon, I am still unable to shake the feelings of worry in my gut. It has been almost ten years sense I left on my quest. A thought enters my head which I cannot remove, “Perhaps something really is wrong.”

We have reached the outer streets. I wish I could say I didn’t understand. The buildings are torn out, shriveled and black, as though evaporated. The tops are completely gone, along with all wood and glass. The gnomes beat me to it. We were bombed.

It seems no one is alive; I rush through the streets, headed for the inner tunnels. I left Grush behind without a word. I take the middle tunnel, bee-lining towards the central chambers, hoping upon hope that somehow my Uncle is still there. Perhaps this was a poor choice.

The central tunnel passes through what was once the Great Library. For thousands of years, every Dark Elf book written was kept here. They are all destroyed, now only dust and char.

I flee the room, tears in my eyes. The following halls blurred past, until I finally was at the great Throne Room doors. I take a deep breath before pushing forward, revealing… nothing.

The throne still sits in the center of the room, although it is burnt and covered with cobwebs, just like everything else in this whole damn city. Nothing else is left in the room. There is nothing left in this world.

Feeling suddenly empty inside, I sit down upon the throne that was always supposed to be mine. But I find no solace there, it is lumpy and hard. I have lost.

Several minutes later, Grush meekly pushes open the door, allowing his plump, green head into the room. “Sir not find what he was looking for?” he asks, although it sounds more like a statement.

I don’t bother to reply, I could suddenly hear a distant melody which was far more entrancing.

“Perhaps they go elsewhere. We go look?” Grush asks, crossing the room and tugging on my sleeve.

“Sir is sweaty!” Grush exclaims loudly in my ear, panicking.

The melody is getting louder, I can feel it. It is as though the majic was singing just for me. It wants me to join along in its melody, but I do not know the song. But abruptly I realize that I know the tune, it was in my head all along, from the day I was born. I begin to hum.

“Is sir okay?” Grush shouts in my ear, although I can hardly hear him over the symphony.

“Sir, are you okay?”

“Nothing is wrong,” I smile. “Sir is dying.”