A Brief Short Story: Fort Mana

She looked upon the man, horrified. Under more congenial circumstances she might be admiring his rugged looks or imposing demeanor. As it was however, her normally graceful and ageless face was left perturbed, unable to shake the worry that now infected her own visage. "I'm sure everything is fine, Fort Mana's walls have never been breached before." she intoned, though her hollow tone showed how little confidence she had in the stock answer.

Another boom settled across the landscape. The screams of the dead or wounded followed closely, a haunting chorus that concluded the showstopping explosion. Elia jumped physically, now clearly rattled. "We h-have to get my father" she said hesitantly. Of all the traits she had inherited from her father,

a steadfast disposition was one of the more admirable. She was loathe to leave him behind.

"He's at the inner walls. We have to get him out. If the fortress is to fall as you say, then we cannot leave him behind!” she added forcefully, a little more confidence now creeping back in her tone. She was resuming her more regal role, remembering the power dynamic in the room.

Without another word, she confidently strode past him, her long elvish dress, a white silk garment that clung to her curvaceous form, her large breasts and firm backside accentuated perfectly by the master craft material.

Elia exited the door, her new bodyguard now presumably behind her, any protest of his easily set aside by the stubborn elvish princess. The pair made their way through the winding halls of the castle. Any intruder could have easily gotten lost in the confines, an advantage that may come in handy after they had fetched her father. Knowing the way, however, Elia was easily able to navigate them to the outside of the keep, the burst of the sunshine blinding them both temporarily as they stepped out.

The pair were greeted with a horror neither could have expected. A hundred feet or more away, a raging battlefield was under way, and the elves were losing handily. The Northern marauders were vicious, their adrenaline-fueled attacks too much for the graceful defenders. Elia watched in horror as her kinsmen were knocked to the ground, reaching upwards for mercy, only for their entire body to spasm as a long axe descended on their torso. Women of the town were dragged screaming from the burning elvish hostels, their masterfully woven garments torn away, before being taken to a rolling pen where they were thrown in like cattle. She dreaded to think of their

fate.

Then Elia saw her father Henselt, locked in combat with what she presumed was the Northern leader. He was hulking, towering over Henselt, though her father was managing to somehow trade blow for blow with the man. Elia smiled and yelled out his name “Father!” as she saw him trip up the man. Henselt didn’t turn his head, too seasoned to be distracted by even his own daughter. The old elvish king raised his sword high, prepared to destroy the leadership of his foe with one fell swoop.

A long, jagged scimitar erupted from his chest, the aloft sword falling from his grip and clanging to the ground. Henselt turned to where he had heard Elia before and looked at her with a wild panic now in his eyes. “Run!” he yelled, before the leader, having gotten up from his near death, swung his axe around in a wild arc, disconnecting Henselt’s head from his torso in one clean blow, the lifeless body of her father now falling to the ground.

Elia stood there frozen. “Father!” she cried, falling to her knees, her majestic visage now soaked with tears. It was up to Hjalmar to get them out now.