The sun shone through the painted windows of the fine Elven mansion, the colours from the stained glass hitting the walls, floor, and the ornate wooden desk and elegant chair. The design on the window showed a mighty Elven dragon soaring through a sky of wispy clouds, mouth agape, teeth sharp, intelligent eyes staring into the soul. The huge, powerful wings of the dragon reached to the very edges of the glass, whilst the tail did not even fit, but instead coiled back into the glass. The lamps on the walls were lit, and cast a fine, gentle glow over the desk and its content: a quill pen and ink pot; a statue of an Elven steed in a gallop; several thin sheets of writing paper; a medallion showing a dragon's head; and a book, open on a historical account of a shore-side battle against the evil hordes of the Dark Elves, tainted brethren of the mighty High Elves.
His keen brown eyes scanned the text, and he soon turned the page, with great care… for the book had belonged to his great grandfather, and it was worth more than he could comprehend. There was a fine, detailed drawing of two Elves locked in combat, one impaled on the other's sword. The first Elf was fine of hair, and gentle of eyes. The other was twisted by evil and darkness, seemingly snarling at the High Elf as it was impaled on its sword. The sheer hatred between the two was unmistakable in the eyes, and the looks they exchanged.
His black hair curled slightly in front of his soulful eyes, and he reached up to tuck it behind his tall ear, out of the way of his vision, exposing his golden earring. The hair stayed where it was placed, and barely moved, despite the fact that it was reasonably thick. It fell in loose curls down to just below his jaw, but only reached to the bottoms of his ears at the very front, as he found it more practical.
He winced slightly as he shifted awkwardly in the tall backed chair, aggravating the healing stab wound to his right side. He placed his left hand to it gently, and let out a slow, easy breath, feeling the familiar pain subside.
The wound had been caused by one of the undead horde, which he had not seen closing up on his flank. He would remember never to make that mistake again… it could cost him his life. Luckily, the blade had not managed to find its way completely through, and he had managed to sever the hideous head from the shoulders, destroying the creature.
That had been two weeks ago, and the wound was almost healed, even though, every now and then, he felt the slight pain.
He turned the page again, and he began to read through the next section on the battle that had happened so many years ago. Elves did not easily forget their history, though.
He looked up from the page, and his eyes travelled to the golden ring on his left middle finger, Elven words inscribed delicately into its smooth surface. The ring had belonged to his father, and had been passed down for many generations. After his father's death against the orc masses, he had inherited the ring, along with the mansion, and the beautiful land surrounding it, on which grazed several fine Elven steeds.
He sighed restlessly. He had been resting for so long, and now he was almost itching for battle.
He was tempted then to take up his greatsword, and go into his garden to practice.
But before he could so much as push his chair back away from the polished desk, the tall wooden doors to his study were pushed open, and in the light of the doorway stood a single Elf of unknown identity, whose long blonde hair fell over his shoulders like a golden waterfall. He hovered in the doorway, as if afraid to move.
"Enter," he commanded, standing from the chair.
The Elf entered, moving with hurried grace to stand before him, blue eyes wide with what appeared to be fright… or something very similar.
"I am sorry to disturb your rest, Eiselbahr," the Elf began, fidgeting nervously, "but I bring news from Prince Tyrion. Urgent news."
Eiselbahr's face became deadly serious, and he pressed the Elf for further details, "Well, if it is urgent, then you had better stop fluttering and just come out with it."
Eiselbahr hated Elves who wasted time over something so simple as a message. It was more than just annoying… it was unnecessary.
"There has been and invasion, sir."
"An invasion? Where?" Eiselbahr demanded, stepping closer to the messenger, whose blue cloak bore the sign of Tyrion: a heart with a sword behind it.
"On… on our very shores, sir. We are to mass an emergency force, by order of Tyrion and Teclis. They wish to move out by noon, before the Dark Elves reach-"
"Did you say Dark Elves?"
The Elf looked startled, but still, his blue eyes were wide with that same expression of fear.
"Why, yes, sir. I did." The Elf continued, "Tyrion wants to move out before they reach the borders of his outmost land."
Eiselbahr awaited further details, and he didn't have to wait long.
"Prince Tyrion requests your skills to lead the Swordmasters against them, sir. In fact… he insists upon it. But only if you are up to the task, sir."
"Of course I am," Eiselbahr said bluntly. "Tell Tyrion I will be ready within the hour. And have my men notified."
The Elf nodded. "Yes, sir." With a small inclination of the head that was customary when in the presence of a lord such as Eiselbahr, the Elf scurried away with a grace that was unmistakable for a High Elf.
Eiselbahr quickly hurried off to his chamber to prepare himself, and to suit himself in fine mithril armour, which would undoubtedly be needed in the upcoming battle.
He intended to waste no time in the matter.
Eiselbahr stood with the Swordmasters of Hoeth, proud to be part of such a powerful unit, and sighed heavily. They were waiting for the dark masses of their tainted brethren to appear on the top of the banks near to the shores, and then they could attack. Eiselbahr was not eager… this battle would surely end with high losses, on both sides. The Dark Elf casualties did not bother him so much… why should they? It was his own men whom he cared for, and he wanted nothing more than to spare their lives. If only these damn pitiful excuses for Elves hadn't invaded their fine lands… there was peace… if not real peace. Everybody was calm, and they had felt safe. They had done for months now… no one had particularly bothered them.
But now… this. It was disastrous… or it would be. Eiselbahr was not the greatest optimist in the High Elf army… nor was he the most powerful warrior. That title went to Prince Tyrion, atop his mighty steed Malhandir. Together, the two seemed unstoppable. Countless battles had turned in their favour, all thanks to the Prince. He was, and always had been, magnificent.
A shadow cast over him then, and he looked up into the face of Prince Tyrion himself, whose face was grave, serious, lines of worry creasing his forehead.
"I am glad you were well enough to join us, Lord Eiselbahr." Tyrion cast a tentative glance at the distant mound where they expected the Dark Elves to appear any moment. Eiselbahr was certain he had seen a slight shudder in the Prince.
Resting the tip of his greatsword on the ground, Eiselbahr replied, "I will not allow this threat to come into our fair land." He accompanied the comment with a slight bow of the head, to show his respect.
Tyrion returned the gesture, only slightly. Eiselbahr could tell his thoughts were elsewhere.
"Who spotted them arriving?" Eiselbahr wondered, glancing down the line of Swordmasters to see the faces that seemed as if they were set in stone.
"An eagle. It flew to the watchtowers inland and reported it."
"Thank goodness the bird saw them," Eiselbahr muttered with a glance skyward at the Great Eagles hovering there. One let out a low screech, tilting one of its grey wings to turn slightly.
Instinctively, Eiselbahr looked over to the horizon, sighing gratefully as he saw nothing but a fine layer of sand blowing in the slight shore-side breeze.
He turned his attention back to Tyrion. Malhandir snorted, and looked to Eiselbahr with his intelligent blue eyes, and seemed to incline his graceful head slightly, as if showing him admiration. The horse was a magnificent animal, hair so white that it could have been freshly fallen snow, eyes as blue as the sky on a clear day, and a spirit so wild that it seemed the horse shouldn't be so tame. Eiselbahr envied Tyrion for a steed such as Malhandir. The animal snorted again, shaking its soft mane, and shifted on its feet slightly, its hooves barely making a mark in the ground. The flowing caparison billowed slightly in the breeze.
Tyrion regarded Eiselbahr with that same look of what had to be worry, and nodded to him. "Fight well, Lord Eiselbahr."
"And you, Prince Tyrion," Eiselbahr returned, inclining his head again, and watching as the Prince, defender of Ulthuan, trotted away to his position in the middle of the large army.
Eiselbahr took in the forces around him, and exhaled, glad to be part of such an army. But it may very well end with his death… he knew that, and he realised that he may never see his wife again.
And then he heard them… great wails of evil and sheer insanity echoed over the horizon, the roars of Cold Ones carrying over the mound mere moments before they appeared.
A great mass of darkness and evil, eyes burning with hatred and malevolence, teeth glinting in the daylight, which was slowly fading due to the cloud cover which had mysteriously rolled in, like a dark omen.
He heard the two dragons take to flight from the back of the High Elf army lines, and the roars of the mighty beasts were awesome. Their leathery sails took them high into the air, and as he looked up, Eiselbahr spotted Imrik atop his dragon.
As if mirroring the image in the enemy lines, a Manticore and a Dark Pegasus, a fearsome combination, also took to the skies, screeching eerily.
Eiselbahr could see the glints of cruel blades flash in the fading light; hear the screams of the infamous cruel Witch Elves. They were said to be deadly, and extremely dangerous, their blades dripping with fatal poisons.
The four winged creatures closed on each other, and Eiselbahr saw a ball of flames erupt from Imrik's dragon, just missing the Dark Pegasus, which dodged the shot with aggravating ease. That was going to be a close battle… and destructive.
Halting on the mound, the Dark Elf masses were revealed in their size.
Eiselbahr had been well informed of the units that usually comprised such an army, and he knew of their evil ways, their deceptive tactics, and their sheer power. He knew to be careful.
He could see at least five Reaper Bolt Throwers being set up at the sides of the forces, huge arrows loaded into the machines, ready to fire.
But Eiselbahr knew very well that their own equivalent; Repeater Bolt Throwers, were being readied as he stood there, waiting for the command from Tyrion.
And then it came. The great shout of a charge… echoing through the air like a horn blast, which set great units of High Elf warriors into action.
The Archers pulled back on their bowstrings, and let arrows fly through the air towards the enemy, who were struck by the sharp-tipped weapons. Eiselbahr saw at least twenty warriors in the front line fall to the arrows, and he also noticed them copying the action.
"Incoming!" he shouted to his Swordmasters, who quickly ducked as the arrows came soaring towards them. Two of his unit were not so lucky, and were struck, the tips becoming embedded deep in their backs, causing them to scream with agony before they crumpled to the floor, dead.
Eiselbahr cursed under his breath, and stood to his full height.
He saw the huge masses of mounted Silver Helms taking off at a swift gallop towards the Dark Elves, who sent their Dark Riders in to intercept the armed threat. Calquo was in the front, leading the unit, sword at the ready.
The two mounted units collided, great whinnies of terror splitting the air.
Tyrion gave Malhandir a swift kick in the sides, and instantly, the great stallion leaped forward to head for the enemy.
The Ellyrian Reavers drew their own arrows, and at Loquin's command, fired a great shower of arrows towards the oncoming Cold One Riders.
The Spearmen began to move forward at a run, long sharp spears pointed towards the Dark Elf warriors coming at them like a swarm of insects.
The Phoenix Guard, and Shadow Warriors followed, great weapons of war held aloft at the ready.
The mighty barded Dragon Princes of Caledor sprang forward next, following close behind the Silver Helms to give them assistance with the menacing Dark Riders, who snarled at their Ulthuan 'cousins'.
The great scythed Tiranoc Chariots rolled out after them, horses whinnying with what sounded like excitement as they thundered across the battlefield towards the Shades, who fired crossbow bolts at them, missing with most of the shots, grimacing in annoyance as the successful shots went straight past the horses, and stuck into the chariot itself.
The Great Eagles screeched battle cries, and took off to create a distraction for the ground units of the Dark Elves, providing the High Elves with an upper hand against them. They would be able to approach almost unnoticed… hopefully.
The Lothern Seaguard charged into the Witch Elves, skewering several on their spears. The Witch Elves gave screams of sheer insanity, and bloodlust.
Teclis, the mighty mage of Ulthuan, brother of Tyrion, sent a crackling lighting bolt into the Reaper Bolt Throwers, blowing two apart, sending the crew flying through the air in a mess. Another two Mages followed up the magical defence with a spell or two of their own, blowing apart a Cold One Knight.
Five armoured Commanders kicked their mounts on as they headed for the very front lines of the Dark Elves, where warriors were lined up, ready to defend their own Commanders and Lords. Eiselbahr saw heads severed from the shoulders as the Commanders slammed full force into the warriors, trampling them under the mighty hooves of their barded steeds.
The White Lions of Chrace charged forward with an almighty cry, a mass of voices combining to make a spine-tingling sound, much akin to the animals whose pelts they wore over their shoulders.
The Handmaidens of the Everqueen mimicked the actions of the Archers, releasing wave after wave of deadly arrows through the air.
And then Eiselbahr gave the shout to his unit; the Swordmasters of Hoeth, leading them forward into the melee of the battle raging before them. The greatswords were lifted to shoulder height, and they slammed with a shattering amount of force into the first unit that came close enough; the Corsairs.
Eiselbahr gave a shout of defiance, and deflected a blow aimed at his chest, quickly dodging the second weapon, which flew for his stomach. The injury at his side was still sore, but he could not allow that to distract him… not here.
A Corsair… by the looks of his helmet, a Champion, came flying towards him, weapons held aloft, a fire burning in his cruel eyes, and made a lunge for Eiselbahr. He quickly swung his greatsword in to deflect the two weapons… just.
The Corsair growled at him with a menace that would have given an Elf child nightmares.
Eiselbahr just glared into the evil eyes of the Dark Elf, and he deflected blow after blow from the two hand weapons.
All around him, his Swordmasters were faring just as well as he was, but he noticed, with sadness, as the Corsairs' weapons ran three of them through. Blood ran down the armour of the Swordmasters, and the Elves dropped to their knees, before the blades were yanked free, killing the Swordmasters.
With a cry, Eiselbahr swung his greatsword with enormous force towards the Corsair champion, who ducked, providing Eiselbahr with the chance to sever another Corsair's head from its shoulders.
Not quite what I had in mind, Eiselbahr thought, as he ducked a blow from the weapons of the champion, but it will do.
They exchanged blows for quite some time, before either began to show signs of fatigue. Apparently, the two were quite equally matched.
Eiselbahr arced his sword towards the Corsair's torso, but the champion ducked, and upon standing again, gave Eiselbahr quite a hard blow to the head, knocking his helmet clean off.
Eiselbahr was temporarily stunned, and gasped, feeling the trickle of blood flow down his face from a cut caused by the blow. He shook his head slightly, and narrowed his brown eyes at the Corsair, who simply grinned evilly.
"You will all die," the Corsair growled, "by order of Malekith."
Eiselbahr welcomed the pause in their blows, giving him a little time to recover from the battering his armour had managed to take.
"Not in my lifetime," Eiselbahr retorted, spitting on the ground at the Corsair's feet.
"Then we shall have to arrange your death," the Corsair told him with an evil glint in his dark, almost black, eyes.
"You serve an evil king… an insane fool."
That comment caused him another blow to the side, luckily from the flat side of one of the weapons, which still caused him to grunt with pain.
They glared at each other for a moment, challenging each other, as if seeing which one would make the first move towards the other, make an attempt at the killing blow perhaps.
And as one, they moved, lunging forward, weapons swinging in great arcs.
The Corsair swung down at his head with one of the weapons, which Eiselbahr blocked with his greatsword, pushing the weapon away with all his might as it was pressed down towards him… leaving himself open.
He felt the blade tear its way through his armour, straight through the shirt beneath, and slice into his flesh under it all. He gave an agonised cry as the blade shifted slightly inside his side, in almost exactly the same place where a wound had nearly healed.
Eiselbahr felt the warm blood ooze from the wound, running down his side under his shirt and armour, the fabric of his shirt sticking to his body, making him extremely uncomfortable.
He slumped to his knees, and gave another small pained noise, allowing his greatsword to lower, even though he was still trying to keep the first weapon from his head.
The blood from the cut on his head had reached his neck, and small curls of his black hair had stuck slightly to his temple and cheek.
The Corsair removed the first weapon from its threatening position, and scowled down at him, the blade of the second weapon still securely in Eiselbahr's side.
It had not been pushed all the way in, and the blade had sunk in to just before the first curve in the weapon. Eiselbahr knew that if the blade sunk any deeper, and were removed afterwards, the wound would be ripped open, killing him instantly.
With Elven magic, he may yet live… if he could get away from the Corsair champion.
He glowered up at the Corsair, panting heavily through the pain, wincing every few seconds as the blade shifted slightly in his side, additional blood flowing from the wound, soaking his side. Small trickles had begun to seep through the holes in the armour, running down the plates towards his legs.
Eiselbahr knew that if he could muster the strength with which to raise his sword in a swift motion, he could dispatch of the Corsair champion, and perhaps free himself of the blade.
Suddenly, everything around the two Elves seemed to slow a considerable deal, and time began to pass at a much slower pace. Horses reared in slow motion, their whinnies echoed and reverberated through Eiselbahr's aching skull. Arrows flew overhead like birds in steady, casual flight, seeming to take forever to reach the warriors at the back of the Dark Elf lines, out of Eiselbahr's line of sight.
Eiselbahr did not want to die here… not like this. It seemed so… so wasteful, so inconsequential. He wanted to die a hero… remembered for his accomplishments. He had not yet won that title… he had inherited his land… his possessions… the title of hero was won in battle, against the enemy. He was not going to die like this.
And suddenly, everything began to speed up again, returning to normal.
Mustering all the strength he could in one motion, Eiselbahr gave a cry, swinging the sword around, and upward. The Dark Elf Corsair realised too late what was going to happen, and before he could act against it, his head fell from his shoulders.
As the body fell, the weapon was torn from Eiselbahr's side, causing him to give another agonised cry. The blood flowed freely from the wound now, but somehow, through the excruciating, burning pain of the wound, Eiselbahr managed to stand.
He knew very well that he may now die here… but it didn't seem to matter anymore… Eiselbahr's aching head was completely empty of everything.
Well, almost everything.
The Dark Elves needed to be destroyed… or Ulthuan's fair shores were in danger.
He knew he had to defend those shores to the best of his ability.
The pain had doubled over the course of a few minutes, and the inside of his shirt and armour were both equally soaked in his own blood.
But he fought on, with strength that seemingly had no traceable origin. He was exhausted, in terrible pain, and he couldn't see any of his Swordmasters. He could see Silver Helms, Ellyrian Reavers, and Dragon Princes… basically anything on horseback.
Without any warning, just when he thought he was free of Witch Elves, he was slammed up against the tree trunk behind him, and he gave a shout of pain.
The female Elf before him seemed delighted at the display of his discomfort, and laughed a cruel laugh.
She held in her hand two weapons; blades dripping with poison. He could not allow any of that poison to enter his body, or he would be in a lot of danger. There would be no hope of saving himself.
The Witch Elf was scantily clad in tight black clothing that showed her stomach, and most of her legs. Her black hair was wild, and took on the false appearance of writhing snakes.
Eiselbahr panted heavily, and prayed that his strength would not fail him now… in this pivotal moment.
The Witch Elf raised both blades above her head, and swung them down at Eiselbahr. He quickly brought up his sword to counter the move, feeling her weapons push against his, edging closer and closer to him.
The Witch Elf came near, pressing down on the weapons, and she almost hissed, "You live a lie."
"I live a true existence," he spat back, pushing with all his might against the blades that were edging dangerously close to him now.
"You pretend to be something you are not… pure of spirit and heart… that is not an existence… that is a deception." The Witch Elf continued, "Why do you fight the urges? You know deep within yourself it is right… it is what you are." The last few words seemed to emerge a whisper, closely comparing to the hiss of a serpent, rather than the speech of an Elf.
What the Witch Elf said enraged Eiselbahr, and he shoved with all his failing strength against the two blades, pushing the female Elf backwards, almost causing her to stumble.
Without a moment's hesitation, Eiselbahr gripped the handle of his bloodstained greatsword, and swung it around, cleaving the Witch Elf in two.
His breath came in rapid bursts now, forced actions to keep himself alive… keep himself fighting.
But he couldn't fight any longer… his strength was swiftly failing him, and the blood flowing down his face and side were causing him to feel nauseated and dizzy.
His knees buckled, and he fell onto his front, watching through a misty haze as the battle raged on around him. No one had even noticed him fall.
When he once again opened his eyes, he felt the comfortable sheets of his own bed over his body, and the soft, feather-filled pillows beneath his head. His breath came easier now, and the searing pain was not so great.
He saw to his side the woman he thought he would never set his eyes on again… and that thought alone had caused him great sadness.
Damaedria.
Long curls of blonde hair fell over her shoulders, flowing elegantly down to her stomach, shining in the light that filtered through the windows at the side of the large room. Her green eyes looked down at him with great kindness, and there was so much hope in them.
"I thought you would never again open your eyes, husband," she said to him in a voice so smooth he was very nearly tempted to once again close his eyes and sleep.
He forced a weak smile. "I would never leave you, my wife."
She stroked a lock of his black hair away from his face, and kissed his forehead.
"Tyrion is here to see you. He wishes to report the outcome of the battle to you," she told him, standing from her chair, and nodding to a figure in the doorway.
Tyrion gave Damaedria a respectful bow of his head, and looked down at Eiselbahr. "It is good to see you awake again, Lord Eiselbahr."
"Thank you," Eiselbahr acknowledged. "You came to tell me of the battle?"
"Yes, I have." Tyrion gave a small nod as he declined Damaedria's offer to sit down. "We were successful in our plight. The Dark Elf forces were driven back, away from our shores. Their bodies have been dealt with, and we feel that they will not return, nor recover, for quite some time. The casualties were great, though. We lost over a thousand Elves… a great tragedy for all of Ulthuan."
Eiselbahr sighed quietly.
Too many Elves died in battles such as the one that he had barely managed to survive. It all seemed so wasteful… almost meaningless.
"When we found you, you were almost dead. Luckily, Elven magic managed to help you recover from the wound partially, enough for your natural healing abilities to come into play anyway.
"I thought you would like to know that out of the two hundred Swordmasters we sent into battle… sixty-nine of them survived. I know it is a great loss… but they died for a good cause, Lord Eiselbahr."
Did they? Eiselbahr wondered. Was it really a good cause? It seemed that the Dark Elves, and the hordes of undead, and the greenskins were always recovering their numbers far too swiftly for the Elves of Ulthuan to keep up. War just kept on going… it seemed as though there would never be peace in their fair land.
When will this all end?