The old elf stood uncomfortably in the rain. He was all too aware of how when he moved, his back would creak painfully, and that the stiffness in his legs was due to the encroachment of the years - and there had been many of them. He'd been living back in the days of Morvael, a thousand years ago. The days he faced now where the end of a long, long life. It had been a good life, too. He'd known good friends, had a fine wife (how he still lamented her death, just a mere hundred years ago!), a good son, the respect of his peers. Yes, it was a good life. But why, he asked himself, did he have to leave this life at this stage? When the skillful tactics he had accumulated over his long years were most needed? "When do you believe they will arrive, Father?" Another elf slogged through the downpour towards him, grimacing. His son, Calarion. Just a short time they'd been relaxing in the ancient palace that was the home of the descendants of Tathel Sapherior, founder of Saphery. Then by the word of High Loremaster Cyeos (The real ruler of Saphery) the two of them, with their elite bodyguard, had been whisked up to the north of the kingdom, where Cyeos had heard of Dark Elven raiders. The report worried Tarthalion, dark elves this far inland. Surely the White Lions in the forested foothills of Chrace would have halted any raiding party long ago! So now Tarthalion, Calarion, and Tarran Angedhel (Captain of their bodyguard of Elven knights) were wandering around in the rain, waiting to see if there were dark elves here, and to assess the threat. Why the High Loremaster couldn't just scry out the answer was beyond him. When he'd posed that question it had been met with icy silence that told him not to pursue the matter any further. "When do you think the raiders will appear?" Calarion repeated behind him. Tarthalion turned. "Patience, son!" Patience was not one of Calarion's favorite words. Tarran had been drilling it into him in every lesson the younger elf learnt. While Calarion was a skilled commander and strategist, and a deadly combatant, he was also hot-blooded and recklessly impatient. They were traits the older elf wished fervently could be lost before Calarion's first command in a battle. Calarion resumed his pacing back and forth. Absently, Tarthalion stroked the hilt of the ancestral sword of the Sapherior line, feeling the ornate gold-work under his gloved hand. "We'll know the truth of the rumors before nightfall," Tarthalion said confidently. Calarion did not reply, but his father knew his thought. Nightfall was still about five hours away. So Tarthalion stood, waiting, looking intently into the gray. Calarion continued his pacing for a while, then went off to where the siltholrim knights had set up camp. He returned, shortly, with a leg of lamb, which he offered to his father. Tarthalion took it, and began absently chewing on it. Calarion left him to get more food for himself. There was a sound from up ahead. Very faint, unrecognizable, but a sound nevertheless. He dropped down and carefully slid his sword out from his side, fumbled the small shield until it sat comfortably on his forearm. Nearby, Calarion noticed and joined him. Tarthalion noticed wryly that his son got ready a lot quicker and smoother than he had - a sign of advancing age, doubtlessly. The two waited, breath held. Back at the small camp, the light chatter stopped; the experienced Angedhel had noticed the sign too. But there was no more sound save the continual patter of rain. Tarthalion waited longer, then began to stand. It was then that he saw something. Out of the mists it hurtled, and Calarion's sword swung in a clean arc, taking it in the flank. It growled in pain, and collapsed. It was a small mountain lion. Tarthalion relaxed. "So that's what I heard!" Calarion grinned back at him, just as affected by the release of tension. The young elf began wiping his sword on moist grass, then stopped. "Why is it," he queried, "that this beast attacked our camp?" Tarthalion knew the answer, and pulled his shield up. Just in time, as a hail of black feathered shafts came from the rain. Most missed, a few struck off his shield. From before him came a screaming press of mailed warriors, swinging broadsword and battleaxe. Practically frothing at the mouth at the sight of their despised kin, the dark elves charged the two warriors. Then with a cry, Tarran Angedhel came running from the camp with his ten warriors. They joined the fray, turning it into a huge, confused tangle of swords and bodies. Men cried as their blood flowed, and swords drew sparks as they struck shield, or armour, or other weapons. Back to back, Tarthalion and Calarion stood in the middle of the press. The two master warriors fended off blows from all angles, and both their blades were wet with druchii blood. And both knew the odds were against them. Tarthalion dropped to one knee, letting a swung axe go over his head. His response, a thrust, and the dark elf fell back, blood pouring from the fatal wound in his side. Another replaced him, and Tarthalion was tired. The old elf raised his shield, taking the hit, which did not even scrape the magnificent golden filigree on the ancient metal. His struck out, and the blade of his sword rang against the shaft of his foe's axe. The weapon struck out again, but this time the agile dark elf was not standing there. Instead his sword swung in a wide, violent arc that Tarthalion caught on the shield. The next blow, with the axe, came in, and Tarthalion realized with dread that there was no way he could stop it. The head of the great axe struck the golden chainmail on his side. The mail flexed, and Tarthalion yelled in pain, but it did not break - small chance that it could break through the cunningly forged metal. Tarthalion struck back, not with the sword but the shield. The raider, not expecting this, fell back dazed, and offered no resistance as Tarthalion ran him through. Looking up, he saw that that was the last one of them. All twenty-odd attackers lay dead, their corpses twisted in the churned-up ground, but his side had not escaped without hurt. Tarran Angedhel bore a wicked-looking gash along his cheek, messy and painful. Three more of the siltholrim were dead, and another two badly wounded. Tarthalion could see one whose mangled left arm looked as if he would never use it again. But they had won, and they knew the truth now. "Back to the White Tower!" ordered Tarthalion. There he would begin the muster for war.

The dark elf rose from where he had been kneeling and beckoned the rest of his band over. One by one, the three other men jogged lightly to their compatriot. "Look," said the first of the druchii. "Footprints. And this rock has dried blood on it." Vuthil crouched also, looking at the churned mud by the side of the stream.

Another of the dark elves spoke up. "Many of the maiden guard fled when they thought the Everqueen was killed. It could be any of them." Vuthil rose to his full height. "It could be - but it is not." "How do you know?" questioned the assassin. Vuthil sneered at him. "I was training when you were crying for your mother's milk, boy. I know." The insulted assassin put his hand to sword, and would have attacked then and there, save that Vuthil's scimitar was already lightly balanced at his throat. Vuthil pressed, just enough to split the skin, and watched as a single drop of blood welled its way to the surface. "You would challenge me, then, Grathik?' The dark elf called Grathik swallowed nervously. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead, as he protested, "No! Never!" Vuthil's sword did not move, and so Grathik continued. "I know my superiors," the assassin protested. Vuthil moved his sword away lazily. "You know those who could skin you in a heartbeat, without a second's remorse, you mean." "Y..Yes." Vuthil turned away. "Any other time I would kill you, but this is too important to waste time on slime like you, Grathik." The Master Assassin's hand snapped out, and caught Grathik in the throat. Wheezing, the other assassin was pitched to the muddy forest floor. Vuthil ignored him and addressed the two other assassins. "Judging by those tracks, we'll have the Everqueen in our hands by the end of the day. Then the fun will truly begin!" He sprung away, followed by the other two assassins. Grathik pulled himself up from the ground and followed them. His eyes glared daggers into Vuthil's back.