The war began, historians would say later, with the lightning raid upon
Avelorn. Certainly it marked the beginning of a new aggressive, and was the
first real conflict between the two sides. And it marked the beginning of
the downfall of the High Elven armies, for without the presence of the
Everqueen, and the rumors of her death - spread, no doubt, by dark elven
agents - the fighting spirit went out of the defenders. And the elven
kingdoms fell one by one. Now, the meager strike force was joined by a
vaster host by far, and suddenly with nary a whimper, Chrace fell - though
with the wild nature of its inhabitants, their resistance did belie that
fact.
For all intents and purposes, though, the north had fallen. While in
Saphery, Tarthalion and Calarion mustered the armies of that kingdom and of
neighboring Yvresse, the Shadowlands was besieged by the vast tides of
their ancient enemy. The 'ruler' of Nagarythe (that kingdom had had no real
king since the days of Alith Anar) was killed, and the shadow warriors
driven into hiding by the sheer force of numbers. Throughout the war, these
warriors would harass the druchii lines, but their numbers were few.
The muster in Saphery ended around the time of the fall of the Shadowlands,
and so Malekith and his general Mortharor were threatened by the presence
of an army on one side of either side of their attack. Mortharor did the
only thing possible in the situation, splitting his army in three, sending
one each way. With the vast amount of the attackers he could easily do
this.
One army swept into Ellyrion, the land of the horse-people. One built ships
from the forests of Avelorn and set sail in a lightning strike across the
Inner Sea. And the last, commanded by Mortharor himself, swept into the
east, to a small pass known now as Dagorannon, the Battle Gate. There
Tarthalion set out his force to stop the advancing attackers from entering
Yvresse.
Calarion looked with disgust around the small little hamlet that served as the base of operations for Tarthalion's commanders. It had taken a whole month for the muster to take place, and now because of their inaction the north had been lost. No word had come from Ellyrion for too long; the Dark Elves controlled the seas and no word could get through. While openly he agreed with his sire's plans of 'taking the charge' and all, secretly he agreed with the young mage, Teclan, or whatever his name was. The older generation had failed them. It's a good thing I'm not a dwarf, thought Calarion, or I'd have been exiled already! He ignored the methodical tramp of a group of Yvressan spearmen as they marched by, their blue banner, sporting a silver hand brandishing a bared blade, snapping proudly in the light wind. He had to get to Tarthalion. By his side walked another man, small and hunched over, from years of endless stealth. The man was Alatar, one of the refugee Nagarythian warriors, and 'Aesanar', proclaiming him the leader of a band of the skirmishers. Alatar had taken eagerly to the role of a scout, and his shadow warriors had already begun their search for the enemy's position. Which, apparently, they had found.
Calarion and Alatar walked through the deserted streets of the town, until they reached the large hall that sat centrally. Several of the siltholrim knights were scattered around the perimeter of the abandoned oak building. Calarion walked up to one of them, a youthful-looking elf but with the obvious experience of battle ingrained upon his face. "My lord," said Tarran Angedhel, "your father is conversing inside with his commanders. He does not wish to be disturbed, I'm afraid." "He will for this!" Calarion retorted. At his side, the short elf stood forward. "I am Alatar. My gwathrim have located the advancing druchii." Tarran Angedhel didn't hesitate. "This way," he said, and led the two lords through the building to where Tarthalion was. The old elf looked up from detailed maps of the nameless pass. The stress of command was all too obvious in his demeanor, in the way he carried himself. But his back was still straight, though for how long? His age - a thousand-odd years - was all there today. Calarion wondered if his father would survive this war. "Greetings, Angedhel. As I recall, I did not wish to be disturbed." "I am sorry, my lord, but the scouts have returned." Tarthalion noticed Alatar then, and nodded to the short elf. Alatar strode forward, his feet silent utterly. The Shadow Warrior pointed to a point on the map about a half-mile north of the pass. "The druchii are currently around here. They are preparing for their assault before they advance further, but I would expect them within the hour." The gwathrim lord's voice was quiet and Calarion had to strain to hear the words. Tarthalion responded sharply. "Do you know what their deployment is? Battle plans?" "I saw little, but it appears apparent. Most of the infantry is in the middle, bolstered by a large force of those fanatical she-devils." "Witch Elves. Continue." "The flanks consist of swifter moving riders, both of horse and lizard- creature. There are several forces of foul winged creatures, to reinforce the gaps and for lightning assaults upon your war-machines. Very little in the way of missile fire." "Thank you. I shall prepare our defense."
Another tent, a small way from Tarthalion, two more men also poured over maps. Mortharor's voice was cold and dark inside his grotesque helmet. "Did you let their scouts witness our lines?" The other bowed. "Yes, my lord. My Shades were watching them the whole time. They saw exactly what you desired them to see." "Good," snarled Mortharor. "I know their commander. An aged invalid, by all accounts. And his tactics are outdated and rely upon his perceived superiority. He shall see that, and immediately deploy his forces as I wish them deployed." Behind the skull-mask, Mortharor smirked. "And then I shall have him!"
Flying overhead, the vast bird swept its right wing down, allowing it to spiral down further until it located a comfortable updraft. The eagle's name was Mithlome, and he was one of the few remaining members of the Great Eagles. So many had been killed when the dark elves assaulted their nests in the Annulii Mountains. Now the rest were providing aerial support for the noble Tarthalion against the harpies he warned would be coming. The eagle swept down further, until it espied something. Beneath it, the dark elves were moving! Their infantry in the middle, a light force of cavalry on either side. Was this the tide they had feared? Had Mithlome been able to, he would have laughed. Then he saw something else. In the middle of the ranks of infantry. He turned and began beating the air with his mighty pinions, watching cloud fly past. He must warn Tarthalion! Then a shower of bolts flew up from the ground. Unable to see them, Mithlome was riddled with bolts. He screamed in pain, tried to ignore his wounds, and fly on. But one of the crossbow bolts had torn through his left wing, and his flight was so slow, he was hardly surprised when the second volley struck. The mighty eagle screamed once, then fell from the sky, landing with an almighty crump! on the ground. Blood-stained feathers still floated in the air above him.
Tarthalion saw them when they swept near the pass. Deployed exactly as Alatar had foretold. This would be a bloodbath! Behind his contingent of knights - both his elite siltholrim bodyguard and normal elven knights - several of the light bolt-throwers had been set up. They waited until the approaching horde was in range, before their crew hurried forward and fired them. Snapp! Snapp! Snapp! went the cords as they straightened, propelling the deadly bolts forward. They plunged into the massed ranks and sliced through the bodies. But the dark elves stood firm, despite horrendous casualties from the first barrage alone! They are still elves, after all, thought Tarthalion. The bolt throwers were supported by another rain of arrows, this time from the archers. More arrows flew across the field. It was met with answering fire by the dark elves, but the range of their small crossbows was too short to reach the High Elven ranks. Meanwhile, with too many casualties to bear, the dark elven warriors turned and fled from the field. A cheer of victory was raised from the massed High Elves. In the dark elven ranks, a mage stepped forward, and gestured suddenly. Lightning crackled around the enemy spellweaver. But Tarthalion did not worry. His own mage, Teclis, who had joined the camp, was a master spellcrafter. The young mage sprung forth and gestured. Around the dark elf sorcerer, the lightning flared up, before dying out. Charred remains of the sorcerer could be recognized vaguely. The dark elf host gave a great cry of despair, but they did not halt from their path, and they continued their implacable march. The high elves prepared to counter, rank upon rank of the Yvressan spearmen forming up in the centre. Tarthalion rode in their midst atop his steed Aglaroch, the horse's brilliant white coat practically shining. The dark elves prepared, and with a roar began advancing faster, sprinting across the field to the attack. The spearmen met them. Blood flowed, and now Tarthalion had to rely upon his troops, for orders in a situation such as this were pointless. Now Tarthalion could see the flanking action that Alatar had warned him of. Several dark elves mounted on two-legged riding lizards came hurtling through the ground. But Tarthalion had assigned a trap for them. Another unit was guarding the flanks of the main body of spearmen, and they calmly took the charge. The lizard-creatures snapped and hissed, tearing at the secondary spearmen, but they stood their ground. And when a secondary force of elven knights, commanded by Calarion, charged the rear of the dark elven knights, the outcome was a foregone conclusion. Tarthalion laughed. The dark elven offensive had failed! Soon they would be routing, and he would chase them back all the way to Naggaroth! Then his laughter froze and died in his throat. For in the middle of the dark elven force, he could see their real plan. Chaos Warriors. Regiments of them. There was nothing in his army that could stand against them! The followers of Khorne swarmed out, swinging wicked flailed and barbed blades. Under their frenzied charge, the high elven line bulged with effort from holding them. Then it broke. The high elven spearmen turned and fled. "No!" screamed Tarthalion. This could not be happening! But it was. The chaos warriors had torn through their centre. Now he urged the main body of elven knights into a charge upon the chaos warriors. Hooves flickered in the air. Riders were pulled from their saddles and slaughtered. Chaos forces were trampled underfoot by the elven steeds. Now the other flank, though, was empty, where Calarion had sent Tarran Angedhel to ward off the other flank attack? What was going on there? The answer came when, on the sides of the pass, dark elf scouts suddenly rose out of cover. They had been working on this for a while. They heaved huge logs, with vicious metal spikes driven through them, to the edge of the small overhang they stood on, and then pushed them down to where Angedhel's unit stood. It was chaos. The logs tore through the legs of the horses, pitching riders to the ground where more of the huge logs crushed them. Only Tarran Angedhel and a few others managed to stay mounted, and they turned to quit the field immediately. The horsemen who had been supposed to go into the ambush on that flank now burst down the field - on Calarion's side. They caught the small unit of spearmen and rode them down. Within minutes, the entire army of defenders was routed, and Mortharor had swept into Yvresse.
Calarion looked with disgust around the small little hamlet that served as the base of operations for Tarthalion's commanders. It had taken a whole month for the muster to take place, and now because of their inaction the north had been lost. No word had come from Ellyrion for too long; the Dark Elves controlled the seas and no word could get through. While openly he agreed with his sire's plans of 'taking the charge' and all, secretly he agreed with the young mage, Teclan, or whatever his name was. The older generation had failed them. It's a good thing I'm not a dwarf, thought Calarion, or I'd have been exiled already! He ignored the methodical tramp of a group of Yvressan spearmen as they marched by, their blue banner, sporting a silver hand brandishing a bared blade, snapping proudly in the light wind. He had to get to Tarthalion. By his side walked another man, small and hunched over, from years of endless stealth. The man was Alatar, one of the refugee Nagarythian warriors, and 'Aesanar', proclaiming him the leader of a band of the skirmishers. Alatar had taken eagerly to the role of a scout, and his shadow warriors had already begun their search for the enemy's position. Which, apparently, they had found.
Calarion and Alatar walked through the deserted streets of the town, until they reached the large hall that sat centrally. Several of the siltholrim knights were scattered around the perimeter of the abandoned oak building. Calarion walked up to one of them, a youthful-looking elf but with the obvious experience of battle ingrained upon his face. "My lord," said Tarran Angedhel, "your father is conversing inside with his commanders. He does not wish to be disturbed, I'm afraid." "He will for this!" Calarion retorted. At his side, the short elf stood forward. "I am Alatar. My gwathrim have located the advancing druchii." Tarran Angedhel didn't hesitate. "This way," he said, and led the two lords through the building to where Tarthalion was. The old elf looked up from detailed maps of the nameless pass. The stress of command was all too obvious in his demeanor, in the way he carried himself. But his back was still straight, though for how long? His age - a thousand-odd years - was all there today. Calarion wondered if his father would survive this war. "Greetings, Angedhel. As I recall, I did not wish to be disturbed." "I am sorry, my lord, but the scouts have returned." Tarthalion noticed Alatar then, and nodded to the short elf. Alatar strode forward, his feet silent utterly. The Shadow Warrior pointed to a point on the map about a half-mile north of the pass. "The druchii are currently around here. They are preparing for their assault before they advance further, but I would expect them within the hour." The gwathrim lord's voice was quiet and Calarion had to strain to hear the words. Tarthalion responded sharply. "Do you know what their deployment is? Battle plans?" "I saw little, but it appears apparent. Most of the infantry is in the middle, bolstered by a large force of those fanatical she-devils." "Witch Elves. Continue." "The flanks consist of swifter moving riders, both of horse and lizard- creature. There are several forces of foul winged creatures, to reinforce the gaps and for lightning assaults upon your war-machines. Very little in the way of missile fire." "Thank you. I shall prepare our defense."
Another tent, a small way from Tarthalion, two more men also poured over maps. Mortharor's voice was cold and dark inside his grotesque helmet. "Did you let their scouts witness our lines?" The other bowed. "Yes, my lord. My Shades were watching them the whole time. They saw exactly what you desired them to see." "Good," snarled Mortharor. "I know their commander. An aged invalid, by all accounts. And his tactics are outdated and rely upon his perceived superiority. He shall see that, and immediately deploy his forces as I wish them deployed." Behind the skull-mask, Mortharor smirked. "And then I shall have him!"
Flying overhead, the vast bird swept its right wing down, allowing it to spiral down further until it located a comfortable updraft. The eagle's name was Mithlome, and he was one of the few remaining members of the Great Eagles. So many had been killed when the dark elves assaulted their nests in the Annulii Mountains. Now the rest were providing aerial support for the noble Tarthalion against the harpies he warned would be coming. The eagle swept down further, until it espied something. Beneath it, the dark elves were moving! Their infantry in the middle, a light force of cavalry on either side. Was this the tide they had feared? Had Mithlome been able to, he would have laughed. Then he saw something else. In the middle of the ranks of infantry. He turned and began beating the air with his mighty pinions, watching cloud fly past. He must warn Tarthalion! Then a shower of bolts flew up from the ground. Unable to see them, Mithlome was riddled with bolts. He screamed in pain, tried to ignore his wounds, and fly on. But one of the crossbow bolts had torn through his left wing, and his flight was so slow, he was hardly surprised when the second volley struck. The mighty eagle screamed once, then fell from the sky, landing with an almighty crump! on the ground. Blood-stained feathers still floated in the air above him.
Tarthalion saw them when they swept near the pass. Deployed exactly as Alatar had foretold. This would be a bloodbath! Behind his contingent of knights - both his elite siltholrim bodyguard and normal elven knights - several of the light bolt-throwers had been set up. They waited until the approaching horde was in range, before their crew hurried forward and fired them. Snapp! Snapp! Snapp! went the cords as they straightened, propelling the deadly bolts forward. They plunged into the massed ranks and sliced through the bodies. But the dark elves stood firm, despite horrendous casualties from the first barrage alone! They are still elves, after all, thought Tarthalion. The bolt throwers were supported by another rain of arrows, this time from the archers. More arrows flew across the field. It was met with answering fire by the dark elves, but the range of their small crossbows was too short to reach the High Elven ranks. Meanwhile, with too many casualties to bear, the dark elven warriors turned and fled from the field. A cheer of victory was raised from the massed High Elves. In the dark elven ranks, a mage stepped forward, and gestured suddenly. Lightning crackled around the enemy spellweaver. But Tarthalion did not worry. His own mage, Teclis, who had joined the camp, was a master spellcrafter. The young mage sprung forth and gestured. Around the dark elf sorcerer, the lightning flared up, before dying out. Charred remains of the sorcerer could be recognized vaguely. The dark elf host gave a great cry of despair, but they did not halt from their path, and they continued their implacable march. The high elves prepared to counter, rank upon rank of the Yvressan spearmen forming up in the centre. Tarthalion rode in their midst atop his steed Aglaroch, the horse's brilliant white coat practically shining. The dark elves prepared, and with a roar began advancing faster, sprinting across the field to the attack. The spearmen met them. Blood flowed, and now Tarthalion had to rely upon his troops, for orders in a situation such as this were pointless. Now Tarthalion could see the flanking action that Alatar had warned him of. Several dark elves mounted on two-legged riding lizards came hurtling through the ground. But Tarthalion had assigned a trap for them. Another unit was guarding the flanks of the main body of spearmen, and they calmly took the charge. The lizard-creatures snapped and hissed, tearing at the secondary spearmen, but they stood their ground. And when a secondary force of elven knights, commanded by Calarion, charged the rear of the dark elven knights, the outcome was a foregone conclusion. Tarthalion laughed. The dark elven offensive had failed! Soon they would be routing, and he would chase them back all the way to Naggaroth! Then his laughter froze and died in his throat. For in the middle of the dark elven force, he could see their real plan. Chaos Warriors. Regiments of them. There was nothing in his army that could stand against them! The followers of Khorne swarmed out, swinging wicked flailed and barbed blades. Under their frenzied charge, the high elven line bulged with effort from holding them. Then it broke. The high elven spearmen turned and fled. "No!" screamed Tarthalion. This could not be happening! But it was. The chaos warriors had torn through their centre. Now he urged the main body of elven knights into a charge upon the chaos warriors. Hooves flickered in the air. Riders were pulled from their saddles and slaughtered. Chaos forces were trampled underfoot by the elven steeds. Now the other flank, though, was empty, where Calarion had sent Tarran Angedhel to ward off the other flank attack? What was going on there? The answer came when, on the sides of the pass, dark elf scouts suddenly rose out of cover. They had been working on this for a while. They heaved huge logs, with vicious metal spikes driven through them, to the edge of the small overhang they stood on, and then pushed them down to where Angedhel's unit stood. It was chaos. The logs tore through the legs of the horses, pitching riders to the ground where more of the huge logs crushed them. Only Tarran Angedhel and a few others managed to stay mounted, and they turned to quit the field immediately. The horsemen who had been supposed to go into the ambush on that flank now burst down the field - on Calarion's side. They caught the small unit of spearmen and rode them down. Within minutes, the entire army of defenders was routed, and Mortharor had swept into Yvresse.