Clack.
Clack.
Clack.
Tarthalion's boots rung and echoed in the broad corridor. By his side, the
grim-faced, blood-stained Calarion stalked.
Too many seemed to have Calarion's bitterness since the debacle.
The corridor was sumptuously decorated, with statues and fine paintings
adorning one wall, and delicate glass windows giving beautiful vistas over
the marble towers of Tor Yvresse. White marble, which would be doused in
the blood of its defenders.
Calarion gave him a quick briefing on recent events while they walked
through the palace.
"The good news," Calarion explained soberly, "is that we have
reinforcements here in the city. A group of Aveloran expatriates, led by
Arhaindir Moonhand, are prepared to aid us. And the Phoenix King has sent a
unit from Caledor, the Felix Legion, commanded by Prince Carus."
"Carus!" explained Tarthalion. "I know him - he fought with me during the
Norse raids."
"What do you know of him?"
"He is a good general, and a good elf. I'd trust him with my life."
Calarion stopped walking, and spun to face his father. His face was darker
than before, not that Tarthalion could have thought any grimmer was
possible.
"Good. Because you might just have to do that."
"What do you mean?"
"Your forces have turned against you. They don't trust you in command any
more. They want Carus to lead."
Tarthalion laughed harshly. "Carus is good, but I'm a better general. Why
do they want him in charge?"
Calarion looked away and somberly replied, "They feel your arrogance lost
us the battle at the pass."
"That's ridiculous!"
"I know, but you know the way of people - if wrongs happen to them, they
will look for a scapegoat. They chose you."
Tarthalion gestured, his wrinkled face surprisingly peaceful. "Come on. I
must speak with Carus."
They continued down the corridor, and all the time dark thoughts filled
Tarthalion's mind. What if I am getting too old for this? My time is nearly
up here. What if it is over?
At the end stood two of the sword-masters the White Tower had given them
for the campaign. They relaxed when they saw Tarthalion, and one reached
forward to open the door for him. Tarthalion absently nodded, and swept
through the door.
Behind the door, an aging elf - though not as old as he - stood slowly from
a chair at which he sat. "Tarthalion?"
"Carus!"
The two elves wrapped each other in a rough bear-hug, slapping the other on
the back. "How are you, you old war-horse?" said Carus, his voice thick.
"Same as always - if a bit older."
Tarthalion gestured. "My son, Calarion."
Carus came forward and shook Calarion's hand firmly. "If you're half as
great as your father, you'll be an elf to look out for indeed!"
Not wishing to be outdone, Calarion replied, "And if you are half as good a
tactician as he, you'll be able to sweep the druchii plague from our
lands."
Carus turned back to Tarthalion. "My own son, Ikarus, is running around
here somewhere. He's probably with the troops practicing the sword. He
takes it very seriously. But I'm sure you'll see him before we all go
home."
Tarthalion added, "If we get home."
"True! But let's not dwell on these things."
"Carus, I have heard you're to be in charge of the defense."
"Yes. It would have been you but for that little disaster at the pass. How
did you manage to botch things so much, by the way? Never fear though,
you're to be my chief advisor."
"Wonderful. So what sort of troops do we have at our disposal?"
Carus spoke, as reciting from a list, "Lots of spearmen, archers, and
knights; a few scouts, and a handful of bolt throwers. And a few other
things like our sword-masters."
"Will it be enough?"
The normally cheerful Carus stopped smiling. "It'd better be."
Prince Moranion huffed as he tapped his steed's flanks with his long riding- boots. The horse, Roheru, stooped immediately. It was like symbiosis, Moranion knew. He and Roheru were of one mind, one thought only, ever since they'd first been paired three hundred years ago or so. How could it be, he wondered, that those humans who lived far to the east could ride two or more horses in their life? Elven steeds, as all Ellyrians knew, were superior to those the humans used as they also lived a proper life length in idyllic Ulthuan. Not idyllic any more though, with the word outraged eagles - those that survived the purge - had brought to them. The Witch-King's army was drawn up just over the ridge, in and around the village Echare. There he was planning his next move, to bring his army against the charioteers of Tiranoc under Thaindal. Moranion's task was to make sure that the army never even left Echare. His task, and the task of the force of five thousand horsemen he'd bought with him. And an easy task, really, for all the fact they were outnumbered about three-to-one. For what could stand up to the horse-archers of Ellyrian? They would out-maneuver, out-shoot, and out-fight their foes, and wipe this army from the face of Ulthuan. The sound of hooves alerted Moranion to the presence of his scout, returned. "Aethenor! What word from the others?" The elf called Aethenor continued riding until he was close to Moranion, before answering, "All forces are ready. We surround their camp." "Good. Then let us ride!" cried Moranion, and he tapped Roheru in the flanks. The white stallion sprang forth, and Moranion bared his sword, brandishing it above his head. The light from the sun shone down on the blade, scintillating and shining all over the field! An omen, surely! The dark elf spearmen sprang to their feet, dropping the cards they held, and watched with amazement as a single rider bore down upon them wildly. "Prepare to die, druchii scum!" howled the crazed rider. The dark elves laughed at the obviously insane elf and moved forward to deal with him. But their laughter faded when around them, horsemen sprang from the rough bushes. They turned and fled back into the town, the thundering horde at their heels. Moranion caught the three elves, and with a set of swift, precise strikes sent them to the ground, where they were crushed underfoot by the trample of hooves. Moranion and his men rode through the town like a furious thunderbolt. His archers picked off any dark elves they saw. Then when the word came out from his forces that the main host had readied for battle and was moving for them, they wheeled their horses and burst from the town. The dark elves pursued, but on foot there was no way they could catch the swift horsemen. They formed up ranks and prepared with a wall of barbed spear-tips to receive the charge. The Ellyrians readied their lances. Then suddenly the light of Moranion's shining blade faded and died. The elven prince stopped and looked above at the strange black clouds that had appeared in the sky. "What foul sorceries are these?" he whispered, awestruck, as he tried to bring his steed under control. Then the lightning began. A bolt struck down, with deadly accuracy, unnatural accuracy, slamming into the midst of his forces. Horses screamed. He struggled with Roheru to bring him under control. The smell of cooked meat permeated the air. There was no rain. And then another lightning bolt struck, and another, and another, and the Ellyrians turned and fled. But there was no escaping the strange attacks that decimated the army. Only one of the Ellyrians remained on the field. Moranion still controlled Roheru, and now also he could see the spell-caster who had taken out their entire army without a single blow being struck. The elf stood on a chariot of some sort, and he was clad entirely in black-stained iron plate. What little could be seen of his skin was scarred, burnt, and twisted. Moranion hissed. It was the Witch-King himself! But never had Moranion heard that the Despised One commanded magics such as these! Another crack made Moranion look up. He did so, and glanced directly at a bolt falling at him. Seconds later, Moranion and Roheru's charred corpses lay on a field of charred corpses, and the Witch-King gloated.
Prince Moranion huffed as he tapped his steed's flanks with his long riding- boots. The horse, Roheru, stooped immediately. It was like symbiosis, Moranion knew. He and Roheru were of one mind, one thought only, ever since they'd first been paired three hundred years ago or so. How could it be, he wondered, that those humans who lived far to the east could ride two or more horses in their life? Elven steeds, as all Ellyrians knew, were superior to those the humans used as they also lived a proper life length in idyllic Ulthuan. Not idyllic any more though, with the word outraged eagles - those that survived the purge - had brought to them. The Witch-King's army was drawn up just over the ridge, in and around the village Echare. There he was planning his next move, to bring his army against the charioteers of Tiranoc under Thaindal. Moranion's task was to make sure that the army never even left Echare. His task, and the task of the force of five thousand horsemen he'd bought with him. And an easy task, really, for all the fact they were outnumbered about three-to-one. For what could stand up to the horse-archers of Ellyrian? They would out-maneuver, out-shoot, and out-fight their foes, and wipe this army from the face of Ulthuan. The sound of hooves alerted Moranion to the presence of his scout, returned. "Aethenor! What word from the others?" The elf called Aethenor continued riding until he was close to Moranion, before answering, "All forces are ready. We surround their camp." "Good. Then let us ride!" cried Moranion, and he tapped Roheru in the flanks. The white stallion sprang forth, and Moranion bared his sword, brandishing it above his head. The light from the sun shone down on the blade, scintillating and shining all over the field! An omen, surely! The dark elf spearmen sprang to their feet, dropping the cards they held, and watched with amazement as a single rider bore down upon them wildly. "Prepare to die, druchii scum!" howled the crazed rider. The dark elves laughed at the obviously insane elf and moved forward to deal with him. But their laughter faded when around them, horsemen sprang from the rough bushes. They turned and fled back into the town, the thundering horde at their heels. Moranion caught the three elves, and with a set of swift, precise strikes sent them to the ground, where they were crushed underfoot by the trample of hooves. Moranion and his men rode through the town like a furious thunderbolt. His archers picked off any dark elves they saw. Then when the word came out from his forces that the main host had readied for battle and was moving for them, they wheeled their horses and burst from the town. The dark elves pursued, but on foot there was no way they could catch the swift horsemen. They formed up ranks and prepared with a wall of barbed spear-tips to receive the charge. The Ellyrians readied their lances. Then suddenly the light of Moranion's shining blade faded and died. The elven prince stopped and looked above at the strange black clouds that had appeared in the sky. "What foul sorceries are these?" he whispered, awestruck, as he tried to bring his steed under control. Then the lightning began. A bolt struck down, with deadly accuracy, unnatural accuracy, slamming into the midst of his forces. Horses screamed. He struggled with Roheru to bring him under control. The smell of cooked meat permeated the air. There was no rain. And then another lightning bolt struck, and another, and another, and the Ellyrians turned and fled. But there was no escaping the strange attacks that decimated the army. Only one of the Ellyrians remained on the field. Moranion still controlled Roheru, and now also he could see the spell-caster who had taken out their entire army without a single blow being struck. The elf stood on a chariot of some sort, and he was clad entirely in black-stained iron plate. What little could be seen of his skin was scarred, burnt, and twisted. Moranion hissed. It was the Witch-King himself! But never had Moranion heard that the Despised One commanded magics such as these! Another crack made Moranion look up. He did so, and glanced directly at a bolt falling at him. Seconds later, Moranion and Roheru's charred corpses lay on a field of charred corpses, and the Witch-King gloated.