It was, Tarthalion was forced to admit, a very impressive sight.
He and Carus stood amongst the troops arrayed upon the marble walls of Tor
Yvresse, awaiting the onset of the dark elves. There was time only for one
last inspection of the troops before the conflict.
There was no way they could be prepared better. Bolt throwers scavenged
from ships from Eataine lined the walls, so that there was no spot not
visible by at least two groups of the Seaguard who manned them. The rest of
the walls were patrolled by a mix of spearmen (to bear the brunt of the
assault) and archers (for supporting fire). The front gates were guarded by
several of the warrior-ascetics from the White Tower, who had actually
volunteered for that the most dangerous position. Tarthalion had watched
their practices as they swung their massive but still delicate greatswords
in blinding arcs faster than even Carus' son Ikarus' skilled eyes could
follow. Ikarus had given up, and pronounced with his customary solemnity
that for the first time ever he pitied the dark elves who attacked there.
Tarthalion was forced to agree with him.
Sunlight shining parallel to the flat ground burst threw the light fog that
permanently choked Yvresse, landing on immaculately polished mail and spear-
head, giving the appearance that the defenders were forged of molten gold.
An inspiring sight.
Now he stalked along the line, talking to the subcommanders briefly.
One caught his eye, an elf clad in the garb of one of the gwathrim, but
with his cloak in the hues of wilderness rather than the customary
desolate gray. The elf waved him over.
The elf was leaning comfortably on his longbow when Tarthalion came to him.
His hair was not the golden shade customary of the elves of the south, or
the light brown of one of the horse-people, but black. A Nagarythi elf
then, but judging by the green cloak and easy smile, a very unusual one!
"I have received word from my scouts," the elf said in a low, melodious
tone.
"What do they have to say? Have you learnt where Alatar is?"
"Alas, I know nothing of the Aesanar. He seems to have disappeared - but
that is the custom of our kind,"
His curiosity heightened, Tarthalion said, "Excuse me, but exactly what is
your type?" Realizing how impolite the question was, he quickly added, "Not
to be rude or anything."
The other smiled. "Think nothing of it. Let us say - love can work
miracles."
Seeing the leader of the next force along suddenly, an Avelornian lady,
Tarthalion grinned. "I understand. So, what do your scouts say?"
The Avelornian gwathri answered, "They are most puzzled. The enemy general
- the Despised One's best, in fact, a druchii named Mortharor - halted his
troops and, rather than an immediate assault as we had feared, waited for
allies in the form of slave troops. Now those slaves - goblins, with a few
others flung in - have arrived, and they began marching about an hour ago.
They will be here in minutes."
Tarthalion could see why they were puzzled. Had the assault come before,
while the garrisons were being sorted sand the defenses prepared, they
might well have conquered. But this would be a harder target now.
The move made no sense.
"The only thing I can think of," offered the elf, "is that they were
waiting for more than reinforcements."
"That is what I thought too. Did your spies see anything else?
"No, my lord."
Tarthalion left the strange elf, hurrying for where he knew Carus would be
- with the cavalry. Carus loved combat on horseback and was above-average
at it. Strange, for Tarthalion only rode Aglaroch for the added protection.
Carus was in the courtyard with his riders, both the traditional Elven
knights and those brought with Carus from Caledor, from his 'Felix Legion'
(Note: In elven, 'Felix' is flame-red). They were preparing bridles, and
several citizens who were not being included in the militia were helping,
cutting more long shafts of ash for when the lances would break. There was
the core of the command - Carus, Ikarus, Calarion, Tarran, and he would all
be amongst them.
Carus came over, his ornate dragon-helm cradled under his arm. "What news?"
the Caledorian asked cheerfully.
"The first attack should be here soon. They've been waiting for the arrival
of goblin slaves. Now they'll be upon us in minutes."
"Right!" cried Carus, and he bellowed, "All elves, prepare! The enemy
approaches!"
From the North Gate an answering cry from Arhaindir Moonhand, the strange
shadow warrior. "They are upon us!"
Tarthalion cursed and turned, sprinting to the North Gate. Behind him, his
bodyguard Tarran Angedhel vaulted from the shadow and raced after him,
while the rest cantered to their posts.
Moonhand had his bow out, and an arrow knocked. Another quiver was
positioned at his belt, and two more lay nearby, propped up against the
parapets. "There they are," he gestured.
They were visible to Tarthalion's aged eye also. The horizon, thankfully
devoid of fog, was crawling with black shapes. The goblin slaves.
The goblins came closer, and Moonhand signaled his forces to fire. Waves of
arrows sprang from the North Gate, and were joined by shots from the other
elves on the walls. Most fell short, but many fell amongst the goblins. But
the cowardly goblins did not run, not even when the bolt throwers began to
scythe fire through their ranks, or when Teclis' fireballs began to rain
upon them. The dead fell, and were churned into the mud by the vast host.
Tarthalion commented to Tarran, "Strange, for goblins to hold this long.
They must fear Mortharor more than they fear us."
Moonhand interjected as he removed his emptied quiver and replaced it with
a fresh one, "Or else their courage is bolstered by their numbers. We have
killed so many of them, and yet they still come!"
Then with a whoomph! from the back of the dark elven ranks, two fireballs
were propelled into the wall. The engineers who manned the catapults,
fortunately, had aimed poorly, but where the flaming projectiles hit the
white walls, they left great black burns.
The goblins had reached the bottom of the wall now, and half began opening
fire with their own small bows while the rest set scaling ladders against
the walls. One elven archer in Moonhand's force was struck by a skilled
shot in the eye. The elf screamed in pain, and toppled off the wall into
the mass of goblins. Moonhand spun, and released his own arrow at the
killer. The shot blasted through the small greenskin's chest, killing
instantly.
The first goblins reached the top of the wall. A small head looked around
just over the edge. Then it saw a boot which struck it in the head, sending
it flying from the ladder.
More swarmed up to the wall, and the spearmen took up positions at the
wall's edge, thrusting with spear and bashing with shield while their foes
hacked with wild abandon. At their head were Tarran and Tarthalion always.
The blade of Tathel Sapherior glowed a fey blue as it cleft through the
shrieking ranks. And Tarran's own was possessed of an unnatural quickness
that let it fly through the air.
But skilled as those paladins were, they were but two, and there were
hundreds of the goblins. Arhaindir Moonhand cried as a goblin pierced him
in the side, though with his longsword he struck home immediately. The
other Avelornians cried as they were slowly overwhelmed.
Then there were more elves there, the sword-masters. Great blades flying as
in a courtly dance from Lothern, they dove into the fray. Only a handful,
but where they stood the goblins fell back, blood making standing slippery.
The catapults fired again, this time striking lower. The pitch landed in the goblins, inciting a frenzy in them as they turned and fled from the slaughter. It was too much for them. Tarthalion stood wearily, bathed almost entirely in goblin blood. Arhaindir was wrapping a clean white cloth around his upper arm, which was quickly stained to a dirty crimson. And Tarran lay comatose, blood running from a thousand wounds. Seeing an elf whose wounds were not too severe, Tarthalion snapped, "Take him to the healers, now!" The elf took one startled look at the anger on the old elf's face before slinging the dying elf over his shoulder and running. "Will he live?" asked Moonhand. "I don't know. The healers can do miracles. But they're tired, and overwhelmed with work. Even if he does survive, he'll be out of the siege until it's concluded, one way or another." "Still, look around you." He did - and was shocked. With his exhaustion, he'd never noticed the sounds of battle had ceased. Dead goblins lay everywhere, and more elven corpses than he'd have liked. "We've won the day," said Moonhand. "Be thankful for that alone." And he left Tarthalion to find the rest of his forces. Tarthalion wandered down to below, where the corpses of elf and horse alike lay. Several elves stood, checking the dead. One was Calarion. "We've won - but at great cost," the young elf said bitterly. "Is it really a victory?" "It is," the father said sternly. "Where is Carus?" "Retired to plan the next day's action. We've beaten the slaves, but he and I feel that it was only meant to wear us down." "I agree. There was no skill in their assault. Almost like it didn't matter how it turned out." Calarion said, "What are you thinking?" "I'm not sure." Then Moonhand came amongst them. His face was pale with fear. "My lord! I know what is going on!" "What?! Quickly, man!" "The East Gate was not attacked by goblins, my lord, but by dark elves!" "And ?" "Not warriors! Assassins!" Tarthalion didn't answer. He gestured to some nearby knights and began running for Carus' quarters, praying he would not be too late.
The small band burst into the main palace minutes after the assassins. They could see the few guards, the rest being still on the walls. Those guards now lay, killed cleanly and swiftly. Tarthalion checked who there was amongst his party as they sprinted on, following the trail of corpses. Himself. Calarion. Moonhand. And Carus' boy Ikarus. A small group. He prayed it would be enough. They sprinted at break-neck speed along the long corridor, beautiful no more with the glass windows and priceless sculptures stained with the blood of the defenders. They reached the door, tried to fling it open. Locked. Calarion and Ikarus began bashing wildly on it. On the third try it was knocked off its hinges and flung into Carus' command room. Inside was a sight of horror. Five dark-cloaked men with bloodied swords stood inside. Four were around the door. The fifth, their leader, stood over Carus' cooling body. Blood's stench permeated the whole room weirdly. The door flew where the four were standing. They rolled or dodged out of the way, before coming on hard and fast, swords and dirks flashing. Ikarus paid them no heed. Roaring a cry of hatred and vengeance he cannonballed through the attackers into the leader, sword striking like a viper. The others flung themselves into combat. Blades struck so rapidly the noise became a single, drawn-out shriek. With the savagery of blows, blood flew from both sides of the fray. Ikarus was the first to make a kill, for all that he was facing two foes, not one. The skill given to him through hours of practice was tempered with a great fury at the death of his father. He kicked at the leader, who flung himself back in a somersault before coming back again. The high elf parried the scimitar and jumped lithely over the sweeping dagger, before raining two-handed blows at his foe's skull. The dark elf curled into a forward roll, out of the enraged assault, as his underling attacked. But this one was not as skilled as his master. Ikarus swung his sword low, and the weak attack was easily parried. The assassin then sneered, bringing his sword in line with Ikarus' exposed neck. But the crafty warrior had planned this, and snapped the sword further down, bringing his foe's left hand to the ground. Then with his armored boot he stamped on the hand, crushing it. The assassin howled, pulling up his mangled hand, and Ikarus swung, a messy blow that dissected the assassin from the hip to the shoulder. Calarion swung a one-handed blow at his foe, and their blades locked. Then the warrior punched out with his other hand, stunning his foe. The assassin tried to dodge, but Calarion's sword was driven firmly through his gut. Calarion spun and delivered a skull-shattering blow to another assassin. Tarthalion, encouraged, redoubled his attack, and the sword of Tathel Sapherion cleft through sword, skin, flesh, and bone. Now Ikarus faced off against the only remaining assassin, the leader. Both swung their swords two handed, lightly, swiftly. The assassin struck first, twisting the blow before it was parried. Ikarus leapt aside on one leg, and spun, the other leg striking the assassin, who simply took it in a forward roll. He sprang out of it, and pivoted, the sword leading the way. But Ikarus parried with skill, and counterattacked. The blades began to ring as the assassin forced Ikarus back. Then Ikarus ducked when he should have parried. The blow struck hard on the side of his head, making his ears ring and blood trickle down his forehead. But now he could attack, and did, his sword sliding straight through the assassin chief's heart. The dark elf fell back, blood staining his breast and mouth, and Ikarus finished with one last blow, with all his force. The head of the assassin struck a wall, and then slid down, leaving a bloody stain on the wall. It was a small comfort when compared to the massacred body of Prince Carus. Ikarus - now Prince Ikarus - looked up from the kill. His sword dropped from his hands. He fell to his knees with a clank. And he began to cry.
The catapults fired again, this time striking lower. The pitch landed in the goblins, inciting a frenzy in them as they turned and fled from the slaughter. It was too much for them. Tarthalion stood wearily, bathed almost entirely in goblin blood. Arhaindir was wrapping a clean white cloth around his upper arm, which was quickly stained to a dirty crimson. And Tarran lay comatose, blood running from a thousand wounds. Seeing an elf whose wounds were not too severe, Tarthalion snapped, "Take him to the healers, now!" The elf took one startled look at the anger on the old elf's face before slinging the dying elf over his shoulder and running. "Will he live?" asked Moonhand. "I don't know. The healers can do miracles. But they're tired, and overwhelmed with work. Even if he does survive, he'll be out of the siege until it's concluded, one way or another." "Still, look around you." He did - and was shocked. With his exhaustion, he'd never noticed the sounds of battle had ceased. Dead goblins lay everywhere, and more elven corpses than he'd have liked. "We've won the day," said Moonhand. "Be thankful for that alone." And he left Tarthalion to find the rest of his forces. Tarthalion wandered down to below, where the corpses of elf and horse alike lay. Several elves stood, checking the dead. One was Calarion. "We've won - but at great cost," the young elf said bitterly. "Is it really a victory?" "It is," the father said sternly. "Where is Carus?" "Retired to plan the next day's action. We've beaten the slaves, but he and I feel that it was only meant to wear us down." "I agree. There was no skill in their assault. Almost like it didn't matter how it turned out." Calarion said, "What are you thinking?" "I'm not sure." Then Moonhand came amongst them. His face was pale with fear. "My lord! I know what is going on!" "What?! Quickly, man!" "The East Gate was not attacked by goblins, my lord, but by dark elves!" "And ?" "Not warriors! Assassins!" Tarthalion didn't answer. He gestured to some nearby knights and began running for Carus' quarters, praying he would not be too late.
The small band burst into the main palace minutes after the assassins. They could see the few guards, the rest being still on the walls. Those guards now lay, killed cleanly and swiftly. Tarthalion checked who there was amongst his party as they sprinted on, following the trail of corpses. Himself. Calarion. Moonhand. And Carus' boy Ikarus. A small group. He prayed it would be enough. They sprinted at break-neck speed along the long corridor, beautiful no more with the glass windows and priceless sculptures stained with the blood of the defenders. They reached the door, tried to fling it open. Locked. Calarion and Ikarus began bashing wildly on it. On the third try it was knocked off its hinges and flung into Carus' command room. Inside was a sight of horror. Five dark-cloaked men with bloodied swords stood inside. Four were around the door. The fifth, their leader, stood over Carus' cooling body. Blood's stench permeated the whole room weirdly. The door flew where the four were standing. They rolled or dodged out of the way, before coming on hard and fast, swords and dirks flashing. Ikarus paid them no heed. Roaring a cry of hatred and vengeance he cannonballed through the attackers into the leader, sword striking like a viper. The others flung themselves into combat. Blades struck so rapidly the noise became a single, drawn-out shriek. With the savagery of blows, blood flew from both sides of the fray. Ikarus was the first to make a kill, for all that he was facing two foes, not one. The skill given to him through hours of practice was tempered with a great fury at the death of his father. He kicked at the leader, who flung himself back in a somersault before coming back again. The high elf parried the scimitar and jumped lithely over the sweeping dagger, before raining two-handed blows at his foe's skull. The dark elf curled into a forward roll, out of the enraged assault, as his underling attacked. But this one was not as skilled as his master. Ikarus swung his sword low, and the weak attack was easily parried. The assassin then sneered, bringing his sword in line with Ikarus' exposed neck. But the crafty warrior had planned this, and snapped the sword further down, bringing his foe's left hand to the ground. Then with his armored boot he stamped on the hand, crushing it. The assassin howled, pulling up his mangled hand, and Ikarus swung, a messy blow that dissected the assassin from the hip to the shoulder. Calarion swung a one-handed blow at his foe, and their blades locked. Then the warrior punched out with his other hand, stunning his foe. The assassin tried to dodge, but Calarion's sword was driven firmly through his gut. Calarion spun and delivered a skull-shattering blow to another assassin. Tarthalion, encouraged, redoubled his attack, and the sword of Tathel Sapherion cleft through sword, skin, flesh, and bone. Now Ikarus faced off against the only remaining assassin, the leader. Both swung their swords two handed, lightly, swiftly. The assassin struck first, twisting the blow before it was parried. Ikarus leapt aside on one leg, and spun, the other leg striking the assassin, who simply took it in a forward roll. He sprang out of it, and pivoted, the sword leading the way. But Ikarus parried with skill, and counterattacked. The blades began to ring as the assassin forced Ikarus back. Then Ikarus ducked when he should have parried. The blow struck hard on the side of his head, making his ears ring and blood trickle down his forehead. But now he could attack, and did, his sword sliding straight through the assassin chief's heart. The dark elf fell back, blood staining his breast and mouth, and Ikarus finished with one last blow, with all his force. The head of the assassin struck a wall, and then slid down, leaving a bloody stain on the wall. It was a small comfort when compared to the massacred body of Prince Carus. Ikarus - now Prince Ikarus - looked up from the kill. His sword dropped from his hands. He fell to his knees with a clank. And he began to cry.