Tarthalion sat at the large oak desk, his back bent by age and weariness.
The coppery smell of blood still wafted around, permanently exuded by the
wood, despite the best efforts of the servants to clean the desk of poor
Carus' blood.
Tarthalion was supposed to be scribing a letter to the Phoenix King, to
tell him of the death of Carus and ask for aid. But instead he was lost in
discussion, sitting with the group the Yvressans had dubbed, 'The Inner
Council', which consisted of Tarthalion himself, the level-headed Arhaindir
Moonhand, and Calarion. Tarthalion's son was enjoying a rise in popularity,
after his heroic fighting at the gate, and his defeat of the assassins the
previous day, as well as repelling a midnight raid with skilled tactics and
inspired leadership.
One of the Inner Council was missing.
"How is Ikarus bearing up?" asked Moonhand quietly.
"I checked on him before I came here. He spent all night in front of the
altar of Isha, praying," said Calarion.
"He's not taking the death of his father well," replied the shadow warrior.
Tarthalion put down the quill he'd been toying with. "The question is, is
Ikarus capable of taking control in his father's place?"
Calarion answered him. "Capable of taking control of the Felix Legion, yes.
Control of the city, though."
Moonhand continued, "From what I know of Ikarus, he would not be a good
commander of the city. Lord Tarthalion, this is your battle again."
Tarthalion smiled tightly. "Before the war, all I'd wanted to do was turn
the responsibilities over to Calarion and find myself a nice pond somewhere
with plenty of fish. But somehow I think that one will be delayed."
Arhaindir Moonhand replied, "Put it aside - but do not forget it. If we
survive this war, I might just come with you to the pool."
"Seriously, though, the thing that worries me is Mortharor. I know his
reputation, and it disturbs me greatly that your scouts have not seen him
since two days ago. What he is up to, I want to know - and I have a feeling
that I will know, before too long at all."
"I have heard that Ferik Kasterman and the Coven of Ten have arrived in
Mortharor's camp," replied Moonhand.
He was about to say more, but the doors burst open, to reveal a frantic-
looking archer clad in the light armor typical of his kind.
Calarion rose fluidly. "What is it? Are the druchii attacking?"
The exhausted archer wheezed, "Follow me!" and went off again at a great
pace.
Tarthalion and Arhaindir Moonhand rose also. Exchanging concerned looks,
they drew their weapons - Tarthalion the sword of Tathel Sapherion;
Moonhand his great yew longbow. Then the three hurried down the palatial
corridor the archer was running down.
They burst out of the palace, and over one of the aerial bridges to the
walls. There they beheld a sight that made their mouths hang open, a
veritable storm of fire and lightning in the dark elven camp, coming from
the tent of Mortharor. The earth erupted, sending a sky-high pillar of
flaming rubble, which was replaced by more firestorms, and another lighting
blast.
"What's going on?" yelled Calarion over the deafening sound of the magic,
his cloak snapping behind him, threatening to tear itself free and fly off.
Then the storms ended, and the amazed onlookers could see the now-clear (if
blackened and smoking) patch of ground. Burning corpses were scattered
around, and in the middle lay a more intact body, wearing robes
unmistakable to Moonhand's keen eye. The robes of a Mage of the White
Tower.
"What is going on?" cried Calarion again.
Moonhand replied, "The Dark Elves have our mage."
Teclis awoke to pain, and to a darkness equal to that he had left behind. His back felt strained, his arms limp, his legs loose. It did not take long for him to realize why. A light appeared before him, and Teclis cried out and shut his eyes, as the brightness hurt his eyes. "Yes, cry." Teclis opened his eyes and stared straight into the guttering flames of the torch, into the face of his captor. Black eyes glared straight back. "I am Darsil. Learn my name, for it will be the last you ever hear," said the dark elf. Teclis watched as the tall druchii stood from the crouch he had been in, striding around the small tent. One of the Assassins of Naggaroth, he decided. Still, it would be simple to cast a spell, turn Darsil into a pile of ash, and escape back to Tor Yvresse. The binding of his hands made life harder, and he did not have the powers of the Warcrown to sustain his strength, but he was a skilled mage and could easily dispense with gestures. He began coughing, incanting the mystical phrases under his breath. Darsil sprung back to him, and slapped Teclis hard in the belly, making the mage end the spell and double over in pain. The other hand flew to point two fingers at his left eyes, only just not touching. "If you try to cast another spell, I will ram my fingers through your eye and into your brain," promised Darsil in an almost cheerful voice. "I will know, you must understand." Teclis cowered. Evidently the assassin's hearing was good enough to hear him, and Teclis had no doubt the assassin would carry through his threat. "Much better," said Darsil. "You know, I have orders to kill you. The Dreaded One has ordered your death. I cannot understand why, but he has sent his best agents after you and the worthless fop you call brother." Teclis grew alarmed at the mention of his brother, but did not dare speak. Darsil noticed. "Yes, there are teams of assassins scouring the woods to the north for his and the Everqueen. Led by the second-best of the assassins, Vuthil." Teclis said, "Second-best? Why would the Witch-King send the second best?" He saw Darsil begin scowling but carried on regardless. "I think it is more likely that he is the best." Darsil's leather-gauntleted hand smashed into Teclis' cheek, snapping his head around painfully. The mage pulled his head up groggily, and spat out bloody spittle. "You must learn to control your tongue," said Darsil. "I should kill you, but I have decided to leave you for my master to kill when he returns. Mortharor the Black always enjoys such little things from his subordinates." "Where is Mortharor?" Darsil laughed. "Mortharor has left to destroy the rest of you. He has left just a token force to hold the defenders' attention while he goes to destroy the mages in the Tower." Then the sound of battle echoed outside. Darsil rose smoothly. "What?" he hissed, pulling free the traditional broadsword from his back. Another blaze of light came into the tent, as the flap was flung back. Blinding white light poured in, except where the black form of an elven warrior blocked it off. With Calarion's voice, the silhouette cried, "Your time is up, Assassin!"
After Tarthalion, Calarion, and Arhaindir witnessed the fall of Teclis, a great debate was held inside the city of Tor Yvresse over what to do next. Arhaindir argued stridently that he should lead a small force of elven infiltrators to rescue the lost Teclis, while Calarion, although wishing to save Teclis, countered that it was to the detriment of the entire city, who would surely suffer if the gwathrim were destroyed. Ikarus was still in mourning, a mourning which Calarion described as 'soul-wracking', though he was unable to explain why. So the decision fell upon Tarthalion whether or not to open the gates and try to recover Teclis. Tarthalion said, calmly and precisely, "I think we will attack." Calarion snapped back, "But why? Surely the life of our mage is not worth the life of all our defenders!" "It is not. But I have a feeling there is more at play here. Have you, for instance, wondered why throughout this day, you have not seen a single horseman on their side?" Calarion's brow furrowed. "I had not noticed." "I think the dark elves are up to something. There were horsemen aplenty last night. But suddenly overnight all the cavalry are gone. All their fast striking force. I suspect something, and with Mortharor himself missing, I suspect even more strongly." "What do you expect?" "I expect that, should we attack, we shall find ourselves winning the battle. And so I have already given orders that all our troops assemble in the main square." Ten minutes later, the dark elves were astounded when the gates of the city burst open, and Tarthalion thundered out on horseback, followed by the massed cavalry of the Felix Legion. Ikarus had roused himself with news of possible vengeance, and he was clad in his red and green hued Ithilmar plate armor, hacking viciously at the dark elves with a wild fury. The druchii infantry mustered their ranks, formed into fearsome blocks of soldiers bristling with spears like a porcupine. But their resolve was shaken. Howling the name of the Phoenix King, the Caledorian cavalry pounded down upon the central mass. Steel-clad hooves and ilthilmar lances perforated defenders in a gory display. Where is Mortharor? Where is Darsil? The rumors spread amongst the ranks, causing as much damage as the relentless stampede of horses. Finally, the dark elven defenders realized they had been abandoned. They turned and tried to flee, but the swift elven horses caught them and their bleeding bodies were churned into the mud. Calarion turned his horse from the slaughter, using his knees, for no elf ever uses a bridle. His goal had been set by Tarthalion - find the missing mage. And so he opened tent after tent. Finally, he came across one that was made of such a thick black material that no sunlight could penetrate it. From inside he could hear a voice. He vaulted off his horse and, drawing his keen blade, flung back the tent flap. By the sunlight that now streamed in, he could see two figures. One, wrists bound, was Teclis. The other bared a curved blade from his back with preternatural grace. With a roar, the two combatants came together. Calarion stepped back, eager not to fight in the narrow confines of the tent, that would restrict his blows. The other took that as acceptable, for the assassin barreled out. Calarion took advantage of fixed posture and slashed, but the assassin dropped into a roll, and came to his feet behind Calarion, spinning with his blade leading. Calarion parried awkwardly with one hand and punched with the other. The assassin grunted, but the elflord had only been able to put minimal effort into the blow, and it served as a mere distraction only. "I am Darsil," the assassin hissed. "Lord Assassin. Say my name as you die." "I am Calarion," retorted the elf with confidence he did not feel, "and my blade shall sing your name as it sings through your neck!" With that, Darsil thrust the locked blades back, hoping to throw Calarion to the ground. But the skilled warrior stepped back, and slashed quickly at Darsil's face. The assassin laughed at the clumsy attack and evaded with ease, as he swung his attacks, one-two, one two. Calarion blocked neatly then riposted with a low scythe that Darsil parried easily. Then the assassin with incredible dexterity snapped one leg high up in an arc. Calarion cried out as the boot caught him in the face, snapping back his head and making a thin trickle of blood run from his nose. Darsil immediately followed up, attacking repeatedly and with fury. The stunned elf blocked as best he could, but was forced slowly back. Then the Lord Assassin swung out his leg low, tripping the elf. Teclis' voce came before the killing blow could land. "Ythrai!" The Lord Assassin grunted, and tried to land the killing blow, but to his shock he found his muscles would not move. He bent his iron will to the task, and could feel his arms begins to move, to throw off the powerful enchantment. Then with a shock he felt the sensation of cool steel driving through his ribs, ripping his heart. The shock immediately kicked him from the paralyzation, and he staggered back, hands too weak to even hold his great blade any more. Calarion looked on, disgusted, as his foe collapsed, vomiting up blood. Then finally with a last creak of air through his lungs, Darsil lay still. The Lord Assassin was dead.
It was under a sky flaming red with the setting sun that Calarion and Teclis reunited with Tarthalion, Moonhand, and Ikarus. The young mage, weak from lack of his special herbal potion, immediately gasped out, "Lord Tarthalion! I must tell you." "Tell me what?" said the old elf, leaning wearily against his horse's flank. "I know where Mortharor is." Tarthalion was immediately standing bolt upright. "Where, boy?" "Mortharor has. taken his cavalry. They go.lightning raid to.destroy the Loremasters." Calarion looked up in horror. Dried blood made his face an ugly sight. "Knowing Mortharor, if he attacks the White Tower, he could conquer it easily." Tarthalion turned to Moonhand, who stood nearby. "Tell the cavalry to make ready. We leave at once, for the White Tower."
Teclis awoke to pain, and to a darkness equal to that he had left behind. His back felt strained, his arms limp, his legs loose. It did not take long for him to realize why. A light appeared before him, and Teclis cried out and shut his eyes, as the brightness hurt his eyes. "Yes, cry." Teclis opened his eyes and stared straight into the guttering flames of the torch, into the face of his captor. Black eyes glared straight back. "I am Darsil. Learn my name, for it will be the last you ever hear," said the dark elf. Teclis watched as the tall druchii stood from the crouch he had been in, striding around the small tent. One of the Assassins of Naggaroth, he decided. Still, it would be simple to cast a spell, turn Darsil into a pile of ash, and escape back to Tor Yvresse. The binding of his hands made life harder, and he did not have the powers of the Warcrown to sustain his strength, but he was a skilled mage and could easily dispense with gestures. He began coughing, incanting the mystical phrases under his breath. Darsil sprung back to him, and slapped Teclis hard in the belly, making the mage end the spell and double over in pain. The other hand flew to point two fingers at his left eyes, only just not touching. "If you try to cast another spell, I will ram my fingers through your eye and into your brain," promised Darsil in an almost cheerful voice. "I will know, you must understand." Teclis cowered. Evidently the assassin's hearing was good enough to hear him, and Teclis had no doubt the assassin would carry through his threat. "Much better," said Darsil. "You know, I have orders to kill you. The Dreaded One has ordered your death. I cannot understand why, but he has sent his best agents after you and the worthless fop you call brother." Teclis grew alarmed at the mention of his brother, but did not dare speak. Darsil noticed. "Yes, there are teams of assassins scouring the woods to the north for his and the Everqueen. Led by the second-best of the assassins, Vuthil." Teclis said, "Second-best? Why would the Witch-King send the second best?" He saw Darsil begin scowling but carried on regardless. "I think it is more likely that he is the best." Darsil's leather-gauntleted hand smashed into Teclis' cheek, snapping his head around painfully. The mage pulled his head up groggily, and spat out bloody spittle. "You must learn to control your tongue," said Darsil. "I should kill you, but I have decided to leave you for my master to kill when he returns. Mortharor the Black always enjoys such little things from his subordinates." "Where is Mortharor?" Darsil laughed. "Mortharor has left to destroy the rest of you. He has left just a token force to hold the defenders' attention while he goes to destroy the mages in the Tower." Then the sound of battle echoed outside. Darsil rose smoothly. "What?" he hissed, pulling free the traditional broadsword from his back. Another blaze of light came into the tent, as the flap was flung back. Blinding white light poured in, except where the black form of an elven warrior blocked it off. With Calarion's voice, the silhouette cried, "Your time is up, Assassin!"
After Tarthalion, Calarion, and Arhaindir witnessed the fall of Teclis, a great debate was held inside the city of Tor Yvresse over what to do next. Arhaindir argued stridently that he should lead a small force of elven infiltrators to rescue the lost Teclis, while Calarion, although wishing to save Teclis, countered that it was to the detriment of the entire city, who would surely suffer if the gwathrim were destroyed. Ikarus was still in mourning, a mourning which Calarion described as 'soul-wracking', though he was unable to explain why. So the decision fell upon Tarthalion whether or not to open the gates and try to recover Teclis. Tarthalion said, calmly and precisely, "I think we will attack." Calarion snapped back, "But why? Surely the life of our mage is not worth the life of all our defenders!" "It is not. But I have a feeling there is more at play here. Have you, for instance, wondered why throughout this day, you have not seen a single horseman on their side?" Calarion's brow furrowed. "I had not noticed." "I think the dark elves are up to something. There were horsemen aplenty last night. But suddenly overnight all the cavalry are gone. All their fast striking force. I suspect something, and with Mortharor himself missing, I suspect even more strongly." "What do you expect?" "I expect that, should we attack, we shall find ourselves winning the battle. And so I have already given orders that all our troops assemble in the main square." Ten minutes later, the dark elves were astounded when the gates of the city burst open, and Tarthalion thundered out on horseback, followed by the massed cavalry of the Felix Legion. Ikarus had roused himself with news of possible vengeance, and he was clad in his red and green hued Ithilmar plate armor, hacking viciously at the dark elves with a wild fury. The druchii infantry mustered their ranks, formed into fearsome blocks of soldiers bristling with spears like a porcupine. But their resolve was shaken. Howling the name of the Phoenix King, the Caledorian cavalry pounded down upon the central mass. Steel-clad hooves and ilthilmar lances perforated defenders in a gory display. Where is Mortharor? Where is Darsil? The rumors spread amongst the ranks, causing as much damage as the relentless stampede of horses. Finally, the dark elven defenders realized they had been abandoned. They turned and tried to flee, but the swift elven horses caught them and their bleeding bodies were churned into the mud. Calarion turned his horse from the slaughter, using his knees, for no elf ever uses a bridle. His goal had been set by Tarthalion - find the missing mage. And so he opened tent after tent. Finally, he came across one that was made of such a thick black material that no sunlight could penetrate it. From inside he could hear a voice. He vaulted off his horse and, drawing his keen blade, flung back the tent flap. By the sunlight that now streamed in, he could see two figures. One, wrists bound, was Teclis. The other bared a curved blade from his back with preternatural grace. With a roar, the two combatants came together. Calarion stepped back, eager not to fight in the narrow confines of the tent, that would restrict his blows. The other took that as acceptable, for the assassin barreled out. Calarion took advantage of fixed posture and slashed, but the assassin dropped into a roll, and came to his feet behind Calarion, spinning with his blade leading. Calarion parried awkwardly with one hand and punched with the other. The assassin grunted, but the elflord had only been able to put minimal effort into the blow, and it served as a mere distraction only. "I am Darsil," the assassin hissed. "Lord Assassin. Say my name as you die." "I am Calarion," retorted the elf with confidence he did not feel, "and my blade shall sing your name as it sings through your neck!" With that, Darsil thrust the locked blades back, hoping to throw Calarion to the ground. But the skilled warrior stepped back, and slashed quickly at Darsil's face. The assassin laughed at the clumsy attack and evaded with ease, as he swung his attacks, one-two, one two. Calarion blocked neatly then riposted with a low scythe that Darsil parried easily. Then the assassin with incredible dexterity snapped one leg high up in an arc. Calarion cried out as the boot caught him in the face, snapping back his head and making a thin trickle of blood run from his nose. Darsil immediately followed up, attacking repeatedly and with fury. The stunned elf blocked as best he could, but was forced slowly back. Then the Lord Assassin swung out his leg low, tripping the elf. Teclis' voce came before the killing blow could land. "Ythrai!" The Lord Assassin grunted, and tried to land the killing blow, but to his shock he found his muscles would not move. He bent his iron will to the task, and could feel his arms begins to move, to throw off the powerful enchantment. Then with a shock he felt the sensation of cool steel driving through his ribs, ripping his heart. The shock immediately kicked him from the paralyzation, and he staggered back, hands too weak to even hold his great blade any more. Calarion looked on, disgusted, as his foe collapsed, vomiting up blood. Then finally with a last creak of air through his lungs, Darsil lay still. The Lord Assassin was dead.
It was under a sky flaming red with the setting sun that Calarion and Teclis reunited with Tarthalion, Moonhand, and Ikarus. The young mage, weak from lack of his special herbal potion, immediately gasped out, "Lord Tarthalion! I must tell you." "Tell me what?" said the old elf, leaning wearily against his horse's flank. "I know where Mortharor is." Tarthalion was immediately standing bolt upright. "Where, boy?" "Mortharor has. taken his cavalry. They go.lightning raid to.destroy the Loremasters." Calarion looked up in horror. Dried blood made his face an ugly sight. "Knowing Mortharor, if he attacks the White Tower, he could conquer it easily." Tarthalion turned to Moonhand, who stood nearby. "Tell the cavalry to make ready. We leave at once, for the White Tower."