They lay side by side on the bracken, hiding behind a small bush that seemed just too small for either one to fit behind, let alone both. Before the elflord and the Everqueen, four armed men in dark cloaks were padding forth on soft feet, blades in hand. If the four found Tyrion and Alarielle, they would die. "Vuthil, over here!" one yelled. Tyrion's face contorted with rage as he saw the scarred Assassin, the assassin who had killed his friend. Alarielle's hand lay on his arm, though, a gentle and slight reminder of peace and rationality. Vuthil wandered over to the first assassin, and looked down at the fresh footprints that were driven into soft mud. "Well spotted," Vuthil said ruthlessly. Then he turned and looked directly at the bush. "The print is very recent - less than an hour. Were they running, we would also have seen them - the forest is not so thick here." Alarielle drew in her breath as her innards tightened with fear. "Therefore," continued the lecturing assassin, "they must be hiding." He gestured to the bush. "You can get up, now." The assassins drew their swords in a heartbeat, and began running for the shrub. Tyrion stood, and drew his own sword. "Vuthil! You die now!" Vuthil laughed easily as he closed the distance to the pair. "I would run, if I were you, fop!" Tyrion's blood boiled in indignation, and he attacked. Blades flew in a constant blur as they spun, attacking and counterattacking in all possible angles. Tyrion's mind was furiously concentrating, letting the elflord fight at a level beyond most, as he realized that this time it was kill or be killed. Tyrion scored first blood somehow, tearing the assassin's sleeve open. Then Vuthil countered, ripping the blade along the half-healed wound on Tyrion's side, making the elflord scream in pain. Vuthil attacked again, a straight- out punch that dropped Tyrion to the ground. "You are beaten!" gloated the assassin. "Now I kill you and your Everqueen." ""Never!" cried Tyrion, and he slammed his foot into Vuthil's groin. The Assassin howled, but still attacked. Tyrion parried with ease. Then his mind filled with pain. Teclis! Many miles away, Teclis was caught by Ferik Kasterman, and the psychic residue of that shock poured back through Tyrion's mind. The elf-lord screamed and fell. "I.have you.now, you.bastard!" hissed Vuthil, and lined his sword up with the writhing elf's head. Then Vuthil's body arched back with pain. Vuthil screamed in pure agony. Behind him, Grathik withdrew the small knife he'd just rammed into his master's back. "And now you die," said Grathik calmly. But Vuthil did not die. He turned, laughing harshly. "It takes more than a dagger to kill a Master Assassin, wretch." Grathik rose the knife to stab again, this time driving it into his foe's shoulder. A torrent of blood came out, but the assassin simply attacked. His sword swung, slower than usual. Behind him, Tyrion staggered to his feet, and fled with Alarielle. Grathik dropped the knife and drew his own sword instead in a lightning move, parrying Vuthil's. They dropped back, Vuthil staggering and bleeding, Grathik straight and firm. They attacked. Both blades flew through the air. But Grathik's was the faster, and his sword broke through Vuthil's guard, turning his flank awash with blood. Too late Grathik knew that his opponent had not intended to parry, but had accepted the blow. Then Vuthil's sword struck him, too, in the side. This blow, though, kept going, cleaving the treacherous assassin in twain.

Calarion and Arhaindir stood a moment longer at the gates of Tor Yvresse under the great black scars that were the last reminder of dark elven siege, aside from the heaped corpses of dark elves and high elves, as the dust from Tarthalion's column moved settled itself. Around the pair, the high elves moved on foot, singing a haunting dirge of death to the slain, as they lay corpses in two great piles, ready for the funeral pyres. Sword- masters and spearmen, archers and ithiltaen, all were united here. Calarion turned and wandered amongst them, seeing the dead. Ayral and Daerlon, Laeranion and Ealeic, Methesdyar and Sythas, and more. So many elves had fallen that day, to go to the halls of Morai-Heg. The field was cleared save for the ever-pervasive blood that soaked the torn-up turf. Two huge pyres were prepared now. Calarion took up two burning brands, and walked slowly towards the bodies, as the death hymn climaxed in unmatched beauty and sadness. "Sleep in peace, and awake in joy," Calarion murmured softly, the traditional farewell, and lay one brand at the foot of each pyre reverentially. The flames of Asuryan roared, and the spirits of the fallen took their path with the smoke to the heavens, as the dirge continued. Calarion left when the song ended, though most of the warriors stood on until midnight when the fires ended, leaving only ashes of the underlying logs behind. He did not go straight back to the palace and to his bed, though the army would be leaving to reinforce Tarthalion before dawn. Instead he wandered down the streets of Tor Yvresse, in the dim mage-light of enchanted lanterns. The streets were dark, and only a handful of elves still wandered them. Those that saw him bowed or inclined his head, for the commoners idolized him after his defeat of the assassins who killed Carus, and his killing of the Lord Assassin. When he arrived at the palace, it was past midnight, and Lileath shone overhead in a peaceful half-moon. He climbed up the stairs and entered to the small but comfortable quarters he had been given, and there after stripping off his ithilmar corselet and swordbelt, settled down into a deep sleep. He woke again an hour before dawn, feeling exhausted after the meager sleep. Binding on again his army, he washed his face, gulped down a quick meal, and hurried out to where his army was to meet. Several elves were there already, and more came before long. Moonhand appeared short minutes after Calarion, great longbow and enruned sword girt to his side. "Stay here," Calarion said. "I want to see how the healers are doing." The healers' tents were set up just outside the scorched walls, and several elf citizens were rushing around assisting them as they took care of the more-injured soldiers. One of the camp followers stopped him, a striking elf woman with honey-blond hair. "I don't know who you are," she said in a beautiful lilting voice, "but the healers are overtaxed. They've no time to be disturbed. Tell me what you need." Calarion did not respond, entranced by her. She coughed lightly, restoring the elf's attention to the present. "Oh, I'm, sorry. I'm just here to see if there's anything the healers need." "More helpers!" "I'll see what I can do. I might send some soldiers to help." "Well, you're here now. Can you wash those cloths there in hot water, and then return them to me?" It was not a request. Calarion laughed to himself at being ordered around by this beauty, but he removed his soft leather gloves and began to wash. To his delight, the woman came to help him. "Two work faster than one," she explained. "So, what's your name?" asked Calarion. "Ashainnarya," she replied, scrubbing vigorously. Ashainnarya. A beautiful name. With shock, Calarion realized, he was in love! But I only just met her! I don't know her at all! he protested to his mind. But his mind refuted his feeble protests. "Who are you?" Ashainnarya asked. Grinning wryly, he said, "Prince Calarion, commander of this army." Ashainnarya jerked in shock, dropping the just-washed cloth. Calarion's arm jerked out and caught it before it hit the ground. "You defeated the Lord Assassin." "Well, it was really the mage Teclis. He did the work. I just had to run him through." She bowed to him, awed. "Forgive me for this." "For what? It's been my pleasure helping here - though I must be back at the camp in a few short minutes, I can still wash a few more cloths while I'm here." He washed two cloths more before rising, gazing admiringly at Ashainnarya, and said, "I must go now." Ashainnarya said tremulously, "Thank you for your help." In a tone with equal uncertainty to her own, Calarion stammered, "Ahhh..do you mind if I..ahhh.umm.come to see you again?" His heart was beating. She smiled. "I'd love it."

Tarthalion was sore. His rear end was stiff, like all the other elven riders'. They had been going at a torturous pace to try to catch up to Mortharor. Behind him stretched the two hundred horse he had brought with him. He only hoped it would be enough. Old bones creaked in him as the horses slowed. One of the faster horses was returning from its scouting. "Prince Tarthalion!" the elven rider said. "The White Tower lies just over the hills. It is under siege by the dark elves. There are about five hundred horse down there. It appears that the Sword-masters and the Loremasters have been able to hold them back so far." "They cannot hold against Mortharor. Pass the word along the column - we ride to the Tower now!" The horses pressed on, galloping now. They burst over the hills as the sun rose, turning the Tower golden. At its base they could see, like a wave of darkness, tides of dark elves. The High Elves covered the distance in short time, moving as fast as possible. Battle was soon joined.