Cyeos was not pleased. The High Loremaster stood in the central chamber of the White Tower, one hand on the Heart of the Tower, surveying through it the course of the battle raging outside. Here stood a mage, sending torrents of wind at a dark elven force, buffeting them, making their scaled cloaks whip behind them. There a small force of sword-masters charged into a pack of dark elves with crossbows. Their blades flickered as they cleaved through the druchii as gracefully as any dancer. But in another place the assembled spears of the defenders snapped and withered under a blast of flame, and the screams of the grievously wounded filled his ears. And finally the old elf located who he had been searching for - the dark elven commander. One lone elf in pitch-black armor, swinging his two-headed halberd, he fended off a charge by the flying greatswords of the sword- masters. But a few swift blows, and the elite warriors were dead, their blood running into the churned up mud. The battle was not going well. And whenever he tried anything - showers of lightning, explosions of flame - then the bevy of skilled mages that had been brought to the assault would counter it! His foe had planned well. He had neutralized the mages. He was currently in the process of neutralizing the guards. And there was nothing that he could do about it. But then a flicker of air by him, and another was in the room. The loremaster Herulach. "What news?" snapped Cyeos. Herulach said, in a voice that was trying to contain its mirth, "Riders on the horizon." "More dark elves? How many of them do they think it takes to overwhelm us!" "Not Dark Elves. They bear the standard of Prince Tarthalion."

Tarthalion brandished his old sword. Almost as old as he was, he laughed to himself, though in truth the blade was far older, dating from the time of Tathel Sapherion and Aenarion the Defender. His knees were clenched tightly around the speeding Aglaroch, and hands fumbled with the short shield. Behind him, the mass of his cavalry forces came down the hill. Before them, dark elves set their spears, cruel faces showing openly worry. The momentum was devastating. The force of the speeding horses and the light cavalry lances blasted straight through the spearmen. Blood streamed. The dying howled. A horse shrieked as it ran on to one of the spears. Tarthalion paid no note. His sword flickered, opening skulls and parting limbs. He was sickened by the slaughter, but continued for the necessity. The spearmen broke and fled. The cavalry pursued, pounding the warriors under steel-shod hooves. But there were more dark elves then that. Fanatical she-elven frothed as they swung at Tarthalion's men. Terrible riding lizards tore at the throats of his knights. But Tarthalion made steady progress. His shield was set and re-set, turning countless blows, while his sword made short work of attackers. Then suddenly Aglaroch gave a great cry, and fell. Tarthalion hit the ground with a grunt of pain, rolling so that he barely avoided being crushed by his steed. Before him stood Mortharor. The tip of his halberd was stained with Aglaroch's blood. Tarthalion stood. His sword pointed at Mortharor. Mortharor did not move. "So you are the commander now?" "I defeated your little trap at Tor Yvresse!" the older elf spat. "I am surprised. After that dismal effort at the pass, I'd have thought you'd be dead. That's what I'd do if you were under my command - kill you for that one." "Your men cried for you when they died. When they realized you'd abandoned them." Mortharor lunged. Tarthalion flung out his shield, and with a grinding of metal the attack went wide. "A mere sacrifice," the dark elf explained conversationally. "Two thousand men!" retorted Tarthalion. He swung. Negligently Mortharor parried on the shaft of his exotic weapon. "Two thousand men for your Prince Carus. I call it a fair exchange." "I'd call your head a fair exchange for Carus!" roared Tarthalion. His sword scythed as he pounded at his adversary. Mortharor blocked with a set of over-extravagant moves. "You must really learn to control your temper!" laughed Mortharor. "A pity you don't have the time to learn." With that, Mortharor began attacking in earnest. Tarthalion sweated as his sword and shield flew, keeping away the furious attack. Then the sky erupted in flame.

The Heart of the Tower pulsed as Cyeos and Herulach stood, talking, by it. "Tarthalion's forces should be able to defeat the dark elves," Cyeos proclaimed confidently. "We are still outnumbered about two to one," Herulach cautioned. "Bahh! Besides," he added, "have you noticed something? The dark elven mages are busy with Tarthalion now. Now, I act." "What can you do?" Herulach snapped, irritated. "Watch your tone. I am still the High Loremaster." Cyeos paced around the rose laen pillar, caressing it lightly. "I am going to use this as a weapon." Herulach snorted, but his eyes were wild. "Use the Tower?" But.." Cyeos cut him off. "The Heart of the Tower was designed as a focus for the Winds of Magic. It can scry, or it can kill." The old High Loremaster extended his consciousness into the other realm that man called the Winds of Magic. The Winds swirled around him, welcoming him. Friend. Join us. The Loremaster felt them wrap around him, give him the power he'd always dreamt of. The power to raise mountains and to crumble them. The power of magic. Cyeos reached out with a psychic hand and laid it by his own real hand, strangely shadowed in this realm of truths and untruths. Then he sunk the spectral hand into the Heart of the Tower. Lights roared. Someone - Herulach - was shouting at him. But what were they to him? He shut his eyes. They were redundant. He could sense anything that moved, know it for what it was in less time than it took for his heart to beat. He was all mighty. Here he would destroy the Dark Elves, destroy Mortharor the Black, destroy even the Witch-King! He was supreme! Flames roared in the sky above the battle. Elves cried out in terror as the sun itself seemed to drop in the sky, to hover above them. The dark elven mages watched. "Now!" hissed Kethlis, eyes squinting up at the light. "Now we strike!" The warlocks began to draw upon their own power. This was the time they would destroy the Loremaster and achieve another of the Dreaded One's great goals. The flames in the sky came down like a fist. Elves screamed in terror, but when it lifted it left the scorched bodies of the dark elves only. Mortharor shouted - unsurprisingly the general had some form of resistance against the flames - but was ignored, his voice engulfed by the panic. The dark elves had a terrible discipline, but this was too much. They began to rout, as the flames roiled after them. Only a handful - Mortharor's guard and the sorcerers - remained. Mortharor howled defiance as he swung the halberd and cleaved down another warrior. The sorcerers struck. Black light flew up, forming a astral net around the torrent of flames. But the flames roared on. The web burst. The sorcerers screamed in pain. Inside the tower, Cyeos looked on with a murderous glee. The Heart of the Tower echoed his mind, shifting hues to a bloody red in strange torrents. Sweat poured down the old elf's body, and he trembled with the powers he was manipulating. Laughed as he felt another effort by the sorcerers to break him. There were twenty of them trying to stop him. Twenty ants trying to stop him With another thought the flames shot down, engulfing the sorcerers. Nine were caught. Some died instantly, other broke and fled, screaming in panic as the flames slowly withered their flesh. The sorcerers counterattacked again. Trying to destroy his mind. Cyeos laughed. What good would that do? He thought again. Nine of the sorcerers - melted. Their screams of pain were pleasing to his ears. As it should be. He was a god here, just as powerful as Asuryan. The High Loremaster screamed in triumph and prepared to obliterate the last three. His mind brushed one of theirs, and immediately he was filled with confusion. Rather than fear and awe and worship, this Kethlis felt instead grim satisfaction and triumph. Another blast came at his mind. Then suddenly, a small part of Cyeos knew. None of these attacks had had any effect - because they were not targeting him! They were targeting the Heart of the Tower! The Heart of the Tower burst into flames - physical and mental. Cyeos screamed in agony such as he'd never felt before, and fell away. As he fell he saw the white-hot stump which had before caressed the Heart of the Tower, and was repulsed by it. His hand had been burnt off up to half-way down his forearm. And his mind could not focus on anything. The strange blood-red flames washed the Heart of the Tower. Beneath, the column shifted, from rose to the foul red. There came a noise. Louder than anything the elf had ever heard. The Heart of the Tower had cracked. The elf screamed again. Outside the tower, the fires struck again, but this time there was no control to them. Kethlis and the last of the druchii warlocks died in the fires. And they churned through the ranks of blood-smeared high elves. They, too, fled from the strange destroyer. Then the flames died out. Charred corpses were lying everywhere on the field of battle. It was sickening. And from the Tower, everyone heard the shrill cry of supreme agony that echoed from Cyeos.