It was an impressive sight, Arhaindir thought. The elf was sitting on his brown steed comfortably, looking at the force of infantry on his heels. Banners snapped proudly, and several of the elves were singing a rousing war-tune. And there were a lot of them, maybe two thousand. Ithilmar coats glistened, as did polished spear-tips, with the reflected light of the sun. Asuryan burned bright overhead, and surely that was a good omen. Besides, it must have been only half a day's marching left until they reached the White Tower to reinforce Tarthalion. Calarion rode by his side, on a dappled horse. The two bantered away lightly, discussing their lives before the invasion. With pride, Moonhand described his young daughter, Si'anelle to Calarion. Calarion was not really paying attention, though. For the last three days of marching, Arhaindir had been forced to handle the day-to-day logistics of the army. He bore it with a good humor, though, knowing Calarion's thoughts were constantly on Ashainnarya. He'd been seeing her at least once a day, and the older elf could tell his young friend was deeply smitten. Windfoal, Arhaindir's mount, snorted, and fastidiously picked her way around a muddy patch. Arhaindir smiled to himself. Who was he to begrudge Calarion his love? And his thoughts invariably returned to Isil'wen, his own lover. He decided lightly it would be a good day to take the noble Avelornian expatriate maybe some of those beautiful wildflowers they had been riding by when he saw her at the lunch-stop. He turned to Calarion, and explained all this. Calarion laughed and nodded, and so Arhaindir turned Windfoal and cantered out to where a patch blossomed, leaving Calarion alone with his thoughts of flawless skin and golden locks. After gathering two bunches of the flowers, one for Calarion to give to his lady and one for Isil'wen, the elf noticed the light was dimming, and spurred back to where Calarion was giving the orders to set up camp for the night. He pressed some flowers into Calarion's hand. "Give them to your lady friend!" he grinned, then rode off in search of Isil'wen. Calarion watched him go, then swung off his horse, pressing the reins into the grip of a camp follower. He set off at a brisk pace for where the healers were. Ashainnarya was waiting for him with a smile. He embraced her tightly, kissed her once, and then handed her the flowers. "They're beautiful!" the healer said. "They don't match you, though." Ashainnarya led Calarion into her tent. It looked plain, and comfortable. The elf lord stood, bemused, while Ashainnarya set down the flowers. "How was your day?" she asked, in that heart-breakingly beautiful voice. "I spent it all thinking about you," the elf lord admitted. "I spent the day thinking about you, too," the maiden admitted, and the two embraced again. Calarion lightly kissed her on the forehead as she said, "There's something I've wanted to tell you." "What, heart?" he said, and kissed her again. She reached up, pulled his head down, and planted her lips firmly on his. Time slowed for Calarion in a delightful manner. "I hope you die in agony," she said, and plunged his dagger into his gut. Calarion fell back with a shriek of pain, as Ashainnarya reached down and wiped his bloodied knife on his shirt. He looked at her with betrayed, heart-broken eyes. "Why?' he wheezed weakly. "Why?" "You killed my master," said the elf woman bitterly. "It's only fair that I kill you now." Calarion tried to speak again, but the tent flap burst open. Three warriors stood there, holding spears tightly. They took one look at their dying leader, another at the elf woman who held a bared knife, and realized the truth in a minute. Ashainnarya laughed. The first lunged at her, and she dodged gracefully, before striking blindly behind her. Not as blindly as it seemed, though, for it tore open the side of the elf's neck. The next spearman was cannier, and approached with his friend. One feinted, and then the other struck at the small weapon, flinging it into the flowers. Ashainnarya ignored it. She grasped both spears quickly, and agilely vaulted over them, so that she was standing between the two. Two quick blows with stiffened hands, and there were two more bodies on the floor. Ashainnarya turned back to Calarion. Somehow, the elf lord was still alive, despite the tremendous amount of blood that had gushed from him, staining his tunic deeply. He reached out a hand. "You killed Darsil," she reiterated, "the Lord Assassin. My master." The Assassin knelt besides Calarion, holding the knife in her hands again. The honey-blond hair tickled his face as she delicately placed the knife by his throat. "Good-bye, my love," she said quietly. Then again the flap burst open, and a booted foot struck Ashainnarya's hand with brutal force. The assassin looked up, into the furious eyes of Arhaindir Moonhand. His runesword was out, and balanced lightly under her chin. Ashainnarya stood quickly, backing away to give herself more space. Arhaindir followed, face contorted. "You would attack an unarmed woman?" she taunted. Arhaindir laughed. "A druchii assassin is never unarmed," he retorted, and lunged. "How true," she said, and flung herself under the blade. She rolled once and came to her feet by the shadow warrior, hands flying in a deadly attack. Moonhand was fast, though. He swung up his sword and parried, though with incredible skill the assassin kept her ands on the flat, so that she was never cut by the sword. Ashainnarya kicked out, snapping her foot out in an impossible arc that caught Moonhand under the chin. He grunted in pain. In the same move, Ashainnarya tugged the sword from his hands. Struck once, opening Moonhand's shoulder in a spray of blood. Lined up the killing blow. Then she saw Calarion. Somehow, with a supreme force of will, he'd forced himself to his feet. In his hands, the discarded knife. She tried to parry the blow, but failed. The knife sunk between her breasts, causing blood to well. Calarion held her as the light faded from her eyes. "I loved you," he said. She nodded. Now, at the end, she seemed weak, helpless. "And I hated you," she murmured. Then she jerked one last time and was gone Delicately, he laid out the corpse on the sleeping mattress. "Sleep in peace, and awake in joy." Then his eyes rolled up in the back of his head and he collapsed on the body of the woman he had loved.

Half a day's march away, two armed camps sat and glared at each other. Tarthalion was tired. His glorious force was decimated, less than a quarter its original size after the strange fireball had exploded amongst them. And his spies assured him that it was just the same in the dark elven camp. While unfortunately Mortharor had survived, the battle had degenerated into a standoff. Neither side had the resources to continue fighting. Now, whichever side received reinforcements first would win. "Come soon, Calarion," he murmured. "What did you say?" asked Tarran Angedhel, his lieutenant, politely. "Eh? Oh, I just hoped that Calarion would arrive soon. We need those extra troops." Tarran nodded. "How is Cyeos?" said Tarthalion suddenly. Tarran's face grew mournful. "Terrible. Oh, he'll survive, but his mind.gone. Not insane. He's just a vegetable. Loremaster Belannaer has taken over until they can decide on a new High Loremaster, but that could take a month or more to decide. Until that time, the mages are effectively out of the war." "Damn!" swore Tarthalion bitterly. "We may have saved the Tower, but what good's it?" Then another elf pushed his way into the tent, frantically. "Prince Tarthalion? Bad news!" "What is it now, man?" "Reinforcements have arrived for the dark elves. Maybe half a thousand corsairs." Tarthalion's face was sad. "Give the word. We've no choice but to retreat."