The old elf surveyed the lands from where he stood shivering, on the walls of his ancestral estate. Aged bones creaked, but still he wore tightly strapped on the ancient armor that was the birthright of the line of Tathel Sapherion, and his hand tightly clutched Sapherion's sword. Outside, great mountains and broad plains were lightly dusted with featureless white, the first snows of winter. A small forest, also whitened, but too small to shelter the attack when it came. And somewhere out there was Mortharor the Black, and his ten-thousand men, to Tarthalion's maybe two thousand. Certainly, Mortharor had left some at the siege of the White Tower, but still the defenders would be outnumbered two to one. And with Mortharor's wits, he could expect worse than that to come. "My prince," came a voice behind him. Tarthalion turned, and smiled wearily. "Tarran. Have you come to see the end up here too?" Tarran Angedhel frowned. He was a young elf maybe, but mature beyond his meager hundred and fifty years. His skill and dedication had earned him the role of commander of the siltholrim, his bodyguard. "Don't be defeatist. We can win this, surely!" reprimanded Tarran. Tarthalion scowled. "Like we won at Dagorannon? Or at the Tower? Or that wonderful little debacle at Tor Yvresse?" "We won at Tor Yvresse." "Did we? We lost Carus and most of our defenders to defeat slave troops and a token force of druchii. All we achieved was to kill the Lord Assassin Darsil. The spirit has gone out of the army since." He didn't say it. They both knew what he was thinking. Since the death of the Everqueen, their spiritual leader, the moral of the troops had been broken. A quaver - that was the only was to describe it - appeared on the edge of the field. Sunlight reflecting irregularly. Tarthalion pointed. "What was that?" he hissed. The two stared. Again came the strange flicker, repeated over a vast area. A flicker, from sunlight reflecting off mail coats. "Ready the forces!" snapped Tarthalion. "The Dark Elves are upon us!" Tarran Angedhel did not waste time with words. He just spun and sprinted into the courtyard. Well-nigh immediately the last battered troops of his cavalry force prepared, though now all on foot. Spearmen and archers lined the walls, holding weapons at the ready. Other elves began loading the heavy quarrels into the bolt throwers, and targeting the dark elves as the flicker moved forward. And the last group drew their keen blades and surrounded Tarthalion, led by bleak-faced Tarran Angedhel. His bodyguard. Their presence reassured him. Meanwhile, the scourge had moved into view, clad in white and gray for camouflage. It was a good thing he'd seen them. If not, they'd never have noticed them until the dark elves were under the walls. But still, Tarthalion did a quick estimate and realized that there were about four thousand of them, as expected. If only Calarion's infantry could appear! He'd expected them long ago. Two thousand men would bring this up to an even battle, and then maybe he could win. But there was no point waiting on dreams. Obviously, Calarion's force had been halted, probably ambushed and killed by that damnably clever Mortharor. There would be no reinforcements. No reinforcements. No reprieve. This was it. A thousand years of life would end on this day. So be it. The dark elves were almost in range of the bows. Hurriedly, Tarthalion issued his last orders. "Remember, our goal here is to sell our lives as dearly as possible. No shooting unless you can cripple or kill. Don't waste yourselves. If we do this properly, we might be able to escape alive. But don't count on it. Say your last prayers now." The nodded. They had all volunteered for this last stand. Tarthalion looked skyward. Soon, Ysmaine. Soon, I'll be with you again. Not long now, and I'll be with you and Calarion forever. The dark elves were in range. Without need for orders, bowstrings snapped. A rain of arrows flew into the dark elves, felling several. The bolt throwers answered, spitting heavier bolts which churned through druchii, turning the new snow red. Many dark elves were down, screaming in death and agony. Many more marched on still. Another volley, and more dark elves fell writhing. And a third. Then bows were dropped in favor of swords as the druchii were under the walls. Ladders were pressed against the walls, and a returned fire from the vicious short-range crossbows came. Several of the defenders fell, clutching small barbed bolts that were firmly planted in throat or gut. Spearmen kicked at the ladders, sending warriors plummeting. But there were many more which kept their balance, and the foe was on the wall. The first warrior on the top was neatly struck by a scything blade, sending head and body back in their own separate directions. Then the second dark elf reached the wall, and struck with a spear. The bloodied sword fell from nerveless hands. Dark Elves were swarming on to the wall now, and swords flew viciously. Blood flew. The cries of the dying filled the air. Tarthalion watched with a strange detachment. Dark elves swarmed around him, and his bodyguard, and he struck neatly, killing his attackers. But this was not his fight. Another dark elf appeared over the wall now. Exquisitely crafted black plate, the horned skull-helm, and the vicious double-bladed halberd. Mortharor. This was his fight. "Leave me," Tarthalion said calmly to Tarran and the rest of the bodyguard. Tarran looked shocked. Tarthalion cut off his comments. "This is a foe beyond you. Only I can face him. Go - fight an enemy you can prevail against." Tarran nodded, but his face showed his fear for Tarthalion. Tarthalion ignored him. Holding shield and sword before him, he strode to before Mortharor. Confident. Confident that this was where he would die. "I am Tarthalion Sapherior, rightful ruler of Saphery, descendant of Tathel Sapherior the Spellblade, and I challenge you," he said. Mortharor did not move. "I am Mortharor, General to the Dreaded One Malekith the Witch-King, son of Graidel who was General before me, and I accept your challenge." With that they attacked. Mortharor began the assault, spinning his halberd so that the bladed sides were constantly flying in beyond the ability of a normal warrior to parry. Tarthalion's brow crinkled with concentration as sword and shield flew to ward off the ceaseless attacks. Mortharor ended suddenly, bringing the spear in for a thrust. Tarthalion hopped aside and rammed his shield in, to drive the blow wide, before lunging with two tight swings. Mortharor pulled back the halberd, and the sword struck the steel haft. Mortharor attacked as if using a quarterstaff. Tarthalion blocked. Tarthalion swung an intricate attack. Mortharor picked off the blows with ease. The two ceased their duel for a minute, panting with exhaustion. The battle itself around them had faded - for them. Their concentration was complete. They eyed one another with new respect, as well as the enmity that had always been present. The respite ended. Mortharor lunged. Tarthalion moved too slowly. The blade struck the chain and plate coat of Sapherion. The armor buckled under the pressure, but did not give. Tarthalion counterattacked, and drove the point of the sword deep though the plate into Mortharor's side. The dark elf hissed in pain. Blood spurted from the wound. But the attack had left him open, and Mortharor struck again. Had he the speed of Calarion, Tarran, or any elf in his prime, he might have been able to dodge in time. He might have been able to parry. But Tarthalion could not move fast enough. The halberd struck the side of his helm, hard. Tarthalion staggered, dizzy and pained. Mortharor struck one last time. This time, he was not aiming for any armour, He aimed for Tarthalion's bared neck. The old elf made no move or cry as Mortharor tore his throat out. There was a spray of blood, before, every so slowly, the body fell back, landing so that Tarthalion's corpse was gazing up at the heavens. The expression on his face was not one of pain or defeat, but of peace.