The death of Tarthalion Sapherion marked the end of an era in the invasion
of the Dark Elves. Tarran Angedhel, the lieutenant of the dead hero, led
the retreat, and soon Mortharor held the old manor house. With Calarion's
wounds from the assassin Ashainnarya keeping him from leading his
demoralized troops, there was no real resistance to Mortharor, and so the
dark elf was able to sweep on. In one week he finished the attack, and
Saphery and Yvresse were conquered. Not all of the provinces, though. The
White Tower still resisted its siege, despite the insanity of the High
Loremaster Cyeos. And in northern Yvresse the Felix Legion fought on, led
by Prince Ikarus, despite being driven from Tor Yvresse.
Mortharor met with the armies led by Malekith the Witch-King, who had swept
through Ellyrian and Tiranoc with ease, due to the Dreaded One's powerful
magics. Mortharor began preparing from the Sapherior estate the
construction of a fortress from which he could stage the final assault -
the attack on the Phoenix King in Lothern. With his fall, the war would be
over once and for all.
But not all was lost for the High Elves, for whom two last hopes remained.
In Avelorn, Tyrion and Alarielle still fled from the assassins of Vuthil.
Were the Everqueen to escape their pursuit, it could restore the fighting
spirit of the High Elves.
And in Saphery, the healed Calarion pressed on to meet with the survivors
of the last stand.
The elf dozed lightly. He ignored the small branches that pressed uncomfortably into his back through a fur cloak, ignored the slush that ran into his good leather boots, ignored the winds that although slight bit like a mountain cat. He slumbered lightly and peacefully instead. The land had changed too. The woods where he was leaning were liberally dusted in snow, and the few fallen leaves and fallen twigs that typically made up the forest floor were obscured by a light blanket of white. Winter was definitely upon Ulthuan. And the elf dreamed, leaning against the trunk of an ash tree, his tall spear propped up beside him, of a time before the war, of peace and serenity and a beautiful elfwoman who welcomed him with outstretched white arms. It was a pleasant dream. A sound, the sound of bells, echoed through the trees lightly, tantalizingly. But with the white arms around his neck, the slumbering elf failed to notice. The bells grew louder, and noise joined them, the light stamp and nervous whinny of a horse. The elf's eyes snapped open. The elfwoman vanished. Standing swiftly, he threw back the fur and grasped his spear with both hands, daring the rider to come. The rider came into sight gradually through the mostly leafless foliage. He rode a fine white steed with highly polished ithilmar barding. He himself was clad in an ithilmar breastplate, with chain links guarding forearms and upper legs. The white cloth under the armor was of a thicker material than normal, to ward off the chill weather. His only weapon was a fine-looking longsword hung at his hip. The elf with the spear straightened, bringing the spear up to his side. He smiled happily - the first smile in the week since Tarthalion's death. "Prince Calarion!" the elf hailed the rider. "We feared the worst!" Calarion slowed the horse with a touch and a light word, and slid to the ground. "Prince Calarion?" he said. "Not until my father is dead!" Then he looked at the elf's face, and his jaw dropped. "No," he said in barely a whisper. "No." The elf nodded slowly. "I'd best take you to see Tarran Angedhel," he said to the grieving Calarion. "He'll tell you more." Calarion did not move. "I said, I'd best." the elf said again. This time Calarion was looking at him. All signs of mourning were swept from his face. "Yes. Take me to Angedhel." He swung back on the horse as the scout moved to in front. "This way, my lord."
Long ago, in the time of Caledor the First, the lord of Saphery faced a similar problem to the one fought that day. As every elf knows, that was the time when Malekith had been revealed as a servant of the Chaos his father had given his life fighting against, and tried to claim the Phoenix Crown for himself. A war spanning all Ulthuan had sprung up then, as well. The lord, Erathiel Sapherior, son of the famed Tathel Sapherior, had sheltered the mages of Ulthuan from attack by the Witch-King's servants. He decided not to use any conventional hiding hole, as the agents of Malekith would discover any cave or magically hidden building. And so Erathiel came across a tree which had been hit directly by lightning. The branches had been blasted away, so that only a stump remained, hollowed out by the bolt. Erathiel noticed, and hit upon a plan. He excavated a cavern under the tree, and hid there. As matters turned out, it was a small improvement, fooling the dark elves but not the magical assassin that Malekith sent upon the failure of his agents. The group of mages was only saved by the intervention of Elhaldrin the Blade-Singer. Since then, the subterranean hideaway had been maintained by the Sapherior line, and proved quite effective against typical opponents. It was here that Tarran Angedhel had fled after the rout from the estate. Calarion left his horse in the natural cave used as a stable, and then picked his way through the snow with the scout until he reached the tree in question. A quick motion opened the door on its trunk. "I've always wondered," said the scout, "how that tree looks so life-like." Calarion said, "It is. Magic." "Ahhh," the other nodded, as he followed Calarion inside, and down the rope that led to their hideout. At the bottom, in a large, earthy room roofed by roots, elven warriors murmured to each other quietly. Their voices cut off when they saw the new arrival. Calarion looked at them, mildly unnerved by the silence. "My lord!" came a voice from the rear, as Tarran Angedhel pushed his way forward to Calarion and the scout. He knelt. "My lord, I have failed." Calarion put his hand on Tarran's shoulder. "Tell me everything." So Tarran told him of the battle at the White Tower, how Cyeos was driven mindless, how the wild magics ravaged the high elves, how the advent of allies for Mortharor. Calarion spat. "Mortharor!" he cried. "I hate that name!" .how the advent of allies for Mortharor forced the high elves to retreat, how they had made their final stand at the Sapherion manor house. "We were outnumbered two to one," Tarran said hoarsely. "Then Mortharor himself appeared, holding his strange double-headed halberd. We would have fought him, but Tarthalion told us not to. He fought Mortharor himself." "He died then, didn't he?" Calarion said. Tarran nodded. "I think he knew that Mortharor could kill all of you. What he did was save all your lives," Calarion ruminated. Tarran nodded. "A more heroic elf I have never met." "True." He paused. "You cremated the body with proper reverence, I expect." Tarran swallowed. "We would have, Prince Calarion, had we the body." "Where is Tarthalion then?" he said lightly, a lightness which Tarran could tell was forced. "We couldn't retrieve it. Mortharor has the body. And your armor, and your sword." Calarion's eyes blazed. "I am sick of hearing how Mortharor has beaten us here, Mortharor has beaten us there! Now you tell me Mortharor has killed my father, seized my ancestral estates, and still has the body and the ancestral armor and sword! He cannot be as good as everyone says he is!" Calarion drew his dagger. Tarran reared back, startled. "Witness," Calarion growled. He pushed out his arm, and then slashed once with the knife, trying not to think about the last time he used it. Blood welled through the light cut to the surface. "By Khaine the Bloody Mawed, by Loec Shade-Dancer, I swear vengeance against Mortharor the Black. My blood or his. That is how it must be." The elflord hissed. "Now, I will go to my estates. I will win back what is mine. And I will kill Mortharor the Black!"
The elf dozed lightly. He ignored the small branches that pressed uncomfortably into his back through a fur cloak, ignored the slush that ran into his good leather boots, ignored the winds that although slight bit like a mountain cat. He slumbered lightly and peacefully instead. The land had changed too. The woods where he was leaning were liberally dusted in snow, and the few fallen leaves and fallen twigs that typically made up the forest floor were obscured by a light blanket of white. Winter was definitely upon Ulthuan. And the elf dreamed, leaning against the trunk of an ash tree, his tall spear propped up beside him, of a time before the war, of peace and serenity and a beautiful elfwoman who welcomed him with outstretched white arms. It was a pleasant dream. A sound, the sound of bells, echoed through the trees lightly, tantalizingly. But with the white arms around his neck, the slumbering elf failed to notice. The bells grew louder, and noise joined them, the light stamp and nervous whinny of a horse. The elf's eyes snapped open. The elfwoman vanished. Standing swiftly, he threw back the fur and grasped his spear with both hands, daring the rider to come. The rider came into sight gradually through the mostly leafless foliage. He rode a fine white steed with highly polished ithilmar barding. He himself was clad in an ithilmar breastplate, with chain links guarding forearms and upper legs. The white cloth under the armor was of a thicker material than normal, to ward off the chill weather. His only weapon was a fine-looking longsword hung at his hip. The elf with the spear straightened, bringing the spear up to his side. He smiled happily - the first smile in the week since Tarthalion's death. "Prince Calarion!" the elf hailed the rider. "We feared the worst!" Calarion slowed the horse with a touch and a light word, and slid to the ground. "Prince Calarion?" he said. "Not until my father is dead!" Then he looked at the elf's face, and his jaw dropped. "No," he said in barely a whisper. "No." The elf nodded slowly. "I'd best take you to see Tarran Angedhel," he said to the grieving Calarion. "He'll tell you more." Calarion did not move. "I said, I'd best." the elf said again. This time Calarion was looking at him. All signs of mourning were swept from his face. "Yes. Take me to Angedhel." He swung back on the horse as the scout moved to in front. "This way, my lord."
Long ago, in the time of Caledor the First, the lord of Saphery faced a similar problem to the one fought that day. As every elf knows, that was the time when Malekith had been revealed as a servant of the Chaos his father had given his life fighting against, and tried to claim the Phoenix Crown for himself. A war spanning all Ulthuan had sprung up then, as well. The lord, Erathiel Sapherior, son of the famed Tathel Sapherior, had sheltered the mages of Ulthuan from attack by the Witch-King's servants. He decided not to use any conventional hiding hole, as the agents of Malekith would discover any cave or magically hidden building. And so Erathiel came across a tree which had been hit directly by lightning. The branches had been blasted away, so that only a stump remained, hollowed out by the bolt. Erathiel noticed, and hit upon a plan. He excavated a cavern under the tree, and hid there. As matters turned out, it was a small improvement, fooling the dark elves but not the magical assassin that Malekith sent upon the failure of his agents. The group of mages was only saved by the intervention of Elhaldrin the Blade-Singer. Since then, the subterranean hideaway had been maintained by the Sapherior line, and proved quite effective against typical opponents. It was here that Tarran Angedhel had fled after the rout from the estate. Calarion left his horse in the natural cave used as a stable, and then picked his way through the snow with the scout until he reached the tree in question. A quick motion opened the door on its trunk. "I've always wondered," said the scout, "how that tree looks so life-like." Calarion said, "It is. Magic." "Ahhh," the other nodded, as he followed Calarion inside, and down the rope that led to their hideout. At the bottom, in a large, earthy room roofed by roots, elven warriors murmured to each other quietly. Their voices cut off when they saw the new arrival. Calarion looked at them, mildly unnerved by the silence. "My lord!" came a voice from the rear, as Tarran Angedhel pushed his way forward to Calarion and the scout. He knelt. "My lord, I have failed." Calarion put his hand on Tarran's shoulder. "Tell me everything." So Tarran told him of the battle at the White Tower, how Cyeos was driven mindless, how the wild magics ravaged the high elves, how the advent of allies for Mortharor. Calarion spat. "Mortharor!" he cried. "I hate that name!" .how the advent of allies for Mortharor forced the high elves to retreat, how they had made their final stand at the Sapherion manor house. "We were outnumbered two to one," Tarran said hoarsely. "Then Mortharor himself appeared, holding his strange double-headed halberd. We would have fought him, but Tarthalion told us not to. He fought Mortharor himself." "He died then, didn't he?" Calarion said. Tarran nodded. "I think he knew that Mortharor could kill all of you. What he did was save all your lives," Calarion ruminated. Tarran nodded. "A more heroic elf I have never met." "True." He paused. "You cremated the body with proper reverence, I expect." Tarran swallowed. "We would have, Prince Calarion, had we the body." "Where is Tarthalion then?" he said lightly, a lightness which Tarran could tell was forced. "We couldn't retrieve it. Mortharor has the body. And your armor, and your sword." Calarion's eyes blazed. "I am sick of hearing how Mortharor has beaten us here, Mortharor has beaten us there! Now you tell me Mortharor has killed my father, seized my ancestral estates, and still has the body and the ancestral armor and sword! He cannot be as good as everyone says he is!" Calarion drew his dagger. Tarran reared back, startled. "Witness," Calarion growled. He pushed out his arm, and then slashed once with the knife, trying not to think about the last time he used it. Blood welled through the light cut to the surface. "By Khaine the Bloody Mawed, by Loec Shade-Dancer, I swear vengeance against Mortharor the Black. My blood or his. That is how it must be." The elflord hissed. "Now, I will go to my estates. I will win back what is mine. And I will kill Mortharor the Black!"