The elf laughed.
"That's a good one," he said to his friend. "But I've got a better one.
Listen."
Calarion shrunk back, behind the tree, praying the two scouts had not
noticed him.
".and then I stuck his guts to the ground with a stake."
Calarion's face blackened, and his hand dropped to his sword, clutching
tightly under the thick leather glove. The dark elves were laughing about
how they'd slaughtered his friends.
He let his hand fall. Tempting as it was to strike the two down, there was
no way he could kill both without their making a noise. Hard as it was, his
mission, finding the sword and armor, finding Tarthalion's body, and
killing Mortharor, was tantamount. He was more important alive than dead.
And so Calarion forced himself to stand totally still as he listened to the
atrocities, until the two could no longer be heard. Then he slipped forward
as stealthily as possible.
Not very stealthily, alas. He was a warrior, not a thief or spy. He'd just
have to hope for the best.
He slipped on through the trees, until he reached a small glade, which
marked the edge of the trees. A large bush sat right at the edge, and so
the elflord crawled over and looked beyond from the cover of the bush.
He did not like the site. The old banner of the sword and sun that was the
emblem of the Sapherior line was gone, torn down and destroyed most likely.
A great sorrow, for that standard was many thousands of years old, even
slightly enchanted to maintain its condition. But gone now. The bat-winged
skull of Mortharor defied him now. And outside the fortress, the dark elven
army was camped.
No command tent, though. Mortharor would be inside the fortress. A good
thing.
A hand dropped on Calarion's shoulder. "Here now, what're you about?" A
dark elf scout.
With a single desperate move, Calarion spun, tugging his sword from its
scabbard and striking with a single breath. The shade yelped in shock,
before the scything blade tore through soft flesh between shoulders and
neck. The head flew through the air, and landed with a thump, rolling once
until it stopped at the base of a tree. The body collapsed. The snows
turned red.
Calarion looked around quickly. Had anyone heard? His heart hammered
viciously inside him, his pulse sped.
But no more dark elves appeared. No one had heard the short cry.
He cleaned the ithilmar on the snow, before hauling the body under the
bush. The bloodstained snow was harder, but he kicked some more snow over
it and hoped no one would look too hard. Then the white-cloaked warrior
moved off again.
He found it before long. A pile of boulders, defying probability by stacking one on top of another, three high. Calarion darted to the stones, throwing quick glances around to make sure there were no watchers. None. Good. Then he stripped the glove off his right hand. Goosebumps rose on the skin, as he laid the bared palm on to the top stone. There was no noise at all as the bottom-most stone picked itself up and levitated in the air, the two other stones still balanced perfectly on top, over a set of rungs leading straight down. A spell of a Loremaster a long time ago keyed this entrance to any of Sapherior's line. No other could use it. Calarion removed his hand, and put his glove back on, glad for the extra warmth it gave him. Then he clambered down the rungs awkwardly, the rocks lowering above him so that it blocked off the entrance. The rung ladder did not go very far. Soon Calarion was standing at the bottom. He stood, taking his bearings. As he recalled it, the passage led to the bowels of the castle to the dungeon. The 'torture chamber', never used, was actually no more than the entrance to the passage. From there, he would have to look. It was a fair bet that Mortharor would be on the second floor, in the lord's chambers, but as for the location of Tarthalion's corpse there was no telling. He continued to another of the stone-locks, and opened it. Again, not a nice idea. Of course the dark elves had decided to use the chamber of horrors for the first time ever. And used it plentifully. Blood stained the floors indelibly. A high elven warrior - one of the siltholrim knight bodyguard - was slumped on a table, mouth opened and face scrunched in the very essence of agony. His arms were stained with blood as if all tendons had been slit neatly. The eyes were red holes, having been gouged out. The tongue could not be seen. Calarion was sickened to his stomach. On the fields of battle, he'd seen many horrifying sights. He'd seen men disemboweled before his eyes, seen blood and brains spilled. But this casual violence, for no reason other than causing pain, was totally different. It was a stubborn mind that held his last meal inside him still. He swung open the door, sword in hand, ready to strike if any dark elves were there. But none stood, and the warrior moved out from the room of blood and gore. He found himself in a small, dimly lit corridor, flanked on each side by cells. A short flight of stairs at the other end led up to a firm oak door, which he knew would lead towards the main courtyard. He moved on, looking into the cells as he passed. The sight was again disgusting. The first cell to his left had been converted into a morgue, in which dismembered elven corpses were heaped. A small cloud of flies circled around the sickly scent of dead flesh. Calarion swung open the door, one hand covering nose and mouth to keep away the smell, and keep in his food. It was possible, however unlikely, that Tarthalion would be in here. So he shifted the corpses one by one. None were Tarthalion. Calarion's stomach finally rebelled, and he emptied his stomach over the corpses. This is what I am fighting for, then. Not just resisting an invasion, but to save the elves a fate like this. He swatted at the flies, before returning to the corridor. A sound. The door creaked open. Sunlight lay in a brand along the stones. Calarion turned, and darted into the cell opposite the morgue. At the top of the stairs were two men. One was dragging the other over his shoulder. The torturer and his latest victim. Calarion hissed under his breath. This one he could not let pass. The dark elf had to die by his blade. The blade in question was readied in his hand. The torturer and the high elven warrior staggered past into the room of horrors. Calarion waited, and then sneaked to the door. It flew open, from the inside. The dark elf stood there, dragging the old corpse behind him. He yelled in surprise, and instinctively pulled the body before him as a shield. A good thing for him, as Calarion struck with righteous fury, shearing through the corpse. Entrails pooled on the floor. The dark elf dropped the corpse, and jumped back, fumbling for his arms. Calarion swung again, and the dark elf hopped back again. Calarion jumped over the body lightly, and confronted his now-armed foe. Sword in one hand. In the other, a whip. That could be difficult - a skilled whip-user could pull his sword right out of his hands. He'd have to hope for the best there. The dark elf lunged. Calarion spun away, letting the sword fly in a circle that would end in the torturer. His foe stepped back and parried. The whip snapped, and Calarion yelped in pain as it tore a furrow in his forehead. There was no way he could parry the thing. He swung again, attacking repeatedly, not letting his foe regain the initiative. Swords flew. Calarion muscled his foe's sword wide, not letting him attack with the whip. Then he struck once. The dark elf's sword flew into a perfect parry. It would have been a perfect parry if Calarion had been aiming for he dark elf's heart. Instead, his longsword cleaved through the whip-arm in a shower of blood. The dark elf screeched in agony. Calarion struck again, knocking the sword away, and again, mashing the torturer's nose and flinging him to the ground. "Now what?" the dark elf sneered. "You going to torture me now?" Calarion shook his head. "I am no shadow elf." Then with a last blow he struck the elf's head off. Blood spurted, and the corpse dropped to the ground. He left the body where it lay and went over to the captive Elf. The elf cowered in fear. "It's me. Calarion - Prince Calarion." But the high elf did not recognize him. Half drugged and half dead, he gibbered in fear. Calarion sighed. Then the captive spoke, forcing the clouds out of his mind. "Calarion?" he croaked. "Yes. I've come to save you - find Tarthalion's body - kill Mortharor." "Asuryan bless you if you can kill that one. He killed Tarthalion, you know." Calarion nodded. "Where is the body?" The elf coughed. Bloody spittle stained Calarion. He ignored it. "Mortharor dismembered it and put it on spikes in the courtyard." "What about the armor, the sword?" "Mortharor has them. He intends to give them to the Witch-King." Calarion said, "What do you want me to do about you?" "Could you kill me, please?" Calarion jerked. "Kill you? Why?" "I'm dying now. I've already been tortured. The pain! I want an end to it." Calarion's left hand clutched the right hand of the elf soldier. His right hand drew the belt knife. One quick blow, and the elf was dead. Calarion stood, murmured the traditional farewell, "Sleep in peace, and awake in joy." Then he began the next thing he had to do. He rapidly stripped the dead dark elf, and pulled the druchii tabard and cloak on. A disguise would let him walk freely. He exited the dungeons, and entered a broad sun-lit corridor that flanked the courtyard. Recalling the dead elf's words, he chose not to look out any of the broad windows to his left. He had fixed in his mind images of Tarthalion, and had no desire to see the horror of his father's dismembered body. Besides, retrieving the corpse now would prove to be impossible. "Never fear, father," he said to himself. "Your body will be cremated as usual when we have re-taken this place." He walked on, keeping his head down with a hood over it, praying that none of the dark elven warriors who strolled past would notice his flowing golden hair and become inquisitive, for being of the northern Nagarythi stock, druchii had dark hair tones. But fortunately none did notice. He made his way up to where Mortharor's chambers would be with ease. When he reached them he looked around to make sure there were no dark elves watching. There were none, so with a swift move he drew his keen blade and flung open the door. The room was empty. Good. He moved in, keeping his sword bared nonetheless, and shut the door gently behind him. The room was quite large, as befitted the bedchamber of one of the most important families in Ulthuan. Sunlight poured in from a huge glass window that looked out over the icy wood. The bed itself was quite impressive, made from the finest woods from Avelorn carved into impressive images of famous battles of the line of Sapherion. Another minor enchantment linked it to the mind of the possessor, so it showed their glories. Previously Calarion recalled it had shown images of Tarthalion and Carus battling human raiders. Now, linked to Mortharor, it showed scenes of terror and slaughter. Calarion picked out the image of Dagorannon, and even a tiny version of himself. He shuddered. Somehow, more even than everything else, the corruption of this seemed to show the sign of the dark elves. It shivered his skin. And over from the bed lay, gleaming beautifully, the golden corselet of plate and mail that was his by birthright. And lying on it, in a plain leather sheath, the ithilmar blade of generations past. His heart leapt at the glory of them. Again, Calarion removed his tabard and ithilmar coat, donning the new chainmail. He could feel the beautiful craftsmanship, for it felt as light as his tunic did, and about as encumbering, and it fit perfectly. Now indeed he could believe he was Prince Calarion. With trembling hands he took the helm with its wings of eagle feathers, and placed it on his head. Picked up the plain leather scabbard and with no noise pulled forth his sword. It glinted mysteriously in the light, ithilmar and silver with a golden inlay. He looked at himself in a large silver mirror, and smiled grimly at the sight of himself. Indeed he was Prince Calarion now. Now he could take on Mortharor surely! "What." The word disrupted Calarion's thoughts, and he spun. In the doorway stood a dark elf holding a scroll in one hand. A messenger evidently. The messenger dropped the scroll and drew his sword. "High Elf!" he bellowed. "Damn!" cried the Prince, and he swung his new blade. An arc of beautiful gold, and the messenger's blood was staining the carpet. But the damage had been done, and there was no escape now. Dark elves entered the room, brandishing spears and swords. Calarion danced amongst them, his blade flying. They screamed in pain, and died in his wake. Now only one dark elf still stood. This one was clad differently, in full black plate mail, complete with horned death-mask, holding a double-headed halberd from which the stains of blood could never be removed. Calarion's sword lowered. "Mortharor," he whispered. Mortharor bowed. "And you would be.Calarion, of course." Calarion's sword snapped up. "You killed my father. You killed Tarthalion." "Yes, I suppose I did," Mortharor mused. "I'll kill you now." "If you can," said Mortharor laconically. "Tell the truth, I'm surprised to see you here. I'd have thought that Ashara could have killed you - Ashainnarya, I mean. That's what she called herself. She must have been awfully annoyed at that, what with you killing her lover and all." Calarion hesitated. "What do you mean?!" "Ashara's lover was Darsil, the Lord Assassin. You killed her love. So she killed yours. Hmmm?" Calarion roared out, "And I kill you!" He attacked wildly. Mortharor parried easily. Weapons locked, and with a simple flick of his arms he flung Calarion to the ground. "Things aren't going well for you, are they?" Calarion came to his feet as Mortharor advanced. "I nearly had you killed at Dagorannon, but you escaped me there. Then you survived fighting the assassins Ashara and I arranged. They should have been able to kill you, but they only killed that old fool Carus. I was surprised. Then you even managed to kill Darsil. That one annoys me. He was useful. You survive Ashara, despite the odds, and now you're here." He continued, "I've always said the gods love me. Now they prove it - by letting me kill you myself." And he attacked, viciously. But Calarion was fueled by his hatred, and his own blade flew in, parrying until the noise was just one single scrape of metal on metal. He clutched the sword with both hands, face contorted in anger and concentration. Mortharor hissed and somehow the halberd doubled in speed. Calarion parried, ducked, and slipped out from the attack. Mortharor spun to face him, and Calarion ducked. The swing struck a post on the bed, shearing straight through it. Calarion released his left hand from the hilt of his sword and drew his old sword. Then with a yell he attacked. Swords flew swiftly, as the enraged elf rained blows down. Now Mortharor struggled to parry the attacks. Mortharor slipped. He darted out of the way, and again the battle returned to a stalemate as both attacked and parried easily, circling in the small chamber. But Calarion knew he could not keep this up for long. His anger was fading, replaced by a great exhaustion in his flickering arms, while Mortharor showed no sign of tiring. Mortharor attacked again. Calarion parried, left, right, left, and then spun, both sword flying in an offensive arc as he moved. Mortharor had hacked down another post of the bed. With a shriek, the huge top of the bed snapped off from the two remaining columns, falling at where Calarion was standing. He ran backwards, and it smashed down in front of him. Had he been slower it would have crushed his skull. Mortharor vaulted over the wood, landing with feet spread atop it. His halberd howled. But Calarion was faster. His old sword snapped out, catching Mortharor's right leg. While it lacked the force to penetrate the armor, it made the dark elven general stumble. Immediately Calarion rammed forward with his other blade. Mortharor parried - slightly - so that instead of impaling him, the blow simply struck his shoulder. The magnificent sword hit the plate mail, and kept going, driving completely through the dark elf's shoulder. Calarion jerked it out, and blood flew. Mortharor fell back off the ruins of the bed-cover, somehow landing on his feet. He grasped the halberd in one hand only, lashing with it as he fell. It caught Calarion's leg-guards and made the high elf fall also. Mortharor rose first, blood streaming from the wound in his shoulder. He lashed at the downed elf, who dodged. The carpet and even the stone beneath was cleaved by the power of the blows. Once. Twice. Calarion rolled to his feet, holding only the ancestral sword now. For all of Mortharor's wound, the dark elf was still active, while Calarion himself felt at the verge of unconsciousness. Quite simply, he could not win. Mortharor swung the halberd. Calarion dodged, and then played his last desperate card. He ran into, and then through, the glass window. He could see Mortharor's skull-helmet glaring at him as he hurtled down two stories. Then with a crump! he landed on the soft snow, dazed and pained. With a force of will he forced himself to his feet. If he stayed here, he was dead. He had to run, for there would be dark elves after him. Calarion began to run.
Mortharor watched as Calarion limped off as fast as he could go. One black- armored hand clutched the wound the accursed high elf had given him. Sometimes the appearance of strength was as important as strength itself, he thought wryly. What would have happened if the high elf had known that Mortharor could barely move after that terrible blow? He slumped down weakly on the wreckage of the bed, not caring as his blood mixed in with the coverlet. A dark elf stood before him. "Lord Mortharor, the high elf has escaped." "Send a patrol after him. I want him, dead or alive," said Mortharor. The commander turned to go. "Oh, and," said Mortharor, "send me a healer." The dark elf bowed and hurried out the door.
He found it before long. A pile of boulders, defying probability by stacking one on top of another, three high. Calarion darted to the stones, throwing quick glances around to make sure there were no watchers. None. Good. Then he stripped the glove off his right hand. Goosebumps rose on the skin, as he laid the bared palm on to the top stone. There was no noise at all as the bottom-most stone picked itself up and levitated in the air, the two other stones still balanced perfectly on top, over a set of rungs leading straight down. A spell of a Loremaster a long time ago keyed this entrance to any of Sapherior's line. No other could use it. Calarion removed his hand, and put his glove back on, glad for the extra warmth it gave him. Then he clambered down the rungs awkwardly, the rocks lowering above him so that it blocked off the entrance. The rung ladder did not go very far. Soon Calarion was standing at the bottom. He stood, taking his bearings. As he recalled it, the passage led to the bowels of the castle to the dungeon. The 'torture chamber', never used, was actually no more than the entrance to the passage. From there, he would have to look. It was a fair bet that Mortharor would be on the second floor, in the lord's chambers, but as for the location of Tarthalion's corpse there was no telling. He continued to another of the stone-locks, and opened it. Again, not a nice idea. Of course the dark elves had decided to use the chamber of horrors for the first time ever. And used it plentifully. Blood stained the floors indelibly. A high elven warrior - one of the siltholrim knight bodyguard - was slumped on a table, mouth opened and face scrunched in the very essence of agony. His arms were stained with blood as if all tendons had been slit neatly. The eyes were red holes, having been gouged out. The tongue could not be seen. Calarion was sickened to his stomach. On the fields of battle, he'd seen many horrifying sights. He'd seen men disemboweled before his eyes, seen blood and brains spilled. But this casual violence, for no reason other than causing pain, was totally different. It was a stubborn mind that held his last meal inside him still. He swung open the door, sword in hand, ready to strike if any dark elves were there. But none stood, and the warrior moved out from the room of blood and gore. He found himself in a small, dimly lit corridor, flanked on each side by cells. A short flight of stairs at the other end led up to a firm oak door, which he knew would lead towards the main courtyard. He moved on, looking into the cells as he passed. The sight was again disgusting. The first cell to his left had been converted into a morgue, in which dismembered elven corpses were heaped. A small cloud of flies circled around the sickly scent of dead flesh. Calarion swung open the door, one hand covering nose and mouth to keep away the smell, and keep in his food. It was possible, however unlikely, that Tarthalion would be in here. So he shifted the corpses one by one. None were Tarthalion. Calarion's stomach finally rebelled, and he emptied his stomach over the corpses. This is what I am fighting for, then. Not just resisting an invasion, but to save the elves a fate like this. He swatted at the flies, before returning to the corridor. A sound. The door creaked open. Sunlight lay in a brand along the stones. Calarion turned, and darted into the cell opposite the morgue. At the top of the stairs were two men. One was dragging the other over his shoulder. The torturer and his latest victim. Calarion hissed under his breath. This one he could not let pass. The dark elf had to die by his blade. The blade in question was readied in his hand. The torturer and the high elven warrior staggered past into the room of horrors. Calarion waited, and then sneaked to the door. It flew open, from the inside. The dark elf stood there, dragging the old corpse behind him. He yelled in surprise, and instinctively pulled the body before him as a shield. A good thing for him, as Calarion struck with righteous fury, shearing through the corpse. Entrails pooled on the floor. The dark elf dropped the corpse, and jumped back, fumbling for his arms. Calarion swung again, and the dark elf hopped back again. Calarion jumped over the body lightly, and confronted his now-armed foe. Sword in one hand. In the other, a whip. That could be difficult - a skilled whip-user could pull his sword right out of his hands. He'd have to hope for the best there. The dark elf lunged. Calarion spun away, letting the sword fly in a circle that would end in the torturer. His foe stepped back and parried. The whip snapped, and Calarion yelped in pain as it tore a furrow in his forehead. There was no way he could parry the thing. He swung again, attacking repeatedly, not letting his foe regain the initiative. Swords flew. Calarion muscled his foe's sword wide, not letting him attack with the whip. Then he struck once. The dark elf's sword flew into a perfect parry. It would have been a perfect parry if Calarion had been aiming for he dark elf's heart. Instead, his longsword cleaved through the whip-arm in a shower of blood. The dark elf screeched in agony. Calarion struck again, knocking the sword away, and again, mashing the torturer's nose and flinging him to the ground. "Now what?" the dark elf sneered. "You going to torture me now?" Calarion shook his head. "I am no shadow elf." Then with a last blow he struck the elf's head off. Blood spurted, and the corpse dropped to the ground. He left the body where it lay and went over to the captive Elf. The elf cowered in fear. "It's me. Calarion - Prince Calarion." But the high elf did not recognize him. Half drugged and half dead, he gibbered in fear. Calarion sighed. Then the captive spoke, forcing the clouds out of his mind. "Calarion?" he croaked. "Yes. I've come to save you - find Tarthalion's body - kill Mortharor." "Asuryan bless you if you can kill that one. He killed Tarthalion, you know." Calarion nodded. "Where is the body?" The elf coughed. Bloody spittle stained Calarion. He ignored it. "Mortharor dismembered it and put it on spikes in the courtyard." "What about the armor, the sword?" "Mortharor has them. He intends to give them to the Witch-King." Calarion said, "What do you want me to do about you?" "Could you kill me, please?" Calarion jerked. "Kill you? Why?" "I'm dying now. I've already been tortured. The pain! I want an end to it." Calarion's left hand clutched the right hand of the elf soldier. His right hand drew the belt knife. One quick blow, and the elf was dead. Calarion stood, murmured the traditional farewell, "Sleep in peace, and awake in joy." Then he began the next thing he had to do. He rapidly stripped the dead dark elf, and pulled the druchii tabard and cloak on. A disguise would let him walk freely. He exited the dungeons, and entered a broad sun-lit corridor that flanked the courtyard. Recalling the dead elf's words, he chose not to look out any of the broad windows to his left. He had fixed in his mind images of Tarthalion, and had no desire to see the horror of his father's dismembered body. Besides, retrieving the corpse now would prove to be impossible. "Never fear, father," he said to himself. "Your body will be cremated as usual when we have re-taken this place." He walked on, keeping his head down with a hood over it, praying that none of the dark elven warriors who strolled past would notice his flowing golden hair and become inquisitive, for being of the northern Nagarythi stock, druchii had dark hair tones. But fortunately none did notice. He made his way up to where Mortharor's chambers would be with ease. When he reached them he looked around to make sure there were no dark elves watching. There were none, so with a swift move he drew his keen blade and flung open the door. The room was empty. Good. He moved in, keeping his sword bared nonetheless, and shut the door gently behind him. The room was quite large, as befitted the bedchamber of one of the most important families in Ulthuan. Sunlight poured in from a huge glass window that looked out over the icy wood. The bed itself was quite impressive, made from the finest woods from Avelorn carved into impressive images of famous battles of the line of Sapherion. Another minor enchantment linked it to the mind of the possessor, so it showed their glories. Previously Calarion recalled it had shown images of Tarthalion and Carus battling human raiders. Now, linked to Mortharor, it showed scenes of terror and slaughter. Calarion picked out the image of Dagorannon, and even a tiny version of himself. He shuddered. Somehow, more even than everything else, the corruption of this seemed to show the sign of the dark elves. It shivered his skin. And over from the bed lay, gleaming beautifully, the golden corselet of plate and mail that was his by birthright. And lying on it, in a plain leather sheath, the ithilmar blade of generations past. His heart leapt at the glory of them. Again, Calarion removed his tabard and ithilmar coat, donning the new chainmail. He could feel the beautiful craftsmanship, for it felt as light as his tunic did, and about as encumbering, and it fit perfectly. Now indeed he could believe he was Prince Calarion. With trembling hands he took the helm with its wings of eagle feathers, and placed it on his head. Picked up the plain leather scabbard and with no noise pulled forth his sword. It glinted mysteriously in the light, ithilmar and silver with a golden inlay. He looked at himself in a large silver mirror, and smiled grimly at the sight of himself. Indeed he was Prince Calarion now. Now he could take on Mortharor surely! "What." The word disrupted Calarion's thoughts, and he spun. In the doorway stood a dark elf holding a scroll in one hand. A messenger evidently. The messenger dropped the scroll and drew his sword. "High Elf!" he bellowed. "Damn!" cried the Prince, and he swung his new blade. An arc of beautiful gold, and the messenger's blood was staining the carpet. But the damage had been done, and there was no escape now. Dark elves entered the room, brandishing spears and swords. Calarion danced amongst them, his blade flying. They screamed in pain, and died in his wake. Now only one dark elf still stood. This one was clad differently, in full black plate mail, complete with horned death-mask, holding a double-headed halberd from which the stains of blood could never be removed. Calarion's sword lowered. "Mortharor," he whispered. Mortharor bowed. "And you would be.Calarion, of course." Calarion's sword snapped up. "You killed my father. You killed Tarthalion." "Yes, I suppose I did," Mortharor mused. "I'll kill you now." "If you can," said Mortharor laconically. "Tell the truth, I'm surprised to see you here. I'd have thought that Ashara could have killed you - Ashainnarya, I mean. That's what she called herself. She must have been awfully annoyed at that, what with you killing her lover and all." Calarion hesitated. "What do you mean?!" "Ashara's lover was Darsil, the Lord Assassin. You killed her love. So she killed yours. Hmmm?" Calarion roared out, "And I kill you!" He attacked wildly. Mortharor parried easily. Weapons locked, and with a simple flick of his arms he flung Calarion to the ground. "Things aren't going well for you, are they?" Calarion came to his feet as Mortharor advanced. "I nearly had you killed at Dagorannon, but you escaped me there. Then you survived fighting the assassins Ashara and I arranged. They should have been able to kill you, but they only killed that old fool Carus. I was surprised. Then you even managed to kill Darsil. That one annoys me. He was useful. You survive Ashara, despite the odds, and now you're here." He continued, "I've always said the gods love me. Now they prove it - by letting me kill you myself." And he attacked, viciously. But Calarion was fueled by his hatred, and his own blade flew in, parrying until the noise was just one single scrape of metal on metal. He clutched the sword with both hands, face contorted in anger and concentration. Mortharor hissed and somehow the halberd doubled in speed. Calarion parried, ducked, and slipped out from the attack. Mortharor spun to face him, and Calarion ducked. The swing struck a post on the bed, shearing straight through it. Calarion released his left hand from the hilt of his sword and drew his old sword. Then with a yell he attacked. Swords flew swiftly, as the enraged elf rained blows down. Now Mortharor struggled to parry the attacks. Mortharor slipped. He darted out of the way, and again the battle returned to a stalemate as both attacked and parried easily, circling in the small chamber. But Calarion knew he could not keep this up for long. His anger was fading, replaced by a great exhaustion in his flickering arms, while Mortharor showed no sign of tiring. Mortharor attacked again. Calarion parried, left, right, left, and then spun, both sword flying in an offensive arc as he moved. Mortharor had hacked down another post of the bed. With a shriek, the huge top of the bed snapped off from the two remaining columns, falling at where Calarion was standing. He ran backwards, and it smashed down in front of him. Had he been slower it would have crushed his skull. Mortharor vaulted over the wood, landing with feet spread atop it. His halberd howled. But Calarion was faster. His old sword snapped out, catching Mortharor's right leg. While it lacked the force to penetrate the armor, it made the dark elven general stumble. Immediately Calarion rammed forward with his other blade. Mortharor parried - slightly - so that instead of impaling him, the blow simply struck his shoulder. The magnificent sword hit the plate mail, and kept going, driving completely through the dark elf's shoulder. Calarion jerked it out, and blood flew. Mortharor fell back off the ruins of the bed-cover, somehow landing on his feet. He grasped the halberd in one hand only, lashing with it as he fell. It caught Calarion's leg-guards and made the high elf fall also. Mortharor rose first, blood streaming from the wound in his shoulder. He lashed at the downed elf, who dodged. The carpet and even the stone beneath was cleaved by the power of the blows. Once. Twice. Calarion rolled to his feet, holding only the ancestral sword now. For all of Mortharor's wound, the dark elf was still active, while Calarion himself felt at the verge of unconsciousness. Quite simply, he could not win. Mortharor swung the halberd. Calarion dodged, and then played his last desperate card. He ran into, and then through, the glass window. He could see Mortharor's skull-helmet glaring at him as he hurtled down two stories. Then with a crump! he landed on the soft snow, dazed and pained. With a force of will he forced himself to his feet. If he stayed here, he was dead. He had to run, for there would be dark elves after him. Calarion began to run.
Mortharor watched as Calarion limped off as fast as he could go. One black- armored hand clutched the wound the accursed high elf had given him. Sometimes the appearance of strength was as important as strength itself, he thought wryly. What would have happened if the high elf had known that Mortharor could barely move after that terrible blow? He slumped down weakly on the wreckage of the bed, not caring as his blood mixed in with the coverlet. A dark elf stood before him. "Lord Mortharor, the high elf has escaped." "Send a patrol after him. I want him, dead or alive," said Mortharor. The commander turned to go. "Oh, and," said Mortharor, "send me a healer." The dark elf bowed and hurried out the door.