Flames roared.
They licked around the embattled metropolis of Lothern, sending black
columns into the heavens, a signal for carrion-birds and the like.
Of course, the worst predators were there already. The dark war banners of
the druchii still clustered around the city, and the defense was desperate
indeed. The Seaguard, Ulthuan's standing army, brilliantly trained and
equipped, had used every tactic and ploy at their disposal, stratagems
crafted by some of the finest military minds in the country. Dark elves had
been slaughtered, maybe ten for every one of he defenders who fell.
And still it was not enough.
Now most of the edges of Lothern smoldered, turned into charnel piles by
both armies. There was no time to retrieve and burn the dead as was
customary. The lucky were incinerated in the fires of the assault.
Most lay where they had fallen.
And still the hordes of dark elves lay siege to the city. The Seaguard
stood still, despite the deaths of half their numbers. The bolt throwers
had been abandoned: there were barely enough bolts left for the spirited
defense of the naval Sapphire and Ruby Gates from dark elven warships. They
were rationed out there, and there simply were no longer enough bolts left
for the rest of the Seaguard.
And now, after a month of the siege, when hopes for a High Elven victory
were at a low, the scrying of Lord Melenar of House Coraith, acting
Commander of the Seaguard, revealed the approach of two armies from the
east. The first, he reported with bitterness to the Phoenix Court, appeared
to be a large force of dark elves.
The second was Calarion's.
On the first foothills that grew into the imposing granite Annulii Mountains, the great warhorst was camped. Three thousand elven warriors, flapping banners in the light breeze that blew off the ocean. "Lothern is just ahead," Calarion said to his fellows. The four commanders, Tarran Angedhel, Arhaindir Moonhand, Loremaster Herulach, and himself, strode amongst their troops, bolstering their spirits with their presence as they discussed plans. "The scouts told us that Mortharor arrived there maybe three days before us," Moonhand reminded. Herulach rose his own head and added, "Dangerous as this dark elf you've antagonized surely is, it's a fair bet that the Witch King himself is down there. He's the one we have to worry about." He looked down, saw that he had stepped in mud, and grimaced. His vanity was well known around the camp. "I disagree," Moonhand said. "If Malekith was down there, the city would have long since fallen. It's been under siege for a month or more as far as we know." "In any case, it's best to dwell on what we know is down there. Mortharor's taken his two thousand warriors there, and I'd guess there are maybe forty- odd thousand dark elves there already. So, maybe fifty thousand druchii to our twenty thousand. Unenviable, but winnable," Tarran, ever the practical one, said. "And Mortharor," Calarion said bitterly. "With him in charge, that's like another two thousand." Arhaindir stopped and put one hand on Calarion's shoulder, spinning him around. "Don't be pessimistic, Calarion. No matter how it seems, this isn't over yet by a long shot. And don't forget it." "What's the first step, Calarion?" Angedhel said. "Do we just charge into the dark elven rear?" "No. We need to coordinate with the commanders of the city." Tarran Angedhel's face went dark and guarded. "Whoever does that is signing their own death warrant. They'd have to get past all five thousand dark elves on this side of the city. None of our scouts could do that." Moonhand said, "I know." With frustration, Calarion said, "So who do we send then?" Moonhand replied slowly, "Me." Tarran exploded. "YOU? That's totally out of the question!" "Why? Do you think you'd have a better chance? "Don't be ridiculous, I'd be dead in two minutes! You're a commander, far too valuable to us! Besides, you have a wife!" "I have a child too, you know. But that changes nothing." "It changes nothing.Calarion, tell him he's a fool!" But Calarion was looking at Moonhand. "I agree, actually." Tarran looked to Herulach, but the Loremaster was engrossed with the mud splattered on his robes and paid no attention. Finally with a snort he looked back at Calarion. "All right, why him?" "Do you think you could do a better job? He has the best odds of anyone here of sneaking through the enemy lines. Besides, should he need to fight, he should be able to defeat any Druchii short of Mortharor." "My thoughts," Moonhand said. Tarran let out his breath in a gust, and retorted, "If death is so sweet to you, there are easier ways to pursue it!" But he was beaten and he knew it. Moonhand knew it too. He paced off calmly, holding the hilt of his sword tightly, through the camp. He turned and waved cheerfully, and then was lost to the high elves' eyes.
The approach began easy. Moonhand's gray and green cloak blended in well with the rocky fields as he crawled closer to the burning city. But then he was under the noses of the dark elves, and his progress became tougher. He lay for a while, as dark elves ran by bearing siege ladders or bared blades forged of cruel Har Graef steel, head down with the voluminous cloak covering it. Eventually he could hear no sound of footsteps, and so he dared to lift the cloak slightly and gaze up. His daring was rewarded, for none of the dark elves were near him and he could dare to crawl forward a few metres. But now he could see the dark elves. He was a few paces away from the great pearl and marble wall of Lothern - at least he assumed it was pearl and marble, for most of it lay in ruins, breached in many places, and dark elves swarmed through those gaps to skirmish with the Seaguard defenders. Many corpses littered the broad paved avenue before him. And there was no way he'd sneak past here without being noticed. Time to run, he told himself, and pulled himself to his feet, strung bow in hand. The band of dark elven swordsmen spun as the first shaft struck the back of one of their own, knocking him spinning to the ground. Moonhand drew back the bow again, and fired. Another dark elf was flung off his feet by the force of the blow and clattered into the rubble. The other eight or so dashed for him, screaming. Arhaindir's Nagarythi blood began to boil. These were his natural enemy. They must die - all of them. His lip curled back into a sneer, and he howled a challenge as he tore his enruned longsword from his side. The dark elves came upon him like the tide. He swung wildly, cleaving the first in twain. Swords flew, and blood spattered the walls. Moonhand yelped as a blow bruised his ribs, nearly killing him. A dark elf shrieked in agony as Moonhand removed his sword hand and then his head. Moonhand's sanity returned to him. He could hear more dark elves coming, and had to get away. He had not the luxury of time. He swung the sword again, making the dark elves dart backwards. Then as they moved in again, he tensed his leg muscles and sprang. With one hand he gripped tight the sword as he flailed for a hold on the building by which he had been standing. He found one, an outcrop of wood, and hung there for a while as the dark elves cursed him. Then he hauled himself on to the roof. Below him several dark elves had sheathed their swords and were now trying to scale the building. The rest, though, far more dangerously, were readying their infamous hand crossbows. He ran along the roof and jumped to the next roof, barely clearing the gap. The dark elven warriors came howling after him. Three landed, one having to catch hold of the edge. The fourth missed, and landed with a crump! at the base of the building. Not dead, but incapacitated, thank Kurnous. The warriors drew their swords again. He sprang away, loping along the building, jumping over a large patch of roof that had been burnt away by the assault. There was a noise, and Moonhand screamed in pain. A bolt thudded into his waist, subtly changing the trajectory of his fall. He plummeted through the gap now. He tried to catch hold of the wall to slow his fall, but failed. Landed hard at the bottom. He did not look at his left leg, but knew that it was broken. He reached for his sword, and found it had fallen a few metres away. The three dark elves dropped down between him and it. He drew his broad-bladed hunting knife, and prepared for death. But barely conscious with the pain from his leg, he knew he would not last long. The dark elves collapsed. Shafts flew through the air, taking the druchii in the throats or chests. Turning, Moonhand could see a small force of Seaguard approaching, bows strung. "Thank Kurnous," he croaked, and then he fainted.
On the first foothills that grew into the imposing granite Annulii Mountains, the great warhorst was camped. Three thousand elven warriors, flapping banners in the light breeze that blew off the ocean. "Lothern is just ahead," Calarion said to his fellows. The four commanders, Tarran Angedhel, Arhaindir Moonhand, Loremaster Herulach, and himself, strode amongst their troops, bolstering their spirits with their presence as they discussed plans. "The scouts told us that Mortharor arrived there maybe three days before us," Moonhand reminded. Herulach rose his own head and added, "Dangerous as this dark elf you've antagonized surely is, it's a fair bet that the Witch King himself is down there. He's the one we have to worry about." He looked down, saw that he had stepped in mud, and grimaced. His vanity was well known around the camp. "I disagree," Moonhand said. "If Malekith was down there, the city would have long since fallen. It's been under siege for a month or more as far as we know." "In any case, it's best to dwell on what we know is down there. Mortharor's taken his two thousand warriors there, and I'd guess there are maybe forty- odd thousand dark elves there already. So, maybe fifty thousand druchii to our twenty thousand. Unenviable, but winnable," Tarran, ever the practical one, said. "And Mortharor," Calarion said bitterly. "With him in charge, that's like another two thousand." Arhaindir stopped and put one hand on Calarion's shoulder, spinning him around. "Don't be pessimistic, Calarion. No matter how it seems, this isn't over yet by a long shot. And don't forget it." "What's the first step, Calarion?" Angedhel said. "Do we just charge into the dark elven rear?" "No. We need to coordinate with the commanders of the city." Tarran Angedhel's face went dark and guarded. "Whoever does that is signing their own death warrant. They'd have to get past all five thousand dark elves on this side of the city. None of our scouts could do that." Moonhand said, "I know." With frustration, Calarion said, "So who do we send then?" Moonhand replied slowly, "Me." Tarran exploded. "YOU? That's totally out of the question!" "Why? Do you think you'd have a better chance? "Don't be ridiculous, I'd be dead in two minutes! You're a commander, far too valuable to us! Besides, you have a wife!" "I have a child too, you know. But that changes nothing." "It changes nothing.Calarion, tell him he's a fool!" But Calarion was looking at Moonhand. "I agree, actually." Tarran looked to Herulach, but the Loremaster was engrossed with the mud splattered on his robes and paid no attention. Finally with a snort he looked back at Calarion. "All right, why him?" "Do you think you could do a better job? He has the best odds of anyone here of sneaking through the enemy lines. Besides, should he need to fight, he should be able to defeat any Druchii short of Mortharor." "My thoughts," Moonhand said. Tarran let out his breath in a gust, and retorted, "If death is so sweet to you, there are easier ways to pursue it!" But he was beaten and he knew it. Moonhand knew it too. He paced off calmly, holding the hilt of his sword tightly, through the camp. He turned and waved cheerfully, and then was lost to the high elves' eyes.
The approach began easy. Moonhand's gray and green cloak blended in well with the rocky fields as he crawled closer to the burning city. But then he was under the noses of the dark elves, and his progress became tougher. He lay for a while, as dark elves ran by bearing siege ladders or bared blades forged of cruel Har Graef steel, head down with the voluminous cloak covering it. Eventually he could hear no sound of footsteps, and so he dared to lift the cloak slightly and gaze up. His daring was rewarded, for none of the dark elves were near him and he could dare to crawl forward a few metres. But now he could see the dark elves. He was a few paces away from the great pearl and marble wall of Lothern - at least he assumed it was pearl and marble, for most of it lay in ruins, breached in many places, and dark elves swarmed through those gaps to skirmish with the Seaguard defenders. Many corpses littered the broad paved avenue before him. And there was no way he'd sneak past here without being noticed. Time to run, he told himself, and pulled himself to his feet, strung bow in hand. The band of dark elven swordsmen spun as the first shaft struck the back of one of their own, knocking him spinning to the ground. Moonhand drew back the bow again, and fired. Another dark elf was flung off his feet by the force of the blow and clattered into the rubble. The other eight or so dashed for him, screaming. Arhaindir's Nagarythi blood began to boil. These were his natural enemy. They must die - all of them. His lip curled back into a sneer, and he howled a challenge as he tore his enruned longsword from his side. The dark elves came upon him like the tide. He swung wildly, cleaving the first in twain. Swords flew, and blood spattered the walls. Moonhand yelped as a blow bruised his ribs, nearly killing him. A dark elf shrieked in agony as Moonhand removed his sword hand and then his head. Moonhand's sanity returned to him. He could hear more dark elves coming, and had to get away. He had not the luxury of time. He swung the sword again, making the dark elves dart backwards. Then as they moved in again, he tensed his leg muscles and sprang. With one hand he gripped tight the sword as he flailed for a hold on the building by which he had been standing. He found one, an outcrop of wood, and hung there for a while as the dark elves cursed him. Then he hauled himself on to the roof. Below him several dark elves had sheathed their swords and were now trying to scale the building. The rest, though, far more dangerously, were readying their infamous hand crossbows. He ran along the roof and jumped to the next roof, barely clearing the gap. The dark elven warriors came howling after him. Three landed, one having to catch hold of the edge. The fourth missed, and landed with a crump! at the base of the building. Not dead, but incapacitated, thank Kurnous. The warriors drew their swords again. He sprang away, loping along the building, jumping over a large patch of roof that had been burnt away by the assault. There was a noise, and Moonhand screamed in pain. A bolt thudded into his waist, subtly changing the trajectory of his fall. He plummeted through the gap now. He tried to catch hold of the wall to slow his fall, but failed. Landed hard at the bottom. He did not look at his left leg, but knew that it was broken. He reached for his sword, and found it had fallen a few metres away. The three dark elves dropped down between him and it. He drew his broad-bladed hunting knife, and prepared for death. But barely conscious with the pain from his leg, he knew he would not last long. The dark elves collapsed. Shafts flew through the air, taking the druchii in the throats or chests. Turning, Moonhand could see a small force of Seaguard approaching, bows strung. "Thank Kurnous," he croaked, and then he fainted.