A hawk cried. Calarion sat on a long smooth boulder, grimly cleaning his ancient sword. He'd cleaned the blood of the druchii scouts off it long ago, but he still wiped at it with the reddened cloth. He knew it was clean. Now, in his mind that had tempered by the losses of war, he could tell that this was anticipation, and that he would keep wiping ineffectually, even when the rag had been worn away entirely, until came the release of battle. He started briefly with the cry, jerking to his feet, blade swinging into a guard position. Then he laughed and relaxed, sagging back to his seat on the rock. The hawk cried again, circling overhead, and Calarion lazily traced its position in the sky with his eye. It circled again, then began to descend rapidly, directly for his head. With a startled exclamation, the high elf jumped back, dropping the rag altogether. It was soon blown away by the wind. The bird landed just before the rock, and Calarion could see a string bound a strip of parchment to its leg. The bird shrieked at him, and pulled at the string, tearing it easily. Then with the parchment lying lose, it cried again and was gone. The puzzled elf grabbed the note from midair as the wind began to carry it, too, out to the distant ocean. He unfurled it and began to swiftly scan the fine elven symbols traced upon the paper. Greetings, Prince Calarion, the note said. I am Melenar of House Coraith, acting commander of the Lothern Seaguard. Just recently my men rescued a servant of yours, one Arhaindir Moonhand. While quite wounded, he is in the care of our mages and I assure you that he is recovering well. Moonhand has said that you wish to coordinate a strike against the dark elven attackers. I direct you to strike the eastern flank at three of the clock. I shall organize my defenders so that, all going well, we can defeat this mob and begin to clear them from our lands once more. "What is it?" floated a voice from behind him, and he turned to see the Loremaster Herulach come striding down the fields towards him. As always, the Loremaster seemed to have some simple cantrip cast, for his sky-blue and white robes practically blazed, they were so clean of any speck of mud. Calarion said, "Could you have done that?" "Done what?" The Prince gestured vaguely in the direction the bird had gone. "I just received a missive from Lord Melenar of Lothern. He had a hawk deliver it. Could you have done the same thing?" Herulach sighed. "Why, yes, I suppose I could have. Why?" Calarion tried to keep his voice level, but did not succeed very well. "Why didn't you just do that instead of Moonhand nearly getting killed?" The mage blinked languidly. "I could have, but why waste the energy?" Calarion snarled in his face, "Moonhand nearly died!" One hand grabbed the man's shoulder, hard. Herulach's tones hardened. "Remove your hand." When Calarion did not move, the Loremaster slapped his hand up on to Calarion's, and snapped a word. With a cry of surprise and pain, Calarion pulled his seared hand back. "Morai-Heg curse you, why did you do that!?" he spat, clutching his wounded hand. "I told you to remove your hand," Herulach said coldly. "I am not your servant." And he turned and strode off, leaving the prince to clutch his wounded hand and glare at his back.

Time passed. Calarion had his hand attended to by the healers, offering them no explanation of why his hand had been so thoroughly burnt. He avoided the arrogant mage for the rest of the day, fuming quietly. The rest of his host prepared itself for battle once more. Smooth wooden shafts of spears were clutched firmly. Scale mail coats and the distinctive ithilmar helms were pulled on, over pristine white robes. Bows were strung, scabbards laced on to belts. Saddles were set in place and lances readied. All over the camp, there was a bustle of activity, as Calarion's elves prepared to gamble their lives once again. But there was a brightness to their actions that had not been seen since the muster, long months ago. Calarion had told them of the plan, and they knew, should they have victory this day, it could pave the way to the freeing of eastern Ulthuan. And if they fell, there would never be another chance. For is they fell, then Lothern would surely fall as well, and with it the Phoenix King. This was the engagement that would change the course of the war forever. Calarion was less confident as he brooded alone. In his mind, he played over every strategy and scheme that Mortharor could use against his assault, and worked out possible counters. There were too many, he knew. Preparing for one trick would leave him open to another, and there was no way he could counter them all. And Mortharor would know this, and would use whatever weakness the left, exploit it and defeat him with it again. Then a grin came to his face. Obvious, really, when one thought about it. Obvious. He stood up and jogged lightly off to prepare for his own trick. It would be hard to organize, but if it worked, he might just be able to push the druchii back to Morband-Barad, the fortress of Mortharor that he had erected in the snow-drenched Annullii Mountains. Finally the hour of three was upon the army. With swift and hushed action, the army prepared for the attack on the dark elven lines.

Melenar of House Coraith scratched his brow wearily. He hefted the sword, bloodied all its length, and cried out, "Fall back!" Around him, the ranks of Seaguard began to break away from their skirmishing battles and move deeper into the city. A captain came to him then. Melenar recognized him: it was Cambragol Sunbrow, one of the career soldiers of the Seaguard. "What is it, Cambragol?" the elflord said wearily, to tired to stand to attention as he ran slowly backwards to where the Seaguard were reforming for another stand. Cambragol answered swiftly and without any unnecessary information. "The anvil is ready, Prince Melenar." Melenar grinned like a wolf, and slapped Cambragol on the shoulder. "Good work. Now, get to your place." Cambragol didn't move. "This is my place," he said calmly. Melenar blinked. So it was. He was getting too tired for all this. "How long has it been since I last slept?" he asked himself quietly. "Four days, Prince Melenar," Cambragol said. Melenar blinked. "That long? Remind me to catch some sleep soon," he said, rubbing one leather-gauntleted hand over his flowing brown hair. Cambragol didn't answer. He just tightened his grip on his longspear, but the determined look on his face said volumes. Melenar flicked his right arm, sending a small spray of blood over one of the evacuated buildings from his sword. He breathed in deeply, then took up a martial pose, sword hand extended before him, other hand held back for balance. Unlike most elves, Melenar disparaged the use of armour, wearing only a beautiful ithilmar coat. "What hour do you make it?" Melenar asked Cambragol. Cambragol squinted at the sun. "Maybe three," he said dubiously. "Excellent. Calarion should be here soon to be our hammer, and the dark elves are here already." And they were. A band of about twenty of the dark elves came into sight, and Melenar could hear the sounds of fighting in the neighboring street. Melenar screamed, "Asuryan Firebird! Isha Elfmother!" Then he dove forward into the mass of dark elves, Cambragol on his heels. His sword flew, taking the throat of a dark elf with his first sweep. Then it was back in, and Melenar had to work furiously to avoid being struck by his skilled assailants. Cambragol was there then. He caught an overhand slice with the shaft of his spear, and then one swift motion sent the warrior sprawling. He thrust out twice, slamming the blunt end into a dark elf's gut, and the next blow driving his spear blade clean through another's heart. He left the spear then - too cumbersome at close quarters - and drew his own elf-forged sword. With his other hand he deftly pulled his long teardrop shaped shield down, and warded off an attack from one flank with it, while his sword spun in parry after parry. Melenar took advantage of the distraction caused by the captain's charge, and dropped down to his knees. The surprised dark elves were unable to stop him as he brought his sword around in a crimson arc, their blades bring too high to parry. Melenar's sword sheared through chain links and dropped two elves, who groaned and flopped around pathetically as they clutched their slit bellies. Melenar hopped back to his feet with grace, and waved his gory blade at the remaining attackers. They respected him now, and backed off slightly, ready for his next move. It was a quick one - with two slashes he put the downed warriors out of their misery and then prepared for the inevitable charge. He was not disappointed. The dark elves had thought to take advantage of his distraction, and they came bounding and slavering at him. He swung the longsword in broad arcs, keeping the dark elves back rather than doing any real attack. Then something heavy impacted with the back of his skull. It was only his keen warrior senses that saved him, for he began to move forward and out of the way before he even consciously knew of the attack. Even so, the blow sent Melenar reeling. With his left hand he touched the back of his head and was not surprised when his hand came away soaked with his own blood, even as his right hand delivered an instinctive and fatal attack to sneak. It was a useless gesture, though, for the dark elves were upon him, grinning at the prospect of the kill. They would be grinning wider had they realized that this was the commander of Lothern' defenses, and with his fall came Lothern's fall. They did not realize this. But Cambragol did. With a deftness born of desperation, he dove into the mess of warriors, hacking wildly and frantically. His savage sweeps brought down two more of the dark elves, before their own blades struck home. With a bloody froth on his lips, Cambragol fell, pierced by many blades. But his sacrifice had given Melenar both the time needed to recover, and the fury to finish the fight. Screaming wildly, hot tears of anger running down his face, he hurled himself into the dark elves. His anger made him cold and deadly, made him ruthless and murderous. The blade flew and hewed down the dark elves like a scythe through wheat. Seemingly heartbeats later for Melenar, the last mutilated corpse fell to the ground with a wet thump, and he dropped to his knees by Cambragol's side. Cambragol did not move. Fearfully Melenar reached out and laid one hand lightly on his friend's throat, feeling for a heartbeat. His search was rewarded, for there was a fluttering pulse still. Cambragol was not dead - a miracle, Melenar knew, when he surveyed Cambragol's bloody torso. There came a noise, the clatter of hooves on the pavement. Melenar looked up, hand tightening on his sword. If this were a dark elf, he would sell his life dearly! But the sight was not that of a dark elven rider on obsidian-dark steed. Instead, a vision of glory and beauty, a high elven lancer was coming towards him. "Over here, man!" Melenar roared. "Cambragol's wounded!" The rider came over, and swung off the horse. "Prince Melenar? I've been sent to find you by Prince Calarion!" Melenar paid further notice, and could now see that the colours on the uniform were different to his own, being a regal blue in shade. "My man here is wounded and near death," Melenar said. "I'll take you message later, but for now take him to safety. Just take his down this street and you'll get to the supply lines." Between the two of them, they shifted the wounded Cambragol and slumped him over the beautiful elf steed. "Isha Elfmother!" the knight exclaimed. "He's covered in wounds!" Melenar gave him a hard look. "Get him down there, and then come right back!" The knight mounted, and waved briefly at Melenar, before continuing at much faster pace towards the healers.