The fighting was thick. Calarion had intended to hold back and observe from a distance, in order to better command, but the sight of the hated dark elves had lured him in, and the tides of the devils meant there was no escape until he was dead, or they were. He intended to make sure it was the second. And so his sword scythed as he abandoned his skill and fell back on the rage he had felt since learning of his father's death. "For Tarthalion!" he bellowed, and delivered a vicious backhand slash to a dark elf that took off his arm at the elbow and continued to tear a deep furrow through his chest. Gore flew, but Calarion did not care. Vengeance! He screamed again, using no words save a primal outletting of fury and bloodthirstiness. The roar echoed strangely as Calarion smote another Dark Elf into Morai-Heg's misty halls. Then a quick spin, and another hack, and a dark elf's severed torso fell to the ground. He continued his path of blood, and the high elves rallied behind him, their invincible leader. He slowed as another dark elf appeared before him, a champion, with a blade that was taller even than the lanky elf and looked as if it weighed twice as much as him. The champion swung, and Calarion backed up, knowing a hit by that titan would shear him in half. The greatsword came back across again, and Calarion was ready for it. He darted in after it had past him. Swung with his spear, making the champion grunt with pain and shock at the strange attack. Then one quick downward thrust and the warrior was dead, too, trampled underfoot by the victor. Standing on the corpse, Calarion found himself temporarily free from the fighting. He stood atop the crumpled corpse and brandished his blade. "For Tarthalion!" he roared, and then "For Ulthuan!" And the cries were taken up by those around him as they tore viciously into the despised foe at last. Vengeance for Tarthalion! Vengeance for Carus! Vengeance for Cyeos! The cries echoed through the lines. The dark elves tried to fight back, but the force and fury of the attacking army scared them. They fell back, deeper into the city, intent on slaughtering the defenders and finding a defensible position. But the masses of Seaguard, led by the grim faced Melenar of House Coraith, stood their ground, and the dark elves were trapped. And Calarion's elves came slamming onwards, driving the dark elves on to the spears of Melenar. Standing on an artificial hill made of dark elven corpses, Calarion had an excellent view of the battlefield, and he cried out again, a different battle cry. "Mortharor! Face me, Mortharor!" But Calarion could not see his nemesis, and continued crying vainly, without success. It was possible even that Mortharor was dead, killed by the high elven assault. But he doubted it - he'd know. Calarion's mind returned. Where was it? He knew that Mortharor could not have played his trump card yet. And if Mortharor didn't act soon, the battle would be lost for him. The move would come now. Calarion sheathed his gleaming blade, and pulled a longbow from his back, and one special red-dyed arrow from his quiver. The arrow had been specially enchanted so that when he let it fly it would catch on fire. A simple enchantment, and a very effective one for issuing commands. Instinct prompted Calarion to turn, so that he was looking out over the small hills that surrounded Lothern. Just in time, for even as he moved, a patch of ground - quavered - and then was gone. One of the hills was in fact another three regiments of dark elven warriors, elite ones most likely, and Calarion could make out Mortharor's black and red bat-skull banner. This was what he had been waiting for. As Mortharor's elites began a rear attack of their own, Calarion drew back the fine bowstring, and released. With a whine, the arrow shot up into the sky, igniting magically as it went. Calarion could not see where it landed. Then from their own hiding places, Calarion's cavalry appeared. They charged into Mortharor's men. Calarion grinned.

Melenar of House Coraith looked up in amazement as the last of the dark elves fled from the ruins of Lothern. "By Kurnous," Melenar breathed. "We've done it. At last. We've defeated them." The Seaguard stood around quietly, saved for the puff of breath. Then one cried out, "Victory!" The cry was raised. "Victory! Victory!" Melenar stood and wept tears of joy and shock, as the elves began a wild dance of glee. The first true victory of the war, and it was his, his and Calarion's. On impulse he brandished his reddened blade, and cried, "For Ulthuan!" The Seaguard took up the cry, and pumped swords, spears, bows, and fists into the air. "For Ulthuan!" "For Ulthuan." Another voce, but this one, bone-weary, was barely above a whisper. But the power in the phrase was evident and caused all the elves to turn and regard the speaker. It was an elven warrior, soaked head to foot in blood - most of it his foes', though a fair amount was his own. He still held bare his ilthilmar sword, which glinted through the layers of blood. And he was clad in a beautiful suit of gold-tinted scale mail. It had to be Calarion Melenar cried out, "Water! Water for Calarion!" One of the Seaguard ran over and handed Calarion a full waterskin. The elf prince opened the thing above his head, so that it soaked through his already ruined robes and some poured into his mouth. Somewhat cleaner, Calarion strode over to Melenar. "Melenar of House Coraith?" "None other. And you would be Prince Calarion?" Calarion inclined his head. "Come with me. I'll take you to see your friend Moonhand. We can talk on the way there." "That is acceptable." The two turned and strode further into Lothern, towards the area that was still intact. "We've done well this day, Calarion. Tarthalion would be proud." "Not yet. I haven't taken the head of his killer yet - yet." "Tarthalion's dead? When? How?" "We got separated. His army got penned in by Mortharor and slaughtered. Only a handful escaped. Apparently, he faced Mortharor in single combat to give them time to escape. Mortharor butchered him." "And Mortharor is.?" "The dark elven general who's led the assault here. The Witch-King's greatest general. My prey." Calarion's harsh tones were frightening Melenar slightly. "Do you have the right attitude for this?" Calarion spun to face him. "You do what you must do. I will do what I must." Melenar decided to let the matter slip. "Do you know where the druchii have fled to?" "I suspect they have gone to Morband-Barad, Mortharor's fortress he erected in the Annulii Mountains. I've sent twenty knights, led by my lieutenant Tarran Angedhel, to follow them. They'll tell us where they've gone to, I'll lead my army after them, and we'll wipe out the remnants and raze their foul stronghold so low that the gods won't know what's happened to it." "A good plan. Will you need any reinforcements?" "Maybe a group of Seaguard. The cavalry are useless in the snow, so I'll leave the horses here. They had come by now to the inn, which Melenar's men had converted into a hospital. Melenar opened the door and walked inside, Calarion behind him. "The dark elves on this side of the city have been routed!" Melenar cried, and the elves gave a resounding roar. "Amazing how much noise they can make for wounded men," Calarion remarked wryly. They came soon to where Arhaindir Moonhand was. He was mostly recovered, the healing of the mages being very swift, and was grinding herbs for a herbal paste. "Calarion!" the cheerful elf cried, and the two embraced warmly. "How are you?" "Oh, I'm practically recovered. What's happened?" Quickly, Calarion filled him in on the battle and what was about to happen. Moonhand's face was worried. "Calarion, be careful. Don't underestimate Mortharor. He killed Tarthalion. He could kill you." Calarion snorted. "Don't worry about how me. He could kill me. I will kill him!"

It was cold, viciously so. Tarran Angedhel shivered, even inside all the layers of thick white cloth he wore wrapped over his armour. With one hand, he gestured, and the other members of the band scrambled up the rock face to where he was. "Be careful," Tarran hissed. "I can hear the dark elves now." The warriors crawled forward, careful to move on the rock so as to not leave tracks. Tarran was in the lead, so he was first over the ridge and first to gaze into the valley. He froze again when he did so. The infernal fortress of Morband-Barad could be seen, its harsh-edged twin towers of black jutting into the sky. And there were the dark elves too, an army of them. Far more than what had escaped the rout at Lothern. Far, far, more. Calarion would come here expecting to find an ember. He would find an inferno. "About turn," Tarran Angedhel hissed. "Back to Lothern." But they all froze when they saw the dark elven warriors standing behind them, grinning, swords balanced in their hands lightly. It was not a battle. It was a massacre. Most of Tarran's men were cut down where they stood, before they could even draw their swords. Tarran did draw his though. Minor runes of cleaving shone as he hurled himself at the dark elves. One fell, his helm cleft in twain. Then swords were striking him, repeatedly, from all angles and directions. He fell into snow reddened with his own blood, and knew that he was dying. Then he heard a voice. "Stop." The voice scared him, and not just for the cruelty in it. He had heard that voice before, when he had led the flight after Tarthalion's death. It was Mortharor. "Do not kill that one. Bind him and bring him. That is Tarran Angedhel, second in command to Calarion Sapherior. He could be useful." "What of the rest, my lord?" "We do not need them. Bring their heads only."