"Calarion! Wake up!"
The elflord shook, and then came fully wake, sitting up in the comfortable
quarters Melenar had made available for him during his stay in Lothern.
The elf shook him again. "There's a messenger here. From Mortharor."
Calarion shoved the elf out of his way, and sprang out of the bed. He
grabbed his ancient sword and began running down the stairs, not bothering
to change out of his light sleeping robes.
The Seaguard captain shook his head and followed after him at a jog, to be
able to keep up. He heard the sound of Calarion rushing down the flight of
stairs, and then the door being harshly flung open and slammed, and a light
patter as the elf sprinted off to meet the messenger.
The messenger was a dark elven warrior riding a wild-eyed black stallion,
one of the fine breed the dark elves stole in their raids on Tiranoc and
Ellyrion. He wore light black robes and a shirt of black steel chain-links,
with a black cloak whipping in the stiff breeze that waved around
Calarion's robe. The elflord found himself shivering, and wished that he
had thought to take a cloak as well.
"You are the rat they call Calarion?" the rider cried.
Calarion drew his sword slowly. "I am."
The horse trotted forward slowly past the rubble from the fallen buildings.
"You can put your toy away. I bear a gift for you from my lord Mortharor the Black, and to my regret it doesn't involve a sword in your neck." Some warriors came running over and took a position between Calarion and the emissary. "Need protection?" the dark elf jeered. "Do I?" Calarion retorted. The dark elf simply laughed, and pulled a sack from his belt. "Compliments of Mortharor," he yelled, and flung it to Calarion. The elf lord caught it out of midair deftly. "Go on, have a look," the rider said. "Go on!" Gingerly, Calarion opened the bag. Then with a yelp of shock he dropped it again, and it fell heavily to the ground, its gruesome contents coming out. Elven heads. Now Calarion could see the soaked red wetness at the bottom of the bag, and he could recognize the elves too. Arandis. Cathedran. Ealiorahe. Talashah. Laeranion. Eohe. Tarroch. Arlaniaer. Rethutan. Imathir. The rider pulled an identical sack from the other side of his belt and emptied that at his horse's feet. Nine more heads rolled in the dust, and Calarion felt sick. But. Nineteen heads. Twenty elves sent. That left. Calarion quickly looked around. "Where is Tarran Angedhel?" he said slowly, dreading the consequences. "Mortharor says this: if you want the complete set, you'll have to visit him at Morband-Barad. The twentieth of your spies is alive and well - that is, well considering the tortures he's undergone. You can come to Morband- Barad any time you want to pick him up. Mortharor says he's waiting for you." And with a shrill laugh the dark elf spun his horse and galloped out of Lothern. Calarion stood in his night robe. He could not cry. No tears came to his eyes. Instead his face was contorted in rage. This was the last insult he'd put up with from Mortharor! This time he'd have his head! "Take those heads," he said coldly. "They, at least, will have a decent burial."
"You cannot be serious!" exclaimed Arhaindir Moonhand. The elf was still puttering around assisting the healers, and Calarion was still, watching him intently. "I assure you, I am quite serious. Are you with me?" "I'm not fit for fighting just yet. It'll be another day, and then my elves and I will be assisting Melenar with fighting off the dark elves here. But I will not give command of my men to you for this battle." "Why not?" Arhaindir put down the cloths he had just boiled and eyed Calarion squarely. "I am afraid." "There is no need to be afraid for me, my friend." "That is not what I said. I am afraid of you. I fear your rage. And you should be, too. The only elves that hate like you do are the dark elves. Is that a comparison you want to be made?" "My anger is acceptable to me, if it gives me Mortharor's head." "But is the anger your tool, or are you a tool of your anger? I cannot trust my household to you, when rage is commanding them. You, I trust. Your anger, though.And in any case, I would be wary about this battle. Mortharor must have a trap intended for you." "I know." "You know? Then why are you insisting upon this? Tarran Angedhel's life is a small prize in the large scheme of things, and he knows this." "This isn't about Tarran Angedhel. It's about me, and Mortharor. Tarran's capture has just accelerated the inevitable." Moonhand sighed. "I shall see you upon your return - presuming, of course, that you return." Calarion turned to leave. As he did, one of the healers, a plain looking elfwoman spoke. "Excuse me, my lord, do you need assistance?" Calarion shrank back, with a look akin to fear or anger on his face. "Nothing!" he snapped hastily, and hurried out of the building. Arhaindir Moonhand picked up the cloths again and sighed. Would Calarion survive this battle? And more to the point, would there be anything left of his soul if he did?
Later that day, Calarion's strike force left Lothern and began the march for Morband-Barad, Calarion at the front. There was a grimness that respected that of their leader as they moved for the final battle of Calarion's war. Arhaindir Moonhand did not watch them go.
The dark elven reavers continued their assault. Small swift craft, they sped around the huge Ruby Gate, propelling arrows of fire at the gate and the occasional blast from a mage. For their part, the defenders met the attack as best they could, launching counterattacks from the bolt throwers mounted upon the vast red edifice. But the dark elven craft were, for the most part, too quick and agile for the bolts to have any serious effect, buoyed by the dark wizardries of their passengers, although one of the reavers died in spectacular manner as the bolt exploded through its hull and sent it and its crew to clog up the waterways as additional protection - for there was a reef now of sunken ships. In calmer times, Lothern's Guild of Water-Mages would have cleared the mess, but it was not calmer times, and the Guild was holed up in the city, fortifying their guildhouse. So the skeletal craft remained. It resembled nothing so much as a pack of vultures circling a dying lion, the lion trying to bat them off as its paws grew heavy with death. It was a metaphor that pleased the Witch-King greatly. And while the Witch-King was not there at the Ruby Gate, he had sent something as a helper. Only describable as thing, the waterborne monstrosity looked much like a hydra, and in fact it was with these that Malekith had begun his demented experimentation. The hydra now had not three but six 'heads'. But instead of heads Malekith had grafted Dark Elven torsos upon the thing, with arms and heads and all. Their faces told of the eternal torment this thing offered them. And behind them, another similar monstrosity - the head of a dragon, a great Black that the Witch-King had slain. It coiled and roared endlessly, until even the stern defenders grew afraid and made as if to flee. But the Witch-King's thing would not let them. Up it reared, and with brutal instinct the dragon-head opened wide, exhaling a quick gout of acidic fumes. The elves that were caught by the blast fell from the Gate into the reef below, screaming as their skin withered and burnt. The rest just ran all the faster, their courage broken. Now the thing turned and undulated towards the deserted Ruby Gate. With a heave it threw its considerable mass at the gate. It shuddered worryingly. The thing slammed into the gate again. With a shriek of stressed metals, the gate was distorted, a large crack running up it. Smash! Smash! Smash! And at the fifth time, the Ruby Gate fell sundered, and the dark elven fleet surged into Lothern.
Melenar jerked. "WHAT!?" he screamed, worried like never before. "The Ruby Gate has fallen! The Dark Elves have entered the harbor!" the messenger cried. Melenar blanched. If left unchecked, the Dark Elves could sink several of the great floating islands, or move directly for the Phoenix King and kill him, or attack him from the rear where there were no defenses. "Get Cambragol and Arhaindir Moonhand to bring their men after me!" he told the messenger. "And Meclar, too!" he added. "Then follow yourself! We'll need all the men we can spare!" Melenar turned and sprinted deeper into the city, he regiment behind him. It was chaos. The dark elves had already penetrated far into the bay, and flames roared from all over the islands. Melenar stood in shock. How could he save Lothern now? But part of that indomitable spirit and stubbornness that inhabits all elves shone through now. He'd be damned if he gave up without a fight! A tower of flames shot high and then sunk, as one of the floating islands exploded and sunk. Melenar felt sick - how many civilians were packed on to those things? How many elves had just died? He continued running. Strange, he noted to himself, that they had not attacked the Phoenix King yet. Maybe the Witch-King wanted to save that pleasure for himself. It would be most like him. But something niggled at Melenar's mind. He'd missed something. All the dark elven reavers were beginning to cluster on one of the isles. Of course! They were attacking the Seaguard barracks! Should they burn all the ships there, then they'd have total naval supremacy! The reavers had landed now, and the dark elves were busy looting and pillaging. And.Melenar caught a glimpse of something and wished that he had not. What in the name of Kurnous was that!? Melenar had a plan. Suddenly, abruptly, the solution came to him. But it was risky, insanely so. The stakes were high. They had nothing to lose. He spun to face a Seaguard. "Go to the Guild of Water-Mages. Get the highest-ranking member you can find! Run!" The elf said, "Sir!" and went at a sprint. The longest five minutes of Melenar's life passed. He organized the Seaguard into ships and sent them out to ineffectually skirmish while the flames grew. It was only a matter of time until they finished on that island, and when they did it was all over. Soon the elf he had sent came running back, with a short balding elf with him. Melenar recognized him - it was Kalgaer, head of the guild. "Lord Melenar! What is the meaning of this!" Kalgaer puffed indignantly. "Dark Elves have penetrate the harbor. They're attacking the Seaguard island." "And?" "Is it possible to change the magic keeping the thing up? To, say, make it explode?" "You can't do that! It's insanity!" "IS IT POSSIBLE?!" "Yes." "How do I do it then?! Tell me, or Lothern falls!" Kalgaer brought up a small crystal orb from his pocket. "The safe way would take a day. This way, just smash the globe on the island and it'll explode." Melenar snatched the thing. Kalgaer grabbed it back and mumbled a few words over it. "There. It is active now. And if you are wrong." "Then we're all dead anyway and it doesn't matter!" Melenar sprinted to the docks where he'd had his officer Meclar wait, and vaulted in. "Full speed to the Seaguard barracks!" he roared. As the ship moved, Melenar quickly explained his plan - explode the island in the dark elves' face and kill them all. Meclar shrugged. "Whoever does that is dead." "That's why I'm doing it," Melenar said. "Me, the city - I know which is more important." "I'm coming too," Meclar announced. "You need someone in case you're salvageable." Melenar nodded. Then the ship jerked violently, and screams of terror came. Melenar and Meclar spun, blades snapping out. Malekith's thing was watching them from the side of their ship. "Asuryan!" Meclar spat in horrified awe. Melenar shouted, "No time for talk!" and ran forward. Six dark elven warriors - or their remnants - met him, suspended on the thing's heads. Twelve blades hurtled at him. Melenar scythed his sword back and forth, trying vainly to fend off all the attacks. But it was not possible - each dark elf had its own brain and they were perfectly coordinated. Melenar felt blades strike him and knew that he was dead. Meclar was at his side then, and the two stood and hacked furiously. Melenar scored the first 'kill', lopping one of the dark elves in twain. And with the first gone the rest were easy. He hacked with the persistency of a woodcutter, not fighting but cleaving. Beside him, he heard Meclar shriek in pain and say one of the dark elves draw its blade out of the elf's shoulder. The limb was attached, but Meclar would never use it again. Meclar caught his blade with his left hand and tore out the dark elf's throat with it, but Melenar could tell he was in great pain. Still, all six head were gone now. Then the dragon head reared up, and Melenar sucked in his breath. This was up to him - Meclar was too badly wounded. "For Lothern!" he cried, the one thing of most importance in his life, and charged. His sword struck the dragon repeatedly on the neck. Six swift blows. But the thing's natural armor was too tough, and all that he got for his efforts were a displaced scale. The head lashed down, serpent-fast, and Melenar tried to dodge as best possible. The head struck his side, and tore with vicious teeth. Blood poured and Melenar yelped. He swung again, aiming for the nearest eye this time. A spray of pus-like fluid and the thing's roar told him he had destroyed the eye. The dragon-head reared up, and opened its mouth wide. Very wide. Melenar knew the thing intended to use its deadly breath on him, and began to dodge. Then he changed his mind. Stood proud and tall, clutching his sword in both hands. "Lothern!" he roared, and drove the sword deep into the fiend's throat, through the back of the mouth, and up into its brain. It roared. The sound was hideous in its volume, and Melenar could not hear his own voice screaming, though he could recognize from his throat that it would be a raw noise. Then the dragon's breath came out, one final attack on its slayer. The black cloud came out and engulfed Melenar, withering his skin, making him fall to the deck painfully. The dragon head fell back and was lost in the sea, taking his sword with it. Melenar lay in agony, as the ship sunk around him. Soon he was engulfed in the waters and felt himself drowning. Then a hand grabbed him by the back of the neck and hauled him up. Through his agony, Melenar could see two others in the small pleasure craft, Meclar and a Seaguard. Meclar reached into Melenar's pocket, instigating another surge of agony, and pulled out the crystal sphere. "I don't think you're up to this any more." Melenar did not respond. Could not, in fact. Meclar waved. "Good-bye, Melenar." Then he turned away and dove off the side of the boat. Vaguely, Melenar could hear the sound of splashing as Meclar swam to the island. Then a minute after his departure, the boat was hurled by waves, flung several metres, as a vast fireball rose into the sky. Meclar was dead. Lothern was saved. Melenar smiled, despite how the movement tugged painfully at the blackened skin of his face, and went to sleep.
"You can put your toy away. I bear a gift for you from my lord Mortharor the Black, and to my regret it doesn't involve a sword in your neck." Some warriors came running over and took a position between Calarion and the emissary. "Need protection?" the dark elf jeered. "Do I?" Calarion retorted. The dark elf simply laughed, and pulled a sack from his belt. "Compliments of Mortharor," he yelled, and flung it to Calarion. The elf lord caught it out of midair deftly. "Go on, have a look," the rider said. "Go on!" Gingerly, Calarion opened the bag. Then with a yelp of shock he dropped it again, and it fell heavily to the ground, its gruesome contents coming out. Elven heads. Now Calarion could see the soaked red wetness at the bottom of the bag, and he could recognize the elves too. Arandis. Cathedran. Ealiorahe. Talashah. Laeranion. Eohe. Tarroch. Arlaniaer. Rethutan. Imathir. The rider pulled an identical sack from the other side of his belt and emptied that at his horse's feet. Nine more heads rolled in the dust, and Calarion felt sick. But. Nineteen heads. Twenty elves sent. That left. Calarion quickly looked around. "Where is Tarran Angedhel?" he said slowly, dreading the consequences. "Mortharor says this: if you want the complete set, you'll have to visit him at Morband-Barad. The twentieth of your spies is alive and well - that is, well considering the tortures he's undergone. You can come to Morband- Barad any time you want to pick him up. Mortharor says he's waiting for you." And with a shrill laugh the dark elf spun his horse and galloped out of Lothern. Calarion stood in his night robe. He could not cry. No tears came to his eyes. Instead his face was contorted in rage. This was the last insult he'd put up with from Mortharor! This time he'd have his head! "Take those heads," he said coldly. "They, at least, will have a decent burial."
"You cannot be serious!" exclaimed Arhaindir Moonhand. The elf was still puttering around assisting the healers, and Calarion was still, watching him intently. "I assure you, I am quite serious. Are you with me?" "I'm not fit for fighting just yet. It'll be another day, and then my elves and I will be assisting Melenar with fighting off the dark elves here. But I will not give command of my men to you for this battle." "Why not?" Arhaindir put down the cloths he had just boiled and eyed Calarion squarely. "I am afraid." "There is no need to be afraid for me, my friend." "That is not what I said. I am afraid of you. I fear your rage. And you should be, too. The only elves that hate like you do are the dark elves. Is that a comparison you want to be made?" "My anger is acceptable to me, if it gives me Mortharor's head." "But is the anger your tool, or are you a tool of your anger? I cannot trust my household to you, when rage is commanding them. You, I trust. Your anger, though.And in any case, I would be wary about this battle. Mortharor must have a trap intended for you." "I know." "You know? Then why are you insisting upon this? Tarran Angedhel's life is a small prize in the large scheme of things, and he knows this." "This isn't about Tarran Angedhel. It's about me, and Mortharor. Tarran's capture has just accelerated the inevitable." Moonhand sighed. "I shall see you upon your return - presuming, of course, that you return." Calarion turned to leave. As he did, one of the healers, a plain looking elfwoman spoke. "Excuse me, my lord, do you need assistance?" Calarion shrank back, with a look akin to fear or anger on his face. "Nothing!" he snapped hastily, and hurried out of the building. Arhaindir Moonhand picked up the cloths again and sighed. Would Calarion survive this battle? And more to the point, would there be anything left of his soul if he did?
Later that day, Calarion's strike force left Lothern and began the march for Morband-Barad, Calarion at the front. There was a grimness that respected that of their leader as they moved for the final battle of Calarion's war. Arhaindir Moonhand did not watch them go.
The dark elven reavers continued their assault. Small swift craft, they sped around the huge Ruby Gate, propelling arrows of fire at the gate and the occasional blast from a mage. For their part, the defenders met the attack as best they could, launching counterattacks from the bolt throwers mounted upon the vast red edifice. But the dark elven craft were, for the most part, too quick and agile for the bolts to have any serious effect, buoyed by the dark wizardries of their passengers, although one of the reavers died in spectacular manner as the bolt exploded through its hull and sent it and its crew to clog up the waterways as additional protection - for there was a reef now of sunken ships. In calmer times, Lothern's Guild of Water-Mages would have cleared the mess, but it was not calmer times, and the Guild was holed up in the city, fortifying their guildhouse. So the skeletal craft remained. It resembled nothing so much as a pack of vultures circling a dying lion, the lion trying to bat them off as its paws grew heavy with death. It was a metaphor that pleased the Witch-King greatly. And while the Witch-King was not there at the Ruby Gate, he had sent something as a helper. Only describable as thing, the waterborne monstrosity looked much like a hydra, and in fact it was with these that Malekith had begun his demented experimentation. The hydra now had not three but six 'heads'. But instead of heads Malekith had grafted Dark Elven torsos upon the thing, with arms and heads and all. Their faces told of the eternal torment this thing offered them. And behind them, another similar monstrosity - the head of a dragon, a great Black that the Witch-King had slain. It coiled and roared endlessly, until even the stern defenders grew afraid and made as if to flee. But the Witch-King's thing would not let them. Up it reared, and with brutal instinct the dragon-head opened wide, exhaling a quick gout of acidic fumes. The elves that were caught by the blast fell from the Gate into the reef below, screaming as their skin withered and burnt. The rest just ran all the faster, their courage broken. Now the thing turned and undulated towards the deserted Ruby Gate. With a heave it threw its considerable mass at the gate. It shuddered worryingly. The thing slammed into the gate again. With a shriek of stressed metals, the gate was distorted, a large crack running up it. Smash! Smash! Smash! And at the fifth time, the Ruby Gate fell sundered, and the dark elven fleet surged into Lothern.
Melenar jerked. "WHAT!?" he screamed, worried like never before. "The Ruby Gate has fallen! The Dark Elves have entered the harbor!" the messenger cried. Melenar blanched. If left unchecked, the Dark Elves could sink several of the great floating islands, or move directly for the Phoenix King and kill him, or attack him from the rear where there were no defenses. "Get Cambragol and Arhaindir Moonhand to bring their men after me!" he told the messenger. "And Meclar, too!" he added. "Then follow yourself! We'll need all the men we can spare!" Melenar turned and sprinted deeper into the city, he regiment behind him. It was chaos. The dark elves had already penetrated far into the bay, and flames roared from all over the islands. Melenar stood in shock. How could he save Lothern now? But part of that indomitable spirit and stubbornness that inhabits all elves shone through now. He'd be damned if he gave up without a fight! A tower of flames shot high and then sunk, as one of the floating islands exploded and sunk. Melenar felt sick - how many civilians were packed on to those things? How many elves had just died? He continued running. Strange, he noted to himself, that they had not attacked the Phoenix King yet. Maybe the Witch-King wanted to save that pleasure for himself. It would be most like him. But something niggled at Melenar's mind. He'd missed something. All the dark elven reavers were beginning to cluster on one of the isles. Of course! They were attacking the Seaguard barracks! Should they burn all the ships there, then they'd have total naval supremacy! The reavers had landed now, and the dark elves were busy looting and pillaging. And.Melenar caught a glimpse of something and wished that he had not. What in the name of Kurnous was that!? Melenar had a plan. Suddenly, abruptly, the solution came to him. But it was risky, insanely so. The stakes were high. They had nothing to lose. He spun to face a Seaguard. "Go to the Guild of Water-Mages. Get the highest-ranking member you can find! Run!" The elf said, "Sir!" and went at a sprint. The longest five minutes of Melenar's life passed. He organized the Seaguard into ships and sent them out to ineffectually skirmish while the flames grew. It was only a matter of time until they finished on that island, and when they did it was all over. Soon the elf he had sent came running back, with a short balding elf with him. Melenar recognized him - it was Kalgaer, head of the guild. "Lord Melenar! What is the meaning of this!" Kalgaer puffed indignantly. "Dark Elves have penetrate the harbor. They're attacking the Seaguard island." "And?" "Is it possible to change the magic keeping the thing up? To, say, make it explode?" "You can't do that! It's insanity!" "IS IT POSSIBLE?!" "Yes." "How do I do it then?! Tell me, or Lothern falls!" Kalgaer brought up a small crystal orb from his pocket. "The safe way would take a day. This way, just smash the globe on the island and it'll explode." Melenar snatched the thing. Kalgaer grabbed it back and mumbled a few words over it. "There. It is active now. And if you are wrong." "Then we're all dead anyway and it doesn't matter!" Melenar sprinted to the docks where he'd had his officer Meclar wait, and vaulted in. "Full speed to the Seaguard barracks!" he roared. As the ship moved, Melenar quickly explained his plan - explode the island in the dark elves' face and kill them all. Meclar shrugged. "Whoever does that is dead." "That's why I'm doing it," Melenar said. "Me, the city - I know which is more important." "I'm coming too," Meclar announced. "You need someone in case you're salvageable." Melenar nodded. Then the ship jerked violently, and screams of terror came. Melenar and Meclar spun, blades snapping out. Malekith's thing was watching them from the side of their ship. "Asuryan!" Meclar spat in horrified awe. Melenar shouted, "No time for talk!" and ran forward. Six dark elven warriors - or their remnants - met him, suspended on the thing's heads. Twelve blades hurtled at him. Melenar scythed his sword back and forth, trying vainly to fend off all the attacks. But it was not possible - each dark elf had its own brain and they were perfectly coordinated. Melenar felt blades strike him and knew that he was dead. Meclar was at his side then, and the two stood and hacked furiously. Melenar scored the first 'kill', lopping one of the dark elves in twain. And with the first gone the rest were easy. He hacked with the persistency of a woodcutter, not fighting but cleaving. Beside him, he heard Meclar shriek in pain and say one of the dark elves draw its blade out of the elf's shoulder. The limb was attached, but Meclar would never use it again. Meclar caught his blade with his left hand and tore out the dark elf's throat with it, but Melenar could tell he was in great pain. Still, all six head were gone now. Then the dragon head reared up, and Melenar sucked in his breath. This was up to him - Meclar was too badly wounded. "For Lothern!" he cried, the one thing of most importance in his life, and charged. His sword struck the dragon repeatedly on the neck. Six swift blows. But the thing's natural armor was too tough, and all that he got for his efforts were a displaced scale. The head lashed down, serpent-fast, and Melenar tried to dodge as best possible. The head struck his side, and tore with vicious teeth. Blood poured and Melenar yelped. He swung again, aiming for the nearest eye this time. A spray of pus-like fluid and the thing's roar told him he had destroyed the eye. The dragon-head reared up, and opened its mouth wide. Very wide. Melenar knew the thing intended to use its deadly breath on him, and began to dodge. Then he changed his mind. Stood proud and tall, clutching his sword in both hands. "Lothern!" he roared, and drove the sword deep into the fiend's throat, through the back of the mouth, and up into its brain. It roared. The sound was hideous in its volume, and Melenar could not hear his own voice screaming, though he could recognize from his throat that it would be a raw noise. Then the dragon's breath came out, one final attack on its slayer. The black cloud came out and engulfed Melenar, withering his skin, making him fall to the deck painfully. The dragon head fell back and was lost in the sea, taking his sword with it. Melenar lay in agony, as the ship sunk around him. Soon he was engulfed in the waters and felt himself drowning. Then a hand grabbed him by the back of the neck and hauled him up. Through his agony, Melenar could see two others in the small pleasure craft, Meclar and a Seaguard. Meclar reached into Melenar's pocket, instigating another surge of agony, and pulled out the crystal sphere. "I don't think you're up to this any more." Melenar did not respond. Could not, in fact. Meclar waved. "Good-bye, Melenar." Then he turned away and dove off the side of the boat. Vaguely, Melenar could hear the sound of splashing as Meclar swam to the island. Then a minute after his departure, the boat was hurled by waves, flung several metres, as a vast fireball rose into the sky. Meclar was dead. Lothern was saved. Melenar smiled, despite how the movement tugged painfully at the blackened skin of his face, and went to sleep.